#of just staring out the window and being able to see just clouds and stars and space basically ;;

[jgrills]

London artists.png

──★ Hobie w/ a artist reader 💭

Includes: a fic, fluff, maybe a kiss or two..?? trying a different writing style! Gn reader as always.

extras: Hi!! I'm back to writing again after a break! Hope u guys are taking care of yourselves! <33

Reader can see Hobie's border!

Your hands glide the paintbrush across the canvas, putting gentle pressure on the brush, the handle illuminates off the gentle London sun, the intricate patterns of your handmade paintbrush please your eyes, thanks to Hobie's handiwork. Grabbing some more paint, you squeeze the bottle, and some acrylic paint pours out of it onto the small white palette.

You were in a whole different world, just focusing on your painting, painting all types of different strokes and techniques on the canvas. The music in your ears copies your hand movements.

"Hobie, can you stop changing your border, it's distracting me." You huff, looking away from the canvas to see that his border, now a light steel blue color, with some newspaper titles about art.

"Nah" He snickers mischievously, changing his seating position, and changing his border into a calm pink with some white cut out stars.

You groan, painting his border again, not realizing you have created a nice gradient of colors on the canvas.

The room was full of silence, the sound of painting strokes, the gentle waves of the water against the boat, and the birds chirping gently nearby. Deciding to take a break, you gently set down your palette and paint, lounging on the couch by the window, enjoying the warm sun. Looking at your canvas again, you realize that the portrait of Hobie looked better when you took a step back. The normal gray color transitioning into a calm pink shade, the sunlight making some of the paint sparkle in the reflection.

"I look great" his voice cuts you out of your thoughts, feeling him standing beside you, his border changing to match the colors in the painting. Your eyes move from the painting to him, just admiring his gaze on the artwork, but mostly his face. Just admiring how handsome he is, unable to tear your eyes from him. You had looked at him plenty of times, but tonight it was different, just adoring his face, his eyes, everything about him, he didn't have his piercings on, but he was handsome nonetheless.

"You look amazing" You mutter in a dreamlike trance, finally being able to tear your eyes away from him.

"Of course I do" He snickers, giving you a gentle kiss on the forehead. "What's with all the stares today?" He asks, putting an arm around your shoulder, staring at you with warm heterochromic eyes.

"Just admiring how handsome you are" You utter, looking him in the eyes. "Well..thank you." He says, his cheeks turning the slightest bit darker at your compliment.

The sun was on its way to slumber, the beautiful yellow, orange, purple and light pink reflected off of the clouds, making them seem like mirrors. As every structure starts to slowly glow as the sun goes down. Hobie decided to hang up the drawing on one of the walls by the canal windows, the painting not moving as the canal slowly sways on the dock. The sound of Hobie's soft snores echoes in the room, him gently spooning you, his hands on your waist, moving sometimes to get even closer to you while napping.

Looking at his peaceful face, you get in that dreamlike state again, just admiring that he can relax, even sleep near you. Hobie letting his guard down enough for you just warms your heart.

You'll never forget those uncommon moments with him.

🌾 @chessbox, hope you enjoyed this one ! Reblogs and feedback are appreciated (just don't be rude about it). 🧺

(˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) ✧

[starhvney]

𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: roomate!gene x fem!reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: not able to sleep, you run into your roommate in the kitchen. to try and get you to feel sleepy again, he shows you how he would take his mind off of things in high school.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: fluff, comfort, slice of life, insomnia

𝐂𝐖: gene smokes a cigarette

𝐀/𝐍: i love his character development. also, i’m not sure how i feel about this. it almost feels rushed? i hope you like it regardless!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

you stretch out uncomfortably under the sheets, your back popping as you try to release the aching tension in your shoulders. for three hours, you’ve been staring at the ceiling. you’ve flipped your pillows to the cool side until they were all warm, ripped your sheets off and buried yourself back in them again, but nothing has worked.

turning onto your side, you squint as your bright phone screen lights up, revealing the bright 2:47am on the screen. after groaning into the pillow, you frustratedly rip the bed cover off of your body for what felt like the fiftieth time tonight. after pacing your way to the kitchen with blurry vision, you fill up a cup with water and quickly start gulping it down.

“can’t sleep?” gene’s deep voice startles you, causing you to nearly choke and drop your glass.

you set down your drink, the cup making a small clink against the counter. gene is leaning on the doorway with his arms crossed, and his eyes hooded and sleep deprived. the dim kitchen night light and the moonlight shining through the window casted a soft glow against his skin, making him look paler and his eye bags darker. his black hair was even messier than usual, the wavy strands sticking out in all directions.

you sigh, leaning back against the counter. “nope.”

he rolls his neck, the action causing a faint popping sound to resonate from his spine. he glances at your now empty water glass before tipping his head back, motioning for you to follow him.

“huh?” you question, trailing behind him as he approaches the window of your small living room.

“just follow me.” he insists with a groan, too tired to explain himself as he swiftly unlocks the latch and lifts the creaky window like it was routine.

you freeze for a split second as the window makes a particularly loud squeak, not wanting to wake up and alert sasha or zenix of your little escapade. gene turns to stare at you with a look of mild amusement before he shimmies his way out of the window, using the sill to boost himself onto the low-hanging edge of the roof.

you lean out the window, peering up at the empty space where gene’s feet disappeared. a short moment later, his head leans over the edge of the roof as he looks at you expectantly.

“you coming up here?” he questions, his eyebrows furrowing as you glance between him and the ground.

“you’re taller than me, i can’t climb up there like that.” you explain, your hands getting clammy as you think of slipping from the edge.

gene’s hands reach down for yours, playfully grabbing onto your shoulder as you hesitate.

“c’mon, kitty. i won’t let you fall.”

you sigh, clasping your hand tightly with his and letting him carefully tug you to stand out of the window. after fumbling halfway onto the roof, gene helps pull you up the rest of the way. catching your breath, you glance at gene with a puzzled look. he only smirks in response, shimmying up the slope of the roof a bit and looking out at the night scenery.

you lean back next to him, glancing out in the same direction. the house your group rented out was in a neighborhood on the outskirts of phoenix drop. the distant twinkle of city lights glowed in the distance, far enough to admire while still being able to see a few stars in the sky. the cool breeze carries the scent of fresh night air and a hint of dampness like it may rain later. in the opposite direction, there was a lack of stars as distant dark clouds cover the sky.

gene reaches into his pocket and pulls out a beat-up pack of cigarettes, glancing back over at you.

“you okay if i smoke one?” he asks, pulling one out and lightly waving it between his fingers.

you nod, leaning forward and resting your head on your knees.

“i didn’t know you still smoked.”

“i’m trying to stop, but every once in a while i’ll have one,” he lazily holds up the worn pack before pocketing it again. “i’ve been stringing this one out for a couple of months.”

i nod, staring at his features as he pulls out his lighter. his long lashes brush against his high-set cheekbones and hide his dark blue irises as he situates the cigarette between his teeth. the lighter sparks before the flame takes shape, illuminating his sharp features with an orange glow. he takes the first drag with a deep inhale, before turning his face away to blow the smoke away from you.

he turns his head back towards you lazily, raising an eyebrow as he notices your stare.

“what’s going on in your pretty head, there?”

you clear your throat, cheeks reddening as you realize you’ve been caught. “just thinking.”

he quietly snorts out a laugh at you, eyes squinting mirthfully as he uses the palm of his free hand to lightly smack your forehead.

“well, obviously, silly girl.”

you press your lips together and roll your eyes.

“do you come up here when you can’t sleep?”

“yeah, i started doing it in high school. when i wanted to clear my head.” he takes another drag. “i couldn’t sleep pretty often and i was pretty… pent up, i guess.”

his eyes dart to mine as his face twists to an almost sheepish expression. “well, you remember how i was.”

you lightheartedly scoff as you remember the delinquent he used to be: skipping classes, vandalizing, drinking and smoking. you two definitely did not have the same relationship that you two have now.

“oh i remember,” you recall, your voice sarcastic in tone before shifting to something more genuine. “but… you turned out pretty cool. and, for what it’s worth, i think you’re a good person now. so there’s no use in rehashing the old stuff, right?”

gene’s eyes drift down, his eyes softening as he stares at the number of roof tiles between the two of you. the corner of his mouth turns up and his eyebrows raise as he looks back up at you. it’s only a second that he appears this soft, before his eyes squint again and he makes a face like he was cringing at his own thoughts.

“well, thanks. i think you’re giving me a little too much grace, but…” he stares down at the barely smoked cigarette in his hand, before putting it out on the cool roof tiles. “i appreciate it.”

he sighs, submitting to his previous thought as his eyes move back up to meet yours. his hand reaches up, fingers sweeping away stray strands of hair the light breeze had blown in your face.

“i appreciate you.”

©starhvney, 2024. please do not steal or repost my works as your own.

[indulgentdaydream]

ive had this thought for ages about jason dating a southern girl/guy/person

Thoughts?

YES ANON OH YES I HAVE

I’m not southern in an american context (which i assume this ask is in) but I am very much southern in a Canadian context (which, in ontario, is pretty similar)

I’m thinking of this as also a from the countryside! type of reader headcanons…

Here are my thoughts…

(This is gn!reader btw)

So for whatever reason, you end up moving to Gotham City. Whether for school or a new life or a new job opening.

Rent is cheap, but you’re thinking you may need to put yourself into self defence classes.

Lots of pros and cons.

Luckily!! One pro is your new boyfriend!!

I really don’t believe Jason would date anyone unless he had known them and been friends with them first (demiromantic!jason truther right here)

ANYWAYS

Jason being a little shocked at the idea that you used to have to drive 30+ minutes to get to the grocery store before you moved to Gotham

Jason getting HEART ATTACKS because you’re way too busy staring up at all the buildings in awe while walking, too busy to be looking for highly possible dangers up ahead

“That’s so huge!! Look at all the windows at that one!”

“Please tell me you don’t do this when I’m not here guiding you.”

Later in your relationship, if you’re not afraid of heights, and he knows no one will see y’all, he takes you to the top of wayne enterprises to see all of gotham

One time during patrol, he catches sight of you walking back from one of your outings.

He’s not stalking… he’s making sure his partner is getting home safe!

He watches you wait for a crosswalk when there isn’t a single car around and finds it adorable.

Like… just cross. It gets you home faster and out of danger.

He finds your differences in growing up fascinating,

He was in alleyways, broken down buildings, only got to properly see the sun once in a blue moon when the clouds were gone and it was just at the right angle.

You grew up always in the sun, able to see the stars at night in such clarity, had the choice of seeing the sunrise AND sunset every day.

Please take Jason to the country on a clear summer night so this boy can look at the stars with you PLEASE

I was going to comment on accents, but Jason has no say against yours

I’ve always imagined him with the THICKEST new jersey accent, distinctly something that people associate with Gotham (or at least the poorer people of gotham)

He’s trained it away, but it comes back when tired, pissed off, distracted, saying something familiar, etc. (it happens to me at the best of times with that canadian accent😞 i catch myself off guard sometimes)

If he comments on your southern accent, you have FULL authority to bring up the one time he woke up at your place talking about a “cuppo CAUWfee” (cup of coffee)

Feel free to add on to this with your own hcs in the reblogs!!

This is kinda messy my bad

❤️- Missy

[tinyboobsbignipples]

Insomnia.

Reader has trouble sleeping.

Abby Anderson x Reader

Word count: 1058

Warnings: Sfw. Established relationship. A very slight and tiny hint toward sex. Not proofread. Pet names used instead of y/n. Babe, bun, love. Reader referred to as girl.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Your eyes watched the night sky. A faint breeze came through your open window. Every so often Abby would cuddle closer to the pillow she was holding when a cold gust of wind would fly through the room. You smiled to yourself seeing as the pillow was practically being crushed by Abby's strong arms. You were once in the pillow's place. After laying in bed for what seemed like hours you quickly replaced yourself with the pillow in hopes of not waking Abby. Usually, she would wake up when you removed yourself from her embrace but today she was extremely tired so you got lucky in not interrupting her slumber.

