#✦ ── within you is an endless gentle river . ›› study .

[sunbreathesa]

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[erebusbabylon]

'90 millennial here with a request if you have the time

I'm struggling w overstimulation and depression and anxiety today (ok, tbh it's most days) and would love to read about Celebrimbor helping his love deal with such issues

Also 你的中文怎么样？

Yay! A fellow not quite elder, not quite younger, Millennial!

I am in the same boat most days as well! I live in a perpetual state of overstimulation. Living in China as a foreigner is not for the faint of heart. I looooved writing this! It was very therapeutic for me haha! Thanks for the idea! I hope you like it <3

我的中文还可以。我在中国已经六年了。我需要多学习!

Calm Within the Chaos (RoP! Celebrimbor x F! Wife)

Celebrimbor sat at his desk, poring over dispatches from other Elven lords. The papers were filled with updates on the affairs of Middle-earth, but his mind wandered far from the matters at hand. He sensed a heaviness in the atmosphere of their home, one that had settled over the past few weeks. His wife, once vibrant and filled with laughter, had grown quieter, her spirit dimmed by an unseen weight.

As he turned his focus back to his work, he cast a glance toward her. She was curled up in a corner of the room, lost in her thoughts, her gaze distant. The gentle flicker of the lanterns illuminated her features, but Celebrimbor could see the shadows lurking in her eyes.

“Beloved,” he called softly, setting his quill aside. “Would you join me for a moment?”

She looked up, her expression a mix of surprise and reluctance. “I— I’m fine,” she replied, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

“Please,” he urged gently. “Come. Sit.” he said patting his lap.

She quietly approached and settled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. The warmth of his presence brought a small comfort, but she was still tense. He set the dispatches aside, turning his full attention to her. “You don’t have to carry this alone,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering to the floor. “It’s just everything… I feel overwhelmed. The endless flow of meetings, the tasks, people always requiring more of my time… I can’t seem to find peace.”

Celebrimbor nodded, his heart aching for her. “Oh, my darling! Being the Lady of Eregion is a demanding position, and you take on more than your fair share of duties while I work in the forge. You deserve rest."

He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Let’s find a way to lighten the load. You deserve moments of quiet, of joy—away from all the responsibilities.”

She looked up at him, her expression softening. “I want that, but it feels impossible sometimes. Even now, I can hear the echoes of the forge and the voices of our people.”

“Let us escape the noise together. What if we took a walk down to the river? The beauty of nature often brings peace, and I would love to spend that time with you.”

A small smile began to break through her worries. “That sounds lovely. But what about your work?”

“Let it wait,” he replied firmly, his gaze steady. “You are my priority. The dispatches can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I want to focus on you.”

As they walked hand in hand down the winding path toward the river, the soothing sounds of nature enveloped them. The air was filled with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant song of birds, a welcome contrast to the tension that had clouded her spirit.

However, their peaceful moment was interrupted when a herald approached, his expression serious as he bowed slightly. “My Lord, My Lady,” he said, breathless from his hurried pace. “I have urgent letters that require your attention.” he said looking at her.

Celebrimbor’s brow furrowed, and he stepped protectively in front of his wife. “Leave them in my study,” he replied firmly. “I will take care of them.”

The herald hesitated, glancing at her. “But, My Lord, these letters are specifically for the Lady of Eregion.”

With a raised eyebrow and a hint of sass, Celebrimbor crossed his arms. “I am the Lord of Eregion, and whoever is demanding her time will have to go through me first to get it.” His tone was light, but the protectiveness in his posture was unmistakable.

The herald looked taken aback but quickly regained his composure. “Yes, My Lord. I will leave them in your study.”

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor said, waving the messenger away. As the herald retreated, he turned back to his wife, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “See? You are not to be burdened with such trivialities today.”

She chuckled softly, appreciating his fierce loyalty.

As they continued walking, the gentle sound of flowing water grew louder, promising a moment of tranquility that they both desperately needed.

As they reached the riverbank, the gentle flow of water sparkled under the warm sunlight. Celebrimbor scanned the area, searching for the perfect spot. He spotted a patch of soft grass nestled beneath the shade of a willow tree, its branches swaying lightly in the breeze.

“This looks perfect,” he said, guiding her toward it. They settled down, and she immediately lay her head in his lap, feeling the coolness of the grass beneath her and the warm sun above.

Celebrimbor smiled down at her, his fingers instinctively finding their way into her hair. He began to play with it gently, weaving his fingers through the strands, creating soothing patterns. The rhythmic motion felt like a balm against the worries that had plagued her.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink into the moment. The warmth of the sun kissed her skin, and she focused on the sensations—the gentle tug of his fingers in her hair, the soft rustle of the willow branches, and the distant songs of birds flitting about.

In that serene space, the weight of her responsibilities began to fade, replaced by a profound sense of peace. “This is perfect,” she murmured, a small smile gracing her lips.

Celebrimbor looked down at her, his heart swelling with affection. “I could stay here forever,” he replied softly. “Just you and me, away from all the demands of the world.”

Celebrimbor leaned down, his lips brushing softly against her forehead before lingering there for a moment. The warmth of his kiss enveloped her, and she felt a surge of comfort wash over her.

“Whenever you feel overwhelmed,” he whispered, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes, “come to me. No matter what I’m doing, I promise I will stop everything to care for you. You are more important to me than anything else in this world.”

His gaze was earnest, filled with a depth of love that made her heart swell. “You don’t have to carry your burdens alone. I’m here for you, always.”

She smiled, feeling a sense of safety in his words. “Thank you, my love. That means more to me than you know.”

[landsofaruin]

The Winds of Magic

"We at the college have studied many ancient texts of magic, its origins according to the ancestors. They have solidified that the strings of magics are more like....winds....each blowing past us all unless harnessed by powerful individuals. These winds each blow into our world through the Astral Sea from different planes of existence. At the dawn of creation, when the cosmos was but a swirling maelstrom of potential, the Winds of Magic were born. These ethereal currents, flowing from distant realms of elemental power, carry with them the very essence of creation itself. There are many winds of magic, most of which cannot be touched by even the most powerful of mages without divine intervention. But there are primary winds that all of the others originate from. I shall go over each of the primary winds I have discovered in my studies

Hish, The Tranquil Tide of the Winds of Water: Picture, if you will, a realm where the sky meets the sea in an endless expanse of azure. Here, amidst colossal sea creatures and the gentle lapping of celestial waters, Hish arises as the serene Wind of Water. Its essence whispers of tranquility and life, imbuing our spells with the fluid grace of the ocean's embrace.

Kresh, the Controlled Inferno of the Winds of Fire:The heart of a realm ablaze with volcanic fury and the ancient roars of dragons. Here, amidst molten rivers and fiery daemons, Kresh reigns as the primal Wind of Fire. Its essence embodies the fierce passion of flames, empowering us to command infernos and wield great feats of molten fury.

Luth, The Celestial home of the Gods and the Winds of Light: Here the many gods and celestial beings bask in divine luminosity. Luth shines forth as the radiant Wind of Light, illuminating our magic with healing energies, banishing shadows, and invoking the blessings of celestial realms.

Roth, The Obsidian Veil of The Winds of Darkness: a shadowed realm, a twisted echo of our own world. Here, amidst undead horrors and shades, Roth lurks as the enigmatic Wind of Darkness. Its essence weaves illusions, unravels the secrets of the unseen, and delves into knowledge most dare not seek.

Voc, The Verdant Grove of the Winds of Nature/Earth: a curated wilderness tended by nature Daemon, Voc emerges as the vibrant Wind of Earth and Nature. Its essence harmonizes with the elements, granting us communion with the wilds, mastery over flora and fauna, and the nurturing embrace of the land around us.

Grush, the Primal Roar of the Winds of Beasts: The untamed realms of chaos and primal ferocity. Grush bellows as the wild Wind of Beasts, where monstrous creatures and primal instincts reign supreme. Its essence connects us to the untamed wilds, enabling communication with beasts, assumption of animal forms, and the raw power of nature's fury.

These primary winds shape the fabric of our world and the mages within it are able to use them to their own whims. We at the college have barely scratched the surface but I have not yet seen all of what magic can show me."

"On the Winds" by Stygian Valorum of House Torbale, 400 PI

[fleur-oceane]

Where Wildflowers Meet the Tide

Fleur-Océane Jacqueline, born beneath Boise’s vast blue heavens on July 16, 2004, carries the gentle spirit of summer rain and the strength of mountain winds. Raised where rivers dance with the earth and forests whisper ancient songs, she grew like a wildflower—unfurling in freedom, kissed by sunlight, and cradled by adventure.

Now, her story drifts across oceans to Alexandria, where she studies among the echoes of pharaohs and philosophers. In a land where history and the sea entwine, she gathers knowledge like pearls, threading them into the tapestry of her soul. Fleur-Océane is a harmony of contrasts: the stillness of Idaho meadows woven with the endless rhythms of the Mediterranean tide. Rooted in memory, yet flowing forward, she embodies the essence of her name—half bloom, half sea, a heart forever wandering between horizons.

Her father, an unseen sentinel cloaked in duty, worked as a guardian within the shadowed ranks of the United States Secret Service. His life was a puzzle of encrypted silences, a constellation of secrets hidden beyond reach, leaving Fleur-Océane to shape her own myth in the spaces between his absences.

Her days were spent balancing between two worlds: one steeped in hieroglyphs, papyrus scrolls, and the hum of ancient history; the other pulsing with the quiet tension of her father’s clandestine existence. She never knew where his work ended and danger began, only that he left trails of half-answered phone calls and coded postcards, offering just enough to assure her he was safe—though never for long.

The people of Alexandria spoke of Fleur-Océane in murmurs, enchanted by her presence like the sea murmurs to the shore. She carried herself with the ease of a seafarer, as if she belonged to every place and none. She was an enigma—her words laced with poetry, her silence heavy with meaning. Her classmates often wondered if she were a heroine from some forgotten epic, washed ashore from the pages of time.

And though Fleur-Océane was no stranger to companionship, she wore her friendships loosely, like a scarf draped lightly over her shoulders. She would speak in riddles, offering pieces of herself like puzzle fragments to those willing to assemble her story. The boys at school found her charm hypnotic, but Fleur-Océane knew how to remain just out of reach, dancing on the edge of their affections without ever falling into their grasp.

In the quiet hours of morning, just before Alexandria awoke, Fleur-Océane often found solace by the sea, the soft rhythm of the waves a lullaby for the restlessness in her soul. She would sit cross-legged upon the warm sand, eyes fixed upon the horizon where sky and sea braided together. Here, she imagined she could hear the echo of her father’s footsteps, faint but steady, across the vastness that separated them. She fancied herself a lighthouse, standing still and steadfast, waiting for his return.

But the truth was, Fleur-Océane knew she could never anchor herself fully to anyone. The daughter of a man sworn to protect a nation from unseen threats could never be an ordinary girl. Her life, like his, was steeped in the art of concealment. She wore masks with ease—one for her father, one for the world, and one for herself, though that was the trickiest of all. Yet in Alexandria, she found a strange freedom, as if the city’s labyrinthine alleys mirrored her own tangled heart.

The winds shifted one evening, as Fleur-Océane returned from her studies under a sky quilted with stars. A letter awaited her—a thin, yellowed envelope tucked into her dormitory door. It bore no sender’s name, only a wax seal stamped with the symbol of an eagle, its wings stretched wide as if in flight. She tore it open with trembling fingers, her heart thrumming with the premonition of change.

Inside, her father’s familiar scrawl curved across the paper in short, urgent lines: “Time to come home. Danger is closer than you think.”

Fleur-Océane’s breath hitched. The warmth of the Egyptian night seemed to twist, becoming a weight upon her chest. She read the words once more, slower this time, as if hoping to decode some hidden meaning. Her father’s letters had always been riddles—but this one was a warning.

She stood at a crossroads, poised between the life she had built and the life she could no longer evade. The stars above her glittered like fragments of a broken promise, scattered across the heavens. Somewhere in the distance, the waves sighed against the shore, beckoning her toward the unknown.

And as Fleur-Océane slipped the letter back into her coat pocket, she knew the time had come to make a choice. Whether she stayed or fled, her path would no longer be her own. The daughter of a secret guardian had no room for ordinary dreams, only the silent cadence of footsteps that forever danced between shadows.

With a breath deep enough to catch the ocean within her lungs, Fleur-Océane made her decision. She would follow the wind—no matter where it led.

And perhaps, just perhaps, she would finally uncover the secret of belonging, hidden within the dance of tides and time.

[acreagehomedesigns]

Embrace Spacious Living: A Guide to Acreage House Designs

In the vast expanse of rural landscapes, where the air is crisp and the horizon seems endless, lies the allure of acreage living. For those who cherish space, tranquility, and the freedom to craft their sanctuary, acreage house designs offer a canvas of possibilities. Whether you envision a modern retreat, a rustic haven, or a blend of both, the key lies in understanding the nuances of designing for large plots of land. In this guide, we delve into the essentials of acreage house designs, exploring concepts, features, and inspirations to help you embark on your journey towards embracing spacious living.

Embracing Nature: Blurring Boundaries

Acreage living isn't just about the house; it's about the seamless integration of indoor and outdoor spaces. Expansive windows, sliding glass doors, and outdoor living areas are integral components that blur the boundaries between the interior and the surrounding landscape. Picture waking up to panoramic views of rolling hills or winding rivers, with the gentle breeze whispering through the trees. A well-designed acreage home captures these moments, inviting nature to become an inherent part of everyday life.

Functional Layouts: Balancing Openness and Privacy

While the allure of vast living spaces is undeniable, practicality shouldn't be compromised. Acreage house designs often feature open-plan layouts that facilitate fluid movement and foster a sense of connectivity. However, it's equally important to carve out intimate zones for relaxation, work, and recreation. Thoughtfully designed bedrooms, studies, and retreat areas offer retreats within the expansive canvas of the home, ensuring privacy and comfort for every member of the household.

Architectural Diversity: From Contemporary Elegance to Country Charm

The beauty of acreage living lies in its versatility, allowing homeowners to tailor their dwellings to reflect their lifestyle preferences and aesthetic sensibilities. From sleek, minimalist designs characterized by clean lines and geometric forms to cozy, rustic retreats adorned with timber accents and pitched roofs, the spectrum of acreage house designs is as diverse as the landscapes they inhabit. Drawing inspiration from architectural styles that resonate with you can set the tone for your dream home, infusing it with personality and charm.

Sustainable Living: Harmonizing with the Environment

Acreage living offers a unique opportunity to embrace sustainable practices and minimize your ecological footprint. Passive solar design principles, rainwater harvesting systems, and native landscaping are just a few strategies that can enhance the sustainability of acreage house designs. By harmonizing with the natural environment and harnessing renewable resources, you not only reduce your impact on the planet but also create a healthier, more resilient home for generations to come.

Future-Proofing: Adapting to Changing Needs

As lifestyles evolve and families grow, acreage house designs should be adaptable to accommodate changing needs over time. Flexible spaces that can serve multiple functions, such as guest quarters, home offices, or entertainment areas, ensure that your home remains relevant and functional for years to come. Additionally, incorporating universal design principles can enhance accessibility and comfort for residents of all ages and abilities, future-proofing your acreage retreat for the long haul.

[of-forossa]

“Brom?”

Against him Heysel shifts, lightly, her knee brushing his leg, the small warmth of her cheek on his shoulder. Through the window yawns the phantom light of a dawn soon to come, lazy and pallid and blue.

“Sorry. For waking you up so early,” she whispers, her voice thick with sleep still. “But I had a dream, and I…”

A pause. She frowns, pensive, as the tips of her fingers slowly trace cherished paths across the plateau of his chest, dip into the basin hollow of his throat, glide over the bone rivers of his clavicles- then return back again, stray, touch different skin, adjacent scars. The territory of him, endless with history.

“...I wanted to tell you that I’ll always be here for you. No matter what happens. No matter what, at all.”

She lifts her hand. Sinks it within the mane of his hair to find his red lock, all it means, all it promises, then holds it so very carefully before pressing a kiss to it, cotton-gentle with quiet reverence. She can feel its heat under her lips.

“This is... Well, not new to you. But I wanted to tell you again: I’m not afraid. And I’m not leaving. And I care about you. No words can express how much I do."

Her breath, inhaling, exhaling, soft against his neck.

“That’s all. We can return to sleep. Goodnight, love,” she continues, curling closer. “And my apologies again.”

@yellowfingcr // chance encounters on a journey without rest.

"Mhm."

When at first she stirred against his chest, so willingly trapped in the cage he had made of his broad arms wrapped around her, Brom had only somewhat woken to the sound of her sleep-heavy question. Not unlike the great bears of the north he too could fall deeply into slumber, and at the touch of her wandering hand he merely hummed in groggy but aware reply to her. Fingers that so keenly knew the shape of spell and sharpened blade had likewise familiarized themselves with him, be it the pulse that quickened at the touch on his neck or the shift of muscle beneath the hair of his chest and the thickening scars stretched over it. A sword bite earned from a bandit's raid along his collarbone, the long mark of a spear that stretched across his ribs, a smattering of jagged lines seared into his stomach from a fire pot exploding against his stomach... there was no revulsion in this study of him but admiration, perhaps even reverence regardless (or rather because) of what they represented, and were that he had not already so deeply loved her perhaps this then would be yet another moment to have fallen for her.

It was that love that Brom feared most, her affection even for his affliction stilling the air in his lungs so harshly he rasps against her cheek in turn. "... I know." There is more, by the gods there is so much more to say to such a promise, and yet such words fail him for how deeply stricken the influence of his people's god has left him. "I could no more turn you from this, from me, than if I were to wrestle the north wind or tear free a mountain by its roots. I know and wish I could." His voice is low and rough, as steel against stone, not simply from sleep but weariness and fear. Not for himself but for the love he holds now with both arms tightly. "I would not stand for the belittlement of you and your love should I be wholly, utterly consumed in this. To have you cast into the snow and ice even as the Fell God speaks his terrible fury with my tongue and reduces me to little more than burning ash in rage... I would not allow it to be. I forbid it."

Brom's voice shook against the shell of her ear, the harshness of his quiet fears silenced in favor of a kiss chaste and softer than he could hope to be himself. One laid against her ear, her cheek, her jaw as he shifted them until the bulk of him loomed over her, capturing her lips with his own. "But I could no more go on without you than I could go without air," he murmured against her mouth. "I know where I belong... to whom I belong." Even in the still lingering darkness of the early morn it was plain to see the tangle of fears and doubts and love in his eyes, in the way he leaned into the attention given to a sign of the ruination to come upon as she gripped his locks. "Follow me on the road to ruin if you must, beloved shadow mine. I offered all that I have, all that I am, long ago. It is yours to take both good and ill... as are yours likewise mine to claim."

Brom sank down over her, and rather than allow the remnants of his own fire-kissed and rage-scorched dreams to haunt him he fixated on the shape of Heysel against him. On the way her eyes crinkled and a smile tugged on her lips when he held her face between hands that too often and too handily destroyed rather than built. Burying his face against her neck, he surrounded himself in the love of her and once more and shoved back against the destruction all but promised to him. One day, one day soon even, but not today.

Not here. Never.

"Goodnight, love."

[wexhappyxfew]

The Sun Will Always Rise || Ronald Speirs

inspired by a quote from Ruta Sepetys’ book, Between Shades of Grey ~ ❛you stand for what is right, without the expectation of gratitude or reward. ❜

Happy HBO War Secret Santa 2020! I can’t believe the time has officially arrived and to say I am beyond excited for this lil Ronald Speirs imagine I cooked up, is an understatement. This is for @incorrectbandofbrothersquotes​ , for Kelsey!! It’s not as much of a Christmas theme, more of a snowy, wintry theme, which I love!!

I was beyond excited to take up a request for Secret Santa and laying out my options, going off your list, I chose Ronald Speirs to write for you - I am so happy with how this turned out, and I hope, more than anything, you enjoy it and it brings some holiday cheer to this time of year, especially after a year where it seems like every thing that happened just got worse and worse.

Take time to yourself this holiday season, Kelsey, and you enjoy some time for yourself as well - you are such a wonderful human being, who I believe if I’m correct, I have followed since Day 1 in this fandom, nearly 2 years ago - if that even sounds right LOL! It’s been a long while though! Happy reading and happy holidays for whatever holiday you celebrate, or if you don’t celebrate any at all! Thank you and enjoy! And thank you @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant for doing this!!! <3

ronald speirs imagine x reader - 2.5k word count <3 

Captain Speirs had been rather adamant on letting you go early from the tiny meeting Captain Winters had organized - between the runny nose, your numb fingertips, and your pale cheeks which seemed to stand out especially in the bleak wilderness around you, you figured it was for the best. 

Haguenea, France was far from the paradise that Mourmelon-le-Grande had offered back in the convent in Rachamps when it was the only thought inside your mind, the warmth reaching your hands for the first time in what felt like months. 

Now, your toes were numb just like your mind. Your helmet was cast down over your tired eyes, the dark rims that had accompanied you through Bastogne, along with the terrors of the Bois Jaque, you were surprised that you could no longer get a proper night of sleep at this point. 

OP 2 stood with its bullet speckled fortifications, shattered glass window panes, and mud covered path way but more than anything you felt a tiny smile poke up at the corner of your mouth, more than anything in that moment. 

