#with all the anxious enthusiasm i can muster

[tender-somethings]

“You Should Date an Illiterate Girl”

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly.

Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

Charles Warnke

[all-the-things-2020]

Rambling under the cut

I’ve finished Late Night Talking and currently am not working on any stories. I have two WIP that I haven’t touched in months but I can’t muster any enthusiasm to finish either because I’m at points where I’m stuck. I have a few ideas for original fics (not fanfiction) but they are just vague notions, settings, scenarios, situations, with no plot and very little depth to the characters.

I enjoy the feedback I get on fanfic (although I wish I got more; sometimes I feel like I drop my stories into the sea and they get washed away by the smuttier stuff that gets all the reblogs and likes and fan art. I’ve tried writing smut but it’s just not me. I prefer the “fade to black” technique where I allow my characters some privacy … and allow my readers to use their imagination.

Just feeling generally uninspired at the moment and floundering a bit. I know part of it is because I go back to work soon and the looming depression of the Mother of All Sunday Scaries is approaching. The news makes me want to dive under the blankets and hibernate but it’s too damn hot. Can’t go anywhere around here because of the heat, can’t get to the beach because the traffic is horrendous, can’t travel because who would watch the cat …

I want to spend a month in a cabin under the pines with nothing but books and wildflowers and a notebook so I can ignore the world, but I’m stuck here. I want to retire but I have at least 7 more years before that is financially feasible. I want someone to pay me to read books and write silly stories and pet cats and ride horses and take hikes. I want to live in my own little bubble but I feel a deep need to be of some worth in this world and help others. I love my job and I hate my job. I am too empathetic to ignore the plight of others, and too anxious and scared to do anything about it. In other words, I’m just me.

If you’re still reading, I apologize for dumping all this but I needed to get it out. Thank you.

[aeon-harshal]

Winged Bluejay

Chapter 1 & summary

First draft of Chapter 2 of Winged Bluejay below Approximately 2184 words

<>-Chapter 2 Heartwarming Supper-<>

The trek back to their village was unusually quiet. The wildlife had resumed their singing and chirping as the large, winged predators had long since moved past, however Asha had no inclination to talk and neither did Alexos. She loved that gryphon and he assumed she felt like this was the last time she would ever see him. She was preparing to leave her childhood home behind… if they left Raven’s Bluff, he doubted that she would ever want to return.

Hell, he did not want to return if he left.

"Hey, Asha," Alexos glanced her way.

"Yes?" She responded monotonously, looking at him with tired eyes and a slight frown, barely able to muster the energy to answer him.

The words he had hoped to push out died in his throat. She was utterly miserable, on her last shred of hope. Alexos was briefly grateful that she did not seem to find his pause strange, “Why don't you come have dinner with my family? Mum says you're always welcome,” he grinned from ear to ear, desperately hoping he could lift her dreary spirit.

She blinked, slowly thinking it over. She gave a small smile, still exhausted. “Why not? I haven't had a decent meal in weeks,” she said, holding her head higher, her steps growing lighter.

He smiled. Genuinely. He did not expect the renewed enthusiasm to last, but he could not bare to see her so forlorn. They at last filled the quiet with idle chatter of his mum cooking. Asha did not cook. She kept up with her brothers and father rather than sticking to house making with her mother.

Asha’s dour mood lifted properly once they arrived on the outskirts of Alexos’s family farm, the late afternoon sun beginning to crest over the distant mountains.

They marched up the dirt pathway and up the steps of the porch. They could hear the sound of Alexos’s younger siblings, laughing wildly and screaming with joy halfway though the road. He sighed, playfully rolling his eyes as he pushed the door open, a tired smile spread across his face. Asha smiled as well. His family was wonderful, but the younglings were exhausting sometimes. She was very glad to be the youngest in her family.

“I'm home,” Alexos declared, joyous as ever. Immediately the two youngest screamed his name and ran up to their big brother, tackling him with hugs. Alexos wheezed as they knocked the wind out of him and threw him off balance for a moment.

“Where were you!” The youngest, Rosemary, shouted at her big brother as she stepped away, putting her hands on her hips, giving Alexos a reproachful look- a childish, but cute pantomime of their mother.

“Mum told us where he went,” Kale yelled at his twin as he let go of Alexos. He and Asha both smiled and carefully pushed their way through the door, Asha closing it behind her while Alexos attempted to usher the youngsters towards the kitchen. Heris’s warm voice came from there as did the mouthwatering aroma of Sofia’s splendid vegetable stew. “Mum said he was out with Asha askin’ her to marry him!”

Asha’s stomach flipped, the world suddenly spinning. Meanwhile Alexos’s face turned red as a blooming poppy, quickly sputtering out, “Mum! Wh-what have yew been tellin’ them!” He quickly walked around his young siblings, practically flying into the kitchen.

“Ohh! Another sister! Another weddin’!” Rosemary said dreamily, putting her hands together in delight. Asha’s face warmed this time. Warm laughter and anxious demands for explanation came from the kitchen. “Did you say yes? Can I call you sissy? When are you gonna have babies?” Rosemary carried on as if it was all set in stone!

“Girls,” Kale muttered, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

“H-hey!” Asha snapped at him, making the twins jump slightly. “Not all girls are obsessed with marriage and the like… and you,” she looked at Rosemary while Kale flushed in shameful embarrassment. “There's more important things in life than marriage.”

Rosemary huffed and turned around, strolling to the kitchen with her chin up.

“It's rude to walk away from somebody who's talking to you!” Asha sighed. Stubborn child… she looked at Kale, who wore a grumpy pout. “Come on, let's go eat,” she smiled at him, putting her hand on his shoulder until he looked up at her curiously and then smiled. When they caught up to the rest of the family in the kitchen it was every bit an embarrassing mess as ever.

Alexos’s blush had not subsided at all.

“Well, we couldn't help ourselves. I was looking forward to having two new daughters,” Sofia laughed merrily, stirring the caldron of stew, more than enough for the entire family and Asha’s ‘unexpected’ inclusion.

“Aye! What happened with that? Did yew fumble it?” Heris, Alexos’s father chuckled heartily, slapping the table good-naturedly.

“Dad!” Alexos groaned, rubbing his aching forehead, hiding his face behind his hand. His parents merely gave another good laugh.

Sofia looked over her shoulder, her creamy hair getting in the way, “You kids know we're only teasing. Certainly a girl like Asha deserves a prince,” she beamed as Asha’s face turned red.

She scoffed, taking a seat next to Heris. Rosemary immediately sat down beside her. “That's sounds awfully mean to Alexos- but you're not wrong,” Asha smiled awkwardly at her friend, hoping to ease the strange tension and move away from this discussion.

“Yeah,” Alexos cleared his throat, turning towards his mother with a smile equally as anxious as his friend's, “Mum yew should be building me up since I'm not inheriting the farm.”

Heris smothered a noise, perhaps another, wilder laugh, though his expression was nothing short of amused. Sofia snorted, turning a smug grin towards him, “Boy, you have great enough ambition and the will to make it happen- a Gryphon rider is easy to marry, it's simply a matter of finding a young lady who will respect you as much as I expect you to respect her. Miss Asha here has plenty of ambition too, which is why she deserves a prince.”

Asha blushed with pride this time. “Thank you, ma’am,” she murmured. She certainly did not feel like she deserved anyone so great. Someone who treated her kindly yes, but not a prince. She would not make a great noblewomen.

“Mum, where's Leeann?” Alexos asked, at last deciding to take a seat beside Kale.

“Leeann!” Sofia yelled, causing everyone at the table to flinch. A girl’s muffled reply answered her.

“Ahh, that's one way of summoning her. Ha! Well, Asha, since you're joining us for dinner, how are this year’s foals doing?” Heris asked, wearing a big grin.

She smiled, “Very well. I've had a lot of fillies, and only one foal was caught by a wolf so far. I let a hunter onto the property and he says he took care of it. Showed me the pelt and everything. Oh! And I have the prettiest set of colts- one's all black with a white star on his head and the others a gorgeous palomino.”

“A palomino? Flasom’s progeny?” Heris asked.

“yes, sir. He's fathered three palomino foals. Cream is the colt’s mother and he seemed to be well tempered. He's a curious little guy too,” Asha gleefully told him about the best foals, both out of genuine love and excitement for the horses she was breeding and raising, but also to sell him on the idea of taking the herd. Her father was the most renown horse breeder in the eastern region of Cor’vale, and so she had inherited the best herd as well as all his skills for taking care of the graceful creatures. It should not be that hard to convince him to take the horses. She had a good stock of mares, some beautiful stallions, plenty of fresh foals and had all the lineages properly documented.

“Talkin’ about horses again?” Miss Leeann asked, marching into the kitchen with her hands on her hips, a slight scowl on her lips.

Asha went quiet, managing an even smile to mask her frustration.

“Aye, girl “ Heris nodded, “Asha’s got quite a prized herd, no doubt worth a small fortune,” he smiled at the raven-haired girl beside him. "Speaking of Child. When you take the horses to market, I would like for Rory to go with you. He'll be needing the extra coins. More than Alexos."

Rory- he was newly engaged. He was good with the horses and… He was supposed to inherit, but would a conversation hurt anything? Kale could inherit the farm. It would give the youngest boy more stability than what he currently had. If things turned out that way at least.

"Not a problem, sir, "Asha nodded.

"Isn't Rory supposed to help around the farm?” Leeann asked, sitting down beside Alexos.

“The horses don't go to market until the summer,” Asha replied with an even tone, “The planting should be done by then.”

“She's right,” Heris nodded, “and never you mind what the boys are supposed to be doing. Your father here will keep on them.”

“Yes, daddy,” Leeann sighed, “Can we talk about something other than horses though?”

“Of course, my darling,” Haris nodded, “I think I'd like to hear where you two went galavanting this afternoon,” he said, glancing between Asha and Alexos.

The lattered, putting his elbows on the table to bury his face into his hands. Asha laughed. “We walked through the woods up by the mountains.”

“Did you? You didn't see any elves did you?” Haris asked. What would normally be a playful question was deadly serious. Asha tilted her head, a curious look on her face. Alexos lifted his head, also curious. Haris cleared his throat, “Rory and a few others in the village spotted a Sentinel passing through the area.”

“An Elven Sentinel!” Kale asked, eyes bright and a broad smile plastered on his face.

“Kale,” Haris said sharply, but that did nothing to calm his youngest’s excitement. “It could be one or perhaps two. There's no way of knowin’ with the Elves.”

“We didn't encounter any Elves, dad,” Alexos took on his father's serious tone. “Are we sure it's a Sentinel?”

“Aye. Rory swears to the Great Gryphon that it was a tall as a house and the blade on it's back was almost as long,” The older man hummed, sitting back in his chair. Sofia began handing out bowls of a thick stew. “It was only seen on the treeline, thank the gods, but I would rather you two stay away from the wilderness.”

“They aren't gonna find a lot of farmers a threat, mister Graystone,” Asha was not keen to dismiss the seriousness of the situation- one really did not know what the Elves would think or do, certainly not when it was a warrior stalking the woods. Still she doubted they would hurt anyone. Long as the foolish boys in the village did not go out there looking for the Sentinel.

“That may be so, but I would not forgive myself if anything happened to any one of you kids,” Haris looked at both his children and Asha. A slight smile tugged at her lips. “In fact…. Child, don't be mad, but I would like Alexos to walk you home.”

Alexos sighed quietly, rubbing his aching temples while Asha merely smiled. “Yes, sir,” an argument was not going to help her accomplish anything.

The conversation managed to move on from the Elven Sentinel after Kale asked a dozen or so more questions. Talk of Rory’s wedding came up, Sofia hoping for something in between summer and the harvest season. Leeann and Rosemary kept that topic going far longer than Asha, Kale and Alexos cared for. Then Haris took charge and made mentions that their harvest this year was looking to be more than last year and the price on the corn, wheat and green beans they were growing was supposed to be up as well. 

It was all lighthearted and fun, warm and bubbly.

After they had finished the stew and Kale and Rosemary had been sent to bed, the jovial atmosphere carried on strong. And in the middle of it all, while Asha listened to Heris and Alexos talking about the harvest, a cold stab of grief went through her heart.

She missed her brothers, but they all moved out, off on their own adventures. Then a few years ago her mother passed and just last winter so did her father.

Asha looked away from all the revelry, staring out the window. It was so dark out there. The moon was hidden behind the clouds that rolled in with the night.

She was not looking forward to the cold and snow. These visits would be less frequent as the horses needed to stay inside most nights to avoid the brutal ice and the wolves would be on the prowl once more… she did not give herself much time to settle her affairs, to deal with the horses, but if she did not make her move would she ever be able to?

[lesbienneanarchiste]

I stg 90% of the time, people will ask for lesbian recs for things and y'all recommend stuff that features explicitly bi characters. If i wanted a general f/f rec i would say so. I want lesbians and so do people who ask for lesbian recs. Just say you dont read books about lesbians and move on.

[snugglylime]

Some soft Ronance headcanons 💕

No thoughts just ✨they✨

Nancy is kinda obsessed with stuffed animals. She doesn't have as many as she used to, but she still has a couple she likes to cuddle up with when she's anxious

Her favorite is a little bunny <3

Robin secretly names all of them and gives them silly voices so she can pretend to have conversations with them. Sometimes, to get Nancy's attention, Robin will pretend to gossip with one of them like "Isn't that girl over there just to die for? I wish we were friends..." and, in the most obnoxious voice Robin can muster, the stuffed animal will reply with something like "I know right? She's so dreamy"

Boy howdy does THAT get Nancy's attention, but she's so flustered she can't do much more than roll her eyes and shush Robin with a lil kiss (or a pillow to the face, if Robin's down on her luck that day)

After everything, Nancy has some bad paranoia. She's terrified what happened to Barb will happen to Robin

One time, when they're all hanging out at Steve's house, Robin wanders off for a while and Nancy just FREAKS. When she eventually finds Robin, petting a dog in the street or something, Nancy just starts crying

A Fruity Four therapy sesh promptly follows

In crowded or public spaces, Nancy likes touching Robin in some way to keep track of her: holding her hand, wrapping an arm around her shoulders/waist, or just reaching out periodically to make sure she hasn't wandered off

Nancy loves hugs. She's always surprising Robin with a hug from behind (though she makes sure to make plenty of noise before touching her, since Robin startles easy), or sticking her arms into Robin's jacket, around her waist, if she's cold or just wants some human contact

Robin can get overwhelmed and overstimulated sometimes and goes nonverbal. Nancy doesn't understand at first, and figures out the hard way that physical contact (Nancy's go-to method of comfort) is the exact opposite of what Robin needs right then

Afterwards, Nancy apologizes a LOT because Robin hasn't ever pushed her away like that before, and she's terrified she somehow did something to hurt Robin

They have a long chat about neurodivergence after that (autistic Robin Buckley yee haw)

Nancy's guilty pleasure is romance novels. Robin finds them yucky. Sometimes Robin will read to Nancy and intentionally make shit up until Nancy catches on (Robin's ideas are usually better than the ideas in the books anyway)

Pet names!!! Nancy likes gently admonishing Robin by calling her a dork, an idiot (affectionate), or other such words, always with a fond smile and maybe a kiss. Robin, on the other hand, calls Nancy really sappy names like darling and sweetheart, but in a way that's unmistakably (derogatory)

When Robin's feeling particularly sentimental, she'll say sweet things in one of the other languages she knows. Nancy's charmed and impressed in equal measure

Robin says 'I love you' first, but in French, so Nancy doesn't understand it (Robin has a whole-ass gay panic before she does too, but Nancy just looks at her with a sweet, unsuspecting smile, and Robin's like ;-;)

Nancy says it in English first tho

Robin spends a lot of time at Nancy's house, preferring it to her own. She'll wake up before everyone else and make them breakfast some days. She's good at breakfast, since it's her favorite meal, but keep her out of the kitchen after noon or she will wreck shit irreparably

Robin is blunt. REALLY blunt. Whatever she's feeling she'll say outright, even if she doesn't know how to articulate herself very well. Nancy finds this a little off-putting at first, but once she gets used to it, she actually kinda appreciates it. Open communication isn't something she's used to

Robin's enthusiasm for the little things in life is infectious. Nancy always feels livelier and more energized when she's around Robin, and the two can talk for hours about random things; Robin gets super invested in Nancy's news stories, and is a major source of inspiration and validation for Nancy

Robin has a tendency to apologize for things, especially for rambling or not comprehending what other people are saying, but Nancy helps her feel less guilty and to stop apologizing for things she can't control

Ronance and Steddie (or Steddissy) double-dates!! 'Nuff said

A pt. 2 is already in my drafts :>

[dontbeunraisonable]

Awkward Kissing Moments Pt. 1/2

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki, Shoto Todoroki, Kirishima Eijiro, Iida Tenya x GN!Reader

Word Count: 929

Warnings: some swears?, mostly second hand embarrassment

Part 2

Midoriya Izuku

He got a little too excited and smacked his face into yours with a little too much force. You both made a little “yipe” noise, and he pulled away immediately, apologizing profusely. You assured him it was fine, and pulled him in gently with your hands on his cheeks. He was dark red, and you were a little worried he was gonna cry, so you softly kissed his lips. He calmed down a little bit after you two sat there for a few minutes, slowly moving your lips against each other. When you pulled away again, he quietly apologized again. His face was still red, but it looked more from being flustered than embarrassed. You took his scarred hands in yours and kissed his knuckles. “It’s fine, baby. I appreciate the enthusiasm.” You nodded solemnly at him, and he started to giggle. “Any time, cutie.”

Bakugou Katsuki

This boy tried to use tongue without telling you beforehand. He remembered something he had heard about ‘french kissing’. Having done absolutely no research or mentioning it to you, he decided to go for it. When you parted your lips slightly to take a breath before kissing him again, he pushed his tongue in, touching yours. You opened your eyes in surprise to see him squeezing his eyes shut in his usual concentration, and pulled away. “What the hell was that?” He looked embarrassed, and couldn’t muster his usual anger. “I - I don’t know. I heard about tongue kissing and wanted to try it.” He trailed off near the end, not meeting your eye. After a moment he looked back to see you putting in an effort not to laugh. “Was it that bad?” You nodded, and then immediately broke into giggles, kissing his cheeks repeatedly. “I’m sorry ‘Tsuki, but yeah, it really was. But we can try again.” He hid his face in your neck for a little while to hide his flushed cheeks.

Todoroki Shoto

He doesn’t have any dating experience, and is usually looking at you when you two watch romance movies, so he isn’t really sure how to kiss. He’s too embarrassed to google “how to kiss”, so he just hopes that instinct will kick in when it’s time. Spoiler: it didn’t. When you two kiss for the first time, he just kinda stands there after leaning in, hoping you will close the space between you. You do so, and he just kinda… stands there. Doesn’t move his lips at all. You moved yours a little, pressing them to his. He had the sense to at least close his eyes, but he just pushed his face into you after a few moments. You pulled away, cheeks red and hoping he didn’t think that was weird. He paused for a moment, then tilted his head. “Was that weird to you, too?” You told him it was. After another pause, a slight tint appeared on his cheeks. “I had no idea what to do. Sorry.” You giggled, and kissed his cheek. “We can practice.” He liked this solution a lot.

Kirishima Eijirou

He was really nervous about kissing you for the first time, because he’s so worried about hurting you with his teeth. So the first few times you leaned in to kiss him, waiting for him to lean in too, he would freeze, and then kiss you on the cheek or forehead. After a few times like that, you started looking more embarrassed. You stopped trying to initiate, and a week later you brought it up while cuddling. “Hey Eijirou, what do you think of kissing?” You were awkwardly picking at something non-existent on your clothes, and he realized you were just as anxious as he was. “I, uh, I wanna try it, but I’m worried it’ll be bad cuz of my teeth,” he explained, chuckling awkwardly. You turned to face him now, a glimmer of relief in your eyes. “Can you - can we - do you,” you paused to find your words. “Do you wanna try it now?” He paused, then nodded. You both closed your eyes and leaned in, softly puckering your lips. They met, and your fingers snuck up to cup his cheek. When you pulled away, he was slow to open his eyes again. When he did, he leaned in again. “Can we do it again?”

Iida Tenya

He had no idea what to do with his hands. He had done research (on the incognito/private tabs because he was so embarrassed) on how to kiss, what to do with his mouth, his tongue when it finally came to it, ways to fluster you, even breathing techniques to maximize lip contact. How he forgot to figure out what to do with hands escaped him. When he finally got some alone time on a walk with you, and you looked eager when he asked if you wanted to kiss, boy thought he had made it. Then your hands ran up his chest to rest lightly on his shoulders. And he realized that his hands were hanging at his side still. When he pulled away to let you catch your breath, his face was dark red and he went rigid when you looked confused at his sudden flustered appearance. “How was I supposed to hold you?” You paused, then began giggling. “However you wanted you to?” You stepped in again, and put his hands on your waist. “Wanna kiss again like this?” He nodded eagerly, and one arm eventually wrapped around your middle, and the other crept up to your back, absently rubbing circles there while he impressed you with what he had ‘studied’ for weeks.

Posted 2021 April 20

[amiedala]

SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 24: There's the Kicker

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: this chapter doesn't warrant warnings except brief mentions of violence!

SUMMARY: When you hear your name, you think you’re hallucinating it. It comes out of nowhere, and the voice that it comes from is familiar, trusting, warm. And there’s the kicker: it’s unmodulated. You’re pretty sure you’re imagining it, because you’ve spent so many nights playing over Din’s voice in your mind, his promises, the way he broke them.

And still, you freeze, turning around, feeling completely suspended on the space-time continuum. Standing there, unmasked, heartbreak written all over his face, is your Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian. As your heart hammers, drowning out every impulse to run towards him and jump into his arms, you have to remind yourself he left you, and even though he found you, he’s not yours anymore.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES SO SORRY THIS IS DAY LATE!! i had a lot of family and personal stuff come up on the back half of the week, and the chapter just wasn't where i wanted it to be last night. i hope this makes up for it! and i promise, the next chapter is going to be muchhhhh longer, and (in my opinion) very good ;) ENJOY!!

*

Getting back to Hoth feels like trying to run up a staircase that doesn’t fully exist.

Your starfighter, the one you put together with your aching hands and a little bit of wishful thinking, is rebelling against you. It’s fitting, you think, trying to hit warp for the thousandth time, that in the Crest’s unceremonious, splintered death, it left behind a new ship for you can wrangle in its wake. Immediately, you feel awful, swearing and kicking the parts of your hand-me-down Rebel ship into shape, reminding yourself that your home—the physical part of it, at least—is gone, and it makes you want to break down in the middle of space, get lost in the stars and not think about anything in this forsaken galaxy ever again.

But every time you close your eyes, you see the lightsaber glow green, and you know somewhere deep in your chest that Wedge called you back for a reason. It’s colossal and monumental in the same thundering way finding Din and the baby for the first time was, as illuminated and fated as meeting Ahsoka. There’s something here, something real, something more, if General Luke Skywalker himself sent Wedge a hologram and shook your old friend up this badly.

Finally, you get the ship to move. You kick the malfunctioning warp system a few times before she shudders to life and groans under your pressure. “Kicker,” you mutter, flipping all the colorful, variant buttons on the dashboard to get her to move. “Kicker, that’s what I’m gonna call you. I’d name you Rebel,” you continue, punching the ship into hyperspace, “but that one might be a little too on the nose. What do you think?”

