#And I'm SO curious what my voice in ceramics will be

[pacific-rimbaud]

I just want you to know that if you ever find time for Jane Eyre x Gosford Park and Potion-induced bodice ripping in the Victorian magic lab, I am here for it. If you start a newsletter that might only come out with updates once every 5 years-never for writing announcements, I will sign up just so I don’t miss the chance to read anything you write.

One of my hopes for ceramics was that I would either be an instant and undeniable genius or so catastrophically bad that I would escape back into writing to experience some degree of competency. And it may have worked! Victorian bodice ripping >>> this bowl. Dare to be bad at things, kids! It's the only way to one day become good and also you may learn to better appreciate your skill in other areas!

[itsbeeble]

I Think He Knows

SUMMARY: You've been in love with Joshua for as long as you can remember, yet you've never been able to tell him. Fortunately or unfortunately, you're pretty sure that he already knows.

GENRE: smut, fluff

PAIRING: Joshua Hong x afab!reader

WC: 4.9k

SERIES MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn @flwoie

SERIES TAGLIST: @captain-brie @nobraincellmode @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan

18+ MDNI AGLESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

WARNINGS: uhhh, best friends to lovers, Hoshi being a snitch, p in v sex, brief oral (fem receiving), ddry humping, a bit of spanking, brat tamer!Joshua, brat!reader, tiny bit of angst if you really really squint, consent is IMPORTANT, tiny bit of alcohol, horrible flirting, multiple orgasms, idk this isn't my best work. It's also not edited so uh....good luck lol.

A/N: heyyyyyy 🥰. I'm not dead clearly, but my god has it been a minute. part of me is wondering if this series will ever be done but i'm doing my best. school sucks, work sucks, life is a bitch, and I burnt myself out. Anyway, thank you to Brie and Ally for betaing, much love kiss kiss. ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYYY

Your heart pounds ferociously in your chest, butterflies tumbling through your stomach uncomfortably. You feel like a teenager again, sitting in front of Joshua who has a boyish grin on his face. One of his hands traces along the bottom of his champagne glass, the other resting on the table and playing with the cork of the expensive bottle. You wonder if he knows how he makes your head spin with just a little smile and a glass of champagne. The thought doesn’t linger for long, and you let your gaze lower back to the practically empty plate before you. A few roasted vegetables remain on the plate, and you pick at them with your fork to avoid looking at your friend. 

Friends. That’s what you are. Nothing more, nothing less. As you always had been. 

Friends that took each other out to expensive restaurants, bought expensive drinks and expensive meals. Friends that��

“Soonyoung told me something interesting today,” he leans forward, dipping his head down to try and catch your eye. You glance up at him, but the fluttering in your stomach returns and forces your eyes back down.

“Oh yeah?” You murmur, thanking god for the dim lighting around you.

“Mhm. He mentioned you, actually.” 

Pause.

Kwon Soonyoung was the only person in the world who knew about your years-long crush on your best friend. If you could even call it a crush at this point. You’d admitted to yourself long ago that you were in love with him, admitted it to Soonyoung a few months back. You should’ve known better than to trust the mouthiest person in your friend group. 

“Now I’m curious,” you lift your head again, steeling yourself against the onslaught of nausea at what your mutual friend could have said. 

“He said,” Joshua shifts in his seat, running his tongue over his lower lip. “That you have feelings for me.”

Damn you Kwon Soonyoung. 

You nod slowly, lowering your fork onto the ceramic plate in front of you. The pounding in your chest has returned, hitting so hard against your ribs that you fear your heart will pop out and land right on the table in front of Joshua. 

“And…do you believe him?” You ask, failing to control the fear in your voice. Joshua smiles, and for a moment you let the fear wash away. Joshua Hong is the last person that you should feel afraid of. He was kind, he would never intentionally harm someone whether emotionally or physically, and he understood you better than most other people. You try to keep this in mind as you make eye contact. 

“I would be lying if I said that I didn’t at least hope he was telling the truth.” Joshua sits up, lacing his hands together and resting his elbows on the table. A spark, and you find the corners of your lips lifting. “Otherwise, my plans for the evening are a bit…a bit ruined, I guess.”

“You had other plans?” The champagne burns against the back of your throat as you down the rest of your glass. 

“Depends on how you respond to my question.” His eyes burn into yours and suddenly the table for two feels a lot smaller. 

“What question is that?” I already know, and I know my answer.

“Are you,” Joshua slides his glass to the side, “in love with me.”

“Yes.” You respond without hesitation, ripping the band-aid off and shocking both of you. Never had you been this forward with Joshua. You were always somewhat reserved with…everything, really. Past relationships, struggling with a subject, a pet passing away. You never wanted to let Joshua in and it made his heart swell that you did now. “I’ve— I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”

Joshua sucks in a sharp breath of air, leaning back in his seat and smiling thoughtfully.

“I answered your questions,” you drum your painted nails on the table. “Now you get to answer mine.”

“Ask away.” Joshua waves his hand. 

“What sort of plans did you have for us?” 

The question was innocent— at least to you it was— but as you watch Joshua’s eyes darken with lust, you realize that the implications…may not have been as innocent as you had believed. You think he knows where your mind has derailed to, knows what thoughts have begun to plague you. 

Joshua tips back his glass of champagne, and you watch him carefully. You allow yourself to admire the way his neck cranes, the way his jaw is hit by the light. He drains the golden liquid in two long sips, wiping away the excess that rested on his lips with a delicate swipe of his thumb. 

“We’ll get to that,” he emphasizes the word, watching you tilt your head down and bite at your lip. “I have some other things I’d like to do before anything else.”

He flags down your waiter, calmly asking for the bill. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, disturbed by how the mild flirting had already gotten you worked up, but wait patiently for Joshua. You wouldn’t deny the fact that you were eager to see what he had in store for the two of you, what he’d planned on such short notice. 

“You ready?” He taps the table with one finger, already beginning to stand. 

“As I’ll ever be.” Your lips twist into a smile as he helps to pull out your chair, grabbing your jacket before you even had a chance to reach for it. “Aren’t you just a gentleman?”

“You should know by now that all I’m doing is the bare minimum.” He scolds, and you don’t pretend you don’t notice his eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips. 

“Best friends don’t pull out chairs for each other.” It’s a joke, both of you know it. You’re fully aware that after tonight, neither of you will ever be best friends again. Whether he asks you to stay with him or not, at the end of the night nothing will be the same. This doesn’t, however, stop Joshua from scoffing and tugging you by the waist to come closer to him. You stumble, nearly falling into his chest had his hands not been right there to catch you. 

“I think you know,” his voice is a quiet rumble, “that we’re never going to be best friends again after this, Y/N. You’re mine now, and I don’t think I’ll ever let you go.”

You have to fight everything inside of you to not yank him down by that dark hair of his and kiss him in the middle of that crowded restaurant. Thankfully, it looks as if Joshua is fighting that same urge, one hand dropping down and the other sliding to the small of your back to guide you toward the door. 

You’re mine now.

It’s a wonder that you make it to the car without jumping Joshua’s bones, but it seems you have more self-control than you’d given yourself credit for. The whole ride to…wherever it was that Joshua was taking you, you somehow managed to keep your hands in your lap, rubbing at your palm with your thumb. From the corner of your eye, you can see Joshua. He has one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the center console. He glances at you periodically, scanning your side profile.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” Joshua comments, drumming his fingers while you wait at a stoplight. Your eyes flick to his, and you purse your lips. “Are you…did I make you uncomfortable at all? Do— do you want me to bring you home?” 

“No,” you tell him quickly, shaking your head. “No. I want to stay with you.” 

The response soothes him, and he lets his hand drift to your thigh. He lets it hover over your exposed skin, waiting for you to push him away before he finally lets it rest on you. His hand is warm, his touch sending sparks through your body. You swallow hard, leaning back against the seat and staring at the road in front of you. Would it be wrong to tell him you want him to touch you more? To bring his hands just a bit higher, to—

Joshua’s hand squeezes a bit, drawing you back to reality. The light is green now and your body jerks as he presses on the gas. He lets his hand drift a bit higher, grazing underneath the fabric of your dress before stopping. Heat begins to pool in the pit of your stomach and you contemplate grabbing his hand and putting it right where you need it if he doesn’t move faster.

“You’re a menace.” You click your tongue and Joshua looks at you with a mocking pout.

“I didn’t do anything!” 

He’s right. Technically he hadn’t done anything. You, however, were on the verge of doing something very…inappropriate if he didn’t knock it off.

“I’m sure you didn’t.” You let your hand fall to his, tracing the back of it with your pointer finger, and watch the veins pop as he squeezes for the third time. You’re approaching a very familiar street with some very familiar houses. “Are we…are we going back to my place?” 

Joshua smirks. “Small change of plans.”

The giddiness inside of you returns, your head spinning as you think of all the things he could (and likely would) do to you. Your fingers lace through his, your heel-clad foot tapping against the floor protector in his car as he pulls into your driveway. He puts the car into park but leaves the engine running. For a few moments, neither of you says anything. The air between you is thick with tension, tension that grows when he tugs you toward him. 

“Tell me now if you don’t want this.” Joshua breathes out, his lips mere centimeters from your own. If you tilt your head just a bit, you’ll be able to kiss him— something you’ve craved since the day you met him. “Tell me now and I’ll walk you to your door and say goodnight.” 

“And if I do want this?” Your eyebrow arches, a playful look in your eyes. “What then, Joshua Hong?”

His eyes flutter, exhaling heavily as he tries to keep his composure.

“You’re going to be the death of me, I think.”

When Joshua kisses you, it isn’t as rough as you’d imagined. No, he’s gentle with you. His kiss ignites a fire inside of you, the flames swirling through your veins and heating your body until you fear you’re burning up. He cradles your jaw in one large hand as if you were glass and you would shatter if he held you too roughly. His lips move softly against your own, parting the slightest bit to catch your lower lip with his teeth. It’s a delicate dance, almost playful, and you couldn’t have asked for anything more. Your head tilts, allowing you to kiss him deeper, and a quiet groan leaves him. You smile a bit into the kiss, Your hand sliding up his chest to curl into the fabric of his shirt and pull him closer to you. Both of you ignore the fact that your body is halfway across the center console, your thigh resting on the seat between his legs keeping you propped up when his hands become distracted by the curves in your hips

The two of you only stop when you feel like you can’t breathe, your chest tight with the lack of air. 

“You taste good,” Joshua murmurs, his nose nudging yours as he gazes at you with heavy eyes.

“You think so?” Your lips press against his jaw, and he smiles tightly.

“Mhm.”

“You should turn off the car and take me inside so you can find out what else tastes good.”

That must have been the right thing to say, because Joshua’s eyes darken in an instant and then he’s shutting the engine off, slamming his car door shut, and walking quickly over to your side. When he opens your door, you don’t wait for him to outstretch his hand before you practically spring to your feet, grabbing him by the sleeve and yanking him after you. He laughs as he stumbles along behind you, tugging his arm out of your grasp and squeezing at your waist over the fabric of your dress. Your hands are trembling, the heat in your stomach growing more intense by the minute.

“Struggling, pretty girl?” 

His breath against your ear and his lips on your neck sends chills down your spine and you inhale sharply as his hand wraps around yours to help you guide the key into the lock. Your eyes are starting to flutter, your feet stumbling into the foyer of your home. Joshua presses you onward, one of his hands on the small of your back and the other flicking on the lights. You spin around to face him, your hands coming to his chest and curling around his tie to pull him down to kiss you again.

“At least let me get you upstairs,” he mumbles against your lips, grinning when you whine in protest.

“Can’t wait that long,” you deny, already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He grins, backing you through the doorway to your living room. 

He stops your movements to spin you away from him. You face your window now, curtains drawn and the windows to your neighbor's house across the street staring right back at you. “All your neighbors will see us. Is that what you want?” He’s kissing down your neck, hands trailing to the back of your dress to undo the clasp. 

“Let them see.” You hold your head high, hands clenching into fists as the fabric slides down your body and hits the ground with a soft thump, leaving your body completely bare except for a thin pair of lacey panties. “Let’s put on a show for them.” 

“Interesting.” Joshua seems entirely unaffected by the statement, but the way he pulls you back against him to grind against the growing bulge in his pants is saying something entirely different. “Didn’t take you as someone to like being watched. I’ll have to explore that another time.” 

You mean to respond, words forming at the tip of your tongue but never escaping your lips as Joshua pushes at your shoulder, slowly guiding you to the ground. Your knees fold beneath you, your eyes wide and filled with stars as he moves into your line of vision and then away from you. You watch as he lets the curtains fall and cover your windows, and then he turns back to face you and continues to unbutton his shirt, loosening his tie until it hangs loosely around his shoulders.

“What are you doing, Shua?” Your voice is weaker than you’d wanted it to be. 

Joshua smiles coyly, leaning down until he’s at eye level with you. “I said that I would explore that at a later date, pretty girl. Not tonight. Tonight, you’re mine.”

“Yours?” Your hand rises to cup his cheek similarly to how he held yours just a few minutes ago. 

“Mine.” 

His knees hit the ground on either side of you, leaning over your body until you’re forced to lay back. Your legs stretch out to make his position a bit more comfortable, your knees rubbing together in anxious anticipation for what’s to come. 

You expect him to kiss you, your lips starting to pucker and your eyes fluttering shut as he lowers his face to yours once again, but nothing happens. Your eyes open to find him mere inches from you with that same smirk playing on his lips. 

“What are you smirking at?” You ask him, but he doesn’t answer. He shifts further down your body, laying a soft kiss on your collarbone that has your breath hitching briefly. Another kiss, this one closer to where your heart lays pounding underneath your ribs. Your hand twitches, aching to run through his hair, but the second you move to act on this urge he’s pinning your hand to the ground and glowering at you. 

“No touching.” Joshua commands, mouthing at the soft flesh of your breast. “Not until I’ve tasted every last inch of your skin.” 

He slips further down your body, leaving trails of soft kisses in his wake. The only sound in the house is the soft pop as his lips leave your skin and the heaviness of your breathing. 

When Joshua reaches the hem of your panties, he stops and trails his finger along it. The brush of his skin on yours is so subtle, yet you’re addicted to the feeling of it. So many nights you had cum to the thought of him tugging your panties down your legs, his eyes boring into yours as he lowers his mouth to your glistening cunt, imagining how it would feel to have him licking and sucking nipping at your folds. So many nights, and yet nothing comes even close to how it really feels. 

The second he runs his tongue from your hole to your clit, your back is arching off the ground and a loud gasp is echoing throughout your home. Your hands fly to Joshua’s hair despite his prior instructions, but he doesn’t seem to care as he drags his tongue and teeth across you. Your legs try to squeeze around his head, attempt to trap him against you, but he doesn’t let you. His large hands pry your legs away from him, squeezing harshly at your thighs and pinning them to the ground on either side of you.

He mumbles into your cunt with loud and drawn out sounds that reverberate through your body and have your legs jerking with pleasure. 

“Shua,” you gasp out, your eyes rolling as he sucks particularly hard at your clit. “Shua, fuck.” 

A loud smack rings out, and your thigh begins to sting. Your eyes widen, your head lifting off the ground at the same time that Joshua’s pulls away from you, his mouth dripping with your arousal. 

“What the fuck—” 

Another smack to the side of your thigh, and you yelp. Joshua raises an eyebrow. 

“Want me to keep going?” You can’t tell if he’s insane or not. You can’t tell if you want to smack him or beg him for more. You don’t get the chance to retort before he’s smacking your thigh again, harder this time. “That wasn’t rhetorical, pretty girl.”

Your teeth grind together, and one of your feet comes to his shoulder to shove him back. Maybe he lets you push him back. Maybe he wants you to fight back. Maybe he was waiting for it, because when you lean your body over him, he’s grinning maliciously at you.

“Who do you think you are, smacking me like that?” You hiss, and he pouts.

“Like what? Like this?” His hand comes down again, this time directly on your ass and sending waves of pain and pleasure through your body. 

“Joshua Hong,” you snap, but there’s no real anger behind it as you begin to grind your lower body into his clothed cock. His hands come to rest on your waist, watching as you try to form words and pleasure yourself at the same time. “If you keep pulling shit—”

Smack

Your body shudders and an airy moan pushes out of your lips despite how you fight it. Joshua grins again.

“What were you saying, pretty girl? If I keep pulling shit…what? What are you going to do, baby?” 

You can’t answer him, your hips rolling into his harder and faster as you approach your high. 

“Oh, baby.” Joshua coos, his voice shockingly stable despite how you’re practically riding him over his pants, effectively ruining them with your juices. “You’re a little desperate, aren’t you?”

“Oh shut up,” you whine, folding forward until your mouth is right next to his ear. Your moans and whines are right in his ear now, intentional on your part, and his grip on your waist tightens. “Feels so good, Joshie.”

“Yeah?” He’s quieter now, a low growl in the back of his throat as he fights to keep his hips on the ground. Fights to let you have your little moment, your little bit of control over him. “How good, baby?”

“Gonna cum,” your lips find the skin beneath his ear, sucking a mark into his flesh as your hips begin to stutter. “F— god, Shua, please!”

“It’s okay, pretty girl,” Joshua coos, a bit of pride welling in his chest at how fast you learned. “You can let go. Go ahead and cum for me, pretty girl.”

Almost as soon as he says those words, you’re letting out a loud, near pitiful moan and your body begins to shake over his. A wave of arousal soaks into his pants, seeping through and beginning to wet his boxers, but he doesn’t mind. Not when the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen is cumming for him, moaning his name and no one else’s. 

Joshua can’t stop his hips from jerking into yours, pleasuring you even as your orgasm begins to ebb away. When he sits up, he cradles the back of your head in one hand, his eyes boring into yours in such a way that has you whining for him, clinging to his shoulders and turning away. 

“So pretty when you cum,” Joshua murmurs, lifting the two of you up and giving you a second to wrap your arms and legs around him as he loops around your living room to the couch. “Gonna fuck you now, okay pretty girl?”

“Okay,” you nod, but your eyes aren’t focusing and neither is your mind. It feels like you’re on cloud 9, and Joshua hasn’t even taken his pants off yet. 

He peers down at you, mild concern showing in his delicate features. 

“Y/N,” his hands are caressing your sides gently, pulling you back down to focus on him. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” you promise, smiling lightly at him. “I just…it’s hard for me to actually, like, believe that you want me how I want you.” 

Joshua smiles. “And how, exactly, do you want me?”

“Wholly. I want everything. I want all your love, all of your problems, every doubt, and every moment— good or bad.” His eyes soften as you speak, and for the first time that night he’s the one that’s gone quiet. “I want you carnally, I want you to crave my touch and my taste as much as I crave yours. Every kiss, every intimate moment. I want them all.”

“And you’ll have them.” Joshua promises, and then he’s kissing you again. It’s a deep, lingering kiss. His lips part against your own, your tongues dancing together but not dominating each other. Your hands cup his neck, holding him close to you, and in that moment you don’t hear the clinking of his belt or the sound of his zipper sliding down. 

“You promise?” You pull away from him, your lungs burning from the lack of air. Joshua smiles at you, and his lips press against your forehead. 

“I think you know the answer to that, pretty girl.” 

And you do. 

He would never have to say it, you always know. Joshua Hong, in all the years you’d been best friends, had never once told you something if he didn’t 100% believe it, if he wasn’t absolutely sure that he would or could hold himself to it. He didn’t have to promise you, you could see it in the way he looked at you. Soft eyes, pretty smile, that little wrinkle in his nose. You knew the answer. 

