#like objectively the me from this time last year would yearn deeply to be where i am now

[asiananeurysm]

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[pedrosbrat]

Sorrow You Are My Light {Pero Tovar x Max Phillips x F!Reader}

CHAPTER I : Insomnia

AU - Vampire Hunters

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: Angst, Nightmares, Language, alcohol, yearning, violence (fight) , mention of murder, sword, blood …

Summary: You and Pero were united by fate in your youth due to a tragic event. You will seek revenge from the creature that caused your common suffering all your life without success... Until you cross paths with Max Philips, forcing you to form an alliance with an enemy to destroy a common foe...

Little Comment : Hi everyone, it’s my first series, I hope you will like it (if you see any mistakes let me know and I will correct it) - 1 chapter will be published every week, every Saturday⚔️ Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

1440- Transylvania

You have been travelling on horseback for a little more than two days now, with a weather changing from very hot to very rainy, and usually it doesn't bother you, at least not really, because Pero has the decency to take breaks, it has always been like that. But for the first time in decades of travelling together, he has refused to take any breaks, because he says you are close to the goal.

You can understand it, and you feel it too, but you would still like to be able to rest, not feeling your legs or even feeling your buttocks... You don't even know if you don't feel them anymore because of the total absence of sensation from sitting on your horse for this long, or if the pain you felt yesterday has taken over and has become a friend, and the only company you feel at this moment.

Because despite his presence, Pero is far too absorbed in the mission. This is nothing new, in fact, he has always been like this, only usually he has the good sense to admit that sleep is important for a good fight, as well as a somewhat adequate physical form...

"If we are attacked by a vampire now Pero I won't be able to fight". You say as you catch up to him slightly at a gallop. "Stop complaining," he says, slightly grumpier than his natural temperament, which is bound to be an effect of lack of sleep. "I'm not complaining, I'm just right! You know very well that the lack of rest will eventually kill us, if it is not the horses that die long before us! You say, slightly annoyed by his behaviour.

He stopped short, and turned to face you, grimacing, probably aching and exhausted, unconsciously proving your point: "If he runs away, he'll kill more people! You seem to forget what this thing is capable of!" "Forget?!" you say, widening your eyes, increasingly annoyed.

Vampires: demonic beings that have occupied the lands of your country since your childhood. At first, in your youth, their presence was only a myth, which some people described as mad swore they had seen, but as time went on, the world realised that it was all real. These decaying beings, who have no chance of finding the light again, their gaze completely absorbed in the darkness, surrounded by veins resembling the shade of smoke enveloping the sky and covering all traces of the sun. They are the shadows that will hide the light of all normal life since your youth... Since that night sixteen years ago...

You know that Pero can be stubborn, but he is not so deeply stubborn that he tries to pretend to anyone who doesn't know him, although he hides it quite well, he is a gentle man and a good man... Except when he really decides otherwise, as he has done for the last forty-eight hours. So you don't try to argue or have a simple debate with him on the subject, because you know very well what he's talking about and you don't want to talk about it... You've already had enough nightmares since you were a child, so you don't need that.

You gallop alone towards the big city, from where you are not so far now, determined to make a big turn, to let your horse rest, and to rest at the same time in a real bed, and not stones under a sheet for a pillow or an old tavern of the village where you were hunting.

It doesn't matter if he follows you or not, you're far too tired and suffering to care at the moment, and being a very good tracker, you know you'll be able to find him if only a few hours separate you from each other, and at least you'll be able to fight effectively if something happens.

⊱•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ •⊰

The city is not as jovial as it usually is. You don't know why, of course, but there's a sort of silent restlessness that mingles with an almost empty square, leaving a black shadow over all those little houses, like a feeling deep inside you that you can see floating over the city.

"Anything interesting in the sky Paloma?"

You turn, coming out of the thoughts that had completely absorbed you, to find that Pero is at your side, handing you a piece of cheese, which he must have bought at the entrance of the city, and that you grab without hesitation the rumbling belly for any substitute of food... His way of apologizing and telling you that you are right, even if he will never admit it out loud...

Pero will never admit it, but he doesn't like to see you turning your back on him. He likes your presence, even if he doesn't express it, he likes to see you smiling, annoying him, lecturing him. He likes the way you've been waddling around on your horse for the last few days, and he knows it's only because of the pain he's putting you through, and that he shouldn't like to see that, he feels a little bad about it at times.... But you are so beautiful... And that ass, God only knows how many times he's dreamed of it bouncing off him...

"Nothing special, just a bad feeling" you say, taking a bite of the end of your feeble dish, "...I don't really believe in feelings you know, but for once I have to give it to you..." he says, kicking the sides of his horse to start galloping "No we should let the king know we're back, maybe he'll explain what's going on.

You nod and follow him, speeding up in your turn, not missing the crosses on the front of each house, as well as some silver objects in front of the windows, which normally would have been looted by the small thieves of the city, but even they don't seem to want to touch them... You start to understand what is going on but don't go forward, hoping that the bad luck hasn't come to your place of living once again, where you and Tovar have decided to stay for more than two years now.

⊱•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ •⊰

The throne room which is usually decorated with berries on every table, and bright silk draperies falling from the chandeliers to the ceiling, adorning the sides of the windows are not present, leaving the room in a dullness and sadness that the king and queen usually do not like. But they don't seem to mind, in fact in this room where all the lords are gorging themselves and filling up, they think it is much more agitated than the atmosphere outside. An almost incomprehensible hubbub envelops the room, leaving the king before you, not uttering a word, eyes fixed on you, nodding towards a guard at the back of the room, leading to the inner corridors of the castle, a neutral look on his face, leaving his wife and lords to shout complaints and fears into every ear.

He stands up curtly as the others in the room don't take the decency to stop talking as they usually would, leaving the king to walk out the back door, with you on his heels.

"Where were you?!" He says before you can even close the door to the large hallway, "On the trail of one of them my king" Pero says, bowing his head slightly. "And?" Said the king as he placed his index finger and thumb on his nose, as if trying to relieve a headache. "We had a trail... But we got away from it because of me" you say as you look the king in the eye, not flinching, assuming that a disaster may be looming over the city because of you.

The king doesn't answer and starts pacing in front of you before continuing silently, in a calm and gentle manner that must have always been endowed with "It's nothing... I think you might have guessed it when you returned to the city, but one of them is attacking an area near here..." "And no one was AVAILABLE to stop it?... Dios mío..." says pero a little annoyed that everyone is waiting on you two. "Oh, there were many volunteers... But none came back."

You turn your gaze to Tovar understanding without him actually saying it, what the king is asking you. He nods and you do the same before turning to the king, "Where? Where did you send them?" you say, already beginning to think you're going to regret it, "The Singing Mountain... There was... If you had seen what happened there...".

He couldn't finish his sentence and squinted hard, as if to chase away painful memories buried behind his eyelids. "We've seen it all our lives," Pero said before bowing and walking out to cross the throne room. You do the same, "It will be dark soon, we can't leave now, it would be too dangerous. But at dawn we'll get started. You don't share any contact with him, out of royal respect, and simply turn on your heels to join Pero, already far away, probably thinking of a plan for tomorrow.

⊱•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ •⊰

Your little house is on the outskirts of the village, a little out of the way, not that you don't like the presence of other people, but you are simply used to living like this: just the two of you.

You had already tried to live in separate houses in the village when you arrived two years ago, but every night was cut short by panicked screams and the search for comforting warmth next to you, visions and nightmares that you hadn't had in years, memories that were buried in the depths of your mind, every moment and every night that you spent in Pero's arms.

And you know that it was the same for him, even if he never mentioned it. He didn't have to. The simple fact that he would leave his house at one end of town in the middle of the night to join you under the sheets without saying anything and just let you snuggle up to him as you have done since you were children. So, you drifted away from the villagers, refusing to attach yourself to anyone else, only needing each other, sleeping together to hunt and seek comfort from the demons that plague you both when night falls. And sometimes even sharing each other's presence you feel that you are missing something... It's weird, and you don't know what it is. You don't talk about it... But you both feel it as well...

After setting up silver dust, under foliage all around your home and bringing back some stew that an old lady gave you in the village, thanking you for protecting them, and drinking a large pint of beer that Pero had left out in the house, you both finish your well-deserved meal in silence, savouring every mouthful of stew with a deliciousness like you've never tasted before... Or maybe you're just so hungry that everything would seem like a delicacy right now.

The same goes for the bed, having obviously finished before Pero who always takes a second bite and calls you "paloma", which according to what he told you simply means that you don't eat much for someone who is always crying out for food, like a little bird. You quickly head for your room so that you can have a nice bath without being disturbed by his lack of patience who you know would be there asking you every thirty seconds if you were almost finished, wanting to take a bath as well. So you were able to enjoy it fully until the water cooled, letting your muscles relax from the tumultuous journey and the stress dissolve for a short moment you cherished.

"I heard people talking about this mountain when we first arrived..." says Pero from the bathroom, waking you from your near sleep, now lying on the bed "Mmmh..." you reply far too tired to utter a word. Eyes still closed, you sit up slightly, knowing that he won't stop there. "The villagers always said that the devil lived in his heart... I didn't really pay attention to it, since there was never a murder... At least until now.”

You open your eyes hearing his voice much closer than it was a few seconds ago, and the reason being that he is standing by the bed, with only a sheet around his hips, placing his weapons beside him as he always does before going to bed. And for your part you try to look away as you always do before going to bed. At least when you sleep in a bed with him. At first it was quite simple and automatic not to look at him when you were younger and when he is only "dressed" like that... But lately it has become quite difficult... It has become quite difficult to avoid the vision of his broad shoulders and that torso getting thinner and thinner towards his waist, that aqualine nose that you imagine between your legs, before placing kisses on it as on his perfect lips and this goddamn perfect little line on it... And that scar on his beautiful obsidian black puppy-dog eyes, even if you're almost sure he doesn't like it, that scar on his face...That scar gives him a crazy charm... And everytime it become impossible to avoid to look at the droplets falling from his deep chocolate curls, sliding down that nape of his neck that you wish you could mark with your lips, to end up around his pure silver cross, shining on his golden and bronze skin...

It's become so hard to ignore this man who's practically become a god under your hungry eyes, as hard as it is to ignore the coming arousal that you feel between your legs as you watch him walk around in his armor or the mere sight of the veins and muscles in his neck give you unholy thoughts...

You turn around and help yourself to your sheets, crossing your legs to try and forget what you'd like him to do to you in that room and bed right now, thinking about how you probably wouldn't have the energy for it, and you fall asleep quicker than you thought you would, already with your mind bent on what you might find on that mountain tomorrow...

Pero watches your body rise and fall slightly with every breath you take and exhale, as he has been doing every night for the past few years... Since he was old enough to understand that you were no longer just a friend to him, that he was no longer indifferent to your curves, that he would watch you come out of the bathroom out of the corner of his eye and bend over the bed to admire your buttocks that he always imagined grabbing tightly in his hands... But he never did and was content to watch you fall asleep with your back to him, now that he can no longer see you come out with a simple sheet around you, your hair wet and your skin steaming from the good bath he would have liked to share with you... He is only content to fall asleep following your breaths, wanting deep down, much more of his Paloma...

⊱•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ •⊰

You have galloped and walked all day to get to this cursed place, making you arrive around mid-day, when the sun begins its descent towards the west.

The forest is not dancing as usual, and the birds, being the reason why this mountain is called the singing mountain by their chirping, have seemingly disappeared singing no more from this cursed place under a river now red with blood. A putrid, foul smell that you can't miss is present on the scene. No bodies. Lots of blood.

"I've never seen this..."

You don't respond to his remark, but you know exactly what he is talking about. A river turned red with blood, accompanied by the smell of death, yet showing no sign of a body near the water or even in the forest you've just passed through.

Vampires kill, and abandon the corpse, having no interest in keeping the body, or if they really want a use for it, they transform the person, but in this case if, the smell of decomposing corpse and the river of blood should not be present at the scene.

"I don't like this Pero...".

He doesn't answer and just grunts before pulling out his sword and pushing you back slightly. You do the same and pull out your sword, never having doubted his ability to sense the presence of another being, other than the two of you. "It's not dark enough for it to be one," you say, watching carefully around you. "The king would never send his men out in the middle of the night," he says, passing you some silver powder. "How..."

You don't finish your sentence and freeze. Your hands tighten on the hilt of your sword, and you look into the shadows of the forest at the glowing yellow eye sockets. A man you can't make out is watching you without moving. Pero notices this too and pushes you behind him, instinctively as he does every time, even though he knows you can defend yourself, he never misses an opportunity to throw himself between you and the danger... And you will do the same for him when the opportunity arises.

"Come here!" he shouted with a smile, taunting this bloodsucking bastard, who for his part did not move a muscle. He's watching both you, and you're getting more and more worried, not understanding why he's not attacking you, as they all do. This is not a usual behaviour from them... What is going on here...

Your question evaporates as he evaporates, not approaching you, or attacking you. You tug lightly on Pero's arm, asking him to return to the horse. He didn't insist and followed you, sword in hand, running and climbing on the horses as fast as he could.

"What was that?!" you shouted at him at a gallop not far from him, who stopped dead in his tracks a few paces away from you "Pero what..." "I don't know!" he says, a growing frustration in his eyes that you know only too well, a look he gets when he is about to do something impulsive. "Pero you're not going back!" "He didn't attack us..." "That doesn't mean he won't next time! What's wrong with you?!" You say completely dumbfounded by your best friend, willing to risk his life to prove a point.

FUCK PERO!

You follow him in spite of yourself, knowing that you couldn't forgive yourself for leaving him to die alone in those woods, whether it was his choice or not.

A million thoughts go through your head as Pero is hit by something. You jump off your horse and swing your sword at a man in your path, a man who did not flinch at the shock of a galloping horse. You throw a sword at him which he quickly avoids and disappears again, but you know this kind of technique well, you have fought them all your life. You grab a dagger in your other hand and stand back-to-back with pero who has just straightened up.

"I told you we should have left," you say, more than a little frustrated by events that could have been avoided. "This is not the time." He says as he begins to fight the creature in front of you, moving far too quickly for you to anticipate any movement.

He's faster. Smarter than anything you've encountered before, and despite Pero's ability to inflict some cuts with his pure silver sword, the vampire doesn't give in. But it doesn't kill us for all that... A sentence that goes through your head thinking that it could kill you both in a few seconds if it really wanted to... No, this thing is looking for something...

You don't take any more chances and grab your powder and throw it at the thing, which is screaming in pain, looking at you with reddened eyes, sharp fangs and black veins around its eyes like you've never seen before... "PERO THE HORSES!". He thinks for half a second about killing this thing here and now, but sees the powder starting to dissipate and prefers not to risk both of you getting killed here and now... Not to risk YOUR death here and now which would ultimately be his fault...

You gallop off without looking back, not understanding what you just saw.

⊱•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ •⊰

"PERO WHAT DID YOU DO THERE?!" you say as you slam the door of the house and drop your weapons on the floor "You could have gotten us both killed! You saw what that thing did!" "It didn't kill us... Why?" he says as he sits down on one of the chairs calmly, too calm for what just happened "Is that really the only thing that bothers you about what just happened Pero?!" you say as you bang on the table.

He straightens up curtly and approaches you with a dark look in his eyes, "Aren't you even asking yourself that question? Don't you want to know why he left us alive? Why didn't he kill us or just jump down our throats and kill us like they all do? ¡Miénteme! LIE TO ME?! TRY LYING TO ME!" He says, banging on the table in turn.

You don't respond, knowing he's right, but you can't help it, impulsive behaviour like that could have killed you both. "I shouldn't have gone back there I know that Paloma... But I don't understand..." he says more calmly trying to apologize in his own way. You take him in your arms, understanding that he acted in incomprehension and panic "I also wonder Pero but don't ever do that again... He was smarter... Faster... And seems to control himself in front of living people... We never had to deal with that" you say holding him tighter, also needing a little comfort, adrenaline gradually coming down.

"She's right!"

You flinch and Pero pulls his sword straight out pushing you behind him, hearing a voice coming from your kitchen. Your eyes widen as you realise that the vampire you fought a few hours ago is the man in the room...

"Your powder has no effect on me, cuties... Should you have tried the wooden stakes?" he says, leaning slowly against one of the walls in front of you. "The wooden stakes are too big, a risk. You have to get too close and we're not stupid enough for that," Pero says dryly.

Those features... A protruding jaw, puppy dog eyes that dominate a fierce rage and that aquiline nose... You turn to Pero and move from him to this man, noticing that your friend, has similar features with this creature in front of you even if his hair is longer than pero, but he doesn't seem to really care or even notice it, it's actually the least of his concerns "Why are we still alive? "He says, putting his weapon on the table behind him, understanding that this creature does not intend to kill you, that if it really wanted to, it would not have bothered to let you go and then follow you and interrupt you... Or would have simply killed you in this forest.

He took a step closer but changed his mind when he saw that Pero was keeping a hand on one of his weapons. "Because I'm not the one you're looking for" says the vampire. Pero looked at you wide-eyed and started to laugh, a dark laugh, far from being amused by the situation. "Do you hear that? Now they're coming to our house to haggle," he said, jostling you slightly, still not making you smile.

You know that side of Pero. That unstable side that loses control of itself and doesn't know how to deal with the information and emotions it receives, which are far too numerous to process quickly enough for events that are far too unfamiliar to its eyes. And you don't blame him because you yourself don't know how to deal with it all. "I'm not happy about talking to you..." you say, trying not to play on each other's nerves. "...But you haven't killed us yet, so I'll give you a minute to explain what you want from us."

He stares at you for a few seconds, examining you from head to toe, not missing the look of disgust and hatred on your face. "You're looking for my creator... And I need you to kill him" he said, staring into your eyes, a teasing smile on his face, very sure of himself, yet very serious about the words he just said "Vampires are normally very attached to their creator, I think you're setting us up" you said, crossing your arms "She can't understand that if I wanted you dead you'd have been dead long ago!

He disappeared for a few seconds and found himself next to you, making you jump up and grab tovar's sword behind you to point it at him. He stared at the blade and ran his finger over it, causing smoke to billow from his skin, like at the end of a fire. "I'm not one of the little vampires you usually fight, which makes me... superior to what you're used to..." Tovar rolled his eyes and stepped in front of you, again, instinctively offering his body as a barrier to protect you, letting the man finish, always having a thought of skewering him at any moment "... I'm not dependent on him... At least not completely. But I don't serve him like all those vermin you hunt every day, who don't know how to control themselves or even think for themselves."

He loosens his last words with a more than visible disgust, arranging his clothes and slowly walking around the table without taking his eyes off you. "I don't depend on him. I'm not attached to him in any way... At least not emotionally... Physically it's something else: I can't kill him, not with my own hands." he says, staring deeply into the wood of the table, as if he could see his own reflection there.

"And you need us for that?!" Pero laughed a dark laugh like you've never heard, now less and less amused by the situation, knowing that he could launch himself at the thing in front of you at any moment. You grab him by the arm before he does something stupid and pull him away from the vampire "We should do it Pero." He widened his eyes and reached up to your face, grabbing your cheeks, as if to check that you hadn't been bewitched. You clapped his hands and told him you were fine before continuing, "If he leads us to his master..." "HE'S NOT MY MASTER!" he shouts from across the room letting you know that he can hear anything you say.

You look at Pero and let him know you'll explain the rest later by miming dust between your fingers, as you've done since you were little, before continuing "When he leads us to his MASTER, we can at least find out where he is and kill him! That's what we've wanted for weeks, Pero."

He's not thrilled. He realizes the danger you're going to face and knows that you've already faced a lot of such danger in your life... But he's not excited. He doesn't know if he can trust the information this thing has just given him, and if he should trust it at all. He doesn't want to have to trust it, and he can see in your eyes that you don't want to either... But he also understands that you have no choice after the king's request. So he lets his gaze shift from yours to the vampire's. "Okay. We leave tomorrow morning," he says, stepping around you and approaching the vampire, a more stern look on his face than he usually wears "... But if you were foolish enough to betray us, know this..." "... That you'll kill me?" he cuts Tovar off with a laugh and moves closer to him "And I'll let you do beautiful."

You chuckle and cross your arms and squint your eyes, amused "We already don't trust you..." "I know that sweetheart" "...BUT that's no reason to lie to us" you say, raising your voice, slightly annoyed by his condescending air.

He tries to get around Tovar, who won't let him pass, and shakes his head to let him know he's definitely not going to approach you. "Believe me..." he said as he put his gaze into yours, a serious, not amused gaze "... If I tell you I'd let you do it it's simply that I'd rather it be you than him."

He nodded to you, then to Tovar, and walked towards the front door.

"Oh, and I'd rather be Max Phillips than 'that thing'," he said as he closed the door behind him, leaving you and Tovar in a state of anxiety and nervousness the likes of which you hadn't had in a long time, leaving you both that night alive to the slightest background noise, the slightest shadow passing through the thin draperies of your windows...

•

Chapter 2

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[ready-to-obeyme]

[OM!] Lemon (Lucifer/MC)

Scenario: Even now, years after your death, Lucifer finds himself still in love with you.

Note: gn!MC; equal parts angst + fluff; Inspired by the song lyrics of Lemon (no, not the Rihanna song) below and especially the cover sung [here] and the fact Lucifer’s character song (and drama cd) dropped 😎 I highly recommend a listen to both songs! A little taste of the angst I have queued up with another fic I’m planning to post :)

If it were a dream, how good it would have been Even now, I still dream of you As if I’m retrieving something I forgot I dust off my worn-out memories

Some types of happiness do not return It was the final thing that you taught me

The dark past I kept hidden and unsaid If not for meeting you, would have remained in the dark forever I know there’s no way I will be Hurt more than I already have been

Even the sadness of those days Even the pain of those days Spent with you, who love everything about me Lingering in my mind is the scent of a bitter lemon I can't’ return until the rain stops But even now, you are my light

If Lucifer lets himself dream, he can conjure up the memories that let him hear your voice again. He sees you in a haze, smiling back at him in a field of flowers, but every time he reaches out to you, you disappear. 

Lucifer wakes up to an empty space beside him and wonders if the pain of your absence will ever subside. 

.

.

.

Lucifer remembers the years he spent by your side vividly. It is not difficult to remember them when all the other years before pale in comparison.

He recalls your first appearance in the Devildom, showing a brave face in front of demons, and remembers when it turns out that your courage shines in other ways as well; in the way you speak up for others and the way you allow your heart to love with reckless abandon. It is no surprise his brothers loved you as they did, quick to drop the notion that you were anything but important to them. And when Lucifer finds himself making a pact with you, he wonders why he expected he’d be any different. 

“I do not belong to you; you belong to me,” Lucifer had said to you proudly in his demon form, but you had only smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his lips, as if you knew what he really wanted to say was “please let me be yours.” He wishes his heart did not tremble as it did when he has you in his arms, the mark of his love evident in the insignia on your chest. For all that he may say, he can only hope that you can be his, and he keeps it a secret that his heart sings every time you return his embrace. 

.

The Avatar of Pride, as talented as he may be, still fumbles over things that he has never encountered. For instance, when you leave the Devildom for a period of time after the end of the year-long exchange program, Lucifer finds himself lost in thoughts thinking of you. It becomes a problem when he is distracted, wondering how you were faring back in the human world, to the point that he does not realize the ink has bled all over the last few pages of documents he is supposed to sign until it is unsalvageable. Lucifer is not used to the yearning that comes with loving someone far away and it shows, to him, in the worst possible ways. 

He is embarrassed when he explains the situation to Diavolo, but the Demon Prince only laughs and pats him on the shoulder, giving him a knowing smile. His brothers note that he is a little distracted, a little kinder without knowing the reason. Mammon is tempted to ask for a credit card from the eldest, but even he does not want to ruin the magic spell he is convinced you have cast on the House of Lamentations to have an eldest brother who allows himself to take a break, a house with a bickering but loving family, and all of them with thrumming anticipation, excited to see what the day has to offer because today was the day you would call. 

.

When you appear in the Devildom again, letting Satan live up to his propensity for hurling objects, Lucifer is giddy beyond relief. And he would rather die than to admit it, but he was speaking a mile a minute, going off tangents because his mind kept on coming back to you and how you were waiting in the House of Lamentations where you belonged. 

He and his brothers could not trip over themselves more to open the door to their home and see you turn around, sleeves rolled up as you go about the House like there was no other place you could possibly be. And Lucifer hopes with all his heart, as his brothers clamor for your attention, that you would never leave, that you would stay with him for as long as you could.

When you stay in the Devildom, asking Diavolo time and time again to extend your visitation rights, Lucifer decides to ask you to stay forever, with your favorite flowers and a ring that could not possibly convey the extent of his feelings for you. The moment you accept his hand in marriage is one of the happiest moments of his life, and he wonders then how curious it was that out of the very best memories of his millennia of life that you seemed to be in most of them. 

You were beautiful on your wedding day and every day since then. Even as you aged and the lines in your face grew more pronounced, Lucifer finds that he falls in love with you more each day. You laugh when he tells you that your beauty has not faded, and he feels his heart soar even after all this time when he hears that sound coming from you.

“You are beautiful,” Lucifer tells you, when his back is turned to you and you trace the lines of his scars on his back. “To love me even though you know everything.”

He feels your arms wrap around him and your breath on his neck as you let out a huff of laughter. “Silly,” you tell him, “I love you because I know everything.” He relaxes in your embrace as you sigh. “You’re not the only one who falls in love more and more, you know,” you tease.  

Lucifer fulfills the promise he made during the dance so long ago during the School Festival, telling you that he loves you, truly and deeply, any chance he has. He thinks perhaps that after twenty or thirty years of loving and being loved by you would make your ‘I love you’s’ less of a novelty, but his face always warms at your words, and even more so when you laugh and hold your hands to his face and press a kiss onto his forehead. 

.

It was only a matter of time until everything ended. 

It came with the territory of loving you, who could, at most, be a snapshot in his long, long life. But Lucifer remembers every year with you and wishes that he could only have more. He is not done with loving you, he tells you, holding onto your frail hands tightly. “You’re not allowed to leave until my heart is spent,” he says to you as you smile, and he wishes that your smile were not so resigned.

“Lucifer,” you say quietly, with all the strength you can muster. He leans his head in and blinks away the tears in his eyes if only to see your face more clearly. “I love you,” you say. “I want you to love people after me as well. Can you do that for me?” You breathe out. “Can I make that my final request?”

And who was he to deny you?

.

It was not easy, living a life without you. The first few years he admits that he fails to live up to your hopes, feeling more like who he was during the fall. But after a life with you, he is different. He mourns with his brothers and grieves for his loss, but remembers to love his brothers, his friends, and whoever that may come into his life like you did. 

Lucifer still visits your grave every year, never failing to place a bouquet of orchids by your tombstone. And it is times of quiet like these that he is reminded of you again: You had so loved flowers and loved learning about the languages of flowers, decorating each room of the House of Lamentations with bouquets with meaning and bringing life to a home that had gone so far without it. Your enthusiasm, just like your laughter, was contagious, and he became fluent in the language as well, gifting you with a bouquet of warm colored tulips to watch you fluster and putting a single aster behind your ear to coax out your shy smile. 

It is easy to forget a language he no longer uses as readily, but he holds onto the words and meanings conveyed in colors and flower petals if only because it reminds him of you.

And every year the orchids say ‘I will always love you’ and he hopes the words find their way to you.