Crossing your arms across your chest, you tucked your little hands towards the coat portion near your armpits, relishing the bit of warmth your body still managed to produce. 

Moving up the few steps you had taken that morning, up to the depths of OP 2, you stomped the bits of mud out from the portions of your new winter-boots pack and pushed inside the bit of warmth that drifted from the outpost. 

You could hear a few of the men moving around downstairs, most likely eating their fill before the patrol slated for 0100 tonight. It was quiet on the main level though, beds left unmade from where men had taken much-needed naps from the bitter cold which brought on layers of tiredness and loss of calories more than the normal days of what war brought. 

Pulling the Thompson from your shoulder, you let it drop into your cold hands before lying it beside the bunk you, yourself had taken a nap in before you had woken up for the meeting. 

Yawning, you glanced towards the open French doors that let in the cold draft of air in the late, dreary afternoon. The quiet river that trailed outside let it’s soft presence be known as the sun did its best to warm the land underneath which lay tattered in ruins and soaking snow and mud pits, decorating it with war. 

Moving outside again, you let your pistol bump at your hip - no one wanted to start another battle when the war had already taken enough, no one wished to throng bullet after bullet towards one another when there was already so much bloodshed - for a moment there was simply just peace as you moved outside towards the river. 

Turning the corner, where you had found a little secluded spot to just sit and let the tiny bit of peace you felt overtake you, you noticed a figure standing stiffly, his dark eyes looking out across the river, with a scarf pulled up around his stubble cheeks, eyes evidently alert and awake. 

You had found the area just that day, frosted hedges and a leafless tree hanging overhead with the dreary sky as a saddening backdrop. 

Clearing your throat, you took a tentative step forward, watching the man with gentle eyes. He didn’t seem to notice your presence, he didn’t make a show of it, but you knew he did, by the subtle shift in the way his shoulders dropped the slightest inch, and even his eyes seemed to soften, the hard glow from your side view of him fading. 

Captain Speirs seemed no stranger to your presence in the simple way, he suddenly turned his own head towards your eyes, his lips pulled into the thin line you had seen previously at the small gathering with Captain Winters. 

“ I thought I told you to get some rest, Lieutenant.” he said, his eyes softly moving up and down your small stature, stopping briefly on your hands which looked nearly as pale as the sky by that point - you looked so fragile and small in his eyes for a moment. 

“ Sleeping and I aren’t exactly compatible.” you said as you approached him, your feet in the mud covered boots slowing to a pause in front of him as he watched you earnestly.

“ What are you doing out here, Lieutenant?” 

“ I could ask the same of you, sir.” you answered quietly back, watching as he studied your eyes, noticing the build of stress lines that stretched like the horizon underneath your stressed eyes, the sunken in cheeks showing the wounds of war in someone who had fought so strongly against it and the pain of a million souls rupturing your heart. A slight hint of a smile poked up at the corner of his lips, as he finally rested his eyes on your own again, before looking back out towards the river and the enemy’s side.

“ It’s peaceful out here.” he said and you watched as he let his eyes move along the bank of water, softly picking on each and every little part of the river from its banks to the white caps. 

“ I’m glad I’m not the only one who found it peaceful then.” you said quietly, your own eyes caring out towards the, admittedly, cold water. Slowly, willing yourself with the might you had, you walked forward and slowly positioned yourself beside the man, barely reaching his shoulder if you could admit it and let your eyes remain out on the river. 

Captain Ronald Speirs had come into your life only recently, but even years before you had bumped into him on occasion - it was always a mutual greeting, signs of respect being passed between the two of you, both Lieutenants in your own realms. He had even complimented the dress you’d been wearing out on the town one night with a group of the guys in Aldbourne after the Normandy Campaign. He had liked the color - it had been a soft baby blue, like robin’s eggs - and he had liked it. 

Of course at the time, you hadn’t thought much of it, the sun rising and setting, the moon coming out to expose the raw pain and truth of war, the bloodshed and endless battles and the grief that consumed merely just one person after the next - you’d forgotten about it almost instantly. You still remembered the softness of his eyes - that hadn’t changed. 

Now, he was your CO and you remained a close Second to him; he turned to you when he wanted to run something over, and on occasion, you two shared a cigarette under the moonlight when all the men were tucked away and finally getting the restful sleep they deserved. 

“ What do you think’s gonna happen on that patrol tonight, Lieutenant?” he asked you, voice soft, in a way gentle, but the soft rasp of a cough in his throat was far from evident. He always seemed to confide in you when these circumstances arose - especially after Rachamps. 

“ I think the men will be okay, they’ve fought for a while in this war, just as the enemy has. They’ll do their best.” They were tired is what she wanted to say, all the men were - she gave a prayer to Sergeant Martin for the heed he took when assigned to lead the patrol over the exhausted Sergeant Malarkey. 

“ They’ve all fought long enough.” the Captain said quietly and you peaked a hesitant glance up towards him. Your heart didn’t fail to speed up the slightest bit at the gentle nature that encased his face and the way he seemed to undoubtedly care for each of the men like a father would. 

Turning from the river, he slowly met your eyes which didn’t falter in looking away from his own - you were rather mesmerized by his beautiful irises, the way they glowed even in darkness or in the bleak snow, even when the sun would rise, they glowed so purely. 

“ Sir….I….” He watched you speak, head inclined towards you, waiting for the words from your lips, but you were caught up with the caring nature he seemed to inhibit within himself in that moment of time where there was no war, no peace, just him and his eyes, and just...him. 

“ I know you care for these men, Y/N.” Captain Speirs whispered softly, as he watched your eyes change from the stressed expression they seemed to constantly encompass to a gentleness, a warmth, merely at the direct comment of her name and not just the soft rasp of Lieutenant - no he had said your name. So softly and tenderly, each letter off the tongue like a song. 

“ I’ve been with them since Toccoa, sir….I…” your shoulders managed to slump as you found yourself unable to finish your sentence under the Captain’s gaze, unable to process mere words. 

“ These men don’t deserve this Y/N, I know that and so does Captain Winters - I think we all do.” 

“ Battalion’s orders.” you managed out weakly, with an attempt at a frosted smile as he nodded, watching the sadness flood your eyes again - he found out he didn’t like seeing your beautiful eyes sad like that, even if they still looked just as beautiful, your eyes didn’t deserve to see and feel such pain, for their mere beauty was worth much more. 

“ You don’t deserve this either, Y/N.” Shutting your eyes for a moment, you felt your heart squeeze at his words - you always thought in some way you had - for the lives you took, for the ones you couldn’t prevent being taken, from everything. In some ways, it was alright - to pay your dues as such. 

“ You deserve to be happy, warm...in a little cottage by the sea that you’ve always liked…” 

He had LISTENED to that story? He had HEARD that story? 

You swore it must’ve been the fever or maybe that the recollection you had was just you mumbling to yourself, you swore it had been.

“ You heard all that?” you asked softly, your eyes opening as you met his own again. A chuckle left his lips and you found it enough to boost your own into a shy smile at it, his eyes downcast before glancing up to your own. He had a nice laugh.

“ Yeah, yeah I did,” he said biting back his lips as a smile crossed his lips, twinkling eyes shining on you,” must’ve been the fever but you were going on and on about it and I wasn’t going to stop you either.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head at your clumsy way of speech - through a fever and the cold and you had blabbered to Captain Speirs about the cottage by the sea you wished for. 

Both your smiles seemed to fall once the moment past and almost like a little angel on your shoulder, your heart pleaded to see that dash of a boyish grin on his lips again. Your heart nearly yearned for it when it’s only human contact was the Captain in front of her - maybe she wanted it too. 

And from the proximity of your bodies, you were nearly in reach of him. 

“ Your eyes..-” Softly looking towards you as you spoke, your lip hanging open a bit as you met them again,”...I mean, sir, I..I don’t know if you’ve been told, but you’re eyes…” He watched you softly.

“ They’re beautiful, sir, and I just thought you should know.” Because in war, this war, I may never see you after tonight, you wished to say, but your head was saying no as your heart was saying yes. 

The smile that had gone underground on the Captains’ face suddenly grew, spreading across his face and you couldn’t help but let your breath get caught in your throat. 

An ethereal being was your first thought. 

It seemed like he too was caught at a similar crossroads, his eyes betraying him and his heart - you were within reach, you were standing right there, despite everything. 

You were standing there with a wounded heart. 

“ I could say the same to you,” he said quietly,” Lieutenant.” Your heart squeezed the slightest bit tighter as he said it.

“ Baby blue,” he said quietly,” like robin’s eggs.” Your eyes carried up to his again and you met them within seconds, suddenly aware of the heat on your cheeks, the pounding of your heart - none of it.

“ I didn’t just notice that dress you wore that day, Lieutenant,” he said quietly,” I noticed those eyes too.” He swore they could make the sun want to rise on its worst days. You swore it was just the cold, but you had no words left to say, you had nothing to say at all - because his eyes which glowed like the sun, said it all. 

“ Sir….” you whispered, but he suddenly turned and gently pressed his hands which had been crossed over his chest, flush against your red cheeks and watched you tenderly, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your sunken in cheeks, as he watched your eyes. He watched you so selflessly, like you were his sun, his world. 

Could a person ever mean that much to another - maybe Ronald Speirs thought that way. 

Maybe he always had. 

It seemed for a moment the stoic Captain did everything to break down the walls which encapsulated him just so he could touch the human in front of him - you. The bit of warmth he still felt under his fingertips coming from you. 

Softly, ever so lovingly, he shut his eyes as you watched his long lashes cover his irises. 

And in that moment, you shut your own as he held your there, inches from his face, faintly hearing his heartbeat which raced for the first time since Foy. 

“ You stand for what is right, Y/N, without the expectation of gratitude or reward.” he whispered softly as your heart rushed and hurriedly skipped over a beat without hesitation,” And through this war, even after, it’s all you deserve.” 

And within a moment, a softness pressed against your cold cheek, the touch of his lips on your skin, a gentle kiss from the servant of the sun - and just as fast as it had happened it disappeared. 

Your own hands slowly moved upward towards your flushed cheeks - you could still feel the brush of his lips against the skin of your cheek. 

Opening your eyes, you found yourself alone, all alone by the rushing water of the river, your heart pounding. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder and found the figure of the Captain moving away from you, his commanding presence which had fallen to his queen for a mere moment of time, back up. 

Yet you had seen it fall, and you had seen his heart, his beautiful heart - for not only were his eyes as beautiful as they had been, but so was his heart - it had always been, but this time, so was everything else about him. 

Everything.

The sun smiled, it would always rise. 

The sun would always rise. 

[bibliocratic]

dark!AU, alternative S5 - Elias wins

There are content warnings in the tags, or here on A03 in more detail. Let me know if any further need to be added. 

Upon the Sighted throne, Martin’s presence infringes upon Elias’ knowing. From the clusters of eyes that sprout from the ornate seat like berry plants, he watches Martin approach slowly. The man has taught himself not to react to the multitude of pupils that flicker and swivel in his direction, and he stops a suitable distance from the throne itself. Elias is not ready to grant him the honour of his attention, and Martin knows he will have to wait as long as Elias wants him to.

There are no days here, nor time to measure his tempered impatience. Martin waits, as Elias indulgently observes the horror of the world he has reckoned into being, visiting pockets of terror to glut himself on the visions of the wretched there.

“I trust you have a good reason for demanding my attention, Martin.”

A shiver along the stalks of his many eyes is the only warning the other man gets as Elias sinks back into himself and gazes upon his visitor with his human sight. Martin schools his body still, aborting the shaking that has started up in his legs from how long he has stood.

“He’s been up there for too long,” Martin says. His voice is intentionally flat, stripped of demands, all its edges sanded off to quiet. He can be quite biddable when he tries to be, this wayward servant of the Eye. “Let him down so he can rest, just for a while.”

Elias studies his tamed prisoner carefully. His posture bowed deferential. Servitude has always been a good look on him for all he chafed and strained at his yoke in the beginning, and he will confess he has enjoyed turning his hand personally to this particular task. It took longer to break him in, longer than it took his treasured Archive, but he learned eventually.

He considers refusing him again, to feel the disappointment crumple in him no matter how much Martin tries to disguise its passing on his face. Elias does so delight in hearing him beg.

“And where are your manners?” he asks instead. Idly, studying his fingernails.

“Please.”

“What was that sorry?” he responds, indulgent and toying. He watches a muscle jump in Martin’s jaw.

He sometimes hopes for the defiance of yesteryear, the frustrating spark of refusal that Elias had spend so long trying to snuff out.

“Please, Elias,” Martin says in his flat, defeated voice. “Let him down.”

“And I suppose you’d beg for some time with him? To fuss and dote and play house?”

Martin doesn’t answer.

Elias sighs as if he is granting a great boon, a tax upon his time and energies. He snaps his fingers, the sound sharper in the hollow throne room, pointing at his feet like he’s summoning a dog to heel.

“You know how to ask.”

It’s a small pity, a frivolous, mildly rankling loss, that such humiliation doesn’t summon a flush to Martin’s cheeks any longer. It was quite a sight, in the early days of Elias’ rule, the man’s pathetic desperation to see his beloved warring with the dregs of his shame.

Martin walks forward to the foot of the throne and goes to his knees without a word.

Elias reaches down to comb his hair from his face, fixing some of the longer strands back. Martin used to flinch, his shoulders high, his mind flickering bonfire bright with all the things he feared Elias might do to him. He tenses now, his gaze directly ahead, and Elias knows that whatever he might choose to do, Martin wouldn’t stop him.

“What will you give me?” Elias murmurs. “To make it worth my while?”

“Whatever you want,” Martin replies. The words learned by rote, a dutiful call-and-response.

“That’s right,” Elias hums pleased. “Whatever I want.”

He moves his hand to Martin’s throat, his fingers splayed in a loose grasp, and uses this grip to raise Martin’s head up, force him to make eye contact.

Martin bites down a gasp as Elias slips easily into his head.

Elias buries him. Has him on his back like he’s coffin-bound, trying to open his eyes only to find them fused shut with the weight of the soil above, the burden of the earth around him like a second skin. Martin sucks in panicked inhales, and he swallows dirt in crumbling chunks, and he gags and coughs to expel it but the greedy earth slides further down his throat. Martin might have learned that it’s better when he doesn’t struggle, but his thrashing body doesn’t know that. Elias waits until he’s twitching with airlessness before the pressure eases, and he is suddenly able to pant thin huffs of air, the oxygen deprivation making him woozy and spiked with delirium, and Elias knows just when to retract this respite and let the earth choke him again. This goes on for some time. Sometimes, feeling fanciful, adherent to fickle whims, he allows Martin to see a poky patch of light, permits him to worm and writhe, his skin rubbed raw with the friction, his muscles burning and his impacted nails ruined, moving inch by inch exhausted and degraded to potential freedom before the earth gulps him back down again, shrieking and screaming in muffled terror.

Elias allows his torment to continue until Martin’s convinced he’ll die here, that no one will save him, that he’ll be abandoned in the dark and the crush. It takes a long time; Martin is ever such a hopeful soul.

His pitiful mewling fear makes for such delicious entertainment, a gourmet delicacy for the Eye.

Elias withdraws, feeling full and sated, his attention already drifting away. His eyes observe the trembling wretch at his feet, gasping and coughing, as his addled mind comes back to itself, recalls that there is more than the clutch and the cold.

“What do we say?” Elias asks.

Martin’s too drained, too shattered to hate him. Attempting to rise to his knees from where his body dropped against the hard marble of the floor.

“Thank you,” he croaks out.

Elias is feeling merciful today. A magnanimous ruler of his nightmare kingdom.

“I’ve let him down.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Go.”

Martin does not need telling twice.

-

Elias leaves them alone, as much as they ever are at least.

Cut down from his moorings at the centre of the Panopticon that marks the focal point of the Eye’s gaze, the eyes that scar Jon’s body flex and roll back into his skin. Martin lifts him and carries him the short distance to their sparse quarters as he returns to himself, his endless recitation of horrors quietening into a burble, like the drying up of a river. Martin settles him on the bed, gets a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat that’s sprung onto his face.

“Hey,” he says encouragingly. His voice is dry from screaming. “Hey, you with me?”

Jon looks up. Blinks slowly. Frowns. His mouth moves without sound. This goes on for some time, and Martin had known it would.

Eventually the tight line of his body relaxes. His frown loosening into a wincing confusion.

“Martin?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Martin says, and he can’t keep the relief back. “It’s me.”

Jon’s hand flops around on the bedcovers, searching before Martin grasps it. After so long in the dirt, the warmth of skin shocks him. The grip faint before rousing to anchor their palms together.

Jon squints at him.

“Your hair’s longer.”

“You’ve been up there a while. Every time I asked he said no.”

Jon’s hand reaches up to cradle Martin’s face.

“What did he do to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Martin…”

“Please. Jon, please. Don’t.”

Jon stores his questions back into silence. He strokes away the faint tear marks he finds under Martin’s eyes, the only evidence of the price paid for these moments together.

“I’d kill him, if I could,” Jon says. Martin nods and replies ‘I know’ as if that were at all possible. If we kill him. If we escape.

They’ve tried. Elias would have disposed of him without a second thought when they first came here, if Jon hadn’t pleaded for his deliverance. But Martin’s continued existence is no kindness, nor a testament to Elias’ benevolence; rather, he is a perfectly made shackle, a stick to beat an unwilling Archivist with. The last time they tried to escape, Elias made Jon watch Martin’s punishment, a hand-crafted nightmare borrowed from the Desolation. All his eyes forced open, feeding on Martin’s agony even as he begged Elias to stop. Jon had stopped talking about escape after that. In a small section of Martin’s mind that he hopes Elias has overlooked, Martin thinks of nothing but.

There isn’t a lot to say to each other. Jon shivers and quakes with the aftershocks of Seeing, the last vestiges of his humanity brutalized into the service of the Eye. Martin’s mouth tastes of dirt, and his skin crawls where he is hemmed in, but he makes himself push through that discomfort, to lie down next to Jon and hold his body against his own like mooring two sea-shattered pieces of driftwood.

Martin kisses his temple. His cheek. Makes his words whisper against skin, as if they are lover’s recollections should Elias be watching.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you remember when I was working with Peter? And you offered me something, and I didn’t take it?”

Jon stiffens. His hand in Martin’s clenches, any hope he might have felt poisoned with such reasonable terror.

“If I made you the same offer,” Martin continues into the hollow of his throat. “Knowing what would happen to you now. What would you say?”

“The same choice?”

“Exactly the same.”

Jon’s grip is bruising.

“You think there’s a way?”

“I know there is. I found something.”

Jon turns over so they are face to face.

“What about you?” comes the whisper.

If Martin succeeds, there will be no forgiveness. If Elias loses his Archive, there will be rage, pitiless and unending, the unendurable that he will be made to endure and an endless world within which to suffer it.

“Like you offered,” Martin promises. “Together.”

Carefully, he moves his hand to cover Jon’s eyes, a gentle blindfold. Without breaking eye contact, he takes Jon’s fingers, and brings them up so they run a line across Martin’s throat.

“Do you understand me?” Martin asks.

His limbs tremble more often than not nowadays, but Jon mimics Martin’s gestures – his hand held flat over his own sight, before tracing a shivering line across Martin’s neck.

“Yes,” Jon whispers.

“Even if it hurts? Even if it doesn’t work?”

“Yes,” Jon repeats. His eyes wet, the light in them calmer and clearer than Martin has seen in a long time. “Together.” He buries his face into Martin’s chest, bringing his arms around form them into one tangled mass. “I love you. I love you and I wish I could have given you better than this.”

“I love you,” Martin replies. “Just a bit longer, yeah? Just a bit longer.”

Jon leans in and presses their lips together. And Martin knows when the time comes Jon will look at him as kindly, with such compassion as Martin releases him from the Eye, and the thought almost rocks him to tears.

“Just a bit longer,” Jon confirms, and Martin folds into the embrace and prays they can both last till then.

[riotwritesthings]

The Curious Witch and the Cursed Wolf

Chapter 1: A Man and A Wolf | AO3

Hello! You may have noticed, I am not doing Kinktober this year. Instead, I bring you a fairytale based on the crazy adorable art by @gayspacesprinkles​ from last October (and used with permission!). Because that’s when we became bros.

HAPPY BRO-ANNIVERSARY BRO. 100/10 would bro again.

Anywhooo updates every Saturday until the spooky day itself, when I will hopefully have a long awaited sequel. Bonus point to anyone who can guess what it will be ahaha.

Title: The Curious Witch and the Cursed Wolf (Chapter 1) Collaborator(s): Riot @buckybarnesbingo​ Square Filled: C2, AU: medieval/fantasy Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIron Rating: T Major Tags/Warnings: fantasy AU, witch!Tony, wolf!Bucky, fairytale vibes, Non-graphic injury Summary: Once upon a time there was a man, and a wolf. They both went into the forest looking for different things, and instead they found each other. Word Count: 1,288

Once upon a time, there was a man.

Far too clever, too curious, too driven to understand. He always insisted on looking to the future, finding a better way.

The rest of the village didn’t like his talk of the future. They preferred to keep themselves firmly rooted in the present, thank you very much. There was always far too much work to be done.

The man still tried. He learned everything he could, studied math and languages and science. He built fantastical machines using the meager supplies available, genius creations to try and make the work easier, but the people of his small village weren’t interested.

