#I sleep and think of mauve I wake and think of mauve i hear a song i think o

[noblepilcher]

mauve dump

[ceilidho]

prompt: it's been a month since you managed to run away from them. your luck had to run out eventually. tags: noncon, darkfic, ghoap x reader, previous kidnapping implied, stalking and hunting down reader. i am begging you to read the tags before reading this, thanks. 4.4k

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You pay for the motel room in cash. Always cash. Never a paper trail if you can help it. Nothing that could ever tip anyone off if you didn’t want them to be tipped off.

You haven’t been on the run for long. Maybe a month, tops—but after the first week, the days and nights have begun to blend together like watercolours. You don’t do much during the day apart from sit in your room and wait for the night to come. Sometimes you venture out if you’re low on food or if the itch under your skin grows severe enough that you know you need to buy a fresh set of clothes and dump the ones you came into town with. 

Freshly dyed and cut hair. Jackets two sizes too big to make you seem larger than you are from the back. You’ll never be able to change the face god gave you, but you make an effort to obscure it when you can—surgical masks on public transit, heavy sunglasses even indoors, a deep mauve lipstick (purchased, again, in cash at the local pharmacy) to make you seem, from a distance, like someone else. Anyone else.

Sometimes remembering that it’s been a whole month since you escaped, since you got out, leaves you winded. You have to hold onto the wall in your pay-by-the-night, ratty, hole-in-the-wall motel room to keep from toppling over. A month without spotting one of them in pursuit of you feels next to impossible. Almost impossible. You still don’t let yourself think that you’ve fully given them the slip, that you’ve gotten the better of them. There is no getting the better of them. There is no outmanoeuvring the two men that—you’ve learned through painful trial and error—do not let up when there is still the trace of a scent.

And everything leaves a scent. Even you.

You sleep in the bathtub instead of the bed for fear of bedlice; these days, your neck has an ever-present kink that needs to be worked out. It’s bound to get worse though. It’s not like you can stop in this town now and call it home, not when you can feel them hot on your heels. 

You change in gas station bathrooms when you run. You’re learning a kind of awareness of cameras and eyes that you never would’ve developed before. You do not smile at cashiers. Your face becomes blank, unrecognisable. The goal is always that you fade into obscurity the second you step out of the shop, so that no one could ever identify you to the two terrifying men haunting your shadow. Even if they wanted to. 

Paranoid isn’t the half of it. When you hear a car pull up outside your motel room door, your body drops a whole degree and sweats like a night terror has found you in the waking world. You only relax when you hear a door four rooms down slam shut. Then you shake so hard that you swear you can hear your bones rattle.

This isn’t a life. It’s life like the promise of a tomorrow is the only thing getting you through today. 

You get on buses with no idea where you’ll be getting off. Pattern disrupter. In the months that you lived with them, you learned something. If your movements are scattered, they become unpredictable—harder to track down. You force them to stay behind while you skitter off, forcing them to review video footage, question people, even sift through garbage and recycling bins for any sign that you’d been there. 

It doesn’t make you any less nervous. You know they’re like hunting dogs. You’d love to believe that you’ve tried their patience enough for them to abandon the chase, but thinking like that gets you caught. Complacency will get you caught faster than anything.

The money folded and sealed in an envelope in your bag is dwindling though. Even for as frugal as you’ve been, food costs money—clothes cost money. Boxes of hair dye and bus tickets cost money. And you can’t stay anywhere long enough to hold down a job to recuperate what you’ve lost.

It feels hopeless. You trudge back to your motel room after grabbing a bite to eat at the pub down the road and feel like maybe this is purgatory. Maybe you died a long time ago, long before you got away from them, and this long path you’ve been burning across the country is just the long descent into the underworld. You let out a sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second by the door before unlocking it to go inside for the night.

You trip over something. It catches you so off guard that you almost break your nose on the carpeted floor, arms almost not swinging out in time to catch you. 

“Whoops. Sorry, kitty—took a lil’ tumble there, huh?” a familiar burr says from somewhere behind you by the door. “Gotta watch where you step.” He chuckles a bit under his breath, pulling back the leg he’d stuck out to trip you. 

Your body goes ice cold on the floor. The door clicks shut behind you; the deadbolt sliding into place is deafening in the silence. The thick knot in your belly expands until you think you might throw up. The only nonsensical thing you can think is that you hope the motel manager won’t be upset that you’ve ruined the carpet. 

You hear the muffled sound of knees hitting the floor and then a hand tangles in your hair, wrenching your head back. “Oh Jesus, look at the state of her, Lt.”

“Looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

The second voice is rough, like logs rolling over water, clattering into each other. It comes from the other end of the room, way into the darkness. They didn’t bother to turn the lights on, perhaps in an effort to make sure your guard was down. Fear grips the inside of your chest. Behind you, Johnny holds your head up high enough that you’re forced to stare at the patch of darkness from which Ghost materialises when he flicks on the bedside lamp. 

On the surface, he sounds almost amused, but as long as it’s been, you’re still attuned to the undercurrent of anger in his voice. His patience has been tried over weeks of chasing after you. He almost looks like he’s put on mass since you last saw him over a month ago, but that could just be the perspective of looking up at him from the floor. His face is still covered in the same half skull mask as always, exposing the shaved blond hair on his head. His eyes are narrowed though, terrifyingly mad.

“Poor baby,” Johnny murmurs, nuzzling into the back of your head. He props himself over you, not leaning his whole weight down onto your prone body, but trying to get as close as possible to you while still forcing you to stare up at Ghost. “Did we give ye a wee fright? Is that why ye ran off? I missed ye so, so bad, baby.”

“She ran off because she’s been spoiled,” Ghost snaps. He sits on the edge of the bed and it creaks under his weight when he shifts a little closer to the edge, leaning closer to where you’re lying on the floor. 

“I ken, I ken, Lt,” Johnny sighs, plastering sloppy, wet kisses into the side of your neck, fitting his mouth briefly into the crook of it, into the meat of your shoulder. “Cannae help myself, she’s just so—ah, kitty, am really sorry but you’ve really pissed Simon off.”

“No—no, please—” you gasp, breath splintered into short hitches. “H-how’d you—how’d you e-even find—”

Johnny shakes you by the hair, a bit rougher than usual. Anger finally leaking out like a drip from a loose spigot. You yip at the pain. “Of course we were gonna find you—Lt, ye hearing this? She thought she could outsmart us.”

“Pet’s don’t know any better,” Ghost says dismissively. It makes you feel queasy to hear him say that like you’re not even in the room. “Needs a lesson in not making us run halfway across the country after her. Get her on the bed, pup.”

“No, no, get OFF—” you try to yell, then gag when Johnny shoves two fingers into your mouth, pushing them almost to the back of your throat. 

When the urge to choke abates, you close your teeth over his fingers, flirting with the idea of just biting all the way down and taking them off. Only the fact that you’ve never done something like that before keeps you from instinctually biting through. Johnny laughs breathlessly when he feels your teeth flirt over his fingers though.

“Bite down,” Johnny dares you, voice quivering with smugness and rage. “Bite down ‘n see what happens to ye. Have nae gotten my cock wet in a fuckin’ month because you’ve been gone and Simon—”

“Quit talking to the pet like she understands,” Ghost snaps, finally standing up, towering over the two of you. You can’t help staring at his mud covered boots still rooted in front of your face. “On the bed. Now.”

You howl when Johnny takes his fingers out of your mouth and wrenches you to your feet, struggling when he coos and frogmarches you to the bed. No matter how hard you struggle though, you can’t break the way he has your arms twisted behind your back. It’s a short walk too, only a few steps, and then Johnny shoves you roughly onto the bed, clambering over you again. His hand forces your face into the mattress, not paying any mind to the way you grunt because your nose bends uncomfortably against it. 

“Always fuckin’ whining,” Johnny growls into your ear, fully pissed off now. His anger is electric, rippling down the length of you. “On and on and on—’n I’ve been so fuckin’ good to ye. Have nae even been a little mean. Being a fuckin’ brat to me and leavin’ me and makin’ us hunt ye down like dogs.” 

You can hear that he’s working himself up to a fever pitch, growing angrier and angrier. It terrifies you to think that you’re trapped under him, nowhere to go. Somehow, it’s a mercy when the bed dips again under Ghost’s weight and he pulls Johnny back by the shoulder, giving his cheek a little tap when Johnny growls and tries to bend back down. 

“You have all the time in the world with her, pup,” Ghost says, giving Johnny a rougher shove. “Get undressed. Can’t fuck her in your civvies.” 

“Yeah…yeah, yer right,” Johnny mumbles to himself, getting off you. 

Your head automatically twists over your shoulder, eyes following him. It’s easy to see in the spare seconds you get before you try to make a break for it again that he looks haggard, beard grown out a bit more than usual. Ghost usually makes him keep it short and tight, but apparently weeks on the road have tempered that military expectation a bit. 

