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viking-raider · 3 months

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Salt in Our Wounds - Chapter I

Summary-> You and your family live in a tiny coastal town, on the French side of the English Channel, during the Second World War. Things aren't easy for the four of you, for obvious reasons, with France being under German Occupation. But things become ever more complicated, when you find a wounded man washed ashore and you feel obligated to help him.

Dragging your family and town into a dangerous situation.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 4.3k

Warnings-> PG: Blood, Language, Infidelity

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> I hope you enjoy! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

Climbing and cloudless, the sun beared down on the sapphire English Channel below. Its roaring waves lapped against the shore of one of France's many serene and far-reaching beaches, washing in bits of seaweed and sea life with its eddies and tides. A trio of gulls circled above one area of the shore, letting out their shrill call in agitated excitement, while making mock dives for the prize they had their beady eyes on.

You, out on an early morning, seaside walk, lifted your hand against the shining sun, to study the sea birds. Interested in what they were so adamant about, but also felt cautious, as you approached. Since times were not the best to find surprises on the beach. Especially not here, along the Channel. But you couldn't stop your curiosity, and edged ever closer to the birds and their would-be meal. The nearer you got, the more you felt a growing alarm, seeing the foamy, salt water tinged with something red.

You froze, horrified to see the water rushing by your bare feet. Realizing it was blood. Following the tentacles of blood a few meters up the beach, you found the shock of a lifetime.

Startling back with a yelp, you tripped over the wet hem of your skirt and tumbled backwards, falling hard and knocking some of the air out of your lungs. Eyes fixed on a limp hand gently floating in the water, the skin of the finger-pads wrinkled from long water exposure. But it was the man attached to the arm that alarmed you, his thickly bearded face turned to one side and rocking to the ebb and flow of the water he laid half submerged in, a wound somewhere on his person seeping out around him.

You were sure he had to be dead, why else would he wash ashore in the freezing Channel water. You had only been sitting in it for a few, short minutes and were already shivering, while he only stirred because of the current.

Poor man. You thought, your brow pinching with heartfelt sympathy for him and whoever his family was.

Finally getting to your feet, you twisted some of the water out of your skirt, frowning to see some of his blood had soaked into the rough fabric. But there was no help for that. You knew you'd have to return to the village and inform the authorities of him. So they could retrieve his body. Especially before the village kids found him. The evil little rascals. They enjoyed poking at anything dead that washed ashore. You'd seen them pestering a poor seal corpse just last week. But you also knew, you should actually make sure he was deceased, before running off to inform Director General Trottier about him. You just needed to find the courage to draw closer and touch him.

To hold a hand against his nose, in search of any breath.

“Perhaps I should just go get the authorities to do this?” You mumbled to yourself, wringing your hands anxiously. “They have the experience.” You tried to reason, looking over your shoulder towards the village. “But what if he is still alive.” You said, looking back at him. “And he dies, while I run back for help.”

“Christ, why did you have to wash up here?” You huffed, a rush of frustrated confidence flooding you.

You waded to him and bent, bringing your dripping hand up to his nose and held still for a long time. Wanting to make sure it was actually his breath against your palm, and not the wind. The longer you left your hand there, the more positive you became that this strange man was still, to some degree, alive.

That just left the conundrum of what to do with him.

You needed to get him out of the icy water, that was for sure. If he didn't die from his wound and blood loss, he would surely suffer from hypothermia. He only had on a thin, long sleeve and half-button down, collared shirt and pants of the same material, paired with suspenders, belt and boots.

“What were you up to?” You frowned at him, seeing he was bleeding from a wound to the right side, before hooking your arm under his shoulder and bracing it under his, then started pulling his heavy body further up dry land; as far as you could get him. “Mmph!” You grunted, laying him down in the sand, unable to carry him any further.

“Oh gosh.” You panted, flicking back several windblown wisps of hair out of your face. “You are a beast of a man.” You were about to try and move him a little bit more, when you heard your name being called, and felt your heart jolt into your throat. “Oh, Christ.” You fretted, hands beginning to shake, sure you were busted by one of the patrol officers.

You frantically looked around, but there was nowhere to hide the man, you were in the open and the beach was mostly flat and smooth. So, you did the one feeble thing you could think of, you rushed around and put yourself between them and him.

Though, you found it to be useless.

“What are you doing?” Your brother huffed, coming up to you, breathless, before finally spotting the unconscious man you were trying to shield. “Who the hell is this?” He barked, waving a hand behind you.

You started to lie to him, but saw the look in his eye and gave that up. “I found him in the water.” You blurted out, turning around to face him. “He's still alive. Barely. He's been wounded in the side by something. But I pulled him out of the water and I was going to get help.” You looked at your brother, eyes wild. “However, you showed up.”

Your brother looked at you, critically, obviously furious. “That's a bullet wound!” He hissed at you, grabbing the front of the man's shirt and rolling him onto his uninjured side, to get a closer look.

“He's been shot!” You gasped, leaning over to see. “We have to help him, Edmund.”

“Help him!” Edmund barked, lifting a brow at you. “Are you quite out of your mind! If the Patrol finds him with us, they'll finish killing him and likely throw us in an interment.”

“Edmund.” You whispered, gasping the back of his arm.

He stared at you for a long second, then growled down at the man. “Fine.” He huffed, begrudgingly. “I just don't know how you expect us to move him, without getting caught by the Patrol.” He said, looking back towards the village, it was a good two hundred yards away, plus the eighty or so yards from the edge of the beach, along the edge of the village and to where you lived with your elderly father.

“What about your truck?” You perked up, looking at him, your eyes bright with the idea. “We can carry him to the edge of the beach, hiding him. I'll stay nearby, to keep an eye on him, while you go get your truck and come back. Then, we'll put him in the back and cover him with some of your tarps. Perhaps, take a short drive to some place and go back home. To reduce suspicion.”

Edmund stared at you, his expression conveying how skeptical he was about your plan, before he shook his head and threw up his hands. “If we get caught, I'm going to be so angry with you!” He chided, grabbing the man beneath the arms, much like you had. “Grab his feet.” He huffed at you, jerking his head at the man's boots.

“Yes, right!” You nodded, flustered, rushing around and grabbing his ankles. “Oh gosh, even his legs are heavy.” You groaned, stumbling to keep up with Edmund's quick pace as he rushed down the beach, wanting to work quickly before anyone came along.

“How do we not know this man isn't one of them?” Edmund puffed, breath wheezing in his throat as the exertion became too much for him, but he pushed through it.

You frowned at your brother, then looked at the man, and studied his pale face. Something in your gut told you he wasn't a collaborator or one of the enemies inflicting war on so much of Europe and Humanity.

“We don't.” You murmured, biting the corner of your lip. “However, I just feel that he's not.”

“Oh, you feel it.” Edmund huffed, mocking you. “Well, let's go on a woman's intuition.”

“There's no need to be crass, Edmund.” You barked at him, irritated by his remark. “You have no more evidence that he is, than I do that he's not. But you can't tell me if he was one of them, they'd not have called the patrol to come out and look for him by now.”

Refraining from answering for a short time, to save his breath, while you moved him to the edge of the beach. Resting him beside some brush and rocks that were there, Edmund finally answered you, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“Aye, you're right. I don't think they would have left him.” He sighed, staring down at him, still troubled by the situation. “I'll be back. But if you see a patrol coming, don't try saving him. Just turn and walk away.” He told you, grasping your wrist and staring hard into your eyes. “Let them have him.”

“He's not worth your life.” He said, his eyes pleading with you.

“Go, get your truck.” You answered, softly.

Rolling his eyes, Edmund headed back towards home, walking at a quick pace, but not fast enough to hopefully draw any attention or suspicion. He turned the corner onto the street your family lived on. You and your father, Mael, lived in the cottage across the road from where your brother lived with his wife, Willa. He said a silent prayer, finding the street empty, minus a few vehicles, including his truck, that he used for his trade as a handyman.

“This is going to get us killed.” Edmund muttered to himself, pulling open the driver's door and sliding into the worn, black and leather bench seat, then pulled down the sun visor for the keys.

The truck roared to life and Edmund maneuvered it away from the curb, nervously drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I could have been a Private in the Army, fighting in Belgium or some place. Maybe even join the Rebellion, help liberate this country.” He rambled, gritting his teeth. “But no! I get stuck with a medical condition and a sister that wants to save some bloke that could be a Collaborator!”

You paced nervously, giving the man quick glances, then shooting a look towards the road, mentally urging your brother to hurry. It felt like every eye in the village was secretly watching you. You wouldn't be surprised if at least three pairs were watching from some high window. But you didn't dare look at any of the windows that lined the other side of the road from the beach. Knowing if you did happen to meet someone's nosy eye, it would only implicate them later on, if you and Edmund were caught.

“Thank Jesus.” You gasped, hearing the rumble of your brother's truck coming up the road, though it did little to dampen your anxiety.

Edmund pulled his truck to a stop and got out, never killing the engine as he moved to the back, dropping the tailgate. “Is he still alive?” He asked, coming over to you and glancing at the man.

“Yeah.” You nodded, biting your lip. “I can actually see his chest rise now.”

“Great.” Edmund sighed, carding a hand through his hair. “Looks like the fool is going to live.” He said, grabbing him under the arms again. “Let's get him in the truck. Rounds are going to start soon.”

You grabbed his feet and helped haul him over to the bed of the truck. It was a bit of a hassle, but the two of you finally managed to get your mystery man in and covered up with a couple of the cloth drop tarps Edmund used for work, making sure he was able to breathe. It was just as Edmund was securing the gate closed, that the hard tap of a boot heel echoed down the street towards the two of you, causing your stomach wrench and Edmund to grunt; catching sight of the Patrol Officer through the back window and windshield.

“It's just the kid.” He muttered to you, under his breath. “Go, get in the trunk.” He told you, taking a deep breath.

“Ed-”

“I said, go.” He hissed, the muscles of his jaw flexing.

Gulping and trying to act casual, you walked around to the passenger side, yanking open the heavy door, as the young Patrol Officer reached the truck's front bumper. You gave him a sweet smile and a nod of your head, then slipped into the cab and pulled the door shut. So he couldn't start a conversation with you. He stopped by the window of the driver's door, giving you a wide and overexcited smile, then turned his attention to Edmund.

“A good morning, yeah?” He greeted your brother, who had started for the driver's seat.

“Yeah.” Edmund replied, glancing up at the sky. “Looks like a very good morning, indeed.” He said, grabbing the door handle.

“Truck?” The officer motioned, a questioning look on his face.

“It's my truck.” Edmund answered, frowning at him, not quite understanding.

“What's—in?” He asked, trying hard to work through the language barrier.

“My trade tools.” Edmund told him, turning to face him, putting himself between the younger man and the truck. “I'm a carpenter.” He tried to explain, reaching into the back and pulled out his tool belt, holding it up for him to see.

“Ah.” The Officer nodded, smiling. “And, that?” He asked, pointing to the tarps.

“Nothing.” Edmund said, setting his belt down. “She...” He pointed over to you. “Found a dead seal out on the beach and pestered me into taking it away, before any of the village kids found it.” He hoped to convince him and prayed he wouldn't want to take a look. But, that worry soon passed, watching the kid blanch.

“Yeah, you go.” He gulped, taking a step back, as if he had gotten a whiff of the dead seal underneath the tarps.

“Well, have a good day.” Edmund smiled, giving him a small wave and yanked his door open.

“That took a moment.” You muttered as he slammed his door.

“He was asking questions, that's why.” He huffed back, glancing into the rear view and relaxing as he watched the kid continue on with his Patrol, not look back at you. “Luckily for us, he's squeamish.”

“How does someone that's squeamish get drafted?” You commented, shaking your head.

“Well, he's not really doing anything in the War, now is he?” Edmund snapped, glancing over at you, an offended glint in his eyes. “He's a damn Patrol Officer for a town his Country is occupying. He's not seeing any of the real action.”

“I'd laugh to think if they let his rifle have bullets in it.”

You snorted, bringing your hand to your mouth, in an attempt to cover it. “I'm sorry.” You said, when Edmund shot you a look. “But that boy does look like he'd injure himself with a pocketknife.” You explained, staring back at your brother, who held his angered expression for three seconds longer, then burst, filling the cab with his hearty laugh.

Edmund could never be angry with you, or not longer than a few minutes at least. The two of you were ten years apart, but were closer than pearls in an oyster. Edmund had been planned by your parents, well mostly by your mother, who thought a child would help your father snap out of his shell shock from his time in the First World War. But having a screaming child in the house had only seemed to exacerbate it. Until Edmund was four years old, when he started to show an interest in Mael's metals and memorabilia.

As for you, as Edmund always put it, seemed to have just shown up one day.

He didn't remember your mother being pregnant, only her going away for a few days and coming back home with you in her arms. He remembered her rushing about the house every time you made the slightest sound and telling him to make sure you didn't cry. Which, honestly, wasn't all that often. You had been a quiet and easy baby, compared to him. But he looked after you, showing you his favorite metals of your father's, and telling you how he had gotten them in the War.

When you were five and Edmund was fifteen, the two of you came home one day from school to find your father in one of his episodes and your mother gone. Edmund had sent you next door to stay with a neighbor, while he worked on calming your father down and found out your mother had been seeing someone and ran off with them. It took Edmund calling your father's doctor to finally calm him down, giving him a sedative. The physician had suggested moving somewhere else, that the city life was too much for Mael's nerves, somewhere quiet and abundant with sea air. That would do him a world of good.

That's how the three of you ended up in your quaint, coastal village on the French side of the English Channel. It had a population of just under five hundred. A real, everyone-knows-everyone community. They welcomed the three of you warmly. It's where Edmund had met and fell in love with Willa. It's where the four of you were now under the thumb of German occupation, and with a strange man in the bed of your brother's truck, just passing by the last building and into the rolling hills, that took you to the nearest town.

“All right, wise woman.” Edmund sighed, folding his arms against the steering wheel and leaning forward. “What's your grand plan on getting your Robinson Crusoe into the house?” He asked, cocking a brow at you and dying to hear it.

You had sat beside your brother for the last twenty minutes trying to figure out that very plot point. Part of you really wished whoever this man was, would do the two of you a favor and come back around to consciousness. Then, maybe, you could just say you found him injured on the side of the road and help him into the house. However, you knew if that happened, word would spread and the Director General would be knocking on your door, demanding to see him.

“I don't have one.” You finally admitted. “I shouldn't have gotten us into this mess, Edmund. Maybe, we should just turn him in?”

“Oh no!” He snapped at you, straightening up. “That one Patrol Officer already thinks he's a dead seal! If we go back into the village and confess, we'll be in deeper hot water than if we'd been up front.” He rambled, dragging both hands through his hair, in his agitation.

“Could we keep him in the truck til night fall?” You suggested, weakly.

“And if he wakes up by then?” He asked, blowing a hole through it.

You sighed softly, glancing down at your hands as they rested in your lap, but frowned seeing the brownish outline of dry blood on the light blue fabric. You were rubbing at it, when an idea finally popped into your head and looked over at Edmund.

“How heavy are all of your tarps rolled up together?” You asked him, lifting a brow, curiously.

“They can be pretty hefty.” He replied, rubbing the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“So, it would be almost believable, say we carry him into the house, wrapped in a few, under the pretense we're making a couple renovations to the house?” You inquired, your eyes steady on your brother's face. “It's not like we and the village don't know that Papa and I's cottage need them.”

“Badly.”

Edmund sat there, staring out the windshield, as he processed the likelihood of your little idea working. He drew his bottom lip in between his teeth, pressing his top lip down on it for a moment, before popping them forward, a slow wag of his head building into a nod.

“It might work.” He finally said, convincing himself of it. “I'll have to bring in a few of my tools and spend some time there every day, to make it look like I'm actually putting the work in.” He built on top of your plan. “Of course, I'm not leaving you and Pops with this guy, so I'll be coming over anyway.”

“We could use the old cellar room in the basement to hide him.” You chimed in. “In case, someone from the Patrol or anyone from the village comes over.”

“That's a good idea.” Edmund nodded, licking his lips. “I can build something, along that wall, for a hidden door into the cellar.” He said, already mapping out the plans in his head. “This could actually work, Peanut!” He grinned over at you.

“There's the confidence I love seeing in my Captain!” You beamed back, slapping him on the knee. “We should get going too. It looks like our beautiful morning is turning into a dark afternoon.” You said, peeking at the sky. “I'm worried it'll start raining on our friend back there.”

“Oh, he's our friend now?” Edmund teased you, pushing open his door. “We don't even know his name! But, by damned, he's our friend!”

You smirked at him, shaking your head. “I'm just trying to be positive, Eddie.”

“I know.” He replied, a gentle smile on his face, as he reached over to playfully pinch your cheek.

“Quit!” You laughed, slapping his hand away. “You brute!”

“We should do it here. Where no one can see us.” He suggested, heaving a sigh as he got out.

“That's a smart idea.” You nodded, following suit.

Edmund did a quick look around, before dropping the tailgate and hopping into the bed, beside your friend. You peeked over the side of the trunk, watching Edmund pull away the tarp from him, and let out a small breath of relief to see him still breathing. But frowned seeing the small pool of blood underneath him.

“I'll need new tarps after this.” Edmund commented, snarkily. “There's nothing I can say to explain blood stains on them. Short of sawing my arm off.”

“I'll compensate you for them.” You replied, pulling yourself up beside him.

“With what money, exactly?” He asked, cocking a brow at you.

“Hey, I get a decent enough salary working at Remi's store.” You cut back at him. “I've been helping you keep food on our tables.”

Edmund nodded, not about to discredit you on that. “True enough, Peanut.” He replied, then returned to the task at hand. “I'm going to turn him to his good side. I want you to support him and his head, while I situate the tarps to go underneath him.” He instructed you, carefully pushing his hands underneath the injured man.

You nodded, as Edmund grunted with effort to lift and roll him towards you. Grabbing onto the thigh of his pants and cradling his head in your palm, you watched Edmund spread and straighten out the tarps, draping one half of them over the side of the truck. You could feel his faint and warm breath on your forearm, coming in an irregular pattern, but it gave you an odd comfort to feel it, nonetheless.

“All right, that's all of them. Put him down on his back again.” Edmund pointed to the smoothed out tarps as he stood outside the truck now.

Biting your lip, you pushed up on your knees and leaned forward, trying to roll him onto his back as gently as possible. Unsure of how much he could feel. You didn't want to cause him any more pain than necessary as you situated him, catching a slight twitch of his brow as you let go of his trousers, only supporting his head.

“Sorry.” You mumbled to him, automatically, wincing.

“Come on, let's get him covered up, so we can go.” He rushed you, feeling antsy and the cool, damp air stir around him, indicating the imminent rain.

Tenderly letting go of his head and reaching out for the other half of the tarp, you carefully covered him up, tucking it in around him, mindful of the still seeping wound, while trying to make it not look so much like a body in a rug. Nodding at Edmund, you climbed back out of the truck and he rearranged some of his tools, hoping to add to the disguise.

“Here's to hopin'!” Edmund huffed, starting the truck and backing off the outlook, he'd pulled onto after putting several minutes between you and the village. “Or all three of us will be dead seals!”

You and Edmund laughed, having a light moment, before the village came into view and the sobering resolve of action came back over you.

#henry cavill #henrycavill #viking-raider fics #Salt in Our Wounds #Salt in Our Wounds *fic*#gus march phillips #Gus x Reader #Gus/Reader #Gus & Reader #Gus March Phillips x Reader #Gus March Phillips x You #Gus March Phillips/You #Gus March Phillips/Reader #Gus/You #Fluff #Blood #Language #German Occupation

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fatuismooches · 6 months

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Hi hi, first off I love scrolling your page. It has become part of my morning routine to read at least one of your posts before I do anything else. 2. I may not like Dottore but I do just wanna steal Pufftore for myself to cuddle.

In that sense, as something that was created and forgotten in the giant lab of his, Dottore truly forgot the thing existed until he spotted it in the room where reader was during their coma. He was ready to rush in and grab the "abomination" but ended up just standing there in the doorway and watching the creature climb on the bed and reader just subconsciously reacts the fluffball by turning their head slightly with no other movements.

It was the first time in maybe decades since reader has fallen into their second coma that he's seen reader react to anything. Even when he administered medicines and other treatments. Sometimes there would be small twitches of their fingers but nothing like them turning their head towards the creature who decided to nap right by their head.

The next time he visits reader, the fluffball had shifted to lay against readers side and he leaves it be, the creature wasn't doing anything but napping away. The day one of the younger segments burst though his office door in a panic, he is seen sprinting down the halls to reader's room. The door is slammed opened and there you are hugging Pufftore in one arm sleepily while another segment is taking your vitals. Reader who turned their head when he burst in smiled before asking, "did you make this cutie to keep me company while you were away?"

