#i am once again reminded how slow i am at drawing

[pyjamaart]

so two days ago i made the observation that bede from pokemon reminded me a lot of timeman. the purple color scheme, the tsundere personality, the always pissed off expression... (and the inferiority complex)

[cuubism]

"What if modern Hob was actually worse?" drabble to go along with the silly little post from earlier

--

“This,” says Dream, looking around the darkened alley with one eyebrow arched, “is a far cry from teacups.”

Hob peers up at him from where he’s systematically checking the life status of the many dead and close-to-dead individuals on the ground. “Did you think that was the only tool in my box? It’s not exactly my weapon of choice.”

“No.” Dream watches placidly as Hob finds one man still living, albeit barely, and deftly snaps his neck. “It seems that would be your hands.”

Hob winks at him. “Maybe so.”

“Is it strictly necessary to kill them all now? You are making quite a lot of work for my sister.”

“They’ve seen you,” Hob says, terse and serious again. He checks another man’s pulse, finds nothing, moves on. “They know who you are, what you are. Are clearly willing to do what they want with that. I’m not going to let someone take you again, Dream.”

Dream leans against the wall. He is still playing the moment over in his mind. The sudden attack on the street, the magical bonds they had tried to wrap around Dream, Hob jumping to his defense before Dream himself could, his quick and vicious counterattack that had reminded Dream vividly of the savagery of some of Hob’s past lives.

The assailants were armed with knives and various magical implements Dream would have to examine later, and Hob had taken all of them out with his bare hands.

“I had not realized your current lifetime was so… physical,” Dream says.

“Right, right. Quiet uni professor, never hurt a fly.” Hob finishes his business with the bodies and crosses back over to him. “You think staying under the radar is so easy nowadays?”

Dream gives him a wry half-smile as Hob stops before him where he’s still leaned against the wall. “I think that there several secret immortals in this world, and not all of them are killing ten people on the street without breaking a sweat.”

He doesn’t quite know what to feel about it. There is something… primal and satisfying about watching Hob draw blood for him. Dream’s own creations hadn’t even waited for him in the Dreaming, but Hob Gadling will kill for him.

“Maybe they’re missing out,” Hob says, a twinkle in his eye. There is a smear of blood on his temple where one of the attackers had caught the surface level of his skin with a blade, but he reaches for Dream’s hand. “Can I see your wrist?”

Dream places his arm in Hob’s hands. His skin, likewise, is marred with a burn where one of the bonds had snared him. It is already fading, and will likely vanish entirely once he returns to the Dreaming.

“Does that hurt?” Hob asks, something tremulous in his voice.

“No.”

“Good.” Hob casts a dark look back over his shoulder at the prone bodies. “I’d kill them all over again.”

“Hob Gadling,” Dream chides, though with no real censure. “Have you learned nothing in your six centuries on this planet?”

Hob steps closer so he’s in Dream’s space properly, almost touching. He meets Dream’s eyes, runs his tongue over his lower lip. “Only a few things.”

“And what things are those?” Dream asks.

“I thought we did the whole, and how are you using your life this time around, Hob? thing already,” Hob says.

“Perhaps I am interested in learning more,” says Dream. He takes his hand back and wipes away a drop of blood trailing down Hob’s temple with his thumb. “Considering it’s being used in service of me.”

“Oh, is it now?”

“Is it not?”

Hob takes Dream’s face between his hands. Dangerous hands, these, and yet Dream wants Hob’s touch all the more. Whatever slow simmering thing has been warming between them since his return has quickened into a proper blaze at the sight of Hob defending him.

Dream thinks perhaps he should be disappointed in Hob. But that is not what he feels.

He sees what will happen next, anticipates their collision the way he imagines Destiny might foresee such things. He sees Hob’s gentle touch, and the wet heat of his mouth. The ferocious love of this dangerous thing he’s had a part in creating.

“Does it bother you?” Hob might ask later. “The violence.”

And Dream might say, “You are speaking to the King of Nightmares, Hob Gadling.”

“It is when you need it to be,” Hob says, and kisses him.

[satocidal]

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ Using Geto Suguru as your personal Chair<3

— a/n: Based on the request here by @illogicallyx (I know it’s not properly what you asked for jaan, but bear with me😭)

— tw: Non-sexual PDA; geto cross dresses (non-sexual) as Rapunzel 💀; mentions of jealousy; swearing (once)

— Masterlist||Taglist Form

A Gentleman. Suguru could be described to be nothing less, the word itself dropping an understatement — to the way he showed his love to you. It wasn’t extravagant in honesty, nor obnoxious—it was for you, purely and entirely. A post on Instagram every two months perhaps, and a hand on your waist as you walked through the crowded streets—that was all but a reminder to people that you were his. But within the carcass of just the two of you? He reminded you that he was yours—in all forms of him existence.

“And you know what she said next?” He hummed, thumbs drawing slow circles on the small of your back as he stared at your face, listening intently to every piece of information you dropped—“Wait,” he called out—“Isn’t this the girl who was constantly liking your stories?” He inquired, face dropping in pretend horror as you nodded with a smile.

“What a bitch,” he muttered—never once his fingers stopping as you continued drawing mindless doodles on your back.

You could only chuckle in response, “Exactly,” you drew out, “Shoko trained you well I see,” you laughed—a smile adoring his lips too as shook his head.

“Shoko didn’t do shit alright?” A deep rumble you felt, pressed against his chest—“It’s all coming for you, from here,” index pointed onto his chest, where his heart should be, he grinned.

A scrunch of your face and a whine from him—“Cheesy much?”

“Never again am i being cute with you,” you laughed because it was the third time that week that he said it (and it was only Thursday).

A small pout rested on your lips, an amused smile on his—“C’mere,” he mumbled, rough hands ever so soft as they pulled you into his embrace—“Wanna talk?” He inquired, hands patting your head to comfort.

A shake of your head and a nod in acceptance, he continued doing what he did best—holding you so long so you felt fine, felt ok.

You see, his heart ached, everytime he saw you such— even if it was over something small, you’d called it stupid once and he’d spent an entire afternoon teaching you that nothing you did, anything that made you feel wrong—it could never be stupid, not to him.

And so, it was but obvious that he pulled you closer still, hands wrapping around your waist, pulling your legs up to be wrapped around him—he treated you good, he treated you well—hell, he worshipped you in ways.

Silent was the way he carried you—beats synchronous to how close you lay—face smushed against his face and that was how he preferred it—perfection, he deemed it. And perhaps it was too, you could be as you pleased with him—no fake smiles or laughs and he let you be as well.

Basking slowly in your presence, in your grief and your radiance—Suguru was simply obsessed in ways that you loved best.

He could be rowdy at times- plenty of times.

Suguru was a decent man, men had needs, you acknowledged that. You weren’t the jealous type ped se either, but in the way his eyes remained stuck onto that certain girl in the club? You would’ve excused it too, had he not been one to be at your head, teasing you the moment you stared a moment too long at any other person besides him.

“Was it the hair or the boobs?” You grinned, settling on to the seat beside him on the couch—guilty eyes instantly trailing onto you.

“I’m not mad Su’” you giggled, he didn’t—“No I shouldn’t have,” he confessed, adorable with the little pout, as if upset that you found out.

“It’s fine,” tipsy you were, slightly, him too.

“No baby,” he concurred, brows furrowed in captivity as he turned his body to face yours—“it’s not- I- shouldn’t have- you know,” you watched him struggle and giggled all the more.

“You’re cute, you know that?” And in moments such, he wasn’t the one pulling you in—no, you simply moved over, straddling his lap—his face held in your hands softly, “I love you yeah?”

He hummed, “love you too—a lot,” he whispered, large hands wrapping around you, body leaning forward until it was his head resting on your chest—an inhale of your scent, of the perfume he bought you everytime, and it was all ok for him—so long as you were around.

“Hold still,”

“You’re literally about to pull my hair off—”

“—shut up or I will,” a roll of his eyes, a huff of yours.

A contemporary silence too—regret? His, amusement, yours.

“Just trust me, you’ll look so pretty,” you giggled, your fingers worked craftily, fast—“I’m not exactly planning on looking pretty—wait, don’t tell me you—on lords,” he groaned in the end, the strings of the brain finally pulling enough to make sense—your giggles only increased, exponentially.

“Ok listen alright, you’ll be the sweetest and hottest Rapunzel—ah! Hey!” You squeaked in the moment, eyes widening and brows furrowing as he pinched the supple flesh of your waist.

He grinned, “If I’m suffering, I’ll make sure you suffer too,” his hands lifted you slightly—you could only wonder ay how easy he made it seem, lifting you and readjusting you on his lap while you continued working.

You nodded in satisfaction, finishing up the last bits of his braided and styled-perfectly hair—he grinned, “You’ll be going as that lizard of mine?”

“Lizard?” You exclaimed—another laugh he pulled out of you as he grinned, “It’s a damn chameleon Su’” you mumbled under your breath as you looked at your piece of work with pride.

“Same difference,” he shrugged, rocking you slightly on his lap—bouncing you—“also,” you paused, eyes squinting up at him, “don’t mess the tales up—I don’t want you messing your lines-”

“-lines my ass,” he snorted, “wasn’t Rapunzel blonde?” His fingers were quick in the way they worked simultaneously, sighting off his name every few inches on your skin, pulling at the hem off your shorts—he was annoying when he wanted to be.

“You want me to dye your hair?” A smirk—his silence and then your grin.

Ps: Suguru did in fact look like the prettiest princess in the party—with Satoru as the horse and Shoko as Eugene (they did make you the chameleon after all)

All of this work is entirely original and my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

Taglist: @isentsworld @rizzmin @4sat0ruu @gojoismybitch @lavendervogh @mistyheart @spaceisfarfarawayy @kazoomas @myrand0mfand0mbl0g @playboicartina

[yourelliewillms]

i miss you on a train

ellie williams x reader

angst !! also fluff but mainly angst. liiittle mention of smut.

summary: it's been a year since ellie and you broke up, you haven't spoken since then and she probably thinks you've forgotten about her. what she doesn't know is that you're thinking about her all the time.

the first months were the worst. every night you had a dream about her, the picture of her in your mind would be enough to wake you up in the middle of the night with tears in your eyes or, sometimes, with a smile on your face. but that was the one you hated the most because your dreams usually felt so real, you felt her near you but when you realized it had been just a dream, your day would be completely ruined. you couldn't stop thinking about her. even if you tried, your mind would randomly bring memories that would only break your heart into pieces again and again.

after a year, you can say you're over her or at least that's what you like to think. you really want to move on and maybe start seeing other people to try to take her out of your heart. but everytime you take the train and raindrops fall from the sky to your window like one of those dramatic music videos, the first thing your brain does is bring her back. those green eyes that once looked at you with sparkles in them, strings of her auburn hair falling from her characteristic bun and the heat of her body that used to warm you up during the winter. you can't help thinking about every single detail of her, even if you try to put on your headphones and look out the window to stop those unwanted thoughts, the sound of her laugh in your mind would be louder than the song playing on your phone.

the rain just made things worse, it reminded you of that time ellie and you were on one of your first dates. it was raining, you were soaked but you didn't care at all because you just wanted to be with her all the time. you were walking under the rain, holding ellie's wet hand, was it wet because of the raindrops falling on her arm or because she was so nervous that her hand would sweat all the time your hair was already wet and there were raindrops on your cheeks yet ellie was looking at you with so much love, you could swear there were hearts in her eyes before she gave you that kiss in the pouring rain. you felt your heart fluttering when her shaky hands brushed against your face while she took you closer to her letting your cold nose touch hers, it was only you and her in the world. you remember how soft and hot her lips were that time. you remember the way your hair was sticking to your face and how ellie would stop kissing you for a second to take out the strings of hair that would get on the way of your kiss and then her lips would desperately look for yours again.

you haven't forgotten about those nights when she would show up at your window at 3 am just to show you the pages of that private sketchbook of hers with new drawings that only you were able to see, or some new song she'd learned in her guitar, or just because she missed you. you had to shush her because of how loud she was, always laughing at her own dad jokes and screaming but never failing at putting a smile on your face.

or that first night you spent together. you remember how gentle her touch felt when your naked bodies met each other for the first time. kind and slow the whole night, ellie making sure you were comfortable. her skin burned against yours and you could tell she was nervous just by the way her voice was shaking and her heavy breathing. "just tell me what makes you feel good" you whispered on her ear and she let go a sigh of relief as she nodded. you stood awake all that night because after you touched and kissed every single part of your bodies, you felt the strongest connection you'd ever felt with someone in your life.

the freezing weather brought to your mind those cold nights when you wouldn't talk to each other because some stupid argument in which her words felt like knives piercing in your heart while you told her all her faults. long nights when you'd fall asleep with tears in your eyes and the next morning wake up with migraine, sick to your stomach and your eyes swollen. however, your mood would be completely changed by just one text of hers "good morning, babe" pretending nothing had happened. not a single 'sorry' from either you or her because that was they way your relationship "worked" (it did not).

when you come back to the real world and get out of the bus, you'd look around trying to find her but she's not there. the bus stop is empty and she's not with you there, she's not waiting for you like she used to. the weather is cold and she's not there to give you her jacket, the rain is falling but she's not there to kiss you.

meeting ellie was one of the best yet worst experiences of your life because even if you tried, you can't forget the freckles on her face and the smell of her natural body scent. you hate the fact that you'll never be able forget her.

thank you for reading <3 pleaseee tell me if you find mistakes or if you have any constructive feedback !!

[stars-and-inkpots]

Ok- sorry I’ve never done this before. But I was wondering if you could do a Gale fic/ oneshot where tav/reader somehow finds a way to like remove his orb but instead of getting rid of it all together it goes to them? Like now they have the orb in their chest and they have like all the pain and the possibility of going boom? If not that’s completely fine- I just had that idea and I felt you’d be amazing for it! I hope you have an amazing day!<3

OKAY! I know I've been gone for like five months, but I finally got motivated again! (Those new patches have thrown me right back into my hyperfixation) I know this is so very very late, but I hope you enjoy! I really liked this idea, and it honestly might end of a part of a multi-chapter thing if I get around to it. This is set before the events of the game.

(p.s. it's 3 am and I haven't really read through this, so I'm sorry if there are some mistakes that I won't catch till I've slept)

What's Yours is Mine | Gale x Reader

After months of research, you finally find a way to get rid of the volatile orb in Gale's chest. Of course, things don't work out exactly the way you intend them to.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, brief allusion to suicide(kinda?)

Ao3 Link: Baldur's Gate 3 Requests

Word Count: 1249

You know it isn’t going to be easy. It’s taken months of research, and even now as you look through the large practically ancient book, you aren’t entirely sure that this is going to work. Gale is sceptical too, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He also knows that when it comes to old magic like this, there is always the chance of something going wrong. It wasn’t like this was simple magic either. The nature of his condition is complicated and volatile, and this could easily cause problems.  

Gale sits in the centre of the chalk circle while you finish drawing the runes around it. 

“Are you sure about this, my love?” 

You’ve been talking in circles like this for the past twenty minutes while you’ve been preparing for the actual ritual. 

“Yes, Gale. We’re so close to a solution now.” You draw the final line of a rune and walk over to kneel in front of him. “I’m sure. If there’s a chance to help you, I want to take it.” You kiss his forehead and he gives you a small smile. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” 

“I’m sure,” he answers, and kisses you quickly before you stand again. 

With the circle of runes finished, you move to grab the book. The page you need is bookmarked, and you flip to it to study the words on the page once more. Between the lines are notes and annotations in both Gale’s and your own writing. You added reminders on how to pronounce some of the words, and Gale had marked the translation. You look at Gale once more, and he gives you a reassuring nod. 

You start reciting the lines from the book. Immediately, you can feel the air begin to buzz with magic. Three lines in, and you can taste copper, which is a common side-effect when it comes to older magic like this so it’s not too concerning yet. What is a little worrying, is the sheer amount of power you can feel moving through your body while you speak, and the slight purple glow that is spreading across your arms and steadily growing brighter. You chance a glance at Gale and notice that he too seems to be feeling the same effects. There’s a growing apprehension in both of you as you continue to speak the words on the page. By the time you reach the final line, the feeling is almost unbearable. It’s like the pressure in the room has increased tenfold, like a weight has been dropped on your shoulders and bears down on your lungs.