They didn’t like change, and they didn’t understand why the man craved it. They didn’t understand him.

They never asked him to leave, but the man could tell that they wanted to. They gave him the cold shoulder, they whispered about him as he passed in the streets, they treated him like he was already an outsider.

So the man left.

He had plenty more to learn anyways.

~~~

Tony ends up at the edge of a forest, following rumors of magic of all things.

In the tiny village he grew up in, the idea of magic was scoffed at and quickly dismissed. Everyone was too practical, too down to earth, too busy to wonder.

But Tony has always been told that he’s too curious, after all. And he’s always wondered.

So he hears the rumors, and he follows them. From cobble streets to small dirt roads, until he reaches a tiny rundown inn, built right against the edge of a thick, sprawling forest.

“In the trees,” says the wrinkled man behind the desk, in a voice that crackles like a burning log. “Lots of things in the trees, lots of strange and wonderful things.”

He tells Tony about giant beasts and shifting lights, about people who go into the forest and come out healed, stronger, different, about people who never come out at all.

Tony listens late into the night, until the candles burn low and cast wild shadows on the walls, until the inn falls quiet around them. Then he goes up to the attic room and stares at the cracks in the ceiling, the bright starlight that winks through, and struggles to sleep.

He’s too excited, too lost in imagining all the things he can learn, and he finally falls asleep to dreams of moon light on shifting leaves, of cold wind and sharp teeth.

When he leaves in the morning the inn is empty, everything covered in thick layers of dust, cold and empty. As if it’s long been abandoned.

There is undeniably something magical about the forest, as he steps into it.

The trees tower above him, as wide around as the small houses of his old village. He can hear the rustle of giant wings, the call of birds and the shuffle of animals in the brush, but he never sees a thing.

He walks deeper, until the thick leaves cast everything in shadow and the trail gets smaller, until the trail disappears entirely.

There are plants he doesn’t recognize, swirls of minerals in the stones that he’s never seen before. The old man in the inn had given him plenty of warnings, but Tony has always been too curious for his own good.

In a clearing he finds huge chunks of gemstone, bursting through a crack in the earth and splitting off into sharp peaks, surrounded by a perfect circle of flowering vines.

Even in the heavy shadows of the trees, the crystalline structure of the stone glows, as if lit from within. The forest has fallen silent around him.

Tony should know better than to touch something without thorough examination first, but the gentle glow calls him in, beckoning, and Tony reaches out without thought.

The crystal is warm beneath his fingers, almost pulsing, and then a bright light consumes him and a shockwave ripples through the clearing.

He wakes up to birdsong, golden light of sunset making the leaves above him glow, and Tony pushes himself upright slowly.

He appears miraculously unharmed, even if his clothes are a bit worse for wear, although it’s disappointing to see that the shards of crystal have gone dim.

And then Tony realizes, there is still a faint blue glow hovering around the clearing, a glow that’s coming from his chest.

~~~

Once upon a time there was a wolf.

Or maybe he was a man, just caught under a terrible curse. Because sometimes he had dreams about holding a sword, about speaking, about clutching someone’s hand in his own.

But that was a long time ago, and the wolf could barely remember it anymore. He could still make himself understood, if he really tried, and he didn’t have anyone to cling to anymore anyways.

The only constant he had was being hunted, by men and other beasts and figures in dark robes. Always hunted, always being followed, and so he was always on the move.

If the wolf had ever had a home it was a terribly long time ago now, left behind terribly far away. He’d long since stopped dreaming of going back, or of finding a new one.

All he had was running, staying on the move, trying to stay alive.

