#but I’ve found a brand that doesn’t feel too confining

[pangur-and-grim]

I'm genuinely curious how warm your house is lmaoooo cause every time you can be seen in a photo you're wearing shorts and/or a tank top regardless of season so I'm always ???? But then again iirc you once posted a photo walking in snow wearing capris so maybe it's just you lol

it’s just a sensory thing. I hate feeling confined by clothing, so sleeves and pant legs are no beuno. in the winter, I keep warm with blankets and bathrobes

[ansksosns]

Sealed Fates

This blog has no followers b u t this is my secret writing blog, where I have not posted any works....until now. 

Simps, I present to you; Tobirama Senju. 

Part 2 can be found here!

Word count: 3023

You burst through his office doors, not bothering to knock or give any announcement of your arrival to his household despite the late hour. You knew he wasn’t asleep; the man only slept when exhaustion won the battle against his mind and body.

Surely enough, there he sat at his oak desk, gracing you with a rare display of surprise upon his face.

“Tobirama Senju.” You growl, gritting your teeth.

He quickly collects himself, his surprised expression disappearing as though it was never there. He now looks tired—How many days has it been since he truly slept?

“I do not recall inviting you into my home.” He says pointedly, as his eyes fall back on to the papers in front of him. He begins scribbling on them, probably updating notes on the newest jutsu he’d created.

His lack of urgency towards you only makes you more annoyed; you thought the two of you were finally getting somewhere, after Tobirama saved your life from the clutches of death a mere month ago. You quickly learned that you were wrong, as he became more reclusive than ever following your discharge from the hospital.

You had every intention on broaching this topic with him in a professional manner, even going so far as to schedule a meeting with him—a meeting, with the man you served as some sort of assistant for a better part of your career as a shinobi.

All formalities went out the window when you quickly caught a glimpse of a very specific marking on the small of your back; one you knew quite well, but had no recollection of getting.

“How long have you had the seal on me?” You bark, taking one step closer to his desk.

He stops scribbling for a moment, considering your words carefully.

You don’t give him a chance to defend himself. “At what point did you decide to brand me with your jutsu?”

You take another step closer to him, and slam your hands down on the desk to get his undivided attention. You won’t let him get away with this without some sort of consequence; he may be above you in the world of shinobi, but he was not above you as a human being. It is time he was reminded of that.

Tobirama gives you a low sigh and then sets his quill aside. He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together in his lap. He looks at you with narrowed eyes, silently telling you to tread carefully as you speak. You ignore his warning, and more forward with your wrath.

“I have given you more than adequate work; I’ve dedicated my entire life to yours and Hashirama’s dream for this village. I have fought beside you, and for you without ever asking for anything in return.”

You notice your arms have begun to shake, so you grip the edge of the desk to stop yourself. Tobirama’s eyes have not left yours since he looked up at you, and you find yourself suddenly wishing he would look away. His stare is penetrating; making you feel as though he sees right into your very being.

Despite this, you continue with your rant. “Using this seal to spy on me, whenever, wherever you want—that is your payment to my loyalty, my blood, sweat, and tears?”

Your voice is bordering on shrill as you speak. Tears threaten to spill over your eyes, and you curse yourself for such a display of weakness in front of Tobirama.

“I have forgiven you for many, many, unspeakable things, Tobirama, but this crosses the line.”

He scoffs at you, while giving you a heated glare.

“You think I would place the Hiraishin seal on you with malicious intent?” He asks in disbelief.

His voice is lower than usual, cloaked in anger, as though he is offended by the accusations you are making against him.

You give him a humourless chuckle, “You would do anything if it meant furthering your goals.” You spit back at him.

You can feel the pressure of your chakra rising in the air around you, as you find yourself getting more and more upset with the man in front of you, and for once you think you will get the better of this stubborn man. Of course, he is one always one step ahead of you—his significantly more powerful chakra is threatening to squash yours as soon as the words are leaving your mouth.

Though you know it is a losing battle, you do not back down.

“I will not be insulted in my own home.” He states.

You’ve never seen him this angry before; not even with Madara. You have seen a lot of Tobirama over the years—one would argue that, aside from Hashirama, you know the younger Senju brother better than anyone. This anger you are seeing is entirely new to you though, and if it was not for the rage that burned within your soul, you might have even felt bad for invoking it.

“I will not be disrespected—not by you, or anyone else.” You reply, leaning into his personal space.

You have known Tobirama for too long; you know how to play to his weakness’. The pressure from your chakra, though significantly weaker than his, mixed with a newfound rage, and your close proximity, should be more than his sensory skills can handle at the moment. It would throw him off, and that is what you need right now to get a win.

“I will not tolerate being berated by an insolent girl, on a subject she knows nothing of.”

He surprises you by moving himself forward, sharing a space with you without a second thought. You are eye to eye now, his piercing gaze striking through you that much more. Your chakra’s shove against each other, battling for dominance.

You wonder why he doesn’t just end it; he is more than capable of doing so. Why drag it out for longer than necessary, especially when it is causing this much anger inside of him?

“This is my body, Tobirama!” You snap. “You do not get a say in this, no matter your excuse!”

Your proximity does not bother him, and it annoys you greatly. Even when you have the confidence to be this close to him; to challenge him—he is throwing you through another loop. When will you ever win with him?

You grit your teeth, breathing slightly heavier than you would normally. You continue to hold his gaze, though you feel like it is killing you from the inside out to keep doing so. You can’t back down from him this time; Tobirama has long ruled over your heart and mind far too easily. Now was a better time than any to prove to yourself that you can no longer be easily swayed by the younger Senju brother.

Tobirama narrows his eyes at you, lifting himself from his chair, pushing you out of his space with the sheer force and pressure of his chakra. You stumble backwards a bit, your stance falters for a moment as you are in awe of the raw power he possesses. You do not see it often, as he makes sure his power is stored away for only those who deserve it.

For a moment, you think you have gone too far.

You quickly regain your composure, and use your chakra to force his right back at him. His lips twitch upwards slightly, like a smirk was threatening to pull at the corners of them.

Was he...enjoying this?

It is gone as quickly as it appeared. You convince yourself that you imagined it.

“That seal saved your life.” Tobirama argues. He rounds the desk quickly, leaving you with no time to move with him before he has you trapped against the desk, facing him.

He leaves enough room for you to escape, if you feel the need to but you know you won’t. You are aware of what he is doing—forcing your hand to make you submit to him in this argument. He’d done it time and time again, though never with malice. Tobirama has spent his life being in command, never one to give up the control unless absolutely necessary. He understands that the presence of his chakra is intimidating, and he often uses that to his advantage. Clearly though, he has yet to realize that the threat of his chakra doesn’t work on you anymore.

“I don’t care.” You respond, your grasp on the desk behind you causing your knuckles to turn white. “I’ll never be able to remove it. I’m tethered to you for the rest of my life.”

You don’t mean for your words to sound so delicate, as though they were a confession of your soul. It doesn’t particularly bother you, because you have no intent on leaving his side any time soon, but your poor choice of words change the nature of the argument to an area you did not prepare yourself for.

Tobirama’s chakra stutters before the pressure of it dies off completely. Your own chakra is now powerful against him, causing it to forcibly push him away from you.

He is no longer glaring at you, but staring at you with eyes wide, and a slack jaw.

Perhaps your words affect him more than you can comprehend.

You retract your looming chakra, and step towards him, but he takes one step back for each foot you move forward. He is quick to hide his emotions again, replacing the softness he held in his eyes for you with a drawn out and irritated sigh. With closed eyes, he turns away from you.

You watch in complete disbelief. Tobirama Senju has just backed down from you; he submitted, and in turn, admitted to his defeat. You did not expect this from him.

You open your mouth to speak, but the lax of his shoulders stops you.

“I thought of it as a means to protect you.” Tobirama says gently. There is no trace of anger, or annoyance in his tone anymore.

You feel your resolve crumble at his tone, and your heartbeat doubles in the confines of your ribcage.

You hate this.

You hate how he renders you like this so easily.

His hands ball into fists at his sides as he lets his words hang in the air, allowing you the time to process them.

“You do not need to protect me, Tobirama; You have so much more to take care of in the village. You should have complete faith in my abilities as a shinobi to take care of myself.”

He scoffs loudly at your words, and shakes his head from side to side but he refuses to look at you.

You want to question him—make him tell you out right that he doubts your skills and has no faith in you at all; that your stint in the hospital and him saving your life were all the signs he needed to change his mind about you.

But seeing him this way leaves you with no other choice other than waiting it out.

Minutes pass as you both stand there in silence. Tobirama is seemingly struggling to find the words he has been looking for, and you are just waiting for him to speak them. You decided that one way or another, the two of you would settle whatever this is before either of you leave the room.

You only hope it won’t end with him saying all the things you can’t bear to hear; such as how useless you are, or how much he doesn’t need you anymore.

If that is what it came to though, so be it. If it meant sorting this out, you would take his words with your head held high.

You rest your hips against the desk, folding your arms over your chest.

“Tobi,” You say gently, to serve as a reminder that you were still here with him. You know, of course, that he can’t forget that; he is especially strong with his sensory skills—almost always aware of everything around him without meaning to be.

He turns to you and your breath catches in your throat. He looks utterly defeated and exhausted. His hard, pensive gaze turned in for a much softer one and lips parted slightly. The tension in his forehead usually caused by having his brows knitted together in concentration is gone, and it makes him look much younger.

Tobirama was either always dressed in his armour, or kimonos since they had established the village; it helped maintain an almost royal like status to the clans who joined the founding of Konoha.

But he is just a man—still so young. War often aged people much further along than they really are; something you often forgot.

You find yourself then wishing, if only for just a moment, that you can take it all back. You wish you were easier on Tobirama, and gave him more of the support he needs without question.

But you knew, as Madara once said, Tobirama Senju will always listen to you. Though you would never take credit for the accomplishments he succeeds in, you are aware that you have an influence on decisions he makes from time to time. The two of you are a team, always; even in your stubbornness and anger, you worked together like it was second nature to you both.

Damn him for doing this to you. Damn him all to hell.

“I have lost almost everyone I have ever loved.”

He says it slowly and carefully as though he is not sure if the words will scare you away.

He takes one step closer to you, and stops as though he is unsure of what to do. Words bubble in your throat, but no matter how much you will them from yourself, they do not come out.

“I refuse to lose you, too.”

The words are spoken so quietly, but they ring loud and clear in your mind. The doubling of your heartbeat from earlier now tripled as his voice echoes off the walls of your brain. It’s just like him to confess such a thing behind a wall of pride, but the fact that he said it at all meant that he is serious.

Your balance on the desk gives out, and you quickly slam your hands into it to catch yourself from falling completely. Tobirama steps closer to you, his eyes searching your entire self, up and down. The words are caught on your tongue; a lump forming at the base of your throat prevents you from breathing.

Tobirama’s voice fills the silence. “Putting the seal on you without your knowledge was wrong, I will admit that much.”

He sounds stronger now, more determined than you have ever heard him before.

He takes one more step closer to you. Your knees grow weak.

“But it was the easiest decision I have ever made. I will continue to stand by that decision until my very last breath, even if it means you hate me for it.”

Those words manage to snap her out of her dream like state. Does he think getting rid of you will be so easy? It is just like him to do something like this—damn him. This all could have been avoided if the two of you had just told each other sooner.

You lean forward, slowly raising your hand to the side of his face. You give him ample time and room to inch away from your contact if he wants to, but he does not move. You cradle his cheek in your palm, fingers hooking behind his ear, thumb gingerly brushing against his cheek bone.

It is to your surprise that he leans in to your touch, and closes his eyes. Your heart pulls in your chest.

“I could never hate you, Tobi.” You say softly.

This is the truth; no matter how idiotic he is, the harder he pushes you away, giving you the Hiraishin seal—you could never hate Tobirama Senju.

“I am tethered to you for the rest of my life,” You repeat. In a moment of boldness, you grab one of his hands and slowly drag it to settle on the seal that is placed on the small of your back. You hear his breath catch.

“—By something much stronger than this seal.”

You love him, more than he will ever truly know.

You ghost your lips over his, waiting for the moment he will push you away, but it never comes. His grasp on you only tightens as he pulls you flush against him, capturing your lips in his.

He is soft, at first; gentle with you as he engulfs your body in his arms. The palm you had on his cheek slides down to his neck, lazily clinging to the ends of his hair.

You both pull away, only leaving a breath of space between the two of you. Your eyes meet briefly, before he is on you again, kissing you harder than before, with a certain finality burning through. You only return the kiss with as much passion, scared that Tobirama will be gone the moment you stop.

You pull him closer; he grabs you by your hips with a bruising force, walking you backwards into the desk before lifting you with ease to sit upon the edge of it. He kisses you harder than the other times, rutting himself between your legs.

It is all lips, teeth and tongue with the two of you; low and heady sighs escaping your mouth when he pulls away from you, leaving trails of kisses and bites down the side of your neck. Gasps leave you and you encircle your legs around him, securing him to you. Hands tugging at his hair, causing salacious groans to seep through his tentative mouth.

You say his name sinfully, and before you can register his firm grasp on you, he is lifting you up off the desk, and moving you from the office, to his bed room.

[katnissmellarkkk]

General #7

Hiiii! Okay, well I bet you thought I forgot about this! Or, more than likely, you forgot you even requested this back in Decemeber. But never fear, my child. I remembered and have been thinking of this fic and what to write for months. 

And so I’m so sorry, I’m a total perfectionist and I started and discared like 3 ideas for this before deciding on this oneshot sooo if this sucks, I’m at least comforted by the fact that I accomplished something in writing this itself? That sentence made zero sense but... I’m tired 🤷🏼‍♀️😅.

Prompt : General # 7 :

“Is that blood?” 

“Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” 

“You are literally bleeding.”

Anyways, thank you for the prompt and here we go! 

Whispers Of Light

I don't know exactly how I got roped into this. How exactly Delly Cartwright, Peeta's best friend—and alright, my friend now too—managed to convince me to help her and Leevy and about three dozen other members of the community with sorting boxes.

Sorting boxes. Organizing contents. Decorating with "found treasures".

The type of activities Prim loved doing with our mother. The type of activities I refused to do after my father died, to punish my mother for her depression.

The type of activities I now kick myself for walking out on, that I'll never be able to take back. I'll never be able to get those moments back with my sister. I'll never know what those hours between her and our mother entailed, because I chose to exclude myself, just so I could hold onto my petty anger for something that was out of all our control.

Maybe that's why I agreed to help Delly and the others with sorting through boxes upon boxes of debrief, of the items that scarcely survived Twelve's bombing almost two years ago. Maybe I only agreed out of guilt, both for never doing this type of endeavor with my sister and for being the direct cause of the bombing itself.

But whatever my reasons were, I agreed to help nonetheless, and I always follow through my promises. If there was one part of me forged in the war, if only one minor aspect of me was amplified in the smoke and haze and blood of revolution, it was the importance of keeping your promises, against all odds.

The dire consequences of a broken promise has long lasting aftereffects, beyond anything either Haymitch or I wish to dwell on.

"Katniss!" Delly calls, holding up an old, half-ripped paper book that is completely void of a front cover. "Look! I think this book is from the old Apothecary Shop!"

I squint at the dusty, decimated item, not entirely convinced. "I don't think so?" I murmur, unable to even decipher the words on the now melted, conjoined pages. "I'm pretty sure my mother kept the only apothecary book in her family?"

Kanon Bagley turns to inspect the battered item in his girlfriend's hands as well. "I don't think this is a medicinal plant book, Dells," he says sheepishly, a small smirk playing on his lips.

She gives him an incredulous look. "What do you mean medicinal?"

I peer up at him too, not comprehending his meaning any more than Delly. "What kind of plants do you think are in here?" I ask, taking the nearly destroyed object myself and flipping through the worn pages again, seeing odd herbs that neither of my parents ever mentioned or had on hand. "These don't look like the poisonous ones my father told me about?"

Kanon bites back a laugh now and I can't help feeling a little perturbed. As kind and soft-spoken as he usually is, I'm foreign to the feeling of him laughing at me. "What?" Delly snaps at him before I even can.

He still chuckles though, in spite of both our nasty glares. "You guys, it's a book of plants that'll get you high."

It takes a full minute for the meaning to dawn on me. Long enough that Leevy and a couple guys I used to go to school with come over to inspect the book as well. Long enough that they confirm Kanon's assessment just as I realize we're talking about plants that'll make you feel akin to how the morphling made me feel while confined for I killing Coin.

While everyone else snickers—and Delly full on chortles—I pass the book back to Kanon, sliding out of the crowd and moving towards a brand new box of savaged items.

It's not that the mention of plant-based drugs is a trigger for me. It's not something I ever truly gave any thought to before, to be honest. My father likely knew of them but it's not like he was about to bestow that kind of knowledge on his eleven-year-old and my mother perhaps felt it was inappropriate to mention.

No, it wasn't the subject in itself that hit a sore spot for me. But like so many times before, it's where the subject led my mind. It's where the topic took me back to.

Snow's Execution Day. The day I chose to kill President Coin instead. Being thrown back into my old tribute room. Getting high on the morphling.

Trying to forget all that I'd lost. Trying to forget my little sister becoming a human torch before my very eyes. My district engulfed in flames. The ambiguous loss of my best friend.

The connection between me and Peeta that I believed then would be permanently severed. That I believed then to be irreparable.

I suppose I believed then I was irreparable too.

And I miss Peeta suddenly, even more than I already did. Because he always knows what to say when my thoughts turn dark, when I'm suddenly triggered out of the happy, every day events and suctioned backwards to a war torn bird with her wings clipped.

But he's not here to talk me down or scare away the ghosts haunting my mind. He's not here to comfort me or even shoot me a supportive glance. No, he's at his very busy business today.

Peeta's bakery—the Mellark Bakery—has only proven to withstand the test of time these past few months. Since someone accidentally burned down the place, with nothing more than a croissant and a fancy Capitol toaster, the rebuilt bakery has been nothing but a success.

And also extremely time-consuming, I grumble internally, as I begin to pull out stuffed toys that once belonged to dead children.

"If any of those are still intact, we can donate them to the community home," Leaf John says as he opens the box across from me.

"And what exactly are we supposed to be use as decorations from these boxes?" I murmur, peering into another cardboard container, full of half-charred papers and cloths.

The general idea of today, as Delly had pitched it to me last week, was to help the community of Twelve finally sort through these boxes, donate what we could to those in need and decorate the new Justice Building with the leftover contents inside.

Somehow though I can't imagine pinning up terrible drawings of plants that'll inebriate you or headless teddy bears is going to bode well with the district.

Delly rolls her eyes in my direction—a whole new kind of response that I never thought I'd be receiving from the girl who skipped through the town square until she was fourteen years old—before nodding towards boxes on top of the ladder. "We're decorating the Justice Building with the surviving photos from those boxes, Katniss."

"Oh." Then why am I sorting these grimy, dirt-covered playthings? Why didn't anyone give me more clear instructions on today?

And why has it taken almost two years for Twelve to get a group of people together to organize the surviving items from the bombing?

I have no idea how Peeta's managed to get two bakeries built in the time it's taken for thirty-eight of us to come to the Justice Building and look through fifty cardboard boxes. And if I'm being honest, I have no idea why I'm even still here helping. I'm clearly not contributing much to the event. There's definitely more than enough volunteers without me.

And, of course, I could be at the bakery right now. Without a doubt, I'd be of more service there than I am here, digging through dusty knickknacks. I could be helping Peeta and Thom and the other part-time employees, exerting more knowledge and authority than I have here.

After all, Peeta did say the bakery was partially mine. In his mind, at least.

The ulterior motive of getting small, fleeting moments with my boyfriend, of basking in the feeling of safety with him beside me, of the occasional stolen kiss or hand squeeze when no one is looking, runs through the back of my mind.

And sways my decision immensely.

I open my mouth to tell Delly and the others that I'm about to head out, that they clearly have it covered here and I'm just in the way, when at the worst possible second, Leevy kindly murmurs, "Katniss, do you mind starting on the box on the ladder? Seeing if any of the pictures are in decent enough shape?"

I hesitate for a long moment, realizing immediately my predicament. It'd be rude to leave right after someone just essentially assigned me a task. I did agree to be here today, to help out with this tedious project. Leaving right now would only come off as rude and inconsiderate.

This is the reason I never did enjoy group assignments in school. The longer I'm here, the more I'm rediscovering this fact about myself. The division of the workload, the bore of the standing around, not knowing if you're doing the right or wrong thing, the lack of total control.

But I still nod after waiting a beat too long and agree with the nicest flare in my tone I can manage.

I'll go through the one box at the top of the ladder and then subtly make my exit afterwards. The image I unintentionally conjured up of Peeta and the bakery is still pulling at me, making me anxious to get back to him, to see him again even though we were together only three hours ago.

Since we officially became a couple a few months back—though Haymitch scoffs at that notion, claiming we've been together since Peeta first started sleeping over in my bed—I've found myself growing far more clingy to him than I ever could have anticipated. I hate when he leaves for the bakery in the mornings now, even as I still revel in the solace I find inside the woods. I look forward to his return home every night. More than even look forward to it, I'm usually at the bakery around the closing hours, helping him clean and inventory, asking him when he's coming home. Maybe looking somewhat unconsciously flirtatious as I say it.

I grab the box sitting on the ladder's top stair and pull it open, easily maintaining my balance one rung down, the same way I maintain my balance on a tree branch while hunting.

Inside pours out a plethora of photographs, mostly of Twelve's now past citizens. Near the top of the pile I see images of Greasy Sae's daughter, Dolly. The mother of her granddaughter. The daughter who died of croup a few years before the war.

Those photos must belong to Sae, I realize. Which means more of her items are probably scattered throughout the boxes here. And despite the fact that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she'll tell me not of be impractical, that if she's made it two years without these things she doesn't need them now, I still make a mental note to return her lost items. If nothing else, I make a mental promise to give back to her the photos of her daughter.

I know better than anyone what kind of comfort photographs of the deceased can provide.

As if in line with my thoughts, as if I alone manifested it somehow, the next image that catches my eye is one I entirely do not anticipate.

It's a shiny photo, on the kind of glossy paper my family could never afford. In the image is a blonde man with broad shoulders and a tall build. Wrapped in his embrace stands a petite girl, with long blonde curls and mascara accentuating her already long lashes. The couple both have eyes that match the color of the sky and are dressed up in some of the nicest clothes in all of Twelve. A white dress with lace. A gray suit with a black vest. The pretty girl wears jewelry and lipstick and there's a familiar glint in the male's eyes and I find myself mesmerized.

And I can't pretend I don't see my boyfriend in both of their faces. I can't pretend Peeta isn't the spitting image of both his parents.

He has his mother's smile, I realize with startling assurance. I never saw the witch smile personally, at any point in my life so I suppose I wouldn't know where he got his charming, sweet grin from.

The mannerism looks so out of place on his mother. The kind smile Peeta has, the one that could light up a blackened sky, doesn't bode with the woman in the picture, even on her wedding day. The charming smile doesn't fit with what I know of the woman's character. With what little about her Peeta chooses to share.

But I'm even more surprised to find how much Peeta has come to resemble his father. How much Peeta has grown to favor the now deceased man.

The last time I saw the baker—the original baker, that is. Haidon Mellark—before the Quarter Quell, I resented the fact that Peeta wasn't as tall or as broad as his father. I privately believed if he'd inherited those traits, he'd be even more likely to win the games again and I could worry about him less.

Peeta was always taller than me and was always remarkably strong, after working in the bakery since childhood. But his father was a whole different level. Haidon Mellark, I'd forgotten until now, had a body that could only rival my own father's.

And as it turns out, Peeta did inherit Haidon's physicality. He just also happened to be a late bloomer. Like his mother, I imagine, staring at her tiny frame in the picture.