Once you utter the final word, everything seems to slow for a moment. 

Then you feel it. 

A horrible pain wracks through your body. You let out a scream. It feels like something is tearing open your chest- or is it clawing its way in? You can’t tell; you can’t think. Your vision is dark, and you aren’t sure if it’s because you’ve blacked out or because pain has forced your eyes shut. Everything feels cold, far, far too cold, but also so terribly hot. 

Finally, the pain lessens enough that you can take a full breath, though it is interrupted by a sputtering cough. When you eventually open your eyes again, you realise that at some point you must have fallen to the floor. You can feel Gale’s arms around you, he is shaking. 

“Did it work?” You ask, despite how much it hurts to speak. The burning feeling in your chest hasn’t entirely left yet. 

“That doesn’t matter. Are you okay?” 

You try to sit up and wince with the effort. Gods, your chest hurts. 

“I’ll be alright. Gale, did it work?” You ask again, looking for the tell-tale mark on his chest and neck. You find the scar still, skin sunken in some parts and raised in others, but it is no longer the usual, shimmering purple. Now, it just looks like a normal (save for the shape) scar. You smile, because at least the spell did its job. Then you see a look of horror cross Gale’s face. 

“No, gods no,” he whispers, tentatively brushing his fingers along your collarbone. You hiss in pain. It feels like he’s brushed his hands across a fresh burn. 

You bring your own hand up to feel the centre of your chest, and your stomach drops. You know the shape, having memorised it from the number of times you ran your hands across Gale’s scar. This spell worked, but not in the way it should have. 

“We have to do it again,” Gale stands, pushing a still shaky hand through his messy hair. He stares at the special candles that have already burnt far too low to make it through the ritual a second time, and lets himself believe that they will be enough. “I am not going to let you carry my burden like this. Get in the circle and I can start the ritual again.”

“You know that won’t work. The candles are out, and all the herbs and incense are burnt, not to mention the crystals. It will take ages to find those again.” You don’t blame him for this, no matter how much he might blame himself and how much he might want you to blame him. “I’ll be fine, Gale. You managed it for so long, and now it’s my turn. We’ll figure it out.” A part of you remembers what Gale said of his power and how the orb drained it, but you quickly silence those thoughts before you can worry too much about your own magic. 

“No. This wretched thing is the consequence of my mistake. I will not let you suffer through it. I can’t.” He’s kneeling in front of you again, cradling your face in his hands. “What if it becomes unstable? I can’t-” Gale tries and fails to keep his voice steady. “That cannot happen to you.” 

“And it would be better if it were to happen to you? It is fine for you to die with it?” You return, perhaps too harshly, but surely now he might understand how it felt to hear him say such things when it was him with the magic bomb in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he answers after a few moments of silence. You aren’t sure what exactly he’s apologising for, but you wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his shoulder. 

“We’ll figure this out. We always do. I promise.” The pain still hasn’t subsided completely. You can’t imagine how Gale has managed to grit his teeth and bear it on his worst days if this is how the orb feels when it is, more or less, stable. You feel him press a kiss to the crown of your head. “It’s like we always say, remember? What’s yours is mine.” The phrase was common between you two. It was one of the first things Gale had said when you moved into the tower with him. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ he had said with a grand sweeping gesture. Since then it has been used whenever either of you had to borrow something from the other, anything from books to warm wool sweaters you had no intention of returning anytime soon. It seems strange to say it now, but you hope it gets your point across regardless; by the slight shake of Gale’s chest as he laughs softly, you figure it has. 

[gretavanlace]

Poppins (part 6)

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, dirty talk, everything you’ve come to expect from me, etc.

He says you’re in love with me.

I am.

I am. I am. I am.

His words ricochet about in your head, a broken record confessional, clouding snippets of your thoughts until they’re nothing short of a nonsensical din.

Attempting to coerce the echo into silence, you focus on running a damp sponge across the already spotless Formica counters of your tiny kitchen. The kettle, marching lazily towards a slow boil to keep you company.

It does no good. Now, you’re simply needlessly tidying while wrestling with thoughts of Josh.

Josh, and his mirror image, who has taken up residence in the quiet corners of your mind. Banging on the walls of your psyche, refusing to be disregarded easily and without a fight. Jake will not be tossed aside.

Josh had offered his confession so readily, so calmly.

I am.

At first pass, his candor had given you pause, but just as quickly, you’d remembered who was standing in front of you. Joshua - heart on his sleeve - Kiszka has never known an emotion he felt the need to run from. More often than not, he speeds directly at them. Pedal pressed maniacally to the floor, ready and willing to embrace and experience, even when it threatens to hurt.

“How do you feel about that?” He’d asked, forehead tilted towards yours with a gentle inquisitiveness, fingers continuing to slip in and out of you absently, as if he couldn’t fathom parting from the soft warmth of your body.

Every word you’d ever known had cruelly abandoned you the moment you’d needed them most. But what would you have said if they hadn’t?

Even here, swaddled in the sanctity of your cozy little place way across town, you still can’t answer that.

Jake, with his sleepy gaze and lust laced words. The unflinching air of confidence. The dark, curling smirk. Shadowed, careful stare. He has always seemed the twin wrapped and shrouded in the dressings of mystery. But now…

Now, you’re unsure of the ground you stand upon. What once felt concrete, suddenly reminds you of a hyperactive fault line.

The wailing shriek of the tea kettle snatches you from your reverie with a jolt…and when the knock sounds out against your front door, your heart is already pounding ominously in your chest. Pumping the blood furiously through your veins until your cheeks are flushed with heat.

With a quick glance down at your attire, you decide it doesn’t matter much at all, and certainly not enough to change. At this hour, it’s likely you’ll find the pinched glare of Mrs. Bloomberg scowling at you through the peephole. Magnified and distorted, aiming to berate you, once again, with a shaking fist for allowing your cat to root through her trash.

You don’t even own a cat, but have long since tired of trying to convince her of that fact.

So, who cares that you’re shuffling around in a battered, oversized t-shirt with nothing but a pair of panties beneath to protect your modesty? You don’t plan on answering the door anyway.

Squinting through what your grandmother had always referred to as the ‘magic eye’ in the door, you find not the wrinkled grimace of a cruel elderly widow balancing upon the tightrope of dementia, but a gorgeous, carved out of marble face you know well enough to know you shouldn’t be shocked.

He weaves in and out of your reality effortlessly and often.

“Shit!” You hiss, glaring at your pajamas, now drawing a much different conclusion than when you had been expecting your crotchety neighbor.

“Your door is paper-thin, babe.” Jake laughs casually. Ever floating on calm seas, drifting toward clear horizons “Nice to hear you’re as thrilled to see me as I’d hoped you’d be.”

Fumbling with the deadbolt and chain-lock requires an embarrassing level of skill, but when you finally tuck your face around the crack in the door, you find him leaned against gray vinyl siding wearing a mischievous, yet smoldering, grin.

“Thought I told you not to go getting any prettier?” He chastises, clutching his chest as though suffering a great and searing pain.

Ignoring his theatrics, you shake your head. Both of them seem to enjoy upending your world on a dime to an immense degree. “What are you doing here? I thought you had stage lights calling your name elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere is a place that often calls my name. Doesn’t mean I’m always apt to listen.” He steps forward and taps the nonexistent dimple he swears hides upon your cheek. “You gonna let me in for a spoonful of sugar, poppins?”

You should make him wait outside while you throw on something more appropriate, you know you should…instead, you step back and allow him to saunter in as though he owns the joint.

“Seriously, I thought you were booked a while longer?” You tug at the hem of your shirt as his eyes devour your thighs.

“Sorry,” he continues to eat you alive with his stare. “Never have been much of a gentleman, have I?”

“Why start now?” You tease back, though you shouldn’t. You very clearly could gain quite a lot from the services of a life coach. Someone to untangle every nonsense web you spin.

“Yes,” he nods slowly, running the pad of his finger across the tip of his nose, an endearing gesture you’ve grown to love. “Why start now?”

Waving the moment off flippantly, you ask yet again. This time with a question masquerading as a statement “You’re back early.”

He hums in confirmation and trails behind you as you pad back into the kitchen, the heels of his boots muffled against your worn carpet. “Place got slapped with some sort of fine. Liquor ordinance violation, or whatever, fuck if I know. They couldn’t pay it and closed the doors.”

You hold out a mug and a box of Earl Grey, eyebrows raised in question.

He nods and carries on. “So, I had some time to kill. No places to be, no people to see.”

“Must be a nice feeling...” You muse, carefully pouring steaming water over a bag of tea leaves. “Freedom like that.”

“It is.” He agrees, watching as you putter around the space he seems too large for, even given his small stature. “Though, it doesn’t bode well for my wanderlust that I ended up right back here without a second thought.”

“Everyone needs to come home now and then, Jake. It makes you appreciate all those other roads that much more. So what if you were just here?”

“I didn’t come home,” He accepts his tea and bobs the bag around by its string, coaxing the steep in the exact manner you shouldn’t. “I came to you.”

Remaining silent, as you so often do when you shouldn’t, you usher him back into the living area, guiding his path with your own piping hot mug.

He shuffles around in quiet contemplation. Surveying the surroundings you’ve so lovingly cultivated. It isn’t much, but it’s you. A calming corner - refuge from the ceaseless noise of the world - made cozier, still, by the art you’ve adorned the walls with. The blankets that smell of April rain poured from a blue bottle into the rinse cycle. Flickering wicks that melt wax tinged with cinnamon. Books with battered spines and droplets of red wine speckled upon their pages. Plants vining along the walls, mimicking outstretched fingers creeping nearer to the window that lets the sun in…and pictures of a tiny wild thing whose laugh sounds like crystal bells.

“Hey, I know her.” The love in his eyes is physically tangible as you watch him tap a frame that cradles the flushed, grinning face of his niece.

“She looks a lot like you.” You offer truthfully, sinking down onto the flea market sheet that is draped over your second hand couch.

He shrugs, eyes still trained on the face he knows so well, peering out of a snapshot into a room he doesn’t know that well at all. “She looks like her dad.”

“Well,” you laugh softly. “I guess that makes sense then, doesn’t it? Kinda how that whole twin-thing works, right?”

“Right.” He deposits himself into the rocking chair angled at the sofa and eyes you over the misty steam ribboning off of his cup. “Miss me?”

“I’m starting to wonder if you have a bit of a kink for this, Jacob.” You hold his gaze with a twinkle of light-hearted torment flashing in yours.

He goes toe to toe with you. Gracefully sliding into the ring with, “I have a great many kinks, babe. To which of them might you be referring?”

You allow the quiet to saturate the room as you study him. He so often feels like a cryptic code etched into ancient stone, veiled and esoteric.

Comfortable in the silence, he waits until you fill it.

And you do. “Being pined for. Longed for. Craved.”

“Craved?” He rolls the word on his tongue, delighting in the savor. When he decides he has indulged long enough, his words come quietly. Wandering off his lips in a hushed rasp. “Do you crave me, poppins?”

Taking a sip of tea, in a bid for time, you find it still much too hot, and fight the instinct to wince at the burn. “Whether or not I crave you isn’t the point. The point is that you want me to. You want everyone to want you.”

He rests his mug on the worn coffee table that fills the space between the two of you. Plunking it down with a whisper of irritation coloring his movement. “You make me sound like a bit of a narcissist. I’m not sure I care for that.”

“No!” you wink, presenting a conspiring grin, just so he won’t take you too seriously. “You seem incredibly humble. I might even go so far as to say saintly. Mother Teresa reincarnated, perhaps? If I ever need a kidney, you’ll be the first to know.”

“A kidney.” He scoffs, his layered necklaces intermingling with harmonious clicks and clatters as he huffs. “A kidney’s easy, though, isn’t it?”

He suddenly looks like he belongs in your space more than you do. He has that way about him, everything he touches, he claims. “No. I wouldn’t describe giving up an organ as easy, jake. Hate to disagree.”

“But it is easy. On the heart, anyway.” His body relaxes back. Melting into the chair with those cavalier, fluid movements of his. “You don’t even really notice it’s there to begin with. You won’t miss it. You won’t mourn it. You won’t crave it.”

“And you could?” You question softly, settling into the gentle passion of his argument. “You could give up something that mattered a great deal? If it meant someone else might…”

He’s suddenly speaking over you “Might love it or need it more? Yes. Yes, I could. And I have.”

“Tell me?” It squeaks out as a bashful question and you catch his stare softening…you’ve captured his heart for a split second.

“It isn’t my story to tell.” There is a finality to his response.

You shouldn’t press on, but you’ve never been well acquainted with restraint “Whose is it to tell, if not your own?”

“Leave it alone, love.”

You’ve touched a nerve. For that, you’re sorry, and you tell him so.

“That’s alright, babe.” His features have smoothed out, thoughts untroubled once more. “So, this thing that happened with my pain in the ass brother…care to enlighten me?”

You’re lost in the way his fingers are moving against his knee. They tap and press out a silent melody, reminding you that he could settle before a baby grand and scatter notes into the air, winding them into a song if he so chose.

How you know this - that he can play the piano - you don’t seem to remember. It’s one of those elusive bits of knowledge that just happen to live in your head.

You’d very much like to watch him coax lovely sounds from ivory keys some day. You’d also like to watch him coax lovely sounds from you some day, but you bite your tongue and leave that to live in your thoughts unspoken.

“Is that a no?” There’s a casualness to his tone that feels contrived.

With a shake of your head to clear your mind, you muddle up to the surface, reluctantly deserting your untoward daydream.

“I probably shouldn’t, should I?” You attempt a placid demeanor, “It isn’t nice to kiss and tell.”

He tilts his head back, leading with his chin, observing you from the shadow of his thick lashes. “Who the fuck cares about nice, poppins? Tell me, did Josh get to spoil that pretty princess between your legs for a little while?”

A small gasp of surprise soaked in desire from you forms his name.

“You’re a mean little thing, aren’t you?” He tsks with a velvet smooth click of his tongue. “Denying me while you show him the whole world.”

A stare, quiet and stunned, serves as your only reply. If you speak to deny, surely the wanton drum of your pulse would shiver the lies on your tongue.

He hums the softest sound, leaning forward, hands clasped casually between his knees as though he’s about to comment on the weather. “Good. I’m glad. I hope you let him fuck you blind. I told you to have your fun.”

“He didn’t…” Your throat is aching, seized tight and narrow by an invisible hand. “We didn’t…we just…”

Christ, something resembling a cohesive thought would be nice right about now.

“You’re very cute when you’re nervous and turned on. It’s a lovely combination for you.” He slyly smiles, cunning and predatory…like he might bare his teeth and sink them into your jugular vein on a whim.

But, he’s also studying you. Mapping you out. A planet glowing and magnified through the lens of his telescopic stare. “Did you cut your hair?”

For a blink, it’s as if he’s speaking a foreign language, as out of place as the question seems.

“Oh,” you pluck at a lock, inexplicably bashful about it. “Yeah. Just a trim.”

He leans back, blinking lazily when the wood beneath him groans with the sleepy rock. “You always look just a little different every time I see you. So familiar, so you, but there’s always a hint of something new. Just when I think I know you through and through. It’s like licking an ice cream cone, only it’s a different flavor each time.”

Licking. That word, rolling off of his tongue…

“I didn’t sleep with Josh.” You offer. But why? You wanted to sleep with Josh. You still want to sleep with Josh. It doesn’t seem to matter much to Jake either way, and the conversation has moved on.

With a regretful shake of his head, he shrugs “That’s a shame.”

“That’s a shame?” You parrot, stunned and pulsing with confusion.

“You want to.” There’s that shrug again. Nonchalance on full display. “And I want you to have the things you want…even if they don’t always include me. Plus, I like to keep a level playing field with my brother whenever I can.”

“They almost always include you.” You whisper, eyes trained down at your thumbnail, bashfully. “The things I want, I mean.”

“I know.” He moves from the rickety rocking chair onto the floor, back propped against the couch, and pats at his lap. “Come keep me company, poppins.”

You shouldn’t. You really fucking shouldn’t…but you do.

Your body finds a home with his, pressed up tight against him, longing to feel the rhythm of his pulse mingling with your own.

But as soon as you begin to relax into the moment, the worry that lives in your soul, rent free, punches its time card.

