#but somehow a show called disasters at sea does make me feel a little less convinced that i will never get on a boat heading into the ocean

[cinnaminsvga]

A Boy Like You | Yoongi

→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff → warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is → words: 11.5K → a/n: whaddup kids it’s ya girl... back from the dead after months of not writing shit, and what’s this owo... it’s a fluff fic?? miracles do happen... anyway i wrote this bc i just thot “man, wouldn’t it be super epic if i wrote a super self-indulgent fic where yoongi fulfills every single one of my deepest desires?” well... here is THIS!! pls feel free to scream into a pillow bc i certainly did!! enjoy!!

There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:

The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.

You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are left cold and umbrella-less.

You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.

Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.

In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered “thanks” leaving your lips.

He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.

He doesn’t find the words after all. You aren’t too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid getting wet.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you can return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.

You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm.

x x x x x

Umbrella boy has a name, and he happens to work on the same floor as you. You know this because he is standing right in front of you in all his bespectacled glory.

He ducks out of view the moment your eyes meet his. There is a stack of folders in his arms, and he bows his head until his nose touches manila. It’s too late––he knows you caught him staring. He scurries behind walls of filing cabinets and desk cubicles, desperate to get back to his desk where he hopes you’ll never find him.

The office floor is large, but it is not large enough to hide in. It takes only a few minutes until you find him hunched over his desk, every inch of space taken by enough towers of paper to cover a forest. It is no wonder that you never encountered your mysterious umbrella boy; he does a wonderful job of blending in.

Your eyes trail his form, not out of any perverse intent, but just out of curiosity. You never would have guessed from his unassuming and meek nature, but the boy is devastatingly beautiful. The devil is in the details: you admire the soft slope of his nose to the adorable pout of his lips. His eyelids are charmingly mismatched and his cheeks are begging to be pinched. It takes a year’s worth of self-restraint to keep your hands at your sides, if only so you don’t scare him away before you can even introduce yourself.

(You can already imagine your HR department contacting you about nonconsensual manhandling… You admit that you tend to get overzealous with your affection, especially when confronted with cute things. This boy would definitely need to watch out for you if he knows what’s best for him.)

((Also note to self: Stop having these psychopathic conversations with yourself. Being stuck inside the cage which is your brain is torture enough, so let’s not encourage it to get worse.))

There is a lanyard laced around his neck, the gaudy orange color of your company’s logo emblazoned across the thin material. And just out of your line of sight, you catch a glimpse of his ID. His name is––

“Y-Y/N?” He stutters out–no–he squeaks. Ah, so he’s noticed you. The folder in his hand slips out of his grasp, an avalanche of white tumbling all over his lap. He curses loudly, frantically sweeping away the mess under his desk, as if he could somehow magically make them disappear if he just kicked them hard enough. Unfortunately, the papers stay stubbornly tangible, and he is left with a halo of accounting reports around his workspace as a result.

“Are you… umm…” You hesitate with your words, fearing that any sudden movement on your part might cause umbrella boy to combust on the spot. “Do you need help… picking those up?”

“I–Well, no–Yes, but–” His sentences are stilted, his brain struggling to catch up with his tongue. He clamps his mouth shut, then shakes his head like he’s trying to reboot himself. Finally, after a few more deep breaths, he goes, “No. I’m fine. Thank you for offering.” He says that, but he appears awfully content with staring holes into the keyboard of his laptop when he is speaking to you though.

“Still… I’m terribly sorry for startling you,” you say, lips tugging downwards into a frown. You should have guessed he was skittish from how he had acted yesterday, but it’s quite a surprise to see one man so… disastrous, for lack of a better term. It’s awfully cute. “I just wanted to properly introduce myself and thank you for lending me your umbrella yesterday, but it seems like you already knew who I was.”

His face does a weird thing then and there. It almost appears like he was caught in a time loop, like someone was manually reversing and replaying his facial expressions like a video. It takes a few minutes for his little stroke to settle down, but even then, his cheeks remain a rosy pink. “I–I just… remembered your name during the company retreat the other month. I’m not weird or anything, I swear!”

“Well luckily, I was never going to accuse you of being weird anyway!” You laugh, trying to ease the perpetual look of anxiety on his face. However, it only seems to worsen his nerves with how quickly his skin starts to redden. “In fact, I should be apologizing for not remembering your name, Mister..?”

“Min Yoongi,” he replies, pausing for a second too long. He must have realized his delay because he coughs awkwardly into his forearm, averting his gaze away from you in a futile attempt to become nothing more than an abstract thought.

He must be equipped with some sort of superpower, because you’re starting to feel his secondhand embarrassment flood through you like a tsunami. Are you that difficult to converse with? Does he want to be left alone so badly that he’s trying to subtlely tell you to fuck off?

You���re about to start apologizing and scurry off back to your desk in barely concealed mortification when Yoongi clears his throat, his gaze fixed somewhere to your right. Whatever caught his attention must have been revolutionary with how large his eyes are, although last you remember is that the wall behind you is the same dull jailcell gray that you have come to know and hate.

“I just… I’m sorry if I’m acting odd right now. I just wasn’t expecting you to come to my cubicle and I would’ve… I don’t know, tidied up? If I knew you were coming,” he mutters, propping his glasses back up when they start sliding down his nose. They make their slow descent back down immediately after, forever on an endless cycle of up and down his face.

“You don’t have to clean up just for me! I’m not your manager or anything,” you say, surveying the absolute disaster zone that is his workspace. For his benefit, you sure hope that he has a map of his desk and filing cabinets, as it would have been a miracle otherwise if he memorized where anything was located in his personal office sty. “Though, it would be nice if you could see the bottom of your desk every once in a while.”

To your immense surprise, Yoongi lets out a resounding laugh at your quip. Though Yoongi isn’t a mute by any means, it isn’t like he spoke with much volume either. You hadn’t even thought your joke was funny enough to deserve a strained Caucasian™️ smile, so you appreciate that he had considered that you were even slightly funny. You love the pleasant tinkling of his laughter, so genuinely joyous that you can’t help but want to make a fool of yourself just so you can hear it again and again.

When Yoongi stops, the familiar reddish hue that has made a home on his cheeks resurfaces, though it’s less from embarrassment now. His shoulders are more relaxed, and he doesn’t look like he wants to crawl out of his skin as much. He still has eyes averted away from you, however. “Sorry. I don’t know why I laughed too hard at that. I’m normally not this weird… I think it’s just the nerves.”

You cock your head to the side. “Nerves? From what?”

Yoongi freezes, mouth gaping open slightly. “I, umm…” He coughs into his white button-up sleeve, pupils shaking as he formulates a response. “Just from… work. Yeah, I just have a lot of paperwork to do this week and I’ve been, er, having difficulty relaxing.”

Yoongi visibly breathes a sigh of relief when you accept his flimsy excuse, not really lingering on the validity of his statement. “Oh, sure! Don’t overwork yourself too much, okay?” you say, smiling sweetly back at him. He stares, wide-eyed, not really sure how to go on with his life after he’d been blasted by the full force of your grin.

God, you hope you remembered to use a toothpick during lunch. Was there spinach in your teeth? Oh fuck.

“Gah,” he intones, his brain not fully cooperating with his mouth just yet. If you were any more socially inept, you’d probably be doing the same. Eventually, he clears his throat and tries again. “Uh. Yes. I’ll try to do better next time.”

Feeling like you’ve overstayed your visit, you decide that it might be best for you to leave him be before either of you do or say anything more awkward and stupid. Before you turn to leave however, you decide to extend your hand forward, hoping to erase all the previous awkwardness between the both of you and hopefully start afresh. Even though you’ve only just met, you can’t help but feel drawn to him, wanting to see him again and somehow gain his friendship. “Hey, no sweat. It was really nice meeting you, Yoongi-ssi.”

“Just Yoongi is fine,” he says, almost like an afterthought. He’s so busy staring at your proffered hand that you are afraid that you might have offended him unknowingly or something. Does he think you don’t wash your hands? Given by the fact that your office’s manager refuses to restock the soap dispensers at the washrooms, that isn’t that much of a stretch. Or maybe he was weirded out by your random handshake? Have handshakes become antiquated these days? Are the kids no longer doing it? Are you supposed to do those awful brohugs like the fresh-out-of-college interns do in the breakroom? Oh God, does Yoongi think you’re old?!

While you were in the midst of your mental breakdown, you soon begin to realize why Yoongi had contemplated returning your handshake for so long. Instead of taking your hand immediately, Yoongi rubs his own two palms together first, much like how one would when warming their hands in front of a fire. He takes care to blow on them slightly before grasping your hand firmly in his, finally bestowing you with your much awaited handshake.

“Umm..?” You stare at your intertwined hands, a little confused about the previous series of events that just happened five seconds ago. Yoongi, in all his adorable and flustered glory, releases your hand much too quickly like he’s been shocked, most likely realizing (belatedly) that what he had done might not be as clear to an observer as it is to himself.

“Oh, I – I’m so sorry about that, again.” Yoongi stutters, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s just – my hands are really cold so I was trying to warm them up before I held your hands. I’m – I only just realized how odd that must have looked. Sorry.”

A rush of endearment and warmth surges through you as you behold this high strung boy, your heart flooded with a mix of emotions that make you feel gooey and blissful in one perfect package. No, this boy is the perfect package, all soft edges and blushy cheeks. It’s going to take a mountain and a room of vengeful deities to stop you from walking past his desk to catch a glimpse of him at this rate.

Oh God, you’re whipped already and it’s only been a few minutes since you said hello. He warmed his hand for you for heaven’s sake! Surely your enthusiasm can be excused in this one instance.

“That’s, uhh…” Now it seems that it is your turn to be at a loss of words, your throat clogged with a clump of newly discovered feelings that you don’t have enough time to sort through at the moment. The hamster running circles inside your brain has long since ground to a halt, and if Yoongi is going to keep staring at you with those charming cat eyes for any longer, you aren’t sure you’ll be able to convince the little vermin inside your skull to puppet your body again. “That’s… really sweet. Thank you.”

Thank you? Really, Y/N?

“It’s, uh, no problem. Really.” And with that, Yoongi presents to you his most deadly smile to date: blinding whites coupled his prominent pink gums, with his cheeks stretched like proofed dough that make his dark eyes disappear. Is there a pencil wedged inside your chest cavity, or were you just spontaneously having a heart attack? It’s hard to say; all you know is that your organs have turned to slush, and you make a mental note to send the imminent hospital bill to a certain Min Yoongi.

Cause of hemorrhage: being too fucking cute.

With your daily dose of embarrassment fulfilled, you turn to leave with short stilted steps, as if you have to force yourself away from him like those stubborn souvenir shop magnets that never come off the fridge. “I guess I’ll see you around?” you say more like a question, unsure if he’ll even want to ever see you after that disaster of an interaction. Kim Namjoon from Accounting would be entirely too delighted if he ever found out that he wasn’t the most awkward human being in the office.

“Sure? I’ll just be here. As always,” Yoongi replies kindly, same gummy grin on his face, albeit a little more hesitant. “It was nice speaking to you, Y/N.”

When he returns his attention to his workspace, it serves as a signal to you that you really should be going. Before you leave, you take note of the subtle red tint of his ears that reaches the back of his neck, the gentle tremor of his hands as he reorganizes the files that he had previously dropped. It makes you feel odd for relishing in the fact that you hadn’t been the only one feeling the tension between the two of you, though that doesn’t help lessen the confusion that soon follows anyway.

Why are you so drawn to him? You have never felt so strongly for someone this quickly, and frankly it sort of frightened you. You’re too afraid to confront that blossoming curiosity inside of you. No, it’s much too soon for that. For now, however…

“Oh shit. I totally forgot to give him back his umbrella,” you curse yourself once you return to your desk. The smiling face of Kumamon looks at you knowingly, as if this had been planned all along.

Well. Now you have an excuse to see him again tomorrow, at least.

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his tenderness quietly. It would go something like this:

Company dinners shouldn’t feel like as much as a punishment as it does, but that’s just how social gatherings with semi-professional coworkers are like. No one here really wants to be there, but the carefully worded e-mail sent to the entire company clearly suggests that this was more of a “go to the party or risk getting fired” type of deal than anything remotely enjoyable. As much as free food and booze are often harbingers of a good time, it hardly makes any difference when your inebriated boss spends the entire time chatting you up in front of the presence of a dozen or so indifferent associates.

“Oh, Y/N! Good job securing that deal with Mister Park the other day. It’s all thanks to my valuable tutelage, is it not?” your manager guffaws, slapping your back with misplaced camaraderie. He leaves his warm, sweaty palm there, feeling it slide an inch lower than you were comfortable with anyone being. The smell of cheap wine on his breath is making you feel nauseous, and the tacky black and white tiled flooring isn’t doing anything to lessen the incoming migraine.

“Right,” you say with a tight-lipped smile, unable to say anything else lest you lose your job over something silly like establishing boundaries. It’s no wonder that the number of female employees on your floor has significantly dropped over the years, especially with rumors attaching themselves like maggots all over your stupid manager’s name. You wouldn’t be surprised if his stomach exploded ala Alien (1979) style with how much bullshit resides in his body and soul.

You’ve long since given up on anyone saving you, not when everyone was either too busy taking advantage of the free food or too scared to confront your shitty boss. You resign to your fate, ready to scrub yourself clean with a brick once you get home in a futile attempt to rid yourself of the feeling of his hands on you.

That is, until someone clears their throat from behind you.

Salvation comes to you wrapped in a crisp white button-up, thick-rimmed glasses, and cat-like eyes. You almost want to start breaking into Gregorian chant just then to fully express your gratitude to the deities of above for sending an angel in your time of tribulation.

“Excuse me,” the (welcome) intruder says, voice quiet but clear even amidst the cacophonous music and chatter. Min Yoongi steps forward until he is to your right, and you don’t miss the way his shoulder “accidentally” bumps your manager hard enough for him to drop his hand from your back. When Yoongi smiles at your manager, it is all teeth and no mirth, his eyes carefully blank.

Thankfully, your manager isn’t quite as fortunate in his brains department as he is in his stomach. “Oh, Yoongi! It is so nice to finally see you attend one of our social functions. You are enjoying yourself, I hope?” your manager asks, guffawing loudly despite no joke being said. You never did quite understand how some men think they are the most hilarious thing to ever exist since clowns, though you suppose your manager was only missing the red nose to complete the look.

“Thrilled, Mister Lee. Absolutely thrilled,” Yoongi says in a dead monotone voice. You can’t help but giggle at his sarcasm, and Yoongi points a wicked grin back at you before returning to his neutral and passive “work” face.

The sarcasm flies over your managers head like you expected, though you can hardly blame the alcohol for his lack of cognizance. You wouldn’t be half surprised if you knocked lightly on his head, only to hear a resounding echo following thereafter.

“I have never seen you at any of our parties before, Yoongi. What’s with the sudden change of heart?” your manager asks.

“Sir, I’ve attended every single social gathering since I was hired,” Yoongi says plainly, his composure never faltering. He must have better control than you, because you’re sure you would’ve barely held yourself back from smacking your manager had it been you. Though in fairness, you aren’t sure if you’ve ever noticed Yoongi at any of the other parties before this one either.

“Oh really? Well then, you mustn’t have said hello before then!” your manager laughs, patting Yoongi on the shoulder. “Always so enigmatic, our dear Yoongi! Well, keep up the good work.” When your manager turns his attention to speak to another one of your poor coworkers, Yoongi visibly gags from behind your manager’s back, grimacing as he pats away all traces of that foul man’s hand germs away from his dress shirt.

“Gross. Now my sleeve is damp,” he mutters, just audible enough so that only you could hear. You laugh out loud at that, nodding in understanding.

“Same here. There’s probably a gross sweaty handprint on my back now,” you say, wincing when you do feel a noticeable damp spot near the small of your back. “Ugh, what a pig.”

“Tell me about it,” Yoongi shakes his head, making a move to get away from your awful manager. He gestures for you to follow him, and you are more than happy to oblige.

“Thanks for saving me, by the way,” you add, keeping in step with him. He leads you out of the disorienting ballroom, though he doesn’t head towards the exit like you had expected. He appears to know the building much more than you do, given by how assuredly he walks. Either that, or he could be leading you to a deadend, but confidently.

“No problem. You honestly looked like you were about to punt him across the room, though I doubt anyone would be opposed to that magnificent spectacle,” Yoongi jokes, same mischievous grin from before decorating his face. He is so different from the taciturn man you had met two weeks ago, back when he had half-hidden behind his desk like an animal being cornered. Though, that might not be the best analogy to think of, as it only painted you as some sort of predator who came after meek and soft-looking men. Which you aren’t. Hopefully.

“Oh, I would’ve done more than just that, so really he should be thanking you for saving him,” you snort, and Yoongi chuckles lightly in response. Like before, his laughter is just as pleasant as you remember. Your greedy heart yearns to elicit the same sound from him once more, for as many times as you can muster before the night ends.

You had been so immersed in trying to keep up with his quick strides that you don’t notice where exactly he has taken you. The two of you haven’t gone too far away from the ballroom before he stops right in front of a metal double door, the neon green exit sign about it glowing conspicuously in the otherwise dimly lit corridor. He pushes it open, allowing the cool evening air to blow across you and your hand-me-down dress.

“Are we… at the balcony?” you ask, though the view that greets you is answer enough. How Yoongi could have known where the balcony is, you can’t say for certain. But any sort of question dies on your lips when you see how beautiful the skyline is: the stars and city lights twinkling indiscriminately, the sound of nightlife and traffic sounding loud despite the streets being so far away, the smell of ozone signalling an oncoming storm.

This, of course, is what you imagine the view to be like. You know, if the ever reliable Seoul smog wasn’t there to obstruct any sort of magical, romantic view that you should have been privy to.

“Oh damn. I forgot the smog forecast today was especially bad,” Yoongi groans from beside you, quickly shuffling through his pant pockets for a face mask. He procurs two black masks, still in their plastic packaging, and hands one of them to you. “Jesus. Sorry about this. Didn’t expect the smog to be so bad… We can just go back inside, if you want?”

Then, you are reminded of your manager, who is basically pollution incarnate with how terrible his breath is. So, you accept Yoongi’s proffered mask and promptly put it on. “Yeah, no thanks,” you say, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. The implication of your acceptance makes Yoongi grin cheekily back at you (or so you think, guessing by how his eyes crinkle cutely above his mask.)

Now properly equipped to not inhale disgusting air matter into your lungs, you step out farther across the balcony, enjoying the way the cool night breeze feels against your alcohol flushed face. (Though, if you were being honest, the heat on your cheeks has less to do with the meager flute of champagne you had earlier and more to do with the company you currently find yourself with.)

“I fucking hate these company dinners,” you whine a little bit too petulantly, complete with the jutted lip of a child who has been forced to wait as her mother engages in an eternity long conversation with an acquaintance. You lean against the railings near the edge of the building, watching idly as Yoongi does the same. “Don’t you think that if they wanted us to get ‘closer’ with one another, they’d first want to address the fact that some of our coworkers happen to be pigs dressed in white collared shirts?”

Yoongi snorts at that, his right hand immediately coming up to his mouth to silence the unflattering sound. Not that it wasn’t completely charming to you, but you do enjoy the slight abashment that blooms across his face shortly thereafter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh like that. But, I do agree with you… I can’t say that anyone in our department is especially fond of that Habsburg motherfucker.”

Maybe it was the little bit of alcohol in your system, or perhaps it was the sudden rush of realizing that Yoongi is strangely attractive when he swears, but the laugh that exits your mouth sounds a touch too crazed for your liking. Either that, or perhaps you’re finally dying from the pollution.

Luckily for the both of you, it seems that Yoongi likes your weird laugh just as much as you like his. He tries to hide a smile before continuing, “Like, come on! I’m sorry for saying that because attacks on physical appearance is always a low blow, but why the fuck does that dude look like he’s been compressed and flattened on Photoshop? He’s got perpetual flat-face syndrome. You could -  you could land a damn plane on his face or some shit.”

The cork inside of your bursts, and you let out the most ungodly guffaw in your life. You don’t even have the time to be embarrassed by how loud your howls are, not when every word he says hits the mark a little bit too close to home. There’s nothing quite as pleasing than sharing mutual dislike for the same person, and it fills you with the utmost glee that Yoongi is no exception to that rule.

“Oh god… You’re right. You are absolutely right. I seriously can’t believe anyone can put up with him. I mean, the damned bastard couldn’t even remember my name until two weeks ago,” you say, shaking your head in disgust. The first few times he had forgotten, you had been gracious enough to laugh away his mistakes as little more than that: mistakes. But when five years pass and peanuts-for-a-brain still hasn’t deemed that remembering your name to be as important as when the “next big Game™” is, then it’s easy to understand the depth of your resentment towards your manager.

“Are you for real?” Yoongi asks, brows raised in shock. “How could anyone ever forget you – I mean, shit, uh,” Yoongi coughs suddenly, red-faced. You tilt your head in confusion, waiting for him to finish. He’s still kind of spluttering when he continues, “What I meant to say is… H-how could anyone forget their employees name after working here for so long?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I have no idea. Honestly, I think he’s trying to purposefully forget everything I tell him. One time, he had asked me what plans I had for Christmas, and I mentioned to him how I was going to be visiting my parents back home, and he has the gall to ask what country I’m from. Like???” Your face contorts as if you had eaten an entire lemon, so wracked with disbelief that Yoongi can see the hypothetical question marks floating above your head. “Bitch, do I look foreign to that bastard? I’ve lived here all my life!”

Yoongi hums, thoughtful. “Your parents live just an hour away from here, right?”

“I… Yeah, they do,” you reply. You eye Yoongi curiously, watching his all-too familiar flush resurfacing on his neck once more. “Wait… How do you know that?”

“You… You were talking about them, once. To Seulgi? Yea, you were, um…” Yoongi coughs unassuredly, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous tick of his, you suppose. “It was a year ago? Something about visiting them during the weekend… Not that I was eavesdropping on purpose! I would never, er, do that…”

You don’t even register his embarrassment as you are mostly shell shocked that he had even remembered that little tidbit from over a year ago. Hell, you didn’t even remember going to your parent’s house until he mentioned it. “No it’s fine, I get it. I’m just surprised that you even bothered to remember that.”

Now it’s his turn to look at you strangely. “Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I?”

You stare at him in disbelief. Fluttering of wings begin to erupt in your stomach, but you hardly have the peace of mind to fully grasp why you were even feeling so flustered in the first place. It was just that he had said it so… matter-of-fact, like there was no possible way he could’ve forgotten even if he tried. It was kind of disconcerting, but flattering all the same. But more importantly--

“Wait, you’ve been working at the company since last year? How have I never seen you before this month?!”

“Oh,” Yoongi coughs out a laugh, scratching the end of his nose. He turns his gaze away, looking anywhere but you. “I was just, umm… Really quiet? I don’t really talk to anyone unless I need to. I’m more of a listener.”

“Oh my God, now I feel even more terrible for not knowing your name! I must look like an egotistic bitch to you,” you despair lowly, cupping your face into your hands in shame. You feel another pair of cold hands clasp your wrists, and you watch in shock as he pulls your palms away with a determined expression.

