#i put this in my drafts then found out it's mothers day apparently

[the-harrowing]

girl reacted to problem a little too much like her mother. millions injured

[g-hughes]

Let’s talk Nico Hischier in the form of a request shall we? "I just want you to be happy! And perhaps a little bit naked."

The Girl from Across the Hall - N. Hischier

masterlist || g's graduation celly

synopsis: Ever since he moved in, Nico has had a crush on his neighbor, but she doesn't feel the same way. . . or does she?

word count: 3.0k

warnings: idiots to lovers, mentions of hookups/sex, cursing, drinking

Nico had a crush. 

At age 25, Nico Hischier, captain of the New Jersey Devils, had a crush on his best friend. 

It wasn’t like Nico planned on falling in love with his best friend, it just kind of happened. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but it did, and there was nothing that he could do about it. 

Nico could remember the day he met her like it was yesterday. He had just been drafted by the Devils, and was moving into his apartment, by himself in Jersey City. He wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but he was terrified; being in a new country, a new city, about to embark on a brand new journey in his life. Nico thought he was doing a good job at hiding his nerves, but apparently, he was not. 

On the second week of being on his own, Nico had ventured out to get some basic things for his apartment that his mother hadn’t already supplied him with. He was thankful that his parents had flown across the ocean to help him move in. He hadn’t ever lived on his own before, and found himself calling his parents almost every single day. Nico had gotten by for two weeks with the basic supplies and amenities he had, but he wanted to get some more things like a blender and a waffle iron, and maybe some decorative pillows. 

But Nico was a lot like his mother, and ended up buying a lot more than what he had wanted to get. With his arms full of shopping bags, Nico made the trek up to his tenth floor apartment, breaking a sweat by the time he got to his front door. He grunted as he shifted the bags around, trying to grab his keys out. 

“C’mon,” He said to himself, trying to adjust his keys in his hands, his arms beginning to hurt from the bags cutting off circulation, “Fuck! Fuck!” He cursed as his keys clattered to the ground, “Fuck!” 

“You okay?” A gorgeous girl in a pair of shorts and a tank top stood in her doorway, a confused look on her face. 

Nico sighed, and looked down at his keys, “Yeah.” 

“You sure?” She asked and Nico shook his head. 

“I dropped my keys,” He said in defeat. 

“I see,” She said, stepping out of the door, “You just move in?” He nodded, and she bent down to grab his keys, easily finding the one to the door, “I’m Y/N,” She introduced herself, putting the key in the lock, and turning it, “My sister and I live across the hall.” 

“Nico,” He said, and she pushed the front door open, “Thank you.” 

“No problem,” She nodded, “But you know. . . the doors have their own key fob you could’ve used. Hell of a lot easier than fiddling with a key,” Nico’s jaw dropped dumbfoundedly, as he watched Y/N skip back across the hall, “Nice to meet you, Nico!” 

And now, nearly 7 years later, Nico lived in the same apartment with Y/N still across the hall. Though things had changed over the years, such as Y/N’s sister moving out and Nico becoming the captain of the devils, their friendship never changed. They got closer as the years went on, both of them being the same age, having some of the same interests. But Nico was drawn to her personality; confident, sassy, smart, a beautiful person both inside and out, but also a bit intimidating. Nico had witnessed her first hand hold her ground against pissed off hockey fans, and dudes who think they are entitled to get something after a first date. 

And maybe that was why Nico was afraid to tell her how he felt. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want to lose her as a friend. Y/N had been one of the first people he had connected with when he moved to Jersey. She was there through it all, his tough rookie season, bad losses, exciting wins, being named captain, a run in the play-offs, a miserable season following. She was his person, his best friend. And he was going to be damned if he did anything to mess with that. 

So Nico kept his feelings a secret, and kept on playing the dutiful best friend role that he had been playing for the past 7 years. Even when all he could do was sit on a barstool and watch as she danced with some random guy at the bar. 

“You know,” Jack said, sitting down next to Nico, “This is getting pathetic.” 

“What is?” Nico asked, looking at his alternate captain. 

“You,” Jack said, honestly and the Swiss man furrowed his eyebrows, “And her,” Jack then pointed to where Y/N was, her back pressed against some guy as they swayed to the music. 

“She’s having fun,” Nico shrugged, “And I’m making sure he doesn’t disrespect her.” 

“Oh you are such a hero, Nico! A stand up guy! Oh please have my babies!” Jack feigned, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated move, “You’re making me sad! It’s a bar! We just clinched a playoff spot! And you’re making me sad!” 

“Then don’t look at me,” Nico sassed back. He grabbed his beer and took a hefty sip, before looking back at the dancefloor where Y/N was still with that guy. She was facing him now, whispering something in his ear, as his hands sat dangerously low on her hips. Maybe they were discussing going home with each other. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Nico spotted her coming home with a guy or watching a guy leave out her front door. It broke his heart every single time, but he would never tell her that. 

“Look,” Jack said, sitting his beer down, “I am just looking out for you, okay. It is painfully obvious that you have a thing for Y/N, and it’s kind of obvious that she doesn’t feel the same. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And I feel like that's where this is heading.” 

Nico sighed, hanging his head, “So what do I do?” He asked honestly. 

“You find yourself a hottie, take her home, and bang her,” Jack said as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “Hey, I know that you haven’t had your dick in something other than your hand since you broke up with Macy eight months ago.” 

Jack was right, Nico hadn’t been intimate with anyone since his ex. Macy was a great girl, fantastic even. She never got mad or upset about him always being going or putting most of his focus on hockey and the team. The only issue was, she wasn’t Y/N. Nico hated that every time he kissed Macy or touched her, he would imagine she was Y/N. When Nico broke up with Macy, she wasn’t mad, and it was almost as if she expected it. She even told him that she knew his heart wasn’t completely in it, and that it belonged to someone else. 

“I don’t do one night stands,” Nico said. 

“How do you know? Ever had one?” 

Nico was silent for a moment, “No.” 

“Then?” Jack encouraged, “Just get it out of your system.” 

Nico pondered it for a moment, looking around the bar. It was packed, girls in scantily dressed clothing, and men with fake designer clothing on. The loud music felt like a second heartbeat in Nico’s chest, and the air was thick with sweat. 

“Her,” Jack said, pulling Nico’s attention, and pointing to a girl on the other side of the bar, “She’s just your type, she looks like Y/N.” Nico hated to admit it, but the girl on the other side of the bar did look a lot like Y/N. A tall-ish build, with beautiful curves and a bright smile. However this girl had a certain aura about her, as if she was commanding all eyes to be on here, where for Y/N, all the eyes in the room naturally followed her. 

“I’ll be back,” Nico said, chugging down the rest of his beer before going to the girl. 

It was about five minutes later that Y/N came bouncing up to the bar, out of breath, and in dire need of a drink. She loved going to bars and clubs like this. She loved feeling the bass in her bones, the bright lights robbing her of her site, the layer of sweat on her body. She knew that Nico hated it, but would grin and bear it just for her, he hated her going to these places alone. But the Devils were in the playoffs and so coming to the club was a must for celebration. 

“How ya been, Dancin’ Queen?” Jack greeted her. 

“Dying of thirst!” Y/N answered back, draping an arm around his shoulders. He held up his beer in offering and she shook her head, “Water, please. I don’t like drinking alcohol at the club.”

“You’re so weird,” Jack shook his head, but knew her reasoning. Y/N only liked to drink in a ‘controlled environment’ as she would call it, the comfort of her apartment or Nico’s or Jack’s, or anywhere that wasn’t in public. She was just naturally a ball of fun at the club, sober.

 Jack waved down the bartender and asked for a glass of water, which Y/N thanked him for. The cool liquid felt amazing down her dry throat, “Where’s Nico?” 

“Overthere,” Jack smirked, nodding towards the other side of the bar. Y/N’s eyes widened as she saw her best friend, leaned up on the side of the bar talking to a gorgeous woman, “Where’s your date?” 

“My date?” Y/N asked, looking back at Jack. 

“Yeah,” He shrugged, “The guy you were dry humping on the dance floor.” 

“Logan?” Y/N asked again, a laugh tumbling from her lips, “He’s been my friend since elementary. He’s just here for the weekend.” 

“Mhm,” Jack nodded, rubbing his lips together. Y/N looked back over towards Nico, a weird feeling in her chest as she watched him move in closer to the girl, and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Y/N swallowed down the rest of her water, “I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll order an uber or something.” 

Jack snapped his head towards her, “What? No? You love this club!” 

“Yeah,” She sighed in defeat, “But I’m tired and my feet hurt and the music is starting to give me a headache.” Jack looked at her incredulously. Usually Jack and Nico were dragging Y/N out of the club at the end of the night, hardly ever did she want to leave before last call. Jack looked over at Nico, and then at Y/N, realization settling on his features. 

She was jealous. 

“Are you-” 

“I’m leaving,” Y/N ordered, turning on her heel, but Jack grabbed her arm. 

“Hey,” Jack said, “One, you’re not going to get into an uber by yourself on a friday night in Jersey City. I’ve watched enough SVU to know that’s a recipe for disaster.” 

“Thanks detective Tutuola,” Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, her breasts being pushed up over the top of her silver slip dress, “Are you coming then?” 

“Yes,” Jack grumbled, “Hold on.” He turned back towards where Nico was standing, waving his hand to get his friend’s attention, but Y/N was growing impatient, not wanting to stand there and watch Nico talk to some girl who was giving him ‘fuck me’ eyes. 

“Uber is two minutes out.” 

“Fuck it! I’ll just text him.” Jack groaned, slamming back the rest of his drink and getting up from his barstool, “C’mon.” He put his hand on the small of her back, leading her hastily out of the bar towards the awaiting bar.

“That’s seriously so cool!” The girl, whose name Nico learned is Megan, said, “I have only been to Switzerland once, and it was the most beautiful place I have ever been too. We went up to the mountains and ugh. . . that’s a sight I still have dreams about.” 

“Yeah it’s def-” Nico was cut off as his phone buzzed in his pocket, “Excuse me,” He blushed as he pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, seeing a message from Jack. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he read it and then looked up, seeing Jack slam his glass down and all but run out of the club, his hand on Y/N’s back. Nico looked back down at the message, anger blooming in his chest. 

‘Going home with Y/N. Don’t wait up.’ 

Nico clenched his jaw, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He huffed and turned towards Megan, “You want to get out of here?” 

Megan licked her lips and nodded, “Sure.” 

— — — 

This is what the walk of shame must’ve felt like, though she had little shame as she walked down the hallway on the tenth floor to her apartment. It was more like she didn’t want anyone to see her current state of dress, a large oversized t-shirt, a pair of men’s boxers, and white nike socks all courtesy of Jack Hughes. After they left the club, Y/N didn’t want to return to her empty apartment, instead she went back to Jack’s place, where Luke had escaped to earlier in the night. She had crashed in Jack’s bed after many more drinks and rounds of UNO. 

Now, she was making that fateful walk back home, her silver dress strewn over her arm and her heels in her other hand. Her hair was a mess of curls and hairspray, her face felt disgusting with the remnants of last night’s makeup. Y/N was almost home safe, when her neighbor opened his door, startling her. 

“Hey,” Nico said, standing shirtless in nothing but a pair of running shorts and sneakers, “You’re just getting home?” 

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded, “I ended up staying at Jack’s last night after we left.” 

Nico felt his heart speed up, “Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Y/N said again, this time shrugging, “I felt like I had been home alone so much this week with you guys gone, and didn’t really want to come back alone so I-” 

“But you weren’t alone,” Nico crossed his arms over his chest, “You had Jack.” 

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed at the shift in Nico’s tone, “But I was tired of looking at the same scenery, I need a change. What’s with the interrogation?” 

“Just didn’t know you and Jack were like that.” 

“We have been for a while,” Y/N shifted on her feet, “Usually he comes over here cause Luke is-” 

“Luke knows?” 

“He lives there,” Y/N was growing confused and a bit annoyed, “Look, it’s not that deep. I crashed at his place last night. I don’t know why I’m getting grilled like a criminal right now.” 

“Cause he’s my teammate,” Nico grumbled. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, anger, jealousy, sadness. “And we’re about to go into the playoffs and I don’t need some chick messing with his head.” 

Y/N was taken aback by Nico’s words. ‘Some chick’? Y/N wasn’t just some chick. She was Nico’s best friend, and considered an honorary WAG of the Devils organization. Everyone loved and adored her, inviting her to sit in the same section with the rest of the WAGs or on roadies or to watch parties. The coaching staff knew her on a first name basis and knew that if anything happened to Nico, she was the first person to call. Y/N L/N wasn’t just some chick. And Nico knew that. 

“Fine,” Y/N pursed her lips, “Good luck in the playoffs, Nico. I’ll leave you and the rest of your team alone.” 

“Wait, Y/N-” Nico was cut off by the loud slam of her front door and the lock turning. He groaned, cursing himself in his head as he walked up to her front door, pounding his fist against the wood. 

“Go away!” 

“No!” Nico protested, continuing his loud knocking on the door. 

Y/N rolled her eyes as she yanked the front door open, “Go away and quit knocking on my door like a lunatic!” Y/N went to slam her door in his face again, but Nico stopped it with his strong hand. She let out a huff as she turned on her heel, welcoming him into the apartment. 

“I’m sorry,” Nico said, running a hand through his hair, “You’re not just ‘some chick’. . .” He took in a deep breath, gathering up the courage, “You’re everything to me.” 

“Nico,” Y/N sighed, looking up at him from the couch. 

“Just listen,” Nico stood in front of her, “I’m in love with you. And I have been for a while. And I-I know you don’t feel the same way about me, and I’m okay with that. Well, I’m learning to be okay with that. It sucks, okay,” Nico shook his head with a self deprecating laugh, “It sucks because I just want you to be happy! And maybe a little naked with me,” His cheeks turned red and she couldn’t help but giggle, “But if that’s not what you want, then I’ll deal. I want what’s best for you and if Jack is what is best-” 

“Wait,” Y/N held her hand up, cutting Nico off in the middle of his confession, “Jack?” 

“Yeah,” Nico nodded, “You said that you guys have a-” 

“Oh my god,” Y/N couldn’t help the laughter falling from her lips. “Oh my god, Nico.” She closed the gap between them, placing her hands on his stubbled cheek, “Jack and I? We are friends. There is nothing and I mean nothing between us,” Her eyes searched his for a moment, as she drew in a breath, “I love you too. And I have for a while.” 

Nico didn’t hesitate to place his lips on hers, pulling her flush against his body. Years of pent up tension and wondering what the other was thinking washed away in an instant. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his brown hair. When the two of them pulled away for air, Y/N rested her forehead against Nico’s. 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” She asked. 

“Me? Why didn’t you?” Nico laughed, “God, we’re dumb.” 

“Yeah,” Y/N smiled up at him, “But you love me.” 

“That I do.”

[verperina]

On The Throne

Pairing: Dorian Havilliard x f!reader 

Summary: Dorian fulfills your fantasy of being fucked on his throne.

Warnings: 18+ smut

Word Count: 2,943

Author’s Note: I’m not 100% satisfied with this, but I’m still proud of myself for finishing it. I stayed up until 4:00 in the morning to finish writing and editing, and then put it in my drafts. And please ignore how boring/dumb the title is. I couldn’t come up with anything else.

“Everyone out.” Dorian’s voice rang throughout the room, echoing off the marble floors. The guards quickly left, including Chaol who sent a glance toward his friend and then to you before shutting the doors behind him. The room was completely empty now. It was just you and Dorian, who still had his eyes on you.  

Chaol had fetched you from the library, informing you that Dorian had requested your presence in the throne room, but did not say why. When you asked if something had happened, Chaol had quickly reassured you that the king was fine and had simply wanted to see you. 

The way Dorian was currently looking at you—a predatory look in his eyes—made your heart skip a beat, and you took a moment to study his clothing. He always dressed immaculately, but today he showed to be the perfect portrait of royalty. His black hair neatly combed with a gold crown placed perfectly upon his head, a fitted black jacket embellished with red and gold, a silk tunic, black trousers and black knee-high boots. The wedding ring adorning his finger—a silver band with a sapphire jewel that matched your own—gleamed in the sunlight.

Your body started to feel warm, your dress too constricting.

The corner of his lip tugged upwards and he reached out a hand, gesturing for you to step up the dais. “Come here.”

You remained still. His eyebrows faintly rose at your defiance and you could see a sliver of amusement in his eyes.

“Ask nicely,” you said, a small grin starting to form on your lips, “and then maybe I will, husband.”

He chuckled, the noise coming out breathy. “Please, come here my dear wife.”

After a moment of mock contemplation, you obliged, slowly walking up the steps so you wouldn’t trip over the fabric of your dress. 

Once you were within his reach, you grabbed his hand and laced your fingers together, looking at his wedding ring before speaking. “When Chaol came to get me I was worried at first—I thought maybe something had happened.” Dorian’s gaze softened. “He was quick to reassure me that you were more than fine, although he didn’t share why you wanted to see me.”

Dorian started to smile. “I didn’t tell Chaol why I wanted to see you.”

“And why is that?” you asked, head tilting to the side.

“Because I didn’t want him to know that I would very much like to fuck you on my throne.” You choked out a laugh and felt your face begin to warm. His smile widened at the sound, sapphire eyes bright. A few weeks ago, laying in your shared bed after hours of passionate love making, you had confessed to Dorian about your fantasy of having sex on his throne—with no one else in the room, of course—and he had only laughed and playfully teased you before fucking you once more. You thought he had forgotten all about it. Apparently not. He added, “But I’m sure he will figure it all out rather soon.” And then a sly grin came across his face. “If he doesn’t, then I’m sure the noises will be confirmation.”

“Your mother would be horrified if she found out,” you mused. It was no secret that Georgina Havilliard wasn’t overly fond of you. When envisioning a future wife for her eldest son she favored the idea of a princess or at least a woman of high nobility, not a commoner like you. But Dorian didn’t care about her opinion and had no problem voicing it. He loved you and that’s all that mattered.

Your husband only shrugged before lightly tugging your hand. You saw the mischievous gleam in his eyes and knew that he wanted to indulge you in your fantasy. You lowered yourself onto his lap, straddling his hips and his large hands immediately gripped your thighs. Bringing your hands to cup his jaw, your thumb lightly traced the sharpness of his cheekbone, and then brushed it against his bottom lip.

You let yourself take time in admiring his features. His beauty. Just Dorian himself. Your Dorian.

Removing your hands from his face, you lowered them to his shoulders, and then to the firm muscle of his abdomen through his clothing. His stomach tightened at your touch and with one last glance at his face, your lips found his in a soft kiss, one so at odds with the burning desire that snapped through the air. Your entire body was tingling from excitement and the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

Dorian’s tongue meets yours tentatively, waiting for you to lead the kiss, letting you decide how you wanted it. You let yourself take control. You alternate between gently nipping his lips and stroking your tongue against his while running your fingers through his thick hair. 

Your heart was racing and your face warm. Dorian pulled away to rest his forehead against yours. His lips were swollen from your kisses and his tanned face was a light shade of pink. “Tell me what you want,” he breathed, sapphire eyes glazed over with lust.

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “You.”

“Want me to make you feel good?” he murmured.

“Yes.” You nodded eagerly, and not bothering to wait for him to take control, your hands grip the collar of his tunic as you drag Dorian in for a kiss that’s desperate and a little sloppy. His tongue in your mouth once again, and his hands move to cup your ass, kneading the flesh. A pleased sigh leaves you.

He deepens the kiss. It’s demanding and ravenous. You let yourself melt into him, let yourself just be here in the now with him. Unashamed and happy. You teasingly roll your hips against his hardness, causing a wave of pleasure to shoot through you, and a low, rough groan escapes him. You repeat the motion again, feeling arousal pool between your thighs.

His lips began to plant kisses along your jawline, and then leaves a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. Sucking the skin before harshly biting, a gasp leaves you at the slight stinging sensation. “I want to see my marks on you.” And you wanted to see his marks on you too. You wanted everyone to know that no one could touch you like Dorian could. That no one would ever be able to please you like Dorian did.

His hands started to untie the front laces of your dress, your bare breasts now exposed, and your nipples hardening from both your arousal, and the cool air. His lips leave love bites on your neck and collarbones, and then your breasts. You looked at him to see that his eyes were already on you, pure hunger shining in them.

And when Dorian brought your nipple to his warm mouth, you couldn’t stop the strangled moan that left you. Your back arched as your hands came to rest on his broad shoulders. He continued his torturous teasing; the rough sucking, the gentle biting. Your head tipped back as his fingers tugged at your other nipple. “Dorian,” you mumbled. Your cunt was wet, the lace fabric starting to become uncomfortable.

He wasn’t using his phantom hands. He wanted you all to himself. 