His eyes are wild, electric blue, hardly blinking for how hard he stares at you. You tell yourself that you haven’t, on some small level, missed his pretty face. His arms bulge around the tight shirt that he easily strips off, pulling it off one handed from the back of his neck.

You hear him kick off his boots somewhere in the distance, but when you try to scramble off the bed, Ghost tips you over onto your bed and presses you down with a firm hand on your shoulder. He’s a bit less dressed now—hoodie pulled off and boots and jeans piled on the floor somewhere. Mask off. Familiar scars cut across his face—old burn marks and white spidery lines of fresh skin. Rougher than Johnny, not a pretty man; maybe without the layers of scarring he’d be a proper masculine kind of handsome, but with them, he only seems dangerous. Someone to avoid. 

He doesn’t say anything when he stares down at you. He says enough like that. He looks over his shoulder, away from you. “Johnny?”

“Lt?” Johnny’s at attention now, stripped naked and eager. When you glance down, his cock is already flushed and hard, excitement making him almost vibrate.

“Help me get her naked and then you’ll get her mouth, alright?”

You’re already struggling before the words come out of his mouth, frantically trying to push Ghost off you and opening your mouth to scream—the piercing shrill of it bleats out of you for half a second—before a big hand wraps around your neck and Ghost turns back to you. It shuts you up in a heartbeat. Not once in the months you were with them has Ghost looked half as terrifying; you’ve had a belt taken to your ass until the blood pooling under the skin almost burned, you’ve been manhandled and roughly positioned and been bent into shapes that your body could only just accommodate, but you’ve never, until now, actually worried for your safety somehow. 

“You scream—” he starts, moving his hand up just a little to grab you by the jaw and twist your head to make you stare at the bedside table, where a glock lays flat under the glow of the lamp, “—and I shoot anyone that comes through that fuckin’ door. We clear?”

You nod once. Sweat pouring out of every other gland, but the saliva running dry in your mouth. You lick your lips and swallow, hummingbird heart going wild in your chest. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Johnny mumbles, coming up behind Ghost to wrap his arms around him as best he can, planting a row of kisses into his shaved head. “Missed it so bad, I need ta—need ta—”

“Her clothes, Johnny. Take ‘em off.”

You only put up a little fight when Ghost works on unzipping and pulling down your jeans. It feels hopeless to try. Johnny almost tears your shirt in two to get it off, only being a bit gentler when you yelp. He can’t help groping at your chest when the shirt is pulled off you and tossed somewhere else in the room, big hands fitting over your breasts and plucking your nipples, twisting them like you’re just a toy for Johnny to play with. He slithers down onto his belly for a second to pop a nipple into his mouth, switching between kissing and sucking at the beaded nub like he can’t tell what he missed more.

Your panties get ripped clean in two. The sob comes out of your chest unbidden, tears finally spilling out. Ghost’s patience seems finally at its end. His eyes are black even in the light, all pupil. Your legs try to close instinctively, but he slots himself between them so you can only clamp your legs around his waist, stuck staring at the way his hand reaches for his boxers only long enough to pull the elastic under his balls. His cock is so heavy with blood that it droops, the tip dewy. 

Your nipples gleam with spit when Johnny finally takes his mouth off them, sitting back on his haunches and spreading his legs. It’s all happening so fast—there isn’t a right place to look. Either the monstrous cock between your legs that already has you feeling twangs of phantom pain knowing that Ghost isn’t going to even bother stretching you on his fingers before fucking you, or the pretty cock that Johnny is already rubbing against your lips, painting with his precome. You flinch when you feel Ghost spit on your sex; he doesn’t try to rub it in.

“Simon” he pants, fingers tangling in your hair again to keep your head still when you try to turn away. “Simon, please, can I—I need ta come so bad. Please, please.”

You almost say something and then Ghost pushes his cock in to the hilt in one brutal plunge. Your mouth opens on a ragged gasp and Johnny keens, fingers clenching so hard in your hair that he almost tears it out by the roots. The tip of his cock stays flush against your lips, even split open on your gasp.

“Please, sir, please,” he begs, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Aching and desperate. Holding himself back only because he needs permission to put his cock anywhere in you, just like he did all those weeks ago back in their house out in the countryside. The one you thought you thought you’d escaped. 

Ghost chuckles, groaning at the feel of your tight cunt squeezing his cock. “Go ahead, boy. Give your cock a squeeze.”

That’s all it takes. Johnny pushes past your lips roughly, no finesse or gentleness at all. Maybe the capacity for it is gone after going without you for so long. You choke when the head of his cock hits the back of your throat, tears making your vision blur. Johnny preens and gushes over you, unable to stop babbling about how hot and tight your throat is, how much he missed it. 

“Oh shit, sir, she’s—” Johnny gasps, sinking into your mouth again and again, sweaty hand still clutching your hair. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

You feel close to the point of breaking, tight after a month on the lam, too tight for someone Ghost’s size to shove their cock into you without prep. You tell yourself that at least he bothered to spit on you, but lube would help a lot more. Too bad for you. His hands fit over your waist and hold tight, making sure you know that there’s nowhere for you to go. The first few thrusts are rough but slow enough to keep you from tearing—a small mercy, but probably not for your sake.

“I get—I get her pussy after, right, sir?” Johnny asks desperately.

“Dunno, Johnny,” Ghost muses, licking his lip. His thrusts get more brutish, faster; your teeth would be clacking together if Johnny’s cock wasn’t stuck halfway down your throat. “Gonna be a bit sloppy. Might not be tight enough for you after this.”

“S’okay, sir,” he whines, glancing back down at you. Fingers petting your cheek and tracing over your throat, trying to feel himself from the outside. “Jus’ need…oh fuck, please, it’s so good—oh Christ, missed it. I’ll take anythin’, sir, please.”

“Christ, alright, puppy. You can have a turn after. Been a good boy, huh?” 

You can only stare when Ghost lifts a hand from your waist to reel Johnny in by his mohawk, tugging him in for a wet kiss, still thrusting into your pussy all the while. Just a toy between them for their cocks while Ghost licks into Johnny’s mouth and mutters sweet nothings to him. Johnny moans into the kiss, sucking Ghost’s tongue when it’s offered to him and looking dazed, come-drunk. All fucked out and flushed, hips unconsciously pumping forward, just absently rutting. 

“Got our girl back, right?” Ghost murmurs, letting go of Johnny’s hair to smooth down his head and neck, making him preen. “Such a smart puppy.”

“Yeah, I’m good, sir.” He sounds out of his mind, slurring his words. Praise gets him like nothing else; it’s not easily given by Ghost, not handed out for nothing. “Did good…’m a good boy…”

The corners of your lips feel like they might crack. It’s hard to be careful with your teeth when you’re so overwhelmed, but luckily Johnny doesn’t mind it a bit rough. He hiccups when your teeth scrape over his cock a bit. He lips at Ghost’s mouth, dragging his tongue over the scar that bisects the corner of Ghost’s lips. When Ghost finally pulls away from Johnny’s mouth, a thin string of saliva pulls and then bends with the distance, finally snapping off and leaking onto your chest. 

Your flinch and squeak draws Ghost’s attention back down to you. 

You try to think of yourself looking down on the three of you instead of in it, but it’s hard. For as much as it seems like you’re just a toy between them, Ghost makes an effort to get you off, slipping a hand down to jiggle his thumb over your clit, rubbing it just the way you like. It’s sick how well he knows your body by now, how it takes almost nothing to push you to the edge of coming, core tight with the heat of it. 

“Gonna come?” Ghost taunts, scooping a hand under your ass to tilt your hips up, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars, cunt flexing over his cock. You garble around Johnny’s cock as if to say something, but all it does is make Johnny groan and slump over you, holding himself upright with a hand on the mattress. His abs flex every time he fucks into your mouth. “Pussy this close to coming—you must’ve starved it. Good thing you didn’t let someone fuck you while we were looking. Woulda torn them apart.”

You can see the real threat in his eyes at that. There’s no way you would’ve, but the real danger of it crackles in the room. You feel like you’ll slip and touch the third rail if you so much as twitch under his glare. His jealousy at the thought makes him look like an angry god, chest heaving with every breath as he fucks you. 

“My baby wouldnae—” Johnny gasps, sinking his cock all the way into your throat and groaning at the squeeze, “—no, Si, she’s—ah, fuck me, ‘m gonna—fuck, fuck—Si, she wouldnae do that to us. No fuckin’ way.”

“She’d have a lot of making up to do then, huh?”

“She’s a good girl, sir, ‘promise. Oh, jus’ look at her,” Johnny gushes, sweat dripping down onto your face from how he’s curled over you. “So, so pretty. Maybe I dinnae take her…take her on enough walks.”

“Yeah…” You feel your skin crawl when Ghost stares down at you, not convinced. “Of course, pup.”