[cherryonigiri]

when and where (oikawa tooru) - part one

Summary: Tooru can’t seem to understand you loneliness, and you can’t understand his desire to sacrifice anything to be by your side again. In which the words ‘opposites attract’ are both your beginning and end. (Inspired by the song/lyrics of Undone by Haley Reinhart)

word count: 1.8k 

“Stars fade away, they just crash into space, disappear from my life, like you and I.” 

“Tooru,” you whisper. The numbers ‘5:00′ glare back at you in red, reminding you of the sleep that continues to evade you, despite feeling utterly exhausted. Your phone is glowing against the pitch black, the blue light acting as a substitute for the moon, which hides behind wispy clouds. “I miss you.” There is an ache that starts in the back of your throat, winding its way down to your chest where it stays, pushing, prodding, pounding against your sternum. Thankfully your voice doesn’t crack, but the tears are still there, trailing down your cheeks. You’ve steeled your resolve, but your heart is still drowning in the loss that is yet to come.

“I know darling,” he laughs. “I miss you too.” Another light-hearted chuckle. You can hear him shuffling through his bag. Seconds later, after the tap of shoes on tile, keys jingle and you hear the thump of the door shutting. It’s almost evening in Brazil (you know because you’ve long since memorized how many hours are between Sendai and Rio). The sun is probably setting on the beach Tooru just returned from, in complete opposition to the flickering stars keeping watch over your sleepless figure. 

That’s how it is between the two of you. Day and night. Tooru was more than happy to revel in his overwhelming brightness - embracing his role as the best setter in the prefecture and his popularity amongst his fans. He always had that smirk, the one that was always plastered on his face that screamed confidence in who he was. 

On the other hand, you clung to your shyness - you’d never liked large crowds to begin with, and you were happy with the small, close-knit, group of friends you’d made. You weren’t closed off, but new things were met with caution. Tentative touches and long gazes to determine whether an unfamiliar addition would disturb the peaceful familiarity you’d woven. 

The words ‘opposites attract’ made you snort, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been drawn to Tooru’s effervescent energy. (A year after you’d started dating Tooru had admitted he’d found a quiet refuge in his relationship with you.) In the beginning, Tooru had coaxed you out of your shell. Never forcefully, and always done with an observant eye. He ignored his team’s teasing, only inviting you to watch them practice after introducing you to each member individually outside of the university gymnasium. He’d rush you home in a heartbeat the minute you looked overwhelmed or uncomfortable. Like two planets, gravity had drawn you together, pushing you closer and closer with every orbit.

Now it’s different. Gravity is chasing after you, bringing your heart catastrophically close to disaster before flinging it into the distance. Your whispered ‘I miss you’ wasn’t an attempt to impart a fleeting bit of affection, or to reassure Tooru that your heart still beat for him every second of the day (which it did). No, it was meant to hide an unspoken plea that was begging him to return, to once again indulge in hour long phone calls late into the evening; to be present. Of course, you weren’t expecting him to pick up on that. After all, you’d dedicated your time alone to perfecting the art of not letting anyone know of your unravelling.

It started slowly—long video chats in the evening became less frequent, replaced by a dwindling number of rushed phone calls on the train to work. Short texts, snuck between sets and during water breaks, became the norm, erasing your habit of sending each other paragraphs about your days. You knew he felt guilty for missing the small snippets of time that he could spend with you. At the core of his being, Tooru is a caring person: he would run himself ragged and work himself to the bone for someone he loved. It was a double-edged sword; working harder and dedicating more time to accelerate his progress so he could return to you faster meant he was inevitably drifting away. 

“Tooru, I can’t do this anymore.” You wince as you throw your plan out of the window, foregoing any kind of verbal cue that would let him know that this was serious. That you were talking about more than having a mundanely horrible day at work.

“Love, what happened today? Was today a bad day? I thought work was going better…” Your boyfriend trails off as you remain silent. 

“This. Us. I think,” you gulp down the sob that threatens to erupt from your throat. “I think we should break up.” You have to force out those two words, break up, because saying them out loud makes it real. Makes this whole conversation real. Grounds it reality, in the realization that this is really happening, that your heartbreak is rushing towards you much faster than you ever wanted. 

You expect him to protest. To at least exclaim loudly and object to the separation. Maybe a part of you wants him to plead, to experience the same hollow loneliness of missing him. To tell you that, yes, I am suffering just as much, and feeling just as broken as you are. Maybe you are desperate, hoping that he’ll convince you that the exuberance he expresses over the phone is one of his carefully constructed facades.

“Can I at least know why?” You catch the slight uptick of his voice, the crack that he tries to hide from you. 

And that’s when your heart truly shatters. 

Because, by asking that question, he reveals that somewhere between his last night in your apartment and today, at five in the morning, the two of you stopped inhabiting the same realm of separation. In a way, Tooru had confirmed what you’d started fearing with every passing day: that he was stronger than you’d ever be. That he could bear the weight of being separated by continents and oceans while you were crumbling. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t endure the pile of missed calls followed by rushed texts of apology. You can’t stand that the only time you can talk to him is on crowded subways where the ever present bustle of other commuters intrudes on your conversations. God, now that you think about it, when was the last time you’d talked to Tooru for more than five minutes? 

“We barely talk anymore Tooru,” you begin, hunching over as both the tears and words begin to flow freely. “I—”

“But you know why y/n!” he responds. He’s pacing, the thumps of his feet echoing through the receiver. He lets out a sigh and you know he’s running his hand through his hair. It’s one of his habits that you have memorized. It’s painful how easy it is for you to imagine Tooru; all his little gestures and mannerisms etched deeply and intimately into your memory. 

“Yes, I know why,” you hiss. “But the fact that you never told me outright? That hurt Tooru.” It still does. It’s his strange blend of selflessness and ambition that has led you here. You thought you’d be sad, that this conversation would leave you with a heavy heart. Instead, a small spark of anger lodges itself in your chest. 

“How was I supposed to?” He retorts. “It’s not like I can ask you to give up your time with me. I’m trying my best to get back to you sooner!” But how can he say that when he’s already left you behind? Instead of extinguishing your anger, he only fans the flames, truly setting you alight. 

“Did you ever think to ask me? Did it ever occur to you that I would rather have waited for longer if that meant you could actually have time for us?” Your rage is dangerous and all-consuming, centering you within the bitterness of the isolation that Tooru had forced upon you.

Silence. And then,

“Y/n…” The way Tooru says your name nearly breaks your resolve. “Please, just wait a little longer. I’ll figure something out, I can train more so I can come back in less than a year. I’m just asking you to be patient.” No, no, no. What he’s offering is worse. You want him to make more space for your relationship, not less. In his quest to hasten his return, he’d turned to a method that consumed the time you occupied in his day. Slowly but surely, the space you’d taken up was sacrificed, leaving you with nothing but those five minutes on the train ride to work.

“That’s not what I want!” You shout. Why is his solution to make things worse? 

“Then what do you want?” He screams back, his thinly veiled irritation blooming into confused anger. “You’re lonely, so I’m trying my fucking best to go back to you as soon as possible. “Why…” he pauses, as if he’ll regret his words, before plowing on, “can’t you just accept that?” 

Suddenly, all the air is knocked out of your lungs with a whoosh. You barely have time to realize you’d stood up in the midst of your argument before you’re sagging against your bed frame, wilting until you’re sitting on the floor. 

You’ve given up, because Tooru’s stubbornness has manifested itself as an irremovable wedge between the two of you. Blinded by his belief that all you desire and yearn for is his physical presence, he can’t even begin to see that all you want is to be given a semblance of space within his life. To have a few hours of his voice, rather than the fleeting promise of reuniting sooner. To accompany him, rather than wait for him at the end of his journey. He is unwilling to bear witness to the different kind of loneliness you suffer; unwilling to peer into the parallel, yet utterly different, dimension of suffering that branches from his own longing for you.

“Tooru…” I’m being selfish, “This isn’t working. Just let us go,” whatever we are now, before it gets worse. You’re not sure if he can hear the shaky inhale of your lungs as you try to steady your voice. 

“I can’t,” he sobs. “Why can’t you see I’m doing this for you?”

Because you can only see me as the finish line, not as someone who runs beside you. Because somehow, you can only worry about the me you see in the future, not the person who is speaking to you now. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice still wavering despite your best efforts.

‘No, please, y/n—”

One last reassurance. “Thank you for everything.” I love you.

“Y/n wait, please, don’t do this.” His pleas are tearing you apart. “I can take a break, fly back—”

You refuse to be the reason he halts his momentum. “Goodbye, Tooru.” A broken whisper. 

Equal and opposite, two stars crash into each other violently. Flickering in and out, they vie for the chance to exist as they clash against each other, emitting white sparks.

A press of a red button. 

Both of them are gone.

[creepy-spooghetti]

A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Chapter 1- Over the River and Through the Woods

Yesss, I started a fanfic. I know. Go me, right?

I'm sure you all know the drill by now but, for those of you who don't, here it is:

Y\n = Your name

L\n = Last name

H\c = Hair color

E\c = Eye color

F\c = Favorite color

B\m = Birth month

S\t = Skin tone

B\s = Body shape

L\c = Lip color

H\l = Hair length

Aaaand I think that's it for now. Enjoy the 1st chapter~

_____________________________________________________

She lets out an inaudible sigh, her head propped in her hand as she gazes out of the blue-tinted window. Trees and small houses whiz by, blurring together and creating an evanescent of greens, browns, whites, and yellows. The sun is high in the turquoise sky, its heated summer rays shining down through the puffy clouds and shooting beams of light throughout the atmosphere.

She attempts to make fun shapes out of the fluffy, levitating white lumps, though she can't seem to concentrate long enough to truly get anywhere with it. The car would be completely silent if not for the constant humming of the wheels beneath scraping the asphalt and bringing them closer to their destination. Beside Y\n lays her luggage; a simple duffle bag colored a periwinkle purple and a black backpack, each stuffed with various clothes and necessities she deemed imperative to bring along.

Her headphones are placed diligently over her ears, muffling any noise that may come from outside and blocking it out with music of her choice. Her finger fiddles with the wire, twirling it around absentmindedly as she stares through the thin glass, her mind on nothing in particular and instead wandering aimlessly amidst the endless fog of thoughts and memories. She glances to her side- or rather, ahead of her- landing her gaze on her father as he sits in the driver's seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, and concentrating on the stretch of road in front of him. 

He has a rather torpid expression painted across his face, she can see as she looks up at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Not too happy about coming back here, she thinks, narrowing her eyes slightly, but why would he be? It's only his parents. Who cares about them? Certainly not him.

She notices her mother sitting in the passenger's side, brown hair tied back into a neat bun and head craned forward, eyes squinted as she focuses on the glowing screen of her phone; her thumb scrolling the small device listlessly, seemingly in search of something interesting, or perhaps she's reading something that has gained her interest. 

Then something always seems to have gained her interest. Her e\c eyes move back to their previous position, a faint feeling of indignancy rising within her chest and beginning to bubble to the surface. I doubt she even sleeps, always up all night texting her boyfriend.

A bitter sensation grabs at her tongue and makes her want to spit the foul taste out, though she only swallows and bites the inside of her cheek as if attempting to rid herself of the disconcerting concept. She searches the hollows of her mind for something lighthearted, a memory that contains laughter and joy and fondness, however, she finds nothing. She's unable to remember the last time within the last couple of years that she and her family shared a delightful moment together, when her father smiled or her mother was veridical. 

She comes to the demoralizing realization that her family hasn't acted as a family since she was twelve years old, only still a child when her clinquant life slowly came crashing down before her. She isn't sure the exact minute that it happened, or have a specific reason as to why it happened, all she knows is that her parents steadily grew more and more distant, drawing themselves out of her sight until she felt completely alone; abandoned. Forgotten.

She tried to talk to them, get them to open back up, allow their only child back in, and each time, they forced themselves farther back into the cold, bitter darkness and left her desperate, longing for their love and affection. She knew that she was never getting anywhere with her parents, so after many failed attempts, she just stopped her fruitless efforts.

As a result, it was only natural for Y\n to do the same. She wasn't getting the attention she desperately yearned for out of them, and the only thing she knew to do was to follow their lead. She cut off connections with most of her friends, refused to socialize unless it was necessary, kept her emotions locked away in a box, and threw away the key. Stepping out of the light that was society and making herself invisible among most people, even herself at times.

At this point, now sixteen years of age, she still cares deeply about what was to become of their lives, though she always drives the feelings of uncertainty to the back of her dimmed mind. If they don't give a crap, why should I?

She blinks, emerging from her thoughts of deep disdain as she registers the vehicle she sits in turn sharply, riding onto a dirt road and deeper into the forest that houses the two people she still holds in high regard. A blue and white sign passes by, and she quickly reads the words written in bold across its metal surface. Oneiric Lane, half a mile.

Despite the displeasing situation, she feels a splang of excitement erupt through her chest. Yes, she's nearly there. It will be nice to be loved again, treated fairly, and with affection. Unless they've forgotten about her. Impossible. I'm one of two grandchildren, they would never forget about me. Almost eagerly, she raises her head up, e\c irises gleaming in the slightly obscured sunlight shining in through the trees, and she gives herself a mental pep talk as if to encourage further what she knows should remain true.

It might be awkward... but I'll be fine. I can do it. What if they don't like me? I'm not exactly their 'little hummingbird', anymore... She tries to dismiss the thoughts as she observes her surroundings, trying to find an ounce of familiarity anywhere, though she fails to. Why don't I remember what the scenery looked like? Was that house there, before? Is that tree new? Ugh! I blame Dad for this. If he would've gotten rid of that stick up his butt then I could've been back here long ago! But no. He's so dang spiteful he can't just get over a simple argument like a civilized human being, no. He has to be a jerk about it! Leaving poor Nana and Pops in the dust like that... much like he's doing to me, right now. Oh, the irony. Is it possible to ramble in your head? Cause if so, I think I'm doing it, right now.

With a barely noticeable shake of her head, she pauses her music and gingerly removes her headphones, being careful not to tangle the wire as she unplugs it from the MP3 Player and wraps them around the f\c object. She then takes hold of her backpack, still open from where she retrieved the source of entertainment, and shoves them inside, zipping it closed after finishing. 

I have so many things to show them! Maybe Nana will let me do a paint job on her wall... I have gotten quite good. She rolls her eyes and lets out a sound similar to a huff. Don't get too ahead of yourself, Y\n. A simple canvas will do just nicely. Besides, she probably has wallpaper... or does she? I don't even remember. There were bright colors, though. Hopefully not too bright... That would be a bit too cheery for my tastes. But whatever. It's their house, I'm only the guest.

A ghost of a smile sweeps across her face when she sees the somewhat familiar, victorian-style cottage come into view, and she feels her heart speed up with elation as they draw nearer. Around the house lies a white picket fence, lined with beautifully planted flowers of all different colors, their stems having grown tall and wrapped themselves around each individual post, leaving a wild, peaceful appearance to it.

At the gate, about ten feet from the front door sits an intricate white arch made of thick twine and enlaced with more vibrant plants, and the house itself is a gentle shade of cornflower blue, with an ornate wooden roof that sparkles like tiny crystals in the sun's bright yellow beams. The window frames are a snow-white, their shutters open and allowing one to see the inside of the home, if only slightly, and the transparent pane is rimmed with stained glass roses. 

The whole architecture makes it look as if the words from a book of fairy tales leaked out of its pages and sprung to life, staying hidden between the trees until someone comes across it. It nearly takes her breath away, and she stares in awe, waiting anxiously for the vehicle to pull over so she can jump out and greet the people that are probably dearest to her heart, despite the long years it's been since she's laid eyes on them.

I forgot how amazing this place was... She unbuckles her seatbelt, practically leaning against the glass in building anticipation. I can just about smell her pineapple casserole, already! Finally, the car comes to a slow, almost hesitant stop a few feet from the gate, under a willow tree. She reaches down hastily toward the door handle, though when she pulls it, she finds that the door doesn't budge.

Only then does she realize it hasn't been unlocked and looks up at the man she calls her father expectably, impatiently. She waits a moment, but he makes no move to signify that he's unlocking the car. "Dad," she starts, her voice low and irritated, "open the door, please."

She watches as his hands clench up for a mere second before he releases a small sigh of vexation and presses the 'unlock' button, making the four doors to the vehicle click. Satisfied and vaguely relieved, she pulls on the handle, and the metal portal swings open, the warm summer air immediately greeting her as she steps out onto the vivid green grass. She takes a big whiff of the fresh air, natural scents swirling her nostrils and overwhelming them as she pulls her bags out from the car and slings them over her shoulder.

A sudden swirl of nervousness forms in the pit of her stomach as she steps toward the unfamiliar but yet all too recognizable cottage, questions floating around inside of her brain and making her stop her footsteps. I haven't seen them in years... What if they've changed? What if... they don't like how I've changed?

But her inquiries of doubt soon vanish when she hears a screen door swinging open before an elderly lady steps out, landing her gaze on the h\c girl instantly. Her face contorts into one of pure bliss and exhilaration as a wide smile takes over her aged features, and before Y\n even knows it, she's nearly running toward the arched gateway to meet and reunite with her. All worries she had before either disappear or shove themselves to the back of her mind, leaving her raw excitement to show itself in full form for the first time since she started on this trip.

"Phil, Phil!" the lady all but screams, diving for the gate and waving her hand around frantically. "She's here! Y\n's here!" The girl stands there silently, a smile tugging at her lips when she meets her grandmother's gaze for the first time in what feels like forever. Memories rush back like a large wave, rolling over her consciousness and causing her to remember every detail. As if all she needed was a physical, real-time picture of her to jolt her memory and remind her of how much she adored this woman, this whole place. 

As she hurries toward her, she gets a clear view of her appearance. She's wearing a floral dress, patterned with tiny petaled flowers of all different shapes and a skirt that drapes all the way down to her shins, a white and rose-pink apron that ties around her waist as if she's been cooking. Her shoes are simple beige sandals, and her grey, brittle hair is tied back into a Chinese-inspired bun. Her eyes are kind and welcoming, though sunken with age and life experience, and the wrinkles that crease her forehead and cheeks only remind Y\n of how old she has to be getting, now.

A sparkle of joy shines in her e\c orbs as she watches her approach at a surprisingly fast rate, no doubt caused by a rush of adrenaline. "Hi, Nana," she says, her tone warmer than it's been in a long time. She can see her slightly yellowed teeth past her wide grin right before she's enveloped in a tight embrace, her frail arms wrapping around Y\n's frame and pulling her into her as much as she possibly can.

A pleasant scent wafts up into her nose; it's a peaceful aroma, a mixture between strawberries and cinnamon. She hugs back with her free arm almost instantly, squeezing her grandmother's scrawny torso as much as she deems appropriate so she doesn't somehow injure her. She registers the screen door once again flying open, the creaking of its likely very old and unoiled hinges making a sound similar to a screech before footsteps are heard running across the polished stone. 

She mentally prepares herself for another bear hug, this time a lot more crushing and powerful, as she remembers how strong and stout of a man her grandfather is. "Oh! My girl is home!" He yells, right before she feels another pair of limbs wrap around her, nearly making her stumble and fall back just from force alone. A small, blissful chuckle leaves her l\c lips, feeling happiness flood inside of her chest, and though it's a different feeling, she certainly doesn't make it unwelcome.

"We've missed you so much!" Nana chirps, finally pulling away after what had to be two solid minutes. Her wrinkled hands lightly grasp her shoulders before moving up to cup her face, gently lifting it to get a better look. A surprised expression forms across her features before it's replaced by a wider- if it's even possible- smile. "Oh, look how much you've grown!" She turns her head toward her husband. "Phil, do you see her?"

"Aye. I sure do," he says with a proud nod of his head. "She's just as beautiful as she was the last time she visited." A small blush dusts itself across her cheeks and she looks to the side, embarrassed. He chuckles. "Just as bashful, too."

"Leave her alone." She turns back to face her, excitement dancing in her faded brown eyes. She brushes a strand of h\c hair behind her ear before giving her another hug. "We've missed you so much, sweetie. It's been too long." Y\n only nods shyly, not used to being fawned over as she is at the moment. Behind her, she hears the wheels of the car grinding against the dirt as it pulls out, and she twists her head back just in time to see her parents driving away, leaving her there for what's bound to be at least a couple of weeks.

All without a goodbye. A disgruntled huff leaves her nose and she purses her lips together, her heart starting to feel heavy as she stares in the direction of the dirt road they drove off in. The elderly couple is silent also before Phil clicks his tongue, though, in disappointment or anger, she isn't sure. "Well, how about that. No 'hello' or anything." 

"They're not big on hellos," Y\n mutters, feeling her fists clench. "Or goodbyes." Her grandma places a reassuring hand on her arm before grabbing her hand and talking in a sympathetic voice.

"I'm sorry, darling. I'm not sure what thorn got stuck in their shoe, but they need to get it out." She tightens her grip before letting out a sigh. "Anyway, we have to catch up! I haven't seen you since you were a little girl." She looks back at the old woman and allows a more peaceful expression to grace her features. "How old are you, now? Fifteen?"

"She looks more grown-up than that," Phil comments and Y\n shrugs lightly, biting her lip.

"Uhm... I'm sixteen. Gonna be seventeen in B\m."

"My word!" Her Nana exclaims, cupping a hand to her mouth to emphasize. "You're practically an adult, already!" 

"Only a few years older than that darned cat of yours, Farrah," he says, and Y\n's eyes light up momentarily as she remembers one of the main reasons she's always adored this place so much. 

"Marshmallow?" She questions, unsure excitement beginning to course through her, once again. "He's still alive?"

"Why, yes, he is," Farrah laughs cheerily, as if surprised by her inquiry. "Getting on up there, though. I'm a little shocked to know you remember him."

"Of course I remember him," she says, her voice growing louder from exhilaration. "He's my little buddy. I wonder if he still remembers me..." 

"I'm sure he does," Phil says. "He was always followin' you around. Probably cause you spoiled him so much with milk and meat from the pantry." She grins sheepishly and rubs the back of her neck. 

"He needs to be spoiled. Too sweet not to be spoiled."

"Very good point." Farrah smiles. 

"And yet I can't even have a dog in the house," he grumbles playfully. "You cat lovers don't make any sense."

"We don't have to make sense," Farrah says. "Cats are gorgeous, wholesome creatures, and they deserve to be treated as such. That's as much sense as you need."

"Sure, sure." He waves her off. "You treat that cat better than you do me."

"Well, you're not covered in angelic fur and lay on my lap to cuddle, now do you?" She raises a thin eyebrow, and he scoffs. 

"I can lay in your lap if that's what you want."

"No, thank you."

"Well, c'mon woman, make up your mind!"

"My mind is made up! Now, come on, dear." She pulls Y\n toward her and begins walking toward the cottage that the teenager hasn't stepped foot in for five years, and she follows behind, although somewhat reluctantly. "You must be starving."

"You want me to carry those for you?" Phil asks, and she glances over at him, her eyes widened slightly, clearly taken off-guard by the sudden offer. But she collects her bearings rather quickly and shakes her head with a grateful smile.

"N-no thanks, Pops. I got it."

"Whatcha got in those things? They look heavy." Her grip automatically tightens on the straps hanging from her shoulder before shrugging, trying to get used to being asked frequent questions and being around people who actually care about her.

"Um... clothes and stuff." She replies quietly as they step through the arched gateway. They walk along a neat path of polished stones and white marble, steadily getting closer to the painted oak door. She glances around, beside her feet, only to see a trail of tulips, consisting of pink, white, red, and violet, planted on either side of the carefully placed rock pathway. It continues to amaze her how her grandparents can manage to keep the garden beautiful, while also making sure the house is in tip-top shape.

Good genes, I guess.

"You got any o' those modern technology things that kids use nowadays?"

"I mean... I have a phone. And an MP3 player... and a laptop."

"Oi," he laughs, "I thought you were comin' here to get away from that stuff and spend a few weeks, old-person style." A hint of pink spreads across her cheeks, and suddenly, she feels a little guilty.

"I-I mean, I just brought them to do art and stuff, I wasn't meaning to intrude-"

"Oh, hush, Phil." Farrah scolds her husband, turning to face Y\n with a kind smile. "Calm down, sweetie. You can bring anything and do anything you want here, okay? Don't feel ashamed or unwelcome." Her eyes radiate a kind of warmth and friendliness that Y\n hasn't been shown in a long time, and she slowly nods, allowing a small smile to stretch across her face. "Good. Now, welcome home."

She stands aside and allows the teen to enter the household, e\c eyes widening when she sees the interior. Along the floor lays a hand-made rug, in the shape of a rectangle with additional ruffles at its edges. To her left is an open entrance to what appears to be a cozy living room, with a pink floral-patterned sofa resting against the wall, and next to it, facing the direction of the front door is an armchair of the same material. A frosted glass coffee table sits in front of them, and underneath it is an oak plank floor. 

Past the living area is a small dining room, with a white table and four chairs slid neatly on each side, and behind that is an antique China cabinet with double doors and several drawers, all of which are see-through and hold various cups, platters, and knick-knacks that have been collected over the years. Straight in front of her is a dark oak staircase, which she remembers to lead up and to the bedrooms and the other bathroom in the comfy home. To her right is a kitchen, with a white, ceramic-tiled floor, a long countertop that twists around the length of the area, excluding the refrigerator, the oven, and the sink.

Hanging overhead is an oven light and cabinets with crystal knobs that she assumes lead to pots, pans, and other dishes to use with cooking and eating. In the center is an island, with a vase of lemon yellow roses and three plates stacked onto one another. 

A scent of honeysuckle wafts up into her nose, as well as the familiar pineapple casserole that she only recently realized she missed, mixing together and creating a sense of nostalgia. She almost cries from pure joy right then and there. I really did miss this place...

"Make yourself comfortable, dear," Farrah chirps from behind her, giving her a few moments to get used to her new, but familiar, surroundings. "I made pineapple casserole, in case you're hungry. That is still your favorite, right?" Y\n only nods and gives a soft hum in response, stepping farther inside and allowing herself to succumb to the wave of memories that hit her simply by walking through the door.

Her gaze sweeps over everything in awe as she stops in front of the staircase, glancing back at her grandmother almost timidly and speaking up. "Um... where can I stay at?" A flash of realization shimmers in Farrah's eyes before she steps forward and nods her head.

"Ah, yes. You remember your aunt Darcy's old room?" She nods, quickly catching onto what she's referring to. "That is where you can sleep, store your things, anything. I mean, your dad's room is available, too, but I didn't figure you'd want to stay somewhere with all those ugly concert posters and figurines."

"Y-yeah, Aunt Darcy's room will be fine," she replies, turning and beginning her small trek up the dozen or so stairs. The idea of staying in her father's childhood bedroom doesn't sit right in her stomach. "Thank you, Nana."

"Are you sure you don't need any help with your bags?" She questions from below, her soft voice echoing upward and easily extending to Y\n's ears. "They look awfully heavy."

"No, it's okay, I got 'em," she responds, reaching the top stair and taking a moment to navigate the somewhat narrow space before her. Beneath her shoes is a thin white rug that stretches the length of the hallway, to her immediate right is a small polished, wooden table used to place a dainty-looking bouquet of petunias in a glass vase. On her left is a door that's been left slightly ajar, revealing a little bit of the interior to her and reminding her that this is indeed where she's going. 

She uses her free hand to push it open, e\c eyes lighting up when she steps inside of the nostalgic bedroom. The walls are a pristine, rosy pink, the floor is crafted out of ash wood planks and complements the design and hues nicely. In the center side of the room is a bed, made as a sort of cubby hole into the wall and at a straight angle next to a window. Surrounding the bed, built into the wall, are two bookshelves, both on either side and filled with colorful books of varying sizes. 