Now, you were sitting below the window ledge, you were positioned on your knees which were currently cushioned by your favorite pillow, blocking you from the hard floor. Your back was stretched as far as it could go and your forearms were against the ledge while your cheek was smashed into the back of your hands. You loved looking at the stars. It was always so peaceful at night. You looked at the clouds. You could only tell that they were there if you focused your eyes on them. As your eyes danced from star to star you began to hear the sound of your puffy comforter moving around. Your quickly turned toward your girlfriend.

The tired blonde had a confused expression on her face as she began to realize you weren't laying next to her. She searched around the bed, her sleepy state making her mind take a few seconds longer to fully register that you weren't in bed. "Babe?" Her raspy voice asks although it could have easily been mistaken for a random groan. "I'm right here." You call out. She looks up to you and her shoulders instantly relax seeing as you're okay and still in the room with her. "What are you still doing up, bun?" Abby asks. "I can't sleep." You respond simply and look back up at the moon. "Looking at the sky again?" She asks. "Mhm," You hum with a slight nod. "The stars seem brighter tonight for some reason."

Abby lays back down and stares at the ceiling. You both know that she won't be able to fall back asleep unless she is able to feel you. The silence that filled the room was interrupted by a sigh from Abby. "Do you want to come up here or am I gonna have to go down there with you?" Abby asked as she propped herself up on her forearms. She knew all too well about your insomnia and she was sure you had tried to fall asleep many times before you decided to get up and sit on the floor. "I dunno." You responded. You looked at the clock. 4:38 am. "I can't sleep. I've tried everything." You mumbled referring to a book Abby had gifted you not too long ago. While she was out she found a book full of methods to help insomniacs sleep. However, none seemed to help your case.

"I'm sorry, bun," Abby said. You moved from your perched position and laid down on the bed next to Abby. "Can we stay awake together?" You ask as you look into her eyes. "Yeah, we can. I'll stay awake while you're still up." Abby yawned. "What do ya' wanna talk about?" Abby asks knowing that conversation always manages to get a yawn out of you. "I dunno." You say making Abby chuckle slightly. "Well, what's on your mind?" Your girlfriend asks you. You take a second to respond, trying to think of an answer. "I was just looking at the stars. My thoughts were kind of, I don't know, frozen? I guess. Like I wasn't really thinking? I don't know how to explain it..." You sigh. "... Do you think it's too late for me to go to bed? Should I just wait for the morning?" You ask.

Abby turned her head to look at the clock even though no matter what time was shown Abby would have given you the same answer. "You need your rest, love. You know how you get when you're low on sleep." You sighed knowing Abby was right. You scoot closer to Abby, resting your head on her chest. Your arm wrapped around her torso and you threw your leg over hers. Her strong arm wrapped around your body securing your position. She placed a soft kiss on your forehead. The two of you lay there with each other. Neither of you said anything. A few minutes passed by and you were almost sure she had fallen asleep but to your surprise, she spoke up.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" The blonde asks. You shook your head 'no.' Her hand trailed down to the waistband of your shorts. Her fingertips toyed with the elastic. You giggled at her silent suggestions. "No." You grinned. "No?" Abby asked. With the tone of her voice, you could tell she was smiling. "I think that's a first." She joked and removes her fingers that were tucked under your waistband and moved them to your waist.

"Shut up." You yawn and push your head further into Abby's chest. With her free hand, she moved a strand of hair that was covering your face. "That's my girl." She praised as you yawned into her chest. You blush at the girl's words. She kissed your forehead again and began rubbing your back. You close your eyes and focus all of your attention on Abby. The way her hand was slowly but surely hiking up your thin t-shirt with the way her hand was going up and down your back. Her chest rose and fell with every breath she took. Your breathing was in sync with hers. You focused your hearing on the sound of her breath and her soothing heartbeat which was right below your ear.

Soon enough you let sleep take over you. Abby wasn't sure when exactly it happened but it was now 5:12 am. She fought sleep for as long as she could. Every time she felt her eyes closing she lifted her eyebrows in an attempt to lift her heavy eyelids. She kissed your forehead once more then finally let herself fall asleep with the morning sunrise peeking through the window.

[lumiconic]

♪ — NIGHTMARE

❥ summary: comforting them after a terrible nightmare

❥ characters: xiao ; lumine ; aether

❥ content: angst, fluff, reverse comfort, gn reader

❥ note: woohoo lumine content!! i hope this is suited to your liking @sh1-n0bu :D !! i am SOso sorry ab how long it took 😭

♪ XIAO

he feels the familiar ache of a bad dream, like a sickness in the pit of his stomach, as soon as he opens his eyes to a mist-shrouded world smelling of blood and that unmistakable stench of death. he looks around, his muscles tensed, chin tucked into his chest, knowing he's dreadfully unprepared for whatever horrors are conjured for him this time. 

a terrifying, sour taste of bile rises in his throat as his gaze lands on a familiar person, lying with eyes open and blankly staring at nothing, and he falls to his knees as though someone has knocked the air out of him, gasping wildly for breath and finding none. that person is you, and all at once the understanding that this isn't real is gone in a flash and he's pulling at your shoulders and crying your name as though it'll magically rouse you from the dead --

his eyes open suddenly to peaceful quiet and your arms wrapped around him, whispering soft reassurances. a leaf drifts in through the window, moonlight highlighting your concerned features as his breathing slows, posture melting into a limp exhaustion, and you pull back, clutching his hands and asking if he's okay.

the sound of soft wind and gently rushing water pours back into his ears. he places a hand on his forehead, pushing back locks of green shaded hair, cast into shadow by the awkward lighting. "just ... a nightmare," he says slowly, the words almost a prayer to reassure himself.

"it wasn't real," you prompt, achingly aware of that constant vision that appears in his mind what seems like every time he falls asleep. "i'm here, right?" he nods, taking a deep breath. you smile anxiously. "see? you don't have to worry. everything's fine." 

and it is, truly; he knows this reoccuring nightmare is irrational, but he can't remember to turn away when he's deep in his own mind, seeing the person who he loves most in the world dead on the ground. it's just impossible, for him to ignore this, because even with that nausea that clues him in, he would never be able to forgive himself if it happened in real life and he dismissed it.

his throat is drily hoarse and he breathes slowly and carefully, and your voice is clouded once more with sleep as you lace your fingers between his. "is there anything you need? water, or something to eat, anything i can help with?" he shakes his head. you being there is all he needs, a temporary solution to help convince his mind that everything is fine, and it is, and the relief hits him all at once with a bright clarity that brings a clear easiness to his face, softening the sharp, fearful features. 

you smile at him sleepily, closing your eyes. a bird sings a short note outside, and he sinks back into a deep sleep, holding your hand like a lifeline, and when he dreams this time, it's of you and him lying in a field of bright flowers and looking at the sky.

♪ LUMINE

her dream is a kind one at first, a picnic full of sunshine deep in a beautiful forest with you and aether and paimon, and she almost aches with joy at the warm smiles that surround her and the peacefulness that resides softly within her chest. 

but then the trees and the picnic crumble away and the scene flashes into midnight, clouds covering the moon, and aether's face falls into an empty, dead-eyed stare wearing a long black robe speckled with tiny stars, abyss mages appearing behind him, and paimon whirls into a monstrous version of the unknown god that stole him away from her, and you melt and reform into a horrible thing with viciously sharp teeth, and elongated limbs that don't suit your body, and she's surrounded on all sides --

you whisper her name into her ear -- "lumine! " -- and she sits up straight, panting with fear. you reach for her, fearful pity on your face, her gaze wildly unfocused as her head snaps around in different directions. she lashes out, slapping your arm away with blind, terrified fury, barely a heartbeat and a provocation away from slashing at you with her sword, momentarily unable to tell reality from that disgustingly real nightmare.

you scramble away, as far as you can get without falling off the bed, and you hold both hands in the air, whispering in a gentle voice, "hey -- hey, lumi. it's just me, okay? it's just me." she inhales, clasping her trembling hands in her lap, and holds it for five seconds, making eye contact with you. 

when the breath rushes out of her, the tension leaves her shoulders, and she slumps against the headboard, rigid and motionless with an angry expression on her face. you move closer and place a hand on her arm. "are you okay? you were saying something, in your sleep, so i t-thought -- " you stammer, tripping over your tongue for a moment as she looks at you stiffly, "i thought i should wake you up, should i not have?" 

you worry for a moment that the leftover wisps of rage, that overpowering anger that fills her and seems to take up her entire mind so there's no room left to be scared, will be directed at you when her mouth opens, brows furrowing, but it's just a heavy sigh that escapes her lips. "i ... yeah. thanks. i just need a second."

you reach over and flick the light on, throwing the room into sharp relief. you sit in silence as she stares at her hands, words on the tip of her tongue that she's unable to say yet. she knows the irrational anger that bubbles up to drown the terror and painfulness of that dream, with its hints of reality that she never wants to believe, is stifling and poisonous, but for now it just feels so much easier to let the sour irritation win rather than the truer all consuming fear. 

she feels your presence without looking up, your calm steadiness there beside her, and when her face crumples and she leans back and covers her eyes, you wrap your arms around her, and suddenly her dream feels so far away as she presses her face into your shoulder and you whisper that it's going to be okay.

♪ AETHER

he is almost painfully aware that it's a dream from the start, just from the way the deep blue sky shimmers with stars that shine from behind soft puffs of pale gray clouds. it looks too perfect to be real, and when he takes his eyes off the sky, he's sure of it, after he sees the hordes of familiar faces and you holding his hand, tucking a pristine golden petaled flower behind his ear. 

he searches the crowd eagerly and there she is, lumine, waiting with open arms and a tearful smile, and just as he brushes hands with his sister at long last, and the voices of the crowd rise to a joyful roar, and it feels like everything in the world is finally right --

he awakes with a horrible, empty longing cemented deeply inside him, a feeling like he'll never be whole again and his heart was ripped from his chest in a single blow, refusing to let the aftershocks stop. his eyes are glazed over and he shakes, body trembling with held in cries. 

your eyes widen; for all you had known, the dream he'd been having was a pleasant one, his lips forming a smile in his sleep that you were admiring when he awoke. you cup his face, unsure of what to do but wanting to comfort him in this moment, "a-aether," you say helplessly. "what's wrong?"

he bursts into sobs, clutching at you with white knuckles as tears pour down his face. you hold him tight to your chest, rubbing small circles into his back, and close your eyes with a pained breath. "it's okay, it's okay ... deep breaths ... " your quiet humming, while brutal loneliness thrums in the depths of his chest, is a paradoxical feeling. he knows you're there, knows you haven't left, and yet he feels heartbreakingly alone and like he'd give anything in the world for you to remain there. 

it gets easier as time goes on, as everything; as the moments blink by, your voice dimming to a softer whisper, he finds his eyelids growing heavier again, and the constant longing in the back of his mind lifts slowly like a fog bank dissipating, until his mind is as clear as it's going to get and he drifts into a dreamless gray mindscape. 

his dream is an unfathomable reality, a happy ending where he gets to stay with you and his sister and all the friends he made in teyvat; something he knows would be nothing short of a miracle to come true, and maybe the sudden sourness was a warning by his own subconscious that this was an impossibility. 

but at least he hopes -- at least he wishes with all his heart and maybe allows himself to believe it could be his reality -- that you'll be always with him, the one constant on whose side he can still stand by the time his journey comes to an close.

and if that could be the one dream of his that ends up coming true maybe it could be a shield from the inevitable sorrow that will accompany the end; after all, you are the most perfectly unbelievable thing of all, and he counts his lucky stars every day that you're with him.

thank you so much for reading, and pls leave a like + reblog + follow if you enjoyed!!