He didn't have the heart to tell them that it was an accidental experiment and was supposed to be destroyed. So he lied and said yes. Of course he and the other segments are jealous of the stupid creature getting all of the attention but reader as content with having a fluffy little companion while he was away at work. So the creature gets to live simply because it makes his s/o happy.

Sorry for the word vomit, it kinda got away from me ^^;

I'M LITERALLY GONNA CRY RN THIS IS AMAZING ANON 😭❤️ (And thank you so much!! I'm honored to be part of your routine 🥺🫶) ugh,,, i'm gonna be obsessing and brainrotting over this so hard...

Honestly, with all of the segments doing their own little experiments and the vast space of the lab, there are just things that are bound to get lost along the line. But they never care too much, because they tend to get bored with their experiments very quickly and forget about them when they stop being interesting. The blue abomination of a fox just so happened to be one of them. Discarded to the side with no real thought. He assumed it would up and die somehow but instead, he sees the unnamed creature clamber up your bed, with its stumpy little legs, and nuzzle into your sleeping body. And then you move. You move. He's been trying so, so hard to get you to react to something, anything, and a little abomination is the one who does it? All of his speeches and ranting to your sleeping self were that puny compared to this failed creature? He's upset but relieved at the same time. A part of you is still there, somewhere, at the very least.

The next time he comes, he finds that the disfigured fox had brought more... friends? Now little black puffs with a sole strand of blue hair rested around you. Dottore doesn't even remember creating those things... were they a byproduct of the first experiment?? As much as he wants to shoo them away from lying so comfortably on your body, he decides to leave them be. You seemed to enjoy them, despite not being conscious. Perhaps he should study them more in-depth? Maybe they were worth more experimenting on.

When you finally wake up, caressing that stupid fox and the bundle of small puffs jumping up and down around you excitedly, he can only say what will please you. In all honesty, he had no idea what the hell he was doing or thinking while making that abomination, he doesn't know why it has a fluffy tail and ears of a fox and the red eye and beak of a crow. And he doesn't find it cute in the slightest and can't see why you do but... it makes you smile. He can't bring himself to take away it, not when you've been so miserable with your illness.

The creatures definitely hide behind your leg so often, and then look up at the segments so smugly when you scold them for being mean to your pets. Ugh, sometimes they really want to strangle those things...

#smooches talks #fragile reader <3 #dottore love notes <3 #i am loving these foxttore/puffttore brainrots so much u don't understand #I LOVE THOSE LITTLE GUYS SO MUCH!!!#AND HELLO??? for someone who doesnt like dottore this was AMAZING ily SO GOOD!!!

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blossom-hwa · 2 years

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if you’ll have me (ii) | c.yj

convinced this was one of the hardest parts to write just because I didn’t want to put the couple through all this, but I had to. sorry not sorry </3 hope you enjoy :)

Pairing: Yeonjun x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, regency era!au, nobility!au

Warnings: mentions of past death, it’s implied (not explicitly stated) that mc has a panic attack, mentions of period-typical misogyny

Word Count: 15.8k

Yeonjun Choi, Duke of Hastings, is in want of a wife. Boxed in from all directions by the overbearing mamas of the ton, he begins his arduous search this season for not fortune, not love, but merely the perfect woman to succeed his mother's place. None of the daughters of high society manage to catch his eye, however, or fit his overwhelming list of standards—at least until he meets Miss Y/N L/N, the queen's diamond of the season, newly arrived in town from abroad and said to be one of the most accomplished women to grace the ton in a generation.

You, the eldest daughter and only child of the L/N family, just want stability. With your father dead and the estate passed to a cousin, leaving only your dowry and a small pittance from the inheritance left intact, you begin your search for a husband with money enough to keep you and your mother afloat. It seems like a miracle when, after being crowned the queen's diamond, the Duke of Hastings himself asks for your hand—but as you learn of his complete indifference to the concept of love, you begin to doubt yourself. Perhaps money is not enough to keep your hand—maybe you desired a true love match more than you thought.

Trapped in a marriage of convenience that everyone believes is a love story, you and Yeonjun find yourselves forced to reevaluate what you want out of this match. Between balls and promenades, dances and poetry, you begin to view each other beyond the pithy conversations allowed in the courting stages, learning to see one another not just as business partners, but perhaps friends as well. And as you begin to reconcile your needs and wants, your goals and desires, maybe, just maybe—

The ton's belief that you are a love match can find some truth, too.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3

TXT Masterlist

Sitting on the edge of the bed, your nightgown pooling around you, all you can do is stare out of the window. Vaguely you know you should lie down—that's what the bed is for, after all—but something keeps you in place, eyes riveted towards the moon and its stars.

It's been one month since you came to live with the duke at his estate, one month since you were thrown into the role of duchess. Thank heavens for the fact that you learn quickly on your feet—you did have a mentor briefly in Yeonjun's mother, but she set off to Bath after just two weeks to visit some friends. Your own mother went with her, and you couldn't begrudge her the chance to relax and meet new people. The two of them won't be back for another few months, long after the season is over.

So it's just been you and Yeonjun in this grand estate, along with all the servants. You know them by name now, and they are polite and courteous, but they are not—they are not friends, not exactly. Sakura you know is still your friend, and every day when the world feels like it's splitting apart at the seams you thank the heavens that she is here, but she's still busy. Her own family lives in this area of the country, so you can't begrudge her the chance to live with them now, especially since she just spent several years with you abroad.

It should be fine. It was what you signed up for. You swallow, following the path of a cloud across the moon. It is what you signed up for, a job partnership more than a marriage. Yeonjun made that very clear during the two times he proposed, and you considered it well before accepting. You were the one who accepted the engagement ring. You were the one who said I do. You got yourself into this.

Why, then, does it seem that this life is so difficult to live?

It isn't as though being a duchess is the worst thing in the world. On the other hand, you rather enjoy being able to work in some measure, putting the skills you learned in your studies to use. The people of your duchy are kind and accepting. The air is often fresh and inviting outside. There is always much to do and much to learn.

But it's...

Your fingers crumple the bedsheets into your fist. It's lonely.

Yeonjun is kind. That hasn't changed. But what has changed are the balls and the promenades, the time you spent with him during the courtship before you were married. It seems that after you placed the rings on each other's fingers, after he took you here and introduced you to the house servants on the premises, all that time spent together disappeared. You think you see him even less now than you did before you were wed.

He didn't even attempt for children on your wedding night.

The night before your marriage, your mother took you into her room and explained the particulars of... well, sex. It wasn't as if you had no idea what would happen—you'd read a few books before, seen a few things you weren't supposed to—but having her speak to you of it made it more real, something that you were to expect.

And expect it you did, when Yeonjun led you to the bedroom that night, when you changed into your nightgown and left the bathroom to see him sitting on the mattress. Because though you knew he didn't expect love from your marriage, he would still want children, wouldn't he? To carry on the line of succession? To carry on the title?

But no. He'd smiled at you, eyes carefully keeping to your face, and said—

“We don't have to do anything tonight. Not if it would make you uncomfortable.”

You could only gape. Because how could you interpret that? In what way were you supposed to interpret it? Because it could have been simply that he was being considerate, knowing that you were likely inexperienced and not ready for it the way he was, knowing that just a few months of meeting might not be enough for the two of you to trust each other with something so intimate—and you'd love to believe that, would love to think that this might be true, that your husband is just that kind and accommodating—

But the darker part of you whispers that you weren’t enough. You weren’t pretty enough, tempting enough for Yeonjun to even want you in that way. It says that he only saw in you a duchess, a business partner, not truly a wife—that when he said he didn't expect love, he meant that he didn't expect any sort of communication at all.

If it were someone who'd paid you less attention, you might have been fine with it. But Yeonjun put so much effort into courting you—at least, it seemed that way. He'd danced with you at every ball you attended together. He'd promenaded with you so many times. When he'd given you his expectations for your marriage, you'd assumed he would still... talk to you, at least, beyond curt matters of business.

But no. Clearly he didn't want it. And though you didn’t realize it at that moment, thrown between the mixed emotions of relief and confusion he’d made you feel, you did realize it when he took your silence as some sort of assent and only gave you a brief smile. “We should still sleep in the same bed, lest the servants talk,” he had said. “But I give you my word that I will do nothing to you, my lady.”

When he used to call you 'my lady,' your heart would flutter. Now, after one month, all the name does is stab you in the chest.

So this is where you are—alone in the country, stuck in a loveless marriage with a partner who only rarely speaks to you outside of matters pertaining to governance and business. Your mothers are both away. Sakura lives with her family. The massive library in the estate only has one section dedicated to poetry and you've already read most of the books there and by the stars and the sky, sometimes all you want to do is cry.

Tears prick at your eyes as you stare at the unforgiving moon and the stars. You did this for your family. Did this for the stability. And you've achieved that, achieved what you wanted for the people about whom you care so much. You should be proud.

But all you really feel is empty inside.

. . . . .

It's been two months, and Yeonjun is beginning to get worried.

It's not like... there has been anything obvious, per se. Yeonjun would like to think of himself as generally observant. Perhaps not as perceptive or intuitive as Beomgyu, but if something had gone blatantly wrong in the household, he's pretty sure he would have noticed it earlier.

But it's not blatant, whatever this tension is that hangs in the air. It's more like—a tremor, perhaps. Like when the sky begins to turn gray with clouds, just before it starts to rain.

Yeonjun watches for a few days. He could be wrong, of course—he wants to be wrong, doesn't want anything untoward to be happening on his estate. But it stays, and it stays, and as the days go by it grows darker and darker.

By the time he sits back down in his club with Soobin once more, he's almost certain he's found the source.

“Okay, what's wrong?” Soobin puts down his empty glass, leaning forward. “You're not usually like this. Something's happened.”

“Nothing's happened.” Yeonjun sighs. “Really—nothing has happened—”

“But something is wrong,” his friend interrupts. “Things don't need to be life-shatteringly horrific for them to be wrong, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun stares into his glass, watching the amber liquid shimmer under the candlelight. He can tell Soobin, can tell his best friend of over a decade. Soobin has seen him at his worst—throwing up after the first time he drank alcohol, falling out of a tree when he'd climbed a little too high, Beomgyu pushing him into a lake when they were little. He won't judge. At least not maliciously.

“Y/N. She...” Yeonjun swallows. “I don't think she's happy.”

“... And?”

He blinks incredulously. “What do you mean, and?”

“Do you mean she's just unhappy, or something worse?” Soobin asks. “Because when you say she isn't happy, that just sounds like a fleeting thing.”

He wishes it were a fleeting thing, but if that were the case, he's sure the little layer of clouds hanging over the estate would have dissipated by now. Certainly they wouldn't have grown heavier.

“It's worse,” he says. I just don't know how to put it. It's as if—I mean, you met her before, you know how she's like.”

“Not as well as you.” Soobin raises a finger for a second drink, and when it comes he puts it in front of Yeonjun. “I've only met her a few times. You were the one who courted her.”

“But you didn't think she was a gloomy person, did you?” Yeonjun pours the rest of his first drink down his throat and picks up the second. He pictures you, warm, kind, fresh-faced, pleasant. Nothing that ever hinted at terrible gloom.

“No.” Soobin shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“So I don't know what's happened.” He looks at the second drink, then puts it back down and picks up his previous empty glass, toying with it between his fingers. “She—I—I don't know how else to say it, Soobin.” Yeonjun swallows. “But I know she didn't feel this... dark, before.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Yeonjun blinks. “Of course.”

“Why do you care so much?” Soobin asks. “You're the one who suggested a marriage with no expectation of strings attached. I understand being concerned, but you look really upset about it right now. Inordinately so.”

“I—she's my wife!” Yeonjun protests. “She's living with me, she's part of my household, I married her—wouldn't I have to be somewhat heartless not to care?”

“I didn't say you weren't supposed to care,” Soobin says. “I just asked why you cared so much. You don't usually come to me with matters of feelings, about you or about other people.”

Yeonjun opens his mouth. Closes it. And repeats the movement before slumping back into his chair slightly, because there's nothing he can say to this. Soobin's right. Yeonjun doesn't talk about feelings a lot—not about himself, not even about those close to him. Those times he fought with his mother and father, fought even with his friends—he generally didn't ask for advice. Things just kind of resolved on their own.

“I just—” Yeonjun groans, putting the empty glass down in favor of shoving his face into his hands. “It's not like those times, Soobin. This feels... it feels bigger. Worse. I can't explain it—I promise I'm not going mad—but it feels like a cloud has covered the estate, and I don't know what to do about it.”

“Wow, I didn't know you could be so poetic.” Soobin smirks, ignoring Yeonjun's blatant glare. “But in all honesty, Yeonjun, I don't quite know what to tell you. I'm not close with Y/N. You're the one who lives with her. Maybe it isn't all that you're making it out to be.”

“Maybe,” Yeonjun says hopelessly, staring at his hands. “Maybe.”

He's pretty sure Soobin's wrong, though.

“Look.” Soobin leans forward, his gentle eyes refusing to let Yeonjun back away. “If it's really worrying, I can have Beomgyu visit. Try to get a read on the situation. You know he's far more perceptive than you or me—maybe he can talk to your duchess and try to see how she's doing.”

Yeonjun lets out a sigh of relief. It's not quite enough to smile at Soobin without worry, but he does feel better, knowing that there's something of a plan here. “That would be wonderful, really.” He tries to smile. “Tell him to come whenever he can.”

. . . . .

The world is falling to pieces.

You stare at your desk, at the leather-bound notebook placed on top of it right before your eyes. Your hand grips your favorite pencil, worn smooth where your fingers have always held it. A single dot of gray marks the otherwise clean page. Nothing else.

And that's the problem.

You can't write.

It started slowly, you think, slowly enough that you didn't realize it at first. There was poetry in the air when you left the estate to visit some of the townspeople, in the birdsong singing soft against a sky turning gray with rain—you hadn't had your notebook then so you didn't write it down, but you knew you'd remember it.

Except by the time you got back to the estate, you were so tired that after changing, all you could do was tug the blankets over yourself, ignoring Yeonjun sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed, and fall into slumber yourself. By morning, you'd forgotten, and when you remembered in the afternoon, your notebook was in your room and you were in the country.

It was a chance occurrence. Just you being too tired to write. You didn't think much of it—there was so much to do then that you couldn't even fully focus on your loneliness, which should have been a good thing. But two days stretched into four, then into a week, then two weeks—

And now, when you have time, as you try to recall the scene, there's nothing. Not a single word.

Panic settles in your stomach, wending its way to your heart. There has never been a period where you couldn't write, not at all—even if what you wanted to write wasn't coming, there was always something else that your mind could fixate on, where your pens could find some inspiration in. But now—there's nothing, there's actually nothing, and the worst thing is—

You're forcing it. You don't even want to write. You just know this isn't normal, your not being able to write, and you know that you have time, so you're forcing it.

You swallow hard, clenching the pencil so hard your knuckles turn pale. You've never not wanted to write. You've never been so tired, so exhausted—you've taken them for granted, the words that flowed tirelessly through your mind, and now that they're gone you feel even emptier than when you stared at the moon alone in bed, wearing one of the nightgowns that was supposed to have tempted your husband between the sheets. And yet here you are, staring your lack of will and lack of motivation right in the face.

No wonder it feels as though the world is falling to pieces.

“Your Grace?”

You shriek slightly, whirling towards the door just in time to see Sakura's head poke through. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she apologizes. “I wasn't sure if you were inside, I knocked but I suppose you didn't hear me.”

“I didn't.” You press a hand to your chest as though trying to suppress the erratic beating of your heart. It doesn't work. “I'm sorry, I was—preoccupied.” With thoughts of everything falling apart. “What is it?”

“Someone has come to call. Lord Beomgyu Choi.”

“Oh. I see.” Which is a lie. You don't really see. Why is Beomgyu here? Yeonjun didn't mention anything about seeing his cousin—he's not even here, actually, having gone into town to meet with his solicitor. “Did he mention why he's here?”

“He said he was in the area and wanted to stop by to see you and his cousin.” Sakura shrugs. “I told him His Grace was out on business, but he insisted on paying you his greetings as well.”

Well, that does sound like Beomgyu, at least from what little you've learned of him from Yeonjun and your own few chance encounters with the man. Friendly, teasing, sometime belligerently so, but never straying past the bounds of propriety even if he does toe the line every so often. If it were up to you, you'd rather not see anyone, but if it were to be anyone in the world, Beomgyu is far from the worst person you could be forced to see right now.

“Tell him I will be there in just a moment,” you say, dragging yourself up from the chair. Your heart is still trying to calm itself. “Prepare a tray of the ready-made pastries, perhaps, in case he'd like to stay.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Sakura bows herself out, leaving you to compose yourself.

Pointedly looking away from the glaringly blank page, you turn toward the small mirror on the wall. Your eyes stare back, hollow and panicked and desperate.

By God. How did Sakura not see this? How did she not react?

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes. You let muscle memory take over, curving your lips slightly into a suitable smile. Your mind graciously allows you a memory of something happy—your father tossing you into the air and catching you as your mother laughed nearby—and when you open your eyes once more, they don't look as haunted as they used to.

Straightening your dress, you set your jaw. You look fine. Presentable. It's enough.

Steeling yourself, you sweep out the door and into the hall.

. . . . .

“My lord, it is good to see you.” Relief and something else—desperation? Disappointment? Resignation? Not quite any of them but also somewhat all, something you don't have time to ponder at the moment—flood your chest at how easy it is to maintain the little smile on your face, to accept the kiss Beomgyu lights on your knuckles before he stands.

Yeonjun once kissed you like that, at the first ball of the season. Your heart had fluttered.

How long it has been since then.

“Your Grace,” he replies, smiling. “It is even better to see you in good health. I know from experience that living with my dear cousin isn't the easiest.”

You almost snort. If you had, it wouldn't have come out friendly—it would've sounded ugly. Derisive.

If only he knew.

“You must have traveled far for your business to be in our area,” you say, weaving around his words with your usual beatific smile. “My apologies that His Grace isn't here, but he had some meetings today in town that he couldn't miss.” Just like always. “Won't you stay and sit a while for some refreshment?”

“That would be most welcome.” Beomgyu sits down in the chair you gesture towards with a sigh. “It is true that I have traveled far, and I must admit that the journey has exhausted me.”

Perfectly on cue, Sakura and Jiyeon enter the room, one carrying a tray of small sandwiches and pastries, the other holding a tea service. “Thank you, Sakura, Jiyeon,” you say with a nod before beginning to set out the food. “My lord, if you're still hungry after this, I can always have the cook prepare something more substantial.”

“No, this could not be more perfect. I don't want to take up too much of your time, I only meant to stop by.” He immediately takes one of the sandwiches and bites into it, closing his eyes in seeming bliss. “Please pay my sincerest compliments to your kitchen staff.”

A little laugh bubbles from your lips as you pour the tea. “Of course, my lord. I'm glad that you feel better.”

“I do feel much better,” he agrees, taking a sip from his cup. “But how do you feel, Your Grace? Truly, how have you been?”

The earnestness in his eyes makes you blink. You don't know Beomgyu very well, haven't spoken with him beyond casual conversations at a couple of family dinners and your wedding—you wouldn't expect the care in his expression to be directed at you, even though you are his cousin's wife. “I'm doing quite well,” you say though, the lie easily falling off of your lips. “It's true that I am still adjusting to my new duties, but life is naught but a series of adjustments.”

“If I may, it seems that you are adjusting quite well.” Beomgyu smiles. “I drove through the village on my way here—all of your people seem quite happy. If they are this happy while you are away, I imagine they will be even more pleased when you move back to the country for the off season.”

“That is good to hear. I do sometimes fear I'm not doing enough for them.” You bring the hot tea to your lips, breathing in the sweet aroma. It helps calm your heart, which still hasn't quite stopped racing since your panic earlier. At least a little.

“I'm sure you're doing all you can, Your Grace, and that's what matters most.” Beomgyu turns another small sandwich in between his fingers, earnest eyes still fixed on you. “Are you happy, too?”

You almost choke on your tea.

What kind of question is that? And more importantly, how do you answer it? You're an adept liar—you can already feel your mouth opening, ready to give the expected answer—of course I am—but for once the words stick in your throat, competing with the cry threatening to shove itself out of your thudding heart—

What if he saw it in your eyes? What if he saw the panic, the desperation, the way your heart won't stop thudding even though it's been nearly half an hour since you left your room? What if—

You swallow your sip of tea, carefully placing down your cup so that he won't see it rattling against the saucer. “Of course I am.” Even to your own ears the words sound a little off, but hopefully Beomgyu doesn't know you well enough to be able to tell. “Why do you ask, my lord?”

“Oh, it's just something I ask everybody.” Beomgyu laughs lightheartedly, and your heart settles. “People are always surprised when I ask—but shouldn't it be a given, that we should all be happy in our lives?”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” You try to laugh with him, but his words have somehow knocked you off-kilter even though he probably didn't mean to. Shouldn't it be a given, that we should all be happy in our lives?

You wish you believed the same.

