#but that does make me ponder about some of his mannerisms in a new light.

[feroluce]

Hey do you guys think characters call each other Mourning Actors when they're being a buzzkill, since hsr can't have Catholics? "Alright, we get it, you're a Mourning Actor" kdkzjskskek

[phlve]

IN(F) — Introverted Intuition supported by Feeling

Continues to work instead of seeking treatment for failing health. Sometimes has phobias. Likes to go out, to dance, knows how to tell a stor. Experiences hypochondriac neuroses, claustrophobia. Before an important event experiences strong emotions, may lose appetite. he Is blind to his own hunger. He ponders what is the point of something, the meaning, symbolical nature. "What will this do for me?", he worries about what he can do to affect others, what are people thinking about, how society, the collective, perceives him, how his friends feel about him. He often smiles, has a cheerful nature, but it is usually fake, not so sincere. Neurotic, obsessive pedantic and egoist yet soft, friendly and welcoming. Expressive, he likes to maintain a comfortable emotional ambient, he focuses on making human relationships and Keeping everyone united. A hopeless romantic, prone to stalking crushes and compulsive overthinking They fall in love, they aren't loving, they are within limerence. "Teen love" - this is a good name for it. He idealizes everything, he doesn't has clear opinions, his beliefs are dictated by the collective: he either believes or gets skeptical about love, because he usually understands love only in a specific sense - the standard sense. When he thinks about emotions, he thinks about pop. mainstream. generalized emotions. Humanity for a long time idealized and represented love as romantic or erotic; so this type suffers from this: he easily believes in doing anything in the name of love, he would do anything for his loved ones, if he ever falls in love with someone, of course. Avoids showing his true feelings, he could be crying in one moment, and then in the other, he enters in a group, a collective, and he adapts to it, he stops crying and starts smiling, "acting". Very inclined to escapism, hallucinations, delusions and religion, ideology, existentialism and politics. He often relies on external sources, academics, he doesn't know how to explain things, so he needs to talk about his sources, he shows what people think, out of fear of being wrong. Anxious about being humiliated, he has a weak selt-esteem. The romantic dreamer likes to lay on a sofa with a book, or go to the countryside to spend time amidst nature. Many manifestations are inclined to cosplay, they like to live alternatives - finds ways to avoid boredom, uses old things and people in a new way and bringing the positive future into the present and past, staying light and hopeful in spite of anxieties. Struggles with videogames and orders: he is verv trial-and-error. He mav be cold. withdrawn. asocial. timid and extremely introverted; a gloomy figure with low confidence.

He hides his insecurities. runs into situations of trust and marriage. Intense connections. Fantasizes about people, delusional imagination of being accepted, praised. They find difficulty to express what they want, often times they do not realize what they wish in life; they ask people "how do you create interest?" because they lack actual desires and passions. Individualistic in some manner. Creates music, laments his own existence, prone to atheism, agnosticism. Diligent but unfocused, non-disciplined, often loses concentration, but he is always doing something - it could even be living in his dreams. He compares himself with other people, tends to be jealous, envious, yandere. Inclination towards mysticism and superstition, beliefs in prophetic dreams and omens. He is a person who is emotionally labile and uninhibited, does not control his own emotions, some manifestations of the type make fun of people and are sarcastic. Some versions, instead of comforting people with the warmth of his soul, begins to manipulate other people and act capricious and touchy. "Everything is wrong" and "things didn't turn out to be as desired". Many times expresses a desire to be hugged, to be protected and helped, he is weak and thinks of himself as someone "not prepared", he worries and worries. Some people of this type spend their time alone, don't have many friends (may not even have friends. He likes to dive himself in meditation. It is important to understand everything. Therefore, if you ask him about the difficult things sometimes, you can hear the answer that he understands them (only a very peculiar). It is important that everyone knew him as well. If understanding is impossible, that human self-esteem drops, so it does not like to admit that something is not understood. It is important to praise the consistency, likes to boast that he was up to something thought of himself. Often he loves to refer to some everyday stories, because nobody will not even think to check their authenticity, in general likes to refer to someone as a way to protect their reasoning. He is a person prone more to reflection than action. "If I understand correctly, then I am a good person". The fear of turning out to be incompetent greatly narrows down the areas in which the person dares to demonstrate or apply their knowledge. This type wants to solve his problems by collecting objective data. It is necessary to consult the experts, to obtain the data and results of studies, to receive objectively reliable new information. "Any unpleasant sensation or experience it's best to endure and wait over, than to seek how to improve one's state or move to another place that offers better conditions."

[my-sweet-prince-fan]

To My Limit

Prompt: You have been married to your husband for some time. You thought his bad habits would die down and you would be able to work through them. Instead, you are trapped in a situation without a clear course of action.

One day, you are sitting at a dinner with Lambert - entertaining diplomats, high-profile people, etc. You notice that he is constantly engaging with the others, rarely acknowledging your presence. You keep quiet and offer light smiles and conversations as to not embarrass your husband. Later that night - you confront Lambert, he does not acknowledge your feelings and goes to sleep. You sit on the edge of the bed, pondering your feelings.

Chezem has always been an academic. He enjoys learning new information, techniques – anything! When he sets his mind on a specific task/topic, he tends to hype focus on it. Sometimes he even takes over a project that’s supposed to be done as a pair/group. One day, you were excited to tell him about something you’ve been working on, to see that he has critiqued your work and started his own. Conflicted with your emotions, all you could do was stare at Chezem, who went back to working on his project.

Nagit has always been insecure, being the youngest of his brothers. He tries to act tough, act older, and wants to be seen as a man. Sometimes, you tease him and try to get him to lighten up. One day, you try to console him after another person comments on his age and appearance. Suddenly, he blows up at you – stating that you are a horrible person for making him feel worse than who he believes himself to be. You stand there in shock as Nagit leave you standing in the courtyard.

Running around with Alvah isn’t easy. It seems that after the wedding, he’s let loose even more! He drags you from place to place and is always attached to you at the hip. Jun had talked to you about curving this issue, but you always explain how you try to talk to your husband, but Alvah doesn’t listen. When you try to talk to Alvah about this again, he dismisses you and goes to have fun. You groan as you weren't sure what to do - follow him or leave him be.

Jun loves to tease you and make a pass whenever possible. It gets on your nerves and hurts your feelings from time to time, but you were able to talk to him afterwards and make up. One day, you were sitting on your shared bed, upset with him about an argument that happened earlier in the day. Jun confronts you and things get heated once more. “You should’ve listened to me.” He stated as he grabbed you and pushed you down on the bed. You yell at him to get off, but he doesn’t. He keeps you pinned to the bed until you are sobbing under him. Was it out of fear? Of anger? He gets off you, but you are stuck laying on his bed.

Melchiorre doesn’t let anyone see him when he is "out of control". No one sees him mad, no one see him sad. Sometimes you would have disagreements about how he is conducting himself and other hard topics that he does not want to think about. One day, his stress was too much for him. When you made a comment about how something wasn’t getting done, he snaps at you - calling you useless, tactless, and to leave him alone. You excuse yourself from his presence with tears in your eyes. Unsure of what to do or where to go next.

Adjusting to palace life has been an adventure. Ivan would pull you aside to discuss your actions or bring it up at the worst times – making you upset. When you try to apologize, take responsibility, or defend your actions, he would cut you off or continue to explain what rules and mannerisms the palace follows. This time, he has the nerve to reprimand you in the middle of the hallway. In front of the other servants and potential guests. Feeling the shame and inability to defend yourself, you walk off. Ivan follows you and tries to get a reaction when you snap back at him. While he was taken aback, you flee to somewhere else in the palace.

After getting married, women still throw themselves at Tamir. Whether they were his spouse or not. You would roll your eyes and scoff when the women look at you with distain. You’ve had this discussion with Tamir to turn down the women’s advances while he was in front of you, but he would always shrug it off and make excuses that they were just be friendly. Eventually, you notice that you would just be watching him get fawned over by other women. When you try to excuse yourself from the group, Tamir orders you to stay because he wants you by his side. Frustrated, you give a snarky comment and storm off. Will he chase you?

I've been OBSESSED with the song Night Flower by YEEUN AHN. It inspires me to write "angsty"/darker pieces (I'm also a sucker for angst and I see that there aren't many prompts with reflections on negative tropes).

Feel free to tell me what you think or what you'd like to see me write next!

[strawberryvanillablast]

The Ghosts In The Machine (Giorno Giovanna x Bria Adal)

This is for Giorno Giovanna Month 2023 from @mrsgiovanna!

Prompt: Meet Cute.

To Bruno Bucciarati, Giorno Giovanna was a charismatic young man who held the same ideals as he did. Young and fresh, he would make a great soldato within his team. Of course, there would be the matter of his other team members trusting Giorno, but that would come.

Of course, unknown to Bruno Bucciarati, he was being observed as well. And not just by Giorno Giovanna. Unbeknownst to the two, the mind of Giorno Giovanna was run by two very busy people (three for counting Gold Experience).

.

"Ugh," A lower-pitched version of Giorno's voice grunted. "Can this go by any slower?"

The owner of this voice looked almost like Giorno, complete with the blonde hair. However, his eyes were red in color along with his entire outfit. Two small devil wings fluttered impatiently while a long-forked tail thrashed about. He rubbed the horns sticking out of his head in a grumpy fashion as he looked out of Giorno's eyes.

"Ah, ah, ah," A higher-pitched version of Giorno's voice chided. "Let us be patient, Devil Giorno."

This version of Giorno was decked out in blue, from his dark-blue hair to his big sparkling eyes to his outfit. Two small angel wings fluttered slowly as his little halo shone a little. He gave a smile as he looked out at the many people dining.

"But for how long will it be before we meet this team? I need action, Angel Giorno, and I want it now!"

Before Angel Giorno could properly answer, the two Giornos jumped as two loud voices screamed at each other. Devil Giorno grinned and pumped his fist in the air while Angel Giorno shook his head, sighing.

"Let me introduce you," Bruno Bucciarati said sternly. "This is Giorno Giovanna."

Giorno's eyes sweeped over the team. Devil Giorno scoffed as he just looked over at Angel Giorno, who was excited at meeting new friends in this team. Suddenly, Giorno's eyes landed on one member of Team Buccellati and the two gasped.

This team member was absolutely beautiful.

Her black hair shone in the fluorescent light while her eyes beautifully sparkled. The sound of her voice was melodious and the smile gently adorning her lips was gracefully elegant. She wore a wonderful outfit that made her seem like a movie star rather than a gangstar.

"Well, well, well," Devil Giorno purred, tail flicking about curiously. "Who's the cutie over there?" He grinned as he leaned over a little. "My, oh, my, hello there, my dear."

"Hang on now," Angel Giorno whispered. "Firstly, we should introduce ourselves to her and the others before we do anything else. We must make a good first impression on them!"

.

"I'm Giorno Giovanna," The young man introduced, bowing slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you all."

Bria smiled as Giorno introduced himself politely. He looked like a prince, with his shimmering blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. And he was so polite too, just like a prince right out of a fairytale!

'I wonder what he likes,' Bria thought to herself as Giorno sat down on an empty chair. 'Well, best to introduce myself. Seems only fair!'

"Hi," She gently smiled, outstretching a hand. "I'm Bria. Bria Adal."

"It's nice to meet you." He smiled right back, returning the handshake firmly.

"Want some cake," Bria smiled. "It's strawberry shortcake."

"Thank you." Giorno graciously accepted.

.

"Agh, come on," Devil Giorno nearly pulled his hair out in frustration. "When can I actually spend time with this cutie? I want to kiss those lips!"

"Mind your manners," Angel Giorno reproached. "This cutie is named Bria and we'd do well to respect her. She's more than just a pretty girl here."

"I'm respecting her," Devil Giorno scoffed. "I'm respecting her beauty, her grace, her elegance."

"Before we can do so, we need to get to know her. What does she like and what does she think of frogs and ladybugs?"

As the duo giggled and pondered on what to talk to Bria about next, they didn't notice their Stand shaking his head with a fond smile. As Gold Experience raised an eyebrow at what Abbacchio was trying to do and signaled the duo about the action, he noticed a glass sphere forming. He walked over to it, curious.

It was a beautiful, pink-tinted glass sphere with Bria's visage inside. The Stand gave another fond smile and shake of the head. Giorno's fallen for the girl slowly, whether he consciously knew it or not. And Gold Experience knew that this crush would blossom into a sweetly wondrous love soon.

[labelle-dame-sansmerci]

Interview with The Vampire - Part II: An Annotation

Page 159

·         Louis is saying goodbye to New Orleans, his home.

o   There’s a sadness amidst his anxiety about Lestat resurfacing.

Page 160

·         “…Lestat…had in his resurrection awakened in me a tangle of complex fears.”

o   What is Louis afraid of? Is he afraid of reliving the experience of “losing” Lestat again? Is he afraid of retribution from Lestat? Is Louis afraid of how he feels, seeing his maker again after initially thinking he was forever lost?

Page 161

·         I suspect Louis is tired of his lingering humanity – it’s a burden to him. He ponders how it would be easier to know Satan and know that he “belonged” to him so that he could “…step through some veil that would forever separate me from all that I called human nature.”

·         Claudia is ultimately Lestat’s child. No matter what fondness she has for Louis, Claudia hunts and robs her victims in the same manner as her maker. She loves bright lights and expensive things; she’s vain. Everything Louis is not.

Page 162

·         “Can you imagine the tenacity of the will to live in him, his hands groping in that water for anything that moved?”

o   Foreshadowing another Lestat resurrection?

Page 163

·         Claudia asserts that if Lestat survived a murder attempt, then she could have as well, which speaks volumes about her character and sense of self-importance.

Page 166

·         Louis takes a small break from the tale, and as he’s conversing with his interviewer, I can’t help but wonder if this is a form of seduction. Seducing him with his voice, his words, the details of his existence, his presence, and his talents.

Page 193

·         It’s interesting that there’s a hierarchy of vampires throughout Europe.

·         Is there a message in the primitive nature of the vampires in the remote and largely uninhabited mountains and forests of Eastern Europe?

o   Does access to culture and modern advancements make the difference between the “vagabond” vampires and vampires like Lestat, Claudia, and Louis.

Page 194

·         Louis is experiencing more regret for Lestat. But this time from a place of the possibility that he and Claudia destroyed the only other vampire like them.

·         “I wanted to forget him, and yet it seemed I thought of him always. It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I'd envision his face -- not as it had been the last night in the fire, but on the other nights, that last evening he spent with us at home, his hand playing idly with the keys of the spinet, his head tilted to one side. A sickness rose in me more wretched than anguish when I saw what my dreams were doing. I wanted him alive! In the dark nights of eastern Europe, Lestat was the only vampire I'd found.”

o   Well that’s a soul tie if there ever was one. It may not be love but he is undoubtedly attached to that crazy man.

·         Claudia has joined Louis in having an identity crisis.

 End of Part II

 Final Thoughts:

Claudia

·         Ultimately, everything she does is self-serving.

Louis

·         He misses Lestat on a visceral level and still carries guilt.

AR

·         Anne’s angel terminology is missing.

·         The theme of identity is still very present.

This is reposted from my Reddit.

[timmymyluv]

act six.

of let others wage war; you, happy child- marry.

romanov prince! timothee chalamet x princess!reader

series masterlist

main masterlist

summary: with your sister alix now married to the prince of wales, you prepare for your own journey to a land faraway - Imperial Russia. long gone are the humble days in the dusty Yellow Palace, when you are betrothed to the wealthiest man on the planet in his own right, tsesarevich timothee alexandrovich, and future ruler to the greatest empire the world has ever seen. 

word count: 2.2k

"Time sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a snail; but a man is happiest when he does not even notice whether it passes swiftly or slowly."

                                   -Ivan Turgenev

At the send off gala in honour of the newly anointed Prince and Princess of Wales after their brief honeymoon at Osborne House in the Isle of Wight, you and your family were beginning to make preparations for your family's return to Copenhagen.

In your brand new attire of English designs adorned as you chatted and ate heartily to the banquet hall in Buckingham Palace, you were slowly starting to become acquainted with the family your sister had married into, and by association, were your in-laws bound by blood and matrimony.

Scrambling by your feet under the lace tablecloth of the marble table was little Wilhelm, all spirit and rambunctiousness in his little body as he wore a sailor cap that tucked in his chestnut brown curls and stared up at you with piercing, navy blue eyes.

Son of the Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia, your sister's husband's sister and brother-in-law, the toddler shared none of his mother's quick wit and father's patience and gift for grace.

However, discussions with the Danish parliament and foreign ministers who were in communication with the Russian Office if Foreign Affairs had interrupted your tranced observation informed you that your visit to Saint Petersburg was happening sooner than later.

Your trip was to coincide with the height of the Russian court season, so that you could witness the splendor and festivities in the society that was to become your own. You could not ignore your mother’s worried glances and your father’s wistful sighs when murmurs around the cabinet and ministers pondered back to the financial aspect of your visit, and your eventual matrimony.

As the faces begin to blend in and you drown in your thoughts, disassociating and consumed by the dawn of what could be and what future awaits you, you barely hide a frown that even your pearl necklace and bow in your hair could conceal.

Excusing himself rather impolitely and in a manner that caught some suspicious looks and open signs of disapproval, Dagmar sneaks into a secluded hallway in the glistening palace, seemingly darker and letting shadows in rather than light in the afternoon glow.  

Later that evening as you pack the last of your luggages, you write frantically back to him with your quill wet with ink, hitting the parchment with such desperation you cared none about the dye sticking to your palms.

“Dear, beloved Timmy, I am completely despondent that my dear little Timmy writes to me so rarely; I feel quite unhappy and forgotten; not even a telegram! Why this awful silence, what is the reason for it? […]

Dear, dear Tim, now lovely spring is beginning and the time for us to meet again is coming with it, you cannot imagine how much this occupies my thoughts, and how much I long for news from you so that I will know what you think about it, whether you are happy about it or not, for otherwise I greatly fear that you have become enamoured of a lovely Italian girl with big black eyes who had made you forget your poor little fiancée in the north!!!!!

[…] Never leave me without news for so long, it makes me far too unhappy, dear Timothee. Now farewell, my dear, do not forget me completely, and always keep a tiny little corner of your heart for faithful Minnie.”

His absence of a response and scarcity of a sign of life or acknowledgement of your message leaves a sour taste on your mouth, but you refuse to dwell on it knowing as future Tsar, he has more important responsibilities preparing himself for the land he is to rule, not just answering your silly love letters all day. 

                                                   …

                                        Winter 1864.

Aboard the express train in Strasbourg that you charted alone, from the ferry across the English Channel and stopping by in the most eastern city in France to change trains that made its way directly to Saint Petersburg.

You had traveled across the Continent numerous times with your family, which were becoming more frequent as your royal house’s profile was on the rise, but never unattended, even without a lady in waiting or a throng of servants at your disposal.

To say your nerves had consumed you was an understatement, spending the entire ride towards the Great Northern city that was the window of Europe in a splendid, grandiose shuttle that had been dispatched for your comfort alone.

Your private cabin in your traveling train was ornamented with a variety of floras and faunas that were both native to Russia and among the most popular plants that were the trend in high society, the finest silks, furs, diamonds, precious stones of the finest caliber, and the most latest fashion tailored to your measurements, coming mostly from the esteemed House of Worth stationed in Paris.

In the few weeks of your journey, you were to want for nothing, as the caravan was staffed with ladies in waiting, butlers, maids and royal vanguards who were appointed by the Emperor himself to serve members of the Imperial family.

You felt rather conscious and slightly abashed with the meager, home tailored dress you and your mother had painstakingly finished the night before your departure, needle and thread to cloth by the candlelight as you followed the patterns from a dress magazine a few cycles too outdated.

Awoken from your slumber by the handmaids to freshen you up before your arrival in Saint Petersburg, you open your eyes sleepily, fluttering eyelashes as you watch the city built by the mythic Peter the Great in the flesh.

The capital and the lustrous, burnished capital of an illustrious, expansive empire, was built along the Neva River, slightly frozen in the arctic temperature, feeling the chill through your fogged windows with a coolness to your fingertips that you have never felt before.

Along the shores of the Gulf of Finland, the city has been raised artificially and built over, reclaimed land constructed over four meters tall.  Based on the educational textbooks your Russian language tutors have sent you, the length of daylight in Saint Petersburg can be as short as just under six hours to over eighteen hours a day.

Your visit coincides with the period of the white nights, in which twilight may last overnight, and you cannot help the spring of excitement that turns in your stomach as your train approaches the city closer and closer. Due to its proximity to the Baltic Sea, its summers are torridly humid, while its winters can be harsh, long and moderately wet.

Feeling a lady-in-waiting tighten your corset before you jaunt into the ample hoop skirt frame that holds the bottom of your dress. After your plain white chemise underskirt sits on your waist and covers the frame, you slide into a matching pastel green ensemble, an appropriate day dress that complemented the frigid weather perfectly.

With a laced, textured hem that lined your skirt, you feel the frilly surface along your hands as you smoothen the surface. A similar hued ribbon is tied along your waist, with your billowing puffy sleeves with a hint of alabaster bodice peeking through just underneath your wrists and along your forearm.

A straight line of buttons finish up your look, as your ladies in waiting assiduously examine and assess your appearance to repair even a slight loose thread from your clothing. A scooped, white bonnet is adorned on your head, with obsidian ribbons just above your hairline and delicate bunches of white lilies and bluebells sat next to it, is tied to your chin with a coordinating onyx bow.

As you put on your russet satin shoes on your delicate feet, you take a deep breath as your train halts its movement and announces your arrival into the shining diamond of the scintillating Imperial Russian Empire.

The shuttle door opens, and you are escorted by the Royal Guards to the station, following the carpet path that leads you down the steps attached connecting the train to the floor of the terminal.

You resist the urge to squint as the sudden flash of the bright light outdoors as you step out calculatedly. A throng of the royal crowd is what you expected, but what you witness next is nothing like you have seen before.

The stark discrepancy between the wealthy and the impoverished is most exorbitant in the city than all of the Empire. The assemblage that greeted you were emaciated, destitute peasants and serfs who looked forward excitedly from their long days at work to see their future Tsarina and new Grand Duchess.

Guided with a firm grip by the Imperial Vassars of the Emperor away from the crowd suspiciously, Dagmar is welcomed by a lion’s share of the highest ranked in the royal court in the Winter Palace.

Approaching the terminal once the gap between the unbounded pavement with narrow walls, you witness a more esteemed crowd, of what you would presume are from the Court of Saint Petersburg. Standing tall and proud with a a full beard under his chin, a slightly round face with notions of wrinkles hidden by his one-eyed glasses, was Timothee’s uncles and one of his most trusted tutors, the Grand Duke Konstantine Nikolayevich .