“Hey, shhh…” he winds his fingers into your hair, sensing your unease, shaking your shoulders with a delicate chill at his gentleness “You’re okay, babe. It’s just me,” his hand searches out your own and taps a quick beat against his chest. “You live right here, always. And you’re just as safe in my lap as you are in my heart.”

His voice, just a breath really, curling off his warm, velveteen tongue like silk, settles you into an instinctual rolling, languid pace.

On and on you go, hands in his hair, delving in and out of those twisted, tangled, locks…filling the space surrounding your bodies with the perfume of his skin and your own quickening gasps.

“There you go,” his fingertips sink into your hips; a gentle push and pull, guiding you along. “Keep moving just like that. Just like that. My pretty Mary poppins, my favorite fucking thing.”

Your head drops back, allowing a murmur of a moan to tumble off your lips. A whisper that carries more weight than a scream ever could.

He steals the sound from your lips with an easy tug on your shirt, baring your breasts to him. The loveliest offering he can imagine being gifted.

A groan, melodic and hungry, calls to you as he laces his grip into the curled tips of your hair, now sweeping and tumbling about against your lower back.

He licks at your pebbled nipple. Teasing it for just a moment before nipping at it eagerly.

“I dream about the way your cunt tastes.” His mouth has now found a home at your throat, sucking and lapping at your thunderous pulse point. “I tasted you on my fingers, and now you won’t leave me alone. I want to live between your thighs. I never want anything else in my mouth ever again.”

You’re whimpering and grinding against his cock - tucked away behind wrinkled and worn denim, hard as a rock, warm, and him. He can see it flashing in your heavy lidded eyes; you love this and are wild for more.

So, that’s exactly what you get…more. “Wanna take you to a beautiful restaurant and tell them to fuck their menu. Lay you out on the table, gorgeous as a goddess against an ivory linen tablecloth, your legs spread just for me instead of a plate.”

His filthy confessional sucks the air from your lungs with a whiny, high-pitched mewl. If anyone ever asked you to lay claim to the sound that has just gasped out of you, you’d bend the truth until it snapped.

You move to raise off his lap, eager to indulge in what he’s just promised, but he pulls you back down. “Where are you off to in such a rush?” He cajoles your frame again into a rolling wave of movement. “Is my dirty little nanny trying to leave me here all alone with a hard cock and a broken heart?”

Anyone else? Aside from his twin - and you may have aimed a fist to land a punch or two. Or at the very least, ended things in disgust.

Jacob? You find yourself longing for a paddle and a suit of authority to make him grovel at your feet. The image of power in a chignon, looking down your nose at his submissive beauty. To watch him crawl and beg, a charge trembling at your mercy. Performing in order to bask in your grace.

“You like that, don’t you, Poppins?” He is rocking upwards to meet you now, eliciting ragged pants of breath from the both of you.

The room must smell of sex by now. Of need. Of want. It makes you wish you could stumble through the door, blindly unknowing. To find yourself unexpectedly bathed in the palpable force of all of this desire.

Again, you try to move off his lap, but he holds fast. “Stop.”

“More, jake. I want more.” You’re begging pitifully, and no one should bother asking if you care about that, because you don’t.

“Even playing field, remember?” He’s taunting you now. The self-satisfied half smile gives him straight away. But there’s something else there too. Some secret he isn’t ready to let you in on. “You have no idea how badly I’d like to give into you right now. To hand over anything and everything. To coddle my pretty girl.”

The things he says. The things they both say. It hardly seems fair.

“Jake—“

A hiss of lust sucks sharply through your clenched teeth when he bucks his hips upwards while pulling you down harder into his lap. “You feel how fucking hard I am for you? My cock begs for you all the time, babe. You’re all I think about.”

“Again.” It is a single word, and a desperate plea. “Say it again.”

“My cock, poppins,” he drives and rocks against your aching cunt through your panties. “It wants you constantly. Every time I cum, it’s all for you.”

Your brow, dewy and furrowed, tilts up in frustrated pleasure…you’re so close. “Jake…please, baby, please…”

He nearly loses it at ‘baby’, you’ve never treated him as though he belonged to you. Not even for a moment…but it feels like that’s almost what this is. Baby.

“That’s my girl,” he strokes at your cheek like the gentlest lover, and snaps your head back by your hair like the filthiest fuck. “Cum for me, love. Right here. Right in my lap. Make a mess. I wanna fucking wear you.”

“I lied.” You’re frantic. Frantically reaching for his belt buckle while simultaneously thrusting against him, unwilling to stop in order to give yourself the room you need. “We slept together. He fucked me. Level your stupid playing field and fuck me, too.”

Ashamed isn’t the word for what you should be.

An airy laugh sounds out of him, choppy with panting breaths. “You’ll go to hell for lying, babe. Are you ready to burn for me?”

Faster you rock into his lap, incoherent sounds bursting out of you, hissing and hungry for more of him.

“I’m—“ the confession dies on your lips with a sharp crack of his palm, hot against the swell of your ass.

“Fucking do it.” The order growls out, frightening and needy. “Cum for me. All gorgeous and dirty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You…” it’s barely a word. “You, too. Please.”

“Poppins wants to watch me cum?” He taunts, just to drag you along a little further.

“In my mouth…”

You break, writhing and whining with release as you thrust and squirm fervently in his lap. Rocking your clit against the drenched cotton of your panties and his rock hard cock as it twitches and flexes within his pants. “Cum in my mouth. Please…please let me taste you. Please, please, please…”

“Fuck…” the obscenity growls out of him as he grabs you up and swings you around. His manhandling is carefully violent in the sexiest way as he tosses you onto your back, yanking and pulling at the fastenings of his jeans.

“You wanna taste me?” For the first time ever, you lay eyes on his cock. Thick and perfect in a way that seems impossible. It looks like fine silk, soft and lovely. But also, angry and throbbing. So flushed it could pass for a bruise…you’d like to look at it forever.

“Open up, love. C’mon, I can’t wait…” his fist is furiously slipping back and forth along the length of himself, and the moment your lips part, he’s spilling over your outstretched tongue.

He whines and curses. Your name and praise creating a beautiful, strange song as you swallow him down, licking your lips, dragging your thumb across your chin to suck it clean, unwilling to let a drop of him go to waste.

A fucking delicacy, that’s what he is. Warm and satisfying in your mouth. Calming somehow. Crave was most definitely the perfect choice of words earlier.

Who wouldn’t crave him?

You lie together in comfortable silence, your cheek pressed against his stomach, warm and soft, rumbling now and then to remind you that he will always be hungry for you.

“Whose story is it to tell?” You finally ask, unable to let it go, whispering the question as you circle the pad of your finger around his belly button. “From earlier? The one that wasn’t yours to tell?”

He knows you know, and he refuses to play into your game of feigned innocence “You know whose story it is.”

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @paleshadowofadragon @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @paintmyhouse @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard

[ficsbyuzi]

All the ways lead to you - part 3

Read Part 2

Characters - Aemond Targaryen and Inara Maegyr (OFC) in a modern AU.

Warnings - Slow burn. Mentions of alcohol and smoking. 

Summary - Inara tries to figure out how she feels about everything that happened on her first day at work.

Note - Flashback and internal monologues are in Italics.

Word count - 1593

"He is a man of few words. You'll get used to his personality once you start working with him," Margaery's voice cut through the hustle and bustle of the coffee house.

"He seems hard to impress," Inara shrugged, adding sweetener to her coffee.

"Well, he is a celebrity, a superstar here in Westeros. He meets and works with so many people every day. In his situation, anyone would act stoically while dealing with their staff."

Of course. He looks every bit of a superstar.

"His family descends from the ancient Targaryen royal line and still kind of owns this city."

Oh. Wow. Targaryens of Old Valyria.

Margaery chuckled, noticing Inara's eyebrows shoot up in astonishment and awe.

“Red Keep Production house and studios are half owned by them, so this show is his home production. Have you seen any of his work before?"

So he is The Boss.

“I should have done some homework before coming here." Smiling sheepishly, Inara made a mental note to watch some of Aemond's acting projects over the weekend.

They finished their coffee and she took her leave to attend her second orientation meeting with the on-set medical team. However, she had a hard time focusing on the presentations, her thoughts constantly drifting back to him. 

To the enigmatic Aemond Targaryen. 

Back home, she tried to immerse herself in her chores and her books, but thoughts of him clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake off.

Although she was left feeling a bit intimidated by his presence, she couldn't help but replay her brief encounter with him in her mind.

His voice still thrummed through each fiber of her being, drowning her in a tantalizing warmth.

He was not around her anymore, yet she could still feel his gaze lingering on her, like an invisible caress.

There was something about him - both unnerving and exhilarating. Intimidating yet inviting. 

An inexplicable pull was drawing her to him. 

Maybe he has the same effect on everyone around him.

Maybe I am merely in awe of a celebrity. 

Yeah that's all it is. 

But since when have I started fangirling over movie or TV stars?

She rolled her eyes at her chattering mind and tried to clear her head by writing in her journal.

I had a good day today. The world of glamor and showbiz is a realm far beyond anything I've ever known. But I need to learn more about how to maintain a professional decorum. It is unlikely that I will ever have the chance to know someone like Aemond Targaryen on a deeper level.

Smiling, she stared at his name on the paper for a moment. Of all the words she had ever written, those were two she never thought she would find in her personal journal. Ignoring the flock of butterflies taking flight in her chest, she continued - 

I'm just an employee. A small cog in the grand machinery of his professional life. Why would he pay any attention to me?

She frowned at her own musings, closing her journal with a sigh. Glancing at her phone one last time, she noticed the emails from both teams in her inbox. Emails that were a reminder of her role as a professional. She was there to work and forge a path to a career she aspired for.

The sky thundered outside, the sound interrupting the chain of her thoughts and bringing her back to her reality once again. 

My first rain in King's Landing. 

As the clouds began to pour, sleep gently flickered her eyes closed. Her mind, hanging between wakefulness and the subliminal, recalled a cherished memory from the past - her father telling her favorite bedtime story about a valiant Valyrian prince and his dragon, the largest in the world.

-

Two months ago.

"You need a drink," Criston Cole, Aemond’s best friend and his personal assistant, remarked pointing a finger at him as he entered his office. He dropped a file onto his cluttered desk, taking the chair across the table.

"It's ten in the morning," Aemond replied, sifting through the pile of documents scattered around, his frustration palpable.

"Your face says it's ten at night."

Aemond sighed deeply, rolling his eyes. Criston chuckled, pulling out a cigarette and offering it to him, who accepted reluctantly. Criston placed one between his teeth too, lighting the cigarettes for both. Taking a long drag, both men leaned back in their chairs.

"This project is vital. It has to work. We have it to get renewed for two more seasons," Aemond said, exhaling a thick plume of smoke through his nose.

"Everything will be alright."

"As long as my uncle sits on the board, nothing will be alright," Aemond muttered, his gaze drifting back to the mess on his desk.

"Why do you worry so much? Your mother and I are doing the best we can."

"That's not enough!” Aemond's voice rose as he slapped the table, causing a few papers to flutter. "Where's Aegon? Why isn't he in the office? I have rehearsals; I shouldn't be doing his work." He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up abruptly. "Call him right now!"

"Aemond, calm down," Criston said, his concern evident in his voice. 

"And this..this pile of papers - why is it on my desk?" Aemond swiped the files off his desk in a fit of rage. "Where are my scripts? Where is the report on the CGI budget?"

One of the folders slid to the edge of the table, its contents spilling out. A document with a photograph of a young woman caught Aemond's eye. Instinctively, he picked it up.

"Do I have to do the hiring too now?” His tone softened a notch as he examined the document - a resume, “Be an HR consultant too?" 

The name on the document read - Inara Maegyr. Bachelor of Medicine. Diploma in Makeup and Prosthetic arts.

"I brought that file. It's a list of shortlisted medicos," Criston explained, stretching out a hand to take it from Aemond, who was still engrossed in the document. "And it wasn't for you to check, anyway."

"Hire her." Aemond handed over the resume he was holding and tossed the rest of the folder aside.

"What? Hire who?" Criston asked, his face contorted in confusion as he took the document from Aemond, who was already lighting another cigarette. "There are interviews and proper processes to follow before the project goes on the floor. I can't just hire anyone..” He paused to check the name on the resume.

 “Inara Maegyr, what's with her?"

Aemond only exhaled curls of smoke in response.

"She seems... interesting," Criston said, raising an eyebrow at the document.

“Hire her, she looks..” Aemond fumbled, but quickly corrected the course, “I mean, she seems suitable for the job.” He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers fade.

“We don't want to lose a talented candidate, do we?” 

“Who's acting like an HR consultant now?” Criston teased him. 

-

Aemond was reclining on a couch in his opulent bedroom, an unbuttoned shirt draping over his frame, a cigarette poised between his fingers. Wisps of smoke swirled around him, as he was gazing up the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. 

Thoughts of her.

Her innocent smile. 

A smile that felt like a refreshing mist in the putridness of his life. A simple, unassuming gesture from her, yet it pierced through the shadows that often clouded his days. 

The way her stunning, fire-colored eyes lit up when she approached him with her sweet demeanor, stayed with him. 

Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, he ran a hand through his hair, as he recalled their brief interaction. A smile played on his lips, resurfacing the dimple on his cheek. 

Ever since he had read her resume, he had been curious about the woman behind those impressive credentials. He had been eagerly anticipating meeting her in person.

But upon finding her so close, his words scrambled out of nervousness, and he couldn't even make eye contact with her - an unusual experience for him. Typically, people went speechless in front of him, not the other way around. He couldn't afford to shatter his composed exterior. He couldn't allow her to expose a vulnerability that he rarely acknowledged. 

But now, he was certain that he had driven away the unstained, unadulterated warmth she emanated. Unintentionally, he had intimidated her. 

He wasn't accustomed to being caught off guard by such intense emotions for someone he had just met.

It had been years since anyone had stirred any feelings within him. 

Despite being surrounded by a bevy of attractive business women, actresses, and models at work, he had never felt this way about anyone else, the way he felt about - 

“Inara,” surprised by the unfamiliar sensation of her name on his lips, he realised he had never voiced her name before.

Curiously, he picked up his phone to google the meaning of her name.

A ray of light.

An image of a ray of light piercing through the window of a darkened room closed for too long, surfaced in his mind. 

Sky roared outside, pulling him back into his dimly lit room. The sound of heavy raindrops splattering and clattering against the sophisticated French windows lulled him to sleep.

As he closed his eyes, a soothing petrichor filled his retiring senses, wrapping him in a blanket of tranquility.

The sweet, mellow scent brought back the memory of the moment when their eyes first met.

-x-

Taglist - @zenka69

Next part - soon :)

[tieflingtea]

"How are you still using your hands right now?"

Caleb glanced up at the muffled question, biting back a smile at the sight of a very disgruntled Essek buried in a mound of furs. Only his eyes were visible, and they glared at where Caleb was furiously scrawling down his recollection of the day's events in Aeor. Only a very dim orb hovered above his journal, casting the barest amount of light. They had both agreed that a fire would be too dangerous after the events of the day. The beasts of the fallen city were patient things, and they had already proven keen enough to wait out the dome if they found it.

"I am used to a fair amount of cold, this is bearable for a while longer," Caleb said ruefully, recalling many nights huddled beneath nothing but his shabby coat and the fine layer of snow dusted over him. Essek drew him from his memories with a faint noise of disgust.

"Well good for you then," he sniped. Caleb did smile then, unable to stop it from creasing up his face. "Oh, yes, I suppose you would find it funny."

"Only that you remind me of Jester, in the early days," he explained. Essek perked up as much as he could in his current, amorphous state.

"Jester?"

"Yes, she also came from privilege and wasn't used to slumming it with us commoners."

Essek drooped. "I see."

"I did not mean it as an insult, I find it endearing."

There was a long silence after that, Caleb found that his smile was easy to keep on his face and so he let it stay as he worked and Essek stewed on whatever was making his eyes dart back and forth in thought. Eventually the other man shuffled closer to peer at his journal, a muffled noise choking out of the depths of the blanket when he finally caught sight of the detailed drawing Caleb was writing around.

"Mmm, Jester again, I'm afraid. It's remarkable really, I think there might be a dick for each day of notes I've written so far."

"You let her use your journal to draw dicks?"