[dearmantis]

First Snow

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova /The Darkling x Tidemaker!Reader

Summary: Snow finally falls and you want to enjoy the freezing temperatures at night in peace.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.3k

Authors' Note: Yes, I wrote this because it finally snowed where I live and I really missed it. This is completely plotless and pointless, I won't lie. This is also not edited and English isn't my native language.

You've lost the feeling in your nose, ears, hands and feet twenty minutes ago, but you can't bring yourself to go back inside as you stare up into the sky, snow landing on your face and settling on top of your lashes.

The wish to lay down in the thick, undisturbed layer of snow in front of you is strong but you still remember the last time Aleksander found you buried under a few centimetres of snow, his face red from anger and the freezing temperatures.

"Do you want to freeze to death?" he had asked, voice sharp as a knife as he grabbed you by the collar, quickly pulling you up to your feet before removing the snowflakes sticking to your cloak, scarf and fur hat with quick, light slaps against the fabric and fur.

He has never been able to understand your love for freezing temperatures, for ice and snow, thick cloaks and hot teas, so you decide every year to sneak out during the coldest winter nights, leaving him, comfortable in his ignorance, alone as he works the night away.

You usually make it back inside before he notices your absence, the exceptions being few and far in between, so you don't think he knows just how often you leave him during the night to enjoy the winter in peace.

Of course you wish you could spend the nights with him, surrounded by shadows and frost, but he has simply never been the type to truly get it.

In all honesty, you don't fully get it either. Why snow and ice are what has you in such a trance while almost every other Tidemaker you know feels the happiest around lakes, rivers or the ocean. Closeness to the element you control brings ease to Etheralki, at least most of the time. It's like having a weapon close by that you'd be able to wield blindly if required. Why your favourite weapon is tied to a season is a mystery, however.

Humming quietly you rub your gloved hands together before lifting them up to your lips and blowing hot hair into them, trying to get some feeling back. The metal bench you're sitting on is still ice cold and refuses to truly warm up, instead sucking the heat out of your thighs, but it's also the only place where you can sit, and it's still too early to go back inside. The first heavy snowfall of the season deserves to be appreciated.

Thick clouds are sitting in the sky, covering the stars and blocking the light of the moon, drowning the surroundings of the Little Palace in darkness, the only light source being the small lantern you carried outside with you, housing a big, white candle, proudly burning with all it's might inside of the protective metal and glass box.

It's peaceful, so peaceful in fact that you don't even notice it when somebody approaches, stuck too deep in your own thoughts to realise what's going on until the person sits down next to you and holds a steaming cup under your face. Your head whips to the side, hands moving together in case you have to defend yourself, when you finally recognize the huge black fur coat next to you.

"Sasha" you huff, fingers wrapping around the hot cup, the warmth stinging as feeling returns slowly to your hands.

"I woke up because I got cold" he confesses, a small, bashful smile visible on his lips. "And you weren't next to me, so I looked out the window to see if I could find you out here."

You're sitting on the bench closest to your shared quarters, directly visible from the windows. As cheesy and stupid as it might sound, the closeness to Aleksander brings you a similar feeling of safety and peace as the snow. Staying too far away from him, especially when you're both vulnerable, easy targets – him being asleep and you being stuck daydreaming – is almost uncomfortable.

Taking a small sip from the tea he has brought you sigh softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. The dark fur of his coat tickles a bit against your skin as you respond.

"I'm sorry, Sasha. I just wanted to get outside and enjoy the fresh snow. I completely forgot that you could wake up."

Aleksanders sleep has always been notoriously light, waking up at the slightest of sounds, change of lighting or shift in temperature. All things considered it is quite a miracle that you got to spend those previous thirty minutes undisturbed. Usually you choose to sneak out while he isn't in the palace or while he's working the night away in the war room, but tonight you simply couldn't help yourself.

He shakes his head, lifting his own cup to his lips to drink a few sips before he speaks. "Don't worry about it, milaya. I should've expected this. You've spent the whole day staring at the falling snow outside. I just assumed you wouldn't dare to leave while I slept next to you. You usually only disappear when I work."

There's a thick layer of amusement audible in his voice and it warms your heart better than any cloak or fur ever could.

"So you knew?" you ask surprised, lifting your head from his shoulder to look at him. "But you always get so mad when you catch me. I don't understand-"

"Let an old man have his fun, milaya." Aleksander cuts you off, hand moving to your shoulder to press you back against him. "Of course I notice it when you sneak out. And I come and get you when you stay out for too long. It's cute that you thought I wouldn't notice it, though. Especially considering that I always have a Heartrender around to stand guard."

You groan loudly, taking another long sip of the tea before burying your face in the Darklings thick fur coat again. It smells nice, like rosemary and burning wood, with an underlying note of something sweet. Aleksanders own smell that you've never been able to fully identify.

"So Maksim betrayed me." you murmur into the coat, taking another deep breath to take in more of the smell. Sweet berry jam, maybe?

He laughs loudly, his body shaking with the sound as he leans his head against yours. "Betrayed? He is doing his job, don't be too hard on him."

His hand rubs your back carefully and you can hear him taking a big sip from his own tea.

You sit like this for a few minutes, occasionally taking a sip from your teas, enjoying the darkness and snow. When your cup is empty you place it on the ground in front of you before you stand up to quickly sit down on his lap, hands moving inside his coat to lay flat against his back, soaking in the warmth his body gives off.

Pressing yourself tightly against him he moves to rest his chin on your head as a laugh rumbles through his body. "Are you getting cold, milaya?" he purrs, placing his own cup next to you on the bench to free his hands and hug you freely.

"I just want to be closer to you for a bit." you answer softly. His thighs are so much warmer than the cold bench, his whole body radiating heat like a fire.

"You could be even closer to me if we went back inside." Aleksander whispers back.

"I don't want to go back inside yet. The Squallers are gonna remove the snow in the morning. I want to enjoy this as long as I can."

"Maybe, but we will freeze to death together."

"We will freeze to death by then."

You giggle quietly.

[and-the-stars-collided]

Ainur as Aesthetics: 

Melkor  —  eye-rolls, either sleep for the week or sleep is for the weak, great music taste, extremely passionate, smarter than you'd think, abandoned cities, alcohol, doesn't care about opinions, midnight hours, black coffee, hates humanity, cold hands, barely-there eyeliner, sharp smiles, lace-up boots, doesn't like to be told what to do, anger so blinding that you forget where and who you are, staring at the mirror until your features start to disappear, bad decisions, their words can hit you like a gunshot, the chilling sensation of metal on your skin, sharp claws ready to slash anyone they encounter, shattered antique mirrors, long dark scarves, dark and tousled hair, swallowing hard, a little broken.

Manwë  —  pale white snow, red cheeks, dried flowers that used to be the colour of the sun, quiet half-smiles, sunlight coming through an open window in the morning, hair tucked behind ears, gives the most thoughtful gifts, always neat, sparkly jewellery, beautiful poetry, comforting hugs, light footsteps, kisses on cheeks, a laugh like wind chimes, thunderstorms that you feel in your chest, intelligent eyes, collector of small objects, windswept hair, loves their friends with almost an unhealthy amount of loyalty, the colour of the sky at dusk, a crisp autumn breeze, soft hair, gold-flecked souls, the one who is there for you even when you think you don't need them, singing under their breath, smiles as the rain falls down and laughs as their hair lifts in the breeze.

Varda  —  cracked spines of leather-bound classics, sharing pieces of your soul with the world, starting revolutions with simple words, rosewater, cherry blossom petals floating through the wind, making promises, midnight conversations, writing into abysmal nothingness, stargazing, knowing smiles, doesn't open up easily, soft skin, crystals, a night where the clouds hide the moon, stories swirling in your mind, cursive letters, piercing eyes, whispers filled with secrets, studying things that do not exist, bright flashes of light outside your window, silk bedsheets, mysterious, handwritten notes, stays up so late it's early, plays quiet music for ambiance, fingertips stained with ink.

Ulmo  —  bodies full of stories, a will that ebbs and flows, lazy smiles, no real devotion to anything but existence itself, wordless lullabies, glassy blue eyes, moves with grace and rhythm, late night swims, blue tie dyed sheets, flowing outfits, the rough ocean at night, tall waves and bitter winds, salty hair, long limbs, kind of sad and tired but you've never see them cry, goes with the flow, quiet voice but loud meaning, walks with purpose, always looks their best, very kind and giving, seashells, loud laughter, perfect posture, habit of overthinking, bare feet, ice-cold lemonade, laying on the ground to soak up the sun, sand in the air, intricate designs, high ceilings, dim lights, bitten nails.

Aule  — confident, likes to perform, acts cool but is secretly emotional underneath, bold/dark colours, loves challenges, gets mad and forgives just as quickly, wouldn't change for anyone, laughing so loudly that strangers stare at you, running around like crazy person with your lover, compliments a stranger's crazy hair colour and feeling so good when they smile, unhealthy amounts of candy, fiery red sunsets, getting back up after being knocked down, they know that their friends are right behind them wherever they go, the burn in your lungs after chasing something you'll never be able to catch, always does their own thing.

Yavanna  —  warm days, soft smiles, making sure everyone is happy, walking barefoot, falling asleep in the sun, wishes everyone would be kinder, mugs of too-sweet tea, the person who screams don't kill the spider, adores animals, covered in freckles, one can never quite tell exactly what their eye colour is, pointing to the stars as they peek out from behind the clouds, large yawns early in the morning, a question left unanswered, honey, one hand catching another, tea that is swallowed for its warmth and not the taste, faded patterns on well-loved t-shirts, dew beading on flower petals, the imprints tight socks leave behind, wanderlust's yearning pull.

Orome  —  long hair, loves nature and animals, mist, sharp features, dirt under their fingernails, very down to earth, always willing to help, the strong friend, always has new, interesting facts to tell, tough as all hell, doesn't love easily but always loves deeply, walking barefoot everywhere, wildflowers threaded into messy braids, laying in the afternoon sun, big adventures, crisp air, deeply opinionated, climbing the tallest trees around, muddy feet, toothy smiles, accepting of everyone, follows their own path, stargazing off mountain cliffs, running through tall grass, folklore stories of fairies and dragons, a child at heart.

Nienna  —  honeyed and sulky dark summers, pomegranates, thunderstorms, magnolias, unkept promises, cinematic and shadowy, existing in a trance of melancholy, feels passionately though feigns detachment, slightly off-putting, their presence is announced but even if it wasn't you'd still know they were there, constantly underestimated, desperately afraid of silence, red-rimmed eyes, always appears serene, broken handwriting, short hair, foxes, dead leaves, large coats and scarves, numb fingers, old stone walls, steaming black tea, tears, gazing at a past lover down the hall, the smell before rain, old songs, nostalgia.

Námo  —  set features, eyes the color of dead souls, candles melting wax atop a piano, tragic smiles, an inexplicable sense of sharpness, hot tears, decaying cores, irreversible tornadoes, infectious whispers, heart is always pounding, doesn't like to be seen, nightmares, dark circles under their eyes that they can't hide, doesn't know their limits, slightly self-destructive, the silent one, bitter coffee, quiet observation, black eyeshadow, knows a bit of everything, no-nonsense, cold fingers and colder gazes, being misunderstood, sitting alone in a hard wood chair late at night, dead roses, losing a loved one too soon, moss covering broken gravestones, shattered glass, the taste of melancholy. 