Beneath the mattress is a long drawer, one of which she remembers to be a trundle bed, as it pulls out and creates another area for a second person to sleep in. Attached to the ceiling above is a set of turquoise sheers, slid to either side of the sleeping niche, and loosely tied to the wall with a thin pair of string. In one of the corners, next to the other window, hangs a basket swing, with two pink pillows placed inside in order to cushion it. To her right is what she recalls to be a closet, the door shut and a shoe organizer gripping onto the top edge of it. Inside the pouches are several pairs of footwear, each separated and easily discernable.

A white, fluffy rug lays spread across the floor, underneath a clothes hamper, a small, cushioned bench, and a cotton bean bag chair. A painted oak desk sits pressed against the wall across from her, with several drawers inside and a stool of the same color pushed neatly beneath it. A reading lamp sits atop the surface, along with a couple of minuscule baskets to hold diverse writing tools, a notebook and binder stacked onto each other, a robin paperweight, and a small mirror. 

She releases an inaudible sigh, allowing the corners of her lips to twitch upward in a content smile as she walks further inside, dropping her bags onto the bed and giving herself a double-take of her temporary bedroom. A giddy sensation forms within her chest; one she hasn't experienced in a number of years, and she quickly realizes that she enjoys it. She turns her head and gazes out the open window, viewing the yard of green grass and colorful flowers below and admiring how the sun's golden rays shine down through the towering trees.

Her stomach suddenly rumbles and only then does she realize that she hasn't had anything to eat since the beginning of the six-hour trip to her grandparents' house, so she understandably feels hungry. Eager to stuff something down her throat and ease her mild sense of famine, she turns on her heel and walks out of the room, heading down the stairs and, once again being greeted by the pleasant scent of the sweet food dish. 

Farrah, who is currently standing in the kitchen, sends Y\n an affectionate smile and motions for her to come in with a wave of her hand. "Hi, dear. Settled in already?" The teenager shakes her head slightly, following the smell and stepping inside.

"Not quite, Nana. I'm hungry, and the thought of eating something this delicious couldn't wait." The woman chuckles in response, grabbing one of the three plates and handing it to Y\n. She takes it in her hands and sends her a grateful look.

"Well, eat all you want. There are mashed potatoes, rolls, and a turkey on the oven." She points to the stove behind her, and Y\n follows her gaze, seeing the white meat sticking out of an old crockpot, the homemade rolls neatly placed on a cooking sheet, and the mashed potatoes scooped into a metal, floral-patterned container. "Just be careful and don't burn yourself. It's still hot." She nearly drools at the sight and nods, hastily making her way over to the food items as her stomach continues speaking to her.

Gripping a large spoon, she dips it into the potatoes and scoops some out and onto her empty plate before leaving the utensil there and moving on to the chicken. She equips a fork and cautiously picks off three or four fair-sized pieces, then grabs a tasty roll of bread, leaving just enough room for her favorite dish. "Geez, Nana," she says, making her way over to the pineapple casserole on the island, "this is a lot of food. If you would've waited, I could have helped you and you wouldn't have had to do it all on your own."

"Honey, don't worry about that. This is something I wanted to do, something special. After all, we haven't seen you in almost six years." As she places a rather large helping of the treat onto her platter, she can't stop the small notion of guilt forming within her chest, though above that lies utter delight. 

I can't believe this woman is Dad's mom. "But..." She begins to butter her roll, glancing at Farrah with slightly furrowed eyebrows. "...you didn't have to do all of this for me. I would've been happy with anythi-"

"Hush, now." She cuts her off, kindness sparkling in her deep brown orbs as she places a gentle hand upon her granddaughter's shoulder. "Thank you for being humble about it. But I promise I wanted to do this. There isn't a need to fret over it. Just enjoy the meal, please." She feels compelled to hug her, again, though ultimately refrains because she doesn't want to accidentally spill her food that Farrah likely spent hours hard at work in the kitchen to make. 

Tears threatening to form in her eyes, she only smiles fondly, her grip on the plate tightening ever so slightly. "O-okay... Thank you." 

"Now go and eat." She gently pushes her in the direction of the living room, an empathetic expression on her aged face. "What do you want to drink?" 

"O-oh, no thanks, Nana, I can get it." Farrah's lips part as if she's about to argue, but Y\n shakes her head and walks over toward the fridge, ultimately silencing her. She opens the door and pulls out a water bottle before lightly shutting it back with her foot and grabbing her plate from off of the counter. "Is Pops eating, already?"

"He is." She nods in confirmation. "And he's waiting for both of us to sit with him."

"Well, I wouldn't wanna disappoint him by not showing up." She allows a small, cheeky grin to form across her face before turning around, walking through the living room, and soon arriving at the dining table, where she sees her grandpa silently eating his own share of the food. She takes a seat across from him and lays her plate and bottle of water in front of her, drawing the attention of the man and causing his gaze to shift up to her. 

"Hello, young lady," he greets affectionately, and she meets his copper-brown eyes. "Getting settled in okay?"

"Yes, sir," she replies with a slight dip of her head. 

"Is it cozy enough for ya? I know you're used to all those fancy items and rich city life, so I'm sorry if it doesn't meet your expectations." Her eyes widen- almost a comical amount- and she looks at him as if he just attempted to behead her. Taking a scoop of mashed potatoes in her spoon, she swiftly shakes her head before taking a bite.

"No, Pops. It does. The country's amazing." She brushes a strand of h\c hair behind her ear and swallows the tasty vegetable. "City life isn't that good. Honestly, I'd rather be here than in some hundred-thousand-dollar penthouse." A large, satisfied smile reaches his wrinkled features, and his eyes crinkle up before he lets out a jolly laugh.

"You hear this, Farrah?" He glances back at the said woman as she enters the dining room, taking her rightful seat to the side of her husband of many years. "This girl's too pure to be tainted. We should keep her here."

A kind grin stretches her lips though she shakes her head nonetheless. "I don't think her parents would approve of that, Phil."

"My parents wouldn't care," Y\n mumbles in response, noticing the sad looks being thrown her way, and she eats a fork-full of pineapple casserole to fill the somewhat tense silence that's fallen over the table. She keeps her eyes trained on the plate in front of her, suddenly finding it much more interesting.

"I'm sure that's not true, sweetie." Farrah's voice is gentle and reassuring. Y\n only shrugs.

"I mean, they never cared, before. Why would they now?" Her tone drops within each word, embarrassment creeping up into her mind and flushing her cheeks a pale tone of b\c. Phil shakes his head disapprovingly while Farrah just stares at her with sympathy. 

"That's shameful," he starts, his voice filled with disdain. "They're your parents, Y\n."

"I know that, you know that. They know that. But they ignore it all the same."

"When did this start, sweetheart?" the old woman questions, taking a sip of her drink. 

"A few years ago. I don't know, really." It's silent for several moments, and Y\n starts wishing she wouldn't have even said anything. Way to ruin the mood, Y\n. Good going, really.

"Hun, they're not... abusing you, or anything, right?" The teenager can sense the hesitancy in her words as if she's afraid to hear the answer, and Y\n is quick to shoot her inquiry down.

"N-no, Nana, don't worry. Nothing like that." She releases an audible huff of air, likely relieved to hear her answer. 

"Do they do anything?" Phil asks, leaning forward slightly and facing his granddaughter with concern. She wracks her brain for a coherent reply. 

"Uh... no, not-not really." She glances up briefly to meet his eyes, trying to mask the hurt in her own but failing. "They hardly even talk to me, anymore. They don't even talk to each other anymore. Dad's always too busy and Mom is..." She swallows, probably a little too hard, and subconsciously starts tapping her foot against the floor lightly; a nervous habit of hers when she feels her anxiety level rising. 

Her mind flashes with images of her mother's phone going off out of nowhere, then her mother's face lighting up whenever she reads whatever message had just been sent. She knows it hasn't ever been her father; he was always there with them when it happened. Her mom hasn't smiled that wide for her husband in a long time. Not to even mention those couple of nights she's caught her sneaking out. When she would ask about it, her mother would snap at her and tell her it's for "business" and then leave without a trace, sometimes not even coming back until the next night.

Her foot makes a soft thump thump thump noise each time it collides with the floor, though her mind blocks it out as she tries to draw herself back into reality. "Um... keeping secrets." Phil and Farah share a brief glance.

"What kind of secrets, darlin'?" her grandfather asks, and her grip tightens on the fork in her hand. 

"I think that, uhm... I think that she's cheating on Dad." She doesn't look up to see the startled expressions on their faces, afraid that they'll judge her and her parents. "I mean, she's been acting really weird, texting people all the time, sneaking out of the house, e-especially at night, and I've caught her before but she just got mad and said it was 'business-related'." She brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Plus, Mom and Dad haven't gone out on a date in years. And I-I don't know, it's just... concerning."

"Sweetie," Farah starts, and Y\n internally winces at the strict tone that her voice adapted, "that isn't good." She only shakes her head in agreement, taking another bite of her food, though finding that her appetite is steadily decreasing. "We need to talk to them about this."

"No," she interjects, finally meeting Farrah's eyes with frightened e\c ones. "They can't know I told you all of this. They-they'll be mad at me and give me all kinds of crap." 

"Are you sure, Y\n?" Phil says, his bushy eyebrows furrowed distaste. "You don't need to be in a house with two people that unstable. We could call them and you could stay with us." Although the thought of staying in a house with her loving grandparents sounds nice, she ultimately refuses by shaking her head, once again and speaking in a quiet voice.

"No, it's okay. Thanks." Despite the fact that her parents don't seem to care about her, anymore, she would most definitely ruin what little of a relationship remains between the three of them if they were to find out about what she told Farrah and Phil, and she doesn't want that. She doesn't want her parents to hate her; that would be a terrible feeling. And she doesn't want to experience it.

The rest of the dinner goes by slowly for the h\c girl, with her grandparents attempting to talk about more light-hearted things in an effort to cheer her up, and it seems to work. They ask her about school, her friends, if she has a boyfriend, yet, which she responds to with valid answers. "It's good", "I don't have friends", and "No". It was making itself more apparent to them within each question she replies to that she isn't living a normal, healthy life. But they figure it'd be best not to pry too much. After all, she's here for a break, not to be bombarded with questions and pity.

She stands with her plate and bottle of water in her hand after finishing the tasty food, pushes the chair back into the table with her foot, and walks past Farrah and toward the kitchen, feeling filled-up and tired. Her gaze averts to one of the windows, able to see the orange and pink mixture in the sky through the leaves of the trees, signifying that the sun is beginning to set below the horizon and darkness would soon replace its blaze of light. 

"Marshmallow is probably waiting outside, if you want to let him in for the night," the elderly woman calls from the dining room as Y\n puts her dishes in the sink and proceeds to rinse them off under warm water. Thinking about seeing the furry feline after such a long time causes her heart to skip in excitement, and she nods, knowing Farrah won't be able to see it.

"Okay, Nana." She finishes washing the porcelain and silverware and places them in the plastic drainer resting on the countertop, right beside the sink, before walking perhaps a little quicker than normal, unlocking the front door and gently swinging it open, being greeted by the warm summer air and the flowers swaying in the soft breeze.

She glances around the small porch, and can't help but quirk her lips up in a smile when she lays her eyes on the white and grey cat sitting on an old chair, swiping his paw over his face in order to clean himself. He looks up at her curiously, and she approaches slowly to avoid scaring him.

"Marshmallow? You remember me?" She sticks her hand out and allows him to sniff her fingers before affectionately rubbing his head. "It's Y\n. I haven't been here in a while."

He stands and lets out a small meow, rubbing against her palm and enjoying the affection he's recieving. She moves forward and wraps her arms around him, deeming it safe enough, and lifts him up to bring him inside. He bumps his head against her shoulder and she can hear the distinct sound of purring, a sound she hasn't heard in years. 

"Aww," she coos, unable to stop herself from fawning over the furry creature. "I missed you, too, little buddy." She turns, walks back into the house, and shuts the door carefully behind her, nearly walking right into Farrah as she goes into the kitchen, holding two plates and a glass of what holds just a few droplets of her drink.

She takes notice of Y\n and grins slightly at the sight. "Ah, see? We told you he'd remember you." The girl scratches Marshmallow under his chin, eliciting another meow of content from his mouth. His tail swishes and lightly hits her in the arm, making her chuckle. 

"Yeah. He's just as soft as I remember, too. And cuddly." As she says this, she hugs him closer to her chest, and Farrah smiles fondly as she places the plates into the sink. "Do you need help cleaning up?"

"No, thank you, hun." She parts her lips to object, but Farrah shakes her head. "You just spend some time with the fur baby. Maybe unpack, I know you didn't have time to, before." Y\n feels Marshmallow begin to struggle against her hold, so she bends down and loosens her grip, allowing him to jump to the floor and sprint to some area on the first floor, presumably his food bowl. 

"Are you sure? You've already done so much work already-"

"I can't believe you're the spawn of my son," she says, chuckling and wiping down the surface of a saucer. "It'll be fine, sweetie. I've got it covered. You go and relax." Y\n figures that as stubborn as she is, her grandmother is much more so and it won't do her any good to argue with her. Letting out a sigh, she grabs her water bottle from where she laid it on the island in the center of the kitchen and hesitantly ambles in front of the staircase.

"Okay... but, tell me if you need help?"

"Stop worrying. You're the guest here." Without another word, she heads up to her temporary bedroom, unknowingly being followed by a certain feline, and sets her bottle on the desk before grabbing her duffle bag, unzipping it, and taking out clothing piece by clothing piece. As she twists to walk to the closet, she stumbles over Marshmallow, who was in the process of rubbing against her leg and just barely catches her balance before falling on the poor cat. 

It takes a short moment to calm herself and get over the sudden adrenaline rush that floods her system, but once she does, she scoffs but smirks nonetheless. "Trying to trip me, already?" She reaches down and scratches his head, and he momentarily stands on his back feet as a response. "Silly cat."

She makes as few trips as possible hanging up her clothes in the small walk-in closet and putting things like undergarments and pants inside of the shelf of drawers that stands at the opposite end of the door, realizing that the space doesn't have a lot of her aunt's old clothes inside, anymore.

Nana probably put them in storage or something.

When she's done unpacking, sorting through, and putting everything away, she lifts her now-empty duffle bag and sets it down beside the desk. She decides against taking out the supplies from her backpack, partly because she's getting consistently sleepier, and partly because she feels a little odd getting comfortable here that quickly. 

Marshmallow found a bed on the cozy-looking beanbag during the early stages of unpacking and is now sleeping rather soundly, his body curled in around itself as his shoulders gently rise and fall within each breath he takes. She strokes his cheek tenderly with her index finger, admiring his ivory and light grey fur that graces his small frame. She can barely remember the last time she had pet an animal of any kind because it was so long ago, and many things have happened since then, causing her to force nice memories into the back of her mind and focus on the grim things in her life.

Sitting on the bed, her gaze trails out the window, where the sun has almost completely vanished and a full, bright moon now replaces it, dozens of stars beginning to litter the sky, all surrounding the miraculous white orb. I never get a view like this from the city.

She can't help but admire the scenery and feel a trace of disappointment that she hasn't seen more of it. All because of her selfish parents. She leans her head against the windowpane and stares up, mixed emotions making her feel conflicted. But she assures herself that it will be fine. She will be fine. Everything will work out in the end.

I sure hope so...

[elderbwrry]

Even if he doesn't say so

A little darkgingerpilot Witcher AU I discussed months ago with @cleversturmhond I have no concept of how time passes anymore

Summary: The Witcher meets a bard, the bard meets a mage, and they travel the continent. Kylo knows what he feels, but he can't seem to act. Hux acts without talking about things. And Poe... well, what does Poe feel?

Tags: Witcher AU, Inspired by The Witcher, Slow Burn, if you count 13k as slow burn i guess, within the story its slow burn, fantasy medieval setting, Self-Indulgent, Mage Hux, witcher kylo, Bard Poe, scenic, They're oblivious, sex references, Yearning, i guess, im slapping a mature on it for sex references and some minor violence but honestly ehhh idk, darkgingerpilot

Chapter 1/2/3/?, wordcount 5012

also on Ao3

Whenever someone asked Kylo, he always said he preferred to keep to himself and the company of Silence, his horse and his best companion for the very fact of her name; she didn't talk, she didn't disturb the meditative quiet of his lonely rides, and, most importantly, he wasn't unsure how to curry her favour. An apple would do it. His current companions, on the other hand...

For some gods-forsaken reason, Poe and Hux were quarrelling about a composer who had been dead for over a century. When the three of them had first started travelling together years ago, and in the short time since they'd reunited, such discussion had been endearing; both of them were opinionated about certain things, and their conversations often turned into little debates over whatever topic arose while they were travelling. This was one of those occasions, Kylo enjoying listening to their thoughts and voices filling up the worn country roads. A throwaway comment had become interesting; Kylo didn't actually know much about this particular composer, whereas Hux and Poe both did, and, though Kylo didn't often contribute to these discussions in any great detail since the other two were both so much better with words, he did like to learn something new occasionally. But now, several hours into their journey and still on the same subject, it was just getting fucking annoying.

“I literally studied her work. You can't just turn around and say she wasn't revolutionary,” Poe objected, trotting along between Silence and Hux's own horse on the wide bridleway, looking up at Hux indignantly.

Poe's lowered position made it seem slightly laughable when Hux looked down at him and countered, “Since I actually met the woman, I think you'll find I can,” before prompting his horse to walk on ahead of them.

Poe picked up his pace a little and continued the argument, making some musical point Kylo didn't understand either. He tried to tune them out a bit as he let Silence drop back a short distance behind the them.

Considering how much time the three of them spent around each other in recent years, Kylo supposed he should be glad disagreements as lengthy as these were relatively few. And, certainly, they were fewer even than when it had only been Kylo and Poe on the path together.

[break]

Kylo had met Poe many years ago – at least a decade, if he thought about it – when he'd been compelled by his work to go through the city he'd been born in. Not only was the place particularly unfriendly to Witchers, but also had relations of his – distant now, yet he wanted to avoid them nonetheless – in positions of authority. Kylo had used a fake name, a low hood to hide his eyes, his scar, and stuck to the dingiest taverns, but a curly-haired, high-born young man had recognised him anyway, sitting himself down confidently at Kylo's corner table, offering his name, and saying, “I know you. You're that famous Witcher.”

Kylo had eyed his unwelcome acquaintance – Poewas what he introduced himself as – guessing that he couldn't yet be twenty summers old. Of course, Kylo was no good with ages – his own longevity had corroded his sense for them until everyone seemed either old or young in confusing measures – but Poe's next request had practically confirmed his suspicion.

“Would you let me come with you?” Poe had asked the second the bar-wench had placed down Kylo's ale.

“Come with me where?” Kylo grunted. He wasn't in the mood to bodyguard some noble, out for the first time in a world without castle walls.

“Well, where are you going?” Poe's eyes had glinted as he offered Kylo a charming smile.

Kylo had appraised him again, taking in his youth, his rich clothes, his courage, and summarily said, “No.”

Poe's smile didn't drop, even though Kylo could see his only half-amused chuckle for the frustration it was. “Come on, I just wanna see a bit of the world. Get away from my guardian's expectations.”

“The Queen?” Kylo had asked, an imprudently displayed gold ring on the youth's finger catching the light.

Poe had shrugged a yes.

It only made Kylo refuse all the more. The Queen was one of the people Kylo was known to by unfortunate fact of his heritage, someone he never wanted to anger, in case of her having some cause to meet with him personally. Poe, while not her blood family, would surely be missed, as her ward, were he to make off with a Witcher, especially with the one so primarily known for the massacre at Crait.

Poe's gaze went steely at Kylo's final dismissal, and he'd left the tavern quickly after that. It couldn't have been two years later when Kylo encountered the young man again, fine doublet swapped for something a little more incognito in orange and brown tones, a lute slung over his back and all the more determination to see everything.

Kylo hadn't refused him a second time, and he wouldn't have been able to, since Poe no longer had any qualms about following him uninvited. Thus, he had a new travelling companion.

Just as he suspected, Poe was a liability in some aspects of the job where monsters were concerned, but Poe had also dragged him, limping, back to camp before, bandaged his wounds, fetched his potions. His life had undeniably turned for the better with the bard around; Poe was a talented musician, it turned out, and the extra income and incentive to stay at inns meant Kylo was now more acquainted with feather pillows than he'd ever hoped to be. The positive company had made Kylo better as well, at talking to people, at putting up with them, at giving life nuance. His path was lighter with Poe on it.

They became comfortable around each other. They began to argue, about the silly things people who know each other well and cared for each other deeply argue about, about which direction to head in, which inn to stop at, about the jacket Kylo had left to get trampled by the last monster he'd fought. Barely a day went by without some kind of silly quibble to that effect, but it never truly changed the form of their relationship.

Then, they'd met Hux.

[break]

Kylo had been around long enough that he'd thought he'd heard of most of the other powerful, non-mortal beings on the continent, so randomly running into an evidently strong mage like Hux, who he'd never heard of, was a bit surprising. Kylo had been employed to go and rid a keep up on the hill of whatever it was that was plaguing it. He was expecting to take a while to figure it out, but when he arrived, the malevolent spirits were revealed easily by the mage already locked in battle with them.

The fight the man was putting up was impressive, given the sheer number of foes. He was spewing fire everywhere, manipulating the elements to his will, his bright hair and swan-white robe whipped around by the wind he was creating, but eventually Kylo could see he was losing, and so joined him in the fight. It was fortuitous that they were both there, as Kylo certainly couldn't have defeated them all on his own either. When the last spirit was destroyed, however, Hux had spun round, announced that he had decidedly notrequired the help of some filthy Witcher, and flounced off. He'd gotten about ten paces when he collapsed from the sheer exertion of having used his magic in such a manner.

So Kylo had carried the mage back to camp and laid him down on his bedroll to recuperate.

Poe was travelling with Kylo at that time, and, though he was surprised to see Hux, he seemed very glad to see Kylo back from the fight, juiced up on potions but otherwise unharmed. His smile had made Kylo's heart do something he didn't really understand, the same thing it did when Poe met his gaze during a performance at whatever tavern they were staying at, the same when Kylo said something complimentary to him. Indeed, it was becoming more and more of a common feeling, and Kylo was finding that he rather liked it.

When Kylo suggested he should probably go find a rabbit or something for dinner, Poe seemed happy enough to watch over the mage until he returned, and Kylo had picked his way into the forest they were camping on the edge of with his head full of thoughts of Poe. His distraction had meant he took longer than usual to catch something, and when he got back, it was to find Poe backed against a tree, Hux threatening him using a dagger Kylo hadn't realised he'd had on him.

“Kylo!” Poe had shouted when he saw him – and again, the weird thing Kylo's heart did around Poe – equal parts relieved and pissed off.

Hux relaxed only slightly at knowing whose camp it was he had been brought to, and, once Kylo had convinced him to lower the weapon, he protested strongly that he didn't want anyone's help or charity, and that he was offended to have been carried around like some damsel. Poe told him he was very welcome to fuck off, but it soon became clear that Hux wasn't in any shape to be going off on his own, so he stayed with them that night.

Kylo was settling in to sleep on the opposite side of the fire to Hux when Poe dumped his bedroll down next to him, closer than usual – cue the weird heart thing again – and lay down. All Kylo had managed to ask was, “What are you doing?”

Huffing, Poe leaned up to peer over Kylo's arm at where Hux was lying, turned away from them on the far side of their little camp. “He tried to kill me today. I don't wanna wake up with my throat cut for some magey shit.”

Kylo considered pointing out that Poe wouldn't wake up at all if his throat had been slit, but he was more struck by the implication that Poe was trusting him to protect him. Usually, people were more likely to fear that Kylo would be the one killing them after whatever monster he'd been hired to dispatch, but Poe was different, and always had been, really. He insisted that Kylo had good in him, that he wasn't all the darkness that Witchers were supposed to be. He wasn't entirely right, of course, but it was nice to have someone hope in him.

So instead of making the bard move away, all Kylo had said was, “You'll get cold, so far from the fire,” and offered Poe an extra side of his own blanket.

One night of Hux staying with them turned into two, into three, into a week's travel to the neighbouring city. In fact, Kylo was almost sad to see the severe mage leave, as it meant he and Poe went back to their usual sleeping arrangements, instead of curling up together with Kylo as his shield.

[break]

Months later, to Kylo's surprise, Hux sought him out. He was after a gem of something something and he needed hired muscle that he could trust would actually get the job done. Hux had found them by the coast, and the first thing he said as he took Poe in was, “You're still travelling with him, are you?” Kylo wasn't sure whether the question was meant for him or Poe, but they'd both answered definitively.

The month and a half of travel it took to reach the mountain cave system in which the gem was kept saw Poe and Hux grow accustomed to each other, if not strictly friendly. Poe didn't resume his habit of sleeping next to Kylo, Hux didn't try to kill Poe again, and eventually they stopped speaking to each other in jibes and barbs.

Hux and Kylo also ended up bonding; they would sit together in taverns while Poe was performing and talk, about things that they remembered from when they were young, things Poe had learned only from his history professors. It was nice to have someone who related, who had experienced similar things to him, who understood what it was to be not-quite human and tied to a duty they didn't quite want. Hux had been raised in magic, it turned out, and, as they talked, Kylo realised it wasn't so different to being raised into killing as he had been. The small, commiserating smiles Hux offered struck Kylo deeply, and one day he realised that Hux, bathed in the yellow, glowing tavern light, was beautiful.

When they reached the cave systems that were their destination, Poe had to stay in the local town while Hux and Kylo went in search of the gem, since the place was too unknown and dangerous to risk him coming. And it did turn out to be dangerous; Hux and Kylo each saved each others' life a few times, had several close calls, and, once all the stress and danger of the adventure had turned into the satisfaction of success, they translated that pent-up tension into a vigorous fuck on the way out.

“I don't know why you keep him around,” Hux commented as they trudged back to the town to meet Poe, gem firmly in his grasp. “He can't help you with your work like I could.”

Kylo supposed that was true. “He helps me be better,” Kylo replied, which was also true.

Hux made a derisive sound. “Does he, now.”

Kylo shook his head at Hux's tone. “Why don't you like him? You have plenty in common.”

“It's not that I don't like him,” Hux said, tossing his head to get a strand of hair which had slipped in front of his eyes out of the way. Considering Kylo was grimy and dishevelled from the fighting, Hux's deep crimson tunic still looked remarkably put together, and it gave him a haughty air as he said, “I know his type. I've served them in courts all over the continent for centuries. They think they're entitled to everything without working for it and without thanking the people who actually make it possible. He's just another ungrateful, mortal noble.”

Kylo thought about what he said for a good minute. “You're wrong,” he said.

[break]

Back at the inn, Poe had the entire town in the palm of his hand thanks to his songs. He looked charming as ever, flashing smiles to all the ladies who were fawning over him, but Kylo was happy to see that, when Poe spotted them enter, his smile softened and a new light entered his eyes. This time, the flip in Kylo's heart felt more natural than ever.

When Kylo emerged from the bathhouse, Poe was already waiting in his room for a full account of the adventure so he could turn it into his latest ballad. Kylo related what happened as he usually did, keeping to the bare facts and trusting Poe to make them into pretty wordplay later, until he got to the end, at which point he decided that Poe didn't strictly need to know that Hux had pushed him up against the wall of the cave and kissed him with a ferocity he wasn't likely to forget any time soon.

But Poe noticed the brief hesitation and looked up from his little book where he'd been scribbling notes. “What?” he asked.