Because it’s a ship, Kicker doesn’t say anything. You smile though, a small, stolen one, and as you exit the crush of warp in front of the icy behemoth that is Hoth, you feel your heart aerating and releasing, nervousness building a colony of butterflies up in your stomach. Luke Skywalker, you whisper a few times, turning his name over in your mouth. You know he’s real. You’ve seen him before, only from a distance, but you’ve heard the concrete stories, the way he turned from desert farm boy into the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy. He’s the kind of man that can turn into myth with the right storyteller, and he’s always awed you. There’s a part of you that connects to him—something yearning and desperate, that part of the tales you always heard where he keeps trying to save people beyond saving.

Wedge knows him. Knew him, maybe, with the mystique surrounding the Jedi that Luke became, but you’ve seen the way Wedge talks about him, how the double suns of Tatooine shine in his eyes, his enthusiasm, his kindness. And you know they haven’t seen each other in ages, because Wedge has been from one end of the galaxy to the next, and Luke—you aren’t on a first name basis, he’ll always be General Skywalker, but there’s something about the way he appeared in your vision that makes you feel closer to him—well, Luke’s been becoming a Jedi.

And after perceiving said Jedi on the seeing stone immediately after your premonitions of Grogu getting whisked away by something evil? It feels like too close of a coincidence. And you don’t believe in coincidences to begin with.

The descent to Hoth feels even colder and slower when you’re shivering in anticipation before you even break through the planet’s atmosphere. You’re in your jumpsuit, and one of the spare blankets from your makeshift bed in the back of the cockpit is draped over your legs, but you’re still freezing. It feels like forever until you’re finally docked and you can sprint towards the control room where Wedge told you he would be, boots stomping heavy and intentional against the frozen ground.

“W—” you wheeze, immediately skidding to a halt the second that you breach the doorframe, all the breath leaving your lungs, “what did he say?”

The room, you realize, a second too late, is full. There’s seven people splayed around the hologram, and they’re all staring at you. You recognize all of their faces, both from seeing them around here on base, and from your youth when you were still a fully integrated member of the Alliance, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you pull your helmet off, trying to walk over to where Wedge is standing with as much grace as you can muster.

“It seems like some of the message is corrupted,” Wedge manages, lowly, pulling you gently out of the way of the other people talking urgently over the holotable. “He said something about a new Jedi, though, and that he’s heading back to find them—”

“Me?” you blurt.

Wedge startles. “What?”

You bite your lip, grabbing his arm and dragging him a bit further away, hoping to avoid the other generals’ earshot. “I—I was on Tython,” you breathed, “just now. And before my fiancé and our kid abandoned—left me on Dantooine, we were on Corvus. Where we met with a Jedi—I think. I don’t know if she identifies as one anymore. Her lightsabers were white.”

Wedge blinks at you. “What?” he repeats, and you steal a nervous look at the others gathered around the hologram. Some of them are examining the table itself, others are watching you, and you feel both incredibly small and incredibly judged. “You’re not making sense, rebel girl. What about you?”

You inhale. It’s shaky, but it’s a start. You’re still out of breath. “I—I’m Force sensitive,” you whisper, as quietly as you can, “that’s why I was left on Dantooine. The baby—Grogu, our son—he’s also Force sensitive, and Moff Gideon was after the both of us. It was safer if we split up. Can,” you interrupt yourself, still out of breath, “can you play me the message? I think that Luke—General Skywalker—might have been talking about me.”

Wedge stares at you. After a second, he takes a half step back, but the look on his face, disbelief, is so close to Din’s of confusion and betrayal after you showed him the same piece of information about yourself. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, pulling your braid over your shoulder.

“How long have you known?” Wedge whispers, voice urgent. “About your abilities?”

You shake your head. “Not long,” you promise, “two months at most. Listen—”

“Why did you say yes to me?” Wedge interrupts. “Why did you come here? We’re barely anything, right now, Nova, the Alliance is completely scattered after the fall of the Empire. There’s not enough of us to protect you.”

You blink, anger slowly filling up the expression on your face. “I can protect myself,” you hiss back, “and, besides, I’m not—I’m not dangerous, Wedge, and I can take care of myself. Besides,” you say, trying not to choke, “I think Gideon has the baby right now, b—because our ship was shot to shit—”

Wedge faces you again, putting both of his broad hands on your shoulder. Immediately, you close your mouth, suddenly anxious. You don’t know what he wants from you, and you don’t know if you should have told him about everything. But if he was friends—close friends—with Luke Skywalker, he shouldn’t be this uncertain about your Force sensitivity. You bite your lip, unsure how to react, but you can feel the anger and desperation slowly building back up in your chest, billowing like an old, ancient flame.

“Moff Gideon,” Wedge says, voice low, “is after your fiancé and your kid?”

Troubled, eyes furrow, you nod. “Yes.”

“And when you just left the base earlier today,” Wedge continues, his voice intense but slightly strained, “where did you go?”

“I—” You inhale, sharply, breaking his intent gaze to look over at the rest of the people in the room. Almost every single one of them is outfitted in the regalia reserved for admirals and generals, and the ones who aren’t are pilots. You know the uniform. You’re practically wearing it yourself. They’re all looking at you with a strangeness to them, eyes flickering back and forth between you and Wedge, as if asking for permission. “When we met Ahsoka Tano on Corvus,” you continue, trying to direct your conversation to both Wedge and the others in the room, “she told us—me and Grogu, my kid—that she couldn’t train us, because we had emotional attachments to one another. But she told us to go to the planet Tython,” you pause to swallow, mouth dry, “because it has a strong connection with the Force, and we could connect with a Jedi who could.” You stop, looking back at Wedge. “I heard him,” you whisper, “and I saw him. His lightsaber, lighting up the hallway of an Imperial cruiser. I know that Gideon was after my family.” You pause again, inhaling a shivering breath. “When I was just on Tython, I saw our ship. It was just rubble.” You’re trying so hard not to cry, but you can’t help yourself. “I’ve had visions, Force visions, for months now, of the planet. Gideon and his troops were after the baby, and I know Tython is where they took him.”

Wedge’s hand is up against his chin. He exchanges a quick, unreadable look at one of the generals, and then he faces back to you. “How many men does Gideon have?”

You look around at the people in the room again, and decidedly take a step forward, towards the table, towards the paused, flickering, blue hologram of Luke Skywalker pulsating up from the table. “A lot,” you admit, hand flying to your necklace before you startle with the realization that it’s not there, that you gave it to Grogu right before you were deserted out on Dantooine. “I know the galaxy is still in reparations from the fallen Empire.” You swallow, trying to meet the eyes of the rest of the people in the room. “But I don’t think the Empire is as fallen as we previously thought.”

Wedge moves in behind you, and a space opens up around the table. You smile, grateful, falling into rank with the other eight people in the room. “That’s what we’ve been afraid of,” he affirms, bumping his shoulder gently into yours, the same thing your dad always did when he wanted to include you. You let your stature relax, leaning in to examine the pulsing of the hologram on the table. “After we defeated the Empire, most people left the Alliance. It seemed like the natural thing to do when there wasn’t active, visible evil to fight off anymore. People wanted to get on with their lives.” He inhales, deeply. You can see worry lines chiseled into places they weren’t before, the last time you saw him. “Luke, though.” He stares at the rotating disillusion of his friend as he exhales, “Luke knew it wasn’t over. He’s been all over the place,” Wedge says, and this part sounds like it’s just for you, “trying to find people who can use the Force like he can, and like you can too. Trying to rebuild the Jedi Order.”

You swallow, looking up at him. “What does the hologram say?” Your voice comes out shaky and small.

Wedge sighs, pressing the button to play the message.

“Wedge,” Luke says, voice tinny but full of relief. “It’s been a long time, and I know you’re busy, but I need your help.” You watch, transfixed, at the blue, flickering image of the greatest Jedi in the galaxy. You swallow. “I think I’ve found someone. Maybe two people, I can’t be sure. I felt it through the Force.” He pauses again, giving Wedge a look that feels private, intimate, like something only for him to see. You avert your eyes. “I’m headed to the planet Tython. Then—then I’d like your help, and the Alliance’s, to help safeguard whoever I find.” You look at Wedge. “I know it isn’t fair to ask. I know I’ve been distant for a long time. But I need you to know that the galaxy is still in danger. I feel it, Wedge, and I know you can too. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, the holotable flicks off, the rotating, grainy, blue image of Luke Skywalker himself turned to dust.

“He found you,” Wedge says, but it sounds more like a question.

“No,” you whisper, voice small. “No—I saw him, but it was a premonition. I didn’t call out to him.” Your eyelids flutter, because you’re trying to hold back tears. “Grogu,” you say, voice even smaller than it was before. “Gideon has Grogu.”

Wedge exchanges looks with the others in the room, then looks back at you. You’re exhausted, and you rub your hands over your tired eyes, pressing until you see stars. “So Luke is going after Moff Gideon?”

“Yes.”

“So we need to help him.”

You spin around, back to Wedge and the generals. “No,” you enunciate, trying to stress just how bad that idea is with a single syllable. Then your words come flooding back. “No. We—you, any of you—cannot go after Gideon. I know you want to, and I know you’ve taken down plenty of the Empire, so I know you’re capable, but you can’t.” You look back at Wedge. “You can’t,” you whisper again. “I’ve seen him. He’s flattened entire cities in his destroyers, and he’s ruthless. He’s power-hungry, and anyone or anything that stands in the way of that is something that will soon be dead. I held him off once,” you say, projecting this part to the rest of the room, “once, and I barely got out of there in time, and it drained me for days. I still feel that exhaustion here. You can’t help Luke with this. Protecting me, and whoever the other Jedi are—that’s what you need to do. I know this is horrible. I know you probably feel helpless.” You swallow, fingers grasping around open air around your throat where your necklace used to be. “But you can’t take on Gideon. Not alone. And not even with all of you. I’ve seen how that story ends. It cost me my family.”

Wedge stares at you. “So you’re suggesting we do nothing? To help Luke Skywalker? To get your kids and fiancé back?”

The question burns. You meet his gaze. “No,” you answer, finally, “I’m suggesting we strategize before we attack.”

There’s rumblings from the generals in the background, but Wedge holds up a hand, and the low voices cease. You swallow, trying to push your shoulders back, give off confidence, but you’re not sure if it’s working. Wedge nods at you, and you feel relief spread through your whole body as he turns back to the generals. “Nova’s right,” he says. “There’s not enough of us left to adequately fight off Gideon and the troops he has.”

“He has a weapon, an awful one,” you say, stepping forward. “It’s called the Darksaber.”

No one seems to blink an eye at that one, but Wedge looks at you. “Is Gideon Force sensitive, too?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“No,” you answer, softly, “but this weapon isn’t like a lightsaber. It’s cruel, and ruthless, and its blade is black, vibrating with a ring of white around it. He can use it, and he has, and he’ll continue to until he’s been stopped—”

Suddenly, all the lights start blinking, sirens blaring. You jump back in panic as everyone immediately mobilizes, starts pulling weapons out of hidden places, running out of the room. Wedge beckons for you to follow him, so you do, and your legs scream with the soreness of trying to climb to the top of the seeing stone back on Tython.

“What’s happening?” you yell, following Wedge into another control room.

“We’re under attack,” he answers, grimly, his face paling. “You need to go.”

You blink, coming to an abrupt halt. “What?”

“It’s Gideon’s men,” Wedge says, turning around to face you. “It’s not Gideon himself. But he’s sent in three fighters, and they’re big ones. I assume they’re after you?” he asks, and your stomach twists. Wedge starts striding towards the hangar, and you follow him, immediately getting blasted in the face with Hoth’s frozen air.

“It’s three fighters,” you say, urgently, “I’ve taken out six of them before, Wedge, singlehandedly, let me get in the air and I can shoot them down—”

“No,” he interrupts, “we’ve got it. I promise. You have to go. There will be a decoy ship alongside you, one that looks enough like yours so they’ll follow it. Only when that ship is clear do you leave the atmosphere, and then you immediately jump into hyperspace.”

You’re frozen.

“Do you understand?” Wedge asks, and you exhale, letting go of all the seizing stress in the pit of your stomach.

“Yes,” you answer, and he nods. You’re at Kicker, so you grab the parka out of Wedge’s outstretched hand, starting to climb.

“Rebel girl,” he calls, and you go back a step to catch his face. There’s so much there. You can feel it the same way you see how worn his worry lines were when you were reunited back on Dantooine. It’s longing, loss, and, somewhere hidden, hope. You see the way he’s trying to convey everything—condolences for your parents, plans to get Din and the baby back to you, whatever was going on between him and Luke—but he can’t vocalize it. You nod at him, smiling softly. “Fly safe,” Wedge says finally, “and let me know where you land. No matter what,” he tacks on, at the last minute, and you see for a split second how concerned he is, “do not turn around. Do you understand me?”

You want to defy him. You want to say no. You don’t want to leave, you want to stay and fight. You promised Din all that time ago that you wouldn’t run, and here you are, deserting the people that you’re supposed to protect. Finally, though, because of the look in his eyes, you nod. “Don’t you dare let them touch you,” you manage, and your voice only cracks on the last word, which is an improvement. Wedge nods back, and then he’s gone, running through the hangar to his X-Wing. You watch him take off, and your eyes track the decoy ship that’s supposed to be yours, and as the three fighters go after it, you exhale and punch it. You’re moving fast, too fast, and your takeoff is sloppy, but you know Wedge wouldn’t tell you to book it if he didn’t mean it, so you fly recklessly and you fly fast.

When you hurtle out of the atmosphere, you catch one of the fighters diverting from the group to chase after you, so you don’t even bother punching in coordinates. You just floor it. “C’mon, Kicker,” you whisper, voice low and desperate, as she shudders and groans to hop into warp. “I know you want to go slow, but now is really not the time—”

And, like the rebel she is, she sputters down to nothing.

“Fuck!” you scream, loud, too loud, it hurts your own ears, but you get up and start pounding on the dashboard while the fighter’s getting closer and closer. You look out the window as you flip switches and slam on buttons, and now you’ve got their attention, too, and you watch in panic as the ships flock to you, firing, trying to hail you on your comm.

“This is an order from Moff Gideon. Turn of your shields and lower your blasters.”

“Like hell,” you spit, “Kicker, I’m serious, I need you to work now—”

“This is an order from Moff Gideon. You have been warned once.”

“Warn me again, then,” you seethe, closing your eyes as you disconnect one of the wires and try to spark it with the other.

“This is an order from Moff Gideon. You are resisting capture. If you disobey one more time, we will fire on you instead of taking you prisoner.”

You ignore them. If this works, the ship will finally hop into warp, and you’ll be in the clear not only to evade, but to shoot back at them. If it doesn’t, you’re about to die in a fiery explosion, and all of your promises to Wedge would go—very quickly—down the drain. You cross your heart and pray to the Maker that you did the right thing, and then there’s nothing, just three very large—and very scary—TIE fighters about to surround you and take you prisoner at best, and then, finally, the glorious rebel she is, Kicker thunders to life. “Yes!” you scream, buckling in, cracking your neck, putting one hand on the accelerator and one thumb over your blasters. You have a second to do this, and you need to do it right.

“This is your final warning. Either board our ship or die.”

“Die,” you answer, your voice calm and not much like yours. As you speak, you push the accelerator forward, hit warp, and fire. You catch the biggest fighter right on the wing, not a hard hit, but enough to knock it back into the other two.

“Get back here, scum—” the pilot shouts, but you’re already in hyperspace.

“That’s Rebel scum to you,” you say, and the grin that swallows up your whole face is worth every bit of the close call.

You don’t know where to go. You don’t really care, because the farther you get away from the Alliance, the safer they’ll be, so you just set Kicker to coast through warp and lean back, seeing how far she’ll take you. Maybe she’ll dump you on a desert planet, or maybe she’ll crash land you on Nevarro again. Your heart feels daggered, impaled. There’s no way you could go back there. Sure, maybe Din wouldn’t be there, but Cara would be, and Greef Karga, and all the other people you met in the Guild. They’d ask questions, for starters, and Cara might go after Din and kick the shit out of him, and it would just leave you on the verge of tears. You want to go somewhere populated, you think, like Dantooine was, even though you know you can’t go back there yet. It’s too fresh, and Gideon’s men might come looking, and, besides, if Din wants you back, he’s going to have to chase you a little.

“Novalise,” you whisper to yourself, echoing the time almost a decade ago where you only had your name out here to hold onto, to bring you back to life. It still sounds like yours—no matter Din knowing it, no matter how you shared it with Arlen, no matter that it’s what everyone in the Alliance calls you now, after you told Wedge you prefer it to your original name. It’s yours, and right now, your own self feels like home.

So you coast. You hop out of warp every few hours to make sure that no one’s after you, but no one seems to have tracked you anywhere. It’s quiet out here, but it’s not the kind of shattering silence that it used to be. You sleep sometimes, huddling under the next of blankets for warmth, and then you go back to your chair to spin and look out at the stars.

You’re not sure how long it takes, but it feels like a few days when you finally decide to hop out of warp for good. You’re not sure exactly where you are, but you need food, and you need fuel, and you don’t think you drifted into the Mid Rim. It takes a little searching for anywhere that looks populated, but when you drift into the middle of an asteroid field, you realize you’re in Polis Massa. You’ve never been here. It’s not as filled with people as it used to be, once you break through the atmosphere on the rock that holds the research base, but it’s large and it has food and fuel. This is where your dad would go, before he joined the Alliance. Here and Coruscant, or what was left of it, had the most history about language and linguistics, and he’d take day trips from Yavin to collect as much research as he could to bring back and share with you.

It feels familiar here. Even though it’s not home, or anything close to it, you know that there’s something pulling you here, and something anchoring you too. The city is dense, but there aren’t a lot of people out and about. It’s dark here, darker than you imagined, so when you park Kicker in a landing bay, you bring a small flashlight with you. People don’t pay you much mind out on the street, even while you’re dressed in glaring orange, which is comforting after the close call you just had back on Hoth.

You wander. For a while, until the city starts getting lighter on the horizon line. Soon, the cafes and small markets on the street open up, and you sit outside, still wrapped up in your parka, glad to not be shivering. You eat, eventually, and have a steaming mug of caf, which helps. You don’t live the way it makes you feel, all jittery and nervous, and you don’t love the taste, either, but you’re happy for the warmth. Eventually, people filter in and out of the streets and you start to make your way deeper into the heart of the city.

You trip over the cobblestones at one point, practically launching yourself into the person ahead of you. You wince at his dirty look. “Sorry!” you call after him, and you hear him grumbling, but he acknowledges you with a nod. When you stand back up, you see where you are—the research institute your dad always talked about, where he’d go and spend hours reading about the different languages in the galaxy, to write them down and bring them back to you. You hesitate, for a second, and then you’re climbing the stone steps, driven by ache and longing.

It’s massive in here. It’s gorgeous, but huge, and the shelves are stacked all the way up to the ceiling. You have no idea where to start, but you pick an aisle at random and start browsing. You’re not sure what you’re looking for, if it’s something to connect you with your family or to connect you to this new life you’re haphazardly building for yourself, but you stumble again and nearly knock over the librarian.

“I’m so sorry,” you manage, seeing how tiny she is, how frail. “I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s quite all right, dear,” she answers, kindly, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses on her face. “Can I hep you find anything?”

“The…language section,” you say, decidedly, eyes still caught on how many books there are here, how many years it would take you to read every one. “Linguistics.”

You follow her deeper into the labyrinth of bookcases, and when she shows you where the linguistics shelves are, you thank her excessively, your gaze buried deep on the titles on the spines. Most of them are in Basic, likely for inclusive access to anyone who ventures here, but there’s so many that have unfamiliar letters, the way they jut out and curl around themselves, and when your finger finds one, it falls open.

You don’t know what it is at first. You just feel called to it, opening it up and poring over the pages, and then a familiar word catches your eye. Kar’taylir. To know. To hold in the heart. Your own heart catches in your throat, stomach twisting itself over in impossible knots. You slam the cover closed to look closer at the text, and you realize it’s a dictionary of Mando’a, and all its translations.

There are tears in your eyes. You came here, to be closer to your father, sure, but also because you wanted to build something new. And you walked through these doors that held millions of books, and the one you picked out was a dictionary of language that your fiancé shared with you. It’s too much. You choke back a quiet sob, hoping everyone else here for research can’t hear your silenced wailing. Against your better judgement, you tear through the pages, looking for the familiar syllables, and when your finger finds the word cyar’ika, you have to close your eyes and desperately beg your heart to stop beating so horrifically, to slow the pulse down.

You follow the word over to its translation in Basic. Cyar’ika, it reads, sweetheart, beloved.

Beloved. Beloved. It says beloved, it doesn’t just mean sweet thing, it doesn’t mean that you’re kind and close to his heart. Din had been calling you his beloved for months, and then he fucking left you.

It’s too much. Everything is hot and fuzzy. You slam the book shut, heart pounding a staccato in your chest. Immediately, you get up and run. You don’t know where you’re going. In hindsight, you should have put the book back, but you didn’t. You’re running. You promised Din you’d never run, but he promised you forever and then stole it away, so you don’t owe him a damn thing anymore. You’re crying, loudly, openly, and when you rush by the same librarian you toss her a halfhearted apology.

You trip going down the steps, bang your knee up something horrible. It makes your eyes flash white hot for a second, but you pick yourself up and just keep going. You only have a vague idea where Kicker is, but you run in that general direction, blood dripping down your scraped knee, and then you’ve found the landing slot. You hurry up the ladder, not even bothering to get out the bacta kit that you stowed in the hull of the ship, just desperate to get out of here, to go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter.

You have history with Din on so many planets, it’s impossible to pick one where he won’t be hanging in the air. But something feels horribly right about heading to Tatooine, considering he hates desert planets and you can hide in plain sight. Maybe you’ll go to Mos Eisley and pick up bartending, maybe you’ll be a hermit that lives in the sand, maybe you’ll learn to speak Tusken and really never be seen from again. But before you breach the atmosphere, you call Wedge.

“Rebel girl,” he sighs, coming in almost immediately. “I was worried. You didn’t respond earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. That seems to be the only thing you can utter today. “I—I went into warp for a while, turned off my comm. I was just on Polis Massa, just for the day, but it’s not—”

“Safe there,” Wedge interrupts, and you want to tell him that’s not what you meant, but he’s still talking. “We intercepted the comms of some of the people sticking close to the Empire. There’s enemies there, I’m glad you got out.”

“Me too,” you say quietly. “I’m going to Tatooine. Not forever, just for a bit. I figure I can ditch Kicker—the ship—somewhere safe and get some sort of job for a few weeks, throw people off my trail.”

“Good call,” Wedge says, then he sighs. “Luke’s from there, you know.”

You swallow. “I know. Listen, don’t tell anyone else where I am, but if he asks—”

“I’ll tell him where you are,” Wedge assures you. “Can you get word out to your fiancé?”

You gulp, slowly coating towards the atmosphere line, watching how your whole vision fills up with sun and sand. “I’m not sure,” you say, barely anything at all. “Listen, Wedge, I gotta go. Thank you for checking in on me. I’ll tell you if I’m headed anywhere else.”

“Do that,” he agrees. “Lay low. Unless you need to go after Gideon. But if that happens, you call me. You have to promise you’ll let me help. Not the full Alliance, if you don’t want our guns and ships. But you have to call me. I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

Your eyes fill up with tears. You don’t have the energy to argue, really, so you don’t. You just nod, slowly, finding a safe place to land. “I promise,” you say eventually.

“Nova?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.” You hear the line go dead, but you nod again against your own company in the cockpit. “

“I will,” you manage, low and deliberate.

It’s hot out here. It’s a no-brainer, you know how relentless Tatooine’s suns are, but it’s even worse than you imagined. You shed the parka, most of the jumpsuit, and tie your hair up on the top of your head before you step out into the sand, but even then, in just your tank top and light pants, it’s ridiculously hot. You struggle for the first few klicks, and then the suns slowly start to go over the horizon, and it’s a bit more bearable. You drink the last of your water, and keep stumbling closer and closer to a settlement.

