#there might be inaccuracies in the time period

[i-cant-sing]

To that one thought about the different monarchs YES TO ALL

Ahahaha im so glad so many people liked that idea (OG post here), so ive decided to work on it. So, lets set the story okay? (also btw do not @ me with historical inaccuracies and dates because i simply dont care about all of this that deeply). This AU will have multiple parts, where reader gets to travel through different time periods (and some of them will be real historic figures, others would be created by me).

Reader is a scientist, was working on her time machine (which is just a small box with time/year slots on it), and decides to travel to the past to solve some mysteries, or perhaps simply for the love of history.

So, where does reader travel to first?

1180. Landing right in the kingdom of Jerusalem. And who does she meet?

King Baldwin IV- the leper king.

Reader wanted to see how leprosy, a deadly disease at the time, had affected the king, who despite his conditions, still managed to possess great military strategies and IQ. And how even though his people knew about his outcome, still pledged their loyalty and unwavering support.

You, a scientist of the modern time ofc brought along futuristic gadgets with you. Knowing how youd look in your present era clothes, you wore a watch that allowed you to change into clothes of old times, to blend in easily. All of your gadgets were concealed easily because of their "invisibility cloak" feature.

You made your way towards the castle, making sure to not let awe be apparent in your face as you took in your surroundings, thinking of all the questions youd like to ask the wise king. Of course, you had to make sure you dont do anything to disturb the historic timeline, because then it just might lead to disastrous results.

Getting into the castle was easy, after all you had equipment to sneak you in undetected. You looked around as the servants rushed around, talking about making the arrangements perfect for the feast. You figured out that the feast was probably for another victory the king had gotten, which meant that everyone would be too busy to notice you snooping around.

With everyone engaged downstairs, you had your way up to the king's study, where you opened the door only to be met with a tall burly man standing there, looking surprised to see you.

"Who are you?" He barked, and you got the worst vibes from this man.

"Uh- Im a servant!" You said,backing up a little, just in case you needed to make a run. The man narrowed his eyes as he looked you up and down. "A servant? No servants are allowed in the king's study!"

"The king sent me here." You lied. "And why are you here if servants are not allowed?"

The man's eyes widened in rage before grabbing you by the neck. "Because Im not a servant, fool! I'm his brother in law!" He shook you hard. "And I dont think youre a servant, if you couldnt recognise me! I will have your head, spy!"

"GUY!" Someone yelled from behind you, making Guy look up as his grip around your neck loosened. "Let her go!"

"Your majesty, she's a spy-"

"She's a servant. I sent her up to retrieve my papers." Guy let you go, as you quickly turned around to see him- King Baldwin. You bowed to him as you gave him a glance, noticing his piercing gaze through his iron mask. His gaze shifted from you to Guy. "And what were you doing here, Guy?"

"I was looking for Sibylia, your majesty." He said.

"In my study? My sister is waiting for you downstairs. Go." Guy scrambled away with his tail tucked between his legs, while you watched as the king made his way into his study, leaving you outside.

You took a step back, about to leave-

"Well, come on in." He called you. You ponder over it for a second before walking in. Look, how many times can you meet a historical figure like him?

Baldwin was sitting in his chair, his eyes looking at you through his mask. "So, who are you and what were you doing here? And dont bother lying, unless you want to be tortured for attempted assassination on the king."

You bit your lip before sighing. "Im Y/n L/n." Clasping your hands together, you took a deep breath. "I came here because... I wanted to know about you."

He rested his chin on his palm. "Why? Do you not know about the king of Jerusalem? Where are you from?" He's not vain, but he knows that his numerous victories have made him popular over the years. So why do you not know of him? Or his brother in law, Guy, who is very vain.

"Im from nowhere. For as long as I can remember, Ive been travelling from place to another. Of course, Ive heard about you, but... I crave to know more." You said, partly telling the truth because you do want to know more about him.

His eyes remained on you, the same intense gaze. "And why should I allow you to know more? Do you mistake yourself to be worthy enough to even be in the presence of a king?"

Shit. He was trying to put you in the corner. You had to play this smart.

You smiled softly. "Of course not. Then again, none of us are worthy of anything God blesses us with." You paused, letting the words settle. "Your majesty, I only wish to know more about you because I like to write. I like to write about history, and when one day, God forbid, you succumb to your illness, wouldn't you like to be known for more than just your victories?" You'd read about how Baldwin IV was a fan of history and stories.

His eyes stared at you- no, through you. Unmoving, he replied. "Man shouldnt be so narcissistic to have someone write about his deeds."

You gave a nod. "Jesus wasnt a narcissist. Neither was Mary, nor Abraham. Muhammad wasnt a narcissist either, yet theyre mentioned in books- holy books, nonetheless."

The room fell silent for a few seconds, before he spoke. "True. But why should I have you write it, instead of using one of my scribes?"

"Precisely for the reason you just said." You raised your head a bit. "They'd write never ending praises for you, portray you as this omnipotent ruler, make you look like a narcissit even. I have a keen eye, your majesty. I like to look at what there is beyond the surface. If you let me be your scribe, I could write about details you dont even know. Id write about your strengths as well as weaknesses, for the generations to read and learn from you."

Baldwin remained still for a few moments before finally standing up, walking directly towards you until he was face to face. His blue eyes shining bright under his iron mask.

"I will let you write, under two conditions. First- I approve what gets to be in the book. And second... you spy for me."

"Wait, spy?"

He hummed. "Well, not a conventional spy. You wont have to leave this castle and penetrate enemy territories to eavesdrop. I still dont trust you enough. No- you- you will spy on my court. I want to know what is happening, when, where, and who says what." Under his mask, he raised a brow. "Do you accept?"

You pretended to hesitate, when in reality this was the exact situation you wanted to be in. "Hmm... yes. I accept."

"Good." He walks back towards his desk. "I expect that it goes without saying- complete discretion." You smiled. "Of course, your majesty."

-

Months passed by as you worked for the king. He let you in on details, allowed you to ask personal questions, and in return you kept an eye on everything that happened in court. Listening on to what the servants whispered to eavesdropping on "secret meetings" of the nobles- of course, headed by Guy. Oh how you loathed that vermin's guts. No- he had no guts. A spineless creature, who blatantly talked of the king's eventual demise and all the ways he'd make the kingdom flourish again, how he'd show "no mercy to Salauddin and his muslims". You have no idea how Sibylla was attracted to him- a man who plans her brother's demise openly.

As for the king, working with him- or for him, wasnt all bad. In fact, it was quite fun. The amount of stories, the secrets youve been able to discover- none of it could ever be found in any history book. Most of all, you respect Baldwin on a whole new level now.

His struggles, ever since he was kid- not being a legitmate ruler, his parents being forced to separate, then being diagnosed with leprosy but forced to keep it a secret, the competition with his other sibling to be the heir, and of course, even when he did become the king, he still had to prove his mettle- his worth that he's worthy of ruling even with his disease.

With his life expectancy being uncertain and a huge amount of responsibility being shovelled onto him, he had to learn a lot and master various skills in very short time.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Y/n could only imagine how isolated he must feel. Not being able to touch anyone, to have a significant other, to constantly win battles and do everything in your power to help the kingdom flourish, just for him to not even be alive to enjoy the fruits of his efforts. And worse, he's forced to give it away to his brother in law, that useless piece of shit.

Its one thing that confuses you about Baldwin. You know how persistent he is, how when he sets his eyes on something, he does everything in power and BEYOND to achieve it. For example, when he was only a child and had started to lose the ability to use his hands, he quickly learned to use his thighs to steer his horse. He did not let his disease hold him back, so how does a person as motivated as him simply allow his kingdom to be left in the hands of someone as incapable as Guy?

Then again, you suppose he's doing it for the sake of his sister. Baldwin adores Sibylla, and you could see why. Sibylla was his older sister, she took care of him, and she was forced to marry early because the court would only allow Baldwin to be king IF she were married, so that when Baldwin dies of leprosy, her husband could take care of the kingdom. Baldwin views it as the ultimate sacrifice, so even though he has tried to separate his sister from Guy, she has refused because she's in love with him.

God knows how. You wondered. Guy does not have any redeeming qualities, then again youre thinking like a 21st century woman. Woman of this time had the bar for men set below the deepest level in hell.

"So, what do you have for me today?" Baldwin asked you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You sighed, shaking your head. "Nothing new, really. Your brother in law, pardon my language your majesty, has been spewing shit about how he'll make the kingdom great again when you die. But when those nobles ask him how, he either has no answer and tries to cover it up by saying its a secret, or he'd say something so ridiculous- his ideas are bound to not only fail, but actually destroy the kingdom even more. I am surprised he doesnt give himself a headache by his own voice. God knows i get one whenever he opens his mouth." You complained, rubbing your temples making the king chuckle. Baldwin seemed to enjoy how informally you spoke.

"Guy is... something else. I apologise on his behalf." You could sense him smiling under his mask. You gave a small smile, but truthfully, your head was actually hurting a lot. You could only hope this was not a migraine developing.

"Would you like tea? Or wine?" He asked as he called in a servant. "Just water for me, thank you." You said, closing your eyes for a few moments as the sharp ache in your head increased.

Baldwin's eyes remained on you, a calculated gaze. "Are you alright? Should I call in the physician?" You shook your head. As if you could trust physicians of this time. "No, I'll be fine after I sleep." You have some medical potions with you that could heal your basic diseases and pains. A gift of modern medicine. But you'll have to use it discreetly, lest someone from this era discovers it and calls you a witch.

The servant soon brought in a chalice filled with water for you and you immediately took a sip of the cool water. Baldwin stood up as he walked over to the window, looking out into the dark night.

"Can I ask you something personal?" You asked. He hummed. You stared at his back, the white cloak he was dressed in. "Do you think if you never had this disease, would you still be a great king? A king who is so motivated to make his kingdom as successful as he can before his time is up?"

He looked back at you, and for a second you wondered if you had slighted him. But these past few months, you've learned to read his body language, despite how hard he conceals both himself and his thoughts.

"No." He said, turning back to the window. "I probably would've been a spoiled brat, I don't think I would've even been chosen to be king. I would've lost it to my half brothers." He tilted his head as he looked at a particular star in the sky. "I suppose my disease is a blessing. God blessed me with it to humble me. Had He not, I probably wouldn't be religious."

"And is that how you see your suffering? A blessing from God?" You asked as you pulled out the medical vial from your cloak and poured it in your chalice. Your headache had started to pulsate now and you needed this.

"I do. I have to serve my people, and my suffering has brought me closer to them and to God. And even with my disease, I was made a king. Isn't that divine intervention? My purpose on earth?" He said almost monotonously, as if he's had this conversation a thousand times.

You took sip of your medicated water, headache immeadiately reducing in intensity. "So... if you had the chance, would you still be the leper king? Or would you be healthy but... not a king? Just a man who gets to experience life like the rest of us, eat normal food, play with others, walk without having to wear a mask, or even fall in love?"

He remained silent, but his shoulders dropped ever so slightly. Tired? Or defeated?

"I prefer not to think about things I have no control over, Y/n." He finally turned around and his blue eyes looked at yours, though this time, there was something else swirling in them. "Finish your water and head to bed. I don't think you're well enough to tell me a story tonight." You smiled gratefully. Over these past few months, the king had enjoyed the modern world stories you told him. Some were literature classics, like Romeo and Juliet, others were straight up fanfic plots with details missing because he wouldn't have understood them anyways.

You were about to pick up your chalice when suddenly Baldwin fell to the ground.

"Your Majesty!" You rushed over to him, watching him tremble on the ground as he struggled to breathe. You dropped to your knees and attempted to remove his mask, only for him swat your hand away.

"No! You'll get it too!" He said, his eyes screwing shut in pain. He was worried about you contracting leprosy.

"Just- trust me." You pursed your lips as you moved his hand away and removed his mask, before removing the white veil underneath it, which was there to prevent his peeling skin and sores from sticking to the iron mask.

You didn't gasp when you saw his disfigured face. No, you'd seen it already when they constructed his face using modern technology. You touched his forehead with your palm, noticing how warm it was. This was one of his leprosy fevers, it was serious and quiet painful. But you already know he doesn't die until 1185 and it's still 1180.

"I'll go fetch the physician-"

"No!" Baldwin yelled, struggling to breathe. "No- just-" He suddenly whimpered as pain shot through every fiber of his body, making him dig his heels into the ground. Your heart wrenched at the sight.

"Its- too- hot- i-" you looked around before grabbing your chalice and bringing it to his lips, holding his head in your lap, you helped him drink the water. He drank it all, his forehead now covered in sweat and his face still contorted in pain. You held his hand and squeezed it.

"Its okay, Baldwin. I'm here. I'm right here." You whispered, his head resting in your lap as you gently wiped his forehead with your sleeve.

Baldwin stared up into your worried eyes, and that was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

-

Baldwin woke upto screaming. Opening his eyes, his blurred vision slowly cleared upto watch you and Guy screaming at each other, the latter had his hand clawed into your hair.

"WHO DO YOU THINK YOURE TALKING TO, YOU WENCH?!" Guy yelled as he shook you harshly.

"A SPINLESS BEING NOT WORTHY OF BEING CALLED A MAN!" You spat back, eyes red with rage.

Guy's eyes widened at the insult before he raised his hand to strike you, but was stopped by Baldwin.

"Guy! Let her go!" Both of your heads snapped towards the king.

"Y-your Majesty?" Guy couldn't believe his eyes. He survived?

"I said- let. Her. Go!" Baldwin commanded as he stood up and walked over to them, making Guy immeadiately let you go and bow to him. Baldwin's eyes landed on you, and you gave him a small bow.

"Leave." Baldwin commanded, eyes fixed on you.

Guy looked up from his his bowing position. "Your Majesty, I'm so glad you're well-"

"I said, LEAVE!" Baldwin's voice boomed, his eyes never leaving yours. Guy scrambled put of the room quickly, and you started to leave as well, but Baldwin grabbed your wrist.

"Not you." He said, those blue eyes piercing into you. "I- how long was I out?"

"2 weeks." You replied.

Baldwin let out small gasp as he let go of your hand and slowly walked towards the mirror in his room. It was quiet for a minute.

"What... happened?" He asked, looking at his reflection.

"Well, after you fainted, I called in the physicians and they took you to your chambers. They had prepared some medication but were hesitant to apply it on you, fearing they'd contract your disease. So, I convinced them to let me do it since I had already touched you. When I was done, your sister, princess Sibylla and Guy came. Guy asked the physicians when you would be dying, and the physicians said a few days and that this time- you may not wake up from your fever. While your sister broke down, and honestly I'm not trying to create problems for you guys, but you could ask anyone and they'd tell you just how much Guy beamed at the news. Anyways, they both left soon after that. Things were quite for a week, with the physicians coming in to give me the medication to apply on you. Then-" you paused trying not to show your frustration in your voice. "In the second week, Guy started fussing around and throwing tantrums since you didn't die yet. I mean, I was in your room but I could still hear him yelling at the physicians outside about how his coronation was being delayed because you were still here. It pissed me off, but you know me- I'm not one to get into family matters. So I didn't do anything. Then today-! Ugh, he came in while I was in your bathroom and I saw him grabbing a pillow and bringing it near your face. He stopped when I chucked your bible at him- so sorry about that but it was nearest thing next to me- and I just asked what he was doing. And do you know what he said? He had the nerve- THE NERVE to say 'I'm just trying to end his suffering, in fact you should do it. I can't risk contracting leprosy, I'm the future king!' And then I chucked your golden cross at him- again very sorry for that. And then we got into an argument and well- that's what you woke up to."

It was quiet again. You looked at Baldwin staring at his reflection, and for a moment, you thought he wasn't listening to you.

Baldwin nodded. "Okay. Thank you, Y/n. You may go to your room now. I will send in some physicians to check if you've contracted leprosy."

You frowned. "I havent-" but you stopped. How were you supposed to explain to him that you're "vaccinated".

In the mirror, his eyes shifted to you. "I know, but I'd like to know for sure. For my peace of mind."

You nodded. "Look, I'll go apologise to Guy right now-"

"No. There's no need. I'll talk to him myself. You've done enough. Please go to your room and wait for me." Baldwin gave you a small smile and watched you leave.

Moments later, he had a guard fetch the head physician in, who confirmed your story.

"Its true, your Majesty. Y/n risked her life to be with you for the past 2 weeks. She didn't leave the room and would apply medication on you herself, changed your clothes, wiped your sweat and even fed you some soup herself. She seemed very determined- almost as if she knew you'd recover. I'm ashamed to admit that I... I did not think you would." The physician even confirmed all the shit Guy had been doing, but Baldwin didn't need anyone's testimony to know that Guy was planning his downfall- and celebrating it. He wasn't surprised by that.

He was surprised by 2 things:

1. You hadn't contracted leprosy.

2. He was recovering from his disease.

"Its true. As you'd asked, I had done a check up on Y/n and I did not find any signs of leprosy... or any disease. She's as fit as can be!" The physician said in awe.

Baldwin smiled at that, looking at the mirror again. His own skin had begun healing. Many of his sores had already disappeared, and his complexion was returning to normal. And physical appearance was one thing, but Baldwin could even feel himself healthy on the inside. That constant ache in his bones was gone, the fatigue was gone, the suffering was gone.

But how? How could it just go away like that?

It's been 2 days since he woke up, and his health only seems to be improving at an exponential rate. And he's still trying to figure out how he got well out of nowhere. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the events of that night.

All he remembers is falling down, fever enveloping his body so quickly, he felt like he was burning up, and then you were there and you helped him drink-

Baldwin eyes snapped open. It made sense.

He called in the guard and had him fetch his senior council members in his court room.

"I have 2 surprises for you." Baldwin said as he sat on his throne, looking over the members (Sibylla and Guy were also present), all staring and perhaps gawking at how well he looked now. "My disease is cured. I no longer suffer from leprosy." The court immeadiately fell into whispers and mutterings before going silent when he raised a hand. "I know it sounds impossible, but as you can all see, my health has not only improved but in fact I have become stronger. My body is no longer ridden with sores and boils. I no longer wear a mask, neither do I require assistance in walking. In fact, I am even able to use both of my hands to not only use a sword but also-" He pulled out a dagger and aimed it an apple he threw in the air, piercing right through it. "- I am no longer blind in one eye."

The court erupted in cheer, congratulating the king and praising God for saving Baldwin and the kingdom. From his throne, he could see Sibylla clapping in joy and wiping tears from her eyes as she smiled at him, while Guy looked at him in shock.

"Your majesty! What's the other surprise?" One of the members asked.

Baldwin smiled as he stood up.

"I have found a wife. She's the one who healed me."

He looked at the court that had once again erupted into cheer.

"Jerusalem has a new Queen."

-

"What do you mean I can't leave?" You asked the guard who was stationed outside your door.

"Ma'am, as I said before, the king has asked you to wait for him and ordered us to not let you leave until he comes." He said before closing the door again.

You scoffed. Can't leave? Why the hell not?

It's probably because I insulted Guy. He wants to punish me because of that. Will he throw me in the dungeons? Or will he just have my head chopped off?

You pulled out your time machine, the small box in your hands.

Well, I'm not sticking around to find out. Time to leave-

Just then, you heard the door open, making you hide the machine again. Is he finally here?

"Princess Sibylla." You bowed.

She chuckled, grabbing your shoulders. "Now, now. There's no need for that. In fact, I have to be the one bowing to you now." She said before kissing your cheeks. She's always been very humble and kind, and over the past few months, you've developed a good friendship with her.

You gave her a quizzical look. "What do you mean?" She laughed again. "Oh come on. You don't have to hide it anymore. Tell me, how did you persuade Baldwin to marry?"

"The king is getting married? To who?"

Sibylla raised a brow at you. "To-"

"Sibylla." A voice cut her off.

Baldwin was standing at your door. You bowed quickly, he looked at you before shaking his head at his sister.

"Will you leave? I have to talk to Y/n."

Sibylla nodded as she walked towards the door, but not before giving him a hug and congratulating him.

You two were alone now.

Baldwin had his hands clasped behind him as he walked closer to you.

"How are you feeling?" You asked him, eyes shifting to his hands. Is he holding a knife? To punish you for insulting Guy?

"I'm well, all thanks to you." He replied.

"Huh?" You looked at him confused, but your mind was still occupied with his hands. What is he hiding?

I need to delay this and find an escape route to use my time machine. You thought.

"Um- I uh- I heard you're getting married." You gulped, eyes still fixed on his hands, trying to anticipate any sudden movements.

"I am."

"Oh um, congratulations."

"Thank you." Baldwin said, tilting his head slightly at your wide eyes fixed on his hidden hands.

Cute.

"Y/n." He called out to you.

"Look, if you- if you're still mad at me about what I said to Guy, I apologise. But- but just so you know, I- I DONT THINKS ITS GOOD OMEN TO MURDER ME BEFORE YOU GET MARRIED!"

"Y/n."

"I WILL HAUNT YOU-! IM SORRY BUT I WILL AND I WILL HAUNT YOUR WIFE AND YOUR KIDS-"

"Y/n!" You looked at him as he stared at you with amusement. "You're being ridiculous."

"Huh?"

With one hand, he cupped your cheek as he brought himself closer.

"Why would I kill my soon-to-be wife?"

What? Wait-

"What?!" You shrieked backing away. "What kind of joke is that?!"

Baldwin looked insulted. "I wouldn't joke about this. You're very important to me."

"No- I- what?!"

He sighed as he sat on your bed. "Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? You saved me from an incurable disease, clearly you're the Chosen One, sent to me by God, and now I'll marry you."

You looked at him perplexed. "What are you talking about?! Saved you? All I did was help you drink water, apply your medication and-" you paused.

Helped him drink water... from my chalice... the one with... the medicinal vial.

"No." You covered your mouth in shock. What have I done?! This would change history completely! Shit. Shit. shit shit shit-

"Yes. You dont have to be so worried. The council is actually quiet happy that Im marrying someone, and they agree that there is no better match than the woman who saved my life-"

"I did not save your life!"

"Of course, you did. You gave your chalice-" "How is that even possible?! It only had water!" "Water that touched your lips first. Of course, it mustve been your essence, your saliva that healed me-" "Ew, no. Do you even yourself?! This is all unbelievable!"

Baldwin furrowed his brows slightly. "Its... not. I mean, look at you. You spent weeks taking care of me, you touched me, and yet did not even show signs of any illness, let alone leprosy! Of course, youre the chosen one!"

"I am not the chosen one!" You yelled as you pulled at your hair frustratedly. How could you fuck up so bad? If Baldwin really is cured, then history will be changed- and it will have disastrous impacts on future-

Baldwin pulled your hands away from your hair, tutting at you. "Dont do that. Youre the Queen, you cant hurt yourself."

"I am not the Queen."

He nodded. "Yet. But you are a princess now." Baldwin said as he pulled out the box hed been hiding behind his back all this time. Before you could even react, he'd already pulled out the big gold ring with a sapphire that had tiny diamonds around it and he slipped the ring onto your finger. You gawked at the ring making him chuckle.

Baldwin bent down to kiss your forehead sweetly before tapping your cheek admonishingly.

"Now, no hurting yourself princess. I want my queen in perfect health." Your cheeks reddened at how close he was, making him laugh even more as he pecked your forehead again and turned to leave.

You couldn't even say anything, he'd left you speechless. He looked back once, a lazy smile on his face.

"I should leave you to rest now, before Sibylla returns and starts pestering you with wedding preparations. She told me that shed been looking forward to this day for a very long time."

so this is part 1. thoughts????

PART 2 here!

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

I've always been baffled by the weird fixation that the fantasy genre has on virginity and rape, and I don't mean the 'men who are severely misinformed on the period of history they're adding dragons to' kind, I mean the kind written by women who have multiple children and still seemed confused by where the hymen is. Both the inaccuracies and the whole-genre obsession has always baffled me. I'm only just now realising that the answer might be the same as most obsessions that baffle me. It's a sex thing, isn't it?

Has genre fiction secretly been chock full of BDSM fetishists this whole time and nobody told me?

[sailor-aviator]

By Its Cover: Prologue

By Its Cover: Prologue

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: The frivolity of high society has never much interested in you. You preferred to spend your time reading, something your sisters couldn't fathom as they spent their time shopping the latest dress styles. The youngest of five children and the fourth daughter, not much was expected of you. You knew you might be married one day, but you hoped beyond hope that it would be to someone that might understand your intellectual pursuits. You begin exchanging letters with a mysterious stranger, and what's more, your older brother's rakish best friend seems to find himself in your path more and more as the season goes on. What's a girl to do? (Regency!AU)

Content Warning: Historical inaccuracies, Regency period, Period related drama, Talks of judgement, Period typical sexism, Talks of marriage, Death of a parent, Talks of making a debut, Reader's feelings are hurt, light angst, some fluff. I think that's it, but let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: 1.6k

Series Masterlist || Moodboard

Winter gave way to spring as quickly as one rumor gave way to another. Public opinion changed as quickly as the seasons, as far as you were concerned. Your whole life was spent in the thralls of high society, your entire life scrutinized by the judgmental lords and ladies of the Island before you could even walk or talk.

You had earned your reputation as a rather odd girl fairly young not quite seven years. Where the other girls were interested in dolls and hair ribbons, you found yourself enraptured by the world around you. On more than one occasion, you received a tongue lashing from your nanny as you tracked mud through the house after one of your many excursions into the garden, your mother heaving a tired sigh as you argued the merits of fresh air and stimulating your endless supply of curiosity.

“My darling,” she’d say pointedly, giving you one of her signature looks that reeked of motherly disapproval and exasperation, “while I find the fresh air and time in the garden as stimulating as the next person, it is unbecoming of a lady, dearest.”

You had recounted the tale to your father later that evening, the older man sitting at his desk with his feet propped up on the top of the wooden surface as he thumbed through a page of one of his many novels.

“I just don’t understand, Papa,” you muttered, your hair hanging from where you sat upside down on the chaise. “Why can Will go about doing as he pleases while I am to be tied down by all of these ridiculous rules?”

Your father had merely chuckled, marking his page before setting his book down to look at you.

“My darling Bug,” he smiled, taking his feet down and opening his arms wide to you. “Come here.”

You obeyed, righting yourself on the couch before standing to walk over to him. Bug had been bestowed upon you as your moniker well before you could remember. Your father had said that you earned the nickname once you were old enough to crawl all over the place, getting into things that you most decidedly shouldn’t. Your siblings had said it was because you were a pest.

Your father grasped your upper arms gently, the smile on his face as affectionate as always.

“William doesn’t get to do as he pleases,” he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you pouted at him. “He will one day be lord earl of this estate, and as such he will take on many duties that will prevent him from doing a great deal of things. Indeed, he will take on many things that will see him as constrained as you.”

“I don’t believe you,” you grumbled, scowling up at him. Your father tilted his head back with a booming laugh, patting your head before placing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Nevermind all of that now, my little Lady Bug,” he hummed. “I’ve found a new story for you, would you like to read it?”

Your father was a fixture in your life, encouraging your love of learning perhaps more than he should have given the expectations set forth by society for you. Your mother saw no problem with your need for intellectual pursuits, but often grew exasperated at your clear lack of regard for decorum and stereotypical ladylike hobbies. Your elder sisters were the pinnacle of what proper ladies should look like in society, and you often found yourself being compared to them, much to your chagrin.

North Island, or the Island for short, was the nickname given to the group of nobles and upperclass that made up the elite, wealthy families that dictated the standards of polite society - the society you had the misfortune of being born into along with your elder siblings.

Your brother, William, was the pride of your family. He was a handsome, strong man that commanded the room with his very presence. He was jovial, charismatic, and intelligent by all accounts, and very popular amongst the other ladies of the Island.

Lydia was the second eldest after William, and was the the spitting image of your mother, with beautiful features that left all the men on the Island giving her longing looks. It was the Earl Reuben Fitch that won her hand in the end only seven seasons ago, and now they visited once in a while with their three children in tow.

Theodosia, or Theo for short, was the second eldest daughter, having entered into society only one year after Lydia, she was the prize to be won with her charming and elegant demeanor. Not quite as beautiful as Lydia, she made up for it with her wit, having won the affection of a viscount that same year.