The change in Peeta's form occurred so gradually I barely even noticed until a couple months ago, when I woke up with my head against his heart and abruptly realized just how broad he had become. Until I couldn't even reach to kiss his jaw on my tip toe. Until he started laughing at me and had to lift me up in order to properly embrace the way I like.

"Katniss?" I hear Delly beckon, trying to bring me back to reality. Trying and failing, that is. I hear her but only in a vague, distant sense. My mind is still stuck on the image in my grasp. Still stuck on the novelty that I managed to find a remembrance for the boy who still at times questions if his memory is full of lies.

"I still cry about my family and somedays I can't even remember their faces."

I never even considered the possibility of finding a token of Peeta's departed family here. It never occurred to me, the potential finds in this box at my fingertips, that I could take home to my boyfriend. I never imagined finding him something to hold onto when the inevitable dark day came again like a storm cloud, full of thunder.

I'm so entranced what this could mean for Peeta, so lost in my own little world, that I'm barely even hanging onto the ladder. I'm definitely not as steady as I should be, standing near the top rung.

And I'm definitely not steady enough to hang on when Delly gives it a rough shake, trying to catch my attention.

/

The boxes break my fall. Sort of. Kanon and Leaf John had taken the liberty of placing the empty cardboard, already looked through and emptied, beneath the ladder.

Falling headfirst into a large, void box is better than falling plainly onto the filthy, concrete tile floor. But not ideal. Not as helpful as falling into a box of surviving clothes or toys would have been.

Delly apologized profusely for shaking the ladder. She'd even begun to cry when she noticed the blood seeping from my forehead.

Thankfully Kanon was there, as I didn't have the energy to console her much. I don't even know how I managed to cut my head at all, but it stung a fair amount and it provided me the excuse I wanted minutes prior, to escape the group project and head for the bakery.

Even after the fall, my mind still was cemented on the newfound treasure. My first instinct was still to show this memento to Peeta as soon as possible.

Kanon though, like a good friend, insisted on walking me home, despite my many protests that it was unnecessary, that I was just fine, that I could walk home blind if I had to. He insisted, foiling my intention to walk directly to the bakery and not wait for Peeta's return home, which still remained hours away.

Kanon was surprisingly stubborn when he felt strongly about something and I chose to relent, to give in and allow him to accompany me back to what used to be Victor's Village—where he now resided with Delly, inside Peeta's old home—without much fight.

Fighting for your independence and autonomy doesn't exactly present you as rational when there's a bloody gash in your forehead.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Kanon asks as we make out way up my porch.

I look up, maybe a little startled, from Mr. and Mrs. Mellark's wedding photo. "My head?"

"Yeah," he says carefully, looking at the blood like it's a mutt in an arena.

I shrug, doing my best not to indicate how dizzy I actually feel. Either from the fall or the blood still dripping out despite my attempt to plug the wound up with old cotton rags someone sorted into the trash box. "I've had worse."

He chuckles, a little sardonically. "Yeah, so have I."

I thank him for walking me home—for it was as inconvenient as it was sweet—and close the door slowly behind me, before leaning my ear against the wooden frame, waiting. Waiting for him to climb the steps down from my porch and make his way back to the Justice Building. Waiting for him to be far enough out of sight that I can sneak back out without him also trying to accompany me to the bakery.

It's not that I don't appreciate Kanon and Delly and all of my other friends' concerns. It's the fact that I wish to bestow a likely loaded item upon my boyfriend and I really don't need an audience to do it.

It's not the easiest feat, to slyly time it so Kanon won't hear me opening and shutting my front door again. And it's probably not my smartest plan, to walk alone along the rocky cobblestones and the uneven concrete, with a less than level head and body.

But I make it to the back door of the bakery still, just as I knew I would. It takes three times as long, but I make it there nonetheless.

Still clutching the photograph of his parents between my fingers too. Still with the same primary focus on my mind. To give him a token of remembrance, a token of the imperfect family he lost so tragically, that he still greatly missed, even when he can't say their names. Even when he can't conjure up their faces.

"You don't remember your family?"

"Sometimes I do... I'm not so sure other days. My memory isn't exactly top notch, if you know what I mean."

I push open the heavy-weighted back door, using all the energy my body can muster up. To my relief, Thom is already in the back room, sweeping flour off the floor.

"Hi, boss," he greets slyly as I walk in, barely glancing up at me. I shoot him an over-the-top eye roll, though I can't help smirking myself at the stupid nickname, when he beckons Peeta. "Hey, your girl is here!" He yells loudly. Too loudly to be packed with customers at the counter.

I take that to mean the daily rush has come and gone. Which would be very convenient, as it means I can present Peeta with my finding that much faster, without having to worry about his business—or our business, as he teasingly calls it—being held up.

I hear the sound of my boyfriend's quiet laughter from the front. The sound that I akin to my father's singing or my sister's squeal of delight. The last sound still alive that can make my heart do a flip.

But it dies out the second he peaks his blonde head into the back room. The moment his baby blues, the same color as both his parents', meet my silver ones and then trail upwards.

Almost as if remembering the gash in my head, I reach to my forehead, to ensure the makeshift cloth bandage is still in place.

"Katniss?" Peeta says, his eyes looking far more nervous than I anticipated. Which I can only take to mean the red liquid has seeped through the plain fabric. "Is that blood?"

I don't want him to focus too heavily on that fact though. Like I told Kanon, I've had much worse injuries in my life. Me and Peeta both have.

Just look at his prosthetic leg.

"Yes," I reply easily, before moving closer to him, pushing the glossy photograph towards him. "But that doesn't matter right now. What does matter is-"

"You are literally bleeding."

I sigh, feeling slightly perturbed now. "Peeta, look," I insist, thrusting the image of his parents towards him, waiting for it to take anchor.

And it does. It takes a beat longer than I expect, but it happens nonetheless. I watch silently as the image captives him, as the shiny photograph takes him back to a time when this exact location was the only home he'd ever known and this business was run by the two people inside the picture.

He touches the photo, as if to test it's realism, before looking up at me in disbelief. "Where did you find this?"

"The Justice Building today. Inside the boxes, with all the things lost in the bombing."

There's a long pause as Peeta process this. The silence makes me antsy, finding myself abruptly uncertain of what could be going through his mind.

Finally, he whispers softly, "I never thought I'd see this picture again."

And the awed, tender smile that spreads across his face swiftly encompasses me in its warmth.

And I suddenly don't even feel the gash in my head anymore.

/

Read The Rest On AO3

[extremelyblackandwhite]

cardigan

pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: violence

a/n: this is a limited three part series based on three of my favourite songs from taylor swift’s 2020 life saving albums; cardigan, willow and invisible string. this one is cardigan, hope you enjoy xx

WILLOW

She clutched onto her worn out brown leather bag as she stepped inside the her father’s precinct. There wasn’t much that looked different from when she was a little girl, the tables still stood on the same messy layout which made no sense, the officers still didn’t look up whenever someone came in and the whole room smelled like stale coffee and burnt bread. The only difference was that the once endless room now felt small, nauseating, confining, a place where she didn’t want to be. 

      - Y/N. - her father’s voice rang through the small room, making her look up to where he was standing. Captain William, or dad if she was lucky enough to call him as such, was an intimidating presence even after all these years yet after her mother’s death it was him who was left of her family. - Come in. 

Her shoes felt heavy as she stepped inside his office, two more officers standing inside as she walked with her father. He closed the door, nodding his head which was a tell tale for everyone to sit down. She sat at the end of the dark green couch, away from the other two officers who were looking her up and down as if she were a prey.

       - I told you she would be perfect. Inconspicuous, he wouldn’t even think she’s undercover.

       - She’s not the type of woman Barnes go for.

       - She doesn’t need to be the type of woman he goes for, she needs to be the one who works in his bar and listens to their plans. 

Her father had told her about James Barnes. They had been trying to get him in for minor offences yet nothing seemed to pan out. The force knew they could never apprehend him for the crimes he knew he had committed but if they could get him in for something small: weapon charge, drug charge, something. For that to happen they needed someone to be in their circle and unluckily for them, Barnes and his men knew everyone who worked in the force but they didn’t know her. In return for her working in his bar, the force would pay her tuition fees as well as any books she needed. 

“It won’t be hard” was what her father had told her but as they dropped her at the bar she couldn’t help but freeze at the door. They were expecting her, she had gotten the job yet she couldn’t find herself walking inside. In any other situation she would’ve rushed past it, it wasn’t the place she would like to be in. Her hand grasped the bar of the door, pushing it open. The nightclub looked vastly desert with squeaky clean floors and bright lighting which showed the dark aesthetic of every single owned Barnes club in town. She didn’t know the man but she knew his style, dark, sleek, leather, sensual even, enough to make people feel sexual whenever they walked into his club. Yet, in broad daylight it was merely an abandoned establishment with one a table with a few hangover men still nursing a bottle of beer each, waiting for 7 PM for the club to come back to life. 

She stood out like a sore thumb, dressed in brown tones. A loose gingham black dress over a brown turtle neck covered and low black Mary Janes. Her eyes roamed the room, looking for someone to speak to but someone found her first. A tall man, probably pushing fifty, toothpick hanging from his lips and dirty rag on his left hand. She felt short, cowering under the gaze of the man.

     - You're the new girl, or what? - he questioned, thick Brooklyn accent yet Y/N didn’t dare reply, instead nodding at him. - Do you have a name?

     - Y/N.

     - Y/N, that’s nice. I’m Bobby, I’m the bar supervisor. You wanna talk to anyone? You talk only to me and you’ll do well.

She nodded her head quickly, almost like a bobble head figure, following him behind to bar. Now Y/N knew about bars or at least what they did in them, she just wasn’t expecting to see the huge amount of spirits, wines, and beers behind her. She was almost sure if someone robbed the club, they’d be better off with the booze than the money in the cash register.  The man, Bobby, ran through the basics, showing here with the cleaning products were, where some more complicated cocktail mixtures were written, how the washing machine worked and how crucial it was to constantly collect glasses from the bar and put them in there. She held a small reporter notepad, pen scribbling down messy wiggles which she wouldn’t be able to understand later on but it was still worth it. She could memorise it, she was a university student after all hence her memory for cocktails shouldn’t be hard. Everything was so polished, meticulously placed, almost too organised for a bar; the bottles placed onto glass shelves which light from under, placed almost the same measure apart in a sea of expensive beverages. 

     - Don’t serve any drinks to people who haven’t presented a payment form. If the boss comes in, serve him whiskey on the rocks. Glenlivet, no other brands. 

     - I’ve never seen the boss.

     - You’ll know. 

She was left there watching as more staff came in, the sun going down at the same time. “Just breathe, Y/N” she remembered her father’s words, she could do it, she could do it. How hard could it possible be to be a bartender? Just breathe, Y/N. She can do it, she can help his father, she can do this and then no longer have to worry about how many hours she would have to do at that little mean shop which had taken more of her than she gave them. She could be a regular university student, she just needed to breathe.

The purple, blue lights started to light the sunlight coloured bar as people started to queue up outside for a chance to get inside one of the most famous bars in town. She could faintly remember hearing her friends talking about how exclusive it was but as she looked out the window and at the queue she could finally understand it. As the doors opened and people started flocking in, suddenly she was serving drinks left and write, vodka and other shoots drenching her dress and apron as she messily tried to serve everyone at the bar screaming at her to hurry up. She kept running around like a crazy person, dragging bottles and bottles and pouring drinks which kept overfilling and dropping onto the floor. People kept yelling at her “hey sugar, how long does it take you to bring me some vodka?” but one man who was sitting still, gaze glued onto her while a cigarette hanged from the middle of his lips. She cowered under his gaze returning to hand a tray of jello shots to some girls. 

She continued to work until the last person was out of the bar but the man remained calmly leaned against the bar, the flame of his cigarette dying down. She tried to avoid him, pretending to clean the spot over and over again but the man merely scoffed, rubbing the butt of the cigarette against the ash tray.

      - You’re terrible. - he spoke out, voice raspy. - Who hired you?

      - That’s nothing to do with you. - Y/N turned around to place back the bottles onto the shelves.

      - Are you the owner?

      - No. - she placed the bottles on the shelf, hands shaking. 

      - Then it is something to do with me. - the air seemed to be punched out of her lungs, as her grip tightened around the neck of the bottle she was holding. She refused to turn around and look at him, understanding what it implied. Instead she just looked at herself in the glass wall. Just breathe, Y/N. - Can I get a ...

      - Glenlivet. - she rose herself on her tippy toes, interrupting him mid sentence. Grabbing from ice from under the bar, she added it to the glass, topping it with the expensive whiskey before placing it under a black square napkin. She continued to wipe down the counter until Bobby came back from the storage unit with more alcohol. 

     - You can go now, Y/N. I’ll see you at 7. - Bobby dismissed her and almost like thunder, she bolted off, not even stopping and allowing him to question why their boss was sitting at the bar.

Clutching her bag against her chest she started walking up to campus. She had done it, or at least managed to do something yet get no information her father wanted. That is unless her father wanted to know James Barnes’ drink of choice which she was pretty sure he didn’t want to know. Reaching her flat, she turned the key around, opening the door to see her friend Wanda waiting in the couch. 

    - You’re alive. - she mocked, turning the TV on. - Once again, tell me why you said yes to working in a mob bar ...

    - It’s not a mob bar, Wanda.

    - It is a bar owned by a mob boss who has been blamed on several murders. It is a mob bar. 

    - I’m just a bartender, nothing is gonna happen.

    - Can you tell me again why you’re doing this? Your father is the reason why you were raised by John Hughes’ movies. 

    - Okay, Wanda, you made your point. - Y/N took her jacket off, hanging it onto one of the hooks in the door.

    - I’m buying you pepper spray.

    - Pepper spray is illegal, Wan. 

    - So is the bar you’re working.

    - Okay. I’ll be careful, don’t worry. I’ll go to sleep now.

Wanda continued to ramble about her working where she was but there was really nothing she could do other than continue. All she had to do was breathe and listen and the department would pay for her tuition for the rest of her degree. Small price to pay for a much bigger price. 

As another day started, the routine started once again with her awaking up and running into class with Wanda complained about her brother followed by spending the rest of her free time until her shift began. Walking back to the bar she was telling herself once more that she would be just fine and that Wanda slipping a knife inside her bag was only her overreacting. Stepping inside the same building, Bobby was setting some shoot glasses on the counter.

    - Y/N. - he acknowledged her. - Glad to see you’re still here.

    - Wouldn’t be anywhere else. - she placed her bag and jacket under the bar and tied her apron around her waist. - Busy day?

    - Fridays are the busiest. All the university kids. Let me know if you need a hand.

    - I’m sure I’ll be okay.

Once again, wrong. She was not okay and as everyone found themselves flocking to the bar she was already running around like a crazy person, holding two bottles on each hand as people. The lights were blinding, shining on her as she served and slide more drinks onto the bar counter and to the waitresses who’d give her snide remarks whenever she took too long. Her hands were numb from the ice already yet her face was warm from moving side to side. At least, Mr. Barnes wasn’t around and that was already something she could be thankful for. She knew she had to eventually speak to him if she wanted to ever hear anything or maybe she wouldn’t have; she was good at being invisible, maybe she could just overhear something without having to ever speak with him.

   - Hey, sugar, where’s my drink? - a sluggish voice came from the bar and Y/N ignored it. Bobby told her, if anyone sounds or looks drunk to cut them off that “Mr. Barnes doesn’t need drunk people being roudy in his bar”. She continued to serve the group of girls celebrating passing an exam until the man moved over to them. - Hey, I asked where is my drink?

   - Sorry, you’re cut off. - she shrugged, grabbing some glass onto a plastic bucket so Bobby could put them in the washing machine.

   - What the fuck? C’mon give me my drink.

   - No. - Y/N just ignored it, turning around to put the bottles back onto the shelves.

   - Well then be useful and show me your tits. - the man scoffed as if it was the best joke in the world. Y/N turned around, speechless at what he had said before grabbing an half empty drink from the bar and throwing it at him which surprised the man just as much. - You bitch!

   - What’s the problem here? - fuck. Of course he had to show up. Mr. Barnes made his way towards them, holding that same powerful yet frightening stance as the strobing lights painted his face. His eyes were on her, waiting for her to say something but Y/N was mostly frozen. That was it, she was about to get shot, or worse, lose a finger or a leg or an arm. Oh god, how could she take exams without an arm? 

   - Your bartender isn’t serving me. - he pointed at her as if he were a 5 year old. 

   - Really? - Barnes stood slightly behind him and all she could see in a glimpse second was his metal arm, reflecting the strobing lights, come up to the nape of the man’s neck before he slammed his face against the glass topping of the bar counter. Y/N was startled by this, jumping back against the wall of drinks. - Get the fuck out of my bar. 

The man ran off, bloody nose, like a scared wounded animal leaving Y/N only to stare at him. Her mind rushed miles an hour, wondering if he had done that to someone what he would do to her. She should’ve taken the pepper spray from Wanda. 

   - Get back to work. - he left her with that, turning around and getting lost in the sea of people dancing. 

   - Hey ... - Bobby touched her arm, waking her from her own mind. She looked at her hands; good she still had both hands. - Go take a break, wash the glasses, I’ll do the bartending for a while.

   - I’m fine, Bobby.

   - I know. I just want you to go do something else. - Y/N nodded, not wanting to disobey anyone yet she couldn’t help but be glad she would be in the back where the big washing machine was for most of the pint glasses and other oddly shaped cups. After all, Mr. Barnes wouldn’t be hanging in the kitchen.

She pushed her hair away from her face and put on the big pink gloves and started to wash the glasses and plates from some small appetisers they sold until closing time started to near. Once the bar was cut off, she joined Bobby to clean the always messy bar and make it look as precise as it looked every single day. Another day survived, no limbs lost. 

   - That was a good one, Y/N. See you tomorrow. - Bobby bid her farewell as he exited through the door. Y/N stayed behind, moping the floor behind the mar which was mostly a pool of mixed drinks that she always somehow managed to overfill and drop onto the floor on her way to serve them. As she continued to mop, the person who she didn’t want to see sat at the bar and without much thinking, she served him his drink of choice. 

   - I ... hm ... I have to go, I have to walk home and my flatmate is waiting for me.

   - You’re walking home with your flatmate?

   - No, she’s waiting for me at the flat. - Y/N grabbed her cardigan, putting it on which immediately brought her a nostalgic warmth. 

   - I’ll drive you. 

   - Oh .. no, Mr. Barnes. It is not necessary, I’ve walked home before, I know the way. 

   - And I know the type of men who walk around my bar. - he downed the whiskey as if it were water. - Come on. 

Oh god, I’m going to sleep with the fishes. He’s gonna kill me in his car. Y/N thought to herself as she followed him to the back of the bar where he had parked his car. Of course it was a good car, a new model black Audi with sleek matte black leathered seats which looked more expensive than everything together at the bar. She wondered how much money he made. Her father hadn’t told her much about him and all she knew was merely gossip. He opened the door for her which she took as a sign to get inside the car. Once in, she noticed how awfully warm it was, he probably had the heating on so she took off her cardigan, shoving it in front of her feet as he entered the car. 

   - Where am I dropping you?

   - The student campus, south building

   - You’re a student? - he asked as the motor roared, signalling the start of the car. - Why you working here then?

   - It pays well. My mother paid for my first years but I still have my third one and a possible masters. 

   - Why not ask mum for the rest of the money then?

   - Well she’s dead. - she said, not taking the eyes off the road. - Her inheritance lasted as long as it could but tuition is expensive.

   - I’m sorry. - he tried to sneak a look at her but gave up, instead keeping his eyes on the road. - You’re a terrible bartender.

   - You’ve said that one time already, I’ve heard it. If I’m so terrible why don’t you fire me?

   - Bobby likes you. Says you’re a quick learner. Yet again, he likes every single wide eyed Disney Princess girl who works behind the bar. I give you a month or two before you quit or get knocked up.

   - I’m not gonna quit and I’m not gonna get knocked up either. 

   - Got a boyfriend?

   - No.

   - Husband? Friends with benefits?

   - I don’t have the time so if you want to get rid of me you’ll have to fire me.

   - I don’t fire people. - she saw her building come closer and closer from the car window. - Is it that one?

   - Yes. - she grabbed her bag, eager to leave the car before anything could happen. 

   - Hey, you got a black dress? - he asked as she exited the car and she nodded yes. - Good, bring it to work tomorrow. 

She mumbled an okay as the car drove away. God, she was alive. Good.  All she wanted now was to return to her home and in a few minutes she was back in her living room where Wanda and her twin brother Pietro were waiting for her. Of course waiting meant watching Shark Tank and discussing how bad all the inventions were. 

   - How was work in hell? - Wanda didn’t even look at her, eyes glued to the TV while she stuffed popcorn in her mouth.

   - I didn’t need to use the knife you snuck into my bag, thank you.

   - You snuck a knife onto her back? - Pietro looked dumbfound at his sister who immediately snapped back with a response. 

   - She’s working for James Barnes, she needs to carry a knife block and she’s lucky I only put a steak knife. - Wanda turned around in the couch. - Hey where’s your cardigan? I swear you left with it. 

   - Shit. - Y/N looked around. - Fuck, I’ve left it in his car.

   - Whose car? 

   - Mr. Barnes’. He gave me a ride and I took my cardigan off because the car was so warm. Fuck. I’ll never see it again.

   - Why were you in his car, are you crazy? - now Wanda was interested. Clearly her best friend’s lack of judgment was more interesting than the poor soul trying to pitch a tuna can opener shaped like a tuna to a bunch of executives.

   - He gave me a ride ... oh and do you have a black dress?

   - I do. - Pietro said gaining an odd look from the two girls. - What? Girls love me and I love them. Stuff get’s left behind. What can I say?

   - You’re disgusting. - Wanda rolled her eyes. 

taglist: @lookiamtrying @mariamermaid @sebastianstansqueen @unmagically​

[reidetic]

Letters

Summary: Spencer writes reader letters in prison. Loosely based off of Hey There Delilah. 

A/N: The poem in this work belongs to Erin Hanson. Thank you so much to @sunlight-moonrise​ for beta reading this for me. This was a one day brain child and I hope you enjoy it.

She hadn’t written back. That’s all Spencer could think of, the only thought running through his head as his mattress sunk through the bars and pressed into his back. Two letters so far, two weeks between, save the first week. The letters kept her in his memory, the pen dipping into paper the only thing that kept her perfume wound around his soul. When the ink smeared across his too quick fingers, he cursed, closing his unfounded emotions within the confines of the cheap notebook paper. 

She hadn’t written back. It’s not like the letters had been particularly interesting. Spencer had never been an interesting writer, never been the one to capture someone’s attention. That was, until her. Until y/n. He had met her at a writer’s circle, something his mom had suggested. 

“You used to write so often, when you were a little boy.” Diana had mused on one of her infrequent good days.  

“I was young then, Mom, nothing I wrote was well-written.” Spencer had laughed with her, both of them remembering the mother’s day haikus that should’ve never been sent home.

“I’m just saying that the life you’ve lived deserves to be written down.” And so he went, attending a small after hours circle at a local community college. He saw her first. Her hair slung up haphazardly, pens tucked into the tendrils, one shirt sleeve slipping off of her shoulder, and her tongue sticking slightly out her mouth in concentration. She was a girl who could steal your attention from the first glance. One pen slipped out of her hair then, and he had leaned forward, picking it up and extending it to her with a smile. 

“Spencer.” He had offered, his name a gift to the girl who sat before him. He thought they probably looked like a painting, with the lanky boy kneeling in front of the ethereal girl, one hand extended with a pen obscured by his own spindly fingers.