It’s not Mos Eisley, but it’s a cantina. Smaller, probably lower profile, and you stagger in with your empty water canteen and your bag full of the few credits you have left, and you pick a small table out of the way to sit down upon. The wall is cool, and you press yourself up against it as you signal the waitress.

She’s definitely not human, but you’re not sure what race she is, because the dark in here is such a stark contrast against how blinding the light was outside, and your eyes haven’t fully adjusted. “Hi,” you say, your voice coming out cracked. “Can I please get some water, and—and something to eat?”

“What would you like?” she asks, and you balk at the menu, all of which has meat on it. The thought of putting anything made out of mat in your mouth makes your stomach roil, so you shake your head.

“Is there anything you offer—um, that doesn’t have meat?” you ask, and your words come out small.

“We have a plate of vegetables,” she answers, “but they’re not the freshest—”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt, warmly, “that’s fine, thank you.”

She gives you a soft smile and offers you a whole pitcher of water. You should pour some in your canteen, but you just start drinking straight from the jug, gulping it down as fast as you can, trying to get rid of the dry heat in the back of your throat. When she comes back with your food, the water it totally drained, and you ask for a refill as your stomach grumbles.

“Can I get anything else for you?” she asks, and you shake your head, and she starts walking away.

“Wait,” you call after her, mouth full of food, “wait—uh, do you happen to have any positions open? For a job? I can’t offer much, but I’m a good cook, or I could clean, I’m good at that too—”

“What’s your name?”

You swallow around your mouth of food. “Novalise. And I usually have much better manners than this, I’m sorry.”

She smiles. “I’m Kuna,” she answers. “We only have pick-up jobs available around here right now, I’m afraid. It’s not steady pay, but it’s something, and at least it’s out of the heat.”

“Yes,” you say immediately, “yes, I would love that, whatever you have for me. Thank you.”

Kuna nods. “Dinner’s on the house,” she says, voice still lowered, “and you can come back sometime tomorrow to start, if that works.”

“Yes,” you nod. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much.”

You sleep better that night than you have in the last week, which isn’t saying much, but at least the hulking silence of being alone in the ship is satiated with the knowledge that you’re not going to be easily accessible to anyone that doesn’t wander into the cantina, and after you hike back to Kicker, you fly her closer to the hangar on the edge of town and cover most of the ship with a tarp you find rolled up in the hull. As long as stormtroopers or anyone associated with Gideon doesn’t stop in the hangar on the outskirts of town, you’re safe.

The work is hard, and slow, but it’s rewarding. It gives you that same distracted feeling that working with Arlen at the hostel did, and something to show for it. You mostly clean, sweeping out the freshers and scrubbing down the bar, but you get the stools spotless and you’re able to polish the backs and seats of some of the other cluttered chairs, moving tables back and forth to best optimize the space. After a few weeks of working a handful of days, Kuna lets you back behind the bar. Mostly, you’re making small drinks, no big cocktails or anything fancy, but you like it. It’s nice to interact with people, even if you don’t share a language with them, and it keeps your mind off the book of Mando’a and Din stranding you on Dantooine after promising you an eternity.

You don’t care that it’s temporary. There’s nothing momentary about heartbreak, nothing compartmentalized enough for you to simply forgive him. Not now. And maybe not ever. But your heart yearns for Grogu. Whenever you let your mind wander, you tap into the Force as much as you can, searching for him, or searching for Luke Skywalker, trying to figure out if they’re okay, if Grogu is still under Gideon’s grasp, and in the corners of your visions, you look for Din.

It’s involuntary. It hurts, and it leaves you reeling, heart spinning out into an abyss you can’t cartograph your way back from. So you try to stay distracted, try to keep busy. Days pass, and you’re not sure for how long, but they’re filled with work and you sleep at the end of them, restless, with nightmares, but you’re still getting sleep, and that’s all that matters right now.

Kuna lets you start serving drinks unsupervised, which isn’t much, but it makes you feel accomplished. The whole cantina looks better every day you’re here, and it’s something to be proud of, especially since you haven’t done anything to call attention to yourself other than being a woman in the middle of a skeevy bar in the desert, which just means you attract creeps instead of stormtroopers. It’s a good bargain. One night, you serve a regular, a Twi’lek with green skin, not purple, and you can look at her without seeing Xi’an, her dead body, or Din. She’s kind, and she asks about you as much as you ask about her, and you walk out of the bar to clean up the mess one group of people left behind, letting the rest of the people filter out for closing time.

When you hear your name, you think you’re hallucinating it. It comes out of nowhere, and the voice that it comes from is familiar, trusting, warm. And there’s the kicker: it’s unmodulated. You’re pretty sure you’re imagining it, because you’ve spent so many nights playing over Din’s voice in your mind, his promises, the way he broke them. And still, you freeze, turning around, feeling completely suspended on the space-time continuum.

Standing there, unmasked, heartbreak written all over his face, is your Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian. As your heart hammers, drowning out every impulse to run towards him and jump into his arms, you have to remind yourself he left you, and even though he found you, he’s not yours anymore.

*

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*

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!! thank you all for being patient and bearing with me these past few weeks!! i promise more is coming, and we still have the whole last arc to go, so SM isn't ending soon ;) and when it does? i already have plans for a sequel in the works!

so sorry again that this is a day late!!! i hope you loved it anyway <3

xoxo, amelie

[kissinginkitchens]

You Bring Me Home—Chapter Six: Be My Baby

a/n: welcome back lovelies! Thank you once again for all of your kindness and support for chapter five!! I am so glad you enjoyed it :’) As promised: some more Halani sweetness that is truly good for the soul. Can’t wait for you to see what’s in store for our favorite lovebirds <3 I have had so much fun chatting with some of you and hearing your thoughts, so keep ‘em coming! Happy reading :) Much love, Mel <3

Pairing: Hawai’i!Harry x Original Character

Warnings: swearing, sickeningly sweet PDA <3

Word Count: 4.7k 

catch up on parts one, two, three, four, and five 

The rain descends in full force, strong and unrelenting, but Harry and Alani are too wrapped up in their own little world inside the Bronco to notice. They sit facing each other with palms touching, comparing hand sizes while they ramble about everything and nothing at all. Harry still has to remind himself to blink every so often despite the irrational fear that Alani will disappear when his eyes open again. With the knowledge that every moment could be this perfect, she silently curses herself for not crossing the friendship barrier sooner. 

“Think you bit me a little bit,” Harry comments, scanning his lower lip for any signs of bruising. 

“Did not,” Alani defends with a light giggle. 

He pouts his lower lip in her direction and leans closer for her to observe. “Did too, look!”

“Fine. I guess I won’t kiss you anymore if I’m such a detriment to your health,”

Harry sneaks his fingers inside Alani’s sweatshirt and tickles her sides, relishing in the laughter that erupts. 

“Just teasing,” he offers. “But I think I’m ready to get hurt again. Do me the honor?”

“You are such a nuisance,” she grins, obliging his request for another kiss by slotting her lips between his. It’s sweet and chaste, but it leaves her mouth tingling long after they’ve pulled apart. Alani runs her hands through Harry’s messy hair and he hums in response, leaning into her touch. When her hand stills, he plants a soft peck to the inside of her wrist as a plea to continue. She combs through the chestnut curls while he occupies his attention with something in the cupholder between them. 

“What’s this?” Harry questions, lifting the smoothie she had prepared for him earlier. 

Alani glances down and chuckles to herself. “Oh, it’s for you. I knew you’d be suffering from a gnarly hangover,”

Harry’s head tilts and he grins, giving Alani a sighting of her favorite dimple. “So good to me. Don’t know what I do to deserve it,”

“Maybe hold off on the gratitude, I think it’s probably rancid now,”

He takes a polite sip and sure enough, the drink is lukewarm and barely edible. His nose instinctively scrunches with disgust, but he quickly musters an appreciative smile. 

“S’lovely,”

“Liar,”

“Wanna taste?” Harry challenges, leaning in with puckered lips that Alani playfully dodges. He plants a kiss to her cheek instead, trailing down her jaw and to the side of her neck in a way that sends shivers down her spine. Her hands weave into his hair and she searches for his mouth again, but before she does, her phone rings loudly on the dashboard in front of them. 

He grumbles and his head lands on her shoulder. “For fuck’s sake—”

“Sorry,” Alani apologizes, swiping the device to look at the caller ID. Her sister’s name and photo flash on the screen, so she decides to answer it. “Hello?”

Harry traces small circles on the tops of Alani’s thighs, his mind still lost in the heat of the moment while she listens to Pua’s panicked voice on the other end. 

“Where are you?” Alani questions, sitting up straighter in her seat. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten,”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, brow furrowed in concern. 

She collects her bearings and sighs. “Pua and her little friends got stranded at the mall because of the storm. Need me to go rescue them,”

“Can I come with?” he offers eagerly, not ready to part just yet. 

“I don’t know if you really wanna be stuck with a bunch of fifteen year old-girls,” Alani laughs bitterly. 

Harry shrugs and toys with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Dunno if you were aware, but fifteen year-old girls love me,”

He stops suddenly and registers the concerning undertones in his statement. “That came out wrong,”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t say that out loud,” Alani giggles with a hand cupped to his cheek. “Let’s meet up afterwards, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Harry agrees, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Alani leans over and presses a light kiss to his parted mouth, indulging his request to deepen it by letting him glide his tongue over her lower lip. 

“I really have to go.” she warns before pulling away reluctantly. 

Harry groans, but he steals one last kiss and slips out of the car into the heavy rain. 

“Be careful!” he calls over his shoulder. 

 Alani waits until he’s secure inside his own vehicle before driving away down the road. 

********

“You’re soaking wet,”

“It’s raining,”

“And you’re blushing,”

Harry shakes his damp hair out as he strolls down the hallway towards his room, Mitch at his heels. 

“So?”

“I’m assuming you fixed things with Alani, then?” his friend probes. 

Harry stomach flutters at the mention of her name. “Yeah,”

Mitch rests his shoulder against the doorframe of the singer’s room and watches as he sifts through his closet and dresser. 

“So why aren’t you with her right now?”

“She had to go pick up her sister, we’re meeting up later,”

“Is it official, then? I mean are you two...” 

Harry rubs a hand along the back of his neck and offers a shy smile in response. “I guess so,” 

“Well I’ll be damned!” his friend cheers, clapping him on the shoulder. “We have to celebrate. Jeff owes me twenty bucks,” 

“Mate—”

Mitch snickers with hands raised. “Kidding! Well, sorta. I actually said that she would turn you down at first,” 

Harry rolls his eyes and continues his search for the right shirt. “Ha ha. Listen, I need a favor,” 

“Anything.” 

“Jeff said that there’s a projector and fairy lights in the shed. I’m gonna need you to dig them out.” 

********

Alani parks in front of the mall and shoots her sister a text. Within a few minutes, Pua and her three friends bolt out of the entrance and climb into her backseat. 

“Buckle up,” she instructs the girls before pulling away from the curb. 

“Thank you,” Pua exhales, sinking into the seat. 

Alani gives her a reassuring wink and glances up to the rearview mirror to see her sister’s friends chatting giddily in the back. Her mind briefly wanders to less than an hour prior and the lingering warmth of Harry’s touch before her sister chirps up next to her. 

“What happened to your neck?” she asks with her nose scrunched. 

Alani’s brow creases in momentary confusion before her entire body heats up in realization. “Oh—uh, nothing,”

“Is that a—?”

“What do you guys wanna listen to?” Alani asks the backseat, avoiding her sister’s questions. 

“Wait, were you with—?”

One of the girls speaks up and Alani passes the aux cord over her head. Pua narrows her eyes and a smug grin spreads across her lips. 

“You were!” she accuses, hushed so her friends don’t hear. 

Alani shoots her younger sister a stern look and mouths the word “don’t,” but it’s no use. Her attention is stolen when the upbeat drums of a vaguely familiar pop song fills the entire car. 

“Oh you’re gonna love this one,” Pua laughs, bobbing her head along to the music that plays. 

Alani feels a strange sense of familiarity in the singer’s voice, but she’s having trouble placing it. She looks over to her sister for an explanation, but Pua simply wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. 

“It’s your boyfriend,” she smirks.

Yeah, so tell me girl if every time we 

Touch you get this kind of rush 

Baby say “yeah, yeah, yeah,” yeah, yeah, yeah

If you don’t wanna take it slow 

And you just wanna take me home

Baby say “yeah, yeah, yeah,” yeah, yeah, yeah

And let me kiss you

Mortification settles into the pit of Alani’s stomach, but a hint of amusement sneaks in as she pictures the various ways that she can tease Harry about this later. 

“Oh my God, could you imagine kissing them?” one of the girls, a redhead with freckles, muses in the back. 

“I think if I kissed Harry Styles, I could die happy.” sighs another one with round glasses. 

The third girl, a slender face with a full afro, chimes in with a dreamy look in her eyes. “Do you guys think he’s a good kisser?”

“Good question,” Pua plays along, turning to her older sister. “What do you think?”

Alani’s jaw tenses and she suddenly feels flustered under the pressure. Glimpses of spearmint and vanilla flood her memory, but she suppresses them and clears her throat. “How should I know?” 

Luckily, the three teenagers have already moved on from the subject and chat amongst themselves about other relevant topics.  

After the last girl has been dropped off at her house, Alani turns to her sister with a glaring look. 

“Before you ask—”

“Are you guys dating now?” Pua interrupts excitedly. 

Alani lets out an exasperated sigh and clutches the steering wheel to ground herself. “No. Well…I don’t know,”

“How was it?” her sister poses gently, a starry look in her eye. “Was he a good kisser?”

There’s a glimmer of eagerness in Pua’s expression that makes it hard for Alani to remain serious. A bashful smile spreads across her lips as she remembers the dreamy boy awaiting her return. 

“Yeah,” Alani confesses. “He was,”

“Oh my god!” her sister shrieks, enveloping her in a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you! This is perfect,”

Alani lets herself be excited for the first time since her feelings had been set free. Everything was still fresh and exhilarating, and while she couldn’t wrap her head around all of it, she was grateful for her sister’s enthusiasm. 

“It’s new,” Alani explains, sorting through the last couple of hours. “So there’s really not much to tell,”

“But you like him?” Pua clarifies. 

“Yes,”

“And he likes you?”

Alani shrugs coyly, thinking of the way that Harry had practically melted in her touch. “I think so.”

“Then what else matters?”

Pua’s words comfort the anxious turning in Alani’s stomach. If Harry feels even a sliver of the affection she has for him, then nothing else could truly ever matter in her world. 

********

Harry’s towel hangs low on his hips as he steps out of the shower. Immediately, he reaches for his phone to see if there are any new messages from Alani, but he deflates when her name isn’t on the screen. He checks the time and registers that three hours have passed since they had last seen each other, though it feels like days in his mind. Quickly, he dries off and steps into a pair of black jeans and a silky red overshirt, adjusting the silver chain with a cross pendant around his neck before slipping a few rings onto his fingers to complete the look. His hair is still damp, so he runs a blowdryer over it and adds a small amount of product—still getting used to the shorter style. Harry spritzes a bit of vanilla scented cologne onto the sides of his neck and takes a deep breath to quell the pounding in his chest. He checks his phone again, but there’s still no news from Alani, so he decides to reach out first. 

Harry: We still on for tonight?

He can hear ruckus emanating from the kitchen, undoubtedly the sound of his friends cooking dinner with a few drinks in their systems. His stomach rumbles when he realizes that all he’s had to eat was a sip of Alani’s warm smoothie. 

Alani: Yes, sorry! Had to cook for my sister but I’m free now :) 

He hums, his dinner plans most likely foiled. 

Harry: I take it you’re not really hungry then?

Alani: I could eat…

Harry grins and grabs the keys from his nightstand.

Harry: Be there in fifteen xx

Fifteen minutes—that’s all Alani has to fix herself up and look somewhat presentable for Harry. She darts around her room and picks out a flowy, black mini skirt with embroidered cherries and its matching cropped tank. Her hair is still a bit messy from not combing it after her bath, so she smoothes it out with some water and curl cream, hoping for the best. She finishes her look with a swipe of red tinted lip gloss across her full lips and honey scented lotion over her skin. By the time her quick routine is complete, she still has four minutes to spare and spends them pacing her room back and forth with deep breaths. Her phone dings two minutes later and she smiles at Harry’s punctuality. 

Harry: Am I allowed to meet you at your front door?

Alani’s heart melts at his consideration, so she quickly makes her way downstairs and decides to respond to him in person. Sure enough, he’s already waiting at the door with eyes wide as if he’d just been caught doing something that he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Wow,” Harry marvels, taking in her appearance. 

“You don’t look too bad, yourself.” Alani compliments, closing the door behind her and with a step forward. 

He clears his throat and offers his hand out to her, palm facing up. “Shall we?”

She accepts it happily and allows his fingers to slip between hers. They walk down the short path to the pink Cadillac waiting for them, glistening under the last bit of sunset. Harry opens her door first, then makes his way to the driver’s side before peeling out of the driveway. As they head to their mysterious dinner location, Harry’s hand wanders from the gear shift to Alani’s palm resting on her thigh. She interlocks their fingers and runs the pad of her thumb over the silver rose around his index finger, wondering all the while about its origin. 

“Hey, what’s with the ring?” she decides to ask, lifting their joint hands to support her question. 

“It was a gift from my mum,” Harry explains. “When I first went away on tour, she was bummed that she couldn’t be at every show to throw a rose on stage. So she gave it to me as a reminder that she’d always be cheering me on, no matter how far apart we were,”

Alani’s chest stirs at the sweet gesture, wishing suddenly that she had a face to put to the lovely woman in her mind. 

“I really like that,” she comments, studying the petals and intricate details. 

Harry glances over at the girl sitting in his passenger seat and thinks that he’d very much like for his mom to meet her someday, though under the right circumstances. He lifts their joined hands up to his lips and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. 

********

As they pull into the studio, Alani immediately takes note of a giant white tarp hanging from the roof on one side of the building. 

“What’s that for?” she asks curiously, stepping out of the car. 

Harry offers his hand and motions for her to follow him inside. “It’s for the movie,”

“We’re watching a movie?”

“Yeah,” he smiles sheepishly. “Hope that’s okay,”

“It’s perfect,” Alani reassures him with a squeeze of his forearm. 

“I had the food delivered, too. Figured we could eat while we watch,”

When Harry unlocks the door, the unmistakable scent of Alani’s favorite Italian restaurant lingers around the room. She gasps at the sight of two take-out bags from Angelo's perched on the coffee table.

“How did you…?” she trails off with her mouth hanging agape. “That’s my favorite place,”

“Ravioli with extra sauce,” Harry smirks victoriously, taking both bags and retreating back to the door. He sends a telepathic “thank you” message to Pua for the suggestion. 

“Who told you?”

“A good journalist never reveals his source, you should know that,”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that we were switching professions,” Alani follows with her eyes narrowed warily.

“But don’t expect me to serenade you or anything,”

Harry chuckles and places their meals in the back seat before opening Alani’s door for her. “Not even a little tune?”

“Maybe the alphabet song if you’re lucky,”

“I’ll take it,”

“Actually,” she snaps, settling into the passenger seat as she recalls one of his songs that Pua’s friends had introduced her to. “Maybe I do have a little something for you,”

Harry’s brows shoot up eagerly. “Well let’s hear it,”

Alani clears her throat and tries to wipe the mischievous grin from her lips, but the enthusiasm behind her date’s eyes makes it difficult to execute the joke. 

“Close your eyes, please,” 

“Why?” Harry laughs softly, a mixture of tenderness and amusement settling on his features. 

“I can’t do it with you looking at me,” Alani whines. “Just close ‘em!”

“Okay, okay, they’re closed,”

“No peeking,”

“Yeah, yeah,”

Alani takes a deep breath and tries to remember the tune that had been stuck in her head all afternoon.

“So tell me girl if every time we tou-ou-ouch, you get this kind of ru-u-ush,”

Harry’s eyes fly open and she can hardly contain her laughter, but she continues despite his interjections. 

“What’re you—?”

“If you don’t wanna take it slow and you just wanna take me home—”

“Is that—?”

“Baby say ‘yeah, yeah, yeah,’ yeah, yeah, and let me kiss you—”

“Where did you—?”

“You’re not even listening!” Alani teases through a fit of laughter. “I’m trying to dazzle you with my angelic singing, here,”

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologizes, his voice lowered as he leans in closer. “Please, continue,”

Alani drapes her arms around his neck and sighs. “That’s all I’ve got, sorry,”

“So much for ‘not a fan,’ huh?”

“It was my sister’s friends—”

“—Sure—”

“—It’s true!” Alani sustains with a playful shove. “You should’ve seen how swoony they got over you, it was kinda cute actually,”

Harry brushes a stray eyelash from her cheek and his mouth turns up softly at the edges. “I see,”

“They were wondering if you’re a good kisser, you know, because of the song and everything,”

“And…”

“And?”

“Well what’s the verdict?”

“I don’t know,” Alani ponders shyly, feigning indecisiveness. “I think I need to refresh my memory.”

Harry head shakes gently with his lower lip caught between his wide grin. He takes a minute to lightly graze the curve of her jaw with his thumb in an effort to convince himself that he isn’t, in fact, dreaming before he connects their mouths. Alani weaves one hand into the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck while the other keeps his palm anchored securely to the side of her face. She had never known a touch so warm or soft; so intoxicating, so safe. It was like an extension of her own body—a familiarity that she had unknowingly craved all along. And with a single kiss, every remaining brick in their emotional fortresses comes crumbling down, trampled under foot like sand. If the eyes were the window to the soul, then their lips were the door: inviting, welcoming, begging the other person to stay forever and evermore. 

Their foreheads meet as they reluctantly pull apart for air; the only sound is their synchronized breathing. The sun had sunken into the sea, but twinkling lights strung across a row of palm trees leaves them in a canopy of golden light. 

“So I think it’s safe to say,” Alani begins softly. “Ten out of ten would kiss again,”

Harry’s head bobs, interlocking their fingers. “I have to agree,”

The whirring of the movie projector disrupts their thoughts and turns their attention towards the screen. Alani’s eyes widen, curious to see what film Harry has chosen for the night. 

“Forgot that I put it on a timer,” he confesses. 

“Be My Baby” by The Ronettes starts over the speakers propped next to their car and Alani immediately recognizes the intro to her all-time favorite movie. 

“Dirty Dancing?” she cries, turning to him with an elated tug on his arm. “No way!”

Harry reaches for the food behind them, but keeps an eye on her to relish in the excitement. “Yes way, had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You won’t regret it, promise.”

Alani slips her shoes off and hugs her knees to her chest, eyes falling from the screen ahead to Harry beside her. He was constantly finding new ways to exceed her expectations, and just when she thought it couldn’t get any better, he raised the bar to unimaginable heights. She wonders what life would be like if he hadn’t stumbled into the café and imagines all the other ways that their paths would have unintentionally crossed, unaware of the bliss that could exist between them. Luckily, Alani will never have to live in a world of such ignorance, a world where Harry’s name doesn’t fall from her tongue as naturally as her own. 

********

“I would have carried that watermelon for you,”

“How romantic,” 

“And I bet we could do that lift,”

“Not a chance,” Alani giggles lightly. “Don’t get any ideas,”

Harry exhales a defeated breath, running the back of his knuckles over Alani’s legs draped across his lap.

“Why not?”

“They probably practiced that for months and had Jennifer Grey rigged up to a wire or something,”

“Nah,” Harry contests. “That’s just what they want you to think so that you don’t try and upstage the actors. Happens all the time in Hollywood,”

Alani’s head turns. “Oh really? And you would know that because…?”