You know there’s no way he believes that. When they drag you home, you don’t think you’ll see the sunlight for weeks, never mind have Johnny take you on ‘walks’. Ghost’s smothering presence will take on a whole new meaning; he’ll snuff out the sun before he lets you walk in it alone ever again. 

Someone in the room adjacent to yours slams their fist into the wall a couple of times, jolting you out of your thoughts. The headboard must really be knocking against the wall. Ghost and Johnny ignore it though, Johnny so close to coming that he can hardly even form a sentence, solely focused on spearing between your lips. You can feel Ghost reaching his end too, fucking you with a single-minded intensity. Breath snorting out of his nose like a bull. The hair on his chest is matted with sweat, curls whorling around his nipples. 

You almost choke when Johnny comes down your throat without warning, hilting his cock until his balls brush your chin and his hand in your hair tightens painfully. He groans, drawn out and long, pained. It splashes against the back of your throat, almost familiar. You’ve done this before. You can do this without falling down a cliff and never climbing back up. 

He pulls his cock out before he’s finished, striping your face with come, twitching when he has to hold his cock from how sensitive it is. You instinctively close your eyes, grateful when you feel his come tag your eyelid. 

You hope it’s almost over, but Ghost hasn’t come yet and you know it’s going to get worse before it gets better. When Johnny pulls away to collapse onto his back on the bed, trying to catch his breath and dragging his hand over his stomach, Ghost hunches over you. He drags his tongue over your cheek, wet and nasty, and your brain almost switches off when you realise that he’s licking Johnny’s come off your cheek. 

“There we go,” he snarls, feeling you flex around him, the little tell-tale spasm of your approaching orgasm. “Atta girl—gonna come on my cock? A little wet sorry for running away?”

You try to say something, but your throat is raw, voice too hoarse for words. Even your lips feel puffy, swollen. Talking hurts. It doesn’t matter though, Ghost doesn’t wait for your response. He pumps into you like a machine, pulling his cock all the way out before pushing back in again. Your stomach cramps with the worry that he might miss and try pushing into the other hole.

You wish there was a way around it, but you can’t avoid it slamming into you, a white hot wave cresting over you. You come so hard it hurts, milking Ghost’s cock and pushing him over the edge too; he pants harsh, animalistic sounds into your throat, cutting himself off by sinking his teeth into the meat of your shoulder instead, making you howl. There’s no condom to keep his come from pumping into you; just a big, heavy man smelling of gunpowder and salt hovering over you, elbow propped on the mattress beside your head and making you go a bit crazy at the scent of him everywhere around you. 

He peels himself off of you after what feels like an hour, soft cock pulling out of you and making you clench down on nothing. You didn’t remember how much being empty can hurt. You try to roll away from him and onto your side, maybe squeeze yourself into a fetal position, but Ghost collapses down beside you and plants a hand on the centre of your chest, holding you in place. Never any respite. 

You croak a tired little, “Ow.” All it does is make Ghost snort softly.

Your body feels like one livid bruise in the aftermath, limbs loose at your sides. You couldn’t move even if you tried, even if you thought you could make a break for it. It would hardly be worth it. You let your eyes slide shut when Ghost runs a hand up and down your chest, a little comforting gesture. 

“Simon,” Johnny whines from beside you. Your brows scrunch, annoyed at his voice breaking the silence. “Please.”

You hear Ghost sigh. “Now?”

“Cannae wait—please.”

You wait to hear Johnny and Ghost get up. Maybe there’s something they have to do—maybe they drove to the motel and there’s still something in the car. 

A hand grabs you by the hip.

“Turn over, pet,” Ghost instructs, flipping you onto your stomach without waiting for you to acquiesce. “Promised Johnny a turn with your pussy before we leave.”

Your eyes go wide.

[koiiiji]

I'm spamming cuz u said spam me soo.. pls do windbreaker wooin x reader

doing nails with Wooin...

author’s note ; ahhh!! again so sorry for such long respond!! again drafts from 2022🥳

author’s note 2 ; please no spam likes, ageless/empty blogs DNI OR I WILL BLOCK YOU!!

tw ; fluff, can be platonic or romantic, as you will interpret it😌

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sunlight streamed through the freshly cleaned windows, casting soft, warm light on the pristine apartment. it was saturday afternoon, and everything had fallen into place. you stirred in your bed, the smooth new linen cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth of your body. the faint scent of lavender from yesterday’s deep cleaning still lingered in the air. there was something so comforting about waking up to a space that was clean, organized, and entirely yours.

you stretched, feeling the remnants of sleep slip away, and smiled to yourself. unhurried weekend was still stretching ahead of you. your head felt clear and unburdened — a reflection of the tidiness surrounding you. self-care alway felt like a right decision. you had done all the right things: face masks, hair treatments, a long, hot bath. with the day ahead free and easy, you decided to focus on things that nourished your soul. a lazy shopping trip was in order — a gentle drift through your favorite stores, picking up fresh produce and maybe a little something sweet for later.

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by the time you returned home, arms full of groceries, you felt content but not quite ready to let go of the calm, indulgent mood that had enveloped you since yesterday. spa day, round two, you thought with a smile. why not?

today you were going to update your manicure, maybe try that new shade of mauve you’d been eyeing. but just as you settled into the comfort of the moment, fingers brushing over the row of nail polishes, your phone vibrated insistently with multiplate notifications, from the shelf beside you. startled, you paused mid-reach and grabbed it, eyes scanning the screen.

Wooin.

you blinked. of course. your friend always seemed to know, to sense, right when you were slipping into that quiet space of solitude, as if it was some secret alarm only he could hear. with a grin tugging at your lips, you typed an answer.

[hey] [what r u doing cupcake?😎🖕🏻]

you chuckled, leaning back against the counter. he always called you that sweet nickname. ignoring his question, you typed another message.

[let me guess. you need something from me, right?] [mmm, maybe🥱 how do you know?] [somehow you always know im about to do something, and you texting me🤯🤯]

a low chuckle rumbled from his mouth, when he already was in his car, waiting when he can ask his final question.

[oh?? did i interrupt something important?))] [maybe. just another self-care session] [too pity, cupcake... [...i hate to interrupt, but i was thinkin to joined in😎🖕🏻]

you rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but laugh. you liked how Wooin didnt even bored to ask your premission to join.

[you? spa day?] [i think i could use a little pampering] [fine]

you typed, feigning reluctance.

[but if you’re coming over, you’re bringing snacks]

[😎🖕🏻]

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just as you finished setting up your little manicure station in the living room, a familiar knock rattled the door — three short taps, and you just knew this bastard knocked by his foot. grinning to yourself, you opened the door to see Wooin standing there, cocky as ever, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“look who’s finally decided to grace me with his presence,” you teased, stepping aside to let him in.

“of course,” he said, slipping past you with the kind of swagger only he could pull off. “someone has to save you from your boring solo spa day. you’re welcome, by the way.”

he dropped a bag of snacks on the coffee table and gave the nail polish bottles a once-over, his brow lifting. “wow. all of this just for me?” his voice was dripping with fake awe. “so sweet from you, cupcake!”

“hey, this is my self-care,” you replied, plopping down on the couch. “something you clearly know nothing about.”

Wooin raised an eyebrow, that mischievous glint flashing in his eyes. “is that a challenge?” he flopped onto the couch beside you, propping his feet up like he owned the place. “because if you’re daring me to take over this whole operation, i’m in.”

“are you serious?” you shot him a doubtful look, waving a nail polish bottle in his direction. “you’re gonna do my nails?”

he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head, the picture of pure confidence. “why not? i’ve got the skills.” his grin widened as he showed one of his manicured hands. black polish brightly reflected the light. “actually, you’re lucky.” he said shooting finger gun at you, dead serious.

without missing a beat, he grabbed the nail polish from the table. “alright, sit back, relax and let the master work.”

you eyed him with skepticism, but extended your hand anyway. “if this goes south, i’m never letting you touch my nails again.”

“don’t worry, i’ve got steady hands. steadier than yours, probably.”

you rolled your eyes. “sure, Picasso. just don’t paint my whole nail off.”

he chuckled but proceeded with surprising precision, his touch careful, yet annoyingly smug. “you know, i could totally charge for this. nail bars would pay good money to have someone like me.”

“oh yeah?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow, you watched as he dipped the brush into the bottle with an overly serious expression, like he was handling precious cargo. when he finally swiped the first brush stroke over your nail, it was surprisingly… good.

“see?” he smirked, clearly proud of himself. “i told you i’d nail it.”

you groaned at the pun. “you’ve been waiting to say that, haven’t you?”

“maybe,” he winked, adding another stroke to your nail. “but you’ve gotta admit, i’m kinda killing this.” you glanced at your nails, then back at him. “i hate to say it, but... you’re not half bad.”

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he finished painting your nails, each stroke getting a little faster, a little cockier. “you know, i should’ve charged for this. professional-quality work right here.”

you lifted your hand to inspect the final product, and, annoyingly, it was good. the polish was smooth, no smudges, no streaks.