“I try to be happy as much as I can,” Beomgyu continues, sipping unconcernedly at his tea. “Which is not to say I indulge in hedonism—pleasure is not the same as happiness—and of course there is no happiness without sadness, but life was not made for doom and gloom. Why else would we have pretty things like green grass and a blue sky and colorful flowers to litter the fields?”

For the first time today, you find yourself at a loss for words. What Beomgyu said rattles through your brain—there is no happiness without sadness, but life was not made for doom and gloom—why else would we have pretty things like green grass and a blue sky and colorful flowers to litter the fields—

Shouldn't it be a given, that we should all be happy in our lives?

There's poetry in his words. You can see it flowing before your eyes in dark black swoops of ink. Something in you itches to find a pencil and paper right now, to scribble your thoughts down right now—

Perhaps you can still write. Perhaps you do still want to write.

Your heart lifts a little. Maybe, maybe the world isn't falling apart, maybe things aren't so bad...

Beomgyu places the teacup down, smiling at you once more. “I fear I must go now, in order to be home by dark.”

You blink. “Oh, yes. Of course.” Quickly you stand, brushing imaginary crumbs off the front of your dress. “Allow me to escort you out. Do you wish to take any of this food to go? We have plenty.”

“If you don't mind, a few of those sandwiches wouldn't be amiss.” Beomgyu's eyes twinkle. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You're very welcome, my lord,” you reply. “Give me just one moment, I'll tell one of the servants.”

Soon enough, you and Beomgyu stand outside the house, him holding a paper-wrapped pack of sandwiches, you trying desperately not to think of his poetry and the words waiting to write themselves on your notebook pages. “Thank you again, Your Grace.” He takes your hand, brushing his lips gently against your knuckles once more. “You are most gracious for allowing me into your home at such short notice.”

“Anything for my husband's good friend and cousin.” You smile demurely. “I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I was very happy,” Beomgyu laughs, his eyes crinkling in a manner eerily similar to Yeonjun's when he smiles.

Don't think of that.

Too late, you realize Beomgyu asked you a question while you were busy trying to shove thoughts of your husband into the darker recesses of your brain. “I'm sorry—could you repeat that?”

“Oh, I just asked if you were happy too, today.”

You smile a little. “I was,” you reply, and it isn't a complete lie. Beomgyu's conversation, even the more unsettling bits, did provide some levity from the dark spaces of your thoughts.

“I hope you will always find happiness, Your Grace,” he says with a bright smile. “If anything displeases you, it is within your rights to squash its source as well as you can. And if the source of that displeasure if my cousin...” He laughs. “Feel free to knock some sense into him. Literally, if it so pleases you. Yeonjun may be daft occasionally, but he means well. He just needs to be reminded to open his eyes, sometimes.”

Yeonjun may be daft occasionally, but he means well. He just needs to be reminded to open his eyes, sometimes.

You jolt a little, eyes narrowing slightly at Beomgyu. You'd brushed his earlier questions off as eccentricities, quirks that gave Yeonjun's cousin the witty character that so many ascribed to him, but this—this seems almost directed, somehow, like he knows more than you told him—

“Until another time, Your Grace.” Beomgyu grins jauntily, jerking you out of your thoughts. You have just the presence of mind to repeat the salutation, raising your arm in farewell as he hops into his carriage once more. The wheels then rattle off into the road, leaving you to stand in front of the estate and wonder whether this chance meeting was supposed to mean more than you originally thought.

. . . . .

“You were right,” Beomgyu says without preamble the second Yeonjun takes a seat. “She is unhappy.”

Yeonjun nearly spits out his drink. “How did you know?”

“I went to visit, remember?”

Oh. Right. He does recall you mentioning briefly at dinner a few nights ago that his cousin had stopped by, but between all the paperwork he had to file for the Parliamentary session and the upcoming events in the ton, his mind had completely flown past it. Figures, honestly, that Beomgyu didn't tell him he was coming at all before he did. Little brat. “Why didn't you tell me when you were going? I could've been there.”

“You were busy and I was busy and I didn't want to bother you.” Beomgyu leans back in his chair. “Also, I think it's better that we spoke alone.”

“Fair enough.” Yeonjun sighs. “So how did you know? Did she tell you?”

“Oh, no. Your duchess has far too much grace for that.” Beomgyu laughs, but there's a sharp edge to it that suggests a barb. Not at you, but at Yeonjun himself if the thinning of Beomgyu's lips is anything to go by. “She hid it well, but I could still see it.”

Yeonjun's heart sinks. If Beomgyu could see it, that means his assessment of your state is probably true. “Do you know why?”

“I couldn't stay long enough to fully figure that out.” Beomgyu tips back the rest of his drink. “However, I do suspect there might be loneliness involved.”

Yeonjun frowns. “Loneliness?”

Beomgyu sighs. “Yeonjun, I know you can be daft, but think about it for just one moment. She's been abroad for several years and just came back, and in the few months that she was here she has been engaged and married. Not a lot of time to make friends. She returned with only her mother and ladies maid and a handful of other servants—not many people in her family, either. Her mother is currently gone on a trip with Her Grace, and from what I know, her husband is somewhat of a workaholic.” Beomgyu leans forward. “In her situation, would you not be lonely?”

Oh. Oh.

Put like that, Yeonjun sees it. Quite clearly, in fact.

He swallows. “Well, I—” The quelling look in Beomgyu's eyes stops his weak defense before it can even start to come out. He sighs. “I take your point. What can I do to fix it?”

“That, I can't tell you.” Beomgyu shrugs. “Every person in the world is different, Yeonjun, no matter what other gentlemen would have you believe. But maybe you could start with talking to her. Actually getting to know her beyond the pithy conversations you shared at the balls and promenades. If you don't know what to do, maybe in time, she'll tell you what she needs. But she’ll have to trust you first.”

Staring at the clear liquid in his glass, Yeonjun ponders his cousin's words. He's right, most likely—generally Beomgyu is, no matter how much Yeonjun would rather pretend the opposite. And this isn't a matter that he can pretend away. If you're unhappy, that causes problems for the estate, and more importantly, it causes problems for you. You should be content in this marriage, at least. He doesn't want anyone under his roof to be truly miserable.

“All right,” he says quietly, putting down his half-full glass. “I'll try. Thank you, Beomgyu.”

“It won't be easy,” his cousin warns.

Yeonjun smiles a little. It's half amusement, half sarcasm. Nothing in life is ever easy. He thought this marriage would be—you seemed perfect for the role, and you've been perfect at it so far, but he seems to have forgotten you were human. That no matter how similar your goals seemed, they would have diverged somehow in the end.

“I know.” Yeonjun sighs. “But I still have to try.”

. . . . .

You stare at the words you put on the page, reading them over and over again as if that will change them.

There is no happiness without sadness, you say For why else would we have our pretty things, green grasses and blue skies and flowers of all different colors— But you have had enough sadness, haven't you, too much gray to outweigh the color. For me you have given so much, your youth and your joy and your delight, Allow me, then, to give you happiness, unadulterated, unmarred, pristine and bright as the sun shining in the sky— You will have the green grass, the blue sky, the colorful flowers that litter the fields, and I will keep the gray clouds at bay. For you burned for me when I was young, sought to keep the world's troubles from my childish eyes, and now that I see them— I will burn to ashes, now, for you I will give you the happiness you deserve, and take the sadness the world attempts to push your way— I will be the coal, now, for you, will burn bright so you can live For life is to gladly become a piece of coal for someone other than myself And now that you have burned so brightly for me, I will take the burden of the flame for you.

It doesn’t.

You put your pen down with a shaking hand, push the notebook away as the ink dries on the page. You had felt the itch to write and had thought it a good thing, thought that Beomgyu's sweet words had awakened the inspiration in you once more, and when you sat down and the ink began to flow you were so relieved at the simple fact that you wantedto write that you didn't realize what you were actually putting on the page.

A bastardized version of what Beomgyu had said, marred by your sinking thoughts and depression.

You bury your face in your hands, almost choking on the scent of the ink staining your palms. The world is falling to pieces again, and somehow it is worse.

For how long you stay there, head in your hands, you aren't sure. When you look up, it's only because a knock has sounded at the door and you probably can't ignore it. “Come in,” you call, praying your voice doesn't break.

Yeonjun's figure appears in the doorway. You start—you haven't seen him since last night, when you woke up briefly to him coming to bed—and didn't he go out early this morning? Why is he back?

“Your Grace,” you say, standing as steadily as you can. “Is something amiss?”

“No, not at all.” He smiles, and you hate how handsome it makes him look. It would be easier to bear your loneliness, perhaps, if some part of you didn't keep fluttering lightly every time you see him. I just wanted to ask if there was anything you needed with regard to the ball we are to host soon—I know how hectic planning such an event can be.”

Oh. Of course. The ball. The penultimate one of the season, in fact, one that the Duke and Duchess of Hastings traditionally host in their town home. You nod, already internally wincing at how many frustrated tears you've shed over this one stupid event. “Preparations are going well, Your Grace. The invitations were sent out yesterday and everything else seems to be in order.”

“I see.” Yeonjun nods. “Well, if there's anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

If there's anything I can do for you. Your chest throbs dully. You could stop ignoring me outside of everything business-related, you know.

Which isn't—fair, not really. You haven't been very communicative either. And he's busy—both of you are. You can't expect him to read your mind, but it's so hard to bring it up when neither of you are ever in the same place at the same time and on the off chance that you are, the conversation is anything but casual.

It would be so much easier if you could expect him to read your mind.

“Of course, Your Grace.” You smile. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He dips his head.

You expect him to leave then, to close the door and head back out, but he lingers in the doorway for a moment, his feet shuffling slightly. You raise an eyebrow. He looks almost… out of place. Like he knows the conversation is over, but there is something more he wants to say.

As fast as his expression comes, though, it clears, reverting back to that easy smile. “Will I see you at dinner tonight?”

You blink. Forget his previous unease—this shocks you more. He's never asked that before. He's rarely even home for dinner.

Part of you leaps to say yes. It's what you wanted, isn't it, for him to pay you a little more attention, to have someone to speak with? But the more sensible part reminds you of the ink still staining your hands, the mess of thoughts that has taken over your mind, and the fact that your head is starting to throb as your heart stops racing. “I'm not sure, Your Grace.” You try to smile. “I've had a headache for the best part of the afternoon. I thought I'd take dinner alone and try to take an early night.”

“Oh.” This time Yeonjun really does look thrown off, his expression wrinkling in concern as he steps forward. “I'm sorry you aren't feeling well—should I send for the doctor?”

“No, no.” You laugh a little. “I'm just a bit tired, is all.”

“Rest well, then.” He smiles. “I know you take your duties seriously, but it's also important that you remain healthy, Duchess.”

For the sake of the estate, or for my own?

“I am taking care of myself, Your Grace.” You force yourself to smile back. “Don't worry too much about me.”

“If you say so,” he replies. “Feel better, then. And if anything turns for the worse, have someone send for the doctor.”

“I will. Thank you.”

With that, he bows himself out, and the door closes quietly behind him.

You sit back down on your chair with a sigh. The pages of your notebook stare at you out of the corner of your eye, black ink like slashes against the paper.

There is no happiness without sadness, you say For why else would we have our pretty things, green grasses and blue skies and flowers of all different colors—

Stop reading—stop thinking of it—

You snatch up the notebook and rip the page out in one single, swift motion.

Immediately you regret it, staring at the jagged edge of the torn paper, the remains of it still stuck in your notebook. Tearing out the page did nothing—you can still see the black ink, the words carved dark across white—and all you've done is ruin the precious notebook that has stayed with you for so long.

Tears suddenly prick at the corners of your eyes. You've graduated to overreacting now, tearing hated poems from your notebook when logically there's no reason to do such a thing. You'll remember it anyway, those words having been burned into your memory.

What has become of you in just these few short months?

Slowly, slowly, you pick up the torn page and slip it back into place. There's no way to put it back completely, but it's all you can do. It takes more effort than you'd like to stand, but somehow you trudge back to your room and manage to put the book away before falling flat onto your bed.

As soon as your head hits the pillow, you're fast asleep.

. . . . .

Even before the ball begins, Yeonjun can tell that this night will be a success. Everything has been perfect from the start—the flower deliveries were on time, the food was delicious, the decorations looked beautifully tasteful—he truly has to admire your skill with organization, because there is no way he could have done as well as you did with this ball if it were his first time.

“It is only thanks to your mother and the house servants,” is all you say when he compliments the gold tinsel glittering cheerfully on the windows. “If it hadn't been for them, I would have been lost entirely.”

Which is true, somewhat, Yeonjun supposes. They definitely would have given you much support, telling you which vendors they normally use and why, filling you in on what they remember from previous years, but at the same time, he’s sure you're not giving yourself enough credit. Because while it is clear that this second to last ball of the season is one hosted by someone as prestigious as the Duchess of Hastings, you have added your own touch to the proceedings, something to distinguish yourself from his mother the dowager.

As Yeonjun makes his rounds about the room, he can see it. While his mother always went for traditional elegance, never plain but still nothing too over the top, you've incorporated current fashions in a way that never overshadows the style his mother created but complements it instead. A bit of gold to accent the silver. Posies of leaves and baby's breath to add some more blossoms and greenery. By all accounts, it is a beautiful ball.

The night passes quickly. He actually has time to enjoy the food, the drink, the dances, now that he has a wife and the season is winding down. He only laughs when Wooyoung comes up and slaps his back, and the conversation he shares with Soobin and Changbin is—well, it's fun. More fun than he's allowed himself to have in a while.

At some point, however, the noise of the evening grows to be a little much. Everyone is tipsy at this point, if not fully drunk, and the only dance partner he had tonight who did not step on his toes once was you. It was the only time he'd really seen you, he realizes as he shuffles into an empty room, holding his head—where have you been the entire night?

The slight ache of his head tells him to rest. The rational part of his mind tells him to look for you.

For once, he listens to reason.

“Yeonjun!” Wooyoung comes bounding up, cheeks lightly flushed and another drink in his hand. “Where did you go? The fireworks are about to start!”

Fireworks? Yeonjun blinks. Oh, yes—you'd ordered them for this event, as a pretty way to end the evening for everyone. “I'll be with you in a moment,” he says, tugging himself away. “Need to find someone first.”

The crowd thronging towards the exit makes it difficult to move. Yeonjun weaves his way through, thanking his parents silently for his height as he scans the tops of people's heads, looking for you, but as the crowd thins and he reaches the other end of the ballroom, you're still nowhere to be found. Frowning, he tries to think—where would you be? Maybe one of the nearby rooms, where it's quiet?

He pads through the halls, quietly opening door after door. Each of them is empty—no giggling couples, even. Everyone must be watching the fireworks. He's about to give up when he remembers one more hall, more hidden than the rest.

One that only you would know well, considering you live in the house.

Gritting his teeth around the sounds of booming fireworks outside, he knocks quietly on each door. Nothing for most, even after he opens them—

Until he reaches the last one.

No one answers his knock, so he opens the door not expecting anything. His heart jumps at the sight of your figure sat in one of the armchairs, staring blankly to the side. You don't look at him—you don't seem to have noticed him at all—and he almost thinks something has happened to you and starts to panic—

You shift slightly, the movement rippling through the air. Your eyes turn just enough that he can see them, though you might not be able to see him.

The look in them is almost worse than if you'd actually gone catatonic. Because there is barely an expression in them. Dead, really. Empty. But not quite, just filled with so much leaden exhaustion and darkness that they only look empty. Desolate.

It scares Yeonjun even more.

“Y/N?” he whispers, almost scared to speak. For a moment, he wonders if you will even hear him. If you can still hear anything.

You blink, and the expression immediately disappears. When you fully turn to him, there's no trace of the terrifying look he'd seen before.

Was he just hallucinating?

“Your Grace?” You stand, easy grace in every one of your movements. “Were you looking for me?”

“Oh—um—yes.” He swallows. “I couldn't find you in the ballroom, so I thought I'd come to look for you. The fireworks have started.”

You blink. “The fireworks,” you murmur, almost as though you didn't mean for him to hear. “Oh, yes. I'll be right there.”

On the way out, you look as fresh-faced as ever, only a slight weariness tingeing your expression that makes sense, of course, given the busy night that has just passed. But try as he might, even as the two of you enter the gardens with the rest of the crowd to watch the fireworks spark in the sky all he can see in his mind's eye is that look on your face. So exhausted, so desolate, so dead...

A chill runs up his spine.

So very, very empty.

. . . . .

For once, as you settle into the sitting room couch, afternoon sunlight streaming through the large window, you feel glad that no one is around. Yeonjun is in town, putting some last things together before you move to the country for the off season, and Sakura is at home. The other servants seem to have made themselves somewhat scarce today for whatever reason, giving you almost complete quiet in view of the sun.

You slide your pencil out from the pages of your notebook, opening it to the next blank sheet. The page you'd ripped out a week ago starts to flutter to the floor with your disturbance. You barely manage to catch it.

Holding it between your fingers, you sigh. You overreacted that day, didn't you? It's not so bad. Even if your mind twisted Beomgyu's words in a way you didn't want to, at least it let you write.

Still, you put the page face down on the cushions next to you. You'd rather not read it. Or be reminded of it at all.

You idly scratch words into the paper over the next few hours as the sun continues to steadily set in the sky. Light turns from bright yellow to pink and mellow gold as the hours pass, and eventually, you stop writing completely, instead just staring out the window at the shimmering light. It seems to envelop you like a soft blanket, warm and soothing, and you lose yourself in the vision outside to the point that you don't feel Yeonjun's presence in the room until he says your name.

“Y/N?”

You slam the notebook shut, hiding the pencil under your skirts. Your reverie broken, you turn to him, heart pounding.

He stands behind the couch, looking as unruffled and handsome as ever. “You're early,” you say, praying your voice doesn't tremble. Praying he didn’t notice your notebook.

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “Not really,” he says, glancing at the clock. It reads six. “I think I'm quite on time.”

He's right. You shake your head lightly. “I must have gotten carried away,” you murmur. “Time flew by.”

“Time does have a habit of doing that.” Yeonjun laughs a little, and stupidly, some part of you wishes you could hear that sound more often. “I have a little more work to do this evening but it's not much—give me an hour, and I will see you for dinner, yes?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” You smile, standing up, carefully angling the pencil and notebook so that he will see as little of them as possible. Just one moment and you can hide them away. “I will meet you in the dining room. In the meantime, if there's anything I can do to help with your work, please let me know.”

“Of course.” He nods. “Get some rest before we eat. I know these past few weeks must have been draining for you.”

Well, he's not wrong about that. You just found yourself in a haze for several hours, staring at the sunset. It's a wonder you didn't fall asleep. With a final smile and a nod, you bow yourself out and head towards the bedroom.

Once inside, you place your notebook in your desk and your pencil nearby. As you close the drawer, something nudges at you, though—like something is amiss, for whatever reason, even though you're sure there's nothing really wrong...

The image of your notebook flashes in your head. Your notebook, without the ripped page sticking out.

Your heart stops. Your footsteps still. You whirl back to the desk, open the drawer where your notebook lies, hold it upside down and shake—

Nothing comes out.

Oh, God. You clutch the edge of the desk. You left it in the sitting room.

Right where Yeonjun could see it.

. . . . .

Yeonjun is right about to leave the room, to head to the study to finish reviewing a few more papers when something strange catches his eye. He turns to the flash of white to see a piece of paper lying on one of the cushions where you were just sitting, its edge ripped as though it was torn out of the notebook where it used to be. Your notebook, perhaps, the large, leather bound one he has sometimes seen you use.

It probably fell out or something. Yeonjun picks it up to see writing on the other side. Immediately he looks away—you've never showed him the contents of your notebook, never offered to let him see so that means this is something private that you don't want in the presence of others—but curiosity draws his eyes back slightly, just slightly.

It wouldn't hurt if he just—looked, right? You wouldn't need to know. He could just look, once—maybe it would give him some insight on how you feel, how he can help to dispel the cloud that's been hanging around you these past few months.

His mind conjures the image of you standing in the dark room alone at the ball, candlelight flickering in the deadened look in your eyes. His fingers clench around the piece of paper.

He can't stand to do nothing anymore.