“What? Of course not. You are definitely not an egotistic bitch, Y/N. In fact, you’re the complete opposite,” Yoongi whispers, so quiet that you might have imagined it. He grasps your hands tightly, like he’s desperate for you to believe him.

You stammer in embarrassment, staring wide-eyed at Yoongi as you try to regrasp your comprehension skills. It’s especially hard to concentrate with how close Yoongi is to you, the latter unaware of his own proximity. He had stepped closer towards you to hold your hand, and normally you hated it when people touched you without permission, but somehow… This was alright.

(Unbeknownst to you, this will not be the first time that Yoongi becomes your secret little exception. It’s only the first of many.)

“I-I don’t really know what to say?” Your gaze is locked on his firm grip on your hands, the only thing flitting through your mind: damn, this dude’s hands really are fucking freezing!

It takes another few seconds for Yoongi to calm down, and you know when it happens because the realization of what he had said makes itself apparent on his expression. He turns beet red in a second, stepping away from you with his arms flying off of you like those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, taking two steps away from you. You almost take two steps forward to keep the distance closer, but you have a feeling that he would keep walking away from you until you both inevitably fall off the balcony, so you smartly choose to stay away (even if it pains you to do so). You wait for his breathing to settle, all the while still reeling from his blatant confession just moments ago.

Could you even consider it a confession? Were you being delulu, or is there some sort of connection that you and Yoongi were both feeling?

“Yoongi, it’s fine! Really,” you smile wryly, raising your hands towards him open-faced, much like how you would do when approaching an agitated animal. Like a nervous kitty, you think privately to yourself. “I’m really flattered that you feel so… strongly?”

“I’m… I’m really not like this normally. Honest,” Yoongi says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I… I never… do that. Whatever that was. Umm.”

Because you’re a freak of nature and enjoy exacerbating awkward social interactions, you decide to respond to him like this: “No worries, I’m flattered, honest! But hey, maybe next time you try to give me a compliment, you could look me in the eye?” You know, like an asshole. Who points out people’s social anxieties like that? You bitch!

On cue, Yoongi’s cheeks bloom into cherry blossoms once more. “I––I, I didn’t mean to––uh!” he stammers.

“No, no, I’m sorry for even saying that!” You apologize profusely, bowing so low that he could probably see the top of your spine. “I didn’t mean to tease you like that! I’m sorry! That was seriously out of line!”

What a pair the two of you were… Like two trains crashing into each other at mach speed, continuously and eternally. A constant and ongoing catastrophe!

(The little gremlin living inside your brain is knocking at your empty skull, whispering deviously, “But doesn’t that make the two of you the perfect pair?”)

When he doesn’t respond back immediately, you have to wrack up enough courage to look back at him. You gasp audibly when you do, and you have to forcibly grip the insides of your bicep to keep yourself from squealing in pure anguish.

Because there, right before your very eyes, is a blushing Min Yoongi looking you straight in the eye with his face squished between his hands, as if he’s forcibly keeping his head locked in place. His pupils are noticeably shaking and his brows are furrowed in concentration, but he’s looking at you. Like you asked.

He’s… He’s too…

“Okay, let me try this again.” Yoongi takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what may be the most embarrassing thing he has ever done in his life. “Y… You’re a great person, Y/N. I hope you know that,” he whispers, voice trailing off by the end of his sentence.

He’s dry heaving like he’s just finished a marathon, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You’re worried if he even remembers how to blink with how intensely he’s staring you down, but you can’t bring yourself to ask him when your heart is quite literally beating out of your chest like a cartoon character from the 80’s.

“I…” You’re at a loss of words. If Min Yoongi can capture you like this with just a look, then think of how much more powerful he would be if he just learned how to use it. You’re slipping into real dangerous waters, and you don’t know if you’re just a frog in boiling water or if this is where you were meant to be all along.

“Yoongi, I didn’t mean for you to… force yourself like that, really…”

The moment breaks, finally, when Yoongi begins to cry.

“Shit!” you both exclaim, but for two different reasons. “Are you okay? Oh my god!” you reach out for him, not even thinking when you cup his cheeks in your hands. He gently pushes you away with one hand, while the other goes to scrub at his tears.

“Yes, I’m fine! A piece of dust got caught in my eye and I was too slow to blink it away,” he explains, still wiping at his cheeks. He pulls his mask down to his chin, pouting cutely at you. “Sorry. I’m not used to looking people in the eye yet. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Oh my god. At this point, you’d be surprised if your heart was located anywhere near your body. You were running purely on autopilot, so enamored by the boy in front of you that you could almost faint. He was entirely too unreal, unbelievably so. Perhaps, if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to find your heart again, and you know the first place where you’d look.

“Give it back,” you mumble, and Yoongi tilts his head at you in confusion.

“Sorry? Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” you reply, reaching over him and snapping his mask back on his face. You laugh as he splutters in surprise, floundering about overdramatically as if the elastic on the mask had done any damage to him at all. “Oh, stop it. You’re just being silly now.”

“Hey, I have delicate skin! You never know,” he jokes, but stops when you give him an unimpressed look.

“Sorry,” he laughs again. “And well, since I keep saying sorry today, and you look like you could use a little warming up, do you wanna leave this place and get some coffee? My treat.”

And really, who were you to say no to that?

And really, who were you to say no to Min Yoongi?

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his thoughtfulness quietly. It would go something like this:

A steaming hot coffee cup from the nearby cafe manifests itself on your desk one Monday morning. In your sleep-deprived haze, you had originally failed to realize that there was a hand connected to that cup and that it hadn’t actually just materialized from thin air like you had thought. After much blinking and staring, you crane your head up to see Jesus standing in front of you, his glasses still fogged from the outside chill.

“I got you a drink. I hope I remembered your order right,” Yoongi says in lieu of a greeting, a small smile gracing his lips as he watches you lethargically reach over for the cup to lift the lid open. His grin widens when he sees your eyes light up at the sight of little marshmallows bobbing up and down in your hot chocolate, bits of whipped cream already melting away from the heat. When you take a sip, you breathe a content sigh, your eyelids fluttering shut.

“Yoongi, I’m going to kiss your feet right now and you can’t stop me,” you say, upper lip lined with cream and sugar. Yoongi’s hand twitches by his side, but he doesn’t move.

“Even if I have toe fungus?”

“Especially if you have toe fungus,” you say, downing as much hot chocolate down your throat without choking and barfing all over him.

From the rim of your cup, you can see that Yoongi still has his parka on, his signature black mask pulled down his chin indicating that he’s only just arrived at the office. It makes your heart jump a little, knowing that he went straight to you first before anyone else that day.

“I still don’t understand how you hate coffee. Like, I don’t think I’d be able to be conversing with you right now if I didn’t have caffeine running through my veins,” he says, staring at you(r lips) as you chew a marshmallow thoughtfully.

You want to tell him that Yoongi doesn’t talk a lot anyway in the first place, though you have begun to notice that he’s becoming more talkative the more you hang out with him. However, you aren’t quite sure if you’re imagining it, but it seems like Yoongi’s change in personality doesn’t really apply when he’s with anyone else. On the days where you’d pass by his cubicle on the way to the water coolers, he’d still have his usual stoic expression on his face as he goes through his paperwork with the grace of a robot. When he’s with you, however…

“Says the guy who’s started drinking frappes after I suggested them to you. Don’t lie to me, Min Yoongi.” You’re giggling softly, and you can tell Yoongi’s seams are already breaking. Pink gums and straight teeth are seconds away from peaking through. You wink cheekily at him.  “You’re just as sweet as your personality is.”

“Stop, that’s so embarrassing!” he exclaims, hiding behind his hands. He’s already smiling. “I’m not as sweet as you think! I’m a mean guy!”

“Yoongi, you literally just bought me hot chocolate with marshmallows because you remembered what I like. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body,” you retort, rolling your eyes at the prominent pout on his face.

“Not true! I stole an extra coupon booklet when I was at the grocery store the other day.”

“Ooooh, I do love a bad boy,” you say, but the two of you are already laughing hysterically. “Seriously, thanks. I really needed this today.”

“Dang, bad morning already?” he winces, having noticed the purple moons under your eyes when he had approached you. He didn’t want to mention it without you bringing it up first, but he had been worried about you since last Friday when you had left the workplace with a slammed door.

“Try bad weekend. Mr. Lee has been pushing my buttons for months now, but I seriously didn’t think he thought it was a challenge. He’s been giving me shitty filing jobs to complete like I’m some overworked intern!”

Yoongi cocks his head, confused. “Aren’t you, like… In the advertising department? Why would he make you file things?”

“Exactly!” You’re all but roaring now, but Yoongi can’t help smirking at the stray dollop of whipped cream that had somehow found its way on your nose. He pulls his sleeve over his wrist, swiping it away with the fabric as nonchalantly as possible (which is to say, he’s as red as a spanked ass when he does it.)

You don’t even notice his actions, still deep in the abyss of your rage. “And also! My shitty phone ran out of storage space the other day so I’ve had to delete all the songs on my library and I can’t find any good playlists on Spotify to help me dissociate on the train!”

“Wow, that’s a mood,” Yoongi says, chuckling. He clears his throat, an idea popping into his head. He turns bashful all of a sudden, gaze diverting upwards as he musters the courage to say, “I-I mean, I think I can help you with that last problem, if you want…”

You stop huffing and puffing long enough to appear intrigued. “Oh? Are you gonna send me a playlist?”

Yoongi splutters. “I mean! If you want it, I do have some songs that I like listening to.”

Yoongi squeaks when you smile at that, radiant and all-encompassing. He wonders how he’s not dead right now.

“Oh god, that would be great actually! Text me the link, would you?” you say, already making grabby hands for his phone. “Here, lemme put my phone number in your phone.”

Yoongi almost drops his phone as he takes it out of his pocket, staring in awe as he watches you type in your number into his phone. He has to keep himself from outright howling when he sees you place a sunflower emoji beside your name. How fitting, he thinks to himself.

When you return the phone back to him, he immediately texts you the link to his playlist. You have to keep yourself from screaming to the heavens when you see the very Yoongi-esque title, “Songs for the Sleepless,” complete with the grainy-noir-film-type playlist art to complete the look. It was just so… personal, so Yoongi, and it’s making you clench organs that you didn’t know were clenchable.

You whistle at the sheer number of songs on the playlist, with the first song being—“Didn’t peg you as a Lana Del Rey fan,” you pipe up, scrolling through his playlist with acute interest. “Kendrick Lamar and Epik High, I understand. But Lana?”

To his credit, the playlist did seem like it had a narrative of sorts, despite the eclectic range of artists and genres. You only recognize maybe ten of the songs from his five hundred song playlist, and you’re very curious to see what type of songs he connects to.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he shrugs his shoulders, though a little bit embarrassed. “Lana Del Rey could sing my obituary and I’d jump out of my grave in an instant.”

“Bit morbid but okay,” you laugh, finger ready to close your music player app when you catch sight of a song with an artist you didn’t expect to see. You reach over to tug on his sleeve, your sly smile already causing Yoongi to break out in hives. “Hey… I didn’t know you shared your name with a singer, unless, of course…”

Yoongi doesn’t even let you finish your sentence when he yelps in surprise, snatching your phone out of your grip as his eyes bug out of his sockets. His ears redden, words tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall as he tries to explain himself despite your raucous giggling.

“I––You weren’t supposed to––I forgot about! That was––I was just––Ugh,” he groans despairingly, smacking himself in the forehead with your phone. You’re still giggling madly, enjoying the spectacle before you as Yoongi’s ears are practically shooting out steam.

“You’re so cute.” It slips out of your mouth with such ease that you almost don’t notice saying it at all; you’re still smiling dreamily at Yoongi as he stares at you in shock, mouth still agape from his earlier rambling. You gasp loudly when your brain cells finally catch up, but by then it’s already too late. Now, the two of you were a matching pair, with your fire engine red ears standing at attention.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that,” you mutter into your hands. You wish the earth would swallow you whole right now.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that,” Yoongi wails beside you, but you don’t notice the small satisfied smile he’s sporting on his reddened face. “Y-You can’t just say things and not expect me to…”

You look up, wondering why he’d suddenly trailed off at the end. “Expect you to what?”

Yoongi, once again, defies the laws of the universe by somehow turning even redder than humanly possible. “N-nothing. Ignore me. Let’s just admit we’re both embarrassing and carry on, can we?”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding enthusiastically. “But, does that mean I can listen to your songs, Mister Min ‘I’m-a-superstar-singer-in-my-spare-time’ Yoongi?”

“I’m not a superstar! I just record songs in my free time, that’s all,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Says the guy who apparently raps as a hobby! Seriously, I can tell I’m gonna love it already.”

His gaze is turned upwards, cheeks puffed up in embarrassment. He looks like he wants to say something else, however, and you wait for him as he tries to gather the courage to say what else is on his mind. “S-say, I was wondering… Since I’m already here and all, do you want to maybe go out wi—”

“Yo! Hyung!”

A deep voice from across the office floor snaps the two of you out of your little bubble in an instant. It doesn’t take a genius to tell who it is, not when there’s only one person in the entire company who would dare wear a sushi-print tie to work at one of the most lucrative companies in the country.

Kim Namjoon hobbles over to your little cubicle space in all his sushi-print tie glory, knocking over a coworker’s potted plant in the process. Between you and Yoongi, you had been more surprised by Namjoon’s sudden exclamation, mostly because you’d never been particularly close with the eccentric man. Yoongi probably can’t say the same since he had briefly mentioned that he and Namjoon go way back, though you’re starting to have some doubts about that due to the dirty glare Yoongi was currently pointing at the sentient noodles-for-legs.

Namjoon waves cheerily at you before cutting to the chase as he envelops Yoongi in a not-too-gentle hug. “Hyung! I’ve been looking for you. You weren’t at your desk this morning so I was wondering where you’d wandered off, but of course I’d find you here at Y/N’s de––”

Yoongi promptly stomps on Namjoon’s feet, causing the younger to yelp out in pain. “Namjoon. I told you I’d talk to you later.” Yoongi smiles sweetly, but you can see the aura of danger radiating off of him in waves. “Emphasis on later.”

Namjoon pouts petulantly, but he doesn’t look all that offended. “I was just gonna remind you to ask Y/N if she wanted to join us for lunch la––OUCH! WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET!”

Yoongi appears unbothered, not even looking back at Namjoon’s shouts of betrayal. All the while, he still has his gaze trained on you, never wavering for one second.

“Please ignore my colleague. He can a bit… Unnecessarily loud,” Yoongi says, accompanied by Namjoon’s splutters of indignation.

“Umm?? I’m right here?? Your actual best friend?? Geez!” Namjoon huffs, looking at the both of you incredulously. You just shrug your shoulders, completely dumbfounded by the last five minutes of human interaction.

“As Namjoon was saying before we were so rudely interrupted… I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with me? Namjoon can join too, but only if he behaves,” Yoongi jokes, smirking at Namjoon’s ireful glares.

You giggle quietly at the unlikely pair, amused beyond belief at this new side of Yoongi that you hadn’t been aware of. So this is how he is with his friends… Cocky Yoongi is definitely someone you wouldn’t mind talking to occasionally, you admit.

“Sure, I’d love to. Just let me finish all this filing crap for Mr. Lee, then I’ll head over to your desk at around 12?” If you work at a breakneck pace, then you could probably finish sooner if you didn’t let anything else distract you. “Oh! And I should probably return your umbrella before you leave. I keep forgetting to give it back to you.”

“No worries,” Yoongi says. “You should keep the umbrella. I’ve got a spare anyway.”

Namjoon’s head whips toward Yoongi at that, staring at him skeptically. “Dude. Ain’t that your favorite Kumamon umbrella though? Didn’t you almost murder me that one time I forgot it at the McDonald’s last mo––WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET! I’M GONNA GET FLATFOOT SYNDROME!”

“Not my problem,” Yoongi replies, pinching Namjoon’s nose for good measure. He turns to you, waving goodbye. “See you in a few?”

You stretch your back, psyching yourself up to get back to work. “Right. I’ll text you when I’m done okay? See you at 12-ish!”

The boys make their leave, bickering all the while. You catch wind of a bit of their conversation as they turn the corner, their voices echoing down the hall.

“Hey, I noticed that you were looking Y/N in the eye when you were speaking. Why don’t you ever look me in the eye when we talk!”

Yoongi snorts, flipping him off. “It’s because you’re not as nice to look at. Simple as that.”

In your seat, you smile secretly to yourself, butterflies erupting in your chest. Filled with newly found fervor, you chip away at the pile of work on your desk until it starts to vanish from view.

Before you know it, you’re off to see Yoongi once more.

x x x x x 

There is a boy you know who likes to show his vulnerability quietly. It would go something like this:

x x x x x 

There is a boy you know who likes to show his love quietly. It would go something like this:

Your day begins with a phone call: a warning. Your boss tells you to come into work as soon as possible, not a note of enthusiasm or friendliness in his tone. He ends the call just as abruptly as it had come, the silence following soon after deafening your ears. Your heart races marathons in your chest, and your brain goes to the worst place it can go.

Your hands are sweating gallons upon gallons as you shrug your coat on, fumbling with your keys as you struggle to place them in your pocket. For a brief moment, you think about calling Yoongi for moral support, but think better of it. You don’t want to bother anyone, especially not him.

You, the lone ranger, walk out of your apartment and into the murky urban outdoors, the first pitter-patters of rain making their descent the moment your foot meets the pavement. You don’t have quite the energy to go back inside to grab your umbrella, not when you’re unsure if you’ll be courageous enough to leave your bedroom once more if you did.

You’d always been a coward, a soft-hearted fool. Content with shouldering the consequences of your actions without another word: a sufferer in silence. For the past few weeks, you thought you might have changed. You’d been smiling a lot more, laughing a lot more. Your cheeks were often more red than any other color these days, and it was all thanks to a boy you know.

He was shy, but brave. Quiet, but talkative. Mysterious, but vulnerable.

He made you realize that there was no need to settle for one side of a coin, not when you could have both. The longer you stuck around him, the stronger your desire was to become… more.

You wanted to be open; you wanted to be known. You wanted to be able to ask for what you want, and never feel the crushing sense of guilt that usually came afterwards. You wanted to be unapologetic, wanted to keep your hands open, waiting for good things to come your way. To never cower in the face of a gift being handed to you. You wanted to have all that life has to offer––

(Him. Him. Him.)

But there is something pitiful about being unable to keep your own promises. The embarrassment of returning to the state where you once were, of turning meek at the first sign of adversity. The dreams of a happier life drifts away from you like mist under the morning sun, and the pressing weight of the world once again makes its home on your shoulders.

And so, you do not cry when your boss tells you to pack up your things within the hour.

You do not cry when you cut your finger on the corner of your desk that had never been replaced during your five-year stay at this company.

You do not cry when one of your potted plants smash to the floor when you try to carry too many things at once.

You do not cry when co-workers you’d only barely spoken to come over to your desk with showers of condolences, as if you’d already died.

You do not cry when Kim Namjoon walks over to you, quietly bending down to help you carry your boxes down to the lobby.

And when all is said and done, you most especially do not cry when Min Yoongi runs to you with his lungs burning in his chest, glasses still fogged up from the morning cold outside. His hair is in disarray and his shirt is on backwards, as if he’d jumped out of bed the moment he knew something was wrong. When he skids to a halt right in front of you, the pain etched on his face is as plain as day.

Wordlessly, he takes the last box out of your hands, placing his car keys on top when he can’t hold onto them both. His eyes flit towards your clenched fists for a second, but looks away the moment you notice. Instead, he walks out to the elevator, and you follow soon after.

You do not cry when Min Yoongi helps you load his car with your things. You do not cry when he takes a first-aid kit out of his glovebox and puts a band-aid on your finger. You do not cry when he offers to pass by the local home depot to pick up a new plant when he notices yours is gone. You do not cry when he doesn’t treat you like your life has ended.

(But you feel it. Pricking along your eyes like a dam about to break. He is doing this to you. He’s making you feel again, and it fucking hurts.)

And so, he drives you home.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Yoongi starts after a while, tapping a rhythm away on his steering wheel as he waits for the morning rush traffic to subside. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, worried when you don’t respond. You keep your head pressed against the cool car window, staring blankly at the gray skyline.

“I… I hope you don’t mind if I play you something. Just… Just listen to it, okay?”

You don’t see him, but you hear his fingers switch their tapping to his phone as he unlocks it, searching for the song he wants you to hear. It takes a moment or two for him to find it, soft curses tumbling from his lips as he goes through his Google Drive for the unfinished draft that he hadn’t meant to show you until it was complete, but well––

You were always an exception to him, weren’t you?

The first notes come creeping up from behind you, and it reminds you of the way Yoongi would speak to you. All soft whispers and gummy smiles, like he’s restraining himself. Slowly but surely, the music grows louder, more confident with its sound. You can picture Yoongi standing upright, hand outstretched towards you as he asks you to follow him.

The song is unfamiliar, but there’s something about it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. You’re trying to go through your memories, sorting through the hundreds of songs that Yoongi has made you listen to but none of them seem to ring a bell. You’re still trying to figure out if you’d heard this before when the lyrics finally start.

“Lost in the sea of my regrets, you became my polaris.”

Yoongi’s voice comes from the radio speaker, jolting you from your seat. Your spine straightens, and you stare bullets at Yoongi’s phone as the song continues to play. When you look towards him, Yoongi’s face is a statue; the only thing giving away the fact that he was with you at all was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“The shadows, which had been my haven, no longer feel as good as they once did. You, my light, have changed all of that.”

You gasp, and Yoongi’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. It seems like the two of you stop moving at that moment, neither of you daring to breathe. Even the outside traffic sounds muted compared to the sound of your hearts hammering inside your chests.

“I’ve long since forgotten to pray, but I will remember for you. I only dream of happiness for you, my morning light, my northern star. And I’d give it all up for you.”

Yoongi notices your tears fall before you even do; he’s quick to fluster, scrambling through his car side door for a tissue to hand to you, but he stops the moment he feels your hand fist the elbow of his sleeve. He turns to look at you, all blotchy and tear-stained, but beautiful all the same. And even through your tears, you smile just as radiantly as when he had first seen you.

“Thank you,” you mouth, fingers trembling as you fight to keep more tears from falling, but nothing can stop a dam from breaking. Not when you’re sitting beside the hurricane who broke it in the first place; it was the boy with feelings that never did quite fit in his body the way other people’s did.

Luckily, they fit right in with you.

When the song comes to the end, you’re sniffling up a storm, but you still haven’t let go of him. When you’re only a few minutes away from your apartment, Yoongi parks a little bit far off from your doorstep, so you have to walk the rest of the way home. But you’re still unwilling to let go, not yet.

Gently, Yoongi pries your hand away from his sleeve and you’re about to protest, but the words die on your lips the moment they form when Yoongi rubs his hands along the side of his slacks before placing them in yours. His hands are still cold, but comforting all the same.

“Let me walk you home?” he whispers.

You nod. Of course, you want to say. But he knows what you mean, anyway.

