#*sweeping the floor but the sound the hair make when collected resemble the one of dry leaves*

[ndostairlyrium]

Imagine if elven bodies had shapes inspired by trees rather than human-like body types. Like, you have five to six types of trunks (shoulder to ankle) and textures, wrinkles looking like bark when they get old, hair looking like cascades of leaves (weeping willow hair hello???)

It can be subtle so younger elves can be perceived rather human-like, but their innate traits can be more emphasized whenever they grow older

Bamboo elves being exceptional hunters because of their flexibility, oak elves having longer lifespans, fig tree elves being a small mess with the fastest metabolism to compensate for their awkwardness...

...also skin having different issues like, adolescents having problems with moss and mushrooms inspired conditions, old people having to deal with creaks and noises that sound like old furniture, plus brown spots that resemble dry bark coming off a trunk.

Also hear me out; natural flower crowns that are just treated like humans deal with dandruff...

The possibilities are almost endless (but I get that it would be almost impossible to make it work outside idk, a paper sheet)

[celedyn]

DWC - Day 5 - Music

He set his hand to the door, the faint tingle of magic tingling through his fingertips before it gently pushed open onto his apartment, candles flickering to light as he entered. He stooped, setting Gertrude on the floor so that she could stretch her little legs, but the young pup only used her freedom to follow after him as he swept across the room to an old, well cared for phonograph. He had tried all the latest sorts of gadgets and radios and crystalline communications systems, but there was something about the old cylinders, about the vibrations of sound physically etching themselves in place and then those very same waves playing back that added an intimacy to the music. He hummed along a few bars before sweeping into his kitchen. It was a modest little affair, perfectly suited to an occupant that had no intentions of cooking in it. Just enough space to slice fruit and pour wine and in tonight’s case boil water for a fresh cup of herbal tea. He had a whole collection of them, sometimes his shopping habits overwhelmed his pantry, but in the moment he was keeping up with himself. His footsteps glided easily as he left the tea for the moment and moved to his wardrobe, stripping down the day’s layers. “When I was a little girl, my mama said to me: What's your favorite flower, darling? I'll get you the seed.” The layers were shucked from him one at a time, carefully tucked into their drawers and shelves and boxes, set into laundry baskets and returned to hangers. It was very much part of how he liked to wind himself down from the day, to let the day’s look sink back into ephemera to make room for the next day to follow. “I said: Dandelion, dandelion! That one's so pretty! She said: Child that one's not a flower, that one's just a weed.” He strolled stark naked through his home, retrieving his tea before retiring to the bathroom, massive for the apartment’s size, the result of essentially devouring the kitchen’s space. “Oh, what a shame… Now it don't look the same Guess it don't look the same… Oh, what a shame” There were many benefits to not keeping roommates, and his was one of them. Of course, there was Gertrude but she never seemed to mind his nudity any more than he minded hers. They simply did not discuss the matter. “Call me what you want; you can't stop me multiplyin’ Pull me from the dirt; no, you don't want me in your garden Dandelion, dandelion! Dandelion, dandelion!” He dipped his hands into a pot of salve and rubbed it over his face, leaving a smear of cosmetics in their place, bright colors and eye shadows streaking over his skin before being scrubbed away. “I still loved those mellow yellow petals anyway. What's that thing they say about a rose by any other name?” A soft brush was run through his waves of hair before he picked out the curl pattern, carefully picking out like with like, gathering his locks and pinning them in place or he’d quite be resembling a dandelion himself by morning. He loathed sleepovers for just such a reason. It took a lot of work to look this easy. “Then my fragile flower turned into a ball of gray, So I took a breath and made a wish and blew them all away.” His chair was scooted alongside the tub as Gertrude squatted as though she would leap into it. The little lump didn’t have a chance of making the jump, but he’d never let her find out. Instead she was scooped up and deposited into the seat as he stepped into the water. “Oh, what a shame… Now it don't look the same Guess it don't look the same… Oh, what a shame” He sank into the water with a sigh, letting his long limbs stretch out, muscles tired and joints protesting a day of rough treatment. His hand found a bruise on his hip, tracing the dark mark on his skin, the pattern of fingers each tipped by the red crescent of a nail. It would probably ache by morning and be gone the day after, those sorts of things never seemed to stick around his skin long. “Call me what you want; you can't stop me multiplyin’ Pull me from the dirt; no, you don't want me in your garden Dandelion, dandelion! Dandelion, dandelion!” He took a long swig of the tea and then let his head fall back, letting himself slump back into the water, savoring the warmth and the weightlessness. Unfocused, his eyes stared out past the ceiling before drifting shut. His fingers wandered to massage into Gertrude’s wrinkles, their presence briefly the only thing grounding him to the planet. “So I took a breath and made a wish and blew them all away.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[a-storm-of-roses]

October Fics Day 5: Baking

Pairing: Teyla Emmagen/Jennifer Keller

Rating: G

Words: 2015

Summary: Teyla is good at many things, but baking isn't one of them. Luckily, Jennifer knows a trick.

A/N: Saw this prompt and HAD to make it about the two women who are canonically bad cooks!

Read on AO3 or below!

Teyla choked back a cough, as a cloud of flour rose up from the bowl. She stirred vigorously, but the mixture simply would not come together. And she was certain it wasn’t intended to look so chunky. Or so oily.

“Whatcha up to?” Jennifer leaned comfortably against the entry to the kitchen, a Driffen apple in her hand, looking bemused and more than a little curious. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a loose shirt, and Teyla realized she must be taking advantage of a rare day off.

With a sigh, Teyla wiped a hand across her forehead. It was only as she felt the drag of flour and grit across her skin, that she realized her error.

“I am baking,” Teyla ground out. Fetching a rag to wipe her face. “Or, at least I am trying to.”

Jennifer wandered over to the large, industrial counter where Teyla had been working. She peered over into the bowl, took one look at the contents and scrunched up her nose. Teyla would have found it cute, if she hadn’t been distracted by the annoyance and frustration of an hour wasted in the kitchen. She was hot, her arm was sore, and she was no closer to having created anything remotely resembling a cake.

“Uh, what exactly are you trying to make here?” Jennifer asked. She could tell the doctor was schooling her tone, adopting that forced, cheery accent that sometimes drove Teyla up a wall. Rodney called it Midwest nice. John, in his weaker moments, called it fake.

“A birthday cake for John. He does not particularly enjoy celebrations, but a cake seemed like a pleasant and simple tradition.”

“And you didn’t just ask the kitchen staff?” Jennifer asked. She picked up the mixing spoon, abandoned in the bowl of batter. Slowly, she lifted it out, and made a face as the oily, chunky mix splattered back into the bowl.

“I was under the impression that the cake was more meaningful when baked by a loved one.”

“In that case, shouldn’t Rodney be making it?” Teyla shot Jennifer a look, and it seemed to serve her purpose, because she blushed and stammered out quickly, “Or Ronon, or maybe Major Lorne? You know,” she continued, regaining her equilibrium, “don’t let them convince you that you have to do the cooking, just because you’re a woman. It’s sexist and outdated.”

Teyla sighed, and picked up the recipe again, smudging brown batter on the white paper.

“Ronon was going to join me. He is actually quite a good cook and baker, and he received the recipe from Evan. But then he implied that I would not be capable of doing this on my own, when Evan specifically said this was an easy recipe, and so…”

"So you got a bit competitive.” Jennifer smiled, real and easy, and Teyla felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. “But I still don’t understand why you didn’t just use an Athosian recipe. Surely that would have been more familiar.”

Teyla shook her head, and picked up the bowl again, futilely attempting to stir the batter into submission.

“I’m afraid I am not a terribly accomplished baker, regardless of the recipe’s origins. My tuun bread was always too flat, and a bit hard. And at least I have access to the ingredients for this recipe.”

Jennifer hummed in agreement, before leaning forward on the counter, careful to avoid the stray flour and batter, and watching Teyla stir vigorously a few moments longer.

“I don’t think that’s how it’s meant to look.”

“I am aware of that,” Teyla snapped. Jennifer straightened up, her lips tugged down in a frown. Teyla sighed and placed the bowl on the counter, rubbing firmly at her temples. “I apologize, Jennifer, cooking always brings out the worst in me. It is not my strong suit.”

Jennifer brightened a bit.

“I have an idea, let me just see…” Jennifer made her way to one of the pantries, and crouched down, digging on one of the lower back shelves. She moved boxes, shifted tins, until she reemerged, looking triumphant and holding a small, cardboard box.

“Here! I thought we might still have some left over.” She presented the box to Teyla as though it were a prize, and looked so pleased with herself, so eager for Teyla’s approval. Teyla took the box and examined it more closely. The front displayed an image of a cake, and the back was covered with simple, short instructions.

“What is this?” Teyla asked.

Jennifer’s smile never faltered. “Boxed cake mix. A culinarily-challenged Midwestern girl’s best friend.”

Moving to the cabinets and pulling down a fresh bowl, Jennifer then rifled through the shelved ingredients, placing a bottle of cooking oil and some eggs on the counter.

“All you do is pour the mix in the bowl, add some oil, water and eggs, and pop it into the oven! I suppose not-chicken eggs will work just as well.”

Teyla eyed the collection of items warily. She was not usually one to take a shortcut, especially when it came to her friends, but then again, she also wasn’t one to bake.

“I could help?” Jennifer offered, clearly misinterpreting her silence for trepidation. It had sounded simple enough, she didn’t think she particularly needed the other woman’s help, but then again, Evan’s recipe had also sounded simple.

“That would be very appreciated, thank you Jennifer,” Teyla offered warmly. Jennifer beamed.

“Great! Why don’t I measure the oil, and you crack the eggs. That’s the hardest part, anyhow.”

They worked silently and companionably, Jennifer pouring the mix into the bowl, adding the oil, before Teyla added the eggs and the water. Before Teyla could reach the bowl, Jennifer had it in her arms, stirring slowly and steadily.

“Figured your arms could use the break,” she said, looking pointedly over at the bowl where Teyla’s first attempt sat congealing.

“Thank you.”

For a moment the kitchen was silent, the only noise the quiet squelch of Jennifer stirring the batter.

Teyla would be the first to admit that she had spent little time with Jennifer, especially following their disastrous mission to New Athos. It wasn’t that Teyla disliked her - there were very few people out there that Teyla truly disliked - but the doctor tested her patience at times. She was too soft, too naive for life here, it seemed. Too earnest, and too kind. She worried that one day the lovely doctor would go off-world, and would not return.

But as she watched Jennifer pour the batter into the cake tins, and pop them into the oven, she wondered if perhaps a bit of softness was not always a bad thing.

“Think we can toss this, then?” Jennifer asked, holding the bowl of chunky batter.

“Yes,” Teyla laughed, “I believe we can.” They moved in tandem, cleaning the used dishes and wiping down the counters, before Teyla grabbed a broom to sweep the spilled flour from the floor.

Jennifer leaned back against the counter and watched her, her gaze direct and focussed. Teyla was certain the other woman had never looked at her like this before, but she found, surprisingly, it was not unwelcome. Teyla met her gaze in return, and smiled, laughing a bit, as Jennifer’s eyes widened and looked away.

“So,” Teyla began, “you have done this before?”

“I- um, what exactly-”

“Made cake from a box?” Teyla took mercy on her.

“Oh,” Jennifer blushed. “Right. Yeah, I used to be in a lot of activities when I was younger. Girl Scouts, debating. Swim team, for a bit. I was always ahead of the class, and my parents thought it would be a good way for me to meet other kids my own age, you know, acclimate socially.

“Anyways, these activities always had a lot of bake sales. Um, where you bake things and sell them to raise money for the club? We all had to bring something. My mom was a great baker - she used to make the best cupcakes. But after she died, I had to figure something out. I tried making a couple of her recipes, but they never really turned out right. That’s when Betty Crocker and I became BFFs.”

Teyla felt a sudden pang of her own grief.

“Your father did not bake?”

“No, I come from a pretty conservative area. It was enough that he took over making all of our meals, I couldn’t ask him to make me a devil’s food cake for my debate tournament too.”

Jennifer busied herself checking the cake, showing Teyla the clean toothpick and bringing it out of the oven to cool. The two round cakes were golden yellow, edging into a bit browned at the edges. They looked not unlike the cake the mess served on special occasions. Teyla was just relieved to see that they appeared edible.

“We’ll need to wait a bit before we can frost it.”

Teyla sat on one of the high stools, and regarded Jennifer closely. After a moment, she spoke.

“I lost my mother when I was quite young as well. No one ever quite made fried melo like her. I tried to get it right, for many years, but even the best cooks in our settlement never came close.”

“You miss her,” Jennifer stated, leaning over and placing her hand on Teyla’s. Her palm was warm, a bit damp, but soft. Teyla nodded. “I miss mine too. I don’t think it ever goes away.”

For a moment, Teyla considered leaning in. Brushing the hair that had fallen loose from Jennifer’s ponytail back, swiping her thumb across a smooth cheek.

But then, Jennifer pulled her hand away, cleared her throat and stood.

“I think we can frost it now.”

“Do we need to make the frosting, or does that also come in a box?”

“Even better,” Jennifer responded, placing two small containers on the counter. “It comes in a tub.”

They each took one cake, Jennifer showing her how to spread the frosting evenly, without causing the cake to crumble. Finally, carefully, Teyla lifted one layer on top of the other, smoothing down the frosting covering the sides.

“It looks great! I’m sure John will love it.”

“I just hope it tastes alright,” Teyla laughed.

Jennifer grinned at her, happy and relaxed. Even more hair had fallen out of her ponytail, and ridiculously, there was a smudge of frosting across her cheek. She looked messy, not at all like her normal, put-together self, and Teyla was surprised to find it endearing.

“Here, you have a bit of-” Teyla reached out, and wiped the frosting from her face. Almost instinctively, she popped her finger in her mouth, licking the sweetness from her own skin. Jennifer’s pupils dilated.

“How’s- um- how’s it taste?” She asked, voice just a touch breathy.

“Delicious,” Teyla answered, her eyes never breaking contact. “Perhaps you should try some.”

It was a challenge. Jennifer could take the risk, take what Teyla was offering. Or she could pretend she didn’t understand, pretend she wasn’t feeling this thing thrumming between the two of them.

Jennifer’s eyes dropped down to her lips, and her hand settled on Teyla’s arm, before she moved closer, leaning in to gently kiss her, barely a brush, before pulling away.

“Was that alright?” She asked, uncertain, her hand still gripping Teyla’s bicep with more force than she would have expected.

“Yes, but I don’t believe you got to sample the frosting.” Teyla swiped her finger across the base of the cake, before sucking it into her mouth, making a little show of licking the excess frosting off. It was ridiculous, she knew it, but it had the desired effect, Jennifer pulling her in close and kissing her again, this time with a confident heat, her tongue venturing out to pull the sweetness from Teyla’s own mouth.

They kissed for long minutes, before breathless, Teyla finally pulled away.

“I believe I have found something pleasurable about baking after all.”

Jennifer laughed. “Just wait til I show you what I can do with a roll of cookie dough.”

[otonymous]

One Stormy Night (MLQC Gavin x Shaw drabble - NSFW)

This is for all the folks that requested a Shaw/Ling Xiao x Gavin drabble.  Here it is.  PWP.  Way longer than I intended and possibly the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written.  And I am going straight to Hell for it. 🔥🔥🔥

Character(s): Gavin x Shaw (Ling Xiao) x Female MC Rating: Explicit WARNINGS: threesome, anal play & intercourse, sex toys, double penetration, oral sex, face sitting, first times (anal, double penetration), profanity, slight competition & possessiveness, spoilers (for Shaw’s identity)

“God, you’re good at this,” his head falls back, lavender strands fanning out over handsome features that bore a striking resemblance to the face you were sitting on, each hum of Gavin’s mouth between your thighs making your lips tighten around Shaw’s cock even as your hips dipped to fuck yourself deeper on that talented tongue.

“Wish I met you first; you could’ve practiced on me.” Electricity sparks in amber eyes as mischievous laughter erupts from deep within that broad chest, and the muscles tensing beneath you signals you to shift — fast — in a desperate attempt to prevent yet another brawl from breaking out in your bedroom.

The curtains by your window were already billowing, stirred by a sudden wind.

Gavin surfaces, cheeks and chin shiny with spit and arousal, eyes shooting daggers at the younger man who continued to lounge on your bed like he hadn’t a care in the world, lips pulled up in an easy smirk that challenged as much as it disarmed.

“He’s just kidding, Gavin.  Doesn’t mean anything by it.”  You run your hands over the officer’s firm pecs, caress placating as it hardens the nipples beneath your touch, goosebumps blooming over scarred skin in swathes.

“Relax, man.  You’re putting her on edge.”  

Muscular arms wrap around you from behind, the heat emanating from Shaw’s palms soothing as they mould to the swell of your breasts.  And at the sound of your moan — drawn out by the dexterous fingers teasing at your nipples — his pink tongue sweeps over upturned lips, goading on the man who watched with fire in narrowed eyes.

It spurs Gavin on, this competition — the burning insistence that he not be outdone in the arena he knew best: the dips and curves of your body and every little response that could be teased out of it.  So Gavin approaches with confidence, rough hands gentle as they frame your face to take what is rightfully his: you, your lips…blooming as his tongue teased at their corners just so it could slip past teeth and slide slow against your tongue, tasting every inch of your mouth.

And in doing so, irritating the younger man as only he could; by ignoring him completely.

“Hmph.”  Shaw’s snort of derision is hot on the back of your neck before he plants a kiss at the nape, soft lips pulling to the side to whisper in your ear, “You should be ready for me by now, right, baby?”

Index tracing down the line of your back to send shivers up your spine, Shaw drops to his knees, smiling to see your bottom jut out in an exaggerated curve that showed you were just as eager as he was to explore new territory.  

“Cheeky,” he laughs, biting down onto the smooth mound of your ass — the light sting of his teeth making you gasp into Gavin’s mouth.  The officer settles firm hands onto your hips in response, pulling you closer against his body in a soothing embrace.

You feel Shaw spreading your cheeks and unconsciously widen your stance, blushing at the thought of him staring so intently at such a private place, never before explored.

Virgin.  Until now.  

And when you involuntarily clench around the silicone plug held snug in your ass - preparing you for something much larger — you wonder if Shaw caught the twitch.

“Well, what do you know.  Purple is your colour after all.  As is mine.”

Shaw’s chuckle is dark, husky with lust as his thumb circles the amethyst-hued gem adorning the base of the plug, admiring the light reflecting off it in lavender beams.  The movement sends another flood of moisture to your aching pussy, throbbing as it tightens around empty space, futile in its search for satisfaction.  Knees starting to shake, you grip onto Gavin’s broad shoulders for support.

“Do you always give a running commentary during sex?  It’s annoying,” Gavin spits, brows furrowed as he breaks the kiss to glare at his brother.

“If you’re getting impatient to fuck, just say so, man.  Maybe you’ve got something up your ass as well.  From what I hear though, it’s supposed to be an enjoyable experience, so I really don’t know what your problem is—”

“Boys!  Please!  Could we maybe stop fighting and focus on the task at hand?!” 

So turned on you couldn’t even think straight, your patience was at an all-time low for anything that didn’t involve these two men sandwiching you between their genetically blessed bodies.

“Whatever you say, baby.  You call the shots here,” Shaw rises to his feet, giving you a quick peck on the cheek as he flashes you the smile that makes your stomach flutter and flip.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin ducks his head, swallows hard.  “You’re sure about this?”  His voice is low, full of concern, and it fills you with warmth as you reach up to cup his cheek in the palm of your hand.

Your nod is resolute, free of hesitation.  “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.  I know this is new, for all of us…but I can’t imagine doing it with anyone else.”

“We’ll be gentle, go as slow as you want.  Won’t we, bro?”  Shaw peppers your shoulders with kisses, erection pressing hot and hard against your backside until your head falls back against his chest, breasts heaving with desire that could no longer be contained.

Two sets of amber eyes meet, twin expressions mirroring each other as the brothers nod almost imperceptibly at one another; an unspoken agreement to put aside their differences for one night, solely for the sake of pleasuring the woman they were both madly in love with.

The initial slide onto Gavin’s hard cock has you gasping in shock from the sensation of fullness alone, and it takes an entire minute of focused breathing for the spasms between your legs to subside, even with the officer stroking your thighs in an attempt to soothe.

But it isn’t until Shaw’s hands are running through your hair that you realize the toy was still buried in you; that something much bigger, much longer, had yet to be introduced.  The thought has you wide-eyed — exhilarated and aroused to the point where Gavin has difficulty keeping his hips still with the way you clenched around him, arousal dripping slow onto his groin even before he had begun to thrust.

“You alright, baby?  Ready to let me in?”  Shaw’s voice is soft in your ear, and you respond by pressing a kiss to his lips before folding forward into Gavin’s open arms, lifting your bottom higher into the air.

There is a sudden flurry of activity behind you; bed dipping as Shaw reaches for the lube on your bedside table, careful to liberally coat the length of his cock to ease his entry.  And when you feel the rhythm of his breath on your ass accompanying the gradual pull of the plug from your backside, you remind yourself to relax, allowing your body to adjust to the curvature of the toy as it finally slides out to leave you feeling somewhat empty.

The sensation doesn’t last long however, not with Shaw quickly aligning himself at the entrance — “You’re so beautiful” leaving his lips as he pushes slowly, carefully, against the resistance.

“Kiss me,” Gavin commands from beneath you, lips sucking your tongue into his mouth in a desperate bid to contain the groans that mixed with your moans to feel Shaw finally sheath himself in you.  The younger man mutters a string of expletives under his breath, gripping onto the flesh of your hips and breathing deep as he tried to focus on something other than how good this felt, for fear that it would all end too soon.

Because it was good, the best thing anyone in this licentious collective had ever experienced.  And as the men began to move according to the dictates of desire — reading every movement of your body as it writhed between theirs to drive you further up the precipice of pleasure — you realized just how greedy you had become.  It didn’t matter that their lips painted the canvas of your skin with innumerable kisses, or that hands, fingers, teeth and tongue left no stone unturned in their delivery of ecstasy, you wanted more and more.  

Enough to fill you even more to bursting than you already were, with a cock buried in your pussy and another deep in your ass.

Body arching and hands indiscriminately grabbing at fistfuls of hair in a futile attempt to anchor yourself, you were nonetheless swept away — senses lost in the intensity of the stimulation between your legs.  So much so that the blinding flash of lightning just outside your window barely registered in your brain, hazy with lust.  Nor did you notice the gale force wind that suddenly appeared to sweep all your potted plants to the balcony floor, shattering loud in a messy pile of soil and terracotta shards.

No, all you noticed was the way Gavin tensed beneath you and Shaw above, practically simultaneous when they climaxed in you just as your body convulsed helplessly between the hard vice of theirs, riding out the waves of your own delirious release as if you had just survived the roughest storm of your life.

[softly-savage-mint-yoongi]

Extraordinary

from An Adventurer’s Guide to Romance Part 2 of the series collaboration between myself & @guardians-of-exo​! Please go check out her blog! Her moodboards are *chef’s kiss* magnificent and she listens to me scream about plants while she fixes all of my horrific punctuation! She is wonderful. <3 Pairing: Yixing x reader Rating: M (for mentions of sexual activity and semi-graphic gore). Words: ~10k

The sun is just bright enough to be an annoyance to your eyes. Bringing your hand to shield your eyes in a mock salute, a smile graces your lips anyway at the thought of your herbs appreciation for the burning star. During your route, you wonder if your Coneflower and Thyme are ready for pruning. Chewing your lip, you worry they aren’t but hope they are. As more soldiers return injured from outside the city limits, your stocks of herbs have begun to run low. Dealing with the current threats to the Kingdom, you’re concerned that the growth of your medicinal herbs won’t be enough to heal everyone. Just one week ago you’d expressed such concerns to the Lady of the Palace, who promised to bring them before the King. For days you stressed, fluttering about the ward and checking your inventories twice, thrice, just to keep busy when you were not tending to the wounded. If your calculations were correct, you would run out within the month. Especially with the pesky Knight Captain and his recklessness. You vividly remember the moment the Lady of the Palace returned to you with a smile gracing her lips. Elegant and regal as she may be, her professional exterior faltered just enough to let you see the pleasant side of her happiness when she came to tell you the King had found a hopeful prospect of resolution for your concerns. Seeing the value of his people’s safety, he sent a guarded caravan to collect an Apothecary living outside of the city's walls to the North. One with a quirky but excellent reputation. That was three days ago, explaining that they’d just arrived and in two days’ time it would be the first day of a new contract between the palace and this new Apothecary. You giggle to yourself at the events that followed. The Knight Captain barging into the ward carrying his Lieutenant as they bickered like siblings. You learned she was part of the caravan and somehow managed to fall from her horse and break her leg.

She was frustrated by the situation and was every bit as loud as her temper, complaining about being bedridden for a couple of days. She went on a rant about who was going to babysit the Knight Captain while she wasn’t there, Chanyeol huffing with an offended look on his face.

Loud peals of laughter startle you from your memories as a pack of children chase one another across the street ahead of you. A shaggy black mutt runs between them with a tongue too big for its muzzle flopping out of one side.  You see Frost Flower Inn on the opposite side of the street, laughing at the irony of its name while it’s lit up in the warmth of the sun. The owner moves across the porch, sweeping before the crowd picks up later. Sensing your eyes on him, he turns his feline gaze to you with a kind smile.