Silently, as though you might hear him, he flips the paper over. Dark ink stares back, slashed in beautiful script across the white page. There is no happiness without sadness, you say For why else would we have our pretty things, green grasses and blue skies and flowers of all different colors— But you have had enough sadness, haven't you, too much gray to outweigh the color. For me you have given so much, your youth and your joy and your delight, Allow me, then, to give you happiness, unadulterated, unmarred, pristine and bright as the sun shining in the sky— You will have the green grass, the blue sky, the colorful flowers that litter the fields, and I will keep the gray clouds at bay. For you burned for me when I was young, sought to keep the world's troubles from my childish eyes, and now that I see them— I will burn to ashes, now, for you I will give you the happiness you deserve, and take the sadness the world attempts to push your way— I will be the coal, now, for you, will burn bright so can live For life is to gladly become a piece of coal for someone other than myself And now that you have burned so brightly for me, I will take the burden of the flame for you. Yeonjun stares at the page, unmoving, even after he's finished reading. He—he's not even reading it again, he can't, not through the way his chest seems to be clenching around his heart, tight, so tight that he can't breathe—

The resignation, the desolation of your words seems to seep right into his bones, filtering through his blood, stopping him the second he tries to move. Your words—your poem—it's beautiful in the loneliest way, and the more Yeonjun thinks about it the more he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

It hurts. It hurts, so much, to finally see how much you feel this way. To finally see how much damage he's wrought on you. To finally see how right Beomgyu was after one meeting, to see how blind he was after several months of courting and then being your husband—

Footsteps sound down the hall, quick and frantic. Yeonjun looks up, half-dazed, just in time to see you come to a stop in the doorway, eyes wild as you look first towards the couch, then at him.

And the paper still held between his hands.

For a moment, no one moves. Time seems to stop as Yeonjun meets your eyes, as shame and regret and terror begin to work their way up his throat—

Your voice is deadly quiet and shaking when you speak.

“Did you read it?”

His throat isn't working. He can't make a sound. All he can do is watch as you step forward once, dangerous, your eyes sparking desperate fire as you speak once again. “Did you read it?”

Once, slowly, he nods.

And everything explodes.

You snatch the paper from his grip, pressing it to your chest as you look up at him, a caged animal ready to fight. “You had—you had no right,” you hiss. “You had no right—that was mine, that was my writing, and you knew it—”

“I'm sorry,” Yeonjun tries, his words coming out choked and terrified— “I'm sorry, Y/N, I didn't—I didn't mean to—”

But he did. He did mean to. He reasoned with himself to read it, even though he knew you kept your words private for a reason—he made an excuse and then he read it, very much on purpose.

“It was mine!” you yell. Yeonjun flinches. “It was mine, and you had to have known that, but you read it anyway—you had no right! It was not yours! You weren't supposed to see—you weren't supposed to see anything—”

You're crying. You're crying, tears rolling down your face as you clutch the paper close. Stricken, Yeonjun tries to step forward, his hand reaching out as though to touch you, but you back away immediately. The hand falls fruitlessly back to his side.

For one moment, you look at him. You look at him and he sees you—not just your red eyes but the fear, the desperation, the anger, the betrayal in your expression. His feet want to move forward, but he stops them.

He did this. He did that to you. Not just with reading your poem, but with everything before, too.

In a second you've disappeared into the hall. Yeonjun can only watch the dark doorway as your footsteps sound on the floor, growing fainter and fainter until a door slams in the direction of the bedroom. Immediately a sob sounds from behind the wood before it cuts off sharply, like you muffled it.

For a moment, he doesn't even flinch. His body feels immobile, like he's stuck in place. He can't move.

And then everything seems to loosen all at once, and he falls to his knees on the floor.

He screwed up. He messed up so badly—it's all his fault, all of this, even in his desperate and terribly wrong attempt to help he's made everything a mess. His mind scrambles for a way to—to do something, to apologize, to even begin an attempt to fix things—

But there's nothing. Nothing at all.

A sinking feeling fills his stomach. He's ruined everything.

. . .

When Yeonjun can finally lift his head, the clock says an hour has passed. The quiet sound of your sobs has mostly faded from the end of the hall, but the silence just makes everything feel worse.

His head pounds. Tears have marked their way down his face. Slowly, slowly, he lifts a hand to wipe away the sticky trail. It doesn't make him feel any better.

But his mind is a little clearer, now. Even with the headache, the fog that possessed him in the moment has faded at least slightly. Swallowing, he grinds the heels of his palms to his eyes. The pressure helps the pounding in his head slightly.

What can he do? He tries to think. He wants to approach you, but the remaining rational bit of his brain reminds him that that's definitely not the best idea—you'd probably turn him away immediately and he wouldn't even blame you for it. He wants to apologize, to tell you he had no malicious intent when reading your work, but it's the intent that's the problem, not any sort of malice. He shouldn't have given in to the urge at all.

A fragment of your poem comes back to mind. For a moment, he tries to shove them away—even thinking of them brings shame into his chest, like he’s violating your privacy again—but they don’t leave.

I will burn to ashes, now, for you I will give you the happiness you deserve, and take the sadness the world attempted to push your way— For life is to gladly become a piece of coal for someone other than myself And now that you have burned so brightly for me, I will take the burden of the flame for you.

He tries not to think of them. Desperately. It doesn’t work at all—they replay in his head, again and again and again until he wants to start crying once more—

Wait.

He blinks. Maybe—maybe—his apology doesn't matter. Nothing can erase the fact that he read what you wrote even though he wasn't supposed to. That’s done, and it can’t be fixed in a way that matters. But maybe he can do something to show that he didn't mean to do it as something malicious, and then he can have the opportunity to apologize...

Your aching words, the desolation and loneliness they impressed upon his heart. The way he could feel you through your script on the page, a personification of the gray cloud that seemed to hover above your head.

Maybe he can try to make you see that he—understands. Somewhat. Not completely, because he doesn't know you well enough (and that stings because he's your husband and you're his wife, how could he not know you by now?)—but that he's at the very least trying.

A letter. Something written, because spoken word won't help right now. You wrote a poem to express yourself, even if it wasn’t for him. Yeonjun—his writing may not be able to evoke emotion the same way yours does, but he can try. He has to.

Pattering down the hall on soft, soft feet, he ducks into his study and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen. Swallowing hard, he closes his eyes. Makes a short prayer. Presses his pen to the paper.

And begins to write.

. . . . .

After at least two hours, the tears finally stop flowing. Or perhaps not—you've buried your face in a pillow so maybe the cloth is just soaking up your tears, but when you finally find the strength to lift yourself up, the pounding in your head has subsided. Slightly.

Harshly, you scrub a hand against the trails of tears still littering your cheeks. It doesn't help at all—your palms were covered in tears already, so it feels like nothing changes—and you drop yourself back on the bed again. There's no point in trying to get up.

Against your will, your mind returns to the moment you saw Yeonjun with that paper in his hands, the expression in his eyes when he looked up and saw you in the doorway. You didn't have time to decipher it then, but you certainly do now, even if you don't want to.

Surprise, of course. That was most of it. But in that moment you saw, behind the surprise, sadness. Or something of the sort. Guilt. Shame. Probably for reading your private writing, of course, and getting caught. But perhaps also...

Because he understood.

You shove the thought away. You don't want to think about what it means if he understood your poem—because that just opens up an entire other host of problems that you're going to need to address. You're already going to have to talk about this—this incident. You can be sure of that much. Yeonjun isn't—you're quite certain of this—he isn't the type of person to just leave this alone and never speak of it again. When you picture his expression, you do believe he was sorry, that he felt guilt and shame for reading what he had to have known was something extremely private to you. And in all honesty—how much could you blame him? Human curiosity is a strong thing. If you had been the one to see the paper, would you have done anything different?

It's just that... an act that is understandable doesn't mean that it was right.

You sigh. Yeonjun will want to apologize, you're certain. But if he didn't understand your poem, you wouldn't have to talk about its meaning. Which is—a good thing in some ways, maybe, namely that you're exhausted and don't know if you would have the strength to go through that kind of conversation. But maybe it would actually be worse if you didn't talk through it.

Because that would mean you'd continue to suffer in loneliness, even though it may very well be killing you.

The problem is—it is something you need to address. You sigh. There's no question about it, if you don't want to die miserable on this estate. You’ve held it back for too long because it’s hard to speak of, but a conversation will be inevitable, even if it manifests as a shouting match. But if Yeonjun didn't understand it, you could hardly bring it up now. If he did understand it, you could speak, but you'd also have to suffer the indignity of having someone know you.

You snort. It's a sad little sound, more like a sniffle than anything. Which is worse?

A single candle flickers in the corner of the room. It draws your eyes with its cheerful little dance, so oblivious to the thoughts pounding all sides of your skull. For God knows how long, you just—stare at it. Its dance is mesmerizing, almost hypnotizing to your tired eyes, this tiny flicker of light in a darkening room.

Eventually you roll over again, still keeping the tiny curl of flame dancing in the corner of your vision. The pounding in your head has lessened but it's still there, and you have half a mind to ask Sakura for some water to ease the pain but that would require speaking and you don't really feel up to that right now. The candlelight soothes the ache, a little—a small glow like a single star to erase your thoughts for the time being, to just let your mind focus on a piece of light.

You will have to talk, eventually. The thought makes your throat close up and your heart begin to race, but you know the truth. You won't survive as a married couple if things like this fester, and though you may not feel married to him much of the time, you are still Yeonjun's wife by law. It's important to put up a front even when things are going sour, but the more you allow this—fight, or argument, or whatever you want to call it—you were the only one yelling as far as you remember—to curdle, the worse things will get.

But you don't want to think about it right now. You don't want to think of the inevitable talk, of Yeonjun, of the stupid ripped piece of paper still lying on your bed—you don't want to think about much of anything at all. So you stare at the flickering candle, letting it lull you into a daze slowly, slowly...

. . .

You're on the cusp of sleep—real sleep, not faked—when a movement catches your eye. It's near the door and for a second, you think that someone's coming in, that they're opening the door—and then you think it's Yeonjun opening the door and your heart seizes—

You press yourself into the bed, closing your eyes. Maybe, if he comes in and sees you asleep, he'll just leave. You really don't want to see him right now.

But the door doesn't open. After one second, two, three, you crack open your eyes, glancing at the sliver of light coming in from under the door. It illuminates something pale and white sitting on the floor. A piece of paper.

Frowning, you sit up. Your knees feel wobbly when you try to stand, but you pad over to the door, picking up the paper. Black ink marks the white in a somewhat familiar handwriting, handwriting you've seen on the financial documents and reports you sometimes help with in the study...

Perhaps you are right, when you say— Life is to be coal for someone, to set yourself aflame But as you would not let that someone burn to ashes in the wind, heed your own words, and think— If they had written this, and you had found it to read, what would you say? Would you allow them to burn for you? Would you allow them to drift for you? Would you allow their ashes to float away on the wind, disappearing into nothing, all for you? Allow me to say: While a fire means much, coal is precious even without being set aflame. Think of this, if you will, and remember, if you can: That while you may find joy in the happiness of others— You deserve your own happiness too.

For one moment, then two, you stare at the paper uncomprehendingly. The words—each individual one makes sense, you have seen them and read them many times over the years—but put together in this dizzying piece of a poem (it must be a poem, your mind tells you, a poem that mimics your style, carries on your metaphors—a little clumsy, perhaps, but still a poem), it feels like your brain has stopped working.

Swallowing hard, you read it again. And again.

By the end of the third read, you've begun to cry again.

Because—because he—he understood. He understood what you had written, understood the feelings you had only been able to put into poetry and not into spoken word. He did not view your thoughts with malicious confusion—he simply—he understood—

Gingerly, you place the paper on the bedsheets next to you. Several tears have already stained the page, blotting out small sections of ink, but still you read it one more time.

He understood. He really understood. You blot away the remaining tears from your eyes. He understood, and he wanted you to know, and he took the effort to try and say it in the way you had originally expressed yourself.

Maybe it's time to let him explain himself too.

“Sakura.” You knock quietly on the door that adjoins your room to hers when she stays the night.

She quickly opens it. “Yes, Your Grace.”

You swallow. “Please tell the duke that I wish to see him.”

. . . . .

“Your Grace.”

Yeonjun's head snaps up at the sound of Sakura's voice from the door. “Yes?” he manages.

“Her Grace...” Sakura pauses. “She wishes to see you.”

He gapes. Did you read what he wrote? “She—she asked for me?”

“She did.” Sakura bows slightly. “She is in the bedroom.”

Heart pounding, Yeonjun sets off down the halls, winding his way toward the room the two of you share. By the time he finds himself in front of your door, his heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest.

He steels himself. You asked to see him, not the other way around—and no matter what you say, he only has one thing he must do, above all. Listen, if you have anything to say, and apologize. It doesn't matter whether or not you forgive him. He just has to let you know he's sorry.

Swallowing hard, he knocks on the door.

One, two beats of silence follow the knock. Yeonjun takes a shaky breath. Perhaps you changed your mind. Perhaps you've decided you want to see him tonight after all—

“Who is it?”

Your voice sounds so hoarse, cracked—desolate with exhaustion. Yeonjun pictures the look he saw in your eyes at the ball, the deadened pupils you expressed in those moments you thought no one was watching. That was scary.

This is even worse.

He clears his throat. “It's me.”

Another beat of silence.

“Come in.”

Slowly, slowly, he creaks open the door. You're sitting on the bed, staring at something in your hands. You don't look up even when he steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The seconds tick by as Yeonjun stands still in the doorway. He aches to come closer, to stand in front of you and try to apologize, to comfort you in some way or another, but you haven't said anything. Not a word. Haven't even made a sound.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn around to face him. Your eyes are red and puffy from the tears he heard you crying and Yeonjun feels his heart crack right then and there, falling to the floor.

He's really screwed up this time.

“You can sit.” Your voice is quiet, so quiet. “I want to ask you something.”

Gingerly, he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. His fingers curl into his lap, twisting against each other. “What do you wish to ask?”

“You wrote... this.” You extend the thing he'd seen you holding in your hands. The words he penned just a few hours ago stare back at him, black ink stark on the white page.

Perhaps you are right, when you say— Life is to be coal for someone, to set yourself aflame But as you would not let that someone burn to ashes in the wind, heed your own words, and think— If they had written this, and you had found it to read, what would you say? Would you allow them to burn for you? Would you allow them to drift for you? Would you allow their ashes to float away on the wind, dispersing into nothing, all for you? Allow me to say: While a fire means much, coal is precious even without being set aflame. Think of this, if you will, and remember, if you can: That while you may find joy in the happiness of others— You deserve your own happiness too.

“Why did you write this?” you ask quietly.

Yeonjun's head spins. Why did he write it? Why couldn't he just speak to you, talk through the door and apologize like a normal human being? Why did his brain insist on poetry when his schoolteachers always scoffed at his attempts at flowery language and prose—his talents don't lie in writing to move the masses, so why did he even try?

He swallows. Hard. “I don't know,” he replies, just as low. “I'm not very good at writing. I just—I thought—”

You don't say anything, just wait for him to continue. Your unwavering stare doesn't help his train of thought.

“I thought... poetry, it seems to be your language.” His eyes dart from yours to his hands, still twisting in his lap. “I—I had tried to speak to you in the language I know, before. But we both know it too well, enough to find the loopholes in words that will seem to say everything but in reality mean nothing. So...” He takes a deep breath. “I tried to speak to you in yours. Your language, I mean.”

For a long moment, you say nothing, just keep staring at him with those tired, tired eyes. Then your gaze drops to the paper once more.

“What did you mean when you wrote this?”

Yeonjun looks at the page again. “In my language?”

“Yes. In yours.”

This is his chance. This is his one chance to explain himself, and hopefully allow you to hear out his apology. Yeonjun takes a breath. He can't screw up, not this time.

“I had thought you were... unhappy, for some time.” He chances a glance at you, but you still don't react. “When Beomgyu came to visit, he, um... he told me about it, that you didn't seem up to your usual self, I suppose. Based on his perception of you during the few times you'd met.”

“He asked me if I was happy.” You look at him, eyes still dull and tired. “Is it true that he asks that to everyone?”

Yeonjun blinks. “I mean—not specifically that, really. But he's... a little eccentric. And perceptive. So if he pinpoints something about someone, he'll ask about it, usually in a somewhat roundabout way. He looks back down at his hands. I suppose he saw something in you.”

“I see.”

“When he told me, I... thought I should help. In some way. But I didn't know what I could do, or if there was anything I should do—” He swallows. “But at our ball, you looked...”

Your expression cracks. “You saw?”

“I'm sorry. I did.” Yeonjun dips his head once more. “So I—when, today, I saw the paper that had come out of your notebook...”

On the other side of the bed, you tense. Yeonjun twists his fingers together even more tightly. He has to get this right. “I promise I didn't mean to read it. Not at first.” The words leave him in a rush, his heart beating so fast it feels like it's rising into his throat. “And I'm sorry I did anyway. I know that—such writing, it's—it's private, and I knew it, but part of me thought that maybe by seeing it I could figure out why you felt so unhappy here, and maybe with that I could try and help in some way.”

You look away from him, your gaze falling back onto the page between your hands. His sorry excuse for a poem, an attempt to express his apology in a way that would allow you to hear him.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers again. “I—I shouldn't have read it. And I know that. Nothing can excuse my actions here.”

For a long, long moment, you don't say anything. When you look up, you're still not smiling, but some of the tension has eased out of your shoulders.

“Curiosity can, Your Grace.” You sigh. “It's a very human thing.” Another sigh, softer than the first. “I am... protective of my writing.” Your gaze flickers to the desk in the room, where he’s seen you put your notebook into the top drawer before. “Perhaps overprotective. It is one of the few things I truly find solace in, but it is also something that society does not deem... appropriate, for a lady of my station. As far as I know, husbands do not generally appreciate a wife who writes anything other than letters to her friends and family.” You shrug halfheartedly. “Societal conventions do not halt inspiration, so I still write, but I have kept it quiet from those outside my family for many years, and I suppose I have grown used to keeping that secret.”

Yeonjun listens quietly, trying to ignore the curl of shame in his chest. He's known you for almost six months now, been married to you for three, and somehow, he still never knew that you wrote so well and so beautifully. You never trusted him enough to tell.

And he can't even fault you for that.

“I cannot blame you for curiosity.” You look back at him, a glimmer of apology in your eyes. “I'm sorry for my outburst—it was more than you deserved.”

“I don't think so.” Yeonjun shakes his head. “It was a violation of your privacy, and you had every right to feel as angry as you were.”

“Agree to disagree, then.” You meet his eyes for a moment before your gaze falls back to his poem. “But know that I... forgive you for that. I do.”

Guilt and relief crawl into Yeonjun's chest. He's not entirely sure he deserves your forgiveness, but he has it, and it helps a little. “Thank you.”

A little silence falls, broken only by the sound of your breathing. Yeonjun stares at a flickering candle nearby, its tiny flame dancing around the wick.

“You still haven't answered my original question,” you say. “What did you mean when you wrote this?”

Right. Yeonjun swallows. “When I read your poem, it said... there is no happiness without sadness. And that you would take that sadness from... someone, so that they would only experience happiness. You said you would be coal for them. That you would burn to ashes, for them.” He looks up to find your eyes riveted to his once more. With the intensity of your gaze fixed on his, the words start to stick in his throat, but he forces them out.

“Your Grace—Y/N—” His voice is now a whisper. “I don't want you to burn yourself to the ground.”

You look at him for a long time, gaze never faltering. “Why?” you finally ask, and even though there's no venom in your words, just exhaustion and resignation, he still flinches. “So that the ton won't talk? So your family won't despair? So that you will still have a perfect duchess to fulfill her duties and nothing more?”

Beomgyu's words ring through his head. She's been abroad for several years. In the few months that she was here she has been engaged and married. She returned with only her mother and ladies' maid and a handful of other servants. Her mother is currently one on a trip with Her Grace, and from what I know, her husband is somewhat of a workaholic.

Yeonjun's knuckles have turned white with how hard he's twisted them. Clearly, his workaholic tendencies have not lost themselves on you, and the admission that you don't even think he cares for you—really cares for you beyond as his duchess—hurts.

But it's not as though he acted any way different.

“No,” he whispers, holding your gaze. Please, please see that I am sincere. “No. For yourself.”

You open your mouth. Shut it. Remain silent.

“I did mean what I wrote,” he says, glancing at his poem. “That you deserve happiness. I don't want you to be unhappy under my roof, not because it affects the estate, but because you should be happy in life. Content, at the very least.” He swallows. “I'm sorry that I haven't been made that a reality for you.”

You press your lips together for a moment, eyes straying to the candle flickering in the corner. “Your Grace, what made you think I was unhappy?”

He blinks. What was it, really? Just a feeling, like he told Soobin, a thin gray cloud hovering over the estate growing darker by the day... “I'm not sure”, he says truthfully. “It was... a feeling. Just a sort of... not discomfort, really, but when I was home, it felt like something was amiss. Like a cloud was hovering over the estate. It...” He takes a deep breath. “It seemed darkest around you.”

You don't reply.

“Beomgyu—when I spoke to him—he said it might be that you felt lonely.” Shame wells in Yeonjun's chest. “He explained it—and it felt so obvious when he did, but at the same time I didn't know then what I could do to help with it—”

You look at him again, and for some reason, he stops talking.

Sighing, you look over at the desk where your notebook lies. Then you look back at him. “Beomgyu is perceptive,” you say quietly, echoing his previous words, and Yeonjun has to stop himself from flinching like your words were a rebuke. “I have been lonely. Very. I have only ever had my family for so long, and I haven't been back in society for enough time to make lasting friendships, so now that Sakura is living with her family and my mother has found new friends in your mother and her companions, and with you busy much of the time...” You turn away, but not before Yeonjun sees the flash of bitterness in your eyes. It feels like he's been stabbed in the chest, made even more painful by the fact that he knows it’s the truth. “It has... it has very much felt like I was alone.”