“I’m gonna start pushing in now,” Joshua murmurs, aligning his cock with your entrance, shuddering at the seemingly never ending flow of arousal. “Let me know if you need me to slow down or stop.”

“Okay,” you nod, draping your arms over his shoulders and forcing your body to relax. 

He pushes in slowly, but the stretch of him filling every little crevice inside of your cunt stings and causes you to let out a whimper. 

“I know,” he whispers, “just take it all, baby. Take it all for me like a good girl.” 

Your body shudders at that, and you let your head fall back onto the cushion below you. Inch by painful inch, he slides into you until your body begins to convulse and try to force him out. 

“Baby,” Joshua grinds out between gritted teeth, “You gotta stop clenching like that.”

“I— I can’t.” You moan out, your back arching off the couch. “Hurts so good, Shua.”

“That so?” Joshua grunts and shoves the last few inches into you, relishing in the pretty little wail that escapes you. “That’s another thing I’ll have to make note of, huh?” 

He doesn’t give you much time to respond before he’s hauling your legs up and around his waist, one hand gripping the arm of the couch and the other planted beside your head. A silver chain dangles above you, glittering in the low lighting of the living room but capturing your attention just long enough to tell Joshua to start moving. 

“Can’t,” he tells you breathlessly. “Fuck, clenching so tight I can’t move.”

“I don’t care.” You whine. “Just fuck me, please Shua, please, please, please fuck me—”

He cuts you off with a sharp thrust of his hips, shoving his dick just that tiny bit further into you that has you gasping as the air is punched out of your chest. 

“You’re lucky I love you.” He groans as he slowly pulls back, his dick practically drenched in your arousal, and then thrusts sharply back in, sheathing entirely inside of you. You cry loudly, a tear slipping down your cheeks and your legs tightening around his waist. Joshua repeats the action again and again, drinking in the way your head lolls to the side, your tongue practically hanging out of your mouth. 

Then he begins to fuck you, just as you asked. He thrusts into you with hard, deep strokes that have you wailing and thrashing against the couch cushion. Your body is convulsing beneath him, and he can only watch like a god watching his worshippers, as you beg for him to fuck you harder, faster, deeper as if he isn’t already going hard and fast and deep to a point beyond your fucked out mind’s comprehension. The couch shifts slightly on the ground, scraping against your hardwood floor, but the sound is drowned out by the combined volume of your cries and moans and whimpers along with his grunts and little moans. 

“Close,” he grunts, his head dropping to your chest to bite and suck at one of your tits. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

You clench around him in response, your back arching off the cushion to get closer to his mouth, relishing in the pleasure he’s providing you. “S—so good, Shua. Fuckin’ me so good.”

“Yeah?” He pulls away from your chest, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead as he stares down at you. “Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum all over your best friend?”

Your body shudders in response, and suddenly your vision goes white. You can faintly hear your own voice, your own pleads and screams of Joshua’s name as he pounds into you, forcing your juices out of you and giving you no time to recover from your orgasm before he’s shifting his hips and driving his cock into a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. Your hand clamps down over your mouth to muffle the animalistic sounds that pour out of you, but Joshua rips your hand away, pinning it down on the couch.

“Don’t you dare muffle a single sound that comes out of you,” he hisses. “Not a single one.”

You don’t have the strength, will, or energy to respond to him. Not as his cock begins to twitch inside of you and another orgasm threatens to wash over your body. One of Joshua’s hands, the one that had been pinning your hand to the couch, moves over your hip, and his eyes stay on you as his thumb begins to rub hard circles into your clit.

“Oh my—” your voice cracks. “Fuck, oh my god, Shua!”

“Cum for me,” he grunts, forcing his orgasm back so he doesn’t cum before you, despite you already having done so twice now. “Now, baby. God, please cum for me.”

And you do. 

It crashes over you like a rockslide, rough and strong, and crushing everything in its path. Your cunt clenches around Joshua so tightly you fear you might break him, but he only moans out your name and begins to spill white-hot cum inside of you. The combined fluids from the both of you are forced out as Joshua continues to fuck into you, slowly now compared to before. Soft, deep thrusts that carefully bring you down from the edge until both of you have finished, laying spent on your now ruined couch. 

“That…” your voice is raspy. “Is that how you’re gonna fuck me every night?”

“Is that how you want me to fuck you every night?” Joshua’s tongue laves over your skin, pressing gentle kisses against your neck. 

You think he knows the answer, but you tell him anyway with a sly grin on your face.

“You promised.”

© itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[bonny-kookoo]

Finish Line request!

I find the first meetings fascinating, so I'm sorry if I always ask for them... But if possible, first time nerdyJK and MC met, please!

"I think this one looks angry." You speak up, making Jungkook snap his head up towards you.

He's- a little taken aback. You.. do not look like the type of girl to really go to a motor show on your own accord. And, considering how utterly pretty you are, you're probably here with your boyfriend- who must be a total idiot to leave you alone like that, if one was to ask Jungkook.

"Don't you think?" You look at him now, curious smile on your shimmering lips. "It's frowning." You giggle, and he can't find words for a second, before he moves a little to stand next to you, looking at the front of the currently displayed race car.

It's a Ford Fusion- one of the cars with some of the most wins in Nascar history up until now. And now that he looks at it..

"It uh.. it does." He mumbles, making you laugh. At him? Or with him?

"See! Told you." You beam, swaying back and forth on your high heeled shoes. Your skirt is short, nails a pale pink. There's a hello kitty charm on your bracelet. Your entire outfit seems to be matched by the theme of that little cat, in fact.

"I guess.." He says, scolding himself. This is why he's fucking single. He just can't talk to girls at all, not at his school, not now. He's about to graduate for fucks sake, and he's still a virgin.

"Do you know a lot about cars?" You wonder, and he shrugs.

"A little." He admits. He actually knows a lot. But he doesn't want to seem nerdy.

"Heh, I don't buy that." You grin at him with a suspicious gaze. "I don't know shit about them. I'm scared to drive, actually." You admit.

"H-how so?" He asks. Keep the conversation going Jungkook, you're doing great!

"My dad and I went camping like, five years ago I think?" You say, tilting your head a bit in thought, before you lift your skirt a little- not enough to show off anything scandalous, but enough to show a clear scar, faded, but very visible on your thigh. "He crashed that car 'cause he was drunk. One of the metal pipes went right-" You turn your body and leg- another scar on the other side of your thigh, "-through my leg." You explain.

"Oh.." Jungkook doesn't know what else to say.

"I'm terrified of it now. My friends and I went here by train because I still can't stand driving in a car." You laugh.

"M-maybe.. you could start with slow steps?" He wonders. "Like- just sit in one for a bit. No driving, just.. I don't know, read a book. To.. make yourself feel comfortable little by little." He explains, muscles trembling a little as he forces his voice to stay strong.

"Huh. That.. sounds actually really smart." You pout to yourself. "I think I'll do that." You chirp, and he smiles in return, making you open your mouth to say something, when a friend calls your name, catching up to you, and taking your attention away as you wave at him as you walk away.

And Jungkook brushes it off in disappointment, unaware that just a year later he'd meet you again, at a coffee shop he'd visit with his friends.

"Oh." His eyes widen as he recognizes your pretty face, hair a bit different now, but still fitting you well.

You seem to think for a second, and then you smile that million-dollar-smile at him again, ceramic braces almost invisible to him if he wasn't so focused on details all the time.

"Oh, it's you!" You beam at him happily.

"It's me." He chuckles, friends behind him both confused and a little impressed that he seems to know you. "I uh.."

"Do you wanna go on a date?" You ask him boldly, and his eyes are as wide as they go. "I mean- this is the second time I meet you. Gotta be a sign from upstairs- or downstairs, I don't really care." You joke, leaning forwards a bit.

"I mean- yeah? Yeah! Yeah let's uh.. I don't know?" He stutters a bit helplessly.

"Cool!" You giggle. "That's.." You mumble, writing something down on his receipt. "..my number. Just text me whatever- just no dick pics please, those are kinda cringe." You say, making him frown a bit to himself before he laughs.

"Don't worry, I won't." He promises, before he pays for his drinks, and leaves with his friends-

His first date with you not even a week later, marking the beginning of a love that will last forever.

[slowburningechoes]

confessions over cocoa ❆

Summary: Sipping on hot chocolate with the love of your life seems like the perfect time to reveal the secret you've been keeping.

Pairing: Domestic!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: just some tooth rotting fluff, domestic Christmas activities, caloric consumption, pregnancy, giving this man children because CBS writers are cowards

Word Count: 1.2k

"Seems your PhD in chemistry is finally coming in handy," you tease, sipping on a mug full of hot chocolate Spencer had made from scratch.

A scoff fell from his lips, "Finally? You know I've defused chemical bombs and deciphered the elements in hundreds of biological and chemical weapons, right?"

You roll your eyes sarcastically, "Yes, I know, boy genius. I'm just saying that all this is the best application of your skills." You lift your mug up and point to it.

"Well, I'm glad that my years of academic research has yielded an expert cup of hot cocoa for you," Spencer rolled his eyes, pouring some from the warm pot and into a mug that matched yours.

"Don't forget the homemade sugar cookies last week," you add, smirking at him mischievously.

Spencer almost spits out his drink as he laughs. "I should've just become a baker instead of a profiler, huh?"

You sit your cup down on the island and move to place your body in front of his. "No, we still need to work on your icing skills, honey."

"Presentation isn't everything - like you said, they were delicious," Spencer sat his mug down, too, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"And either way you'd be busy this time of year," you say, matter-of-factly.

"Hmmm, that's true," he leaned down, pressing his lips against your forehead. "But at least as a baker, I'd have some down time throughout."

You found yourself shaking your head, "You're proud of the work you do and I am proud of you. I wouldn't want to change that for all the endless sweets in the world. Besides, I hold down the fort pretty well while you're away."

"I hate that you have to do so much on your own," he whispers, running his fingers down your spine. "You run the bookstore, you check in on my mother, and you take care of everything here. You even managed to put up all of these Christmas decorations without needing me to reach something for you."

You slap his arm lightly in response to the joke about your height before pulling him into the living room with you. His expression was one of confusion as you rustled under the ornamented tree.

"What are you looking for, baby?" he inquired, attempting to aid in your search.

Before you can respond, you spot it - a small rectangular box wrapped in dark green paper with a golden twisted ribbon on top. You turned to him, holding it in your hand unsteadily.

"I was going to save this until the morning since it will officially be Christmas," you begin, "but I feel like now is the perfect time for this gift."

You had it to Spencer, who still had a curious look on his face.

As he rustled with the paper, you added, "Also, I love taking care of things here. I love taking care of you - of us."

A smile spread across his face, popping off the lid of the sturdy box. "I love you, y/n." He unfolds the tissue paper that hid the gift.

"I love you, too," you respond, rocking back and forth on your toes waiting for him to see it.

Spencer lifted up the small round object into the palm of his hand, admiring its ceramic detail. "An ornament?" he asked, a befuddled yet pleasant tone in his voice.

"Just one last one to hang before tomorrow morning," you bite your bottom lip nervously, moving to his side to view the ornament next to him. "Look at it closely."

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows and squinted to read the engraved script. As he realized, his breathing became hitched and his jaw dropped. The room was silent for a moment longer than you expected, which made the lump of anxiety grow in your throat.

"Soon to be...," he read, tracing his fingers over the text. "A family of three?"

"The rhyme is cheesy, I know but-," you justify before he cut you off.

"You're pregnant?" Spencer asks, his voice soft but higher in pitch. Tears began to form in his eyes and he softly bit down on his lower lip.

You nod earnestly, your eyes also beginning to fill with tears. "Mhm, turn it over." He doesn't move though, so you reach into his palm and flip it over yourself.

The opposite side revealed a picture from your ultrasound. The fetus was just defined enough for the various parts of his body to be obvious. As soon as Spencer laid eyes on it, he raised his free hand to wipe away the tears that were now rolling down his flushed cheeks.

"H-how long have you known?" he asked, barely able to get the words to escape his mouth.

"I had my suspicions when I missed my cycle awhile back, but I didn't want to jump to conclusions," you begin, rubbing your thumb against your sweaty hand. "But then it still hadn't come when you left for the case last weekend, so I bought a few tests. They all came back positive... but I still couldn't believe it, so I went to the doctor where they confirmed it with a blood test and well - this. She says I'm eight weeks along."

You looked up at him with anxious yet hopeful eyes. His eyes broke from his trance on the ornament to you and a huge grin spread across his face. The mix of happy tears streaming down his face and his goofy smile makes you fall for him even deeper.

"Y/n," Spencer sighs, placing his free hand on the side of your face, before kissing you fiercely. "I-I can't believe it. We're going to be parents, I-I'm going to be a father!"

His hands quickly moved to place the ornament safely on the tree before dropping to his knees in front of you.

Spencer gently placed his head against your stomach and began whispering to your unborn child. "I already love you so much, little one. You have no idea how excited I am to meet you."

You practically melted in that moment, just admiring his attentive nature and softness. He had waited forever to have children and you had talked about it for years, but it hadn't happened until now. You always knew he would make the perfect father and this just confirmed it all.

"You are already so perfect," he says in a hush. "I can't wait to hold you."

You run your fingers through his curls, pressing him against you softly. "What do you think it is, Spence? A boy or a girl?"

"I don't even have a guess - b-but, truly I don't think I have a preference either way," he responds, coming back up to his feet and embracing you. "Either way, this baby will be so loved. I can't believe we made a baby."

"Hopefully they're just as smart and charming as you," you say, cuddling into his chest.

"I already know they'll be beautiful like their mother," Spencer mumbles against your skin, placing a firm kiss upon the top of your chest.

You had always felt that "home" feeling wrapped in Spencer's arms, but something about carrying his child inside you and bringing them into the world made you feel complete. Even just the two of you made a family, but this third addition was the most welcomed gift you could have received this holiday season.

[theconstellationprincess]

House and Home

Chapter 6: Sting

TW: Non-graphic injury description, let me know if I need to add any!

-

Pix hummed as he drank his coffee. He had taken it onto the porch, watching as the sun made is ascent over the hills surrounding their hidden house. He contemplated the events of the past few days, truly so much had happened in such a short period of time. He jumped and dropped his coffee as someone grabbed his shoulders suddenly.

"Fwhip!" Pix gasped, clutching at his heart as he turned around to face his friend. "You gave me a heart attack." Fwhip chuckled, looking at the puddle of coffee slowly absorbing into the deck and the shards of ceramic.

"Sorry," Fwhip apologised, scratching the back of his head. "I didn't mean to scare you- Well I did, but not that bad." Pix gave a fond sigh and shook his head.

"It's fine, just don't tell the others okay?" They both laughed and Pix crouched down to start collecting the remains of the coffee mug. He'd have to let Katherine know it had broken, but he would force Fwhip to come along with him for that. He hissed as his focus slipped and one of the glass shards pierced his palm, dragging down as he dropped it suddenly.

"Are you okay?" Fwhip asked, gently grabbing Pix's hand and pulling it towards his face. He wiped at the cut with his sleeve, frowning curiously at it. "It's pretty long, but it doesn't look too deep." Pix nodded, feeling light headed. He was not the biggest fan of blood, his or not. Fwhip let go of his hand and Pix stood up, staring at the cut with a frown. It didn't hurt, really, but it stung and he'd had a rough couple of days, or that was what he told himself when he found his eyes welling up with tears.

He quickly wiped at his eyes, but Fwhip caught notice, and gave him a curious look. "You alright, buddy?"

Ah. Oh. Pix inhaled shakily, shoving down the pesky small feelings that threatened to overtake his brain. Pet names, he wasn't used to hearing them so casually and they made his head go fuzzy. "Fine," Pix replied squeakily. He cleared his throat, "I'm good, Fwhip, honestly. I just need to disinfect this and get it wrapped up." Even the thought of it, having to rinse the cut and seeing the blood was enough to send his hands shaking, or was that the anxiety about Fwhip knowing his secret?

"Come on, I'll help you. It's my fault after all." Pix shot his eyes towards his friend, searching for he doesn't know what in his gaze, but there was nothing but kindness. Pix swallowed, but nodded. He tossed on a smirk, playfully complaining that of course Fwhip had to help, he had caused so much damage that honestly, he should do whatever Pix says until the end of time.

-

They made their way inside, almost no one else was awake yet so it was a short, unobstructed walk to the bathroom. Fwhip patted the counter a few times, giving a Pix a look he couldn't decipher before ducking into the cabinets under the sink to search for the first aid kit.

After a moment of hesitation, Pix jumped up onto the counter, inhaling and exhaling sharply when he accidentally looked at his hand again. It was still bleeding, but not as much. Fwhip popped back up, holding the kit. He gave Pix a small smile as he opened it up and pulled a few things out.

"I'm going to rinse it with water from the sink first, and then disinfect it, before bandaging it. Does that sound okay?" Fwhip asked gently, reaching towards his hand. Pix thrust the offending appendage towards him, breathing shakily as he nodded.

Fwhip narrated what he was doing in a soft voice, telling Pix what to expect. He murmured soft words as he disinfected it, apologising soothingly and stroking the top of Pix's hand with his thumb. Katherine had apparently expected some injuries, because there were several types of bandages with different designs. Fwhip let him pick, and praised his choice of a steampunk design, making Pix blush. He swung his legs as Fwhip taped the bandage onto his hand, and couldn't help but laugh when he pressed a gentle kiss to the bandage.

"All better," Fwhip told him with a soft smile, Pix beamed back.

"All better," He parroted, legs still swinging off the bathroom counter. Somewhere, in the back of his head, alarm bells were going off and his brain was shouting at him to stop and think and act his age, but Fwhip was offering him a hand off the counter and Pix was taking it and not letting go, even once his feet were back on the floor.

Noise sounded from the hallway outside, and the fragile sense of peace was instantly shattered. Pix released Fwhip's hand like it had burned him, and gripped his wrist with his other hand so he didn't reach back out. "Thank you, really," Pix said, trying to keep his sudden panic out of his voice, "I need to, um, write a letter. To my advisers. You know how it is," Pix laughed, a touch hysterically, and darted out of the bathroom and back to his room, leaning against the door once it had been pulled shut behind him.

His heart was pounding in his ears as he realised what had just happened. What he had done. He needed to calm down, he knew that, but it was hard when he was staring at the bandage on his hand with a cog pattern, the bandage that had been softly placed on a cut by gentle hands with soft words because he had regressed in front of Fwhip again-

There was a knock on his door, jolting him out of his thoughts. "Pix, can we talk about this?" Fwhip asked through the door, he was being quiet, which was good, but he wanted to chat, which was... less good.

Pix inhaled and exhaled slowly a few times, and wiped his face clean of tears. He opened the door, plastering on a fake smile as he allowed Fwhip to enter. He closed the door softly, and had to stop himself from immediately bursting into tears when he turned to face Fwhip and his face was so soft and welcoming and-

"Can I hug you?" Fwhip asked, and Pix was nodding before he could stop himself, and then he was being hugged and crying into Fwhip's shoulder because Fwhip knew and no one was supposed to know- and Pix really shouldn't be regressed right now because it was almost time for the morning activity Katherine had planned- "Shh, " Fwhip shushed quietly, "I can hear you thinking."

"Sorry," Pix said, wincing as his voice came out high pitched and wobbly. "Sorry," He said again, but his voice did not change. "I'm sorry I'm sorry 'm sorry-" he repeated, muffling his voice into Fwhip's shoulder. Fwhip rubbed his back, shushing his muffled apologies.