“Good morning Y/N!” he calls across the expanse of stone, waving a hand at you excitedly. Removing a hand from your skirts, you wave back as you pass, “Good morning, Minseok!” From the directions you were given by the palace Cartographer, the new shop should be just around the corner from the bakery. You sigh contentedly as you draw closer. The smell of freshly baked goods gets heavier the closer you come to its source. Several women are loitering around the outside, their eyes trained to the open walls of the building for something. Just as you’re rounding the corner you hear an angelic male voice greeting them, and they swoon. Immediately, you trip over something large, “Oh!” Careful not to land on it, you straighten and look back to see a man lying asleep on the path. A pair of round wire-framed eyeglasses lays cracked on the dirt beside him. Surging forward, you watch his chest rise and fall before touching his cheek gently a few times, “Sir?” He's out cold. He doesn’t respond to your touch or your voice, but you’re satisfied he’s alive. Looking around, you notice he came from the open door of a shop not ten feet away. You need to get him up. While you’ve had your share of moving dead weight into the medical ward at the palace, you’re not sure you can do it alone. Weighing your options, girlish laughter comes from the corner once more. None of those women would be of assistance, but perhaps the man from the bakery would help you move him without much fuss. You rise, looking around the quiet alley before you move back out onto the main stretch of road. It takes a moment of polite pushing to reach the door of the bakery, but you manage. Entering, you spot two men standing behind the counter, one older and one younger. You’re aware the establishment is owned by a father and son, and you can see the resemblance. “Ah, excuse me?” you call to them. There isn’t anyone else standing at the counter other than you. The older of the two notices you first. “How can I help you, miss?” he asks. His smile crinkles his eyes.  Twisting your body backwards toward the door, you’re not sure how to begin without causing a commotion, “Ah... you see, I actually need some help? Something... heavy, fell over and I can’t move it by myself. Would you mind assisting me? It will only take a moment.” Considering your request, he turns, “Son, can you help this young lady?” The younger man looks up from the dough he is kneading on the counter with a curious expression. He pats his hands on his apron aggressively and rinses them before coming around the front of the counter. “Can you help me lift something for a moment?” you inquire. His smile also crinkles his eyes, like his father’s. “I can,” he confirms, gesturing for you to lead the way. The moment you’re outside, you realize the commotion the women are causing is for him. None of them make a sound as they watch him follow you around the corner. Shuddering, you feel their heated gazes like daggers in your back. “Ah...” you begin, scratching at your head and pointing at the man still sleeping in the street. The young Baker gawks, “What happened to him?” Heaving a sigh from your lungs, you pluck the glasses from the ground and pocket them before you crouch and hold each ankle in one hand, “I don’t know, I nearly tripped over him. I think he came from this shop,” you explain, tilting your chin toward the open door.  With a strong, furrowed brow, your assistant moves to the man's head, gathering his shoulders into his arms. Lifting him together, you move him through the door. Taking in the chaos of boxes and crates scattered around the main room, you notice an abundance of shattered glass vials and a mess of brown colored powder on the floor and decide to investigate later. A staircase is behind the counter. “There’s got to be a bed upstairs,” you suggest. “Here,” replies the Baker. “Let me carry him then.” Together, you maneuver the sleeping man onto his back. As you move up the staircase, it creaks beneath the combined weight of the men, and you’re grateful for the help.  Surely as you thought, a single bed rests below a window on the second floor. With your aid, the man is eased down onto it and laid on his side. The young Baker rolls his shoulder, releasing a huff, “Well then. What are you going to do with him?” Twisting your lips, you consider your options and decide to stay until this man recovers, “I’m the Head Physician at the palace. I can sit with him until he wakes up. I'm here to meet him anyway.” Running a hand through his hair to push it off of his forehead, the man nods, “Ah, I see then. You must know the Lady of the palace.” “Oh? Yes, I do,” you begin, pausing to question. “Do you?” His bottom lip juts out and his eyes flick around the room. “I met her last week,” he says. “She came to check out this shop. Something about an Apothecary to help the sick and wounded. She got a little lost and asked for help.”  “I see,” you nod in understanding. “Oh, I didn’t catch your name,” you realize.  He smiles politely, “It’s Junmyeon.” Nodding, you return the sentiment, “Thank you, Junmyeon. I'm Y/N. I appreciate your help.” He hums in reply, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’ve got to get back to work then. It was nice meeting you,” he states cordially as he leaves. Just before he disappears on the staircase, he adds, “Tell him to be more careful when he wakes up, please.”  It makes you laugh as he leaves. For a few quiet moments, you watch the sleeping man. Or rather, sedated, is your best guess. You're nearly positive the powder on the floor downstairs is Valerian Root. Nobody sleeps that heavily under natural circumstances. You watch him rest quietly, taking note of his features. His ears are pointed just slightly, and his cheekbones are high, with a straight nose, curved slightly at the button. Even with relaxed features during sleep, he’s handsome. The line of his lips makes a shape you find cute.  Having ogled him enough, you look around the room. A bookshelf full of journals and a desk are set up against the opposite wall of the bed, and a chest of clothing sits open at the far end of the room. Several pieces are spilling over the edge of it, and various types of accessories are gathered on a low table beside it.  A large woolen rug swathes the floor beside the bed, and a washbasin kisses the edge of it where it stands along the wall. There’s also an impressive oval mirror leaning against the corner of the room next to it. You can see your reflection clearly in its flawless surface. The sound of stirring among sheets pulls your attention back to the bed, where the man is moving. Awkwardly, you stand in the center of the room hugging your arms to yourself.  He blinks a few times and takes a large breath, yawning. The man sits up and puts one palm to his head, groaning. “Take it easy,” you comment quietly. His attention snaps to you, finally noticing he isn’t alone. Curiously, he looks at you, “Hello, can I help you?” You laugh. It’s not that you meant to, but his kindness immediately pulls the endearing sound from your chest, “Are you alright?” “I’m sorry,” he begins, coughing slightly. “Who are you and what happened?” You sit beside him at the foot of the bed, “I’m Y/N. I tripped over you lying in the middle of the street and brought you back here with some help.” He nods, knitting his brow as he remembers, “Ah, yes. I think I knocked over a crate of Valerian powder. Tried to get outside but I guess I breathed in too much.” That would explain the vials of broken glass and the powder on the floor downstairs. A swell of pride wells in your chest at your correct deduction. “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble and thank you for helping me,” he begins quietly, still rubbing his head. “I just moved in and it’s been a little difficult.” He pauses when he squints at you, “Have you seen a pair of glasses, by the way?” “Oh,” you jolt, snapping your fingers together. Reaching into your pocket, you procure the pair of frames with the damaged lens that were lying outside. “They’re a little broken,” you state in a sad voice.  He smiles as he takes them from your hands, holding them up to inspect the crack, “I can fix these.” Your mouth drops open in shock, “Really, how?” The man grins at you with mischievous eyes, “It’s a secret I’m afraid.” He rises and moves to the stairs, turning to look at you expectantly before descending. You stand a little too quickly, nearly tripping on your own skirts to follow him. Down in the shop, you hear him click his teeth, finding him crouched over the pile of wasted dust. “It’s no good anymore,” you muse aloud sadly, remembering why you’re here in the first place. The man stands up again and smiles at you. A dimple forms in one of his cheeks. “Perhaps not all is lost,” he reports wistfully. “Why are you so sad?” “Oh...” you suddenly remember you’ve yet to introduce yourself to him, “I’m Y/N, the Head Physician. That Valerian powder was something I was hoping I could purchase from you, among other things.” The man perks up, his eyes bright with understanding. “Oh! Has it been two days already?” he chuckles to himself, looking around the room sheepishly. “I got so busy trying to set up the shop I hadn’t realized it was time for you to come already.” “It’s okay, I understand,” you reply. He turns toward you fully, extending a hand. “I’m Yixing. It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I look forward to working with you,” he smiles kindly. His dimple appears again when you take his hand and return the gesture with a warm smile of your own. “What else were you hoping I have? It's yours if I’ve got it. I can have more Valerian powder for you by this time tomorrow if that’s okay?” he asks, moving to the counter and reaching for his ledger. “I’m not open for business with anyone else yet, but the Royal contract starts today of course. I won’t charge you for anything you take with you today,” he turns around and pauses to meet your gaze. “As thanks for your help.” You realize your cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling for so long, “It’s really no trouble. I’m glad you’re alright.” Yixing, as you’ve learned, grins back at you with a wink, “Never slept better.” Both of you laugh at his jesting. You think the sound of his laughter suits him. Taking a peek around the room, you spot something you’re looking for. Yixing’s eyes chase your form deeper into the room where you reach up to pluck three sprigs of dried Thyme from the ceiling, “These will do.” His smile falters momentarily, “That’s all?” “Well,” you hum, looking around the room while tapping the dried herbs against your fingertips. “This?” you question, moving to a crate of Yarrow root. Yixing moves to your side with a small burlap sack, “Take however many you like.” You count two, letting them sink into the bag he holds out for you one at a time. Up close, now that’s he’s awake and standing in front of you, his attractiveness comes to life with the mid-morning sunlight casting oddly shaped shadows against his skin.  When you look up at his face, he’s wearing the same smile and waiting patiently. You step away to pluck a string of garlic bulbs from the opposite end of the wall. Yixing follows, grinning as you drop them carefully into the bag, “Always a good choice.” “Can never have too many,” you agree with a smirk that matches his own. Both of you pause, smiling like idiots. You admit to yourself Yixing certainly seems interesting. You find yourself curious for what this new partnership has in store. “I think that will do for today,” you announce. Nodding, he shuts the drawstring tightly, offering it to you. “Thank you,” you express, taking the bag and turning to leave. When you turn around to look back at him, he’s leaning on a stack of books nonchalantly. Slowly, it begins to slide with his weight. “This time tomorrow?” you ask just as the books give way and fall from under his palm. He catches himself, standing up straight and looking at you with wide eyes, ignoring the mess of books on the floor, “Yes.” You laugh, shaking your head and waving to him, “I look forward to working with you, Yixing.” Passing by the front window as you leave, you catch sight of him inside the store. He’s talking to himself, repetitively pushing the heel of his palm against his forehead. Then, he disappears to the floor, probably to pick up the pile of books. With a smile, you make your way back to the palace. __________________________________________ The following morning, just as promised, Yixing has a basket with vials of Valerian powder wrapped neatly and ready for you.

There’s a gentle smile on his face when he passes them to you, and it grows wider with joy when he hears your soft gasp of delight. “Oh these are perfectly well balanced! Thank you so much,” you praise him, meeting his eyes as you pull one out and hold it closely to your chest. He laughs softly, maintaining the same happy expression. “You’re very welcome. I’m happy to help,” he says. Your eyes follow the movement of his delicate fingers as they push his glasses up the length of his nose. There’s a dusting of rose color to his cheeks. Before the moment lulls for too long, you wonder aloud, “Where did you learn such perfect skill?” Yixing blinks at you once, twice, opening his mouth and furrowing his brow before he sighs, “Ah, I just have a lot of practice.” “Was it a family practice?” you ask. His smile falters for a moment. He looks at the floor and sadly meets your eyes, “Uh, no. My family is long gone.” Frowning, you touch at your own chest, “Oh… I’m sorry for asking. I di-“ “It’s okay,” he waves a hand at you with wide eyes. Then he moves to sit on the high stool behind the counter, “They died when I was three or four. Occupational hazards.” “I see,” you nod sadly. Yixing clears his throat then, standing. “I um,” he begins, folding his arms across his chest and looking seriously at you. “I wonder if I might be able to come and watch you work? Or see your ward?” You were not expecting him to ask these kinds of things, but you pause, “Why would you want to do that?” He unfolds his arms and stuffs his hands in his pockets, “It will help me conclude what I need to focus on to help you to the best of my ability.” You’re touched by his willingness, “Yixing, you don’t need to do that.” “I want to,” he immediately responds. He refuses to let you deflect his wishes. “Would it make you uncomfortable?” You flush, though you’re not sure why. It’s a simple request to watch you work for the sake of providing the best resources for medicine. Medicine and healing are not something most people would think of as intimate, but most people aren’t in the field. There’s something about it. Something calm and quiet and yes, you would say intimate, about carefully practicing medicine and healing to ease the suffering. The compassion and bonds you make with your patients. Regardless of your feelings, you know it would be good to do this, “No, it’s okay. You can come.” His single dimple forms in his cheek with his smile. “Tomorrow?” he asks. “Alright,” you nod. ________________________________________________________________________ Tomorrow comes, but your stomach is too nervous to have any food before you begin your rounds. Three more soldiers were admitted to the ward overnight, having sustained Drauger-related injuries. You’ve finished redressing wounds on two of them when a knock on the ward’s door interrupts you from the third. “Master Physician, the Apothecary has arrived,” says the guard, turning to leave the moment Yixing walks through the door. He waves briefly to you before holding up a book of parchment and pointing to a seat at the desk beside the door. You smile and nod at him before turning back to your task. You pick up a mortar and pestle from the cart beside the patient’s bed, crushing and grinding a clove of fresh garlic. With a match, you then hold the flame out to kiss a pair of forceps for a few seconds before whipping it with your wrist to extinguish it. You pinch some garlic with the instrument and give the soldier a stern look before you drop it into the wound on his abdomen.  He hisses and you can feel Yixing’s eyes shift from his notes to your frame. “Hush now and let me wrap you up. This will help,” you mutter to him. “Next time don’t go picking fights with undead, lest you end up like they do.” “Yes ma’am,” the soldier grunts. He watches you pluck a bandage from a bowl, steeped in thyme paste before he holds his breath. You lay it over the wound as gently as your hands will allow, patting the man on the shoulder when you’re done. You can still feel Yixing watching you as you pull out a roll of thick, soft gauze from a drawer lower on the same cart. Even though you can’t see him, you know his gaze lingers on you as you touch the half-naked man in front of you. You ignore the flush it brings to your cheeks as you nearly press your cheek to his pectoral, struggling to reach behind him as you wind the gauze carefully around his torso. Finished, you turn back to your mysterious business partner. Before either of you can say a word, another Physician moves into the ward with a woman retching into a bucket. The rest of the day carries on this way, until you’re exhausted, but you continue to work diligently to relieve the pain of the suffering. It’s well passed supper and the moon is rising to the peak of the sky before you are finally finished. Yixing, patient as ever and thirsty for fulfillment, has not left you. He did give you some space to deliver a baby for a woman earlier in the afternoon, but even the food he returned with for you remained there beside him at the desk. In the quiet stillness of the late evening, you approach his side, noticing the way the orange candlelight casts warm shadows across the bridge of his nose and gives a soft glow to his dark eyes. You pull a chair up beside him and collapse into it rather unceremoniously. There’s little grace left to be had when you can’t feel your feet beneath you anymore. “Long day?” he guesses with a dimpled grin. His eyes watch you expectantly as you nod, yawning into the back of your hand, “Something like that.” “You should get some rest,” he says. “A wild guess but I think you need to eat, bathe and sleep.” You roll your head back across your shoulders, smiling at him from the odd angle of your head, “He’s cute and smart? Who would have guessed.” He laughs happily at your flirtatious sarcasm but says nothing else, “I should probably let you get some rest.” “Wait,” you whisper when he stands to leave. “At least let me see what you’ve come up with before you go.” His smile crinkles his eyes this time, conceding to your wishes. Yixing turns to move the cold plate of forgotten supper into your lap with a raised brow, effectively fixing you with a daring look as he smooths his notes across the desk. You eat as he begins speaking, pointing out things he noticed about your preferences to different herbs and treatments and laughs as he explains an expression of disgust you always make when dealing with Ginger root. “I don’t like the smell,” you laugh and take a bite of bread. He continues, but you stop him when his fingers crosses a particular herb, “Ah, not Goldenseal, please. I don’t use it for a reason. The effective doses are so close to the line of poison and I have other remedies for what it treats. It’s also endangered.” Yixing nods, carefully pulling the quill from the ink bottle and crossing out the word on his list. “I would also suggest cutting back on the mount of Winter Savory you’re using. You can mix it with other herbs to help it last and it will have the same benefits,” he says before adding, “But it’s just my opinion. I can get you more Summer Savory if you need it.” You shake your head at him, “No, you’re right. I should cut it back. I just don’t have enough time to do the cutting so I mix it all at once just so I have any salves at all.” He smiles at you, picking up his papers and taking the empty plate from your hands to set it back on the desk, “Well that’s part of why I’m here now, so let me worry about that. You just focus on treating these poor people.” “What about the Fennel? Why do we need that?” you ask curiously, tilting your chin toward the page. He turns to you fully and regards you with a blank expression momentarily, “Well they’re delicious, that’s why.” You bark out a loud laugh and give him a soft smile, “Thanks, Yixing.” He nods and leans forward to pat your shoulder, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Turning to watch him go, you notice your feel more awake since he put his hand on you. Willfully, you try to pretend your heart also doesn’t race. ____________________________________________ Yixing comes the next morning and settles into this routine for eight more days as well. Every day you feel nervous about him watching your movements and curiously scribbling notes about your work. Always, after a few hours you forget he is there and act more naturally. He seems to have made some friends among other palace staff members. You had even seen him delivering a letter to your friend the Lady of the Palace once three days ago. Her smile upon seeing the folded parchment made you suspicious, but you’re much too busy to do anything about it other than be happy for her. By the time the sun is at its peak in the afternoon, you’re reminded by his gentle fingers touching lightly at your elbow to ask you if you could pause to eat. He always reminds you your health is important, too. What are these poor people to do if their greatest source of healing is out of commission. In the afternoons he works from the room adjacent to the ward, working hard to mix salves and cures and prep jars of steeping bandages. He also tends to your garden of herbs, watering and pruning at the right time. Twice you’ve caught him talking to the plants and giving them extra attention although at first you were not sure if he was talking to them or himself. You grow weary as the days drag on and neither of you wants to admit that there has been an increase in patients admitted for wounds caused by the Draugers. Neither of you acknowledges that the injuries are graver as the days go on. Somehow, he has met Kyungsoo, the Head Chef, and the pair have become fast friends. Kyungsoo spoils him with food every day as thanks for his help. You’re thankful to Kyungsoo in return. Since Yixing began helping out and making most of your salves and remedies for you, he has also made deals to ensure you have a hot meal at the end of your shift. Today, in spite of the fear beginning to seep into your tired bones, Yixing surprises you. He walks in and greets you as usual, but held in the crook of his arm are not only his notebooks, but a large selection of flowers are wrapped in a lovely color of paper and tied with twine. His eyes flick to yours briefly across the room while you place stitches in the thigh of a wounded soldier, and your eyes widen when you see what he’s carrying. Yixing avoids your gaze until you finish your procedure and are stepping closely into his personal space. You lean over him deliberately to look at the arrangement, “Did you bring me flowers?” He balks, clearing his throat, “They’re for medicine.” He pretends to look over his notes, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Feverfew?” you ponder aloud. “Migraines and headaches,” he clarifies offhandedly. You smile, “Passion flower?” You let your fingers pass delicately over the colorful petals as you wait for his reply. He grins but still refuses to meet your gaze, “Depression and blood pressure.” “Hm…” you muse. “What about the Paganum Harmala?” “The seeds are good for your skin, among other things,” he says with a shrug. “Camomi-“ you try but he cuts you off. “Same thing but better,” he states. With each flower your smile grows. “What about Sunflowers,” you ask. He scoffs, laughing and finally looking up, “You already know most of these. Why are you asking?” You shrug in return, “I don’t know all of their uses, and I just like to hear you talk about them.” He nods, lips tightening as a grin splits across his face. “What about the lavender?” you pry after a moment passes, even though this one you already know. He smiles wider at you, “Calming.” “The Sunflowers are beautiful,” you comment, running the pad of your index finger through the center of one. Yixing agrees. “They’re good for supporting digestion and your immune system. Promoting healthy skin, too,” he says matter-of-factly. “And the eucalyptus?” “Stress,” he whispers. You’re not entirely sure how all of these are going to help patients, and you panic briefly if there isn’t anything else left in his shop. Yixing, attuned to you after so many days of observing, immediately catches your rising concern, “These are for you, not the patients.” He pushes his glasses higher up his face again. He doesn’t say anything else for a few moments, letting you think back through each one and what he means until you realize how caring he is. Each and every one of these flowers is beautiful, and he picked them all based on their benefits specifically with you in mind. Regardless of your professions and the relation they have to your partnership… the gesture feels very romantic to you. Heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks when your head snaps to his and you stare at the dimple in his cheek while he smiles at you kindly. “Yixing…” you try, needing to swallow through the dryness of your throat. “You don’t have to say anything,” he assures you quietly. A pained moan pulls your eyes away from him again, and you smile gently at him before you turn back to your patients. _____________________________________________ All night you tossed and turned, your head full of Yixing and what his gesture meant to you today. For days now he has done nothing more than quietly observe you. No, that’s not all he has done. He has quietly observed you and acted on his findings. Making sure you’re eating and advocating for your well-being on behalf with other palace staff members. He has worked tirelessly to make proper treatments and remedies and even improved upon some of your recipes. He has admired you. You’re very grateful to him. From your bed, your eyes settle upon the sprigs of eucalyptus you hung from the side of your bath earlier, letting the steam of the water pull essential oils from the plant to help you relax. Slowly, you let your eyes wander away from the basin to the bundle you pulled the plant from. It rests, still wrapped in twine, on the plush cushion of an armchair near the door. Furrowing your brow, you realize you don’t know how to crush some of those flowers into effective benefits for yourself. Closing your eyes and turning over, for another hour or so you contemplate taking them to Yixing in the morning and asking him to teach you how. Surely he knows if he gave them to you from his own supply, and you happen to have a day off tomorrow. ____________________________________________________ The sound of someone shouting stirs you from sleep in a panic. Lifting your head from the pillow, you realize it’s nearly midday. “I told you to put it over there, not here!” another voice hollers back. With a sigh, you will your heart to calm its racing upon your realization that it isn’t anything to panic about; just staff going about their normal duties. You roll out of bed and hiss as the cold stone bites at your toes, padding across it with large strides to stand on the woolen rug in front of your armoire. Tying the knot of your corset, your eyes finally land on the wrapped flowers still sitting right where you left them. Your lips stretch into a giddy smile, and you quickly finish dressing and brushing back your hair. There’s an extra bounce of excitement and butterflies in your stomach as you take them into your arms and bring them to your nose. You laugh and pull open your door, intent on making your way to his shop, officially named The Honeyed Ram. The moment you step onto the main stretch of road in town, warm summer rain begins to pour down. It catches you off guard since the sun is still shining brightly, and you are helpless to escape it. Instead, you laugh as you ball your skirts in one fist and run down the street with your flowers. By the time you make it to the Apothecary’s door, you’re nearly soaked. Protected under the awning of the shop, you take a moment to collect yourself and adjust your wet hair as best you can before you push open the door. Hearing the bell, the handsome owner emerges from the room behind the counter with a his ledger balanced on one splayed palm and a quill in the other, “Welcome to The Honeyed Ram. How may I-“ He stops in his tracks when he meets your eyes over the top of his glasses where they’ve slid down his nose. He moves them from your face to take in your wet appearance, smiling as he sets his things on the counter, “Oh, let me get you a towel.” You don’t move or say anything, standing there dripping rainwater onto his floor while he hastily climbs the stairs two at a time. A moment later he returns with a large towel, immediately stepping toward you and taking it upon himself to cage your head in it with both hands. You can hear him laugh as he squeezes your hair in his hands, gently rubbing the sides of your face and neck with it to dry you off. With the barrier of the towel, you can feel his fingers run along the exposed bit of your chest to wipe away the water and your eyes snap to his the moment the towel is moved. His smile is gentle and kind and for a moment you wonder if he also finds you as attractive as you find him. You wonder if his fingertips brushing your collar bone and over the tops of your bosom make his heart race like it does yours. “Thank you,” you murmur to him when he is finished and satisfied, stepping back to look at you again. Yixing gently laughs, “You’re welcome. But why are you here… is everything alright?” His eyes move to the arrangement in your hands nervously, curious why you’ve brought them back to him. Nodding, you tuck them close to your chest again. “I um…” you try, but your pride makes it difficult. Yixing tilts his head, waiting politely for your answer. You sigh, “Can you teach me how to use some of them?” His eyes widen momentarily, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask him that. “If you want to, I mean. I don’t want to waste such a kind gift,” you blurt out, unsure of how it might make him feel or if you’re just reading into it too much. The man in front of you says nothing for a long moment, eyes narrowing as he considers you, standing there looking like a lamb. “I’d be honored to,” he finally admits quietly. The sun is suddenly overtaken outside as clouds move in and pour more rain over the kingdom. It pounds heavily on the roof as Yixing turns away with a smile, hooking a finger and beckoning you to follow. His work room is small but cozy. Perhaps a little tight for two people to work together all the time, but for today you will make do. There are no windows in this room, but several sconces are placed around the walls with candles lit to provide a warm glow. A gathering of them rests on the table as well, dripping wax onto the wood. There’s a small alchemy table in one corner of the room, already warmed where a bright blue elixir rests in the center well, flanked by coneflower petals and an amethyst crystal in the opposite circles. A blue butterfly’s wing rests off to the side, ready to be added. “Come over here, please,” he requests, motioning for you to stand at the work bench on the other side of the room. He pulls some tools from their resting places hung on the wall above it and passes you a pair of small scissors. The next hour progresses this way, as he teaches you how best to prune the flowers and dry them out effectively without burning them. Yixing shows you how to grind the lavender, but your technique isn’t grinding the buds fine enough. He steps behind you, gently taking your hands in his own and showing you a better technique, curling your wrist as you press the blunt head of the pestle down, and shaking the mortar around after each press. You’re not paying attention though, too distracted by the feel of his body so close to yours, and his hands guiding yours through your work. You realize that he smells like nature, calm and fresh. “That’s it…” he praises quietly. His head is just over your shoulder, leaning into your frame so he can see. The sound of his voice in your ear so pleasantly makes your heart thunder in yours ears and your cheeks feel as if they might burst into flame. Yixing moves to lean beside you briefly. His hand settles on your waist naturally, thinking nothing of it as he reaches over to fetch a glass jar full of a white substance. He sets it in front of you and moves his palm back to your hand again. “Now let’s combine these,” he whispers, plucking the cork from the glass jar. The sound of the pop makes you jump, whipping your head back against his mouth. Yixing makes a sound of pain and leans back, holding the cork as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. You turn around in the space between the table and his body, watching in horror as his hand comes away with a smear of blood. “Oh damn the Maker, I’m so sorry!” you curse, leaning up to take his face with both hands. He stills as you examine his mouth. The center of his bottom lip is split open, and without thinking you hook the end of your sleeve around your thumb and dab it gently against the plump skin. Yixing’s eyes search your face while you tend to his wound. “Where do you keep your thyme balm?” you ask him, eyes lifting to meet his, realizing what you’re doing with your fingers pressed delicately to his lips. Embarrassment creeps up your neck and you release him, attempting to duck out of the space. Yixing grabs your wrist gently in his free hand before you can run from him, holding it to keep you there between himself and the table. Your eyes snap to his tongue as it slowly peeks out from his mouth to swipe over the wound. You stare, transfixed as the wound disappears in the span of a minute. “Magic?” you whisper, immediately intrigued again by the quirky talents of this handsome man. “Just a little,” he confirms. Setting aside your budding feelings for him, you rise on your toes and grasp his face between your hands again, swiping your thumbs and fingers across his lips and inspecting them closely. The lips you’re surveying stretch into a smile and you catch yourself, feeling foolish as you release him. Yixing chases you, leaning fully into your frame against the table and forcing you to lean back as he moves closer and studies your face. “I’m sorry,” you whisper to him, suddenly feeling foolish. “For what? You’re very cute when you’re interested in something,” he admits in the small space between you, and you can faintly smell the mint he chews every day. The care that he expressed the words with is not lost on you. Yixing is patient as he moves languidly, letting one hand rest on the table behind you while the other settles against your waist once more. His words paint your ears and cheeks in a rose blush, and his hand feels soothing where it rests on your side. His lips hover over yours and the warmth of his eyes is kind as he meets yours and waits for you to decide. The moment your lips touch you feel like you’ve been shocked. Guilt and shame flood through you and you gasp, covering your own lips with your fingertips. Your body screams at you to run. So you do. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” you choke out, turning on your heel to leave Yixing and The Honeyed Ram. ________________________________________ Yixing doesn’t come to the palace for the next two days. Part of you wonders if he feels upset with you or if he is just as kind as ever and wants to give you space. All of you wonders if you’ve screwed it all up because you let your job get in the way of your feelings for him. Or is it the other way around? Refusing to stew in your turmoil over the situation, you work. Around the clock you tend to the wounded and sick. It’s nearly midnight when you close the curtain on the last patient you needed to see, after giving him a heavy dose of Valerian powder and Poppy to knock him out while you sewed his shoulder shut. You’ve just sat down at the desk when someone quietly enters the ward. “Y/N,” the voice calls. It’s deep and husky; one that you know as you look up to see the Knight Captain standing inside the room. “Chanyeol?” you question, curiously looking him over. “What can I do for you now?” you shoot him a grin even though you’re exhausted. He isn’t dressed in his uniform, off duty for the evening, as he lifts his shirt to reveal a nasty bruise blooming across his ribs and abdomen. “Just got back today,” he says bitterly. “And?” you ask, curious about the battles he has fought. “Still no good. We didn’t lose anyone, but they’re getting smarter. I don’t think it’s just Draugers acting on their own. They’re too coordinated for that, it’s unusual,” he admits, looking sour. You nod at him, “Roll that cart over, will you? Pull up a chair, too. I don’t think you need to stay.” He does as requested and pulls his tunic over his head to let you work. “Anywhere else I need to see?” you ask as you attach bandages soaked in blended Aloe Vera and Catnip to his ribs. The tips of his ears and his cheeks are red as he shakes his head at you. “What about that bruise?” you wonder aloud, pointing to a dark circle in the space between his jaw and ear. He sighs, grinning with defeat, “Ah, no. That one’s okay.” You rise, motioning for him to stand as well so you can wrap the dressing around his torso. Chanyeol lifts his arms to allow you the freedom to work. He hisses as your fingers press the dressing into his back. Curiously, you peek behind him to see long lines of red scratches down his shoulders. “Maker’s breath Chanyeol. What did she do to you?” He laughs gruffly, “She begged me to fuck her into oblivion, so I did.” His comment earns him a smack across the top of his head and a sharp glare. “What about you, then, huh?” he mocks instead, “Don’t act like you haven’t got it bad for that Apothecary.” You gawk at him, floundering for words until none come and he blinks at you expectantly with his wide eyes. “What?” Chanyeol inquires, aware by your actions that something has happened. “He um…” you try, fishing for words to explain. “We…” You huff, looking at the floor and covering your face with both hands. “I’m not even sure if I can call it a kiss,” you trail off. “A kiss?” Chanyeol says loudly through the fabric of his tunic as he attempts to get it back over his head. You hiss at him, “Quiet.” “Sorry.” With a deep sigh, “Kind of, I don’t know. It was like the moment our lips touched I freaked out.” Chanyeol hums, “Why?” Your hands sweep widely around the ward to all of the closed curtains of occupied beds, “This is why. I can’t be off doing that when all of this is so important.” “Do you like him?” he quizzes instead. You nod in response, pouting at yourself. “Then let it happen. You’re not the type to shirk your duties, you’re too responsible for that.” Chanyeol’s honesty about your ethics makes you smile even if you feel like a fool. “Thanks,” you say. Chanyeol nods at you as you help him adjust his clothing over the bandages, plucking the fabric to fall correctly on his frame. “He brought me flowers,” you muse quietly. Chanyeol’s brows raise, “Oh?” You fight a gentle smile breaking across your cheeks, “It was more than just flowers.” The man in front of you remains silent, waiting for you to explain. “Every flower he brought is a remedy for something he thought I might be suffering from. Fatigue, stress, imbalance, anxiety.” “Oh,” Chanyeol says with a quiet whistle. “That is something,” he confirms. “Yeah,” is all you can manage. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?” says the Knight Captain as he reaches for the door. ______________________________________________ The following day everything seems to be normal, sans the presence of the curious Yixing. Well, as normal as they can be when your kingdom is suffering a scourge of undead Draugers that seem more powerful and numerous than usual. That is, until the evening rolled around and two Physician assistants and another soldier burst through the door of the ward carrying a man screaming in agony. Dark blood, nearly black, spills from his sides along with… oh. Oh Maker that’s his intestines. Your body reacts automatically, propelling you forward to help them heave his convulsing form onto a bed. “Get that cart over here now and give me a basin of water!” you shout at the assistants. They disperse, leaving you and the soldier at opposite sides of his bed. “What happened?” you bark at the healthier man. “Um,” he starts, lip quivering as he doesn’t know what to say in his shock. Your tongue feels as sharp as your eyes as you begin cutting away the clothing of the bleeding man, “Spit it out.” “He was fine,” he tries. “Just got back from the latest battalion. Had some minor wounds and scratches but he wasn’t sick.” Water sloshes over the side of the basin as you dunk a rag into the depths of steaming water with urgency, squeezing some out onto the floor before you press it as gently as possible to his side. “I need a spool of gut thread and a candle,” you order the assistants, ripping open a drawer and procuring a vial of dried minced garlic. The soldier continues, “We were just walking back from the mess hall when he doubled over and then his skin burst open like this.” ________________________________________ Six hours later, you’re seated in Frost Flower Inn with three empty pints in front of you. You twirl a goblet of mulled wine between your fingers, staring into the deep crimson liquid. A bad idea to switch to this since it reminds you of blood. You’d seen too much blood today. Too much blood that ended in a loss of life anyway when you couldn’t get the tissue to stitch. You replay the scene in your head over and over. Hearing him scream as your thread ripped back through the necrotic skin of his side like butter, no matter how gentle you tried to be. It makes you shiver, fighting down the bile that rises in your throat. “Y/N, are you going to be okay?” a voice asks. You glance up to see someone leaning toward you from the opposite side of the table, but you don’t raise your head. Thick leather cuffs garnish the wrists of this man. Whoever it is, they sit, and two feline eyes peek into your field of vision as he drops his head onto the table to look at you. “I’ve never seen you in here drinking more than one pint, and certainly not of your own will,” Minseok observes as he watches you. A miniscule part of you hates how observant he is. You groan around another mouthful of wine, raising your brows at him as you knock it back, “I just want to be left alone.” “Trouble in paradise?” Asks a new voice. One you don’t recognize as well, but when you meet the eyes of its owner, you are vaguely familiar with his face. Something about arrows calls to your mind when you see him. Minseok sighs, “I’m not going to let you have another if you don’t tell me what’s got you so drunk.” You lower your head, jutting your bottom lip in your best pout to serve him a glare, “Don’t you like coin though?” The shorter man laughs happily at your honesty, “Of course I do. How do you think I run this fine establishment without it?” The second man drops down onto the bench beside Minseok, motioning for drinks at the bar. “I’ll buy the next round, but only if you tell,” he promises with a curled smile and crescent eyes. “I hate you,” you mumble into the last dredges of your wine. Minseok laughs again, drumming his hands on the table, “No, you don’t. You hate drinking and yet here you are anyway.” A face without a name brings three frosted pints to the table and before you can reach for yours the arrow boy grabs it and tuts at you. You pause briefly, looking at the condensation begin to drip down the side of the mug. “Fine,” you breathe, and he passes it to your waiting fingers. “These Draugers are awful. Knight Captain Chanyeol says they’re not like anything he’s ever seen before. They’re too smart and too coordinated to be regular old undead,” you say. The men nod in understanding while you continue, “I believe it, too. More and more soldiers are coming back with wounds that are becoming truly problematic.” A dog whine breaks out as you pause. Turning your head, you see it sitting at a table with four women begging for a piece of meat from a plate in the center. All of them women are watching you, clearly invested in your story. None of them are wearing typical ladylike attire, either. In different styles of armor with gear and weapons- they look like an adventure party, passing through. Ignoring them, you turn back to the men. “I don’t know much about war or about Draugers but I do know what kind of wounds they inflict,” you say, vividly remembering for the fifteenth time this evening what you experienced only hours ago. “Chanyeol didn’t report any dead and all of the soldiers that were gravely wounded came straight to the ward when they got back from outside the walls,” you whisper. With a deep breath, you clutch the icy glass in your palms and take a deep swig. Closing your eyes, you explain in the simplest terms what you saw. “A soldier was rushed into the ward today with his intestines hanging from a gaping hole in his side. I tried to sew it shut but,” you choke, shaking your head and feeling the frustration and despair of the afternoon amplify with the alcohol. “His companion said he had returned with the party with minor wounds. Some scrapes and bruises, nothing too bad, so he never came to the ward. But then it burst open suddenly this afternoon. The skin was so black and dead my stitches wouldn’t hold.” You don’t dare to glance at the faces of the men sitting across from you. “It smelled terrible. Not like a normal healthy body. It smelled like rotting corpses,” you explain to them. “Then he died, screaming in agony and bleeding out all over the floor while I couldn’t do anything to help him. I didn’t even have time to give him a sedative and stop the bleeding.” When you lift your head just enough to peek at Minseok’s face from under your lashes, he’s wearing an unreadable expression. The sharp-eyed man with dark hair beside him looks like he might be sick. The youthful owner extracts himself from the table, leaving you to watch his back with a knitted brow. From your peripheral, you can see most of the adventure party eyeing your table. One of them is watching Minseok with a look of worry. He returns to your side moments later, expertly balancing a platter full of frothy mugs on one palm. He slams three down on your table and carries the remaining to the table of women. You watch, surprised when he bends down to give the same woman a lopsided half-smile and her expression lights up. In all the years you’ve known Minseok, he’s never been interested in women affectionately. Looking at the golden liquid in your melting glass, you think perhaps it’s been too long since you visited. The mood is still sour but Minseok and Jongdae- you’ve learned- have sat dutifully with you through two more drinks. You know for sure that if you try to stand you’ll surely fall. You feel emotionally charged. Like you’re hopeless and courageous all at once. Ignoring the warnings in your head, you heft your body upright. The hands that steady you are not your own. Nor do they belong to your companions. Instead, it’s the woman that keeps staring at Minseok. “Easy there,” she chuckles happily. Up close, drunk or not, you think she’s absolutely beautiful. She smiles easily at you and steps away once you’re steadied enough she’s sure you won’t fall over. You try your best to mutter a simple thanks, and she laughs cheerfully again. “Don’t worry too much,” she chirps. “We’re actually here to help out with your Drauger problems,” she grins, giving you a thumbs up with a hand on her hip. Another pair of hands takes yours and you immediately feel less like a piece of shit. “Yisthing,” comes out more slurred than you care to admit to yourself when you see his face. He smiles, “Yes, I’m here.” “Why?” you breathe. His presence feels calming beside you. Irrationally, you’re still irritated with yourself for responding to his affections the way you did. His voice is like honey dripping over your ears when he answers, “I’ve been here all along, dove.” The way he says the pet name is both softly pleasant and exhilarating. Through the haze of alcohol, you believe he isn’t upset with you. He wouldn’t be here with his hands steadying you so affectionately if he were.