Georgiana, or Georgie as your family was prone to call her, was only a year older than you and had made her debut the year prior. She had not settled for any of the men of the Island the year prior, setting her sights high and determining that the best had yet to come.

You rounded out the lot as the youngest, the strange, little sister that no one knew what to do with more often than not. The ladies of the Island often remarked that your head was too full of ideals, unsuitable for a lady of your noble family, and they lamented how your mother and father must have grown lax in their child rearing when it came to you. Or perhaps you were a hopeless cause. The reason varied day to day it seemed.

You were quite content with how your life was playing out. You had your books, the garden, and your dearest friend, Natasha Trace. Natasha, or Nat, was about a year older than yourself, having made her debut the same year as Georgiana.

“I’ll be happy once you make your debut,” she had said to you one night. “I won’t feel so alone at all the balls then.”

You had frowned at her words, the very thought of entering society growing less and less appealing by the day.

“Why must I debut?” You had asked your mother not too long after. “I’m the fourth daughter of an earl. Surely it is not that important that I marry.”

“Dearest,” your mother had sighed, setting her needlework down to look at you, “marriage is not all work. As the fourth daughter, you have more freedom to marry whom you would like. Your father would have wanted you to marry.”

“Father would have wanted me to do what made me happy,” you had muttered, turning to leave the room before she could respond.

Your father had passed years prior when you were only eight, and his memory still haunted the halls of the manner. William had taken up his title as earl, seeing to the estate with the help of your mother until he was capable of doing things on his own. Ten years your senior, he had done his best to fill in the holes your father’s absence had left behind, though he still needed reminding that he was, in fact, not your father.

“You’ll be making your debut this year,” he reminded you, scribbling away in the family ledger, casting you a spare glance as you scowled down at him.

“Please don’t make that face,” he sighed, setting his quill down to give you his undivided attention. “And please don’t make this more difficult than need be. Every young lady makes her debut at some point or another.”

“Why must I debut?” You frowned, your lips quickly forming into a smirk as a thought struck you. “Can I not live out my days on my own with you to support me?”

“You may not,” Williams replied flatly. “Bug, I know it can be nerve wrecking-”

“You have no idea what it’s like,” you interjected.

“But, it’s a part of growing up. You’ll find a husband who will make you reasonably happy and live out your days with him,” he finished. You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you clasped your hands together.

“William,” you began, “who would want me? The whole Island has deemed me strange, the black sheep of our family. You would really put me through this embarrassment for the sake of tradition?”

“I think you’ll find yourself surprised at who may want you,” William countered. “Many men on the Island are in need of a wife, and some may be willing to settle for someone of your nature given the right circumstances.”

A beat passed between you two, your heart stalling in your chest at his words.

“Settle?” You laughed quietly, but there was no humor to be found in your tone. “I am something to be settled for then?”

You hated how small you sounded in that moment. Of course, you didn’t care for what others thought of you. No, you were above all of that. Still, the thought that your brother saw you as some secondhand prize, something no one would seek out, hurt, and you willed the stinging tears behind your eyes to go away as you schooled your features.

William cursed under his breath, moving to stand, his face apologetic as he rounded the desk.

“Bug, that’s not what I meant-”

“No,” you snapped, sniffly slightly as you fought to compose yourself. “You’ve said quite enough already, brother. You’ve made perfectly clear where I stand as it is.”

He moved to say something, but you waved him off, already turning to leave the study.

“You’re busy,” you said flatly, “I’ll leave you to your business.”

William called out your name, but you ignored him, walking briskly down the hall and to the solace of your family’s library.

If you were something to be settled for, then you would at least make the most of what little freedom you had left.

A/N: Ahhhh!! The long awaited, much requested Regency!AU is finally here! Here's our first taste of Bug and Jake, so what do we think? As always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you would like to receive updates on when I post, please go follow my sideblog (@sailoraviator-library) and turn on post notifications! My work is cross posted on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[bosbas]

Chapter 3: they say looks can kill and I might try

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy!fem!reader WC: 3.4k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, a small part of the dialogue is in French, Colin being mean, reader being mean, perhaps some historical inaccuracies (idk if the royal opera house was actually called that in 1816 IM SORRY)

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

April 23, 1816 – It seems Lady Violet Bridgerton and Lady Catherine Montclair have become fast friends. This author, ever intrigued by the comings and goings of the Montclairs in London's high society, cannot help but ponder: Is there a union on the horizon? Does the blossoming friendship between Lady Montclair and Lady Bridgerton hint at an impending marriage, or are they simply two kindred spirits enjoying each other's company, with no matrimonial plans for their children?

Your mother had taken quite a liking to Lady Bridgerton. In truth, you mostly didn’t mind. Contrary to what Lady Whistledown was telling the ton, your mother wasn’t particularly interested in marrying you off to a Bridgerton. In fact, the only time she wasn’t trying to marry you off was when she was with Lady Bridgerton. It was a breath of fresh air, to say the least.

Benedict was lovely, as was Eloise. The trouble, as always, came in the form of Colin Bridgerton. Typical.

Since your mother’s newfound friendship with Lady Violet, you found yourself thrust into Colin Bridgerton's company at every event. It was ghastly. Even being near him had your heart rate speeding up. You had to make a conscious effort not to grind your teeth and clench your fists every time he spoke. 

You weren’t quite sure when it happened, but it seemed that Colin Bridgerton had abandoned all pretense of gentlemanly conduct and settled for matching your disdain. You couldn’t say you were surprised. It was exactly what you expected of him, after all.

Tonight had been particularly taxing. Anthony Bridgerton was hosting a ball, which meant that your mother had strong-armed you into spending the entire night with the Bridgertons—when you weren’t with Lord Barlow, that is. You hadn’t minded much at the beginning, enjoying the respite from your mother practically auctioning you off for a dance now that you were courting the Duke. 

Yet, Colin seemed to have made it his singular mission to vex you constantly. Sly glances and biting remarks had escalated to a glass of water “inexplicably” pouring down the front of your dress. Thankfully, the dark blue of your gown successfully camouflaged any stain, but your patience was wearing perilously thin.

To be fair, you had insulted his intelligence, unprovoked, about three or four times before he spilled the glass of water on you. And not-so-subtly called him a “sale enfoiré” (dirty bastard). But still, he was infuriating, and he had been equally as bad all night. 

Currently, you were standing side by side, a simmering tension palpable in the air between you. A fragile truce had been brokered by the stern words of your elder sister, Charlotte, but the desire to spark an argument with Colin was ever-present.

He crossed his arms, and you couldn’t help but be acutely aware of his shoulder touching yours. The closeness of his touch sent a jolt through you, an unwelcome sensation that only added to your mounting frustration.

Colin Bridgerton was not the sort of man you liked, let alone respected, you reminded yourself. You were not particularly interested in engaging with a man who viewed you as merely a dowry with a womb. 

And yet, you couldn’t help yourself. At every chance you got, you couldn’t resist the urge to show him just how much you disliked him. You might have been embarrassed by your childish actions if he weren’t also an instigator.  

“You’ve only danced with the Duke once tonight, Lady Montclair” he commented, his tone dripping with a hint of mockery as he kept his gaze fixed elsewhere. “Has he bored you already with his talk about his family’s estate? Or is that exactly what you’re after?”

You held back a groan. He was particularly relentless tonight, wasn’t he?

“I can assure you, Mr. Bridgerton, the Duke and I engage in far more stimulating conversations than you might imagine,” you retorted, a flash of defiance in your eyes. “Certainly more engaging than your exchange with Miss Abernathy, I'd venture to say. Although her substantial dowry must have held some interest for you, I presume?”

“We were talking about my travels to India, if you must know,” he drawled, the challenge evident in his tone. “Not that you and the Duke would have much to speak about in that regard, given he’s never been.”

You scoffed. “I should hope I would be able to talk about it, Mr. Bridgerton; I spent three years living in India.”

Colin huffed, annoyed that he had forgotten that small detail. It took everything in you not to turn and face him right then, wanting to bask in the fact that you had bested him yet again. 

“Well, I fear the Duke would have been bored regardless. Look at him now, speaking with Miss Barrington. He certainly did not look that entertained when speaking with you.”

You glanced over at Lord Barlow. It was true, he was smiling at something Miss Barrington had said, but it wasn’t like he never smiled around you. You knew Colin was just winding you up, trying to get a reaction out of you.

“I see he's asked her to dance. Do you think he'll ask you for another, or has he had enough of you for tonight?”

Your fists clenched. The snide looks and snarky comments and even the water on your dress you could deal with. But you knew that you had to marry to secure your future, and Colin's thinly veiled jabs struck a nerve.

You turned to look at him slightly, finding his gaze still on your suitor across the ballroom. Perfect. You shifted closer to him, momentarily taken aback by the intense sound of your heartbeat in your ears. But you ignored it, much like you ignored his sharp inhale as you moved closer. 

With a deliberate motion, you lifted your foot and brought it down on top of his with as much strength as you could muster. The impact was immediate, a sharp jolt of pain shooting through Colin as he fought to stifle a cry.

He staggered forward, lifting his injured foot off the ground and feeling the throbbing of his toes he knew would last for days. Colin’s eyes watered with the effort of standing up, and you could do nothing but smile.

Oh, how he wished to wipe that triumphant expression from your face. He probably deserved your wrath at this point, given his behavior, but dear Lord did you have to make it so painful?

Gingerly, he lowered his injured foot to the ground, his breath catching in a subdued groan as he sought to regain his balance amidst the lingering ache.

“Lady Montclair, I’m sure you’ll excuse me,” Colin managed through gritted teeth, the pain in his foot now a throbbing ache. “I believe I must go tend to my foot, which has been inexplicably injured,” he finished weakly.

You cooed at him, mock concern in your voice. “Oh, Mr. Bridgerton, how dreadful! Pray do take care of yourself. We wouldn't want any lasting damage, now would we?”

He shot a glower in your direction, his eyes practically sparking with irritation as he searched for the nearest exit so he could return to the comfort of the Bridgerton carriage.

“If my toes are broken you’ll never hear the end of it,” he threatened. 

“Let us all hope the injury is not so grave, then,” you replied smugly, not the slightest bit bothered that he was in pain. 

And as much as you were infuriating and annoying and even slightly murderous, Colin found himself sad to be leaving your side. Even as he limped toward the exit, he missed your presence beside him. He probably just enjoyed a rivalry with someone who wasn’t related to him, he reasoned. It kept his mind sharp and his days entertaining. No other reason.

---

May 2, 1816 – Though the dowager Viscountess Violet Bridgerton and Countess Catherine Montclair remain friends, the hope for a union between the two families might be fading, if it was ever present. Lady Y/N Montclair has been spending quite a bit of time with Lord Arthur Barlow, and even this author knows a Duke is a better match than a Bridgerton, highly esteemed as their family might be.

Today was one of the rare occasions where you could simply enjoy yourself. The Duke and Duchess of Hastings were hosting an intimate garden party, and Lord Barlow was not in attendance. Although you were a tad disappointed, given that the two of you got along quite well, it did mean you could take a break from the pursuit of a husband for one afternoon. 

Which is why you were sitting next to Eloise, gently rocking Caroline Basset to sleep as you discussed your marriage prospects. 

“Your parents really delayed your coming out so you could marry an Englishman?” Eloise asked, shocked. “What could compel them to be so cruel toward you? The men of the ton are not the sort to write home about, I can assure you.”

You laughed, amused by Eloise’s aversion to marriage. Well, aversion to marriage in the way that you knew it to be. She was so refreshing to speak with: Eloise had rejected two marriage proposals already simply because she didn’t like her suitors. Truthfully it was not something you had previously thought was possible.  

“The Duke is not so bad that I would dread marrying him!” you giggled. “And he is fairly handsome, too.”

“The best of a bad bunch, it seems,” teased Eloise, sensing the beginnings of fondness in your voice.

How on earth was Colin related to her? Or any of the Bridgertons, really? Eloise was lovely, and it remained a mystery how she and Colin could share any parentage at all.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Daphne and Simon, who stood in the garden and tapped on a glass to address their guests. Not wanting baby Caroline to wake up, you stood up carefully and made your way across the garden to the nurses. 

“And we also have some news to share,” Daphne announced excitedly.

You turned around to face the Duchess after successfully handing Caroline off to a nurse and groaned involuntarily as you saw Colin already standing next to you. Unfortunately, it was far too late to move without causing a commotion, and you did not hate Colin so much as to disrespect Daphne to avoid him. 

Your peaceful, somewhat liberating afternoon came crashing down five seconds after being in Colin Bridgerton’s presence. You were instantly irritated by everything about him. Irritated by his signet ring glinting in the sunlight, by his windblown hair landing perfectly on his face, and by his small smile toward you when he saw you standing next to him, 

Most of all, you were irritated with yourself for noticing every little detail about him. You were trying to listen to Daphne, but his breathing was so loud, so close to your ear that you found it impossible. It was ridiculous, you knew. And you also knew it was only irritating you because you hated him. But it didn’t stop you from absolutely loathing the way Colin Bridgerton breathed. 

You felt anger rising in your chest as more time went on, his chest rising and falling evenly, and the words came out of your mouth before you could stop them. 

“Stop breathing. I’m trying to listen to your sister,” you hissed. 

“Stop breathing?” he whispered back, incredulous. “Do you suggest I stop entirely and fall dead right at this very moment?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” you shot back.

“It would certainly be on your conscience, then. Or perhaps you don’t have one. I wouldn’t be surprised,” he whispered back angrily.

And then suddenly, everyone was clapping and cheering, and neither of you had any idea what for. You looked around dumbly, trying to figure out what exactly had been said while mentally berating yourself for picking a fight with Colin, who also seemed confused by all the commotion.

Gregory walked up to Colin, clapping him on the back and punching him on the arm. 

“We’re going to be uncles once again! D’you reckon I’ll be the godfather this time around?”

“Not a chance,” Colin responded jovially, having realized that Daphne had announced a pregnancy.

Gregory moaned in disappointment and walked away to speak with Simon, surely to convince him of his candidacy as a godfather, but Colin turned to you, a raging fire in his eyes. 

“You couldn’t have waited ten more seconds before asking me to 'stop breathing'?” he all but spat.

You cringed, feeling a twinge of guilt in the pit of your stomach as you watched Colin walk away to speak with his sister. You deserved his wrath just this once. Perhaps you’d take the day off from antagonizing him, more for Daphne’s sake than anything else.

---

May 11, 1816 – Siena Rosso, esteemed opera singer and previously a regular performer at the Royal Opera House, has returned to Mayfair after two years away. This author has learned that the Montclairs have been invited to watch from Lady Danbury’s box…

You rubbed your eyes and sighed deeply, already dreading the three-hour-long opera ahead of you as you watched Siena Rosso emerge and begin singing. 

Your mother turned around in her seat with a frown, leaning over to you. “Y/N,” she scolded softly. “Ce n'est pas digne d'une dame.” (That’s unladylike)

You rolled your eyes once she turned around again. Usually, you were not opposed to going to the opera, finding the story compelling and the music beautiful, but tonight all you were looking forward to were the closing curtains. 

Lady Whistledown had failed to mention that the Bridgertons would be in Lady Danbury’s box tonight, too, and you were upset that you would have to spend the evening sitting next to Colin. Of course, Louis had gotten out of coming tonight, as had Benedict, and you simply assumed Colin would do the same. But no, he had shown up looking disconcertingly good and sat right next to you. 

On top of being forced to spend the evening alongside your least favorite member of the ton, you were completely exhausted. Having come to terms with the reality that you would probably be engaged to be married in a few weeks, you had been unable to sleep and opted to go to your spot in the garden to look at the stars instead. Although it had been soothing, seeing the twinkling lights and being reminded of every version of you who had looked up at these same stars, you were now bone-tired and fighting off sleep. 

You couldn’t even muster the energy to spite Colin in some form or another. All your energy was focused on staying awake and fighting against your eyelids as they periodically shuttered closed. 

You had been hoping that, if anything, sitting next to Colin and inevitably trading insults with him would keep you awake, but he was being uncharacteristically mellow tonight. And you were nothing if not suspicious. In the time you had known him, he had always attempted at least one conversation-turned-argument within five minutes of seeing you. 

Whatever the reason for his silence was, you were grateful. Perhaps his streak of combativeness was coming to an end and you could go back to silently loathing him. You hoped so. It had certainly been easier that way.

It would have been easier if you didn’t hate him at all, actually. And sometimes you did wish you could set aside your contempt toward each other and at least be civil. But then you remembered the biting words you heard in Lady Danbury’s hallway.

They were etched into your memory, replaying in your mind when you saw Colin being particularly sweet to one of his nieces or laughing with his brothers and you were tempted to forget the reason you hated him in the first place. 

…I suppose it depends on her dowry. The larger the dowry the more I’m willing to overlook… I’m sure you could get away with anything with any of these girls, though I suggest picking one that’s got good hips.

Even just remembering the words made you want to strangle Colin. Colin Bridgerton and Nigel Berbrooke clearly had no respect for you and saw your worth as directly proportional to your dowry, so why should you have any respect for them?

Quite interestingly, you had not seen Nigel since that fateful night. But you didn’t dwell on it too much. Dealing with one of them was already more than enough for you.

Siena’s aria ended, and you realized you had not been paying attention in the slightest. However, you were not as bothered as you would usually be by your lack of attention. The music had become softer and lower, and you could hardly keep your eyes open. It wouldn’t hurt to close them for a short while, right? Siena wasn’t even performing, and you were sitting behind your mother, free from her prying eyes.

An hour later, Colin turned to look at you, sleeping peacefully, for what might have been the four-hundredth time. Your hand was supporting your head, your lips parted softly as you breathed deeply, and he just stared.

He had seen you laughing and smiling around other people, but this was the first time he had been so close to you without you glaring or frowning at him, and it was far more important to him than anything happening onstage. 

In a few moments, you would wake up and remind him exactly why he disliked you, but for now, he could just enjoy this moment of peace.

A soft snore left your lips, and Colin nervously glanced toward your mother, hoping she hadn’t heard. He knew the countess would be upset if she realized her daughter was asleep at the opera, and he prayed your snore had been an isolated incident.

But to no avail; you let out another snore, slightly louder than the last, and Colin tensed. Your mother, along with his, seemed too enthralled in the opera to notice yet, but he suspected the snoring would only get worse.

Logically, Colin knew he had to do something. As much as he hated you– or rather hated that you hated him– he knew it would be cruel to let you face your mother’s wrath when you were clearly exhausted. But he couldn’t very well start being nice to you right now, after weeks of feuding. 

He was far too proud to admit it to anyone, but you had gotten to him. You brought out the worst in him. Or maybe he brought out the worst in himself, and you were only there to see it. He felt slightly guilty at how aggressively he reacted at Daphne’s garden party, not to mention every other time he had made a disparaging comment about you. But the guilt quickly evaporated every time you replied with an equally disparaging comment.

After a moment, and another snore, Colin settled for reaching over and pinching your bicep to wake you up. You startled awake, almost yelping in pain and looking around in confusion. 

Fully awake now, your eyes narrowed as you saw Colin smirking at you, his hand near your arm giving you a very clear idea of who had woken you up. 

“Good morning, Lady Montclair. It’s nice of you to join us. There’s an opera happening at the minute, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said sarcastically.

You clenched your fists, eyes glancing at your mother as she dabbed at her eyes after what Colin could only imagine was a very emotional aria. After a deep breath, you crossed your arms and slumped back in your seat, defeated.

“Like you’re any better. I doubt you’ve paid attention at the opera a single time in your life,” you finally whispered back, stifling a yawn.

As you sat glowering, Colin thought that it might be impossible for the two of you to be in a room without arguing. However, at least Colin had made sure that you had plenty of reasons to hate him. He might not have known why you disliked him at first, but he certainly knew now, and that was a far better feeling than wondering what he did wrong.

—

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[sxtvrns]

purity and its presence in growth

🎶 now playing: my heart it beats for you - grentperez

P: Soul (Haku Shota) x Fem!Reader

S: Moving to Korea in the peak of your adolesence isn't easy. You just happened to be there to help. How can he miss you so much even though you only knew each other for an hour? Maybe exchanging numbers was a better idea than he thought.

C: fluff, cute moments, inaccuracy, brainrot, baby p1ece don't slander me, needed to get this into my drafts immediately, kinda sloppy, drabble, puppy love, longer than it should be

N: Y/N is your first name, L/N is your last name. i saw somewhere online that said soul moved to korea when he was 13 for fnc and somehow this idea began to brew in the deep depths of my strange brain. im a little new to piwon so if i get something wrong im sorry :P any ages mentioned are korean age, not international. his name means like 'child with a pure soul' so thats why the title sounds so poetic but okay enjoy the potato child content

view the rest of the conversations ☆彡

please interact if you enjoy!

After the almost 3 hour flight to Incheon, Shota stands in the airport mindlessly, staring at his phone and trying to resist the urge to call his mom. Though he knew that she'd pick up in a heartbeat if he did, he suddenly had a rush of independence surge through his veins when he stepped off the plane, telling himself every day was gonna be lonesome and that he'd have to learn how to get around. It wasn't until he got near the exit that he realized he had no idea what to do.

He should ask someone. There was a high chance quite a few people on that flight could also speak Japanese, but even so, he couldn't muster up the courage to talk to anybody. So he stood awkwardly, out of the way, watching all the people walk by and glance at him periodically.

He'd been studying Korean during his break time at school while at home in Japan, but he was afraid he'd say something wrong and embarass himself.

His eyes wandered amongst the people, and past the crowd of tall adults, there was you. A girl, who looked around his age, spacing out by some suitcases while some other adults, probably your parents, were talking to the clerks at the service deck. He took a deep breath, dragging his suitcases along with him as he shuffled past the bustling crowd and up to you.

"Excuse me." He mutters, catching your attention. "I need... to go... to this place. I.... don't know how." Your head tilts a little, confused while the cogs begin to turn in your head while he shows you the address. "You need a ride?" He nods. "Well, there's the railroad, but maybe a taxi can get you there faster..."

Now he's the confused one. "Could you... speak... slower?"

"Do you understand Korean?" You ask. He gestures with his fingers almost pinched together, meaning a little. "What other languages do you speak?"

"Japanese."

You smile. "If I'd known that, I would've answered in it then." You say, switching tongues so smoothly Shota's brain nearly fails to comprehend what just happened. "Where are your parents? Mine are taking too long at the desk."

"I came alone. My mom might come in the next few days to help me with moving. And send me off.”

"You and your mom are moving here? What about your dad?"

"No, I'm moving here. Alone. Just me. For work." You eye him and the two suitcases at both of his sides. "You look my age. How do you already have a job?"

"Um... I'm a trainee." Your eyes widen as you begin to nod, shocked. "Really? Already?" He nods as your eyes observe him again. "Cool. That's- wow, okay..." You struggle to finish your sentence, cutting yourself off. "Right, you need to get around- okay. Um, you could follow me. I know how to get the one way passes. Do you have money?" He nods. You begin to walk away as he trails behind you, following you to some sort of kiosk.

Guiding him through purchasing a pass, your parents meet with you by the railway, scolding you for walking off without informing them first before stepping on and finding seats on the train. The boy sits down next to you in the window seat, staring out at the scenery for the first time. "You could have taken a taxi, but I felt like I should've stayed with you. Y'know, so I can tell you more about how to get around and stuff."

"Thank you, by the way. I appreciate this. I think I would've gotten run over without you." He jokes lightheartedly. "No problem. I suddenly felt nice for once, so you're lucky you caught me at a good time." You send him the same energy, both of you laughing as the train begins to move. "When you get off with us, you can ask for a taxi, they'll drive you to the exact address. I’m sure you already know that, though." You add, him nodding before leaning fully back against the chair.

"What's your name?"

The question catches him off guard, staring at your awaiting face, almost forgetting to answer.

"Shota."

The way he introduces himself to you makes you smile. "L/N. Nice to meet you. It's nice having someone to talk to at my age that speaks my mother tongue. Even if all we do is just sit here and pass out while waiting to arrive." Your matching humour is something that sticks out to Shota, one that he likes laughing along to. "It must be scary, flying here alone and having to figure things out on your own. Especially with how young you are. I hope you'll do okay when we part ways."

"I'm still here for now. What are you and your family doing here?" He changes the topic, not wanting to think about you having to leave him so soon. "My dad's side of the family is Korean, so we come here often to visit them. We're considering moving here, since their side is trying to convince me to sign up for a career in modelling. They always say I 'have the visuals', which I don't see, but it wouldn't hurt to try."

"Don't forget me when you're famous." Shota says.

"I could say the same for you, Mr. Trainee. You'll make it far, I bet. I'm looking forward to your debut already."

"And I'm looking forward to seeing you on the billboards." You both smile at each other, a brief moment of silence settling between you two. Shota feels a tap on the side of his arm, head turning to look at you. You hold your phone towards him, the keypad open and empty. "Is it okay if we exchange numbers? This may be the only time we ever see each other, and I like talking to you. And you can text me if you ever need anything. I respond very quickly." Your attempt at convincing him was not needed, as he took your phone out of your hands swiftly and punched his number in. You did the same for his phone when he handed it to you, creating your contact for him.

L/N (ㆁωㆁ)

You write your name in Kanji for him, hearing him huff after you hand back his phone. You couldn't see the soft smile that adorned his face after seeing the contact name you set for yourself, as your eyes were already beginning to shut and send you into a deep sleep. For the rest of the ride, Shota looks out the window and all the buildings they pass by. Feeling a light weight against his arm, his gaze moves to check.

Your head rests against his arm, Shota listening carefully and hearing soft, deep breaths come from you. At first, he nearly freezes, but forgets about it and relaxes, letting you doze against his arm, checking on you periodically until the train reaches your stop.

Your parents are the first to see you two in that position, and while Shota's first instict is to panic and apologize, the idea quickly goes away, a smile on your mom's face as she shakes you gently to wake you up. When you first open your eyes, you see your mom, then turn to see Shota staring at you, nearly leaning against the window. You slowly begin to put the pieces together, embarrassed when coming to the correct conclusion.

When you wave as his taxi departs from the train station, reality dawns upon him. He’s alone, and he’ll have to figure out more than just how to get around since you’re gone now. He didn’t want to have to depend on you and annoy you all the time, so he vowed to himself that he’d learn and teach himself, along with the help of his fellow group members.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

After Shota settled into the dorm and was toured around headquarters, the feeling of lying in bed suddenly felt more desirable than he thought it’d ever be. It’s been a few days since he parted ways with you, and he was hesitant to text you for some unknown reason.

He stared at your open empty message box for a while, spacing out until his phone starts buzzing in his hand. He reads your name on the screen, realizing you were calling him. He sits up, still in shock at the timing that he almost forgets to answer.

“Hello?” He greets, almost unsure. “Shota! How are you? Sorry I haven’t texted or anything, I’ve been having a lot of meetings with my family and stuff.” He’s frozen in place at the sound of your voice, so gleeful than how you first met. “No, it’s okay. I spent the last few days settling in so it’s fine.”

“Are you busy right now? Am I calling at a bad time?”

“No.”

“Are you okay? You sound nervous.”

He sits there for a moment, taking a deep breath before responding.

“I kinda miss you.” It’s embarrassing for him to admit, but he really does. “Oh.” He hears you mutter over the phone, probably unaware that he heard. “I miss you too, Shota. It sounds strange, but I do get worried about you sometimes. But the fact you picked up the phone is assurance that you’re okay, so…”

“It’s a bit hard when you aren’t around, y’know? Like, I don’t know, maybe it’s because you can speak Japanese and I’m not afraid of messing up in front of you because I can speak my home language, but it’s hard to talk to other people. Even my groupmates. I can understand what they’re saying, but I’m too nervous to mess up to even say anything to them.”

“Well, you can’t get better at speaking if you don’t speak at all. It’s okay to make mistakes, Shota. I made a lot when I was learning too. At least you try.”

“Kee– I mean, one of my group members is teaching me. He had to learn it too.”

“So you’re both learning together! That’s good, you both share learning experiences. I’d love to teach you, but it’s kinda hard over call.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Yeah.”

He ponders for a moment before coming up with an idea. “I have a laptop. We can video call when I’m not busy.”

“Really? Are you okay with it?”

“I’m the one that asked.”