"Let? No. But now that we are here and she is off terrorising pirates, I am glad that I have these reminders."

More silence, and the slow building pressure of a body leaning itself up against his side. In the part of his mind that wasn't replaying the rooms and artifacts they had come across that day, Caleb remembered a dorm room, two bodies leant up on his instead of one, and the burning pain of his mutilated arms. The cold helped ground him in the present. As did the faint, subtle scent of his companion. A hint of some spiced cologne, a hint of magic. And that crisp, nothing smell of prestidigitation that couldn't quite eliminate the stale sweat it was used on.

"You miss them." Essek said, and it was not a question.

"As much as you likely did when we would run out of your life and towards the next danger."

"It's different."

Caleb paused in his writing, "Is it?"

"I didn't have the right," there was that bitterness again, turned inward and poisonous. Caleb jostled the man a little, as if knocking his body would knock the thoughts from his mind. He counted it as a win that Essek only readjusted his lean rather than pulling away completely. At the beginning of their journey, Caleb had found Essek's careful distance disconcerting, used as he was to the Mighty Nein's casual and frequent touch.

"I think you were allowed to feel any way that you did about us, Essek."

"I did miss you," he confessed, barely a breath, and then a little louder, "I missed you all very much when you would leave, it was concerning at first. I thought I was ill."

Caleb snorted, and mentally filed that away for Beauregard next time they talked. He could imagine her face as he told her Essek thought his emotions were digestion. He could imagine the gentle ribbing she would give their mage, and Yasha's awkward, quiet defense of him.

"And then I figured out what was happening and I wished that I had been ill instead."

"We have that effect on people," Caleb agreed.

"Did you know my brother caught me whistling once after one of Jester's sendings. Whistling." Caleb felt him shake his head, "I am a fool for you all."

"Love is not foolish," he said. Essek stiffened against him for a moment, tensed as if to bolt, but slowly he relaxed again and Caleb let out a relieved sigh.

"And yet the word makes me want to throw myself off one of these readily available cliffsides," Essek eventually replied. Caleb closed his journal.

"It is like with anything, at first it feels clumsy, ungainly. It will not fit because you have yet to grow into it. But love suits you, Essek Thelyss, you will wear it well one day."

"Oh," Essek said faintly, curling up into himself as if he had been physically struck. "Well, fuck me."

Caleb sat in silence with his arm around the pile of furs as the drow inside silently shaked apart, and then silently pieced himself back together again. He knew that feeling, that gnawing pit inside that threatened to swallow, to consume. He knew that the process of self forgiveness happened in quiet moments between the chaos. That it often hurt more than the hatred did. At one point he had begun to stroke where Essek's head ought to be, Zemnian unbidden at the tip of his tongue.

"What does that mean?" Essek finally said, voice scratchy but firm. "That word? Leepling? You have used it before."

"Ah, liebling," he corrected gently, "It means... It means I like you quite a bit to be saying it without realising."

"Leebling," Essek tried again slowly, rolling it around as if to see how it tasted. Caleb felt a blush bloom across his cheeks and huffed a small laugh at himself.

"Hmm, maybe one day I'll tell you the exact translation."

Essek turned his head so that the small portion of his face still visible was buried against Caleb's shoulder, "I look forward to it."

[juniper-sunny]

A Knight to Remember - Part 3

Medieval AU | Knight!Silco | Silco x Female!Reader | No (Y/N) | Romance | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff || SFW | WC: 5.75k | art by @designfailure56 (full piece here) | beta: @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Part 1 | Part 2

Your knight is forced to draw his sword once more, a prospect which worries you greatly…

taglist (open): @sherwood-forests @ilikemymendarkandfictional @ursawastricked @quirkykaty @let-the-monster-out @ariaud @silcoitus

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Mealtimes were always an awkward affair in your father’s hall. The discomfort was less amplified during feasts, but dining with just your lord father and lady mother was more unpleasant. It was their attitude towards the servants that you could not abide. They were treated as living furniture that your parents only acknowledged if they wanted their ale refilled or dessert brought to them. Other than that, they might as well have been as inanimate as the torches that illuminated the room.

Your knight was the sole exception, as he had been granted the cringeworthy task of tasting your meals for poison before you ate. After a bite of each dish, he would retreat to the wall behind your seat where your father could observe him closely for any signs of poor health. Besides your doubt that there were assassins in the kitchen, it bothered you that your knight was not invited to sit next to you even after the tastings. Overall, it was an injustice that he and the other servants responsible for providing such delicious food were not allowed to dine in the same comfort and excess that your family enjoyed.

In the whole span of your knight’s employment, he had never tasted any poison in your food. It did occur to you once to play a joke on your father by pretending to choke and fall to the ground, convulsing melodramatically. The likelihood of your knight landing in trouble due to your antics was unlikely. Still, he would not deserve the potential scolding your father could mete out. Although your knight might find amusement in the lecture your mother would give you on your unladylike conduct.

“Have you grown used to your knight, child?” your father asked. Of course not bothering to ask your knight if he had grown used to serving you.

“Yes, he serves me well. Thank you, father,” you said. If only you could turn in your seat to smile at your knight as you said that, but the backing of your chair was too high to do that comfortably.

“Perhaps he could accompany you during your voyage overseas,” your father said. “I may have been too hasty in forbidding you and your mother from traveling. After all, this year has passed peacefully, has it not?”

“Yes, it has,” your mother said. “I have spent entirely too much time in this hall, darling. I am only reminded how much I should appreciate you after spending time away.”

“And I love you all the more after your absences,” your father laughed. He reached out for your mother’s hand and grasped it lovingly. She smiled and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

They were often prone to such displays, as their affection had seemingly never diminished since the early days of their courtship. You and your brother had often looked upon them with comical disgust, but now you looked on with wonder. Would you ever find something like that with someone?

Could you find something like that with your knight—?

Your lord father called out your name. “I thought you would be pleased to travel again. The ship and crew are still available to escort you to your original destination.”

“I am, father, thank you,” you said hastily. The place you had hoped to visit was a week away by ship, an ocean away with foods and flora you had never seen before but only read about. The language of their people was foreign to you, and you had studied it diligently to gain a better understanding of their culture. Much time had been spent on preparations for the trip, so you were understandably quite upset when your father canceled it.

Now, though… you still could not turn to face your knight as your father was looking at you expectantly. You sipped from your cup before speaking, “Actually, I was hoping to travel north. There are forests there that remain green even through the winter. I should quite like to study a land where spring reigns eternal. There would be no need to travel by sea,” you added.

“Really?” your mother asked, looking at you skeptically.

You nodded and continued eating, keen to put an end to the conversation. If your parents questioned your true motives for changing your mind, then they might think of your knight’s fear of water as incompetence.

“Then it would please me greatly to take your place on that voyage, child,” your mother said. “It sounds like quite the adventure.”

“Is staying home not enough of an adventure for you, my dear?” your father asked.

“Of course. Being married to you is the greatest adventure one could ever have,” she teased. They both laughed. Your knight cleared his throat, which he only did when he was trying to suppress a chuckle.

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Traveling the world was already very exciting, but having your knight’s company in a new land was another prospect you were looking forward to. The gloomy, heavy gray skies could not dampen your good mood. A week later on one of your clandestine trips into the woods, you were about to ask him if there was anywhere he would like to visit. But he spoke first before you could ask.

“My lady,” he began. His tone was cool and calm as always, but there was a gleam of anticipation in his good eye. “Would you allow me the privilege of choosing where we go today?”

Your knight had never requested anything of you before. It was quite a surprise, the nature of which piqued your curiosity. “Of course, sir knight. Please lead the way.”

He smiled at you, a soft feather of a thing, so precious that you would hold it close if you could. Then he walked off into the woods at a measured enough speed that you could keep up easily.

How strange it was to be the one following instead of leading. Cold winds blew through you as if they were eager to trail him as well, rolling clouds heavy with impending rain across the skies. Curiouser still how he lead you on a path you had not taken in over a year— east towards your favorite river. You said nothing yet. What could his intentions be? You walked carefully in the mud, exercising the utmost caution. A misplaced step could dirty your dress and lead to interrogations and scoldings on where you went, what you did, and why. All very tedious conversations you hoped to avoid.

With his sturdy boots and thick trousers, your knight had no such reservations. He forged ahead relentlessly. He did look over his shoulder at you once or twice and you smiled at him. It was an instinct now, to smile at your knight whenever he looked at you. It was a hard impulse to curb when you were surrounded by other people with watchful eyes that might turn the smallest, most innocent actions into salacious gossip.

He stopped at the edge of the river, where the rocks still lay on dry land before they disappeared under the water’s surface. He rolled a small pebble under his boot before kicking it away decisively. It bounced over other rocks before landing in the water with a splash. Then, he turned to you with a determined expression.

“My lady, would you close your eyes for a moment?” he asked.

You nodded hesitantly, the world falling dark as you raised your hands over your eyes for good measure. You held them there even as a singular raindrop landed on your shoulder, the initial herald to oncoming rains. It was more important to demonstrate compliance with your knight’s request. But the waiting dragged on in boring agony with nothing to look at and almost nothing to listen to, save for the babbling waters.

After a few more minutes by your estimation, he still had not called out to you. What was he doing? You opened one eye and peeked cautiously through a gap in your fingers—

He was standing with his back turned to you. Waist deep in the water.

“Sir knight!!” you yelled, shocked. You ran clumsily over the rocks and crashed into the water. Cursing how it impeded your speed.

He turned just as you reached him. He caught you by your elbows as you grabbed his upper arms, a look of surprise on his face. The current swayed strongly around the two of you, disturbed by your hasty charge into the river.

“My lady,” he chuckled at your panic, ever the picture of serene stillness. “Do not be afraid. All is well.”

It was true. There was no need to rescue your knight from drowning when the river only came up to his waist, his head higher above the surface than your own. In your sudden realization that he was fine, your face flared in heat from embarrassment. Burning hot enough to counter the cold of the weather and the water. You would have looked away in mortification, but the sight was too wonderous to turn away from: He was standing there unbothered and was in fact smiling at you. Such a drastic change from how he acted over a year ago when he first followed you here.

“Please do not avoid the river or traveling by sea on my account, my lady,” he said. “I am no longer afraid.”

“How— but— the water— are you alright??” you asked breathlessly, the cold and exertion robbing you of air. He gently squeezed your arms in reassurance, his thumbs rubbing the inside of your sleeves. The churning waters around you calmed, holding you both gently as if in a cupped palm, the skirts of your dress floating around you.

“I let a weak man die,” he said. “To end the fear of pain, so that it could no longer control me. I am strong now.”

“You have always been strong, sir knight,” you reminded him. “To survive everything you endured until now… there are very few who could bear it.”

“But now I am able to serve you fully.”

“You have always served me well,” you protested. “There is no need to subject yourself to undue distress.”

He shook his head. “I am now able to see the truth you speak of, my lady. There is peace in water… just as I find peace with you.” His smile was so tender, so open. 

“Sir knight…” you said, swallowing hard. Stammering as you tried to find the right words to say. He let you stew in your awkwardness, his smile never fading the whole while, his sincerity changing into teasing at your expense.

When you first met, he did not seem capable of such vulnerability, much less sharing it with you. He needed only to carry out the duties you and your lord father assigned him. But to go above and beyond to indulge your desires that you had suppressed for so long… no one had ever shown you such kindness. It was a truly moving gesture.

“Sir knight…” you started again. “I do not have the words to properly convey the depths of my gratitude… Thank you. It must have been quite the ordeal to overcome your fear.”

“You could pass a lifetime without ever facing a challenge like that,” he said. “But it changes you forever. For that, I thank you, my lady.”

You pinched his arm, frustrated at how he was deflecting credit away from himself. “I played no part in your accomplishments, sir knight. Your success belongs solely to you.”

“I believed I had already reached the peak of my strength. You showed me how much stronger I could become.”

“I never meant to give you the impression that your fear of water was a weakness, sir knight. That was not my intention,” you cringed at yourself. “I am sorry.”

“Please do not misunderstand. You did nothing wrong—” your knight was interrupted by water falling on his brow. He blinked in surprise. The scattered sprinkle turned into a consistent splatter, then heavy sheets that drenched you both. Your dress was already soaked from the river, but water was now running down your head.

He let go of you. Just as you were about to mourn the loss of his touch, his hand alighted on your wrist. Pulling you gently but firmly as he trudged out of the river, the surface now hammered by the falling rain. You grabbed a fistful of your skirts and lifted them as high as you could, following him onto land.

He never let go even as he slowed down, allowing you time to carefully navigate over the slippery riverside rocks. As soon as you were clear of them, he sped up again, heading towards the forest. Intent on finding shelter under a tree. Your knight pulled you to his side, his shoulder pressing against yours. Still keeping hold of you, no longer gripping you but just grazing the end of your sleeve, his hand a loose bracelet around your wrist.

You instinctively turned to him. Perhaps he felt the same impulse for you met each other’s eyes at exactly the same time. You laughed as water dripped off his hair to land on your face. “We have been blessed with luck, sir knight. I was afraid we would have no suitable explanation for why we are both sopping wet.”

“I am quite blessed indeed,” he murmured, looking deep into your eyes.

What on earth did he mean? Your face flushed, heat tingling in your cheeks and ears before you could compose yourself. You let the damp locks of your hair fall in front of your eyes as you looked down, busying yourself with pulling your kerchief out of your pockets. Suddenly shy from the look he was giving you.

“May I?” you held up the kerchief. He nodded, and you proceeded to dab softly at him, wiping away the trails of water that trickled down his face. He closed his good eye as you wiped his brow, his cheek, and the bridge of his nose, so gently as to not accidentally prod or poke him. Water had pooled in the bow and scar of his lip, an invitation to touch him in that most intimate of places…

It was too frightening a prospect. You quickly swiped at his mouth, flinging water off his face. He chuckled and opened his eye, but all merriment drained from his face when you made to lift his eyepatch.

“Thank you,” his grip retightened around your wrist, not painfully but in an undeniable warning. “That’s enough.”

“Are you sure? It is quite soaked through. Please, at least let me wring it dry.”

“My lady… I fear that the sight may frighten you. It is not pleasant to look at.”

“Nothing could frighten me, sir knight,” you said softly. “Not if it’s you.”

His good eye widened at your declaration, his piercing gaze returning to determine the truthfulness of your words. When you did not waver or recant, he nodded slightly, closing his eye again.

The eyepatch was large and triangular with a thick band that covered almost the entirety of his left eyebrow. He had owned this particular eyepatch long enough that it molded to the shape of his cheekbone, curving concave to end level with his nostrils. Its color was the deepest black, embroidered with smooth scarlet thread at its edges. Your family crest was embroidered on the patch itself in light gold, as beautiful as reflected sunlight on the river’s surface. The thing was too precious to manhandle, so you patted it dry as best as you could before turning to his face.

His scars were extensive enough that the accessory could not completely cover them. They crawled outwards from his eye to beyond the edge of his temple, jagging through his hairline. You had seen the scars that ended on his lip before; they were not a collection of smaller cuts as you previously wondered, but part of a long line that flowed uninterrupted down from the eye socket. Another scar parallel to it curved towards his chin. A spiderweb of cracked lines concentrated most intensely where the lower lid of his eye would have been were it not missing entirely. The skin itself was ruined, unevenly colored an ashy gray that would not wipe away to match the same, healthier pale tone of his body.

Then there was the eye itself. The upper lid was missing as well, revealing a sclera completely colored black. The shape of the iris was amorphous around the edges, shapeless clouds of ink in water. For such a thin ring, the iris was many brilliant shades of orange, bright flickering flames in a bed of coal. 

The ruin of his face was less frightening than what it represented. For such a gentle man to experience such a horrific injury at the hands of a loved one was too painful to bear. A lump in your throat arose as you resumed patting his face dry. Conscientious of starting at his hairline first before moving down to his brow. Did he experience pain when water dripped into the unprotected eye?

“It’s alright, my lady,” your knight said patiently. “You need not look at it any longer than you wish to.”

“Please do not misunderstand, sir knight,” you whispered. “I only hate to imagine how you must have endured so much pain and fear that day…” More frightening still was the irrational but not impossible prospect that your knight could face similar violence in the future. The fact that your knight’s entire tenure was peaceful did not quell the anxiety that threatened to choke you. 