"Oh Pix, you have nothing to be sorry for," Fwhip soothed, "It's okay to be small." Pix whimpered, but stopped apologising, standing wrapped in Fwhip's arms as he slowly calmed down. Eventually, he pulled away and Fwhip let go easily, looking at him with worry.

Pix blinked at him, fiddling with the edges of his jacket. He looked towards the closet, he had brought his larger sized one along with him. He wanted it. Fwhip was looking at his expectantly, and Pix blinked. He missed what was said, but before he could panic, Fwhip asked the question again.

"Can you tell me how old you are?" Pix shrugged, holding up 1 then 2 fingers. He was small enough that he was okay with being small, a rare occurrence. "Ah, we have a baby Pix do we?" Fwhip teased gently, "Where's your blanket bud?" Fwhip asked, and Pix froze, looking at his bed which was quite evidently missing the large duvet.

"Dunno," Pix said, which was true. He didn't know where it had ended up after dropping it down the laundry chute. Fwhip gave him a look, but Pix ignored it in favour of grabbing the little box from its hiding space and pulling out his pacifier to shove in his mouth. It was instantaneous, the relief it gave him. Ignoring the lack of a blanket, Pix flopped onto his bed with a soft sigh, staring at Fwhip with slightly wet eyes until he came over and sat next to him. Fwhip rubbed his back and told him a story, something nonsensical that Pix couldn't follow but just the sound of his voice was nice.

He could see why some people liked having a caregiver.

-

They sat like that for a while, Pix falling deeper into his regression as the minutes ticked by. He felt so safe here, laying next to Fwhip, so it didn't bother him much when there was a soft knock on his door, though he did turn his face to hide in Fwhip's side when the door opened.

He listened, not really processing, as Fwhip chatted with the person. The hand on his back stilled, but quickly started when he whined quietly. Fwhip and the other person laughed. Pix knew that laugh! He pulled his face from its hiding space and looked towards Joel with sleepy eyes.

"Hi Pix," Joel greeted, a bit awkwardly. Pix squirmed out of Fwhips side and shuffled over to the end of the bed, making grabby hands at Joel, who obliged and came over. Pix grabbed his hand and pulled him, making Joel stumble. Fwhip laughed as Pix continued to tug on Joel until he was laying between him and Fwhip.

"I was sent up here to get you, not join in." Joel told Fwhip, fondly exasperated as Pix fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. "I didn't know he regressed," Joel continued, much quieter. Fwhip sighed.

"I've known for a little while, but I've never taken care of him. He's scared, I think." Joel furrowed his brow a bit, confused.

"What's he scared of?" He asked, looking at Pix, who had moved on from the buttons to the fabric itself, poking at it curiously. "Most of us regress, no one's gonna judge 'im for it." Fwhip sighed again, it was a sad sound.

"Pixandria isn't as... accepting of age regression as the other empires." Fwhip explains quietly, watching Pix with a sad look. "It's something Pix is trying to undo, but it's been difficult. His advisers are... not the best."

Joel made a sympathetic sound, looking at Pix with a new understanding. He couldn't count how many times Pix had looked after him, or helped him look after Jimmy or Lizzie or both of them, so he was glad for a chance to repay at least some of that.

Footsteps sounded from outside the still open door, and the three of them looked up to see Scott standing there. He looked at Fwhip, then Joel, before his eyes settled on Pix and an understanding look washed over his face. He gave them a gentle smile.

"Katherine wants to start the activity now." Scott told them, "We're discussing secrets, I think. How old is he?'

"Baby," Fwhip and Joel said at the same time, both laughing slightly as they looked at each other. Scott nodded, a contemplative look on his face.

"Katherine isn't going to let all of you sit out, so we can bring him downstairs to keep an eye on him while everyone else does the activity?" Joel suggested, and Fwhip and Scott agreed.

Pix didn't seem to mind Joel or Scott being here, in fact he'd seemed rather ecstatic about Joel's presence, so surely he wouldn't mind paying everyone else a visit?

-

Hope you enjoyed! @little-froglight

Sorry for the time between updates, I've been really sick :(( but doing better now!

[ronsenburg]

The title of the document I'm currently writing in is "get crocheted, idiot" so. there's that. happy WIP Wednesday, everyone!

When Sylvain returns to the house a few hours later, Felix is awake and sitting at the table in Mercie’s tiny kitchen. Sun is spilling through the open windows by now, a golden light that catches up in the steam that rises in slow loops from the mug of coffee set in front of Felix, from the kettle that sits still, hot, on the stove. Felix doesn’t look up when Sylvain enters the room. It’s not anything unusual—even on the inhibitors, Felix can feel a person’s presence quicker than he can see them and, by now, Sylvain knows him better than to expect any politeness. Just another of those little idiosyncrasies to love. Felix seems a bit preoccupied, anyway, glowering down at a bundle on the table, something a deep teal in color spilling out of his hands and over the edge, down onto his lap.

“What’s that?” Sylvain asks, taking a few steps towards the table. On closer inspection, it appears to be a piece of clothing. Probably a shirt, based on the weave of the fabric, though it’s hard to tell with the way Felix has it bunched up in his fingers like that.

“The neighbor said it was for me,” Felix replies, frowning even harder as he speaks. “She said my Federation clothes looked uncomfortable.”

Sylvain has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Despite outward appearances, Felix is pretty particular about the clothes he wears. Not a lot of extraneous ornamentation to be found, sure, but things like cut and color. He’s picky. Sylvain wonders which part of that interaction was worse for Felix, having his clothing critiqued by an old bajoran woman or dealing with the awkwardness of her misplaced generosity. He doesn’t ask. 

“She has a point,” Sylvain says, instead, turning away from Felix to rummage through the cabinets around the sink, on the hunt for a mug of his own. “It gets pretty hot here in the summer, that’ll breathe better than anything the replicator makes.”

Behind him, Felix’s voice sounds mildly surprised, maybe even a little impressed. That’s a bit of a novelty. “It’s not replicated?” 

“Nah. They’re not big on that kind of thing, here. Before the occupation, textile artistry had its own caste. Pretty high up there, too. She probably wove–” the sound of various ceramic pieces clinking together interrupts his words as Sylvain reaches behind a stack of hand-fired dinner plates, “–aha, found it! But, yeah, she probably wove that fabric herself.”

Sylvain turns back, mug now triumphantly clutched in one hand, to find Felix looking at him with a strange expression on his face. He looks suspicious—no, curious—another rarity for Felix. Bajor seemed to be bringing out all sorts of new and exciting expressions so far. Who would’ve thought? 

At first, Sylvain thinks it’s his words that’ve brought that face on; mentioning a caste system, even one that he has no real connection to himself, to a Federation citizen usually tends to earn you a look or two. But Felix doesn’t actually care about history and politics like that, it’s never really been his speed. Must be something else, then. 

“What?” Sylvain asks, finally, raising his eyebrows at Felix. “Something on my face?”

Felix nods to Sylvain’s right side in subtle indication. “You’re wearing one of those earrings.”

“Oh.” Sylvain reaches up to touch the silver chain, surprised. He’s gotten used to it already, the way the metal pieces jangle softly together as he moves, the pressure of the cuff against the skin of his ear. Almost like he’s been wearing it for years. “Yeah. My mom lives around here, people sort of know me. Easier to just put it on than explain why I’m not wearing it, you know?”

Across the room, Felix’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. Of course someone like Felix, who is only ever unflinchingly and unapologetically himself, wouldn’t understand. 

[mcrdvcks]

Down Bad - Chapter 12

Chapter Summary: Amina has to fight to stay true to who she is, no matter what Palpatine or Darth Vader throw at her. But being in Imperial captivity isn't easy.

Word Count: 5.1k+

Pairing: Hunter x fem!Jedi Original Character

Notes: and here's chapter 12! sadly, we still have a few more chapters left of amina in captivity, but it's going to all come back around soon.

TW: torture (physical and mental, not heavily described), main character not in a great headspace (but no depressive, suicidal thoughts)

also, can we just talk about this scene!? it's so perfect i'm gonna cry.

Series Masterlist - Chapter 11 → Chapter 13

AO3 Link For Chapter

It was the third day she was on Mustafar and she hadn’t seen Vader since their last interaction.

Not that she was complaining, she was reading holobooks that were ‘approved’, meaning they weren’t educational, nor gave her any knowledge of what was going on in the galaxy.

She was reading a book on her datapad as she walked into the dining room and grabbed a glass of water. Amina sat down on one of the chairs and took a small sip.

Heavy footsteps could be heard as she continued to read her book, not paying any attention to Vader walking into the dining room. His presence, however, was hard to ignore in the otherwise silent castle on Mustafar.

"Amina," Vader's voice echoed in the dimly lit room, cutting through the stillness.

She looked up from her datapad, her expression guarded but curious. "Yes?" Her tone was neutral, though internally she braced herself for whatever interaction was to come.

Vader approached the table with deliberate steps, his cape trailing behind him like a dark shroud. His mask, an imposing presence, betrayed nothing of the conflict that Amina knew lay beneath its surface.

"I trust you are finding your accommodations suitable," Vader intoned, his voice a low rumble that filled the room.

Amina looked back down at her datapad. "As suitable as can be expected," she replied evenly, refusing to let him see any vulnerability.

"You have been here for three days," Vader observed, his tone almost conversational despite the underlying weight of his authority. "Have you reconsidered your position?"

Amina's jaw clenched momentarily before she replied, her voice firm. "My position remains unchanged." He stayed silent, his breathing filling the void of silence as he walked around her and grabbed something from a droid before standing across the table from her.

“You need to eat,” he said.

"I'm not hungry," Amina stated, her eyes fixed on the datapad in front of her, refusing to acknowledge Vader's presence more than necessary.

Vader stood across from her, his towering figure casting a shadow over the table. Despite the mechanical rasp of his breathing, there was a hesitancy in his demeanor that belied his usual stoicism. He placed a tray on the table between them, the clink of utensils against ceramic echoing in the quiet room.

"Amina," Vader began, his voice a low rumble, "you must eat. You need to regain your strength."

She glanced up briefly, meeting his masked gaze with a mix of defiance and weariness. "Why does it matter to you whether I eat or not?" Amina's tone held a note of accusation, a hint of the anger that simmered beneath her outward composure.

Vader paused, as if considering his response carefully. "Your well-being is... advantageous," he replied vaguely, his gloved hands resting on the back of a chair. "You are more valuable to me alive than... otherwise."

Amina snorted softly, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "So, I'm a 'valuable asset' now," she mused, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What happened to reminding you of your former self?"

Vader's masked visage betrayed no emotion, yet Amina sensed a flicker of something behind that impassive facade. "Circumstances change," he stated simply, his tone brooking no argument.

She looked down at the tray of food, her appetite nonexistent despite the gnawing ache in her stomach. "I'm not hungry," Amina repeated, her voice softer this time, tinged with resignation.

Vader regarded her for a long moment, his gloved fingers drumming lightly on the back of the chair. "You will eat," he insisted, his voice holding an edge of command. "It is not a request."

Amina's jaw clenched, her fingers tightening around the datapad. "And what if I refuse?" Her voice was a challenge, a daring defiance aimed squarely at the Sith Lord before her.

Vader's mechanical breathing seemed to fill the room, a constant reminder of his formidable presence. "You will comply," he stated evenly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“I will not. You can’t force someone to eat when they haven’t had more than a small piece of bread for over 3 months.”

"You will comply," Vader repeated, his voice a low rumble that reverberated off the stone walls. His tone brooked no argument, carrying with it the weight of authority that came with being a Sith Lord. The plate with a whole muja fruit, her favorite, and a few slices of Haroun bread were Force pushed closer to her.

Amina met his masked gaze with unwavering determination, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I will not," she declared again, her voice tinged with both exhaustion and defiance.

Vader's gloved hand tightened into a fist, the leather creaking softly. "Your stubbornness will not serve you," he warned. “You will eat, Amina."

She shook her head, her eyes blazing with a fire that even Vader couldn't extinguish. "I won't be coerced into submission," she retorted, her voice steady despite the tumultuous emotions swirling within her. "Not by you, not by anyone."

For a moment, Vader seemed almost taken aback by her resolve, but it quickly passed as he lifted the muja fruit in the air and closed his fist, causing the fruit to splatter across the dining table.

The plate also shattered as a shard cut her palm. Amina let out a small sound, close to a squeak, as she felt fear run through her body and tears start to form in her eyes. She grabbed her datapad, blood smearing on the back of it as she ran to her room and locked the door.

As Amina rushed back to her room, the sting of fear and pain pulsated through her hand where the shard had cut her palm. She leaned against the door, her breathing ragged, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Her mind raced with a mix of emotions- anger at Vader's callousness, frustration at her own helplessness, and a deep-seated fear that seemed to clutch at her heart.

She sank to the floor, clutching her bleeding hand against her chest, trying to steady her breathing. The room felt oppressive, suffocating, as if the very walls were closing in on her. Amina knew she couldn't stay locked away forever, but in this moment, the safety of her room offered a fleeting sense of refuge.

Her datapad lay on the floor beside her, smeared with her blood. She picked it up gingerly, wiping it off on her pants, though the stain remained. It was a small reminder of the brutality of her existence here.

Tears fell down her face in rapid streams, as footsteps moved closer to her door and then stopped. She felt Vader’s presence behind the door, still strong as ever, as she tried to calm her breathing.

Amina had never been scared of Anakin- or Vader before. But something as simple as getting angry at her and crushing her favorite fruit with the Force scared her straight.

"Amina," his voice echoed through the door, its mechanical tone cold and yet strangely tinged with something she couldn't quite place.

Amina remained silent, her back pressed against the door as if it could shield her from his presence. She wiped tears from her cheeks with her uninjured hand, steeling herself against the fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

"I'm sorry," Vader's voice came again, surprising her. "I did not intend to frighten you."

The apology was unexpected, and Amina hesitated, unsure how to respond. She didn't move from her spot, her gaze fixed on the door as if she could see through it into the soul of the man standing on the other side.

"Why did you crush it?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, a mix of confusion and lingering fear evident in her tone.

There was a pause, Vader seemingly considering his words before he replied, "I... reacted impulsively. I was frustrated, but that is no excuse."

Amina took a shaky breath, her hand still pressed against her chest where her heartbeat pulsed painfully against her palm. "You've never scared me before," she admitted quietly, almost to herself.

Vader's presence remained palpable outside her room, a silent sentinel in the dimly lit hallway of his fortress on Mustafar. His mechanical breathing seemed to echo through the silence, a constant reminder of his power and the distance he maintained from emotions.

"Amina," Vader's voice came again, its tone softer than usual, betraying a hint of something she couldn't quite place- regret, perhaps, or even remorse. "I did not intend to cause you fear."

Despite herself, Amina felt a surge of anger mingled with fear. "Intentions don't change actions," she replied, her voice trembling slightly. She wanted to be strong, to stand up to him, but the vulnerability of her situation was starkly apparent.

There was a pause, as if Vader was considering his next words carefully. "I... reacted impulsively," he finally admitted, his voice carrying a rare note of admission. "I was frustrated, but that is no excuse."

Amina closed her eyes briefly, taking another deep breath to steady herself. "You've taken everything from me," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the castle's machinery. "My freedom, my family... everything."

Vader stayed silent, and soon after not replying, walked away from her door, leaving her alone once again.

---

On the fifth day of staying on Mustafar, Amina and Vader flew back to Coruscant. Once back in her cell, she used her spoon to mark five more days, making it 98 days in captivity.

She heard multiple footsteps approaching her cell as Amina turned onto her stomach before the stormtroopers entered.

Amina was used to it now, they would come in and torture her, but only whip and burn the backside of her body, never the front. Maybe they did have some humanity left in them, what other reason would they have to not look into her eyes while they torture her?

The door creaked open, the harsh light from the corridor slicing through the darkness of her confinement. Two stormtroopers entered, their white armor gleaming ominously in the dimness. They moved with practiced efficiency, devoid of any emotion or hesitation. Amina closed her eyes, steeling herself against the onslaught of pain that was to come.

Whips cracked through the air, accompanied by the hiss of a thermal device. Amina bit down on her lip, stifling the cry that threatened to escape her throat. She focused on breathing, on the rhythm of the strikes against her back, trying to find a sliver of detachment amidst the agony.

After what felt like an eternity, the stormtroopers ceased their assault. Amina lay still, panting softly against the pain that radiated from her wounds. But, instead of gathering their things and quietly leaving, one of them spoke, “on your back.”

Amina froze, her breath catching in her throat. She’d grown accustomed to their routine- whips and burns, but never on the front of her body. This new command filled her with dread, her mind racing with possibilities. The stormtroopers' cold, emotionless gazes bore into her as she hesitated, trying to summon the strength to comply.

"On your back," the trooper repeated, his tone mechanical yet insistent.

With a trembling hand, Amina turned onto her back, feeling the fresh pain of her wounds pressing into the hard surface beneath her. Her heart pounded in her chest, the fear of the unknown clawing at her sanity.

They approached her, instruments in hand, and she braced herself for the worst. The first lash hit, but this time it struck her lower stomach, and she gasped, unable to stifle the cry of pain that escaped her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on her breath, willing herself to endure this new torment.

The session was brutal, each strike sending waves of agony through her body. Amina's mind drifted, seeking refuge in memories of happier times, trying to escape the unrelenting pain. But the stormtroopers were methodical, their cruelty precise and unyielding.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they ceased. Amina lay there, panting, her body a canvas of fresh and old wounds. She heard their footsteps retreating, the door slamming shut behind them. The silence that followed was deafening, her own ragged breathing the only sound in the cell.

---

There were only a few times in her life when things got truly difficult. Too difficult that she couldn’t crack a joke or make a sarcastic, witty remark.

Those things were quickly taken away from her in the first few weeks she was here. But, when she was in front of Palpatine, she made sure to continue her remarks, if only to anger him further. Or, at least try to.

Amina was on her knees in front of Palpatine’s throne, her first daily dose of torture. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing ominously across the cold stone floor. Palpatine, cloaked in black, sat upon his throne, his piercing yellow eyes fixed on her with a mixture of amusement and malice.

"You disappoint me, my dear Amina," Palpatine crooned, his voice a twisted melody that sent shivers down her spine. "Your resistance is futile. You cannot defy the will of the Empire."

Amina gritted her teeth against the pain, her muscles screaming from the strain of being forced into such a vulnerable position. She refused to meet Palpatine's gaze directly, instead focusing on a point just above his head.

"You were once a Jedi, a defender of peace and justice," Palpatine continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "And now look at you, broken and helpless."

Amina clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She had endured countless sessions like this, each one designed to strip away her spirit, to break her down into submission. But she refused to surrender, to let them extinguish the spark of defiance that still burned within her.

Palpatine gestured lazily, and two Imperial guards stepped forward, each wielding a shock prod. Amina braced herself, knowing what was to come. The crackling energy surged through her body, sending searing pain coursing through every nerve. She gritted her teeth, trying to stifle the cry that threatened to escape her lips.

"You see, my dear Amina," Palpatine's voice cut through the haze of pain, "there is no escape from the inevitable. You will serve the Empire, willingly or not."

Amina's breath came in ragged gasps as the shock prods continued their merciless assault. Her vision blurred with tears, but still, she refused to beg for mercy.

"Enough," Palpatine finally commanded, his voice echoing through the chamber. The guards withdrew, leaving Amina trembling on the floor, her body aching and bruised.

Palpatine rose from his throne, his robes swirling around him like a dark cloak. He approached Amina slowly, his yellow eyes boring into hers. "You have such potential, my dear," he murmured, almost tenderly. "If only you would embrace it."