As the Viceroy of Poland and one of the Emperor’s closest advisors, you recognized the influence this man in front of you had on the Empire and what it symbolized as he was the one ceremonially chosen to accompany you as you travel to your new motherland and the court that you will one day call your own.

Just as rehearsed and advised of you by the Russian officials and educators who have been guiding you closely, you jaunt gracefully on nimble feet towards him, conscious of the ogling, critical eyes around you observing every step and gesture.

Hiding the disappointment on your face on the absence of your betrothed, you accept the bouquet of fresh peonies with gloved hands and a picturesque smile, accepting your fate has been sealed and the future that awaits you with open arms.

                                                             …

Still slightly upset by the infrequent, sparse replies in letters from your dear love, you shake your head from your swirling thoughts when the carriage halts in front of the grandiose Winter Palace.

Its monumental scope in its mint green hue shone against the glittering sun, and your eyes sparkled with wonder and elation in the splendor presented to you. Opulent in its rococo architecture, and decorated in gold as it housed a thousand rooms and could situate hundreds of people.

‘There is no more reason to be unhappy.’ You tell yourself as you admire the spectacle ahead of you. Escorted down the carriage, setting aside your bouquet in the arms of your ladies in waiting for the tenure of your trip, you make calculated, rehearsed steps up the carpenter flight of stairs to the gilded palace. Pensive, analytical eyes monitor your every gait, as you flash a sweet, dainty smile, showing the apples of your rosy cheeks and drawing attention to your big, round eyes.

The Tsar and Tsarina stand gallantly with a merry warmth as the Emperor steps forward with pressing his lips with a welcoming kiss to either side of your cheeks. Seeing him up close you see fragments of your bethrothed’s features on his aquiline face, the strong, Grecian jawline and pointed, arched nose in their narrow, chiseled faces.

“Welcome to Russia, my beloved daughter-in-law.” Tsar Alexander II takes his rough, calloused hands in your gloved ones, grinning down at you with a gentle enthusiasm. He steps aside for his wife to welcome you with the same embrace, noting the disjointed body language between the spouses that raises alarm in your head, yet you know better than to speak more of it.

Making your way past the gold arched doorway with gargoyles and sculptures in every corner, oiled paintings and vases of numerous floras and faunas before your love, the light of your life, Timothee approaches you with a gleeful smile with tears brimming near his eyes.

Even with the entirety of Saint Petersburg’s court surrounding you both, you could not help but frown at seeing the gauntness of your fiance’s face, sunken, hollow cheeks and his own fine clothing already looser on his fine, delicate frame.

Timothee cups his hands around your face, closing in his finger tips on your cheeks, your neck like you would slip away before him and passionately, yet delicately places his lips on yours, sucking gently on your lower lip with unspoken consolation and comfort.

You ignore the teasing cheers by the court around you as you are flooded only by him, closing your eyes to take in his warmth, his touch, his warm vanilla and musk scent, everything else forgotten around you.  

“I have missed you too long, my darling. Nothing brings me more joy than receiving you here in the land of my birth, of my people. They adore you already.” He admires you with a fondness, tracing his fingertips down your nose and behind your ears, grinning at the sight of you, at ease you are no longer apart.

Offering his arm for you to take, you take a reluctant grasp on his forearm, slightly tilting towards his shoulders as he leads you in the procession towards the grand Winter Palace, the traditions that future Romanov brides take on as they witness the court that will be their own.

Looking up at the ornate tapestry of rich colours and painstaking detail, you gulp at the fate that awaits you. The life you were going to take on was not built for the weak.

You only pray that the gods above may be by your side as you ontake this duty. 

taglist: (pls lmk if you'd like to be added!)

@blackqueenstarseed1 @softhecreator @ohmysw33 @imnotoverlyobsessive @mondieumat @chanotel @starberry-cake @timotheel0ver @chalametsimp @hellomadamebutterfly @themonsterheloved @chal-latte @s-we-e-t-t-ea @zelleriz @strawberriescherrieskiwi @fangirl125reader @xoxoloverb @us3rd1stort1on @thebetawolfgirl @chelseamendes99 @yomidebby @esmaada @princessandtheflea @thestarsaregivenonceonly @meetmyothersouls

[hoonhrt]

MUSIC SHOP 

: pairing — idol! heeseung x music store worker! reader 

: genre — fluff 

: album recc. — case study 01 by daniel caesar and any of the albums i mentioned throughout the story! 

: a/n — this is a little more on the lengthier side so please know that before reading! (i couldn’t help myself i luv hee too much) 

it was a slow day at the shop. the dim fairy lights hung around lowly, making the atmosphere feel even slower. you walked around the store pushing a small grey cart that held all the albums, records, and cassette tapes one could ever imagine of, placing everything in their correct spots for future consumers to find. 

the sound of a faint bell was heard from the back of the store. where you were, indicating that someone had came in. you flatten out the front of your sweater and rush to greet the costumer. you are met with a tall man dressed in all black from head to toe, water droplets fell off the shoulder of his jacket and you make a mental note to mop the floor later. 

“hello! welcome to moonshines music. please let me know if you need help with anything, i’ll be happy to assist!” you cheerfully exclaim. you welcome costumers with a joyful energy that even cheers them up, it was your thing. the costumer pulled down the black mask from his face and waited for you to react. he was a slightly astonished when a reaction never came. no gasps, no eyes widening, no realization of who he was. just you with a firm smile on your face waiting for him to walk away and start shopping. he eyes you for a little before nodding his head and makes his way to the direction of the CD albums.

he pondered this feeling for a little. he wasn’t used to not being recognized. i mean, everyone knows him. he was on ever magazine cover and topped all the charts with his music. his face was plastered on every product poster that covered the walls of the busy city. so how could you not? he thinks that maybe you didn’t want to scare him off or bother him with pictures and autographs,  inflating his ego a little bit. but still, why did you not say anything? 

“excuse me! do you mind helping me out?” you could hear his voice from across the store as he shouted for you. jogging from your previous to his still figure. 

“how can i help you?” continuing on your energetic personality. he didn’t have a real reason to ask for help, he was just too intrigued by you and needed a reason to converse with you. he looks around the store frantically for a minuet before looking back behind him to the CD’s he initially walked towards. “can you choose an album for me?” he blurts in your face loudly. 

this wasn’t the first time someone asked for music recommendations but he walked in with confidence so you assumed he was a man who knew his music. “uhh yes um— do you perhaps have favourite genre that you maybe like?” you question him. he just stares at you, his lips folded in with a blank expression on his face. he shakes his head no. you politely nod again, now even more conflicted with what to recommend. you trail your eyes around the store till you see through the window next to the door. the sky is crying, whilst gray clouds surround it. the streetlight emitting an orange hue that reflect the fallen rain drops on the glass and you suddenly remember the small drops of water that trickled down his jacket sleeve when he first entered the store. 

walking behind him you scan for the letter D section and begin to search for the album. letting out a soft ‘hmm’ before pulling out the album and handing it to him. “Case Study 01 by Daniel Caesar. perfect for rainy days when you aren’t lost in your thoughts.” you end with a smile on your face. ‘so they really have no idea to who I am, huh’ he thinks to himself. he looks down at the album in his hands than looking back up at you. a gentle smile reaching his lips. he follows you to the cashier register and pushes the album towards you. “that’ll be $10.15! card or cash?” he whips out his wallet and takes out a credit card. you can’t help but notice it was a black card, a card only the richest of people have. you wonder how this man can be so rich and why he is buying from a tiny music store in the middle of a unknown area. 

you’re pulled away from your thoughts when the sound of the machine goes off,  indicating the purchase has gone through. you delicately place the album into a tiny bag and hand it over to him with glee. “enjoy the album sir! if you ever do comeback, let me know what you thought about it!” you say in a courteous manner. the young man now looks at you with a toothy grin on display for you to awe at. he nods in affirmation before exiting. the atmosphere becoming quiet again. you hoped to see that man again. 

another week has rolled around. you hum under your breath a silly little tune from a song on one of your many playlists, sending another customer off a new record they seemed to be extremely excited about. your job wasn’t much but seeing people share the same love for music as you was something that never failed to make you love life. wiping down the cashier, you hear the door chime and see the same handsome man from last week. you catch a glimpse of the clear sky and the natural light of the sun from out the door as he enters. 

“i LOVED that album! you described it literally perfectly, it fit the vibes of the weather sooo much but didn’t leave me agonizing about life like how the rain usually makes me feel.” it made you so happy and almost accomplished to have someone come back and praise you for your music choice. you were about to start telling him it was no big deal before he proposes, again, to choose another album for him. you look at him a little unsure, you honestly didn’t know what to give him this time and you were scared he wouldn’t like it this time. he can see the anxiety flush over your face but lets you know he is looking for something this time. “give me your childhood favourite album. like, you know every single lyric for every song on this album.” your eyes go wide as you practically jump towards the shelf. he giggles quietly, thinking how cute you looked. 

you prance towards the shelf knowing exactly where it was. in your hands was the Up All Night by One Direction, you shove the album into his hands with a passionate smile. he looks at you and tries to hide his judgment from you, which doesn’t work as you can see his eyebrow arch up and study the album in slight disgust. “hey! i danced to this album every night before i went to sleep for 3 years as a kid okay? it’s my favourite album!” your bottom lip pushes out, gazing at him with eyes the resemble a cute puppy. he throws his head back lets out a laugh that you think you could listen to for hours on end. 

just as the prior week, he passes you the album to scan through and pulls out his card to pay. he was about to make his way out before you stop him. “can I have your name?” you requested. you took a liking to the kind guy, he had a pretty face and laugh that you particularly enjoyed. he checks his phone and swiftly swipes through the millions of notifications he has, then gazing back up at you. a genuine look plastered on your face. a look that feigned innocence, kept promises, and truly enjoyed life for what it was. “heeseung. my name is heeseung.” 

you tug the key out of the door lock with a little force. the moon created a source of light and comfort as you made your way away from the shop and towards the subway station. you worked longer than usual and fatigue was the only thing felt within your weak bones. a car pulled up next to you, the window rolled down and revealed the person that has been occupying your thoughts recently, heeseung. 

“on your way home?” you nod. “hop in, i’ll drive you home, we can listen to some music while we’re at it.” now you usually don’t just get into random peoples car, but you trusted him. who else would listen One Direction because someone asked them to? 

his car was black from top to bottom, mirroring his outfits that he always wore. the windows were tinted and it looked intimidating from the outside, but on the inside sat a doe-eyed boy with the prettiest smile to exist. heeseung’s hand reaches out to turn up the volume of the car sound system. the sound of Frank Ocean’s voice fills up the empty sound within his car. it was song you were unfamiliar with. you ask what song this was and he lets out a dramatic gasp, almost looking offended. “you DON’T know this song? I guess pretty people can have flaws huh,” he turns his head to watch you flush a pink shade that can still be seen despite the darkness. a sight he thinks is quiet lovable. 

the car ride to your home lasted much shorter than you wished it did. you two talked about everything under the moon. favourite songs, old childhood friends, past lovers. heeseung enjoyed the fact that you didn’t know his career identity. to the world he was Lee Heeseung, world renowned singer and model, but to you he was just, heeseung. a young boy who loved music and loved the world involved around it. you made him feel like a regular person again. 

as you open the car door to make way into the glass doors of your apartment complex, heeseung grabs your wrist and pulls you back into the car. “how about... i lend you my favourite album this time, and next week on—” he checks the schedule his manager sent him, “saturday at 6 pm, i pick you up and we can talk more about it hm?” he holds his phone towards you with a cheeky smile on his face. you shake your head in disbelief as you bit back a smile of your own that is creeping on to your face. “I’ll see you then, hee.” your heart skipping beats as you walk away from the running vehicle. 

unbeknownst to you, an excited heeseung punches the air rapidly with excitement. he silently screams into the night like a kid. feeling as if he was on cloud 9 to have scored a date with someone who’s a) the most beautiful person he’s ever seen and b) someone who likes him for his truest self. 

[angeli-marco-writes]

Tom Felton - Baby on the Brain

A/N - First request! I hope this is what you wanted, I really like this idea. I don’t know Tom, nor do I claim to, and the other characters are fictional figments. To celebrate 100 followers, I'm uploading this early. Thank you!

Warnings - overloads of fluff, mentions of baby sick, mild language, slight angst, hints to a breeding kink whoops, lightly implied smut.

Summary - Visiting Tom’s brother and his new baby should be a walk in the park, really, but some unwitting truths come to ahead that you can’t refute. You’ve always wanted a family, but does Tom? (Request for Tom Felton: you guys meet his brother's new baby and then decide to have your own.)

Tom’s bruised knuckles rap thrice against the oak wood of his brother's front door, squeezing your smaller, trembling hand in his, running his fingers over the band of the ring in pride of place. Taking a deep breath in sync with yours, he turns his twinkling blue eyes towards you, lending you a twitch of a reassuring smile.

“Why are you so nervous? It’s only my brother,” he says, his voice gruff following the cigarette he smoked in the car.

“It’s the baby I wanna see,” you breathe, “less nervous, more jittery.”

“Maybe you should’ve gone for tea this morning instead of a double shot coffee.”

You nudge his ribs with your elbow, and then his overly sensitive hip bone with yours, coaxing a gentle chuckle from his lips, “Maybe I wouldn’t have needed it if you hadn’t kept me up so late.”

The devilish, shit-eating grin creeping onto his lips tells you that he feels no remorse, but then again, you’d take tiredness and a night like that over anything. His fingers twine tighter around yours as footsteps begin to shuffle behind the door, followed by an ear-piercing, blood-curdling screech, absolutely unholy.

“See he’s having fun with the kid, then?” you begin to whisper, but your words trail off as Tom’s very exhausted looking brother appears in the doorway, feeding bottle in hand, burping rag over his shoulder, deep purple bags beneath his eyes.

“Alright mate?” Tom greets, stepping one loafer-clad foot over the threshold, offering his brother a man hug.

“Tired, yeah. How you doing, man?” he responds warmly, patting Tom’s back.

“I’m good, I’m good, Jon.” Tom says, though you can feel him almost imperceptibly tense beside you.

Turning ever so slightly, all eyes are cast on you. Naturally, you offer Tom’s brother your warmest smile, teeth and all, sympathy welling both in your eyes and your heart. Kids must be tough if he looks like this with a three-week old.

“And who’s this?” Jonathan asks, sweetly, inquisitive more than anything, though he does look at you a bit peculiarly, scrutinising you, perhaps your outfit, the mom jeans you paired with a cropped cardigan perhaps not his style.

“This is my fiancée, Y/N.” Tom says, his words holding an inflection or pride perhaps, but whatever it is, it sends a pang of excitement shooting down your spine, a smirk creeping its way onto your lips, one you have to bite back, “I’m sorry I haven’t bought her over before, but you know what it’s like.”

“Yeah, course. Nice to meet you.”

“And you! Where’s the baby?”

Tom chuckles softly, and he curls his arm around your body, hip to hip. “She loves kids.”

Jonathan stands aside, a welcoming hand to beckon you into his home, the laminate floors covered in baby commodities, pastel blankets strewn everywhere, but other than, surprisingly clean considering Tom mentioned his brother was a hoarder and was always the most untidy of the bunch all throughout their youth. Considering how bad Tom is and how often you’re stuck cleaning away his dirty dishes and putting his laundry on, you were expecting far worse, but maybe Tom was the worst of them all along.

He tickles between your ribs as you wander through the halls, greeted in the back room by a tiny blonde headed baby, cradled in two arms of a just as exhausted looking lady donning a kind smile, stars dancing in her eyes as she stares down at her temporarily placated child. Tufts of blonde hair pair with enamoured hazel eyes to compliment the soft yellow of their clothes and the rosiness of their chubby cheeks. The hair, the nose, the tiny dimples; this baby looks just like Tom - and all his brothers - did when they were little dots themselves. The same little treasures. You, however, were an unattractive baby compared to this ball of sunshine.

“This is Ainsley.” Tom’s sister in law says lazily, her words falling off as she gapes in adoration at the gurgling blob of joy in her embrace. “And I’m Zara.”

“I’m Y/N.” you smile widely.

Should he not know better, Tom would quite possibly think you’re going to either collapse of hyperventilate, judging by the flush of your cheeks, your elevated pulse, heart beating out of your chest, the tiny, delightful, desperate whimpering noises from the back of your throat, elicited from a single glance into the babies eyes.

Said baby begins to make some indistinguishable noises and flails its arms around faintly, feebly, in your general direction. You’d be lying if your heart didn’t do a somersault in your chest.

“M- may I hold Ainsley?” you stammer out, extending your covered arms in a similar cradle to that of Ainsley’s mother.

“God, you’d be doing me a right favour,” she retorts, her accent broad, Geordie.

She shuffles softly down the pale green sofa, so perfectly complimenting the oak floors, to make a room for you that you take gratefully, and position yourself astutely against the back of the sofa. Before retrieving the baby, though, Tom grasps for a muslin cloth and affectionately drapes it over you, affectionate in the manner that he does it with such care, grazing his thumbs over your collarbones as he goes, ever so gently, barely even a touch, but enough to let you know he’s there. He holds your gaze for a moment, his lips twitching into a smile. This alone sends butterflies to your stomach and sets a sheen of fog about your head, taking you even more by surprise when the baby is laid in your arms, writhing and smiling and blinking so sweetly.

“Hiya darling,” you coo, “aren’t you just the most precious thing.”

“Gender neutral name and clothing...” Tom interjects, sidling up on the arm of the sofa beside you, “may I ask their sex and the pronouns you’re using?”

“Male, but we’re trying to be as gender neutral as possible so they can grow up not feeling pressured.”

You can’t wipe the beam from your face, or prevent the small ‘awwh!’ from escaping under your breath, curling the cloth slightly around the child, “That’s a wonderful attitude. Tommy, would you fetch my bag from the car, please?”

In a second, he’s bouncing up, his hand thrust deep in his chinos to fish for the car key. “You asked me to grab it before we got out as well, sorry sweetheart. Back in a minute.” With a nod to his brother, he’s racing out the door, his footsteps thundering through the house. Your attention, however, remains glued to the baby.

“Would you like me to set them down for tummy time afterwards, or is he going back to sleep?” You ponder aloud, eyes glued to the wry tufts of hair so soft and silky between your fingers.

“If he falls asleep in your arms, that’s fab. We’re just livin’ minute by minute.”

You release a small laugh, “Fair enough.”

Jon sits beside you tentatively, between yourself and his wife, his arm wrapping around her as she leans her body weight against him, her hair--held in a bun before, now just kind of flopping into her eyeline--tickling her shoulder and causing him to wince a little.

“How do you know so much about babies?”

The sigh you don’t mean to release is wistful at best, plain pining at worst--and probably most obvious. “I’ve always wanted them, kids, but Tommy’s the first guy I’ve settled down with, but despite being engaged, we’re still taking things slowly.”-- You shrug, as best as you can with the baby in hold, and cock your head to the side to peer down better at every tiny freckle on Ainsley’s skin.--“I love him to bits, but he wants to wait, and I’m still young, a good chunk younger than he is.”

“If it helps,” he starts, “I’ve never seen Tom as in love with someone as he is you. He’s besotted. You say the word, he’ll do it.”

“I know. I just don’t want to make him do anything unless he’s 100% sure.”

“And that’s what makes you his perfect girl.”

Your heart swells. There’s a beat, a pause of silence, filled only with the zapping of the car outside, no more than a couple of seconds before Jon’s wife speaks again.

“Enough of that. Show us the ring!”

If they’re all this excitable at something as simple as your engagement ring, perhaps you’ll fit in with his family better than you anticipated. ** Certainly, if their amiable gasps are anything to go by as you display your hand to them, your ring finger held out, supporting Ainsley’s head in the crook of your elbow as they gawk at the diamond glistening in the sunlight streaming in from their floor-to-ceiling patio doors. You have to admit it’s a pretty damn beautiful ring, the one you always dreamed of. An oval cut 0.5ct diamond held in place by a delicate split-shank 18ct gold band. It glows ethereally in whatever light there is, but most spectacularly in Tom’s eyes.

“It’s the most gorgeous ring,” she gushes, “apart from mine.”

A smile creeps its way in. You’re not entirely sure what the hell you’ve done right in your life to deserve this incredible, expensive ring, or even Tom for that reason. This is the life you’ve always dreamed of, the one that Tom’s brother has, and if you’re even half as happy as they are after being married for 5 years then you’ll consider your life to be a great success. You always wanted the quiet family life in the suburbs, with a lovely house and a nice garden and a couple of kids, working a part time job that pays well and allows you time for your children and your husband… then you fell in love with him. Loving Tom, though, that’s the true gift in your life, and you’d take him over that life any day. He’s the best, truly.

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive, since Tom comes puffing into the room, his heavy footsteps coming to a halt in the doorway as he hands over your abnormally large handbag.

“Here,” he gasps, but turns his gaze upon your hand, witnessing their marvelling at the rock he put there, “it is a pretty boss ring, isn’t it? Worth every penny.”

He bends down to ghost a kiss over your lips, his slightly long dark-blonde hair tickling your cheeks, smiling warmly down at you before deciding to sidle up next to you in the small gap between you and the arm of the sofa. However, half way down, his hip bones are digging in, and he winces up like he’s just been shocked. You know how sensitive his hip bones are, a fat you use against him incredibly often for all the best reasons, but today, he’s been so good, and you shan’t make him sit uncomfortably.

Keeping your hold on Ainsley--who’s almost asleep already, quieter than he was before with only faint gurgles escaping, their eyes droopy--steady, you begin to stand, and shuffle yourself up a bit, allowing Tom to take your previous seat, before placing yourself back down with as little ‘umph’ as you can manage, hooking your thigh over tom’s in the process. He knows what to do, it’s always been your calling card at home or at a party: as soon as you sling your leg over his, he pulls you into his lap eerie time, and today is no different. Well, perhaps it is, as he furrows his dark eyebrows inquisitively, gazing adoringly at you and the child in your arms, waiting for your nod okay before he hitches his arms around your waist and tugs you, as gently as he possibly can with his delicate grip, into his lap, giving you both ample space.

“Babe,” you whisper, “can you fetch the gift out of my bag?”

He’s instantly ferreting around until he finds the presents you neatly wrapped in polka dot paper, and hands them to Jonathan. Eagerly, they're unwrapped, and it seems that your many arguments over what to get Tom’s niece or nephew were worth it, considering the fact their eyes begin to brim with tears.

A soft grey elephant plush, holding a yellow heart, embellished with ‘Ainsley Felton, love Uncle Tom’, and a Peter Rabbit china crockery set for when they’re older.

“Thank you,” Zara exclaims, the way only a mother can, in gracious relief, “they’re adorable, so perfect.”