“And yet I am strong now,” he repeated, voice low and soft, a whisper of wind over gravel. “Just as I am always meant to be.”

Your knight’s face was as dry as it could possibly be given the circumstances. You raised your free hand as high as you could above him, hoping to shield him from any errant raindrops that might fall from the branches above. You took an unconscious step forward as his hand glided down to your elbow, holding you close. Your hand holding the kerchief cradled his face… such a thin layer of cloth preventing you from touching him unhindered, skin-on-skin.

He was close enough to see and perhaps feel the heat of your blush on your face. Could he also hear how your heart hammered away from both anxiety and anticipation? It was a fearful excitement that would normally have you running away if you were not rooted to the ground, bound to your knight by some invisible compulsion. 

To be bound to your knight would be bliss. He was quite literally within arm’s reach. He leaned into your palm, raising his own hand towards your face—

“We should return home,” you blurted out, jumping back. You shoved your kerchief and his eyepatch into his still outstretched hand. “There is no telling if the rain will end soon.”

You turned and scurried away, pulling your dress off the ground with both hands. Not waiting for your knight to readjust his eyepatch. But the sound of his footsteps followed behind you soon enough.

Because of course he was still loyal to you. Even if you might be wedded to someone else in the future. Even if he was dedicated to you, you could not pledge the same to him.

You would do better to remember that.

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An illness fell upon you in the days to come. It was nothing serious, only a slight cold from your time in the river and rain. However, your lord father did once again treat it as a disaster. You were confined to your bedchamber and only a select few were allowed to visit you. Unfortunately, your knight was not included among them.

He had only come into your service less than two years ago. But now you could not imagine a life without him, and the days with only your handmaidens and father for company were quite lonely indeed. But on one trip to the washroom, late at night, you found a bouquet of your favorite coneflowers at your doorstep, wrapped in your kerchief. You grabbed it and held it close, clutching it to your chest. In the morning, you placed it close to your window.

Your mother had already departed for her travels before the day you followed your knight into the river. In his haste, your father had sent word of your sickness to her, for which she came back early.

“I am sorry, mother,” you said as she sat next to you on your bed. “You needn’t have returned home for my sake. I am almost entirely recovered now.”

“That is quite alright,” she said, placing the back of her hand on your forehead. “I am only relieved that you are better. There is something I wish to share with you.

“In my time abroad, I attended a sword-fighting tournament. It was quite exciting,” your mother said, eyes bright with giddiness. “We will be hosting one soon for my birthday and I intend to have your knight participate.”

“WHAT?!?” you shouted angrily. You would have said much more but you exploded into a fit of painful, hacking coughs.

Your mother held up a cup of water for you to drink from, disregarding your outburst entirely. “I thought you would enjoy seeing one. It has been quite a while since the last one.”

The last time you attended one was years ago during some celebration you could not recall exactly. You had enjoyed it no more or less than any of the other festivities that day. It was just like your lady mother to impose what she wanted onto others without consideration for anyone’s feelings but her own.

“My knight will not join. I forbid it,” you said as sternly as possible in between your coughing.

She merely looked upon you dismissively. “I must test his capabilities, child. If he is not a worthy fighter then I shall have another join your service.”

“Has he not already proved himself to you? He did save your life, mother,” you pointed out.

“And yet my daughter deserves only the best. This is the only way to determine his competence.”

“You are only interested in watching every able-bodied man of these lands fight,” you accused. “If you are so keen to witness some swordplay, why not take up the blade yourself?”

“Why, I am much too old and delicate to take up arms, child,” she laughed good-naturedly. “And this is much more fun.”

There was nothing more you could do to sway your mother. You were still fuming when she tucked you in and kissed you goodnight.

Another week passed before you were fully well again, and then another few days dragged on when your father insisted you continue resting. You were therefore quite eager for your next chance to find some private time with your knight.

In your time apart, he had accumulated some bruises on his face and neck and moved with a stiffness that spoke of sore muscles. It had taken all your restraint not to descend upon him when you first saw him at breakfast, surrounded by your family and other attendants. 

Now in the privacy of the meadow, you fussed over him.

“Are you well now, my lady?” he asked.

“Never mind that,” you said impatiently. “Are you alright??”

“I am fine, my lady. These injuries are not serious,” he said. “I have merely resumed training. In this time that I have served you, I have not raised my sword once. I must not dishonor you with my negligence.” “You could never dishonor me, sir knight,” you protested. “And I care very little for my ‘honor’. I only wish to keep you safe from harm. If only my mother prioritized your safety over her own amusement!!”

He would have replied but was suddenly interrupted by a yawn he could not suppress.

“Are you tired? You should return home—”

“No, my lady,” he said. “I wish to stay by your side.”

He was stubborn, immune to your further attempts at persuasion. So instead you laid on your back, fully stretched out and staring into the sky. “Lie next to me, sir knight, if you insist on accompanying me.”

He raised an eyebrow at you but laid down obediently. As soon as he lay flat, his good eye began to shutter from weariness. You said nothing as he succumbed to slumber, not wishing to disturb him.

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You seemed to be the only one who was not looking forward to the tournament. If you could magically summon rain and thunder with your bad mood, then you would have flooded the town. As it were, the sun was shining bright and merrily on the first day of celebrations. A low wooden barrier was erected in the middle of town, carving out a circle for the arena. Tents had also been set up for the participants’ use where they could prepare in privacy.

The last opportunity you had to speak with the knight was the night before. Then the morning had been filled with preparatory work of your own, imposed by your lady mother who insisted you wear your finest dress and jewelry for the occasion. Then breakfast had been a feast in and of itself, with many other lords and ladies who had traveled from afar to attend. Forced to play the part of the obedient daughter, you offered as much hospitality as you could while glancing around frantically for your knight. He was nowhere to be seen.

Now, seated next to your father outdoors on a raised wooden platform overlooking the arena, the first match of the day was about to start. At least your mother had the consideration to only have your knight participate in a singular exhibition match, the first one of the day. He would not have to fight in multiple rounds, but that did nothing to quell your uneasiness.

Your knight’s opponent stepped into the ring first. He was a younger man named Finn, just as tall and broad of shoulder as your knight, but more muscular. Brilliant green eyes shone through under his dark hair, cropped close to his ears. He seemed more of a showman than a fighter in the way he stalked around the edge of the arena, arms outstretched and soaking up cheers and applause, banging his sword against his shield to encourage more noisemaking from the audience. His wide smirk grew into a sneer as he turned and pointed his sword at your knight, who had only just entered the ring.

Your knight’s entrance was much more understated. He walked calmly towards the center of the arena in long and confident strides, with a straight back and a proud, dignified bearing. Ignoring his opponent’s attempts to mock him with words you could not make out. 

The two men circled each other a fair distance apart. Finn swaggered and jeered, feinting lunges at your knight to intimidate him. Throughout it all, your knight never flinched, stepping at a steady pace, sure and confident. Crouched low behind his shield with his sword raised level, pointing at his opponent. The tip of his weapon tracing small circles in the air.

You gasped when your knight’s shield came into view: he had painted your favorite purple coneflower on it, a dark orange seeded heart on the center disc while long straight petals unfurled outwards, filling the entire shield to touch the rim. If you could have run into the ring to pull your knight to safety, you would have.

Finn charged. Not another feint but a leap and a heavy swing of his sword at your knight’s left eye. An understandable move as the eyepatch would have fooled anyone into believing it was his blind spot.

But your knight raised his shield just in time to catch the blow. Finn’s sword glanced downwards. Quick as a flash, your knight slashed at Finn’s exposed side and jumped backwards. Almost dancelike with how quick and graceful he was on his feet.

The younger man swore and glared at your knight. Dropping all pretense of playing as he snarled, raising his sword and shield once again. Crashing his shield into your knight’s. But your knight never stumbled, still calm and unshakeable.

Another downward slash from Finn. Your knight blocked it with his sword. Then Finn slashed again and again, raining down a flurry of blows. All of them were blocked skillfully by your knight. But he was forced to walk backwards as the sheer barrage of Finn’s attacks pushed him closer and closer towards the edge of the arena.

Your knight was backed up against the barrier. He was forced to dodge Finn’s next blow by jumping sideways. Finn rammed his shield into your knight’s side, sending him tumbling to the ground. A kick to your knight’s wrist forced him to drop his sword.

Finn kicked the blade out of your knight’s reach, dropping his shield to snatch it for himself. He crossed both swords overhead, yelling in triumph. The crowd cheered along while you gasped in horror. Your knight leaped to his feet just as Finn shoved the discarded shield towards him. A surprisingly chivalrous gesture from Finn. Leaving one fighter with two swords and the other with two shields.

Your knight crouched low as he raised both shields. Peeking out over the tops of them. Finn laughed as he charged again, raising both swords high. But it was another feint— just as your knight raised the shields to block again, Finn turned and slammed his shoulder into the shields. Your knight held strong, staying on his feet.

Finn seemed to realize his mistake. Your knight was now a moving wall, made impenetrable by the second shield. He matched Finn’s speed move for move, blocking each attack perfectly. Waiting for his opponent to tire himself out.

A spinning slash from Finn. His back was exposed. Your knight charged into Finn, sending him crashing to the ground. The younger man dropped the swords and rolled onto his back. Only for your knight to pin him to the ground with a knee. Shield rim shoved under Finn’s chin.

Finn struggled but your knight did not yield. Whatever your knight was saying to his opponent was inaudible from so far away. But it seemed enough to make the younger man drop his head to the ground in frustrated defeat. Boos and cheers in equal measure exploded into the air as the victor got to his feet. Bowing in your direction before walking off.

You slipped away from your seat before anyone noticed, ducking into the tents. You passed through several, catching their occupants by surprise.

Finally, you found him. He turned to face you just as you entered.

He was shirtless, his chainmail shirt discarded on a nearby table. His eyepatch was missing as well. Leaving him the most exposed that you had ever seen him. Sweat dripped down his long neck to pool in his collarbone, then traced the contours of his thin but wiry arms. His toned chest rising and falling with each breath. Scars and bruises alike smattered irregularly under his skin. Large veined hands slinging a cloth over his shoulder. Trousers clinging to his tapered waist. Every muscle and sinew threading together to form his handsomely slender physique, tall and elegant even without clothing.

Oh. “I am so sorry—”

“My lady,” he said, surprised. “I did not expect to see you so soon.”

“I wanted to see you,” you said, squinting at the ground.

“Forgive me,” he said. A rustle of cloth, then the sound of him patting himself down. You looked up to see that he was now wearing a loose shirt. The deep V of the neckline ended above his ribs, giving you a tantalizing glimpse of his nakedness that you had so enjoyed.

“There is nothing to forgive, sir knight,” you said after clearing your throat. “I am sorry for interrupting you at such an inopportune moment.”

“All is well, my lady. I wanted to see you too. Please,” he gestured towards a wooden stool, inviting you to take a seat.

You smiled at him, finally relaxing from the stress that had built up since your mother’s announcement. “No thank you, sir knight. You need it more than myself. You fought valiantly! Are you hurt?”

“Thank you,” he smiled back. “It is nothing that a good night’s rest will not cure.”

“I am sorry my mother put you through this,” you cringed at her childishness. “I wish I could promise that she will never do so again.”

“As your father’s wife, I am obliged to serve her whims as well,” he said diplomatically, to which you snorted. “I am glad that she will allow me to remain in your service.”

“Thank goodness… you are the only one for me,” you sighed, then hastily added, “Another knight would be quite unnecessary.”

He raised an eyebrow at you in puzzlement. “Strange… your mother told me if I lost, I would be relieved of my duties entirely. If I had known they would only be halved then I should have been less afraid of defeat.”

Your jaw dropped at your mother’s audacity. Then you ground your teeth, doing your best not to cuss at your mother out loud.

“I should hate to lose the pleasure of your close company,” your knight said, even as he chuckled at your fury. “But I am glad to have your mother’s blessing.”

“Would that I could order you to give her a taste of your blade,” you grumbled. “Thank you for the flowers, sir knight. That was very kind of you.”

“Not at all,” he said simply. “I missed you.”

What a strange thing for him to say when you were standing right in front of him. But perhaps the tournament had weighed just as heavily on his mind as it did on yours, what with your mother threatening to end his employment. 

“I missed you too,” you said softly. “I hope to see you again soon, sir knight.” As much as you preferred your knight’s company over your mother’s, it was time you left to rejoin her.

“My lady,” he said by way of goodbye, nodding once. He watched you closely as you departed. Hopefully, it would not be long before you were reunited with him again.

Part 4

[sailorshadzter]

somewhat inspired by @taylorswift "head on the pillow i can feel you sneaking in"

willow is so jonsa coded that naturally every time i hear it i think of them.

anyways.

here you go!

In the darkness of her own rooms, she feels alone. 

It is quiet and still, the only sound that of the howling wind outside her window; once, she’d have shuddered at the sound. Now it just feels like home. Sighing, she rolls onto her side, hand tucked beneath her cheek, legs curled up beneath the heavy furs. Winterfell had gone off to bed some hours before, but she still lays awake there in her bed, in the room her parents once shared, kept awake by more than just memories. In truth, she’s kept awake this night by one thing and one thing alone.

And what she doesn’t know is that one thing is walking down the hall towards her rooms. 

Jon knows he’s stupid to do this, to come to her rooms so late into the night. But, he’s lost without her tonight, his need to see her, to feel her, to be with her outweighs every other thought and feeling. So, he creeps along the darkened corridors, his footsteps the only sound in the silence, until finally he stands at her door, torn between what was right and what he wanted. 

But, again, his own selfish needs win and he pushes open her door without a knock; they haven’t knocked in ages. Her room is dark and quiet, making him wonder if she sleeps peacefully there in her bed, but, as he approaches, he can hear the shifting of her mattress, can see the twist of her body as she rolls over to peer up at him in the darkness. No words are needed as he slips between the furs, just as she has done a thousand times or more, the warmth of her skin ghosting against his own. “I wondered when you might come,” she whispers as his head hits her pillow and he can hear the smile in her voice. 

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admits softly and she’s laughing, the sound like music to his ears. Once he had wondered if he would ever hear that sound again, now, he hears it often. Wordlessly she inches closer until he can wrap her in his arms, drawing her in so she might press her ear to his chest, to listen to the sound of his strong heartbeat. She thinks back to all the other nights they’ve shared like this, when that sound had been the only thing to bring her any comfort at all. “I needed to hold you like this,” his arms had felt empty without her, his bed cold without her in it. She feels the touch of his lips to the top of her head, soft and slow, but it ignites a fire within her that she feels all the way down to the tips of her toes. For a single moment, she wonders how she’s ever lived without knowing his touch like this, without knowing his warmth as she does now. To live a life without it, without him… It was almost too painful to think of. “Where have you gone, sweetheart…?” His voice traces along the outline of her jaw, lips to skin, a gesture which still yet sends shivers down her spine.

“I was only thinking of how I could not bear to lose you,” she says as his teeth gently sink into the soft, ivory skin of her throat, uncaring of the tiny bruises he will leave behind. One of his hands has tangled itself into the long, unbound locks of her hair, the other placed upon her hip, keeping her there, as if she were to ever slip away. 

“You will never,” he reminds her, serious now, gray eyes finding her blue ones in the dark. “Never, Sansa.” He means it and she knows it. Her lips curve with a small smile and she leans in, forehead to forehead, her hands slipping into place against his cheeks. She could stay right here forever, if only time would allow it. “I am yours forever, no matter the cost.” He would fight any battle, face any foe, do anything and everything for her, no matter what it took. “You believe me, don’t you?” 

Once, she might not have.

She remembers who she was when she first came to him in Castle Black, broken and helpless, tormented by those she once trusted and hurt by those who should have loved her. Life was not kind to her in the time since she left home all those years ago, though, she supposes it was not kind to any of the Stark family. She thinks of what they’ve lost, who they’ve lost, and she wonders, if just for a moment, if in the end it would all be worth it. But then Jon squeezes her hand and she knows, she believes, that it would all turn out as it should. He would keep her safe and they would be happy. Happier than they’ve ever been. Happier than they ever thought they could be. 

“I do,” she whispers back and his lips find hers, strong and true, full of unspoken things. 

Full of everything she needs and wants.