“I’ll take her back to the palace,” he announces to the group. Minseok nods with a deep sigh, getting up from the table.

Yixing still holds your hand, afraid you might fall as you sway back and forth in the street. You trip over your own feet, bumping into the hard plane of his chest with a giggle. He smiles at your drunken antics, and you can very clearly smell the mint leaves on his breath with his soft laugh.

If you’re sure of one thing in this moment, it’s the feeling of this man holding you up, and how right it is. With as much grace as you can muster, you lean into him on your toes and let your lips touch his.

A surprised gasp leaves his lips. Slowly, gently, he moves you back to stand solidly on both feet. Clicking his teeth he asks, “Oh? So now you want to kiss me?”

You smile at him, nodding rather than using your words. Your pounding heart catches up with you and you feel dizzy suddenly. It feels like you’re spinning, until you see the blur of Yixing’s body rushing forward to collect you in his arms.

Although you wouldn’t know it, he carries you the rest of the way to the palace. He makes his way past the guards who try to rush at him until they realize who he is and who he is carrying. Yixing doesn’t know where your chambers are, but he can put you in a bed at the ward. Maybe that’s not the best idea though.

While he deliberates with himself, slowing his pace as he wanders down the corridor, two men step out in front of him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Yixing politely smiles.

The taller of the two grins wickedly, “Oh, my.”

“Ah…Knight Captain Chanyeol, correct? Prince Baekhyun?” Yixing ponders, “Could you help me?”

The shorter man looks at you, cradled against the Apothecary’s chest, “What happened to her?”

“She drank too much. Passed out as I was walking her back,” he explains to the men.

The Knight Captain shakes his head, “But Y/N never drinks unless I force her to. What happened?”

His frown grows deeper as Yixing explains about the dying soldier earlier that afternoon. He nods, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “One of my own. We’re all a bit affected by the news.”

There’s an expression Yixing can’t pin down glazing over the Prince’s face when he glances at him.

“I can take her back. Go on ahead Baek, I’ll meet you in the training pit,” says the tall man after a deep sigh.

The smaller man nods curtly, offering no smile as he rolls his neck and departs down the corridor.

“Thanks,” Yixing replies, slowly maneuvering you into his arms.

Just as he’s about to part ways, Yixing smiles at your form snuggling into the warmth of the silver-haired man.

“You know she’s crazy about you, right?” he asks with a smile that looks a little sad in Yixing’s opinion. “She just has a hard time putting her work aside. Don’t give up though, she’ll come around.”, Chanyeol assures with a dimpled smirk.

Nodding, Yixing smiles gently, touching at his lips as he turns to leave, “I know.”

[galaxyshine24-7]

Nellie Zumwalt🤠

(American)

Name: Nellie Beau Zumwalt

Age: 28

Languages: English, German, Spanish, etc

Job: The owner of Beauregard Ranch

Likes: Animals, Farm Life, The South, Music, Horse Riding, Radios, Guitars

Dislikes: Overconfident people, Snobs, Rudeness, Disrespect, Laziness, Bad Deeds

Pets: The Farm animals, has a Cow named Bessie, Takes in Strays

Height: 6’0

Beauregard Ranch

Beauregard Ranch was founded during the Wild West era. People traveling to and fro one day a man from Germany came from across the seas to establish a ranch of his own and get away from his troubled home life His name was Adalric Zumwalt . After he landed in America he traveled by train to a charming town in the south. However, unknowing to him a gang of outlaws called the White Pistol gang, planned on robbing the train, and robbed them they did. Adalric stood up to them and that impressed them greatly. They took the man and brought him to their leader. Magnolia Beauregard and runaway slave that has been sweeping the Wild West and making people cower in fear of her presents. Adalric amused her greatly and she took him on a Wild Ride through the West. A few years later he and Magnolia fell in love and then the gang settled in his small town in the south. The outlaws protected the citizens from forces with evil intent and in return they were offered protection and a place to settle down.

Magnolia and Adarlic built the ranch from the ground up and planted crops, owned animals, and bred horses. They named it Beauregard farms and spent their lives there having many children and overseeing the town.

But like all families they had their secrets. In the times when Magnolia was under a master she learned many things from that time. The master’s wife was a cruel woman to the slaves and it was always her master that calmed her down. Her master was an archaeologist and collected and sold many treasures, he taught her to read and write. One such treasure came with a great cost. Said to be taken from an ancient site in Mexico was the blade of death. Many stories have been made about this blade, but the master wasn’t one for superstitions.

And the night he brought it home and put it on display his wife killed him with it after he brought up divorce. Magnolia walked in seeing the body of him on the floor. The wife lunged at her screaming, letting out a viscous laughter at Magnolia who fought her to the death holding the blade in her hands. All bloody and bruised, she took the horses and the rest of the slaves with her, and took the prized white pistol of her former master’s home. That’s how it all started, but Magnolia knew the blade wasn’t something for her to use. She made sure to hide it under the floors of their Ranch home and told all her children the story and they told their children the story about how dangerous it is.

Decades later Velvet Beauregard, a descendant of Magnolia got married with a nice man and they settled on the Ranch, her being the heir. However before her marriage she cheated on her fiancé and hoped to cover it up and say the baby was her husband's child. It worked for a time but when the baby was born and started growing she could see the resemblance to the other man, and her guilt started to sink in heavily. With desperation she remembered the blade downstairs and where it was hidden and decided to stage an attack telling her husband they were going into town, but she stayed in the farm's wide crop fields slashing up her body and then killing her child stabbing her repeatedly. Unknowing to her these actions caused an uproar from the force at hand and Velvet paid for her crimes as her own life was taken in a bloody mess.

The town searched day and night when she didn’t return home. The cries of the child brought back to life were heard and Velvet’s former husband took in the child. While the remains of his cheating wife rotted in front of him and the blade laying right next to her.

Ever since then the family has been cursed, and the spirit of death chooses a member every 50 years to be a vessel and bring death upon the land.

Background:

Nellie Beauregard Zumwalt was born on a sunny day as the Magnolia’s bloomed. She was born in the house mansion by her father who was a doctor. She was the oldest out of five children and the heir to the Estate. Ever since she was young Nellie has always been strange, staring off into space or talking to people who aren't there. However it was never very concerning as she grew up so her parents left it alone.

Nellie grew up around a caring and close knit community who took care of each other, and did it without a second thought. The town grew popular with its charm and activities with its famous radios and house races. It's also home to good schools and a safe place to raise a family.

Nellie would stay in the town for most of her life becoming a popular figure with her horse riding trophies and her help around the town. She went to college for agriculture with a minor for the arts. It wasn’t until she turned 25 did something strange start to happen to her.

It was on a chilly day in October and the town was covered in autumn leaves. The town was getting ready for the biggest harvest yet. There were lots of tourists and haunted houses as the town got to work to collect the harvest before the winter. Nellie was in the field picking pumpkins with some of her nieces and nephews. She helped place them on the wheelbarrow as they walked through the fields looking over the crops getting collected, when they got to the house one of her brothers walked up to her.

“We got a few trouble makers on the tours and they destroyed a good patch of pumpkins.” He tells her. Now Nellie is good at handling her emotions; her temper is something she has been able to control for a long time. She told her nieces and nephews to get ready for dinner.

“Okay tell me what happened.” She asks once the children are gone. Her brothers explains how the troublemakers were just causing problems throughout the tours and then lead to one of Nellie’s sisters to punch one out that then resulted in the pumpkins getting crushed.

“We need to get them to pay for it.” Nellie suggests.

“They threw about a thousand dollars at us.” He shrugs. “Then went into town, probably causing even more trouble.” He rubs his temple. Something didn’t sit right with Nellie as she nodded. Great so rich pricks that think they can walk all over everyone. It only made her blood boil.

“Okay just keep an eye out so they don’t come back.” As she said that a wave of nausea watches over her and she imminently needs to go lay down. Her brother helps her to the master bedroom and tells the others to let her rest.

In the middle of the night she awoke with heightened senses and an itch to head downstairs. Her family had either gone home or were fast asleep as she glared through the mansion almost weightless. Entering the basement is when the feeling gets stronger as the blade was put on display under lock and key. Nellie would usually see it collecting dust, but it's cleaned and she can take in every detail about it. Black smoke fills the room only leaving her and the blade as a voice sounds in her mind.

“It is time to pay the debt, my child.” The display case holding the blade flies off breaking the locks as Nellie slowly takes it.

“Debt?” She was enchanted by the blade.

“Yes one from long ago, you are now to be a vessel and bring death by your hand.”

The black smoke covers Nellie as her eyelids grow heavy and her form changes. She appears as an outlaw from the old west dressed in all black with long fog-like hair wearing a coal colored cowboy hat with a silver string around it, and her face was replaced by a skull.

She takes a deep breath feeling the earth around her knowing what she has to do. The sounds of people running a muck in her farm drew her attention as she headed upstairs. Outside a large black horse with a black misty mane greets her. She hopes on the horse as it speeds towards the sound. It's the troublemakers from earlier carrying matches and gasoline in their hands and approaching the fields hoping to burn down the crops they worked so hard to harvest.

Her horse roared with anger as Nellie held out her blade watching it shape and morph into a curved edge much like a sickle as she slaughtered them in bloody heaps. Cutting off heads and ripping out their entrails as she throws her head back to let out a banshee-like scream.

The next morning Nellie sits in the living room of her mansion reading the newspaper and sipping tea by the window. No one knew what happened to them, and said it was a vicious animal attack. Nellie looks out at the morning sun over her ranch and all she can do is smile.

[dracoqueen22]

[CR] Temperance Promises

Sequel to Patience Rewards Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two, Around Episode 88 Series: And Other Virtues Characters: Caduceus Clay/Fjord Rating: T Description: Fjord has never ached for privacy quite as much as he does now that he knows he can kiss Caduceus, and Caduceus will welcome it. Finding privacy becomes something of a challenge. They're a tight-knit group often thrust into very close quarters, and what secrets they have are ones they started with, rather than ones they created along the course of the journey. Fjord has never ached for privacy quite as much as he does now that he knows he can kiss Caduceus, and Caduceus will welcome it. He wants to kiss Caduceus all the time. He wants to taste those slow smiles, and nuzzle Caduceus' face, and take his hand and squeeze his fingers, and sleep tucked in Caduceus' arms. Their relationship isn't exactly a secret. Everyone saw their first kiss, whether they acknowledge it or not. And Fjord can practically see Nott vibrating with the urge to tease him. He doesn't know why she holds back, but he's grateful for it. This is a fragile, precious thing.

And then Caduceus casts Spirit Guardians or throws some healing at him, and Fjord’s gone, head over heels like it’s the first time Caduceus smiled at him. Fjord flushes all over, heat pooling in his groin, flushing his face. All he wants to do is kiss Caduceus, throw subtlety out the window, maybe even find the nearest bed, or flat surface or... He really wants to find some privacy. It's not until they've barely escaped with their lives from Rexxentrum, when they've got the truce on their shoulders, and they've finally rescued Yasha, that they have anything resembling a moment of peace. A few days to get their heads right, to gather their supplies, to figure out what they’re going to do next. It’s enough time to breathe, to relax, to yes, visit a spa. And all the while, Fjord wants to get Caduceus alone. Stolen kisses in an alley, taking his fingers and squeezing them under the table, bumping his arm as they walk, it’s not enough. Especially since the rest of the Mighty Nein have decided that they want Caduceus petting time more than usual. Assholes. Every single one of them. Fjord's at the end of his rope. So maybe. maybe He's a little aggressive when it comes time to divvy up the rooms. Maybe he's a little louder than he needs to be but damn it. He just wants to kiss his boyfriend in peace. Is that too much to ask? "We typically share a room, Fjord," Caduceus says with a soft laugh, once they're in the cramped space which barely qualifies as a room. "I don't think anyone planned on changing that." There's only one bed. Granted, all of the rooms only have one bed, but Fjord notices it this time. Really notices it. Caduceus usually volunteers to sleep on the floor. He doesn't seem to mind it. There's only one bed. It's a small bed. Caduceus' feet would probably hang off the end. They'd be very close. Fjord's face heats. There's only one bed, and it's a small bed, and if they shared it, they'd be very close. "Fjord?" He shakes himself out of his stupor and drops his bag at the end of the bed. "It's been a long week," Fjord says as he sits down on the bed, which gives a flumph and sinks in the center a little. They'd roll toward each other. They'd have no choice but to sleep curled in close, sharing breaths and space. "Yes, it has," Caduceus agrees and sits down beside him, catching his balance with a hand to Fjord's shoulder as the bed tries to swallow him. "Oh. This is interesting." Fjord grabs his elbow to help steady him. "Every inn's an adventure," he says. "Better than sleeping outside though." "Mmm. Depends on the outside." Caduceus offers one of those crooked grins which make Fjord's heart flutter. "It'll do. If you'd like to share it." Fjord is frequently grateful for how blunt Caduceus can be. The tips of his ears burn hot, and he's half-afraid of what color his face is. "Truth is, what I want to do right now is kiss you," he says. Caduceus' smile broadens. "Why don't you?" "Because I might not stop," Fjord admits. He gently squeezes Caduceus' elbow, tempted to reel him in, within reach for a kiss. "Is that such a bad thing?" Caduceus leans in closer, his eyes at half-mast, and how he can look both innocent and devilish is a mystery. By Melora. Fjord swallows, his mouth abruptly dry. "We're supposed to, uh, meet the others for dinner in a bit." "We've got some time, don't we?" Caduceus' touches the side of his face, and Fjord leans into his palm, his heart thudding in his ears. "Sure," Fjord says, and he's leaning in now, drawn by the curve of Caduceus' lips. Caduceus breathes a laugh, a finger tracing Fjord's ear, before he touches the curve of Fjord's jaw, tilting his face up. Fjord's dizzy with anticipation, until their lips touch, briefly at first, and then again, with more pressure. Caduceus' sharp inhale echoes in his ears, and Fjord presses his advantage, parting his lips, deepening the kiss. It won't be the one. It can't be the one. It's a long, extended kiss, the touch of Caduceus' tongue to his, coy at first but then gaining confidence. The slide of Caduceus' fingers through his hair, blunt nails gentle on his scalp. Shivers dance over Fjord’s skin, goosebumps in their wake. Fjord sighs against Caduceus' mouth, cupping Caduceus while careful of his talons, but keeping him close for kiss after kiss after kiss. Making up for every missed opportunity, every time he caught Caduceus' gaze and couldn't do anything but share a half-smile. Warmth spills through his body, centered on his groin. Fjord makes a low sound into the kiss, and Caduceus' mouth curves, affectionate not mocking. "You're purring again," Caduceus murmurs as he presses a kiss to the corner of Fjord's mouth. His hand settles on Fjord's upper thigh with a light squeeze. Heat flushes Fjord's cheeks. "Sorry." "Why're you apologizing? It's nothing to be sorry for." Caduceus tucks his face into the hollow of Fjord's throat, his lips soft and warm on the underside of Fjord’s jaw, over stubble trying desperately to be something more. "It's adorable." Fjord groans and scrapes his fingers over Caduceus' scalp. "Is it?" "Yes." Caduceus' mouth finds its way back to Fjord's lips. "I think of it as a compliment." Fjord thinks it's embarrassing, but he supposes he can't fault Caduceus' logic either. So he kisses Caduceus again, to hide the blush in his cheeks, focusing instead on the taste of Caduceus, the wet swipe of his tongue, the way their bodies draw closer and closer together, and Fjord's pants grow uncomfortably tight. His heartbeat is a loud song in his ears, and his hands start to shake, so he grips Caduceus a little harder to hide their tremble. He’s a hot flush from head to toe, and all they’ve done is kiss. Which is, of course, the perfect time for someone to bang on their door. "Fjord! Caduceus!" Jester sings as she raps a nonsense rhythm with her fists. "It's time for dinner! Stop making out and c'mon." Fjord sighs. "Sometimes, I hate her." Caduceus laughs and presses their foreheads together. "No, you don't," he says, and brushes a kiss on Fjord's forehead before he stands. "We're coming," he says, a bit louder. "Hurry up or Beau will eat all the good stuff, you know how she is!" Jester hollers before she scampers away, her boots noisy on the old wood slats. "No, I don't," Fjord agrees as he stands. He drags a hand over his hair to try and restore the disordered strands to their usual artful sweep. "Let's go to dinner." "We can finish this later," Caduceus promises with a peck to Fjord's cheek before he makes for the door, leaving Fjord standing there, a bit stunned. Finish? Later? What are they going to finish? Thank Melora he has a cloak. Fjord discreetly tucks it around him and follows Caduceus downstairs, toward the noise and bustle of the table the Mighty Nein have claimed in the corner. Food has already been brought out to them, along with mugs of ale, and two milks -- one for Jester and one for Caduceus. "There you are!" Jester’s eyes light up when she sees them, and her lips curl with devious intent. "I told Nott you were coming, but she didn't believe me." "Oh, I believed they were coming, just not down here," Nott says, and she and Beau high-five each other, while Fjord's face burns, and Caduceus smiles, either blissfully unaware of the double entendre, or choosing to ignore it. Fjord sits next to Beau and snatches up the ale she nudges his direction. He might take a larger swig than is necessary, but Jester’s grinning at him like a devil, waggling her eyebrows even, and that's more attention than he wants right now. His lips still tingle, and he swears the brush of Caduceus' kiss lingers on his throat. "Don't mind them, Mr. Clay," Caleb says as he pushes a plate Caduceus' direction, where he's kindly collected only potatoes and carrots and bread. "Oh, I'm not the one who minds," Caduceus says as his ears flick, and he casts a sidelong, playful look at Fjord. "Why wouldn't they come down here?" Yasha’s forehead crinkles in confusion. "Are you not feeling well, Fjord?" The worst part is that Fjord can't tell if she's being sincere in her confusion, or pretending for the sake of making Jester laugh. Yasha's too damn hard to read. "Can we just eat?" Fjord shovels a huge bite into his mouth, immediately crunching into gristle, but not caring because it gives him something else to focus on that's not their playful gazes. Beneath the table, Caduceus rests a hand on his knee and gives it a gentle pat. "Dinner and sleep is something we could all use," he says. "The beds here are pretty small," Nott says in between vicious, tearing bites of a haunch of meat. "I mean, I don't have a problem sleeping on the floor, but there's no harm in sharing, is there?" Fjord sighs. "No there isn't," Jester says, maybe a bit too loud, and she nudges Beau with her elbow, making weird and elaborate expressions with her face. "Beau and I share all the time, don't we, Beau?" Beau blinks. "Uh, yeah. Sure do." "We all sleep in a magic bubble that's ten feet in diameter. We all share space. I don't see why it is a big deal now," Caleb says, and Fjord could kiss him, save that his lips are reserved for Caduceus, so he won't. "Yeah, but that's not private, Caleb," Nott points out, rolling her eyes. "Remember? You can't make a little, you know, side bubble." She makes some gesture with her hand which Fjord is sure to be obscene, though he's never seen it before. Beau groans. "Can we please not bring that up again?" "Are you ashamed?" Caleb asks. "No." Beau's shoulders square, indignant. "You're like my brother is all, and it's weird to talk about my sex life with my brother. So stop." "I'm not even the one who brought it up," Caleb argues while daintily sopping some bread in his stew and giving it a nibble. "I mean just shut up about it in general." Beau’s arm waves wildly, a piece of her chicken breaking off and smacking Yasha in the cheek. Yasha picks it off and pops it into her mouth. "We don't need to talk about who I sleep with, all right?" Beau continues. "Unless you want me to start commenting on all of you. Huh, Nott? Should we talk about a certain minotaur?" "Hey! I never actually did anything!" "You wanted to," Beau points out. "Can you blame me?" Nott asks, and gets that starry look in her eyes again, the same one she held when she first caught sight of Sunbreaker Ulumon. Beau wrinkles her nose and drops back onto the bench. "Yeah. Can and will. Gross." "You have something against minotaurs?" Yasha asks. "I have something against dicks, as in, no thank you," Beau says. Caduceus says, "Well, now. You don't really know what kind of equipment he had." "She might be talking about his personality. He was kind of a jerk," Jester says as she lifts her mug and tries to catch the waitress’ attention. “More milk, please!” "Why are we even having this conversation?" Fjord groans, and shoves a huge piece of bread into his mouth, washing it down with an ale. Beau’s sex life, Nott’s sex life, minotaur dick... he’s officially reached his breaking point. Fjord stands, hoping to make a hasty escape. "I'm going to clean up. I'm tired." "Was your best friend a minotaur or something?" Beau asks. Yasha shakes her head, swiping away the smear of grease with the pad of her thumb. "No, I was just wondering if you didn't like them or something. Like, I don't know, maybe one attacked your family?" "Did your people suffer minotaur attacks?" Caleb asks. "Well... no," Yasha says. Caduceus is probably the only one who notices Fjord escaping, and all he does is smile and nod before he continues to pick at his food. "That's very speciest of you," Nott says with a haughty sniff as Fjord plunges into the crowd and their inane argument gets lost to the clamor and din. He finds the washroom upstairs, thankfully unoccupied, and wipes away the day's dirt and grime. Before they leave, Fjord hopes to visit the spa at least one more time. It had been an unexpectedly nice indulgence. Jester's right. His tusks are coming in nicely. He can't remember the last time he picked at them. He scratches at his jaw, where stubble tries in vain to form a full beard. It's a different face he sees in the mirror, and he doesn't mean just his growing tusks and his growing beard and his hair. He carries himself differently, too. He's actually starting to like who he sees. Fjord smiles and finishes up, exiting the washroom, only to stop in surprise when he finds Jester loitering in the hallway. She grins when she sees him. "There you are.” "Was I missing?" he asks. Jester laughs and loops her arm into his, subtly tugging him down the hall, toward their cluster of rooms. "You did kind of disappear. I was worried." She looks up at him, briefly gnawing on her bottom lip. "You kind of looked uncomfortable. I'm sorry if we teased you too much." "I wasn't upset about it," Fjord assures her, because that much is true. He's not ashamed, and he knows their teasing isn't meant to be cruel. "I'm just... this is very new to me. I'm afraid of messing it up. I don't know what I'm doing." "I don't think anyone does," Jester says as she pats his arm consolingly. "Don't worry. We can tell how much Caduceus likes you. I don't think you can mess it up." "You'd be surprised," Fjord sighs. He's messed up quite a few things in the past. He doesn't have a history of making the best decisions. This thing with Caduceus, this thing they haven't given a name, is fragile and important, and he doesn't want to shatter it. Though it is weird he's talking to Jester about it. Weird and awkward and well. She’s still his friend. "I have faith in you," Jester says. "I know you do. Um. Listen Jess," Fjord says, and he tumbles over his words, struggling to find the right ones when it matters. "You think maybe we should talk?" Jester blinks up at him. “About what?” “Me,” Fjord says. “And Caduceus.” Jester laughs. “There’s nothing to talk about.” She stops in front of Fjord’s door with a little bounce. “Unless, I mean, is everything okay? Do you need to talk, Fjord?” She looks up at him, sincere and earnest, without a glimpse of hurt in her eyes, and Fjord’s resolve crumbles. “No… nevermind.” Fjord rubs the back of his neck. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t bring it up. People change after all. “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” Jester beams and gives him a playful pinch on the meat of his upper arm. “Well, you are, too.” She unlinks her arm from his and pushes him toward the door. “Caduceus is waiting for you, so you better go.” Fjord grins. “I’m going, I’m going.” He puts his hand on the knob but pauses, turning back toward her with a smile. “Thanks, Jess. I mean it.” She winks and spins on a heel, her skirt flaring around her. Fjord watches her go, a bit of an ache in his heart. He hopes he hasn’t broken hers in return. Fjord slips into his room, closing the door quietly behind him, and when he turns, Caduceus is making a pallet on the floor, carefully layering blankets as he usually does. “Um.” Fjord feels like he’s been knocked off his axis. “The floor?” Caduceus’ ears flick, laying flat. “You seemed uncomfortable earlier. I thought this might be… easier? I don’t want to push.” Fjord chews on the inside of his cheek. “I wasn’t uncomfortable. I’m just not sure what I’m doing.” Caduceus smiles as he stands, the tension sloughing from his shoulders. “Then that’s something we have in common.” He comes closer, takes Fjord’s hand and rubs his thumb over the back of it. “Do you want to sleep with me, Fjord?” He answers by kissing Caduceus, curling his hand around the back of Caduceus’ neck to draw him down, making it easier to press their lips together. It’s a gentle kiss, no matter how much Fjord wants to deepen it. There’s a tightness in his belly, gooseflesh raising over his skin, and heat in his groin. “Is that a yes?” Caduceus hums against his lips, hands resting on Fjord’s waist, neither pushing nor pulling, but waiting. Patient. He’s so damn patient. Fjord feels like a volcano ready to burst, or a rope about to snap, and Caduceus is as calm as a reed bending in the wind. “It’s a yes,” Fjord says, his voice rough. “We should share the bed.” “And nothing more?” Caduceus asks. Fjord huffs a laugh as his fingers drag through the finer hairs at the base of Caduceus’ neck, watching his eyes droop to half-mast. “What is more?” “I don’t really know,” Caduceus murmurs, head dipping as though trying to encourage Fjord to continue. He melts like this when Fjord pets him, too, and it’s impossibly adorable. Fjord carefully scratches his talons along those hairs and then further up, to the base of Caduceus’ scalp and back again. Caduceus hums, just like a purr Fjord thinks with a swallowed laugh, and sags against him. “I’m inexperienced, not unaware,” Caduceus rumbles as his hands slide up and down Fjord’s sides, though he can barely feel it through the thickness of the Mariner’s armor. “I don’t want to overstep.” “And I don’t want to push,” Fjord says even as Caduceus sags closer and closer to him, eyes fluttering, fatigue cloaking him from head to toe. “But maybe getting out of our armor and climbing into bed wouldn’t be a far step.” Caduceus breathes a laugh, but it’s a few more seconds of indulgence before he draws back, hands fumbling at the clasps to his more elaborate breastplate. “I suppose you’re right.” “Need help?” “Please.” It’s nothing Fjord hasn’t done before. Though it takes on a new meaning now as he undoes buckles and clasps, setting armor aside, peeling Caduceus out of his layers before he starts on his own. Caduceus offers to help but Fjord waves him off, and Caduceus doesn’t argue, flopping onto the bed instead and watching Fjord through slitted eyes. “You look like Frumpkin,” Fjord says, his face hot, and his ears aflame, though all he loses is his armor and boots and equipment. He’s far from undressed. “Judgmental?” Caduceus asks. Fjord chuckles. “No. But good point.” He casts off the last of his armor to the pile and surveys the tumble of long limbs that is his… boyfriend? Partner? Lover? Fellow worshiper of Melora? He was right. Caduceus’ feet do hang off the edge. “Come here,” Caduceus rumbles, opening his arms, and it’s an invitation Fjord can’t resist. He slides onto the bed, immediately rolling into Caduceus thanks to the curve of the lumpy mattress, and comes face to face with the other man. “Oh,” Fjord says. “Hi.” Caduceus chuckles and presses his forehead to Fjord’s. “Is this all right?” It’s warm and intimate. The familiar scent of tea and dirt and mushrooms and growing things rises up from Caduceus, and Fjord wants to nose his way into Caduceus’ throat and linger there, drinking him in. “Yeah,” he says, breathing easy for the first time in an hour. “It’s good.” They can worry about the rest later. This, right now, is perfect as it is. **** a/n: And yep, looks like this is a series now. I don’t know where it’s going, save that it’s going to be a fun ride. 