Irmo  —  glows when they talk, dewy eyes, radiates with a blessing from the sun, gentle hands, dandelions, white clouds, the shy warmth of the first days of spring, afternoon naps, soft pillows, carefree laughter, fields of reeds, basking in the moonlight, flower crowns, sunbathing in creeks, gloriously alive, hours among the leaves, kind soul, often lost in their own thoughts, nights spent watching the river, dancing in a circle, holding hands, soft clothes, sun kissed skin, always listening to music, either works too hard or not at all, warm smiles, dancing in the rain, catching fireflies, wanting to do everything and nothing all at once, innocent hope, paper stars in glass jars, bittersweet goodbyes, looking for beauty in everything, water-coloured skies. 

Estë  —  dried orange garlands, snow on green tiled roofs, a bit in love, quills dipped in metallic ink, daydreaming, angelic singing, very fond of cuddling, homemade bread, constantly buying gifts for people, talkative, will hold your hand whenever and wherever, friends with almost everyone, convinced that sleeping at 10pm is late, strawberry ice cream, calming eyes, telling old stories, rosy cheeks, wanting the best for everyone, sunrises, loves nature, passionate about dreams, self-made flower crowns, will stay up late to comfort you, unexpected hugs from the back, not afraid to tell people they love them, humble.

Vairë  —  silver knitting needles, velvet skies filled with twinkling stars, red embroidery thread, hot black tea with spoonfuls of sugar, ballet shoes, hearts carved in birch bark, denim jackets, distant bells, foxgloves, rain moving over hills, cheek caresses, a bedroom left alone, walking in the mud and rain at dusk, resisting change, dead ends, unspoken feelings, finally coming home, looking up at the stars in hope of something more, simultaneously brimming with hope and lifeless, wiling the hours away, staring at the ceiling, wanting to write but not knowing the words, hiding from the world, afraid of the future, a sense of dread.

Vána  —  soft features, the smell of lavender, long walks in the sunshine, singing in a choir, sincere laughter, pastel colours, reading poetry aloud, baking cookies and sharing it with friends, kind gestures, painting on random objects, flower print clothes, lacy socks, handwritten love letters, forgiving people, graceful movements, writing poetry, roses, standing up for those who can't defend themselves, walks through nature, positivity, white lace, long hair, very graceful, always there for you, nostalgia of a time that you never knew, undeniably beautiful, the sweet breeze of a spring morning, slowing drifting off while laying on a green meadow, calm and collected, the best friend you could ask for.

Tulkas  —  loud laughter, hammocks, doesn't know when to stop, can't sleep, jacket with so many fixed holes it has been reduced to patchwork, flashing smiles, living on the edge, free spirit that will rip you to shreds if you dare to try and tame it, bloody knuckles, the moments of silence after a loud screaming match, riding into the sunset, dogs barking in the distance, the smell of fire on the air, running from person to person, unbridled chaos, aimless wandering, on the verge of greatness, call of the void, empty avenues, walking between worlds, wanting to hold the planets, melancholy nights, seeing things that aren't really there, wishing for more, overgrown unkempt gardens, bright colours against dark greens, tripping up on vines and logs, scraped knees.

Nessa  —  can go from laughing to serious fast if necessary, little bits of dark humour, staying up late, they do the little eyebrow thing when they get insulted, doodles, everybody else thinks they have friends but they don’t, red lipstick, lively, can be implosive, forgotten, mood swings like crazy, but very calm when they are happy, regrets decisions they made in the past, affectionately called a little brat, out until late in the afternoon of the next day, does not let anyone kill their vibe, seeing their escape in a person, the echo of your own steps on a tile floor, the sensation of being the only one left, a way that seems to have no end.

Eönwë  —  intimidating, has a soft side but only a few people see it, loves the forest, natural beauty, combat boots, deep thinker, false formality, a chord of music that breaks the silence, clouds rolling in, doesn't get angry but instead just fucking glares at you until you crumble, loves thunderstorms, mind like caverns, hands like stone, to hold or to hurt, heavy irises, earthquake tempers, unrequited love, soft voice, they know you whether you know them or not, lingering touches, people watching, the smell of old books and rain, faint music in the distance, won't let others break their friend's hearts, clearing their throat as a type of warning, moral righteousness, faith in humanity, towering buildings.

Mairon  —  sarcastic comments with a smile, glares that could kill, speaking in such a pretentious way that no one even understands you, obsession over studies, being a good person but getting corrupted, setting fire to the city, eyes like flames, heeled boots, soft aching hands buried in messy hair, ancient ruins, cups of tea gone cold, flawless eyeliner, impulsive decisions, false pretences, sickly sweet smiles, daunting realisations, masquerade masks, too stubborn to admit their regrets, waking up from a nightmare, hands cold to the bone, chest pains, the sharp cold of winter, rotting apples, dark circles under the eyes from not sleeping for days, hands stripped from over-washing.

So! Still trying to work out my masterlist and first few posts I have pre-written. In the meantime, please enjoy this messy aesthetic thingy.

[nekkomaa]

Neighbors

Part 1 Parte2

Words: 1.625

Paring: Connor x Fm reader

Warnings: None, SFW

Summary : The front apartment has been empty for years, and now someone has decided to occupy it.

Notes: I dont speak English, just the basics, I used a translator to do this story so be warned. I'm not very good at summaries either, sorry.

If you want me to tag you let me know!

Maybe living in an apartment wasn't as boring as you thought at first. You started living on your own as soon as you turned twenty, with a job that paid poorly and a dream of being someone you took your stuff from your parents' house and rented an old apartment in a somewhat distant part of the city.

Locality wasn't a big problem, that's what you tried to convince yourself every day when the only means of transportation you had was your legs. The apartment you lived in was small and old, most of the neighbors you had were also old, this made your life more peaceful since the only nuisance was the next door neighbor's cat that jumped into your apartment a few times a day, you lost count of how many times you had to knock on your neighbor's door just to return it. It wasn't really a nuisance, the cat was cute and you had even developed a fondness for the cat even though you preferred dogs.

It was a surprise to you when the apartment across the street was rented out, it had been closed for quite some time you know, a good few years. The ladies who lived in the building were quick to gossip, and the same day later you learned that it was a young man who had moved into the front apartment. You caught a glimpse of him a few hours later when you looked out the window and he was moving boxes around the apartment, he looked handsome from afar, that was the first impression you got of him.

It surprised you to have someone who looks about your age, after all most of the building were widowed ladies and a few old couples. Except for you and the woman who lived down the hall, she must have been in her thirties but had the manners of an eighty year old lady, you never really got to talk to her. The woman wasn't home most of the time, and when she was she made a point of ignoring anyone who knocked on her door.

Not long after, you took your much-desired vacation, finally being able to stay home for a few days without having to work, days spent reading some books you had bought and trying to make family recipes, which for some reason seemed to go wrong every time. You ended up at the window one day looking at the dark sky, the clouds prevented you from seeing any stars, it was then that you noticed a movement ahead, your new neighbor, the one you haven't met yet, was on the porch holding something you thought was a bottle and a glass. You watched him place both objects on the small table on the balcony and stare at them. It had been a week since he moved in, you hadn't seen anyone else in the apartment but him, that is until that night, when he went inside the house and after a few minutes came back with a man who looked identical to him, you didn't have the best view and you were far away but if you had to guess you would say they were twin brothers, or close relatives.

You were kind of surprised when hours later you came back to the window only to see the new neighbor with another companion, this time a big dog, a Saint Bernard that was following the man around the balcony while he was collecting some boxes that were on the balcony.

It was the first time the neighbor looked in your direction, you were surprised and embarrassed, as if you had been caught in a wrong act, well technically watching your neighbor was kind of criminal. No one could have predicted that, I mean you couldn't have predicted that, that your neighbor would just smile and wave at you like someone completely nice. You, as a great person at embarrassing yourself, stared at him for a few more extremely embarrassing seconds, and waved back with a stiff smile before throwing yourself back into the house, your face burning with shame.

You didn't see it, but the man just laughed and continued what he was doing, finding the whole scene funny.

The ladies of the building began to organize meetings to discuss building matters. That's what they had said it would be, but it was really just a gathering of ladies, where they all sat in the living room of Shirley, the owner of the building and the one with the biggest apartment, to gossip about other people's lives, or to tell about their own. You went once because you thought it was important, only to realize that they were playing catch-up. The second time Shirley herself invited you, she came to your house and convinced you to go, obviously she left you with no way out and you were forced to go.

The third time, you decided to go on your own, since you knew the new neighbor would be dragged into it without knowing what it was about as you were at first, you thought it was a great opportunity to meet him. You put it in your head that you were just curious to know what he was like, to get to know him, and not because you find him attractive e....

In any case, you put on some comfortable overalls and picked up the cake you had bought a few hours ago to take away. One thing you learned is that the ladies loved it when someone brought something for afternoon coffee, you'd rather be friends with the ladies than enemies with them.

As soon as you knocked on the wooden door, one of the ladies you knew as Bernadete answered the door, she smiled kindly at you and announced your arrival as soon as you entered.

"Come dear, come and sit with us in the living room. Today we decided to cook together." She took the cake from you and led you into the living room where everyone was sitting on the sofa and chairs. Bernadette didn't even make a point of hiding from you that this wasn't a reunion, but a gathering of old friends, that now there were two intruders, and that they were just there to play time out.

"Ah, there you are dear, this is the new neighbor, Connor." Shirley smiled at you giving the new neighbor, Connor, little pats on the back, as if encouraging a child to introduce themselves.

"Hm, hello?" Connor cleared his throat before introducing himself, he looked embarrassed, you smiled at him, it would actually be a surprise if he wasn't embarrassed. "My name is Connor, I've recently moved into apartment number eight."

"Hi Connor." I told him my name and sat down in the chair Bernadette had placed for me next to Connor. "Thank you."

"Not at all dear." Bernadette soon took her place on the edge of the couch and Shirley clapped her hands to get the attention of the rest of the people.

"I have news!" She sounded excited and soon began to tell how her two grandchildren had passed a famous college. This sparked other topics of conversation among the ladies that kept them entertained for quite a while. You took advantage of this and tried to strike up a conversation with Connor, who looked a little confused, probably realizing this wasn't a building meeting.

"I bet this wasn't the meeting you were expecting." You smiled at him, keeping your voice a little lower so as not to disturb the other conversation but loud enough for Connor to hear.

Connor chuckled before speaking. "Really, I was hoping for a different kind of meeting. Maybe a scolding for putting my moving boxes in the wrong garbage can, or something."

"I've been scammed before too." You share the experience and Connor really pays attention to you.

"Maybe I should look for excuses to run away then?" Connor suggested after you told him Shirley dragged you here for the second time.

"Well, unless you like gossip from around the neighborhood." You shrug.

"Do you?" Connor tilts his head slightly to the side awaiting her answer. "I mean, do you like the gossip?" He rephrases the question when you delay answering, you force yourself to stop watching his face and answer him.

"Not really, I come for the free food." You joke, putting a finger over your lips to ask for secrecy. "But don't tell them that." Smiling when Connor agrees, shaking his head.

"I'll keep it a secret." He says it so seriously you can't help it and start laughing.

"Yes, please."

As soon as the soft bed came into your view you threw yourself onto it, the sheets and covers enveloping you so tightly that you almost fall asleep. A thought comes before you can stop it and you find yourself staring up at the ceiling for a few long minutes as you think about your front door neighbor.

He was nice and kind, Connor seemed so innocent it was kind of funny, you liked the way he tilted his head when something seemed confusing, or when he was waiting for an answer to something that interested him. He showed an incredible ease in slipping into the ladies' conversations and including you in them, not that you were too keen to join in, but he made a point of keeping everyone in the room involved. It was endearing.

For a moment you forgot that you would soon be going back to work and earning a pittance. You felt like a teenager again, in the prime of life without too many worries.

Maybe you had to visit the meetings more often.

[blossom-hwa]

if you’ll have me (ii) | c.yj

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

Pairing: Yeonjun x fem!reader

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

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

Word Count: 15.8k

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

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

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

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

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3

TXT Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it's...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But all you really feel is empty inside.