“Music industry, movies, it’s all the same,”

“Sure. So what did you think of the movie? It’s okay if you didn’t love it as much as The Notebook,”

Harry’s head leans against his fist as he studies Alani’s expectant eyes, deep umber and shining in the dim light overhead. They’re the same pigment as the soil after rain and full of just as much vitality. He’d never really had a favorite color, but he suddenly wanted to own every item in exactly the same shade of brown. 

“No, you were right,” he yields. “It’s way better,”

Alani curls into Harry’s side and her cheek rests against his shoulder. “Knew you’d like it,”

“You know me well,”

“I have a question for you,” she poses lightly. 

Harry presses a kiss to her hairline before his chin settles on the crown of her head. “Shoot,”

“How did you do all of this on such short notice?”

The task hadn’t been easy; it involved multiple bribes to each of his friends, though they would have done it for free, and a top secret phone call with Pua. The projector in the studio’s shed that exclusively played DVDs nearly threw a wrench in his entire plan, but Jeff volunteered to search every store on the island for a copy of Dirty Dancing until he emerged from the fourth shop triumphantly. Harry had even hunted down the Angelo from Alani’s favorite restaurant and convinced him to make her raviolis from scratch. He wanted everything to be perfect down to the most minute detail; after all, the girl that he had planned it all for would be. 

“With a little help from my friends,” he hums in the key of The Beatles. 

“Well,” Alani sighs with a feathery kiss to his cheek. “Best first date in the history of first dates,”

“Couldn’t agree more,”

“What was your worst first date?” she pries with a curious wiggle of her brows. 

Harry lifts his head to the glittery night sky above and thinks for a moment before an unpleasant memory resurfaces and makes his nose scrunch. 

“Year ten. There was this girl I really fancied and I practically begged her all term to go out with me,” he laughs lightly. “So she agreed on the very last day of school. A friend of hers was having this party that night and she invited me to tag along. I was so nervous, but you know, things were alright. Well, she disappeared randomly in the middle of the party to go get a drink or something, and when I went to look for her, I caught her making out with some other guy,”

Alani frowns. “I’m so sorry, that’s awful,”

“It’s alright,” Harry chuckles, unaffected. “Wasn’t meant to be. What about you?”

“Probably my freshman year of college,” Alani contemplates. “I was supposed to meet up with this guy that a friend had set me up with. But he was, like, an hour late to the restaurant and didn’t even seem to notice. Then we saw some boring action movie with exploding cars and he was texting on his phone the whole time. I left the theater to ‘go to the bathroom’ and never went back,”

Harry smirks. “Good for you! Sounds like a prick,”

“I honestly don’t know how he didn’t see it coming, I took the bag of popcorn with me,”

“Well it all worked out in my favor, so maybe I should say cheers to the poor sucker,”

Alani raises her bottle of cherry coke to the night sky. “Cheers to terrible first dates!”

“Maybe don’t say that so loud,” Harry suggests with a small laugh. “People might get the wrong idea,”

“Cheers to terrible first dates and this most excellent one!” she corrects. 

“Cheers!”

“I feel like there should be some big musical number and end credits now,”

Harry glances over with a peculiar look in the corner of his eye. “I have an idea,”

“What is it?” Alani questions skeptically. 

“Two words: the lift,”

“No!”

“Come on! Please?”

“You’re gonna hurt yourself. Or me,”

“I won’t,” Harry promises with puppy dog eyes. “Pretty please?”

Alani mulls it over, unable to ignore the kiss that he peppers to her shoulder. “Fine.”

********

“Just bend your needs and jump. I’ll catch you!”

Alani’s toes dig into the sand and her fists clench. Eight feet away at the opposite end of the beach, Harry stands with his arms open and back tall. 

“I’m scared,”

“Don’t be, I’ve got you,”

She takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales out her mouth. Her feet pick up into a jog, then a sprint, and her arms fly out on Harry’s command. Alani leaps and her hands find his shoulders, but she doesn’t get enough air for him to execute the lift. His arms brace her backside as her legs tangle around his waist, but he maintains his balance.  

“See! Gotcha,”

“Did I do it?”

“No,” Harry laughs, highly amused. “But almost! Try again,”

“Harry, I don’t think this is gonna work,”

“Yes it will, love, I believe in you,”

He kisses her nose and sets her back down, running an additional eight feet back. Alani huffs, but she jogs lightly again and springs into the air. Her abdominal muscles tighten in an attempt to strengthen her balance, but she wobbles and clings to Harry with a shriek. He stumbles a few inches and lets out a belly laugh. 

“See, that was better!”

“It was not!”

“At least your legs made it in the air that time,”

“Okay,” Alani pants lightly. “You had your fun,”

“One more try,”

“Harry—”

“Just one!” he pleads. “This is gonna be the one, I can feel it,”

Alani’s eyes pinch shut, but she remembers all of the hard work and sweet gestures that Harry had poured into this date. So much thought had been given to every miniscule detail in the hopes of making it a night that she would never forget. The least she could do was humor him. 

“Okay. Let’s go,” 

“You’ve got it!” 

Her heart pounds with determination as Harry beckons her to join him at the other end. She counts down under her breath before taking off at full speed, feeling the exertion of every muscle in her body. Alani plants her feet directly under her knees and hips, shooting straight up with her arms rooted firmly on Harry’s shoulders. Her heels lift higher and higher off the ground as if they were attached to a string and anchored to the moon. In her mind, she is as graceful as Baby Houseman herself, but the reality is far less picturesque. Harry’s hand slips and he staggers backward; his arms instinctively tighten around Alani’s waist and he brings her body flush with his to break her fall. A grunt escapes his lips as his back meets the sand with a thud, but he manages to crack a smile through his pained expression. 

“Oh my God!” Alani cries, immediately sitting up. “Are you okay?” 

Harry releases a slow, shaky breath. “‘M fine,” 

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a bruised ego,” 

She brushes the curls out of his face and holds back a giggle to no avail. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny,”

“Actually,” Harry coughs, slowly regaining his composure. “It kind of is,”

“We really almost had it that time.”

“S’not as easy as it looks.”

Alani’s head meets the sand parallel to Harry’s and her hand settles on his chest. She watches the rise and fall of his breathing for a moment before her eyes trail up to his. As if the entire night hadn’t already convinced her, this very moment dispels any lingering, microscopic doubt that choosing Harry had been the right decision. It was hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, Alani had no idea how he felt about her or where they stood. But now, under the full moon and shining stars, Harry looks at her as if she is the only view worth admiring and it tells her more than any word ever could.

[op-peccatori]

Hopefully, Yours (part 1) | MLQC Victor

Fandom: Mr Love Queen’s Choice 

Pairing: Victor/Fem!Reader 

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 8823

Summary: A fight between co-stars leads to you taking their place, along with the man you’ve been carrying a rather fervid torch for. A happy accident—except it’s a dating show and you have to pretend your feelings aren’t real. | Part 2

Warnings/Tags: language, fluff, oblivious behaviour, dating show, social media, Victor might be a little OOC because I’ve written him differently, some making out in the next part hence the rating, no smut though, my sense of humour

A/n: as always, I’m here to clown around. I tried something a lil new (for me) in this one 👉👈 something I picked up quite recently from works I adored, so I hope you like it! It got longer than I intended so I had to split it into 2 parts ;.; Victor said: keep writing, hoe. 

ALSO!!! Yours by Ella Henderson is. THE Victor/MC song for me. I felt it in my bones when I listened to it again after all these years. brb crying

It’s the incessant buzzing of your phone that lures you out of the warm cocoon of your blanket.

You don’t really want to come out of your haven. Not after the week you’ve had, and because you know what awaits you. But as Anna had told you, there’s no way you can avoid this. They had finished editing the episode on Thursday, and Jason had already texted you last night to let you know it would be ready to be uploaded at 7:00 pm today.

Reaching listlessly for your phone, you squint at the bright screen through bleary eyes; it’s 9:00 pm already, and you’ve managed to sleep most of your Sunday away. It’s been a whole week since you filmed the episode, and while you were able to keep your thoughts at bay through it, it’s finally caught up to you.

After all, this is the episode you’re going to be in.

Pulling your laptop towards you, you open the tab that has the streaming site open. Your heart begins its anxious thump against its cage, a beat all too familiar to you by now. As the video begins playing, the memories of that day rise up to the forefront of your mind, refusing to be outdone by this meticulously edited version.

It started with a plan. A very well-thought-out plan.

“He called me a bitch. How can you still expect me to shoot with this jerk?”

Things were not going according to the very well-thought-out plan.

From your place next to Homer, the camera guy, you watched with mounting apprehension as Hollow resisted the AD’s attempts to placate her. But she did seem calmer, the scalding rage of her glare simmering down as he continued to reason with her.

And then her partner for the episode walked back onto the set.

“She said my songs are predictable! You want me to work with a hater?” Kai protested loudly, and Hollow turned back to him in a fury. The AD looked back at you in dismay, the rest of the staff watching with varying levels of exasperation.

“This is supposed to be a cheesy, ultra-romantic show,” Kiki whispered from her place at your side.

“This is what the reality is. All that sappy crap is for the camera,” Willow snorted, shaking her head in disenchanted disappointment.

There may be more than a kernel of truth in that. Hopefully, Yours was your company’s latest project; the second season, the first one having been produced by a different group. It’s a romantic web-series that featured different couples going on dates around town. The couples featured ranged from non-celebrities to people who are household names. So far, there hadn’t been too many issues with the participants—so you really should have expected this.

“Not always!” you cut in, fiddling nervously with your planner. “Some of the couples have gone on to date for real. Raymond and Liliana got married!” A lovely couple from an episode that aired last year. They’d been in the news recently too.

“They’re getting divorced,” Homer piped up in response. You hoped the look on your face let him know how unhelpful that was and turned back to the clashing couple. The AD looked harrowed and harassed as things turn increasingly hostile.

“Willow, do we have a backup couple?” you asked after a long moment of watching them spit insults. “Or just one person to replace either of them. What about Carlson?”

“He won’t be in town until tomorrow.”

‘Can I leave town?’ You wondered in a fit of desperate, wishful thinking.

“And we’ve got everyone here, with everything set up. Can we really waste time?” Kiki wondered out loud.

“No, we can’t,” answered a strained voice from behind you. All four of you turn to see Anna striding towards you, her hassled expression sending a frisson of worry through your stomach. “___, we’ve got guests.”

“Guests?” you repeated numbly. “What guests?” From the look on her face, it couldn’t be good news.

Anna held your gaze for a second, looking vaguely apologetic, before stepping to the side, allowing you to get a look at who Jason, the director, had rushed off to greet. You felt the ground shift beneath you, throat drying rapidly and the surrounding noise dimming as you focused on the new arrivals—your friend, your boss if you insist on the technicalities, and the star of most of your daydreams. LFG’s very own CEO, Victor, and his loyal secretary, Goldman.

In other words, people you hadn’t expected to see today.

“Why?” you whimpered, mostly panicked, but distantly amused by how enthusiastically he’s being greeted. It gave you a few moments to get it together, a familiar buzz coming to life underneath your skin.

This is terrible. Surely, this is karmic retribution for some misdeed committed by you. 

“Boss, get it together,” Kiki hissed in an echo of your thoughts, and you realized you had half-fallen back into her and Willow’s arms, their hands steady on your shoulders.

“This is really bad timing. Like, really bad,” Willow pointed out unnecessarily as you straightened up, running a quick hand through your hair.

“Goldman said they just dropped in to see how it’s coming along. I don’t really understand why, this is not at all Victor’s cup of tea, but he’d been hesitant about the show, so...” With a sympathetic smile, Anna placed a hand on your elbow, squeezing lightly. The comfort it brought is chased away almost immediately by a furious screech.

“That is it. I’m done!”

Turning just in time to watch Hollow stalk off the set, you tried to restart your thought process. You just needed to solve this.

“How do we solve this?” Kiki asked in a low voice, and Willow shook her head helplessly. 

With no answer for her, you could only watch as Jason led Victor and Goldman towards the set. You knew the exact moment he saw you; there was no smile, but a slow blink. It was still early in the afternoon, and his patrician features were alight with a soft glow in the golden sunlight, the curve of his lip relaxed and his clever gaze taking in you and everything happening around you in seconds. You’re not sure what he saw in your face but it made the corners of his mouth pull downwards.

Your stomach plummeted, seized by a sudden urge to flee.

But with his long strides, he reached you before you could take a step back. Kiki and Willow retreated silently, greeting him like newly registered soldiers coming face to face with their general and leaving you at his mercy. You would have felt miffed, but the way the sunlight softened his features was a little distracting. His lips moved, and you’re certain he said something, but couldn’t quite hear him over the sound of your heart drumming in your ears.

Homer coughed loudly, popping the bubble.

“Good morning, Victor!” Certain your lack of actual delight was obvious, you tried to inject as much enthusiasm into your voice as you could while your project went up in flames behind you. Not that you weren’t happy to see him, as the sudden thrill twisting through insisted on reminding you, but the prospect of disappointing him was one you would rather not face.

There was no visible reaction from Victor, but Homer looked a bit disturbed by the attempt. Goldman just looked like he pitied you, while Jason looked oddly contemplative. This was probably his first time seeing you this…dazzled.

“Good morning,” Victor replied evenly. His eyes, a constant, focused storm and his silken hair falling artfully over his forehead form a picture so lovely, almost beyond words. It’s never stopped you from waxing poetic about them, or his long list of admirable personality traits, but he had a way of knowing when you’re not paying attention. “Looks like I picked a bad time to check in.” 

You couldn’t quite pin down the inflexion in his tone, but your immediate guess was that he was either severely disappointed or was low-key mocking you.

With how quickly things derailed, it’s understandable. 

“Haha,” you laughed—an unfortunate coping mechanism that seems to flare up most often in his presence. Also, because Victor looked unfairly gorgeous, as always and you were a fool with a worryingly erratic pulse. “Just a few bumps. Nothing we can’t fix.”

Behind you, Kai declared his intent to leave as well. There’s a contract, so they would have to look into this, but that would take time. At that moment, Victor was eyeing the singer leaving the set and your nervous smile with his brows steadily climbing higher.

“Right. Anything I can do to help?” he offered, and the shame that elicited is so fierce you felt like you’d shrunk. This was supposed to be a casual visit, for him to see how the filming was going and instead you made him feel the need to step in and clean up the mess.

“No,” you said, firm, immediate, vehement. He frowned down at you. “We’ll come up with something. Why don’t you two take a seat, we’ll get you some drinks and Anna can go over the ratings and numbers with you.”

Victor seemed to hesitate, still frowning at you, but relented when you mustered up a small but convincing smile for him. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything,” he insisted, because he’s nice like that, before following Goldman and Anna into the small room you’ve converted into an office. You have a small but closed set for the first meeting of the couples, before the crew moves to whatever location has been picked out for the date.

“He’s nicer than he looks,” Homer observed as the two of you watched him leave.

“He’s lovely,” you said miserably. Who would have thought there’d be a day when you said that about Victor? He was still an evil capitalist, but he’s a kind man. 

Homer didn’t get the chance to reply as Jason rushed up to you.

“Okay, so we’re gonna have to sit those two down for a talk, but we don’t have time for that today. We need substitutes,” Jason said, not nearly as panicked as you would expect from a director who had no one to direct. It was admirable, this ability to keep his head even when he hits what looks like a dead end.

“I’ll make some calls.” Reaching into your pocket, your mind ram through your options as your hand closed around your phone.

“I want you to do it,” Jason declared. 

It took you a few seconds to realize you hadn’t misheard. He looked back at you steadily, already resolute in his decision. You looked around, expecting protests, but the staff members only looked eager. 

“…I don’t like this joke,” you said, slowly.

“Good thing it wasn’t one!” Jason returned cheerfully. “Before you turn it down, let me say—please? And don’t go off with the ‘I’m nobody!’ thing. People know who you are.”

“Um.” You really, really didn’t know what to say to him.

“My brother thinks you’re hot,” Homer offered, and Jason beamed at him.

“Okay, we’ll do this. You’re the producer of one of the oldest and most popular shows. You’ve gained more media presence over the last two years. You’re also friends with Kiro and Professor Lucien, so people have been quite curious about you for a while! This is just a fun little thing. Please?” Jason pleaded.

In the spirit of fairness, you took a minute to think about it. It would solve half the problem. And today’s location was a local fair, where the couple got to try out anything they want to, with all the expenses covered by the company. The very thought of stepping in front of the camera left your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t deny the bud of excitement that seemed to have taken root.

In the end, your stomach made the choice for you.

“If you think it’ll be fine, then sure,” you acceded, thoughts filled with stir-fried noodles and holding hands with a faceless person. “But what about the other person?”

“Hmm,” Jason looked in the direction of the office, reminding you that you don’t have all day to decide.

“I could call Gavin and ask if he’s free,” you suggested. People adore him. “Or Lucien?”

Jason nodded as if truly considering it, his gaze sharp on you. “Good choices. What about Victor?”

“Yeah, no. That is a bad idea,” you said at once, without giving it a moment’s thought. This was a dating show, where people go on cute dates and act adorable on camera. The very thought of Victor doing that at all, let alone with you…was something you couldn’t think of because it was ridiculous. And bad for your poor heart.

“It is an excellent idea,” Jason disagreed. You hated to be the bearer of bad news, but this was necessary. You’ve known Victor for a while now, and felt responsible for Jason’s well-being that would inevitably be threatened if he embarks on this particular path.

“He’d never agree to it,” you told him solemnly. The man barely agrees to do interviews; a show like this? Out of the question. “You know who he is, right? He doesn’t have time for this.”

“Why don’t you leave that to me, and go get ready. I’ll go get your man,” Jason said, loud and bright, shooing you in the direction of the dressing rooms. You stood there for another minute, dazed and afraid. What if Victor thought it was your idea?

The horror.

The terror.

“I’m still texting Lucien!” you called after him, voice pitched high in your alarm. Before you could follow Jason to make sure Victor knows you would never suggest this, an arm slid around your shoulder.

“Darling,” Arnold, the head stylist, cooed at you. “I heard the good news.”

“How?” It had been two minutes. People shouldn’t be spreading this without the director’s confirmation.

“Forget the hows. This is your time to shine. Come, we’re going to make that CEO drool,” he proclaimed, shepherding you towards the dressing rooms. “And I can finally do something about this hair!”

“He’s not going to agree.” You were absolutely certain of that, even as your mind continued to conjure cutesy images of you sharing cotton candy with the reticent man. 

Taking a seat at the vanity, you reached for your phone over the cotton pads, watching Arnold’s reflection in the large mirror as he flitted about the small room, picking out different outfits. You hadn’t gotten a chance to check it for a while, and scrolled through your texts swiftly, pausing on a few in particular.

‎

Victor [9:00]: Hello. I’ve got some time off today.

Victor [9:02]: Is it alright if we drop by the set? What time is your lunch break?

Victor [9:20]: You must be busy. I spoke to Anna. I’ll see you later.

Victor [9:25]: Also, good morning.

‎

Oh.

He had actually let you know he’d be dropping in. Taciturn and domineering he may be, but Victor’s quiet consideration often left you glowing with warmth. In comparison, your own clumsiness often left you embarrassed. In this instance, it made you feel doubly determined to do this right.

‎

Y/N [12: 05]: Hi, sorry I missed these. Don’t worry, I’ll get us back on track.

‎

Closing Victor’s chat, you took a moment to consider your options before making your choice.

‎

Y/N [12:07]: Lucien! Are you free?

Lucien [12:15]: Hello. Just wrapped up a lecture. I thought you were going to be shooting today?

Y/N [12:16]: I am. Actually, I had a favour to ask.

‎

You stared down at the screen of your phone, shoulders relaxing as one of the assistants fussed with your hair. Should you wait for Jason before asking him? You knew what the outcome will be, regardless of what you wanted. You’ve always known, always kept your thoughts safe behind a barrier, never letting them spill out in Victor’s presence.

You thought back to his disappointment, and something fragile in your chest tightened.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you prayed to all the powers above that this works out.

‎

Victor [12:18]: Dummy. I’m not worried.

‎

There was a knock at the door as you opened the chat, thrown off but pleased by Victor’s confidence.

“Guys, can I come in?”

It was Jason.

With trembling fingers curling tight, you sat up straighter as he was let in. Your pulse quickens, your emotions jumbling together until your can’t tell them apart. You kept your expectations low. You knew what the answer would be. It couldn’t hurt if you expected it.

You just hoped it wouldn’t change anything. It wasn’t your idea.

“He agreed!” Jason announced with a flourish, and your heart halted its despondent march. “His secretary’s picking up his outfit, they said it won’t take too long. We’ll do his hair and mak—uh, are you okay?”

You swallowed your heart back down. “He said yes.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, stretching out his answer, nodding as Arnold thrust an outfit at him. 

“And he…knows it’s with…me?” you asked carefully.

Jason’s brows climbed a notch higher. “Yes, of course.” His eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t quite read.

“Right, right. That’s great! Fantastic. Wonderful,” you said admittedly weakly, turning your gaze back to your reflection. The colour seemed to have drained from your skin, and you ignored the concerned glance exchanged by Jason and Arnold.

“___, hey,” Jason began gently, coming up to stand behind your chair. “Are you okay with this?”

You studied his worried expression, thoughts turning inward. You shifted aside the panic, the disbelief, the prickling nerves, and shushed the sparks of excitement.

A date with Victor.

It sounded wonderful. But the problem was never about you not wanting it. It was that you’ve wanted it for so long and so badly. Could you really have this?

“It’s okay to say no. It’s just…I don’t think it’ll be as awful as you think,” Jason said. His brow furrowed as the lines of your face smoothed out.

Oh.

“It’s for the camera,” you remembered, and Jason hummed thoughtfully. Regardless of what he may think of you, Victor wouldn’t let it show on the screen. You knew he was aware of what the show entails. So, perhaps, you could have this. It was for work. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.”

Your breath evened out from its shallow state, and you smiled up at Jason, who still looked concerned.

“It’ll be okay.” Your phone buzzed again, and you gathered yourself once more.

‎

Lucien [12: 23]: What can I do for you?

Victor [12:24]: And I look forward to working with you.

‎

It wouldn’t be real.

Telling yourself it wouldn’t be real was easy.

Sitting next to Victor, your high stools positioned close together as you tried to keep your thoughts away from dangerous paths, was not easy. But the light notes of his scent, sandalwood and myrrh if your nose hadn’t led you astray, threatened to lull you into a state of near-intoxication.

Jason had wanted to film the ‘first meeting’ and, for the sake of authenticity, decided to have Victor wait in front of the camera while you got to be the one to walk in. Which meant it was straight from the dressing room to the set. While you were thankful you wouldn’t be filmed drooling on camera, it still meant you wouldn’t get a chance to talk to him until after, or in between takes.

You were a lot more grateful for the arrangement when you did walk to the set, because the sight of Victor—clad in a slim-fit black shirt, paired with a dark grey jacket and black pants that stretched deliciously over his muscled thighs—stopped you dead in your tracks, your thoughts wiped blissfully clean.

The look on his face, bright under the studio lights, had been unreadable, but it didn’t look like his usual unimpressed poker face, so you decided to take it as not quite a win, but not a loss either. Then the small upturn of the corners of his lips, however, threatened to overload your system, prompting you to avert your gaze slightly as you walked to him, for fear of losing yourself.

Your hi had been shyer than intended, but his hello had been the gentlest you had ever heard it.

And then he handed you a bouquet of red, fragrant roses and you felt yourself grow weak.

It was a short take, where you both introduced yourselves, and discussed where you’d be going for the date.

“Do you like fairs?” he’d asked, gaze intent as if your answer was of the utmost importance.