Feedback is absolutely welcome and appreciated! I’d love to know what you all think! :)

[an-agender-disaster]

Ok I'm trash for the winged logan au can I request him having a hurt wing and trying to hide it from the others and it goes well for a while but they eventually find out and take care of him?

Catch me awake all night writing for this one! Amazing prompt, anon!

How Is This At All Logical? - Chapter 3

Pairings- Platonic LAMP (could be seen as romantic)

Words- 1917

AO3 link here!

Feel free to request more works!

________________________________________________________________

            The imagination really is a bitch, isn’t it? That was Logan’s last thought as he hit the ground after falling from the top of the mighty oak. He always enjoyed reading up high in the branches of the trees, but of course today the branch had to break, the day when he wore a shirt that would not allow him to let his wings out so he could catch himself. All because the imagination is a bitch.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

             Logan rose up into his room, almost collapsing at the expended energy it took to travel that far. He gingerly removed his polo, wincing as he pulled it over his head. Once it was off, he hastily folded it and gently placed it on his bed, then moved in front of his mirror. He spread his wings out behind him, but had to hold back a shout when his right wing tried to open fully. Looking at it closer, he saw that the wing’s radius bone had an irregularity, more specifically, it was fractured. Logan was unsure of where to go from here. He never thought he would come across a situation where he could severely injure his wings; therefore, he never thought to learn how to perform first aid on the wings.

            Note to self, learn how to properly set a broken bird wing.

            Logan knew that he needed to find a quick way to wrap the wing up to avoid it setting in an incorrect position. A cast of a split would be to conspicuous, but perhaps if he were to wrap it with gauze he would be able to keep it firmly in place. Walking into the conjoining restroom Logan opens a cabinet and removes the gauze from the top shelf, unwarps some, then starts maneuvering it around his, now folded up, right wing. It was a difficult process, but in the end he had a wrap that was able to firmly stay on the wing, even if it were to twitch. Sure, it hurts, but in the end this would pay off, Logan was sure.

            Logan walks back out into the bedroom and unfolds his polo again, then puts it back on, wincing again as it brushes the right wing’s radius. He then examines himself for anymore cuts or scratches. He only catches a few shallow cuts, to shallow to draw blood or strike a nerve. After quickly treating them, Logan promptly lies down, and falls asleep.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

            Logan woke up wearing a rumpled polo shirt, creased jeans, and a stabbing pain in his shoulder. Or was that his wing? It was far to soon after Logan woke up to pinpoint directly where the pain was coming from, but he knew it hurt. Trying to remember the events from the previous day, he finds that the pain is definitely coming from his right wing, not his right shoulder, though his shoulder is aching. Each movement he makes to get ready for the day causes more and more pain to ebb from his wing, though the type of pain changes from a stabbing pain to a blunt-force pain.

            Finally ready, Logan opens the door, ignoring the aches and pains he feels doing even the simplest of actions, and walks out of his room. Walking down the hall, Logan can hear the waking sounds from the other side’s rooms. Passing Roman’s room, humming and rushed footsteps can faintly be heard. He probably has an excursion planned for the day, giving adequate cause for him being in such a happy mood. From Virgil’s room, however, an alarm can be heard going off, probably his third or forth. Near silent grumbles are audible through the door as Logan passes nearby.

            Making his way down the stairs, Logan hears Patton wide awake in the kitchen, already having started making breakfast for the sides. As soon as he enters view, Patton looks up from what he was doing, “Hi, Logan! How did you sleep?”

            "I slept well, Patton. Thank you for asking,“ Logan responds as he moves into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. After grabbing a mug off of the countertop, he takes the full coffee pot and slowly pours it into the mug, wincing slightly at the ache in his shoulder that only seems to be spreading.

           Patton glides around the kitchen with practiced ease, his usual clumsiness gone as he continues to work. Many times the other sides had offered to help, but each time they were turned down. Patton continued his dance with the room, only stopping to give Logan a pat on the right shoulder, causing Logan to flinch away. "Oh, I’m sorry, Lo! Are you okay?”

            "I am fine, Patton. I merely slept on my shoulder in an odd position last night. It is slightly sore, but nothing more.“ The lie slips out with rehearsed ease, which, in reality, it was. Logan was never one for lying, but found it to be necessary in this scenario. He did not need to be cared for or looked after. Especially when he had work to do.

            "Alright, Lolo, but if you need something then feel free to come to me!” Patton smiles before getting back into his rhythm.

            "I will, Patton.“ Logan then moves to the table to sit down, knowing Roman will come down the stairs soon, most likely in three, two, one, now.

            "Good morning!” he exclaims, gliding down the stairs in his usually princely attire. Behind him a half-asleep Virgil yawns, eyeshadow hastily thrown on. They both enter the kitchen, one immediately sitting down, the other pouring himself a mug of coffee.

            "Good morning to you too, Roman! And you Virgil!“ Patton says as he ruffles the anxious man’s hair.

            Virgil only grumbled back something that could almost resemble words while Roman laughs at the cardigan-clad man’s antics. Logan, having finished his coffee, gets up to place it in the sink, but just as he does so, a sharp pain stabs through his wrapped-up wing, causing him to shout and collapse onto the ground, his mug shattering on impact.

            Roman and Patton both rush to his side, but Virgil, in his half-asleep state, murmurs, "Oh, shit,” and walks over to Logan. 

            "Damn it,“ Logan winces, "That was my favorite mug.”

            "Your priorities seem to be out of order, Bird Brain.“ Roman says, unsure of what to do.

            "Virgil, can you grab the dustpan? Roman, Help me get his shirt off. I think some of the glass pierced through it.”

            Logan sits up, ignoring the pain coursing through him, “There is no reason for you to do that. I am perfectly fine.”

            "Logan, you just collapsed on the floor. I don’t think that counts as perfectly fine.“ Patton starts to untie Logan’s tie, but Logan pushes his hands away.

            "Is nobody going to address how awesome that nickname was? Bird Brain? You know, because of the wings?” Roman laughs, trying to find some comedy in the tragedy.

            Logan looks to Roman, then back to Patton, “Like I said before, I slept on my side on an odd angle last night.”

            "Odd angles don’t make people collapse, Lolo. You can tell us what’s wrong! Just trust us!“

            "It sounds idiotic.”

            "You said the same thing about the wings, though!“ Patton says, "Wait, is this about the wings again?”

            Logan looks down at the floor, ashamed, “Well, I suppose it is.”

            "What is it?“ Roman asks, rejoining the conversation after being ignored.

            "I, well I fell out of a tree. While reading a book.”

            "Wait, wait, wait.“ Roman stops Logan from continuing. "Are telling me that you, a man with wings, fell out of a tree? The place where birds live.”

            "Yes. Exactly.“

            "Oh my Disney.” Roman laughs.

            "Okay, but we still need to get you better, don’t we?“ Patton rhetorically asks, "Roman, bring Logan over to the couch. Make sure not to move him around so much.”

            "On it!“ Roman lifted Logan up bridal style, supporting him from the lower back instead of the upper back as he normally would.

            "Do you really have to carry me like this?” Logan questions, looking to Roman.

            Virgil just then comes down the stairs, “Alright, who moved the broom? It was in the bathroom!”

            "Virgil, can you help me sweep this up? It would be really helpful.“ Patton asks as he takes the broom.

            Roman carried Logan away from the glass shards, which are now being swept up by Virgil and Patton, then places him down on the couch the next room over. "Okay, I’m going to get one of your backless shirts from the closet, alright?” Logan nodded in confirmation, smiling up at Roman, who then turns on his heel and rushes up the stairs. Patton and Virgil quickly finish sweeping the shards away, and both move over to where Logan is.

            "Hey, L,“ Virgil says, kneeling beside him, "mind filling me in on what’s happening?”

            "He fell out of a tree-“ Patton summarizes, ”-while reading a book, of course.“

            "Oh.” Virgil pauses to collect his thoughts, “That was dumb.”

            "Hello!“ Roman rushes down the stairs, a backless polo and sweater in hand, "I wasn’t sure which one you wanted, so I brought both just in case.”

            "Thank you, Roman.“ Logan says, reaching for the sweater. Untying his tie and removing his polo, Logan keeps his wings pressed onto his back, then slides the sweater on. He finally pushes his wings through the back, crying out again at the flair of pain in his wing.

            Virgil reaches to the injured wing, then retracts his hand. "Do you mind if I untie the gauze?” he asks, his expression now surprisingly gentle. Logan nods in response to Virgil’s inquiry, and Virgil reaches to the wing once again, his hand as light as a butterfly as it unwraps the bandages. When they are fully unwrapped, Logan already starts to feel a sense of relief. The pain was not gone, but dulled slightly.

            "Oh, wow.“ Patton says, noticing the odd shape in Logan’s wing, "That looks pretty bad.”

            "Patton, get a heating pad. Roman, I need you to find me every single pillow we own.“

            "What?”

            "Just do it, Roman.“ To this, Roman runs off upstairs, not wanting to deal with Virgil before his third cup of coffee. "Okay, we can’t splint this, because of the general shape, but I could try and set it back into place. It’ll hurt like a bitch, but will heal well.”

            "Give me until a count of three, then.“

            "Okay, ready?” Logan nods, looking up to the ceiling, “Right. One, two-”

            Virgil pushed the bone back into place, causing Logan to shout.

            "Three.“

            Patton and Roman both come back down as Virgil is rewrapping the wing, now just to ensure that it would set properly. "Hey, Lolo!” Patton says, the heat pad already on and placed onto the wing. Roman then starts to place pillows behind and around the wing, propping it up on the many layers of pillows, most of which were from Roman’s and Patton’s rooms.

            Patton the sits down beside Logan, on the left side, and cuddles up onto him. Roman sits down at the foot of the couch, after turning on a Disney marathon, of course. Virgil moves into the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee, only now remembering that they were supposed to be eating a, now charred, breakfast. He looks from his coffee mug to the living room, and knows that he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[themostcleverandwittyname]

There’s Power in Pain

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10

CH11

Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

(LinkxOC)

Summary:

A farmer with a troubled past had found a fallen hero on a riverside and makes the decision to take him in. With Ganondorf gathering power by the minute, there is no time to delay in his defeat however there is a time and place for everything as well as a lesson to learn. Link will have to do the hardest thing he has ever done and that is wait until he is ready to defeat Ganondorf.

But will Link ever truly be ready to rely on help to do the impossible? To accept that even heroes need support even from the most unlikely of people?

Meanwhile, a group of thieves organize to steal the sacred sword of the Hero of Destiny for themselves.

Chapter 9: Goron Biscuits

Chapter 9 on AO3

Warm, golden light seeped in through the kitchen, casting a honey glow on every surface. Filling a water canteen to the brim, a man with dark hair and a forever present playful smirk turned to face the girl in front of him. Annette was silent, her lips felt glued shut as she watched the man before her gather his travel gear.

“You worry too much, it’s just a few days. You know I’ll be in good hands. Just take care of yourself and relax.” He said through his smile, his tone reflecting his confidence. She wanted to reach out to him, to snatch the travel bag from his shoulder and yet the same. She was glued in place. It was all too familiar.

The warm light glowed brighter in the room, coming from no recognizable source and making anything that blocked it out a silhouette. This is when the words that fell from the man’s mouth became unrecognizable, smeared by the air and whisked away from Annette’s ears. She narrowed her eyes and tried to make out the man’s face, but the light was too much.

Before she could begin to make out his features, he turned towards the door and began to leave. She knew that he would not come back. She didn’t know how or why, but he wouldn’t come back. The door was pulled open and all she could see was his back, obscured by the light and the building distortion in her vision. She couldn’t let him leave.

The last seconds of the door closing felt like it was stretched across many hours as Annette willed herself to move, to scream. She knew that no words would escape her as this was familiar. She had experienced this many times before.

With all of her efforts lost, the door shut and with the click of the lock following it, the golden light was extinguished like a flame and the air became frigid and dense, any warmth absent. This was familiar.

Now able to move, she slumped to the floor, grasping at her clothes and waited. For what, she didn’t know.

However, this time something unfamiliar stepped out from the darkness. The air felt sinister and charged, as if danger lingered and increased with every passing second. A soft red glow reflected on the cold tile of the kitchen floor and the brunette was hesitant to look up at the figure.

Peeling her eyes from the comforting safety of the floor, she followed the shadow from the floor to the ceiling, as it loomed over her.

Its yellow eyes stared back.

In an instant, she bolted up to escape the lurking evil but found herself escaping nothing but her pillow. Looking around, she realized that it was nothing more than a dream and she let out a shaky breath. Knowing full and well she was safe now, the fear still clung to her heart just as the blankets clung to her form.

Rubbing her temples, the grogginess overcame the sense of fear, yet not entirely. Her hands her still shaking and her heart was still stuttering. She looked to the window and found that the sun was shining through the curtains.

Tossing the blankets from her, she swung her legs off the bed and looked in the mirror beside her bed. The vanity held some of the Gerudo makeup that she had collected over the years and rarely touched along with a few cherished books. In the reflection, she saw her wild hazel eyes peering back, her hair messy and sticking out from her sleep. Nothing unusual. She debated curling back up in her bed before she realized that she intended to go to Termina to run some errands. Chiefly, getting the green tunic that Link almost destroyed fixed. She also planned to ask around to see if anyone had seen any of the things Link had lost.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she willing herself to get up and get productive, but the lingering confines of sleep still drew her in.

That was, until she caught the sound of soft clinks and bumps from the kitchen.

Link had woken due to his discomfort around dawn and couldn’t go back to sleep. Knowing that nothing could be helped for the pain in his arm, he rolled from his bed and resorted to rummaging through the kitchen pantry.

He was no cook and he only barely made decent food for himself, but he was sure that was for lack of trying. He wanted to make breakfast for once and he wanted to do it properly. Besides, it was the least he could do for his host. He managed to find the last of some salt cured ham and the ingredients to make biscuits. It was all that he knew how to do, but at least he would have fresh strawberry jam to make the biscuits taste better if he messed up. The oven was a stone oven with a round belly, the wood under the baking rack was piled in odd array. It was different from his, which was a more simple oven. Taking the flint starter that laid beside the oven, he lit the fire.

Trying to recall how to make biscuits, he stirred the ingredients into a bowl and made a little bit of a mess with the flour. Little dots of flour littered the floor and Link held his breath, making a mental note to sweep it up later. Once he had a dough that resembled what he wanted, he fished around in the cabinets for a pan and began to form little biscuits, which he dropped on the pan without much skill.

Examining his work, he sighed and resorted to sliding the pan into the oven, looking at his work with only half satisfaction. Cooking was definitely not his strong suit, but it distracted him from the pain in his arm and he hoped that it was satisfactory for Annette. With as many things as she prepared for the both of them in the time he had been there, he wanted to make at least one thing for her. If biscuits and ham was all, it was better than nothing.

Taking another look at the flour sprinkled on the floor, he once again rummaged through the cabinet for a frying pan. Laying the strips on ham on the pan, he planned to sear the surface to bring out the flavor. Not knowing exactly what he was doing, with the oven having only one baking rack, which was occupied by the biscuits, he knelt down beside the oven and held the pan over the fire, assuming that would be good enough.

Before he could get accustomed to holding the pan over the fire, he heard a shuffling in the living room. Looking up to find Annette half stumbling into the living room, he found himself smiling at how groggy she looked. Usually, she was awake before he was, so he never got to see her half awake like this, hair in utter disarray. Her sleepwear consisted of a patterned shirt that looked a little big for her and a long skirt with ruffles on the hem. This morning she looked less fierce than normal. He didn’t know if it was because she had just awoken or if something was bothering her, the slight shake in her hand almost escaped him.

Her eyes where squinted as she looked down at him in confusion, slowly putting the pieces together. Her eyebrows raised and she looked over his shoulder at the flour on the floor. He watched her usually demeanor return as a smirk crossed her lips.

“If you were hot, you could have opened the window. You didn’t have to make it snow.” she said through a smile, any meaning in her words were dismissed by her teasing tone. Still, he felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment.

“I was going to take care of that.” he replied, sheepishly, a nervous laugh escaped him. Rubbing her eyes, she strode over to the broom, her skirt tailing behind her. He left the pan where it lay and took to his feet, seeking to take the broom from her.

“No need. I’ll take care of it.” she said resolutely, already setting off. He reached out and grabbed the handle, and she was slow to look up. She already knew what he was doing, and he fully expected her to argue with him. However, she let her hand fall from the broom. Was she too sleepy to argue? She took a step back and looked at the floor. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the flour or if she was thinking over something. Whatever it was, he was almost certain that her face fell, her mood shifting. He held his breath and through a yawn, she spoke again.

“I’ll...um, it might be good to make some coffee.” She said, her words marred by her yawn.

He gave her a weary glance and went to sweeping, his mess taken care of in no time. In the background, the brunette made the coffee and leaned against the counter, watching him absently as he put the broom away and checked the biscuits and ham. He knelt down and flipped the ham, the crisp sizzle sound was enticing. His hunger was beginning to spark up, the scent of the ham filling his senses.

“That smells so good. Good job, Link.” Annette gave her compliment in a soft way, her voice much more quiet than usual, lacking its usual hard edge. He looked over his shoulder, noticing that it wasn’t just the sleepiness. Her mood was different. She looked sad and he wondered if he had done something to upset her or if it was something else.

In no time the biscuits and ham were finished and Annette pulled some plates from the cabinet, the yellow roses painted in the ceramic gave a warm touch to the meal. Link motioned for her to go first and she obliged, picking the ham up with the prongs of her fork and laying them on her plate.

However, when she grabbed a biscuit from the tray, she paused in her tracks. She closed her eyes and exhaled, a grin spreading over her face. Raising a hand to her mouth, she let out a snort and giggled into her hand, shaking her hand. He was appalled, wondering what on earth she was laughing at all of a sudden. She was trying to suppress her smile, but was unable to and instead opted to handing him the white, fluffy looking biscuit.

Unsure, he took the biscuit in his hand and it was much heavier than a standard biscuit and hard as stone. Between her breathy giggles, she managed one line.

“You have weaponized these biscuits.” she spoke through her laughs, taking a step back from the counter top. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice rose in pitch, her disbelief clinging to them.

“How did you manage this? What did you put in these? Concrete?” She asked, her eyes glossy from her laughing spell. He pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath feeling his disappointment in himself rise. He messed up biscuits and ruined the breakfast.

“Link, this is the best thing that’s happened all morning. I needed this.” she finished, her laugh fading but her grin remained. She was sincere, and he felt conflicted having failed but not entirely.

“You like hard biscuits?” he asked, not sure if that was the point she was getting at. She shook her head and grabbed her plate, which solely featured the ham.

“Not at all, but I like that you tried. We celebrate our mistakes in this house.” she said , her eyes looking down at her plate. She hesitated with her next words, but must have decided to say them anyway. “You know, when my brother… he never even tried to cook anything for me. He was too scared he would mess up. I haven’t had anyone try to do something like this in a long time.” She said, her voice and eyes held a difference softness, before she herself realized what she was saying.

She cleared her throat and shook her head, as if shaking her previous thoughts away. She looked back up at him, mischief returning to her hazel eyes.

“But I suppose if you had a slingshot, these could be another weapon in your arsenal. Goron Biscuits.” she teased and stepped to the side, motioning at his plate on the counter top. Taking her seat, she placed her elbow on the table and watched him. Smiling to himself, he fixed his plate with a load of ham, finishing off the rest, and made a grab for one of the biscuits, but Annette pipped up.

“I wouldn’t unless you want a gummy smile.” she advised, her humor in her tone. He agreed, he didn't want to sink his teeth into a solid biscuit, but he felt weird letting them go to waste.

With his plate finished, he too took a seat at the table and leaned forward, willing the pain in his arm to leave him. His chest was more bearable, being only slightly discomforting.

“How are you feeling? You’re usually not up this early.” Annette asked, taking a bite from her ham and he realized that he hadn’t touched his plate yet, despite feeling his hunger claw at him. He opened his mouth and changed his statement of being fine to just telling the truth, as her eyebrows raised.

“It hurts. My arm, it just aches. It woke me this morning and cooking breakfast was a good distraction, but the pain didn’t wane. A distraction did help though.” Link admitted, twirling his fork between his fingers of his right hand, the awkward feeling of using his non-dominant hand hadn’t changed since he woke many days ago.

“I see.” she said, her voice fell. “Then you can stay here and rest all day with no distractions. I have to go to Termina today to get some things taken care of and to bring back groceries, so that should be nice. I’ll also get some traveling supplies because once your arm heals up, you’ll need to go home.” She stated, punctuating her words with a bite of her ham.

Link looked down and gauged his pain, deciding it wasn’t too much. Looking back up, he formed his argument.

“No, I don’t want to stay here. I’ll go crazy being cooped up. Besides, distractions help me not to think about it. Let me go with you!” he pleaded, watching Annette look back at him, her eyebrow quirked up and she smiled to herself.

“I should have known you’d do this. Are you sure you would be okay riding all the way there and walking around a busy, loud town with your arm hurting like that? Possibly until nightfall? Because I think you…” she sighed and shook her head, her mind changing in the middle of her words . “You’d be miserable here, but you’d be rested. Knowing you, you wouldn’t rest while I was gone anyway. If you want to go that bad, then you’ll listen to me and not overdo it in town, got it?” she finalized, taking a sip from her coffee.

Link perked up, glad that he had gotten his way. He was sure she wanted him to rest, not wanting to feel bad for dragging him along, but he didn’t want to be here alone. Besides, he had never been to Termina and he would hate to miss out on the experience.

“Just promise me one thing. If you begin to feel really bad, don’t hide it from me. Let me know so we can take a rest, okay?” she asked, her request was reasonable enough. He nodded and took his first bite of the ham, which was fairly good for something that he had cooked by himself.

With that, they finished their meal in peace and Annette went on and on about how excited she was to go to the candy shop.

Still, he felt heavy as he considered that the trip may be dampered by his injuries.

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10

CH11

[chezzkaa]

Ink Rings pt. 1

Pairing: Dabi Hawks (Coffee/Tattoo au) Word Count: 2600+ AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447014 

Summary: Opposite the cafe Hawks dedicates far too much of his time to is a building that changes hands as fast as the world shrugs off seasons. Expecting yet another failure to infest it’s walls, it’s a pleasant change of pace when a tattoo parlor sets up shop. Hawks, in his chaotic state of being, takes it upon himself to keep the hot owner company the only way he knows how - gay panic and sprinkles. Dabi is about ready to lose his damn mind.

--

“How long?”

“Hm?”

Hawks glances up from the sharpie he’s most definitely been paying more attention to than the purple haired, permanently exhausted man joining him behind the counter.

The blonde’s gaze slips across the bodies littering the tables of the cozy cafe they’re packed into, a drowsy warmth rushing over his shoulders and pooling around his ankles as he takes in the soft mulling of mouths and idle hum of heat hitting the windows. Absent-mindedness plays havoc with his head; tangling in his hair and clinging to the fluffy sprouts of honey gold desperate to curl at the nape of his neck.

It takes all he has to gather his wandering thoughts and force them into something that resembles an orderly line - but Hawks does it for the sake of appearing somewhat alive by the time he finishes turning to his boss.

Still, his pleasantly vacant expression doesn’t change when he meets the bloodshot gaze resting on him, completely at ease beneath the facade of scrutiny the tired lavender man puts on. Hawks’ had long since honed the ability to distinguish the many faces of true frustration for exploitative purposes, and continues to find pride in pushing a joke just a little more than he should. Irritability, however, isn’t what he finds in the strong features he greets. Instead all the blonde recognises is the familiar strain of Shinsou’s tired eyes, attention static across his skin.

“How long what?”

Shinsou takes a moment to breathe, trying to convince himself that the remaining few hours of Hawks’ shift won’t be enough to kill him. Though the length of lavender sweeping energetically skyward is mused yet again with another pass of his hand, the motion does little to dislodge the constant state of staleness that rests just beneath his skin. Once he’s certain that he won’t drop dead if Hawks opens his mouth again, Shinsou nods towards the empty store front across from the cafe, the window proudly sporting a very poorly applied ‘sold’ sticker.

“How long do you think this one’ll stick around for?”

Hawks hums, considering the question with a little more attention than it probably deserves. The end of the pen meets his lips, pressing against the frown he wears. He almost drifts again, attention being pulled by the leaves gathered on the sidewalk and collected by the wind. Hawks shakes himself.

“Less than the last.” He forces his palm to remain as far away from his eyes as possible, the urge to rub away the call of sleep far too threatening to the sharp eyeliner he’d poured over that morning. “Hard to be worse than the last guys, though. The track record is a little… fucking terrible.”

Shinsou snorts in amusement, not particularly disagreeing as he pushes a cleaning cloth over the same spot he’s already scrubbed four times in the past twenty minutes. “The last one was six months, right?”

Hawks’ golden eyes dart down to the countertop for a moment, half-expect to see a hole in the surface Shinsou continually works against, before returning back up. “I thought the book nook was there for less time than that?”

“Book nook?” Shinsou shakes his head, fingers rapping against the top of the cakes display as he looks back across the street. He scratches at the purple stubble dusting his jaw, thoughtful. “Nah, it was that arts and crafts store that was there last - what was it called?”

“Stickers ‘n’ Stuff,” calls a voice from the kitchen, words bouncing against pots and pans and skittering between the dishes left in the sink. A young face and triangular smile accompanies the reply, far too tall in Hawks’ opinion when peering at his friends decorating the counter. “It was awful.”

“Oh god, no wonder I blocked out that place,” Hawks remembers, his expression scrunching. “The owners were massive dicks.”

With an apron sporting as many stains as his hands do suds, Sero wipes his palms clean before removing the garment to signal the official close of the kitchen. Freedom grants him access to his rich quiff of dark hair, his fingers tracing along the short sides before coming to fiddle with one of his many ear piercings.

Joining the pair at the register, Sero peaks over Hawks as the  blonde slumps further across the counter with a dissatisfied groan. “What, we guessing how long this new place will last again?”

Shinsou grunts, hand running through his wild hair before sweeping around to palm groggily at his eyes.

“What is it this time?” Sero wonders aloud, narrowing his eyes at the shop front as if intimidating the walls and glass panes will somehow result in answers.

“I dunno,” huffs Hawks, utterly done with the conversation as his attention span dwindles to nothing. He can almost feel himself fluffing; his frustrations, like feathers tucked neatly against his back, rising with his heightening agitation towards standing still. “Does it matter? We all know it won’t last the season. But… If we’re lucky it’ll be a bakery or something.”

Sero’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Cus I’m hungry, my guy.”

“We have pastries here,” Shinsou sighs, as though he can’t justify the tonal variation required to keep the conversation going. “What’s the point of wishing for competition? It’s only going to lose you a job and leave your scrawny bird ass begging on the street.”

“Excuse you, my ass is a fucking gift to this earth. You should be thanking me.”

Shinsou leans around, glancing at Hawks’ rear. “You owe the world an apology with a butt like that - and don’t change the topic,” the lavender man cuts Hawks’ off before he can squawk his offended interjections, the blonde’s hands clinging to his small, rounded rump as if trying desperately to confirm that it exists. Shinsou claws at the reins of the conversation, determined to keep his employees on track. “Why the hell would you want a bakery when we make stuff here?”

“Have you ever eaten our stuff?” Hawks scrunches his nose up, spinning the pen in his grasp and hauling himself back into standing with a ruffle of exaggerated complaints. “I want some real food.”

Sero glares at him, plucking a rogue, obnoxiously red feather from the nest of Hawks’ hair and frowning down at it before returning it to the blonde’s grabby hands. “Hey, don’t be rude. Everything here is made with love.”

“Yeah? Well your love tastes like cardboard.”

Shinsou lashes out, snatching the sharpie away from the blonde - who squawks indignantly - before hurling it into the kitchen in a swift motion. His deadpan expression doesn’t falter despite the betrayal written across Hawks’ features. “Don’t insult my boyfriend’s baking.”

Hawks looks around quickly, as though he’s missing something, before holding a hand to his chest. “I didn’t know Kaminari was back from his break. Since when did you let him back in the kitchen? He’s a fire risk.”

“He means me,” Sero bites back, his grin barely subdued as he muses Hawks’ hair a little harder than he needs too, “and you fucking know it.”

“Fine fine,” Hawks concedes, waving away the hand forcing his knees to buckle. He faces Sero, craning his head to meet mischievous eyes. “Alright, your cooking is as wholesome as Shinsou’s sleep schedule.” He looks to the latterly mentioned man, an innocent smile pressed against his lips. “Happy?”

The purple haired man sighs from the sidelines. “Not particularly.”

“Good,” claps Hawks, grinning while Sero joins in with a chuckle, “now that that’s sorted, what the hell is that store gonna be? I think we should take bets. I’ll go first - I hope it’s a cat cafe so that Aizawa will finally realise the joys of smiling.”

Shinsou quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll make sure to tell my dad you said that.”

“Oh god,” Hawks flounders, arms flailing and jovial expression cracking into genuine panic. “No, please don’t. Oh god, I want to live, Shinsou. Please-”

“Too late, it was nice knowing you.”

“Fuck!”