“Do you think we can call… for non-lesson purposes? Y’know, just to talk?”

He huffs, and thought you don’t see it, you hear a smile in his tone. “Of course. I’d really like that.”

The door to their room opens, Jongseob entering. “Hi Soul.” Apparently his voice picks up on the microphone, because you ask, “Who’s that?”

“My roommate. One of them.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jongseob asks, looking over at Soul. “My friend.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“We met at the...” Soul knows the word, but is worried he’ll say it wrong.

“Airport.” You find the word for him, saying it into his ear.

“…Airport. She helped me.” He finishes his sentence with your help.

“She? Aren’t we not allowed to talk to girls as trainees?”

“We aren’t?”

“I think so? Maybe I’m thinking of something else; I keep in touch with my friends so I think it’s fine.”

“Are they all boys?”

“Mostly. Some girls.”

“I can’t talk to you anymore?” You ask, Shota almost forgetting he was on call with you. “We can. I think. We’ll do it in secret.” He hears you laugh on the other end. “Soul?” You say, overhearing the name his friend called him.

“My Korean name. I came up with it. With my roommates.”

“It’s cute! It suits you.” For some reason, he feels too flattered at your compliment. He overhears someone yelling in the background. “I need to go and help with dinner. I’ll talk to you soon! Bye!”

“Bye–“ He gets cut off by the sound of the call ending, letting himself fall back onto the bed, arms sprawled out. Jongseob looks over again at his roommate, who’s staring at the ceiling. “Are you okay?” He asks. Soul lazily responds with a thumbs up. “What happened?”

“Cute.” He mutters loud enough for his roommate to hear. “Cute?” Jongseob questions, puzzled. Soul points at himself, the cogs turning in his roommate’s head briefly before his eyes widen in realization. “She called you cute?!”

“My name.”

“Your name? She called your name cute? Soul?” He nods, Jongseob more shocked than he should’ve been. “Don’t fall in love yet, Soul, we haven’t debuted yet.” He jokes lightheartedly before he goes back to scrolling on his phone.

For a while, you’re the one to initiate calls. You always hesitate, knowing how busy he is, but you eventually learn that he’s off on Sundays and is usually off training well past 10 in the evening. If otherwise, he calls you first.

He enjoys talking to you a lot. He’s more comfortable speaking his home language in general, and the fact he has someone to talk to in it makes coming home from practice even more exciting.

His roommates would wonder why he rushes to his room so quickly the minute they step foot back in their dorm, but don’t question it. As long as he was able to talk to you, through call or text, he was able to stay sane.

While on FaceTime with him, the door to his room opens, as it usually does when you two call, this time a different man you haven’t seen before by the door. You eventually met Jongseob, the first guy who walked in on the two of you calling, and saw what he looked like, but this guy was definitely not him. He looked a little intimidating.

“Soul, do you want anything? We’re ordering delivery.” The man asks, Soul looking back at him. “Fries.”

“Just fries? Like usual?”

“I want… the same thing as you. Except large fries.”

“Okay, sure. Who’s that?” He seems to have noticed your face on Soul’s phone screen. “My friend. This is Keeho.” He introduces the man at the door to you, the name familiar. “He’s teaching you Korean?” The man gives a thumbs up, switching to a wave. “Hello, Soul’s friend!” He greets, his smile ridding all your previous opinions of him being intimidating.

“Hello! I’m just talking to Soul for a bit. How are you?” You reply, Keeho equally befuddled as Soul when he first met you, and how you switched tongues so effortlessly. “I’m doing well, thank you. How did you two meet?”

“Airport. I helped him get around for a bit.”

“Oh, really? That’s cool. I’ll be heading out now, sorry to interrupt.” Keeho waves at the camera again before shutting the door. Soul turns back to face you. “He looked scary.” You admit. Soul seems to agree with you, given the expression on his face. “That’s what I thought too! But he’s really nice and funny.”

“How many of your roommates know about me?”

“He’s the second one.”

“And how many roommates do you have?”

“Five. Plus me, so six.”

“Six?! And you share a room with how many people?”

“3 per bedroom. The whole place is actually quite roomy.”

“I don’t think I’d survive…”

“If you’re rooming with just girls, you’ll be fine. Boys, however…”

“Yeah, I get what you mean.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You got a haircut!”

“You noticed.”

“Of course I noticed. It looks really good!”

“I got something else too.”

“What is it?”

Soul grabs something out of frame, eyes focusing on his fingers. “Keeho and I went out today. I found these rings and bought them.” He curls his hand into a fist, showing them off to the camera. It’s a variety of different skull rings, a few on his right hand and a few on his left. “Cool! Where’d you get them? I want some for myself.”

“I can just give you one.”

“Really? But you just bought them.”

“When we meet up sometime, you can pick one.”

“Are you sure?”

“If it helps remind you of me.”

Your face goes warm. “You’re so sweet, Shota.”

“Did you cut your hair?” He asks. You’re surprised he noticed, given how subtle the difference was. “It was just a trim. And they made it flowier or something.” His head moves closer to the camera. “Are you keeping it this short?” You shake your head. “Getting rid of split ends and stuff. It’ll grow back eventually.”

“It’s very pretty. It looks good on you.”

“Thank you…” You mutter, flustered for a reason you can’t make out. How noticeable could a subtle change be that it could evoke such words not meant to be anything more than meaningful?“I really want to see you.”

“You’re seeing me right now.” He jokes. “I know, but… in person. I feel kinda limited only being able to see you on my laptop or phone screen.”

“Me too. I haven’t debuted, so it’s kind of risky for me to be hanging out with a girl. Outside.”

“They don’t know we’ve been calling?”

“They know. But it’s more discreet this way because no one can see us.”

“When are you debuting?”

“I don’t know yet. And if I did, I don’t know if I’d be allowed to tell you.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets! I still remember some from 5th grade.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, I just remembered I needed to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

A smile slowly grows on your face. “I’m moving here.” Shota’s face is equally as shocked. “Really?”

“I got signed with an agent and got a few bookings! They’re small, but they’re something.”

“L/N, that’s amazing! You’re– you’re gonna be famous! I’m gonna see your face in all the stores!” You laugh at his enthusiasm. “Hey, maybe when we’re both famous, we can hang out in public! Maybe we can collaborate.”

It was always moments like this, purity radiated off your interactions. You’d get excited over the thought of seeing each other in person, what you’d do when you finally meet up, and how long you’d hang out together (you two always insisted on a night at your place). What you’d talk about, the kinds of pictures you’d take, what kind of food you could eat.

After all, you two were still kids.

You celebrated his 16th birthday late into the night, on voice call after his in person celebration with his roommates. He wished you were there as he blew out the candles on his cake.

“Happy birthday, Shota.” You softly greet, knowing he’s on the verge of falling asleep as he laid in bed. “Thank you.” He mutters, voice muffled, his face buried in his blankets. “I wish I could be with you in person. I got you a gift.”

“Really? You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to. I’ll give it to you when we finally meet up.”

“We always say we’re gonna meet up, but when? I don’t know if I can wait much longer.”

“It’s only a matter of your schedule. I’m free most of the time.”

“Maybe after I finally debut this year…” Shota’s eyes widen, realizing what he just said. “What? You’re debuting?”

“I didn’t mean to say that–“ You squeal softly over the phone in an attempt to not wreck his ears. “When were you going to tell me?!”

“Honestly, I forgot. I forget a lot of things.”

You stifle a laugh. “I’m so proud of you! All your hard work is finally paying off– maybe we really can see each other! When are you debuting?”

“Sometime later this year. It’s why I haven’t been picking up your calls, I’ve been really busy recording and stuff. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You do what you gotta do, okay? Just call me whenever you aren’t busy. Or text. Or whatever, I’m okay with anything.”

Shota softly chuckles. “So what did you get me?”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out eventually.”

“I’ll be 17 by the time I get that gift…”

“Keep your head up, Shota, we’ll see each other soon enough. You sound tired. Get some rest. Goodnight.” He breathes slow and deep before replying. “Goodnight, L/N.” He ends the call, taking out his earbuds and putting them and his phone on the small, crowded bedside table.

“Was that L/N?” Jongseob asked groggily. Soul replied with a monotone ‘mmm’, meaning he was right. “Who’s L/N?” Theo asks from the far side of the room. “Soul’s friend. They call all the time.”

“You talk to her like she’s your girlfriend. How you want to see her all the time and stuff. It’s cute.” Theo mutters, Soul barely making out what he said. His face goes warm at the assumption. “We haven’t seen each other… in 2 years. We’ve only met once in person.”

“And training is holding you back from seeing her? That’s why you video call?” Jongseob puts two and two together, receiving the same monotone response from Soul. “We’re off tomorrow. You can see her then.”

“But we haven’t debuted yet.”

“So? Intak meets with his friends all the time.”

“They’re all guys.”

“Soul, you can’t exactly be deprived of meeting up with your friends. And what if she’s a girl? If you want to hang out with her, hang out with her.” Theo speaks up, voice clearer now that his head isn’t buried in his blankets. “This goes for you too, Jongseob. You guys are still kids. If you’re being forced to be an adult in the industry, at least try to have fun while you’re still young outside of work.”

Soul lays there for a moment. “What if she’s sleeping?” He asks aloud. “The fact she called you this late means she’s probably still awake at this time.” Jongseob says, convincing Soul to pick up his phone one last time for the night. He opens your contact in his messages, typing swiftly.

I’m off tomorrow. Can we meet up?

By the time he falls asleep, he receives a message from you.

Yes please (⌒▽⌒)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“L/N? You’re seeing her today?” Keeho asks, making himself a bowl of cereal as Soul eats his own. Soul responds monotone with his mouth full, his leader sitting down with him. “Do you want me to go with you? I won’t stay the whole time, I’ll just drop you off with her then walk around myself, might just get some new clothes.”

‘You bought new clothes a week ago…’ Soul thinks.

“Are you gonna get her something? How long are you gonna be out for?” Soul shrugs his shoulders at Keeho’s question. The other bedroom door opens, Jiung emerging from the dark room with a loud yawn before closing the door. “Morning.” He greets, going for the same breakfast choice as the two boys sitting at the table.

“Does he know?” Keeho points at Jiung with his thumb. “Jiung and Intak don’t know.” The boy at the kitchen counter looks at them weirdly. “Me and Intak don’t know what?” He questions, suspicious of his two group-mates. “L/N.” Keeho answers.

“Who’s L/N?”

“He doesn’t know…!” Keeho whispers.

“Oh…” Jiung says after a brief moment of staring into space. “Isn’t that Soul’s girlfriend?”

Keeho nearly chokes on his cereal. “Girlfriend?!”

“No, she’s my friend!”

“Oh, my bad. You’re always smiling at your phone and you talk so lovey dovey in your room. The walls are quite thin.” Soul couldn’t figure out what was more embarrassing; the fact that the people in the other room could hear him talking to you or the fact two people thought he had a girlfriend. “We’re still trainees, Jiung, we can’t date. Besides, he’s only 16.”

“Just saying. Maybe after we debut, you can date–“

“Jiung, if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to cut your hair off in your sleep.” Keeho threatens. It seems to work, given that Jiung begins to eat his breakfast in silence. “I guess he does know.” Soul mutters, mostly to himself.

“So are you getting her anything?” Keeho asks, going back to his answered question. “Ring.” Soul shows off the accessories that decorated his fingers. “Really? I thought you said you’d never give those away. And that you’d end the world if you ever lost them…”

“I promised. And we can match.”

“Aww.” Jiung coos, the two boys at the table glaring at him. “What?”

Keeho turns back to Soul, taking their empty cereal bowls and stacking them on top of each other. “Go get changed, we’ll leave soon.” He says, going to put the dishes in the sick.

By the time Soul gets back to his room, Jongseob and Theo are awake, their lamps on. “Morning, Soul. How are you up so early?” Theo greets, Soul shrugging in response. They watch as their early bird roommate picks an outfit, throwing his clothes onto the bed. “Are you going somewhere?” Jongseob asks.

“I’m seeing L/N today.”

They both look at him, wide eyed and now fully awake. “Really?!”

“It was your idea.” He says, referring to both of them. “When are you leaving?” Theo asks, eyes still on Soul. “Soon. Keeho is walking with me. Then we’ll be on our own.”

“So it’s like a date?” Jongseob nudges Theo hard in the side. “Does everyone think that?” Soul groans, his roommates heading for the door.“Everyone that knows.” Jongseob smirks before he shuts the door, leaving Soul alone with his thoughts in the bedroom.

On the walk there, Soul plays with his fingers, fiddles with his rings, almost too nervous to even function. Keeho seems to notice, giving him a pat on the back. “There’s nothing to worry about, Soul. You’ve seen each other, you know each other. You’ve been looking forward to this for so long, what’s wrong?”

“It’s… different in person. I’m excited, but I’m scared I’ll…” Soul looks for the word, Keeho noticing him struggling to finish his sentence. “Embarrass yourself?” Soul nods. “You’ve seen all sides of each other, Soul. I hear you laugh at like… 11 in the evening. I think I heard you fall off your bed once.”

“She’s seen that side of you. I’m sure you’ve seen that side of her, too. You’ll be okay.” Keeho’s words make up the rest of the walk, as Soul stops in his path as his eyes land on you, sitting on a park bench perfectly shaded by a tree. He stands there, simply admiring you, and how he’s so happy he’s seeing you not on his phone screen.

He pulls out his phone, opening your contact and sending you a text.

Look to your right 👀

You do exactly that, and though you’re far away, he sees such a bright glow in your eyes as you get up and run over to him, jumping onto him for a hug. Soul is surprised at your sudden gesture, but happily accepts, holding you tight and even spinning you around.

“Shota! I’m so glad you–“ You notice Keeho out of the corner of your eye, simply smiling at the two of you. “Oh, hi Keeho...” You greet awkwardly, embarrassed that he saw the whole thing. “Nice to meet you, L/N. How long are you gonna be out for?”

“Until Soul wants to go home. A few hours, maybe.”

“Make sure you two stick together, okay? Otherwise all of us are gonna get in trouble in one way or another.” Keeho says lightheartedly before walking off. You look back at Soul, who’s staring at you with the brightest sparkle in his eyes. “You look even better in person.” You say, brushing his hair out of the way.

“Are you saying I don’t look good when we call?”

“I’m saying you look good no matter what.”

“Can I say the same for you?” He asks, as if you’re going to say no. “I actually want to show you something. And I have lots to tell you.” You take his hand without a second thought, pulling him with you. He’s caught off guard with your sudden gesture, but doesn’t protest in any way. Really, he enjoys it.

“Is this okay with you? Sorry, I forgot to ask.” Shota nods with a smile, and that’s all the assurance you need to keep your hold on his hand to guide him. “I hope we can meet like this again sometime. All the time.”

“Hey, I’m here now. Worry about that later.”

“You’re right. Come on!” You tug on his hand as you begin to lightly jog across the street, slowing down when you get nearby. “Okay, close your eyes.” He’s confused at first, but obliges. You guide him to an outside display of a clothing store. “You can open them now.”

Shota uncovers his eyes, seeing your face on display as a model for said store. “It’s you!” He exclaims as you nod off to the side. His gaze switches from you to the photo and back, and he finds himself staring at it for almost too long.

“I want a picture with it.” You laugh, taking his phone from him and snapping a few photos, switching to silly faces for the camera. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. You look so pretty. Beautiful.” Your face goes warm as you stare at him, and he stares at the photo. “You look really good.” He smiles, and your heart starts racing like never before. “Shota…” You mutter into his sleeve, holding onto his hand again. “What?”

“Let’s go. You can see my face some place else.”

“Can I get a photo with them too?”

You roll your eyes, unable to hold in your laugh. “Sure. You can take as many photos as you want.”

The day is full of you running around, taking photos, sharing food and drinks. And for almost all of it, Shota’s hand is in yours, and his grip never loosens. He never wants to let go.

Sitting at an outdoor table of a small café, you hand Shota a gift bag. “What’s this?” He asks. “Happy belated birthday, Shota.” At the sound of that, he looks through the bag, taking out a small potato plush. “Cute…!” He mutters, squeezing it in his hands. “I have one of my own. It came in a set, so I gave this one to you.”

“I love it.” He smiles, going through the bag again. There’s something at the bottom, which he grabs and pulls out. It’s a bracelet, similar to the one you were wearing at the moment. “I wanted to give you something that reminded you of me. If you ever get lonely. Sounds cheesy, but–“

“I’m never taking this off.” His dramatic reply cuts off your sentence as you help him tighten it on his wrist. “I want to give you something too.” You tilt your head. “But it was just your birthday. Shouldn’t you be the one receiving gifts right now?”

“Well, as someone once said, I want to give you something that reminds you of me.” Shota holds out his hands, showing off his rings. “Pick one.”

At first, you’re shocked. “Really?” He nods, watching as your eyes scan over his fingers. “This one.” You point. He takes it off and puts it on for you, and it somehow fits just fine. “I feel so cool now! Thank you.”

On the way back to your place, Shota holds onto your hand again, to the point where if he were to let go, you’d feel like you forgot a piece of yourself. “Are you walking back alone?” You ask, looking up at the sky, which painted a pinkish sunset above. “Keeho is gonna meet me here after you go inside.”

“I just don’t want you walking by yourself. It’s a bit scary.”

“I know. But everything is under control, so I’ll be okay.”

When you reach your home, you turn to look at your friend. “Today was fun. I wanna hang out with you like this again.”

“So do I. But I’m… y’know, I’m busy. With a lot.”

“I know you are. I’ll be waiting for you, Shota. I’m always ready.”

“Haku.”

“Huh?”

“My name. My name is Haku.”

“Haku Shota?” You clarify. He nods. “You have such a pretty name.”

“You’re pretty.”

Oops.

He didn’t mean to say that out loud. While he was embarrassed, your heart was racing. Your face was warm, and it matched the sky.

“You’re pretty, Haku. You are… very handsome.”

You understand how he feels now, attempting to return the compliment. “Am I weird for saying that? Because… I really do mean it. I’m just awkward.” You explain. “Not at all. Have I been weird? Calling you pretty…?”

“No! No– you’re, you’re okay. I liked it– I mean, um…” You stutter over your words, cursing at yourself for revealing too much. Haku laughs. “I’ll call you that more if you like it so much.”

“If you want to kill me, go ahead.”

“I thought you said you liked it.”

“I’ll die of a heart attack. I’ll die happy.”

“Soul!” Someone calls. It’s Keeho, waving at him from afar. “Thanks for today. I’m… I really liked spending time with you.” Soul responds with a long, tight hug, the feeling of being in his arms comforting. “I don’t wanna let go.” Soul mutters into your shoulder. “You’re gonna have to at some point.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Shota–“

“I’ll just stay with you so then we can hang out all the time.”

“You know you can’t do that.” You hear him sigh and reluctantly pull away. “Bye, L/N.”

“Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“It’s Y/N.”

He huffs with a smile. “Bye, Y/N.” He waves as you walk off, walking towards and with Keeho once he sees you let inside your house. “How was it?”

“Really fun. I’m already excited for another one.” Keeho looks at Soul’s hands, noticing one of his fingers bare, a bag in his hand, and his wrist adorned with a new bracelet. He really gave you one of his rings. And you gave him something too.

Though this was your first hang out in a few years, Keeho sensed something unbeknownst to Soul that was bound to bloom at some point. He just didn’t know when.

When they got back to the dorm, Soul went straight to his room and changed, lying down on the bed with your contact open. He changed your name.

L/N Y/N (ㆁωㆁ)

And sent you one last text for the night.

You have a very pretty name (*´꒳`*)

Make that two.

Goodnight (_ _).｡o○

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You find it odd that it took you two years to find out each other’s first names, but life goes on the way it always does.

You also found it odd that you enjoyed talking to Shota so much. You’ve always enjoyed talking to him, you just enjoy it a lot more now. Maybe too much.

You were the first person he texted when he debuted. You were also the first person to see any of his performance videos. One thing stayed consistent throughout:

He was wearing your bracelet.

Sometimes it would be hidden under his sleeve, the strings to tighten it peeking out just a little bit. He really meant it when he said he would never take it off, even if that meant getting into trouble with the stylists.

You were peaking in your career as well. You’d gotten a lot more busy with bookings and shows despite being so young. But despite your schedules, you always found time to talk to each other, like always.

And you even found time to hang out in person a lot more than before.

You started wearing masks in public. Sometimes you got recognized, and so did Shota. Nothing too drastic to the point where paparazzi started following you and taking pictures from the bushes. Shota was still careful, though. A scandal too soon into their debut could wreck him and his group’s career.

As careful as he was, Shota still held onto your hand in public. He was much more nervous now that more people knew who he was, and he always found himself latching onto you. The language barrier slowly began to shrink for him, his Korean improving, but he had a hard time talking to strangers. To his group, he was fine.

He couldn’t stop the uneasy feeling in his stomach the closer they got to the counter. Why was he so nervous? He felt like he couldn’t talk to anyone at all. “Could I get a 2 with onion rings?” You ask, the cashier at the till looking at Shota next. He was frozen in place, staring at her, suddenly squeezing your hand with a tight grip. “And a 5. Large fries.” You order for him, paying and taking the receipt and cups.

Shota sits down at a table by the window, ashamed and embarrassed, guilt overwhelming him. It wasn’t such a big deal, yet he felt like a failure for not being able to do something so simple. “Do you want to share?” He doesn’t respond, staring and spacing out at the table mindlessly.

You sit in the chair across from him, looking around to see if anyone is watching. You place your hand on top of his, rings colliding with each other, which brings him back to reality. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” You ask with such genuineness that he feels guilty for even worrying over such a trivial thing.

“Nothing, it’s… it’s stupid. So stupid.”

“I can’t know how stupid it is if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.”

Shota looks up at you with puppy eyes, breaking eye contact once he begins to speak. “I… um, I froze when we were ordering. You do it for me all the time and I wanted to do it for myself this time but I just couldn’t… talk. I couldn’t speak, I’ve been getting better at talking but I’m still scared to even order my own food– this is so dumb.” He rests his head on the table, messy black hair hiding his face.

Your hand moves from his hand to his head, fingers running through his hair as you caress him. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Shota. I’m glad you’re trying, you’re having confidence in yourself. It’s good to take it slow sometimes. I’m always here for you, Keeho is always there for you, your group is there for you! There’s always next time, okay? It may seem like a small step to others, but all that matters is how much it means to you. We’re always here for you. No matter if it’s me or anyone from your group.”

When he lifts his head up, your hand naturally moves from his hair down to his face, your thumb resting on his cheek. “Thank you.” The sparkle in his eyes comes back, as he stares at you for a long time, yet you don’t seem to mind and reciprocate it. Noticing how you two probably look to bystanders, you pull your hand away, face warmer than it should be.

“Um, do you just wanna share? I forgot to ask for medium instead of large.” You refer to the cups in your hand, and he nods, watching as you stumble while getting up from the chair and over to the drink fountain. The cup presses against the trigger, watching as the soda fills the cup to the brim.

As you walk back and grab your order, you can’t help but overthink. Why did you do that? It looked so intimate, and if people knew who you were, if people knew who he was… you’d both get in trouble. Shota would get in trouble because of you. You knew him too well to know that he’d take the blame and risk getting kicked out not even a year into their debut.

When you bring the tray to the table, you feel his eyes on you, and your heart had no reason to be beating so fast in the moment. “Are you okay? You look worried.” This time, Shota asks you. Your head perks up at his voice, snapping you out of it. “I’m okay. Let’s just eat.”

Everything goes back to normal in your silly, lighthearted fashion. You’d steal fries off his side, he’d drink from your straw, and you two would just mess around as you always would. No one came up to either of you with your masks off, so you two continued to be yourselves in the moment, with no one staring.

You find beauty in his personality. How you get to see him like this since you two are so comfortable with each other. Is he like this at his dorm? Probably. But is he ever this excited? Maybe not. You get to see him at full energy, unhinged and expressive, a side that the public might not see in him. And you felt so incredibly lucky.

Shota liked the way you stared at him, and the way a smile would creep up on your face. The way you’d hit a table over and over again or clap your hands when you found something funny. The way you’d pick up on his subtle hints and gestures and how you’d always found a way to make him feel better, the way you’d instantly recognize what’s wrong. You were patient with him, and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

He saw Keeho like an older brother; he acted the same way you did, but there was something different about the way you approached things. The way you weren’t afraid to be so physical with him, and how he wouldn’t recoil from your touch. He loved your hugs, and the way you’d bury yourself in him whenever you did.

Soul finds himself thinking of you at the dorms. He always thinks of you, but this was thinking of you at an extreme. You were on his mind 24/7. He’d think of how much fun certain practices would be if you were there. How you’d criticize him for putting the seasoning packets after putting the ramen in the bowl. Sometimes he’d imagine getting surprised by you. What would happen if you walked through the door right now?

You two saw each other’s quirks and you loved them. You saw sides of each other that the public couldn’t, and it made you both feel special. When you felt your heart racing when you thought of him, you couldn’t help but feel full of dread.

When he saw your photos or clips of your shows, he hated that his face went warm when you came on screen. That he was so hyper focused on you and nothing else.

You were smart. Emotionally and academically. You knew what was happening, but didn’t want to accept it. Really, it was process of elimination.

You started to have feelings for your best friend.

And you hated it. You hated it because him being in the industry pretty much means that he can’t date at all. You’d have to live with feelings that would never be reciprocated, and sometimes it hurt whenever you saw his face, especially when he was looking so damn good.

So you always stayed in denial of your feelings. You gaslighted, convinced, manipulated yourself to get over it, but nothing worked. You couldn’t help that your best friend was just that talented and attractive that when he texts you, you feel butterflies in your stomach and a smile grows onto your face.

Soul, however, was much more unaware of it. He never liked anyone. He was left alone with his thoughts for majority of his childhood, and had female friends but no romantic attraction to anyone.

When he finds himself pondering at the kitchen table, spacing out as he tries to figure out his feelings, his older brother figure, Keeho, sits down with him, after noticing Soul leaving the last bit of food in his bowl and just staring blankly. “You okay?” His voice snaps Soul out of it as he nods.

Intak sits down in the other seat with his own bowl, unintentionally now being a part of the conversation. “Something’s on your mind. You can tell me, I won’t judge.” Soul knows Keeho won’t judge. Intak, however…

Soul’s gaze moves from Keeho to Intak. “Intak won’t care. What’s bothering you?”

“What are we talking about?” Intak asks, clueless.

“L/N.”

“What’s up with L/N? Didn’t you just see her last weekend?”

“Is L/N that girl Soul’s friends with? I saw her advertising a brand at a department store the other day.” Intak overhears, pitching into the conversation. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“What’s wrong? Did she insult you or something?”

The more Soul tries to think about it with the words in his head, his heart beats faster and faster that he brings his hand to his chest, feeling the rapid, strong pulse against his palm. How did you manage to make him feel like this? Like he was speechless?

Keeho seemed to notice something, because he moved Soul’s hand and put his own on his chest, feeling how fast it was beating and how powerful it was. “Your face is all red. Are you having a fever?” Intak asks, totally opposite to what Keeho is thinking.

“Oh my god.” He starts, acting overdramatic. “You like her.” When Keeho says it, it makes Soul cringe, and he hates that he came to the same conclusion. “Soul likes who?” Intak is still clueless about the whole situation, probably tired out from practice that day.

“L/N, you idiot, get your head out of the clouds.”

“I like her. A lot.”

“You like her as more than a friend?” Keeho clarifies, Soul nodding. He can see the conflict in his leader’s eyes, a sense of understanding yet a tinge of guilt. “I know we can’t… date. I really want to. She’s the first person who’s ever understood me… ever since I got here.”

His leader sighs. “I think you should tell her. But… be careful. You’re putting a lot of things at risk here.”

“I know I am.”

“Soul’s a pretty quiet person. He should be okay. I mean, as long as none of us ramble about it, we should be fine.” Keeho nods along, his face content. On the inside however, he knows damn well all of them ramble way too much.

And they could ramble about you and Soul.

“Should I text her?”

“Tell her in person. If you really like her, and you really do mean it, you need to tell her the next time you two meet up.”