When he goes to unpack your things from the trunk, you shake your head, stopping him from moving any further. “I… I don’t feel like sorting through those things right now. Is it fine with you if I just… Go home for now? Please?” Your brain feels like lead in your skull after all the bottled up tears had finally escaped from years of constant pressure, and you don’t think you’re quite ready to go through all those emotions again. You feel deflated, but better. He always makes you feel better.

Yoongi closes the trunk, locking his car before stretching out his hands for you. You stare at the proffered hand for a moment.

“Oh, right.” Yoongi goes to rub his hands to warm them, but you stop him once more in his ministrations. He looks at you, confused, as you grab his hand from him. You rub circles into his palm, staring at the ground in embarrassment.

“You’re always warming your hands for me… So this time, I’ll warm them for you, okay?”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything in response to that. Instead, he tugs you along towards the sidewalk and keeps you close to him. As he walks with you, you notice the way he leans slightly to the left, like he’s drawn to you––like he can’t help be more than an inch further from you.

You keep glancing back down at your linked hands; he’s shaking, but then again, that could also be you.

You arrive at the gate of your apartment quicker than you would have liked. Neither of you move to separate; when you look back at Yoongi, you see that his eyes are trained on you. He doesn’t even flinch away like he used to. His lips are pursed, like he wants to say something but he’s still too afraid to.

So you say it for him instead.

“Do you have… somewhere to be?” Unlike you, he still has a job. He still has commitments. He still has a life outside of you. You’re hit with fear, once again, at the sudden change in your circumstances.

You might never get to see him again. Is this where your paths cross, never to intersect again? Your stomach drops at the thought, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“No, I don’t. I could…” Yoongi trails off, glancing at your apartment with soft hesitance. “If… If you want me to…”

Yes. Please. I’d love it. I love yo–– ”Yes. Stay with me?” you mumble.

“Always,” he promises.

The pair of you trudge up to your apartment, passing by the prying eyes of housewives with your heads bowed in embarrassment. They don’t miss your pinkies linked behind your backs, nor the subtle blushes on the apples of your cheeks. Thankfully, they don’t comment when Yoongi enters your apartment after you, but they do giggle when his coat gets caught on the door handle in his rush.

When the two of you are finally alone, the air isn’t as awkward as you had feared. You work like two cogs in a machine; he readies your TV and scrolls through your Netflix for a movie, while you go to your kitchen and have a small mental breakdown (while also microwaving some popcorn). Soon, the two of you are snuggled into your small couch, elbows barely brushing against each other.

You’re only half paying attention to the generic action movie that Yoongi had put on; you were still deep in your thoughts. You’re picking away at your hangnail, worrying your lip as you try to enjoy what might be the last time you’ll ever get to hang out with Yoongi again. You’re so deep in your musings that you don’t immediately feel when Yoongi wraps his arms around your shoulder, nestling your head into his chest.

“W… What?” You crane your head and stare at Yoongi in shock, but he’s already returned his attention back to the movie. His cheeks are burning.

You’re still stiff with tension despite his comforting caresses against your hair, so he changes tactics and brings your hand up to his.

You think he’s just going to hold your hand, but he keeps bringing your hand up until it gently caresses his face. Just as you’re about to ask him what he’s doing, he curls your fingers until only your pointer is left unfurled, and casually uses it to poke himself in the cheek.

He leaves it there for a second or two, and when you finally turn to face him, he’s smiling so sweetly at you that you almost feel compelled to cry again. His eyes and nose are all scrunched up, rose petal gums on full display. Your finger is still pressed gently into his soft cheeks.

“You said you liked to dream about poking my bread cheeks. Well, here’s your chance,” he says, like it’s nothing at all. As if what he has done was as simple as breathing.

Yoongi’s smile brightens when he feels your form relax against him, giggling softly when you go to pinch his cheek for good measure.

“Bread cheekies,” you say, like you’re in a trance.

Yoongi nods. “Bread cheekies,” he repeats. “And it’s all yours.”

There’s a promise in there, you know. Somehow, he had sensed your worry and had thought of the perfect way to calm you. Like always, he never has to say it. He’s never needed words, anyway.

The two of you stay like that for hours. The sun sets as surely as the moon rises, and Min Yoongi stays with you through the night. When your mind drifts off and only your steady breathing fills the room, Min Yoongi brushes a small kiss against your forehead.

“Dream of happiness, my love,” he whispers into your skin, just when he thinks you’re asleep, “I’ll dream of you, too.”

It’s a promise that he keeps.

There is a boy you know who never learned how to say he loves you, but it never mattered all that much to you––not when he’s willing to show you over and over again. It goes something like this––

[nona-piccolo]

Princes of Hell AU

Princes of Hell AU

Warnings: none, unless the mention of “hell” and demons bothers you

This is my own little AU where Obey Me brothers are genuinely princes of hell, and each of them occupy a Circle of Hell where the damned come to be eternally punished; there is no school, there is no RAD, and there is no funny banter 😈 When I had first played Obey Me, I always imagined a more darker story to the brothers, ones that involve fighting and action, and less of the romance aspect, especially since they are in fact demons, and each of them possess the burden of a sin. I always just thought it would be interesting to view them in a reign of power for a territory of their own. I also really really wanted to speak about the boys’ abilities and powers, so their strengths and combat is also talked about.

Please enjoy my little indulgence!

Okay so hear me out, there are seven rings of hell that occupy the space of the underworld. The worse of a person you had been on earth, the further into the ring you get placed in--- this also deals with the punishment that is endured. To put it simply, the rings are formed from 1 to 7: 1 being the least terrifying, while being placed in ring 7 is reserved for the worst and scummiest human beings. Taking off from there then, that leads us to the very first prince and owner of the 1st circle of hell:

Leviathan - 1st Circle of Hell:

They call this place Sheol. One thing that greatly differs Leviathan’s circle compared to the others is that fact that his circle is not a physical layer. There is no land. In fact, Leviathan's layer is almost sea-like, with spirits floating through the sky and composed of a sea of high whines of envy. The misty green layer is also the largest part of hell, considering it is the outer-most layer of the circle and takes up the most surface area. Leviathan is comfortable in his true form here (a giant beastly Leviathan) with eyes filled with envy to roam his territory. Leviathan is a powerful being, able to summon and control hideous demonic ocean creatures to do his bidding. His brothers are cautious if ever caught in a fight with him; Leviathan’s control can absolutely crush and overflood the other circles of hell. Many are terrified of him, and rumors had gone around saying he has the potential to become 2nd, maybe even 1st strongest of the Devildom, but his downfall and probably biggest weakness, is the time he spends moping about the things he doesn't have. The feeling of envy has crippled him to a pathetic and whiny ruler. Still, he appears to be one of the best of his brothers, as he doesn’t need to do much to care for the crying souls that wander around lifeless.

Asmodeus - 2nd Circle of Hell:

They call the 2nd Circle of Hell Dis--- the most laid back circle of all of them. Yes, even more so than Leviathan’s. Now you may think it would be odd, especially for Asmodeus’s circle to be placed where it is. But the people bound here for all eternity have the guilty pleasure of what Asmodeus finds entertaining. All demons and humans there are not tortured, with no laws, and given the ability to do whatever it is they desire. He likes to be surrounded by succubi and incubbi almost constantly. Asmo hates humans the least, and feels no need to want revenge. Being in hell and stripped of everything is punishment enough for him. Talking about abilities, Asmodeus himself would say that he isn’t fit for physical combat. Instead, he was given the ability to charm any creature or non creature he sees fit. With just a look in his eyes, he commands every bone in their bodies. Very few people are immune to this charm, but every once in a millennia he will meet someone who doesn't fall to his charm. This bothers him immensely.

Belphegor - 3rd Circle of Hell: 

Gehhena. That is the name of his circle. Opposite to his twin brother Beelzebub, Belphegor has a barren land of almost nothingness... Everything is shrouded with sloth, to the point where not even the air moves. Too lazy to make changes to his kingdom, there is a constant stagnation within his circle. His followers are left sitting there with nothing except constant loneliness and nothing to ease their boredom. Belphegor, the ruler that he is, sleeps on his throne any moment he can, and the crazed state he left his followers in have caused them to struggle with each other on who will get the throne. They feel they will go crazy if no one takes up Belphegor’s place. And so they plan to take his throne. Acting like he doesn't know about the plan to overthrow him, Belphie is pleased to spend all of eternity with the entertainment of watching his underlings argue to no end on who should sit on his throne. Belph doesn't seem like the brightest, especially due to his dozing and sleeping, but perhaps that's where he and Mammon are able to catch opponents off guard. Being underestimated is what Belph depends on, and frankly he seems to enjoy it just as much. He is the youngest of his brothers, and therefore the weakest physically, but his ability can be powerful in controlling what happens in other's dreams. This demon does his dirty work in the dream realm, having full and complete capabilities to cause disaster in his enemies through during their most vulnerable moments--- sleep. His constant state of sleep can ease others into a sleeping death, where the dream realm becomes Belphegor's greatest strength. He feels no need to try and climb the ranks higher. He is content where he is.

Mammon - 4th Circle of Hell:

Pandaemonium is the name of Mammon’s circle. Perhaps the greatest designed circle of hell, Mammon's image of what he wanted hell to look like is what came true on his land. He has complete control of what he wishes his kingdom will look like. As a great architect, he believes that hell could be just as great as heaven, and tried to prove it to Lucifer by designing Lucifer's very castle. Mammon’s land is filled with enormous landmarks and sky scrapers that appear to touch the stars. His circle of hell has the most impressive buildings and works of art, truly impressive to look at, but... as a ruler, Mammon isn't too good. There are still so many unfinished buildings and projects that he has abandoned in order for his subjects to mine and work in labor for eternity, finding the greatest diamonds and jewels within the ground to bring back to Mammon's castle. They needed to keep their master rich somehow. The work loads for his followers keeps increasing with every little thing Mammon craves for. More and more buildings, more and more diamonds, he can never get enough of it. Although rarely any violence ensures, his underlings constantly screw each other over in order to survive. And like his followers, Mammon is not particularly violent. In fact he shows more of a masochistic side, letting other people take out their frustration on him. This is ironic, due to Mammon's main ability being his luck. Among other demons and humans, his sheer luck and ability to gamble come in handy for him; getting him out of situation after situation. In the battlefield, he is often used as a decoy, his luck coming in handy to miss fatal wounds and strikes. It is also said Mammon's speed can rival Beelzebub's, yet he seems to run even faster if it's to get away from trouble. 

Beelzebub - 5th Circle of Hell:

Beelzebub’s circle was named Tantarus, or better yet the Tantarus Pit. It is a massive swamp, and with basically an "eat or be eaten" policy. His people are desperate in getting whatever they can in their search for sustainability. Although not particularly strict, Beel's attitude of eating whatever he wants can become a scary factor. He has many good cooks enslaved, whom make meals for him almost constantly. Much like Mammon, the people in the 4th circle of hell are forced into an everlasting workload. Yet unlike Mammon, Beelzebub has been known to get impatient, sometimes swallowing up the nearest thing he can find--- whether it’s a person, or the dinner table. He does not purposefully seek out trouble though, and prefers to keep to himself--- or with Belphegor. His circle is too far from Belphie, much to Beelzebub’s dismay, but Lucifer had simply brushed it off and told him he needed to deal with it. With super strength and speed, Beel is by far the physically strongest of his brothers. His frightening stature, height, and gluttony puts him at the very top of the list for being intimidating. Along with the constant intake of food, he makes sure to exercise and keep the bounds of muscles he has solidified on his body.

Satan - 6th Circle of Hell:

Satan owns the circle of Malebolge. There are two sides in Malebolge, and both sides are at constant war with each other. The pain and horror of war is everlasting and perpetual. Satan trains his people for the day they get a chance to attack the Celestial Realm. It is by far the most violent and frightening circle of hell. Satan is a monster fuming with hatred and insults. His control over his wrath had been let go a long time ago; he had let it overwhelm him and take control. To the point where Satan’s very presence on the battle field freezes opponents up in their tracks. Continuing to fight Satan for more than a few minutes will trigger his ability. He had all of eternity to practice thinking clearly through his anger and wrath--- it is no longer a roadblock to him. But he uses this as his greatest weapon. Fighting Satan for longer than a few minutes will provoke a growing rage inside of you; like the pressure of a dam against the heavy weight of water. His opponent will begin to think unclearly--- they will feel frustration and rage, giving Satan a chance to strike them down. Skilled and precise, he taught himself to suppress anything other than the rage he feels in order to kill more efficiently. Unlike his brothers, Satan prefers to use a sword in battle, and he can do so both methodically and elegantly (particularly Archangel Michael's sword that had fallen into Heaven with his other brothers).

Lucifer - 7th Circle of Hell:

Of course, the last and most dreadful circle of hell is reserved for Lucifer himself. Cocytus is what he had called it. This circle occupies the smallest space, taking the very center of the ring he and his brothers had formed. In the very middle lies Lucifer’s giant castle he had built just for himself. Lucifer's castle Helviti is where he stays, and where his most valuable followers and favorites live. The castle is all Lucifer really needs to be content. There are dreadful winds here, the cold and winter storms are drastically below freezing temperatures, keeping and reminding him that he could never ascend to the warmth of the Celestial Realm. So he is glad to have a warm place to stay in order to keep out the numbing weather. His people however... are left in a biting state of paralysis from the freezing cold; left out of the castle to rot. The most powerful of his brothers, Lucifer's cunning behavior and strict attitude are just added weapons alongside his ability of energy manipulation. Two of his six wings were disintegrated from his fall from Heaven to hell, and turned from a pure white to a rich black. He is also the only one who can control Cerberus, an enormous three-headed dog he keeps right by his side.

[hlcreators]

AUTHOR REC: only_angel_28 / @beau-soleil-louis​

Don’t forget to leave kudos and comment to show some love! ♡

a week and thirteen days (1k)

Harry falls in love with the morning sun. 

I can’t do this alone (sometimes I just need a light) (7.8k)

“Harry,” he says after another contemplative moment, “can I hug you?”

It’s been...well, Harry doesn’t actually know how long it’s been. Less than an hour, probably, but already Louis says his name like it’s safe in his mouth, and now he’s opening his arms like Harry could be safe there too.

“Please,” Harry nearly sobs, and sinks into him the way butter melts on toast. It’s an apt metaphor, really, because what Louis is giving him is as essential and sustaining as a loaf of bread to a starving man. His basic need for physical affection is as vital as his need for sustenance, for sleep, and he can’t believe he’s allowed himself to ignore it for so long.

Or: Harry is having a rough time. Louis is the kind stranger who makes him smile again.

I think I’m falling (I’m falling for you) (6.8k)

Louis is a disaster gay on a skateboard. Harry is a beautiful, quirky stranger on a bicycle. Their first encounter really makes a splash.

Bloom (just for you) (495)

“Do you ever think about boys?”

The words fall from Louis’ lips casually, but they’re fragile like a gossamer thread, a single silken strand from a spider’s web of labyrinthine thoughts. They’re the product of literal months of careful introspection, of soul-searching and agonizing and over-thinking. They’re words that he’s never dared to utter aloud, a mirror of his own swirling inner-turmoil of thoughts. Thoughts he previously held tightly to his chest, locked away in his heart along with all his other feelings regarding his best friend.

*Or the arrival of spring brings a new beginning for Harry and Louis.

dopamine (7.8k)

Louis honestly doesn’t know how he gets himself into these types of situations.

Well, actually, that’s a lie. He’s doing this because he needs the money, and because he’s curious. And, okay, maybe because he might be a little bit lonely too. He has always had what his mother affectionately calls an “adventurous spirit.” Couple that with being a (tragically single) broke grad student and voila! here he is scrawling his signature on a release form provided by the university’s sociology department. Essentially, he is agreeing to snog a stranger on camera for the sake of science.

Shouldn’t be a problem, right? All he has to do is lock lips with a (hopefully) fit bloke, collect his money, and be on his way. Easy peasy. Little does he know, fate has other plans for him in the form of one adorably quirky art student who goes by the name of Harry Styles.

How Would You Feel (If I Told You I Loved You) (81k)

An AU inspired by the music video for Ed Sheeran's song Perfect featuring two idiots who are too thick to see that their friendship is anything but platonic, lots of pining, too many terms of endearment to count, a wedding, slow dancing, a couple of steamy hot tub moments, karaoke, snow, a healthy dose of cuddling, love confessions, and Harry and Louis being quite generous to each other.

*Or the one where Harry has been in love with his best friend for four years, and New Year's Eve at his family's holiday home in Switzerland is perfect for finally telling Louis how he feels.

Breathe Me (13k)

The story of what happens when Harry finds a stranger sleeping inside the car his late grandfather left him.

“Louis?” Harry queries softly, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “Why are you living in my car?”

Louis sighs, and this time it’s laced with a mixture of sadness and exhaustion, the sound of it tugging at Harry’s heartstrings. “Long story,” he says finally with a weak smile.  

“Will you tell me?” Harry prods gently, his demeanor akin to that of someone approaching a wild animal with their arms outstretched in a gesture of submission. “You don’t have to, like—I mean…it’s just, I’m a pretty good listener, and you seem like maybe you could use a friend?”

“What gave me away?” Louis jokes dryly.

*Or the one where Harry has a broken heart, Louis has a broken home, and all it takes is one night together for them to fall in love.

You got that something, I got me an appetite (5.9k)

After years of being forced to hide their relationship, Harry and Louis decide to come out with a bang.

Shape of You (11k)

“Seriously?” Surely, Harry must be joking. Louis arches a skeptical brow and snaps the waistband of Harry’s joggers playfully. “What exactly do you have down there, Styles? I know you’ve got four nipples, d’ya have a couple extra bollocks as well or summat?”

“No!” Harry shrieks, his voice bordering on shrill. “No,” He repeats a little quieter, calmer, “I just—I’m, er, kinda…big, I guess.”

Louis rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. “That’s hardly a problem, curly.”

*Or Harry is insecure about a certain rather large part of his anatomy that is apparently intimidating to the point where it has actually scared off potential shags. When he ends up confessing this to his best friend and roommate, Louis takes it upon himself to prove that Harry’s size doesn't have to be a curse, and decides to help show him just how perfect he is.

Please Be Naked (17k)

Louis starts squirming, desperately needing something to do with his hands. Needing to do anything, really, to distract him from the perfect male specimen standing naked in front of him. In the end, the only thing he can do is strip out of his own jeans and briefs, which he does with trembling, clumsy fingers, his heart beating out a violent, chaotic rhythm in his chest the entire time.

He hears Harry’s sharp intake of breath, and slowly raises his eyes from where he was staring at his own bare feet to meet his gaze.

“So,” Harry says bashfully, his voice gone even deeper somehow. “We’re naked.”

“Yup,” Louis squeaks.

“You okay?”

No!

“Yup,” Louis repeats, sounding just as unstable as he did the first time.

This is the last favor Louis Tomlinson is ever doing for Zayn Malik. (Because, after today, he’ll be dead, but that’s neither here nor there.)

*Or the one where Louis agrees to help out Zayn with one of his art projects and ends up getting much more than he bargained for.

Hey I Heard You Were A Wild One (If I Took You Home It’d Be A Homerun) (12k)

"Are you out?” Louis huffs a long suffering sigh as he studies Harry from the other side of the bar, the neon from the beer signs making his eyes glow an unnatural shade of blue, and causing Harry to question - not for the first time tonight - if he is real or just some fever dream-esque fantasy conjured up by Harry’s alcohol addled brain.

“You’re fucking kidding me right?” Harry laughs incredulously.

Louis is resolute in his posture as he continues to observe Harry, the slight arch of a brow his only acknowledgement of Harry’s question. That’s fine, Harry decides, it was mostly rhetorical anyway.

“A gay cowboy who rides for a living, can you imagine all the Brokeback Mountain jokes I’d have to endure on a daily basis? I don’t really fancy being compared to Jake Gyllenhaal.”

A hint of a smirk tugs at the corners of Louis’ pursed lips. “Now you’re the one who must be joking, because you are so clearly Heath Ledger in that scenario.”

*Or Harry came to the bar to forget. Louis gives him a night to remember.

Your Love Is My Turning Page When Only The Sweetest Words Remain (8.4k)

“Crying already, Styles?” Louis chides him teasingly, unable to contain the smile that’s breaking across his face.

“So what if I am? What are you going to do about it?” Harry sniffs indignantly.

Louis makes a show of pretending to consider this, steepling his fingers in front of his chest and giving Harry a contemplative once-over.

“Marry you.” He decides, smirking at Harry.

“Guess you won’t be able to call me Styles much longer then.” Harry counters, biting down on his own barely-contained grin.

“Guess not.” Louis agrees happily.

Say You Won’t Let Go (5.7k)

Harry hates flying. Louis is the kind stranger who helps him when he gets sick in the airport restroom. The rest, as they say, is history.

Back To You (5.8k)

"Hello?" His voice came out all high and breathy like an anxious school girl, and he cringed internally at how wrecked he sounded already.

"Lou?"

Harry's voice was the same as ever, deeper than the sea and somehow both gravelly and smooth as silk. Harry was full of infuriating little contradictions like that. It drove Louis crazy. He had spent a good portion of his life questioning if Harry Styles was actually even human; on paper he just didn't make sense. He was an enigma, an anomaly, the exception to every rule.

*After dropping his new single, "Back To You" Louis gets a text from Harry inquiring about the true inspiration for the song.

[siren1song]

Southern Caribbean

Summary: Pirate captain Virgil has a very big soft spot for the chaotic prince they'd brought aboard and made one of their own.

Warnings: Mentions of murder, mentions of guns, idle threats

Pairing: Dukexiety

Word Count: 1,682

General Taglist: @acanvasofabillionsuns, @emo-disaster, @greenninjagal-blog, @jungle321jungle, @sleepy-sides, @gattonero17, @another-sandersidesblog, @strawberryjellystuff, @logic-with-a-pinch-of-deceit, @gr3ml1n-loser, @main-chive, @firey-alex, @orca-iguana, @spooky-scary-virgil, @yalltookmyurlideas, @sanderssidesweirdo, @stormypaint, @just-a-little-bit-gay-oops, @dying-is-a-hobby, @the-angry-ship, @rosesisupposes, @just-perhaps

Notes: Day 3 of @dukexietyweek Pirates!!! So naturally I wrote Pirate captain Virgil and incredibly chaotic prince Remus.

Commissions!! | Buy Me a Kofi!! | Join Casper’s Crew!! | Ao3 Link!!

If you told Virgil a month ago he’d be the captain of the first crew with a pirate prince, he would’ve laughed in your face before running you through.

As it was, Remus was definitely an interesting type of pirate. Originally captured in hopes of holding him for ransom, the man was more excited about meeting pirates face to face than worried about getting back to his family.

Which was a whole other story, but honestly watching Remus rip off his skirts and declare himself a man right there on the deck after somehow nicking the sword off Pryce’s hip was the best show Virgil had seen in a long while (less for the indecency of a perceived woman and more for the hilarity of a man shocking one of the best pirate crews in the southern seas into silence).

“Let me be a pirate,” he’d proclaimed, “let me join your crew and help you cause so much chaos you’ll be not only the best pirates in the south but everywhere else as well.”

Who was Virgil to deny that offer?