He lips wrapped around your other nipple, continuing the same ministrations but even more harsher this time. Your thighs tightened around him. He shuddered when your body moved against his, a debauched sound escaping his throat—a sound you wanted to hear more of. 

You continued to slowly grind yourself on him, desperate for some kind of relief. A pathetic whimper was voiced when your sensitive clit rubbed against the fabric of his pants. 

“I need more.” The words came out as a plea. It wasn’t enough. Your body craved more. 

Dorian released his mouth from you, looking into your eyes and said, “Tell me what you need and I will give it to you.”

“You inside of me.”

Your fingers trembled as you quickly undid the button to his pants and then his zipper. He pushed the skirts of your dress further up until your panties were completely visible, and without hesitation he pushed the material to the side and slid a finger through your folds, a breath leaving him at the feeling of your wet cunt.

You brought Dorian in for another kiss, one that left you breathless, and then pulled back to look at him. His hair was messy from your fingers running through it, pretty flushed cheeks, and swollen lips. He still had the pale band around his neck from where the collar had been, but it did nothing to diminish his beauty.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed. 

Dorian laughed, his eyes glimmering with mirth, and your heart skipped a beat at how joyous it sounded. “I prefer devastatingly handsome.” He paused to kiss you once more. “But thank you.”

You smiled and opened your mouth to respond, but a moan came out when he slid a finger inside of you, purposefully slow. You looked down to see his finger sliding in and out, gathering more of your slick. “You like seeing me touch you?”

You nodded, slightly rocking your hips and bringing your hand down to rub your clit at a steady pace. A silent hiss left your lips at the contact, and pressure started to form low in your belly, a bundle of nerves starting to become more intense. His other hand kneaded your breast, adding more stimulation, making your orgasm grow nearer, even more so as a second finger entered you.

Your cunt started clenching rhythmically, eager to find that release you desperately wanted. You started rubbing your clit faster, feeling a sheen layer of sweat on your body and hairline despite the room being a little cold. You could only imagine how messy your appearance was right now, but you couldn’t bring yourself to particularly care.

Breathy gasps left you as you climaxed, your body shuddering from the intensity as Dorian helped you ride through your high. The feeling leaves you in ecstasy, slightly buzzed. Only when you stopped pleasuring yourself did he gently remove his fingers. 

He brought them to his mouth, sapphire eyes glazed over with burning desire, and tasted your arousal. A pleased sound left him. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he pulls you in for a fiery kiss, your tongues stroking against one another. 

You push down his undershorts, his cock springing free, hard and the tip leaking with arousal. You swallowed. You wanted Dorian to fuck your throat until tears streamed down your face, but that would happen next time when you two had more time, it could wait. Instead, you grabbed his cock and stroked him, and Dorian tipped his head back.

Your thumb collected the moisture at his tip, rubbing it along his slit and he groaned. You could tell that he was restraining himself from bucking his hips. After giving a soft squeeze, you very slowly start stroking him. His brows slightly furrow and his hands tighten their hold on your backside. You give a harsh tug, and then another before picking up your pace a little more.

The restraint that Dorian was holding onto broke free as he removed your hand from his length and tightened a fist over it, giving a few leisure strokes of his own, and then angles himself up with the entrance of your cunt. And when you finally lowered yourself onto his cock, you couldn’t stop the shudder that ran throughout your entire body. The feeling of him being inside you felt so warm and full.

You both paused for a moment to just breathe each other in, and then you began a slow pace, placing a hand around his throat and the other on his chest to balance yourself. The stretch of his cock is a delicious torture; you could never grow tired of this. A shaky breath escapes your lips as you ride him. His hands come to rest on your hips to help steady you.

You could feel a thin layer of perspiration cling uncomfortably to your back, but you ignored it as you lightly squeezed Dorian’s throat and closed your eyes, feeling nothing but pure bliss. 

Very slowly you start to move a little faster, his heavy breathing encouraging you. Each time your hips moved upward you squeeze around his cock, making his eyebrows lightly crease from pleasure and his hands tighten their hold on you. You bring your mouth to his, and heavy, forceful kisses leave your lungs burning for air. Your hands and his own are all over each other, frantic, as if you two can’t get enough of one another. 

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked. “How did I get so lucky as to have you?”

Before you could open your mouth to respond, Dorian’s hand came down to harshly smack your ass and you gasp in surprise. He does it again, but harder this time and it causes you to clench around his cock, and in response he lets out a quiet groan. He lets his nails lightly scratch the side of your ass before slapping you again. You wouldn’t be surprised to find handprints later on.

He stopped your movements by firmly grabbing your hips, and before you could question what he was doing, he slammed you down onto his length—hard. You both let out choked moans and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. He repeated the same motion thrice more before snapping his hips upward. The sound of skin-on-skin echoing throughout the room.

“You can take it,” Dorian panted. 

His hands are still holding your hips in place to keep you in his control. Your back arches in pleasure, a small whimper leaving your lips, and a deep pressure starts building in your belly, tingles rippling through your entire body. You plead for your husband to go faster, desperately wanting to find release. Your mouth hangs open as your forehead falls against his, and a bead of sweat trails down your temple from your hairline. You ignore the uncomfortable feeling of sweat clinging to your body.

Your hands cup your breasts, kneading the flesh before rolling your nipples in between your thumbs and forefingers to add more stimulation. You groan at the sensation. Dorian watches keenly, his throat bobbing. 

Your cunt is throbbing painfully and your walls are pulsing as your body tightens around him. He releases his hold on you so you can move against him, and you bring your hands to rest on his shoulders to ride him faster.

“Take what you want,” he encourages. “Ride my cock like a good girl.”

You whine at the praise, clenching around his cock. He moans at the feeling of your tight, wet walls around him. The sound sent a rush of pleasure to your core. He kisses you harshly before speaking again. “You’re doing so good for me. Always so good for me.”

The knot in your stomach twists. “I’m going to come,” you gasp out. Your movements become chaotic and uncontrolled. You start rhythmically pulsing around his cock and he snaps his hips in a frenzy to help bring your climax closer. 

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come for me.”

With a loud moan, your orgasm rolls through you in an intense convulsion, your vision blurring. Your toes curl so hard in your slippers they begin to cramp as pure ecstasy floods your body. Your limbs tremble and spasm as you hold onto Dorian tightly, burning your face into the crook of his neck. 

He curses, nipping the lobe of your ear as his warm hands grip your thighs. His hips buck frantically, chasing his own release, and when you clench around him again he groans loudly, spilling into you. His breathing is ragged against your neck as his thrusts slow down before coming to a stop. 

The two of you trembled in each other’s arms as you came down from the high. You sigh, closing your eyes, letting yourself rest your head on his chest and listen to the erratic beating of his heart. Dorian lazily ran his hand up and down your back. His touch is soothing and gentle, like always.

The air in the room was stifling, too hot, despite it being chilly when you had first arrived. You swallow, trying to catch your breath and calm your racing heart. You could feel your dress stick uncomfortably to your skin from sweating, and stray pieces of your hair were stuck to your forehead. You were too dazed from your orgasm to care about your appearance.

“Do you think Chaol knows?” you ask softly. Both of you had been in here for more than ten minutes and neither of you had exactly been quiet, and Chaol wasn’t dumb; he saw the way you and Dorian were looking at each other before leaving the room.

“Given how loud you and I were, then yes, I would assume so,” Dorian says. “But if he isn’t aware, then I have no problem fucking you again.”

You laugh loudly at that and he joins you, the sound making your heart skip a beat. You had no problem with being fucked on his throne again, if anything it made you want to do it again. 

“I would like that,” you respond, stifling a yawn.

“I thought as much.” You couldn’t see his face, but you knew that Dorian was smiling, and you felt a smile bloom on your lips too, feeling happy and content with being in the arms of your husband.

[chaoticbardlady99]

Maryë (Astarion x GN! AFAB Reader) MDNI 18 +

Synopsis: Astarion left to explore the world and himself following the death of the Netherbrain. You remain in Baldur’s Gate with your brother, Gale, resigning yourself to your fate as Astarion’s friend until you die. Until one day, you and Astarion begin to write letters back and forth. Except there is one letter in particular that you suspect isn’t from Astarion…

CW: minimal mentions of violence, smut, Oral (Female Receiving), PIV, Tav’s also just an oblivious idiot who apparently doesn’t think very hard about words (it’s me, I’m Tav the idiot and this is like my Fiancé and I’s friendship prior to ya know, dating lmfao)

Author note- I might also write this in AMAB! Format, but I need to do some… research first for accuracy. This is lightly edited and just some silly little thought I had. I wanted to write something not so detailed for once while I work on my drafts for Lethal Woman and She’s Not Acid Nor Alkaline. Also def stole a line from Tolkien and added to it at the end (this is me crediting).

You’ll either love this or hate this idk.

The title literally translates to Home in Elvish.

Photo belongs to idk who so please reach out if it’s yours!

As always- likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, I am just terrible at responding.

Tav,

As much as I enjoy our current form of communication- I was wondering if I could come to see you in person.

I have so much I need to say to you and I want to be able to do it in person- the proper way.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours,

Astarion

You sit and stare at the letter like you have been doing for the last week since you received it. Unlike your half-brother, Gale, you are not one for words. It was hard to respond to Astarion’s letters initially until Gale “doctored” your responses- often putting whatever silly accomplishment you have achieved lately or stories Gale found interesting from your recent solo adventures.

“Are you going to write the letter or are you hoping it’s going to write itself?” Gale teases.

You scowl at him and shake your head.

“I don’t know what to write back.”

“I could come up with a couple things!” Gale clears his throat, “‘ Oh Astarion- I’ve missed you terribly this whole time! I regret telling you that we should be friends until you figure things out! Despite my VERY WISE BROTHER’S ADVICE TO NOT DO THAT! I wait like a lovesick puppy at the mailbox every week hoping a letter may arrive!’”

You roll your eyes at him and throw one of his many decorative couch pillows at his head. He certainly has your mother’s flair for the dramatic. However, you can’t necessarily say he’s wrong- you have been nothing less than a smitten school girl waiting for letters non-stop.

Astarion had gone back to the Underdark after the last battle with the Netherbrain. He told you that he wanted to go and explore who he is- the world too.

You had been as enthusiastic as you could about the decision considering you had come up to him at the party with a letter in your hands asking if he would like to continue traveling with you after this- you had been too scared to say it outloud. A part of you hoped it may allow your romance to blossom without the impending threat of death at every corner. Well, if he still harbored any feelings for you at all.

You had merely smiled and told him how excited you are for him. It answered the silent question that had been there- was there still room in Astarion’s heart for you after you said you should just be friends and try again later?

The answer was ‘no’, despite Gale’s perplexed face and lecture when he found out you gave the spawn a send off with a ‘long’ hug (he made you describe it in detail). You refuse to give yourself any hope- you will remain a dutiful friend since you resigned yourself to this fate.

Then you received a Sending spell with him requesting your address and the letters began. You squealed like a schoolgirl when the first one came in and ripped it open enthusiastically. You didn’t realize Gale was home, otherwise you wouldn’t have read it out in the open- Tara snitched on you!

You had only truly met Gale around a couple months prior to your mutual abduction. Your mother had asked you to assist a brother you never knew about in finding magical artifacts- you quickly learned it was because the man was becoming a damn recluse.

You had worried he’d slam the door in your face or turn you into a sheep for all of eternity- the minute you told him your name was Tav Dekarios, he pulled you in for a hug and told you he had been awaiting your arrival. Gale was thrilled to know that, like him, you were also a prodigy in your craft.

You are a virtuoso master with any instrument you touch and you cast spells that are almost far too good to be true. You became Oghma’s Chosen in your teen years after spending many years practicing under his mentorship (which is why you and Gale had a very weird, serious talk one night about how Mystra is kind of a fucking pedophile) and that allowed you to do incredible things.

Your notes could create shimmery images and tell stories- Arabella and the other tiefling children (even the very tough Mol) enjoy coming over and watching war tales be told with nothing but a drum and a rain stick. Sometimes you let them tell tales and you come up with a tune to match it- eventually finding a rhythm to put your mind into and create the picture.

It was one of the many things Astarion mentioned in his note- he stated that none of the other Bards even begin to hold a candle to your talent. You blushed deeply when you read the line.

He told you about everything he had seen, everyone he had met, what he’s found out about himself, and shockingly enough- how much he misses you. It had taken you by total surprise, but you responded saying you missed him too.

Pet names began to flow easily into inked lines and it felt like you had a tiny part of him back in your life- your friendship is still as strong as it was before he left.

The letters have quickly become the best part of your week and occasionally you’ll read them with Arabella. She ooos and awwws, then attempts to bully you into tell Astarion your feelings. You cast a mini rain shower over her head with a few poetic words for the suggestion. You don’t want to ruin what you have and there is always the possibility that he found someone else.

However, you weren’t unsure of this particular note because you didn’t want to see Astarion- you would love that. The issue is that it doesn’t look like his handwriting, it isn’t the paper he uses (he’s ridiculously particular), and it doesn’t flow. Gale thinks you are over analyzing it, but you are pretty sure that this isn’t Astarion’s writing. He also addresses you as “Darling” not Tav and signs the letter of with “‘Órenya ná órelya” (my heart is your heart) not “Yours”.

You’ve waited for another note to come in since, but nothing has. You are beginning to wonder if Gale is right and you really are just being paranoid.

“I already told you, Gale,” you say with annoyance, “something isn’t right about this note. I don’t think this is from him which is worrisome because that means I haven’t heard from him in two weeks WHICH could MEAN-“

“For the love of Gods- TAV,” Gale yells, effectively shutting you up, “my young, oblivious little sibling. Just say yes and let him come visit.”

*********************************************************

It had been two days since you sent the sending stone and there was no response. Not that it would have mattered anyway considering you are somewhere in the Underdark in a very beautifully lit cave. Neon, blue veins of magic run through the rock. The pathway is lit with glowing flowers and…. Benches?

It had all happened so fast. One moment you were walking home from the market and the next- Astarion had come up to you from an alleyway and said he needed help. He had told you that he would love to catch up, but there is an injured child around the corner and since he can only stay in the shadows, he needs you to help them. Before you knew it- someone hit you with a sleep spell and the last thing you remember seeing is stars as your head slammed into the pavement. Oh and a, “oooooffff my bad” before you blacked out.

You blink your eyes a few more times, trying to figure out what in the wretched hells is going on.

“Oh for the love of- I told you to talk to Oghma’s Chosen! Not kidnap her and give her a serious concussion!”

A hazy, short figure comes into your vision. Is that…. a Deep Gnome?

“You told us it was imperative for the wedding! We intercepted the real letter and wrote this one,” another Gnome says, “and it worked! They showed up and everything! We’ve been watching since you told us to talk to her two weeks ago! We were running out of time for talking and bargaining so we just-“

“Kidnapped them!” the man yells, “you kidnapped them!? You- you imbeciles! They are supposed to want to perform for the wedding- you had at least six more hours! AND I GAVE YOU TWO WEEKS!”

“But Walby-“

Walby.

You know Walby! He and Barcus have been dating for a while now and the two are over the moon smitten. You are very happy for Barcus- this man is everything Wulbern could never be.

“No! I have had enough of your silliness! Leave me at once!”

You hear the three Gnomes that supposedly ambushed you walk off in angry huffs. A flash of healing magic fills the air and your head is finally clear- your ears no longer ringing like a triangle.

“My apologies, Ms.Dekarios,” Walby, says, “I wanted them to give you an invitation to come to Barcus’ and I’s wedding this afternoon, but as you heard, they are not the brightest bunch.

“It’s a very last minute ceremony- my mother is ill and she wants to see her ‘baby’ get married before she goes. We wanted to wait another year to plan, but oh you know how it goes!”

Walby looks at you sheepishly as you blink a few more times and let his words sink in. You look at the man and try not to throw up from sitting upright. You must have been out for a while, but not in a “oh that was a wonderful beauty nap” kind of way. You are pretty sure you have a decent amount of blood caked to the side of your head and neck right now.

“Oh, well in that case,” you offer a good natured smile, “I’ll consider this the most unique wedding invitation I’ve ever received and one I may not even have the privilege of remembering.”

The man laughs heartily as you stand up and brush your clothing off. You’re glad you wore a nicer outfit today and decided to bring your violin along- Oghma must have wanted to make sure you were prepared.

“I also wanted to ask a favor,” he says meekly, “if I haven’t fallen out of your good graces before I even stepped foot in them- that is.”

You smile and just roll your eyes.

“Consider it water under the bridge. How can I be of service?”

“Well, you see- we had asked an acquaintance of ours to play music and uh. There’s no easy way to put this, but he was run over by a herd of Deep Rothé.”

“Hmm,” you say with a snort, “tough crowd- Deep Rothés.”

Ultimately, you agreed to perform for the ceremony and the little dinner party afterwards. Your music decorated the air with golds and silvers. Barcus was thrilled to have you there and thanked you immensely for allowing his mother-in-law to “witness true magic” before she leaves this plane.

By the time you were finally leaving- you hear two very familiar voices scream your name and come barreling towards you.

*****************************************

Astarion and Gale are practically sprinting as they try to track your location through the streets of Baldur’s Gate. They had just found a large spot of your blood sticking to the cobblestone and leading to the sewer. Astarion feels sick when he notices the path leads back into the Crimson Palace. Thankfully it was through the sewer and straight to the tunnel of the Underdark.

He had sent you a letter a few days ago and he had confessed his feelings. Instead of waiting for you to respond like a sane person, Astarion got the hell out of the inn he was staying at and began the four day trek to Baldur’s Gate. The nice part about traveling alone and not needing to breath is that Astarion could run from place to place if he was in a hurry or was just fed up with traveling already.

Astarion quickly learned that it was boring to be alone and it’s far more fun to share adventures with you. He also learned that he might be a semi-decent person on his own because, in spite of being without your physical presence, he continues to fucking help people. Astarion is really over this whole moral compass thing (it only extends so far though, he’s still a proud Bastard at heart).

When he arrived at your home about an hour and a half ago, Gale had informed him that you had gone out to the Market and was confused when Astarion said his letter shouldn’t have arrived yet. It took longer than usual to write for… reasons.

Gale showed him the note you received and the two of them pieced together that someone had definitely set up a trap- just not a very good one. Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose when Gale told him that you definitely figured out the letter wasn’t from him, but Gale encouraged you to respond anyway.

A part of him is incredibly worried that some of the remaining Bhaal cultists have taken you since they are the only people he could think of that would be able to mimic his form. His stomach still turns when he thinks about the time they realized Orin had taken you. This is giving him the same queasy feeling.

So imagine his and Gale’s surprise when you are walking away from some random spot seemingly unscathed. Except Astarion won’t believe that until he has inspected you for injuries himself.

You look positively shell-shocked to see him and even more surprised when he’s taking your face gently in his hands and begins to check for injuries.

“Are you alright, Darling?” He says in a far more panicked voice than he means to, “we found blood- I thought the worst and your idiot brother! Of course that letter wasn’t from me! I have class, my Dear! I would never use that paper and WHY IN THE HELLS WOULD YOU FOLLOW ME OF ALL PEOPLE!?”

He knows his ‘rage’ doesn’t sound like rage- it sounds like a man who thought his only love had been on the brink of death only moments ago. Astarion is trying to keep a serious face, but the adoration and love in your eyes when you look at him is making him want to dissolve. He’s thrilled to see that after a whole year of not being together that your feelings haven’t waivered. Neither have his, obviously, but that’s why he’s here.

“I will say, Tav,” Gale says with exasperation, “you even gave Tara a fright- you should be expecting a very long lecture when we get home.”

“Oh I’m sure I will,” you say with a beaming smile, your eyes never leaving Astarion’s, “but I do have quite the story if you would like to hear it?”

Astarion’s grin stretches across his entire face.

“I think a good story, better company, and some wine would make for a fine evening, my Dear.”

“Gross!” Gale says, “but I’ll tag along for some wine.”

Oh dammit.

****************************

If Astarion wasn’t so busy feasting upon you- then he probably would have already hunted down those stupid Gnomes that gave him a fright and found a windmill to fling them from. Gale had left only 15 minutes ago, but Astarion had made quick work in getting you up to his room and having his way with you.

The minute Gale left, the conversation became flirty and teasing- all the want that has been pooling in his body is finally getting the release it needs. You, like always, are a sight to behold.

Your back arches when his tongue drags along your clit and Astarion pushes your hips down into the mattress as your arousal paints his lips. Your moans and desperate cries of pleasure are so delicious and his cock is painfully hard, straining against his leather pants.. He is fighting between taking his time and being selfish- chasing his own pleasure inside of you.