[ghostwise]

kiss prompt!! 22. to distract 💗

The streets in Rivington are filled with refugees, merchants, and all the opportunity that follows when crowds of needy people congregate. Zirahuén watches them from afar. Their conversations, their laughter and sorrow, reach her as a persistent murmur.

Once she would have been down in the crowds herself, pickpocketing from the fullest purse. But that was decades ago.

Baldur’s Gate hasn’t changed.

She’s the one that’s different.

With a sigh, she closes the window to the noise outside.

In truth, she is unsettled. Coming back to the city after all these years rather feels like looking in a mirror and seeing a young and ragged thing, all freckles and bruises, grit and grime. A curse on her breath and a knife in hand, and one objective: survive.

It’s hard not to be reminded of that life. And she’s no fool to think she can’t easily return to it. That’s one thing she won’t do; act like that child is apart from her, disowning her twice, when nothing could be further from the truth.

There is so little that separates her from becoming so desperate and lost again. There is such little difference between her and the worst murderer, the lowliest thief.

What is she now, truly? A villain to some, hero to others.

She has to wonder.

Then the door opens, bringing a welcome interruption to her reverie.

“Gods preserve us,” Shadowheart says, striding in. “My poor, doomed love.”

“Shadowheart? What is it?” Zirahuén asks.

“I am afraid you are being summoned,” Shadowheart tells her, pity in her eyes as she finishes in dismal whisper, “to the circus.”

“Right. Hold, please. Run that by me again?”

A slow smile forms on her lips, as Shadowheart throws her arms around her shoulders and buries her face in her neck, all melodrama.

“Sweet Zirahuén! I’ll miss you!”

“No need, I assure you.”

“I will not love again! I swear it!”

“Oh, good!”

Shadowheart draws back and gives her a wide-eyed look, which lasts for only a second before they both break down in stifled laughter.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Zirahuén says, “but aren’t you going to the circus with us? What makes you think you’re any less doomed than I am?”

“Rude of you to ask,” Shadowheart says.

“What happened to ‘sweet’?”

“A little of both.” She smiles at her appraisingly. “Just how I like it.”

Funny that she says that. For a moment Zirahuén just marvels at her, and feels a little pang of we’re the same. And also, she knows we’re the same, and she likes it.

That mirror becomes easier to bear.

“Uh-huh,” she says finally. “Well, unfortunately for the circus, I am otherwise occupied and cannot attend.”

“And what so urgently demands your attention, hm-? Ah-! Nooo!”

She picks her up, and Shadowheart laughs, and the sound is more vibrant than all her weary thoughts.

All souls are the same in Death, made from the same type of thing. Had she died in an alley twenty years ago, or whether she dies tomorrow as a tentacled husk, what difference is it to Kelemvor?

What matters is what she does today.

Today she opts to take her lover into her arms, spin her around once and kiss her dimpled cheeks. She opts to be among friends and allies, and not give into hopelessness.

“It’s going to be really dreadful,” Shadowheart chuckles, and pulls a face. But even she, Zirahuén can tell, is tentatively excited.

“I certainly hope so,” Zirahuén says. “Let’s go.”

[hekateinhell]

Vamptember, Day 7: Reverse AU

adult vampire!Claudia and little mortal!Lestat | M | 1.3k | tags: abuse and SA mentions/references, gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

New Orleans, 1808

Winter in New Orleans makes the evenings draw on longer. 

Meaning that Claudia has to create her own entertainment lest she go mad with boredom; she takes what she wants and does as she pleases. 

How many other women can say that? 

Sitting in front of the vanity, turning her head from side-to-side, pondering which role best suits her temperament tonight.

Pity she had been a poor white’s daughter at her death, malnourished to the point of missing her menses at the mature age of twenty. Oh, how utterly brutal the beatings were when her father and brothers caught on and arrived at the wrong conclusion! 

Whore. Slut. Witch. 

Such a rabid pleasure to crush each of their skulls between her hands the night she’d returned to the dingy little shack by the river. A giggle escaping her at each agonizingly slow crack of bone, delighting in their futile struggles. Dark torrents of blood igniting the demonic thirst inside her, and finally, the gelatinous messes — more fun than mud pies — gushing as she digs her thumbs into their eye sockets. 

Eyes that had violated her long before their ever hands did. 

“Witch!” 

“And yet it’s you that shall burn at the stake tonight, father dearest! Fancy that!” 

She beams at her reflection at the memory, the blonde ringlets that cascade over her small breasts bouncing as she trembles with poorly suppressed anticipation. Not a wasteful eater, no, but she does enjoy playing with her food. 

Finishing touches, a robin’s blue ribbon in her hair, her corset cinched tight to create the hourglass figure she most certainly did not possess. 

Childbearing hips that would never bear onto her a child, the son that the Lord she once prayed to for deliverance had sent to her in her dreams. A promise that one day she would have final dominion over the male sex. 

Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. 

Holy Mary, mother of God.

It’s humid when she sets out, but then again, it’s always humid in New Orleans: a sinner’s city, a gambler’s paradise. Fragrant roses combine with the stench of urine and decay as she makes her way down the cobblestone streets, taking in the sounds of the night. A child cries, a man yells to his wife: You stupid bitch!; a horse and carriage trot by, the mud almost reaching her shoes; a drunkard’s piercing laugh. 

“Hey, pretty lady, what are you doing all by your lonesome? Don’t you know what happens to dainty little things like you in places like these?”

Sounds like a tramp but means well. He has two sisters at home; one older and one younger. Claudia reminds him of the youngest. 

“Oh, I didn’t know! I’m new to the area, you see, and terribly disoriented! I don’t mean to trouble you Sir, but it is awfully late and now I am awfully frightened… If you could please escort me to my home, I have been trying to find my way back for hours to no avail!” She knows what men like to hear.

She can be demure.

Helpless. 

“Of course, darling,” he proffers her his arm which she graciously accepts, “I know this city like the back of my own hand.” 

Perfect. 

A quick, satisfying break of his elbow and his knees soon follow before she takes her first drink of the night, the gambler’s luck running dry as his sweet blood runs down her throat. His heart pounding on her tongue, the glorious resistance she craves gradually fading. No, no! Fight me more, handsome. Fight me just as hard as I fought them! Alas, it is finished and Claudia pulls back, wiping her mouth on her lace glove. 

She stands in the shadows, still clutching the body, savoring the aftertaste. Not an evil soul, merely one made unfortunate by virtue of his sex, as she had once been.  

A hunter as shrewd as she, a woman who’d been raised to have the survival instincts of a prey animal in the jungle, shouldn’t have been caught off guard by sudden wailing so high-pitched, Claudia cringes into herself. Relentlessly loud and surely bound to attract attention!

The body hits the ground with a wet thud as another, much smaller body barrels into her skirts, clinging to her legs. 

Images flash through the child’s mind; he can’t be older than five. A brute of a father raising his fists. A mother cold and impassive, her nose in a book as her children wept for her affections, even her scolding lacked interest. “Quiet down, Lestat.” Blonde and beautiful yet gaunt — Claudia had she lived another ten years, perhaps. Lived the wretched life she was destined to have, like her mother before her and her mother before her. 

This woman doesn’t want her child, and the decision is made. 

“There, there,” she drops to her knees to embrace the boy. His hair tangled unkempt, a shade strikingly similar to hers. His face covered in dirt, the scrapes along his arms and legs still oozing blood. Delirious from terror, hunger, and exhaustion, and in the darkness, he thinks she is his mother.

Claudia swallows back her thirst. 

“I didn’t mean it!” he sobs as he presses himself flush to her chest, burrowing into her sharp collarbone. Tears, dirt, and mucus smear all over the cotton of her dress, her hardened skin. “I didn’t mean to run! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I want to go home! I’ll be good! I’ll listen, I promise!”

Yes, Claudia's decision has been made, but not here. 

“I know, dearest,” she lifts him off the ground and he settles momentarily, soft and warm. Pulls back to stare at her face, large grey eyes blinking at her. 

He touches her cheek, curious and gentle. Frowns. 

“Mama, you’re so cold.” 

There’s a second where she can feel his hummingbird heart quicken, little rosebud mouth pinching as he sniffles loudly, the tears gathered on his long lashes suspended as he holds her stare with intensity. But then it passes, and he rests his head on her shoulder.

“You need a blanket, Mama,” he sighs and drops his sticky fingers from her cheek, bringing his thumb to his mouth instead. She, too, had suckled her thumb until far too old an age. 

Back home, she cleanses his face.

He whines in his sleep, whimpering into her palm. Fragile and pitiful as the newborn kittens her brother Edgar had drowned to punish her. 

Her clothes are too big, and the doll’s clothes are too small. She cuts a nightgown three-quarters of the way short. The candle flickers and so does her confidence, but it’s too late now. His lifeblood flowing over her tongue, his little heart going and going, refusing to give up! Burst after vibrant burst, innocence devoured. 

Mama, Mama… I love you, Mama.

Claudia groans with it, the flavor of unrivaled purity unlike anything she's ever sampled before. She's never had to catch herself at the very edge of the precipice before; the shadow of a thought passes through her mind that perhaps she doesn't have to — she'll gorge herself on this one and find another to suit the same purpose: make for herself a son sculpted in her unholy image alone. 

But this precious heart! It still won't surrender! How can she trust that she will ever find another with not only the looks to match hers, but one that reflects back to her her own unbroken tenacity? 

“Mama’s here,” she tears open her bodice, exposing her breast, the dark blue vein at the underside. Makes the incision, guiding the child’s mouth to it. She will be Thetis reimagined in the spirit of the new age, submerging the baby Achilles in the River Styx to grant him immortal life, this time careful to fully saturate the heel.

The greedy thing latches quickly, reflexes of an infant still nestled in his subconscious as he takes all that Claudia has to offer.

It must be the male in him. 

“Mama’s here,” she repeats, stroking his hair, humming a long-forgotten lullaby.

Once, a poor woman’s only comfort to her daughter. Now, a little boy’s dirge.

“And you’ll be good for your Mama, won’t you, Lestat?”

[fandomfluffandfuck]

I know your prompts are closed, but I have to ask your thoughts on just out of the ice Steve struggling to fall asleep, because he just can't shake the fear that if he does, the next time he opens his eyes another ten, twenty, seventy, a hundred, years have passed, and he's even more out of time. So he looks desperately for solutions, medication won't work, a new place makes him feel too unsafe, white noise does as well, he doesn't like not being able to hear. ASMR doesn't work, at least, not at first. He hates the soft talking, the squishing and crunching of slimes. The taps and pops are to sudden, reminding him of the sharp cracks of gunshots in an otherwise quiet night. But then he finds a video of someone sketching, and the quiet rasp of the pencil and charcoal over the paper puts him to sleep almost before he realizes what's happened. -🐍

First, I have to tell you that you said ASMR, and immediately I was like, hold on, hold on, hold on--didn't I write something about Steve and ASMR? Did I just imagine that?

Because, exactly! I've always had the thought in my head of Steve not enjoying ASMR because of his super hearing. It feels like rather than giving him tingles, I would be grating and sharp to his ears, at least, especially out of the ice when he's so vulnerable and raw.

So... I had to take a minute to look through my masterlists. What I was thinking of was this drabble about Steve being touch-starved. So, that's something that might be something you're interested in, but also two other drabbles:

Steve and Natasha and their bad dreams while on the run

Steve and Bucky and sleepless nights

Based on those three drabbles, though, you can probably already tell what my thoughts are on Steve and sleep. And it's pain. Just painful. I am so here for angst, but really, I just can't see much otherwise for him, fresh out of the ice.

The thought of Steve finding unedited, real-time videos of people drawing traditionally--graphite on paper--and using those lengthy videos to find relaxation and eventually sleep is so tender, though. So thoughtful. It would be the perfect lull for him.

Which makes me think of this ask, also. Specifically, the idea that, "[Steve] said once that he's pretty sure he's had his fill of sleep after 70 years of it, but that was a lie. He's tired. Has he always been this tired? He's tired, exhausted, all the way down to his bones."

**This got a little darker than I thought it would. Please tread carefully if you're sensitive to thoughts surrounding suicidal ideation and descriptions of the symptoms of depression!**

Steve's been gone for seventy years. Unconscious. Not exactly asleep, not exactly dead. Just. Gone. He's missed seventy fucking years of the world turning and turning and turning. Yet... it's the same, too. When he plunged into the biting cold water--his body stinging with the temperature, painful and chilling to the depths of his soul and also a sensation of nothing at all as his mind simply stopped working, too much sensory imput to the point that he was wiped out, wiped clean with nothing left--he was fighting. Then, when he was here again, no longer gone, surrounded by purely new individuals and new expectations and a new reputation, larger than life, he's still fighting. He isn't even told to fight. No. He's expected to fight. No one ever slows down enough to ask him if he wants to fight still.

Does Steve still want to fight?

Is... is it okay if he doesn't want to fight?

What is he fighting for anyway? He doesn't know anything about what life is anymore. Life in the country he represented once alongside life anywhere. He's so disconnected, so out of place. And... how can he connect? He doesn't know. He doesn't know if he can connect. He doesn't know if he wants to connect again. Connecting, restarting his life in an alien world where everyone already knows about his old life, sounds exhausting. Steve's so exhausted already. He doesn't know if he has the energy to connect. He doesn't know if he has the energy to keep living. He doesn't know.

He feels so slow all the time. He feels, once more, like he's half-starved and wrecked by the last dregs of a fever, a battle with another round with another illness, shaky, his brain fogged and nonfunctional. He wanders through the fog. He's cold. He's unsteady. He can't sleep.

He wants to sleep so badly, he's so tired. Exhausted. But. He can't sleep. Every time he lays down, his mind is suddenly clear and functioning--over-functioning. Overthinking. Taking a nosedive into a downward spiral. Consumed and torn apart by fear. If he closes his eyes now, when will he open them next? How long will it be? How long will it be until he can move and live and breathe again? (Is Steve breathing now? How does he know he's alive? How does he know he can move at all? Now that he's on his back, his limbs feel leaden. He's rooted to the bed, rotting into the cold sheets and firm mattress, his arms by his sides, his legs straight, formation for survival in the tight, coffin-like spaces of the barracks.) How long will it be until he wakes up with his throat already raw from the screams, drowning in nightmares? Nightmares about war. Nightmares about death. Nightmares about the nebulous, unreal passage of time. Nightmares that combine all of that and show him in a whirlwind all the faces of everyone he's ever loved--

All of them gone.

Steve wants to sleep. Steve wants to sleep so desperately, too tired to even cry, that he just wants to be gone. He doesn't think sleep can fix this. He just wants to be gone.

Please.

Why can't the earth open up and swallow him whole. Return him to the ice. Steve almost wishes they never found him. He wishes they had left him in the ice. If he hadn't come back, he would never have known he was gone.

He wants to be gone.

[thesparklingwriter]

taking fate into one's own hands

03—resignation

Word count: 1.4k

please note, there are two polls this chapter! one is the usual poll and the other is hidden in the text somewhere.

navi | taglist | masterlist

You look at Morax carefully. “A marriage built on lies…” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, and you glance at him, gauging his reaction. He returns your gaze with leashed curiosity, and you sigh, busying yourself with your dress. “I suppose I shall forgive you. Just this once.”

“How gracious,” he smiles. “Thank you.”

You shrug and turn to face the window. You watch as the bright green meadows slowly get overtaken by glistening rocks, and the carriage suddenly begins to jostle you more and more. It settles once you’re fully into Liyuean territory, and the ride suddenly becomes much smoother. There's truly no going back now, but you realise that there’s nothing that truly holds you back to your home. Your closest friend is with you and as you grew older, your parents seemed to hold you at a distance. If there are ties to be cut, years of indifference have already weakened them.

“So, what am I to call you?” You ask finally, once the reminders of your old home have finally dissipated and you begin to resign yourself to your new future.

“What would you like to call me?” Morax sits back in his seat, a slightly amused glint twinkling in his eyes betraying his stoic face.

“What am I expected to call you?” You amend, maintaining your level stare.

“Once again, I struggle to truly believe that this is the path you intend to take. I would much rather you were honest and true to yourself than acting in a manner that you believe would please me most.”

You blink, taken aback by his deduction of your character. “That is not my intention.”

“Then why do you ask such questions?”

