#i love looking at uncertain fates and deciding what actually happened

[niningtori]

see me | chapter three: just out of reach

pairing: choi beomgyu x you

summary: after another failed relationship, you're ready to accept your fate as hopeless. choi beomgyu has other plans, though. or, beomgyu's your best friend's little brother and he's tired of you treating him like a kid.

genre: romance, angst, angst with a happy ending, best friend's brother au

word count: 2.2k

notes: it's my favorite person's birthday, so of course i have to post. i love beomgyu so much, y'all. also, i really do plan on making a masterlist soon i SWEAR. i just haven't yet :,). see end of work for more notes :)

beomgyu tries every trick in the book, but nothing seems to help. he tries lessening the gap between you physically to see if it translates to emotionally, but you just brush off every encounter like he's some fucking kid tugging on the back of a grownup's shirt.

he puts on the clothes that he knows suit him best, the ones that drive all the girls crazy, but the most you ever do is compliment him with "i like your shirt, beomie!" and ruffle his silky hair just like you always have.

he even tries lowering his already baritone voice and whispering seductively from behind you, but all you do is ask him if there's something in his throat and giggle as his breath tickles your ear. it feels like he's putting on an entire monkey show for a brick wall, that's about how unresponsive you are to his advances. he almost wonders how you even got into your past relationships in the first place because you seem so oblivious it hurts.

"quick, what else can i do to get her to fall for me?" he texts his friends in a crisis. the trip is over tomorrow and he's made no material progress. he looks to them for the millionth time this week and by now they're all thinking the same thing: it's hopeless. still, the more pitying ones, kai and soobin, tiptoe around that thought while yeonjun and taehyun tell him in no uncertain terms that this entire endeavor is fruitless. it stings, if he's being honest, but in a way, he kind of knows they're right. he's becoming increasingly less subtle, but you seem to be unmoved by every action.

-

"why don't we go to a bar tonight?" yijun suggests in honor of your last night of vacation.

"i'm in," jia replies with a smile.

you heartily agree and decide to dress yourself up a little more than usual. your self confidence has taken yet another blow from yet another unfaithful partner, so the act of putting on makeup and a pretty outfit does wonders for your confidence, but beomgyu is more anxious than ever when he spots you in the outfit you've chosen for the bar. you're always pretty to him, as cliché and insincere as that may sound, but he knows you'll be turning even more heads than usual tonight. he imagines a man piquing your interest right in front of him and it makes his stomach churn. no way in hell is he gonna let that happen —

— is what he says, at least. but some random stranger piquing your interest is the least of his worries now that you're actually at the bar. never in his wildest dreams did he foresee what is actually happening before him right now, which is you being pulled away with a dazed look on your face by none other than doyoon himself.

"what the fuck is he doing here?" and it sounds so much like his own inner monologue he almost thinks it was he himself who said it, but he turns and sees jia with her signature scowl and knows it was actually her.

"that's what i wanna know," beomgyu mumbles.

"who is that?" yijun asks cluelessly.

"that's doyoon," jia answers with venom laced in her tone.

"oh shit, the doyoon?"

"the one and only," jia sneers. "fuck it, i'm going to get her!"

"baby, no," yijun reasons incredibly patiently. "you've gotta let her make decisions for herself. let her do what she needs to do."

"what she needs to do is get her ass back here."

"don't you trust her?" he asks with a frown.

"when it comes to doyoon? nope. not at all." beomgyu flinches at this. he'd been there and heard firsthand just how desperate you were to keep a connection with doyoon after your breakup. there were countless times when he overheard jia scolding you for texting him even after he essentially ripped your heart out, set it ablaze, and stomped on the ashes.

"you shouldn't have to beg somebody to love you, you know?" he remembers jia reasoning.

"i know that, it's just — i just really love him. i don't know who i am without him," you said between tears.

"that's exactly why you don't need him," jia replied softly.

he stopped listening after that. his heart broke with yours for the first — and certainly not the last — time.

beomgyu can't take it. honestly? you haven't even been gone for very long, but when he thinks of the fact that you're out talking to doyoon of all people, he can't help but take a large gulp of whatever liquor he can get his hands on. he's very obviously staring at you talking to doyoon, but you seem without a care in the world if the smile on your face is any indication as to how you're feeling. he can feel the fiery alcohol bubbling up in his stomach as it churns at the possibilities of what could be happening between you two. are you letting him back into your life? does that sentiment even apply when his mark seems to have never really left in the first place? he doesn't know. if he thinks about it carefully, maybe he never wants to know.

-

"how are you?" doyoon asks with the charming smile you used to love so much.

"i..." you hesitate to answer. if you're being honest, you're not doing too hot at the moment and haven't been in a very long time. doyoon seems to take your hesitation as an answer in and of itself.

"yeah, i'm not doing so well, either," he says with a ghost of a smile.

"really?" you ask, head whipping up towards him before you can reel yourself back in. doyoon was always doing well, and even when he wasn't, nobody would be able to tell.

"really."

"why not?" you can't help but ask.

"if i told you my career is at a dead end, would you laugh and tell me i deserve it?"

"... i don't know."

"thank you for not knowing instead of just saying you would," he laughs. "you know, you're a lot kinder than i ever deserved for you to be." you're taken aback by this. you can't believe he's referencing your past relationship in a positive way. after your one-sided breakup, you tried to keep in contact with him in every way possible until he straight up told you you were being pathetic. his words, not your own. what you're even more surprised at, however, is how much you don't care. your heart doesn't seem to clench at the mere sight of his face, let alone at his emotionally provocative words.

"you know, i have no right to say this, but i'm going to, anyway. i'm sorry for what i did to you. really, i am. and if you ever want to get a drink with me sometime, i'd really like to make it up to you."

"i can't believe you have the nerve to say that to me," you counter without missing a beat, shocking even yourself. it only takes you about a millisecond to realize how much you mean it, though. doyoon is floored, to say the very least, but he regains his composure smoothly, just like he always does.

"i figured, but i still thought i'd ask. i know you have someone now, too. i guess it's shameless of me to ask." you stare at him quizzically. could he be talking about donghyun? he can't be. there's no way he'd know about him.

"what do you mean?"

"oh wow, i'm surprised he hasn't told you yet."

"wait, what? who?" you're a little tipsy, so his circuitous way of talking is making your head spin.

"well, if you don't know, i'm sure you will soon," he smirks as he locks eyes with beomgyu, who is currently glaring daggers at him from across the bar.

"i'll let you go," he sighs. "it was nice talking to you, even if you secretly want me to fuck off and never speak to me again." you actually crack a smile at this.

"you know what? it was nice talking to you, too."

you needed this. you needed some tangible closure and you finally have it. as you walk back to your party, you feel lighter than you have in a long, long time. you're finally prepared to fully let go.

-

the night sky is alight with white stars and the salty air is cool against your bare legs. the sound of waves billowing back and forth lull you into a trance, but your reverie is broken by the sound of someone stumbling behind you.

"beomie?"

"hi," he greets a little too loudly while plopping down beside you unceremoniously. you can't help but giggle at how drunk he is. what a cute kid, you think.

"what are you doing out here so late? you should be sleeping it off by now," you tease, nudging his shoulders with yours. you almost notice him lean into your touch, but you don't quite catch it.

"just wanna think," he says.

"about what?"

"a lot of things," he shrugs. you hum in understanding.

"you know, we never got to finish our conversation the other day. what's been bugging you lately?"

he pauses for a moment.

"i'm kinda hung up on someone, honestly," he admits with a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and you're genuinely stunned. he's never been particularly open about any girls he's been involved with, though there have been many based on what jia says. you'd be lying if you said you're not curious to know what kind of girl has the power to make the seemingly impenetrable beomgyu anxious, but you're mainly worried about how he's feeling.

"oh no, what happened?" you ask, sincerely concerned.

"nothing happened," he deadpans. "nothing ever happens. that's the problem." your brows knit in confusion.

"so you haven't made a move on her? why?" you can't fathom why beomgyu of all people would feel like this. he's never seemed to have an issue with getting whoever and whatever he wanted.

"i've tried, but i don't think she's interested in me in that way," he hints as nonchalantly as he can manage in his decidedly not-so-sober state. truthfully, he's not doing the best job at being discreet, either. but you don't notice a thing.

"i don't think that's true. i'm sure if you opened up to her she'd like you. you just have to be vulnerable and who knows? maybe she's interested but just doesn't know how to say it. she probably thinks you don't like her, honestly." his hazy eyes light up with hope. do you know you're the girl in question? are you both talking around the same point?

"you really think so?" he asks, heart racing. even through his drunkenness, he's putting the pieces together, albeit incorrectly.

"of course i do! i mean, you're a catch," you giggle and his heart flutters. "just be yourself and i'm sure you'll get somewhere with her. you can be so hard to read sometimes. maybe she just needs a little push?" the next second, your breath hitches as you feel warm lips latching onto yours. beomgyu is gripping your face with an intensity you've never known before. his lips are nice and warm, if a little chapped, while his eyes are scrunched shut with his long, dark eyelashes trembling in the moonlight. you gasp when he trails his hand down to the small of your back and he takes the opportunity to enter your mouth with his alcohol-laden tongue wrapping around yours. it's easy to melt into the feeling of pure heat with someone, especially when you're tipsy, so you do. you feel yourself melting further into his touch, but when he moans into the kiss, you finally register exactly who that someone is and push him off in a hurry.

"what the hell are you doing?!" you exclaim. you're panting now, face flushed and lips swollen, all thanks to him. he's absolutely fascinated by that fact. hypnotized, even.

"what do you mean?" he asks while blinking his big, watery eyes. he looks so innocent you almost can't believe he's the one who was snaking his tongue down your throat mere moments ago. oh. his tongue was down your throat mere moments ago. the thought itself has you sputtering out questions before your mind can quite catch up.

"w-what do you mean what do i mean? why'd you k-kiss me?"

"'cause i wanted to. 'cause i love you."

the world around you implodes and alarms blare in your ear. what the hell? you've only ever seen beomgyu as a good friend and maybe even a brother, but this? this was simply unprecedented. you would've never in a million years guessed that he harbored even a fraction of a non-platonic feeling for you. he must be drunk out of his fucking mind.

"i just love you so much," he slurs with his lisp in full effect. it's almost as if he can hear your thoughts and is intent on dispelling them.

you hesitate to reply and have the sorriest look on your face, so even in his current state he immediately understands that he misread the signs.

"beomie," you begin slowly and he winces. "i don't—"

"hey, i know. you don't have to tell me. i know," he says simply. "i was the one who misunderstood. you can forget this ever happened." he rises from your side and starts to walk away.

"beomie, wait!" you exclaim.

and, of course, he waits. you've always been able to gently twist his heartstrings in between your fingertips.

"yes?"

"i'm just.. i just don't want to lose you. you mean so much to me."

"you won't." and you never will. that's the problem.

you're at a loss for words, but he just smiles as if he already understands everything you can't seem to verbalize and it breaks your heart. why does it feel like he's the one babying you? with that, he turns away and resumes walking back to the house. you don't stop him this time. you don't have the guts to.

notes pt. 2: r u mad at me? i know i said this will probably be the final chapter, but there's so much more to say. i'm thinking there will probably be one or two more before i finally feel like the story has run its course. also, my pacing is so shit but i'm working on it <3 bear with me please! also, feedback is always appreciated! i'm a words of affirmation kind of gal.

[liminalpebble]

The Refugee: Chapter 13

Masterlist link

The dust had predictably settled in Magnus and Loki's friendship, during the weeks Lea removed herself from their company. They both admitted this observation to each other. Loki noted the irony that for a person so in search of peace, she certainly caused a disruption of it between the lifelong friends. “You can't blame that on her, Loki,” Magnus said. Loki's eyes were bloodshot. He had just come from his confrontation with Lea in the linguistics wing and had just finished telling Magnus everything.

“No. No I don't,” he said, surprisingly softly, swirling his fingertip thoughtfully around the rim of his glass. “Sometimes fate simply arranges the pieces of the game as she wishes, and even a king is powerless against it.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to that nervous, docile little barmaid I met months ago. She was so sweet, uncertain...her strength so locked away behind that wall of courtesy. Terrified to stand up for herself. But you know, Beatrice, she warned me that this one had iron in her spine after all and I was desperate to find it.”

“Isn't that why you wanted her? You happened to her Loki. You made her fight, and I have to admit you made her stronger, even if I don't agree with your methods. You happened to her and she happened to us.”

“That she did,” Loki agreed. He said it almost mournfully, swigging his liquor.

“Are you actually going to do what you promised?”

“For once, yes. It will take years of work, but it will be worth it to make my empire align with my vision again.”

“Stop it, you prick! You love making it sound like it's all about your grand plan and great leadership. You're doing it because she shamed you. She actually managed to humble you, Loki. You. I know Morhari aren't supposed to have magical powers but, I'll be damned, she must.” Loki looked too sorrowful to be angry. Magnus stopped prodding him and silence fell for a moment. “You really love her, don't you? In your own stupid, awful way, you love her.”

“I have to summon her to my chambers. I told her from the beginning this would be part of her service here, and I never fulfilled my words. I have to have her. I can't stand to wait any longer, Magnus. I need her.” The bare desperate neediness in Loki's eyes was alarming to his oldest friend.

“No...Loki. I was just beginning to have hope you still had a heart under all that ice. You can't force her to love you back. You'll only hurt her terribly.”

“You only say that because you want her for yourself!” he yelled.

Magnus replied, level and calmly. “No, old friend. I say that because I do love her. Without force. Without expectation. Regardless of how else I might want her.” He paused, looking to his friend with pain in his vibrant eyes. “There's nothing I can do to stop you, is there?”

“No,” Loki replied darkly.

Magnus glared, feeling betrayed and furious. “Well, be sure to send her to me for medical care afterwards. Whatever you decide to do. I'm sure there will injuries.”

“Get out!” Loki bellowed at his friend.

“I hate you,” Magnus said, but for the first time in all these years, he didn't say it playfully, or sarcastically, or as a cryptic way to say “you're my friend and I love you.” He said it genuinely, deliberately. He hated him. He wouldn't forgive him for this.

“I hate you, too.” Loki said, but meaning it in the way they had always meant it. Trying to say he loved him.

----

Magnus hadn't been looking for Lea very long when he found her in the smaller ballroom; the one where Loki had taught her to dance. She seemed to be dancing a slow balletic style of dance, not at all what he thought he would see, after Loki described  how exciting and sultry her performance at the tavern was. He was always hoping to see her dance. Loki was always saying how he would provide legendary Morhari dancing as entertainment for his court, but had yet to do so. He suspected the emperor had some lingering guilt over the introduction ball. Having paraded her around like a zoo animal the first time and suffering the fallout, he was probably reluctant to do so again. Regardless, Magnus was glad to see she was continuing to practice her beloved dances in private. He couldn't stop watching her. The tone of the piece seemed thoughtful and tragic. On a turn she finally noticed him, and abruptly stopped.

Magnus blurted out, a little embarrassed, “I'm sorry. Please, don't let me stop you.”

She smiled. “No. That's okay. I was about to stop anyway.”

“That was beautiful. Rather different from a sword dance though isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. This one isn't performed for entertainment. It's often done in private. It's a mourning meditation for the dead and for the suffering. It's a dedication to them. This one I dedicated to the Vanir,” she said looking sad and distant across the field of her memories.

“It was beautiful, Lea. I'm sorry to have interrupted...but...I have to...” She looked on, waiting patiently for him, throat tightening and stomach dropping to anticipate bad news. He took her hands. “Lea. He's decided to summon you to his bedchamber soon. I wanted to at least warn you.” His heart shattered at the look in her eyes.

“No...Magnus... No, please. I'm confused. I'm not ready. I'm afraid...doesn't he know that?”

“He knows, Lea. I'll keep trying to dissuade him but I have to be honest. I don't think it will work. I...I hate to bring this up, but it will be worse if  I don't. As a doctor, I need to provide you with medicine for protection...and probably something for the pain later.”

She was miles away, saying flatly, “Morhari are only able to have offspring with other Morhari, so I'm safe there. As for the pain...” she winced, as if already anticipating what kind of torment he might put her through, “I'm not sure what to expect.”

Magnus looked at her so lovingly, tears openly pouring from his beautiful leaf-green eyes, pale skin reddening with mixed emotions of sadness and anger. She, on the other hand, couldn't shed a tear, stuck in a place of numb shock. When she realized Magnus was sobbing she came closer, holding his face and wiping his tears with her warm little hands, stroking his glimmering hair out of his eyes. She hugged him tight, pulling his head to her shoulder as his tears soaked the fabric. He broke away and wiped his face.

“You're about to go through something horrible, and you're the one comforting me. I'm such a failure, Lea. I thought I could help him and change him. I thought I could protect you and change his mind.”

“Don't blame yourself, Magnus, please. You are so important. You've saved me here so many times. Could you imagine how much worse it would be without you to be his conscience?”

Magnus nodded.

Lea looked him in the eyes with so much compassion and sadness, trying to force out a tiny grin. “Can I tell you something that might make you feel better?”

“Of course, anything.”

She looked down, suddenly nervous, fidgeting with her hands. “I always really hoped that my first kiss would be from you. You're so kind. But I wasn't sure if...”

He interrupted her by suddenly closing the distance between them, lifting her face to his, and burying both hands passionately into her hair as he pressed his lips to hers. He was like a furnace, combusting with anger and love all at once. He had accumulated yearning for her like a great mountain of tinder in his heart, and finally hearing the words he'd longed for rolling off her sweet lips ignited him; propelled him to taste those same lips. He tasted like the salt of his tears, and smelled like citrus and fresh air. Surprised, exhilarated, and unsteady, her hands gripped his surprisingly sturdy shoulders. As he pulled her closer, a hand found its way around her waist. Very gently, he parted her lips with his, taking a moment to see if she was receptive to deepening the kiss. Without hesitation, she welcomed him inside; his lips, his tongue, his teeth playing with her own. He was drunk on her sweet honeydust smell, his long warm fingers dancing along her smooth skin and hair. She snaked both hands from his shoulders, up the nape of his neck to bury them in the bright silk of his tresses. She broke the kiss to say quietly, her forehead resting on his, “I've wanted to touch your hair like this since I first saw you but I didn't know how to ask.”

“You needn't have been so shy. I would have let you. It feels divine. I've wanted this for so long, Lea. I've dreamed of this but never dared to hope you felt the same way,” he said grabbing her waist with both hands as she buried both of hers into the rich orange locks. His full pink lips savored hers a little longer, then moved ever so lightly to her neck before traveling back up to her cheek. He stopped there with a slow, thoughtful peck. He knew, if he took them any closer to the edge of the plank, they would both walk off of it, and knowing Loki, that might cost one or both of them their lives. They settled into the bittersweet moment of their waning kiss, feeling and hearing the waves of each others slowing breath, arms still draped around each other, staring into each other's eyes. Magnus spoke first. “Well, I hope that was everything you hoped for.”

“It was. It was more perfect and beautiful than I even imagined.”

He held her tightly then. “Well, that's at least one thing he can't take from you.”

They stayed like that for a long while just holding each other in both grief and elation, alone in the vacant ballroom.

-----

The next morning Magnus was pleasantly surprised to see Lea again on the weapons training ground. She was in the process of improving her skills with the scimitars. The coaches, after some convincing, were helping her find ways to avoid or defend against stronger and stronger magical attacks. It was frustrating to train for situations where she would inevitably lose, but the goal was to mitigate damage rather than claim a victory.

Magnus didn't train very often, having no interest in violence, but it was required every so often to keep his skills up should he ever be called in as battlefield medic. By the time he reluctantly arrived, she was already panting and sweating in full armor, sparring with a burly man who was hurling fire attacks at her. She managed to cleverly get close enough to have one scimitar at his neck, at least managing to corner him without magic. It wouldn't be enough for her to really win in an actual battle, but it would be enough to buy her time to run. She and her trainer shook hands and Lea came his way. Magnus was smiling like a silly schoolboy, ear to ear, as he saw her, the memory of their kiss still floating in his mind, sweet and intoxicating. “That was impressive!”

“Thank you. It'd be a lot more impressive if I had even a little magic to go with it. It's frustrating. Training, but knowing you're going to lose, just strategizing for the best loss.” He nodded, feeling sad that this seemed to be her lot in life for so many things. She walked with him to his end of the training site, deep in thought. She finally spoke saying, “You know, I was thinking about how in school we were trained so much on sword craft, combat, and especially strategy. We don't have magic, of course, so we tired to learn how to get around it. But we're also a proud people with a reputation for bravery...running into battle. I was always teased by my classmates. I always hesitated too long. I was always thinking too long about the best plan rather than jumping in for honor and glory. I always looked for the path of least resistance, willing to give up and run when it simply didn't make sense to fight. I am a coward, Magnus. I always have been.”

“You're a survivor Lea, not a coward. What's wrong with taking the most logical course in a desperate situation?”

“For a long time, I thought nothing was wrong with it, but I realize after so many years of surrendering, it gets easy to forget yourself...forget how to fight for what you want, forget how to want or express anything at all. You just become a fearful ghost.”

“You're here, Lea, in the flesh. You're brave and strong, and you're not a ghost,” he said, placing a hand against hers as if to prove his point, making them both grin at each other. Her smile faded as a messenger found her with an envelope. She and Magnus both knew what it would say. She opened it, read it, and simply nodded to Magnus that it was what he thought.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

He hugged her, achingly reluctant to let her go. Finally she said, “I guess it's time for another inevitable surrender.”

Then she turned around striding into the castle, looking as if the weight of the world hung upon her shoulders, heavier than any armor.

@lokisgoodgirl @gigglingtigger @goblingirlsarah

[clandestinemeeting]

My favorite thing about only caring about canon when I'm having fun, is that I can make every single one of my TES protags members of the Camoran dynasty, and no one can tell me "no."

Or rather, they can tell me, "no," but I don't have to listen.

Here's a few more things I can do that no one can truly make me stop doing:

Camoran "The Eternal Champion" Talin and Uriel Septim VII were lovers from 3E399 to the later's death in 3E433.

Camoran Loriel "The Agent" and Talin are brothers, though neither is the crown prince.

Loriel is intentionally named after shampoo.

Camoran Alem "Nerevarine, Hortator, Blodskall, etc. etc." absorbed what remained of Lorkhan's power when he destroyed the heart.

As did his companions, J'Dara (daughter of the current (at the time) Mane of Elsewyr), Telvanni Devyn of House Telvanni, and Telvanni Revyn of House Hlaalu.

Alem can share his godhood if he wishes. He shared it with Vivec.

Yes, the four of them are immortal. And most importantly, alive.

Sheogorath, formerly known as Camoran Theron, Hero of Kvatch is Talin's son. He had no children and no siblings.

Camoran Netheron, known as The Last Dragonborn, Ysmir, Dragon of the North, and Dovahkiin is a former Thalmor agent, though not by choice.

Also, he's Alem's direct nephew, through Alem's oldest brother, the now deposed, King of Valenwood.