“Y/n.” She gave her name right back, grabbing the pen from his hand. And that had been it. That one moment was all it took for Spencer to know he would follow where she went. They had become inseparable, no longer one without the other. They promised each other they’d come every single week, filled notebooks in hand. They stayed far too long after the circle had been dismissed, reading in hushed whispers and bodies so still the motion lights went dim. 

Spencer had felt himself start to fall on one particular night, when they had slipped out to her car to read, their voices filling the cramped car and breath fogging the windows. She had written a poem, something soft and fiery, and he remembered thinking it felt like an autobiography and a love song all at once as her sweet and lilting voice filled the air. 

I wish that I could hold your heart, 

Cradle it gently in my hands, 

But my arms just are not strong enough, 

To hold what I don 't understand, 

My eyes have seen a lot of 

And I thought I'd seen them all, 

But the way your smile ignites my own, 

Makes me think there's so much more, 

These walls around this heart of mine, 

Have stood dust, 

But it's as though you've found the gate, 

That leads right to my trust, 

I've never really liked my name, 

But on your lips it sounds so sweet, 

And your voice is my new favourite song, 

That's forever on repeat, 

But even though I feel all this, 

I can never let you see, 

Because your heart deserves a whole lot more, 

Than a broken girl like me. 

Her trembling breath paused as she finished on the word ‘me’. He felt as though she saw right through him, he turned to glass in her sight. But she was still as opaque as the day he met her. The car had felt awkward then. The air too still, the streetlights outside too bright. They sat in silence, breath held, before y/n had blurted out a quick, “I should get home.” 

He still remembers the way her face fell in the moonlight as he agreed with her. He still regrets that, still regrets not pulling her in and kissing her right then and never letting her go. He dreams about that now, about the what ifs and what could have beens. He’s always been a coward.

He had written that night, pages upon pages of writings about her. Nothing but her. She filled his mind for weeks, and when he read his poetry on Thursday nights, she looked away. He could still feel the sting in his cheeks he felt that night when she called his work, “fantastical and unrealistic”. He could still feel the betrayal he felt that night as she ripped into him and left no trace. Despite her harshness, he felt her warmth, or so he thought.

She hadn’t written back. The letter he penned took days, but it wasn’t as if prison life was especially exciting. There weren’t enough words he could find to explain how he felt to her. He had never told her how he felt, not before his arrest. He had tried to write the letter in English, in French, in Latin. None of it made any sense, his cell filled with ruined and crumpled pieces of paper. He settled on an old song, the one he remembered playing softly in the car as she read her heart to him, changed to fit only her. 

  Hey there y/n, 

What’s it like in DC? I’m a thousand miles away, but tonight you look so pretty. I know I can’t see you right now, but it doesn’t matter. I know. Forgive me for the song, it keeps me sane. I don’t know quite what to do with myself right now. It’s not often I get arrested for murders I didn’t commit, but when I do, it’s you I miss. Thursday was strange without your words there to comfort the mass in my head. I find that when you’re speaking it’s the only time I hear silence. Silence is something beautiful rarely created that I don’t experience often enough, but with you, it finds its way to my ears regularly. I know if you were here you’d chastise me about the concept of hearing silence, but you’ll just have to read it in this letter. I don’t have many updates, but know that I am not enjoying myself. Suffice to say, it is hard to enjoy one’s predicament when you aren’t sure when it will be over. I don’t know how to say what I want to say to you, so I won’t. Please be safe. You matter to me more than you know.

Regards, 

Spencer Reid

She hadn’t written back. He had sent the letter within his second week behind bars. His life continued, slowly but surely, days passing and hopes of a response every day. And every day, nothing. It kills him,  but he can’t blame her. He doesn’t know that he would write himself back if he was in her shoes. Still, he sent another letter. He put just a bit more of his soul into the second, still not quite ready to confess anything he might have considered confessing that night in her car.

Hey there y/n, 

Don’t you worry about the distance, I’m right here if you get lonely. Not literally, you know that, of course. But you can always give this letter another read. Listen to my voice, it’s my disguise. I’m by your side. I’ll always be by your side, whether or not you need me. If you want me to leave, I’ll go. But until then, I’ll stay by your side. Everyone needs a loyal friend, right? I know I could use one right now. I don’t blame you for not responding. You have no proof that I am not a guilty man. But I will swear to you every day until the day that I die, I am innocent. I am innocent. I am innocent. You don’t have to believe a word I say but I will write it, scream it, sing it until you do. Prison isn’t easy. I just want to hear your voice. The eidetic memory may help, but nothing is as good as the real thing. You don’t have to write back. I wish I could tell you everything I think. I love you.  Be safe.

Sincerely, 

Spencer Reid

She hadn’t written back. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Y/n, her smile, her voice, her face. Her smell was burned into his psyche like a brand. He couldn’t forget her if he tried. And oh, he tried. Menial tasks and thumbing through books he’d already read, folding the laundry three separate times, and yet she still infiltrated his brain. No matter how fast his fingers moved, her voice lilted in his head, ‘Spencer, Spencer.’ She helped him escape, helped him remain who he is through and through. She still hadn’t responded. A month and a half after his arrest, three weeks after his last letter. He figured he had one last try. He knew his walls were closing in, his mind delving away into itself for protection. He knew he couldn’t be himself much longer, but she was the last thing keeping his feet on the ground. 

Hey there y/n, 

I’ve got so much left to say, if every letter I wrote to you would take your breath away, I’d write them all. I’d write you every letter in the world if it meant I got to hear your voice again. If it meant you didn’t hate me for what I’ve become. Prison life isn’t easy and I’ve had to do things to survive that make me unrecognizable. I don’t know that I am the person you knew. But I know you are. You get me through all of this. I think about us, what we could’ve been if I had been who you needed, who you wanted. I love you, you know. I can see you walking down the aisle, I can see you holding our children. I can see the house we buy, the cars we fight over. I can see the quilts lining our bed in stolen kisses in the morning, and I can see the light in your eyes. I love you. I am yours. If you want me, if you don’t, I am yours. 

Yours truly

Yours, truly

Spencer Reid

Truth be told, Spencer had assumed they’d never prove his innocence. He had grown accustomed to being in prison, protecting himself and others in ways he never thought he’d do. So when JJ showed up, simply stating they were here to take him home, he couldn’t believe it. His disbelief paralyzed him, shock bounding through his body as he froze to the spot he was in. The only thing that got him moving again was her. Y/n. He’d see her. Her. 

His second shock of the day was his greeting as he exited the prison, not bound or confined for the first time in three months. The sun felt better out here, somehow.. Garcia was there, taking him in her arms, and he breathes in the scent of her perfume, of lilies and coffee. That’s not what shocks him though, but what lies behind Garcia. Her. She’s here. Y/n.

“Y/n.” He takes a step towards her, tentative, watching the tears fall from her eyes and feeling his own dash across his cheeks.

“Spencer Reid.” And there is not another word but her arms are thrown around his neck, and for the first time Spencer understands that home is not a place, but a person.

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[moonandmustache]

Teen Book + Adaptation: Maze Runner by James Dashner (CYOA #4)

Finding a teen book that has been adapted into another format was easy–maybe too easy as I has far too many choices immediately. My first instinct was to read either To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before or Simon Vs the Homo Sapien Agenda since they have both recently been adapted for the screen or TV. I started reading To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and it’s really well written and the main character is thoughtful and introspective in all the right ways. I got a few chapters into it and—maybe this is a silly reason to stop reading a book–but there was this random reference to the younger sister having a favorite brand of brie cheese. 

This started a snowball of thoughts about how the family in the book and basically all the characters in this book are very upper middle class and boring. The oldest daughter is going off to college abroad, the middle daughter wrecks her car and it’s not a big deal at all because they can just replace it, the youngest daughter spends a good chunk of time making a collage of dogs she wants that all cost well over $1000, they have a massive house, the dad is a doctor, etc etc. I don’t know, suddenly the whole thing was unrelatable and boring. So, then I watched the trailer for Dear, SImon, which is the movie adaptation of Simon Vs the Homo Sapien Agenda. The teens in the movie appear to all live in massive houses too and I gave up on that one too after reading a few pages because I couldn’t get past all the privilege. 

So, I turned to the /r/YAlit sub on Reddit where I have been looking for book recommendations and found a new short list. I posted the list online and my college friend, Aaron, said his son and daughter had both read the whole Maze Runner series more than once and really liked it so that is what I read next. I also read A Monster Calls, which was also amazing but I went with Maze Runner for this write up. 

THE BOOK Maze Runner follows the story of a teen named Thomas who wakes up in a dark rising elevator with no memory of who he is, how he got in the elevator, or where it might be taking him. When the elevator finally stops, the top opens and he finds himself in the glade, a community of other teen boys in the middle of a mysterious, constantly changing, and very dangerous maze. Teens who enjoy sci-fi and mysteries will enjoy this book following the adventures of these teens who are try ing to figure out who they are, who placed them in the maze, and why they are there in the first place. It’s somewhat like Lord of the Flies in the set-up but there is, eventually, a female main character along with Thomas. The story also has some similarities to the Hunger Games in certain respects.

The book version is an appealing read on a number of levels. The individual characters are nuanced, there is interest in the dynamics of the small community living in the glade, and the mystery of the maze is very intriguing. The setting is interesting because even though all the characters are confined in this very small slice of a larger world, there is still a lot of broader world-building that happens as the story slowly unfolds. THE MOVIE The Maze Runner movie adaptation is pretty good on its own but doesn’t really hold up when compared to the book. It feels like a very different story and, in some ways, it is. Of course movie adaptations are always different because so much story has to be condensed in a couple hours–things have to be left out, things happen faster–I get that. But, usually the basic story doesn’t change that much. This adaptation includes things that don’t happen in the book–things that make it feel like a very different story. The ending sequence is practically entirely different and not at all better than the book version in any way. Some of the changes are to move it along faster and to add maybe more action to stretches that are less action-packed in the book. Changes like that make it more appealing for the screen, I suppose, but it’s a real shame that the producers sacrificed so much of the characters and glade community story for high-speed chase scenes. 

I think the most alarming changes are to the characters themselves. The movie versions are very one-dimensional and everyone is essentially reduced to stereotypes with shallow motivations–or none at all. The changes to the introduction of the female lead, Theresa, are terrible and feel somewhat sexist. Additionally, and this is a peripheral gripe, but in the book the teens living in the glade have many invented slang words used for insults and curses. It’s an interesting part of world-building and the movie mostly leaves a lot of it out and just uses regular curse words and insults. 

Convincing a teen to start engaging with the title/material: “If you liked the Hunger Games or Lord of the Flies, you might find this book interesting. It’s a dystopian sci-fi story about a group of teens who are forced to live in the center of a dangerous maze. They don’t remember anything about their former lives except their name and they have no idea how they got in the maze or who put them there. It was also recently made into a movie starring that guy from Teen Wolf; it’s different from the book in a lot of ways but still good on it’s own–and a nice treat for once you’ve finished the book.”

[ticklikeabomb]

One-Shot : Unique

Pairing: Angel Reyes x Plus Size Reader

Request Anon: Can I request a EZ or Angel imagine where the girl is plus size of course but she’s insecure about her body in a lingerie set she got and EZ or Angel tell her and show her how beautiful they think she looks? Can be smutty and fluffy?

Warnings: Language, SMUT (18+), fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: I hope you’ll like it :) 

You were an extremely stubborn person. Every time you would hear someone comment on an issue that concerned you or how some type of people, physically speaking, would be able to do things that you couldn’t, you would do everything in your power to prove them wrong. That’s how you ended up knowing how to do splits, gymnastics, pole dance, wear (tight-colorful-stripped-bikini) clothes that were deemed unflattering to your figure. Everything that would go against your capacities as a plus size person, you would stubbornly prove how wrong they were.

That was what seduced Angel. Your ability to stay calm, composed before showing up days, weeks, months later with the ability to show how some people’s conceptions were wrong. Well that but also the fact that he finds you gorgeous, sexy, funny, kind, compassionate, open-minded and so much more.

You were finishing cleaning up your work desk before making your way out to pick up Leticia. Coco had asked you if you could spend some time with her while he had some club business to attend to. You happily accepted, using the opportunity to get to know her more. The first time you met, you noticed she was reticent towards you but she quickly warmed up thanks to your joyful and confident personality. Besides, she noticed how much the club loved you and realized if they did, then you truly must be someone great and deserving of a chance.

Here you both were, walking around the store’s aisles, trying to find some outfits for Letty’s coming up first day of school. “What about this?”, you asked her while showing her the slim jeans paired with a simple white t-shirt and a leather jacket. She analyzed the outfit and smiled content. “It’s not bad. I’m sure Coco will approve”, she said. You chuckled and nodded in agreement. You checked some other stores before you noticed her eyes longing on a particular store. Turning to where her gaze was fixed, you slightly smirked. “Come on, let’s go check”, you said and entered the lingerie store. You choose a set each. A sober, simple ensemble for Letty and a sexier one for you.

After dropping her off, you headed home surprised but happy to see Angel’s bike at the porch. “Babe?”, you chanted when entering your apartment. You found him on the couch watching soccer, at the crossover of taking a gulp of his beer and yelling at the players. A smile graced his face when he saw you staring at him. “Hey, didn’t hear you come”, he stood up and captured your lips in a small kiss. You hummed, your hands circling his neck to intensify the kiss. “Missed me?”, he teased. You bite your lip and nod. “I’m gonna take a shower”, you tell him while he goes back to his game.

You did the full combo: hair, body, shaving, body lotion, face mask. Immediately you felt more relaxed and decided to try on the lingerie set you bought at the mall. Since the store was almost closing you decided to take it and return it the next day in case you didn’t like it. Lifting the stripe of your bra, you looked yourself at the mirror. Your smile faltered by the second, your brows frowning and your eyes scanning your figure in it. Something was bothering you. Was it the color? The sizing? The design, maybe? You didn’t know but you felt uncomfortable, insecure even. A negative feeling you tried to battle for years. In a world where the beauty standard body was thin, you felt invisible. That feeling of invisibility deepens every time a brand uses the body positivity movement to expand their clientele by showcasing an “acceptable” plus size body. Rarely one like yours. You were round, soft, plus size, curvy, voluptuous, fat – chose your word but not in all areas. Looking at yourself you felt like your body wasn’t well proportioned. Hips, ass, belly, arms to large completed with micro-tits. It never really bothered you before but, in that moment, and in that lingerie set, it did.

“Are you ok?”, you hear your boyfriend’s voice, his worried features looking at you from the door. You blinked several times, trying to make the incoming tears vanish. “Yep”, you lie and he knows it. Positioning himself behind you, his arms sliding around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder, he fixes his eyes on yours. “You’re a terrible liar. Come on, tell me why my gorgeous lady is on the verge of tears while looking this hot?” You clean the falling tear from your face and feel his grip on you tightening. “I… It’s nothing, it’s stupid”, you say and try to disengage from his hold but he’s not having it. “If it leaves you in this state, then it’s not nothing. Please talk to me. I know I’m not always around but I’m here for you, no matter what.”

You sigh and finally have the courage to look at him in the eyes. “I look dumb. In this set. Some areas are too big and others barely non-existent”, you confess. He frowns but doesn’t dismiss your feelings. He doesn’t say anything, showing you his complete attention. “I mean, wouldn’t I look better with bigger breasts? Because, like breasts are supposed to be ‘THE’ feminine attribute and I don’t have it. I don’t like it”, you ramble until the room stays quiet. He slowly turns you to face him, lifting your chin up. “You want the truth?”, he asks to which you nod. “First, I don’t think you look dumb at all. I think you look hot ass fuck and I’ve got a long and thick muscle that agrees with me.” His statement makes you chuckle and he smiles. “Second, I love your small cute breasts and besides I’m an ass man and querida you are serving”, he whispers closely to your ear, his hands sliding down and squeezing your behind. You feel the atmosphere change in the room, heat invading your body. “Angel”, you moan while his lips kiss your neck. “Third, who said that breasts are the feminine attribute. That’s bullshit.”

He grabs your face and makes sure you’re looking at him, the intensity in his eyes showing you how serious he is. “And finally, the things you’re looking at and feeling insecure about, are the things that make you unique. Choosing me to share your uniqueness with, makes me the luckiest and proudest motherfucker in the world. I love everything about you and so much more.” Your breath gets stuck in your throat, his declaration giving you chills and burn your heart. “You’re wrong about one thing. I’m the luckiest. Hor having you”, you exclaim before capturing his lips in a passionate kiss. Touching every parcel of your skin, he walks you to the edge of the bed and lays you on it, crawling in between your spread legs. Instantly, his mouth is on you, kissing your chest, biting and licking on your collarbones, groaning when feeling your knee rub against his hard and eager member. He slides the bra’s straps down, freeing your breasts from their confines. He makes eye contact while his tongue slowly circles around your already hardened nipples, making you arch your back and moan. He keeps his ministration, while his other hand, slides down your body and circles your clit. “An—g—el, please”, you plead him.

He lifts himself up and discharges his shirt, while you unbuckle his pants as fast as your trembling fingers can. He kisses your body down again but this time with compliments attached to his mouth while doing so. “I need you baby, please”, you moan and hope he’ll get the clue. He chuckles before his arms grab your waist and reverse the position, leaving you on top of him. You grind on his cock, creating some friction before leaning and licking the vein on the side. Angel’s body shivers from your tongue, his cursing and moaning being heard in the room. Slipping his hand around your hair, he lifts you up and tells you to ride him. You position him right under your entrance before sliding down and gasp in unison. Your hips quickly find their rhythm, his hands on your ass, pressing you down with each thrust. “Like that Y/N. So beautiful, so good”, he moans and lifts himself up in a sitting position, making him go deeper inside you. He thrusts up meeting you, your mouths on each other. The moment not only erotic but passionate and true. “I’m close”, you whisper in his ear. “Let go, I’m here, right behind you”, he moans and you do. You let yourself go, your orgasm provoking his, your bodies pressed insanely close, molding like marble sculptures.

“Te queiro mucho, mi amor”, he hears you say before falling asleep a few minutes later. “I love you too, future Mrs. Reyes”, he replies with a kiss on your forehead.

*gif, credit to the owner*

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[hopetofantasy]

‘HUMO’s big youth survey - Politics, society and religion’ - With Nora Dari (part 1)

- TW: corona pandemic, mental health, sickness, religion, islamophobia, racism, cancel culture -

Who better to test out the results of HUMO’s brand new ‘youth survey’ than a trio of three young gods? Bouba Kalala (23) made the switch between ‘Studio Brussel’ and the social media-team of the ‘SP.A’ - sorry, ‘Vooruit’. Céleste Cockmartin (21), daughter of sexologist and politician Goedele Liekens, just started her third year of neuropsychology in Maastricht. Nora Dari (19) portrays the beautiful Yasmina in the wildly popular ‘wtFOCK’. ‘If we don’t rise up to the streets, a lot of things will remain the same.’

- Note from hopetofantasy: ‘SP.A’, soon to be rebranded as ‘Vooruit’, is a social democratic political party -

For the past quarter of the century, HUMO surveyed every new batch of youngsters, but never before did we had to include a pandemic in our questionnaire. It’s a first! And even though the youth isn’t the most popular target of the virus, they’ll emerge from the corona crisis with scars on them too.

Half of young people thinks life will never return to what it was before. The girls are even more pessimistic than the boys. Nora Dari: “I wouldn’t call us pessimistic: we weren’t on the right track at all. This is one big wake-up call. I’ve never felt as alone yet together as during lockdown. On social media, we were already used to our own bubble. Then suddenly, all these bubbles began to look the same and everyone kept talking about the same thing.”

Bouba Kalala: “For one moment, the crisis showed us how good the world could be. I even started to cry at the drone images of VTM. I think we’ll bring that unity with us to the post-corona era.” Nora Dari: “When my mom stepped on the bus with her hijab before this, she would have gotten the side-eye. Now people scowl at those without mouth-masks. Weird how fast everything can change.” Bouba Kalala: “My grandpa experienced the war, we lived through a pandemic. Shit happens. When the Germans threw bombs on England, everyone re-emerged after the bombardments, re-opened their shops and even made jokes about it - ‘Everything at explosive prices!’. That’s what we should do now: we have to take corona seriously and follow the measures, but being scared won’t help us more forward.”

Do young people have to give up too much, because of the corona crisis? Almost one out of three think they do. Céleste Cockmartin: “I don’t have the feeling I’m giving up on a lot. But young people really do try and avoid infecting the elderly. When I’m in Maastricht and only see my peers for weeks at a time, then I’ll be less restrained. But when visiting my parents, I’m very careful. It’s just a matter of not being selfish. What’s so difficult about wearing a mask and disinfecting your hands?” Nora Dari: “Quite a lot of people don’t believe in masks.” Bouba Kalala: “Really? I don’t know anyone who dismisses the rules and says: ‘I’m going to go anywhere and do what I want.’ But those that do, get a story in the news. As if every young person doesn’t give a fuck.” You do? Bouba Kalala: “I have to: my grandpa who’s 84, is staying with us. I did sin once, though. Going to a friend’s house for some drinks, other friends come over and suddenly you’re with ten people.” Nora Dari: “I’ve had corona and I was scared to death that I’d infect my parents. So I locked myself up in my bedroom for two weeks.” Céleste Cockmartin: “Seriously? I wouldn't be able to handle it mentally if I couldn't go out.” Nora Dari: “But I was incredibly sick, so the solitary confinement didn’t bother me. I’ve binged all there was to binge on Netflix.” Bouba Kalala: “And your sense of smell and taste?” Nora Dari: “Still gone! I can’t taste anything. Us, Moroccans, drink mint tea every day. Now, a month later, it still tastes like water.” Did the virus change you? Nora Dari: “I’m pretty religious. Corona has given me even more the understanding that everything is in God’s hands.” Faith is on the rise again: the number of young people claiming they’re atheist or non-religious declined from 50 to 41 percent. Céleste Cockmartin: “Everyone is looking for meaning and answers. I search these answers in science.” Bouba Kalala: “For me, science and God have the same worth. Believers can’t prove there is something, but science can’t disprove it either.” You believe there’s something? Bouba Kalala: “Yes, but what? I believe in the universe, the force of attraction, the power of positive thinking... I don’t want to sound too much like a hippie, but I also believe in the paranormal and UFOs. (*Céleste and Nora laugh out loud*) What? UFOs are my hobby. Even the American army admits there is something, so there must be something (*laughs*).” Nora Dari: “I often hear it: young people believe in something, but they don’t know (yet) in what they believe.” It’s all clear to you. Nora Dari: “Yes. I’m lucky to be born in a muslim family, but even then, there’s a moment where you think: is this the religion that really defines me? I’ve done research and began reading books, but my heart truly connected with the Islam. It feels like true love.” Céleste Cockmartin: “I can be jealous about that. I think it’s a shame sometimes, that I don’t have that faith. It seems to be a good solace during the hard times. For a lot of people, faith isn’t much more than a form of meditation.” Bouba Kalala: “The grandma from a friend of mine passed away recently. I found it hard to comfort her. I don’t have that issue with my Moroccan or Turkish friends, because we know she’s with God. The idea that she isn’t gone, brings peace.” In 2015, when we were still discussing the imminent terror attacks, 9 percent called themselves muslim. Now it’s 17 percent. Nora Dari: “I think it’s related to the terrorists. Because of them, muslims and non-muslims started asking questions about Islam. People studied the religion and concluded that it’s actually really beautiful.” When you were 13, you wore a hijab for a while. Nora Dari: “As a young girl, I often visited the community center in Winterslag. It closed down by the time I went to high school. From a tiny school with only two Belgians without an immigration background, to a school with a handful of muslims. Suddenly the world seemed bigger. I needed something familiar, something I could join and where I felt included. That was the Islam. After two years, I realized that my choice to wear the hijab, was too hasty. I wore it so I wouldn’t feel alone, but when I got older, I understood: I’m not alone. With or without hijab, God’s always with me.” Will you wear it again some day? Nora Dari: “I hope so. If someone asks me why I don’t wear it, I don’t have an excuse. It’s something so beautiful. Yet, right now, it doesn’t feel as if it’s something I need to do.”  Do you feel, as a muslim, that you’re less of a target than a few years ago? Nora Dari: “Yes. That’s connected with the trend of being woke, being aware of everything and refusing to think anything is bad. Due to this, a lot of youngsters are becoming less critical. Which is a shame.” And here I thought, young people were only positive about being woke? Nora Dari: “But what is the meaning of ‘being woke’?” I was hoping you could tell me. Nora Dari: “No one knows. Everyone pretends to know (*laughs*).” Bouba Kalala: “That’s being woke, I think: not knowing everything, stop pretending like you have all the answers.” Nora Dari: “You know what bothers me? That we live in such a cancel culture. One bad tweet and you’re cancelled for life. There’s nothing woke about that?” Bouba Kalala: “Without social media, we wouldn’t have cancel culture: every brain fart continues to exist on the internet. Years later, someone will dig up a wrong statement and use it to take you down.” Nora Dari: “Young people would do well, if they followed the people they don’t agree with on social media.” Bouba Kalala: “Yes!” Nora Dari: “If I'd follow Dries Van Langenhove (= extreme right politician / activist) tomorrow, my followers would throw a fit: ‘Do you agree with him?’ No, the exact opposite! But how can I understand how he thinks, if I don’t follow him? If I only followed people whom I agree with, I’ll get tangled up into my own truths. The world doesn’t stop with my own Insta page.” Céleste Cockmartin: “That’s being woke: talking with your opponents. I once started a conversation with Dries Van Langenhove. I ran into him in Ghent, at the time of the ‘Schild & Vrienden’ TV report. I had to know: what’s the deal with that group? Unfortunately the conversation wasn’t very clear - it was the nightlife neighborhood. But I’ll stick with my statement: start a conversation with dissendents.” And the youth of today doesn’t do that? Nora Dari: “Not at all. We rather cancel each other.” Bouba Kalala: “I already know that I’ll get racist bullshit hurled at me after this interview. I've learned not to care. Hate posts are good for my algorithm.” You don’t reply to them? Bouba Kalala: “I do, every time. One time, I argued for hours with someone who sent a racist tweet. I kept going: ‘Why do you say that, Arno? Do you realize this hurts?’. In the end, he even thanked me. I went to my mom, showed her the conversation and we’ve high-fived each other. I know that Arno will vote for Vlaams Belang (= extreme right political party) again, but he did say ‘thank you’, while he started with that sick tweet.”

