#why am I relating to Shadow lately....

[tailshastwotails]

Shadow is so real for being tired of Sonic. I would be annoyed with him too

[sonknuxadow]

kissy for the birthday boy 💥💥💥

[hiramaris]

I'm gonna request something for haley bc i love how you write her and not so obsessed. im not sure if you are writing for request? but im gonna give my shot

a prompt where haley as wife, and the farmer was late passed midnight because of mining shit. and almost died (lmao). she got home safely, but limping with her wounds and bruise. then there's haley, saw her wife barely walking and her reaction, just comfort, fluff, worried and taking care of the farmer.

that's all, thanks, no pressure <3

Kiss it Off Me

CHAPTER 7

Chapter Summary:

"I don't like your stupid gift!" She didn't intend for it to sound harsh, but as soon as her mouth opened, she couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "I honestly thought you'd know better than to give me something like this."

Pairings: Haley x Fem!farmer

Disclaimer:  I do not own Stardew Valley or any of the related characters. Stardew Valley is created by and owned by ConcernedApe. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Stardew Valley story belong to ConcernedApe.

Warning: violence, blood

Notes:

thanks to anon for being the first-ever reader to request a prompt. I initially thought to make a separate fic for this one but I realized why not make it as a new chapter? There would be some adjustments to the prompt, instead of Haley being the farmer's wife, she'd be somewhere in between a friend and a woman struggling to put a name to what she's feeling with the farmer. I'm really sorry anon for not following the route you're hoping for but I do hope you'll like this one.

Summer 9

The sound of thunder clapping from above her made it difficult for sleep to come that night. Despite the late hour, the darkness outside was illuminated intermittently by flashes of lightning, casting eerie shadows across the walls of her room.

Rain drummed steadily against the glass, a constant reminder of Yoba's fury. The room felt oppressive, suffocating almost, as if the storm had seeped its way indoors, invading her sanctuary.

She had always hated rain. Well, the main reason is it's horrible weather for a dashing photographer like her. Not only does it ruin her hair that she spent all morning fixing, but it could also ruin her equipment. Oh, did she also mention it gives an awful lighting?

She also shares the same level of dislike for storms because they destroy the calmness of rain. It's aggressive, cold, and destructive.

That's why the moment the news announced there would be a storm for the next three days, she was quick to stock every little favorite snack she could think of because there was no way she was waltzing outside in that kind of weather.

Haley popped out a tired eye as she looked at the clock beside her.

1:56 AM.

Oh, joy it's almost two in the morning. How in Yoba's name could she go outside with bags under her eyes probably heavier than all of Emily's hippie gems combined?

'I mean– there's always a concealer,' she thought but quickly dismissed the idea.

She has been minimizing her makeup since... since whatever (when you told her she looked prettier even without them) PLUS with summer's sweltering heat, layering on cosmetics seemed suffocating.

With a groan, she pushed herself up from the bed, determination flashing in her tired eyes as she made her way to the kitchen to get a glass of milk, hoping that this little solution would finally give her the sleep she'd been craving for.

But as she reached for the milk, a cacophony outside shattered the stillness of the night. Haley froze, her heart pounding in her chest. It's kind of hard to tell with the harsh rain and thunder and everything.

As if to confirm that her mind wasn't playing tricks on her, a set of audible coughs echoed just behind the door. Haley's heart thumped so loud she was afraid it might come out of her chest.

That could only be an intruder.

In Haley's sleep-deprived mind, she didn't stop to even realize that Pelican Town had never experienced a robbery in the dead of night. Instead, she quickly bolted to her room, grabbing Alex's old baseball bat he had left here one time, not even having the presence of mind to wake up Emily to face this 'intruder' together.

****

Spoiler alert, it wasn't an intruder but an idiotic farmer covered in dirt and unbelievably wet from the rain.

You were holding your rucksack close to your chest for dear life with your sword held tightly by your other hand when Haley found you slumped against the door.

"What the hell are you doing outside at this hour and in this weather?" was the first words she uttered when her eyes spotted you. She was quick to help you up and bring you inside, not even minding the mud and water accumulating from where you stood.

When you didn't respond, Haley met your eyes.

Haley's heart nearly stopped at the sight beyond her. Without being hidden by the darkness, she could finally see your whole state.

There standing is the farmer herself. Your white hoodie was tattered and looked burned. Your hoodie's sleeves are ripped too up to your upper arms, and your left arm has a cut with fresh blood still gushing out of it.

You were missing the other pair of your shoes, and your hair was disheveled and covered with slime. You even had multiple scratches and scrapes all over your body. Your right cheek has some small scratches, and blood is rushing out of the wound on your forehead.

"Yoba..." Haley's voice was barely a whisper as she gently cupped your cheeks, careful not to aggravate your wounds. Her eyes flickered to the gash on your forehead, blood still seeping from the wound. "What happened, Y/n/n? We need to get you to Harvey!"

You shook your head weakly, struggling to stand upright. "No... H-harvey," you protested, your voice strained. "H-he'll kill me."

"Y/n!" Haley's arms enveloped you in a tight embrace as you nearly stumbled over her. She wanted to reprimand you, to demand answers, but the rush of blood in her ears and the pounding of her heart against her chest prevented her from doing so.

For now, she needed to make sure you were okay.

You only grunted in response as you gave in to her, allowing her to guide you onto the cushions.

"I'm just gonna get a towel and the first aid." Her lips trembled as she said those words.

In record time, she was able to get everything she thought you'd need, afraid if she missed any more seconds you wouldn't be breathing.

When she returned to the living room, she almost went ballistic when she spotted your form unmoving from your seat.

"Y/n! Wake up, for Yoba's sake! Don't you dare die on—" Haley's words caught in her throat as you rasped out a response.

"...oh, look an angel," you managed with a small grin, your tired eyes fluttering open.

Haley couldn't help but smile softly at your attempt to lighten the mood. "Very funny," she replied, relief flooding through her as she saw you conscious, if only barely.

Wordlessly, she draped a towel over you, tucking it gently to ensure you stayed warm. It was the same blanket she used during storms like this when she felt cold herself.

With a purposeful stride, she made her way to the fireplace, adding more wood to the fire in hopes of warming you further.

"Keep your eyes open, please? I'm just gonna get some rags to clean up your wound," she requested gently.

She placed the first aid kit on the coffee table in front of you before heading to the kitchen to gather clean rags and a sponge.

Returning to the living room, she filled a bowl with tap water and carried it carefully as she made her way back to you.

With great tenderness, Haley cautiously wiped the blood from your body with the sponge, dampening it in the tap water she had prepared. She winced as the color of the water turned red.

"You lost too much blood," Haley commented, masking the shakiness of her voice. She wasn't a great fan of blood but she was not naive with treating minor injuries either. She silently thanked Yoba for letting Emily force her to learn a thing or two about first aid.

You only grunted in response to her observation.

"What happened, Y/n?" She couldn't hide the worry in her voice even if she dared try. "I should call Harvey and get you to the clinic."

You groaned as she accidentally applied too much pressure to your wound. "No... it's okay. It's n-nothing, I'm fine."

"These serious injuries don't shout nothing, Y/n. What the hell happened?"

"'I went to the mine..." you explained, and Haley waited expectantly for you to continue.

"It's storming."

"I know..." You couldn't look at her in the eye. "It's just that there's not much going on in the farm so I thought I should continue my expeditions in the mine. I thought it would be safe but..."

"But it wasn't." Haley couldn't helped but deadpan.

You visibly winced, unsure if it was because of your wounds, Haley's biting remark, or just both. "I heard from Marlon I could find rare items once I reached the hundredth floor, which I did," you explained, tapping your rucksack beside you. "But I should have known better that those items are rare for a reason. Not because they're hard to find, but because they're hard to acquire. Once I got hold of this baby," you gestured to your bag, "the whole cave was swarmed by slimes and shadow people."

"What?" Haley's voice sputtered with disbelief, her brows furrowing in concern. "Shadow people? I thought they were just myths!"

You tried to nod in confirmation, but Haley kept a firm hand on your cheeks, preventing the movement. "Uhuh, they're very real," you affirmed, your voice tinged with exhaustion. "And I can say they aren't really fond of us humans and, uh, dwarves I think. They're more scared of me than intimidating. I tried not to, y'know, hurt them."

"That's a stupid idea."

"I know," you admitted, your gaze dropping to the floor. "But given our history with them, I didn't want to give them any more reason to hate us. Plus, I was the one invading their homes."

Haley let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping with weariness. "Still, you should have fought back. What if they had killed you in there? How would we have known you were down there and rotting? You're the only one crazy enough to go down there anyway."

You didn't speak after that, and Haley mistook that as compliance. She was too busy fuming at your lack of self-preservation to notice the frown creasing on your features.

After managing to cleanse the visible injuries of your body, she began to grab some clean rags to apply some pressure on your forehead and your forearm to keep your bleeding to an absolute minimum.

She cursed softly under her breath, trying to think of what to do next.

"…Y/n? Y/n, wake up, stop sleeping," Haley's voice was quiet, her tone laced with urgency as she gently tapped your cheek.

Your eyes pulled themselves open and looked tiredly at her. "Hn?"

"I need you to sit up straight and pull your hoodie off. What do you have underneath?" Haley's words were gentle but firm as she carefully supported your shoulder and hip.

"…just a tank top."

Slowly, you strained to sit upright, wincing with discomfort. Haley could tell from the way your grip tightened on her wrist that you were not comfortable sitting for very long.

With Haley's assistance, you managed to pull your hoodie off, careful not to aggravate any wounds. Once the clothes were removed, Haley's eyes lingered on the minor cuts just below your chest, blood still seeping from the wounds. She grabbed the sponge again, gently brushing away the blood from your cuts.

After cleansing the wounds, Haley applied alcohol and antibiotics, causing you to grunt in discomfort. No words were exchanged as she skillfully wrapped bandages around your forehead, forearm, and abdomen. She then helped you into warmer clothes she found in her wardrobe, her movements gentle and reassuring.

"How do you feel?" Haley bit her lip, anxious. Honestly speaking, she wasn't confident in her abilities to treat injuries, so she anxiously awaited your response, hoping she hadn't made things worse.

"…I'm alright now," you rasped, your voice hoarse with exhaustion. "…thank you, Hay."

Haley felt a wave of relief wash over her at your words. Your face had regained some color compared to earlier when you looked as pale as a ghost.

"Do you want anything to eat?" she questioned tentatively. "I'll whip you up some tea and soup."

You swallowed gently and nodded your head.

"I'll be back soon then. Rest. I'll wake you when your soup is done."

****

About twenty minutes later, Haley went back into the living room, a tray in her hands. She found you sprawled on the couch (thankfully not moving too much), embracing your rucksack in your arms once again. She wanted to question what was inside and why you couldn't part with it so much but decided to make sure you were okay first.

The things she does for you.

She placed the tray of food on the coffee table and sat beside you, taking in your sleeping form.

"Y/n/n? Food's ready," Haley said softly, tapping your thigh to rouse you from your slumber.

Startled and kind of a forced of habit, you tried to sit up straight. Thankfully, Haley was fast enough to stop you.

"Don't get up. | don't want to wrap your wounds again," Haley admonished, her tone firm.

She grabbed a pillow and propped it behind your back to elevate your head slightly. As she picked up the bowl of chicken soup, she could feel your eyes on her.

"I can feed myself, Haley. Thank you," you finally spoke. Haley's eyes met yours briefly before she averted her gaze, a flicker of emotion passing over her features.

"Clearly, you aren't capable of feeding yourself. Stop being a baby and let me do this."

Your eyes settled on her for probably a full minute before you sighed in resignation. Despite the hardened gaze she probably wore on her face, Haley gently placed a spoonful of soup in your mouth.

"I know you can, Y/n," Haley spoke after a few moments. "But you lost too much blood already, I don't want you to bleed again."

"I'm sorry for causing you all this trouble," you uttered softly.

Haley paused and finally looked at you, like, really looked at you properly this time. Since you had arrived covered in mud and blood, she had been operating on autopilot, with only one mission: ensuring you were okay. It's the only thing running through her mind, leaving no room for anything else. Mainly, she hadn't thought about the impact of her words.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's no trouble. I'm just..." Haley paused, thinking about what words to use without giving away that she cared too much. "I'm just glad that you're okay."

Once you had finished eating, Haley placed the empty bowl down and reached for a damp cloth. Brushing away a stray lock of your hair, she gently wiped away a few drops of blood and dirt, her touch surprisingly gentle. She was so focused on her task that she didn't notice you watching her quietly, your expression softening as she attended to the blemish on your face.

"Haley..." you called softly, breaking the silence. Haley looked down at you, her eyes startled. A small, appreciative smile graced your lips as you continued, "Thank you."

Haley couldn't help but smile in return. Sometimes it's hard to stay mad at you. "You can thank me by resting and making sure this won't happen again."

You chuckled softly as you closed your eyes, resting your head against the pillow once more. "No promises."

Seeing that you were getting sleepy, Haley quickly gathered the empty bowl and cup and placed them in the sink. When she returned, she extended a hand to help you up, much to your confusion.

"Come, let's get you to my room."

"Haley," you protested weakly. "I couldn't possibly impose more than I already have."

"Shut up. I won't let an injured woman sleep on the couch, Y/n."

Despite your protests, Haley managed to convince you to agree with her proposed setup. While Haley wasn't entirely keen on sleeping on the couch herself, it's not like she has a choice on the matter. The cushion is uncomfortable as hell, it's like sitting on a pile of bricks. That's more than enough reason to let you sleep on her bed. Plus, with the mess and worry weighing on her mind, she doubted she'd be able to sleep anyway.

She was about to leave to clean the mess in the living room when she finally sat you down on her bed, but a hand stopped her.

"…have you seen my bag, Hay?"

"Oh, that? Do you want me to get it for you?"

"No, no. Thanks but I can get it myself." You made a move to stand but Haley kept a firm grip on your shoulder.

Haley frowned. "You can't barely even stand. Do you think I'm gonna let you walk by yourself? What's in the bag anyway? I'll get it for you."

"I'm wounded, not disabled–" you tried to say but Haley only raised an eyebrow at you, daring you to finish your sentence. You sighed when you realized that you wouldn't win against her again. "It's... it's a gift."

"For whom?" Haley couldn't help but ask. Who could you possibly want to give a gift that you almost died just to get it?

Was it for Penny? Haley heard she liked gems as well. Or was it Maru? If she could remember correctly, tomorrow's her birthday and she seemed to like everything you can find in caves. This totally makes sense.

But why did her heart clench at the thought? More importantly, how did she even remember all this information when she didn't care about them at all?

Before you could respond, Haley left the room to retrieve your rucksack. She felt like she didn't need to hear the answer to her question.

When she returned, she wordlessly handed the bag to you, prepared to leave the room once more. However, your voice stopped her in her tracks.

"It's for you."

She turned, mouth agape. "What?"

"It's for you." You smiled warmly as you held out a familiar-looking crystalline gem, about the size of a palm, emitting a dazzling array of colors.

Haley's initial surprise quickly turned to dismay as she recognized the mineral. Her frown deepened, and a flicker of discomfort passed through her eyes at the sight of it. She knew what it was, and just the thought of touching it made her feel physically ill.

"What's wrong?" you asked, concerned at her sudden change in demeanor.

"I don't like your stupid gift!" She didn't intend for it to sound harsh, but as soon as her mouth opened, she couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "I honestly thought you'd know better than to give me something like this."

"I..."

"Keep it," she said with finality. "Good night, Y/n."

With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and stormed off, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing in the room as she left.

****

She shouldn't have said that. She knows she shouldn't have but she was just so worried she couldn't control anything else spouting from her foul mouth.

She hated how she caused the light in your eyes to die down. Hated the way you weren't able to say anything else. Hated the way she just couldn't probably express her worries properly.

Now you probably thought she hated your guts.

Which is far from the truth. Kind of the opposite actually but she's far too tired and confused to delve into her feelings further at the moment.

It's true she doesn't share the same passion for gems and rocks as her sister Emily, and people will generally thank someone who will give them a prismatic shard because for one, they are pretty, she's not gonna lie about that. Secondly, they're super rare and by extension, expensive.

Haley just couldn't bring herself to appreciate it in the same way.

She hated them with passion. And she hated people assuming she liked shiny things because of her personality.

While it's true she's kind of materialistic, it was a trait ingrained in her from years of her parents trying to compensate for their absence by showering her with gifts.

She didn't like being materialistic, but she's so used to it that it's hard to stop.

And she hated how you seemed to think the same way about her when you thought about giving her a prismatic shard as a gift. That all she ever was were just pretty and expensive gifts.

And she hated how you let yourself get hurt just to give her this.

She hated everything about this.

****

Haley spent the majority of the night cleaning the living room, hoping to tire herself out enough to dull the heaviness and emptiness in her heart. She didn't know it was possible to feel both at the same time, but there she was, experiencing it firsthand, and she despised every moment of it.

And she hated herself more now because she found herself padding her way towards her room. Her steps faltered when she saw you peacefully sleeping on her bed. A gentle smile touched her lips at the sight of your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Unable to resist, Haley approached you quietly. She carefully tucked you in, a tenderness in her actions that betrayed the turmoil in her heart. Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to your bandaged forehead, a gesture she had learned from her late grandmother.

"To kiss the pain away," her grandmother used to say, and Haley found solace in that belief.

With one last caress of your cheek, Haley settled onto the foot of her bed, a magazine in hand, silently hoping for the sun's rays to finally peek behind the horizon by her room's window.

****

Haley woke up surprisingly lacking any back pains. She didn't feel sleep-deprived either.

Wait—

How'd she get in her bed? You're supposed to be– Oh.

She sat up straight when she realized she was holding a letter in her hand. Straightening up the almost crumpled paper, she could recognize your handwriting immediately.

Good morning, Haley. Sorry for the disturbance last night, and thank you for taking care of me. It means a lot. I didn't want to impose more than I already have so I excused myself while you were asleep. Thank you again. — Y/n

Haley studied the letter, noting the hastily scribbled handwriting that differed from your usual neat script. She could imagine you rushing to write it just to avoid dealing with her.

It hurt more than she cared to admit. But after what she said to you, who was she to complain?

At this point, it would be a miracle if you still talked to her.

"Good morning, sis!" Emily chirped, her voice echoing through the room as Haley emerged from her room. She sat on the couch, casually knitting what appeared to be another sweatshirt.

Haley's expression was one of mild annoyance as she replied, "It's noon."

"Storm has passed but Caroline canceled, just to be safe," Emily responded, her fingers deftly working the knitting needles as she spoke. "And I know it's noon. Just wanted to emphasize you slept late, little lady."

She glanced around the living room, noting the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, indicating that the day was well underway and the storm had thankfully subsided.

"Why are you here anyway? Don't you have a yoga class to attend to?"

Haley let out a resigned groan, her movements sluggish as she made her way toward the kitchen to avoid further conversation with her sister.

"Just so you know, I saw Y/n/n come out of your room!" Emily called out from the living room, her tone playful yet teasing.

Haley froze mid-step, her grip tightening on the handle of her mug. "Wha—" Her voice wavered slightly, betraying her surprise. "Nothing happened!"

"Of course, nothing's going to happen in that state she's in," Emily retorted.

Haley couldn't ignore the sense of urgency that suddenly gripped her at the mention of your state. You're in no condition to go home all by yourself.

"Just tell me you took her home," she pleaded, her tone softening slightly as she returned to the living room.

Thankfully, Emily's too caught up with her work to notice that brief slip-up of vulnerability Haley rarely shows.

"I volunteered actually, but Penny saw us on our way and insisted she could do the job," Emily explained, her tone matter-of-fact.

"And you agreed?!" she sputtered incredulously.

"Of course, I would!" Emily readily defended. "She volunteered!"

Haley's sigh was heavy as she sank down onto the couch next to Emily. "You should have woken me up."

She could feel Emily's eyes settling on her as if trying to decipher what's got her so distressed.

"I tried, but Y/n/n won't let me. Said you needed the sleep," Emily finally answered after a few moments of silence.

"You're unbelievable." Haley couldn't help but massage the bridge of her nose at Emily's casualness about the situation as if seeing a heavily injured farmer waltz out of Haley's room was just a normal occurrence. "I suppose she told you what happened then?"

"Uh-huh. Accident in the mines, right? And she went here instead to the clinic because Harvey would kill her once he saw her state." Emily chuckled, her tone light as if discussing the weather. "He just literally told her last time to take it easy."

Haley blinked in disbelief. "And how do you know this?"