“I'm sorry.” The apology comes out as a whisper, weak, but Yeonjun hopes you can hear that he really means it. “I'm sorry I haven't been here for you.”

“It's not... not entirely your fault.” You sigh. “I suppose I just didn't completely understand what you meant by a marriage of convenience. I expected that we would still spend time together, as we did when we were courting, but I guess... I just didn't see your side.”

Yeonjun takes a break from smacking himself internally to reply. “It was a reasonable expectation,” he says, guilty shame curling towards his ears. “I suppose I had grown too used to the way I had run the estate for some time—working alone, doing the tasks that I was assigned as my mother did hers. I didn't... I didn't take into account that you are not my mother.” His cheeks feel hot. Maybe he's about to cry. “I'm sorry.”

For a moment, you say nothing. “Can I ask you something, Your Grace?”

He nods quickly. “Anything.”

“On our wedding night... when you said you would do nothing.” One hand leaves the paper in your lap, moves to curl into the bedsheets. “Was it truly because you thought I'd be uncomfortable? Or was I not... enough? For even that?”

Yeonjun gapes. “I—what?”

You look at him steadily, though embarrassment seems to be making its way into your expression too. “I know that you said you are not looking for love in this relationship, Your Grace. But even then, I had assumed that you would want children. As any man would.” Your shoulders seem to tense. “But when you said that... though I wanted to believe it, and truth be told, I was probably a little relieved—I do not think I was ready then—it still felt... like a slight, of some sort.” You swallow. “Like you would not want to have children with me, your wife. And as we did not speak for long periods of time, it felt as though... maybe, you did not see me necessarily as a woman. As your wife.”

Oh, God. Yeonjun's head is spinning. He had only meant—he'd only meant that as a gesture to you—you seemed hesitant about a lot of things, his proposal, the marriage, he only didn't want you to feel pressured—how could things have been misinterpreted this way, how could he have let you misinterpret them that way—

But it's reasonable, a voice says in the back of his mind. With the way society treats women, with the way he treated you, with the way he basically ignored you outside of business and work... it's no wonder that that was what you might have thought.

“I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.” Yeonjun fights the urge to bury his face in his hands, instead forcing himself to look you straight in the eye. You extended him the courtesy of being honest. He has to meet your gaze for this, too. “I never—I never meant for that to be the case. I truly meant what I said, Y/N—Your Grace—I just didn't want you to feel pressured. I just—” He takes a deep breath. “You had seemed somewhat reserved about both my proposal and our marriage. I thought that you would feel somewhat similar about our sharing a bed for the first time. Please, believe me in that—it wasn't because you weren't enough.” The image of you in that light nightgown, standing silent and beautiful by the bed flashes through his mind and he shoves it away. Not the time. “I—if you knew how much it took for me not to do anything that night—” Oh God, he's gone too far. He winces, fingers twisting together even more tightly. “I've said too much, haven't I.”

“I—no, Your Grace.” You swallow hard, looking at least as uncomfortable with the situation as he feels. “I'm terribly sorry. I misinterpreted your actions—it wasn't fair for me to believe that of you. I've known you were a kind man since we started courting. It shouldn't have been—it shouldn't have been my first instinct to think that.”

“But in light of my actions, it was understandable,” Yeonjun says.

To that, you don't reply. The silence tells him everything he needs to know.

Taking a deep breath, Yeonjun looks at you once more. “Do you... do you want to?” he asks, cheeks burning. “Do you still—”

Your shoulders tense. Then, with what looks like some difficulty, they loosen. “No, Your Grace.” You swallow hard, meeting his eyes. “I'm sorry. I still don't think I'm... comfortable, with the situation. With the expectations. I'm sorry.” It looks like tears are brimming in your eyes again, and it's all Yeonjun can do to keep himself from wiping them away. He doesn't deserve to give you that comfort. “I'm sorry for making such a matter out of this and telling you now that I still don't want it...”

“It is your body, and it is your mind.” Yeonjun states this as steadily as he can. “You can tell me if you are ready whenever you are. And even if you never are, well—again, it is you. You decide what you want to do for yourself.” He tries to smile. “So do not apologize for knowing what you want to do with yourself, Your Grace. I will respect that, always.”

You sigh, small, soft, but it feels like some of the remaining tension has seeped from your shoulders. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You're... welcome.” The words come out stilted—it's not like you need to thank him for anything. This is the most basic tenet of decency. There's nothing he deserves thanks for. He feels strange accepting your gratitude, even if you offered it.

Silence falls. The candle continues to burn. Yeonjun takes a little comfort in it, in this little glow of light in the dark even as it keeps waxing lower. Your face looks ghostly in its light, shining with the remnants of tears on your cheeks.

“I'm truly sorry,” he finally whispers. “For everything.”

“Don't be. It's not entirely your fault.” Your voice comes out resigned, exhausted, and Yeonjun hates it. “It's partially mine, for not being honest with myself. I thought—I thought this would be enough. As you said when we were courting, I was in a tricky financial situation. My main goal was to marry for wealth, to secure a living for my mother. My family. Anything beyond money would have been a plus.” You sigh. “But... I told you that my parents were a love match.”

He nods.

“You know my mother wanted a love match for me, too. That she believes us to be in love.” Another sigh. “I told myself I would be satisfied without love, that to have a husband with both wealth and a pleasant demeanor would be more than enough. I suppose I underestimated myself.” Your fingers grip the edges of the paper, crumpling them. “I underestimated how much I wanted to experience the sort of love my parents had for myself.”

Yeonjun's eyes close, involuntarily. He—he ruined so much for you. He sought you out immediately without concern for you, taking it at face value when you said you wanted the same things as he, essentially forcing you into this—

“Do you regret marrying me?” he asks, almost not daring to hear your reply.

For a long moment, you stay silent. Then you open your mouth. “That is a question whose answer changes,” you say quietly. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I do not. I don't have a single answer. But...” You take a deep breath. “Your Grace, do you want me to be honest?”

Something tells him that the honesty will only hurt him more, but he needs to hear it. He has to.

He nods.

“On the day of our wedding, I realized I did not want to marry you.” The words fall from your lips, quiet and crystal clear in the silence, each one a knife to Yeonjun's heart. “I had—deluded myself, until that point, that everything would be fine. That, again, I did not care for a love match as much as my mother did. But as I stood there at the end of the altar, I realized how much I really did want it.” You sigh. “By then, it was already too late.”

Yeonjun tries to breathe. This is so much worse than he thought—with everything else, he even took away your chance at a love match, at true love, just because he thought you would be a perfect duchess—he knew as he courted you that there could only be the slightest, infinitesimally small chance you would refuse him, and he had taken pride in that as he continued—

He swallows. “Would you... would you like a divorce?” he asks, even though he has to drag every word out of his mouth.

One beat of silence. Then two. You look at him, expression unchanging save for a single raised eyebrow. “Your Grace,” you say, sarcasm heavily tingeing every single word, “think about what you said, and tell me exactly what you think a divorce would accomplish for me.”

His cheeks burn. Yes, of course, he's an idiot. Stupid. There's almost no chance you would find love after divorcing a duke, much less marrying the one you love—he's an idiot. “You're right,” he says with a sigh. “I'm sorry for mentioning it.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” At that, your lips curve into a little half smile, but there's no amusement behind it. “But, Your Grace—”

He looks at you.

“Please don't feel too guilty about... this.” You take a deep breath. He hears the air shudder out of your lips. “I entered this marriage willingly. I accepted your proposal and said I do at the altar. It is at least partially my fault for not knowing myself. For not being truthful with myself.”

“Even then,” Yeonjun says, then stops. His chest feels too tight to speak. “Even then,” he repeats once the feeling has faded, “I'm still sorry.”

Another silence settles heavy in the room. Yeonjun looks at the candle that has burnt low since the start of this conversation, though it still flickers in the darkness. You've talked so much tonight, spoken of so many things, but still, where is the solution? What can he do? You've done him the honor of being honest, but is there still anything he can do to ease your pain? To give you even a fraction of the happiness you deserve?

“I can't... I can't promise you love,” he finally says. “Not in the way you want it.”

You look at him. Yeonjun holds his breath as you nod once, slowly. “I understand,” you reply, eyes clear with resignation. “I don't expect you to be able to.”

“It's not that you are unlovable!” His voice rises, a little sharp, and you jerk back in surprise. His cheeks flush—he hadn’t meant for that to be so loud. “It's not that you are not worthy of love or undeserving,” he says, more quietly this time. “It's just—I don't know love. I don't know how it works, even if... even if my parents were also a love match.” He swallows. “The future... it's uncertain. I don't want to promise you anything I can't be sure to deliver.”

Your eyes flicker down to the paper still resting on your lap, then back up to him. “I understand,” you repeat, softer this time. Something a little gentler sparkles quietly in your gaze. “I do, Yeonjun.”

He blinks. It's the first time all night that you've called him by his name instead of Your Grace.

It sounds nice, coming from your voice. Maybe he'd like you to call him that more often.

He pushes the thought away. That's not the point. “But I can—what I can promise is to try and be more present.” Maybe you could start with talking to her. Actually getting to know her beyond the pithy conversations you shared at the balls and promenades, Beomgyu had said. “When we move to the country home, I won't be away so often. We'll still have our duties there, but I won't have to be in town all the time. I can—we can—we can spend more time together, if you'd like. Just—try to start over, maybe. As friends.” Yeonjun swallows. It's scary to look at you, to see your response to his words, but he forces himself to anyway. “Do you think we could do that? As friends?”

“Friends,” you echo, gaze faraway. For a moment you say nothing, leaving Yeonjun to stew with his racing heartbeat. “Friends,” you say again, more to yourself than him this time. Your eyes shift up to meet his, and to his relief, a little half smile decorates your lips once more, not completely devoid of happiness like the last. “I think I'd like that.”

Pure relief bursts full in his chest, bright and warm and strong enough that tears nearly start to prick at his eyes. “All right,” he whispers. If he spoke any louder his words would crack. “I'm glad.”

“Thank you.” Your eyes have begun to shine—with tears or happiness or a mix of the two, Yeonjun isn't sure, but it's infinitely better than the lonely depression he'd seen earlier. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Don't thank me.” On instinct, he reaches out to the fingers that were curled in the bedsheets and places his hand over them gingerly, gently, so that you have very chance to pull away if you want. You let him keep them there, though. It eases his heartbeat. “You deserve happiness, Y/N.”

Your eyes sparkle into his.

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “This is only what I should've done for you from the start.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer that this talk actually does something for the two of them. it better.)

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devilstruly · 2 years

Text

lights, camera, action!

iwaizumi hajime x female reader

platonic relationships with oikawa, hanamaki and matsukawa

to sum it up: you dress different than usual and go out with seijoh 4. they end up hyping you up to take pictures for your instagram feed

_______________________________

'Goodness this is so embarrassingggggggg!'

You whined, shoving your head in your hands while standing in front of the boys. Oikawa gave you an encouraging smile from where he stood - a few feet away from you with your phone in his hand.

'Nonsense Y/N-chan, you're doing great!'

Matsukawa and Hanamaki claimed that you were hot for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes and at this point you were blushing from all the attention and compliments directed towards you. You were never the best at posing for pictures and you never really had the urge to take a hundred of them just because you thought you looked somewhat good for once.

You went shopping a few days ago, desperately needing new clothes for summer. Even though you prefered stealing Oikawa's comfy clothes more than being in your own, you wanted to posses some nice articles of clothing for when you go out. When seijoh 4 picked you up a few minutes prior, you were very self conscious about how they're going to react. Oikawa grinned widely and hugged you, all the while praising your outfit and look overall. Matsukawa let out a loud whistle - and you hate to admit it but it made you blush - and Makki whooped beside him with a wink. The one person you were actually the most worried about however, was the only one avoiding your eyes. Iwaizumi mumbled something along the lines of 'You look nice' before taking large strides in front of the four of you. It honestly stung a little, not really the kind of reaction you would want from your crush. But of course, before you even had a chance to sulk about it Oikawa slung an arm around your shoulders and rolled his eyes at the man in front.

'Don't worry about Iwa-chan he's just flustered by how good you look'

'I don't know-'

'Oh come on did you not see him blushing?! My god you're both so dense'

'Yeah what he said'

'Guys for the last time - Iwa-chan doesn't like me!'

'Bullshit'

The three of them replied in unison making you let out a heavy sigh before biting on the inside of your cheek. 'Listen even if he did he's not showing it in any way so why should I bother?' You sighed again, leaning against Oikawa for support while he rubbed your arm. 'Because since you're both so oblivious you're practically made for each other!' Makki flailed his arms around to emphasize his annoyance as Matsukawa backed him up.

This has been a reoccurring discussion with the three of them. Not too long ago you noticed that Iwaizumi has been a bit weird around you, but you decided not to take it to heart since he had trouble with expressing his emotions. Oikawa had tried to convince you it's because Iwa-chan has recently had an epiphany about the feelings he harbored towards you. You laughed in Oikawa’s face when he said that and he sighed exasperatedly, expecting this reaction. You had great respect for the ace of Aoba Johsai. He may appear cold and aggressive but you knew that he was just a pure kind soul under all that scary exterior. You noticed the little things he did. How he'd always have a protein bar in his bag because he knew Oikawa forgets to eat before school and sometimes even during. You noticed how he treated the younger members on the team - like he was their big brother, always offering advice and pushing them to be the best versions of themselves. Not to mention he was also incredibly kind towards you as well. You lost count of how many times he gave you his jacket when you estimated the weather wrong that day, not wanting to carry around a coat if it's going to be too hot. Iwaizumi also helped you study for your exams because he knew that you work better when someone pushes you to do it. You teased him a lot though, much to his dismay. The first time you called him Iwa-chan he absolutely wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He thought that was the most embarrassing thing you could call him, he thought the same in Oikawa's case except the brunette has been doing it since they were four so he's pretty used to it now. You on the other hand thought it was the cutest thing ever and adored the nickname (and the barely noticeable blush on Iwaizumi's cheeks whenever you used it).

Not gonna lie, Iwaizumi was suspicious of you the first time he met you. You were very close with Oikawa which is never good but he wanted to give you a chance in case you're the complete opposite of his setter. Spoiler alert - you were not. Oikawa rubbed off on you easily and you picked up some of his habits subconsciously during your friendship. Unfortunately for Iwaizumi, there was just something about you that kept pulling him towards you. He tried resisting at first but you were friendly to him and his teammates and thankfully were not one of Oikawa's fangirls. So he slowly let you in - and caught feelings along the way. This was brought to him by his fellow third years about a month ago when they confronted him one day after practice. Naturally he tried denying at first because he wasn't sure what exactly he was feeling himself. However after Oikawa - very eagerly - explained to him how crushes work, he realized that he might actually have a crush on you. And that thought was proven true when he saw you in your newest outfit. He only ever saw you wear baggy clothes so even at the slightest bit of your curves showing he couldn't control neither his blush nor the not so wholesome thoughts he was having.

He was trying to bring his heart rate back to normal while walking a few feet ahead only to hear Oikawa's oh so cheerful voice behind him.

'This is the perfect place to take pictures! YN-chan give me your phone'

'Pictures? Absolutely not. I am not photogenic at all'

'Oh shut up and go stand over there'

Oikawa pushed you in front of them while opening the camera on your phone and taking a few selfies before flipping it. You shifted awkwardly and looked at Oikawa with pleading eyes but he pretend not to notice. Hanamaki and Matsukawa acted as the ultimate hype men even though it was obvious you had no idea what you were doing. After a few failed attempts Oikawa groaned and rubbed his temples in frustration.

'Y/N-chan why are you so awkward! I didn't get any good pics at all!'

'I told you I'm not photogenic dumbass!'

'That's not it it's just that-'

'You're doing it wrong'

The four of you looked at Iwaizumi when he suddenly spoke up before taking the phone from Oikawa despite the setter’s protests. He scrolled through the pictures Oikawa took, scoffing and giving him a glare before pointing the camera towards you. Your eyes widened the tiniest bit and you blushed ever so slightly. Iwa looked very focused on your phone while the only thing you could focus on was the loud thumping of your heart. 'Move your legs further apart. Not too far' You did what he told you to and received a small nod from him, his eyes never leaving your phone. 'Now put one hand in your pocket and run the other one through your hair' You did that too and and you swore there was a small smirk tugging at his lips but even if there was one he was quick to hide it. 'Alright now try not to focus so much on us and the camera. Try to relax and look away if it helps' You made eye contact with the other three who were smiling knowingly at you, making you blush a little bit more. 'Damn Y/N you could be a model' Matsukawa commented making you laugh in response, giving Iwaizumi the perfect opportunity to snap a picture. He showed you the result and you needed a few seconds to process that it was actually you in the picture. He smirked at you and asked if you wanted to take more. You agreed and he kept giving you advice on your poses while cracking a few jokes here and there to capture your smile.

You ended up with a few quite nice pictures and gave Iwa a big hug to thank him for his help. His arms wrapped around you as he chuckled claiming it was nothing. The sweet moment was of course interrupted by the obnoxious Oikawa pulling you away from Iwa and motioning for you to walk. 'Come on lovebirds we have a movie to catch' He rolled his eyes but you didn't miss the small smile he was trying to hide. You smacked his arm and took a step forward only to feel a hand grip your wrist gently. Cautiously, Iwa slipped his hand in yours, not daring to look at you, but you did see how the back of his neck reddened when you intertwined your fingers with his as you two walked behind the trio.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x you #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi fluff #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi imagine #hq iwaizumi

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whinlatter · 1 year

Note

She IS a writer.

Have a pear. 🍐

Firstly THANK YOU, she is trying to be 🥲

🍐 Is there anything in canon that you absolutely hate and love to fix in fics? A wrong choice made, a fuck-up in characterization, a misunderstanding never cleared up, a conversation never shown onscreen, etc…

Like a lot of readers and authors, I definitely like to write and read work that reconsiders which moments in characters’ lives were most formative emotionally, particularly ones that, in canon, are mentioned either as asides or barely relevant to the central plot. Harry as a limited narrator doesn’t always see other characters, especially the adults around him, that clearly. I think this the sort of work that really great Marauders fanfiction can do so beautifully: seeing flawed adult characters and working backwards to trace the emotional contours of their life that fashioned them into the imperfect articles we see in canon. I think it’s so exciting to go back and play around with that!

My fic idea notes are often along these lines. Like, Arthur Weasley was violently attacked in a near fatal attack in OotP and… no one ever mentions it again. Like, how was Arthur doing after that? Did it change his attitude to fatherhood? Does he think about it every Christmas? Or — in the war, Dean Thomas and Hermione are both persecuted as muggleborns, but Dean is a young Black boy likely from East London in the mid-nineties, and Hermione - even if we take her race as canonically undefined - seems to be the daughter of affluent dentists either from London or the Home Counties who goes skiing. How might those two characters, Dean especially, think about the vast differences them in the Muggle world while being placed in the same category as equals in the Wizarding World?

The other big one is the place of politics in the Wizarding World, and particularly the politics of resistance. The big one I’m desperate to try and sort out and write about, somehow, is how the Weasley family came to be and managed their status as a family of the resistance. It’s played down so much in canon, because the family first get introduced as Harry’s best friend’s family to provide a source of warmth and love for a young boy without one, and later seem to end up at the heart of the Order accidentally, almost through Harry. But it’s clear from so many throwaway details - the deaths of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, the divergence in the Black/Weasley/Prewett family trees, and the way Molly and Arthur willingly move their children to Grimmauld in OotP and later establish Order headquarters in their family home, that this is a family for whom resistance is a birthright. Molly frets about her children’s safety, but she also is committed to the cause, undertakes Order missions in her own right, and eventually duels Bellatrix Lestrange and wins. Bill transfers to London from his job in Egypt to be more active in the Order; Charlie recruits foreign fighters from abroad. From generation to generation, the family are openly political, subversive and actively resist both the influence of dark magic but also - and especially - aspects of the state and society entrenched in inequality and blood purity. I’ve been thinking about a lot about the Weasleys, and about political causes and fights that span generations, like Catholic Republican families in twentieth century Ireland, for instance. I’m itching to try to develop this theme in something, either through the Ginny character study I’m writing, or in its own one shot, and put politics at the centre of the family. (The Percy fight looks even juicier in this light, no?) It’s why I love ce ne sont que des cailloux by @pebblysand so much, for the ways it takes up this question to look at the Delacours and speculates about their generational history of resistance, including during the Occupation.

That said - the quick boring answer really should just be I will read every James Potter redemption fic I can get my hands on, and keep trying to have a go at writing one. Canon does the man extremely dirty! James was a character beloved by all-round canonical goodies, and he deserves fics that attend both to his clear good traits and his growing-up arc from teenager to young man, both of which are erased in canon. So justice for James 4 ever 💘

(ask me anything!)