Kylo shrugged. “Nothing. We left to come back here,” he said, pulling the shirt he was wearing off and reaching for a different one.

“Did something bite you?”

Kylo could hear the frown in Poe's voice, and he turned back to see Poe's eyes locked on a slightly bruised, reddish ring low on his neck. A vague recollection surfaced in Kylo's mind of Hux tugging down his collar, once his outer layer of armour was off, and digging his teeth hard into the flesh over that spot. He hummed, reaching up to rub at it and thus hide it from Poe's sight. “Must have.”

Poe stood up and approached, batting Kylo's hand out of the way, which he couldn't find the motivation to resist. When Poe ran his thumb over the bruise, he was so warm Kylo pushed into the touch. If Poe noticed, he didn't comment, his brow was deeply furrowed. “What kind of monster even has teeth like that?”

A knock came on the door. “Kylo,” Hux called from outside, “we need to talk about payment.”

“I'm...” Kylo hesitated, feeling strangely and suddenly like he'd betrayed Poe. “I'm coming.”

Kylo wasn't sure what about him looked guilty, but Poe seemed to realise at that moment where the mark came from. “Oh,” he said, stepping away and back to his book.

Not long after that, Poe announced his intention to head back to his home kingdom. Kylo's mouth went dry. It was Hux who had to ask the platitudes – did he have some business to attend to? How long did he think he would stay? - which Poe replied to blandly, something about responsibility to his mentors. Kylo wanted to ask him to stop, to stay, but all he managed to get out was, “I'll miss you.”

[break]

Time passed.

Poe left for home, taking his light and song with him.

Kylo spent one winter with Hux, back in the keep where they'd first met, which Hux had appropriated for himself, but it was all wrong; there was a grounding influence missing, without which the two of them spent more time treating each other angrily than well. The sex was amazing, but eventually, it felt hollow. The day it became clear that the harshest weather had blown over, Kylo was back on Silence, looking for the next contract out on a monster, something he could hack into pieces without thinking.

The seasons changed, fled and returned until it had been another year. Kylo was firmly back in the blank swing of contract, monster, payment, move along, but the campfire felt lonely after dark, when he had nothing to occupy his mind. He started talking to Silence; she never replied.

Sometimes, Kylo found himself wondering how long it would be until he ran into Hux again, and if he would even want to see him. Maybe he could make the way they left things up to him. They'd had something, after all, and, though it hadn't been perfect, he missed that feeling of love and understanding and protection which Hux provided. Kylo didn't hold out much hope of seeing Poe; he never went near his home city, and why would Poe venture out again? He'd seen his share of the world. He was back in his real life, now.

But eventually, those nights of wondering wore Kylo down, and, quite without intending to, he found himself directing Silence down the path to the kingdoms neighbouring Poe's.

There, Kylo found himself invited to the royal tourney of Queen Phasma, as a guest of honour. She was a renowned warrior, and Kylo reasoned that it would be rude to decline the request of such an esteemed ruler. He reasoned that perhaps she would even have some work for him. He reasoned a lot of things, in his attempt to deny to himself that the real reason was hope that a tourney would be more than enough cause for a neighbouring noble to be in the area, or even just a bard...

The festivities were festivities. It was strange, to watch others fight instead of having to do it himself, and for performance rather than necessity. Though sometimes the rush of people grated on him, Phasma was a gracious host and Kylo enjoyed the good food well enough, always keeping an eye out for some shock of red hair, or those cheerful, dark curls he so hoped for.

His vigilance yielded one of those prizes.

A tall, beautiful, severe looking man entered the great hall one evening for the feast, walking directly up to the main table at which Phasma and Kylo were seated, and didn't even falter when he recognised Kylo's distinctive scar, yellow eyes, dark garb.

“Hux!” Phasma exclaimed standing and marching around the table to pull the man into a hug, which he returned with surprising readiness, “My dear friend, it has been too long!”

Hux gave a half-bow. “I'm sorry I'm late, I was caught up with business.”

“Ah, yes, business,” Phasma said knowingly, “and where is Lord Dameron?”

Hux's eyes flitted over to Kylo's for the briefest of seconds. “Altogether too caught up with his teaching to bother with a tournament, I'm afraid.”

“Well you must tell him I want him at the next one.” With that, she made to retake her seat again, gesturing at Kylo. “Kylo, this is Hux, currently an advisor to court in the neighbouring kingdom and the most talented mage in all the continent. Hux, Kylo, the Witcher.”

“Yes, we've met,” Hux understated, settling his gaze on Kylo fully, now, and extending his hand to Kylo over the table. Not sure what he was expected to do, Kylo gave Hux his hand, and Hux took it, raising it to his lips and kissing Kylo's knuckles.

Kylo wasn't entirely certain if he could blush any more, since the mutations which had turned him into a Witcher, but if he could, he was sure he was, what with so many people around to witness a display of affection which Kylo was unused to at the best of times. Along with that, relief, because it made him feel suddenly like all was forgiven without him having to wrangle the words around an apology.

“Hux, stop that and sit down!” Phasma reprimanded, “The players will begin soon.”

It was only as Hux sat down that Kylo realised the empty chair on his right had likely always been for Hux. No sooner had he settled than the players flooded the floor, dancing into their performance of an old, famous play, something about two supernatural kings vying for the affection of a mortal with all sorts of fanciful gifts.

“This version is better than the original,” Hux remarked a short while in, and Kylo hummed out an assent, though he had never seen it when it first was performed. He was probably too busy wading through drowner guts, or something similarly uncouth.

“So, you're in Poe's court, now?” Kylo asked instead. “Is he king?”

“No,” Hux remarked, picking up his goblet of wine and keeping his gaze on the players. “Nor does he want to be. The Queen has plenty of other worthy successors, and Poe would much rather go back to spending his days as a bard.” He tutted. “Even if he doesn't say so.”

“Why are you there?”

He sighed. “I wanted to see what you meant about him not being like the others, so I offered my services to the Queen.” Kylo hummed again, and this time, Hux turned to look at him. “You were quite right. He's different. I find myself rather taken with him.”

Kylo reached for his own wine now, his mouth suddenly dry. “Oh. Have you..?”

“No. Kylo...” Hux placed his cup down and leaned to the side so his shoulder was brushing Kylo's, even as Kylo was resolutely not looking at him. “He misses you. And I know you miss him.”

As if by design, the lutist started to play, and both their eyes went to the young woman performing in the corner. Kylo found himself thinking, perhaps uncharitably, that she wasn't as talented as Poe, her song wasn't as sweet.

Hux didn't fail to notice this. “I think we should travel together again,” he said.

“We?”

“You and I and Poe,” Hux said, as though it were obvious. “Like we did those few months travelling in from the coast. I've found myself thinking about them a lot.”

Kylo shrugged. “It was only a few months. Things have changed since then.”

“Which is why we should give it another try.” Kylo jolted in slight surprise when he felt Hux's cool hand lay over his own on the arm of the chair. He turned to find Hux looking directly into his eyes. “Stay here for a week after the tourney is over, and I'll have convinced him to come. Kylo.” A tacit command from Hux, as usual, instead of a request.

Kylo nodded.

[break]

So Kylo waited by the city gates, where Hux had sent a messenger bird that he should meet them. He was nervous, when he first spotted the black dot on the distant path that he was sure was them, shuffling from one foot to the other and gripping Silence's reins tight, like that would do anything. He was wondering how he should greet Poe; hello, certainly, and he didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from smiling, but he found that he also wanted to give him a hug, press their lips together, feel that he was really thereagain, after the nearly two years they'd spent apart.

It turned out he needn't have worried, since Poe sprang forward and clasped him into a hug without prompting, talking immediately about where they would be going and how good it would be to be back on the road.

Hux had merely given him a look that said I told you so, and followed after the excitable bard.

That had been nearly two weeks ago.

It turned out that Hux was entirely right; things were different than before, and they were better. The things that had changed were these:

Hux had brought a horse with him, this time, and several other magical items, such as a tent which was far larger inside than it appeared. Poe hadn't bothered with a horse, since he hadn't needed one before, and had thus left the money with which to pay for its upkeep back at home, planning instead to sing for his money like he used to. Kylo rather liked this; it reminded him of old times, when he steadfastly refused to let Poe ride Silence, in case it tired her out too much. The tent, on the other hand, felt annoyingly like Hux was living in style while the two of them were stuck outside, since Hux had never invited them in and Kylo, for one, wasn't about to invite himself.

It seemed Hux and Poe had also developed a much closer friendship, in the time Hux had spent at court. It made Kylo feel a little like he had missed out, like he had time to catch up on, like there was something impenetrable he couldn't access. Kylo supposed it must be similar for Hux, since he and Poe had known each other for so long before he met them, and again for Poe, given that winter when it was only him and Hux, but times like these – Poe and Hux discussing something so academic that Kylo knew so little about – could be daunting as much as interesting.

Mostly, Kylo felt like he still had to make something up to Poe, and he wasn't sure how to do it. He should probably just have a conversation with him about it, but the words never came, and bringing it up when nobody was thinking about it would, he was sure, just sour the mood. And if he just left it, the tension would have to break eventually.

[break]

Ahead of him on the road, Hux and Poe's little argument seemed to have reached a peak point. Kylo had been too lost in his thoughts to pay attention to what they were saying, but now Poe had stopped walking, raising open arms in that way of his that was almost defeated, but actually said he still thought he was right. It was very cute, like he was a turtle with a lute for a shell, and Kylo couldn't help but think his annoyed expression was charming as well.

When Silence reached the spot where Poe was standing, watching Hux ride on with his usual haughty confidence, Kylo hummed. “Did he win?”

Poe huffed, moving again to keep up with Silence's ambling pace. “No, but he's acting like he did. He always thinks he's right.”

Kylo thought about it for a beat; Hux did indeed always think that he was right. It was one of the things that had caused friction in their attempt at a relationship that one winter. It wasn't that all three of them couldn't be stubborn, more that Kylo and Poe had much more ability to hold out against each other's pestering than either of them seemed to have against Hux. One narrowing twitch of those steely-grey eyes, and anyone with even half a sense of self-preservation would surrender. So Kylo could sympathise with Poe's little pout.

They came to the edge of the forest, the village where they planned to stop a short way before them across a few fields. Kylo drew Silence to a halt and put out a hand to Poe, who looked at it first with surprise and then joy. He quickly allowed Kylo to help him up, settling just behind the Witcher, his chest pressed to his back, their thighs brushing against each other with every movement. Kylo could feel it all, and he tried not to let his stomach flip too much when Poe's arms snaked around his sides, hands locking at his front. He cursed inwardly that today he'd chosen to forgo some layers in favour of his cooler shirt.

But then Poe was saying to him over his shoulder – though it felt more like murmuring in his ear - “Come on, I wanna see Hux's face.”

Kylo prodded Silence to walk on, closing the distance on Hux. As they passed, Kylo felt Poe remove one hand to wave at the mage. Looking around, it was in almost slow motion that Hux's expression went from one of mild astonishment to annoyance to jealousy.

“See you there, Hugs!” Poe said, and Kylo smiled to himself.

[fantasymusing]

Happy Birthday to You

Oct 28 is Lee Gon’s birthday. I wrote this story because I’m a glutton for pain and my TKEM withdrawal is real.  

PC: Ctto

October 28, 2020 | Republic of Korea

It was a sleepless night.

She tossed and turned until she decided to get up, put on a hoodie and jeans, grabbed her coat and car key, then tiptoed away from her apartment.

1:00 a.m.

She drove in the quiet of the night and got there in a breeze.

The phone booth was the first thing she saw. She went inside and caressed the buttons and the handset. At several points of a different timeline, he was here. She lingered, with the hope that sharing the same space would somehow lessen the pain.

She was wrong. The yearning had only gotten stronger.

She walked on, deeper into the bamboo forest, in the dead of night, against everything she would advise young women as a police officer.

Do the same stars shine on both their worlds?

If she would wish upon one of them in earnest, would it carry her birthday wish to him?

She stopped at the spot where the obelisks stood, where he had crossed into her world.

“Happy birthday, Lee Gon.” She spoke into the sky. “The moon and the stars above as my witness, saranghae… I will always love you!”

Her tears took over, making her choke on her words.

“Please come back… please come back… I’m waiting, every day I’m waiting.”

She didn’t think her prayer would be answered tonight. It hadn’t been for six months. But she pleaded with God just the same – figured her persistence might move even fate and destiny someday.

She didn’t know how long she had been standing there. Her face was icy from the chilled fall air and her heart ached from imagining him running through the portal toward her.

She couldn’t hear the crashing of their bodies or feel the warmth of their embrace.

“Is this what Hell is like?” A rhetorical question she knew too well the answer to. She had been in her personal hell.

…

She showed up at the police station early to avoid her father’s questions.

Work had been her refuge even if she was only biding time.

And time had been mostly a curse that passed too slow and passed too fast.

Just like today.

She followed some evidence of her current case, she filed a few reports, she interacted with the squad like any regular day – yet she still had time to sob in the bathroom.

When it was finally time to leave work, she sat patiently in the packed afternoon traffic and arrived around sunset.

The glass encasing the phone booth reflected the bright orange light of the lowering sun and cloaked its surrounding in beautiful golden hue. The colour of the MSD she would have made for him to toast his birthday. Yes, she had planned his birthday – it would have included a day off from work, fried chicken, a walk along the Han river, the swanky hotel he loved and unhurried love-making.

The only thing missing from her plan for today – him.

She had no logical reason to be back at the bamboo forest so soon. But like she had been possessed, she stood once again by what she knew to be the entrance to the portal.

She was hoping against hope that fate wouldn’t be so cruel today, of all days.

“You are thirty-four now, take care of yourself for me. Don’t catch a cold.”  She whispered into the wind as the sky turned dark. “Happy birthday, my heart…” Tae-eul reached up to touch her necklace as another lone tear fell.

 October 28, 2020 | Kingdom of Corea

The fall was always beautiful in the Kingdom and people everywhere were taking advantage of the start of the three holidays in honour of the King’s birthday.

Lee Gon had vehemently opposed to any public celebrations for his birthday this year. Head Court Lady Noh and the senior staff had attempted to object but they knew better.

The King had been different the last few months. He was burdened with something that snuffed the sparkles in his eyes. He had been attending to his duties during the first half of each week but had consistently been “inside his study working on a complex mathematic problem” the other half of the time.

“I would be in my studies during the holidays and over the weekend.” He had informed Lady Noh.

“That’s no way to spend your birthday, Pyeha. You should be going out meeting beautiful ladies.”

“That’s what I have been doing. You’d know when I’ve found the right one.” Lady Noh thought he was teasing her and she couldn’t understand the hint of sadness in his tone.

He had indeed been meeting beautiful ladies – all those different versions of Jeong Tae-eul: all beautiful, all bright, all seemed happy – but all not her.

None of them recognized him. None of them was balm to his soul.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He should let himself do whatever he wanted on his birthday, even if it were to tinker with the time axis of the portal.

He had not perfected his calculations and the trial-and-error attempts through different doors and universes had been painfully disappointing.

He was sure he had found the old timeline and the right door to his Tae-eul before the reset. He just didn’t know exactly what date or time he would cross into.

He had brought with him flowers, his favorite ones, to give her. He knew what he had to say to her – he had said those things to her every night, when he had pretended she was there by his side.

He just needed to see her.

The Taekwondo centre, the tea place and the courtyard all looked welcoming as he approached. Then he had to stop and took several deep breaths to steel himself when he caught sight of her standing in front of the big window watering the seeds she brought from the Kingdom. He could feel the sting of tears in his eyes.

He had found his beautiful lady, even if this would all just be temporary.

He stood staring, couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked up, saw him, and ran out the door.

He was scared to walk up to her, to touch her, afraid she might disappear.

She looked like an angel in front of him, pure and most beautiful. His heart ached from how much love he felt for her.

He finally took the steps toward her.

“Hey.

“Have you been well?”

She nodded with tears in her eyes. “It took you, a while this time.”

He couldn’t tell her what was to come. He couldn’t tell her how much pain he was in. But he could tell her she was everything that mattered.

“Because I had to come from far away.” He looked down at the flowers he was carrying.

“I realized… that I never gave you a single flower. That’s why…

“I crossed the universe for you.”

She moved forward, then stepped back, instinctively recognizing he was not the same Lee Gon who left a few weeks ago.

He understood her hesitation. But he had no time to waste.

He got closer and put the bouquet of flowers in her hands. “But the thing is,

“I have to go back now.” He could hardly finish the sentence.

She had liked the idea of him leaving less and less, so she grabbed his hand. “Going back?” She questioned like a plea.

He stifled a sob that was threatening to escape. “Right.”

What if he would decide to throw caution to the wind and stay with her? He wanted to, badly.

“I also realized I never told you this.”

He slowly gathered enough courage to look up at her, letting her perfect face sink deep into his memory. This memory would have to last him until he was able to find the right her again.

“Saranghae.”

“I am deeply…

“in love with you.”

His gaze was soft, sincere yet most sorrowful. She was moved, elated and scared out of her mind. He was telling her like he would not have another chance to ever again.

He bent down to kiss her, as deeply as he possibly could.

His tears fell.

She reached up, held onto his hand like she had always done while kissing him back just as deeply.

Her tears fell.

He had wished the kiss could last their lifetime but he knew he couldn’t stay. He made himself walk away but not before telling her, “There will come a moment when it seems I’ve disappeared.

I don’t want you to worry too much when that happens.

It just means… I’m walking through the frozen moments in time.”

He had made the decision to leave her, to go back in time to stop Lee Lim before he could wreak havoc to both worlds, because she had given him strength. In the days and months they had fallen in love with each other, she had shown him what it meant to not be alone, to have a soul mate who would be there no matter how dire the circumstances were, and to have a lover who would love him for him. He would forever be thankful for having her in his life and he would always love her with everything he had.

But he had doubts nowadays, about whether the wrongs he had righted were worth the prospect of living out his life without her, the only person who inspired him every day with the joy of life.

Why he missed her utterly on his birthday.

She had told him the larger the fate, the more he needed to walk to reach his destination and that they just hadn’t reached their destination yet.

So he walked, back toward the portal, back to the Kingdom – leaving behind the old timeline, leaving behind the Tae-eul he fell so deeply in love with, in search for the one waiting for him in her new timeline.

He would get back on Maximus, he would go through more doors, more universes.

And he would pray for that tomorrow when he would find where he left his heart and his soul.

Maybe his next birthday would be different.

He closed his eyes, made his wish, as another lone tear fell.

Notes:

Sorry this is so painful. Based on canon timeline, October 28, 2020 is a sad birthday for Lee Gon and for Tae-eul.

Promise the next chapter (of year 2021) will be all fluff.

You can find this story also on AO3.

................

Watch Lee Min-ho and Kim Go-eun’s superb performance in this scene. Their sadness is palpable. His pauses and pacing tell the story.

[arcticdementor]

Kayfabe is a treasured part of pro wrestling culture. Kayfabe refers to the commitment of everyone involved (the wrestlers, the refs, the announcers, and to a certain degree the fans) to maintaining the shared fiction that pro wrestling matches are unscripted. (Wrestling is real, in the sense that the athletes are taking real punishment and risk really getting hurt, and there is a degree of improvisation, but the outcomes are predetermined.) Kayfabe has had a kind of mythical importance to many in the pro wrestling community: you keep kayfabe no matter what, even in the event of serious injury, out of a sense of sacred commitment. Crucial to understanding kayfabe is that it is not an attempt to deceive the audience. Modern wrestling is in some ways perfectly open about the scripted nature of the matches. Fooling people is not the point. If every fan signed an affidavit saying they knew the outcomes were predetermined the wrestlers would still keep kayfabe, out of commitment to the culture. Kayfabe is a mutually-approved illusion. It is artifice, but it is mutually agreed upon artifice, a consensual fantasy.

Our current political culture is kayfabe.

The illusion that we pretend to believe is that we are in some sort of uniquely politically fertile moment for progressivism and social justice, that we are experiencing a social revolution or “Great Awokening.” Further, we keep kayfabe by acting as if we believe that certain policies like police abolition or abolishing border enforcement (or if you prefer utterly meaningless sloganeering, “abolishing ICE”) are tangibly viable in anything like the near future. I say that these are kayfabe to emphasize my belief that most people who endorse these beliefs are well aware that they are not true, and to underline the sense in which the commitment to unreality is mutual, an expression of a strange kind of social contract. Most thinking adults comprehend the current moment and understand that the hand of establishment power and the influence of social inertia are as strong as ever. (Why would you feel otherwise?) But because people have understandably been moved by recent righteous calls for justice, they feel they must accept the fiction of a new awakening to show solidarity with the victims of injustice. This is emotionally understandable, but strategically counterproductive. And indeed one thing that has defined these new social movements is their relentless commitment to the emotional over the strategic.

…

Living in a culture of political kayfabe is a strange experience. It feels the way that, I imagine, it feels to live under a truly authoritarian government, where you’re constantly having exchanges where everyone involved knows that what they’re saying is bogus but you push right through the cognitive dissonance with a smile on your face. Only you’re not compelled by the fear of torture or imprisonment but of vague-but-intense social dictates, of the crucial priority of appearing to be the right kind of person. So often political conversations today have this dual quality where you feel forced to constantly evaluate what your interlocutor actually believes even as propriety compels you to take seriously what’s coming out of their mouth.

A major negative consequence of our commitment to kayfabe lies in our acceptance of behaviors we would ordinarily never accept, under the theory that this is such a special time, we need to shut up and go along with it. Take our broken discourse, as frequently discussed in “cancel culture” debates. My experience and my intuition tell me that almost everyone in the progressive/left/socialist world knows that our discourse norms and culture are totally fucked up. Trust me: most people in liberal spaces, Black and white, male and female, trans and cis, most certainly including people in academia and media, are well aware that we’ve entered into a bizarre never-ending production of The Crucible we can’t get out of. They’re probably just as sick of Woko Haram as I am.

But they’re either empowered and enriched by this state of affairs, and don’t want the party to end, or they’re holding on for dear life trying not to get their lives ruined for speaking out of turn. Look past self-interest and self-preservation and you’ll find that everybody knows that the way left spaces work now is horribly broken and dysfunctional. The problem is that thinking people who would ordinarily object don’t because they’ve been convinced that this is some sort of special moment pregnant with progressive potential, and that is more important than rights, compassion, or fairness. So we maintain a shared pretense that things are cool the way you go through the motions on an awful date where you’re both aware you’ll never see each other again.

If I say “cancel culture,” normies indeed don’t know what I’m talking about, because they are healthy, adjusted people with a decent set of priorities who value their own time and lives too much to get caught up in all of this horseshit. But if I say “cancel culture” in front of a bunch of politics-obsessed professional-class shitlibs they will pretend to not know what I’m talking about. They’ll put on a rich fucking show. They do an impression of Cletus from The Simpsons and go “cancel culture?!? Hyuck hyuck what’re that? I’m not knowing cancel culture, I’m just a simple country lad!” These are people who have read more about cancel culture in thinkpieces than I read about any topic in a year. But pretending you don’t know what cancel culture is happens to be a key part of the performance, a naked in-group signifier, so they pretend. The “I don’t know what cancel culture is” bullshit performance is kayfabe at its most infuriating. I know you know what cancel culture is because you’re currently using it to demonstrate your culture positioning by pretending you don’t know what it is. You fucking simpleton.

People say and do weird shit and it’s all wrong but you just pretend like it isn’t. Who wants to be the one caught making waves? When you’re in a group of people and someone engages in something patently ridiculous - when, for example, someone says “AAVE” in an ordinary social situation with no academic or political reason to use jargon, even though everyone there knows the phrase “the way Black people talk” is more elegant, useful, and true - and the moment passes and there’s this inability to look each other in the eye, when everybody starts studying their drink and clearing their throat, that’s life under kayfabe.

Getting to this is not normal. It’s not a healthy state of affairs. It can only happen when people come to believe that self-preservation requires pretending things are OK.

…

It is at this point that people say that “defund” does not mean “abolish,” which is true, and Defund the Police indeed does not mean “abolish the police.” Defund the police means nothing, now, though I’m sure that the people who started using it had noble intentions. At this point it’s a floating signifier, an empty slogan that people rallied around with zero understanding of what semantic content it could possibly contain. If it’s meant to be a radical demand, why use the vocabulary of an actuary? If it’s meant to mean a meaningful but strategic drawdown of resources, why use it interchangeably with “abolish”? I cannot imagine a more comprehensive failure of basic political messaging than Defund the Police. Amateur hour from beginning to end.

I take the political concept of alternatives to policing seriously, in the same way I take many political ideas seriously that are not likely achievable in my lifetime. I know there are deeply serious people who are profoundly committed to these principles and who have thought them through responsibly. I appreciate their work and become better informed from what they say. But their ideas did not reign last year. A faddish embrace of a thoughtless caricature of police abolition reigned, pushed with maximum aggression and minimal introspection by the shock troops of contemporary progressive ideas, overeducated white people with more sarcasm than sense.

Policing will not end tomorrow or next month or next year. And whoever you are, reading this, you are well aware of that fact. The odds of police abolition in any substantial portion of this country are nil. Indeed, I would say that the likelihood of meaningful reduction in policing in any large region of this country, whether measured by patrolling or funding or manpower, is small. Individual cities may reduce their police forces by a substantial fraction, and I suspect that they will not suddenly devolve into Mega-City One as a result. (Though I can’t say initial data in this regard is encouraging.) I hope we learn important lessons about intelligent and effective police reform and more sensible resource allocation from those places. But the vast majority of cities will not meaningfully change their policing budgets, due to both the legitimate lack of political will for such a thing - including in communities of color - and broken municipal politics with bad incentives.

…

Living under kayfabe makes you yearn for plainspoken communication, for letting the mask fall. The professed inability of progressives to understand why woke-skeptical publications like this one keep succeeding financially is itself a slice of kayfabe. They know people are paying for Substacks and podcasts and subscribing to YouTubes and Patreons because it’s exhausting to constantly spend all of your time pretending things that don’t make sense make sense, pretending that you believe things you don’t to avoid the social consequences of telling the truth.

When you’re someone who spent the past several decades arguing that the American university system is not hostile to conservative students, that it doesn’t try to force extremely contentious leftist views onto students, and then you watch this video, how do you react? I think many people, most people, even most people committed to the BLM cause, see that video and wince. That is not how we get there. Browbeating 20 year olds for not parroting your politics back at you is not how racial justice gets advanced. But if you’re caught in this moment, how do you object? Acknowledge that, yes, in fact, it is now plainly the case that many professors see it as their job to forcefully insist on the truth of deeply controversial claims to their students, berating them until they acquiesce? Well that would be an unpleasant conversation with the other parents when you pick up your kid from Montessori school. So you just choose not to see, or keep you mouth shut, or speak in a way that maintains the illusion.

I mean there is the absurdity of what she’s saying to contend with - the now fairly common view that policing was literally invented in the antebellum South purely to enforce slavery, because in ancient Rome if someone came in your house and stole your stuff you’d just be like “oh damn, that sucks.” Is there a relationship between modern policing and slavery? Of course. Does the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow infect modern policing at every point? Sure. Should we make political and policy decisions that recognize that historical influence on policing, especially given the racist reality of policing right now? Yes. But what good does it do anyone to pretend that the concept of “the police” is 250 years old? Why on earth would we get the correct shit we do believe tangled up with this bizarre shit we don’t believe? (The professor in that video does not herself honestly believe the police were invented to support African slavery in 18th and 19th century America.) Because this utterly ahistorical idea is being promulgated by people who claim to speak from a position of justice, we are forced to assign seriousness to it that it hasn’t earned, seriousness that it could never deserve. Because we live in a world of mutual delusion. Because of kayfabe.