And before you know it, both you and Tom are being embraced wholeheartedly, as though you’re already their family. It’s been a life since anyone besides Tom hugged you, but this, this is nice.

“Well, lunch?”

Said lunch is a tumultuous affair, with a delivery pizza being ordered from the local dominoes, but with Ainsley so comfortable and calm in your arms, it was an elected decision not to move him, and instead, Tom fed you your pizza. It isn’t the first time, his love language seems to be feeding you things, but normally it's strawberries or chocolate truffles. Never before have you covered an entire medium pizza being fed to you while trying to avoid dropping any toppings or tomato sauce onto a peaceful baby, but that is just an indicator for the rest of the afternoon, Tom’s hands or eyes never once leaving you.

Completely accidentally, Jonathan and his wife drift off to sleep. You smile sadly at the sight, unable to blame them, they must be knackered, the problem simply lies in the fact that Ainsley begins to stir just as they drift off.

“See if there’s any milk in the fridge, please, I think they’re using formula.” you hiss to Tom, standing up cautiously.

Aghast, he grapples for words, “I-I’m sorry, what?!”

“Forget it,” you sigh, “take the baby and change him, please.”

“Change him?!” Again, that same tone of staggered surprise. “I don’t know how!”

“You have four nieces and nephews already, yes you do. He’s going to start screaming in a minute and wake your very tired, very groggy brother. Change the baby.”

When your eyes begin to thin, nostrils flaring, eyebrows raising, he knows not to mess with you, so he swallows thickly, his throat bobbing up and down, and scoops a crying Ainsley from your arms. As he treads upstairs, you find your way back into the kitchen, and find on the counter the bottles done with their sterilisation. This is okay, this is great, you know how to do this, and years of babysitting taught you exactly how to do this. It’s almost like that scene from Outnumbered, assembling the bottle with your eyes closed, muscle memory taking over from your brain. When your eyes flutter open, you almost let out a little squeal at your achievement. If only you could learn this all over again, have this life with a little child of your own, with Tom being as good a dad as he’s acting right now. When you handed him the baby, though, you couldn’t help but notice the fear that flashed over his face, paling him a shade, his pupils dilating to erase the blue. You wish he wasn’t so scared…

A few minutes later, with the kettle boiled and the formula made, you appear in the front room where Tom is swaddling Ainsley, holding the bean against his beating heart, making only the very slightest movements to entertain them.

“Give him a bit of tummy time while the milk cools, do you want to feed him?” you offer, stepping over the threshold .

“N-no,” he exhales slowly, “I think you’d best do that. Can I just put them down?”

“I’ll grab the mat from the corner”--you spied it as you walked in, a colourful crinkle mat rolled up and tucked away from view against the cream walls, behind the flat-screen on its grand stand--“and then yeah.”

Even as he puts Ainsley down, stomach first, onto the playmat, he looks petrified. Taking a seat on the floor to watch over them, you tug on Tom’s tan trouser leg. Indecisiveness gnaws at him, tugging him away from you, but he concedes to your widened puppy eyes, and tumbles onto the shag pile rug next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders like its second nature.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah, course. You?”

“Yeah.”

You let your head fall to his arm, a blissful smile creeping its way onto your lips when Ainsley looks you dead in the eye, hazel orbs twinkling, full of hope.

“I love you.”

“I know,” he hums, “I love you too.”

“Then why are you being so… prickly with me today?”

He shifts away from you the most miniscule amount, “I’m not.”

“We’ve been together for years, Tom. I know when you’re bloody lying.” you lower your voice for the final words, “now tell me why you’re being such a pouty puss.”

You mimic his frown, knowing full well that he hates it when you do so. He hates seeing you sad, even if it's just pretend, so makes a swooping move to kiss the frown away.

“Would you leave me if I said I didn’t want kids?” his voice breaks on the final word, little more than a whisper, but his next move is so animated that it almost startles you with the bottle in hand. “I mean, you know I want them. I love kids, I want us to have a family, but…”

“Nothing would ever make me leave you, Tom. You couldn’t do anything that’d cause me to fall out of love with you.”

The pain in your statement sends a shock through you, singing your heart, poisoning your mind, sending a sour bile running up your throat. No matter how many daggers shoot at your heart, it remains to be true. You’d do anything for him. If, tomorrow, he turned around and said he wanted the two of you to stay together but never marry and never have children, you wouldn’t back down without a fight, but you’d accept it. Despite all your lifelong hopes, nothing trumps Tom.

“I’m gonna feed Ainsley now.”

Picking the baby up from the rug, you put a bib around his neck, and throw another cloth around you, taking a seat in the corner chair to feed him.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” he says, and walks out, shoulders slumped.

You watch him wistfully as he leaves the room, and even when he returns--refusing to look at you--your gaze is still trained on his every move, slumping into the shag pile rug to watch the TV on a low volume. You can feel his eyes on you, that burning pair of eyes that follow you everywhere, your every movement, his ears honed, trained to your every shift and whisper. The second you turn upon him though, he’s looking away.

“I’ll put Ainsley down now,” you announce after burping him, “we need to leave soon if we want to make it home before dark.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye as you sashay past him, Ainsley’s cries muffled by a dummy, but the second he hears your footsteps heading back downstairs, his own begin to thunder, pounding against the stairs to meet you halfway.

“Wait,” he whispers, “come on, sit down, talk to me. I love you.”

A sigh heaves your chest, “I love you too. Talk about what?”

“You’re being arsey with me.”

“Because you said you don’t want kids!”

“Well I didn’t mean it, I’m just”--he pinches the bridge of his nose, and ushers you up on the stairs, your calves hitting the carpet--“there’s a lot to think about. We just met the kid, and I saw how your face lit up when you held him.”

“You know I want kids, Tom.”

“I know, but can we not talk about kids for a second? I want to talk about you. You’re my fiancée, I want to make you my wife. I’m just scared.”

“What of? You have nothing to be scared of. I’ll be here no matter what.”

“That’s why I’m scared!” he exasperates, flailing his arms about, “I don’t want you to senselessly follow me and love me if I can’t give you what you want. I’m scared of fucking this up, fucking you up. I’m scared of this going wrong, with children or marriage or saying something wrong, because I can’t lose you.”

“Tom,” you murmur.

Your hand flies up to cup his jaw, grazing your thumb over the stubble growing there, the faintest shadow.

“I love you. I- I need you. Y/N, sweetheart, please. I just wanna stay how we are, just stay this way for a bit, slow down because the world is moving too fast, and I’m gonna fall, but I can’t drag you down with me.” he croaks, cradling your neck with trembling, callused hands. “Can we stay how we are? Just us? Just you and me?”

“Babe you aren’t gonna lose me. Everything else off the table, we’ve got this, we’ve got us. We can stop the world and get off if that's what you want. Nothing is immediate, everything can wait.” you promise, your eyes boring into his.

All at once, his lips come crashing down onto yours, swallowing any inhibitions with his lavishing tongue, his hot breath slanting and fanning over your lips, leaving innocent adoration in their wake. Until a piercing scream resounds.

“Except maybe that.”

You duck from his grip skilfully, and slip into Ainsley’s room, two fingers reaching out to tickle their stomach, causing the scream to hiccup in their throat momentarily. Then, as if wondering what to do next, he just stares up at you imploringly, questioningly.

“Come on Ainsley, I just set you down to sleep. Be good and let mummy and daddy sleep too, okay?” you coo, tucking his blanket back up to his neck, slipping his cuddly toy closer, “go back to sleep.”

This child is already one with an attitude, you can tell that by the vehemence with which he yells out. You don’t even have to think twice before you’re stooping into the cot, swathing him in blankets, and lifting him to your bosom, where his screams fall to mere gurgles.

“Do you think he’s sleeping in the bed with them?” you ask Tom, keeping your voice at a steady whisper even with the slight bounces you’re offering the baby, “because I think that causes parental problems above all else because they’re being kicked in the back all night. Still, decreases the risk of SIDS. Why do they have a cot up if they are? He can’t sleep without contact…”

You don’t even realise you’re thinking aloud until Tom presses his thumbs into your shoulders, buckling your whole body. It’s the instant tension reliever, truly, and your shoulders do seem tighter today, perhaps from all the baby wrangling.

“Lets just sit, shall we?”

You do, taking up refuge in the front room once again, with an extra blanket of his, as well as a supply of cuddly toys, rattles, and dummies. Tom watches you with fascination for the rest of the afternoon, everything you do drawing his full attention; enticing, entrapping. His heart swells at the sight of you bouncing Ainsley around to make him laugh, cooing and giggling with him to coax a smile back after a wail that you hushed down, holding him so closely as he sleeps. He’s finally seeing it, after all these years, you, in your true home habitat, caring for a child, so kindly, so motherly, so naturally. Everything you do instantly seems to set the infant at ease. He knows it should be him, Ainsley is his nephew, but… you’re just better.

In fact, before he even realises it, he’s craving what he doesn’t have. Not that he can’t have it -- you’ve been together for a long time, you’ve discussed a future with children more times than he can count, and of course he wants it. Tom, he’s always wanted to be a dad, to read his kids books and sing them lullabies and show them what daddy did for work… but it's always been a pipe dream. Your wishes of a family have never come to fruition, and all because of his selfish fears.

The world can’t stop turning just because he’s getting cold feet and wants to climb off for a minute to catch his breath. That’s not how life works. If you want something, you’ve gotta grab it by the balls, because the opportunity will be gone before you know it. And with Tom? He won’t lose you because he won’t take a chance to make you happy and give you what you want. If anything, seeing the crestfallen look that settles between your brows when you actually have to give Ainsley back to their parents just further instils and confirms the idea in his head. There’s his future, in his mind's eye, as clear as day. This is what he needs to do, but better still, this is what he wants.

The drive back to your home is spent in relative silence, and a pensive one at that. You know like instinct that Tom is replaying your final conversation with Jonathan and his wife the same way you are. After all, the simple words did put a dampener on your reconciliation. Your hand is on the gearstick the whole way, though, your fingers entwined with his, the simple contact enough for you. You were right at lunch: all day it's been his hands or his eyes on you: you like it when it's both simultaneously, the way it was when you said your goodbyes.

Tom’s hands settled on your hips, his chin atop your head, and you just fell into his enveloping warmth, smiling lazily at the couple you rescued for the afternoon.

“Thanks so much, we owe you one.” Jonathan said, giving Tom another one of those manly hugs as you stand in the dusk-darkened wooden porch.

“Really,” Zara chimed in, her feet shuffling on the tiled floor as she held her husband's hand, “you’re welcome to have him any time. That is, of course, if you don’t have a little one of your own by the time you’ve recovered from that blighter.”

You forced a dry chuckle at her words, an awkward sound, but you seemed to recover well enough, “Well Ainsley’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad we could give you some respite. Take care.”

“And you. Drive safe.”

“We will,” Tom said, offering them a smile, flashing his keys, keeping his grip on you resolute, “thanks for having us.”

Their words still loom over you like a dark cloud. It was a throwaway comment, one they’d have thought nothing of, and most people, and even you on a good day, but you’d had that… spat earlier on that changed everything. Dredging it up would just put an even further dampener on your mood, though, and with a drive home in the semi-darkness already hanging over you like a massive impending storm cloud of fear, that’s definitely not ideal.

“Nice baby, Ainsley,” Tom mentions, turning his indicator on to pull off the dual carriageway.

“Yeah, and he’s cute.”

“Nice eyes.”

And a couple more comments like those are the only conversation you share as the journey goes by, but soon enough, you’re on the home stretch, and your street rolls into view. With your head comfortably rolled back against the headrest, your eyes shut from a tiring day of exertion and childminding , you don’t notice Tom stepping out the car and unravelling his grip from you. Only does it become apparent when he opens your door and unclips your seat belt, kissing your lips tenderly, the chapped skin arising you from whatever zoned out, thoughtful state you were in before.

“Come on, let's get you inside sweetheart.” he murmurs, taking your hands in his as he helps you out the car, His chivalry never fails to astound you--he even carries your bag.

“Thanks darlin’.”

You follow him inside, kicking off your shoes routinely, shrugging off your coat to hang on the peg with your name etched above it. What happens next, though, is what shocks you the most: this isn’t part of your normal ‘returning home’ routine, not if you’ve had a day as tiring as this one. You’re neither complaining nor disappointed, though. How can you be when Tom’s lips latch onto your pulse point and he has you writhing in seconds, only his arm around the small of your back there to support you.

In one fell swoop, he has you spun around and pinned to the wall, his figure with lust-blown eyes hovering above you, every line in his face so loving, even the subtle part of his lips. They only do that when he’s so desperate to kiss you he can barely breathe, when he’s so eager to confess his love again and again that all other words are inconsequential. This is your Tom.

“Let’s try for a baby.” he says, completely resolutely, no trace of hesitation anywhere in his perfectly, delectably gruff tone. “I want one, I want us, and I don’t wanna wait to build a family with you.”

You can feel tears begin to form in the corners of your shock-widened eyes. This… this is- What changed his mind? Just hours ago, he was hell bent against the idea, but now? His cheeks are glowing at the mere prospect. Courtesy and patience be damned, that is if you can get the words out with how choked up you are…

“Really? Y-you mean it?”

His faint smile widens into a full blown grin, one that confirms everything for you. This is it, this is the Tom you agreed to marry, the happy Tom, the smiley Tom, the one who can barely contain his excitement even as he nods, a stray lock of dark blonde hair falling into his eyes as he does so.

Reasonably, you can’t be expected to hold back, and when his hair gets long enough that it falls into his eyeline? That’s your main weakness, so who can blame you when you catapult yourself up onto him, your legs joining around his wait, your arms settling around his neck. He holds you right back, catches you like he was already waiting, and pins you against the wall again. Perhaps the serotonin is too much as you both grin into a searing kiss, the every press of his lips against yours holding more passion than you can fathom a cohesive thought about. He’s… incredible.

And besides, with this enthusiasm, his kiss alone leaving you gasping and clutching onto his hair for some kind of grounding, perhaps it’ll be the first time lucky…

[fieryhonesty]

“Story’s based on a request from a Nonnie and they are right! Our Xiao needs hugs and rest a bit.”

Words: 1910

Genre: fluff, f!reader

Xiao is always keeping things for him. He will never seek company to share his burdens. After all, there is no trouble which will last long enough, he says. However he can't deny there are moments when he is fed up. Be it the never ending war he fights or his own problems. Which are having roots back in history.

Sometimes there's too much to handle at once, yet he stands tall and faces it headon. Never argues or falters with decisions. As long as it means he can protect Liyue. 

To anyone who has never seen him or rarely, he looks like a strong and cold man. But is he really like this? He is an Adeptus, he has seen a lot and experienced some battle scars. Was Xiao always like this? Back in the days when all other Yaksha existed. 

Many things happened in his life. He can't even count or remember it all. But all those things made him who he is now. Although there are things which still surprise or confuse him. 

He never liked showing himself in front of mortals. There are just a few ones which he tolerates or even allows to talk to him. If he is in a good mood of course. The ones who know Xiao also know about keeping distance when he is upset.

But there's one mortal whose boldness or maybe stupidity never ceases to amaze him. He told you so many times to leave him be, added harsh words and yet... you didn't turn away. Instead approached and offered a companionship. 

He eventually gave up with chasing the silly female away. At first he didn't know why she was so stubborn. Mortals are strange but you are like one or two levels stranger than anyone else. Just why do you wish to spend time with somebody like him?

You are like a bridge between the silent and closed up Adeptus and mortal realm. Part of him is still hesitant and refuses to share his burdens. He might have allowed you to stay beside him, be it in silence or tell him what you did that day. What strange things happened or something. He would just sit there and listen. But none of this means he will let his guard down. He will always be fully aware of what's happening around. 

You are often asking yourself: does he ever rest? As you know him for a while you are able to recognize when he is really sad and you shouldn't say much. Or when he is quite alright and willing to listen to your rambling until you fall asleep. The fact you can peacefully sleep in Xiao's presence amazes him.

Today is one of those nights when he would have preferred to be just alone. But why does he feel this burning desire to pay you a visit? Is it because you didn't come for a few days and he got worried? No. That can't be it. Xiao has no attachment to anybody, especially mortals.

Truth to be told, he feels tired and despite feeling the way he feels. He decides to silently knock on your door. At first he thought he knocked too lightly. For a brief second he thought to himself to leave. Why is he here anyway? But then he heard your footsteps from behind the door. 

He feels so conflicted. He shouldn't be here, seeking anyone's company. Solitude and sadness are nothing to him.

When you open the door of your apartment, the cold is immediately making you shiver. Not wasting any second grabbing Xiao's wrist and pulling him inside. The cold is too much for you. How the heck he can just stand there and not shiver?! 

Be it anyone else touching him, he would have asked them if they do have a death wish. He got used to your touch at least a bit. You sometimes gently squeezed his hand in a friendly gesture. To assure him you are there, willing to listen to anything or just sit silently and observe the sky.

Letting go of his wrist and looking into his golden eyes. As usually his expression is the same but you can feel he is not alright. His shoulders are unusually down and overall his posture is different. 

"Is something wrong?"

You ask with a slightly tilted head to the side. You are not even aware of this, you do it automatically all the time. It's kind of cute but don't expect the Adeptus will say it out loud. He is already confused. He wanted to be alone, why did he come here. He is clearly delaying your bedtime. He should have never come. But the words escaping his lips are even more confusing him. 

"You didn't come..."

Is he really worried about a mortal? Didn't he promise to himself to never get any attachment to anyone? Not even to another Adepti. 

Your next move is really bold and unexpected. Xiao gasps in surprise as you wrap your arms around him.

"Y/n? What are you...?"

Perhaps embracing him would not be the brightest idea if you consider how little he knows about human interactions. But you couldn't help yourself. Feeling a bit guilty for making the poor man worried. He already has a lot on his plate.

"I'm sorry if I did worry you."

You said as you gently rubbed his back, drawing circles in a soothing manner. 

It took him a while to realize what was going on. He seen this act between other mortals but never cared what does it mean. It's just two people are in close proximity, touching each other. But there's something strange about the act. 

Your warmth. 

He didn't feel cold while being outside, he is used to it. But when he feels your warmth he can't help it but feel a bit at ease. When you pull back to check on him, he feels a little... sad? Perhaps he missed the opportunity to repay the act. 

"You know. There's something I had noticed about you, Xiao."

He lifts an eyebrow at you. Unable to contain the curiosity.

"How much do you trust me?" 

You ask while trying to keep your smile. Aware of how much the question doesn’t make sense with what you said before.

Xiao on the other hand is pondering over your question. How much does he trust a mortal like you? And why are you asking him in the first place?

"That's stupid thing to ask. You should have known the answer already."

There we go again. Xiao and his not so sugar coated words. Surely you know he has at least a bit more trust in you than other humans. But would he let you touch him even more? No matter how you put it, it will sound wrong.

"Well then... it just crossed my mind out of nowhere but. Uh... There's something that always bugged me. Do you ever rest or relax at all? I mean yes you do just hang around at Wangshu here and now. But I mean like a real rest..."

You had to stop yourself. Feeling how your monologue was getting worse by each said word.

"I don't need to-"

"Yes, you do." 

Oh no. It slipped out faster than you could think of it. He is silent, eyes slightly narrowed. Did you anger him? It's quite easy to do it after all.

"What do you propose then?"

"Eh?" 

"Don't 'eh' at me. If you think I need to relax then you should have an idea how."

You are finally on the same page. Sometimes you hate your brain to jump into way too fast conclusions. You motion for him to follow you to your living room where you both sit on the sofa. Telling him to sit turned back to you. 

You are sitting behind him. What are you planning? Ah! A gasp escaped his lips making him feel embarrassed. You just barely touched his shoulders. Not even using too much force, just a gentle squeeze to test waters. 

"So, can I give you something that my mom calls a medicine for tired muscles?" 

A simple massage. Just by a single touch you could feel how tense his muscles are. He nods. Being glad you can't see his face now. Biting his bottom lip. He didn't know how much his back actually hurts. Not paying attention to it anymore. But now, he is melting under your touch. 

You try to be gentle but also applying some pressure to help his muscles to relax. You had learned how to massage when you were teen as your mother always had back pain from her work. This was the fastest help, along with pain killers.

Xiao deeply exhales, closing his eyes. He hates to admit it but this feels good, maybe too good. Perhaps he could let his guard down for a bit, at least for now. Letting your skilled fingers caress him. Exhaustion and fatigue is slowly getting under his skin. And this warm feeling, he wants more. Just like when you embraced him a while ago. 

You noticed how much he relaxed under your hands. You can't help it but smile from ear to ear. The mighty Guardian, always so rigid can't endure the pleasant feeling. 

"If you are tired you can sleep over, I don't mind. Unless... you have plans to mess up your back just right when I fix them up?"

You had secretly hoped he wouldn't disappear when you are done. You know when he leaves your place he will go back to his stiff attitude again. 

"Somebody has to keep you safe at night. Take it as a payment..." 

You giggle as he says that. You could tease him about admitting he likes this but decided to rather not.

When you were done and brought him a spare blanket you noticed his blush. Not saying anything and just offering the warm cover. What you did not expect was him grabbing your wrist. 

"Xiao?"

"How can... I keep you safe if you are in the other room?"

Oh damn. Your brain is preoccupied with why he just won't admit he wants to keep you close. 

"Um, you want to move the sofa into my bedroom?" 

He groans. Why you must play dumb now? All he wants is more of your warmth. When you embraced him, when you touched him. He felt at ease  which is new to him. Is it too much to ask for more? Well, maybe he should actually ask and be straight for once.

"Just... stay close." 

"Oh-"

That escalated quickly. For both of you. You decided to spare him from more suffering as you could see his face was slowly turning to tomato color. And you? You weren't much better. Turning off the lights before sliding under the blanket. For once being glad to have a bigger sofa. 

As you are both laying on your sides you feel Xiao's hand hesitantly go over you to pull you closer to him. Don't even think of escaping when he falls asleep. He has you secure. And certainly he won't admit any of this the next morning.

He is tired and confused by his behavior but he decided to blame it on his fatigue. You better don't mention any of this. Not even the way he is having a firm grip of your clothes. Or how quickly he fell asleep.

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 1

I'm finally back with some more rowaelin! I started this fic in november last year and wrote the first 10k in 24 hours, but from then on this fic was a struggle... Thank you so, so much to @morganofthewildfire for sharing so much of your time to help me with this, this fic would not be here without you 💗 I'm so happy to have finally finished it and can share it on here. I hope you enjoy

CW: past drug abuse, minor character death, violence

7.7k - masterlist - ao3

--

When her agent sends her the script it’s not the first time she’s heard of Rowan Whitethorn, his name is written at the top under the heading director, which itself is under the big red text reading confidential. He’s been at this stuff for a while now, directed a couple of movies that popped up on her radar but that nothing ever came of for her, and he’s well known in the business.