#ask #this was a very fun question ty ty #i always want more politics and more james potter basically

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artsysurvivor · 11 months

Text

Just some head-canons and a mini story about a variation of the trans!Halt AU. (Day 27, Struggle)

TW for transphobia, implied abuse, and gender dysphoria.

Ferris, until around 9 years old, was accepting of Halt, but he was also annoyed because he kept stealing his clothes. Their parents however did not accept this and taught them that the feelings of Halt being a boy were invalid, and to not be tempted by the Devil.

So for many years, Halt shoved down his feelings about being the future Queen. (Whenever it was said, there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind, shushed over and over again).

When he got older, and started experiencing puberty, the thoughts became louder. As his breasts started to develop, he had to wear a corset. He hated it, because it emphasized his hips, and cupped his breasts. The corsets had one positive though - they stopped them from jiggling, which felt immensely dysphoric.

This is also part of the reason why he refused a servant's help beyond tying the corset, and when in his pajamas, he would wear bandages around his chest.

Another point of dysphoria for him was his hair. He had been feeling more dysphoric than normal for around a month. One day, during the evening after his lessons were done with access to scissors, he cut his hair. It had reached to about his hips, but was now the length of Ferris's hair. (While the decision was impulsive, right before cutting it shorter, he had a nagging thought that it would land him in less trouble if he cut it to Ferris's length).

While that may have been true, it sure didn't feel like it.

After a late night of consequence, when he was sure his parents wouldn't see him, he grabbed a cloak and ran outside. His mind was so full, yet so empty at the same time. He was looking for any sort of release, a break from... well, everything.

For years, there was an abandoned cottage in the woods, spider webs forming on the corners, vines beginning to wind up the sides. If he was alert, he would've noticed that those things were gone, the dust on the windows had parted into the wind.

He did notice, after trying the knob, that the door was locked.

A sharp, frustrated sigh escaped his lips, a slight growl along with it. He turned around, only to be met with a shadowy figure that looked down upon him.

"What are you doing here?" came the deep yet wispy voice.

Halt straightened his back and looked up at the man, keeping his face impassive. "Who's asking?"

"The owner of the cabin," they said.

Halt squinted, recalling the improvements he had saw on the way here. He cursed himself for not being able to connect the dots. "I was exploring the woods," he glanced to where the stranger's saxe knife. "I mean you no harm."

The stranger smirked underneath his cowl as if to say, you wouldn't be able to anyway.

They looked up and studied the sky for a moment. "This isn't a good time to be exploring now is it? There's a lot of criminal activity around at this time."

"I'm aware."

"So...? What is your business, then?"

Halt scoffed. "I could ask you the same thing. Why aren't you in the cabin?"

They studied eachother for a moment. Then, the figure clicked their tongue.

"If I tell you my reasoning, would you tell me yours?"

"No."

"Well, I guess that solves that. But you really should be at home, kid."

Home. His stomach twisted at the thought, his throat turning dry.

The figure tilted their head. "Where are you from?"

Halt put his mouth into a fine line. There was a surprising amount of gentleness from that voice, but he couldn't tell why it turned to that all of a sudden. "I'm not comfortable with sharing that."

The stranger nodded. "Fair enough. Are you comfortable with telling me your name?"

"..."

"No? Well, you can call me Pritchard," Pritchard pulled down his hood, showing his light grey hair and discolored blue eyes. "If you want, I can bring you something to eat."

Halt grunted. "Alright. What is it you want?"

Pritchard looked at him questioningly. Halt stared at him in reply.

"I want to help you—honestly," he said after Halt narrowed his eyes. He sighed. "Well, what do you want, kid?"

If he saw what Pritchard saw, he would see a blank expression, and empty, deep brown eyes. On the inside, however, it was anything but, with many different scenarios running through his head. The thought of home made him feel nauseous; the thought of having to stay here, with a stranger, made him anxious; the thought of himself, what he was, made him confused; the thought of Caitlyn, the thought of Ferris...

The thought of his father.

"Actually, I think..." His voice lowered, making Pritchard lean in a little to hear him. "I think some food would be nice, please, sir."

Oddly, Pritchard seemed relieved.

#artsycan'twrite #ranger gathering 2023 #ra pritchard #halt o'carrick #trans!AU #I've had this in my drafts for awhile actually #dad!Pritchard #not as catchy as Dad!///Halt but oh well #(the slashes are there to hopefully not actually tag it in the wrong place)#also do people even use that tag anymore??? Idk #fanfic

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pebblysand · 1 year

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[SPRING 2023 FIC RECS]

looking for something to read? here are ten fics i think you should read this spring, in no particular order! 💚

CALAMITOUS LOVE AND INSURMOUNTABLE GRIEF by meliebee (HP) (MULTIPLE PAIRINGS) (<20k)

this is a collection of HP one shots. ngl, i don’t really like the format of this. to me, collections of one-shots should exist as a series on AO3, rather than as a multichap, it makes reccing a lot easier. this being said, that’s the only thing i don’t like about this fic. the stories are all written beautifully with an incredibly mesmerising and consistent style. there’s such an understated sense of characterisation in these fics that is just perfection, such a beautiful economy of words that say so much about the worlds this author builds. some stories might resonate with you more than others, but i definitely found them all well worth reading. to me, chapter 5 is an absolute must, with incredible quotes and this sense of loneliness and finding yourself - we know i’m a sucker for fics where harry goes travelling after the war and this one was gorgeous. would recommend if: you're looking for a collection of well-written, different one-shots

VESTIGE by extrinsical (HP) (HARRY/HERMIONE) (AU) (<5k)

i like this fic. i wouldn't say it's an all-time fave and i didn't love the ending, but i do recommend it. the writing - especially the first half - is stellar. it's rather dark (spoiler: Ron dies 💔) but a very decent read! i really liked the structure and the pacing of the initial scenes. would recommend if: you're looking for a short, dark read, and you don't mind harry/hermione as a pairing

DECAY OF YOUR GOLDEN CITY by soapboxblues (HP) (GEN) (CC) (<5k)

this is incredibly sad and beautifully written. a dark take on post-war, with harry slipping into alcoholism. it’s very subtle, very delicate, and one big heartbreak. tagged harmony, though honestly you could read it as gen. some of the lines in this are just heartwrenching and absolutely gorgeous. “there was a time a time she thought about it. two, actually. (…) now she thinks about it all the time - wondering what she was thinking.” it’s the slow and painful breakdown of the trio in this that gets me too. dark but gorge. would recommend if: you're looking for a short, dark read, and you don't mind harry/hermione as a pairing

ALONG THE WAY by elizabeth culmer (edenfalling) (HP) (RON/HERMIONE) (CC) (<10k)

i had read this a long time ago, then i read it again when i was on holiday last february. it's a very interesting take. one of the best character study pieces i've ever read. often, i don't like these types of fics because they tend to veer towards pointless internal musings, but this is refreshingly beautiful. explores hermione's life post-war in a nuanced and adult way. i loved the depiction of her relationship with her parents, and with ron. the ending is a bit bittersweet with adult compromises, but in a very realistic way. would recommend if: you're looking for a realistic take on the post-war world, and on hermione's chracter

THE END CAME AS A COLD SHOCK TO A POCKET FULL OF ROCKS, TO A MOUTH FULL OF WATER by spirantization (HP) (GEN) (AU) (<5k)

this is dark af. set during the "darkest" timeline in cursed child, the one in which they lose the war and everyone dies. it's so dark and tragic and gorgeous. ron and hermione are a couple (ish), though under very different circumstances, and the story is more gen than anything else. it's one of those dystopian AU-s that are rare and that i absolutely adore. the writing is beautiful and perfect, and i very much love this. would recommend if: you're looking for a short, very dark read

AND WHOSE ARMY? by renaissance (HP) (GEN) (AU) (<50k)

this fic centres on anthony goldstein and exists in an au world where harry didn’t defeat voldemort in ‘98. the fic isn’t spotless (nothing ever is) but what i really liked the characterisation of anthony goldstein in this. it's incredibly hard to write characters who don’t necessarily have a “drive” and sort of float through life, and that is something that this author does impeccably well in this. i love the quasi-OC take on the world, and the characterisation work is stellar. would recommend if: you like OCs, outside perspectives on the main plot and what-if AUs

THE FICTION OF REALNESS by @evesaintyves (HP) (REMADORA) (CC) (<5k)

leaving a proper comment on this is still on my neverending to-do list (sorry ^^), but i will highly recommend it nonetheless. the prose in this is absolutely perfect, incredibly poetic and beautiful, and this fic is sort of the ultimate remadora tragedy. i'm not much of a remadora fan and i will admit this read to me almost as original writing because the characters aren't really defined in my head, but all the more kudos to the writer for making them real! i absolutely loved this! would recommend if: you like exquisite prose and are open to remadora

FIVE FEVERS by ariadnes_string (PEAKY BLINDERS) (GEN) (<5k)

this fic is truly unbelievably beautiful. it covers the presence of illness/fevers in the shelbys' lives. there is so much soul and heart in this story, especially now in hindsight with what we know about ruby. part of it isn’t canon anymore (we know their mum didn’t die in childbirth but by suicide) but this is such a gorgeously written story. the characterisation is spot on, not only with tommy, but with all the characters as well. i love (love love) may in this, and tommy “detoxing” from grace. polly is so on point. truly unbelievably good. probably one of my fave PB fics ever. would recommend if: you're looking for an amazing PB character piece

CLEAN DRESSES, BRASS TITS AND THE IMPORTANCE OF A GOOD HAT PIN by voodoochild (PEAKY BLINDERS) (GEN) (<5k)

i've definitely recommended this fic before, but if you're looking for a great PB piece about ada - search no more. the writing in this is so good, so faithful to the language of PB, and the headcanon as spelled out in this now lives in my head rent-free. i would also highly recommend the podfic if you fancy. would recommend if: you're looking for a good ada-centric piece

UNDEFINED by orbythesea (THE GOOD WIFE) (WILLICIA) (GEORGETOWN ERA) (<10K)

this is an oldie. i recently started a TGW rewatch and re-read this (and the whole associated series) and fuck. if you've read this before, trust me, it's even better than in your memory. i realised that there are quotes from this that still live in my head rent-free ('they are not quiet' - helloooo??) ten years after the fact. i remember discussing this with orbythesea as she was writing it, and it's made me slightly nostalgic. this fic is basically the georgetown canon, from alicia's perspective. it's just absolutely gorgeous. would recommend if: you're new to the good wife and want to read a classic, and if you're looking for something georgetown era

#the good wife #harry potter #peaky blinders #fic recs #willicia #romione #harmony #remadora

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olivermorningstar · 6 months

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Hello I am back again with a question for Oliver from ikevamp and Oliver from Ikepri I was thinking Did they with their partner ever experienced something that tested their feelings as couple and that helps them tighten their bond ? 🤔

That is an excellent question actually, hence why it took awhile to answer. No relationship is perfect and rocky moments are to be expected no matter how amazing your partner is, so low points in relationships are to be expected. I'll try to pick apart what I think that would look like for three of the ships under the cut.

Theodorus

I mean, by default Theodorus is a closed off man. He's prickly and it can be difficult to get along with him. Of course, it is definitely worth it as he is deeply loyal, he's smart, he's funny in his own right, but eventually he is going to strike a nerve and he's not too great at this sorry thing. In fact, he can be downright rude in the game.

I think if he managed to actually hurt Oliver, it's going to be very messy and neither one is exactly eager to meet the other at first. It would really require Theodorus really wanting to make things up to Oliver to even meet back up with him to apologize.

It's worth it, he knows that, but dammit, it sucks knowing that you were in the wrong and that you hurt someone you care about. It's not as easy as it is with Vincent, who has known him his whole life and knows that he didn't mean what he said.

It's this bit of communication they would struggle with at first, and it's critical they figure it out if they're to continue as a couple. I think they would manage (if only because the rest of the mansion couldn't handle them both sulking anymore), but oooough is that some ego to work through first.

Faust

Really it's his relationship with Vlad that would make things rocky for them. On a fundamental level Oliver cannot agree with Vlad's ideology. How could it benefit humanity to basically have some immortal overlords to make their decisions for them all because Vlad saw a bad end. All things end - why is this any different? Why should they break free will in order to please this one vampire?

Of course, Faust works for Vlad so this is a problem. While it's clear to see Faust is prickly towards Vlad, on some level he must agree to work with him, whether that be because Vlad granted him this opportunity to keep studying or because in some way he agrees, Oliver does see this as a huge mark against him.

And that's the tricky part of this ship. As self indulgent as it is, it's tough to see how they're going to work through that. I sincerely doubt Oliver is going to change his mind, just as I'm sure Faust isn't going to be changing Oliver's. In that respect, it may actually be a doomed ship!

Sariel

When your guy has a habit of landing himself in the most frightening trouble and vanishes for weeks at time, that is certainly enough to break most folks. I mean, look at Sariel's route, the man runs into a burning building and vanishes for days upon days upon days. That's so terrible for the heart!

In a way, Oliver would berate himself and say that he should expect this and that he needs to be patient and allow Sariel to work, but dammit, he worries. He doesn't want his beloved to put his life on the line like that, but tough, that's Sariel's job. What do you want him to do about it?

Mostly the best way for them to work through this is for Sariel to take time to really be present for Oliver when he's back. He can't reassure him that he's alive when he's vanished as that would put them both in danger, but it's the best way to make sure Oliver's feelings are validated during these tougher periods. Otherwise, Oliver feels like more of an afterthought to the country of Rhodolite. You should have seen the court's reaction when Sariel took a day to tend to Oliver. Many a lord thought they had died that day.

#IkeVamp OC #IkeVamp Oliver #IkeVamp Theo #IkeVamp Faust #IkePri OC #IkePri Sariel #IkePri Oliver #Oliver/Theo #Oliver/Faust #Oliver/Sariel #Thank you for asking!#This was a really good question

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trashexplorer · 1 year

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BLCD Review: Kuroe to Mesu no Sono

Title: Kuroe to Mesu no Sono (クロエと雌の園)

Author/Artist: Chifuyu

Release Date: 2021/11/26

Cast:

Tachibana Shinnosuke x Yamaya Yoshitaka

Masuyama Takeaki

Komatsu Shouhei

Kakiage Haruna

Aikawa Natsuki

Kisui Shio

Shibuya Ayano

Fujisaki Yuuta

Amano Hirosato

Kanze Noriaki

Synopsis: Sonogi, an employee at the host club "Eden," is in the biggest crisis of his life. He's woken up with female parts in addition to his male ones! After hearing that the number one host at the club, Kuroe, with his beautiful face, baritone voice, and relentlessly womanizing nature, went to med school, Sonogi tries confiding to him in private. Not only does Kuroe wildly misunderstand him, he's weirdly intrigued. Even after hearing Sonogi's story, he's still keen to "study" up on what's happening inside Sonogi's pants! A scary-faced, lovable psychopath toys with a vulnerable, shaved, and untouched new "girl" in this gender-bending romance!

Review Proper

You know, for however stupid that initial plot was, Kuroe to Mesu was actually, dare I say, great.

I know. It’s annoying lmao.

On the surface, it’s like something Momose An or Takasaki Bosco would pull, but it’s unnecessarily deep. 😂 It’s like Ouran High but smutty BL. There. I said it. It doesn’t help that Tachi’s execution of Kuroe was very Mamo-chan Tamaki. I can’t say I can fully forgive the stupid futanari plot, but this shit was funny when it was funny and sad when it was sad. The BLCD’s much more dynamic for obvious reasons, but it maintains the same energy throughout both paper and audio, so I recommend reading the manga along.

Anyway, onto the technicalities,

Dang. Welcome back, Papá Tachi. I was initially annoyed with this casting ‘cause y’all know Tachi’s one of my fave bottoms of all time (Ten Count hello???), and I hate that he only ever gets top roles whenever he comes back to the scene. But if y’all know me, I’m also a whore.

MY GOD. IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’VE HEARD CHAOTIC TACHI. I really went from “stop it, Tachi” to “step on me, Tachi” back there lmaooooo. It’s like I forgot that one of my fave BLCDs was Shihaisha no Koi where he tops Hirarin (which you should all listen to if you haven’t ‘cause FUCK). I also put him in the “sounds like a bottom but will top you 100%” and “younger guy that will 100% dubcon you”. HIS NAME IS LITERALLY TACHI YANNO (also look at just how accurate my lists are). 😂 Kuroe’s much more of a sadist kookoo-path than Rasheed who’s much more of an ass who thinks he’s hot shit just ‘cause he’s the prince yanno, so there is a bit of a difference in how Tachi performed them. Though, I am sure movic cast him as Kuroe with said performance in mind. I’ve read the manga before I listened to the BLCD and I did have a different idea of how Kuroe would sound like, but when Tachi hit me with that first “Sonomeroooo” I just fell in love. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA SONOMEROOOO I WILL NEVER GET OVER IT. I might not love Kuroe as a character, but shit, this was such a genius portrayal I can’t.

As for Yamati, I can’t believe it’s been 4 years since I last heard him HAHAHAHA THE FUCK. I remember him performing well in Knocking, but he was just ill-suited to that role that it spazzed me out. Thankfully, he was perfect for Sonomero here and had great chemistry with Tachi. Now that’s how you cast! True to his Hanae Natsuki range, the dang man showcased just how good he could squeak here. And even though I majorly dislike those types of bottoms that kinda tread the line of girl almost losing their minds during sex in hentai, Yamati made it so that I didn’t hate Sonomero in bed too much. Tachi himself has stated that he was very impressed with Yamati performing so well when he hadn’t been around that much. Idk. Maybe you’re born with it, maybe it’s Yamati.

Again, both the manga and BLCD are good buys. In terms of accuracy, though, I’m not sure if censorship is different when it comes to BLCDs, but they had to censor a lot of graphic dialogue in the BLCD and change them into something else. This would’ve been a good Japanese anatomy class (I’m serious) but unfortunately, it becomes more abstract in the BLCD. I did have a few issues with their timing of the bgm (just movic being movic). That scene when the sad piano music played when Sonomero quit and Kurose chases after him— I laughed out loud when it stopped when Kurose went back in to resign then immediately start up again when he came back. Like wtf??? HAHAHAHAHA. But that’s about it. I 100% recommend this if you’re looking for stupid porn with sad plot. I don’t believe I have anything that’s similar in ratio, though, so this might be a first of its kind.

#blcd reviews #blcd 2021 reviews #kuroe to mesu no sono #chifuyu #movic #tachibana shinnosuke #yamaya yoshitaka #masuyama takeaki #komatsu shouhei #kakiage haruna #aikawa natsuki #kisui shio #shibuya ayano #fujisaki yuuta #amano hirosato #kanze noriaki

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lea-heartscxiv · 1 year

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SK8 ~Golden Week: Showing Spain. The big party~ - 05/05/23 (May 5th in Spain ~ Last day) [Part 1/2]

Ainosuke as promised day they celebrated his birthday (Sunday in Spain, during afternoon where in Japan it was May 1st) is showing a bit of Spain to everyone in Golden Week, and this was last day, day 5.

You can read below cut line part 1 of 2 or complete on our Blogger where you can see too extras of Day 5. (From me and @van-yangyin)

Blogger: English | Español

You can read below cut line ↓

Everything written at the end with this * symbol, is Spanish conversation.

Thursday night, Olé family came to visit the guys. José sat down with Ainosuke in front of the campfire to talk about the last full day they would be in Spain.

José: Well, let us schedule tomorrow, you won't regret it.*

Ainosuke: As we talked about that time.... You don't have any bulls available, do you?*

José: No, but if you promise me that will come back to Spain again, we will try to contact a friend of ours, although what you tell me you want to do is very reckless!*

That said, after talking for a while longer, they said goodbye and went to rest, so that they would be fully energized the next day.

Friday, May 5th in Spain. Everyone was with renewed energy, especially after the previous day's off-camera evening. They woke up at 6:30 a.m., got dressed and at 8 a.m. José and the rest arrived to guide and take them to various places.

They arrived at the first stop and first thing they did was to go hiking. Magdalena told them that last time she couldn't show them the nature of her village as she would have liked and today was a good day, since the weather was nice, it was neither hot nor cold.

Reki: Do we have to walk?

Langa: Can't we go skateboarding?

Miya: My legs are sporty, but I don't know if they can stand walking for a long time...

So they walked along and found a small pond.

Miya: It's hot, can I put my feet in it?

Kojiro: But take your...

Miya: Great!

Kojiro: Shoes...

And not being able to do anything else, Kojiro let it be.

Langa took the opportunity to review a bit of Japanese history.

Ainosuke: In year 794 the imperial court founded a new capital Heian-kyo, Langa-kun, do you know what the capital is called nowadays?

Langa: Mmmmh... *shakes his head* I don't remember right now.

Ainosuke: Kyoto. Langa-kun, if you ever need help in your studies, you can ask me.