Amina closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to look into his eyes and see yellow irises looking back at her, reminding her of Anakin burning on the shore as his own eyes turned yellow. Palpatine’s hands descended on her chin, forcing her head up. “Look at me,” he commanded softly. Amina’s gaze met his, filled with defiance but also a hint of resignation.

Amina clenched her jaw, refusing to dignify his words with a response. She knew the game he played- tempting her with power, with promises of control over her destiny. But she was no fool; she had seen what embracing the dark side had done to her brother, to the galaxy. It had brought nothing but pain and destruction.

Palpatine circled her, his presence like a shadow that threatened to engulf her. “Your spirit is strong,” he continued, his tone almost conversational. “But it is also your weakness. You cling to hope, to ideals long lost. You must learn to let go of such sentiments.”

A bitter laugh escaped Amina’s lips, startling even herself with its bitterness. “You mistake my defiance for weakness,” she retorted, her voice steady despite the fear and anger churning within her. “I will never serve you, Palps. No matter what you do to me.”

Palpatine’s eyes gleamed with amusement, as if he found her resistance entertaining. “You defy me now,” he acknowledged, his voice dripping with malice. “But you will come to see the futility of your defiance. In time.”

Amina’s breath caught in her throat as she felt a sudden surge of pain through her body. The shock prods again, their crackling energy coursing through her nerves, sending waves of agony radiating from every point of contact. She gritted her teeth, fighting against the pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her cries.

Palpatine watched with cold satisfaction as she endured the torment, his gaze unwavering. “You have great potential, Amina,” he repeated, his voice cutting through the haze of pain. “Do not let it go to waste.”

The shock prods finally ceased, leaving Amina trembling on the floor, her body racked with pain. She fought to catch her breath, her vision swimming with tears. But still, she refused to yield, to bow before the darkness that threatened to consume her.

Palpatine regarded her for a moment longer before turning away, his cloak swirling ominously around him. “Take her back to her cell,” he commanded the guards, his voice echoing through the chamber. “Ensure she understands the consequences of her defiance.”

The guards moved forward; their hands rough as they lifted Amina to her feet. She stumbled, weak from the ordeal, but her spirit remained unbroken. She refused to look at Palpatine again, her gaze fixed on the ground as they escorted her back to the darkness of her cell.

---

Days blurred into weeks as Amina endured the relentless torment of Palpatine’s interrogations and the cruelty of her captors. Each day brought new pain, new challenges to her resolve, but still she clung to the flickering ember of hope within her. It was all she had left- the belief that someday, somehow, she would be free.

In the solitude of her cell, Amina often found herself thinking of Hunter and the rest of the squad, like she always did. She could only hope that they rescued Omega before Hemlock took her away. That was more important than saving her; it would always be more important.

Amina looked at the wall that held 127 tally marks. A few weeks ago, Palpatine had his stormtroopers try a different method of torture with her, along with the shock whips, electroshock collar, and burning stones. Breaking bones.

While Amina’s had many broken bones throughout the Clone Wars, something about a stormtrooper on either side of her body, forcefully pulling and manipulating her arm was much worse than getting shot at by a clanker or falling out of the sky.

So, around the 115th mark, she started to use blood from the torture sessions to mark the rotations instead of her spoon, which she didn’t have the strength to use most days.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor outside her cell, drawing her back to the present. Amina pushed herself up onto her elbows, her muscles protesting with every movement. The cell door creaked open, and two stormtroopers entered, their helmets concealing their faces.

“On your feet,” one of them barked, his voice devoid of any humanity.

The command shocked her, they had never asked her to stand up.

Amina struggled to comply, using the wall for support as she staggered upright. The stormtroopers grabbed her roughly, their grip like iron around her bruised arms. She gritted her teeth against the pain, refusing to show any weakness in front of them.

They led her down the narrow, winding corridors of the Imperial facility, past rows of identical cells that housed countless other prisoners. Amina spared them only a fleeting glance, knowing the futility of seeking solace or companionship in this place. Each prisoner was a ghost, a shell of their former selves, broken and forgotten.

Finally, they arrived at their destination: a small interrogation chamber with a single durasteel table bolted to the floor. A cold chill ran down Amina’s spine as she stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of Palpatine or his sadistic interrogators.

One of the troopers pressed his blaster against her back, moving her closer to the table as she slowly got onto it.

The door opened again, as more footsteps entered. Two scientists strapped Amina down to the durasteel table, securing her ankles, wrists, and torso with leather belts, she gritted her teeth against the familiar wave of dread that washed over her. The stormtroopers stood guard by the door, their presence a silent reminder of her helplessness.

One of the scientists, a man with wearing goggles and a clinical demeanor, checked the restraints meticulously, ensuring they were tight enough to immobilize her but not tight enough to cut off circulation. His colleague, a younger woman with a grim expression, adjusted a control panel embedded in the table, activating various monitors and instruments that hummed to life with ominous purpose.

Amina's heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins despite her efforts to remain calm. She kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge the scientists or the stormtroopers. They were faceless instruments of the Empire, devoid of compassion or humanity.

The man looked over to her, “the Emperor decided to change things for you. You will be undergoing psychological conditioning.”

Amina's heart sank at his words. She had endured physical torment, but the idea of having her mind tampered with filled her with a new kind of dread. She fought to keep her fear hidden, knowing it would only fuel their efforts to break her.

The female scientist finished adjusting the control panel and nodded to her colleague. "We're ready to begin," she said, her voice emotionless.

The man turned his attention back to Amina, his fingers hovering over the controls. "This will be a series of sessions designed to alter your perceptions, your thoughts. You will find it difficult to distinguish between reality and the illusions we create."

Amina glared at him, her defiance still burning despite her fear. But she didn’t speak.

He pressed a button, and a wave of disorienting sensations washed over Amina. Her vision blurred, and the room seemed to twist and warp around her. She fought to hold onto her sense of self, to remember who she was and why she was resisting.

Images flashed before her eyes- scenes from her past, her training as a Jedi, moments of triumph and loss. She saw Anakin, her brother, before he fell to the dark side. She saw Hunter and the rest of the squad, their faces a source of strength and hope. She clung to these memories, using them as anchors to keep her grounded.

But the illusions grew more intense, more invasive. She saw herself betraying her friends, succumbing to the dark side, becoming a tool of the Empire. The images were vivid, almost real, and they chipped away at her resolve.

The scientists watched her closely, monitoring her reactions. "Increase the intensity," the man ordered.

The woman adjusted the controls, and the illusions became even more powerful. Amina's sense of time and reality began to fracture. She could no longer tell how long she had been strapped to the table, how many sessions she had endured.

---

The psychological conditioning sessions continued, each one more grueling than the last. Amina's mind was a battlefield, her willpower the only thing keeping her from succumbing to the illusions. She held onto her memories, her hope, and her determination to resist the Empire's attempts to break her.

One day, after a particularly brutal session, she was thrown back into her cell, her body and mind exhausted. She lay on the cold floor, staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together her fragmented thoughts.

A soft knock on the cell door drew her attention. She turned her head to see a small, hooded figure slipping inside. The figure approached her cautiously, and as they drew closer, Amina recognized them.

"Omega?" she whispered, her voice weak.

Omega knelt beside her; her eyes filled with concern. "Amina, we don't have much time," she said urgently. "We have to get you out of here."

Amina shook her head, her body too weak to move. "You shouldn't be here," she said. "It's too dangerous."

Omega's expression hardened with determination. "I'm not leaving without you," she insisted. "The others are creating a distraction. We have a chance."

But something about what she saw in front of her was too good to be true. She reached out a hand and placed it on Omega’s shoulder.

It went through her.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t-

Amina curled in on herself, her body protesting against her position, the whiplash wounds pulling tightly against her skin.

The door to her cell creaked open again, as a figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. Amina tensed, readying herself for another round of torment, but the voice that followed was familiar, comforting even amidst the darkness.

"Amina," the voice said softly.

She turned her head to see Hunter standing there, his expression a mix of concern and determination. His presence alone seemed to dispel the lingering effects of the illusion. Amina pushed herself up onto her elbows, her muscles protesting but her spirit burning with renewed hope.

"Hunter?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe he was real.

"Yeah, it's me," Hunter said, moving closer to her. He knelt beside her, his hand reaching out tentatively as if afraid she might vanish. When she didn’t, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. "We're getting you out of here."

Amina's eyes welled with tears, overwhelmed by the sight of him. "How did you find me?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion.

Hunter’s expression darkened slightly. "It wasn’t easy," he admitted. "But we knew you were here. We've been planning this for weeks."

She nodded, understanding the risks they must have taken to locate her in the heart of the Empire's stronghold. "Thank you," she said sincerely, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hunter’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek. "We're not leaving without you," he vowed, his voice firm. "Tech's got a plan to get us out of here."

“No.” She cried quietly, “no, no, no, no, no…” Amina curled in on herself again. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

Tech was dead, it couldn’t be real.

Amina spared another glance at the cell door, the room empty other than herself.

---

She could hear Palpatine chuckling to himself as he watched Amina fight 5 Inquisitors on her own in his throne room.

Amina dodged a swing from one of them and slid underneath their legs.

As she slid underneath one Inquisitor's legs, she rolled back onto her feet, a lightsaber flashing to life in her hand. The crimson blade clashed against another Inquisitor's saber, the sizzle of energy filling the air with tension. Amina knew she couldn't afford to hesitate; every strike had to be precise, every move calculated to keep her opponents at bay.

"You fight well for someone so young," one of the Inquisitors taunted, his voice laced with a mixture of admiration and malice. He lunged at her again, but Amina sidestepped his attack, countering with a quick series of strikes aimed at his exposed flank.

She could hear Palpatine's low chuckle echoing through the throne room, his amusement at her predicament evident even from afar. It fueled her determination further. She couldn't allow herself to falter, not when the lives of so many depended on her survival.

Amina pivoted on her heel, parrying a strike from another Inquisitor and using the Force to hurl him into his companion. They collided with a resounding crash, momentarily stunned. It was her chance to press the advantage.

She leaped forward, her lightsaber spinning in a defensive arc as she engaged both Inquisitors simultaneously. Their attacks were relentless, each blow pushing her back towards the edge of the room.

In a quick move, she went behind the Inquisitor as he turned around, giving her the ability to twist his arm and take his lightsaber out of his hand.

Amina quickly knocked him down as he kneeled in front of her, the lightsabers creating an ‘X’ around his neck. Anger surged throughout her body, as she pressed the lightsabers closer to the Inquisitor’s neck, the heat singing his skin.

The other Inquisitors moved to stand up, but Palpatine waved his hand, silently commanding them to remain still. The room was charged with tension as Amina's grip tightened on the lightsabers, the heat from the blades causing the Inquisitor to wince in pain.

Amina's breath came in heavy bursts, her muscles screaming in protest from the extended combat and the months of torture. She glared at the Inquisitor kneeling before her, her anger barely contained.

"Kill him," Palpatine's voice was a silky whisper, filled with dark anticipation.

Amina's heart pounded in her chest. She glanced up at Palpatine, then back at the Inquisitor. The choice he was offering her was clear: give in to the rage and hate or hold onto the sliver of light that remained within her.

Her grip faltered, and the lightsabers trembled in her hands. "No," she said, her voice hoarse but resolute. "I won't become like you."

Palpatine's eyes narrowed, disappointment flickering across his features. "Foolish girl," he hissed. With a wave of his hand, the Inquisitor was pulled away from Amina, and she found herself lifted off the ground by an invisible force.

Pain exploded through her body as Palpatine squeezed his hand into a fist. "You will learn," he growled. "You will break."

Amina gasped, her vision darkening around the edges. But she refused to scream, refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she focused on the faces of her loved ones, Hunter, Omega, Wrecker, Echo. And even Luke and Leia. They were her anchor, her reason to endure.

The pressure suddenly released, and Amina crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. Palpatine stood, his cloak billowing around him as he approached her. "Take her back to her cell," he commanded the Inquisitors. "And ensure she contemplates the consequences of her defiance."

Two of the Inquisitors moved forward, roughly hauling Amina to her feet. Her legs barely supported her, but she forced herself to stand as they dragged her out of the throne room.

tags: @callsign-denmark

[timextoxhajima]

Tea with a Lover

OLYMPUS: GENERATION SCYLLA -> JAY

"Persephone was once known as a vegetation Goddess before she married Hades and became the Goddess of the Underworld. Who were you before you let the world rid you of your identity?"

Member: ENHYPEN Jungwon

Genre: Angst, TW* Suicide

WC: 2.3k

Warnings: uh... none?

He sniffles, eyes wide as he studies the surface of the tea that's in his little ceramic cup. It has some gorgeous twirls of green and gold on the edges and the sides, and without looking, he reaches over to the sugar cubes, picking one up with the tong and plopping it into his tea.

You hadn't even noticed you were sitting right opposite him until he looks up, eyes gleaming like a curious cat with his hair neatly parted at the centre.

"Tea?" He asks, gently pushing a tea cup that seemingly formulates from thin air across the table to you. "Green? Black? Any preference?"

Above you, there's an arch, covered in green Chrysanthemums and Hydrangeas, golden leaves sprouting everywhere else as if it were the placeholder for all the green that the flowers had taken.

"Or would you prefer just biscuits and scones and muffins?"

You turn back to the table and there was a multi-layer dessert plate with the respective items he mentioned, the cup of tea that he offered you, now missing.

"Uh... I think I'd prefer to know where I am... And what I'm doing here."

He was in the middle of munching on a muffin - crumbs falling off his lips when you ask the question. He pauses, licking his lips and setting the muffin down.

He takes in a deep breath, taking a napkin and cleaning the leftover crumbs on his lips.

"Before I answer that... I have a few questions for you, and all you have to do is answer me honestly. Shall we have a deal?"

"All I want to know is where I am. I don't... think we have the time for a conversation."

"Oh, you have plenty of time. You can try to leave but you will find yourself unsuccessful. So you can either try until you've deemed your effort wasted or you can just agree to answer my questions honestly, and I will tell you where you are."

The clarity in his voice is chilling. He's sitting with his hands neatly rested on the edge of the cloth-covered table, fingers and palms intertwined with a small, inviting smile on his face.

There's an awkward silence in the air as you debate the decision to trust him, and it doesn't take him long for him to notice it.

"If you're scared, please don't be. I'm not here to hurt you, if anything, I'm here to help you. So all I need you to do is be honest with me, and that's all I am asking."

The softness in his voice. The comfort of his tone. The lack of danger posed.

You swallow, nervous.

"Okay."

He nods gently, reassuring you as he leans back in his seat, comfortable.

"Let's just... take a breather alright? Tell me about yourself. What's your favourite color? Your favourite food? Your favourite hobby?"

"Um," You rub an eye. "I like green. It reminds me of nature and people. Favourite food? Anything that doesn't have seafood in them, I'm allergic to shellfish and I'm not a huge fan of fish. Hobbies..."

A moment. For some reason, you don't remember what you loved doing.

"I... guess I don't have any. I mean I like to listen to music and go to the movies but there isn't anything I could tell someone I religiously like doing for a hobby."

"Well, what about your dislikes? Pet peeves? Bad experiences?"

"Uh... Not knowing what's... going on? Like right now. The feeling of having no control over what's happening."

His eyes are studying you, but it's not judgemental. They looked more empathetic, like he were trying to guess the words you were thinking even before you said them.

"What's your favourite memory?" He asks after a few moments of silence. "Maybe with someone, with yourself."

Memory? You scratch your brow and rub the skin on your neck, deep in thought.

"Anything that I've done with my cat. He knows when I'm sad. He knows when I'm happy and in the mood for a playful fight. We once went on a bike-hike, but that was a long time ago when he was still young. The views at the top of the hill were gorgeous and I almost lost him because he wanted so much to run into the woods."

He smiles. The ends of his eyes curl up like a cat's, and for a split moment, he looked like one.

"But after he passed, life just kind of... stopped, I guess."

"Why is that so?"

You take a moment to contemplate.

"I don't know."

He pauses. "Do you remember what life was like before you had him?"

No.

"Yeah. It was dull, but alright. You know, you just live the life of every other average Tom."

"And were there any moments in this 'dull' life you lived that you treasure?"

The question was difficult. It takes you a few moments to process it, and honestly, the answer was 'yes'.

Your first scar on your knee was from learning how to ride a bicycle, being pushed down a slope... only to fly right off because you hit the brakes all too suddenly. Going home to your mother and crying about it, only to be fed with chicken soup and have your wound dressed by her.

The scent of warm chocolate and mint in the air whilst you decorate the family Christmas tree. Watching the first snow fall from your bed, only for you to dash out into the lawn and kick it around, try to make snowballs.

Going to a party with your friends, having that sick feeling in your stomach when a boy locked eyes with you and then offered to take you for a late night stroll.

Listening to café music in a bookshop, with the scent of paper and wood in the air. The store owner was an old man who used to be a newspaper boy, and would forget about time when he brought you coffee and talked about his younger days.

"y/n," His voice breaks your train of thought. "I need you to know your life wasn't dull."

You glare at him. "You don't know what I thought about my life, and you wouldn't understand. Nobody does."

"I'm not saying I do, I'm saying that being average and being 'dull' made it any less than everybody else's."

"Unfortunately, I wanted a more-than-average life," You suck in a deep breath and look at him with some kind of authority. "My life was measured by accomplishments and the ones I had was not enough to make my life a life."

He looks at you like you were a dying puppy on the side of the road, who had been kicked at by strangers and then run over by a car.

"I don't need your pity. I don't need this therapy session. You asked me to answer your questions and I have."

He looks down at his tea cup and picks it up.

"The deal was you answer me truthfully and I answer you, but you haven't been honest."

"How will you know what's true and what's a lie? I could've been lying the entire damn time and you wouldn't know."

"But I do," He pauses, frowning and finally placing his tea cup down. "I know you were telling the truth about your cat but you were not telling the truth about how you felt about your life."

"You have no fucking right to tell me how I feel about my life."

"And you have no right to treat yourself the way everybody else has been treating you."

At this moment, the skies darken. Clouds seemingly grow thicker in just a matter of seconds and the Hydrangeas and Chrysanthemums wilt. There's a flash of lightning, then a gentle thunderclap as the rain begins to drizzle and speckle into your lashes.

"Tell me," He speaks over the sound of the rain pattering onto the arch and the surrounding ground. His voice is slightly broken, and the rain in his eyes is making it hard to tell if he was crying. "On these rainy days... Did it make you feel any worse?"

"What?" You frown at him, confused. "What do any of your questions have anything to do with rain?"

"Could you have controlled it?"

"What? The rain? No!"

The water is soaking through his hair, the water droplets falling off the edges and soaking into his emerald gown.

"Then why can't you see that half the things you blame yourself for are not within your control?"

Your heart is heavy. As heavy as the clouds and as heavy as the remorse in his voice.

"What in the world are you talking about? Where am I? What am I doing here? Who the Hell are you?"

"All those nights you cried over things that weren't in your control... The things people said and did and hurt you were not your decision to make. The feelings that made you feel the way you did is a natural reaction and none of them were your fault. Rejection is redirection, failure is a stepping stone to success. These are all just words that you can ignore but you can never forget."

Now, the rain is heavier. He's shouting across the table. The tea was getting diluted and the food on the multi-layer dessert table looked like they were falling apart.

"I exist in your heart and in your memory, and if you choose to forget the beauty that life has had to offer you, I will cease to exist."

"You're not making any sense at all," You stand abruptly, pushing the chair backwards and turning around. There were thick bushes that seemingly opened into a maze, and the thought of going into it scares you.