And now they were raiding a small village on the coast of an island they’d just been planning on to hunt on until Remus expressed his desire for his first time doing something more dangerous than embroidering a table cloth.

He was so cute in his excitement, how could Virgil resist?

Watching the tiny man run off with a cutlass that Virgil wasn’t too entirely sure was balanced right for him and a gun strapped to his hip in case he needed it was grin worthy.

“You have a soft spot for him,” Dale commented, earning a glare from his captain.

“And you have a reason for staying on deck instead of stocking us up on spirits and food and gold?”

Dale grinned at him, pointing at the rest of the crew having already taken both the smaller boats and thus leaving him behind.

Oh great, being babysat by his lookout.

“Why you lot insist on leaving someone behind to look after me every raid I’ll never understand.”

“Really? You won’t understand when the last time we left you alone you decided to binge yourself on most of the dried meat on the ship?”

Virgil glared at Dale again before deciding watching the shore to try and see if he could find Remus amongst the chaos his crew had already started.

“There’s another entire half the crew still here Dale.”

“Yes, but most of them don’t know how to stand their ground against you. Some think the bags under your eyes are from black magic and not the lack of sleeping the rest of us know it is.”

“Every raid you make it more tempting to shoot you.”

Dale snorted, thumping Virgil on the back and making him let out a small ‘oof’ sound and hide a small smile.

As he watched the shore, he heard yelling, which was pretty normal for a raid, but the loud clear laughter wasn’t really something he was used to.

“Didn’t think Remus laughed loud enough to be heard over a raid on the shore,” he commented idly, tapping his fingers against the wooden railing he was leaning against.

“He has a laugh loud enough to wake the dead at the bottom of the sea, I think.”

Virgil’s smile grew at the thought. That sounded about right, with the amount of times Virgil heard Remus giggling while playing games with the rest of the crew  when they were up keeping the ship from sinking.

Maybe he did have a soft spot for the man, but he doubted he could be blamed when Remus had done nothing but grin the entire time.

Besides, he’d kept his promise and told him many things about coastline royal schedules that made conquering other seas that much easier.

“Hope you’re not thinking your soft spot for the man isn’t just because of the power over the seas he’s given you?” Dale asked, not looking at Virgil now but at the shore where the villagers were trying to defend themselves.

Virgil suspected, with the chaos he could see Remus inflicting, that very few residents would be left when they were done.

“Should I pull out my gun now, Dale?” he asked, not really meaning the threat but making it anyway because what kind of captain would he be if didn’t threaten his crew on occasion?

Another snort from his lookout.

“You wouldn’t dare. I’m gonna head below deck for a bit now though. Gotta sharpen my cutlass and my room is right next to the kitchens so you can’t sneak by without my seeing you.”

Virgil sighed, waving Dale off as he walked away.

The dedication that man had to the upkeep of his sword when the ability to get new ones was just as easy was a bizarre one but Virgil could respect it.

“That was exhilarating!” Remus shouted, now back on board and startling Virgil from staring at the stars to looking at him in his pants and now tattered shirt that showed his chest bindings.

The thumping in his chest and the smile Virgil couldn’t help at seeing Remus’ excitement was almost enough to make him think Dale was right about his soft spot for their prince pirate.

“I trust you had fun then?” he called down, having been a level higher then the deck his crew was climbing back onto.

Remus whipped around and grinned up at Virgil, eyes bright in the starlight and chest heaving to take enough breaths.

“I killed people!”

Virgil let out a bark of a laugh at the enthusiasm, ignoring the little looks some of his crew was giving him.

“You better have! I doubt you could’ve gotten out of there alive if you hadn’t, prince.”

Remus’ face screwed up at that, sticking his tongue out at Virgil, earning another laugh from the captain.

“C’mon up here, let me take a look at you and we can discuss your pirate name, now that you’ve made yourself a bit more known as a part of my crew.”

The way Remus’ face lit up made Virgil’s heart twist in his chest, but he ignored it in favor of waving the man up and stepping into his own quarters to grab the first aid he knew how to do.

Usually Teagan and Logan were the ones to see to injuries. They were the most medically inclined, but Virgil picked up a thing or two in his years of pirating.

“A lady alone in your room with you could start a scandal, captain,” Remus said, making himself known.

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not a lady, or that I don’t care for scandals. Have a seat on the cot.”

Remus did so, fiddling with a ragged piece of his shirt and looking around the room in what looked like either curiosity or nerves to Virgil when he looked over.

“Drink this,” he said, handling Remus a glass of whiskey he’d just poured before pulling his medical supplies closer to him.

The prince pirate downed the entire glass, only wincing just a little bit. A month has given the man a bit of time to get used to the harshness of alcohol going down his throat, Virgil supposed.

“Alright, any spots in particular that hurt? And don’t tell me you feel fine. I doubt you got out of that unscathed, almost no one does.”

Remus grinned at him and slipped off his tattered shirt to show the cuts and bruises he’d acquired, making Virgil snort a bit.

There were cuts he could already see through the holes, but there was also a nasty bruise forming on Remus’ side, likely from someone swinging a club type weapon at him.

“You look like you had fun,” he commented, getting started with cleaning the dirt and sweat around the cuts first.

“I did! I’ve also been thinking about my pirate name. I think Pirate Duke Remus has a great ring to it, don’t you?”

Virgil paused, raising an eyebrow at Remus before letting out a quiet snort.

“I have to agree, suppose if someone asks you who you are, you know what to say then.”

“I do! I’m Duke Remus of the Storm Crew, damn that sounds great.”

Virgil let Remus ramble from there, cleaning up his wounds and patching what he could with a small smile while the man told stories of how he wanted to be known. It wasn’t until Remus paused that he looked at his face in curiosity and concern that he noticed the way Remus was staring at him now.

“Is there something wrong?”

“You’re the first man to treat me as a man myself. And you readily accepted me, even if ransoming me would’ve gotten you more money.”

Leaning back on the stool Virgil was sitting on, he watched Remus a little more closely.

“My crew started as one of outcasts. Didn’t feel right not to take in another,” he explained, tilting his head a little to the left while he watched Remus consider him.

“And now? I feel there’s more to it than that, captain.”

Virgil hummed, then decided fuck it and tilted Remus’ head up by his chin with his free hand and placed a short kiss to his lips.

The silence that followed made nerves coil in Virgil’s stomach, but he ignored them in favor of speaking further.

“You’ve definitely endeared yourself to me. I understand if that’s not something you want though, knowing me only a month and all. And you don’t even have to answer right away, given I’m not sure if I’m asking to court you-”

Remus interrupted him by pulling him in for another kiss, making it feel like the kraken he hadn’t realized was there was releasing it’s grip on Virgil’s chest.

“You talk to much when there’s kissing to be done, captain,” Remus said, grinning mischievously in a way that only made Virgil wanna kiss him again.

“You’re a problem member aren’t you, Duke?”

“It’s always been my dream to be one, captain.”

[queenmuzz]

Deep Blue Sea:  Chapter VII

Cutting Questions

Read full on Ao3 HERE

I can’t believe I agreed to try this on. You stared at the multiple copies of yourself in the full body mirrors as you cringed at the multi-angle view of the monstrocity masquerading as a wedding dress.  It was far too floofy, with enough taffeta layers that made you think that you were a pure white pastry.  And the bodice was far too tight, even for just a try out.  You swore your lower ribs were being crushed as the lady pulled the laces of the corset, and it took all your willpower to not cry out.

“There we go…” she said, triumphantly, and she twirled you around so you could get a good look at every side of this disaster.  “We may have to let out the bust a bit, and a little at the waist, but you look stunning!”

I look like a goddamn jellyfish, was all you could think.

You waddled out, attempting to not trip over the fluff that obscured your legs, to face the duo that eagerly waited for your appearance.  Surely they would find it as ridiculous as you did!  But the look on your mother’s face was not encouraging.

“OH MY GAWD,” she said with tears in her eyes…”You are absolutely gorgeous!  The dress suits you perfectly!”

“I dunno,” you said, attempting to be diplomatic.  Last thing you wanted to do is be known as a bridezilla, “I’m not sure it fits me”

“Well, of course,” she crooned, “It’ll need some alterations, but you’ll feel like a princess walking down the aisle with it.  The congregation will love it!” She was obviously taking the word ‘fit’ literally.  “And what do you think, Sarah?”

You silently prayed that your best friend would at least have the gumption to say something.  “It looks nice….” she started politely “but perhaps it could use a splash of colour?”

Your mother’s eyes widened, and she clapped her hands together.  “Yes!  A light pink would really bring out the colour of the diamonds on your engagement ring.” She paused, pinched up her face and thought for a second, chin in her hand.  “Ah!  Sequins!  You need more sequins!  It’s all the rage wedding this season.”   She turned to the saleswoman. “You MUST have something like that!”

The saleswoman, surprisingly, was a bit hesitant, considering she was about to make a major commision off this sale gently prodded, “I’m sure the bride would love to add to the suggestions.”

“I was hoping,” you started, “That it would be a bit less ostentatious.  Something a bit more simple, less fancy”

“Nonsense,” your mother interrupted, “This is YOUR day, you need to go all out!  With luck, this will be the most important day of your life.” She turned back to the saleswoman.  “Money is no object, but my daughter MUST look her best for her special day.”

The lady turned to you, to get your approval, and you wanted to say something, anything to get out of wearing yet another hideous top designer couture, but that excited look on your mother’s face just made you hesitate.  You couldn’t bear to see her face fall as you told her what you really thought of that dress. (Pink?   Your mother had to know you hadn’t liked that colour since elementary school!) And how sequins just didn’t suit you at all, you preferred the slender, simple backless gown with the green sash at the waist, that stood at the front window.  (The sneer your mother gave at it when you suggested it was enough to shut your mouth.)

But it was late afternoon, and you’d tried almost a dozen dresses, and frankly, you were tired.  And when you really thought about it, you’d only be wearing the dress for one day.  Perhaps your reticence was unreasonable.  After all, your mother had worn three different wedding dresses throughout her lifetime, and perhaps she knew what was best for you, maybe you should just trust her.

“Very well…” you said, and your mom giddily followed the sales lady to the back. You flopped down inelegantly on the cushioned sofa, and sighed.

“You know,” Sarah volunteered hesitantly, “this is supposed to be YOUR day, you shouldn’t be such a doormat”

“I’m not a doormat!” you hissed, attempting to not cause a scene.

“Suuuure you’re not,” she said rolling her eyes, before looking back at the dress in the window. “I love you to bits, but man, you gotta stand up for yourself.  You keep letting your parents push you around, it’s not gonna ease up, no matter how much you give in to their demands”

You cracked, just a little bit, Sarah had a point.  You spent your entire life trying to live up to their standards, and yet, it was never enough.  There was always a way you were supposed to dress, a business you should look into, a new contact you should make, a man you were supposed to marry-.  You decided that you would let that train of thought leave the station.

“I can’t,” you said quietly, looking down at your hands resting in floofiness that was your lap, “they’re expecting so much of me, I’d be letting them down right now”

“Well,” Sarah countered, “you stood up to them before, when you said you wanted to go into Marine Biology all those years ago.  I remember the  horrific arguments you had with both of them, you even stayed with me for a few weeks until they gave in.  And look where it got you, a Doctorate in your dream subject, and the ability to do the thing you really love; explore the ocean!”

“That’s because I felt passionate about it, Sarah”

“So does that mean you aren't passionate about this wedding?”

You clammed up, any words in response died on your tongue.  Sarah, despite her veneer of benign cluelessness, was an expert at cutting straight to the matter.  Did you feel passionate about this wedding? Did you even love Fredrick?  Would you ever love him?

“We’re baaaack!” your mother’s voice smothered your thoughts and doubts as she and the saleslady brought out a dress that quite possibly was even worse looking than the one you were currently wearing.  You gave one last longing glance at the the beautiful dress in the showcase, and allowed yourself to be shepherded back into the dressing room, leaving behind a beaming mother, and a resigned best friend.

*****

The sun was low in the sky as you finally left your mother’s place, after wishing her and your newest step-father a good night.  Sarah gave you a tight hug, with a concerned remark that no matter what you chose, she’d have your back.   You knew that you were hurting her by going through with this, but it would work out in the end, you knew it.

You sat back in your driver's seat, pausing after starting the engine.  It had been a draining day, and all you wanted to do was to have a bath, wrap yourself up in some towels, make yourself and Vergil some food, and just chill.  Despite all the stress from the wedding plans, and the the steep learning curve of taking up the reins of your father’s company, talking with Vergil about anything, and yet nothing at the same time calmed you down immensely.  You always looked forward to those times.

But first, one last errand before you went home.  You told your wireless system to make the call, and as you pulled out of your mother’s driveway, the drone of a dial tone reverberated in the car.  A few rings, and your father’s voice answered.

“Ah, how’s my favourite girl doing?  Did you pick your dream dress out?” he asked cheerfully.

“Yes, mom helped pick it out it’s a-” 

Your dad interrupted you, “Now now, don’t tell me, I just want it to be a surprise!  Just have your mother send me the bill, I’ll work out the payment”  You breathed a sigh of relief, you didn’t really feel like somehow describing the abomination that took the guise of a dress in a somewhat positive light.   

“Listen, sweetheart” your father said, “I’ll be out for a few weeks on business, accompanying your future father-in-law on a trip to check up on Fredrick, and maybe sign some more deals, so no ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Days’ for a while.  You got any concerns or any requests, you’ll have to call me.  Me and Mr. Sombra are on the cusp of a deal that will be mutually beneficial for both our family, and Fredrick’s.”  Another sigh of relief, one less stress point to deal with.  

Suddenly, in the background, you heard a popping sound, which sounded like fireworks, but the rhythm sounded off, it sounded like… Gunshots!?

“Dad!” you barked out worriedly, “Is everything alright?”

Your father’s response was cheerful and reassuring, “Ah it’s alright, I’m at the gun range, Mr. Sombra decided we should get to know each other better with our prospective hobbies while we work on this deal. I think I might be getting the hang of this gun thing, although I’ve gotta resist the urge to close one eye to do so.  Tomorrow, I get to show him the joys of breadmaking!” Your dad sounded as giddy as a schoolgirl to share his passion project, you couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I gotta go, your future father-in-law is begging me to try out this new pistol he purchased!”

“Okay, say Hello to Fredrick when you see him!  And have a safe trip!” you chirped, “I love you, dad”

“Love you too, sweetheart, bye!”  As the phone call ended, you began to relax.  Sure, today had been a draining day, but your father’s upbeat energy perked you up.  Perhaps your conversation with Vergil wouldn't be so dour today.  You sensed he had some issue with your father, but you never brought it up, simply because you never wanted to see him as he was when you first met.  You wanted him, if not happy, at least content and untroubled.  You hummed a familiar tune for the rest of the way home, but no matter how hard you thought about it, you couldn’t figure out where you heard it from.

As you pulled into your driveway, the cheerful mood skidded to a halt.  Another, unfamiliar vehicle was parked beside your usual parking space, but nobody was seen.  You tensed up.  You hadn’t expected any guests, and to just get on the property, you had to have a way of getting past the security gate.   

Cautiously, you got out.  It couldn’t possibly be a burglary, what idiot would park in front of your home while looting the place?  But still, you had your fears, not for your property, nor for even yourself.  What about Vergil?  

Your stomach dropped as your front door opened, and out came a slimy slug of a man...Doctor Griffon.   He was practically beaming, whistling a jaunty tune, with a regular sized briefcase in his left hand, and a long narrow briefcase in his right.  To your untrained eye, it looked similar to a gun case, and your blood ran cold.  

The doctor finally noticed you after he locked the door, (how the hell had he gotten a hold of the keys?) and smiled, totally oblivious of what he was doing to your emotions.

“Ah, My dear!  I was not expecting your arrival!  I must say, you’ve done a marvelous job on rehabilitating Angelo.  I was worried it was languishing in captivity, but you’ve managed to bring it’s original colour back, and it’s gained some weight, you must tell me your feeding schedule-”

“Cut the crap, Doctor. How the hell did you get a key?  What the fuck are you doing here? ” you hissed.  

The man deflected your anger as if it was a pesky fly.  “Your father gave me permission and access to your home, to take care of the creature, in case of emergencies, and I deemed it an emergency, since you’ve missed the deadline to deliver your monthly report for the past three days.”

Wait what?

You quickly checked your phone.  Sure enough, the asshole was right, in the hubbub of bridal shows, cake tastings, and now wedding dress try-outs, you had missed the deadline.  It was hard to resist the urge to slap yourself for this stupidity.

“I’m not sure how you managed to wrangle the creature without it’s leash,” he glanced down at the long  briefcase, “But I’m highly impressed you were able to.  I’ll admit I thought you were just faking the measurements…”

“You could have called me, let me know, I could have gotten you the information you so desperately  needed.  Instead of breaking into my place without my damn permission.”

The bastard dangled a ring with a single key on it, in front of you. “Like I said, this was given to me by your father, with permission to-”

You didn’t let him finish as you yanked the key out of his grasp.  “Consider the permission rescinded.” you said curtly.   He attempted to speak again, but you wouldn’t let him.  “Talk to my father if you want to contest this, because I’m not letting you set foot on my property again.  Am I making myself clear? Your voice lowered dangerously, your adrenaline pumping through your system, the key clenched so tight in your fist, you could feel the start of it cutting into your palm.  Immediately, your brain went into overdrive, preparing on how to react should Griffon try to take the key back, punch him in the face, or in the gut, or a kick to the groin?

But you needn’t have worried.  The doctor, despite his glares, decided to back off.  No doubt he would attempt to contact your father, but both of you knew who your dad would side with.

“Very well,” he glowered, “but if anything happens to the specimen,” the urge to punch him reached a deafening crescendo, “I will hold you personally responsible.” And with a huff, he shouldered past you, got in his car, and with a slamming of a door, he peeled out, going towards your family’s central warehouse building.

You let out a ragged breath, The next time I see him, I’m going to skewer the bastard, you thought viciously.  The previously relaxed feeling that you had worked so hard to build melted like snow under a blowtorch.  How could you have been so fucking stupid?  You had spent the last decade turning assignments on time for your doctorate, why did you forget now?  All your efforts at gaining Vergil’s trust had just been shattered because of your negligence…

Vergil…

You ran towards the door, clumsily failing to get the key into the hole, and spreading blood from your newly cut hand all over the handle.   It could wait until later, you had to check up on the merman, that was your priority right now.

After a few tries, you got the door unlocked, and you rushed inside, tossing your belongings everywhere in your haste to get to the aquarium.   “Vergil!” you called out, but no response reverberated in your head.  You plastered yourself against the glass, trying desperately to find him.  And after a few moments of panicked searching, you saw him, hidden behind his usual rock where he usually spent time alone.  But now he was unmoving, curled up in a defensive ball, his eyes vacant, staring at nothing at all.  “Vergil!” you yelled, but no response.  What had that asshole done to him?  Did it have something to do with that leash? What if he’s hurt?

Without quite thinking, you clambered onto the platform, and after a moment to gather your breath, you dove in.

The cut on your palm protested at the salt water, but you didn’t care, as you swam to the far rock.  You cautiously approached Vergil, unable to talk to him with your weak human lungs, which already started to burn. Vergil remained staring straight ahead, his eyes transfixed on nothing, unaware of your presence. So, you did the only thing you could, and placed your hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.  Come back to me, Vergil.

And then, without warning, both his hands shot out, grabbing your shoulders in a vise tight grip.  In your surprise, you let out the last of your air still in your lungs, the bubbles rising to the surface.  You went to follow, but Vergil wouldn’t let go.  Panic forming, you started struggling, but the merman was as solid as the rock he hid behind, and wouldn’t budge.  And what was worse, the vacant look in his eyes was still there, he had no idea he was drowning you.  For a split second, you thought about trying to hit him, to knock some awareness back into him, but that would make it worse.  So, as you felt your body slowly shutting down, conserving all the oxygen it had for only vital functions, you did the only thing you could think of.

You softly caressed his cheek, hoping the gentle touch might, possibly be the thing he needed to snap him out of his catatonia.  

To your relief, it seemed to work, and his eyes focused on you in confusion.  All you could do was keep your eyes focused on his, as everything besides his face became a dark blur.  Panic filled his face, and you were aware of rushing water, and then the feeling of cool air on your cheeks.  Spluttering and coughing, you gulped up the air, as Vergil gently guided you to the platform and helped you clumsily clamber up onto it.

“Forgive me…” you heard him murmur as you stood on all fours, still attempting to catch your breath. “Had it been a few moments later, I would have....”

“Not your fault, Vergil '' you gasped out, finally able to regulate your breathing, as the pounding of blood in your head slowed down, as the adrenaline stopped flowing.  “This was all me, I should have sent in that report, so ‘he’,” you spat out the word in hatred, so Vergil knew who you were talking about, “wouldn’t have shown up.  But I was so. Fucking. Forgetful. You felt like crying, but you kept it locked inside.  You both didn’t need the additional emotions tonight.

You felt a soft hand placed upon yours, and you looked into his grey eyes, softness replacing the blankness that had been there a few moments ago. “It appears,” he said with a gentle smile, “we are at an impasse to who’s at fault.  Shall we agree that we have both done the other ill?”

“I suppose we could do that,” as you used your hand to brush your soaked hair out of your eyes.  Suddenly Vergil frowned, he gently turned your other hand around, revealing an angry red gash.

“Did I…?” he started to say, but you shushed him.

“No, that was me, when I was confronting the Doctor”  Vergil stiffened at the mention, and you sought to assure him “Vergil, I swear I will never let him near you again, if I have to fucking kill him.”  He looked at you, as if he was searching for sincerity on your face, before nodding in gratitude..  You had never been so serious about something in your life.  Vergil didn’t deserve the treatment you could only guess that he’d been through.  If you could have chucked him into the ocean this very second, you would have.  But despite everything, he still answered ‘no’ to your question of freedom every morning, so you respected his wishes.

“You should get yourself dry,” he said, “you humans tend to get sick when you remain wet for a period of time.”

You got up, wincing at the pain from your palm and you pushed up off of the wood, “I’ll be back soon, and I’ll bring you supper, any requests?”

“Not particularly, anything you wish shall be fine” he answered, his voice unexpectedly soft.  You gave him a reassuring smile, and descended the stairs.

*****

You sat in a warm fluffy pj’s your hair still damp, but otherwise fully dry.  You’d made his favourite for him, ramen, with some slices of leftover pork chop, which he slurped up greedily.  He was still getting the hang of using utensils, but he was doing so much better.  You snacked on a turkey sandwich, not feeling the urge to prepare anything more strenuous than that.  Your hand had stopped bleeding, but still ached, and although it looked bad, with some ointment and some bandages, it would be more annoying than anything.  You pulled up your medical supplies to tend with it, but then heard Vergil’s voice. 

“May I?” and after giving your approval, he gently took your hand, amazed as you spread the cream over the cut.  He frowned, as he watched.  “I thought it would have healed somewhat by now, if not as quickly as us”

“Nah,” you shrugged with your free shoulder as you reached for the wrapping that would keep it protected while you slept. “Although cuts on our hands heal pretty fast compared to other parts of our bodies, we just need to keep it covered so it has a chance to heal.  It’s painful, but it’s not like a wound to the gut or anything.”