He was even nominated for an Oscar a couple of years ago, and she watched the ceremony with Lysandra, slapping the bills into her outstretched hand when he didn’t win.

His movie had been far too fucking raw for him to have won, she knew that, a tale about a group of kids who witnessed a murder and how it stayed with them and fucked them up into adulthood, but it had stuck with her nonetheless and she’d put her money on him anyway.

She reads the section of script Dorian has sent her, tucked up in bed with a glass of sparkling water and her most comfortable sweater, leaning back into the mountain of expensive pillows she had Elide buy for her and pondering how so much money could end up so uncomfortable, and she knows it’s something special.

She realises she wants this role, almost to an uncomfortable degree, when she’s about five lines in. The heroine is bratty and rash, but serious and pained in a way that makes her completely fleshed out and Aelin wants to play her, wants to be her and embody her in a way that takes her out of the pit she’s in.

She hopes this could be what gets her out of it.

Aedion had tried to pull her out, gods bless him, dropping by her apartment every morning for weeks to check up on her with a coffee in his hand, topped with cream and two sugars the way he knows she likes. Each morning he let himself in with her spare key, the one she gave to him the day she moved in, wanting him to be able to let himself in whenever he wanted but also knowing there was no one else she wanted to give it to.

She would have given it to Sam, would have given everything to Sam, but he’s gone and she’s left sitting here, wondering how to salvage what’s left of her reputation.

What reputation she had even managed to build after starring in one mediocre TV show and a handful of low-budget movies. She knows deep down, and in a way her brain likes to remind her of when she’s at her lowest, that the main reason she isn’t a complete nobody is because she’s Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. Her therapist tells her every time she bothers to go to a session that having a famous mother doesn’t mean she’s a failure and that she has to recognise each of her successes as her own. She nods along every time, but she doesn’t believe her. What has she managed to accomplish truly on her own?

It hasn’t been made public yet that Rowan Whitethorn is involved in the film, she only knows because Chaol wrote the whole script himself and texted her to let her know when he signed on to direct. She’s known Chaol since she was eighteen and took her first solo trip to Rifthold, drawn to the lights of the big city and the almost magnetic pull of the heart of the industry. He’d stumbled upon her in a club she was far too young to be in and had pulled her out, sending her home in a cab that he paid for. Looking back she was grateful for his attempt to avoid what she knew later was an inevitability.

She had cursed him when he told her she’d still have to audition, but she gets it. She hasn’t exactly behaved in a way recently that makes people want to take a chance on her.

Stumbling out of clubs, eyes as wide as saucers and high as a fucking kite isn’t the kind of star casting directors are desperate to hire, but she’s trying to be better. She’s promised those around her that she’ll be better, and she knows that the only reason she hasn’t ended up in rehab is that she has an incredible therapist and a highly persuasive manner of dealing with her friends and family. The only reason they’ve taken that chance on her is time, and she’s grateful for that mercy.

She turns the page, hitting the final line for the third time. Chaol’s script is so good she’s read the few pages she’s been sent over and over.

She only reads scripts in physical copies, takes the time to print them out using her shitty printer that belongs right back in 2008, and she knows it’s wasteful but she allows herself that small luxury of the crisp paper in her hand as she delves into each new world. Her character is in the middle of a teary monologue that she knows exactly how she’d do, the way she’d halt her breath and choke out the words-- it’s not her character. Yet.

The audition is next week, and she’ll work her ass off to make sure she’s ready. Her usual pre-audition ritual involves taking up far too much of Lysandra’s time to practice reading the lines and filming herself time after time, take after take, and watching it back in the unholy hours of night until she’s happy she’s made an improvement.

Or at least that’s how she used to do it, nothing has made her want a role like this in a long while. She worries as she bites her lip, that wanting something this much means she’s getting over Sam. That maybe one day she won’t think of him and hear the pounding in her ears, won’t feel the lightheadedness that comes with a memory of their time together. Worries that if she forgets the sounds of his screams she’s failing him somehow.

She takes another sip of her sparkling water. It’s poured into a wine glass so she can at least pretend she’ll get the relaxation she craves. Alcohol was never one of her vices but she finds it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s unhealthy as far as coping mechanisms go, but she’s been worse so it’s going down as a win.

Chaol told her some guy called Brullo is casting this one. She’s never heard of him, which is kind of rare. She’s been on the periphery of this bubble for pretty much her entire life, following her mother around her own movie sets and sitting on the wooden directors chair when her legs still dangled off the side, but if he’s like any other casting director in Adarlan she knows how to impress him.

When she reaches the last line of the part of the script she’s been sent, her mind wanders again to Rowan Whitethorn.

He’s the kind of director up and coming actors can only hope to one day work with, even though she’s pretty sure he can’t be much more than thirty, he’s built himself to a level where he can be choosy with his projects.

It's a well deserved privilege. Each of his works has stayed with her after watching, his style is gritty and dark, but grounded in a way that leaves her empty each time after finishing.

She wants this, and she buries the guilt she feels for that. Sam would want her to want this. She deserves it, or at least she hopes she can come to.

Dorian books her a mid-morning flight so she doesn’t have to wake too early before the audition, he’s a damn good agent and one she definitely doesn’t deserve with his seemingly endless patience, but she’s continuously grateful for him.

Aelin styles herself for it, ties her hair back and leaves the makeup to a minimum in a way that she hopes shows them she’s right for the part, that she can be the insecure little girl who experiences far too much. She knows she doesn’t have the sheltered innocence the character has, but she’s an actress and this is what she does. Aelin pretends for a living.

He’s also booked her a room in a pretty nice hotel for the night, she’s not sure whether he’s used her meagre acting funds or the funds from the account she knows he mom throws money into every month. It’s an argument she and Evalin have had repeatedly, she wants to stand on her own two feet, but she never protests too hard. The account kept the roof over her head when she was too busy snorting her life away to consider where her next paycheck would come from.

Aelin throws herself backwards into the crisp white bedding on the hotel room bed and takes a deep breath. The only luggage she brought with her is a carry on slung somewhere by the door and the room feels too empty to sit here and wait for the car that’s arriving to take her to the studio in just over an hour. If she sits here and waits the nerves will only build, and then she’ll itch for something to take the edge off.

She picks her phone up to text her cousin.

Jet lag from a 2 hour flight. Who would have thought?

Aelin waits two minutes for a reply, locking and unlocking her phone as she sits there, but one doesn’t come. Aedion’s probably at a training session and not checking his phone. Aelin runs a hand through her hair, careful not to dislodge the pins she placed carefully in it this morning, she needs to stop using him as her crutch. She knows he doesn’t mind, but it’s not right either way.

She needs to get out of this room.

The streets of Rifthold are busy and crammed as she meanders down them, clutching the takeout coffee cup she bought from a vendor with a stall at the side of the road.

People pay her no mind as she walks, the oversized shades hide her eyes that she knows are a dead giveaway for her membership of the Ashryver line. Even if she didn’t wear them, everybody else here wants to be someone, and so far she can still blend in if she tries.

She sends a text to the assistant organising the audition, it’s kind of shitty of her but she keeps it brief because she can’t remember their name, letting them know the car isn’t needed anymore and that she’ll make her own way there. She needs the stroll through the streets to clear her head.

Aelin needs to nail it. She hasn’t felt the twisting of desire so sharp in her stomach for a long time and the only way she’ll manage it is with a clear head.

She alternates her breathing with sips of her coffee, the taste is bitter but she keeps drinking. She pulls her phone out to check the directions to the studio.

Spontaneous isn’t a word Aelin would use to describe herself anymore, any longing to go with the flow died the minute she lost control. It’s safer now to plan, to make sure she won’t lead herself astray.

Brullo is a man in his mid forties, with dashes of grey seasoned through his muddy brown hair, and kind lines around his eyes as he smiles and shakes her hand. Aelin wipes the sweat off her palm on her jeans before clasping her hand in his.

The audition goes about as well as she can hope for, she remembers every line, and the other casting director is fairly natural reading the lines for her to act against. Aelin swallows back her tears after she finishes, trying to keep what dignity she can to end the audition when there’s snot threatening to run down her upper lip. It was a brutal scene to start with, but if she can pull this off she can surely manage the rest.

Brullo’s expression is carefully guarded as she leaves, giving nothing away, but Aelin thinks she did a good job, which is all she could have ever hoped for.

She’s staring at the tiled floor, mulling over Brullo’s parting words, thanks Aelin, our people will be in touch, when she hits something hard and warm.

She’s too busy dissecting those eight words to register exactly who it is with their hands clamped around the top of her arms, steadying her as she stumbles, but she looks up and her gaze meets that of a pair of striking, green eyes.

The man gripping her is easily over a head taller than her, broad and strong enough that she fights back the shiver that wants to roll through her at his touch. He’s staring down at her, the strong planes of his face drawn into a deep frown, with his strangely coloured eyebrows pulled in.

They’re a kind of silver that matches his short cut hair, and it shines in the fluorescent light of the hallway in a way that it can only be natural, but she’s never seen a shade quite like it.

“Sorry,” she manages to stutter out, still thrown from the vulnerability of her audition.

“It’s alright.” His voice burns through the words, his accent rolling in a way that raises hairs down the back of her neck. He flashes her a dangerous grin and she steadies herself. She knows what that look means. She’s used to the male attention, and as much as she hates to acknowledge it, she knows her looks are an element of how she’s got as far as she has. That and her family’s name.

The decision of whether to register in the guild as Aelin Ashryver or Aelin Galathynius was one she had spent hours deliberating over. Did she want the level of independence Galathynius would give her, or the reputation being an Ashryver would bring?

The man releases his grip on her shoulders, but not before running his hands down her arms until he reaches her wrists which he releases with a light squeeze. She takes an almost imperceptible step back, leaning back to breathe some air into her lungs. All she ends up doing is filling her mind with this man’s smell, inviting and intoxicating, a delicious combination of pine trees and snowy winter mornings.

“I don’t usually go around slamming into people like this,” she tells him, letting some of her snark slip through. He’s said two words to her so far but she knows he can take it, and she wants to play.

His grin becomes even more wicked and it truly is a sight to see. This man is built like a god; broad, muscular shoulders stretching the white button up he wears and she spies the dark lines of a tattoo threatening to slip past his collar.

It’s been a couple of months since her last mindless hook-up, and this man would more than do. The mischief glimmering in his eyes tells her he’d know how to make her gasp and beg.

“Slam into me anytime.” His words are a sensual croon and her mouth drops open slightly, but he sidesteps her before she can manage to speak again, nodding towards the door she’s come through. “Good luck with whatever you were here for.”

With that he’s gone, leaving her to turn and watch the way his grey slacks pull against his thighs as he walks away from her.

Aelin tries not to think too much about the outcome of the audition, and flies back to Orynth in economy class with a sleep mask tucked over her eyes lest she be recognised when all she wants to do is curl up in bed and be alone for a bit. That or get fucking wasted, and she can’t do that.

She tries far too hard to forget about the man from the hallway, forget about the way his voice had rumbled deep in her chest and the tug in her belly that his words had sent through her.

She begs Elide to come to a bar with her, and she agrees. Aelin needs to pay her more, maybe change her title from publicist to publicist-come-part-time-therapist-and-life-saver. Aelin’s not sure she has the budget for that really.

Elide would smack her if she knew Aelin’s thoughts. Would scold her for looking at Elide just like an employee as if they weren’t childhood friends and Elide hadn’t been there holding her hand through the whole Sam thing. As if she, Lysandra and Aedion hadn’t been her only reason for being here now.

A bar might be a risk, but she can sip her sparkling water while she browses the small selection of men that Orynth has to offer.

She enjoys the easy conversation she has with Elide, chatting about what their friends have been up to, even though most of them are mainly Elide’s friends at this point. After Sam she stopped speaking to everyone but those who were necessary. She couldn’t manage any more than that.

“You should come with us next time,” Elide is saying as she sips her own lemonade. Aelin knows Elide would normally choose a crisp glass of white wine over a lemonade and her sobriety solidarity touches her heart.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, noncommittal.

The look Elide wears tells her she’s debating pushing the issue for the millionth time against the risk that Aelin would pull back again. She hates that she does this to her friends so she sighs.

“Text me next time,” she tries. “I’ll see if I’m free.”

Elide offers her a thankful smile, and Aelin returns it, trying to tell herself this is what she needs and that she shouldn’t just stay locked up thinking about Sam.

There’s a dark haired guy at the bar catching her eye, his jeans are far too tight and his shirt is ridiculous, but she can see the body beneath and his face is striking. Elide notices her stare and smirks.

She likely knows why Aelin invited her out tonight, but doesn’t mind. Lorcan’s probably waiting for her at the home they share, waiting for her to come back so they can be in love. Aelin hates the bastard, except she doesn’t. She introduced her friend to the tall, dark and grouchy hockey player at the wrap party for the shit teen movie she did a couple of years back, and she’s big enough to admit she wants what they have.

She had what they have.

What’s left in her glass slips down her throat easily in one mouthful and she promises to text Elide tomorrow before slipping out of the booth and over to the guy at the bar.

“You going to just stare at me all night?” She asks with a sly smile. “Or did you plan on doing something about it at some point?”

His smile makes him look even more attractive.

“Maybe I was waiting for you to make the first move, a beautiful girl like you can be intimidating.”

It’s a shit line and she rolls her eyes, but tugs him into a cab back to her place anyway.

“Please.” Her voice shakes as she begs. “Please don’t do this.”

The man in front of them scoffs and Sam squeezes her hand, his palm rough against her own.

“Aelin, baby. It’s okay, just do what he says.”

He lets go of her hand and turns back to the guy in front of them. His face is covered by a black mask, only two slits show her the dark brown of his eyes. She can barely look away from the knife he holds out in front of himself, it’s pointed at Sam but that doesn’t make her feel any better, it makes her feel worse in fact.

“Your wallet,” the guy demands.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks, fat and hot, as she fishes around in her bag for her purse.

“Just dump the whole thing,” the guy growls, irritated, but she’s pretty sure she’s going into shock and she can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

Sam’s voice is steady by her side as he throws his own wallet onto the street in front of them.

“Alright, man. We’re doing everything you say.”

“Hands up.” The mugger’s voice is sharp. “Don’t fucking move.”

She raises her arms straight in the air, trying to control the way her hands are shaking and the attacker ducks down to grab their things.

She lets out a tiny whimper and feels Sam spin to her, his eyes begging her to trust him. No, she shakes her head.

“I said don’t fucking move,” the guy yells and lunges for Sam.

His scream cuts the night air and she whirls, hands dropping into the air between them as he drops to the ground. The mugger takes off, sprinting down the empty street and she falls to her knees by Sam’s side.

In the dark, the pool spilling out across the floor by Sam’s side just looks black, but she knows that really it’s red. She’s not stupid. His face is twisted in pain and her hands flutter around his torso before she manages to pull back the flap of his jacket.

There’s a hole in his white t-shirt and now her jeans are wet where she kneels.

She needs her phone, needs to call someone who can make this all better, but her phone is gone.

She presses her hands against his side and his eyes shutter closed as he gasps. His breathing is stuttered and uneven.

“Sam. Sam, no,” she cries. “I’ll get help. You’re okay.”

“Aelin.” He raises a hand to press against her cheek, and the blood on it is sticky and warm.

“No, Sam. No, stay with me.”

The scream that tears through her throat will hurt tomorrow but now she barely feels it. “HELP!”

His breathing becomes much quicker as she presses on his side and screams again.

She knows abstractly that she’s crying, tears and snot streaming down her face as she desperately presses her hands against his side.

There’s a strong arm around her waist, tugging her back and away from Sam, and she screams one word over and over.

“No, no, no, no.”

There are people here now, leaning over Sam, leaning over his body.

“NO.”

Aelin gasps as she launches up in her bed. The sheets are stuck to her clammy skin and her head flies to the side. The guy is gone, the side of the bed he occupied when she fell asleep now cold. Good.

She lives it over and over in her dreams, sees the dark street more often than not, feels the phantom warmth of his blood down her legs. Wakes screaming herself hoarse just as she did that night. She doesn’t normally let people stay the night. Even when Aedion tried for the first few weeks after the fact, she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t turn her brain off for even a second. Every time she closed her eyes she was back on that street, begging and pleading for him to open his eyes.

She grasps at her side for the switch of her bedside lamp and flicks it on. Her room is cold and empty and she hasn’t had it in her to decorate past the basics so it’s plain and impersonal when she looks around, trying to calm her breathing.

She checks the time. 6:25am. Not bad, she must have managed about six hours of sleep last night, and it’s more than she usually gets.

There're a few texts waiting in her inbox, including one from Elide, and she expects it to be a request to let her know that she got home safe but it’s not.

Call me as soon as you wake up.

Sent at 6:02am. Elide is a chronic overworker, no matter how much Aelin begs her to stick to a 9 to 5 schedule, but she couldn't imagine her friend any other way. The smiling emoji at the end of the text lets her know it’s nothing she needs to panic about, so she takes a moment to scroll through her other messages. It’s unusual for her to wake up to so many.

She clicks on her conversation with Dorian, the only message she can see, his most recent one, just says Aelin. He has sent her nine messages while she slept, and she scrolls up to reach the first one.

Aelin, you did it. You booked the Rowan Whitethorn movie.

Her heart pounds in her chest, running into overdrive as she processes the words on her screen.

She got the part. She fucking did it.

This is one of those moments she knows she’ll remember.

Dorian has forwarded over a number of contracts and official things but she ignores them in favour of dialling Elide’s number.

“Aelin!” Her friend’s voice is breathy when she answers. “Congratulations, I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, El.” A pause where she takes a deep breath in. “I can’t believe it.”

She falls back onto her mattress, pressing a fist to her lips as she smiles, eyes closed, almost giddy as she listens to her friend talk.

“They’re putting a press release out today at 12:30, announcing you and the male lead, who I haven’t found out yet but I will.”

“Oh my gods,” she sighs, covering her eyes with a clammy hand.

“I know,” Elide laughs.

She allows herself one tear as she stares up at the white of her ceiling.

This is big, she can feel it.

Later her phone buzzes as Elide sends her links to two different articles breaking the news.

Fenrys Moonbeam and Aelin Ashryver to star in new Chaol Westfall drama. More to follow.

Rowan Whitethorn signs on to direct The Crescent City, the latest project from Chaol Westfall (Throne of Glass, The King’s Hand & more).

She presses the phone to her chest as she lets out a sigh of relief.

It all moves pretty quickly from that point.

She’s on a plane back to Rifthold the next day and Chaol has sent over the whole script for her to read on the plane, bypassing Dorian completely even though that’s how it normally goes and she knows the two are like brothers.

Chaol was the one to introduce her to Dorian, and they kind of took her under their showbiz wings in the first few years she began to get really serious about acting.

They gave her the inside scoop, having been in the industry for a few more years than her. Chaol writing and making movies and Dorian doing all the background stuff like contracts and negotiations and exposure. They took her to their wrap parties that everyone knows are just networking events and introduced her to some of the big names in the industry without so much as batting an eyelid, and she knows she owes them a lot.

The script is phenomenal, and she has to try and hide the tears that form when she reaches the end, it probably wouldn’t be the best start to the project, being photographed crying on the plane on the way to start shooting. It really is some of Chaol’s best work, and she sends him a text when she lands that says fuck you, I hate it, but his reply lets her know he knows she’s joking.

It tells the story of her character, Feyre, and how she’s dragged into selling drugs to pay for her mom’s hospital bills. Along the way she meets Fenrys Moonbeam’s character, Rhysand, the glowering bad-boy who’s well established in the gang and together they see some shit and do some shit but manage to get out together. The topics are kind of cliché and over done, but Chaol has managed to add a level of originality to it that makes it really special.

It’s heavier on the romance than Rowan Whitethorn’s previous projects, but it’s gritty enough that she can see why he’s signed on. It’s going to be hard, she knows this, and it will really push her to her limits trying to embody the range of emotions her character goes through. But she wants it, and she will make her performance incredible if it fucking kills her.

There’s a niggling part of her brain that reminds her that she’s surrounded by some big names on this project, names that are big for a reason, and she can’t let them hiring her be a mistake.

She sends Chaol a follow up text, wtf are these names btw???

He ignores her.

When she’s in the car taking her to the apartment the studio is renting out for her while they film she decides to take a little trip through Instagram and look up her new co-star. Fenrys is a household name by now, a couple of years in after his debut, but it can’t hurt to know a little more about her leading man.

f.moonbeam01 comes up as the first option when the types the three letters f e n into the search bar and he has over eleven million followers.

Shit.

Not that she needs a reminder but it slaps her in the face that this is actually big. Aelin only has a few thousand followers herself and Elide has already told her to prepare herself for that to rise.

His Instagram is a mixture of mostly photos of himself, some selfies and some professional shots, and he’s obviously gorgeous. His deep brown complexion playing well against his golden curls with a straight strong nose and flawless white teeth. He’s definitely leading man material, and she can tell just how charming his grin is even through a screen.

There are also promo pictures for all the movies he’s involved in at the moment, there are at least three projects he has coming out this year. Damn.

His most recent picture is a screenshot of the article announcing their casting, and he’s actually tagged her in the photo along with Rowan himself. She hasn’t seen the tag until now, it’s normally Elide’s job as her publicist to tackle the professional side to her social media, but there’s 6.4 million likes on the photo.

Again, shit.

She can’t help herself from clicking onto Rowan’s account, rowanwhitethorn is a pretty simple handle. He only has 27 posts, most of them are behind the scenes shots from projects, one with his classic director’s chair that has his surname printed across the back in thick white lettering, and a few pictures of different cameras and pieces of equipment.

There’s only one picture of him on there, and it’s from 2017. He has his back to the camera and the sunset behind him lends a shadow that covers all of his features. Very artsy she muses to herself as she double taps the screen to like it, he probably won’t see anyway, the notification will probably get lost in the ones his account no doubt gets from his 2 million followers. The only thing she can gather from the photo about his physical appearance is that he has pretty broad shoulders.

She’s tempted to google him, wanting to know what he looks like, but she feels a bit too much like a stalker, and she knows she’ll meet him in a couple of days anyway so she leaves it and pulls up her emails to reply to the seemingly endless list of forms she has to fill out and send back to Dorian.

The apartment she’s living in for the next few months is modern and airy, with clean lines and bright decor. Aelin likes it, and while it’s not hers in the same way as her home back in Orynth, it’s far better than a hotel room that lower budget movies tend to shove actors in. Another reminder that this time is different, there’s a bigger budget than she’s used to, bigger names than she’s used to, and she can’t fuck this up. There’s more eyes on her now than ever before.

