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the-weeping-monk · 4 years ago

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visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 3

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They had been traveling for hours and had only stopped to make camp when the sun’s final rays disappeared beyond the horizon.

Lancelot had offered to walk and had given Nimue and Squirrel his horse, despite having to clench his teeth against the pain of his wounds. It was the least he could do, he reasoned. He deserved much less than the kindness Nimue had afforded him.

Throughout their journey, the young queen had habitually glanced down at him from time to time, almost like she was checking to make sure he would not run off and lead the Paladins right to them. She had caught him looking up at her more times than he’d like to admit, and each time she had quickly whipped her gaze back up to the path ahead and pretended the encounter had not happened.

Maybe if he told her of his origins, of what he truly was, he wouldn’t be met with such disdain. But a part of him refused to entertain the notion—he deserved every hateful glance she threw his way, deserved every cruel word. Maybe things would be different if he told her that he was Fey, but that did not mean that she should treat him better.

Lancelot had killed his own kind for a god that hated his very existence. How could he face the Fey Queen after admitting such a thing?

The answer was that he could not, and so he kept his mouth shut.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Nimue said as she dismounted Goliath, breaking their mutual silence.

Lancelot moved to help Squirrel down, but Nimue shot him a scathing look and helped the boy down herself.

If you so much as make one move against me or Squirrel, I will make good on my threat to disembowel you where you stand.

He swallowed.

Though he and Nimue had not officially met before that day, tales of the fearsome Fey Queen had passed through the Paladin ranks like wildfire.

More powerful than Merlin himself, they had whispered. Ambition that rivals a king’s.

With each story, his respect for her grew. Though her ire was now directed at him, he was glad to see that the rumors did not lie—she was every bit the queen they had said she was.

“Monk,” she said, addressing him.

He snapped out of his reverie and met her eyes.

She looked away. “Can you hunt?” Her tone was begrudging.

Lancelot had never actually needed to hunt before, but he was not about to tell that to the woman gripping the hilt of the sheathed Sword of Power—though he suspected that she would be able to kill him quite easily without any blade. “I can.”

“Good,” she said. “Find what you can and then meet back here. I’ll get a fire going.”

Squirrel ran up to Lancelot’s side before Nimue had the chance to object. “I’ll come with,” he said decidedly.

“No, you will not,” Nimue commanded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “The sun is setting—it’s too dangerous at night.”

“I want to help,” Squirrel said, brow furrowing.

Nimue shook her head. “I just got you back. I can’t lose you again.”

“I’ll be fine—I will be with him.” Squirrel jabbed his thumb in Lancelot’s direction.

“That’s precisely what I’m worried about,” Nimue said, frowning. Her gaze met Lancelot’s then, and her eyes narrowed.

Squirrel would not take no for an answer, it seemed. “The Green Knight made me a knight, too.”

“And I am sure he’d be proud of you. But right now, I need you here, with me,” Nimue said, voice soft.

Crossing his arms, Squirrel said, “You’re not my mother.”

Hurt flashed across Nimue’s face, but the expression was gone so fast, Lancelot was not entirely sure if he had imagined it or not. “No, but I am your queen.”

And just like that, the fight left Squirrel. The boy turned to Lancelot, disappointment etched into his features.

Lancelot put a hand on his shoulder. “I promise that you can hunt with me some other time,” he placated, “but she’s right—it’s too dangerous. And besides, knights have a duty to protect their queen.”

Squirrel frowned but didn’t argue. He nodded and stepped back towards Nimue, who was observing Lancelot with an odd look. Lancelot gave her a single nod and strode into the dark woods beyond them.

He had only gone hunting for animals once before with Father Carden. Lancelot had been eight and had been learning how to be silent in the woods despite the forest floor being littered with dry leaves and fallen twigs. Though he practiced sly-footing often, hunting was another matter entirely—it took precision and care, not to mention stealth in order to be able to get close enough to a target.

He remembered being proud that Father Carden had trusted him enough to take him hunting, and the feeling of excitement at being considered ready for such a task. But when Lancelot had his bow aimed at a beautiful white stag, he could not release the arrow. Something about the way the animal looked at him had stalled his hand, and before he knew it, the stag had disappeared into the maze of trees.

Father Carden had been furious, but Lancelot did not regret what he did—or, rather, what he did not. He still did not regret his actions even when the Paladin forced Lancelot to whip himself.

Ever since that day, Lancelot stopped hunting had not gone hunting for animals. Instead, he had hunted the Fey.

There was a rustling sound in the brush beside him, and Lancelot didn’t think twice before flinging a small knife into the shrubbery. Oh, how far he had come.

Would Father Carden be proud? The thought made his blood run grow cold, and so he distracted himself with finding his target in the brush.

It was a rabbit, barely larger than his hand. Lancelot’s tiny knife was lodged in its tiny back. It appeared to be dead already, the life gone from of its round, black eyes. An image of the white stag flashed across his vision, and he shook his head to rid himself of the memory.

Burying his discomfort, Lancelot removed his knife from the rabbit and wiped it clean on his cloak. It only took him a few more tries to secure another rabbit, this one larger than the last.

Satisfied that this would be enough, he made his way back to camp, ignoring the uneasiness in his heart.

He returned to find that Nimue had constructed a fire. Squirrel was tending to the flames as Nimue plucked ripe apples from a tree that had definitely not borne fruit an hour ago. She caught him staring and he quickly glanced away, deciding that it was pointless to wonder; this woman could apparently do anything—making fruit appear on a fruitless tree was something she probably did in her sleep.

Lancelot set the rabbits down next to the fire and began to skin them. The process was slow, but it gave him a distraction from his thoughts, which had been louder than usual.

You can’t hide what you are forever, his subconscious—which sounded suspiciously oddly like the voice of Father Carden—whispered. You’re a beast, and therefore, you are damned.

Once he was finished skinning the animals, Lancelot fashioned a spit and roasted them over the fire. He caught Squirrel watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he gave the boy a small smile.

Encouraged, Squirrel stood and made his way over to the log Lancelot was using as a bench.

“Do you do this often?” the boy asked, his eyes on the flames stretching into the sky.

Lancelot felt Nimue’s gaze on them as he answered, “Not exactly. Someone else usually does this for me.”

It was true—in the Paladin camps, Lancelot never cooked his own meals; they were prepared for him. Cooking was something Father Carden refused to teach him. In hindsight, Lancelot figured that the Paladin didn’t actually know how to cook, and didn’t want to be embarrassed by his lack of knowledge.

Nevertheless, when he was younger, Lancelot often sneaked into the kitchens. He tried to offer his help to the cooks, but they always turned him away with disgust written across their features.

There was one soldier, however, that allowed Lancelot to watch him while he roasted an animal over a fire. He had even let Lancelot try it for himself, had taught him how to steady his hands, and rotate the spit. It was the only experience the Monk had had with cooking, or with kindness.

“Oh,” said Squirrel, bringing Lancelot back to the present.

“That must have been nice,” Nimue said from across the fire. The waves of heat contorted her face, but not even that could make her less lovely. “I suppose you get certain privileges with the more Fey that you murder in cold blood.”

There it was. Realistically, Lancelot knew that it would have to be brought up at some point, but he had deluded himself into thinking it would be far in the future.

He should have known—he was never that lucky.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I should never have followed Father Carden.”

Nothing you could say would make me trust you.

Nimue scoffed. “I don’t understand. You murder countless Fey and then just expect to be forgiven? For us to welcome you into our ranks? For the people whose families and homes that you burned to forget what you have done?”

You burn their homes. You slay their mother and their fathers. And you watch your Red brothers run them down on horses. And you see it all through those weeping eyes. That makes you guilty.

“No.” Lancelot shook his head. “Nothing I can do will ever be enough to repent for what I have done.”

Her eyes bore into his, blue orbs the brightest fire, the most consuming waves. “You say that now, but are you sorry enough to become my prisoner?”

Lancelot blinked, the question catching him off guard. Though she didn’t sound entirely serious, it made him think. Leaving the Red Paladins was the best choice he ever could have made—for both himself and the Fey—but that didn’t mean he wanted to give up his newfound freedom for different chains.

In his silence, Nimue continued. “I thought not.”

“I do not wish to be your prisoner, but I will offer you my service,” Lancelot said instead. “I can fight. For you, for the Fey.”

You could be our greatest warrior.

“Even if I let you join us, what makes you think that anyone would fight beside you? What makes you think you can be forgiven?”

“I would not blame them if they couldn’t forgive me,” Lancelot said. “I would not forgive me either.”

I reach out and there is only darkness.

Lancelot finished roasting the rabbit meat and cut it up into equal portions. He handed Squirrel his ration and stood to give Nimue hers. His eyes were downcast, unable to meet her gaze. No words were exchanged, but she gave him a nod of acknowledgment. It was more than he deserved.

They ate in silence.

When they all were finished, Lancelot gave Squirrel his cloak to use as a pillow. The boy took it with a mumbled “thanks” and moved off to another fallen log farther away from the fire. When Lancelot turned his attention back to Nimue, he found that she was already looking at him.

She glanced away and shook her head slightly. “I’m going to gather more firewood,” she said unceremoniously before rising and grabbing a piece of burning wood to use as a torch. She headed into the forest without saying another word.

In the moments after she left, the darkness seemed to close around him. When he was younger, Lancelot had been afraid of the dark—until he had learned that it was the least of his problems. The dark was not as scary once you yourself became something to fear.

“Please—”

Lancelot’s head snapped up at the sound, and his gaze landed on Squirrel. The boy was curled in on himself, mumbling in his sleep. Every so often, he fidgeted, as if he was trying to escape from his subconscious. But, up until then, he had not spoken. The dreams must have gotten worse.

“Please, don’t”—a thrash—“don’t hurt them!” Squirrel cried out, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please—” A sob tore loose from his throat. “Stop it!”

The boy’s nightmare was a painful reminder of the terrors that plagued Lancelot’s sleep. His past never left him, his ghosts were a part of him. Those he had killed were tethered to his mind, a permanent reminder of what he had done to his own kind in the name of a god he did not believe in.

The boy’s hands grabbed at the dirt floor beneath him as tears streamed down his face, and before Lancelot had a chance to think, he was up and at Squirrel's side.

“Wake up,” he murmured, lightly shaking the boy’s shoulders. “Percival, wake up, it’s just a dream.”

Squirrel’s eyes shot open and he scrambled away from Lancelot. His chest was heaving and his pupils were blown wide as he took in his surroundings.

Lancelot remained where he was, barely moving, hardly breathing. He raised his hands as if to placate a wild animal—and then cursed himself for making the comparison. Percival was not an animal, he reminded himself, and neither are you. It was a difficult habit to break, beaten into him by Father Carden so thoroughly that it was near impossible to remember what it was like without the older man’s voice inside his head.

The Fey are dangerous beasts, Carden had said. And beasts have no reason.

Lancelot grit his teeth and tried to clear his mind, if not for his sake, then for Squirrel’s. The boy was still staring at him and breathing hard; the dream had not yet left him.

Addressing the boy, his voice was soft as he said, “You’re safe now. It was just a nightmare.”

Squirrel looked away and rubbed furiously at his eyes, almost as if he was ashamed to be seen crying.

A hollow ring of familiarity resonated through Lancelot. When he was not much older than Squirrel, he had been forced to hide his tears from Father Carden for fear of what the Paladin would do.

He remembered distinctly one night when he had been haunted by a night terror. Carden had heard his screams and had come to his tent, a whip in hand.

Do not be scared, boy, he had said as he handed the whip to Lancelot. The Lord will cleanse you of your pain, just as you must cleanse yourself.

Lancelot had been expected to whip himself over a nightmare he could not control, and so he had. He was seven at the time, a mere child. But Father Carden hadn’t cared, just as he had not cared when his Paladins murdered Fey children. They were beasts in his eyes, animals that needed to be cleansed from the earth.

But it was only now that Lancelot realized that perhaps Carden had not wanted to see that the Fey had hearts, just as humans did. Perhaps he had wanted to remain in ignorance, content with the false belief that the Fey were solely animals without feeling.

“It’s alright,” Lancelot found himself saying, “I have nightmares, too.”

Squirrel’s eyes assessed him, but, after a moment, he mumbled, “I had a dream about my parents.”

Lancelot blinked up at the boy from where he was crouched. “Oh” was all he could say.

Squirrel clenched his fists and drew his brows together as he studied the fire burning low. Shadows danced across the clearing and made the boy appear older than he was, more burdened by the life he hadn’t yet had the chance to live.

“The Red Paladins killed them,” Squirrel said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lancelot moved to sit on a fallen log and motioned for the boy to join him. Hesitant, Squirrel moved to sit, albeit on the other side of the log. Though it should have stung, Lancelot knew that the boy’s reluctancy stemmed from a valid place—Lancelot had been among the Red Paladins only days prior.

He could understand Squirrel’s unease in his presence, perhaps better than anyone. When he had been a child, stolen from his home, Lancelot would dream of his parents at night. They were kind and they had loved him. And Father Carden had stormed into his village and he had killed them in the name of God.

Squirrel had every right to be wary of Lancelot.

He mulled over his words before he spoke. “The Red Paladins killed my parents, too.”

“Then why would you join them?” Squirrel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Why indeed. If Lancelot had been asked that same question three days ago, he would not have hesitated in his answer.

Lancelot watched the flames lick up into the sky, greedily stealing oxygen to fuel themselves. He felt the heat of the fire that burned his village, felt it sear his skin. “I was afraid.”

“You’re the Weeping Monk—the most infamous Paladin there is. Why were you afraid of them?” Squirrel asked.

“Not of them.”

“Of who, then?”

Lancelot shifted under the boy’s scrutiny. He forced the words past his lips. “Father Carden.”

“Why do you call him father?”

Lancelot shrugged. “It is his title.”

But that wasn’t the entire truth, was it? Carden was the closest thing Lancelot had to a father. Yes, it was messed up, but he could not change the fact that Carden had been a prominent figure for nearly his entire life.

“I was younger than you are now when the Red Paladins killed my parents and burned my village.” He paused and looked over at Squirrel, who had shifted closer, not quite as afraid as he had been before. “Fa—Carden took me under his wing and molded me into a weapon. I never thought to leave, and even if I did, I had nowhere to go.”

Squirrel broke a twig off of the log they sat on and fiddled with it. “You could have used your ability to find one of our villages, you know.”

Lancelot’s smile was grim. “And you think that they would welcome me with open arms? After everything I’ve done?”

You murder countless Fey and then just expect to be forgiven? For us to welcome you into our ranks? For the people whose families and homes that you burned to forget what you have done?

“They would not have turned you away,” Squirrel said. “We Fey have to stick together.”

All Fey are brothers. Even the lost ones.

A pang of regret echoed in his chest, remorse for not saving the Green Knight when he had had the chance. And now it was too late.

Neither Lancelot nor Squirrel said anything more, the crackling of the fire the only sound to disrupt the silence of the dark.

A twig snapped.

Lancelot was on his feet in a second, his sword drawn and eyes surveying the woods beyond their tiny encampment. The arm not holding his sword was outstretched in Squirrel’s direction, willing the boy to remain behind him.

“It’s just me,” said a decidedly feminine voice.

He blinked. Nimue.

The Fey Queen stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the fire. In her arms, she held a stack of twigs and broken branches. She was staring at the two of them with an odd look on her face.

Lancelot sheathed his sword and resumed his seat on the log, wincing at the pain of his wounds now that the burst of adrenaline was gone.

Nimue dumped the wood she had gathered into a pile and slowly fed each individual branch into the fire. She did not look up at him, nor did she say a word.

“I know you don’t trust me, but I made a choice,” Lancelot said, breaking the silence. “I’m going to fight for the Fey—for you.”

The young queen only stared at him, her face betraying nothing. And then she nodded, once, before standing and walking over to him.

Lancelot tensed, expecting her to unsheath her sword and point it at him as she had when they first met. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion during her hunt for firewood that he was better off dead.

But Nimue did not unsheath her sword; she didn’t even appear to be angry.

Her gaze was soft as she sat by Lancelot’s other side. “You’re wounded,” she said, nodding toward him. “I found some ingredients for a Fey remedy while I was looking for firewood. I thought you could use them.”

Lancelot did not know what to say, and so he said nothing. He only nodded his assent and positioned himself so that his body was turned toward her.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” Nimue asked, taking the medicinal supplies out of her pockets and lining them up on the log between the two of them. “I’m not saying you didn’t deserve it, but this . . . is a little extreme.”

A slight breeze passed through their camp and caught in her hair. The light from the fire illuminated her in an almost ethereal glow. When he had first seen her on the battlefield, Lancelot had thought she was beautiful, but it was only then that he realized exactly how beautiful she was.

Whatever he had been about to say caught in his throat.

“Yeah, they did.” Squirrel spoke up from behind him. “The Trinity Guard beat him up, but Lancelot got ‘em back for it.”

There was a hint of excitement in his voice as if the boy were reliving the adrenaline-fueled fight. Lancelot was not sure if it was a good or bad thing for the boy to be as enthusiastic as he was, but he supposed that worrying about it could wait.

“Why do they call you the Weeping Monk instead of your name?” Nimue asked as she mashed plant roots and moss together.

Beasts don’t deserve names, Father Carden’s voice had said.

Lancelot swallowed. “Would it have made a difference?” He looked up at her, not sure when he had stopped. “Would you have taken pity on me if your Fey had been fighting a man and not a beast?”

Her eyes tightened. She was the one to glance away this time. “No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.”

Nimue gently applied some of the green mush to a particularly deep cut on his forehead, and Lancelot clenched his jaw to keep from flinching. He couldn't remember the last time he had been touched with such kindness—it was foreign; new, but not bad.

He watched her as she worked, observed the tiny crease in her brow and the subtle purse of her lips. The way she cared for him after threatening to kill him only a day before gave him whiplash, but he found that he did not mind the change.

When she leaned in to press more of the remedy to his cheekbone, he couldn’t help but take in her scent: apple blossom and pine and the air before it rains.

“Done,” Nimue said at last. “That should heal some of the deeper cuts, or at least make them more shallow. Leave them on until the morning.”

He blinked himself out of his reverie. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Nimue only nodded and gathered her things, before heading back to the opposite side of the fire.

Lancelot let out a deep breath and ignored the look Squirrel was giving him.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered the boy, who only rolled his eyes in return. But it did the trick—Squirrel shuffled back into his previous spot on the ground and left Lancelot alone to contemplate.

Nimue rested her back against a tree trunk and said to Lancelot, “If you so much as move against us while we’re vulnerable, I will kill you.”

Though he didn’t doubt that she would follow through with it, her voice wasn’t as serious as it had been the first time she threatened him.

“I would expect nothing less from the Wolf-Blood Witch,” Lancelot said.

Nimue nodded, satisfied, and closed her eyes.

Lancelot settled back against the trunk of a tree despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink; his mind was alive—the good kind of alive—for the first time in years. He did not think that he would ever feel completely safe, but he felt safer at that moment than he had in his entire life despite being threatened by the most powerful woman on the planet.

When he was sure that Nimue was asleep—and the gentle rise and fall of her chest indicated that she was—Lancelot murmured a soft “thank you” into the night air.

Perhaps for the first time in a long while, he felt that he was on the right path.

#visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)#nimulot #nimulot fic #Nimue x lancelot #cursed #nimue x the weeping monk #cursed netflix #Lancelot and squirrel #Arthur x the red spear #Arthur x Guinevere #nimue #the weeping monk #nimulot fanfiction #squirrel #the-weeping-monk

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samthemarvelfan · 5 years ago

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I Won’t Say: Chapter One

-A Cold Greeting-

Summary: Ellaria Stark is the daughter of a king. When she is unwittingly betrothed to the king of a neighboring city, she isn’t sure how to feel. More importantly, she isn’t sure how the king will feel if he finds out the truth about her.