[sansugar]

An ultimate secret

Pairing: Wooyoung x Female Reader

Word count: 4.2k

Genre: Smut

Warnings: rough sex..?, fingering, maybe something else I’m forgetting

--Finally sharing one of my first writings. This is potentially a 3 part series, let me know if you want to read more. Hope you enjoy!--

The train pulled to a halt and your suitcase knocked against your knees, startling you out of an upright doze where your head had been falling forward and jerking back for 45 minutes. A voice over announced the next station and you realised you were already in Seoul. After signing up for a 3 month, intensive course right in the middle of the city, you were excited to be given a second chance at your getting dream job, especially since the end of high school hadn’t worked out because you had been terribly sick. Luckily for you, your brother Seonghwa lived in a dorm just twenty minutes from your new school. With your small savings pot from years of working late nights at the convenience store and not having to pay rent, you would be able to focus all of your time on your studies. Or so you thought.

Exiting the confined tunnels of the station you emerged onto the street, squinting over the blurred, buzzing crowd. Though you recognised the faint smell of tobacco and deep fried chicken, and the clopping of heels across the pavement, you had to take a moment to get your bearings. As you hesitated in the middle of the path, a man leaning casually against a tree caught your eye. He reminded you of a cardboard cut out, slender with hard features, dark hair hanging across one eye. His navy blazer hung open, revealing a band t-shirt underneath, jeans and a belt buckle that caught the sun. You barely recognised your own brother.

“Seonghwa?!”

His face softened with a genuine smile as he strode towards you, arms out. He smelt expensive, like a brand name you’d seen on a billboard, but his enveloping hug was the same as it always had been, like he could wrap his arms around you twice.

“Was your train delayed? I thought maybe I’d missed you.”

“No I don’t think so” you replied, distracted by the of rainbow of advertisements flapping in the street above every shop.

You let him pull your backpack off your shoulders and take the handle of your suitcase before leading you out of the crowds.

“Are you hungry?”

You hadn’t realised until that moment that you had been starving.

“Yes please let’s get something good” you whined, pulling on his arm.

He chuckled, taking you down a maze of side streets to a tiny, hidden restaurant.

The food was delicious and you couldn’t stop yourself from ordering way more than you could eat, especially because you knew Seonghwa would pay. You talked with him more than you had in years. He told you all about his experiences as part of a rookie idol group and you told him all about life back home with your parents. You were lucky that he had just finished album promotions and had some time off to spend with you between training sessions.

When you arrived at the dorms you were quickly introduced to the other members of ATEEZ in a whirl of handshakes and tentative hugs before Seonghwa ushered you to his room to get you unpacked. It had all gone so fast that your mind began to replay Yunho’s warm touch, Mingi’s toothy grin, Wooyoungs constant chatter and San’s smouldering stare. Somewhere in the pit of your stomach you felt excited. How were you going to get any studying done with that around you 24/7?

You placed your suitcase on the bed and began to rummage around in your disorganised mess of clothes when you heard a knock at the doorframe. It was Hongjoong.

“Y/N. Do you mind if I quickly grab something? I left my charger in here” He pointed past you to the bedside table.

“Not at all, go for it”

He knelt down to pull his charger plug out of the wall when it clicked in your head that this was his room.

“Did Seonghwa kick you out of your room? Am I stealing your bed?”

Hongjoong chuckled and shook his head.

“It’s yours for the next three months. I’m happy to bunk with Yunho and Yeosang. A girl needs her privacy. Well, you will be in here with Seonghwa but…you’ll be comfortable”

He smiled at you as he swung his hands around his sides, unsure what to do with them.

“Hongjoong, haven’t you got somewhere to be?” Seonghwa said, appearing at your side.

He gave him a look that you couldn’t quite see and Hongjoong slipped out of the room without a word.

Seonghwa pulled a handful of clothes from your suitcase and began to fold them carefully. You crawled up onto the bed and sat with your back against the wall. The room was small and mostly bare but cosy. Seonghwa’s immaculately made bed was opposite yours and you were reminded of when you had shared a room with him when you were younger. You closed your eyes, feeling content in your new home. But that relaxation was short lived.

“Have you studied today?” Seonghwa asked, brow furrowed as he tried to match your socks.

“No? Classes haven’t started yet”

“But surely you have some work to do? To get a head start?”

“I guess…”

“Y/N. I hope you’re taking this seriously. You’re not always going to have a second chance”

You scowled at your brother, starting to remember why you had celebrated when he decided to become an idol and moved out in the first place.

A few weeks later, classes had started and you had settled into life at the dorm. Like you, the boys were in and out constantly but once a week you all had dinner together, and soon enough you were just a regular member of the team. You played mobile games with Wooyoung, watched dramas with Mingi and had regular arm wrestles with Jongho who was sometimes kind enough to let you win. Yunho would ask you about what you were learning while San tried to teach you to do pull ups and Yeosang would send you song recommendations every other day. Seonghwa had been overbearing and wary at first of the boys stealing too much of your attention but over time he relaxed, appreciative that there were 7 other people looking out for you.

It was a Sunday evening and you were sitting on your bed after a few hours of actual studying to watch a movie on your laptop, the room shadowed as the sun set behind the other buildings. You were snuggled in your blanket, completely engrossed when Seonghwa thumped into the room, flicked on the blinding light and yanked your headphones off your head.

“Hey!”

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you studying?” He scolded.

“I have been studying! Get off my back.”

This had been such a regular argument over the past few weeks, you felt like your responses were scripted. But today, he seemed to have had enough.

“You seem to think you can just get through life with a pretty face and no work Y/N but it doesn’t work that way. I won’t let you laze around here and waste our parents money on a course you don’t even seem to care about”

“What are you talking about? I already studied today. I’ve done all my homework”

Seonghwa grabbed your laptop out of your lap and closed it forcefully.

“This look likes you’re working really hard. Really practising well” he chided.

You glared at him.

“Look Seonghwa, I don’t know what your problem is…”

“My problem? I’m just trying to look out for you. You sit around here all day, wasting time on your phone, watching TV. This isn’t a holiday Y/N. Anyone would think you don’t even want to be successful and employed. If you’re not careful, you’re going to fail this course just like you failed high-school.”

You threw your blanket off your knees, stood up and shoved him. A painful lump rose in your throat, which you held in place, determined not to let him see you cry.

“I had pneumonia you asshole. You were there. How dare you stand there all high and mighty when you did absolutely fuck all with your high-school degree. I’m so sick of you pretending like you’re better than me when all you do is prance around in tight pants on stage.”

His face was like stone as he stood motionless in front of you.

“I know the real you Park Seonghwa and I can see straight through this facade you put up for your fans. You and your fake superiority can get fucked”

You stormed out and slammed the front door behind you with one goal in your mind. You had to get away from him. The lump in your throat became suffocating and tears peeked at the corners of your eyes. Your face felt hot but the hairs on your arms prickled and in that moment you wished you had had enough sense to grab your phone or a jacket on the way out. You walked aimlessly down the road, staring up at the dusty sky, willing your tears to suck back in so the passersby with their dogs would stop looking at you. You replayed his words in your head and saw his constant disapproving face, wondering what had happened to that soft and kind brother that had taken you for lunch those weeks ago. Your brother had always been a bit criticising, but never this cruel. You felt the sudden urge to hurt him, the need to see his face in shock, for once unable to predict you. But how? He had always been the stronger one, the smarter one, always two steps ahead.

You found yourself outside the dance practise building the boys often visited after hours. The lights were still on so you let yourself in, shivering and rubbing your arms. You wandered down the hallway, looking in each of the little square windows when you noticed a familiar brunette in a practise room by himself, music blaring. You slipped past the door and sat on the couch to watch Wooyoung dance, still oblivious to your presence. You had never seen him like this before; wearing a tank top and grey sweatpants, leg muscles straining against the fabric. You watched wide eyed as the bass of the music surged through your chest, playing your heart like a drum, captivated by his lunges that shook the floorboards, the intricate patterns he drew with his body and facial expressions that made you feel all kinds of things in your lower half. He almost jumped out of his skin when he noticed you.

“Fuck Y/N!” He said, running to pause the music on his phone. “You scared me half to death”

���I’m sorry. I just saw you dancing and I…” you trailed off, acutely aware of how flustered and tearful you must still look, trying to hide your face with your hair.

The smile on his face fell as he approached you.

“What happened? Are you ok?” He dipped his head to look into your eyes, softly touching your shoulders, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Was it Seonghwa again? I swear to god if he’s been on at you again I’ll…” he paused and reconsidered. “I mean I probably won’t do anything…but I will if you want me to”

“I really don’t want to talk about it”

Wooyoung wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. He smelt like sweat and deodorant which you inhaled deeply, leaning into his embrace.

“Do you want to get some food?” He asked, stroking your hair.

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“What do you want to do?”

A momentary idea popped into your head. “Could you teach me to dance?”

Wooyoung pulled away far enough to look at your face, a hint of concern and uncertainty in his eyes.

“To dance?”

“It would take my mind off things…teach me the part you were practising”

He laughed nervously but when he saw you were serious, he nodded. You followed him to the middle of the dance floor and he stood just in front of you, legs in a wide stance.

“Okay, so first you go like this…”

Wooyoung showed you sequence and then broke it down into steps. You were shaky at first, but with his help you started to get it, dancing the choreography almost to speed once he turned the music on. You quickly forgot the fight, laughing whenever you got it wrong and Wooyoung playfully yelled at you for not listening to him.

“You’re not low enough. Squat lower! Yes like that. Now thrust your hips. More. Make it bigger. You’re still not doing it right!”

Wooyoung ran over to pause the music and you sighed loudly.

“The hip thrusts are embarrassing” you whined, fanning your hot skin with your hands.

“They are not. Confidence is sexy. You are sexy. Now come on, your form isn’t right”

You caught your breath as he came behind you and ran his fingertips lightly down your sides before settling them on your hips. You felt your body stiffen and skin prickle in anticipation, desperate for him to either slide his hands lower or to put a metre of distance between you.

He did neither, instead putting pressure on the juncture of your thighs to make you squat lower and lean slightly right, his chest flush against your back, sweaty shirt pressing against you. You could feel his hair tickling your neck as his hands slid down your arms to grab your hands and raise them above your head. It took everything you had to stop your thighs from shaking, body completely new to such a low squat position. You didn’t dare move as he analysed you in the mirror, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

“Just like that” he said dryly as his hands came back to rest on your waist, dark eyes fixed on yours, unconsciously licking his bottom lip

You looked away, at anything other than his intense stare. Were you reading this right? Or did all dancers guide each other with such alluring invasion of personal space? His body shifted and you felt the light press of his bulge against your ass, shattering any notions that this was a normal dance lesson. His breath fanned your shoulder and you thought you should move away, pull his hands off of you, tell him off, anything to remove yourself from the precipice of turning your relationship into something else.

But your hips took a mind of their own and you felt yourself gently grind back against him, drawing an involuntary groan from deep in his throat. You craned your neck to look at him over your shoulder, frozen in the painful squat your mind paid no more attention to. Time stood still as his gaze flicked to your parted lips and you slightly inclined your head in a permissive nod. Before you realised you had moved, he had flipped you around and pressed you hard up against the mirror, licking into your mouth and hands roaming over every inch of your clothed chest. His hips bucked against yours and you reached down to the outside of his sweatpants to palm him, drawing a another long groan from him against your lips.

“Please don’t stop” he panted, planting breathy kisses along your jaw to your collarbone, pausing to inhale your scent and pulling down your t-shirt collar to grant him further access to your skin.

“Can I…” he started to ask, but his hands were way ahead of him, travelling up your shirt, kneading your breasts through the fabric of your bra, forehead pressed into the crux of your neck.

You fingers played on the edge of his pants as you briefly questioned yourself again before diving down to take hold of his hot length, earning a simultaneous groan from both of you. You held tightly but didn’t move, causing him to shamelessly buck up into your hand, his touch abandoning your chest in search of your core, which at this point was embarrassingly wet.

You knew there would be no going back the moment his hand slid down the front of your panties. His middle finger swiped up your slit, flooding warmth into you and you instinctively clenched your walls to feel some friction.

“Holy shit” he breathed, mostly to himself as he inched two fingers deep inside you to curl against your spot, causing you to shudder helplessly beneath him. You were insatiable, weeks of pent up curiosity, fantasises and late night masturbation in the shower caused by living in a house of 7 gorgeous men. It was wrong, it was forbidden and you were intent on riding it straight to hell.

“Please fuck me Wooyoung” you whimpered to the ceiling, shaking at the intensity of which he fingered you, tongue pressing into your neck, drinking you in.

He growled into your skin and captured your lips again with both hands holding your face, the fingers which he had just had inside of you rubbing your own juices on your cheek. You suppressed a laugh at his eagerness and pulled his sweatpants down to his thighs as he pulled your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra and burying his head between your breasts, sucking and grabbing at your flesh.

“Fuck I want you so bad” he said, muffled into your nipple, pulling it between his teeth.

In the space of a breath, he hoisted your leg onto his hip, bunched your skirt up around your waist, pulled your panties to the side and entered you in one swift motion that had you both gasping out.

Time stopped again as he bottomed out, pausing with his forehead pushed against yours, inhaling deeply, fingers digging into your thigh. Your walls were screaming with the sudden stretch and you suppressed a painful sound when he tentatively pulled all the way out and pressed back in. You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep yourself upright and balanced on your one standing leg. He tested a few more erratic thrusts and the pain began to mix with pleasure and an overwhelming desire to be pounded into the mirror but Wooyoung paused his movements.

“I don’t know if I can control myself” he mumbled with shuddering breaths, hair hanging in his eyes.

“Then don’t”

He snaked his arm around the small of your back and jerked your hips closer to his, your head leaning on back the mirror like a rag doll in his hold. He drew his cock back again and you felt every ridge of him before he thrust up into you, setting a bruising pace that made you gasp for air.

“Fuck, I’ve imagined this so many times” he kissed below your ear, bouncing your body with every thrust and your hands fell back flat onto the mirror to hold on for dear life. “You walking around the dorm in your cute sundresses like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Pleasure started to rise from your core to your stomach and you wrapped your leg tighter around his hips, chasing the promise of your release. You leaned back in to capture his lips in a kiss, deeper than you had all night. He held you in that kiss until the pleasure became too much and you had to pull away, sucking in a desperate breath.

“God you’re so fucking perfect. Tell me-ugh…tell me how good it feels”

You moan as the pressure builds, pleasure sparking in multiple directions, but the pain of your wobbly standing leg starts to pull you away. As if reading your mind, Wooyoung pulls out and turns you to face the mirror, spreading your legs with his feet and pulling your hips back onto his cock. You cry out as he reaches deep inside you, igniting a fire as your walls clamp down on him and your hand automatically drops to rub your clit.

“I’m not going to last” he says, inhaling your hair. “Are you close?”

You moan again as if that is a response and rub your clit faster, knowing your release was within reach, just over that figurative hill, if he could just…

“There, a-ah fuck Y/N, I’m there. God-fucking-yesyesyes”

Wooyoung stands on his toes, boosting the angle of his cock to rub directly on your back wall and pound erratically into your spot. Like the crack of a whip, you inhale suddenly, almost choking on air as he hurtles you towards your orgasm, cock twitching as he cums deep inside you.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop” you pleaded, reaching back to hold the back of his thighs in case he dared to pull away from you or reduce his blinding pace.

Your torso was almost completely horizontal now, back arching, thrusting yourself back onto his cock, his cum dripping down your thighs. Your release hit you like a series of waves breaking, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as your walls convulsed erratically, spreading a wet warmth throughout your core. Wooyoung continued to pound you, fingers coming down to press on your own, rubbing harder into your clit.

Riding you down from heaven, stars and colours swirling behind your eyes, Wooyoung began to slow. Your knees gave way and you threw your hands out in front of you to stop yourself hitting the wooden floor too hard. Wooyoung wrapped his arms around your stomach and dropped to his knees with you in an attempt to keep his softening cock buried inside of you. His chest heaved against your back but you were both quiet, letting the sound of the squeaky fan and creaks of the building fill the silence.

“Fuck, Y/N I should have asked if I could come in you”

“It’s fine, I’m on the pill”

“Even so” he mumbled, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades and slowly removing himself from you.

You remained awkwardly on your hands and knees, panting at the floor as your senses returned and the reality of what you had done clicked from blurry to sharp in your mind. Wooyoung handed you a towel and you wiped the cum from your thighs, gazing in disbelief up at your smudged handprints on the mirror. Wooyoung was speaking, possibly to you, but you couldn’t focus on his words, caught in a state of ecstasy that wasn’t just post orgasm bliss. As you both got dressed, he tried to catch your gaze, but you barely noticed him, focused on the incredible feeling rising in your chest.

“Hey-where are you going?”

You were halfway out the door when you turned to look at him and forced a smile.

“I have to go back”

You left Wooyoung dumbfounded behind you, revelling in the complete elation of having just done something that would make Seonghwa burst a blood vessel if he knew. You emerged into the night air again, cold wind soothing your red, sweaty face. You felt bulletproof, like there was nothing more Seonghwa could hold over you. Not when you had such an ultimate secret over him.

You heard low voices when you reached the dorm and opened the door to find Hongjoong and Seonghwa sitting at the table, several empty bottles of Soju between them. Something about the way your brother looked at you, eyes glazed over and swaying slightly, told you that the drinking had been one sided.

“There you…I was so…worry” Seonghwa mumbled, standing up to give you a hug though he ended up almost pushing you over and Hongjoong had to step in and hold him up.

“It’s ok, I’m fine” you said, patting him on the back and mouthing a thank you to Hongjoong, who shrugged a smile. You looked up at your brothers’ flushed and puffy face and in this moment you pitied him, a pang of guilt stabbing you somewhere in the gut.

“I wish I…I shouldn’t have-“ he started but you cut him off.

“Let’s get you to bed”

It was a short but slow stumble from the kitchen to your shared room.

“I’m such a screw up” Seonghwa whined, head lolling backwards before you and Hongjoong dropped him on his bed.

“Go to sleep now” you said, smiling to yourself at your brothers complete inability to hold his liquor.

“You’re my sister and I…always…” he trailed off, squeezing your hand, eyes fluttering shut. Hongjoong turned off the light, leaving you sitting on top of Seonghwas quilt in the dark room, listening to his breathing as he started to drift off. You bit your bottom lip, wondering if maybe you had gone too far with Wooyoung tonight.

But your guilt was fleeting as the next morning, a hungover and humiliated Seonghwa berated you over breakfast for leaving the house without your phone.

“What the hell is wrong with you Y/N? What if something had happened to you? It just baffles me how you can be so damn stupid sometimes”

You sat at the table, staring ahead and calmly eating your cereal as he brought up more reasons and memories where you had been what he considered irresponsible. But you didn’t take the bait this time. You felt above that now, addicted to the power of what Seonghwa didn’t know, of how Wooyoung had melted at your touch, and how mere centimetres from your brothers disapproving face, you plotted your next pursuit.

[the-wlw-cafe]

Limerence - A Westenray Fanfic

Rated: T

Summary: Five times Mina remained blind to the true extent of Lucy’s feelings, and one time Lucy was the one unaware.

Read it on AO3!

i.

Lucy is nine years old when she’s first told that how she feels for Mina is considered out of the ordinary.

“When I marry, I want to marry a man who’s intelligent – and kind!”, Mina happily prattles along, her voice airy with excitement, still taken by the wonder of the stories they’d read just minutes before. The legend of King Arthur, old myths of chivalry and bravery, none of those modern novels their parents fret about. It’s still more than Lucy’s governess will allow her, afraid that her young mind might get lost among the pages.

“Be sure to stay on top of your reading then, an intelligent man won’t settle for a dull girl at his side”, Mina’s governess, Mrs Sheffield, replies, not unkindly – never unkindly, Lucy thinks with a slight pang of envy. Then again, someone as bright and kind and good as Mina would not give her governess many reasons to be unkind. It makes Lucy wonder why Mina’s parents would even have a need for a governess, since their daughter is already perfect. Lucky Mrs Sheffield must be envied by all her peers, getting to spend her entire day with Mina.

“What about you, Lucy? Who do you want to marry?”, Mina asks, and Lucy can feel two pairs of eyes burrow into her. Marriage. She can barely think about it without scoffing. She can’t stand any of the boys she knows, boys like Henry, the Fairfax’ son, who likes to pull Mina’s hair and kick against her shins under the table when his parents aren’t looking. If he is what a ‘fine young gentleman’ is supposed to be, she doesn’t want any part of it. He’s rude, snotty and rough. Unlike Mina.

“I don’t think I shall marry”, Lucy says. “I just want to stay with Mina.”

Mrs Sheffield can’t quite hide the way Lucy’s reply catches her off guard. Her features twist into a frown for just a moment or two, before smoothing over again.

“Well, I remember not caring for any of the boys when I was your age, too”, the governess offers. “You’ll change your mind when you’re older. It’s simply a matter of meeting the right man.”

Lucy can barely resist the urge to stomp her feet in an entirely unladylike display of frustration. She knows she won’t change her mind, and she doesn’t care one bit for the way Mrs Sheffield talks over her!