She sends Elide a picture of her new bedroom and her friend just replies with a bunch of exclamation marks and she forwards the picture across to Lysandra too. Aelin wanders through to the kitchen, wondering if anyone bothered to stock the kitchen, not that she can’t do groceries herself, it would just be nice. She’s delighted to find a fridge full of fresh produce and gets about making herself a dish of pasta and veggies.

She tucks herself in front of the big television, munching away as she watches some National Geographic documentary about whales and it helps to take her mind off the fact that this is her last night of peace for a while. She’s trying not to get too in her head about it, there’s a fine line between knowing it’s a big deal and freaking the fuck out about it, and she needs to stay on the right side of that line, needs to keep herself in check.

If she allows herself a moment to relax, a moment to sink into the situation and bask in the opportunity; she’s excited.

And depending on how well this movie does, she knows she may not have another night like this one. Somehow the thought doesn’t seem to scare her.

Lysandra calls her as she’s waiting for the car to arrive to take her to the studio, it's day one of their table read today and she’s tired. She spent all of last night tossing and turning, unable to shut her mind off and panicking over every single detail of how this day could go.

She’s lucky it’s only a table read, she’s not sure even a professional make-up artist would be able to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

“Hello, you.” Lysandra’s voice is cheery through the phone and Aelin smiles, she’s really missed Lysandra and hasn’t taken nearly enough time to seek her out during her recent whirlwind. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

They had texted since the news dropped, but with Lysandra shooting a campaign for a brand she can’t remember somewhere over in the Southern Continent they haven’t had time yet for a call.

“Thanks Lys,” she says as she gets into the back of the sleek black car that the studio has sent for her, tucking her small black backpack onto the seat next to her. It’s all she can use at this point, any other bag just makes her think of that night.

“How’s it going? Have you met everyone yet?”

Lysandra runs in these circles of A list celebrities and Aelin wouldn't be surprised if she already knew Fenrys. She met Lysandra when they were teens; years before her first show for Victoria’s Secret, years before she was walking for people like Gucci and Prada, and they stayed close when they were both living off cheap ramen and thin strands of hope. Aelin likes to tease her about hanging with a lowly C-lister like herself but Lysandra is always quick to quip that she’s maybe a G-lister at a push.

That could change.

“I haven’t met anyone so far, but I’m literally on my way to meet everyone now.”

“That’s exciting, you’ll have to let me know if Fenrys Moonbeam is really that good looking in person.”

“So you don’t already know him?” she asks, teasing. Maybe Lysandra doesn’t know quite everyone.

“Oh you know, apart from every week-end when we hook-up, we’re not really that good friends.”

Aelin laughs, mostly to herself, knowing that somewhere out there that probably is a story that’s cropped up in some cheap tabloid. She knows there’s probably some dating rumours about herself and Fenrys already even though she’s still yet to meet him. It’s just how it is, she knows this, has known this since she was old enough to read the stories about her parents’ messy divorce.

“What does Aedion have to say about that, hm?”

“Oh, he joins us obviously!” Lysandra’s laugh is bright and loud through the grainy speaker.

No-one is more desperate for Aedion to propose to Lysandra than Aelin, not even the magazines, desperate for a scoop of the golden couple, quarterback for the Rifthold Ravens and the world-famous supermodel.

“I think I’ve heard enough, thanks,” Aelin laughs as the car pulls through security checks at the studio. “Lys, I have to go, I’ve just got to the studio.”

“Okay, good luck! Promise you’ll call me later though and let me know how it goes.”

She needs to make sure she puts aside a minute to catch up properly with Lysandra, she’s been slacking recently and she knows her friend misses her. She misses Lysandra too, and Aedion. Maybe she’ll stay with them for a couple of days when she gets a break from filming, she can probably see them far more often now that she’s in Rifthold too.

“I promise,” she agrees. “Tell Aedion to make sure he spoils you from me.”

Lysandra snorts, “Oh he does, I’ll pass it along anyway though.”

“Means a lot. Love you, got to go.”

Lysandra’s returning love you is sincere, but she cuts off the phone as the car comes to a stop outside the plain brick building.

She readies herself in the back of the car, pulling down a deep breath to center herself, she can do this.

The girl leading her to the room doesn’t speak other than to tell Aelin to follow right this way, and she’s grateful, she’s not sure she could speak right now without vomiting all over the dated linoleum flooring.

She needs to get a grip, and fight the urge for a hit that strikes her when she’s nervous like this. It could make her fears disappear, at least for a moment before they all came crashing back down ten-times worse the minute the high faded. There is a reason she packed that shit in, and she knows her nerves will pass. It’s been a while since she’s done any of this, her last movie read was pre-Sam and no matter how hard she tries to push it down, there’s a lot of pressure on her for this to go well.

The girl pauses outside an unassuming white door and holds a hand out to gesture for Aelin to go in. She rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high before she steps into the room. If all else fails she’s still Evalin Ashryver’s daughter and to some people that is something to be proud of.

Fenrys Moonbeam is the first person to catch her eye when she steps into the room, and it seems he’s done some stalking too because he ends his conversation by the food table with some others she doesn’t recognise and bounds straight over to her with a grin.

“Aelin Ashryver,” he says, his voice deep and smooth like velvet. “I’ve heard of you. It’s a pleasure.”

“You have?” She’s both surprised and not at the same time as she holds a hand out for him to shake.

He bypasses the hand she holds out and tugs her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and knocking her backpack off her shoulder.

“I have,” he says as he bends down to pick her bag back up. “Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. She needs to stop acting like a bewildered school girl meeting the Queen, she needs to remember that she has second billing for this movie thanks to Dorian.

“Don’t worry about it.” Aelin finds a smile and plasters it on.

Someone calls for everyone to take their seats and she notices the name placards spaced out in front of each chair. She locates her own and it's surreal to see her name printed there, Aelin Ashryver, between Fenrys and another actress playing her sister called Manon Blackbeak. She’s even less known than Aelin, and she only feels slightly guilty for how much that relaxes her.

Aelin knows how this goes down, they sit opposite the production team, the director and all the executive producers and she realises that she’s opposite the sign that reads Rowan Whitethorn.

She slides into her seat, Fenrys and Manon chatting over her head as she does, and she spots a male slipping into the chair opposite her. He’s wearing a slim-fit forest green henley and dark jeans, his shoulders are just as broad as they were in his Instagram photo and here there’s no shadow across his handsome features.

She can’t deny that he’s attractive, she knew it the first time she saw him. Her stare locks onto the man from the hallway after her audition and he smirks at her as if they have a secret. And maybe they do, but now she’s realising that he’s her boss, and a little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Elide is whispering to her that opportunities like this don’t come around everyday.

She owes it to Sam and she owes it to herself not to fuck this up, but the look that Rowan Whitethorn is sending her across the table makes her think she could risk it all.

It takes them three hours to run through it in full, and she’s happy to see she’s not the only one with a tear in her eye at the end. Rowan doesn’t cry, but he hasn’t looked at her since before they started and each time she read a line she avoided looking at him. She knows there were a couple of times where he nodded along with her expression of the lines. She’s ignoring it.

This is what she lives to do, they’re not even filming yet and she feels like she’s right where she needs to be. It’s cliche but she breathes easier when she acts, the air feels lighter when she takes on a new personality and feels all the things she’s told to feel.

It takes away the restlessness she feels when it’s all just down to her, being told how to feel is far easier.

Her therapist tells her she has both anxiety and PTSD, but she feels like giving it a name doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. She knows a diagnosis can be a relief for some, but to Aelin, what she feels is far too messy to be summed up in four letters. Her life has simply become the before, and the after, even though what each of those contains is a complete fucking shit show.

There are two Aelins; pre that night and post that night.

The Aelin from before that night doesn’t exist anywhere but in her own memory.

Once the run through is completed and basic notices are given by the producers, things like call sheet distributions and health and safety, the occupants of the room begin to mingle. She sees him make a beeline for her, and she swallows. She’s not ready for this.

“You look surprised to see me.” His voice is as hot as it was the last time she saw him, the slight rasp in his throat and his accent. Gods, the accent.

“You don’t look too surprised to see me.” She tilts her head at him because she feels way thrown off, like he has all the power here. Which he does. But like, she can play it cool. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? “Maybe had a little google search?”

He shakes his head at her, biting his lip kind of like he wants to laugh, and she bristles. She needs to level the playing field.

“Says you.” He’s definitely laughing now. “I saw you liked my photo last night.”

“What about it?” She shrugs, hoping her acting skills are up to it. He only tilts his head to the side as he takes her in.

“Do you think I didn’t know who you were in the corridor? I’m the director.” And fuck him for saying it like that, full of an easy confidence that in any other situation would have had heat pooling in the floor of her stomach. “Brullo discussed the casting with me.”

Right. Of course.

She’s not sure what to say next. Honestly? She kind of wants to flirt with him, but fuck.

Instead she hums a laugh, not really caring whether he thinks it’s sincere or not, and looks absentmindedly around the room instead of back up at him. He reaches a hand out to brush his fingers down her arm, looping them round the bones of her wrist and squeezing slightly like he did the last time before letting go. Her eyes snap back to his.

“Just between you and me?” he asks and the smile he wears is far too hot for her to deal with right now. “I think we made a good choice.”

“Thanks,” she says, but it’s a little too breathy. A little too dazed for having spent such a short amount of time in his presence. She’s aware that she needs to be careful, they are very much not alone in this room right now, and she doesn’t need to start any rumours that would destroy her chances of escaping this without a scandal.

She’s here to do a job, and she’s going to do it well. She doesn’t need any distractions.

He leaves her soon after that, and his parting remark of “have a good first day, Aelin” sticks with her, and she tries not to replay the way his voice had wrapped around her name.

Manon Blackbeak is watching them from across the room, and she arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow at Aelin. She ignores her; let her think what she wants, she’s surely professional enough not to gossip to any press, and stomps over to where Fenrys is chatting with one of the producers. It seems like a good enough place to start.

[kimnjss]

teach me | myg

⤑ series: be my baby

⤑ pairing: rapper!yoongi x mom!reader

⤑ genre: fluff 

⤑ rating: PG13.

⤑ word count: 5.6K

⤑ warnings: there aren’t any, oop.

⤑ A/N: hello im here, lmao. this was supposed to be on time, but i slept for way longer than i planned... nd then i got lazy, so yeah. i hope you enjoy it, tho!! x

APRIL 26TH, 2020 | 11:18

The elevator doors close as she steps out, long dark hair tied nicely at the top of her head, the curled ends tickling the back of her satin top. The same short woman that had entered your house freely arms full of boxes of clothing Yoongi had bought for Hyunki. Her smile lights up her whole face, perfectly straight white teeth gleaming it almost pulls attention from the endearing dimple at the corner of her lips.

Waving widely when she spots you, lazily dressed in a pair of jeans that just so happened to be clean, a sweatshirt that you were sure belonged to Jungkook or Taehyung at one point. A complete contrast to her well put together attire, she probably had all the time in the world to match her shirt with her form-fitting skirts.

She's bending at the waist after acknowledging you with a sweet smile, now eye level with Hyunki who has not stopped scowling since you were unbuckling his car seat. It was safe to say, he wasn't in the best of moods.

With having to say goodbye to Joon last night and the fact he wanted pancakes for breakfast and you tried your hardest to make it the way 'Kookie-Hyung' did but failed. The fit he threw over that slowly dwindled into the silent treatment (something he was becoming very fond of). He didn't speak a word to you until you were taking him out of the car.

And that was only to tell you that he could walk on his own.

Now, though, with this strange woman in front of him; he's shifting closer to you. Tiny fist clutching at the fabric of your jeans. “Hi! You must be Hyunki?” She says brightly, reaching out for a handshake – like actually offering her hand out to a three-year-old. You hold back the urge to roll your eyes.

Hyunki eyes her palm for a moment, pondering what she expects him to do with it – no bout. Before he's dragging his eyes up to her face, realizing just how close she is to him. He takes a step back.

“We don't have to stand this close,” You detect the attitude in his voice and normally you'd be reminding him of his manners. Especially with people older than him. But the kid had a point, there was no reason for her to be in his face like that. 

Clearing her throat, slight embarrassment flashes through her eyes she stands. Straightening her shirt on her body. “I'm Jiso, by the way. Yn, right?” She tries, offering her hand out to you.

And you take it, pushing a smile onto your lips as you nod your head. “Where's Yoongi?” Lifting a bit on your tiptoes you peek over her shoulder as if he'd appear if you looked hard enough.

“Oh! He's on his way down. I just wanted to come say hi,” Her eyes shift back down to Hyunki, to find he's become fascinated with one of the toys he managed to smuggle out of the house. “They look so much alike,” Jiso seems in awe by her own words, by the fact a son could actually look like his father.

This time you're actually rolling your eyes, out of habit. It's subtle and automatic and if she notices it she doesn't say anything. The moment grows stale, awkward. She's shifting on her feet, looking between you and Hyunki with that smile on her face and you're considering scooping him up and going to wait for Yoongi in the car.

As if he had sensed your distress, Yoongi is stepping off the elevator with a hustle. The corners of his lips lifting until he's full-blown grinning as his eyes shift from you to Hyunki who has cracked his first smile since this morning.

“What's up, buddy?” Without a moment of hesitation, Yoongi is crouching down and lifting Hyunki off of the ground. He's curling into his side instantly, head falling on his shoulder as his eyes flutter closed. “Did he not sleep well last night?” His words directed to you, while Jiso stands on the sidelines – listening.

“He's in a bad mood. Joon left last night and he had a hard morning.” You don't miss the way his head lifts at the mention of Namjoon, on high alert now. Fully tapped into the conversation.

Quickly, you go over the 'need knows' for the day. The schedule Hyunki's on and certain things that calm him down. Signs that he's anxious or upset. Ways to avoid a meltdown. Yoongi nods along, taking the information you're giving him all while bouncing Hyunki on his side.

Jiso watching with hearts in her eyes the entire time. You're positive the girl hasn't blinked since Yoongi was stepping off the elevator. “Daddy's gonna get you something yummy for lunch, how does that sound?” Yoongi speaks softly to the little boy in his arms, who only nods – not pulling his attention from his toy.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” He turns his head only for a moment to grant you a nod. “Don't worry too much, okay?” There's teasing in his tone and it's obvious he's noticed your reluctance.

Not that you had any problem leaving Hyunki with him, of course not – Yoongi was his dad and you wanted them to spend as much time together as they possibly could. You just knew how Hyunki was when he was grumpy, not wanting things to get out of hand where Yoongi was overwhelmed.

Yoongi overwhelmed was much like Hyunki grumpy. A mess.

Poking a gentle finger at his shoulder to let him know you mean business, “Call me.” You repeat. Turning your attention to Hyunki, your hand gently grasping his cheeks to pucker his lips. There's smile in his eyes despite the way he tries to fight it, still mad at you.

Standing this close, Yoongi can't help but admire you. The gentle slope of your nose, long lashes that dust over the tops of your cheeks. Cheeks bones that seem much more defined than he remembered. Jaw much more angled. Grown-up.

“I love you. I love you. And I love you.” A baby kiss sealing each confession that has your son grinning at the end of it. “You're gonna listen to daddy today, right? Who's the boss?”

Reluctant to say it, he rolls his big eyes before huffing out, “Mister Yoobi.” Had rehearsed it all of yesterday when you were first telling him that he'd be spending all day today with Yoongi.

“Good boy. Stay with daddy. And I'll come get you later?” He's nodding his head with a small smile, cheek finding Yoongi's shoulder as you lean down to press a kiss to his soft cheek. A tiny wave bye, before you're turning to leave – only to be stopped by the grasp on your elbow.

Yoongi gently dragging you back and he's got that look on his face. One that you're all too familiar with, could point it out in a lineup. The glint in his eye, the smirk on his lips. “Does daddy get a kiss too?” Voice gruff, words mumbled only for you.

Despite the rapid heating up of your cheeks, your eyes roll. “No,” Easily wiggling from his grasp before you're turning your attention back to Hyunki. “Goodbye. I love you.” You repeat with a grin, pressing a kiss to his forehead before stepping back.

He watches you until you're ducking into your car, rolling the window down to wave obnoxiously before driving off.

“Mommy should give Daddy kisses too, don't you think, Hyunki?” Yoongi's asking while handing over his son's backpack to Jiso, who had patiently been waiting for the couple moment to be over.

With a shrug of his shoulder, Hyunki continues fooling around with the toy in his hand. “She probably ran out.” The deadpan tone of his voice, a less mature version of the voice Yoongi uses when he's not interested in something. Like to the T.

“She can give me kisses and you kisses, Hyunki. They're different kisses, so she should have enough.” Now joined by his two bodyguards, Yoongi heads toward the back doors with his son in his arms.

Hyunki lets out a huff, pausing for a moment to eye the men that are now following him and his dad. He recognizes them as the ones who brought his gifts, so he's turning his attention back to Yoongi. “Mommy can give me kisses, duh. And Joonie too. So not enough.”

A stutter in his steps and a sideways glance to his son. Surprise written on his features, not expecting the familiar matter-of-fact tone to come out of such a small little human. Yoongi can't fight the laugh that falls from his lips, eyes rolling at his son's words.

“What do you want to eat?”

Hyunki is perking up instantly, eyes going wide. “Cheesecake!” He shouts with a raise of his little arms. With a laugh, Yoongi is nodding and securing him into his brand new car seat before sliding in the back beside him.

A bodyguard blocking Hyunki from the window and the other sat in the front seat. Leaning back against his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest, Yoongi gets comfortable as his driver pulls out of the parking space.

“Cheesecake Factory.” He directs, the smile on his face growing as Hyunki happily claps his hands.

APRIL 26TH, 2020 | 13:02

That kid could eat. Yoongi is deciding with a smirk on his face as Hyunki finishes his second slice of cheesecake. Of course, that wasn't the only thing he ate. Much to Hyunki's annoyance, he was told to order some real food before dessert. 

He softened at the sight of the chicken tenders being placed in front of him, a large helping a fries set beside it. Digging in with a loud 'Thank you!' and the biggest of smiles on his face.

They're able to fall into easy conversation, Hyunki going on about what happened at the zoo, and how he never knew penguins were that huge. Laughing loudly when he talked about the way Taetae tried to talk to a tiger and how Kookie-Hyung got scared by a bear.

Yoongi listened the entire time, simply enjoying the sight of his son so excited to share. The stories continue throughout the car ride home, short stretches of silence falling among them before Hyunki is perking up.

“Did you know giraffes talk with their butts? Their mouths don't work or something.” He says as Yoongi straps him in his seat, reaching his hand to ruffle his hair before getting in beside him.

It's a moment before they start driving a quick exchange between Yoongi in the driver. Which lasted too long for Hyunki who is still waiting for an answer to his question. His small hand reaches out to gently tug on his sleeve to pull his attention.

“Dad, you have to listen because you don't know.” Yoongi's eyes are going wide at the name. But Hyunki is going on without missing a beat. Repeating his fun fact as normal. Then spewing ten more in the same breath.

Yet, Yoongi can't bring himself to focus. To take in the new information that he probably won't end up using anyway. The only thing he can hear is his son calling him 'Daddy' for the first time, making all of this so real. Min Hyunki. His little boy. His son. Trying to get his attention, wanting his attention while he speaks.

Warmth spreads throughout Yoongi's body as a smile breaks onto his features. Dad. He liked the sound of that. Who he was, who wanted to be. He was 'Dad' now.

“Are you even listening, Mister Yoobi?” Hyunki speaks as the car is being parked and he's realizing none of his fun facts have gotten a reaction. Back to 'Mister Yoobi' so fast, it must've been a fluke. Fantastic.

With a huff, Yoongi is shaking his head. “Sorry, buddy. My head was somewhere else. Tell me one more time.” Hyunki doesn't hesitate to restart his story, allowing Yoongi to pull him from his car seat, carrying him on his side as they enter the building.

This time, Yoongi is tuned into what his son is saying. Fascinated by how much he knows about animals, and wildlife, and just life and general. A lot more than an average three year old would know he's sure.

“Is that your favorite animal?” He asks as Hyunki finishes saying how Koala's sniff their leaves to know which is the tastiest. He nods with a wide smile, cheek resting comfortably on his shoulder. “I love them, they sleep so long too.”

Yoongi carries his son the entire way to his studio, setting him down once they've reached the door. Jimin had texted just twenty minutes before about how he, Jin, and Hobi had just arrived. Behind the door, ready to meet Hyunki.

Carefully advised by you, Yoongi takes to preparing him for what awaits on the other side of the door. In hopes to prevent any disastrous incident. The steps you laid out for him, echoing in his mind as he speaks – not wanting to mess anything up.

“Are you having fun with Daddy so far?” He asks, genuinely curious but also serving as a reminder for Hyunki. He nods quickly, smiling wide up at him. “I had two slices of cheesecake!” He grins as if Yoongi hadn't been there to watch the kid inhale them.

“You did. Daddy has some friends that want to meet you. Only three of them,” He holds up his hand to show three fingers. “Daddy likes them a lot. Do you think you want to say 'Hi'?”

Hyunki's nose is scrunching at the mention of new people. A concept he's not all too fond of. He liked the people that he knew and didn't understand why his Mommy and now his Daddy was always adding someone new.

Saying 'Hi' won't hurt, though, right? He didn't want to be rude because he knew that Mommy wouldn't like that. She always said it was good to greet people when they want to meet you. So, just saying hi is fine.

Slowly, he's nodding his head. Causing a smile to spread over Yoongi's lips. “Great. If you don't like them, you tell me. I'll kick them out.” There's laughter in his voice, but Hyunki takes his joke seriously. Mister Yoobi was on his side if these new friends were too scary for him.

Quickly typing in the code to open the door with one hand, Yoongi holds onto his son's hand with the other. The light beeps green before the door is pushing open, revealing his studio.

The size of a one bedroom apartment, complete with instruments, monitors, soundboards, a recording booth tucked in the corner. A shower across from that which held a few of his clothes for the nights he spent in here. Fridge fully stocked with drinks and snacks for those nights as well, neatly placed by the large L-shaped couch pushed against the wall.

A lot of his time was spent in this room, so he wanted to make it as homey as possible. His friend's appreciated that too.

Hobi sat upright on the couch, scrolling through his phone with one hand while he toyed with Jin's hair with the other. Head rested on his thigh as he chatted with Jimin across the room who was playing a computer game, only half-listening to the words coming from his elder's mouth.

The sound of the door slamming shut is catching Jimin's attention before anyone, his head turning toward the sound. “Is that him?” He rushes, eyes wide as he scrambles to his feet.

Hyunki is quick to shuffle behind Yoongi's leg, hands grasping his pant leg just as he had done with his mother earlier. Jimin puts a slow to his steps noticing the kid's actions, pushing an easy smile on his face.