"Everyone knows this, Haley." Emily looked at her as if wondering why she didn't know this piece of information. "It's practically a common thing to see Y/n/n passed out outside in the morning."

Haley's brows furrowed in frustration, her mind racing with thoughts. Of course, she doesn't know this. If she would have known, she would have told you to take it easy. Hell, she'll help with farming if it will make things easier for you. This thing where you pass out and overwork yourself shouldn't be normalized. Actually, if anything—

She stopped herself from this line of thinking because why the hell was she even considering helping out with your farm when she, in fact, hated dirt?

"She also told me how you stepped up and helped her," Emily continued, her voice pulling Haley back to the present moment. She felt Emily's hand pat her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. "I saw she's well-cleaned up. I'm proud of you, sis."

Haley forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. I'm not proud of what I did, Em.

*****

Summer 10

The sky was painted with hues of pink and orange as Haley sat alone on the shore, the gentle sound of waves lapping against the sand providing a soothing rhythm to her troubled thoughts. She had come here seeking solace, the ocean always offering her a sense of peace in times of distress.

The events yesterday had bothered her more than she had let on. She convinced herself you'd understand why she reacted the way she did but a part of herself thinks she should apologize.

But as stubborn as she is, she instead spent the whole day sulking, which is what she did.

She embraced her knees closer to her chest, fingers brushing the bracelet adorning her wrist. It was her great-grandma's, a delicate piece of jewelry passed down through generations adorned in gold and pearl on the middle part. Her grandmother has given it to her instead of her mom because she'd rather wear luxurious things than some hand-me-down jewelry. But Haley loved them, and it's probably the only piece of jewelry she'd ever wear aside from the shell necklace she was wearing now.

It was a ritual of sorts for her, wearing the bracelet whenever she felt sad and alone. It's as if wearing it made her feel like her grandma was with her at this very moment, comforting her.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't realize her bracelet had slipped from her wrist. It wasn't until she reached to adjust it that she felt its absence.

"Oh, no..."

With trembling hands, she combed through the sand, her movements growing more frantic with each passing moment. Her eyes scanned the water's edge, fearing the worst as she desperately sought any glimmer of gold amidst the grains of sand.

No, no... impossible. She made sure she was far enough from the water for that specific reason.

An hour passed with no sign of the precious heirloom, and Haley felt tears welling up in her eyes as desperation threatened to consume her. She practically combed the whole beach for it and still no signs of the bracelet.

She couldn't help but slump back to the sand. She's feeling everything too much.

She's such a useless piece of shit. She couldn't even kept an important heirloom. How the hell can she even keep someone like you in her life?

Everyone's right. She's way up high in the clouds that everything she touches crumbles within her fingertips.

The tears are threatening to fall from her eyes and a sob is rising on her throat.

And just before a tear fell from her eyes, a hand shot up and grabbed her by the shoulder.

She looked up and met a pair of gray eyes staring into her own. The grayish color of your eyes is stark and deep and seemed a little bluish from the illumination of the sun. It almost looked like the sky during spring or the ocean seen from a cruising ship as a cold tundra threatened to ruin the quiet solitude of the season. Your eyes telltale thousands of untold stories with every blink, stories too ambiguous, too dark for any of them to understand. Though not dark enough to feed her thoughts of the midnight sea, of storms and drowning.

Calloused fingertips thumbed mascara stains from her cheeks with such gentleness Haley doesn't think she deserves.

"I'm here," you murmured. "What happened, Haley?"

"I l-lost it," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion as she struggled to hold back tears. "My bracelet... it's gone! I know I had it on when I got here... But now it's gone, Y/n and I can't find it anywhere..."

She couldn't help the sob that escaped her as she burrows closer into you. She had probably stained your shirt with expensive make-up and salty tears but she didn't care as she dug her face deeper into your collar bone further and sucks a shaky breath.

"Shh," you soothed, sturdy arms wrapped around her tightened instinctively. "I'll go find it, don't worry."

"I'll never find another one like it..."

"I'm really sorry..." she felt you murmur against her hair. "I'm sure it's just around here somewhere."

"...maybe it'll wash up on another shore," she hiccuped between sobs. "I can't bear to think of it at the bottom of the ocean."

"We'll find it, okay?" you assured her, and Haley swore her heart stopped beating when you planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "Stay here. We're not leaving until we find your bracelet."

****

And truth be told you did find it.

After what seemed like an eternity of combing through the sand, Haley's eyes lit up as she spotted the familiar-looking bracelet in your hands.

With a smile so bright it rivaled the sun, you approached her.

"You found it!" she cheered as she run towards you, hopping from the sand and straight to your arms.

You weren't deterred by this and proceeded to secure your arms around her to prevent her from falling.

"Careful there, we don't want to drop it again, do we?" You barked out a laugh but Haley was quick to recognize the grunt of pain in them.

"Yoba, I'm sorry! I forgot you're still wounded!" Haley made a move to let you go but you weren't having any of it. If anything, you hold her tighter. Haley couldn't help but let out a laugh as well as she wrapped her arms around your neck just as firmly. "Thank you so much, Y/n. You're a lifesaver."

"You're welcome," you murmured against her chest. "Here, I'll help you wear it."

You gently set her down, much to her disappointment, and began to fasten the bracelet around her wrist, your actions filled with care and tenderness.

"Thank you, Y/n. Really," she murmured softly. "You're always there whenever I needed you and all you get as a thank you is me being... a bitch to you. I'm sorry."

You frowned. "You're not a... 'b' word. Far from it."

"'B' word,"she scoffed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips "What are you, twelve?"

"Hey!" you protested in mock indignation. "I can cuss. I just don't want to use it around you. I don't want to get used to it."

Haley's gaze softened drastically. If you keep this kind of consistency around her then Haley's bound to fall hard on her back. And since it's with you, you'd probably made your way to ensure she'll be falling in a pile of pillows and flowers. You're thoughtful like that.

"I'm sorry for giving you that gift yesterday..." you started after a moment of silence. "Let me finish first," you interrupted gently when you saw her mouth open to speak. "I just... prismatic shards are rare to find and I wanted to give it to you because I thought it's something you'd like to photograph."

You took her hand in yours, a tender gesture that made Haley's heart skip a beat, her cheeks flushing slightly at the warmth of your touch. The soft morning light bathed the shoreline in a golden hue, casting long shadows across the sand as gentle waves lapped against the shore.

"But then I realized how it may have looked like to you, and I'm sorry I made you feel that way."

"Y/n..."

"So I like to try again." Without further explanation, you strode towards the boat beside Elliot's cabin, your steps confident and purposeful, and produced a bouquet of—wait, are those sunflowers?

"No way!" she sputtered as she tried to fight the grin threatening to spill on her face. You're not supposed to look this dashing walking towards her with a bouquet in hand. It's unfair!

"Yes way." you grinned at her as you handed her the flowers, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "I hope I'm forgiven."

"I'm supposed to be the one saying sorry, you dunce!" Haley playfully slapped your shoulders before accepting them. "They're beautiful, Y/n! These are my absolute favorite! Thank you."

"No worries. And if you're free you can take a look at them at my farm."

"You planted them?" Now that she had mentioned it, it sounded like a stupid question. Of course, you planted them yourself, where else can you get these flowers?

But as usual, being the kind and patient person that you are, you only beamed at her and nodded. "Yep! I planted a whole yard."

"For real?"

"For real," you affirmed, your smile widening at her incredulous expression.

"But why? I mean compared to other crops I'm sure sunflowers aren't that profitable."

You shrugged again, your expression softening. "Eh, I wasn't aiming for the profit. I was aiming for your smile."

****

Previous

Next

A/n: my toes are curling while I wrote this, I hope you felt the same. Anyway, the bouquet of sunflowers isn't the same bouquet that makes Haley your girlfriend. It's just a regular ol' bouquet our farmer has personally crafted because she's a simp for our queen but just too oblivious to see it. Sorry for the delay, I had just finished my clinical recently so I was busy the whole month of April. Hope y'all like this one!

P.S. comments are much appreciated!

THANK YOU FOR 2500 LIKES! YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST, SERIOUSLY.

taglist:

@joordynn

@taliiiaasteria

@iluvwomen01

[ssa-dado]

0 - Symposium, definitely not Platonic love.

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader (I hope I tagged it correctly woops)

No use of Y/N!

Summary: Hotch, after seeing you reading a book on the jet, picks it up out of curiosity. Late-night texts with you evolve from work to teasing philosophical banter about love, deepening your connection. Through this dialogue, Hotch reflects on both philosophy and his feelings for you, as the conversation subtly flirts with deeper emotions.

Genre: fluff, sapiosexual fluff.

Warnings: Implied alcohol consumption ; Reader and Hotch being completely blind yet marvellously insightful ; Philosophical discussions, I tried my best to make them as user friendly as possible ; Sir kink if you squint, although it's not intended in that way at all ; The story is set around season 3/4 before the team found out about Strauss' drinking problem, I feel so bad anyways.

Word Count: 2.9k

Dado's Corner: be kind this is my first ever Hotch fic and overall first fic I've written in English (yes, I indeed am a real Italian stallion) so there might be some mistakes, bear with me.

next part - set when they first ever met.

Hotch sits on the couch, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across his living room, the house is so quiet, he briefly interrupts his late night reading session as he swears he can almost hear Jack’s light breathing from across the house. Those sweet thoughts, mixed up with the muffled night traffic almost lullabies him to sleep while the weight of another long week at the BAU settles into his bones.

His eyes immediately gaze down to his hands, firming holding opened the slim book: Symposium by Plato—a book he wouldn’t normally pick up on his own. The corners of his mouth quickly turn up as he recalls how he’d seen you reading it on the jet a few cases ago, sitting cozily and crossing your legs alone in a seat in front of him, strategically shielded from the table seats occupied by playing the rest of the team, including himself, busingly playing cards.

Every now and then his gaze automatically lingered on your stillness, the only movements coming from the swift air you moved while turning the page or adjusting your pose to be more comfortable, this sight intoxicated him. Your focus was so intense you didn’t even flinch at Derek standing up from his seat and leaning forward, while his hands gravitated towards the doctor’s bare neck after the latter just killed him off the game because oblivious of yet another variation they all added so it would make it easier to beat Reid. An attempt that ended tragically.

In that abrupt mess - from JJ laughing at the ironic hilarity to Reid using the highest-pitched voice his vocal chords could ever produce to defend himself from Derek's accusation of cheating - Hotch only remembers how your statuesque figure slowly had revived itself again as you glanced up to make sure no harm was done to the doctor. You made eye contact with Hotch and and you immersed yourself back to the slim book as soon the Unit Chief signed you not to worry and that he would tackle the situation himself. In a matter of fractions of seconds all your surroundings had disappeared again.

As soon as the Unit Chief was back into his office, curiously reminiscing about your hypnotic serenity, he’d ordered a copy.

Now, as in the comfort of his living room slowly turns the pages, his phone vibrates with a message from you awakening him from his trance, immediately wonders why you would message him so late at night.

“Hotch, quick question: about the profile for the Winger case—should we revise the victimology section?"

…Of course, he almost started to hate how his role as Unit Chief always seemed to ruin his brief-lasting delusions.

He robotically types a response, a straightforward answer to your work-related question but as he presses send, his gaze lingers on the book in his hands. There’s somehow a temptation on his side to share the weird coincidence, to see how you might react.

"Good catch. I’ll review it tomorrow.” He writes.

“Wow that was quick, I didn’t expect you to still be up, did I interrupt your late night reading session?”

He quicky blushes, how could you know him so well?!

“You did. Don’t worry about it. By the way, I’m reading Symposium tonight." He blurts out

There’s a pause, and he can visualize your surprised reaction, how the sight of your smile would always warm his heart; almost immediately, his phone buzzes again.

"Wait, really, Symposium?!”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t smile so much if you were standing in front of him, thankfully, the shield of communicating through texts allowed him to put down his.

You continue. “Not to raise your expectations too much, but that’s my all-time favorite book, just so you know!"

He swears he can hear the intonation of your voice reading that text, visualizing how you would face your palms towards him and raise your shoulders, trying to keep that non-chalant expression of yours and not perk a soft smile to him.

Entitled by that fateful coincidence, Hotch feels brave enough to decide to tease you - just a little - hoping the text doesn't sound that much so out of character for him as much as it does in his head, although he shrugs, sending it before he starts overthinking it.

“Your all-time favorite? A book about love? I should’ve known."

He pauses, imagining you raising an eyebrow, maybe with that knowing smile you wear when he’s teasing you. And even though he’s playing it off as a joke, part of him can completely see how you, could actually have a natural flare for romance - even if you never openly admit it and always tried the best you could to suppress that side of yours.

He decides to blame it on the years spent at the BAU when it was just the two of you along with Rossi and Gideon; At how you were recruited as soon as you turned 21, while the youngest person you worked with on the team and could relate to the most was Hotch himself, even if he was late in his Jesus year.

He quickly remembers how you would always overwork yourself - you both still do nowadays, that's why you're having a conversation at past 2 AM - He could see how you were always trying to prove your worth more to yourself rather than to your co-workers or even to the sketchy police officers and detectives somehow still stuck in the 1400s.

He had always admired you for your intelligence and acute instincts, and so does your nowadays team, immediately entrusting you with the nickname of "Prehistoric Reid" only because because you had started working at the BAU back when they still didn't provide the jet so you all had to move using the trains. Even if you already have 9 years of experience in the field, yet you were the 2nd youngest - still no eidetic memory though - this desire to always prove yourself never fully went away. One day you were the youngest, the other they assume someone way more genius than you were so you can't stand out anymore for merely for your intelligence.

You finally respond: "Well, it’s more than just a book about love. It’s actually quite of a concrete example of Plato’s take on philosophy - the whole thing told through dialogues, like a discussion among friends. But I won’t bore you with all the technicalities"

Hotch chuckles softly, picturing you downplaying your passion, trying not to sound too academic. What you don’t know is that he could listen to you talk about philosophy for hours - especially tonight, about philosophy’s take on love, no less. He doesn’t dares to say that, though.

"I wouldn’t say you’re boring me. In fact, I’m starting to see the appeal. But really, all-time favorite?"

He leans back into the couch, waiting for your reply.

You told him back when you first met that your first ever degree was in philosophy, and now recalling that specific information he's been wondering why exactly a barely-reaching-100-pages-long book holds such a special place for you, out of all the others he’s seen you passionately read during the years. A part of him is genuinely curious, the other part is trying to stretch as much as possible this conversation with you.

"Absolutely. I mean, think about it: a bunch of people crashing at their friend's house, sitting around, getting drunk, each giving their take on love while they feast at a banquet." You continued. "It’s almost like when we’re at Rossi’s, except instead of love, we’re all talking about criminology and cases while stuffing ourselves with his Italo-American dishes".

An image of Rossi pouring wine wearing an ancient greek costume - fake long white beard included - while everyone at the table delves into some intricate discussion about a case flashes through his mind, Hotch immediately chuckles at the comparison. He's sure you've imagined the exact thing too and he can almost hear you suggest hosting a real Symposium next time, his profiling skills never fail him as soon his phone buzzes again.

"Imagine if we recreated the Symposium at Rossi’s. Each of us giving our take on love. I can almost hear Reid's speech delving into the psychology of affection and its variations throughout the various cultures"

Quick on his chubby fingers, after laughing at the scenario, he types the continuation "In stark opposite, Garcia would follow him and pull out her tarot cards and read each of our birth charts, telling us who we're most compatible with based on our stars alignements"

While waiting for you, he stands up and makes his way towards his home bar, reaching for the scotch bottle, swiftly filling up his glass, silently blessing Plato for making this the longest light-hearted conversation you haven’t had in years. You were both either too focused on your work or actively suppressing your romantic feelings and ignoring each other. After all this time he would almost forget how the two of you were first and foremost very good friends. As the liquid burns the back of his throat, his phone buzzes again.

"That's actually really fascinating yet so intimidating, what about Rossi though? Of course he's hosting all of us but I feel he would totally blurt out some old-scool stuff he only understands. I know I'm not the only one who doesn't get his references, but I really feel bad whenever I don't."

He almost chokes himself after your other reply

"So, big boss, have I convinced you with giving us the free week-end or should I extend the invite our lovely friend Strauss? I fear that after a few glasses of Rossi’s wine all that angst towards you might turn into some ol' sweet love. I would watch out if I were you, Unit Chief"

You loved poking fun at him using his rank; It all started a few years ago to jokingly shrug away the awkwardness caused from how the co-worker you always used to joke around, spend the nights together in the same room, sharing your theories about the unsub and building up the profile with suddenly turned into your superior. As much as you both didn't want to admit it, something in your relationship had shifted since this happened, not to mention to the fact that it's much more awkward to admit to your boss you've been having a crush on your him for almost 9 years rather than to your co-worker.

Now Hotch, encouraged by the slight booze, further teases you "And what do you think my take on love would be?"

This was the closest he could ever come to flirting with you, walking on that fine line and never pushing himself further. For Hotch, the gesture of basically asking you to profile him in a moment in which he was so vulnerable, breaking his golden rule of "never profile your coworkers" was the most romantic declaration of love he could ever think that of.

Your text brings him back down to Earth:

"Hmm, I imagine you’d give a thoughtful, analytical speech something with a lot of depth but surprisingly subtly humorous. You would wait for everyone to finish their own speech so you would be last, acknowledging all of us completely busted, only because you have self-control."

You feel the need to add something else, even if you know already he would read into it, at the way how you reserved a mere sentence to describe that scenario involving your teammates. On the contrary, you could write a whole book about him and all his hypothetical remarks, meticulously poiting out every small gesture or expression - or the lack of - of him. Since truth lies in the middle, you decide to dedicate him only another lengthy paragraph.

"You would start with something along the lines of ‘Love is a complex system of emotional responses influenced by myriad factors…’ as if you were delivering a profile, definitely using that same tone as well. You’d probably have us all analyzing every possible nuance and you enjoy watching us slobber, trying to quickly sober up to keep up with your impeccable remarks. Of course we would miserably fail at being analytical whatsoever, but you love whenever we make a fool out of ourselves."

He chuckles "You do know me too well"

He probably hints at the possibilty of having a weekend off with his next text "And since now you're making me think I might have to start prepare my speech about love, it wouldn't hurt to also include a few practical applications for the BAU team’s dynamics."

Ha. You wish he showed you what those practical applications consisted of. Hotch although interrupts even the possibility of recycling this genius quick witted remark with him, making sure to replace yourself with his archenemy section chief Erin Strauss, to not weird him out.

"Jokes apart, your take on love would be fascinating, I'm looking forward to hear it", he says.

"Only if you’re ready for philosophical debates after a few glasses of wine. Though, I’ll warn you - I take my Plato very seriously."

Hotch smiles at that, apparently he took his Plato quite seriously as well. What you're not aware at all is that the late-night session of Symposium you had interrupted wasn't his first.

"I’ll keep that in mind. But honestly, I’ve been finding parts of it… enlightening."

He had actually finished it for the first time less than a hour before you texted. What you actually interrupted was Hotch helplessly going back through certain passages that reminded him of you. He hypothesises your take on the subject of love, trying to gauge how you view it without revealing feelings he’s kept carefully hidden for a long time.

"Enlightening, huh? So you’ve gotten to the part where Socrates explains how love makes us better people?"

Hotch remembers that part well enough, but he hasn’t revealed just how deeply he’s been thinking about it - how, in his own quiet way, he’s been trying to connect those ideas to his life, and to you, so he chooses his next words carefully.

“Not yet." He lies, knowing that the part you appointed to would only come much later in the book "But I’m guessing you’ve got some thoughts on that?"

He imagines you smiling on the other end, maybe a little amused at how he’s obviously deflecting, although you don’t press him, but your next reply doesn't lack a subtle challenge.

"I do. But I think you'd find it pretty relevant, Hotch. Phaedrus talks about how lovers fight better together - how love gives them courage."

He quickly smirks and reminds himself how much he loves when you put him in the corner with the choice of your words, there was no way he could deflect that, since Phaedrus’s speech comes first, he couldn't say he hadn't read that yet.

Hotch's eyes flicker toward the book again, remembering Phaedrus’s discourse: the idea that love could make people fight harder, be stronger… it strikes a chord, reminding him of the strength he’s seen in you, in the unique way you both handle the intense challenges of your work when paired up together. He types, his words more deliberate now.

"Phaedrus might be onto something. Love as a motivator, as a way to push people to be better. What about you? Do you see it that way?"