“I simply do not wish to offend.” You reply coldly, focusing your glance out of the window. “If you regard that as submission, that is your prerogative. I daren’t tell you what to think.”

In your peripheral vision, you catch Morax’s eyes narrow slightly, but you do not address it or draw attention to it. You asked the question, but you already had made a decision. You would avoid any situation that required you to address him by name, which would be all, if not most.

The journey is mainly silent from that point on. You find it hard to reconcile your emotions with reason—you have no reason to hate the man who has saved your kingdom and your family from ruin, and you have no reason to purposefully smite him. But even yet, you still feel that he is undeserving of the gratitude he must expect from you. If he truly wanted to help your kingdom out of the kindness of his heart, he didn't need to uproot you to do it.

After a while, the driver announces that you are nearing the castle, and you do your utmost to not show that you’re nervous. It’s bad enough that he’s taking you from your family—the last thing you want is for him to see it’s affecting you.

“I presume you would like some time to familiarise yourself with the castle and its surroundings and I shall leave you to do that.” Morax says to you as the carriage slows to a stop. He watches as you climb out of the carriage and courteously bow to the driver and the maid who escorts you and Alanna to your chambers. Your posture is better than hundreds of Liyueans he's had the pleasure of meeting.

“Am I to assume that things didn’t go well?”

Morax sighs as he exits the carriage, regarding the prince carefully.

“It didn’t go horrendously.” He says.

"I think if you were to show her around, rather than a maid, it might make her less critical of you.”

“Thank you, Xiao, but I’ll have to decline. There were some absurdities on the journey here that I plan to assess.”

“Surely you aren’t prioritising work over the woman you are to marry,” Xiao says quietly. It was rare that he ever questioned the king. He had been very young when Morax had taken him under his wing, and even despite the absurdity of their whole arrangement, Xiao had begun to view him as a brother.

“I have no intention of marrying her as it stands. My concern is keeping her away from those affiliated with the abyss, or else her kingdom loses their future queen, and we lose our most valuable trade partner.”

“I have never understood you,” Xiao says, as they walk toward Morax’s office. "Why claim to, then?" There’s no response, so Xiao assumes that Morax didn't hear him, or he simply doesn’t care.

~

Your room is pretty—nicer than the one you had at home. Perhaps if you sat quietly and did what you were told you’d find yourself in enough favour with the king to help them out. Or maybe they didn’t even deserve that. You’re not sure whether you should help the parents who sold you to the highest bidder.

The dark wooden frames of the expansive bed and the furniture contrast nicely with the red and golden fabric and decorations, and the seat of your desk is so soft that the minute you sit on it, you’re convinced you could sleep on it.

“Is there a room ready for you, Alanna?” You ask.

Alanna sweeps her pale golden hair out of her face. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet and you wonder whether it’s due to the fact she’d never left your home kingdom before.

“No, not yet.” She says quietly. “But that’s alright. Do not worry about me.” You stare at her in disbelief but do not protest yet. It’s too early in the day to convince her otherwise.

You begin to regret not bringing any clothing with you. At the time, it had seemed logical, at least so Alanna could carry more, but now you find yourself without comfortable clothes to sleep in and shoes that don't announce your presence to the whole palace.

“Your Highness, I do hope you won’t take this as a betrayal, but your parents asked me to take this letter for you.” Alanna hands you a simple envelope. There’s no seal—of course, your parents needed to save the seals for more extravagant occasions—and the paper is yellow and weathered. “I understand that your emotions towards them are complex, but—”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You don't want to bother Alanna with how you feel about the letter or whether you intend to read it or not. “I appreciate it. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” Alanna smiles. “Just doing my duty.”

You sit down at your desk, looking through the endless sheets of paper and stationery in the drawers beside it. Perhaps now is a good time to take up calligraphy to pass the time.

If you were at home, you could have gone for a walk in the gardens, or maybe gone to speak to some of the kitchen staff and help them with some of the food prep. If you hadn't donated your books to the children in the city who needed them more than you did, you could have read them.

But the years of struggle had meant that you’d slowly forgotten how to have hobbies. And now, with no freedom to explore anything new yet, you’re at a serious loss as to what to do. Alanna has begun to busy herself with evaluating the bathroom, and you scribble halfheartedly at a sheet of thick writing paper.

A knock at the door drags you out of your dazed contemplation. There’s a considerable ink blot on the paper you were practising on, and Alanna has found herself face down on your bed, snoring softly.

You hear another knock, and you swipe invisible dirt off your dress before opening the door.

“Good evening,” You say, surprised to see none other than the king at your door. You had expected him to send someone to collect you if he had the intention to speak to you.

“Good evening, yn. I trust your afternoon has been pleasant?” Morax seems slightly more relaxed than when you left him earlier, his long hair is released from its braid, and his attire is somewhat less extravagant. It’s not simple enough to let you forget that he is the king of one of the wealthiest nations in Teyvat, but enough to let you know that he’s probably had enough of being king for the day.

“You could say that,” You reply.

“I must apologise for abandoning you today. There were a few work matters that required my attention. If you’re interested, I would be more than happy to show you around the palace tomorrow, but for now, would you accompany me to dinner?”

how will you proceed?

the link above goes to the poll deciding what the reader will do next. please vote on it! if the link isn't live yet, please go to my blog-the poll will be there.

author's note: hello....its me...i was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet ... okay I'm done with the adele, hello everybody how are you, i hope you're all well, sorry for dying but blame tumblr :(( i actually hate change so much and that's all tumblr has been doing recently lol

taglist: @ainescribe @tartigglez

[bluebellhairpin]

Thorin Oakenshield X Fem!Reader

Summary; After a night of celebration, you leave Laketown for Erebor. Only there is something hiding between you and being able to call the mountain home.

Warnings; Depictions of nightmares/sickness. Reader is female-body-coded, uses she/her pronouns, and is Human.

Listening to; 'The Valley' by Nadiiife - "Run to the mountains, run to the hills, choose another path than this."

Part 10 || Part 12

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

For you, the morning after the celebrations in Laketown started quietly. 

Over half those able had drunk themselves under the table, a few of your companions included, while others who chose not to had started mulling about business again. You’d already dressed in the travel clothes provided and started packing provisions when Balin hobbled over beside you to silently start to do the same. 

“You are sleeping less,” he noted quietly. “The closer we get to the mountain, the worse it’s becoming. I’m not sure if Thorin’s noticed.” He knocked your elbow with his, and you looked over at him. He was smiling - all cheeks and no teeth - and it pulled at your heart, the way it reminded you of a friend who’d known you for a much longer time. “You share your trouble’s with him often, but if you care to share this with another I am more then willing to listen." he offered softly. 

You felt yourself soften, as if an unknown weight had settled on you and Balin had only now pointed it out. Your lips pursed together, and your arm wrapped around his shoulder. 

“The event’s ahead, what I see brings me worry and I’m not sure how to change it.” you started, voice low so as to not draw attention or wake anyone who was still resting. “All of you have become very dear to me and I do not wish to lose you.” 

Your eyes cast over to the corner of the room you had been sleeping in with Thorin, Fili, and Kili. Even in sleep Thorin was looking troubled, and even in sleep Kili was looking deathly ill. You caught Fili’s eye as he stirred awake, and your heart hurt a little at how unaware he was of what was to come. 

“Hey,” Balin said, turning your attention to him once more, “I know you can’t help worrying, but you’re not alone. We are all here to reclaim Erebor. We are all here to make sure we get there safely.” The warmth of his hand on your shoulder and his words made you sigh. 

“I know Balin,” you said, breaking away to return to packing. “I know.” 

After Thorin woke, he stayed close by your side until you were on the boat to leave Laketown. You stood waiting for him by the bow.

Erebor shone bright in the morning sunshine, but as you turned to look across the Dwarves on the boat (and subsequently the Hobbit, whom you were sure was hidden among them all) your eyes caught Thorin stopping Kili from boarding. Frowning, you strained your ears to try and hear what was going on. 

“You will only slow us down.” Thorin said, and you felt your mouth dry at what his words implied. “Come when you are well again. We will welcome you home.” 

You were about to get up and protest - Kili had to stay with the Company - when Fili stood instead, addressing his Uncle with such stubbornness it was no wonder how they were related. But he wasn’t the only thing that stopped you. 

A voice, soft and familiar, was speaking to you. ‘Kingsfoil’ it whispered. 

“Fili!” you called. He turned, a frown set on his face as if expecting you to protect him staying the same way his Uncle did. 

“Kingsfoil.” you echoed. 

“What?” he said. Your eyes glanced over at Thorin - he was getting impatient, although he wouldn’t tell you to hurry, you knew he wanted to. 

“To reduce fevers.” Oin mumbled in passing. He took Kili under a shoulder and heaved him aside with the strength of a younger Dwarf. 

“When you can you must go get some.” you urged, taking Fili’s hand in yours. 

“My place is with my brother.” 

“You will have no brother if he doesn’t receive what he needs to get better.” Your words came out harsh, with more bite than you intended. Emotions were high, and you weren’t helping. You knew it. 

“I know you are worried,” you said, voice softening and your hold on his hand tightening, “But at least send someone. The quicker he gets it the quicker he will get well.” You hand cupped his cheek, and your forehead pressed against his for a moment. “We will see you both soon.” 

When you pulled away he looked far more docile. The simple act had softened him, and you kept that knowledge locked away for another day. “Of course Irak’amad. Soon.”

Despite the boat journey being tedious, the walk to Dale even worse with weapons and bags strapped over each shoulder, now you were all now so much closer to Erebor. From the summit above the old trade city, the mountain seemed so close you could reach out and touch it. 

But despite that, your attention couldn't help but be drawn to the ruins below. Reality hit hard - with the visible destruction that dragon-fire caused set before you. The smoke stains on buildings that never faded. Parts of walls that crumbled under the fractured weight. You could even make out some blackened bodies burnt to coals. 

What you were doing was dangerous, it always had been, but unlike before this wasn’t done by a horde of Orcs or a nest of Goblins.

This was done by one being. A single dragon. It had seemed life had returned to Erebor, but if that overgrown snake truly still lay in the mountain, you all would be in a lot of trouble. 

It took almost an entire day to find the right spot - the map Thorin had apparently was only so useful, and a fair amount of guesswork had to be put into place. Luckily there were plenty of you, and Dwarven voices carried far across the mountainside. 

Really, once it was in front of you, it was quite obvious. You can’t hide a giant statue carved into a mountain very well.

By the time you climbed up the stairs to where the door was, the sun was well into the lower regions of the sky. It would set soon, and as soon as Dwalin and Nori were beside you on the ledge they went straight to work trying to find the keyhole. The light was fading as they tried to get it to open. 

They found nothing. 

“No -” Thorin said, stepping aside from the patch of wall he’d been searching to fish the map from inside his shirt. “‘The last light of Durin’s day will shine upon the keyhole’. That’s what it says.” he said with a shaking voice. You watched as he looked up at the Company, and his eyes settled on you. “What did we miss?” 

You had to turn away towards the faded sun, fearing if he or anyone else looked at you like that more you might burst into tears. You felt your head shake as you swallowed thickly. This couldn’t be it. Despite all signs pointing towards a missed chance, you felt that this wasn’t the end. 

“Come away,” Balin said, “There’s nothing more we can do now.” Even though he was taking charge, there was a tremor in his voice he wasn’t shaking. You ran a hand over your face and felt your knees buckle until you were stuck lowered in a squat with a hand on the ground. 

“Wait, where -” Bilbo started behind you, “where are they going? You can’t give up now!” You felt a surge of sorrow wash through you, and your jaw clenched so hard you almost feared breaking your teeth. He was so hopeful, you were too but for what purpose? There wasn’t one. They'd all come so far just to give up hope now, why bother holding onto it yourself. 

“It’s over Bilbo.” you muttered. Behind you you heard the clink of metal dropping onto stone, and something settled near your fingertips. 

“No,” Bilbo said your name, “You can’t. Thorin please you can’t give up now.

“We’re leaving.” Thorin said, and you heard the smack of paper hit, presumably, Bilbo's chest. “We missed it." Thorn said, walking back to you, and crouching down at your side.

“Go Thorin.” you said, kicking your feet out in front of you with your eyes cast down to your lap where your hands now held a useless key. “Your Hobbit is stubborn. I’ll come down when he does.”  

"There's no more reason to stay." He pulled your head to face him, away from the forgotten sun.

“I know.” you said, tears welling in your eyes. You took his hand away from your cheek and held it in yours. “I just feel like I need to stay a little longer. Just a few minutes.” Thorin nodded while Bilbo mumbled in the background. He stood, then left down the stairs as you watched him go. 

Turning back to the sky, you couldn’t help but think the moon was bright that night. Then you thought about how you’ll have to start a journey back home tomorrow - wherever home was. 

You frowned. ‘Tomorrow’. It was still today, Durin’s day. 

“The Keyhole!” Bilbo yelled and you whipped around to face him. “The last light - it's the light of the moon. The last moon of autumn!” Scrambling to your feet, you ran to the Hobbit’s side, and pressed your fingers into the key-shaped divot in the wall. 

“You did it Master Baggins." you smiled at him, catching a wide smile back. “You found it.” 

“Thorin! Come back! The key - where is the key?” 

"It's here Bilbo." you said, holding the key up to his eyes with amusement, and looked at it in your hands. This key, while it could be used to open the door now, was not your birthright to use. 

You turned on your heel to find Thorin’s head pop back up over the steps. He had been close. You smiled as he approached, and the Company followed soon after. Your hand reached out to grasp his, and you stepped beside him with your hand on his arm. 

"This is yours." You pressed the key into his hand and stepped back, letting him go to pass towards the door. Thorin unlocked it, and pushed it open.

"Erebor." They were home, and now Bilbo had to prove his worth one more time - stealing back the Arkenstone.

Inside the hidden corridors of Erebor, the Dwarves camped as Bilbo made his way towards the treasure hoard. Beside Thorin, you slept with your chin tucked down and your arms crossed. 

He watched as your face contorted into a frown, he wanted to smooth out the creases on your forehead with his thumb, but refused in case it woke you. 

“She is not well.” Balin said, having watched him watch you. Thorin hummed, and looked at you once more. It was true, something about you when you slept gave him the feeling you were sick. Your skin shone with sweat as if hot with a fever, and whatever the skin of your chest he could see over your clothes looked red. A glowing red - the kind he’d find in a hearth. 

“Is she sick?” Ori asked, just managing to peak over you to quietly speak to Thorin. 

Before Thorin could answer, you shot awake with a gasp - and Ori jumped back. 

"Lass, you a'right?" Dwalin asked, looking down at you, before looking over at Balin when you didn't reply. You just started ahead, breathing heavily. Balin peered at you, then shoved Thorin's shoulder to stop him staring.

Thorin said your name in a questioning manner, but you only shook him off. 

“It’s fine.” you said, pushing your hair over your shoulders. Thorin noted how long it had gotten over the time you’d travelled together. “It was nothing.” 

“If it were nothing, you wouldn’t be shaking so.” he said. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ori said, and you turned to look at the young Dwarf. Thorin was almost jealous at the soft spot you had for the younger ones of the Company. 

“Dreams can be like that,” you said quietly, clearly aware of the pairs of eyes on you. “The possibility of a dragon is making me anxious. That is all.” You pulled your legs to your chest, wiping the dust off the backs, before resting your arms on your knees. “What are you drawing?” Thorin heard you ask Ori. 

He didn’t pay much more attention to your mumbled conversation after that - not until you nudged his side with Ori’s notebook in your hand. 

“What?” 

“Look.” you answered simply. He took the book and looked down at the open page. It was an older page, telling tales of Goblins, but across from the words was a drawing - one that had been refined over time. 

It was of you and him. Thorin didn’t realize Ori’s penmanship skills went further than retelling stories. 

“That’s nice.” he said. His attempt at praise had you letting out a laugh. 

“Really? That’s all you can say?” you asked, taking back the notebook to return it to Ori. “It’s quite stunning. You should do something with this talent Ori.” 

“It’s nothing,” Ori said, shying away quite easily, “It’s just, well - if you’re going to leave us when this all ends I want to remember you and you and Thorin are happiest together - I want to remember you like that. You’re good friends. And leaders.” 

“Oh, Ori.” You said. Thorin felt his chest swell as you turned to thank Ori. He knew Ori was right, he was his best when he was with you - he knew he felt it, but didn’t realize that it showed. 