“But what if I can’t say it?” Keeho is well aware of Soul’s problem with freezing up when talking to others, yet this was something bound to happen, even with you. “She’s patient. She’ll wait as long as she needs to for you to say it. You’ll be okay, Soul. I’m pretty sure she likes you back.”

“She does?”

Keeho scoffs. “Have you seen the way she is around you? Sometimes she stutters over her words when you’re around, she’s always waiting for you, she lets you take her food… there’s a whole list that goes on for a while.”

Soul’s gut feeling was right. He did have a crush on you. A really big one that would only grow if he didn’t do something about it quick.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He arranged to hang out with you the following week. His heart would not stop beating as if it was about to soar right out of his chest. He swore that if you put your thumb on the right spot on his wrist, you’d feel how nervous he was getting as time passed, and he did not want that happening soon enough.

You noticed something else. He seemed a lot more tense, spaced out, and hesitant. To be honest, you were almost the same. You hesitated to hold his hand like you usually did when you walked with him, worried someone would recognize either of you and see what was happening.

Anything simple you’d over-romanticize. He’d block you from the wind. He’d freak out and any display of you and take a picture of it, smiling as he checked them one last time for any retakes. How he’d play with your hand when you two sat together. When you’d share your food.

Everything you did normally was now something you saw as something beyond your friendship. You wanted it to be that way, you really did, but knowing Soul, as clueless as he is, he probably didn’t mean anything at all behind his actions. Everything has just been so normalized between the two of you.

Your heart raced as fast as his. One could say that if you compared both of your pulses, they would sync up, or be extremely close in heart rate. His face had the slightest tinge of pink that you noticed under certain lighting— you didn’t get to look at it long since he didn’t want to call you out for staring.

“I really like your hair colors. They’ve all looked really good on you.” You say, Soul surprised at the sudden compliment. “I’ve only dyed it once or twice…”

“And it looks good. Even your hairstyles! The braids are so cute! If it gets long enough, I should give you pigtails.”

“Long enough that hopefully I don’t get scheduled for a haircut.”

“I’d cry, honestly.”

Shota stops in his tracks in front of your place, the sudden tug on your hand holding you back. “I need to tell you something. It’s been… stuck in my head for a while.” He admits, kicking away a stone at his feet. “What is it?” The look you give him almost makes him back out, but he knew keeping it in for longer would only eat at him. And it wouldn’t be a while until he’d see you again.

“Um, I–“

“Soul!”

Shota turns around at the sound of the voice, Keeho standing at a distance and waving at him. He turns back to face you, taking a deep breath.

“L/N…”

“I like you.”

He notices the shock in your expression, your eyes widening slightly and jaw slightly hanging open.

“I like you a lot.” He continues.

Shota doesn’t know what to make of your blank stare at him, since you do so for longer than you should’ve. “I-I know it’s hard for us to do any relationship related stuff because of our careers. Um, I get if you’re worried about all of this and dating in general but…”

“Shota.” You cut him off, his eyes landing on you. You take both of his hands, thumbs brushing over the metal of his rings. “I want to go out with you.” You say so forwardly that he almost becomes the shocked one. “I really like you. I really do. I… I don’t want your career to be ruined because of me. You worked your ass off for this and God knows how much we’ve been separated because of it.”

You squeeze his hands, looking at how they intertwine. Shota speaks up. “Is it crazy that I like you so much?”

“How much?”

“That I feel like you’re the only one who’ll ever understand me? That you’re the only one I’ve ever had actual genuine feelings for? Am I too young to be thinking about these kinds of things?”

“I ask myself the same questions. Every. Single. Day.”

He giggles, feeling your head lean against him. You look up, chin resting against him with a light in your eyes he hadn’t seen before. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think we’re two teenagers stupidly in love.”

“Soul, hurry up!” Keeho calls.

You can practically hear him roll his eyes the way he scoffs, making you giggle. “Go out with me.” He asks, more of a statement than a request. His chin rested atop your head, his hand rubbing your back with reassurance. “M’kay.” You agree with a smile, voice muffled.

“We’ll keep it a secret.”

“Even from the guys?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Your dad is calling you.” He laughs at your joke, noticing you lost in thought. You pull away a bit, looking at the ground for a moment. In one swift movement, you tiptoe and peck his cheek. “Bye!” You briefly bid, briskly walking away. Shota raises his hand to where you kissed him, almost forgetting in his moment of bliss that Keeho had already called him twice.

The walk back is mostly in silence, Soul doing his best to stop his giddy little smile on his face from growing any more. Keeho didn’t look back at him once.

The sun is fully set by the time they arrive back at the dorms, Keeho entering with an extravagant greeting. “We’re baaack!” He gleefully exclaims. Shuffling can be heard from a distance as the boys begin to take off their shoes. “Soul, how was the–“ Theo starts, being cut off after seeing something on Soul’s face.

When he gets up from kneeling down, Theo notices a light pink mark on Soul’s face, and it for sure was not his blush. “You– She–“

“What’s happening–“ Jiung is equally as shocked as Soul walks into the main space. “Oh my god.” He mutters, hand going to cover his dropped jaw. “She kissed you!” Theo exclaims. Keeho immediately comes running over, grasping Soul’s face and turning it to find the mark. He gasped louder than he should’ve when he found it.

“Just on the cheek.” Soul felt like he had to specify, but the three boys continued to jump around and freak out over the mark. “Cute! Ugh– we need to meet her sometime!” Jiung gushes.

“She just kissed me today and you guys already want to meet her in person?”

They all nod.

“I think you guys would scare her. It’s a bit cramped in here… and we aren’t even allowed to have girls here.”

“Maybe we’ll run into her during a photoshoot! She’s getting pretty famous nowadays.” Jiung adds. “I’ve already met her so many times, just saying. She’s cool.” Keeho bragged before walking into his room.

Intak enters the living space, wondering why Theo and Jiung are crowded around Soul. Keeho goes back out to join them with his empty bottle of water, originally with the task of refilling it. Soul feels a buzz in his pocket, taking it out to see your name on his phone screen.

“She’s calling you!” Jiung gasps, Theo shushing him right after. Soul swipes right to accept the call. “Put her on speaker!” Intak whisper yells, Soul holding out his phone for his group members to huddle around it.

Jongseob comes out of his room, joining the boys even though he had no idea what exactly was going on. “Hello?” Soul greets. “Hi Shota!”

“I thought we just saw each other 20 minutes ago. Do you miss me already?” He jokes, attempting not to stutter over his words. “Oh, we’re speaking in Korean now! I see how it is.” He can hear your sarcasm over the phone, a smile growing on his lips. “What’s up? Did you forget something?”

“My parents kinda caught us outside. When I…”

“Oh. Right.”

“They want you to come over.”

“So soon?” Intak says a little too loud.

“Who was that?”

“No one– just a show in the background.”

“Oh. Well, you’ve met them before. On calls and stuff, they know who you are. You know them, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Because they saw… us… they want to meet you. I told them about how busy you were and your schedule and that it wouldn’t be for a while until you were free again–“

“Y/N.” He cuts you off for a second. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

“Really?”

“I want them to know I’m a good person. That I am doing my best for you.” His groupmates gush audibly, and it definitely picks up on the microphone. “You’re going to make me miss you a whole lot more if you keep talking like that.” Soul chuckles. “They’re listening, aren’t they?”

“What?”

“Your group. That did not sound like a TV show in the background.”

They all look at each other, surprised. “Um… maybe?”

“Agh– they heard all of that?! So embarrassing…”

“They wanna meet you too. My group.”

“I thought girls weren’t allowed in your dorms.”

“Outside of the dorms. Possibly in a work environment?”

“That could work! I’m already looking forward to it.”

“They’re all weird.” Soul feels everyone’s eyes on him. “A bit. Just saying.” He hears you giggle on the other end.

“Shota?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you.”

It goes dead silent for a moment, before all the boys erupt into loud cheering and hollering, Soul having to cover his ear to hear you. “Is it too soon for me to say that?” You ask.

“Did you mean it?” He answers with another question, silence on your end for a second.

“I did.”

“Then no. If anything, I think you’re 3 years too late.”

“Have you been waiting that long for me to say it?”

“Mmm, maybe just half a year.”

“Figured.”

“Y/N?” He switches back to Japanese.

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

Though in another language, the boys can understand the small phrase, their montage of cheers going on for longer than it should have.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As both of you had begun to become more globally renowned, so did your relationship with each other. At first, it was viewed as the two of you being very close friends. After certain interactions and nitpickings, people began to question the nature and status of your relationship.

People noticed the ring on your finger and how it looked exactly like the ones on Soul’s. When the string to tighten his bracelet was visible from under his sleeves, some made connections to learn that it looked like yours. Neither of you took it off, even during work events.

If it couldn’t be on your wrist, you managed to use your bracelet as an anklet. It was more subtle, but you ended up having to send pictures to Shota to show proof you kept it on.

Strings were pulled. Your company met with his, and despite their strict dating laws and restrictions, they managed to work around them. You just hoped they weren’t bribed in any way.

You did end up visiting their dorm a few times after the workarounds, and Shota was always there at the door to be the first person to greet you. His physical touch became more than just holding your hand. He clung onto you; he loved hugs, he loved hugging you.

You loved his hair, playing with it and tying it up into different hairstyles. Pigtails, braids, the occasional half up ponytail. You were always fascinated at the fact every single colour looked so good on him.

The rest of the boys had to get used to your presence. Given you didn’t visit often since Soul would rather visit you, sometimes the sight of you seated with Soul on their couch was a shocker to them. Keeho got used to it the quickest.

From your perspective, you were overall cautious but at the same time didn’t care if any news of the two of you happened to get out. It would be shocking from one end, but it would follow with claims saying that it was bound to happen sometime. Considering how young you were, sometimes you had your doubts. Most of the time you forgot about those doubts.

As for someone like Shota, with his growing popularity and presence in the K-pop industry, he was worried one little leak would cause him to get kicked out of his company. Until paparazzi footage of the two of you, his hands wrapped around your waist to meet in the front as you waited at a bus stop, was posted on a website.

You both panicked. You apologized, he apologized; it was a lot of back and forth. All that came from netizens was the mutual discussion of the chance that you two might be in a relationship. The girl on billboards across Korea going out with a rising star in K-pop? Both of them soon to be international? It was unexpected.

The public was pleasantly surprised. It was a match they hadn’t expected, so much so they decided to try and guess how you two met and how your relationship started. Though you never went deeper than cute photos and interactions that just had to happen in the public eye.

Soul was asked the question a few times.

“Is Y/N a close friend of yours?”

“What’s your relationship with the model?”

The members would either glare at the interviewer or look at Soul worried. He’d always respond with:

“She’s my girlfriend.”

Which pretty much revealed the terms you two were on to every person on the internet.

The boys always took pictures and videos of the two of you as well, if you were ever to end up working together somehow. If you came to the dorm, or if they ran into you two in public. You’re certain Intak and Theo have way too many photos of him falling asleep on you or vice versa.

Soul scrolls on his phone, noticing a few posts of the two of you as he goes deeper down the rabbit hole. As he goes to rewatch his dance practice of the day, he gets a text from you.

Shota

Haku

Haku Shota

Hi （╹◡╹）

Um

I know this is gonna sound like really stupid and crazy and weird

What is it?

Is it okay if I stay at your dorm tonight

Soul looks up from his phone and the condition his shared room is in. It’s decently clean, at least his area is. Theo and Jongseob’s area is debatable.

It’s okay if not! I was just wondering

You can

Just let me ask the guys first

It’s really messy in here

He puts in his phone in his pocket before he’s able to check your next text, reluctantly getting out of bed to go and ask. He opens the door, at first sticking his head out, but then fully shuffling through the door.

“Hey Soul. I thought you were sleeping?” Keeho says, going to sit on the couch. “I need to ask you guys something.”

“What is it?” Intak adds.

“Y/N wants to come over.”

“This late?” Sometimes it surprises him how dense Intak could be sometimes. “She wants to stay over. Sleep.”

The boys all look up and around at the area, noticing the slight mess. Despite you seeing the area in such conditions most of the time when you came over, they suddenly felt obligated to do something rather than have you sleep in an environment with said mess.

“We’ll clean up. Tell her we said yes. Is everything okay?” Keeho said, getting up from the couch.

“We?”

“Get up, Jiung, and let the girl feel welcome.”

“Should I help?”

“Maybe clean our room.” Theo pats Soul on the shoulder, letting him walk back into said room.

Shota???

Are you there?

Pls respond

Sorry

I asked they said yes

I’m already on my way

We’ll talk more when I get there

I’ll text you

He can hear shuffling and commanding outside his room as he tosses the dirty laundry into their basket in the corner of the room, fixing his nightstand and somewhat making his bed since he was gonna lie down in it immediately afterwards.

By the time he gets a text, the room is mostly clean and tidy, prompting him to go and open the door for you. Your eyes meet with his, though they look dull and tired, more than they would be after a day of shoots.

“Hey.” You hide your gaze with the top of your hood. “Hi. Are you okay?”

“Let’s talk about it in your room. Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all. Come in.”

You nearly stumble over your own feet going to take your shoes off, Soul noticing there’s something more going on and it’s not just that you’re exhausted.

Not wanting to be rude, you briefly greet the rest of the boys before swiftly going into Soul’s shared room, Jongseob lying on his bed on his phone and simply acknowledging you when you enter the room, dropping your bag on the floor and plopping yourself on Soul’s bed. He sits next to you, your face covered by your hood.

He gently takes it off in case you’d stop him at the motion, seeing those dull eyes of yours, a bit pink and swollen. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?” He softly asks, holding your hands in the same manner as his voice. “I’m having a few problems at home. Nothing with my parents. Extended family.”

“What happened?”

“My parents are having some maintenance and small renovations done on our house, so we’re staying in an extra room at my grandma’s for a little bit. My aunt lives in the other room.”

You inhale, trying to grasp onto your words.

“Um, my aunt is being,” you start, “being a real bitch. I know I can’t say that and it’s rude to even think so but God knows everyone in that room was pissed at her. She insulted my mom and her decision to move here and put me through modelling at such a young age.”

“She called me a wannabe, and that I wasn’t gonna get anywhere in life just posing for the camera. Called me a slut for allowing to be in shoots where I show a lot of skin when really it’s usually just a tank top and a skirt.”

“She said she felt bad for whoever I was dating that they had to be with a girl who loves showing herself off to the general public. Said I was practically naked if I showed too much skin.”

“So I don’t feel safe or comfortable in that house right now, and my parents were nice enough to let me stay someplace else. They agreed when I told them about you.”

Soul sat there, a silent rage burning through his veins. You had a completely valid reason to address her with such vulgarity. He couldn’t offer any advice in the moment, all that he could do was hug you.

“No wonder she still lives with your grandma.” He mutters into your shoulder, your hand hitting his back hard as you chuckle. “You can’t say that, Shota!”

“Who’s stopping me? I know you want to say it too.”

“Shota…”

“Fine. Only because you don’t want me to. Still, I’m sorry you had to go through all that. Stay as long as you need to.” Soul’s eyes meet with Jongseob’s, their stares translating into sentences.

‘As long as she needs to?’

‘Just let her. Please.’

‘Don’t ask me, ask Keeho.’

Shota rolls his eyes at his roommate, attention back on you. “I’m gonna go change now.” You say, pulling away. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

“Um, I was thinking we could share your bed. But I can always take the couch if you don’t want to–“

“Share. Yeah– yeah, we can share.”

You smile, kissing his forehead before you leave the room. Jongseob’s eyes are on Soul the minute the door shuts. “What did she say?” He meant to ask: ‘What did she say to make her kiss you in front of me?’

“She wants to share my bed.”

“You look really nervous.”

“I’m not nervous, just surprised. And I’ve… obviously never shared it before.”

“Just sleep normally, Soul. What’s so hard about that?”

“Do I snore?”

“You don’t. Theo does. Maybe get her some earplugs.”

“I don’t have any.” His roommate shrugs his shoulders.

“Jongseob…”

“Fine.” He tosses Soul a clean, unopened pair of foam earplugs. “Are you actually that nervous?”

Soul’s ashamed to admit it. “We’re close, but we haven’t been this close before. Not at all. I have no idea if I kick in my sleep– what if I kick her?”

“You kick like once or twice but not every other second. Besides, if L/N says she’s in love with you, she’s gotta be in love with everything about you. Including your sleeping habits. She’d love you regardless of what you do in your sleep.”

You come back in sweats and a loose shirt, going to lay on the bed while Shota sat on the edge. You place your hand on top of his, prompting him to turn around and look at you. “Are you that tired?”

“Korean all of a sudden?”

“I’m getting better, aren’t I?”

“By the day, Shota.”

“To answer your question, since I was crying for 10 minutes at home, yes, I’m tired. Are you gonna just gonna sit there or are you gonna get some rest?” Soul simply responds moving you over on the bed so he can sleep on the side closest to the wall. You turn to face him, all flushed and doe eyed. “Am I too close?” Your head rests against his chest and atop his arm, probably the definition of close.

“No.”

“I can always move if–“

“Just stay here. You’ve had a rough day.”

His other arm wraps around you, his hand on your back and pushing you closer to him. “Do you think we’re too young to be this in love?” You feel his head move. “What do you mean?”

“That we aren’t old enough to make bigger decisions for ourselves? This… this is a big thing. People say that we’re really young to already be dating, and I always shrug it off, but it’s bothering me. What if they’re right?”

“Are you doubting us?”

“I’m not, I’m really not! People are just overlooking what’s going on between us and they’re making assumptions and–“

“This relationship is only between us and no one else. We don’t need to worry about what others think. We only need to worry about each other.”

“You’re getting good at switching languages smoothly.” You say, trying to sneak a bit of humor in there. “I learn from the best.” His hand once on your back now moved to your head, stroking it smoothly. “I’m really grateful for you, actually. I hope you know that.” His words melt your heart as they always do, but somehow you find them more meaningful.

“When you first helped me here. When you offered to keep in touch and look where that brought us. When you don’t get bothered every time I ask you how to say something in Korean. And you still like being with me even though sometimes I can be a bit…”

“Bothersome?”

“I was thinking annoying, but what you said sounds nicer.”

“Shota, I never thought of you as annoying. You’re teaching yourself with the help of your group getting around and the culture and its differences.”

“How did you get used to it so quickly?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been here so many times to visit but living here? Oh, it was a culture shock to me.”

“So I’m really not alone in this?”

“You were never alone, Haku.”

You called him by his first name.

Your eyes meet at your mention of it, Shota looking at you with such a pure, joy filled gaze that was silent behind his irises. It was moments like this where you got to admire his beauty, how pretty he was, his features and how they worked so well together.

You’re drawn to him. So much so that you end up giving him a soft, gentle kiss on the lips.

As much as it was a moment of euphoria, the moment you pulled away, you immediately got flustered and embarrassed, turning around since you weren’t able to face him. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have–“ And seeing Jongseob on the other bed? He heard a lot and probably saw a lot which made the whole thing more embarrassing for you.

You kick your feet slightly, hiding your face in your hands and just then feeling how hot your it was in the moment. Suddenly, you feel his arms wrap around your waist like they did in the photos of you two at that bus stop, bringing you closer into him. “I liked it. It was my first.” He mutters, voice slightly muffled.

“It was my first too.” You reply, hands off your face and turning around to bury it in his shoulder, still embarrassed to face him. You wrap an arm around him as to hug him loosely. “I love you, Haku.” You raise your head to bump your nose against his. He giggles, hugging you tighter.

“I love you more, Y/N.”

“Even more than your games?”

“More than my games and my rings. Get some rest now.”

You want to kiss him again in that moment, but he does it for you. Short and chaste, your lips meet long enough to feel each other’s connection, but short enough that it doesn’t escalate.

“At this point, can you two just sleep already? I’d rather you hug and spoon than hear you kiss all evening.” Jongseob sneers, almost forgetting he was even in the room. Soul feels you giggle into his shoulder, having you so close being the least of his worries. In fact, it was something he cherished.

Soul never let you out of his hold, and you never let him out of his.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

☀️: guys look at this

☀️: [Two images attached]

🐿️: OMG

🐿️: THEY’RE SO CUTE

🐿️: THEY’RE LIKE CUDDLING AIDHSIDNW

🐿️: IM SAVING THESE THANK YOU VERY MUCH

🐺: theo why are you taking pictures of them while they’re sleeping 🤨

🐺: that’s a little bit weird

☀️: ok but they’re cute

☀️: you’d do it too

🐺: tbh i would

🐯: they kissed

🐺: HUHH???

🐿️: SJAODJEBDIEBDK

🐶: wait actually

🐿️: where did you come from

🐶: i was disinterested until i saw jongseob’s text

🐺: are we talking like a kiss on the cheek or forehead cuz they do that a lot

🐯: lips

🐿️: OH MY GOD WHAT

🐺: WAIT ACTUALLY

🐺: SOUL GOT HIS FIRST KISS

🐶: keeho u probably havent kissed anyone why r u talking

🐺: shut up

☀️: yeah i walked in on them

🐯: they didnt make out or anything tho i think they’re both disgusted by the idea of it

🐺: thank god

🐶: you actually thought they were gonna make out or something just from the word ‘kiss’??

🐺: hey you can never be too careful

🐿️: i understood half of what they were saying until they switched back to japanese ugh i could hear them through the wall

🐯: are the walls actually that thin

🐿️: i hear you scream at your phone every time u watch something scary

🐯: okay anyways they were probably flirting with each other

🐯: i was literally there the whole time

🍟: (*^◯^*)

🐶: oh shit

🐺: morning soul!!

🐿️: why aren’t you just talking to each other instead of texting in the group chat you literally share a room

🍟: y/n is sleeping (( _ _ ))..zzzZZ

☀️: she actually is do u guys want proof

🐺: stop taking pictures of people in their sleep theo ur weird for that

🍟: [One image attached]

☀️: and when soul does it ur not gonna say anything

🐺: soul dont do that but yall r cute okay

☀️: this is so unfair

🐯: i have a picture of him taking that picture

🐺: what

🐶: this is so confusing

🐯: [One image attached]

🐿️: trippy @—@

🐺: soul how is she not waking up while you’re texting us

🍟: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

🍟: she is so pretty (//∇//)

🐿️: UGH EILFIWRNOAN

🐶: you are so down bad its crazy

🐺: jiung is literally squealing into his pillow rn

🐯: yeah we can hear

☀️: fr tho u guys r cute

🐶: soul pulls

🍟: (・・?)

🐺: it’s okay soul you’ll figure out what that means eventually

☀️: just tell him what’s stopping you

🐺: he spends a lot of time on the internet he’ll see it one way or another

🍟: jongseob i never gave her the earplugs u can have them back

🐶: is it cuz theo snores cuz honestly thats understandable

☀️: i do not snore that loud okay

🐯: my bed is right next to yours so that makes it 10 times louder

🐯: also just leave them on the nightstand soul ill take them back thanks

🐺: is someone gonna get up or are we just gonna keep texting here

☀️: soul would but he’s too busy holding his gf rn

🐯: do u guys want more photos

🐿️: yes

🐺: jongseob and theo you two need to stop taking pictures of y/n while she’s sleeping she’s gonna think you guys are creepy

☀️: you never said no

🐺: and i never said yes

🐯: soul is shielding her face in some of them tho at least its covered

🐿️: just send them

🍟: you can send them jongseob (^^)

🐯: see even soul says we can

🍟: wanna show how pretty y/n is

🐿️: oh my god you guys are so dsibwsidhsi

🐺: jiung is freaking out

🐶: soul i think u killed him

☀️: breaking up at this point would just end the world

☀️: treat her well soul

🐶: yeah you’ve got a good one

🍟: im too in love to let go (*´∀｀*)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

and i am but a man, orbiting ‘round your sun. and it’s you that makes my day, after day. 🎧

[iiseult]

HIGH NOON SUNLIGHT: King Baldwin IV x reader (part 2) - "As Queen of Jerusalem"

CWs →  fluff, ANGST, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism, arranged marriage, descriptions of birth (not the reader), blood and mild gore (they don’t call it the dark ages for nothin!), one-sided pining

Wordcount: 5.1k

Note: Remember like three weeks ago when I lied to you all and said I’d have this out in a few days? I had to plan out a bit of the actual plot so that’s what took me so long. But I finally did it, so eat up! Also, I really do NOT know how medieval royal weddings worked but the shallow google searches I made weren’t good enough so let’s all hope this isn’t horribly inaccurate, though I’m sure it is. Do we care, chat?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Every day leading up to the wedding was a day that you saw red. Greeting your traitorous mother in the mornings made you see red, sharing a meal with your power-hungry father made you see red, and listening to the two of them prattle on about how you ought to behave once you were queen? That turned the world absolutely crimson. Each night, you crumpled up and clutched your skirts under the dinner table with shaking fists, creasing them with deep wrinkles that would take days to iron out, but all the while you continued to hold your head high, speaking only when spoken to just as you were taught as a girl. Your strained, thin-lipped smile was only let go of in the privacy of your own bedchambers, when it was replaced with a cold expression and even chillier disposition. Somehow, drifting apart from your family day by day wasn’t as painful as you had imagined it would be. It was easy, really, because there was nothing left for anyone to talk about. After all, your mother had always taught you that if you had nothing nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. However, your sudden “demureness and obedience”, as they put it, did not go unnoticed. 

Your parents were positively delighted with your recent change, or “improvement,” in attitude. Your lady mother congratulated you for finally agreeing to fulfill your societal role as a subservient wife and mother– an aspect of life of which you had previously been a bit resentful– and your father perpetually reminded you how beneficial this marriage would be to the rest of your bloodline. Even your younger brothers seemed excited for you, constantly coming up with new questions to pester you with regarding life as royalty. The only thing keeping you sane was the knowledge that soon you’d be living far, far away from your conniving parents, free to do whatever you wished. Whichever benefits a royal connection brought them would be nothing compared to your own guaranteed lavish lifestyle. You’d soon have your own castle, your own servants, and even your own soldiers! Oh, and the husband, too. You kept forgetting about that part. 

In some ways, the fact that he was a leper was a great relief to you. That meant you’d most likely be spared many of the wifely duties you had so been dreading; mainly, consummating the marriage. At your age, only 14 years old yet, there was nothing that interested you about the male body, giving birth, or raising children. It was not so long ago that you had helped raise your own little brothers, and the idea of going through all of that again made you feel so trapped. Not to mention the fact that giving birth was extremely dangerous. And painful. And frightening. That thought caused a memory you had been repressing for years to resurface from the depths of your mind, like a buoy in the ocean. It was the tortured screams of your mother the night your youngest brother was born. Had you not known better, you might have thought she was being ripped in two, and the labor lasted for so many endless, terrible hours, which felt more like days. You remembered the midwives rushing around, and the maids leaving your mother’s room with armful after armful of blood-soaked sheets and sloshing buckets of burgundy water. As they passed the place where you were hugging your knees in the corridor, a drop fell at your feet and sunk slowly into the stone floor, leaving nothing but a small round stain. 

Once it was time to leave your family home for the castle, you said goodbye to the view from your window, which you had become well-accustomed to. It was probably the thing you’d miss most, besides your brothers. You closed your bedroom door for the last time and meandered down the familiar, dimly-lit corridor, taking note of the particular stone which was still adorned by that tiny dot of brownish red. A shiver ran down your spine. You opted out of doing a final sweep to make sure you’d packed all of your belongings, because soon enough, you’d have better things to replace them with, anyway. The knights they’d sent for you had loaded your bags onto their horses about an hour ago and set off for your new home. Now, the only thing left to transport was you. 

Another knight was waiting for you outside with a large white horse. He watched as you hugged your mother and father stiffly, pretending not to notice your mother’s tears as she kissed you on the forehead like she used to when you were younger. Before you were a lady. Before you were the queen of Jerusalem. Your father said nothing, but his somber expression and the distant look in his eyes and the loose grip he had on your hand as he kissed the top of it told you everything you needed to know. The knight helped you mount the horse and get comfortable sitting behind him, and you waved goodbye to your family as you were carried away, truly intending it to be for everything you had ever known. But whatever sadness you might have been feeling was overpowered by sheer determination. Now, at 14 years old, your life was finally beginning.  