“I love them,” you’d answered, meaning it completely, and he’d looked glad.

Even through the wild beating of your heart, you had managed to feel impressed. He was doing wonderfully already. Who knew Victor had these acting skills? Hopefully, he thought the same of you. You weren’t acting, though, and this, you were quickly realizing, could be a wonderful way to lift the lid off the pot just a little, and let your real feelings shine through.

You would be filming the individual, interview type scenes last, after the date.

With the first meeting done, with Jason going over the take to make sure he had everything he needed, you would be moving to the location soon. But first-

You looked around quickly, covering your mic and making sure nobody was paying too much attention to you, before turning to Victor—only to nearly jump in fright when you met his eyes. How he’d known you wanted to talk, you’d never know. His own eyes had widened when you’d turned around all of a sudden, the tips of his ears reddening slightly. He had probably been startled by your reaction.

“Hi,” you whispered, grinning up at him, and his lips twitched as he covered his mic.

“You’re doing well,” Victor told you, giving you a firm nod, and you couldn’t quite keep from beaming at him.

“Thanks, you too. I never knew you were hiding such a skilled actor in there!” You really meant it, but your words gave him pause, mouth opening and closing as he considered his response. Strange, as modesty was something he didn’t often bother with. Not to say he’s arrogant, just that he knew his strengths.

“…thank you,” he finally said. “You too. I didn’t know you could…act.”

Because you weren’t acting. The blushing, the shy giggling, the warmth buzzing through you, they were painfully real.

You shrugged, smiling slightly, and he looked away.

“Just…thank you, Victor,” you murmured. “I know this isn’t really your thing. But I promise I’ll do my best to make it enjoyable.”

The light, airy sound that escaped his mouth could almost be a laugh. He did shoot you a small smirk, facing you once more. “Well, you’re not wrong. But it can’t be too bad. I’ve heard they’ve got good street food.”

“Good street food,” you repeated blankly. Wasn’t he taking this acting thing too far? This was bordering on alarming, coming from the man who used to look down on you for eating instant noodles.

“Yes.” He looks at you as if daring you to argue, and, well, who are you to argue with an actor’s method? 

His smile faded slightly as yours widened, eyes fixating on yours, your voice pitching higher in your excitement. “I know, yeah, great food. Literally the only reason I agreed to do this!”

Victor’s face shutters at that, his lips pressing tightly together. “Hm.” He turned back to face the camera, leaving you confused, before realisation dawned.

“Hey, don’t worry! I won’t be too much of a glutton, we’ll be on camera, after all,” you told him, as reassuringly as possible because you and good food were a dangerous combo.

He arched a sharp brow at you. “We’ll see about that. I may spend most of my time in kitchen, but Mr Mills has much to tell me about some of your reactions.”

It was only through the sheer power of your offence that you were able to scowl at him even with the heat flaring up in your cheeks. “Well, there’s no way the food there will be as good as the one in Souvenir, so we have nothing to worry about.”

You resisted the urge to cross your arms, keeping your hands neatly folded in your lap as you turned away from him. But when he said nothing for a whole minute, you couldn’t resist the urge to sneak a peek, only to be left with your jaw slack.

Victor was still facing forward, but the corners of his mouth seemed to be curling up despite the effort he was clearly putting into keeping them neutral, his tiny smile still managing to spill through the seams. It enraptured you, a willing captive to the sight of him so pleased, and you wondered if you could make it through this with your heart intact.

But then, you told yourself through your daze, any chef would be happy to receive such praise for their food.

[video]

hopefully, yours, episode 3, part 1: Introductions (Victor and Y/n)

450,569 views  •  Feb 8th, 2020

‎‎

JTV ✓

1.19M subscribers 

‎‎

51,509 comments

‎‎

Jason P ✓ 

pinned comment

This is a special one guys ♡

‎

needwater 45 minutes ego

AM I HALLUCINATING OR IS VICTOR LI ACTUALLY ON A DATING SHOW?

            view 50 replies

‎

somsom 23 minutes ago

omg it’s y/n! We rarely get to see her on TV. She’s so cute!!!!

‎

orangeismycolour 16 minutes ago

!!!! Victor and Y/n!!! Omg ever since I saw them attend the Loveland gala together last year, I knew there was something there!! 

‎

tooktiktook 8 minutes ago

um. isn’t this kind of an odd combo?

    cheribb 5 minutes ago

    @tooktiktok I thought so too but they look pretty cute together. I mean…he totally blushed when he saw her! And his eyes went so soft!

      tooktiktok 4 minutes ago

      @cheribb Well, she seems sweet but I think he was just being nice.

By the time you were shuffled into a van and driven to the site of the fair, your nerves had mostly settled.

Of course, that may have had something to do with the pudding cup Victor had handed you once you were in your seats. Goldman had brought over a paper bag, with Victor plucking two cups from it like a magician with a hat. With that said, while it’s a trick you’ve seen many a time, it never fails to bring a sparkle to your eye.

With Arnold’s permission, you were more than happy to dig right in. Your makeup would have to be retouched once you got there even if you didn’t eat.

It was easy to relax in the steady familiarity of Victor’s presence. A dangerous notion, your unwavering faith in Victor, that dictated everything would be okay if he was there because he would either make it so, or you, with confidence half-drawn from him, would make sure of it yourself.

It was only once you were halfway through the treat, humming and wiggling in your joy, that you realized Victor hadn’t started on his. Rather, his eyes were fixed firmly on you, intent in observing your devouring of the pudding.

The next bite went down a little heavier as you turned to him.

“Is something wrong?” Your enthusiasm surely couldn’t have come as a surprise.

He hesitated, seemingly on the verge of saying something, before clearing his throat and looking out he the window at the slow-moving traffic.

“No. Just…eat slowly,” he muttered, refusing to look at you. You squint at him, at the pink creeping up the back of his neck, sucking on the spoon thoughtfully. “There’s no need to rush.”

“Sorry. I got a little too excited.” Your laugh is a little hollow, and you muffle it with another mouthful of the soft, sweet dessert, missing his quick glance back at you.

He sighed, sudden and a little ragged.

“No, I meant that you should take your time and savour it,” he told you, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. “I can make it for you anytime, so there will be many more chances in the future.”

The next spoonful remained frozen by your mouth as you struggled to process his words. Warm fingers came to rest against the back of your hand, guiding it, and the spoon, to your lips. Your skin tingled, but what was more damning was the way he held your gaze as your lips parted, the metal spoon warm against your tongue as you tasted the sweet delicacy.

It felt all the more sweeter, however, because of the little smile dancing across Victor’s lips.

You were rescued from attempting to respond to that by the van slowing to a stop, with Jason and Homer climbing in before they got moving again. Homer would be the one following you around the fair, as they only needed to get a few takes of you indulging in various activities.

“We absolutely need one with the ferris wheel, of course. A little cliched, but still damn cute. Maybe we can fix a camera in the cabin…” Jason trailed off, turning to Homer for his input. “If you think it’ll be better without you there.”

‘How would it be better without Homer there?’ you wanted to protest. ‘I’ll screw it up if left to my own devices! Professional environment aside, that’s a little too romantic!’

Something prickled at the back of your neck, and you realized Victor seemed to be trying to get your attention, albeit in a very silent way you probably wouldn’t have caught on to if you hadn’t spent so much time studying him.

He said nothing even when you met his gaze, but a reassuring warmth calmed you all the same. I’ll be there, he seemed to say. Trust me.

You were worried about the romantic atmosphere getting to your head, but surely Victor, the ultimate voice of reason, wouldn’t let you get carried away?

“Okay, we won’t crowd you guys too much, but remember to avoid turning away from the camera!”

That had been the last thing Jason said to you both before he retreated to his place behind Homer, who was ready with the camera propped over his shoulder. Your mics were affixed to your clothes, and people were already beginning to shoot curious looks your way. It wasn’t an uncommon sight; many vloggers and people working for food channels could often be found in places like these, flitting about with their cameras out as they partook in the activities available.

While being around cameras was nothing new, it was a little strange to be on the other side of them. Nervousness weighing on your chest, you reminded yourself over and over: be natural, don’t act like a lovesick fool, don’t stare at Victor for too long. Turning to the man himself as Homer adjusted the camera settings, hoping to draw inspiration from his steadfast composure, you could only stare in confusion at the intent way in which he was staring at the entrance to the fair.

Following the trajectory of his gaze, you squinted, hoping to see what had caught his attention. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, with people milling about, the welcoming sign high above their heads bright and welcoming.

“Victor?”

“Hm?”

“Is everything okay?” you asked hesitantly, and he nodded, almost distracted.

“Are we ready?” he asked Homer, who gave him a thumbs up.

Jason grinned at you, winking in what he seemed to think was a discreet manner. “Have fun, you two.”

You couldn’t quite pretend there were no cameras, not with Homer keeping up with you as you began to walk through the entrance arch. Looking at Victor was easier, just to block out the awareness of your companions, of course.

Catching your nervous glances, he inclined his head towards you and made an abortive movement, hand rising and falling midway. His jaw clenched, and then he offered you his arm, elbow bent. 

As your hand curled around his arm, you focused on your vibrant surroundings. A task made more difficult when, after a short pause, you felt him tuck his elbow into his side, the broad span of his shoulders relaxing when you tightened your grip.

“I’ve been meaning to come here for years, but never really got the chance to,” you told Victor, your voice still edged with nervousness. But Victor nodded at you again, the usual stern line of his mouth quirking up, and your mind stuttered, committing itself to memorizing the precious curve of his mouth.

“In that case I’m glad we got to come here together,” he told you, and it took a good deal of effort not to gape at him. “It’s a first for both of us.”

You nodded, stunned by this unforeseen acting prowess. Seemed like you’ve discovered another one of his many talents.

“Hopefully, it’s the first of many,” he added, a smug lilt to his voice, and this time, you did gape.

“Y-yeah,” you answered, face heating up as you turned away for the sake of your dignity. “Hopefully.”

bandanaman @headaccs

are we all seeing this?? he’s such a gentleman!! I was not expecting this man to be smooth. #HopefullyYours

mintmadness @mintsallover

@headaccs HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? He doesn’t even need words, one look and I would be on my knees. #HopefullyYours #VictorLi

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@mintsallover calm yo thirsty ass down lmao

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raspberrydream @berryberry

“the first of many” omg what does he mean????  #HopefullyYours

‎

freshasnow @crystalmoon

Yeah, I’m not really feeling this. I thought we were going to get Kai and Hollow this week? #HopefullyYours

‎

teatime ✓ @spillit

For those of you asking, yes, we knew Victor Li and Y/n were going to be on Hopefully, Yours. Don’t worry darlings, we’ll have some quality tea for you soon!  #HopefullyYours

Spotting the first of the food vendors, you both headed over to it, peering at the fresh dumplings. The vendor straightened up at the sight of the camera, a benign smile spreading across his face when you asked him for permission to film, nodding and plating plump, steaming dumplings with the utmost grace.

Gordon, as he introduced himself, was more than happy to talk about his family business, their two restaurants in Loveland, while Homer took close-ups of the dumpling that Victor broke apart for a better look.

“My daughter comes here every year with me, insisting she can handle things by herself, but honestly, I just enjoy coming here,” he chortled, before fixing the two of you with a knowing look. “It’s a completely different atmosphere from the restaurant! And it’s always nice to see sweet young couples such as yourselves. Reminds me of my own fair dates with my wife…”

You couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Victor, who seemed content to chew on his snack. He caught your eyes, before his flickered over your head towards Homer and Jason. Inexplicably, his ears began to tint a deep crimson, as he swallowed with some effort and stepped closer to you.

It began to make sense when he lifted the other half of the dumpling to your lips, Gordon gasping an oh my! in the background, and even as your heart began to race, your eyes widening, you felt…bad. Jason had obviously asked him to do this, and you felt terrible about him having to embarrass himself like this. But he did it, and so you took a small bite of the dumpling, the juicy filling suddenly tasteless on your tongue.

And then there was a soft sensation on your chin, your eyes lifting to see Victor dabbing at your skin with a napkin, the little motion taking all his concentration until he stepped back with a satisfied glint in his eyes, which seemed to linger around your mouth.

When you were unable to do anything more than flush deeply and try to stammer out a thank you, Jason ended the shot.

The glint in Victor’s eyes didn’t fade, and something within you quivered.

raspberrydream @berryberry

he looks like he wants to eat HER  #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

@berryberry I CAN’T BREATHE. I thought he was going to kiss her LOL. And she looked so nervous and then he just wiped her chin THIS IS TOO SOFT I CANT #HopefullyYours 

mintmadness @mintsallover

god I wish that were me #HopefullyYours

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only4food @bananabread

Okay I HAVE TO go to this place. I NEED TO EAT EVERYTHING. Who’s in??

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midnightmachine @musiclover

Gordon knows what’s up. We stan a hard-working man. #HopefullyYours

Things continued in much the same direction. With no signs of reluctance, Victor rolled up his sleeves and dived into the bustle of the fair. And with his hand curled around your wrist, you couldn’t bring yourself to doubt him. You’ve learned to read the signs of his displeasure, subtle and obvious, and they were nowhere to be found. He looked relaxed, trying out mini doughnuts, accompanying you to any shops you want to browse, frowning when you looked longingly at the ring toss.

“Let’s go,” he said, guiding you over to the booth. Well, you were supposed to try out the games too, but you hadn’t thought Victor would agree to play them. It seemed a little too childish for him.

“I haven’t come here in years either,” he told you when you looked at him curiously, the two of you standing in line with Homer right next to you. “I love my job, but I admit it takes up most of my time. I rarely have time to indulge like this.” He paused, as if wanting to say more, but his eyes flicked towards Homer and he ended it there.

While a part of you was startled in by his words, another softened at his truthful admission.

Victor seemed to have thought of something else, giving you a meaningful look. “But, of course, I always make time for the people in my life.”

You blinked, a little taken aback by sudden turn in direction.

“Even if they want to come to places like these, I don’t mind.” Victor seemed to be hinting heavily at something, and you smiled at that, almost excessively fond. Because it’s true that Victor makes time for the people in his life, especially his family. And even for you—he’s there for you, no matter how small the matter might be; huffing and puffing and going out of his way to help you. 

Falling for someone like that, someone who effuses such stoic confidence and noble compassion in equal measure, it was all too easy.

“Then we’ll make sure to come again,” you told him, a wide grin blooming across your face at the thought. It was unlikely that it would actually happen, but it was nice to think about. You stepped up to the cashier, greeting him politely.

You finally got your turns after fifteen minutes, with Homer and Jason taking a quick snack break while you waited. You’d run a quick eye over the prizes available, quickly drawn to two pusheen cat plushies, a soft grey and a dark ebony. You didn’t think he’d judge you on camera, but would it really be okay to admit that’s what you want? The hair pin would be a more sophisticated pick, something more to his tastes. 

Silently despairing over your proclivity for soft cute things, you turned to Victor for his choice.

Only to realize he seemed to have taken his jacket off while you were preoccupied and handed it over to Jason, his thin black t-shirt fitting him like a glove—and your words died a swift death at the back of your throat, shrivelling in the sudden dryness of your mouth. Silhouetted against the light of the late afternoon sun, his features seemed sharper, his gaze keener as he twirled the ring in his hands carefully.

As Homer began to roll the camera, and Victor prepared to toss the ring, you panicked with the realization that he didn’t ask you which prize you wanted like Jason had asked him to.

The ring landed around a bottle with a loud clink, and you hoped the surprise you felt wasn’t clear in your loud cheer. With the look he gave you, you knew he caught it even if others wouldn’t.

And then he handed you the dark pusheen plushy, which you took with trembling fingers and a sheepish smile. “Oh, thank you.” It was exquisitely soft to the touch. “This is the one I wanted.”

“Hm.”

“It looks like you.”

“What-” His head snapped toward you as you laughed, clutching the toy to your chest. Whatever outraged retort he’d been about to spit out was held back as he saw you hugging it contentedly, your eyes twinkling at him. “…I suppose.”

You handed him the toy, rolling your shoulders as you were given the ring. “Which one do you want?”

“I’m fine with anything,” he said, eyes locked on the grey pusheen plushy, the other half of the pair. So it was with a laugh, helpless in the face of his clear yet unspoken demand, that you tossed the ring. You got it on the second try, handing the toy to Victor with a triumphant grin, who took it primly and tucked it into his side.

“Thank you.”

“Isn’t this too childish by your standards?” you teased, unable to help it, but he only smirked down at you, stealing your breath with devastating ease.

“It is. But childish is…nice, sometimes,” he admitted carefully.

Your mind helpfully supplied you with all the instances of him calling you childish. “Oh?”

He shrugged, elegant, one shoulder lifting as he looked back down at the toy, before looking back up at you through dark, half-lidded eyes. “It’s grown on me.”

Kiro ✓ @kiromusic

Wow! This seems like so much fun, I kinda wish I got to go there too! :D @miracley/n invite me next time!!  #HopefullyYours 

Savin @agents

@kiromusic You just want to eat junk. And...well, I guess we can make an exception for today. 

‎

bandanaman @headaccs

Before I proceed to scream over the clip, I just wanted to let y’all know I did some digging and apparently, they are friends! They’ve been spotted together in public many times, including the Loveland Gala last year. You know what this means. #HopefullyYours

bandanaman @headaccs

THE PUSHEEN TOYS. They won each other toys!! Y/n’s right, that does look like him with the dark fur lmao. BUT. Look at Victor’s heart eyes!! And she looked so happy omg T_T

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@headaccs NO WONDER. It seems like they already like each other but it seemed too soon!! They’re so cute omg please date!! #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

@berryberry With how they look at each other? I smell pining ;) I’ve compiled a list of all their public appearances. He even took her to Souvenir! How are they not dating????

‎

raspberrydream @berryberry

@headaccs DM ME!!!!

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@headaccs I feel like that’s a bit of a reach. They certainly seem comfortable with each other, but that could easily just be friendship, which is nice too. I feel like we should allow people to be friends instead of just shipping them.

‎

mintmadness @mintsallover

@hotsauce they’re on a dating show, though.

‎

srirachafire @hotsauce

@mintsallover yeah but plenty of other ‘couples’ were just friends or went on to be good friends. I just think these two are comfortable with each other, which is probably a good thing because Victor doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who can have fun with just anyone, you know?

You ended up having a lot more fun than you thought you would. Victor was always great company, but you could tell he’d tried his best to relax for the show and you didn’t know how to thank him for it. The warm gratitude bubbled up at the base of your throat, your heart sinking deeper into the ocean of affection you already held for him.

He’s so kind. His aloof demeanour, his nagging, his precise instructions and advice were things you’ve come to appreciate. But beyond those lies a heart so caring, so considerate, it made you yearn so deeply, to find yourself a place in it. But Victor had come to treat you as a friend and you could never ruin that because of your own feelings. It was precious, his friendship, and you wanted to treat it as such.

The line you’d drawn with so much care seemed to be straining, however, ever since you found out you would be riding the ferris wheel together, without Homer.

“The people in charge told us if we could just wait until closing time, they could keep things going until we’re done shooting!” Jason had told you as he briefed everyone. A bunch of the crew had left after packing up, as this would be the last take for the day. “That way Homer can fix the lighting and equipment in the cabin and won’t need to join you two! Give you some privacy, yeah?”

‘For what,’ you’d screamed internally, nodding along with a smile on the outside.

 Looking to Victor for his opinion had been futile, because he seemed to have withdrawn into his own head, looking up at the ferris wheel absently. You were supposed to shoot the individual parts, but with how late it had gotten, Jason had asked the two of you to drop by the studio the next day. Only, you had a free slot in the morning while Victor would only be able to make it sometime during the late afternoon.

So you wouldn’t get to see what Victor said about you. That was perfectly fine. Things had gone well, and Victor wasn’t the sort to badmouth someone anyway.

It was supposed to be his day off. And he gave it up to participate in a show that was, for all intents and purposes, pointless for him. You felt terrible, heart aching at the thought that once again you had made him waste his time.

How on earth did Jason even get him to agree to this?

“You’re thinking something ridiculous,” came a low voice, and Victor seemed to have come back from his mental journey.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, the guilt getting to you.

“For what?” He seemed genuinely baffled, and it made you feel worse.

“For this entire day. You just came for a visit and now it’s after 8 pm and your day off is gone and you rarely get free time…” your shameful rambling tapered off as the furrow between his brows appeared to grow deeper and deeper.

His response was interrupted by a staff member, who came to let you know the ride was ready for you two. Walking together in complete silence, you wondered what he was about to say.

“Do you regret it?”

You arrived at the ride, and Victor had stopped in front of the open door. “What?”

“Do you regret it?” he repeated patiently, holding his hand out to you. “This entire day. Our date.”

Our date.

It was silly, how him calling it a date, with no cameras in sight, seemed to affect you so deeply. It was ridiculous but it was so real, how your heart fluttered and hope unfurled in the garden where you’ve buried your affection.

“Because I’m not sorry,” he added when you failed to do anything other than flush horribly. There was a question in his gaze, one you didn’t know how to answer, so with a deep breath, you focused on the one he’d asked out loud.

“No,” you said softly, your hand coming to rest over his as he helped you into the cabin. “I don’t regret it.”

How could you, when he was everything you wanted?

You settled on the plastic bench, watching Homer fiddle with the settings and light, making sure the camera’s fixed in place, basking in the heat emanating from Victor.

“Alright, that should work. You guys ready?” he asked.

“Yeah!”

“Yes.”

Homer stepped back to let Jason poke his head through the door. “We’re all set guys. Just call us if there are any problems. Be yourselves, don’t worry about the take. And remember, make sure to make it as romantic as possible!”

As the door closed behind him, with the camera rolling, silence rose to take the place of the sounds now cut off, the rest of the world falling away as the ride began and you began to ascend.

Outside the window, the stars shone in a twinkling blanket across the night sky, and Victor’s arm pressed into yours. Meeting his eyes was difficult, astoundingly so after the entire day you spent together.

This close, it would be so easy to let the words tumble from your lips. You didn’t know what your eyes could give away right now, and you were just as afraid of the softness in his gaze.

It looked too real.

“I’m glad we finally got some peace,” he muttered, and just like that a bright laugh broke out through your fear.

“This was not your kind of place at all, was it?” you said, snickering at the look he threw your way, because it’s so easy to make him huff like that.

“It was…lively,” he said, glaring at you as you stifle your smile behind your hand. “Exactly the kind of place you enjoy.”

“That’s true.”

“Then that’s that.” He shifted a little, trying to face you, his knee knocking into yours. “As long as you had fun, we’ll come again.”

Despite your warnings, your heart skipped a beat.

You tried to laugh it off, changing the subject to your childhoods, swapping lighter stories and carefully avoiding the heartbreaks. Your hands moved somewhere in between, in the dim lights, and your fingers had found each other’s. Make it romantic, Jason had said. That was the only reason. You talked about work, about Miracle Finder, about his public projects, how your busy lives don’t give you the chance to find love.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Victor cut in, still looking at you in that quietly dangerous away, his gaze a heated cloak over your skin.

You stilled. “You wouldn’t?” There was a tremor in your voice, one you hoped went unnoticed.

“I think, regardless of how busy we are, however reluctant…love finds us when it has to,” he said, his voice deep, unwavering, and you forgot how to breathe. Somehow, despite doing your best to avoid it, you had wound up on the proverbial cliff’s edge.  

And it was time to take a leap.

“Victor...have you ever been in love?” you asked, part of you ready for his outrage, for him to brush it off with a roll of his eyes, and the other curling up in fear at the thought of the answer he might really give you.

He hummed, tightening his grip on your hand when you tried to tug it back, searching your face. His thumb swept over your knuckles, rubbing gently, and you wondered if he was preparing you for heartbreak.