The moment you clench around his fingers is the same moment he unlaces his own pants and begins to remove them. You keen and whine underneath him- Astarion’s name sounds the best coming from you in this state.

Astarion should be a gentleman, hypothetically, and maybe give you a half a second to be a little less dazed from your orgasm. Except Astarion isn’t a gentleman and he isn’t patient- at all.

Astarion lifts your hips up to his until the head of his cock is aligned with your entrance and he thrusts himself inside of you. You immediately wrap your legs around his hips with a yelp of pleasure and your eyes flutter wildly as you take his whole length. Astarion smiles down at you as he slowly rocks in and out of you.

Your fingers find their way to his hair and you pull Astarion’s face down to yours- stunning him with a mind numbing kiss. He snaps his hips at the sensation and the moan you let out causes whatever resolve he had to break. Astarion releases the hold you have on his lips and kisses along your jaw up to your ear.

“Did you like that, my Love?”

You hum in approval and try to pull his mouth back to yours. He interrupts you by thrusting into you two more times with more power than the first one.

“Asta-,,” you attempt to say his name between thrusts, “Astarion please.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Pet,” he teases, “I don’t even know if I know what you like anymore- maybe you don’t even like thi-“

Your legs tighten around his hips as he goes to pull completely out of you. Astarion quirks his eyebrow at you with a smirk as you look at him with desperation.

“I more than liked it- I loved it,” you whisper with your cheeks burning from your shyness.

Oh and how Astarion loves your shyness. His hands fist the sheets as he starts his agonizingly slow rhythm inside of you again- whimpers falling from deep within your chest.

“See, Darling,” Astarion says as his face falls into the crook of your neck, “that wasn’t so difficult, now was it?”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to respond before Astarion’s hips begin to pick up speed and his mouth covers yours. As much as he loves to hear you moan- he doesn’t care to share that experience with any of the patrons that had been obviously checking you out while you were catching up.

Astarion groans against your lips as he continues to fuck you relentlessly- his fangs nip at your lower lip and lap at the tiny droplets of blood that seep from the punctures.

You are a mess underneath him and you feel incredible in every way possible. Astarion never wanted this to stop in the first place- back when he had told you his feelings and you said it would be best to be friends for the time being.

Perhaps that’s what causes him to slow down and kiss you deeply- making up for the lack of speed with more force. One of his hands trails along your chest and begins to tease your sensitive nipples- your walls clench around him hard when he begins to pinch and roll the right one and your orgasm coats him as he moves to play with the left.

You kiss him sloppily and he’s lazily thrusting into you- his own Little Death following yours within seconds. Astarion collapses on top of you as he begins to soften inside of you. The smell of you and him mixed together is intoxicating and your heartbeat is hammering from the pleasure- your eyes glassy and tired with bliss. He laughs breathily before placing a kiss on your swollen lips.

Astarion lifts you up ever so slightly so that he can pull the blanket down and over you, then he adjusts himself and you so that you are curled up with your ear pressed against his chest. He strokes your hair absentmindedly and you lightly draw shapes on his chest.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” you say sleepily, “I’ve missed you so much.”

I’ve missed you too, Darling,” Astarion says while pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m happy to be home.”

“Oh I’m sure Baldur’s Gate is-“

“You are my home,” Astarion interrupts you, “I’ve come to realize that wherever you are is where I want to be.”

You look up at him with tears in your eyes and happiness in your heart.

“But what about exploring your new life and all of that jazz?”

“Darling, I wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for you,” Astarion states, “you helped me kill Cazador and break the cycle of ongoing abuse. You gave me life so I could live it and I want to live it with you. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with just being friends and holding back my feelings. I want to share my life with you.

“I know this may all seem very fast, but” Astarion grabs his pants off the ground and he feels his stomach turn as he pulls the box out of his pocket, “I know I love you- that’s probably the only thing I’ve ever been sure of in my entire 239 years of existence. I- I wanted to know if you would… marry me?”

Your lips are on his within seconds and the two of you become entangled in soft kisses until you have to pull back for air. You lean your forehead against his and meet his gaze.

“I love you so much, Astarion. Yes- yes I will marry you,” you say tearfully, “I want to share my life with you too.”

[lazerswordweilder]

What, those aren’t in the same universe- yes they are. <<<the thoughts running through my head when I made a crossover of Marvel, Star Wars, Danny Phantom (Dannys stays in Amity and never leaves though, he literally just happens to become a halfa) and DC.

(Its important to note this was written in 2024)

A fact known to Anakin and Anakin alone is that Obi-Wan was reincarnated to take part in Star Wars. He was born in the year 1849 on earth, it was the earth we exist on today, only the future differs. His name was John Kyle, an archeologist who is a retired medic from a long forgotten war but also had unofficial diplomatic and fighting training from various tight spots. Years ago John found a child lying in the desert.

Anakin however has simple been alive all those years. He was born in a desert to a human mother captured by scientists ahead of their times, the experimented on her, and he was born from it. He lay on the desert dying for years, his unwelcome powers keeping him alive and suffering, this sparked his hatred, of the desert, of the sand, of the scientists. The only thing he remembered were his mother’s dying words “Anakin, you’ll- you’ll be so great, you’ll walk the skies.” as she succumbed to her wounds after giving birth, at least he remembers his name Anakin.

Anakin grew up under John, John becoming the father he never had. By the time he was 20 the war had ended but it scarred him, he never forgot the screams. By the time he was 25 he had stopped aging, blaming the scientists and not explaining his past to John out of fear of rejection. By the time he was 34 and John was 52 John thought he had connected the dots, his apprentice had stolen an artifact they’d both been hunting for and it had carried an ancient plage or power that slowed him down from aging! One day while exploring a volcano it turned active, John saw his chance and pushed the boy in and ran.

Anakin burnt alive, his anger roaring up inside of him the same time a natural portal to the ghost zone opened up in the volcano. Anakins eyes turned fire red, the blood in his veins turned to lava, his rage burnt hotter than the lava ever could. Anakin becomes an oxymoron, even beyond the fact he’s half alive half dead, he died in lava yet his weakness is water (guy never learnt how to swim, after being held underwater and nearly drowned he never really got over it), all ghosts hate what killed them and have weaknesses to it, Anakins death is his power. He takes on an apparence which is basically what he looks like normally but with fangs, sometimes his eyes reflect light or glow though, and when he gets mad his skin heats up, turning charred and what should be exposed flesh turns into lava below the charred skin, also his hair starts to turn to flame. Anakins obsession is revenge and his core is permanently stained with rage.

By the time Anakin gets out a grip on his powers World War 1 starts drafting with the year being 1914, Anakin (despite technically being dead) immediately decides that’s a good idea for blowing off steam and also a way to get actually military experience to murder John with. He hacks a comuptor and signs himself up, putting in his photo, his medical stuff, experience, and everything else on the form, then as he stares at the name box he remembers he’s meant to be dead, he choses a fitting name, Achilles. Achilles wrath matched Anakins rage, Achilles heel matched Anakins weakness to water, and hopefully Anakin will be able to bring the name Achilles some more modern glory.

He gets his dog tag and as sits in a cart heading to war with the rest of his team, Anakin runs his finger over the ingraving in it, careful not to melt it, Achilles. As bordom sets in he remembered other stories of ancient greek, more specifically Aphrodite Areia, Areia was an epithet meaning war like and it seperated Aphrodite Areia from her more commenly known version Aphrodite. He supposes he needs one to if there are to be two great Achilles, in his head he starts referring to himself as Anakin Achilles.

After 4 years at war and another year spent wandering the contry Anakin comes back to where he knows John is just to find out he died of old age around the time the war ended at 68, despite this being quite impressive despite modern medican Anakin promptly decides to go jump into another volcano. It is like a warm bath. But it cheered Anakin up- seriously, who knew volcanos were so nice when you weren’t burning alive?

After this he grabs the blackest clothes he can find and knows will be easy to move in, some fabric which he wraps around his face from nose to chin, tucks his dog tag safely into his clothes, and walked into the nearest bar he knew had shady dealing going on. He promptly intoduced himself as an assasin looking for training and gets pointed to a table full of tough looking people.

Two years later he’s been an assasin apprentice for years, under someone he thinks is called Ra Ah Ghoul. Anakin serves the guy for another 4 years despite thinking he’s kind of an asshole, then runs away. He’s learnt enough to avoid most of Ghouls traps and makes it out with a minor stab wound, he doesn’t really have organs anymore so he’s not worried.

He does take a moment to sit on someones roof top and stare at the stars, he thinks back to his first memories and remembers with a small laugh, the one you give when you’re shocked and in awe and a little breathless but happy, he knows his full name now, his birth name, Anakin Skywalker. He thinks fondly about it and feels like a child for the first time in years, staring up the the stars with the last thing his mother gave him, his name, just for a moment Anakins rage is fully forgotten.

Suddenly he feels to small, he looks down a sees the chubby hands of a baby, he actually physically blinks at that. He can work with this, his life is over due for a bit of normal anyways, he stores his dog tag (the only thing he has attachment to) inside his rib cage using a helpful bit of intangibility and floats down to the door step. He can hear a young, kind, childless couple inside.

Anakin- now named William, danced with his wife, Julia Lotis. He was so truely smitten with her and for the first time in so long he loved the domestic life style, Julia had finally quited the rage always simmering in his core, she was his Angel. He brought Julia in for a kiss and admired her, her long chocolate hair, her warm brown eyes that seemed like cozy fires during the winter rather then his uncontrolled rage. He swung her around in a circle and reached out to catch her when her eyes went wide, he caught her lifeless- pulseless- breathless- body and stared.

He stared at her for a long time, trying to hold back the cracks in his core, but it was like reading a book when the ending was so obvious. He conculded he was going to kill everyone within the city once he got out of shock, Anakin dropped his Angel to the floor, moving to the cupboard on autopilot, he grabbed his darkest clothes and put them on, the knifes he had hidden away just in case were quickly hidden in the folds of his outfit, he pulled out his dog tag, letting it’s reasuring weight lay heavy on his chest.

He walked all the way to Gotham, he didn’t even move as it hailed and stormed, as the ground shook and trees collapses. He walked to Metropolis, it was 1975, anyone who knew anything knew the Justice League was looking for new hires, he wasn’t looking for a job but if he could get to one of the interviews then he’d be immediately be recognised as a threat and subdued.

He stormed into the daily planet building where he knew at least Superman was holding interviews, he scared everyone out of the elevator with a death glare and walked straight into the room he could hear Superman talking in, he pushed open the door “Uh, interviews are over.” Superman abruptly paused, probably taking in Anakins disheveled and disassociating self, Anakin ignored the knife that dropped to the ground “Are you- here for an interview?” Superman asked. Anakin glared at him and jumped Superman as red over took his vision.

Anakin woke up in a cell, a wary Superman stood in front of him dripping his lava “If- you could’ve just said you had fire powers.” Superman said, Anakin sagged down into the chains and Superman looked at him for a second before realisation hit him “You weren’t here to show us your powers, you’re here so we could stop you.” Superman was suddenly no longer hesitant “Sounds like a hero to me, I think we’ve got your powers down, but if you want a spot in the League I only need your name.” It doesn’t take him a second to answer “Achilles.”

By 2002 it was doomsday, for the third time this month. The hero thing certainly wasn’t boring, and various other heros had helped Anakin gain an appreciation for technology, he was a technopath. Any

This is getting way too long, also I accidentally queued it so I’ll just reblog with more.

[countrymusiclover]

10 - Erik and JFK

Part 11

Battle of Heart and Mind

Tag list - ask to be added (in my ask box please) @aintinacage @hiraethrhapsody @mostlymarvelgirl @importantgalaxyrunaway

Leaving from the place I was moments ago I heard the three make voices now in the office downstairs. Entering the room Hank stood by the desk, Logan remained near the doorway and Charles was laying on the couch drink in his hands. “We need your help, Charles.”

“Need his help how exactly?” I came and sat down beside him on the couch seeing him finish what content he had in that glass.

Logan turns his head to me. “Bring the X-Men together. Stop Raven from killing Trask which starts the war.”

“So you’re saying they took her power and what…weaponized it?” Charles got up from the couch pouring himself another drink.

Logan nodded. “Yup.”

Charles plopped down in his desk chair downing some alcohol. His demeanor and physical appearance wasn't what I recalled it to be. Hank and I had tried our best to pull him out of the dark but he's just fallen over the edge now. "Now what exactly does Raven and Addi have to do with all this...saying that I...that we choose to believe what you are saying is true."

"In the beginning, the sentinels were just targeting mutants. Then they began targeting everyone. They began identifying the genetics in non-mutants...who would eventually have mutant children and grandchildren. Many of the humans tried to help us but it was a slaughter. Leaving only the worst of humanity in charge. I've been in a lot of wars but I've never seen anything like this. And it all starts with her and Raven." Logan began explaining looking between the three of us where I could see his whole body stiften at the horrible memories he must have been having.

“Raven won't listen to me.” Charles chuckled dryly looking over in my direction thinking back on Cuba. “Her heart and soul belong to someone else now.”

Logan put a hand on his hip throwing his other hand away from his side. “I know. That's why we're gonna need Magneto too.”

“Erik, you know where he is right?” Hank asked the man from the future who said nothing.

Charles got up from the chair stomping around the table and out the door. “He's where he belongs!”

“Charles!” I called his name forcing myself to my feet regaining my balance for a moment.

Logan tilted his head. “What the hell happened to him? Am I going crazy or are you two together or something?”

“We were…until the day I found out I was pregnant.” Looking over my shoulder I explained softly. “The war in Vietnam destroyed everything. Teachers and students were drafted. Hank attempted to help with his legs but…I'm gonna go find him. Charles!”

Moving towards his bedroom he had the door only cracked open slightly. Pushing it opened he lifted his head up sniffing through tears. “Charles, can we talk?”

“What do you still see in that man, Addi?” He sniffed through tears, wiping them away with his sleeve.

Coming to sit on the edge of the bed with the former telepath professor I laid my head on his shoulder. “Because of what he did the day JFK was assassinated. The part of the story you choose to forget.”

“He's not right for you or the baby, Addi.” Charles weakly responded, reaching down, intertwining my hand in his. “I just don't want you to get hurt. Even if you never truly love me the way I love you. I still want to keep you safe.”

Touching his face with my freehand he leans into my palm. “I know how you feel about him after what happened in Cuba. But this means helping Raven…and apparently saving humanity and mutants from an all out war. If you won’t do it for Logan’s tall tail then do it for Raven…do it for me.”

“I'll do it for the both of you.” He whispered, laying his head against my chest and I kissed his forehead just holding him for a moment. The relationship that Charles and I had was comfortable for sure. He was there for me throughout the pregnancy and with my mother. I did love him but it would never compare to my feelings for Erik.

November 22, 1963 - Dallas

Erik and I made our way through the abandoned building that was on the same street that the president was supposed to be driving down since he was visiting for something. Erik peaked his head out the window with me leaning against the wall beside where he stood. “I got word that the assassin is somewhere in this building with a gun. I can feel it somewhere.”

“Do you want me to go looking for it?” I questioned him, figuring that I should help him in some way.

He shook his head no, focusing his attention back towards the busy street. The president’s car came around the corner following the secret service cars that were behind it and in front of them. A gunfire sound blasted through the air where Erik raised his hand about to stop the bullet but the door downstairs got busted open. “Search the entire building!”

“Erik.” I called his name while watching the commotion from the streets below us. The bullet that had been fired hit the president in the back of the head and his wife reached back trying to help but he was already dead. Everyone in the cars and on the streets surrounded the car and I knew the men in the building must be service men.

He moved away from the wall grabbing me by my shoulders with a serious look in his eyes. “You have to go now before they find me up here.”

“Are you crazy? I am not leaving you here to be captured. How could you even consider such a thing?” I spat at him wearing a dark orange coat with some black jeans and combat boots. I had put my hair in a braid.

He was wearing a green turtleneck underneath a brown coat. His gaze remained on mine and I felt him pressing his fingers into my shoulder blades. “Addison, this isn’t a joke. Those men are looking for the man who just killed the president and they most likely will blame it on me if they can’t find the guy who actually fired the shot.”

“So we run and get out of here before they do. We stick together like we promised.” I snapped at him not wanting to leave him here like this.

He threw his head back, sighing in frustration where we heard a bunch of boots coming up the stairs meaning we were running out of time if we were going to run like I wanted him to. “We don’t have time to discuss this, Addi. I can’t let them capture you too.”

“So what am I supposed to do while you’re stuck in the pentagon…besides coming to visit you if that’s even possible.” I asked, gripping the material of his jacket almost closing the gap completely between us.

Erik pressed his forehead against mine and we just stood holding onto each other till he whispered. “You go see your mother or go find Charles. I need you to promise me.”

“There’s voices upstairs!” One of the men downstairs said to his fellow men and they started to be heard coming up onto the floor we were on.

Erik turned his head back, pouring his attention down to me. “Promise me, Addi.”

“I promise….and I love you.” I blurted out having the elevator door opened and the men started running towards us.

Erik grabbed my arm and we ran towards the old staircase that we had used to get up here. He holds my face in his hands, kissing me quickly. “Don’t get caught while I’m gone, Addison.” He rounded the corner holding his hands up in surrender while I peaked my head around the corner watching the officers arrest him on the spot.

“I'll help you get her.” Charles and I had left his bedroom seeing Logan was still talking with Hank. “But not for any of your future shits but for her.”

Logan nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Tell you this, you don't know Erik, that man is a monster, a murder. You think you can convince Raven to change, to come home.” Charles gave him a half smile. “But what makes you think you can change him?”

Logan admitted. “Because you and Erik sent me back here together.”

“The room they're holding him in was built during the...2nd World war when there was a shortage of steel. So the foundation is pure concrete and sand, no metal.” Hank had unrolled a map onto the large table in the library that revealed the inside layout of the pentagon from what he could find.

Charles rested his hands on the table. “And he's being held a 100 floors beneath the most heavily guarded building on the planet.”

Logan raised a brow. “Why is he in there?”

“What, he forgot to mention?” Charles couldn’t contain his laughter while I just stood back biting my tongue.

Hank said. “Uh JFK.”

Logan finally figured it out. “He killed.”

“What else would explain the bullet miraculously curving through the air.” Charles shakes his head glancing over at me silently for a moment knowing how I felt about what he had just said. “Erik's always had a way with guns.”

Leaning my back against the wall I rested one hand on my growing stomach looking between the three men in the room. “Never thought I'd say this but let's go break into the Pentagon.”

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[latibvles]

SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful, tragic // to be in it with you.

i’ll find a million ways to say it before i say that i’m in—

masterlist | gallery | taglist

TAGLIST: @liebgotts-lovergirl , @softguarnere , @brassknucklespeirs ,@monalisastwin , @mads-weasley , @eugene-emt-roe

SUMMARY: Reaching the Eagles’ Nest makes the day special in more ways than one.

WARNINGS: None!

Picturesque mountains, sun warming her skin, her eyes crinkle at the corners on a squint as she peers at it for a moment. She didn’t think she’d have much time for sightseeing in a war, but here she is — a working draft of a letter balanced precariously on her thigh as she writes out a thank you for the well wishes from her mother, men and women alike all idling on this road etched into the mountainside. Beside her, Jane is also leaned up against the jeep, gray eyes shut to soak in the rays warming them like stones on a riverbed.

“Your French still any good?” she asks, out of the blue cracking one eye open. That was one thing Daisy began to notice about Jane. When she was feeling chatty, she could never anticipate what the girl was going to say or ask. Daisy raises an eyebrow, looking at her sidelong and gives her a shrug.

“It’s alright, I guess. Why d’you ask?”

“Cause I can’t remember a lick of shit since Belgium but I wanna tell the French to haul ass and get rid of the roadblock.” At that, Daisy snorts at the mild irritation edging in Jane’s voice as she says it, folding up her paper and putting it in her pocket.

“What, don’t wanna beat the French to the nest?”

“I don’t give a damn who wins, I just want to get up there already.” Distantly, a sound of an explosion echoes down the road they’re all sat upon, and Daisy snorts. Last Daisy checked, they were getting quite…  creative with how they intended to blow the roadblock sky high. Namely, combining explosives like a high-risk middle school science fair. Grenades, dynamite, bazookas, all which translated in Daisy’s mind as some idiot having too much fun and losing a couple fingers if they weren’t careful enough.

She’s hoping that the joy found in blowing things up might’ve died down a little bit with the war apparently coming so close to an end — but part of her knows that’s just her own foolish optimism.

But it is, admittedly, nice to know she still has some of it left after all this.

“Someone’s antsy,” Daisy can’t help but snicker, and Jane rolls her eyes.

“Ever the astute observations from my fearless leader.” She watches Jane shake out a cigarette and fish through her pocket for the lighter, lights it, and brings it to her own lips before letting smoke escape. Then she offers it to Daisy.