Thoroughly amused, Shinsou’s head cocks to the side as he steps up to serve a customer over the sound of Hawks’ anguished squawking, the remaining dregs of amusement clinging to the curl of his lips. Ringing up an order with a smile that doesn’t seem to appropriately fit the situation, and eyes that scream for the sweet embrace of sleep, he hands the customer a number and sends them deeper into the thriving cafe.

Watching the commotion around a wide smile, Sero keeps a firm hand on Hawks’ elbow to stop the blonde from sinking to the floor under the weight of his own dramatics. After a long, ‘please god, shut the damn bird up before I do,’ look from Shinsou, Sero spins Hawks around abruptly.

Startled, a smaller, more embarrassing squeak escapes his lips as the blonde instinctually flinches. Curling in on himself, Hawks’ head dips and for a moment he find himself willing his existence to disappear completely into the floor. It takes him a bout of nervous blinking and anxious laughter to realise that Sero is waiting for quiet to fall so that he can speak.

Rather than spitting out another ill-timed joke, Hawks clamps down on his lower lip.

“You know that thing we talked about?” Sero starts, looking down at the shorter man while Shinsou convinces himself that putting his forehead through the counter is just as counterproductive as participating in the conversation. “The whole ‘don’t make Shinsou regret existing’ thing?”

Keeping any and all unappreciated comments locked between his teeth, bitterness comes to rest on the back of Hawks’ tongue. Uncomfortable and awkward. Burning in it’s desperation to escape the lock of his jaw. The blonde nods, doing his best to keep his head from dipping any further towards his torso.

“Yessir,” he admits, a glance flitting to the shock of lavender beside him.

“And what are you doing right now?” Sero prompts, struggling to contain the entertained smile tugging the corners of his mouth into joyful triangles.

“A good job?” Hawks doesn’t have to think before he responds, but he quickly wishes he had.

The groan accompanies Hawks’ comment from behind him, crawling over Sero’s sniggers and sitting between the pair. Following is the sound of the cake display doors sliding closed as Shinsou glances dramatically at a watch he clearly doesn’t own, throwing his cleaning cloth at Sero a moment later.

“I’m done,” he determines with yet another pass of caffeine laced fingers through lavender, “I need a break from this.”

“Hey,” Sero calls through the smile he hasn’t bothered to wipe away, “you can’t run off now. Denki isn’t back from his break yet.”

“Don’t care,” Shinsou retorts, removing the apron tied around his waist and pushing it into his sniggering boyfriend’s hands. “Tell him that I live in the store room now - oh.” Shinsou stops, eyes widening a fraction before settling back into contempt.

“What?” Hawks prods, nervous laughter seeing the back of his neck itch. “Why’re you looking at me like that? I didn’t do anything this time...”

“No, but you’re going to.” Shinsou waves a hand in the direction of the coffee machine, the order he’d just taken waiting on the small screen hanging above the gleaming metal contraption. “Finish that for me, would you? It’s one of those stupidly sweet abominations, and I refuse to ruin coffee like that.”

“Alright, alright, go be antisocial someplace else so I can do my job, would ya?” This time Hawks lets out a genuine laugh. Bouncing to the machine, he takes no issue in getting to work. He’s humming happily to himself as he concentrates, Shinsou taking the opportunity to duck away with a dry chuckle.

Sero watches his boyfriend disappear with an affectionate sigh. “There he goes, the love of my life.”

Hawks pulls a face. “On the bright side, with the boss gone we can keep building on our conspiracies without burning under his fiery judgement.”

“He’s not that bad… he just, I don’t know man - I guess he just can’t justify the energy for it, you know?” A quirked eyebrow greets Hawks’ enthusiasm and few too many pumps of caramel, Sero watching as the blonde works wonders with brightly coloured syrup. “It’s kinda like all of us putting up with you.”

“Well, fuck you too!” Hawks beams, taking a moment to still his excitement so that he can pour the glaringly pink liquid he’s concocted into the glass. Satisfied with the lack of splash damage, his eagerness ramps back up to its previously high levels. “We just need Kaminari and we can get started-”

“Then wait no longer!” comes a shattering response, the electric blonde appearing so suddenly that Hawks comes close to dropping the masterpiece he’s creating. Bright yellow eyes watch the pair behind the counter with a mischievous glint, an elegant hand pushing bright, almost highlighter blonde hair back into place with the help of a black zigzag headband.

Sero groans, slumping beneath the sheer size of his exaggerations. “Speak of the devil…”

Kaminari throws him a smile, unperturbed and as shining as ever. “Excuse me, fine sir, but I think you mean that it’s your Devilishly Gorgeous Boyfriend-”

“It’s my moron of a boyfriend,” Sero corrects with a flourish of his hand, “but continue.”

Kaminari’s voice rises slightly, his eyebrows furrowing. “The love of your life-”

“Don’t tell Shinsou.”

A squeak of indignation emanates from the electric blonde, his grip on the conversation's direction slipping. “Here to brighten up your day-”

Sero shakes his head before Kaminari is able to finish, an expression of pity painting his features as he yet again shoots the man down, “here to make a dumbass of himself.”

Kaminari gives up with a disheartened whine, crumpling across the counter and burying his pout in the crook of his elbow. The words ‘you’re supposed to love me,’ press against the surface, hot as they bounce back and burrow into the electric blonde’s sour expression.

Sero concedes. Rolling his head back and shrugging the sense of pride from his shoulders, he places a reassuring hand on the hunched figure.

“It’s an endearing trait, babe,” he insists gently, fingers worming into the cage of his arms and finding Kaminari’s chin, lifting his boyfriend’s face from the confines of frustration. “It’s cute, you know?”

Kaminari sniffles, eyes wide and hopeful. “Really?”

“No.”

Kaminari immediately reels, delicate features carved harsh with the the angles of his scowl. He points an accusatory finger at Sero, the man a head taller than the anger fuming at his shins, and Hawks quickly ducks beneath Kaminari’s arm before he can bear witness to the shriek of “hey, I am offended!”

Scampering away as Sero raises to his full height, Hawks makes sure that he’s safely dipped past the bickering pair before plastering on his best customer service smile. Chipper attitude in check, he hopes desperately that his positivity is loud enough to drown out his two friends battling viciously at the register. It’s obvious that it doesn’t work, but the customer is far too enraptured by the shimmering sight of their drink to care.

Returning to the war zone sees his fake smile drop into something more comfortable and far less plastic, and Hawks holds up his hands in the hopes for a cease fire. “Guys, guys, please,” he practically sings, batting his eyes and ducking away from the redirected, although mostly feigned, hostility turning on him. “Stop bickering, would you? We’ve got more important things to do.”

Both men eye him suspiciously, Kaminari taking the bait with a less than eager, “what?”

Hawks simply beams as the tension dissipates, flinging his arms open in gradious. “It’s that time again, ladies and gentlemen and all our non binary friends, for the coffee crew conspiracy hour!”

A/N: Henlo and welcome to this shit show that is a potential first chapter for a self indulgent DabiHawks coffee/tattoo au… it’s literally the first thing I’ve been able to write properly in months. Enjoy the ride! If you’d be interested in me continuing, please let me know otherwise it’ll probably disappear into the ether.

Massive shout out to @rageyoudamnednerd​ for screaming about this au with me! Love you, gurl <3

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Unspoken part 5 (end)

Genre: Hybrid AU, fluff, (eventually) smut

Pairing: Wolf!Namjoon x Reader

Warning: Mention of cancer and death

Summary: Finding shelter from the rain in a bookshop owned by a hybrid turns out in a whole lot more than you could have ever expected.

A well-spoken wolf, one bookstore, and many untold tales.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

Masterlist

The scent of lemon-ginger tea over books scents the gradually disappearing darkness of the unconscious, mixed with the perfume produced by the physically intensive activities that had claimed every ounce of energy and now bring back a crimson blush to the cheeks, the memories still very vivid in the mind. It happened, a connection between human and hybrid like equal lovers, without letting anything stop us despite the severe consequences it may carry, not caring about anything but ourselves and each other. Even now as digits trace the mark between the shoulder and neck, needing the reassurance it was not a dream since it would mean losing the man that means everything to me, there is not a speck of doubt.

The exact time of day is unknown, though the sound of little birds chirping their lungs out in the gutter above the window serves as an indication it is morning. I roll over and face the bright sunlight illuminating the messy bedroom, emphasizing the damage done by our doing. Nails having made extra scratches in the mattress thanks to desperate attempts to remain conscious and please my mate, plastic bottle with an open cap on the nightstand, untouched after use, the drawer wherein it was stored still open and puddles of the excess liquid on the floor.

But the light also makes something else clear, which I come to realize whilst rubbing the sleep from eyes gradually regaining sight. A cotton white shirt, long and wide enough to hide the body, has been chosen to be my outfit by whoever has styled me, the press of similar material against the lower body. The question who did it is superfluous, since only one person could have done it.

Namjoon.

The thought of him dressing me after all we have done makes the corners of the mouth curl up in a soft delighted smile as his scent permeates the senses, the taken whiff making the shared moments before yesterday resurface, and an uncharacteristic girlish giggle escape. His heat has ended for the season, having found an adequate mate to carry his pups in me. A hand wanders down to the already slightly swollen stomach, his DNA having yet to mix with mine although that shall happen soon if it has not already.

Unnatural, disgusting, abominable. The insults that will be thrown at me when a return to the office is made form themselves in thought and yet I cannot care any less. This was my choice, the consequences mine to face. I could not come back at all, not being missed whether I am at the workplace or not from the moment the job as an editor was taken up. It sounds very tempting, saying goodbye forever to the hypocrites and lose the connection to an equally as narrow-minded place.

‘Oh, come on! Not again!’ the baritone voice of the kind giant yells in despair from somewhere on the storey that forms his home. The faint smell of burnt food mixes with the aroma that has come to feel like home and makes me rise immediately in wonder at what Namjoon is doing, praying he is hopefully not burning down the building accidentally.

However, a part of the curiosity is also caused by the strange texture underneath, not resembling that of the mattress I was unceremoniously thrown upon, concluding once eyes drift downward it was indeed not the bed but the collection of our torn clothes carefully arranged into a comfortable pile to rest on, a little nest. It seems he has forgotten I am not like him, do not need the same things in instances like these, but the mere gesture sends a warm loving sensation throughout the body because even in the aftermath of the mental fog he took care of me before himself. And, honestly speaking albeit with a rather confused feeling, it is quite cosy.

Laboriously, I manage to rise from the makeshift bed and onto stumbling feet, Namjoon having made sure walking is not without effort today, headed towards the source of agonized grumbles. The living room with its rosewood floor and broken white Victorian walls is simply furnished with only a monochrome chair, one with a frame made of braided walnut limbs and a seating formed by two fluffy cushions of which the light brown colour is reminiscent of the wolf’s hair, a couch in a shade of creme with a few pillows matching in tone and one more colorful and patterned atop a burnt orange blanket and a red oak grand coffee table with a succulent plant, a rug in various dark tones underneath. Below the windows and all around the space are books, either stacked in towers and put in corners, propped up against the wall, or neatly arranged in rows. Simplistic, a bit unorganized, but nevertheless very much him.

Every step forward feels strange, as if something between the thighs obstructs the motion. Inquisitive fingers slide beneath the borrowed shirt, past the edge of the black boxers with a paisley print toward where he took me, discovering an uneven surface which, after a bit more feeling and registering, turns out to be a, albeit fake of course, jewel. So that is what the intrusion was, to make sure our pups have a chance to be created.

‘How? How does this keep happening? What am I doing wrong?’ The pure frustration of failure after failure is more audible now that I am standing here and seems to be coming from the other side of the hallway connected to the living room.

Still a bit awkward, I head to the small kitchen where Namjoon looks as if he is fighting a losing battle yet refuses to give up, the birch countertops covered in flour and open metal bin beside the entrance filled with charcoal black discs that should have been pancakes, emitting a smell which strongly overpowers that of the refuse already in the garbage can. 

He is too occupied with figuring out the mistake to notice me sneaking in and wrapping my arms around his slender waist, trapping the fluffy chocolate milk tail sticking out from pink boxers between us and burying my face in it. ‘Morning, masterchef.’

He tenses at hearing my voice, rapidly turning around with dark eyes devoid of the lustful fog they were clouded by and now again those of the storyteller I have come to know, regarding me once he fully faces me, searching my figure for something and expression slightly faltering when the investigation is apparently finished. ‘Hey, Y/N,’ a long finger tucks an unruly strand of hair behind the right ear, a small smile on full maroon lips, ‘sleep well?’

‘Yeah, the nest you made was comfy.’ I chuckle when the tail begins to sweep pleased from side to side and his eyes light up at the compliment.

‘I wanted you to be as comfortable as possible. Being pregnant is already difficult enough as it is, if I have to go by Seokjin’s word as a doctor. Although, Yoongi’s mate also made quite a good case-’

The hand running through smooth ashen brown locks and over similarly toned ears stills the waterfall of chatter, ending it with a pleased hum. A gentle smile at the funny behaviour plays around the lips imprinted with the memory of his. ‘You’re rambling, dear.’

‘Right, sorry.’ A big hand envelops the hand in his hair and brings it down for a loving kiss. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Hurt? I’m fine, perfectly alright.’ But then both our gazes drift to the body clad in the oversized shirt, loose sleeves fallen back to reveal the various slowly healing crescent moons on the skin, indentations where teeth had bitten down on the fragile surface of the neck never having been covered in the first instance. Fueled by the moment of heavy hesitation due to the questioning observing gaze, hands pull back the fabric to hide the still healing wounds caused by the one thing that will never be regretted. ‘It doesn’t hurt, Joon. I’m okay.’

Shaking fingers trace the inflictions left uncovered, fear and self-loathing dimming the light that shone so brightly in his gaze. ‘What have I- why didn’t you- shit, I shouldn’t have done this.’ They trace the mating mark. ‘All because I was jealous of my best friend, of him having a mate and I having nobody. I should’ve asked your permission instead of binding you to me without giving you a chance to deny it. To stop me.’ A barely contained sob escapes trembling lips, desperate to remain strong despite falling apart in front of one that means the world. ‘I’m- I’m so sorry, Y/N. I was lonely and-’

‘Shut up, you gigantic marshmallow.’ I punch his chest, almost unable to contain my own sadness upon hearing the regretful words denying everything we have built up thus far, our children that shall grow within. ‘Don’t you dare to undo this. Think about us, the home we can make. I may not be entirely like you, not needful of a nest, Hell, I appreciate you making it regardless of me not needing it, but I do need you as well as our kids.’

‘You can still walk away, baby. Clear me from your system before the pups have a chance to develop. I am bound to you, but you’re still free to do as you please. But I- I’ll always be here for you. All I ask is that it won’t influence our professional relationship as “Vilkas” and his editor.’ Strong arms pull me flush against a warm bare chest, speech muffled by hair. ‘Nevertheless, I beg you, don’t leave me.’ The grip tightens, squeezing the air out of the lungs but the body not reacting in a manner to do something about it, only tears streaming down the cheeks at the dreadful imagination of saying farewell to him and return to mere emails. ‘Please, even though you shouldn’t, please... stay.’

‘Dammit, stop talking. Didn’t you listen? I’m not going anywhere, Joon. Fuck ‘The True Telegraph’, fuck society’s standards. Just fuck it. I don’t regret becoming your mate nor will I erase you in any sense.’ Watery vision perceives the uniformly unclear eyes staring back into mine, uncomprehending of the promise to remain. ‘I love you, bookworm.’

A sad chuckle, a deep intake of breath before cushiony lips softly touch mine, gently moving against them whilst tears run freely and grand safe hands cup my face. ‘I love you too, Y/N. So, so much.’

After a few loving kisses, he lets go and immediately all the stress is gone, the severeness completely vanished from the atmosphere. With the sleeve of the shirt, I wipe both our tears away, caressing his cheek when the last drop is removed, a tidal wave of relief washing over me upon seeing him happier since the sight of him crying burst the heart at the seams. ‘Now, what were you trying to do that you woke me with your yelling?’

‘I was trying to make pancakes,’ he admits sheepishly. ‘To show you... I mean this,’ is shyly added, ears drawn back as eyes drift off to the kitchen massacre, a rosy flush on tanned cheeks and teeth worrying the bottom lip. ‘But it didn’t really work out.’

Sleeves are rolled up in a bit of a showy manner, hands set on hips and attitude emitting confidence. ‘Alright, big bad wolf, let me handle this.’

A smug grin dawns on Namjoon’s gradually brightening expression. ‘Big bad wolf, eh?’

Fingertips crawl up his chest, that begins to fall and rise a bit faster when they run over the warm skin, playfully grabbing his chin. ‘Too big actually,’ heavy breathing, digits grabbing the waist as possessively as last night, lip bitten by teeth cleared of scarlet, ‘but incredibly bad in the kitchen.’

Baritone laughter erupts after a quick peck, demeanour immediately transforming into the sweetness not led by primal instinct, fingers letting go and arms instead wrapping around my middle and not letting go during the cooking process, even when I tell him burns are inevitable if he keeps holding on to me whilst the pancakes bake in the pan on the sleek metal stove, head resting on the right shoulder and left ear tickling my right as eyes watch the proper process whilst the mind tries to remember every step for the future.

In spite of the wolf stuck to my back, restricting movements at times, breakfast finds its way rather quickly to two plates on the coffee table in the living room alongside two cups of lemon-ginger tea. Huddled together, one arm draped around my shoulders keeping me close and the blanket formerly arranged over the sofa now covering our bare legs, we munch on the meal that had been nothing but a disaster at his hands.

Halfway through the stack of golden brown deliciousness, the comfortable silence is broken to ask the question that has been plaguing the mind for a while, wondering as to what the answer can possibly be, but always coming up short on responses. ‘Why “Vilkas”? I mean, how do you come up with your stories? No wait, let me rephrase that.’ Namjoon’s low chuckle makes me raise an eyebrow at him, wondering what has provoked the reaction as the correct formulation of the inquiry is searched for mentally. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Look who’s rambling now.’ A pinch of the cheeks, dimples showing with the affectionate smile, the words re-enforcing the feeling regret shall never touch what we have. ‘So cute.’

‘Shut up, I’m not.’ A pout and averted eyes rapidly change into giggling and a scrunched up face to withhold the laughter caused by the tickling of the fluffy tail crept under the big shirt as lips press lovingly against the temple.

‘Then why do you keep acting this way?’ The playfulness makes way for seriousness after an assault on the sensitive nerves all over the body, a moment of happiness to forever remember filled with cries of “stop” and not being given mercy. 

‘Alright, alright,’ the wolf breathes after a counterattack, stilling my hands on his sides in defeat, ‘you win, Y/N. But to answer your question, let me tell the part that was written before we began developing our story. 

‘I was taken in by an elderly scientist who had very much the same thoughts about hybrids as you, when he found me on a dreary autumn night in an alley beside a dumpster, abandoned in a basket and with only a blanket to protect me,’ his gaze wanders to the disheveled by the tickle attack burnt orange blanket on our laps, gripping it a bit tighter as he slowly begins the journey back in time to his childhood, when he was a mere pup in the cruel world, having no chance of survival whatsoever aside from being protected from the seasonal cold by the only souvenir from what had never been home. ‘Ben took me in, saying nothing to his colleagues about my true nature whenever he took me to the lab for medical examinations and simply because he liked having me close instead of home alone at the mansion in the countryside, always making sure the wolf side of me was obscured from sight by dressing me in clothes that would hide my tail and a beanie to hide my ears.’ 

The mentioned fluffy parts of the body lower sulking to the side, eyes still focused on the cloth, grip tighter to remain in control of the sorrow stirring within, darkened with the shadow cast by the inevitable debt one has to pay in the end. 

‘When he died, he wanted I continued with this bookstore, that was bought after his resignation to keep himself busy although it has always been me running the store anyway since he had become too weak to carry boxes with books whenever new shipments came in and to work in general. Despite never telling me, I could smell it: sickness. Cancer ate away at his bones, but nevertheless, every day was lived to the fullest. Until the very end.’ 

Trembling maroon lips, downturned corners of the mouth, shuddering shoulders. ‘He raised me like his own blood, the grandson he never had. Taught me everything I know, schooled me himself because ordinary schools were not safe, ignited my love for books and telling stories. Opened my eyes to the injustice done to other hybrids, those that aren’t as fortunate and are oppressed, as has always been the sickening way in cultures around the globe. I want to give them a voice, attempt to grant them the luxury of freedom I have had from the moment I was adopted. The people need to see, understand, we are more alike than society thinks. 

‘As you said when we met,’ our gazes meet, fingers entwine, an alpha and his mate getting to know each other, ‘I am human albeit with animalistic qualities that set me apart. As are they, and yet they are not allowed to speak their minds. That isn’t human, that is bestial and makes those who claim to be superior to us the true animals. However, thank God, there are still those like you, baby. Those who see us for who we are. That is why I have become “Vilkas”, which is the Lithuanian word for “wolf”.’ A bright smile at the humour creeps onto the severe expression slightly delighted by being with a peer. ‘Kind of an inside joke, but it seemed fitting.’

‘And your stories? Where do they come from?’

‘Insiders, mostly, people I once did a favour for, be it sheltering them from their owners for a bit or patching them up after whatever got happened that got them hurt, probably the underground pit fights everyone knows about but refuse to speak of. My old man supported this, maybe as a kind of compensation since we could not stop their owners from giving them their horrible future when the bargain was struck because one can never estimate what might happen to them in the future at the moment the contract is signed. 

‘Alas, Ben encouraged me to keep in contact with them, provide a safe haven where a friend is always waiting for them. That is actually also how I met Yoongi. Well, kind of. He was on his way to get his medication prescribed by our mutual doctor, Seokjin, and I my shots to repress the upcoming heat, having switched from pills that my old man could come by via work to this method since it seemed to work better. Anyhow, we started talking after I observed the still healing wounds covering his body, rapidly becoming friends. He told me about the pit fights and sex trade his owner got him mixed up in. I told him, when I was sure nobody was listening, about the “Vilkas” identity and he thought it was a noble cause, asking me to write down his story someday. Which I have.’

The snow leopard story, the last tale that was published before we lost contact and The Big Meatball threatened to kick me out of the office, despite the little presence I already have there. Eyes widen when they remember the epic chronicle, forever engraved in the mind due to the greater sense of heroism and action than in the others. ‘So that is his story, the one about the kidnapping and big rescue action.’

‘All the stories are true,’ Namjoon chuckles before nightly amused yet pained eyes drift down to his side, where small round scars grace the hip. Bullets. ‘Though the reference material shall always speak truer and be more memorable than the actual tale.’

Careful fingers trace the indents in the sun-kissed skin, envisioning the setting of the story and the wolf’s role in it. The mere thought of him hurt, bleeding thanks to some bastard playing gunslinger, has teeth grit against each other and the jaw tighten.

He sees the anger seething beneath the barely composed attitude and places a big hand over mine, gripping it reassuringly before raising it to kiss every finger and the wrist adorned with a dark pink and scarlet crescent moon, resting it against his cheek afterwards. ‘Don’t worry, Y/N. It was an accident. As soon as the smoke bombs had gone off, chaos ensued and it was every man for himself. I was never intentionally shot at, but that was only thanks to the plan. Otherwise, no, I don’t want to make you think of that. We all got out of it, unharmed. Okay, almost unharmed, since I had to be patched up, which Yoongi did whilst grumbling about how clumsy I am.’ 

I chuckle, reminded of the burnt pancake incident. He may be a wolf, but in the end, he is still a clumsy giant. Namjoon smiles a sheepish yet satisfied dimpled smile, either laughing at himself or happy he made me smile. ‘I know, I know, I’m a klutz. Back to the tale, I provided them with new identities which in turn were provided by Hoseok, a bartender at one of the dodgy hybrid clubs downtown. He’s also one of my people. They’re now somewhere safe. I visit them from time to time and their kids are the most adorable little things.’ 

A curiosity treks over his face for a second, followed by an unbelieving breathless laugh. ‘Your scent has changed. You’re… God, I am the luckiest man alive.’ 

His hand uncovers mine, coming to rest on the side of my neck and bringing me closer for a lingering loving kiss. ‘Our pups will be just as lovable, if not cuter.’ Thumb stroking skin heated by the wolf’s warmth, tail swishing to and fro slowly over the floor, ears turned forward. Contentment hangs in the air of our home, the knowledge of the pregnancy smelled out by the wolf before any real chance is remarked upon by myself enhancing the sense of joy. ‘I love you.’

Nothing is said in return, but the second tender peck says everything that cannot be put into a sentence, the embrace proving actions shall always speak louder than words, the scent of pancakes and tea making us want to hold on to the oath of staying in spite of whatever storm may come our way.

They say everything that was left unspoken.

[ikesenhell]

The Measurement of Time

The Measurement of Time: Chapter 1. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTES: Kaiea is @boopbeepbopblarg ‘s lovely OC! Thanks for letting me use her! ALSO: I honestly didn’t intend to return to this setting, but after I got done with THP, the City just kind of... stuck with me. I had a fantastic discussion with @iamaikotachibana about the mythos surrounding the Northern Sea after the fact, and kind of settled... here. 

Sasuke recorded a lot of things. In the last year of his studies alone, he went through three of those intensely expensive notebooks. The handwriting was cramped and tiny, but still--three books. 

“You know,” Sasuke’s tutor finally implored his parents, “You really should consider sending him to The City. Your son is entirely too brilliant to finish his education here. He’s exhausted all of us.”

“Isn’t the college there purely for mages?” His mother asked. She also didn’t want him to leave--the City was far away--but she didn’t say that. “I didn’t think Sasuke had any magical aptitude.”

“Not that we know of, but the field of scientific study surrounding the practice of magic is also taught there. It is rigorous and difficult, and I think your son would fit perfectly with it.” The tutor paused a long time, adding, “He has the keenest mind I’ve ever seen. It would be a waste to let it languish.”

He was nineteen when he received the acceptance letter. His mother cried the day he went, but it was as much from anxiety as from pride. 

“You’ll do so wonderfully.” She arranged his shirt collar for the thousandth time, nodding vigorously. “My brilliant, handsome boy.”

“You’ll make us proud.” His father agreed, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to write. It’ll be quite the adventure, going to the city of your namesake.”

That it was. The moment they arrived at the obsidian gates, Sasuke got a keen trace of deja vu. The first Sasuke Sarutobi, bodyguard to the Queen of the City, walked these cobblestones almost a century before. Swirling salt air from the Northern Sea filled his lungs and it tasted like coming home. 

He excelled in his classes. 

In the first year, he was placed in accelerated courses. The second, he was tutoring students in the grades above him. Third, and the college had given up on a ‘normal’ path for him, content to let him choose his courses and enter into the labs as a student-researcher. He reveled in it. Every morning he woke up, washed his face, and sat by the window to his apartment, watching the Northern Sea beat against the obsidian cliffs and rock the ancient docks below. 

“What did you say your name was again?” One of his classmates, Kaiea, asked. They hadn’t spoken much in their first semester together, but after they both warmed up, she was a friendly, talkative woman with a great collection of houseplants. 

“Sasuke Sarutobi.” 

She looked amused for a half second. Frankly, he’d expected this conversation with her eventually. Her specialty field was in history, after all. “Like the Sasuke Sarutobi? Bodyguard to her Royal Highness during the Invasion of the Dead? The one that presumably worked with Mitsunari Ishida?”

“My parents liked history,” he answered, shoving his glasses back up his nose. “And everyone names their children after the Nine. Plus, we’re distant relatives to his family line. I guess they wanted to do something different.”

“Going to go into the family business of bodyguarding, then?” She teased. 

“I don’t think so. I’m fairly certain her Highness doesn’t even know I exist.”

He was proven wrong a week later. The Queen came for a tour of the lab, her skirts skating over the marble floors with a quiet whisper, three bodyguards on either side of her. Whispers preceded her coming. In all honesty, he’d wanted to see her himself for quite some time. Rumor had it that she was the direct descendant of the Queen and the legendary Water Spirit, after all--if any of that magical lineage held through her, he was curious to see. It only took him turning the corner and lifting his head to discover the truth for himself.

Firstly: she was beautiful. Her black hair was pinned with silver clasps to the back of her dark neck, her posture regal, her hands clasped behind her back as she observed the labs. Their eyes locked. Sasuke knew he needed to avert his gaze, to bow and acknowledge her, but--but--those dark, grey-blue eyes swirled like the tidal waves themselves, and he knew every rumor about her was entirely true. 

“Hello.” She smiled at him, and he wondered if it was the ocean itself speaking. “Who are you?”

He recovered himself at last and bowed deep before her. “Your highness. Student Researcher, Sasuke Sarutobi.”

“Sarutobi?” A pause. “Like my grandmother’s bodyguard?”

“Yes. I’m a distant relative.”

“Oh!” Apparently she’d walked forward, because she tapped his chin with a fingertip, lifting his gaze to hers again. Sasuke wondered if those hypnotic eyes of hers would swallow him whole. He didn’t mind the thought. “You do bear a resemblance to him, don’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“There’s a portrait of him in my grandmother’s tower. You two have the same eyes. He wore glasses as well.”

The very thought that she looked at someone like him every day made him feel vulnerable. Sasuke swallowed. “That is fascinating, your Highness. Thank you.” 

She gave him a smile and released his chin. “Well, I do hope we see each other again soon. Be sure to wave hello if we cross paths.”

The tour moved on. Sasuke stood transfixed in the hallway a long, long time, wondering if the tides applied to people as well and if he could possibly measure that. 

He dreamed about an island that night. 

A weather-beaten, abandoned town shivered in the cold breeze. Strange, warped trees with bark like skin bent inwards toward an ancient town hall. And in the ruins of it--deep, deep beneath the floorboards--he dreamed of a coffin. 

No. Not a coffin. A capsule. 

As he watched, the seal on the top began to glow a bright orange. Boom, boom, boom--harsh knocks reverberated in the room encasing it, the lid vibrating with force. He knew something terrible was happening. Whatever this thing held, it couldn’t get out. If it did--

But it did. 

Not in any discernible way, either. Sasuke just watched the edges of it surge and pulse that same sickening orange, light pouring from the lid. He wanted to stop it, run and seal it back, make that light stop--but it didn’t. Powerless, he just watched the whole room turn like flame--

And then he woke up to the sound of a sickening crack. 

It was raining. 

Sasuke slicked back his hair and tried to still his breathing. What a weird dream. The sun wasn’t even up yet, but he slipped from his bed and padded to the wash stand, pouring water into the basin and splashing himself with it to clean the sweat. Outside, the rumble of thunder rolled again. 