He tried not to let himself dream of something more.

~~~

The dark figures are getting closer, closer, and the wolf runs faster.

He just needs to make it to the forest, he can lose them in the trees, where the thick leaves will dull the bright light of the full moon.

They won’t follow him very deep into the forest, he knows it although he doesn’t know how. The wolf just needs to keep running.

But it seems like no matter how fast he runs, the forest never gets any closer and the field stretches out endless around him. The tall grass sways in the wind around him, nearly swallowing him whole and still the wolf pushes forward.

The hunters are catching up.

As far back as the wolf can remember, they have been hunting him, and his memory doesn’t even go back that far. Certainly not as far as it should, there’s too many gaps and holes, it doesn’t match how tired and bone-ancient he feels.

He remembers the hunters, though. They are a constant, sometimes in disguise and sometimes in their dark robes, but he always remembers the way they smell. Like lightning and brush fire, and always like blood.

He can smell them now, getting closer.

The moon is so bright above him, and the night is endless, and the field is unending.

Until suddenly the grass ends, and the ground falls away into a sharp cliff.

The wolf’s paws slide in the loose dirt, and he skids to a stop just before he goes over the edge. The ground is so terribly far away, sheer cliff face down to a wide river.

The hunters are moving closer, fanning out, preparing to strike.

The wolf snarls, bares his teeth, glances over the cliff again. The river below rushes loudly, too far down to jump.

His fur stands on end as the scent of smoke and flame grows stronger, the sound of low chanting nearly lost beneath the wind.

He can feel magic building in the air and the wolf crouches low, prepares to run. If he can follow the edge of the cliff, if he can slip past them and make it across the river, maybe he can still make it to the forest.

He has to try.

There’s a bright burst of light, of heat, moving towards him like an arrow. It catches him in the shoulder, and he falls.

[earthfluuke]

summary: they’re the protectors of the trees, have been since they sprouted. after so much time, he’s become comfortable; too comfortable to notice when things change.

did you think i could continue the nymph!tine universe without adding ohmfong into it? impossible! the two of them (along with phuak) are based on alseids (grove nymphs) from greek mythology, but as a reminder, they are anything i imagined them to be.

this also became far longer than i intended it to be. so...oops? regardless, i hope you enjoy!

(side note: margosa trees - also called neem trees - grow in thailand.)

parts: 1 / 2 / 2.5 / 3 / 3.5 / 3.5i

From the high branches of the apple tree, lone and unique amongst the grove of margosa not far away, Fong keeps a watchful eye on the ground below. Specifically, the human boy who dares to take a step closer to Tine. One wrong move, and he will be sliding down the trunk, bark scratches and splinters be damned, to his aid. Such is the life of himself, Ohm, and Phuak, the protectors of the trees, the field, and the creatures that dwell there.

The human boy tosses a blade to the ground behind him and raises his hands to his chest, fingers spread wide in surrender. Tine braves towards him, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. While he relaxes, Fong only further tenses, fingers gripping the branch tighter, swirling patterns indenting into his palms. Tine is too quick to trust, leaving Fong to be the one to worry.

When he turns to the two nymphs above him, they seem to share his sentiment, if the creases to their brows and downturn of their lips are any indication. If there must be a soft spot for those they protect, they at the very least all agree to have the same one. To the three of them, that is Tine. And for him, they are attentive, subjecting themselves to a day of observation and scrutiny. But what else does one do for those that they love?

…

Humans are not so foreign to them. There are the occasional wanderers, free spirited couples who want to escape for a bit of privacy, curious explorers who collect leaves and twigs from the ground to shove into the satchels at their hips. But they are few and far between, never venturing in more than once.

Tine’s human boy, however, is an oddity. Every day without fail, he returns to the forest, walks through the trees until they part into an open meadow, and trails up the hill to the sole apple tree. Sunrise to sunset he stays, leaving with promises of a happy tomorrow.

It isn’t so much the human boy’s presence that concerns him. It instead is the light that reaches too high in Tine’s eyes. They all but glow, seeping a brightness across the fields when the sun sinks away. His cheeks push up too high, smile grows too wide, sighs become too dreamy. They are all warning signs that Fong knows better than to ignore.

Weaving between tree trunks, he follows the human boy through the grove. On the ground, he can see him closer, see a bit of what Tine must see in him. He has a handsome, angled face, sharp features that don’t quite match the softness in his eyes. Even from the tops of the trees, he can see the way they melt to enraptured fondness with merely a glance to Tine. There again comes his worry; the two of them make something so complicated so seemingly easy.

Fong is light on his feet, toes barely touching the dirt before he takes another step to keep up with the human boy’s longer legs. One with the wind, he resembles it whipping through the leaves, tearing those less fortunate from their stems, floating to the ground in a graceful dance. He is careful and calculated; a single step out of place puts him at risk.

It is a single step he takes. Misjudging the length he needs to take over a tree root, his foot catches. A pained hiss goes through his teeth, and he tumbles in perfect line with the human boy.

The first thing he notices when he regains his balance is the glint of a blade secured tightly at his waist. The second is the large, tan hand that covers it, ready to free it from its leather confines.

Fong is frozen still, eyes wide and unwavering from the gaze he has locked on the human boy. He stares back, still gripping the handle of his blade but making no move to draw it. It is as though each are waiting for the other to make a move, not daring to do so themselves. There is the perfect chance to dart away into the confines of the trees, and yet, he cannot bring himself to move nary a step.

Just as the human boy appears to want to move in closer and offer him his words, a cloud of dust huffs up between them. Feet hit the ground hard, the fall from the tree branches above kicking up twigs and rocks. Fong cannot see Ohm’s face, but it is all too obvious that he is angry. Squared back shoulders arch into long arms extended towards the ground, prepared to pull up the roots from the earth and trap the human boy within them.

He is on him before he can. It takes a series of progressively harder tugs on his hand to get Ohm to whip around and face him. Fire burns in his eyes, but it extinguishes when they meet Fong. Fear flashes through them, then grief, and then anger once more. But it is different than the first kind, more guilty than aggressive.

Before Fong can study him further, Ohm dashes through the trees, disappearing beyond the hills. The human boy is still looking at him, clearly perplexed from their exchange, but it is he who supplies an explanation with the single whisper of, “blood.”

Fingers rise to his cheek, find a wet pool that stings when touched, and when he pulls them back, they are tinted red. Somewhere between the dust and the fury, some of the kick up must have struck him.

He acknowledges the human boy with a nod before taking after his fellow nymph. From what he has seen, Tine’s human boy has far from bad intentions, considering how many chances he had to harm him, all of which he did not take. And regardless, there is something much more pressing he needs to see to.

…

It is not difficult to find where Ohm has escaped to. Just beyond Tine’s apple tree, down the far side of the hill, there sits a river. And on the banks, nestled between the cattails, he is crouched, head down, spine curved. A step closer, and Fong can see a scaled hand resting upon his cheek in comfort, webbed fingers spreading over his ashen skin.

Pear notices him almost instantaneously. She turns to look at him; the pink scales curving up towards her temples flicker gold beneath the sun, and her eyes grow soft with sympathy. He cannot make out the words she hushes to Ohm, but as she dives beneath the water, he glances over his shoulder. The flinch he gives matches the sharp pang Fong feels deep in his chest, just beyond his ribs, when he sees the remorse growing in his eyes, grief fading in just behind.

Two long glides, and Fong is on him, warming the cheek that Pear had left to grow cold. Thumb grazing over the indents of the vine that outlines his cheekbone, he forces a smile, hoping to rid the sorrow from his eyes; it hurts more than any cut ever could.

Those eyes – usually so big, so bright, full of mischief and unspoken plans between himself and Phuak – fixate on where the tree branch struck. Trembling fingers brave a graze so light he could have imagined it, and then his hand rests just beneath it, a hold mirroring the very one Fong has on him. More pain grows in from his pupils, spreading towards the edges of his dark brown irises until they are encompassed in a sadness too deep for Fong to bear.

He leans forward until their foreheads touch and their noses ever so carefully tuck into each other. He can feel Ohm’s breath feather onto his skin, rapid and staggered. Fingers stroke out towards his ear to say I’m okay while his thumb brushes just under his lashes to plead please don’t be so angry with yourself.

Ohm turns, forehead bumping his temple and rubbing against it. Each nuzzle presses an apology into his skin, gentle but not enough to go unnoticed. Fong feels it clearly, how much he means it, how badly he needs Fong to know it. And though he knew from the moment he saw the heaviness in his eyes, he stays still, not daring a move until Ohm feels he’s done enough.

It isn’t much, not for Ohm. For him, it’s always been different. Phuak has always been as close as a friend can be, a better one than Fong ever believed he deserved. Tine is the one he protects with a fierceness strong enough to topple trees and flood oceans. But Ohm…he doesn’t believe there’s a word to describe just what he is.

He is beside him before Fong knows he needs him. He follows in his steps or creates a path for Fong to follow. There is more said between them in single glances and lingering smiles than could ever be expressed through words. Where Ohm is, there is understanding, endless joy, a comfort that emerged one day and never left.

What one titles that, Fong hasn’t a clue. All he knows is that Ohm is forever, and staying like this, for as long as he needs, is nothing (and everything) in the grand scheme of things.

…

The next time the human boy visits, it’s with a string instrument in hand and a few more hearts to his eyes. Each moment passes by with his skilled strums, the birds drawn to the sound tuning their songs to match his melody. Tine’s attempts follow, unexperienced and clumsy and yet still met with soft praise. The back and forth floats to the treetops, to where Fong is perched with a hand pressed firmly into his lower back.

No longer red and stark, the scratch on his cheek should not be as offensive to Ohm as it once was. There is nothing to scream blame at him, no physical remnant of what he so wholeheartedly believes is his personal act of sin. And still, everywhere Fong goes, each turn he takes, a hand follows. Sometimes it hovers, a quiet whisper of protection. And other times, such as this, it is obvious, noticeable to an almost absurd degree.

He is not glass, has never been treated as such. He is resourceful, wise beyond his years, quick to a plan before others can so much as ponder the situation at hand. Proven himself for as long as the margosa grove has stood, he refuses to play weak for anyone.

But Ohm is not anyone, and anyone is not Ohm. And furthermore, does it make one weak to do what is right for your one’s – your only’s – peace of mind? Because regardless of his actions, Ohm’s trust in Fong’s strength has not wavered. It has instead pushed itself to the back of his mind in favor of guilt taking over the forefront, hazing his judgement with a desperate need for remedy. Perhaps it is not Fong at all, but Ohm feeling burdened by the wrong he believes he has done and this – the hovering, the following, the hands – is his way of making things right.

Regardless of reason, Fong has made his choice. If the price to pay for Ohm trusting himself again is a constant weight on his back and eyes on his cheek, then he will pay it proudly. There is strength in helping the ones you love. And as the human boy’s song plays on and Fong looks to Ohm – and Ohm looks to him, as he has been doing without fail – he cannot help but think of what little there is that he will not do if it is for him. It is as simple as breathing.

…

They came into this world on a sprout, grew along with it until it breached the skyline and was no longer lonely, surrounded by a collection of other trees that would become their home. The roots grew through their bodies, wound up around their arms and rose to their cheeks, tinting them the green of the margosa leaves. And from that very beginning, Ohm had been a beacon of light.

Brighter than the sun, the stars, and the moon combined, he brings warmth to every creature he meets. It bleeds out from his smile and into their chests, engulfing their hearts and melting it deeper into them until they ache with swelled emotion. Fong finds it so fitting that when the day breaks and the sun hits his skin, he shines a golden yellow as a symbol of all that is right and good in the small world they’ve created around them.

So when Tine shows off the flower crown he has woven for his human boy and that light within Ohm dims, Fong cannot help but recognize how wrong it feels. There is a hollowness to his eyes, empty and cold enough to send a shiver through Fong’s spine.

For a meadow nymph like Tine, this crown is special; to gift someone an object of his own creation, made from the flowers he bloomed from the very tips of his fingers, is no small feat. There is an unmeasurable amount of trust in a gesture that big, and for a moment, Fong believes that to be why Ohm has extinguished. They are protectors, and to him, Tine’s human boy must still be a threat. He is worried, Fong thinks as the skin around Ohm’s jaw tightens. He does not want to see him get hurt.

But no matter the worry or fear they may have over his decisions, Tine’s happiness is what holds most importance to them. However, when Tine lifts his creation, proud smile on his lips and hope squeezing his eyes to crescents, Ohm turns on his heel, showing his back to them before stalking out of the meadow and back towards the grove.

It is then that Fong realizes that none of this has to do with the human boy. Even more troubling is that he hasn’t a clue of what it does. He and Phuak are quick to reassure Tine with returned smiles and pats to his head. In between it all, they manage shared glances, each holding the same sentiment. Pray tell this is just a flicker, and he has not burned out entirely.

…

Starlight kisses his skin, patterns of the spaces between the leaves dancing across his cheeks and reflecting up into his eyes. There are just some moments in life that do not feel real, even when they are seen in person, and Fong believes this to be one of those.

Ohm has always been a familiar kind of beautiful, one that makes him feel safe. Crouched upon a branch of one of the margosa trees, the soft curve of his jaw stretches to get a better look at the sky, lips spreading slowly into a content smile. Under the light, he is still golden, but this kind is fainter, brighter, more ethereal. While he is entranced by the stars, Fong is entranced by him, because what could they possibly hold to this picture he wishes to etch into his memory for however long he has?

When he does take notice of him – because he always does, as if there is a sixth sense that only registers as Fong within him – his lips stretch further as he reaches his hand out to him. It is familiar, too familiar, and only when Fong takes hold does realization catch up to him, a swarm of memories flooding back to his mind.

The hands that he’d believed to be a phase of heightened worry that would slowly fade as his cut did are here; his cut is not. And his eyes dazzle into him, unwavering from the gaze he before had on his cheek and now has through his eyes and into his soul. That too should have gone when he healed, and yet, they both stay. Or is it that they never left in the first place?

Or could it be they had been there the entire time?

Pasts of fingers circling his wrist as he crossed the river on unsteady stones and palms brushing tears from his cheeks when Phuak removed a splinter from his foot. Histories of pinpricked pupils narrowing in on him when the first human to explore their grove came and crinkled eye-smiles first thing in the morning, saved only for him. Memory after memory, too many to count, so many he has overlooked. Always, Ohm has been there, looking at him the same, holding him the same, and he has never noticed. Because that is Ohm; it has always been Ohm. Fong has just gotten too comfortable with what they are – what they always have been – that he has been blind to things becoming so much more.

And now, he cannot focus on anything but. Every touch, every look, it is, it has, it will always be, their normal. What does it mean? What has it meant? Must it mean anything at all? It must, with the rate his heart quickens and the slight shake to his knees.

Thoughts consume him, and it’s all too much. It’s dizzying, how fast one’s mind can work. He clutches to Ohm’s bicep, hugs it close to keep his balance on the branch. Surely, he has done so before, subconsciously with far less concern. It is all he can do. That, and look at the stars; all he can see in them is Ohm.

…

After that night beneath the stars, Fong needs time to think. Realization hit him square in the chest and knocked all of the wind out of him. His nights are filled with those hands, those eyes, and something more. Breath on his neck, lips fitting against his own, arms catch around his lower back as he spins and spins and spins until he wakes to the only nymph to blame for this mess.

It is the day he uses as an escape, a time to distract himself in hopes of it bringing clarity. And the universe has blessed him with the perfect opportunity.

He was created to protect his tree grove and the creatures around it, and the stream just beyond Tine’s apple tree is no exception. Another human appears one day, a girl this time, and she does not stray from the place she’s made for herself on the water’s banks. She creates colors with her hands, a magic Fong was unaware humans possessed, and every so often, she looks up as though she’s expecting something. Every time she looks down, the hope in her eyes fades just a bit more.

It is not so difficult to decipher just what (who) she’s looking for, but it becomes even easier when he finds Pear at the mouth of her river – farther up on a shallow overhang of cliffs – staring down at the human girl with interest and hesitation. It is as though her body wants to go to her, but her mind shouts wait.

And she does, in a way. Each day the human girl comes, Pear inches that littlest bit closer, just to watch her, as though she’s trying to figure out everything there could be to know about her. Where she goes, Fong follows. She provides the sort of silence he needs when his mind is too loud.

On the third day, they’ve traveled far enough down the river to where he can see Tine’s apple tree as well as the two figures situated in the branches. While he’s gone off with Pear, someone has to look after Tine. Or in this case, someones. Ohm could have followed him, and if this were any other time, he would have. But he knows this is something Fong needs to do on his own, because he always knows. And that’s what makes this ever so hard.

It is odd to be apart. He discovers so on the fifth day when he sees Ohm’s shoulders bounce in what he can only assume to be laughter. An emptiness grows in the center of his chest, sinking his heart to the very pits of his stomach. They’ve never strayed far from each other, and this. This must be why. Has he felt a pain like this before? Has anything hurt him so terribly that he could feel it course through his roots and squeeze him tight?

Only one thing has. Seven days gone, and Pear has taken her leap. It is more of a tip toe to the human girl’s side, one that startles her when Pear reaches for her magic colors. But it is not long before they fall into one another. Shoulders brush, wrists cross. Pear smiles, and the human girl’s cheeks flush the same shade of pink as the magic color on the tips of Pear’s fingers.

The closeness they share is the same kind that Tine and his human boy have. It is something that Fong should envy but never has. The question of why is followed quickly by you know.

A glance to the tree tops is all he needs. He need not be jealous for he has a closeness of his own, has for far more than his mind has ever let him remember. Long before human boys and human girls, there were nymphs. Some with shimmering scales, others with blossoms at their fingertips. But there has only ever been one for Fong, something he had not understood until his cheek was gashed and he felt an ice-cold ache, more painful than any other he’d felt before, from eyes filled with irrefutable guilt.

…

Pear’s human girl presents her with a water lily. Fingers part back her hair to tuck it behind her ear where it sits proudly against her temple. Its soft gradient from white to purple radiates Pear perfectly, dainty with a striking, breathless kind of beauty that cannot be ignored. It is an altogether excellent choice, if the kiss the human girl receives is any indication.

Feeling as though he is intruding on a far too intimate moment, he turns and finds himself upon Ohm. His eyes dart away as well, but rather than out of respect, it appears he does so out of disdain. His expression carries the same anger it did when Tine showed off the flower crown he’d crafted for his human boy, the one he and Phuak could not comprehend.

A blink for clarity, he looks closer, really looks, and sees the sadness in the creases between his brows and the sharp bite he has on his lower lip. He’ll draw blood, Fong is sure, but he pulls back before he can surge forward. Just as he cannot break into Pear and her human girl’s private moments, he cannot do so to Ohm’s either; he is not entitled to that, regardless of the personal revelations he’s had within these last few days.

All he can do is shift back onto his hands and stare up to the sky, wondering what it is about humans and flowers that makes Ohm so heartbroken.

…

Fong is greeted back to the meadow with music and laughter. Tine is on his feet, each step leaving clusters of pink peonies; he dances around his human boy as he strums his strings and tries to catch him into a kiss. Pear and her human girl have joined them, spinning each other around and dissolving into fits of giggles when they are right way around again. There is not necessarily a reason for such festivities other than the thrill of being alive, but he supposes that is good enough reason as any.

Celebration circles through the air so thick that Fong can feel it. It warms his toes and melts his lips to a smile, but a chill passes over his shoulders from farther away. At the outskirts of the margosa grove, Ohm stands, leant against a tree trunk. His eyes, as they always seem to be, are locked onto him.

They are sad, though not in the same way as they were the day Pear’s human girl gifted her the water lily. This kind is a lonely kind of sadness, the kind that whispers I’ve missed you only loud enough for Fong, and Fong alone, to hear.

It drives him forward. That, and the notion that so many days have passed since they’ve been in each other’s presence. He hates it. He had to sort himself out, but he detests that it has caused this. His sunshine should always be bright, not this cloudy overcast with the chance of tears.

Standing in front of him, the closest he’s come to him in what feels like a millennium, he near breaks. But for Ohm, on the brink of shattering himself, he holds himself together and does for him what he’s done so many times for Fong; he reaches forward, palm up and ready to be taken. Every memory he’s recollected has Ohm taking hold of him and not letting go. This time, the first he plans of so many, he’ll hold him.

Fingers grip between his, squeezing tight enough to bruise. For all of the confusion Fong has had, Ohm has only experienced fear. That he would not return, that he was gone without a goodbye. And that, he has to rectify.

Pulling him forward, Fong manages to take back his hand and slip it around Ohm’s shoulders. The other finds the back of his head and presses his face to the bend of his collarbone. With strokes over his hair, nails catching over tangles and smoothing them out, he buries his nose into curve of his ear and inhales deep.

Grass, tree bark, apples, and something warm. It’s Ohm, it’s home, and Fong promises himself that never again can he stray for as long as he has. Here, cradling sunshine in his arms, is the only place he belongs, the only place he wants to be. It is an honor to hold up the sun, keep the light alive and burning, and it is not a privilege he plans to forget.

Ohm grasps at the back of his tunic, bunching the fabric up in his hands as though it will disappear if he is not strong enough. His breath is staggered, finally exhaling after days of not allowing himself to. And that’s a thought, isn’t it? By taking himself away, he’s taken away the very thing that allows Ohm to live. A day longer, and Fong would have found him beneath the tree he grew from, the two of them withered and alone.

Lips brush over the shell of his ear, gentle kisses unspoken promises of the forever Fong has always thought him to be. He’s never imagined a future where Ohm is not beside him, but it is more than that; he sees that now. Without Ohm, there simply is no future for him. When Ohm goes, so will he, their lives intertwined from beginning to end.

The music continues to play, but their own celebration continues in the privacy of the trees. Here, with Ohm in his arms, is not where their forever starts. No, that begun long ago. It is where it continues, with the promise that it will be as near to perfect as the universe allows.

…

Soft weight falls upon his head. His eyes roll up, hoping for a glimpse. Met with only rounded shadows, he reaches up, and his fingers find velvet, delicate to the touch. Taking it in both hands, he lowers it carefully to find a wreath of sunflowers, adorned with margosa leaves.

Unwavering, unconditional love with personal touches of the past woven in between. It’s so light, but it’s meaning is heavy, keeps him holding on tighter lest something tragic happen to it.

Just past where it rests in his hands, shifting from foot to foot, is Ohm. Not meeting his eyes, he waits for what Fong is unsure of. Perhaps for him to shove it back at him in rejection or stomp it into the dirt in disgust. It is within these nerves that Fong finds familiarity: a tight jaw and sad eyes.

He’s seen it before, with Tine’s flower crown and Pear’s water lily. It is not quite jealousy, nor is it resentment. It is instead a crushed desire, a hope he does not allow himself to have. It is the unexplainable want to be those humans. To have and to hold some part of the one they love; to give part of themselves to the one they trust most to take care of it.

That’s what this is. It’s unmistakable. Golden petals match the reflect across Ohm’s cheeks, in his smile, through the brown of his irises that shine just that slightest bit warmer. For so long, Ohm has yearned to give himself to him. And finally, he feels as though he can.

Situating it back onto his head, he takes Ohm’s hands into his. They are as warm as they should be. Ohm dares a glimpse, and the joy that bursts through him makes Fong smile. It’s a bit of a dance, the way Ohm pulls on his arms and catches him around the waist when he falls against his chest, but it is one he’d do a thousand times over if it keeps his sunshine hanging high in the sky, bright and brilliant, as he should be.

An honor, he thinks as Ohm leans down, captures his lips with his own. It is an honor to hold a piece of him, to be trusted this much. He is meant to care for every creature in the grove, in the meadow, in the river and forest beyond. Ohm has always been included in that; he was the very first after all.

[mithrilwren]

Body Speak

[Also posted on Ao3!]

After two weeks, the endless silence of the Kryn tunnels starts to take its toll on the Mighty Nein. Beau handles the tension... poorly. 

Or, Beau stress-fucks-up her hair and Yasha fixes it with her expert shaving skills.

--

The barest of slips is all it takes.

The pain never really comes, but the handle of the knife is slick and wet where it was once rough and ash hewn, and Beau curses softly as it pinwheels from her fingers and clatters to the ground at her feet.