“you’re actually pretty decent at this,” you admitted, narrowing your eyes at him. “i hate it.”

“aw, are you jealous of my superior skills?” he teased, tossing the brush back onto the table with a flourish. “i told you, i’m multi-talented.” he leaned back, grinning smugly and you cant help but rolled your eyes again, couldn’t hide your smile.

as the two of you lounged on the couch, snacking and bickering, you glanced at your freshly painted nails and couldn’t help but feel… lighter. there was something about Wooin’s playful, teasing presence that made everything feel more… comfortable.

“alright, alright,” you admitted, breaking the comfortable silence. “you did good.”

“Damn right, i did,” he said, flashing you a grin. “you’re welcome, cupcake”

shaking your head, you grabbed a chocolate bar and tossed it at him. “don’t get too cocky. next time, i’m making you paint your own nails.”

“oh, please. i’d rock it,” he said, catching the bar effortlessly. “you’d be begging me to teach you.”

you laughed, sinking deeper into the cushions of your sofa. maybe Wooin’s cocky, mischievous charm wasn’t so bad after all.

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈౨ৎ┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

MASTERLIST

[mauveastrum]

Classics student’s guide to romanticising november

While I personally love november, I understand why some people can’t really always appreciate it; especially where I live, it gets real gray around this time, when autumn still lingers and Christmas and winter are quite not here yet. A liminal space. Here are some little tips, habits, things from wellness to whatever that I like to enjoy in november when I’m not cooped up in the library battling with the attic verb system. :)

Coffee to wake you up in the morning, maybe another one at lunch if your short nights sleep is still lingering; different teas throughout the day to keep you warm from the inside as the weather gets chillier each passing day

a bowl of (warm) porridge with your favorite toppings in the morning, either prepared at home or ordered at a cafe with your friend

Dark red nails, preferably long, preferably with small metallic accents (I prefer gold and bronze, silver works very well too)

Seasonal fruits and vegetables; pomegranates! Persephone’s journey to Hades has once again taken place.

Adding a little bit of darkness to your eyes, it’s your pick whether that’s with kayal, smudged eyeliner, eyeshadow or just a gracious layer of mascara; but remember to not rub your eyes when you stayed too late at the library translating Catullus’ latin poetry! Alternatively, just rock those dark underyes baby

November is the month of poets, artists, thinkers, lovers and wanderers, you know what they say. Write, draw, think, love, wander! I keep a diary where I try to write everyday. Try to find small pleasures in the mundane and write them down. Beauty is omnipresent. I also have been trying to sketch more when I don’t have the energy nor the time to complete complex illustrations and paintings. Small but meaningful.

Pretty candles, scented or unscented, perhaps each one lit as an honoring to a god, goddess, daimon or your lares; in the colder months I like to light a candle in honor of Vesta/Hestia and ask her to keep my apartment warm

Preparing for winter by slowly switching to more thicker and moisturizing skin- and haircare products. Do this as you run out of one product, don’t give in to overconsumption, be mindful with what you buy and what you put on your skin and hair

Remember to move your body. Whether this is walking, running, stretching, strength-training, pilates… the options are endless and the choice is yours! Even little movement can help you fight that seasonal depression.

Big scarves, long jackets, leather gloves. Gives you an aura of mystery and keeps you protected from the weather

These are just some of my favorite things at this time. If you read through all of this I’d really love to hear if you have your own sacred little rituals around this time of the year. Thank you for being here, remember to be kind to yourself and others, and speak up for those whose voices are being silenced. Go make your novembers mythical🖤

Valete,

Mauve

[incendiorum-arch]

"I bet you couldn't stop thinking about this..." on all fours the woman crawls closer to the dragon. each movement is careful, calculated, as if she were trying to truly seduce them. but she wouldn't, this is loni isn't it? pausing along the edge of the hot springs they'd find her right before them. leaning her weight onto her forearms she arched her back downwards, pushing her ass into the air. coy smile formed as head canted sideways, cheek pressed to rock. "did I feel good pressed against you when we were in that cave? how soft, how warm my skin on yours? did your cock twitch at the sight of me? how bad did you want to shove my snarky little face into the sand and fuck me till I cried your name?"

rolling over she looks up at them from 'pon her back, random strands of mauve vanishing into the steamy waters they currently resided in. "don't you want to touch me right now? look. I'm sprawled out here, just for you. c'mon. do it. wheres my big, bad dragon at, hmm?"

I BET YOU COULDN’T STOP thinking about this – it’s not far from the truth, but not quite… like… this. or exactly like this?

ever since the cave iovita can’t stop thinking about feeling her pressed against their side. warming them despite the chill. how their sleep had been, oddly, one of the best they had in such a long time, even with the situation looming over them and the cool air sinking into their bones on all the sides she didn’t touch.

but like it or not (they like it) the image of her has lingered in their mind. pulled up at the least inopportune times by their unconscious mind. maybe it’s the setting. warm and steamy and comfortable. maybe it’s the desire they keep trying to shove to the back of their mind. the desire to see her again, the desire to banter with her, the desire to touch and kiss and –

she’s a brat, even like this. it makes them want to plant a hand between her shoulder blades and put her in her place. nip and bite and drag the sharp points of their teeth across her skin. it would be like music to hear her whine and beg and yes, cry their name.

the dragon is uncharacteristically quiet. not a word has left their mouth, too stunned, too entranced by the scene before them. she’s like a siren, pulling them closer and closer until they lift themself up out of the water and sit beside her, half hard and aching to taste every inch of her.

the situation itself gives them the freedom to let their gaze roam, and let it roam they do, all the way from the oak of her gaze to the mauve between her thighs. don’t you want to touch me?

their hand skims her stomach, circling her hip. her skin is soft, warm, just like she said –

– and the dream snaps in two.

iovita wakes with their hips already grinding down into the bed below them. “ fuck, ” they mutter, unsure if they’re irritated by the dream itself or if they’re more upset that it didn’t continue. “ fuck, ” they hiss with more passion, and lean into the buzz of sleepy arousal, hand sliding down between them and the bed. they come in gasps, her name on their lips, and afterwards roll over to stare at the stone ceiling. it’s still dark, quiet. blankets rumpled around their legs. and iovita can’t stifle the sheer annoyance in their veins. she’s clearly made a nest in their mind and curled up there like a stubborn dog. and it means nothing. they don’t really want to do… any of that with her.

and yet her name still tastes like honey on their tongue.

@shealfa

[no0285]

you'd expect her to prefer nights like these. where she was able to wait on one person, be tucked away in a private room, away from prying eyes. but suki preferred to be performing. and while private clients often wanted a dance or two, this client in particular chose for her wait and sit guard, curtesy of their mutual friend.

and without protest, namely because she rather apollo didn't slit her throat, she strolled through nexus back to the private den. her specialized rooms had three levels, and his was of the v.i.p variety. so he got to sit in a beautifully decorated suite, fit for the enchantress princess she was, melting into the mauve velvet cushions. the floral lingerie set was shamelessly covered by a the sheer robe that draped behind her, flowing elegantly as if she too paid it for it's services tonight.

bending down slightly, she balanced the tray of his signature drinks various ingredients, ready for her to prepare for his viewing pleasure. except, santi never actually viewed anything, and half the time she was simply guarding him as he ruminated in his mind or did just as he seemed to be doing, drifting to sleep. her lips parted softly as her eyes flashed, system alerting her to the deposit of credits to her account. her pupils showed her the new balance remaining before disappearing from her field of vision.

"anything for you." she purred with a sweet smile. "and i don't think those clients are as worth it if they don't pay out as much as you do." satsuki lied, stretching herself along the couches arm.

"mhmm," she agreed, "will do."

lightly, she bounced her heeled foot, letting the minutes tick by as she occasionally looked to the door. she was bouncing between staring at herself in the wall of mirrors, drinking and tapping through her phone. rolling her eyes, annoyed, that she had to also go through insidious sleep talking, satsuki repositioned herself to lay along her stomach on the heart shaped bed, body not dwindled to just a silhouette through the sheer pink curtains.

she was about to tune it out when she heard the familiar name on his lips. her chest tightened, bringing a slew of flash backs to her memory. she relived her torture, her own screams echoing in her brain as faux pain shot over her robotic limbs. the mechanism now connected to her brain stem had began to beep, warning her against rising pressure levels in her blood. aside from referring to her she'd hardly heard her father's name, and to hear it from his lips, made her blood run cold. she had half a mind to wake him, spring bullets of question after question at his chest until he bled all over the floor between them, gasping for air as his heart pulsed streams of red liquid over her negligée and skin. but training overrode her emotions, needing to hear more, hoping he'd spit more secrets at their feet.

Closed starter for: @no0285 Location: Nexos Nightclub, Private Booth Time: 1:13 AM NJT

Santi settled into the velvet couch of a private booth at Nexos, the relentless bass thumping through the walls providing the perfect cover for his restless thoughts. This place was a sanctuary of sorts, where the noise allowed him the rare luxury of sleep without the fear of being overheard.