It was probably just the storm that had him so disturbed. That was it. Reminding himself that he had no magical aptitude, Sasuke perched his elbows on the windowsill and watched, blurry-eyed, as the rain sweep across the cobblestones. The golden spires of the palace dripped, shimmering only faintly in the magical lights inside. 

Something else caught his eye. 

He squinted, then rushed to his bedside table and recovered his glasses. No way. No way. Hoping desperately that he’d seen an illusion of his poor eyesight, he stared off into the distance of the Northern Sea once more. 

No. He hadn’t imagined it. 

Way out across the Northern Sea, one of the Trinity Islands glowed with orange flame. 

[inktae]

the waltz between us

↳ a christmas story.

◇ pairing: jimin | reader ◇ genre: angst and fluff ◇ word count: 15.754 ◇ warnings: mentions of alcohol

Taehyung always said there was something different about the house.

Located among stray trees on the side of a lonely mountain, the cottage that belonged to the Kim family stuck out like a sore thumb. It rose high and mighty, with sturdy wooden walls that had stayed put through countless snowstorms, and a thick roof pierced by two chimneys that puffed out billows of smoke during the coldest nights of winter. You could even describe it as menacing, and those unfamiliar with said place would agree without hesitation. There was a strangely compelling atmosphere that surrounded it, not particularly threatening, but intimidating nonetheless.

When you were young you always blamed the woods looming behind, which looked undoubtedly creepy at night. Taehyung, on the other hand, always claimed the cabin was alive.

It was, of course, the butt of the jokes within your group of friends — but no matter how many ghost stories you whispered into each other’s ears, there was still a sense of familiarity within the walls of that house, one that bound you close together in an unexplainable, but certain way.

Every single year the cottage burned alive during holidays and birthdays and troublesome escapades, and every year you always tried to figure out what was it about the warm, homely space that made you feel that kind of connection and intimacy. Just like the striking fire of the chimneys, it stirred and crackled through long, deep chats at the peak of dawn, during quiet nights as you all basked in comforting silence, and on cold days when a hot cup of chocolate was the only way of keeping your insides warm.

It was like time stopped — whirling around itself and tangling in unnatural ways whenever you all got together to spend a few days in the cabin. You earnestly looked forward to it during all of your teenage years, and there was a strange reassurance in your heart that your friends felt the same way, too.

You are also certain that is not the case anymore.

It is with a heavy heart that you drive up the road that leads to the vaguely familiar house, which you have not visited in almost eight years. The snow has been falling at a dangerously fast pace for a few minutes now, and the nerves and anticipation inevitably mix with the sudden worry of an upcoming storm that was not supposed to happen.

You scoff as you remember the resolute voice of the weatherman assuring everyone that the days approaching Christmas Eve would be cold but completely clear, no heavy snow in sight. Of all times, the predictions had to be wrong now — as you travel up the precarious road of the mountain that would make any unexperienced driver tremble in fear. Your anxiousness only grows stronger as you think of the boys, wondering if they are already up there, safe and sound, or if they might be facing the same frustrating situation.

You still push through, finally managing to reach the cabin ten minutes later and heaving a long sigh of relief the moment you park right in front of the facade. White flakes continue to fall insistently, and at this pace the wheels will be completely buried under a thick layer of snow in a matter of hours.

You cover yourself up as best as you can before getting out in clumsy, robotic steps. You can see your breath cut through the chilly air as you look up at the cabin that was once a second home, and you are not surprised when you feel deep apprehension instead. The amount of memories that hit the back of your head is boundless and overwhelming, and you have to shove them away quickly before the fear finds a chance to settle under your chest.

You look around, realizing there is only one car parked besides your own. Unable to recognize it, you do not give it much thought as you swiftly grab the suitcase you carelessly threw in the back, struggling as you falter towards the entrance.

Just like Taehyung pointed out, you find the door unlocked. For a few seconds, all you can feel is relief — the inside of the cabin is warm and cozy, and a loud sigh escapes your mouth the moment you drop the suitcase onto the wooden floor. Those few seconds are filled with nothing but contentment, and the brief belief that you might be able to relive that unique comfort one more time is strong and convincing.

But it lasts just that — three, maybe four seconds. The silence that was starting to settle suddenly breaks, making you open your eyes as you slowly realize you were keeping them closed.

The foyer of the house is dim and snug, looking exactly the same way it did so many years ago. Old, forgotten memories come back to life as your eyes sweep over familiar paintings and decorations, but that sense of faint belonging rapidly shatters the moment your eyes find someone else’s — someone that definitely does not look the same, with aged eyes and mature features that form a cautious expression and a hesitant smile.

“Hello,” Jimin says, awkwardly waving his hand. He is holding his phone with it, screen lit up with a string of texts you cannot decipher. “First of all— I’m... very happy to see you. It’s been a while. And I wish I didn’t have to welcome you like this, but I have some bad news.”

You blink at him, still trying to process the sight in front of you. “What?”

“I was just talking to Taehyung. Seems like the storm is getting really, really bad— and they, um. They all decided to turn back and try to come again tomorrow,” Jimin laughs, clearly nervous. The sound makes something stir in your chest, a painful sting you thought you buried forever. “They’re staying in a hotel twenty minutes away from here. It’s nice that they managed to find each other and are not spending the night alone or lost, don’t you think?”

You still cannot form a coherent word. You struggle to process his words, brain too caught up in the way he looks, so similar but different at the same time. The fact that it has been eight years since you last saw each other drops onto your shoulders mercilessly, an unbearable weight that makes you lose your breath for a few painful seconds.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you clear your throat, feeling your face burn. “What— they’re not coming today?”

He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, now strikingly blonde. Just like his brown hair, his glasses are long gone, and those round cheeks you loved to poke have narrowed into defined lines. He is someone else now, you realize, and you do not know why it comes as a surprise.

“Just you and me for the rest of the afternoon,” he says, forcing an cheerful tone that does not come out all that right, and the words make a cold shudder run down your back. You do not like the sensation at all. “But don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll get here tomorrow as soon as they can. Definitely in time for Christmas,” he smiles again, this time more confidently.

You are still at a loss of words, and you hate the vibe you must be giving off right now — ridiculously stricken and speechless, and absolutely rude for no reason at all. You briefly berate yourself for not behaving the way you practiced, for not smiling back like you hoped you would and for not reassuring him in the same way he is desperately trying to do right now.

Then again, this is exactly what you expected to happen. You were never that good at pretending, after all.

“Okay,” you nod, not even trying to curve your lips upwards. You are certain it would come off as a grimace. “We will wait, then.”

“Let me help you with that,” he takes a step closer, and you involuntarily flinch away. You thought things could not get more awkward, but the tension is so thick you can almost taste it on your tongue. It is bitter and stifling, sliding down your throat as it threatens to cut off the air from your lungs. You do not miss the way his expression shadows as you allow him to take your suitcase, keeping completely silent as you follow him upstairs and down the left wing of the house.

“This was your room, wasn’t it?”

He drops your suitcase in front of the door at the end of the hallway. The only one with a lock. You suppose it was understandable — you were all teenagers back then, seven boys and one girl. Taehyung’s parents were trusting and open minded, but they also had their limits.

“You always had great memory,” you reply absentmindedly. You can feel his eyes burning holes into your profile as you pry the door open, wincing slightly as the weak smell of old furniture rushes out of the room. “Well, thanks for the help. I’ll just—” your words falter the moment you reach for your suitcase, thoughts stilling as your gaze finds his troubled one. He seems to be struggling with words stuck in his throat, eyes wide and full of something resembling dread.

It shakes you up more than it should, quickly straightening up as you continue to stare at each other. The expectation of what might come out of his lips is like slow torture — a creeping pain that takes its time to reach your nervous system, sliding closer and closer but never reaching its destiny.

“Don’t lock yourself up,” he suddenly blurts out, making your heart stutter in irregular beats. “I would really like it if we could… talk. And I don’t mean with the others tomorrow, or catching up— I mean,” he purses his lips, eyes drifting away as he collects his thoughts. “I mean a real talk. About everything.”

“Jimin…” it has been a long time since that word left your mouth. It feels foreign, like your lips should not be the ones pronouncing it so casually. You swallow, hating the way your throat is constricting. “I don’t know if I can do that right now.”

He tries to smile, but it does not reach his eyes. It is easy to tell — it always has been. “I understand, but… at least consider it? I’ll be in the kitchen, downstairs. And I can wait. Just… unpack. Rest. And if you only want to have some random chit chat, then that’s okay, too. But please consider it.”

His words are stalled, awkward. They crack through the heavy air like static, and you cannot remember a time when Jimin spoke like this. He was always smooth with his words, like he knew he held the entire world between his hands. Not in an arrogant way — he was the kind of guy who knew where to draw the line between confidence and pretentiousness, always keeping himself in check not to come off as condescending. He was good, proud, in a way that made you want to cheer for him just as much as he motivated himself. To look out for him just as much as he cared for himself. And you always did.

“Rest sounds good,” you nod, gnawing on your lip. You can feel your face flaming, heat spreading in waves across your body. “I’ll just… get myself settled. So… um. Thank you.”

“No problem. See you downstairs.”

You nod again, directing him a quick smile before walking inside and closing the door shut. You lean your back against the surface the moment you’re all alone, wincing at how uncomfortable that brief interaction just felt. You only spoke for less than a minute, yet it felt as strenuous as a long lecture of one of your least favorite classes in college.

What probably hurts the most is that it was never like this — it should have never ended up like this. You take a deep breath the moment you feel your eyes prickling with upcoming tears, blinking rapidly as you start walking around the room to distract yourself. If there is one thing you promised yourself you would not do during this trip, is to allow old emotions to resurface in the form of tears.

The room looks the same at first glance, but the longer you stare the more you notice the dullness that clings to the walls. It makes you wonder how long has it been since someone actually stayed here — and if maybe that was yourself. The vibrancy and brimming energy you remember experiencing every time you came is no longer there, but you find yourself strangely at ease as you take a seat on the edge of the bed. The silence is immensely welcome, and you receive it with open arms.

You begin to look around, allowing your heart and breathing to ease out. The only thing that manages to catch your eyes amidst the banal sights is a lonesome cardboard box placed against one of the corners. Tae’s old stuff is written in gawky handwriting on one of the sides, and your eyes stay locked on the words for a few seconds as the stilled silence continues to stretch.

It takes your nagging curiosity less than a minute to win. In the blink of an eye you’re already kneeling down in front of the box, biting your lip as you open it tentatively. A strange sensation suddenly overcomes your senses, clouding your mind in confusion as you try to make sense of your mixing emotions.

Jimin may have been your best friend, but Taehyung was definitely a close second. There was an ease in your friendship you did not have with anyone else, and you cannot remember a time when you two ever fought or felt any sort of tension crackling in the air. Words always flew naturally, and the trust you shared was firm and impregnable, deeply rooted into the ground like the cabin itself.

There is no particular reason why you two grew apart. Just like the progress of your friendship, drifting away was… natural, unsolicited. There was no dramatic breakdown. There was no final fight that pushed you two apart from each other. It was only due to the intrinsic workings of life — which inevitably hurts all the same, but you always found comfort in the knowledge that you would always care for each other, even if the roots of that trust were left untended.

You know Taehyung would not mind it at all if you rummaged through some of his belongings, but you have to remind yourself that you might as well be a stranger now. Maybe he is not that uncomplicated, easy-going boy anymore — how can you tell, when your only interactions over the past few years have been through random, trivial texts?

You swallow down the countless doubts plaguing your mind as you look over the objects scattered inside, not recognizing much of it. There are mostly piles of tattered books, some of which you suppose belong to his first years of college. Your eyes scour over the frayed items a few more times before you spot something that makes your thoughts cease, blinking in vague recognition as you reach inside and grab an old, brown notebook that lifts a thin layer of dust in its wake.

“Oh my god,” a surprised grin stretches your lips the moment it clicks, fingertips brushing over the cover. The touch of the rugged surface awakens all sorts of memories, one clearer than the other. You held this notebook between your hands multiple times, swept its pages and chuckled at the words Taehyung wrote during delirious, sleepless nights while he watched in half amusement, half embarrassment.

Fifteen year old Taehyung’s diary. Opening a page at random, you find yourself immersed in one of the entries he wrote during December exactly ten years ago. It is, strangely, the same date as today, December 23rd. You smile softly as you realize it is dedicated to the crush he had at the time — Jennie, a girl he ended up dating for a while once he went off to college. The words are clumsy but passionate as he continuously begs for a miracle, repeatedly imploring to the so-called Christmas spirits that he always seemed so keen on believing.

It is a habit Taehyung dropped as he grew older, but you were always aware that he genuinely believed in them. He was fully certain that this cabin was once their home in the past, and that their souls were bound to its wooden walls for eternity. Christmas spirits, please make it happen, he begs, words written furiously as they sink into the yellowish paper. I know you’re here, and I know that, somehow, you all seem to come to life during this time of the year. Another holiday would have been nicer because it’s way too cold right now, but I can’t blame you if you’re just fond of Christmas. Anyway… I really love her, but I’m sure you already know that. All I ask for is a little help!!

You snort, eyeing a few more pages and allowing more waves of nostalgia to wash over your figure before placing it back where it belongs. You only notice your stiffened muscles when you get up, and your body feels somewhat numb as you go back to the bed and fall on top of it, sighing loudly while staring up at the ceiling.

Jimin’s face immediately clouds over your mind, and his most recent words come back at full force, making your heart jump in slight panic. You cannot deny that he is right. Talking is what adults do — and having a real talk should be somewhat therapeutic for the two of you, even if you both moved on already. It should be harmless. It should be the beginning of a new chapter, and the conclusion of an old one that should have been locked down ages ago.

You cannot understand why it all feels so recent — and the growing desperation makes you close your eyes tightly, quietly wondering if it will ever feel distant enough, if what happened eight years ago will ever stop feeling like something you never truly overcame.

Maybe you convinced yourself you did, so much that you never got closure with your own feelings. Maybe you never came to terms with them like you thought you did — you simply buried them, tossed them aside, left them scattered in a dark corner. Abandoned but still struggling to stay alive.

And by not accepting them, time did not heal them like it should have.

You swallow thickly, turning around on the bed and gazing at the slightly closed windows of the room. It is still snowing, you realize — and it is relatively easy to doze off as you continue to stare at the white storm that rages outside, eyes closing on their own accord as your mind finally begins to shut down.

It is during that vulnerable state between awareness and unconsciousness that a strangely vivid train of thought flashes past your mind, one you do not bother quenching down. You open your eyes in one last effort before drifting away, a humorless smile curving your lips as you open your mouth.

“Hey, Christmas spirits. You might only exist inside Taehyung’s creative teenage mind, but please make this bearable for me,” your voice turns into a murmur, heavy with tiredness. “I thought I was ready to see him, to see all of them, but I don’t know anymore. Help me figure it out.”

Your feverish words dissipate into the icy quietness of the room, and your mind finally shuts down as the snowflakes continue to drop outside. The storm never pauses, not even when the eerie silence grows thicker than usual.

And for the briefest second, time seems to stop and tangle around itself. Only the snow continues being the same — pearly white, cold and unforgiving.

Everything else changes.

/

You wake up to a smothering weight latching onto your body.

“It’s the twenty-fourth!” a deep, melodic voice sings from above, making you squeeze your eyes in annoyance and faint confusion. “Giddy up, giddy up! We have a lot of shit to do today.”

“Huh?” you open your eyes, blinking rapidly as your eyes adapt to the blazing light that drenches over the interior of the room. Your muscles ache and your brain pulses as your mind tries to grasp the situation — it seems like you accidentally oversleep until the following day, even though you arrived at the house around mid afternoon.

It still makes no sense for it to be so sunny outside.

It makes less sense to find young, excited eyes staring back at you in silent expectation.

You immediately push Taehyung out of your bed, making him shriek in surprise. Your breaths speed up as you openly gape at him, thoughts motionless as you struggle to understand. Even if you have not seen him in years, you are aware that he should not look so juvenile — with childlike eyes that have not lived enough yet, and a scrawny figure he got rid of ages ago when he started hitting up the gym.

He looks seventeen years old, not twenty six.

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing it off as he gets up, ruffling his tousled hair. “You just pulled a Yoongi on me. Are you getting grumpy on me, sis?”

You feel too frightened to reply. Your vocal chords are frozen and you can only grasp at the bedsheets tightly, as if they would be able to keep your brain from burning amidst the confusion. A faint dizziness starts crawling up your neck, making your body feel lighter and brightening the natural sunlight to uncomfortable levels.

“Hey,” Taehyung says, softer this time, as he sits on the edge of the bed. He is eyeing you closely, worry clouding his gaze as he purses his lips. “You don’t look well. Was it last night’s dinner? It was too spicy — you shouldn’t have competed against Jungkook over that. Your stomach’s probably regretting it now.”

You nod, still quiet. His words stir a memory you completely forgot — eight years ago, during the last holiday you all shared together. It was Seokjin’s turn to cook dinner on the first night in the cottage, and the boy was going through a phase of making everything unbearably spicy. You and Jungkook dared each other to eat as much as possible without any tears falling, and ended up calling it a draw after you both teared up right at the same time.

Apparently this memory did not happen eight years ago, but yesterday.

“Fuck,” you let out through a nervous laugh, hands shaking. “Okay. I’m dreaming. It’s okay.” No, you’re definitely not dreaming — but it is easier to say that out loud, what with Taehyung’s intent gaze following your every move.

He frowns, lifting his hand to press it against your forehead. “I think you’re delirious. You’re not hot, though. You’re actually really cold.”

You look at him again, realizing that this might be no more than a ridiculous prank — maybe they all decided to try and look like they did eight years ago, that Taehyung somehow lost all of his muscle, went back to his old-fashioned haircut and gained back the soft features and timid smile he always wore. Maybe he… figured out a way to become smaller. And now they are all pretending to be from the past.

You do not know which theory is more farfetched — for them to pull this deranged ruse on you after not seeing each other for years, or for you to have actually traveled back in time.

And then you realize there is only one way to find out. You jump out of the bed with wobbly legs, ignoring Taehyung’s worried voice as you stagger towards the full length mirror placed next to the wooden closet. The sight answers your question immediately, knees giving up as you stare at your reflection in utter shock.

There she is — a girl you thought you would never see again, glowing with a spark you never truly noticed at the time, even if every single one of your friends pointed it out at some point in your life. Her appearance is not too different from your present self, but her expression might as well belong to someone else entirely. Her eyes are definitely not yours, even if they are wide with panic right now. They look alive, which is something you have struggled to regain as an adult. Seeing it so closely might as well be even more shocking than materializing eight years into the past.

Taehyung calls your name, tearing you away from your daze. He helps you get up and you allow him, feeling too weak to put on the effort yourself.

“Taehyung,” you swallow, remembering the words you whispered to yourself before falling asleep. It is the only explanation you can think of — and as insane as it might be, it is the only one that makes sense right now. If he truly believes in the Christmas spirits… he might not try to lock you up in an asylum. “I need to tell you something—”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” he wonders quietly, voice serious and accusing, making your thoughts halt.

“What? no, that’s not it—”

Someone knocks on the door then, and Taehyung allows them to come in before you can even utter a word.

It is Jimin. Not the blonde and mature looking man you met yesterday noon, but the one you were familiar with during so many years of your life. Dark hair, gentle features, slightly smaller and rounder around the edges. Eyes that look just as panicked as your own.

One look into each other’s eyes is all you need. In less than a second you are pushing Taehyung out of the room, the latter giving Jimin suspicious eyes and claiming that he will hear the end of this  — you lock the door the moment he’s out, immediately turning to Jimin as he clasps your wrist in a tight hold.

“Oh my god, you too? Is it really you?”

“Twenty six year old trapped inside a teenage version of myself— yes,” your voice trembles. He lets you go, running both hands through his hair as he starts pacing around the room. “Jimin. This was my fault. I’m sorry.”

He whips his head in your direction, perturbed eyes narrowing. “How come?”

A shrill laugh escapes your lips, trying to figure out how to explain it without sounding hysterical. “I… remember Taehyung’s Christmas spirits?” he nods slowly, and you take a deep breath before continuing. “I kind of… felt a little overwhelmed by everything so I just— I asked them for help? And I— I obviously wasn’t expecting anything to happen. It was a dumb way of trying to reassure myself that our reunion wasn’t going to be a complete disaster. Fuck, I didn’t want them to make us travel back in time, what the actual hell—”

You do not expect for Jimin to nod in deep understanding. “Kinda makes sense.”

“Makes sense!? Nothing makes sense—”

“There was always something weird about the house, we all knew that,” the ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “Only Taehyung was shameless enough to say it out loud. Got away with it, too.”

“Yeah, but that’s because he’s Taehyung,” you sigh, placing your hands on your hips. Jimin seems just as shaken up, but he looks somewhat calm, too — as if he is starting to accept the absurd situation you’re both trapped in. Deep in thought, his eyes stay glued to a spot on the floor as he gnaws on his lip. “What are we going to do?”

“Okay, um— let’s suppose we’re really back in time.”

“We are.”

“It means we have to be careful, right?” he asks, attentive eyes searching for yours. “We shouldn’t make any drastic changes if we don’t want to mess with our present. We should… stick to what happened eight years ago. At least until those spirits decide they’ve hard their fun.”

You sit on the bed, leaning on your knees as cold dread creeps up again. “What if we’re stuck here forever?”

“We’re not,” he says it a conviction that almost makes you believe him, eyes firm and more focused now that his bewilderment is beginning to fade. “They’re Christmas spirits, right? there’s so much they can do during the holidays. I’m sure we will be back once it’s over. Just focus on doing the same things you did in the past, and it’ll be okay.”

“You’re too good at dealing with this kind of situation,” you joke, barely forcing out a laugh as you puff out a long exhale. “Have you done something like this before?”

He smiles at your words. It is strange to see that gesture on his young face, and something in your chest constricts as you remember how used you were to receiving that smile everyday.

Clearing your throat, you look down as another worry flashes past your mind. “I will have a bit of trouble remembering what exactly happened these days. I…” glancing up, you feel your breath get caught in your throat as you find his eyes already fastened to yours, as if not daring to miss any shifts in your expression. “I kind of— locked it down. Wasn’t the most fun holiday, was it?”

Jimin nods, allowing a steady silence to thicken for a few long seconds. You never expected to talk about what happened, let alone relive it. He should understand it is not as easy as simply following the same steps you took so you can go back to the present unharmed.

It is also doing things you struggled with and forced yourself to forget. It is catering to a fire you thought would stay extinguished, because it would burn entire forests otherwise.

And Jimin knows, smile rapidly vanishing as his eyes glaze over with his own memories. It takes him two seconds to stride closer, kneeling in front of you and keeping enough distance for you to breathe normally.

“We are not those teenagers anymore,” he says, voice low and careful, trying to pronounce every word as clearly as possible. It is absolutely bizarre to hear him speak so quietly, so wisely, while looking so youthful. “We might be back in the past, but… think of it as an illusion. A kinda bad dream,” he smiles in encouragement, though it does not reach his eyes. “One that will end sooner than you think. And if you feel yourself panicking when the worst moment comes, remember that what we’re saying is not real. It might have been once, but not anymore. Okay?”

His words drip like smooth honey. They are warm and comforting, even if he is an adult speaking through a teenager’s rough, sleepy voice. You nod, biting your lip as you force yourself to calm down. Seemingly pleased, he gets up, sighing loudly.

“Good. Well… if I recall correctly, the day started with—”

“Assholes!” someone bangs on the door, making you both jolt at the same time. You share a startled look at the familiar voice, continuing to speak through the door in muffled, angry words. “Remember it’s your turn to make the fucking pancakes. Stop being weird and get out of there.”

“Yoongi,” Jimin mutters, eyes glinting with amusement as a smirk extends his lips. “Like I was saying, the day started with us preparing breakfast. We shouldn’t make them wait— we have to stick to the plan.”

You nod, getting up as your heart stutters with sudden nerves. You watch with bated breath as he approaches the door, stopping in his tracks and turning around when you call his name.

“Yeah?”

“You’re forgetting something,” you swallow thickly, nerves steadily growing. “Why we’re here. There must be a reason. I asked for their help and they brought us here… that must mean something, right?”

“Oh. Right,” a grin lightens up his face and his gaze gains that determination again, one you used to know well enough. “We will figure it out, I promise.”

And your heart, surprisingly, feels at ease for the first time that morning.

/

“It was chocolate pancakes, right? I think Hoseok was obsessed with them,” you watch attentively as Jimin places all the ingredients on the counter, hands swift and familiar as they search around the kitchen. Your voice comes out awed, not expecting to see him behave so naturally already. “Do you actually remember the recipe?”

He gives you a timid glance as he takes out a large bowl from one of the cabinets.  “Not really, but I remember they came out pretty disgusting. We might as well mix everything however we want. That should do the trick.”

“Ah,” you frown, struggling to recall the supposedly disastrous results. “Uh— what happened after that?”

He stills for a second as he remembers, bag of flour in his hands. “Hoseok got pissed and drenched them in maple syrup in a desperate attempt to fix them. Taehyung got mad at him for wasting it all and Hoseok poured it on his hair instead. Taehyung ran after him and they left the living room, and Yoongi decided to take out some nachos with Seokjin’s spicy sauce. We ended up having that for breakfast.”

“Wow, okay,” you keep staring at Jimin, who decides to focus on the task at hand instead. He seems too intent on not meeting your eyes, cheeks dusted in a tender blush. “For real, Jimin— how do you remember everything so clearly?”

“You said it yourself. I have a pretty good memory,” he looks up and smiles, but the gesture seems too contrived, and his eyes do not stay on yours for long. “Help me mix this stuff. I think they’ll turn out worse if we do it fast.”

You nod, inevitably smiling as you both try your best to make the worst pancakes you can come up with. One or two chuckles escape your lips at how carelessly Jimin throws the mix onto a frying pan, making him grin back as he flips the pancakes without much effort. A few minutes later they are already stacked in a large plate, a frown settling between your brows at the surprisingly delicious smell.

“Uh—” he mutters, looking startled. “Let’s try one.”

He grabs a fork and cuts a piece for himself, and a surprised noise rumbles in his throat the moment he places it on his tongue. You imitate him, blinking as you bite onto the warm, smooth texture.

“This is fucking delicious,” you say right after swallowing, dropping the fork in indignation. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” he grabs another piece, and you have to hold yourself back from doing the same. “I mean… I’m a pretty good cook in the present, but it’s not like I was even trying—”

You wince the moment you hear the door of the kitchen opening, making you turn around in stinging dread.

Teenage Hoseok is definitely a sight, being the one who changed the most over the years among your former group of friends. You were not particularly close to him, but you had a pretty solid, warm friendship that slowly faded once his photography career started picking up.

He began traveling the world, having the opportunity to see all sorts of places while building a life through the riveting pictures he took. Every time he came back he seemed a little different, like the world was turning him into someone you would never truly understand.

Even so, his untroubled smile was always the same, and his particular easy-going vibe never stopped following him, no matter how far he went. The grin on his eighteen year old face should not surprise you as much as it does, and you have to force yourself to stop gaping as he approaches the counter in long strides, eyes widening at the sight of the pancakes.

“You guys. You guys,” he repeats, immediately hugging you both and crushing you against his body. He ignores your gasp and Jimin’s groan, squeezing fiercely before letting go. “I can tell by the smell that these are going to be the best pancakes I’ve ever had,” he beams widely, eyes flickering between your perplexes faces. “When did you guys even learn how to do this!? You know what— I don’t care. I’m gonna take these back to the table. Don’t forget to bring juice and coffee!” he grabs the plate, practically rushing towards the door as he hums happily under his breath.

“That didn’t turn out well,” you murmur, looking at Jimin. He seems troubled already, scratching the back of his head as he hopelessly looks around the kitchen. You bite the inside of your cheek, hands behind your back. “Um… would it be that bad if we just let it be? it’s not as if some pancakes are going to change the world.”

“We have to make the same choices,” he says, strangely intense as he looks into your eyes. “We can’t take any risks. Don’t you understand?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The air is thickening and you are not sure how to respond — he seems to be taking it too seriously, as if the idea of letting Hoseok have those pancakes is torturing his mind in ways you cannot comprehend.

“Jimin… I think it’ll be fine. You’re worrying too much.”

The way his eyes pierce into yours halts your thoughts. His lips part as he struggles to form a reply,  as if the words are painful on his tongue. He sighs instead, running a hand over his face.

“It— it won’t be fine.”

Taehyung chooses that moment to walk inside the kitchen, glancing between you two before speaking up. “Now, seriously— what the hell is up with you two?”

“Nothing! we’re okay,” you try to smile, but the gesture only makes Taehyung narrow his eyes.

“You’re so fucking weird today,” he looks at you intently, making you hold your breath as you keep eye contact. “But I will let it pass because those pancakes are bomb. Come on, there won’t be any left if you stay here any longer.”

You grab Jimin’s wrist, as gently as possible, while leading him out of the kitchen. You keep throwing worried glances at him while Taehyung’s chipper voice fills in the silence, oblivious to the tension crackling behind him as you follow his steps.

By the time you reach the table Jimin is almost sweating, strikingly pale and dazed. You cannot pay attention to the fact that you are all gathered now, and the sight of your former friends’ young faces — Seokjin, Jungkook, Namjoon — only make you feel vague wonder, too distraught by Jimin’s crestfallen expression.

“Jimin, you okay?” Namjoon asks while munching, waving in your direction as you both take a seat in front of them. Yoongi, seated right next to him, makes a disgusted face.

“You’re all overworking him, that’s what’s happening to him,” Taehyung intervenes, grabbing two pancakes and dropping them on his empty plate. “He had three dance auditions this past week. We shouldn't have made him cook too.”

You freeze at Taehyung’s words. Jimin gets up, then — putting up an almost convincing smile as he looks around the table.

“Actually… I am kinda tired. My body still hurts from all of those hours of practice. Do you guys mind if I skip the snowball fight and go to sleep for a bit?”

“Go, dude. You deserve it,” Taehyung nods, and the rest of the boys agree in unison. You are the only one keeping completely still, lips parted as Jimin walks away from the table without glancing back.

“You’re not looking so good yourself,” Namjoon continues, and your heart jumps in alarm when you realize his words are directed at you now. He has not changed that much in eight years, and you could almost believe you’re looking at the twenty seven year old version of him — an intimidating, successful lawyer, swiftly working his way up the largest private firm of the state.