“Yes. I have.”

Kiki @kikiki

@smilingwillow WHAT THE FUCK

‎

Anna @miracletv

@kikiki Language.

‎

Kiki @kikiki

‎@miracletv did you see the episode?? im going to collapse WHERE IS BOSS @miracley/n

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raspberrydream @berryberry

DID HE JUST???? OH MY GOD @headaccs DID YOU SEE THIS? ARE YOU OKAY? #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

THIS MAD LAD ACTUALLY DID IT. @berryberry I will never recover from this #HopefullyYours

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@headaccs @berryberry He just said he’s been in love before. He didn’t say he’s in love with her lol

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@hotsauce what will it take for you to finally see the light

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mintmadness @mintsallover

I could listen to this man talk all day. Y/n, you’re one lucky girl <3 #HopefullyYours

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cocoloco @chocolatedelite

I’m late to the party but lmao at everyone freaking out. Uhhh honestly I’m not sure. These things are usually scripted. They could just be faking it. #HopefullyYours

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@chocolatedelite Thank you!!!!

‎

victorshoe @mrsli

My heart is broken but their cuteness has mended it. I’ll give them my blessings. #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

oh thank god they just uploaded the individual bits!!! THANK YOU @jtv

‎

bandanaman @headaccs 

...wait 

‎

raspberrydream @berryberry

‎‎omfg

‎

bandanaman @headaccs

????? IS THAT IT??? COME BACK @jtv that can't be it!! 

Thank you for reading! 

MC/You: it’s a fake date. chill. 

Victor: Goldman I need NINE roses and an outfit that makes me look like a sex god I HAVE A DATE

[veilder]

What's your philosophy on writing? ;)

Omg, coming out swinging with this ask. XD I can just feel a rambling, stream of consciousness answer waiting to come out. XD So, lemme think... I mean, considering I haven’t done very much writing at all in the last half a year, I don’t even know anymore? And before that, I never really considered myself... an actual writer, either. Reader, yes. Commenter, sure. Writing was like... It was my least polished skill, y’know? I’d only ever tried to write some fics casually before 2019 and I certainly never published any of them, omg. And I never expected that anything I did publish would get any sort of response. So... It’s all still sort of an ephemeral concept to me. When I talk about fanfic authors, I always think of other people first, lol. Always think of their epic, sweeping fics first.  I guess it more comes down to knowing I’ll never quite have that same impact, y’know? I consider the stuff I write as cheap, popcorn fics. There’s not really a lot there, really. The stuff I write is cliché and predictable and it’s not super evocative. I... don’t know why I do it, really. The enthusiasm has certainly drained out of me recently.  I guess... It’s not that I don’t like my own writing. On the contrary, I don’t think I could’ve written any of it if I wasn’t fully invested. But it’s not like... integral in any way, shape or form. I don’t have the same spark I did at the start of things anymore and I don’t have someone to discuss ideas with or try and drive me forward anymore. So I’m just kinda... languishing atm.  ...God, what a depressing answer. -_- Sorry, this probably wasn’t the sort of answer you were expecting. Writing is a hobby and it should be fun I guess. And it was for me for a time. But it was always so, so stressful, too. I loved getting the ideas I had out of my head an onto paper, but I was always so anxious all the time. I wanted my stories to be good and I agonized over them relentlessly. And I think that, with the last thing I wrote being such a crunch, I’m just super burnt out right now. Which is a shame, cuz I still have so many ideas I’d like to get around to.  So, I guess tl;dr is, I’ve never really considered myself a genuine author and writing is as stressful as it is rewarding for me. And I’d like to do more of it but I can’t muster the motivation anymore.  Sorry if this was a rather... sad answer. My ramblings weren’t exactly the happiest this time around, lol. And I hope no one gets discouraged from this, these are my own issues I’m dealing with. But... yeah. That’s my current philosophy on the matter.

[goodlucktai]

Have you done 4, 49, or 52 yet? If you did sorry. Oh... And will you post these on ao3?

PROMPTS LIST

49. “I have a concern.” “Just one?” “No, but I didn’t think you’d let me speak my piece if I told you how many I actually have.”

all of these prompt fills will make their way to my oneshot collection eventually :)

x

Shibata just happens to be there. 

Nishimura wanted snacks, and volunteered Natsume to go to the convenience store with him, and Shibata invited himself along. He’s only here for the weekend, after all, and Nishimura gets to have Natsume’s attention all the rest of the time. 

Natsume sighed, because he knew they’d bicker all the way to the store and back, but he still held the door and waved them through, arguments and all.

Now they’re walking back to Natsume’s house, the plastic bags between them bulging with sandwiches, and pancakes, and rice balls for poor, boring Tanuma. Natsume isn’t carrying a bag because he’s carrying that lazy sensei of his instead. 

Their breaths cloud in the crisp January air. The pink and orange of sunset has faded from the far corner of the sky, leaving it a deep, vivid blue. 

And it’s there, as they step off the sidewalk and head through the grass, cutting a familiar path through a familiar field of weeds and wheat, that Natsume seems to stumble upon courage.

“Hey, Satchan,” he says, “can I tell you something?”

It’s so casual, almost off-handed. Shibata almost misses it entirely. He’s trying to make sure his new shoes don’t get too muddy, distracted and looking at his feet while they trudge along. 

Nyanko-sensei’s eyes are very green in the fading light, glinting with animal brightness. Nishimura tips his head, silly and flighty at all other times, but super attentive when a friend calls his name. Particularly so when it’s Natsume.

Shibata can’t even make fun of the cutesy nickname, because Nishimura is impossible to embarrass. And Shibata has slipped up and used it before, too. 

“You can tell me anything,” Nishimura says plainly. If anything, he’s confused that Natsume thinks he needs to ask. 

And it’s this moment. Here, in the sprawling, rambling countryside. Here, in the blue hour, when the sun has gone down but the sky is still rich with color. Here, where home is just down the road and their friends are waiting.

Natsume says, “I can see spirits. I’ve always been able to see them.”

Shibata nearly trips, and it takes some real expert maneuvering to save his bag of convenience store food from an unfortunate meeting with the dirt. Nishimura stops walking abruptly enough that it’s almost a trip, too. His eyes are round and full. 

“I’ve never told anyone before,” Natsume goes on, sounding amazed by his own daring. “Well-- not really. Not since I was in grade school. No one believed me back then.” 

He’s always so pacific and detached, even when he’s in pain or afraid, that the edge of nervousness creeping into his tone now almost seems out of place.

For his part, Shibata is gaping. He can’t believe this. He wasn’t prepared. His eyes dart from Natsume’s anxious expression to Nishimura’s stunned one, and he starts shoring himself up. If he has to intervene, he will. He’s seen more proof than any reasonable person needs, and he’ll shove Nishimura’s face in it like a disobedient dog if that’s what it takes to make him understand. 

But it’s only a moment-- only seconds really-- before Nishimura’s face clears. He shuffles his bags to his left hand so his right one is free, and he touches Natsume’s arm the way Shibata has seen him do a thousand times. 

“That makes sense,” he says, nonsensically. “More sense than my esper theory, anyway.”

Natsume’s expression would put the sun to absolute shame. His smile is slow at first, but inexorable, like a stream of water picking its way around the bend that meets the river. He must be the brightest thing for miles. 

“You thought I was an esper?” he teases, laughter in his voice. “You watch too much TV.”

Nishimura throws up his hands, the contents of his shopping bag rattling ominously. “I saw you float in homeroom once! Like, a foot off the ground! ESP is way more plausible than you’re making it out to be, thank you very much.”

Shibata stares at them, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for this scene to shift. It can’t be that easy. It can’t be that painless. Nishimura must be lying to save face, or hiding what is most certainly a freak-out of epic proportions, because belief like this is impossible.  

Except now Natsume is introducing Nyanko-sensei properly, and Nishimura is talking to the cat-- surprise and wonder melting into acceptance as easily and naturally as a spring thaw. 

“You knew exactly what you were doing every time you stole my food!” Nishimura complains, tugging on one of Nyanko-sensei’s soft ears. “Natsume, your cat owes me money.”

Natsume laughs. He laughs, head tipping back, healthy color rising in his wind-chapped cheeks. In this moment, he’s so far removed from that tiny, overshadowed boy that Shibata used to bully on the playground that he might as well be another person entirely. 

Could it have been like this back then? Shibata wonders suddenly. The thought is intrusive and unwelcome. 

If he had been a kinder child, if he had suspended his disbelief for long enough to get to know the strange little boy no one wanted to sit next to in class, would Natsume belong to him the way he belongs to Nishimura and Kitamoto, Taki and Tanuma, Shigeru and Touko?

"Shibata,” Natsume says, in the tone of someone who’s said it more than once. “Hey, are you okay?”

Shibata blinks, arresting his attention. Natsume is watching him with a puzzled frown. Nishimura is waving his arms around and inching forward, as if he’s playing a strange, abridged version of Marco-Polo.

“Fine,” he blurts. “What’s your idiot friend doing?”

“He’s yours, too,” Natsume says peacefully. “And he’s looking for Nyanko-sensei.” 

“What, he poofed?” Shibata looks around the empty field, too. “How did I miss that?” 

“Who’s the idiot now, Sumi?” Nishimura calls over his shoulder. 

The annoying nickname slides right off Shibata like water off an oilskin coat this time. He’s still trying to catch up to this conversation. He almost feels winded, like he’s huffing and puffing across the finish line of a marathon that no one had the decency to warn him about. 

“I can’t believe you just blurted it out like that,” he says, barely mustering the strength to talk above a whisper. “You took ten years ojf my life, easy. I was hyping myself up for a big fallout or something.”

"I can’t believe it, either,” Natsume admits, smiling. “But it wasn’t even that scary, really. Definitely not as scary as I always thought it would be. Maybe because you were here.”

Shibata very quickly looks down at his hands to readjust his shopping bags and not because his eyes are stinging in a telling way.

Nishimura gives a sudden squawk of surprise, hands spread out against the empty air, eyes huge and moon-like. Then his face splits in a grin, and laughter comes bubbling out of him as easily as it always has, and he smooths one hand to the side as if he’s petting something. As if he’s petting Natsume’s ugly cat where it’s fallen asleep in his lap.

His trust is a wild, reckless thing. It’s almost infuriating to watch. 

Could it have been like this back then? If I was a better person?

“You said he can fly, right?” Nishimura demands. “I wanna fly! Tell him to take us the rest of the way home! He owes me at least a dozen rides, considering all the food I’ve given him.”

He’s already searching for handholds, trying to find a way up. Natsume stoops to gather the forgotten bags of snacks and loops the handles around his wrist before making his way over. To Shibata’s intense dismay, rather than tell Nishimura that it’s a stupid idea and he’s stupid for thinking of it, Natsume helps him climb up instead. 

“I have a concern,” Shibata says dryly. 

Natsume huffs. It’s not really a laugh, but it’s not not a laugh, either. “Just one?” 

“No, but I didn’t think you’d let me speak my piece if I told you how many I actually have.”

“You can walk if you want to,” Nishimura calls down. “No one’s making you come along.”

It’s very surreal to see him sitting on nothing, well above Shibata’s head. It’s still very annoying to watch him take to this strange new world with enthusiasm and aplomb, as if he was simply born to exist in this moment and be Natsume’s friend. 

Never one to be outdone, Shibata ignores his own uncertainty to drawl, “And miss the chance to watch you make a fool out of yourself in new and unprecedented ways? Never.”

Nishimura crows with laughter, too delighted to take offense. Natsume sighs just like he did before they left, when he resigned himself to their noisy, obtrusive company. He holds out his hand the same way he held open the door. 

He’s always standing on that threshold. He’s always holding out his hand. 

Shibata has already missed so many chances to reach out and take it. He’s not going to miss any more. 

[atinymonster]

deep talks

ateez 9th member.

when jiyu finally manages to talk to wooyoung.

➴ masterlist

taglist ➴ @galacticstxrdust, @jiyeons-closet, @banhmi07

Talking to Wooyoung proved to be harder than Jiyu expected. On top of their busy comeback schedule, Wooyoung would also not talk to her unless it was absolutely necessary. No matter how many times Jiyu attempted to talk to him, he would find a way to escape. 

And it hurt her. Wooyoung one of the people closest to her—and to have him pretend as if she doesn’t exist was like a stab to her heart. Although she may not be able to reciprocate how he feels towards her, she didn’t want to lose him as a friend.

Even the other members noticed how distant he was acting towards Jiyu. After countless interrogations, Wooyoung finally spilled the beans. It was like a slap in the face to them—they knew something was wrong, but they never would’ve thought it was a love triangle. 

Slowly, weeks passed—their days filled with endless practicing and preparing for their online comeback concert, Air Con. Which meant less chances for Jiyu to talk to Wooyoung since the minute they come back to their dorm, they all crash from exhaustion. 

Jiyu smiled less and less everyday. Seeing how he treated the others the same as if nothing happened made her heart wrench. She knew he was hurt, and she didn’t want to be selfish about the situation, so she let him be for a while. Even with Yeosang’s encouragement, she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. 

They were currently having a group V-LIVE, and even ATINYs noticed how down Jiyu seemed and how it looked like Wooyoung and Jiyu were avoiding each other. They just purposely avoided reading the comments asking what was wrong. 

Reading the comments, Woooyoung glanced at Jiyu and noticed how she was practically hiding in the oversized hoodie as she watched the comments fly by on her phone. Her hood was on, which prevented him from seeing her face, but he knew it probably wasn’t her usual happy one. Seonghwa had an arm wrapped around her shoulder to comfort her. 

“Many ATINY are worried about Jiyu,” Hongjoong commented. 

Jiyu looked up and mustered up the most convincing smile she could while waving her sweater paws. “Don’t worry, ATINY! I’m just a little tired since we just finished practice,” she reassured. She technically wasn’t lying—she was a little exhausted from their dance practices.

Wooyoung furrowed his eyebrows at her white lie. He didn’t realize how much of an impact his behavior had on her. After the V-LIVE, Jiyu excused herself to use the bathroom. Yeosang took this chance to talk some sense into Wooyoung. 

“This can’t go on forever, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said. “You need to talk to her.”

Wooyoung didn’t say anything and looked down at his lap. “I know...” he mumbled. “But she doesn’t look like she even wants to talk to me right now.”

Yeosang gently smacked the back of his head, making Wooyoung whine. “Are you kidding me, Wooyoung? She’s been trying to talk to you for the past two weeks and you blew her off every single time!” he said.

Wooyoung winced as he remembered all of the times Jiyu tried approaching him. But every time, he made an excuse to leave the room.

Their phones went off, indicating someone texted their group chat.

[baby monster 🐥] i’m going to be in the vocal practice room if anyone needs me. @ jongho come help with with the high note for thanxx ㅠㅠ

“This is your chance, hyung!” Jongho piped up.

Wooyoung panicked. He wasn’t expecting the chance to come so quickly. “B–But—”

“No buts,” Yeosang said as he stood up, pulling Wooyoung along with him. “It’s weird walking on eggshells around the two of you. Plus if ATINY noticed your weird behaviors, then it’s seriously affecting the both of you,” he said before practically tossing Wooyoung out of the room.

“Good luck!” he cheered before closing the door.

Wooyoung was stunned. “Yah! Did you just kick me out?!”

The others watched with surprise at Yeosang’s action. “A–Are you sure they’ll be fine?” Hongjoong asked.

Yeosang calmly sat back down. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll lock them in a room myself until they talk it out.”

Wooyoung nervously stood in front of the vocal cubicle Jiyu was in. He’d been standing there for a while now, too nervous to knock.

He took a deep breath. “Man up, Wooyoung. It’s just Baby Monster,” he reassured before softly knocking.

“It’s unlocked, Jongho,” Jiyu said from the other side of the door.

Wooyoung gently opened the door. Luckily, the table was positioned so that Jiyu’s back was to the door. She didn’t seem to realize that it was Wooyoung instead of Jongho.

She shuffled through her lyrics paper. “I don’t know how you manage to hit the high note so easily when I can barely—”

“Jiyu–ah.”

Jiyu froze hearing Wooyoung’s voice. Thinking she was hallucinating, she whipped around and indeed, it was Wooyoung. “O–Oh...hi. Sorry, I thought you were Jongho,” she meekly said before turning back around. “I think the other cubicles are open if you wanted to—”

Wooyoung took a deep breath before coming in and closing the door. “I came to talk to you,” he interrupted.

Jiyu pressed her lip into a thin line. She played with her hoodie strings, a habit of her’s that Wooyoung noticed when she’s anxious. Silence engulfed the small room. 

“What changed?” Jiyu asked after a long pause. “You suddenly avoided me like the plague for the past two weeks,” she added. 

Wooyoung felt a twinge of guilt at her small voice. “That’s because...” he trailed off. He was scared. Scared to reveal his feelings to her.

But her next words threw him off guard.

“Yeosang told me,” she revealed. “He told me during filming.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened. “Kang Yeosang—”

“He had good intentions,” she quickly added. “And you know that, too. He didn’t want you to be hurting because of an untold secret. Heck, you would’ve done the same thing if this scenario was switched around.”

Wooyoung sat in the chair next to her’s and leaned forward so that his arms were resting on his knees. “...I’m sorry.”

Jiyu looked up to the ceiling and sighed. “For avoiding me or your feelings?”

“...Both.”

Jiyu suddenly went silent, scaring Wooyoung. Looking up, he noticed her blank face as she leaned back in the chair to look at the ceiling. “Don’t apologize for your feelings, Woo. While we have some control over them, we never have complete control,” she mumbled. “In other words, it’s not your fault.”

She finally looked at him for the first time since he came in. “I get that you were hurt, and I know it was my fault, so I gave you space. But as selfish as it may sound, it hurt when you treated everyone the same but avoided me as if I didn’t even exist.”

Wooyoung felt guilt wash over him every time Jiyu spoke. 

“But it’s partially my fault, too. I guess I never realized the meanings behind your actions,” she meekly admitted. “I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you.”

No one said a word after, leaving them silence once again. 

“I was too focused on how I was feeling to see how much it affected you, too,” Wooyoung spoke up. “I didn’t realize me distancing myself hurt you that much. And I’m sorry, Baby Monster.”

With a small smile, she hesitantly opened her arms. “Hug?” she asked.

Wooyoung chuckled before wrapping his own arms around her. They always had a forgiving hug after their arguments. 

"I’ll be mindful of what I say. I’ll try not to mention the relationship while you’re still healing—”

“It’s okay, Baby Monster,” Wooyoung interrupted with a ruffle to her hair—well, hoodie. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay. You don’t have to restrict when I’m around.”

Jiyu looked at him with a worried expression. “But—”

“I’m serious, I’ll be fine,” he reassured. “But promise me that this won’t change anything between us.”

Jiyu smiled as she reached up to pat his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I kind of missed clingy Wooyoung,” she teased. 

With a mocking scoff, he gently flicked her forehead. “Now tell me about Sunwoo,” he said with a mischevious smile. “Spill the tea.”

Jiyu scoffed. “Why do you sound like those gossiping moms?” she laughed. 

“It’s the hair,” he said, flipping it to play along. 

“I think they made up,” Yunho whispered with one ear pressed against the door. The other six were huddled in a group around Yunho. “I don’t hear anyone screaming at least.”

Yeosang proudly puffed his chest. “See? Nothing to worry—”

The door suddenly opened, causing Yunho to lose balance and fall forward onto Wooyoung, which in turn made them both tumble to the ground. They both grunted from the sudden impact. Jiyu’s eyes just widened from her seat at the sight of everyone by the door.

Before she could get a word out, Wooyoung stood up and scanned the group for his victim. “YAH, KANG YEOSANG!” he screeched, charging at the poor boy. Yeosang immediately made a run for it, the others watching in slight horror and amusement at Wooyoung’s returned enthusiasm. 

Seonghwa rubbed her head. “Are you both okay now?” he asked with a tiny smile. 

Giving a little nod, Jiyu grinned for the first time in two weeks. “Yep!”

“As much as I’m happy that you two made up,” San said, “we should probably go save Yeosang.”

[sweetcherrypie1967]

Sweet Tooth

Now to anyone else this wouldn't be a big deal but to those that knew her, they knew she wasn't one to get very confused. After all, they don't call her the brightest witch of her age for nothing. She was always trying to find a logical explanation for everything she encountered and dealt with it accordingly.

But this had her stumped.

Every week her parents would send many sweets to her to share with her friends. While they were dentists and protested excessive amounts of candy, they trusted she was responsible enough not to use them in excessive amounts. They also knew that Hermione's friends enjoyed sweets very much so they felt no guilt in sending so much. It was a sweet gesture that Hermione looked forwards to every week but this week, however, she had put the sweets in a bowl in the Heads Common Room so that others were free to have some and the next morning they were gone.

She hadn't even had any of her friends in the Common Room since putting this week's batch there. So where could it have gone?

Hermione was contemplating this staring at the empty bowl when the Head Boy came out from his room. His blond hair still wet from just taking a shower as he cheerfully bounded down the steps.

"Good morning Hermione," Draco Malfoy said.

"Good morning, Draco," she said, "you wouldn't happen to know what happened to the sweets my parents sent me, would you?"

He paused mid-stride, looked at the empty bowl and pretended to think hard. "Nope, not a clue," Draco said shrugging before continuing in the room with a spring in his step.

It was a shock to Hermione when she found out that she would have to share the Head Dorms with Draco. It really did make sense why he was chosen as Head Boy, so she shouldn't have been surprised. He was second only to her in their year and earned the position just as much as she did. Hermione was so worried about it that she almost went to McGonagall on the verge of asking to be demoted to Prefect. The more she thought about it though, the she decided that she'd worked too long and hard to get to be the Head Girl so she wasn't going to give it up so easily. So, they put up with each other as neither was willing to back down and they eventually became somewhat friends.

"Well you seem to be in an awfully good mood today," Hermione commented

"You're right, as usual. I am in a fantastic mood today," Draco said plopping down on one of the couches by the fireplace.

"May I ask why?" Hermione said amused. While she did find him a lot more pleasant to be around, it was still rare to catch him in a particularly good mood.

"Because, dearest Hermione, today is the day that I am going to ask out that girl I told you about to Hogsmeade this weekend," he said grinning.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Hermione said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

As they were getting closer and trusting each other more, Draco confided -or more like Hermione caught on and he confessed- that he had a secret crush on some mystery girl. He went on about how beautiful and smart and wonderful she was, though Draco refused to reveal her identity. At first Hermione was excited that he was trusting her enough to tell her something so personal, but couldn't help feeling a pang in her chest. She hadn't the slightest idea why until a few weeks ago while talking to her good friend Ginny Weasley.

Hermione has her own crush on the blond boy.

Still, she wouldn't allow it to show, he obviously didn't feel the same as he was so occupied by this other woman. And why should I even hope for anything else? Just because we're friends now doesn't change that he's Draco Malfoy and she's Hermione Granger, they'd never work..

..could they?

"Hey? Hermione?" Draco said bringing her out of her thoughts.

"Hm? Oh sorry, what were you saying?" Hermione said embarrassed.

"I was asking if you were alright, you kinda zoned out there," he said with a charming smile that made her melt.

"Yeah I'm alright, just lost in thought I guess," she explained.

"Ok," Draco said before launching into all his different ideas of where to take this mystery girl. Hermione listened while secretly picturing him and herself going to do these activities, even if she knew they were never going to happen. "I don't know, Hermione..maybe I'm getting my hopes too high," he said sadly.

This snapped her back to reality. Draco Malfoy, aka sexiest boy at Hogwarts, worried about some girl rejecting him? She didn't know whether to be proud he wasn't being too egotistical or worried he's gone mad.