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The knight who sat in front of you on the horse did not turn out to be a very good conversationalist. The only responses you could draw out of him were along the lines of “Yes, Your Majesty,” or “No, Your Majesty.” You were hoping for someone a bit more…engaging, perhaps, as you were feeling an odd mixture of excitement and anxiety that grew with each and every gallop towards Jerusalem. And anxiety always made you talkative. 

“Is it fun at all, being a knight?” You shouted over the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, breaking the long silence that you had been enduring since the beginning of the journey. 

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

“You know, protecting the kingdom and such. Isn’t it exciting? I find the idea to be absolutely thrilling! Don’t you think so?” 

He paused for a moment, and then replied flatly, “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

You pursed your lips, waiting in silence for a few moments, expecting him to elaborate, but no such luck. Was it really so hard to share a gory battle tale or two to pass the time? You knew knights were known for having excellent integrity and virtuousness, meaning they would never say something that could potentially scare a lady, but couldn’t he humor you just this once, while you were alone? But maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it, you thought, imagining how burdensome it must be to know the feeling of cutting someone’s head off. So, you graciously changed the subject and mentally patted yourself on the back for being so kind and just. It simply wouldn’t do, as future queen of Jerusalem, to force sensitive information out of this poor, traumatized knight for your own fleeting amusement. Maybe a few months earlier and it would have been acceptable, but alas. You sighed.

“This noble steed of yours is breathtaking. Does he have a name?” you questioned, admiring the animal’s snow-white pelt, entranced by the way its powerful muscles rippled beneath it.

“I do not know, Majesty. This horse belongs to the king. It is the only one His Majesty trusts, so he instructed me to collect you using it.” Another memory flashed through your mind, this time of your first meeting with your future husband. He had been riding this very horse that day, its stunning color matching that of his robes. Your heart fluttered at the idea that he’d cared so deeply for your safety, although it shouldn’t have surprised you. It was not as if he had parents forcing him into this marriage. He was accepting you in holy matrimony for some other reason, a reason entirely of his own. His own choice. A blush crept up the back of your neck, and you were suddenly thankful for the fact that the knight was facing away from you. You cleared your throat nervously. 

“Well, what’s it like, working for the king? Is he nice?” 

You felt the knight’s huge sigh before you heard it, your arms that were wrapped around his midsection rising and falling in tandem with the breath. 

“Yes, Your Majesty, the king is very…nice.”

“Is that all?” you muttered, rolling your eyes at his reservedness. You got the hint. You understood he didn’t want to talk, that much he had made very apparent, but that was just too damn bad. As queen of Jerusalem, you wanted to get to know your subjects, and who better to start with than the one sharing a horse with you? 

“Will I have my own chambers, or shall I share with the king?” You asked, holding back a giggle at the expression you were imagining the knight had on his face. 

“I am sure you will be provided with your own chambers, Your Majesty, but the choice of whether to use them or not will be entirely yours and your husband’s,” he replied, a hint of dry humor in his voice. You let out a loud laugh, which actually startled him a little, and then followed it up with another. 

“I wonder if he snores!” you said, between giggles. The knight smiled, shaking his head. After that, the journey to Jerusalem was easy. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The next time you laid eyes on the king was when you were getting married, standing opposite each other in an architectural marvel of a cathedral, both dressed in extravagant clothing and expensive jewelry. His silver mask had recently been polished, and it shone beautifully in the sun, but still not as beautifully as his blue eyes. They were as you remembered them, only a bit brighter. His gold-trimmed robes were as white as ever, freshly washed and perfumed for the occasion. Even the gloves on his hands looked new and clean. You admired them as the priest rambled on in front of you. If God was listening right now, you thought, he’d surely be bored to tears. There was one part of the day you had enjoyed, though, which was the preparation for the wedding. You had been doted on by countless maids all morning, lining your eyes with black powder and weaving your hair into an intricate, interlocking braid pattern. The gown was altered to fit you perfectly, and the large, bell-like sleeves fell around your arms like wings. You were finally beginning to feel like a real queen. 

The ceremony seemed to drag on forever, but you passed the time by maintaining eye contact with King Baldwin. You drowned out the rest of the world and focused only on him. When you smiled, he smiled back. You could only see the corners of his eyes crinkling, but you knew what that meant. You cocked your head to the side, trying to imagine what his smile really looked like. During that evening you spent with him, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see it. Just as soon as he had taken off the mask, he had to put it back on. The consequences of your parents seeing Baldwin’s face would have been disastrous, but thankfully, their loud footsteps and jovial voices had carried quite well down the corridor, warning you of their arrival. Regardless of how short they were, those few seconds you’d spent admiring his bare face were enough to conjure up a half-formed image of what his smile might look like. However, that image disappeared when you saw him cock his head to the side, too, just as you had. You blinked twice. 

He blinked twice, too. 

Was he copying you on purpose? 

You shifted your feet, and he mirrored you, his robes shimmering like the ocean as they fluttered around him. You bit back a giggle. He was. Flames of mischief danced in his eyes, and something else, too, ignited there when you grinned at him. 

“…that these rings shall forever remained blessed, O Merciful Lord. Amen,” said the priest, approaching the king with a book, two rings laid on top of it. Suddenly, Baldwin became very serious, plucking one of the rings between his slender, gloved fingers and holding it gently. You stared as it glistened in the sunlight, which was penetrating the stained glass windows and casting colorful shadows around the altar. He slowly stepped towards you, making your heart begin to beat faster. His head stayed bowed as he presented you with his open palm. You held your breath and lifted your left hand, gingerly brushing your fingertips against his palm, now understanding what was about to happen. He effortlessly glided the ring onto your fourth finger, where it rested beautifully. The diamond glittered like water, mesmerizingly. Baldwin wrapped his fingers around your hand, now holding it as gently as he could, and the priest was now presenting you with a ring. You followed Baldwin’s lead, pushing it onto his fourth finger, which was waiting outstretched for you patiently. You stood mere inches apart, fingers of your left hands interwoven as the priest finished the prayers. The ring, as breathtaking as it was, was somehow still only secondary to the cerulean eyes of your now-husband, which were like two rich sapphires lined with delicate blonde hairs. 

“…And may God bless, preserve, and keep you, that you may have life and love everlasting. I pronounce that you now be man and wife together, in the Name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The cathedral filled with polite claps and murmurs of “amen” as Baldwin released your hand and you turned to face the pews. Next to you, much to your surprise, he quickly dropped to his knees, his body angled towards you, clasping your fair hand between his. You gazed down at him through your lashes, suddenly feeling your cheeks burn. Boldly, Baldwin drew one hand up to his masked face, grasping it by the nose and swiftly pulling it to the side so that it was hiding his face from the crowd, but revealing it to you. He lifted your hand to his pink lips and pressed a searing kiss to it, liberally letting the physical contact linger, all the while maintaining eye contact with you from under his furrowed brow. You covered your mouth with your other hand to try and hide the toothy grin spreading across your face. He saw it anyway. The next thing you knew, he was grinning, too. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and laughed. He laughed. You realized that you no longer had to imagine what his smile looked like. 

After the wedding ceremony, you were promptly bombarded by happy civilians wishing to congratulate you, or simply to catch a glimpse of their new queen, and Baldwin was whisked away by his mother, who seemed to be perpetually by his side. It seemed that she was not quite ready yet to surrender the role of Baldwin’s caretaker to you– but you had no gripes with that. You figured you’d grow into the role of loving, doting wife, as opposed to starting it right away, and unfortunately, the idea of changing his bandages each night before bed still made you shudder. In reality, his mother was not exactly thrilled about the marriage, either. She hadn’t found you or your family quite noble enough for her precious son. However, she was smart enough to see that it was unlikely that anyone else would ever volunteer their daughter to marry a leper, so she begrudgingly allowed the union. 

From the crowd, two plainly dressed women had introduced themselves to you as Matilda and Amelia, claiming that they were to be your servants. They would apparently be with you at all times, tending to your every whim and aiding you during your ascent to the throne, as well as bathing you and dressing you. Matilda was an older, more severe woman who had immediately intimidated you; her lips were drawn together thinly and permanently pursed, creating deep wrinkles around her mouth, and the rest of her face was an intricate web of creases and lines. Her graying hair was pulled back tightly, exposing her thinning hairline and sun-spotted forehead. Even her hands looked harsh, the skin rough and dry, cracking in some places, like mud that had been baking under the summer sun for too long. Amelia was quite the opposite; a timid, pretty young thing with wide brown eyes, fair hair, and a delicate frame. She’d barely had the courage to tell you her name, and rushed into the curtsey to avoid having to make eye contact with you for too long. She seemed to be around the same age as you, if not even younger.

After the attendees from the wedding had mostly dispersed, Matilda brought you back inside the castle to finally see your bedchamber, which you were to have all to yourself. She and Amelia led you through winding corridors and beautiful flowering courtyards, pointing out all the most significant landmarks along the way, such as the great hall, the kitchen, the maid’s chambers, the library, the chapel, the towers, the gardens, and the hundreds of guest bedrooms with conjoined washrooms. The last thing she showed you before your own room was the king’s quarters, which were directly across from yours. 

“Now, Amelia, go draw us a bath. There’s no need for two of us to be standing around here idly while the Queen inspect her chambers,” she ordered, and Amelia nodded, scurrying away to the washroom silently. 

As Matilda threw open the giant oak doors of your room, you couldn’t help but gasp, suddenly rooted to the spot. It was glorious. Taking up the majority of the room was a massive bed with four handsome posts, all carved with intricate floral patterns and stained a deep brown. The mattress was topped with overly-stuffed burgundy throw pillows and a comforter to match. Connecting to the four posts was a frame, from which wine-colored velvet curtains hung to give you some privacy. The same fabric was used to shroud the windows, which were floor-length and leaded. At the foot of the bed lay a pile of bags and wrapped items– all of your belongings from home! On the wall across from them was a large dressing table, covered in jewels and precious metals and bottles of fine-smelling oils. A small, round stool with a cushion on it sat underneath. Your eyes sparkled with excitement, and you couldn’t help but abandon Matilda in the doorway, running and throwing yourself face-first onto the bed, just like you used to at home. You giggled and kicked your feet up into the air, unsurprisingly beginning to sink into the plush mattress. Immediately, you felt your body melt against the malleable, pillowy surface, deciding that you definitely approved of its fine quality. Your bed from back home simply couldn’t compare. However, your glee was short-lived, because it was abruptly interrupted by a stern voice. 

“Your Majesty! You must cease this behavior at once and right yourself! That wedding gown is priceless, and you mustn’t risk causing it any damage!” Matilda scolded, pulling you up by the arm and frantically kneeling to check the delicate garment for any possible tears or imperfections. You winced and apologized quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed at your juvenile behavior. She was right. As a matter of fact, most things in the palace were probably priceless, and it wouldn’t do to act so impulsively, to be so unladylike. Even you, in your youth, knew better than that. You crossed your arms over your chest, beginning to feel rather insecure upon realizing just how much you had to learn about life as royalty. 

“Come, child, it is time to undress. You must be bathed and prepared for your wedding night,” Matilda called, holding out a hand, her voice much more soft and gentle this time.

You gulped, not wanting to think about that, preferring to cross that bridge when you got to it. She bustled over to the magnificent dressing table, pulling out the stool for you to sit on. You obliged, seating yourself in front of her and watching in the mirror as her spindly fingers deftly unwound your intricate braids. It was relaxing, the feeling of her experienced hands nimbly dancing around your scalp, so you let the buildup of tension from the day slowly seep out of your muscles, loosening up more and more every second that passed. Soon, she was finished, and helped you to your feet, ordering you to keep your arms out straight as she undressed you. She pulled out pins from here and there, untied laces all around, and in a matter of minutes you were ready for your bath. 

The water was warm and steaming as you stepped in, your skin breaking out into goosebumps at the feeling. Rose petals floated across the surface of the water, giving the entire washroom a fresh scent. As you expected, Amelia was waiting for you silently, brush in hand, ready to scrub you vigorously from head to toe. You braced yourself, expecting the rough bristles to be painful, but once she began working attentively, it wasn’t so bad at all. Yes, they were scratchy, but that’s exactly what you needed to get rid of all the dirt and dead skin. She lathered you in delicate smelling soap and added some more fragrant oils to the water, letting you soak until your skin had absorbed all the moisture it possibly could. Not a single inch of you was neglected by the time the water had grown cold, at which point you got out and were dried with a fluffy white towel. 

Next, you were ushered back into your chambers and changed into a pretty blue gown made of satin, which apparently “complimented the color of the kings’ eyes perfectly,” according to Matilda. You felt your gut twist at the mention of him, at the prospect of being alone in a room with him and that piercing gaze again. Now that you were man and wife, everything was different. You had a duty to fulfill, and it seemed to be unavoidable, despite how young and vulnerable you were. Despite how averse to it you might be. Your mother had told you all about it, about how it would only last a few minutes if you were lucky, and that you just had to breathe deeply and count the seconds until it was over. How it happened to every woman at some point in her life, and that what follows would be completely and utterly worth every second of endurance. How rewarding it was to raise a child, or two children, or as many as your womb could bear. But no matter how much you tried to reassure yourself, you were still scared. You didn’t want that yet. You were only 14. 

But before attending to your marital duties, first, there was dinner. You were seated at the complete opposite end of the table as Baldwin, as far as physically possible away from him, despite the fact that he was the only person there you had ever spoken to. You were too far away to be able to tell if he was even looking at you from under his mask. Next to him was his mother, who proceeded to shoot you sideways glances the entire night. The rest of the table was filled with noble men and women whom you did not recognize, their titles unfamiliar to you and the lands they hailed from even more obscure. You picked at your food and tried to stay as silent as possible to avoid making a mockery of yourself on your first night as Queen of Jerusalem. Sooner than you had hoped, dinner had concluded, and you were taken aside by Matilda, who pulled you into an empty corridor as the guests began filtering out of the castle. 

“Child, do you know what is expected of you on your wedding night?” She asked, her voice low so that nobody except the two of you could hear the subject matter at hand. You took a deep breath and straightened you back in an attempt to appear more mature, before replying, 

“Yes, I will lie down and be still and hope that I am blessed with a child.” 

The woman smiled at you and clasped your shoulder, seemingly approving of your answer. 

“Exactly right, my dear. The king will call on you when he is ready, so you may go back to your room and occupy your time with an activity of your choosing until you are collected.” 

You nodded solemnly and thanked her before slowly making your way back to your room, trying to take as long as possible in an attempt to actually slow down time. Upon deeper reflection during this walk, you came to the conclusion that it was not being alone with the king that you were afraid of, but rather the act of consummating the marriage, which was, of course, something he had every right to do with you that night. It was the correct course of action. It was what all newlyweds did, no matter how young and afraid they were. Did he know what he was doing, you wondered, or was he just as oblivious as you? You couldn’t imagine the young king being oblivious about much of anything, in all honesty. He was far too intelligent– something you had seen for yourself over that game of chess. 

Once you arrived at your room, Amelia was waiting at the door for you, an even more wide-eyed look on her face than usual. Uh oh, you thought to yourself. 

“His Majesty the King has requested your presence in his chambers, Your Highness,” she said quietly, bowing her head as she spoke. How did he get here so fast? You thought to yourself, terror rising in your chest. Amelia watched in half fear and half amusement as you frantically wiped your clammy hands on the bodice of your dress and ran your fingers through your hair, which was cascading down your shoulders freely. She was young, too, and unwed, and the idea of a wedding night was something that made her stomach churn as well, so she offered you a sympathetic look and watched as you dragged your feet across the hall, knocking on the imposing oak doors of the king’s bedchambers. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin had never been so jittery in his life. As he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for you to arrive, he fidgeted with his gloves, pulling them off by the fingers and then pulling them on again, over and over. All throughout dinner he had been gazing across the table at you, ignoring his mother’s neverending ranting as you stared down at your plate. Though you were only a blue blur with a vaguely maidenlike shape from where he was sitting, he was still completely enchanted, his heart beating in his throat every time you looked up in his general direction. He wondered if you could tell he was looking at you. Since the hour you were wed, he was able to think of nothing but you; your dazzling smile, your gorgeous hair, your playful sense of humor, the way the light in the cathedral illuminated your eyes. As the servants bathed him in strong-smelling medicinal herbs and wrapped the raw areas of skin with fresh bandages, he daydreamed about your voice, your laugh. And now, as he sat on the edge of his bed, awaiting your imminent arrival, he thought of practically everything except you. 

He panicked about the state of his body, the pressure of consummating a marriage, the burden of fathering a child at such a young age. He panicked about the weight of ruling an entire kingdom all by himself, no longer able to entrust the brunt of the work to Raymond, and of being a suitable husband. He panicked about how many years he might even have left, if his illness continued to progress. But every worry, every fear, every doubt left his mind as soon as he heard you knock on his door. 

He leapt to his feet, hastily pulling his left glove all the way back on and bounding over to the door, throwing it open wide with a grin on his face, to reveal… you, standing there, gaunt and sweating, looking like you had just suffered a bout of cholera. The smile on his face fell a bit, but it couldn’t be wiped completely clean. At least he could finally be with his bride, his love, his queen. 

“Good evening, Your Highness,” you murmured, your head bowed, pointing down at your shoes, as well as the freshly polished ones directly across from you. 

“Good evening, my Queen,” he breathed, heart beating quickly as you shuffled into his room. He closed the door behind you, letting it shut with a ‘click’ before following you over to the middle of the room, where you hovered like a ghost, still staring at the ground and clasping your hands tightly in front of you. A tense, silent moment passed, and still, you didn't move. Whatever was left of his smile faded from his unmasked face, and the panic from earlier began to return, crashing over him in icy waves. Why wouldn’t you look at him? He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from leg to leg. 

“Are you feeling very well tonight, my lady?” He asked tentatively, shuffling a bit closer. 

You sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly turned, stiltedly making your way over to the bed. 

“Let’s just get this started then, shall we?” You said tersely, laying down on your back on the plush covers and screwing your eyes shut tightly. 

“I am ready.” 

King Baldwin stared at you blankly, frozen in the middle of the room, and completely panicking. No, no, no, this was all wrong, this was not how he wanted it to go…he absolutely did not want to force you into it, to do anything you didn’t also want…and you clearly didn't want it. You were lying there, as stiff as a board. This was the final straw for him.

He wasn’t ready for it yet either, he decided. He would just have to lie to his mother. When she discovered that the queen was, in fact, not pregnant, he would blame it on his own body, claiming to be infertile. It was probably true, at any rate. He took a deep breath, feeling shame and embarrassment at not being able to consummate his own marriage rise to his cheeks, and spoke three words, 

“You may go,” 

And those were the last three words he spoke to you for the next three years. 

Note: I'll give you a kiss if you can count how many times I reference you being the "Queen of Jerusalem" in this chapter.

[oldhalloweentape]

🪨Venture (OW II) x (gn) reader headcanons⛏️

(Start of Romantic Relationship Pt. II Edition!)

(Not my picture!)

(Not much to say at the moment, hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!)

(Pt. I) (Pt. III)

- Ok so, in comparison to the more common outdoor dates, indoor dates are just as eventful, especially movie dates.

- Alright so, I think out of the other genres, horror is their favorite out of the bunch, with an emphasis on the older and more dated ones. The ones with folklore and culture references being an all time favorite.

- After all, folklore is a kind of history that can give a person insight into the life and tribulations people from different periods and eras had to deal with.

- Anyway, I believe Sloane loves to just overanalyze these kinds of movies, having to restrain themselves from doing so while you two are still watching the movie.

- Has an obvious love for the Mummy movies, you’d have to pry that from my cold, dead, and mummified hands.

- As much as they love it, they still get a bit miffed about inaccuracies that seem so obvious to them. You have to remind them that movie people don’t exactly care for such things as passionately as they do.

- It doesn’t stop at folklore themed movies, or even the horror genre, I mean movies in general are parts of history solidified in amber to them, and they reasonably like indulging in them.

- They especially love to be doing it with you, an arm wrapped around your shoulders, teaching circles onto the skin of your arm as they shove popcorn into their mouth.

- Avid popcorn lover, eats up most of it the second they get their mitts on the bowl. Make sure they get their own bowl because they can and will try to gobble it all up.

- Thinks they’re slick with it too, like goes and kisses your head as they take a healthy handful from your bowl, shoveling it into their mouth hastily, and proceeds to laugh with a full mouth as you smack them on the chest when you realize what they did.

- Besides that, there are also other activities, for example, Lego dates, specifically making things like Lego bouquets.

- Considering you both might not have the time to tend to actual plants if you’re both either in Overwatch or as archeologists, legos are a nice stand-in.

- The overall idea of them never wilting or needing to be thrown away is plus as well!

- They may get distracted more than once, lose a couple pieces, but the end product is generally sound and looks mostly like the image on the box. They’re so proud of themselves about it too.

- Yet another thing they’re proud of, a vase they made at a pottery class date you guys decided to do just because.

- It’s another way for them to talk about the history of pottery and the use of clay, getting too caught up with what they were saying more than once.

- In the end they were able to produce a vase, a bit misshapen but nice and sturdy.

- It becomes the vase you guys use for the Lego bouquet. Yet another way to remember those moments between the two of you.

- They’re used to doing things that take physical exertion, but will always have a great time while dating you, being able to share anything and everything that loosely reminds them of that particular situation.

- In a nutshell, every date can be extremely fun for the two of you, which only solidifies the connection between the two of you and the desire to have you as a permanent staple in their life.

(Hope I'll be able to conjure something else for the first kiss and beginning relationship pt. III!)

[mrsjellymunson]

Hello, Stranger

Pairing: Eddie Munson x gn!reader, Eddie Munson x you, Eddie Munson x reader

For @lesservillain’s excellent Strange and Spooky Stories Halloween writing event for the prompt: ‘Stranger’

Summary: A stranger comes in to buy weird stuff at odd times, and as the cashier at the local hardware store you’re not quite sure what to make of it…

CW: 18+ (MDNI), fluff, maybe SFW though caution for mature and dark themes and allusions to crime and violence. Flirting, li’l bit of awkwardness, some swearing. Both Eddie and reader are in their 20s. Reader’s gender and appearance are not described, they can be whatever you want. No use of y/n. Time period is not mentioned, and any inaccuracies/inconsistencies about history, equipment, American schooling (I’m not from around these parts) or science are deliberate and artistic oh yes they are. No smut, I thought I’d better assess whether I could string a semi-coherent story together before attempting to add that 😆

WC: ~6.2k

A/N: I love gore, revenge movies, murder shows, true crime, science/biology/forensics and DIY (sort of), so this prompt seemed like a perfect fit. There are tiny Easter eggs from The Equalizer, Breaking Bad, 80s crime TV, The Blacklist and John Wick in here - let me know if you spot any! This is the first ‘proper’ fic I’ve posted so I’d love to know what you think. Comments, reblogs and feedback are hugely appreciated and very welcome!

(Also this is my first attempt at dividers too, I hope they worked, I literally have no idea what I’m doing!)

Yep, you were ‘that’ weird kid. Your friends in Middle School had called you a freak because you brought squirrel tails and chicken feet to show’n’tell.

“But look! If you pull this tendon it makes the claw close! Isn’t that cool?!”

No, apparently that was not cool. Especially when demonstrated against your teacher’s finger...

You’d visit a friend whose father was a doctor, begging to read his medical and pathology text books, and preferring to look at pictures of dissected and diseased organs and spontaneous human combustion over braiding your friend’s hair or talking about boys.

And, apparently, scoring a class-topping 9.5/10 for your rat dissection also wasn’t the social merit badge you thought it might be, even amongst your science-abreast academic peers.

So what if you had a strong constitution. And a love of anatomy and pathology. And then compounded it with a love of true crime, particularly serial killers and forensic methods. Surely there were worse things to be interested in?

By the time you’d finished High School you’d learned to mask your enthusiasm, covering your (apparently, socially unacceptable) fascination for all things ‘gross’ and ‘murderous’ (your friends’ words) by choosing science majors like human anatomy and pathology, criminal behaviour and forensics.

People just thought you were clever, nerdy, a scientist. You never let on that you were itching to actually experience some of these things for yourself, in real time, with your own hands…

You work the evening shift at the sprawling out-of-town homewares store on the road running out of Indianapolis towards a tiny town you’ve never been to (Hawksville? Hawking?). You work a few evenings a week plus alternate Sundays, currently in the gardening, kitchen and hardware department. It wouldn’t be your chosen section of the store (in the short time you’ve been there you’ve had to amass a lot of knowledge about tools. Also, how to politely deflect the regulars’ offers to share details of their new projects, lest you get drawn in to a half-hour discussion about u-bends or rawl plugs), but the hours suit you and fit around your college classes, and the employee discount comes in handy when things in your shitty apartment break down or your roommate carelessly breaks something, again.

The final few hours of your shifts were usually pretty quiet, barring the occasional domestic plumbing emergency, or a bored Hawkins housewife coming in looking for batteries.

You don’t mind spending your evenings amongst the tools and machinery, it gives you a chance to flick through the latest copy of forensic magazine or True Crime, or work on your college assignments.

One thing that does make the slow evenings more entertaining is the unusual clientele. A nerdy-looking guy with a moustache needing releasable cable ties, cooking oil and a large plastic sheet at 9.30pm must have an interesting backstory, right?

You find yourself concocting fantastical vignettes about the oddballs that pass through, giving them the most amusing or disturbing story you can think of as they glide by in the night.

The guy with the cable ties? Too easy. Clearly he’s got a ‘special friend’ and an interesting evening planned. TBH, that’s probably not even fictional. You call him Salacious Scott.

The friendly, rotund lady who regularly comes in for for buckets and sawdust? You know it’s Mrs Henderson, who is trying to go self-sufficient and has recently installed a composting toilet, but you prefer to imagine she’s actually a madam with a ‘specialist interest’ playroom, who you brand Madame Urolagnia.

The paranoid guy with a beard and thick glasses who won’t tell you his name, buys a lot of vodka from the liquor store nearby and comes in for plastic pipe, cladding and those slot-together foam mats for kids? He tells you he’s into martial arts and these make safe weapon facsimiles for training, but you reckon he’s actually some kind of government agent. Your imaginary name for him is Mysterious Murray.

One oddball in particular has caught your attention, and not just because he’s easily the handsomest customer you’ve had in a while.

Wait, no, you didn’t just admit that; you just find him interesting, that’s all.

It was his speed and demeanour that had struck you first, rushing in, hand atop the bandana on his head, gangly legs in ripped jeans looking like they were trying to run in two different directions at once, large, dark eyes wide as he’d frantically looked around the store.

“Uh, rope, I need rope, where’d you keep the rope?”

You’d blurted some instructions and he’d headed off, not looking in your direction.

His leather jacket and swinging chains certainly commanded attention amongst the flannel and blue denim that was usually in your line of sight, and you’d found your eyes following him, catching sight of him moving between the aisles from your position behind the counter.

He’d moved towards you with a sturdy knife, a shovel and 3 rolls of duct tape that he’d collected on his way to the checkout, arms full (he didn’t pick up a basket), when you’d ventured,

“I’d recommend the next brand up, if you want something stronger with better sticking power? It costs a little more, but it’s better quality, so overall you’ll use less”, (silently thanking Mr Wheeler’s recent diatribe on the merits and pitfalls of various brands of adhesive tape, remembering the detail because he’d gone so far as to demonstrate by sticking small pieces of it to your skin. It was a weird interaction for sure, but also oddly informative).

He’d lifted his head to look at you and your eyes had connected for the first time. Your eyes widened, and you think you spotted a slight twitch of a smile at one side of his mouth.

Oh, he’s actually really cute.

“Uh, okay, if you think that’s best”.

He dropped his eyes from yours and, after unceremoniously dumping everything else onto your counter, he’d exchanged the rolls and returned.

You’d both paused, you don’t know for how long, and you’d wondered how someone buying rope could be so captivating. But the spell was broken as you’d both spoke simultaneously:

“Did you find everything you need?”

“I’m kinda in a rush, so…”

You’d both chuckled nervously, and you’d set about ringing up his purchases, noticing that a small smile definitely now graced those previously harried features.

He’d paid with a handful of old, crumpled bills pulled from his jacket, politely declining your offer of a bag, and then he was gone as quick as he came, hurrying out into the night with the swish of the automatic doors and a breeze of parking lot-scented night air.