There’s a slight pause before your next message, and he can almost sense your careful consideration, you’ve never been one to answer these kinds of questions lightly.

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, love isn’t just about being close to someone, it’s about making each other better, pushing each other forward. But that is not easy at all. It takes patience, discipline… and maybe a bit of faith."

Hotch’s expression softens as he reads your words. He admires your thoughtfulness, your ability to cut straight to the heart of something that most people shy away from. He finds himself thinking about how true those words are, how they seem to apply not only to love, but to the way both of you approach life and work. He types slowly, his words carefully chosen.

"Patience, discipline, and faith. Sounds a lot like what we do every day, maybe we’re already living it."

As he sends the message, he sets the phone down beside him and glances at the book again. He’s aware of the irony - that for all the deflecting, all the jokes, he’s learning more about you through this conversation than he would have if he had simply asked.

The words of Plato, the discussions on love, seem to take on a new meaning - one that feels personal, one that makes him wonder if he’s been missing something between the lines all along.

"You know, this conversation feels a bit like Socratic dialogue. Just without the wine. Maybe I’m learning about love through you and Plato’s dialogues in a way Socrates might’ve appreciated."

He sends the message, a small smirk on his face. He knows how much you would appreciate the unexpected extra philosophical remark about Socrates even if he knows little to nothing about him apart from that his idea of love in Plato's book. To impress you he totally forgets how only just a few moments before he stated he hasn’t read his discourse yet. A few moments later, your reply comes through.

“No way! Aaron Hotchner now delves into the Socratic dialectics?!"

Now you smell the lie so to make sure you trick him with the next text "Well, maybe you should read something by Socrates next, he was quite the conversationalist, you would rely a lot to him, especially after all of this philosophical banter"

"Any recommendations?" He naively takes the bait

"That’s the thing, Unit Chief - Socrates didn’t write anything. He relied on his students to record his thoughts. It’s all oral and dialectical. The dialogues are his legacy, not written works, maybe that’s why it’s such a rich experience—like having an ongoing conversation with someone through the ages."

Hotch leans back, wishing these moments would linger forever, hoping the words you exchanged could be eternal just like those exchanged by the men he was reading about, now printed with black ink on the paper resting in his hands. He's surprised he doesn’t feel the tiredness of the week anymore or neither the need to sleep. Damn, he has so much energy he's sure he could run a whole marathon, but only if you’re out there watching him.

"Well, if our conversations end up like Plato’s dialogues, I think I’m in for a rewarding challenge. Just don’t make me drink too much wine before our next discussion."

"Unit Chief I thought you had self-control and didn't need to be babied like us mortals"

His phone buzzes with another message from you.

“Sorry if I ask, I’m curious - what got you interested in Symposium all of a sudden? I didn’t think philosophy was your usual reading material."

Hotch takes a moment to think, considering how to respond without revealing too much.

"You know, it’s funny. I saw you reading it a while back and it piqued my interest. I guess I wanted to see what you found so engaging about it. And honestly, I’m finding it pretty compelling - there’s a lot more depth to it than I expected."

His cheeks turn into a light shade of pink at your last response. "Unit Chief, do you believe you might need some professional insights on that speech you needed so urgently to write?"

"I definitely might need a hand - if I'm not wrong you do have a philosophy degree, don't you?"

Symposium might just become Aaron Hotchner's all-time-favourite book as well, after all.

[enhaheeseung]

NOBODIES - L. HS

Pairing: heeseung x fem reader!

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, physical and verbal abuse, cursing, blood, crying, mental illness, mentions of suicide, smoking.

WC: 11,933k

Note: some of my older writing so if it’s not good please forgive me :(

3:00 am

While most people were asleep at this time, you could be found wide awake, sobbing quietly a few blocks away from your home.

Home.

A place you wish that you could be far away from and never come back.

Home.

A place where your parents abused you every night.

Home.

A place that didn’t feel like home.

You look out into the night sky with scraped knees, a black eye, and dark bruises covering your fragile body.

Every day was the same. Your parents abused you each chance they got for the unfortunate outcome of a broken relationship. They blamed you for why everything fell apart between them. They always told you everything was fine until you came along. Those dreadful words replayed in your mind daily.

Was it regret, was it something you did, was it just cause they didn’t have time for you? You’d never know.

You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be born, if it was your choice. You’d choose not to be born, that way, your parents would be happy, and you would have never existed.

In the distance, you could hear faint sounds of footsteps approaching as they got closer and closer.

A shadow figure came into clear view, standing right above you.

“What are you doing out here so late? It’s not safe for you to be all alone.” you kept your head down so the stranger, who could only be identified as male from the sound of his voice, would not see your bruised face.

“I could say the same thing to you,” you respond quietly.

“What if I told you I don’t want to be safe?” the unknown man crouches down, taking a seat next to you on the sidewalk and inviting himself into your personal bubble.

“Then I’d ask you why.” You wipe your tears discreetly.

“Cause I don’t know what safe feels like, and that scares me.” You hear rustling close to your side, and a metal cling sound, soon followed by a strong smell of cigarette smoke that fills your nostrils. “I hope you don’t mind the smoke.”

What bothered you more than the smoke was that you could relate to every word he just said to you.

“I assume from your silence and being out here all alone you feel the same way.” he deeply exhales the smoke.

“N-no, I don’t,” you lie.

“Please don’t waste time lying to yourself. I had to figure that out the hard way.” He responds.

“What do you know?” You question feeling irritated by him being able to read you like an open book.

“More than I want to know, so what should I call you?” He hums.

“I don’t give my name to random strangers.” you snapped at him.

“Fair enough, I’ll just call you darlin” he clicks his tongue.

“Whatever,” he lets out an airy laugh from your feisty attitude.

“So tell me, Darlin, why are you crying?”

“It’s none of your business,” you mutter.

“It’s not, and I’m not forcing you to tell me.” he inhales the smoke, flicking the ashes on the cold, hard cement.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me, darlin'. I understand more than most people.” even though you didn’t look up, you could feel his eyes looking down on you.

You pull up your sleeve, showing him the cuts and bruises on your left arm.

His breath gets caught in his throat at the familiar sight.

“I told you you wouldn’t understand.” you roll your sleeve back down. You should have never told him in the first place. You have no idea why you were even still talking to him.

“No, I do understand,” he’s quick to correct you.

“You’re not acting like it.”

“I just- I’m sorry, it reminds me of someone I used to know, that’s all.” he felt his heart ache at the memory despite how many years it’s been.

“Who?” You wonder, feeling somewhat curious.

“A girl.” he looks off into the distance, taking a puff of his cigarette.

“What is she like?” You ask.

“I don’t think words could describe what she’s like, but if I had to try, I’d say beautiful, someone who gave me a reason to keep going, different but different in the best way possible, the sweetest girl you’d even meet with the bitterest smile you’d ever see” his tone drops to that of a whisper at the last few words he spoke to you.

“She must be really important to you,” you say, feeling envious. You wished you had someone that saw you that same way.

“She’s more than important. She’s my life.”

You take in his words, nodding in understanding.

“How about you? What’s the most important in your life?” He flips the question on you.

Your lips curve into a slight smile. “A boy”

“What is he like?” He asks, his tone just as curious as yours.

“Special. he was the only person in my life who cared about my happiness,” you smile sadly.

“Was? Where is he now?”

“One day, he just disappeared without a trace and without a goodbye. To this day, I still think about him.” you nibble on your lip trying to hold back more tears.

“I guess we all have that one special person we can never forget,” he sympathizes with you.

“Why am I even telling you this?” You scold yourself internally.

“Now that, I don’t understand,” he chuckles softly. “But I’m glad you did.”

“I should get going now.”

“Too bad, I was having fun.” You stare at him as he drops the cigarette bud, stomping it into the ground and putting out the small orange embers. “Goodnight, darlin',” he says as his tall, slender figure slowly disappears into the windy night.

Standing up, you take heavy steps up the pathway and back to your home.

Heeseung walked the streets alone to clear his mind, or at least that’s what his psychiatrist used to tell him.

He didn’t see the point in it. There was nothing comforting or mind-clearing about walking nevertheless, he did it anyway cause he still enjoyed the silence of the night.

However, the encounter he had tonight was somewhat peaceful, and it gave him a sense of comfort, a comfort that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe cause he hadn’t talked to anyone outside of the walls of the institution since ten years ago when he was admitted by his own parents.

His parents who never paid him any attention. He tried his hardest to earn their praise, studying without breaks, picking up piano, and becoming the captain of the basketball team, but nothing was good enough. They always looked over him, and his older brother got all the praise. Sure, heeseung wasn’t nearly as accomplished as his brother, but there wasn’t a need to compare when they both did well for themselves. At least, that’s how he saw it.

It was only one day he had finally had enough he had just got offered to sing for the schools band at an event in town and when he told his mother and father they just laughed in his face, and he’ll never forget what his father said to him. “It’s a miracle they would even want a talentless dim wit like you,” and that was it. At that moment, he knew they didn’t care.

But he still tried to make them care cause he didn’t want to believe the cruel reality of being the black sheep of the family and being compared to his brother all the time.

It was an extreme method, but he threatened to take his own life just so they would look in his direction, and they somewhat did, but not the way he wanted them to. After the incident, he overheard them both having a conversation about what happened. “I always knew he had issues,” he could faintly hear his mother's voice say, and that was the end of it. After that, he was certain they didn’t care and never would and that cry for help ultimately led to him getting treatment for mental health issues that he never even had to begin with, but what hurt the most was that they didn’t even ask what was wrong or if they could help. As a small boy all he ever wanted was to make his parents proud and to make them care, but no matter what, he just couldn’t.

Even though it was technically his fault why he ended up in the ward, he still blames them for everything.

Especially for taking him away from the one thing he cared about most, his friend, his crush, the only person on the planet that made him feel like he was special. He had to leave her so much sooner than he had ever expected.

He remembers everything like it was just yesterday, but unfortunately for him, it wasn’t. Today was the official mark. The last day he saw her was ten years ago.

The highlight of his day was seeing her at the swing set. She always sat there during break, swaying her legs back and forth as she stared at the ground meaninglessly. For some unknown reason, heeseung was drawn to her like a magnet, maybe it’s cause he used to sit on the same swing set every day with that same meaningless stare after being bullied.

He was bullied in school for not being smart enough, hit by his father for being a “failure,” and rebuked by his mother for smoking and doing drugs, which was his first helpless cry for attention, but that, unfortunately, turned into a habit and slowly an addiction and every day he swore it was his last pack but the full ashtray in his car said otherwise.

He finds himself reaching in his coat pocket for another tobacco-filled stick. He pats his butt pocket in search of his lighter, that was nowhere to be found.

“Shit,” he mutters with the cigarette resting on his moist lip. He remembered setting it down on the sidewalk where he was talking to you, and he turned in the opposite direction to where you both talked moments ago.

Spotting his shiny silver lighter on the sidewalk, he dusts it off, holding it to the end of his cigarette, cupping the small flame to shield it from the night wind. Before he could even take the first puff, he heard a loud scream in the distance, causing his cigarette to fall to the now rain-covered ground.

“Y/n! What did I tell you about staying out this late!” He hears a male voice just a few feet away, and if he’s not mistaken, you were the same girl he talked to not even fifteen minutes ago. He stares at the scene before him, watching the male, who he assumed was your father, raising his hand and landing a hard slap against your cheek. He flinched at the sound that echoed throughout the silent night. He squeezed his eyes shut. That one sound alone brought back so many memories that he didn’t want to remember.

So many memories he wished to forget.

He could hear your loud sobs, and the door slammed a few seconds later. He continued his not-so-mind-clearing walk back home normally. He would count each step he took on his way back, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of your cries. It haunted him until he reached home, laying in his bed, and even when his head hit his pillow, he could still hear the pain in your voice. He was reminded of the time he had faced the same abuse years ago. Tears rolled down his cheek, staining his pillow, and that night, he didn’t get not even one minute of sleep.

Oddly enough, heeseung found himself taking the same path home as last night, which was unusual because he’d always find a new path home every night, but tonight, it’s like his feet were taking him back to you. What was even more odd was the small smile that crept up on his solemn features when he saw you sat alone with your knees to your chest.

It’s been ages since he genuinely smiled.

“So we meet again, darlin',” you hear his familiar voice, soon realizing it was the man from last night. He sits next to you, and for a moment, you feel like you never left the sidewalk, but the bruise on your left cheek is evidence that you did indeed leave the sidewalk and go home that night.

You quickly look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, then looking back down to hide the cuts and scrapes on your face.

Before you could look away, he had already seen the bruises on your delicate face.

“You should probably clean your wounds. They won’t heal properly if you don’t, and I’m sure you have enough scars already.” he didn’t just mean the ones on your body but the ones on your heart, too.

“How did yo-“ You cut yourself off, realizing that he must have seen them when you glanced up at him.

“Wait here.” he walks down a few blocks to a small gas station, grabbing ointment and bandages for your cuts.

“Will that be all?” The cashier behind the desk asks.

“One pack of Lo Crux.” he ponders on it for a moment, knowing a box would only last him a day, if that. “actually, make that two.” The cashier gives him a look, and heeseung could tell that look from anywhere, the look of judgement, but he no longer cared about the opinions of others. He gave up on people the day his parents gave up on him.

He pays for everything, exiting the store, lighting up a cigarette on his way back to you. “Here,” he hands you a red ring pop.

A small smile could be seen on your lips if it wasn’t so dark, but it was still there. “Thank you,” you mutter. For a moment, you felt like you went back to your childhood, remembering the small boy who always sat next to you. He would give you a red ring pop whenever you looked sad, which was every day, you missed him. He was the only person who was ever kind to you, but when you were both in fifth grade, he disappeared and never came back. You went to the park and sat at the swing set every day, hoping he’d come back to you, but he never did.

“Don’t mention it.” somehow, your smile looked familiar. It held so much pain and happiness at the same time. It reminded him of the girl he told you about back in fifth grade that he used to have the biggest crush on. Unfortunately, she always looked so sad, he went to the corner shop every day just to spend his only allowance on a red ring pop. They always cheered him up when he was sad, so for the rest of his school days, he made it a point to give one to her just to make her smile.

He pulled out the first aid kit, dabbing off the dry, crusty blood on your lip as you whimpered in pain. “Shh, it won’t hurt for long, I promise,” he whispers as his warm breath fans your face.

You take a good look at his features up close. Admiring his handsome face, you happened to notice a small mole on the front of his ear in the same spot as the boy who always gave you a ring pop back in school. You shook your head slightly. There was no way it was him. It couldn’t be. You dismissed your delusional thoughts and focused back on his face.

He applied a small amount of ointment on the cleaned wounds and placed a bandage on them. He stared deeply into your eyes, examining your face. He knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help but look at you. Even with a tear-stained face and cuts all over, you still looked stunning to him. “All done,” he says breathlessly, using every last bit of his strength to pull away from you even though you felt like a magnet sucking him in.

“Why?” You had no idea why this stranger was caring for you, especially after your parents said that you were incapable of being loved and cared for.

“Why what?” He says, shifting his eyes away from you after what felt like an eternity for him.

“This,” you point to the band-aid on your face.

“Cause you were hurt, and I don’t like when people are hurt.” he lights another cigarette that’s already two in less than ten minutes.

Yes, you were counting.

“So why are you hurting yourself?” You ask, noticing that every moment you spent with him up till now, he had a cigarette.

His eyebrows clash together in confusion. “hmm?” He replies.

You motioned toward the two packs of cigarettes he just bought.

“Oh, hard habit to break, I guess.” He laughs breathily, “But being alone on this earth is what hurts me the most,” He smiles sadly, looking at the cloudy night sky.

“Why does being on this earth hurt you?” You ask, intrigued by the young gentleman.

“Darlin, you ask too many questions.” He shifted uncomfortably. “How about this a question for a question that way, it’s even, deal?”

You nodded your head like a child.

He resumes right where you left off, “Cause this earth is unfair, and it hurts knowing that the one person who needed me the most is somewhere out there and I’ll never see her again,”

“I’m sorry you have to go through that.” you look at him, eyes full of sincerity.

“It’s not your fault, so tell me, why are you always out here alone?”

Before you could answer, you saw the lights from your house turn on. Your mother was looking out the blinds, waiting for you to come back inside.

You never understood why they wanted a curfew for you. It’s not like they cared about you or your safety.

“Sorry, I have to go now. Will you be out tomorrow?” You stand up, and he joins you shortly after.

“Sure, and no need for an apology, darlin, same spot?” He asks. He didn’t exactly plan on coming back, but since you mentioned it and he had nothing better to do, he supposed he’d come back.

Something about him saying “same spot” sounded so familiar, but you couldn’t quite place your finger on it.

“Same spot,” you confirm, turning around getting ready to leave. Before you leave, you realize you still didn’t catch his name.

“Wait! I never got your name,” you yell into the night, watching as he turns around from the sound of your voice.

He takes his hands out of his coat pockets, throwing them in the air as the cold breeze flows through his black hair and long trench coat. “darlin',” he says. A few beats of silence ensue, making your heart beat faster in anticipation as you shiver slightly from the cold. “I’m nobody and everything to someone,” he shouts, a wide smile making its way to his face.

“What does that mean?” You shout back.

“Whatever you want it to mean, have a good night, Darlin.” he turns around with a hearty chuckle, lighting up another cigarette before putting his hands back in his pockets and counting his steps all the way home.

Just like he said he would, he sat next to you on the sidewalk. The conversation started right where it left off.

“It’s my turn, darlin.” His voice hangs in the air for a moment before you reply.

“I sit out here alone 'cause the silence brings me peace, and the cold air reminds me to feel.”

“Why do you need to be reminded to feel?” he asks with a curiousness in his tone.

A small chuckle bubbles in your chest. It was the first time in a long time that you genuinely laughed. “I think it’s my turn.”

He smiled to himself. “You’re right.”

“Why did you decide to stop and talk to me?”

“I can’t put a finger on it, but something about you reminds me of someone I used to know so you could say,” he pauses, flicking his lighter open and taking a puff of his third cigarette of the night as he exhales the smoke and turns to look at you. “I was drawn to you.”

It took you a minute to compose your thoughts. His gaze was so intense that you could have been trapped in it if you looked for too long. “Now that you mention it, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

“Yeah? Who do I remind you of, Darlin?” He says intrigued.

“He was the boy I told you about before. He was from my class. He’d visit me at the swing set every day after school. There was one thing he did that I’ll never forget, whenever I was sad, he would always give me a red ring pop just like the one you gave me a few nights ago. When it was time for us to go home, he’d always ask same spot. And I’d reply, same spot.” You smiled at one of your happiest memories, and then it dawned on you why him saying same spot felt so familiar, but you still shrugged it off. You figured your mind was just playing tricks on you.

Heeseung froze right where he sat, unable to move, the red ring pop, the swing set, your sad smile. He remembered it all as he exhaled a deep breath. “what was the boy's name?” He asks with a shaky breath.

“You’re asking too many questions again.” you laugh but answer him nevertheless. “Heeseung, Lee heeseung,” you say with a bright and fond smile.

He stares at your face for a good minute. The corners of his lips turn into a frown as his eyes sparkle with tears. He drops his cigarette from his fingers, pulling you into the tightest hug while crying on your shoulder. You very slowly hug him back, even though you were extremely confused by the sudden action.

After his cries settled down a little, he said something that you wouldn’t believe not even in a million years. “y/n, it’s me, heeseung.” he pulled away from the hug to wipe his tears.

Now it was your turn to freeze right in your spot. “n-no, it can’t be you,” your eyes watered with tears replicating his.

He looked different. His skin was pale. He didn’t have his same bowl cut. He had an undercut with a scratch design on the side. His baby face was gone, his jaw was sharper and more defined. The sparkle that used to be in his eyes was now dimmed to that of nothing, and yet, behind everything else, you could still see the small boy who visited you at the park every day.

“I missed you so much.” he took your hands in his, squeezing them lightly.

You pull your hands away from his grasp, making him look at you with hurt and confusion written all over his face. “if you missed me, you wouldn’t have ever left me alone. You knew I needed you.” instead of feeling happy about seeing him, you felt angry remembering how he left you all alone when you were at your absolute lowest.

“Y/n, no, it’s not like that. I swear to you, if it was my choice, I would have never left you.” he holds your shoulders, making you look at him. “Please let me give you the explanation you deserve after all these years,” he pleads with you because he couldn’t lose you after just finding you again.

You chewed on your bottom lip, giving him a small nod after contemplating his words.