…

And the fact that some will wrinkle their noses about this piece and its arguments, go about their days of progressive performance art, and pretend they don’t believe every word they just read? That’s kayfabe, my friend. That’s kayfabe. And we’re trapped in it, all of us, you and I. You know it’s all bullshit. Will you keep the code anyway? I’m willing to bet that the answer is yes.

[lilibetts]

Please wait, LoveAlarm is syncing itself to your heart!

Falling In Love With Riverdale, Theme 1: Sugar

Part 1/3

At this very moment in the not-so-idyllic town of Riverdale, Betty Cooper is 16 years, 41 weeks, 1 day, 20 hours and 34 minutes old and, to see Kevin describe it, she has been in love with Archie Andrews for 1 year, 5 months, and 14 days.

From inside the relative security of the F Hallway girls’ bathroom, she takes a deep breath to mark the magnitude of the moment, and hits [Install] on her phone. It takes less than a minute for the blue line to complete a circle and once it does, she opens the app and fills in her personal details.

Please wait, the app cheerily asks her, bright pinks and blues swirling across the screen, LoveAlarm is syncing itself to your heart!

Well, Betty sighs to herself, there’s no going back now. 

LoveAlarm is the latest matchmaking app to launch and in the two weeks since, it seems like *everyone* at Riverdale High has downloaded it. It syncs itself to your heart and a bright red heart alarm would ping if there is someone within twenty feet who loves you.

Naturally, the romantic landscape of Riverdale High School has been completely leveled. 

Midge Klump and Moose Mason both downloaded the app, only for it to tell Midge her love was unrequited. Ginger Lopez had situated herself in a prime location outside the gym doors when basketball practice let out—nobody within twenty feet of her—in the hopes that when the team’s star power forward, Anthony Parrish, came out, their phones would mutually ping. 

Instead, it was Ben Button who walked down that stretch of the hallway; instead, it was Ben Button who made her phone ping.  Then Anthony came out and *his* phone pinged, but Ginger’s did not again. According to the school grapevine, Ginger had lost her shit and called Ben a ‘baby-faced freak’.

Truthfully, the whole concept behind the app horrifies Betty, but she has to know. Making sure that every possible setting for the app is set to her phone’s vibrate function, she shoulders her backpack and heads into the cafeteria.

The walls are decorated from corner to corner with red, white, and pink streamers in anticipation of the Valentine’s Day party that will be held on Friday. PizzaShak is giving them a great deal on heart-shaped pizzas.

Her friends are at their usual table in the corner and with every step Betty takes, she is closer to knowing. When Archie hears his phone chime once she is within the twenty feet circumference, will he put two-and-two together? Will her own phone buzz with the truth? All around her, the crowded cafeteria is full of hopefuls checking their phones.

The round table has three curved benches attached to it. Kevin and Veronica share one, and across from them, Jughead and Archie split the other two. Betty slides into the space on Jughead’s left, exchanging happy hellos with her friends. Wordlessly, she hands over one of the two sandwiches she’d packed for Jughead to take. As always, he makes a show of letting out an aggrieved sigh when he spots the lettuce and sliced tomato in there with the turkey, but dutifully takes his sandwich while sliding over the remaining brownie square from his vending machine packet. This is their unspoken pact: she makes sure the bottomless pit that is Jughead Jones is sated with something healthier, he makes sure she gets a non-Alice-approved treat.

The sandwich she made is gone in three bites.

<Good?> she signs, arching one eyebrow.

<You know it,> Jughead replies, still chewing the last mouthful of turkey sandwich.

Betty has been deaf since she was three years old, after a bout with meningitis, and just because she’s well-liked among her peers doesn’t mean many of them would go as far as to learn sign language for her. That Kevin, Archie, Jughead, and Veronica have is part and parcel of why they’re her best friends.

A booted foot taps insistently against hers under the table and Betty turns away from Jughead, still grinning, to focus on Kevin. 

/Did you watch The Bachelor last night?/ His hands move as rapidly as he speaks.

/No,/ Betty tells him. /Unlike you, I actually studied for the History test./

“Har har,” Kevin deadpans. They’re both distracted by Veronica clapping her hands. 

“OMG!” she says gleefully, slapping Kevin’s bicep. /Kelley is an ICON! I told you./

As much as Betty loves her friends’ ridiculously dramatic day-after recaps, she’s too distracted to really pay attention to whatever last night’s spectacle had been about. Across the table, Archie is checking his phone, thumbs tapping and sliding across the screen. A wide grin splits his face and he turns the screen out to show Jughead.

3 people in a twenty feet radius love you!

Betty flushes and looks away, embarrassed. Of course. As covertly as possible, she takes advantage of everyone’s inattention to check her own phone.

Zero.

Nobody within a twenty feet radius loves you.

As Cheryl Strayed wrote, “acceptance is a small, quiet room”. As the realization sinks in, Betty watches, as if from a greater distance, Archie glancing around at the nearby tables, determined to figure out who those three people could be. After a few murmured words from Jughead that she can’t decipher thanks to his head being turned away from her, Archie takes off to make the rounds. A process of elimination, most likely.

Betty isn’t sure what she feels. Irritation more than disappointment? Relief? The latter emotion surprises her, especially now that she knows Archie isn’t in love with her. Kevin, and then later Veronica when she’d arrived in Riverdale, have been after her to confess her feelings to Archie but Betty has kept demurring or putting it off. Her usual excuse being that she’s too scared to wreck her friendship with him. 

Sure, they’re right when they say she’s being a coward; but is her relief after the LoveAlarm revelation just relief that now she won’t have to actually bare her heart?

She turns off her phone.

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

                                                    He knows he shouldn’t be, that this definitely qualifies as eavesdropping, but here Jughead is, glancing up and over to the table where Betty is sneakily carrying on a conversation with Veronica.

It’s 7th period Honors Bio and all they need to do is finish a worksheet before the bell rings, which is easy enough, but Mr. Beeker had also stipulated silence in the classroom, so it’s a clever loophole that Betty has found. Abby, her interpreter, is absorbed in her phone, leaving Jughead to covertly watch shifting hand shapes and fingerspelled letters.

<You’re not as s-t-e-a-l-t-h-y as you think you are,> Veronica signs smugly.

<??>

<Your phone. At lunch. You d-l LoveAlarm.> Smugness melts into concern. <Well?>

This is news to Jughead, and unwelcome news at that. He shouldn’t be surprised that Betty has downloaded that stupid app and really, he should’ve seen it coming. Dread fills him as he awaits her response.

Of course Jughead refuses to download LoveAlarm. Why would he give an app his heart data? They’d only sell it to soulless companies looking to target him with ads tailored to the object of his romantic yearning.

Betty.

The facts are these: Jughead Jones is 17 years, 3 days, 6 hours and 11 minutes old. He’s also been aware that he’s deeply, irrevocably in love with Betty Cooper for 1 year, 4 months, and 19 days. An eternity, basically.

 A rare beam of sunlight has broken through the February gray outside, casting a pale glow on her downturned face, the long eyelashes that brush her cheeks. It’s the flare of her nostrils and the tight press of her lips together that tell him she’s upset. 

There’s a sharp pang in his chest.

<He doesn’t.> The words, accompanied by a shake of Betty’s head that makes her ponytail bounce, are all he needs to understand. 

Jughead isn’t obtuse, he knows which ‘he’ they’re talking about, the only one ‘he’ it could be: Archie. Blame Kevin, he’s shit at subtlety. 

So, Betty had downloaded LoveAlarm and now she knows Archie isn’t in love with her. The latter isn’t news to him but he would’ve been fine if Betty had continued to go through life not knowing that particular fact. But it’s the sentence that comes next that breaks his heart.

<I have a zero. Nobody loves me.> What goes unspoken but, to Jughead, is writ large upon her face is: ‘I’m not lovable’.

He looks away from their conversation, angry that anyone would make her feel like this. Ashamed that he is a guilty party in this.

That night while lying on his bed, Jughead finds himself torn.

What he had seen earlier has given him food for thought. Which is just as well because he likes to take the time to think broadly and deeply, much in the same way he likes to eat. Next to him on the bed, his phone is open to the App Store, and LoveAlarm waits there patiently, ready for his decision.

Is Betty Cooper worth it? Unquestionably Yes.

Is he willing to risk discovery? Having his heart spilled right out there for her to see...even worse, for others to see? Vulnerable and already bruised, where it’d easily be crushed into messy smithereens?

Unable to answer that, his brain circles back around to the first question: is Betty Cooper worth it?

With a low, drawn-out groan, Jughead hits [Install] and gives corporations access to his heart.

[thecurseisinourblood]

Obsession vs Love

Merry Christmas all! So I have a gift for you... I wasn’t going to post this until it was finished but I got into a bit of a rut, but I have been sitting on this for months. Originally this was meant to be a oneshot between Erik and Frollo and it turned into 16 pages of detailing Frollo’s progression of feelings leading up to and after seeing Esmeralda. Enjoy! General Mature content warning.

Claude Frollo reached the time in his life when he accepted a lot of things. His thirties were gone and he was grateful. This was a decade where he had been ravenous for status and particularly ruthless in character. Looking back, it seemed his repressed youth had blossomed during that time and his past behavior sometimes embarrassed him to this day. He had been moody yet confident in ways he never before experienced within his personality. Though never being wild, there was a crazed side of him that was manipulative and hungry for power over others, particularly in social interactions. Any witty insult that could roll off his tongue or opportunity to correct someone’s facts were never missed. His parents had been cruel to him and in these small ways it felt good to finally speak his mind without decorum. These were his selfish years.

“I am happy you have come out of your shell, but you have become absolutely unbearable to everyone,” Lucy said to him after insulting a woman who had been taking up his time with idle chatter in an attempt to catch his interest. “I finally don’t care what anyone thinks of me,” he remembered saying to her. It took him over thirty years to stop worrying about strangers’ opinions. 

He had looked at women more. Admiring them, their pretty faces and perfectly toned bodies, but became frustrated speaking to them as most of them were self-serving or not intelligent. In his teenage years he would secretly leer at women, but it was in a more passive and curious manner. The sexual frustration became more exhausting than maddening over the years. No one could keep his interest, no matter how stunning. There was a time when he could charm a woman that would gladly take him to bed. As much as he longed for that experience, the thing he yearned for most was a connection that wasn’t hollow. So, when his personal assistant began seeing one of the two judges who mentored him, he became envious. Lucy and judge Remy became an item despite their twenty odd year age gap.  During this time, Frollo was more distant with Remy than ever before. The elder judge would reach out to him as he had in the past, but Frollo wasn’t interested. It was childish, but to him it was a breach of trust. 

Claude was the last one to figure out they were together. Despite knowing Remy was on a break from his wife, Remy always flirted with Lucy, so he thought nothing of it. Lucy should have been above such vulgar charm. Little did he realize they were in a full fledged relationship. Since Lucy was the only female he had ever been attached to, Frollo quietly simmered in his jealousy. “Why did no one tell me they were together?” Frollo looked ahead and clenched his jaw. Jean-Pierre watched Claude closely and saw his fight to remain collected. He never expressed himself, but Jean-Pierre easily detected frustration. How could I not see it? Is what the eldest judge imagined him to say instead. Frollo had a new nickname that was beginning to gain traction in the media. If the young man didn’t change his ways, it would stick forever. The Marble Judge. Jean-Pierre could see it causing issues down the line. “I’m sorry, dear boy. I genuinely thought you knew.” In fact, it had become quite apparent, but Claude wasn’t equipped to pick up on these emotional nuances. Jean-Pierre learned this early on when he began mentoring him out of college as an intern. Claude could pick apart a stranger’s motives, behaviors, even business plans like a computer, but as soon as the relationships grew closer to him, all of those observation skills became useless. Frollo had a lack of understanding of any form of emotional intimacy. He gathered it was because his parents never nurtured him. Though they all tried to cross that bridge with him, Frollo proved to have an impenetrable wall around his heart. Frollo turned to look at the old man. Did Jean-Pierre detect…jealousy? “How was I supposed to if everyone refused to inform me?” Jean-Pierre didn’t know how to answer that without offending him. Instead, he sensed a deeper issue. Frollo never approved of Remy’s flamboyant lifestyle and he was quite fond of Lucy. “Do you have feelings for her? Or is it because you find Remy to be an utter scoundrel?” Frollo’s skin paled and Jean-Pierre put his hand on the man’s back. “Why didn’t you tell her if that was the case?” He asked gently, but Frollo knitted his brow in anger. “That’s not it,” he tried to recover by acting irritated. “It doesn’t make any sense. We all know Remy is going to go back to his wife because he can only go so long without fucking a man. I know Lucy well enough to know she wants monogamy.” Jean-Pierre pursed his lips and removed his hand. Keeping his eyes on his, he kept the boy’s attention. “Relationships rarely make sense if you write them on paper, my boy. That is not what it is about. ” Frollo looked like he was at a complete loss of what to say next, as if Jean-Pierre gave him some profound knowledge...a revelation. 

“Even if Lucy knows Remy will return to his wife, she wants to enjoy it while it lasts. He is a good man and I trust him with my life. So, do you think Remy is a scoundrel?” He asked again, to which Frollo shrugged uncomfortably. “A bit,” Claude grumbled. “And it is natural to like Lucy, she helps you with everything and is very kind. It can be natural to feel jealous, but don’t be too hard on judge Remy for it. You are fond of her, aren’t you?” He knew Frollo liked women, but never dated. To his knowledge, Frollo was still a virgin. Claude’s hands were folded on his lap, but they looked more like fists with their tension. “A bit,” Frollo said more reluctantly. His head had been pointing down for a minute, but he suddenly turned to Jean-Pierre. “Don’t--” He swallowed. “Don’t tell a soul,” Frollo said harshly. Jean-Pierre tried to hide the melancholy from his smile. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that everyone already knew. “I promise not to say a word.” It wasn’t until years later that Claude realized he had never been in love with Lucy. He assumed Lucy knew that in her heart all along. Judge Remy and Lucy were expecting their first child after a year. They married, to everyone's surprise. The ‘break’ from his wife turned out to be final. Remy was deeply in love with Lucy and appeared to have settled down from his swinger lifestyle. Remy once made fun of Jean-Pierre for having a child so late in life, only to walk the same path. However, after some years, Remy began to notice a blossoming friendship between Lucy and a man named Luc. He was doing business that required them to keep in touch and the conversations were growing longer. Remy asked Luc out to lunch one day and quite liked the man himself. Luc was easy to get along with and very attractive. He had never met someone so laid back and funny. As they spoke about Lucy, he could see a twinkle in Luc’s eye. It was the same as Lucy’s.

Ah, young love, and Remy knew that Lucy would never leave him for another man. Remy invited him over for dinners quite frequently. Lucy believed in monogamy, but in Remy’s opinion, love should never be restricted. Lucy was the love of his life and he wanted her to have the world. Luc was an amazing guy and Remy found himself wishing Luc was bisexual. After things developed, Remy had a decision to make. He approached Luc first. “I seem to have noticed that you are in love with my wife….” The expression on Luc’s face told him what he needed to know. The blood seemed to drain from his cheeks. Luc tried to laugh it off a little too late and Remy placed a hand on his shoulder. “I will love Lucy until the day I die,” Remy continued. “But I am finding myself missing certain things.” The judge never wanted to be tied down completely, but it had been a sacrifice he was willing to make for Lucy. He was physically more attracted to men, but his marriage to Lucy was the most fulfilling and euphoric experience he ever had. “You do not seem like a jealous man, Luc. In my mind, she will always be my wife. If you both accept it… I would like to see her from time to time…. If you know what I mean.” Luc readily accepted it while Lucy seemed conflicted. “Divorce you…. And marry Luc?” Lucy’s cheeks were flushed. “You spoke to him first?” “Yes, I did. You don’t have to be shy, my love. I am actually just a little sad that you didn’t tell me. Come on, you know me better than that. Why should I care?” he smiled and continued. “This could be good for us,” Remy took her hand. “I would still like to have private time with you and I will still speak to you like my wife. I will just be… a mostly gay husband. Luc is absolutely fine with it, as long as you are, but I understand if you would like to speak with him first.” Lucy blinked and knitted her brows. She was completely stunned. “Unless you stopped loving me when you fell in love with Luc…” Remy began, which was met with Lucy quickly objected. “And I thought you knew me better than that,” she said, a bit upset. “Oh, I was hoping you would say that,” Remy laughed. “So what do you say? We take a holiday every once in a while, I can have my fun with men again, and you and Luc can have the perfect marriage.” Lucy’s eyes began to water. She didn’t typically cry. She knew how Remy was, but his removal from all forms of jealousy still astonished her. She was just beginning to realize Luc was the same way. “Truly?” She asked him. “I will always give you anything you want,” Remy kissed her forehead.Then he laughed. “And you wanted to be monogamous. Life has a funny way of changing things, doesn’t it?”

~.~.~ By the time Claude turned forty, he gave up on finding a partner. Although, he promised himself not to shut anyone out. He talked to women at parties until he felt his ears would bleed. He attended the theatre often, but as time went on, he stayed at home even more. He went from drinking lightly on occasion to drinking a fair amount at home and at events. The Marble judge finally felt content once he no longer seeked fulfillment from others. He found more joy in his work, in meals, in his personal reading. He cooked more and generally took better care of himself than he ever had in his life. He lied to himself well about never feeling lonely, but there was to be another development. Delice came along a year later. A beautiful and young socialite who was charmingly cruel. Frollo knew if she had been around while he was in his ambitious thirties he would probably be poor on the street by now. She would have taken everything from him. Somehow knowing this, she still appealed to the apathetic part of his soul. They would make such wonderful wasps. As time went on, Frollo became increasingly drawn to her. He was starting to like her and become more comfortable. If it was a trap, he began to care less and less. He ached for someone. They had enough similarities and he adored her air of superiority. Frollo had never been perfect, often thinking there were plenty of people below him. They could judge others and be stuck up together. Delice was the closest thing he had to a crush since Lucy. Frollo never appreciated just how well his colleagues and friends got at reading him. “Delice has been on your arm for months and you actually smiled at her! You were eating her up! I’ve never been so disappointed in you,” Lucy chastised him after a political event. “It’s not like I am going to fuck her, if that is what you are so worried about,” Frollo loathed feeling embarrassed and often acted quite thin-skinned during personal conversations. Lucy called him out on his developing feelings for Delice and at this point, he didn’t even know if what he said was true anymore. “You say that now! I introduced you to plenty of sweet women and you let that snake in our circle like she is your friend. I know she is pretty, but god damn it Claude! You’ve heard things about her too and you know that she is literal filth. This isn’t high school.” “I enjoy our conversations and her company. At least when she speaks, she knows the subject. You know how hard it is for me to find a conversation worth having with these mindless people.” He was defending his actions and feelings more than standing up for Delice and they both knew it. “That is what you are going to say to me?” Lucy had never been this angry with him and she succeeded in making him feel like a teenager being chewed out by his mother. “Do you think I don’t know a man’s eyes when they want to fuck someone? Do you think she doesn’t know? I’ve seen you look at women, but you practically undress her with your stare every time she is close. I know you are one of the most brilliant minds in the world, but you are emotionally stupid. She will rip you to shreds with her teeth and spit you out.” She walked up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “If you are that lonely, you need to find something else.” He remembered how broken he felt. Her speech opened his eyes and took away the joy he was experiencing for the last few months. Lucy was only trying to protect him and she was absolutely right. His eyes looked to the floor in shame. “I’m sorry, dear,” Lucy said sadly and gave him a hug. He couldn’t breathe. He stood there, unmoving. So, this is what a hug felt like. Wrapping his arms around Lucy, he trembled, keeping his emotions in. He held her tight. He was kidding himself all along. He wanted someone to hold forever. Though he wasn’t in love with Lucy, he knew he would have been happy to spend his life with her, but she deserved the true love she had. She was his closest friend and he clung to those emotions because it was the only time he experienced connection. When she left, he drank himself to sleep in his despair. His bed had never felt so cold. His life returned to how it was and he found that he didn’t miss those few months when he had Delice glued to his side. At the end of the day, none of it was real and he again became content living alone, being alone. He limited his interactions with Delice. She saw this and attempted to cozy up with Lucy, but was shot down. This is when he saw Delice become a bit more aggressive and sometimes trapped him in public conversations so he couldn’t leave. Yet… he couldn’t bring himself to even dislike her. He liked her ambition and her persistence and never treated her unkindly. 

He remembered the events which led up to the day that would change his perception forever. Attending a theatre performance, he remembered a new ballerina named Christine. She did fine in performances, but Charlotte, judge Jean-Pierre’s daughter grew impatient with her. “She’s good, but she is so timid. It is a miracle she can dance in front of an audience. I think her being friends with Meg Giry is the only thing keeping her safe from Madame Giry’s wrath. She would probably cry at the drop of a hat!” It only took weeks before Christine was no longer in the ballet, but the choir instead. Her voice was undoubtedly incredible. Frollo’s eyes widened in surprise one night when the prima donna had some drama and they needed a fill. He immediately became curious. Rumors were circulating and it didn’t take Claude long to figure out why. There was only one Erik he knew with any clout, though most everyone simply referred to him as the opera ghost. He was the manager everyone feared and never saw. “Are you teaching Christine?” Frollo asked his distant, but long-term friend. He remembered the near indecipherable smirk on Erik’s mouth just below the mask. “That sounds more like an accusation than a question.” Frollo observed him quietly with as little expression as possible. Erik loved to get under anyone’s skin, especially his because he was ‘so uptight that it was foolish.’ Meanwhile, Claude thought Erik’s mischief was childish and petty. He was just an old, lonely man desperate to entertain himself. “Either way, I would like to know,” Frollo said. “Why?” Erik was purposefully difficult. “That question was not your intention.” Frollo turned his lips inward in a hard line with evident frustration. “Is the interest strictly professional?” Frollo clarified tartly. Erik poured them some wine for the two of them and there was a solemnity and an amusement sparkling in his eyes that Claude had never seen before. If Christine was timid… this wouldn’t end well for Erik. To this day, even Frollo was wary of the man. “For now,” Erik handed him the wine. Frollo didn’t know why, but he actually believed him when he said it. Perhaps Lucy was right. There was a part of him that was emotionally underdeveloped and despite being able to read people very well, he was sometimes easily fooled. He met Christine before one of the performances. She was incredibly sweet. He thought her apprehension would bother him, but it made it that much easier to be nice to her. She was shy and he made small frequent smiles because of her overall pleasantness. Christine was thoughtful and smarter than he anticipated. However, he got the vibe that the only people who could be mean to her were truly cruel because she had an air of sensitivity and gentleness. 

“So, you are friends with Erik, then?” she asked lightly. Frollo gave her a small smile. “I guess you can say that.”

He could see why Erik would be drawn to her. She was not Claude’s type and he realized quickly that he could never be interested because of a lack of patience -- he was too old for that nonsense! Apparently Erik could read his mind for even thinking of such a thing, because later that night, he was on a warpath. Oh, Erik had raged at him so hard he worried the man would have a heart attack! Frollo’s eyes widened in shock at his demonic fury. He had never seen such an outburst. Wait --  now was he yelling at him because he so much as smiled at Christine? Why did he take Erik’s words for face value? The man was obsessed. Claude felt like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. How many times in his life would he misread the emotions that were right in front of him? “I just wanted to meet her,” Frollo promised. “If that is the girl you like, you could do infinitely worse. If it means a damn thing to you, I approve,” though she was awfully young. He was unwilling to admit to his friend that he thought the union would be impossible. The age gap was too large. For someone as particular as Erik, he expected him to fall for someone more mature… Christine was twenty, but there was a girlish quality that left the impression on Claude that she had a lot of growing up to do. After some time, Erik calmed down. Claude was secretly trembling from the shockwaves of emotions that Erik swallowed him up in like a black hole.The man had a power that was practically supernatural. What frightened him the most was the despair Erik felt. Obviously Erik didn’t think a relationship was possible, but he was going to try anyway. What a fruitless effort! Claude shook his head when he entered his car. The poor man. Unrequited love was a nightmare that Frollo never really considered. He always imagined love to be a progression. Meet, go on dates, grow feelings over a substantial amount of time… What if one fell within moments? A cold chill traveled up his spine before reaching out like an icy hand around his heart. His frigid fingers gripped the steering wheel. If Erik could be afflicted with such blind and unreasonable love, could he also fall ill? Another week passed and although Frollo wasn’t actively seeking new information about Christine, he quietly observed the woman Erik was enamored with. He didn’t understand why the intense attraction to her, but to each their own. She looked like a doll. She was very sweet, but Frollo found himself wondering how Erik could handle her naivety. Perhaps this proved Claude was the bigger cynic afterall. He was too jaded to try to have a meaningful relationship with a woman half his age. At least women near his age had the same temperament: calm, thoughtful, mature…

Tired. Fate had a cruel sense of humor. Everything he thought he knew would be challenged. His world was about to spin. Frollo was thankfully by himself, away from his group to order a drink from the bar before returning. When it happened. Standing at the bar top, he did a double take when he saw Christine with….a friend? 

Claude’s eyes were glued, his heart came alive against his chest as it never had before. If he had his scotch in his hand, it would have slipped from his fingers. Never before did he see a woman who looked like a goddess-- walked like one! The aura she exuded was so powerful that he followed her movement with his eyes without blinking. The girl had the fullest, darkest, and most curly hair he had ever seen. Her eyes were bright green which he had never seen a woman of her complexion have. Her plump lips were covered in a beautiful, matte red lipstick. Everything about her was so tasteful and perfect that he wondered if he was dreaming. If he breathed, he feared she would disappear like mist. Taking the scotch the bartender just poured for him, he used it to cover part of his face as his eyes raked over her body. Her cleavage was full, but not too much and she had such a small waist which led to wide hips. They now walked to the other side of the room. Seeing the full extent of the cut of her dress, her entire back was bare. Frollo didn’t realize a woman’s back could look so attractive. The slit on the side exposed the top of her thighs as she walked and they fit the rest of her body. There wasn’t a single inch of her that wasn’t flawless. The Roman sculptors would fall to their knees and beg to capture her beauty if they saw her. 

His scotch was done in an instant. Not intending to sit before, he did so now, thankful that the bar acted as his cover for his leering and….the erection which was hard against his thigh. Thank the maker that he couldn’t get a tent in his suit trousers. He gasped softly, his heart racing. This woman took his breath away. “Hey, you, I haven’t seen you in awhile,” Delice sat at the bar stool next to him and he was so disoriented, he jumped out of his skin. “Jesus fuck,” he whispered and turned his eyes to look at her. She smiled prettily. Delice had a nice mouth and beautiful eyes. Instantly, they didn’t seem so impressive. “That’s a good introduction. Did I scare you?” she laughed. “Buy me a drink and make it up to me.” At this point he was going to need three drinks before the performance. He would use Delice as an excuse to do so. “Absolutely,” he said and ordered for them. He knew Delice’s drink of choice and he could feel Lucy’s eyes boring into the side of his face when he didn’t return after a few minutes. He couldn’t hear what Delice was talking about. He was thinking of the girl. He didn’t see her again… was she getting ready for the performance? “You men don’t even listen sometimes,” Delice sighed. Frollo was already on his third round of scotch in a matter of minutes. “I’ve had a rough day at work, I am sorry, Delice.” He was about to round up the tab when Delice ordered another drink and touched his hand with her fingers. He tensed. “I don’t think your P.A. likes me,” she wrinkled her nose and sneered. It was surprisingly attractive to look at. He hated that he still liked her. “Lucy?” he asked vacantly. “Who else?” she said irritably. “Do you have another one that acts like your mother?” If Frollo had been sober he would have been a lot more offended by what she said. “You’re not drunk already. Are you playing dumb? You aren’t usually this unattentive to me,” she pouted. His eyes dropped to her lips. Old habits. She was still tantalizing and she knew it.