“Yeah well, that’s what they hired me for.”

“Your wise remarks?” Jane asks as Daisy takes it from her, bringing it to her own lips. They share a look as an engine roars and a jeep whizzes by them further up the road.

“My astute observations,” Daisy concurs, “Also, I think you might’ve gotten your wish after all, Gray.”

The town was dead quiet before they came in. An eerily empty place save for the rumble of engines, emblazoned in the red banners that make her entirely angry now. The moment their feet hit the ground, anything that gleams is fair game — for combat nurse and soldier alike, it seems.

Which is to say: Daisy’s bag is heavy with things that weren’t even hers, nor were they things that she necessarily picked up herself. She didn’t expect Rita to have such sticky fingers, but when the argument was that they’d need nice silverware for the apartment they’ve yet to get, she couldn’t exactly argue with that sound logic. And when Easy Company gets fired up to head further up the mountain — she allows herself a moment of childishness, sticking out her tongue to her friend who would be staying behind in town for the moment with the rest of Fox.

Okay, so maybe she got her pick of a couple candleholders in town, and maybe she was just a little bit eager to see if the stone mountain retreat had anything nicer than that. Which it should, because the damn thing had a gold plated elevator.

She’s greeted with lush couches and carpets, champagne in buckets of water that likely was ice, at one point, and the sound of popping bottles as everybody in the place helps themselves to the stash. Daisy wanders, curious as the men chip pieces off that big stone fireplace. She’s on one of the many balconies the retreat holds when Liebgott finds her first. He smacks one of those fireplace chunks unceremoniously into her hand. Then, he offers her the glass-green champagne bottle he’s carrying with him.

“It’s a special day, after all, don’t say I didn’t get you nothin’,” he hums with a knowing glint in his eye. She takes the bottle by the neck, glances up at him with slightly wider eyes and parted lips.

“You remembered?”

“What kinda dumb question is that?” He asks with a bit of a scoff. “‘Course I did, kid, now hurry up before I take the damn bottle back.” Daisy rolls her eyes and takes a swig, champagne bubbles popping on her tongue and going down smooth. It tastes expensive. She grins as she licks the excess from her lips and gives him the bottle back, and then he takes a swig from it himself before ruffling her hair. “Atta girl. Make any wishes?”

“I’d need candles for that.” He grins again and gives her a shrug.

“Sure we could work somethin’ out. Not like ol’ Adolf’s gonna need them. Y’know this place has a goddamn kitchen? Fully stocked.” He says, a sharp bite to the words. Daisy snorts, partially in disbelief.

“What, you're gonna make me a cake or something? I don’t know if I trust you around a stove while you’re drinking.” Joe laughs, a full sound accompanied by another ruffle of her hair. “Tell you what, you find me candles and I’ll make all the wishes in the world.” That seems to satisfy him, the grin not faltering as he looks up and past her. There’s a clearing of the throat, and Daisy turns around.

Ron stands in the doorway, straight-faced and looking between them, before his gaze focuses on Liebgott.

“I need to speak to Lieutenant Clarke, Liebgott,” he informs in that non-negotiable tone of his. As if they had important business to attend to among the pretty scenery and loungers arranged to overlook the woods below. Joe isn’t an idiot, so he nods, resigned.

“Yes, sir,” he responds with a salute, he walks back inside, disappearing into the building and Daisy watches as that stern look on Ron’s face practically melts away.

He’d been the first one up, with Malarkey and Alton. So it didn’t take a genius to know that wherever he’d stored his gear in this place — it would likely clink and clatter until it made its way to Vest at the post office to get all boxed up. He reaches up to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, shorter strands that had fallen from its braid. Something about the mundaneness of the gesture makes her smile.

“One hell of a day,” Ron observes, giving her a knowing look.

“That’s a way to put it, yeah,” Daisy points out with a curious smile. He tilts her chin up with his knuckle until she’s looking at him completely.

“Make any wishes?”

“Didn’t you hear while you were creeping in the shadows? You can’t make a wish without candles.” She points out, and Ron rolls his eyes as he leans down to kiss her, her chin between his thumb and pointer. His lips taste like whiskey, and she can’t help but think back to the last time he drank — all weepy in her lap and dramatic in the morning. The grin that makes it onto her lips is enough to break their kiss. He gives her a half-hearted narrow-eyed look.

“I don’t creep.”

“Lurking then, it’s not a bad thing,” Daisy amends, and she can tell Ron is biting back what has to be a smile as he fishes around in his pocket.

“Fine. Lurking. Doesn’t matter, I got you something.”

“If it’s forks, I’m afraid Rita might have you beat there. I think the drawers might burst if we get any more.” Ron shakes his head immediately with a soft chuckle.

“Not forks, but good to know.”

What he produces from his pocket is much more delicate than the silverware or the candle holders or the hand mirrors.

It’s a sapphire pendant on a thin, silver chain. Delicate and pretty in a way that makes Daisy’s lips part on a gasp. She’d passed quite a bit of jewelry, but none of it were things she’d ever wear so she left it behind for someone else to take. It was all too chunky, too demanding of attention, too weighty in her hands. This was the opposite. Silver curls around that deep blue sapphire, holding it in place, but it was still the centerpiece in spite of the embellishments.

“Happy birthday, Dais,” he says simply. Daisy reaches up, fingers grazing the cold metal in awe. She then looks up at him, a million questions and statements all posed on her tongue.

“Can you put it on me?” is what she decides on, and to that he nods, and she turns around.

Fingers graze the back of her neck as his fingers work to fasten it. She doesn’t care about how he got it, where it came from — just that he’d picked it up not to mail home, but to give to her. And she shouldn’t expect anything less from him, but everything he does still manages to fill her with something that can only be described as pure wonder.

Ron is wonderful. 

It’s not an epiphany of any sort, if anything, she feels like it’s the most obvious statement she could make. Of course he’s wonderful. Because Ron remembers things about people and makes a point to apply it. Ron knows everything about her, he listens to her. He could’ve given her any of the countless too-chunky rings and necklaces left abandoned in town or in this building. But he doesn’t. He finds the thing he knows she’ll wear and gives that to her instead.

So maybe, she’s just a little bit awestruck at how he could love a person like her in such a way. With such careful precision.

She turns around, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. His hands find her waist immediately, holding, squeezing as he returns her kiss with ease, remnants of champagne and whiskey mixing on their lips for a moment before they pull away — barely so, because her forehead presses against his and she makes a point to bump their noses.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Daisy breathes out without thinking. But she doesn’t pull away upon realizing what she’s said. She’d rather stare, and she’s glad she doesn’t look away, because he smiles. The rare one, where his eyes crinkle at the corners. Beautiful, breathtaking, rare but still Ron.

“Yeah? You love me?” Ron asks, his voice edging on a tease. It’s like watching years come off him in the span of seconds. He looks so boyish. She nods, cheeks flushing a bit at his tone, but his arms only wrap around her tighter.

“I do.”

He leans forward to kiss her again, briefer than before, but still firm against her.

“Then I love you too,” he mutters, then another kiss. “And when we go home,” kiss, “You know I’m marrying the hell outta you, right?”

Her heart skips a beat.

“Been thinking about that one for a while?” She asks, and Ron squeezes her hips, hazel eyes moving across her features as he examines her face.

“Figured to wait, that you’d want a ring that’s shiny and new and all yours.” And then he waits, leaving it open for her to contradict him — for her to object in any way she sees fit, but she doesn’t.

“You might have a point there.” She watches the way his smile returns.

“So is that a yes?”

Daisy reaches up to take his face in her hands, coarse stubble beneath her palms as she glides her thumbs over his cheekbones. Her turn to begin a sentence with a kiss.

“Ask me again in front of your mother with a ring that’s all mine, and then  you’ll get an answer. Promise.”

Marriage. The thought had always been there — she’d wanted to get married, at some point, to somebody. As a teenager the idea scared her a bit — the thought that she could pick the wrong person clashing with the fantasy in her head of white wedding gowns and her father walking her down the aisle. It only worsened when she found out about the cheating. If she dared think about anything that wasn’t work, or the war, or James, it would tread into territory of her future spouse wrapped up in a secretary or something. Loving someone that wasn’t her.

Ron isn’t just somebody. And the thought of marrying him doesn’t scare her at all. It’s like a piece snapping into place, something sound and correct that she can envision clearly, even if the details are hazy.

One day in a not-so-distant future, he’s going to ask her to marry him. And she’s a hundred percent certain that she’s going to say yes.

The door opens and with that, the whooping and laughter from Harry and Nixon bounce off the walls, bottles of what she can assume is whiskey on ice in a bucket tucked into his arm. She catches Ginny behind the two of them with a small smile on her face, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“There he is! We aren’t interrupting something, are we?” Lew asks, more hypothetical than anything as Ron lets his hands fall to turn around. Ginny, on the other hand, eyes the new piece on Daisy’s neck and gives her a knowing look.

Lew doesn’t wait for an answer, he throws himself on the lounger with a catlike grin, and Harry reaches for one of the bottles.

Ron gives her a look as Harry pops off the cap, and all Daisy does is laugh.

[smolsleepyfox]

I found this in my drafts so enjoy my bitching about the absolute shitshow my first intercontinental flight turned into.

Travelers: smolsleepyfox + mother who doesn't speak a lot of English

The inbound journey: train to Frankfurt > flight to LA (Condor) > ~two hours transit time > flight to Honolulu (Hawaiian)

Estimated travel time: 24 hours

What actually happened: The ICE was late, of course, but we had more than enough buffer regardless. The plane was announced as 45 minutes delayed due to a delayed arrival. Okay, not fun, but doable.

We eventually started with a delay of 1h 40. Refer to the transit time stated above.

The flight itself was cool, I really liked the 3D earth model with our route showing all sorts of background info on sights we were passing. I saw Iceland and the Faroe islands for the first time, and some of Greenland, the Great Salt Lake and Nevada. (Why is the US so big and empty in the middle, it was kind of freaky??)

Anyway. We arrived with a delay of 1h 20 and hastened to get to the connection. As travellers entering the country we had to get our bags and then check them in again when we were connecting, so we did just that.

Mistake.

Because when we made it to the check-in counter of Hawaiian Airlines they told us we'd been rebooked to a different flight with an entirely different airline. At 7am the next day.

Apparently Condor thought we wouldn't make the connection and changed our booking. The very sweet lady at the counter wrote down the flight number for the new booking, and recommended we go ask our original airline to get us a hotel because by that time it was 7pm and we'd been up for about 24 hours.

Guess who does not work anymore at 7pm?

If you guessed Condor's customer service desk, you get a point. What followed should be familiar to people who watched Asterix conquers Rome. I probably spoke to everyone wearing some sort of uniform in the entire building. Turns out social anxiety is only a problem until your stress level hits the roof. And after all of that didn't even work, we got a SMS with a hotel booking and food vouchers.

Note that by that point, we'd been running around for nearly three hours and there's still no information the new flight booking even exists. We have no boarding passes, not even an email saying we got rebooked in the first place, just a hand-written flight number.

To be fair the hotel was extremely nice. There even was a pool in the courtyard - which we couldn't use because as I mentioned we'd checked in our luggage. We didn't even have a toothbrush. Regardless, half of the vouchers were spent on dinner that I thought was stupid expensive (but hey not my money!).

Next morning while waiting in line to get our boarding passes I talked to a dude from Cincinnati checking in a very friendly black Labrador Retriever. I told him I'd love to see the Great Lakes sometime and he said he has a friend who went to Germany with his athletics team and it sounded very fun. I told him we have a lot of big funky churches and he seemed to appreciate it. We also spent the other half of the vouchers on Starbucks.

We did make it to Honolulu airport. Our bags did not. The day before, they'd told us that they'd either transfer our luggage to the new airline, or they'd just put it on their flight to Honolulu that leaves the same time. We waited at the baggage claim for our flight. The conveyor belt was blocked by a large box for like ten minutes. No luggage. We have no flight number for the other Hawaiian flight and none of the screens even show that that plane exists, let alone is supposed to arrive in the span of the next two hours.

After asking five different people and my mom running off on her own, we manage to get to Hawaiian's baggage service desk and one of the crew wanders off with our receipts to take a look. He returns after 30 minutes with a cart. I didn't ask where the hell he found our stuff. He was probably a wizard.

We still don't have a confirmation we ever got rebooked.

---

This is where I left off, thinking we'd finished the Odyssey. Guess the fuck what! We had not!

We spent a lovely two weeks on O'ahu of which I was sick for most of the first (I blame the AC). Our flight back was at 7.25am.

The plan was for us to go to LA together, where I'd put my mom on a flight back (Condor again) and for me to spend two more weeks in LA. We arrived around 5am because we're German and that's the bare minimum of buffer. Online check-in somehow didn't work for the Honolulu-LA leg but did work for the LA-Frankfurt leg. So we get to the airport, try the kiosks. No luck there either. Go to the customer service counter.

The poor man took about five minutes looking between his PC and our passports before telling us he had to check something and wandering off for a solid twenty minutes. That can't be a good sign.

He returns. My mom's ticket doesn't exist.

What do you mean her ticket doesn't exist, I ask, wondering if I've lost the ability to speak English.

Apparently when Condor rebooked us on the inbound flight, they accidentally canceled both Hawaiian airlines reservations for my mom. So now we have an hour left and my mom doesn't have a ticket and a flight to catch.

Booking another ticket for this specific flight is 2800$ - even if we were willing to pay that (we were not) that is very much above my credit card's limit. The man, who clearly feels bad for us, advises me to call Condor directly.

I genuinely don't want to think about how much money I paid calling the hotline. The entire thing was a disaster - I have auditory processing disorder, it was loud as fuck in the airport and the man on the other end had an accent. At first I gave him the wrong booking number (mine instead of my mom's), then he misunderstood and thought our inbound flights were with Lufthansa so Not His Job. He eventually promised to reinstate the ticket so we should wait a few minutes and return to the check-in. At check-in the tickets did not show up, so I call them back and ask for the ticket numbers to double-check.

Having a pacing man at the airport yell into his phone in German probably fulfills some kind of stereotype.

We went outside so my mom could have a smoke break and I avoided having a meltdown with the help of a soggy Nutella bread, since I hadn't even had breakfast at that point.

At this point, we've missed our flight, meaning my ticket has lost its validity as well. Stakes are high.

The few minutes were apparently enough for the system to catch up though, because when we got back to the check in counter, a very nice lady told us that while it wasn't Hawaiian Airlines' responsibility, they offered a complementary rebooking to a later flight. They wouldn't be able to guarantee we got on if it was full, but chances were good. Very stressful 40 minutes until we were called up by a guy my age who apologized for not knowing how to pronounce our last name.

But wait - my mom had a flight to catch. The stopover time by that point had shrunken to an hour... And our plane was delayed. In all fairness, the cabin crew was lovely, they offered all passengers with connecting flights to get off the plane first, just grab our stuff and run. Which is what we did, running up to the gate and asking if boarding is still ongoing like we were being chased by the mob. This flight was also delayed and I think the stewardess was concerned for us.

But hey, at least my mom made it home. Just to put the cherry on top though, my mom's luggage arrived in Germany five days later.

My own flight from LA to Frankfurt was luckily completely unremarkable. Never again.

[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

Abandoned WIP Soulmate AU Ruki Mukami x Reader

I found this in my drafts and thought I might as well post it for anyone who’s curious as to what I had planned for it. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess as I wrote it completely out of order. What I’ve done is separate out the written sections and the bullet point bits I hadn’t finished with asterisks so the full plot is here, it’s just not all in nice prose.

Connection with soulmate: you heal more quickly when in close proximity to your soulmate.

-Ruki was not born with an obvious soulmate connection. And even though most tended to show themselves with time, it seemed of little consequence. 

While the majority of humanity embraced the idea of having a predetermined partner, there were certain circles in the aristocracy who disregarded the idea, only interested in matches that would have some monetary or political benefit. 

Ruki’s family was in one of those such circles, but they did not seem to suffer for it. No, and as a child, their place above the common folk had indeed seemed more important than some mystical connection to another person. 

- And then came the bankruptcy.

His mother fled, and not with just anyone, but her soulmate, who she had met only days before their family officially fell into ruin, like some sort of omen. 

And then he found his father hanging at the bottom of the garden.

After he was changed, Ruki gave little thought to the idea of soulmate’s at all. The connection never showed itself anyway. That was fine though, if that was the price he had to pay for becoming more than just livestock, then so be it.

Years passed, most spent in the demon world under Karlheinz’s tutelage and Ruki never once paid the idea of his soulmate any mind.

That was at least until the vampire king brought up his plan involving the latest sacrificial bride; you.

- You weren’t sure what grave sin you’d committed to end up living in a house with the Sakamaki brothers. You hadn’t known they were vampires when you first learned you were being sent away to live with the sons of some high-up politician, however it had become painfully apparent what they were the moment  Ayato had sunk his fangs into your neck.

It hadn’t taken long for you to realise that your chances of escape were slim at best, leaving you had the mercy of the brothers.

As if to rub salt in the wound, the only friend you’d managed to make in your time at Ryoutei Academy continuously needled you as to why you were staying with the Sakamakis. Her favourite theory was that one of them was your soulmate and you just didn’t want to admit to it out of fear of the brothers popularity with the girls at school.

It served as a painful reminder that, given your current circumstances, it was unlikely you’d get to meet your own intended before one of the vampires grew tired of you and one of them finally put you out of your misery.

- Ruki wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting of his saviour’s chosen Eve. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly remarkable about you, the scent of your blood aside. 

He and his brothers had been ordered to observe you from a distance at first, to establish whether any of the Sakamakis had already been chosen as Adam or, if there were any signs that one of them might be your soulmate.

It was unlikely, Karlheinz had told him, but it wasn’t unheard of for vampires to have a human soulmate and it would certainly prove to be interesting. 

As far as Ruki could tell however, you had no bond to any of the purebloods in the slightest. They preyed on you at random and the misery in your eyes was uncomfortably familiar.

It seemed they would have to intervene, to either force you to select one of them as Adam or at least force some sense of connection between you and on of the Sakamaki brothers.

Ruki was determined not to let Karlheinz down, and the idea of one of the Sakamakis being a suitable candidate was almost laughable. No, he would find a way to make you choose him, by whatever means.

***

- Ruki and Muakami bros kidnapping reader

- Some commentary from reader. Make sure the other Mukami bros suck her blood before 

- Some commentary from Ruki

- Maybe something else from the reader idk

-Ruki awoke one day to the sensation of itching concentrated over his upper back. It’s not the same that the phantom burning that sometimes followed him from his nightmares into the waking world, or the dull ache he occasionally got on rainy days when he was left alone with his thoughts. No, this felt like tiny insects were scuttling over his skin, irritating the scar tissue.

He rolled over, trying squash the temptation to start scratching when he caught sight of your face, only faintly visible thanks to the thin tendrils of sunlight leaking through the curtains. You looked peaceful, expression devoid of any worry or fear, hair splayed out over your pillow. You were defenceless. Vulnerable.

Even with whatever healing ability you possessed, he could still make out traces of his bite wounds on your neck. For some reason the sight of it was comforting. Whatever traces the Sakamaki brothers left on you had disappeared, leaving only the marks from him. He would become Adam.

He couldn’t afford not to. And with that the sensation on his back was forgotten.

- Add in some sort of realisation about Ruki’s scars. Maybe Reader catches sight of his back, Ruki expects them to ask about it but they don’t so he looks at it himself.

- Scene with him and other Mukami bros where he asks them about unless effects of your blood. This leads him to think it may be sign that he’s going to awaken as Adam.

 ***

-The air felt thick and heavy as Ruki waited for the reaction of his mentor and father figure to his recount of the events of the past few months to him, after making the crossing to the demon world.  Surely this was good news, a way of finally repaying his debt, and yet the Vampire King’s expression remained neutral, mired in thought.

Eventually he spoke, his voice deep and smooth. “This is an interesting turn of events, however what you have experienced is not a sign that you are becoming Adam.”

Ruki felt his throat tighten but refused to show anything in his expression. “Then what- is this simply an effect of drinking Eve’s blood?”

“From what you have described, no. While it’s  true that Eve’s blood possesses special properties, even it should not be able to heal old scar tissue.” Ancient golden eyes met his and even before Karlheinz uttered his next words, Ruki felt something seize in his chest. “It’s most likely this is the work of a soulmate connection between yourself and Eve,” he huffed something close to a laugh, “a strange twist of fate, I had hoped the chosen Eve might share a connection with one of my sons, but I did not anticipate this. I will need you to return her to them.”