“Don’t pay her any mind”, Mina whispers to her once the governess has turned her back to them. She takes her hand and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “We’ll always stay together, even after we marry.”

Lucy doesn’t answer, because kind as Mina is, she just doesn’t seem to understand what she means, and Lucy doesn’t know how to make her friend see reason. So instead, she uses her sleeve to wipe at the tears that have sprung from her eyes unbidden. She knows herself better than any governess will ever know her, and she knows one thing above all: Never in her life will a boy be more important to her than Mina.

ii.

Lucy is 14 years old and it is getting increasingly difficult to look at Mina. It’s something she can’t quite explain, or perhaps she doesn’t dare to entertain the notion in her mind for long enough to form a conclusion. Either way, there is a strange atmosphere between them now, at least on Lucy’s part, and she prays that Mina doesn’t perceive it as well. Things that were as natural as breathing before, things that should be as natural as breathing have suddenly taken on a new grandness. Whenever they share a bed now she can barely catch a wink of sleep, her focus consumed entirely by Mina’s warmth and every point of contact between their bodies, making her heart race and her breath stutter. Whenever Mina, sweet, unwitting Mina changes in front of her she can feel an entirely unfamiliar heat rise until it becomes too much to bear and she has to avert her eyes. Sometimes she will look at her best friend and out of the blue the brunette’s beauty will steal the breath right from her lungs. Sometimes, her eyes will catch on Mina’s lips, and she wonders what it might feel like if she were to just lean in -

Perhaps Lucy is getting ill.

She fears she might be past any chance of recovery already.

Still, she needs to nip this, whatever it is, in the bud. She has no idea how to do it, but she’s locked herself in her room. She’s been refusing meals and company, because until she’s found a way to contain this, to push it into a corner of her mind so deep it can never come up again, she can’t be trusted around Mina. What if she does something thoughtless? What if, in one lapse of control, she’d find herself acting on her most secret impulses, destroying their friendship forever, branding herself a twisted pariah?

There’s a knock on the door, without the hesitation the servants often display when they attempt to coax her into accepting a tray of rapidly cooling dinner, and gentler yet than her mother’s knock. She knows it’s her before she even has the chance to announce her presence.

“Lucy? May I come in, please?”

She’s completely aware it’s a mistake, she’s aware in her state this might very likely end in disaster, but she is also aware that she will never be able to deny her friend a single wish. She strides across the room, steadily avoiding Mina’s gaze as she lets her in, as if the simple act of meeting her eyes would set her ablaze. Lucy can’t rule out the possibility that it might.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”, Mina asks.

“I’m sorry,” is all Lucy can come up with.

“The least you could do is not avoid my question”, her friend huffs, and even now, cornered as she is, Lucy can’t help how her heart swells with affection for hard-headed, iron-willed Mina. She opens her mouth, but despite usually being so quick to come up with quips it can’t find the words to express what needs to be said.

“Are we fighting? Was it something I said?”, Mina inquires further, her voice softer now.

That Lucy can’t abide by. She can’t let Mina believe this entire wretched situation is her fault, not for a second.

“Oh, sweet Mina, no! It’s me, it’s my fault, I just – it’s just…”, she trails off, cowardly, because even though it’s the right thing to do she can’t bring herself to ruin what she still has left. Lucy can see Mina open her mouth, to question her further, probably, but she seems to think better of it. Instead, she closes the gap between them, taking Lucy in her arms, and Lucy, curse her weakness, readily lets herself melt into the embrace.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words, Lucy. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? I worry about you.”

There was no way Lucy could hold the tears at bay now.

“I’m so, so sorry for making you worry”, she sniffles, letting herself be comforted by the familiar smell of Mina’s floral perfume. “And I can only apologize for shutting you out like this.”

“Don’t worry about all of that now. All I care about is your happiness”

“But you make me happy”, Lucy states, quietly. It is the profound truth: She’d never been so miserable in her entire life than the days she’s isolated herself, and these few minutes in her friend’s company seem to have healed her like molten gold seeping into the open cracks on her heart, filling up the empty spaces. Mina pulled back, brow furrowed, both of her hands coming up to gently cup her face, wiping away her tears with her thumbs. Lucy exhales a shuddering sigh.

“If that is true than I’m afraid you’re being very ridiculous right now”, Mina admonishes gently. “Because what you need right now is to not wallow in your own self-pity. You need a day on the town with your best friend to distract you from your murky thoughts, and maybe after you can tell me what weighs so heavily on your heart.”

It’s a wonder how Mina can’t see the adoration plainly written across her face as Lucy takes the hand that’s offered to her, already concocting a completely fabricated story about some young man breaking her heart to placate Mina’s curiosity about her disappearance.

“Nobody makes me as happy as you”, Lucy murmurs, and although the words are only meant for herself Mina picks up on them nonetheless.

“Then you can count yourself lucky that I won’t let you waste away in a sunless room, dearest Lucy. I’ll say, you really are dramatic sometimes.”

You’d understand if you knew, Lucy thinks, forgive me, but I pray you’ll never know.

iii.

She’s been confined to her bed in isolation for days now. At least she believes so, but her sense of time has been utterly shattered by drifting in and out of fevered dreams, with no way to tell the time of the day but from the light – or lack thereof – coming in through the window.

She wishes they’d just talk to her. In the beginning she was at least able to get some information from her mother when the doctor informed her of Lucy’s state in a hushed voice, like the uncertainty of what was happening to her would bring her any peace of mind. Most of the information she got was conveyed by her mother through worried glances, through the tight smiles and reassurances of “it’s nothing serious, you’re going to be up and about in no time at all” meant to bring her comfort, but only accomplished the opposite as she knew all of her mother’s tells. It was obvious Lucy was being lied to.

But it doesn’t matter now, not anymore, since the doctor has forbidden her mother from entering her room for longer than an hour a day, since he is convinced the visits cause Lucy nothing but distress. In reality, of course, nothing is more distressing than slowly watching the angry red rash of scarlet fever creep over her chest and arms in isolation.

In the initial state of Lucy’s illness, Mina did not leave her side at all, and now, after the doctor had to forcibly remove her from Lucy’s bedside more than once, she’s taken to sneaking into Lucy’s room at night. No matter how hard Lucy protests – or tries to, her throat feels too raw and tight to speak more often than not– stubborn Mina cares not for Lucy’s worries of the disease spreading to her, because apparently, the fever has made her quite contradictory: While she sends her friend away during her few hours of wakefulness, in her sleep she’s known to call out for Mina, no-one but Mina. What other secrets her feverish mind may lay bare Lucy does not dare think about, but since Mina keeps coming back to her the thing she fears most can’t have come to pass yet. How strange, she muses, that even as she is getting her throat painted with horribly painful tinctures twice a day it is this she frets over every minute of every waking hour.

She awakes to a darkened room only illuminated by the few candles that have not yet burned down, sunken into a chair by her bedside none other than Mina, sleeping. Lucy’s eyes drift downward to their hands, intertwined even in their sleep, and she can’t help but stroke the palm of Mina’s hand with her fingertips, tracing patterns over her delicate fingers, imagining herself lifting it up to her lips and kissing each one -

With a soft sigh, Mina rouses, and Lucy’s hand jerks back as if Mina’s skin had burned her. Her friend’s eyes dart around the room, disoriented, before settling on Lucy’s face. Lucy shudders inwardly as she imagines what a ghastly sight she must be, skin sickly pale with red splotches creeping up her neck, her eyes glassy from the fever. But in Mina’s gaze there’s no pity, only affection, and it alone makes Lucy want to cry.

“Lucy”, Mina breathes, her voice still thick with sleep. Despite her aching limbs Lucy lifts a hand and pushes against her friend’s thigh, weak but insistent. Keep your distance, she tries to convey. I couldn’t bear it if you were to get ill as well.

It’s a testament to their bond that Mina understands her without issue, even though all she has to say on the matter is “I won’t leave you alone, Lucy, so don’t even try to convince me otherwise.”

A hand comes to touch her forehead, and despite the fever Lucy can feel additional heat rise to her cheeks. Worry is clearly etched into Mina’s face.

“First and foremost, we need to keep your temperature down.”

Mina’s voice, calm and firm, brings her more comfort than her mother’s hushed reassurances ever have. There is a bucket of rags soaking in freezing water next to her bed, she hears it sloshing and closes her eyes, bracing herself for the icy touch.

“This is going to feel very cold”, Mina whispers, and the warning is more than the doctor has ever afforded her. In fact, it’s very likely that they’ve exchanged more words in the last minutes than the doctor ever has deigned to waste on her over the entire course of her illness. In fact, she’s not sure the doctor even knows her name – to him she might be called scarletina since he seems to regard her as nothing but her disease. Lucy gasps at the first touch of the icy rags to her heated skin as Mina carefully places them on her forehead with steady hands. Mina is knowledgeable about these things, she’s knowledgeable about a lot of things a young lady like her has no business being aware of. Her childhood passion for reading has only grown stronger the older they got, they’d soon turned to reading penny dreadfuls in secret, huddled together in bed way after nightfall, both of them trying to keep a brave face and yet almost jumping out of their skin at every benign noise of the mansion at night. Now she’s taken to sneaking into her father’s study, reading every medical journal she can get her hands on. She’d make a fine doctor, Lucy muses. Certainly better than the odious man in whose care she is now, although that might not be saying much.

Despite the burning sensation the cold rags inflict on her she feels her eyelids grow heavy and her mind grow sluggish with exhaustion.

“Mina”, she manages to croak.

“Shhh”, Mina admonishes, one wet hand cupping her cheek. “Don’t exert yourself too much.”

“Stay.”

It’s utterly selfish, but Lucy has proven to be nothing but a selfish creature. She craves the comfort Mina’s presence provides like she craves her next breath.

Lucy eyes have already closed, but she can still hear the smile curl around her best friend’s voice when she mutters: “I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.”

Always. I want you always, Lucy thinks, or maybe speaks. Everything hurts and the difference doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

“Then I’m afraid you’re stuck with me”, are the last words she hears before sleep pulls her under again.

iv.

Lucy would never have thought it possible to be so infatuated with a person that even their handwriting would seem endearing, but nonetheless she finds herself mindlessly skimming through Mina’s scientific notes, tracing the energetic curve of her gs, the elegant bow of her fs, and smiles at all the places the aspiring doctor has smudged the ink in her haste to capture every single ounce of knowledge on the page. It almost feels like she’s reading something private, like she’s intruded on her friend’s journal, but she can’t bring herself to stop. At least it distracts her from her worry.

Mina should have arrived from her studies half an hour ago. Lucy’s let herself into Mina’s room to escape the dreadful weather outside as if it were her own home. Considering the amount of time she spends there, it might as well be. Lucy glances at the clock. It hasn’t been a long time, even though it feels like hours, but Lucy can’t help the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that something might be wrong, that something is holding her up, that something has happened. With a huff, she closes the notebook. Maybe she’s just gotten used to being Mina’s first priority. Is this what she’s come to? Resenting Mina for chasing her dreams, dreams that she might have thought unattainable if it weren’t Mina who was pursuing them? She remembers the pride she felt when Mina told her through tears of joy that she’d been accepted into the medical society, as if her friend’s accomplishments were her own. No, she could never begrudge sweet Mina her ambition, as her drive is one of the most captivating things about her.

She hears footsteps rapidly approaching, a quick, decisive snap of heels that she’s come to associate with no-one but Mina. The door bursts open, and the smile that has snuck it’s way upon Lucy’s lips as it always does in Mina’s blessed presence drips from her face like the rain pelting against the windows as she sees the expression on her dear friend’s face. Jaw locked and eyes facing forward, fists clenched so tight her knuckles are whitening, she wears the expression of someone desperately trying to hold back tears of anger.

“Oh, Mina”, Lucy gasps, rushing to meet her friend, “what happened?”

“What happened?”, Mina hisses, smashing her books down on her bedside table. “I’m tired of being held to an entirely different standard than my peers and being made a fool of should I slip up even once!”

Of course. Men, Lucy thinks, they never miss an opportunity to prove my distaste for them right.

“One mistake!”, Mina rages. “One mistake, and it is grounds for having my suitability for this field of studies called into question! Explain it to me, Lucy, how a man can skip lectures to go gallivanting around town, reeking of liquor when he does deign to show himself only to fall asleep in his seat minutes later, and yet it is I to whom the professor recommends to re-evaluate their goals?” There’s fire in her eyes, and fervour in her voice, and Lucy feels equal parts pity for the men that dare challenge her not knowing the storm that they’ll reap, and equal parts a shameful longing to bear the brunt of her ardour, to be swept up completely by her force. The notion makes the blood rise to her cheeks and she knows she will guiltily revisit it later, alone in her bedchambers. For now, she pushes it aside, focusing on the Mina that is in front of her right now, in need of her support, not the fictitious version that inhabits her inverted fantasies.

“It’s because they are afraid of you. They are afraid of your intellect, your skill, your potential, and they’d rather wear you down and force you to give up on your dreams because they know you’re smarter than the lot of them combined. You threaten them, Mina, you threaten their entire view of the world with them at the top, undisputed. They see your excellence, and it terrifies them.”

Lucy is a bit breathless when she finishes, and she averts her eyes, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst and the palpability of her awe. Still, she won’t take it back, not a single word, because it is nothing but the truth and she needs Mina to know it.

Mina swallows, eyes burning with fierce determination. “I scare them? Good. I shall prove them right.”

And suddenly, Lucy feels quite dizzy. The silence between them stretches on, and, in an effort to fill it, Lucy blurts out the first thing that comes to mind:

“Before you do that, I do believe you’ve earned a little petty revenge. Remember that time I slipped ink into Henry Fairfax’ tea?”

Mina stares at her for a few moments, incredulous, before the tension breaks and she lets out the most endearing snort of laughter. To Lucy, no music could ever reach perfection such as this, and she’ll gladly make herself a jester if her reward shall be to hear this beautiful sound one more time.

“I mean it, I believe it improved his manners greatly.”

“Because he was too ashamed of his black teeth to speak!”

“From what I’ve learned, most men would be twice as amiable if they’d just keep their mouths shut.”

“Tempting”, Mina giggles, “but we’re not children anymore.”

Lucy pretends to sigh in disappointment. “You’re right, of course. It’s time we moved on from child’s play such as this. After all, as a soon-to-be doctor you of all people should know where to procure laxatives.”

“Lucy!”, Mina exclaims, playfully pushing her with just a little too much vigour, causing Lucy to stumble backwards, reaching out towards Mina as not to fall but only succeeding in knocking her off balance as well. For a few frantic moments they stay clutching at each other, swaying wildly like a pine at the mercy of a savage storm, before they find their footing again. Lucy closes her eyes, savouring each fleeting second before Mina will inevitably disentangle herself with a nervous giggle, shattering the strange intimacy of the moment. Yet her friend makes no move to do so. On the contrary, Lucy is startled to feel the weight of Mina gently resting her forehead on her shoulder. She can’t think straight. Her senses are awash with Mina’s warmth, the enticing scent of her perfume, the soothing rhythm of her breathing...she’s close enough for Lucy to feel each exhale warm against the skin of her neck. Is Mina aware how fast her heart is beating? She must be. It’s racing in Lucy’s ears like a pounding war drum. Lucy clenches her hands into fists until she can feel her fingernails painfully digging into her palms to distract herself, to keep herself from doing something as foolish as pressing her lips to Mina’s hair.

“Oh, darling Lucy, I do love you.” She’s so caught up in Mina’s bittersweet closeness that even after she feels her sweet friend’s lips form the words against her neck it takes a few moments for their meaning to sink in, and they bring with them a particularly painful ache. Not as I love you. The words are clear in Lucy’s mind, making her throat tighten and hot tears rise to her eyes.

“Sometimes it really does feel like you’re the only one in my corner as I’m opposing the rest of the world.”

Lucy doesn’t answer, can’t answer, for she fears her voice won’t obey her if she tries. So she settles on holding Mina a bit tighter, extending their embrace just a few moments longer, as to hide the tears are now flowing freely.

v.

“I barely get to see you anymore.”

Mina’s right, of course. And it isn’t entirely owed to Mina’s medical studies, as much as Lucy would like to pretend it is the case. The truth is this: Lucy has been avoiding her. For her own sake, for her own sanity’s sake, because whenever they’re together now, he finds a way to insert himself into the situation, and the heartache is eating Lucy alive. So she’s been distancing herself, as a way of self-preservation. Best to get used to it now, she reckons, before the wedding, and the children that will follow, and the rift between them that will only grow further and further until Mina will realize that there is no more space for somebody like Lucy in her life.

“I’m sure Jonathan isn’t complaining.”

It’s a low blow and she regrets it as soon as it’s passed her lips. Not for fear of hurting Jonathan’s feelings, of course, but because now his presence is looming over them like a spectre even when he isn’t present. It’s the first sleepover Mina and her have had in weeks, a regular activity among them turned to a once-in-a-blue-moon occasion, and still she’s given him the power to worm his way into it. They’re lying right next to each other, close enough to touch, but there’s still a distance between them that was never there when they were younger. Now, they might as well be continents apart.

“Honestly, Lucy”, Mina hisses, propping herself up on her elbow and turning over to face her. “Must you paint Jonathan’s name black whenever you talk about him? What on earth could he have done to deserve such treatment from you?”

“What has he done? I find myself asking the same thing every hour of every day. What has he ever done for you, besides offering you support in name only, secretly hoping to make a docile housewife out of you yet?”

“You don’t know him like I do!”, Mina shouts, and it’s another thing that’s new between them, the shouting. They’d had fights before, of course, Lucy is convinced that two headstrong and intelligent individuals such as them can’t spend this much time in close proximity without quarrelling every so often, but their fights have become more frequent and more vicious.

“For all this time you’ve been seeing each other, I cannot think of one moment he took a stand for you!”

Not like I do, she catches herself thinking, and shudders immediately. How bitter she’s become. She can see Mina scrambling to come up with a response, but Lucy is too enraged to give her a quarter.

“Pray tell, Mina, what is one thing you admire about him? Hell, tell me one thing you like about Jonathan!”

Lucy slowly watches the anger in her friend’s eyes fade as the fight seems to leave her body and she turns away from her again, her gaze now fixed to an invisible point on the ceiling.

“He’s amiable”, Mina offers weakly.

“Oh, is that what they call a wet blanket nowadays?”, Lucy can’t help but scoff.

“He loves me”, Mina says, even quieter.

So do I, Lucy wants to say, Lucy yearns to say, but of course she can’t. She mustn’t. There are so many words inside her, emotions she’s repressed for so long, and she can feel them bubbling up, only a hair’s breadth away from spilling to the surface and ruining everything.

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

Nobody does, she wants to add, but her heart, her treacherous, foolish heart instead possesses her to say: “No man does.”

In a blink of an eye, the room is doused in an eerie quiet, as the weight of what she has just said settles in. Mina’s head whips around so fast Lucy might have feared for the muscles in her neck if she wasn’t frozen to the spot, panic gripping her insides with an icy grasp as Mina silently regards her with an expression usually reserved for the most difficult of riddles, like she’s a particularly challenging problem to solve. Lucy desperately tries to find a way to backtrack, to claim it was nothing but a silly joke, but the words die in her throat as with one fluid movement Mina leans in and -

Lucy closes her eyes, a soft gasp escaping her. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening, there’s no way Mina is about to kiss her, and yet Lucy prepares herself for the gentle touch of soft lips on hers.

She’s proven right when Mina instead presses a kiss to her forehead.

Right. Of course.

Lucy would have laughed at herself and her inability to learn if she didn’t feel like crying. Of course Mina wouldn’t want to kiss her, why can’t she just accept it? Why must she torture herself with foolish hope?

The contact lasts for one second, maybe two, before Mina pulls back, completely wordless. Lucy, too, is stunned silent, even more so when her friend blows out the candle on the bedside table before burrowing into her side as if they were children again, sighing softly as she rested her head on Lucy’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Me neither”, Lucy croaks, leaning her cheek against soft brown hair.

She doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

vi.

She’s still holding onto the note as she enters the garden. She’s clutching onto it, balling it up and rendering it illegible. Not that it matters, she’s read and re-read it so many times by now she knows the words by heart. It’s not a great feat by any means, since the entire page is taken up by only two sentences, penned with a shaking hand in great haste:

Meet me in the gardens, urgently. Come alone.

- Mina

Lucy doesn’t want to come. She doesn’t think she can face Mina. But she also can’t stand waiting on her lonesome.

Lucy isn’t stupid, she knows the reason for Mina summoning her to meet her by herself. She’s noticed how they haven’t exchanged more than a few words ever since that night. She knows she’s pulled back the veil too far, she’s shown too much of herself and now this is the end of them. She can’t blame Mina, but it doesn’t stop her from wishing she could delay the inevitable for just one more day.

No man does, she’d said. The only way she could have been any more transparent would be to have physically thrown herself at Mina. She’s nothing but a lovesick, foolish girl, and she’s ruined everything she’s ever had because of one moment of weakness. And now, the moment to reap what she’s sown has come.

She’s so lost in thought she almost runs into Mina quite literally, who’s been rushing to meet her. Lucy takes one look at her friend and regrets it instantly: Her (former?) friend’s eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been crying, and Lucy can feel the guilt that has been coiling in her stomach since she’s first read Mina’s note screws itself even tighter.

“Lucy”, Mina breathes, eyes wide, her fists clenching and unclenching with nervous energy she can’t seem to hold back. She doesn’t even wait for Lucy to respond to her greeting before words spring forth from her like a rushing waterfall: “I’ve been thinking about everything you told me.”

Whatever tentative flicker of hope Lucy might have had is mercilessly and wholly extinguished.

“Mina, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am -”

Mina holds up a hand and she instantly falls silent.

“Please, Lucy, let me finish. I need to get this of my chest, and I fear that if I stop now I’ll lose the courage to go on.”

Lucy nods, numbly.

“Thank you”, Mina says with a fleeting smile, before visibly steeling herself.

“I broke off my engagement to Jonathan.” The words come out in one desperate rush, and she sighs, deeply, as if a physical weight has been lifted off of her.

Lucy is sure she must have misheard. “You did what?”

Mina doesn’t acknowledge Lucy’s outcry.

“I’ve thought about everything you’ve told me, and you’re right. And I knew I couldn’t carry on like this, I knew it wouldn’t be fair, neither to me nor to Jonathan.”

This is happing. It’s indeed happening and Lucy can’t help the overwhelming elation she feels. She ought to feel sorry for Jonathan instead, or worried for Mina, but in this moment she’s wholly taken by glee. Mina is free of him, they’re both free of him. Somewhere in the back of her head an ugly voice tells her that this doesn’t mean anything, that at the end of the day Mina will always remain unattainable and she will suffer through heartbreak after heartbreak, but this one time the voice is easy to drown out.

“I knew I couldn’t carry on”, Mina repeats, her voice softer now and filled with a kind of tenderness Lucy can’t begin to fathom. Mina takes Lucy’s hands in hers – she carelessly drops the balled up note on the ground – and holds them close to her chest. Her eyes are swimming in tears once more, but her smile is all the brighter.

“Not when my heart is completely consumed by love for another.”

In one sentence Mina has broken her. It’s as if the rug has been pulled from under her feet, leaving her to stumble backwards into darkness. Why does it even surprise her? Why does the notion of Mina, sweet, intelligent, wonderful, beautiful, incredible Mina being loved and desired catch her off guard?

“Do I know the lucky gentleman?”, Lucy asks with a smile that she’s sure doesn’t reach her eyes. She can feel hot tears building up behind her eyes and knows that she won’t be able to uphold this facade for long.