Even when she wasn’t being nice to him, he never minded. He actually liked it and he understood why Lucy thought he had a problem and needed to keep his distance. “I’m sorry Delice, I am not myself today. I haven’t been feeling the greatest,” he lied easily and after paying for her drinks and another scotch, he walked back to his group. Lucy was glaring at him as if he had fornicated with Delice right there. “Why did you stay over there?” She asked in concern. “I saw you pay and drink like a fish.” Lucy wasn’t ever this uptight. Everything that was going on made Frollo incredibly anxious. He took another sip of scotch. He was a little drunk now. “Please, Lucy, I just need… a break for a minute.” Lucy frowned in confusion and nodded. “I am sorry sir,” she took his hand. “I am just trying to look out for you. She is bad news.” “I know,” he assured her. They sat down for the performance and his life would never be the same again. Looking at the playbill he casually skimmed through it, but his fingers trembled. Was she here? He blinked. Esmeralda Trouillefou. Making her professional debut. He could hear his pulse drummed in his ears. She was the ballerina they hired after Christine switched to vocals. This… this never would have happened to him if Erik hadn’t interfered. His blood ran cold. He could feel the voice of fate laughing softly in his ear. He was doomed. Watching her dance was agonizing. There wasn’t a single angle of her face or her body that showed an imperfection. Ballerina leotards were always an attractive item, but he had never seen a body like an hourglass in the corps before. Frollo’s blood rushed hotly through his veins and seared his flesh. A bead of sweat to trickle down the back of his neck. His eyes flew over her and only her. Her thick thighs… her thin arms-- her everything. Her massive hair was slick and perfectly contained in the usual dancer bun and her eye makeup was typical of dramatic theatre performances for ballerinas. Crossing his legs casually, he swore his erection never went down for the duration of the play. He felt heady and needed to calm his erratic breathing. He forced himself to stop watching at the end so he could become decent by the time the lights went up. They met that night and he was so unprepared to see her face to face that he came off cold and silent. She made a face of disapproval because of his lack of warmth and he felt his heart drop like a boulder in his gut because of the disappointment.What a great first impression. It wasn’t until later that he saw her parade herself like the perfect little trophy to every patron.It infuriated him so deeply that the next time they met, he insulted her without thinking of the consequences. Of course she would be a frivolous theatre whore! Why did he even think she might be sweet and mindful? Thank God Lucy wasn’t there that night, she would have given him a stern talking to. He began to envy Erik. At least Christine was approachable and modest, with a quiet intelligence that was beyond her years despite her fragility. Meanwhile, Claude was starved for a woman who flirted with the entire room like it was her job! Every man wanted a piece of her. He could see it in their eyes when they looked at her. He had never felt so much rage that his vision blurred. It happened. Cupid’s arrow pierced his heart. Just like Erik. Obsession gripped him like nothing else had before. He looked for news articles with her face and attended more performances. They were his sick pleasure in the beginning. She couldn’t even be compared to the ecstacy of a drug. She was his euphoria and he spent months in this crazed state where he would consume theatre performances like morphine. Scouring the papers that month, an introductory bio was published. He was mortified to find out that she had just turned twenty-two. He unconscionably memorized her birthday. At first, the fact that he didn’t care for her didn’t particularly interfere. It was lust that drove him and in his mind, the fascination would gradually wane. In a few months, he would wonder what was so special about her. For now, he wanted to drink every inch of her with his eyes when he could. It was then that he began taking Charlotte to and from her performances at least twice a week. Jean-Pierre appreciated the help and Claude couldn’t admit that it was for any other reason. Ah, but Esmeralda was vile! He hated everything about her! In the after parties, they kept their distance at first, but he always knew where she was socializing. She might as well crawl under the clothed tables with some of these men and service them right there! His fury and irritation soon became as intense as his desire. Any time they came near each other, they couldn’t be civil. Even her beautiful skin color became a matter of vexation. She wasn’t the typical ivory frenchwoman, but he saw her impress men that he knew for a fact were racist. There were a lot of french who disliked brown skin, Frollo being one of them. She challenged every perception he had of the world. “If you want to act like a theatre whore, at least try to be more subtle about it. You don’t see any of the others being so obvious. Have some dignity” He told her once away from everyone else when she demanded to know what his problem was. Of course she was highly offended and hurled plenty of fire back at him. By month two, Esmeralda was best friends with Charlotte and Charlotte asked him multiple times why he was so rude. No explanation could cover his behavior, so he blamed it on her being just as rude in the beginning. Charlotte was quick to defend Esmeralda. “Try to be nicer to her next time you see her or I will tell Papa to set you straight. You don’t know what she is like in private.” He remembered the day in the hospital when he waited for over eight hours for this girl to be born. The same girl, seventeen years later, was telling him to get his act together, lest she tell Jean-Pierre.  He clenched his jaw and agreed to be more civil. He didn’t want to have an embarrassing, personal conversation, which would most likely make him feel ashamed of himself.

His fixation for Esmeralda never went anywhere like he anticipated, only increased as they both seemed to call a quiet truce. At least, when they had to make appearances. “Coquette,” he sneered under his breath in passing and she almost smiled. “Cad,” she cooed, unaffected. It burned his heart, especially when she found out she could ruffle his feathers by being a mixture of flirty and argumentative with him. She loved to flirt! When she flirted with him, it was a particular kind of teasing that set his skin aflame in concealed excitement, but it enraged him the most. It wasn’t real. It was mockery. Another month went by and things were becoming more difficult. He didn’t realize how close Christine and Esmeralda had become. Soon, the situation turned on its head and everyone but him completely adored her. “She is so great, I don’t understand why you are so mean to her,” Charlotte whined on the way home from a performance. She brought this up a lot and Frollo was growing tired of hearing it. “She isn’t particularly kind to me either,” Frollo said irritably. “So you both have a temper, I’m sure you two can start over. I’ve never seen either of you act like this. It just proves to show that you two got off on the wrong foot. I know you guys are very different.” “That is quite an understatement,” Frollo muttered through his teeth. It was month three since he saw Esmeralda for the first time and Erik was becoming more insistent that they meet. Claude avoided this moment for as long as possible. Erik knew everything that went on in the theatre and he was not ready to have a conversation about Esmeralda, or really any of his behavior when interacting with her. But soon, Erik put a hand on Frollo’s back as one of the performances ended. He hadn’t even seen where the man came from, as if he had teleported. Erik led him to a discreet area in the theatre which required his handprint for clearance. It wasn’t like Claude could run away. “I already told Charlotte that I would be speaking with you and her dad will be picking her up.” Frollo’s lips pulled in discomfort instead of the friendly smile he had aimed for. Once inside, they talked about Christine and her progress mostly. Frollo thought he might be off the hook, but he had been too hopeful.It was Erik’s turn to ask questions that he didn’t mean. “How about you, old friend? Have you found someone you are interested in?” Frollo’s skin prickled with anxiety. “No. I think I would tell you at this point if there was,” Frollo scoffed. The smile Erik gave was chilling and all knowing. His anxiety went off the charts. He felt like Erik was giving him a lie detector test where he already knew the results. “I don’t think you would.” Fear spread throughout Claude’s body and his stomach twisted with nauseum. “It’s Esmeralda, isn’t it?” The judge couldn’t hide completely from his reaction. His lips parted in surprise. Erik was the first one to suspect anything was amiss. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Frollo’s voice was tight in his throat. “You are the one who has been acting ridiculous!” “And you haven’t?” Frollo said defensively. “Don’t think I forgot you went off the rails because I spoke to Christine. Esmeralda irritates me, nothing more.” Erik laughed. He laughed! “You are obsessed! Ah, my friend has the same ailment as me!” Claude’s face turned white as a sheet. “Obsession will never be love, Erik,” he spat. It fell from his mouth and the opera ghost had never looked so smug. “So you admit it, then…And I disagree,” Erik waved his hand in an elegant dismissal.“My obsession has certainly blossomed and I can now say that I am in love. I would make the world spin the opposite direction. Christine must only ask it of me.” Frollo looked away and took a sip of his wine to refrain from sneering at the emotional soliloquy.That sentence seemed to be more for himself than for Claude’s regard.The thought of romantic love was beginning to repulse him more and more with each breath he took. “Your obsession might have turned into love for Christine, but that is not to be my fate.This is just an odd phase in my life. Us old men know how that happens. It will pass and I will forget it ever happened.” It would take Claude months for him to see just how little progress Erik was making with Christine. “That is not how hell works.”   Erik became so sombre that the hopelessness seemed to overtake the room. Erik’s words were cryptic and they lingered in Claude’s head hours after he left. He would wear the obsession thin. If he was this fed up with Esmeralda now, his irritation would eventually make him sick of her. It had to. Month four approached.Though it was still his secret pleasure to watch her dance because it excited him to his core, he was beginning to feel less satisfied. It gave him hope that his obsession was finally waning. It was a false flag. Ever since things had reached a temporary calm, his feelings for Esmeralda were merely shifting without him realizing it. He attended the theatre less this month and most of his interactions with the ballerina were picking up Charlotte from rehearsals or performances. Jean-Pierre was having health troubles and since “Claude turned into such a theatre buff this year,” he asked him to continue helping him with Charlotte. Frollo didn’t tell him that he hadn’t been going much lately, especially when his father-figure looked so pale and uncomfortable. None of them wanted Charlotte to be taking public transport by herself and Claude was the only one without kids. “Of course I will help,” Frollo assured him. It was devastating for him, especially when he wanted to avoid the theatre entirely. Sometimes mid-day rehearsals ran long, sometimes they were short. Frollo was always punctual, so it seemed like more than half of the time, he was in an empty theatre sitting with a handful of others waiting for the rehearsal to be over. He observed Esmeralda, who always sat next to Charlotte on the floor when Madame Giry did her review at the end of each rehearsal. He noticed how sweet her face was despite Charlotte’s constant pestering. More than once, Madame Giry had to tell Charlotte to be quiet. There was never a moment when Esmeralda regarded Charlotte with irritation, which was more than what he could say about himself. He admired her gentle smiles. He had never seen them before. These were the private smiles she gave to friends and not to patrons. Frollo got into the habit of taking xanax much more frequently. Theatre parties were one thing because he could hide in a crowd. Picking up Charlotte when she was always hanging on Esmeralda’s arm was a more intimate experience. One night, the rehearsal ran exceedingly late.There would be a new open soon and Madame Giry wasn’t having it. He was waiting for about two hours for it to be finished.. Once it was, he silently thanked a God he didn’t believe in. It was the first time he saw Esmeralda dance in a few weeks and he was yet again surprised by how acutely she affected him. His skin was warm. Distance wasn’t enough. Charlotte emerged in her regular clothes, approaching with Esmeralda. He couldn’t help but feel tense. Normally, she avoided him. He frowned naturally and saw her look away, slightly miffed, which in turn annoyed him even more. “Uncle Claude, would you mind giving Esmeralda a ride home tonight? It is dark and Christine didn’t have rehearsal today, so there would be no buddy system.” Frollo couldn’t help his sigh of annoyance. This was not at all how he planned on spending his evening. “It’s ok Charlotte, he obviously doesn’t want to,” Esmeralda said in a gentle tone he had personally never heard her use. He had never been subjected to a teenage girl’s pointed irritation before. It was like daggers. “Uncle Claude, I swear--” “Alright.” Frollo put his hands up in defeat. He didn’t want Charlotte to finish that sentence. Charlotte’s excitement was childlike. It was apparent to him that she adored Esmeralda with every fiber of her being. Staying separated from them as they walked to his expensive car, they hopped in the back. Fate was having a hell of a time making him miserable, as there was an accident which caused the traffic to be more congested than usual. There was no taking an alternate route. Charlotte talked excessively. Looking in the overhead mirror, he could see Esmeralda up close with natural makeup and normal clothes. She was honestly more stunning now. She smiled at Charlotte again and his heart twisted. She was so exquisite... Another emotion came over him that he had never felt. Then, his heart began to beat faster. Tender feelings flooded his chest and suddenly he yearned for her to smile at him. His eyes darted back to the road. No… no he couldn’t. This was the fascination talking to him. He didn’t care what happened to her or what she wanted. The night would never end and when they finally reached Esmeralda’s apartment, relief swept over him. “Thank you for the ride, Minister,” Esmeralda said. Their eyes met and he wondered if this was the first time that they looked at each other without animosity. “You are welcome.” His voice was reluctant, but Esmeralda seemed oddly pleased. So, he could be civil for literally half a second. She flashed the smallest of smiles as she left. It wasn’t the large, carefree ones that she gave to others, but it still caused his heart to skip a beat in his chest. “See, that didn’t kill you!” Charlotte said loudly. Claude sat there for a moment. “I think it may have,” he said quietly and Charlotte thought he was joking. “Sure, Uncle Claude. Whatever.”

[fakeyellow]

Based on an anon prompt asking for MC’s granddaughter finding the compass and meeting Charlie (more headcanons with Charlie are in the A/N)

Grandma Peyton has always been her favourite for as long as Adria can remember.

She has no children of her own but she’s always been so fun, always willing to look after her sister’s grandchildren as if they were her own.

When they were children, Adria remembers long afternoons spent running around her grandmother’s yard during elaborate treasure hunts her grandmother came up with. And then, when they were exhausted, she’d regale them with swashbuckling tales of pirates: from the noble Captain Edward to the fierce Siren Queen and Adria’s personal favourite, the legendary Captain Bellamy.

Her stories were larger than life and so utterly captivating that as a child, Adria wholeheartedly believed them to be true even if her grandma only smiled mysteriously when she and her siblings asked where the stories came from (her parents later said that Grandma Peyton had been an actress and that she’d always been a great storyteller).

While her siblings have long outgrown the stories, trading in the makeshift pirate swords and eyepatches for more appropriate pursuits, Adria’s never quite forgotten them. She’d begged her parents to get her fencing lessons as a child and she was now currently one of the top amateur fencers in the country (although she still could never beat her grandma).

As the youngest child in a family of driven go-getters, Adria’s always felt a bit out of place. Unlike her sisters who have wanted to be doctors like Grandma Casey since they could speak, Adria doesn’t really know what she wants to do. She likes fencing yes, but not to the point of becoming a professional fencer and nothing in school interests her as much as her grandma’s tales do.

Even though her parents don’t pressure her, she knows they’re a bit worried about her. She’s never been a model child- ever rambunctious and unafraid to speak her mind even if it caused her to get in trouble more than a few times (just like herself as a child, Grandma Peyton chuckles and her words make Adria feel better because all she wants is to be like her grandma).

But when the time comes around to apply to college, Adria realises that she wants to study history. She wants to listen to and study the stories of different people in different times and when she graduates high school with an acceptance into one of the country’s best history programs, there is no one prouder than her grandma.

At their family celebration, Grandma Peyton pulls her aside and in her hands is a golden compass, exquisitely crafted. It’s clearly old but it’s been taken care of so that the years haven’t worn any of its beauty away and Adria’s eyes widen, in recognition.

“Is this-“

Her grandma smiles, “Yes, it’s the compass that brought the Siren Queen and Captain Bellamy together.”

Adria can’t tear her eyes away from the beautiful compass that’d played such a central role in the stories she’d heard as a child.

“It’s time I let go of it now,” her grandma says and for a second, there is a glimpse into a lifetime’s worth of yearning on her face but by the time Adria looks up, her grandma is smiling again.

The compass is a solid weight in her hands and Adria feels a swell of love for her grandmother who’s unconditionally supported her, no matter how directionless she’s been and she throws her arms around her.

“Thank you.”

—

It’s been two years since her grandmother died but Adria still misses her fiercely. The compass is just the perfect size, not too big or too small, and there isn’t a place that she goes without the comforting, familiar weight of the compass in her bag.

She’s on her way to class when it happens.

There’s a forceful pull on her gut and Adria stumbles as everything distorts around her, reality ripping away from her.

Adria blinks confusedly and finds herself on a beach.

She blinks again but she is still on a golden beach that is most assuredly not her college campus. In a situation where she doesn’t understand anything that’s just happened, Adria instinctively pulls out her phone only to sigh in annoyance.

Of course there’s no service here.

But when she puts her phone back into her bag, her hand brushes against something warm and Adria gasps when she sees the source of the heat. The compass her grandmother gave her as a graduation present is warm to the touch and glowing.

And her grandma’s stories that she hasn’t heard in years now slowly trickle back into her mind. It’s impossible and yet…

The sun blazes down on her, the heat making it even more difficult to gain her bearings, and Adria decides that her first step is to leave the beach and go towards the city where the bustling sounds of people can be heard.

When her feet touch down on cobbled stone, Adria can’t help herself from staring.

It’s as if she’s dropped into one of those reenactment villages, everyone dressed in unbelievably authentic looking period clothing. The streets are filled with stalls full of fresh fruit and it’s loud with the sound of prices being haggled over and it’s unlike anything she’s seen before.

Although she tries to ask a few strangers for help, most everyone ignores her, distrust and scandalized judgment clear in their eyes at the sight of her exposed legs.

Not a single person is willing to answer any of her questions and Adria is at her wit’s end when a tavern at the end of the street catches her eye.

She’s drawn a lot of unfriendly attention to herself with her incessant questions and her clothes that look laughably out of place in this olden village.

Wanting to avoid the islanders’ eyes and rationalising that surely a bar wouldn’t be as judgmental about her shorts, Adria ducks into the tavern.

The tavern’s filled with rowdy patrons daydrinking and wary of them (even though she’s able to defend herself, she doesn’t want to get into a fight when she still doesn’t even know where she is), she darts to the bar.

“Can you tell me where I am?” Adria asks the blonde barkeep with as much charm as she can muster and when the woman smiles back at her, she almost wants to faint in relief.

The barkeep’s smile is curious but friendly nonetheless, “Why, you’re in Tiburon of course.”

Adria’s heart stops because that is a name she’s heard many times before, the backdrop of so many of the stories her grandmother had told her.

She can’t help herself; she pulls the compass out of her bag and fiddles with it desperately. She’d thought it a well made prop, maybe an antique at best, but had her grandma been telling the truth? It was one thing to have believed in her grandma’s stories as a child but Adria finds her head spinning out now, her mind racing as she tries to calm herself.

In her panic, she doesn’t notice the person walking towards her until they’re right in front of her.

“Hi love, mind explaining where you got that compass?”

Adria slowly looks up and there, looking exactly as her grandmother described her, is the Siren Queen, Charlie Smith.

—

A/N: Won’t be writing another chapter for this but I wrote some head canons for Charlie and Adria meeting so here they are:

Charlie accepts Adria’s story with remarkable ease (although Adria supposes that she must be used to it after having met her grandma).

“You look like her.”

—

Charlie is sad to hear that Peyton is dead in Adria’s time but she’s surprisingly okay with it.

“We all have our ends, love,” she tells Adria.

But when Adria tries to warn Charlie about the last time they’ll be together, Charlie shakes her head.

“None of that now.”

And Adria protests because why wouldn’t she want to know when the last time she’d be with her lover would be?

And Charlie’s bravado fades to reveal a woman who is deeply intimate with the feeling of loss and yearning for what could have been, who’s spent her entire life loving people who have been torn away from her.

“No matter what happens today, or tomorrow, or in a dozen years, my heart is hers. Every moment we have together is a gift beyond measure… Knowing when exactly we can no longer be together won’t change that.”

And Adria doesn’t bring it up again.

—

They piece together the timeline and it’s a bit confusing. Because while Peyton has died in Adria’s time, in Charlie’s time, Peyton had just been with her the past week.

And Adria can’t help but feel a little devastated that she missed seeing her grandma, young and in her prime as the great Captain Bellamy. She’s missed her grandma fiercely and she has so many questions to ask.

—

“If you start calling me grandma, we’re going to have problems love. Just call me Charlie.”

—

Although Charlie doesn’t want to know too much about her future with Peyton, she doesn’t object to seeing photos of her.

There may be no internet but Adria’s always adored her grandma and her camera roll is filled with pictures of Peyton, young and old. The thought of an old Peyton that she’ll never get to see fills Charlie with sadness but she delights in seeing Peyton decked out in different costumes from her acting career.

Charlie runs a finger down the pixelated cheek of her grandmother with such fondness that Adria is suddenly struck with how deeply painful their story is.

Tears flood her eyes and despite her best attempts to hold them back, they spill over and then she finds herself wrapped in strong arms.

“Hey now love what’s the problem?”

Charlie’s voice is warm and soothing but Adria’s unable to speak, completely overcome with sadness.

Her grandmother’s pirate stories had always stopped once Captain Bellamy turned 45 and she can’t believe the world would be so cruel to tear apart two women so utterly in love with each other.

[fremedon]

Brickclub I.1.11, “A Qualification”

Holy cow I had a lot to say about this chapter.

Firstly--more than anything, it’s a commentary on the previous chapter. The title, “A Qualification” (“Une restriction”) makes that pretty clear, and the chapter starts out by telling us that the Bishop’s encounter with G--- did not make him a philosopher or a patriot: it “made him still more charitable: that was all.”

I’m going to come back to that word “charitable.” Moving on for now:

Back in 1.1.2, the Senator’s letter of complaint about the bishop’s carriage expenses ends with a sudden outburst of anti-papist sentiments and a parenthetical from the narrator: “Relations with Rome were touchy at the time.”

I had forgotten how touchy until I got to the line about the arrest of the Pope in 1809. Tl;dr—Napoleon’s armies, or those of his puppet kingdoms, had occupied and annexed Rome and most of the Papal States in 1807-8. In May 1809 he declared his intention to annex the remainder of the Papal States and instructed the Pope to hand them over, on the grounds that they had been part of the Donation of Pepin, granted to the Pope by the Franks, and now the Franks were taking them back.

Pope Pius VII—shockingly—did not comply, and instead excommunicated Napoleon. Napoleon besieged the Pope in Castel Sant’Angelo and one of his lieutenants, acting on his own initiative, broke into the fortress and kidnapped him. Napoleon, despite not having ordered this, declined to release him and would keep in him captivity until he was freed by Allied forces in 1814.

FUN FACT: The general who occupied Rome and governed the Papal States from 1807 until Napoleon’s abdication? Sextius Alexandre François de Miollis, veteran of the French and American revolutions and brother of François-Melchior-Charles-Bienvenu de Miollis, the real-life Bishop of Digne of whom Myriel was an acknowledged expy.

The real-life bishop’s brother, with his exemplary revolutionary credentials, was the military governor of the occupied Papal States. I can’t even. This is obviously crucial but I don’t know how; please help me figure it out.

I am a little more confident of the meanings and functions of the rest of the chapter, but there’s a lot of it, so stashing it behind a cut.

So, the captivity of the Pope is the context in which Myriel insults the Church’s wealth and his high-living fellow ecclesiastics. There’s a digression on the importance of charity, which, for all that Hugo means it (and that it will become a critical key to the end of the chapter) I think truly is a digression--its placement here is Hugo throwing dust in our eyes. After this, Hugo assures us that Myriel “had little to do with the theological quarrels of the moment and kept his peace on questions where church and state were compromised; but if hard-pressed, he would have proved more Ultramontane than Gallican”—meaning, more of the belief that the Pope should have authority even in French secular affairs, rather than that the church’s authority should be subject to that of the state.

So not just the charity digression but all the anecdotes about the synod and the bishop being a breath of fresh air are sandwiched between the mention of the pope’s arrest, and our being told that the bishop Would Not Have Approved of it. Which feels like a thing Hugo is trying to underscore without seeming to but also seems totally unsurprising, so I’m not sure why. (Once again, HALP.)

Moving on. It’s after this that we are first told Myriel was cool toward Napoleon in the decline of his power. And it’s after that that we hear about the two brothers—on a prefect, whom he is on good terms with, and one a general, whom he is a little cool toward because the general was insufficiently hostile to Napoleon at the landing at Cannes—that is, at the start of the hundred days.

This fictionalizes the general brother enough to make it clear he’s not actually the MILITARY GOVERNOR OF THE PAPAL STATES. It also brings the timeline back to 1815, the year established as the present in the first sentence. We were just in 1814 at the start of the first Bourbon restoration—we jumped back five years or so to refresh the reader’s memory about Napoleon’s relations with Rome—and now we’re jumping forward, to Napoleon’s return.

With all this as context--Napoleon’s conquest of the Papal States (and the Bishop feeling a way about that), his decline, the Hundred Days--the narrator finally tells us what the Bishop’s political leanings ought to have been.

And first of all Hugo tells us he shouldn’t have had them, though his phrasing in FMA is odd: “Certainly, such a man deserved to escape political opinions.” Anyone want to weigh in on the French? (“Certes, un pareil homme eût mérité de n'avoir pas d'opinions politiques.”)

The next sentence is easier to parse: “Let no one misunderstand; we do not confuse so-called political opinions with that great yearning for progress, with that sublime patriotic, democratic, and human faith which, in our days, should be the basis of all generous thought.” This is Hugo assuring the censor that, no no no, this is not a political book. There’s nothing political about wanting ~progress~, no sir. (Please ignore the next 1300 pages, in which I conclusively demonstrate that Progress can only be achieved by overthrowing Napoleon III and instituting a socialist republic.)

Next sentence: “Without going further into questions that have only an indirect bearing on the subject of this book (translation: are DEEPLY RELEVANT to the subject of this book), we would simply say, it would have been better if Monseigneur Bienvenu had not been a royalist (translation: what it says on the tin) and if his eyes had never been averted for a single instant from that serene contemplation, steadily shining above the conflicts of human affairs, in which are seen those three pure luminaries, Truth, Justice, and Charity.”

Truth, Justice, and Charity are names of god in this book; that was established by a note in the Bishop’s own hand. The last chapter established them as the objects of the Revolution—which is to say, of progress. To be devoted to truth, justice, and charity is to be devoted to revolution.

And to be devoted to the monarchy is not. This sentence confirms what the last chapter implies: Revolution = God. Monarchy = Not God.

…and then I really don’t get the next bit either, about how Myriel didn’t have the right to oppose Napoleon in his decline because he hadn’t opposed his rise.

But the last portion of the chapter is an anecdote about the doorkeeper of the City Hall losing his job under the Restoration for constantly railing against the Bourbons. (Which is another bit of timebending—we’re not only back to the present, but to a more specific present than we started in—the first sentence just established the year, 1815, but this account puts us firmly post-Waterloo, somewhere in the second half of the year: the stage is being prepared for Valejan’s entrance.)

Myriel hires him as the doorkeeper for the cathedral. So however royalist he was--even if it was more royalist than he ought to have been, which is to say at all--it doesn’t prevent him from exercising charity, at least. (Or, at most, this chapter having already established that charity is the most important virtue for a priest.)

The anecdote does in miniature what the whole chapter is doing: tying up the encounter with G--- by showing that Myriel is “apolitical” in the sense the censors cared about--and also, in Hugo’s sense: devoted above all to charity and the betterment of the people around him. (And how do we do that, boys and girls? Starts with an R…)

[purelyforschool]

Critical Analysis on BTS’ Spine Breaker

Spine Breaker is a song by BTS with the central message that kids should not demand for expensive items from their parents to stay on trend. Although the lyrics does a good job at effectively communicating the message, the way the music video is presented and the image of K-pop idols does not effectively convey it.