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask you something?”

Yeonjun blinks. “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

The world is falling to pieces.

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

And that's the problem.

You can't write.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Grace?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

How long it has been since then.

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

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

If only he knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost choke on your tea.

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you believed the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't think of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

“I went to visit, remember?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeonjun frowns. “Loneliness?”

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

“It won't be easy,” his cousin warns.

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're welcome.” He dips his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will. Thank you.”

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

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

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

Stop reading—stop thinking of it—

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For once, he listens to reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until he reaches the last one.

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

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

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

It scares Yeonjun even more.

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

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

Was he just hallucinating?

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

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

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

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

A chill runs up his spine.

So very, very empty.

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing comes out.

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

Right where Yeonjun could see it.

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

He can't stand to do nothing anymore.

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

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

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

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

And the paper still held between his hands.

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

Your voice is deadly quiet and shaking when you speak.

“Did you read it?”

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

Once, slowly, he nods.

And everything explodes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there's nothing. Nothing at all.

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

And begins to write.

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

Because he understood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swallowing hard, you read it again. And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

“Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swallowing hard, he knocks on the door.

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

“Who is it?”

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

This is even worse.

He clears his throat. “It's me.”

Another beat of silence.

“Come in.”

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

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

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

He's really screwed up this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you mean when you wrote this?”

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

“Yes. In yours.”

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

Your expression cracks. “You saw?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he can't even fault you for that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth. Shut it. Remain silent.

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

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

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

You don't reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods quickly. “Anything.”

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

Yeonjun gapes. “I—what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes sparkle into his.

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

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

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

[midnight-bay-if]

Introducing the Team (starring Simon, Taj and Rain).

Since this scene ended up being cut from my if, I figured I'd post it here instead. I assigned random genders to the characters for the sake of this short scene.

A black Bentley pulls up to the crime scene, bathed in neon flashing lights from the surrounding emergency vehicles. The tinted-out windows obscure the occupants from the gathering crowds hovering around the yellow tape cornering off the scene.

The driver turns off the engine, then adjusts their mirror slightly, only for his scowling backseat passenger to come into view.

Simon sighs. "What's the issue now, Taj?"

Taj folds her arms, staring out the window. "I just don't understand why we're here."

Simon shakes his head. Sometimes he feels he'd be better off with a pestilent child as an infiltration expert rather than lithe, young woman behind him. At least children are cute when they pout.

"We're here because this is where we've been sent," Simon replies simply.

"And why are we doing as we're told?" Taj bites back.

Simon rubs his eyes before taking off his glasses and inspecting them for dust. "It's not about doing as we're told, Taj."

Simon's other passenger and colleague, Rain, who has been sitting in the front seat and quietly observing the interaction, chooses now to pipe up. "This is where we're needed," they explain kindly. "We go where we're needed."

Taj scoffs, furrowing her brow further. "Right."

Suddenly, there's a knock on the window. Simon begins winding it down and is greeted by a disgruntled middle-aged man with greying dark brown hair and lightly tanned skin. From the fraying in his suit hiding beneath that brown leather jacket and pinned badge, Simon would have to conclude this to be the lead detective on the case.

Once the window is fully wound down, the man in question eyes up the car's occupants one by one before finally speaking. "So, I assume you're who they sent."

"I would imagine so," Simon replies with a simple smile. There's little need to clarify who he means by 'they'. "And you are?"

The gentleman in question grumbles as he unhooks the badge, holding it up closer to Simon's eyeline. "Detective Alek Graves."

From the dismissive way Detective Graves speaks, it's clear that he is already predisposed to dislike Simon and his team. It's not an unusual reaction. A car full of scrupulous-looking individuals pulls into town, ready to take over your case, and there's nothing you can do about it?

Yes, dislike for Simon is very typical. However, Simon doesn't need to be liked in order to get his job done. Just co-operated with.

Unwilling to have his manners questioned, Simon reaches into his own jacket pocket, bringing out their government-issued operative badge. "Operative Simon Selby," he says promptly. "These are my colleagues."

Alek nods as he scrutinises the badge carefully. "Seems a bit strange for the government to take an interest in this case now."

Sensing Simon's patience was running short; Rain leans over from the passenger side with a huge friendly grin only they seem to be able to muster up the energy for in the middle of the night. "We promise not to be too intrusive. Maybe an extra pair of hands will be enough to finally close this care for good?"

"A few ground rules," Graves says, leaning a little further into the car. Simon bites his tongue to stop himself from chastising the man for pressing himself against his car. Does anybody have any manners anymore? "This is still my case. Anything you find should also be reported to me."

Simon is about to interrupt to explain they are under no obligation to report anything to him, but Rain quickly rests their hand on his arm to silence him. "Of course, sir. Anything else?"

"This town..." Detective Graves pauses, an air of concern surrounding him like a black cloud. "It's been through a lot. There are people here who have suffered."

Simon sees the detective hold his breath.

"Don't add to it," He finishes, a clear warning.

Simon's exhales, his posture loosening. A look of understand passes between the Detective and himself. Too many use their position as a power trip, but it's clear that isn't what Graves is trying to achieve.

"Also," Sheriff Graves continues. "If you see a young P.I. sniffing around the crime scene, let me know."

The whole team perks up at the odd request. "Someone I should be worried about?"

He bites his lip. "Worried? No. They're harmless enough." The 'enough' in that statement is alarming. "They just shouldn't be here, that's all."

Simon nods, waving the Detective off as he steps away from the vehicle. With his car freed from the confines of the Detectives presence, he takes the opportunity to pull out a wet wipe and wipe down the side of his vehicle. Rain shakes their head at this, whilst Taj rolls her eyes. Simon ignores them.

"It seems like this could be a difficult case, Simon," Rain speculates, increasing the tension.

"Great," Taj mumbles from the back seat.

Simon stares out the window at the red and blue blinking lights he's grown to accustomed to seeing. "We better get to work then."

[yuulina-vre]

Fear - Chapter one

Summary: Y/N lives the life she always dreamed about. a job she loves, a fiancé that does everything for her, and a house she dreamed of. There are hiccups on the way, but Y/N's still pretty satisfied with where she stands in life. Though a word can be powerful, especially if it's said to the wrong person. Y/N would never have thought that she ever gets to experience how bad it can turn out. For her and the loved ones around her.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: none, maybe some sexy time :)

Series Masterlist // Masterlist

The night is clear, no fog is hanging on the ground, and no clouds can be seen in the starry night sky. The headlights illuminate the trees and the street, creating shadows and figures that would scare you if you could look at them for a longer period. The window is rolled down slightly, letting the cool air whizz past and into the cabin of the car. It’s pleasantly cooling down the interior. The heat of the day slowly vanishes from the inside, the thickness of hot air slowly thinning with the fresh smell of dew. Though the fresh air tries to lighten up the inside, it still feels like there has never been any breathable air inside. Breathing feels still difficult as if trying to inhale while wearing a mask or being all snotty from a cold. The air smells like a strange mix of fresh dew in the forest around and dust from the dryness of the passing day. The sun had been its hottest in days, drying out fields and forests, increasing the unfortunate chance of fires. Rain hasn’t been around for a week now.

The still-warm temperature in the car is perfect to make someone a little tired and drowsy, the steady rumbling of the engine and soothing vibrations of the car rolling down the asphalted street just adding to it. The wind tousles my hair, ruining what’s left of my ponytail, but the suffocating feeling doesn’t vanish, nor does the tiredness that’s starting to get more and more pronounced. My eyes feel heavy, and even blinking doesn’t do any good anymore. Sighing deeply, my eyes catch the fuel gauge. Still half-filled, so a stop anytime soon isn’t necessary; never mind that the next gas station doesn’t come for miles anyway. But it would have given me the perfect opportunity to rest for a little while, maybe stretch my limbs and go for a short walk around the parking lot. If there even is one.

My eyes switch back to the dark road. Somewhere far in front of me, I can see two deer crossing the street, though they’re long gone when I pass the spot. Other than the two animals, there’s nothing to be seen except the stars. I have to admit that I have never been able to see them as clearly as here, somewhere in nowhere and far away from the light of the cities. They are the prettiest sight in a while. My fingers and toes itch to pull the car aside to a stop and just stare up at them for a while. Instantly my mind comes up with a picture of a smiling Bucky.No doubt he would point out any constellation he knew, telling me their stories and tales, so mesmerized by the stars that he wouldn’t notice me staring at him instead. He would have this glint in his eyes, this excitement that makes it difficult to look away. And even though I only understand half of what he talks about, I would be glued to his lips as they form the words, intrigued by him and his knowledge. I don’t know how it happened, but Bucky always manages to draw me in and make his interests interesting for me, too.

A yawn slips past my smiling lips, and I quickly cover it with a hand, making sure to rub the tears that formed from my eyes too. “I have to take a break before I crash.”

Quickly assessing the empty road, I pull away and to the side, stopping on the dirt next to the road. For a second, I close my eyes, engine still running, hands still on the steering wheel as if I was driving. I take a deep breath, feel the air fill my lungs, and leave it while exhaling. After opening my eyes again, I cast a quick look into the review mirror to throw a glance at the backseat. Billy is still asleep, and a glance to my right confirms that Tommy is asleep, too. Typical for them.

A smile slowly forms on my lips again. They had fallen asleep before we hardly even left the hotel parking lot.

A frown slips back on my face as I study Tommy’s sleeping face. They’re just here because I invited them because a certain someone couldn’t join. Or wouldn’t.

I asked them if they wanted to accompany me. Originally, I had to travel because of a client, so it was more of a work trip for me, but I wanted to hang a few days of vacation to it. Also, the hotel room was a four-person room. Somehow, my secretary had made a mistake in the booking.My guess is she either didn’t really look into it or took the first room that was offered on whatever website she booked my trip. Texting her boyfriend was probably more important around that time.

Well, the twins were hyped anyway, immediately all in, as the hotel was located by a nearby beach. It helped that the two had just graduated and wanted to take a trip to celebrate anyway. So, the trip was more like a present to them now, since they didn’t have to pay for anything. Also, someone had an eye on them and make sure they don’t get in trouble. It probably was the only reason why my best friend even allowed it in the first place.

Sadly, the days had gone by way too fast, and all fun had to end. Between my appointments and exhaustion, the boys managed to get me out of my room to actually have some sort of sightseeing and vacation. If not for them, I probably wouldn’t have seen anything despite the hotel room and my patient’s hospital room. So, maybe it wasn’t only me that had an eye on them.

With another tired sigh, I cut the engine, and I take my seat belt off to get out of the car. I wince as the light flickers on the moment I open the door. The damn beeping indicates that it’s open, so as fast as I can, I get out and close the door, still careful to be as silent as possible.God knows the boys need their sleep. With another glance at the two, I sigh, relieved to find them still fast asleep. Leaning against the driver’s side, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the stiffness of my limbs after sitting in one position for far too long.

The air really feels incredibly good outside of the car. The coolness hits my warm skin, making me shiver slightly. Another deep breath fills my nostrils with the fresh smell of dew in the morning, after a brief spring rain.

For a moment, I stay as I am, take deep breaths, and stare at the stars above. I recognize one or two constellations Bucky taught me about before, though their tales won’t come to my mind. The longer I stare into the abyss of darkness and the universe, I feel my body slowly sagging, my eyes growing heavy with tiredness that settles somewhere deep in my bones and mind.

How long have I been on my feet? Thirteen, maybe fourteen hours?

Briefly rubbing my left eye with my hand, I cast a look down at my watch. Half past twelve. It’s exactly fifteen hours. “Huh.” A small breathless laugh leaves my lips. Of course, I had just driven for 9 hours straight. Bucky would scold me if he knew. Safety was always important to him, mine even more so than his.