But he starts to shout for you, and he begins to run after you. In a bid to escape the confusion, you run into the maze.

"y/n! Where are you?"

The rain gets heavier, the winds get stronger and there are leaves flying everywhere.

You turn the corner, failing to notice the puddle of water on the floor. With a harsh exclamation, you slip and land on your knees, the pinch familiar in your legs as you look down and see the wound.

"Oh, are you alright? Come here, darling. Are you okay? Are you injured anywhere else?"

Your eyes are seeing through him, but he was there, and he felt real. Your father, patting your head and checking the bleeding wound on your knee.

"We'll wrap up for today, okay? Let's go home and get you cleaned up."

He stands, holding your hand in his.

But a flash of lightning blinds you for a second, and he disappears. Your heart drops, and you look down to see that the wound had been replaced with the scar.

You turn around to the endless lane of bush, only to see the leaves decorated with golden and silver balls. Fake snow in the form of cotton balls and bells hanging from the little branches.

Feeling sick to your stomach from how overwhelming it was, you squat, hands covering the top of your head with your forearms covering your ears.

And as the world falls to a calming silence, something warm and fuzzy brushes against your leg.

Two amber eyes stare right into yours, ears perched and curious with his head tilted to the side. His tail is politely curled to his side, sitting like a gentleman before you.

Meow.

Then there's that horrid thunderclap again, this time louder, this time harsher, and beyond him, the bush had seemingly began to be torn away, disappearing into a whitish black hole.

You reach out to the cat, and embrace him fully. Eyes shut tight and arms wrapped safely around him, you become one with everything else.

The snow is light in your beanie, gently soaking its way through and into your hair as you push the door open. The amber lighting of the store makes you feel like you had just turned back the clock.

You look around, noticing that some of the books that had normally been there had disappeared, and there were new ones on some shelves as well. There's a door opening somewhere, and you lean on one leg to peer down an isle, hoping to greet him.

He gasps, and your heart breaks when you notice he's walking with a walking stick now. "Oi, you! Where have you been? I've heard some stories all around about you being in the hospital now, what happened?"

"Nothing much," Hurrying forward to help him with his other arm, you walk him to the seating area by the window. "I'm fine now, don't worry."

"Well, the tea and chocolate is in the back, you know where it is. I'm getting on in my years and this back of mine isn't working very well anymore."

"You should retire and rest at home," You get up to get his favourite coffee. "I could help you with the shop every now and then if you need help with it."

"Awh, but you needn't. I've gotten a young lad to come have the store on my behalf. I wanted to ask you but you seem like you have to take care of yourself first."

"Oh?" You bring the cup of coffee over. "Who is it? Anybody I know?"

"No. New in town. Loves mythology. Very entertaining lad," Then the bell by the door rings. "Oh, it must be him. Come, let me introduce you, alright?"

He struggles to stand, so you hurry to him first. But you look up and at the door, and there he was, standing in a beautiful velvet-green coat and a golden flower brooch on his left chest.

"Jungwon, I'd like you to meet y/n. She's been one of my regulars since she was in school and had you not come along, I'd had given her the store. She's a part of this shop now, so be nice to her."

There's a little glimmer in Jungwon's eyes as he smiles at you. He nods.

"I'm sure we can get acquainted. I think we've met before."

[sonxofxgondor]

Anonymous asked: "I beg your pardon, Captain-General, but ... do you happen to know if that pretty healer is betrothed?"

Curious Anons!

Serenity was commonplace for Gondor and her people. Long waited for, never taken for granted. No matter how many days had passed since the fall of the darkest evil. Horrid devilry forever driven from the lands - every moment a blessing most treasured. Faces were full of smiles and blushing cheeks. Persons had come out from the safety of their stores, their homes, the walkways of Minas Tirith nearly crowded. Laughter was joyous and much desired; fear departed, never to return as long as Boromir stood in watch. Protector of Gondor until the end of his days, contagious was the happiness. Free from the stuffiness of the grand hall, out into the world did Boromir wander once formal council ceased, down the marble steps with large doors pushed opened. Ceremonial discussion with Aragorn and his beloved Arwen finished - cursive writings from received scrolls to be debated further come the next afternoon, the peaceful babbles of their Elven friends - recreation commenced.

Past the leather shop, beyond the sellers with their carts of various wares, flowers and jewelry and ceramics, Boromir walked. A similar stretch of cobblestone - one that he had taken hundreds of times before - so familiar that he could have trekked it blind. Fabric over his eyes, knotted behind the back of his head, wrists tied together uncomfortably in the same position. Almost a part of him, the pieces that could not be seen directly, the form of his heart that was shaped by hands so tender. Delicate when needed to be; firm when it was required, the skill of a healer and defender. Always headed to her whenever he could, it was no secret that Thera bewitched Boromir. That her place among the other women of the Houses of Healing was a second home to he, a paradise that could not be replaced. Denethor's concerned glance of little concern anymore - his soul returned to the kingdom of his fathers, reunited with his lost wife - only the people and their questions remained. Supportive, curious, only wishing to know what was not already told publically.

Boromir loved Thera. That much was certain. Proven from the looks that were shared between them, their lingered scents upon clothes. Desperate to shout his glee to the skies above, Boromir only wished for Thera's approval, her permission to reveal without reservation. But that time had not come, not yet. Her responsibilities taking her away on occasion, away from both her devoted Boromir and the people of Gondor who adored her so. Boromir understood. Would never try to keep her from it, just as she would not do so to him, but truly did it make his heart ache, plead to the powers of Middle Earth for the chance.

Thera finally caught sight of just outside of the doors to the House, seemingly entertaining a group of excited children, Boromir could see his dream come to life. A vision painted before him. His mother's marriage band upon her ring finger, her wedding dress of satins and lace, surely to be as colorful and vibrant as Thera herself, their union made official with grand celebration, music and festivity. Across every patch of land that the Kingdom of Gondor could claim. Boromir wanted to propose. Rehearsed his script over and over in front of the mirror that hung within his bedchamber, awaited for the opportunity to ask her. Only if she would allow him, of course. Only if that was what Thera wanted, too. Perfectly content as they were, in truth, he was grateful just to have her affection, married to her or not.

A voice drawing him out of his imagination, a stranger to his side, Boromir shook his head. Attention never strayed from Thera.

"Our dear Ms. Thera? No, my friend. I do not think so. As far as I'm aware, she has no lover, no fiance, to speak of. It's a shame, if I may say so. As you said, she is beautiful. Compassionate, brave, beyond intelligent and skilled in her craft. Talented as ever with a blade, too. Trust, I have the marks to prove it! Anyone who does not think she is worthy of marriage, who does not take the chance to ask her for her hand, is a fool. A bumbling, ridiculous fool. I swear to you, my friend, if she is not betrothed now, she will be soon enough. Someone will come to their senses and realize what her loss would mean to them. Thera is not a woman that should be disregarded. She'd make a lovely bride - and I would be proud of her happiness. She deserves that bliss just as much as anyone."

[the12thnightproject]

Happy WIP Wednesday!

Are there any idea blurbs or WIPs you'd like to share? >:3

Happy WIP Wednesday indeed! Thank you for asking... I'm always happy to share some longfic WIP. How about a little bit from a hurt/comfort chapter....

How much time had passed since that morning? It was impossible to tell. Sho had brought me some soup and insisted I take it, saying that I needed to eat. I likely would have refused anyway, but her statement was backed up by Mitsuhide’s implacable stare.

Bad decision. After I sat up to eat a few spoons of it, the liquid boiled in my stomach. "Oh hell. I'm going to-"

With a shriek she rushed for a bucket, and thrust it in front of me while Mitsuhide kept my hair out of the way and gently rubbed my back. The soup left me faster than it entered. Ugh, this was worse than any flu I’d ever had. At least with the flu, there was the knowledge that eventually, it would run its course.

When the wave finally subsided, I felt spent and exhausted. Mitsuhide held me against him while he helped me take a couple sips of cold tea, and then I lay back down, completely out of energy, and yet not able this time to go back to sleep. If I kept myself very very still, maybe everything would stop hurting.

"Thank you." I heard Sho's soft footsteps padding away, leaving me alone with Mitsuhide. "How long has it been?" Time had been blurred, I felt like I'd been both thrown into the past and at the same time futures that didn't exist.

"Since you picked a fight with a runaway cart? Three days. Some of your bruises all already fading." His fingers lightly skimmed across my cheek. "I imagine your head will feel better soon as well."

I hoped so. Concussion… that’s probably what I had, but of course there was no word for that here.

"Do you think a strong scent will make you feel sick?" Mitsuhide's voice came from further away and I heard a bit of a clanking. It sounded like a ceramic jar, maybe, but I wasn’t willing to test opening my eyes again.

"Maybe." There had been a bit of a fishy smell to the soup. But the scent of the herbal tea hadn’t been triggering.

I heard a rustle, then the side of the bed dipped. Very briefly, the scent of something minty wafted past. "What about this scent?"

"So far it seems tolerable," The scent came closer, stronger.

"And now?" I felt his breath across my ear.

"Still fine. As long as I don't move or open my eyes. Why?" The question was automatic, although I had a suspicion of what he had in mind.

"This oil may help with the pain, but if I put it on you, I don't want it to make you ill again." The scent was closer still, right under my nose, fresh and sharp, and at that moment I also realized he no longer had that scent of incense clinging to him. He must have bathed and laundered his clothing. "May I?"

"Yes." If it would stop the men with pickaxes from chipping away from my skull, it would be lovely.

Very gently, almost invisibly, one finger traced small circles at my temple, drawing a line from there to a spot behind my ear. The mint oil left a trail of coolness, soothing the angry nerve endings. The pain didn’t go away, but it subsided enough to help me relax. "That's nice."

He lightly applied more oil to the side of my neck, the top of my shoulders, and I couldn't help but sigh in relief.

"Interesting. That response makes me curious to see what would happen if we employed this oil in other situations." That teasing note was finally back in his voice. He wouldn’t tease me if he thought I was still in any serious danger, which was a relief. I mean it wasn't like I thought I was going to die either. If this head injury was going to kill me it would have done so already, right?

It was only belatedly that I realized what exactly he was teasing me about, "Great. Let me know how it turns out." Not my usual, but hey give me credit for any snark at all when I have a concussion.

"You would know long before that," At least that’s possibly what he said. I was already halfway into sleep again.

[arithecreatorsstuff]

Oops. Uh... Sorry?

The one-eyed one man wrecking crew stalked through the rain drenched streets and alleys, looking for someone. Unbeknownst to him... a man in black was stalking him. The sort of man even the most determined of boogeyman would avoid.

The one-eyed man's target was a few meters ahead, outside of a Cafe. She was a young woman, a bit short, trim, dark blue hair, and about to go inside.

"Bugger. I'll have to try again later, I'm late and she isn't gonna come out. Pay had better be worth it." One-Eye storms off. Curious as to what the young woman had done to attract the notice of such a brute, the Man in Black lurked quietly under a convenient dark awning in view of the door. He was next door, and could see the young woman buy a drink to go. She paid, and stepped back outside.

The Man in Black walked up behind her, cloaked in the darkness. The young woman pivoted, and slashed at him with a knife. She stopped herself just before the strike could land.

"Oops. Uh, I'm sorry. I thought you were the One-Eyed weirdo."

"You did not strike me, it is fine." The Man in Black offers a hand. "I am called Bi-Han. Are you in danger?"

"Romashka, and I'll be fine, thank you. He tries to kidnap me at least once a week, but never succeeds."

"Accurate for the Black Dragon. It is clear you are not safe, I am walking you home."

"Normally, I'd protest, but I doubt that would work, would it?" Bi-Han shakes his head no. "As you like, then. Might I suggest going the long way? It's about two blocks longer, but it's probably less risk. As you say, it's not safe here."

"Wise. Shall we go?" He offers his arm, and she accepts. They walk, making quiet small talk. Romashka leans her head on his shoulder. They reach her home, and are standing on her front steps.

"Thank you for being so kind, Bi-Han. Would you like to come in?" He pauses before he answers.

"I should not, but I often do things that I should not." While his face was hidden by his helm, there was a hint of mischief in his voice. She smiles, and unlocks the door. They walk in through the kitchen to the living room.

"I think, for going out of your way tonight on my behalf, I owe you at least an apology drink. Please, have a seat on the sofa, and I'll be back shortly." He was about to tell her she didn't need to apologize, but she was already back in the kitchen, door closed. A clatter of pots and pans, running water, rummaging in the refrigerator, and various cooking sounds were heard. While Romashka was busy elsewhere, Bi-Han glanced at the room around him.

It was... not what he expected to a degree. While she did have a computer, there didn't seem to be a TV. There were a lot of books, ranging from herbal medicine to home repair to books on philosophy, more than a few science fiction and fantasy titles, and... a whole wall shelf of horror titles. On top of the shelves, nestled on an old battered hardcover of "'Salem's Lot", was a large ginger cat, snoring loudly. One fluffy yellow-orange foot dangled off the edge.

Romashka came back a moment later, carrying a tray with two ceramic cups, and a small fondue set. There was the handle of the ladle poking out of its slot. Whipped cream, marshmallows, and shaved chocolate were also there.

"Sorry I don't have anything more... adult. I typically am not a big drinker."

"You attempt to stab me, and then bring me home for hot chocolate? You are adorable."

"Not the compliment I was expecting, but... thank you, Bi-Han. Do you prefer whipped cream or marshmallows?"

"Cream." Awkward pause. "That... sounded better in my mind." Romashka laughs, and prepares his drink. She sprinkles a little shaved chocolate on top, and hands him the drink. There's a straw in it. This makes him chuckle softly. The deep rumble wakes up the ginger cat, whom tumbles to the floor. The cat sits up, and blinks at them in confusion. Then proceeds to deathglare them after they laugh.

"That's Old Toby. He came with the house when I bought it, back then he was Young Toby. He's a strange little lump of fur, but he's mine."

"He is... something. He came with the house?"

"Not as part of the deal, but when I toured the place before I bought it he snuck in with me, annoying the realtor. She tried shooing him out, but a tiny kitten has a lot of good hiding options. I had just finished a pretty major project, and had enough to buy the house from royalties alone. I write for a living, mostly video games. My dad says that's not real writing, but he's not a video gamer. He has no idea. Anyway, I closed on the house that afternoon, then took a trip to the local pet shop on my way back. And he's been here ever since. He's a lazy boy, never caused a lot of havoc even as a kitten. But, he's also the easiest editor I ever worked with."

The rest of the evening is spent in pleasant small talk, sipping hot chocolate. Midway through his second cup, Romashka starts to yawn. He sets down his cup, and stands up. He stretches.

"It is late. I should go. Thank you for the hot chocolate, Romashka."

"Oh. Wow... let me walk you to the door, Bi-Han." They walk through the kitchen. Before she opened the door, Romashka felt him grab her hand.

"I enjoyed meeting you, Romashka. Thank you. I will be seeing you more often."

"I bet that usually sounds a lot more threatening, but somehow I'm not frightened in the least. In fact... I look forward to it. I'm starting to like you, Bi-Han. Come by when you can." She steps closer to him, gently wraps her arms around his shoulders. Bi-Han pauses a moment, then... hugs her back. After a moment, they let go.

"Goodnight, Romashka."

"Goodnight, Bi-Han." She opens the door, he steps out. Wonders never cease... he might have made an actual friend. Bi-Han heads out into the night.

[over-the-stone-ii]

Void Crown - pt1 Introductions

Moisture from the chill, surrounding darkness gathers and drips down from surrounding spires of twisted metal, and polished arches. A low and haggard voice sighs belligerently, "So what is it you'd like to discuss, oh humble guest of crows?"

The guest, a small, wide shouldered man with dark brows and pale clear face sits upon a cool collection of rubble and debris. Draped in layers of dark oil skin robing, his wiry frame given away only by his pale boney hands, glowing with in the half light of the void town. He looks up from his clasped hands, his dark curls shifting from his eyes as they meet the single rotting eye of his host this evening.

"It takes a time to find meeting grounds with the half devil Crows. Or so I'm told."

"I don't take meetings I aren't not already clued in on taking for my own likings" The tall man spits a crude oil on to the dust crusted pavement of the park, his towering and skeletal like armature creaking and heaving almost as loudly as his lungs. His one good eye squints in a paralyzed attempt at a grin, "what can I do you for, friend'o?"

The pale undertaker eyes the ghoulish, jawless fiend before him. Such company and mutual invitations are to be trusted as smoke over water. Even in the sole bastion at the lips of oblivion "friend" is a corrupted word of power over the living, or else those freshly of the former. He was curious of this creatures prerogative however, to withhold the conduct of this meeting for the confines of an even more isolated and barren corner of hell. As the figure of Crows grinned his jawless grin, and plucked a thread of left over viscera from his molars, a purpose was remembered.

"I am here to inquire information about The City of Veth," A sudden pause as the hand of Crows slowly lowered from his gaping face, the pale gleam in his eye seemed to darken as the head of his cadaverous body seemed to relax, his grinning expression fading, as if his very soul had finally vacated its hideous puppet. The undertaker continued with barely a breath of acknowledgment "and its demon, of which I figured there no better place to inquire about 'a demon' but in the last true civilized hold out in the very realm of demons. Surely."

Crows, clearly taken aback kept his one good eye on the outsider, barely a breath escaping or intruding on his shocked silence till the words bitterly slithered out from his face. "Fecking sallow prick, no one asks about Veth who ent already knowing about Veth you little rat sca-"

From the under takers slick and shadowed confines, a pale hand raises with a gleaming pearlescent mechanism, outstretched and pointed in the half demons direction. A pistol. Of pale blue silver, inlaid with ivory ceramic, its very presence in the air seemed to actually glow faintly, even against the strangers eerie, and unflinching expression.

Crows flinched back at first instinctively before gargling out a scabrous chuckle beneath rotting breath, "Foolish child of moon flesh, no such weapons of the 'matter of fact' kingdoms hold value in a place such as this."

The stranger, resolute in his hand to play, merely pulled back the hammer of his piece, the very sliding of the hammer echoed and hummed through out the decrepit court yard in supernatural tones, sending the fiend by the name of Crows shivering and shuttering backwards with an older, and even more primeval instinct his cursed blood had long forgotten. The click of the mechanism like a ballot hammer amidst a cavernous and judicious court room. This was no ordinary pistol. The hum hanged in the air for but a moment of eternity.

"This is a relic crafted by the hands of a fallen acolyte I met along my travels and deals. One of the few survivors of deluge to still vaguely plead loyalty and repentant to the one true marque of all-" He shifts his posture proudly, basking in the upper hand he holds in this interaction "-And I think its presence in this shadowed place pays enough tribute to earn some information, don't you agree?"

[luminous-letters]

HELLO i see your requests are open and i'm kinda curious;;;

So the case is i really don't like sebek, like pretty much can't stand him BUT theres a scenario that happend in my dreams that was sebek finding mc crying (they don't really get along yet) the reason being she really misses home and feels super alone in this new world, so how do you think he would react after that? I wanna see if this fic makes me like him a little bit more (can be romantic or platonic u choose)

SORRY IF ITS TOO MUCH HAHA I GOT CARRIED AWAY

i understand that sebek could be a bit off-putting at first glance (with him constantly screaming about malleus and whatnot) he's the scrunkliest scrunkly that ever scrunkled if he ever grows on you. you'd go from crocodile (derogatory) to crocodile (affectionate)

naurr it's completely alright

side note: i'm so sorry that it was delayed this much 😭 i hope you enjoy 💛

"Human, you're formally invited to a grand banquet at Diasomnia. Make sure to not be late as to not cause shame to Lord Malleus' name," Sebek handed you an invitation, in all of its black and green glory.