“Do you know- Lucy, you say the silliest things sometimes!”, Mina giggles, too wrapped up in her own love drunk joy to notice Lucy’s pain. It’s too much altogether, and Lucy wrenches her hands from Mina’s grip.

“I hope he makes you happy”, she manages to say before turning away sharply, fleeing this conversation to preserve whatever she has left of her dignity.

“Lucy, wait!”, Mina calls after her, but she pretends not to hear it. She doesn’t slow down, not even when she can hear energetic footsteps following closely behind her on the gravel path. Then, a hand grabs her wrist in a tight grip.

“Mina, let me go-”, she hisses, but she doesn’t get any further than that as she is interrupted by the insistent press of Mina’s lips on hers.

She doesn’t react, can’t react as her entire world shifts on its axis, and she’s still in a daze when Mina pulls back, an indeterminate amount of time later.

“Y-you’re mocking me.”, Lucy croaks. It’s the only possibility that makes sense. Mina knows, she’s found out and she’s chosen to tease her for her inverted, ill-fated, desperate love for her best friend.

“Oh, sweet Lucy”, Mina breathes, looking altogether stricken by the accusation. “Do you really think me so cruel?”

“I don’t know what to think!”, Lucy cries. She’s lost, everything she thought to be true proven false and vice versa, and she doesn’t know if she can trust her senses. She’s half convinced she’ll wake up in her bed any second now, alone, chasing the last remnants of another pleasurable dream.

“Then don’t think at all”, Mina murmurs, her hands tracing a feather-light path over Lucy’s arms, shoulders, and neck, before settling in Lucy’s hair, pulling her closer, slowly, giving Lucy ample time to turn away if she needed to.

She doesn’t, she just closes her eyes and lets herself be pulled in. Their lips meet again, softer this time, and the sensation still comes as a shock to Lucy. She gasps against Mina’s lips, and the breathy sound seems to spur her on even further, she starts moving against her with more urgency. It’s too much for Lucy’s fragile self-control, she can’t hold back anymore, and with a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper she kisses back with equal ardour, arms looping around Mina’s back and clenching in the fabric of her dress, hands pulling closer, closer, impossibly closer.

Lucy can’t say how much time has elapsed when they finally break apart, breathless, resting their foreheads against each other. Lucy doesn’t dare let go, thinks she might never be able to out of fear the second she does Mina might drift away.

“Lucy”, Mina sighs. “Darling Lucy, I’m so sorry for how blind I was for all this time. You must think me so self-absorbed, to not notice your affections for me, and to string you along the way I did, Lucy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think…”

Lucy gently brushes a strand of dark hair that must have come loose while they were kissing behind Mina’s ear. Her cheeks already hurt from smiling, she can’t remember a time she’s ever been as content as this.

“Then don’t think at all”, she parrots Mina’s earlier quip with a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“I believe we’ve both been blind", Lucy whispers, before pulling Mina into a kiss once more.

[we-are-inevitable]

modern art // javid (ch. 1)

A/N: hi !! so some of you may remember an old songfic i did in march of last year, titled ‘modern art’ after the song “IDK You Yet” by Alexander 23. well, i’ve always thought that that one shot would work great as a stand alone fic, and here we are! i have ch. 1 edited and SO MUCH of it as changed- like, for example, the fic is a chapter fic now !! regardless, i hope you guys like this !!

WARNINGS: depression, anxiety, self-deprecation, past addiction, mentions of addiction, just general Bad Times- pls be mindful when reading !! it’s just very Not Happy rn ADDITIONAL INFO: all characters are in their mid-twenties in the fic. oh also this is probably important but it’s a soulmate au !!

Read On AO3!

tag list: @bound-for-santa-fe @wannabecowboypunk @shippingcannons @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @smallsies @deliciouspeachpirate @newsies-is-my-erster 

Jack doesn't know what’s going on with himself, but he knows that he could really use his soulmate right about now.

They’ve communicated before. Never verbally, and never enough to reveal who they were. Perhaps they are both just... dealing with some unspoken fears, dealing with the worry of rejection sitting heavy in their chests. Perhaps they both like this mystery- the uncertainty that came with the notes scrawled across their bodies in a handwriting that isn’t their own.

Or perhaps they just aren’t ready to take the plunge. To grow up and face the harsh fact that, as soon as they meet, wherever and whenever that may be, a new chapter of their life will unfold. Consume them. Change anything and everything they’ve ever known or held dear.

They had been braver when they were children, that much was true. Jack remembers staying up late often, writing notes on his skin and watching in awe as the replies appeared. He remembers the giddy rush of trying to quickly wash off the ink on his wrist when they ran out of space to talk, and, oh, how they talked. There were school days when Jack would go to class exhausted, feeling like he’d been walking through quicksand for miles on end, but all of it had been worth it. The exhaustion he felt had been worth being able to talk to them until two, three, four in the morning. Sometimes he regretted it, of course, but only because it was harder for him to focus in class. Never because he was upset at them.

He could never be upset with them.

Even now, Jack remembers a lot about his soulmate. They liked music. They knew how to play the piano. They were into a few video games, even some that Jack had never played, and said that they always tried carrying a book with them wherever they went. Jack remembers that, as a younger kid, they liked Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, but also liked analyzing Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe and a bunch of other fancy authors that Jack had never even heard of. They were intimidatingly smart, and sometimes, would carefully correct Jack’s grammar whenever he misspelled a word or something- but they were never mean about it, they were just… there. A steady presence that he could count on.

Fifteen year old Jack dreamed of finding them one day. But now, twenty-five year old Jack is losing hope.

He can’t exactly help it. For starters, he and his soulmate haven’t communicated in… well, shit, it had to be nearly a year. Maybe nine months or so, but there’s no way to tell for sure, and even then, their conversations since reaching adulthood have been dull, for lack of a better word. A few positive comments here, a ‘have a good day’ there- it’s all so mundane, and neither of them can be blamed for it. They both have busy lives- or, well, Jack does, at least. His job as a graphic designer is hard enough on its own, but the added pressure of doing freelance work and commissions on the side has been eating away at him for weeks, coupled with debilitating self-doubt and lack of motivation for… anything.

Saying that he’s overwhelmed is the understatement of the century.

There is always another design, another client, another meeting, another deadline, another sleepless night as he stares at a blank canvas and prays for a spark of inspiration from whatever God is listening. Usually his inspiration comes from the world around him- his friends, city life, even the quiet confines of his apartment, but right now... Jack is stuck. He had holed himself up in his room days ago, trying and failing to get out of bed every morning when the time came to work- and thank God that the majority of his work could be done from home. His boss was understanding, too, to an extent.

Still, though, there’s a constant heavy weight on his chest that prevents him from moving most days, and he’s lucky if he even gets up long enough to shower or eat or do literally anything aside from lie in silence and count the cracks in his ceiling.

Nothing had happened to him recently to bring this on, from what he can tell. Jack has always been the happy-go-lucky leader, the man with a plan, the guy who always knew just what to say to motivate others into doing the best thing for themselves, but when that responsibility is reflected back onto himself, Jack feels helpless. There are words waiting to be said, sketches waiting to be drawn, designs waiting to be sent to clients… yet Jack lies there, motionless in his room for three days before he even has the energy, the willpower, to pull back his curtains and allow the sunlight to shine through. There is so much he wants to do, so much he needs to do, but he can't bring himself to do any of it.

In all twenty-five years of his life, through all of the things he’s been through, the ups and downs and foster homes and graduations and birthdays and funerals and therapists and rehab facilities and whatever the fuck else life decided to throw at him, Jack has never felt so worthless, so… lonely. His closest friends are all moving on with their lives. Many have already found their soulmate, have settled down and hidden their rowdy, rambunctious pasts behind skeletons in a closet. They’d all gotten their adventures done and over with in high school and college, and most are moving onto bigger and better things in life. They have careers. Families. Some have children, others have pets, a few have an insane amount of plants to care for.

All have seemingly left Jack behind in the dust.

No one told him when to flip the switch.

No one told him when he had aged out of adventure.

Now, they would never say it, but Jack knows. He knows. Saturday hangouts and trips to the bar had been replaced by Sunday church services and playdates for the kids. Rather than hearing yelling from his living room after his friends had all been teetering just on the edge between tipsy and fucked up, Jack hears the news, and documentaries, and podcasts, and the ghosts of a past life that he still seemed to be desperately clinging on to.

Katherine had been the one to tell him that he needed to grow up, though she didn’t put it in such a blunt manner. No, she’s just.... gently urging him to find a bigger apartment, or buy matching furniture from a place that is not a thrift store, or purchase dishes that weren’t of the plastic Walmart brand. She says it was because she wants to see him in a more professional, "adulty" lifestyle, but he knows it’s really because she can see that he’s a mess.

Deep down, Jack knows she’s right. She’s always right.

He just can’t help but feel cemented in place, dreaming of the past while dreading the new future ahead of him.

Jack never asked to feel so broken for no reason. All of the hope and optimism he had felt as a teenager was gone, lost in a sea of uncertain plans and shitty jobs and bill extensions and canvases dropped onto the floor with no rhyme or reason. And, yes, maybe Jack would look dramatic to someone who didn’t know his situation, but Jack knows what dramatic feels like. Dramatic feels like watching his best friend, Charlie, belt onstage in front of a backdrop that he helped create for the school play. Dramatic feels like laughing at the top of his lungs while walking through a random gas station at two in the morning, joined by Race and Al, all while higher than a kite. Dramatic feels like driving to the outskirts of the city with Katherine, climbing onto the roof of an old building and screaming about all of their stress, their anxiety, their insecurities, just to have some form of emotional release.

Dramatic doesn’t feel like sadness. It’s not supposed to.

Not for Jack.

He had been so… so happy, as a teenager. Proud and defiant and carefree. He was the kind of guy to skate and smoke weed in Central Park until midnight and take a math test at eight in the morning the next day. He was the kid who stood on a table in the cafeteria and came out as bisexual to everyone around him, just because of a dumbass bet that he didn’t even get paid for. He was the boy who wasn’t at all good in an academic sense, but who always knew how to talk himself out of trouble, who always came up with the most ridiculous- or most believable- lies to cover his ass when he needed it, who was always the class favorite, the teacher’s pet without meaning to be.

Jack had felt on top of the world back then, but now he’s struggling to even get off of the ground. The longer time goes on, the more lost Jack feels inside his own life. He feels like something was missing, something big. Something bigger than himself.

When his mother was alive, which now felt like lifetimes ago, she would often echo this old wives’ tale about how it’s best to find your soulmate while you’re younger, just to save them- and yourself- the pain of being alone for a long time. Jack had always kind of believed her; logically, he knew it was true, but he had always told himself that it wouldn’t happen to him. That he would be fine alone, though it wouldn’t be ideal, and that he would have plenty of time for soulmates after he got out and made a name for himself.

He’s starting to think, though, that maybe she was right. Maybe Jack had waited too long to make a move, to make contact again, because now, he just feels nauseous even thinking about it.

Don’t get him wrong, he knows the negative effects of self deprecation and not taking his own mental health seriously, he’s been to rehab before, blah, blah, blah, but, fuck, how could he put his soulmate through something like this? This fucked up state of mind he has now. Jack can’t even imagine talking to Katherine about this, and Katherine had been his best friend for over a decade. He can’t just meet his soulmate now- it’s been too long, he’s too messed up, they won’t like him, they’ll hate him for not trying hard enough, and Jack will just end up alone again, wasting away in his bedroom because no one fucking cares. No one cares. He has nobody.

That’s not true. He has Medda, his mom, his savior, his impulse control, but the thought of telling her that everything is acting up again makes him want to scream. He has Tony, but Tony has Al, and Tony and Al have a kid- a sweet little five year old girl who calls Jack ‘Uncle Jackie’ and takes no shit from anyone. He has Katherine, but Katherine has her soulmate- this dude named Darcy, who Jack doesn’t have much of an opinion on because they just met, like, a month ago, and Jack hasn’t exactly been emotionally ready for a hangout session between the three of them. He also has Charlie, and Charlie has certainly seen him in worse times- like when Jack was kind of hooked on pills for the entirety their freshman year of college- but Charlie has grad school to worry about and Charlie would hate him if he bothered him with this.

Still, there are other people who would listen, probably. He could easily talk to Elmer, or Romeo, or Specs, or Jojo or Finch or Sean or a fucking therapist but that’s just it, isn’t it? If he talks, he burdens, and Jack Francisco Kelly would rather run himself into the ground than be a burden anyone.

So, he makes a vow.

He makes eye contact with his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s gripping onto the sink, holding on for dear life, as he stares into his own sunken eyes. He takes in his appearance. Damp, messy hair, falling down to cover his forehead. Pale skin, which isn’t normal at all. Dark circles have taken their place around his eyes, and his smile- one of his favorite things about himself- is… nonexistent.

Distantly, Jack registers himself dumping a full bottle of ibuprofen into the sink. And then, he does the same thing with the bottle of melatonin from his medicine cabinet. The valium follows. He lets the water run for a long time. It's not that he doesn't trust himself- he'd done so, so good in rehab, and he doesn't even feel urges that often anymore- but it's better safe than sorry, especially since he's like... this.

This is not the Jack Kelly he’s used to anymore. This is not the Jack Kelly he wants to be.

But this Jack Kelly is the one who vows not to reach out. The one who vows to only answer when his soulmate is ready, and maybe not even then.

He doesn’t have to wait long, though.

Not when a heart appears on the back of his hand the next morning.

It’s there when Jack wakes up, and, honestly, it almost brings Jack to tears- but not necessarily for happy reasons. Sure, Jack wants to be happy. Who wouldn’t be happy after seeing something like this? A lopsided heart drawn in red ink, right on the back of his left hand- it was the definition of a symbol, of a romantic gesture, and Jack wants so badly to write back, to strike up conversation, to draw a goddamn heart, but… he can’t.

He can’t, and that’s horrible of him, and he knows it.

Right now, though… Jack can’t even work up the courage, the energy, to call his mom.

His soulmate, whoever they are, is going to have to wait.

[identybeautynet]

Shygirl Talks ‘BDE’ With Slowthai, Skincare, and Opulent Meals

Shygirl Talks ‘BDE’ With Slowthai, Skincare, and Opulent Meals Courtesy Burberry “Read my lips, I need a big dick boy. Ain’t nobody slanging it right,” the musician Shygirl raps on the opening lines of her new song “BDE,” featuring Slowthai. It’s a bold claim, and one that speaks to the East London native’s life mantra: freedom is everything. “If someone said to you, you can do whatever you want in this room, you’d do something that you wouldn’t usually do,” Shygirl says over Zoom, where she’s speaking from her home in South London. “It’s about being able to run away with some aspects of yourself, less about being something different, but in each of these spaces, you’re allowed a bit more room to breathe.” The artist, who makes bass-heavy, club-ready tracks that straddle electro, pop, and hip-hop, is known for fashion and beauty looks that match her out-there, over-the-top music. Her deepest fantasies and whimsies make both the aesthetic and the music—and fashion brands like Burberry have taken note. (The brand’s creative director Riccardo Tisci cast Shygirl in his latest Burberry Beauty campaign after stumbling across one of her music videos on Instagram.) We caught up with Shygirl a few days before the release of “BDE” to discuss her proclivity toward skincare, her grandmother’s beauty tips, and why eating an opulent meal is the ultimate form of luxury. How did you come to make your latest single “BDE” with Slowthai? I wrote this single ages ago with Karma Kid. We were in the studio and I’d actually been up the night before at some warehouse party. I was definitely really hungover—I think I was probably still drunk when I got to the studio, so I was still kind of in that party mood. The words came really quickly as I was recording, which isn’t always the case. Sometimes I think of a hook and then we flesh it out later, or there’s a funny turn of phrase I’m playing with, and I start like that. But this one was based on a frustrating encounter I’d had with someone. And I was like, I’m just going to get this out in a song. I really wanted to work with a male vocalist and I’ve loved Slowthai’s energy for ages. I’m objectifying men so much in that song, I thought it would be nice to hand the mic over and and be like, Okay, I’ve said this—what do you have to say for yourself? Ty’s the person for that platform, because he doesn’t talk about sex that much on his tracks. So it was nice to have that Shygirl effect. We met up in the studio, hung out, and I was like, okay, the theme is sex—spin it, and be as crass and vulgar as possible because that’s the way I've set the stage. Shygirl wears Burberry Beauty in her video for “BDE.” I love the fantasy of the Tasty video. What was on your mood board for it, specifically when it came to the beauty looks? Growing up, my mom was really into ‘80s music. And I loved that ‘80s look: heavy blush on the face, and how expressive that is, especially when looking at the queer community being represented in music. There’s something about that that which speaks to freedom and playfulness, and there’s a massive synergy with where I’m coming from, which is take me serious in this space, but also not that serious. There’s also something exciting about not being within the confines of my facial features, and pushing those boundaries. That’s why I bleached my eyebrows and change the space that we’re able to use with all the makeup we do. I sent a lot of references over, but I’m really drawn to color palettes; I have phases of different colors that make me feel comfortable and happy. I’ve been lucky to work with some really great makeup artists who take my garbled references and moods that I tell them and make it look sexy. Because there’s something sexy about not staying within the lines. Onto the Beauty Notes questions. When you wake up in the morning, what’s the first thing you do, beauty wise? First thing I do is wash my face, ‘cause I’m probably still wearing mascara from the night before. I use the Garnier Micellar water as a cleanser, and I bought because it’s pink. Then, I put on the Aliver 24K Gold Collagen Eye Mask eye patches. I bought a pack of, like, 100. They make me feel like a modern-day American Psycho. Then I use the Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion, because there’s something watery about their products, they just feel light on your skin. And my skin’s really sensitive, so I don't usually wear much. I have a rose quartz roller that I use after I’ve moisturized, which I find so relaxing. I’ve also got to mention that, when I wash my face, I wash it with warm and then cold water. Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion $30 See On Sephora What does that do? Something about opening up your pores with the warm water and then tightening them with cold water. My grandma told me that when I was younger—my dad’s mum gave me this obsession with clear skin from a young age. We’ve kind of got it naturally and she takes really good care of it, as does my dad. Usually, people pick up beauty tips from their mum, but my mum was a bit more tomboy-ish. What’s a piece of skincare advice that you received from your grandmother that changed your perspective on beauty? My grandmother comes up with a lot of un-PC phrases. One of the un-PC things she used to say was, never trust a man with bad skin. I remember when I’d tell her about boys I fancied and she’d be like, oh no, his skin’s terrible. Also, she uses oils on her body, but not on her face. She’s big on oils. I have naturally curly hair, so I went through such a period of using loads of different greasy hair products, and she told me that all affects your skin. Whenever I FaceTime my nan and my dad, that’s the first thing they ask: are you eating right? I can see on your skin, you’re not getting enough of this or that. What’s the one product that you can’t live without? The Charlotte Tilbury Magic Night Cream. It’s literally the best money I’ve ever spent on a beauty product. It just does what it says, and I don’t feel like I need to use it that religiously, but I need to know that I have it, especially when I’m traveling a lot. And even in lockdown, I’ve had a lot of travel for work. The air dries out my skin, and sometimes I need it before I wake up, just to start the day fresh. Charlotte Tilbury Magic Night Cream $145 See On Sephora What’s your favorite product at this very moment? I only really wear mascara for eye makeup every day, and at the moment I’ve been wearing this really good mascara that Burberry makes. I like a spiky, wider mascara, ‘cause if that’s the only thing I’m wearing, I’m going to make sure it’s visible. I’m not too neat with it—I like a slightly messy mascara look because there are hints there, where you’re telling people who you are. I want to be expressive. Ultimate Lift Mascara $30 Burberry See On Burberry What’s the best makeup or skincare tip you’ve picked up on set? Exfoliating my lips. That’s something I didn’t do enough of; sometimes when I’m on set, we use wipes with a somewhat rougher texture before we put anything on my lips.   What’s your ideal spa day and where? I found this place recently called Beaverbrook in Surrey, just outside of London. In December, I just needed to get out of my house, I needed a spa break, I needed a massage, I needed to be in a hotel, I just needed something. It’s kind of a big deal spa, which I didn’t know, but I got a room after someone else’s cancellation. It was really nice—it’s in the countryside and it was raining the whole weekend, so I felt like I was in Wuthering Heights. I looked out onto the fields watching the rain, and just felt so British. Is going to the spa your favorite form of self-care? I take more care of my mind than my body—what’s sometimes good for the soul isn’t always good for your body. I’m self-indulgent, and the biggest thing that feeds me is doing something spontaneously. The idea that I can just pick up and do something that I want to do is what gratifies me the most. That could be taking the day, canceling a bunch of meetings to remind myself that I’m in control of my life. More times, it’s going out to a restaurant and eating something obscene. You know in Parks and Recreation when they’re like, “Treat yourself”? That’s my life. I really love a beautiful meal, and there’s something so opulent about being waited on in some form and having someone else make your food. We only include products that have been independently selected by W's editorial team. However, we may receive a portion of sales if you purchase a product through a link in this article. beauty tips: Shygirl Talks ‘BDE’ With Slowthai, Skincare, and Opulent Meals, Shygirl Talks ‘BDE’ With Slowthai, Skincare, and Opulent Meals, Shygirl Talks ‘BDE’ With Slowthai, Skincare, and Opulent Meals,  Read the full article

[mysticdoodles]

Powerful lines from Spinel that hit harder the more you watch

So I’m sure this has probably been done already BUT I’ve been having too many feelings about this movie and especially about this precious new gem so I absolutely have to gush. After watching the movie the first time through, there’s a lot of double meanings to Spinel’s lines that really make her come to life. Obviously this won’t include everything because then I might as well just link the entire dang movie. These lines are the ones that I’ve just found myself thinking about more and more as the days go by since my first watching of the film.

Spoiler alert, most of these are going to be coming from Other Friends (but that’s no big surprise).

!!-SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT, DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE YET-!!

1. “I’ve got a new style, and a few new TOYS.”

Spinel’s introduction is very well framed in a lot of ways, with her slamming down on the injector and backlit by the pink poison glow, but the dialogue is what really hit me. With the context that Pink Diamond abandoned her because Pink eventually grew bored and tired of Spinel, this line in particular struck me as very pointed. Coupled with the slam of her palm against the giant instrument of death, it speaks volumes about how Pink Diamond saw the things that she valued as hers, as well as how Spinel sees herself. Pink had tossed her aside like an unwanted doll - now SHE gets to be the one with fancy new toys, tossing aside her old self just like Pink did.

2. “Yeah yeah, I’ve heard. I’ve had your little message to the universe ON LOOP!”

Pretty blatant in context, but the more you think about it, the sadder it gets. Spinel stood in the garden for six millennia, loyal and faithful to Pink all along, praying she’d return. Instead, all Spinel gets in response is some happy message to the universe from a galaxy-wide intercom that tells her Pink Diamond lived a happy life without her. That everything else was so much better for Pink with her forgotten. That Pink made new friends. Hearing this broke her heart, and traumatized her. Yet she listened over and over to the same message - hoping it would change? Trying to deny it, and see if it wasn’t true? She had the fulfilling relationship she was denied shoved in her face over and over, until she finally gets angry enough to go vent her fury.

3. “[...] where Pink Diamond spends the rest of her days on this NOWHERE PLANET, with a bunch- of- NOBODIES!”

Pink had her own private garden; built just for her, as we know the other diamonds have no taste at all in preserving or keeping organic life. And in the efforts of the Diamond Authority to keep Pink happy, they also gave her Spinel, a gem specifically designed to be a top-of-the-line Best Friend.

And yet despite all of Spinel’s quirky and goofy nature, she was never enough for Pink. The garden, for all its beauty and catering to Pink’s desires, was never enough either. Pink traded her personal playground and ultimate playmate for a planet that was doomed to be colonized and destroyed, and for a- as she puts it- “menagerie” of gems that aren’t particularly special at all. An ‘overcooked’ Amethyst soldier, a Pearl created to be a servant rather than a friend, and a fusion that by Diamond law had been outlawed in Spinel’s time. Spinel was left in her special garden to rot, in exchange for what she views as nothing but a downgrade.