[parkers-gal]

yay! okay so I was thinking, what I'd the reader and Tom had a fight, could be over anything, but the reader was pregnant and a few years after, they bump into each other and they get back together. Sorry if it doesn't make sense.

this has been sitting in my inbox for a fat couple of months… sorry 😭

wc: 1.7k ! <3

—

“No, because you’re selfish and you can’t handle the fact that my life doesn’t revolve around you and your needs.” Tom spits out the words angrily, viciously, voice harsh and crisp.

You’re both frustrated beyond belief, and the bubble that had been overblown had finally popped, splattering your relationship and all the joyful aspects of it. Right now, you felt as if all that was left was the toxicity of two unbearable people who happened to love each other. You knew, deep down, that you loved each other enough to get through this, but with every passing moment, with every exchanged word, you realized at least one of you wouldn’t survive the damage.

“No, Tom. You’re selfish. You’re conceited and you only care about being a goddamn movie star. What happened to the family man, huh? What happened to staying tied down with me and your brothers?”

“Nothing happened to him! I’m still that person. I am a family guy.”

“Not to me, you aren't.”

“Well you’re not family!” He seethes through his teeth, anger radiating off of his short-tempered demeanor. You don’t even know how to react, so you spend the time soaking in the situation and how you should respond instead of actually doing it.

“You’re a fucking jackass. I asked when I could spend time with you and now you don’t even consider me as part of the family.”

“No,” He’s clear and concise even through the anger. “You asked when I’m going to stop living my life.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You didn’t have to! We both know that’s what you meant.”

“You’re not even on the same page as me anymore,” You scoff, arms crossing. “Seems like all this time in Hollywood made you forget that you’re not always the main character.”

“Fuck that, Y/N! Fuck! That!”

“No, Tom. Fuck. You.” You over-express your emotions, and after two more minutes of unbearable silence and screaming, he’s leaving your apartment just as fast as he arrived. You’re in shock, fingers shaking while you clear your throat, which is frayed and sore from all the yelling.

You sit back, elbows on your knees while your hands smoothen out your forehead. Tear after tear escapes your sobbing body, and eventually, you fall asleep on the couch.

In the weeks to come, you’ve realized the blow-out of a breakup could’ve been handled so much differently, but Tom hasn’t seemed to cool down at all — he’s petty enough to unfollow you on all social media, and you figure it’s time to let the hatred be mutual. You don’t touch your imessages, however, letting the love in those texts linger for a little longer.

Before you know it, you’re throwing up into the toilet boil, coughing violently at the action and spitting the bitter taste as best you can. You clean up, and when you check your phone, a small notification from your period tracker app alerts you that this is the second period in a row that has gone by without a hello.

Worried, you call Aisha, your closest friend and confidant. She’s over in no time, bringing along her girlfriend while you rant on the phone about your worries. They stop at the drugstore on the way.

The cause of your problems is discovered that day, and you collapse on the bathroom floor in agony, hands wiping at your face — through all the anger and fear and worry, you still love Tom. So much that Aisha even attempts to call Tom. But, alas, it’s sent straight to voicemail, and you realize he might’ve gone to extreme extents in blocking everyone.

You’re stuck going to the ultrasound with two lesbians and a frail old cat. Aisha is as supportive as ever, but as the doctor explains the process of each option, you feel sicker and sicker about the idea of getting rid of the fetus. In the end, you choose to keep the child you’re bearing, even if your ex-lover isn’t even in the picture.

Inevitably, the months pass, and as baby Charlie is brought into the wonderful world, you realize life as a single mother isn’t as scary as you thought it would be. In the first few months of your pregnancy, you’d kept tabs on what film Tom was doing and which was coming out next, but after the hormones and cravings, you’d decided to let the past sizzle and fade out in the way it was meant to all along.

It’s been almost three years since that fateful breakup, and Charlie is just reaching two and a half years old. You’re still single, and you’re okay with that. Charlie is all you need, all you’ve ever wanted, and the most important thing in your life. He’s young, and school is still a couple years away, but you enjoy having the toddler by your side, walking hand in hand with you because you’re his guardian, his provider, his only parent. You make him your only priority, because you don’t want him to grow up without anyone to love, or anyone to love him.

It’s hard, though. It’s hard because he’s a constant reminder of what didn’t happen, a constant reminder of what went wrong and of what you no longer have. You miss Tom more than words can express, and Charlie’s mop of brown curls reminds you of all the moments you’d run your fingers through Tom’s hair. You reminisce more than you’d like to, about Tom and your past, and though Charlie is technically half of the Brit, he’s one hundred percent yours. Because you’re the only one here, and that’s alright.

“Mummy,” Charlie tugs on your shirt’s hem while you move the shopping cart forward through the aisle. “Can we get the goldfish with superheroes?”

You jutt your lip out in a smile, nodding happily. “Of course we can, bub.”

As you step forward, you pit stop in the aisle, nearly tripping on the cart. You make direct eye contact with the man you used to love with your entire heart. The man who walked out with your heart and never gave it back. He’s staring right back at you, curls looking as fluffy as ever, face still a soft glow. Your breath hitches, and it’s then that you realize Charlie is still talking.

“Mummy?” He asks, and it’s just loud enough for Tom to hear. Harry, who’s beside Tom with an arm full of crackers and chips. Tom moves forward a few steps, hastily in an attempt to get more information.

“Uh, hi,” His smile is tight lipped as he stands at the other end of your shopping cart. Charlie shies away from strangers, standing behind your leg and holding your shirt with his grubby hands.

“Hi,” you return his awkward, reserved demeanor.

“Mummy who’s this?”

“‘Mummy?’” Tom has a follow up question for everything, and you internally panic, unsure on how to approach this.

You’d spent so long deciding how you should tell Tom that he was a dad. You spent hours debating on if you should pick up the phone or drive over just to tell him a truth you’ve kept inside for so long. You’ve abandoned social media, only sharing aspects of your life you can afford to post. Charlie is only occasionally on your page, but it’s not like Tom would see that, not after all that’s happened.

Your mouth opens and closes while you debate on how to reply. You’re physically incapable of saying your response, and it makes you even more nervous. You’re nervous on how he might react, what he’ll say, but most importantly, if he’ll stay.

“Is this…?

“My kid…” You fill in. “I- I mean our… our kid.” You pull your bottom lip between your rows of teeth, and you watch as Tom’s face undergoes thousands of expressions all at once. He’s surprised, shocked, happy, afraid, uncertain. You want the world to swallow you whole, suck you up so you don’t have to go through any of this again. But you don’t. Instead, you hold Charlie’s hand a little tighter.

“Our kid?” He drops a can of soup and you flinch at the loud noise.

“Mummy, who’s that?”

“That’s…” You don’t know how to answer his question. Instead, you lean down to his level, comfortingly and gently. “He’s a man.”

“Who’s that man?”

“He’s… your daddy.”

“I thought… no daddy?”

You purse your lips and furrow your brows. Tom’s watching the entire encounter from his place, but after a few beats, he steps forward, entering your bubble. Charlie doesn’t cower away this time, but looks up in curiosity.

“Hi, Charlie,” Tom extends his hand, adjusting his jeans so he can lean down just as you are, kneeling beside the young boy.

You look down, avoiding your worries and Tom’s gaze. He’s tearing up, and you want to cry too. You’re in a fucking supermarket, for god’s sake. This wasn’t how you envisioned any of this planning out, and though you’re mentally kicking yourself for letting it happen this way, you can’t help but feel like maybe this was meant to be. Written in the stars or whatever the folks say — you’re just grateful Charlie has at least a sliver of hope for two parents. Not that you can’t handle it, because you can, but you know someone like Tom wouldn’t want to miss something as important as this.

“I’m To- I’m…” He swallows thickly, making brief eye contact with you before looking back at Charlie. “I’m your dad.”

“Do you love my mummy?” He’s not shameless, but he’s still that shy little boy. “My friend says daddy’s love mommy’s so you must love mine, right?”

Tom lets a tear fall while he exhales a chuckle. He swipes the drop with the tips of his fingers, and the hand gripping Charlie’s squeezes it a little tighter. A glance in your direction is all it takes for him to answer Charlie’s question. “Yeah, buddy. I do.”

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[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 21 - ao3 -

When he woke, Lan Qiren expected to find everyone talking about what had happened.

He might have even preferred that, despite the cost it would undoubtedly do to his personal reputation; instead, he found that the entire incident had been largely covered up, with even Lan Yueheng uncertain as to what had caused Lan Qiren’s injury other than that it involved some sort of dispute with his brother. That a mangled version of the story had not spread was as sure a sign as anything that He Kexin, whatever her faults or reckless willingness to act on assumptions with little base in reality, had in fact explained what had really happened, and that his brother had decided that he wouldn’t permit her reputation to be tainted by her actions.

Anyone might have expected the honorable Qingheng-jun to have apologized to Lan Qiren at that point for his own reckless assumptions, but his brother had not. On the contrary, he had left orders for Lan Qiren to be punished for breaching the rules of hospitality in striking an honored guest, and for violating several other rules not publicly specified. 

Lan Qiren could imagine which ones his brother had in mind.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” Lan Qiren said to his teachers, blankly staring down at the punishment order, written in his brother’s hand. He hadn’t even been given the courtesy of being told about it to his face, as anyone might have expected, nor allowed the opportunity to defend or justify himself; he had been summarily sentenced in a note. “I really didn’t.”

His music teacher and his swordsmanship teacher both looked uncomfortable and awkward, each one clearly aware of the breach of protocol taking place – and, given their position as sect elders and honored teachers, very likely the actual facts of what had occurred. They knew that the only thing he was being punished over was for having the misfortune of being selected as the tool for He Kexin’s scheme, and his brother’s order – vastly excessive for a breach of the sort listed as the reason, given the usual standard of punishments – was due only to his own embarrassment and chagrin, and maybe his jealousy that Lan Qiren had unwillingly gotten even a little of the attention he so greatly desired and could not have. And yet, despite that…

“He is your sect leader,” one of them, the latter, said, and if his voice was a little regretful, it was also cold and passionless. “He has issued punishment. Are you defying his order?”

Lan Qiren’s hands were like fists on his knees. “Where is my brother?” he asked. He didn’t think an appeal would be a good idea, even if he were technically entitled to it – it’d be futile, unless his brother abruptly realized how foolish he was being – but he would be fine with it if only the answer wasn’t…

“With Rogue Cultivator He. She has agreed to give him another chance.”

Lan Qiren bit his lip and looked down. He did not like He Kexin, and not only because she had so grossly transgressed against him in an obvious attempt to convince his brother not to like her any longer – an attempt that, given the extent of his brother’s love-madness, probably wouldn’t have worked even if Lan Qiren hadn’t been utterly repulsed by the idea of bedding his brother’s prospective bride – and the idea of her giving his brother another chance at this point, even after having done so much to try to make him go away…

Perhaps she liked men that fought over her, he thought bitterly. Or perhaps it was only that she appreciated how much of his love she had for him to treat his younger brother as nothing on her behalf - though if that was what she was thinking, she was sorely mistaken. 

“Something will need to be done about my brother’s behavior,” he said, looking up at them desperately. “You must know that this is not sustainable, honored teachers.”

“That is not your concern,” his swordsmanship teacher said, while his music teacher merely looked sad and helpless, as if what was happening was a force of nature that could not be quelled or diverted, and not merely a single man’s inappropriate behavior. “Will you accept the punishment? Or do you intend to defy the sect leader’s order?”

Lan Qiren shook his head mutely, and went to the discipline hall.

Afterwards, Lan Yueheng scurried in after him, shoving a healing pill into Lan Qiren’s mouth and holding his mouth shut until he swallowed it. “You should go,” he said, glancing around anxiously. “You don’t want to be here any longer than you have to.”

“You assume I don’t have to,” Lan Qiren said, still shaking from the pain. He’d never gotten that many strikes all at once, not in his life; he could barely stand unaided, and leaned on Lan Yueheng gratefully. “I’m supposed to kneel and meditate on my actions for three days –”

“You can do that somewhere else!”

Lan Qiren shook his head.

But for once Lan Yueheng was right and he was wrong. On the first two days of his punishment, he saw his brother pass by the discipline hall in an excellent mood, his ‘second chance’ with He Kexin going better than he had hoped – according to the gossip Lan Qiren overheard, apparently she did like it when handsome men fought for her and believed in her, and moreover apparently one of her friends had intervened on his behalf – but on the third day, just as he was about to complete his penance for crimes he had not committed, his brother returned suddenly in a fury over some setback. In a bout of bad luck and bad timing, he saw Lan Qiren just as he was making his way out of the hall, and in a fit of temper he had extended his order from one set of strikes to two, even though such a retrospective revision of punishment was contrary to both the letter and spirit of the rules.

He was the sect leader, though. According to the rules Lan Yi had set down so many years ago, as sect leader, he was entitled to vary the rules if he felt the need to do so.

This time, when the punishment was done, Lan Qiren hauled himself out of there, using the wall and sheer willpower to force his shaking legs to carry him, and stiffly announced to the teacher supervising punishments that he planned to meditate in penance in the Cold Spring instead of the discipline hall.

It was technically against the stricter interpretations of discipline, since he’d been punished to kneel, not meditate, but the Cold Spring was known to have recuperative and pain-easing properties as well as acting as an aid to cultivation; his teachers, which had overseen his punishment for the second time with tightly pressed lips signifying disapproval that meant nothing if they were unwilling to take any action to stop it, did not dispute him, and with a nod his freedom was assured.

Lan Qiren had a brief moment of disquiet when he got there and realized that he would have to strip off his clothing in order to bathe – he’d only had enough time to wash himself since the incident with He Kexin, and a quick scrub in the cold air did not leave time to worry about who might try to find him while he lacked a protective layer of clothing – but with a deep breath he reminded himself that he, unlike his brother, would not allow his life to be governed by He Kexin’s whims. Anyway, it would be unhealthy to wade in with all his clothing on; the wet cloth would serve only to make him feel colder and get less benefit out of the water’s healing properties. Even if his golden core was strong enough to resist most of the negative effects of catching cold, there was no need to tempt fate.

He put his clothing somewhere he could easily see it, tucking his access token into the clothing in such a way that summoning the token would drag along the robe as well, and then unsteadily entered the water, wincing at the bracing chill as he sank down until he was neck-deep in the water, settling himself in the proper position to meditate. Or, well, to sit blankly and wait for there to be a little less pain: even putting aside the severity, it was also the first time he’d ever been subject to back-to-back punishments in such a reckless fashion. Lack of treatment after a punishment was fairly standard if the sentence also included kneeling – technically, Lan Yueheng shouldn’t have given him a pill to encourage healing, and Lan Qiren shouldn’t have accepted it, although doing so was not a major breach. Moreover, given that the teachers had ignored it rather than adding on any additional punishment, it might even be seen as having been subtly countenanced.

Lan Qiren rather wished he had one now.

Or Lan Yueheng, for that matter. Or even Cangse Sanren, far away in Yunmeng, or Lao Nie, or someone, anyone, who would be friendly and take his side, even –

“Lan Qiren?”

Lan Qiren blinked, surprised to note that the angle of the light had changed considerably; he must have fallen asleep or otherwise drifted off. Or perhaps he was still asleep, because why else would he be hearing Wen Ruohan’s slow drawling tone saying his name in the middle of the Cloud Recesses?

“Ah, little Lan,” the man himself said, gliding out of the mist that surrounded the Cold Spring like a wraith. “There you are.”

Lan Qiren stared at him mutely. “You’re – here.”

It didn’t feel real. How could Wen Ruohan be here?

“I am,” Wen Ruohan said, his lips curved in his usual arrogant expression, the one that said I don’t care what you think of me. “Or am I expected to await your invitation in the future?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said, because he felt even less in control of anything to do with his sect than he had been when he’d been its second young master, even though he was now the presumptive heir. His vision of Wen Ruohan blurred and briefly doubled; he blinked to clear it. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. Even if it was true.

Wen Ruohan’s eyes briefly widened, and then he smirked, looking delighted by the admission. “So you missed me after all,” he said, his voice low and intimate; one might almost call it a purr. “Ah, my stubborn little brother…”

Lan Qiren briefly closed his eyes. Had his brother ever referred to him directly like that? He couldn’t remember if he had.

He wished that it had been some single moment in time, some rash act, that had driven his blood brother, born of the same father and mother, so far away from him. He even wished that it was something that he had done so that it could be something he might fix, might repair with apologies and penance, but he knew that it wasn’t.

When he opened his eyes again, he found that Wen Ruohan had come closer, prowling along the edge of the Cold Spring with his red eyes fixed on Lan Qiren. His pace, as always, was slow and steady – it felt inexorable, unstoppable, and Lan Qiren did nothing to stop him, watching blankly as he came forward, crouching down right beside the place where Lan Qiren was sitting beneath the water.

“Little Lan,” Wen Ruohan purred. “My little Lan…”

He reached out, his long-nailed fingers tracing down along Lan Qiren’s cheek, as light as snowflakes, and down to his chin, catching it in a strong grip and turning his face to look up at Wen Ruohan.  His thumb brushed against Lan Qiren’s lips.

Lan Qiren swallowed. It had been, he thought, too long since he had felt the touch of someone who wished him well, or indeed anyone at all; he had missed it more than he had realized.

Wen Ruohan noticed, and his smirk widened.

“I heard a rumor that you had been caught in attempted adultery,” he remarked. “I didn’t believe it, of course, and no one else did, either – but I had to come see for myself.”

“I didn’t,” Lan Qiren croaked. His voice felt strangled and inexplicably hoarse, and he found himself absently calculating distances in the back of his mind: Wen Ruohan must have left the Nightless City for the Cloud Recesses the very moment he received the report from his spies on what had happened in order to be here now. “I really – didn’t.”

“I believe you,” Wen Ruohan said, sounding cool and amused. “It didn’t really seem like something that my little Lan would do. My little Lan, who missed me so…”

Lan Qiren tried to turn his head away, not wanting to see the smug satisfaction in Wen Ruohan’s voice and face and manner – Wen Ruohan hadn’t won, he thought stubbornly to himself. Lan Qiren hadn’t given up on his conviction that such torture was wrong or that Wen Ruohan was wrong in engaging in it. It was only that Lan Qiren was tired and in pain, and willing to accept comfort from just about anyone.

Wen Ruohan wouldn’t let him turn away, though, and overpowered his weak movement easily.

“Don’t fret,” he said coaxingly. “I missed you, too.”

That sounded nice.

“I must admit, I tried not to. I thought to myself that if you were so foolish as to turn away from me, the consequences should be on your own head, nothing to do with me. But despite my best efforts, you were never far from my thoughts…”

Wen Ruohan’s hand released Lan Qiren’s  chin and drifted down to his throat, lightly pressing his nails against his skin as if examining how the color changed when he did. He moved closer, too close for Lan Qiren to see him clearly given the mist and the angle; his second hand fell upon Lan Qiren’s shoulder, while his first continued to drift down, skating along his collarbone, drifting over to his side –

His touch slid across one of the stray bruises left over from his punishment.

Lan Qiren flinched.

That was a bad idea, of course. The involuntary reflex moved his body too quickly, straining all his other cuts and bruises, and the spike of pain from that made him gasp and instinctively curl up. His vision briefly whited out, and he struggled to control his breathing, keeping it slow and shallow to let the pain pass over him.

After a moment that felt overly long, his vision cleared. When it did, he became aware that Wen Ruohan’s fingers were pressed to his brow in the place between his eyes, transferring warm qi to him in such a torrent that it almost hurt; Lan Qiren lifted up a hand to stop him.

Wen Ruohan was faster than him, though, and he pulled away his hand and caught Lan Qiren’s, pulling it up to examine the bruising that was already appearing on the back of his arm – stray marks, in the main part, since the majority were on his back, between his neck and thighs. “What happened?” he asked, voice sharp. “How did you get these wounds?”

Lan Qiren looked at him in bewilderment: was this not the same man he had seen twist human beings into shapes their bodies could not bear, burn them with fire and slice them into bits? Why would he care so much over a few bruises and cuts, the marks left behind by unyielding wood when it struck flesh, instruments of discipline used a thousand times over in every single sect? 

“You know already,” he said, unable to keep the slight tone of plaintive accusation out of his voice. “You said you believed me…”

Wen Ruohan stared at him, expression strangely blank, and then in a single gesture he pulled Lan Qiren up to a standing position, waist-deep in the water and choking on the pain of it, back bent forward like a bow, the worst of the marks now visible to Wen Ruohan’s burning gaze.

“What is this?” he demanded.

It wasn’t really a question that needed answering, and he wasn’t really asking, not anymore, but Lan Qiren responded regardless: “Punishment.”

Wen Ruohan’s hand was tight on his wrist.

“For what?” he snarled, and he sounded furious. Lan Qiren didn’t know if he’d ever heard Wen Ruohan sound this angry - he didn’t know if anyone alive had heard him be this angry, and if they had whether they’d survived the experience. “It is impossible that you actually bedded your brother’s lover. So what possible reason could they have for punishing you?”

“He’s my sect leader,” Lan Qiren said groggily. His head was starting to hurt; he had exited the cold water too quickly. “Does he need a reason?”

The hand on his wrist tightened still further. Lan Qiren would probably have bruises there in the morning as well, equally undeserved - but he minded these far less. 

At least Wen Ruohan was angry on his behalf.

“Qingheng-jun is daring indeed,” Wen Ruohan said, his voice as smooth as silk and as dark as a moonless night. “To think he can act with impunity to anyone he wishes, even going so far as to harm one with whom I share an oath –”

“…do you?”

Wen Ruohan stopped. “Share an oath with you?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said. His head lolled a little, and he found that somewhere along the line he had been drawn into Wen Ruohan’s arms, making it easy to rest his head on the other man’s shoulder. Wen Ruohan was overly warm, as always; his sect always preferred cultivation techniques involving yang energy and fire – it wasn’t a surprise, not really, but it was unexpected how pleasant it was. “Need a reason.” He shook his head a little. “You hurt people, too.”

“You are not just any person,” Wen Ruohan said. “You’re my little brother.”

“I’m his little brother, too.”

He felt Wen Ruohan’s hand, blazingly hot against his water-chilled body, come to rest on his hair.

“You were born with poor luck in brothers, little Lan,” he said, his breath warm against Lan Qiren’s ear. It was as if all the heat in the world was contained in his body, and Lan Qiren capable only of leeching off of it. “Not just him, but me as well; we each fail you in turn. I will not apologize for having bound you to me, for I do not regret it – but I will endeavor to make it up to you.”

Surrounded by all that warmth, Lan Qiren drifted off to sleep.

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(The Hobbit) Thorin x Reader: Dragonsickness and the Heart

(Author’s Note:  Well, it’s spring, and usually spring gets me in a hobbit/LotR mood, so here we are.  I actually wrote a shameless OC self-insert a few years ago, and decided to just take a section of it an make it a reader-insert.  

Warnings: Thorin acts like a lil creep, but in the end he wouldn’t do anything to hurt reader.  

While under the effects of the dragon sickness, Thorin says some things... You wonder if it’s the sickness talking, or perhaps it is his true feelings coming out.

Enjoy!)

   You struggled with the dwarvish armor, finally letting it fall to the ground. It was much too big and clunky: you could barely stand in it! Thorin had given the order for the Company to armor up, but it didn’t look like it would be possible for you. The clank of metal sounded in the armory around the corner, and you let out an exasperated sigh. You had taken your chosen armor to an empty room to avoid the humiliation as you attempted to try the foreign material on. Even after you managed to finally figure it out, the weight of the metal was too much. You weren’t exactly in the mood for endless teasing on Fili and Kili’s part. Dwalin might even find it humorous and would never let you live it down.