Pairing: James Barnes x OFC, Ellaria Stark. (Stark!Reader.)

Warnings: Royal!AU, Angst. I think that’s it?

A/N: Eeep! Chapter one! This is my first time writing a Royal AU, please let me know what you think! <3 Taglist is open!

Taglist: @iheartsebastianstan @jjlizz @stuckysbabe @sk493494 @lefoutoir @nickangel13 @marvelismysafezone @lilulo-12 @warmvanillafeels @star-spangled-beard-burn @ravenesque @pinknerdpanda @wintersoldierissucharide @snapcapquartet @ellen-reincarnated1967 @unlistedpond @my-drowning-in-time @supernaturalwintersoldier @kimvmarvel @roseboho @disaffectedbarnes @winterboobear11 @choicesloversstuff (strikethrough means the tag didn’t work! I’m sorry!)

The carriage ride, while not unpleasant, was not nearly long enough. It hadn’t even reached mid day, and you were to arrive to Buchanan at any moment.

As your mind wandered, your fingers kept busy fiddling with the embroidery on your gown.

“Princess, you must be calm.” Wanda kindly urged you. “Would you like me to assist?”

Wanda was a sorceress and your lady-in-waiting, chosen to be by your side—she was also one of your closest friends.

“Wanda, I’m beginning to regret this. I have such an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach...” you fret.

She smiled softly, “Permission to speak freely, your highness?”

You nod, “Always.”

Her hand touched yours for a moment, and you felt a blanket of comfort wash over you. Like a warm bath on a winter’s morning.

“You’re strong. You’re honorable, and kind. Your heart guides you and your head keeps you there—these are necessary qualities for any Queen,” she removed her hand from yours and continued. “If the King can’t see that, then the fault does not lay with you.”

You sighed.

In your heart, you knew she was right. You’d been groomed to be a Queen most of your life. You could easily handle the responsibilities of one after a bit of adjustment—but what of your betrothed?

Could you remain in a potentially loveless marriage? Spending your days with a man whom your heart has not chosen, giving him your life? Your body? Children?

“Ellaria,” Wanda said. “You’re thoughts are like thunder they’re so loud!” She laughed.

��Sorry about that.” You felt the heat rise to your cheeks

She waved a hand, “Don’t be. It’s natural to assume the worst. Just don’t get ahead of yourself yet. Let things play out as they will.”

You heard your Coachman stall the horses. Drawing the red velvet curtain of your carriage window back, you’d seen that you’d arrived.

The city’s gates were tall, black, wrought iron and ornate in design. They bared the Barnes house sigil—a wolf, in the brightest of gold. A horn sounded, and the gates opened. Your Father’s carriage heading in before yours.

“Open your curtain, please.” You ask Wanda.

She obliges, drawing it back on her side, allowing you to see the city better.

It was beautiful. Cobblestone streets, and clean, crisp gardens in front of nearly every home. Smiling families, happy children playing in the streets.

This gave you hope. Surely the citizens are happy for a reason, right? Their King must be a good man to care so much for his people.

“Look, the castle.” She urges.

The palace was as beautiful as you’d expect. Its walls covered in ivy vines determined to make their to the top. There were two large, oak doors adorned with gold filigree, and marble pillars mounted with stone statues of wolves. They were perched as if surveying the kingdom.

“It’s beautiful.” You whisper.

The carriages came to a halt, and soon, your Father was at your door. The guard opened it, and Father smiled at you softly. “It’s time.” He says.

You look to Wanda, who gives a soft smile, before turning back to Father. “Yes.” You agree.

Guards lined the white marble steps leading up to the castle, and at the top stood two men. Both strong and tall. The one with deep umber skin was dressed in armor—gold with golden helmet held at his side.

The man next to him, blonde of hair and eyes that matched the sky. He was in a navy blue tunic, sleeved adorned with black weaving. His lapel bore the family sigil atop a golden hand.

The hand of the King. You thought.

Father offered you his hand, and you placed yours atop it gently as you ascended the stairs. “Just breathe, my sweet.” He whispered.

A chaste nod from you earned a smile on his lips. Wanda adjusted your gown, and you lifted it slightly as you stepped.

“Your majesty...princess.” The blonde greeted happily when you reached the threshold, “Welcome to Buchanan, I am Steve Rogers, his majesty’s hand. This is Samuel Wilson, head of the royal guard.”

Your Father shakes both of their hands, “May I present my daughter, Ellaria Stark.”

The curtsy you fall into is second nature. Sir Samuel takes you hand, placing a chaste kiss on it. Steve does the same.

“A beauty, of that there isn’t a doubt.” Steven says.

Your cheeks flush with heat, “You’re far too kid, Sir.”

The sound of the palace doors opening cause you to jump. The guards lining the steps suddenly stood at attention, and your eyes searched the walkway.

The first thing you saw was the gleam of his sword; It hung proudly on his waist. Soon after that, you saw him. In all his glory, King James Barnes of Buchanan.

He was handsome—anyone with eyes could see that. When you saw his eyes however, your heart skipped a beat. They drew you to him; two perfect pools of cerulean opulence.

The King approached Steve and Sam, who both stepped aside to allow him to walk between them.

He did not smile. He did not seem eager, or excited by your presence, in fact...he seemed entirely uninterested. Not bothering to even look in your direction.

Nerves, surely. You thought to yourself.

Sam saw the look on your face and cleared his throat. This seemed to draw the Kings eye to yours finally.

“May I present his royal highness James Barnes, King of Buchanan. Your majesty, you know King Anthony Stark of the Iron Kingdom...”

He and Father bowed to each other respectfully. “James, allow me to introduce my daughter, my pride and joy, Ellaria.”

For a moment, you forget your place. He was so hypnotizing, just being in his presence felt intimidating. You shake your head subtly, snapping you out of your trance.

“Your Majesty,” you curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your kingdom, your castle...they’re beautiful.”

His majesty doesn’t speak, he simply looks at you. For what feels like ages, he just stares.

“Perhaps you’d like to welcome them, your majesty?” Steven urges.

James shakes his head. “Yes. Welcome to Buchanan, you must be tired from your trip.” He says curtly.

You smile, attempting to make conversation. “Not as much as one would think, it’s only a half days journey after all.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your remarks as he turns away from you to face your Father. “Tony, will you be staying for the feast?” He asks.

“No, no. My job is done. I should be getting home to my Pepper.” He begrudges.

Father turn and places a kiss on your cheek. “Write as often as you can, my sweet.”

You nod, not realizing how hard it would be to say goodbye. “Give Mother and Morgan my love.”

Father nods, a tear in his eye matching your own. He and King James bow to each other once more, before he heads for his carriage.

As you watch the door shut, your heart aches. Had you made a mistake? Surely if this was right you wouldn’t be feeling as though your world was collapsing.

Once Father’s carriage had left the castle grounds, you turn back to see only Samuel there. The King walking swiftly back into the palace, Steve at his heels.

“Your highness, if you’ll allow, I’ll have a handmaiden show you to your quarters.” He says kindly.

You could tell right away that Sam was an honest man. He seemed kind and decent and eager to serve his kingdom.

“Thank you, and Samuel when were in private please just call me by my name.” You smile, placing your hand atop his as he guided you into the palace doors.

“As you wish, my lady.” He smirks.

“Oh! Where are my manners? This is my lady, Wanda.” You proudly introduce her.

You’d been so caught up in missing your family, it hadn’t dawned on you until now just how strange your interaction with the king had been. He was staring at you for ages one moment, then blatantly ignoring you the next.

Hoping it was nerves, you simply keep you head high, and follow Sam through the corridors.

“I don’t want to hear it, Steve.” James said as he stormed into his quarters.

“Yeah? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you gave me this job, right?” He asked gesturing to the pin on his lapel.

James nodded.

“So it’s my job to tell you when you’re making a fool of yourself. You didn’t even greet the poor girl.” He scolded.

James removed his sword from his hip, sheathing it. “Why would I greet her? I don’t want her here, Steve. None of this was my doing.”

Steve sighed, crossing his arms over his strong chest. “No, no it wasn’t. However, you chose to keep this kingdom alive. You could have elected to dissolve it; become a Lord of whatever land you decided to move to. But you did the honorable thing and kept this city whole. Your people need you. They need their king.”

“Their king is dead, Steve!” James shouts, feeling the pain of his parents passing swell in his chest. “And now I’m to marry someone I don’t know or love? Forgive me if I don’t seem eager.”

Steve watched James as he breathed, attempting to calm himself. His heart broke for his friend. “Bucky,” he called, using the nickname he’d had since childhood. “No one is forcing you to go through with this...no one, but the council members chose her for a reason, she’s of noble birth and she’s Tony’s daughter. Stark is a good man.”

Steve watched his friend nod in response, and felt a cheeky smirk land on his face. He nudged Bucky’s hip. “Then again, you’re a king. You have your blood line to think of after all. It must go on.”

James scoffed, “Already have me bedding her, do we?”

Steve chuckled, “Well, your majesty, I hear the marriage bed is a fine place to celebrate after a wedding.”

The two friends shared a laugh for the first time that day.

“I have a duty. To my people, to my parents...” Bucky said softly.

Steve nodded, “She seems kind. She’s a beauty as well. Start slowly, get to know her. The wedding is in a month, nothing is permanent until then.”

James sighed. “Did you see her face when her Tony left? She looked like she’d been kidnapped.” He rubbed his eyes.

“It’s new,” Steve argued. “I’d bet she wasn’t too keen on the idea of an arranged marriage, either...and after the way she was received by you, can you really blame her?” Steve was defending you.

Bucky sat in the chair by his desk, “You seem quite taken with her—perhaps you should marry her.”

Steve chuckled, “If you don’t, I just might.” He jested. “I’ll leave you. I will see you at the feast.”

James nodded, as Steve left the room.

He kicked his feet up on the desk, rubbing his eyes.

None of this seemed real. He was to suddenly marry and be the man his parents had always hoped he’d be. The man they’d never get to see.

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t think he ever would be.

Your image danced in his mind, as he left his head fall back, eyes closed.

He’d be a liar if he said you were beautiful. Bewitching, even.

When he’d laid his eyes on you, he was entranced. The way your ruby colored gown fit your woman’s body—beautiful curves and all. Your lips the perfect scarlet shade, your eyes—bright and bold like your laugh.

James felt his arousal through his trousers, but he didn’t care. Many a woman had gotten his manhood stiff before, and it’d taught him a very important lesson; beauty didn’t equate to love.

Though he couldn’t ignore the feeling that settled deep within his bones.

You were meant to be here, and you were meant to be his.

Chapter Two: Words

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine

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jamesbucksiclebarnes · 5 years ago

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Rating: Mature

Chapter List: [1] | [2] | [3] | [4] | [5]

[AO3 Link] | [Fic Page]

SERIES SUMMARY:

"Not human. She was not human. They all knew it. Could almost feel it, but couldn't make sense of it. That was why they were afraid. Not because of what she used to be Before. But because of what she was now."

Having found herself serving as the right-hand to the Governor for too long, Synnove le Jacques does her best to make things right with the people of the Prison. Stuck beside her partner in crime, her irritatingly obnoxious and hideously problematic best friend, Merle, she does her best to fight back against the monster she has let the Governor become.

CHAPTER TITLE: The Consequence of Morality.

It was easy to forget how fragile humans could be. How easily their bodies break, their minds more so. I should have seen it sooner. The decay. The absolute descent from decent man to homicidal lunatic. Really, it should have been clear as day to me. I’d been with the man since the beginning. Followed his lead. Obeyed his orders because I believed he stood for the good of all those still left alive in this goddamn hellscape.

We had been strangers once. At the beginning.

He, his daughter, and his wife had been waiting in the seen-better-days room outside the hanger of the private airport out west. It had been a present from his wife. A single day of flight lessons from a local pilot.

Me, on the other hand? Well, I’d been waiting for my getaway plane. My day job wasn’t exactly within the realm of legality and, often, I’d find myself requiring a rather speedy exit from the immediate vicinity. That time was no different. I did my job and got out of there like any self-respecting worker would do.

I’m still unsure whether it was his luck or mine that allowed us to be within the same place at the same time that day. The answer would likely change depending on which one of us you asked. I say it was my luck. He would say it was his. Either way, we both lucked out that day.

Well, as much as one could “luck out” at the beginning of the fucking apocalypse.

I had gotten him and his daughter to safety, along with the handful of other occupants of the hanger that day. His wife didn’t make it. She was the first to go. I’d had to drag him away from her in order to make sure the kid didn’t become a damn orphan within the space of two minutes.

After we escape the airfield, we made our way steadily towards the nearby town. We had passed by the prison. I remembered that quite clearly. The screams coming from behind those brick walls were horrendous. Lucky for the rest of them, I was the only one that could hear them.

The town was owned by the dead when we arrived. We should have known better, but it was only the beginning. There were many lessons we had yet to learn.

Myself and two of the others cleared a way to the towering city hall building at the centre of town, barricading the doors for good measure. We held up in there for almost three days before Phil came up with that brilliant plan of his.

Build walls, he said, like it was going to be easy. Build them high and strong to keep the dead at bay.

And we did.

It was hard work. Keeping the dead back long enough to place another panel, building more and more each day until the bodies piling up were almost as high as the fence itself. That was my job, of course. Killing them. I was good at it and the rest of them knew it. In fact, I was too good at it and I knew it unnerved some of them. Especially Marcus.

Often, I’d find him eyeing me up from across the room, as if he expected I would leap up and murder him on the spot for absolutely no reason. I’d been quite transparent about my profession since the start, believing it would solidify a sense of trust, but Phillip and Milton were the only ones that didn’t look at me like I was a criminal. Phil, I think, saw the benefit of having someone like me on his side. Milton just accepted it because I was the only one that would listen to him go on about his scientific theories.

It was only after the walls were finished around our newly thriving little community that Marcus made his move.

I wish I could say I hadn’t expected it. But they’d made their intentions glaringly obvious from the get-go. He, Zach, and Luke did their best to catch me off guard during my nightly rounds. Their best wasn’t good enough.

I didn’t kill all of them, of course. We had gained almost twenty new members to our community, many of which were small families. I doubted my straight-up murdering folks would make them feel at home. Marcus, however… He’d had to go.

Once I told Phil what they’d tried to do, Zach and Luke were the first to be exiled.

There’s only been a handful others we’d kicked out since then. Mostly newcomers that refused to get with the program.

I don’t quite know when I became the general of a small army. Nor I do I even remember at what point Phillip became “the Governor”. I don’t even know when I started calling him that if it was before or after Marcus. All I know is, it happened.

Those of us that could fight, that were unafraid of the undead, were sent outside the walls to scavenge and recruit. We were partnered up, given whatever weapons we wanted from the small armoury, and sent out into the world of the dead with a little pat on our backs.

My partner had been… a challenge, for lack of a better term. He was this pasty, old white guy with a dirty mind and a Southern mouth. Sexist, racist, and whatever other “ist” you could think of – this guy was it. And, my God, for a guy with one hand he could sure be handsy. At least, he had been for the first ten or so minutes after we’d first met. Once I’d made it very clear I had little issue cutting off his other hand and feeding it to him, he’d kept it to himself.

Other than that, as a woman with dark skin who was from another country – even one as benign as Australia – it had been a little… tense between Merle and I for a while there.

But, somehow – and I don’t even know at what point we decided we didn’t hate each other anymore – we started getting along. Inside jokes, begrudging respect, and a ride-or-die attitude – we had the whole nine-yards. It came to the point that, suddenly, this redneck, trailer trash, white boy knew me better than anyone. And I knew him. We traded stories like they were currency and barely spent more than a few hours apart. Which was weird, in retrospect, but at the time, it hadn’t felt that way. He was like a brother to me. An older, obnoxiously irritating and horribly problematic brother.

And, as strange as it was, the feeling seemed to be mutual. He’d jump in to defend my honour at every opportunity. One of the guardsmen looking at my backside? His fist would be in their face before I even had a chance to turn around. He knew I could have done it myself – in fact, as much as he said otherwise, I knew some of the things I could do freaked him out a little. Mostly, it was the things he couldn’t explain away – like how I could hear things that he couldn’t or how my reflexes were just a fraction faster than was humanly plausible. Thankfully, he gave up questioning me about it rather quickly, and now just kind of… accepted my weirdness. For which I was thankful.

It was hard trying to come up with logical explanations about my oddities without outright lying about them.

Anyway, the two of us served beneath the Governor’s rule for longer than either of us would like to admit. I wish I could say I knew the exact moment his orders became less than favourable. To be honest, I hadn’t thought to question them. My entire life had been spent listening to orders and obeying them with little enquiry. I’d grown somewhat suspicious of his mindset near the end, there, but the only thing I could actually pinpoint was the exact moment I decided I’d had enough.

It was that night, in the haphazardly put together cells out by the old warehouse. We had brought in two strangers, members of a rival group that had made their home in the once-overrun prison. It had been a completely coincidental run-in. We had been out looking for a woman, a newcomer that had caused some “trouble”. We managed to track her to a series of small shops out by a deserted strip of road. I went around the back while my partner surveyed the storefronts. She was lucky I spotted her first. I didn’t know what he would have done with her. While I had made my growing concerns about the Governor’s current state of mind clear, he hadn’t deigned to share his opinion of the man with me.

At first, she had looked at me with suspicion. The woman I knew as Michonne had seen how close I was with the Governor, knew it was his orders I followed. But when I had jerked my head toward the field behind me, indicating for her to make a run for it, understanding dawned on her face. I was letting her go.

Unfortunately, that was right at the exact moment I heard a voice I didn’t know ask, “Merle?”

A young Asian man and a pretty, petite woman were standing out the front of one of the stores, looking up at Merle as if he had just sprouted horns from his thinning head of hair. I peeked around the corner just in time to watch Merle lift his gun and decided it was likely best to intervene before he got too trigger-happy, like he usually did.

I kept things relatively calm for about three entire seconds before Merle pistol-whipped the poor guy and forced him into the driver’s seat of the nearby sedan. The two of us piled in behind them and instructed them to drive back to the gates of Woodbury.

Everything just seemed to escalate from there.

We threw the two strangers, whose names I learned were Maggie and Glenn, into the barely kept-together cells and began our interrogation. And by “our interrogation” I mean the Governor and Merle’s attempts at intimidation.

Merle’s I could handle. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before. Berating the guy, beating him, tossing a biter in there – the usual. But the Governor?

I had been standing in the room with Merle, watching him berate Glenn, probing him for answers about the group making their home inside the prison fences, when I heard it. The sound of his belt was oddly stark against the soft sobs making their way through the solid metal wall. I knew the other two couldn’t hear it. It didn’t matter.

That was the moment I drew the line. The second I heard that belt, I knew what I had here in Woodbury was over.

Without a second of hesitation, I spun on my heel and marched out the cell door. Martinez was standing outside it, keeping guard, and caught my eye as I made my way down the hall a step to the next door down. His eyes were wide as he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he warned me.

I didn’t listen.

Lifting my booted foot, I kicked down the door to the cell next door and strode across the empty space to where the Governor stood, still undoing his belt. Maggie sat across the metal table from him, naked from the waist up, arms crossed over her bare chest as tears slid down her cheeks.