His eyes flicked to Setsuki as she entered; her presence was a requirement of his. He always insisted she be the one to wait on him—not for the service, but because his paranoia demanded it. Suki was discreet, and discretion was everything to him here. “Thanks for covering me again tonight, Suki,” he said, his voice laced with exhaustion but still polite. He then transferred a large sum of credits from his datapad to hers. “There—that should cover any potential clients you lost because of me, with extra. If you need more, just let Apollo know.” He stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I’m going to crash now. Wake me if something happens.”

Santi sank back into the couch, sleep overtaking him quickly. Within minutes, he was muttering in his sleep, the words slipping out in soft, fractured whispers. “...Kenji was getting too reckless... liability... Father said it had to be done...” The club’s noise almost swallowed the words, but the weight of old sins lingered in the air.

Words kept escaping his lips as his brow furrowed and sweat started form on his forehead. It was like he was having a literal fever dream. The memories of his rise to power surfaced in his subconscious, tangled with guilt and justification. The unconscious confession lingered, unnoticed by him as he drifted deeper into sleep. For Santi, it was supposed to just be another night at Nexos—a fleeting escape from the roles he played, unaware of the storm his sleep-talking might stir.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Forbidden Lessons XXXI (Path B)

Masterlist

From here on, there will be 2 paths. Thus you will see chapters with the same number but a different path specified.

Warnings: noncon, age gap, abuse of power, coercion, mentions of suicide, depression, pregnancy and abortion. Y'all know I do it dark and spicy. You have warnings, use them.

Thots, comments, screaming, and feedback are welcome and highly encouraged. Thank you!

Bucky’s footsteps finally retreat. You stay as you are, staring down at the torn paper bag. Numbly, you unwrap the entire box and slip out the foil with the single capsule. You turn it over, then back, thinking, of what you’re not entirely sure. There’s nothing from here, one way or the other, you lose.

You sigh and put your head back against the door, tears cresting your eyelids and trickling down along the line of your nose. You feel blindly with your thumb and push out the tablet. You quiver and cradle it in your hand. One, two, three. You toss it back and swallow. Done.

That’s it. That’s your decision. Get rid of everything living inside of you. A death, just not the one you wanted. A walking demise.

You drop the package and the paper bag, letting it litter the floor and cross your arms over your knees. You hang your head as the tears flood down and fall into a crease of the borrowed sweatpants. They evaporate after a time, staining your cheeks saltily as your vision sticks to the end of the drawstring.

You don’t know how long you’re there, you don’t even remember falling asleep. Nor how you got from the bathroom floor to the bed, under the warmth of his arm, draped over you as you lay in his clutches. The walls close in each time you blink until you can’t breath, then suddenly, nothing. Again. The feelings slake off of you into blissful oblivion.

You stare into a distance you can’t see. A horizon, somewhere you’ll never know, where the sun rises in a blaze of yellow and orange against a pale blue canvas streaked with mauve. Far away, unreachable. 

Your eyes close and send you back into night. You wake once more, on your back, looking up at the ceiling. He’s talking to you, he has something in his hand. A glass of water. You roll over and watch the wall.

You don’t feel it when he grabs you, your body is limp as he turns you over, sits you up, and props you against the pillows. You see his anger but it doesn’t touch you as it roils off of him. He takes your chin in his tight grasp, the pain in your jaw nothing more than a dull weight. He makes you drink until you choke.

When he lets you go, you slump back down, only sliding onto your side and pulling the blankets over your head. Back into the void, where it’s safe, where he can’t get you. You sleep and sleep and sleep. Even when you’re awake, it’s just the same.

Food tastes like air, water isn’t wet, heat isn’t hot, cold doesn’t make you shiver. This world is muted and muddled. You don’t belong there, you never did. 

He sleeps beside you, caresses you, hugs you, holds you, speaks to you, pleads with you. Until it boils over and his caresses become gropes, his hugs too tight, his hold a trap, his words sharp, his pleas end in a sudden, jarring slap. Your head snaps with the force of it but you don’t give him anything else.

Then he’s apologising, petting you, like he can take it back. Like he isn’t what he is. Like you could ever forgive him or anyone else. 

Then the bed is empty, it’s day again. The second, the fifth, sixth, tenths, twentieth… you don’t know. It’s all the same. Your unbreakable trance and his unyielding desperation. Kisses, embraces, touches, pinches, bites, smacks, until he’s yelling and you can’t hear him.

Showers without comfort, meals without satiation, sleep without rest. Day in, day out, you don’t know the difference. It’s one long night.

The buzzing of a phone drones beside you. On and on and on. You have to pee. You sit up and walk to the bathroom. You’re alone. You’re… aware. You let out the pressure and wash your hands, the water drying on your skin as you walk down the hallway. It’s empty, he’s gone.

You go back to the bedroom. The phone still quaking. You turn it over. Your mother is calling. Her third call by the looks of it. You don’t answer as you sit on the edge of the bed. It’s bouncy and soft beneath you.

You glance down at the clothing, pink and decorated with polka dots. The top is tight where it shouldn’t be. You press your hand to your stomach. Not much, almost too subtle to feel, but there. You don’t understand.

Your hips ache as you stretch out, restless as your hand lingers on your middle. Your stomach aches and your mouth tastes like bile. There’s an image in your head of you bent over the toilet, the noise of retching in your ears.

You can’t lay still. You get up again and check the phone. No more calls. You set it down and leave it on the table. 

You go to the window and look out. It’s raining, the snow is gone. You search around, the dresser, then the closet. You dress in clothes meant for you and tuck change from the jar on the end table in your back pocket.

You listen before you venture back down the hallway. You sit and pull on your sneakers, taken from your dorm, like the light green jacket hung from the rack.

You unlock the door and step out into the hall. You don’t know the day, you can barely remember where you are, but you know where you’re going. You take the elevator to street level and look up at the grey sky, pulling your hood over your head.

It’s almost April, almost two months since that night. Something’s terribly wrong. As ever, your luck’s taken a turn for the worst. You can’t fight it any longer. 

You walk down two blocks to the bus stop and wait. You read the numbers on the sign. None of them go to campus but you know the four transfers to the eight. 

You let your hand wander back to your stomach. Will he be angry? How come you aren’t?

[amchara]

leave a light on (Cordelia Carstairs and Matthew Fairchild)

Cordelia Carstairs, Matthew Fairchild (Matthew/Cordelia if you lean that way, ie. as much Fairstairs content as we currently get in canon but this can also definitely just be read as friendship fic)

Wordcount: 1,380 words

Set immediately post-Chain of Iron, Matthew and Cordelia have to stop for the night before they get to Paris. Some classic comfort fic, where I decided Cordelia needs to be the one taken care of, for once.

Ahh, I am not sure I am fully ready to be back on tumblr [things are still tough irl] - but I saw the gorgeous Chain of Thorns cover release and it suddenly released some keen that I hadn't had for month for TLH and this is the result. Hope you enjoy!

---

Cordelia watched as the gas-lit lights reflected in the window, obscuring the rainy weather outside. She could feel beads of water drip from the edges of her hair onto her forehead. The borrowed wool coat felt heavy on her shoulders. Behind her, she could hear Matthew conversing in soft French syllables with the hotelier, asking for rooms and for some food to be brought to them, despite the late hour. 

The clock had chimed a few minutes ago; only an hour until midnight. This day had felt intolerably long, Cordelia thought suddenly. The morning felt a hundred years ago and she herself felt aged to the same degree, no longer the naive girl who had thought she might finally have found reciprocal love with James. 

They had disembarked from the ferry into the dark streets of Calais. Matthew had initially thought to press on and find a carriage to take them straight on to Paris. “Only imagine what it would be like to wake with the dawn light streaming along the banks of the Seine and the streets of Paris shining before us,” he said, his tone equally light and airy. It was a lovely picture to imagine (if perhaps a trifle optimistic, given her recollection of the city’s streets) and so Cordelia had quickly nodded agreement. 

He had offered her his arm, and they started through the foggy quarters of the town, but less than a hundred yards in, Matthew had stopped short. “You’re trembling,” he noted, frowning. “And you haven’t eaten much today, have you?” 

Before she could think to object or even reply, he had whisked them into the nearest reputable-looking hotel, deposited her into a large mauve armchair and had begun charming the dour-looking woman behind the desk. 

“Daisy?” Cordelia started and for the briefest of moments, she thought it was James, having come to his senses. Like she had hoped against hope at the train station, that he would appear out of a plume of smoke and soot, begging her to come home. 

But even as the sting of disappointment hit her, it disappeared as Matthew’s figure came into view, his blond hair curling damply around his face, the beautiful angles of his cheekbones highlighted in the dim light, his smile gentle as he held out a hand to her. 

She accepted it. 