“He's a bit shy,” Yoongi explains, bending to pick his son off of the floor. Holding him to his side. “Look, buddy, see. These are my friends. That's Park Jimin, Jin, and Hobi.” Pointing as he introduces them.

The small boy stares at Jimin from his comfortable position in his dad's arms. Studying the man that stands before him, from his pink hair to his black boots. Then all of a sudden, he's pushing his hand out, smiling big. “I'm Hyunki!”

Jimin laughs, stepping forward to take the small hand into his. He shakes it, watching the way Hyunki's smile grows until it's a spitting image of his dad's gummy smile. “Absolute insanity.” He says with a shake of his head, dropping the little boy's hand before lifting his to ruffle his hair.

“You look exactly like your daddy.”

Hyunki's head is whipping to the side, studying the features of his father's face for a moment before he's turning his attention back to Jimin. “Thank you.” He says with a nod of his head, wiggling as a signal to be let down.

Yoongi does just that, setting him on his feet as he walks further into the room. “How's hanging out with him without Yn?” Speaking in a bit of a whisper, Jimin steps closer to Yoongi to deliver his words.

“It's actually been alright, we went to eat and-,” Yoongi fills his friend in on his time with his son while Hyunki takes deliberate steps across the room. Stopping in front of the couch where Hobi and Jin sit.

Hands propped on his hips, he stares the two of them down. Jin is staring right back with a squint, determined to win this unspoken staring contest while Hobi watches on amused.

“What's up, baby Yoongi?” Hobi is breaking the silent exchange after a few moments pass. Hyunki's eyes shifting from Jin up to Hobi. “Shit, he looks exactly like you. Fucking insane.” Words delivered to Yoongi with wide eyes.

Lowering himself at his computer desk, Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Don't curse in front of the kid. Yn will chop my shit.” Never a blatant discussion had between the two of you, but he figured it was safe to assume that you didn't want your kid with a trucker's mouth.

“You're bad at this,” Jin speaks with a laugh, sitting up from his seat as he offers Hyunki a high-five. He's quickly slapping his hand onto his, a large smile breaking onto his features.

Hyunki is back to exploring the room in an instant, slowly becoming comfortable with his surroundings. His daddy's friends were a lot different than the too big smiling people that he sometimes met when he was out with his Mommy.

They always got too close, voice raising too high when they talked to him. Daddy's friends were different. Calmer. Hyunki liked that. Able to relax like he is when he's with Taetae or Kookie-Hyung, and even Joonie now.

His eyes are widening at the side of the familiar instrument in the corner of his room. Tiny feet carrying him as he rushes to it. “Mister Yoobi, you didn't say you had a pinado!?” He's grinning as he looks back to where Yoongi is sitting.

“Yeah. You want to look at it?” Yoongi is standing long before Hyunki is nodding his head. Making his way out to him and easily lifting him onto the piano bench while scooting beside him.

As soon as he's lifting the cover, Hyunki's fingers are reaching for the keys. His back is straightening and as soon as his fingers begin to move a melodic rhythm fills the studio. It isn't super complex, just a few notes repeating over and over but Yoongi is in awe at the sight of his son effortlessly playing the piano right before his eyes.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Yoongi is asking just as Hyunki finishes his first melody and starting a new one.

With his eyes focused on his fingers, he shrugs a shoulder. “Taetae showed me. But it's easy.” Of course, it'd be easy, do you know who your dad is? The response is fresh on Yoongi's tongue, but he doesn't say anything.

To enthralled at the pure talent of his son. Three years old, able to make a tune. Fingers barely able to reach the flat keys, but he manages with slight effort. He can recognize the song as a nursery rhyme but altered with an original twist. Genius.

“Here, let daddy show you something.” Yoongi is reaching for his son with easy, lifting him from his part of the bench and setting him onto his lap. He brings his own hands to the keys, playing the beginning notes of one of his songs. The last song on his latest album.

Hyunki's eyes are wide as he watches the movement of his dad's finger. An actual song, he can tell. “Did Taetae teach you too?” He's asking, twisting his body so he can get a good look at his face.

A soft laugh lights his features as he shakes his head. “Nope. Daddy taught himself.” The littlest of gasps is leaving Hyunki's lips as he turns to face the keys again. Hands lifting to cover his father's before he's tilting his head back to look at him.

“Teach me too, then.” 

APRIL 26TH, 2020 | 19:23

As the hours ticked on, Hyunki became more and more comfortable with Yoongi and his friends. He went from playing the piano (halfway learning one of Yoongi's songs) to watching videos on Jimin's phone.

As someone who doesn't usually let anyone touch their phone, Jimin was oddly quick to offer up the device when Hyunki he was complaining that he was bored. Cueing up video after video, with the sole purpose of making the young boy laugh.

From there he was moving on to show off his toy to Hoseok, pulling it apart and quickly putting it back together while he oohed and awed at the display. The two of them were quickly falling into a game of imagine, Hobi making sound effects as they went along.

And before long he was settling beside Jin on the couch, leaning on him as the adults discussed where they'd go for dinner. It had only been one minute since Hyunki whined about being hungry, the snacks that were given to him not cutting it anymore.

“What about you, Mister Hyun? What do you want to eat?” Hyunki perks up at the new attention, finger tapping against his chin as he thinks about the options that he could possibly have.

He doesn't think for long, seeming to have what he wanted picked out before he was even brought into the conversation. “Pizza!” He shouts with a clap of his hands, eyes lifting to find Yoongi who seems to be contemplating the suggestion. “Pizza, Mister Yoobi?” A slight pout taking over his features, brows turned in.

Jimin finds a pizza place pretty quickly on his phone and it's not long before the five of them are filing out of the business and into the cars.

Hours have passed since then. While they were out, Yoongi was struck with a certain bit of inspiration. All the new feelings of spending time with his kid, hanging out with his friends, things finally seeming a bit more clear with you... he's giddy to get back to the studio to work.

“Can Park take me out for ice cream?” Hyunki is asking with the sweetest of smiles, Jimin a few steps behind him flashing a matching convincing grin. Yoongi is nodding his head instantly, laughing at the loud 'Yay!' that leaves both of their lips before they're turning to leave the room – Jin and Hoseok trailing behind them.

Yoongi's sat at his desk when you arrive, your sharp knock pulling him from his musical world. He's pulling the door open a few moments later, his lips lifting into the smile once he's seeing you.

Dressed differently from this morning. Instead of the comfy clothes you had dropped Hyunki off in, you're wearing a dress. One that hugs your body nicely, but still casual enough to be worn with sneakers. And that's not it, you've put on makeup. The whole ordeal, from lashes to lipstick.

And he's seriously fighting the urge to kiss you. Fuck, how long it's been since he's kissed you.

Leaning forward, you poke your head into the booth, searching its emptiness just like you had done in the first room. Turning, your brows furrow as you look up at your ex. “Where's Hyunki?”

“The guys took him out for ice cream.”

You're nodding at his words, lowering yourself onto the couch across from him. The same couch for some reason kept up in the time that passed but still old. It was the only thing you recognized about the studio. His higher status in the company granting him with all these new perks, it seemed.

“You didn't want to go?” Yoongi's settling into the seat across from you at his desk. “I wanted to wait for you.” There's obvious sweetness in his tone and you can't deny the easy effect he has on you.

Even when he's saying something as simple as that. Something so plain. Of course, he'd wait for you, he knew you were on your way. So duh, he'd want to wait for you. That didn't stop the flutter in your heart, though.

“What did you guys do today?” This was weird. Filling the silence with small talk. Footing not quite right between the two of you, still figuring things out between each other. You wanted to focus to be on Hyunki and Hyunki alone, but that didn't take away from the fact of how badly he wanted to touch you.

And not even in the sexual sense. Well, yes in the sexual sense – but that wasn't it. He missed being able to hold your hand, play with your face, wrap his arms around your waist. He just missed you. Even now when you were sitting right in front of him. He still missed you.

But like you said, for Hyunki's sake. “A lot. Took him for lunch and dinner. Hung out around here. I taught him how to play a song on the piano.” The smile that takes over your features sets a stutter in Yoongi's heart.

But he ignores it.

“He's getting real good at that.” Of all the times you found him practicing with Taehyung. Adamant to get every last key correct, annoyed each time he'd mess up, starting over from the top every single time. Just like his dad.

You'd be a fool to say you didn't wish things turned out differently. That you had never left and the two of you could've raised Hyunki together. It was crazy how similar the two of them were and they didn't even know each other.

Imagine if they had. How special that would be.

“You want to hear something I've been working on?” He speaks to fill the silence and you're instantly perking up – nodding your head. One of your favorite things was to hear his unfinished work, he'd always ask you for your opinion and it made you feel that much more connected to him when he was taking your advice.

It's natural, how fast you stand as he's scooting back from the computer desk. Don't even think as you're lowering yourself into his lap before he has the chance to get up for you to sit. Something he had entirely planned on doing.

As soon as your bum is settled on his thigh, you're realizing your mistake. Eyes going wide, but you don't move. You're committed at this point so you're acting as if your heart didn't just enter a hundred-yard sprint and leaning back against his chest.

“Show me.”

Yoongi's hesitant at first. Not sure if he should move or move you, but at the same time not wanting to do anything about it. He finds comfort in having you this close. The smell of your sweet shampoo tickling his nostrils. You haven't changed it. You didn't seem to have a problem with this, so why should he? Right?

Why should he? So he's lifting his arm to wrap around your waist with swiftness, pulling your body tighter against his as he reaches for the headphones that lay on his desk. He's securing them on your head with one hand, not willing to unwrap his arm from around you to use both.

“It's only half-finished, but be honest.”

There aren't any words. But you can already tell it's much different from the type of music he's usually putting out. Brighter. Instead of the heavy notes he usually uses, this one sounds more fun? 

Something that could potentially be sung along to. Was he planning on singing? The beat shifts and you assume that's where the chorus would be. More bass is added to the sound. Was he going to dance too?

This was so different, but you liked it. Like a lot. Excited to see what he'd do with this since the poppy tune was so unlike him. The beat slows toward the end and even though he isn't listening, he's perking up when it's fading out.

Watching you expectantly, almost nervously as he waits for your input. He too noticed the different approach he had when creating this beat. Determined to try something new, detached from the last two albums he released. Something to stand on his own, that would make fans go: Oh, he can do that too?

“It's really good.” You say first to ease his worries. “Like scary good, you know? It's not what you expect when you turn on Agust D... but I don't know? I like it.” The corners of his lips lift at your praise, you could literally see the nervousness melting away.

It's only gone for a moment before worry is striking his brow again. Teeth tugging at his lower lip gently. “You're not just saying that, right? You think people will like it?” You can't help the smile that breaks onto your features at his words, hand instantly reaching forward to grasp his chin.

Like you've done a million times before. Something you'd began to do to Hyunki too when he was feeling some type of way. Yoongi's lips pucker from the push of your hand, eyes widening as you lean in – almost certain that you're going to kiss him. But you don't, well not exactly. Your lips are finding his forehead, landing two short kisses to his skin.

“You're so serious.” You mumble, not thinking much of it.

If this were three years ago, it wouldn't be a big deal. Sort of your catch phrase when he was stressing himself out about things he didn't have to worry about. Things that were out of his control. It's only after you're seeing the way he's looking at you do you realize it's not three years ago.

Ready to throw caution to the wind, not a care in the world. Just you. In his arms, putting his lips on him. He didn't care where. After so long without your touch, he'd settle for anything at this point.

Obviously too comfortable in this space, on his lap, things started to feel familiar and you acted out of turn. Inappropriate. You were the one that asked not to pursue anything, so what were you doing?

An apology fresh on your tongue, as you pull your body from his grasp. Ready to assure him that you were caught up and that that... that was just a slight relapse. The words don't leave your lips, though – because the door is bursting open and loud laughter is instantly filling the room.

“Mommy! You came back for me!” Hyunki is yelling over the ruckus, climbing out of Jin's grasp and bolting in your direction.

A forced laugh leaves your lips, the awkward tension taking a while longer to dissipate, you lower yourself to scoop Hyunki off of the floor. “Of course, I'd come back for you, baby. Did you have fun with daddy, today?”

“I had two slices of cheesecake and ice cream!” The amount of sweets not something you'd usually root for, but you hold back on chastises either of them. Still stunned from how you acted, how you almost acted.

“That's good, baby. I'm so happy for you. Why don't you give daddy hugs, we gotta go get ready for bed.” Hyunki's nodding at your words, climbing from your arms to Yoongi's outstretched ones.

He sets his cheek on his chest, small arms wrapping around him as he squeezes. Yoongi's slow at lifting his arms, holding his kid close once he finally does. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay, buddy?”

Hyunki nods with a smile, turning his attention to the boys that have sprawled around the room. “You guys can come see me tomorrow too!” He shouts and much to your surprise, Jimin is the first to agree.

Taking his time to say goodbye to everyone and you wait patiently until he's saying he's ready to go. He's leading you out of the room as if he owns the place. As if he's been there a million times and you're the one that needs the guide.

Yoongi watches as you go, a measly smile offered in his direction before you're turning the corner. Despite not being able to see you anymore, he didn't look away. Still trying to wrap his head around what just happened.

You had kissed him. On the forehead, yeah. Seemed like a high-five in comparison to all you've done before. But it was something. Something after nothing in years. And now he was determined. More ready than before to fix things with you.

More than ready to be a family.

— when the love of his life suddenly vanishes, he drives himself mad looking for her. seemingly erased from the world, he’s forced to pick up the pieces of his life and move on… fast forward three years and someone who looks a lot like the woman he lost is being spotted, holding a kid with an oddly familiar gummy smile…

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A/N: timestamps make sense throughout the fic. to be added to the taglist, send me an ask !! feedback is highly !! appreciated, it’s the motivation i need to keep the fic going nd fun for you guys!!<33

[snidgetwidgeon]

Son of Hylia, Daughter of Farore

A roleswap Zelink AU

Art by @anxioussailorsoldier and used here with permission

This story is a one-shot inspired by the prompts from @drsteggy and was gifted to her in a fic exchange.

~~~

Link awoke suddenly, desperately trying to cling to the vision of a woman surrounded by bright light as it diminished from his foggy mind. Try as he might to enter back into the haze of his mysterious dream, sounds came louder and clearer to his ears, and he registered the rustle of the sheets sliding against his feet as he stretched, his senses slowly returning. Today would be a trying affair. He always remained fatigued after she appeared to him, ever speaking yet rendered frustratingly silent.

Perhaps he could try to lay low, hide in the library, and search yet again on the shelves he’d already scoured for something he may have missed; something to prove it was possible that he was having the visions vessels were known to have had. He just couldn’t interpret them. He spared a bittersweet thought for his late mother. She would have known, would have shown him. Or perhaps she would have bore a daughter, and there would be no question; and he could have supported his sister when they found out the Calamity was foretold to return.

But the Kingdom of Hyrule was left with a Prince at the precipice of doom. He’d never felt more useless, or more determined to do something about it. He would find a way. He would protect everyone.

Zelda shifted her feet, practicing her forms to warm up before training. She missed her scimitar. This new blade felt so different and she had to relearn how to make it an extension of herself. It was humbling when sparring partners she had previously bested came out on top. It just proved she still had much to learn and needed to become proficient with many weapon types if she wanted to be the greatest.

She recalled being a bit intimidated as her group of friends grew over the years. Where they used to be physical equals, they now towered above her; but she supposed she could be thankful for the challenge because it caused her to become an incredibly scrappy fighter, always looking for openings she could wheedle into.

This time she wheedled too far and forgot to watch her flank while in pursuit of one of her opponents. Another warrior swept in and bashed her ribs as she was on an upswing and it sent her flying. As she was pulled up, she couldn’t help but think spitefully that the same would not have happened if she were allowed her weapon of choice. She could have recovered with her scimitar but the swing on the Master Sword was different.

“Nice air you caught there,” her sparring partner teased in Gerudo. “Again?”

Zelda recovered her blade from a few paces away and declined, “I think I’ll just nurse my wounds and ego for awhile, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I recommend you do solitary for a few days with your new acquaintance,” she pointed her chin towards the Master Sword in Zelda’s grip. “See if you two can make friends,” she winked and ran back to join the fray.

Zelda stared down at the sword with slight contempt. Urbosa had told her of the legends she’d learned from the late Queen of Hyrule, and her son, Prince Link- that the sword was wielded to protect Hylia, and how the blade itself chose its master and would even communicate. Someone being chosen meant that a shit storm was likely brewing.

Urbosa also mentioned that preparations were being made against some sort of Calamity. The word made Zelda’s blood run cold and she knew it was something to be feared. If the sword was not speaking to her, perhaps it chose wrong and she was not suited to the challenge. She had tried everything she could think of, even hours of meditation, which she hated because she didn’t like sitting still for long.

But it was all for naught.

She wove her way through the stalls and bustle of the marketplace, sword heavy on her back, and day after day it had only served to weigh her down even more. She could no longer stand it. She exited the north-western gates and ran along the outer wall. Heart pounding and sweating all over, she dug a rather shallow and pathetic hole, chucked the sword in and kicked sand over it before walking away in a huff, muttering, “Curse the day I found your infuriating silence!”

She’d been training in the desert when she discovered it, exploring further than she ever had over the dunes. Following the statues with their guiding swords, she finally came upon the last one and sheltered under her cloak at its base as a sandstorm passed. Thankfully, it was short and as she stood to shake as much sand as she could off her person, she noticed something strange in the distance. She could have sworn she’d reached the last statue of the warriors. Perhaps she’d miscounted as there stood another on the horizon, the reflection of its sword glinting brightly in its grasp.

Zelda took a drink from her ration, taking note of how much was left before deciding she could manage one more. If anything, it would improve her survival skills.

As she neared the solid figure rising out of the sands she noticed that the sword it held was elaborate. Oddly enough, a scabbard for it was slung over the shoulder which made it appear that someone had just left it there. She looked around but only saw a few cacti bearing voltfruits, perfect for carrying around extra moisture for the return trip. Some movement caught her eye behind a cactus and she ran over, pulling her scimitar, in case there was meat to be had, but she was met with a poof of sparkling petals and could have sworn she heard a childish giggle.

After investigating thoroughly, she cut the fruits and placed them into her bag before returning to the statue. It would be a shame to leave such a fine piece of work out in the middle of nowhere. She climbed the figure and slipped the scabbard off the shoulder, letting it fall to the sand before holding the neck and planting her feet against the torso so she could reach the hilt with her free hand. It did not budge. Hiking herself up, she wrapped her legs around the neck so she could use both hands to pull on the wings above the hilt.

She was straining when she heard the laugh again, accompanied by a rattle, and in her distraction, the blade suddenly came loose and they both tumbled into the sand.

She’d thought nothing of it until returning to Gerudo Town.

During a routine visit to the throne room, Chief Urbosa had nearly sent away visiting dignitaries when she spied the sword on Zelda’s back. After the meeting, Urbosa called her into her private quarters, which was very unusual. Perhaps she was to be given a special assignment.

“Where did you find that sword?” Urbosa asked with intense interest and a hint of concern.

Zelda stood at attention and replied concisely, “In the desert, Chief.”

“Zelda, have you any idea what you’ve found?”

Zelda began to doubt her decision to play finders keepers. Maybe it was a ceremonial sword or relic that should have stayed where it was. Though she had been raised with the Gerudo, she certainly did not purport to know all of their culture and was horrified by the idea that she’d deeply offended them.

~~~

Urbosa removed her bracelets and hair ornaments, letting the thick, red locks fall down her back. Making sure her tea would be in reach, she snuggled into her bed and opened a letter from her favorite Hylian. She always saved his letters for the end of the day when her attention could be undivided and she could imagine actually having a conversation with him. He was so bright and inquisitive, and optimistic- as his letter revealed. Just like her love.

~I have not given up my search. I keep thinking that surely, there is a pocket in the library I have not scoured. But then another duty and another day takes me away from it. I see her, Urbosa. It has to mean something. If only I could find evidence that there has been a son of Hylia. Why else would I be given visions? If only I could interpret them...

Do you know how mother did it? Did she ever say anything?~

He then went on to describe his involvement with the funding of the research at the Royal Ancient Lab as well as other gossip that he and Urbosa kept up on, including their inside jokes about stuffy nobles. He also wanted to hear more about the warrior who had pulled the Master Sword.

~Does the bearer of the Blade that Seals the Darkness fare well? The moment I learned of her, I hoped that it was a sliver of evidence to prove my case. If there is a woman as Farore’s chosen, then perhaps it lends weight to the fact that a man could be Nayru’s chosen. But I’m harping. Perhaps I will be able to meet her soon, though father keeps me tied up in social engagements. He has taken to parading me at events where there are ample amounts of young debutantes to vie for my attention. I’d much rather be studying.~

Urbosa wrote back early the next morning after skimming the letter again.

~It seems our chosen Hero is having trouble awakening the power within the blade. When you sent word of legends that say the sword speaks to a worthy master, she immediately felt inadequate. Zelda excels at any challenge and eventually overcomes all obstacles, so when she continually failed to connect with the sword’s spirit, she took out her frustrations in a childish manner. The other day she was witnessed burying it in the sand outside the town walls. She must have blown off all her steam because she did retrieve it later that night.

I think that learning her fate has been weighing on her. She puts on a stoic face but I can see she has reservations. Perhaps if you two came together, something will give?~

After reading Urbosa’s reply, Link laid the parchment back down on his desk and pondered her proposition. He had been wanting to expand his search outside the castle for sometime and though he enjoyed visiting the Royal Lab, it did not hold any answers for what he sought; they were just a bunch of rowdy mechanics who were a lot of fun to hang around with. But to understand his history and role, he wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the known spiritual sites of Hyrule, and perhaps discover unknown ones as well so he could be better informed on how to defeat the Calamity, and possibly awaken the power of Hylia along the way.

He would start making arrangements right away.

~~~

King Rhoam rapped his knuckles on the door of his son’s study. When Link answered with a curt nod and a polite greeting, he entered, leaving his guard detail outside. He thought it prudent to retain at least some privacy for this matter, considering the gossip it could generate.

“I hear you’re planning some sort of trip,” it came out as a statement more than a question.

“A pilgrimage. To try and find any proof of my suspicions-”

He was interrupted by his father’s large, dissatisfied sigh. “Link, you really must stop harping on about that nonsense. Hylia has only ever been reincarnated into the mortal body of a female, that’s just the way it is. A tradition that extends even far beyond what we have in written history.”

“Exactly. We don’t know everything. How do you explain my visions? Mother had them. She knew how to interpret them.”

“Perhaps they’re just dreams,” Rhoam offered again in a misguided attempt to engage.

Link smacked the book he was about to pack on the table in frustration. “I can’t believe you keep saying that, you just don’t understand.”

“What I understand is that you continue to foolishly insist on chasing dreams and fantasies rather than doing something tangible for your people. You’re wasting time, Link. You should be courting and choosing a wife so that you can pass on the bloodline to a potential Princess who will-” Rhoam saw the shock in his boy’s face and tried to change track, “We have no idea when the Calamity will strike, we should be doing everything we can to prevent disaster.”

Link clenched his jaw as a deep anger and loathing swelled in his breast. Voice trembling in rage, he rebutted, “I am not going to produce an heir just to send her to the slaughter. I will fight my own battles. This Calamity is coming down on us! I just need to figure out how to awaken Hylia’s power.” He grabbed his bag and stormed out before Rhoam could push his agenda further.