   Footsteps sounded around the corner, and you whirled around to come up with an excuse or explanation of some sort as to why you were hiding away like this. To your surprise, it was Thorin, all armored-up and looking…well…looking pretty good.

   Even with everything that had happened, after how crappy of a person he had become since the dragon sickness took its hold, you were surprised to feel your heartbeat pick up at the sight of him. He entered the dimly-lit room, eyes flickering from you to the bulky armor lying on the floor. He flashed an amused smile that made you feel weak.

   “Trouble?” he asked, pacing over with a raised brow.

   “Uh, y-yes,” you mumbled back, unable to meet his intense gaze. You tried to remind yourself that this wasn’t him. He wasn’t himself, yet it didn’t stop your heart from doing flips in your ribcage. “It obviously wasn’t going to fit. I don’t know why I tried anyways.

   “Because you’re you,” he responded with a chuckle, prompting a nervous laugh from you. He was being friendly, but there was still something off about him. His voice. He spoke in such a low and silky tone, practically laced with dragon sickness. It made you feel uneasy and not necessarily in a good way.

    As Thorin took a step forward, you caught movement in the corner of your eye and flinched out of instinct from being on the road. He noticed and paused, holding his hands up to show that he meant no harm. He only meant to give you something, he said. When you nodded, he rounded the corner until he was out of sight.  Moments later, he returned with a bundle of armor in his hands though these were different from the weighty pieces you had already tried. He handed you the iron shoulder plates first, and you marveled at the simple designs cast into them.  They looked as if they’d been made just for you.  Judging by the warmth in Thorin’s eyes, they had been.

   “These should suit you better.”

   You tentatively accepted the shoulder plates, fiddling with the leather straps that would hold them in place. You tried putting your arm through one loop as if it was a sleeve, but it felt wrong, so you tried a different angle, a different loop…

   As if reading your mind, Thorin took and unbuckled it. “Here.” 

   You gulped as he carefully took your arm and put it through the correct loop. Each movement he made was slow and drawn out, and you wondered for a minute if he was doing it on purpose just to make your heart race. It wasn’t doing anything to help the situations of your one-sided love towards him. You resolved to accept the rest of the armor politely and go find another hidden room to figure it out on your own, but as soon as the shoulder plates were secure, Thorin proceeded to strap on a chestplate.  Then he continued with a sort of metal shin guard.

   “There,” he said finally, checking some of the straps to ensure they were in place. “You will be much better protected.”

   “Yeah,” you murmured, releasing a breath.  “Thank you.”

   He gazed at you, placing a hand on each of your shoulders. “I will do all in my power to make sure you are safe.” Your eyes widened as he leaned in to whisper in your ear. “You should know I have grown rather fond of you, _________.”

   You remained still, absolutely shocked at the unexpected statement. It felt as if your body wouldn’t respond.  Surely, he doesn’t actually mean what he says? It must have been some strange effect of the dragon sickness, right?  

   You had joined the Company early in the journey in hopes of changing the ending.  You and Gandalf had an understanding that you would gain the Company’s trust and use your knowledge of Middle-Earth to ensure the line of Durin survived.  From the moment you appeared on the dirt path in front of the Company in your modern clothes feeling lost and uncertain, Thorin hadn’t taken much interest other than to bark orders to you or spare a disdained glance at you and Bilbo at your “softness” when it came to life on the road. 

   Over time, you learned to place your trust in the Company and to do your part so they’d trust you- including Thorin.  He and you had started to bond, especially in Lake-Town when you’d spoken to each other outside in the snow during the celebration of the dwarves’ return to the mountain.  You even managed to make him smile a few times.  You realized that as Thorin had begun to trust you, you trusted him not only as a leader but as a friend, and your affection grew beyond what you’d originally thought.

   Still, you wondered if perhaps it was all in your head.  Thorin had seen you as young and naive early on, but that was only because of your inexperience in the world of Middle-Earth.  Things had changed.  Perhaps they had changed more than you thought?

   Thorin’s breath disappeared from your ear as he pulled away to circle aroundyou, the armor clanking with every step. You were frozen to the spot, but your lips managed to form words.

   “What about Balin? You told him that you felt nothing for me and that you were focused on the quest.”

   An eerie chuckle echoed from behind. “I told Balin what he wanted to hear. I told him that so he would not question me any further on the matter, but the truth remains…” His voice sounded right behind you. “I care about you.”

   He was saying what you wanted to hear all along, and yet it felt so wrong now. This wasn’t the real Thorin, right? You could not possibly accept this declaration of feelings knowing that he would snap out of it soon enough.

   “W-we should go join the others…”

   His arm snaked around your waist, earning a gasp from you. “I love you, ________, and I want you to say you feel the same.”

   “Thorin, I can’t. You’re not yourself. The stress of the Arkenstone and the battle must be affecting you.”

   “My own kin has betrayed me. One of them has taken the Arkenstone. Please, do not  turn away from me as well. Say you love me. Be my queen.”

   You were left breathless by his words. He had released you from his hold and circled back around to stand in front of you. Thorin leaned in, eyes flickering to your lips briefly. It was beyond tempting. All you had to do was lean in a few mere inches, and you would feel his lips on yours. It was what he wanted, and it was what you wanted…

   “I have to go,” you stated, putting some distance between the two of you. Thorin’s lips pulled down in a frown as you stepped around him.

   “You’re making a mistake,” he called over his shoulder.  “An offer such as this will not come again.”

   You hesitated at the doorway, shaking your head. “Then so be it.” And then you left. You didn’t dare look back as you hurried down the halls to get as far away from him as possible. He was crazy. Insane.

   And so are you for turning him down, a small voice screamed from within your mind. You could have been his, even for a short time. You could have had his love, even if it was twisted.  His kiss. His embrace… It could all have been yours if you had just said so.

   But it was wrong, and you knew it, to take advantage of his situation.

   “Bilbo!” You halted when you rounded a corner and almost collided with him. “Where are you off to?”

   He glanced around to make sure no one was near, holding a long rope coiled up in his hand. “I can’t just stand by and do nothing. I am taking the Arkenstone to Bard to use for bargaining. It’s the only way the people of Lake-Town will get their fair share.  Hopefully, we will avoid war.”

   “That’s a great idea. I’ll cover for you while you’re gone.”

   “Thank you, ________,” he whispered gratefully. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

   You pulled him into a quick hug. “Be careful. I’ll see you later!” You parted ways with the hobbit once more, him heading for the front gate while you lingered in the corridor. You felt so alone, standing there. None of the dwarves could understand the situation.

   It wasn’t the time to tell Bilbo what had occurred with Thorin.   It would be yet another dark secret to weigh on you for now, along with the possible fate of the journey.

   That night, the dwarves talked and laughed by the fire as usual. Even though they had all of Erebor to go off and choose a room from, the Company still liked to gather together to share a meal and camp out just like old times. Fortunately, Thorin never participated, spending his days and nights in the throne room. You joined the group, glad to have something take your mind off of the recent events. Bofur led the group in a few songs, Fili and Kili told jokes, Nori and Dori bickered and teased each other, Ori laughed along with Bombur, Bifur, Oin, and Gloin.

   Balin and Dwalin were in a more solemn mood, but couldn’t help cracking a smile every now and then. At some point, the dwarves started sharing stories of hilarious hardship over the course of the quest.

   “But don’t you remember the time in the beginning of the journey when we had to cross that river?” Bofur asked with a grin, earning a few bursts of laughter. “Quite a few of us took a plunge that day!”

   “I lost a lot of supplies,” Bombur said with a nod.

   “And what supplies you did have left was soaked!” Bofur laughed, slapping his knee.

   “I do recall the stew being soggier than usual that night,” Gloin joked.

   “Or what about the afternoon when _________ quite literally got sick of traveling?” A teasing grin spread across Kili’s face. “She jumped off of her pony to go throw up in the bushes.”

   “Hey! I felt terrible that day!” you protested playfully. “Besides, it’s not like I had ever ridden a pony all day every day for weeks before.”

   “The best part was that Thorin scolded her anyway for holding the Company up,” Fili chuckled.

   “Well, I’m pretty sure I remember a time when you and your brother were supposed to be watching the ponies and nearly got us all eaten by trolls when we had to go find them.”

   “Ooh, that’s cold,” Kili feigned offense, unable to hide the amused grin. 

   “You don’t miss a thing, lass,” Bofur teased.

   “Whatever,” you rolled your eyes, still smiling. No one asked about Bilbo, or wondered aloud where he was. The hobbit had been spending more time alone as of late, so it wasn’t unusual for him to not join them for dinner. He would return before dawn, you knew, but as each hour passed that evening, you became a little more anxious.

   You managed to set aside your worries and let sleep overtake you. You fell into a deep sleep, and a certain dwarf king haunted your dreams that night.

[sunooasis]

ミ. let's fall in love? + yang jungwon

☽. pairing: jungwon x gn!reader

☽. genre: fluff, first love!au

☽. word count: 1.3k

☽. warnings: mentions of broken family(?) , a single curse

☽. song rec: the only exception - paramore

⿻. note: !reuploaded as i did changes! i apologize in advance if it turned out pretty bad (did major skips). this is also my first time writing with 1k+ words so.. : ]

the bliss flooding through every veins of yours drove your senses disturbed. it was preposterous, you think. the unwelcomed feeling suddenly engrossing you as if it never appeared to you as a hindrance which you thought otherwise makes you queasy. you've grown up in despise of risking your heart with no affirmation, with you presuming that it's uncertain.

as almost as instantly, the fear rushed in attempt to consume you once more with the memories of your broken family...years of endless fights while your silent whimpers echoed in your room, their promises slowly falling apart right in front of your home, a damaged bond trying to be fixed, and an empty heart as you grew up promising of avoiding loving someone, because you believed on how only pain will benefit you from it.

so now you're confused why, why does it got to be you stucked in this stupid game of fate? even all the advices you have tried to gather naively in the internet since you got no one to help you, didn't helped one bit and you're scared to all of this. you're scared of falling in love only to be shattered mercilessly and helplessly by it once again.

you hated the tingling sensation you're feeling right now as he embraces you tight, suffocating yet it consoles you. you hated how he noticed that you're having a hard time and so he gave you a comforting hug despite him barely knowing you. you hated that it feels warm and tender like your old favorite hibiscus tea. so why does all of it feels so right?

"i love your hug y/n, so expect me to ask you a lot of this starting tomorrow, hm?" the boy said, breaking the silence created five minutes ago as both of you are currently the only ones left inside the classroom. his voice rung to your back and it sent more confusing tingles to your body. it's been months since the bewilderment of you by this feeling started yet it's the first time making the butterflies errupt this wild. fortunately luck's with you this time as your tinted face safely hid in his shoulder.

"a-are you being serious right now jungwon?"

he pulls away from your hug. and now you feel uncomfortably cold that you wanted to immediately retreat yourself in his arms but stopped from doing so. you tried to convince yourself that you're used to winters and if not, you can always be warm without him, but why does it feels wrong?

"actually dead serious y/n" he furrowed his eyebrows jokingly with his head going up and down but still focused on you. it made you hesitantly give a thumbs up as you nod in agreement and stifle a laugh. you can't say no to him, not when your heart tells you thousands of yes.

a week swiftly flew by yet you're still unable to gather your own thoughts and feelings. all of it seems to be happening so fast and you can't still even comprehend how in just one day, your heart decided to skip a beat to your seatmate.

despite all the ways you tried to get rid of his solicitude towards yours off your mind, you just inevitably think about him all over again at the end of the day.

part of you can't deny that one whole week, where you spent all the free times you have thinking about something that you fear, and that is what if you maybe just confess what you truly feel towards him? that maybe it's better that way than be isolated by your hidden fondness for the past few suffocating months to the certain boy.

but surprisingly after days more, finally the thought pushed your what ifs flooding your mind that you got tired of overthinking it. you got tired of being ludicrous for trying to suppress it yourself.

you wouldn't want to wait anymore for it to fade since it's only getting steadfast.

4:50 pm, at the school garden. the unoccupied bench was strangely settled by you with jungwon beside yours.

the area felt far away to any chaos; it feels healing with all the blossoming wildflowers surrounding you. it made the possible outcome of your disclosure to him less unnerving. the two of you were kissed by the sun that's sinking little by little, and the breeze caressed in solace after a long day.

"i have something to tell you.." you muttered. "what is it?" asked him, turning his face to look at your side. you hated the way he's looking at you right now with his eyes glinting in curiosity like what you'll be saying could possibly be special to him. suddenly a bird landed near and chirped, watching your spot steadily as if it already witnessed hundreds of confessions made at this place.

"this will be long since i will talk about all of my gathered feelings, so i ask for your time. second, i'm sorry in advance for my fucked up emotion," a faltering chuckle escaped your lips first before you proceed and he nodded in understandment. the warmth suddenly felt too suffocating for your likings, and your throat suddenly felt irritated, yet you snubbed it and eventually let on your words.

"three months ago, my heart suddenly started beating unusually when you smiled at me....i don't know why and how. at first i didn't mind but the unusual beats only got faster day by day as i got to know you more, then the tingle in my stomach followed that i can't just ignore it anymore. i can assure you that i tried my best to stop it and i'm beyond disappointed with myself, i promised not to love anyone. i hated that idea so so much jungwon, but my heart keeps telling me to risk it for you...every night it keeps telling me that there's nothing to be afraid of loving someone, of loving you. and now i'm unimaginably pouring all my thoughts to someone i've perhaps fallen with, hoping that after this i can move on at last,"

the whole time you spoke, your gaze only could focus on the green grass tickling beneath your feet. you felt dizzy after your confession, but thankfully the air- or relief finally entered your lungs.

silence surrounded the place. you don't know what's his current state right now and you have no plans on looking at him. is he surprised? is he mad at you? is he-

"i'm thankful y/n,"

but that's when you finally face him. he's smiling at you as the dip on the side of his cheek peaked. then the tears you're holding for the past months started to run down your face and you felt suddenly weak, now entirely confused on what's happening when your own vision started to appear so hazy to even discern the moment.

he then placed both of his hand on yours. "thank you for trusting me, thank you for being brave...and thank you for loving me." he wiped your tears away before coming back to your hands, intertwining it with his and it magically fitted in perfection. "as much as i know how much you are scared right now, can i prove you first on how beautiful love is?" , "and if you're still wondering....i also felt all the tingles creeping inside me beside my heart involuntarily pounding when i'm with you."

the uneasiness you felt before was long gone and now replaced by contentment as you could only smile at the clouded memory. few years ago, you believed that love is nonexistent, a thorn behind a delicate rose, but he came and played the role as your only exception. he made you realize that the idea of love shines through the lack of vividness when it's someone made for you.

with his arms wrapped your waist and yours layed on top of his shoulders, he sways you both slowly, following the beat of the soft melody from the speaker that is filling your dimly lit apartment. your head cuddled against his chest as you find the slow beats of his heart in comfort while the faint smile of his lips pressed against your hair.

"thank you for showing me how truly beautiful love is, my jungwon."

[piracytheorist]

Wizards 1x09 - 1x10 scene comparison

So you know, I have a lot of thoughts about the two scenes with Douxie in “Merlin’s tower”.

In the first scene, Douxie is transported there after allowing Charlemagne to destroy Merlin’s staff, in order to find the Genesis Seals.

The second is a glimpse of the afterlife, allowing him a proper goodbye with Merlin.

Both scenes have very strong, but opposite, establishing shots.

In the first, it’s dark, the light is cold and dull. Douxie appears in a corner, curled on his side, his back on the center of the room.

In the second, bright, warm light surrounds the place, immediately making for a softer environment. Douxie appears right in the center, on his back, placed on the table - not the floor.

Then he moves.

In the first, he’s scared, upset, having no idea what happened to him. 

In the second, he’s already accepted the possibility of his death, so while he’s surprised he’s still conscious, he understands what has happened and where he might be - even though he starts to joke that he’s in Hell.

In the first, despite his confusion, he knows he’s still on the search for the Seals. So he stands up, we see from his POV as he moves around, and we hear only his breathing and his footsteps. Paired with the cold and dull lighting, it makes for a perfect depiction of his fear.

In the second, he immediately lies back down, allowing himself a moment of rest - and sarcasm. He might still not be fully confident in himself at this moment, but his joke about being in Hell is just “I spent all my time here pushing a broom and here is where I end up after sacrificing myself?” And just the fact that he can be sarcastic then speaks for how much calmer he is. Or how he used humor to deflect from thinking omg I’m actually dead

In the first, he focuses on Merlin’s objects first. Once objects Douxie wasn’t allowed to touch, now all that’s left of his Master. Douxie is alone.

In the second, Merlin himself is there. Not a memory, not a vision, but him. (Technically, not in the flesh, but you get my point). Douxie is not alone.

In the first, memories of Merlin scolding and berating Douxie assault him. Douxie falls back into a corner, again, and makes himself small, desperate for some kind of comfort. Merlin was all Douxie had, but he wasn’t a comfort, at least emotionally. Douxie is struggling with this duality, between holding on to Merlin’s memory, one of the strict, scorned mentor, and accepting his faults and letting him go, allowing himself to move on and finish what he started; get the Seals and stop the Arcane Order.

In the second, he stands tall, reaching for the window where the light of the afterlife passes through. He’s not scared anymore, he’s accepted himself and his fate. He even sasses out Merlin, for Merlin’s choice of language in the grimoire and for how Douxie defied his expectations.

The “family” portrait. Merlin is front and center, Morgana is standing proud next to him, while Douxie is at the side, with an uncertain look on his face, almost like he’s on the outside looking in.

In the first, Douxie is looking at it, but it doesn’t feel he’s part of it, even though he is depicted in the portrait. But in a way, they are separate. The Douxie looking at the portrait has changed from the Douxie in the portrait, something that was shown repeatedly during his journey in the past. He touches the portrait and remembers the last thing Merlin said to him. It’s a moment of farewell.

In the second, it’s Merlin looking at the portrait, reflecting on Douxie’s life and choices. How much Hisirdoux grew and blossomed, without - or in spite of - Merlin's assistance. It’s a moment of reflection and pride.

“Goodbye, Master.” In the first, Douxie has to let go on his own. He takes the momentous step of finally accepting the passing of his mentor. He receives the emotional relief of moving on.

In the second, it’s Merlin showing his acceptance and pride in Douxie. The staff was material proof; here, Douxie receives the emotional proof of being seen worthy by his master. Whatever happens, he’s not alone.

And that hug, too. *cries*

The final reward; in the first, he completes his mission to find the Seals, following Merlin’s last advice. In the second, he’s given a second chance at life, accepting the responsibility of making sure the Arcane Order doesn’t succeed.

After each of those scenes, he’s given the role of protector. He decides to trade away protecting the Seals for the chance to free and protect Nari and his friends, which can parallel his decision to free the Lady of the Lake. It solidifies his words, that no-one deserves being stuck in a prison, and Merlin’s note on Douxie’s belief that every life is precious.

Ultimately, the one scene leads to the other, and I simply love how well they parallel each other.

[tuffduff]

But...I Like You (Dave Mustaine x Reader)

Pairing: fluff Dave Mustaine x female reader

Words: 2,384

Summary: Dave’s never been one for the holidays or romance, not until one fateful day at the laundromat changes everything. Suddenly, he finds himself seeing The Nutcracker and wonders just what lengths he’d go for this girl.

Taglist: @ubernoxa @the--blackdahlia @reigns420 @stradlin-cold-heartbreaker @rumoured-whispers

Dave couldn’t recognize himself in the mirror. His frame was wrapped in a new and unusually lavish coat, the first coat he owned that actually fit him—hell, the first coat he had bought ever. There was a scarf around his neck made of something called cashmere, something he never thought he would have adorning his body. Most notable, however, was the look of glassy fear in his eyes.

He had let go of general fear a long time ago. Fear held him back, and he wasn’t about to let anything hold him back. And who the fuck cares, really? But there it was again, that little uncertain glimmer making his eyes frown. He couldn’t decide what he didn’t like more—his outfit or the look on his face.

When he walked out to the living room of his apartment, he nearly tried to sneak back into his room, but Junior and Jeff had already caught sight of him.

“Woah there, is that you, Dave? Are you under there?” Jeff teased and Dave was already glaring.

“Man, where are you going, huh? I didn’t realize you even owned this outfit.” Junior added, to which Dave felt less anger, so he focused on him, rather than Jeff—who he still wanted to punch.

“To see a show.” He said curtly, trying to close the conversation forcefully, of course, to no avail.

“You’re not going to the movies dressed like that. Where are you actually going?” Jeff joked, glancing at Junior to be backed up.

“I never said movie.” Dave retorted, glaring at the guitarist before he gathered his wallet and looked for his keys.

“So, where are you really going?”

“I’m going to see a production, it’s at the Opera House, it’s a little more upscale—”

“Opera House? You’re going to see an opera?” Jeff exploded

“No.” Dave snapped, growing more annoyed.

“What does this mean for Megadeth?” Jeff just kept pestering until Dave finally yelled.

“It’s the fucking Nutcracker!” Jeff and Junior were silent before they began to laugh. “Look, it wasn’t my idea—clearly. The San Francisco Ballet Company is doing their annual show, apparently they were the first in the US to produce a full-length production, and Y/N really wanted to go…”

“Oh,” Junior realized, leaning his head back with a knowing look on his face that made Dave glare again. “Y/N.”

“Yeah, shut up about it.” Dave snapped. Jeff looked between them.

“Y/N? Who’s Y/N?”

“This girl Dave met a while back at the laundromat.” Jeff raised an eyebrow.

“Think you met ‘the one’ at the laundromat, huh?” Jeff said incredulously. Dave sent another glare at Junior before he finally saw his keys laying on the kitchen counter and snatched them up.

“You’ll never be capable of knowing what I think, Jeff. You lack the brain cells.” He snapped, leaving the apartment. Outside, he let out a breath that he could see in the air.

Was he being too harsh on his band mates? No, never that. Was he being defensive? Maybe. Was he being stupid? Yes.

Stupid for letting you actually make him have these little daydreams littering his head for the past few weeks.

It started at the laundromat, yes, but Dave wasn’t the type of man that idealized romantic prospects. The light didn’t hit you in a certain way and the angels didn’t sing like the way it always did in those cliche romance movies. Rather, you dropped your entire load of laundry on the floor in front of him.

“Shoot,” you had sighed, merely looking at the garments of clothing with disdained tiredness. As he watched it all unfold, he had imagined what he would do in that moment—probably react in some type of anger—and watched as a smile came across your face before you looked directly at him. It was just a brief moment, but Dave felt like he was confined to that chair for an hour. Like he’d never been seen before in his life until that moment, in the dimly lit dingy laundromat.

“It must be Monday.” You said, before calmly getting on your knees and beginning to put the clothes back in the basket. For some reason, he found himself next to you.

“It’s Sunday.” He corrected you, to which you laughed.

“Even worse.”

His hand landed on a Led Zeppelin shirt to which he glanced over at you. “You a fan?”