Ruki wasn’t sure he was breathing, he could barely hear anything above the noise in his head. “But surely if there is a connection, then there’s still a chance I could become Adam. I can do more-“

“If there have been no symptoms of the awakening by now, even with your connection to Eve then it’s unlikely you can become Adam. It seems it truly must be a pureblood vampire, although I appreciate your efforts thus far.”

Some of his emotions must have slipped through the cracks in whatever part of himself he kept them walled off in and shown on his face, for the Vampire King’s expression shifted into one of perhaps the closest thing he could come to pity.

“I understand this is likely disappointing but the plan must come before all else. You understand that, don’t you Ruki?” And although it remained unspoken, the underlying meaning in the words is clear, to do another other than what is being asked of him, anything to disrupt his mentor’s plan, would be an act of betrayal.

“Of course, sir,” he replied, standing. “If that will be all, I’ll return to the human world and deliver Eve to your sons at once.”

Karlheinz waved his hand in a polite dismissal. “Of course, although, it believe it may be best if you made preparations to return to the demon world permanently. It will not do to have Eve potentially distracted by her connection to you.”

“Understood,” Ruki walked out of the room, determinedly ignoring the thing crumpling in his chest.

***

“Ruki, please tell me what’s going on,” you said, turning to look at the boy from where he walked beside you.

You’d been awoken by the oldest Mukami brother in the early afternoon, several hours before you had to wake up for school. Any questions as to what was going on had been ignored as you were ordered to get dressed and met him by the entrance to the manor. Once you’d done so, you’d been all but dragged from the house, which to lead to where you were now, being lead along the road with no idea as to why or where you were going. Ruki’s expression yielded nothing either, whatever glimpses of humour and traces of humanity you’d seen in him wiped clean.

After several more minutes of walking in tense silence, you finally start to recognise the scenery and your blood run cold in your vein as you come to a stop.

“What-“

With barely a glance in your direction, Ruki grabbed your upper arm, his grip hard enough to bruise as he proceeded to tug you along. “Keep moving.”

“Please, Ruki, I don’t want to go back.” You say, unable to keep your hands from shaking as you take in the scenery leading up to the Sakamaki mansion, the same you’d seen all those months ago, back when you had no idea of the horrors the world contained. The Mukami brothers were far from perfect but anything was better than going back to that house. Back to the room filled with Kanato’s wax dolls or the bathroom where Laito had nearly drowned you in the bathtub after you’d struggled too much for his liking.

You’d miss the slight warmth you felt as you watched the Mukami brothers argue over an evening meal. The way that for a moment, they could almost be normal boys as Kou whined over not having Vongole Bianco while Yuma told him to shut his trap and Azusa watched them with fondness in his eyes.

***

-Ruki dumps the reader at the Sakamakis, Reader is distressed, as is Ruki but he refuses to show it

- Something about Ruki being sad.

- Ruki is on rooftop when reader runs up there and gets cornered by Ayato. Reader struggles, falls off of the rooftop. Cue Ruki finally getting his damn act together.

[griseldabanks]

Shynael (shuh-NIE-ell):

His name has secret significance: I got the name Shynael from a dream. I never remembered anything else about the dream, only that spelling with that pronunciation. I knew I had to save it for something extra-special, and then a few years later I decided to write a dragon rider story, and knew that would be the perfect name for the dragon. All the other dragon names I came up with afterwards were modeled after Shynael.

I am so sorry, my child: I'm so mean to this poor guy T^T The first thing that happens in the plot is him being orphaned as soon as he's hatched, and then he has to immediately turn around and flee for his life with Shard, who he just met, because he's a dragon in a human village that his mother just crashed into. And then, not only does he have to start growing up on the run, he also runs into dragon hunters, knights, and various other battles where he and his best friend risk their lives...all before he's even a year old.

I would love fanart of him: I mean, who wouldn't?! But I would be annoyingly particular about the way he looks, because my insistence that "no one does dragons right" extends to the way they look too ^^'

I would want to be his friend irl: Oh my gosh, SO VERY MUCH TT_____TT He's adorable, he's fun, he likes to laugh and play, he's very loving and likes to cuddle, and he would want to be your friend too the second he found out you were Shard's friend. Plus...I mean...he's a dragon. How cool is that?!

Made specifically for a relationship: Again, this is a dragon rider story, and you can't do that without a human and a dragon bonding. Shynael kind of came first in this duo, but he was always meant to be the little brother.

Vital to the plot: Shynael's appearance is literally the inciting incident of this story :P

Fan-favorite: I'd like to think he would be! I've had nothing but positive reactions to him from anyone I've shown the first draft to. He's adorable and fun, and my hope is that most people will instantly fall in love with him and want to protect him at all costs.

Could be the protagonist of his own story: The few vague thoughts I've had about a possible sequel would be at least a short story with Shynael as the POV character, where he tries to find out who his father is. It would be first-person, and would make people laugh a lot more than The Ambassadors, though because it's me, it would probably still dip into angst a lot as well. But I never actually came up with more than a vague idea of what it would be about. First things first, you know. Gotta write the first story before bothering about sequels.

I love him, Your Honor: I can't put into words how much I love this kid <3 I don't have a little brother, but...if I did, I'd want him to be like this :') He's also quite possibly the best character I've ever created. I just want him to grow and thrive and have only the best things in life, especially after everything I put him through. (Shynael: "That's okay. You gave me my Shard, and that's all I need! :D")

Practically writes himself: As evidenced in the previous question, whenever I write him - or even about him, apparently! - it's like he comes back to life and starts talking to me. The whole time I was writing the first draft, it was like I had a tiny version of him curled up in my brain, and throughout the day he'd give his commentary on various things - especially if they had to do with dragons in any way. I always like to say that Shynael is my "Harry Potter" - he fell, fully formed, into my lap as soon as I started writing him. I barely feel like I created him at all. He already existed somewhere, and I just wrote the story that opened the portal he could come through. Objectively, I can look at his first couple of scenes and realize that I fine-tuned his voice over time, and I also know that the whole reason I started writing the story was because I was tired of dragons who were only ever austere and wise or basically just animals. Shynael is exactly the sort of dragon I would write, because he's specifically pushing back against almost every dragon I've ever read about...but at the same time, Shynael is just himself. Put him in any situation, and I know what he would do or say, because it's barely even me writing him. He writes himself.

Very good-looking: Okay, Shynael, you can stop preening like a peacock XD But it's true! Another thing I decided right away was that my main dragon was going to be black. I was sick and tired of the way black dragons always seemed to be evil in the stories I read. Besides, have you ever run your finger over a bit of obsidian? That's what Shynael's scales look and feel like.

*holds gently*: He is baby. I am constantly torn between the authorial need to Put Him In Situations, and the maternal instinct of "If anyone hurts him, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself."

He gets so much page-time: Originally, he was literally there on page one. I think I need to back up a bit and give more of an introduction to Shard in my next draft before bringing him in, and there are a few scenes where Shard is alone, but for the most part, Shynael is there the whole time. My working title of the story, before I decided on The Ambassadors, was The Black Dragon, after all.

Free space: His catchphrase is "My mother told me..." In this world, dragon eggs only hatch when the circumstances are just right (and it can be hard to know what those circumstances are), and the baby dragon is able to hear and understand while they're inside the egg. It was a long time before Shynael hatched, so he has a lot of memories of things his mother talked to him about while she carried his egg around everywhere. So he has a jump-start on knowledge about the world, and he wants to experience everything his mother told him about first-hand.

[thesecretwriter]

this isn’t what enemies do (draco malfoy) 2.

Disclaimer: The content which is displayed below holds themes that are considered mature, minors are not to interact, thank you.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x female reader

Summary: It is now month 2 of you and Draco working on your portfolio together. Relations between the two of you strengthen as time goes on, and unknowingly, you begin to fall for him, and walk in on him doing something quite peculiar.

Warning: Angst – conflicting thoughts of Draco liking you or not, smut – male masturbation (minors dni).

Side note: I know I took forever with this, I’m sorry. The next part is the last part.

part one

part three

harry potter series masterlist

“I’ve done a bit of research on this topic and drafted some examples.” Draco pointed towards the sketches of examples he drew last night.

“You’re really good at drawing.” You point out.

Draco feels his cheeks grow red at your words.

No one knew that he could draw. Everyone who was his friends at Hogwarts only ever wanted to associate with him because of his family’s name. None of them took an interest in wanting to know him.

“Thank you… “ He pushed down the butterfly feelings in his chest and concentrated on explaining to you the things he found about his part of the portfolio.

It was now the second week of the second month.

“Okay, looks like we’re ahead of schedule. I assume its because of the tiresome hours put to work on this in the first week.” You lean back and stretch your muscles having been sat in a chair for an unnecessarily long amount of time.

“Better ahead then behind.” Draco smiled.

This was something you had begun to see more and more often now. It was delightful having seen the smile in contrast to his wicked smirk and scowl that everyone was accustomed to.

“Your dorm tomorrow night then?” You asked a bit too loudly, catching the attention of a few witches and wizards nearby.  

“Like always.”

“I think they’re together.”

“They spend way too much time together to just be working on a project.”

“Why would she even spend time with him.”

The whispers and rumours began to swirl around.

You had caught a few people eyeing you out that evening when you went out with your friends to get some food.

Ignore them.

You kept telling yourself that so you wouldn’t have to give them the time of day.

As you sat at a nearby café to have some tea, you began to reflect on just how different Draco was to you a month ago compared to now.

At first, he was demanding and wanting to take lead of the portfolio, not wanting you to mess up. Now, he trusted your work without having to read through it, and let you have an input when it came to his work.

Everything began to change in the first week of the second month.

First week in the second month.

Draco had just gotten back from discussing what needs to be done for the remainder of the portfolio.

The stress from it all was taking a toll on him accompanied by the overwhelming feelings of being around you so much.

He needed to clear his mind, which is why he apparated straight to the new home his parents had been living in.

He walked in and greeted a few of the house elves. Some of them chose to stay and serve the family even after the war, after new agreements were made for them. They would now be able to leave and go to there own homes, work for money and be treated as equals.

“Greetings Master Draco.” Greeted one of the house elves which was there from the time Draco was a baby. She was carrying a tray of tea and some biscuits.

“Hello Hilo, I told you to only call me Draco.” He smiled at her.

“Ah, force of habit.” She said walking with him towards Narcissa’s study.

“Is father home?”

“I’m afraid not, he left to go to the ministry early this morning.” She smiled sadly.

The relationship between Draco and Lucius had improved since the war, although it seemed that his father was working all the time and away from home since Lucius had been helping the ministry with locating Voldemort’s followers.

“I assume my mother is in her study reading?” He said lightening up the topic of conversation.

“You’re correct. That’s where I’m going to now.”

Narcissa was seated in her chair which faced the garden, she was reading a book but looked up when she saw Draco and Hilo.

“I thought I heard your voice. How are you my dear?” She sat her book on the side table and embraced Draco.

“Good as always, and you?” He smiled pulling away.

“Better now that you’re here.” She held a sad smile to her face.

Draco had been spending less and less time with his family. Seeing her only son withdraw from her pained her, but if it was for the betterment of him, she wouldn’t interfere unless he needed her to.

“Hilo, you can leave that on the table and go for lunch. Please inform the others.” Narcissa smiled appreciatively.

“Thank you.” Hilo smiled and waved goodbye to Draco as she exited the room.

Draco takes a seat in the chair opposite his mothers and looks outside to the garden.

“Hilo says that father is at the ministry today.” His tone makes the statement sound like a question – indicating for Narcissa to explain.

“Lately he has been wanting to help as much as he can… I think it’s the remorse from what he has done throughout the years.” Narcissa couldn’t hold back her concern for her husband.

She knew he was remorseful for the deeds he had done in the past, but it was making him pull away from her. She couldn’t deal with this and Draco being distant.

“He contributed to a lot of bad stuff in the past… however, he showcases his guilt and I think he just needs time.” He advices.

Draco didn’t know what his father was going through, all he and Narcissa knew was that he wanted to make up for the years of misdeeds he had done to the wizarding world.

“I miss him… and I miss you.” She said sadly.

Draco hated being away from home, away from his mother. However, he thought it was best for the time being.

“I miss you and father a lot.” He stated honestly.

Draco had then begun to explain what he was doing for his last year in the wizarding graduate programme. He mentioned working with you and how well you work with being an upcoming Auror. Narcissa smiled knowingly.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Draco asked once noticing the way his mother was looking at him.

“I’ve heard of y/n before. From when you both were in Hogwarts. She seems like a very nice girl.”

“Its not like that.” He said with wide eyes.

“Not like what? I was simply stating that she is a nice girl.” Narcissa said shrugging.

Draco stayed quiet not knowing what to say. Narcissa took notice of the blank look on Draco’s face.

“You don’t have to deprive yourself of anything that would make you happy.” She said taking his hand in hers.

His eyes met his mothers, and he could tell what she meant by that.

He contemplated telling her about how conflicted he felt.

“… she makes me feel like I don’t have to worry about the world around me.” He finally said.

Narcissa gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

“When we were in Hogwarts, she was always so carefree. As time passed by and the war approached, she became so brave. Having to give up who she use to be in order to keep those around her safe. Mother, when I saw her fighting in the war, I wanted nothing more than to protect her, run away with her from the side that could bring her harm. She’s now such a strong person.”

As he stated each sentence, Draco felt himself feeling more and more for you.

“Draco my dear boy. To me it sounds like you’re in love.”

In the same moment that Draco was at his parent’s house, you were in your dorm room ranting to your best friend about how you felt towards Draco.

“I’m going to his dorm tomorrow night, but he has been acting very different compared to how things were in the first month.”

“Maybe he’s starting to realise the same thing you are.” Your best friend stated not looking up from what she was doing.

“And what’s that?” You asked curiously watching her.

“That you’re both in love.” She smiled at you as the words left her mouth.

Love?

Now there’s a word you would’ve never associated with Draco, especially now. You did have feelings for him in Hogwarts, and maybe those feelings were coming back, but could it be love?

Its an emotion you never felt for someone who you would consider to be your forever person.

“It sounds to be like you’re delusional.” You avoided her gaze and woke up from your bed to fold some of your clothes.

“Stage one, denial.” She giggled and went back to what she was doing.

You ignored your words and let your mind linger to Draco once again. Lately he was the only thing on your mind.

Back to current times.

Now, in the third week of the second month, you had become accustomed to just walking into Draco’s room, which is why the current state of him shocked you beyond compare.

You had made your way into his dorm and heard your name being called out very mutedly. As soon as you opened the door, there was Draco, on his bed with his blanket placed loosely on his thighs while the rest of him was… bare.

His hand was around his cock, with his eyes closed tightly and head thrown back.

Your sudden appearance in the room shocked him and made him look to you with confused wide eyes.

“Oh my god, I should’ve knocked. I’m sorry.” You immediately covered your eyes with your hands, dropping whatever you were carrying.

Draco quickly covered himself with a nearby towel since he had just gotten out of the shower. He was so shocked that he couldn’t speak.

That’s when it struck you, as you stood there with your eyes covered and the only boy who managed to make you feel anything standing a few feet away.

He was moaning your name while pleasuring himself.

Tagging those who commented on part one: 

@sycathorn-slush @spideyswebshooters​ 

[elnotwoods]

One thing I have been going back to in my rewatch of ep 5 is Pran’s sketchbook.

Pran, who never really had anyone he could talk to about Pat, took up sketching things that reminded him of Pat or he doodled stuff that reminded him of their time together.  

We know that he sketched the dumplings he ate with Pat in ep 3 at the food truck with the comment “I don’t know how to flirt. Can I give you dumplings instead?” [edit: apparently I totally forgot about their flirting through snacks in the second episode, that’s what the dumpling sketch is about. Thank you brilliant people for pointing that out] Pat just chuckles and doesn’t really acknowledge this any further than it being one of Pran’s habits and quirks. The dumplings are not the only thing he sketched. The page is filled with all these doodles.

We also see Pran sketching the Rose spread with the post-it note from Pat on it. So this is a thing he does. When he needs to let out all these emotions he feels when it comes to Pat.. he turns to sketching.

One thing we know from the series is that Pran is a creature of habits. We has a system for how he organises his stuff, how he does certain things.

So.. considering this, we can safely assume that Pran’s sketching must have been a thing in the past too, especially when his love for Pat started and blossomed in high school when they were together still.

Of course they couldn’t just openly admit to being friends to their parents, but in the safety of their school they could roam around freely and be together. Which must have lead to Pran having a lot of incidents to sketch out.

I don’t want to just jump to any conclusions about this but...

I have always wondered how Pran’s parents knew about the Christmas concert? In the flashbacks we don’t see any other parents (as far as I could see), just Pran’s. And the look of utter terror in his eyes when he sees his mother there? He wasn’t expecting them to come at all too.

So, if we assume that Pran has been sketching consistently about Pat for years, what if he doodled something related to the Christmas concert in his sketchbook and his mother found out? Maybe she just found out about the concert from the sketchbook when she found it and she checked the other pages? I bet there must have been clues in some of them that they’re about Pat. Maybe she also saw the rough drafts of their song they were about to perform at the concert... you know the one that basically questions whether they’re friend or more? Yeah, that one. And if she perhaps found this page...

Is that why they showed up? To put a stop to it? That’s why they had Pran transferred on the same day?

Pran’s mother has always been portrayed as the one who hates Pat the most. The one who thinks Pat is a bad influence on Pran. I bet her finding out this big secret her son had must have pushed her to take drastic steps to put a stop to whatever it was between them. 

We still don’t really know why Pran was transferred but if I am correct... if the reason for it was his crush on Pat and Pran’s mother finding out about it.. then him walking away from Pat after their first kiss is so much more heartbreaking.

[fluoresensitivearchived]

I'm not sure how you would do this, but maybe like 'something isn't quite right in the water' an eerie sense of wrongness

OCTOBER PROMPTS, DAY ONE: NADINE & THE POND!

What a good prompt! This story is kind of rough, I didn't do any real editing, but I think it's a really cute rough/first draft! Maybe I'll edit it up and put it on the website in November! Also, wow ... First short story published on my actual Tumblr in a minute, everybody clap!

Finally, Nadine was alone. The other children had gone home, lured away from the playground by their parents or dinner, the snap! buzz! of the streetlights coming on. In groups, in pairs, clumped together like homing pigeons, they petered out until it was just Nadine and the swing set, the steep medal slide.

Now, Nadine could unwind herself. For hours, she’d been playing at her own private game of make believe—pretending to be like the others. It was hard work, and took more imagination than any outer space or royal fantasy. To make it believable, to make it real, she had to adjust her spine, change the set of her eyes, and hold her mouth very carefully. She drew her arms away from her side, tried to mirror the posture of the other girls. Nadine tempered her laughter, taught herself how to smile and tease, how to discern mockery from playful banter. By the end of a school day, she was scooped hollow.

The playground after curfew was a great place to replenish herself. There was no one to bother her, no one to perform for. Nadine set her mask aside, and strode over to the swings. She’d been eyeing them for a while, but apparently, it was no longer “cool” to be seen actually playing on any of the equipment. Her peers, the little sect of girls she wished to ingratiate herself with, preferred to sit at the benches and show off their flip phones. Nadine, phoneless, more interested in the company than the possessions, kept letting her gaze drift to the swings.

Now that she was alone, she got on a swing, kicked off her tennis shoes, and kicked off into the sky. What a rush! Every sensation was like bliss—the woodchips crunching against her school socks, the night air whipping up her braids, the feel of the wind against her skin. She took the swing higher, higher, and tilted back at her head. Delicious vertigo, the excitement of being up so high and the fear mingled…Nadine made no noise, no whoop of joy or laughter. She took in deep breaths, felt every nerve in her body alight.

Suddenly, a sound. Nadine dragged her feet hard against the woodchips to bring herself to a stop. It sounded like laughter, bright and high, but not so joyful. It was almost malicious, teasing. Nadine listened to it, but did not move, fear keeping her rooted to the seat of the swing. What if she wasn’t alone? What if some of the kids stayed back to see what she was doing out there? And, thought a sickened Nadine, what if they were all gathered in some shady spot, laughing at her?

Her stomach was oily, roiling. Every time she thought to get up and start home, there came another peal of laughter, higher and meaner than before. Tears stung at her eyes. A lump the size of a peach stone lodged itself in her throat. Nadine held fast to the swing’s chains to give her hands something to do, lest she start scratching herself.

After maybe ten minutes of sitting there petrified, still as a rabbit in headlights, Nadine forced herself up on wobbly, ringing legs. They (if it was a group of kids, as she thought) could laugh all they like, but it was getting cold and she needed to be home before her dad was. She didn’t like the idea of him worrying about her, and there would be no explaining that she was help up at the playground by far-off cackling.