The title “Spine Breaker” refers to someone who will hound their parents to buy them expensive, trendy items in order to make themselves look wealthy. Therefore, breaking the financial backbone of their parents and, quite literally, breaking their parents’ backs in the act of having them labor over expensive items.

The song was released in 2014 under BTS’ second album “Skool Luv Affair”. It was primarily produced and written by Pdogg and OwO; BTS members RM, Suga, and J-Hope also helped in the writing of Spine Breaker. Later in 2017, BTS self-produced their own music video for this song as a special thank you for the fans.

Spine Breaker was greatly influenced by the North Face padded jacket trend in the early 2010s where expensive padded North Face jackets become symbols of class division amongst teenagers. "It was common for kids to beg their parents” for these North Face padded jackets and “many parents have complained that the fad had crimped household budgets” (“In South Korea”). By 2012, the padded jackets has become the objects of “robbery and bullying” even causing “half a dozen students [to commit] suicide” (“In South Korea”).

What happened?  Are you falling behind on the trend? You whined so hard to have it given to you.  Did I hit a nerve? Just like the padding, it’s filling up with greed Even watching your parents bent backs, you’re unrelenting You’re whining because your friends all have it,  So they have to buy it for you (Ayo baby) Stop being so childish You’re not going to freeze, just because you’re not wearing that padded jacket Before you fill the jacket with goose down,  Fill your head with some common decency, before it’s too late.

Lyrics like these directly reference the expensive North Face padded jackets. Criticizing the act of whining and begging your parents for expensive clothing. The song later refers to these as dirty clothes which is ironic since expensive clothing are supposed to symbol cleanliness and high class.

The lyrics are very well written making it great for making teenagers reflect and think more deeply on the issue. However, if someone does not speak Korean, it may be harder to understand the message. I for one has been a fan of this song for years because of the catchy lyrics and style of the music, but I never understood what the message behind the song was before actively looking and researching the lyrics. Since Spine Breaker does contain a lot of fast rapping, it may even be hard for Korean speakers to clearly interpret the message.

There is also issue with cultural context. For example, the song start with:

The last line mentions education and students going to the “mountains”. This is based on a Korean saying that basically means the Korean education system has no direction; it it going nowhere. If someone was not familiar with all the cultural context such as the North Face trend or the Korean saying, they will have a hard time understanding the full message. Therefore they will not understand what exactly the song is trying to say. For example, for someone who don’t know the Korean saying and like hiking in the mountains, “education is going to the mountains” can have a positive connotation rather than a negative one and misinterpret the meaning of these lyrics. 

For the music video, BTS uses a sarcastic and lighthearted approach. Members worn expensive jackets with pearl on them and fancy glasses with dollar signs special effects to display trendy and expensive clothes. They also choreographed simple dance moves that correspond with the chorus of “You’re the spine breaker, Your parents’ spine breaker”.

The song touches upon relating issues like social status with visuals of members with and without shoes.

Peer Pressure with lyrics in the view of kids who buy the padded jackets saying they will be ostracized if they do not.

That’s right, my padded jacket is terribly expensive and terribly ugly (But I say) But I really wanted it, what can I say? Even the kids who are poorer than me all have it. (And I say) If I don’t want to be ostracized, I have to buy it. It’s often like this at this age, don’t you think?

And others like consumerism, greed, and willful ignorance.

The way BTS produced the music video can effectively bring light to the issue while providing criticism in a less negative way. However, this can also give some teens the wrong idea. According to conditional media effects, “Individuals have the tendency, at least to a certain extent, to seek out content that does not deviate too much from their needs, goals, and beliefs” (Valkenburg 19). Therefore, “people’s opinions on a given issue influence how they respond to media messages and characters” (Valkenburg 19). Thus, teens who only cares about staying on trend may seek out the fact that BTS are wearing expensive jackets and fancy sunglasses in their music video, so they want to copy them and ask their parents to buy them these items.

BTS is a great medium to spread this message because their fanbase is mostly composed of teenagers. Their widespread popularity allows them to get to get the message across to more audiences. However, being in the entertainment industry where looks and wealth are very glorified may contradict with their message. 

Growing up, it can be so easy to look to media and be attracted to materialistic things like expensive clothes, jewelry, and cars because all the celebrities have it. These desire for expensive items can then burden parents. Studies have shown that “involvement with celebrities can mediate media influence and lead adolescents to yearn for celebrities’ glamour and wealth. We found that adolescents who reported higher levels of intense-personal feelings with celebrities were more likely to value or to desire monetary and material possessions,”(Chia 34). I and friends around me have definitely been subjected to this at times. 

For example, there was a period of time where MCM bags(cost: 800-1000 dollars) were extremely popular amongst all the K-pop idols and you would always see pictures of them rocking these bags in airports. I along with many other K-pop fans would unconsciously want to get these bags either to match our idol, to make us look good like it did with idols, or want it because of mindsets like “if all the Korean celebrities have one, why I can’t I?” As a result, fans are more likely to ask their parents for these kind of expensive items. 

Although the message of this song does not go against consumerism, only sharing the value of if you want something, you should buy it with your own money rather than depending on your parents, higher desire for monetary and material possessions can potentially lead to increased likelihood of becoming a Spine Breaker.

Overall, I feel that BTS’ Spine Breaker did a pretty good job of conveying their message to people who speak Korean and is familiar with Korean culture. Their popularity also help spread the message to a wider audience. However, to foreigners, the message may be missed or misinterpreted unless they do further research. Their identity as celebrities can also conflict with their message since wealth is very glorified within the entertainment industry especially when it come to fashion, so fans are more likely to have desire for expensive items.

                                                      Works Cited

Chia, Stella C., and Yip Ling Poo. “Media, Celebrities, and Fans: An Examination of Adolescents' Media Usage and Involvement with Entertainment Celebrities.” Journalism & Mass Communication Quarterly, vol. 86, no. 1, 2009, pp. 23–44., doi:10.1177/107769900908600103.

“BTS - SPINE BREAKER ENG SUB 720p (170516)” YouTube, uploaded by w btsomethin, 16 May 2019, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klDj_wqaNO8

“In South Korea, North Face Jackets Tied to Wave of Bullying, Theft.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Times, 16 Jan. 2012, 4:00, latimesblogs.latimes.com/world_now/2012/01/south-korea-teenagers-north-face-fashion-fad-bullying.html.

Valkenburg, Patti and Oliver, and Mary. “Media Effects Theories: An Overview.” Oct. 2020, pp. 16–35.

[lady-charinette]

You know who would've saved Chat Blanc better than Lady-effing-bug?!

The Gorilla

That's right folks, it's the apparently mute Agreste bodyguard.

A very odd idea that struck me after seeing the underwater region of Paris when Ladybug fell into the water in 'Chat Blanc'.

Also, dramatic opening bc...of the drama:

"In times of turmoil and internal strife, the population of Paris, once a thriving city full of life, now laid in its final resting place at the bottom of the sea. The mysterious, lone figure still residing in the area that was once France is said to be immensely powerful and that no authorities shall engage in direct contact. France may be lost, but this begs another question: are we next?"

A click and another channel appeared on the TV.

"The white figure resembling a cat is said to still be at what is essentially a crime scene. After the mass genocide upon the entire country of France, authorities from all over the world are alerted of the potential danger to us all. The only question that remains is: who can stop the once-upon-a-hero from destroying the entire galaxy and bathe our world in darkness?"

With a gruff scoff, a large finger clicked on the turn off button on the remote, setting it aside on the small coffee table.

The large hulking man stood up and slowly walked towards his window, lifting the bottom of the blinds to peek at the city.

Beneath, the streets bustled with life, a sight so different from what his home country now looked like. The big man frowned deeply and sighed, walking back to the kitchen table and grab his backpack. His large hand swiped the table clean, feet carrying him towards the door of his small apartment.

Just before he turned off the lights, his fingers grabbed the plane tickets in the small bowl and he slammed the door shut with a loud thud, ignoring the mewling stray crying for attention and food at the bottom of the stairs.

Right now, there was another cat that needed him.

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

He'd never been one for boat rides, but extreme circumstances forced extreme measures.

He couldn't find anyone willing to accompany him, so he was found manning the small boat by himself, frown set firmly in place and his bag next to him.

The air was cold, the winds blowing with a biting chill and the man narrowed his eyes at the vaguely familiar buildings that miraculously still stood, partially submerged in water.

He passed by what was once the Louvre, now only the very tip and stray glass shards of a museum floating in the water.

There was nothing to be seen of Arc de Triomphe anymore.

He couldn't see the Grand Palais anymore, but he deduced it was submerged under water, like the fate of every non-high standing building.

The Eiffel Tower was one of the few monuments still visible, though that too was halfway underwater, along with its bent and broken metallic structure.

His heart ached at the flood of memories assaulting him, memories of years spent accompanying the boy he'd grown so fond of, watching his every step, making sure no harm came to him.

Days spent where the kind boy would buy him ice-cream and insist on a break for his bodyguard, both sitting on a bench in the park and enjoying the peaceful silence and the boy's occasional happy chatter.

Days spent listening to the boy talking about his day, about school and his classmates and the events that happened.

Days spent listening to him secretly gush about Ladybug, but also gush about that one girl in his class he always called 'just a friend'.

He knew her very well, from the awkward and brief meetings of 'P-Please give this to Adrien for me!' to panicked yelps and other sounds whenever the oblivious boy waved or smiled or really did anything to get her attention.

A small smile stretched his lips but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

He'd arrived.

The building stood tall, even in the face of destruction all around it.

It was the last standing building without visible holes or dents, the 'Terror's hiding place' as people of England had referred to it as.

He clenched his fist at the thought, at the thought of people calling him a 'terror'. He couldn't deny the annihilation all around him, the sight of destroyed buildings and the unseen death and decay right beneath his feet, forever trapped in the icy seas.

He couldn't deny any of it and yet he knew.

He knew deep in his heart.

It wasn't his fault.

It was never the boy's fault.

At least, not for as long as he'd served the Agreste family for, ever since the blond child's birth up until now.

No.

It had been his fault.

It always had.

The man shook his head and quickly retrieved a length of rope and a small helmet from his backpack, frowning at the intimidating height of the building and feeling a rush of fear shoot through him.

He spied the familiar sight of a white belt - a white tail - hanging off the side of the building so many feet above and his resolve only spurred him on.

Swinging the rope in a wide arc, he managed to secure it on a piece of metal jutting out of a broken window, tugging on it for good measure. Securing the small yellow helmet in place, the bodyguard planted his feet on the glass and made his slow ascend up.

He would not be deterred in this. Not now. Not again.

He'd failed before but he wouldn't again.

Never again.

Those words remained firmly in his mind like a mantra, constantly buzzing like a song, a constant reminder, a small source of strength that allowed his burning limbs to continue pulling him upwards.

He was glad for the random but secure objects that stood out of the side of the building, until he managed to crawl inside one of the vacant offices and rush towards the stairs leading up to the roof.

His legs were killing him and his arms felt like they would fall off, but the yearning in his heart was too strong to ignore.

He had to go up there.

The last door that barred his path was locked, but he easily shouldered his way through with a pained grunt and a loud crash of the door falling off its hinges.

The sound alerted the only other resident in the area and soon enough, the figure clad in white turning around.

The bodyguard stared into the shocked expression of a face he knew well, but eyes he only ever saw on the news now.

They were a icy blue, but he knew, deep down, they were green.

The kindest, most innocent green he'd come to care for all his life.

The voice seemed so small now, not like the crazed one he sometimes heard news reports flashing. "G-G..." the boy choked and he spied a hint of the boy he watched grow up, helped grow up.

A hint of Adrien.

"...Gorilla?"

[bymyside-fic]

Closure (~1400 words) read on AO3 // AFF

- February 4, 2010 - 

"Minho," Kibum murmured with a weak chuckle. "You should go to class." 

Minho pressed the back of his fingers against Kibum's clammy forehead, shaking his head. "I've still got another hour." 

"Do you want to get sick, too?"

Minho rolled his eyes, sighing. It had snowed over the weekend — the first time in weeks — and so he and Kibum showed Gil and Analecia the pond behind Hogsmeade. Kibum, despite Minho's nagging, only wore a sweater and one of Minho's hoodies for the excursions into the snow. Because of that, he was stuck in bed, sniffing and sneezing and shivering. 

Really, he knew that if he wanted Kibum to rest, then he did actually need to leave, or else he would be too stubborn and refuse to sleep, like he was doing right now. 

"Of course, I don't want to get sick," Minho said, picking up the cup of tea he had brought in and passing it to Kibum. "I think it's cool enough, now." 

"Unlike you," Kibum said, grinning blearily at him when Minho let out an amused gasp. 

"Good to know you're still sarcastic when you're sick." 

"I can't let you get too big of a head, can I?" He took a tentative sip, then another, longer one.

"I suppose not." 

"Besides, it's just a little cold."

Minho hummed then made to stand only to freeze at Kibum’s protesting whine. “What?” he asked, laughing. 

“You’re leaving?” Minho’s eyebrows rose in the center as he nodded, amused. “Without a kiss goodbye?” 

He let out an exasperated sigh and leaned forward, kissing Kibum’s hair. “That’ll have to do, for now. Don’t pout at me,” he added as he turned and started for the door. “I’ll be back with some lunch if you’re not feeling better by then, okay?” He paused in the doorway, looking back at the disgruntled Kibum who was busying himself with arranging his blanket around himself. “Okay?” 

“That’s fine, yeah.” 

“Try to sleep.” 

“Just for you, I won’t.” Minho shook his head, smiling, and closed the door behind him. 

He made his way up to the library in search of the others who were all undoubtedly reviewing the reading that Crowell had them do on human transfiguration before their test today. It was the last subject in The Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, which meant that the review of their entire curriculum over the past seven years was coming up soon. It was unfortunate that Kibum was sick today, but it just meant he’d have to retake the test before their next class. 

Minho continued to read until Crowell told them to put their books away so she could distribute the test. It wasn’t bad. Well, not too bad. It turned out to be half multiple choice and half essay questions. He barely had enough time to finish up his answer on how a witch or wizard could untransfigure themselves if they changed into an inanimate object — without the aid of another witch or wizard — before Crowell called time and collected their tests. 

He collected his things, stuffing them in his backpack before he headed out the door and back to the library, only…

“Minho!” He froze at the sound of Damien’s voice, his backpack strap slipping to the edge of his shoulder before he adjusted it as Damien came around to stand before him. “Can we talk?” 

Blinking slowly, he stared mutely at him. What did he want? Surely, he couldn’t be here to antagonize him again… It had been years since he had last done so, and he couldn’t imagine that he’d want to start up again all of the sudden. But even if he did...it was just Damien, not a dragon, or a host of acromantula and dementors. He could handle whatever he was about to do, now. 

“Sure.” 

Damien relaxed a little, sighing as he turned away from Minho, glancing around at the fourth years who were filing into the room. “Come on.” 

Tentatively, Minho followed him out of the classroom and up the Grand Staircase, stopping just inside the doorway of an abandoned classroom on the second floor. “What’s this about?” he asked, his brow furrowing when Damien closed the door behind him. 

He moved past him and settled into one of the dust-lined desks a few paces away. “I... Well, I wanted to apologize.” Minho’s eyes widened, and he leaned against the former teacher's desk across from Damien for support. “I was a bloody prat to you for years and, well, as much as I wish there were, I don’t really have a  reason. I mean, I know why I did it but that doesn’t excuse any of it. I should have taken my problems out on you.” He shook his head, looking away from Minho and rubbing his hands over his face.

“What--” Minho’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “What changed? Why now?” 

“Uh...O’Neely...O’Neely has been helping me sort through my shit,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “Ever since, well, you know.” Minho nodded. Yeah, he did. The day back in fifth year, where Damien hexed him on purpose and Kibum lost his Prefect status for fighting. “And, do you know how rare it is to find you without Kibum by your side? I can’t imagine that he’d want me anywhere near you, even to apologize.”

Minho looked down at the floorboards between them with a small smile. That was definitely true. In fact, he’d probably be upset when he found out about this little meeting. 

“I really am sorry for what I did to you,” he said when Minho met his gaze again. “I can’t even imagine how much more difficult I made things for you, and for that, I’m truly, deeply sorry.” He closed his eyes for a second, letting out a long sigh before he looked back up at Minho. “I’m not expecting friendship or even forgiveness, but, I just needed, for my own conscience, to apologize.” 

Minho nodded, gulping as he averted his eyes. It was true, he could never be friends with Damien, not after everything, but there didn’t need to be any animosity between them either. There hadn’t been, since that day. In fact, Damien barely met his eye, let alone joked around with him like a friend would. But... His apology seemed genuine, and Minho couldn’t blame him for wanting closure. It was something he also yearned for.

He pushed off the teacher’s desk and went over to sit at the desk beside Damien. The weight of his gaze was on him until he looked up, meeting it. “I don’t think we can ever be friends, and you know that,” Minho said, chewing the inside of his cheek for a second before he continued. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be, well, friendly, right?” Damien’s eyebrows shot up. “I mean, I can tell that you’ve changed and that you mean what you say, so it’d be kinda rude on my part if I didn’t forgive you.” 

“Not really. I was a complete dickhead for no real reason, on your end.” 

Minho let out a sniff of a laugh. True. “Still…” He stuck his hand out, waiting until Damien clasped it to shake his hand. “I forgive you.” 

Damien’s grip tightened for a second, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Thank you.” 

After brushing the dust off their robes, they parted ways at the door, Minho watching Damien until he disappeared behind the banister leading up to the stairs. He adjusted his backpack straps before he headed downstairs toward Slytherin instead of Hufflepuff. He let himself inside and went straight back to Kibum’s room. 

He stirred as soon as Minho opened the door, blearily sitting up and watching his progress into the room. “No lunch?” he mumbled. 

Minho shook his head and sat on the edge of Kibum’s bed, checking his temperature with the back of his fingers when Kibum settled against his pillows. Still warm, though that could have just been from sleeping all bundled up like he was. “Not yet. Something interesting just happened, that’s all.” Kibum hummed in tired interest, but his eyes were already drooping closed again. “It can wait, though,” he added with a smile when Kibum let out a quiet snore.

Leaning forward, Minho kissed his forehead and tucked the blankets back around him. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” he said softly before he slipped out of the room to go put his books away.

[kayteewritessteve]

DT - Drunk Twitter 1/3

Description: One stupid drunken night leads to an uncomfortable week from hell. That only gets worse when you are forced to face the problems, that your drunken escapades caused, head on. Yeah, you are never going to drink ever again.

Masterlist HERE.

Word Count: 8,380 ish.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Lots of curse words, awkward moments, and a slightly frustrated reader. Little angst here and there, but lots of stupid humour.

Requested: Nah, this just randomly popped into my head and I ran with it.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors and this story, so there’s that.

You groan loudly as your hand flails out from under your duvet cocoon, blindly searching for the hellish contraption that currently insists on screaming at you. It is far too early for such an ungodly sound, and you are far too hungover for this shit right now.

Your hand finally makes contact with the screeching little asshole that is your alarm clock, causing a loud smash to echo through the room, just from the sheer force of your flailing limb alone. And then instantly your room falls back into silence once again. Though the constant ringing in your ears, both from the alarm and your hangover, makes that last fact slightly unknown to you in this moment.

You groan, grumbling incoherently as you pull your hand back into the warmth of the little blanket bundle that has now become your life. You plan to spend the rest of your days just hiding in this dark little cove, and then eventually one day dying here. Which from the aches and pains wreaking havoc on you currently, might be sooner, rather than later.

Why the hell did you drink so much?! Who let you polish off two bottles of wine last night?! Like, where the hell was your adult?! Clearly from this day forward you’d need someone to constantly make life choices for you, so that you never ended up in this position ever again.

You vow in this exact moment, that from this day on you will never ever drink again.

But then you remember your best friend's birthday is in 2 weeks, and you groan loudly. Okay, so you kinda have to drink for that, but mark your words now, that will be the very last time that you do!

Your phone buzzes on your bed beside you, lighting up the dark little fortress you’ve created around yourself. And whelp, looks like you never plugged it in last night. You’re honestly surprised it’s even still alive. You’d have to write a tweet to Apple about how their phone actually made it 24 hours on one charge. You’re sure that’s something they’d like to know about, as that was a highly uncommon thing to actually happen.

You reach over to grab your phone, picking it up and bringing it close to your face, before hissing at the brightness and yanking it away with such force you’re surprised you didn’t fling it across the room. You squint your eyes as you fumble to turn the brightness down, and once you successfully have you bring the screen back to you. Directly in front of your face so your blurry, dry eyes can actually read it.

And instantly you gasp loudly, your eyes watching as notification after notification pops up on your lock screen. Your twitter is blowing up right now and a cold sweat promptly rips through you. Because oh God, did you do it again?! Did you seriously post something while stupidly drunk again?!

Fuck. You groan, unlocking your phone quickly to check. Because for some ungodly reason, drunk you always insisted on posting the stupidest tweets. Normally you’d wake up the next morning, hungover and a little closer to death than the day before, and you’d open your twitter to find all the ridiculous shit you’d posted about, the previous night. Usually all of which only had maybe a retweet or two, a couple likes and usually at least one comment—thanks to your lovely best friend. Her comments normally consisting of both laughing at you and calling you out for being a crazy drunk tweeter. She just knew you and your quirks far too well. It was seriously a problem.

But this time, this time was clearly entirely different. However that was just an educated guess, due mainly to the hundreds of notifications that you now had, thanks to whatever your dumb drunk ass had posted, which had obviously blown up. And now you’d be lucky if you could sweep it under the rug like you’d always done in the past.

Oh God, please don’t let it be another praising tweet to some figure head or celebrity. That seemed to be your go to favourite thing to drunk-tweet. You had this weird need to cheer random strangers up when you were drunk. This insistent desire to support and appreciate the people you idolized. Oh please God say you didn’t tag the person the tweet was about this time.

Your shaky thumb clicks the iconic blue and white, Twitter app icon. Completely ignoring the ridiculous number in the little red circle on the icons top right corner, as you do. You haven’t even read the tweet yet and already you’re freaking the fuck out.

You quickly make your way to your profile and your eyes widen at the insanely large rant, that’s continued through multiple separate tweets, and is now sitting at the top of your page. Your eyes skim over them all, in order of posting, and you cringe, truly and utterly mortified now.

‘Do you ever just hear of someone in passing, or see them in the media, and have this instantaneous deep longing emotion within you. Not a longing in the sense of wanting them, but entirely due to hoping with everything inside you that they find their true happiness one day..’

‘..‪That they wake up in a few years and smile, like truly smile, because they are exactly where they wanted to be. Where they deserved to be. That they’d ended up with every desire they had yearned for. And I’m not talking about material objects. I’m talking life goals and accomplishments..’‬

‪‘..I’m talking about the true important aspects of life. The things that actually matter in the grand scheme of it all. Well, that is how I feel whenever someone brings up Steve Rogers. Or whenever I see an article or a news story about him. I instantly have this desperate want for him..’‬

‪‘..to be happy. Truly and utterly happy. The man deserves exactly that, and yet so much more. What with everything he has done for us and this planet. If anyone in this world has earned their happily ever after, it’s that man.’ ‬

‪Oh God. You groan, as your free hand comes up to cover your face in sheer horror and embarrassment. I mean, at least the silver lining here is you didn’t make any major spelling mistakes, and you also luckily, completely forget to actually tag him in it. So those are both small victories, in and of themselves. ‬

‪But the fact parts of that rant had blown up, regardless of you actually tagging him, is a little disheartening. You’re pretty sure he’s either seen it or been informed about it by now. And even if by the off chance he hasn’t, you know it’s only a matter of time before that changes. ‬

‪You scroll through the notifications and you feel your heart stop, as all the blood leaves your body and goes—honestly who knows where it goes, but it definitely doesn’t stick around to be apart of this train wreck of a situation. You abruptly sit up, the blankets falling from your upper body and pooling around your waist now.

‪Tony Stark retweeted your post. ‬

‪5 little words that make you want to delete every social media account you currently have, plus move to ‬Lesotho or something. Never heard of Lesotho? Well, that’s exactly why you’d picked to move there. Because most people don’t really know it even exists, nor where to find it on a map. So it would be the perfect place to hide away, and start a new life under a fake name.

Yup, it’s settled. Pack your bags, we’re moving to Lesotho!

You don’t even have it in you to read Mr. Starks response back to your tweets, nor dig any further into your notifications to see who else may have retweeted this whole mess. God, what is wrong with yo—

Your phone ringing scares the complete shit out of you, damn near chucking the metal brick across your room, for the second time this morning if anyone is keeping tabs, as your heart thumps loudly in your chest. However, you manage to keep a firm grip on your phone, but just barely. Effectively saving the thing from an untimely death, thanks to being forcefully introduced to your bedrooms brick wall.

Though come to think of it, maybe smashing it would be the best option here?

You sigh deeply as you finally notice it’s your best friend calling, a groan leaving your throat as you then instantly realize that she is probably calling thanks to your stupid Drunk Twitter rant. You contemplate not answering for a second, you could pretend you’re still asleep. But you know she’ll just keep calling until you answer, or worse, she’ll just show up at your house and let herself in with her spare key. Then you won’t have the luxury of hanging up on her if her teasing gets to be too much.

So as you click the answer button and hesitantly raise the phone to your ear, you prepare yourself for your incoming humiliation. I mean, more so than your already currently experiencing. Which is both surprising and frustrating, because who knew you could ever be this mortified in real life? You certainly didn’t, but yet here you are.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” Lindsey’s loud voice mixed with her unabashed laughter rings out of the phones speaker, it’s so loud that you instantly yanked the phone away from your ear. Your headache coming back tenfold as you groan loudly and message the side of your skull.

“Giiiiirl!!” She hollers now, and so lustrously that you can hear her perfectly, even with the phone still being nowhere near your ear. “What the hell were you drinking last night? And where can I get me some!”

You grumble out a, “you need to lower your voice or I’m hanging up on you.”

“Awe, is someone a little hungover today?” She coos in a motherly voice, though at a much quieter level now, at least enough to warrant putting the phone back to your ear once again. However her voice may be softer now, but the playful and teasing edge to her tone is as loud as a freaking bomb.

“More like dead,” you mumble falling back down to lay on your bed and slinging your free arm over your eyes. “Or at least I wish I was.”

Her gleeful cackle rings out of the phones speaker now. “Girl, don’t say that! I’d miss you too much, and you’re fucking famous now!”

You just groan, not even remotely interested in what she means by that.

“Oh, and why am I famous now, Lindsey?” She says in a mocking tone, clearly trying to impersonate you, but in your opinion not coming anywhere close. “It’s so wonderful you should ask Y/N! Probably because your tweets are all over the news stations, social media and the internet. Even most of the Avengers have already retweeted it, most notably Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson AND Bucky Barnes. Ya know, all of Steve Roger’s best friends. But yet, no one has commented on whether the recipient of your beautiful drunken words has actually seen it or not. Buuuuut we can all assume he probably has.”

“Can we just not do this today?” You roll onto your side, your free hand now pulling the duvet up and over your head again. “I am in far too much pain and far too humiliated to be having this conversation right now. Can we please, for the love of all things that are holy, talk about something else? Anything else, I beg you!”

“Hell no!” She exclaims, you wincing at the abrupt volume change. “My best friend is famous! And all because she drank too much wine and tweeted a ridiculously sweet rant about thee Captain America! Honestly, this. Is. Just. Too. Damn. Good.” She squeals, “you can’t even write better shit than this!”