You began to wrap your hand, but somehow, Vergil took over, gently winding the cloth around your palm, taking care not to press down on the wound.  The way his fingers softly grazed your knuckles....  You suddenly felt slightly warm at the touch.

“May I ask you a favour?” he asked as you placed the supplies back in the kit.

“Sure”

“Will you sleep here?” he said, tapping the platform.  You paused, and watched to see if he was making a joke, but his face was serious.  “It would put my mind at ease, after all that has transpired today” he requested earnestly.

“Of course” you responded, and relief flooded his face.  “I’ll just have to get some more blankets and such, sleeping on bare wood is rather uncomfortable.”

So, several hours later, you were in a nest of blankets and pillows, lulled by the sound of water, on the cusp of sleep,  when you heard the sound of water sloshing gently, and a cool hand caressing your cheek.  Strangely, it didn’t yank you back into wakefulness, but instead calmed you down even more.

The last thing you heard before sleep truly claimed you was Vergil’s voice, barely a whisper.

“Sleep well, Sifa”

Tagging @harlot-of-oblivion (apologies if I tagged you twice, Tumblr glitched out, and I had to repost.)

[pluviophile-bookworm]

AWAE 2x1 rewatch: thoughts and reactions

At long last, it’s time to rewatch the first episode of season 2. With a suspenseful open ending, season 1 left us waiting for the continuation of Anne’s story, and here it is now. It’s been literal years since I first saw this episode, so of course I’m going in with very little memory of what happens in it. I can’t wait any more, so let’s dive in.

The episode, and with it the season, opens with a beautiful shot of Anne reaching of her window, and then there are more lovely shots of her in nature. i just love the visuals of this show so much. And Anne talking to trees is just on another level. I actually see things from her perspective for a moment and it’s like nature is talking back, and it’s all so magical. This is one of many reasons why I’m so in love with this show. This is one of those “gold opens”, as I call them. But why do I feel like it won’t be the same after the cold open?

Ok, thankfully it’s not as dark as I’d thought - at least for now. But I’m still on my toes. For the moment, however, Anne’s biggest concern is how little scope for the imagination needlepoint provides. Here’s to hoping it remains so for as long as possible.

A delinquent saying grace, how ironic. And he indulges Anne by saying “Gracious Heavenly Father” at her request. He’s playing his role well, that you’ve got to hand to him.

Ah, and here’s Bash’s first appearance. A tough and grim job, being addressed by his nationality, and just overall hardship is what he’s putting up with for the moment - probably has for most of his life. Thankfully, Gilbert stands for none of that stuff. #blacklivesmatter

Good as Nate may be at keeping up his facade, Anne’s curiosity is not making that any easier for him. I love her curiosity and her desire to learn as much as possible about everything (wait, isn’t that the same as curiosity?) and her fascination with science. This is a woman of the future, that’s for sure. She did nothing to deserve getting her story cut short without a warning. #renewannewithane

Poor Anne, still haunted by her trauma... I guess this kind of stuff never really goes away. 

What is Nate trying to pull with Marilla? That guy creeps me out so much.

Of course, Anne is enchanted by Nate and his science and his books, but Jerry’s got him all figured out. It seems he doesn’t really remember how they first met, otherwise I’m certain he’d tell Anne if not anyone else, but even without the clear memory of what Nate and Dunlop are really like, he just knows it. Memory fails sometimes, but instinct almost never does. Poor Jerry has his own trauma now. My boy does not deserve this.

Ok, I love Anne so much, but she can be awfully insensitive sometimes. I mean, I understand that she’s very young, but still. She seems to often forget that not everyone has the same experience as her. Now she’s forgotten that Jerry can’t even read. Of course, she immediately offers to fix this. It’s heartwarming that she’s teaching him to read, but she managed to sound both too patronising and too complicated, all in one sentence. But hey, she’s not a certified teacher, she’s a kid. I’ll cut her some slack here because her intentions are nothing but good.

Oh there it is, Nate has released the gold bug, and now he’s getting Mr. Barry wrapped around his little finger. I just can’t watch this...

I love the Shirbert parallel of working to the same tune. Even miles away, they’re connected in a way. 

I’m sensing another parallel here - Bash is to Gilbert what Jerry is to Anne: the poorer, less educated honorary brother who is also a member of a minority against which many are bigoted. And just like Jerry does to Anne, Bash reminds Gilbert in no uncertain terms of his white man’s privilege. And both Anne and Gilbert learn along the way to be less insensitive to those less privileged than them, and to fight for this privilege to be evened out. This is beautiful and important, and I love this show for presenting it so eloquently.

Another beautiful visual of Anne in nature, this is a very popular one - at least I’ve seen it going around quite a lot. It’s this one: [image credit: kissthemgoodbye.net]

I too, like Anne, love living in a world where there are Octobers - especially because that is the month I get to go back to uni, and I happen to love it there. What would the world be like without Octobers?

As someone whose hometown is extremely close to the beach, I sort of understand Matthew and Marilla’s lack of thrill at the thought of going there, but also Anne’s fascination and excitement as someone who hasn’t had the chance to go. A friend from the capital (which is almost as far from the sea as my country goes) once told me when she came to visit that she found it weird how people actually live in a city that she and her other friends view as just a holiday destination. I, on the other hand, hadn’t lived anywhere else at that point and was way beyond any fascination with the beach. It’s good to see a different point of view. Someone like Anne can make you rediscover the beauty of every little mundane thing.

Wait, this is Anne’s spot, isn’t it? The spot by the sea where she’d later go when she’s upset, and where Gilbert would pass by on his journey of Anne-memories in season 3? It is, I’m fairly certain of it.

And once again, as Anne looks out into the sea, so does Gilbert. Those two share a brain, don’t they?

I don’t really know what Nate’s deal is. Sure, I know he’s a scoundrel at best, but... can one fake this fascination with gold? Of course, this bit might just be true - he could really be fascinated with gold - with getting it for himself at other people’s expense. That would be in character for the person who gave poor Jerry one extra kick in the face after he was already on the ground. And when Anne asks about it, little detective that she is, his true self shows for an instant. And then the mask is back on and he’s all like “do the right thing” and “moral quandary”... as if he has any morals. This guy disgusts me.

Sweet summer child Ruby is so see-through... Albert, Herbert, Rupert - she reminds me of my younger self. I love her so much.

Oh, great. Just great. Nate’s got into Anne’s head. She has this unfortunate tendency to trust people whether they deserve it or not. And now she’s fallen into a trap.

Oh Jerry, trust me, you do need to know how to read. You do. Although I wonder if his desire to talk and to discuss books wasn’t at the core of his eventual falling out with Diana in season 3 - I mean, the incompatibility between that and her own wishes about their relationship. Either way, reading can’t be a bad thing, can it?

What does Dunlop mean by “She’s just a girl”. What? Does he see her as somehow inferior because she’s a girl? As if I needed more persuading that these two are, to put it very mildly, no good.

Anne is too good for this world, empathising with Dunlop’s sob story (how true is it? I might be falling too) and even offering to be his little sister in her own desperate longing to be someone’s sister. No, Anne, your only brother should be the one Nate is taunting in the barn at this very moment.

Oh gosh, Anne is there, and another memory of her traumatic past is triggered by Nate’s taunting. I can’t watch, I just can’t watch a book being torn up so devilishly, and it seems that this is just the tip of the iceberg. 

Does Jerry remember? I think he might be starting to remember. He’d better speak up soon if he does.

“I’d offer a penny for your thoughts but I haven’t any money.” Wait, does Eliza Barry not own any money at all? Is she that much of a submissive wife? I see now why she raises her daughters the way she does. I feel bad for her, truly. But I wonder what’s eating her husband. Is he thinking of what Nate told him?

Speaking of Nate - how vile of him to make fun of Jerry, calling him a little frog and all that, and taking advantage of the fact that he doesn’t remember who he and Dunlop are. You know, I’m thinking of a song - Little People from Les Mis, and specifically this line: So never kick a dog because it’s just a pup - you better run for cover when the pup grows up. In other words right now, Nate had better hope Jerry doesn’t remember, because I bet he’s not just going to sit around once he does. Nate’s got everyone fooled - everyone but him. And I don’t want to say Jerry was lucky, but in a way he was - to have met those two before everyone else. 

That’s it - once Anne tells the town gossip, it’s all in the bag. She’ll tell everyone and get their attention for Nate. Sweet summer child Anne has done the con man’s job for him. Now he’s getting up everybody’s hopes just to get their money. I can’t even.

Sure, Anne, write to Gilbert, get him into this disaster waiting to happen, too. As if he hasn’t got enough on his plate right now. At least, being away, he might have missed out on that drama that will lead to no good, but nay, we just have to worry him, don’t we? And thus the bumpy road of Shirbert’s correspondence continues.

To sum up this episode: beautiful, magical scenery; Nate’s smooth acting has got everyone fooled - especially Anne;  gold in Avonlea?; the similarities between Bash and Jerry; Shirbert share a brain; Anne teaches Jerry to read and write; Anne’s spot by the sea; Jerry doesn’t remember Nate and Dunlop - yet; the gold rush begins.

[tarotdeckshuffle]

Half Astral Series: Ravus

This piece reads a bit funny, as it was originally meant to be a bullet format, but naturally lent itself to more of a paragraph format. Don’t worry, though. It’s still a short and easy read. 

If you like what you read, please consider supporting me on Patreon or buying me a Ko-fi!

Taglist: @idiotflowerex, @laststory1013, @sayaoqueen, @jophinabean, @mysme-already

Ravus

The summer had been sweltering, so the prince had the idea to show you the royal family’s seaside manor. He liked to refer to the manner as a “cabin” with a wry smile on his face. 

Even Ravus hadn’t been to the manner in years, so both of you were struck when you finally arrived. Sure, it wasn’t the size of Fenestala Manor, but it certainly was a giant house! There had to be at least ten bedrooms to it!

The spiraling white building looked like it hugged the ocean side cliffs. Many rooms and windows looked directly out over the water without any shore below them. 

You spent the weekend lounging on the private beach and exploring the manor with your love. The sea offered you a welcome reprieve from the heat inland while the seclusion gave you and Ravus time to take your love slowly. 

Your time in the manner was slowing winding down. Tonight, you and your love watched the sunset from the balcony, simply wrapped in each other’s arms. 

But the white clouds highlighting the sky suddenly turned gray as a volatile storm formed overhead. 

Ravus pulled you close as thunder clapped and the clouds rolled in faster than time could move. Your defender tried to usher you inside, unsure of what was going on, but you didn’t move. 

“I guess today is as good a day as any…” you muttered as a frustrated look overtook your face. 

His face screwed into confusion. Ravus wanted to ask what you meant, but was rudely interrupted as a great wave crashed against the cliffs hard enough to shake the manor. 

The sea started to swirl, changing colors from turquoise to an angry gray. 

“On second thought, let’s go inside…” You said, taking Ravus’s hand as you began to lead him into the safety of the manor. You decided you were already done with her power display and didn’t have to deal with this. 

“DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME, CHILD!” A voice from the depths of the ocean boomed around you, shaking every fiber of the world. 

Fear marred Ravus features while contempt painted yours, you both spun around to see Leviathan rise from the sea. 

Overtaken by the scene of the god of the sea making her entrance, it took a moment for what she had said to register with Ravus. 

“Child?” His voice sounded akin to a whisper over the crashing seas. 

You opened your mouth to respond to him, but were interrupted by her. 

“DON’T INTERFERE, MORTAL!” Your mother boomed. 

She was not a being with much patience. What she wanted, she got. And she was here to hound you. 

She continued without even a breath. “You should be honing your skills, preparing for battle. Instead, you are bedding an insignificant beast!” 

It seemed that Leviathan knew distress of some sort was on the horizon and, as per usual, was determined to drag you into it. 

Of course this crotchety fish wasn’t your birth mother, she was just your blood mother. 

Over 800 years ago, she was still worshiped, and she liked it. She even had a favorite priestess. From what she had told you, you were the child of this priestess. 

From there, your life was a heartbreaking mystery: you were never given a straight answer whether the priestess gave you to Leviathan willingly or if you were swept out to sea after some disaster. All that was clear is that Leviathan took rare pity on you and made you her own. 

Since then, she had drug you into every matter she had a desire to be in. From the Astral War to bickering between countries where she was interested. You had learned to fight in the heat of battle and learned of your powers by always surviving them. 

It had only been 200 years since you had left her clutches and vowed never to go back. 

Every comment you wanted to throw at this god, every word you hoped would burn her in some way, swirled within your mind. But they were not what pulled you from your memories. 

“Excuse me?” 

It was your love next to you, having taken offense and not willing to back down, he continued. 

“Shouldn’t you be off somewhere, making over the welp prince or something?”

You stared in amazement at him, realizing your jaw had gone slack. Had he recovered from the revelation of your parentage that fast? Was he truly facing down a god?

“You have no place anywhere near my child, much less me!” Leviathan boomed back, clearly not one to be spoken back to. 

“I think that claim can be proven false by a mere observation…” Yes...Ravus was arguing with a god. Somehow, the situation wasn’t fully surprising. 

“I think that can easily be rectified…” 

Leviathan’s voice wore the sneer her face couldn’t as she coiled her body in preparation to lash out at Ravus. 

“WAIT!” 

It was your turn to intervene. You stepped out from behind Ravus, ready to face every drop the seas could throw at you. 

“Whatever your reason is for being here it involves me and only me, leave him out of this…”

“It did deal solely with you, but I will not be spoken to in such a way by a mortal…” Your mother was still prepared to lash out and Ravus appeared ready to face her.

“I don’t care who speaks to you in what way, mother! If you should seek retribution against every slight said against you, you will drain the seas and the last of my patience!” It felt odd to speak to Leviathan in such a way, but Ravus’s outburst had bolstered your confidence. 

You felt him breath behind you.

“And don’t you start again, either!” You muttered through gritted teeth. 

Calmed, at least for the moment, Leviathan stood before you in silence. 

“Mother, I care not why you are here. I only care that you leave. There is no plan you could concoct that I wish to willingly take part in. I have my own plans, duties, and...desires.”

Your voice bellowed over the gray waters, crashing against the god with the weight of fabricated betrayal. 

“CHILD! YOU SHOULD DARE?! I am the reason you live! I am the reason you walk the lands of treacherous men! I am the reason you can throw yourself into such frivolous tidings as you have! To have everything I will ever help you do reduced to “plans”!” 

Each word dripped with venom as the god that raised you turned into the wrath that could kill you. You prepared yourself. Somehow, you always knew this day would come: The day when a minor slight against her would invoke Leviathan’s wrath, even against you.

You had seen it done countless times against countries that towered over the land, against men who thought themselves too powerful to fall to any death, and beings too kind to have meant any harm. 

But here you were.

As you prepared for the worst, you felt a warm weight on your shoulder: It was Ravus. And for that single moment, you realized who you were.

You were a being bound to the land, not just the sea. 

“Your hatred of man does not entitle you to control my life! I am half of you, but half of me is from this world! Your hatred will never change that!” you bellowed.  You took a deep breath of the salty air, before releasing your next words.

These words came softer, things that would float out to Leviathan on the tides of the cold water below. 

“Disown me, take my powers, you may even take my life. But you shall never again be able to take my will. You have no control over me, Leviathan.” 

That was the first time you had called her by her name. 

And it sent ripples over her heart. 

“So be it.” 

Her words were icy as they stabbed at your heart. 

With a great crash she dove back into the sea and her dark home, and the storm clouds receded. You knew that would be the last time you ever saw her. 

The silence that filled her departure felt empty and left you floating in your own thoughts. But two warm hands on your waist pulled you back to reality. 

Without a word, Ravus gently spun you around and wrapped you tightly in a warm embrace. You felt safe against his chest as you filled your senses with everything that was comforting:

His breathing, 

His heartbeat,

His smell,

The way his hands felt running through your hair,

The feeling of his coat under your fingers,

And the way he made it feel like nothing in the world mattered for a moment. 

Eventually, you were ready to face him. You pulled just far enough away to look up at him.

To see the gentle, sweet smile on his lips and the love in his eyes as he looked down at you. 

All you could think to say was something quite obvious:

“I guess I should have told you sooner…” 

He brought one hand up to cup your cheek. 

“Perhaps. But that is of little concern now. My more immediate concern is for you.”

You smiled and leaned into him.

“I will not try to fool you and say that I am alright.”

“Few who face a god are…”

You had to smile at the obvious truth to his statement.

“But I will be. After all, I’ve had quite a bit of time to prepare for this.” 

Ravus removed his hand from your cheek so as to take your hand and lead you inside. 

“Good. Then it would seem that you have quite a few stories to tell me, as well.” 

You smiled because you knew he was trying to care for you in any way that he could. 

“I do...but I have a few things that I could show you that may be more...interesting.” 

He raised a single eyebrow at your suggestion. 

“Even better.”

[let-it-raines]

“I accidentally set your plant on fire and I felt super guilty so I went to the store to buy you another plant but they ran out of the plant that you had and I didn’t know what other kind of plant you liked so I may or may not have bought you enough plants to fill a small greenhouse?”

@doodlelolly0910 tagged me in this list of prompts, and I asked her to pick one for me to write so here we are! This is definitely, like, 2,400 words of foolishness, and there may be a bad plant pun or two in there. 

This is why she never agrees to house sit. She’s done it before, but that was only for Mary Margaret and David when they went on their honeymoon. And even then, it was a disaster when the cat got outside, and by the time she’d caught Grumpy (she still can’t believe they named their cat after one of the seven dwarves when Grumpy Cat already exists), the damn cat decided that its claw marks would look absolutely wonderful all over Emma’s face.

And her chest. She’s got a scar on her chest right above her right breast from where Grumpy had gotten his claw stuck in deep.

She thought she was dying for a solid week from some kind of feline disease. She’s not even sure what ones are out there, but she was definitely going to get one from Grumpy.

So house sitting hasn’t really been her thing after that, even if it’s easy money and something she can do after she gets home from her shifts at the station. And yet here she is wandering around the gardening section of Lowes because she set Killian’s plant on fire when she was in his house last night cleaning for when he comes home from visiting his brother in England today. There’d been a funky smell, and she’d lit a candle to try to make the place smell more homey and less like somewhere that had been empty for two weeks. And of course she’d accidentally knocked the candle into the plant, setting the thing on fire.

One job. She had one main job, and it all went up in flames.

Literally.

Two weeks she managed to take care of the place with nothing going wrong, and she screwed it all up when he’s coming home today.

Dammit coconut beach candle.

Maybe if Killian had a better taste in candles this wouldn’t have happened. It smelled good and all, but she likes for her candles to smell like baked goods. He likes for his candles to smell like the beach, even though they both live five minutes away from the beach. Seriously. She can walk there. So can he.

He doesn’t need the candle.

“Can I help you, miss?”

She turns around to look at the man who’s speaking to her, a Lowe’s blue vest draped over his shoulders. She thinks his name is August, but his name tag is too small and she doesn’t have her glasses on.

“Yeah, I’m looking for a houseplant, but I don’t really know what the name of it is.”

“Do you have a picture of it?”

No because why would she take a picture of Killian’s house plant before she set it on fire? That would be premeditated murder or something ridiculous like that.

“No, sorry,” she cringes, looking around the garden. It smells like water in here. “It was tall, kind of leafy, maybe beachy? I don’t really know. It’s not my plant. It’s my neighbor’s, and I kind of accidentally destroyed it.”

“You destroyed a plant?”

“There was an accidental fire last night.”

August open his mouth, but he quickly presses his lips together, obviously remembering that he works here and isn’t supposed to judge her. He’s totally judging her.

“So tall and leafy then?” he asks, taking a step ahead of her. “Follow me and I’ll show you around while we try to find it.”

She looks at approximately sixty-seven brands (Breeds? Types? Species?) of plants, both house plants and ones that go in gardens (apparently Killian could have been growing an outdoor plant indoors), and after two hours, she’s got a cart full of twelve different tall plants. She doesn’t know how she’s going to fit them in her bug, but she’s kind of desperate. There’s no way Killian won’t notice that she killed his plant, but maybe it’ll be okay since she’s now bringing all kinds of vegetation into his house.

She’s going to have to move out of their duplex, isn’t she? She’s a plant murderer, and she’s going to have to move. There’s no other choice.

The irony is not lost on her that she’s arrested people for actual murder.

It takes some maneuvering, but she manages to get all of the plants inside, putting the one that looks closest enough to the old one in the spot in the living room and dispersing everything else throughout the house. They don’t really go, but the man obviously loves his plant for him to leave her such specific instructions on how to take care of it.

Oh God. She hopes a dead relative didn’t give it to him or something.

A dead relative probably gave it to him. Or an ex-girlfriend.

Or a current girlfriend.

That doesn’t seem quite right there. Their walls are thin, and she’d know if he had a woman over. Not that she’s listening or anything. She’d just know. Plus, they kind of have a thing going, don’t they? She’s not really sure because as much as Killian flirts with her, he flirts with everyone. It’s how he talks. There’s an innuendo constantly at the tip of his tongue, and he can twist absolutely everything into something dirty.

But they have…something. She’s not sure what. It’s been a long time since she’s had what is basically an adult crush (feelings? That seems ridiculous) on someone, and she’s not sure how to read the situation. She reads situations for a living, but it’s different when it comes to her personal life. Ruby is absolutely convinced that Killian is head over heels in love with her and that’s why his flirting is somehow different with her. It’s softer, not quite as risqué, but she doesn’t know too much about that.

All she knows is that she likes her neighbor and she burned down his plant.

And broke his candle.

Shit. She should have brought a new candle.

“Swan?” Killian calls, and she practically loses her legs from underneath her as she grabs onto the kitchen countertop. “Are you in here?”

He is not supposed to be home. For hours. She was supposed to have hours. How the hell does a flight from London get in early? It’s an international trip. It should get in late.

“In the kitchen,” she calls out, reaching up to tighten her ponytail on top of her head.

“Love, why is there dirt on my floor? And new plants everywhere? Are you starting a greenhouse? Did someone break in and…leave me plants? Is there some epidemic of a new breed of burglar? I know I’ve been gone, but I feel like you should still have kept me updated on something as fantastic as that.”

She’s not at all prepared for him to be home. His plant is not that big of a deal, but somewhere in the back of her mind she’s freaking out about this being some kind of weird sign that she’s not nurturing to life somehow. But that’s some anti-feminist shit, and she should not at all be worried about things like that.

Honestly, maybe all she wants is to make sure she gets paid for taking care of his house.

How much she spent at Lowes far outweighs how much Killian is going to pay her.

They’re not known for their Lowe prices.

That was a bad joke even in her head.

“Swan,” he says again, his body coming into view. He looks the same as when he left, but it’s not like she expected him to suddenly change his appearance because he went back home for a few weeks. His beard is a little thicker and his accent is definitely thicker, but he’s still the same. “Emma, why the bloody hell have you turned my house into a greenhouse? Are you housing some kind of animal in here that I don’t know about? It’s fine with me but our landlord will – ”

“I burned down your plant,” she blurts out, not able to keep it in anymore. She hasn’t been this nervous in months. She doesn’t even know why she’s nervous. She’s a badass deputy sheriff who kicks criminals’ asses (and deals with friendly drunk people on the roof of the Rabbit Hole but that’s a different story) and isn’t intimidated by anything. Her adult crush is obviously reverting her back to a teenager.