Reki lay down to look at the clouds while feeling breeze in air.

Reki: Next time I go on a trip I'd like to go to Los Angeles or Canada with Langa.

And Kojiro, Hiromi and Kaoru started talking.

Kaoru: Come on Kojiro, you must admit that that shirt suits you very well, everything that has something of mine on it, is perfect. Even if it's worn by a gorilla and deformed on your body.

Kojiro: Kaoru, saying this doesn't make it any better....

Kaoru: Well, I "proudly" wear the design of the shirt to promote Sia la Luce.

Kojiro: Where we are now, it's not like it's going to do much promotion...

Kaoru: But it's green, I can camouflage myself. And with my pink hair it matches very well.

Kojiro: Santa Madonna.

Hiromi: «Here we go again... They look like a married couple with many years of marriage and they've only been married for a year and a half.... Oka... I miss you...» - thinking.

Kojiro: Oh, wait. Nicola sent me a message.

Kaoru: Nicola...

Hiromi: Kaoru, you seem to be more jealous of Kojiro talking to men than to women...

Magdalena: We should continue on our way.*

And between Magdalena's explanations with Ainosuke and Carla's translation and continuing along the road, they finally arrived where she wanted to take them to second and last place.

Magdalena: I don't know if any of you have a farm where you live or your grandparents have one, but I would like you to have the experience of helping with animals in another country.*

Ainosuke translated what Magdalena told them.

Kaoru: Let me, at Kojiro's grandfather's farm sometimes we had to feed them.

Kojiro: I don't remember it in the same way... It was just me who...

Kaoru: Who begged me to feed them, of course.

He started feeding them.

Kaoru: Shit! I mean... *ahem* It's okay, relax... All right, you just need to relax...

Kaoru: And now that she's relaxed we'll try again. See? I have practice...

Reki on the other hand was helping Albert to spray the plants, who had previously taught him the best way to do it.

Reki: This is fun! Not as much as skateboarding though.... But it's also relaxing.

Inside the house José was teaching Tadashi how to make "Olé's pancakes".

Tadashi: Mr. José, I would like to make a special request. Since you have offered to teach me how to make your pancakes, I would like them to be a special shape...* «Although Ainosuke-sama does not say so, I know he likes Hello Kitty...» - thinking - Could you teach me how to make pancakes in the shape of Hello Kitty?*

José: Hello Kitty? What's that?

Tadashi: Wait, I'll look it up on Internet and show you.

José: Sure! It's that kitty that Pilar likes so much. In the shape of Hello Kitty, that's done. I've made that dessert for my granddaughter so many times.

And when they finished making it, they called everyone to eat.

Carmen: «Jose says that Señorito Ainosuke's secretary has helped him, how good it has turned out.*» - thinking. Señorito: Like Young Master.

Ainosuke: «This was Tadashi's doing.» - thinking.

Hiromi: It looks good!

Ainosuke: Tadashi made it, of course it looks good.

Carmen: Hey, niño! You all are very good in different fields, what else do you know how to do? If you weren't his secretary, we would hire you here in a heartbeat.* Niño: literally translated as kiddo, affectionate way for some older people to call a person younger than themselves.

Tadashi: Nothing special, I just like to serve my master.*

Carmen: You love him very much, don't you? If you get married, you must to invite us to your wedding.*

Tadashi: *ahem* Of course...*

Carmen: Or are you already married?*

Hiromi: «It's as good as the sweets Joe sometimes makes!» - thinking.

After finishing eating, Ainosuke went outside because he also wanted to try what Kaoru did in the barnyard. Although on the way we can see how Reki is finishing his meal while still spraying the plants.... He seems to have taken a liking to it.

And Ainosuke made friends with the rooster right away.

Ainosuke: This is easier than Cherry made it look. Why lie, I'm perfect in everything, and in this I couldn't be less.

Reki went after Ainosuke and just like him, made friends with the rooster the first time. It seems that at the end Kaoru the expert, was the most inexperienced of the three, either that or the hen he addressed was as stubborn as he was.

Then it was Langa's turn, who also wanted to pet one of the hens or roosters in the barnyard. And just like all the others, the rooster let himself be petted the first time. Could it be that rooster is the docile one and they all are heading the same one?

Kojiro obviously didn't want to miss the opportunity, his grandparents had a farm.

Kojiro: My grandmother would like you very much, I'm sure you are punctual in the morning to wake up the day.

And finally it was Miya who also had no problem. Hiromi and Tadashi didn't want to participate. The former because:

Hiromi: I can't go as Shadow right now!

Miya: Why do you want to be Shadow?

Hiromi: Be.. Because... *yelling* Because it gives me courage!

Miya: Well, it didn't cost you anything to yell at me with courage....

As for the second one:

Tadashi: My duty is to protect Ainosuke-sama from any danger. I can't afford to waste my time on that kind of thing.

Once everyone had finished feeding the hens and roosters, it was time for them to rest in their coop. They went to the entrance to go back home and celebrate the night before the next day arrived, when they had to get ready to leave. And this time they drove all the way to the entrance.

~Continue in Part 2~

#sims 4 #Shindo Ainosuke #adam sk8 #sk8 the infinity #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 anime #sk8 sims #神道愛之介誕生祭2023 #Celebrating Ainosuke's Birthday #our sk8 sims #my sk8 sims #van-yangyin #lea-heartscxiv #SK8_TS4LeaVan

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countessviolet · 4 months

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Family on Fire - Ch. 2 - Drunk!Olaf alert

"Y...yes!" Klaus rejoiced as he counted out the 65-point word his play in Scrabble awarded him.

Violet groaned, not bothering to think what her letters could do for her. There was no way she or Sunny could catch up to him now.

"LUPUS. I can't believe it," she muttered. "Count on the guy who read through the dictionary twice to come up with that."

Klaus shrugged, picking up the faux silk bag to collect new tiles, frowning at its light weight.

"Where are..."

Violet grinned mischievously as a light crunch came from their left.

"Sunny!" Klaus gasped. Violet chuckled as her baby sister reluctantly spat out an 'L' and an 'E', a fresh tooth mark smiling back at him.

"Sorry, they tasted like chicken," Sunny babbled.

"Ugh," the young scholar complained as he wiped the tiles clean. "Well, at least it matches the board now."

Violet laughed, helping her brother and sister put the game away.

Saturday evenings were, oddly, calm in Count Olaf's home. Being that the Baudelaires used the day to finish the few chores they couldn't keep up during the week, and cook for that night and Sunday night if they had the time. With Count Olaf and his troupe at play practice or some other strange, often bordering on illegal occurrence the Baudelaires didn't care to know the details about, this left the majority of the day at their disposal. Violet would work on a new invention to make their lives easier, Klaus would study in the library while Sunny looked through recipe books on loan from Justice Strauss's library.

And, guiltily, it granted them a few hours without Count Olaf. The Baudelaires had grown used to Olaf's presence in their lives, and it was fair to admit the siblings had learned a few things, more about human nature than theatre more often than not. Still, it was nice for the Baudelaires to engage in their former hobbies and activities, pretend they were the same children they were before the fire.

It wasn't easy to do such things with Count Olaf lurking about. Sure, the momentary ceasefire didn't make up the other six days of utter chaos they endured, but it was a much-anticipated reprieve the Baudelaires reveled in.

"So you two want to - "

Any further plans the Baudelaires may have had were immediately off the table at the sound of Count Olaf's car screeching to a grating halt in the driveway.

"Uh oh," Sunny babbled.

"Yeah, he's back early," Klaus agreed. It was barely past 10 o'clock, he noticed with a glance at the giant clock in the living room. Yes, that was way too early.

Still, the chorus of Olaf's troupe rang from the sputtering car outside, their toon out of sync and saturated with cheap and probably unpaid for liquor.

"Oh no," Klaus groaned as he and his sisters peeked out the living room window. "They are drunk."

Violet winced as the troupe member of indeterminate gender swayed into the mailbox, the bald man glancing back long enough to grab them by the ankle and drag them up the pathway. Count Olaf lingered by the car, leaning against the hood in a way that meant he was the one who drove them back but should not have been the one to do so.

"Okay," she breathed. "We can do this."

"We've done it before," Klaus shuddered.

"Too many times," Sunny babbled.

"Right," Klaus said as he placed Sunny to her feet. "Sunny, go make as much coffee as you can. And I think there are some sandwiches left in the refrigerator."

"Toppy," Sunny babbled, which meant something along the lines of: "I know what's in my kitchen, thanks."

Violet was already tying up her hair when Klaus joined her in the entryway. They could hear the troupe's caterwauling grow louder the closer they got. Klaus was already poised at the door, ready to let the personified chaos hoard in.

The doorknob shook as the troupe struggled to enter, finding the situation much more humorous than it was.

Klaus took a deep breath, gripping the elaborate door handle with a sweaty palm.

"Ready?"

Violet gulped. "No, but..."

"Yep..." With that, Klaus grabbed the door handle and yanked - just missing the hook-handed man's hook.

"Oh!" he laughed, patting Klaus' hair. "Sorry youuuuu!"

Klaus swatted away the cackling man's hooks and then the other troupe members grazed as they pushed and pet him.

"Great Scott, they're completely inebriated!" Klaus called to his sister as she ran ahead of the troupe, moving some of the more breakable items of Count Olaf's hoard out of their path.

The Baudelaires developed this system early in their arrival. Following the predictable moves of Olaf and the parade of drunks and how those steps intertwined with the placement of the count's things helped them protect said things from damage, not to mention Olaf's misplaced blame the following morning.

"I swear I will have to drain your fortune when I get my hands on it just to replace all the damage you orphans have caused!" he often bellowed the morning after a craze as Violet, Klaus and Sunny, on their hands and knees, picked up and swept away broken glass and porcelain.

"You and your troupe did this!" Klaus groaned for the hundredth time in his and his sisters' defense.

"Besides, you can't charge us since you stole half of this -"

"Zip it!"

Anyway, it was one less chore to do the next morning. And so far, their well-choreographed operation was working brilliantly.

Klaus wiped his brow as he and Violet finished subliminally leading the troupe members to the living room to sober up. There were throw pillows all about the living room as Count Olaf's troupe began to drop left and right, their most vulnerable body parts protected from the corners of dangerous furniture pieces. Sunny was pushing a rickety metal cart with strong coffee and sandwiches of various combinations to them, quickly moving away as the drunks swarmed on the food.

Violet sighed tiredly but nodded with satisfaction. "That went great."

"Surprisingly great," Klaus said, looking around the room before grimacing. "Too great. Where's Olaf?"

Violet tensed as she looked around the foyer for their wayward guardian. Usually not seeking Count Olaf lingering about the first floor, watching their every move, mocking their grief or their inability to complete some of his more obscene chores. But with his troupe here and he very obviously not, certainly something was amiss.

"Sunny, watch them for a minute, okay?"

"Caup!" Sunny scolded, her babble coming out to, "Oh great, thanks!"

Violet and Klaus carefully looked around the foyer and dining room just in case he'd taken a detour or passed out somewhere. Klaus jogged outside to check the car, pausing at the sight of the obscure car's wide-open driver door. All the lights were on as well, the cloudy headlights glaring two orange beams into the neighborhood. The young scholar gulped, looking into the dark night and hoping nothing was out there.

A light yelp nearly made Klaus, figuratively and literally, jump out of his skin. He was back in the foyer in five very long struts.

"Violet what's..." He followed the hand that wasn't clutched over Violet's chest to the staircase where Count

Olaf was curled into a very tight ball, clutching at the ragged staircase fabric as if the weary threads would keep him in place.

"What..."

"I don't know," Violet gasped. "I checked to see if he came through the back door and he was here when I got back."

The siblings dared stepped closer, trying to access Count Olaf's state in the limited stairway light.

"Look," Klaus pointed at Olaf's forehead.

"He's bleeding," Violet observed before turning her frown to Klaus. "We've never had to carry him upstairs

before."

"What's that thing dad used to say?" Klaus mused. "There's a first time for everything?"

Violet chuckled fondly. "I guess this is that first."

Klaus shrugged, rolling up his sleeves to the elbow as he tried to assess how to touch him without...touching...him.

Violet shrugged, very much on the same page with her brother. She tentatively grabbed at Olaf's coat sleeve, testing the cloths' strength.

"Maybe we could - "

Violet never finished that thought. It wouldn't be her who solved the dilemma of getting Count Olaf to bed at all. All ideas froze inside the young inventor's head when Olaf suddenly sprang up and grabbed her wrist, yanking her down hard to his level on the stairs.

"You!" Olaf snarled, his breath so heavy with liquor Violet's began to water, but it was the terror she felt from him suddenly grabbing her that caused them to spill down her cheeks. Despite living in his home for months and having what she thought was every insult, every bit of hate he stored in his body thrown their way, he had never looked at them the way he was now. Like he wanted nothing more than to watch them die.

With his glare resting solely on her, it was like all that rage and hate seeping off him was directed at Violet.

And Violet felt devoured by it.

"You killed him! Why Bea? Why would you..."

His words began to jumble together as exhaustion began to take hold of him. Klaus used the opportunity to unravel Olaf's fingers from Violet's arm and pulled her free.

"You okay?" Klaus inquired as he looked Violet over, gently grazing over where Olaf had grabbed her, the patch of skin was red and warm from his grip.

Violet nodded, daring to look at the mysterious, unconscious man on the stairs.They watched in astonishment as he twitched about, muttering strange words and names neither Baudelaire could quite make out. He began to still a few moments later, but his fingers continued to flex at a space on the stair just above his head.

This time it was Klaus who reached out to test the consciousness of the count. Olaf retaliated once more, but it was a much weaker attempt and mainly consisted of hissing, of all things.

"Just...move," Klaus growled as he pulled on Olaf's arms.

"No," Count Olaf groaned out suddenly, the word leaving his throat sharp and alarmed. "Don't move me! I want to stay with him!"

"Him?" Klaus muttered, looking at the space of stairs Olaf was clutching at. "Stay with who? There's no one here."

"He..." Olaf sputtered off, slipping into unconsciousness as the alcohol finally finished seeping into his bones.

Klaus and Violet looked at each other with concern as Olaf snored unevenly. Neither thought their guardian could conjure anything but bitterness and sarcasm. Unfortunately, they were very wrong.

"Here," Klaus instructed, taking one of Olaf's arms and throwing it over his shoulder. After making sure Olaf was still very unconscious, Violet followed suit, and other than the strange angle the siblings had to walk in to get up the staircase, she and Klaus got Olaf to bed with little trouble. Klaus situated the count on his stomach while Violet pulled off his jacket. She wanted him to be somewhat comfortable but blushed at the idea of taking off his belt - and grimaced at the idea of touching his shoes.

"He's fine," Klaus said, nose wrinkled. "He can undress himself when he wakes up."

Violet nodded, quickly grabbing a glass off his dresser and filling it with water from the connected bathroom as Klaus covered him, checking his breathing once more. He watched how Violet lingered next to him for a moment longer but turned to follow her brother, eyes cast down.

Klaus closed the door after her, sighing tiredly as they went downstairs to join their youngest sister. Sunny was sitting on the edge of the dining room table, the members of Olaf's troupe snoring in the places they passed out in. Sunny had not through and covered each of them with whatever blanket or covering they had.

"Great job," Violet said as she picked her up. Sunny shrugged as she yawned and rubbed her face.

The siblings turned off any light they saw as they dropped the coffee things in the sink to deal with in the morning. They shared a groan at the mention of tomorrow, of the messes and the strange schemes that only got them into trouble.

Klaus turned to comment on the matter to Violet but found her gazing at the darkened door at the end of the hall.

"Bea? Do you he was talking about Mom?" she inquired softly.

Their mother's nickname weighed heavily in the hall, somehow tainted not just from being spoken in the thick, dusty air. Klaus wanted to answer her, wanted to bring up good, loving memories of their mother. But all he could think about was the sheer hate in Count Olaf's voice when he said her name and the bruise forming on Violet's arm. He didn't want to think of what strange way that man wanted to sully his mother's name.

"Don't let him get to you, Vi," Klaus whispered. "He's a lush. Nothing he says makes sense."

Violet shrugged. "It's very specific, don't you think?"

Klaus hummed as he turned on his bedside table. "He knew our parents. We knew that already."

"Hard stuff?" Sunny guessed.

"Yeah," Violet muttered, unsatisfied but too tired to prod the issue much further.

The siblings tucked themselves in and turned the lights out, sparing no further thoughts to the strange man at the end of the hall or the other unanswered questions that seemed to slip further and further into obscurity.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #asoue fic #violet baudelaire #count olaf #klaus baudelaire #sunny baudelaire #family on fire verse

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mar-the-magician · 1 year

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Studying For Entry Exams With A Sweet Fae Friend

I’m alive, I swear I’m alive!!!!! It has been… like, two months since I posted a chapter of Layered Realms. Apologies for that— life decided to kick my ass in every possible way around mid July and things are only just recently settling into place more. But!!!!!!! Now I can actually guarantee at least somewhat regular uploads, because I have a chapter’s worth of buffer! And yes, heheheheh, that does mean I am sitting on an entire chapter that none of you have seen yet 😏

Also, I’m aware that I gained about thirty-odd followers during the period of time that I didn’t post anything about LR, so if you’re reading this thinking “What the fuck is Layered Realms?” Then here’s your explanation! It’s an original story of mine, and here’s where you can get more info about it!

Cw/Tw: Character is depicted kind of spiraling, not really having a panic attack but something along those lines. Other than that, I think we’re good!

Now that all of that is out of the way, I’ll stop talking your ear off and let you get reading! Chapter six, part six of Layered Realms, part five of A Traveler’s Tale.

Studying For Entry Exams With A Sweet Fae Friend

I shoved the books, pamphlets, and articles farther away from me on the table and collapsed my head into my arms. None of this was sticking in my head, and it didn’t make any sense. I was exhausted, my brain was foggy, and I’d been working at this for hours now. These materials all seemed custom-made for people who had grown up knowing about magic, and all they really needed was a light refresher on the basics and to then delve deeper into the more obscure things that would be on the entry exams. I needed much more than a refresher on the basics, I needed an entire mastercourse. There was no way I was going to pass those tests. And then what would happen? I might not get to see Eris or Amir or Hedera ever again, and I would just have this knowledge and these books and materials that I spent way too much money on and time on, and it would all be—

I heard clomping nearby. It sounded like it was right outside my kitchen door.

“What the…” I approached the door and peeked out.

“Eris?!” I swung open the door immediately. Unlike when I’d last seen him in the forest, he had that illusion spell or whatever it was over his legs. Granted, not as bad as a kid with goat or deer or whatever legs standing right out in broad daylight, but they still looked wonky.

“Eris, what are you doing here?” I hissed, dragging him inside. He flashed a silly grin at me.

“I heard Amir and Hedera talking and Hedera was asking him to send you something, but he said you’d probably be stressed with studying so he’d wait. I didn’t want you to be stressed! So I came to find you!”

“How did you even—“ I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Never mind. Does anyone even know where you are??” His face fell.

“Ooh… I should have thought of that, shouldn’t I…” ‘Oh no you made the child sad, you made the child sad you idiot—‘

“I hope I didn’t worry anybody, I don’t want them to be scared for me—“

“It’s okay, buddy, I can text Amir, remember? And he can tell Hedera and anyone else who needs to know. It’s gonna be fine.” I reassured him, ruffling his curls. I walked back into my main living room, motioning him to follow. His eyes widened at the pile of printed materials on my table and I laughed a little.

“Amir was right about that, I am stressed.” I snatched my phone from on top of a book about how commanders influenced history without being found out as magic users (one of the only ones that had made some semblance of sense), went to messages, and scrolled.

‘Just in case no one knows, Eris is with me. he came to cheer me up lol’

‘Ah, excellent. Thank you for telling me Traveler— I had a pretty good guess, but it’s good to know for sure. Now Hedera won’t bite my head off. 😂’

‘😂

does he need to be back by a certain time?’

‘Just don’t keep him too long. I’ll let you know if Hedera says otherwise, though. I can come pick him up and just teleport home with him when you’re done.’

‘sounds like a plan!’

I turned back to Eris.

“Amir knows where you are now, and he says you can stay for a little bit!”

“Yay!” He scrunched up his cheeks till they nearly closed his eyes, and pulled his shoulders right up next to his ears.

“Amir’ll come get you when it’s time to go. Until then, what do you want to do? I can put off studying for a few hours to destress, I suppose…”

Eris widened his eyes almost comically.

“Oh no Traveler! You still gotta study! You have exams in a couple days! I was just hoping I could make the studying itself less stressful…” I sighed.

“Okay then, buddy. How do you plan on doing that?” I sat back down and patted the seat next to me. He scrambled over to be next to me and had a quick look over the books.

“The way Hedera always tells it to me is like this: when you have an overwhelming project or problem, the first thing you gotta do is break it down to ‘manageable chunks.’ Then you just take the chunks one at a time, and you’re done before you know it! It’s like cutting up your food before you eat it!”