~~~

The next letter Urbosa received from Link outlined his travels. She grinned as she read through them, glad that he’d managed to get away.

~The Forgotten Temple was very difficult to access, and though it did not produce any results, it was a breath taking trip. It has the largest Goddess Statue I have ever seen and I felt a peculiar familiarity while standing under her benevolent smile. I think this is promising.

We’re now at the ruins of the Temple of Time on the Great Plateau. I’m no stranger to the place of course, but the Priestess has been most helpful in providing old texts to study that were not available at the Castle. She’s even offered to assign a scribe to make copies for me.

I hope to be underway again soon and I would like to visit the Seven Heroines. I want to leave no stone unturned. I shall send a dispatch for when we expect to be arriving in the desert.~

When the time came, Urbosa bid Zelda to be an escort for the Prince across the sands to Gerudo Town. “Listen carefully, Zelda. Being the Prince is more than reason enough to keep him safe, but there may be a chance that he is so much more. The fact that you wield that sword lends weight to his theory that he may be Hylia reborn.”

Zelda’s eyes widened but she remained silent, nodding dutifully.

“I’ll need you to deliver some supplies to him so that he may enter unmolested upon arrival.”

“Chief?” Zelda asked, uncertain about the order. Hylia possibly being in a boy she could handle, but in all her time there, she’d never heard of a voe entering Gerudo Town. For Urbosa to speak of it almost as if it were done every other day was- confusing, to say the least.

Urbosa raised her brow at the question. “He is my Oten’vehvi and knows how to behave within these walls. You need not concern yourself with the politics, just act as his personal guard.”

“Yes, Chief.”

She made her preparations and checked that all was secure with the ‘contraband.’ The idea of meeting the Prince was troubling to say the least. She felt completely inadequate, bearing a sword that considered her unworthy. Perhaps she could pass it onto him and he could find the most courageous person in Hyrule. With his resources she was sure it wouldn’t be that hard. Then again, legendary swords weren’t known for choosing incorrect Heroes, so what was wrong with her?

They would just have to work together somehow.

She rode most of the way at a leisurely pace behind her sand seal until she noticed a scuffle as she neared Kara Kara. “HUP!” she directed her seal to go a bit faster to investigate.

A couple of Hylian vai shrieked when they saw her. “The Prince! Please save our Prince!” they cried as they pointed west.

There were two Yiga chasing after a nimble blond clad in light blue. She sprung after them, tongue rolling in a call to let her mount know they needed to go as fast as if they were fleeing a molduga.

The Prince was doing well for himself until he fell, a prey disposition coming over him. He scooted back but could only stare at the assassins, frozen in fear.

Zelda used her inertia to whip across the sand and jumped to land between the Prince and his attackers. She drew her sword, imbued with courage and confident that she could easily protect the boy against the likes of this desert rabble. She almost become distracted by the sword’s sudden glow before exchanging blows with the masked Yiga. They soon realized they were no match for her and dispersed in pops of red and orange light, laughter echoing in their place.

Breathing heavily, she turned back to face the Prince who was still flat on his bum. They both ogled the glowing sword.

An ethereal, disembodied voice broke the silence, “Master, it is good to see you again.”

Their eyes snapped to each other and searched for understanding. There was an immediate and unmistakable bond between them. They’d both heard it.

“I see...” Zelda began. She glared down at the Master Sword, fist clenching the handle and shaking with anger. “So you only deign to speak when your charge is present?” Her voice rose, “I wasn’t good enough for you?! You picky piece of shit!” she yelled as she hurled the sword into the dunes.

Link gaped in disbelief that his protector was so uncouth when something profound occurred to him. He fell back into the sand laughing, a massive wave of relief washing over him.

She looked at him curiously. “What? What is it?”

His laughter died down and he gazed into the sky, moisture glistening in the corner of his eye. “She’s with me.”

Zelda’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, unaware of the turmoil he had experienced regarding his identity.

Link stood and brushed himself off then held out his hand in greeting. “You must be Zelda. Bearer of the Blade that seals the Darkness.”

She accepted his shake and added spitefully, “More like the blade that won’t open its trap unless its mommy is around.”

“You know, I find it very intriguing, my mother’s name was also Zelda.”

“Yes, my mother was a big fan. It’s kind of flattering, she was a great lady. But people always joke that I’m the lost, secret princess and other nonsense.” She started to move away but he touched her arm and she paused.

“Thank you- for saving my life; but also for revealing the truth. Now that I know she’s here,” he touched his heart, “I will find her.”

Zelda eyed him like a strange bug, still unsure as to what he was on about. She patted his shoulder as she walked over to retrieve her weapon, “Good luck with that.”

~~~

A few nights later, Link and Urbosa took a stroll just outside of town to enjoy each other’s company, catching up on their daily lives. The stars twinkled brightly and the moon shone pale on the dunes, a steady breeze drifting the sands away to the dark horizon. He’d just intimated what his father would have him do to stay the coming Calamity.

She touched his shoulder in support, “And what did you say?”

“That this was our battle. And I would absolutely not have a child just to-” he sighed deeply. “I mean, I know the legends. There will always be a vessel of Hylia and her chosen Hero, but to be so deliberate and unfeeling about it, I just...”

“It’s alright. Your father has always been rather blunt, and practical to a fault. For what it’s worth, I believe in you. The visions you describe sound very similar to what your mother shared with me.”

He looked up to her with a smile, “It’s worth a lot, you’re my Oten’baba; your opinion matters to me more than anyone else.”

They continued on for a short time in companionable silence when Urbosa stopped and lifted her head to the night, listening and placing a hand on her scimitar.

“What is it?” Link asked, only noticing after he’d taken a few steps ahead.

A raucous laughter cut across the desert and as quick as Urbosa had been to draw her blade and prepare a snap of deadly electricity over her foes, two of them grabbed the Prince and held their sickles to his neck causing her to stay her hand.

“What a lovely package we have here tonight. Not only can we bag the boy, we can finally rid ourselves of the thorn in our side, Gerudo Tempest!” a Yiga foot soldier, hidden amongst the rest, spat the last two words out in disgust.

They attacked and dozens fell upon the Chief, running head on and popping up behind. A dance of blades began and Link struggled to free himself. Urbosa tried to lead her foes away but Link’s captors followed, dragging his feet through the sand.

“You’ll not be using your lightning with the precious Prince so close, will you?” gloated the same antagonizing voice.

Link cried out in terror when he saw a Yiga succeed in cutting her arm. She seethed and decked them right across the jaw. When they fell she jumped onto their back and launched herself in the air so she could shoot off a bolt.

“Oh, no! Is the Tempest in distress?” the voice goaded, and the masks cackled.

Link couldn’t tell where the mocking was coming from, they were everywhere and nowhere at once. There were too many. Urbosa was becoming overwhelmed and aid may not arrive in time- a gash landed on her leg- he was going to lose her. The laughing was getting louder, the air becoming so thick with magic that it tasted like chalk on his tongue- a slice was delivered up her back and she cried out. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of his mother. What would she do? There hadn’t been anything he could do for her then, but he was here now for his living mother.

Link’s eyes shot open just in time to see Urbosa drowning under the onslaught and his insides fell into oblivion. They were replaced by a warmth that spread through his body and beyond. He jerked his head in confusion as those that held him fell away. He was free. Sparks akin to those he felt when he fell asleep on his hand in the library spread through his fingers and he launched himself into the foray. He clawed through Yiga soldiers to get to her and did not see how each one he yanked was thrown back with a force of golden energy.

“Urbosa! URBOSA!?” They hit the ground.

The desert was lit with a false sunrise as Link crushed Urbosa in a desperate embrace. The light washed over her, healing her wounds as it cascaded around them in a dome, their enemies lying motionless on the outside.

After a few stunned moments, they opened their eyes and picked each other up. Urbosa held his face in her hands and wiped his tears. “Just look at you,” she said, smiling proudly.

“I- I couldn’t. I was,” he stumbled over his words as more tears fell, “I was going to lose you. I couldn’t lose you too,” he cried into her chest and she held him close.

~~~

Link was a natural at seal surfing. That’s what Zelda thought before she realized that he must have actually visited Gerudo Town previously and she just didn’t know it. They had left at sunrise and arrived to their destination mid morning. After taking a much needed rest, re-hydrating and snacking, Link took a leisurely walk around the place to get his bearings while Zelda tended to the sand seals. She joined him after they were settled for a long siesta and the two of them began their research of the Seven Heroines in interest.

There were orbs scattered about the place. Very large, Link noticed. He pushed one with his foot. And heavy. The sand seals might have to work after all. He tasked Zelda with collecting any she could find and in the meantime he studied the statues, picking up rather quickly that some had prominent corresponding symbols to the orbs on various parts of their bodies. Some he couldn’t make out as they were too high so there would be some educated guesses by process of elimination.

Zelda couldn’t help being drawn into his enthusiasm, the way he took notes- the face he made when he took those notes; it was all very quaint, and a bit impressive. Having spent most of her time advancing physically, she appreciated the mental gymnastics they were doing. Where most might sit back defeated, Link pushed through with a calm determination. They tried dropping the orbs in the pedestals in numerous combinations, each with a sound theory behind them. How was Link to know that if shrines had been activated, he would have succeeded in getting a result on the first try? A fact that they both wouldn’t learn for another 103-odd years.

After the sun set, Link scrawled until the dimming light rendered the page unreadable. Zelda had already set about making camp. They could head back to town in the morning, both were knackered. Even with the help of the seals, they’d heaved plenty of orbs around for hours. Eventually he plopped down on the rug with her and heaved a big sigh.

“Wow, you been working all day or something?” she asked in jest as she turned the vegetables in the fire.

“Yeah, something like that. It’s been a long while since I’ve been out in the field.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “What’s it like up at the castle?”

“Stuffy.”

She chuckled and didn’t press but it wouldn’t be fair to leave it at that. For all its faults, it deserved more. “I loved exploring the halls as a boy. I’m fairly certain I found long lost passages even the castle historian didn’t know about. My favorite places are the Library and the Observatory. “

“Sounds about right,” Zelda smirked.

“Ha ha. But really, the Library has books as far as you can see, you’d never finish them in one lifetime. And my mother used to take me to the Observatory. I still go there to feel close to her.”

They sat in silence for a moment when Zelda touched his forearm. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Link nodded in thanks and Zelda started to collect the hearty truffles from the coals. “I lost my father,” she began, and Link was a bit surprised she was sharing.

“He was a knight. We didn’t have any other family close by and mom didn’t fancy moving to Tabantha Village. She hates the cold,” Zelda added as she passed Link a stick laden with dinner.

“Thanks. So she just came to the desert instead?” Link asked before blowing generously and taking a bite.

“She had a close friend here who is practically my auntie. I think she was hoping we could just get away and start fresh from everything we knew before. But then I had to take after dad. Took her a while and a lot of arguments to come to terms with the fact that I was also a warrior.” She shook her head. “I feel bad. I’ve put her in a constant fear of losing me too but... you have to do what your soul tells you, right?”

Link closed his eyes and thought of Hylia, feeling a vibration in his core. “Right.” He agreed thoughtfully.

“Anyway, then this happened,” she said, unsheathing the sword on her back a few inches and letting fall back in with a shinck. “That was not a fun conversation.”

“I can imagine,” Link commiserated as he thought of his own recent rows with his father.

Zelda took a bite of her own truffle and regarded him up and down. With no tact for manners, she said with a full mouth, “You’re alrigh’ fo’ a Pince.”

Link laughed and his genuine mirth spread warmth through Zelda’s chest. “And you’re alright for a Hero.”

[wolf-and-bard]

Bad Reputation

Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

Jaskier/Eskel, ~1.3k, rated T, no warnings

Written for @thewitcherbog fic train event together with @kueble, @professorjaskier, and @softdarlingjaskier so be on the lookout for their parts in the next few days. It was so much fun!! 😊💕

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“Ta-da,” Jaskier says with a flourish of his hand, and gestures at the dress-form he has set up in the middle of the living area of his rooms at Oxenfurt, all furniture pushed to the side. The mannequin is clad in a positively stunning arrangement, an unpretentious doublet of deep burgundy with subtly golden ribbons at the cuffs and seams, a matching pair of cotton breeches. Underneath, an almost-black silken shirt. It’s plain for Jaskier’s tastes and habits, but it’s perfect for its recipient whose suspicious gaze is currently flicking between Jaskier and the clothes. 

“What is that?” Eskel asks, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s wearing his typical red-and-dark stripe with those small spikes on the shoulders that Jaskier thinks are honestly ridiculous. Not big enough to work as any form of weaponry or defense mechanism, too dismissable to count as a fashion statement. Yeah, right. Wolves and fashion. Ridiculous.

Jaskier snorts and watches Eskel watch the dress-form, wary and uncomprehending to a point that is just adorable. 

“That, my dear witcher, is an outfit. Your outfit to be precise. That is to say, the outfit you will wear tonight.” Jaskier puts on his brightest sunlight-smile, hoping it will cover up the awkwardness he can feel tightening his throat. This could have started better. But then again, this could have started so much worse. Eskel could already be out the door what with him just having arrived, swords still strapped to his back, one hand fisted around the plain linen sack he keeps most of his belongings in. 

“Do I look like Geralt to you?” Eskel asks, brow raised which contorts the landscape of scars that cover half his face, stretching them out. Jaskier’s fingers itch to reach out and trace them, they always do whenever Eskel graces him with a visit to his apartment.

It’s about the only place they ever cross paths. With Geralt, Jaskier is bound to stumble into him in the most ridiculous of places and predicaments, as though Destiny wills it so. With Eskel… well. Jaskier learned early on in their acquaintance that finding Eskel anywhere takes effort, so it’s easier to have Eskel find him. The wolf sticks to himself almost all year round, avoids big cities and gets by on mysterious, long-winded contracts that take him to places most of the rest of the world has forgotten about. Jaskier has never once accompanied Eskel on one of his hunts, and that is perhaps why he often feels that a certain distance remains between them, no matter how often Eskel comes around.

And Eskel does, with striking regularity. At least once, whenever Jaskier’s staying in Oxenfurt for longer than a handful of days. He’ll always bring something too; a fine Toussaint vintage for them to share, a hearty piece of salt-crystal cheese for them to put on their bread, some pickled fish straight from the Skellige Isles. It isn’t always edible or drinkable, sometimes it’s useful like a pretty button or a new set of lute strings. There is no rhyme or reason to Eskel’s little gifts, just one thing that threads through them, and it is that every time, they take Jaskier by surprise. Eskel is so very reliable and Jaskier’s brain still hesitates to form expectations. Expectations can get crushed and he has already invested more heart into this relationship than is strictly healthy.

“Jaskier?” Eskel asks into the silence which has speeded by for Jaskier with his mind reminiscing, but which must have dragged excessively for the witcher. To Eskel’s credit, he doesn’t show the slightest twitch of impatience. 

“Of course you don’t,” Jaskier says, shuddering inwardly. Outwardly, his smile freezes over.

You look nothing like Geralt, he doesn’t say though he knows that with taking away the scars and dyeing Geralt’s hair, they would look strikingly similar. There are no pictures of Eskel before, but it didn’t even need Vesemir telling Jaskier this for the bard to notice. They have the same cut of jawline, same set of their shoulders, a similar nose. But that’s artificial and if one looks closely, the similarities start to fall away pretty quickly.

You look much more beautiful than him – sorry Geralt, but it’s true, is what Jaskier also doesn’t say even though his rapidly beating heart keeps commanding him to.

“Then why would I wear this? What for?”

“Oh nothing special, just a wee little occasion, really.”

“Jaskier…”

“A-hem, right. The school-board is throwing a fancy dinner party tonight and I have been invited as a guest. I thought you might want to join me… be my partner if you will.”

Oh, but that feels daring. That feels very daring. 

Eskel cocks his head, golden eyes boring into Jaskier’s. Jaskier feels his cheeks heat and licks his lips. 

“Can’t I go the way I am?” the witcher asks finally. 

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says and swallows. “Well, you see… there’s nothing wrong with the way you are, necessarily, but… it’s, well. They are very important people and I have a certain standing within the university. A reputation to maintain, if you will.”

“You?” Eskel raises a brow. “A reputation to maintain?”

A reputation other than drinking and whoring around, is what Eskel doesn’t say, but it is heavily implied and not even in a condescending manner. Eskel knows Jaskier the flamboyant bard, Jaskier the man with an eye for a good party, Jaskier that will drag any conquest into his bed regardless of whether there’s a witcher crashing in his guest bedroom or not. And even though Eskel’s been visiting him in Oxenfurt, in his rooms at the heart of the academy, Professor Pankratz is a complete stranger to both Eskel and Geralt. They know of him, of course, but they don’t know him.

“Yes, me,” Jaskier says. “A Professor at this university and highly valued member of several poet’s societies and bardic unions.”

“Trust a fucking academic to demand I dress up for him.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to trust anyone around here?” Jaskier retorts in what he hopes is a light note, but something has settled in the pit of his stomach at Eskel’s words, even though they were meant in jest. If this was Geralt, there would have been a deeper meaning woven into the words. In this regard too, Eskel is very different from Geralt in the manner in which he deals out his faith. He was wary when they first met at Kaer Morhen, of course; careful. But one night under the tightly-woven tapestry of constellations above the keep together, watching from the battlements while the temperature still allowed it, and Eskel turned from cool indifference to a low simmer of secretive smiles and sidelong glances. Jaskier can’t help but wonder if - for all of Eskel’s straightforwardness - there is still a hidden fuse he’s about to light up like a damn wildfire one day.

“I thought you were the exception,” Eskel grumbles and sighs deeply. Still eyeing the doublet wearily, the wolf witcher begins to pace around it, circling it as though it is a ghoul about to jump him and not his dress for the night. It would have been quite funny too, if it didn’t make Jaskier ponder so much. He doesn’t like pondering, not before an evening of events. He isn’t here to think, which would lead to dissecting, which would lead to inspiration and doubt at the same time. Jaskier has many doubts, especially when the handsomely rugged witcher in front of him is involved and he suspects there’s no glazing over them now, not when big words such as trust have been thrown this carelessly into the room. 

“I hoped I would be,” Jaskier admits begrudgingly and carves out another smile, if dampened. “Will you come along then? It would mean the world to me.”

[g4rous]

Sunlit memories (Garou x reader)

tags: slight mentions of blood, no warnings really

words: 1.3k

notes: hi lol finally dropped the second chapter of the fic, feel free to tell me your thoughts again it means the world 💕

series masterlist

previous chapter

Chapter two

It had already been a week since that odd encounter with the mysterious guy, nonetheless you didn’t think much of it. The days weren’t as scorching as before, tempting you to go to the park to sketch even more. On one of your strolls you’ve noticed a cat lazing around your building and much to your glee it let you pet it almost every time it passed by. Despite occasionally having some work on your hands you even managed to clear away those 2 month-old boxes from when you first moved into your new apartment, finally tempted to call over a friend or two so they could see what you did with the place. At last you were getting used to the city and routines.

Well, at least that’s how you wanted it to be.

In reality the past week has been intriguing as it was chaotic. Monsters have been popping up and wreaking havoc even more fluently than before, making you question was moving here a mistake. Your daily strolls in that peaceful park reduced greatly with so much unease in the air. Even passing by one of the cafés wasn’t as soothing as before, since instead of music you only heard the citizens’ nervous chatter and rumors, most prominently about some “nutcase that hunts heroes for a hobby”. At this point walking home alone even after a relaxing day seemed straight up spine-chilling. To top it off “that dude” from before coincidentally just happened to cross paths with you almost every day, and you weren’t sure was it plain hilarious or just ridiculously awkward.

Be it at that same, now mostly deserted park from before, catching him speaking to some kid with a book in hand, or just in the passageway of one of the many alleys in the city, your curiosity grew even more. And the fact his occasional bruised, even bloody form caught your eyes more than once didn’t help. Even so, you’d always give a small wave, which he would (awkwardly) return. Truth be told, you were keen on actually starting a normal conversation with the man whose name still remained unknown. Why not? He doesn’t seem ill-mannered despite all the mystery surrounding him, too bad your plan to befriend often got spoiled by the fact he always seemed so preoccupied with something.

And here you are, waiting for the coffee machine at the nearest mini-market to deliver your drink while trying desperately not to glance over to that same man picking out what bag of chips to steal. (And yes, you bore witness to that before as well.)

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you sighed internally, keeping your eyes on the drink in-the-making.

Oddly enough, this actually seemed like a good opportunity to say hello. The machine finally finished its work, allowing you to take a good whiff of the delightful hot drink in your hands before taking a long waited sip.

“Eh, isn’t as good as when I make it but this’ll do.”

After glancing at him one more time, you mustered up the courage to walk in his direction. Though, as soon as you turned around someone else bumped into you, almost spilling your drink. A hero, to be exact. A tall man with black markings on his eye matching with his onyx hair, beside him three more who you couldn’t identify; one practically naked, the only clothing on him being a thong, heels and butterfly wings, one with light blond hair decorated with a peach headband and the last one wearing a dark expensive-looking suit with avocado patterns. Definitely didn’t see that one before.

The tall one was quick to apologize, to which you only gave a small, reassuring smile. Trailing your eyes to the other three, you noticed their stern, focused expressions, giving you the impression they didn’t come here for some junk food and sweets.

“Wonder what they’re up to,” you pondered after taking your eyes off them.

“Well, doesn’t matter to me anyways.”

After taking a small circle around the isle in front of you, the silver-haired teen was at long last close enough to converse with. Despite being right next to him, much to your surprise he didn’t bat an eyelid after you gave your signature wave.

“Um, I’m sure you already saw me when you came in but still-” you continued with a nervous smile“-I felt like I just had to say hi.”

And again you were greeted with more silence before he finally took the chips and turned the other way.

“Ah, sure. See ya then.”

“Yo, what?”

Was this some kind of a joke? Even that one haughty girl you remember you disliked in middle school wouldn’t give a response so numbingly dry.