She knows her body better than this. It’s easy to blame the slip on the lack of a mirror, or her human eyes – too mundane to help in all this darkness even if she had a mirror – but that’s not an excuse. Beau senses things before they come, can cut a path through blind space and catch the edge of whatever lurks beyond, can fashion handholds with nothing but her fingertips, can be lighter than air and heavier than stone. And apparently tonight she can’t do a half-penny shave as well as any roadside hack with a rusty razor.

It’s frustrating as shit.

Beau feels gingerly at the nape of her neck. She he doesn’t need to taste the fingers to know what they come away wet with but she does anyway. Tastes the iron, lets her thumb drift downward, marks the bottom of her lip with a line of warrior’s paint and for a moment imagines herself strong.A warrior on the battlefield, greatsword in hand, bloodlust in her eyes, and it’s different than all the times her lip’s been bloodied before. Her choice – not her inattention, not her weakness. But the vision fades, and she’s left staring at nothing, hearing nothing.

She swipes the blood from her lip with her tongue before wandering back to their makeshift camp in search of something to press against the cut.

Caleb is on first watch tonight. Beau brushes her hand lightly against his shoulder as she steps into the bubble. A few seconds later his hand finds hers and gives it a couple gentle taps before letting her pass. By all rights he should have told her to stay put in the center of the huddle, safe behind the dim glow of the arcane barrier, but he didn’t say a word as she left. Just let her go right past. She’d been hoping for a snide comment or admonishment. Nothing.

Beau nearly trods on Nott’s hand as she steps into the scant inches between her and Caleb, dances around Caduceus’s softly rumbling form only to stumble over Fjord’s ankle before finally managing to land ungracefully by her bag, nestled in what little space remains between the confines of the bubble and the half-orc’s back.

From within the pack, hidden beneath a tangled mess of hardtack and leather bands and and pouches of ball bearings, she pulls out a wad of spare bandages and presses the whole pile to her shorn scalp. The fabric bites at the wound with a thousand salty teeth, and Beau hisses as the cut begins to burn. Though their clothes are long-dried and the Menagerie Coast is nothing more than a glittering memory, the ocean hasn’t let go of them yet.

She could have waited to deal with her hair till they cleared the tunnels. Once they’re out (if they get out) Jester would have held her little silver mirror and Beau would have had the moonlight to play with and a friend to steady her reflection. Instead, she’s going to be stuck with a half-cropped mess on the back of her head that the whole group can ogle, courtesy of Caleb’s dancing lights and her point guard position. Oh, to be a wizard and hide in the shadowy recesses. In the vanguard there’s no escape from all those eyes on her back, watching...

It doesn’t matter. It’s just a haircut.  Who fucking cares.

Beau presses the bandages in harder. Savours the briny sting.

The next day passes, and nobody says a word about the hair. Nobody says a word about anything. Beau manages to forget the lights at her back, but her hands don’t. They wander up to tug at the twist of hair against her neck, worrying the vague wisp of a curl that tickles her skin and sends spiders crawling between her shoulderblades.

After a few hours their progress disturbs a group of gnolls in an adjacent passageway and Beau finally has a better use for her fingers: curled into tight fists, primed for breaking beaks and pressing nerves and throwing small bodies into the wall until there’s no threat left alive. But when the group pauses to breathe in the wake of the skirmish, her hands are back in her hair, uselessly trying to smooth too-short fuzz up into her topknot. It doesn’t work. She tries anyway.

Another turn in the passageway. Jester pokes at Nott’s shoulder, tries to show her something from her sketchbook. Nott glances briefly but doesn’t comment, doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t laugh or screech or do anything but stare straight off ahead. She puts one foot in front of the other. Beau does the same. Sometimes it’s good to be in the front. From here, she doesn’t have to watch Jester fail.

It’s been two weeks since they’ve seen the sun. With each step closer to Yeza, Nott’s words got farther between. On the eighth day, she stopped talking altogether. Most of the others followed suit.

The quiet hangs heavier each time they stop to rest. Beau sits with her legs spread and studies the ground, keeps her hands pressed below her thighs. She could ask Jester, someone, for help with her hair, but it feels offensive to break the silence for something so trivial.  

The fifteenth day of travel finds them camping near another subterranean river. The pulse of running water masks the drip of stalactites and the distant burrowing of unknown creatures and Nott still hasn’t spoken a word despite Jester’s soft efforts and Caleb’s worried glances and Beau yanks so hard on what remains of her undercut that tears burn behind her eyes and suddenly there are different fingers on the back of her neck. Beau freezes in place.

“Walk with me.”

The low cadence of Yasha’s voice sinks into Beau’s chest. She could reach behind her if she wanted to, grasp Yasha’s hand and keep it pressed against her skin and let that sink in deeper too, but she hesitates a second too long and the touch is gone and she presses her palms harder into the dirt and forces herself to stand.

Yasha’s face betrays nothing, like always, but the request is far from casual. Fjord looks as though he’s gearing up to protest as they leave the circle of light and Beau knows why, knows the ghost of slavers and icy shards hang in his periphery as often as in hers, but Jester puts a hand on his shoulder and he bites back whatever he was going to say, and Beau wishes he would say it. Yell at them for being reckless. Anything.

Yasha just keeps walking, torch in hand, never slowing her step. There’s nothing for Beau to do but follow.  

She aches to make a joke, some asinine comment or stupid pass to put Yasha off her guard because she doesn’t know where they’re going and she doesn’t know why Yasha asked her to go and there’s a feeling in the pit of her stomach that says she’s about to get her ears boxed for some unknown offence.

But the unformed words die on her lips, and Yasha just keeps walking, and doesn’t explain.

More silence. Beau could scream.

They’ve barely been walking five minutes along the dropoff towards the river before Yasha stops her with one hand, then passes Beau the torch and crouches to the ground. An instant later, she’s gone, swallowed by the darkness and Beau’s heart leaps into her throat before she spots a mismatched pair of eyes peering up at her from below the ridge. “Jump down,” Yasha says. “It’s not very high.”

Beau leaps without looking because if Yasha can do it, so can she. Her foot slips on the wet ground but she catches herself without too much fuss. The small radius of torchlight illuminates the riverbank and a rough alcove in the rock where Yasha waits, holding out her hand. Beau passes her the torch. She shoves a few stones into a makeshift bracket with her foot and places it against the wall, then turns back to Beau and puts her hand out again.

Beau doesn’t know what to give her. After a moment, the fist closes and the hand withdraws.  

Yasha shrugs and pulls her greatsword from its bindings. Its blade is broader than Beau’s thigh, and the line of runes flicker orange and grey in the pale light. It’s almost as fearsome as the woman who wields it. “It’s easier if you sit.”

Yasha’s voice is muffled by the sound of the river, but Beau manages to catch the end of the directive and finally moves forward, stepping into the alcove.

She turns and kneels, facing away from Yasha’s feet, feeling all too much like a rooster offering itself up on the butcher’s slab. Never turn your back on your opponent. Try again. Her hand falls a foot from where the greatsword’s point scrapes softly against the stone.

There’s nothing beyond the circle of torchlight. Just darkness, and darkness, and somewhere past her feet the rush of water she can’t see. And then there’s Yasha behind her. Watching. Seeing every part of Beau – the torn tunic, the bloodstained skin, the mangled mess of her haphazard topknot, the tension in her shoulders and the way she can’t keep her hands still for five damn minutes.

“What are we doing?”

She doesn’t really care if Yasha hears the mumble or not. Doesn’t matter. She’s ready for anything that means not being back in the camp.

She feels the faint shuffle of booted feet through the ground, and then the humming energy of a body crouched behind hers. “Just… fixing things,” comes the slow reply, an inch from Beau’s ear. The edge of a cold blade presses to Beau’s neck. She swallows and squeezes her eyes closed.

A fraction of a second. That’s all it would take to pitch forward out of the sword’s reach. Too slow, Beauregard. Try again. Yasha wouldn’t hurt her, Beau’s sure of it, but people don’t get this close under non-violent circumstances, and her body knows what to do even if she doesn’t, she doesn’t know-

A wide hand clamps down on her shoulder before she can jerk forward and cut herself against the blade. “It’s ok,” Yasha says, “it’s fine,” and she doesn’t sound sure at all, and a small, nervous bubble of laughter bursts up from Beau’s throat. At least she’s not the only one walking the edge here. “Just… let me?”

“Yeah,” says Beau. “Sure. Go for it.” Her voice doesn’t crack. That would be too embarrassing.

The first draw of the blade is feather-light, barely a whisper against the skin above her ear. Beau is sure that nothing happened at all until she feels the tickle of something prickly against her collar bone. With the blade still so close to her throat, she doesn’t dare look down.

Calloused fingers brush against the edge of the shaved line, trailing their way into the longer strands at Beau’s crown. They linger a moment, hesitating, before sweeping the longer hair to one side, leaving the soft wisps along the side exposed.

From a velvet couch in the Lavish Chateau, she watches Marion Lavorre hold her daughter close, her eyes fixed on the hand that slowly smooths Jester’s blue locks, over and over and over. As Jester nuzzles into the touch, the set of Beau’s jaw hardens, just enough to keep the lump in her throat at bay.

She wonders if her mother stays awake at night now, smoothing down soft baby curls and forgetting the eyes of the first child she held to her breast.

Yasha’s touch isn’t motherly, but it’s gentler than any hands that have touched Beau’s hair before. To her mortification, she feels the prickle of tears behind her eyes and she squeezes them shut a little tighter, grinds her palm into the jagged rocks by her knee, breathes through her nose. The blade presses again, closer this time, and more spikes float down onto Beau’s chest. She’ll be as hairy as Caduceus by the time all this is done.

A wilder part of her wants to tell Yasha to cut it all off. Just pull her head back and drag the sword from scalp to nape and be done with it. It would be simpler, wouldn’t it? What’s the point in maintaining vanity in a place like this? She doesn’t care what she looks like. She really doesn’t.

“Forward,” Yasha says, and nudges the base of Beau’s skull with her fingertips. Beau obliges. The next swipe dusts her shoulderblades with more little spikes. Another swipe and the blade comes to rest at the place where Beau gouged herself the first time.

“Nice fuckup, right?” Beau murmurs. “One more scar for the collection.”

The fingers trace the scab that Beau is sure glares angry and red and irritated against her dark skin. “You should have asked for help,” Yasha says finally.

I know, Beau thinks. “Have you met me?” she says.

The fingers disappear and the blade returns, settling right at the apex of the wound. Beau braces for the sting of the cut re-opening, but it doesn’t come. Instead the edge curves in a slow arc, skirting the fringes of the scab with a surgeon’s precision. Beau didn’t know hands that could wield a greatsword with such brutality could be that delicate. For the first time since she felt the cold steel against her throat, her shoulders begin to untense.

The rest of the hair comes down quick. Too quick, and Beau doesn’t want it to end, even though her knees are aching and her feet are halfway to asleep under her. Yasha places the greatsword on the ground. That’s probably Beau’s signal to move, but she stays still. Concentrates on the sound of the river, and the coolness of the stone, and Yasha’s warm presence at her back. It’s quiet here, but at least there’s a purpose to the silence.

Maybe this was her problem all along. Her teachers always told her meditation was best done alone, but she’s never felt quite so connected to her body as with Yasha’s fingers in her hair.

When Yasha settles from her crouch to sit behind her, she feels it through the ground and the air and the singing of her skin. Her scalp crackles when the hands return to her hair. Everyone gives off some energy, but Yasha’s touch burns like lightening and Beau wants more of it, wants it all around her. She drinks in the touch as Yasha carefully unties the leather band that holds her loose bun in place, and thinks about what it would feel like to have those arms draped around her shoulders. She lets herself drift.

“May I?” Yasha asks, and Beau says yes without wondering what she’s agreeing to. Yasha’s fingers begin carding through her hair, pulling out the knots and bits of debris from the day’s journey, and once the fingers can pull through without catching they start to braid. One piece over the other. Left, then right. There isn’t a lot of length to work with and it’s all over too soon, but when Yasha finishes she unravels the braid and starts again. Then again. Braid, unravel, repeat.  

On the fourth iteration, Beau starts talking.

“My dad was… a real son of a bitch.” The fingers pause, then pull another strand over and keep working. “He used to try a lot of shit to get me to behave. Started out with a whole lot of yelling, and then making sure I didn’t eat for a day or two – luckily once the cook’s assistant found out I was a good lay she snuck me stuff,” and she’s wincing even as she says it because it’s not a lie but she knows she’s making the whole exchange sound colder than it was and she hates that she does this, and Yasha will never meet this girl so it doesn’t matter except that it kind of really does, to her at least.

“Yeah, well, that didn’t work, so he had me locked me in my room for a bit, but I was too good at climbing to stay put.”

With a few quick twists the newest braid coils on top of Beau’s head and for a moment it seem like Yasha is satisfied with the arrangement, but she lets it drop and pulls the strands apart again. Beau lets out a low breath.

“He was smart though, I’ll give him that. Managed to figure out one way to get to me.” She doesn’t have to say this, doesn’t want to admit this, but she can’t shut up now she’s started. “He’d just… stop talking. To me, I mean. I could scream at him and throw stuff and he’d just pretend I wasn’t there. Like I was fucking window dressing. He’d get everyone else to do it too. Servants, courtiers, coachmen… as soon as I walked in the room, nobody would say a word. And I had no idea when it would end. The last time lasted almost three weeks.” She pauses, huffs a bitter laugh. “That shit makes you go crazy, man.” She’s not even sure when she started trembling. But if she bites her lip, she can keep it still.

The fingers pull away, and Yasha leans in closer. Beau feels the wiry brush of twisted hair against her shoulder. “Nobody’s angry with you, Beau.”

“I know,” Beau whispers. “I know. I know.” She doesn’t even bother trying to stop the tears from finally spilling over. “I still hate this.”

The indecision buzzes off of Yasha, and she wants to tell her it’s ok, that she doesn’t expect her to comfort her because this shit isn’t her fault, it’s not anyone’s fault, it’s just Beau’s dumb insecurity and-

“I used to braid her hair, every night.” Yasha’s words slow in the middle, dragged through molasses, but still pushing through. “She didn’t need me to, but I… liked to.” Beau doesn’t know who she is, but she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t need to ask, not really. “I miss that, more than anything. Just sitting and… being together. I miss that very much.”

Whoever she is, I’m sorry I’m not her. The words burble up in Beau’s throat but she knows they’re not the right ones, and for once, for once, she manages to keep control of her mouth. Instead, she says, “I’m glad you’re here with us, Yasha.”

“I’m glad too.” A pause. “I wouldn’t have wanted to make this journey alone.”

One final time, the fingers card through Beau’s hair, and as Yasha arranges the strands back into a neat bun with the leather band it feels like a return to center. “There.”

Beau reaches up and touches her neck. The skin is mercifully smooth, shaved closer than she can ever manage on her own, and her head is light on her shoulders. She can breathe again.

She turns her head back towards Yasha but she’s already standing and grabbing the torch, and Beau is too late.  

“We should get back to camp,” Yasha is making to leave, and Beau can’t help herself. She grabs Yasha’s forearm arm and squeezes.

“Hey. Thanks. For, like, all of that.” The words are inadequate, but they’re something.

Yasha doesn’t reply, but she squeezes back, and that’s all Beau really needs to hear.

Beau makes a short stop to splash river water over her shoulders and wash away the itchy evidence of the haircut, and so by the time they get back to the group, she’s freezing beneath her vest. Shivering, Beau beelines for the little fire at the center of camp, now barely more than embers. Yasha sinks to the ground and joins Caduceus on watch.

Everything is still quiet, apart from Fjord’s gentle snores and the now-distant rush of water. But before Beau slinks off to her own corner she sits by the waning fire, and feels the earth beneath her, and listens with her body.

Nott’s small form is silent, true. But she curls into Caleb’s side with her knees drawn up, fingers grasping at the hem of his coat, and Caleb has his arm slung around her shoulders, and Jester’s back is pressed up against Nott’s even as her hands curl towards the empty space between her and Fjord, and Fjord’s body is a mirror of Jester’s , and Caduceus watches over them all with a warm, half-lidded smile, and nobody is talking but Beau hears the words love, love, love all the same.

[minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong]

Ephemera Chapter Seventeen

Ephemera: In art, transitory written and printed matter (receipts, notes, tickets, clippings, etc.) not originally intended to be kept or preserved.

Alternatively, things that exist or are used for only a short time.

Description: Nobody knows who Vante really is. Everything about the popular artist is shrouded in secrecy: from his face to his name to everything in between. After years of working for his art gallery, Y/N feels she may just be the closest thing he has to a friend. Between her success at work and her relationship with campus hot-shot Jeon Jungkook, Y/N’s life has never been better. But is Jungkook truly who he says he is? And who will Y/N protect now that she knows Vante’s livelihood may be on the line?

Genre: Romance, Drama, Fluff, Angst

Pairing: Jungkook x (f) Reader x Taehyung

Word Count: 5.0k

Tags: Non-Idol!Au, Gang!Au, Art History Student!Reader, Film Student!Jungkook, Art Student!Taehyung

Warnings: Swearing and mentions of alcohol, although infrequently

A/N: PER-SO-NA ! WHO THE HELL AM I ! I’m so hyped up for this comeback, you guys. I can’t wait to see what they’ve prepared for us. I hope you guys like this new chapter! We’re winding down now. Probably only a few more chapters! It’s pretty lucky because the timing works for my trip to LA. Anyway, please don’t be shy and send feedback, critique, questions, theories, and comments my way. I’ll be sure to respond to all asks I receive within a day of receiving them! Links will be added later, so for now check my masterlist to find previous chapters!

And again, if you want to follow my Twitter, my username is @/plzpunchmebts. I’m super active over there and hopefully in the future I’ll do some livestreams/chats with you all! And concert videos!!

- Mercury

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Masterlist

Weekly updates: Sunday, 1PM (PST)

“Sanyo Industries celebrates their thirtieth year in business-,”

“Six Sanyo products you can’t live without!”

“Last year, Sanyo’s gross income was-,”

Everywhere I went, it felt like that name followed me. On the walk back to my apartment, a disembodied radio host would shout it at me from the open window of a passing car. The ads on my social media all pointed to it. The very phone in my hand as I collapsed onto the couch was manufactured by them. I squeezed my eyes shut, begging night to fall faster. I didn’t want this to be reality.

Of course, I’d had my suspicions. With what Jungkook said before and that guy Younghoon from Sanyo and all the strange connections…

But I didn’t want to live in a world where this sort of corruption bled into even the most respected of companies. I didn’t want to believe what Seokjin said about corporations being legal criminals. I didn’t want to believe that the institutions I trusted were fraudulent.

Eyeing my cell phone, I quickly powered it off and slid it across the floor, furrowing my brow as I rested my face on the couch cushions. Today had been a bad one. Between the strange photo Taehyung had taken, Namjoon adding pressure, Nara losing her job, Yoongi’s involvement, and my own misgivings about ratting out Seokjin and the others, I felt like I could sleep for days.

And, even though my arm was dangling off the side and my cheek was squished against the stiff couch cushion, I shut my eyes and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Sighing, I took my seat in class. Professor Jung stood at the front of the room, scrolling through his phone, and I couldn’t help but feel hyperaware of it. His cell phone. Her laptop. His drawing tablet. I rubbed my bleary, warm eyes and rested my cheek in my palm, shaking my head.

“Morning,” said a deep, comforting voice I’d recognize anywhere.

I opened my eyes with a start and turned toward Taehyung as he stood beside my desk, smiling gently. He set a hot coffee beside me and settled in the seat to my left. He looked well. Shaven, hair windswept but not messy, glasses prim on the high bridge of his nose. He was dressed as usual: colorful and artsy, with a blue patterned button down and baggy slacks. He settled into his seat and gave me a smile before sipping his own coffee.

At his entrance, there was a noticeable shift in the classroom atmosphere. People became quieter, talking in hushed tones. Instead of chatting openly, now they leaned across desks and pushed aside paint brushes to whisper. I felt all the eyes on him and, by proxy, on me and sighed, resigning myself. I took a drink of coffee and ran my fingertips along the sides of the paper cup.

“I’m happy you came,” I said with a gentle smile his way.

Perhaps I’d have been content to forget about that picture he’d taken of me, sleeping. Perhaps deep down I wanted to pretend I’d never seen it. But when he turned to me with warm, tender eyes and a smile I felt a little piece of me shift out of place. The gesture wasn’t so innocent anymore. There was more now, more than before.

And I was too chicken to face it.

So instead I simply kept my smile pasted right on my face. Unwavering. “Yeah. After talking with you…I realized I’d probably regret it if I let my fear get in the way of something I’m passionate about.”

I nodded. “Good,” I said, giving his shoulder a weak punch. “Don’t go running away again, alright?”

He smiled and patted my hand, sighing as he eased into his seat. “I missed this room,” he said, then glanced around, his gaze quieting every person it touched. He winced a little, like it hurt, then chuckled and nodded. “Didn’t miss that.”

“What?” I asked.

He eyed me and shook his head. “Being looked at like that.”

I nodded. “I see…”

“But it’s different now,” he said with a simple nod, smiling as he sipped his coffee. “They’re not looking at me like I’m weak. They’re looking at me like…like I’m cool.”

I chuckled. “Maybe it’s because you are cool,” I teased with a smile.

He laughed, shrugging, and took another sip and another sweeping glance around the room. “I’m glad I came back.”

I was quiet for a moment, debating whether or not I should say what I wanted to say. But seeing his eyes cast down, watching his own deft hands as they moved gracefully over the top and sides of his coffee cup, I couldn’t help myself.

With a soft smile, I took a swig of my drink, sighed, and eyed him sidelong. “I’m proud of you, Taehyung.”

His back visibly stiffened and he turned to me with round eyes. “Hm?” he asked, and I caught a faint blush on his cheeks.

How had I missed all these signs?

Despite myself, I smiled and nodded. “I’m proud of you.”

He swallowed hard and looked away, back toward his hands, and smiled gently. Like he was really pleased. “Thanks…,” he said on an exhale.

Class finished a few minutes earlier than usual, and as I was collecting my things and arranging my scarf around my neck, Taehyung reached out and grabbed the crook of my elbow. Startled, I turned to him expecting something to be wrong, out of place, but instead simply saw him smiling beside me, his bag already packed.

“Do you have time?” he asked.

I raised my brows and consulted my cell phone, checking the time. I didn’t have work until the evening and had intended to spend my break studying, but the hopefulness in Taehyung’s eyes halted me and instead of wasting my breath explaining it to him, I chose instead to nod and smile. Even though I had a feeling I knew what was coming next. Even though I didn’t want to face it.

“Sure,” I said.

He grinned and led the way out into the hallway.

The day was crisp, but not unpleasantly so and the sky looked unblemished and endless overhead. The Han River lay peaceful below us as Taehyung and I leaned our forearms on the railing beside the sidewalk, overlooking the water and the boats and the children playing. I kicked the toe of my boot against the ground and watched a thin swirl of dust escape into the air.

“We came here that night, didn’t we?” I asked, although I knew the answer.

Taehyung nodded beside me and sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’ve caused you a lot of trouble these days, I think,” I said with a nod. It was true.

Looking at him now, I felt a little guilty keeping everything from him. He wasn’t a bad person, nor did he have bad intentions. But the longer I thought, the more I realized concealing the truth was an act of pity rather than cruelty. If I told him I was working as a spy for Namjoon, infiltrating Jungkook’s gang, putting myself at risk…surely he’d have a fit. And beyond that, he’d find some way to make himself the martyr.

And really, I didn’t see a single reason why anyone should be the martyr.

Perhaps it was foolish, but I held out hope for a more diplomatic solution.

He smiled and rubbed his jaw with a pensive sigh. “It’s not that you’ve caused me trouble,” he began, eyeing me with a smirk, “but that trouble follows you wherever you go.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “It didn’t used to,” I said, then paused, alarmed at just how true that was…

He nodded. “Regardless, I’d rather be in trouble with you than living a peaceful life without you.”

I stiffened, cheeks flaming, and cleared my throat. “Ah, well, the sentiment goes both ways,” I said with a nod, but cursed myself. Wasn’t I supposed to be more careful now? “Anyway, I guess more than anything I need to say thank you.”

He raised his brows and glanced at me, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Thank me? Why?”

I shrugged. “For everything. For being here,” I said, then shook my head. “For being someone I could trust and rely on.”

His smile slowly fell and he nodded, letting his eyes wander back toward the river. “Is…is that all I am?”

I swallowed hard. Here it was. I laced my fingers as they dangled over the edge of the railing. “What else is there?”

“I…I think you know by now, but…I have feelings for you. Real feelings,” he said with a nod. “And I don’t know how else to say it.”

I kept my eyes on my hands, watching as they clasped and unclasped. My heart thumped too loud in my ears. “I…see…”

“Not a great reaction,” said Taehyung with a chuckle. “Although I didn’t expect you to feel the same way. Not now anyway.”

I tried to remain calm, to maintain my composure, to manage my expression so as not to hurt Taehyung. He was someone I valued, someone I loved. Long before I met him in person, he was someone I cherished more than anyone. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was hurt someone like that.

I exhaled slowly, shutting my eyes for a moment as the wind swept up from the river, blowing against my cheeks. “You know…I told you before, that night we went out, that Vante was everything I couldn’t be.”

He nodded. “I remember.”