You didn’t know why anyone would need rope and a shovel at that time on a weeknight, but with this particular guy, who you dubbed The Stranger, you found yourself thinking that you wouldn’t mind finding out.

You’d unintentionally spent the rest of that evening coming up with fantasies about that particular customer, although, unusually for you, quite a few of them hadn’t actually involved what was on his receipt…

When The Stranger next comes in he’s after heavyweight garbage bags, more tape and a saw, but seems in slightly less of a rush.

He pauses at your counter for a few moments, making polite conversation, asking how long you’d been working here, whether you were working late tonight.

Is he trying to… flirt? Surely not…

“Thanks for the tape recommendation by the way, it was a real lifesaver. That stuff’s really good, I definitely have a new favourite!”, gracing you with a broad grin (oh fuck, that was a sight) before he was on his way again.

Another time he bought shears, tarp and a large quantity of painting coveralls.

The next trip involved wire cutters, buckets and a wet’n’dry vacuum.

You begin to enjoy The Stranger coming in buying random shit at odd hours. You can’t quite make him out. He buys a lot of gardening and decorating-type equipment (plus he’s almost single-handedly keeping the cleaning product aisle in business), but he dresses like neither - always in tight, ripped jeans, shredded band tees and his signature leather jacket. You’ve never seen him covered in leaves or dirt, and his clothes have zero paint on them. Those coveralls must do a really good job…

You build up a rapport of sorts with him. There’s always a polite, verging on friendly greeting between you, and you let him know when there’s special offers on tarp and garbage bags, and what days there are deliveries of latex gloves and those painting coveralls he seems to like so much. (Sometimes you’ll even stash a few of the latter for him under the counter if there’s a holiday weekend coming up, knowing Hawkins’ husbands will be out in force and not wanting him to miss out.)

But the ‘fantasy vignette’ and forensically-inclined parts of your brain begin to overlap, and start to tickle your imagination. It’s almost as if each selection of items he buys could be used to either dispatch someone, or dispose of a body. But that’s crazy, right? He seems way too nice to be a serial killer. And mob activity in this part of Indiana? Nah. That wouldn’t happen around here.

Would it?

It’s a quiet Friday night when you next see The Stranger. He’s picked up bolt cutters, pliers, some metal trays, a sledgehammer, a mop, and, most bizarrely of all because you’ve noticed he’s not usually one for personal safety equipment, ear defenders.

Again, he’s basket-less, barely able to contain the items piled up in his arms. They topple as he arrives at your counter, and some end up partially covering your open magazine.

“Shit, I’m really sorry about that.”

“Oh, no problem, honestly. I probably shouldn’t be reading on the clock anyway”, you say, slightly bashful, as you move the crumpled magazine out from underneath his items, smoothing it down. The Stranger’s eyes are locked on your hands, and as they move across the page they reveal a headline about a recently apprehended serial murderer and some photographs of a variety of grisly-looking, bloody weapons.

“That looks… interesting, watcha reading there?”, he remarks, leaning in.

“Oh, this? It’s about a new guy they’ve just caught over in Europe. He’s fascinating, he used such a variety of tools and methods that at first the police didn’t even think to link the crimes. Ingenious, really, when you think about it. So creative!”

You look up, and The Stranger is regarding you with an unreadable expression. Does he think you’re weird, babbling on about this murderer like you admire him? Or is he actually impressed with your enthusiasm?

“Sorry, I’m a true crime buff, it’s a bit of a pet topic of mine. And I’m studying forensics at college, so it’s kind of like schoolwork too.” You chuckle nervously, arms moving in front of your body and shoulders subtly curling in on yourself in embarrassment.

The Stranger seems to sense your discomfort, and shakes his head, making his curls bounce, smiling and chuckling along with you.

“No, yeah, uh, me too with the crime thing, actually. Well, not so much the reading, I’m more of a hear-it-through-the grapevine, hands on kinda guy.”

‘Hands on’? WTF does that mean?

“Oh, cool, coolcoolcool”. Smooth…

As you scan his items your fantasy vignette tickles your brain again.

No, don’t be silly…

You bag everything up this time, insisting it’ll be easier to carry, handing them to him and taking his crumpled bills.

Your curiosity is more than piqued and you can’t hold it in any longer. Feeling bold, you ask, “So, what’s all this for?”

“Huh?”

“The- the stuff. What’re you doin’ with it?”

The Stranger looks at you through his lashes, not speaking.

Shit, you’ve overstepped, he’s gonna leave, find a different store and you’ll never see him again.

“Uh, well, some people I know out near the big city are, er, planning a, uh, party, with a few of their, um, associates, and I think it’s gonna get pretty loud, hence the earphones. I, uh, don’t usually get involved in stuff until later in the evening, y’know, after all the main fun’s over.”

You look a little quizzical.

He thinks for a moment.

“I tidy up, but I sorta make it a bit more fun for everyone. Bring a bit of pizazz to a usually mundane part of the evening. Kinda thing.”

You process for a few moments. The ‘Mob Cleaner’ vignette you’d fantasised about screams loud and long into your cerebrum.

Nerves give way to curiosity, and you brashly ask, “So, what exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m kind of a cleaner, I guess? If someone has a problem that they’ve had dealt with and they wanna make the cleanup more, um, interesting, I’m the guy they call.”

Probing further, you clarify, “So you don’t make the, uh, mess, you just clean it up. Creatively?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

He explains he’s still quite new to the job, and kinda fell into it. His boss and his mentor are both encouraging, saying his USP is truly original (Unique Selling Point, he explains when you look confused), and that he definitely ‘has potential’. He’s learning a lot as he goes, but his enthusiasm seems to be appreciated and he wants to do well.

“All you really need is a strong stomach, imagination and a flair for the dramatic!”

He illustrates his last point by making jazz hands by the sides of his head, offering you a generous smile. Yeah, you can see how that particular part of the job comes easy to him.

“Oh, well, it sounds like fun. I hope you have a very successful evening!”

“Okay, well, thanks again! I’ll see you.”

You watch him leave, noticing in particular how well his jeans fit tonight.

What’s that saying again - I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave…?

You shake your head to rid yourself of the lewd - and crazy, yeah, totally crazy - thoughts you’re having about The Stranger and encourage yourself back into work mode.

As you busy yourself and tidy your counter you notice something small and white on the floor in front, about the size of a credit card. It must’ve fallen out of his jacket as he fumbled for cash.

Cash. Always cash. Never credit card, never cheque, never — anything traceable…

You round the counter and pick it up, thinking you’d save it and return it to him the next time he comes in. It’s a business card. The text is unfussy and clear, but glossy, bold and slightly gothic. It’s a company name above some text and a pager number, but it may well be the most intriguing piece of writing that you’ve ever come across:

E.M. Creative Disposal Services, Apprentice to Mr Kaplan & Associates, For dinner reservations call: (555)-666-6969

It’s another quiet night, but there’s already a couple of people at the counter when The Stranger arrives. Mr Sinclair needs a pipe wrench and a plunger (you don’t envy him his evening), and Mrs Wheeler has come in to buy double-As for the second time this month (although this time she also added gardening gloves and secateurs to pad out her basket. Not that you’d judge either way).

You spot The Stranger’s curls before anything else, bobbing in the fluorescent lights as he comes through the entrance doors. He spots the queue and immediately joins it, glancing towards the counter and visibly brightening when he sees you behind it. He’s carrying the sledgehammer he bought last time. As you start to ring up Mrs Wheeler’s batteries you see him examining the head of the hammer. Frowning slightly, he moistens his thumb with his tongue and rubs at one corner, then polishes the same spot on the front of his jeans.

He reaches the counter, receipt retrieved from a bundle pulled from inside his jacket.

You greet each other with a quiet ‘hey’. He continues, “I, uh, wanted to return this. Can I do that?”

“Yeah, sure, lemme ring it through the till. Can I ask why? Company policy,” you shrug, almost apologetically.

“Sure, uh, well you know that phase ‘using a sledgehammer to crack a nut‘? Turns out a sledgehammer does indeed obliterate the, uh, nuts… Let’s just say it wasn’t really suitable for the project I had in mind. I think I need something…”

Lighter? Easier to aim?

“With a little more finesse?” You venture, eyebrows raised, hoping you haven’t completely misread things.

“Yeah, finesse! I like that”. He beams widely at you tilting his head slightly, revealing the most gorgeous dimples you’ve ever seen, and it’s all you can do to hold on to the edge of the counter while your knees gently fail beneath you.

“Umm, you want some help choosing?”

He readily agrees and you direct him to the hammer section, both of you discussing the merits and disadvantages of various models as you choose ones from the display and encourage him to feel their weight and balance. He seems impressed, clearly not expecting you to be so well-versed in the finer aspects of hardware.

“Y’know, you really know your tools!”

You squeak out a bashful, “Thanks.”

You slip into self-deprecating mode and brush off his compliment, saying, “It comes with the territory I guess. I’ve picked up a lot working here. Plus I just sometimes browse the shelves, thinking of nefarious uses for random household objects.” Hurriedly adding, “For school, of course!”

You cringe a bit, thinking this must make you look like some kind of weirdo, but The Stranger takes it easily in his stride, commenting, “You know, you’d be surprised to learn just how much of a marketable skill that can be.”

You chat some more and he eventually chooses a smaller, less unwieldy hammer, and after he pays you part ways again.

You still desperately want to ask him exactly what he used that other hammer for, what ‘Creative Disposal Services’ actually means, and what the hell have dinner reservations got to do with any of this?

The next night you see The Stranger he saunters in at about 8:30. He has a different energy about him this evening, seeming both more relaxed but also somewhat on edge. He’s not in his usual ratty band tee tonight, you notice, and no leather jacket either. Instead he’s wearing a what looks to be a clean, maybe even pressed, electric blue raglan shirt with black half length sleeves. You spot a crimson guitar pick necklace that you’ve not seen before dangling from a twinkling silver ball chain, resting against his sternum and resplendent against the blue.

Observing his forearms for the first time you notice how attractive - and (oh!) tattooed - they are. Toned and veined, their shape and his mix of tattoos are shown off to perfection by that sleeve length, and a leather and chain bracelet that adorns one powerful-looking wrist. The glint of his chunky silver rings accentuates his large hands that peek out of his jeans pockets as he wanders over to you. He’s still in tight black jeans, but they seem a little… neater than usual. And he’s not in a rush. It’s almost like he’s not working, maybe even making an effort.

You feel a frisson of excitement - could it be that he’s come in just to see you?

Exhibit A, m’lud: Scrubbing up well.

He heads straight for your counter, and you greet each other with your characteristic friendliness.

He spies the hefty text books you’ve spread before you, and leans onto the counter to get a closer look.

“Watcha workin’ on tonight, Doctor Quincy?”

You swallow at the cute nickname, voice cracking slightly as you start to tell him about the assignment you’ve got. It’s about evidential tool marks, and how pathologists can identify what’s been used as a weapon or tool of dismemberment.

The Stranger tries to play down his interest, but his demeanour betrays him as he presses for more details, even asking if he could maybe read the finished piece.

That’s weird, right? People don’t read other people’s science essays for fun. Do they?

But you agree, promising to bring him a copy when it’s done.

The conversation lulls, and The Stranger twists the pad of one of his thumbs against the counter, seemingly a little nervous, though you can’t imagine what about.

To break the silence you slip into work mode, but for some reason drop your voice a couple of octaves and murmur,

“So anyway, what is it that can I help you with, sir?”

Wait, is he blushing?

“Um, oh, uh, I actually don’t have a shopping list today, I was, uh, just gonna browse, I guess.”

He backs away from your counter, giving it a few rhythmic slaps with his fingertips before turning away from you and ambling off into the store. He returns a few moments later with a small hatchet and mid-range fold-out knife, plus two rolls of his now-favourite tape.

“You can never have too many of these, amirite?”

He gives you that dimpled smile again, and you feel your stomach do a full (though anatomically impossible) 360° flip.

Observing his lack of focus and comparatively small selection of items, you wonder if he really needs those things, or whether he’s just picking them up as an excuse to come in to the store. Your chest heats up a little at the thought.

Exhibit B: Small, possibly unnecessary purchase. The evidence is mounting up.

Seeing the hatchet, your eyes light up with enthusiasm as you remember something.

“Hey, we just got some new stock in that I think you might like, y’know, if I’m not overstepping or anything.” You finish with a nervous chuckle.

You smile at him nervously through your lashes, skin heating even more in case this is suddenly all a bit too familiar.

He grins, responding, “Sure, go ahead!”

Your smile broadens and relaxes as you turn away from him and walk to the back shelves, crouching down and retrieving something in your arms.

Standing quickly and turning, you notice his eyes widen and immediately flick up to yours, a slightly alarmed expression on his face.

Exhibit C: Was he checking you out when he thought you wouldn’t notice? (Also, is it getting hot in here?)

With a loud thunk you lay two (frankly, terrifying-looking) multi-tools out on the counter in front of him. One looks like an oversized, overspec-ed Swiss Army knife, and the other could easily pass as a prop from an exorcism-themed horror movie. You over-excitedly explain the features of each, saying, “This one has a hammer and an axe, plus screwdrivers, pliers, a saw, wire cutters, a magnesium rod”, you look up at him quickly and ask, “do you ever need to start fires? Plus, it has…”, you wave your hand dramatically over your favourite part of the item, like you were showing it off on a shopping channel, and stretch out the syllables of the final two words for emphasis, “…a bottle opener…”. You raise your eyebrows and grin widely, like this must surely be the deal breaker.

The Stranger laughs, throwing his head back with deep-throated barks from the centre of his chest, and then he chuckles a little, bringing a strand of hair over his cheek and a curled finger to his lips. You’re slightly distracted by that glimpse of his extended neck (god, you want to gnaw at it), and that laugh? You wish you could’ve recorded it somehow.

You quickly compose yourself and continue, switching to the ’horror prop’ product, “And this one has fewer features, but I like it for its simplicity, robustness and practical charm. It’s an axe, hammer, nail puller and pry bar. And it even has a rubber coated handle, so you can still use it safely even if your hands are wet. For, y’know, whatever reason…” you finish, slightly abashed.

“Aw, Pumpkin, this is the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in a while, thank you.”

Pumpkin. PumpkinPumpkinPumpkin. Exhibit D: A term of endearment!

He takes some time to examine both articles, testing out their various features, hefting them in his (large, strong) hands (stop it!).

“I love them. Y’know what, I can’t decide. I’ll take both. What’s the damage?”

You visibly brighten, a squeak of delight that you hope he didn’t hear inadvertently leaving you as you puff up with both his term of endearment and your ever-growing customer service confidence.

You check whether he’d still like the other items he’d brought to the counter, and apart from the duct tape (“You really can’t have too much of this stuff!”), he allows you to reshelve the rest.

He watches, enthralled, as you wrap his new tools in the store-issue brown paper reverently and carefully, as though you were wrapping an expensive gift in a fancy department store, the pair of you sharing bashful looks and half smiles as you work.

As he hands over the now-unsurprising crumpled bills and takes his change his hand drifts closer to yours, glancing his fingers over your palm and lingering for just a moment. There’s a little hitch in your inhale, and you think you see his ears redden a little.

He gathers up his purchases in his arms carefully and gently, and he backs away from your counter slowly.

“I guess I’ll head out then. Uh, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, I guess you will, uhh-”

“Eddie. My name’s Eddie.”

“Okay, I guess so, Eddie.” You say his name slowly, like you’re testing out the syllables in your mouth.

You continue speaking, offering your name in reciprocation.

“Yeah, yeah I know your name, it’s kinda on your little badge there.” A tiny nod indicates the plastic rectangle pinned on your apron strap near your left shoulder.

Your cheeks heat again. “Right, of course. Ha!” You inwardly cringe. Well, that could’ve gone better.

He’s still backing away, getting dangerously close to an intricately balanced display of colourful children’s watering cans. You’re about to say something, but he turns just in time, ambling towards the illuminated exit with a mumbled, “Okay, bye then. Thanks again for these…” lifting the packages in his arms, and turning to look over his shoulder a couple more times before he finally reaches the door and disappears into the parking lot.

“Hey, d’you know anything about wood chippers?”

It’s been a week since you’ve seen The Stranger Eddie, and you turn abruptly to find him walking towards your counter.

His question throws you out of your stocktaking zone (you’d been focussing on ordering enough plastic pumpkin-shaped buckets for all of Hawkins’ kids this Halloween), but you quickly slip into customer service mode and ask for more details.

Eddie explains, using mostly his arms, that he needs one that, “throws everything everywhere”. You finally work out that he means the type where you feed stuff into a hopper on one side and the shredded debris is forced out of a raised chute on the other (as opposed to the more gravity-based ones where stuff is fed into the top and simply falls out the bottom).

He’s passing it off as being involved in some avant garde student art project, a performance piece involving feeding a load of wood and, uh, paint, yeah, paint into a wood chipper and having it spray out the other side. He blusters that the students are trying to make a point about climate change, or maybe it’s deforestation, he can’t seem to decide.

He explains that the piece is to be performed indoors, that there’ll be quite a few people present, and that he also needs a large quantity of tarp and coveralls because it was likely to make a huge mess.

This is the clincher. You’re absolutely convinced there is no art project, and what’s go through that chipper is more likely to be a human body. Or, given the amount of effort being gone to, and Eddie’s flair for theatrics, probably more than one.

“What size branches?”

He looks at you, confused. “Huh?”

“The, uh, limbs. What size will you be shredding? Some of the smaller models won’t cope with thick trunks.”

He swallows. His eyes meet yours, and he licks his lips. You can’t help but stare at those full, pink… Look away! Just look away!!

He subtly smirks, slowly moves his hands across the counter, and, gently taking hold of one of your hands in his, loops his other finger and thumb around your wrist.

“Um, definitely thicker than this…” - he extends your arm towards him, and moves his other hand slowly up your skin until he gets to your upper arm - “…and maybe a little thicker than this, too.”

You hope he can’t feel the burning sensation that’s erupted up your arm. You know he can’t possibly hear your racing heartbeat or detect the adrenaline that’s coursing through your veins, but you’re acutely aware of both just the same. You briefly ponder whether you’ll need to get a fire extinguisher from aisle 7.

“Umm, how about I show you what we’ve got?”

Composing yourself, barely, you take him to the large garden implements section, explaining that for larger trunks and limbs he may need something towable.

Under the guise of working out whether various models would be suitable, you take the opportunity to dig a little and find out what kind of vehicle he drives. It’s a van, so roomy, practical for carrying a lot of equipment that needs to be kept out of sight. Well, this all tracks.

Also, your brain helpfully suggests, it could potentially be romantic, a private little hideaway where you and he could… No! Stay on topic, you’re at work for god’s sake!

As you debate the various choices you find you’re occasionally leaning into each other, shoulders and elbows lightly bumping, you stealing glances at his chiselled jawline when you think he isn’t looking.

Eddie eventually decides on a mid-size towable model, and as you arrange for it to be delivered to the collection bay he bids you goodnight and disappears out to his van.

‘Art project’, huh? I don’t think so…

You don’t see Eddie for a couple of weeks after that, and you begin to wonder whether he doesn’t like you. Maybe you went too far, did you bore him? Did you frighten him off? Did he feel pressured into buying those gadgets or the expensive wood chipper?

Maybe he’s finally realised you’re a weirdo, like everyone at school eventually did?

Trying to get out of your funk you steel yourself and ask your department manager, Keith, whether he’d seen an odd, metal-looking guy in the store at all.

“Nah, not recently, but someone like that did come in a few weeks back, asking about when you’d be working. Something about your product knowledge helping him with a job, or whatever. I told him your schedule, I hope that’s ok.”

So you haven’t missed him, and maybe he’s not avoiding you. Good, that’s good. Exhibit E: He’s been asking about you?? Oh fu-

You’re startled out of your reverie by the sound of someone slapping two plastic packets down onto the counter.

“Oh, hi Mrs Wheeler, let me ring those up for you…”

On his next visit it’s clear Eddie is restocking his cleaning supplies, and he’s even deigned to use a small trolley this time to transport the heavy and bulky items.

As well as multi-surface cleaner, mops, cloths and some heavy duty gloves, you notice his trolley also contains numerous bottles of chlorine bleach.

“Big clean-up job tonight, huh?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I guess so. I need to leave the place without any trace of the, uh, performance this time.”

“Depends what you need to clean up, I guess. Y’know, chlorine bleach doesn’t necessarily get rid of everything.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating, common misconception by the way. Chlorine bleach gets rid of visible stains, so that’s great if your main concern is aesthetics. But you can still detect haemoglobin, if you have access to the right tools and solutions.”

Eddie looks bath engaged and confused.

“A-heema-whatnow?”

You snicker.

“Haemo-, y’know what, never mind. Blood, basically. So actually, oxygen bleach is your best bet if your biggest concern removing all traces of, let’s say, blood and DNA. Whilst it doesn’t necessarily remove all the marks, it does degrade everything biological to the point where it’s undetectable. At least, with the tests we currently have.”

Eddie leans his elbows on the counter, giving you his full attention, resting his cheeks on his knuckles and pushing his dimpled grin up even further. Emboldened, you talk at length about haemoglobin, DNA degradation, specialist chemical solutions and alternative light sources.

He stays there, rapt, until you come to a natural stop. Just before he straightens up he quietly mumbles, still smiling, “Fucking incredible”.

With a deep breath he returns to the aisles to procure both types of bleach, pays and heads out into the night with a cheery, “Wish me luck!”

The cleanup must’ve gone well, because Eddie’s back a few days later and is making conversation.

“Hey, um, I remember reading once about some guy in England, years ago, who, like, melted people. You ever heard of that?”

You contemplate for a moment.

“Oh, d’you mean the Acid Bath Murderer, John Haigh?”

“Acid bath? Yeah, that sounds familiar.”

“Y’know, that’s actually one of my favourite case studies! It was one of the stories that first got me interested in true crime. 1940s England, dude thought he could get away with it if there was no body. Nope, sorry! When I first heard about it I thought it was really inventive, though he actually took the idea from a French guy who’d already done similar. Makes you wonder how many undiscovered dissolved bodies there might’ve been before and since, huh?”

You wax lyrical for a little while on the relative merits and disadvantages of the dissolving of human bodies in acid, even relating an anecdote about how your lab partner once chose the wrong combination of acid and beaker type, finishing with, “Hoo-boy, that was a mess!”

You become a little awkward, aware of how long you’ve been talking and the possibly-disturbingly-creepy level of detail you’ve gone into, though Eddie doesn’t seem to mind and presents somewhat like he’s paying attention in a chem class. Regardless, you decide to change the subject.

“I meant to ask last time, how did that wood chipping project go?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, really good, thanks. Y’know that advice you gave me about the chipper came in real handy. It was quite the show!” He looks gleefully at you, flashing that brilliant smile. A few small fireworks quietly explode in your innards.

“I’m so glad! Did the client like it?”

“Oh yeah, baby, they were thrilled!”

Baby. That’s new. You like it, and you add it to your growing mental filing system labelled ‘Evidence that Eddie might like me’. You can’t even remember what letter you’re up to now, you’re just enjoying stuffing it fuller every time he graces you with another morsel.

“They even gave me a nice bonus, for my ‘theatricality’.” He begins to lift his arms, but stops himself, resisting doing the jazz hands things again, reasoning there’s only so many times he can do an impersonation of a court jester before it puts someone off. “Said they’re gonna recommend me to their buddies too.”

More softly, and a little bashful, looking through his lashes he adds, “Kinda wish you could’ve been there, actually.”

Oh my, is he blushing again?

“Yeah, me too. I’d love to see you work sometime…”

“You would?”

Okay, he’s definitely blushing.

He leans in over your counter, close, so he can say in a low voice,

“Uh, just so we’re on the same page, you know what I do has nothing to do with art projects, right?”

Holding his gaze, and with your voice surprisingly steady, you swallow before confirming, “Yes, Eddie. I know.”

He huffs out a stuttering breath, and the air between you seems to heat.

He lifts one hand and rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“Hey listen, uh, I dunno if this is a little too forward, or weird, or y’know, whatever,” He’s rambling now. It’s adorable.

“I was kinda gonna ask you if you wanted to get milkshakes sometime, but, uh, maybe you’d actually wanna come out on a job with me? I’ve got one coming up on Sunday that I could really use an extra pair of hands on. I could pay you of course, y’know, for your time.”

You want to blurt out that, for him, you’d willingly burn the world and everyone in it for free. Instead, you smile wide, and settle for,

“Well, my tutors are always encouraging us to get real world experience…”

“Great, so I’ll pick you up at the end of your shift?”

“Sure, Eddie. I’ll look forward to it.”

You’re both grinning, stuttering messes.

“Great! Great. Uh, okay then, I guess I’ll see you Sunday?”

As he turns to leave, you stop him with one final question.

“Just one more thing Eddie. Should I bring my own coveralls..?”

If you got this far, thanks so much for reading!!

Comments and reblogs make my world spin, do let me know what you think.

[pauking5]

Runaway 🏎️ Chapter 1

Pairing: Naozumi Hiyama x fem reader oc

Synopsis: There's no place for women in the world of racing. Let alone rally. Until you show up - the daughter of a racing legend who lost everything out of nowhere - ready to stir the pot of competition and throw fuel to Naozumi's fire, burning wild in more than just one way. Just how far will you go to take your rightful place in the world of rally, restore the team to its glory and change things for the better?

Genre: racing AU, enemies to lovers, rivalry, suspense, a whole lot of teasing, gender power games, dating in secret

Word count: 4.5k+

A/N: Here it finally is. I can't believe I got to write about one of my passions in this way. Though I love rally, getting the technicalities right was rough but I researched as much as I could on it so it feels like the real thing, though there might be some minor inaccuracies, not really affecting the story.

This one has been in the works for a good period of time and though this first chapter is short and fast-paced, there's so much more coming. Trust the process cause god knows I do. I hope I can make Naozumi justice and I can't wait for you to read the next ones. Enjoy lovelies.

Now Playing: Edge of Seventeen - Wuki

Next Chapter 3

It's not about how fast you go.

It's about how long you go fast.

Fast like-

A knock reverberated against your helmet, interrupting the pre-race mantra before you even finished reciting it, bringing you back to the chaos prior to the race start.

Chaos you wanted to avoid at all costs.

Blinking your eyes open, you took in the smell of burnt rubber and the atmosphere, fully packed with the deafening roars of the crowds in the stands soaring over the music heard all the way to your station. Another voice joined in the noise, demanding your attention.

"Raiko, are you ready?"

Letting out an exasperated breath, you waved off whoever spoke to you and closed your eyes again.

"Give me a minute, will you?"

Okay, where was I?

It's not about how fast you go-

A drilling noise came from your right, annoying the living daylights out of you.

Ah, fuck it. Since we keep getting interrupted...

How about I tell you a little bit about me.

Name's Raiko Suruki.

Yes, that Suruki. Here we go again.

I'm the daughter of the famed Hiro Suruki, five times Japan World Rally Championship winner, consecutively if I may add, proud podium sitter for thousands of times, also kind of a living legend of the primetime of the rally world. The same Hiro Suruki that started one of the best teams in the history of Japanese rally, snatching six more titles under his directory. WRC'S Golden Boy.

After his personal fifth title, he decided he wanted something more. Something that would fulfill him, beside his love for driving at the most insane speeds known to man and having his first and only child - that's me in case you didn't know.

Anyway, without any second thoughts he retired from the sport out of nowhere, changing the fireproofs for the laid-back team principal shirt and a cheap very 'dad' baseball cap. At barely 35 years of age, he took the biggest leap of faith and Suruki Racing was born out of fuel and passion for rally.

He poured everything he had into the team and built it from scratch, taking it so high in his prime that everyone wanted a piece of it, be it driving in a seat for the team, changing parts as a mechanic or simply having shares in it.

It was basically the shit. The pinnacle of the rally series in Japan.

The team became a national sensation. So many influential people, from mere businessmen to politicians, even foreigners were so interested in it and helping it expand. It genuinely felt like the only way for him was up, flying like a rocket towards the legends' hall of fame.

It went like that for a while. He was beaming with happiness, unable to understand where all that luck came from. But like everything good, once he started to question it all, it was like a switch flipped inwards.