4. “What did she say about me, what did she say? What did you do without me, what did you do? Did you play games without me, what did you play? Did you think all this time that I wouldn’t find out about you?”

These are all the things that ran through Spinel’s head after finding out she’d been left behind for good. That surely Pink Diamond gossiped to her brand new friends about the one she left behind. That surely Pink included her brand new friends in every game she wanted to play that Spinel couldn’t be a part of. That surely everyone involved with Pink Diamond MUST have known about her, and chose to leave her behind. It’s her rationalization for her actions - her excuse to beat on complete strangers for the actions of one person that ruined her life.

5. “Who am I? Who am I?? What are you even saying?”

This is the moment where it hits home for Spinel - that Pink didn’t even talk to other gems about her. Spinel was so unimportant to Pink that she never even crossed her mind or came up in conversation. You can see the moment where shock takes over, and is bulldozed by even greater rage.

All those years, all that waiting, and Pink never once intended on returning, or even so much as acknowledge the existence of her previous ““best friend.””

6. “I’m the loser of the game you didn’t know you were playing!”

Aside from being probably my favorite line in the whole song, this one stuck with me for a good while. It took me until approx. the 54th loop of Other Friends to realize Spinel is being completely literal as well as metaphorical. The reason she stayed in the garden was because- to her- she WAS playing a game with Pink! A game that, by the shallow rules Pink herself set, Spinel has lost. Spinel broke the rules and moved from where Pink told her to stay, and Steven is, for all intents and purposes, what remains of Pink Diamond. He really didn’t know of this false game, none of the Crystal Gems did.

But this hit even harder in the emotional sense - Spinel lost the game long before she moved from her spot in the garden. She lost the minute Pink decided Spinel was better off forgotten on a rock in space than by her side, because her loyalty was wasted on Pink. In Spinel’s steadfast adoration of Pink, she never realized the truth until it was far too late, and she feels all the more foolish for it.

7. “Let’s play another game, this time I get to win! Lives on the line- winner takes all- ready or not, let’s BEGIN!”

Not only is this Spinel’s statement that she’s taking control back by FORCE - that SHE is now the one who gets to pick the games, and as a result, affect the lives of those she “plays” with (just like Pink) - but it’s also a very subtle admission of how this feels. Deep down in the depths of her mind, this isn’t just a mission to cause hurt in turn for the hurt she received, but also a potential suicide mission.

Sure, she might have a good chance of killing ALL of Pink Diamond’s precious new besties; with her fancy new “toys” of a jumbo-sized colony injector full of poison and a factory-reset device for gems, she stands to take out quite a few important Crystal Gems AND the Earth that stole Pink from her, before finishing what she started. But Spinel also acknowledges later in the film that Steven is respected as a legendary savior of the galaxy. She’s playing hardball with powerful figures, and she knows it. That’s WHY she went the extra effort to get such strong equipment before even showing up to the party - Steven and the Crystal Gems were a legitimate threat, who could have easily defeated or even shattered her. And for Spinel, who waited for thousands of years in what I can only describe as emotional torture in solitary confinement, shattering would be preferable to her than one more second of living in that torment.

8. “[We’re going] back, to where I never left.”

Physically leaving the garden never made her problems go away, like how Pink seemed to do with everything she grew bored of. Despite being on Earth, in this ‘new place to play’ and surrounded by gems she’d never met that she could make friends with, even Rejuvenated to be back to how she was supposed to be right out of the kindergarten, she can’t escape the damage done by Pink abandoning her. She’s unable to find happiness yet, haunted by Pink’s actions and decision to discard her. In Spinel’s mind, she’s standing in that garden. Still waiting for Pink. Still waiting for someone, anyone, to come and be her friend.

9. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

This has stopped being a game for Spinel. Attacking and hurting the people she blames for her life being ruined is no longer fun, and doesn’t make her feel better anymore. She’s losing whatever twisted enjoyment she was getting from the one small goal she set for herself to keep moving forward - revenge. So from this point onward, she’s determined to finish things - that maybe actually doing the deed and being done with it would finally make the pain go away.

10. “Why do I want to hurt you so badly? I’m supposed to be your friend... I just want to be your friend...”

Striking out from her anger and pain, Spinel finally recognizes that harming others isn’t going to change how she feels. The pain isn’t disappearing. She’s falling farther and farther from what she truly wants to be. In her heart, she DOESN’T want to harm others, and realizes that she’s lost control of herself and her actions.

And it’s her final plea to Pink Diamond, who she can never get back. That’s all she ever wanted from Pink, and in the end, was it really that much to ask?

[starlightsearches]

Something to Live For Pt. 2

Here’s the second part of the Hux soulmate AU. I’m pretty proud of what I’ve written for this one, and I hope you guys like it. Here’s the first part if you missed it, and there will be a third part coming 💖

Requests are open ✨

Armitage Hux x Resistance Pilot! Reader Soulmate AU Pt. 2

Warnings: ANGST🔥ANGST🔥ANGST🔥ANGST🔥 (and some language)

The general’s hand is heavy on your shoulder as he escorts you through the halls of the Steadfast, and you are keenly aware that this is the first time he’s touched you since you’ve met him, which, by your best estimates, was almost 4 days ago. The pressure is pleasant, firm, but not pushy, and if you turn your head slightly to the side and glance out of the corner of your eye, you can see a small sliver of skin peek out from between the general’s glove and jacket sleeve. You find yourself chewing on your lip, lost in thought, before forcing yourself to snap out of it. Maker, spending all this time alone had addled your brain. You should not be getting this excited about a damn wrist.

“I don’t like this,” his voice sounds off quietly behind you, unaware of your wandering mind, “we should have created a contingency plan in case we run into someone.”

“Don’t worry, General, we’re not going to get caught.” You know he’s skeptical without seeing his face. Does the man ever relax?

“How can you be so sure?” It’s been a running theme the past few days—this specific brand of doubt—in every conversation you’ve had with him, but there’s also a curiosity; he’s always trying to discern what you think of him, and unfortunately, you’ve spent plenty of time worrying about the same. 

“Because if you really thought we might be in danger, we wouldn’t be here.” He’s silent, and you know he’s feeling something, but you’re not sure what it is exactly. You’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing most of his other emotions: anxiety, doubt, exasperation, but this one is new.

“Why do you say that?” His voice is quiet, a soothing murmur that hums through the air, and you wish you could close your eyes and relish the sound. 

“I’d like to believe that you wouldn’t risk my safety, or yours. I trust your judgement.” Was that the right thing to say? He doesn’t respond, but there’s a softening in his grip, a slight tremble in his thumb as he traces its way to the place where your neck meets your shoulder, the pad of his gloved thumb resting on your bare skin. The contact is unprecedented—intimate and gone too soon. You’ve reached your destination.

“You have five minutes,” he says, and as soon as you’re uncuffed you go to work, unzipping the top of your flight suit and shrugging it down to your hips and then to your ankles, stepping out of the legs with a little shake and leaving it in a pile behind you. The barrack refresher is dark, with rows of nozzles down one side and no separation between them. You pick one at random, pulling off your compression top and underwear, shivering in the cold air and reaching for the handle.

You pause, frozen with embarrassment as you remember that you’re not alone, and you turn to see how the general has handled your abrupt undressing. He’s in the room still, but facing the opposite wall, his posture impeccable and his hands resting behind his back. Nothing about him hints that he caught you half-naked, but you flush, wondering how much he saw before he assumed this position. You yank the handle, irritated with yourself; now is not the time for modesty.

A little gasp escapes your parted lips when the water first hits your skin, blissfully warm already and you turn up the heat, letting it burn away any evidence the past few days. It had been hard to convince the general to let you do this, and he’d made a few adjustments to your initial plan, but it all feels worth it now that you can rinse the grime and blood from your face, scrub your hands over your skin. It’s a small victory, and you’re still no closer to an escape, but this makes you feel human again.

There’s a steamy haze in the air, and General Hux can feel himself start to grow damp, droplets of moisture clinging to his cheeks and burrowing into the fabric of his uniform. There’s an anxious hum—deep in his chest—and he tries to convince himself that it’s preparatory, in case the two of you are discovered, but he’s unable to assure himself of the lie. He knows that the real reason he feels this way is because he’s hardwired into your presence, the sound of the water tumbling to the floor like a siren call, another reminder that you're here with him. But for how much longer?

He should be planning for your escape. He should be putting it into motion. It’s difficult, though, to create any kind of plan when the only place on the whole damn ship he feels okay anymore was in your fucking cell. With you. He had tried to keep his distance, but sneaking food had turned to sneaking bits of your time, of your presence. He isn’t ready to be without it. His own weakness vexes him.

The sound of the water stops and a quiet rustling fills the space now as you put your clothes back on, thank the Maker. “I’m decent,” you say and Hux turns back to face you again. Decent is quite the stretch, and his breath catches at the sight of so much skin, the planes of your stomach bare, rising up from the waist of your flight suit before meeting the dark fabric of your compression top.

“Here,” he hands you the protective vest, making concentrated eye contact with the wall behind you, “it’s treated, to deflect blaster fire.” You take it from his hands, shrugging it over your torso and arranging it beneath your flight suit.

“Smart, I never would have thought of it,” you say, fully dressed once again. It takes a moment for Hux to understand that you are sincere in your praise and he’s filled with a warmth, as well as an ache. He’s not well-adjusted to kindness.

“Don’t you normally wear protective gear, as a pilot?” he asks, and you laugh, a low, melodic sound.

“I guess I tend to play things a little too close to the chest. Are you wearing one?”

“Of course.” That was a lie. He only had the one, and was unwilling to take chances of trying to find another. He had given you his. The cuffs are reattached to your wrists, and you exit with him following close behind, a guiding hand on your shoulder once again.

Allowing you to get this close to him had been a mistake, and it would only lead to sorrow. Hux is sure about that, but it’s hard to think about the future now when the present holds such pleasantries, like a word of praise from your lips, or the feeling of his hand resting on your shoulder, only a few thin layers of fabric separating him from bare skin. He’ll have to make the best of the little time he has left.

Suddenly, there are voices, quiet but recognizable, approaching from the other end of the corridor, and Hux pulls you to the nearest doorway, furiously typing in his access code before shoving you in the entrance. A surprised cry escapes your lips, but he smothers it, placing a hand over your mouth and following you inside. The door closes in the nick of time—he can hear Pryde’s shoes as he turns the corner.

“Who was that?” you whisper, and Hux lets go of you immediately, peering through the darkness, trying to take in his surroundings. The room is pitch black but there’s an overpowering smell of disinfectant that makes its way into his lungs and stings his eyes; you must be in a sanitation storage room.

“The allegiant general, and Admiral Griss, I believe. We’ll have to stay here for a moment, until we can be sure that they’re gone.” Hux’s eyes don’t adjust to the darkness, but he can feel you there with him, only inches away, the closest he’s allowed himself to get to you. Minutes pass, Hux is unsure how many, before the silence is broken by the sound of your whisper.

“Can I ask you a question, General?” Should he say no? There’s only silence coming from the hallway, but that doesn’t mean that the two of you are safe.

“I suppose.”

“Why did you do it?” There are small puffs of air brushing his face, and Hux can’t tell whether or not it’s your breath, unsure exactly how close you are to him in this confined space. Every fiber of him is focused on staying still, afraid to brush up against you in the dark. Afraid of what he would feel if he did. Afraid that he would want more. “What made you spy for the Resistance?”

“The Order,” he starts, pausing in an attempt to arrange his thoughts. How could he communicate a lifetime of dissatisfaction and disappointment into words? “is not what I thought it was. I’ve been immersed in this world since I was young, and recently I learned that much of what I had been taught was a lie.”

“Why didn’t you leave, though, when you found out the truth?” You shift closer to him in the dark, shrinking the space between you; the little room is beginning to feel more dangerous than the corridor. Hux is glad that it’s dark—grateful that you can’t see him, because your questions make him feel like he’s without skin. Raw, unprotected, vulnerable. Everything he hates.

“Where would I go?” It’s not even a whisper, he asks the question so quietly, and he knows that he’s told you everything. It’s the worst part of himself laid out in front of you, ugly and desperate and malignant. There’s silence again; you don’t have an answer for him, and Hux is glad for it. He’ll save this feeling; it will make everything much easier when you eventually leave him.

“I wasn’t always a pilot,” you say, brushing against his arm with your own, maybe as a gesture of comfort, “Before I joined the Resistance, I was a negotiator-” there’s a pregnant pause, and Hux can imagine what you look like without being able to see you: the anxious way that you bite your lip, your hands curling into fists at your sides,” -for the Guavian Death Gang.” You swallow, loudly, before moving away, separating yourself from him in shame.

“Oh my god,” there’s not much else Hux can say in response. He knows about the gang: they’re cruel, exacting, violent. Nothing like you.

“I hurt a lot of people,” you continue, and your voice is thick with tears, “Some of them might have deserved it, but most of them . . . didn’t, and I didn’t even choose to leave. They turned on me and I ran. Poe found me when I had nowhere else to go.” There’s a lot for Hux to process here, and he’s not sure if he’s capable of it in his current state. His initial impression of you has been completely shattered, and he’s surprised to find that it only serves to draw him closer to you, when he sees what you’ve become.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get off of this ship,” you say, “and I’m not saying that saving me, or helping the Resistance, or anything like that is going to make up for what you’ve done. But I want to give you a chance, General. I believe that you could be a good man.” Hux barely heard anything you said, he’s feeling lost and lightheaded; all he knows is that now feels like a good time to kiss you, when everything is quiet, in a place that is dark. Hidden here, out of sight, he feels like he could do something reckless. 

“We should be safe to leave now,” he says instead. His voice is hoarse and he swallows, hoping to clear any evidence of sentiment before returning to the light of the corridor. He leaves first and checks to make sure that the hallway is empty before ushering you out as well. He does not place his hand on your shoulder this time, instead walking back to your cell and allowing you to follow.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, and Hux opens the door, following behind you reluctantly as you enter, removing your cuffs with a detached air.

“I have a plan for your escape,” he says without looking at you, “tomorrow night. Be ready.” This will be good, Hux tells himself. Better to get it over with.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, General,” there’s a small smile on your face, but it doesn’t reach your eyes; you can sense that something is wrong. He hopes that you know this isn’t your fault.

“Yes, tomorrow. Good night.” He leaves without looking back, and for the first time Hux can remember, tears threaten to spill from his eyes. If the Maker exists, he thinks, they must be cruel. Only a vengeful god would bring someone like you into his life, just to take you away.

[kriscme]

One Life to Live

Here’s the latest chapter.  Thanks to Ronja for permission to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn’t Take.”  It can be found on A03 as this can too (under Kris22).  Thanks for reading. Chapter 35 I wake to bright sunshine and the citrusy perfume of evening primrose wafting in from the open window.  Such a lovely dream I had last night.  I was following Prim through the woods and the further she took me, the happier I became, even though we never arrived at any place. But then I remember my current predicament and my spirits plummet again.  I turn to face Peeta, expecting to see him, but he’s not here.  The only sign that he was in my bed last night is the impression his head made on the pillow close to my own.  Somehow, we both seemed to have gravitated to the middle of the bed during the night. From downstairs I hear movement and two voices in conversation.  That could only be Peeta and Haymitch.  No one else would be in the Village and in my house at this hour.  The clock by the bed tells me I have an hour before it’s time to leave for work.  I use most of it to shower and dress.  I don’t want to face either of them just yet. They’ll only talk strategy.  Haymitch seems to have relished getting back into his old mentor role which is odd, because he hated it when he actually was one.  As for Peeta, I haven’t seen him like this since the Quarter Quell when he had us all training like careers.  There’s the same energy and focus.  It’s as if he’s determined to get me home a third time.  Only this time his reasons are . . . well, I don’t know what his reasons are but it is good to see him back to his old self.  I should make an effort to stop being so sulky and disagreeable around him.  It’s not his fault he doesn’t love me anymore and he is doing me a huge favor at risk to himself.   As soon as I see the food laid out on the table, I wish I had come down earlier.   Peeta has cooked my favorite breakfast of sausages, eggs, potatoes, bread, juice and hot chocolate.   I tuck in, ignoring Haymitch’s scowl.  It’s my house.  I’ll come down when I want to. “We keep to the schedule as planned,” says Haymitch.  “And it goes without saying – “ “Stay in love,” Peeta and I say in unison.  “And don’t be afraid to lay it on thick,” Haymitch adds.  “That’s what the public is used to seeing from you.  This isn’t an old settled relationship.  Or a continuation of one.  It’s brand new.  You want to avoid any talk that this has been going on behind Lace’s back and it’s why the wedding was called off.  After the cameras are gone, you still have to live amongst these people.  No one likes a cheater.” “It won’t be a problem,” says Peeta, as he starts to clear away the dishes.  I grab the plate with the potatoes before he takes it.  “It actually works out well.  Lace was worried that people might think the same of her and Arthur if their relationship became public too soon.  But if she and I both have partners, they’re far less likely to think that one of us had cheated on the other.  I’ll let her know sometime today that Katniss and I are together.” I bet that will shock her.  After all his talk of me being an illusion, he’d better have a convincing excuse for why he’s changed his mind.  But at least I know that he’s aware that Lace is with Arthur now. What’s most surprising though, is that he doesn’t seem upset about it.  And they’re still talking to each other. On Haymitch’s advice, we take the most public route into work so as to be seen by the maximum number of people.   That takes us through the main street past Lace’s shop.   I catch a glimpse of her through the window sorting through fabrics.  She has her back to us.  The shop next door is vacant but there’s carpentry in progress, probably for new fittings for Arthur when he moves in.  We turn down a side street and pass by Arthur’s shop.  He’s opened early as usual.  I don’t see him but I know he’ll be hard at work, saving for that factory he plans to own one day.   The salon is closed at this hour but I spy Flavius at the front desk, head down, consulting the appointment book.  He raises his head as we walk by.  I move closer to Peeta and rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before giving Flavius a wave. The news will be all over town by the end of the day.   We meet for lunch at the small park adjacent to the school.   It’s a hot day but the old oak tree provides plentiful shade.  We eschew the bench seat and sit on the grass because it looks more romantic that way.   I kick off my shoes to cool my feet and smooth out the folds of my dress.  It’s the sunset dress that Peeta likes.  It just happened to be the first thing on hand when I reached into my closet this morning. Peeta has brought us food from the bakery.   He holds out in each hand a white paper bag with the Carter logo on it.   “Beef or chicken?” “Um . . . beef,” I say.  Peeta hands me one of the bags and keeps the other.  It’s not a pie but a sandwich with layers of thinly sliced roast beef, cheese, lettuce, tomato and some kind of sauce. I take my first bite and moan appreciatively.  This might just overtake cheese buns for me. “Since when did the bakery sell sandwiches?” I ask. “Since last week.  And coffee and other beverages too.  It’s an experiment, to see how well it does.  In the Capitol, the bakery also functioned as a café, with indoor seating.  It will mean moving to larger premises but it might be needed anyway.  Did I tell you we’re getting cake orders from as far away as the Capitol now?  The one I did for Cressida’s wedding seems to have started it.” “That’s great, Peeta,” I say, genuinely happy for him.  But then a terrible thought occurs to me.  Cass told me that Peeta could get work anywhere.   What if he leaves 12 for the Capitol for bigger opportunities? I’m suddenly consumed with fear. I don’t want him to go. “I’ve also been offered a fourth share partnership in the business too, along with Julius, Cass and Cornelia,” he adds, his face alight with enthusiasm.   “They want to keep you,” I say. “Probably,” he concedes.  “But there’s more to it than that.  We’re more than just coworkers.  I feel disloyal saying this and no one could ever replace them, but in a way, it’s like having my brothers back.  And Cornelia is the woman one of them might have married.  Does that sound bad?” “Not at all,” I say, thinking of Johanna and how she’s like a sister to me.  Loved ones can’t be replaced but it doesn’t mean your circle can’t expand to include others.  “I suppose you won’t be opening a bakery of your own any time soon then?  Wasn’t that one of the plans you made with Lace?” Peeta gives a short, self-depreciating laugh. “That was never going to happen.  Responsible for running a bakery? Ugh!  I like what I’m doing now, decorating cakes and leaving the management side of it to others.   I think we just chose what we thought the other expected of us, not what we actually wanted for ourselves.    Lace would never have been happy giving up her shop to work from home.  She’s worked too hard for it.  And five kids?  At this stage of my life, I’m not even sure about one.” “Really?” I ask.  That was the only part of it that made any sense to me – that Peeta would want a large family.  “I thought you’d like to have children.”   From the school grounds nearby, I can hear the shrieks and laughter of children at play.  It wasn’t long ago that the mere thought of having to teach Peeta and Lace’s children had filled me with dread.  I was sure that if it was Peeta’s choice, they’d have had them straight off. “One day, perhaps,” he says.  “But I want to be in a better place than I am right now. You know, with the attacks and everything.  And we’re only twenty.  There’s plenty of time.” Twenty-one.   Lace is twenty-one.   “You?” he asks. “Oh, um, the same as you, I guess,” I say, surprised to have the question turned back on me.    “I’ll think about it when the time comes.  But for the moment, no.  I want to see how things turn out.  With the new government, I mean.  Whether the peace lasts.”  I want to be certain the Games will never return before I’m be ready to bring children into the world.   “I meant more general that that,” he says. “How do you see your future?  What do you want to do?” I take a moment to think about it.  My future isn’t something I’ve given much thought to other than in terms of what I can’t do because of my confinement.   But it dawns on me that even if had the choice to live wherever I wanted, I’d still choose Twelve.  It’s my home and the people and places I love are here. “Keep on teaching, I suppose, and finish getting my qualifications.   Mr Matson suggested I could teach archery to the older students.   So maybe I’ll do that.  I doubt there’ll be much hunting once the woods officially become national park so it seems a good compromise.  I can continue to use my skills and pass them on at the same time.” “Sounds perfect,” says Peeta, smiling at me. We go back to eating our lunch.  I see a few people walking past on the opposite side of the road but foot traffic around here is thin and sporadic.  It’s an out-of-the-way place to be seen but Haymitch’s rationale is that we can’t just frequent the popular places because that would cause suspicion in itself.  We have to appear as a normal courting couple doing what a normal courting couple would do. Picnicking in a sequestered park is apparently one of them.  But there’s at least one onlooker.  A squirrel, perched on one of the lower branches watches expectantly.  He seems used to people as he doesn’t show any fear. And probably used to being fed by them too.  I break off a piece of crust and throw it a short distance away.  He doesn’t hesitate.   He scampers down the tree, grabs his prize, and scurries back up.   I catch Peeta observing me, a look of amusement on his face. “What?” I demand.  He had better not be laughing at me. “It’s just seeing a new side of you, that’s all.  You know, relaxed.   One time, that squirrel would have ended up with one of your arrows through its eye. But now you share your lunch with it. I like it.  It means you’re in a better place now.  Not so concerned with survival.” Humph! The last time I heard anyone talk about me and survival was in the basement of a dingy little shop in the Capitol that sold fur underwear.  “Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without.”  Gale said it, and Peeta didn’t refute it.  The same resentment I felt then wells up in me.  There it is again, the implication that any finer feelings are subservient to my need to survive. Not love, or desire, or compatibility, or even just throwing a crust of bread to a squirrel.  I didn’t get to defend myself then, but I will now. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”   Peeta’s eyebrows shoot up in a surprise.  “I hate that people think that of me – that I’ll put my own wellbeing ahead of anything else.  If I’ve tried so hard to survive, it’s because I had people depending on me.  What would have happened to Prim, or my mother, if I hadn’t been around to make sure there was food on the table?  Prim would have ended up in the Community Home and that meant as good as dead.  I’ll do anything for the people I love.  Die for them if need be.  I would die for you.  I –“ I stop short, remembering all of a sudden that I’m supposed to keep those feelings hidden.  Heat rises in my face.  “I mean – “And then it’s Peeta who cuts me short.  He takes my face in his hands and kisses me.  Really kisses me, not the closed mouth playacting kind, but softly, insistently, plying my mouth open with his own.  For a few seconds I’m stunned into inaction.  But then I feel that thing.  That thing that happened in the cave and on the beach.   And I put my arms around his neck and kiss him back hungrily, greedy for more.  He pulls me closer and we sort of meld together, the points of his body picking out the counter-points of my own and I moan somewhere deep in my throat. I forget we’re in a public space and only a short distance from a school.  Nothing exists but Peeta and me and when I feel his hand slip between my thighs under the cover of my dress, lightly as if seeking permission, my legs fall apart in open invitation and I will it to go higher, to that place that wants him so badly.