Still, Nadine didn’t want to walk the main street. She could just imagine it, her walking alone and then those kids coming out of the shadows, taunting her, jostling her. Poor Nadine with her mask off, poor Nadine at the swings at night. With enough time and twisting, the story would turn into something ugly. Nadine, you know, that weird girl? The slow one? Well, I saw her at the playground doing some weird ritual on the swings. She looked crazy, a real—

She cut the thought off short, slipped her shoes back on, and started towards the woods. There was a path through the trees that lead right up to Nadine’s backyard. She knew it well enough by day; she couldn’t imagine night changing it all that much.

Slowly, the way lighted by the dim glow of the moon, Nadine cut through the woods. It was strange in the dark, the trees and bushes and metal fences that separated nature from the houses only black silhouettes. She inched herself along, stopping every now and then to admire the look of moonlight on a leaf, revel in the feeling of tingling moths against her forearms. She was usually adverse to weird touches, but there was something appealing about the quiet of the woods, how branches and leaves reached out to her. To hell with castles! If Nadine were the sort to indulge in princess games, she’d want her domain to be of green and dark, cool night air and the evening opera of crickets.

Halfway home, Nadine came across a pool of water. It was black and motionless, and when Nadine put her hand to it, it was strangely warm. Aware of the time but curious, Nadine found a stick and squatted by the water. She threw in leaves, twigs, some small hard things that might’ve been berries or seeds. She imagined she was a little witch brewing up potions, an alchemist making bizarre compounds. Her mind filled, swelled. For a while, there was nothing but the black water, her hand stirring.

So enraptured in her pretend was she that Nadine hardly notice when the face in the water appeared. When she did, finally, see it, she fell back onto her bottom. She panted, blinked, then inched towards the water. Yes, it was there and it was a face. It was almost her face—that was her broad nose, her mouth, her long black box braids, but there was something not quite right about the girl in the water. Something about the set of her mouth, how her eyes sparkled with a sort of barely concealed malevolence.

“Hello!” said the girl in the water.

Nadine waved her hand.

“Can’t you speak?”

Nadine shrugged.

If Nadine did not have much to say, the girl in the water had plenty. She was full of stories, and she told them to Nadine, one after the other. They all seemed to flow together at some point, so Nadine wasn’t able to separate the story about the girl with the donkey skin from the story about the mermaid whose legs turned to seafoam. It was all one thing, one massive tapestry of wolves and monsters, boys raised by monkeys and girls who traded their mother for a pretty drum.

So it went, on and on, until the girl in the water quieted and asked, “Do you want to hear another story?”

Nadine nodded enthusiastically. She sat cross-legged at the mouth of the water, skin pimpled with gooseflesh.

“It’s a really good one. It’s about a faery who gets stuck living with humans. She feels lonely and weird. Only…” The girl in the water frowned. “Only, I can’t tell it to you if you’re up there.”

“Up here?”

“It won’t sound the same if you’re not here with me. Plus, my storybook…I can’t remember the whole thing without the storybook, and I can’t really bring my book to the top. Do you see what I mean?”

Nadine didn’t. The girl had told her so many stories already, and she didn’t see how she could hold a whole treasure trove of tales in her save for one. And besides, it was late at night, even the moon lost to her. No doubt her father was home right now, thinking Nadine was in bed already. She wanted to get back to him, away from the water and the cold. Somehow, suddenly, the stories didn’t sound all that fascinating, and the girl in the water no longer intrigued her. Nadine stood to her feet and told the girl goodbye.

“Wait!” cried the girl. “Don’t you want to hear the story? Don’t you want to come under?”

“No, thank you,” said Nadine, and she continued on her way home, not-so-nice laughter and crickets nipping at her heels.

[astranne]

Jason Todd, the Idol

notes // after ranting over my drafts, then wonho, then jason again and then connecting the dots- here i am, with an idol au. jason as an idol, who would've thought. and before you come at me, this is based on the headcanon that sandra woosan is jason's mother. here is a link. this is not edited/proofread, yall are literally reading what i typed and i deleted nothing. enjoy shitty conversations and random grammar mistakes 😌

It happens after he almost gets killed by Batman, again. He almost lost his voice, another scar added to the many he has already. But he survives, he survives goddamn Batman, the fucking Joker, he just... lives another day.

He's bitter, of course, who wouldn't be. But he's especially bitter towards the person who saved him. His mother. His actual mother. Apparently Sheila lied like a bitch she was, may she burn in hell, and his mother was Sandra Woosan. And she finally deemed him worthy to be recognized as her son.

Yeah, well, fuck her too. Fuck her, fuck Talia, fuck the Replacement, just- fuck everybody. Jason is so done, done being played, done dying, done getting hurt over and over again.

While he makes the decision to leave, his biological mother starts to talk about legacy and him learning from her. He can't exactly tell, he stopped listening to her a long time ago.

He left as soon as he could. But then Talia got him and she too started talking about going back to Gotham or joining her, it was his choice after all, she would support him no matter what.

Bullshit.

Jason didn't do anything she said and just left. Once again. Praying to any deity out there he would be actually left alone.

His prayers are answered. Somewhat.

-

He's somewhere in Japan, in a cozy little restaurant, drinking shake and eating awesome ramen. Jason is having a peacful time, until a random teenager plops right next to him and asks him what's wrong with him.

"Don't mind me, but you are gorgerous- like man, who made you?" Jason just stares, not knowing what to answer.

"Alright, who made you sad? Looking like this doesn't do anything for your beauty, I'm telling you."

And Jason just... spills. He tells the stranger how he found out about his birth mother, about his father, and just dumping everything. And the teenager has good advice.

"Just do something that has all of them shaking in rage, because you're doing what you want. And do it fucking good- slay it, show them who the boss is. Write a book, become an actor, a farmer, marry someone- hell, become a buddhist! Just something nothing your shitty parents want from you. Do what you want."

But Jason doesn't know what he wants. Not anymore.

-

He wanders around first, not knowing what do to and where to go. From Japan to Australia, then to Spain, then to Brazil- all around the world, searching for something he wants, while rubbing it everyone faces.

A group of teenager girls help him make his decision.

-

Jason hears them gushing over something, and from what he could hear and see, it was about some famous people? Actors, maybe singers? They are very enthuaiastic about it, which is the reason why he goes up to them and asks them bluntly about it.

They just blink, shocked a man like him would want to know what their talking about, not in a negative way, just simply curious.

Idols. They're talking about idols.

-

Jason decides to become an idol. And he would be fucking good at being an idol.

He is not prepared for the shitshow.

-

He does his research, reads about rumors, goes deep into the fandoms and collects any kind of information that could be helpful.

And once he thinks he's prepared enough, he signs up as a trainee.

-

His trainers and the company quickly realize, how fast Jason learns. When they ask, he just shrugs and goes, "I trained martial arts, dancing is pretty much similar. And singing is easy once you get over stage fright."

They put him in a group close to their debut, announce him and people freak the fuck out.

-

It's his presence, his ease in dancing, that dangerous smile, his eyes, his hair- the white streak, the muscles. And his voice- the smoothness while singing, the roughness when rapping.

He's introduced as Jason, stage name Shiva and quickly becomes the center of his group.

-

Sadly, it doesn't work long with his group.

Classical drama happens, their fans are fighting everyone, the members are doing shit they shouldn’t do and the company disbands the group.

But they don't let go of Jason. Not that he wants them too.

He threatened the CEO of the company, if they don't give him the career he wants to rub in his parents faces, he's going to sue, after destroying him and his lifework. And he will do it without hesitation. The CEO believes him.

-

Shiva starts a solo career. And without a group holding him back, Jason takes over as a K-pop idol.

There are many internet fights about him being a K-pop idol, when he's chinese and american. While fluently speaking korean, japanese, spanish, english and some more languages.

Jason doesn't care about that, it only makes him even more famous. Something he definitely wants. And he gets very famous.

[roger-that-cap]

brand new eyes

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: having a penpal in the sixth grade was overdone, in your opinion. and handwritten letters just weren’t convenient. you weren’t happy at all to start talking to some random girl your age across the sea, but once you started, neither of you could find it in you to stop.

warnings: fluff!!!! mutual pining. badly written letters (actually the whole one shot). brief battle with sexuality. a seriously strong connection between two characters (almost soulmate territory here tbh). every single mistake here is 100% mine!

word count: 8.7k!

At first, you were sure that the pen pal letter suggestion for extra credit was stupid. Why would you handwrite a letter when you could send an email? Why would you send a letter by mail that would take much longer? It took two weeks for a handwritten letter to arrive, and only seconds for an email. It didn’t make any sense.

And then you got your first letter.

You realized very quickly why handwriting was what your teachers asked for. You never knew that handwriting could be so vulnerable, so open. You had never seen letters that were so loopy, so delicate. That letter was written so neatly and so personally even if the girl who had written it hadn’t meant it to be that way, and you knew that a computer even with all of its special fonts wouldn’t be able to do that.

You understood why the handwritten rule was there.

But you didn’t like it when it was your turn to craft something so beautiful.

It wasn’t a competition by any means, but you didn’t want your letter to look anything like the words you scratched down into your notebooks. You wanted them to be neat and pretty and most of all understandable for the girl behind the pen and across the sea, because she had done the same for you.

By the time you stopped ogling over the letters and started actually reading the words that the girl had written, you learned her name. You learned it within the first line, actually.

Wanda Maximoff.

She was obviously from Sokovia, she spoke English as her second language, and she had an older twin brother that she both adored and was annoyed by. She was in the equivalent of your grade in her country, and she liked to cook with her parents. The letter was basic and slightly elementary, just an introduction to what she was willing to share with a stranger that lived thousands of miles away.

But that didn’t make it any less special.

You started on your return letter minutes after you let her pretty words sink in.

You drafted your letter and let it sit for an hour without you looking at it, and then came back to it only to cross things out and revise it, and then put it on the expensive paper that your mother had bought for you. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours. It started with a greeting, your name, and then into the same sort of things that she spoke about in her own letter, the things that people that went to school with you had learned in passing over the years.

It felt like giving someone the rundown of your uneventful life so far in the simplest of ways. It felt like someone getting to know you as you wanted them to, because you were telling your story. There was no other side, or truth, or lie, just what your pen and your brain decided to write. It was controlled chaos. And you adored it.

Your print was easy to read. It wasn’t loopy like hers or as “girlish”, as one of your classmates said when you brought both letters to school to get an extra one hundred. It wasn’t fancy and alluring like hers, but there was still something magical on the pseudo-aged parchment.

You sent it off to the post office the next day, and you put her letter on your desk. 

§§§

By the time that your third letter from her came, you already were drafting your own. It came straight to your mailbox and when you checked the mail that morning, you were ecstatic to see it waiting for you, like a pet waiting for it’s person to come home. As usual, it started off with the gentle scrawl of your name, just a bit larger than all of the rest of the words that were on the page.

I can’t believe that it’s already been weeks of us writing. We started in August, and it’s nearing the end of October. Speaking of, is it starting to get cold there for you? It’s already cold for us. Our grandmother always makes us the best tea and soup when it gets cold outside, and I could send you the recipe if you wanted!

My brother and I are curious about one thing, and we hope that we get your answer in time, but, is Halloween really a thing? We have both heard of it, but we’ve never done it here. It sounds magical. I’ve always wanted to dress up however I wanted and get candy for it. If I were to do it, I would probably be a Disney Princess, maybe Merida. Sadly, we don’t do that here. Does it really happen in the United States, or is that a movie thing?

Hopefully you don’t mind my questions much, or my short letter. Pietro likes to read over my shoulder while I write and receive the letters, and I like to write at the kitchen table. There’s no escaping him. You’ve never talked about siblings, do you have them?

The rest of the letter was like that, aloof yet curious and bouncing around all the same, and then signed with her always rushed conclusion, which was nearly the same every time.

You read it and put the letter in the box that you had bought from a thrift store, a box just big enough for the size of the neatly folded and tied off letters that she gave you. You clipped the box shut and put it back under your desk, and then started working on your response.

Instead of just a letter, you sent her a letter in a small box that had the candy that you had gotten on Halloween night, and the mask that went with the rest of your costume. It wasn’t the Disney Princess that Wanda wanted to dress up as, but it was something. It was your something.

§§§

As the December portion of your letter writing, you and your penpal were supposed to learn of the other’s traditions during the Holidays, whether you or them celebrated or not. A huge slide show about the culture of your Sokovian friend was supposed to be shown, and you knew that there would be a lot of the same PowerPoints, a lot of the same pictures and sayings and explanations. You wanted something different. You also had no idea if Wanda did Christmas, but you had to ask.

Wanda,

I’m sure that you know that our assignment now is to present a slide show about what our penpal does during the Holiday season, but because I don’t know whether you celebrate Diwali or Christmas or Hanukkah, I’ll start with asking you about New Years, because I’ve never met a person who didn’t celebrate New Years.

What do you do on New Years Eve? I’ll start by telling you that I watch the ball drop with my family, eat food, and drink cider after it hits midnight. It’s a big deal here for us, because the new year is a time for self revolution, apparently. I’ve never done a New Years resolution, but maybe I’ll do one this year. Have you ever done one?

I know that food is very big over in Sokovia, so what kind of food do you traditionally have when you’re celebrating? Do you like it? Can you cook it yourself? Because I know that you have the same questions for me that you have to put in before you leave for Winter Break, I’ll answer my own questions.

And you did. You were thorough, partly because you thought that it was kind of you to do so because she should get a good grade, and also because she had written that she was thankful for your descriptions on multiple occasions. You had noticed that she was the more whimsical writer and that you came off as the more grounded one, and it intrigued you.

You wondered if you two would come off that way in person to other people, if you ever got the chance to meet.

When her letter came two weeks later, wrapped in aged string as always, you skipped to your bedroom, already pulling the box out from under the table and starting to read it. You smiled through the whole thing.

In her own way, not as precise or even in order as you, she had told you everything you needed to do a good slide show about Sokovia during the Holidays.

§§§

You were emotional at the end of the year. Not because you were leaving the sixth grade and going to a new building in the school and leaving behind your kind teachers, but because the pen pal assignment was over.

No other assignment had been so important to you, or eye opening. You were only twelve years old, but you were old enough to know that you had never found a friend like you had in Wanda, who was still thousands of miles away. No one else, not even the people that stood feet apart from you, offered you friendship like Wanda Maximoff did.

You couldn’t stop writing to her.

It was your turn to send a letter, the final letter that you were supposed to send, and then her closing letter was supposed to come two weeks later. You couldn’t just close it. Your entire mind was screaming at you to not close the book that you had hardly started yet.

So, as your pen rested on the parchment paper (without drafting first), you lifted it up, and changed your mentality from a “goodbye” to a hopeful and questioning one, as you hoped that she felt the same and wanted to talk just as much as you did.

Wanda,

It’s the end of the year. Technically, we should be done with our letters because it’s the end of the year, and the assignment is graded. This should be a closing letter, but I don’t think that our friendship was ever dictated by the grades that we got. We were always closer than all of the other pen pals at school that I knew, and I was hoping that you would want to continue writing.

You couldn’t write much more after that, because your pen was shaking and you were starting to get in the danger zone of dropping tears on the paper. If this was your last letter to Wanda, you wanted it to be pretty. Just half as pretty as she always made hers, if you could manage it.

You sent it off the next morning after finding an old string that was nearly the same colors as hers and getting your friend across the street to hold it down and color the outside of it for you.

§§

A part of you wanted to say that you wouldn’t have been expecting to still write handwritten letters to a girl in Sokovia in the ninth grade, but you certainly were. While everyone else in your class had lost contact after the assignments were done or tried and failed to keep contact afterwards, you and Wanda continued talking all through the years.

It astounded your parents, who were sure that in the beginning, you were just obsessed with someone who was your age and who wasn’t exactly like you. They thought for sure that you would have lost interest in talking to Wanda, but after three straight years, gas spent taking you to the post office, and money spent on special stamps and the same paper, they were starting to finally get the hint.

Because you were so close with Wanda, you hardly had close friends in your neighborhood, and maybe two or three at school. There was no one that knew you like Wanda did, and no one that knew Wanda like you did. One particular letter where you confessed probably the worst thing you had ever done to her that no one else knew was what finally let you know that she was the most judgement-free person in the world, and that you would do anything to keep her. You would never forget how the letter went, and how her response sounded. 

Wands, 

I’ve done something terrible. I may have accidentally gotten involved with a boy who already had a girlfriend, and I had no idea. I had literally no idea, and today she just called me out of nowhere and started crying over the phone to me, and I had no idea that he was with her. At all. It was so pitiful, and she’s not mad, and she says that she won’t tell anyone it was me, but still. She seemed to really like him, and I think I may have just ruined a relationship. I have no idea what to do, and all I feel is guilt. Nothing more or less. Should I send her something? Give her a gift card? I feel terrible because she was just so sweet about it.

The letter went on and on with your scripted rambling, so repetitive and panicked that you were shocked to know that Wanda had, in fact, read the entire thing. She got a message back to you rather quickly, and that made you both nervous about her verdict and glad, because you felt like with an answer so quick, she must not have judged you too harshly. You remembered opening it with shaky hands, and inhaling and exhaling when her first words after your nickname were “breath in” and “breathe out”. 

Wanda once said that writing to you was like writing to a diary who always wrote back, and you couldn’t agree more. She knew everything, and she never judged. And, when the time came for her to put all of her eggs in your basket of trust, you did the same for her. 

You distinctly remembered getting the few letters that you kept at the bottom of your letter stack, even though you liked to have them in chronological order. In the eighth grade, Wanda was having a crisis over her sexuality. Being anything but straight in Sokovia wasn’t the best thing to be, and you knew that. The first letter she ever sent you about her sexuality had dried spots on it, where she had obviously cried. Her handwriting wasn’t anywhere as neat as it usually was, and it sent you into a state of panic. 

We talk to each other about everything, so here I am asking for your advice because I won’t be getting anything here. I know that usually we keep our letters formal for aesthetic purposes, but I can’t this time. Also, no one other than you can read this. 

From there, she told you that she was sure that she liked women, and that she was even more sure that her parents would be upset at her. She told you that she had been dwelling on it for a while, thinking about it and having it weigh heavily on her mind. She was all over the board with it, from her parents being upset to her being afraid that you were going to be opposed to it as well, or tell her that she was “too young to think that way”. She ended the letter by telling you that you were the first person that she had ever told. 

You started your letter with your own confession, and Wanda Maximoff was the first one you ever told, too. You were past having your crisis, though, and you helped her through hers without a second of complaints. You always wished that you had someone to help you when you were down and questioning yourself, so you knew that you would be that for Wanda without hesitation. 

You two grew together even more, and by the ninth grade, you both knew that there wasn’t going to be anything in the world that could stop your letters. 

You came home one day after a long day and checked your mailbox out of habit, knowing that a letter wasn’t due for a few more days. But there it was, wrapped and sitting pretty for you. Your name was scrawled beautifully on the front in the handwriting that got better and better with every year, but you would recognize it anywhere. A smile grew onto your face as you walked to your front door, unlocking it and rushing inside to get to your desk. Of course, your name came first in the loopy letters.

I hope you’re doing alright! Things have been busy over here on my side of things, but never busy enough to not write you back. I just wondered, have been wondering for a while, really, if we were ever going to meet. We’ve been writing to each other for years, but I’ve never seen a picture of you. I know everything about you, but I’ve never met you. You are my best friend in the entire world, but I’ve never heard your voice. One day I would love to finally meet you. Would you be open to thinking about one of us flying out? Maybe after school is over for the both of us, we could make it happen. Number  

It was much longer than that, but that was what caught your attention, more than her description of her busy week did. You read the letter three times. And then again. Your heart thumped in your chest as you tried to get a grip on yourself, irrational nervousness gripping your throat like an iron fist.

You knew the day was coming. You knew that it was. You two didn’t know what the other looked like at all, and neither of you had ever asked. Sometimes, you thought about it, but other times you found that it really didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what she looked like because she was the best friend you had ever had, so you forgot about it. But that wasn’t what worried you.

The thought of meeting her nearly put you in cardiac arrest. You couldn’t meet her. What if you met and you two were totally bored of each other? What if how close you were on paper didn’t reflect at all in real life? What if you two found roadblocks in conversation that you never saw before? You didn’t want to meet her, not at all. You were terrified of it.

Because if you didn’t connect with Wanda on sight, then you doubted that you would ever be able to connect with anyone else. If you were wrong about Wanda being your person and her being yours, you would be crushed. If you figured out that the person who you gave your all for didn’t like you anymore after meeting you, you would die on the spot. You couldn’t afford to find it out.

You sat at your desk for an hour after reading her letter, smoothing your hand over the paper like you always did before you wrote your response. You knew what you needed to say, you just didn’t know how to say it.