And everything started going wrong.

All of a sudden the cars started missing parts the night before races. They had engine failures mid-race in almost every stage, followed by dnf's on every scoreboard. And those aren't even the most shocking things that happened. You name the disaster and it definitely happened to Suruki Racing at one point.

The mess piled up more and more and it showed.

Contract deals with sponsors started falling through, losing funding for a lot of parts and investments in equipment. Then the drivers got fed up with the constant failed races and blamed the car or the team if they felt like it. They terminated their contracts way before their terms were up under the pretense that they wanted different things... which were not related to Suruki Racing. The mechanics chose to stay, well, a few of them anyways, but it wasn't enough.

The team ripped at the seams and slowly but surely ran into the ground and dad couldn't find at least one reason why it happened.

It was like a curse you couldn't get rid of and I saw it happen first-hand.

The late nights he would spend in the garage trying new parts that kept failing with every test on the car. The way he would go as low as begging the drivers to come back offering them money he didn't have because no driver, rookie or experienced, didn't even bat an eye once the name of the team was mentioned.

Lost, penniless and with a heavy heart, he had to watch the one thing he loved the most on earth rust little by little, no matter what he would do to prevent it.

Mom called it karma for his reckless racing days because as talented as he was, the road forgives no one. That you can be God's favourite and still lose everything. And he didn't want to understand that. He never did.

I was too young to help back then. Too young to understand what Suruki Racing meant to him. Too young to do the only thing I could to save it.

Until now.

So, let's try that again, shall we?

Name's Rai Suruki, driver for Suruki Racing 2.0.

Another knock to your helmet, echoing in your head louder than the first, brought you back to the real world for good this time. Mechanics rushed around you to finish the set up on the car before you were called up to take your spot in front of the race marshal, which from a quick glance at the scoreboard would be soon.

Looking to your left, you were met with a set of dull brown eyes, messy jet black hair, a funky moustache and an extremely creased forehead for his middle age, all belonging to your co-driver, Don Tanaka. He's another legend of the sport.

Former training coach for some of the current biggest teams in the WRC, with a CV of experiences surpassing most people that have been in rally for longer. On top of all that, he is an even bigger friend of your father's. When he called him up asking for an old favour to train you, he couldn't say no.

But if it was up to commenting, you'd say he was one of the biggest fools for giving up a lavish salary with so many perks for one favour, especially for your old fart of a father.

Driving with him was great, but training with him was hell on Earth.

"I was doing my mantra," you reasoned, trying to get him off your case.

"Your mantra sucks."

He is an absolute joy to be around, isn't he?

"Well," you turned to him in your seat with a tight-lipped smile, "you're the one choosing to be co-driver to a young adult at your ripe age of 40. If I was you I would've picked something more calming, like gardening."

Bringing his hand to his chin in thinking, he sat in silence for a moment before he spoke.

"That doesn't sound so bad right now," he went on trying to push your buttons.

"Oh, shush," you waved him off, turning back to the wheel.

If there was one thing he liked doing, it was keeping you in check by poking fun at you. He was like that one uncle you could always go to with your secrets or to ask for extra pocket money, but in return he liked to tease the fuck out of you for it. Every. Single. Time.

As much as you hated his antics, you did kind of owe him a lot. He was the one who caught your talent for racing early on, back when you would drive plastic mini cars made from scraps around the team garage like you had years of experience. A few drifting maneuvers around old tires done like a pro at the cool age of 8, and he was sold on you and your potential.

Amongst all the teasing and the pain of having to train like a man, you've spent enough time with him to know you could count on him for literally anything. He was the best co-driver you could ask for and you wouldn't want anyone else in that seat directing your fate for the world.

He knew what it took to annoy you greatly in order to deliver on the dirt track and prove yourself. Especially now, since you were the only woman on highly occupied male territory.

Racing was a man's world.

With as many female advancements in motorsport as there were today, the majority of the community was still not convinced that a woman could drive better than a man or even compete alongside a whole grid of their species. They can regard you, acknowledge your existence, but they would never accept you.

Your father knew your entry to the championship would stir up a lot of unwanted attention, besides the fact that he was basically reviving a cursed team and you happened to be the poster face for it this time around. It sounded like a catastrophe in the making.

Frankly, you were ecstatic to get to drive an actual race car outside of the junior series and helping the team get back to its rightful place, restoring its deserved glory. But you knew it wasn't going to be easy work. Especially, since public enemy number one - the press - was going to try and tear you to sparkly shreds for a lot of reasons. An attack that they started before any official information was out.

A few months ago, when the announcement of Suruki Racing's comeback after ten years of inactivity hit the WRC, the media had a field day with it.

They criticized your father for being a nutjob that didn't know when to quit. They smeared Don Tanaka's name like he didn't make most of the drivers currently selling their dying papers. They even tried to get paid scoops from anyone involved with the team in the slightest.

But the team had one wildcard left to play before pulling the curtains for good and giving them the satisfaction that they ruined it.

You.

The press didn't know about you. No one in the other teams knew about you. Thanks to your father's extremely private life, no one even knew of your existence.

The only people that did were your team in the garage, from the mechanics to your PR agent.

Even walking into the circuit grounds this morning, long hair down over your shoulders, sporting the team gear in plain sight, no one batted an eye at you. Even if they did, they would think you were involved with technical or marketing - though even that was a rarity in this universe - or worse, just another groupie looking to get one of the drivers under your hood.

Your father wanted to give everyone a show they'll never forget by having you drive the first race in the calendar without a proper introduction. No car reveal. No interviews. No pre-race press conference. Just a car and its driver.

This way they would judge your driving before they actually got to judge you for being a woman at the wheel of a three hundred horsepower beast. He trusted you and your judgement on the track far more than the lousy press setting you up for fail. They would get a proper car show and speech after the race anyway.

It was out of the ordinary but that kinda summed up Hiro Suruki and his bipolar personality.

The distorted sound of a megaphone, followed by the voice of the race marshal called you to the start line.

"Car 7, Rai Suruki for Suruki Racing, you're up next!"

You could already see everyone turning their eyes to your station, booming cheers going quiet, turning into sharp murmurs.

Time to get this show going.

Rolling up your windows to block the world, you put the car in gear and drove to the start line, waiting for the green light. Looking out at the lines in the road ahead of you spotting the first hazard ahead, the nerves climbed up your spine faster than your engine could pump the pistons for pressure.

You prepared for this for most of your life, but if you were being honest, it all got a little too real now, sitting with your foot hovering above the gas pedal ahead of the moment that could make or break your career before it even started. The very moment that could be a step forward to restoring your father's name, getting the team back on track in a new age of rally racing. The moment for a change.

No pressure, right?

"Raiko," your co-driver called your name, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the road, gloved fingers tightening on top of the wheel with a small snap. "Do you remember the course?"

"Yes."

"Good. All set?"

"I think so."

"Raiko, look at me."

"You're not my style."

"Raiko," his voice turned more serious and deep with warning. With another sigh into the small, cramped space for breathing your helmet provided, you turned to him.

"You've got this. Let's prove everyone wrong."

He was right.

Let's prove everyone wrong.

The race marshal started the countdown, walking from the front of your car to the side, each number in the count descending with your nerves. You loosened the hold on the wheel, stretched your legs to the pedals and let out a deep breath.

"3."

It's not about how fast you go.

"2."

It's about how long you go fast.

"1."

Fast like lightning.

"GO!"

A soon as the lights went green, you hit the throttle and took off into the dirt, raising the dust behind you. You skidded off to the side a little due to the gravel but you got control of it before anyone could notice.

Tokai was a pretty difficult course to rally depending on which stages got picked for the day. More forest terrain gave way to hard roads, receeding in wheel control, gaining insane suspension pressure. This one was more of an open valley terrain, which was a bit safer, but the later you got the okay to race, the more dust and gravel from other drivers would pile up in front of you, making visibility dangerously low. The corners were way too tight and one second off from Tanaka's directions or a mishap of your footing could cost you and put your car on the sidelines.

"5 left over crest," Tanaka paced you for the upcoming hill and you prepared to release the throttle.

"1 left 100."

Wheels back on the ground, you resumed pressing the pedal as a hairpin portion came into view. The cloud of dust in front of you was chalky and you had to get through it before it raised higher. Putting the car in second gear, you got ready for the drift portion.

You had to be extra careful here. The mechanic in chief told you to go easy as the rear could send you into oversteer, throwing off the balance of the car and fuck up the race completely.

Listening to your gut, you waited for the right time then tapped the brake, cut the wheels and pressed the throttle, sliding across the portion. Loud cheers and whistles erupted as the crowd in the stands got up to watch you complete a perfect drift.

"3 right don't cut."

Reduce pace and prepare for a possible road hazard.

You slowed down and sure enough a bump in the road came up. If you missed that one and took it at 120 kph, it would've projected you off the track, crashing the car hard into the rocky wall like a cereal box. Thankfully, you swerved around it, feeling the car lift off the ground on the left for a bit before it fell back down.

"6 right very long."

Hard left into a tight corner.

"Cut 8 left."

Tight corner requiring you to follow a straight line in the curb.

This was the last and worst corner on the track. You were lucky it didn't rain because this is where your car can skid off into the stands. You caught the straight line pretty fast, cutting a few seconds off your lap time without slowing down.

Following the rest of Tanaka's directions and focusing on the rest of the road, the race finished before you knew it. You liked the state you were in as you drove, mind clear of everything else because as soon as the adrenaline in your body decreased, your brain got bombarded by all kinds of issues.

Did I push the new suspensions too hard? God, I hope I didn't scratch the rear in the hairpin. Was my timing too off on that last corner? I should've practiced it more.

Driving back to your team's station, you sent all those worries at the back of your head and got out to watch the screen showing the score board just as it updated to display the new track times since you were the last to go.

1. Akira Shinkai - Sigma - 1.24.55

2. Naozumi Hiyama - Spica Racing Factory - 1.23.59

3. Rai Suruki - Suruki Racing - 1.23.40

"WE BAGGED THIRD PLACE?!" you yelled throwing off your helmet onto the car seat.

"WE SURE DID," Tanaka high fived you, beaming with energy just like you.

"That's 15 points on the first stage! Well done, lightning strike," he ruffled your hair as you snickered, nose scrunching up with a smile at the gesture you were already accustomed to.

"The car held up a lot better today than in testing. Maybe we lifted the curse," you wiggled your eyebrows at him at which he flicked your forehead. "Ow, what did you do that for?"

"Don't jinx it. We still have two more stages to go."

"But-"

Before you could say anything else, you were interrupted by angry shouting coming from the station next to you.

"I told you to not touch the third gear," yelled a strained voice.

You walked to the side of your station, peeking your head by the team banner, and watched the heated exchange between one of the drivers and his mechanic. Your eyes wandered to the car sitting in the middle, not one hand touching it for the regular post-race check up. From the different strokes of sky blue layered over stark white, the red and blue sponsor stickers and the carbon spoiler, you recognized it to be Spica Racing's.

"It doesn't matter now," shouted another voice, so annoyed and sure of themselves as if they owned the place. "I got a good lap record this time."

"What would you do if you had to retire in the middle of the race?" shot the mechanic, chastising the driver for being careless.

He got up in his face, towering over him though the other was much taller than him.

"We won't win if I don't attack!" he yelled back, throwing his hand in the air to make a point. "The moment I think of being scared I will lose. I won't make that mistake. So just do your job and fix the car."

With that final remark, he rounded the car to walk away from the station until he noticed you in the corner, now standing in full sight just at the line between your stations.

Quickly replacing the scowl on his face with what was probably his natural smirk, he came to you, stopping short of the barrier separating you.

"I don't do autographs, but for you I can do more than that," he added a daring wink, flashing his cocky smile at you.

Ew.

Taking a small step back hoping his vibes wouldn't envelop you, you uncrossed your arms from your chest and lifted an eyebrow at him.

"I don't want your autograph."

Taken aback at your response, he backed up slightly too and looked you up and down, taking in your deep blue and dark gold team fireproofs and the suit tied messily around your waist. The old, way out of fashion colours seemed to ring a bell.

"Suruki Racing...," he started doubtful, "the shithole that revived from the ashes? Are you a mechanic, a co-driver or something for them? If you are, why don't you jump ships? I wouldn't mind having you on my team instead," he finished his speech of intent with another shit-eating grin.

Who the fuck was this guy?

The audacity that wafted off him must definitely make him popular with the ladies.

"I don't think we've met before," you extended your hand out to him, curt and polite, like a normal person would do, introducing yourself.

"Rai Suruki, driver for Suruki Racing," emphasizing your role in the team so he got it through his head that you weren't some bimbo.

If you were, you'd make sure your fist decorated his face in pretty red tones before anything else.

He straightened back, smirk gone from his face in all sense of the word. It got replaced by some kind of curiosity. Looking between you and your palm hanging in the air he looked confused to say the least. He's heard about female racers before and seen some working in technical around the place, he's just never seen one stand against him on track.

Tired of being polite to someone who obviously has never heard about manners, you were about to retract your extended hand when he caught it in a firm grip and pulled it towards him, just holding it instead of shaking it. The move sent you forwards, almost barreling into him when your reaction response kicked in to steel you a safe distance away.

Maybe Tanaka's intense survival program pays off sometimes.

"So," he began and you wondered if he was about to say something intelligent or spew more shit with that mouth of his. He decided to choose the latter. "You're the one driving the Beetle dupe right there?"

Eh, come again?

Your eyes widened at him, looking at where his finger was pointed to confirm that he was pointing at your car and not anywhere else, then you whirled your head back at him appalled.

"B-Beetle dupe?!"

"I thought you were a guy."

Wouldn't be the first time I heard that one.

You took your hand back from his hold, wiping it on the sleeves of the suit hanging on your hips in the hopes that it would wipe off the disgust you were feeling too. It didn't but it was worth a try.

"It's the name," you replied through gritted teeth.

He backed up some more to scan you again, though more attentively this time, like you were some kind of illegality, cooked up from the pits of his imagination. You gave him your best front, hardening your jaw and rolling your shoulders backwards, proving you were more than a pair of boobs and a vagina, which was apparently his deranged first impression of you.

You deserved to be here. No amount of stares from the male specimen, surprised or with sinful intentions, could ever make you back down from this. This was yours to take on. No man could take this from you. Not him anyway.

So, you stared him down too, trying to find something else beside the extreme big dick energy and unsurmountable lack of scruples surrounding him. Struggling to see anything else but some disdain in the way he crossed his arms over his broad chest, a rich prick attitude from how he shifted on his legs like the world owed him golden lingos every time he breathed, and some leftover rage from the screaming match with his mechanic still present in the tick of his jaw, you let your eyes meet his own in conclusion of your very own analysis.

Yeah, there's nothing else in there. An ambulant douchebag. Just like I thought.

Flashing cameras were suddenly thrown in your faces, interrupting the intense stare-down between you. The press and some people, potentially fans of other teams by their t-shirts, surrounded you from every corner of the plastic barrier around the two stations, pushing each other over the race marshals that tried their hardest to keep them away. It wasn't long until they pushed over the barrier.

Too absorbed in the chaos, you didn't notice he leaned down to your ear but when you did, you stilled in your shoes, all blood draining into your pounding stomach. He spoke close and low, so only you could hear his words.

"Don't get too comfortable around here, rookie," he whispered, hot breath hitting the shell of your ear making shivers run down your extremely clothed spine. "Let's see how long you last in here because this season might just be your first and last."

Pulling away with another one of his smirks that were starting to get on your nerves, he regarded you once more before he walked off in amusement to his cool-down room, giving you a full view of his broad back.

Oh, just you wait -

A reporter shoved into the human barrier of orange and green safety vests reaching the railing, yanking it back and forth repeatedly until the poor plastic seal broke off, letting everyone else pool in around you.

Uh-oh. This wasn't good.

They packed around you like wolves on their prey, all shouting different things at you while shoving their big cameras, recording devices and phones in your face. The flashes blinded you, turning the world white and too bright for it to be natural light from the clouded sky above.

Your hands shot up on instinct to cover your eyes from the flaring lights as your ears focused on filtering through the blaring sounds of camera clicks and voices. Then the countless questions registered clear as day, hitting you like a truck at full speed.

"Are you Rai Suruki, daughter of Hiro Suruki?"

"Where did your father get the money to restart the team?"

"Is your car even going to last a season?"

"Do you consider yourself a challenge to the rest of the drivers?"

I guess that was it for mystery, dad.

Some of the other teams passed by the ruckus, sparing quick judgmental glances or sending disgusting sneers your way like that was the way they initiated your welcome ceremony at the gates of the jungle.

If this was any other series, you would've been so welcomed by the rest of the grid and treated somewhat better by the media and the fans. But this was the World Rally Championships.

Driving was dirty.

Talk was filthy, full of disrespect and unspoken trials of envy between each driver.

The press competed to see who would get your head on a pike first and parade it as the story of the century.

Respect was fought for, not earned.

It was a different game. One where you needed to play even if you didn't want to so in turn you wouldn't get played. Survival of the fittest truly.

You steeled your gaze, waving the reporters off and digging a hole through the crowd, successfully escaping away to your pit crew. Helping with packing up bits and pieces and taking your own stuff, you headed back to your team quarters, aware of the intensifying stares belonging to the rest of the teams still around their stations, talking about the first day in this season's calendar being an interesting one.

You had a feeling you and the team were the hot topic of conversation since you could feel their eyes searing deep holes into your back, burning hotter and doing more damage than flame-lit arrows aimed straight at you ever could. Tanaka wrapped an arm around you giving you his curled moustache smile, sympathizing with you.

Looking up at the sky darkening in mauve and pink, you let a small smile grace your lips. At least today was done. Your rally racing career has officially started. The team was back in business.

However, this first stage was just one of the many challenges still to come. Who knew what else was on the way?

As you trudged on the warm asphalt, warmed by the mid-spring warmth of March, there was one thing you knew for sure.

This is gonna be a long season.

Next

Thank you for reading :) As always leave a like, comment or reblog!

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Galileo Galilei Main Story

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies. Not proofread.

When I heard the story from her, various emotions clashed within me.

I could no longer put it aside as a coincidence.

Are you really someone who can influence fate?

Also, am I really that involved with you?

Galileo: "........"

After checking Mitsuki's condition, I returned to my room.

After some hesitation, I opened my desk drawer and found an old, forgotten origami crane tucked away in the back.

Galileo: "I suspected as much."

(Was that scar on her forehead caused by me?)

The scar on Mitsuki's forehead, her past stories, and the origami crane I now held in my hand all intertwined, bringing back vivid memories of that time.

Back when I traveled to various countries and time periods using the door in search of my dhampir brethren, I encountered an incident in a certain country.

------------Flashback-----------

Bystander: "A truck is coming! Run!"

A vehicle made of metal was speeding towards us at a velocity unimaginable in my era.

Among the cries of the surrounding people, there was a girl standing in the vehicle's path.

(If this continues...)

Before I could even think, my body moved.

Galileo: "Guh..."

Just before the collision, I embraced the girl and rolled onto the ground.

The vehicle then came to a stop, barely avoiding us.

Galileo: "Are you okay?"

Mitsuki: "I-I'm fine."

The girl was trembling and clinging to my chest, perhaps out of fear.

Still, I was relieved to feel her warmth in my arms.

Galileo: "Ah, finally, I..."

Those words spilled out of my mouth involuntarily.

The girl then looked up, and I noticed the smell of blood.

She had scraped her forehead on the ground when we rolled over, leaving a smear of blood on the right side of her forehead.

Galileo: "Sorry. I've caused a wound on your face."

Mitsuki: "No, it's okay. I was so scared earlier that I couldn't move."

Mitsuki: "If it weren't for you, I would've died. I'm alive, thanks to you."

The girl smiled brightly, and her innocent eyes overlapped with the eyes of someone I had lost, causing my heart to ache.

(Perhaps my body moved instinctively because their heights were similar.)

(Livia...)

Cruel scenes suddenly flashed through my mind.

Mitsuki: "Mister!"

Suddenly, the girl called me.

Galileo: "What's up?"

Mitsuki: "You see, I want to give you this as a thank-you. I folded this at school today."

The girl held something in her hand.

Galileo: "What's this?"

Mitsuki: "It's an origami crane. When you spread the wings like this, it looks like a crane."

Mitsuki: "Origami cranes are symbols of peace!"

(Peace, huh?)

The girl spoke those words cheerfully, even though they sounded like dry words to me.

Mitsuki: "Thank you, Mister. You're my lifesaver."

After that, I watched the girl run off to what seemed like her mother and then left the scene.

(Lifesaver.)

Galileo: "I couldn't save anyone, I..."

(Being called a lifesaver doesn't seem right.)

(Even though I saved one person, the weight of what I've lost remains unchanged.)

Just like how light casts shadows, despair lies next to hope.

Still, that scene remained in my memory and connected me to a strange twist of fate. 

---------Flashback Ends--------

Galileo: "The girl I helped back then was Mitsuki."

Galileo: "That event happened when I traveled to the future, which means..." 

Galileo: "Mitsuki came from the future, using the door in the mansion."

Traveling back in time, meeting the historical figures who have returned to life, and finally, without warning, meeting Mitsuki in that garden, it was as if I was following the thread of destiny. 

Galileo: "Even if she doesn't have any special powers, it seems she's still the woman of destiny."

(On top of that, the girl whom I once saved might have the potential to hinder my purpose.)

Galileo: "How ironic."

The coincidence that turned into fate made me want to laugh at myself.

(But the past is the past.)

(Regardless of any connection between her and me, it doesn't matter to me now.)

I tried to convince myself of this, but the eyes of the girl in my memory overlapped with Mitsuki's earnest gaze.

(The girl from that time is still alive.)

The fact that the life I had saved was now right in front of me made my heart tremble.

Previous Part ╎ Masterlist ╎ Next Part

[dresshistorynerd]

I think we can all agree that this is dumb, right? Though the title is highly misleading and the quote marks around "ban" do a lot of work here. These companies just no longer requires actresses to wear structural garments. Still a dumb and bad solution to the problem of badly made costumes.

Couple of my issues with the article:

The purpose of the corset or any other similar structural garment wasn't to reduce waist, but to provide support and shape the silhouette. In the article someone from Netflix commented that they shouldn't promote that women should make their waists smaller, apparently it's "bad optics". And from Neflix the main series where corsets are no longer required is Bridgerton, because one of the main actors had bad time with her stays. But if you take just one quick look at the Regency silhouette you will see the waist is far from reduced. Literally there is no waist. Completely covered. They have been doing something terribly wrong if they have made Regency stays that pinch down the waist. Some actors also seem to think the waist is supposed to be reduced all the time. I remember that one actor in HBO's The Gilded Age complained about the corset, but then in the same breath admitted that she had asked the costumers to make it purposefully a little too small so she could be tight-laced all the time (a practice some fashionable rich Victorian women did for high society events, and definitely not all the time). But beyond the inaccuracies in the article, there is an issue here. Structural garments supported the bust yes, but also in many periods they supported the weight of the dress. In 17th and 18th centuries and Victorian Era the skirts of rich women especially had a lot of heavy fabric which would be hard to deal with and move around with, if all the weight is only on the waist. But with a structural garment it distributes the weight to the whole torso, especially on the hips.

A structural garment needs to be fitted well and worn with with a shift underneath. It absolutely can be uncomfortable, create bruising and restrict breathing, if it's not well fitted. If you have ever used too small jeans that contain no spandex at all, you know how nasty the effects can be on the skin. Especially TV sets often have very little time for creating costumes and they might have just one fitting or at tops two or in worst case scenario none at all, which very easily leads to ill fitting costumes. That is a huge issue with structural garments. I've been making transitional short stays for myself and I have never made a garment like that so I'm still struggling fit it well (it's unfinished), and I can say it's not comfortable when it doesn't fit well. I haven't watched Bridgerton but I have seen couple of screencaps of different scenes with characters wearing stays and no shift to be seen anywhere. I really do hope they actually are wearing shifts when they have the full outfits on and just didn't wear them in these scenes for aesthetics or something. Because, yes, that will absolutely give you bruising, if you wear any type of fitted and structured garment against your skin without any fabric between it and the skin, against which the structural garment can slide against. It would be irresponsible to put your actors in such garments without shifts. I don't blame the actors for complaining about the "corsets", since I can believe they are uncomfortable if they are not well fitted or god forbid if they aren't wearing shifts.

I don't know how many times this needs to be said: corsets are not torture devices. While I don't blame the actors for complaining, reading comments like this kills one brain cell every time: "Women existed in that for such a long time, which does give you a lot of sympathy for that time period and what they were going through. For the first month, I couldn’t breathe." I'm sorry, but women literally did physical labour in corsets. They climbed mountains in corsets. (I have a whole post related to this.) Do these people really think so little of women in the past that, if corsets really were torture devices, they would have just endured them quietly for centuries? Of course the most fashionable clothing in a lot of the periods were uncomfortable and hard to move in, even restrictive, but those were the court gowns and ball gowns the young fashionable elite wore for the special evening occasions to show off to the high society. But does that really differ from today? If you look at the MET galas and stuff, do these actors really claim the outfits are comfortable? The everyday clothing and the clothing of the working class was fairly comfortable, and yes, they all wore corsets.

Yes, you can make properly fitted, comfortable supportive garments for costumes in any production. The proof is in opera. Opera singers wear corsets in a lot of productions. I have read many accounts by opera singers who talk about how their corsets are well fitted and actually makes singing easier, because you can "lean" on the corset (I don't know anything about singing, but that's what I have seen them say). Also they tend to wear those large and heavy period dresses and as alluded earlier moving on them on stage without corset would be very hard. Singing also would be harder as the singers could easily become breathless from moving the heavy dress without using the muscles on the whole body. Operas have much smaller budget than these big tv and movie productions, so there's really zero excuses for making badly fitting corsets.

So yes, it's dumb, it's inaccurate and kinda infuriating. But it's also actually pretty sinister. The issue isn't actors wearing corsets for many hours, that's what people have done for ages and still do in re-enactments, opera etc. The issue is that there's too little time for fitting and sewing the corsets in modern tv and movie production. And this is part of a much broader issue. Costume designers and makes are unionized in Hollywood and for a while now Hollywood studios have tried to cut the amount of unionized behind the scenes labour they employ.

Making profit from a movie or a tv show is not good enough anymore. Now productions that don't "perform as expected" are seen as flops. The production companies make predictions of profit and green light projects they have calculated to make most profit, and if they don't make that high profit, it's a flop and it won't get the planned sequel or the next season. To achieve those high profits they also do everything they can to lower the production costs, and one way is by employing as little unionized labour, to whom you have to pay fair wages, as possible. So costume departments are then very often understaffed and they have way too little time to produce the costumes in proper quality. This can be seen very blatantly in the clear drop in quality of movie costuming during the past couple of decades. So the reducing of structural garments in costumes seems like yet another attempt to reduce unionized labour disguised as feminism.

Obviously the good and smart solution to the problem of uncomfortable structural garments is to hire enough costumers for long enough time so they can have multiple fittings and make them better.

[usergreenpixel]

JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 38: THE EXECUTIONER’S HEIR (2013)

1. The Introduction

Greetings, Citizens! Welcome back to Jacobin Fiction Convention!

So, we have a new book on display today, and luckily not on the chopping block, but more on that later.

This book was actually recommended to me a long ass time ago by @maggiec70 in the comments section of my announcement that I was NOT going to review Shinichi Sakamoto’s manga “Innocent” due to the detailed visuals of gore and torture depicted there and a barrage of inaccuracies that even I cannot stomach.

Luckily, @maggiec70 turned out to be my savior in recommending that I review THIS book instead. “The Executioner’s Heir”, written by Susanne Alleyn (yes, I AM using the author’s name because she deserves to be known!), tells the story of Charles Henri Sanson, an infamous executioner who had to execute many prominent people before and during Frev. While this book takes place before Frev and serves as an origin story for Sanson, I am counting it as Frev fiction anyway because it talks about someone who lived in that time period.

The book can be found on Amazon and Kindle, or borrowed on archive.org for up to 14 days at a time for registered users. Is it worth the money? Spoiler: It is, but let’s find out why.

Let the Jacobin Fiction Convention open!