“Yeah! Love them. How can you go wrong with them?” You eyed him again longer than he expected and he nearly winced when you narrowed them speculatively. “You look familiar.”

“I’m in a band.” He admitted, before too quickly adding, “Megadeth.” He hoped to see realization light your eyes, but you shook your head.

“No. Maybe I’ve seen your face on MTV?”

“There’s a chance.”

“I was joking.” You laughed. “But clearly, you’re not, huh. You know, there’s a record store across the street. Prove it.” You smiled at him.

The both of you left your laundry to be washed and headed over to the local record shop decorated with string Christmas lights on the roof and frosted windows. He bought their latest for you So Far, So Good…So What? and briefly gave you quick insight about where he got the name of the band from, song titles, why he enjoyed music...

Okay, he spilled his guts. He couldn’t stop talking. But that wasn’t his fault—you were hanging onto his every word. You listened, really listened; you seemed to listen more than anyone he had ever spoken to. More than that, you seemed to understand. And so, he went back to the laundromat next week at the same exact time, walking as quick as he could and hating that fact that he was doing so, until he felt relief when he saw you inside again.

You remembered him too—you smiled when you saw him. “It must be Sunday, huh?”

“Got it right this time.” He replied with a smirk.

Dave was aware he could talk someone’s ear off. He had a lot to say about the world and its affairs and usually didn’t care a whole lot about other people’s thoughts—they were usually stupid. But you, he made an active attempt to listen to. He listened rather than spoke, and when he did speak, he would ask questions, trying to get to know you on an even deeper level. And just as he assumed, you kept his attention better than anyone else.

You had a way of looking at the world from a completely different perspective than him. Like it was something to be solved. Like a bad thing didn’t mean it was the end of the road. That nothing really stays dead, that every little thing has a purpose, a meaning.

“Surely that’s not true.” Dave finally said. “Not every single thing has a meaning. Some things are just the way they are and that’s the way it is.” You just smiled at him.

“If it weren’t for the fact that my washer broke, I wouldn’t have come here. And if it weren’t for the fact that I thought it was Monday—my usual laundry day—instead of Sunday, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Dave didn’t understand the way his heart pounded a little harder. He wondered if he imagined the way your eyes stared a little too long at his and felt absolutely stupid for even having such a thought. And yet, he couldn’t stop staring. He couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering down your body. He couldn’t stop himself from telling David about you.

Oh, he knew exactly what was happening. He was strapped in on a rollercoaster ride and he was nearing the drop, unable to do nothing but watch as he felt things he’d never felt before. The whole reason he pursued guitar playing was to pick up girls; he had had lots of girls. And you, you weren’t like them. You seemed to admire him for being in a band, but you were more interested in why he hated breakfast and never ate it. Or why he didn’t like Christmas.

“This doesn’t just make you automatically happy?” You questioned him, gesturing to the atmosphere that surrounded the two of you. Your meetings had upgraded to a coffee shop. Dave didn’t drink coffee, but he watched you order a hot chocolate and realized maybe that was okay and ordered the same.

“What? The crowds, the god-awful music, the annoying lights everywhere, everyone’s ugly sweaters?” You grinned and laughed, and he wished the sound could be pumped out of the shop’s speakers rather than “Jingle Bells.”

“It’s just the time of year when everything is supposed to go right.” You ignored him, smiling a little. “When I was a kid, I used to go and see The Nutcracker with my family every year. The San Francisco Ballet Company started it—they had the first full length production back in 1944. Or at least, that’s what my mom said.”

“I’m guessing they’ve got shows going on with it being so close to Christmas.” Dave wasn’t sure why he was saying that. You nodded.

“Yeah, their last show is Sunday.”

“Why don’t we go?” You were just as surprised as he was.

“What? You’re kidding. A ballet doesn’t seem very up your alley, Mr. Megadeth.”

“Try me, think I’m just some metal knucklehead that couldn’t appreciate it?”

“I don’t think you would like it.”

“Maybe I will, you don’t know me.” You chuckled, but still appeared unsure, which only made him more determined. “Look, you said you haven’t been in forever. I’m in a good place this year after the album, those tickets will be nothing. It’s on me. So, if I were you, I would just agree before I change my mind.”

“Well...alright.”

And here he was outside this damn theater, pulling on his coat, knowing his hair was out of place despite that fact that he had tied it back. He was still getting strange looks by the crowd of couples walking arm in arm into the theater, telling him without words that he didn’t belong.

“Dave?” He heard from behind him and turned. He was already thinking of some kind of dry teasing reply, but all words left his head at the sight of you, dressed nicer than he’d seen you yet, every hair in place. “Look at you! You own a scarf?” He scoffed, feeling a smirk grow on his face.

“Stole it from a guy on my way here.” He joked to make you laugh. To his surprise, you also leaned in and kissed his cheek. As if that’s just what you did. All of it was so foreign; you, this theater, this ballet show. And he was a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit.

“Shall we?” You asked. He was still trying to find the words to compliment you, but instead, he nodded.

In your seats with the lights down, Dave alternated his time from watching the stage and the dancers to the other audience members, young and old alike. All of them seemed to fit each other’s company, each other’s social circle; he was the anomaly.

And then there was you, which he elected to watch for the rest of his time. The way your eyes quickly flitted back and forth as you took in the sight, your eyebrows raising, how you’d hold your breath for a second at the really dramatic parts.

All of a sudden, there was you, sweeter than a sugar plum, somehow embodying all the niceness everyone said Christmas was supposed to be about. Thanks to you, he was out of his element, and he felt like he was meant to be there. After all, where did he really belong anyway?

Did it matter if he could be anywhere with you?

“So?” You asked him eagerly after the show when the lights came back on. The two of you sat in your seats as everyone around you stood, in no hurry.

“You’re going to be surprised to hear this, but there are a lot of similarities between classical music and metal. Really, Tchaikovsky’s stuff isn’t so different than—”

“I meant the show! The story! Oh, did you see the costumes?” You laughed, and he smiled, shaking his head at you.

“To be honest, I was watching you most of the time.” You seemed startled by his words, and he took your speechlessness as the chance to keep going. “I couldn’t find the words to tell you earlier how beautiful you look. Really, this whole night I just kept thinking that maybe it was a mistake. That I’m not the type of guy that comes here, I’m the guy playing in the sleazy, dark club on the bad side of town. But I was wrong. And I’m glad I came; I should have done it right though. I should’ve brought you flowers, picked you up, I should’ve complimented you as soon as I saw you, I should have kissed you when you kissed my cheek—”

“Dave.” You interrupted him calmly, taking his hand in yours and giving him an ever-growing smile. “You have no idea how much this means to me. Christmas is my favorite time of the year, but this year it’s been so hectic, and I haven’t been able to really enjoy it...until now. That was all I actually wanted. I don’t care about the flowers.” He stared at you for a second before he smiled.

“That’s all?” He asked before he leaned in closer, grazing the side of your cheek with his lips as he whispered. “You don’t want one more thing?” He felt your hand rest on his cheek and turned his head to press his lips to yours, savoring the moment and realizing he had never really been kissed before, not like this.

“Well, I guess that too.” You mumbled with that sweet smile on your face before you looked up at him with big eyes. “Okay but really, was it up to your standards, or was I right all along?”

“I hate Christmas. And I don’t really enjoy the things that come with it.” He admitted with a keen smirk as he pulled back, and you giggled. He let himself enjoy the feeling of your face cradled between his hands, so used to always cradling a guitar, this new sensation—skin-on-skin—was intoxicating. As were your lips, that he leaned in again to steal another kiss from. “But...I like you.”

[theloneliestshipper]

What about a Soulmate or red string of fate AU for Leia and Boba?

I actually had multiple requests for this one. I came up with a premise years ago for this and yet writing it out only made me realize how hard it would be to get these two stubborn, independent people to buy into it. I dragged them as far as I could, I swear. 

AO3 Link

“It’s Mandalorian.” Her father’s voice was hushed. He sounded worried. “I recognize the lettering.”

“Could we have it translated?”

Leia rubbed her leg just above her knee as she listened to her parents whispering outside her door. The darker patch of skin had always been there. Her mother said she always had. It was only after her tenth birthday that the color began to deepen and the foreign letters began to take shape.

“Yes, but should we?” Her father continued. “This whole business of soulmates, it’s a lot of pressure. Maybe it’s best if she doesn’t know.”

Her mother sounded uncertain. “There’s a lot she doesn’t know, Bail. What if this is one thing too many?”

---

“You have a soulmark?” Sabine Wren’s eyes went wide.

“You don’t think it’s crazy?”

“My parents have them...so, no. My dad’s says, “I’m looking” and my mom’s says, “look at this beautiful sight!” My dad was painting a picture of a lake when they met, and he wanted her to look at the view and she wanted to look at him.” Sabine shrugged. “And those were the first words they said to one another. My mom says she was just grateful that hers was in Mando’a.”

Leia fidgeted, keeping an eye out for anyone passing in the hall of the rebel base. “Mine is in Mando’a too.”

“It is? That means it’s your soulmate’s first language!”

“I looked it up, but the translation wasn’t exact. It’s just one word. Slana’pir.”

“Huh.” Sabine considered that for a few seconds. “That can mean ‘get lost’ or ‘go away’ depending on the context. It’s kind of a funny thing for someone to say as their first words to you. The first letter, does it angle at the bottom? This way?” She illustrated with her hand.

Leia had to think about it. “No. The other way.”

“That’s interesting. It means they’re probably Concordian, from Concordia or Concord Dawn.” She grinned. “A hick Mandalorian, you know? In some places they use slana’pir literally, from a Concordian it’s more likely to be a threat.”

“Great,” Leia replied dryly. “I’ll just keep my eyes peeled for a Mandalorian who instantly threatens me. Are your parents...it’s real for them?”

“Oh yeah. They’re really happy together. My dad always says he doesn’t mind dying at the same time as my mom, because he can’t imagine living without her.”

“Wait. You die if your soulmate does?”

“That’s part of the deal. Once you meet and exchange words, you literally can’t live without one another.”

“But what if it’s someone you pass on the street and never speak to?”

“Then I guess you do what you want like everyone else.”

---

Leia couldn’t understand the grunts of the Gamorrean guards who dragged her through the door. They tossed her in the direction of the bed and left, locking the door behind them. The room was simple, the only furniture was a bed.

Jabba had made the terms of her captivity clear with the scraps of metal and cloth she was forced to wear. She was a trophy for the Hutt to display. So why lock her in here?

She paced for a while. When she got tired of pacing she sat on the bed, her eyes fixed on the door. That quickly became boring and so she laid down, curled up on her side. At some point she fell asleep.

When she woke up there were voices outside the door. Bib Fortuna, the Twi’lek majordomo, and a second voice.

Boba Fett.

Leia bolted upright. Of course. Jabba was passing her on as a bonus to his pet hunter. Her hands curled into fists as the door opened and the Mandalorian bounty hunter strode in.

“Get out.”

She resisted the urge to cover her soulmark with her hand. “Congratulations,” she snarled instead. “You can read.”

He didn’t respond. He stood frozen in front of the door until it finally occurred to Leia that something had happened. “The fuck,” he whispered, the words barely audible through his helmet. Suddenly he was moving towards her, and before she could scramble away he was on his knees at her feet, his hand on her leg. His gloved fingers scrubbed across her soulmark as if he was trying to rub it off.

“Ow!” She pulled her leg up under her, shoving him away. “Get off me!”

He straightened, started to walk away and then turned back. And then away again, as if he had lost all sense of direction. “It can’t be,” he said to no one.

“Are you on spice?”

He laughed, a harsh, unexpected sound that caused a burst of static in his helmet. “I wish this were a spice dream, but neither of us is going to get that lucky.” He lifted off his helmet, setting it on a table before he removed his jetpack. He was in his thirties, with dark curly hair and tan skin. A handsome man, in spite of his grim expression. He looked as if he wanted to be doing anything other than what he was doing.

He stripped off his bracers and then worked open the flak vest his chest plates attached to. When he started opening the neck of his flight suit Leia realized that he was undressing.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” she said. “Lay a hand on me and one of us is going to die.”

“I’m not going to touch you.” He said it scornfully, as if the very idea was offensive. “I have to show you something.”

“Why?”

His anger faded a little. “I think you have a right to know.” He pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his flight suit and let the top half hang over his belt. He wore a white sleeveless undershirt beneath it, which he pulled over his head in one smooth motion. His back was all smooth skin and muscle, except for a few scattered scars and the line of aurebesh letters that ran vertically down along his spine.

Congratulations. You can read.

“Oh my gods.” Leia could scarcely breathe. “You...you didn’t read it. It was just...the first words you said.”

“Seems impossible that we haven’t spoken before. But even on Bespin we never talked. Not directly.”

“It’s you,” Leia said, still trying to process it. “You’re the hick Mandalorian. From...Concorda...or something.”

He blinked at her. “Concord Dawn. And I’m not. But my dad was.” He waited a moment, as if he was trying to decide something. “When did they show up for you? The actual words, I mean.”

“I was ten, I think.”

“Me too.” A smile appeared, fleeting but sincere. “My dad said they were funny. Like a joke.” He shook his head. “It’s a fucking joke, all right.”

“Tell me about it.” Leia rubbed her temple. “My soulmate is a bounty hunter.”

“And mine is in love with someone else.” Fett winced as if something had just occurred to him. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if I don’t you’ll get yourself killed trying to rescue Solo. You know what happens now, right? Now that we’ve met? If you die, I die.”

“You could help me. Help me get Han out and-”

“And what? You’ll marry him, move to the outer rim and live a long, peaceful life?” His tone was rich with skepticism.

“Maybe I will,” she lied, trying not to think about the rebel forces gathering on Yavin IV.

He looked at her for a moment in silence and then dropped his gaze. “I’ll leave. Whatever plans you have, I’m not part of them. We’ll both just try to...stay alive.” His shoulders rose and fell in one sharp breath. “Since we probably won’t see each other again, is there anything you want to know?”

Leia plucked at the blanket on the bed. “I guess you’ve heard some of the same things I have.”

The bounty hunter shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.”

“I didn’t feel anything when you…” she gestured at her leg.

“Might have been blocked by the gloves.”

“Yeah. That makes sense, I guess.” It might be her only chance to test it. “If you want to try it again…”

He worked his glove off his right hand and approached her cautiously. His hand spread over her thigh, covering his words completely. Leia felt nothing. She gingerly placed her hand on his naked back, over her own words.

And then she felt everything.

It was...a connection. She could think of no other word to describe it. This person belonged to her. His life, his body, his mind and his soul. He fit her like home. She looked up into his eyes, eyes that reflected the same intense longing. “Oh no,” she breathed, overwhelmed and shaking.

“Yeah,” Fett gasped as he leaned in and kissed her and it was perfect the way no kiss between two strangers should be. Leia’s hand went to his chest and then up around his neck as the kiss deepened and then she was wrapped around him and they were both nearly horizontal on the bed.

And then suddenly he was pushing away, detangling himself from the embrace. He turned his back to her and clutched at his head as if he had a stabbing headache. “No,” he growled. “No fucking way.”

Leia couldn’t take her eyes off the words on his back. Her words. She wanted to touch him again. To hold him and comfort him. But clearly that wasn’t what he wanted. She swallowed the lump that was suddenly in her throat. “So I guess that’s real.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still facing away. “No matter what some stupid magic tattoo says, that was out of line.”

“It wasn’t…” She didn’t know how to finish that. Was it better or worse if it truly wasn’t what he wanted? For that matter, how could she be sure that it was what she wanted? “No apology necessary,” she said finally.

“That’s gracious of you.” He reached for his undershirt and pulled it back on. “I think I have all the information I need.”

“Yes,” Leia agreed. “So what now?”

“Now I ask you for a favor.” He turned to face her and he put his arms through the sleeves of his flightsuit. “Be careful. Play along with Jabba and don’t do anything that might get you tossed in the rancor pit.”

She inhaled slowly, weighing her options. “I’ll try if you do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave.”

His hands stilled for a second, and then he looked away. “It’s going to be hell,” he said, almost casually. “Not knowing where you are or what you’re doing. Fine. I won’t leave. I’ll help you if I can, but don’t ask me to lift a finger for Solo.”

“Fine.”

---

Things had taken a turn. Leia could feel it in her bones as Jabba’s minions raced for the deck of the sail barge. Fett clearly knew it too.

Artoo bumped against her leg with a quiet beep, and Leia took advantage of the Hutt’s distraction. She crouched down beside the small droid and held the length of chain between her hands. One zap and it broke.

But when she straightened, the bounty hunter was gone.

She heard Jabba’s cry of outrage as she bolted for the deck, but she ignored it. All of his guards were busy fighting. She caught a quick glimpse of her friends on the skiff and then the bounty hunter at the rail. The engines on his jetpack were lit.

Leia seized a pike that had fallen to the deck in the mad rush and swung it as hard as she could. Her aim was too good. Not only did she smash it into his jetpack but the force of the blow sent him over the railing.

Into the sarlacc pit.

She raced to the railing. He’d managed to slow his fall by grasping at the side of the barge, but without a good handhold in reach he was slipping down the side. She reached down with the pike and he grabbed it. A blaster shot ricocheted off the barge inches from his head. Artoo appeared on the deck and whistled sharply. Leia looked over at the droid. “What do you mean ‘it’s going to blow?’”

She jumped barely a second before the explosion. She collided with Fett on the way down and they hit the sand, rolling towards the mouth of the pit until suddenly they jerked to a stop. Fett had one arm wrapped around her and when she looked up she saw his other arm stretched over his head, bent at an angle that screamed ‘broken’ but anchored by his fibercord grappling hook to the skiff above them.

“Leia!” She heard Han shout, but she was too busy trying to hold onto Fett and keep herself from sliding further into the pit.

“Blaster,” Fett rasped. “Sarlacc…”

A tentacle slapped at her ankle and she pulled her leg up as high as she could. She managed to pull the bounty hunter’s blaster pistol from it’s holster and fired at the beast, causing the ground to shudder beneath them.

Chewie appeared over the railing of the skiff and then suddenly the skiff lurched and began to move. Fett let out a muffled cry of pain as it dragged them to safety.

---

“Can you see this?” Leia waved a hand in front of his face and Han squinted.

“I can see the motion.”

“That’s a good sign. Try to get some sleep, okay?” She bent down to kiss his forehead before leaving the Millennium Falcon's crew quarters. Fett was sitting up on the cot, his back against the wall. His arm had been set and placed in a sling and at the insistence of everyone else, his other hand was cuffed to the cot. His helmet sat beside him, and his eyes were half-shut. Lando had given him a pretty big dose of painkillers.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve felt worse.” His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “You fucked up.”

Leia folded her arms over her chest. “I still saved your life, Fett.”

He shook his head as if the motion took effort. “The sarlacc keeps its victims alive. You could have lived your whole life while I was being digested.”

“I don’t think I could have.” Leia sat down beside him on the cot. “I don’t want you to suffer. That’s not the magic tattoo, that’s who I am.” She brushed a dark curl off his forehead and laid her palm on his cheek. The sense of connection and wholeness she felt at Jabba’s was just as strong now. He leaned into the touch and Leia leaned over and gave him a quick kiss, which led to a longer kiss. And then an even longer one.

“What are we doing?” Fett demanded as soon as they broke apart.

“Nothing. You’re drugged to the gills and Chewie would love to have an excuse to throw you out the airlock.” She sighed and leaned back against the wall beside him. “I don’t like being told what to do. Even by fate.”

“My dad used to say ‘fate is whatever you make of your life.’”

He’d spoken of his father before, and always in the past tense. “When did he die?”

“Years ago. When I was still a child.”

“What about your mother?”

“Never had one.”

“I’m sorry. I can tell by the way you talk about your dad that you were close.” Leia turned her head towards him. “I’m an orphan too, you know. Maybe if we’d met at a different time or in a different place…”

Fett nodded and gave her a quick, tired smile. “If fate is real, maybe it’ll bring us back together when we have an actual shot at it.”

She laughed softly. “I like that idea, actually. Put it to the test.”

He lifted his hand as far as the cuff would allow. “I’d shake on it, but…”

“Nice try.” Leia sat up and gave him one last kiss. “For fate.”

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Non-Sequential [Ch. 28]

Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader

One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.

Word Count: 2,300

Chapter 27

The Battle of Wakanda was simultaneously the shortest and longest day of Steve Rogers’ life.

The dog-like aliens were released in too many droves, making Steve believe they would never stop attacking. Even if Shuri was successful in detaching the stone from Vision, would destroying it even stop these monsters? But Steve didn’t have time to think about that.

Thor’s arrival felt like a blink to Steve. He didn’t have time to process the return of his long-lost friend. The two of them were too busy trying to survive. But Steve somehow seemed to sense the personal ties Thor had in this war.

Steve started to come to on the forest floor. His body quick to recover from being knocked unconscious by Thanos. But it wasn’t fast enough.

He slowly got to his feet and looked up to find Thor pressing his axe into Thanos’ chest. But for some reason, Steve knew it was too soon to celebrate a victory. Something felt off.  

“Nooo!” Thor bellowed just before Thanos snapped his fingers.

A flash blinded Steve as he tried to move forward.

When he regained his vision, Thanos fell backwards into a portal and disappeared.

Steve clutched his side as he made his way to Thor. “Where’d he go?”

Thor said nothing, just remained in a daze and breathed heavily.

“Thor?” Steve begged. “Where’d he go?”

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice begged for his attention.

But when Steve looked over, Bucky’s body was already disappearing, turning into ash.

With utter shock, Steve slinked to the pile of ash that once was his best friend.

Him and Thor shared a look, finally understanding what was happening.

Everyone regrouped. Well… not everyone.

Steve went to Visions body, colorless and lifeless. The stone was missing from his forehead, proving what they were already figuring out.

“What is this?” Rhodey asked. “What the hell is happening?”

Steve breathed deeply as it all finally made sense. “Oh, God.”

Then her face flashed in his mind.

“Y/N,” he gasped and jumped to his feet.

“Steve…” Nat called after him, but there was no life in her voice. She just sounded scared.

All the injuries he had meant nothing to him now as he sprinted back to the palace at super-soldier speed. It didn’t matter how much his body hurt and protested. All that mattered was getting to her.

He ignored the panicked looks and the various piles of ash that were scattered across the palace hallways.

He shoved his shoulder against the doors of the wing that protected the royal family and Y/N.

When he entered, the Queen Mother whipped around with tears in her eyes.

Steve’s eyes raced around the room, looking for her. “Y/N!” He yelled.

But when he did not find her or receive an answer, his gaze returned to Ramonda.

She simply shook her head.

“No,” Steve whispered as he shook his head. “No.”

“She’s gone,” Ramonda gasped. “Shuri and her...a-and the rest of them.”

First his best friend and now the love of his life.

Tears filled his eyes.

He left, needing to go to her room. Despite the Queen Mother’s words, Steve’s heart wouldn’t believe her. She couldn’t be gone. It could not be true.

But what he found was an empty bedroom. Clean and barren.

It took a second glance around the room to see the envelope that lay waiting on her nightstand.

Steve didn’t know how it caught his eye when he was having a breakdown.

He saw his name written on it – just Steve. But it was Y/N’s handwriting.