Before you managed to ask any more questions, the man glanced over at your direction for a brief moment.

“Quit talking, they’re gonna think we’re friends or something.”

Standing there with a deadpan expression, drink still in hand you watched as he nonchalantly exited the store without the clerk noticing that unpaid bag of chips. At this point you regret even thinking about befriending him.

“So much for socializing,” you rolled your eyes and took another sip.

“Might just get a bag of chips myself. And pay for it.”

Sunlight shone from the store’s humble display window onto the handful of isles, making it look like a scene from some nostalgic 90s movie. Lost in thoughts, you stared at your sunlit reflection on one of the glass panes. The radio played one of your favorite songs, making you wish to stay in that comfy mini-market just a minute or two longer. Well, if only you didn’t turn around to see a bald man with a ridiculous-looking outfit and a horror-struck face trying to bargain the clerk to accept his expired coupons.

“Yeah, let’s just get out of this store already.”

Despite all the eccentric behavior you bore witness to today, one thing was still faintly clinging on to your mind as you walked down the almost empty street. Still somewhat irritated from that remark earlier, you’ve began to wonder what was that about in the long run, but on second thought you didn’t feel like getting any more annoyed.

You let out a small sigh before glancing at your phone. Looking ahead, now you were somewhat tempted to take a few good pictures of the sunlight reflecting on the eerie looking district about a hundred meters away. It was a ghost town filled with ghastly rumors, even so still incredibly intriguing.

“Huh, I wonder does anyone live there?”

However the instant those thoughts came to mind, your attention was drawn over to the alley on your left with its ruckus. You could’ve sworn to have heard some men shouting, yet before you even thought of retreating the other way you had already caught a glimpse of the commotion.

Two men lay sprawled out on the concrete, that half-naked hero and the one with the peach headband, both with a battered face. And if that sight didn’t stop you in your tracks, the familiar man behind the other two standing heroes from the store did.

That same silver-haired teen smirked at the two men equally battered as the ones unconscious on the floor. In spite of the blood trickling down his bruised fists, he kept an unshakeable stance. To say you couldn’t believe what you were seeing was an understatement. Just who the hell is this guy and what was he doing?

Just as he was seemingly about to make a remark towards the two heroes your presence caught him by surprise, which the two used slyly for an attack.

One made what seemed like a small smokescreen and afterwards all that was heard was the sound of the old parts of the building’s walls crumbling down. For a moment you were unsure whether to call someone to help or just back away from the scene altogether, not that it mattered since all you heard was a loud shout before black clouds overcame your vision.

[alderaani]

more than gold

summary:  A lost Jedi Temple, a riddle, some literature, and feelings that Cody isn't ready to speak out loud. | AO3

note: written for @codywanweek and the alt day 5 prompt Sith/Jedi Artefact Shenanigans! sliding in on the last day with one more thing written than expected, so i’m happy with that! i’m pretty ill today so i hope it actually makes some coherent sense 😂 also if the riddle was super obvious, soz, never written one before and turns out it’s really hard.

-

“You know, I could have sworn I told you not to touch that,” Cody says conversationally, from where he’s splayed out on his back.

“Really? I’m sure I didn’t hear you,” Obi-Wan says, cheerful despite being crumpled in a heap. His elbow is in Cody’s gut. Cody glares at him.

The room they’re lying in is circular, stone, carved out of some Forced-damned mountain and according to Obi-wan, practically thrumming with power. The ceiling is high and vaulted, letting in slivers of light where intricate mirror systems catch the sunlight of double suns and project it deep underground. It takes on a slightly blue cast, reflecting off the huge pool of water they were lucky to not fall into. Four walkways at each cardinal point lead to a central platform, and interspersed between them are four waterfalls.

It should be serene. Except now the waterfalls are travelling backwards, and all the doors, including the one they came in by, are blocked. Cody scrambles up onto his elbows, dislodging Obi-Wan with a grunt.

“What did you do?”

Obi-Wan follows his gaze and gasps, delighted. “Now, will you look at that?”

Cody is looking. Frankly, he doesn’t trust this place enough to not keep his eye on it at all times. Obi-Wan keeps saying that this temple was built long ago, by ancient, peaceful Jedi as a place of learning, and that it won’t hurt them. After they got cut off from the rest of their men at the entrance, however, Cody thinks he could be forgiven for having his doubts.

As Obi-Wan himself proves, peace-keeping hardly rules out danger.

“Amazing,” Obi-Wan breathes, hoisting himself to his feet without a second glance, to walk back up to the plinth and stalk round it, examining the incomprehensible runes engraved there.

Cody is left to peel himself off the floor, and instead goes to prod at the barriers now sealing the exits with the end of his blaster. He tries not to look too much at Obi-Wan, at the soft sweep of his hair and the span of his shoulders. Being on their own like this is something he’s avoided, of late - not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he’s starting to enjoy it all too much.

He doesn’t trust the way his heart leaps when Obi-Wan smiles, when he asks him to call him ‘Obi-Wan’, when the cycle draws on and they’re up late again, companionably finishing reports and debating strategy. Or, as they had been doing until Cody got cold feet and started finding excuses, debating novels, which Obi-Wan checked out of the Temple archives and read aloud, one chapter at a time, before they turned in for the night.

He doesn’t trust himself not to ruin this by overstepping. There’s something about his general that makes him lose all control of his tongue, and puts him in danger of voicing thoughts that really he should not be having at all.

It’s agony. It’s bliss. It’s stretching him to breaking point, and this is possibly the worst situation they could have ended up in, really.

“These are made out of water,” he says over his shoulder, grunting as he tries to push his blaster through. He is, of course, unsuccessful.

“Ingenious,” Obi-Wan says. “How did they manage that, I wonder?”

Cody cuts a glance back at him, and grins, despite his exasperation.

“You’re not more worried about how we’re going to get out?”

Obi-Wan waves a hand. “I’m sure the path will reveal itself, in time. Oh, look - Cody, I think this is a puzzle!”

Cody bites back a groan. They do not have time for this. They never really had time for it, but Obi-Wan promised it would be a brief detour on their way to the capital for hyperspace lane access negotiations. He’d looked so excited by recon reports of a lost temple that Cody just hadn’t been able to say no. He’s never able to say no to Obi-Wan, even when he isn’t following orders. It’s probably his fatal flaw.

“I don’t suppose there’s an off switch? A back button?” He asks hopelessly. The Force, at least the Jedi sort, very rarely seems to work that way. Obi-Wan is always talking about moving through problems, about seeking balance and adapting to what’s around you, rather than manipulating it. It’s not Cody’s favoured approach; he was trained to leverage his environment to its maximum advantage, and finds he has little patience for anything else.

Obi-Wan snorts. “This is a defensive mechanism, I’m afraid. Judging by the architecture this was built at the height of the Sith Wars. This artefact is designed to trap us here until we understand the mechanism and progress, or until, back when the temple was occupied, someone would come and deal with the intruder.”

“That doesn’t sound very peaceful,” Cody says.

Obi-Wan shoots him an amused look, the warm, soft kind that makes heat rise from the pit of Cody’s belly right up to his ears.

“Even a pacifist may defend himself,” he says, then leans over the pedestal. “Now, how about you stop grousing and come help me with this?”

Cody rolls his eyes, but goes, slinging his blaster across his back and crossing his arms.

“And stop looming,” Obi-Wan laughs, catching one of Cody’s gloved hands and pulling it down to rest at his side. The simple touch makes Cody’s cheeks burn.

“Don’t see what help I can give you, Sir,” he says, frowning down at the characters surrounding the bright blue artefact. “I was never any good at Ithorian.”

Obi-Wan pauses, then tilts his head up. “Ah. Is that what it is?”

“I - I think so?” Cody was never any good at his language flashtraining; he never had the proper patience for it, but he can usually figure out the basics.

“No, no,” Obi-Wan muses, stroking at his beard with his free hand. “You’re quite right. Goodness me, it's been a long time since I last saw this dialect. Let’s see now…”

Cody steps back and waits, keeping his attention firmly split between their blocked exit points while Obi-Wan ponders. The slow upward movement of the waterfalls is eerie - it still makes noise, but none of it is right. Instead of the gentle patter he expects of water joining a larger pool, there’s a faint gurgling as they move further into each grate, travelling somewhere he cannot see.

Obi-Wan finishes his fifth circle round the platform, and the hand at his chin goes still. Cody stands at attention, expectant.

“It’s a riddle,” Obi-Wan says, and if possible, his delight grows. “Yes - the language is coming back to me now. Do you know, I haven’t looked at Ithorian in maybe 12 years?”

“Sir?” Cody says, tilting his head to look at the characters more closely. He doesn’t have even a passing proficiency at modern Ithorian, and presumably it’s changed a bit over the millennia. His training was focused on the basics, and only the useful bits, at that. He thinks he can make out the words for ‘ water ’, and ‘ enemy’ , both of which are either unhelpfully descriptive or frankly discouraging, but that’s about the extent of it.

“My old master - he loved prophecies. When I was a teenager I could never see the point of it, but it meant I spent a lot of time learning the old Ithorian dialects. They’re known as the most peaceful species, did you know?” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “They’ll exile anyone violent, it’s quite remarkable, really. I suppose in some sort of idealistic emulation, a lot of the early Jedi texts are written in their dialect.”

His blue eyes are keen, his laser sharp focus firmly on the podium. It gives Cody a moment to observe his clever fingers, the long line of his neck, the open delight with which he tackles this new problem. It’s a rare thing, to see him so relaxed, and Cody can’t help the fond smile that creeps up on him despite the circumstances. This almost makes it worth it, and on reflection, he’d rather an ancient temple than the last thing that had made Obi-Wan so happy; a wretched, bioluminescent fungus, which had infected half the battalion and given them hives. Their general had studied it for weeks.

Obi-Wan’s lips quirk up. Cody barely trusts himself to speak.

“I didn’t know, Sir,” Cody croaks, then pauses, fishing for something normal to say. “Didn’t we have to defend the governor’s daughter from an Ithorian bounty hunter on Ganaris-IV?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan grins. “Those exiles have to go somewhere, don’t they?”

Cody huffs a laugh and reaches up to scratch his neck at the seam of his bucket.

“Let’s just hope they didn’t all come here. What’s this riddle, then?”

Obi-Wan shifts to the side, then points at a spot on the podium. “As I said, it’s been a long time, but I think it starts here, and goes something like:

A thing to be forged, where water is thicker,

Worth more than gold, unless it’s pyrite that glitters.

An enemy of my enemy, or in hard times, in need,

Sometimes fair-weather, or in high places indeed.

What are you, traveller? ”

All of Cody’s hopes that it would be something nice and obvious, like “lightsaber” or, given what’s going on around them, “gravity”, escape from him like smoke. Jedi and their metaphors. It’s not just a quirk of Obi-Wan’s, clearly.

“Does that mean anything to you, Sir?” he asks, turning the words over in his head once, twice, then frowning when nothing comes immediately.

Obi-Wan’s brow is also furrowed, but in a leisurely, meditative manner.

“...I have some ideas, I think,” he says. “How about you, my friend?”

What does he think? He thinks that there are other sorts of puzzles he is much better suited to. Word play and idioms...what does a clone have to offer that?

Still, Obi-Wan is watching him, expectant and gentle, and he sifts back through the lines, a little more seriously this time.

“Ice, maybe?”

Obi-Wan nods, slowly. “Perhaps. Walk me through it.”

Cody swallows. “Ice is something that can be made, right? It’s not exactly forged, but…”

He trails off in uncertainty.

“Go on,” Obi-Wan says with another one of those soft, devastating smiles. It fractures all the thoughts in Cody’s head, and he has to stop, clear his throat and gather up all the pieces.

“I suppose...it’s just thicker water, isn’t it? On warm planets it’s a valuable commodity, it’s found in high places, and I suppose if you wanted snow, a freeze would be fair weather.”

Obi-Wan is rubbing his beard again, and he’s still smiling. “Fascinating. I would never have thought of that...only, I don’t think it’s quite there. That mention of pyrite is troublesome, and the ‘enemy of my enemy’, where does that fit in?”

Cody shrugs his shoulders, frustrated, and feels a hot flush creep up his neck. “Don’t know why you’re asking me, to be honest, Sir. Kamino hardly covered poetry.”

There’s a slight pause, then Obi-Wan’s hand is on his again, tugging it slowly down from where he’s crossed his arms.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says, soft.

“Do what?” Cody’s voice is gruff.

“Dismiss yourself. You do it sometimes when we’re reading together. There is often no right and wrong answer to these things, no secret. There is only perspective, and you see things I never would, if only you would trust yourself.”

Cody looks down and away, back towards the waterfalls and their slow, glacial climb. He isn’t sure that’s true. He enjoys what Obi-Wan shares with him, what other lives he gets to touch in their books, but more than anything they convince him that, beyond war, he knows very little of anything at all. He would like to, someday.

His eyes land on Obi-Wan’s lips briefly, before he tears them away. Particular experiences he would like to know more than others.

There was one book that Obi-Wan had read early on, back when this infatuation was just setting its first tendrils into him, about a forbidden romance at the heart of the old Mandalorian court. Two heirs of rival clans battling to be together against the good approval of their noble relatives. It had been torrid, ridiculous and entirely unexpected when Obi-Wan had suggested they break up their reports with some literature.

But what it had done was give him the words to express the crawling heat in his stomach, the urge he has to reach out, to touch, to soothe, to care for. He’d known what he wanted before that, of course, in a more rudimentary manner, but it had gifted him the language of yearning.

Suddenly, a particular passage springs into his mind and he straightens.

“You don’t think it could mean ally, do you? In Beneath the Armour, Mata threatens Clan Riza by saying he has ‘allies in high places’.”

Obi-Wan pauses, and then a brilliant smile spreads over his face. “Yes, that’s it! Pyrite - Fool’s Gold; a false friend! Brilliant Cody, whatever made you think of that?”

Cody grins, even though Obi-Wan can’t see it, and doesn’t answer.

“Is that really it?”

“I think you’re very close,” Obi-Wan says. “The characters engraved into the platform...yes! Stand close to me, Commander.”

Cody does, watching curiously as Obi-Wan lifts his hands, shuts his eyes, frowns, and pushes . Six blocks that make up the platform lift, the characters on each glowing bright, lurid blue. Under their feet, something scrapes, shifts and clunks, before the platform lurches upwards, spinning gently.

There’s a thunderous gurgling sound, before all of the pool beneath drains away.

“The answer,” Obi-Wan says, slightly breathless, his hair a little out of place. “Was friend.”

“The doorways are still blocked,” Cody notes drily. The plinth with the blue orb that started this whole mess has also risen, and underneath it are a set of very wet, slimy looking steps. “I don’t suppose it’s as simple as just walking down these and getting in?”

“Likely not,” Obi-Wan agrees, then inexplicably shifts a little closer, so that they are sharing space. Cody’s heart skips a beat. “But it’s like I told you, Cody. You are far greater than what you have been given.”

Cody coughs and looks at his feet, at their boots almost toe to toe, pleasure at the praise singing low through his body.

“Now,” Obi-Wan says, too close and not close enough. “How do you feel about another puzzle?”

Cody groans, laughing, and after a moment, follows his General into the dark.

[mooshys]

take-out menus aren’t meant for ordering

genre: fluff

word count: 1.5k

synopsis: a slight character study for miya atsumu between a conversation with his brother and the writing of his vows. the word “slight” being underlined, highlighted, and circled multiple times.

There is a take-out menu laying on the empty counter of Onigiri Miya, spread out completely flat so that it is no longer in its trifold state. The paper has a nice gloss to it, giving an even sheen when underneath the low lights. Its pages are filled with professional pictures of the food offered, appetizing from a single glance and even more-so with the descriptions added underneath them.

But, sitting at the counter and staring at the empty spaces on the page, Atsumu isn’t looking to order. At this point in time, he’s too frustrated to even think about eating. He makes sure his struggle is known, groaning just loud enough so that his brother can hear him.

And, by the fifth prolonged sigh, his brother notices.

Osamu thinks it’s annoying. Really annoying. He wonders why his brother always decides to settle all his baggage into his restaurant instead of actually finding guidance from a trained professional.

(Free therapy, he thinks. He should give himself a raise for having to deal with his brother when he’s working behind the counter.)

“What’s the matter, ‘Tsumu?” Osamu finally asks in an attempt to get his brother to stop making his restaurant feel so gloomy. He’s glad it’s only the two of them during the odd hour because he’s sure Atsumu would have driven people out with his attitude.

Atsumu exhales, so deep and long that one might think he has some sort of pre-existing health condition. His pause before speaking makes Osamu think he’s preparing a soliloquy. 

“I can’t think of anything to write.”

Osamu raises a brow. Then he chuckles. “Can’t do much of that if you don’t have a brain to start with.”

He quickly dodges a pair of wooden chopsticks thrown in his direction and laughs as his brother seethes in his seat. Predictable as always. He didn’t even need to rely on his twin telepathy to know Atsumu’s next move.

“This is serious!” Atsumu yells out. His voice echoes and Osamu puts on his Totally Serious Face to show his brother that he does cares (at least a smidgeon). “The vows. I can’t think of anything to write for ‘em.”

Now, Osamu stares at him with more interest, a twinkle in his eyes that gleams only for a second before he throws his head back to give out a hearty laugh. It’s the kind of laugh Osamu does when he’s really, really happy. Like when the entire Inarizaki crew surprised him for his birthday by buying him out for the night, or when he won two thousand yen from the lottery. While Atsumu sits in disbelief (because was his suffering truly that hilarious?), Osamu shakes his head to compose himself again.

“C’mon, it shouldn’t be too hard to come up with something,” Osamu says. He points to a blank space on the first page. “Start it off right next to the tuna onigiri, that’s real romantic when you say your vows with our number one seller in mind.”

Atsumu groans again. How can he be joking at a time like this? When it feels like his life (his love life, that is) is at stake? He was about to yell out a slew of vulgar words, but his stomach interrupted him, choosing to speak up with a loud grumble. Red in the face, Atsumu shuts up, shrinking in his seat under the gaze of his brother.

“No wonder your brain capacity’s lower than usual,” Osamu teases. “You’re hungry.”

“Whatever.”

“The usual?”

“...Whatever.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Quit actin’ like a baby.”

“I’m not actin’ like a baby!” Atsumu cries out in a manner that reminds Osamu of a baby. “I can’t keep puttin’ this off! In a week, I’ll have to say this in front of everyone and they’re gonna think I’m an idiot because I can’t come up with anything good!”

“Trust me, nobody’s gonna think you’re an idiot at your wedding because of your vows,” he replies and bites his tongue to suppress the insult following. “If you write it too deep and poetic and pretty, then everyone’s gonna think you hired someone or that you copied it off the internet.”

“But—”

“Trust me,” Osamu repeats. He doesn’t look up as he molds the rice in his hands, creating a triangular shape. Years of practice have allowed him to do it so easily, so perfectly that Atsumu can’t help but stare. “Say the things that come easy for you. The things you’ve said before and the things you’ve been meaning to say. That’s what you should write.”

With the exception of the sound of tuna searing in the back and the occasional drip from the faucet nearby, there is a serene quietness shared between the two. Atsumu mulls over his brother’s words, thinking that it honestly sounds like advice that you would have given him, but he brushes it off and then looks back at the blank spaces in the take-out menu. The empty spots are almost inviting him to scribble all over.

“Alright,” Atsumu says as he clicks the pen in his hand and starts jotting any and all thoughts. “Think she’ll be mad I wrote my vows on a menu?”

Osamu chuckles as he places the plate of onigiri in front of his brother.

“Absolutely not.”

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

There are two take-out menus stored in a little box hidden in the bottom drawer of your dresser. The paper for both of them are wrinkled and yellowing, a clear testament of the time that has passed since first exchanging them. Scribbles of ink take up the empty spaces, the words uneven and crossed out and misspelled after multiple attempts to write from the heart.

At times, you find them in the midst of cleaning or a sudden remembrance whilst watching a film. The box is dug out from the neatly folded shirts and shorts meant to be worn in the upcoming summer season, and, upon lifting the lid in one gracious motion, the vows are always there, waiting to be read again and again. Each time, something new pops up, strikes you with a “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that!” moment as your fingers gently trace over his words.

Sometimes it’s the slight change in ink color when it comes to your name, an indication of the writing becoming lighter. (A pause in thought? Whenever you asked him, he would scratch the back of his head and shrug his shoulders.) Others, it’s the way entire lines are crossed out because he kept misspelling the same word multiple times.

Very Atsumu-ish, you muse with a silent chuckle. 

Atsumu-ish. Because the words erratic and unorthodox and lively and everything in-between just aren’t enough to describe his entire being, so Atsumu-ish became the one true representative of whatever he had up his sleeve.

(It started as a joke between you and Osamu wanting to tease Atsumu when he was being outlandish, but then it spread to the rest of the circle and was kept as Official Inarizaki Alumni Vocabulary when Kita mumbled “Atsumu-ish” without a hint of jest in his voice, completely serious about its usage.

“Atsumu-ish,” he pondered loud enough so that the rest of the guys could hear him. “I’ve never thought about it like that, but I guess you’re right.”

And it stuck with everyone else, causing Atsumu to sulk about it for five whole minutes as he whined and groaned about “Osamu-ish” and “Suna-ish” not being a thing to which Kita gave a straight answer: they’re not you. His truthfulness made Atsumu slump in his seat until you squeezed his hand from under the table and whispered that his name just rang in a special way.

He liked the sound of that and straightened his back when you teased him about it again.)

Atsumu-ish, Atsumu-ish, Atsumu-ish.

At this point, you had repeated it in your mind so many times that it started to sound a bit weird. His name echoes once more, making you pause as you stare at the old take-out menus. It did start to sound a bit strange now, but you most certainly aren’t sick of it.

(You don’t think his name would ever tire you out. Decades, centuries, millenniums, and through whatever multitude of lifetimes the universe has to offer, you think that you’ll always hold the way his name sounds close for comfort, like a seashell pressed against your ear.)

When you read through his words, you can tell he put a lot of time into writing what really matters to him. He’s always been one to say the first thing that pops in his mind (brash and honest to a fault), but seeing that struggle for the right string of words, for the right day, and for the right moment in time just reminds you that he’s always been the kind of person who says the things he does because he cares. 

His words are a little blunt, almost unrefined, but it’s so easy to see how he wanted his vows to be perfect. Perfect in the Miya Atsumu kind of way. 

And only Miya Atsumu would write his vows on the take-out menu of his brother’s restaurant.

Atsumu-ish, you think again with a chuckle as you admire the two take-out menus—from the same place, a coincidence that makes you laugh at the thought of his brother dealing with you two separately. Both are a little bit worn, but the words are easy to read. 

Easy to love.

Much like himself.