"I...I don't— I can't attend," you replied, handing it back to him. "You're declining an invitation from Lord Malleus himself?" he looked at you incredulously, bewilderment that quickly morphed into aggression.

"Do you not know your place?" he huffed, "The crowned prince of the great Briar Valley sends an invitation your way and you have the gall to decline?" he seethed.

Why are you refusing something that he's been wishing for his entire life?

"You're right, I don't know my place. But I'm sure as hell it isn't here," you replied, trembling, with tears that threatened to spill.

"What are you talking about?"

"I want to go home. I didn't ask for any of this shit I'm getting," the thinnest sliver of strength you had finally snapped. "I have parents, siblings. I don't want to be stuck in some dead end, crappy excuse for a dorm. I have a life, and I want that life back."

You were homesick, that much he gathered. But is it too much to refuse an invitation from Malleus Draconia, of all people?

"I don't belong here."

That certain phrase rang a few unwanted bells inside Sebek's mind. You do not belong here. How many times did he hear those words over and over. How many times was he shunned out, ostracized and frowned upon because of the blood that ran through his veins— impure blood. He was not fae nor was he human, then where should he belong?

He understands now. There's somebody else like him.

"But still, you are to attend the banquet. I'll escort you come seven o'clock," he left the invitation on the table. "I expect you to be properly dressed and groomed by the time I return."

You didn't reply.

Did he do the right thing? He wondered as he prepared the various tableware for the banquet. He moved absentmindedly, knee-deep in his thoughts and doubts about his earlier exchange with you.

"...bek? Se...k? Sebek!"

"WHAT?!" his voice boomed.

The crash of the now shattered, ceramic plate echoed across Diasomnia's ghostly lounge.

"You look troubled. Did something happen?" Silver asked, quickly moving Sebek away from the shards. "It's nothing," he grumbled.

"If it bothers you this much," Lilia emerged from the dark corridor, "Then it must be concerning," he used his magic to return the plate to its former, more pristine, condition.

"I assure you, Master Lilia, it's nothing of concern."

"Could it be...your conversation with the Prefect earlier?"

"Silver...! How...how did you know?" he hung his head low, his heart thumping quickly from anxiety. "A bird told me," came Silver's reply.

"Calm yourself, Sebek," Lilia Vanrouge's soft voice gave reassurance, but it barely did anything to ease his worries. "Your conversation with her sounded like it didn't go too well," Silver continued, causing Sebek's heart to beat faster than before.

With the mention of the Prefect, Malleus Draconia materialized from bright green wisps. "What about the Prefect?" the Diasomnia housewarden questioned, further exacerbating the half-fae's frenzied heartbeat.

"My Lord, she's declined the invitation. She does not wish to attend," Sebek gulped, jumping when cracks of thunder roared around the dorm.

"Sebek, if you should know, the Prefect is an endeared acquaintance of mine," Malleus spoke in a low voice, it was so threatening that it sent chills down Sebek's spine.

Sebek stammered, "W-we had an exchange earlier and...and— well, she had the nerve to not accept and—"

"And?"

"And I feel like she'll want to attend even less after our conversation..."

An uncomfortable, drowning, almost deafening silence filled Diasomnia. Save for the occasional rattles of thunder.

"Lilia, cancel the banquet. I have more important matters to attend to," Malleus waved off towards the dorm's vice housewarden. "No, I will not," Lilia's voice was stern.

"This banquet is as important to Briar Valley as much as it is to Diasomnia, and it is your duty as housewarden as well as the crowned prince to host the event and tend to the delegates," Lilia scolded. "But she's—"

"She can wait. This affair weighs worlds more than her."

Sebek hadn't felt more ashamed and embarrassed before. The irony that he was the one who would cause his Lord's rage and strike a disagreement between both of the people he looked up to. "Sebek," Malleus called.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Seeing as you were the one who pushed her to such extremes," the fae prince began, "I task you with consoling her, take it as a chance at redemption. Stay with her until she feels better, I don't care even if it takes until sunrise."

"But Malleus, it's his right to attend. This abuse of power is something not befitting of someone of your caliber," Malleus laughed at Lilia's remark, "Abuse of power? I'm merely enforcing discipline and conduct to one of my retainers," he said the title with malice, meant to demean rather than to glorify.

"Take it as a chance at redemption."

"Malleus—" Lilia interjected, "No, I'll do it!" Sebek said, with the same loud enthusiasm he'd always offer his Lord. "If that's your decision..." Lilia sighed.

He offered the first year a pat on the back, "I'll save you some food for when you get back."

"Thank you, Master Lilia! And I will not disappoint, Lord Malleus!" with that, Sebek began his march towards Ramshackle dorm. To you.

Seven o'clock sharp. He was standing in front of your dorm, donning a black suit and a bright green tie. He had hope that maybe, just maybe, you'd decide to attend. He's always wanted to be with them, with true fae. "Um...are you there?"

"If you're here to escort me you're just wasting your time," you spoke from behind the door. "I'm...I'm sorry, I should've taken into consideration your situation..." Sebek said.

No reply. The lights flickered off and fading thumps of footfalls against oaken floorboards were the only replies he received.

What else could he do but wait. Diligently and patiently he sat on the porch, watching the stars as he passed the night. As Lilia says, "One cannot achieve greatness without patience."

Well, he didn't actually say that. He just thought it'd be cool if he did.

Come sunrise, as the morning dew rested on the last few blades of grass in your dorm's lawn, Sebek was still there. He waited, although he was silently snoring. He was slumped over with a plastic bag in hand.

"I missed the banquet," he sighed, "Well I never asked you to—"

"I know. I did it of my own accord, well Lord Malleus asked me to keep you company. But I swear most if it was because I was...I was guilty?" he rubbed the sleep off his eyes.

"I brought some leftover food from last night. Seeing as the headmaster doesn't give you enough budget to afford good food," he handed you the bag, filled to the brim with delicious dishes— savory pork and sweet and sour chicken, among many others.

You took it, "Come inside, we can eat it together."

[constancelaufeydottir]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Neighbour!Bucky x reader

Warnings: Mentions of knife, blood, cursing, murder, mention of cannibalism, dark!Bucky(?), major character death, slight smut, fluff.

Summary: Bucky set his eyes on his sweet and cute neighbour who had suffered from a loss recently, determined to make her his.

Word count: 4.3k

a/n: This is my entry for @ambrosiase hotel indigo writing challenge. It’s my first ever writing challenge, and I had a lot of fun writing this! Honestly, I'm really grateful for this challenge because it motivates me to finish this wip that has been sitting in the draft for too long. Thank you for this lovely challenge mae ♡♡

Not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. If you see any mistakes, do let me know!

Room ⥤ Modern muse

Room service ⥤ neighbour + criminal

“Oh that poor thing.”

Bucky whipped his head in the direction of the voice. It was Mrs. Lockwood, his neighbour on the right.

“Huh?” He didn’t mean to voice out his confusion, but his brain was somewhat short-circuited, barely able to function when his sight was filled with you, and you only.

“That sweet girl over there,” Mrs. Lockwood was referring to you, his sweet neighbour to the left he was staring at, before the old lady came interrupting.

He had been staring for 5, 10 minutes maybe? He swore he wasn’t a pervert, you were just a sight for sore eyes, the healer of the wounds in his soul.

“What about y/n?” He asked, curious to listen to what his neighbour would say about the other neighbour. Also, he was fairly new to the neighbourhood, having just moved in last month, he ought to catch up with the gossip.

“Her boyfriend went missing a few months back, poor girl was devastated. Police suspected it was murder, even suspected y/n!” The old lady shook her head, casting pitying glances at the oblivious girl in the sundress, bathing under the sun with a book in her hand. “She’s such a sweet girl, how could they have suspected her?”

Bucky glanced at you, heart racing when you caught him looking. You shyly waved at him, a small smile plastered on your face hiding the underlying sadness of the loss of your loved one. His hand felt clammy when he raised one of them to wave back, his usual flirty self vanished whenever you were involved in the equation.

“Boy, you are in love aren’t ya,” Mrs. Lockwood teased, “I say go for it. Our lovely y/n definitely needs some lovin’ after what she’d been through and young man, I think you are the right person.” Her eyes crinkled as she patted Bucky encouragingly on the shoulder, like a loving mother cheering up her son.

Bucky, who was usually composed, blushed furiously. That big brain of his still hadn’t regained its functions thus he found himself unable to stop Mrs. Lockwood when she hollered at you.

Clearly immersed in your book, you jumped a little when you heard your name being called.

“Y/n, this young man would love to take you out on a date, what d’ya say?” His eyes widened at the accusation, though it was true that he wanted to date you, he just needed time to gather the guts to ask you out.

He saw you put down your book, walking towards him and Mrs. Lockwood. You were a front yard away from him, shielding the harsh sunlight from your eyes with your hands while leaning onto the fence.

“I’d love to,” you had to speak louder, and Bucky loved your voice as he only heard it only a handful of times now, often you were shy and quiet when you saw him.

“U-uhm, how about Saturday then,” He stuttered like a teenage boy who first received a love letter, suddenly forgetting how to speak, speech lost in the sea of disbelief and excitement, and affection.

You said nothing, only nodding and smiling at him, flashing those pearly whites.

“Great. 6pm. I’ll pick you up,”

“See you soon, James.” He watched as you walked away, a teasing smile on your face before you disappeared into the door. Gosh how he loved the way his name sounded on your lips, and he’d give anything to hear it again, and again.

Saturday came too soon, Bucky was not prepared at all. Well, he had done the reservations for the restaurant he’d planned to bring you to tonight, ironed out the creases and wiped off the non-existent dust on the dress shirt he would be wearing, so why was he nervous?

5:50 pm.

Call him old-fashioned or whatever, he’d prefer early to late and would love to escort you to his car. He stood in front of your porch, palm sweating and if his metal arm could secrete sweats, he was pretty sure it would end up like its counterpart.

You opened the door as soon as he rapped his knuckles on the wooden door, seeming eagerly waiting for him as he was for you.

He took in your outfit, the moderately revealing dress he liked, the one he saw you undress from, through his window countless times.

If it was possible to fall into a deeper love, he would.

The date couldn’t possibly be better than he imagined, it was perfect. Everything was great; the atmosphere of the restaurant, the quality of the food, and most importantly, you.

You were shy at first but opened up fairly quickly, telling him stories about you, and vice versa. You sympathized with him when he told you how he got the metal arm, your fingers grazing the delicate and intricate loops and lines on the metal surface.

His fingers were woven into yours halfway into the dinner, the cool metal fingers of his absently caressing your knuckles as you shared the story about your family, who disappeared mysteriously, then your ex-boyfriend, who went missing 5 months ago, like your family.

It was hard, talking about missing loved ones. Bucky could tell, by the way your hand unconsciously tightened, the lingering sadness in your eyes as you mentioned how happy you were before him. The way your tears were brimming in your eyes, threatening to glide down your face, it wrenched his heart, seeing how broken you were. He would try to pick up every broken piece of you in a heartbeat, mending them back together, fixing you until you were happy again if you would let him in.

He was kind of glad your ex-boyfriend was out of the picture, though it was a selfish thing to say. He desperately wanted to claim you, wanted to be your last and only boyfriend.

He’d been going on dates with you for a few months now. You were perfect, almost too perfect if he would say. You were practically his dream girl, so kind and generous. So sweet and loving. Pretty much everybody in this neighbourhood would agree with him and he sometimes wondered if he really deserved you. A beauty mingling with a beast. No one would ever want to see that, after all, even the beast turned into a handsome prince at the end of the fairytale.

Bucky wondered, if you found out what he did every night after you were asleep or what he took from your closet when you were away, would you still want him? If you found out the beast within him, would you still love him the same?

His thoughts were occupied and it wasn’t until the sharp pain in his fingers that he snapped out of his trance.

“Fuck!” You heard him cursing and went to him, gasping when you saw the streams of blood flowing from the deep cut from two of his fingers.

Hastily reaching out for the clean cloth from one of the drawers, you placed it over the wound, applying pressure on them.

The red quickly seeped through the pristine white cloth, two colours clashing as the red engulfed the white.

Bucky noticed you wincing at the red, gulping at the sight, head slightly turned away. It was obvious you were uncomfortable at the sight of blood, so he took the cloth himself and nudged you to wash the faint hint of blood on your palms.

“Sorry, now you might have to do this alone,” Bucky gestured at the ingredients on the counter, “and sorry for the cloth, blood stains are quite hard to get rid off.”

“Don’t you worry, a little hydrogen peroxide and the cloth will be as good as new,” Bucky let you tend to his wounds and pushed him towards the living room where he would sit at the couch for the next hour while you were busy at the kitchen preparing dinner.

While he was in the living room, he took in the interior of your house. He never got to take a close look, as he always had to sneak in when it was dark. The beige colour walls, cream coloured furnitures, books arranged perfectly on the floating shelves. The pictures and art hung on the clean walls, not one of them is crooked. The square coffee table with only the remote and a display plant on it, and when he shifted himself to sit at the center of the couch, did he realize the coffee table was lined up perfectly in the middle of the TV and the couch.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised, he didn’t depict you as a meticulous person. No wait, whenever he went out with you, you’d arrange the plates to sit between the utensils perfectly. When you get boba, the straws must precisely be in the center of the cup, and if you missed it, your eyebrows would furrow in annoyance subconsciously.

His eyes wandered over to your figure in the kitchen and was not surprised to find you wiping and hanging the cutting board on the ceramic wall, adjusting it with your fingers so it wouldn’t be crooked while waiting for the stew to simmer.

You caught him looking at you and threw a smile at him in which he reciprocated, then continued to let his eyes wander through your living room. This could easily be an IKEA showroom, he thought.

Another week went by, Bucky found himself more and more in love with you, if that was possible in the first place as if he didn’t already dedicate all the space in his heart for you.

You were both in the kitchen again. This time however, he was busy mixing the sugar, flour, and cocoa powder mixture, with you snuggling behind him, arms circling his waist as you watched him do the magic.

He felt sorry for not helping last time so he was making up to you by baking some brownies.

As you both were cleaning up, brownies baking in the oven, Bucky turned to you.

“Hey, I never asked, but what do you do for a living?” He questioned nonchalantly while wiping the huge plastic bowl.

The wet spatula fell from your grip, dropping into the sink of water, droplets of soapy liquid flecked on your shirt.

“O-oh, i’m an artist!” You let out a laugh to conceal your flustered state, “Aspiring artist to be exact.”

“An artist,” he hummed, as if chewing onto the meaning of the word, “could you show me your works?”

Your head whipped towards his direction, mouth parted in surprise. Nobody has ever appreciated your dream. Your family, your friends, your ex-boyfriends, all of them claimed that being an artist would lead you to being unsuccessful, and you deemed to prove them wrong.

“Yes, yes, of course,” you were overjoyed. Abandoning the half-washed utensils, you clasped your hand around his wrist and dragged him to follow you towards the second floor, into a room hidden behind another beige coloured door, where you kept all your works.

Rows of headless mannequins clothed in white dresses painted with red blossoms appeared before him as you pushed open the door.

He was utterly mesmerized. He trailed his gaze across the display, a smile painted his lips as he deduced that every piece of them was unique. No two dresses had the same pattern.

Some had plain red blossoms splattered on it, some had dark red waves littering on the bottom hem; some with brush strokes of red. There was also a different tone of red, bright and dark or somewhat in between.

“Wow, this is just … amazing!” He found himself at a loss for words, “are those blood?”

“Yes, they are.”

“I thought you don’t like blood?” Bucky teased.

“These are animal blood. I’m fine with it as long as it’s not coming out from a human,” you retorted.

He chuckled. Once again admiring the intricate patterns of your works, marvelling at how talented and perfect you were. His heart sank at the thought of the question he frequently found himself asking, how can someone so perfect like you end up with someone less than perfect like him.

You apparently noticed his changed demeanor as you inched yourself closer to pull him into an embrace, placing your chin on his chest, eyes searching for his sad blue ones.

“Are you okay?” He hugged you tighter, sighing.

“I’m fine. I just … I think you’re perfect and you’re everything I've ever wanted. But I'm not sure if I'm perfect enough for you.”

“Oh James, you’re more than enough. I assure you, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted too.”

Bucky felt like his heart was filled to the brim with adoration, butterflies erupted from his stomach. Your assurance was everything to him, keeping his wandering soul anchored and he was grateful for it, grateful for your existence. The more the reason to cage you by his side so you couldn’t ever leave him.

His lips were on yours the next second, his grip on your waist tightened as you deepened the kiss, tongue finding his; busy hands sliding from his stomach to his shoulder.

Both of you were drowning in this ecstasy, unwilling to part away from each other’s touch.

The loud ding of the oven startled the both of you. Momentarily parting from each other, you stared at him with a heated glance. His eyes were hooded, filled with lust, desire.

“Fuck the brownies,” you whispered, molding your soft lips on him once again, the hunger for each other far greater than the stupid brownies, “need you now.”

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, large hands cupping your bottom as you hopped and hooked your legs behind him, arms instinctively went to his shoulders for support.

He brought the both of you to your room, the one he was all too familiar with, the one with the same cream coloured theme which could definitely pass as another IKEA showroom judging by how perfect the layout was.

The only odd thing that stood out in this far too perfect room was the trail of scratch marks extending from the door frame to the wall outside of the room.

The deep scratch marks were somehow etched deep in his brain, he couldn’t let it go. It felt as if there was a dot of blank ink on a piece of white paper, and even though there was more white than black, you’d only be fixated on the dot of black.

He would ask you about the haunting marks on the wall and your fingers that were tracing patterns on his skin would falter, you’d give him the warm smile he loved while brushing it off saying it was the huge Dobermann your aunt owned which did that.

Even when he was balls deep in you, the vivid image of the scratch marks were there in his head, though you were quick to draw back his attention with a grind on his hips, both of your bodies covered with sheen of perspiration. Strands of your hair sticking to your body, but you pay no care to them as you rocked your hips, chanting his name over and over again like a mantra, like a prayer.

His eyes were on your fucked out state, his grip on you like steel. The cool surface of his metal arm contrasted with your hot flushed body as you chase your high like a traveller chasing the oasis in a desert, desperate for a quench of thirst.

Even when he was chasing the same high, vision blinding with bliss, the marks were still there and this time they were accompanied by the white dresses painted with red, and red only.

Bucky was always a doubtful person. Doubting every single decision he’d ever made. Doubting himself, doubting others. But there was one thing he was certain of, there was something less than innocent lurking underneath your skin. Of course, he was still head over heels for you but he was pretty adamant to find out the sinister in you, hoping it would answer his questions, mainly the recurring image of a certain mark.

Bucky was a lot of things, dumbass , dork, clumsy(per sam), but he was not stupid. Hell, he was far from stupid. Those scratch marks, definitely not the Dobermann.

You were a perfectionist, you couldn’t possibly leave the mark there and acted like nothing happened in the first place. He’d imagine if it was the dog, you’d probably have someone fix the dent the same day, unwilling to allow even a speck of blemish in your flawless house.

Bucky was a lot of things, and being a dumbass was definitely one of them as he was showing up on your porch in the evening unannounced.

He’d considered sneaking in like he used to do but he knew, he saw that you were still in the house. He couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize your relationship with him knowing he’d get caught.

He knocked on your door, hearing footsteps paddling, rushing to him.

As you opened the door, your eyes widened at the sight of an awkward Bucky. Although you were quick to throw him an unalarming smile, he still caught the nervousness in you.