His hand shook as he reached out to pick it up.

He already knew what he was going to find waiting for him inside the envelope.

Y/N knew this was coming. She had seen it. Kept the secret hidden as her own burden to bare. Letting everyone else live in blissful ignorance.

Steve,

By the time you find this, I’m sure you will have figured out what has happened. Thanos was successful. And with his success I have been taken from you.

You have also already realized that I knew this was going to happen. I’ve known for…Well, it doesn’t matter how long I’ve known.

I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. I knew it would destroy you, and maybe it would’ve destroyed us. Is it selfish that I just wanted our time together to be spent without the dread of the future looming over our heads?

I know this is not the goodbye you want or need. But this is all we could have.

Steve, I love you. I love you more than I could ever put into words. You know they aren’t my strong suit. But I hope I made you feel that love.

I know you, Steve. I know you will be OK. You were always stronger than me. You can survive missing me, but I would’ve never survived missing you.

I love you, Steve.

Please don’t forget me.

Steve turned the page over, expecting to find more written. 

But that was it.

He wanted more. He needed it. It was a goodbye, but why did he feel like something was missing or that something was off?

The next couple of days were a blur. He hid his feelings. The team needed him. They didn’t need a broken Steve Rogers; they needed Captain America. He wasn’t the only person that lost someone. They all had.

The team decided to return to the compound in New York, regroup and make a plan. Then they discovered Fury’s pager and Carol Danvers explained her relation to it, and Steve allowed himself to feel hope.

But their attack ended in disappointment.

Steve knew in hindsight that it made sense: Y/N wouldn’t have written him a letter saying goodbye if they could bring the world back in a few days.

The solution wasn’t that easy… if there even was a solution.

Now Steve sat on the dock on the lake. The compound’s lights weren’t lit like before – well, everything – making it easier to actually see the stars.

He heard her walking up behind him. But he wasn’t really in the mood for talking. Maybe if he pretended she wasn’t there, she wouldn’t try to engage.

But she’s not one to back down like that.

Nat sat down next to him on the dock, dipping her barefoot into the lake.

“I think I’m going to…get out of here. Thinking about Brooklyn.” Steve spoke first.

“Steve…” She started.

“I can’t stay here, Nat. Everything reminds me of her. The grass on that lawn? Every time I look at it, I think of the night she met me. When I walk into that kitchen, I’m still convinced she’s going to be standing in there waiting for me with a mug of coffee in her hands.”

“So, that’s it? The Avengers are no more?” She challenged.

“We lost, Nat.”

“It was just lost one war, Steve. There will be others. There already are. Carol says–”

But Steve whipped his head to look at her. “We didn’t just lose a war,” he snapped. “I lost everything!” Then he controlled his temper. “She was everything,” he muttered as he looked back onto water.

Nat didn’t say anything more, already knowing when Steve made up his mind, there was no changing it. The only person more stubborn than him was Tony.

“Have you found him yet?” Steve asked her carefully.

She shook her head. “His house arrest bracelet was cut, which can only mean he survived. And there was a call to the compound just minutes after the snap.” Her eyes started watering. “I know he’s out there. But I think Laura and the kids…” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it.

“You shouldn’t stay here,” Steve told her as he looked back at the compound. It was empty and looked lifeless. The agents and scientists that once busied the space were either snapped or had gone back to what family and friends they had left.

Nat ignored his statement.

“Thor’s left. Bruce is acting strange. Tony has clung to Pepper. Rhodey is going back to DC. You shouldn’t be here by yourself, Nat.”

“So, where should I go? To New York City with you?” She challenged.

“Is that such a terrible idea?” He asked.

“I can’t, Steve. I can still help people. I know I can.”

He stood up. “You know…there are other ways to do that than just this.”

———————

Some Time Later…

Steve’s eyes snapped open when he heard the intruder.

His apartment had been restored to keep the character from the time period he was truly from, while being updated enough to be accepted and functional in modern society. But with it came squeaky floorboards and sometimes lack of soundproofing.

But that just meant that there was no mistaking when there was some other presence in his home.

He slipped out of bed completely silent.

Steve didn’t have his shield, but he doubt he would need it to defend himself from a thief. 

Crime had skyrocketed since the snap. Turned out that Thanos’ mission didn’t include only ridding the world of bad people. Some took advantage of the world’s vulnerable state, stealing and killing and assaulting others.

But when Steve peaked around the corner, he didn’t find a burglar.

“It’s just me,” she said gently.

Immediately recognizing the voice, Steve rushed around the corner.

Y/N was waiting for him with the blanket from the couch wrapped around her naked body.

Before she even had a chance to say his name or a hello, Steve was pulling her into his arms. The gesture wasn’t uncommon for him, but it still took her by surprise a bit.

“Hi,” she breathed into his shoulder.

He pulled back a bit, “Hi.”

His eyes and body language were now uncertain.

And Y/N knew why: he was trying to figure out what she knew and where she had come from.

“It’s after his snap?” She asked him quietly, proving that she already was aware and he didn’t have to be careful about what he said to her.

He just nodded sadly. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

Steve’s situation was simultaneously lucky and heartbreaking. Unlike his friends that survived, he got glimpses of the person he lost. Y/N’s time traveling that once felt like a curse was now a gift to Steve.

He got to hold her, to be reminded of how her skin felt and what she smelled like and how warm or cold her body felt against his.

Y/N leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. She didn’t want to think about when the last time that he felt her lips.

Steve blinks suddenly. “Sorry! Let me get you some clothes.”

Before she could stop him, he rushed back into his bedroom and started shuffling through drawers, determined to find Y/N’s favorite sweatpants and t-shirt of his.

When he looked up with the clothes in his hands, Y/N was leaning against the doorway with an appreciative grin.

She thanked him as she took the clothes from him.

Steve turned his back to give her some space to change, but he couldn’t find it in him to leave the room and truly give her privacy. He was scared she would disappear at any moment and he didn’t want to miss a second of her visit.

He heard Y/N giggle behind him. It sent a chill down his spine.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Steve. In fact, you see it quite often.”

He slowly turned to find her already dressed. He cleared his throat, “Sorry. It seems I’m not sure how to act around you anymore.”

She walked up to him and cupped his cheek. “You don’t have to be sorry, Steve.”

He nodded. 

“You’re looking at me as if I’m a ghost,” she whispered to him. 

And in a way, she was. 

Her hands then went to his shoulders. He seemed to preen at her touch, so she’d give him as much of it as she possibly could.

“Can I ask you something?” He muttered.

Steve only said things like that when he was nearing a fine line, when he wanted to ask her something about her time traveling. Something that he already knew she wouldn’t want to tell him.

But Y/N nodded.

“When did you find out?”

He didn’t have to elaborate, Y/N knew what he was asking about.

“Not until I was living in Wakanda.” She kept it generic.

Steve seemed somewhat relieved by it. He couldn’t imagine Y/N keeping the secret of the apocalypse for longer that she already had. A couple years was still torture. But Steve had been imagining the worst, often thinking of a teenage Y/N learning of the end of the world, having it haunt her ever moment.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whimpered. “I’m sorry I didn’t save you.”

Y/N him to her. “Oh, Steve. Shh. There was nothing you could do.”

“I’ve lost so many innocent lives. And I used to tell myself that as long as I had you, I could bare that guilt. But once I lost you…”

Y/N shushed him again. “You’re a hero. No one has ever doubted that. But you’re still just a man, Steven Grant Rogers. And Thanos – Thanos was a titan. A titan with the most powerful weapon in the universe. None of you stood a chance.”

Steve nodded, but she knew it would take more than a few words from her to convince him of that.

“I wish you could stay,” he muttered.

She wiped away some of his tears that had escaped. “I wish I could, too.”

He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes.

All the tension left him from just the feeling of her. His body hadn’t relaxed since the last time he’d properly held her in his arms – before the snap, before the Battle of Wakanda.

Nevertheless, when he opened his eyes again, Y/N was already gone. The sweatpants and t-shirt she had been wearing piled at his feet.

It was then that Steve wondered if he really was luckier than everyone. Because having to say goodbye to Y/N over and over and over again now felt like a different type of torture.

Maybe her visits were going to become his drug. In the end, they weren’t good for him. But he still craved them like his life depended on them.

-------------------

Chapter 29

Just want to clarify that I have not “returned” from my hiatus or to this tumblr in general. 

Quite frankly this fandom has lost its fucking mind and I’m rather disgusted with the behavior I’ve seen in the past month or so. 

No wonder all of the talented writers have left.

I’m only finishing this stupid series to clear my conscious. But I regretted looking back to see that while +2,500 people follow this series’ masterlist, the past few chapters have received 300 or less notes. And that, I tell you, is one of the reasons I hate it here. 

[carewyncromwell]

[Ficlet] Gonna Hit Rewind

Hi guys! So this is a little drabble inspired by a prompt by my friend @drinkyoursoupbitch​, where I show what my MC, Carewyn Cromwell, was up to during a certain scene in the Harry Potter series! 

Before we begin, just a couple of notes --

Post-Hogwarts, Carewyn becomes a lawyer for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement -- you can read more about her life as an adult here, if you’d like! When it comes to the Order of the Phoenix, Carey-Bear doesn’t formally join, instead providing covert assistance while staying autonomous from Dumbledore (who she doesn’t really like as a person) and looking “subservient” to Fudge’s wishes. Later on, this becomes very useful after the Death Eaters take over the Ministry in 1997: when the Battle of Hogwarts begins, Carewyn actually helps take back the Ministry by placing Umbridge under citizen’s arrest and temporarily taking charge until Kingsley Shacklebolt is officially appointed Minister. Carewyn’s outfit in the sketch enclosed below is inspired by this design. Musical accompaniment for this ficlet were “Leave Me Alone” by Michael Jackson (for Carewyn’s conversation with that...certain family member in the aforementioned sketch) and “Turn Back Time” by Derivakat (which inspired the title of this drabble!). And in regards to Carewyn’s negative attitude toward Time Turners...that is 110% my mother talking. When we read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child together, she absolutely hated that it involved time travel, as she found the whole idea ridiculously confusing and illogical. (The whole climax of Prisoner of Azkaban was even her least favorite aspect of the original Potter books. 😂)

Hope you enjoy -- and much love, Soup dear! xoxo

x~x~x~x

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. “The lift doesn’t even come down this far…why they’re doing it there…”

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to that which led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes.

“Courtroom…Ten…I think…we’re nearly … yes.”

As Arthur Weasley rushed down the hall toward Courtroom Ten, he was unaware that in Courtroom Seven, the door of which was left slightly ajar, Carewyn Cromwell was speaking to her estranged uncle, the new head of the Cromwell Clan, at that very moment, nor that their conversation would ultimately determine Harry’s fate in that courtroom happening just three doors down. 

“You’re not supposed to be here, Blaise, and you know that full well.”

“I merely wished to speak with the Minister, little Winnie -- you are aware of how much our family still supports the Ministry and, by extension, your career, are you not?”

Carewyn fixed Blaise with a very cold blue eye. “And I suppose Lucius Malfoy speaking with the Minister down here mere moments ago had nothing to do with you making an unscheduled visit?”

Blaise cocked his eyebrows, his identically colored and shaped eyes narrowing under them.

“I can sense you trying to enter my mind, Winnie,” he said very softly, his eyes rippling like light blue flames despite the hardness of his face. “It won’t work. You couldn’t reach my thoughts when you were a girl, and you can’t reach them now.”

His voice became cooler, to the point of sounding condescending. 

“Whatever questions you have, you know your uncle would be more than willing to answer them, if you merely ask nicely.”

‘Answer’ -- ha! Carewyn thought to herself scornfully. Lie your face off, more like. But even so...if I’m going to get what I need, I need to keep him talking...

Carewyn went very quiet, considering Blaise carefully and her next words even more so. 

“...Are you or are you not associating with Lucius Malfoy?” she asked softly.

“You might recall that he and Father were business associates back in the day.”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m asking. Or have you forgotten where Grandfather’s activities sentenced him -- where they sentenced you, until you were able to bribe the Minister to reduce the rest of your family’s sentences?”

“Our family, little Winnie,” Blaise corrected her, a notable, fiery edge to his voice.

You all may be related to me by blood, but you are not my family, Carewyn thought fiercely, but she once again bit her tongue. If she provoked his temper the way she was tempted to, he’d be less likely to talk to her. 

When she didn’t respond, Blaise continued. 

“Lucius Malfoy has always had a working relationship with the Cromwell Clan. It’s only natural that we speak from time to time, as two patriarchs of prominent magical families.”

“Magical families with certain reputations, you mean,” Carewyn said very coolly. 

“Cornelius Fudge thinks very highly of Lucius Malfoy.”

“And of you, thanks to your impressive acting. But that doesn’t extend to everyone else, and you know it.”

“Of course,” said Blaise with a very cool smirk. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it, Winnie? Putting on a charming face to get what we want, and not caring who hates us for it?”

Carewyn didn’t care enough to argue this point -- she’d already had this sort of discussion with Rakepick several times back in the day, and she knew that it meant Blaise was not only trying to divert the conversation, but also was absolutely full of it. 

You’re acting like this fact makes us just as bad as each other, Blaise, but it doesn’t. Even if we have some similarities in our methods, that does not make us the same. I’ve never terrorized people to try to advance myself. I’ve never manipulated or forced anyone to join a criminal organization. I’ve never masqueraded as my nephew in order to try to manipulate my niece into selling her soul and her freedom just to save him. However much I’m not perfect, I’m head-and-shoulders above you, when it comes to the moral high ground.

But honestly, there was no point in arguing with people like Blaise. It wasn’t like she’d ever convince him that everything he thought was wrong -- that Muggles weren’t inferior, Charles Cromwell was an abusive monster, and everything he and the Cromwell Clan did to try to get Carewyn, Jacob, and Lane back under their control was reprehensible rather than justified -- and she didn’t feel enough passion to try. Especially not when there were more important things happening at that very moment...

Harry would be in the courtroom by now. She had to hurry.

Although Carewyn tried to keep her face stoic, her brain was working very fast. Her eyes drifted away, off toward the far wall of the courtroom where the Wizengamot benches were lined up.

“...Look,” she said slowly, her voice becoming a little softer, “my Legilimency has become very sensitive, in this line of work. It allows me to read people’s intentions and feelings very quickly, even when I’m not actively trying to. And Lucius Malfoy...he doesn’t see you as an equal, but as a pawn.”

Blaise’s eyebrows came down over his eyes, but he didn’t respond.

“You and the rest of the Cromwell Clan only got out of Azkaban because you were able to appeal to Fudge,” said Carewyn, “but if you’re associating with the wrong people, that could very quickly sour. Your position will become uncertain again, and you won’t be able to protect them -- especially if Fudge gets the kind of control over the Wizengamot that he wants...where charges and judgments are laid down based on favoritism more than legality. We’re already seeing it with how Fudge is now treating Dumbledore and Potter, after how much he always sucked up to them. End up outside of Fudge’s good graces, as they did, and the same might befall you. I realize that you and Malfoy...”

Are Muggle-hating bigots.

“...have similar politics,” she said at last very stiffly, “...but Lucius Malfoy’s politics are far more extreme than yours, and although the courts decided there wasn’t enough evidence to prove his methods were also...we both know that’s also true. If he falls, he will drag you down with him -- and if you take the fall for his actions, he won’t lift a finger to help you.”

Carewyn forced herself to look Blaise in the eye. 

“Grandfather’s dealings with R got you all in enough trouble. You bought yourself and the rest of...our family a second chance -- something many others did not get. Are you sure you want to endanger that?”

Blaise considered Carewyn very carefully as she spoke, his blue eyes boring into hers critically. By the end, they’d actually widened.

“...Are you actually expressing concern for us, Winnie?” he asked very lowly. 

Carewyn scoffed. “Don’t misunderstand me, Blaise -- I don’t really think you all deserved a second chance in the first place, after everything you’ve pulled.”

Her blue eyes became a bit more solemn. 

“But truthfully...I’m not that upset that you were released from Azkaban. Dementors...they’re wretched creatures. I’ve seen what they can do to people.”

Her expression darkened.  

“...I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, however terrible they are.”

Something confused and almost disgusted rippled over Blaise’s face, making his nose wrinkle.

“Ugh -- and here I’d thought you’d actually weeded out that weakness in your heart...”

Carewyn’s red lips came together tightly, but she didn’t reply. The two stared each other down for a moment, before Blaise finally exhaled.

“Very well, Winnie -- you want to know why I’m down here?”

He reached into his scarlet robes and pulled out a gold chain, on the end of which dangled a tiny gold hourglass. 

A Time Turner. 

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon it. 

“Lucius Malfoy has expressed quite a bit of interest in my old department, when we’ve spoken,” murmured Blaise. “One sub-section in particular -- one where records of magical predictions are kept.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Prophecies?”

“They are truly a fascinating thing,” said Blaise, his voice sounding rather airy. “So much value is placed on them -- too much, one could argue...just as one puts too much value on all attempts at ‘future sight.’ Alas, the section of my old department that Malfoy was interested in was not my area of expertise -- my area was in the study of Time, specifically backwards-facing. We did occasionally dip into the study of forward-facing time magic, but more in the sphere of inevitabilities -- things that evolve naturally in nature, every season -- not human affairs. Unfortunately when I was there, there was an employee monitoring the perimeter of the section I meant to enter -- I couldn’t have explored further even if I’d wanted to.”

“So Malfoy wanted you to stop by your old desk and pick up something that might help him or someone else enter the Department of Mysteries?” Carewyn asked. “Why?”

Blaise shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“And yet you have a suspicion as to why?”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed upon Carewyn’s face, not angrily, but almost darkly. 

“I may no longer work for the Department of Mysteries, Winnie, but I cannot discuss the more classified branches of their work too deeply. That is part of the Vow I made when I first joined the Department -- it forces me to speak in hypotheticals and vague descriptions more than specific details. But I fear no random stooge using this tool to try to enter my old department, whether Malfoy or otherwise. In fact,” he added with a smirk, “I would frankly love to see them try.”

He ignored Carewyn’s critical, confused expression and pressed on more seriously. 

“You’re not a stupid girl, Winnie. I know you know what’s really going on, under the surface. Me offering assistance to Lucius Malfoy early on is merely how I intend to earn enough favor to keep my family safe, should the worst happen.”

“And what is that?” asked Carewyn.

Blaise cocked his eyebrows again. “Ask your mother. She remembers the First Wizarding War just as well as I do -- how it all started before.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“Blaise.”

Carewyn speaking his name and sharply grabbing his arm holding the Time Turner made him stop. 

“If you wish to provide Lucius Malfoy useful information,” she said lowly, “you can tell him that that employee was not there by accident.”

Blaise looked back over his shoulder, startled. Carewyn closed her eyes tight, trying to block out the intense nausea rippling over her. 

“He’s there to make sure Malfoy’s superior can’t reach what he wants,” she murmured. “There are many more, just like him, all with the same goal. It doesn’t matter when you go there -- there will always be someone there who will keep him away from what he wants.”

Blaise stared at Carewyn, his eyes narrowing in bewilderment. 

“...Why are you telling me this?” he whispered. 

Carewyn swallowed back the lump in her throat. 

“I haven’t worked with time magic like you have...but people aren’t supposed to be in two places at once. That I do know. A lot of problems have been caused by people trying to mess with time. Mum told me that once in the 19th century, a whole bunch of people’s lives were erased out of existence, all because someone messed around with a Time Turner...”

“Ah, yes, Eloise Mintumble,” said Blaise, sounding as darkly amused as a bully might upon seeing one of their usual targets wearing a particularly obnoxious dress. “Tried to go back more than a few hours and ended up changing things so dramatically that she both erased 25 people out of existence and aged her body five centuries and died upon return trip. A rather fascinating case study.”

“You’re disgusting,” Carewyn said coldly. But she got back to the task at hand, her voice hardening. “Even if Malfoy couldn’t get what his master wants from the Department of Mysteries with that Time Turner, he could still do irreparable damage with it. If all Malfoy needs is assistance, to believe that you’re helping him and for you to earn enough esteem that the Cromwell Clan stays safe...then give him the intelligence I’ve given you. Don’t give him that Time Turner.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his lips spreading into a rather condescending smirk. “Why? Because it’s wrong, little Winnie? Because it’s illegal and immoral, and ‘not the right thing to do?’”

“I’m not foolish enough to appeal to you with morality, Blaise -- I know you don’t have any,” spat Carewyn. “I’m asking you not to do it for your own self-preservation. For the Clan’s. ...For your family’s.”

Blaise’s smirk actually slid off his face. Carewyn held his gaze as best as she could, even with how ill she felt. 

“I may not be one of those who takes turns standing watch in your old department,” Carewyn said very softly, “but Jacob is.”

Blaise’s face went rather white, and Carewyn knew she’d struck a cord. For as cruel, selfish, and immoral of a person as Blaise was, he still saw his family -- all of it -- like his personal belongings. And he “took care” of his belongings. He wanted complete control over them and, like Charles before him, he never respected them as people, nurtured them, or gave them any freedom...but Blaise didn’t want anyone touching “his things.”

The older man’s jaw clenched as a rather dark glint flashed through his eyes.

“...I see.”

His teeth still bared, he extended the hand holding the Time Turner’s gold chain and, very slowly, lowered it into Carewyn’s hand. 

Carewyn’s eyes softened in relief.

“Thank you.”

Blaise exhaled heatedly through his nose.

“Jacob always was a fool,” he growled, his voice full of resentment. “Risking his life for people like that Muggle filth who abandoned you and your mother -- ”

“Better than selling his soul and freedom to serve the person who locked my mother and all of you up like prisoners,” Carewyn shot back rather coolly.

Blaise’s eyes flashed angrily. “You will not speak ill of your grandfather, Winnie! Everything he ever did in his life was for us, including you, your brother, and your mother, and I will not have you forgetting that!”

“Crow that lie as much as you want -- it won’t ever make it true.”

Blaise seethed as Carewyn pocketed the Time Turner in her robes. Slowly, his temper cooled enough that his lips spread back out into a rather vindictive smirk.

“For the record, Winnie...Time moves in a loop. If Lucius Malfoy were to use the Time Turner after I give it to him a half-hour from now, the effects would’ve already been felt by us by now. We would have heard about someone having broken into the Department of Mysteries before our conversation even started. The fact that we are not hearing that means that he never receives the Time Turner from me. So, in fact, it was already clear that I would give you the Time Turner before I actually did -- ”

“Oh, shut your trap,” Carewyn said tiredly. Just listening to Blaise wax on was giving her a headache. “I don’t even want to try unpacking all that time travel rubbish. All I care about is that Malfoy and his ilk can’t try to mess with time, now or ever.”

She turned on her heel and strode for the slightly ajar door. Pushing it further open, she then looked back over her shoulder at Blaise. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of. Stay out of trouble, or I will not hesitate to prosecute you.”

Blaise’s eyes were very cold even around his smirk. “If there’s anyone who should be warned to stay out of trouble, it’s you, Winnie. I’m not the only one who’s aligned themselves with people who could drag them down, if they fall.”

“Perhaps,” said Carewyn mildly. “But my friends will catch me if I fall, just as they have before. Just like I always catch them. That makes all the difference.”