I sigh loudly, looking back up at the stars as my thoughts wander. Senses as sharp as ever. There’s the sound of a soft breeze rustling bushes a few feet away, some birds still chirp in the distance, and crickets perform their nightly songs to lure each other in. The smell intensifies. Dew and earth fill every pore of my being, giving me the comfort, I didn’t know I needed. A comfort I craved from someone else. Again, my thoughts stop at my fiancé. How nice it will be to finally see him again. I didn't know a week could be so beautiful, yet make you miss someone so badly. Even with the boys around, I felt a strange sense of loneliness.

Bucky was supposed to come with me. We had a long discussion before I asked the boys. At first, he agreed and was really looking forward to it. A week away from home, work, and responsibilities, but then... Then his stupid work got in the way. Again. An occurrence that happens more and more often now. But this time, I had enough.

"Doll, I'm sorry. I really wish I could go with you, but this is important. I have to do this! Can you understand that?" He looks at me, apologizing. His blue eyes swim with guilt and regret, pleading for me to understand and forgive. But I’m just stunned.

“So, your fucking job is more important to you? You were supposed to be on vacation, James. A vacation, you postpone three fucking times already! Thank you very much. I didn't know that I was just a millstone around your neck," I seethe at him, giving him a furious look. The best I could give him. In reality, I’m not even that angry. I’m disappointed, which feels way worse. Bucky flinches slightly. He’s not used to me shouting. Usually, I’m a calm presence in every fight, barely raising my voice, but today is different. Weeks of frustration break out of me, and I’m not really feeling up to holding back now. Not today. He raises his hands in surrender as I throw another article of clothing into my suitcase, not bothering to fold it nicely. "Y/N, I didn't-"

“What?” I turn around, head hot with anger and hurt. “You didn’t say that?! Yeah, well, congratulations, because you don’t have to say anything! You show it in plenty of other ways. Do you even know how many times this has happened now? And I don’t only mean postponing vacations but doing stuff together in general?” I stare at him as he furrows his brows, no doubt raking his brain for possible dates. “It sucks! I was really looking forward to it this time. I really believed you. Again! But you seem just not to care!"

"Sweetheart, I-" I don’t let him finish again. Angry, frustrated, and disappointed, I waved my hands back and forth.

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me! Don't even try to talk yourself out of it with one of your stupid excuses. If you don’t care, you could have at least tried to say no. But did you?"

Bucky sighs. "No, I didn't." He dropped his shoulders in defeat. Somehow, it hurts even more. I feel a pain in my chest that feels like someone’s stabbing me. Tears start to blur my sight, and I quickly blink them away. "Then that's settled." Annoyed, I close my suitcase and drag it out of our bedroom to the stairs and down to the living room. I leave it standing by the door and turn around again, heading back upstairs. Bucky’s still standing in our bedroom, brows furrowed with a sad look in his eyes. I’m almost tempted to comfort him, but this time, I won’t.

Instead, I walk back to our walk-in closet and pull out two outfits that I will need for my appointments, and put them in bags. Then I throw my jacket on and walk back down. I hear him follow me, and by the time I grab the handle of my suitcase, he’s standing behind me. I’ll turn around to say goodbye, but instead, I find myself startled. I don't recognize him at all. His hair is disheveled, probably from running his hand a thousand times through it, his eyes seem dull, and his complexion is haunted by something I can’t name. Instead of showing my surprise, I swallow past the lump in my throat and reach for my house and car keys. "Y/N, please, let's just...” I stop for a second, a great wave of sadness overwhelming me, so the next words that slip past my lips are silent. “You know, maybe getting married and all is a mistake.” I don’t look back at him. Instead, I open the front door and step out of the house and letting the door slam behind me. The second I sit in my car, pulling out of our driveway, I grab my phone and dial my best friend's number, Not even looking into the mirror to see if Bucky followed me as tears blur my vision.

I didn't give him a chance to explain, apologize or do anything else. I can remember the look on his face when I left the house without really looking at him. The pain was written in it, the fear. I hurt him very badly, and I feel guilty that I didn’t care at that moment. He’s the man I love, the one I want to marry. I should have cared, should have tried harder to understand him. I know his job is everything to him, though not more important to him than I am. Never. Even accusing him of that feels like betrayal now. “I should have said that. I wonder if he's pissed off,” I mutter silently into the night sky. My body feels tired with yet another sort of sadness. “Y/N? Are you alright?" A small, high-pitched scream leaves my lips, my hand shooting up to cover my beating heart. Unbeknownst to me, Tommy got out of the car and now looks at me. I haven't noticed the interior light of the car flickering on, nor the door open. How far away have I been?

“Yes, everything is fine. I just needed some fresh air," I say, wiping a few hairs from my face, which the shallow wind pulled there. “But we can continue now." I made efforts to open the driver's side door, trying to convince him with a smile. But Thomas isn’t stupid. Like a bolt of lightning, he flashes around the hood and places his hand on the door handle. Confused, I stare at him. "What are you doing?"

“You are tired… and sad." He adds the last part after a small pause, mustering me intensely. “I am not."

“Yes, you are. You're yawning for the second time. And that just after I got out of the car." And really, I catch myself yawning. Another thing I haven’t noticed. I raise my hand to cover my mouth as best as I can. Suddenly I feel something cold, and damp sliding down my cheeks. When did I start to cry?

“Will you tell me what’s going on? Why are you crying?" These boys really quickly recognize how you are doing. A trait that they definitely have inherited from both their parents. Though, I’m not going to drop my problems on their shoulders.

“No. I-I don't know why I'm crying. Probably the wind." I manage a small laugh, embarrassment flooding my mind.

“Okay.” He stretches the word, and I know he doesn’t believe me. Thankfully he’s smart enough to drop the topic. “Well... Anyway, please sit in the passenger seat. I'm driving."

"Hell, no! That’s out of the question!" I look at him in horror. “Your Mom is strangling me if she finds out."

“No, she doesn’t. Mom's just too careful. I'm already eighteen, and I've had my license for a year. It's going to be okay. It's only an hour or so left, right?" I had to agree with him. Wanda is a very caring person. She had had her sons at the age of nineteen and was then tragically separated from her boyfriend when the children were born. Accidents happen at all times, but him dying at the same time his children were born was just cruel. Of course, from then on, she was always cautious. Sometimes it feels like I’m a child of hers, too, even though I’m only three years younger than her.

I let out a defeated sigh, my chin sinks to my chest, and my eyes close. “Fine.” I relent, too tired to argue with his logic. I know he’s right, and if I continue driving, I’m probably crashing not even a hundred feet ahead of us. Yawning yet again, I round the hood to the passenger seat, sit down, and buckle up, before silently closing the door. The sound still ricochets through the car, startling me more than I like to admit. Meanwhile, Tommy gets into the driver's seat, starts the car, and pulls over onto the road. It probably doesn't take more than five minutes for me to fall asleep.

[kazecoping]

🪟View out the Window🪟

<canon typical Gilbert issues> <suicidal ideation> <disordered eating> <angst> <recovery au> <middle-of-the-story> <it gets better I promise...> <just not right now>

Hiii Admin Null wrote a fic based on this picture!!

For every awful night of tears and aches and killing exhaustion, there would be a morning of relief, re-rested bodies, sleepy promises of you’re right beside me, I love you, and look how bright it is. A constant cycle, tire and recover, cry and kiss, moon down and sun rising. Eventually, that wheel would break. 

But right now, it felt as though it had, but it wasn’t good. The sky was clouded. Rain trickled down the window in dark vertical lines. What light there was cast those lines over the bed, the bed Serge had back-breakingly hauled by the window, for the view, for the view of Gilbert, for the view of gray.

He’d been working extra hard, trying to keep the life they’d built from flushing down the sewers, into the mud and sludge like the rest of the small fragments. Storms like this made him hold a little tighter to what he could. They reminded him of the fragility of it all, as though he and Gilbert were leaves in a swirling dirty puddle, barely able to cling to each other and ripped apart by the elements.

That wasn’t an issue anymore. Maybe it had been years ago, as recent as last year. But, now, their roof held. The walls were firm. With a different yet similar sentiment, Gilbert was too broken to escape into the gutter (despite how much he craved it).

But his ghost longed to escape, to flee into the wind and dance among the droplets. It wasn’t even the yearning of a caged bird – Serge knew Gilbert, and he knew, all Gilbert wanted to do was die. He wanted to go out only so icicles and hydroplaned wheels and bad men could rough him up, killing him hopefully. He wanted to be a beautiful, dead star, in the gutter with the mud and sticks. Or, okay, maybe Serge was being unfair. Maybe he just wished he had a better hobby and it was boredom driving him mad.

It was hard, okay! Serge will admit that! Gilbert was not an easy person to entertain for long hours of the day, especially not alone. He hated stitching, he was bored by crocheting, he despised reading most of what Serge could find. A life of being taught only extremes nulled him to the polite dignity of a quiet hobby. He needed skin and blood and teeth and probably at the very least alcohol.

The chair wasn’t helping either. It couldn’t be used in the rain, not that it was at all stable yet. Gilbert said something about how light he was, how it wouldn’t matter the stability of the chair because there was no way something as fragile as him could strain it. That made Serge feel so ill he had to duck outside of the room and stare at the opposite wall, until his heart stopped pounding.

It wasn’t right! Why was Gilbert so selfish he’d let himself drag them both down? Did he not see how hard Serge was working, a violent upwards current? Pounding wings straight to heaven, knowing they’d catch light but still flying on fumes. He was trying, damn it all.

Not well enough. No matter what he did, he knew it wasn’t enough. Gilbert wanted him, only him. But his job needed him, too. So did the thousand, million other responsibilities. Not to mention Serge wanted him, he wanted to feel like himself again. A guardian angel was just as much a ghost of itself. It was sickening.

He’d written letters to his old friends – their old friends, but mostly just his. Even in the end, Gilbert wasn’t popular. Gilbert didn’t know this. God save him if he found out Serge was spending precious leisure time elsewhere, writing and lingering on street corners – smoking, too. God, that was an unpleasant habit. He swore the soot smell was just a side effect of his job, and Gilbert, so used to rich spiced cigars and deep drugs, couldn’t trace cigarettes. He’d fumbled. Similar things had happened. It was easier to kiss ash.

Maybe Gilbert knew. Maybe he didn’t care.

Serge wondered if it would be an okay idea to buy him alcohol. He heard it could fix an appetite.

Well, morning has come. The wheel has cranked another turn. Gilbert is sitting up in the bed, and the bars of the cage are reflecting on his pale, wane face. Rain is falling. His eyes are dead. He wants to die on the pouring street. He’s imagining that right now.

He pretends he doesn’t see it, even if Gilbert could really use a hug right now. His muscles barely move. Feigning sleep, Serge buries his face in the pillow, knowing he’s done all and nothing he could have ever done. 

[pinkthick]

Maybe a monster

Pairing: Simon Petrikov & Kid!Marceline

Simon Petrikov/Betty Grof

Summary: Marcy is hungry and Simon started to notice that they are running low on supplies.

Simon looked out the broken windows and watched the moon, its silvery glow casting ghostly shadows in the room. Simon couldn’t help but be captivated by the celestial beauty of the night, his red eyes were fixed on it and he quickly became lost in thought. The night was always a time of reflection for him, a time when he could let his guard down and allow the memories to wash over him. Memories of another time.

He remembered stargazing with Betty, their fingers intertwined as they shared dreams of future together.

“We should do this more often” Betty murmured somewhat shyly to Simon, who smiled beneath the cover of darkness.