The Governor turned to face me at the sound of my sudden entrance. I pushed him aside as I peeled off my own shirt and gave it to the sobbing woman. Rapid footsteps sounded by the doorway and I knew both Merle and Martinez were standing there, watching as I rounded on the Governor with fire in my gaze.

He snarled at me. “What do you think you’re doing, Jacques?”

“Putting a stop to this,” I snapped in response, stepping back around the table.

The Governor did his best to stare me down, but he was about as intimidating to me as a baby lamb. “You don’t get to make that decision!” he screamed, spittle flying from his thin lips. “I give the orders here! Me, not you!”

“And I’ve obeyed them!” I yelled. “But I can’t stand by and let you do this. It’s not right and you know it!”

The Governor looked as if he were about to explode. His face was red, and his mouth kept opening and closing as if he were trying to form a response. I turned my back on him before he could, reaching out for Maggie, who had turned around to shield herself as she pulled my shirt over her head. Gently, I took her arm and began leading her towards the doorway.

Merle gave me a warning look, shaking his head just as Martinez had done. Martinez was a close friend, and Merle was my partner in crime, but I didn’t listen to either of them. Instead, I pushed my way through, pulling Maggie along with me as I lead her back into the cell where Glenn sat. The tears that had been steadily spilling down her cheeks increased tenfold when she saw what Merle’s fists had done to Glenn’s face. Once I let her go, she ran to him and began to cry as he asked her what the Governor had done.

She didn’t get a chance to answer.

The man himself burst through the partially closed door and made to grab me by the arm. I sensed him coming and spun out of his reach, turning to face him with a sneer.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I hissed.

The Governor looked slightly taken aback. I hadn’t spoken to him like that for a long time. Too long, it would seem. “You think you can just do what you want?” he snapped back, throwing an arm wildly in the direction of the two prisoners behind me. “You want to end up in here, too? Be my guest.”

Merle took a tentative step forwards, lifting his one remaining hand in a surrendering gesture. “Oh, come now. Ya don’t need to be like that, Governor. She’s sorry. Ain’t cha, Jacques?”

“Not really,” I replied plainly. “No.”

The exasperated look he gave me would have been comical in any other situation. What had he really expected? He knew I wouldn’t – couldn’t – lie. Besides, like hell I was going to apologise for stopping him raping a woman. Jesus Christ. I may be an assassin, but I wasn’t a monster.

“Have you forgotten who’s in charge here?” the Governor asked, his voice returning to a normal volume, though underneath the blasé tone I could hear his growing contempt. “Which one of us gives the orders and which one takes them?”

“Have you?” I responded, cocking my head to the side to regard him with cold, narrowed eyes.

The Governor blinked in surprise, his right eye twitching as he tried to make sense of my reply.

I gave him the curtesy of elaborating, making sure to emphasise each hissed sentence with a step in his direction. “Did you really think you had control over me? That I wasn’t only following your orders because I agreed with them? Do you think that highly of yourself that you forgot, for a moment, who I am? What I can do?”

The Governor’s legs seemed to act without his permission, pulling him back, matching my every step forward with one back. He retreated until I came to a stop, looking down at him despite the few inches of difference in our heights.

“If I had wanted that crown of yours, Philip, I’d fucking take it and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.” I stared at him with my piercing blue eyes until he dropped his gaze, swallowing, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

A moment of silence passed before I returned to my usual casual lean, the tension in my body evaporating almost instantly as the intensity in my gaze dissipated.

“Now that we’ve covered that,” I began in a chipper tone. “I’d like to continue by stating that I happen to believe freeing these two in good nature would be in our best interests as a community. However, if you say otherwise, I won’t argue.” Because I’d be wasting by breath.

The silence continued to stretch for another few moments before the Governor raised his gaze back up to meet mine once again. I could see the steely resolve in them, the growing sense of distrust and malcontent. He spoke in that authoritative voice, as if I hadn’t just put him in his place merely a few minutes ago.

“We keep them here.”

And that had been that.

Kind of.

No more than a few hours later, Glenn and Maggie’s people infiltrated Woodbury.

I had returned to the cells mere minutes before I knew of their presence, knocking the working guard unconscious – sorry, Andy – and picking the lock open to set them free. My intention, of course, had been to lead them out to the loose panel in the eastern fence, escorting them to safety. That had not exactly panned out, as the people from the prison had decided to launch their attack whilst I was partway through leading Glenn and Maggie to the cellblock’s exit. Once the smoke grenades went off, I brought them both to a stop and explained to them the best way to escape, telling them to keep low in the smoke and wishing them luck before we parted ways.

As much as I knew in theory that I was done in this place, I hadn’t quite accepted it emotionally just yet. After all, I had plenty of friends here, people I almost considered family. It didn’t feel right to fight on the opposite side, not in such an outright way as taking the prison’s side in this.

I should have just gone with them. I wouldn’t have ended up here if I’d just gone.

If it had been anyone other than fucking Martinez that came for me that night, I would have fought back. And I think he knew it, too. The apologetic look he gave me before forcing me up against the side of the building to chain my wrists together was the only thing that stopped me from punching him directly in the nose.

He put a bag over my head and dragged me out to the warehouse, where the sounds of curious, excited chatter met my ears. I could only partially see through the cotton fabric covering my face, but it was enough to make out the shape of the stands we often used during our Game Nights. They were as full as they’d ever been, overflowing with the townsfolk who had no doubt been gathered at the behest of the Governor.

His voice cut through the aimless whispers surrounding him, crisp and authoritative as he announced the purpose behind tonight’s entertainment.

“What can I say?” he asked the gathered people of Woodbury. “There hasn’t been a night like this since before the walls were completed.”

Yeah. Thanks to me. I wanted to scream, to yell at the people that our “fearless” leader had lost his damn mind, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Martinez still held my arm, keeping me in my place at the edge of the biter-lined arena. On the other side, I could see another figure being dragged forwards, bag over his head.

I knew who it was from the dirty wife-beater alone and gave an internal groan. Of course, the one time I wasn’t with him when he did something stupid, he got himself caught.

“I thought we were past it. Past the days when we all sat, huddled, scared in front of the TV during the early days of the outbreak. The fear we all felt then… we felt it again tonight.”

I could barely make out his shape, standing at the back of the stands, a blonde figure sitting in the place beside him. Andrea. She had come to Woodbury alongside Michonne; yet hadn’t heeded the other woman’s warnings. Nor had she listened to mine, when I’d tried to encourage caution around the man she was taking to bed. Well, she was about to learn. As were they all.

“I failed you!” the Governor continued, his voice breaking as if he truly were ashamed. “I promised to keep you safe. Hell, look at me.” I saw the outline of his hand gesturing towards his face, though couldn’t make out what the hell he was pointing to. “You know, I – I should tell you that we’ll be okay. That we’re safe. That tomorrow, we’ll bury our dead and endure, but I won’t. Because I can’t… Because I am afraid.”

Uneasy gasps of surprise rippled through the townsfolk.

“That’s right,” the Governor sighed. “I’m afraid of terrorists. Terrorists that want what we have – want to destroy us! And worse, because more than one of these terrorists are one of our own!”

Across the arena, Patterson pushed Merle forward with enough force to almost send him sprawling onto the sands. Thankfully, my partner kept his footing, skidding to a halt in the centre of the arena and looking around at the townsfolk that had gathered to watch what was no doubt his execution.

“Merle. A man I counted on. A man I trusted.” The Governor shook his head, the dismay in his voice almost, almost believable. “He led ‘em here! And he let ‘em in!”

Merle opened his mouth to argue but something in the Governor’s gaze must have stopped him.

“It was you,” the Governor hissed down at him. “You lied. You betrayed us all.”

From the side of the arena I couldn’t see, someone else was pushed through the gap between the biters and onto the sands. The newcomer stumbled slightly, barely managing to maintain his balance as he came to a stop in front of Merle.

I couldn’t see their faces, but I could tell by the change of air around them that they recognised one another. They were not strangers.

I bit my lower lip. That did not bode well.

“This is one of the terrorists,” the Governor announced to his audience. “Merle’s own brother.”

Ah. Shit.

“And worse yet,” he continued, his voice growing deeper in his attempt to sound dismayed. “Merle’s influence over my most trusted – our most valuable asset to this community…”

I could see him shaking his head, as if the words he was trying to say hurt him too much to voice. Had I not already been almost ninety-nine percent sure he was about to tell the world it had been me that had helped Merle, I would have laughed. He’d gotten good at this.

Behind me, Martinez whispered, “Sorry ‘bout this, ese. Orders.”

He pushed me forwards, keeping his grip on my upper arm as he led me out into the sands alongside Merle and his brother. When he brought me to a stop, he let my arm go and reached up to pull the bag from my head.

“He poisoned our beloved Synnove’s mind against us. A founding member of our community!” the Governor yelled, and the stands erupted with shock and malice.

My gaze, partially obscured by the blonde strands of hair that had fallen free from my ponytail, snapped to Merle’s. He gave me a pointed look, like he was disappointed I’d let myself get caught.

“Really?” he asked, brow cocked.

“Oh, fuck you,” I snapped in response.

From up in the stands, the Governor continued his speech and I was finally able to get a good look at him. He was dishevelled and battered, as if he’d been in a fight, and across his right eye there was a white bandage, splattered with red. Someone had come for him and I hoped beyond hope that that someone had been Michonne.

“What should we do with them?” the Governor asked his people.

From my right, a distinct cry broke through the torrent of voices. “Kill them!”

I twisted in place to look for the owner, only to see an ocean of familiar faces glaring back at me. Jesus Christ. Were they really this easy to manipulate?

“Kill them! Kill them!”

Apparently so.

The chant continued as the Governor smiled down at us, a chilling grin absent of any and all warmth it had once held. I could barely recognise the man standing there.

“You wanted your brother,” he said to Merle. “Now you got him.”

Merle just looked across to the man he called brother before meeting my curious gaze. With a casual gesture towards the man standing across the arena, he grinned. “Jacques, meet my baby brother, Daryl. Baby brother, meet Jacques.”

I glanced over at the other Dixon, my gaze travelling up and down his dishevelled form. He was shorter than Merle, but not by much, and had dark, unkept hair that partially over his forehead. His ruggedly pleasant features were scrunched into a confused scowl as I took my sweet time surveying him before turning back to Merle with a cheeky grin.

“At least now I know where all the looks went in your family,” I remarked lightly.

Merle snorted and gave me the finger.

“Brother against brother,” the Governor called, promptly ruining the moment. “Partner against partner!”

I looked up at him with my upper lip curled over my teeth in a snarl.

Andrea was standing beside him now, looking up pleadingly at him as if she had expected different. Expected better of him, despite all the warnings to the contrary.

“Winner goes free! Fight to the death!”

It was incredibly unlikely he’d keep that promise.

“Hey now,” I yelled out, over the cheers and jeering voices of the crowd. “I’m sensing a little unfairness here!” I jiggled my chains behind my back and gave the Governor a pointed look. “I’m the only one with chains!”

He merely looked down at me as if I were nothing to him, a fly upon his shoe. “Well, we wouldn’t want the fight over too early, now, would we?”

The voices from the crowd called out my name, called out for me to fight. It was almost as if this were any other Game Night, where I would tag-team with Merle against challengers in this very arena. We had been undefeated since the games had begun. These people knew only a fraction of what I could do and, even then, they had always put their money on me.

I looked over to Merle. His upper lip was shaking the way it often did when he was about to explode in anger.

Somehow, he managed to keep it somewhat under control. He took a step back and began to spin, looking at each member of the crowd in turn as he lifted his arms up like he used to do at the beginning of every Game Night.

“Come on, come on! I can’t hear yous!” he called out to the townsfolk.

A few scattered “Let’s go, Merle!”’s echoed around the warehouse, followed shortly by a “Get em, Jacques!”.

“Come on, ya’ll know me! I’m gonna do whatever I gotta do to prove my loyalty is to this town!” Merle continued.

Stepping further into the centre of the arena, I kept a close eye on both him and Daryl while I prepared myself to leap-frog over the chains loosely tied behind me. I knew Merle was talking shit. Knew him well enough to see that glint in his eye that meant the wheels in this balding head were beginning to turn.

From my right, Merle’s brother scoffed. “You really think this asshole’s gonna let you go?”

Merle looked at him with a smirk. “Just follow my lead, little brother. Ready, Jacques? Just like old times?”

I flashed him a wide grin before I jumped up, swinging my bound hands down and around the base of my feet so they were now in front of me. “Ready when you are, old man.”

Merle looked back to his brother, smirk growing wider as his excitement overtook his sense. “We’re gettin’ out of this right now.”

Merle and I leapt into it first. After all, we’d had plenty of practise fighting against one another in this arena. The chain linking my wrists made it a little difficult, but I managed to pull out some old moves to make it our battle somewhat believable. When I stumbled back, having been “kicked” in the chest by Merle’s dirty boot, I took a brief moment to look behind me towards Martinez. He was holding one of the Biter leads, pushing it closer to me each minute that passed.

I knew he was the weak spot. He wouldn’t shoot me, even if his life depended on it. Not after all we’d been through together. I knew it as well as he did. That was our way out.

While I had been “recovering” from Merle’s kick, the old redneck had started beating on his brother. They tussled on the ground for a moment, looking as if they were actually going at it more than they really needed to. Daryl managed to get his boot between them and kicked Merle off and when he scrambled up onto his feet, I stepped into his guard. He took a swing at me and I ducked beneath it, stepping around him and throwing my hands over his shoulders, pulling the chain taut across his throat, leaving only just enough room for him to breathe.

Merle locked eyes with me over his brother’s shoulder. He gave a little nod.

“Martinez,” I said, quiet enough so only Merle and Daryl could hear. “He’s the weak spot.”

Merle nodded. “Count o’ ten?”

“Better make it three.” I looked to the side of Daryl’s face. “You ready, little Dixon?”

He snorted in response. I took it as a yes.

Merle started a countdown.

One.

Two.

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stevie-steven-stevington · 6 years ago

Text

wake up and smell the coffee

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: MCU Prompt: Dissociation Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Warnings: Dissociation and mild panic attack Word count: 3.3k

Generally speaking, Avengers meetings are not boring.

It's kind of hard for meetings to be boring when everyone on the team is constantly clashing, constantly butting heads on any and every issue. The arguing is annoying, to say the least, but Tony is beyond used to it at this point. He's come to expect it.

This time is no different. They haven't gotten to the yelling yet - he's sure they will eventually - but they've been going back and forth for the past half hour and nobody has been willing to compromise.

Oddly enough, the de facto leader - Captain Freedom himself - has been silent.

Tony doesn't notice at first. There's so many voices in the room that the lack of one doesn't register very easily. But there's only so much senseless squabbling he can take, and Rogers generally drags the team down from the ledge.

"Hey, Cap," Tony says, and all eyes turn to him. "You usually have an opinion - a wrong opinion, but an opinion nonetheless. What's your take?"

Steve doesn't turn his head. Doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.

Huh. Okay.

Across the room, Sam Wilson leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and says, "Steve? You alright?"

Still nothing.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This just in - Steve Rogers, the Steve Rogers, has issues just like the rest of them.

Because Tony knows what this is. Even if the other don't recognize it right off the bat, Tony does. He's been in Steve's place more than enough times to know when someone is dissociating and Rogers has clearly lost it. The only question is just how far gone he is.

Judging by his complete and utter lack of reaction when Natasha waves a hand in front of his face, he's pretty far gone.

Well. Tony can handle this one.

Not to brag, but this is his area of expertise.

"Guys, guys, hey." Tony looks between Sam and Nat, because he knows that they trust him as an Avenger but that doesn't mean they trust him with Steve. He's just glad Barnes is out on mission right now so he doesn't have to deal with his overprotectiveness too. "I can handle this one - been there, done that, got the t-shirt, y'know?"

Nat nods pensively. Sam just squints at him.

Tony rolls his eyes and tries his best not to look too gleeful (Captain Perfect has a flaw! A flaw! And not only that, it's a mutual flaw!) as he moves to Steve's chair.

It's entirely possible that the method he knows won't actually work. The two of them manage to be incompatible on pretty much everything else, so it's entirely possible that what works for Tony won't bring Steve any closer to Earth. But nobody else has stepped up to the plate yet, and Tony's default philosophy is, in fact, what would Rhodey do?

Rhodey's the one who usually talks people (Tony, sometimes Barnes, occasionally Bruce) down from these sorts of things, but he's busy being an Air Force Colonel so it's Tony's turn now.

Tony kneels down next to Steve's chair. "Alright, Stevie. How d'you feel about joining us back in good old reality?"

Steve's gaze stays locked on a random spot on the wall. He's tense, practically rigid, and Tony wonders if it's this disturbing when he dissociates.

No touching until given permission. No loud noises. No panicking. No added stress.

"Everyone, get out," Tony says, careful to keep his voice low. There's a noise of protest and he shoots a glare at Sam. "The more people are around, the more stressful it'll be for him. I've got this, alright? Go away. Quietly."

A long moment passes in which no one moves. Some of them are clearly reluctant to leave him alone with Steve, while others just keep looking between him and Sam like they're watching a tennis match.

Natasha puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. An entire conversation seems to pass between them in the space of five seconds, despite not a word being spoken; after, Sam gives a begrudging nod, throws one more look to Tony that says fuck this up and we're going to have a problem, and walks out with Nat at his side. Everyone else shuffles out after them.

He's sure they'll all be standing right outside the door, but he'll take it.

"FRIDAY, dim the lights by 40%." Not enough to plunge them into darkness, but enough to ensure it’s not accosting Steve's senses. "Okay. Alright. Steve, buddy, you're dissociating. I know you're not really processing anything right now, but we're gonna fix that, yeah?"

In most cases, Tony is way too out of it to catch the specifics of what Rhodey says until he's already come halfway back down, but he knows the gist.

Narrate everything. Tell them who they are, where they are, what's going on, and anything else you can think of. Give them simple statements, basic facts to latch onto. Assure them that they're safe and that you want them to come back.

Once they've regained partial awareness, walk them through a coping exercise. Engage their senses, engage their brains. Make them interact with not only you, but also their surroundings. Repeat as many times as necessary for them to find their way back to reality.

"Your name is Steve Rogers," Tony starts, entirely more gentle than he thinks he's ever spoken to Steve. The next logical step is his age - a quick calculation tells him that Steve, at this point, is exactly 102 years old, if they're including the time he spent in the ice, and...Jesus fucking Christ, that doesn't exactly seem like the thing to bring up. Instead, he says, "It's Tuesday, October 6th, 2020. You're Captain America. You're an Avenger."

He could be imagining it, but Steve's eyes do seem to deglaze, just a little.

Steve's story is a fucking minefield, though. Especially when he's not even sure what triggered this episode, if anything, so he doesn't know what pieces of information would end up making it worse instead of better. And if he makes it worse, Sam will come for his kneecaps.

"You're at the Avengers tower, in the conference room. You're sitting in a chair. I'm - Tony Stark is talking to you." Steve's fingers curl on top of the table. Progress. "I'm gonna keep talking to you until you can understand what's going on. You're safe. It's just the two of us in here. I'm not going to hurt you; I won't even touch you unless you say it's okay. I need you to come back to me, though, if you don't terribly mind."

Would cracking jokes make things more real for Steve or would that be in bad taste?

Bad taste, he decides. "We miss you back in reality, man. We were trying to come up with a plan for our next mission and we could really use your input. I know it's a lot, but you'll be alright. I'll be right here, Steve. You're okay."

Steve blinks quickly, the haze that had settled over his face clearing just enough to confirm that Steve is, in fact, still in there. Tony watches him glance around, gradually beginning to recognize his surroundings.