“Lindsey,” you groan, “I am way too hungover and under caffeinated for this right now. Seriously, I’m going to hang up now and hopefully fucking die.”

“Fine, fine,” she relents but you can still hear the humour in her voice, “I promise I’ll drop it, for now. But get your sexy ass out of that bed and meet me in the kitchen STAT.”

“Uuugh,” you drag the sound out. “You’re freaking in my house right now, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she says gleefully. “But before you flip shit, don’t. I brought coffee and bagels, so be a good girl and get your ass out here or I’m going to eat all of it myself.”

You don’t even respond as you hang up the phone, she had you at ‘coffee’. You quickly flip the blankets off yourself and roll out of bed. Not even bothering to check yourself out in the mirror because honestly, Lindsey has seen you at your worst. So she is entirely used to this from you.

You trudge your way out to the kitchen, seeing your best friend pulling wrapped food from a brown bag and you groan again, but this time happily. Her eyes dart up to you and she gives you a once over, a small frown on her lips now.

“Oh boo thang, you look horrendous,” she says softly, sweetly, as you reach her, and she hands you the large to go cup of coffee. “Drink this. Then go jump in the shower, you stink like shame and poor life choices,” she scrunches up her nose playfully.

“I honestly don’t think a shower will remove those particular smells from my skin. I think that’s just my natural scent now,” you giggle as you take a deep waft of the glorious life juice’s warm aroma, a content sigh coming out on the exhale. You bring the drink to your lips and almost moan. Yes, you are this much of a coffee nut. You take a few generous gulps then stumble over to the counter stools and plop down. “But a shower does sounds like a good plan,” you nod, the cup staying close to your mouth for quick and easy access.

She hums in agreement, nodding as she hands you a wrapped up bagel. “So, should we talk about what caused you to want to get ‘Sappy Drunk Tweets’ wasted last night or?”

You sigh, “I just had a shit day at work. My boss was a raging asshole, yet again.” You shake your head, “but what’s new?”

“I can not stand that evil little man!” Your friend growls. “You seriously need to find a new job, Y/N. You can’t keep working for that piece of shit anymore. And I honestly don’t think your poor liver can take much more of these semi frequent beatings. Somethings gotta change.”

“I know, I know,” you nod, “I’ve been searching for something else, but there just isn’t many available jobs at the moment. But I’m hopeful I’ll find something soon.” You take another large gulp of the sweet, sweet liquid gold, feeling as the warmth radiates throughout your whole body, as your brain slowly begins to rejoin the land of the living.

It’s been a few days since your stupid drunken escapades on Twitter, and a few days since Lindsey visited. You both had enjoyed your coffee and bagels, talking about everything and nothing. Luckily she had kept the drunk tweet talk to a minimum, like she promised. And once you were all done that, Lindsey headed off to work and you hopped in the shower, before spending the entire day on your couch, watching movies and pointedly ignoring your phone. Or rather, the never ending string of notifications on said phone.

So now you’ve been basically hiding out since then, only leaving your house to go to work or to make a quick trip to the store down the block from your apartment. The stupid tweets are still blowing up, people are still retweeting them and talking about them.

You’d hoped this would have all blown over by now, that something else ridiculous would have come along and stolen everyone's attention. But alas, you aren’t that lucky. Because not a damn thing is going on in the world right now, obviously, as everyone is still very much hung up on your whole embarrassing sap fest.

So much so that you are being recognized now as the ‘Steve Tweet Woman’. Which is just fucking outstanding—ha! not!

News outlets, websites and talk shows have been blowing up your phone and email, asking for comments or to set up interviews. Wanting to know if anyone from Steve’s camp has reached out to you, or if you’ve been invited to the tower to meet the team. Also asking if you and the Avengers are now friends, or at the very least acquaintances. And those are just a few of the things they are asking you. Honestly, those are the least ridiculous questions—which is freaking sad.

So leaving your house has become a damn chore now, you have to wear a full disguise just in the hopes no one recognizes you. This is not what you wanted at all. Shit, you don’t even know what you wanted from making that tweet, but this for sure was not it. Not even close.

You’d avoided Twitter along with all your social media playforms since that dreadful morning, as well. You were just too overwhelmed with all the notifications and messages you’d been receiving ever since. Far too many to ever read, let alone even keep up with. Nor did you want to see what any of them actually said.

You sigh, trying to focus back on your computer monitor. You were currently at work, hiding out in your cubicle and keeping your head down.

At the moment you worked as a writer for a news and entertainment website, much like Buzzfeed but nowhere near as large or well known—And I know! Ironic right? Uuuugh! Your damn life was just such a joke.

Your cubicle neighbour, Tyler, springs up over your divider wall. His arms resting on the top as his chin sits on them, a small frown on his face. So this obviously isn’t going to be good.

“Do I even want to know?” You ask quietly before he can utter a word.

He sighs, “probably not. But sadly you kinda have to know.”

“Okay,” you spun slightly in your chair to face him fully. “I’m ready, lay it on me.”

“The boss saw your tweets,” he starts and you wince in embarrassment. “He messaged me as your email keeps sending his messages back undelivered. So you should probably check into that, but first, he wants to see you in his office.”

You groan, dropping your forehead onto your desk with a thud, “my email has been so swamped the last few days that I shut down the receiver.”

“Understandable,” he says quietly, and you can hear that the frown is still present on his face.

“Does he want to see me now?” You peek up at him.

He nods, “yeah, said it was urgent.”

“Shit,” you mumble and sit up, grabbing a notebook and pen quickly as you stand from your chair. “Well, wish me luck, hopefully he doesn’t just fire me the second I walk through the door.”

Tyler shakes his head, “he’d be an even bigger idiot than we all currently think he is, if he did that. Don’t sweat it, at worst he’ll probably just throw a tantrum and give you a slap on the wrist.”

“On second thought, I think I’ll just quit instead,” you say playfully as you walk out of your cubicle. Hearing Tyler’s deep chuckle behind you as you do.

“But then who will keep me entertained everyday?”

“You’ll find someone,” you giggle, shrugging. “My replacement, most likely. Though sadly they will never be as awesome as me!”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he agrees as he lowers back down into his chair and you continue on towards your bosses office.

A moment later you find yourself standing outside of his closed door, notepad clutched to your chest. You have no idea what this impromptu meeting will be about, but you can only assume it has something to do with your stupid drunken posts.

You take a deep breath in, raising your fist up to knock on the door. And a moment later hearing a muffled and authoritative, “enter.” God, he really was just such an entitled asshole.

You open the door and peek your head in, “you wanted to see me, Sir?”

He glances up and nods, “ah, Y/N. Yes, come in.”

You quickly open the door and make your way into his office, closing the door and then hastily moving to stand in front of him.

He interlocks his fingers together and rests his hands on his desk, just staring at you. “Why isn’t your email working?”

“Oh, uh,” you shift awkwardly in your spot. “I um, I shut it off for a bit.” You nod, “just till I could get caught up on the emails I already have.”

He raises a brow at you, “your email is being swamped with messages, I take it?”

You nod again, “ah yes, Sir.”

“Does that have anything to do with the tweets you sent out last week?”

You almost groan, almost, but manage to contain it. “It—it does, Sir.”

He nods, glancing to his monitor, “now normally, foolish shenanigans such as this would be grounds for termination. And I was going to fire you for the embarrassment you’ve brought on this company, but I had a change of heart. So you won’t be losing your position just yet.”

You nod slowly, wishing you could give this idiot a piece of your mind. But your need to pay bills and have a job forces you to bite your tongue. “Oh, um, thank you, Sir.”

“But,” he flicks his beady eyes back to you, “you will have to make this up to me.”

You almost gulp, what the hell does that even mean?! “Um, how,” you clear your throat, “how exactly would you like me to do that?”

He leans back in his chair, a smirk on his lips. One that instantly causes a chill to run down your spin, and this time you do gulp. “There is a press conference in 3 days. You are going to attend it on behalf of our website.”

You nod, following along so far, and honestly this doesn’t sound so bad. Getting to be at a conference first hand is a huge accomplishment. Being trusted enough to be the one present is a big deal in this company. Normally only seasoned writers get to attend such functions.

Yet, something about this feels...off. Like there is a shoe about to drop nearby and you can’t shake that thought. “Okay, um of course, Sir. But what is the press release for, exactly?”

His smirk grows into a full blown grin and your heart rate picks up instantly because of it. “I’m so glad you should ask,” he nods, “It's a press conference for the Avengers. They are opening their new facility and are holding a press junket to cut the rope and answer some questions.”

And instantly you choke on air, no joke, then coughing a few times to clear your airway. Because oh fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck fuck. Why you?! Why does life always do this to you?!

“Um, Sir,” you start quietly once you stop coughing. “I don’t um—this is not to say that I’m not completely honoured that you’d choose me for this job. But uh, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to send me to this. Not with everything currently going on, at least.” You swallow thickly, your hands turning clammy as your nerves pick up. “There, ah, there has to be someone more qualified to send to this event. Ya know, someone other than me.”

He shakes his head, “there isn’t. And even if there was, I can’t send anyone else. You were specifically asked for by name, we weren’t even originally supposed to attend this press release. Only larger media outlets were invited.” He opens his top drawer in his desk and pulls out an access pass on a lanyard, holding it out to you. You gingerly step forward to take it then take a few hasty steps back once it’s in your grasp. “You were the only one invited, and were given an all access pass for the whole event.”

You gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as you glance between your boss and the press pass currently in your hand. “But ah,” you shake your head, “why me?”

He shrugs, “probably because of those silly posts you made. You clearly caught someone's attention. So get to work, you have a press conference to prepare for,” he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

But you just stay firmly planted in your spot, “Sir, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh but it is.” His eyes shoot to you and narrow, “so you either attend that conference or I’ll fire you. We are making the most out of your blunder here, don’t mess this up. You only have one shot at this, and I expect the article from this to not only be outstanding, but also on my desk Monday morning. This is the break our website needs, but if you aren’t willing to pull your weight and fix your mistakes, then we don’t have a place here for you anymore. So it’s your choice, Miss Y/L/N.”

You sigh defeatedly, and nod, “okay, I’ll do it.”

“I figured you would,” he nods once then turns back to his computer screen. “Close the door behind you.”

You nod, spinning on your heels and exit the room. Shutting the door softly behind you like he’d asked and then heading back to your desk to start preparing for this press conference.

But all you can think about is how truly mortifying this whole week has already been. And it’s clearly only going to get worse from here on out. How do you get yourself into these things? Now someone from the Avengers team has specifically requested that you be there. Great.

Were they planning to embarrass you further? Were they going to make a mockery of you because of a stupid drunken mistake? Were you going to regret accepting this article instead of just quitting?

You glance down at the press pass in your hand and sigh, there is no way to know currently just how this will all play out. But sadly, you’ll be finding out the answers to your questions soon enough. And in a little less than 3 days, at that.

You stand in front of your full length mirror—wearing the seventeenth outfit you’ve tried on so far this morning—and trying desperately to find faults with it. In all honesty, all the outfits you’ve tried on had looked perfectly fine and would have worked. But you were determined to stall, to waste as much time on pointless outfit changes as you could, so that you didn’t have to face your reality.

That reality being that today was the day, today was the Avengers press conference at the new facility. And oh God, how you really did not want to have to do this today.

I mean, the moon wasn’t in the right placement. Nor was Jupiter currently aligned. And your horoscope had warned you about ‘life changing events should you venture out of your box.’ And you could only assume said life changing events weren’t going to be good ones, and this was very much venturing outside of your box. Plus like, you just had this strange gut feeling, something deep inside you telling you that something was going to happen today—And one should always trust their gut in true times of crisis.

So really, that was all to say that this was a horrible idea, and you should probably just stay home. Yeah, it’s settled then, you’ll stay home. That was a much smarter plan for sure.

Your hired car pulls up to the large, intimidating steel and glass structure and you instantly feel like you’re going to puke. And if the hired car didn’t charge you your first born for doing just that, you’d gladly probably have puked in this exact moment. It comes to a stop and you thank the driver before collecting up your belongings and climbing out.

Glancing around you notice a bunch of people hanging about, some with large camera’s around their necks, others with microphones. But all are wearing various passes, some look similar to yours, however none match it entirely. Your hand grabs on to the pass around your neck and pulls it away from your body to examine it more closely.

Yeah, yours is the only one like it, that you can currently see. Which yeah, that’s extremely odd, for sure. You release the pass, letting it fall back to your chest and head towards the check in booth, just wanting to get this all over with so you can promptly go home and die of humiliation in your bed. Alone and away from the world.

You give one of the ladies at the table your full name and instantly notice a wicked smirk appear upon her lips as she hears it. Which honestly can’t be a good sign for what’s to come. No, this is a sign you should probably just leave now. The universe is clearly trying to warn you, but your dumb, job needing ass can’t leave. No matter how much you desperately want to.

She hands you a map, pointing to the location where you will be standing for the conference. Then she points behind herself, in the direction you are to head and you mumble a quick thank you before heading the way she showed you.

As you make your way to the location, you continuously glance between the map in your hands and the area around you. The last thing you need right now is to get lost on this insanely large property, and end up missing the press release all together. Oh God, your boss would pitch a fit if that happened.

Your heels click on the cement ground, thankful you aren’t trudging it through grass at the moment. Heels and grass do not mix, and with your luck you’d probably end up twisting an ankle or snapping a heel. And the last thing you want right now is to draw unwanted attention to yourself. Ya know, more so than you already have.

You glance down at the outfit you’d finally begrudgingly decided on, choosing to stick to basic shades to help you blend in a little better. No fancy or colourful prints or shades today. No, blacks and whites was what you went with. Hoping that most of the other press members would be dressed similarly. And with one glance around you, that hope actually came true.

You’d decided to go with a black pleather pencil skirt, that was form fitting but also flattering to all your softer areas. With a long sleeve white shirt tucked into it, and simple black pumps. It was a pretty basic look, but that’s exactly what you were going for. You wanted to blend in, praying none of the Avengers or press would even noticed you, let alone figured out you were the drunken Twitter tweeter.

God, doesn’t that just sound so stupid? The ‘Twitter tweeter’. Just ridiculous. And to think, this is your life now! This is who you are now. Seriously, the next time you drink, you are going to leave your phone at work. As you clearly can’t be trusted with it when you’re intoxicated.

As you make your way closer to the spot the nice lady had shown you, you realize that you are the only one in this location. All the other press are further down, in front of the stage, whereas your place is off to the side. It has a perfect view of the stage, but there is nothing and no one to hide behind.

You halt your steps, and even though it’s a beautiful sunny day, you feel a cold sweat come on. Are they segregating you? Are they going to make an example out of you? Or treat you like some circus clown?

You know these thoughts are ridiculous, these are world heroes we’re talking about here. Good people who put their lives on the line everyday for everyone else. But maybe they are going to force you into speaking to the press, maybe they are going to use you for good PR. Your stupid tweets are the hot topic at the moment, everyone is wanting the inside scoop on you, your life and your possible new affiliation with the mighty team.

But being in the spotlight isn’t your thing, you like to be unknown, anonymous. Just another face in the crowd. And if this is an ambush, then take you the fuck off that sign up list. You are not interested in this being spun around on you. Fuck that.

You turn on your heel and head back to the main press area, you’d just hide out there amongst all the other reporters and journalists. At least you could hang in the back and keep your head down while you take notes.

You might be overthinking this. Or be acting a little too irrational at the moment. But cut yourself some slack, this week has been hellish and overwhelming, to say the least. And your poor frazzled mind is in overdrive mode, overthinking the smallest things and making you a bit of a basket case. Clearly you don’t handle stressors like this very well. That’s obviously a flaw of yours, but one you very much do not plan on addressing today. Or ever, maybe. But definitely not here and now.

You reach the main press area and tuck yourself into a back row chair, lowering your large black purse onto the ground and digging through it to grab your notebook, recorder, pens and your phone. You’d record the whole press release, taking notes and photos here and there. Then when it was all over you planned to hightail it out of here, long before anyone noticed you. Hopefully. That was the plan anyways.

You glance around, noticing a few nearby press members staring intently at you. God, you hope none of them cause a scene and point you out. You quickly glance up at the stage, seeing that it is still empty and none of the team is up there yet. So you drop your eyes down and decide to just doodle in your notebook till the junket begins.

Time seems to be ticking along at an alarmingly slow pace. Probably just because you are so desperate for this to all be over, therefore it’s doing the opposite now. The minutes currently feeling like hours to you.

Finally, after weeks of waiting—at least you swear it’s been that long. You hear commotion up on the stage, and notice as everyone around you is seated now, taking photos. You grab your phone and flick your eyes up to the stage, seeing the mighty group of heroes slowly ascending the stairs and fanning out on the platform.

You snap a few shots and then prepare your recorder, hitting the button to start it once Tony Stark makes his way to the microphone. You balance the recorder on your left leg, your notebook open on your light and pen at the ready. Your phone sitting in between both legs, fully charged, set to silent and camera app open.

The conference starts with Tony doing a speech, thanking everyone for being here and just general PR stuff. You are sort of paying attention, but also not. You know that you can always listen to the recording later if you miss any part of this conference, so there isn’t a huge weight on you to be fully listening currently.

So instead, you get lost in your own mind, continuing to berate and chide yourself for your horrible life choices. Ya know, all the ones that led up to this very moment. You keep your eyes down for most of the event, only glancing up periodically to snap a few more photos here and there. But then they flick back down to continue doodling in your notebook.

On the plus side, the grassy, flowery meadow you have been drawing this whole time is looking wonderful. Even if it’s only in all blue and black pen ink. But focusing on this is better than possibly locking eyes with the poor victim of your latest drunk tweets. You know he is up there, because they all are. And the last thing you want is to look at him currently. Your immense guilt and humiliation preventing you from even entertaining the idea of ogling the handsome man right now. Not even a little bit, no matter how badly you want to. No matter how much you want to see just how attractive he is in person. You can’t allow yourself to.

You don’t even really deserve to be here right now, the only reason you are, is because drunk you is a sappy asshole. Had you not posted those stupid tweets, you wouldn’t have been invited here today. God, how you wish you had a time machine right now.

You’d made a bunch of mistakes throughout your life, I mean, who hasn’t? But this one was by far the worst, you were definitely paying for this one. Tenfold. Maybe this is the wake up call drunk-you needs though. Hopefully she will have learned her lesson from all of this. Buuuuuut knowing her, probably not.

You sigh, picking up your phone to take a few more photos as the time nears to the official opening of the facility. To the rope cutting, which is the true reason you are all here today. You keep your eyes on your phones screen, but movement off to the side of the stage catches your eyes and they snap from the screen to it.

They lock with a greyish blue set, and you see the owner of said eyes glance over your face momentarily, before a smirk breaks out on his lips. Bucky Barnes aka The Winter Soldier aka Steve Roger’s lifelong best friend. You are currently having a stare off with an ex hydra assassin, and an insanely good one at that.

You are just about to break the eye contact when you notice him elbow the blonde super soldier to his right. Leaning in once he has the other man's attention and whispering something in his ear, before his head nods in your direction. Oh God, this also can’t be fucking good.

The blonde furrows his brows for a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd before they land on you. And the second your eyes meet, you are fucking trapped. Because, Jesus! This man is basically a human bear trap, and your ass just willing stepped right on to it.

Greeeeeat. Now you’re having a stare off with thee Steve Rogers. Just exceptional. Note the extreme sarcasm.

And then you notice as he frowns, most likely now realizing you are the crazy lady who tweeted about him. He snaps his eyes away from you, turning to glare at his best friend. Who only grins wider in return and then shrugs his shoulders before nodding his head to the billionaire at the podium. Mr. Roger’s heated gaze then flicks to the side of Mr. Stark’s head, narrowing a little more and honestly, if looks could kill, everyone here today would be witnesses to a murder. To the death of Iron Man, at the eyes of Captain America.

And oh fuck, this is not going well. So much for going unnoticed. You can’t do this, you can’t be here any longer. This is all just too much and you want to go home.

You quickly pack up your belongings, throwing them haphazardly into your large purse. As the tears of humiliation begin prickling in your eyes. What did you do to deserve any of this? Clearly you fucked up in a past life and now you were paying for it in this one.

Your eyes involuntarily glance back up to the stage, tears threatening to fall but you try to force them to hold off until you are away from this place. Away from all the prying eyes. The last thing you need is photos of you crying like a baby, at the Avengers new facility opening, to start circulating the internet and only adding fuel to the fire.

They’d probably play it up like you were this insanely huge fan, and just being here made your crazy come out to play. Bawling your eyes out for just being here, in the presence of the hero you so clearly had lady wood for. But yet, that wasn’t it at all. You know most of these people were probably too focused on Mr. Stark to even notice the moment between the super soldiers. You’re pretty sure you were the only one who actually did see it.

Your eyes lock once again on the intense pair of blue ones, finding yourself momentarily trapped all over again. Then his eyebrows furrowing snaps you out of it, thankfully, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek. You quickly wipe it away as you turn and hastily make for the press area exit.

You don’t look back, you can’t bare to see the relief probably on Mr. Rogers face now. He is probably thankful you are leaving early. He probably never wanted to actually see you in the flesh. He probably thinks you are just some ridiculous, crazed fan who went out of her way to either try to get noticed by him, or boost her career via the exposure.

God, how far from the truth that actually was. But not like you’d ever get the chance to prove that to anyone now. You vow in this exact moment to delete your twitter the second you get into the Uber. Like completely deactivate your whole account. Then you’d have no way to embarrass yourself ever again. At least not publicly, not in front of the entire world.

As you reach the spot where the hired car had dropped you off, you pull out your phone and open your Uber app. You had a hired car set up to pick you up later on, for when the press release was supposed to be over. But as it was still early and now only over for just you, you needed a ride and fast.

You begin filling out the order, hastily walking down the laneway towards the main road. Like hell were you going to stay standing on the facilities grounds any longer. Risking being seen or stopped by random press members. You’d just meet the car down the road a bit. That was the best plan here.

But as you are making your hasty get away, you hear fast footfalls coming up behind you. And you cringe slightly, too nervous to turn around and see who is coming towards you currently. You pray it’s just someone running to meet their car. Maybe one of the press people has an emergency and needs to leave early because of it?

“Hey, hold up,” a deep voice calls from behind you, effectively killing that last thought dead in its tracks. Much like you wish would happen to you right now. If you could just drop dead in this moment, you totally would. You didn’t have suicidal thoughts, ever, but in this exact moment, you’d take any out you could get. The sheer humiliation of this week finally crashing down on you.

You sigh, quickly wiping your cheeks of the few tears that refused to stay put in your eyes, and slowly turn around as the footsteps near you and come to a deafening halt. You know whoever it is, is now only a few feet away from you and there is no avoiding this awkward situation any longer.

You instantly realize the person now standing mere feet from you, is the very last person you want to be anywhere near right now. Even with keeping your eyes down, focused entirely on the ground so that whoever the person ended up being wouldn’t see the tears, now in your eyes. You still instantly know that it’s Steve Rogers, the newest and current victim of your drunken praise, and it now takes everything in you to not start rambling out a ridiculous apology, while also bawling your eyes out.

A heavy silence looms over you, starting to feel as if you are being crushed by it. You take a deep breath, keeping your eyes honed in on the cement ground. “I um, I’m really, really sorry,” you start, the words coming out raspy from your unused and tear tingled voice. The volume barely above a whisper so you quickly clear your throat, “I shouldn’t have come here today. I ah, I didn’t want to ever make you feel uncomfortable in any way. And I guess I just need to apologize to you for my ridiculous antics last week. And ah, and for stupidly agreeing to come to this junket. I’ll just um,” you glance over your shoulder momentarily. “I’ll just be going now,” you finally glanced up at him, as you gesture with your thumb over your shoulder and take a step back. “Sorry again, for um, for everything.”

But holy fuck, he is so much better looking than you could have ever imagined. Up close and personal he is a freaking dream boat—Argh! You have no right to ogle this man! Give your damn head a shake. You are the very last person on this planet who is allowed to fangirl over him right now.

You quickly turn and continue to hastily make your way towards the road, not even giving him a moment to respond to your words. You don’t need him to say anything back though, he doesn’t owe you a damn thing. You are the dick that brought this all on to not only in yourself, but this poor man as well.

You got the chance to apologize to him, which is more than you could have ever asked for. Now you just want this all to be over. You just want to go home and pretend like this entire week never happened. He can go back to his normal life, and you to yours.

God, you could really use a stiff drink right now, but that’s what got you into this whole mess in the first place. So that’s probably not the smartest idea at the moment. So instead you’ll settle for a giant tub of ice cream and a lengthy, tear filled, phone call with your bestie.

“Wait,” he says softly, probably so he doesn’t startle you any further, as you feel a large warm hand grasp your elbow, urging you to turn back around.

You clench your eyes shut, why can’t this just all be over already?! Why you?! You take a deep stuttering breath in then open your eyes and turn to face him again. He releases your elbow as you do and then you awkwardly lock eyes with him once again.

One of his large hands comes up to rub the back of his neck, the action almost looking sheepish. Clearly he also has a few words for you, and whatever they are you’ll totally deserve them. Even if they are chastising you for your stupid posts. So you quickly steel yourself for what’s about to come.

“I ah, I wasn’t—“ he pauses then quickly corrects himself, “I’m not uncomfortable about you being here,” he shakes his head, “not at all. I just—firstly, I just wanted to apologize to you, actually. I know they probably forced you to be here today, I don’t really know how, but judging by your reaction to all of this, I’m guessing you really had no say in being here.“ He sighs deeply, “I had no idea that they’d actually invited you, so I can only assume that Tony played a huge hand in all of this. He really likes to insert himself into other people's lives, so I apologize that you got dragged into this. He doesn’t really know when to butt out.”

You nod slowly as you glance down to the ground again, “it’s okay. You really don’t owe me anything, I honestly brought this all on myself. I um, I don’t blame anyone else for any of this, but thank you for saying all of that.” You look back up at him, “it really helps to hear. This week has just been—“ you cut yourself off with a deep sigh, as you wave a dismissive hand around, “sorry, that’s really not important. Um, just basically thank you, ya know, for easing my mind with all of this.”

He frowns a little, but quickly corrects it. And you still just honestly want this all to be done with. But he looks like he still has more to say, so looks like your hopes will go unanswered this time. And just as you suspected he speaks up again.

He shakes his head, “don’t mention it, but I should really be the one thanking you.”

Awe, isn’t that just so dang sweet of him—wait, what?! I’m sorry, come again?! Your eyes widen as your mouth falls open slightly. You imagine it’s a super attractive look—note the sarcasm again—but you honestly can’t bring yourself to care about that at the moment. Because what did he just say?

Your eyebrows furrow after far too long of a moment with you just gaping up at him. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but um, why exactly would you owe me a thank you?”

He smiles down at you, then quickly glances over his shoulder before looking back to you. “I’ll explain all that, but first, can I show you something?”

You find yourself nodding before you’ve even realized it. “Um, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Okay, great. Just uh, just follow me then,” he says through a hesitant smile as he leads you off and away from the gathering. You aren’t sure where exactly he is taking you, but for the first time all week, you aren’t worried at all. Probably because this is Steve Rogers, the man out of time, and a true gentleman, in every sense of the word.

And maybe, just maybe, your hellish week that all began thanks to one stupid drunk moment, might just end on a way better note. Maybe your Drunk Twitter escapades weren’t all bad. Maybe they weren’t entirely horrible.

But honestly who really knows, you’d just have to wait and find out.

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

Part 2 of this, from Steve POV, will be coming sometime this week! So stay tuned for that!

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