There was something off with you. The disheveled hair, thin layer of sweat adorning the crown of your head, unknown wet liquid staining your shirt.

He caught a whiff of the strong smell of chemicals wafting through the door, it smelled a lot like bleach.

“I’m sorry,” he scratched at the back of his neck, “is this not a good time?”

“It’s fine, come on in.”

The smell of bleach invaded his nose the moment he stepped into your house, flooding and overwhelming his senses causing him to wince.

“Were you deep cleaning?”

“Yeah, I accidentally spilled some of the animal blood this morning. Had to use hell lots of hydrogen peroxide to get rid of them. Sorry for the smell.”

“No no, it’s okay. Let me just open the windows and door, okay?” He was getting a little light-headed now, desperately needing some fresh air. “Doll, you need to ventilate every time you use bleach, it’s harmful for your health to inhale all these fumes.”

You blushed at the term of endearment, yet wanting to blame him for not calling you that earlier.

He went over to open the windows, sighing contentedly at the waves of fresh air hitting his face as the wind blew in.

He felt your arms snaking around him, head leaning against his broad back.

“I love you, James. Wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“I love you too.” He turned around and hugged you, his chin propped on your head, not knowing you had a solemn expression on your face.

He’d spent the evening with you, watching TV on the couch with you in his lap. It was so mundane yet he’d never got bored of this, wanting to do this with you for the rest of his life.

Outside the window, the orange and yellow sky faded into darkness.

“Let’s order take out, how about Thai food?”

“I’ll cook,” you kissed him on the lips and got up from his lap before he could reply anything.

“Ok, you need help?” He heard a faint ‘no, it’s fine’ coming out of the kitchen followed by the clanking of pots and utensils.

His neck stretched to peek at your figure in the kitchen, too busy chopping up ingredients to notice he was no longer at the living room.

He made his way down the basement, where the pungent smell of the bleach was still lingering.

The wood creaked as he stepped on the stairs, announcing his arrival to the darkness surrounding the basement. The soft glow of light illuminated the large space, a wall of tins stacking on each other revealed to him. A few easels of different sizes were propped on the wall with several grey aprons hanging beside them.

He walked closer to examine the insane amount of tins. A small label that said Pig blood was stickered on the body of the white tin.

His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. Do people really sell animal blood in metal tins, wouldn’t they go bad?

There were loads of questions in Bucky’s head, questions with answers only you could provide.

He noticed a chest freezer sitting in the corner of the basement and his legs brought him to it before he came to realize. The whole basement was so quiet he could hear the soft ringing in his ears, the racing of his heartbeat amplified as his hand inched towards the lid.

There was nothing in the freezer, to his surprise.

The empty freezer stared back at him, as if mocking his fruitless attempt. He was relieved, or disappointed, he couldn’t tell the difference and there was no point in distinguishing them now since you had nothing to hide. He wasn’t even sure what he was expecting to find in the freezer.

“Babe?” You stood behind him with an apron on, a knife in your hand, a second after he closed the door to the basement.

He leaned against the door frame, hand went to his head, eyes squeezed shut as he pretended he was having a headache.

“Felt dizzy all of a sudden, I was just making my way to the bathroom.”

“Oh, okay. I was just about to tell you dinner's almost ready,” a tooth-rotting smile was plastered on your face.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he watched as you walked away, letting out the breath he’d been holding. His palm was clammy, heart beating rapidly.

“I love you,” You placed your hand on his arm, eyes meeting his.

“I know, doll. I love you too.”

This was seconds before dinner.

“James, I love you.” You whispered, watching him giving you a grin before he stuffed the meatball into his mouth.

“Wow, I'm so loved today. It’s the secon- no, third time you’ve said ‘I love you’ to me today.” He grinned, heart bursting with love. “You know I love you too.”

This was mid-dinner.

“I love you so much, James.”

Bucky was getting suspicious of you. Were you hiding something, perhaps cheating on him? For there were no reasons for you to keep telling him you loved him even though he knew how much you loved him and vice versa.

“I love you,” you kissed his knuckles, “this might be the last time I get to say I love you, James.”

His eyebrows furrowed at your statement, mouth parting to question what you meant. Before he could voice out something, the world faded into nothingness.

A thin film of blurriness clouded his eyes when he opened them, Bucky had this feeling like he was drowning in a swamp and his whole body was bound.

Blinking furiously, he regained his vision. You were sitting on a chair leaning forwards while looking at him endearingly, your elbows propped on your knees, palms supporting your chin.

“Hello, my love,” you were smiling oh so sweetly. The same smile that got him mesmerized and head over heels, except this time he didn’t feel the warm fuzzy feeling exploding in his chest, this time it was the goosebumps crawling on his arms and the chill creeping up his spine.

Now everything made sense, every single of his questions was answered.

You looked down at his body, the one that was once full of life, full of love. You watched as his glassy blue eyes etched with fear quickly reduced into this grey lifeless orbs, still pretty but lacking the element of a beautiful soul.

You weep for him, mourn for him. Mourning the short duration of love shared between the both of you. Mourning for yourself, for falling too hard. Mourning for him who kept you always in his heart.

To be honest, you were a little hesitant to end his life, he was better than the last one. He was perfect, warm, kind, loving, gentle, but not perfect enough. He simply did not reach your expectations, and you, could not bear imperfections, even the slightest. The answer to his downfall was pretty easy, he was too close to the ugly truth. And despite you knowing his love for you outweighs his doubt and fear in you, you simply couldn’t risk it.

Your love for perfection exceeds your love for him.

The melodious music of your ringtone echoed in the ample space of the basement, you brought up your phone to your ears as you answered the call.

“Mrs. Lockwood? Yes. Of course. I did. No no no, I’ll do it for you this time. He would definitely taste delicious I assure you.”

Time to get to work, you sighed as you stood there with a white dress splattered with blood. How artistic, you thought.

You always loved this part of the process, you’d wear the whitest piece of dress you own whenever you work with your projects.

You loved how the blood peppered your clothes, forming blossoms of dark red flowers on the fabric.

You kept every single piece of them, because no two are the same. Every one of them tells a story, of men and women who loved you and who you loved, of those who were once a body with a soul.

Wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks, you gave Bucky one last loving look and the blade of your butcher knife came in contact with his once pink but now pale skin as you hummed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the basement, forming echoes.

A few blocks away, a baby cried, body covered in mucus. The tiny infant cried, each time louder than the previous, wailing his lungs out, as if mourning. For one soul born, another reaped.

[professorsnape394]

The Potions Master’s Apprentice

Chapter Eighteen: Faith 

A/N: This is the Eighteenth part to my fanfiction ‘The Potions Master’s Apprentice (Severus Snape x OC)’. Chapters 1-18 can also be found already uploaded on Wattpad under the same name. Feel free to leave requests in my inbox for anything Snape related you want me to write. Leave a comment below or send me a message if you wish to be added to my tag list.

Pairing: Severus Snape x OC (Dumbledore’s Granddaughter)

Summary: A talented young witch is employed as an apprentice professor at Hogwarts, but who will she be working under? Severus Snape is not best pleased with his new responsibility of taking on an apprentice, however she is relentless to create a friendship between them. Will she be successful? Or might the friendship just go a little two far? With the eyes of her grandfather constantly watching over them, an attempt at a relationship might not be in the cards for Aria Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Word Count: 4199

Warnings: n/a

Credits to Gif Creator

The rapping of knuckles against the old oak door echoed throughout the potions master's office. Breaking through the thick silence that had engulfed the room, a wave of anxiety washed over Severus Snape.

"Can I not go one day without you bothering me, Miss Dumbledore." Snape complained, trying to hide slight crack of nervousness in his voice.

"Sadly, Severus, it is not your beloved Miss Dumbledore." A thick Bulgarian accent announced.

Admittedly disappointed by the unveiling of his visitor, Severus lowered himself back down into his chair, not willing to make an effort for anyone but his apprentice.

"Why are you here, Igor. You should have learned your lesson by now to leave me alone." He said, rubbing his eyes back into focus and running a hand through his hair lazily.

"I have something you'll want to hear." Karkaroff divulged mysteriously, plopping himself down on the chair across from the professor.

"I do not imagine anything you have to say is of any interest to me."

"Then lucky for you Snape, I won't be the one talking."

Unbothered by the man's deliberate awkwardness, Severus allowed him to ramble on, too exhausted to argue with him.

With a flick of his wand and a small puff off smoke, the space between the two men began to whirl and spin, slowly forming a picture-like image in the air, the scene beginning to unfold. Revealing a staff room full of unusually dressed professors, the focus turned to a small cluster of teachers gathered in the centre of the room. Recognising both Igor Karkaroff and Aria Dumbledore sitting side by side on the old couch, Snape grew suspicious of the man's intentions.

"Why are you showing me this?" Severus asked, unsure of whether he wanted to see what was about to happen.

"Just listen." The Durmstrang headmaster hissed.

~

"How do I feel about Snape?" Aria wondered, the scene enclosing in on her.

"He's... curious. He has the capacity for love and friendship just like the rest of us, yet he chooses to be mean-spirited."

~

"I don't want to hear this." Snape declared, turning his eyes away from the woman.

"You must." Igor demanded.

~

"...he can be mean and arrogant and cruel. And despite it all I try my best to show him kindness, but where does that get me? He calls me out in front of practically the whole school? That was so fucking humiliating, and I'm just supposed to forgive him? I think it's safe to say I'd live a happy life if I were to never see that man again."

~

Severus felt his heart drop in his chest, unable to process what he had just heard. Slowly a sharp ringing in his ears grew louder and louder, deafening him to the scene before him, as well as the reality in which he existed. He refused to believe the woman he cared so much about, the woman who had demanded to be his friend, had lied about everything. Did she truly hate him beneath her annoyingly cheerful demeanour, was it all a façade?

He wanted to insist Karkaroff had fabricated the whole thing, but he knew exactly what spell he had cast, there was no way he could have faked it.

A deep rage grew within the man, an anger he had not felt in a number of decades. Severus Snape prided himself on having a monotone disposition, void of all emotion. But that familiar feeling of being betrayed by someone he trusted brought forward a plethora of pent up emotions, namely anger and frustration.

A wide, devilish grin spread across Karkaroff's face, satisfied by his colleague's reaction.

"You see now what she is truly like, Severus. You see now that she was playing you all along. That girl pretends to be your friend to keep her job, not because she likes you." Igor laughed maliciously. "You and I both know what is coming, and when it does, Dumbledore is prepared to replace you. Even he knows where your true loyalties lie. Do not be fooled into thinking the Dumbledore's are your friends. They use you for their own advantage, but the second you are no longer useful, or you become a threat to them, you'll be taken down by any means necessary."

"You're lying." Snape tried to convince himself, refusing to meet the professors gaze. "You're scared of what he will do to you if he returns. You need an alliance with someone on the inside."

"He has returned, you must feel it just as I do." The ex-deatheater practically screamed.

"I will not be manipulated by you Igor. This changes nothing, the girl was nothing but a distraction."

"We both know that isn't true." He sniggered, attempting once last time to convince Snape. "Do you know what she said to me, the last time I was in this office? She told me she could never be with a man like you, she told me your actions were unforgivable. I can prove that as well if you don't believe me."

"Get out, Igor. Just leave." Severus exhaled, starting to pace slowly behind his desk. He knew Karkaroff was trying to manipulate him, he was not stupid enough to fall for that. But proof does not lie, and the facts remain. Everything he was saying true, there was no denying it.

With a short bow, Igor danced out of the room. Completely satisfied with the havoc he'd reeked. He'd successfully toyed with what little emotions the great dungeon bat had left. And who's to say what can happen when Severus Snape's feelings get hurt?

*

Hoot. Hoot.

The bird bleated as it swooped through the open window.

"Another letter for the pile?" Aria sighed to herself. "Will he ever stop?"

Whoo.

It purred in response.

The witch couldn't help but laugh at the coincidence.

"You know exactly who." She giggled, plucking the envelope from the creatures beak, and throwing it on the ever growing pile.

"I just wish he would give me some time to think, you know?" She asked turning back to the barn owl, only to witness it taking off, disappearing into the distance.

Look at me. I'm talking to a bird. She thought with a roll of her eyes. I need to get some sleep.

Catching a glimpse of herself reflection of the window, Aria decided she needed to freshen herself up with a little pamper time, finishing the day off with a very long and well deserved nap.

Dumping almost a whole bottle of bubble bath into the tub, topping with springs of lavender and dried chamomile, Aria plunged herself deep into the warm water.

Relaxing for approximately 2.5 seconds, the woman flew out of the bath, her naked body sopping with bubbles, dripping puddles of water as she explored her quarters impatiently.

"Why can I never find any of my books when I need them most!" She groaned, shivering from the sudden change in temperature as goose bumps formed all over her arms and legs.

Letting out a single yelp of excitement, Aria grabbed the first book she laid eyes on and dived back into her tub.

"Pride and Prejudice, of course." She mumbled, thinking back to that night Severus visited her quarters.

As she read and her mind wandered, Aria found herself making unconscious comparisons between the infamous, brooding Mr. Darcy, and her stern, yet lovable Potions mentor, Severus Snape. They were both mildly rude and arrogant, determined to never show their true emotions, but deep down it was quite possible that they loved more fiercely than anyone ever could.

Elizabeth Bennet enchanted Darcy mind, body and soul. If only there were someone brave enough to do the same to Professor Snape. Aria thought, as she allowed herself to drift off to sleep in the water.

Hours later a thunderously loud 'Bang' frightened Aria awake.

Although not positively sure of how much later it was, she could be certain a decent sleep was had given the icy temperature of the water.

Aria allowed herself a moment to come to, bracing herself against the cold, her was body aching from the ceramic constraints of the tub.

A series of bangs came this time, chapping very loudly on her chamber door. Who ever it was was clearly extremely impatient, forcing her to hurry herself up.

Wrapping herself in nothing but a white cotton towel, the witch slid her way through her rooms to the door. Clearly she wasn't even awake enough to remember where she was, and that answering her door half naked wasn't exactly professional.

Bang. Bang. BANG.

The knocks reverberated through her body, sending shivers down her spine.

Gingerly she opened the door, revealing a more than pissed off Severus Snape.

"Severus." She yawned. "What's wrong?"

"Don't act dumb with me, girl. I am not falling for this act any longer." He snapped.

"What act, Severus? Why are you here?"

"Just tell me why?" He seethed. "Why did go to so much trouble trying to convince me to be your friend, only to confess to Karkaroff, as well as the rest of the Hogwarts staff, your true feelings. Why couldn't you just leave me alone."

"Severus listen, I think we need to talk about this in private. Please come in."

"So you can try and seduce me again? I don't think so. Jesus, look at the state of you, are you really that desperate to entice me? What's next, showing up to dinner completely naked? You really are just as I thought." The potions master growled, his pitch back eyes looking her up and down.

"Severus stop" Aria begged. "I thought we had moved past all this."

"So did I. But considering you have deemed me as "unforgivable" then there doesn't appear to be much point in trying to redeem myself, does there?"

"But you're only going to make everything worse. Let me explain myself, please."

"There is nothing to explain, I shall be putting in a formal request for the headmaster to employ a separate tutor for your apprenticeship in the morning, so you never have to see me again."

The professor stormed off, just as quickly as he had arrived, achieving exactly what he had come to do; humiliate Aria Dumbledore.

Desperate to apologise for her cruel words, Aria made to follow Severus to his classroom.

Forgetting her attire, or rather lack of, she was soon reminded of it when a crowd of Slytherin students erupted in a fit laughter with its fair share of cat-calls and whistles. Clearly they had emerged from their common room to investigate the noise, but stayed for the show of the two arguing potions professors.

"Nice legs, Miss." One of the older boys called, sending a wink in her direction.

Shit. She mumbled under her breath, rushing back to her quarters to change.

Hair still dripping wet, Aria shoved it into a bun on top of her head and pulled on some shorts and an oversized t-shirt, before hunting down the potions master.

"Severus, open the door." She called, upon initially finding it to be locked.

He didn't even bother to reply.

Fine. She thought. I'll do it myself.

"Alohomora." The lock burst apart, allowing the door to slowly creep open, revealing a dishevelled and distressed professor sitting at his desk.

"Severus, please." She whispered softly, realising he had clearly come down from his short outburst of rage.

"Get out." He commanded, though he didn't make any effort to remove his head from his hands.

"Let's talk about this." The woman pleaded, pulling a chair up next to the man. "Let me explain everything."

Snape stirred from his position the closer she came, until finally he was able to look her in the eye.

"Go on." He droned. His eyes red and blood shot, whether it was from lack of sleep or tears was unclear.

"You know more than anyone that Karkaroff cannot be trusted-"

"Don't try and lie to me, Miss Dumbledore. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes." Snape snapped.

"Will you let me finish. I'm not lying to you, Severus." Aria promised. "I said what I said because I didn't want them to know the truth, Karkaroff especially. I don't know what his problem is but I know he's up to something and it involves you. You really think I'd answer any question he asked me truthfully. You're my friend, Severus, I care about you, and that man is a snake for trying to turn us against each other."

"Why should I believe you. I've barely known you a few months, I've known Igor decades."

"That is precisely why you should believe me. He's not your friend, Severus. If he was he'd be able to see the real you; the man behind the mask." She urged, begging for his trust.

Reaching out her hand to take his, Aria stroked a thumb over the cold and calloused hand of her friend.

"And who might that be?" Severus questioned in return, feeling slightly nervous under her touch, but not enough to want to pull away.

"A man." She stated simply. "Not a beast, as you and many others may presume. A good, and decent man. Perhaps he's a even a little bit scared, of what I'm not entirely sure yet. But I will find out one day, if you'll allow me, that is. Let me be your friend, Severus. Let me see what you hide from everyone else. And I promise, I'll be there for you when it matters most."

Her sweet soft tones encapsulated Severus. He had become so lost in her words and her touch that without realising he found himself falling for her speech wholeheartedly. He even risked settling his remaining hand upon hers, clasping her delicate fist between his palms.

"Well then I suppose an apology is in order. I believe I may have acted rather rash and unprofessional."

"There's really no need. You reacted just as you should have to the things you heard. I would have done the same thing in your circumstance." Aria admitted, removing her hand from his, as she made to stand up. "Though there is one thing you could do to make it up to me." She suggested.

"Dare I even ask?" Severus joked.

"I want to know what Karkaroff's after. Tell me how you know him. Why does he care so much about your life?"

Snape practically laughed in response.

"We may be friends now, Miss Dumbledore, but I'm afraid that information is rather personal. And I am not convinced we are quite at that stage in our friendship, just yet."

"I respect that." She shrugged, knowing he wasn't about to give in that easily. "I suppose that just means we'll have to get to know each other a bit more." She smiled almost ear to ear at the prospect.

*

"What do you have planned for your lesson today, Professor Dumbledore?" Severus queried, finally using the woman's rightful professional title.

"Ooooh 'Professor' now, am I?" She smirked, sashaying in front of her co-worker, balancing a handful of potion ingredients in her arms.

"I suppose that is your given title after all, I might as well start using it."

"Hmmm I'm not sure. I think it make's me sound too much like my grandfather. I'm not sure I could pull of the beard quite as well, what do you think?" She giggled, holding her long hair in front of her chin, imitating the old wizard playfully before clumsily dropping another dozen bottles on the table.

Severus tried his hardest to conceal his smile, busying himself with paper work, but however hard he tried he could not hide it from Aria. Every so often she managed to catch him off guard, with a silly joke, or a quick witted comment, in those rare times he allowed himself a glimmer of emotion she always managed to notice. Most of the time Severus found himself smiling at the woman for no reason other than she was simply smiling too.