Eventually, his head turns to Tony, eyes darting over his face. His brow furrows as if he's not quite sure who he's looking at. Voice strangely hoarse, he says, "Tony?"

Tony gives him a bright smile. "Yep, you got it. How ya feeling?"

"I...huh?"

"Yeah, alright." Never in his life did Tony think he'd see Captain Eloquence so incoherent. "I'm gonna need you to do something for me, Cap. I need you to look around and give me five things you can see, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Steve is practically swaying in his chair, but he does as told. “Uh...the - the table. You. The chairs.”

He talks slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him. There’s pauses between phrases, between words, almost between syllables. It’s hard to watch, especially as someone who’s had to do this exact exercise God knows how many times.

Jesus. Tony’s been putting Captain America on a pedestal for so long that he forgot there’s a man underneath the ridiculous costume. Underneath the star-spangled facade.

He can’t forget anymore, because this - this right here is so irrevocably, irrefutably human.

"The glass," Steve continues, making a vague, half-assed gesture toward the glass of water in front of him. "The water...thing."

In any other context, Tony would snort at that. As is, the new official Avengers term for a water pitcher is water thing. Patent pending.

"Good, that's great, Steve." His knee is starting to hurt from kneeling. He ignores it. "Now, four things you can touch, yeah?"

"The table," Steve says again, after a moment. His left hand pats around while his right comes to rest on his thigh. "My, uh, my jeans."

The hand that's roaming around finds the front of Tony's AC/DC t-shirt and clutches tightly. Tony stiffens - he always does when anyone who isn't Rhodey, Pepper, or Peter touches him without warning - but he lets Steve have this. “Your shirt.”

Steve releases his shirt and then immediately drops his hand right on top of Tony’s head. It takes everything he has not to flinch, breath hitching and both hands curling automatically into fists. He thinks Steve speaks, giving the last thing on his list as your hair, but he’s a little preoccupied.

The hand leaves his hair, but the instinctual fear lingers.

Fuck. Fuck, he can’t do this right now. He can’t panic right now. Steve needs him to be here, fully here, and to be calm and collected and not having a fucking anxiety attack because someone touched him.

His fingernails dig into his palms as he inhales (one, two, three, four), holds (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven), and exhales (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). Repeats. Then repeats again. All the while, he can hear Rhodey’s voice in his head, coaching him through it.

He’s okay. Nobody’s trying to hurt him. He’s safe.

“Three things you can hear,” he tells Steve, once his breathing has evened out. He’s gotten good at this, the whole fending off a panic attack thing. “You’re doing really well, Steve, just a couple more, alright? Three things, go.”

Steve’s fingers tap, absently, against his knee. “Your voice. It’s...annoying.”

Tony barks a surprised laugh. Steve’s tone is still bordering on blank, but a hint of a smile crosses his face, making it clear that he’s just teasing, even when he’s barely coherent.

“My breathing,” Steve says. “And, uh - there’s a...bird. Outside.”

So there is. We’re getting there, Tony thinks. He’s not sure if he’s surprised that this is working or not.

“Fantastic. Now, two things you can smell.”

Steve’s breathing is starting to quicken. Typical, really, that they’d both end up on the edge of a panic attack within two minutes of each other. Dissociation and anxiety attacks really do go hand-in-hand, he supposes. He makes no move to touch Steve, still, just places his hand on the table, palm up, and leaves it there.

As hoped, Steve slips his fingers into Tony’s and squeezes and holy fucking shit, that hurts, does Steve not realize that he needs that hand? Tony can’t stop himself from wincing this time, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway, blissfully unaware that he’s cutting off Tony’s circulation.

Which is fine. Totally fine. Tony’s had worse, after all. And it appears to be helping Steve, so there’s that.

But God, Steve is strong.

(It’d be kind of hot if it was...literally anyone else. Steve is attractive, conventionally speaking, but it’s still a hard pass.) “I can smell coffee.”

Full sentences now, huh? Sure, it was only four words, but at least those four words didn’t have choppy pauses between them.

“Last but not least, Cap - one thing you can taste.”

The answer comes in short order this time, weirdly enough - this part is always the one that takes Tony the longest. “Mint.”

Makes sense. Steve drinks mint tea constantly. At meals, at meetings, at random intervals throughout the day. Tony’s gotten so used to the smell of mint in the compound kitchen that he doesn’t even notice it anymore; he’d thought it was annoying until he realized that Steve uses mint tea the same way Tony uses stress balls.

Steve’s grip on Tony’s hand loosens, ever so slightly. He looks...clearer. Sharper. Solid.

He looks, finally, like Steve Rogers.

Tony taps his thumb against Steve’s knuckle and asks, “You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” He runs his free hand through his hair, then wraps his arm around his torso. “Uh - thanks, Tony. Did I…hold up the meeting?” “Yes.” He sees no point in lying. “But it’s no big deal. We can figure out how to save the world later.”

Steve hums vaguely, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

Tony’s knee is still aching. He lets go of Steve, trying his best to be discreet as he shakes out his hand, then stands and moves to hop up onto the table. Kicks his feet against the carpet and says, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No,” Steve says bluntly.

Damn, okay. Not what he was expecting, but...also not surprising when he thinks about it. This is Steve he’s talking to, after all.

On the list of who’s most to least likely to talk about their problems, Steve is pretty low. Below Peter, but above Natasha, Tony thinks.

In all honesty, it’s hard to get anything out of anyone on the team. Whether it’s trust issues or secret agency or just an unwillingness to ask for help, most members of the Avengers have a shit-ton of unresolved issues. Including himself, but at least he’s working on it.

Steve, on the other hand, seems to have no interest in dealing with his shit.

It’s not Tony’s problem. Not on a personal level, at least. He’s not Steve’s therapist. All things considered, he’s barely even Steve’s friend.

But Tony knows firsthand how bad things can get when nobody’s forcing you to talk about your problems (the memories of his birthday party are blurry, but he distinctly recalls shooting watermelons out of the air with his repulsor), so with his infamous birthday party in mind, Tony says, "That's cool. If you don't wanna talk, then fine."

Steve narrows his eyes. "There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

"But. In my experience, not talking never works. I've tried it. It sucks. I get it if you don't want to talk to me, but you should talk to someone, if you aren't already. Sam or Nat, maybe. Or a therapist."

"I don't need a shrink, Tony."

Tony holds up his hands, placatingly. “It’s your choice. Just - it’s not the 1940s anymore, Steve. Going to therapy doesn’t make you weak. If you need help, it’s okay to ask for it.” It took a long time for him to realize this. He’s been in therapy off-and-on for seven years now, and he probably should’ve started years before that. But he knew that, with how public his life is, as soon as he stepped foot into the office, everyone and their mother would know that Tony Edward Stark was seeing a therapist.

Eventually, though, the need outweighed his worry about his image.

He half expects Steve to brush him off. After all, Tony brushed off Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy’s first few vague mentions of therapy. And then their next few pointed mentions of it. It wasn’t until the anxiety attacks started that he even considered it, and then it was still months after that before he actually went to his first session.

Steve doesn’t brush him off. Not really, anyway. Slowly, he asks, “Does it work for you? Has it helped?”

“Yes.” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I go once a week, my therapist is brilliant. She could probably recommend someone for you, if you want.”

“Right…” Steve’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I - look, Tony, I’m not really a therapy kind of guy. I’m glad that it works for you, but I don’t think the whole ‘talking about it’ thing is for me.”

Ah. So he is being brushed off.

Still not surprising. Though when you’ve seen aliens come out of a portal in the sky, accidentally created a robot intent on destroying the human race, and watched your pseudo-son crumble to dust in your arms, nothing is really surprising anymore.

“What set this off?” Tony asks.

“Huh?”

“The dissociation, I mean.”

Steve gives him a blank look. Jesus fucking Christ.

“The - this - the thing that literally just happened. When you were physically here but your brain checked out? That’s called dissociation. And judging by how unconcerned you are about it, I’d say it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“Oh, that,” Steve says, like the self-satisfied bastard he is. “It’s just zoning out, it’s not a big deal.”

Is he fucking serious? He can’t be fucking serious.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Tony says.

Steve just tilts his head and blinks up at him. Tony can't tell if the nonchalance is an act or if he's actually being serious. "Why...not? It's really not a big deal, it happens all the time."

He's going to have an aneurysm. That's it, he's calling it. This isn't real.

He knows Steve. He knows this goddamn nerd has done his research. He knows that Steve knows exactly what he's talking about.

Steve has to know this isn't normal. He has to.

"You do know," Tony says, "that that statement is not helping your case, right? It's not just zoning out, and it's sure as hell shouldn't happen 'all the time'. I should know, it's one of the many things I'm working on in therapy."

"The fact that it's a problem for you doesn't mean it's a problem for me." Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. Tony is so close to choking him. "It's just stress. Being the leader of the Avengers is stressful."

Just because he can, Tony says, "Mm, I wouldn't say you're the leader, per se."

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. "That's not even the point, Tony."

He's aware. The point is that Steve is totally, completely, 100% fine and does not need help of any kind. Which is the biggest load of bullshit Tony's ever heard. He wonders if Steve has said this to anyone else and actually had them believe it. There’s no way in hell Sam “I run a PTSD support” Wilson would’ve bought it.

Dissociating as a reaction to stress is neither normal nor healthy. It's exactly the kind of thing that people are supposed to get help for.

Clearly, Steve doesn't want to hear it. At least not from Tony.

Fine. But Tony will definitely be keeping a closer eye on him - he's seen too many people spiral into nervous breakdowns (including himself, more than once) to ignore Steve's blatant mental instability, even if Steve himself is content to ignore it.

Hm. Maybe he should talk to Sam. Compare notes.

"Tony." Steve flicks Tony's knee. Tony's left eye twitches. "Don't worry about me. I'm alright. And if I ever think I'm not, I'll ask for help, okay?"

No, you won't, Tony thinks. Because he's Steve Rogers and, in Tony's experience, Steve Rogers is never one to ask for help.

"Okay," Tony agrees. "I'm here if you ever need to talk."

And he leaves it at that, because he knows that pushing further won't do anything. Because he'll be here when Steve finally reaches his breaking point.

Maybe (hopefully), Steve will see himself spiraling before he actually crashes. But the likelihood of this, apparently, is pretty slim.

So when Steve inevitably falls apart, Tony will be there, right alongside the rest of the team, to pick up the pieces.

"You can call the others back in now. And, uh - thanks, Tony. Really."

Tony says, "No problem," and gets up to go find the team.

All the while, he's thinking, Don't thank me yet.

The hard part hasn't even started.

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bullybyulyi · 7 years ago

Text

flowers are not enough

read on aff

When arms wrap around Byulyi’s shoulders, her skin crawls. Goosebumps dot the surface of her arms and she hopes that they won’t show on camera, as if they won’t be heavily editing the photos later anyway. After a dozen shutter clicks they change positions and she gets a good look at what kind of person would just hug a stranger.

She’s…cute, Byulyi decides, nothing special. It takes the edge off of how uncomfortable she’d felt in her embrace, but her skin continues to itch where they had made contact.

–

She’s an angel, Byulyi corrects herself a few days later.

It was a small lapse in thought, anyone could have done it, but Byulyi’s anxiety spirals her into dark thoughts of what this kind of mistake spells out for her future. How could she forget her heels? Does that mean she would do this down the line, when it mattered? It was just one tiny error but it was stacked against the other girls who were perfect.

The instructor must see the panic roiling in her eyes because she claps for the attention of the other girls.

“Does anyone have shoes for Byulyi to borrow?” She looks back at Byulyi, who seems a little surprised at everyone’s eyes on her. “What’s your size?”

She mumbles out 235 but the reverb of the studio carries her answer to the others.

“I have an extra pair!” A voice jumps out from the far corner. The girl from the photoshoot. She digs around her bags and runs to Byulyi with a pair of simple black heels. “Here.”

Byulyi dips her head over and over thanking the other girl, who merely smiles and tells her not to worry about it.

Byulyi doesn’t.

But she does feel the weird itch again, this time in the center of her chest. The Photoshoot Girl is more than just another trainee to her now. Now she’s a face and a kind smile and Byulyi likes her, wants to be her friend.

After practice, the instructor gives her a kind reminder to not forget anything next time and the residual strength Byulyi gained from Photoshoot Girl’s smile allows her to feel conviction rather than shame over the small lecture.

“Don’t forget to return the shoes. Who lent them to you?”

Byulyi thinks this is her chance to appreciate the other girl a little. She’s in the back corner with her things, pouting a bit for whatever reason and Byulyi’s convinced there’s no way a face like that can be over 18. She calls her out, informally, so the girl will understand her intentions to become close, like friends.

“That girl over there.” She points a finger directly at her savior. The instructor nods, already moving away to talk to the other trainees.

Photoshoot Girl looks up in surprise at being called out by her voice. Instead of the sheepish look Byulyi expected, the girl looks in shock. Between Byulyi’s confident smile and her pointed finger, and her pretty face twists into a scowl. Suddenly she doesn’t look so young anymore.

Byulyi’s smile drops as the girl approaches her, scowl still fixed.

“Moon Byulyi, right?”

“Yes. Um, thank you for the shoes.” She speaks formally, holding them out. The other girl takes them back stiffly, but her expression has softened to something less offended.

“I’m Kim Yongsun. What year are you?”

Byulyi feels her face twitch as she feels the same hot shame from the morning begin to pool in her stomach. She can tell where this going. “’92.” She answers lamely.

“I’m ’91. Please call me Unnie.” Yongsun requests, her manner unwavering.

Byulyi dips her head so she doesn’t have to look Yongsun in the eyes anymore. “Sorry, Unnie.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Yongsun repeats the same words from this morning and walks back to her belongings.

This time, the words only serve to make the burning shame feel hotter. Byulyi swears to herself she’ll never forget her things, and that she never wants to feel Yongsun’s disdainful eyes on her ever again.

-CHRYSANTHEMUM::SLIGHTED LOVE-

They’re all in the changing room when the girl next to Byulyi starts coughing up a storm. She jumps in surprise before she and the girl on her other side crowd around to see if she’s okay. Everyone else turns their heads curiously.

“Are you okay?” Byulyi asks, when the girl collapses on her hands and knees and her coughs turn into gagging. The other girl next to them is luckily still completely dressed, and she runs out to call for help.

The room is otherwise frozen, watching the girl dry heave on the ground, including Byulyi. She’s never seen someone like this. Her hands float around the girl’s figure uselessly.

Yongsun rushes into the scene suddenly and drops to her side. She briefly meets Byulyi’s eyes and sees a panic in her eyes that’s probably mirrored by all the other girls in the room.

Yongsun grabs the coughing girl by the shoulders and forces her upright. Sure enough, there’s a flower etched right at on her chest. She keeps one hand bracing the girl upright and uses the other to start patting around where the flower is.

“What is – is she okay?” Byulyi’s voice trembles out.

Yongsun bites her lip, hitting harder. “She will be.”

The girl who’d run out before suddenly bursts back in with one of the instructors in a tow, just in time for a flurry of yellow petals to burst out of the girl’s mouth. Byulyi would have thought it to be beautiful if she weren’t horrified. Yongsun had expected it, yet she can’t help flinching. Everyone watches in stunned silence as she finishes choking out the last petal. Then, the only sound is the girl gasping on the ground before the instructor calls out her name. They walk away in the direction of the CEO’s office.

Slowly, murmurs return to the room but the usual energy is completely drained. Yongsun is still still kneeling on the ground as Byulyi looms above her.

“Was that –“

“Oranthoptysis.” Yongsun answers her. Byulyi’s eyes widen. She knew it better as Hanahaki, the disease of throwing up petals. Love takes the form of flowers, small and beautiful, growing on the skin right above your heart. But if the bud on your chest blooms in full and your love stays unfulfilled for however long, the feelings will erupt out of your mouth. The only real cure is to have your love returned, otherwise the flower must be surgically removed. If the disease persists, the victim will eventually die from choking on their own feelings.

Byulyi feels skittish at the thought. Hanahaki wasn’t a very common case, but it happened often enough that the medical procedures for it weren’t too strenuous. The problem was that half the time, people with the disease would refuse treatment. To remove the flower meant to remove the feelings. Despite the agony, in the face of pure love, some just couldn’t let go of the hope of having their love returned.

Sometimes, they wait to the brink of death before surgery. By then there’s enough damage done to the throat that the sufferer will barely be able to speak, let alone sing. Byulyi hopes it never happens to her.

Yongsun still hasn’t moved. She looks as though she was seeing something that wasn’t there, replaying a memory for her mind’s eye. Byulyi wants to ask, what are you thinking? How did you know?

Yongsun stands up and sighs before she can find her words. She watches the older girl walk back to her things. Yongsun’s voice is too beautiful, too rich to have felt the pain of blooming petals, but Byulyi can’t help but wonder.

That night, she falls asleep with an itch in her chest and chrysanthemum petals floating around her mind.

–

The girl won’t be training with them anymore. The instructor gives them five minutes of downtime before practice will start again. A murmur swells from the dozen or so in the practice room and Byulyi is sitting next to Yongsun when they get the news.

(They’ve stopped trying to avoid each other at this point, but they’re not really friends.)

“She should have gotten the surgery.” Yongsun mumbles to no one. Byulyi’s the only one who hears her, and Yongsun somehow know’s she’s listening. “She probably won’t be able to sing ever again.”

Byulyi glances at her then, and notices how her eyes aren’t nearly as cold as her words.

–

Byulyi really hates her relationship with Yongsun. It’s been over a month since their initial meeting, but she still has the nagging feeling in her chest, and she’s sure it’s because Yongsun probably doesn’t like her still. That bothers her. It makes her hyperaware of Yongsun. It compels her to look at Yongsun way too much. Somewhere along the line she realizes, Yongsun is goddamn beautiful.

Byulyi wears her blind confidence one evening and approaches Yongsun after a vocal lesson.

“Unnie,” She makes sure to say properly, “Do you want to come get dinner with me?”

Byulyi had expected restraint and politeness, which she promised herself would change by the end of the night if she played her cards right. Instead, Yongsun’s curious look turns into a shy grin.

“I’d like that.”

Yongsun’s shining smile blindsides her and it makes the tightness in her chest unravel into something warm. Byulyi breathes easily for the first time in what seems like weeks. They go to one of the food stalls nearby and as it turns out, they have the same taste.

–

Her new-built friendship with Yongsun blows all her other friendships out of the water. Byulyi sticks to Yongsun like she’s in a gravitational lock. The others can’t help but notice.

“You’re friends with her now? Isn’t she kind of weird? I thought you guys didn’t like each other.” Wheein asks her bluntly one afternoon. Hyejin, lounging next to them, perks up in interest.

“Yongsun-unnie is great.” Byulyi beams. “That was just a misunderstanding from before. She’s really funny you know?”

Wheein purses her lips. “She’s still weird.”

The older girl is unfazed. “I like her.”

Wheein looks to Hyejin for a second opinion. Her friend merely shrugs. “She is pretty funny. And she seems nice enough.”

Wheein leans back with a huff and the begrudging knowledge that Yongsun’s presence in her life just became an inevitable outcome. Her face pulls into a pout. “She reminds me of my mom.”

–

It’s the four of them. Locked in, slated to be the ones to debut. With only a simple smile, the CEO has made all their dreams see the light of reality. Byulyi feels like she’s flying.

“Yongsun, you’ll be the leader and lead vocal. Byulyi, you’ll be doing rap from now on. Wheein and Hyejin are both main vocal. There are some secondary responsibilities I’ll have you girls take on, but you’ll get those when you start your new schedules tomorrow. You can take the rest of today off.”