“I remember when I first began working at the gallery, feeling overwhelmed. I was so happy to be working. Like…a real job. In my industry and everything,” I said with a breathy chuckle. “My mom…she left when I was pretty young. She wanted to be a graphic designer, so she moved to Seoul. And, when I was old enough…so did I.”

“I…never knew,” said Taehyung with a somber nod.

I smiled. “Yeah,” I said, then sighed. “I staked a lot of my hopes on this job.  Getting good work experience, making connections, seeing my mom again. Everything that meant anything to me was tied to the job. And…in the beginning, I was scared I’d mess it all up somehow. Like, I’d forget something critical or I’d flub a sale and lose everything. So, just like when I was younger, I started taking on too much. More than I could handle, really. Extra shifts, opening or closing alone…because I was so desperate to do well, to be useful.”

“That’s a heavy burden,” he said.

I nodded. “But Vante made it lighter somehow. Like he understood me, understood the desperation. Like he would root for me even if I failed,” I said, my heart swelling as the fond memories returned like a warm rush of water. “Like I didn’t have to do anything or be anyone for him to believe in me.”

“I see…”

“He was almost like a guardian angel, as cliche as that sounds. Like someone who was watching over me while I was making my way in this new place, new job. He never asked me to be anything more or less than what I was, and he never made me feel like he’d disappear if I did something wrong,” I said, feeling my chest constrict.

“You’re very afraid, aren’t you? Of being abandoned?”

I nodded. “I realized it once I got older, but…I’ve been like this for a while. Like if I didn’t do everything perfectly, everyone I loved would leave,” I said with a sigh. “Which was why it was so powerful for me to have someone as strong and competent as Vante telling me I had value even if I didn’t do things perfectly.”

Taehyung was quiet for a long moment, but there was no malice in the set of his eyes as they watched the river. Just quiet. Just thinking. “I’m…happy I could be that person for you.”

I let the cool autumn air swallow his words before responding. “That’s why…it kinda hurt when you used me at that party,” I said with a nod. “I know it seems strange that I was so hurt by you when Jungkook had done such horrible things. I know it’s…counterintuitive.”

“I understand, though,” he said, eyeing me almost desperately.

I smiled. “I know you do,” I said, voice soft against the quiet cacophony of activity around us. “I guess…having the person who I trusted most, the person who would never exploit me like I let other people do…,” I paused with a sigh and clasped my cold hands together tightly, like a prayer. “I understand why you had to do it. Namjoon is your friend and I would have been happy to help had you told me beforehand.”

His brows furrowed as he gazed out across the river. “But would you have?” he asked, glancing at me. “Would you have knowingly betrayed Jungkook?”

I set my lips thin and met his eyes. “Yes,” I said with a single, sharp nod. “I would have done it.”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “I guess I was trying to do too much on my own,” he said.

“You have a tendency of doing that.”

He chuckled. “I know,” he said. “I’ll work on it. I don’t want to make a mistake like that again.”

I sighed. “I forgive you, by the way. Completely. Because your intentions were never cruel,” I said. “It just…disillusioned me. Which was probably for the best, really. Worshipping Vante made me rely on him too much. I figured if I just had him believing in me, that was enough.” I chuckled and nodded my head as my thoughts became clearer. “But now I think…I think it’s not enough until I believe in myself too.”

“That’s all I ever wanted,” he said, glancing at me. “I wanted you to get stronger.”

I nodded, smiling. “And I want to get stronger too,” I said. “On my own two feet. With nobody’s help.”

“Good.”

“Which is why I have to reject your confession,” I said, turning to face him properly.

His eyes widened and for a fraction of a second his expression revealed a little bit of shock, round eyes, open mouth. “O-oh!” he said, turning to me as well. “Um, sure.”

I smiled, reaching out to rub his forearm. “I think…maybe if you’d told me this before everything with Jungkook happened, I might have said yes.”

“Timing is a bitch,” said Taehyung with a soft smile. “I don’t have any hard feelings.”

I shook my head. “I’m not done,” I said, smiling up at him. “I might have said yes, not because I felt anything, but because I would have been too scared to be abandoned by you.”

He raised his brows, lips parted, and shook his head. “I-I’d never leave you behind because of something like this,” he said, chuckling. “You can’t control your feelings. No more than I can.”

I nodded. “I know,” I said. “I know that now. I know that the right people will stay even if I can’t be everything they want me to be. That the people who belong in my life won’t disappear like Mom did.”

He flashed me a slow, sad smile and swept me up in a soft embrace. “You’re right,” he said, nodding against my head. I wrapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. “You’re worth staying for.”

I sniffled a little in the cold and held on tight, feeling his warm, strong arms around my shoulders. Things seemed clearer now, less confused. And with that clarity came a feeling of strength. I remembered that ruby necklace, sitting on my wardrobe in its box. Perhaps I’d never needed something like that at all. Perhaps I didn’t need anyone holding me up.

Perhaps I could be my own strength now.

I knocked on Nara’s door as the sun hung suspended on the horizon, nearly dipping below with the coming evening. Taehyung had called his driver and offered to take me home, but I’d refused. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable around him, in fact with the invisible tension between us now severed I felt more comfortable than ever, but I needed to check up on Nara and I needed a little time on my own to settle some matters in my mind.

Unfortunately, the walk did little to help, as the recording I had made my phone feel heavy and hot in my back pocket.

Nara pried the door open with Hyun pushing his head through the space between her hip and the doorframe, straining to meet me in the hallway. She gave me a weak, pale smile and gestured for me to come inside. I followed her small frame into the dark living room, the blinds drawn and the TV on low. It looked as if she’d been sleeping on the couch for the past few nights. Her hair was a mess, roots growing in black, and her eyes sported violet bags underneath, hanging to the starts of her cheekbones. She smiled and again it felt hollow.

Seeing her in such a state shook my resolve.

Wasn’t she more important after all? If it meant saving my friend, wasn’t I willing to sacrifice those boys at the headquarters?

“Hey,” she said softly, rubbing Hyun’s head like it was cathartic.

I crouched down before the big ball of white fur and gave his neck a good scratch, smiling. “You been well, Hyunnie?” I asked, working my fingers behind his ears. He panted and wagged his tail, leaning against my hands.

“He’s been better,” said Nara with a sniff.

“Yeah? Are you stressed because of all that business with your mom’s job?” I asked Hyun who remained, predictably, unbothered.

She chuckled. “Mhm. And the fact that mommy has applied to just about every open position in the city with no word back.”

“And college? Are you worried about your mom’s coursework?” I asked, eyeing Nara from below.

She was still smiling fondly at the top of Hyun’s head. “He’s not worried about that since Mommy hasn’t been keeping up with it anyway.”

At this, I sighed and stood upright, resting my hands on my hips. “Nara…”

She smiled and shook her head. “Too busy applying all over. And besides…I may as well drop out,” she said with a sigh.

I felt my eyes go wide and I approached her, gaping. “Nara, you can’t be serious.”

She shrugged. “I can just move back home with my parents. They always need help with Nunchi.”

“Nara, you can get another job,” I said, rubbing her shoulders. “You can’t get so down like this.”

She smiled. “I know,” she said with a sigh. “I really love my major and I want to get my degree. And it’s not like we’re in the middle of nowhere with no jobs. There’re plenty of opportunities. It’s just…with school and Hyun it’s a lot to take care of.”

I nodded. “I know,” I said, smoothing my palm against Hyun’s head. “I can take care of Hyun while you job hunt,” I offered.

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Nah, he’s the only reason I haven’t really gone off the deep end. I need this little shithead.”

“Have you heard from-,” I began, then swallowed hard and glanced away as she looked at me with expectant brown eyes. “That guy? That stray cat guy?”

She raised her brows. “I…no? Why would I?”

He…hadn’t reached out? After the conversation we had? I’d been too soft on him. I’d given him too much mercy. I should have been harder, should have demanded he take responsibility, demanded he write her a check right in front of me. Seething, I tried to conceal my clenched jaw with a hand.

I opened and closed my mouth a few times before shaking my head. “Just…figured maybe he’d reach out after seeing you’re not at work.”

She laughed, a wry sound, and shook her head. “Nah. I don’t think I made that much of an impact on him,” she began, then sighed. “Or on my job for that matter. Seems they’re doing fine without me.”

I sighed, feeling my phone in my pocket. I touched it gently and sighed. “You know…as soon as I give the proof to Namjoon you’ve got a job at Ori Technologies.”

She smiled. “But…that’s too much pressure to put on you,” she said, rubbing Hyun’s back. “Y’know, I realized it recently. Back when we had to help out around Nunchi.”

I stiffened. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head, crouching beside Hyun and working her hands through his thick fur. “When you said you’d get me a job at Ori. I felt…really useless, you know? And it made me realize that I’ve been relying on you for everything for so long. When I asked you to come over and help wth Hyun and didn’t even ask about what happened at Jungkook’s. When I beg you to keep me company at the pet shop…just when did I start treating you like the class dog too?”

I swallowed hard, my throat constricting. I shook my head. “You don’t treat me like that.”

She smiled up at me. “But I do,” she said with a nod. “Until when can I keep relying on you all the time? Until when am I gonna let other people fix things for me?”

I crouched beside her and held on to her shoulder. “Nara-,”

“If I get a job at Ori, it’ll be on my own merit,” she said, leveling her eyes at me. “You can keep doing this…spying thing or whatever, but just know you’re not doing it for me.”

“Nara…”

She looked at me seriously. “I’ll get back on my feet,” she said, nodding. “On my own.”

Troubled, I sat at the front desk of the gallery as Areum worked the floor, showing patrons around with a halfway-there smile. I tried to greet them warmly, but my mind was elsewhere. Where was Yoongi and why hadn’t he compensated Nara yet?

And furthermore…wouldn’t she be mad if she knew I was coercing him into helping her after everything she said?

I worked my lower lip between my teeth and set my eyes low, watching the door as a well-dressed woman sauntered in with a smile. I gave her a nod and forced a grin before returning to stewing, resting my chin atop my laced fingers. Nara…wasn’t there anything I could do for her that wouldn’t upset her further?

“Y/N?”

I jumped and turned to face Mr. Kwon as he stood before the front desk, peering over the surface. Panicked, I wondered how long he’d been standing there watching me stare off into space. But to my relief and surprise, he greeted me not with a scolding or a scowl, but with an easy smile. He adjusted his lapels and scanned the desk, humming.

“Uh…hello, Sir,” I said, bowing my head.

He met my eyes once more, still smiling. On edge, I forced my own smile to remain plastered across my face. “You don’t have a drink at the desk,” he said.

I blinked at my empty desk and struggled to find the words. “Um…no, I don’t…,” I said, meeting his eyes once more with a confused smile.

He hummed once more and produced a banana milk from behind his back, handing it to me. “Well then, here you go,” he said, grinning. “Keep up the good work!”

I nodded, bowing my head, and glanced down at the milk in my hands, perplexed. I watched as he approached Areum, tapping her shoulder. She jumped and was quick to bow at the waist. He chuckled and, although I couldn’t hear him, I was sure he was giving her a similar speech because after only a moment he was presenting her with a banana milk as well.

She bowed as he excused himself to his office. Taking a cursory glance around the relatively quiet gallery, Areum rushed over to me and leaned down beside me behind the desk, eyeing her own milk.

“He gave you one too?” she asked, raising her brows.

I nodded, glancing over my shoulder at where he’d disappeared down the hallway. “Yeah…,” I began, shaking my head with furrowed brow. “The hell’s gotten into him?”

She raised her sculpted brows and leaned back. “You haven’t heard?”

I shook my head. “Heard what?” I asked.

She smirked and cupped a hand around the side of her mouth like we were sharing secrets at a slumber party. She leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Rumor has it he’s having talks with those Japanese charity guys about a business venture.”

“Business venture?” I asked, eyes wide.

She nodded, resting a hand on her hip after she stabbed her milk with the straw and took a sip. “Mhm,” she said with her lips still wrapped around the straw. “Dunno what kind of business, but it has to do with the gallery so he’s excited.”

I hummed and took a sip of my own milk. “Wonder what it is,” I said with a sigh.

She chuckled. “Don’t wonder,” she said, patting my shoulder as she turned on her heel back toward the floor. “You’ll just get sucked in to his weird energy.”

Weird was right, alright. I glanced back toward the hallway and wondered. Maybe Taehyung would tell me about it if I asked…

I stepped out onto the street after my shift and sighed, glancing at my phone as it sat hefty in my palm. I had a big decision yet to make. And, despite trusting Jungkook well enough, I didn’t want to rely on him for this. I wanted to make the choice on my own. I wanted the decision to be mine only, so I could confidently stand beside it.

Despite my heavy thoughts, my stomach was light and as I took a step toward the subway entrance down the street, my gut grumbled like it was trying to communicate. I stared down at my abdomen and gave it a few rubs. Had I eaten today? I sighed and glanced around the road, tall buildings on either side. I’d eaten in this neighborhood a few times, but mostly for company dinners. Company dinners where I wasn’t expected to pay…

One of the detriments of working in a rich area.

I sighed and patted my stomach. Surely I could find a fast food joint around the corner or something if I gave it a real shot. I shoved my phone into my bag and wandered down the sidewalk, hanging a left down the street. To my chagrin, this street was no better. Businessmen and women walked with purpose on either side of me, in either direction. The buildings were just as tall and the restaurants were just as glitzy. Tenth-floor steakhouses, prime sushi bars, fusion restaurants with intoxicating scents and ridiculously expensive menus.

I shook my head and kept walking, but things weren’t much different on the next street. Or the next one. Block after block, things were just too glamorous to match my pay grade.

Would’ve been better off taking the subway, I thought to myself with a scowl. Frustrated, I wrapped my arms around my torso to keep my stomach from groaning and pressed onward. I was blocks away from the gallery, in a part of town that was labyrinthian and far too ritzy. Nonetheless, I held out hope for a McDonald’s.

I sighed, waiting at a busy crosswalk, watching the lilac twilight emerge through the gaps in the tops of tall buildings. Arms crossed, I sighed and my breath escaped in a plume of white. I lowered my eyes as the signal changed and the amorphous crowd of people moved forward in sync. But as I took a single step toward the street, I paused. Something caught my eye.

Across the street was a sleek black car with heavily tinted windows. A driver had just stepped out onto the sidewalk and was glancing around with shifting eyes partially obscured by sunglasses. Sure, I was in a rich neighborhood but this seemed excessive. Quietly, I watched, waiting for a celebrity to emerge or maybe even a politician.

But as the passenger stepped out, I felt my expectations crest and fall flat. Because not only did I know him, he was the person I was actively avoiding.

Kim Namjoon braced his polished shoes on the concrete sidewalk and adjusted his black button down so it lay just right across his broad chest. He smiled as he turned back to the car, leaning down to speak to someone still inside. Was he with someone important? An investor perhaps? I hung back across the sidewalk and watched like a hawk. It wasn’t my business, but something like curiosity kept me in place.

Namjoon stepped back from the car and fixed the sleeves of his shirt, patting down his pants with his palms. Was he preening or something? I might have laughed, but for fear of drawing attention to myself I kept quiet. He crossed his arms across his chest and grinned down at the car as his passenger scooted out onto the sidewalk. Not even offering his hand? I sighed and rubbed my forehead. He sure did have a knack for rubbing people wrong.

But before I could begrudge him for his lack of manners, his companion emerged, ducking his head as he exited the low cab of the car. My breath caught in my throat and my heart raced, thundering in my ears. Palms gathering sweat, I turned toward the crosswalk and saw that the signal was about to change to red. Desperately, I sprinted across to a symphony of honks from cars awaiting their turn. I waved my hands, frantic, and gave a few sloppy bows as I reached the other side of the street. Breathless, I turned back to the car where Namjoon had emerged, just to be absolutely certain I’d seen it right.

And indeed, there he was. Looking my way after the scene I’d caused in the crosswalk.

Standing beside Namjoon with wide, startled eyes and lips parted as if to speak was none other than Min Yoongi.

[heoneyology]

Desire: Ch.1

A/N: And here I present to you the first chapter of our leader’s story! I don’t have much to say just yet, except that I’m sorry again if it starts off slow and that it’s only his POV atm.

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader

Genre: action, angst, romance, outlaw!au

Word Count: 1438

Summary: Years ago, Kim Hongjoong took something important from you. Years of patience with a heavy grudge on your heart, you carefully construct a plan that you’ve already set into motion. With a series of events, you plan to exact your revenge on him and return the painful favor from years ago. What you don’t plan for, however, is your heart’s desire ultimately waging a war against you as he intricately weaves himself back into your life—and you find yourself matched up against a rival who is already ten steps ahead.

The sun has fallen lower in the sky, close enough that it hovers over the horizon, warning the oncoming end of another day. From beneath the brim of a black hat, light eyes scan the skyline with a dark expression. It’s not quite sunset yet—there’s still enough daylight left to keep moving. It’s a grim reminder, however, of how long they’ve been away and how little they’ve accomplished. 

When the night comes, Hongjoong will be left to wager a war against his own thoughts. To contemplate, to reevaluate. With each passing day he was left to his thoughts, the more irritable he became. “Hyung—” From behind him, Yunho’s voice is uncertain. Hongjoong can tell he’s not sure whether to question his leader’s actions or, as a friend, inform him of how ridiculous he was being. Luckily for all of them, Hongjoong was acutely aware of the latter, already. He lets out a long sigh, glancing over his shoulder at his members. “It’s fine. Let’s set up here for the night.” But as Hongjoong speaks to no one, he happens to make eye contact with Yunho. There’s a shrewd realization in his companions eyes—they’ll be setting up, but he himself won’t be staying long. As he had a few nights before when he’d felt so close to it all, he’d disappeared for the rest of the daylight hours, only returning back to his men at the first mark of dusk. Yunho doesn’t say anything though, not that he needs to. The other two will either figure it out on their own, or simply assume. “Right here?” San pipes up, his voice a mix of incredulous and whiny. “It’s a vantage point,” Yunho points out knowingly. As both a gunman and scout, he would know best. From the mesa they were on, they had a clear view of intruders below and a vast expanse of desert at their backs they’d become familiar with. As he speaks, Yunho makes no haste in dismounting from his horse, having already accepted their resting place for the night. “There’s absolutely no cover though, at all,” San whines. “Vantage point or not!” “Not like we haven’t slept under the endless stars before,” Mingi’s deep voice is added to the conversation. He’d been unusually quiet for the entire time, but when Hongjoong glances over, he sees that the younger is also dismounting his horse. Feeling his leader’s gaze on him, Mingi lifts his eyes to meet Hongjoong’s. He pauses in untying his small pack from his saddle. “Boss?” “I’m going to keep at it a bit longer,” Hongjoong declares, directing his horse to turn fully around so he can face them. “I’ll see if I can bring back some food, as well.” Before anyone can say anything, or dare change his mind, Hongjoong clicks his tongue and tightens his legs around his horse’s torso. Without a moment’s hesitation, his steed is at a full gallop. The small group is left behind in a literal cloud of dust, and Hongjoong can hear Mingi’s deep outcry of “Boss!” from over his shoulder. A part of him feels guilty for dragging the three of them along. This wasn’t their mess to be in, though he knew each one of them would disagree. It was his mess, and it was his to clean up. Not only that, but he felt as though he were stringing them along on a wild goose chase. They’d been out here for days now and had been riding in circles. Tugging the reins in his hands, Hongjoong clicked his tongue and let out a small shush as his horse pulled up short before stopping, turning in a circle as he did so. Hongjoong’s eyes carefully studied the horizon around him. Think. Just think. He knew this area like the back of his hand. Or rather, he should, so why was he having so much trouble now? Because it had been years since he’d been here? He had once been finely attuned to this desert and the land—the ponderosa forests not far off to the south, the entirety of the plateau and the grand Colorado that snaked through the lands. “The river…” The statement falls from his lips softly, a distant memory weighing heavily on the words that fall away with the gentle southwestern winds. Hongjoong’s gaze trails off towards the Colorado River, it’s not far off. They’d been using the river and the fall of the canyons it flowed through as a guide for the days they’d been traveling. He’d practically been a kid at the time that he’d left, it was no wonder the memories were difficult to grasp at within the depths of his mind. So many things had happened since then. But there was a calling here, Home. He’d felt like an idiot for days on end because he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Yet now he felt that much more stupid for forgetting such an obvious thing, when he should know the lands he once roamed. “Come on,” Hongjoong urges, pushing his horse forward at full speed. I need to make it back by sundown, he reminds himself. The thought is drowned out by the thunderous roar of his steed’s hooves below. He knows he’s pushed his poor mount more than the others have in these last few days, stubbornly insisting on putting in more time searching for what he was looking for and immediately repeating the process the next morning. But now there was an eagerness—he was so close. Looming overhead was also an incessant, dark worry. She’s going to be there… Hongjoong forced the unease down. That was, after all—the entire point. Her. It took almost an hour, plus some, of riding and searching before he laid eyes on what he was looking for. There, with the Colorado River off in the distance and vermilion and sandstone cliffs set as the backdrop, the desert still as expansive as ever as it melded effortlessly with the blue sky—memories flooded back to him. Hongjoong took a moment to take in the land before him. The ranchhouse still stood, though it was clearly weathered and old. Despite some patchwork needed on the roof and sides of the house itself, and the clearly worn wood splintering as it aged, the place looked good for its age. Much better than a few of the out-buildings that stood further off on the ranch. Or, rather, what was left standing of them—most were caved in and mere piles of firewood at that point. “Took long enough,” Hongjoong muttered to himself, dismounting from his horse. Taking lead of the reins, he walked across the arid land carefully, eyes scanning for any sign of life. But it looked abandoned, just as he figured it would. Something felt off though. For how far out this place had been, surely the land and the few buildings that still stood on it shouldn’t even be standing? Monsoon season was harsh here, summers harsher. Someone was definitely taking care of this place. Rather, they were taking care of it enough to keep it standing in case they needed to return. Hongjoong carefully tied his horse’s reins to what was left of an old fence, before surveying the property once more. If it’s not now, it’s never, he thinks to himself, stepping over the remnants of broken fence and into what was once the main yard. He crosses the expanse of the dry land, treading lightly and keeping his footsteps light, ascending two steps onto the porch. The old wood creaks beneath his feet, and he glances downward with a frown. Each step forward from there is the old wood complaining beneath his feet, attempts at walking lightly failed, the porch having not been walked on in who knows how many years now. Hongjoong lifts a hand to his waist, resting his fingers around the grip of the revolver at his hip. With his free hand, he pushed the door in front of him open and steps over the threshold. First wrong move, and he knows it. Despite this being his home, he knows better than to be this blind and stupid. He’s the one constantly instilling the lesson of always being alert into the others, practically beating it through their skulls. Yet, here he was—the one caught. The cool metal of a gun’s muzzle pressing to his left temple stops him right at the threshold of his old home. “Don’t. Move.” Hongjoong knows the voice all too well. But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t listen to the warning. And, so, he freezes in his tracks, muscles tensed at the threat.

[delicrieux]

-- valar dohaeris

                                        + all men must serve +                                                      chapter 3

pairing: jon snow x reader x various

summary: Tormund and Podrick try to get along with (Name)

warnings: none (i think) just swearing!

words: 2.7k

author’s note: this chapter is more light-hearted (kinda sorta not really)

tagging: @emmaamalie - @storiiteller​

feedback is always appreciated xoxo

masterlist | ch.2 | v. d. masterlist | buy me coffee☕

THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI

The Hall is hot, humid, and full to the brim with people and their eager breaths. A small feast – the revival of Jon Snow and Lady Stark’s sudden visit – takes place in order to celebrate this victory before the storm. A great battle looms over the shoulders of the Starks and their loyal followers. A moment of happiness is what all of them deserve, especially before the call to arms.

You sit beside a timid round faced Podrick and a messy haired loud mouthed Tormund right across you. It was the Wildling’s idea to have you join them, as he had, eagerly at that, dragged you from the courtyard and shoved a goblet of dry, cheap wine into your hand. Its ruby surface is diluted and rose, bleak in front of your deep red garments. You are a red spring bird amongst the crows, shining like a midnight star, and for that reason alone you find men’s gazes wandering to you as the evening progresses, each look bolder than the last. Tormund had already drunk his wine, now filling himself more from the pitcher and spilling half of it on the table. He regards his slip of hand with a hearty laugh. Podrick beside you sips politely, his eyes shooting to Brienne of Tarth, the lady knight-to-be seated close to Sansa, set on never leaving the girl for too long.

“C’mon, drink up,” Tormund encourages, clinking his glass with yours and nearly knocking it over, “if you’re quick you might miss the fact that it tastes like piss.”