“I never told you this, but I was having a very tough time back then. Even though I didn’t show it, I was failing in school. I went through the same abuse as you every night from my parents. I turned to smoking and drugs as an escape and a cry for help, but nothing worked. It got so bad I threatened to take my own life, and they sent me to a mental institution. That’s why I didn’t come to see you anymore. It wasn’t cause I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t.” He rambles on with desperation in his voice. “Y/n, you were the only person in this fucked up world that made me feel like living, if I had a choice, I would have stayed by your side forever.” He explains with nothing but sincerity.

No.

Not heeseung, not the little loving, caring boy that made you smile every day, you never knew that he was hurting on the inside. Why out of everyone on this god-forsaken earth? Why him? He didn’t deserve it.

“Y/n, you have to believe me. I-I’d never leave you. I loved you,” his voice cracked while more tears trickled down his face. “I still love you.” he cupped your face, wiping the tears from your cheek as he cracked the tiniest smile. “I promised you I was going to marry you when we got older, remember?”

You felt overwhelmed. There was so much information coming at you that you could barely process it, but you didn’t need to process it. All that mattered was that he was back, Lee Heeseung was back, and he was everything that you ever needed. “Yeah, I remember,” you smile softly at him.

Your childhood friend and first love came back to you and confessed that he loves you, too. Just when you thought your life was all but over, he came back to you.

“Heeseung, I believe you, and I love you too. I’ve always loved you ever since we were little when you gave me my first kiss.” you pulled him into a hug, never ever wanting to let him go.

“I can’t believe we found each other again.” he hugs you so tightly. You could feel his how fast his heart was beating against your chest. You could have almost mistaken it for your own.

“You have no idea how much I needed you these past years.” you hug him back even tighter.

“Me too, y/n.” he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Me too,” he says, patting your back comfortingly. “I’m here now.”

The only sound to be heard was the gentle wind blowing softly against the trees as you both reunited with each other after so many long insufferable years.

“Your hugs still feel the same, just a little bit stronger,” he chuckles.

“Sorry,” you laugh, along with him loosening your grip.

He contemplates his next words carefully.

“It still happens, doesn’t it?” Even as a young boy, he knew what your parents did to you, and he despised them for it. He found out when you came to school on the first day, it was 90 degrees outside, and you were wearing a sweater. He noticed immediately when you grabbed the chains on the swing, your sleeves rolled down just enough for him to see scars and fresh bruises, and after that, it became his mission to make you forget and to make you smile.

“Every night,” you whisper.

“Why do you stay?” he whispers.

“Cause they’re still my parents,” you cuddled up to him closer.

He knew exactly what that feeling was like. “Come with me just for the night.” he rubs your back soothingly.

“If they find out, they’ll kill me.”

“Then they don’t have to find out I’ll bring you back early in the morning, trust me?”

“I trust you.”

And trust him, you did with your whole entire life.

You both walk hand in hand to his house, the only sound coming from both your footsteps on the cold cement.

“Like yesterday,” he pauses for a second. “You and me, it feels just like yesterday. Your hands feel the same, your laugh sounds the same, and your smile is still the prettiest. I could swear that I’m ten years old again.” he tightens the grip he had on your hand.

You couldn’t deny it. It felt just the same, “me too,” you lean on his shoulder.

When you both arrive at his doorstep walking in, you see nothing but an empty room with white walls, one chair, and a small table very minimalistic, almost like he had just moved in.

“Wh-“ You didn’t finish your sentence before his lips were on yours. He cupped your cheeks gently while kissing you ever so softly. You instinctively responded to the kiss, wrapping your hands around his neck and kissing him back with the same devotion.

He pulled away to take a breath and when he opened his eyes. he was even shocked to see your face so close to his something must have come over him, and he had zero self-control over what just happened. “I honestly don’t know where that came from. I'm so sorry.” before he could even continue apologizing, you were already initiating another kiss.

You bring his face mere inches away from yours. “Don’t be,” you say against his lips, pulling him closer for a more heated kiss than the last.

He groaned into the kiss, gripping your waist carefully. “y/n,” he swallows thickly, touching his forehead to yours with his eyes closed. “We’re not kids anymore. If we continue like this, just kissing won’t be enough,” he warns you cause he knew if things went further, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, or at least he wouldn’t want to.

“Then let’s do more than just kiss.” he picks you up, taking you to his room.

You both take turns riding each other’s clothes, and you lay back on his bed, slightly covering your chest with your hands.

“There’s no need to cover up. You’re beautiful.” he gently takes your hands away from your chest, lacing your fingers with his while he hovers over you, his eyes never leaving yours for a second.

He pins your clasped hands to the mattress, and you wrap your legs around his back while he leaves open-mouth kisses all over your neck. “Heeseung,” you moan softly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks and your body flush with desire.

He works his way down lower, swirling his tongue around your erect nipples as you tug on his hair in search of anything to grip onto.

You tangled your hands in his hair, making him emit a soft moan. He ghosts his fingers along your sides, a shiver slowly running up your spine as he leaves a trail of wet kisses along your abdomen. Slowly continuing his way between your legs, he placed three small experimental kisses on your pubic bone before giving your clit a soft lick. The feeling makes your back arch and your toes curl as he continues to lick your folds. While putting your legs over his shoulders, he rests his palms on your lower stomach, tracing his fingers all the way up to your sensitive breasts, giving them both a light squeeze as he uses his thumb to press down on your nipples, rubbing them in small circles.

He laps at your folds, getting a taste of your arousal that begins to leak out. The tip of his pointy nose brushes against your clit, adding even more pleasure. You could feel yourself getting close already. He uses his left hand to stick two fingers inside you easily from how wet you have gotten. He moves his fingers in and out of you while making a scissoring motion to open you up for him.

When he felt your walls tightening on his digits, he pumped his fingers inside you faster while sucking on your clit to make you reach your climax.

Your legs began to shake from the strong feeling of your impending orgasm. You whimper his name quietly when he brings you to complete bliss as he slows the pace of his fingers, calming you from your state of pure ecstasy.

He climbs above you on the bed, moaning softly when his wet tip rubs against your thigh. He leans down to place a loving kiss on your sweet lips. “Still the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” he runs his thumb along your jawline, taking in your beauty mixed with all the little flaws.

You look deeply into his eyes, feeling so many emotions that you couldn’t even explain. “I love you,” you say, encircling your arms around his thin waist.

He buried his face in your neck to hide the little tears that had formed in his eyes. He dreamt of you saying those words, but he could have never imagined his dream would ever come true. “I love you too,” he says near your ear, his voice barely above a whisper.

He holds himself up, looking at you briefly before he lined himself up with your entrance. Pushing his tip past your folds as slow and gentle as possible.

You clawed at his back from the slight pain of the intrusion as he pecked your forehead sweetly.

At the first sound of discomfort you made, he immediately stopped. “I’m sorry I should have asked sooner, but Is this your first time?” You nod your head without making any eye contact with him.

“Hey, look at me.” he tilts your chin, making you look at him. “It’s mine too. It’s okay. We’ll go as slow as we want. We have all night.” he gently rocks his hips back and forth to get you used to the indescribable feeling. He continues at a slow pace until he feels you starting to relax. “That’s it, just breathe and relax. It’ll fade away soon, I promise.” he guides you through the nerve-racking experience with his slow gentle strokes and soft voice. You follow his instructions, taking, steady breaths, just like he promised. The pain soon faded, and you felt like you needed something more. It didn’t take him long to realize, and he went a bit faster before pulling all the way out, leaving in just the tip and pushing back in all the way until he was sheathed in the deepest part of you.

“You feel like a dream.” he sets the perfect rhythm slow enough to feel every inch of his shaft but fast enough for it to be the most pleasurable feeling you’ve both ever felt.

“Heeseung,” you whimper, scratching at his back lightly.

“Careful, darlin',” he warns you in a delicate voice.

You caressed his back over the part you had scratched. Your eyebrows creased, feeling the scared and resin skin against your fingertips.

He takes both your wrists in his hands, placing them lower around his waist to hide his wounds, and puts your legs on his shoulders, aiming his thrusts slightly upward inside you at the perfect angle, caressing your spot each time.

“I-is this okay? Does that feel good?” he grunts lowly, not being able to speak properly from the way your walls were gripping him so tightly.

“It feels perfect. You’re perfect.” you hug his body closer to yours.

He lowers his head, connecting your lips with his in a passionate kiss. Your warm breath tickles his face causing him to smile through the kiss as he rests his forehead against yours, reaching a hand down to your clit, rubbing up and down, matching the perfect pace of his strokes.

“Mmm, heeseung,” you whine against his lips, clenching down on him tightly as your second orgasm of the night washes over you all at the hands of your childhood crush.

“Y/n, I love you s-so much,” he says in a hushed voice, not being able to hold back anymore, releasing his seed deep inside you as the pulsation of your walls coaxed out every last drop of his love for you.

“I love you too,” you tell him wholeheartedly, giving him one final peck on his quivering lips. You wipe away a few tears from his cheek as he lowers your legs, relishing in the feeling of your throbbing walls against his shaft that guided him through the blissful journey that was you.

He gently removes himself from you, grabbing a few tissues on his nightstand to clean you off a bit. He cuddles up next to you once he’s finished cleaning you up.

“I don’t want you to go,” he pouts, hugging you with his arms and legs.

“Me neither, but if my parents found out, it wouldn’t be good.” You play with his bangs.

“Okay,” he says disappointedly, “I’ll walk you back home.” Somehow, he manages to finally let you out of his hold.

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine-“ he places his index finger on your lips, cutting you off.

“I’m walking you home,” he says firmly.

Once you both finished getting dressed, you walked back to your home, which was many blocks away from his house.

Unfortunately, the walk felt so short, if you had it your way, you’d walk into forever with him.

“Well, I guess this is it, darlin.” he took your cold hands in his, swinging them back and forth, not wanting to let you go.

“Don’t be sad, hee I’ll wait for you tomorrow, same spot?” you kissed his cheek.

He smiled widely at the nickname you gave him all those years ago. His eyes crinkle into those cute little crescents you fell in love with all the way back in fifth grade. “Same spot.” he finally let you walk up to your door, waiting for you to get in safely.

He turns on his heels, walking alone in the dark. He takes heavy steps back home, and he can’t wait till tomorrow to see you again.

Out of habit, he reaches into his pocket, taking out a cigarette. Right before he strikes his lighter, he puts the cigarette back inside the box, choosing to count his footsteps instead of indulging in his unhealthy habit.

Same spot that’s where heeseung sat waiting for you, tapping his foot impatiently while he nervously puffs on his 7th cigarette while waiting nearly an hour for you.

You made your way to the same spot as every night, and heeseung was already waiting for you on the sidewalk.

He stood up to bring you in for a hug, but his hand landed right on a fresh bruise, causing you to wince in pain.

“What’s wrong? Did they?” He says softly, not wanting to upset you.

You nodded your head weakly.

He walked in the direction of your house, but you quickly held him back. “don’t.”

“They can’t just get away with that,” he says, trying his best to remain level-headed.

“Let’s not make this about them right now. I just want to be with you.” you cup his cheeks, placing a short kiss on his pouty lips.

“But-“ you cut him off with another kiss. He huffs in annoyance but still gives in to your wishes. “Fine, but you’re coming to my place. I’m not letting you stay with them.” he grabs your hand a bit harshly, but you know it wasn’t his intention and that he was just upset.

Finally, when you both reach his house, you enter his bedroom, and it instantly makes you feel safe.

You two lay together in his bed, comforting each other. “I still can’t believe it’s really you,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Me neither.” You lace your fingers with his, placing a kiss on the back of his hand. “you know I waited for you every day, but you never came back.”

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and places a kiss on the top of your head. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” he says quietly.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault,” you assure him.

“I’m still sorry.” That was Lee Heeseung, too good, too caring for this cruel world, that he’d apologize for someone else behavior.

“You’re too good for your own good.” he lets out an airy laugh. “That’s why I love you cause no matter what happened, you always stayed the same. You never stopped caring for others, and you never stopped caring for me.”

“Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve never cared for anyone else the way I care for you, not even myself,” he tells you truthfully.

“I wonder what it would have been like,” you ask, caressing his knuckles with your thumb, “if you never had to leave.”

“I would have asked you to be my girlfriend. I would’ve left home sooner. I’d take you far away from here and show you what real love feels like and give you the life that you deserve.”

“Is it too late?” You ask.

“Too late for what?”

“For us,” you say, looking up at him with nothing but hope in your eyes.

“Darlin, it’s never too late. Just tell me when and where, and we can go. We can leave all of this behind. have the future we deserve and a chance at life that we never had cause our parents hate us.”

“I can’t leave them behind.”

“I think you’re too good for your own good, Darlin. They don’t deserve your love. Think about what makes you happy. I can’t promise you a life full of happiness cause this world works in unexplainable ways, but if you choose me, I can give you the one thing they can’t…” he tilts your head up, making you look at him, his eyes full of hope as he places a meaningful kiss to your soft lips and leans back stroking your cheek with his thumb uttering one word and emotion that you’ve never felt until you met him. “love”

“Can I have some time to think about it?” the idea sounded amazing. He’s all you’ve ever wanted, all you ever needed and to live a life with him full of love would be a dream come true.

“Take all the time you need. I left you before, but I’ll never leave you again. I’ll be there whenever you need me,” he promised.

“I love you so much I don’t deserve you,” you admit to him.

“I love you too, and Darlin, trust me when I say that you deserve way more than me.”

“I don’t want anyone more than you. You’re enough for me.” you wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head on his chest and listening to his rhymatic heartbeat.

He stroked your back soothingly until you both drifted off to sleep a while later.

You woke up next to heeseung, who was now shirtless and pants less, then you remembered falling asleep before him, so he must have changed when you were sleeping.

Getting up, you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up. You close the door quietly so as not to wake him.

You open the cabinets, looking to see if maybe he has an extra toothbrush. To your luck, he did when you reached for it, a small packet of pills fell into the sink.

You grab the packet and examine the pills. There was no indication of what the pills were, but you could only assume the worst. Making your way out of the bathroom, you approach his peaceful figure, shaking him awake when he doesn’t move. You panicked, thinking he might have done something while you were asleep. You start to shake him more aggressively, hitting his chest for him to wake up.

“Ow ow ow, I’m awake. I’m awake. Just stop hitting me,” he laughs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

You hugged on to him for dear life, bawling your eyes out. “hey, what’s wrong? Did you miss me that much?” he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I-I thought,” you stutter, unable to form any sentences cause what you thought he did while you were asleep.

“Thought what? Tell me, Darlin?” You show him the packet of pills, and his heart nearly drops at the sight he remembers the exact time and date he bought those. He had planned to overdose and kill himself he sat at a ledge as his legs dangle above the lake. He had the pills in his trembling hand, thinking back to all the times his father said he was useless and, his mother said she regretted giving birth to him, his teacher said he was waste of time, and his psychiatrist said maybe it was his fault for why his father beat him all of those thoughts were enough to make him want to end it all he held the pills to his mouth. But before he took them, he remembered you, the only person that ever needed him. He thinks back to the first time he gave you a red ring pop, the way your face lit up, and your smile gave him hope that even in sadness, you can still smile even if you don’t feel needed. Someone needs you, and that thought made him put the pills back in his pocket. He kept them in his cabinet as a daily reminder that he stayed on this earth for you.

“You don’t have to worry, Darlin. I told you I’ll never leave you again, and that’s a promise.”

You continued to sob uncontrollably into his chest. It took a good fifteen minutes for you to finally stop, and even then, your breaths were still labored and shaky.

“How did you find those anyways?” He asked, stroking your head.

“I just was l-looking for a spare toothbrush a-and I-I.” You broke down in tears again. He felt so bad for the chuckle he let out, but he found it too adorable how much you cared for him.

“Did you find one?” You nodded your head. “good, now go finish up. I’ll be waiting for you.” he pinched your cheek with a smile on his face. “I love you, and I swear I’d never ever think about doing that now that I’m with you, okay, Darlin?”

“Okay, I love you too.” You kiss him one last time before leaving.

You finished brushing your teeth and decided to take a shower as well. Once you were done, you entered the bedroom, seeing Heeseung leaning up against the headboard with a cigarette between his lips, legs slightly spread open, and he was still without any clothes.

“Hey, darlin', you took long enough,” he pouted.

“I decided to take a shower, too.”

“I can see that,” he bites his lower lip staring at your towel clad body. “Come here,” he says and pats his thigh.

You walk over to him, straddling his lap as your core comes in contact with his clothed cock. He sneaks his hands under your towel and grips your thighs, squeezing on the soft flesh as you rest your hands on his shoulders. He gently rocks you back and forth on his cock. “You smell really good.”

“Thank you.” You take your towel off, revealing your naked body. His tongue pokes the side of his cheek at the sight of your bare pussy, and you slowly grind on his lap, moaning from the feeling of his semi-hard cock.

You hum as he moves his hands to your chest, rubbing your breasts while his cigarette rests between his index and middle fingers.

He puts his hands on your lower back, making you grind on him harder.

“Fuck” he tilts his head back when he feels your wetness dampening his hard-on through his boxers.

You reach down between your bodies, grabbing his cock out through the small hole in his boxers as you guide his length, sliding him back and forth through your folds to get his cock wet.

He brought his cigarette to his mouth, taking a small puff, watching your each and every movement with hooded eyes.

You push the tip in, slowly sinking down on his cock inch by inch. “So fucking good” he rubs a hand over his face in disbelief at how tight and wet you were.

You start out slowly getting used to this feeling of him stretching you out. You lower yourself on his cock more, allowing his tip to brush against your sweet spot. “Heeseung,” you moan quietly.

The room is silent other than the wet sounds of your pussy when you bounce up and down on his dick.

You take the cigarette from between his lips, putting it to your own mouth before taking an inhale as you pick up the pace. “y/n,” he moans, holding your waist to help you ride him even faster, and he knows he's not going to last very long. You take a deep exhale, and the smoke clouds over your face before revealing the most beautiful sight he's ever seen, your lips slightly parted, chest covered in a thin layer of sweat, and your breasts bouncing up and down each time you take in his cock deeper. “Darlin, you’re perfect.”

You put the cigarette on the small ashtray on his nightstand to wrap your arms around his neck. You leaned down, placing a kiss on his lips as you moved your hands to the headboard to gain more leverage to fuck yourself on his cock at a much better angle. The slight position switch had him going feral. “Hee, oh god,” he grits his teeth at the sound of your desperate moans that make his cock twitch.

“I'm almost there,” he stutters out from the intense feeling of his cock getting harder as his high gets nearer.

He licks his thumb and reaches down to rub your clit in fast circles so you can both cum at the same time. You throw your head back, completely lost in the feeling of his big dick inside you.

“O-oh” The tight clenching of your walls made him lose it as his cum paints your sensitive throbbing walls.

“Heeseung,” you moaned loudly at the warmth from his release invading you, making you let go and tighten around his cock harshly as your pussy throbbed with each passing second you continued riding him till you both couldn’t take the overstimulation anymore.

He leans his head back, eyes tightly closed as he swallows thickly, feeling his throat parched from all the moaning and heavy breathing.

You place your hands on his chest, leaning down to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. When you pull away, his eyes slowly open as he takes a deep breath. He laughs breathily, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into your chest.

You cradle his head in your hands, running your fingers through his dampened hair. “do you want to shower?” You say in a hushed whisper.

He hums into your chest, tickling you and making little goosebumps form all over your body. “Only if you come with me.”

“Of course,” you kiss his damp head before lifting yourself off him carefully. You didn’t make a big deal out of cleaning up afterward cause you were headed to the shower anyway.

You both make your way to his shower. He turns his back to you, turning on the water. A surprised gasp escapes you when you see every inch of his back covered in scars. Tears instantly began to form in your eyes.

He hears your gasp and turns around to hide his back from you. He didn’t want you to see them cause he thought they were a sign of weakness.

“Why are you hiding them?” You ask.

“Cause I don’t want you to think I’m weak,” he says shamefully, looking down at his feet.

You place your hands on his shoulders, carefully turning him around so you can see his back. “what are you doing?” He tries to turn around, but you hold his waist, keeping him still.

“You’re not weak,” you kiss one of the many resin scars on his back. “You’re strong.” you kiss another one between his shoulder blades. “this is proof.” you rest your head against his back, feeling his shoulders trembling and a few quiet sobs coming from him as you hold his waist tighter, a few tears make their way down your cheek. “you’re the strongest person I know,” you say with your voice cracking at the end. “And I’m so sorry this happened to you,”

That’s when he finally lets it all out. He holds your arms that are wrapped around his waist tightly as the sounds of his cries echo off the tiles in the shower. Tears continuously fall from his eyes, mixing together with the warm water from the shower that spirals down the drain.