His smile is the same, kind, proud, but this time Byulyi is plummeting to the ground and she hopes it’ll swallow her whole. The others nod professionally at him before Yongsun simply can’t hold back any longer and starts squealing. Wheein and Hyejin join in on the eruption, and they’re elated enough to not notice Byulyi only offering tired, empty laughs.

They rush back to the shared apartment, each dipping a bit into their savings pool and buying as many snacks and take-out boxes as they wanted on the way.

“This is our last bite of freedom.” Hyejin had solemnly said with a potato chip in hand. “From today on there’ll be cameras in our stomachs, always watching.”

Wheein groaned at that through a mouthful of chicken. “I don’t want to think about that. Let’s talk about something else!”

Yongsun perked up. “Let’s pick stage names.” Smiled at Byulyi. “I bet I know what Byul’s is going to be.”

The lightness of her voice and smile was almost enough to pick Byulyi up off the ground.

-DAFFODIL::THE SUN IS ALWAYS SHINING WHEN I AM WITH YOU-

Hours later, Yongsun tied up the last of the trash. She’d elected to clean up so the younger girls could sleep, but when she looked up, Byulyi was still sitting in the living room, deep in thought.

“Byul-ah.”

The other girl twitched and turned to face her, a smile forcing its way onto her face. Not fast enough for Yongsun to miss the crinkle in her brow. Something was wrong.

“Thanks for cleaning up Unnie, sorry I was spacing out there. Thinking about the future and all that, y��know?”

Yongsun considered her words for a moment. She had an itching feeling Byulyi was trying to bottle up all her emotions and bury them in her heart again. “Help me take this downstairs.”

“Ah, right.” The younger girl scrambled to her feet and grabbed one of the bags. “I can’t believe we ate so much.”

Yongsun snorted. “I can.”

They tossed the bags in the receptacle downstairs and Byulyi turned on her heel to go back when she felt a hand grab her arm. “Let’s go to the river.”

Byulyi stalled. So Yongsun had noticed, of course she did. Byulyi had never been very good at hiding when she was upset. But this once she’d hoped the others would be blissfully ignorant of her troubles. Yongsun knew Byulyi didn’t like to talk if something was bothering her. Sometimes she let her be. This was not one of those times.

Sensing her hesitation, Yongsun tugged on her arm to let her know she was not allowed to refuse.

“…Okay.” Byulyi relents

They made the trip there in silence. Byulyi had only a myriad of emotions swirling in her head, giving none of her thoughts a name and never lingering on one for too long. She knew she would break if she were to face them.

Yongsun sat them down when they reached their usual spot, a bench overlooking the river. She turned to the younger girl and noted how the glittering lights reflected in the water danced in Byulyi’s eyes like twinkling stars. She got right to the point.

“Byul-ah, there’s something bothering you.”

Cold silence as Byulyi continued to stare at the moving water. Yongsun knew she was heard, so she waited.

“Why would he do this to me?” Byulyi grinds out at last. She’d been trying to hold it together all day. “I…I wanted to sing.” Her voice trembles and finally she feels everything she’d been trying to avoid washing over her. Pain, disappointment, worthlessness. “What am I even doing here?”

Yongsun bit her lip, not sure how to proceed. She couldn’t say she didn’t see this coming when they were given their assignments, but for some reason she didn’t think Byulyi would take it this hard. Byulyi was self-aware, she knew she wasn’t a powerhouse. But Yongsun knew, that wasn’t everything when it came singing. Byulyi’s voice was the warmth of sunshine on a chilly day, it was the rustle of leaves in the wind, it was curling up in bed for just five more minutes. Did Byulyi know this?

Right now, however, she didn’t need forced sympathy or empty words. Yongsun just didn’t know what Byulyi did need. All she could do was be honest.

“I don’t know what exactly he has planned,” She began carefully, “But I know he doesn’t do things like this haphazardly.” She suddenly grabbed Byulyi’s hand, making the other girl jump. “I think he see’s something in you that you don’t.”

She turned to face the river at the same time the Byulyi finally looked up. “Doors are opening for us Byul. Even if…what is behind the door isn’t what we expected. It doesn’t mean it’s not still good.” She gripped her hand tighter. “And you’re not alone. I’ll be there, and Wheein and Hyejin too. You don’t see what wonderful things you have to offer right now because you’re upset he’s shutting you down. And you’re right to be upset. And maybe…maybe that’s his mistake.” Byulyi opens her mouth but she’s not sure what she wants to say. Yongsun’s words aren’t very sensible but somehow the awkwardness of it all makes her feel a bit better.

“What if whatever he sees in me isn’t actually there?”

Yongsun holds her gaze and speaks like she’s telling the truth. “It is there. I can see it too.”

Byulyi feels a hole open in her chest and swallow her up.

–

When she locks herself up in the bathroom that night, Byulyi doesn’t do it so she can cry. She lifts her shirt above her head and stares at her bare torso.

There, right below her sternum where bone gives way to soft flesh, a beautiful, blooming daffodil.

-MAGNOLIA::NOBILITY-

“How did you know what was happening that one time?” Byulyi asks once. They’re walking along the Han river. Things are peaceful, quiet.

“How did I know what?” Yongsun peers at her curiously.

“That time, with the flowers.” Byulyi kicks a pebble off the sidewalk. The incident was months ago, but sometimes Byulyi still dreams of chrysanthemums.

Yongsun is quiet for so long Byulyi thinks she made her mad, their delicate new friendship over before it could really even begin.

Finally, the older girl speaks. “That’s a very personal question, you know.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“But it’s not even my story really.” Yongsun smiles in a way that says ‘you’re forgiven, even if you didn’t do anything wrong’.

“My sister had it when I was 16. It was a magnolia. It was so beautiful on her, I was almost jealous. But then after a while she started coughing, and then the petals, it was endless. Our house smelled like them for months.” Yongsun chuckles humorlessly. “She was dying. She had it for almost half a year.”

Byulyi’s lips turn down at the thought. “That’s such a long time.”

“She told me, when it first bloomed, she had never felt more alive. But then she started coughing, and by the end of it she said every breath felt like drowning.”

Byulyi doesn’t know what to say at that implication. “Is she…”

“She got the surgery.” Yongsun smiles at her reassuringly. “She wanted to keep it so bad, even though it was killing her. But my parents begged and begged because they couldn’t lose her.” Yongsun huffed a sigh. “She got the surgery and month after that she left for England and she hasn’t been back since.”

Byulyi ponders over her words. “Was she still sad?”

Yongsun shrugs. “I don’t know. She only told me how it felt to have the flower removed.”

“What did she say?”

Yongsun gazes out onto the soft ripples of the river, glinting gold in the sunset hues. “She said it felt like she was finally free.”

Yongsun blinks her eyes open to golden hour. The sun is streaming through their thin curtains but she knows it won’t last long. She never liked how fast it got dark in winter.

It was a rare full weekend off for them, their last break, the CEO warned them, before things really started. Wheein and Hyejin had elected make a trip home since their next vacation would probably be a long while off. Yongsun didn’t really need to go out of her way to see her parents, and while Byulyi’s family was a little far off, she didn’t really feel the need to see them either.

Yongsun was spends the Saturday snoozing, but now she’s awake. Awake, and hungry. The camera over the fridge had literally been on their diets like a hawk, but since today was a break, Yongsun saw no harm in sneaking out for a bite. Byulyi would probably even come with her.

She rolled out of bed, the girl’s name on her lips when she noticed how quiet the apartment was. Usually around this time she could at least hear Byulyi tapping away on her computer, or a soft song drifting from her tablet.

Maybe Byul was taking a nap too?

She walked over to Byulyi and Wheein’s room, the door creaked open so she could see the corner of the bunk bed. No lump on top, no sleeping Byulyi. Maybe she already went out. Yongsun was about to leave it at that when she noticed movement in the room. So Byulyi was still home.

For whatever reason, the quiet atmosphere, her curiosity, a little bit of mischievousness, Yongsun decided not to make her presence known. She crept up to peer at a better angle through the door and her breath was swept from her lungs, constraining her throat, choking her.

There was Byulyi standing tall and lean, completely naked but for a pair of panties, staring at herself in their full-length mirror. Yongsun shouldn’t have been shaken by the experience, she’d seen Byulyi naked plenty of times before, but something about the atmosphere, the golden tint of the afternoon, the way it gave Byulyi’s dark hair a halo of amber, it seemed like not only was Byulyi’s body uncovered but it seemed like her soul was also stripped bare.

Yongsun’s eyes were locked on the vision of Moon Byulyi, her pale skin, her thin, too thin, legs, the smooth plane of her back but for the dimples above her waist, and in the reflection of the mirror, her flat stomach, her not-quite-full breasts, and there, in the middle, a-

She gasps.

Byulyi’s eyes lock on hers through the mirror and she throws up her arms to hide her front. “Unnie!”

“B-byul!” Solar feels a bit light-headed. “I was just, if you were awake I was going to ask if you wanted to get something to eat. Sorry I didn’t know you weren’t dressed, um, I’ll-“

Byulyi looks at her like she wants to talk and Yongsun absolutely does not want that.

“I’ll just go and you can text me if you feel like eating something. Bye Byul.” She slips the door shut and grabs her keys before dashing out the front door.

Byulyi feels herself dying. She feels the old parts of herself decaying and breaking off and they’re being replaced with parts that love the sun, parts have dark desires, parts that don’t know what it is to live without love.

“Dohoon-nim.” She ducks her head as she enters his office. There’s steely resolution in her eyes that makes him immediately set his notebook aside and focus all on her.

“What is it, Byulyi?”

She takes a deep breath, and lets the words spill out of her mouth before the tears spill out of her eyes.

“I need to get surgery.”

Yongsun comes home after three hours of wandering around and the food is cold in her hand. Byulyi doesn’t mind, and sits in the living room to eat with her and she smiles and jokes and laugh and they don’t talk about it that night.

Or the next.

And so a year passes, they debut, they rise, they cry, they learn to love each other more and more each day, and Byulyi has not laid herself bare again.

Yongsun has a dark anxiety burrowing itself in the deepest parts of her mind. Most of it comes from worrying about how she can make the group succeed, how she can make sure to not let anyone down, especially the girls she loves.

The rest of it comes from Byulyi’s crooked smile and flirty touches, and the knowledge that there’s a precious, perfect daffodil in full bloom and it didn’t bloom for her. She wonders why it bothers her.

Byulyi steps out of the surgery in a daze. It was all very anti-climatic. She knew it was a simple procedure, but for something that felt like it was woven to her entire existence to be removed so easily…Well, she doesn’t know what to think.

She lifts her gown to stare at the 5cm stitch where her flower once was. There’s no hopelessness, or despair, or loneliness or depression like her heart told her there would be if the flower disappeared. Instead, somehow, she just knows how to live again. She vaguely recalls how, when the flower had bloomed, she’d forgotten what her life was like before it. She traces the sensitive skin around her center. Who was she before she loved Yongsun?

I am Moon Byulyi.

She was free.

–

The thing about reciprocal relationships, ones that bear fruit, is that there is no easy way out. If your flowers end up wilting, dying, you both can only watch and wait. The hardest part, is that it usually never happens at the same time. You watch the love disappear from their eyes and your heart dies with their flower. And when your own flower wilts, because eventually it will, with no love to nurture it, you have to do all you can to sow the cockles of your heart so that one day, it may be healed enough to grow love once again.

If the flower is surgically removed, there is no heartache, there is no healing, there is simply nothing left at all.

–

Things are easy, they are incredibly easy after Byulyi no longer has the burden of love.

Yongsun is still her best friend. When she holds her close and smiles in her hair, it’s because she loves Yongsun, she loves Yongsun the most, but she’s not in love with her. She knows Yongsun loves her back in the same way. That’s what makes things easy.

When Yongsun agrees to be on We Got Married, Byulyi is apprehensive, but only because Yongsun’s a bit of an airhead and she always wants to protect her. But Yongsun squeezes her hand after the announcement and tells her it’ll be fine, so Byulyi smiles and lets her go.

But then things aren’t so easy anymore.

Figuring out what to do with her free time is stressful. Watching Eric Nam on TV is stressful. Sitting on a panel after working with no sleep is stressful. Listening to MCs ask and tease is stressful. Not being with Yongsun is stressful. The heavy weight of a growing love is stressful.

Byulyi feels a panic when she thinks about it too hard and there’s a familiar itch in her chest that she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

-LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY::THE RETURN OF HAPPINESS-

“You know you’re probably going to win.”

Yongsun makes eye contact with Byulyi’s reflection in the dressing room mirror. “I don’t know that.” She says a little more firmly than she meant to. “The other couples were more comfortable with each other.” She returns to fixing her makeup but she can almost feel Byulyi’s stare burning holes into her chest.

After minutes of silence Byulyi finally breaks.

“You look beautiful.” She says quietly, but her voice is tense.

Yongsun dabs at her lipstick on more time and finally swivels around. “Let me see your phone.”

Byulyi lifts and eyebrow but hands it to her without further question. Yongsun types in the password (their debut date, what a dork) and open’s Byulyi’s gallery. She swipes through a couple of photos before settling on one and handing the phone back to its owner.

“I like this picture. You should post it later.”

Byulyi looks at her screen. It’s a picture they had taken before the opening ceremony started, when they were still fresh in their red carpet outfits, her in her white suit and Yongsun in a white dress (a dress not unlike the one she was wearing now). In fact, the two of them looked a bit like…

Byulyi swallows. Well, they looked good is all. She grins and pockets the phone in her leather jacket.

“You picked a good one.” She smiles, more relaxed now.

Yongsun smiles back. “I picked the best.”

And there it is again, the familiar twinging in her chest. Byulyi knows she should be scared of it, knows she should be trying to suffocate the feeling, but the little moments it brings her feel right. It makes her feel happy.

The voice of their manager rings through the door partnered with a couple of knocks. “Yongsun we have to go!”

Yongsun scrambles to get her jacket and Byulyi follows her lead, grabbing the older girl’s coffee as they exit the dressing room.

Byulyi follows her all the way outside. She’s only wearing her jacket from their performance and it’s biting cold, but all her senses seem dulled watching Yongsun being rushed into the car like a runaway bride. She suddenly remembers the drink in her hand.

“Unnie, your coffee-“ she raises the cup.

But the door is already closed. Yongsun looks at her from the tinted windows and grins. She points at Byulyi and cups her palms and makes a blowing gesture. Then she waves.

You keep it, it’s warm. Go back inside.

A cold wind brushes against Byulyi’s neck and she doesn’t have to be told twice. She skitters back through the glass doors, but turns around to watch Yongsun’s car pull away, off to accept that best couple award, she’s sure of it.

When the car is completely out of sight she shuffles back to the dressing room. Byulyi feels hot all over but she’s sure it isn’t because of the coffee, or the warmth of the indoors. The room is empty, Wheein and Hyejin probably off visiting friends. She locks the door and strips down to her undershirt. She lifts it slowly up, stopping when she sees it.

And she starts crying. Byulyi wishes she at least had the temperance to be mad at herself. Instead, a mix of joy, despair, and relief wash over her in a tide. She wonders, what are the chances that she’d fall for the same person twice? But she thinks of Yongsun she knew it was only inevitable.

When she sees the lily-of-the-valley bells printed gently on her chest, it seems to be saying to her, welcome home.

-POPPY::IMAGINATION-

Eric invites her out to dinner that night, her and the entire production crew. Yongsun is honestly exhausted from performing and being shuffled between events but it would be rude to refuse. She tells herself she’ll stay for half an hour and have one drink, and then she can go home and finally sleep.

She’s honored by the award, really, and all the people she worked with were great, but even through the months they spent filming, Yongsun never quite felt comfortable.

In fact, right now she might even be feeling a little uncomfortable. She had been sipping on some beer, making small talk and congratulating crew members, when Eric slid next to her, arm loosely hanging on the back of her chair.

“Hey.” He says lowly, smiling at her.

“Hey.” She smiles back. She’d been a bit flushed from the alcohol, but the way he’s looking at her now it’s sobering. There’s a beat of silence and Yongsun debates if she should chug the rest or her drink or just leave. Eric is giving her a look, and she doesn’t even feel shame when she half-wishes she was receiving that look from someone else.

He fingers the rim of his glass. “Yongsun.” He smiles when he says her name. Yongsun can’t help but feel this is horribly unfair. He leans forward and she leans back. “What do you think of poppies?”

There it is. Yongsun can only stare at him with wide eyes and after seconds, Eric realizes it isn’t an expression of wonder. It was more like she was caught in the headlights, trapped. He jerks backwards and places his palms on his thighs, just to feel some sort of stability. “Would you-“

Yongsun downs the rest of her drink and twists out of her chair and he’s staring at her shoes now, question caught in his throat.

He wishes he couldn’t hear her gentle voice when she says, “I don’t think about them. Not at all. I’m sorry, Eric.”

And she leaves.

–

Yongsun enters her apartment with a slight headache. From the alcohol, from Eric, from tempering her own feelings for who knows how long. When she sees the sneakers in her foyer, the pressure lessens a bit.

Yongsun looks around her living room and there she is. Byulyi in a large t-shirt, soundly sleeping on her couch. She must be exhausted, because Yongsun wasn’t exactly discreet coming in and Byulyi hadn’t even stirred. The older woman is mindful about being quieter as she moves closer to her unexpected guest. She doesn’t know why her best friend is here, but she can’t complain when just the sight of Byulyi sleeping soundly relieves some of Yongsun’s own stress.

Yongsun squats in front of her sleeping figure and just, allows herself to stare, indulge in the peace that Byulyi’s presence brings her. Then she notices redness around Byulyi’s eyes.

Was she that tired? Or had she been…crying?

The image of Eric’s broken expression resurfaces and she’ll blame it on the alcohol another day, but Yongsun knows inside that the real reason she peeked under Byulyi’s shirt that night was pure desperation.

She never would have expected this. It’d been almost three years since that tempestuous evening that when she suffocated her heart, shut it down because she knew it would betray her and catch feelings if she let it breathe.

But this flower, this beautiful, delicate thing, was not the same. Yongsun feels a wave of nausea at the knowledge that at some point, Byulyi’s daffodil (she remembered it clearly) had withered away, and while she had been playing pretend with Eric Nam, Byulyi had gone and fallen in love again.

–

“It will take me a long time to fall in love, but once I do, I will only think about that person.” Byulyi says when they’re asked about their ideal types.

Yongsun thinks about Byulyi’s two flowers, thinks about how Byulyi has fallen in love, deep and true, two times already and she thinks, liar.

-SCARLET ZINNIA::CONSTANCY-

“Have you ever bloomed?”

Wheein pauses from toying with Ggomo. She deliberates for a moment but decides Byulyi deserves her honesty. “Yes.”

Byulyi jerks out of her dreamy state. “What, for real?”

Wheein gives her a look. “Yes for real, is that so hard to believe?”

“I just – I didn’t mean that. You, it’s just that you…well…what happened then?”

Instead of answering, Wheein asks, “Do you want to see it?”

Byulyi’s mouth drops open but she nods.

Wheein shifts closer to Byulyi and starts to gather the ends of her shirt and sweater. Ggomo scurries off with a toy when he realizes Wheein won’t play with him anymore.

Byulyi feels like Wheein is deliberately taking her time and at last, she sees it. A single, red flower, vibrant and clear against Wheein’s pale skin.

“What is it?” Byulyi murmurs in awe at how alive it is.