His eyes have always been attentive, wise and methodical, and you usually do not mind. Not unless you have something to hide.

“I… it’s last night’s dinner. My stomach isn’t handling it all that well,” you take a deep breath, gaze drifting from Namjoon’s deliberate one as you get up. “I think I’m gonna—”

“Too much information!” Hoseok wails, wincing. “We don’t need to know what you’re gonna do in the bathroom.”

You force out a laugh, shrill and weak sounding. “I’ll be right back.”

You waddle upstairs in a daze, breathing fast as you reach what you suppose is Jimin’s bedroom. Knocking on the wooden surface, you wait with your heart stuck in your throat, hands clammy as you rub them against your clothes.

Fortunately, he opens a few seconds later. You let out a long breath as you stride inside, staring in concern as he closes the door quietly. He looks defeated, and a sudden determination stirs under your skin, hot and stingy.

“What is it with you?” you ask, voice louder than intended. You sound inevitably frustrated, words rushing out of your mouth and out of control. “Are you going to hide now just because one thing didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to? Jimin… accept that you’re overreacting—”

“I’m not!” he blurts out, tone just as loud. It takes you aback, your own words vanishing as his expression crumbles. Letting go of the gentle, undaunted facade and turning into something more intense, desperate. “You might not want to remember this day, but you know how this night ends—”

“Don’t say it.”

He ignores your quiet plead. “You tell me you’ve loved me for years, and I go from your best friend in the world to the biggest asshole of the century,” he lets out a choked laugh. “We fight, we say horrible things to each other— and tomorrow we stop talking altogether. The day after that, you don’t come with me to the biggest dance audition of the year. On my way there I get into a car accident, get my leg wrecked, and I’m told I can’t dance for the rest of my life if I want to keep walking.”

You cannot look at him in the eye anymore. Of course you remember, and sometimes you wonder if you should remind yourself of those events more frequently — but not like this. Not while hearing Jimin sound so distraught, so helpless.

You may not know anything about Jimin’s present, but you knew his past well enough; and if there is anything that is still an inherent part of him, is his love for dancing and how alive it made him feel.

He was a dancer — just like you used to be. But that is something you are not ready to think about, at least not yet.

“I don’t care about my leg, Y/N. I really don’t.”

Those words make you look up, blinking in clear confusion. He’s frowning, worry settling over his features as he takes a step in your direction.

“I don’t know if what we do today will change our present. Maybe we’re just reliving an illusion, who knows. But if there’s a remote chance that we are changing the events of the past— I need things to happen exactly the same. Because that means I’ll be in that car alone, driving all by myself on my way to the audition, and the only one getting injured will be me. I can’t afford to change that. I want to be the only person in that car,” he loses his voice for a few seconds, inhaling deeply as he regains his composure. “Maybe some stupid pancakes won’t make a difference, but if keeping the past intact means saving your life or anyone else’s, then I will be as careful as I can.”

You feel a strange heaviness shoving itself between your lungs, hindering your breaths as you try to come up with a response. The situation is too bizarre, too surreal to comprehend.

Seven years ago, you came to terms with the fact that you and Jimin would never be best friends again, not under the snowballing circumstances that pulled you apart. Five, six years ago you stopped thinking about him, even if your heart still ached after loving him for the most part of your life. Four years ago, moving on finally felt achievable and not impossible.

Even if there was no closure, you managed to convince yourself that you two had parted for good, and that he was okay with it.

But now — listening to him talk about it so fervently, with his heart on his sleeve and fragility waved in his words, forces you to realize that he never forgot like you believed he did.

And just like that, eight years of not seeing each other vanish into thin dust. It was never over.

“So, um…” Jimin continues, looking self-conscious as he places his hand on the back of his neck. “I understand it’s asking a lot from you, to relive everything— but it’d put me at ease if we just… went downstairs and tried to stick to the past. Please. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Okay.”

Jimin tilts his head, not expecting for you to reply so quickly. “Really?”

“It’s what you want,” you say, trying to smile. “I knew you for ten years. I know better than to try and convince you otherwise. And… believe me, it sucks for me to let you have that accident,” your throat constricts for a second. “But it’s true that something scarier could happen if we try to change something important. Not to me, but to you as well. I don’t want you to get in an even worse situation.”

Jimin nods rapidly, finally smiling again. He still seems shaken, but his stance is less tense now.

“Okay. Thank you. Um— we should go downstairs, for the snowball fight. I’ll remind you of what needs to happen as we go.”

You nod, sharing another hesitant smile as he opens the door and walks out of the room. You take a few seconds for yourself before following him outside, breathing deeply as you feel your heart swelling under your chest.

The expression he had while he let everything out is now imprinted in the front of your mind, glinting and stirring like a mirage in the desert. It showed something you thought you forgot, something you believed you would never see again. And maybe it was due to the fact that he is hidden in a younger version of himself, one that used to be a permanent fixture in your life.

Whatever the reason, you cannot let it go now — because it looked like he still cared.

And it compels you to admit that you never stopped caring, either.

/

It goes relatively smoothly from then on.

It is hard to work on your memory, especially after shoving it down for so long — but little by little you start putting pieces together, and your actions come naturally as flickers of the past dash past your mind.

The snowball fight on the back of the house finally allows you to lose some of the tension on your shoulders, and for an hour or two you’re able to ignore the constant churning in the pit of your stomach caused by stress and worry. You are aware that you’re not truly yourself anymore — your personality is now strikingly different from what it used to be, but being surrounded by a bunch of playful teenagers somewhat manages to pull out that forgotten side of you.

Jimin seems less uptight as well, and it is surprisingly nostalgic to see him laugh and bicker with the rest of your friends. Even though you do not keep up with them anymore, you are aware that they all drifted apart as well, naturally taking different paths that drove you all away from each other.

After your fight, Taehyung and Jimin were glued to the hip for a year or two before breaking apart for unknown reasons. You suppose it is partly due to Taehyung’s art gallery, which he started from scratch and devoted most of his time to. It is hard to remember that they are not as close as they used to be by the way they are behaving now — throwing snowballs and yelling playful threats, sneaking up on each other and slipping handfuls of snow under their clothes. If you did not know otherwise, you would believe Jimin is still that carefree teenage boy he used to be.

He seems glad to be playing into the illusion, and you cannot blame him. You find yourself running and jumping like you have not done in ages — and it is thriving to feel invigorated and not tired after a few minutes of intense exercise, lungs burning in delight and heart pumping in a way that makes you feel more alive.

It is not until Namjoon excuses himself and goes back to the house that Jimin runs in your direction, finding you in your hiding spot behind a snowed in tree. Still feeling playful, you almost throw him the snowball you’re holding between your hands, but the serious look on his face makes you drop the idea immediately.

“Don’t tell me— something bad is going to happen now,” you frown, struggling to remember. He nods, breathing heavily as he looks back towards the house.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but Jungkook is nowhere to be seen.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen, images sparking in the back of your mind. “Oh. Is this the time when Namjoon finds him—”

“Smoking, yeah,” he sighs. “Namjoon is so sensitive about that kind of stuff. Especially after what happened to his father.”

More memories hit your head, then — this time from eleven years ago, when you had to attend your first funeral. You can still remember Namjoon’s ghostly expression and his mother’s tear stricken face. You shake your head, quickly pushing it all away.

“They started fighting, right?” you ask, stepping away from your hiding spot to look at the house closely. The rest of the boys are oblivious to the conversation you’re currently having, still actively playing. Only a minute or two have passed since Namjoon disappeared inside.

“Yeah, it gets quite ugly. And… it was you and me who ended up solving the entire thing.”

Your heart stills for a second. “What?”

He nods, lips pursing. “We decided to split. You spoke to Jungkook while I dealt with Namjoon. They calmed down thanks to us and just… hugged it out. Crisis averted.”

“Well— fuck,” you lean against the tree again, starting to feel panicky again. “I used to be kind of good at that advice stuff, but that’s definitely not the case anymore.”

“I never knew what you told him, so I can’t help you this time,” he bites his lip, anxiously looking back at the house. “Look… maybe it’ll just come to you once you hear him out. It’ll be fine,” he lifts his hand, gingerly placing it on your shoulder and squeezing. The touch startles you, but your body welcomes it instinctively. Those kind of gestures used to be so natural between you two, and it is like your current body remembers them well, way more than you do.

You nod, feeling somewhat reassured now. You cannot ignore the sense of loss the moment he drops his hand, but the sound of Taehyung’s worried voice calling out Namjoon forces you to quench down the feeling. At least for now.

Fifteen minutes later you’re sitting in the bathroom floor, in front of a distraught Jungkook that has a packet of cigarettes crumbled between his fingers. You did not have the opportunity to examine him thoroughly before, and it is now that you are able to pinpoint all the details that make this scrawny boy so different from his present self.

Hoseok may be the one who changed the most, but Jungkook is a close second — the sheepish, awkward boy you’re currently facing would not believe that in eight years time he becomes the face of countless brands, always followed by a flock of passionate fans.

A model? he would scoff, before laughing in that graceless but endearing way of his. I’d prefer to play video games forever, thank you very much.

He definitely does not seem in the mood for that kind of chit chat, though. His eyes are casted down and his face is dusted in a violent shade of pink, reaching up to his ears and down to his neck. You find yourself at a loss for words for a short while, panic slowly increasing as you struggle to fill in the silence.

Fortunately, he breaks it before the atmosphere asphyxiates you both.

“What’s up with you?”

“Huh?”

He finally looks into your eyes, lips curved down as he watches you intently. “You’re not the same today. What’s up with you?”

For a brief second your heart drops, cursing yourself for already fucking up this entire situation. He is not supposed to make this conversation about you or notice something weird in your behavior, but then — then it finally comes to you, and oh.

It was supposed to be like this all along, after all.

A nervous smile lifts your lips, hands slightly trembling as you let them fall on your lap.

“Do you really want to know?”

He nods, holding his legs against his chest so he can place his chin on his knees.

“Well— I wasn’t going to tell anyone about this, in case I jinxed it. But I guess it will do me good to confide in someone. Consider yourself lucky,” you raise your brows, stealing a smile out of him. “I’m going to tell Jimin I’m in love with him today. I’ve been really nervous all day, but I thought I was hiding it well. Guess not.”

He huffs. “Ah, come on. Tell me something I don’t know.”

You kick him lightly, making him laugh. The words come back to you with surprising ease, and you suppose it is the look of expectation on Jungkook’s big eyes — waiting, needing someone to tell him something. And right now, that someone is you.

“I wonder a lot if it’ll even matter— I mean, words are just words, right?” you wonder, not expecting an answer. “And I just… ask myself if I should just wait until he notices. If maybe I should never say anything at all, because I have already showed him so much already— and if he doesn’t at least suspect it, then he’s just blind,” you force out a laugh. “But sometimes you gotta be upfront about some things. Important things, you know. Jungkook—” you take a deep breath, feeling his gaze burning into your skin. He is letting every single word sink in, fervently waiting for more. “I don’t know if by picking up smoking you’re trying to show something you want us, or Namjoon, to know. I know you look up to him the most, and that the least thing you want to do is hurt his feelings—”

“I don’t want that,” he mutters, shaking his head avidly.

“I know. Maybe you’re just doing it because you want to. Maybe it’s something else. Whatever the reason— talk to him. Be upfront about everything. I know you always want for him to listen to what you have to say. And believe me, he will.”

It looks like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, a long exhale leaving his lips as he nods firmly.

“So,” you get up, extending a hand in his direction. “Let’s get out of the bathroom, yeah? You don’t need to be scared. No one is mad at you. All we want — all Namjoon wants is for you to open up. But only when you feel like you can, no pressure.”

He takes your hand and gets up, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“Good,” you pat his shoulder, a genuine smile stretching your lips. “There’s a snowball fight to finish. Let’s go.”

You open the door, but the following words he lets out freeze you in place.

“You really are weird today, you know. And I don’t think it’s just the Jimin thing.”

Turning around, you blurt out the first words that come to mind. “Would you believe me if I said that I come from the future because Taehyung’s Christmas spirits threw me eight years into the past?”

Jungkook blinks, expression blank for a few seconds before he lifts an eyebrow. 

“Wow, jokes are really not your forte. That was bad. And weird as hell.”

You laugh, finally walking out of the bathroom. “Cut me some slack.”

You reunite with Jimin as soon as you walk outside, watching from a distance as Namjoon and Jungkook share a handshake that surprisingly ends with a clumsy hug initiated by Jungkook. A warm sensation ripples down your body at Jimin’s satisfied gaze, his lips showing a full grin as you both share a knowing look.

“I knew it’d turn out well,” he says, leaning closer so the others cannot hear. “Didn’t doubt you for a second. Is there a chance you’ll let me know what convinced him?”

You give him a grin of your own. “Nope. What’s next in line for today?”

“Let’s see… Yoongi and Taehyung prepare lunch, but it’s basically warmed up pre-made food. Then we watch Hoseok’s favorite Christmas movie, which is actually awful, but we get to nap for a while, so there’s that. Then Taehyung’s parents arrive with dinner. I remember it was kind of awkward. And after that…”

“Hm,” you nod, hoping he does not continue. You jolt when you feel his hand between your shoulder blades, and it takes you a few seconds to realize he is trying to comfort you. His touch is barely there but warm all the same, even in the midst of winter.

“We will deal with that when the moment comes,” he says gently, words careful and quiet. Hoping his voice only reaches your ears and no one else’s. And even if tonight is inevitable, you feel oddly reassured — like he is cushioning your fall so your body does not strike directly against the cold ground.

The smile you give him is not all that genuine, but it is not completely fake either. It is somewhere in-between — a place that is tranquil, and almost hopeful.

“Yeah, we will.”

/

Just like Jimin predicted, lunch mainly consists of frozen meals that Taehyung pretends to pass up as fresh. Yoongi does not even bother, apologizing in advance for the frozen bits amidst the microwaved food. It earns him glares from Taehyung all throughout lunch, though his anger is quickly diminished by the constant hums of appreciation for his mother’s pre-cooked meals.

Lunch rolls into early afternoon and a lethargy brought by the large amounts of food you all shared, and the pulls of drowsiness only strengthen their hold as you all gather in the living room for Hoseok’s Christmas movie. It is a comedy you remember watching every year, but your brain struggles to remember more than ten minutes of the plot. Only Hoseok seems to enjoy every second of it as the rest fall into a stilled silence, quietly drifting to sleep as Hoseok’s commentary mingles with the faint noises of the movie.

You are the last one to close your eyes, unable to shake off the sudden nerves brought by Jimin’s body glued to your side. His presence is familiar and foreign at the same time, and it keeps your thoughts spinning in never-ending circles. Right as you finally begin to relax, his body stirs against you, making your heart stutter as you feel him leaning closer.

“If you don’t remember this movie at all— well, let’s just say I’m very jealous of you right now.”

You smirk at his whispered words, opening your eyes again. “I think I always filtered it out. Or fell asleep.”

“Yeah, you always fell asleep,” Jimin snorts. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but I even know some of the dialogue. In one of Hoseok’s favorite scenes the main character starts using these awful pickup lines. One of them was like, that’s not a candy cane in my pocket, I’m just happy to see you—”

Your choked out laugh makes Hoseok whip his head in your direction, excited eyes finding yours and making you sink into the couch.

“This scene is fucking hilarious, isn't it?” he asks, voice so loud it makes Yoongi stir awake by his side. The latter slaps Hoseok on the arm, grumbling inteligible words under his breath. You manage to catch a few curse words, which immediately make Hoseok switch his attention back to the movie.

“I hate you. That was so close,” you mutter. Jimin covers his mouth as he chuckles, quietly shaking as he tries to hold himself back. You can feel the familiar tingle of contagious laughter crawling up your throat, making you smile so wide your cheeks hurt.

When you finally manage to fall asleep, it is with an easy mind and a light heart, and you do not mind it when Jimin lets his head fall on top of your shoulder. It is comforting, natural, like it should have always been.

The long nap is followed by frantic footsteps and freaked out voices as you all clean up unkempt rooms and dirty dishes, clock ticking as it draws near to the arrival of Taehyung’s parents. Two hours later you find yourself staring at your reflection in your room, wearing the only formal clothing you were able to find inside your chaotic suitcase.

Your mouth twists at the sight — you always believed you had a relatively decent taste in clothes, but your fashion choices during your teens was definitely not something memorable. You tug at the yellow dress in discomfort, groaning under your breath as you turn around in front of the mirror.

“Why did you think wearing this was a good idea, seventeen year old me? Why?”

Huffing in embarrassment, you walk out of the room, steps halting as you meet Jimin in the hallway. There’s a painful tug in your chest the moment your eyes scan his attire, one you remember well. Lavender shirt, black trousers and shiny shoes. There is nothing particularly remarkable about it, but it is carved deep inside your mind and you have never been able to scrub it off, no matter how hard you try.

“Looking colorful,” Jimin smiles, not looking surprised in the least. Your cheeks flush and you roll your eyes, ushering him forward as you stride towards the stairs that lead downstairs.

“I look like an idiot.”

“I was actually quite fond of that dress. And no, I’m not joking.”

You almost trip on the stairs at that. He reaches the bottom floor first and waits for you to come down, cheeks clearly reddening as a timid smile lifts the corners of his lips.

“It’s so weird— you really haven’t changed that much. Physically, I mean,” he says, lowering his voice so the others cannot hear. You finally get to the bottom of the stairs, scoffing at Jimin’s words as you run a hand through your hair.

“I couldn’t say the same about you,” you pinch his chubby cheek, and it takes you seconds to realize what you’re doing — he is basically a stranger now, and for a few brief seconds you completely forgot. You immediately pull your hand away, blushing profusely. “Sorry—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Jimin waves his hand dismissively, still smiling quietly. “Probably muscle memory. You used to do that all the time.”

“I did,” you laugh, eyes drifting to the living room. Taehyung’s parents are there already — you can hear their voices loud and clear, breaking through the faint christmas music as they berate Taehyung for not leaving the kitchen squeaky clean. “Well… it’s time for the awkward dinner. We should go and get it over with— I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not ready either,” he sighs, and you do not miss the underlying meaning.

/

Dinner ends up being… well. Awkward is an understatement.

Gathered around the large table of the dining room, Taehyung’s parents quiz every single boy — and girl — about their grades and future plans. The only ones unscathed are Seokjin and Namjoon, as the former is already having the time of his life in a prestigious college, while Namjoon puts everyone to shame with his countless successes. You anxiously listen to Taehyung blabber about the arts program he plans on joining, and to an extremely shy Jungkook explain how he is still figuring out what to do.

Then their eyes land on your side of the table, where you and Jimin are sitting, and your mind turns blank.

“What about you, Jimin?” Taehyung’s father asks, warm smile in place. They are not as intimidating as you used to see them, but there is still something about the way they look at you — like they could read you mind if they wanted to.

Your breaths are short and uncomfortable as Jimin prepares to speak. You know very well what he’s going to talk about, and you did not expect for it to start hurting so much, even before he can open his mouth.

“Me? I’m going to pursue dance,” Jimin replies smoothly. “I have a really important audition in a couple of days. If everything goes well, I’ll be joining them right after finishing high school.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, feeling your heart shrink under you chest.

“That’s amazing, sweetie. We’ll be crossing our fingers for you,” Taehyung’s mother gushes. You faintly remember her having a soft spot for Jimin, and you cannot blame her for that. You snap your eyes open right before their gazes slide in your direction, and you lose your breath for a second.

“We heard you’re also into dancing, Y/N,” she continues, attentive eyes trapping yours. “Are you auditioning with Jimin?”

“Oh, no,” you smile, hoping your expression is believable enough. The heat is impossible to hold back, and you can feel it spreading up your neck and ears, deep embarrassment burning all over your skin. “I’m still— I’m still practicing a lot. Hopefully I’ll be able to get an audition next year, but nothing so far.”

“Oh,” her expression falls slightly. “Well, good luck with that.”

She moves on to Hoseok, and you let out a long exhale. Your heart is thumping too loudly and it makes you rub your chest in discomfort, breaths still lacking as you struggle to regain your composure.

You look down when you feel movement against your covered thigh, finding Jimin’s waiting hand with his palm upwards. Quickly understanding the gesture, you slowly reach out and interlace your fingers with his own, feeling him squeeze fondly and gently. It immediately sets your mind at rest, even if the words you both just said out loud opened a gaping wound.

You hold hands throughout dinner, and you do not mind if it is glaringly obvious. It allows you to keep your sanity intact, even if it will get shattered by the end of the night. You only let go when it is time to pick up the dishes, and Jimin follows right behind as you walk in a daze towards the kitchen and drop the dirty plates into the sink.

“God, that sucked,” you mumble, reaching out for the opened bottle of white wine placed on the counter. You immediately pour yourself a drink, sipping on it and sighing as the familiar warmth rushes down your throat.

“Um— excuse me?”

You sputter when you turn around and come face to face with Taehyung’s mother, her eyes round and wide as she gapes at the glass in your hand. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you are, in fact, a seventeen year old who should not be drinking in front of an adult. Your face heats up immediately and you put the glass back, a nervous laugh escaping your mouth.

“I dared her to do it,” Jimin quickly intervenes. “Sorry, it won’t happen again.”

She sighs, eyes mildly accusatory. “Let it be the last time you play those sort of games.”

You lean your back against the counter when she turns around and walks out of the kitchen, skin flaming all over. Moaning, you cover your heated face with your hands, feeling Jimin’s steady presence beside you.

“I’m a mess tonight,” you mumble, words muffled through your hands. “I just want this to be over.”

“Just a little more,” Jimin insists, squeezing your shoulder.

“That little more is the worst part of the evening,” you say, dropping your hands to meet his eyes. They look troubled as well, though he seems to be faring well compared to your current state. “Let’s just— when is it supposed to happen?”

“I’m not sure,” he bites his lip, gaze pensive. “But I think it was right after leaving the dishes here. You, um… you dragged me to the hallway—”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember,” you straighten up, feeling your heart starting to complain again. It is too much for one day, and your entire body is begging for emotional rest already, but you know it is best to get it over with as fast as possible. You are already riled up — you might as well keep it up until the very end. “Let’s do it, Jimin.”

“Are you sure?”

You look at him in the eye, and time seems to halt for the briefest moment. There is clear distress in his shadowed gaze as he waits for your words, as if he is almost hoping for you to say no — to damn it all and risk changing the past into a disastrous present, tragic, even.

But you have not endured this entire day to end up wasting all of your efforts due to your own fear. Yes, it is absolutely frightening, and you would rather not revive what is coming next if you were given the choice.

But there is no choice anymore, and it is not about Jimin or destiny forcing you into it. It is about yourself. Everything you have done since you woke up today, eight years into the past, have led up to this very moment — and there is an unyielding belief in your gut that tells you this is it. That, whoever did this to you and Jimin, wanted for you both to experience this moment in particular again.

The moment you said the words I love you for the first time. The moment your friendship splintered into tiny, irrecoverable pieces.

You nod, and his eyes are understanding. Sighing deeply, you signal for him to follow you out of the kitchen, stopping in the hallway and keeping yourself from getting back to everyone in the living room.

You look around as the sensation of deja vu turns particularly strong. The lights on the ceiling are low and yellowish, forging a somewhat intimate atmosphere. You can hear your former friends’ voices mingling together, some higher than others, accompanied by the twinkling melody of Blue Christmas that weaves across the cottage. With Jimin right by your side, it almost feels magical to be standing there, as if you both managed to find a fixture in time where the seconds do not really pass.

It was the perfect spot for a love confession, and your younger self knew it for years.

Memories hit you like a ton of bricks, then. You slowly picked them out throughout the day, but now they’re rushing mercilessly, endless images flickering past your mind as they remind you of the cold December days you all spent together. All the memories that led up to the moment where it all stopped for good.

“Ah,” you laugh, sniffing as a handful of tears make their way down your cheeks. “I was supposed to start crying after telling you that I love you, not before.”

Jimin parts his lips, but you do not let him talk. “I never forgot this part, you know. I tried to forget everything, but this… the things we said— it always stayed.”

He looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” you wipe your cheeks, clearing your throat. “You’re supposed to tell me you never saw me that way— and that even if you did, you wouldn’t do anything about it, because dancing is your life and there’s no space for any distractions in it. And then I get so… so pissed,” you huff, trying to hold back a second rush of tears. “I call you arrogant, self-centered, and then you—”

“Then I tell you that you’re delusional for thinking you’re a dancer when you’re not good at all.”

You smile humorlessly. The words still hurt, but they are not as stinging as they were in the past. They are simply a reminder of how you felt back in the day — and you know Jimin does not mean them with the same malice anymore. Not eight years later.

“Actually— that was true. You helped me see that dancing was not worth pursuing for me, even after trying during my entire life. So… thank you for that.”

Jungkook chooses that moment to appear — something you were expecting, but still makes you jump. The grin on his face is wide as he lifts a mistletoe above your heads, oblivious to your tear-stricken face.

“Congratulations to the new couple, now kiss!” it is then that he finally looks down, face falling. “Oh…”

You rush out of the house, just like you’re supposed to do. It is easy to repeat the events of the past as you flee the scene, walking out the front door and breathing deeply as the stinging winds of winter pierce through your skin. You hug yourself under the mild snowfall, looking up at the half covered moon as a few clouds slowly gather for an upcoming storm.

Taehyung is supposed to walk out in any moment now. He will take you back to your room and comfort you for hours into the night, reading his old diary out loud and managing to draw a few laughs out of your heartbroken self.

You wait and wait, still holding back your tears as your hands and feet slowly become numb. You can only sigh in relief the moment you hear the door opening, Taehyung’s name already on the tip of your tongue, but your voice fades the moment you see Jimin rushing out instead.

“What the hell?” you sniff, noticeably trembling. “You shouldn’t be here—”

“I know. I don’t care. I couldn’t stay inside this time,” he takes a long breath as he approaches you, placing his thick coat over your shoulders. You hug it against your body, looking at him confusedly as he continues to stare into your eyes. “I just— I was absolutely terrible to you that night, and… there’s still so much we need to talk about. How could I let Taehyung drag you away when all I want to do is try to fix this, more than anything?” he looks about to burst, as if the words are cramming up inside of him and there is no way to refrain them. “Yesterday, when you arrived at the house, I told you I wanted to have a real talk. That offer— I know you didn’t want to take it, but it still stands. We can’t… we can’t part ways without laying it all out in the open.”

You nod after a few seconds of silence, heart stuttering. “Can I start?”

He blinks, not expecting that kind of answer. “Now?”

You nod again. You can feel your own words building up inside — phrases you used to practice over and over for the next time you saw Jimin, an opportunity that never came. You stored it all inside, slowly losing that conviction of letting them out as the years passed.

After eight years, they became an alternate reality in your mind. One you would never try to materialize, fully convinced that there was no need for it anymore.

But now — as Jimin waits under the ruthless winds of a cold night that seems fathomless, eyes entirely focused on you and senses completely tuned to your next words, you finally feel like that piece of reality inside your mind finally found its place, and you do not feel off-balance anymore.

The words you have kept to yourself for eight years, finally out in the open.

“I’m sorry,” you say, words surprisingly raw on your tongue. “I’m sorry you got into that accident. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I’m sorry that I never visited you, because I was too petty and scared. I’m sorry that I never even talked to you— I should've been there for you. But I wasn’t. ”

You sigh, basking in the sudden relief that overcomes your senses. Your eyes close on their own accord as Jimin takes a step closer and hugs you tight against his body, faintly whispering It’s okay against your hair and finally making you break down for good.

You cry and cry against him, coating his lavender shirt in frozen tears. He holds you firmly the entire time, and time becomes meaningless as you hold him back. And as strange as it might sound, it feels meant to be.

You take a step back when there are no more tears to let out, and you feel oddly empty — but in a good way, like every heavy feeling you were carrying against your will finally retracted its claws from your body. You look at each other and share a smile, one that is not entirely happy, but still hopeful.

“You must be freezing,” you say, voice raw. “Come on, let’s go back. We can talk better inside.”

He nods, puffing out a shaky breath. “Sounds like a good idea.”

You do not notice something has changed until you start walking across the hallway, stilling in confusion at the lack of voices and music. Slowly approaching the living room, your eyes widen at the lack of life — there are no appetizers on the dining table, there is no radio pouring out soft, christmasy music. Through the windows, there is no sight of the steady snowfall you saw seconds ago — but a raging storm that coats the forest surrounding the house, loud and unstoppable.

“We’re back. Seems like we didn’t change the present,” Jimin mutters, making you turn in his direction. You both stare at each other in silent awe, and it takes you a few seconds to get used to Jimin’s older appearance — one you are not so familiar with, even if you know he is still the same boy that was by your side for the most part of your life.

“Weird,” you mutter, making him smile self-consciously. You immediately shake your head, flushing furiously. “Ah, not in a bad way, I mean—”

“It’s okay,” he laughs, voice raspy and slightly different. “I would say what’s weird is the silence. You can really tell the boys are not here anymore.”

You nod, biting your lip as the heavy silence falls again. It is almost too dense, condensing in the air and weighing over your body.

“Oh wow,” you blink, a sudden realization striking you out of nowhere. “I really miss them.”

Jimin murmurs in agreement. None of you say anything for a few long seconds, as if acknowledging the sudden but faint sadness and nostalgia.

“We will see them tomorrow,” Jimin says after a while, struggling to sound enthusiastic. You look at him, trying to smile as you nod slowly.

“We will.”

“Um— how about you prepare the fireplace, and I prepare some hot chocolate?” he asks, voice gentle and eyes inviting. It is inevitably comforting, and you allow the sound of his voice to push away some of the unbearable nostalgia that still clings to your body.

You agree, thankful for the distraction. It is easy to lose yourself in the task at hand as you bring some much needed warmth to the otherwise stark living room, smiling at Jimin when he comes back a few minutes later with two steaming cups in his hands. The fire is just starting to come to life, flickers of red and orange rising among the wood logs as they pop and crackle.

You both sit right in front of it, gathering a few thick blankets while you wait for the fire to pick up. You could almost fall asleep like this, feeling at peace for the first time in what feels like forever — with a cup of hot chocolate between your hands, the sounds of the fireplace breaking the comfortable silence and Jimin’s easy presence beside you.