(This review is dedicated to @maggiec70 , @montagnarde1793 and @on-holidays-by-mistake .)

2. The Summary

As mentioned above, the book tells the story of Charles Henri Sanson, the famous executioner who would go on to behead quite a few other Frev figures. This book is his origin story, showcasing how he became the executioner and the struggles he faced in his early life both from his lack of desire to do that job and society’s prejudices towards his profession.

3. The Story

I’m not going to spoil anything, but at first there are two concurrent storylines, one from the POV of Sanson and another from the POV of a young aristocrat called François Lefebvre de la Barre. Both are historical people, so those who know La Barre might know what will happen already, but I sure did not while reading.

Again, without spoilers, while their stories start out being simply parallel to one another, which might confuse uninitiated readers (like me) at first, this narrative decision pays off towards the end, when the stories of these young men finally overlap, so the decision to include both POVs retroactively makes a ton of sense.

The pacing does include time skips, but they are not jarring at all and the characters develop in a very organic way that makes sense for them. Speaking of which!

4. The Characters

I do like Charles Sanson’s character. He is a kind man who inherited his father’s trade of executioner simply because he doesn’t have a choice in the matter and he has to commence the gruesome duties at a young age due to his father’s unexpected stroke.

While at first Charles does wish to escape his duties and study medicine instead, he eventually has to accept his role in society and simply tries to make the best of an awful situation by trying to make sure that the executed people don’t suffer too much before dying. He also never fully comes to terms with the brutal methods of torture and execution used at the time and begins to question the status quo, wondering if he is an instrument of justice or a tool of brutality and oppression of Ancien Régime in general and the monarchy and clergy in particular.

Charles’s father, Jean-Baptiste, is a strict but caring father, protecting his younger children from the scorn of the society that treats them as pariahs, while also preparing his sons for becoming executioners because he knows they would have no other option and someone simply has to do that job. He also tries to shield the children who are too young from the entire truth of his profession until they are older and can comprehend more.

Jeannette Sanson, Jean-Baptiste’s second wife, is a secondary character who is more in the background, but she does have her role. Jeannette is as far from an evil stepmother archetype as you get and she too tries to shield Charles until he is older. She is a homemaker who finds her joy in motherhood and marriage, but she is also Jean-Baptiste’s confidant and cares for her family, including her stepchildren.

Marthe Sanson, the paternal grandmother of Charles, is a harsh woman who rules the household with an iron fist, but she is a realist who correctly points out to Charles that if he refuses to take over when his father is sick, the family will not have enough money to survive and pay the servants. While manipulative, strict and rude, Marthe is simply a realist who thinks she is doing what is best. It’s still satisfying when Charles finally stands up to her though.

Charles’s full sister, Madeleine, is his closest confidant while they are growing up. She is a realist like Marthe, but in a more gentle way and she matures rather quickly too.

François Lefebvre de la Barre, the second protagonist, is the 18th century equivalent of a drunken frat boy, constantly getting into trouble and doing stupid shit like mooning (showing his bare ass) the town’s mayor at night. He is simply a stupid kid but relatable as a character.

In general, Susanne Alleyn really knows her stuff when it comes to writing complex characters.

5. The Setting

Oh my goodness, the setting! The vivid description and the obvious enormous amount of research pay off and make the story that much more realistic and entertaining to read.

6. The Writing

The writing is superb. Luckily lacking modern slang that wouldn’t realistically belong in the setting, but not being too complicated for the modern reader. There are some French words used in the story, but their meanings are organically included in the narrative to avoid confusion.

7. The Conclusion

I know it’s entertaining when I trash bad fiction, but I’m very happy to say that this one is a book I actually enjoyed and read from cover to cover. So please, if you aren’t very squeamish about scenes of execution in France before the invention of guillotine and before the abolition of torture (during Frev), do check it out!

As for me, I am going to respectfully bow out and work on my university research paper. Thus, I declare today’s meeting concluded.

Stay tuned for future reviews!

Love,

Citizen Green Pixel

[sailor-aviator]

By Its Cover Masterlist

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: The frivolity of high society has never much interested in you. You preferred to spend your time reading, something your sisters couldn't fathom as they spent their time shopping the latest dress styles. The youngest of five children and the fourth daughter, not much was expected of you. You knew you might be married one day, but you hoped beyond hope that it would be to someone that might understand your intellectual pursuits. You begin exchanging letters with a mysterious stranger, and what's more, your older brother's rakish best friend seems to find himself in your path more and more as the season goes on. What's a girl to do? (Regency!AU)

Series Content Warnings: Historical Inaccuracies, Period typical sexism, Feminism, Swearing, Violence, Kind of slow burn, Literary references, Secret admirer, Misunderstandings, Embarrassment, Reader is a Weird Girl™️ of sorts, fluff, angst, not sure if there will be explicit smut in this one yet. Chapters will have individual warnings.

All posts related to this series will be tagged as "By Its Cover," "BIC," and "Regency!Jake."

Meet our heroine.

*Denotes smut.

Masterlist || Moodboard

Series;

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two (Coming Soon)

Drabbles;

Nothing to see here yet...

[vivalas-vega]

new perspectives / jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader / part one

hiiii part one hot off the presses. I’m officially starting a hate club for that guy from molecular biology if anyone wants to join. as always lmk what you think and if you want to be added to the tag list :)

new perspectives / jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader / part one

add yourself to my taglist

prologue

word count: 4.5k

warnings: language, angst, blink and you’ll miss it mention of drugs, naval inaccuracies (is this how shit works in the navy??? no idea but it does in this world lol) sweet and sad smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v (wrap it before you tap it folks)

The air was crisp as you strode across campus, a slight breeze ruffling your hair and sending a chill down your legs. It was a change in pace for you this time of year, back home you’d be sweating and praying for a respite but now? You missed it. You missed the heat that made the air feel heavy around you, missed the way the only thing that would cool you off was a dip in the lake and you missed the way Jake would tease you for your incessant complaining. You missed Jake… period. For eight years you were attached at the hip, never straying far and certainly never doing anything apart from each other. You’d been there to hold his hand in the hospital after he fell from his tree house and broke his arm, you’d been there to give him a pep talk when he struck out with Suzy Something in the seventh grade and felt too embarrassed to show up at school the next day,  you’d been there to celebrate him when he got into flight school… and he’d been there to give you his sweater to tie around your waist when you got your first period during social studies, to hold your hand and laugh with you when you were goofy on painkillers after getting your appendix out sophomore year, and he’d been there to tell you that you were crazy but really cool when you decided you were going to be a surgeon at the ripe age of twelve.

College was everything you had hoped it would be, you felt intellectually stimulated for the first time in your life… your small town hadn’t offered you quite the education you needed and you’d made do but now you were learning from the best among the best and you were soaking up everything like a sponge. You’d made friends, had a really good roommate which you knew was a miracle with horror stories you’d heard when sharing lunch with some classmates and you felt like you could see your future in front of you. You were at one of the best colleges in the country, one that nurtured your passions and challenged you daily and you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were currently laying down the foundation for the following twelve years of your education. This was all good, this was all more than good but something was missing. There was a Jake-sized hole in your heart and even though this was your idea it didn’t make it hurt any less, and knowing you had to tell him you were bailing on Thanksgiving was gnawing a hole in your stomach.

You brought your phone to your ear, not even checking the screen as you knew who it was… this was your designated phone time for the week and you sat on a nearby bench as you answered. “Hey, Jake.”

“Hey Jupiter, how are you?” he asked and you felt immediately settled hearing his voice on the other end, laughing softly as you heard the nickname he bestowed on you in elementary school after a science presentation you gave on the planet with sheer enthusiasm that just stuck. It might as well have been your real name now, your parents hadn’t called you anything else in ages and even your new peers used it after overhearing a phone call with you and Jake and you loved it… you loved that something Jake had given you all those years ago still stuck, even to people who didn’t know him or the backstory.

“I’m good, exhausted but good. How’s flight school?” 

“It’s good… exhausting but good,” he said and you weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry. You hadn’t quite figured out how to talk to each other yet. It had been months since you left and you’d hoped not much would change but that was a pipe dream at best and you knew it. Everything would change, even though you promised to remain best friends. How do you go from being so hopelessly in love with someone to friends without everything changing? “Excited for Thanksgiving though,” he added and you felt guilt tug at your heart as you were reminded.

“About Thanksgiving…” you started and you heard him sigh.

“Please tell me you’re still coming,” he said and now you were certain you wanted to cry.

“I uh… There’s this big project I’m working on right now, it’s solo but requires the work of at least four people and I’m drowning with it on top of all of my other classes… I was going to stay on campus over break to get ahead of it so it’s not hectic when I get back,” you tried to explain but you knew he wouldn’t buy it. You could work on your project anywhere, and he also knew there was no way that you were drowning, you were better than that. You managed stress and heavy loads of studying like it was nothing. 

“I get it, I just… I miss you,” he said and you sniffled as you wiped your cheeks. “Oh honey, please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” you tried and you heard him chuckle.

“Yeah and the sky isn’t blue, sweetheart. It’s okay, really. I’ll see you for Christmas,” he said and you nodded. But you didn’t see him for Christmas… or for New Year’s and your phone calls grew infrequent. Once a week turned into every other week, which turned into once a month and as the completion of your first year of college came around you hadn’t spoken to him since Easter and hadn’t seen him since that day in the airport.

You felt awful, you really did, but you thought it was better this way… every time you heard his voice you wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in his arms and if you saw him now while it was still so fresh you didn’t trust yourself to uphold your end of the deal. And Jake knew this on some level, because he knew you better than anyone. He knew it wasn’t necessarily personal as much as it hurt, that you were just trying to protect yourself and in a way protect him too because he still wanted nothing more than to hold you and tell you how much he loved you. 

And so life went on… you still talked, maybe once every few months as you advanced through school and as he accelerated through his training program. You were doing exactly what you said you would, learning how to excel at your chosen paths but it didn’t feel quite as satisfying as you’d hoped it would. Near the end of your second year a call from Jake’s mom had you packing your bags, stealing clothes and shoes from your roommate despite her protests and sprinting to the airport in record time to fly across the country for his graduation. You thought it was silly at first, you’d told his mom you weren’t sure he wanted you there, that you hadn’t really talked in so long and didn’t know if it was your place right now and she’d all but called you stupid. Your place was beside Jake she’d said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and as you stood in the hotel room his parents had set up for you you’d made a mental note to call them more… you knew why you were keeping distance with Jake but there was no reason to keep distance with them, they were your family too and would do anything for you, even give up seeing their son at his graduation despite her insistence of ‘he knows how proud we are, and it’s not us he wants to see’. 

Which is why you were now standing in a crowd among other Naval friends and family in a beautiful dress and heels you’d stolen from Mary, overlooking a group of new pilots all standing at attention as someone spoke into the microphone but in all honesty you weren’t listening, couldn’t be bothered with anything other than finding him there in the second row looking so handsome in his uniform. You were sure he couldn’t see you from where you were standing off to the side, and as people began heading up to tap out their loved ones you leaned over to an older woman beside you.

“Is there a system for how this goes?” you asked and she looked at you with a fond smile.

“Not formally, but usually it goes row by row,” she answered. “Who are you here for?” She smiled again when you pointed out Jake and made a show of her disappointment when you confirmed he wasn’t your brother, “that’s my son over there, if you’d said brother I was going to set you two up… he is a lucky guy,” she said, looking you over and you chuckled.

“Oh, your son is very handsome, I’m sure he’s doing just fine,” you replied and she nudged you when they began on the second row and you took a deep breath… it was now or never and you certainly couldn’t leave him up there the last to be tapped out wondering where the hell his family was. As you walked towards him you wondered if he’d noticed you or not, if he did he wasn’t showing it… not until you made eye contact when you got close enough and despite not wavering from his position you saw it in his eyes and broke out in a dead sprint towards him, tapping frantically on his shoulder so you could throw yourself at him and he caught you with ease, lifting you so you could wrap your legs around him. You sighed breathing in that scent that was so Jake as he spun you in circles.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling back slightly but not allowing you to put your feet on the ground just yet… he’d gone almost two years without holding you and he wasn’t ready to let go. 

“Your mom,” you answered, unwrapping your legs and sliding down his front, but you kept your arms securely wrapped around his neck. “I hope it’s okay that I’m here,” you said softly and he looked at you incredulously.

“Why wouldn’t it be okay? This is all I could have asked for,” he said and you flushed as you hid your head in his chest.

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, Jupiter.” The crowd had thinned out now, families all making their way out to continue on with their graduation celebrations for the day and you turned when you felt a hand on your shoulder, coming face-to-face with the mom you’d chatted with earlier telling the two of you to squish together so she could take a photo. 

“Here,” she fished a pen and paper from her purse to hand to you while she allowed you to look through the candid photos she’d taken of your reunion and you grew misty as you flicked through them, and you eagerly wrote down your phone number and email for her to send them to you.

“Thank you so much… I didn’t even think about photos,” you said, giving her a big hug and congratulating her son before they left and you looked up to Jake with bright eyes.

“Leave it to you to make friends anywhere,” he said and you just smiled.

“Thank god for her honestly, if I didn’t have a singular photo to send to your parents I’m sure they’d cancel my flight home and tell me to figure it out,” you laughed.

“When do you go home?” he asked tentatively and it felt weird to you, the two of you referring to Stanford as home. You supposed it was now… you barely returned to Texas anymore, spending a few weeks over the summer before heading back to campus to take summer classes… you didn’t need to, not in the slightest but if they were offered you were going to take them, you were on track to graduate early and you’d take what you could get with how many more years of schooling you had ahead of you.

“Day after tomorrow,” you replied and you thought his face was going to crack wide open with the grin that spread across his features.

“I get you for two whole days?” he asked and you nodded, laughing as he hoisted you up and spun you around again. You took him by the hand and led him out to the parking lot and to your rental car and he whistled when he saw it, “god my parents love you,” he joked.

“This was actually my parents, mom pitched a fit about the idea of me taking cabs with strange people in a strange city,” you laughed as you got in and you twisted in your seat to look at him beside you, just taking him in and reveling in the fact that you were here with him, in the same time zone, in the same zip code. You wanted to reach across the console, grab him by the collar of that uniform and press your lips to his but that wasn’t allowed anymore and you needed to push past it. 

“Alright, graduate, where to? What’s your favorite lunch spot, or where’s a fancy place you’ve always wanted to go but were saving for a special occasion?” you asked and he just chuckled, directing you to a food truck only five minutes away and as you sat on a picnic bench in the parking lot you listened to him catch you up on all of his training. You watched as he enthusiastically detailed his first time flying solo, the time he flew through a bird strike (and him explaining to you what that was) and how every time he accomplished something new he thought of you. You told him all about your classes, which professors you loved and which you hated, and you told him about how Stanford kids might be the cream of the crop but they know how to party better than anyone and how you missed him at every single one.

“Better than our senior year bonfire?” he asked and you laughed.

“Doesn’t even hold a candle, if you thought watching me do beer bongs and dance on the hood of your truck was peak amusement just wait until you watch the kid who got into every Ivy League and MIT do blow and sneak into the athletic pool.” 

“I can’t wait to come visit you one day, you’ll have to show me around your fancy campus and take me to one of these infamous parties,” he said and you smiled softly.

“Name the day cowboy, I’ll be ready to give you the full Stanford experience.” He began to rattle off a list of things you could do today but… you just didn’t want to do any of it. You drove him back to base and followed him through the narrow hallways to his bunks where he collected a few of his necessities, listening attentively when he pointed things out as you went before navigating back to your hotel. When the door shut behind you a weight settled over you, sure this was what you wanted… to just go back to your hotel room, put on a made for tv movie and hang out with him but suddenly it felt overwhelming. You hadn’t been truly alone with him since the night before he dropped you off at the airport almost two years ago now and that was a thought that made you want to break down and cry. It had been two years and now you didn’t know how to behave alone in a room with him.

“I’m going to get out of this uniform,” he said softly, kissing your cheek before closing himself in the bathroom and you sighed as you sifted through your duffle bag, pulling out a pair of shorts and one of Jake’s old t-shirts… one you’d stolen forever ago and it was one of many you slept in every night. You sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do with your hands or your body in general and you grabbed your phone to check in with both of your parents… letting them know the graduation was amazing, sending some selfies you took at lunch and promising to send the photos from the tap out ceremony once you got them. 

You wondered what you would talk about now that you were all caught up on school and flight training… Do you ask him if he’s seeing anybody? Do you tell him about the ill-advised one night stands or that boy from your molecular biology class you went on a few dates with? This was uncharted territory and you didn’t really like it… things were never uncharted with Jake before, you never once worried about what you would talk about or what to do, it all just flowed so easily. You’d been so lost in your thoughts staring at the painting on the wall you didn’t even notice the bed sink beside you as he sat down, not until there was a hand on your knee pulling you back to reality and you turned your head to face him. 

“What are you thinking about?” he whispered, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and looking down at you with concern in his eyes. 

“Nothing and everything,” you responded and he nodded, understanding what you meant. He shifted up the bed and pulled you with him, creating space for you to settle into his side. You exhaled in relief when his arms wrapped around you and you felt grounded listening to the steady thud of his heart in his chest. “I’m sorry,” you whispered and you felt his arms tighten around you.

“What for?” he moved to prop himself up and hooked a finger under your chin to make you look at him. 

“Pulling away… getting distant, it’s not fair.” you said feeling your throat grow thick with emotion and he just shook his head.

“We still talk, we’re just busy… and that’s a good thing, Jupiter, even if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes.” Looking up at him and feeling his hands on your hips as he watched you so carefully had heat prickling up your spine and if you focused solely on him long enough you could convince yourself you were back home in your bedroom and not in some hotel room in Annapolis but you were. Jake was different now and so were you but the feeling that settled on your skin and had your hands crawling up his chest was exactly the same. His grip on you tightened as he pulled you into his lap and you settled onto him with your thighs straddling his hips, your eyes fluttering closed as you leaned down to press your forehead against his. You missed this, the closeness, feeling like you were the only two people in the world with your bodies pressed against each other. 

“Jake…” you muttered and he nodded against you, hands trailing along your sides and you felt desire tingling in your every nerve ending.

“I know, Jupiter… I know,” he responded, and you were certain he could feel your heart threatening to hammer out of your chest. Your lips ghosted against his, testing the waters and you nearly moaned at the sensation as he gently pulled you closer to envelop you in a kiss. It was slow and deliberate, he took his time in opening you up and tasting you… if all you had were these two days you were going to make it last, make it count before you returned back to school and before he went on to do what he’d trained for. You experimentally rolled your hips against his, moaning into his mouth when you felt his hardening length beneath you and he pushed you onto your back to settle above you as he placed open mouthed kisses along your neck.

“Jake,” you started but he silenced you with a kiss. You suddenly wondered if this was a bad idea, if you were just prolonging the hurt but you didn’t know if you could stop now that you had started.

“I know… we can stop,” he kissed along your jawbone and you arched into him as he pressed against your core, “tell me to stop.”

“Don’t… please, don’t,” you sighed and he continued to kiss down your body, pushing that old t-shirt of his up to kiss between the valley of your breasts and you pulled it off as he landed between your legs, gently pulling them apart as he nipped at the soft skin of your thighs. He pulled your shorts and underwear off in one fluid motion, tossing them somewhere behind him as he continued to kiss around your core, sucking and marking you as he went. Your breath hitched as he licked a stripe through your folds and he groaned against you as he tasted your sweetness.

“Fuck, angel… missed you like this,” he muttered against you as he focused his tongue on your clit and pulled moans from the back of your throat. You bucked against him and he steadied your hips with his strong hand, keeping you in place as he worked you up the way he always did. He took his time, slowly pressing one then two fingers into you and massaging that sweet spot inside you that had you seeing stars, muttering praises as you careened off the ledge and into your climax leaving you writhing beneath him. “So beautiful,” he said as he kissed back up your body and you pulled him into you to taste yourself on his lips.

“Missed you,” you whispered against him, reaching between you to line him up at your entrance.

“Sweet girl, always were so needy,” he said as he pushed into you and bottomed out in one stroke. Your moan was broken as he filled you so completely and you shuddered as he began gently fucking into you. You moved your hips to match his pace and he pressed your hips into the mattress to still you, “I’ve got you, honey.” He whispered into your ear before kissing along the delicate skin of your neck. You wrapped your legs around his waist and he groaned at the new angle, your hands were gripping his bicep and resting on the side of his face as you gazed up at him and tried to soak in every moment of this… every rock of his hips and every sweet sound that fell from his lips. It wasn’t enough, it never would be, but right now it would have to be. “Not gonna last, angel,” he muttered and you nodded, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I know,” you replied, chest heaving as you pressed yourself as close as you possibly could. You felt warmth coat your walls and you rubbed your hands along his back as he softened inside you and as he gazed into your eyes you went to say something but he just shook his head.

“Don’t say it, sweetheart.” He brought his hand up to wipe the tears from your cheeks and you nodded as he pulled out of you. He was gone in an instant, disappearing to the bathroom where he reemerged with a wet cloth that he used to gently clean you up and he pulled the blanket over you as he climbed back into bed. You tangled yourself with him as your breathing steadied and you wracked your brain with what to say next… nothing felt quite right, you couldn’t say what you wanted to. It wouldn’t be fair, not to you and not to him but it didn’t make you want to say it any less. It was right there on the tip of your tongue and had been since you first saw him earlier this afternoon but you couldn’t. 

“I don’t-” you started, but cut yourself off as you tried to figure out where you were going with that sentence. “I don’t know what this means.”

“I know, I don’t either. We can’t- I can’t… I’m leaving next week,” he said and you stiffened beside him. You knew it was coming, knew it was inevitable, this is what he had been training for but it didn’t make the knowledge of him shipping off somewhere to do things that gave you nightmares any easier to stomach. 

“Where?” 

“I can’t tell you, Jupiter, you know that…”

“Do you know how long?” you asked and you felt him sigh, you knew you weren’t going to like his answer.

“Three months, maybe more.” he replied and you nodded, feeling fresh tears prick at your eyes and you gripped him tighter, as if you held on just a little bit more he wouldn’t be leaving, going someplace unknown and putting himself into danger. 

“Okay,” you whispered, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t okay, none of it was. You wanted to drop out of school, kidnap him from the Navy and hide away, go someplace warm and tropical and just be safe together. 

“It’s going to be fine… day after tomorrow you’re going to go back to Stanford, you’re going to keep blowing me away with how damn smart you are and you’re going to go to parties with your friends, and for me you’re going to go on dates, and when I get back stateside I’m going to come visit and you’ll show me your new life and everything is going to be okay.” he said and you couldn’t stop your tears, your frame shook as you clung onto him and he just soothingly rubbed your back and held you tight.

“You’ll be safe?” you asked and you felt him nod above you.

“Of course, honey… wouldn’t put you through that,” he said and you believed him. Even though you knew he had limited control over whether or not he made it home safely you believed he would try. 

And he did try, for those three whole months he was gone he kept you in the back of his mind through every training exercise in preparation and you were at the front of his mind when he was flying the mission. He wouldn’t make his mom call you and tell you the unthinkable, he couldn’t… not when you were already doing so much for him. You were holding up your end of the bargain, excelling in your classes and letting loose on the weekends, you even gave that guy from your molecular biology class another chance. You were trying, and so was he and you were making each other damn proud in the process but that didn’t make it any simpler… It didn't stop the two of you from thinking back to that hotel room in Annapolis, it didn’t stop you from longing for you to be done with school and for him to receive a permanent station, but still you tried anyway, because you promised.

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[ask-the-hws-immigrants]

Not to be rude or invasive or make y'all uncomfortable or anything, but where do y'all sleep? It's just that I know that Lithuania and America have slept in the same bed before.

Tolys: I'm used to sharing a space anyway, so I didn't mind when I moved in! It's convenient for everyone I suppose.

**Historical Note: Alfred has kept this home since the 1840s-1850s, a little before Molly came to the United States again. He did this because of the upheaval at the time near Washington D.C. and the personal convenience of living in New York. If D.C. is America's head, New York City is its heart after all.

There were a variety of architectural styles becoming popular at this time such as Italianate, Neoclassical, Georgian Revival, Beaux-Arts, and Gothic Revival. Many of the large homes built in New York City by the newly wealthy around this period were in the Beaux-Arts and Georgian Revival styles. I picture Alfred's home being in the Georgian Revival style like the Carnegie Mansion or the Willard D. Straight House.

Alfred's home is certainly downsized from the scale of these mansions, but has many of the rooms typical of an upper-class home of the late 19th-early 20th century. These homes were typically three to four floors, with the first floor being for entertaining company and for leisure. The reception room was for receiving guests and leaving calling cards if the homeowner was not available, while the drawing room was for entertaining guests or for the family to relax in. It was also typical for these homes to have a small-scale dining room for less formal family meals such as breakfast and a more formal dining room for entertaining guests in the evening. This smaller scale dining area was also typically where children ate when these evening events were held, and they were usually not permitted at the formal table until they reached their late teens.

Floors for guests to sleep and for the family were often separated, and in many cases the children slept on a separate floor from the adults. In very wealthy homes, there was usually a floor or space reserved for servants' quarters and passages for staff to move around the house in without being seen. In upper-class households, the husband and wife often had separate but connected rooms. This wasn't necessarily out of personal modesty, but more for the modesty of the servants who might be helping them dress. Here, Alfred and Tolys use it more for convenience. In lower-class households, it was still perfectly common and acceptable for a couple to share a room and bed.

There's certainly more that could be said about the layout of these homes, and I based these floor plans off of several historic homes I've visited and floor plans I researched online. Therefore, if there are inaccuracies or if there's anything I overlooked, my apologies!

[miapcain]

are the outfits in VDtWOF inspired by anything in particular or generic in a way?

Thank you for the ask! I love getting these :p

I had the opportunity to borrow a historian's rare book on 14th century bohemian clothing after he heavily criticized the last game I had a big hand in, Rhythm of Triverz, for period inaccuracies. That gave me a convenient ceiling for the most advanced gowns and armour you could expect in the region at the time. Resources on this are extant online but many don't cite their sources and most good ones are maintained on individual german historians' websites, so I need to do more research on this in general, but here are my basic rules for designing their clothes:

Everyone wears long gowns. Hose were pretty rare in this period. Women might have slightly longer dresses

Everyone wears a plain "shift," a garment that's worn under the main article of clothing. This is the one that gets washed

Garments, even rich ones, are unicolour. Mixed fabrics and colours appear later.

There's very little embroidery or detailwork on regular clothing

A garment will be worn with a belt, which might be longer the higher a person's status, and a pouch carrying an eating knife and other personal items

Most people will wear a head covering. Married women will always cover their hair outdoors, other women might do so too, and all women and girls cover their hair in church. Most common hats should be bundhauben or gugel.

A garment can be worn with a contrasting cloak (blue/red is a common one)

Jewellery is occasionally ok, but no piercings (?)

Shoes as we know them are more 14th/15 century; no big boots. Most shoes will be more like pointed leather socks or for ladies silk slippers. Poor people might wear wooden clogs.

No or very few fancy cuts. Later on you see tunics and gugel with with triangular or even fancier hems; This possibly exists very rarely in a limited capacity on things like a noblewoman's 'Kruseler' veil at this time, but that's probably it.

No black. No one depicted in this comic would be rich enough to waste money on black dye. Nuns and so on wear undyed or brown wool.

Military clothing is more "primitive" than might be expected. Not really any fancy visor helmets or big articulated suits of armour yet, most men-at-arms and even knights wear a mail shirt and a surcoat

As I understand, and I'm more than happy to be corrected on any of this, this applies almost universally. Peasants working in the field will wear dyed colourful garments, not plain rags. If it's hot, you don't take the outer garment off, you tuck the front hem of it in your belt to expose the shift. Masons will climb ladders and haul stone in this stuff. Some labourers or craftspeople will wear an apron and other specialized clothing like a toolbelt, too.

Note how Vesna wears a plain linen shift under her nicer yellow dress. I usually draw her with the sleeves all the way at the wrist, which would be the appropriate way to wear them, but she has it folded back here to make the composition nicer.

Bonus: Amusing pictures of King Václav IV slaying (150 years after when Vesna is set) and the "work uniform" of a bathhouse maid