His fingertips barely make contact when from some faraway place the pulsating ring of a school bell sounds.  With great reluctance, I am dragged back into the present and reality returns with a thud.  I pull away, confused.  What just happened?  Why did he do that?  My head whips around looking for the audience he’s playing to, but there’s no one about.

“Don’t.  Don’t let’s pretend when there’s no one around,” I say, getting quickly to my feet.  It’s not . . . we shouldn’t do it.  It’s how lines get blurred.”  And people get hurt. People being me.  I shove my feet into my shoes.  “I have to go.  Class is about to start.  Thanks for lunch.”

I don’t wait for a response from Peeta. I race off, leaving him to dispose of the remains of our lunch, a look of bewildered concern on his face. The kiss leaves me shaken and it takes a concerted effort to concentrate on my work.  That was so close.  Too close. How am I going to get through this without breaking down?  There’s at least three weeks to go.  This week before the television crew arrives, the following when they set up, and after that a week of filming.  I don’t know how Peeta did it.  All that kissing and hugging on the Victory Tour.  And the nights on the train.  And then when we shared a bed in the Capitol just before the Quell.  It must have been torture.  As it will be for me tonight, and every other night until this is over.

Luckily, Peeta and I don’t finish work at the same time so I’m spared walking home with him.  As I’m home first, I set the table and prepare the food for dinner, allowing extra in case Haymitch turns up, which he probably will.  And then I go into the living room and take a book from the shelf.  I hope reading will be a distraction because I just can’t get that kiss out of my mind. It’s a book on conservation that Marcus left behind, and it’s as dry as you’d imagine but it does nothing to lessen the wetness between my legs.  I am so aroused; I’m fit to burst.  There’s only one solution.  I slip my hand under my dress to take care of it myself, and I’m just on the verge when I hear the front door open.  It’s Peeta.

I quickly open the book and pretend to be immersed in it.  

“Good book?” Peeta asks, as he comes into the room.  He takes the seat opposite and reads the title from the cover.  “’Wetland Techniques.”  I suppose we could all benefit by brushing up on our wetland technique.  Maybe I should read it after you.” “

Maybe,” I say noncommittedly, and lower my eyes back to the page.  I hope he’ll take the hint that I’m not in a sociable mood and go away.  

There’s a long pause.  “Katniss, I think we should talk about what happened at the park.”

I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.  If Peeta has a flaw it’s that he likes to talk about things that shouldn’t be talked about. It would be better for both of us if we pretended it didn’t happen.  

“Things got a little carried away, that’s all,” I say.  “It was bound to happen with us forced into this situation again.  We just have to be more careful next time.”  

“Is that what you want?” he asks, frowning. “I think it’s best, don’t you?  If we’re to get through this, we need to set boundaries. After all, we have to go back to living normally after this.  We have to stay friends.” I try to sound convincing but there’s a faint tremor in my voice.  I stare down at my book to avoid looking at him.

“All right, Katniss,” he says tiredly.   He rises from the chair.  “I’ll get dinner started then.  Haymitch should be here soon.”

After he leaves the room, I let out my breath. I don’t think he believed me but maybe that’s not important.  We only have to preserve the veneer.  But he makes it so hard.  Always wanting to open wounds instead of just leaving them alone.  I’ll just have to stay on my guard and make sure to keep him at a safe distance.  Obviously, Peeta isn’t averse to having sex with me if what happened at the park is any indication.  But then, I was practically begging him.  I know you don’t have to be in love to have sex.   And if sex is all I wanted from Peeta, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I know, I just know, that if we went down that path, the floodgates would open and I’d be as helpless as ever and in an even worse place than I am now.  Nothing will have changed.  I’d still be in love with someone who isn’t in love with me.

While Peeta makes dinner, I take a shower.  A cold one. And change out of the sunset dress into something that makes me feel less vulnerable – tight-fitting trousers and a t-shirt.  I’d wear a chastity belt if I had one because I don’t really trust myself.  I wait until Haymitch arrives before I go downstairs. The less alone time I have with Peeta, the better.

Unfortunately, Haymitch doesn’t stay for very long after we’ve eaten.  I was hoping that he and Peeta would get the chess board out again so I could avoid interacting with him.  

“It’s Monday,” I tell Peeta, when he comments on Haymitch’s early departure.  “He wants to be home to watch “One Life to Live.” He’s something of an addict.”  I dry the last of the dishes and put it away while Peeta makes tea.  

“That’s the show Plutarch talked about, isn’t it?” he asks. “Yeah, that’s the one.  It’s the most rubbishy, most stupid thing ever. I was insulted when he compared us to Celia and Blake.  Idiots, both of them.”

“I can’t really comment.  I’ve never watched it,” he says, as he pours tea into two mugs.

I sniff derisively.   “Well, you haven’t missed anything.  I can’t think why Haymitch likes it.”

“Let’s find out.” “What?  You actually want to watch it?”

“Yeah.  I do.  You can explain the plot so far.”

He picks up one of the mugs and I take the other. “That will take about two seconds.” Nonetheless, I follow him into the living room and sit down beside him on the sofa. I guess there are worse things to do than watching television together, even if it is “One Life to Live.”  At least it’s a distraction and we won’t have to talk much.  My gaze flickers over to Peeta.  I’m acutely aware of him.  His well-muscled thigh only inches from my own. The fine blond hair on his strong capable hands.  Hands that can lift heavy sacks of flour yet wield a paintbrush with the most delicate precision.   Hands that were on me only hours earlier.  A throbbing starts between my legs at the thought of it.   I cross one leg over the other to alleviate the sensation but then quickly uncross them. The movement makes the crotch seam of my trousers rub against me in a most stimulating way.  I should have worn a dress.  

With a click of the remote control, the opening credits of “One Life to Live” appear on the screen.   I swallow hard and force myself to focus. “Well, Celia and Blake are from neighboring districts . . . “

[indiavolowetrust]

unexpected presents are best unwrapped.

SUMMARY: Levi is given a present. Things do not go as planned. MC is a Catholic girl raised in rural Spain and based on various female saints (for the sake of MC having a backstory).

1

I pull my blazer closer to my skin, doing my best to fight off a shiver. Despite the completely stagnant state of the Devildom’s weather -- the air is always on the cusp of an unpleasant, biting frigidity -- I have forgotten, again, to dress appropriately for the lack of warmth. It is at times like this that I long for the mild spring seasons of Spain again. While the Devildom holds its own in its spiraling, indulgent architecture, dark skies, and extravagant views of the city, it is difficult to ward off the yearning when I am reminded of my homeland. I pine for the sight of sunlight, Spanish cathedrals, intricately carved reliefs and paintings -- even the annoying but familiar sight of our neighbor’s farm dogs, forever yapping up a storm at our gates. And the ocean. God, I miss the ocean. As overbearing as my Catholic family is, we would never pass up an opportunity to stuff ourselves into the automobile and journey to the seashore.

It is April, after all. Springtime. If I were in the human world right now, my school adjourned for our seasonal break, I imagine that Mama would have long corralled us into the car to take us to the ocean. The fresh, salty sea breeze would visage, embracing my body with its pleasant aura, and then we would say our evening prayers, no matter the distance that exists between us and a physical church.

We should thank Him for such blessings, she would say, holding her rosary to her breast, for He loves each of his children equally and unconditionally. We must rise above the temptations of demons and devils, for it is our duty to uphold our position as the children of God. It is His will.

What a horrible, fantastic lie that was.

Another wind passes through the streets of the Devildom again, forcing me to withdraw even further into the confines of my RAD uniform. I silently thank Lord Diavolo everyday for thinking to provide me with one upon first arrival. Without the inadvertent disguise that the school uniform provides me, I imagine that one of the lesser demons walking the streets would have long devoured my body and soul. Especially seeing that I possess no physical traits that could make me even pass for a demon. Better yet, the uniform is similar to that of my Catholic school uniform: a dark, knee-length skirt, sensible shoes, and a blazer decorated with golden buttons. And black stockings, for the purposes of both modesty and warmth. It is a near identical version to the one that the Avatar of Greed would be wearing, save for his personal, frivolous touches, and one that I would be able to spot easily in the crowd before me if he were to appear.

That is, if Mammon is still here. For all I know, the loudmouth has already wandered somewhere else in his endless pursuit of money.

A lesser demon gives me an odd look as he passes by, recognizing me as an unsupervised human, and I do my best to look as nonchalant and unbothered as possible. It is expected to be in the vicinity of so many demons, of course, seeing how I am standing in the middle of a shopping district -- but it is not expected to be so unprotected.

Damn it, Mammon, where are you? I think, instinctively scanning the crowd for his tell-tale fair hair and dark skin. My search yields little success. It’s already --

“I told ya that I found it!” erupts a voice behind me, a tone of arrogance apparent in the strange language of the demons. I nearly jump out of my skin. “What’d I tell you about listenin’ to the Great Mammon?”

I whirl around to face the grinning demon. “You -- you could have done that without scaring me,” I protest indignantly, much to his humor. “Just because your brothers do that all the time doesn’t mean you have to do it to me!”

Mammon’s grin only widens, satisfaction evident on his features. “Why not? It’s more fun this way. Just because your human senses are at the bottom of the barrel doesn’t mean that we can’t mess with ya.”

“Well --”

“Come on, let’s go!” Mammon begins to stride in the opposite direction, completely ignoring my words. “I promised Lucifer that I’d have you back before dinner. It’s not that far from here, anyway.”

I sigh, seeing how little of a choice that I have in the matter.

As it turns out, it is very, very far. Or at least that’s how my body feels about the journey. Despite having worked on my family’s farm all my life, it is difficult to keep up with Mammon’s considerably longer strides, and I find my lungs protest at the exertion. A side-effect of living a more idle life in the Devildom, I would expect. Mammon browses the figurines and objects through the window of the hobby shop, his eyes bouncing from item to item.

“I thought you said it wasn’t far,” I say, catching my breath.

“Not for a demon,” he responds nonchalantly. His eyes catch on something on display. “Think he’d like something like that?”

I follow his gaze. His eyes are locked on what appears to be a more plain but stylish-looking wallet, missing the typical brand of the TSL series. Dark and well-made and not at all to Levi’s tastes or use, as it would appear. I frown at the greedy spark in Mammon’s eyes.

"You’re not tricking me into buying a new home for Goldie,” I remark, crossing my arms. “And I’m pretty sure Levi wouldn’t want a brand new wallet for his birthday. Doesn’t he only buy things online?”

“Ya never know,” says Mammon. “If we demons want something, we want something. No ifs, ands, or buts. He could decide to start using a credit card tomorrow, if he wanted to.”

“And he won’t.”

Mammon pouts. “I am his older brother, you know.”

“So his older brother would know to get him something a little better than that,” I say, searching the window of the shop myself for a more suitable present. My heart still hammers in my chest, but I’ve gotten it closer to a more manageable pace. Something catches my eye, and I point at it before I can fully inspect it. “What about that?”

Mammon’s eyes follow my finger. “That?”

It is a perfect replica of the Lord of Shadow. Mint condition, featuring his signature outfit from the very first season of the series, and, most importantly, a special limited edition of the product. A hefty price tag of nine thousand Grimm is attached to the bottom of its display case. Mammon scrunches his face in disapproval as he notices the price tag, wincing at the unexpectedly high price, but I know better than to relent.

“Are you sure he would want that?” he asks, his attention floating back to the more desirable wallet. “I mean, how do you know that he already doesn’t have that?”

“It’s a limited edition,” I point out. “It looks like it just came out.”

“He’s probably collected about a hundred of those things already. If you get the wallet, then --”

“I’m not getting the wallet just so he can give it to you when he doesn’t want it.” I begin to fish in my pocket for my own wallet, my fingers searching for the Grimm hidden within. They close over the foreign currency after a few moments. “And it’s for his birthday, not yours. I’ll get you anything you want when the time comes.”

Mammon brightens at that. A little too much. “Really? Anything?”

I sigh. “Well, not anything, but --”

The sound of the door to the shop opening interrupts me, the bells ringing out from inside of the store. Mammon’s incoming protests immediately die in his throat, surprise written on his features as he suddenly goes quiet. It takes me a moment to glance over in the direction Mammon faces, still preoccupied with the thought of his gift, but Mammon quickly nudges me in the side to grab my attention. I turn.

Levi looks awkwardly at the both of us, a paper bag in his hands. His golden eyes flicker back and forth between Mammon and I. I do my best to guard my intentions.

“What are you two doing here?” Levi asks.

I try to think up a lie on the fly. “I -- well, we--”

Mammon quickly hooks his arm around my shoulder, his body draping over my much smaller form. I startle, but his firm grip on my shoulder prevents me from jumping away. He grins. “This little human and I were just on a date!” he exclaims, nuzzling his face closer to mine. I resist the urge to shove the loudmouth away. “Beel told me about this ice cream place down the street, and I decided to take little St. Maria here out for the afternoon. What are you doing here?”

Levi takes a moment to glance past us, gaze landing on the bookstore next to the novelty shop. There is no ice cream shop around here, of course, but I have no choice but to concede with Mammon’s obvious lie. If Levi were to find out that we were planning on dragging him out of his room for a surprise birthday party, I have no doubts that he would do anything to excuse himself from the occasion. I force what I hope is a convincing smile on my face, hoping that Levi doesn’t see through the ruse.

“I -- I thought you were studying in your room for the rest of the day,” I say, leaning into Mammon’s embrace. “I didn’t see you at RAD this morning.”

“I see,” he says.

Mammon holds me closer to him, his easy grin still plastered on his face. He all but crushes his cheek into my dark curls -- a move that is only the slightest bit awkward -- as he does so, keeping up the pretense. “We should probably get going before it closes down,” he says quickly. “Right, human?”

I nod. “We -- we should.”

“Great! Then we’ll get going.” Mammon quickly turns around, my smaller frame soaring an inch off the ground, and flashes Levi a parting wave. “Be seeing you around, huh?”

Mammon doesn’t wait for Levi to answer, instead dragging us both down the street until he’s sure that we’re no longer in his line of sight. Mammon being the stronger out of both of us -- and, more importantly, a demon -- tucks me under his arm and strides as we escape Levi’s scrutiny. I only catch the barest glimpse of Levi’s features as Mammon all but spirits me away, his expression somehow indiscernible, and we lock eyes for a moment.

An odd pang of guilt strikes me, despite the lack of a reason for it.

* * *

Hours later, after dinner, my thoughts are still preoccupied with the image of Levi’s expression in the street. I absentmindedly lather the shampoo into my dark locks as I stand under the shower, allowing my thoughts to wander. His eyes -- his eyes had darkened almost imperceptibly as Mammon carried me away, his bangs shadowing his visage as he watched. Or had it just been a trick of the light? He hadn’t been smiling, that was for sure, but that wasn’t anything to be worried about. After so many months at RAD, I have never known Levi to be the particularly cheery type. The side of his mouth had twitched as he frowned, his mood somehow lessening even more than usual. Maybe he had seen through the lie? Or perhaps Mammon had annoyed him again somehow, seeing how that seems to be a constant pattern between the two. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that --

No, you do know better, I chide myself, rinsing the rest of the shampoo from my hair. The dark locks begin to revitalize themselves under the water, popping up in loose ringlets. This isn’t the same Levi that tried to attack me back then.

The knob of the shower turns easily, the water stopping a few moments after, and I climb out of the bathtub dripping wet. That state is remedied easily: I towel myself off and plop my curls with hair product Asmodeus had generously lent to me, working the cream into from root to end. Given that I had been essentially kidnapped and spirited away into the Devildom, it would do no good to return to Mama and my family with both a lack of clothes and dry, splitting hair. And so I take my time with the process before dressing for the night.

I pull on a pair of thick wool socks along with a roomy pair of pajamas, each piece borrowed from one of the brothers at the beginning of my stay. An oversized sweatshirt and rolled-up pajama pants. It is cold in the House of Lamentation -- a characteristic likely attributed to the demons’ hardier nature -- and I have little reason to ask Lucifer to adjust the entire temperature of the hall to one human’s preferences. I’ve already checked my room over and over again for a heater or source of heat. Despite all of Lord Diavolo’s preparations beforehand, the topic of making the temperature of the hall or my room more bearable had slipped his mind, subjecting me to hours of shivering during the long nights.

Again, there is that pang of homesickness. According to Asmodeus, the Devildom has no true seasons. Nothing that a human like me would consider seasons, in that case. There’s cold weather, colder weather, and then there is a teeth-chattering frigidity that leaves me shivering and miserable on the best of nights.

Worse, if the Devildom has something even resembling an ocean or seashore, we are nowhere near close to one.

My D.D.D. buzzes, catching my attention. After drying and plopping my curls more in the towel, I pick it up and check the messages.

Got the goods? Mammon asks.

I take a quick glance at the Lord of Shadow figurine on my nightstand, still protected in both its case and plastic bag. Yes.

Betcha that he’s already got that one, Mammon texts me. Should’ve gotten that wallet, if you ask me.

I sigh. You wanna go and check? Your room is right next to his.

Nah, he’d just think that I was in there to steal something, he texts back after a moment. Isn’t he supposed to be at some weird costume thing tonight?

But you would be, I point out.

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

I stare at my phone for a few minutes, deciding if I should respond, then ultimately end up tossing it onto my bed. He is right, as much as it vexes me to admit it. The chances of just giving Levi a duplicate of something he already has -- especially something concerning his favorite Lord of Shadow character -- are too high to be negligible. And it -- it wouldn’t be too weird to waltz into his room to check, would it? No, it probably would be.

Then again, back in the human world, I never thought I would spirited away into the realm of devils and demons. Surely there could be some leeway in the terms of socially acceptable actions.

* * *

The corridor in front of Levi’s room is empty, as expected. The moonlight -- rather, the light from what appears to be something resembling a moon -- shines through great, uncovered windows in the hallway, lighting my path. I tread lightly on sock-laden feet. After another quick check into the hallway and testing the doorknob, I slip into Levi’s room.

I’ve been in his room enough to know to navigate the worst parts of his room -- namely, the giant bathtub and aquarium -- and so I walk straight to where I should be looking: the encased, protected shelf on his wall. Unlike the hall, however, Levi has left his curtains mostly closed. I nearly trip and bump into random bags and other piles of clutter in his room as I make my way towards my destination, narrowly avoiding each obstruction each time.

I scrutinize the case when I reach it, making sure not to touch the surface of the glass. A demon as obsessive as Levi would notice. Unfortunately, with the lack of light in the room, it is incredibly difficult to discern the differences between the figurines, much less recognize which figurine is which. I find myself simply staring at the case for a moment, eyes flitting between each figurine. There are plenty of figurines of the Lord of Shadow, as evidenced by the signature silhouette, and I strain my eyes to search for the particular form of the limited edition figure.

Minutes pass. I feel a slight headache emerging from the eye strain, but my efforts have paid off: to my knowledge, no such figurine exists in his collection. At least, there is no such figurine in his display case. Better yet, it’ll be something to prove the greedy, arrogant loudmouth wrong. I begin to carefully make my way past the piles of clutter again, nudging various objects aside when need be. I bump into the massive bathtub in the center of the room, its form completely obscured by the shadow, and --

And there is a noise in the corridor.

Levi.

I make my way to the door as quickly and quietly as I can, panic beginning to rise. While I could possibly lie my way out of explaining why I was in his room -- I had gone into the wrong room, maybe -- I doubt that it would be enough to convince him. For someone that spends most of their time cooped up their room, he is awfully perceptive. And I am an awfully bad liar.

I quietly slip into the hallway once more, muffling the sound of the closing door as much as I can. The corridor is dark, as it had been when I left it, but I know better than to let my guard down. If Levi were to enter from the door in the front lobby, it would be better to simply make my way down the stairs in the opposite direction. I pad quietly on the thicker parts of the rug on the floor, heading towards the end of the hall. The sound of footsteps begins to near me. I quicken my pace, turning the corner.

I smack into something solid, sending me careening into the floor. Thankfully, I break the fall with my face. My cheekbone smarts as I groan in pain, the throbbing sensation spreading across my visage, and I begin to lift myself up and off the wooden floor. A shadow looms over me for a moment, hindering my vision in the limited light. I turn my face upwards.

“Levi,” I acknowledge.

Levi looks down at me, his features marginally obscured by the headpiece of his cosplay. “Maria.”

We stare at each other, unsure of how to react. He clears his throat after a moment, his initial confusion dissipating somewhat, and offers me a hand. “Um, do you -- you need help getting up,” he says, changing the question into a statement mid-sentence. “You can take my hand -- if you want, that is. Don’t feel --”

I grab his hand and quickly pull myself to my feet, prompting Levi to awkwardly sputter the rest of his sentence. I move a little too quickly, however: the throbbing bruise on my cheek combined with the sudden vertigo is wholly disorienting, and I end up stumbling forward into his chest again. Thankfully, he manages to catch me this time. When I push myself away from him, putting a hand to my face, I notice that an odd flush has spread across his cheeks. Or maybe it is only light from the windows that is casting odd shadows over his visage.

“Sorry about that,” I apologize quickly. “I was on the way back from getting a midnight snack.”

Idiot, I think to myself. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. The kitchen is downstairs by your room.

Levi’s gaze flickers just past me, towards where I know the older of the brothers’ rooms are. I fidget. Then he is taking in my appearance -- wet hair, baggy clothing, and all -- and I find myself withering under his gaze, the discomfort growing to an almost unbearable level. All traces of the dorky, awkward Levi seem to have suddenly dissipated, the air between us suddenly palpable with tension. Tension for reasons that I can’t quite discern. Given the unforeseen shift in the demon’s mood, no matter his usual countenance, I decide that it is better not to ask.

Again, there is that strange expression. His golden eyes seem to flash with an almost imperceptible emotion for a moment, his bangs overshadowing the bridge of his nose.

His gaze meets mine for a moment. The intensity in them is harsh, nearly overwhelming, and I tear my eyes away on instinct. Something is wrong. His presence feels predatory somehow. Carnivorous. As if he were a serpent and I were a mere mouse caught in its jaws. As if I were a rabbit and he were the hunter. As if he were truly and very much a demon and I were a weak, insignificant human, ripe for the taking. He mumbles something inaudible under his breath.

For the first time, I feel fear.

I see Levi reaching for me just out of the corner of my vision, the shadows strange on his form. The air is cold, colder than it's ever been, as if the sheer will of his displeasure has changed the property of the air around it. I almost perceive the shadows forming on the wall behind him. My mind begins to throw flashbacks of the first time I had ever seen his true form: dark, coral-like horns, a serpentine tail, strange marks on what skin I could see. His hand comes within an inch of me, bearing what almost look like claws through the gloves.

I run.

part 2