She walked away, her heels clapping against the black tiled floor as she strode to the end of the hall, listening at the door of Courtroom Ten. She could hear several voices talking inside -- after a moment, she recognized two as Amelia Bones and Cornelius Fudge. 

“...certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately. And I can’t imagine why she would say they were there if they weren’t -- ”

“But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard! The odds on that must be very, very long, even Bagman wouldn’t have bet -- ”

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence,” said a very misty, serene voice from inside the Courtroom.

Carewyn’s shoulders relaxed, even as her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.

Dumbledore. He’d made it in time. 

Exhaling heavily, Carewyn quickly turned back around and walked briskly back down the hallway, back upstairs toward her office. On the way, she walked by Blaise, who was now deep in quiet conversation with Lucius Malfoy, and Carewyn and Malfoy coldly stared each other down as she passed.

x~x~x~x

Carewyn hated keeping the Time Turner in her desk. She wanted to be rid of the thing immediately, but she knew she had to be patient. 

Around 11:00, just before lunchtime, Carewyn asked to borrow a Dungbomb from Tonks and covertly dropped off it just outside the Auror Department on her way back to her tiny office. The resulting smell resulted in the entire floor clearing out, until someone could deal with the smell. Carewyn herself, however, stayed in her office and powered through, spraying some Muggle air freshener to try to mask the smell. 

I forgot how much I hate Dungbombs, Carewyn thought dully. Oh well...desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

Keeping the files on a case she was working on open on either side of her, Carewyn read through them every-so-often as she pecked away at a letter she had to write. This letter had to be concise and to the point, if its recipient was going to know it was safe and exactly what she had to do, to help keep Harry Potter from getting unjustly expelled. 

Right on time, three hours after Harry’s hearing, Carewyn’s Legilimency picked up the feeling that someone was approaching her office. A moment later, there was a knock on her door. 

The ginger-haired lawyer exhaled heavily, her eyebrows knitting together. 

“Come in,” she said. 

Although she kept her voice level, she already felt a headache coming on. She knew who was on the other side of that door -- and sure enough, when it opened, in came tall, silver-bearded Albus Dumbledore, dressed in long midnight-blue robes. 

Carewyn’s eyes hardened as the Hogwarts Headmaster closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Carewyn,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. 

“You got my message from Tonks, then?” Carewyn asked. 

“To come straight to your office as soon as I arrived, but to not let anyone see me entering? Yes. Though I daresay the evacuation of this floor thanks to the smell of Dungbombs helped with that considerably,” said Dumbledore, and his light blue eyes twinkled. “I presume it has something to do with why some members of the Wizengamot were asking what I was doing back here so soon, and why Cornelius looked even more sour at my presence than usual.”

Carewyn’s face was twisted in a deep frown as she finally took the Time Turner out of the drawer and put it on top of her desk. 

“The time and place of Harry’s hearing was changed three hours ago, with no notice,” she said stridently. “The hearing originally scheduled for 11 o’clock instead was moved to 8 o’clock at 7:58 this morning. The letter was sent by owl to Privet Drive at 7:59, right before a second letter informing Harry that because he didn’t show up for his hearing, he was presumed guilty and therefore expelled from Hogwarts. Both letters arrived at 8:52. The Order wasn’t informed of the change until a little after 9, but was also informed by Arthur Weasley that you’d had the matter well in hand and had arrived miraculously early.”

“And so they felt no need to send me any post regarding the matter,” presumed Dumbledore with a dewy smile. “But in order for all of that to have happened, I will have to go back and ensure it does happen -- isn’t that so?”

Carewyn nodded curtly as she handed the Time Turner and a sealed envelope to Dumbledore. 

“Three turns back should be enough -- you don’t want to risk changing too much, by arriving too early, and I have a closed-door meeting with Chester Davies prior to that. Give this letter to me as soon as you arrive in the past. As soon as she...escorts you out, head straight for Courtroom Ten. You should arrive just after Harry does -- it shouldn’t raise as much suspicion if you make it to the courtroom after Harry, since he was already in Arthur’s office when he first received word of the change...”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with some mischief. “Clever as always, Carewyn, my dear. You do the Order very proud.”

Carewyn’s eyes flashed. “I’m not doing this for you or your ‘Order,’ Dumbledore, as you know full well. Jacob was completely at R’s mercy after he was expelled from Hogwarts, and I don’t want to even think about where Potter might end up, if the same thing happened to him. And if Jacob’s guarding something in the Department of Mysteries, I don’t want to make it any easier for You-Know-Who and his goons to get the drop on him.”

Dumbledore’s calm didn’t shift, though his eyes did turn a bit more solemn. “And as always, Carewyn, your cleverness is only rivaled by your caring for others.” 

Rising to his feet, the Headmaster tucked the envelope inside his robes and then picked up the Time Turner. 

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said cheerily, “or, should I say, ‘I will have seen you?’”

And with three turns, he’d disappeared.

Carewyn gave an exhausted, groan-like sigh.

“I hate Time Turners,” she muttered to herself.

x~x~x~x

When Dumbledore appeared in Carewyn’s office out of the blue at 8 o’clock that morning, the ginger-haired lawyer reacted with a lot of irritation and suspicion. Those feelings weren’t helped when Dumbledore handed her the letter addressed to her, and yet written in a hand identical to hers.

Carewyn,

First of all, yes, I know you recognize this handwriting. This isn’t a trick -- it’s just the work of a Time Turner: specifically the one Dumbledore’s holding. On that note, ask him to hand it over and then smash it. We have more than enough problems in the here and now: no sense in adding more time travel rubbish to the pile. 

Now that that’s been taken care of, let’s get to business --

The time and place of Harry’s hearing was moved just a minute ago. It now starts at 8 o’clock in the morning in Courtroom Ten. Don’t worry, Arthur’s already been notified and is ferrying Harry as we speak, but Dumbledore needs to get down there right now. Kick him out of your office, nice and loudly -- there are people outside who could overhear, and you don’t want anyone to think you and Dumbledore are on good terms. Which, fortunately, you’re not. 

Now that Dumbledore’s out of your hair, let’s go over what you need to do -- 

Blaise has sneaked into the Ministry, specifically the bottommost floor near the Department of Mysteries, on Lucius Malfoy’s direction. No, Blaise isn’t a Death Eater -- just short-sighted and self-serving as ever. The point is that he has a Time Turner on his person, which he cannot be allowed to walk away with, under any circumstances. You’ll be able to catch him leaving the Department of Mysteries if you go downstairs in the next fifteen minutes. He’ll be meeting Lucius Malfoy around 8:30, in the middle of Harry’s hearing, so don’t let him walk away without getting that Time Turner away from him. Don’t come at the issue straight-on, though -- you can appeal to Blaise to give it to you willingly. Just keep him talking. Once you have the Time Turner, you can hold onto it until Dumbledore arrives in your office at the time that was originally scheduled for Harry’s hearing, so he can use it to go back far enough to arrive at Harry’s hearing on time. 

I know, this Time Travel stuff is absolutely bloody ridiculous. But at least this way Malfoy won’t be able to use the Time Turner Blaise stole to cause even more havoc. 

Burn this letter as soon as you’re done reading it. We don’t want anyone coming across it. 

Good luck. 

As for Dumbledore himself, he arrived at Harry’s hearing right on time, all according to plan. 

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You --er -- got our -- er -- message that the time and -- er -- place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

[philliamwrites]

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.3]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Chapter 03: Ties That Bind

Where war, and joy, and terror Have all at times held away; Where both delight and horror Have had their fitful day.

The happiest under heaven A king of powerful mind; A company so proven Would now be hard to find

Gawain put on a good cheer. ‘Why should I hesitate?’ He said. ‘Kind or severe, We must engage our Fate.’

[Sir Gawain and the Green Knight]

    „Breathe,“ Hanneman says for the third time. At every tap of his pen against the table, you flinch as if someone is knocking right against the inside of your skull. “You have to feel the Crest, become one with it. Don’t think of it as an addition; see it as an extension of your very self.”

    You exhale but it’s hard to focus after you’ve been sitting in the same position for nearly two hours and your legs keep falling asleep.

    “Focus on it,” Hanneman continues. He starts to gesture with his free hand, an indicator that he’s just as frustrated with your lack of progress as you are. “Focus on the feeling that took hold of you when you fought the bandits. Imagine what you want. Ask yourself what it is you really want, and take hold of that picture.”

    Well, first of all, you really want a sandwich.

    For the past few weeks, you’ve been waking up before sunrise to attend private lessons with Hanneman to get a hold of your Crest’s power. Now the end of the month approaches, and still your body refuses to get accustomed to work at such an early hour, and more importantly without eating first. An hour ago, your stomach started growling, but Professor Hanneman has proved again and again to be very successful in ignoring factors that disturb his lessons. You continue breathing through what you consider hunger pains instead of the raise of new powers, but with the sound of screaming students outside and the occasional flapping of wings as Pegasus Knights fly by on their patrol, it’s anything but successful.

    “Focus!” Hanneman chides again as if he can read your mind and knows exactly you’re thinking of the pheasant roast with berry sauce on the menu today.

    “I’m trying,” you groan and slump into the chair, defeated. “But I don’t feel anything.”

    “Hmm hmmm,” Hanneman hums and looks at you like you were supposed to understand what he’s conveying with that sound. “Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way,” he says once you don’t follow up on his inexplicable sound. “Maybe we should stop thinking of it as a common Crest, but approach it like it is something entirely different.” He quickly notes something on his paper, then proceeds to flip through the open books he’s splayed out on his desk. “There is so little we know about the Crest of the Herald. I am much frustrated no one thought of studying it a thousand years ago!”

    “I don’t understand. How can it be different?” Your first lesson solely focused on Crests. How they are thought to be power incarnate, bestowed upon humans by the Goddess countless ages ago. Today those who are descendants of Fódlan’s Ten Elites and Four Saints, who fought during the War of Heroes beside Saint Seiros, wear Crests, a sign of wealth and nobility.

    “Well, one possible explanation could be that for whatever reason, the first Herald was different from his fellow warriors, the Ten Elites,” Hanneman offers, leaning back into his chair and looking a lot more interested in the conversation now. “The Goddess must have found him worthy of her power just as she found Saint Seiros worthy.”

    “Then why wasn’t he a Saint?” you wonder. From your understanding, the Four Saints were special comrades of Saint Seiros, just as guided by the Goddess as their leader. What had made the Herald from back then different? “According to everything you told me, he sounds a lot like this Macuil person. Focusing on strategy and all that.”

    “Saint Macuil,” Hanneman corrects you, but there’s no bite in his voice. “And yes, perhaps he was akin to the Saints, but that clearly wasn’t what determined the final decision to name him Herald.”

    “Well, that’s just my kind of luck,” you mumble, but when Hanneman makes a puzzled sound, you ask instead, “And you’re sure I’m a descendant of him?”

    “Most likely! You bear a Major Crest, which means the Herald’s blood runs strong in your body. After he disappeared, he might have settled down and started a family. Unfortunately, nothing is recorded about him after the War of Heroes concluded.”

    “Then how come there was no one else in a thousand years who bore the same Crest?” You aren’t sure you fully understand how they work. Apparently, Crests grant special powers to those who hold them such as high aptitude for magic or enhanced strength. But you know better than anyone that the Crest of the Herald is special. It doesn’t simply give you a boon, it allows you to command the flow of battle. But is it really a blessing bestowed by the Goddess? You don’t remember a divine revelation or talking to a Goddess. Or did that maybe occur even before you were found by the Officers Academy’s students? Before your memory loss? You certainly don’t feel chosen by a deity.

    “Trying to explain the Goddess’ whims would wield about the same result as asking this question,” Hanneman says. “Sometimes a Crest may skip generations. No one can say with certainty who will be chosen. If it will be the first or third born. That is why we must further study Crests! For example, why, unlike other Crests, has your appeared physically visible?” Hanneman mutters more questions under his breath and notes them quickly on his paper. It’s remarkable how enthusiastic he approaches the topic if it only didn’t make you feel like an experiment lying on a dissection table.

    “I want to know so much more about the first Herald,” you mumble. “What was his name? Where was he from?” Why did he disappear and what were the costs he had paid for such a title. Only one month in and Lady Rhea already granted you an impressive room to reside. People treat you with respect and admiration even though you aren’t doing much besides wave at them on the streets or hold some conversations. If being the Herald only encompasses these tasks, you’ll gladly take on the role and speak to people. But that would be a dream too good to be true.

    “We can only speculate,” Hanneman says. “Some believe the Herald came when Seiros needed him most. Our Goddess’ answer to her cry of help. Others believe he was simply a general who originated form a farmer’s family. Other, smaller sources talk about a prince from a far off land who passed through Fódlan and decided to stay. But in all cases, the Herald was a great asset to win the War of Heroes and save Fódlan from the tyranny of the Fell King.”

    “Yeah, no pressure there,” you mumble, sinking further into your seat. Hopefully no one expects you to save Fódlan from evil monarchs. If yes, it certainly won’t happen on an empty stomach. When Hanneman releases you, there’s only one place for you to be. The Dining Hall is crowded at this time of hour. Students and faculty bustle everywhere, eager to get their favourite meal on a plate. Just like them, you are drawn in by the amazing smell of roasted meet and freshly baked pastries.

    The only thing you can live without is how once you enter the room several heads turn in your direction, and a ripple of “Look, it’s the Herald” goes through the crowd, spreading like a wave. Or a disease, you think with a sour taste in your mouth as you move through the parting sea. They want you to acknowledge them but Goddess forbid you actually engage in conversation with them and they flee like you’re the Herald of Pest.

    “Herald!” Well, not everyone escapes. Some seem to like living dangerous.

    Edelgard looks straight at you from between the other students from the Eagle class sitting at a table, removing any doubt she means anyone else but you. Running from her would be a sign of defeat, so you drag yourself over to the Eagle table and give the round an uncertain smile. “Hello.”

    “Herald, if you have time, please sit with us,” Edelgard offers but the look she pins on you doesn't give you any choice. The silence of her classmates speaks louder than words, and a quick glance to Hubert tells you that he very much would like for you to notsit with them.

    “Sure,” you say lamely and sit opposite from her where Bernadetta quickly shuffles to the side to make room, and then further down the bench until she jumps to her feet and flees from the hall. It’s a miracle she’s out of her chambers in the first place, undoubtedly Byleth’s work.

    “Did you manage any progress with Professor Hanneman?” Edelgard asks, carefully cutting her pheasant roast into small bite-sized pieces. She looks the complete opposite from someone capable of hacking away their enemies but you wouldn’t dare to underestimate her.

    “It’s slow,” you admit, solely focusing on shoving potatoes from one side of your plate to the other so you don’t have to look at anyone. “I’ve only grasped the basics of how Crests work and the Herald’s is so different.”

    “Research might prove more fruitful if you’d be called into action,” she says, and it’s difficult to determine if that statement is a simple observation or underlying critique towards Rhea’s decision to leave you out of the major education system. At least that’s something you’re sure of. Edelgard is difficult.

    “Maybe. But chances are higher I get myself killed somehow on the battlefield.” You’re already dreading the approaching noon hours. Byleth has worked out a special training programme for you and the house leaders. So far there hasn’t been a day without aching muscles and bruises for you. Thinking of Byleth, you can’t help but ask, “So how’s Byleth as a Professor?”

    Edelgard considers her plate with mild interest, but her index fingers start tapping against her cutlery. She has small, delicate hands. Cute hands. You gawk at them for two seconds before noticing Hubert starring daggers at you, and quickly avert your eyes to your cup of ginger tea like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

    “Our professor shows knowledge in the most curious things,” he says, surprising you by joining the conversation. “I think the Adrestian Empire will benefit greatly from that.”

    You aren’t sure how leading the class correlates directly to joining the Empire, but you don’t want to point that out. Hubert is still too much of a puzzle you’re adamant on not piecing together because whatever picture waits for you after the assembly might be one of horror.

    “She really is one to look up to,” Edelgard agrees, but she isn’t looking at anyone, so it seems she’s saying it more to herself. You want to try and read more out of her expression, but distraction comes quickly in form of more students from the Eagle class. Caspar is the first bouncing excitedly towards the table, and still he somehow miraculously manages to keep his food from flying everywhere. “Herald!” he calls and slides right on the seat right next to you. “How’s the head situation going?”

    “Caspar,” Linhardt chides and gives his friend the disappointed look of a parent that can’t bring his child to use a fork to eat. “Would you stop pestering the Herald with the same question every day?”

    Linhardt hits the mark. It was nice in the beginning to have someone show so much interest in your wellbeing, but now you don’t know if the daily reminder how you fail to regain pieces of your past is rude or just Caspar’s naive politeness.

    “Yeah well.” You try to stuff as much potatoes in your mouth as possible just to avoid talking about it. “Nothin’ yeff.”

    “Herald, please try to keep your manners in check, will you?” Ferdinand comments because of course he catches you with your mouth full and sauce dripping from the corners. Unlucky for him, you don’t really care.

    “Well, sorry.” Caspar frowns and scratches the remains from his plate. The two minutes you needed to finish your potatoes, he’s cleared his whole plate. “I just thought it might help.”

    “Help to be reminded what’s missing?” Linhardt doesn’t look convinced. “I think the Herald knows so better than anyone.”

    “Guys, drop the subject,” Edelgard intervenes. “Let us finish our meals now. Classes resume presently and I don’t want to hear any stomachs growling, understood?” The last part goes with a pointed look towards Linhardt, who answers with a lazy shrug while continuing to poke at his food, looking bored out of his mind. It lasts about three seconds before he brightens up and turns towards you while rummaging through his school bag. From that, he pulls out notes and a pen, and unceremoniously shoves them into your hands. “I have a question, Herald. Would you be so kind and look over these strategic proposals I’ve developed from the last lesson? I understand what you taught us were basics as we find them in the library. I simply took the time and applied those to the strengths and abilities of my classmates.”

    You raise your eyebrows. “You did?” Up until now, you didn’t know Linhardt was paying attention whenever you gave the students your sorry excuses of lessons. You feel like you’ve seen him asleep far more than actually looking at the board or writing, so him presenting his notes to you now is more than a surprise. He has a clean handwriting, small letters that curl into themselves and forget to take a break between words. You squint at the sentences, trying to make them out. It sure doesn’t help that half of it is crossed out by what looks like a strategy sketch with little circles and everyone’s names filling out the space.

    “This looks … elaborate,” you comment, unsure if you’ll ever be able to solve this enigma.

    “No worries.” Linhardt gives a little smile. “Please give me your answer report until tomorrow. And feel free to correct me on anything I’ve done wrong.”

    He’s probably done a much better job than you on your lesson notes, but you nod with a lopsided smile. “I will.”

    “Oh, and while we’re at strategy talk,” Caspar jumps right in, “any good ideas how to take on a taller opponent?”

    “A good kick to their shins?” you suggest.

    “A dagger to their liver?” Edelgard says.

    “Poison in their cup?” Hubert offers.

    “You’re all animals,” Ferdinand says.

    Linhardt groans. “I toldyou how to win in a fight like that, Caspar. Why won’t you listen to me?”

    You don’t want to be part of the argument breaking out between them, so you turn away and try to see what the other students are doing in the dining hall. At the opposite end, Claude catches your eyes and waves like he’s been waiting way too long to finally get your attention. He points at Edelgard and flaps his arms like a chicken. He points at you and spreads his hands behind his head, forming antlers with his fingers. When Edelgard follows your eyes, his head whips around and he pretends to agree with whatever Lysithea just said.

    “I hope you forgive Caspar’s enquiries,” she says, steering your focus back to her. She’s gently tapping the corners of her mouth with an embroidered napkin, and oh there they are again, her delicate fingers. You look away before Hubert catches you staring again and decides to put poison in your cup7. “I speak on behalf of everyone in the Black Eagle House when I say we wish for your full recovery to be soon.”

    “If wishing would only get the job done, I might have something to work with by now.”

    Edelgard doesn’t blink, her expression frozen. “Meaning?”

    “I thought I'd come here and one of the Church's healers would just wave their hands to return my memories,” you mumble, scribbling a tiny Claude with little, evil horns on his head in the corner of Linhardt’s notes.

    Edelgard looks at you like you've just insulted her whole noble lineage. “That isn't how magic works.”

    You throw your arms up in frustration to emphasise that yes, that's the point. You don't know how anything works in this place, and you doubt Byleth's four pages of lesson plans are going to help.

    “If no one comes to your aid, maybe it is time you take matters into your own hands.” You flinch at the scornful sound in Edelgard’s voice. Judging the expression on her face, she seems just as surprised about her outburst. She gets up abruptly and bids farewell with a curt nod, followed closely by Hubert as always. Her classmates look after her, each more puzzled than the next.

    “Didn’t she seem … angry to you?” Linhardt thinks aloud, blinking into the empty space.

    Ferdinand harrumphes. “She’s always like this. Please excuse her, Herald.”

    You don’t think she’s done anything wrong, and yet she certainly doesn’t appear as always. Something about her last words strikes you as especially sharp; reproachful. Those weren’t meaningless words, but you don’t have any ways to decipher the message. A little voice tells you she isn’t wrong either. So far nothing has helped returning your memories—Manuela’s medicine, herbs from the Greenhouse, Hanneman’s spells. It seems like your brain has built defencive walls to repel any probing, which begs the answer to the question what is hiding in secret even more. But can you really do it on your own, like Edelgard suggests? It seems impossible.

    With newfound doubt you finish your meal, saying your goodbyes to the now scattering Eagle students as they scurry off to their next lesson. Two hours are left before you’re meeting with Byleth and the house leaders, and since you agreed to look over Linhardt’s notes, the library seems a good next stop. You still want to go over the seven classical manoeuvres of war, especially since the students didn’t really grasp the remaining two last time, and it gives you a good excuse to look over them again as well. At the beginning, you thought there was nothing you could teach those children, not with experienced colleagues at your side who have participated in countless battles themselves. Who could have thought that talking about tactics and strategies came as natural to you as breathing. Well, Rhea did for certain, and even the students drink up your every word like it is a message from the Goddess herself and you her chosen herald. The irony of it.

    But it isn’t only the students accepting your guidance. Something inside you changed in the last couple of weeks as well. When you started going through the books in the library, it was more stumbling and slipping on foreign terrain, but just in a couple of days, you moved through the matter like a fish following smoothly the currents of its native waters. It felt like home. Like building the foundation of a house from thousand variables, the result different each time but still the same: art. You build the art of battle, the last decision that will bring victory or death. You love every second of it. Which opens the possibility that it really isn’t your first time, but also more questions: Who taught you? What battles have you fought? How many of them did you win? Since those aren’t as simple to answer, you focus on fulfilling the first purpose, and hope that it will some day be enough for the students to survive battles.

    If only it would end there. Your second duty isn’t as easy or pleasant, and it lies in wait for you everywhere, stalking you like a dark shadow with monstrous fangs.

    “Herald.” A soldier gives a courteous bow, intercepting you in the Great Hall on your way to the library. “Pilgrims ask for you near the Entrance Hall. Please allow me to escort you.”

    Immediately, your nerves tingle with nervous anticipation. This is the scary part. Meeting the people, seeing the hope in their eyes. You’d gladly send them back where they’ve come from, but some have travelled for multiple days, and denying them audience would be cruel.