--

The room was small but perfectly adequate to Cordelia’s eyes and initially, she didn’t know why Matthew was hovering anxiously beside her. 

“Oh,” she said, realising, as the hotelier left them without bothering to direct Matthew to his room.

“I apologise profusely,” Matthew said, and Cordelia could see a heat rising in his cheeks as he looked at the bed in question and then away at the floor. “There was only one room still available, and given the iciness of your hands, I did not want to drag you out again into the night. As I mentioned before we left London, I will be the consummate gentleman and sleep on the floor- or if that does not suffice- I will go out and sleep in the stables and-”

Despite the late hour, Cordelia could not help but smile. “I believe you and no, you will not be sleeping in the stables,” she said. 

He was still watching her worriedly. “But I will, if you ask. And as a precaution, I also registered us under different names. This is a mundane place but I thought it best to avoid it coming to light with the Clave later on…”

A consideration that she had missed but at this stage, she was past caring about her reputation. For what good it had done her? And would do her, past this trip?

She patted his shoulder, grateful for its solidity and warmth. “Matthew - we are both tired and famished,” she said simply. She nodded at the simple meal that had been set out for them. “Shall we?”

His eyes were dark, as she looked up at him but he swept an arm open and beckoned her forward. “As you wish,” he said. 

--

As a small child, Cordelia had been frightened of the dark. Not wanting to trouble her parents, she had always had Alastair check the corners of whatever new lodgings they had. Her brother had often grumbled, particularly as they grew older. But he still did it automatically - even for their house in Kensington, although Cordelia had long since considered herself capable of handling her fears. Particularly as the wielder of Cortana.   

Perhaps it was being parted from Cortana. 

Perhaps it was because she had rarely slept away from her family. 

Perhaps- it was the grief for her father that she had previously suppressed in order to deal with more pressing matters. 

Perhaps- it was for James and how she had let herself be fooled for so long. Or for the deal she unwittingly had made with Lilith (how could she have been so stupid?)

But it all crashed over her, overwhelming and insurmountable. She felt ice-cold with despair, her teeth beginning to chatter. And she was scared, as she hadn’t been for years and the tears were soaking her pillow and she tried to stifle the sobs that were emerging-   

“Cordelia,” Matthew’s deep, musical voice was soft. She could hear scuffing as he moved from his nest of blankets and for the second time in as many hours, she could feel him kneeling beside her, blindly seeking her out in the moon-lit room.  

She grabbed his hand, as if one might while drowning. 

“I’ve- it’s all ruined,” she said. “Oh Matthew, I’ve ruined everything. And I- I don’t know what to do.”

He held her hand, stroked her forehead, smoothed away the tears on her cheeks. “My darling, my darling,” he crooned. “Believe me, you have not.”

She shook her head, the tears falling faster. She couldn’t believe him. 

Moving carefully, as if not to spook her, Matthew sat her up, and positioned them in the bed so that she was cradled against him. As the warmth of his chest spilled through against her thin dress, and he held his arms tightly around her, slowly her shivers ceased and the tears began to slow. 

She shook her head again slowly, and she knew that he could feel her do so. 

“It’s okay if you don’t believe me right now. I’ll believe enough for the both of us,” he whispered. “Because you are Cordelia Carstairs and you are the most amazing, caring, fearless woman I know- and you will get through this and find your path again. And I will help you, however I can.”  

He held her, asking nothing else - as her ragged sobs slowed, and tears stopped and as her breathing started to slow, sleep starting to claim her. 

She felt him lay her back down onto the bed, a whisper-fine touch of his hands smoothing strands of hair behind her ear. He moved to stand up. To return to his separate bed. 

But it was still dark. And she still felt the loneliness and fear and grief. 

“Matthew,” she said. “Please-” Cordelia paused. 

Matthew hesitated.   

She knew it was inappropriate. Selfish, even. She knew that perhaps their previous interaction could be explained- however intimate- as comforting in grief, much as she had done when he had confessed his long-held secret to her. But what she was asking now could cross an unspoken line. 

“You only have to ask and I will do it,” he said hoarsely. 

“Stay,” she said. 

He did. 

Holding her against him, Matthew’s breath was at first careful and deliberate as if waiting for her to object. But gradually it evened, becoming peaceful and steady as he fell asleep. Cordelia’s eyes also became heavy, and even though the darkness still pressed in on her, she felt safe enough to allow herself to drift. 

In the morning, as the dawn light spilled across Matthew, haloing a face relaxed and vulnerable in a way it never was while awake, Cordelia thought, while it wasn’t Paris yet as he had promised, it was still a wondrous sight. A boy who cared and who was there for her when she needed it. Perhaps, despite all this mess there was still hope. 

And they would find it together in the city of light.  

--

Taglist: @lifeofbrybooks @dontmindmyshadowhunting @life-through-the-eyes-of @writeordie-4 @thomastaircompassrose @imherongraystairstrash and ahh, I am forgetting people who like TLH but lemme know if you want added/deleted to this tag list.

[hajimeiwaswife]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU

Word count: 4,2K

Wanings: angst (but fluff, too)

Summary: You weren't over the love Childe provided you, even when you were engaged to Albedo years later.

A blue, pink and mauve sky garnished the surroundings of the Stormbearer Mountains. The summery breeze, warm as the light of the bright sun, comforted those who walked along the path of fallen leaves, wild flowers and the smell of mint. A beautiful landscape presented itself for sore eyes to see.

A certain Alchemist was working on his new masterpiece, relaxing under the few rays of light that came with dusk, painting the one he considered the most beautiful person to ever put a foot on Teyvat. Mixing the colours of nature, he portraited on the sketch book the view he had of his fiancée and the scenery, all of it worthy of a cheesy romance novel and a fantasy book.

"How much time do you need?" Y/N asked in a tired tone, trying not to shift her position, "I'm getting crumps on my face from smiling."

The man didn't answer at the moment, considering for a brief time her question and filling a space on the page that still needed his attention. At last, he looked at her and smiled at the image he had the honour of witnessing. The girl, dressed in a summer white and blue dress, was slightly pouting at the lack of talking from his part. Her hair danced with the wind and he thanked Barbatos for letting him see her golden locks fly around her face.

"Just a little more, my love," he answered, his attention shifting back to the drawing in front of him.

"You said that an hour ago," the girl sighed, putting a smile again on her face so she didn't disrupt her lover from painting her, "I thought you wanted to go see Sucrose before the sun came down. Oh! And also, you promised Klee you'd visit her."

He hummed, immersed in the way her features took a hardened expression when she tried to remember something that needed to be done. Brows furrowed and fore finger on her right cheek, she looked at him in search of a comment from the Alchemist.

"Albedo! Are you listening to me?"

"You're so beautiful." mumbled the man, lost in her and the blush that was forming on her visage.

Shameless and, at the same time, honest and shy. That was Albedo, the one she was engaged to. Such an honourable and good man, someone who loved her as much as the Sea loved its waves, as much as the birds loved the Wind, as much as a Dwelling loved the warmth of the fire. He gave her his everything and from the bottom of his own person, and she was grateful for it.

"I'm sorry" he promptly said, coughing on his palm to hide the evident embarrassment he felt, "It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable."

At that, she couldn't help but laugh. He was such a beautiful person, always searching her comfort and well-being before anyone else's, always taking care of her and looking for her. A pure soul, she would venture to affirm.

"Don't be silly, sweetheart," Y/N chuckled, positioning once again for him to portray her, "you know I love it when you compliment me. Now, c'mon, finish before the sun falls."

"As you wish."

One more hour of dirtying their hands in paint and observing the marvellous dusk that came upon them, they left to visit Sucrose, who was willing to tell Albedo about her advances in the research they both were working on.

"That's impressive, Sucrose," Albedo praised the girl, reading the documents and correcting those things he found could be improved.

Y/N turned off the conversation, not really interested in the depths of the Alchemy. She respected what the husband to be and her friend did for a life and she couldn't be prouder, but that didn't mean she wanted to hear the endless conversations about properties a flower could have.

After saying goodbye to the little Alchemist, they both headed to say hello to little Klee, who was mad at them for coming so late, it was already her time for bed and, as she said, 'We can't go bomb fishing!', followed by a 'Do you not love Klee?' Reassuring the little bomb crazy kid was more draining than she could imagine, but she did it for Albedo, nonetheless.

The afternoon turned into the late hours of the night, lilac sky was now dark and adorned with stars. The Alchemist had intertwined his fingers with Y/N's, sighing in content, allowing himself to relax at the warmth of her hand and the serenity reigning in Mondstadt.

"Maybe we should head home, you seem exhausted," commented Albedo after watching his fiancée yawn for the third time in ten minutes.

"That would be great, actually." Y/N yawned again, gaining a quiet chuckle from the man next to her.

No one talked again, everything already said until the moment to bid goodnight when they laid in bed. Albedo, being the reserved man he was, kept himself in his side of the bed, not too confident to spoon his girl still.