You hold him in silence until his cries finally start to fade away. He sniffles one last teardrop falling off the tip of his nose as he turns to you, pressing a kiss to your lips, feeling like a weight had been lifted off him now that he had someone to share his pain with. He cups your cheeks in his palms, wiping your tears away. “let’s not cry anymore. We’ve done enough of that for the day,” he laughs, causing you to laugh along with him. Now that the atmosphere was lightened, you both took turns washing each other’s bodies, feeling peace from the sound of the water beads that hit the tile.

Eventually, you both step out of the shower, drying each other off and going back to bed to spend as much time together as possible. “I don’t have any clothes,” you pout.

“Here, take my shirt.” he hands you a plain white oversized shirt that goes down to your knees.

He puts on a pair of black boxer briefs and joins you on the bed. “when do you have to be back by?” He holds your hand, kissing the back of it, looking at you with his big, brown, beautiful eyes.

“Not for another hour.”

“Good.” he lays down on the bed, throwing away the dirty sheets and pulling the blankets over you both, he opens his arms wide for you to cuddle him.

You both lay in complete silence, holding one another. No words needed to be spoken at that moment. As your hand rested on his chest and he stroked your arm, you both felt content.

Just as heeseung’s eyes began to close, a loud bang startled him from his resting state.

“Y/n! Open this door right now. I know you’re in there!”

You could recognize that voice from anywhere it was your father. “How did he find me?” Your heart raced, and tears welled in your eyes as you held on to heeseung as tightly as possible.

“I don’t know.” heeseung couldn’t help but feel a bit scared himself, but he knew he had to be strong for you. He tried to get up from the bed, but your grip was strong on him. “Darlin, I got you. It’s gonna be alright, I promise.” he held your shoulders, looking at your eyes deeply.

You nodded your head, letting him go to answer the door.

He answers the door to be met with your father face to face. It was the first time he had been this close to him, and it took everything in him not to punch your dad till he was unconscious.

“Who are you, and where do you have my daughter?”

Heeseung couldn’t help but laugh. He had some nerve showing up and saying his daughter when he had never treated you like that since you were born, “I’m nobody to you, and y/n is safe with me, so you can leave.”

“You fucking bastard, who are you to tell me what to do?” Your father raised his fist, punching heeseung square in the jaw.

Heeseung stood still, not even flinching from the impact of the punch. If there was one thing he could take, it was getting hit. “You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that.”

Your father raised his fist yet again, but heeseung was quick enough to catch it. “I don’t think you understood, so I’ll tell you again.” heeseung squeezed your father's fist tightly. “leave.”

You held your head in your hands, tears streaming down your face uncontrollably. You couldn’t take it anymore. heeseung got hurt because of you, and your father was angry all because of you. You had to end this now. You made your way to the door quietly. “Father, leave him alone. He has nothing to do with this.”

Your mother made an appearance from the hallway outside the door. Looking you up and down in disgust, “So this is what you leave home for to whore around? I always knew you were nothing but a little slut” she says with venom in her tone, taking in your half-naked appearance.

Heeseung was trying to be calm for you, but his resentment for your parents quickly overpowered that. “Don’t you dare fucking say that about her again,” he towers over your mother's frail frame.

“Or what? are you gonna hit me too?” Your mother taunted heeseung.

“I’ll never stoop to your level.” he unclenches his fist.

“Enough!” Your father raised his voice. “Y/n, get dressed. We’re leaving.

“She’s staying with me whether you two like it or not.” heeseung hid you behind his back, protecting you.

“I’d never leave my daughter with someone like you,” your mother chimed in.

“What is she to you then? your daughter? or a slut?” Heeseung used her own words against her.

Your mom raised her hand to slap heeseung, but he caught both her wrists, squeezing them but not enough to inflict any pain. “She. Is. Staying. With. me. I can take care of her better than the both of you combined. Does she look like she’s scared of me? Does she have any new bruises besides the ones you left her with last? I don’t fucking think so” Heeseung let go of your mother's wrist.

“Y/n, I won’t tell you again. Get dressed. We’re leaving,” you cower down at the sound of your dad's voice.

You tug on heeseung’s shirt, indicating for him to let you go.

Heeseung glared at the both of them before closing the door and looking at you.

“Y/n, you can’t be serious about going back,” he says in disbelief.

“Heeseung, just let me go,” you reply, completely defeated.

“No, I told you I’m never leaving you again.” he holds your face, making you stare into his eyes.

“Are you okay?” You asked, heeseung with tears in your eyes, noticing the cut on his lip.

“Darlin, compared to what I’ve felt in the past that didn’t even tickle, your man can take a hit,” he chuckles.

You look at him, a smile forming on the corner of your lips. “I’m scared.”

“I know, and that’s okay.” he holds your hands, squeezing them gently. “Look at me.” he stares deeply into your eyes to show his sincerity. “I know I said I’d give you all the time you need, but right now, we don’t have time, and I need you to choose.”

“I can’t leave them behind.”

His heart shatters at the idea of you going back to them. “Darlin, I know it’s hard to leave. It was hard for me too, but if I had never left my parents, I don’t know where I’d be if I continued to let them abuse me, but I know one thing I would have never found you again. What I’m saying is maybe when you hurt for so long, you encounter something good. Maybe I’m that good. Maybe I’m that person to make you feel again, maybe I’m the one to give you the love you deserve cause hell, we both know you’re the most lovable person on earth.”

His words make you smile and realize that he’s right. You loved your parents to death, but it was hurting you. You couldn’t stay any longer. If they loved you, they would never treat you the way they have all these years, and heeseung made you realize that all these years of hurt were at the hands of your parents and he was the only one to ever make you happy even when he was hurting he still made sure to cheer you up everyday and go out of his way to make you smile there was no excuse for your parents even when times got hard they could still find a way to show you they cared and they never did, but heeseung showed up when you needed him the most, and the answer had never been more clear than it is now.

He cups your cheek in his palms. “Darlin, if I promised forever, would you run away with me?” He looks at you in hopes that you’ll give him the answer he so desperately needs.

“Yes,” you said with absolutely zero hesitation.

He presses his forehead against yours. “I promise”

Another loud bang was heard on the door. “Hurry up, or else the punishment will be doubled!”

The loud banging interrupted your moment together, but it was time to leave. heeseung put on his pants and quickly grabbed his keys, making his way towards the window. “come on,” he reached for your hand, helping you out the window and following you close behind.

You both ran to his car, and he started the engine, looking to his right side. “I love you.” he held your hand in his and sped off into the distance. He had no idea where he was headed, but anywhere was better than there.

“I love you too.”

Your father busts down the Door to see the sheer white curtain swaying back and forth and the window wide open “shit!” He yells, holding his head in his hands before he begins to destroy everything in the house, looking for any trace of something heeseung may have left behind, but he finds nothing.

Your mother sits down in the corner, crying her eyes out, rocking back and forth with her hands in her hair and deep, deep down inside, regretting everything that she had ever done to harm you. The only thing that brought her some type of comfort was the look of happiness in your eyes when that unknown boy protected you, and maybe he was right. Maybe he could take better care of you than both of them combined.

Heeseung drove for hours until he reached a hotel, parking in the empty lot. You both made your way to the desk, getting a single room. heeseung held your hand, walking you to room 205, unlocking the door with the key card. He let out a sound of relief once he got inside. He had been driving for 6 hours straight. You lay next to him on the bed, hugging his waist. “Are you okay, darlin?” He asks, holding you impossibly close.

“I think so.” you clutched onto his sweater, tears staining the fuzzy material.

“Do you think they’ll come looking for us?” heeseung says.

“Let’s hope they won’t.”

“Me too,” he sighs. “What do you want to do for the rest of the night?”

“Can we just sleep?” You look up at him through your wet eyelashes.

“Of course, Darlin, I love you.”

“I love you too, hee.”

The next morning, you wake up to the countless messages and voice recordings from your dad. Every last one of them contained hateful comments, and when you listened to the voicemail, you heard your father loud and clear telling you never to come back and that you weren’t his daughter anymore. You couldn’t help but tear up from the voicemail. Your own parents abandoned you without any remorse, and that broke your heart into pieces that could never be put back together.

Heeseung stirred in his sleep. The sound of your sorrowful cries woke him up. “Darlin, what’s wrong?” You handed him the phone, and he listened to the recording. He clenched his jaw, slamming the phone on the nightstand.

Even though he was absolutely furious, a part of him was still relieved that you wouldn’t be in their life anymore, but at the same time, it hurt him beyond words cause he knew just how much you were hurting.

“You’re better off without them.” he brings your trembling body into his arms.

“You think so?” You hug him back.

“Darlin, I know so.” he made a promise to himself then and there that he’d do anything it took to make you happy again.

“Heeseung, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been alone before.” You pour out your worries to him.

“And you’re still not alone. You have me forever. I promise even if you didn’t have me, you’d still make it on your own cause you’re the strongest person I know.”

“Heeseung, thank you,” you tell him sincerely. He’s really been there for you through so much and words couldn’t describe how thankful you were for him.

“No, darlin', thank you for everything. I’d never be here today if it wasn’t for you.”

“What do you mean?” You ask softly.

“I wanted to die when I was without you, and when I made the decision to take my own life, I thought about every memory I had with you right before I swallowed those pills you found. I remembered your smile and knowing that you were still out there waiting for me on this horrible earth is what kept me going, and the crazy hopes I'd meet you again, now here we are in each other's arms getting ready to spend forever with each other.”

“Hee-“

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m okay, we’re okay.” he sends a tiny smile your way.

“We’re okay,” you repeated, assuring yourself.

“Darlin, I know it’s soon but let’s try to move on. Let’s do something to celebrate our first day together. Hmm?

“Like what?”

“Anything you want,” he says enthusiastically.

“Surprise me”

“A surprise you will get.” he kissed your forehead softly before getting ready.

After you both got ready, heeseung and you walked to a small lake, hand in hand, feet dangling over a wooden bridge as you watched the sunset.

“I know this is crazy, but after I met you after all these years, I feel like living again.” he rests his head on your shoulder. “And strangely enough, living on this earth doesn’t hurt me anymore,” he admits.

“What hurts you the most now?” Your question takes you back to the day he came into your life again.

“The thought of losing you,” he whispers.

“Well, you don’t have to hurt anymore cause you’re never going to lose me.” You promise him.

Silence ensues as you both throw tiny pebbles into the lake, watching the small ripples they create.

“Hee?”

“Yeah, Darlin?”

“Thank you for making me feel again. Thank you for showing me what love truly feels like.”

He tried his hardest to hold back his tears but failed miserably. “thank you for letting me be that person for you.”

“Do you think we have a chance for a better life?”

“I know it’s hard to tell right now, but we already have a better life, darlin',” he softly caressed your knee.

“We do, don’t we?”

“Yes,” he kissed you briefly, “wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He stands up, dusting off his pants. You wait for him, watching the sunset, thinking about the future with him, and you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with him by your side now and forever.

He came back shortly, hiding something behind his back.

He sat down next to you, handing you a red ring pop. “you haven’t smiled since we left.”

He was right. Your mind was too focused on everything else that it was hard to think about how you’d actually be spending the rest of your life with your best friend, your lover, and your savior.

You took off the wrapper, bringing the ring pop to your lips, the sweet taste bringing back so many memories, causing a smile to creep up on your face instantly, and heeseung watched you in silence, a smile finding its way to his face as well.

“That’s what I like to see, darlin.” He wrapped his arm around your waist as the cool breeze gave you both a sense of peace.

Obviously, things weren’t going to be perfect within the blink of an eye, but with him, you felt like it wouldn’t take long to get past all the bad memories and replace them with new ones.

Good ones.

Things would be hard, but at least now you had someone to confide in and be there for you when you needed someone the most. You’d always cherish him forever. Not a day would go by when you didn’t shower him with endless love and care.

Heeseung knew it would take some time for you, just like it took for him, but he was willing to wait. He spent ten years without you, so he could wait a few months for you to get back on your feet without a problem.

One thing he was for sure about was no matter what happened or how long it took, he’d wait for you cause you were worth every second, you saved him from the world, his parents, and himself, and he owed you his life for it.

“Y/n, will you be mine?” He says out of the blue.

“I’m already yours, hee,” you say, gazing into his eyes softly.

“I know, but I want to hear you say so. Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks in all seriousness.

“Yes, heeseung, I’d love to be your girlfriend.” You smile for the second time that day, and you swear you could get used to this.

“I can’t wait to spend forever with you,” he says, reaching into his coat pocket and tossing his last pack of cigarettes into the lake throwing away the last bit of his old life.

“And I can’t wait to spend forever with you, too.” You kiss his cheek.

“Look, I know it’s far from the perfect love story, but I swear to you I’ll do everything to make it as perfect as I can.”

“It’s already perfect hee, just you being here next to me right now is perfect.”

He looks at you, pulling you closer by the neck to give you a deep, loved, filled kiss.

He pulls away, smiling so wide that it almost hurts.

“Darlin, we have this earth to ourselves now. We can do anything we want whenever we want, however we want.”

“So, what’s the first thing that you want to do?” You ask, smiling at him.

“Walk into forever with you.” he looks at your sparkling eyes, taking the ring pop from out of your hand and placing it on your ring finger.

You kiss his lips one last time, leaning back slowly and opening your eyes as he smiles at you with a fond, loving look.

He stands up, takes your hand in his, and walks you down the length of the bridge. Right as the sun sets behind you, you both share one final kiss, sealing this moment in your hearts now and forever.

In this life and in the next, you’d always be by his side and he’d always be by yours.

“Welcome to forever, Darlin.”

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Thanks for reading likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated sorry for any typos or errors I hope you all have a good day/night♥️

[leclsrc]

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum. 

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you. 

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while. 

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.” 

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same. 

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more. 

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along. 

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?! 

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat. 

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook. 

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch. 

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered. 

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily. 

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully. 

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic. 

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again. 

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him. 

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something. 

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?” 

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing. 

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code. 

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement. 

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite. 

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language. 

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now. 

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t. 

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

[tswaney17]

Little Heir

@duskwhisperer and I are so excited to share “Little Heir” with you for @azrielappreciationweek day one, the family you make.

Thank you, @ruisfree for collaborating with us and bringing this piece to life. Still smiling and kicking our feet over all the creative details you added. We loved working with you! 💕

This commission and fic were inspired by the adorable idea of Azriel catching Nyx sneaking Aunt Elain’s cookies late at night. 🍪 We wanted to capture Azriel trying not to smile while Nyx guiltily looked up at him. With the scene set in Elain and Azriel’s kitchen, we thought it would be perfect to show Nyx’s artwork on display. And of course, we couldn’t resist showing our appreciation for a shirtless Az. 😏 We truly hope you adore this piece as much as we do.