Sleep is not what you need right now, though.

“I want to know everything,” you begin, turning to him. “How you did after the accident, and how you’re doing now.”

He takes a long breath, and you allow him to collect his thoughts as he thinks about your question. When he finally speaks, it is with a quiet voice, as if he were talking to the fire that now steadily sways and rises.

“You know… when life took away what I loved the most, I was faced with two options— to find another way of feeling alive again, or to deny myself that pleasure, for one reason or another. It took me a while to see it, especially after what happened to us, but I finally managed to move on. I mean— how could I not? after losing dancing and my best friend almost at the same time, I felt so… lost and I knew I needed to find who I was again. Besides, there were still so many things I didn’t know about myself— I still don’t. For all I know, in a week or a year or five I will find something that will make me happier than dancing ever did,” he shrugs. “I was a dancer, I will always be, but that isn’t all there is to who I am. I refuse to believe that.”

You let his words sink in, sipping on the warm, thick liquid as his quiet voice floats seamlessly. “You were never afraid, then?”

“Yeah, of course I was— but once I realized it’s not that hard to be happy without a purpose, I managed to calm down,” he explains, smiling as he gazes at his own mug. “There is no shame in loving your life even if you haven’t won a Nobel prize or didn’t become the great dancer everyone said you were going to be. I never understood the looks of pity I got, because I like who I became. I mean… I’m certainly better than that asshole who told you you couldn’t dance, that you were just a distraction. At least I hope I am. I’ve tried hard to leave that person behind.”

You frown. “You weren’t an asshole—”

“Kinda was,” he insists, and even if his voice is still low and tender, there’s a firmness in his tone — you know you can’t sway him out of it. “Anyway, I’ve been training young dancers and learning the piano these days. They’re probably the closest I’ve got to that feeling of… belonging I used to have with dancing. I have a handful of really talented students right now, and they have some huge auditions next year. I’m excited for them,” he says, rapidly cheering up. His eyes lit up at the mention of his pupils, and you can easily tell he’s quite fond of them. “How about you? you practically disappeared, you know. Sometimes I talk to the boys and they don’t really know how you’re doing.”

You shrink in embarrassment, biting your lip.

“Ah… yeah. I regret that. Sorry. Um—” you focus on the flaming fireplace, scrambling for old memories as you try to remember. “I was a little lost after our fight as well. I just— I used to have this… ridiculous way of seeing things, you know? and deep down I knew I wasn’t that good of a dancer, but somehow I still thought I could power through it, that fate and destiny and all that bullshit would just fall into place and suddenly turn me into a bright, gifted person,” you laugh, a sound that comes out rough and dry. “And it’s not that I’m a cynic now, I just realized that life doesn’t work that way, and that’s fine. It just… it really sucks when the skills you have simply don’t align with your passions. It feels like there’s something wrong that can’t be fixed. I only realized this after what went on with you and me—” you pause, giving him a quick look. “Which is ridiculous if you think about it. The fact that a boy made me quit dancing might just be even more embarrassing that living a delusion I kept going for years.”

A deep silence stretches, and you can almost hear the gears in Jimin’s mind — turning and scuffling as his frown deepens. You feel the need to break the silence, not sure if you like where his thoughts might be going.

“Anyway— I’m in marketing right now. I’ve got a pretty secure job, and it can be quite entertaining most times. It’s obviously not the same as dancing—” you smile and he returns the gesture. It does not seem all that genuine, but rather out of reflex. “But it’s good. It’s satisfying.”

He leans back, placing his mug on the floor by his side. “Can I tell you what I think?”

You nod eagerly, and a smile tugs at his lips — a real one this time.

“I never thought you were delusional. You just really loved something that was so precious to you that you didn’t even mind it when others were better at it than you. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “We don’t have to be olympic winners to feel so much passion towards something. We shouldn’t feel ashamed about that.”

‘I… don’t know. I mean— I’ve had a hard time getting used to seeing performances again, but I’m working on it,” you say, voice strong with determination. “I don’t want to feel like I have to avoid it altogether. I want to be able to tolerate it. it’s just a little hard, still.”

“Of course. I understand that,” he nods, seemingly pleased. “And… Y/N?”

“Hm?”

His gaze turns warmer, and you can see the way the fire reflects against his eyes, glinting and sparking as the moment rapidly thickens.

“I’m really sorry, too. For everything. For being a bad friend. For ruining something you loved.”

You shake your head immediately, hating the shame that’s rapidly obscuring his expression.

“I shouldn’t have let a fight put me off of it,” you insist. He still looks troubled, and you struggle to come up with more reassuring words. “Hey— we were both dumb kids. And we’re both sorry about it. I’m just… I’m really glad we could talk about this,” you smile, and you heart finds peace again when he slowly returns the gesture. “Um… how about we start out with a clean slate?”

He perks up at that. “Really?”

“Yeah, of course,” you blush deeply at his hopeful gaze, still glued to your face. “You know, seeing us all together like that… I miss that. I miss us.”

“I feel the same,” he agrees, and his tone leaves no space for discussion. It makes your heart stir in satisfaction. “Maybe that’s what the Christmas spirits want. For us to get the group together again.”

“Maybe, but I know there’s another reason,” you continue, thinking back to yesterday night and the lonely words you whispered in the darkness of your room. “They wanted me to remember.”

Jimin nods, beaming. The gesture is bright and carefree, softening his features. “Yeah, I’m very glad you do now.”

The conversation builds from the topic of the past, sliding into unknown territory. There are eight years you have not shared with each other, after all — and it shows. You both talk and talk until words run out and almost every topic you can think of has been covered, and there’s a profound satisfaction hanging in the air as the night drifts into an early morning, sky auguring the rise of the still hidden sun.  

It is not until the sun is high above the clear blue sky that you realize you both fell asleep against each other at some point during the early dawn. You can feel his warm body against your back, breaths slow and steady as he puffs out hushed exhales against your neck. They make the hairs on your arms rise, stirring awake as you move slowly and carefully.

There’s a drowsy boldness enveloping your body as you turn around, eyes connecting with his own as he slowly wakes. The warmth he emanates is almost overwhelming amidst the chilly air, winds drifting inside the house as they try to seize your body under their glacial grip. He smiles and rubs his eyes, an endearing sight that makes something constrict under your chest.

“It’s not snowing,” he mutters in a husky voice. You hum, looking up at the windows — even though the curtains are closed, the rays of the sun are still sharp and visible. He gets up and you have to hold yourself back from keeping him close, staring in vague interest as he opens all of the curtains, allowing the sun to bathe the entire living room in its cold but keen lighting.

There is, oddly, no need for words. The silence stretches as you wordlessly sit side by side, soaking up as much as you can of the unexpected switch of weather.

He breaks the peaceful moment a few minutes later, calling your name so tenderly you almost miss it.

“Hm?”

“Yesterday you kept asking why I remembered everything so well,” he begins, tone still extremely soft. “And, well… it’s because all these years I've imagined a thousand ways things could've turned different— the things I should have said instead, things I only realized when it was too late.”

You look at him in vague confusion, slowly breaking out of the daze brought by the sunlight.

“What would you have changed?” you ask after his words sink in, heart fluttering.

He smiles, and you do not miss his reddened cheeks and intent gaze. “Well, for starters… I would have said something completely different, something that wouldn’t make you cry or break your heart. And... when Jungkook brought that mistletoe, I would have—”

The door rattles open. Your heart almost stops as you start getting up frantically, cursing when your legs get tangled in the sheets. Jimin simply stares, completely frozen as six grown up boys appear in the threshold of the living room.

“Oh wow, okay, huh,” Taehyung says, waving his hand gingerly as his wide eyes slide between you two over and over. “Should we give you guys a moment?”

“Yes! Um— just ten seconds,” you smile nervously, feeling inevitably shy under their attentive gazes.

And even if you have not seen them for years, it is inevitably easy to laugh it off the moment you find Jungkook’s gaze, who begins to wiggle his eyebrows repeatedly.

“I think they’ll need more than that,” Hoseok adds, smiling with that big grin of his — and it makes you realize how maybe they have not changed as much as you thought they did. And even if they did, it is nothing to feel frightened about — you know some of them have changed for the better, which gives you the opportunity for a new kind of friendship to resurface. One that is built over the mistakes of the past.

You share a look with Jimin, one that is filled with compliance, fondness, and a newfound trust you cannot wait to keep exploring. The boys leave among quiet comments and chuckles and there’s a silly smile curving up your lips, cheeks still flaming as you help Jimin tidy up the blankets.

The silence is broken by him when you’re about to leave the living room, hand on your arm stopping you from walking away and eyes brimming with determination.

His eyes glint just as much as the striking sunlight, completely clear from yesterday’s storm, and his words stir up a feeling you also forced yourself to forget, even if you never wanted to let it fade into oblivion.

A feeling that followed you for the most of your teenage years, one that tore you in half on Christmas day exactly eight years ago. But you know you will embrace it with open arms if it decides to come back — and you really, really hope it does.

“I would really like it if you let me give you some dance lessons,” he offers, voice thick with expectation. “I could even prepare some new performances and write some songs of the piano. But only if you want. It just… it would be fun, I think.”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation, and the smile he gives you is as bright as the sun itself. “I would love that, yeah.”

You both walk out of the living room, sharing secretive smiles as you go meet with the rest of the boys upstairs. The living room continues to glow under the strangely blazing sun, which usually hides itself from the cottage during this time of the year.

There has always been something unusual about the house, especially during Christmas — but this time it may just be the strangest of them all. There are no angry storms roaring, nor is the cold as biting as it should be. And if you look really closely, you will notice the wooden walls fluttering, and dust specks glinting in more colors than one.

You will notice that there is no heavy silence, not even when no one’s speaking. Only a content breeze that hums in satisfaction, and a forest that does not growl under the thick veil of night.

Things are, once and for all, falling into place.

[pocketseizure]

The Legend of the Princess, Chapter Nineteen

The Two Princesses

In which Zelda greets the Zora princess Ruto, who finally arrives to the Hylian court in a gorgeous swirl of bright smiles and shining fins.

(Chapter Nineteen on AO3) (Story Tag on Tumblr) (Cover Illustration)

* * * * *

“You need to find the truth about my mother,” Ganondorf told her, and Link seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Zelda was more than a little annoyed with both of them for not simply telling her what she needed to know. Either the truth was too terrible to be spoken aloud, or neither of them really knew anything. Zelda regularly dealt with intrigue over the course of her daily administrative duties and didn’t have much patience for conspiracy theories, and she suspected the latter. Nevertheless, she knew exactly what the silver key Link had given her would unlock, and she had every intention of using it. Even with her considerable skill, however, it wouldn’t be easy to sneak into her father’s private study. Thankfully, she now had an ally at court.

Ruto had arrived late in the evening, her standard-bearers preceding her by mere hours. One of the many qualities Zelda admired about Ruto was her decisiveness; she seemed to feel a complete absence of guilt for doing whatever she wanted whenever she felt it was necessary to do it. If Ruto no longer felt the need to trouble herself over Jabun, then there was nothing stopping her from traveling to Hyrule, and she so did without wasting any additional time.

Zelda was struck giddy with the anticipation of seeing her dear friend in person again. She remained at court much later than usual as she awaited Ruto’s arrival, and she enjoyed herself to such an extent that Impa felt the need to appear at her side at occasional intervals to limit her alcohol consumption.

When Ruto finally made her appearance, she was beautiful and magnificent, her scales shining like the moon over the sea and her lithe form accentuated by a shimmering violet gown. She was not disheveled in the slightest from her journey across Hyrule, nor did she show any fatigue. She offered warm smiles and kind words to all the nobles and courtiers who approached her after her arrival was formally announced. When she was finally able to make her way to the king, she allowed Daphnes to sweep her up into a bear hug. All through the night she caught Zelda’s gaze and winked meaningfully, as if to say Look at me, I’m so good at this, I’m so good at being a princess, which had been a private joke between them when they were much younger.

Ruto’s company was in such high demand that Zelda realized she would have to use the privilege of her position to push her way to the front of the crowd. When she made her greeting to the visiting princess she couched it in such flowery language that Ruto could only listen to her for a minute before bursting into laughter. As the two princesses clasped arms and grinned at one another, a tuning note from the lead violin of the orchestra cut through the chatter of the gathering, and before Zelda knew what was happening Ruto had pulled her into the center of the floor. Zelda giggled as she allowed herself to be led in a dance, her skirts swirling alongside Ruto’s.

After the final notes of the orchestral prelude faded, other couples joined them on the floor, which Zelda interpreted as an opportunity to take Ruto by the crook of her arm and shepherd her to a secluded area. As they were walking with their arms linked toward one of the shaded corners behind the hall’s pillars, they were accosted by Darunia, who clasped his huge hands on their shoulders from behind.

“You two are a sight for sore eyes,” he proclaimed in his booming voice. “The court is getting more gorgeous by the day! My girl, your coronation is going to sparkle like nothing I’ve ever seen, and believe me, I know shiny,” he continued, slapping Zelda on the back. Zelda stumbled from the force of the blow, and Ruto caught her, grinning merrily all the while.

“Excuse me,” a small voice spoke up from just beside them. Zelda looked down and saw the most handsome child she’d ever encountered. He had silky autumn-gold hair and piercing green eyes to match, and he was clad in a long feathery tunic resembling interlocking leaves of various shades of umber and olive.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met, Your Highness, but I am Makar,” the boy introduced himself.

Zelda blinked and experienced a moment of double sight. There was a boy standing beside her and offering his hand to be taken in greeting, but also something entirely different – a slim and willowy creature with mottled bark wearing a leaf as a mask cut with a pattern of triangles in an off-center approximation of a face. So this is a Korok, Zelda realized.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Zelda said, extending her fingers, and then the Korok’s twiggy branch was once again a plump and rosy-skinned Hylian hand. “You must forgive me for not seeking your acquaintance earlier, sir.”

The boy gave a good-natured laugh and shook Zelda’s hand in both of his. “I’m actually sexed as female,” he said. “We all are, but I prefer to take a male form. And you can call me Makar; it’s just as much of a name as it is a title.” He nodded at her and then turned to Ruto. “It’s an honor to meet you as well, Your Highness. I arrived this evening right behind you, just a moment ago.”

“Why didn’t you announce yourself properly?” Ruto asked, never one to hold back on bluntly inquiring after what she wanted to know.

Makar cocked his chin at Darunia, who was beaming down at him with a full set of teeth. “I didn’t want this big lug to know I was here yet,” he replied, answering Darunia’s wide smile with one of his own. Zelda was amused to note that there was a slight gap between his front teeth. It was charming, and Zelda appreciated how much effort must have put into the illusion he was maintaining for her benefit.

“I hope you brought your fiddle, little buddy, because I’m in the mood to dance tonight. Let’s take you over to Daphnes and show that old lion how to get this party started!”

“I think this is a good opportunity for us to leave,” Ruto whispered to Zelda. Without giving her time to excuse herself politely, Ruto grabbed Zelda’s hand and practically dragged her through the great hall.

By the time they were in the corridor outside they were practically running.

“I’ll race you, ninja girl,” Ruto challenged her, and then they were running, their feet moving so quickly that their heels barely made a sound.

Ruto led Zelda on a mad chase through the castle to the quarters assigned to the Zora dignitaries. There were two tall and muscular Zora guards stationed outside the suite with silver spears at the ready, and Ruto flirtatiously kissed both of them on their cheeks as Zelda paused to catch her breath. The guards shook their heads at Ruto’s brazenness and gave slight bows to Zelda as they opened the doors for the two women.

As soon as they were inside, Ruto kicked off her shoes and pulled her dress over her head without bothering to unlace it. The Zora didn’t usually bother with Hylian fashion, which they found cumbersome, and Ruto sighed with contentment as she unlatched the jewelry at her neck and wrists.

Zelda knew Ruto was headed straight for the large pool of water in the suite, so she began undressing as well. A Zora attendant appeared to help her out of her formal gown, while another collected Ruto’s cast-off finery from the floor where she’d left it laying.

“Don’t touch her hair,” Ruto ordered her attendants. “That’s my job.” She winked at Zelda. “Now let’s get wet. I feel so dehydrated… I could soak for days.”

Zelda allowed one of the Zora attendants to wrap her in a towel to preserve her modesty before she followed Ruto into the bathing chamber, and she only discarded it after she stepped into the warm water. She knew that the Zora generally cared nothing for Hylian nakedness, but she was still a bit embarrassed to be seen completely in the nude.

The pool, whose bottom extended into the castle’s basement, was fairly deep, and Zelda had to swim to join Ruto on one of the tiled lounging shelves extending from its sides.

“You swim like a frog,” Ruto teased.

“Yeah, well, you run like a fish,” Zelda shot back.

“You know what goes well with a good bath?” Ruto asked her. “Sparkling wine. And wouldn’t you know it, I see some heading this way right now.”

Zelda blushed fiercely and suppressed an urge to cover herself as a Zora groom approached them with a serving tray bearing two finely shaped glass vessels filled with fizzing pale liquid.

Ruto rose gracefully to the surface of the water and took both of them. “These glasses are Gerudo-made, you know,” she remarked as she passed one to Zelda. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked rhetorically before taking a sip.

At mention of the word “Gerudo,” Zelda blushed an even deeper shade of pink, and it gave her a secret thrill of pleasure to touch her lips to the rim of the glass. She knew she shouldn’t have more than just a taste, especially not this late at night, and especially not while soaking in such warm water, but the wine was heavenly, delicately flavored but not too sweet.

Meanwhile, Ruto had already finished her glass. She scooted over to sit next to Zelda.

“Let me play with your hair,” she commanded.

“Only if you tell me about Jabun,” Zelda countered, emboldened by the alcohol.

“Oh, I will. Girl, you are never going to hear the end of it if you get me started,” she said as she began unhooking the pins holding Zelda’s hair in a braided bun. “But if you know about Jabun, then you probably know a few other things too. I wonder… Just how much do you know? Before I tell you about Jabun, why don’t you tell me about Ganondorf?”

Zelda tensed at the mention of his name, and Ruto laughed. “Come on, friend, dish it. I know he’s had his eyes on you.”

Zelda drained her glass, and perhaps the alcohol had gone to her head, for her next words surprised her. “I don’t know what to make of him,” she said. “He’s like spiced wine, something that’s so delicious but so potent that it makes me leave this world just for an instant. He’s like an oasis in all the mundane nonsense of my life, a fountain with the moon inside, and I want to reach inside and touch it…”

Ruto raised her facial fins dramatically.

“Oh blessed Nayru, I don’t know what I’m saying,” Zelda apologized, laughing.

“I know exactly what you’re saying. You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” Ruto shook her head, still grinning as she continued to unpin Zelda’s hair. “Not that I can say I blame you. He’s a handsome one, all right, and he certainly has his charms. Unfortunately…” Ruto trailed off, and one of the corners of her mouth twitched before she continued. “I don’t think ‘charms’ are all he has. You know that boy is dangerous, right?”

“Trust me, I know. Better than anyone, probably,” Zelda leaned back into Ruto’s cool embrace. She could feel herself growing drowsy, but she still had things she needed to say while she had an opportunity to speak to Ruto in relative privacy. “That’s why I want to talk with you about Jabun, and also… There’s something I need you to do for me tomorrow night.”

( Link to Chapter Twenty: The Two Queens )

[impossible-rat-babies]

from that post called That ship shit I like: “Just one more” for Darva & Dorian

Thank you so much for the ask! I’m sorry I’m so late on getting back you on this prompt. I had a lot of fun setting a feeling and a mood with this one. :)

.

“Just one more” about 950 words of some Dorian and Darva fluff. Mostly under the cut as to not clog up your dash.

.

Dorian woke to bare moonlight across the marble floors, the polish reflecting the light to create a pale blue glow about the vaulted ceilings of the bedroom. The sheer curtains around the windows and bed both fluttered in the cool breeze from the gardens below. Insects chirped and sang below, filling the night with their songs and melodies. The smell of the sea barely drifted in, a sharp undertone of salt in the air.

The shape underneath of Dorian’s head moved softly like it was breathing and he casted his gaze upwards, his eyes brushing up his scarred arms—taking soft notice of the missing fingers and the missing shape on his left side—and further up the gentle curve of Darva’s chest to his face. His tattoos curled delicately around his closed eyes, his features calm and serene in the silence of the night. Scars littered across his face, lines tracing patterns of mistakes and mishaps both remembered to the minute detail and others lost completely to time. His lips were parted softly, the barest whistle filling the small proximity between them. Curly hair spilled across the pillow, the brown strands like a halo around his head. If he were a god, he was one he would gladly worship.

Dorian smiled in the dark, laying his head back down against the soft curve of Darva’s stomach as it gently rose and softly fell. He breathed out softly, his arm draped over his side gently playing with the sheets before it drifted to the smoothness of Darva’s side. His fingers ghosted near the soft curve of his breast, his thumb sweeping against the exact line where his rib cage met his breast, before it traced down, mapping out the scars of each incident, until his hand came to rest against a gnarled scar that seemed to have a heartbeat of its own lingering beneath his skin.

Dorian frowned and he stroked the skin, remembering the day well.

Red Lyrium prowlers were not to be trifled with, but what they needed to do needed to be done. He didn’t recall the fight, but he recalled well the singular shape of Darva pulling his hand away from his side, a bright red shard in his hand; it stuck out in sharp contrast to the white flurries of snow kicked up from the battles around them. Even though it was a memory, it was like watching it in slow motion as his legs slipped from underneath of him, grasping onto his staff to steady himself as he slumped to the ground in a heap. More than watching the indomitable leader of the Inquisition fall, it was watching his love fall like luck had run out and death was grasping him tight to pull him where Dorian could not follow.

There was no sound but his rushing heartbeat in his ears and the muddled sounds of the screams of enemies as he ran towards him, burning them alive in his wake. His breath was too shallow and his face too pale, his magic running haywire from his hands when he reached him and pulled him close.But Darva would not die that day. He was too stubborn to let Red Lyrium stop him along his way. Even as he laid in a cot in the healers, still taking the work as it came with his features gaunt and his hands trembling from the infection. Or as the healers told him that there were splinters still inside of him and would grow infectious with time, dooming him to death before his time. Still, he persisted even as his magic failed to corporate with the Lyrium in his blood.It was always the case that Darva knew nothing more than to keep moving forward. He would pound his fists in anger against wooden desks and tears would soak his face and Dorian’s shirt collar late at night until there were none left to spill before he would collect himself to face the future.

“Time only moves forward.” He would say even with the ghosts of the past sinking their fingers into his flesh, their marks decorating him both inside and out.

Despite the stubbornness of it, Dorian admired it. Or perhaps more so resembled it.

A deep intake of breath from Darva pulled him back to the present and Dorian glanced up at him, watching his face twist and his eyes flutter. Dorian’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes as Darva’s green eyes opened, the pale light reflecting off of them. A soft questioning sound rose from Darva’s throat and Dorian hummed.

“No need to worry.” He replied, his hand leaving the scar to take his hand in his. He softly pulled his hand to his lips and a half asleep smile rose to Darva’s face.

“You should be asleep.” Darva’s voice rumbled in his throat and Dorian chuckled weakly.

“So should you.” He spoke in kind and Darva raised an eyebrow and his eyes opened fully.

“Says the man who woke me in the first place.” He teased in return and Dorian kissed his knuckles again before he replied.

“Just one more then?” Dorian proposed and Darva cocked an eyebrow of a man still half asleep.

“One more what?” He inquired with a smile playing upon his lips in the dark.

He always wanted just one more. It was selfish, greedy, and downright terrible, but they had both earned some selfishness. He wanted one more kiss on the knuckles or on the cheek in passing or as a greeting or a simple reminder of love unspoken. One more time where their fingers would lace together as they strolled, now unafraid of passing glances from others. One more embrace whether it was in the afternoon when Dorian returned, weary from the constant fighting for change, or each morning when the sun would greet them anew. One more soft kiss upon the lips just to make the world feel conquerable again–that the storm would pass and everything would be as it should.

“One more everything.” He whispered.

[bimboarsonist]

Lilly waited at the elevator, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Her pale eyes seemed to be far off, and she clutched a wrapped bundle close to her chest as she bounced and waited. A minute passed. Then two. After precisely four and a half minutes after Lilly had pressed the elevator button to go down, the elevator emitted a cheerful ding! And parted for Lilly to hustle inside, squeezing herself into a surprisingly crowded elevator. She punched in her floor and settled in for a predictably brief wait.

Inside were three other witches that she had no knowledge of. One was of a body type similar to hers. Tall and slightly built, but that was where the resemblance ended. This woman had short-cropped hair dyed a bright blue, with tattoos tracing up the sides of her arms. She was dressed in the same uniform every other witch must wear, but had accessorized it with colorful pins. One of them read ‘I’m one’ while another read ‘Don’t pay department store prices’. She held a basket loosely in one hand, which was full of fresh fruit. It was bright and appetizing, and Lilly snuggled her bundle closer to her chest.

The witch next to her was shorter, though by no means short. She had broad shoulders and a round face with bright eyes. Her flaming red hair was tied back into a short ponytail, and a sweatband pushed back her bangs. She was built powerfully, with thick, sturdy legs and trunk like biceps. She was dressed in the gym attire provided by the school, and smelled as though she had just washed up from a workout. In her right hand she gripped a massive bottle of water. In a paper sack in her left hand there seemed to be an almost outrageous number of protein bars and one enormous jar of protein powder.

The last witch, or who Lilly assumed was a witch, was a comparatively tiny older woman. Her dark skin was lined a little with age and her black hair, which was braided neatly, was shot through with gray. Thick spectacles perched on the end of a snub nose, which she squinted through. She wore a plain cream-colored blouse and pair of trousers, denoting that she was not a student and likely hadn’t been for sometime.  In spite of her age, she seemed quite lively, apparently having just told the blue haired witch some long story about her granddaughter she was visiting. A fan dangled from her wrist, attached by a sturdy Velcro wrist strap. In her other hand clutched tight to her chest was a ceramic dish full of Sheppard’s pie.

The four stood in silence for a while, with different floors lit up and the dial indicating which floor they were on. All of them were headed to the residential part of campus, which was in the higher levels of the building. At least the newer parts were, some of the older dorms were still winding staircases up into tall towers. But then something rather unexpected happened.

KA CHUNK. The elevator clunked to a halt quite suddenly, jolting the four women. “What the hell?!” cried the elderly witch, barely saving her ceramic dish from smashing to the ground. The red haired witch braced herself against the side of the elevator. The punk witch wasn’t so lucky. She wobbled and crashed into Lilly, who only just managed to catch herself with the wall. As they collided, fruit spilled out of the basket and onto the floor in a spray of bright colors.

“Jinxes, I’m so sorry!” cried the punk witch collecting herself frantically. Fruit rolled around on the floor, having been spilled from her basket. The punk witch hastily collected it, stuffing it back into her basket in red-faced embarrassment.

“No, it’s fine! Really it wasn’t your fault!” replied Lilly, trying to help the punk witch gather everything up. Once everything was gathered up, the two separated, with the punk witch clearly embarrassed. The red haired witch, who had seemed largely indifferent sprang into action as soon as the elevator steadied itself. She dropped her sack of protein bars to the floor and began rapidly pressing the alarm button. No alarm went off. Frustration knit her features together in a fierce glare as she pushed harder than necessary on the call button.

Luckily, this button seemed to work. The sound of ringing came through the elevator speakers for a brief moment before being picked up by a bubbly female voice.

“Hi! Thanks for calling the Ars Arcana maintenance line! We’re currently experiencing a high volume of calls, so please stay on the line and you will be connected as soon as we have a technician available to speak to you!” said the bubbly pre-recorded voice. The line then changed to tinny piano music. Luckily though, the elderly witch had the presence of mind to cast a selective muffling sound on the speakers. Holding music, magical or not, was still terrible.

The red haired witch groaned and pressed her forhead against the metal of the elevator door. Lilly sighed dejectedly and the punk witch seemed to droop. The elderly witch didn’t seem to falter. Her eyes gleamed brightly between her coke bottle thick glasses and she regarded her three companions with an indefatigable grin.

“Well it looks like we’ll be stuck here a while! Anyone feel like introducing themselves?” she asked, looking around expectantly. Silence greeted her query, Still undeterred, she spoke again.

“Well I’m Delarese Clearwater. I’m here to visit my granddaughter, Chloe Barker. I’ve brought her favorite, sheppards pie. And who might you all be?” she asked, her gaze sweeping over her companions.

A pregnant pause ensued. They were all fairly grown women, now being bossed around as though they were children. They were unable to process the situation. Nonetheless, the red head shook her head and sighed before speaking up in a rough southern accent.

“I’m Kristen Baker. Nice to meet you all,” she said shortly, figuring she ought to speak up first. “Well, where were you headed Kristen?” asked Delarese expectantly. Kristen regarded the older witch with a long look. She glanced heavenward before responding.

“I was heading up to drop off my snack supply,” replied Kristen, indicating the sack of protein bars. “My trainer gave them to me for refueling after a workout. Guess it’s a perk of being on the lacrosse team,” she said. Delarese nodded along happily.

“And what’s your story miss? I must say, you remind me of me when I had my punk rock phase,” asked Delarese, regarding the punk witch with an impish smile. The blue haired witch blushed.

“Well I’m uh…I’m Carlisle Boltwood. I was heading up to take a fruit basket as a peace offering for Kelsey. We had a fight and all…and I wanted to tell her I was sorry. She eats fruit all the time, so I thought it’d be a nice gesture…though I was clumsy and dropped it all,” she said, a hint of regret coloring her voice. Delarese clucked in sympathy. “Oh we’ve all been there. But I think you’re doing the right thing trying to make amends,” rejoined Delarese with an understanding air.

All eyes then turned to Lilly. “And you are?” asked Carlisle, stumbling a little over the words.

Lilly looked towards the ground for a moment. People watching her made her uncomfortable. She started to shudder slightly, gripping her bundle to her chest more tightly to regain her nerve.

“I…I’m Lilly Cartwright,” squeaked Lilly. “I…I’m not so good with people but I…I was taking this,” at this she paused and shifted the bundle slightly to reveal the contents. “I was going to send this birthday cake to my mom through the Porter.” She said, looking around nervously. “I think I’m going to miss it though…it’s supposed to shut down for the evening soon,” she said forlornly.  Delarese shook her head. “I’m sure she’ll understand,” replied the elderly witch.