    “Don’t let me stop you from your duties,” you say, unconsciously tugging your clothes in order to appear presentable. “I will welcome them on my own.”

    The soldier nods and bows again, his expression barely readable under the helmet before he disappears as quickly as he came.

    Planning lessons is easy. You can find whatever you need in the library and work out the flow with the students. But nothing can prepare or teach you how to act like the Herald people wish for. Nowhere is anything written on the old Herald, how he talked to them and what promises he’d whispered when day broke. That is where you are on your own. Not even Rhea could answer that question. She only instructed that you see them, and remind them about their devotion to the Goddess—for she was the one who made it possible in the first place.

    The Entrance Hall is emptier than usual. Most of the students are in class, and a handful of knights and soldiers might be at the advanced training camp Jeralt and Alois hold in honour of the Blade Breaker’s return. So spotting the pilgrims isn’t difficult. Especially with the Gatekeeper waving his arms in wide arcs as if fearing you might overlook him.

    “Greetings, Herald!” His grin is blinding. “The pilgrims are waiting for you just at the at the foot of the stairs.”

    “Yeah,” you say. “I can see them.”

    “Oh, yes, of course! If anyone causes problems, count on me to help!”

    “Thanks.” You answer his thumbs up with one of your own before moving downstairs. What a refreshing young man. Certainly good looking under his helmet. Byleth seems to like talking to him a lot as well.

    Today’s pilgrims aren’t much different from other days. Old people are supported by their family members, who have brought baskets with sweets and flowers, presenting them at your feet.

    “Herald,” they breathe in awe, bowing. No matter how often you’ve seen it by now, it still feels incredibly wrong.

    “Raise your heads,” you tell them, helping an elderly woman up to hrer feet. She gasps at your touch, then clings to your hands. You try to swallow past the lump in your throat. “The Archbishop and I bid you welcome. The Goddess will smile upon your devotion.” Your cringe slightly when echoing Rhea’s words and wonder if any second the goddess might punish you by throwing lightning your way.

    “We are blessed to finally meet you,” a younger woman says, taking the old woman from your hands—mother and daughter maybe? “Please accept our gifts, and may the Goddess guide you on your path to light.”

    “She will answer your prayers and guide me so I can bring you peace,” you reply just so you can say something they might want to hear. Judging their delighted expressions this wasn’t the worst you could have said. Dorothea would probably be proud looking at your acting skills. Or point out your bad posture and how you’re avoiding their eyes. Dorothea would probably tell you how much you have to polish your acting skills.

    “Bring us peace?” someone from the last row spits, pushing to the front. “You know nothing, the Herald will bring chaos and ruin!” A man in his forties looms above you, an ugly, padded scar crossing his face from one temple to his chin. A war veteran? They way he holds himself looks like he’s been beaten up once too much to get up again.

    “You heathen, don’t you dare speak to our Herald like that,” the old woman barks, immediately doubling over in a coughing fit. Her daughter supports her, glaring at the man. “Go in peace, but go if you only came to talk ill about our Herald,” she says, clearly upset. "Doubting them is doubting our Goddess. How dare you."

    “First I want to see the Herald do something! What if … if this one is an impostor.” The man turns towards the others, throwing his arms in the air. “Bring forward proof that you are not here to ruin our lands, but to actually serve in the Goddess’ name!”

    This time his demand meets less resistance. Until now people were fine with seeing you and the Crest, but to want actual prove? You could easily threaten them and ask if they doubt the Goddess’ decision, but you’d rather leave that method to Rhea. You don’t want to sound like her. You don’t want to scare people. Yet admitting that you don’t really have a clue how to really use the Crest would surely support the man’s accusation. Diminishing the people’s trust in the Herald is the last thing you want, especially if it means facing Rhea’s scorn.

    “I—”

    “Herald!” A voice calls from the top of the stairs. When you turn around, Sylvain waves and jogs downstairs, looking like he’s been running for some time. “There you are. The Archbishop wants to see you.”

    Oh no, has she heard of your failure already? Giving the choice of facing a group of doubting people or Rhea, you’d immediately go to the people. You give him a curt nod, unable to speak because you don’t trust your voice.

    “I apologise,” you say to the pilgrims, clearing your throat when it comes out as a croak. “I will have something prepared for another time.”

    “No, you do not need to prove anything to us,” the elderly woman says. “We will always believe in you. Please tell Her Grace we are constantly praying to our Goddess and thank her for sending you to us.”

    “I will.” You squeeze her hand a last time. “Save travels.”

    The man still glares at you, but without a chance to keep you present any longer, he turns away and follows the rest. You can’t wait to leave all that behind, and as you steel your nerves for what’s waiting for you in the Audience Chambers, you look up to Sylvain and ask, “Did Lady Rhea say what it is about?”

    He looks over at you and blinks a couple of times, then seems to remember. “Ah ... yeah, about that. I lied.”

    You stop dead in your tracks. “You lied?”

    “Yup. I don’t know what Lady Rhea’s doing. But you looked like you were about to puke at those poor pilgrim’s shoes. As hilarious as that would have been, I wanted to spare you the embarrassment.” He stops now as well and smiles a boyish crooked grin. Sylvain knows exactly what to do with his face so girls fall over themselves to do him a favour, and boys grow jealous of all the attention he gets. Two weeks in, and you’ve figured out his game, keeping a respectable distance that wouldn’t birth the thought you’re avoiding him. In fact, this could be the very first time you’re actually holding a real conversation.

    “Well, I … thank you? But I had everything under control.”

    He looks like he doesn’t believe you. The gatekeeper you’re just passing looks like he doesn’t believe you. You press your lips into a thin line and dare any of them to disagree.

    “Okay.” Sylvain shrugs. “But now we’re here.”

    “Sylvain, what do you want?”

    “Cutting to the chase, huh?” He crosses his arms behind his head. “Why do you think I want something?” Your raised eyebrows seem to be answer enough. Sylvain laughs a little helplessly and returns his hands back to his front, raised as an offer of peace. “I promise, I want nothing. Just a little talking. A little talking hasn’t hurt anyone.”

    Something inside you wants to argue against it, but without a solid argument in hand, you follow him silently, wondering where his destination and intention lies. He belongs to the many students you can’t really read, nothing about his ambitions or goals. Sometimes he gives you this strange look through half lidded eyes, his gaze focused on your right eye—his interest in your Crest undeniable, and yet he’s been one of the few not to talk about it with you. It’s strange because whenever you come together, he looks like there’s something he’s dying to say. This time is no different.

    He leads you to the wooden pavilion in the gardens, but instead of offering you a seat, Sylvain leans his slim hips against the table, half sitting on it. Seteth would be furious seeing this.

    “How’s the Herald business doing for you?” he asks the one question you wouldn't expect from him. “Other than you having ‘everything under control.’” He has the audacity to air-quote. This isn’t a conversation you want to hold right now, leastwise with him. Sylvain must discern that you’re ready to bold from whatever your body is showing. With a quick step, he’s standing between you and the escape route, lazily leaning one arm against a column to uphold the illusion that you’re only having a pleasant talk when in reality his body stands between you and your freedom.

    “Do you talk to the other faculty members like that as well?” you say through gritted teeth, crossing your arms. Sylvain blinks like he doesn’t understand, but you’ve seen this act before, followed by an eerily precise repetition of a subject to one of his classmates when he thinks none of the teachers pay attention. Sylvain is playing dumb and deliberately hiding a sharp mind.

    “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” he quickly says, nothing about this crooked smile appearing apologetic whatsoever. “I’m generously curious. You’re holding up really good.”

    “In comparison to what?” you demand, your heartbeat picking up. Is he trying to call you out on something? That you aren’t heraldy enough? But to your surprise, Sylvain looks genuinely surprised by your reaction.

    “To nothing. In general?” He shrugs. “Back on the ceremony day, you didn’t look so good standing up there, and His Highness told us everything happened really uh … ‘suddenly.’’ More air-quotes, whatever they mean this time.

    “If you mean I wasn’t really asked to become the Herald, then yes.” Your arms drop back to your side. “It was suddenly.”

    Sylvain watches you for a moment, and again, there’s this look in his eyes; the need to say something he can’t. He kneads the back of his nape, avoiding your eyes. “All I’m trying to say is … having that Crest out of nothing is cool. Probably. And maybe terrifying? And just—”

    You grow impatient. “Come on, get the words out, Sylvain.”

    “A Crest isn’t just this nice letter of invitation to a privileged life. Just take care, is all I’m saying.”

    And there’s another page to the book of surprises with Sylvain’s name on it. The immediate lack of response catches him off guard; it’s like he only notices now that the vital part to understand this conversation is missing: The source of his doubt towards Crests.

    Sylvain’s body turns in a split second, his feet facing the direction he’s ready to bold towards, but this time you stand in his way and block him off. “Sylvain, are you okay?”

    He blinks in confusion, then furrows his eyebrows in deep thought like you demanded he recites the Ten Heroes from memory or else fails classes. His face contorts with the effort of looking fine. “Why, yes! Just peachy. Why would you think something is off?”

    “Because I have eyes in my skull.”

    “Very pretty eyes, if I dare say.” His answer comes out like a fire spell, hard and fast, seemingly more instinct than anything else. He clears his throat and scratches his chin, loosing momentum. “Goddess, I am bad at this.”

    “You are.” No need to sugar coat it. “If something happened, just say it.”

    “Nothing really happened, I just—” He exhales audibly and stares into space for a long minute, before side stepping you without difficulty. “Actually, I remembered Professor wanted to see me after class. Something about extra lessons about eh. Horse riding. Yeah. I’ll catch you later, Herald.” He winks and bolds away, darting under your outstretched arm before you can catch him. For someone this tall, he’s surprisingly agile and fast, already disappearing behind a tall hedge towards the main building.

    If that wasn’t the strangest conversation you’ve held with anyone, you don’t know what might excel that. Maybe it’s time you stop avoiding Sylvain.

    The Training Grounds smells of sweat and oil. Many students and knights train, which is surprising at this kind of hour, the short break between afternoon and evening classes. You’d like to know what they’re working on, but Byleth doesn’t tolerate inattention in a classroom or on the battle field, and demands you do push-ups each time your eyes wander somewhere off. You hate her a little for that. For whatever reason, Claude has taken on the role of your partner in crime, and does whatever necessary to make Byleth punish him as well.

    “What can I say, I like a good workout,” he said when you asked. He didn’t even try to hide his lie, looking as miserable as you felt. Probably hating Byleth a little as well.

    It’s the fourth week of private training with her and the house leaders, and so far you can definitely say that you were not meant to fight on the field. You see how your opponent moves, you can somehow predict what they’re going to do next—but your body simply protests to act accordingly. You stumble, you fall, you need a second too long to get up and before you can do anything, a training sword is at your throat. Byleth always looks like she wants to facepalm her fist through her forehead. Or yours.

    “Herald, this is not how you disarm someone,” she says, as always, and demonstrates it in one smooth, swift movement, as always. You blow hair out of your eyes, knowing you’re about to fail again. At least that gave Claude a reason to give you a new nickname, though if it’s better than the last is debatable.

    “You gotta twist your wrist, duckling!” he calls from the other side of the hall, immediately drawing Byleth’s attention to him. He and Dimitri are facing off, both wielding a spear which should give Dimitri the upper hand. So far, he hasn’t landed a single hit on Claude.

    “Keep your elbows in!” Byleth berates Claude. “Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken.”

    Claude lets out a disturbingly convincing cluck.

    You raise an eyebrow. “At least someone’s having fun.”

    Byleth sighs. “He’s going to get himself killed sooner than later.”

    “I don’t know. He’s managed so far, hasn’t he?”

    “I’m not sure if it’s a talent or a fault.” She turns back to you and nods her chin towards the side. “Take a break. I’m going to see how the boys are doing.”

    You nod, tensing all over because that’s where Edelgard is currently standing and picking out a training axe. You haven’t talked to her since lunch, and you can do without it for a couple more hours. She barely glances at you when you walk over, and instead checks out the edge of the wooden blade, turning it left and right.

    “Is she as strict in the classroom as in here?” you ask, unable to go on in awkward silence. Edelgard hums, throwing a quick glance towards Byleth from under her long, white lashes. “She’s systematic and consistent. Capable in both fields. I have no reason to raise any kind of complaint.”

    “That’s impressive.” You sure as heck still wouldn’t want her as a teacher. “Even though she’s been pushed into all this, she handles it like she’s never done anything else.”

    “I think as a mercenary, she is used to changing approaches depending on the employer.” Edelgard is still looking at Byleth. Reading her expression is impossible, and you don’t want to point out that sticking a sword into thieves and bandits is not the same as teaching kids how to fight in a battle. Her head whips to you suddenly, and she considers the training sword in your hand. “Speaking of different approaches,” she continues, “have you considered that your field of combat might be magic?”

    You have, so the answer comes immediately. “Chances are higher I set myself on fire.” You stare at her. “I didn’t mean it to rhyme.”

    Edelgard ignores your last comment. “But you haven’t really tried it out, have you?” Your lack of response is answer enough for her, and she nods like that proves a point.

    It’s complicated. You haven’t really tried it out because … the simple answer is, you’re afraid. It gets tricky once you try to search for the answer to that. There’s just a strange sensation when you try to use magic, like there’s a vast sea of possibilities and one step inside is enough to get you lost. It isn’t as bad with wind spells or white magic. You haven’t touched Fire spells because a crippling fear chills you to the bones every time you manage to nourish a small flame inside your palm—the complete opposite to Dark magic. When you tried a MiasmaΔ for the first time it felt strangely … secure. The rope tying you to a shore, it had felt like—

    There’s a loud crash when the spears collide and Claude knocks Dimitri off his feet. The whole room is silent as everyone watches how Claude taps the blunt end of his practice spear against Dimitri’s chin. “Steady on there, darling,” he says with a smug grin. Dimitri flushes bright red, and pushes with more force than necessary the spear away, quickly climbing to his feet.

    “That wasn’t bad.” Byleth quickly steps in before Dimitri can throttle Claude. “Dimitri, you rely too much on your brute strength. That’s a big disadvantage against someone like Claude. And you, young man,” she turns to Claude who’s been smiling victoriously, “are scheming too much and lose time to take action. In a serious battle, you won’t be as lucky as today.”

    “Noted.” Claude whirls his spear from left to right, almost dropping it when Dimitri drills his elbow into his side. “But in a serious battle, I won’t be upfront. I’ll be hanging back nicely, and skewing my enemies with a myriad of arrows.”

    “You can barely shoot three at the same time,” Dimitri grumbles, his cheeks still splotched with red specks.

    “You wanna bet—”

    “That’s enough, guys, save it for then next round.” Byleth ignores their sulky expressions and turns to you, raising a single eyebrow. The message is clear. What are you waiting for?

    Your feet feel like they’re glued to the ground. Edelgard doesn’t hesitate at all. “Let’s go.”

    She strides in the middle, training axe raised. It’s made out of wood, but you don’t doubt that she’s able to severe a limb from your body if she only tries hard enough—and what you know of Edelgard is that she alwaysexceeds even her own expectations. You grip your sword tighter. It’s a clear disadvantage, but better than anything else you can handle. Maybe it won’t be as bad.

    The fight lasts for about seven seconds. The moment you raise the blade, Edelgard is on you and unleashes fierce strike after strike, the power behind each hit forcing you back. She doesn’t bat an eyelash when she easily disarms you, the wooden sword flying over your heads and the edge of her axe on your throat. Somewhere behind her, you hear Byleth sigh. “Again.”

    The next hour is torture. Edelgard throws you to the ground, again and again. Byleth keeps telling you to get up, again and again. One might think they would cut you some slack, being the Herald and all, but it feels like Edelgard is so much more aggressive today because you’re the Herald. Or maybe it’s personal. Maybe she’s appointed you to be her sworn enemy, and won’t miss out any chance to make it as hard as possible for you.

    This isn’t fun. Being watched by Dimitri and Claude, who whisper conspiratorially to each other isn’t fun. Luckily, Byleth notices them gawking and bellows them to focus on working on their stances. Right now, you’re thankful nothing escapes her eyes and she calls her students out on their bullshit. It doesn’t make your current situation easier though. Every muscle burns, just raising the sword is exhausting and your feet feel like they’re about to give out any second. This must be hell.

    When Byleth finally ends lessons, you ignore everything and crumble to the ground, splaying your limbs out in all directions. Surely they can clean up without you, two hands less will barely make any difference.

    A shadow settles over you. You know who it is, and don’t bother to open your eyes. “Go away, Byleth. I don’t want to hear how bad I am.”

    “Personally, I think you have improved, Herald.” Your eyes snap open. Dimitri looks down at you, his forehead still glistening from perspiration. “But facing Edelgard as an opponent usually wields those results. Don’t let it bother you.”

    You want to point out that he and Claude don’t seem to have as much problems as you, even though yes, none of them have defeated her yet in practice. He goes down to your level and sits beside you, and you hate how this all barely made him breath hard, like it’s just a stroll around the monastery whereas you’re trying to climb the mountains surrounding it.

    “I think she hates me,” you blurt out. Luckily, most students have already left the hall, Edelgard included. Dimitri considers this a moment, and you don’t know what to make of his lack of immediate response.

    “I doubt she hates you,” he finally says.

    “But?”

    “But she has a hard time warming up to people. Give her time. Once the ice is broken, you will see that her personality is one you’d like to have around.”

    “Oh?” You watch him for a moment, but Dimitri doesn’t blush or look away. It was a heartfelt, sincere statement, which flusters you for some reason. No one should be that honest.

    “Talking about breaking ice. Do you know if something happened to Sylvain?”

    “Sylvain?” Dimitri raises both eyebrows. “Please don’t tell me he harassed you in some kind of way.”

    “No, no, he just—” You finally get up from lying on your back, and try to explain it by frantically moving your hands. Dimitri still looks puzzled. “He said some weird things about Crests in general?”

    “Hm.” Dimitri stares at your hands for a moment, then quickly raises his eyes back to your face. “It’s complicated.” Well, that answer is as good as none. “And I won’t go into details without his consent. I can only say that if he talked about Crests, in whichever way, his brother must have upset him again.”

    “He has a brother?” Now you’re wide awake. Many students have siblings. You know of Hilda’s brother and Raphael’s sister. It shouldn’t surprise you Sylvain has one as well even though he’s never mentioned it before.

    “Do you have siblings?” you ask, generously curious. As heir to a kingdom, it’s hard to imagine his parents would have settled with one child. But he hasn’t mentioned any sisters or brothers as well.

    “Hmm, I have a step-sister,” he says, although very hesitant and you can see if someone doesn’t want to talk about a specific topic. He doesn’t return the question, which is kind of him and makes you wonder … maybe you have a sibling as well. Somewhere. Maybe somewhere in Adrestia or Leicester a younger brother or an older sister is currently looking for you, unrelenting in their journey to be reunited at last. The thought alone brings a flicker of hope alive. Maybe they'll come once word of the Herald’s return travels far enough.

    “I guess as long as Sylvain doesn’t disturb classes or acts out of order, I would leave him to his brooding. I can tell out of experience, only Felix is capable of cheering him up.”

    “Felix?” Your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Are we talking about the same Felix?”

    A smile forms on Dimitri’s mouth. “I understand why imagining that might prove difficult, but I assure you, Felix is one of the view exceeding in handling the mess Sylvain is from time to time.”

    “Felix and Ingrid?” you guess, earning a nod from Dimitri. “Ingrid is a very nice girl,” you continue, picking at a loose thread from your uniform. “But Felix seems detests me. Every time he sees me, he looks like he wants to throw his sword at me.”

    “That is—” Dimitri stops mid-sentence. “That might be not so far off from his true intentions.”

    You groan.

    “But I assure you it is for a different reason than you think. Felix is simply … difficult with people holding a commanding position.”

    “He doesn’t seem to have the same problem with Byleth,” you point out. No, whenever he trains with her, he manages something close to a smile and accepts her guidance. Then again, she isn’t his teacher.

    “I’m sure you’ll be able to make him consider his opinion on you during the Mock Battle. I as well am looking forward to how you will guide us.” Dimitri beams. You stare at him like he’s just lost his head.

    “What?”

    “The Mock Battle three nights from today?” Dimitri’s smile falters a little. “Have the Professor and Lady Rhea not told you yet? You are to participate in the Mock Battle as the commanding unit of the Blue Lions.” Now he’s pulling his eyebrows together in worry. “Herald?”

    “I—” You jump to your feet. “I have to go.” Go far far away. Just yesterday you introduced the students to the tactic called Feigned Withdrawal, which involves staging a retreat in order to induce the enemy to abandon its position and plunge ahead in an attack. Dimitri abandons his position, getting up to go after you, but instead of turning back to surprise him with an ambush, you flee the battle and hope the enemy doesn’t pursue.

[wouldpollyapprove]

You Love Me?

Summary: After Tommy accuses her of trying to take Grace’s place as Charlie’s mother, Y/n leaves the house, trying to forget the words he said to her. Running from her problems, Y/n decided to drink the night away and face her problems in the morning.

Request: 13 angst and 2 humor for Tommy as well please? I like your writing a lot!

Requested by @jenepleurepasbaby

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: language, alcohol, drugs

A/N: This is probabaly trash and after editing it, I could have done so much more with it but I’m lazy. And I know that I said I was taking a break this week, but I spent all day working on a lab write up and needed to write something I actually enjoy, so this is it. It sucks, but I don’t care. Oh, requests are open and I will be editing my fandoms list so, yeah.

Masterlist

“I think you need to take a break, Tommy.” Y/n stood behind him, looking over at the papers he was hunched over. She ran her hands over his tense shoulders and decided to rub out the knots. “You’ve been at this for hours, how about you come join Charlie and I on our walk?”

A grumble was all she got in response before he through her hands off him. 

“Tommy, please. You deserve a break.” She was met with silence. Y/n huffed and walked in front of his desk. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Charlie. He misses you. You spend all your time in your fucking office and none with him. He needs his father.” Her words finally caused the man to look up, but there was nothing but anger in his eyes.

“It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion,” Tommy stated. Leaning back in his chair, daggers for eyes stared back at Y/n. “How would you know what my boy needs, hm? Your not his mother, now are you?” 

The questions stung, causing cracks in her heart. Y/n never tried to be Charlie’s mother. All she ever wanted to be was someone the boy could come to in a time of need. Someone to support him and love him, but never his mother. She could never do that.

“All you are is my fucking whore! Nothing more, nothing less! Now fuck off, will ya?”

He didn’t have to ask her twice as Y/n ran out of the room, tears pooling in her eyes. She wanted to blame it all on stress from work, but how could she believe that when the words cut her so deeply. She had always thought of herself as more than just his whore, accepting the fact that he wasn’t quite ready for marriage. 

But he loved her.

Tommy loved her, that’s what she once knew. Now, dodging furniture and maids, with tears in her eyes, she was uncertain. Finally, upon the room she shared with Tommy, she quickly opened the door and shut it behind her. Sliding down the door, once she hit the floor, tears spilled out like a raging river. Sobs echoes through the room as she pulled her knees to her chest. 

Was she no more than a whore to him? Was she wasting her life on a man who would never want her? Questions as such ran wild through her brain, no answer in sight. How was she to know Tommy’s intentions when he never gave away much. 