What she had already written helped you, too. She was implying that they met up after graduation, which was still years away. You had time to hold off on it, to not talk about it for a while. You had some stall time in the bank, for sure. And you were going to use it.

§§§

You made the mistake of not putting the letter in your box.

Your mother came into your room, and she saw the letter. Your desk was typically off limits, so you were upset that she read it anyway, but what she said led all anger out of your body and made way for fear.

“You should totally go see your friend, sweetie!”

“What?”

“I’d pay for you to fly out,” your mom said. “I’d come with you, but I would pay for you to fly out and see your friend. You’ve been writing each other for three years now, and you’ve never seen each other. You guys should do it.”

“You’d fly me out to Sokovia?”

“You’re a great kid, of course I would.” You took the letter from her hands gently and put it in the box, and she gave you a look. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

You didn’t answer.

“Why not?”

“I’m scared to meet her,” you admitted plainly, and then your mother gave you a look.

“She seems so excited to, after all these years. She’s such a sweet girl, what are you worried about?”

You couldn’t answer that. Your fears were your own, and they sounded ridiculous out loud. They made no sense to everyone else, and sometimes not even to you. Wanda Maximoff was nothing but sweet and kind and a good friend, and there you were, trying to blow her off because you were scared of a possible lack of face to face connection.

“Can we just drop it?”

And you did. In fact, all four of you did, until later.

§§§

By the end of your junior year, you were done for. Not because of tests or applications or any of that, it was because you realized that you were in deep for Wanda Maximoff.

It all made sense. The need to keep writing to her, the excitement you had felt getting a letter since sixth grade, the way you marveled over her penmanship and loved everything that she said and did. You were so in love with her, and it was irreversible. You were in love with her and what the two of you created together. 

And you couldn’t lose that because of a bad meeting. 

You avoided the topic of going there or Wanda coming to you, and you finally got each other’s numbers so that you could text on some international texting app, but primarily, it was still the heartfelt letters with the occasional heart stamps and constant string coming your way. And you wouldn't haven’t wanted anything different. 

 You sat at your desk on the last day of school as you wrote to her, writing about how you were about to watch some of your slightly older friends graduate in a few days. You also mentioned how you were excited to be a senior and get through your last year of high school just so that you could go and do whatever it was that you wanted to do, because you were only seventeen, and you didn’t know anything. 

 Sunshine, 

I can’t wait to get out of high school. It’s not bad, just boring. I wish the people here were like you, and then maybe I could actually carry a conversation with them. Have you told your family yet? I told mine. My mom was… shocked to say the least, but she was fine with it. I think she might have suspicions about us writing to each other now, but who cares? I want to know if you’re alright. 

How’s your new job going? I know you were excited to get one, so I hope it’s treating you well. It’s funny that you and Piet work across the mall from each other. I knew it was gonna be like that, even though you said it wouldn’t be! You two are inseparable, it’s so cute. Does he have any idea what he wants to do after we get out of school? 

 I kind of think that I want to start my own business. A flower shop, maybe. You know how I sort of have a green thumb. I think it would be good for me to own something. What do you think? 

You wrote for about thirty minutes more, answering the questions she had asked you in a previous letter and signing your name at the bottom, a small smile on your face as you thought about her and her brother making food together like they always did. 

You loved her. You really did. 

§§§

 It was in the middle of your senior year when you realized what the problem with her coming was. You had been keeping it so far in the back of your mind that you didn’t even realize that the alarms were blaring in the back of your head. 

  You knew that if you saw Wanda in person once that you would never be able to let her go. You would have to pick up and move to her country or she would come to yours, and it would kill your mother for you to move. So, that would mean that you would be asking for Wanda to leave her own family to be with you, and you couldn’t be selfish.  

 So, you would be selfish in a way that was also selfless by holding off on seeing her. 

 You hadn’t told her that you loved her, and you planned on never admitting it. You were sure she kind of knew, even just a little, but she never said anything. The way that you were holding onto the idea of her probably said enough for her to know. You just hoped that she knew that you were in love with her as a friend, at least. Wanda was the type who needed to know that they were loved, and she so was. 

 You loved her without even knowing what she looked like. You loved her without knowing whether she had a nasty habit or if she was a neat freak. You loved her without seeing her in a dress or in your favorite color or even looking into her eyes. You had never even heard her voice before, but that didn’t matter at all. You fell in love with her hand writing, then the way that she wrapped her letters, and then her words themselves. And then, you just were in love with Wanda Maximoff. All of her. All that you knew. And the things that you didn’t.  

 You thought about a confession letter for a long time. You were terrified of it, to say the least, because what if it backfired? What if she thought that you were only interested because she came out to you? What if she thought that you didn’t mean it at all? 

Or worse, what if she just completely didn’t feel that way at all? What if the feeling she got when she wrote to you was nothing but platonic? That would be the biggest nightmare of all, and you had no idea how you were ever going to be able to pick up your fancy pen and put it to your special parchment after reading that. 

By the time that you finally stopped wrestling with yourself about whether you were going to tell her that you were in love with her, you got a letter in the mail. A heart stamp was on the outside and it was tied with the string it always was, and the familiarity calmed your racing heart. You opened it gently, like you did with all of the letters you got, and then you saw her familiar scrawl. 

How could someone’s handwriting feel like home? 

Moonlight, 

I would love to tell you about everything that’s been happening here, but I believe that it’s rather boring compared to what’s been bursting at the seams in my own mind. With every letter that I’ve ever written to you since we were thirteen, I’ve hesitated with my pen over telling you what I know has been true for years. I think that, finally, I know that I have something to say to you. I’ve always wanted to admit this to you, ever since the seventh grade. 

 I think that I fell in love with you, a long, long, time ago. I think that I know I did. I haven’t told you, and I never intended to tell you, because I was scared. I’m still scared here, as I write this letter, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore. 

  Pietro already knows, but he knew before I even did. I’m sure it has something to do with us being so in sync, that he knew where my heart, love, and loyalties were before I even knew myself. I tell you everything, and something as monumental as falling in love with someone, I believe that you should know. But I couldn’t tell you. Not in the beginning, and apparently, not even after a year or two. 

  I’ve never seen you or heard your voice or held your hand, but I don’t need that to know that I truly have fallen in love with the person that you are. You are a beautiful person with the most gorgeous soul I have ever had the privilege of talking to, and I think that we have stumbled upon a connection that we may never see again, if you feel the same way. 

 If this made you uncomfortable in any way, please tell me. I’m sorry if this came on too strong, or too up front. I never want to make you upset. 

 It’s okay if you don’t want to carry on writing to me after this letter. I just thought that I needed to tell you after all this time. We never lie to each other, and I think that this lie to save me from possible embarrassment or losing the greatest friend I have ever had has expired. Thank you as always for reading, Moonlight. 

 Your Sunshine, Wanda. 

Your jaw was slacked, and your mouth was open. Your heart was beating so quickly, but it wasn’t frantic. Your mind was going at a thousand miles a minute, but you were calm. You were supposed, but you weren’t. It simply felt… right. It felt like you had secretly been expecting it all along, like your soul had known the whole time, or maybe even like it had known that you felt the exact same way. It felt like you were receiving news that you had already heard about. 

But that didn’t take away any from the pure elation that you felt. You set the letter down so that you didn’t accidentally wrinkle it, and then put your head in your hands to hide your smile and think, like they would help you any. 

  She loves me. Wanda loves me. And not in the way that friends loved each other, that’s not how she loved you. She felt what you had been feeling, a bond so strong that it could be felt on paper. 

  Your hands shook as you reread the letter. You scanned over it for a second time, a third time, and you were tearing up by the fifth, finally setting it down again and leaving it on your desk. It didn’t deserve the beautiful darkness of the box where it’s predecessors went, not yet. Probably not ever. You would have framed it in the moment, if you could have. 

  Part of you was glad that she admitted it first. You were going to, one day, maybe. But the worst part was the hypothetical wait for the letter to cross the pond. Whoever sent the confession letter would have to wait about two weeks for a response, and that felt like forever. You knew that just as much as she did, and she still took the chance to do it. 

So, with the most fond and gentle smile on your face, you took out your special pen, wrote Sunshine as the entrance, and then professed your own love right back at her, trying as hard as you possibly could to make it as beautiful and raw for her as you felt on the inside, and as the one that she gave you. But, all you could think of were the first two sentences, but you knew that you were going to go for much longer than that. 

  Sunshine, 

Oh, Wanda. How I wish we were both brave enough to do this earlier. 

§§§

 By the end of your senior year, you two were dancing around each other, taking it slow, as if you both hadn’t professed your love for each other. You kept writing your steady letters to each other, the same nicknames, the same doting words and pretty scratched across the paper with dark ink. 

For the most part, nothing changed. But neither of you could deny the way that you wanted to see each other. And so, your time was up. You had to stop messing around. 

  The first time the two of you planned to see each other, it was supposed to happen over that summer break. It was supposed to be a nice experience for everyone, at a time that was actually pretty convenient. 

  And then, right during the week she was supposed to come, her aunt passed away, right in her sleep. It didn’t even come to your mind to think about rescheduling so fast, and that was the first time you had ever gotten an email from Wanda. She emailed you the morning that she found out, saying that she would rather send the first email than have you show up at the airport upset because you didn’t know she wasn’t coming. She was able to resell her ticket and you assured her that it was totally okay for her to not be coming, and you gave her condolences, as well. Wanda was very close to her family, and you knew that she felt that loss. 

  The next time the plans fell through, it was because you were going to surprise her. Your mom paid for your ticket, and you had finally grown out of your own mind and realized that it was going to be what it was regarding meeting Wanda. But, when you emailed her two nights before, spilling the beans because you didn’t want to just go to the airport without knowing how the hell to get around, you got a quick response. Turns out, she wasn’t anywhere near her house, or the airport. She was on a marine biology trip in some waters off the coast of Romania, and she hadn’t gotten the chance to write you all about it yet. You begrudgingly canceled the trip and told her that of course, it was alright. That night, your mom assured you that the two of you would just try again later.

 But then life happened. You went off to culinary school, a last minute yet sure decision after Wanda had taught you that there was so much more to love about food other than the taste. She had your new address and you had hers, because she moved from Sokovia to Italy for her marine biology major. The letters came and went faster, with the smaller amount of mileage. 

   Long story short, neither of you had enough money to go and spend thousands on a trip, and not even one helping the other out or splitting the cost helped much. Wanda was getting increasingly nervous about whether it was ever going to happen, and though she never stated it directly, it was very obvious. You were getting there, too. 

 The thing that kept you going was the letters. The same as they had always been on her end and yours, they were the one constant in your life. Wherever you went, you knew that her letters would follow you, and that you would still write from your heart and send your own across the sea over to some place in Europe. You knew that as long as her letters were lengthy and detailed and that if she took the time to wrap them as gently as she had been, that you two were strong. And as long as you kept giving advice and writing her entire short stories about you week, she knew that you were still hers. 

  You would be hers until your heart stopped beating, and long after that. You were there for her for as long as she wanted you to be, and that was widely known. 

§§§

It took four years for you to get back home and in a place where you could afford a ticket in or out. Wanda took a little longer, but that didn’t matter. It only gave you even more time to save and plan for when she came, and the date came. 

You were both twenty two when you bought her the winning ticket. You were flying her out to Florida for a week and a half. The Keys, to be exact. You knew that she was going to love it and the beautiful waters that came with it, and it was away from the meddling eyes and mouths of your family, the ones who had been routing for you from afar (and in the beginning, behind your back). It was just going to be the two of you in a condo, and you knew that it was going to be heaven on earth. 

 Now, hell on earth was the anticipation of waiting at the airport. You had no idea what Wanda Maximoff looked like, partially because it didn’t matter while you two wrote, and also because you wanted to see her for the first time in person. You two had a flare for dramatic romantics, another reason that you two clicked so well. 

  You stood with a sign that you had made the night before with paint that you had mixed yourself into her favorite shade of red, a scarlet, almost pink color. You were in a sundress because it was sweltering outside, and you were almost nervous about how she would take the heat after being somewhere so cold all of her life. You were rocking back and forth on your feet without even noticing, and your stomach growling was the last of your worries. Your heart was racing and your hands were shaking, but you willed them to stay still so that she could at least have a chance of reading it. 

  You were sure that you were about to pass out. It seemed like it had been millennia and a day all the same with her in your life. Everything that you had written each other was really about to come to life, after ten long years. You felt almost like it wasn’t real at all, like you were about to be woken up by your alarm back in your apartment over at your old school. But it was very, very real, and all the receipts and your racing heart advocated for the truth in it all. 

The gates opened, and all of a sudden, people were lazily walking out, as one would do after a long flight. You were certain that the woman who was standing next to you could hear you start to slightly hyperventilate, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to you in that moment was Wanda. 

  A man came up from behind you and bumped you, and he said his apologies while you bent down to pick up the sign. Despite your nervousness, you stopped to tell him that it was okay, sign still face down on the floor. He grinned at you and then frowned when he looked up, causing you to mirror his expression. 

 Your name. It was clear as day, accented, close, and sounded like a sigh of relief and wonder floating in the wind. It came from a woman you didn’t know the voice of, and just like that, you remembered what you were doing. You left the sign on the floor, stood up, and turned around as fast as you could, eyes slightly wild as they soaked in everything about the woman standing in front of you. 

  Her hair was almost a cross between light brown and light red, even in the fake lights of the airport. She had light makeup on and she looked a little tired from the flight, but the look of elation on her face wiped it all away. Her pink lips were curved into an open mouthed smile, like she had forgotten the words while they were already halfway to her tongue. Your heart raced as you looked at her, and you didn’t even need to question who she was. Or who she was to you. You couldn’t look at anything but her face, the face you had been missing so achingly without ever seeing it before, the face that you knew was bound to give you comfort that you had never felt one in your life, until the end of your days. Her eyes were wide and a clear blue as they stared back at you, reflecting your exact expression, and you sensed that the two of you had already synced up and gotten on the same page, just like you had both predicted.

 “O-oh my god,” you breathed out, just inches away from her. “Wanda!” You went in for an embrace at the same time, both of you somehow knowing which way to lean your head to avoid collision, and just where to put your arms. You fought shaking when you held her, your nerves completely shot at it finally happening. You were actually with Wanda, in an airport, hugging her like there was all the time to spend in the world. “Oh my god,” you repeated, and you felt her squeeze you a little closer to her. You could have cried in that moment. 

 “You,” she pulled back from you to take your face in her hands, her blue eyes scanning over your face like she was studying priceless art. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it was the way she looked when she watched the animals underwater. She shook her head slowly, eyes welling up with the thinnest layer of tears as her lips turned up into a smile. “You are beautiful.”

  Your heart skipped a beat as you looked downwards, feeling yourself get hot at the bold and sincere compliment. You knew that anything more than about three words was going to smoke you stutter “Wanda, have you seen yourself?” She laughed, a soft sound that you had imagined hearing so many times that you almost thought you had made it up, until you saw the upturn of her mouth and the mirth in her eyes.

 “I’m- I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Wanda breathed out, and you felt the same exact way. How had you pulled it off? After nearly a decade of pining that was mutual and writing to each other about every little detail in your lives, she was finally right in front of you, where you could see her and touch her. 

  “How’d you know it was me?” You asked after a second of grappling for something to say. “I didn’t have my sign up when you came.” 

 The smile that was on her face went from being flat out joyful to content, almost peaceful. It rubbed off on you immediately as you leaned back into her touch, ignoring all of the people bustling around in the busy airport. “I just knew that it was you.” 

§§§

For the entirety of the day Wanda arrived, all the two of you did was stare at each other and hold onto each other, like you were both equally terrified that the gods were going to come down from wherever they resided to split you up again. There was hardly even any talking when you arrived at the condo, and it felt natural. The two of you had already spoken so much, and now you needed to catch up on just seeing her. You’ve seen her soul, her mind, her heart, and now you were seeing her face. It felt like you had always known it. 

 But you were the first one to speak as you held hands on the deck, her thumb drawing subconscious hearts on the back of your palm. “You have a way with words, sunshine.” The name contrasted to the sky, which was dark but illuminated with an almost full moon and stars. The city was mostly behind you, so the natural light was what you got. It was all that you needed. 

 You felt her content fade into joy. “Really?” 

You knew that she was nervous about her English, but to you, it was perfect. From her accent to the way that she sometimes missed connotations that were specific to the language to the idioms that accidentally slipped into your letters, you loved it. “Mhm,” you hummed, leaning your head on her shoulder. “And I never would have imagined that you sounded so… sweet.” 

 “Sweet?” She parroted, and you smiled even though she couldn’t see it. Somehow, you knew that she could feel it, in some strange way. “Can I ask you something?” The answer was yes. It was yes, and it always would be yes. So, you said that. She cleared her throat, a quiet sound that you stored in your memory to keep, simply because she made it. “Did you… did you mean what you wrote?” 

 You were stumped. There had to be hundreds of letters between the two of you, and thousands upon thousands of topics. But you couldn’t question yourself for long, because then you knew exactly what she was talking about. 

  Did you truly love Wanda? The question came up a few times between you and your mother when you were in your first year of culinary school. Were you in love with Wanda Maximoff, or were you in love with the idea of Wanda and the mystery she brought? The question had been brought up, many times by your mother, who was only just making sure that you were being smart, and the answer never once varied. Yes. You loved Wanda Maximoff with every breath you took, every stroke of your pen, every glance at her pretty script. You knew that Wanda was it for you, and seeing her only solidified it. The way your hand fit together like they were the missing parts of a lost artifact made it concrete. The way she gave you everything back and the way you did the same told you everything you needed to know. 

  You leaned off of her shoulder and turned to face her, a soft smile on your face as the moon came out from behind the singular patch of clouds in the night, illuminating her features. You saw her face and her spirit through brand new eyes, and it was wonderful. It was all you could ever ask for. “Wanda,” you started, your voice quiet enough to not disturb the moment, and the sound of waves crashing not too far away. “I’ve loved you since I knew what love was, and I have been in love with you for as long as I knew what the difference between the two really was. Everything that I have ever sent to you, every word, I meant it all. And I’ll mean it for the rest of my life.” 

 She was staring at you blankly, with only a bit of something lingering in her gaze. Then, as soft as a breeze, she was muttering something under her breath in her mother tongue and putting her hand on your face. “Can I kiss you?” 

You ignored the way that your heart surged in your chest. The moon was still out and bright, shining down on the two of you like you had paid for it to be a spotlight. “You never have to ask,” you said, and then, as fluidly and gently as humanly possible, she tilted her head and leaned forward, and you met her halfway. 

§§

You had never been scuba diving before, but Wanda was in her element. She helped you suit up after she told the instructor that she was certified, and then rolled her eyes playfully when he checked behind her work. You cracked a smile. The entire time he was instructing, she was nearly bursting at the seams to get into the water, and the second he said that the two of you were allowed to go, she was holding your hand and asking if you were ready. 

 You never thought that Wanda could look more beautiful than she already had, but in and near the water, she was something else. She was in a state of grace and peace all the same, and you wanted nothing more than for her to be so tranquil, for the rest of her life. All you wanted in return was to be privileged to see it. 

The gods that made you fear a bad trip were actually on your side, because Wanda excitedly pointed out a group of migrating sea turtles, not even paying either of you any mind at all, carrying about through nature. You smiled at them and at her, unable to decide which one was going to be the apple of your eye at the moment. You chose her. 

§§§

You got out of the shower, your skin still slightly damp and the air humid from the heat of the water. You smiled at Wanda when you caught her looking at you, giving you that same blank stare that she had the first night the two of you got there. You stopped in your tracks, giving her the encouraging look that you knew she needed. “You okay, Wands?” 

 “I love you.” 

Your breath hitched. It was the first time she had spoken the words aloud, and you both knew it. The weight of the words and the confession felt so true, so genuine, that it went straight to your heart and made it swell with warmth. A small yet generous smile stretched onto your face as you felt everything fall into place. “I love you, Wands.” 

  “More than I’ve ever loved anything,” she continued, like she hadn’t even heard you, and you looked back at her with a doting expression. “And, I’ve been holding off because I don’t know how to say that,” she paused, and then she fell into deep thought. 

 You took a step closer, assuming that the small language barrier had come up. When it took her more than a few seconds and you saw the little scrunch of confusion between her brows appear, you spoke up. “There’s no rush,” you said gently. 

“If other people were to look at us, they would say that we have only known each other for three days,” she said, and you nodded. “But, I feel that we’ve known each other for thousands of years. I feel that we were made to meet, and that we were always going to no matter what came up. Why else would we both be so focused on talking to each other? I have always seen you as someone special to me, always, but now that we have finally seen each other face to face, I think that my… heart is recognizing you as it’s other part.” 