"You're not ill, are you?" Hermione teased.

"I mean it, Hermione. What if she says no?" He worried.

"Where's that Malfoy confidence of yours? Of course she'll say yes," she told him encouragingly.

"I don't know...after all I've done? Me and her haven't had the best track record, I wouldn't blame her," Draco said looking at the fire.

"Draco Malfoy, do you care for this girl?" Hermione asked.

"I think I made that pretty clear," he said rolling his eyes.

"Yes or no," she said bossily.

"Yes," Draco laughed.

"Do you think you could fall for her?" She asked.

Draco looked at her for a moment and thought about what she was asking. "Yes," he said honestly.

"Then that's all that matters. If she rejects you then that just means she isn't the one who's meant for you, you have proven that you've changed time and time again this year so if she can't see that then thats her loss," Hermione said firmly, "besides, would you rather go on without knowing how she'd answer? Without being able to say you tried?"

"You're right, as always. I'm being silly aren't I?" Draco said cracking a smile.

"Yes, yes you are," she told him to which they both laughed.

There was a part of Hermione that selfishly wished this mystery girl would reject to his offer but another that wished she would agree, just so Hermione can see him happy. Only time could tell.

"So when are you going to tell me who this girl is?" Hermione asked him.

"After I ask her," he promised with a twinkle in his eye.

"And when when will you be asking her?" Hermione asked.

"Not telling," Draco said.

****

It was dinnertime in the Great Hall. Hermione was sitting at the Gryffindor table with Harry Potter along with Ron and Ginny Weasley while Draco was sitting at the Slytherin table with Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Daphne Greengrass. He's been fiddling with his hands nervously the entire time, too anxious to eat anything.

"C'mon mate, why are you so worried? Who in Merlin's name would reject you?" Theo said.

"Any girl that's got a brain," Blaise teased to which Daphne elbowed him, "ouch!..bloody woman...I mean, yeah what he said."

"Really Draco, could you at least tell us who she is? It might be easier for us to help if we knew," Daphne urged.

"No, you'll find out soon enough. I don't need help I..just need a minute," Draco assured his closest friends.

"Dinner will be over soon, you'd better make it fast. Especially if you want to get something to eat," Blaise said.

"Yeah, ok. Here I go," Draco said more to himself than anyone else before standing up and striding across the Great Hall.

Right to the Gryffindor table.

He shook his head as if to rid himself of his nerves and show his famous Malfoy confidence as he got closer. As he approached, Draco could feel all the eyes on him but he paid them no mind.

Not until her eyes were on him.

Draco sat down next to her as if he did it everyday, and he had done this on occasion throughout the current year.

"Hey Hermione, you remember that girl I was telling you about?" Draco asked, knowing everyone within earshot would be listening.

"Yes..oh! Did you ask her? What did she say?" Hermione asked intrigued.

"No actually, I haven't asked her yet," Draco told her, "I'm kinda getting to that."

"You'd better hurry if you want to do it today," Hermione said.

"Yeah, I should," Draco agreed. Hermione went back to her food, expecting him to go off and ask the girl, not wanting to see what would happen.

"Hermione," Draco said trying to regain her attention.

"Yeah?" She said not looking up.

He gently put his hand on her chin and tilted her head to look at him. "Would you like to go with me to Hogsmeade this weekend?" He asked.

"But I thought you were going with that mystery girl?" She said not piecing it together.

Draco sighed dramatically, "for the brightest witch of our age, you really can be . You're the mystery girl. I'm asking you on a date to Hogsmeade."

Her mouth dropped, along with almost everyone else's. Everyone else was still getting used to the idea of Hermione and Draco being friends and now he was asking her on a date?

"Oh! Yes, yes of course!" Hermione said excitedly before crushing him in a hug.

Draco laughed, "and by the way, it was me who ate the candy from your parents," he admitted in a whisper.

"It was you?" She exclaimed but somehow managed to keep the same volume.

"Yes, but don't worry I'll make it up to you," he promised.

And Draco did just that. The first activity the two did together in Hogsmeade was go straight to Honeydukes and let Hermione pick out all the sweets she desired. Draco, of course, picked out many as well for himself and paid for all of it.

"Draco Malfoy, how many sweets did you buy? The whole shop?" Hermione said surprised.

"What can I say? I guess you could say I've got a sweet tooth," Draco told her.

"That's an understatement," Hermione laughed.

They spend the rest of the day doing various things around the small town. Draco took her to a bookshop, the Three Broomsticks and anywhere else she wanted. Back in their Common Room they ate and exchanged their sweets while talking about their day.

All was well.

[thecardsimagine]

“Do you want me to ruin your village’s harvest this year?”

Did anyone say Forest Spirit!Muriel? No? Well, uh, but it’s already done, so you may have it!

“Do you want me to ruin your village’s harvest this year?”

≿————-————-   ❈ ————-————-≾  

You had to admit, that despite your best preparations, you were startled as the spirit you summoned slowly approached from behind the countless trees of the forest. You had heard a lot, from how grotesque the forest spirit was, to how it was as tall as the trees itself, with eyes killing you just by looking at you. Naturally, that made you hold your breath in anxious anticipation, though you slowly let it out again in its presence.

No matter what you heard, only half was true, the normal exaggeration of fairytales applying as always. The spirit looked like a man, worn by the days on his back, scars on his skin, clad in furs and leather. His hair was wild, yet, every strand knew its place, braided losely, and his eyes were as green as the heart of the forest. Only his height was intimidating, but you had seen tall people before, it wasn’t that much difference from ‘just being tall’. Certainly not as tall as a tree, much to your relief.

“U-Uhm, excuse me!” you called out, and you thought you saw him flinch. You quickly got up from the ground you had prayed on, hoping he’d show if you visited his shrine, to make yourself known. If you hadn’t know better, you’d have thought he looked over his shoulder in consideration of a way to flee, but he stayed, unmoving even as you took a step forward.

There was still a good handful of steps between you two, making you raise your voice to communicate as you didn’t want to stand too close to him either. If this wasn’t just a stranger in the forest, then he really was a spirit after all, and that would mean you didn’t want to upset him in any way.

Though before you could speak up again, you heard a low growl, your head moving side to side in confusion, muscles tensing at the animalistic sound. Behind some fern, you noticed a dark form stalking through the thicket, yellow eyes shining behind the green. Your mind raced with possibilities, a bear? A wolf? Something unknown to you entirely?

No matter what it was, you were wary, holding out your hand before you with your palms up. You didn’t even have anything like a knife with you, and no intentions to harm anyone. Finally, the creature’s face peeked out from behind the grass, a long snout with two errected ears coming into sight, inspecting you clearly.

Part of you felt like jumping up and running as the wolf started to approach in a calm trot, but you were also aware that this was a test, and there were many when searching for spirits and the like. Never letting you out of its sight, it took a whiff of your hands, tail slowly wagging. Once it noticed that you weren’t backing away, nor showed any harmful intentions or smelled weird, it visibly relaxed and so did you.

You had never seen a real wolf, but when it put its head in your hands, body wiggling in excitement, you couldn’t help but compare it to an excited puppy. “She likes you,” you suddenly heard as you scratched the wolf behind the ears, making you jump in surprise.

The man was much closer now, standing by the side of the animal who looked happily up to him, earning some more scratches from his big hands too. “What do you want?” he asked, directing his attention to you, but not before mustering the altar behind you, which you had filled to the brim with things you hoped would please the spirit.

“Are... Are you the forest spirit?” you asked and he took a long time simply staring at you. Eventually, he turned his head away, scratching his cheek with his free hand, muttering quietly under his breath. “Guess so...”

“T-Then!” you chimed loudly, startling both him and the wolf in front of you with the sudden enthusiasm in your voice. “Oh, I’m sorry...” Biting your lip, you calmed yourself, taking a deep breath. “I went hiking not too long ago around here, and I dropped something very important to me. It was a family heirloom and I need it back before anyone notices... I am sure my family would disown me if I went back without it, but no matter how hard I search from morning to night, I can’t find it. Can you help me look for it?”

With a raised eyebrow, the spirit took a deep breath. You weren’t sure if he was judging you or simply trying to decide whether he wanted to help or not, but you also didn’t understand as he grumbled something, turning on his heel. For a moment you thought he wouldn’t help, but he stopped after a few steps, noticing you weren’t coming, so you quickly grabbed your bag and ran after him, following him as he lead you through the thicket.

“Thanks,” you smiled as he held a branch out of the way for you, letting you pass safely without scratches and bruises from the unruly nature. “You are actually quite nice, aren’t you?”

For all of the thirty minutes you two were already wandering down the way you had taken before, losing your precious necklace somewhere there, you had been the solo entertainer for the three of you, though the wolf didn’t count as a conversation partner. Only now, did he huff, his shrug almost invisible under the furs and cloak he was wearing.

“My town is always super cautious about the forest, scared to upset you and you maybe ruining the harvest or hunts... But you wouldn’t do that, right?”

His side-eye looked suspicious but his expression was indifferent to your words. “Do you want me to ruin your village’s harvest this year?”  

“N-No?” you questioned, unsure if there was a right answer to his question.

“Then I won’t. If your town hunts too much, I won’t let them see the game for a while. If they pick too many berries, I won’t allow them to regrow. If you cut too many tree’s your axes won’t hurt the forest until it heals. There is no reason for me to hurt you.”

“Is that so...” you mumbled, wondering. It would explain why sometimes, the woodman came back with broken axes, the hunters without new game, and the children hungry despite basking in the glory of the forest. “You can’t actually do anything to our fields,” you declared as it dawned on you, that all he could do was inside of the forest.

Busted, he turned his head away, soft pink on his cheeks as you saw right through him. “No,” he admitted. “Only if you were to plant something in the forest.”

“I see--” You were cut off by his arm suddenly lifting, pointing towards a tree branch close to you. From it, the golden necklace, you had been searching for, dangled, and you smiled from ear to ear as you were able to retrieve it finally. “Thank you so much!” you chimed, turning towards him, while he simply nodded, a soft blush on his face.

“How can I repay your kindness?” you asked, clutching the necklace to your chest. His expression grew dim as he shook his head slowly, revealing, “You can’t. You will forget you met me the moment you return home. Come now.”

Baffled, you watched him turn, his wolf giving a soft howl, letting her ears hang in disappointment. “Why will I forget?” you asked as you trotted after him, and he shrugged. “People forget spirits when they lose sight of them.”

“That’s... sad,” you mumbled, and you two remained silent as he led you out of the forest again, the few glances you shot him out of the corner of your eyes, showing you no change in his expression, he simply moved on. He must have been used to this, even if you thought it was terrible sad that people forgot such a kind spirit as he was.

When you two reached the end of the forest, he stopped, unable to move out of the trees while you could move with no restrictions. “Thank you...” you whispered, turning towards him. You felt regretful about having to part now, meaning you would forget his help and the time you two spent together. Giving his wolf a few last pats, you turned to leave, but after two more steps you faced him once more, putting on the bravest expression you could muster.

“I won’t forget!” you promised before taking off, leaving him behind speechless, his mouth slightly agape.

In truth, you did. By the time you were home, you had forgotten the kind stranger, spirit of the forest, wondering how you managed to find your important family heirloom all by yourself. But the feeling nagged you. You remembered your words, remembered that there was something you wasn’t supposed to forget, but what was it?

The next time you returned to the forest, you brought a pot of forget-me-not and a small shovel, protruding the edges between fields and forests, deep into it until you found yourself back at the altar. You knew you had prayed here for help to find your necklace, but everything until you were back out again was blurry in comparison. By now though, you didn’t mind.

You went to work, planting the little flowers carefully into the ground, doing your best not to hurt any other plant in the way. There was no way of knowing if they could even live in this terrain, but they were the closest to something that could make you remember. When you were done, you remained for a few more moments, thanking the forest for helping you find you necklace one way or another.

Getting up, you went back on your track home, hearing a wolf howl in the distance. It made you stop, nagging at the memories you didn’t have, and you turned around, eyes falling on the hundreds of little, violet flowers, sparkling as if kissed by the morning dew shining in the sun, not even wondering how they could have spread so fast, smiling serenly as you went on your way home.

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, kelskels95!

Happy Birthday, @kelskels95​! We hope you’ve got a wonderful day planned, with a delicious cake to look forward to at the end! To start your party off right, the lovely @endlessnightlock​ has written a story just for you!

This fic is part two of something I wrote for Everlarkbirthdaygifts a few months ago- you can find a link to that story here; this part is based on the 1952 John Wayne/Maureen O’Hara movie The Quiet Man, which is set in Ireland during the 1920s.

John Wayne plays a disgraced former boxer who moves to his family’s homeland for peace after accidentally killing a man in the ring. Maureen O’Hara is his tempestuous love interest. It’s a fun, beautiful, very romantic, and funny (she is a real hothead in the film, and they have great on-screen chemistry) movie that I highly recommend. 

I hope you enjoy this little homage to The Quiet Man.

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

“Ah-ah-ah,” Haymitch stops me in my tracks when he glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with me. The village drunk is certainly the laughing stock of this little sheep-farming bit of countryside where I’ve been living for the last six months, so I wait, fully expecting him to crack a joke and cut the tension suddenly formed between us. 

I wait, and Haymitch waits. He doesn’t smile- instead, he stares me down as if I were a thief flinching his best white liquor from his cabinet in the middle of the night and not a man in the middle of courting a young lady, trying to lift her down from the buggy.

I guess even Haymitch takes some responsibilities seriously. I just wished for my own sake it wasn’t this particular responsibility. The confounding traditions these people have are outrageous enough on their own without his overbearing attitude. Back in the States, a guy could just pull up to a girl’s house, honk the horn, and wait for her to run out and meet him. 

A fella wouldn’t be forced to sit on opposite facing seats in this “courting buggy,” driven around the countryside by the town drunk, unable to carry on any real conversation with his girl.

Not that I would ever honk for a girl, at least not for Katniss Everdeen, anyway. She is small and beautiful and fiery and has the loveliest grey eyes I’ve ever seen. I might have enough sense not to pull up to her door and honk my horn (I’d have to have a car in this country to do such a thing, anyway), but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to spend a little time alone with her, now that I’m officially seeing her.

Damn it all; there is an honest to God twinkle in Haymitch’s eyes when he addresses me again, but only after I’ve dropped my hands away from Katniss’s waist and stepped away from her. “Mr. Mellark-”

“My name is Peeta if you please. My father was Mr. Mellark,” I remind Haymitch, crossing my arms over my chest and staring back at him. I’m much bigger and stronger than him (I’m bigger and stronger than most men actually, or I wouldn’t have had the boxing career I left behind in the States), but that doesn’t deter him the least.

“Ms. Everdeen is a fine, healthy girl,” he continues, leaning back in his seat and waving his hands at us, his expression knowing, “and she is quite able to climb out of the buggy by herself. So there’ll be no need for any patty-fingers there, Mr. Mellark.”

I frown up at Haymitch and his sly words. There were no, as he implied, patty-fingers involved. I was simply grasping Katniss’s waist to help her get down from her side of the buggy. I know she is an excellent climber; I did just dislodge her hair and hat from a tall tree limb last week in the middle of a disastrous rescue of her sister’s cat. 

All three of us are aware that we are doing today is simply an exercise in etiquette. 

Katniss and I have spent this evening, our first official “courting” outing, chauffeured down the local countryside’s winding roads. It’s so beautiful in spring’s palates of greens- 

(I love the beauty of this land. I don’t think I will ever tire of it- I’ve never seen such shades of green all my life. The land wasn’t like this back home in Chicago, but of course, when you grow up in an apartment above the family bakery, how is a fella to know what nature looks like? Sunday trips for a stroll around the park didn’t quite cut the mustard, either. 

Here, the surroundings are a feast for the eyes. Everything is colored in varying shades of green, rolling on for miles and miles: the trees, the pastures, the pretty dress that Katniss is wearing today. It goes so smartly with her straw hat, which, I can’t help but notice, is the same one I had to help her dislodge from a tree branch just last Sunday. This place is serene and peaceful, exactly why I chose to come back to my ancestral home after leaving the boxing ring behind.)

- past neighbor’s farms, and stone fences as far as the eye could see. In his given role as one of the senior men (and the local drunk) in the village, Haymitch has driven Katniss and myself around. We are not to be alone together now that I am courting her- even though she has visited many times at my farm, alone, without any threat of ruination. The “courting” title is the only difference in any of it; I’ve wanted to kiss Katniss’s pert little mouth since the first time I laid eyes on her.

“Patty fingers?” I ask indignantly, although I do drop my hands from Katniss’s waist. A scowl forms on her lovely face, wrinkling her nose adorably.

“Quit your fussin’, boy. Now what I’m doing here, well, this is a good stretch of the road leading into town. I’ll let you do about a mile or so on your own; give you a chance to see how you feel walking together. I’ll be right behind you, so no funny business,” he directs. I move to put my hand on the small of Katniss’s back but am quickly tut-tutted by Haymitch. “Patty fingers!”

Katniss’s and my eyes meet, and she rolls her eyes at Haymitch’s evident enthusiasm for his task. 

Ha- see if I’m eager to buy him another pint at the pub!

Instead of speaking, we walk close beside each other, not touching- the only sound the click of her low heels on the packed-dirt road. Once there is some distance between us and the buggy, I hear Haymitch make a clicking sound at the horses and snap the reins, and soon he is moving down the road, following us again. 

At least this time, Haymitch is keeping a little distance- I know he is giving us some room to speak with each other, but I cannot think of a single thing to say to Katniss with an audience. We continue in silence, neither of us anxious to speak, which is unusual because I am quite the talker. Katniss, while not overly verbose, is rarely short of things to remark upon when she is alone with me.

Finally, I open my mouth. “You look lovely today, Katniss,” I say, admiring her because it is the truth, and you can never go wrong telling your girl she is lovely to you.

Her eyes skate over my frame quickly before she faces forward again. “Is that your best suit you’re wearing today, Peeta Mellark?” she asks, a grin forming at the corner of her mouth.

I smile at my full name crossing her lips; it reminds me of a prim schoolmistress- I like it very much. “Yes, it is my best suit, Katniss Everdeen,” I answer in kind. “Do I pass muster?”

Katniss’s eyes slide to the side; I catch her watching me. “It does look quite fine on you,” she says softly, glancing forward again.

I hear the buggy come to a halt behind us as Haymitch stops to speak to the vicar, so we stop in the road as well. Katniss faces me, and when our eyes lock, I have an overwhelming desire to be alone with her, talk with her, make her laugh, and maybe earn a chaste kiss. I want to know everything there is to know about Katniss Everdeen, and I cannot do any of those things with our chaperone in tow. 

Although I would never say time spent with her is a waste, I am mourning the freedom of those evenings she would visit me at my farm, when we were alone to talk, even if it was only in the manner that friends do.

I sigh.

Katniss shrugs her shoulders. “This is quite ridiculous, isn’t it?” she bites back a smile. I think she’s growing as tired of the proprieties as I am.

“It is.” I agree. Neither Katniss nor I are youths needing looking after. I just passed my 26th birthday, and she is only a year younger than I am. Considering what I’ve been through in those short years, it’s been much longer than one would think since I’ve felt like a boy.

I catch sight of something then- a two-seater bicycle, leaning against the side of the pub, and it gives me an idea. “Can you ride?” I ask, nodding discreetly at the tandem. Katniss glances over her shoulder then, and so do I. 

Haymitch remains in conversation with the vicar.

In unison, Katniss and I take off in a dead sprint for the tandem. Reaching it, I hop on the back of the two-seater bicycle, and she climbs onto the seat in front of me. Moments later, the two of us are riding the bike through the village on our escape route out of town, all to the sounds of Haymitch bellering indiscernibly behind us.

[themoonlitsojourner]

Chapter 7: Uncertainty and Exploration

Through starry nights and music lessons, Wanda and Vision rediscover themselves. And begin to discover each other.

Despite the early hour and the fog clouding her brain since she found herself alone in this world, Wanda knows immediately who waits outside her room. Taking a deep breath, she prays for the energy to face this day. She opens the door.

“Good morning.” Her attempt at a smile barely counts, but at least it’s friendly. Anything to soothe her visitor’s nervousness.

“Would you care for a morning beverage?” Vision asks at the exact same moment, his words colliding with hers. He winces, and she’s sure he would blush if he could. “P-pardon me. Good morning.”

Focusing on the mugs in his hands, Vision starts again. “It is customary to consume a heated, caffeinated beverage in the morning. This seems like a practice that would appeal to you, so I have secured two options. I- I am not aware of your preference.” His blue eyes flick to hers. They are skittish, like the eyes of a deer. “Would you prefer green tea or filtered coffee? Or a different product, perhaps?”

“No, no, the coffee is fine.” She wraps her fingers around the warm ceramic and Vision shifts his hand away as soon as she has a secure grip. He is so careful to keep his fingers from brushing against hers. So careful to avoid making contact.

If it were anyone else, Wanda would think it was because of her, a fear of the storm of red that boils just below the surface of her hands. But she has seen inside his head. He is not afraid of her. He is the only one in this building who isn’t.

No, Vision is avoiding human touch, just as he does in the hallways, entering them only when there are fewer people who might brush against him. And the entire time, he keeps his shoulders curled forward, as if to make himself as small as possible.

Why does he avoid even the chance of contact? Why does he fear it so?

Wanda focuses on the mug in her hands, soaking in the heat and the familiar comfort it provides. Steam rises to her nose, but it does not carry the rich, dark scent of fresh coffee. Instead, a burnt and bitter odor greets her. Feeling Vision’s gaze on her, she dares to take a cautious sip.

If Vision made this himself, she knows the first thing they’ll work on.

Wanda’s wrinkled nose must give away her disgust. Vision rushes to assure her, “I have also procured cream and sugar for you to add, if you so wish.” He ducks into the library down the hall, returning with a wooden serving tray.

Wanda pours most of the cream from the little pitcher into her mug, stirring it with the teaspoon he holds out. “Did you get all this yourself?” Her second sip, at least, doesn’t make her cringe. She might have outgrown watered-down coffee years ago, but the cream makes this drink halfway palatable. And if nothing else, the cup will keep her hands warm.

“I retrieved the tray and its implements from the breakfast bar in the dining hall. The teaspoon I selected from the kitchen drawer. The spoons that had been set out for beverage use were not of the proper sort,” Vision explains, expression solemn. “A pot of coffee had already been brewed, but perhaps I should have prepared a new one…” He falls silent, brow furrowed as he watches her sip from the mug.

“It is good,” Wanda lies, and Vision’s shoulders drop in relief. He nods and turns to set the tray down. His golden cape, reaching almost to the floor, ripples around his boots with every step. Wanda follows its lines up his shoulders, frowning at the metal collar joining it to the tight fabric of his suit. None of it looks very comfortable, especially for more than a couple hours.

She looks down into her coffee, idly stirring the pale liquid in slow circles. “You still want my help, yes?” Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Vision turn around slowly.

“Yes.” The river of his thoughts speeds up, tumbling and rushing like rapids over rocks. Anxious. About what, exactly?

Wanda realizes her intrusion and pulls back from his mind, refocusing. “Okay. So...” She takes a deep breath. “Um... the outfit. It is fine for fighting and such, but otherwise you might want something more… relaxed?”

Brow furrowing again, Vision peers down at his clothing. “I must always stand ready to defend.” The phrase is flat. Automatic. Scripted, maybe? His eyes meet hers as he speaks his next words urgently, striving to convince her. Or himself. “It is my purpose and honor to defend and serve.”

Did Stark decide that for him? Is it something S.H.I.E.L.D. told him?

Wanda nods slowly. “It is admirable of you to think that. But there is more than one purpose in life. And things change. Always.” Suddenly, she cannot watch him any longer. Staring down into her coffee, she wills her blurred sight to clear. She has cried enough. “And when they do, there is no other option but to adapt.”