Hell, she wasn’t even like this as a teenager. She was much more…hardened by the world.

This is obviously a delayed reaction to Grumpy scratching her. This is it. The sickness is finally catching her.

Killian tilts his head to the side while his right brow raises in a move that is so him that it might as well be his signature. “You what now?”

“I was in here last night, and I decided to light a candle to make it smell less stuffy. And then because apparently my body is not my own anymore, I knocked your dumb coconut sea ocean banana whatever breeze candle into it, setting your plant on fire. So I went to Lowes and couldn’t find the same plant and – I guess I bought you a lot of plants, which was really dumb.”

“You killed my plant? And then you bought me – ” He gestures around the room, his lips curling into a smile while her stomach does this weird twisting thing. “ – more plants? I never knew you had such a green thumb.”

“I mean, I’d say I have a charred thumb but whatever.”

They both laugh at that, and the coils in her stomach begin to untwist, everything calming a bit. She’s been so ridiculous about this entire thing. This is not her. This is not her at all.

She’s going to have to take home some of these plants, isn’t she?

“So you don’t hate me for killing your plant?”

“No, I don’t,” he sighs, dropping his backpack and taking a few steps closer to her so that he’s hovering in her space. “Actually, I quite fancy you from time to time when you’re not murdering a plant that my mother gave me before she passed away.”

Shit.

Of course his mother gave it to him before she died. Of course. Of course. Of course.

“I am so so so sorry,” she starts, feeling heat rise in her cheeks while her stomach starts coiling up again. And then she looks at Killian, actually looks at him. The lines around his eyes are crinkled, the corners of his mouth practically at his eyes, and he’s practically vibrating from holding back his laughter. “You asshole,” she huffs, leaning forward to hit against his chest, knowing that she’s hitting a little harder than she intends to. “Your mom did not give you that plant. You made me feel bad for nothing.”

“Well, you did kill my plant and presumably break my candle.”

She has a retort on the tip of her tongue, but then she’s watching Killian’s as it traces along his bottom lip and completely ignoring the way he’s grabbing her hands on his chest and intertwining his fingers with hers, squeezing the slightest bit. Or maybe not completely ignoring it. She knows when something is happening, and something is definitely about to happen. She’s kind of…overwhelmed.

“Hey, Emma?” he whispers, his vibrant smile shifting into something much softer as he stares down at her, his breath warm and minty so close to her lips.

“Yeah?”

“Will you let me plant one on you? I really am rather frond of you and missed you very much.”

Oh my God, that was bad, she thinks to herself, having to bite down on her tongue.

It was bad, but the guy knows how to think on his toes.

“I cannot believe you just asked to kiss me by making bad plant puns.”

“Well, I never said they were going to be good. You make horrible jokes all the time. Ones that are far worse than that.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Name one.”

“Well, there was last month when we were watching the weather channel and a parade got cancelled because of the rain, and you made about six separate ‘rain on your parade’ jokes.”

“Hey, now. That was – ”

“Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“Please shut up and kiss me.”

And she does, pressing up on her toes and pushing forward to brush her lips over his, timid at first before Killian releases her hands and tugs her impossibly closer by placing his hands on her back under her shirt, his lips more aggressive as they move with hers, the softness of his mouth contrasting with the roughness of his beard. It’s a burn that she wants to revel in, especially when she nips at his lip and he lets out a groan that makes her toes tingle.

They actually tingle.

Like some kind of weird fairytale.

She has no idea why he’s suddenly decided that now is the time for them to stop dancing around each other and make a move, but she is most definitely not going to complain.

He’s a damn good kisser.

“So, like,” she gasps when they pull back, breaths heavy and warm against each other while her hands move up and down his biceps while Killian’s arms stay still on her lower back, “if I set fire to all of these other plants, do we get to keep doing that?”

“Eh, I don’t know. I think I care about the earth too much to let you destroy it more.”

“I do like a man who cares about the environment.”

“Would it be too soon to say that showering together saves water?”

“It’s not too soon, but that is definitely not true. Plus, shower sex is totally overrated.”

“If you say so,” Killian hums before he quickly slants his lips over hers once again, a fleeting kiss if she’s ever felt one. “Remind me to never let you house sit for me ever again.”

Killian doesn’t ever ask her to housesit for him again, but it doesn’t really count as housesitting when you live in the same house. This new one is on the beach, so beach scented candles aren’t necessary. It doesn’t matter anyways. All of their house plants are fake now.

As if she couldn’t set one of those on fire.

(They do shower together, and it definitely does not preserve water.)

[bthump]

what do you think about the prophecy? "He is the one who shall bring an age of darkness upon the world" what does this mean? is griffith really going to turn out being the bad guy( I hope not) or guts is going to change this prophecy somehow? (because he should have been a sacrifice but he is alive?) also why does schierke call griffith false?

Ok so I re-read a bunch of scenes relating to the prophecy to try to come up with a decent answer, and honestly I think I might’ve been better off just going “idk probably depends on your pov” lol.

But I came up with some things to say and I’ll try to lay out my thoughts in a somewhat organized way here, so bear with me.

At the end of the Eclipse, Slan is all, now that the fifth angel is here the time of darkness descends. Then she defines exactly what the Age of Darkness will entail:

Soon Farnese shows up and recites the prophecy. This also happens right after the Eclipse, before the Black Swordsman arc will have taken place, two years before the next time we see these guys:

The fifth angel, the Hawk of Darkness, pretty obviously Femto. There’s no mystery here.

And honestly, the Age of Darkess is pretty explicitly discussed during the Conviction Arc. There’s really no mystery there either, at least not yet.

(I’m relatively certain that last line is essentially identical to “they sensed intuitively” from NGriff’s resurrection, and which I’ve also seen translated as “knew,” and so I wouldn’t put too much stock in the word “believed” there as purposefully leaving room for doubt, just fyi.)

Like, this is hammered in over and over. This prophetic dream of plague and natural disasters and war and famine, followed by Laban bemoaning the state of the world as these events come true and he encounters a landslide and a village full of plague, and we see tens of thousands of starving refugees outside the Tower of Conviction, and Kushan war elephans make an early appearance, etc.

Dark shadow, darkness that covers the world, thick darkness, utter darkness, etc etc. It’s not subtle, and it’s pretty clearly the intended follow-through to Slan’s words and Farnese’s prophecy. The Conviction Arc shows us the world that’s shitty enough to motivate humanity to will a saviour into being.

Also while Age of Darkness sounds a little too impressive to be boiled down to a measley 2 years that suck extra hard, I’d argue that this is more like the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Plague and famine etc just draw into sharp relief the divide between the have and the have-nots, which is largely what the Conviction Arc is about. It’s about nobility terrorizing peasants through the Inquisition, and neglecting peasants as Laban muses that the King is too obsessed with trying to find Griffith to allocate resources to relief efforts, and how much this fucks the world up.

The Conviction Arc shows us a pretty good example of a world where darkness, ie wickedness, hatred, hostility, the dead, and illusion (I’d argue Mozgus’ brand of religion, especially with how much fun the narrative has with painting it as super fucked up and hypocritical etc, like God’s love being a torture chamber, fits that bill) covers the light.

And it’s the kind of world that Femto requires in order to be incarnated physically.

So whether the “Hawk of Darkness,” directly caused this “Age of Darkness,” or whether it’s more like, yk, humanity/fate caused it itself because humanity’s negative emotions reaching a critical point allows him to incarnate and change shit up as per humanity’s desires (this is all there in the Lost Chapter), I’d stay it fits the prophecy. Femto = Hawk of Darkness = Age of Darkness = all the darkness of humanity emphasized.

But this gets muddy once NGriff does show up and we get the sequence where his apostle captains meet him etc:

Like okay, so Schierke’s maybe just reciting the old prophecy, since it’s the exact same wording Farnese gave us, so maybe this doesn’t change what we were lead to believe was the Age of Darkness? I mean at this point we’d be still in the midst of it, going by what was stated in the Conviction Arc. The future tense could just be because it’s an old prophecy.

But the future tense is there (and I double checked with a scanlation lol, and it was there in that translation too, so I’m assuming it’s part of the original Japanese wording), and it’s worth considering that this is still meant to be foreshadowing and the Age of Darkness is yet to come. In which case it would presumably be Fantasia.

So one possibility is that the Conviction Arc is either a giant Age of Darkness red herring or it has been retconned out of being the Age of Darkness, and we’re meant to understand Fantasia as the prophecized Age of Darkness brought down by the Hawk of Darkness.

I’m not fully on board with this possibility because a) the Conviction Arc was pretty damn straightforward and made perfect sense as the AoD and I hate retcons, and b) Fantasia is defined by light lol, not darkness. Both literally in that a bright white light envelops the Earth as it changes and it’s often described in terms of light, and figuratively in that I’d suggest every one of Slan’s examples of light up there (love, hope, etc) is illustrated in the nature of Fantasia. Humanity joining together despite differences including apostles, hope, astral planes merging (which I’d argue makes the world more real, not less), the living (NGriff’s funeral services make people more at peace with the idea of death and able to emotionally recover from the loss of loved ones much easier), and I’d also argue that this chill easy going accepting version of organized religion we’ve seen fits the ‘sacred’ bill a lot better than Mozgus’ horrific version.

Admittedly you can argue the opposite for some of these points, like maybe Griffith’s funeral services making people more cool about death is a bad thing and an example of death eclipsing life. Maybe the astral plane is supposed to be more illusion than reality. Maybe we’re eventually going to see hostility and hatred in the world outside Falconia. Hell, maybe the Sea God slog was meant to be indicative of the ~darkness~ (and to be fair I did not re-read much of the sequence to try to find examples of the narrative evoking darkness as a description, so it could be there. But it’s gonna take more than an anon ask to get me to re-read the entire Sea Sea god subplot lol.) But even from Guts’ perspective the joining of the astral plane also includes wholesome Elfhelm-y shit, so it’s still not as simple as evil sea gods and monsters now getting to fuck shit up, we also get helpful mermaids and stuff.

So yeah so far given what we know, the pre-Fantasia world fits the description of the Age of Darkness perfectly and really heavy-handedly lol, with all the references to darkness involved, and Fantasia is a lot less clear-cut.

So the way I’d interpret this prophecy is that Griffith is both the Hawk of Darkness and the Hawk of Light, which imo is likely to be in part an on the nose reference to Femto as his inner darkness vs NGriff who does, in fact, save the world in a way characterized by light lol.

And which one you see him as depends on your point of view. It’s not that Sonia is wrong and being tricked and Schierke is right and sees the truth. It’s that Sonia, living in the Age of Darkness, losing her parents and almost being enslaved etc, and being saved by Griffith, is in a position to see Griffith as a saviour, along with most of the rest of humanity, which was collectively crying out for a change that Griffith’s dream and goals in particular are suited to enacting.

Schierke, distanced from humanity, not actually in danger of being burnt at the stake or starving to death or whatever, and more knowledgeable about the astral plane, sees Griffith as the Femto-y Hawk of Darkness, king of the blind white sheep (his human followers, one presumes), master of the sinful black sheep (apostles one also presumes).

And the fact that this chapter doesn’t end on Schierke’s assessment but on Sonia looking on at Griffith in awe, followed by yk 150 odd chapters of NeoGriffith being portrayed as the protagonist of his half of the story rather than the antagonist of Guts’, followed by seeing those “sinful black sheep” and “blind white sheep” up close as interesting and likeable characters in their own right who go out of their way to help people (Sonia rescuing Kushan children, later apostles helping humanity, eg), make friends with some of Guts’ rpg group including Schierke, at one point join Guts and co in a fight against a greater enemy while being directly paralleled to Guts (Zodd), etc suggests that maybe that particularly harsh description is not fully accurate or fair.

If Fantasia does turn out to be the (an?) Age of Darkness after all, I imagine that would also be depicted as a more dual thing depending on your perspective. For those getting eaten by dragons, yk, maybe Age of Darkness is a fair description. For those living in peace, maybe it’s not.

Also as an aside, to address a counterpoint I just came up with lol, I don’t think the relative tininess of Falconia vs the rest of the world has much bearing on this. Miura’s Berserk is pretty solely focused on this one particular chunk of the world, and there’s virtually no acknowledgement that Midland and the surrounding area is actually just a tiny microcosm of the world. I mean, the Godhand and the Idea of Evil are presumably not solely the manifestations of fantasy Europeans’ negative subconsciousnesses, but it’s their suffering and their inequal society that allows Griffith to manifest physically. No acknowledgement as to whether like, the wildly different societies throughout the world, some of which are probably more equal and less hit by plague and famine, and therefore more content, should counterbalance all the suffering in Midland and area lol.

To me this feels like a pretty typical issue/trope with medieval fantasy that Miura’s just kind of casually playing into bc he doesn’t particularly care about subverting it or making a point about it so much as he cares about using this established structure to tell his own story. Even during the Fantasia montage, we only saw medieval pseudo-Europe. The lone acknowledgement that the world is technically bigger than a stretch of land between Midland and fantasy India (+ Elfhelm) was the page of the bright light spreading across the Earth as seen from space. And like, a secretive conversation between 2 of Guts’ current allies (Magnifico and Roderick) discussing the possibility of colonialism lol.

Again, maybe we’ll see acknowledgement in the future? Maybe eventually the narrative will come out and say that yeah, it’s absolutely absurd to think that a happy kingdom whose residents number in the thousands is a beacon of hope for 99.99% of the world that has no way to get to it lol and is presumably, in theory, stuck with their own dragons and stuff now. Maybe Berserk will ultimately turn out to be a giant thoughtful subversion of European-esque fantasy stories that treat Europe as the centre of the world. But based on what we’ve seen so far I don’t think there’s much reason to assume that lol.

Like even the Elfhelm warlocks don’t point that out when they had the perfect chance to, they just say that it sucks that Griffith made his kingdom the only peaceful place, forcing people to choose between Fantasia and Falconia. They don’t say that the vast majority of the world doesn’t even get access to that choice lol, and so I don’t think it’s meant to be relevant.

I also want to point out that Miura redacted the Lost Chapter because it gave too much away too soon, and has since spent some time hinting about things those of us who’ve already read it probably know.

Like Flora doesn’t know what that something lurking in the abyss is, but we do, and it’s humanity’s dark, painful subconscious itself.

Griffith is essentially the avatar of humanity, hence why he’s humanity’s “desired,” and is remaking the world in humanity’s collective image. And like humanity isn’t all good or all evil but contains both, so does NeoGriffith, imo. Even the “Idea of Evil” isn’t evil itself, it simply fulfills a role humanity desires - the role of villain, essentially. It’s the reason why bad things happen, it’s the scapegoat for humanity.

The Hawk of Darkness is symbolic of the darkness of humanity - and that’s pretty much the point of Femto, I mean just check Slan’s heavy-handed Eclipse commentary of “this is what it means to be evil. This is what it means to be human” - and the Hawk of Light is symbolic of at least the potential humanity has to overcome that darkness, imo.

I’ve always puzzled over pain vs salvation there, and I still do, but hey one possibility is that it’s a suggestion that humanity’s over the Idea of Evil being the scapegoat that brings them pain (fate making bad things happen basically, so humanity has something to blame), and wants it to bring them salvation instead - light. And through NGriff’s transformation of the world, humanity reaches that light themselves by uniting in peace to survive against their own demons. Even outside of Falconia, humans are only going to be able to live in a world full of fantasy monsters by uniting together lol.

And like until I’m conclusively proven wrong I’m going to maintain that

Fantasia being defined through joining humanity together is pretty solidly framed as a positive thing. Maybe humanity working together in peace is light and salvation, love over hate, hope over hostility, reality over illusion (the ultimately meaningless differences that divided people), etc.

SO I guess at the end of the day what I think is that Griffith is simultaneously the Hawk of Darkness and the Hawk of Light, that while Fantasia has some downsides to say the least lol we’re not necessarily supposed to take Elfhelm Warlock dudes’ assessment as the be all end all either. We’re getting 2 sides to this utopia story and we’re probably meant to judge for ourselves whether it seems worth it or not. Schierke would say no and prioritize the darkness of Griffith, ie the Hawk of Darkness, Sonia would say yes and prioritize the light, the Hawk of Light, and neither are wrong. But idk, maybe both might be able to grow from seeing the other’s point of view and incorporating it into their own understanding of the world.

I’m also thinking this dark vs light stuff is going to come into play in a big way when Guts and Griffith confront each other, and I imagine that their relationship is actually going to get the final say in all this. Hate or love, hostility or hope, illusion or reality, the dead or the living, wickedness or sacredness. Does this not to a tee describe them post Eclipse vs pre Eclipse?

Maybe if the Age of Darkness is still to come afterwards, they’ll end up plunging the world back to its original status quo when they conflict and kill each other or whatever, and take Falconia/the world tree/whatever down with them. Maybe NGriff’s unfrozen heart will come into play as the final piece of the thematic puzzle if the Hawk of Light represents the light of humanity, which ofc includes love. Maybe all it will take to conclude the themes in a satisfying way is a moment of understanding of that “true light” between them, discovered in darkness, while they fight.

Like you’ll pry my reading of Berserk’s themes as consistently and thoroughly existing to symbolize Griffith and Guts’ relationship out of my cold dead hands lol.

Fuck sorry this got so long and meandering. What did I say about trying to keep my thoughts organized lol?

Anyway tl;dr I don’t know shit and I don’t think the world of Berserk actually makes much sense, but let me throw out some theories and interpretations of possible contradictions and weird ass world building lol. And I mean, Miura is pretty consistent in interviews about saying Berserk isn’t about plain old good vs evil, so it wouldn’t surprise me at all to get something more complex and interesting than “Griffith is the evil Hawk of Darkness tricking humanity into seeing him as the Hawk of Light, and Guts is going to save the world from him.”

OH SHIT AND I ALMOST FORGOT: I have no idea where Schierke calls Griffith “false,” so you’ll have to point that part out to me, unless it’s just a difference in translations or something. Sorry I can’t address that part, hopefully you’ll at least scroll to the end and see this even if it’s super tl;dr lol.

[cinnaminsvga]

A Boy Like You Preview | Yoongi

→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff → warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is don’t murder me!!! → words: anticipated 15k (?) → a/n: it’s like so fucking late rn and i have a midterm to study for but you know what....... you know what....... sometimes you gotta write blushy yoongi to make yourself forget that you are a poor college student whose boss just cut your work hours in half, so yea!!!!!! here’s whatever this is

There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:

The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.

You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are cold and umbrella-less.

You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.

Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadn't been so ridiculous after all.

Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.

In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered "thanks" leaving your lips.

He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.

He doesn't find the words, after all. You aren't too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid the rain.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you could return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.

You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm. 

——���

Umbrella boy has a name, and he happens to work on the same floor as you. You know this because he is standing right in front of you in all his bespectacled glory.

He ducks out of view the moment your eyes meet his. There is a stack of folders in his arms, and he bows his head until his nose touches manila. It's too late––he knows you caught him staring. He scurries behind walls of filing cabinets and desk cubicles, desperate to get back to his desk where he hopes you'll never find him.

The office floor is large, but it is not large enough to hide in. It takes only a few minutes until you find him hunched over his desk, every inch of space taken by enough towers of paper to cover a forest. It is no wonder that you never encountered your mysterious umbrella boy; he does a wonderful job of blending in. 

Your eyes trail his form, not out of any perverse intent, but just out of curiosity. You never would have guessed from his unassuming and meek nature, but the boy is devastatingly beautiful. The devil is in the details: you admire the soft slope of his nose to the adorable pout of his lips. His eyelids are charmingly mismatched and his cheeks are begging to be pinched. It takes a year’s worth of self-restraint to keep your hands at your sides, if only so you don’t scare him away before you can even introduce yourself. 

(You can already imagine your HR department contacting you about nonconsensual manhandling... You admit that you tend to get overzealous with your affection, especially when confronted with cute things. This boy would definitely need to watch out for you if he knows what’s best for him.)

((Also note to self: Stop having these psychopathic conversations with yourself. Being stuck inside the cage which is your brain is torture enough, so let’s not encourage it to get worse.))

There is a lanyard laced around his neck, the gaudy orange color of your company’s logo emblazoned across the thin material. And just out of your line of sight, you catch a glimpse of his ID. His name is––

“Y-Y/N?” He stutters out–no–he squeaks. Ah, so he’s noticed you. The folder in his hand slips out of his grasp, an avalanche of white tumbling all over his lap. He curses loudly, frantically sweeping away the mess under his desk, as if he could somehow magically make them disappear if he just kicked them hard enough. Unfortunately, the papers stay stubbornly tangible, and he is left with a halo of accounting reports around his workspace.

“Are you… umm…” You hesitate with your words, fearing that any sudden movement on your part might cause umbrella boy to combust on the spot. “Do you need help… picking those up?”

“I–Well, no–Yes, but–” His sentences are stilted, his brain struggling to catch up with his tongue. He clamps his mouth shut, then shakes his head like he’s trying to reboot himself. Finally, after a few more deep breaths, he goes, “No. I’m fine. Thank you for offering.” He says that, but he appears awfully content with staring holes into the keyboard of his laptop when he is speaking to you though. 

“Still… I’m terribly sorry for startling you,” you say, lips tugging downwards into a frown. You should have guessed he was skittish from how he had acted yesterday, but it’s quite a surprise to see one man so… disastrous, for lack of a better term. It’s awfully cute. “I just wanted to properly introduce myself and thank you for lending me your umbrella yesterday, but it seems like you already knew who I was.”

His face does a weird thing then and there. It almost appears like he was caught in a time loop, like someone was manually reversing and replaying his facial expressions like a video. It takes a few minutes for his little stroke to settle down, but even then, his cheeks remain a rosy pink. “I–I just… remembered your name during the company retreat the other month. I’m not weird or anything, I swear!”

“Well luckily, I was never going to accuse you of being weird anyway!” You laugh, trying to ease the perpetual look of anxiety on his face. However, it only seems to worsen his nerves with how quickly his skin starts to redden. “In fact, I should be apologizing for not remembering your name, Mister..?”

“Min Yoongi,” he replies, pausing for a second too long. He must have realized his delay because he coughs awkwardly into his forearm, averting his face away from you in a futile attempt to become nothing more than an abstract thought. 

He must be equipped with some sort of superpower, because you’re starting to feel his secondhand embarrassment flood through you like a tsunami. Are you that difficult to converse with? Does he want to be left alone so badly that he’s trying to subtlely tell you to fuck off? 

You’re about to start apologizing and scurry off back to your desk in barely concealed mortification when Yoongi clears his throat, his gaze fixed somewhere to your right. Whatever caught his attention must have been revolutionary with how large his eyes are, although last you remember is that the wall behind you is the same dull jailcell gray that you have come to know and hate. 

“I just… I’m sorry if I’m acting odd right now. I just wasn’t expecting you to come to my cubicle and I would’ve... I don’t know, tidied up? If I knew you were coming,” he mutters, propping his glasses back up when they start sliding down his nose. They make their slow descent back down immediately after, forever on an endless cycle of up and down his face. 