Do Not Repost

🎨 @ruisfree | Comm by: @duskwhisperer & @tswaney17

Characters belong to Sarah J. Maas

~~~~~

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​​​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Catch up here.

Trigger warnings: mild NSFW language, tooth-rotting fluff

Word Count: 1,177

This fic will be posted on AO3 only. Read here.

Azriel felt the pull even in his deep sleep. That urgent tug that something was amiss. He knew the feeling of his shadows trying to drag him from his slumber. Had experienced it for years.

He very nearly growled at the disruption, until a single shadow curled around his ear, whispering their secrets.

The heir is awake. He wanders the house.

That had his attention, his eyes blinking open and seeing the sky outside their bedroom window still stained deep blue and purple, the sun not yet basking over the eastern mountains to grace them with its presence. The moon’s glow across the floor indicated it was still very late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. Far too early for the nearly five-year-old to be out of bed.

Why Nyx was awake, he didn’t know, but he’d soon find out. Azriel carefully detached himself from Elain’s warm body. Her brows furrowed in protest, a wordless sound passing through her parted lips as he slowly slipped away.

Read More

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

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[anemoiashifts]

idk why i never made this clear but the goal of my content isn’t to make you shift, it’s to try & help you understand where your desires come from & how to better yourself. if that’s means shifting to better yourself or if you later down the line you decide shifting isn’t for you i still want you to get some thing out of this.

a common thought pattern is “when i shift everything will be okay” & we can’t know that for certain. ive been called privileged for saying this & im not denying i certainly am to be sitting here & telling you this but true lasting happiness comes from within. when you desire nothing, you attract everything you have ever wanted & more which something i have a hard time believing myself.

i try to make my content not only apply to shifting but life in general; mental health, shadow work, getting off social media, trying to understand other perspectives. above all, that you have the ultimate control in your life. it’s never to late to start over or go after what you want.

truly, im so grateful to have a platform. im someone irl who has always been the black sheep & i know a lot of you can / have related to that. i know that’s why a lot of you are shifting & i wish you nothing but success.

[mrsstruggle]

The Beast of War - Chapter 1 // Teen Wolf x Marvel AU

This is the second part of the Shadow Wolf Series. Read The Lost Child First if you haven't!

Series Summary: In the aftermath of discovering her true identity and reuniting with her long-lost family, Y/N Stilinski finds herself adjusting to a new chapter of her life in Beacon Hills. With her brother and his friends in their senior year at High School, the town faces a fresh new threat. Y/N must navigate the complexities of her new life while confronting the looming threat that threatens to hurt her and the people she loves.

Warnings: Language, Mentions of Death/Injury/Grief/Torture, Possible Grammar Mistakes (please let me know if there is anything else)

Series Pairings: Derek Hale x Reader, Stiles Stilinski x Malia Tate (for now), Steve Rodgers x Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner x Natasha Romanoff, Vision x Wanda Maximoff

Words: 4.5k

Note: I am aware this is late! Please don't hate me!

Additional Note: While this is a Teen Wolf x Marvel AU, not everything is true to the shows/movies/comics. I had to change things for the story.

One Last Note: Y/N was adopted by Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. I did this so more people can see themselves in this story.

***I do not own Teen Wolf or Marvel or any related characters. This is a work of fanfiction and is meant for entertainment purposes only.***

Masterlist

The Beast of War Masterlist

The Lost Child Masterlist

Previous Chapter

---

“Are you going to keep secretly writing notes about me or ask me that question you’ve been too afraid to ask?” Y/N questions, her eyes never leaving the computer where she is tying in the new patient information. She is currently six hours into her ten-hour shift.

The boy sitting on the exam table freezes. His thumbs stop typing in his notes app as he looks at Y/N in surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, “Mhm, sure. This is the fifth time you’ve been in this week, but you always seem to leave with nothing wrong. You either have hypochondria or you’ve kept coming back until I was your nurse.”

“Maybe the previous nurses and doctors didn’t do a good job and sent me home without properly helping me.” He picks at the bottom of his shirt in a nervous habit.

“The first time you came in was for pink eye, which has been noted that you didn’t have that. The second time was for a rash on your arm that you didn’t have.” Y/N says, looking over his previous visit notes, “The third time was a bump on your knee that turned out to be your kneecap. The fourth time was for a broken wrist that turned out to be broken or even sprained. Now you’re here due to flu-like symptoms, but your vitals are all good and there is currently no indication of you being sick.”

He forces out a fake cough, “Are you sure about that?”

Y/N turns to look at him, “I’m sure. You do know this is an emergency room, right? We have actual patients that need help, and we are short staffed. We don’t need some kid coming in trying to meet the Stark girl to get a good photo for his Instagram or whatever.”

“First of all, I’m not a kid—we’re the same age. Second, this isn’t for my Instagram, this is for my criminology class.” He says, dropping his act. He knew there was no point in tripling down on his lies.

“Well, your parents must have a lot of money or some really good insurance for you to be able to show up here five different times.”

“Something like that.”

Y/N looks him up and down, contemplating what she should do. She should just send him home, but she’s worried he will keep showing up until he gets what he wants. “The school year just started, why do you need to speak with me for your criminology class now?”

“Our first assignment is to do a paper on a famous crime. What’s more famous than the kidnapping of Tony Stark’s daughter?”

“I can think of several.” Y/N lets out a sigh, turning her body to fully face him, “You get five questions. If I don’t want to answer one, then it’s still going to count as one of your questions. After that, you have to leave and also promise not to come back here unless you have an actual emergency.”

He smiles in victory, turning his phone back on, “Do you mind if I record this so I can type out your answers later?”

“Sure.”

He opens the Voice Memos app on his phone, hits the record button, and holds it up between Y/N and himself. “Okay, first question, I am aware that the Avengers are currently relocating to a little outside of Beacon Hills, but have you been back to the other Avengers compound or the place you lived while with them?”

“No, I have not been back.”

He opens his mouth to ask her to elaborate but decides against it in case she counts that as a question. “Second question, what was your initial reaction when you discovered the truth?”

Y/N pauses as she thinks of an answer. For safety reasons, when they announced who she was, they changed the story of how it happened. Instead of telling the public she was re-kidnapped by Hydra, they told them about Bucky discovering the photo of her in Derek’s auto shop. It’s part of the reason some people like to show up there.

To the public’s knowledge, Hydra kidnapped her in hopes of raising her to be their soldier before she was able to escape on her own when they left her unattended outside. She was then found by a friend of Talia Stilinski and adopted by the Stilinski’s. To the public’s knowledge, Pepper didn’t hand her over to Hydra, she was never experimented on, she has no powers, and she didn’t know about the Avengers because she was too young—not because her memories were blocked.

“Mostly confusion. It’s not every day that someone shows up and claims to be your other family.  Now I’m just waiting for my biological family to do the same thing.” Y/N jokes.

“Third question, I know thanks to photos online that you spend some time with your brother, Peter, but have you spent any time with your sister, Morgan?”

Y/N debates on whether she wants to answer the question or not. The answer is no, she hasn’t spent any time with her sister, nor has she met her. She has nothing against Morgan, and she doesn’t blame her for Pepper’s actions, but she’s not sure if Morgan feels the same way. According to Peter, she is close with her mother, and her relationship with Tony is strained due to his shortcomings as a father to her.

Y/N is unsure if Morgan blames her for those shortcomings. It’s because of Tony’s obsession with finding her that caused him to neglect to be a good father for Morgan. It’s because of his resentment and anger toward Pepper’s nonchalance at Y/N being gone and her happiness toward the new baby that caused him to leave Pepper in the first place. It’s because of his grief of losing her that caused him to be unable to hold her until she was three years old.

It wasn’t until Morgan became a teenager did Tony start to step up as her father. He still isn’t perfect, and he can never make up for her younger years, but he is a lot better. Y/N adds Tony and Peter moving to Beacon Hills as another reason for Morgan to be justified to hate her.

Y/N knows that if Derek or Peter knew her thoughts about Morgan, they would tell her that she can’t blame herself for Tony’s mistakes. The choices Tony made were his own, not hers. Right now, she’s told Peter and Tony that the decision to meet, form a relationship, or anything is fully up to Morgan. She doesn’t want to cause any upheaval in Morgan’s life by inserting herself into it. If Morgan wants Y/N in her life, then she will be. If she doesn’t want anything to do with her, that’s okay. If she wants to meet her once and then never again, Y/N will do that too.

She does however know—thanks to Peter—that Morgan has decided that she prefers a private life away from the spotlight. While Peter attends all charity and public events in the Stark name, Morgan likes to stay home away from the crowds and paparazzi. She even keeps away from social media, so she doesn’t see anything about herself or her family.

“Um, I’m going to pass on that question. Morgan is a minor and prefers to stay out of the press. I don’t feel comfortable talking about whatever relationship I may or may not have with her. That’s private and it will stay that way.” Y/N answers. “You have two questions left.”

The guy huffs in frustration, “Fine. Fourth question, what are your thoughts on the theories and videos people were making after it was first brought to the public’s attention that you’re Y/N Stark?”

“I think the best word to describe I how felt, and still feel, about the things people were saying is disappointment. I’m disappointed in how people were, and still are, talking about my family. Honestly, I don’t really care what people say about me,” That’s a lie but she isn’t going to correct herself, “but I am disappointed in the way people talked about my family and the people I love.”

He nods his head in understanding, “Okay, last question, do you plan on changing your name back to Stark?”

No, she doesn’t. To be honest, it’s not even a thought that has crossed her mind. Scott asked her about it once when he saw her driver’s license and her only thought was that she hopes Derek proposes before Tony asks so she has an excuse that won’t hurt his feelings.

“Maybe, I guess we’ll see,” Y/N says instead. “Now, you can be on your way, and I’ll make sure to let the front desk know I refuse to see you if you come back with anything less than a life-threatening injury. Hopefully, that will keep you away and make you reconsider faking injuries and illnesses, and taking a room away from someone who actually needs it.”

He hits the stop button before turning off his phone and thanking her for answering his questions. He follows her out of the room and rushes out of the building to start working on his paper.

“What’s that about?” Melissa asks, watching the boy run out of the hospital.

Y/N rolls her eyes and sighs, “Just another person who wanted to interview me. I humored him for a few questions before I told him to not come back unless he’s dying.” She hands Melissa the boy’s file that’s in her hand. “Can you put a note in his file to let the others know I won’t see him if he comes back unless necessary?”

“That’s like the fourth one this month,” Melissa laughs in disbelief.

“What can I say, I’m famous,” Y/N winks at her. She and Melissa both know how much she hates the amount of attention she’s gotten since Kate exposed her. At one point in her life, she dreamed of being a star that everyone loved and was extremely famous. Now she wishes she could go back to being a nobody.

“When do you get off today?”

“I have about four hours left and then I’m out of here. I’ve got to go home a prepare myself for family dinner.” Y/N says, grabbing a new patient’s clipboard.

“I heard Stiles telling Scott about that. Is this the first dinner with all of you together?”

“Yep, and I’m already regretting it.”

Melissa lets out a laugh, “I’m sure it will be fine, and if it isn’t, you can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“I actually have the next two days off, so it will be a few days until I can give you a play-by-play.” With her working so many shifts to make up for her unintended long absence, she decided she needed two days to take a break. She’s exhausted and just wants to sleep in for a day.

“I can’t wait.”

---

“Hey! Where’s Stiles?” Y/N asks as she greets her dad. He’s the first one to arrive for dinner and she expected Stiles to be with him.

“He said that he could drive himself here, so I drove here straight after work.” The sheriff replies, pulling Y/N into a big hug.

“Okay, well, the others should be here soon if you want to go ahead and sit at the table, or I can turn the TV on, and you can sit in the living room and wait.”

“Where’s Derek?” He questions.

“In here!” Derek calls out from the kitchen.

The sheriff follows Y/N into the kitchen to see Derek checking on the rolls in the oven. “How are you, Derek?”

“I’m good, sir. How are you?” Derek asks, shaking Noah’s hand in greeting.

“Well, I’m still here so I guess I’m good.”

“Dad, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll help Derek finish up,” Y/N says, gesturing her hand toward their dining table. She moves to help Derek when there’s a knock on the front door. “Never mind.”

Walking toward the front door, she can hear two heartbeats on the other side. Opening the door, Tony and Peter are now standing in front of her, “Hey. Thanks for coming.” She hugs them both as they enter the loft.

They had a few conversations after taking down Kate and the hunters, but they are still a little awkward around each other. Y/N and Peter not so much, but she isn’t sure how to navigate a relationship with Tony. She doesn’t want to come off as she doesn’t care about him, but she also needs time to get used to having another dad.

With Peter it’s different. They’re close in age and they have the shared trauma from Hydra. She also feels like she talking to Stiles most of the time.

Y/N shuts the door behind them, she leads them into the kitchen. She pulls out her phone to text Stiles as they greet Derek and Noah. Tony and Peter sit down at the table, and she helps Derek bring the food over.

She looks down at her phone when it vibrates in her hand, “Stiles says he’s a bit caught up and that we should start without him. He’ll be a bit late.”

“What’s he caught up with?” Derek asks, sitting at the head of the table next to Noah and Y/N.

“He didn’t say.” She hopes it’s just something to do with school and not supernatural-related.

“So, Derek, when are you going to start working on your old house?” Peter asks Derek. Y/N has told him a bit about Derek’s plans, but she hasn’t told him everything.

“Um, soon. I’m waiting until after I hire someone to help out at the shop.” Derek replies. A few people have applied to the open position, but two of them ended up being Avengers fans who faked their resumes.

“You know who would probably be interested in the position, Barnes,” Tony says. “He would know what to do and he’s been looking for a job.”

Bucky hasn’t applied to any yet, but he has a few saved. He’d been thinking about taking a step back from the Avengers for a bit. After seeing the files and the videos of what happened to Y/N, they seemed to trigger some bad memories that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. He’s also had several nightmares about what they could’ve possibly done to Y/N if she wasn’t rescued when she was.

Derek shares a small look with Y/N as if to ask for help with what he should say, “Yeah, I could send him the listing to see if he’s interested, or it’s on our website too. At least, that’s what Lydia told me.”

Y/N shrugs her shoulders a little when Derek looks back at her. She’s not going to tell Derek whether he should hire him or not, or even give Bucky a chance. It’s Derek’s business so that decision is completely up to him.

Tony opens his mouth to say something else, but Y/N decides to interrupt him. She’s sure Tony is about to say something that he thinks will be helpful for Derek, and she knows Derek probably doesn’t care to hear it. Derek likes doing things his way and he doesn’t always love people injecting their opinions. “So, Dad, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

Y/N ignores the longing look in Tony’s eyes as she speaks to the other man who raised her.

“Uh, not to my knowledge, no.” Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The tone in her voice says he should, but he can’t think of anything.

“Really?” Y/N looks down at his left ring finger where his wedding ring used to be.

“Right, I may or may not have a date tomorrow night.”

“Good for you,” Derek says proudly, patting him on the back. They haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but he and the sheriff have grown closer after he started dating Y/N. It was rough at first, but they started to get along after the sheriff saw how well Derek took care of Y/N after she was attacked one night by a hunter. They bonded that night as Y/N rested. It’s why Derek knows that the sheriff going on a date is a big deal for him.

“Who’s it with?” Y/N asks with a teasing smile.

“It’s with someone you know,” Noah says, keeping it vague.

“Well, it’s not with Melissa because she would’ve told me. But you also didn’t tell me until now. Oh my god, you’re date’s with Melissa.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Deaton?”

“It’s with a woman.”

“Well, who else do I know that’s at an appropriate age for you to date?” Y/N mutters mostly to herself.

Tony and Peter silently eat their food and watch the conversation with amused smiles on their faces. They like seeing Y/N with a smile on her face. It’s a lot better than what she looked like when dealing with Hydra, the hunters, and Derek getting shot with an arrow.

“It’s Lydia’s mom,” Derek states.

Noah looks at him a little shocked. He didn’t expect Derek to guess correctly or even chime in. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t, but I do now.” Derek sends a triumph wink toward Y/N. She’s a little surprised he’s showing this side of himself with Tony and Peter here. With strangers, and sometimes the pack, he prefers to only let them see him as the tall, broody guy who doesn’t have many feelings.

“Just don’t tell Stiles. I haven’t told him I’m going on a date yet either.” He looks pointedly toward Y/N.

“Fine. My lips are sealed.” Y/N pretends to zip her lips for added effect. “What about you Peter? How’s MJ?”

The last time Peter had talked to her about MJ he wasn’t sure about the direction of their relationship. He loves her, but she’s still in college going for her master’s and he’s moving to Beacon Hills to be closer to his sister. They hadn’t decided if they wanted to try long-distance, have Peter go back and forth, or if they should call it quits for now.

Y/N told him that she shouldn’t be the reason his relationship with MJ should change. He just replies that he thought she was dead for several years and has missed out on being in her life, so he doesn’t plan on missing anymore.

“She’s good. We still haven’t decided what we’re going to do yet.” Peter replies, keeping his eyes down on the food on his plate to avoid looking at her.

“How has it been at the hospital? Are people still showing up and harassing you?” Tony asks, turning the attention away from Peter because he can feel he doesn’t want to talk about MJ.

“Yeah, we had a guy come in today asking me questions. It’s the fifth time he’s been in this week.” Y/N rolls her eyes in annoyance.

Tony frowns at her answer. He offered her a job to work with the Avengers in their medical wing to avoid the crazy press and fans and to spend more time with her, but she declined. She likes her job, and she likes that she can help her brother and friends by having her job.

“He’s been in five times?” Derek questions, his tone on the protective side.

“Yeah, he’s some college guy who wanted to interview me for some school project.”

“College guy?” “Didn’t the school year just start?” Derek and Peter question at the same time.

“He said it was for a paper for his criminology class. I let him ask me a few questions and then told the front desk not to let him back unless he’s dying.”

“What questions did he ask you?” Peter asks.

“Like ‘how did I react when I found out’ and ‘how did I feel about the videos people were making about me.’ I gave him five questions and only answered the ones I wanted to.” Y/N shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I only did it so that he’d stop wasting the staff’s time with his fake injuries and illnesses.”

“Has Stiles told you if he’s on his way?” Noah asks, changing the subject.

Y/N checks her phone and sees that Stiles hasn’t texted her, “Nope, but you know how he gets. He probably lost track of time, or he’s still caught up in whatever he’s doing.”

The table goes quiet, and everyone continues eating. No one knows what to say. This isn’t the first dinner they’ve had together, but they all typically end in silence. They do some polite small talk in the beginning—mostly everyone only speaking to Y/N—then finish their food in silence.

Derek takes his and Y/N’s empty plates to the sink when they're done. Y/N packs up some of the leftovers for her dad to take home.

“I should go. I’ve got a long shift in the morning.” Noah says. He pats Derek on the shoulder as a goodbye. He takes the leftovers from Y/N’s hands and follows her to the front door. “I’m assuming you’re going to show up to the station before my date tomorrow.”

“You know me so well.” Y/N smiles, hugging him goodbye. “See you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too.” He closes the door behind himself as he leaves. Y/N turns to Tony and Peter who are ready to leave as well.

“Thanks for having us over. Dinner was good.” Tony says, putting his jacket back on that he took off while eating.

“Thanks for coming,” Y/N says, hugging them both goodbye. “My schedule is starting to slow down so I’ll let you know when I’m free for us to do something.” She notices Tony perk up at the thought of spending more time with her.

She waves at them goodbye before closing and locking the loft door. Sighing in exhaustion, she turns to see Derek standing and staring at her with a familiar lovestruck look in his eyes.

“I feel like I could sleep for a week,” Y/N says, slowly walking over to him.

Derek wraps his arms around her when she reaches him, “Well, I’ve done the dishes, so how about we go upstairs, take a nice hot bath, and then get you to bed?”

“Keep saying things like that and I’ll get on one knee right now and ask you to marry me.”

“I prefer when you get on both knees.”

Y/N scoffs at his joke, “Just take me upstairs to a bath. If you treat me right, maybe the bath could turn into something more.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Derek says. Y/N lets out a laugh when Derek wraps his arms around her thighs and picks her up, carrying her upstairs.

---

Y/N slowly opens her eyes to see Derek asleep next to her. She smiles a little at how cute he looks when he’s asleep. Turning to the clock on her bedside table, she notices that it’s almost midnight. She’s only been asleep for a little over an hour and she’s not sure what woke her up. As she turns back to Derek, their bedroom door flies open.

“Y/N?” Stiles calls out from the doorway.

“What the fuck Stiles?” Y/N groans, clamping her eyes shut when he flicks on the bedroom light. She can feel Derek waking up next to her. “Why the fuck are you here so late?”

Stiles walks into the room and sits on the bed next to Y/N, “I feel like I’m going crazy and you’re the only one that believes me.” Y/N can smell that he reeks of anxiety.

“Go home,” Derek groans, wraps an arm around Y/N’s waist, and pulls her in closer to him, pushing his face into the back of her neck to try and hide from the light.

Y/N sighs, using her hands to block the ceiling light, “You can tell me what’s going on after you turn off the light.”

Stiles huffs in frustration but gets up and turns off the light before sitting back on the bed, “There’s something off about Theo but no one believes me. Scott thinks I should give him the benefit of the doubt and that, even if he is bad, everyone is savable.”

“Does some of this have to do with why you didn’t show up to dinner?”

“Sorry about that. Me and Liam followed him around to see what he’d do.”

“And what did he do?”

“We may have followed him to the bridge near where his sister was found.” Stiles mumbles, fiddling with the drawstrings on his hoodie.

“He could’ve noticed you following him and put on a ‘good guy’ act,” Y/N says, trying to think of something that would support Stiles’ theory.

“Don’t encourage him,” Derek mumbles sleepily behind her.

“I broke into the administration office and found the transfer form his dad signed and compared it to a speeding ticket he signed eight years ago. The signatures are completely different.” Stiles says. He knows he’s right about Theo and he doesn’t get why Scott doesn’t believe him.

“Okay, I believe you. Look, I’m exhausted so how about we get some sleep and talk about this some more later? You’ve got school tomorrow, so you need some sleep too.” Y/N says as gently as she can. She doesn’t want him to feel like she doesn’t believe him either, but she might fall back asleep any minute now. “You know you are welcome to the guest room. It’s practically yours now anyway.”