The two lovers were in an empty everglade near the edge of the city, outside the metropolitan area. It was filled with with tall grass and equally tall white flowers scattered all across the field. There was the occasional flicker of a passing firefly and large, leafless trees. It was very aesthetically pleasing—and even more so at night, when the glowing moon was out and there were luminescent stars sprinkled all across the blanket of sky. The pair were on their backs in the grass, staring at the mesmerizing sky and the somewhat stupefying stars. It was rare to see so many in one place back at their apartment — but they were beautiful nonetheless.

“I’m glad we did come here.” And at that Betty rolled her eyes. It was hard work to even make Simon agree to go outside now. His desire to stay indoors during the day was understandable, given the risks he faced under the harsh sunlight, but it was his refusal to venture outside even after dark that made Betty worry and it was also frustrating her to no end. He had become a recluse, spending his nights awake and active but avoiding the world beyond their front door so of course Betty had to change that.

Even if she had maybe forced her fiancée out of the house.

Maybe.

He turned over in the grass, startling a nearby group of moths, and plucked one of the ivory daisies from the grass. Then he turned back toward his partner, smoothing her hair back behind her ear, and gently placing it in her hair.

Betty's eyes widened, and she slowly reached her hand up and grazed the flower with her fingertips. “Thank you.”

She was beautiful.

The moon was mesmerizing on her light pale skin and lit up her enchanting black eyes in a way that made his heart leap —and aside from being absolutely hypnotizing, she was someone to confide in when he felt like had nobody. Simon felt as if he would never be able to comprehend how he had such a perfect person as a lover —the way she made him feel was like nothing he had ever felt before. The whole world just vanished whenever he even glanced into her face.

But those moments felt like a lifetime ago, a distant past that was almost too painful to remember.

Simon sighed deeply, his breath forming a visible cloud in the cold night air. He missed Betty more than words could express, and the ache in his heart seemed to intensify with each passing night. But he couldn't afford to dwell on the past, not when he had Marceline to protect and care for. A bittersweet smile played on Simon's lips as he looked at the little girl, who was sleeping peacefully. Maybe he could take her stargazing somewhere.

But despite his best efforts to stay awake and keep watch, his eyelids grew heavy, and he slowly drifted back into sleep.

Meanwhile, Marceline, still a child in many ways, had a restless slumber. She woke up to find Hambo, her beloved stuffed toy, nestled beside her. She carefully disentangled herself from Simon's cloak and a faint smile crossed her face as she clutched the tattered toy for comfort.

Quietly, she got up, careful not to disturb Simon's rest. She noticed that Simon had draped his cloak over her before he fell asleep. Grateful for his warmth and protection, she decided to return the favor. With a mischievous grin, she tiptoed over to Simon and looked down at him as he snored softly. With a gentle touch, she placed the cloak near him, ensuring that he would stay comfortable as well.

Marceline couldn't help but giggle as she watched Simon snore softly in his sleep. His usually serious and stoic demeanor was momentarily replaced by the vulnerability of slumber. She leaned in closer, her black eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You're making funny noises sometimes," she whispered with a mischievous grin, her words barely audible.

As she continued to watch him sleep, her gaze lingered on his mouth. Marceline had noticed something peculiar about Simon on several occasions, something she couldn't quite explain. She could have sworn that at times, when he was angry or agitated, his canines seemed to elongate into something resembling fangs. It was an unsettling sight, one that she couldn't ignore, though she had never dared to mention it to him directly.

Even now, as he slept, she couldn't help but notice the subtle changes in his teeth. They weren't the same as a vampire's fangs(?), but they were definitely sharper than any human's. Marceline furrowed her brows, deep in thought. "Weird," she muttered to herself, her curiosity piqued.

But she decided not to disturb Simon's slumber further, returning to her makeshift bed, clutching Hambo tightly and just as she sat down, she heard Simon yawn.

The morning sun had already begun to filter through the cracks in the walls of their makeshift sanctuary and Simon stirred awake. He stretched, feeling a little more rested despite the troubled dreams that he had during the night. As he looked around the room, he spotted Marceline on her makeshift bed, wide awake and clutching Hambo.

"Morning, Marcy," Simon greeted her with a warm smile, his black eyes softening as he took in the sight of the young half-demon girl. Her presence always brought a sense of peace to his turbulent existence.

"Morning, Simon!" Marceline replied cheerfully, her eyes bright with energy.

Soon enough Simon got up from his spot and moved toward her, the cloak he had draped over her earlier now resting on his shoulders. The sun was rising, and he needed to shield himself from its harsh rays.

As he approached Marceline, he asked, "How long have you been up?" He was always concerned about her safety, especially when she was awake before him. He didn’t know what she could do while he was asleep. She could go through the whole building without him.

But she didn’t and she won’t. She’s a smart girl.

Marcy won’t leave him like she did.

Marceline shrugged, her small shoulders lifting as she replied, "Not too long. I just woke up a little while ago." She then grinned mischievously. "Your snoring woke me up, though."

Simon chuckled at her teasing and tousled her hair affectionately. "Sorry about that," he said with a playful glint in his eye. "I'll try to be quieter next time."

“You’re silly.” she smiled and leaped towards him without any reservations.

Even though he hardly feels Marceline’s full-force hug hit him, he still lets out a small remark "Take it easy, Marcy." Simon chuckled slightly.

Soon enough, Marceline's stomach rumbled and she looked at Simon with a playful grin. "I'm hungry, Simon. What do you say we have some breakfast?"

Simon knew that his vampiric nature made human food virtually useless to him. He always insisted he wasn't hungry, but Marceline had made it her mission to make sure he at least tried to eat something. Maybe because she didn’t know that he was actually a vampire.

Details.

With a sigh, he relented and stood up. "Alright, Marcy. Let's see what we have left.

“Something good I hope." They had been rationing their supplies for a while, and the pickings were slim. Marceline watched as Simon rummaged through their meager food stores, eventually finding some canned food that had miraculously survived the ravages of time. He looked at the label, and it wasn't the most appetizing choice, but it was sustenance.

“Simon, I found something too!” Marceline declared as she held a wooden toy in her hand.

Simon watched her with a mixture of amusement as he made a makeshift opener and said “I don’t think we can eat that.”

“Maybe we can!” Marceline beamed with satisfaction at her words.

He opened the can and scooped some of the unappetizing contents onto a plate, trying to hide his reluctance. Was it even safe for her to eat this? “You try first. Try to eat the wooden soldier.”

“No. You’re trying first!”

“Nu uh.” But Simon did take a hesitant bite of the canned food (not Marcy’s wooden soldier) and while it wasn't the most delightful meal he had ever had, it hasn’t gone bad. Marceline watched him closely, her eyes shining with curiosity. "Is it good, Simon?" she asked, excitement bubbling up as she awaited his response.

“It’s decent.” And that was enough for Marceline. She wasted no time as she dug into the food. Her eyes lit up with satisfaction, and she nodded her approval with her mouth full. "Mmm, it's good!"

He couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "I'm glad you like it, Marcy." Simon glanced over at Marceline as she ate, but his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of their dwindling supplies. He had been periodically checking their stores, and the situation was becoming more dire with each passing day. There wasn't much left. As Marceline enjoyed her meal, Simon quietly stood up and went to a corner of the room where they kept their remaining supplies. His face grew serious as he took stock of what was left. It was clear that they couldn't rely on their current location much longer.

Simon took out his map and spread it out before him, tracing his fingers over the various towns and landmarks near their current location. As Marceline finished her meal, she approached him with Hambo clutched in her arms, her expression a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. "Marcy," Simon began, "what if we go on a little adventure?" He looked up from the map to meet her gaze.

Marceline’s brow furrowed, and she seemed hesitant. "Again? But I like this building. I thought we were staying here for real."

He reached out to ruffle her hair affectionately. "I know you like it here, and it's nice, but we're almost out of food, Marcy. We can't stay here forever. We'll just go on a little journey to find more supplies, and we'll come back. How does that sound?"

Marceline sighed, her gaze fixed on the map as she considered his proposal. Finally, she nodded, albeit with a hint of reluctance. "Okay, Simon. But we have to come back here, okay? I like this place."

Simon smiled and pulled her into a gentle hug. "We'll come back, I promise.”

Maybe he shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep

Notes: Whoever read this. Hope you enjoyed!

Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6/Part 7/Part 8/Part 9/Part 10/?

Masterlist

[rrxaiky]

hihihihhi!! grats on 100 followers!! may I req an angst/comfort w/ reader/mc/yuu being homesick? ty!!

Apocalypse! - Event page

♖ Thank you! My apologies if this isn’t very good, I’m not exactly the best at hurt/comfort ^^”

↠ GENERAL REQS CLOSED.   Navigation/ m.list + Rules/ Info  

CW/ TW: Homesickness (That’s it)

𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐑. - 𝐀 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤

     A truly weird world it was. Instead of fate being cruel every once in a while, why was it always so unfair to them? From dealing with this mysterious, new world to dealing with overblots with almost no knowledge of magic... It was beginning to get tiring. Yet, stopping now wasn't an option for them. It couldn't stop. They really couldn't. 

     All they wanted to do was simple. To go back home, to their family, their friends, and everything they were forced to leave behind when they were ripped away from their old life without warning. Every day, every night, they began to miss them even more no matter how hard they tried to forget about them, at least temporarily. They hated it. The feeling of it, the fact that they were in this messed up situation in the first place, the feeling of pain that lingered in their chest... They hated it all.

     The sky, the moon, the stars, the clouds. When they looked up at them, they were hoping that somewhere in the universe, “they” too were gazing at the skies, missing them as much as they did. Somewhere in their heart, their mind, they knew that there was a slim chance of them being able to return to their home, and there was a chance that they would never be going home. Never again. All those memories that they’ve made throughout their journey in their own world, with such a feeling now... Was it truly worth it?

     Now, they couldn’t possibly hide this feeling forever. They had to let it out one day. All this... It couldn’t go unnoticed by Riddle. Surely not. He was and still is an observant person... The change in the way they acted or spoke on certain days told him all he needed to know. The exhaustion in their voice when they spoke, even if it was early in the morning... It was becoming concerning to him. Just as they were thinking of their home more and more with each passing day, he too was growing more and more worried for them. 

     He wanted to help them. He really did. He didn’t want to see them like this anymore, and even though he wasn’t as good as others when it came to emotions, he would try for them, to at least loosen some chains that were bounded to their heart. 

     That night, he had walked over to their dorm, knocking on their door before entering the room. As expected, they were once again staring out the window, with a photo in hand. A photo, a clone created from magic, something they would never be able to see the original of for as long as they didn’t return. 

     “My rose... I noticed you feeling down lately. Do you want to talk about it?” Riddle asked the student who was staring at the photo. “Oh, so you knew... Nothing much, really. Just another episode of me being homesick.” Ah. It all made sense to him now. It was only natural, right? They’ve lost so much time already... Riddle went up to them, then hugged them, his hand stroking their back. “It’s going to be okay, we’ll definitely find a way for you to return back to your home.”

     “And once you return, promise me you’ll find a way to come back here to visit, okay?”

Reblogs + follows appreciated!     

[sealrock]

Strained! ( from @tsunael )

ask meme (closed)

cw: implied domestic violence, discussions of mental illness, brief mention of self-harm, misgendering, brief mention of trans pregnancy

(ty for the ask @tsunael!)

Paris stood there in the hallway, obscured by shadow, watching their dad stare out the open window of his room. The lace curtains swayed gently as a cool autumn breeze blew into the room, carrying the subtle scent of sea salt from the rocky cliffs of Old Sharlayan. The actual sun hid behind rolling clouds, peeking through occasionally to brighten up the space Hector resided in. Hector sat slightly slumped in his wheelchair, his back facing the door. Paris' hands couldn't stop shaking, their feet glued to the marble floor. No amount of psyching themselves up could make them step through the threshold. What would his reaction be like today? Would he allow Paris to sit next to him, or would he lash out and scream for help? Paris knows he doesn't mean it, but they could sense the long-forgotten feelings of bitterness resurface.