Vision watches her solemnly, eyes soft with sympathy.

Wanda takes a deep breath and forces herself to try another smile. “So. Daily clothing.” The mundane topic is awkward and alien on her tongue. There wasn’t much talk in the last few years about anything other than matters of life, death, and survival. The normal and the everyday belong in her memories. In another lifetime.

Nodding thoughtfully, Vision stares past the wall, irises swirling from one direction to the next.

Is he considering his options? Searching the internet, maybe?

“What would you suggest?” he asks.

Wanda purses her lips. Where in the tower could they find extra clothes… There is nothing she can remember seeing during her brief tour, but she remembers little of that first day. We could ask the Captain. She clenches her sweatshirt sleeves in her fists at the thought of venturing into the floors below.

Then suddenly her musings are swept away. Wanda blinks, brain scrambling to comprehend what she sees as Vision’s clothing seems to ripple and shift, both in style and color. Soon, a loose, plain cotton T-shirt and dark jeans drape his tall form. Not a trace of the suit or cape remains.

Her mouth falls open in astonishment. “How did you do that?”

“I am equipped with a thin layer of nanobots, easily controlled through a mental-cellular interface. I assume their purpose is the formation of clothing.” He holds his arms out to the side. “Do you think this attire will suffice?”

Wanda frowns. Vision’s old-fashioned, formal speech looks jarring alongside the modern style, and his perfect posture disrupts the loose fit. If anything, he stands even stiffer than when he wore the battle suit.

She tilts her head. “Is it… comfortable for you?”

“It is casual, is it not?”

“But are you comfortable? Do you like it?”

The corner of his mouth curves down. “Not… strictly speaking.”

Wanda nods. “Try something else, then. You will want it to fit you.”

Vision’s irises begin twirling, starting with the opposite direction this time. When he does that, what exactly goes on behind those blue eyes? She’s sorely tempted to look.

A moment later, his clothing shifts again.

Wanda examines the dark gray vest and tie over a long-sleeved white shirt with neatly buttoned cuffs. Pressed charcoal slacks and black dress shoes complete the simple, yet elegant outfit.

Vision looks to her, waiting

Wanda bites her lip. Maybe he should loosen the tie. Then again, he is obviously more comfortable dressed formally. His body language alone speaks loudly to that. She nods once. “This is good.”

“Good,” Vision repeats. She wonders if he’s aware that he mimics her nod and tone almost exactly. “Excellent.”

----------

During those first weeks after Pietro’s death, the intensity of the searing, screaming pain had not surprised Wanda. Neither had the crushing cloud of grief, or the red haze of anger that fogged her mind and numbed her senses during those dark nights she spent alone, hiding in the Bartons’ spare room.

Wanda has been through it all before. She knows loss well.

But now the grip of those feelings has started to fade, and what does surprise her is the boredom. The restless, irritable energy, the listless lack of focus. Every day is just the day before, completely identical in every way. Get up, train, meals, train, sleep.

There is no purpose. No drive. No one to hunt down and make pay for her brother’s death. No revenge to lie awake and plan.

She already ripped out the killer’s heart, but it was too late to save her own.

Not even the intense combat training, progressing as rapidly as she can handle, holds her attention. No matter how hard she throws herself into it, how carefully she blocks out everything but the red in her hands, she cannot lose herself in the movements. All the fighting does is bring the memories of her last battle rushing to the surface. Pietro’s last battle. And when each session finishes, it leaves her fighting to hide her pounding heart and the shaking that spreads from her hands.

There is no forgetting for her. No distraction.

Fortunately, Vision seems to have found some direction, or at least something to fill his time with. He must have read every book in the library on their floor once, if not twice, and frequently he phases through the floor with an armful pilfered from elsewhere in the building. Made-up stories, real stories, textbooks, manuals, encyclopedias, he reads them all. His desire to learn is insatiable.

If only Wanda could muster even half that enthusiasm for something. Anything.

Today, the late afternoon sun seeps through the library’s full-length window, illuminating the book in Vision’s lap. Wanda flips through the channels on the TV in the corner, jaw clenched in frustration.

It is Monday, the fifth (or maybe sixth) afternoon in a row they’ve spent in this room, and by far the quietest. They train every morning and evening except for Sunday, but the hours between are their “free time.” It’s a good thing the time is “free” because she has done nothing but waste it.

Wanda drums her fingers petulantly on the arm of her chair, restlessness coiling in her chest. She jabs the remote buttons again.

There is nothing on TV. Even worse, there is nothing to do, and she needs to do something. With a growl, Wanda hits the power button and tosses the remote to the table.

“Did you know mantis shrimp are equipped with sixteen different kinds of cones?” Vision suddenly says.

Wanda turns to look at him.

“That’s thirteen more than humans possess,” he remarks thoughtfully, eyes still tracing the page of the encyclopedia.

This was another new thing, his habit of sharing random facts. There is an unspoken understanding between them that they spend the afternoons here in their library because neither dares venture into the mob of noisy people and hectic thoughts that awaits them downstairs.

Wanda could take the solitude a step farther and stay in her room. Completely cut herself off from the noise. But somehow her room is too quiet. Too empty.

She wonders if he feels the same about his.

So they end up here, sharing each other’s company but rarely speaking. Not knowing what to say is another thing they have in common. Vision wants to talk, though. She can see it in the way he glances up from his book every once in a while, eyes darting to her, just briefly. And she tries to start the conversation sometimes, she really does. But it is frightening to realize how little she remembers of how. This is why Vision breaks the silence and she does her best to keep the conversation rolling.

Wanda tilts her head. “Cones? What cones?”

Vision straightens. “Oh, pardon me for the lack of context. I see this topic requires a little elaboration.” Enthusiasm brightens his eyes as he ponders how best to explain. He really does have nice eyes.

“The organic eye perceives light and color due to a thin layer of neurons and receptors covering its posterior wall. This layer is called the retina. The superficial layer of the retina is composed of photoreceptors, which come in two different varieties, cones and rods.”

Most of the words fly over her head, but Wanda cannot hide an amused smile as Vision adds his hands to his demonstration.

“The rods line the distal edges of the retina, providing sharp vision, while the cones cluster in the middle and supply color vision. Humans have three types of cones, each perceiving a different wavelength of light. Mantis shrimp, on the other hand, have sixteen different varieties.”

“So they see more colors?”

Vision purses his lips. “Oddly enough, no. They can see ultraviolet light, however, and a property of light called polarization. The latter is sort of the orientation of the light waves.” He holds his hands up side by side, first vertically, then horizontally.

“Hmm.” Wanda considers this, searching for a good question to ask. Her mind remains blank. It’s harder to think now that Pietro is gone, like trudging through knee deep snow with every thought.

After a few moments without a reply from Wanda, one corner of Vision’s mouth lifts. The other remains stubbornly flat, allowing him to offer her only an awkward half-smile before he ducks his head and returns to his book. It is the one expression he hasn’t figured out yet, likely because he always seems so unsure about it. As if he’s afraid to commit and show the wrong reaction.

Wanda bites her lip as silence returns to the room.

“It is quieter than usual.” She glances toward the hallway. Normally they can hear the murmur of activity floors below, but today there is an uncanny stillness. It is far quieter than even the weekend, which is only minimally less hectic than the rest of the week.

“Today is President Washington’s Birthday, a federal holiday,” Vision promptly replies.

Wanda stares at him.

He lifts his gaze and clears his throat, a little sheepish. “By which I mean no one except Agent Romanoff is working today.”

“No one else.”

“Correct.”

Wanda fiddles with her sleeves, tentatively reaching across the compound to confirm this. The only minds besides theirs are those of the security guards.

“Would… you be interested in exploring?” Vision traces the cover of his book, stealing a quick glance at Wanda’s face. “I haven’t had the chance to investigate most of the ground floor.”

Wanda looks around the library. There is nothing to do here. And the building is completely empty…

She shrugs. “I guess.”

Vision nods and stands, wiping his hands on his slacks. Despite the formality of the outfit, he looks comfortable in his vest and dress shirt. Still, he does not seem to completely grasp the idea of clothing. He hasn’t switched outfits since picking this one, choosing instead to just change the color every morning.

The moment they step from the elevator into the huge, empty lobby, Vision tenses. His eyes dart across the abandoned floor without seeming to actually see it.

“Let’s, um… Let’s go this direction.” Wanda tips her head toward the right, and Vision nods, blinking a couple times. They walk without talking, resisting the urge to tiptoe as their footsteps echo off the walls.

Most of the doors on the ground floor lead to bland offices, and the two floors above aren’t much better. The rooms are either locked, more offices, or storage.

Her flicker of anticipation for this journey has long died out and Wanda is about to give up, when they stumble across yet another storage room.

Vision examines the label on the door. “Prop storage.”

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “Props for what?”

With a shrug, Vision opens the door, gesturing for her to enter first. The room isn’t nearly as large as some they’ve found, but it’s stacked floor-to-ceiling with boxes, totes, and assorted junk all the same. For a building only recently built and occupied, the Avengers wasted no time filling it.

Seeing only junk, Wanda turns to exit. But when she doesn’t hear footsteps behind her, she glances over her shoulder to see Vision wandering deeper inside. With a sigh, she follows, fingers trailing idly over the shelving units.

“Theatre props is the first possibility that comes to mind, but I can see no logic in it,” Vision muses, still stuck on the room name.

Smooth leather meets Wanda’s fingertips, and she stops.

Is this…?

Reaching into the shelf, she slides out a black case and sets it on the floor. Her hands find the latch by memory, and she can’t hide the triumphant smile that crosses her face as the lid opens to reveal an acoustic guitar.

“Do you play?” Vision asks, peering over her shoulder.

“I did.” Wanda traces the wooden grain and gives the steel strings a gentle pluck or two. Glancing up, she catches Vision watching her expectantly. “What?”

“Are… Are you going to play it now?” Curiosity gleams in his eyes.

Her arms ache to hold it, her fingers to slot the notes and strum the strings. The need to play it winds together with another familiar ache, just as strong. The memory of her instructor. Her mama.

“No.” Wanda shuts the case.

“Oh.” Vision frowns. “Are you sure? I don’t think anyone would mind.” He glances around the empty room.

Wanda lifts the case and slides it back onto the shelf. “I’m sure.” Her curt tone keeps away any questions.

A few minutes later, they return to the library. But Wanda’s thoughts linger in the cramped props room all day.

The next morning, she is greeted by a black leather case outside her door. Frowning, Wanda eyes the case and searches for Vision’s mind. His thoughts echo from downstairs. Wanda shakes her head and sighs. She told him she wasn’t going to play.

For a moment longer, she stares at the smooth leather, picturing the instrument inside. She bites her lip. Kneeling beside the case, she flips open the lid. The guitar lies there quietly. Inviting. Promising. A soft brush of her fingers breaks the silence with a low hum. It needs to be tuned. Wanda pulls the case into her room and closes the door behind her. Before she can change her mind, she lifts the instrument into her arms.

The guitar is lighter than she expected, than she remembered. Yet it feels just as right. The strings are strong and familiar under her fingers and the ring of the notes resounds in her chest. The ache, the itch to play becomes louder than the need to avoid digging up old grief.

This floor really does belong to her and Vision, so no one will hear if she plays a few chords. None of the other rooms have ever been used, not even the offices, and not a single employee dares journey up here. Wanda feels the frantic spikes of fear in their minds on the rare occasions she enters their domain downstairs; it doesn’t take much to put two and two together and realize she has been isolated on purpose.

Normally, it would anger her. Normally, she would give them a piece of her mind. But she’s tired, and she is grateful for the solitude. For the quiet.

Especially today, when there is no one to hear her and ask questions, such as who taught her to play, or what the song is, or why she chose such a “sad” chord.

Wanda frets a D minor. She strums the waiting strings.

And finally the world fades away as she falls into the music.

----------

If the days are long and suffocating, the nights are worse. Darkness falls and Wanda lies awake, sleeping fitfully or not at all. The nightmares are fewer, but still she can’t sleep. Insomnia, Vision calls it.

But she avoids the subject, because she can’t talk about how her sleeping mind seeks out the comfort of his, diving into the ocean of gold when the nightmares start. Or how even her few good dreams take place on the seashore now. It’s too much, too close. Too personal to put into words.

There’s something about Vision. Wanda doesn’t understand it, but his mind and soul glow brighter than any she’s ever seen before. And somehow he and she are connected.

Yet every morning, she wakes and reminds herself she can’t lean on the comfort and reassurance he so willingly offers. What if she grows to need it? What if she begins to need him, and like everyone else in her life, he is taken away? She’ll be left behind again. Left alone.

She always is.

Wanda stares at the ceiling, her own breath too loud in her ears, nearly as loud as the thoughts burning in her mind. Flinging the covers aside, she slips from bed. There will be no sleep tonight.

The digital clock reads 2:11 AM. She walks just to move, to do something. She can’t outrun her own mind. But she can try.

Wanda tiptoes down the darkened hallway. The elevator looms ahead, and she stops. Down? No. The last thing she wants is to run into an obsessive employee working late into the night.

So up, then.

The doors open onto the rooftop and Wanda steps blinking from the harshly lit elevator. Slowly, her eyes adjust to the gentler light of the night. One by one, like frightened children, stars surface in the sky above, outlining a figure stationed at the building’s edge. His cape swirls softly in the brisk February wind.

She does not have to guess who it is.

Always, she and Vision end up together. In the library. Here. Are they really so similar that they seek the same places? Or did she search for him subconsciously? (She suspects it wouldn’t be the first time.) Or was it the invisible thread pulling them, a connection she can’t comprehend born from the moment she looked into his mind as he lay dreaming in the cradle. Part of him was still Ultron then. But Vision was there. She felt it.

Wanda steps quietly across the concrete. She stops just behind Vision, unwilling to disturb him but reluctant to go inside.

“I was disappointed to hear the New Avengers team would not be based at Stark Tower,” Vision says suddenly.

Stark. Wanda bites back a scoff. His disappointment is not mutual.

“It has nothing to do with Mr. Stark,” Vision continues, guessing her thoughts. “It is only that I have a certain… fondness for his view of the city lights.” He stares out over the dark countryside and she joins him, standing a couple feet from the edge. “They represent the life of the city, spread across the streets below. Still bright despite the hour, shining on both those awake and those peacefully slumbering. Pushing back the night like guardian angels. Providing a sense of comfort and safety.”

Vision’s words have the rhythm of poetry. His eyes glow softly like the light he paints such a reverent picture of. Wanda watches the serene blue spill over his pensive expression. In his light, she sees comfort. Safety. Just as he says. She looks away.

“There are more stars here, though.” Wanda nods toward the sky above. “You can’t see them in the city.”

Vision cranes his neck, searching the galaxies spread across the darkness. “But they’re so very far away,” he whispers. Curling his long legs beneath him, he sinks to the concrete, his head still tilted back to stare above.

Wanda stands in silence. She doesn’t know how to answer. Why his expression is so sorrowful or how to fix it. She doesn’t understand the source of his pain. But the ache of watching stars at night… This she understands. No matter how brightly, how beautifully they shine, they always burn out.

Wanda traces a meteor as it streaks across the sky and disappears from view.

Some stars even fall.

After a moment, Wanda sits beside Vision and pulls her knees to her chest.

The brilliant, glimmering show of the galaxies unfolds above them, millions of light years away. They watch until it melts before the threat of the morning light. Until every trace fades as if it were never there.

They do not say anything.

----------

Knock knock.

Stifling a groan, Wanda rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door.

“Hello.” Vision offers her a smile and a mug of coffee. The smile is as tentative as always, lifting only half his mouth. But a new light in his eyes makes up for it. “Good morning, Miss Maximoff.”

“Wanda,” she reminds him, accepting the steaming cup. She barely remembers to mumble her thanks before taking a long drink. Vision, as it turns out, is a much better coffee brewer than whoever made the burnt, bitter monstrosity.

Vision nods his acknowledgement. Is it just her grogginess, or does he hold his shoulders higher? Not with tension but with… confidence. He meets her eyes eagerly, boldly. As if he truly wants to be here. With her.

But maybe it’s just her imagination.

Vision’s gaze flickers past Wanda and into her room, just briefly. A sudden twinge of guilt twists in her chest. She didn’t join him in the library yesterday. In fact, after he delivered her morning coffee, she didn’t see him at all until nighttime. When they met on the rooftop under the stars.

She had spent all her time with the guitar, letting it pull her in and awaken an all-consuming desire to relearn the sound of the notes and the feel of the rhythm. To reclaim a piece of herself. And to be honest, she has no desire to share something so personal with anyone else. But Vision brought her the instrument. He gave her the push she needed to actually play it. It is only fair she let him hear a little.

Wanda takes another sip of her coffee to hide a sudden smile. With eyes as lively and curious as his, how could she say no? Lowering her mug, she clears her throat. “Also, thank you. For the guitar. I would not have gone back for it myself.”

“You are most welcome.”

She shifts from one foot to the other, suddenly nervous. “Would you… want to hear it?”

“Oh, yes please! If you don’t mind.” Those blue eyes Wanda can’t stop noticing glimmer with childish enthusiasm, and some of her hesitancy fades. She opens the door a bit wider and returns to her seat on the bed. Vision follows, gaze darting across the room, hands wringing. He stops just inside the doorway.

Breathing deeply, Wanda bends her head and focuses on her breathing. With each inhale and exhale, another piece of the world around her fades. Vision’s presence, the hum of activity floors below, the heater’s droning buzz. Her fingers slide down the polished fret. The strings bite into her sore fingertips, but the notes she plucks are clean and crisp.

They ring slowly and distinctly at first, each with a bold and individual voice. After a few measures the melody begins to grow, building and expanding beat by beat. Notes find their places, melding with their harmonies in a tune mounting in complexity. The volume, the tension builds until all the notes weave together, their voices joining in a single resounding chord that ends the song.

Wanda smiles to herself. The hours spent perfecting that piece and her red, aching fingertips are well worth it. Glancing up, she falters at the sight of Vision’s face. His eyes are wide and awestruck, as if she just performed a baffling magic trick. Though quite proud of herself, she must admit the tune isn’t particularly difficult or beautiful. But Vision’s expression says he thinks otherwise.

His gaze leaps from her, to the guitar, and back. “How did you do that?”

“I just… press my fingers here...” Surely he knows how guitars work.

“No, how did your hands move with such swiftness and precision? And in perfect coordination with each other?”

Her face reddens. “It wasn’t perfect.”

He stares at her hands. “It was entrancing.”

Wanda fidgets with the tuning pegs, embarrassed by his unabashed honesty and admiration. “Anyone could learn that.” The image of Vision poring over encyclopedias and old novels jumps to the front of her mind. “You could.”

His eyes snap to hers. “Oh, I truly don’t think so...”

“Would you like to try?”

“I-I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Giving him an encouraging smile, Wanda nods toward the bedspread next to her. The guitar looks small and delicate in Vision’s large hands as he carefully accepts it from her, propping it against his knee in an imitation of her posture. Awkward and uncertain, he looks to Wanda for guidance.

“Alright. The basics are mostly form and knowledge of the notes. The first string is an ‘E.’” She nods to him. He finds and plucks it. “Good. By holding the string against the board there at the top of the neck, you will make another note.” The “F” Vision plucks twangs brassy and flat. “You’ll have to press harder.”

He nods, brow furrowing as he applies more pressure and tries again. The note rings clear and musical.

“Good. To make a chord, press with more than one finger. The E minor is your second and third fingers on the second fret, fifth and fourth strings.” Her fingers curve around the empty air, miming the placement.

It takes her a moment to notice the wide-eyed look he gives her.

Wanda’s about to suggest they stick with single notes for now, when Vision cranes his neck and stares at the fretboard. “Second and third fingers,” he whispers to himself. His long, elegant fingers are strangely clumsy on the strings, fumbling to find the position.

“Second fret,” Wanda reminds him. She bites her lip as she watches him struggle. “Here.” She reaches for his hand. And just a moment too late, she remembers his aversion to touch.

Her fingers brush his and he jumps as if struck by electricity, the instrument nearly slipping from his grasp as he yanks his hand away.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Wanda apologizes, face flushing bright red. Vision set a boundary through his careful actions, and she crossed it. It’s no way to repay someone who has been nothing but overwhelmingly kind to her. I didn’t mean to, I am so sorry-

“No, no, I must apologize. I honestly didn’t mean to respond in such a manner.” Guilt and horror at his own reaction chases the shock from Vision’s face. He looks just as sorry as she feels.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my fault. I should have asked.” Her entire face burns. He’s so new and inexperienced, more frightened and unsure than she probably knows.

“You only surprised me. I-” Vision stares down at the instrument in his hands. He takes a deep breath and his shoulders loosen downward a fraction of an inch. “I actually would like you to show me. The chord, that is.”

Glancing nervously toward his hands, Wanda bites her lip again. “M-may I?”

Vision’s irises rotate just once. She sees the moment he chooses to trust her. “Yes.”

His fingers are rigid and cold as she gently nudges them in the right direction, trying to keep her own hands from shaking as she explains how the notes fit together. He follows her guidance as best he can, the stiffness never leaving his hands. When Wanda checks out the corner of her eye, his jaw is just as tense as his arms. But then he glances at her, just briefly. And his eyes are soft and open. Longing, almost.

There is so much she does not understand about him. His sorrow the night before, his fear of people and touch. The hidden shame she’s just starting to hear behind his words. But there are some things that make sense now. There are some things she knows.

He trusts her. The realization startles Wanda in how sudden and obvious it is. He talks about his interests to her, lets her see the nervous and scared parts of him. He lets her guide his hand across the strings, despite the measures he takes to avoid even casual contact in the hallway.

Vision trusts her. But he doesn’t trust anyone else, and she knows exactly why. The few instances she’s seen him interact with others flash through her mind. Yes, he chooses to keep his distance, even during conversations, and never once has she seen him shake someone’s hand. But now that she thinks about it, she’s also never seen anyone offer him a handshake.

The people of Sokovia had avoided touching urchins such as Wanda and Pietro like they carried a disease. And isn’t Vision just like they were? Isn’t he new, and uncertain, and afraid, just like a child? Sent into the world alone just like an orphan?

Anger burns in her chest. S.H.I.E.L.D. was supposed to take care of Vision, but they handed him off. Dropped him at the doorstep of the compound, where he is ignored and avoided by every employee. Where he is nothing to the Avengers but another recruit to whip into shape.

Wanda may not know them well, but she is certain the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. would not abandon a child. No, if a child was placed in their care, they would guide and nurture him, providing whatever he needed as he struggled to learn and develop. As he tried to discover who he was. And if they could not provide this, they would place him with someone who could. They would not fail a child the way they have failed Vision.

Do they really not see him?

“Perhaps I am capable of learning to play an instrument,” -Vision’s voice pushes Wanda’s thoughts aside, pulling her back to the present- “But I think I shall leave the music to one with more skill.” He gives her the half-smile, and her heart breaks a little.

She shakes her head slowly, trying to refocus. “You are not so bad.”

Vision passes the guitar to her. “Could I hear another song?” He asks so shyly, and a soft affection fills her heart.

Wanda shrugs, settling the guitar in her lap. “I guess it is not yet time for training. One more.” Her fingers move almost on their own as a flurry of thoughts continues to tumble through her mind. She feels Vision watching her contentedly, open admiration written across his face.

He is so young, so eager and afraid all at once. So desperate to make a connection and find something to hold onto. He needs more than someone to ask questions of and tell unusual facts. He needs direction, to be introduced to experiences and the world outside this building, just as he so strongly desires.

The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. have failed him, completely. Forgotten him.

Wanda will not.