“Can I sleep in here tonight?” Stiles asks shyly.

“No,” Derek answers quickly.

“Not like in your bed, but like can I drag the guest room’s mattress in here and sleep on it on the floor?”

Even in the dark, Y/N can see the vulnerability in his eyes, “Yes, you can sleep in here.” Stiles smiles and runs out of the room toward the guest room.

“You should’ve said no,” Derek groans.

“He’s worried about his friends and senior year has been giving him a lot of anxiety after asking Dad about his high school buddies.”

“How has that given him so much anxiety that he stinks of it?”

“Dad told him that he no longer speaks to any of his friends from high school and he’s scared him and his friends will end up the same way.”

Derek sighs, “Fine, but him staying in here is a one-time thing.”

Y/N starts to reply when Stiles comes back into the room, pulling the guest bedroom mattress behind him with one hand and his pillows and blankets in the other. He puts the mattress against the wall that faces Y/N’s side of the bed.

He puts his pillows down on the mattress before laying down and wrapping his blankets around himself, “Okay, goodnight. Don’t do anything gross since I’m here.”

Y/N rolls her eyes at his last sentence, “Goodnight Stiles.”

As she starts to drift back off to sleep, she hears Stiles speak again, “Y/N?”

“What?”

“Did you notice that Dad stopped wearing his ring?”

“Yeah,” Y/N replies gently.

“Do you think he’s met someone?”

“You’d have to ask him that.” She would’ve responded with yes, but she promised her dad earlier that she wouldn’t tell Stiles because he wanted to be the one to do it.

“I just want him to be happy,” Stiles says, staring up at the ceiling.

“Me too.”

There’s a moment of silence before Stiles says, “I miss Mom.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, goodnight,” Stiles rolls over to his side to face the wall.

“Goodnight,” Y/N pushes herself back into Derek’s loose embrace. After Stiles laid out the mattress, he was out like a light. She starts to drift off again when Stiles interrupts her again.

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for believing me.”

“Always.”

---

@xxemmarldxx @esposadomd @ladyjenjay @ts1mp0ne @misshale21

@n1ght5h4d3-24 @xoxoloverb

[chernabogs]

Hello! I rise from my tumblr slumber to humbly ask if you’d be interested in writing for Malleus, based on the prompt ‘I didn’t feel like I’d step into another world, but like it’d stepped into me. I knew I was there and forgot I’d left anything behind.’ from the prompt list you’d reblogged? I am…sensing much Malleus related angst potential here.

Hehe yes... sort of angst, sort of spooky

RUINS

Inc: Malleus, a fisherman, one ghost (maybe?) WC: 3.1k Warnings: Bleak LMAO. Drug use (smoking, alcohol, and tobacco thanks to the fisherman), ocean horror mention, supernatural horror mention. Summary: A boy looking for his mother visits the last place she was before her passing.

“It’ll be a few hours down the path just beyond the tree line. Impossible to miss if you ask me.” The man pauses to chew on his cigar, his dark gaze narrowing, before grabbing for his pint again. “Why’re you interested ‘n that place anyway? Right rotten, it is.” 

The Red Rabbit is a place renowned for information gathering and sharing—so long as you allow the bartender to continue pouring the mead. Malleus’ fingers reach up to brush along the hood of his travelling cloak as he pulls his own pint glass close. He’s used glamour to conceal most of his obvious features. If anyone saw the crown prince sitting in a dingy pub asking for directions, it would most certainly cause a stir. 

“Right rotten, is it?” Malleus raises the pint to his lips and allows the burning liquid to slide down his throat. Fae mead is noxious, only in that it can get you intoxicated in the first few sips—if you’re a human. The man who sits before Malleus has taken more than a few at this rate. “Perhaps it would be best to let me be the judge of that myself.”

His companion snorts before setting his cigar aside. He’s a fisherman; the scent of the ocean lingers on his person, and his hands are calloused from tossing and hauling nets into an ungiving depth. The shores of lands that had once been Briar Nations have been deprived of fish ever since they became isolated. The village’s landscapes, once vibrant, have now become jagged rocks and dead trees. The villagers are no different. “Go where y’want, see what y’wish. So long as yer not on the rob. That’ll get you killed.” 

This is another thing that Malleus has noticed regarding the village and its denizens—people mind their own business. This is uncommon for small villages, where most would be itching to get in everyone’s affairs, and only further emphasizes the economic faults of the borderlands. It unsettles him.

He didn’t come here on a whim. The thought of this journey had sat in his mind ever since he found out the origins of his birth, and the deception under which he was raised. Perhaps this is why when he slipped out of the palace through the servant’s entrance and into the forest late at night, he did not feel threatened by the burning gaze he felt on his back.

His grandmother owed him. This, she seemed to know, and so she let him go without protest. 

Still, the villagers final comment piques Malleus’ attention. “Get me killed, hm? And what could be there to kill me if it’s just a rotten, desolate place?” 

“Dire beasts’ nests are in there. Few of the guys have seen ‘em—big, hungry things lumbering past the stained-glass windows and down the corridors. Lots’ve people who try goin’ there end up goin’ missing instead because they underestimate how vicious a defensive mother can get.” The fisherman picks up his cigar again and chews on the end. “Anyone who’s lived here long enough knows.” 

Malleus’ nails tap against the pint before pushing it aside and setting a coin pouch on the table. The fisherman raises an eyebrow, his beady dark gaze darting from Malleus to the pouch in interest. There’s enough to pay for Malleus’ drink, the fisherman’s drink, and probably tide the man over for the wintertime as well. A saccharine smile pulls on Malleus’ lips—the part of him that isn’t shadowed by the hood he wears over his head. “Take me there yourself, and I’ll give you more.” 

The fisherman chews on his cigar, staring at Malleus as he does. A thoughtful look crosses his face before it ends in him shaking his head. “Fuckin’ rich ‘uns…” 

His grumbling doesn’t stop him from grabbing the pouch and opening it up. He drops a few madol on the table before shoving the rest of the pouch in his pocket and tossing his cigar aside. A foul, hacking sound comes from his lips before he spits on the floor—which Malleus tries politely not to make a face over—and grabs his raincoat. “Come off it, then. I’ll take it the ocean way. It’s a lot faster and safer than tryin’ ta move through the woods. Bad season for that.” 

“Bad season?” Malleus asks as he rises to his feet. The fisherman shuffles past the other patrons in the crowded space before shouldering the door open to step back in the bleak outdoors. He mutters under his breath as he digs around his pockets before pulling out a small container and popping something into his mouth. The pungent smell of chewing tobacco notifies Malleus quickly of what it is. 

“S’breeding season. Everything in those woods is all riled up and starving in their energy. You’d make a fine morsel for somethin’.” The fisherman glances back at him and grimaces. “Tall n’ scrawny.” 

Well, Malleus tries not to take too much offence to that as he follows the fisherman down the path towards the docks. In his transformed appearance, his physique did look different than usual—leaner, less ‘victim of countless years of training.’ 

“Tragic,” is all he sighs instead before adjusting his hood once more. 

_______________

There’s something humbling about sitting on a cramped boat next to a net full of dead fish that you don’t really realize until you experience it. For Malleus, who sits with his knees to his chest and his body leaning as far away from the net as possible, it’s an experience he doesn’t want to go through again. The fisherman seems utterly unbothered as he stands at the end of the boat, looking out at the murky waters beyond while still chewing on the same tobacco lump. The vessel putters slowly with its magic-powered engine into the night. 

“Gotta go at this pace in case we run into rocks below.” The fisherman shouts over his shoulder as he looks down to the waters again. “Or anythin’ else for that matter.” 

“Anything—” Malleus recoils as a slimy fish corpse brushes against his hand. His expression twists and he swats it away. “Eugh. Anything else?” 

“Merfolk, sea creatures, indiscernible entities. Y’know—no man’s land specialties.” The fisherman’s foot kicks against the engine as the boat is guided to swerve around a rock in question. “Merfolk especially have been comin’ up and around these parts. Which is strange, considerin’ they usually mind themselves down in the Coral Sea.” 

“Perhaps they are vacationing.” Malleus prompts. He knows this is a stupid idea as soon as the words leave his lips, and the fisherman’s bark of a laugh reassures him of such. No one is vacationing to these no man lands. 

The two of them fall back into silence as Malleus looks out to the sea. The lamp on their boat hardly cuts through the darkness that shrouds around them, churning and twisting like the waters they drift upon. He can see why stories of sailors going mad in the night are so prevalent in these parts. The world around them, which seems to hold no beginning or end in this moment, is a prime canvas for delusions. 

“Try not to look out too long. Focus on the lamp instead.” The fisherman’s voice draws him once more as the boat sails along a cliffside now. Black stones loom over them in a daunting stance. It’s the same stone that was used to create Black Scale Palace—carved from the body of Briar Nation itself, back when the body still had a lot to give and belonged to his family. He can see faintly where fae-made chips reside and where nature itself has taken course. “It’s a fool's role to try and see out there. You’ll start seein’ shit that isn’t.”  

Malleus sinks back down in the boat with a sigh. The fisherman is weathered enough to have done this for a long time now if his grey hair and sun-wrinkled skin had anything to say. If he can survive to this age, then it’s for a good reason. 

“How much longer?” He asks. The fisherman scratches his chin before stepping off the bow and sitting against the side of the boat. Fish corpses, a fisherman, and the void-like world around him—Malleus is beginning to doubt the journey’s worth. 

“Five minutes, give’r take. Best just get comfortable.” 

Comfort is impossible with the pungent scent around them, but Malleus pulls his cloak tighter regardless and looks back to the lamp. A few insects bump against the glass in a foolish bid to reach the light, and he busies himself by counting how many burn up in their efforts. 

_______________

When they finally arrive, he pays the fisherman enough madol to wait for him at the bottom of the cliffs before beginning the steep ascent up the hills. His mother had an apparent idea that building a palace near the edge of the nation’s lands was a brilliant one. Perhaps in the forgiving summer months the view of the ocean was tranquil and pleasing. Right now, it’s the most loathsome thing in his existence. 

Making it to the top of the cliff offers no reprieve, either. He’s greeted abruptly with an excess of thorns twisting and writhing their way across the earth. Brambles, starving for something, shudder and groan as he inches past them. The only reason they refuse to sink into his supple flesh is perhaps because they can smell the magic of their creator imbued within him. His mother apparently did have brilliant ideas—one of them being to give him a healthy dose of magic before her departure. 

“Gods,” he hisses as he burns away another bramble. The sudden light seems to make the patch shudder and retract with an angry sound. The movement enables Malleus to notice a different aspect of the palace that he neglected—the scent of diurnal fae magic. He can feel it clashing with his mothers in a power-struggle for control, the two essences entwining and biting like starving dogs. The diurnal fae likely wished to keep humans away—Malleus wagers his mother wished for the opposite. 

His lip curls in disgust as he makes his way down the stone path leading to the decrepit white structure beyond. The closer he gets, the more he begins to see the truth in the fisherman’s warnings. Stained glass windows are either blown out or breaking along the palace’s walls. The stones themselves are chipping and beginning to crumble, crushed under the weight of the thorns that still twist and move subtly. The musky scent of animals also begins to appear alongside the earlier magic. This is what draws him to a stop as he reaches the front door. 

It may have been heavily fortified once. Now, it looks as though one door was violently kicked in, lying broken on its hinges and giving just enough room for Malleus to wiggle inside. He nips his finger on a thorn, causing a curse to slip past his lips as he presses his wound to his tongue before his feet finally meet stone again. 

There’s no chuffing of dire beasts from within like the fisherman warned. There’s also no indication of any sort of haunting present, which Malleus has also heard rumours of. 

No. Upon entering Wild Rose Palace for the first time in his life, Malleus is greeted with silence—anticlimactic, and brutally honest. 

“... hm.” He shoves his hood off his head and waves a hand to dispel the transformation glamour he’s been wearing. Once that’s in order, he begins to move down the hall to his right, his eyes narrowing with intent swimming in their green depths. If the layout of this palace is the same as Black Scale, then the throne room is likely down this hall, past a few more turns, and then through another set of double doors—nestled right in the heart of the building. 

As he moves, he does begin to track similarities to his grandmother's home. It didn’t feel like he had stepped into another world—rather, that it had stepped into him. He knows he’s here and yet feels like he forgot he left to arrive. It’s unnerving. His fingers trace along the wall to his left as he passes by suits of armour, portraits either torn up or faded from age, and tapestries that display tales with which he isn’t familiar. His grandmother had tried hard to shield him from a lot of things. This apparently includes censoring literature that may have once existed. 

The brambles continue to part for him as he makes turn, after turn, after turn in the labyrinthian design that was formed in his mother’s mind. His breath hitches a few times in panic when he hears a sound from behind him in the hall, causing his pace to pick up, only to level out again when the sounds fade. It feels as though he’s been walking for eons when another set of doors finally appear. 

Carved of black oak and adorned with two dragons curled on their frame, he reckons that they can only lead to one place as his hands grasps the cold, metal knobs. With a jerking motion, he pulls them open to a cacophony of deafening shrieks, and steps inside. 

_______________

Glass. 

The sight of his body takes him aback for a second as his expression becomes almost comical. The wall behind the throne that sits at the end of the large room is glass, polished and untarnished despite nearly 400 years of neglect. His hands fall from the knobs as he slowly makes his way inside. There are stained glass windows lining the one wall while the other is white stone, which is decorated with brambles crawling to the rafters above. Malleus steps over them deftly, frowning as he does before coming to a stop in the middle of the room. Once he reaches this point, he pauses, before closing his eyes and trying to think. 

He wants to see if he can feel her. Even a slight lingering wisp of her presence would be enough to please him. He wants to know if he can experience what it’s like: a mother’s touch, a mother’s voice. His grandmother had tried hard to shield him from a lot of things, with maternal affection also being one—not that he can blame her. He used to, but experiencing loss first-hand had taught him that not everyone heals the same way. A few remain more fractured than others even in the years after. 

“Mother?” He tries the term on his tongue, tastes it, rolls it over to see what that’s like as well. It’s foreign. His mouth struggles to form it and his voice warbles as his eyes open and he grimaces. Sour and strange—that’s how it tastes. His feet drag him closer to the throne before he kneels upon it to peer at the glass wall. 

It looks like it was covered by fabric once. Scraps of violet remain pooled on the floor, which he passes a sparing glance at before looking up again. He feels like a child as he peers over the thrones edge to his curious reflection. He used to do this with his grandmother when he was little—play on her throne, try to get her attention for even a moment. He’s always been somewhat of a needy child. 

“Mother?” He prompts again. Maybe saying it twice will do something. Instead, the only thing he receives is his own voice echoing back as he looks over his shoulder to the darkened hallways beyond. 

Silence—anticlimactic, and brutally honest. 

His nails dig into the metal of the throne as he slumps down, temporarily dejected. It’s a stupid thing to get dejected over, he reasons to himself. It isn’t like he expected to hear what her voice sounded like anyway. All he has are a few nagging memories of it from his time within his egg. His head turns to the side to look in the glass again. His expression is less curious and more frustrated now as he stares into his own green eyes. 

And then, a flash. 

It’s so subtle that he might have missed it had he not been looking in the glass at the right moment. It makes him sit up straighter as his breath stutters to a pause. There’s nothing for another few seconds before another flash, and another. A few lost green fireflies seem to have found their way into the palace and are now floating by his head in interest. Malleus’ lips crack into a faint smile as his hand goes up to brush against one, which lights up bright before floating just out of reach. 

He can see them in the mirror. The fireflies, the stained glass, the tapestries, the shadow—

Shadow. 

He thinks for a moment—just one, foolish moment—that he can see standing behind him in that glass, something tall, with horns like his own and a flash of green that isn’t a firefly. Malleus twists around rapidly in the throne, his body tense and ready for conflict, only to look upon a room devoid of anything but him and the insects. The silence of all but his own breath is becoming oppressive, weighted, like he’s starting to no longer be welcomed in this place. He hears something low rumble from somewhere else within the palace as he waves a hand to conceal his appearance. 

He rises from the throne, shaken but not put off as he steps down to the stone floor once more. A thought crosses his mind that he can’t help but find amusement in—it’s utterly her. From the stories he’s heard through Lilia, and Baul, and even his grandmother on the odd night, it’s utterly her to give him a fright before vanishing into the ether once more. 

It thrills him. It vindicates him. 

“Thank you, mother.” There’s a dry bit of humour in his tone as he casts one last glance to the throne before turning away. 

Does he feel as though a part of himself is satisfied now? Does he feel whole? He isn’t sure. Perhaps the realization will come to him on the boat ride back to the bleak, miserable village he came from. Perhaps the realization will come to him in his bed, when he’s wrapped in sheets of black silk and staring at the stars beyond. Perhaps the realization will never come at all because it never existed to begin with. 

Anticlimactic, and brutally honest.

[jayietheriverwarrior]

This is an idea I've had in my head for a while now, but now I finally made something out of it. Behold my new headcanon - that the mythological Clans in the nursery tales (LionClan, TigerClan, LeopardClan) are actually big cat species from ice age europe!

Basically, I've been watching a lot of paleontology-related videos lately about prehistoric wildlife, and it got me thinking about how there actually were big cats in England once like in the stories about the ancient Clans, but they weren't the lions, tigers, and leopards we know today. That gave me the idea that maybe the stories the Clans tell about those ancient Clans now are just heavily distorted versions of true events from England's ice age era and the real big cats that roamed the land at that time, twisted through many generations of retelling. Here, we see Squirrelflight telling her brood of three (more on why I chose these particular cats in a bit) the tales of the ancient Clans, while the true ancient cats are visible to the audience above her head, and the deeds from the nursery tales about them are painted on the cave walls.

As for the big cats themselves, there were (coincidentally enough) three big cat species in the UK during the ice age to choose from. I've chosen cave lions to represent LionClan, European ice age leopards to represent LeopardClan, and scimitar-toothed cats to represent TigerClan. Scimitar-toothed cats aren't as closely linked to tigers as cave lions are to African lions or ice age leopards are to today's leopards, but they were the only ones left to choose, and dangit they look cool so who cares? :P They didn't live in real Clans as the Clans imagine them in stories, they roamed either as solitary hunters or in loose groups (or in tighter groups like prides possibly, not totally sure what the consensus is for how these big cats lived, but there's a bit of wiggle room here considering these are fictional intelligent group-forming versions of these cats).

It was interesting trying to draw these three extinct species with no living photo refs. I used photos of lions and leopards for the cave lions and ice age leopards, but made some changes like adding more fluff for the leopard and giving the cave lion the shorter and broader muzzle and thick dense fur (but no sexually dimorphic mane) they were known to have. For the scimitar-toothed cat, there's really no living analog with quite the same facial features, so I ended up using this bit of paleoart as a reference. I gave the cave lion pretty simialar coloration and pattern to an african lion, only with a bit of a duller grayer coat. The leopard I made a bit paler than the leopards we know today, and the scimitar-toothed cat I used similar colors and pattern to a lynx, but with more darker stripe-ish markings to justify the "how TigerClan got their stripes" story.

I would like to stress here that I am not a paleoartist, I am not a paleontologist or a biology expert of any kind, I am simply a humble English major and website editor who likes to watch paleontology videos in my spare time. If there are any glaring inaccuracies in this in regards to how I depicted these species, I do apologize, I tried my best, but as I stressed I am in no way an expert or even a novice in this field.

The cave paintings above each cat's head represents the story told about their "Clan" in "Secrets of the Clans". For the scimitar-toothed cat, it's the moon shining its light down to create the shadows that will carve the dark stripes into their pelts - obviously just completely made up to explain the dark stripes these cats developed, which can be far more easily be explained as a form of camouflage in tall grass. For LeopardClan, it's the tale of Fleetfoot fighting the boars to claim the river, and for LionClan, it's Sunpelt's standoff against the giant snake Mouthclaw.

But here we have another twist. These cave paintings actually depict events, and creatures, far older than even these ancient Clans, stories passed down from their own ancient ancestors, or else surmzied through finding remainds of the ancient creatures and creating a story around them. The giant snake Mouthclaw is a titanoboa (they didn’t live anywhere near the UK, but oh well - maybe just one managed to find their way over there :P) and the "boars” Fleetfoot supposedly faced are actually the terrifying “hell pig” (actually more closely related to hippos, far more terrifying than boars in my opinion), the enteledont! I based the painting of Sunpelt on a real cave painting thought to be a cave lion, the one of Fleetfoot loosely on a real painting thought to be an ice age leopard, and the enteledont loosely on a real cave painting of a running boar. I couldn’t find any really old cave paintings of snakes in that same style, so I had to kind of wing that one. Not sure it totally fits the art style of the others, but oh well, best I could do.

Now for the last bit - why I chose Squirrel and her first litter to be the ones telling/hearing the tale. Mostly because of an interesting AU I thought of - what if the Three (not counting Hollyleaf, but oh well, I couldn’t exactly stick Dovekit in here when she wasn’t born yet) weren’t reincarnations of ancient Tribe cats, but of ancient big cats? Lionblaze would be a cave lion, of course, then maybe an ice age leopard for Dovewing and a scimitar-tooth for Jayfeather? Dunno, but it could make for a really fun AU. :D

Anyway, this was a lot of fun to draw and I’m super happy with how it turned out: :D

[sunflowerwizard]

We Don't Talk About Abdel: the ""Canon"" Gorion's Ward and Why I Hate Him

If you've only played Baldur's Gate 3 you may have heard of Abdel Adrian. The Hero of Baldur's Gate, late Grand Duke, and Bhaalspawn who died, badly.

There is, unfortunately a lot you might not know. Spoilers ahead for the original Baldur's Gate, Baldur's Gate 2: Shadows of Amn, and Baldur's Gate 2: Throne of Bhaal. And their shitty novelizations you should not read.

Your choices matter. Allegedly.

There are many ways to handle continuity in a series of choice-heavy RPGs with custom main characters. There's the approach the original Fallout games did, by setting the second installment long enough after the first, that your player character can be vaguely alluded to without much friction. There's the Bioware approach, of uploading your save data from previous games to slightly effect the world in the next one. And then there's the Baldur's Gate series, which splits the difference and makes the worst of both worlds: a century has past and there's no cheeky vagueness to transplant your own player character as the Hero of Baldur's Gate. It is Abdel Adrian's world and we are merely living in it.

I'd argue there's one thing that very clearly separates a Commander Shepherd from an Abdel Adrian, and that's serving a role in a game that lines up with the story being told.