From the moment he regained consciousness, Hector had no idea what happened to him. It took him weeks to recover his speech, but before that, all Hector could do was scream or cry and weakly thrash about in his cot. When Hector could walk, he tried to run away. He didn't get very far as his legs couldn't support his weight. As a preventative measure, the Sages had to strap him down to the cot. "It was for his own good," they had said, not wanting to risk serious injury.

So, instead of being stuck down below in Labyrinthos during his recovery, Andromache requested to move him above ground to live with her. Once the initial shock wore off, the novice Sages at the Physis Technon were itching to get a chance to study him, and Paris' mother refused to let Hector become a lab rat—not that he recognized her at first. Being the mother of the esteemed Warrior of Light—with Andromache herself a former warrior of Hydaelyn—gives Andromache a steep advantage in handling negotiations. The Forum, and most notably the whoresons that comprised the Bibliothec, couldn't refuse the saviors of the Star a safe haven, no matter how much they wanted to say otherwise. With their medical technology saving Hector's life, they gave Andromache a house of her own, a small villa tucked away from the city. But this house was not a home.

This house, one made of fine stone and marble with its sterile walls and crafted beams, was not something Paris felt comfortable staying in. It wasn't the homely cottage they were born in; it didn't have a leaky roof to catch rainwater nor creaky floorboards to indicate a sneaky child playing with shadows during bedtime. This house was not Hector's house—it was a stranger's house to him. Paris was also a stranger to him. Even now, three moons after his awakening, he couldn't recognize them. The three little words still rattle around in Paris' head, haunting their every waking moment:

Where is Paris?

Hector looked right at Paris that day. To him, Paris was just another face without a name. The Paris he knew was a curious, excitable, and clingy child who would fumble around the house because of their growth spurts. That happy child was gone, and a jaded adult was in their place. Paris couldn't answer him. They couldn't answer that question whenever they went to visit him. And every time, Hector grew aggravated. It was an endless loop, a tortuous repeat for Hector's fragile state of mind to suffer through. If Paris had the means, they would bring back Halmarut and personally beat them so bloody you wouldn't be able to recognize the body. 

Hector's soft sigh interrupted Paris' violent ruminations, causing them to look up to see him tucking thick strands of hair behind his ear. From what Paris could see, his hair needed trimming again. Poor Patroclus' attempts at giving Hector a new haircut, something he offered to do out of the goodwill of his heart, ended in tears from both parties. From what he described, Hector spiraled after seeing his reflection in a mirror, spotting an aged and jagged scar on his forehead. Paris knew how it got there, what used to be there, and to think about it still evokes fear in them.

Paris hasn't slept in their room since Andromache obtained this dwelling, not right now, regardless of their mom's pleas to reconsider. Hector doesn't outright hate Paris and throw things as he does with Andromache or hits her as he fights to get away from her, someone he remembers in bits and pieces. But the fact that Hector doesn't realize that Paris has been there the whole time makes the proverbial knife dig deeper into Paris' chest.

Letting out a quiet exhale, Paris knocked on the open door, watching their dad jump in his seat. He whipped his head over to the entrance, his unruly black fringe dimming the sparkle of hope in his eyes. His hands held onto the arms of the wheelchair, still spindly and pallid. The bland clothing, too loose-fitting for his thin size, seemed to swallow him up. It made him appear frail.

"Paris?"

His voice cracked halfway, his scratchy vocal chords straining to say their name. He must've been screaming about something earlier in the day for his voice to sound so hoarse. Paris almost didn't want to enter. To hear his timid voice call their name with such anticipation makes them want to turn around and walk away. The relationship they once had with their dad may never be the same now. However, if Paris were to be honest with themselves, their relationship began to crumble when Hector's delusions became more than delusions. The scar on their nose is proof of that. Hector started losing sight of Paris early on, and Paris could do nothing. They were just a child.

Paris stepped into the room, shoulders hunched with their hands stuffed inside their pants pockets to keep them from fidgeting. Hector's stubbled face fell, something Paris expects nowadays, and he turned back towards the open window. The sound of seagulls filled the room for a few minutes.

"Where is she?"

I'm right here.

The words died on their tongue. Paris moved to sit in a chair near the window, not missing how Hector cut them a dirty look for invading his space. Paris noted how gaunt his face looked, his undereye bags in direct competition with theirs.

"Have you been sleeping well?"

"Why should you care?"

Paris dropped their gaze to their boots. Hector's glare made them uncomfortable. They heard Hector take a shaky breath before asking again:

"Where's Paris?"

Right in front of you.

Paris knows that he won't listen to them now. Forcing him to remember only caused Hector to lash out more against Paris. Paris is a stranger to him, and their mom is an enemy. The ties that bind them together become more strained with each passing day.

"... She's fine."

I'm not fine.

Paris almost didn't want to say it. They blinked back tears to look at the opposite side of the room to recenter themselves—the desk lamp casting shadows against the paintings adorning the white wall, Hector's simple yet comfortable bed, and the finely woven pattern of the area rug. They glanced to their right to see Hector's puzzled expression.

"How do you know, and why can't I see her?"

Hector's voice rose as he wrapped his arms around his middle, a habit he picked up whenever he was nervous. Paris pushed out the memories of how Hector would hold them in his lap, how the ghostly sensation of his nose tickling their scalp hit them with a heavy sense of nostalgia. Even when Paris got too big to be held, Hector allowed them to cling to him during fleeting moments of clarity. Maybe it was the opposite. Or perhaps he wouldn't let Paris go out of fear of forgetting.

"You'll see her when you get better."

Somehow, that put Hector at ease. His eyes softened at the prospect, his knitted brows relaxing. His head drooped, allowing his hair to fall like a curtain over his face.

"Please... I need to know if she's well. Is she alright?"

No.

"Yeah... She's doing fine. She misses you a lot."

Hector squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath. "My little sprout, she must be so lonely."

More than you would ever know.

"She has friends. They play with her," Paris ignored the nickname and how their heart panged painfully in their chest, "and her mom is with her. She's safe and happy."

"Andi..." For a split second, Hector's jaw tightened as he hissed out her name, "She took Paris away from me. Andromache tore Paris away as if she tore her from my womb."

Paris couldn't watch how Hector's eyes welled over. The overwhelming sense of loss Hector carried made the air feel heavy, but Paris couldn't fill that void for him. Hector blamed Andromache for saving Paris; if she hadn't shown up when she did, who knows what would've happened next. Hector must have blocked out the worst bits to forget. He blocked out the context behind everything.

Paris could see it clearly: the blooded knife lay discarded on the wooden floor, how Hector's arms squeezed Paris' small form close to his chest. With his last ounce of sanity, he sobbed out apologies and begged for their forgiveness as he desperately tried to wipe away the blood and tears from their face, but it only made Paris' wound bleed more. Paris couldn't wiggle themselves out of his crushing grasp—they had never felt more afraid of him before that moment.

Hector has the luxury of forgetting that painful memory. Paris could never forget. Looking in the mirror reminds them of that day. There was once a time when Paris hated their dad just as much as they did their mother, Paris had despised him for reasons they couldn't understand. They sat by helpless as Hector fell deeper into that dark pit of despair and lunacy, and they resented how he alienated Paris from what was a happy home. But even after everything the two of them have been through, Paris couldn't readily forgive him. Paris had got their wish, but they could not have imagined things to turn out like this. Maybe Patroclus' childish idealism rubbed off on them when they heard the news of Hector's awakening, only to be met with stone-cold reality.

Hector looks right through Paris like one would do a spirit. And Paris hates him for it. Paris sees that Hector is relying on old coping mechanisms even now, going back to happier times to shield himself from hard truths. He can't confront the truth about how he harmed someone who loved him more than anything.

When it seemed like Hector retreated to the recesses of his mind, Paris took this as a chance to leave. Staying any longer wouldn't do either of them much good. But Paris couldn't leave without reaching over to plant a small kiss on top of Hector's head.

"I love you, dad."

Turning on their heel, Paris sped towards the door without looking back. Paris had the vain hope of hearing those three worn words uttered back at them, but they never came. Paris closed the door with a soft 'click' of the latch and headed down the stairs and out the door. The rush of fresh air caught them by surprise.

They needed a cigarette. And maybe a drink or two.

[griseoo]

Am I Real?

childe x gn!reader hurt to comfort

tw: suicide attempt, derealization stranger in your own body.

an: i kinda feel like shit so writing this to feel better, not proofread

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　☽ ☾ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

‘It’s always been like this.

Life has always been black and white.

People come and people leave, leaving nothing but scars behind.

Their half-assed apologies say enough about their true feelings.

But what can I say? that’s just the way how life is.

It’s either you hit the jackpot or you lose and become colorless like everyone else.

It’s so boring. And tiring.

I have never had a reason to continue on in life.

But I did not want to disappoint anyone, so I forced myself and pretended like everyone else to be happy.

Hm yet I find it kinda sad how no one bothers.

If we all feel the same why does no one bother? Or am I the only person who feels that way?

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m the only one who feels that way.

Not even he noticed. Or he did and just acts like he didn’t so he doesn’t have to bother about it.

I love him with all my heart…but does he feel the same way?

He probably doesn’t and just felt bad for embarrassing me infront of my friends when I told him i’m inlove with him.

He’s gonna leave like everyone else..’

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　☽ ☾ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Many thoughts were running through my head, overtuning every outside noise.

< 3:00 A.M >

“oh how I wish to restart in this shitty game called life..”

my own voice felt like a stranger to me. I was sitting on my bed, silently staring out the window.

A lone tear escaped my face, contradicting the numbness expressed on my face.

I didn’t bother wiping it, Ajax would only come home tomorrow from his trip.

The stars were clouded and I could barely see the moon shine through.

I know I didn’t belong here, no one truly needed me here.

I rose from the bed, the floor creaking as my feet slowly pressed down on the wooden ground.

I silently walked up to the window, staring into the nothingness of the dark sky.

I was in trance in my own world, not even noticing the way I opened the window.

I sat down on the windowsill, staring on the ground bellow me.

A single jump would end this all..

I didn’t notice the way tears streamed down my face.

Neither did i notice the front door opening.

I only noticed when I heard shaky breaths behind me.

“Baby please get away from the window…” His words didn’t register in my mind at all.

“Please we can talk about this, we can fix this…Y/N please don’t do this.” He tried to reason with me, hoping his words would get through me.

“Is it really possible to fix a feeling like this..? Why bother on someone like me?” I was nothing but a stranger in my body, having no control over my own actions.

Yet before I let myself fall someones arms wrapped around me.

My breath hitched while feeling myself gain control over my own body again.

“I-I’m so sorry for not realizing..” His voice cracked as he spoke, not being able to contain his own tears as he pressed me tightly against him.

“I was so busy with work I didn’t even notice, I’m so sorry love.” He kept muttering soft apologies into your hair.

You felt so guilty.

“No I should be sorry, I tried to act so egoistically without considering anyone’s feelings..” You whispered, taking in shaky breaths in a way to calm your nerves.

“No you weren’t egoistic at all, don’t ever think that. This isn’t your own fault and you also aren’t alone in this. I’ll always be there for you if you need to talk to someone, so please…next time talk to me.”

You broke fully down at his words, starting to sob into his chest as he drew soft circles on your back to calm you down.

You clinged onto his shirt, trying to impossibly pull him closer. “Shh..Let it all out.” The way he softly stroked your hair while whispering sweet nothings into your ear made you feel so safe.

Your sobs stopped after a while, turning into soft hiccups. Your eyelids felt so heavy and he felt so warm.

You slowly started to fall into a dreamless slumber as he picked you up into his arms, placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head.

He carried you to your shared bed, pulling you into his strong arms.

That night, he made a promise to protect you from the pain in this world. And he never breaks a promise toward his loved ones.