 You had no words in your mind at that moment, because they were all in your heart. You couldn’t open your mouth to convey the pure shock and relief that you felt at her admitting something that you had been feeling the whole time. You swallowed and felt your eyes burn with tears, but before they could fall past your cheeks, Wanda stood up and wiped them from your face before pulling you close. 

  Nothing mattered. Not the fact that you were still wet and she was in her pajamas, not the fact that you were in a towel, not the fact that the pizza man was knocking at the door. It was you and her, like it always had been in your mind, and Wanda’s too. 

  You were it for her, and she was it for you. And while you hugged it out in that beautiful condo in Florida, you silently thanked your sixth grade English teacher for making you write to a random girl your age all the way across the Atlantic, and you thanked Wanda for being the one who wrote her way right into your life. 

so. uh! hiiii! i hope y’all liked it! i loved writing it, even though she was a lil bit of a challenge, not gonna lie. feedback is always appreciated!!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 2: The Middle Of Nowhere]

You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution (1917-1923) and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Lots of shouting, if you never learned about the Russian Revolution then here's your mini crash course, references to historical stuff like violence and disease, Kroshka the mule emerges as the only emotionally stable character.

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen @okilover02 @adrenaline-roulette @youngpastafanmug @m-1234 @tensecondvacation @deacyblues @haileymorelikestupid @rogerfuckintaylor @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @im-an-adult-ish @someforeigntragedy @mo-whore

I wake up feeling harder, as if sleeping on the ground with all its stones and cool indifference has taught my spine to straighten, to endure. This is a welcome revelation. I will need to be resilient, for my family and for myself. I also wake determined to set things right with my rescuer. I am a perfectly charming person, Mother and Papa have always said so; I’m not painfully shy like Olga, or aloof like Tati, or rather dull like Maria, and I certainly don’t run around putting frogs in people’s shoes like Anastasia. I make for excellent company. Surely Ben will realize this and we will become inseparable travel companions.

Outside in the overcast brisk morning air, Ben is already busy tacking the mule. He glances over and tosses me an apple. It bounces out of my floundering hands and rolls off into the woods. This is not an auspicious start to the day.

“You’ll still have to eat that,” Ben says. “There’s no extra food. I was only able to ask for as much as I could justify needing myself.”

“Right.” I go fetch the apple—rummaging around in leaves and sticks and shrubs—and take a bite, even though it’s bruised and definitely tastes like dirt. I beam at Ben triumphantly. I am tough! I am daring! I am enchanting! I can pull my own weight on this journey!

Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the mule’s thick brown neck and smiles fondly at her. “How are we feeling this morning, Kroshka? Hmm? Who’s a lovely mule? Who’s going to take us all the way to the Trans-Siberian Railroad without even one measly word of complaint? That’s right, you are! Yes you are!” He lands a smacking kiss on the velvety grey fur of her muzzle.

I attempt polite conversation; more than that, I endeavor to learn about my dashing yet evasive rescuer. “So, tell me Ben, have you worked for Sir Buchanan long?”

“Four years,” Ben replies curtly.

“And you are…” I think of his notebook. “A…writer of some sort for him…?”

“I’m his press attaché.”

“Ah.” I recognize the French word for ‘attach,’ but not its meaning in the context of employment with an ambassador. “I can’t say I know what that entails.”

“I handle Sir Buchanan’s relations with the Russian newspapers. Drafting statements and briefing him on local opinions and the like. And since his health has declined, I find myself delivering some of his particularly confidential correspondence.”

“Oh, I see. And he could spare you for this mission? It seems like a burden that would be better carried by a man with military or exploratory experience.”

“My Russian is passable. And I can tolerate rougher conditions than most.” He points to a pile of clothes he’s laid out on a tree stump. “Those are for you. There’s a stream out that way.” He flicks a thumb towards the east. “Get ready however you need to, but be prepared to leave in fifteen minutes.”

I examine the clothing: plain and practical undergarments, a heavy wool sweater, stockings, boots, and something unexpected. I hold them up with clammy hands. “These are…” I swallow noisily. “Trousers.”

“Yes. They’re travel attire. Comfortable and easy to maneuver in if we need to move quickly.”

“I’ve never worn trousers before.”

“I thought you were amenable to a…a…what did you call it? An adventure. A grand adventure.” He says this melodramatically, like there’s some humor in it. Like he’s mocking me.

“I suppose I am,” I mutter, still scrutinizing the trousers.

“Fifteen minutes,” Ben reminds me sternly. Then he begins to disassemble the tent.

I trudge off through the woods until I find the stream. I clean myself with ice-cold water, drink it down until my teeth ache, change out of my nightgown and into these strange new clothes—Trousers! Mother would lock me in church for a month!—and gaze up into the cloudy, pastel blue sky that peeks between the fingers of the trees. It is very still here, and cold, and deathly quiet. I try to remember the last time I was truly alone, without Mother or Papa or my siblings or servants or guards within shouting distance. There is none that I can remember; perhaps there is none at all. Out here in the Siberian wilderness I feel unmoored from civilization, diminutive, vulnerable, peculiarly inconsequential. I decide I don’t like being alone. By the time I return to our campsite, Ben is ready and waiting beside the loaded cart. His right hand is resting on a clunky metal monster with ‘Olivetti’ written on it.

“I’m a press attaché,” he says with a mischievous grin. “And you’re a typist.”

“A what?”

“You work for Sir Buchanan’s office as a typist. That’s our story, anyway. You came along to assist me during my audience with the former tsar, and now we’re traveling back to Sir Buchanan’s headquarters in Saint Petersburg. So if anyone happens to ask, that’s what you are to tell them. Oh, and you’re British. Your English sounds clean enough.”

“Alright,” I reply, still gaping at the metal monster like a black box with gnashing fangs. “But what is that?”

Ben’s jaw falls open. “You don’t…?” Then he rubs his forehead, sighing deeply. “Jesus Christ. You’ve never used a typewriter. Of course you haven’t. Great. Fantastic.”

“We always write by hand. My penmanship is flawless, Mother saw to that.” She’s still battling with Anastasia, but that’s a war that may go on as long as the one between the sun and the moon.

“Okay. Okay. This works out, actually. Because I’m not going to entertain you all day. So here is your assignment.” Ben slaps the back of what he tells me is a typewriter, and then waves for me to come closer. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a British passport. Every line is filled out except for the name. He slides the paper into the machine and makes some bewildering adjustments. “So, you insert the paper, set the carriage—that’s this roller-type piece here—and type.” He taps forcefully on the keys until two words appear in the blank reserved for the passport holder’s name: Lana Brinkley.

“That’s me?” I ask doubtfully.

Ben smirks, amused. “That’s you.”

“So you could have given me a better name if you wanted to!”

“But then how would you learn humility?” He removes the fraudulent passport, shakes the paper until it dries, folds it into a neat little square, and slips it back into his coat pocket. “If you’re typing a longer message, the typewriter will ding when you’ve reached the end of each line. Then you use the lever to move the paper down, reset the carriage, and resume typing.”

I nod, but without much confidence. This seems complicated.

“You said you wanted a carriage,” Ben teases.

“Yes, one with magnificent draft horses and velvet seats and preferably no less than two servants. Not…whatever that is.”

“Well, if you’re going to pass for a typist, I’m afraid you must learn to type.” He finds me a stack of blank paper in his collection of bags and trunks, and then climbs into the front of the cart as I get into the back. The trousers, I hate to admit to myself, do make it easier to move around, although I’m not sure I approve of how much they accentuate the shape of my body. The thought of Ben looking at me in them gives me a plunging sort of feeling that is half-mortification and half-thrill…not that he has exhibited any interest at all. “Before we go any farther, do you have anything with you that I don’t know about?”

He means things like the heirlooms I have squirreled away in the large steamer trunk: the jewels sewn into my dress, the photograph. I can sense that he wouldn’t want me to have them, although I’m not sure why. In any case, I have no intention of giving them up. The jewels are the only thing of value that I have to trade if we find ourselves in a desperate situation. The photograph is the only string left that connects me back to my family, my home. “No,” I reply primly.

“Good.” He whistles at the mule and she tugs us through the trees and out onto the dirt road that leads, eventually, to the train station. As we ride joltingly along, the creaky cart wheels bumping over every rock and mound and muddy trough, I practice my typing: very slowly at first, and with only my index fingers. I read aloud as I go, gradually picking up speed.

“There once was a German princess born in the Duchy of Hesse. She was very beautiful but very shy. She had a wonderful talent for playing piano, but would run and hide if anyone asked her to perform in public. One day, when she was attending the wedding of her sister, the princess met a prince from a distant kingdom. They were only children, but they instantly knew they had found true love. They snuck off together and carved their names into a window pane. Over the years, each conspired to marry the other. They refused many suitors and wrote each other hundreds of letters. His family did not approve of the princess’s religion and lack of charisma; her family did not approve of the prince’s distant and troubled nation. But at last it became apparent to all that no earthly forces could keep the couple apart. Ten years after their first meeting, the prince and princess were finally married. And they lived joyously and peacefully in each other’s service for the rest of their days.”

Ben lights one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. The smoke doesn’t bother me; on the contrary, it reminds me of Papa smoking his pipe in his study, in the garden, as he read to us by the fireplace, as he danced with Mother in ballrooms back when she could still dance. It reminds me of home. “I’m not sure if you’ll ever give Shakespeare a run for his money, but I’ll admit I’m marginally entertained.”

I smile to myself, sentimental warmth rising in my face. “It’s Papa and Mother’s story.”

“Huh. I didn’t know your people were allowed to marry for love.”

By ‘your people,’ he seems to mean royalty, and there is some derision in his deep voice. “Well, surely duty must come first. But when love can accompany it, that’s a happy coincidence.”

“And what if duty compels you to marry a man who is, say, cruel? Or dreadfully boring? Or in love with another woman? Or who closely resembles a mole-rat?”

I resume my typing with a new exercise. For each letter of the alphabet, I type a French word that begins with it. “I don’t think that sort of thing happens very often.”

“But if it did.”

I shrug, not especially enjoying this topic of discussion. “Then duty comes first, as I said. But I believe most royal couples are perfectly content. At least nine out of every ten.”

“That many!” Ben marvels sarcastically. “Have you ever considered that your own personal experience, as pleasant as it may be, could be coloring your perception of how the world works?”

I ignore him and continue my typing. Attaché for A, bisou for B, croissant for C, doux for D…

After a moment, Ben says: “You aren’t going to regale me with another fairytale? I’m devastated.”

“I’m busy practicing my French now. Please don’t intrude.”

“You speak French as well as Russian and English?” He sounds impressed; for a split second anyway, just long enough for me to catch it like a firefly in my fist.

“And Italian, and Latin. And I’ve just started on Japanese.”

“But no German? That seems like it would be an easier beast to slay.”

“I’ve always purposefully avoided learning it, even though Mother’s family is German. I never envisioned myself marrying a German. I figured Maria could take that bullet. She doesn’t care, she’d marry anyone who could give her a castle and ten babies and a bulldog or two. I would say she was a milkmaid in a past life, but Mother’s heart would stop dead if she thought I subscribed to reincarnation.”

“Not fond of Germans?” Ben asks. “Well, who can blame you. Half the world isn’t fond of them at the moment.”

“I suppose they weren’t so awful before the Great War. But they’re rather boorish, aren’t they? They always sound like they’re angry. Like someone just stole their horse and they’re screaming at them from the front porch to come back or else.” I smile dreamily as I type. “I’ve always fancied the thought of marrying a prince from a glamorous, romantic kingdom. Maybe Italy or Greece. There has even been talk of me marrying Uncle George’s eldest son David. He’s rather beguiling. Tall and slim. Clear blue eyes like a lake. And he’s going to be the king of the British Empire one day, you know. We could holiday together in beautiful, sunny colonies like the Bahamas.”

“You’re still as important as all that? Important enough to make a marriage of that political significance, I mean.” Ben glances back at me and lifts one thick, dark, inquisitive eyebrow. “Seeing as your family doesn’t have a kingdom anymore.”

This is an insensitive thing for him to say. I frown down at the typewriter. “A wife almost always assumes the kingdom of her husband, so why should she require her own? She needs only sound breeding and a suitable temperament. And besides, we might yet return one day.”

Ben twists all the way around to stare at me, the reigns falling out of his hands. Fortunately, the mule seems to know her own way around. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It has been a brutal few years. The Great War, the supply shortages, the bad harvests…the people are frustrated, and understandably so. They lashed out blindly, at those who didn’t deserve it, at us. But the dust will clear. And when it does, I think the Russian people will come to their senses and realize that they want us back. That they need us.”

“Are you insane?” Ben snaps. “Are you utterly brainless? What’s floating around in that skull besides fiction and languages you’ll never use once you’re married off to some prince who only sees you as a broodmare?”

“How dare you! You can’t speak to me like this—!”

“For years, for a bloody decade, Sir Buchanan warned your father about what was coming. He tried to get him to moderate his views, to give the people more voice in government, to stop murdering them when they protested. And when none of that worked and the end was apparent, Sir Buchanan tried to convince your father to abdicate long before he did. Don’t you understand?! None of this needed to happen! Your family could have fled to Britain years ago, before the animosity against your father spread like wildfire across the globe, and Russia could have established their own parliament like Britain’s and negotiated a peace treaty to stay out of the war and none of us would be here now if not for your father’s selfish, pointless obstinacy—!”

“My father is a good man,” I choke out as hot, furious tears burn in my eyes.

“And he was a terrible ruler!” Ben shoots back like artillery. “He ordered protesters to be butchered, he sent untrained boys to die in some other country’s war, he clung to the throne for no one’s benefit but his own—”

“And what about my benefit?” I demand, still weeping, feeling monstrously like a child. “What about my mother’s and my sisters’ and Alexei’s? He must have feared for our futures if we were dethroned and left without any resources, any security, anyplace to call home—”

“He did you no favors,” Ben says harshly. “Half the country—the country that you obviously have not even a rudimentary understanding of—are moderates scrambling to secure the Provisional Government and disentangle themselves from the war while still somehow preserving their dignity and that of the millions of dead soldiers Russia has already laid on the altar. The other half are trying to instigate a wholesale communist revolution. There is no one, no one, who wants the tsar back. And you better pray to God that the communists don’t manage to seize power before King George gets your family out, or your father just might be guillotined on the steps of Saint Basil’s Cathedral.”

I bolt to my feet unsteadily, grip the side of the lurching cart, and leap out onto the dirt road.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ben shouts after me.

I take off sprinting down the road, the wind whipping my face, sobbing as I run beneath the shadows of trees until my lungs are columns of flames and my legs feel wobbly and boneless. I can hear the pounding of the mule’s hooves approaching, the hurtling of wooden wheels, the slapping of leather reins. I am forced to slow to a vigorous march as my body betrays me, wheezing and aching and as ineffectual as a woman is so often assumed to be. The salacious trousers have come in handy once again. Who would have guessed.

Ben pulls up alongside me, reining in the mule to match my pace. “Hey! Get back in the cart!”

“I’ll walk the rest of the way to the railroad station.”

“It’s 200 more kilometers!”

“See you there.”

Now Ben jumps out of the cart. The mule, perplexed but not rattled, comes to a halt and waits in the middle of the road with her long ears angled in opposite directions. Ben rushes in front of me and leans down until we’re at eye-level, breathing heavily. I can smell smoke on him, and something else too: maybe cologne, maybe soap, maybe aftershave, maybe just the scent of a man in his prime. His lips are pink and full and soft-looking, I notice, as if for the first time. His cheeks are irritated and red from the wind; the ruthlessness of the climate here doesn’t agree with him. It is the only way in which I am stronger than he is. His green eyes are wide and blazing. “Get. In. The. Cart.”

“No,” I whisper, tears all over my face.

“You can’t just run off like that,” he pleads, less angry now. “Where are you going to go? There’s nothing out here except trees and…I don’t know…probably bears and wolves and maybe even Siberian tigers. You can’t get ripped apart by wild animals. Don’t you want to make it to London? To argue for your family’s liberation? They could find no fiercer advocate than you, of that I am convinced.”

“How would you possibly protect me from a bear?”

Ben unbuttons his coat and pulls up his white wool sweater to show me a pistol tucked into the holster clipped to his belt. “Just in case,” he says, smirking crookedly, lowering his sweater again. “Now I am keeping no secrets from you, and you are harboring none from me. We’re even.”

I nod, sniffling, thinking of my jewels and photograph hidden in the steamer trunk. My words are so strained I can barely hear them myself, my hands are trembling; hell, I’m trembling all over. The possibility is unimaginable. “Do you really think they’re going to kill Papa?”

Ben sighs, shaking his head. “No, I don’t,” he replies gently. “I think the Provisional Government will be able to keep the communists in check for now. I think they will leap at the opportunity to ship the former tsar off to Britain without the potential controversy of a trial and execution. And I also think we should get back in the cart and keep moving now.”

“I’m sorry your boss gave you this assignment and now you have to risk your life for a family that you evidently hate,” I lash out like a cornered animal, hissing and brandishing its glinting claws. “For a grand duchess that you hate. This must be an awful inconvenience for you.”

“It’s rather more complicated than that,” Ben says. “There’s some opportunity in it as well.”

Of course: his leather-bound notebook full of observations, his scrawled recollections to one day build into a famed article about our journey. An article full of what he truly thinks about me. I feel suddenly, violently nauseous. I feel horrified.

What happened to the grand adventure that I imagined? Where did it go?

And all at once, I can’t even remember how I pictured this journey unfolding; I can’t conjure up some rose-colored vision of me and Ben falling into an effortless friendship, flirting lightly and innocently, discovering new corners of the earth together, parting ways in London as lifelong confidants. Now I can only see Papa as he murmurs folktales older than Christianity with candlelight dancing on his smiling face, as he chases me and my sisters around the gardens with outstretched arms and sparkling eyes, as he carries Alexei from one room to the next when my brother’s joints are inflamed and excruciating and useless, as he never unburdens his mind to his wife or children but spends long afternoons chopping wood as the sun sinks into the west and the lines in his pale face grow deeper.

He couldn’t be responsible for bloodshed, for mercilessness. He’s not that kind of man. He’s never been that kind of man.

“We really should keep moving,” Ben prompts.

“Fine,” I fling back as I shove by him. I mop my tears away with the sleeve of my wool sweater, climb into the back of the wooden cart, and sit as far as I can from Ben with my bent knees hugged to my chest. I stare silently off into the forest as the mule drags us towards the Trans-Siberian Railroad, towards Moscow and Saint Petersburg and the Baltic Sea and London, towards the conclusion of this tenuous partnership and the redemption of my family. I am looking forward to soon never having to see Benjamin Hardy again, and yet I’m also not; and this is a difficult paradox to put into words of any language.

We don’t stop until it’s almost dusk. Ben hops down from the cart, leads the mule off the road by her bridle (and gives her an encouraging scratch on the forelock when she hesitates), and begins to set up camp in a small clearing encircled by heaps of frost grass. Dinner is loaves of bread again—even more tough and dry than yesterday—and metallic-tasting water from canteens. Dessert is a hand-rolled cigarette for Ben and a handful of honeyberries I found in the bushes for me. And when Ben grapples with the tent, I come over to help him with it just to prove I can.

Ben builds a fire, and we sit wordlessly on opposite sides of it with the reflections of flames in our eyes. Ben jots down today’s thoughts in his notebook, every so often glancing off into nowhere and tapping his chin thoughtfully with the end of his pen, biting his full lower lip absentmindedly as he sifts through the ocean of word in his head to fish out the right one. Meanwhile, I read my copy of Tarzan of the Apes. I stumble across a few English terms I don’t know—quixotic, cartography, constellations, ruminate—but I don’t ask Ben about them.

After a long time, when the moon and stars have emerged bright and ancient in the night sky, Ben closes his notebook and watches me. At first I ignore him. And then, eventually, I can’t anymore.

“What?” I ask irritably, keeping my place in Tarzan of the Apes with my pinky finger, which is nearly numb from the cold.

Ben’s words are calm, restrained, painstakingly chosen. Firelight is fierce and bloody on his face. “I had two infant brothers die of pneumonia, a perfectly preventable illness had they had access to good doctors and proper nutrition and a warm dry home, which they did not. I had a sister die in childbirth because there was no midwife available to attend to her. I have had friends come home from the war with limbs or half their faces missing, a fate which I myself am spared only because of my employment with Sir Buchanan. You have no idea what the world has been through while you were off playing board games and reading novels in greenhouses and lounging on lakeshores with your idyllic little family. You have no idea what life is like for the rest of us. And perhaps that’s not your fault, and it is unjust of me to resent you for it, and I must learn to temper this wrath I’ve been carrying around in my chest since childhood. But it’s still true.”

He stands, clutching his notebook with hands that are red from the savage Siberian wind, and vanishes into the tent.