“Scarlet zinnia.” When Byulyi doesn’t say anything more, Wheein answers the unasked question floating in the air. “It’s for Hyejin.”

Byulyi eyebrows shoot upwards. She’d thought she was just speaking random thoughts on another one of their beer nights but Wheein seemed keen on blindsiding her. “I didn’t even notice…”

“There’s nothing to notice, we’re not together or anything.”

Strike three. Byulyi felt as if her brain was short circuiting. Why was it that Wheein could sometimes be so obtuse?

“Close your mouth Unnie, you’ll catch flies.” Wheein gives her a cheeky smile. “But if you’re worried, Hyejinnie does have one for me too. If you ask her nicely she might even show you.”

Byulyi’s mind is reeling. Wheein and Hyejin, they did it. They’ve bloomed and they did it perfectly for each other, but…

“How long? Why aren’t you guys together then?”

“Probably six years now.” Wheein shrugs. “I don’t know. We’re a little weird like that I guess.” Wheein rolls her shirt back down. “I just know that people come and go and they’re amazing, but at the end of days, it’s me and Hyejinnie, forever. I guess it’s something like I don’t need to be with her, but I can’t live without her.”

Byulyi nods like she understands, some things, not everything. “I don’t think I would ever be able to do that.”

Wheein looks at Byulyi and sees her endless devotion and bleeding heart and hums in agreement.

–

It haunts her. For days and nights she lays awake and Byulyi just exists next to her like she isn’t tearing her apart inside. How is it fair that Byulyi can have someone she loves and cherishes more than her? How can Byulyi devote all her time to Yongsun when she desires someone else? These thoughts whirl around her like a tornado, it’s impossible for her to do anything else.

They sitting across from each other at her coffee table, writing (or trying to), and she can feel Byulyi’s foot occasionally brush against her thigh.

“You touch me a lot.”

“I touch everyone a lot.”

“I know you touch me more.”

“Do you know?” Byulyi smiles and her eyes are playful but Yongsun feels like she’s just been thrust in limbo. She presses on.

“You spend too much time with me.” What about the person you’re in love with? Yongsun keeps that to herself.

“I only have you, Unnie.” Byulyi says easily.

Liar liar liar.

Yongsun breaks it.

“Then what about your flower?”

Byulyi freezes. All too late, Yongsun wishes she kept her big mouth shut.

“I had it removed.”

That information does nothing to quell the swirling at the pit of Yongsun’s stomach.

“I mean the new one. Your lilies.” Byulyi’s eyes flash and she clenches her fist. Any warm left in between them dissipates.

“How do you know about that?” No one should have seen, because she had been careful this time.

Yongsun tries not to feel like a horrible person but the fact is, she forced herself into Byulyi’s life, breached some unspoken taboo and peeked upon Byulyi’s most tender, vulnerable self. Apologies come tumbling out like excuses. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry Byulyi but I had to know and it was killing me inside and Eric said he had poppies and-“

“Eric?” Byuly interrupted. Yongsun’s mouth slams shut. “He bloomed for you?” Byulyi gathers her hair in her hands, mind reeling. “Wow…Wow, isn’t that just great.” Byulyi gasps. But it’s not great. It’s the worst. She was just a single flower in a garden of dozens, one that was stupid enough to think that the sun shined only for her.

Yongsun doesn’t know how it’s been turned to her. “Why are you saying that? It’s not great at all. I didn’t want it. I don’t want it.”

On any normal day, the sight of Yongsun’s tears would make Byulyi immediately run to her side and embrace her, to keep her safe and surround her with love, hidden but true.

Seeing them now though, after Yongsun ripped her heart open for no reason other than just to see what was inside, she feels like everything is shutting down. Her brain can’t form a coherent thought and every piece of her feels like it’s about to collapse when she feels a crushing pressure in her chest and she knows. This is it, she thinks, I should have gotten rid of it. Even though she knew absolutely this time, that she wouldn’t be able to kill her flower a second time. That this time, she would die with it if she had to. This is my love and this is my curse.

She feels the brush of velvet against the back of her throat and just as she’s about to let everything out, Yongsun erupts first.

-JONQUIL::DESIRE FOR AFFECTION RETURNED-

Yongsun sees it coming from miles away. She thinks it would have been here sooner, if only she hadn’t been in vehement denial, if she didn’t have so much pride. It’s been ready to since the first time she saw Byulyi’s chest.

Yongsun finds it a little funny that every time she see’s Byulyi’s flower, it catalyzes her own hopeless feelings. It’s as if for whatever reason, her heart is eager to bloom just so it can die.

She gently replaces Byulyi’s shirt and sits on her heels. The room hangs in still silence, but for the occasional hiccup of Yongsun’s shoulders. Eventually she takes a deep breath, wipes away the wetness left on her cheeks, and prods awake her sleeping beauty.

Byulyi startles awake, her eyes immediately landing on the woman in front of her. She smiles serenely like she has a secret, an answer. “Yong, you’re back. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

Yongsun pats her knee. “You need to sleep when you can. Go to bed, I’ll be there after I clean up.”

Byulyi nods wearily, takes Yongsun’s hand and squeezes it. “I brought some food in case you haven’t eaten yet.” Her eyes crinkle into a smile but it only accentuates the redness around eyes. Yongsun is endlessly curious why she was crying but she can’t bring herself to pry, not now.

“Congratulations tonight.” Byulyi murmurs.

Yongsun stares at their clasped hands and squeezes back. “Go to bed Byul.”

Yongsun rises and heads to the kitchen as Byulyi shuffles to her bedroom. She pops open the takeout container and it’s, of course, her favorite comfort food. She takes one small bite at a time, not really thinking about anything except Byulyi walking her to the door, Byulyi buying her favorite food, Byulyi waiting for her to come home, Byulyi’s sleepy smile, Byulyi’s cluster of lily-of-the-valleys.

The next bite she tastes is weirdly salty. It sucks her out of her spiraling thoughts and she realizes she’s crying again. Yongsun places her chopsticks down and leans back, sniffles to hold it together, and hopes Byulyi fell asleep again so that maybe she hadn’t heard. Yongsun places the rest of the food in the fridge and washes off her face in the bathroom. She doesn’t peer closely at her chest when she changes, doesn’t even glance. She doesn’t run her fingers over her chest. She doesn’t stare in awe and elation.

Yongsun climbs into bed. Byulyi had been asleep, but feeling the older girl’s movements, shifted sideways before wrapping Yongsun in a hug and sighing contentedly.

Yongsun breathes out the rest of her tears. They’ve been dried by the warmth of Byulyi’s embrace. As she feels her consciousness drifting, she tries to pretend that nothing has changed, but she knows it, feels it. It reverberates throughout her entire being.

Something in her has bloomed. It sings out desperately, love me, love me, love me too.

–

The room is flooded with yellow petals, floating around so gently Byulyi is convinced that time has slowed. Suddenly she’s back in the dressing room, eyes wide in terror as chrysanthemums swirl around her. Suddenly, she’s looking in the mirror after falling in love for the first time.

Byulyi leaps across the table to Yongsun’s side. The older woman is gagging on the seemingly endless stream of petals but she somehow struggles to say Byul.

Byulyi has no idea what to do. After all these years, after having flowers of her own, her mind’s shut down again and she’s only uselessly clinging to Yongsun’s arms. Byulyi opens her mouth to say something, anything, but instead white shells of petals spill out.

Yongsun’s eyes squeezed shut from crying and coughing, Byulyi has never felt more confused and distraught.

She seals Yongsun’s mouth the only way she’s ever wanted to.

–

Yongsun’s world is fragrant, blind, and suffocating. And suddenly it isn’t. Suddenly, it smells of something crisp, light, soft, and undeniably Byulyi. And the torrent of emotions coming out of her stops. Everything stops.

Byulyi is kissing her.

The younger woman pulls away as frantically as she leant in. There’s renegade petal on her cheek but Byulyi doesn’t feel the smothered by them anymore. Yongsun sucks in a breath and the passage is clear. She stares, wide-eyed at Byulyi, who’s expression perfectly mirrors her own.

The last of her petals float innocently to the ground. The world is still again. They stare.

How is it that her months of doubt could be swept away so easily in this moment of clarity? Yongsun needs to hear it, to convince herself it could be real. “Please,” She breaks the spell, “Please tell me you love me too.”

Byulyi collapses into herself and lets her tears well up with her laughter. It’s joy, pure bliss. “Don’t you know, Yongsun?”

Yongsun wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Please tell me.”

“You make me happy.” She takes one of Yongsun’s hands and feels her grin split when the older woman laces their fingers together.

“You complete me.” She takes the other hand.

“I love you.” Byulyi leans forward, Yongsun meets her halfway, and they seal it with a kiss.

#moonsun #moonbyul #solar #mamamoo fanfiction #hanahaki #ff #i am...so fuckin sorry if you're on mobile...#it's 7493 words #this is the reason i went mia #i started writing this and i got stuck af but it plugged up everything else i do #also i had a gay irl crisis and pulled a moon byul yi #which i might explain later but for now have this #i might redo the ending at some point bc it was pretty rushed i am sry #pls leave feedback to help me fix this trainwreck lmao #btw the sections are sometimes non-linear u gotta piece it together

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themelaninmamifiles · 7 years ago

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Planning for Baby: The Nursery

Earlier last month I started a “planning for baby” series which focused on things like feeding (via formula) and diaper stockpiling. Today, let’s talk the nursery. With the exception of the first few months, your little one is probably going to be spending a lot of time in the nursery. And although it’s not a requirement for you to create this space for them, for many of us it’s a lot of fun to create a cozy yet functional room for baby. Not only will baby be catching some much needed z’s in their nursery, but it can also be a great playroom, a space for nursing/feeding when they’re exclusively on the breast or bottle and will also double as their room for changing diapers and so forth. And as baby gets older, this will eventually become their official bedroom. If you don’t have the space for baby to fully have their own room, there’s no reason you can’t still carve out a little space for them in your bedroom, home office (assuming you don’t use it as a full time office) or even living room or family room depending on how your home is configured.

When it comes time to plan your nursery, it can literally be an overwhelming experience. Instagram and Pinterest may have you feeling like you have to literally do the most to prove your worthiness to be a new parent. But this just isn’t true. If you want to go overboard, by all means do so. At the same time, whether your budget doesn’t allow for it, or your aesthetic is more minimalistic, you can still create an awesome space for baby. Read on for some tips (based on my own experiences) to create the perfect space for your little one.

1. Pick a Theme and/or Color Palette

This is going to be crucial in terms of decor and color selection. For my husband and I, we’re both minimalists. We don’t like a lot of traditional overly carved furniture. And to top it off, I don’t like the “traditional” pink for girls/blue for boys. I knew from the minute I found out I was pregnant that I wasn’t going to adhere to that old school style of thinking. In a previous post, I mentioned how I opted to go with a unicorn & clouds theme plus picked a color palette of light gray, lilac/lavender, and seafoam green. Now, part of the reason I went this way is because we opted to convert my home office into Baby G’s room. And when it was my office, I had an awesome chevron gray theme going - including my chevron gray couch above which I chose to keep in the baby’s room. So, the couch became an anchor piece in terms of color & decor, and much of what I selected in terms of other furnishings and accents were done to compliment that chevron gray.

Note that my couch is currently housing some extra items that we haven’t quite decided where to put or that Baby G might not need for a few months yet.

2. Decide on Furniture

Although it’s nice to have a complete nursery furniture set, it’s not particularly necessary. And you may also not have the space to accommodate a full furniture set. In our case, it was most definitely a space issue - especially since we were keeping the couch in there. Even though Baby G had her own room, I didn’t want it to feel cluttered with furniture so maximizing space was a priority. Now, you will need a place for baby to sleep, somewhere to change them, and somewhere to house clothes, etc. In our case, the room comes with a closet, so we could put clothes (and our diaper surplus) in the closet. For us, we opted for an all in one convertible crib + changer from Graco that can go from crib to toddler bed to a full size bed (I’m a big fan of buying things that have longevity).

It came with built in storage, a set of three drawers in the changing table (where I house whatever current size of diapers + wipes/lotions/etc + any medicines) and a low drawer under the crib where I keep her receiving blankets, crib sheets, SwaddleMe wraps and zip up blanket sacks. And because I love minimalism, our crib features sleek lines and continues with the gray theme. However, we did also buy a few cubby storage systems and bins from Target to house things like books, Baby G’s short sleeve onesies, toys and other functional items.

Just keep in mind that you should absolutely NOT put the crib by a window. If your place is like ours, there are no child guards on the window. And even if you do, babies can get caught up in curtains and blinds. Just don’t do it. Also, don’t get freaked out, there’s a lot of extra stuff in the crib right now which won’t be there once Baby G arrives and I have yet to safety proof the room.

3. Decide Whether You Want to Paint or Not

I picked a color palette using paint chips, and for that reason alone I’m convinced everyone thought I wanted to paint the walls. I did not want to paint the walls. It’s a lot of work, and especially if you’re renting (which we currently are), it’s a massive pain in the ass to convert a room back to the original white/off white color. However, if you do want to paint, make sure you give yourself enough time to allow the room to properly air out. Paint stinks, and baby is going to have enough hurdles in their early days without also trying to endure paint fumes.

Now if you don’t want to paint (like me), there are fab alternatives. As someone who’s used to apartment life but hates bare walls, I am a huge fan of wall decals and wall art. Wall decals are usually made of vinyl and are as easy to remove as they are to apply. Likewise, I love wall art and use the 3M Command strips (make sure you get the ones designated to hold weight) because they’re as easy to come down as they were to put up. So, I have the “Taylor” + unicorn over the crib and the two posters on opposite short walls near the window. I still have one more wall to decorate (not shown) where I’ll put up seafoam cloud shaped decals.

4. DIY Decor

If you have the energy and are up for it, there’s a lot of cute DIY style decor options you can incorporate. I haven’t done it to date, but I know plenty of people who own Cricket productivity machines who create cute closet divider, card stock backed mobiles and other cute knickknacks to give their baby’s nursery some personality. Just make sure you give yourself enough time to complete any DIY projects as you can easily underestimate how fatigued you can get with your pregnancy.

5. Don’t Forget Functional Storage

We’ve been blessed in that our family and friends went crazy and bought us a ton of diapers and clothes. So, for the most part, I’ve bought the occasional outfit because I want to and haven’t had to even think about buying a diaper or baby wipe because people really showed up and showed out at our baby shower. Since we ended up getting a lot of clothes, my father in law installed a second clothes rack in the closet. So, I was able to place the first year’s clothes on the top rack and the toddler clothes on the 2nd rack. Likewise, I’ve put the older sizes of diapers on the top shelf - along with a few items that I just don’t have homes for right now - and NB, Sz 1 & Sz 2 diapers on the floor for easy access (along with baby wipes).

6. Remember the Baby Monitor & Carbon Monoxide Detector!

There are tons of modern options out on the market today, but whether you go old school or hi-tech wearables - this is an essential. I’m type A, and as someone who survived 2 deadly asthma attacks under the age of 5, I know how essential getting oxygen is! No matter how much I read up on the actual low statistical risk of SIDS or similar sleep concerns, I’m not comfortable with just a simple video monitor. So for me, I wanted something ultra high tech, that genuinely monitors breathing. Thankfully, I was gifted a Cocoon Cam from the brand, via my sister’s awesome connects. But originally I had the Owlet on my registry. And we do still also have a standard video monitor that a friend bought for us off our registry.

7. Acquiring Your Core Nursery Items

Hands down, the best way to acquire these items is through a baby registry. It might sound mercenary but babies are expensive and no one will begrudge you for being pragmatic about it. But also be realistic about prices and how you distribute price points in your registry. Just like with a wedding registry, the sweet spot is to keep the majority of your items under $100 and ideally between the $25 - 75 price point. Obviously things like cribs, changing tables, bouncers, swings, bassinets, gliding chairs or any other kind of furniture or electronic baby focused gadget will typically be very close to or more than $100. Be a realist, those are things that close family will most likely offer to buy you (or very good friends). I’ll do a registry post at a later date...but yeah...a registry will be your bestie for literally and figuratively outfitting baby.

Don’t forget gently used items. Often times it can be a family heirloom. We have a few frocks in Baby G’s closet that her tias & daddy wore when they were babies - including a fab christening gown. I know a lot of people put their noses up at second hand. But whether your budget requires it or someone just nicely offers it to you, don’t be so quick to turn it down. Now, the caveat to this is, if you’re receiving 2nd hand toys or furniture you absolutely must cross reference the item against the official Recall List on the Consumer Product Safety Commission website. Also, the majority of children’s product sites keep an active list of items they’ve recalled from their own portfolio. So, always double check before deciding to make it your own. Things can get recalled at any time. Specifically, you should NOT use a 2nd hand car seat. And if a crib is older than the early 2000s there’s a really good chance you can’t use it as drop side cribs are basically universally banned as being unsafe.

So, those are just some quick tips to get you started with building out your own nursery. Mine is still about 90% done as there are a few straggler items I need to re-home from the home office phase and decor that still needs to be situated. As I mentioned earlier, I’ll most definitely follow up with a registry specific post to help get people on the right track (as registries are very overwhelming)!

#pregnancy #baby nursery #nursery decor #nursery inspo #parenting #parenthood #planning for baby #baby room #nursery #nursery ideas #NurseryDecor #tales of a mommy 2 be #waiting4babyg

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anghraine · 7 years ago

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“the words we’ve both fallen under” - fic

So, the people (aka @brynnmclean and @ladytharen) have spoken! They chose the queer Rogue One AU (Jyn/f!Cassian + Baze/Chirrut + Bodhi/Luke) for the Theoretical Fic, which was spawned by @therebelcaptainnetwork’s Friday prompt (“hope”). Like everything ever, it grew well beyond anything I anticipated. OH WELL.

fandom: Star Wars

characters: Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor (as Cassia); Jyn/Cassian, implied Bodhi/Luke

verse: the queer Rogue One AU, of course!

length: 2k

stuff that happens: Jyn and Cassia after the bedsharing!

Jyn didn’t begrudge the Rebels their victory celebrations, which extended for several weeks, at least at night. She didn’t even think of herself as separate from the Rebellion, exactly—not after Scarif.

It was just … crowded. Very crowded, considering that this particular cantina grew out of a skeletal base on Solis 2, where her team had just arrived with some soldiers and senators. And it was loud. Easily as loud as Massassi’s cantina, spurring her nerves to screeching alert. She could endure that, had endured it many times, but she didn’t want to. And this was not a time for doing anything she didn’t want to.

Searching for a discreet exit, Jyn must have betrayed some part of what she felt. She didn’t usually, and nobody seemed to be paying particular attention to her—she’d taken care to wedge herself behind Baze—but suddenly, she felt Cassia’s mouth near her ear.

Only the habits of years kept Jyn motionless. Her blood ran cold, or maybe hot; she couldn’t tell the difference.

“Do you want some fresh air?” Cassia murmured.

Jyn tried not to look grateful.

“Yes.”

Cassia shifted in some unobtrusive way that placed her at Jyn’s side, hand warm against her back. With some resignation, Jyn suspected that last was her imagination. The leather vest hardly registered slight changes in human temperature. And Cassia ran cold, anyway. Jyn had shared her bed enough times (eleven) to know that it wasn’t some Cassia façade.

Platonically shared her bed. Jyn had even managed to platonically pin Cassia to the bed and straddle her hips, which took some doing.

Cassia made a smooth excuse that Jyn didn’t bother listening to, but which everyone accepted. More or less. Baze actually smiled—it was faint, but unmistakably a smile. That struck Jyn as deeply suspicious. But he didn’t say anything, so neither did she, instead letting Cassia maneuver them outside without incident.

(Jyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d tolerated anyone maneuvering her at all. Well, anyone else, since they’d done the same thing back on Jedha. Cassia might just be an exception. Sometimes.)

As soon as the doors snapped together behind them, Jyn’s tensed muscles relaxed. Cassia drew a breath of the base’s crisp, cool air.

“That’s better.”

Jyn shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Beer and sweat not your favourite smells?”

Cassia kept her—their—quarters in pristine order, regardless of where those quarters happened to be. Jyn herself couldn’t have cared less, but once she realized that Cassia didn’t expect her to assist in any meaningful way, she shrugged off her initial irritation. If Cassia wanted to soothe herself with colour coordinating her (many) outfits, fine. Jyn soothed herself with cleaning and loading her blasters, after all.

(By now, she didn’t just possess a nonzero number of blasters, but several, only two of which originally belonged to Cassia. That alone would nearly have made everything worth it, and … she had quite a bit more than that alone.)

“No, not really,” said Cassia dryly, heading down stairs that led to a narrow steel platform beneath the main portion of the cantina. This particular base consisted almost entirely of platforms, square buildings, and assorted stairs and ramps, all in featureless grey metal. Jyn gathered that it had been cobbled together out of some abandoned Imperial installation. Or a Republic one, maybe. It had railings and everything.

“I figured.”

“Too many people, too,” Cassia added, tone suspiciously neutral.

Jyn eyed the back of her head. “I thought you were a … people person.”

“Really?”

Thinking back over the … five weeks they’d known each other, Jyn supposed it could go either way. Cassia always had something to say, but she wasn’t exactly outgoing. “You’re good with them.”

“When I have to be.” She stopped and leaned against the platform’s wide rail while Jyn caught up. “I like the quiet.”

That pleased Jyn in a fuzzy way she didn’t care to interrogate. She settled for an indistinct noise of agreement.

Suitably enough, they continued side-by-side without talking, making their way to the furthest wall. There they remained visible from the cantina, if anyone chose to look, but at least didn’t stand beneath the noisiest part of it.

It was nice. Jyn, not overburdened by self-consciousness, felt just enough of it to avoid saying so. But she enjoyed everything: the coolness of the air, not heavy like Yavin 4’s, the easy silence, the mingling light of Solis’s moons, the smaller two eclipsing the largest into a slice of gold. She had two blasters in her holster, no enemies in the vicinity, and Cassia at her side, her limp all but gone. Without even touching her crystal, Jyn felt calm and contented in a way she very rarely experienced, far beyond her usual stoicism.

She didn’t look at Cassia. They shared quarters, a bed, and most hours of day and night; while Jyn welcomed the eagerly yielding Cassia that now and then shattered her nightmares, she took care to separate her from the actual woman. At this point, she already had seen Cassia a) young and beautiful in her silly parka, b) drenched from hair to boots, c) striding past in an Imperial uniform that fit her much better than the Alliance one, d) collapsing in Jyn’s arms, and e) swathed in shadows under Jyn’s body. She didn’t feel the need to try herself further by adding ‘gilded by moonlight’ to the rest.

Not that she’d be able to avoid it, really.

“Have you seen Bodhi?” Jyn asked.

“Yes, in the cantina,” said Cassia, unperturbed by the abruptly broken silence. “Not in the best mood. I think he ran into Skywalker.”

“Again?” Jyn didn’t mind Skywalker in himself: rather liked him, in fact. He’d personally asked her if he could name his squadron after her team, and had possibly less patience for cowards and fools than she did. But for whatever reason, he and Bodhi had taken an almost immediate dislike to each other. “I don’t even know what they find to disagree about.”

Cassia paused. “Skywalker is attractive, isn’t he? I’m not the best judge.”

Raw determination kept Jyn’s eyes on the blotted moon. She blinked several times at it. “You think that’s why—?”

“A factor, perhaps,” Cassia replied. “I can’t say for sure, of course. It could be nothing more than Skywalker hating Imperials without much ... discrimination.”

Jyn could understand that, in general. She rarely saw one without wanting to club them into a bloody corpse. But not Bodhi, who had defected and suffered and sacrificed, whatever he might have been or done before.

“We all hate Imperials,” said Jyn. “Does he think he’s special?”

Cassia’s hand tapped idly along the railing. Jyn would bet credits that she had a frown on her face.

“Maybe.”

Jyn would have blamed her uncommunicativeness on right, she’s a spy, if not for the fact that Cassia would tell her pretty much anything (unclassified), if asked. She just never volunteered it, so Jyn—or someone, but usually Jyn—always had to drag it out in pieces.

“All right, what did they do to him? Do you know?”

“Burned his family alive,” said Cassia.

A few moments passed without a word from either. Above them, somebody laughed, followed by others, before their voices faded into some other part of the room.

“Fuck,” Jyn muttered.

Cassia shifted again. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“No,” said Jyn automatically. “That’s not—that’s not fair to Bodhi, but—damn.” She’d hoped it was a bit more mundane.

“None of us are fair to each other,” replied Cassia, her voice still more even. “Not always.”

That snapped Jyn’s resolve. She glanced over her, but Cassia was staring ahead, her back a straight line from her shoulders to the cybernetics hidden under her skin. Attraction seemed rather besides the point.

“I know,” said Jyn quietly.

She suspected it might be as close to an apology as Cassia got. Since I’m not used to people sticking around was as close to one as Jyn had offered, she decided she’d take it.

Features softening, Cassia turned her head to face her, amusement flickering into her face. “Anyway, I think the unfairness has gone both ways with them.” She cleared her throat. “As it were.”

Jyn didn’t mean to smile, but she did, anyway. “You’re never going to forget that, are you?”

“I never forget anything,” Cassia said.

Jyn shook her head. “Then I’ll expect you to remember my birthday every year.”

Cassia’s low, startled laugh altogether banished Bodhi and Skywalker’s whatever-it-was. “If I know where you are.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” said Jyn.

The amusement faded into something else, sweeter and more cautious. “You’re staying?—I—you mean, indefinitely?”

Jyn thought of a good half-dozen responses, alternately snide and earnest. But she only said,

“Yes.”

Cassia’s face broke into a bright, dimpled smile. Jyn, who had not expected that particular attack, felt dazed. Just a little. Physical awareness flooded back, or became relevant again. The golden moonlight caught in Cassia’s eyes, her skin, even her dark hair, gleaming from within. The hazy glow of it gentled her features without weakening them, her face warm and pretty rather than starkly beautiful. For all of that, her eyes fixed on Jyn with the same elated intensity that she remembered from the not-apology in the hangar, and after.

Speaking of unfair—

“How long do you think we’ll stay here?” she asked. “Assuming it’s not classified.”

Cassia seemed puzzled but undisturbed. “Not very long. We want to keep the small bases as unobtrusive as possible, and the rest will be scattering from Yavin soon. We’ll need a new central base.”

“Colder than Massassi, I hope,” said Jyn, vengefully.

Cassia looked betrayed. Her smile turning crooked, she twisted back towards the base below them, though without the rigidity of before. “You’re the one who’ll suffer if we get stationed there.”

“I’ll live,” said Jyn. “Not all of us are delicate flowers.”

“Really, Jyn?”

Jyn grinned openly, leaning against the platform’s side. “So what about you? Are you hoping for anything in particular?”

Cassia’s fingers splayed out on the railing, then grasped it. She wet her lip.

“A few things,” she said.

Jyn gave up.

“Cassia?”

When Cassia turned towards her, inquisitive, Jyn didn’t wait long enough for fear. She stepped forward, curled her fingers into Cassia’s jacket, and kissed her.

Cassia’s lips parted in what Jyn assumed to be surprise rather than invitation, but within a moment, her mouth was pressing back, as soft and careful as in the turbolift. They’d finally circled back, finally—and then her hands slid about Jyn’s waist, up her back. It was so little, but Jyn felt drunk, heady and flushed all over, more than she’d been capable of before, maybe more than she’d been capable of in her life. She had her arms about Cassia’s neck again, fingers walking against the nape and threading into her hair, smooth and soft instead of stiff with sweat and blood. She pressed closer when Cassia tilted her head to slant her mouth against Jyn’s, both panting.

No, Cassia was saying something, whispering against Jyn’s lips. Cassia and her words; she always had something. Even now! A very tiny bit exasperated, Jyn slowed and forced herself to pay attention.

“Jyn,” Cassia murmured. “Jyn, Jyn, Jyn—”

Jyn almost shuddered, fingers clutching in Cassia’s hair. She’d never kissed anyone who knew her name. Anyone who knew her at all. And this wasn’t anyone—this was—

“Cassia,” she breathed.

They stepped back for air, because they had to. Inevitably, that first moment was awkward. Neither quite knew what to say, and it’d been so much even though it was nothing they hadn’t done already. But Jyn took in Cassia’s rumpled hair and swollen mouth and half-shy smile, and could only think, again.

A small breeze rustled past. Cassia shivered.

Jyn had too much self-respect to say I’ll warm you up, or anything of the sort. To go by Cassia’s flush and thinly-veiled pleasure, her face said it for her.

“That one of the things you were hoping for?” she asked.

Cassia could have said something clever, or beautiful, or wry: Jyn didn’t doubt that she had it in her. But she just laid her hand against Jyn’s cheek, her eyes wide, almost stunned, as she smoothed the fringe aside.

Cassia leaned down and kissed her again.

#anghraine's fic #otp: welcome home #therebelcaptainnetwork #rule 63 #the queer rogue one fic #this has been in my head for... a long time #like. a very long time.#jyn erso #cassian andor #star wars #bodhi x luke #proto-bodhi/luke anyway. but uh. i am not a proponent of sweet sunny optimist luke #anyway #yes the title is 'we belong' again #mostly so i can sneak it onto my ficlist ;)#the file was just 'esperanza' tbh

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akawestruck · 8 years ago

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Best Friends, of course

After a bewildering interaction with Hermione, Harry learns that some people think romance is important. Luckily, Snape does not. Short snippets of a world in which almost none of the Harry Potter plot is relevant. Snarry, but the ‘romance’ is a queerplatonic relationship between two aromantic people.

This is the original version of BF,oc. After some contemplation, I opted to change out one of the scenes to better reflect the relationship I wanted Harry and Snape to have. That is, less physical. The new version is now on ff net.

Harry and Severus are both aromantic and asexual, although they never use those terms. Forget almost all of the Harry Potter plotline and just go with whatever’s implied in the snippets. Timelines… don’t exist. Everybody’s alive, yay. We’re not sure what happened to Voldie.

This is unbeta’d, so if you notice any mistakes, please let me know.

I do not own Harry Potter.

“What are we, Harry?” Hermione looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

Harry wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but he couldn’t just tell her that. Hermione would get upset. They were wizards, and students, and fifth years, and humans, and any number of things. Nothing in the context of their conversation helped, either. She had only just recovered her breath from a laughing fit due to Harry’s spin on the story of the twin’s last prank.

Hermione rolled her eyes when Harry failed to answer immediately. “To each other, Harry. What are we to each other?” After getting her annoyance out of the way, Hermione once again got that hopeful, sweet expression on her face.

Harry was still confused. “Friends? Best friends, of course.”

Hermione crumpled. “Oh. Right. Of course.” She mustered a weak smile. “How did they get Seamus’s hair regrown in time for the feast?”

“That’s the great part!” Harry enthused, glad to be back in familiar territory. “They didn’t!”

“Enera!” A sharp flick of his wand set the air crackling, followed swiftly by a branch falling. Harry caught it in a spell before it hit the ground, not foolish enough to make such a loud noise in the Forest. He was tempted, though. A good fight with a Jabberwa sounded good right now. Maybe he’d be able to think clearly, then.

Harry gave his wand a swish and brought the branch flying toward himself, catching it as easily as he would a disarmed wand. After a few moments of inspection he set it in the pile to his left. A little too bendy for what he wanted. That’s what he got for choosing trees from a distance. Better to spend his temper with cutting curses at trees than people, however.

A soft rustling of leaves warned Harry that he had attracted a visitor, and he whipped around, wand at the ready, stunner on the tip of his tongue.

His gaze found narrowed black eyes and Harry relaxed.

“This is your last free pass of the week, Mr. Potter, and it’s only Thursday,” Snape remarked dryly.

Harry hunched his shoulders, letting the overlong sleeves of his sweater fall over his hands. He didn’t have to be at the ready with Snape there to look out for threats. “It’s not been a great few days.”

Snape lifted one eyebrow. The man would never invite Harry to confide in him, but managed to offer it silently anyway.

Harry picked up his tiny bundle of selected branches and took a few steps to fold himself among the roots of a nearby tree. He wasn’t sure Snape wouldn’t just dismiss Harry’s concerns as overblown teenage drama. The professor did that sometimes, and it always stung. A few weeks hindsight usually showed that the dismissal was deserved, but Harry really wasn’t in the mood to decipher the concern Snape hid in harsh - cruel - words.

While Harry stewed, Snape investigated the pile of rejected branches, taking one or two out to test for himself. “You’ve become more discerning.”

“Or I’m just not in a generous mood,” Harry retorted.

Snape’s sidelong glance clearly indicated that he expected Harry to elaborate, but Harry refused on principle.

“Were the Timberwilly tracks there on your way in?”

Harry picked at his sticks. “I wouldn’t have noticed if there was,” he admitted.

“Potter,” Snape growled.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Professor.” Harry lifted his glasses to rub at his eyes. “It’s been a really not great few days.”

“That does not excuse carelessness, Potter. Awareness of your surroundings is even more important if you are not working at your best.” Snape flicked his wand, vanishing the discarded branches to who-knows-where.

“Yeah. I’ll be more careful.” Harry sighed. “Any chance you’ll need to be out here to collect some more herbs tomorrow night?”

Snape studied him carefully before deciding, “Yes, Mr. Potter. And I think the lesson will stick best if you join me for detention tomorrow. We will meet in my classroom after supper.”

“Thanks, Professor.” Harry smiled warily and let his head thump back against the tree. He breathed in the mixed scent of furious life and continual decay, so distinctive to the Forbidden Forest. His most joyous memories may have taken place in Hogwarts, but contentment had come to be equated with that smell pricking at his nose.

Harry hauled himself up to follow Snape back out of the forest. After a few minutes of walking in silence, Harry eventually asked, “Professor, is there something wrong with being friends?”

Snape stopped immediately, glaring at Harry and opening his mouth to reply with a sneer. Then he paused. “Context, Potter.”

“Right, yeah.” Harry rubbed the back off his head. “Hermione’s been avoiding me lately, and, when I asked her why, she told me that if we’re 'just’ friends, she can’t spend all her time with me.”

“You and Granger were not a couple?”

“No!” Harry shuddered, thinking of himself involved in any of those gooey, starry-eyed relationships. “We aren’t like that. Weren’t,” he corrected with a wince. Harry squeezed the bundle of branches in his arms like some sort of spiky stuffed animal.

“Then perhaps the issue is that she wanted to be,” Snape offered. He looked uncharacteristically sympathetic.

“Why would she? We were fine how we were. And even if she did, we were still friends. Why would that just stop?” Harry shook his head. Snape was probably the wrong person to ask about interpersonal issues. Then again, usually Harry would ask Hermione, and that wasn’t an option anymore.

Snape gave a put-upon sigh. “Have you not noticed, Potter, that most people, particularly teenagers, place a great importance on romance?”

“Well, they’re always showing off with all the couple-y stuff, but it’s not like it’s really that big of a deal. It’s like bragging about a new toy.” Harry stopped, stunned by a sudden thought. “Please tell me they’re just bragging. They can’t be serious about all that-” Harry made vague gestures in the air to articulate his point.

“Just because you do not care about that drivel does not mean that they do not. Even the closest of friends may abandon you for a chance at the idiotic concept known as 'true love’.”

Harry stared up at Snape, devastated. Another way in which he was a freak. “But Hermione’s not… she’s not even with someone!”

“That is because she thought she was with you, Potter,” Snape snapped. He continued, with a mix of disdain and relish, “You gave her attention and affection, but most of all, you made her a priority in your life. And because she associates those things with romantic attraction, she assumed that you did as well. Then you crushed her hopes.”

“But I didn’t - I never - Merlin!” Harry strangled a frustrated scream and blinked away tears. He’d lost his best friend over a stupid misunderstanding? What had he done to make her think that way? Had Harry led her on?

Was this Harry’s fault?

“You sound like a wounded animal. Get up. We’re going back to the castle before you attract something nasty.”

Harry laughed weakly, thinking that surely the nastiest thing in the Forest was already here and on his side. Nevertheless, he obeyed and stood. “Professor? Do you - That is, did you lose a friend like this?”

Snape studied him. “Not precisely. My childhood friend was never attracted to me. Rather, she could not imagine the possibility of remaining so close to me while pursuing a romantic relationship with her beloved. She distanced herself, but in the end it was my own fault that our ties were severed completely.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks for telling me.” Harry blushed absurdly, lowering his eyes. Then he looked back up at Snape, pleadingly. “Will I ever… will I ever feel like that? Like being someone’s boyfriend is the most important thing in the world?”

“I cannot speak for you, Potter,” Snape replied severely. “But for myself, no. I never have.”

“Your go.” Harry passed the board back to Severus, idly studying his professor’s rooms while he waited for Severus to take his turn.

“Clever,” Severus muttered, intent on the board.

“A compliment, Professor?” Harry teased. “Should I get out my wand? Is the end of the world immanent?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Harry laughed. It was strange, being friends with his professor, but spending time with Severus was easier than interacting with any of Harry’s 'peers’ had ever been.

Severus smirked as he made his move and passed the board back to Harry.

Harry stubbornly stared at the board for several minutes before conceding defeat. “You’ve gotten good at this.”

“Yes, well, when one’s opponent is you…” Severus mocked, but all soft around the eyes in that way that made Harry melt.

Before he could blurt out something stupid, Harry began resetting the board.

“Have you confirmed your holiday plans?” Severus asked.

Harry nodded. “I’ll be staying here. Fred and George said I was going to be invited back to the Burrow, but apparently Hermione still isn’t as okay as she says she is. Thinks I must be jealous of her and Ron.”

“You are jealous.”

“Yeah, because she actually talks to him! And I don’t need commentary, I already feel like crap for being willing to settle for whatever scraps of attention she gives me, I don’t need to feel worse for begrudging Ron.”

“Very well.” Severus made his first move without contemplating more than a moment. “I’ve been invited to Germany for the solstice. Hollybrein flowers only bloom in the wild, and only once a year. A new field of them has been discovered.”

“Oh.” Harry swallowed his disappointment. He was excited for Severus. He was. The Potions Master rarely got to go farther than the Forbidden Forest for ingredient collection these days, and Harry knew the man missed travelling. And he was getting the opportunity to access rare, fresh ingredients. “What are the flowers used for?”

“Nothing at all. The pollen, however, is invaluable to combat allergies and the common cold. If Hollybrein could ever be cultivated, there would be no more flu season.”

“That’s great! Pollen to fight pollen. Very cool. When. Um. When will you leave, do you know?”

“That, Potter, depends on whether the assistant I want agrees to come with me.”

Harry fumbled the board. “Me? You want - Yes! Yes, can I? Will Dumbledore agree? Is it safe?”

Severus chuckled. “Completely.” He looked over at Harry, who was correcting the board. “One square to the right, don’t cheat.”

“We can’t all have perfect memories,” Harry groused, fixing the pieces into their proper positions. He made his move. “So, when are we leaving?”