The silence was only accompanied by Albedo's soft snores. Darkness decorated the walls of the room in the AM. The sense of being trapped growing inside Y/N as she thought of the implications of her new life. She was engaged to an incredible man, who told her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her every single day; who went with her on strolls and made her laugh; who could teach her more than she could ever imagine; who appreciated her as she was.

Still, she felt nothing. At all.

She liked Albedo, that was clear. Who wouldn't like Albedo? He was the perfect man. On more than one occasion, Y/N had Amber and Barbara drooling about how lucky she was to be with someone like him. She knew she was the luckiest girl in Teyvat, most women simped over Diluc or Albedo. But, at the same time, she only felt guilt for being with him without actually loving him.

Anxiety growing on her, she decided to stand up. She walked out of the room, being careful not to disrupt Albedo's sleep, and headed to the transport point, she needed to be away from any form of human activity, she felt like shouting and hitting the first thing she could see. Breathing becoming a very tedious task as she approached the device, opting to go to Mt. Aocang. If she was going to wake someone up, she preferred an Adeptus who wouldn't ask more than any nosy human.

The wind, colder than that afternoon, calmed her to the point her lungs could take the oxygen she had been trying to get for minutes. The orange leaves obscured by the night reminded her of the hair she used to love so much. The hair of that man she had once despised, then loved, and then lost.

He, who claimed to be brave enough to enter her heart, had been the one to take it and keep it even until those days. Y/N noticed how her breathing became irregular again, she was used to it, every time she thought about the Harbinger. That repulsive, irresponsible, dishonest, cunning, intelligent and breath-taking man she couldn't forget. How had she let it come so far?

Albedo gave her everything, yet her heart yearned Childe's love. How pathetic.

"Fuck you, Childe!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, not caring for the Adepti, not caring for those who could hear her cursing the Harbinger Tartaglia at 2 a.m. a Thursday night. "You ruined me, you motherfucker!"

So many fights, so many make outs, so much love making, so many nights under the stars trying to comprehend their feelings for the other. All of that for nothing. Like the bitter cold of Snezhnaya they froze, their hearts on their sleeves, light that came from the satellite above turned off.

"You know, sometimes I feel like you don't like me that much." she remembered him saying, his characteristic smirk on his face, "It's true we had our... abrasions, but girlie, c'mon, don't be so stiff."

She could clearly see in her mind how his hands came to her waist, grabbing her in a gentle but at the same time rough grip. A shivered down her spine, in the present and in the pass, and she was sure she would feel it in the future, too.

"How am I supposed to trust you, Harbinger?" she had said, crossing her arms after pulling away from him.

"Easy, trusting me."

And she did. She felt like a fool for allowing him to be so near, to had felt love from him, for loving him.

"Are you feeling okay? You look pale, my love," Albedo commented, a hand of his on the forehead of his lover, a worried expression on his face.

"Yes, Albedo, don't worry, I didn't sleep too well last night," Y/N reassured him, smiling slightly at her fiancé.

The Alchemist hummed, nodding to himself and returning to his work. The girl had returned to their room after a couple of hours in Mt. Aocang, praying for Albedo to not had noticed her absence. Apparently, he didn't. Had he noticed he would had already asked about it, or so she thought.

"I was thinking about visiting Liyue today, there are some materials there I need for my research," Albedo said after some minutes, looking at her, "I was wondering if you'd like to come."

Y/N's heart dropped. She had to say yes, how could she say no to Albedo? He wanted to spend time with her while still working, an effort she really appreciated. But, going to Liyue? What if he was there? Strolling those streets the two of them had travelled a thousand times.

But his gaze was still on her, waiting patiently for a reply. Doubtfully, she considered all her options: not going and upsetting Albedo; going and crossing him; going and being unable to continue due to the memories. No option was good, she had to choose between her fiancé's well-being and hers. 'He's made so any sacrifices for me'.

"I would love to, love."

Merchants selling, people buying, contracts being signed. That was Liyue in all its glory. Red, green and blue being the most recurrent colour themes on the walls, roofs and gardens, a gift to anyone who wanted to visit a paradise.

Albedo was buying some materials while Y/N stood next to him, not looking at anyone's face in case Childe decided to make one of his classic appearances. She grabbed Albedo's sleeve as a way to comfort herself, reassuring one time and one time again that she didn't have that much of bad luck to cross him in such a huge city.

She turned her head to look around at last, brave to see the stores and Liyue's people. Many of them knew who she was, having helped most of them at least in one occasion, great people with beautiful and peaceful lives. She had that now, at Albedo's side. But why did she feel like it wasn't what she wanted?

The red mask in one of the stalls froze her in her place, it looked identical to Childe's. She knew it wasn't his, of course, he was too involved in the Fatui and too wealthy to pledge his mask, but it made her remember him and one of the many memories she had with him in Liyue, again.

"Girlie, don't be like that" Childe exclaimed, smiling at her with bravado, "You don't have to feign you don't want that bracelet."

"I don't want it," repeated her for the third time, growing irritated.

"I have enough money to buy it for you, darling," the Harbinger insisted, taking her left hand in one of his and kissing her knuckles.

"How charming," she murmured ironically, rolling her eyes and pulling her hand out of his grasp.

"I know," he smirked, going after her, "and I also know how much you love when I act like a gentleman."

"How would you know that if you've never acted like one?" she snorted, watching his expression turn into an offended one.

"I'm a gentleman, you just can't appreciate my efforts to woo you," he replied with a pout.

"Aw, little Childe can't take a no for an answer," Y/N continued to tease him, smiling slightly at his spoiled brat's act.

"Very well, little lady, you're not having that bracelet," he stamped and turn away from her, walking without a real direction.

"Not that I wanted it!" she shouted at the distance.

Needless to say, she found the bracelet in her purse that night with a cheesy note that claimed 'To my favourite and stubborn traveller, with love, Childe'.

She still had it in her wrist, accompanying her wherever she went, reminding her of the stupid man that gifted it to her. Golden with Snezhnaya patterns, orange jewelry decorating the surface of the material. Albedo never said anything about it, never asked, and she was grateful for it, he knew to respect her space.

Her fiancé had just finished purchasing what he needed, looking at her with a loving gaze. She felt nothing, only appreciation, and she felt awful for not returning his feelings at their best, he deserved to be loved and spoiled. However, she missed him, she missed what they had.

The grey sky announced the storm that was coming, thunder and lightning appearing to give a performance of nature power. She had fought, walked, ran and danced in rain. She had danced, kissed and loved. But nothing of it with Albedo.

"Now a step to the left" instructed Childe, grabbing her waist with his left hand and her hand with his right one, "and now turn around... That's it! Perfect! You're a natural."

"Stop lying," she laughed, following what he was saying and dancing with him in a forgotten valley in some old ruins, "I can't dance for the love of Barbatos."

"I think you're really good, almost seductive," he purred, kissing her jaw and going down her neck, "seeing you move your hips like that just" an animalistic growl came from the back of his throat.

"Okay, calm down big guy, we're not fucking here."

The sound of thunder interrupted his reply, confusing them both for a moment. Suddenly, rain poured and soaked them wet. Y/N looked for somewhere they could go to shelter from the storm, but Childe just laughed and started making her dance again.

"What the hell are you doing, pee-brain!" she exclaimed, desperate.

"Dancing with you under the rain. Isn't it romantic?" he asked, smug as always.

"Romantic until we catch a hypothermia."

He didn't budge. Swaying them both with the dark landscape behind them, leaves flying around, wind aggressive. But nothing mattered as they looked at each other; love, affection and lust hidden in their souls, wanting nothing more than to indulge to the other and become one. How can anyone love this much? How can feelings root that deep? Childe was the only answer to those questions.

With nothing but a soft caress to her cheek, he smashed his lips on hers, kissing her while the rain accentuated the wet sounds. Everything with him was wild, but so addictive she couldn't help but coming undone, indulging to everything he asked silently from her. A kiss in the rain never felt so good.

"I'll be right back, I just need to drop this at Mingxing Jewelry," Albedo said, giving her a peck before leaving.

She stood there for a few moments, wondering what she could do white she waited for her lover. The rain was nearing Liyue Harbor, Albedo had told her he needed to do a couple of things more before going to the transport point to return home. She felt like throwing up, not a single spot in the city did not remind her of the love of her life, including their ugliest moments as a couple.

"How could you!?" Y/N screamed, feeling completely devastated and deceived.

"I had to! I'm sorry, okay?"

"No! It's not okay!" his indifference was breaking her heart, looking at him with disappointment, "Again! You did it again!"

"I was ordered to!" he shouted, his voice the same tone as hers, wrath in his eyes, "I have a job and you knew about it when you decided to fuck me!"

"What the hell, Childe!" she cried, "First of all, you nearly destroy Liyue! Again! Not only once but twice!" she was tired, everything was going down in front of her and she didn't want to watch it come to ruins, "And fuck you? You mean love you?"