“You don’t have to clean up just for me! I’m not your manager or anything,” you say, surveying the absolute disaster zone that is his workspace. For his benefit, you sure hope that he has a map of his desk and filing cabinets, as it would have been a miracle otherwise if he memorized where anything was located in his personal office sty. “Though, it would be nice if you could see the bottom of your desk every once in a while.”

To your immense surprise, Yoongi lets out a resounding laugh at your quip. Though Yoongi isn’t a mute by any means, it isn’t like he spoke with much volume either. You hadn’t even thought your joke was funny enough to deserve a strained Caucasian™️ smile, so you appreciate that he had considered that you were even slightly funny. You love the pleasant tinkling of his laughter, so genuinely joyous that you can’t help but want to make a fool of yourself just so you can hear it again and again. 

When Yoongi stops, the familiar reddish hue that has made a home on his cheeks resurfaces, though it’s less from embarrassment now. His shoulders are more relaxed, and he doesn’t look like he wants to crawl out of his skin as much. He still has eyes averted away from you, however. “Sorry. I don’t know why I laughed too hard at that. I’m normally not this weird… I think it’s just the nerves.”

You cock your head to the side. “Nerves? From what?”

Yoongi freezes, mouth gaping open slightly. “I, umm…” He coughs into his white button-up sleeve, pupils shaking as he formulates a response. “Just from… work. Yeah, I just have a lot of paperwork to do this week and I’ve been, er, having difficulty relaxing.”

Yoongi visibly relaxes when you accept his flimsy excuse, not really lingering on the validity of his statement. “Oh, sure! Don’t overwork yourself too much, okay?” you say, smiling sweetly back at him. He stares, wide-eyed, not really sure how to go on with his life after he’d been blasted by the full force of your grin. 

God, you hope you remembered to use a toothpick during lunch. Was there spinach in your teeth? Oh fuck.

“Gah,” he intones, his brain not fully cooperating with his mouth just yet. If you were any more socially inept, you’d probably be doing the same. Eventually, he clears his throat and tries again. “Uh. Yes. I’ll try to do better next time.”

[shireness-says]

Playing the Part ch. 7: What is this Feeling?

Summary:  As a stage manager who's clawed her way up from bottom, Emma Swan can handle just about anything thrown her way. But does that include handsome lead actor Killian Jones? A CS Broadway AU.  Rated T. Also on AO3.  Prologue  Ch. 1  Ch. 2  Ch. 3 Ch. 4  Ch. 5  Ch. 6 

A/N: Even more feelings this chapter - starting to seem like a pattern with me, isn’t it? Chapter title taken from Wicked, purely for the feelings reference. You’re welcome.

Thanks once again go to @snidgetsafan, my brilliant beta. Sorry I’m a mess who can’t remember to edit her own chapter, love ya bunches.

Tags: @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @thejollyroger-writer, @mythologicalmango, @onceuponaprincessworld, @idristardis, @teamhook, @courtorderedcake, @aerica13, @revanmeetra87, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes. If you want to be tagged going forward (or taken off this list - I won’t be insulted!), shoot me a message, and I’ll make it happen.

Enjoy!

He tries to keep Liam’s words in mind; he really does. But while his brother’s encouragements carry Killian through the rest of rehearsals, they’re harder to remember in the minutes before the first preview performance when there’s a crowd full of eager theater-goers filing in, excited and expecting something marvelous.

Killian should feel confident; he knows his lines inside and out, backwards and forwards, and lord knows they’ve run the show start to finish enough times in rehearsal for there to be no concerns about choreography or scene changes anymore. He doesn’t feel confident, however. In fact, if he were forced to name it, he’d say this feeling is somewhat closer to panic - pulse beating frantically, stomach churning like a storm-tossed sea, and a rising conviction that everything is about to go wrong.

Maybe under other circumstances, he’d go find a quiet corner to release his anxiety in - screaming pointlessly seems like a fantastic outlet right about now - but they really, really don’t have time for that at the moment. There’s only 25 minutes until curtain, people are starting to fill the seats, and cast and crew are still scrambling everywhere to complete last-minute prep. Even if Killian were able to find an empty corner to scream into, there’s no way he wouldn’t be heard.

Since that’s not an option, Killian’s just doing his best to keep himself distracted. Luckily - or not, depending on whose shoes you’re standing in - Belle is just as much of a nervous wreck, and Killian is able to divert his attention to comforting her. Not that he’s alone in that effort; Will Scarlet no doubt has other things he should be doing, but is doing his best to buoy Belle’s spirits instead.

“God, I feel sick,” she moans, cradling her head as best she can without messing up her wig or makeup. “Why do I want to do this again?”

“Because you’re a bloody brilliant actress, love,” Will attempts to reassure, though the attempt falls a little flat.

“It doesn’t feel like it at the moment,” she admits. “God, what if this falls apart like last time? I don’t think I can bear it if that happens.”

“Yes, well last time was largely due to the meddling of other people,” Killian reminds her. “His twisted mind has no bearing on your talent, Belle. You’re a natural for this role. Don’t let him do more damage than he already did last time by letting him get in your head.” It’s in moments like these that Killian can see exactly the damage Belle’s ex did to her, undermining her self-confidence and leaving her convinced that disaster is lurking behind every stroke of apparent luck. It sets a small flame of fury burning in his heart, one that keeps chanting that his friend deserves more. It’s as good a reason as any to set aside his own nerves - the need to perform his best not just for himself, but for Belle so that she can piece her career back together.

“He’s right, lass,” Scarlet chimes in, slinging an affectionate arm around her shoulders to draw Belle closer into a comforting embrace. “No sense letting your thoughts dwell on a bitter old bastard. He’s not worth it; you’ve got too much talent for him to touch.”

Belle offers a relieved smile at their words, and Killian can feel the tension marginally lift from the atmosphere. They fit together, he thinks, Belle and Will, like two oddly shaped puzzle pieces that shouldn’t connect but do all the same. Scarlet is all rough edges where Belle is the picture of grace, but their oversized hearts seem to still beat in time - if they’re ever willing to admit it. Killian hopes they will soon; as amusing as this flirtation is, there’s too much chemistry and potential for them not to eventually act on it, hopefully before everyone is awash in their cast-off pheromones. Belle would give Will some needed focus, and Will would in turn grant her more levity while giving her the support she’s so sorely lacked in her past. That might be the real proof of a compatible relationship, Killian thinks; two pieces that complement each other rather than match exactly.

“Now what do you say you help me make the final checks?” he asks her. “Make sure all the glow tape is bright enough for you to find in the dark?”

Belle even manages to chuckle a little, surprising them all. “Alright,” she replies, “I suppose that’s as a good a distraction as any.”

Killian could use the distraction himself, but he senses now is his cue to leave. Though this may have started as a communal attempt to buck Belle up, things seem to be veering towards a more private moment, and he’s willing to let the lovebirds have their space. Approvingly, he watches Scarlet leap to his feet to offer Belle his hand up from their seated positions before quietly slipping away. It’s not his moment to share anymore, and he may as well check in with David anyways.

As Killian begins the somewhat meandering path towards the dressing rooms, his thoughts turn to Emma, as they so often do when left to their own devices. Despite being in the same building, he’s hardly seen her all day, Emma nothing more than a blonde, black-clad blur as she runs around making last minute preparations. Is she as nervous as he is? Emma always seems like a beacon of calm collectedness, but Killian wonders if it’s all a front. Somehow, it’s comforting to think that she might be just as anxious about this performance as he is.

Whatever the case, as the saying says, the show must go on. Before Killian emerges into the well-lit hallway of the dressing rooms, he takes the chance to breathe deeply to try and shake out some of the jitters. It doubtless won’t work as well as he needs, but Liam had a point, back when he visited - actors feed off each other’s energy, and they really don’t need a theater full of fretful, neurotic performers right now. Fake it ‘til you make it, or so the saying goes.

So after a final pause to collect himself, Killian steps out into the hallway to find David and deliver what feels like the performance of a lifetime.

———

Emma’s mind feels like an ever-expanding, frantic to-do list of items both personal and professional. Honestly, she should probably turn off the former; lord knows she’s got enough to worry about with the show alone. But Neal’s been on her about Thanksgiving ever since Henry declared his intention to stay in town for the parade, despite previous agreements that he’d spend the holiday with Neal and his family. When the show first started gathering buzz, the cast had been asked to perform on the parade broadcast, and Henry is ecstatic at the prospect of actually getting good seats to watch it. They’d tried going once, years ago, but the crowds had been thick despite the cold temperatures, and their view had been somewhat obstructed. Emma doesn’t blame Henry for wanting to stick around to see the parade in person instead of on TV - she’d do the same, and Henry’s own declarations on the subject make it impossible for his dad to really argue about how Emma’s keeping him from his son.

(It also has the added bonus of Emma getting her kid on the holiday, which she’s not celebrating internally. Not at all.)

But with less than a week left before the holiday and three days before Henry’s birthday, Neal is on her to give him a weekend Henry can come up on the train for a “real family holiday”. His words. As if the dinners Emma and Henry have been attending for years on Thanksgiving with Ruby and Granny and whatever other stragglers they manage to attract don’t count. Asshole.

That’s a later problem, though, because honestly, Emma’s got more than enough on her plate right now. There’s last minute checks of the cameras streaming to backstage and reassuring Arthur that yes, his name has been spelled correctly in the program (Arthur King, for God’s sake, it’s not even hard to spell), and of course this is the moment that the headsets develop a weird static background noise, which Kristoff really needs to fix before the curtain goes up. It’s chaos, in short. Emma can only hope that she looks on the outside like she’s in control because on the inside, she’s panicking a little at the thought of all that needs doing. They’re ready; consciously, she knows this. But it’s hard to remember that when people are filling into the velvet-covered seats for the first time and the only thoughts left in Emma’s head are about all the things that could possibly go wrong.

When the lights go down, though, all those thoughts disintegrate. As backwards as it sounds, the actual show has always been the easy part for Emma. No matter what happens onstage, what’s done is done. If something goes wrong, all she can do is react and try to mitigate any fallout. There’s an odd comfort to that, the sheer transience of this art form. All Emma can do from her perch is call the cues, and leave it to her assistant stage managers to put out fires as necessary.

Thankfully, there’s been none of that tonight. On the crew side of things, the scene changes are running as smooth as butter. Emma’s trained her crew well; she’ll have to buy them all drinks after opening night if this keeps up.

The same can’t quite be said of the cast, however. There’s always nerves associated with the first few performances; Emma’s always thought it’s part of the reason for previews. Killian is visibly tense, however, at least to Emma. He’s been such an outstanding actor during rehearsals that Emma had kind of forgotten exactly how inexperienced he is. He’d essentially been plucked out of chorus and supporting roles and shoved straight into a leading part, this role undeniably his largest to date. It makes sense that he’d be feeling the pressure of that. Even if Emma can spot his nerves from her perch in the booth, she’s not too concerned about the audience picking up on that same discomfort; if they do, they’ll likely write it off as a Darcy mannerism. The character is supposed to be socially awkward, famously so. It’ll work.

Emma only hopes his nerves won’t manifest in a more visibly obvious way.

———

Killian hadn’t held much hope that getting on stage would help his nerves, and on that front, he’s not disappointed. If he looks half as uncomfortable onstage as he feels, he must be quite the sight. Knowing that Darcy is supposed to look a little out of place is little consolation. The whole while, he can’t help but feel like a fraud, like someone they just plucked off the street, stuffed him into these fancy clothes, and shoved onto the stage. The weeks and months of preparation don’t matter, the conscious knowledge that he’s prepared for this doesn’t matter; suddenly, the crushing weight of his inexperience smashes him right in the face. And it’s terrifying.

He’s making it through, for the most part, reassuring himself the whole while that this will get easier the more he does it. It helps that the first act is much less demanding than the second, with the letter, Pemberley, and all the rest of it occurring after the intermission.

But then, when they hit the Netherfield parlor scene, the worst case scenario happens.

He’s supposed to banter back and forth with Belle about what makes a lady ‘accomplished’, but as soon as he opens his mouth, the words are gone. Missing in action. Not to be retrieved by the means of mortals. He’s practiced these words over and over, rehearsed them on this very stage, practiced them with Henry in his dressing room, but that doesn’t matter. He’s forgotten every single one of them, right here in front of an honest-to-god audience.

Shit.

Killian isn’t really sure how he gets himself out of that mess; he doesn’t have a conscious memory of it. He manages to force out some words, he knows, but he couldn’t tell you what they were. Doubtless the wrong ones. The only thing he’s certain of is that Belle and Regina must have saved his arse back there; he’ll have to send them flowers after he’s inevitably fired for absolute incompetency.

That’s the obvious outcome, he concludes, waiting backstage before his next entrance. Clearly, he can’t handle the barest expectations of his job; the obvious answer is firing. It’s been a nice three months and a performance, now he’ll go live out the rest of his career in shame and obscurity. Maybe find a nice job where he doesn’t ever have to speak in front of people again. Yeah. That sounds nice - not to mention, more appropriate for his obvious lack of public speaking skills.

Somehow, he manages to make it through the rest of the first act without any further snafus - he suspects by sheer fear alone. Even though the applause is suitably loud, he can’t help but feel that it’s not intended for him, and is instead in appreciation of his scene partners or the supporting players. It’s with a heavy heart that he all but slinks offstage during intermission with the full intention to go have a breakdown in the nearest uncluttered corner.

———

Ok, Killian’s little onstage brain fart wasn’t exactly the most convenient thing on Earth. But at the same time, Belle and Regina covered it like the pros they were, and the audience doesn’t seem to have cared. Really, Emma doubts that anyone outside of the production even noticed his goof. Of course, based on her experience with Killian, she also doubts that he knows that, or that it will keep him from beating himself up over it.

Sure enough, they’re barely a minute into intermission - by all accounts, when Emma should get a little break while the rest of the crew sets the stage for the second act - before Mulan calls her over the headset.

“Hey Boss?” she starts, weirdly hesitant. “Jones is off sulking in a corner. He’s not in the way or anything, just… what do you want us to do about him?”

Emma sighs heavily, though she somehow manages to repress the eye roll that’s almost an automatic response by this point in her life. “I’ll be down in a sec to… I don’t know, give him a pep talk or something. Where’s he camped out?”

“In that weird unusable corner backstage left.”

“Ok thanks. Just hold on a moment, and I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing, Emma.”

She tells herself as she makes her way down the back stairs that it’s all in service of the production, but it’s more personal than that. Killian is her… something. Not paramour or suitor, obviously, but… friend? Maybe? Whatever label he wears, he’s special, and that makes it Emma’s particular duty to build him back up during what is undoubtedly an episode of self-doubt for him.

Sure enough, he’s right where Mulan said he would be, sitting in what looks to be an uncomfortable position on the low brick ledge at the foot of the wall, head cradled in his hands. Frankly, he makes quite the pathetic picture.

“What’s up with you?” she asks bluntly, causing Killian to jerk his head up in wide-eyed surprise, before deflating just as quickly.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he apologizes miserably. “I know I’ve gone and messed the whole thing up. Whatever reprimand you’re about to deliver, I completely understand.”

Emma snorts in response to that self-flagellation. It’s apparent that he’s deep into the self-loathing portion of his evening. “Ok, well, you clearly don’t, because this isn’t that big a deal.”

Killian scoffs, clearly skeptical, though in his costume it has more the effect of a kid throwing a fit on Halloween. “Don’t patronize me, Swan,” he warns.

“I’m not!” she insists. “What do you think previews are for?”

“Publicity,” he states with utter certainty, looking at Emma like she’s the one who’s lost her mind.

“Ok, yeah, eventually,” she concedes, “but honestly, they’re mostly about working out the kinks. And your little… incident today is just another kink to iron out.”

“I think that’s selling it short, Swan.”

“I swear, Killian, it’s not. This happens. The beauty of live theater is that what’s done is done - there’s no sense dwelling on it. And honestly, the audience didn’t even notice.”

“You noticed,” he points out obstinately.

“Yeah, but I’ve read the script, like, twenty thousand times. I have started literally running this show in my sleep. I’m supposed to know when you mess up,” she replies. “Look, that’s not the point. The point is, no one out there cares,” Emma emphasizes, sweeping a hand in the general direction of the house. “A lot of shows take previews as a chance to see what does and doesn’t work in the script, and then change the lines before opening night. Some people literally come to the previews so they can see what changed. If anyone comes back later and notices, they’ll just think it was a script change.”

“Really?” Killian asks, looking up with wide eyes in a manner that’s almost childlike, reminding Emma a little of Henry when he was little and just beginning to discover all the wonderful facts the world had to offer.

“Really. They’ll think it’s a cool Easter egg, or whatever the kids call it. Now if you’re ready to stop moping around, we’ve got a show to finish. Liam wouldn’t want you to be sulking back here and fixating on things you can’t change.”

“That’s low, Swan, dragging a man’s brother into this,” he chides, but he’s standing up all the same with the hint of a smile on his face as he attempts to brush the dust off his rear (which Emma does not stare at, thank you very much).

“Yeah, well, I did what I had to,” she retorts before continuing in a softer tone. “You’ll be ok? No need to drag someone over to watch you?”

“I’ll be fine, Swan. Now go, you’ve got a show to run, and don’t have time for my nonsense in the least.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, already heading for the back stairs. He’s right; they’re due to start any minute. But she really does think he’ll be alright - can see it in the determined nod he makes to himself before setting off back towards his dressing room to change coats in record time. She hadn’t seen this side of Killian before, the intense self-doubt, but all her experience with his hardworking and easygoing nature suggests he’ll bounce back.

The show will go on, and Emma thinks she’s even managed to convince Killian of that too.

(She sure hopes so, at least - otherwise, they’re all screwed.)

———

He’s still not fully confident, walking back onstage for the second act, but he does feel slightly better. With Emma’s words in mind, he’s at least able to appreciate that the applause maybe is for him after all - though he’d have to be truly dense to believe the response after his solo was intended for anyone else. Under other circumstances, he might feel guilty that he forgot his brother’s words, or that he instead latched onto the reassurances of his crush, but desperate times had called for desperate measures, and words of wisdom are appreciated from any and every corner.

Killian’s not sure if it’s the change in attitude or just a change in perspective that causes it, but the second act really does feel like it goes better. With Emma’s reassurance that the audience has no idea when things go wrong ringing in his ears, paired with the freshly remembered promise Liam extracted from him to not get too stuck in his own head, Killian is able to reclaim some of the illusion that things are just like in rehearsals, without the pressure of a paying audience. It certainly can’t be called a perfect show, but he likes to think that he and Belle made for an engaging onstage couple and salvaged the mistakes from the first half.

The audience certainly seems to agree, if the curtain call applause is anything to go by. Belle, of course, receives the largest round of applause - deservedly so, if you ask Killian - but he receives his own share of whistles and cheers. The sound of their audience’s response fills Killian with a warm glow of pride in what he’s accomplished, even despite the rough start, and helps him remember why he started on this adventure in the first place.

After everyone’s taken their bows, the cast raises their arms towards the booth in the traditional thanks for the crew’s efforts. It a compulsory gesture, one countless productions have repeated day in and day out, but it’s entirely heartfelt on Killian’s behalf - especially after the reassurance Emma offered him at intermission. He’ll thank her later with his words, but for now, he stares towards the bright lights and the woman he knows is there, even if he can’t see her, and hopes she understands just how deep his thanks truly run.

———

Despite any proverbial rough seas, Emma’s pleased with how the first preview went. Yes, there’s still plenty that needs working on, but this whole thing is intended as a learning curve, and she has faith that by the time the show formally opens, they’ll have smoothed everything out to a seamless final product. She’ll make it happen.

In the meantime, there’s still plenty to do. The stage has already been reset, and the stagehands dismissed for the night (though Emma thinks she caught a glimpse of Will Scarlet hanging around a few minutes ago, likely he’s stuck around for reasons more personal than professional), but Emma likes to double check everything, just in case. Call it a personal habit, one leftover from her own stagehand days. Plus, she likes to take a quick breeze through the dressing rooms to make sure nothing important got left behind - or, god forbid, on the floor, where Ms. Blue will make that clicky noise about how no one is taking proper care of her costumes. Emma would like to avoid that outcome if at all possible - somehow that tiny woman is deceptively intimidating.

She thinks Kristoff might still be around here somewhere, messing with the mics and whatever else he does - some aspects of sound design and tech are still a real mystery to Emma - so she detours to Dorothy’s perch on stage right to grab her wireless headset before wandering back to the dressing rooms. Kristoff mostly managed to fix the static before curtain, but there was still an annoying little buzz the whole time. He probably already knows about it and it’s on his own personal to-do list, but Emma figures that bringing the devices to him wouldn’t hurt. A helping hand and a reminder all in one, if you will. It’s well within her authority anyways.

She never makes it to the podium, however, as Jones suddenly steps out from the hallway to the dressing rooms, dressed once again in his street clothes. As much as she’s ogled him in costume, Emma has to admit - he’s just as good-looking in a henley and plaid. It was just as true before she saw him in costume for the first time, but knowing how well those breeches display his ass just adds another level of appreciation for that same ass in jeans.

“Can I speak with you for a moment, Swan?” he requests.

“Yeah, of course,” she replies. “Is here fine, or…?” There’s no one around, but still, if he wants to have any sort of official, job-related private discussion, they should probably go find a room with a door and no chance of interruptions.

“Oh, yes, here’s just fine,” he smiles, as if he read her mind. “I just wanted to thank you, Swan, for earlier.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary —” Emma begins, but Killian firmly interrupts her, hand raised in a halting motion.

“It is to me,” he insists. “You may not think you provided much of a service, but to me, your words were...indispensable. Just what I needed in that moment. You may not have noticed, Swan,” he chuckles, “but I was a bit of a mess back there.”

Despite his heavy words to start the sentence, his self-deprecating teasing at the end lends some needed levity to the exchange, allowing Emma to relax ever-so-slightly despite her continuing discomfort with being thanked.

“Yeah, maybe a little bit,” she laughs, causing a wide smile to break out on his face. God, it’s a nice smile. Goes great with those street clothes she was checking out a minute ago.

“Oi, thanks for that,” he teases. “I can say that, you can’t.” An attempt at a wink follows, making Emma laugh in turn. It’s hard not to - his idea of a wink is closer to a facial spasm, both eyes closing instead of one and eyebrows doing the work of mimicking a wink. “My point is, I needed a little kick in the pants. Thank you for doing so kindly and gracefully.”

Emma snorts. “‘Gracefully’? That seems a bit far.”

“Well I don’t know,” he defends. “You were fairly tactful about it. Or at least didn’t directly tell me to pull my head out of my arse. I’d call that a graceful approach.”

Honestly, it’s hard to take his defense seriously when he phrases it like that. The barely suppressed smile, still evident in the creases around his eyes, doesn’t help either. “Still, graceful?” she demands. “That’s, like the last word I’d associate with myself.”

“I don’t know, Swan, I certainly think you live up to your namesake,” Killian responds, far more earnestly than Emma would have expected. Is that really how he sees her? That’s… weird, but there’s something nice about that knowledge too. It’s comforting to know that at least one person who’s not her kid thinks so highly of her.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. If Killian’s face falls a little bit at the end of their bantering - because God, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? - then Emma pretends not to notice. Or care.