It was nice to know that his One was someone his people easily came to love - maybe even faster than he himself had. 

Just then, the mountain rumbled. Everyone who wasn’t standing scrambled to their feet, Thorin included, and he heard you suck in a breath beside him. 

“Was that an earthquake?” Dori asked timidly. 

“Dragon.” Balin replied. Thorin felt a shiver of fear and anger wash through him. Smaug was awake. 

“Bilbo.” Thorin heard you whisper. 

“What do we do about him?” Ori asked, looking towards the older Dwarves for answers. 

“We give him more time.” Thorin replied, and he felt you sigh and shuffle away. 

“Time to be killed?” Balin asked, stepping closer and turning them both away from the Company. “Thorin this isn’t like you -”

“You’re afraid.” Thorin said, feeling the heat of anger rise on the back of his neck. 

“Afraid for you.” Balin said. Thorin could feel eyes watching the back of his head, ears keen to hear what else was left to say. “The sickness that drove your grandfather mad is still on that treasure.” 

“I am not my grandfather.” 

“Yes, but you’re not being yourself.” 

“Shouldn’t we help Bilbo?” Dwalin asked, stepping forward. At the face of his two oldest friends questioning him, something very quiet snapped inside Thorin. 

“I will not risk this whole quest for the life of a single burglar.” 

“And your One - would you risk it for her and reduce her to a nameless title too?” Dwalin didn’t hold back - Thorin knew he was as stubborn (if not more) than himself. However he wondered why exactly you were being brought into the conversation about the Hobbit. 

“Don’t bring her into this.” he said. 

“Why not? Do you know where she’s gone?” Dwalin said, clapping a hand on Thorin’s shoulder to turn him to face the hall Bilbo had left in. “She’s just left to face that dragon - without you.”

You had enough of waiting. 

The sleep you caught on was necessary - but a good way to pass time as Bilbo crept through the Erebor halls - however it was not what you wanted to be doing. The moment you ducked into the mountain you felt an underwhelming feeling that the dragon Smaug was still alive. 

It was like you could taste it, the ash, heat, and oil. 

When it became official with the rumble of stone around where you once slept, you knew you couldn’t sit and wait anymore. Bilbo, although courageous at heart, could still be quite a timid hobbit. More so than you were, but with half the might. If he were facing that dragon with nothing but a sword he would easily be overpowered. 

You needed to help him. 

As Thorin and Balin spoke, and as the Company watched them with baited breath, waiting for a sign as to what to do next, you dropped all your bags, and set your swords to your back. You didn't need Thorin to tell you what to do, not when your friend's life was at stake.

To your knowledge you slipped away unnoticed, and no one stopped you doing so. 

As you ventured further into the mountain, the comforting sounds of the Company were drowned out by Smaug. His voice was loud, echoing to where you crept even from across the vast rooms. It almost made it impossible to tell where the right direction was. The only reason you knew you were heading in the right way was that slowly you begun to hear Bilbo's voice too. 

Turning a corner, you stopped dead in your tracks. Before you was a huge room - seemingly endless - and chocked full of glowing gold coins and gemstones. This was King Thror’s treasure hoard, the gold he became sick for, and the reason Dwarves no longer had their home. 

Finding a set of stairs, you climbed down and made your way onto the treasure - the coins fell beneath your boots like stones crunching on a slope. It made for unstable and noisy footing, but you had to make do. You had to hope you’d be quiet enough, and fast enough, that you’d reach Bilbo in time to help. 

Over the crest of a pile of treasure, you saw it - the dragon. It was all dark red scales and massive wings. If it weren’t such a vessel of destruction you’d be very much stuck in impressed awe - however Smaug, if he saw you, would kill you without hesitating. Of that you were somehow sure. 

“The quest will fail,” Smaug said, and as he turned you caught a glimpse of what could only be Bilbo - so you started skirting around the dragon, all the while being able to hear what it was saying. “Even with that human he says he loves so, he will not win. A darkness is coming for him, and by all means it will take her too."

You slid behind a pillar to catch your breath, and peered over at the dragon. He was too busy with the Hobbit to notice you. But he was speaking about you - for some reason he knew you were more than just another body for fighting. 

"The darkness will come and take her, and it will destroy her just like it did with her mother!" 

You froze. There it was again - someone knowing of your mother. Thranduil, after explaining, had a reasonable excuse, and so did Galadriel. But how could Smaug have known her? What happened to her while she was here? 

"Burglar in the shadows, understand now that you are a means to an end, just like she is. Your life is worth nothing to Oakenshield, he weighed it and found it lesser than his quest." Smaug hissed. 

“No, you’re -  you’re lying.” Bilbo said. You turned back behind the pillar, and took a chance to move closer. Slowly though you realized you were in way over your head - who brings two measly swords to fend off a whole dragon? Was Thorin right, did you need to have given Bilbo more time? 

“Did he promise you something?” Smaug asked, “Bribed your loyalty with a share of treasure he had no right to give? As if he thought I would part with a single coin?” 

The dragon as becoming angry - caught up in spinning his own tale of what could’ve led to this moment to notice you’d slid almost right beside Bilbo - behind another pillar parallel to his place out in the open. Smaug moved, and as he did you saw Bilbo dive towards a gemstone - it glittered and shone, and a pang struck you that this was The Arkenstone. Then the dragon turned and his tail soared across the room, striking the hoard below Bilbo and sending both him and the stone flying further away. 

“My teeth are swords -” You steeled yourself, then slid under the dragon among coins that ran like a river of gold to get close again. 

“My claws are spears -” You met Bilbo before the dragon, fumbling to stand atop the unsteady treasure to look up at the massive beast as you drew your swords. He was so, so much bigger this close. 

“My wings are a hurricane -” Smaug reared up, showing his massive height, and his one weak spot - the chink in his armor brought about by Bard’s grandfather with the black arrow. You had believed it in your heart although an entire town believed it not to be so, and yet there it was. Proof your heart knew more than you did. 

Bilbo hit your hip, making you look back at him momentarily. “It hit him, the black arrow.”  

“You doubted it?” you whispered back, smiling slightly. 

“What did you say?” Smaug said, looking down at you with a sneer.  Then he noticed you, and he leant back further before settling down a healthy distance away. There was a glint in his eye - haughty and yet somewhat cautious. “Who are you?” he asked, and stepped closer. 

You raised Cadmus to the level of his nose. You watched his nostrils flare at the blade, tasting the air, and it was like he was slapped in the face with how he jerked away. 

“You are that creature Oakenshield keeps.” 

"I am no creature." You said, holding your sword steady in front of you. "I am a part of Thorin Oakenshield's Company." Behind, you could tell Bilbo was eyeing the Arkenstone - with it being so close you were too. Then something of a rumble of a laugh came from Smaug.

“No," he said "You have no idea who you are.”

[hirayaaraw]

Fall From Grace 1: Where The End Begins

NonIdol!Jeonghan x Y/N

Tags: Polical angst, slow burn, contains cursing, fluff if you squint

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Songs to listen: Dancing with our Hands Tied, and State of Grace by Taylor Swift (even future songs to listen are all by our queen Taylor Swift 🫣)

Your hand and his intertwined while his thumb slowly draw circles on your skin. Your head on his shoulder. A famous sitcom in the 90s playing in the background. Jeonghan laughed at one of the character's punchline and you smiled. You moved your head to see his face then kissed his cheek.

Jeonghan turned his head to you and cupped your face. The sitcom is now long forgotten. He gave you a chaste yet passionate kiss. Jeonghan rest his forehead to yours.

"We have 45 minutes to go before Seulgi comes." You reminded him but his hands never left your face.

"That's 1 episode and 15 minutes of kissing." Jeonghan said in low voice. You rolled your eyes. He always have a rebuttal to whatever you say.

'Annoying idiot but my idiot' You murmured that made him laugh. You wrapped your arms around his neck and initiated the kiss. It's been a week of not being able to be with him.

You hate to admit it but you always crave for his presence and hope he does too. You both pulled away to breathe.

"You took my breath away." He said. You playfully slap his chest.

"We need to start to clean up. Seulgi might arrive earlier." Jeonghan nods. You both pick up the soda cans and junk foods plastic at the coffee table. When everything has been clean up, you took his cap hanging at back of your door.

Jeonghan gave that look. The look that you are too familiar. He hates the set up. He hates how you both need to sneak just to see each other. He hates how both of you need to avoid each other in campus.

All you can hope for is in an alternate universe you both can love without barriers. You both never asked each other about future plans. You and Jeonghan just live in the moment.

You tip toe in front of him to joustled his hair before putting the cap. Jeonghan gave you a small smile. He leaned on you and gave you a peck.

"I love you." He said.

"I know. " You smiled. Jeonghan smiled too. He knows it all too well about your thing on saying 'I love you'. If you can't say it, he will say it for the both of you. "Try the other route today. Seungcheol might get a sniff if you keep using the shortcut from my apartment to your frat house."

"Yes, I know. I get it." He said while trying to get on his shoes.

"Text me once you arrive at the frat house." He nodded. Once he were all set, Jeonghan looked at you.

"Do you want to elope? I am tired of hiding like we did something wrong. It's the elders who hate each other not us." There he goes ranting again. And there you go, just smiling with heart eyes. "San Franciso or somewhere with beach then we will live in peace."

"Yoon Jeonghan." You said with so much affection.

"Yeah?" You hugged him.

"Great plan but first you need to go back before Seulgi's back." Jeonghan sigh then kiss your cheek. Just like he always do.

"See you around campus." You nodded before he left.

You let out a deep sigh. How did the two of you whose roots are deeply entangled found each other falling? You were sure that you hated his guts but here you are sneaking him in every weekend. Things were much better when you hated him. You can see each other in the campus and you can both scoff each other. You spent the freshman year with endless tirades. Sophomore years tip toeing around and being confused. And now, as junior, you both just let things go.

Freshman year

The youth, vigor, and excitement of the students in the new turn in their life can be felt in the air. Excitement were gone when you stepped in to your International Politics class and saw a familiar face. It's an elective you need to take. Studying in an Ivy League university you understand that you might brushing shoulders with the sons and daughters of different nation. But you didn't expect to see this person.

Yoon Jeonghan, grandson of the dictator. His grandfather spent jail time but the ill gotten wealth were never collected. His grandfather died last year because of cancer. Although, her heart always go with people who suffers with cancer, his grandfather is an exception. You believed that he deserves more pain.

Jeonghan felt someone boring a stare on him that he moved his head around the room and found the culprit. He raised his brow but you roll your eyes then walked towards an empty seat. Jeonghan laughed at your antics. Completely unaware of why you gave him an eye roll.

The 1st few weeks went on like that. Bantering with your eyes until your professor called you for an opinion regarding the political dynasty that is rampant among developing countries.

"If the same set of family keeps on holding power, everything will be the same. These set of people will never give their citizens what they deserve. All they do is to fatten their wallet." You breathe then look at Jeonghan who is looking back at you. "What infuriates me more are their next to kin who are benefitting from their corruption."

You heard a snicker and saw Jeonghan smiling while his friend is pointing him while laughing.

"Also, I have never heard anyone who held a position too long take respinsibility of what they did. Best example is the Yoon family." You heard a gasp in the crowd. You said what you said. Your Professor silenced the class and asked you to sit down.

Just a few second later, you saw Jeonghan raised his hand. The professor let him have the floor.

"Park Y/N, right?" He said with a smile before looking at your professor. "I don't think it is necessary to bring the Yoon family in the conversation as the family didn't come from a developing country which is our topic right now."

You raised your hand and your professor let you stood up. The class were being entertained with the impending debate.

"I mentioned the Yoon family as an example of a group of people who didn't take responsibility for their atrocities." His friend gave a low whistle upon your rebuttal.

"As far as I remember, "Dictator Yoon" served jail time for all his crimes against the country. Isn't that enough?" Jeonghan said which even infuriates you.

"The justice system impose the penalty but it does not mean your grandfather took responsibility." He scoffed when you finally connect him with his family. The professor and other students immediately open their phones to see if you are saying the truth.

"Going back to out topic about political dynasty, isn't your family part of a dynasty? Your father was a lawmaker, now your mom is a minister." Another shocker for the whole class.

"Just like what you say 'was' and you can't say it is dynasty if only 2 people from my family held a position and take note not succeeding terms. Maybe my family just have a thing on over throwing corrupt families like yours." You smirked at him. Feeling like you won against him.

The professor ended the class early before the two of you make a brawl inside his classroom. You try to get out quickly but his two friends reached you.

"Hi! I'm Joshua Hong." You squinted your eyes trying to remember his face. He extended his hand to you. "Yeah one of the privillege asshole. Son of the Hong industry."

You nodded and shook his hand then another friend of Jeonghan introduced himself. You know this guy well. Choi Seungcheol.

"Seungcheol. Illegitimate child of the previous president. The guy who made him resign? Ring a bell?" You laughed at his introduction. Once his paternity were found out, the media hounded the former president and his consituents asked him to resign. Well, that's not the only reason why his father resigned. It was found out that he mismanaged a fund. Choi Seungcheol's identity is the final nail on the coffin.

Jeonghan just looked at them while waiting for Seungcheol and Joshua to end their conversation with you.

"You should join the international students club and meet people from our country." Joshua gave you a flyer with a colorful design with all the flags available on it. "Or join our parties at the frat house every weekend."

He winked at you. Seungcheol groaned then pulled Joshua away. You bid your goodbyes to them and saw Jeonghan still looking at you before switching his gaze to his two friends.

You spent the rest of the 1st semester making arguments and Jeonghan countering your statements even if it does not concerns his family. When 2nd semester came, you don't have any courses that requires meeting him but that doesn't mean you don't see him in the hallway. You still give him a side eye while he gives you a scoff. Joshua and Seungcheol kept on inviting you on the weekend parties. You finally gave in at the year end party.

It was a big house party in one of the Hong property in the city. Drinks are flowing, all the club food you can think of are available, and everyone is playing every drinking game you know.

Your eyes wander around and you can't help but wonder where is your not so official mortal enemy. You greeted the familiar faces in the house. The booming sound and flickering lights are not your thing. You took a glass of Merlot and find a place with little noise.

A spiral staircase welcomed you at the 2nd floor. You were about to settle in the 2nd floor but your curiosity where the spiral staicase will lead you piqued you. There you found a balcony facing a manmade lake and the face you were finding in the middle of the crowd.

"I'm sorry. I'll just go down." You said immediately and you were about to go down when spoke.

"No, you can stay." Jeonghan swig down his beer and start walking towards the exit.

"You know what we can both stay." You said that he did not expect it. He nodded and went back to his position. You both sit side by side.

Compare to thunderous noise at the first floor, you both enjoy the silence and peace. What an irony to enjoy peace with someone whose surname is a household name within the walls of your home. Not for a good reason but for how the government can seize their properties they gain during his grandfather's regime.

"Just to clear out any impression, I got in this university with scholarship." Jeonghan giving you a sad smile. You don't know what to say so you just nod. "Monthly stipends, dorm, and book allowance are also covered."

"That's nice." You said before sipping your wine. You don't know what to say.

"For the record, I didn't hate your parents." Jeonghan continued his monologue that made embarassment seeps in. It felt like a one sided hatred. "And I didn't hate you.'

"I'm sorry." That's all your soft voice can say. Jeonghan just nod. You can feel your face is already flushed with red.

"You don't need to apologize. I'm used with the stereotype." You look at him who is gazing at the stars above. You saw his handsome side profile and sad eyes.

"Yoon Jeonghan." You called his name without any anger. He hummed and you put the wine glass at the floor.

It must be the wine or the beautiful stars above. You grab his cheek and gave it a quick peck on his lips. You don't know why you thought it was befitting for the moment.

Jeonghan's eyes became wide at your surprise kiss but it didn't take a second when he pulled you for another kiss. You can taste the flavored beer he was drinking. You held onto his shoulder as he deepens the kiss.

That night he wasn't Yoon Jeonghan, grandson of a dictator, and you are not Park Y/N, whose parents actively fighting or investigating the Yoon family. You are just Park Y/N and he is just Yoon Jeonghan.

Sophomore year came like that kiss did not happen. Gone are the banters, side eyes, and scoffs. You just see each other in the eyes and somehow you both understand each other.