Podrick snorts into his drink, red-cheeked and giddy, as Tormund, in one impressive gulp, empties the glass, and then moves for the pitcher. You watch mildly impressed. This whole interaction is completely out of your element, and the stiffness in your neck, lack of movement, lack of even a shy glance outside the figures of these two men proves your discomfort visibly. Melisandre is nowhere to be seen, possibly locked away in her chamber, possibly watching the flames and the secrets which hide within them. You should have joined her, you ponder, staring at your full cup, you should be there with her, be preparing for what is instore for the future. You are here to help, not to mindlessly blabber and mingle with strangers you shall never see again.

“You seem unease, Miss.” Podrick comments, his voice gentle, concerned, as his brows knit together in wonder. You say nothing, uncertain if there is anything to say at all. Should you correct him? Lie? There is no point to it. Your fate is not intertwined with his; it would be a waste of time to even engage him. “Is our company…unpleasant?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Pond.” Tormund says, lowering the pitcher from his mouth, “Lady Red here’s probably used to somethin’ a lil’ more fancy than this shithole. Ain’t that right?” He looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to confirm his suspicions and prove just what a pompous royal you are: he had noticed you barely talking to anyone but the Lord Commander, and you and Melisandre rarely left the confinements of your chambers, and if you did, it was to watch eerily from the shadows as the men around you worked and swore.

“No.” You reply after a moment of hesitation, “I’ve…never been to a feast.” It is not a shameful admission, though his reaction ticks you.

“You what?” Tormund barks, laugher bubbling in his chest, “You a good liar, you know that?”

“It is true.” You persevere, voice unwavering, still cool, still unimpressed, “I am a priestess. There are no celebrations in the temple.”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve never had a drink before?” He raises a suspicious brow, “You buyin’ this, Poddick?”

“It’s Podrick.” The man nervously replies. Tormund merely dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“Not wine, per se.” You say, raising your glass, curiously watching it, “I have had a drink of R’hllor’s Blood.” You catch his gaze, the pretty greens of his eyes twinkling in the firelight, “One sip and the whole world disappears into a cloud of smoke. And for the rest of the night you feel as if you are floating. There is no fear. Nor happiness. Simply a forever of tranquility.” You take a wary sip and regret it immediately. It is disgusting, “And then you awake, with no memory of what had happened. Some find it comforting. Others… unsettling. I say it’s better than drinking this.”

“I need me some of that.” Tormund hums, “You have it with you? Now?”

“Only for ritual purposes, I’m afraid.” You say, “And no. Did not think I would need it.”

“You’re a witch, aren’t you?” Podrick asks cautiously. You simply nod, “As in…A real one?”

“Does she look like a fuckin’ ghost to you?” Tormund questions, his voice rough and mirthful.

A small smile slips on your lips, “Not a ghost, I assure you. Though there are plenty of those that roam the Asshai rivers, hide in corners of old temples.”

“Sounds like a scary place.” Podrick comments.

It had never occurred to you, really, the prospect of fright associated with a city drowned in mist. It is always dark there, always gloomy, and even on the brightest days the sun is hazy purple and the clouds are a furious grey. The homes, castles, temples are built from glossy black stone which absorbs any shred of light that might touch it, creating a vacuum. The rivers are clear and ghastly, the waves of the sea crash in sounds of wails of drowned women, and the roads are always empty. From your room, if you were to gaze outside, you could see perhaps a few figures rushing from one place to another, hidden in cloaks and wearing masks. Then again, those might simply be illusions created by the fire.

“…People usually fear what they don’t understand.” You mutter, “Perhaps to foreigners it does sound a bit…odd. Then again, those who do not wish to study magic have no place there.”

“I don’t need fuckin’ magic when I got a sword.” Tormund starts, elated, as if telling a great tale, “One hand an axe, the other a blade. Cut your head off and stab you for good measure.” He winks, “Oh, you should see what’s beyond the wall. Freedom, is what it is. Freedom. Mountains of snow, the world seems fuckin’ endless. We move from place to place, wherefuckin’ever we like, and we don’t have to answer to any lord or lady. Do what we want, when we want. Beyond the wall is a beautiful fuckin’ place.”

“We?” You ask.

“Me and the Wildings. We travel together. We hunt together. You’d end up dead in a day out there alone.” He explains, near boastful, “And what about you? Form any prayer circles with the other ladies?”

“What Tormund is trying to say,” Podrick quickly intervenes, “is if you and the other priestess’s are close. You and the Red Woman seem amiable.” He finishes with a friendly smile, “Pardon us.” He shoots a glance at Tormund, he already opening his mouth, “We’re just curious. Ashai—Am I saying that correctly? - is so far away and…No one knows much of it.”

Close? You suppose that some might think so, but that would be untrue. You know of Cordelia from the Yi Ti(1), a woman with burgundy hair and chilling ice blue eyes. You have spoken to her once during a ritual, and her voice was permanently struck by sorrow, but melodious and pretty. Then there was Sheena from Nefer(2), a tall, inked woman, whose voice was rasp and low, reminding you of gravel crunching under your feet. But you would never consider them as friends, nor foes, simply other women serving the same God but with different purposes.

Then, of course, there is Melisandre, though friendship between you two is also not something that can be placed. She is more of a mentor, an authoritative figure that watches over you, but her loyalties lie and always will lie with the God of Light and Fire. The nature of your profession does not allow for relationships; there must be no ties to the real world. It is only temporary, after all.

“No,” You admit, suddenly struck with deep sadness as your eyes wander around the room, ears ring painfully with laughter. You feel incredibly small, and your shoulders cave with an exhale, “No, we are not…close.”

Tormund’s brows shoot upwards, “So, you mean to tell me, Lady Red, is that you have no fuckin’ friends?”

You look around again, as if only now noticing how tightly knit this group is, how everyone is conversing eagerly, filling themselves silly with drink, shrilling first notes of a song heard long ago.

“I suppose I don’t.” You confess, “No, I do not have any friends, as you call it. The Asshai’i are…not warm people. And we don’t talk a lot. We are but a small population wandering the maze of the city. We rarely meet. Some of us sail and never return. There is no time for…friendships to form.”

“Sounds lonely.” Podrick mutters after a pause, even Tormund not daring to break it. They note your worry struck face, as if they, too, are living this revelation along with you. It is lonely, indeed, but never have you noticed just how much. You should not care for such things. You did not even think of them before this dreaded conversation.

You have never been abroad, Asshai being your only point of reference. You know little of Westerosi customs and Melisandre had offhandedly once said that one learns these things with time, though a certain detachment must always be in place. The Red Priests must be ready to do anything and everything upon their God’s command. Relationships would only get in the way of that philosophy.

Tormund smacks your shoulder crudely, making you flinch and halt your train of dreaded thought. You glance up at him, finding him grinning from ear to ear, “It’s a good thing we found you then, ey? Cause you’d wish you never had friends if you were to talk to those.” He motions with his head vaguely to the Watchmen, his eyes twinkling with mirth. You crack a smile, secretly thankful for his weirdly convivial words.

JON SNOW

The first embers of happiness light up her face, and he eases in his chair, watching wistfully from afar. Jon had wanted to come to her aid once he saw Tormund drag her helplessly, and Podrick fretfully try to make her feel welcomed, even if evidently she did not want to be a part of their small group. He watched as they drank and she listened to their spouting, later engaging in conversation with Tormund which was never a good idea. He is brash, and zestful, and at times humorous, yet she seemed awfully cautious of her words and bearing no real connection to others, and Jon feared she might not understand, or take offense to something the Wildling had said.

His fear had melted when he noticed that she started to smile as she visibly relaxed in their presence. She raises her cup to her lips for the second time and takes a bolder sip. Tormund cheers happily. Jon grins to himself.

“Go talk to her.” Sansa says, startling him. A smile plays in her voice, “I saw you stealing glances at her all evening.”

He clears his throat, “Yeah, I saw you staring, too.”

Sansa shrugs, “She does stand out amongst the crowd. That and she looked properly uncomfortable.”

“That’s just part of Tormund’s charm, I suppose.” He adds, unsure of what to say. She regards him with a bored look. “What?” He asks.

With her head, Sansa motions to Ladybug, “Go.”

“You go.” He says defensive, “You’re…a girl. You probably have more in common with her anyway.”

Sansa almost rolls her eyes, “I doubt it. The only reason she gave me the Wolf was because you told her I liked needlework. I don’t think she did it because she actually enjoys it.” Her pretty eyes wander to the Red Woman, “She did not strike me as a type to enjoy anything, really.” Ladybug’s laugher rings in the hall like a bell, some men turning to her in wonder. “I suppose she is more approachable than the other one.”

“She’s kind,” Jon says, “if not a bit…”

“Tactless?” Sansa finishes for him. He nods sullenly. Her lips quirk upwards into a teasing smile, “See? You two have a lot in common already.”

“I am not tactless.” He retorts.

“Then prove me wrong and go.” She nudges him, “Come on, before your Wildling friend pours her another glass of this awful wine.”

THE RED PRIESTESS FROM ASSHAI

The moon smiles down at you, half in bloom, its radiant light making the Wall glow. Wind howls in your ears, yet the cold air is refreshing after an evening of confinement within a room full of drinking people. The sweet scent of wine fades as the heavy door closes behind you, along with it snippets of laughs and chatter. The whole world grows pleasantly silent; the night is dark and starless.

Again you sense a restless evil which’s fingers reach from over the Wall, its watchful eye observing your small frame from the sky. You feel it – the shrill of the north, the frost collecting on bones, the sinister unease struck by peering into the void – and you pull your robes closer to your body, trying to keep warm, to feel comfort. Despite the eerie mirage in your mind, you feel a sense of familiarity. Darkness. Wisps of cool wind that sounds like whispers. If the structures were made from stone which can hold no reflection, then you would almost be certain you are back home.

Home. You have no home. Your home is wherever the Lord of Light deems it being. But overhearing Lady Stark tell Lord Snow of Winterfell with such conviction and such tenderness, it made you reconsider the meaning of the world entirely.

The door behind you opens and shuts once more, light spilling on the snow under your feet. You sense him before you see him, his aura now too familiar to be mistaken for anyone else. Jon Snow comes to join you by the railing, silent, brooding, following your gaze to the Wall, perhaps wandering what creatures hide behind it. He clears his throat in an attempt to catch your attention, and you tilt your head gently in his direction, “Saw you talking with Tormund.” He starts trying to sound impartial, “He means no harm, I assure you.” His concern comes out a bit awkward, and he avoids your gaze religiously because of it.

You nod timidly, your mind drifting back to the conversation, “I know.” You say softly, your voice carried by the wind, “It was…enlightening.” For a moment he figures you are joking, and snorts, but then he realises you are serious and hurriedly fixes a thoughtful expression, “You are lucky to have him as a friend. He will aid you in future battles.”

“Saw that in the fire?”

“No. It’s just…what friends do.”

A few snowflakes spiral from the sky; they land on your rosy cheek and kiss the skin with their cool touch. A few more spray the ground, your shoulders, tangle in his curly hair. The two of you move closer to one another, or perhaps he moves closer to you or vice versa, but the furs on his shoulder gently brushes yours and you smile lightly. He assumes you are pleased with the pretty sight of a starting storm. He is only partly wrong.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” You admit.

“It… doesn’t snow in Asshai?” He asks lamely.

You want to tell him that no, it does not, that it only rains ashes and that they are hot and foul smelling, and that they burn your skin. Alas, you settle with, “For R’hllor’s sake, read a book, Jon Snow.”

He coughs a laugh. You smile to yourself. He ushers you inside when the storm picks up.

(1) Yi Ti is said to be the richest kingdom in Essos (2) Nefer is a underground city of necromancers

thank you for reading xoxo

[cosmicevila]

JJBA Secret Santa 2018 Fic: Mirror for You

Merry Christmas, @rember-redink!  I was your Secret Santa for the JJBA Secret Santa exchange!  I tried to incorporate two of your OTPs, so I hope I was able to do them both justice!

Fic title: Mirror for You

Pairings: Josuke/Koichi, YasuGap

Rating: G

Two couples are reflected in one another.

People always asked Koichi why he bothered with “a guy like Josuke.”  They never explained that phrase, but Josuke knew exactly what it implied—a thug like Josuke, an asshole like Josuke, a guy as frightening and intimidating as Josuke, who could and would beat you to a pulp for the smallest of offenses.  Even though they were adults now, and Josuke had become a well-respected police officer in Morioh, for fuck’s sake, known for his perception and quick thinking in tense situations, people still questioned Koichi and Josuke’s relationship.  Hell, they’d been dating since the end of high school and people still asked Koichi when he was going to settle down with a nice young woman.  These questions really didn’t make them angry anymore like they used to, but Koichi wasn’t particularly good at hiding his feelings, and when they met on Clover Bridge after Koichi was finished grading his high school literature students’ homework, as they did every day so Josuke could walk him home and they could chat for a moment, Jouske could read the frown lines on Koichi’s skin and know what kind of day he’d had from their depth, and how many people had tried his patience.  

 And it’s not like Koichi was any sort of shy about sharing Josuke’s most positive traits with the people that quizzed him—“He’s a good person with a good heart, he’s always in my corner, I feel safe with him, he’s a nice guy who just doesn’t suffer fools”—each compliment made Josuke’s heart go supernova, and he thanked whatever gods happened to be listening that this sweet guy who thought so highly of him had chosen to stay at his side for as long as he had.  That first year of high school was full of horrors that he never could have imagined, but it was also the year that Josuke met his ride-or-die bro Okuyasu, with whom he was still as tight as ever all these years later (although they argued sometimes when Okuyasu went past the speed limit testing whatever new motorcycle he’d just finished repairing while Josuke was on patrol, because Josuke really didn’t want to give his ride-or-die bro a speeding ticket even though it was The Law), and Koichi, the man he hoped to marry someday, and all of his other friends, living and dead and alien, and Josuke held them all close in his golden heart.  

 As Josuke watched the water flowing underneath Clover Bridge, the winter air cold enough to make his breath visible but not cold enough to freeze the Ichigo River, waiting for Koichi on a sliiiiiiightly-over-regulation-length break, he thought, with a smirk, about the people who asked him about Koichi, asking him why a tough guy like him wanted to date a wimpy nerd like Koichi. So few knew that Koichi was a fucking badass!  People didn’t bother Okuyasu about dating Mikitaka as much as they did Josuke dating Koichi, and Mikitaka was the one who was mistaken for a woman half the time. Maybe it was because Okuyasu and Mikitaka were proud enough oddballs that derogatory comments flew right by them (or because any implication that femininity equaled weakness led to either a punch from Okuyasu or the standard speech from Mikitaka about all of the strong women he knew personally, which did include Josuke’s mom and did just about make Josuke die from embarrassment because of it).  Anyway, these small-minded people pissed Josuke right the fuck off. If they managed to get past, “How can a tough guy like you be gay?” and still be standing, which depended on if they’d dared to use a slur and how close Josuke was to his yearly review from the chief of police, the next question was always slandering Koichi’s strength. Usually, the question asker certainly wasn’t standing after that, and even if they were, Josuke just couldn’t tell them about all of the times that Koichi physically kicked someone’s ass with Echoes, because he couldn’t just explain Stands to randoms.  But even without Echoes, Koichi’s heart was strong and proud, and Josuke loved his steadfastness, and the strength of his sense of duty and justice.  Koichi was the only one of them that Jotaro regularly contacted on behalf of the Speedwagon Foundation, after all.  And Koichi’s inner well of determination must be bottomless, because his endless patience during their study sessions got Josuke and Okuyasu through high school and into police academy and engineering college, respectively.  Koichi’s blushed as hard as he had when Josuke kissed him for the first time when Tomoko told him that he was an educational miracle worker.

 As he watched the water and thought about his kewl boyfriend, people passed Josuke on Clover Bridge, some passing so closely that Josuke thought he could see their reflections in the chilly water.  But then a flash of pink caught Josuke’s eye, hair the color of cherry blossoms, and Josuke first thought that Reimi had come back to call on him for some dire Heavenly crisis, but then he noticed the pigtails—

 —And a familiar voice asked, “Josuke-kun, what’s wrong?  What did you see?”

 Josuke’s frantic looks landed on Koichi, bundled in a green down puffer jacket that made him look as small as he had when Josuke first met him.  Koichi hadn’t gotten quite the growth spurt that he had hoped for, but he was only about a head shorter than Josuke now, and Okuyasu had roped him into lifting weights with him “to get ripped and look their flyest when they were riding motorcycles,” never mind the fact that Koichi had about as much interest in riding motorcycles as Josuke had in getting a pet turtle.  Josuke grinned and relaxed.  “Nothing, Koichi,” he said.  “The light was playing some weird tricks, making your hair look pink in your reflection in the water.  I thought Reimi was back.  And you don’t have to call me –kun.”  

 Koichi laughed sheepishly.  “I know, Josuke-k—Josuke.  It’s just a hard habit to break.”  He leaned on the wall of the bridged and peered down.  His regular blonde brushcut stared back at him.  “I’m glad that it was just the light.  I don’t think I could pull off pink hair.”  He glanced at Josuke.  “You could, though.  You could pull off any color, I’m sure.”

 Josuke batted his eyelashes, painted heavily with mascara, at Koichi.  “That sounds like a challenge.  What colors would you put me in?”

 Koichi hummed as he thought before saying, “Grey-green, like a turtle.”

 Josuke scowled. “That was a Rohan answer, you dick. I’m leaving.”  Koichi laughed, though, and took Josuke’s hand, and whatever anger had flared up within him dissipated like fog in the sunlight.  

 “I think you look best in deep purple,” Koichi murmured.  “It suits you, body and soul.”  And what could Josuke do to that except pick Koichi up and kiss him, sweet and long and mirthfully, right there in public?

On Clover Bridge in another Morioh, Josuke slumped against the bridge railing, watching the leaves on the river float underneath the bridge and silently lamenting how short his shirt was as the cold winter air found a way into his jacket to freeze the skin of his stomach.  Yasuho was late for their—date?  Were they dating?  He loved her, he knew that.  The person who found him when he was new and nothing, and the only person who saw him as one hundred percent his own self.  Sometimes, that fact alone made him curl up underneath the mattress late at night and sob, from isolation and grief that he hardly understood, and gratitude that at least one person cared about Josuke Higashikata, the gap-toothed, bicolor-eyed, dapple-skinned boy in the sailor suit who liked large fries and just wanted a safe life to call his own, who was dropped into the middle of something he was doing his best to understand.  Being with Yasuho was easy, because she expected nothing from him except his friendship.  That was not a problem.  He was more than willing to share his time with a kindhearted girl with a surprisingly deep well of determination within her heart.  She took his hand in hers, and the gentle action formed a lump in his throat every time she did.  He had no family, and hers was broken—if a kind woman’s life didn’t hang in the balance of their actions, if Josuke hadn’t been born with a mystery to solve, then maybe they could forge a new life together, somehow, somewhere.

 Yasuho called Josuke “innocent,” and Joshuu called him “ignorant,” with a sneer in his voice that was amplified by the one on his face.  Yasuho told him that the words were similar, but not the same—she always meant “innocent” as a compliment, because although Josuke had a lot to learn about the world, she admired his good judgment and his quick thinking, learning fast and making the right decisions.  Joshuu, she thought, was trying to say that Josuke was willfully naïve, maybe even maliciously so—but Joshuu’s judgment was clouded with selfish, entitled thoughts, and she would much rather spend time with a boy who saw the world clearly, saw it as something fresh and new with no colored lenses.  Well, to Josuke, a lot of the time the world looked pretty rosy.  

 “Josuke~!”  He perked up at the sound of his name, called by a beloved voice.  He started to turn away from the river, but he was distracted for a moment by a clear reflection of what looked like a man lifting a smaller man into the air, embracing him warmly—an enemy Stand?!  But Stands cause definite pressure in the atmosphere, and Josuke felt nothing out of the ordinary.  He turned back to see Yasuho jogging towards him with two big shopping bags, one from a department store and one from the local hamburger joint.  He knew what was in that bag.

 “What were you looking at?” she asked when she got close enough to peer over the bridge.  “Any ducks in the river right now?”

 “No, I saw a weird reflection, like two people hugging.  Do you see it?”  But when Josuke peeked back over the bridge, the water reflected nothing but the cloudy sky above.  

 “Huh,” said Yasuho. “Oh, by the way, what are you wearing under that jacket?  I mean, I’m glad to see you in a jacket, but—”  She reached out and tugged the zipper on the coat down, and Josuke yelped, slamming his hands to his midsection to cover it.  Yasuho gasped.  “That’s what I thought!  Josuke, Merry Christmas.  Put this on.” She reached into the department store bag and pulled out a royal blue sweater.  Josuke shrugged into it quickly, and then Yasuho followed it with a matching set of emerald green gloves, earmuffs, and a scarf.  Soon, Josuke was bundled up against the cold, and that familiar lump had formed in his throat.  Yasuho screamed as Josuke scooped her up and twirled her around like the couple he thought he saw, and she kissed him through the scarf where his mouth was hiding, and Josuke let the tears spill, because Yasuho wouldn’t tease him for crying, either, no matter what.

[taifanagao]

two sides.

summary: au fic. after t’chaka’s assassination, t’challs seemingly vanishes. erik, who has lived in wakanda since his father’s death, acts in his place as ruler. nakia attempts to bring t’challa home.

characters: nakia, erik, t’challa with mentions of others.

pairing: t’challa/nakia ; blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hints of one-sided erik/nakia.

word count: 5000+ I’m sorry to mobile users!!!

notes: aka the lion king-inspired au that nobody asked for with some twists thrown in. primarily focused on nakia with a side focus of erik. i’m not 100% thrilled with the ending, but that’s probably me being picky. keeping this as one part for my own sanity.

mini-character study on erik and nakia.

(reposting because for some reason the summary is showing up weird in chrome for me, but i’m tired of fighting with it.)

The King is dead.

It was a meeting he’d done hundreds of times before, this time taking T’Challa and Erik with him, practicing diplomacy being his reason. They’d spent days preparing before their departure to the states to meet with other world leaders who, somehow, still believed that royals who looked like them could belong to a third world country in their eyes. Their secrecy frustrated Nakia who believed truly and deeply that meetings such as this would go much better if only people knew what Wakanda could give to the rest of the world.

Then, the unthinkable happens: an explosion. It’s not long after before T’Chaka is revealed to have been killed and Erik is returning with the body, no sign of T’Challa. When asked where the other young prince had gone, Erik shrugs. “Hell if I know,” he said, his American accent and manner of speech stood out amongst those around him. They may have removed him from America, but his roots stayed true.

In the moments and days that followed, Wakanda is thrown into a state of temporary chaos and uncertainty.

Staying within the walls of the palace is stifling, at best, for Nakia. She’s a spy, she’s not meant to be in one place for too long. She loved her country and her people deeply, more than anything so that was precisely why she couldn’t stay; it wasn’t for lack of loyalty, if anything, it was the exact opposite: she was loyal to a fault and wanted what was best for her people.

They were technically her people too, after all. She wasn’t a princess, per se, but she was considered an heir to the River Tribe, meant to take a place on the council when the time came, just a W’kabi was meant to do as part of the Border Tribe. T’Challa, W’kabi, and T’Challa had grown with one another, each groomed and prepared for their respective duties, none of them quite prepared for the title they were meant to inherit.

And Erik is… well, Erik. Always hidden and secretive, a mystery to most, T’Chaka had brought the boy back with no real explanation as to what had happened to the boy’s father. His proper name, the one nearly stolen from him, is N’Jadaka. He prefers to go by Erik most days, however, when he’s slinking about the palace. Nakia often wondered if he was this quiet prior to his father’s death. Erik was brilliant from the time his existence was made known, even by Wakandan standards. His prowess was far beyond his years.

As a young boy, there was still something about his presence that left Nakia feeling strangely uncomfortable. It was the way he paced about, not unlike a caged animal. It was the emptiness behind his eyes, a harsh contrast from the warmth T’Challa provided in his own. His temper was barely controlled, and Erik was prone to outbursts that could happen at any given moment. Those around him had to walk on eggshells to keep him from exploding. Nakia couldn’t fault him for his anger, however. Perhaps if she had been through similar traumas, she’d have been just as angry as him. Sometimes, Nakia wondered if he was angry in regard to the throne and the assumption T’Challa would be King, with Erik barely being considered a contender. That, she knew, would upset her as well.

But, even as a child, Nakia knew she was destined more than a seat alongside the King, even if Prince T’Challa would, most likely, be the King she was serving. Nakia studied and studied, learned foreign cultures, trained in battle with the Dora. She would eventually train with the War Dogs as well, something that broke the traditional mold. Her duty was supposed to be as an advisor and a decision-maker, not someone who was barely a presence.

As a spy Nakia knew her place in the world and wanted to take her chances while she still could. She could make a difference in the world, outside of the borders of Wakanda, and not only help collect information for Wakanda, but she took the chances to help those who needed it the most. Nakia was able to come and go as she pleased, making her seem like she was a flighty risk, but there was little she could do to change the perception of those around her. Her heart belonged to Wakanda and every thing she did, every move she made, was based upon this fact.