“Er, no. That’ll do it. Again, thank you.” There’s a moment of empty silence before he nods resolutely. “Have a good evening, Swan.” And just like that, he’s gone again.

Emma’s struck with a small pang of guilt over his sudden departure. They were kind of having a moment, after all, before she abruptly cut it short. But it’s for the best, isn’t it? Keep the professional boundaries, and not get too close?

No, the thing to remember about today is not two emotionally vulnerable conversations with Killian, but how well the show went, and how much the audience liked it. That’s it. End of story.

(Even if those blue eyes are wide enough to get lost in, and his ass really does look great in a variety of pants.)

[kiruuuuu]

Me too, @ruaniamh. Me too :) Thank you so much for this request because I’ll gladly make Doc suffer some more! 💖 (Rating M, no mutual suffering cos Jäger is actually having a great time in this one, non-explicit sex, ~2.5k words)

.

“You look tired”, Blitz remarks right as Doc finishes his examination and earns himself a withering glare.

“Seems like your arm has healed. Maybe now you’ll think twice about engaging in any sport with the small word ‘ultimate’ in its title, even if it’s followed by ‘frisbee’. And yes, I am indeed tired”, Doc replies icily, “and you and your teammates are a large part as to why. Did you know I received a call last night about what I thought to be a medical emergency which turned out to be the impromptu funeral of a rabbit which wasn’t even dead? It must’ve taken a few sips from Bandit’s rum bottle because it showed very similar symptoms in that both of them were largely lethargic with spontaneous bouts of activity, if you can call running into a tree head first a hobby. With how often Bandit does it, I’d say it counts.”

“That’s exactly the reason why I’m mentioning it”, Blitz continues, incomprehensibly excited, “because we actually have a present for you. We pitched in together since you’ve done so much for us, went above and beyond, and we wanted to show you just how much we appreciate all that you’re doing.”

Oh. This is – unexpected. For a few blissful seconds in which the existence of a universe with frightfully idiotic special operators seems nothing but a fever dream, Doc is actually flattered and moved by the gesture. Then suspicion takes over. “…what is it?”

“You’ve been stressed recently and so we thought a vacation is just the thing you need.”

They’re not wrong, though admittedly, Doc could always use a vacation, he just normally doesn’t allow himself to take a rest, abandon his work and the people who count on him. Because as much as he likes to complain, he does genuinely believe they’re good, hard-working people who are able to change the world for the better and he’s proud to serve by their side, honoured for the opportunity to befriend this many compassionate, attentive -

“So we bought you a stay in an all-inclusive hotel in Spain. For an entire week!”

Doc just looks at the beaming German in front of him. He would’ve taken anything, anything, even the bitter cold of the arctic over having literally nothing to do. He likes to go hiking, explore cities and landscapes, and what he doesn’t enjoy is laying in the sun all day wasting away. “That’s uh -”, he starts and is interrupted by a cheery: “You’re welcome! And don’t bring too many books, I’m sure you’ll find enough to do once you’re there.”

And the last wink really should’ve made him realise what was going on.

.

“You”, Doc says loudly, loud enough to be audible over the busy chatter in the luxurious lobby, carpet thick, windows tall and spotless, pillars actual marble, and points at the person whom he’s addressing, “you. I – this… you are fucking kidding me. This isn’t happening. I’m out. I’m going fucking home. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck were they thinking?”

People have begun to stare and Jäger walks over, suitcase in tow, so Doc doesn’t have to yell anymore. “I’m pretty sure I can guess”, he replies and sounds entirely too upbeat about this whole disaster of a situation, “you know, Elias has been going on about you and me not showing enough affection to each other.”

So Blitz thought he’d play marriage counsellor. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Not only is everyone on the base still convinced the two of them are a couple, now they’re also meddling in their alleged affairs. Even though it’s only noon and Doc got enough sleep last night, he’s beginning to feel exhaustion weighing down his bones. “Did they really -” Book an expensive hotel for a week so Doc and Jäger could have some quality time together? The thought is too horrifying to actually say out loud.

Jäger shrugs and nods. “Seems that way, hm? I was confused why the lady behind the counter told me my ‘partner’ had arrived already.”

“I need something to drink.”

“Knock yourself out. It’s all inclusive.”

.

Doc does indeed knock himself out. He spends the first evening in the hotel bar, bemoaning his fate to everyone who doesn’t manage to get away fast enough and the first night hugging the really quite beautiful toilet while Jäger just giggles at him. He doesn’t seem any less intoxicated than Doc himself but apparently is more adept at holding his liquor – at least for a while. They somehow manage to take shifts in sleeping in their double bed (because of course they’re going to have to share a bed) and vomiting and they end up looking like zombies during breakfast. Blitz sends a text to Jäger about whether they’re enjoying their surprise and Doc only barely restrains himself from answering with a barrage of insults.

There really isn’t anything to do, so when Jäger goes to sleep off the food coma from the excellent breakfast buffet, Doc visits the beach and seeks shelter under a parasol where he tries to read one of the many books he brought until his eyes are falling closed as well. The sweltering heat together with the bright sun are headache inducing even through the painkillers he took pre-emptively this morning, and so he resorts to the one thing which never fails to help: dozing. It’s been a while since he was free from all obligations and duties and so he’s unlearned what to do when he’s not constantly anticipating the next emergency.

He’s awoken by a gentle touch to his hand and blinks groggily into the bright red fabric of the parasol which has miraculously moved to ensure he’s still in its shadow. Going by the fact that Jäger is now perched on another lounger next to him, it’s safe to assume he has to thank the German for saving him from the fate of ending up as red as a boiled lobster.

“Can you get my back? I want to go swimming in a bit.” Jäger holds out a bottle of sunscreen and switches over to Doc’s beach chair when he accepts it with a sigh. “Have you seen the dudes around here? It’s like a gay paradise. Pure eye candy.”

“You should’ve asked one of the prettier ones to smear sun cream all over you”, Doc grumbles as he rubs the cool lotion into the skin of Jäger’s back, barely resisting the urge to draw a dick on him first.

“I did. He’s currently at it.”

Doc snorts, amused for exactly as long as it takes for him to notice Jäger’s small moan while he’s massaging the back of his neck. A terrifying thought dawns on him. “Please tell me you don’t get horny when you’re bored.”

“Of course I do. What else is there to do? Just take a look around, there’s so many gorgeous guys wearing shockingly little and I bet they want to get away from their nagging fake husbands too.”

He pushes against Jäger’s shoulder blades, causing him to lean forward, and dips his hand into the back of his swimming trunks. Better safe than sorry – he once got a nasty sunburn right above his waistline and cursed himself for not being more careful. “I refuse to believe that anyone out there shares our fate. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Also, if you fuck a stranger in our bed, I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“Alright, I’ll stay classy then and fuck them on a toilet or something. I saw you ogle that one brunette though and the same goes for you. No fucking with women in our bed, and if it’s a dude, you better invite me to join.”

“Is that really all there is to do here? Flirt with people?”

Jäger shrugs. “You can go for a swim with me.”

Their banter is oddly freeing. Because no matter how much Doc doesn’t want to be here in this hot hell, at least he’s not alone. He likes Jäger as a person and their mutual exasperation helped them bond even further – maybe he should change his perspective and view this week as a spontaneous holiday together with a friend. Yeah, he can do that. So he finds himself nodding. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“Wait, you should probably apply some sunscreen too. I’ll help.” And as Jäger’s hands gently dig into his muscles, causing him to hum in approval, Doc realises something about himself he didn’t know before. He also gets horny when he’s bored.

He’s just never been this bored before.

.

“Look, Gustave, you’re a great guy and I really enjoyed your company, but I have to be honest with you – I’m not the kind of person to encourage affairs”, the cute brunette woman tells him with a soft, regretful smile.

He blinks at her. It was perfect, they spent the better part of two hours talking, getting to know each other and making each other laugh. Hers is melodic and sweet, the lines in the corners of her eyes alluring and the fact that she’s actually successful and happy as a freelancer nothing but impressive. She’s caring and a great listener and - “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you with your husband. I’m sorry, but I don’t do this kind of thing. If you’re unhappy, I’m not the person with whom you should talk. He is.” And with a last squeeze of his hand, she vanishes into a different corner of the vast and uncomfortably dark bar, leaving Doc to put his head in his hands and take a deep breath.

Someone takes her place with a bitter grin which speaks of solidarity. “No luck either?”, Jäger asks.

“No. She also went right past couple and directly to marriage. Maybe we should stop hanging out together.”

“That only works if we’re not sleeping in the same room. Feel free to book one for yourself because I’m definitely staying for free.”

“Why so optimistic, did you actually manage to score a romantic public bathroom blow job?”

“Ah, not yet. But I’m still looking.” Jäger takes another sip from his brightly coloured drink as if he hasn’t had enough the previous night, and lets his gaze travel through the room, allowing for Doc to study him in peace. He’s actually not bad company, a bit immature at times but even Doc got caught up in splashing around in the sea earlier, and he entertained him by explaining exactly how he could take all the electronics in their room apart to construct a microwave, thus allowing him to microwave Nutella to the perfect consistency to eat it with a spoon directly out of the jar. Doc stated that he’d just need to put the jar out in the sun or change the thermostat in their room and Jäger called him a spoilsport in return. He really isn’t that bad. It could be worse.

“Marius”, he says pensively and is immediately granted Jäger’s full attention, “do you… want to go back to our room?”

He doesn’t understand at first, reacts with confusion at Doc’s odd tone of voice but once he gets it, his eyes widen. Nodding eagerly, he attempts to finish his drink and answer simultaneously, resulting in a coughing fit which leaves Doc grinning.

The grin fades as soon as they shut the door behind them.

They don’t even manage to undress fully before Doc is buried to the hilt, and so Jäger gets to try his hand at multitasking once more, this time pulling it off without a hitch: he’s riding, taking off his shirt and moaning filth at the same time while Doc grabs two handfuls of his plump backside and meets his movements, idly wondering just how thick the walls between rooms are.

.

It ends up being almost compulsive. They try their best to find other activities, join people they don’t know in beach volleyball or badminton, go swimming every day, take walks, browse the internet on their phones or on Jäger’s laptop, but there’s a surprising amount of hours in the day and some of them actually make it impossible to leave their air-conditioned room because they’re entirely too hot. So they really have no other choice.

Soon, the other guests’ reactions to merely seeing them span a wide range, among them outright disgust, knowledgable smirks and supportive smiles. One retiree even approaches them with a mischievous grin and lets them know he’d be up for a threesome if they’re looking, but Doc quickly sends him away before Jäger can even think about agreeing.

It happens more than once that Doc finds himself on their bed, Jäger entirely too loud while on his hands and knees before him with a frothing mixture of what Doc identifies to be his own come as well as the coconut oil they’ve grown fond of using dripping down his scrotum and he doesn’t even have the energy to be scandalised anymore. He’s accepted his fate by now, and if his fate is to survive a gruellingly carnal sex holiday, then so be it.

He’s stopped trying to correct people who call Jäger his husband. He even makes the mistake of signing a postcard his friend sends back to Hereford.

.

“So, how was your vacation?”, Blitz asks with a shit eating grin while they’re having lunch, sharing a curry IQ made which drew both the GSG9 as well as the GIGN operators together, resulting in six expectant faces turning to Doc and Jäger at the question.

“It was really fucking hot”, Jäger replies like an idiot and Doc wishes him physical harm.

“I bet it was”, Bandit mutters into his meal and earns a few snorts.

“You definitely look more relaxed than before”, Blitz takes over again, not wanting the conversation to derail this soon.

“Do I?” Doc certainly doesn’t feel more relaxed, his muscles are aching and his penis is still sore.

“Yeah, you’re positively glowing. So you both enjoyed yourselves?”

“Or each other, more like.” Bandit again. And that is it.

It can’t be that no one is taking Doc seriously, not when he stoops to actually holding a funeral speech for a fucking rabbit for his colleagues, not when he’s sweated and bled and worked himself raw for them. It’s ridiculous, absolutely absurd and, frankly, insulting. He can only imagine the reactions were he to actually start dating someone else and it’s bad enough he has to deal with his family thinking they’re together because they refuse to listen as well and why in the world is his dick hard. No, really. Why. This is probably the most inopportune -

“Did you make the curry with coconut milk?”, Jäger wants to know from IQ and judging by the vague panic in his expression, Doc surmises that he’s in a similar state. And oh. Does this mean he can never eat or smell coconut again without getting a boner? “I, uh, just need to go to the bathroom real quick.”

And while Jäger flees, Doc feels his own erection twitch in his pants. “Yeah”, he says distractedly, “me too.”

The snickering follows him all the way to the bathroom door and yet is soon forgotten. Seems like he’s not too tired for now.

[avixenwrites-blog]

[battlefield pt II]

Note:

I might write another few chapters and end it somehow. Frankly, I don’t see it being something I can just quickly play out. Maybe another two chapters or more, I’m really not sure yet. It’s based on the song Battlefield by Jordin Sparks. frankly, I don’t see it being something I can just quickly play out. Maybe another two chapters or more, I’m really not sure yet. There may or may not be smut by the end of this, I’m not quite sure just how I want to go with it yet.

IF YOU DON’T LIKE SEEING AJ WRITTEN AS THE BAD GUY IN THINGS, DO NOT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, READ THIS SHIT, OKAY? IF YOU’RE NOT A FAN OF ANGST DON’T READ THIS EITHER.

PART ONE 

Pairing:

Baron Corbin x Reader x AJ Styles; Baron Corbin x Reader endgame.

Words:

2170, we’re getting more of a plot here.

Almost as soon as she slid the key in the keycard reader, she felt this sense of dread grow and spread over her whole body like a cancer. Stepping into the room proved her fears and that sense of dread completely invalid because the room was empty and the bed hadn’t even been slept in. But there was a note on the desk and she paused for a second, eyes flitting over the minimalist hotel stationary as she took a few deep breaths and fought the urge to get bitter and angry.

If she hadn’t went to the bar with some of the girls and hooked up with Baron, she would have been here in her hotel room alone all night. AJ’s excuse this time was he had signings and a workout session early in the morning so he planned to room with ‘the boys’ that night and meet her for lunch. Before she could stop it, the bitterness was back.

[ oh he had a workout alright. She was probably about 5’8 and blonde with legs that won’t quit.] she thought to herself as she slipped off her shoes and wiggled out of the jeans and t shirt she’d worn the night before and then, she went to start a hot shower for herself.

As she stepped under the water, she tried to pull herself together, mentally prepare herself the best way to handle AJ when he finally dragged his ass back to their room. The tears stung at her eyes but she reminded herself that she couldn’t cry and she didn’t have the right to be upset because last night, she’d done the same exact thing that she believed AJ had been doing for the past two years. “I need to get a grip.” was repeated over and over like a mantra.

X.X.X.X

AJ pulled himself apart from Sarah and sat up in the hotel bed, yawning. One quick look at his watch had him going into a five alarm panic and he was up, shoving his sweats on, grabbing the clothes he’d worn out with Luke and Karl the night before. Hastily, he dropped a kiss onto Sarah’s forehead and she stirred, sitting up, giving him a sad look.

“You’re leaving me?”

“You know I can’t stay this time, hon.. Remember?”

“You’re going to break up with her, right?” Sarah’s hand raised, it tangled in sleep mussed platinum blonde and AJ swallowed hard.

[ you can’t keep this up. you’re going to have to choose one or the other. And you know (yourfirstname) , you’ve known her since you were in high school. ]

[ but you love Sarah.]

[ but it would crush ( yourfirstname) if you ended things. And she’s more settled, she’s got a career, got a plan for her life. And, she loves you. She’s always loved you. This is a rough patch and you’ve got to work it out, you have to try.]

The mental dilemma raged on in his mind but AJ nodded and smiled, and then, as convincingly as possible, he did the only thing he knew to do at the moment. He lied.

He’d been doing a lot of that lately and he was really starting to hate himself for it.

X.X.X.X

The knock on their hotel room door with AJ calling her name from the other side had her scowling at herself a little in the mirror as she finished applying her lipstick. If she only had the guts to end this whole thing.. but before she could finish the thought, AJ was standing in the  doorway of the bathroom, looking at her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t know I was going to come out a day early.” she muttered the words quietly, even as her stomach churned bitterly and the bitter taste filled her mouth again at saying them, at her even being stupid enough to stay. It wasn’t like she lacked options, it wasn’t like she didn’t already have a clear plan in her life and it wasn’t like she needed his lying, cheating, shitty excuses and gift giving ass.

He just felt safe, he was stable and comfortable and she’d known him almost her entire life.

[everybody has a rough patch.. your mom even said that she had quite a few with your dad.]

[ your father left, though. Eventually, things got so bad between them that he just couldn’t bullshit anymore and he walked out.]

[ AJ is the man you gave up pretty much everything for. Remember? Your mother hated him so much that she cut you out of her life, that she threw you out when she thought that you were pregnant and that you and AJ were going to get married. Now, because he’s famous, she suddenly wants to come around, she’s always in your ear about how you better not ‘mess this up’ for yourself.]

“No, I shoulda been here. I shouldn’t have bailed on ya last night.” AJ twiddled his thumbs and sighed. She shrugged it off and he felt all the more guilty about what he’d really been doing, why he really hadn’t been with her. He wandered over and slipped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “We’ll do whatever you wanna do today, baby. To make up for it.” he was at least trying, hell. She bit her lip and stepped away just slightly and he glared a little. “C’mon, I said I was sorry. If it wasn’t for the interviews and my early workout, baby, I’d have been here.”

“I know.”

[ I know you’re a filthy, cheating, scumbag liar. And now, I am too. I hate you for what you made me into.] she thought to herself as she finished combing out her hair and drying it. “I wasn’t by myself. I went out for drinks with some of the women who work with you. They’re real sweet, darlin.” she smiled at him, managing to keep herself from exploding in anger at the look in his eyes, the anger that suddenly appeared making his eyes seem less clear blue and more like a stormy sea.

“You won’t have to do that anymore this weekend, I promise.”

“You’re not mad, right?” she asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t thrilled about it and secretly, finding herself just a little too pleased with the revelation. He shook his head and forced himself to smile. “Nah. I just feel like shit that ya had to do that.”

“It’s fine, baby. We had a really, really good time.”

[ I wish it hadn’t had to end, actually. I wish that I hadn’t woke up this morning and felt guilty. I shouldn’t have to, not after all the hurt you’ve caused me, asshole.] the words went unsaid and he held her against him, noticing that she was staying stiff in his arms.

He felt his stomach churning a little because he could feel her slipping away.

Now he had to decide… Did he fight or just let it happen?

X.X.X.X

They walked in together and Baron’s nose picked up on her before he ever looked up and saw them together. Her scent was mouth watering, it was crisp apples and something sweeter, vanilla and it had been everywhere in his hotel room, taunting him all day. He growled to himself as he watched AJ pulling out her chair, took a long sip of the soda sitting to his left and a bigger bite than intended of the steak in front of him.

“What’s eatin you, man?”

“I hate that son of a bitch.” Baron eyed AJ and Dean arched a brow quizzically. “Hate is good. Hate’s what’ll get ya that belt.” Dean took a bite of his own food and Baron muttered mostly to himself that it wasn’t just the belt he wanted and Dean froze, eyeing him.

“Whatever you got goin on, Corbin, you better forget it. Put it outta ya head until ya got that gold. And if it’s about a woman? Don’t bother. Or do I need to remind ya about ya last disaster?”

Baron cringed and took a long breath. “What if that last time wasn’t real?”

“This one ain’t, either. Get your damn head on straight, Corbin. You’re not doin this just to win that belt for you remember? You’re doing it for all of us who are god damn tired of havin AJ Styles shoved down our throats or trotted out like the god damn show pony he’s come to be. All of that personal shit? Forget about it… Or channel it into your anger… But do not go getting involved in their relationship shit.”

Baron leaned in, snarling practically. “You don’t tell me how to handle my shit, Ambrose. Are we clear? I’m going to win that belt and I’m doing it for me. The rest of it? That’s not your fuckin business.”

He settled back into his chair and finished his food, angrily stabbing at the steak in front of him, parts of him wishing that the steak was AJ instead.

(yourfirstname) was supposed to be with him. She was meant to be his mate! She carried his mark, damn it.

[ everything will end up exactly as it’s supposed to go. In the meantime, Ambrose, while ignorant, does have a good point. Letting them together get to you is only setting yourself up for failure, for blowing your big chance somehow. All in good time.. All in good time.]

[ Do you really think she’ll stay when you tell her the truth about yourself? Do you? Because the last girl didn’t stick around. And why do you care anyway? Did you not decide that you didn’t want a mate?]

[ Until I met her. Until I had her.] he corrected the other half of himself as he took a few deep breaths and stood, hastily paying for his food.

He happened to bump into them on his way out and AJ pulled her closer, flashing that asshole smirk at him. “Corbin.. Getting ready to lose?”

“Whatever you think, Styles.” his eyes were fixed on her and he gave a brief and slightly dismissive wink as AJ introduced them. “If she’s smart, Styles, she’ll figure out you’re a loser and leave your ass.” Baron’s eyes settled on her again, his mind filling with images, sounds, scents, the feel of her body pressed beneath the full weight of his as he slowly sank every last inch into her dripping cunt.. That little gasp, the digging in of her nails along his shoulders, the way her legs tightened around his hips and he was kissing her, the taste of her lipgloss and her skin, the way it felt beneath his rough hands. He tore his eyes off of her and made a hasty retreat out of the restaurant right as his cock began to stiffen all over again, growling at himself in anger.

He chuckled to himself when his enhanced hearing picked up on AJ grilling her on if they knew one another or not, wondering why AJ would even be suspicious if he weren’t already doing his own dirt on the side.

X.X.X.X

“You were starin awful hard at that asshole Baron just now, baby.” AJ said the words as calmly as possible all while reminding himself that if he pushed much harder, they’d be having another fight like the one they’d had earlier in the week before she’d shown up here a damn day earlier than he thought she was coming.

“To be fair, he was staring at me. Why does that bother you exactly, AJ?” she practically purred the words, careful to be soft spoken, to not even give him an inkling as to whether they knew one another or not. AJ scoffed and shook his head, smirked as he told her calmly, “If he comes onto you, baby, it’s just usin you to get in my head. That’s the guy I told you about, the one I’m facin for my belt.. And he loves a good mind game.”

[ and there it is.. you were wondering why he was so flirty the night before? Why he came to you and started a conversation when up until last night, he hadn’t? That little pound of flesh you wanted so bad when you saw AJ going into that hotel room with that girl last night doesn’t feel so worthwhile now, does it? ] she thought to herself as her stomach churned and her eyes stung with tears for a moment. She took a deep breath and said calmly to AJ, “I’ve only seen him around backstage. Jealous much, AJ?”

“Of that son of a bitch? Hell no.” AJ smirked to himself because he’d seen her face fall, he’d seen the way she watched him on occasion lately and he knew he’d just shredded any fantasy she had about Baron being interested in her.

And secretly, that made him feel smug.