“I guess that makes sense…” I sighed. Eris smiled at me.

“And… this is my wisdom, so don’t take it quite as seriously, but if I can make it pretty and fun, I think it makes it feel better even when you’re doing hard things.”

“How would you suggest we do that?”

“First off, Traveler, you should drink water and get yourself a lil’ snack.” He commanded firmly. “Amir always says he can’t focus with an empty stomach.” I rolled my eyes and barely contained a sigh. ‘Does Eris even know what Amir eats?’

“Okay, little man.” He followed me around the kitchen as I assembled a bowl of fruit and yoghurt, ate it, and filled a canteen with ice and water.

“Yay!” He said as we settled back in at the table.

“Now. Do you have cute stickers and writing pads?” He asked with big, shiny eyes.

“Mm— somewhere…” I remembered one of my friends had given me a bunch of cute office and study supplies back when we thought I was actually going to have enough money to go college right away.

“Hang on.” I got up and began rummaging in one of my drawers. Somewhere in here, maybe at the very bottom—

“Here we go!” I tossed the pack of notecards and stickers onto the table in front of us.

“Yay!” Eris clapped his hands and and eagerly attacked the plastic shrink-wrap.

“These are cute! Okay, now try breaking this problem into chunks?” He looked over the whole stack of materials and singled out the example problems sheets.

“This seems like it’d be important. Is it actually the way that the tests are gonna be?”

“As far as I can tell.” I shrugged. He nodded.

“Okay. Maybe make a list of what’s asked in these questions?” My eyes widened.

“Oh my word, how did I not think of that?” He giggled.

“Sometimes a fresh mind and a fresh pair of eyes are all you need!”

“I’ll say!” I grabbed a gel pen and a lined notepad with rainbow bubbles on it to start making that list. Eris laid a gentle hand on my arm.

“I… I think you should read through all the problems first, then go back to the beginning and start writing things down.” I gave him a grateful smile.

“You’re a lifesaver, in more ways than one.”

“It’s no problem, really! I like to help!” He smiled so big that his eyes closed.

The problems were just as confusing before, but I carefully read through every word, taking note of repeated concepts. I made it to about problem seven before I started breathing heavier, thinking once again of just how out of my depth I was, and how hard it would be to pass those exams, and there might be intimidating people there, and I only had a few days left to prepare and—

Eris gently head-butted me, nuzzling into my shoulder.

“Take a drink of water?” His words were muffled in my sleeve. I stared down at him.

“Why?”

“You’re getting all caught up in your fears. Amir says water distracts you from your thoughts and makes you focus on the action of drinking. Maybe it’ll pull you out of your head. Take a drink of water. For me?” My hand shook a little as I reached for the canteen and brought it up to my mouth. I focused on the cold water moving across my tongue, then into my throat, and how the muscles in my neck and throat felt while I swallowed. It was so cold that I could feel as it went down my esophagus and into my stomach. I slowly set the canteen back down. As soon as I did, Eris locked his arms around my opposite shoulder, going under one arm and over the other.

“You can do it,” he whispered. I felt my heart squeeze.

“Thank you, kiddo.”

I managed to make it to problem nineteen before Eris butted me again and motioned toward the canteen. I huffed at my own sensitivity.

“Don’t feel bad about it! I don’t even understand half of these words! It’s definitely hard, and that makes sense. I’m just tryna help with that.”

“I know, but I wish could just— deal with my problems like a normal person.” Eris turned his head up to me with upturned eyebrows and wide eyes. They were hazel at this angle.

“I don’t think there’s any… normal people. Hedera always tells me there’s no wrong way to deal with your problems as long as you’re not hurting anyone.” I made a helpless face.

“I guess— ugh, I guess you’re right.” He just held me tighter.

“You got this.”

Every so many problems, Eris had to remind me to drink or take some breaths. By the fifth correction, I was getting used to it, and the next time I felt overwhelmed, I did it without him asking me. He smiled and nuzzled further into my shoulder.

“How many are there?”

“Forty-five.” I said, a miserable undertone in my voice.

“Hey, you’re gonna be good! Don’t worry! I’m here to be your friend, and you can start on the list as soon you get there. You just wanna read it twice so that you makes sure you don’t miss anything important.”

“I know, little guy. Thank you.” It took us a while, but we finally, finally made it to question forty-five. I already had about five themes and concepts that had stuck out to me because of how often they were repeated, so I put those first at the top of the list.

“1. All human magic users are classified as one race, “commanders”, regardless of affiliation.

2. Humans without natural command who practice manufactured command are called “practitioners” (and that’s what I am)

3. Since I’m gunning for the practitioners’ classes, I’ll mainly need to know about their methods. The main methods are; specific, complex hand movements; drawing diagrams, sigils, transmutation circles, glyphs, and runes; combining reagents as components, sort of like a potion; and the spoken word.

4. All the other types of visual magic are made up of runes, which originate from the demon and fae written languages, as well as drawing from draconic, aquatic (which is apparently mermaid language), and the ‘evocative languages’ of other magical races. The spoken word magic also draws on these resources.

5. Commanders, fae, demons, and other beings with a natural command over a magical force, all draw magic from their own realm. No matter where they currently are, their energy is intertwined with the magic of their own realm, and they channel it through themselves by directing their energy. Practitioners use outside methods of channeling the energy around them. That means whatever realm they’re in, that is what they are drawing magic from.”

I looked down at my handiwork with at least some measure of satisfaction.

“I’d say that covers the most important bits. Now I can try to work on some nuances…” Eris shook his head vigorously.

“You should find where these facts are talked about in your books and articles and stuff and go back over those parts. Highlight them with something pretty! Copy them off onto your notes! Make sure you know all those parts really well! Then you can try to work on some— smaller thingies.” I sighed.

“I guess so…”

“Take a drink of water now— in fact, maybe you should have some sweet drink to celebrate!” I smiled.

“That sounds nice.” He grinned big and pretty at me.

“Hang on, I can make you some tea! Meantimes, maybe work on your five facts. You could give yourself a sticker you like for each one you feel like you really learn!”

“Will do, captain!” I flashed him a grin. The hopeless, emotionally dead feeling in my chest and the pit of my stomach was conspicuously lacking.

“Just don’t burn the kitchen down,” I remembered to caution as I turned back to the books.

“I’m not gonna!” He protested.

“I know how to make tea, Hedera and I pretty much live off it.”

“But do you know how to work a stove?” He fumbled for a second.

“We-ell, no, n-not exactly… but Amir has told me how they work before!”

“I do not trust you not to hurt yourself, my friend—“ I got up and dragged the book I was working on with me to the kitchen, supervising Eris as he very exaggeratedly and slowly, to prove that he knew exactly what he was doing, set my little heat-proof glass kettle on the stove, filled it with water, and started it. Then he pulled from his brown leather satchel at his waist, which I hadn’t even noticed he still had on him, a little pouch of dried leaves.

“Hedera and I grow these as magic practice, so some of them are a little funny sometimes, but these are the nice ones.” He informed me as he got down two mugs for us. He swiveled his head around the kitchen and then asked

“Do you have any cloths that you don’t mind getting a lil’ bit stained?”

“Sure,” I motioned to the cupboard where I kept my rags. “Just pick the most beat-up looking ones.”

He lined the mugs with two raggedy cloths and crushed the leaves into the bottoms of them.

“There we go! Now we can drain the tea leaves out when they’re done steeping.”

“Mmm.” I smiled at him.

“Thank you.” He grinned, silly and sideways.

“You don’t have to thank me, Traveler! I wanted to do it!”

“I know but—“ the water for the tea started boiling. Eris placed a finger over my lips, effectively shutting me up.

“Shhh! Okay, now I gotta take care of this.”

Careful not to touch the hot parts, he took the kettle by the handle and poured the hot water into the mugs.

Once the tea leaf fragments were drained, Eris had somehow managed to turn the bitter leaf water into something delectable with sweetener and cream, and we sat at the table sipping our little “health potions” as I began thinking of them. (Though to be honest, I thought it might actually be a health potion at first— it made me feel that much better.) After he finished his warm drink, Eris got even more cuddly than before, squishing his cheek against me and closing his eyes. Soon enough, I heard his breathing grow more and more slow and even until he was almost snoring softly. He’d fallen asleep with his arms locked around me. I looked down at his calm, peaceful face and smiled, pressing a small kiss to the top of his head. It helped to have him close, breathing a slow, calming rhythm against my side, his warmth almost like a constant reminder to slow down and take it a little easier. Take a breath and a step back if need be. For the first time that day, I actually got into the zone. Time didn’t seem real as I lost myself in the materials, taking pages after pages of notes, marking down and tabling for later the things that didn’t make sense at first so as not to lose my rhythm.

It was quite the shock when I finally set down my pen and looked at the time. And looking out the window I saw that it was already getting dark. Careful not to wake Eris, I reached over half the table with my ink-covered dominant hand and grabbed my phone.

‘Eris is asleep— think it’s about time to come get him?’

It took a few minutes to get a response. As I waited I gently stroked Eris’ hair and stared pensively out the window, and then a notification with Amir’s nickname popped up on my locked screen again.

‘I think so

Hedera would probably prefer him back before the sun goes down completely’

‘Seems reasonable’

‘I’ll just teleport to you, if that’s alright— address?’

I sent him my address.

I gently shook Eris’ shoulder to wake him.

“Amir’s gonna be here soon to take you home, buddy…” he blinked hazily and continued clinging to my arm as I stood up.

“Mm, okay…” I grabbed my phone and half-led, half-dragged Eris through my kitchen. Whipping out the phone, I texted

‘I’ll just come out to the front with him’ to Amir and opened the door to find him standing there. Despite the recent less-than-autumnal weather, he was wearing a pair of black leggings and a warm maroon sweater that had glittery strands woven into the rest of the fabric, a heart cutout, and sleeves that billowed out before being sharply cut off by a wrist cuff of fabric. He tapped his ankle-length boot.

“Well, aren’t you going to come out to the front?” I rolled my eyes.

“Front, I’m gay.” I said in a monotone. He golf-clapped at me. Smug bastard.

“Very good, very good.” He held out his arms for the still half-asleep Eris, and his whole snarky demeanor changed. He leaned down and cocked his head.

“Hey buddy… you ready to go home? Did you have a nice time with our Traveler?” Eris nodded drowsily.

“They did so good… I think I helped a lil’ bit…”

“You helped bunches, kiddo.” I reassured him, awkwardly snaking my arm out from his grip and allowing Amir to wrap his arms around him and hold him close. He looked so peaceful, cheek squished and hands nestled against Amir’s side.

“You’re a lifesaver.” I whispered to him.

“Get much done?” Amir smiled at us both. I laughed softly.

“I think I absorbed more actual knowledge in the time he was here than I did in the whole day and half I tried to study before.”

“He took a looooong nap, huh?” He said, looking at how out-of-it Eris was. I nodded, smiling at him.

“Almost three hours.”

“He’s really taken a liking to you,” he slid an arm under Eris’ legs, which looked significantly less human than they had when he arrived. I waved.

“Bye, little friend!”

“Eris, oh Eris… your glamour could use some work,” he clicked his tongue.

“So that’s what his illusion spell is called!”

“Mhm,” Amir nodded, seeming distracted. He drew a circle in the ground with his toe, like he was planning something out— then he nodded and a low, nasal hum emanated from him. It felt like a solid something passed through me, and I cocked my head at Amir.

“What was that?” Amir winked at me.

“Demons are oft purported to be uncannily good at warding. I just warded this whole area— after all, if you’re going to be learning magic, you may have a mishap or two, and it would be awful if a neighbor were to hear of it or see it.”

“I haven’t even gotten in yet…” I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Oh, but you will~!” He and Eris disappeared, the dim light revealing a small spark left in their wake. I watched as it dissipated with the last of the day’s sun. The sunsets were coming earlier and earlier these days. Finally, I went back inside and closed my door. I still had work to do.

…Apologies for the lore dump… anyway…

I’m not gonna lie, I had some trouble with this one! Big shoutout to BFF for helping me figure out what felt so wrong about the writing at first and thus leading me to fix it! Also she wants me to remind all of you that she has laid a claim on all of the LR characters and they are all hers! 😂

Thank you very much for reading! Next upload will be exactly one week from now! And I can actually guarantee that this time! 😅

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the-realms-master · 1 year

Text

Studying For Entry Exams With A Sweet Fae Friend

My Original Story— What’s Going On?!

Hi, I’m Mar! Nice to meet you all! If you’re reading this, it’s probably because of my recent Layered Realms post. You’re here for an explan

TUMBLR

Cw/Tw: Character is depicted kind of spiraling, not really having a panic attack but something along those lines. Other than that, I think we’re good!

Now that all of that is out of the way, I’ll stop talking your ear off and let you get reading! Chapter six, part six of Layered Realms, part five of A Traveler’s Tale.

Studying For Entry Exams With A Sweet Fae Friend

I heard clomping nearby. It sounded like it was right outside my kitchen door.

“What the…” I approached the door and peeked out.

“Eris, what are you doing here?” I hissed, dragging him inside. He flashed a silly grin at me.

“How did you even—“ I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Never mind. Does anyone even know where you are??” His face fell.

“Ooh… I should have thought of that, shouldn’t I…” ‘Oh no you made the child sad, you made the child sad you idiot—‘

“I hope I didn’t worry anybody, I don’t want them to be scared for me—“

‘Just in case no one knows, Eris is with me. he came to cheer me up lol’

‘Ah, excellent. Thank you for telling me Traveler— I had a pretty good guess, but it’s good to know for sure. Now Hedera won’t bite my head off. 😂’

‘😂

does he need to be back by a certain time?’

‘Just don’t keep him too long. I’ll let you know if Hedera says otherwise, though. I can come pick him up and just teleport home with him when you’re done.’

‘sounds like a plan!’

I turned back to Eris.

“Amir knows where you are now, and he says you can stay for a little bit!”

“Yay!” He scrunched up his cheeks till they nearly closed his eyes, and pulled his shoulders right up next to his ears.

“Amir’ll come get you when it’s time to go. Until then, what do you want to do? I can put off studying for a few hours to destress, I suppose…”

Eris widened his eyes almost comically.

“Oh no Traveler! You still gotta study! You have exams in a couple days! I was just hoping I could make the studying itself less stressful…” I sighed.

“Okay then, buddy. How do you plan on doing that?” I sat back down and patted the seat next to me. He scrambled over to be next to me and had a quick look over the books.

“I guess that makes sense…” I sighed. Eris smiled at me.

“And… this is my wisdom, so don’t take it quite as seriously, but if I can make it pretty and fun, I think it makes it feel better even when you’re doing hard things.”

“How would you suggest we do that?”

“Okay, little man.” He followed me around the kitchen as I assembled a bowl of fruit and yoghurt, ate it, and filled a canteen with ice and water.

“Yay!” He said as we settled back in at the table.

“Now. Do you have cute stickers and writing pads?” He asked with big, shiny eyes.

“Mm— somewhere…” I remembered one of my friends had given me a bunch of cute office and study supplies back when we thought I was actually going to have enough money to go college right away.

“Hang on.” I got up and began rummaging in one of my drawers. Somewhere in here, maybe at the very bottom—

“Here we go!” I tossed the pack of notecards and stickers onto the table in front of us.

“Yay!” Eris clapped his hands and and eagerly attacked the plastic shrink-wrap.

“These are cute! Okay, now try breaking this problem into chunks?” He looked over the whole stack of materials and singled out the example problems sheets.

“This seems like it’d be important. Is it actually the way that the tests are gonna be?”

“As far as I can tell.” I shrugged. He nodded.

“Okay. Maybe make a list of what’s asked in these questions?” My eyes widened.

“Oh my word, how did I not think of that?” He giggled.

“Sometimes a fresh mind and a fresh pair of eyes are all you need!”

“I’ll say!” I grabbed a gel pen and a lined notepad with rainbow bubbles on it to start making that list. Eris laid a gentle hand on my arm.

“I… I think you should read through all the problems first, then go back to the beginning and start writing things down.” I gave him a grateful smile.

“You’re a lifesaver, in more ways than one.”

“It’s no problem, really! I like to help!” He smiled so big that his eyes closed.

Eris gently head-butted me, nuzzling into my shoulder.

“Take a drink of water?” His words were muffled in my sleeve. I stared down at him.

“Why?”

“You can do it,” he whispered. I felt my heart squeeze.

“Thank you, kiddo.”

I managed to make it to problem nineteen before Eris butted me again and motioned toward the canteen. I huffed at my own sensitivity.

“Don’t feel bad about it! I don’t even understand half of these words! It’s definitely hard, and that makes sense. I’m just tryna help with that.”

“I know, but I wish could just— deal with my problems like a normal person.” Eris turned his head up to me with upturned eyebrows and wide eyes. They were hazel at this angle.

“I don’t think there’s any… normal people. Hedera always tells me there’s no wrong way to deal with your problems as long as you’re not hurting anyone.” I made a helpless face.

“I guess— ugh, I guess you’re right.” He just held me tighter.

“You got this.”

“How many are there?”

“Forty-five.” I said, a miserable undertone in my voice.

“1. All human magic users are classified as one race, “commanders”, regardless of affiliation.

2. Humans without natural command who practice manufactured command are called “practitioners” (and that’s what I am)

I looked down at my handiwork with at least some measure of satisfaction.

“I’d say that covers the most important bits. Now I can try to work on some nuances…” Eris shook his head vigorously.

“I guess so…”

“Take a drink of water now— in fact, maybe you should have some sweet drink to celebrate!” I smiled.

“That sounds nice.” He grinned big and pretty at me.

“Hang on, I can make you some tea! Meantimes, maybe work on your five facts. You could give yourself a sticker you like for each one you feel like you really learn!”

“Will do, captain!” I flashed him a grin. The hopeless, emotionally dead feeling in my chest and the pit of my stomach was conspicuously lacking.

“Just don’t burn the kitchen down,” I remembered to caution as I turned back to the books.

“I’m not gonna!” He protested.

“I know how to make tea, Hedera and I pretty much live off it.”

“But do you know how to work a stove?” He fumbled for a second.

“We-ell, no, n-not exactly… but Amir has told me how they work before!”

“Do you have any cloths that you don’t mind getting a lil’ bit stained?”

“Sure,” I motioned to the cupboard where I kept my rags. “Just pick the most beat-up looking ones.”

He lined the mugs with two raggedy cloths and crushed the leaves into the bottoms of them.

“There we go! Now we can drain the tea leaves out when they’re done steeping.”

“Mmm.” I smiled at him.

“Thank you.” He grinned, silly and sideways.

“You don’t have to thank me, Traveler! I wanted to do it!”

“I know but—“ the water for the tea started boiling. Eris placed a finger over my lips, effectively shutting me up.

“Shhh! Okay, now I gotta take care of this.”

Careful not to touch the hot parts, he took the kettle by the handle and poured the hot water into the mugs.

‘Eris is asleep— think it’s about time to come get him?’

‘I think so

Hedera would probably prefer him back before the sun goes down completely’

‘Seems reasonable’

‘I’ll just teleport to you, if that’s alright— address?’

I sent him my address.

I gently shook Eris’ shoulder to wake him.

“Amir’s gonna be here soon to take you home, buddy…” he blinked hazily and continued clinging to my arm as I stood up.

“Mm, okay…” I grabbed my phone and half-led, half-dragged Eris through my kitchen. Whipping out the phone, I texted

“Well, aren’t you going to come out to the front?” I rolled my eyes.

“Front, I’m gay.” I said in a monotone. He golf-clapped at me. Smug bastard.

“Very good, very good.” He held out his arms for the still half-asleep Eris, and his whole snarky demeanor changed. He leaned down and cocked his head.

“Hey buddy… you ready to go home? Did you have a nice time with our Traveler?” Eris nodded drowsily.

“They did so good… I think I helped a lil’ bit…”

“You’re a lifesaver.” I whispered to him.

“Get much done?” Amir smiled at us both. I laughed softly.

“I think I absorbed more actual knowledge in the time he was here than I did in the whole day and half I tried to study before.”

“He took a looooong nap, huh?” He said, looking at how out-of-it Eris was. I nodded, smiling at him.

“Almost three hours.”

“He’s really taken a liking to you,” he slid an arm under Eris’ legs, which looked significantly less human than they had when he arrived. I waved.

“Bye, little friend!”

“Eris, oh Eris… your glamour could use some work,” he clicked his tongue.

“So that’s what his illusion spell is called!”

“What was that?” Amir winked at me.

“I haven’t even gotten in yet…” I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck.

…Apologies for the lore dump… anyway…

Thank you very much for reading! Next upload will be exactly one week from now! And I can actually guarantee that this time! 😅

#eris and traveler #eris #eris (original character)#layered realms chapter six #layered realms #amir #amir amator (original character)#amir amator #amir (original character)#a traveler's tale #a traveler’s tale chapter five #a traveler’s tale

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