“It’s alright,” Y/n whispered to herself, her head resting against her knee. Her eyes roamed the room, trying to grasp onto something, anything that could distract her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, the sun hit glittering fabric from the wardrobe. Wiping her tears, she pushed herself off the door and trudged over to the wardrobe. The door creaked as she pulled out the fabric, a glittering blue dress that Tommy had bought her. It was beautiful in the light, sparkling like a crystal ball, tragic that it had never been worn. 

Upon seeing the dress, an idea popped into her head. She wouldn’t spend all day crying over a fucking man, she would having more fun than that.

*~~*~~*

A smile broke out across her face as the band played a new song. “I fucking love this color,” Y/n ran her finger over the bar.

Her friend, Beth, giggled a reaction from one too many cocktails. “Yeah,” she drawled. “It’s… lovely.”

Y/n let out a sigh and leaned her head on the counter. She was unclear what time it was, vision hazy from the alcohol, but it was getting late, the sun setting outside. “We should go dancing!” she declared, raising her head up a little to fast.

Beth nodded, “We should. We…” Her sentence dropped off as a pair of men walked through the door. A nudge from Y/n brought her attention back to what she was saying. “We haven’t done that… in ages.”

Y/n slide off the barstool after chugging the last of her drink. She then grabbed her friend by the elbow and dragged her out of the pub. They were in the wealthy part of Birmingham, the part that wasn’t covered in dirt and death. People from this part of town didn’t die falling into machinery or from soot coating their lungs. These people usually died from consuming too much alcohol or drugs or in their sleep at the age of 85. Being in that part of town also meant that Y/n could do whatever the fuck she wanted.

No longer in Small Heath, she needn’t worry about the rage of Thomas Shelby. There weren’t Peaky Blinders or members of the Shelby family around every corner. There was no one to tell her to go home or to bite back the tears and leave Tommy alone. She was finally free. Free from the filth, from the looks, from the whispers that came from being with a dangerous man. 

For the first time in what felt like ages, Y/n like the person she used to be. 

The pair ented a club, one Y/n knew would give them the high they were seeking. Drugs were strewn on tables like leftovers and alcohol was soaking everything from the walls to the tables. If you wanted to forget something, it seemed, this was the place to go.

Dodging people too drunk to stand, Y/n made her way to the dance floor, Beth right behind her. Once in the middle of the floor, she couldn’t help but start dancing, grabbing a random person to dance with her. “I fucking love this!”

“Me too!” her friend shouted above the music. 

The danced for a long while, opting to dance with each other rather than the men around them. It was more fun that away, being able to express themselves with no other intentions but enjoying themselves. Both women were tired of being chased after by men to only become sex toys in their eyes. 

“I dumped Jack!” Beth yelled, throwing her arms in the air to the beat of the music. 

Y/n laughed, “About fuckin’ time! You should’ve dumped him ages ago!” The music picked up, much faster than it was before, causing her to let out a squeal as she started jumping around. “I love Tommy!”

Beth stopped dancing and grabbed Y/n’s arm, pulling her close. “You what?” Her friend said something, but even with their proximity to each other, Beth was unable to hear her. She pulled the two over to the edge of the dance floor until she spotted a table for them to sit at. “You what?” she repeated.

A little out of breath, Y/n rested her elbows against the table. “I love him, Beth. I love Tommy.” A waitress came over a collected their orders before she could continue. Once the woman was out of earshot, she said, “But I don’t think… I don’t know if he loves me.”

Beth huffed and leaned back in her chair. “Men are arseholes.”

“Yeah, yeah, they are.”

After a few drinks later and many tears, the two stumbled out of the club. Y/n didn’t want to go home and face Tommy, who she knew would be angry, instead, Beth insisted she stay with her. So, the two stumbled and giggled the whole way to her apartment, going on and on about how the needed to go back to that club. 

“I want a ham sandwich,” Beth muttered from where she laid on the couch. 

“Me too,” Y/n agreed, lying on the floor, before falling asleep.

*~~*~~*

The next morning, Beth and Y/n woke up, heads pounding, and made ham sandwiches before Y/n decided to leave. She didn’t want to impose and found it best to figure out her next moves on her own. 

On the streets of Birmingham, she walked all the way to Small Heath, watching the large shops and fancy restaurants change into dirty brick houses and factories. The closer she was to the Small Heath, the less she knew. All she knew was that her head felt like it had been smashed in and her feet ached from the long walk and all the dancing she had done the night before. There was no way she was ready to face her problems. 

Before she could compose herself, Y/n saw Polly walking down the street. The woman had yet to see her and Y/n wanted to keep it that way. With her head to the ground, she quickened her pace and prayed she wouldn’t be seen. God obviously wasn’t listening as Polly called over to her.

“Y/n.” The woman walked over to her. With a smile, Y/n lifted her eyes from the pavement, ashamed that she had to be seen with makeup running down her face, unruly hair, and yesterday’s clothes. “What happened to you?”

Where was she to start? “Um, it’s a long story…”

“Does this have something to do with Tommy?” A nod confirmed her suspicions causing her to swear under her breath. Her nephews only knew two things: how to run women off and how to chose the wrong ones. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” her voice was gentle as she led Y/n to her house.

Y/n did nothing as Polly helped her clean up, wiping the makeup off her cheeks and comb the rats out of her hair. She sat there, blank face, and let her thoughts run wild. All her worries from the day before had vanished, no longer holding the weight they once did. She was at the point where she believed that what happened, happened. Whether fate was real or not was not up for debate, it didn’t matter. Life played out in odd ways and if things got better than they got better. If they didn’t then she would deal with it when that happened. 

“Polly, why weren’t you at the meeting?” Tommy’s voice boomed through the house. 

“Fuck,” Polly muttered, having forgotten the meeting as soon as she’d seen Y/n. “I was busy,” she replied from the kitchen, where she sat next to Y/n at the table.

“What could be-” His sentence faltered when he entered the kitchen and saw Y/n. She was cleaned up, but it wasn’t hard for him to see she was exhausted. “You’re here.”

“I was going to go back home, but then I remembered that you lived there too,” she said, eyes trained on the cup of tea that sat in front of her. 

A sigh escaped his lips, he knew he fucked up. Even before Y/n had left his office the day before, he knew. The harsh words that left his lips weren’t meant to meet the air. He was stressed and angry with work and should’ve never taken his frustrations out on Y/n. 

Polly excused herself upon seeing the tension between the room but didn’t leave until she made it clear that Tommy had to fix what he’d done. Y/n was one of the only good things in his life and she’d be damned if he messed that up. 

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

Y/n snorted. “Then why’d you say it?”

Closing the distance, Tommy strode over to the table, taking a seat next to her. He grasped her hand, relieved when she didn’t pull it away. “I should have listened to you, love. You and Charlie deserve better. And I know you do your best to respect Grace and I shouldn’t have said otherwise. You love Charlie like he’s your own and you don’t have to. You don’t even have to fucking like him, but you love my boy. And you love me even after knowing what I’ve done.”

Y/n gave him a small smile. “You love me?”

He rolled his eyes, “Is that all you got from that?”

“No.” She grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer. “That’s just my favorite part.” She pulled him into a kiss.

*~~*~~*

@amirahiddleston @haphazardhufflepuff @woahitslucyylu @mzcrazy2 @lovemissyhoneybee @multi-fandom-iimagines @tarafaithe @jenepleurepasbaby @fernweh-fangirl @the-anxious-youth @theshelbyclan @wtfdanness @chloeforde @futuristicslimemongerbanana @lucillethings @captivatedbycillianmurphy

[angelsfalling16]

The Way You Wear That Dress

Inspired by the song Dress by Charlotte Sands

Part of the 20 First Kisses Series

Summary: It's the beginning of eighth year, and Simon can't find Baz at the Welcome Back Picnic, so he goes in search of him. What he finds is unexpected and makes him rethink everything he has ever felt for Baz.

Word Count: 2150

If you want to know what I imagined Baz’s outfit looking like, here are the links to the dress and the boots! (I love the idea of Baz in these boots and have used them in a couple of fics now.)

Read it on ao3

***

Simon

It’s the beginning of eighth year, and I’m pretty sure Baz is already up to something. He isn’t at the Welcome Back picnic with everyone else, so I decide to go in search of him and stop whatever scheme he’s about to put into motion.

I start with our room, wondering if maybe he decided to go back up there, but the room looks the same as it always is at the beginning of term. My side is devoid of any personal items since I didn’t have anything I felt like bringing back from the care homes (not that I really had anything there). Baz’s side is immaculate, all of his things neatly put away in their respective places, filled but not cluttered.

I move over to the window to look out at the school. It seems empty right now with everyone else out at the picnic. My eyes skate over the courtyard where, not long ago, the first years’ fates were sealed by the Crucible. I only hope none of them were given as evil a roommate I was.

My gaze continues over the grounds for anyone who isn’t out on the lawn, and after a minute of searching I catch movement on the ramparts.

It could be anyone, but I know it’s him.

I turn away from the window and head back down the stairs and away from Mummers House. I quickly but quietly make my way to where Baz is, not wanting to scare him off before I can figure out what he’s up to but also wanting to get to him before he disappears again.

I come to a stop several feet away from where he stands on the ramparts. It isn’t what he’s doing that causes me to freeze, though. It’s what he’s wearing.

At first, I wonder if he has decided to don the Watford-issued cape for his final year, but then I realize that the swishing of cloth around him isn’t a cape. It’s a dress.

The dark green material falls to just above his knee in the front, giving just a glimpse of his thighs, but in the back, it nearly grazes the ground. At the top, around Baz’s shoulders and chest and around to his back, the material is sheer with interwoven lace, allowing his pale, grey skin to show through. He wears the dress like it’s nothing, like it was made specifically for him. (Knowing Baz, it probably was).

My eyes follow the line of his dress down to his things and knees, but where I expect to see the rest of his legs – his muscular football calves – I’m met with the sight of knee-high boots that are laced up the back and have a heel that adds at least two inches to two inches Baz already has over me.

I can’t seem to stop staring at his outfit, but I finally manage to force my eyes back up, and that’s when I notice Baz’s hair.

For the first time since I’ve met him, Baz is wearing his hair down with no products slicking it back away from his face. Instead, it’s being pushed back by a thin headband, silver like his eyes, that still allows his hair to fall in natural waves around his face.

Suddenly, my mouth is dry and my throat feels tight. I try to form words in my head, but my mind is blank. All I can think is, legs. And that’s when I know that I’m fucked.

How is it that Baz looks so good in a dress? He should look ridiculous. I should want to ridicule him for it. Instead, all I can do is stare and hope that he doesn’t turn and find me staring at him.

For a full minute, my eyes slowly drag up and down his body, taking it all in, before I force myself to look away, not wanting to get caught staring at him. Inevitably, though, my eyes are drawn back to him. 

It’s hard to believe that it’s really him. I just can’t reconcile this version of Baz with the version I’ve known for seven years. He looks so different, but he also looks very much like himself. Possibly even more like himself than he ever has. (If that makes sense.)

I wonder what happened to him this summer. It’s like there was a shift somewhere within him that made him act and dress differently. I just don’t know what it is.

He is dressed so femininely, but he still holds this masculinity about him, and the whole thing is driving me crazy. He pulls it off so effortlessly.

He’s dripping with confidence as he leans his arms on the ramparts, a lit cigarette hanging between his fingers.

I know the smart thing to do would be to turn away and leave him be, but doing what’s smart has never really been my strong suit.

I take a few steps towards him even though I haven’t consciously made the decision to do so. I feel drawn to him like a string is pulling me towards him, and as I draw nearer, I notice a glossiness to his lips, as if he’s spread lip gloss or something over them.

I want to hit him. Why does he always look so good? It’s annoying. 

My eyes fall back to the dress he’s wearing, and I can only imagine what other people might think if they saw him like this. For starters, he’s out of uniform, and also, he looks bloody well perfect, like nothing he wears will ever make him look bad.

I briefly consider going to find the mage and telling him what Baz is wearing, but breaking dress code isn’t enough to get him kicked out of school. Plus, I’m not sure I want to share this side of Baz with anyone else.

I’m not sure why but it probably has a lot to do with the fact that Baz has obviously chosen a place away from everyone else, maybe so they won’t see him like this and judge him for it. But it could be something else holding me back. Something like this desperate need I’m feeling to put my hands on him.

I want to push him up against the wall and…and…. That’s where my thoughts cut off because usually when I push Baz against the wall, I want to punch him, but today, that’s not what I want. I don’t want to fight him. I want to…

I shake my head. I can’t finish that thought, can’t think about what it means.

And yet…

An image pops into my head of my hands on his hips, rubbing against the luxurious material of the dress he’s wearing. Of my hands in his hair, tangling in it. Of his breath on my cheek. Of the feeling of his glossed lips on mine. Of the moment he starts to kiss me back and--.

And I shake my head again.

I won’t lie and say that I don’t want any of that, but I can’t be foolish enough to allow myself to hope for it. Nothing has changed. Baz still hates me, and he’d laugh in my face if he found out that I want to kiss him.

Because I do. Want to kiss him, that is. And it’s not just because of the dress. I think that was just the thing that pushed me to finally admit how I feel. How I’ve felt for a long time.

But Baz will never feel the same way about me.

I should go. I can’t let him catch me practically drooling at the sight of him in that dress.

I turn away from him, but I turn too quickly and trip on my own feet, cursing loudly as I try to catch myself.

“Simon?” Baz says behind me.

“Uh…” I say stupidly, picking myself up off the ground and slowly turning to face him. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You, uh, you w-weren’t at the picnic. I came looking for y-you,” I stutter out as my face flushes red.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” he says, and his voice sounds strangled.

He drops the cigarette to ground and grounds it out with the toe of a boot that probably costs more than everything I have ever owned. That sight shouldn’t make me even more attracted to him, but it does.

He turns one of his usual sneers on me and snaps something snarky at me, probably the beginning of chewing me out for following him, but I barely hear a word he says because I’m so mesmerized by the way he looks. Also, the sound of his voice is somewhat soothing, even with the biting words that no doubt spill from his glossy lips. I missed hearing it while we were away for the summer.

He’s looking at me expectantly now, like he’s waiting for me to answer a question I didn’t hear, and I feel myself blush even deeper.

What the hell is wrong with me? This is Baz. He’s just wearing a dress. I shouldn’t be acting this weird around him.

That’s when I see his nails, colored all black, a glossy sheen to them, and that’s the last straw.

I can’t possibly think straight anymore, so I push all thoughts from my mind and move to close the distance between us. Careful not to mess up the dress, I shove him up against the wall but stop just before our lips meet.

The heels of his boots cause him to tower over me even more than usual, but I’m not bothered by it. I actually kind of love it.

His mouth is parted as if I stopped him mid-word, and the tips of his ears are turning pink. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, though. I’ve never been very good at reading people, especially not when it’s Baz.

“If you’re going to punch me, get it over with already, Snow,” he sneers.

“You called me Simon before,” I say.

“No, I didn’t.”

I shrug. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is, “I don’t want to punch you. Far from it actually.”

He hasn’t pushed me away yet, and my confidence starts to build. Maybe Baz would be more receptive to this than I originally thought. 

I keep one hand on his hip to keep him pinned to the wall and move the other one up to cup the side of his face.

“Is this okay?” I whisper, hesitantly. He nods, so I move my hand up higher, into his hair. My hand slides over the headband and combs through his hair. “What about this?” I ask, my voice breathy and barely audibly.

He nods again.

My eyes drop down to his mouth, and I want to try one more thing, but I don’t want to push my luck. I don’t want to risk trying too much and losing it all.

“Just do it,” Baz whispers as though he read my mind.

I cock my head at him in a question, uncertain whether he actually means what I think he does. Then he says “kiss me” so I quietly I almost don’t hear him. But I do hear him, and it only takes me a beat to lean forward and press my lips firmly to his.

The kiss is everything I imagined and more. His lips taste like cherry cola, and I feel drunk on the taste of him. Like I’ve lost all sense. (And maybe I have since I’m kissing Baz of all people.)

It only takes a moment for Baz to begin kissing me back, his arms coming up to wrap around me and pull me closer. I can feel the dress move along his body as he moves under my hand, and I feel lucky that I get to experience this. It’s a shame that he’ll only be wearing the uniform after this.

I wonder if he would even want to wear this dress in front of other people if he could.

I like the way he looks in it, but I obviously wasn’t meant to see him like this. Does he like wearing the dress? Is he afraid of what other people might think? Has he worn it before?

I have a million questions, but now is not the time to ask. If Baz wants to talk to me about his choice to wear the dress, I’ll be there to listen. But I won’t pressure him into talking about it.

So, for now, I’m going to enjoy it while I can.

I’m going to enjoy this while I can. Having Baz in my hands and not fighting with him. This is so much better than fighting, I think, and I continue to kiss him, thinking about how this may be the best year at Watford yet.

[teamfreehoodies]

teamfreehoodies masterlist

The Witcher (TV) 

See below the readmore to find links and summaries for all the fics I’ve written to date in this fandom.

and we will be elided by the people that we love most

de-aged!Jaskier, hurt!jaskier, hurt!yennefer, exploration of motherhood, families of choice, panic attacks (jask)

“What did you give me?” he growls, burying his fear beneath a burst of anger. The room around them splinters, making gravity an uncertain principle: vertigo makes him drool and he spits, falling over, digging his fingers into the ground in a futile effort to make everything just stop spinning. “Oh fuck, wha’ ‘id you do t’me?” he slurs out past a suddenly numb tongue. The icy burn has spread out from his throat and chest to take over his whole body, sending lightning strikes of pain zinging up and down his limbs.

“You’ll find out soon enough, I think.”

Yennefer is healing after Sodden, trying to pull her chaos back inside herself. She doesn’t actually have time to chase down wayward bards, much less take care of the child-sized version of one she’s never particularly liked all that well. She really is quite tired of being forced to save this fool.

darling, dearest, don’t you see (voices left inside of me)

follow-up to ‘elided" above: After the events of and we will be elided, Loretta writes Jaskier a letter. How do you forgive the kind of betrayal that’s made to save another life? How do you learn to live with the ways your family has hurt you? How do you heal without betraying yourself?

idk man, read the fic.

the heart electric (beats a half-time measure)

Jaskier drops the torch and the dagger, rushing forward to fall to his knees next to Geralt. The light sputters briefly but holds, and Jaskier curses himself even as he hesitantly reaches out to try and wake Geralt. The leather armour of his shoulder is cold under Jaskier’s palm, and weirdly tacky with something; arachas venom pings in the back of his mind like a warning, and he hastily wipes his palms off on his already ruined doublet, reaching forward to cradle Geralt’s face instead. “Geralt?” he whispers; the horrifying truth of Geralt’s stillness catches in his throat, preventing him from being any louder than that. “Geralt?”

Or

It’s not that he hadn’t thought it possible… but Geralt was a witcher. No one had ever mentioned that witchers could die.

Or

Five Times Jaskier Thought Geralt Was Dead, Plus One Time It Was Reversed

this life that we’ve created (inundated with the fated thought of you)

Gods, but this is very nearly intolerable. He’d been ready to forgive him, even then, waiting for Geralt to take it back, for him to turn around and apologize; and he’d been ready to forgive him two years ago, if only Geralt’s path would cross his again, one year ago, traveling slowly from town to town, chasing whispers of the white wolf in between his bardic circuit. He does not know if his heart can take it again, if Geralt once more decides him too much of a burden to bear traveling with. Injured, now, needing to be saved, he could not have engineered a worse reunion had he written the fates himself.

if you could let me inside your heart (could I be enough?)

Post-coital realizations should never be had alone. AKA Jaskier questions his place between these two powerful, immortal, destined-to-be-together beings, and he finds it hurts to be just… human.

this our winter of love (a gift from one above)

“It’s weird but I don’t think it’s witcher-weird.”

“Oh, it’s witcher-weird, alright.” Lambert interrupted, pulling up something on his phone. It was one of those ‘smart’ phones, paper thin, supposedly able to think for itself; seemed like more trouble than Geralt cared to deal with, but Lambert was half in love with the damned thing. “Look,” he said, thrusting the lit-up rectangle in Geralt’s face.

Geralt had to pull comically far back to actually look at what Lambert wanted him to see. The screen showed a small parcel of people milling about a city center. They were all dressed like either they had walked off of a movie set, or they were genuinely from the 1200s. There was even a bard, holding a lute. A distressingly familiar bard, for all that Geralt hadn’t seen that face in eight hundred years.

i carry your heart (i carry it in)

Witchers don’t have soulmates. That’s been true for as long as Geralt’s been alive, a necessary sacrifice for a life spent on the Path. There’s no place for the attachments that humans define themselves by.

It may not be worth it to Geralt, but love has always been the single most motivating force in the world for Jaskier. Unrequited or not, he’s a bard, and there’s a story to be told. He’ll be the one to tell it.

(Who’s the more tragic figure here? The loved or the unloving?)

Jaskier and Geralt are soulmates, bound by the Red String of Fate. But just because it’s written in the stars doesn’t mean it’s an easy path to tread, and it takes more than a nudge from fate to make a soul-bond work. Between the way Geralt feels about destiny, and the trials and tribulations of the path they have to trudge, it’s going to be one hell of an adventure.

the prairie is vast (the train is quicker) | Into the Jaskierverse, pt. 14

Geralt and Ciri are still trying everything they can to find Jaskier. After… a traumatizing split, they come back together in a new universe entirely. They’re offered a chance to distract themselves from their worry over Jaskier, and the perilous journey they’re on, by helping a female version of their favorite bard steal a wagon, rob a train, and, just maybe, come to terms with a worry that’s been plaguing her.

Featuring; much talk of guns, someone getting shot (on accident), a murder! (on purpose), Jaskier the Horse!Girl, one (1) dissociative episode, one (1) panic attack (though not the same character), and just enough fludd and banter to even it all out.

if i loved you (could you stay?) | QF1

He knows the way to Jaskier’s lodgings, knows by heart how to find the tiny row of cottages reserved for the professors and their families, knows too that Jaskier might not even be there; he’s not heard of anything from the bard in months, not since—

He shakes himself, turning away from the uncomfortable memories. What’s done is done. He only hopes he isn’t too late.

A love confession gone wrong leads Geralt to try and fix his relationship with Jaskier.

Go Get Your Mage | Yennfri promptfic

When Yennefer portals into Blaviken instead of Geralt, a more… mutually beneficial arrangement is made.

fate makes fools of us all (she plays the longest game) | QF2

It’s not that she’d meant to become a witch, but… well.

Sometimes these things just happen.

a willing ear (a hand to hold) |  QF3

A little town in the mountains calls for the aid of a witcher, and Geralt and Jaskier take on a contract that’s more than it first appears to be.

Even the divine have friends, strange as it may seem.

breathe with it (bleed with it)

Fringilla was the first. She flexes her hand, feeling again the phantom tendrils of chaos crawling up her veins as her arm had turned to dessicated ash and bone in recompense for her glory. That was what being noticed got you. That was a lesson learned in blood and pain. That was a lesson learned hard and fast and once.

a Fringilla Vigo character study; “There is no such thing as dark or light magic. Nothing in this world is as simple as that.”