Finally turning her attention away from the potions master, Aria finished setting up her table full of small bottles and vials.

"We're going to play a game." She announced cheerfully spinning on her heel.

"A game?" Severus asked, unable to stop himself turning his nose up at her idea.

"Yes. It's like a test, but more fun." She persuaded, sensing his judgement.

"And what, might I ask, is wrong with a traditional test."  He queried bitterly.

"The students need motivation, Severus. The word 'test' makes people nervous. With nervousness comes panic, and with panic comes mistakes. Fear is not an accurate motivator, however competition is. The students will be less inclined to make mistakes, if they are rewarded for their efforts." The apprentice hypothesised.

"And this reward is?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Severus fought the urge to roll his eyes, but allowed her to do her thing uninterrupted.

Since their little 'heart to heart' that night in Snape's office the two professors were finding working with each other a lot more amiable. Severus had given Aria a little more free reign with her portion of the lessons, which in turn, allowed her to respect Severus' strict theoretical practices without causing too many interruptions. The pair had almost started to enjoy working together.

Student by student the class trickled in, each of them intrigued by the new set up of the class room.

"Everyone please take your seats, do not touch the table at the front of the room, class will begin momentarily." Miss Dumbledore announced.

A moment of panic set in as Aria scrambled around Snape's desk, looking for her list of possible potions. This may not have been her first time teaching solo, but it was, however, her opportunity to prove her practices are successful in front of her mentor, Severus Snape. The man in question could see the fear in her eyes, and that she was desperate to impress.

"Here." He mouthed, handing her the piece of parchment. "Relax."

Brushing fingers, as she took the parchment from him, Aria grinned.

"Thank you." She whispered, once again turning to face the class, now with a little more confidence.

"Now today, as you may have guessed, we are going to do something a little different. Professor Snape and I have chosen to take this opportunity to allow you, our promising young N.E.W.Ts students, to show off your skill set to the best of your ability's. On this table in front of me you will find a select variety of potions ingredients that correspond to a number of potions all very much within your capability, your task is to complete one of these potions within the allotted time, at the end of which, a winner will be selected by us."

"What do we win then, professor?" One eager student asked.

"A potion of their choice." She declared, impulsively.

A murmer of chatter instantly broke out among the class, intrigued at the prospect of winning such a thing.

"That all sounds very exciting, Miss Dumbledore." Snape cut in, unwilling to take a backseat quite so easily. "However, sadly as an apprentice professor you are not permitted to take anything from my stores to use so frivolously. The prize will have to be decided at a later time."

Unsurprisingly the students weren't too pleased with Snape's intervention causing for a series of disappointed groans and heckles.

"Then I shall make it myself." Aria concluded.

Another bout of cheers erupted.

"Collect your ingredients, light up your cauldrons, your time starts now!"

Immediately the students jumped from their seats, swarming the table to get what they needed. The professors moved away from the crowd, giving the class a moment to get started.

"Miss Dumbledore, this is not a wise decision." Severus spoke in hushed tones. "I understand entirely the prize of a potion chosen by you, but to give them a choice could be extremely dangerous, think of the chaos that will ensue."

"How about you have a little faith in them for once. Trust that they will make the right decision."

Looking down on the woman, Severus couldn't help but trust she would be right.

"I have faith in you. Not in them." He made clear.

Severus made to walk away, leaving Aria to relish in her small victory, until he was suddenly pulled back by the young woman's hand in his. Not saying a word, Aria Dumbledore gave him an appreciative squeeze, before releasing him back to his desk.

The first hour of the classes passed by effortlessly, the students worked quietly and Severus found no reason to complain. All in all, Aria was quite pleased with how her lesson was going.

That was until...

"Oh shiiiiit."

"Language Mr. Lawrence." Severus warned, briefly looking up from his marking.

"Right, sorry sir. But what the fuck am I supposed to do when this thing starts bubbling like crazy." He freaked out, completely ignoring the potions master's warning.

"What?" Aria gasped, only just becoming aware of the situation.

"Yeah like this thing looks likes 'bout to blow, to be honest with you." The seventh year Hufflepuff boy informed nonchalantly.

"Step away from that cauldron students, quickly!" Aria ordered, ushering them to the sides of the classroom.  "You were attempting a wit-sharpening potion, is that correct?"

"Yup."

"I'm afraid there's no saving it now, Mr. Lawrence, the best we can hope for is that it does not turn to acid and burn through bench."

"Out of my way." Severus huffed impatiently, forcing his way through the crowd of students that had formed around the cauldron.

"Pass me that root of ginger" Snape demanded, positioning himself in front of the ever growing cauldron of bubbling green liquid. Aria obeyed hastily, as the professor performed what she could only describe as a miracle on this horrifying concoction. "Some more newt spleens." He requested, holding out a hand expectantly, while the other gripped onto his wand, casting an enchantment over the potion.

The potions master continued adding a bit of this and a dash of that to the potion, all ingredients Aria Dumbledore would never have considered to associate with this particular brew. Jars of herbs, spices and animal parts were passed through the classroom in order to reach Professor Snape who continuously stirred the potion, muttering all sorts of charms and spells.

However skilled Aria had assumed she was at the art of potion making, it was made clear to her that she was no match for Severus' skills, brewing potions was second nature to him now. Within minutes he had achieved what Aria Dumbledore had deemed impossible, and thus the potion was brought back to it's natural state.

"Severus..." The apprentice gawped. "That was amazing."

"That was nothing." He replied curtly, removing himself from the scene. "Everybody back to work, this is not an excuse to slack off."

Still in awe at the pure artistry she had witnessed, Aria trotted sheepishly back to the front of the class.

Blissfully unaware of the pure talent they had just seen, the students continued on with their work. The Hufflepuff boy did not even have the decency to thank his professor for salvaging the mess he called a potion, let alone be grateful he never received a detention, or deduction of house points.

"What are you staring at, Miss Dumbledore, is there no better way you can spend your time?"

"I'm sorry Severus, but that display was just... brilliant." She beamed.

"Like I said, it was nothing. It comes with the job, I refuse to have any of those delinquents burn through my entire store cupboard because they cannot brew a simple potion, a year below their level no less."

"Well, at least we know who definitely won't be winning anyway." Aria giggled.

"The most we can hope for from that boy is that he manages to finish his potion, god knows he'll need it."

Playfully slapping Snape on the arm for his cheek, the witch perched herself on the edge of the professor's desk, attempting a quick sketch on a scrap piece of parchment, while the students begun to finish off their potions.

"Professor Snape, the winner?" Aria asked, turning to her colleague for a verdict once all of the potions had been completed.

"You want me to choose?" Severus replied, skeptical of her offer.

"Of course. I don't think it would be fair of me to do it, considering I've been giving all of them tips this lesson."

"Very well." He droned, stepping forth to analyse the contents of the cauldrons.

"This one." He announced, pointing a single finger to the cauldron of a young Slytherin witch. "Given that it was the only potion brewed to complete perfection, there is no other possible candidate. I suggest the rest of you get studying before your N.E.W.T's exams, at the rate you lot are going, none of you besides Miss Johnstone here is likely to pass." Snape scolded.

"Well then, congratulations Miss Johnstone, you are the winner of a potion of your choice. See me after lessons tomorrow and let me know your decision."

The girl practically beamed with pride, expecting nothing less than first place.

"Class dismissed."

Taglist:

@ayamenimthiriel @lizlil

[valberryy]

efficacy. — zhongli

hi!! this started out as an oc fic, but i thought i'd convert it to a reader insert!! i tried to change some of the more "explicit" oc info, so hopefully it's fine now!

pairing: zhongli x gn!reader

content warnings: mentions of blood/injury/death, contemplations of/vaguely attempted murder, slight swearing. if these topics are sensitive to you, i'd recommend clicking away.

i. 

[Name]'s life would be nothing without order. They found a certain comfort in routines—working at the bookshop with Jifang in the afternoons, working for their less-than-legal clients once night fell. There was an odd kind of safety they found in it, in completed contracts and crossed-out bounties on a board: as they wiped the blood off their blade at sunrise, they found themself glad they no longer lived at the whims of ice, and snow, and migrating deer.

Tonight was odd, though. 

A dagger twirled deftly between their fingers, and [Name] raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the informant sitting before them. A mask and hood alike obscured his face, and he seemed almost to hesitate slightly beneath their burning gaze—a newbie, then, or a fool.

"So?" they asked, their voice like a whip-crack in the silence. "Don't waste my time."

"Apologies," he said, and [Name] had to resist the urge to scoff. At another raised eyebrow the informant dug through his things and passed them an envelope. 

Gingerly, they tore it open. "...Wangsheng?" they muttered to themself, before glancing back up. "I trust you have the right compensation?"

A stiff, "Of course," was their only response. 

The knife between [Name]'s fingers stilled, before it became embedded in the cheap wood next to their now-client's head.

They stood, gave an almost-mocking flourish of a bow, and walked off without another word.

ii. 

[Name] did not glance up from the shelf they were restocking when the footsteps of another customer coming up the stairs came into earshot, only saying a gruff, "Welcome," as they grew closer.

Their only response was a content hum, and they resisted the urge to sigh in relief that this particular patron wasn't a chatterbox. 

The minutes trickled by in comfortable silence, as the man—for he was a man, [Name] learned, as soon as they looked up and towards his direction—browsed through their selection. The only sounds to be heard were the blowing of the breeze and the idle chatter of people walking past.

"What a fine collection you have," he said, and turned to face the counter they were seated behind. At the sight of his face they were thrust back into two nights ago—an unpleasant evening in a dingy old house, an envelope in one hand and a cheap knife in the other. 

Not now, they thought to themself. Not now, when the blood can seep into the floorboards. The smell will hang for days.

"Thank you," they elected to say in reply. "...Will you be buying?"

He nodded, a thoughtful hand on his chin. "Indeed. The entire stock, actually."

[Name] faltered. "The entire…?" They coughed into a fist, regaining their composure and leaning forward on the counter. "That's going to cost you, sir."

They could almost see the excited sparkles around him as he opened his mouth to speak again, and whatever thoughts they had on how elegant and refined he seemed were thrown out to sea.

"Yes, of course," he began, "there truly is no treasure greater than knowledge, after all—there is a subtle nuance to the art to capturing a moment in time so vividly using just words alone…" 

As he continued to ramble, [Name] rested their chin on their palm. The daggers concealed beneath their clothes were cool and heavy on their skin—a constant reminder, a subtle threat. 

When his voice trailed off they gave a small, polite smile, standing upright again. "If you have the Mora, there should be nothing stopping you, sir."

The faraway, almost dreamy look in his eyes grew lucid at the mention of Mora. "Ah, of course. Mora," he said, and started patting his pockets searching for his wallet.

When neither of them heard the telltale clinking of coins, they glanced at each other almost exasperatedly. 

"My deepest apologies—"

"...No, it's okay—"

The knife still burned against their skin, but they brushed it aside for a moment to grab an unwrapped copy of a book under the desk. They held it out to him, their face blank but the faintest, faintest hints of amusement dancing in their eyes.

He was…interesting. Dead men can rarely boast as much.

 "Take it," they said, simply. 

His eyes seemed to widen in pleasant surprise. "Are you certain?" he asked, and at [Name]'s casual shrug in the affirmative he gingerly took it from their hands. 

"Thank you kindly," he said, raising the package in the air and inspecting it. "I'll have to repay you, for this."

They looked at him again, and thought of the envelope from the other night, thought of how they could almost feel his pulse as their fingers brushed just seconds prior.

"I'll hold you to it, then, sir," they elected to say.

Not now, not now, not now.

iii.

On his lips played a gentle smile that [Name] couldn't help but to distrust. 

"There's a restaurant I believe you'd like," he had said. "Allow me to treat you for lunch, as thanks."

Their head had thus begun to swim with backup plans and what-ifs. Did he know? Was this some elaborate ruse to poison them? Surely not, right? They had been so careful up until now, too…

They blinked away their initial surprise and canted their head to the side. "Where?"

At that he went off onto another tangent, just as long as the ramble he had gone on a few days prior. [Name] found themself zoning out, glancing at where they knew his jugular was beneath his collar—or perhaps poison during their impromptu outing would fare better?

No, they scolded themself, there would be witnesses at a restaurant.

"...Don't worry, of course, I'll be sure to bring the Mora this time around," he said with a velvety laugh, and [Name] suddenly found themself back in the present.

They leaned forward on the bookstore counter, an eyebrow raised. "I don't even know your name, Mister Philanthropist." 

Another smile graced his features, then—apologetic this time, and he outstretched a hand for them to shake. "My apologies," he said. "I am Zhongli, consultant for Wangsheng Funeral Parlor."

Gingerly, they took his hand in turn. They could feel the rhythmic beat-beat-beat of his pulse under their fingers.

Soon, they thought. 

"Call me [Name]," they said, and forced themself to smile.

A few days later, it just so happened that both of their schedules were free. 

"Would you still be willing to indulge me?" Zhongli asked—he had been visiting more often lately, and it just so happened that many of his visits happened to be on the days [Name] was there, as well. Jifang seemed curious, and honestly they were as well—did he enjoy their company? Was there something about their short, curt responses that didn't turn him away?

Or maybe he was planning something, too?

Nevertheless, despite their raging paranoia, it wasn't like they were in much of a position to complain. Jifang seemed content at their new, distinguished guest, and [Name] took it as an opportunity to learn more about him for the time being. 

"...If you so wish," they said, plucking the book he was holding out of his hands to wrap it for him. 

"Only if you do, my friend." Damn him and his deflection. "But it is my firm belief that the generous receive what is due to them, in time."

They hummed idly as they thumbed through the book he had chosen—something or other about the natural beauty of Inazuma—and then glanced back up at him.

And that was how they found themself here, they supposed.

Their table was relatively silent compared to some others, but it was by no means uncomfortable or awkward. With the idle chatter of other people and the clear sky above as a backdrop, the two dined in comforting silence—only the clinking of ceramic against each other to be heard, and to [Name]'s surprise, no traces of poison to be found whatsoever.

As the sun began to dip down the horizon, and all their food had been finished and the bill paid, the two found themselves taking a stroll down by the docks. Zhongli's gaze was trained ahead, while [Name]'s flitted about cautiously.

"Forgive me if I'm prying, however…" he began, "...But you're not a native, are you, my friend?"

A jolt, then, a bolt of white-hot fear running through their limbs. Did he know? Did they give themself away? 

"I'm not," they said. "I was born abroad." 

A satisfied hum was their response, and when they turned to glance at him, they found the smallest of smiles on his face.

"It's getting late," Zhongli said. "Thank you for today. I'd like to do this again, with you."

[Name] took pause at that. They thought once again of the envelope hidden under their drawers, and the knives hidden under their clothes.

They thought about the way Zhongli rambled on about whatever tale it was the storyteller across the street had spun—how "that indeed is one interpretation of it, but in the original text, the author actually meant to imply that…" 

There was a pang of what almost felt like guilt in their chest, at that. 

"...And I, you," they said, finally, "...my friend."

iv.

Perhaps stumbling into your supposed assassination target's home half-bloody with an arrow sticking out of your side was not the brightest idea, but in [Name]'s defense were two things: first of all, they had no fucking clue it was Zhongli's in the first place, and secondly, they couldn't exactly keep running from their angry former client with an arrow sticking out of their side.

And thus whatever levels of discretion they normally would have had were thrown out the window as they climbed into Zhongli's in the dead of night, and probably knocked something over in the process (if the new bruises were anything to go by). 

(To be fair, they had been calling each other friends for a while now. Is this what friends did? [Name] couldn't be sure—their shady friends weren't exactly the best examples, after all.)

They had just sat up and groaned in pain when Zhongli came in, alarmed first at the noise and then at their sorry state. 

"...Sorry," they muttered through gritted teeth. "Thought the place was empty—ow, shit! I can—I can do it mysel—"

"Nonsense," he said, his voice and hands firmer than they had noticed before. "...I still haven't repaid you for your favour to me, after all."

They stopped for a moment, at that. "...I thought the lunch was repayment?"

Somehow, Zhongli found it in himself to laugh, albeit tensely. From where they were sitting, they could see his face a lot more clearly than they had before—the tenseness in his brow, the flecks of gold in his amber irises, the way his nose crinkled at the density of the smell of blood.

"No," he replied, "that was a thank you."

They hummed, before hissing in pain again. "Pull the other way; the arrowhead went in at an angle—"

"Ah, yes, my mistake…"

[Name] continued, "I suppose this is your repayment, then?"

They only barely hid their surprise when he shook his head again. 

"I'm doing this because I want to, [Name]."

(Somehow, they liked their name better when hearing it from him. Was it the timbre of his voice? Was it the appeal of hearing your name from a man who was supposed to be long-dead?)

"...I see."

As he sealed the last of the bandages and allowed them to adjust their clothes, he helped them over to what they assumed was a guest room, of sorts. He helped them to take a seat on shaky legs, and placed a firm, almost comforting hand on their shoulder.

"Promise me you'll be more careful, my friend."

They glanced away, their face oddly warm. Wasn't blood loss supposed to do the opposite? "I can't guarantee that, Zhongli."

He followed their gaze over to the floor, and then glanced back at them. "If not that, then I'd at least ask you to…rely on me more," he said, and something about the sincerity in his voice struck them as odd. 

They almost wanted to burn that envelope in their drawers when they went home.

[Name] glanced back up at him, forcing themself to face his questioning gaze.

"...I'll try." 

But only for you.

+1.

In [Name]'s life, there exists a line they do not dare themself to cross. On one side stands sweet Jifang from the bookshop, the tenacious Traveller and their friends, and the ghosts of their loved ones from Inazuma; and on the other stands themself and their other shadowy benefactors. 

The first to tread the line between the two was Zhongli—who, despite the bounty on his head, still managed to maneuvre his way into them somehow being able to call him their friend.

Honestly. The Seven damn him and his stupid charisma, and his stupid voice, and his stupid encyclopedic knowledge of silk flowers.

When [Name] woke up, they were not in their home. 

Through their shock they failed to register the bandages wound around their torso, and bit back a yelp of pain as the wound threatened to reopen. In the dark they could see their overwear folded neatly on the bed next to them, and Zhongli asleep, slumped over in a chair.

Suddenly, they were acutely aware of the old bone knife under their clothes—their only souvenir from home, unstained by blood for years, and years, and years.

Would Zhongli be its first, then?

Quietly they stood and dug through their folded clothes until they felt it—the uneven blade, the worn-down grooves near the hilt. They skulked their way over to where he slept, and tried to ignore how painfully peaceful his slow, even breaths were.

His eyes fluttered open just as they pressed the blade to his throat. He seemed too calm, though, not even a twitch of his hands or a hitch in his breath to give away any surprise at all. All he did was place a loose grip on their wrist—a stark contrast to their white-knuckled, shaking hand—and ask,

"What are you doing, [Name]?" 

They grit their teeth. "...I'm sorry," they said, "but I have a contract to complete."

Something in Zhongli's eyes softened at that. This was his domain, they realised—contracts, and contingencies, and wordplay. 

His grip on their wrist tightened, ever so slightly, and he traced his free hand over their clenched jaw. "But so do we," he replied. "I've still never paid you back, after all."

There was a pause, then—a long, pregnant silence. 

"May I kiss you?" Zhongli asked, his voice like a whip-crack in the space between them. [Name] said nothing, but the crease between their brows deepened further. 

The dagger embedding itself into the floor and the soft, firm press of their lips against his was enough of an answer.