“December twentieth. We’ll be cutting it close, but I’d rather be able to stay after to process the pollen before transporting it. And you have assignments to finish, so we can’t simply flee to Germany for the entire break.”

“As if you don’t have essays to grade.”

“It’s hardly time consuming to give you dunderheads Trolls,” Severus drawled. Then he frowned at the board. “How’ve you done that?”

“Great skill,” Harry advised him sagely. He wasn’t bothered by Severus’s marking anymore. He’d spent afternoons in the man’s office while he slogged through the essays with far more care than Harry had originally expected.

Two moves later, Snape sighed. “You’ve won. Now show me that trick again.”

“Of course, Professor.”

“So Harry,” Fred began, appearing at his elbow.

“We heard a rumor,” George continued, bracketing him between them. It wasn’t unusual, when they all were on their way to Quidditch practice.

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with the Dungeon Bat.”

“Want to tell us a little something?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Shove off. I heard a rumor that Lee came back from the holidays this time with a two-tailed scorpion that breathes fire.”

“The fire may be a - ” “ - slight - ” “ - exaggeration.”

“You three are ridiculous.”

“Come on, Harry.”

“Give us something juicy.”

“We won’t tell.”

In sync, the twins waggled their eyebrows absurdly. They arrived at the locker room and the twins collided with the doorway, jostling each other to get past.

“I’m his assistant for collecting potion ingredients. We had to go to Germany over the holidays.” Harry shoved his books in his locker and pulled out his gloves. “Juicy enough for you? Swear you’ll never, ever tell?” he added wryly.

“Cross our hearts,” Fred agreed.

“And hope to lie.”

Harry laughed. “Ridiculous,” he sang, leaving them behind in the locker room.

After practice they caught him again, a bit more serious. “If there’s something between you and the greasy git, you know you can tell us, right, Harry?”

“We won’t snitch on you.” George was never able to resist a pun.

“We’re not involved like you’re implying,” Harry snapped. “Snape is a friend, okay? Nothing else.”

Fred held up his hands. “Alright, mate. Just wanted you to know that we support you, or whatever.”

“No matter who you like, Harry,” George agreed. “From bookworms to Hufflepuffs. Even greasy old Slytherins.”

“I don’t like -!” Harry cut himself off and took a deep breath. “I don’t like Snape like that. I didn’t like Hermione or Cedric like that. I don’t like anyone like that. You want to support me? Join the impossibly small club of people who don’t imply that I want to date anyone I talk to for more than ten minutes.”

The twins exchanged a skeptical look, and George shrugged. “Sure. But when you do, you’ll tell us, right?”

Harry made a sound not unlike a boiling kettle. “That’s not going to happen. If it ever does, I’ll let you know, so you can check me for love potions.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes! Assume love potion or charm until proven otherwise. And make sure to let Snape know. He’ll know all sorts of weird curses to check for.”

“Right. So you’re not gay?”

“No. I’m not gay. Or straight. I’m nothing. I’m disinterested.”

“Severus?” Harry asked tentatively.

The man snorted. “Don’t look so terrified, Harry. I thought you might appreciate chocolate that you don’t have to check for wayward spells.”

“So, it’s not…”

“No.”

A wave of relief sent Harry crashing down on a chair. “Thank Merlin.” He shook his head clear. “What flavors’ve we got, then?”

“Malt, almond, and coconut.”

“A present for yourself as well? Go on, take the coconuts.” Harry set the box of chocolates on the table between them. It was disturbingly pink, with a red bow printed on.

Severus examined his chocolate clinically before popping it in his mouth. He wrinkled his nose. “Overpriced.”

“I’ve heard that the best deals are actually a few days after. Want to sneak down to Hogsmeade this weekend? We can probably triple this for the same cost.”

“One, I do not sneak. Two, us in Hogsmeade buying chocolate together would raise some eyebrows. And three, we’ll have decontaminated your worshipers offerings by then, eaten them, and sworn off all sugar.”

“One, you totally sneak. Two, their faces would be hilarious. And three, don’t call them worshipers.”

“What would you prefer? Rabid fans? Potterheads?”

Harry groaned. “I almost wish I’d had another nasty article published about me last week, just so there would be less of them.”

“Then you’d be receiving poison as well as love potions.”

“I’m probably getting some of both anyway.”

Severus held out the last chocolate, a malt. “Good that you have a Potions Master on hand to combat any malicious plots to romance you, then.”

Harry plucked the chocolate from him and ate it in two bites, to savor it. “Do you ever think we’re weird? For not wanting all that, I mean. You’d be an awesome boyfriend.”

“Never attempt to apply the term boyfriend to me again, Potter. And no. I’ve made my peace with it.” Severus drummed his fingers against the arm rest. It left some chocolate smudges, but Harry didn’t say anything. Severus would just get irritated at himself for no reason, since the house elves would clean it up.

“My mother was dosing my father with love potions for years,” Severus eventually said. He ignored Harry’s choked-off, “What?” and continued, “I always wondered whether my disinterest was a side-effect. There are no reported cases either way, due to the illegality, so I suppose I’ll never know. But I am as I am. When I was a boy I sometimes wished that I could feel that way for someone, to have all that fascination, that adoration focused on me. I haven’t wished that for years, however.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything sympathetic to say, so instead he teased, “I’m plenty fascinated with you.”

Severus chuckled. “Is that why I can’t get rid of you? I’d wondered.”

“Shut up. You know you’d be lonely without me here to annoy you.”

“I’d be utterly bereft.”

“Devastated.”

“Shattered.”

They snickered like children. “Want to start sorting through my loot? You can take the sweets and I’ll start drafting replies to the love letters.”

“You don’t want me rejecting your lovelorn hopefuls for you?” Severus mocked.

“They would either cry or not understand your insults. Or both. Besides, I wouldn’t risk infecting you with feelings.”

“Merlin forbid.”

“Harry.” Severus sniffed. “Why do you smell of sex?”

Harry groaned. “You’re letter said it was urgent. I didn’t have time to shower.”

“Valkyrie interrupted a tryst, then?” Severus sneered.

“Merlin no. It’s bad enough having to use my hand. I don’t want other people touching me there. Or having to touch them. Gross. Why are we talking about this in the hall? Let me in. What was urgent?”

Severus’s robes billowed as he led Harry toward a large cauldron in the back of his lab. “It’s about to be finished.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “Seriously? And the color’s still right?”

“Everything’s perfect. We will soon be in possession of the only completed Stone-eye potion since Merlin’s time.”

“You insane, brilliant man.” Harry swallowed. “How long?”

Severus cast a Tempus. “Seven minutes.”

“You owled me with only thirty minutes to go! What if I’d been at Hagrid’s? Or busy? I could have missed it!”

“It only changed color an hour ago. I had to prepare the flasks and check over the distillery.”

“Is there anything left I can do?”

Severus smirked and pulled a short, thick piece of metal from his pocket. “You designed the symbol. Only fitting that you be the one to make the seal.”

“Yes!” Harry took out his wand and bit his lip. He tapped the metal and transfigured it into an inverted stamp of a snake eye with a sword as the slit pupil.

“Excellent. Now we only wait.”

Harry bounced in place. “I can’t believe you actually managed this. I mean, I totally knew that you could. But two years of obsessive timing and tweaking. I can’t wait to read the letters from posh old Potion Masters begging for your notes.”

“That will be a treat,” Snape agreed. Then he said, almost idly, “You would have been in time if you’d taken a shower.”

“But I didn’t know that, now did I? If I smell that bad I’ll use the lab one, but you have to Accio me some fresh robes.”

“Yes, yes. I don’t want this moment associated with the scent of sweaty Potters.”

“Fine, geez.” As he stripped for the shower, which was really just a showerhead in the corner with a drain beneath, Harry kept talking. “You never have to use your hand? How do you get rid of it? Willpower? That can’t feel as good.”

Severus sighed. “On the rare occasion that 'it’ comes up, I ignore it.” He flicked his wand and the shower started.

“'Comes up’,” Harry cackled, stepping into the water. “Nice. My housemates have implied that daily is normal. Is it rarer 'cause you’re old?”

“I’m not old, Potter. And my age has had no effect on its frequency.”

“Really? Huh. Less time wasted, I guess. But it is does feel good.”

“I had assumed that its lack correlated with my disinterest.”

“Maybe for most people? I won’t traumatize you with the discussions I’ve heard about what my housemates fantasize about, but they do seem to get aroused due to attraction as much as anything.” Harry shut off the water and accepted a towel from Severus. “I just enjoy all the sensations my body gives me until it’s over.”

“That sounds awful,” Severus informed him.

“Whatever works, I guess. Time?”

“Two minutes.”

Harry dressed and sat on a lab table, ignoring a glare from Severus. “It’s weird talking about sex things with an adult. But it’d be even weirder to avoid talking about it with my best friend. You should invent a de-aging potion.”

“If I ever manage that, I will be too busy enjoying my riches to entertain you.”

“Like you wouldn’t invite me to your private island.”

“With your luck you’d drown getting there.”

“Not untrue.”

They both spent a while staring at the potion.

“Best friend?”

“Too juvenile?”

“Not if the sentiment is honest.”

“Always will be. Even when you’re a jerk.”

“One minute,” Snape said. Then, softly, “And the sentiment is returned.”

“Severus!” McGonagall’s voice carried throughout Severus’s chambers, accompanied by four sharp raps on the door.

Harry groaned and huddled deeper under the blankets. “Make her stop.”

Severus was already out of bed and pulling on robes, based on what Harry could hear. “Stay in here. I refuse to suffer a lecture from Minerva before dawn.”

“Yessir,” Harry slurred, snuggling with his pillow. Severus despised Harry’s oversized, cloud-soft pillows, but they were superior for hiding from sunlight and wakefulness.

On his way out Severus must have activated the Eccio ward, because Harry could hear his and McGonagall’s conversation. Which was not conducive to sleep, but was reassuring.

“Severus! Potter’s gone missing.”

Not reassuring. Not reassuring at all. Harry scrambled out of bed and began pulling on his clothes. Where had he left the Invisibility Cloak?

“Missing, Minerva? How do you know?”

“None of his friends have seen him since Friday. The Weasley twins came to me this morning. The twins, Severus. They wouldn’t have come if they weren’t deeply worried. He isn’t in his bed”

“Two days is hardly long enough for alarm. The boy was probably just hiding away from the sycophants he calls friends. There’s no cause for concern unless he misses his classes today.”

“This is serious. I know you care about Harry more than you let on, Severus. We need to find him.”

“Try the quidditch pitch. He’s been known to go flying when he can’t sleep, and I assume his avoidance is due to brooding or some such.”

Harry took the hint gratefully. He secured the Cloak and went to the window, Accio'ing his broom. He usually left it unsecured nowadays, just in case he felt like flying out of the castle. Severus wasn’t wrong about his nighttime flying habits, though the man had neglected to mention that he would occasionally join Harry, sitting in the stands and sipping tea while he watched Harry do stupid and dangerous stunts.

There was only time for a few loops and a speed run under the stands before Severus and McGonagall arrived at the field.

Harry touched down, feigning surprise. “Professors! What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“What’s happened is that your lack of consideration has sent your friends into a panic,” Severus snapped.

“I did? I’m so sorry, Professor McGonagall! I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I just needed some time away.”

“As I said. Next time, leave a note. At least then they’ll know you haven’t been kidnapped.” With that, Severus stalked away. He probably was truly furious, Harry guessed. Their wonderful weekend of non-stop research and childish games had ended on a sour note because Harry hadn’t anticipated his friends noticing his absence. Ron and Hermione might not have, too busy doing sickeningly sweet couple-y things, but he ought to have had more faith in George. And Fred, eventually. Neville, Ginny, and Luna were used to him being randomly unavailable.

“I’m disappointed in you, Potter.”

“I understand, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure that it won’t. Come along, we’d best present you to your friends before they take it upon themselves to find you.”

“Yes, Professor. I’ll just put away my broom.”

When Harry got back, McGonagall was eyeing him thoughtfully. “Where have you been sleeping, Potter? According to your housemates you haven’t been in the dorm.”

Harry blushed. “A friend of mine from another house found some spare room for me. I really didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

Luckily, McGonagall was too tactful to ask which friend he had stayed with, as his only friends in other houses among the student body were Luna and Cedric. Actually, Cedric probably would if Harry ever asked. But Cedric and Cho were well-known to be madly in love, so Harry would be cast as a heartbreaker when gossip inevitably got out and assumed his intentions to be less than platonic.

If Malfoy got involved, they could call it the Seeker Scandal. Harry would have to remember to share that thought with Severus. The man would be amused.

McGonagall escorted him to Gryffindor Tower. “Reassure your friends, Mr. Potter. And get to class on time.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You really want to try this?” Harry settled cautiously in Severus’s lap.

“I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t.”

Harry swallowed. “Right. Then, um. Right.” He leaned forward and gently touched his mouth to Severus’s skin, right where his neck met his shoulder. It felt… like nothing. He pulled back and licked his lips before trying again, this time with his mouth just slightly open. He slid them together then off. It was fine, he supposed, so he tried doing the same again. And again. Change the angle a little. Up a little higher on Severus’s neck. Mouth a little wider. This was strangely addicting.

He pressed his tongue to Severus’s skin. It wasn’t particularly impressive, as far as skin went, but Harry hadn’t been expecting much anyway. At least there were no toxic chemicals.

Harry sat back. “What do you think?”

“Far better than kissing on the mouth, somewhat worse than lying together on the couch.”

“Agreed. Swap?”

Severus made an agreeable noise and went for Harry’s neck. Except that Severus started with his tongue, and Harry went rigid.

Severus immediately withdrew. “Unpleasant?” He sounded disappointed.

“Extremely pleasant. Do that again. Please.”

Severus grinned and returned to Harry’s neck. He made liberal use of his tongue and minimal use of his teeth, and Harry was soon shivering and annoyingly aroused. Severus politely ignored the intrusion and ran his hands up and down Harry’s back, knowing just when to back off so Harry didn’t have to call a stop due to overstimulation.

Eventually Severus ceased his ministrations and hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder, letting them both rest in the loose embrace. “Better than the couch, close second to feeding you.”

“Better than being fed, not as good as washing each other’s hair. Very small doses only.”

“Agreed. Next time we’ll have you face away. I suspect the lack of friction will help.”

“Sounds good. One more thing?”

“Very well.”

Harry found that for some reason, though laving attention on Severus’s neck did very little for him, planting a small kiss just behind Severus’s jaw felt unbearably sweet. He hummed happily, resting his forehead on the damp patch of skin he had made earlier. “I like that. My equivalent to you doing the neck squeeze thing.”

“This?” Severus asked teasingly, cupping the back of Harry’s neck, and, yes, squeezing.

“Anything else on the list of curiosities? I think that was it.”

“We belayed all forms of 'PDA’ for now, so yes, I believe we’re done.”

Harry snickered. “Everyone is going to be so confused when we test those.”

“You laugh now, but I’m the one who will have to reign in your temper when they mistake us for a couple.”

“Yeah, yeah. What time is it?”

“Seven fifty-three.”

“Please tell me that’s late enough to go to bed.”

“No. You’ll wake up at three in the morning and moan about it. Get up. You can edit the most recent chapter while I work on the next.”

“Fine.” Harry didn’t move. “Severus?”

“Yes?” the man replied, impatiently.

“I know we’re not a couple, romantically. Obviously. But, um. We’re still going to be together for a long time, right? Until we’re both really old?”

“There are no guarantees. But yes, I plan to remain close with you for as long as I may.”

“And I’ll argue with you if you ever think you may not,” Harry grumbled, smiling.

“As I will argue with you if you ever think I may not.”

“Good.”

“Exceptionally.”

“Severus,” Harry whined. “I’m bored.”

“Mufflito.”

“Finite Incantem. Don’t be such a meany, Sev.”

“Don’t expect me to entertain you, brat.”

“I’m graduating in next month.”

“Assuming that you didn’t fail this essay. Which you will if you don’t cease irritating me while I grade it.”

“But we still haven’t decided how to keep in touch!”

Severus put aside his paperwork and folded his hands carefully. “Harry. On the first Friday of each month you will be flooing here to spend the weekend with me. On every Saturday that we are not together, we will be floo calling for two hours from ten to noon. If either of us cancel on Saturday, we will move the call to Sunday. If this ever occurs twice consecutively, we will owl each other at least a two sentence note. At the end of your apprenticeship you will be moving back to Hogwarts, and get a suite connected to mine by secret passage. This is the most structured plan to keep in contact I have had in my life, and I was a triple agent for over a decade.”

Harry slumped deeper into the couch, sulking but with a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, Severus. ’M just nervous.”

“And you have every right to be. You are taking a step into unfamiliar territory, largely alone and with little idea of what to expect. But that does not give you leave to prevent me from fulfilling my obligations.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry sat up. “Can I. Um. Can I sit against your legs? I think I could be quiet then.”

“If it will keep you quiet, be my guest.”

There was an awkward shuffle before Harry got himself folded comfortably under Severus’s desk, head resting the man’s knee. Harry sighed happily. “This should have been on the list.”

Severus ran a hand through Harry’s hair, but led by example and remained silent.

Harry woke from his half-drowse when Severus stretched. “Wha’ time’s it?”

“You’ve been asleep for two hours. How does your neck feel?”

“Surprisingly good.” Harry yawned. “Must be dark by now, yeah? Still up for going to the Forest tonight?”

“Of course. I’ve finished the marking. You did well.”

“’M a good assistant.”

“A shame you’re going into Defense. Potions has lost a valuable asset.”

“My contribution to the field’ll be convincing you to write textbooks. I’ll be very appreciated.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Everyone is staring.”

“Hardly, Potter.”

“No, Sev, everyone is actually staring. Even the first years.” Harry’s cheeks were beginning to go hot.

“You are somewhat famous.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“Perhaps they find you handsome. Tans are apparently all the rage, these days.”

“How would you even know that? Never mind. Explain the boys, then. A large proportion of them should be straight.”

“Envious of your good looks.”

“I can’t believe you managed to say that with a straight face. Pardon the pun. They’re still staring!”

“They’ve never seen two teachers chattering like little girls,” McGonagall interrupted from the far side of Severus. “A little decorum, gentlemen.”

“I don’t think that’s it, either.”

“A mix of both, most likely.”

“That could be it,” Harry agreed.

Dumbledore finished his speech and clapped, filling the tables with food.

“Chocolates, Severus, really? You’re such a sap.”

“Check the box.”

“These are all coconut!”

Severus laughed, and Harry finally realized.

“They’re not staring at me! They’re staring at you! You’re smiling! In public!”

Severus attempted, and failed, to control his expression. “I blame you, Potter.”

“Why, Professor, I’m honored! To be credited with inciting the great Dungeon Bat to smile. Have I won an award? Will I need to make a speech?”

“I know where you sleep.”

“I have unlimited access to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

“Boys. Please refrain from starting a prank war on the first day of the term.”

“I do not participate in prank wars,” Snape spluttered.

Harry patted his hands. “Of course you don’t, dear. Eat your chocolate.”

“You little - !”

If you’re curious, George and Fred knew Harry was out of bed because they snuck in to prank him. I don’t know what game Harry was teaching Severus, but it was Muggle and not chess. I suspect something with complicated rules and too many distinct pieces.

A lot of the aro-ace feels in this relate to my own experiences, so they’re a narrow slice of the spectrum.

If you have an idea for a new snippet that fits this line in, I will give you a virtual hug, because I really wanted to use it: “Perhaps we’ve finally succumbed to the romantic notions of the masses.”

#snarry

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