What's the deal with Bhaalspawn?

I'd like to get one thing out of the way first. Bhaalspawn =/= The Dark Urge. I only mention this because I've seen some people assume all Bhaalspawn operate on the "sleeper cell turbo murderer" framework that the DU does. The majority of the first Baldur's Gate game, the player character themself doesn't know they're in any way unusual. You get ominous dream sequences as the story progresses, up until the Big Reveal.

At which point, one of the themes reveals itself: nature versus nurture. Your PC is a 20-something year old young adult who lived inside a walled town, and had their entire support system torn away the second they left. Unless you've chosen to roleplay that way, they may not have ever felt a particular inclination towards violence. This is in stark contrast with Big Bad, your half-brother Sarevok whose upbringing was filled with struggle and violence.

It's even more apparent in Throne of Bhaal, when you're confronted with it outright: what if your places had been switched? Maybe you would've committed even more atrocities than your half-brother.

We now have to talk about the books. Unfortunately. Canonically the novelization of Baldur's Gate is the origin of Abdel Adrian. He is Philip Athans' brainchild and there's fuck all we can do about it. Unless I get a word of god response from Wizards of the Coast or story beats are directly contradicted in other BG-related media that has come out since, I am treating the events of the books as canon.

A narrative treadmill of a character arc

The game starts out in relatively bog-standard hero's journey fashion. It's morning in Candlekeep, you're leaving home for the very first time with your adoptive dad, and he's been very cagey about the details other than "we need to leave, I'll explain later."

Abdel Adrian, has already left Candlekeep at the start of the novel. He's already in his mid-twenties, and has been traveling the Sword Coast as a sword-for-hire for nearly a decade (presumably cornering the child soldier market). He also really likes killing people, hence his line of work. The big inciting incident with Gorion happens because he sent Abdel a letter about needing to talk, at which point Sarevok shows up, kills Gorion, who tells Abdel to seek out Jahiera and Khalid with his dying breath.

I'll break down my issues with this point by point. -Abdel is very clearly not a level 1 character. Perhaps this is a petty point, but isn't half the fun of this style of fantasy story watching the protagonist grow in skill, until they can eventually face off against the seemingly indomitable Big Bad? Spoiler: Abdel is already at the peak of his Swordsmanship Power™ and we will not see any growth on that front.

-What are the stakes, actually? We went from "everything I know and love has been torn away from me. I'm a level 1 adventurer in a big, dangerous world and cannot go home." to "I'm a big tough fighterman with a penchant for murder who's going to avenge the father figure the book tell-not-shows you I cared about" Like my previous point, we have no baseline, no sense of what the main character has truly lost. I'm much less interested in watching someone start from the middle and fight their way to the top, than seeing someone from rock bottom getting there.

-His Bhaalspawn heritage manifests itself as murdergremlin tendencies. If you've not encountered a player with murdergremlin tendencies while playing a ttrpg, you've almost certainly heard horror stories about them. The guy who loves to escalate encounters into combat, who threatens and maims because "it's what my character would do" and often times view themselves as the main character.

If that sounds exhausting, this is the character whose head we're trapped inside. A guy whose two big motivators are murder and sex, whose external moral compass is his love interest (Jahiera deserved better). AND EVEN THEN by the end of the second book, the only growth he has experienced as a character is "maybe sometimes I won't murder everyone who makes me angry" when he just point-blank refuses to kill the antagonist of BG2. Oh, but not before he had sex with and violently murdered the other main antagonist who was also a woman.

"Okay the books are awful, but why be angry at Abdel?"

Because by virtue of WOTC continuing to use "Abdel Adrian" as THE Hero of Baldur's Gate and a canon character, those books are still canon. SOME elements had to be retconned for being incongruent with the games (did I mention in the first novel Abdel leaves Khalid to die during a fight in the first novel?) but otherwise? I've seen no revisions to his base character. And now every piece of Baldur's Gate media is built on this shitty, rotten foundation.

Are these points somewhat petty? Yes! Either Wizards should've come up with an entirely new stand-in Bhaalspawn to wash the shit taste of those novelizations out of everyone's mouths, or they should've written future material to only vaguely allude to BG 1&2's protagonist. The Bhaalspawn saga was wrapped up perfectly fine in Throne of Bhaal. Either he should've stayed dead with Cyric taking on his domain, or find another way to bring him back. Abdel Adrian having .0001% Bhaal Juice still in his blood and thus turning into The Slayer is a "Somehow, Palpatine returned" way of doing it.

On the off chance anyone is morbidly curious about the terrible novels, me and some pals did a live-reading not too long ago. If this post gets 100 notes I will make a Greatest Hits compilation of terrible moments. Spoiler: one of them includes the "spider in her cleavage" scene.

[beanghostprincess]

Do you ever think about the fact that like, we know NOTHING about buggy? Yes of course we all know the devil fruit thing and how he was on Rogers crew, but the sheer amount we DONT know? Insane.

1 How the frick did he get on rogers crew?? Did roger kidnap the poor the kid? Did buggy just stowaway or something? Roger wouldnt take on anybody so there has to be a reason.

2 No one else looks like buggy except maybe vivi. Is buggy some long forgotten race? Is he actually royalty but their whole race was wiped out? Is it just a genetic mutation? I NEED ANSWERS ODA

3 WHO ARE HIS FAMILY?! Who are his parents or if he has siblings or cousins??? Did they disown him or did he runaway????

4 This is a personal preference but there is NO WAY buggy is as dumb as he plays. You can’t be that stupid and still be a successful captain/businessman/leader/yonko. Whatchu hiding buggy???

5 Where did the circus act come from? When he was on rogers ship there was no circusy makeup or any mention of things related to the circus, the only thing we have about that is that buggy wore bright clothes, but ROGER wore bright clothes. So did he join a circus after he and shanks broke up?? Is there a backstory there??

6 Last one I promise. Does anyone else think it’s a little strange that there are only two people in the series that wear clown makeup and one of them has nothing to do with the circus? Rosinante and buggy have extremely similar makeup, did they know eachother? Rosinante had no reason to wear clown makeup except maybe as a disguise, what the heck was that about???

7 Okok, last one last one. Did Oda say who he based buggy on? We know that almost every character in one piece is based on someone in real life or a myth. But we don’t know who buggy, an OG of the story, is based on. Little strange don’t you think? Oda?? HMMMM?

Mmm, I agree with you in the fact that we actually lack A LOT of information about Buggy's story (and also Shanks', but that's wayyy more plausible to be told in more detail than Buggy's) and I wish we knew more about where he comes from. But I think I can answer some stuff you mentioned!!!

4. Buggy is not playing dumb in any moment. He is directly not dumb at all and he has been shown countless times being of the most strategic characters in the manga. The one thing that holds him back is not being confident in himself because he still keeps the burden of living under Shanks' shadow on his shoulders so he often acts cowardly and seemingly without any goal at all but to survive. After chapter 1082, though, I think we will see wayyy more of him acting like a boss and following his dream and showing his true abilities. It's not that he's playing dumb, it's that he doesn't let himself be brave and now that he's on the same level as Shanks, he can do whatever he wants (if Mihawk and Crocodile let him lmao). And the reason why so many people follow him despite Buggy constantly saying he doesn't want to be seen this way because he sees himself as a loser who keeps pretending to be great, it's just that he's... Great. He just doesn't see it but he has an inherent effect on people when he gets serious. Being a failguy doesn't make you any less of a genius.

5/6. Actually, I believe we won't really get an answer to that. Perhaps we do if we get another flashback but maybe it's just character design and that's pretty much it. There must be something about wearing clown makeup as a mask of their true personality and yadda yadda yadda but that's for another day.

And about Buggy's past and the theory about him being a Nefertari: It's a pretty good theory and I actually really like it, keeping in mind how much influence both Buggy and Vivi's family are having lately in the manga. But I am not really sure about that being true and I am not even sure either if we we'll get any Buggy flashback at all. So I guess we will just have to wait and see what Oda does!!!

[flyingwargle]

lyney considers himself a decent older brother. he ensures that both his sister and younger brother are cared for, neither of their needs are prioritized over another (with exceptions, of course), and he pays attention to both of them. the last one is relatively easy since they’re both introverts with their own hobbies. all they do is share the same space and atmosphere.

that’s usually the case, but freminet has been spending a suspicious amount of time in his room lately.

ever since they started living altogether, they’ve made one boundary clear: to never enter one another’s private spaces. there are exceptions, as well, such as lyney’s walk-in closet because he loves sharing his hats with his siblings (although none of them have taken up on his offer of having their own custom top hat), and the magic workshop in the basement. their personal bedrooms, however, remain off-limits, until now.

lyney stands in front of the closed door. it’s locked, but it’s child’s play for a magician – three, two, one, and poof! he materializes the master keyring, searching for the correct one to insert into the keyhole.

“i wouldn’t do that, if i were you.”

he doesn’t startle. “curiosity is my greatest sin, my dear sister. unless you can shed some light on what’s being kept on the other side?”

“something that doesn’t concern us.”

“since when did we become a family with secrets?”

silence. he’s either sarcastic or genuine. it depends on the time and place. “he doesn’t work on his toys in the living room anymore,” lynette says slowly.

“indeed. the reason must be related to them, but how? why?” lyney supposes all the marvels that freminet has tinkered with before are kept in his room. he had offered him the spare room in the basement before, but their youngest brother refused, still clinging onto a childhood fear of dark staircases and hallways.

his sister shrugs. “he has his interests.” just like she has a tea collection, and lyney with his hat collection – ever growing, never ending. “it isn’t right for us to interfere.”

“i just want to make sure he’s okay. if he’s up to something harmless, i’ll back down. if it’s something more…” he trails off. his own words hit too close for comfort. “a quick peek wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

he receives neither an answer nor resistance. lynette is still as he inserts the key, hears the lock retract, and turns the knob. the door creaks open when pushed.

it’s dark. the light is blocked behind the drawn curtains. the bed, pushed against the wall, is made with sheets pulled tightly, pillows straight as soldiers at ease. only one half of the room is clean, as if the clutter is reserved for the workbench and closet on the other half.

there is diving gear scattered on the floor, spilling out from the closet drawers. lyney tiptoes around them, summoning a small flame in his palm for illumination. the workbench is similar to his own in the magic workshop, except covered with screwdrivers, nuts and bolts, wrenches, chalk, rulers. a mat rests in the center, where three identical trinkets rest. they’re penguins, the same as pers.

upon closer inspection, he notices each of them are colored to match their corresponding motifs.

“wow.” he’s awed. “so that’s…”

“lyney? lynette?”

he jumps. freminet is at the doorway, eyes on them. lynette recedes into the shadows, guilty by association. lyney extinguishes his flame, along with a nonchalant wave. “ah, freminet! i thought- i thought you were still at the court…”

“i left early.” his brother’s voice is soft, not at all scandalized. he steps closer. “so…you noticed that i was hiding something?”

“ah…well, you know i have to make sure you’re okay. i am your big brother, after all. it looks like all is well, so we’ll get out of your hair!” lyney grabs his sister on his way out, steering her by the shoulders toward the doorway. freminet stops them.

“i’m not upset. you just ruined your own surprise.”

“huh?” lyney grinds to a halt.

“you said that you wanted new props for your magic show. i’m still in the process of designing them, but…” freminet steps toward the workbench, gesturing at the penguins. “they won’t be ready for this week’s show, but maybe…maybe the next one after.”

lyney is silent. he releases lynette, moves back to the workbench. with a glance at freminet for permission, he picks up the crimson penguin. it fits in his hand, which makes it easy to palm. it’s light, durable, with bright eyes and moving flaps. it’s hollow on the inside, so he could hide something in there. it’s obvious that it was designed for a magician, full of possibility and marvel.

“can i help you finish them?”

freminet pauses, hesitant. when he nods, the corners of his lips curve into a smile. “of course.”

“me, too.” lynette joins them in the light, peering over their older brother’s shoulder.

“yes. i’ll tell you what else we need to do.”

one by one, they pick up a penguin, a tool, and get to work, guided by freminet, to improve the outer design and functionality. lyney pushes the curtains aside, breathes in the afternoon air. he glances over his shoulder. “why don’t we take this to the living room? there’s more space there, and it’s brighter.”

it’s back to routine, accompanied by cups of tea and laughter. lyney smiles as they work, chirping back replies and diligently following instructions. his smile never fades.

and he hopes to keep his siblings close for as long as he can.

[aliceinborderlandscrolls]

Scattered Cards

Chishiya Shuntarō x reader

I wanted to marry you…

Angst / Fluff

I stared up at the ceiling, small cracks breaking along it.

Five hours lying in this bed and I was still unable to get any rest. I felt restless from the adrenaline that the spade game Chishiya and I were forced to play earlier. Those people in those horse masks… They were just like us, like everyone put here.

Trying to survive just another day.

I placed my hand over where my heart was, feeling it pump faster than normal. It was as if those moments followed me like as shadow even after the event had already passed. It was those moments that played in my head of Chishiya almost… If he had been a second late in dodging those bullets… I squeezed my eyes shut at the thought. I couldn’t bare the thought of surging this world without him. He was the only thing keeping me going. In his cold distant snarky way, he was what kept me from ending it all in this demolished world.

I glanced over to the familiar mop of hair, dark natural locks beginning to appear from his roots. I thought it looked nice with blonde he bleached his hair with. I wondered why he chose to bleach his hair in the real world… More so what he looked liked before with his natural.

Light snores came past his lips as he slept peacefully beside me. I could almost laugh at how much of a child he looked, but he was also seemed so peaceful…

A frown settled on my lips. How could he sleep with such ease? Would anything in this world affect him? To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him distraught after any game, immediately falling a sleep with little to no effort.

He looked as if he hadn’t just come back from a life or death situation.

It was his nonchalance about his own life that worried me the most and I wondered what it would take for him to finally break through his carefree facade…

But, my word does he look beautiful…

I don’t think I have ever seen a man so handsome in my life and here he appeared, at a beach with his lucky white jacket. It was by chance that we met. The memory bringing a smile to my face. The spilt strawberry drink on his shorts was on my behalf.

“I’m so sorry!” I panicked, kneeling down to clean up the mess.

“You don’t need to apologize. He bumped into you.” He stated referring to one of the drunk players with a yellow beach shirt.

“Still… This is your first day here and I’ve already left you with an unpleasant memory.” I sighed when the stain wouldn’t come out.

“This entire world is an unpleasant memory.” He replied, “You however, are interesting.”

I looked up at him, brows furrowed, “I am?”

“You’re close to the hatter. Either you’re related or something more.” He stated, completely ignoring the way I was spreading the stain on his shorts instead of fixing it.

I shook my head at the misconception, “No, there’s nothing going on between us.” I made a face of disgust, “Hatter and Aguni took me in… We arrived to this world at the same time.” I stopped trying to fix what I had done looking up at him, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without them. I owe them my life.”

“Seems like everyone here owes someone their life.” He answered, “You however, owe me a new pair of shorts.”

“I’ll get you one tomorrow, I promise!” I stuttered.

It was the nonchalance in his voice as he spoke words that rang true and it was that moment I knew I would eventually fall for him.

I couldn’t take the looming silence snaring its way around me. Images past through my mind of all the games I have played since waking up here… All the bodies I have seen… The lives I couldn’t save… My life that I put first.

“Chishi?” I whispered the nickname I gave him ever since the first time I felt something more than friendship towards him.

I still remember the look he gave me, but he said nothing about it none the less.

His arms pulled tighter around his pillow, facing me. I wanted to chuckle at how he looked so much like a child with his face squished by the puffy thing.

“Chish…” I whispered again, a small smile appearing on my face.

He grunted in acknowledgment, refusing to open his eyes.

“In the real world, would you still want what we have?” I asked, referring to the two of us.

“Don’t be stupid.” Was all he replied, ready to go back to sleep.

I stared at the ceiling with a huff, “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He replied.

I rolled over to face him, my face resting against my clasped hands as I took a breathe to say the question I’ve been thinking about.

“Chishi…” My voice trailed off with nerves, “Would you still want to date me?”

“No.” He answered after a short moment.

My heart deflated as a thousands needles stabbed at it. He seemed to be so brutally honest leaving no room for debate. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, his voice nonchalant. I think that made it worse. After all we’ve been through… He felt nothing for me? Couldn’t he want to at least try?

Has he just been bored and I was only good enough to appease his lack of entertainment?

The only thing I could form out of my mouth was a quiet, “Oh…” As I settled back into bed.

How am I supposed to sleep after that? Should I… Leave? Maybe Kuina would let me spend the night at her place.

Before I couldn’t get up he spoke again, this time a small smirk on his face. It was as if he knew the turmoil that was going on inside my head. A game he enjoyed to play.

“I would want to marry you.” He stated. His eyes still closed, but content nonetheless.

A smile made with pink cheeks followed by my giggle as I fell into his honeyed words. I quickly snuggled into his side. He already had his arm moved away to make room for me of course.

Chishiya seemed to always knowing what my reaction will be as if he could read me like a book… Magbe he could.

His arm was raised only slightly, but enough so that I could fit into his side like a missing piece to his difficult puzzle.

“You would marry me, hm?” I smiled into his chest.

The only sound that came from him was a muffled, “Mm.”

“My husband… A doctor. I like the sound of that. Especially of you saving lives and helping people.”

“Of course you would. You’re a sap.” He stated.

“Maybe I am, but only for you.” I mused as I traced circles into his shirt, “And I wouldn’t care for a fancy ring either. I would want it to be something as simple and true as our love.”

I couldn’t help the way my heart leaped in my chest or the fluttery feeling that appeared from the thoughts of marrying him. Those feelings pushed aside the fear and heartache that came with the borderlands. It pushed them far away, leaving me in a bliss by the name of love.

“Mrs. Chishiya. I like the sound of that.” I mumbled.

“Hush. I’m trying to sleep.” He muttered.

“Goodnight Mr. Chishiya.” I giggled.

He amused me by saying those few words that had me ailing like an idiot, “Goodnight Mrs. Chishiya.”

My hands clutched onto his shirt as he held onto my side, the two of us falling into a blissful sleep.

If you loved me that much Shuntarō, why would you betray me like this?

[summermimosas]

Itoshi Brothers: U20 Edition

Part 1 to this is here! I explain my basic idealogy for Rin here, so it might be better if you that one first.

The basic tldr is: Rin doesn't see himself as an individual at all, and he doesn't seem to realise it. It's why Sae is pissed and as rude as he is, and it's why Rin feels like he's restricted.

He can be as annoyed about the "Itoshi Sae's little brother" label as he wants, but he hasn't realised he fosters it unconsciously.

Once again, this part is very very nicely covered in @/riririnnnn's post. Please go read their theories linked in Part 1 too!! And the source of this creative bug was @/boinin's work for Rin's Aura-also linked in Part 1.

This is when the realisation finally happens. He realises that he's being shadowed by Isagi constantly, watched, judged, all on the basis of what people expect of him. Of what he's imposed on himself.

And then there's this infamous panel.

No, he's not alone. And it's entirely the reason he feels as restricted as he is. Not because he's not alone- but because the second he feels like he isn't, he starts adapting those labels into himself. He needs to be Itoshi Rin if he wants to develop an ego of his own.

Everyone clap really loudly, okay- really really loudly. This man spends his entire life studying and emulating Sae and it takes him an entire year to realise that he's been doing it and see the problem in it.

Dumbass. Why am I analysing him again?

And this is what triggers his flow state. One of the craziest ones we've seen- why? Not as a flow state separately, no, but because this is what Rin is at this point in time. He may evolve, become a different person at whatever time, but at this point he's keen on finding a sense of self that isn't in relation to anyone else. Note how after the flow state- and the brutal comment Sae makes- he goes right back to "Crushing Sae Itoshi, but destroy Isagi Yoichi first". But now he's still in flow- a true, completely disconnected version of himself that is only influenced by his own thought process.

And Sae, of course, knows. I mean- it makes sense right? He's the only one who's seen Rin before he started playing football, before he became Itoshi Sae's little brother. When he really was just, Itoshi Rin.

At this point, however, he's still focusing on completely destroying expectations. An antithesis of everything he used to be called, everything he used to be. So his aura shifts to directly contradicting Sae's- it is still not his own.

This is why the unusual water theme comes in so late. It is Rin's, of course it is, but until the NEL/end of U20 he never knew of himself.

I will be skipping over the absolute trainwreck that is the ending of U20- you get it. Sae acknowledges Isagi, affirms just about every single one of Rin's insecurities, and this time repeat cycle. Destroy the target of Sae's attention, Isagi himself.

You know what the most interesting part of this all is? AFTER ALL THIS. He's learned so much, he's grown so much. Don't get me wrong, this younger sibling is learning to be his own person.

But. Then you see him in the current NEL Arc.

This fucking idiot- I mean. Ahem.

He's still thinking in terms of other people. Of course, now he's learned to separate himself from the equation, thankfully. But he's still not playing for himself. He's not "Itoshi Sae's little brother" anymore, he's the one who will "surpass Itoshi Sae and destroy Isagi".

Nagi asks the very good question of, what comes after that? Rin is no longer someone's shadow, but still thinks in terms of surpassing them, much like Nagi used to think before the Manshine vs BM Match. And this absolute nutcase. Replies.

You know, he's a stupid guy, but atleast he's honest about his thoughts. Makes it easier for me to analyse him, unlike his emotionally constipated brother.

He's describing it as a baby just born- fitting, because he's trying to find his footing after being label after label in someone else's story. Not that he was doing it intentionally, but it had become subconscious. He hasn't thought about the future, at all, because he can barely understand what he's doing now.

"Number 1? I don't care about that. What I care about is destroying you, Isagi." Well, I've rambled long enough. You get my point now. He's learning!! Like a baby bird learning to fly, very slowly. Hence the newly present water aura. This will become so much more interesting when we learn what happened to Sae in Spain, and if Rin finds out? Well. Maybe we can finally get the resolution I need them to have.

Because, god forbid they have another miscommunication. I will actually lose my mind.

But also, I'm someone who understands Rin on a really deep level because I've had similar experiences with mirroring an older sibling because I had nobody else to turn to for a role model or admire. And I tend to think of myself in terms of other people, too. So this analysis was something that came really naturally to me. I hope it was worth your time.