With T’Chaka dead and T’Challa missing – his kimoyo beads seemed to be removed as well – it’s difficult to make decisions about where to go next. T’Challa is the rightful and proper heir, they’d known and planned for this for years, but they never made a plan for what to do if something happened to him.

It was the look on Shuri’s young face that had made her stay for the past few days, alongside comforting the Queen. Ramonda had been another mother to her throughout the years, providing encouragement and support, even when Nakia’s relationship with T’Challa… changed, for lack of better word, and nobody was certain as to where they stood and what to refer to the pair as being.

For Nakia, they were just… T’Challa and Nakia, Nakia and T’Challa, and that was that. Words and labels didn’t matter between them. It was another deeper level, an unspoken connection and bond, and that was something she’d held onto for as long as she remembered. And she wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow herself the time or steal away a moment to grieve. Grieving meant facing this and accepting the reality, that T’Challa may really be gone, and it wasn’t something she was ready to face. Not when – not when things were so unfinished between the pair of them. She had so much more to say, more she wanted to do with him, and it was their connection that she held onto. In the back of her mind, she just felt he was still out there, somewhere.

Nakia’s restlessness was growing again and something didn’t sit entirely right with her. It was unlike T’Challa to not return home and Erik was more dismissive of this fact than Nakia felt he should have been. He moved about the palace as if nothing happened, easily slipping into the roles T’Challa held as prince. It didn’t take a spy’s knowledge or experience to tell that this wasn’t right, that there were more questions that needed to be answered.

“Erik,” she said one day as she approached, her brows knitted.

“Your Highness,” he corrected her, a certain smugness in his tone that Nakia picked up on immediately. Erik raised his brow and tilted his head to look at her. “You got something to say? Or you just gonna bug me? I’ve got better shit to do right now than have you all up in my business.”

Nakia stood her ground, determined to be unbothered and unwavering. But she was a spy, after all, slipping into disguises and roles. It was something that she could do as well: change tactics, angle, and approach. She needed him to trust her… as much as he was able to trust someone, anyway. She wasn’t sure how much he can do that. “Your Highness,” she repeated in a gentle tone, letting her body not be held as tightly. Nakia visibly relaxed herself and gently smiled. “I am simply concerned for you, your Highness,” she went on. “Losing your uncle and your cousin. It’d be difficult for anyone.”

His eyes were on her. Nakia had long noticed that there was something predatory about the way he observed situations and took in his surroundings. There was something about the way he moved as well, a prowl more than a walk or a run, and his movements were not unlike hers, sometimes, when she’s all cooped up with nothing to do, aching to be out in the world. Erik’s lips curl upwards, just for the briefest of seconds, but she’s observant. She catches it.

But, he straightened his back and rolls his neck. “Shit happens,” he said simply. “Where I come from, that’s just another fucking day. Same bullshit, another place. “Y’all aren’t that much different from us.” He paused and shrugged his shoulders, his eyes. “People ain’t about to change. Doesn’t matter where you go, everyone’s just looking to get their own. Everybody dies. Part of life. May as well get used to it.”

She took note of us words; even after all these years, he hadn’t shaken his “us versus them” mentality. At the end of the day, in Erik’s mind, he was still an outsider, and this wasn’t really his home. Nakia couldn’t fault him for that. Even if Erik’s father had promised to bring him here, even if he had been told endless tales of Wakanda, it wasn’t where he came from and he still felt an attachment to the place he knew as home. Hell, he hadn’t had a choice in coming here. Wracked with guilt, T’Chaka had whisked the boy away without any type of question or say in the matter.

In many ways, Nakia could understand Erik’s angers and frustrations.

When she didn’t answer, Erik moved closer to her, eyes focused intently. He was searching her face for something, anything to give away her motivations and intentions, but Nakia held her ground and eye contact with him. When he’s mere inches away from her, he stops.

His presence is intimidating. Erik is all height and muscles and firm build; a warrior’s upbringing and the result of years and years of training. Even through his clothing it’s apparent; clothes that cling just so to his muscles and cling to his figure. It’s a tactful thing, she knows, and it’s not unintentional. When he hovered over her, she craned her head back to look up at him.

“What’chu worried about me for?” He demanded to know, leaning into her. “None of y’all paid me that much mind before now.” A pause. “People asking me how the fuck I’m doing doesn’t mean shit when –” He stopped to scoff, taking a small step back from her. He huffed. “And I’m supposed to believe y’all give a fuck now? Just because—"

“I am sorry, Erik,” she said, cutting him off. His words are a small jab of pain, a tiny insight to a side of him he doesn’t show much of to people anymore. Over the years, he’d grown angrier. More closed off. T’Chaka and Ramonda had always hoped he’d warm and open to them but he’d grown more distant. “Nobody should have to have gone through what you have. Any of it. It’s not fair.” There’s a truth to her words, Nakia didn’t lie, but she could certainly play into a situation.

He was still studying her face, her expressions, brown eyes darting back and forth. Nakia wasn’t sure what he was trying to find. “Why do you do it, Nakia? Defend these assholes? They do—they don’t fucking deserve it of it. Shit, look around. Shit could change the world, make an actual fucking difference, not some bullshit peace talks and meetings. Actual fucking work that matters.”

His question startled her and she blinked. He wasn’t entirely wrong, was he? Nakia could, on some level, understand him. “Because, your Highness, I believe in Wakanda. I believe in our people.”

“What about the rest of our people?” He snorted. “Getting gunned down. Starving. Suffering ‘cuz some bastards bought and sold the rest of our people while Wakanda watched.” Erik didn’t step back when he spoke. “Where the fuck was Wakanda then? And now? Like I said, shit stays the same. Just put another fucking name on it, another face. And we’re supposed to take it? Nah, fuck that.”

Nakia sucked in a sharp breath. “Wakanda is not perfect, I agree, but—”

“Then why the hell you protect it?”

“Because I believe in what Wakanda can be, that it can change.”

It was then that Erik’s lips curled into a smile. It’s not warm. It’s not comforting. It’s dangerous, really, and Nakia has to keep from backing away from him. “Good. ‘Cuz so do I.”

“Excuse me, your Highness. I should go,” Nakia said before turning on heel. His words didn’t sit well with her, they didn’t feel right. Something about the encounter had been sinister and concerning to her, his words ringing in her head.

Things changed quickly after that. Power shifted. Erik was the acting head of Wakanda while the search for T’Challa continued. There was the proper mourning period for T’Chaka that had to be adhered to in the meanwhile as Wakanda struggled to find their way through this.

Nakia went back to her normal lifestyle, in and out of the city, running about the world, using her skills and effort to make an impact and make a difference. With Erik in charge, Wakanda was feeling less like home and more… akin to a prison, really. It’s a slow, subtle, change at first. Changing tactics. Changing interactions with the outside world. Years of progress and development, isolated from the world, and Wakanda was slowly exposing itself to everyone. The changes were little by little, but Nakia was able to take note of them.

And months later, T’Challa was still… gone. No signs of him. It wasn’t the T’Challa that Nakia knew to abandon the throne and his people, but maybe his father’s death had struck the young man harder than anyone could have imagined. Shuri and Ramonda were not only left to monitor their father and husband but a brother and son as well. The more days that passed, the more it seemed as if they would never be able to find him.

But Nakia hadn’t given up.

She found herself in Austria first, the place that had started… well, all of this, and it was there that the rabbit hole began to get deeper. Across Europe she went, sending false reports and messages back home to cover her trails. She even made the rare appearance back in Wakanda to officially report in, just as she always did.

It was in the council room one day and the events that had happened that made her realize fully how much worse things had gotten. For weeks she had been gone, following leads and clues, before coming back to find Erik on the edge of war. Nakia had slipped silently into the room, listening quietly to Erik’s plans. “Why should Wakanda stay in the shadows?” His voice is dark, angry even, but laced with passion. Nakia can see Okoye, her body tense. Unlike the War Dogs, the Dora may have a had a stoic tendency, but they weren’t quite as bound to being… detached. Being passionate about the throne and their country was what drove the Dora.

“Your Highness,” Okoye says, her voice disapproving. “It is not safe. Not with the previous—”

“—is he here?” Erik snarls.

There’s an uncomfortable shift in the rest of the council at his words. Nobody’s quite fully acknowledged T’Challa’s long absence.

The room feels cold despite the sunlight pouring into it. The city sparkled and shined far beyond the throne, waterfalls and forests in the far distance. The buildings and trains, unlike many other cities, didn’t mar the natural beauty Wakanda was overflowing with, no, they added to it more than anything. Blended in. They had worked to make sure it fit and flowed perfectly. Not a building out of place, not a mark on the country’s simple beauty.

Nakia can see Erik glance at each of them. “Oh…” he sits back and snorts. “Y’all still think he’s coming back. He fucking abandons y’all and the throne and you’re still in here thinking he’s about to come back?” Erik scoffed again and stood, his voice raising. “Y’all can’t see? That li’l bitch got scared and he ain’t comin’ back. Couldn’t keep his daddy alive. Couldn’t handle it. And y’all want him as your king? Nah, that ain’t how this is gon’ go.” The more he talked, the more he slipped into his ‘old’ voice. “We doin’ this. I’m in charge and y’all gon’ put some respect on that.”

‘This’. Nakia’s not certain what his plans are but based on the council’s responses. She paused before approaching as if she had heard nothing. “Your Highness,” she said in a light tone. Erik’s eyes flickered to her and something in his face softened. She wasn’t sure what that mean. “I was told you wanted to see me.”

In some ways, for a brief second, it reminded her of an expression T’Challa sometimes wore and it ‘brings back that familiar aching in her chest that thinking about him does, almost every single time.)

“This meeting’s over,” he said with a dismissive hand wave at the rest of the council and then he pointed at Nakia herself. “You. Come here.”

The rest of the council disappeared with Nakia giving a nod to her father as he walked past her.

And it was easy, slipping back into a clueless act as she approached him. “I’m sorry I could not come sooner. I was—”

He cut her off. “I know where you been,” he said, moving back to the throne. Nakia was smart, knowing and seeing it to be a power move, but she wouldn’t let herself be shaken. Instead, she watched him quietly before he spoke again. “What I don’t like is you getting all involved in my business and shit.”

She offers him a questioning look.

“You think I don’t know who you talkin’ to? You think you the only one with skills, Nakia?”

A pause. Talking to him could be like a game, planning moves. Playing into them or calling his bluff. Treading carefully. “Of course not, sir,” she responded. “I am simply doing what is required of me.”

“Then why you goin’ places that weren’t authorized.”

“Sometimes, the job requires it. I know this is new for you, but—”

His eyes flash, dangerously. “Are you doubting my abilties?”

“No, sir. I simply—”

Erik stands abruptly, swiftly moving towards her. Another power move. “You go where I tell you. You do what I tell you. Understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

He’s closer now, leaning in to her. “I always liked you, Nakia. More than the rest of them. Always trusted you,” he said. His hands ghost over her arm, his eyes scanning her body before meeting her own. A predator, she thought again. Every move calculated and planned, zeroing in on its prey. “Only fucking genuine thing in this place. Rest of it? A fucking lie. But you know that, right?”

Nakia took a small step back, away from his hand and breaking their eye contact. “What were you speaking about, before I came in?”

Another curl of his lips. “Plans I got,” he responded simply. “Wakanda can’t stay hidden forever. Things that stay in the shadows, they always eventually come out.” He’s studying her carefully and, for a second, Nakia wondered if he knew. “I’mma help our people, Nakia. All the shit they goin’ through? All the shit Wakanda let them go through? That ends. Our people fucking deserve better than this shit and Wakanda can help them with that. We’re going public.”

She wondered if he knew she was searching for any sign of T’Challa, anything that could make him come back to her. Come back to them. And the thing was, she still didn’t disagree with him, not entirely, but she wasn’t certain she trusted his methods.

“And, Imma need you with me when that happens,” he goes on. Nakia ‘s stomach lurched, and she took another step back.

No.

“I have to go, your Highness,” she said before backing out of the room, the implications of his words startling her.

She had to find him. She had to find T’Challa.

(She tells Ramonda and Shuri before she disappears again, slipping out in the middle of the night, with little warning to anyone else. The fewer people who knew the better. The settings on her kimoyo beads were adjusted by Shuri beforehand, leaving her less likely to be tracked and detected, but still providing her with some sense of direction).

Her search continued. A part of her felt guilty for seemingly slipping out of Wakanda so easily. As a spy, she did this often, but circumstances had changed, and she had a new goal.

It was late night, bordering into morning when she slipped out of Wakanda’s borders. Red and gold and yellow danced across the early sunrise and she wondered when she’d see it again. Could be weeks. Could be months. That was another feeling Nakia was quite used to, but this time… well, it felt entirely different.

A part of her wasn’t certain she’d even have a home to come to if Erik had his way.

Nakia found herself curled up in a bed in a hotel room. New York City. She’d been here plenty of times before, but she’d tracked down names, now. Faces. Places. Followed her gut and her instincts to a “Tony Stark”. That meeting had been… something.

There was a reason she was a spy and not a diplomat, though T’Challa had seemed to think she’d be decent at the latter.

For the first time, or at least the first time she allowed herself to acknowledge, Nakia missed her family. She missed the River, her River, and tying her skirt above her knees and wading into the water when the sun beat her skin, sending her temperature rising. She missed splashing it onto her face, the fresh and cool feeling making her feel renewed. The water reeds nearby that were sometimes a nuisance, she missed those as well.

She missed sitting at the water’s edge with T’Challa. His spot, a cliff that overlooked upon land that seemed to stretch out for forever. Her spot was along the river’s edge, a waterfall crashing into rocks and the bubbling sound it produced. It was enough to lull her to sleep, laid out on her back and lazily stretching her arms over her body. She’d look over at T’Challa and see his flustered look as she caught him staring at her.

And she’d smile lazily, brown eyes shining brightly at him. “It’s okay,” she’d tell him as she sat up again, keeping their eyes connected. T’Challa would be all awkward, shy, smiles as she kissed his cheek softly.

(They were young. Their relationship was complicated. They’d had so many firsts with one another and there were so many other firsts she had wanted to keep having with him. But life was complicated, and it got in the way. She’d long since accepted that fact).

The reality was she was holed up under an alias, one of many she had, in a hotel. She knew that Erik would be using all types of Wakandan resources to find where ‘his’ spies were and keep tabs with them. Even with Shuri’s altered technology, she could only run for so long.

Time wasn’t her friend.

New York seemed to hold answers, however, and this… this felt right. With all of the research she’d done and intel she’d gained, it seemed like the sort of place T’Challa would stick himself. It was enough for him to blend in, but he still had… those Avengers, as they called themselves. And, besides, Tony seemed to be a terrible liar, brushing things off with a joke or a flirt, she could read him just as easily as she could anyone else. But she played dumb and innocent, she kept it smooth and simple under the guise of ‘seeking employment’. An easy enough lie to tell, she had decided, and it worked. Mostly.

The training and education she had received in Wakanda was beyond anything in the states. She was able to forge enough of an identity to be reliable. Quick communication back with Shuri ensured records of her lie properly existed.

She wouldn’t – couldn’t – cut off ties with the family. Mostly Shuri; the girl was still quite young, but a genius beyond her years. Nakia couldn’t imagine doing a mission without her. Their correspondence was hushed whispers into their tech with Shuri making quips about how her father liked movies where they did this sort of thing, her voice laced with a happy sadness at being involved in something like this.

Nakia made a note to hug her when the – when they – got back.

Work was meant to start in the morning; a temporary position, she was told.

Hours pass and then days, Nakia searching for answers inbetween running tasks. She eventually spotted a familiar form entering an elevator and she slipped in from behind before pressing the stop button.

“Nakia?” T’Challa’s voice is startled, filled with surprise. He stared at her with a confused expression and there was something akin to guilt behind his eyes. He looked different. A little more reserved, maybe, more drawn into himself. His eyes search her. She could tell he was calming down from being caught off-guard

She’d been right, and her actions had not been in vain. She had known that deep inside and it was why she had been so damn stubborn over it. Nakia didn’t give up easily, not on anything, and it was a core to her entire being.

“T’Challa,” she let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. “T’Challa, what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, deflecting the question. She wondered if he realized he repeated hers.

Nakia frowned. “I’m here to find you,” she said. “Your family, they are… they don’t know what happened to you. Nobody does. After what happened with your father—” She can see his body stiffen, but she continued on. “—people need to know you’re alive.”

“I couldn’t keep him alive, Nakia. What kind of king is unable to protect their family?”

“And you are protecting them by leaving them?” The only other sound in the room is the sound of her heels as they clink against the floor. “By leaving them alone?”

He paused. “It was never my intention to – I fully intended to come home when I was finished here. But things got in the way, Nakia, and I—”

“That’s not an excuse, T’Challa! Nobody’s heard from you. We’ve – I’ve – been so worried. We didn’t know what was going on”

T’Challa buried his hands in his hands. “I am sorry, truly,” he said before he looked back up. “But Erik, he was meant to tell you – I thought you knew. We agreed, speaking directly would be too difficult about it and mother would try to change my mind. I realize now that it was not the correct choice to make… but he was meant to tell you.”

She believed T’Challa, of course. T’Challa didn’t lie and she sometimes wasn’t certain if he was fully capable of it. It was one of many things that made them entirely different people.

“And your kimoyo beads?”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Shuri or mother. Or you,” he answered. “I’m not strong enough for that, Nakia.”

She sighed. “We can continue this conversation later, but you need to come home. With me. Erik… he is planning something, I’m not certain as to what, but he is jeopardizing everything Wakanda has accomplished. His temper and his anger, they are not safe. And he lied to us, all of us. He allowed us to believe you—” Nakia choked on the words and shook her head. “—he is not fit to lead.”

T’Challa frowned.

Nakia couldn’t help herself much longer, throwing her arms around him and burying her face into his chest. This was good, this was comforting, this was a feeling she hadn’t realized she missed and that she needed. His hand cupped the back of her head as she listened the steady beat of his heart. “Come home, T’Challa.”

“… okay.”

The journey home was simple. Hours on a plane with idle chatter and then slipping into the country’s borders before they were home. Properly home.

There were whispers as they slipped through the halls of the palace and make their way to the throne room. They entered and Erik’s scowl could be felt from across the room when he realized who it was. The other council members, including W’kabi and Nakia’s father, appeared to be a mix of confusion, relief, and surprise. Nakia couldn’t fault them.

“The fuck you doin’? Thought you were raised better than that and had more manners.”

T’Challa’s demeanor changed. His back was stuff, his head held high, and he walked with an air of confidence and self-assuredness. “N’Jadka, “ T’Challa said, his voice firm. “What is it you think you are doing?”

Erik’s lips curl into a smile again. “What you was afraid to do,” he responded. “And what every other person who’s been on this throne was scared of doing. I’m rulin’. Puttin’ Wakanda on the map.” A pause. “You really think you can run away for months and just come back like that ain’t wrong? Like you can walk on in here and act like nothing’s changed? You been gone a long time, cousin. It ain’t the same Wakanda it is ‘fore your daddy got himself killed.” His lips curl up even more. “’Least now you know how it feels to have your daddy killed and not be able to do a damn thing about it.”

Nakia frowned and tightened her brow. “T’Challa, she whispered. “You told me he was supposed to inform us you would be staying behind, but he didn’t. Think about what he just said. You don’t think–?”

T’Challa looked down at her and then back to Erik. “You didn’t answer my question,” he stated. “What is it you think you are doing?”

“Ah, no, you see,” Erik shook his head. And get you involved? You are just like your daddy. Gotta be the one in control all of the time, not give a fuck about other peoples’ lives and opinions. Nah.”

“N’Jadka, this is wrong,” T’Challa took a step forward. “And I think you know that. There are better ways—”

“What better ways,” the man asked in response. “People ain’t answerin’ to talkin’ it out. Thoughts and prayers. Buncha bullshit, people need answers they can fuckin’ see.

“N’Jadka—”

Erik rose angrily. “Who the fuck gave you the right to call me that, anyway? You really think it’s like that? That we’re somehow equal? Fuckin’ bullshit.” He was in T’Challa’s face now, but T’Challa doesn’t flinch. “You got any fucking sense of shame? I’ve spent years bein’ compared to you and now I’ve got my chance to prove I’m better than y’all, you gonna show up after disappearing for months and pretend we’re equal? That you deserve any of this? Bullshit.”

Nakia took a small step forward. “There are other ways, Erik,” she said gently.

His eyes go to her. “’Course you defending him and on his side,” he said with a laugh. “Why wouldn’t you? Always did like him better… ain’t no different from anyone else here.” A pause . “But you get it, Nakia. What Wakanda is and what it could fuckin’ be and how we can make a fuckin’ difference. The only one here who understands that shit. The rest of them, they don’t fuckin’ get it like we do.”

There’s a change in T’Challa’s stance at Erik’s words and Nakia had to fight the urge to give him a hug. Or even a squeeze. “But, Erik,” Nakia took a chance and stepped towards him. “Whatever you have planned… we can do it differently. Better.”

Erik scoffed. “Do you really believe that? Do you really fucking believe they give a shit about anything outside of these borders? Your king couldn’t even handle his daddy dying, that was the first fuckin’ test. How is he supposed to handle anything else?”

“I made a mistake,” T’Challa answered. His voice was tight. Controlled. Determined. “And for that, I have regrets. But you. You attempted to take the throne from me. Why?”

“Because,” Erik said slowly, his gaze moving to T’Challa. “Challenge day? Pointless bullshit. Would have beat your ass, anyway. Got a chance and took it. Thanks to you, T’Challa,” he started out his expression lighting up a little. “Whole world is about to know the strength of Wakanda. All these years, watching. That about to change.”

Nakia knew T’Challa. She could see the tenseness in his body, the way that he clenched his jaw and the way he was holding himself. He was understandably upset.

“The challenge never occurred,” he said, holding his voice steady. “And I never forfeited the throne. It is not yours to take, N’Jadka. It is not our way.

“Yeah, your way is ignoring the rest of our people. We got our people out there, across the world, suffering. And y’all sitting on all the answers? Shit ain’t right.” His voice is such stark contrast to T’Challa’s, Nakia noted, from top to bottom. It’s rough and laced with profanities, emotional, and strongly tied to his American home. T’Challa continued to hold himself as he had been taught to do since they were kids.

“You are right, Erik,” she said. Time to try again. “It is not right. It is not fair. Those people, they deserve more and better. I am certain your intentions are to help them, but Wakanda is not to blame. Your anger is fair, but misplaced.”

That caused him to stop moving about and to stare at her instead. “And what if you’re right?” He asked, frowning. “How we gonna trust him—” He nodded towards T’Challa. “Someone who doesn’t understand?”

“We figure it out along the way,” she answered. “Together.” And then, another type of appeal. “We could use your brain, Erik. You know what it is like out there, more than any of us. We do not have the experience or knowledge that you do. You are able to help us in so many ways.”

T’Challa remained silent and Nakia wondered what was going on in his head. If he was even prepared to properly be here; it had been weeks, after all, nearly half of a year. It was his first time seeing everything in this new light, the light of a perspective king, and Erik…. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

She can see the wheels turning in Erik’s head. “How do I know this isn’t bullshit?” He asked, glancing between T’Challa and her. “That you ain’t just gonna turn on me? Lock me up.”

“Because,” she answered. “If you wanted to betray us, you’d have done so long before now.” She shook her head. “But you should have told us about T’Challa. I cannot promise the council will not punish you for that, but I am certain the punishment will be appropriate, so long as you do what we say.”

Nakia could hear T’Challa clear his throat. “N’Jadka,” he started out. “Why would you betray me so?”

“Your daddy wouldn’t listen. His daddy wouldn’t listen. What makes you any different?” Erik’s voice shook. “The fuck makes you any different than them?”

“I’ve always wanted to help you, Erik, but I can not allow this to go unpunished. The council will decided the proper course of action.”

Erik stared at him and Nakia was reminded, once again, of an animal under stress. He was on the defensive this time. It gave the chance for W’kabi to slide in to place handcuffs on Erik who, surprisingly, didn’t protest as he was led out of the room, though he threw angry glances back over his shoulder. Nakia wondered if this was simply part of another plan, a bigger one.

Nakia let out a deep breath and buried her face into T’Challa’s chest. He stayed solid. “Do not listen to him, T’Challa,” she said. “You are a good man. You are not bound by your family’s mistakes. You forge your ow—”

Her words were cut off when T’Challa pressed his lips to hers, the rest of the room forgotten, and he rested one hand on her neck and brushed his thumb across her cheek. Their lips moved together effortlessly and she covered one of his hands with her own, eyes fluttering shut.

The only words that left his mouth when he pulled away from the kiss:

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Her voice was breathless.

“Finding me when I could not find myself.”

She simply smiled. “I would never let you stay lost for long.”