"Love, sex, everything's the same, isn't it?" he replied, calmer and returning to his indifferent tone.

"W-what do you mean?" the fuming storm stopped to bring an eye of the hurricane, waiting patiently to unleash the tsunami over them.

"What you heard; I don't find a difference between the two concepts."

"You're lying," she murmured, unbelieving. How could he say that when an hour ago he was looking at her with so much love? Was it all an act? No, you can't feign feelings so deep.

"You're just too fool to see it, girlie," his smirk appeared, making her shake in fear, fear of losing what she cared about, "confusing terms and assuming things without asking."

"You're lying." she repeated, more to herself than for him to hear. He sighed, as if he was done with her.

"Think what you want. Now, there are people waiting for me. Until next time, girlie."

The shattering of her heart served up as the soundtrack of his departure. The leaves that had been once so vibrant and full of colour now danced around her in muted tones, mocking her. That was it, the end of their love. The palace the resembled their union fell into pieces, she needed to let go of him. The words he said cut deeper than a knife, made her feel cold. But how could she let go if she still loved him?

"So now you're with the Alchemist," a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts, making her turn to the source of it.

There he was. Orange hair and piercing blue eyes. His smirk wasn't present in the portray he displayed of himself, walking as the noble man he said he was. Her heart raced for the first time in years, asking her for indulgence, for permission to feel.

"Yes," was the first thing she said after some minutes processing what was happening. Childe was there, in front of her, "yes, I'm with Albedo."

"I see," he commented, uninterested. She thought that was all the interaction they would have, that he would go away again and leave her live her life, but she had to know better, "even if you can't forget me, you allow yourself to be with someone else?"

"What is it to you?" Y/N felt offended, who did he think he was to reprimand her in such a dirty way? He couldn't know she wasn't over him, could he?

"It's unfair for both of you. You see, love shouldn't feel like you owe something to someone just because they love you." Childe said, his gaze falling at the bracelet for a couple of seconds before looking at the landscape, "You're fooling him and yourself."

"And what would you know about love?" the question came in a bitter tone. She was angry, how dare he talk about love when he did her so wrong? When he hurt her so much?

"Touché." Childe gave her a sincere smile that reached his eyes, it was breath-taking. Y/N felt her stomach twirl and her heart jump at the sight of such a beautiful scenario, "Glad to see you well, Y/N. See ya!"

And like that, he left the place as if he hadn't turned her world around again. She missed him, she admitted to herself that she missed him. She missed his wild nature, his odd conversations, the mystery wrapping around him. She couldn't forgive him, but she couldn't live without him, either. That's the way she loved him.

Once Albedo returned from his errands, they both went to the transport point to return to Mondstadt. The way back was silent, but not a comfortable one as they always had, there was some tension lingering in between them. She wanted to attribute it to the tension she had been carrying since her encounter with Childe, but deep down she knew there was something else.

When they entered their house, they both changed into their sleeping garments without sharing a word, waiting for the other to be the first one to break the silence. Y/N didn't have it in her to be the brave one in the situation at hand, so, finally, Albedo spoke.

"I know you're not over him," he said, calmly, but there was jealousy in his tone.

She was surprised to hear him say those words. She never mentioned Childe before, less being in a relationship with him. She wanted to feel fear, the same one she felt when her argument with Childe broke them apart, but she felt nothing at all. Why? Why couldn't she be in love with a man life him?

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about, Y/N." Albedo sighed, sitting at the edge of their shared bed.

"B-but", she stuttered, searching for words, "H-how do you know...?"

"There were rumours... some years ago, about the 'traveller' being with one of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. It was during your time at Liyue."

She nodded, understanding, but really not understanding anything, "Did you believe them?"

"I can't say yes, but I can't say no, either." Albedo looked at her, he didn't look angry, and that made her feel a little bit better. "I just couldn't know if it was true or not because I wasn't there."

"I see." another moment of silence followed. She took a deep breath and looked at him in the eyes, "Why do you say that I'm not over him, though?"

"There are so many signs, you aren't the subtlest person, love." he chuckled, "The bracelet has Snezhnaya patterns and you haven't taken it out in all these years. I can only assume it was a present from Tartaglia."

Y/N nodded again, impressed with how observant Albedo was and with his deduction skills. She wished for the hundredth time that day that she would have fell in love with him and not with the Harbinger.

"I'm so sorry-" she began, but was quickly interrupted by her fiancé.

"Don't." he commanded, "That's not the only thing that gave you away."

"What do you mean?"

"Your late night trips."

'He knew' she thought, searching for any clues that could tell her when he had discovered it, but there were none. 'He has known all this time.'

"Why haven't you said anything?" she asked.

"I wanted to give you space," he began, "I must admit, however, that at first I thought you were cheating on me."

"I would never-" she was interrupted again, a kind gaze on his eyes.

"I know, I know. I realized when you came home smelling like grass and mint and not with the cologne of another man."

It was silent again, Y/N tried to find anything she could say to make him feel better, but she couldn't even understand himself. Why isn't she feeling her heart shattering? She knew why, but she didn't want to indulge in that feeling.

"I'm so sorry, Albedo. I really am."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." those words sounded identical to the ones she had directed to Childe once upon a time.

"I am aware that you don't love me the way I love you."

"Albedo-"

"But it's okay, I can love both of us enough to fill that gap."

She was at a loss of words. Had she heard it right? What did he mean? Albedo was so calm, so ethereal, looking at her fondly even when he knew she didn't feel the same. He was going to marry a woman that didn't want him the same way she wanted her. And even though he was aware of that, he was smiling.

"Why?" she wondered out loud.

"Because that's how it works, that's the way I love you, until you can return my feelings."

The leaves that danced aggressively at the other side of the window stayed still, processing the scene going on in the room of the Alchemist and the Traveller. Their colour coming back to a vibrant one, giving her hope of being able to love again, to feel something.

Her love with Childe was like the Sun and the Moon, so in love they were crazy for each other, but impossible and unworkable. But, Albedo loved her like the Sea loved its waves, like the birds loved the Wind, like a Dwelling loved the warmth of the fire, and she was going to return it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but she would. And when she did, she would love him as much as the Leaves loved their trees, as much as the Lake loved the rain that floods it, as much as the Horizon loved dusk.

She bid goodbye to Childe that night, leaving the bracelet in the drawer in her nightstand. Adorning her hand only was the ring Albedo had gifted her.

"See you, Childe," she murmured at 2 a.m. before falling in her slumber.

[softyoongiionly]

Portraits of a Tiger|| 01

Legends of a great and equally terrifying warrior nicknamed the Tiger have been emerging from your fellow villagers for quite sometime. Stories of his skill, his stealth and his supposed wickedness have been passed around to the point where he is more prophecy than person. You have lived your life with a strong sense of conviction, rarely letting gossip influence your opinion. However, you would be lying if you said that his legacy didn’t intrigue you. When the Tiger and his infamous army arrive in your village to refuel, you come face to face with the man behind the myth.

And no amount of marketplace gossip would ever be enough to capture the true complexity of his nature.

Pairing: Merchant! Reader x Warrior! Yoongi

Genre: Adventure, Romance, Smut (later), Fluff, Angst

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: language, depictions of violence both verbal and physical however they are fairly mild, mentions of war and power dynamics, there will be smut in future parts so, (18+ only please).

Current Tag List: @bulletproofbirdy​ @gldnrecs​ @naajix​ @bluewhale52​ @nikkikenji​ @lustedkisses​

A/N: oh okayyyyy HELLO!!! Its here!!! Warrior! Yoongi is finally emerging from the depths of my writer blocked brain and I am SO happy you get to meet him. Once again, this series will be posted in parts just as Mama Mia! is and it may not necessarily follow a linear timeline. 

Also, I know I mentioned her in the tag list post but, SERIOUSLY you guys this story would not be possible without my wonderful friend @bulletbroofbirdy aka Rachel who has literally spent so much time dreaming up with wonderful universe with me. My sweet angel, you are the greatest in the world and I love you. Please go follow Rachel and send her all the love in the universe and thank her for her genius brain because, without her, this fic wouldn’t exist. 

War.  

It’s not an uncommon occurrence where you’re from.  

The ever-present shifting of the borderlines is a constant reminder of the struggle for power.

Many see it as a valiant effort, a noble cause...

But, war is something that doesn’t appeal to you.

It doesn’t sit right with your perspective on the world.

Sure, you understand it’s strengths and why it could be seen as necessary.

However, the consequences of war, of violence- never seem to be worth it.  

Death.

It’s not an uncommon occurrence where you’re from.  

When war is constantly raging on the background, it should be expected.  

It should be normal.  

To most of your district, it is.  

To you?

Every single rise in the death toll sends icy despair into your heart.  

Every drop of blood spilled feels as though it’s your own.  

You’re desperate to find the solution for peace but, you know it’s not that simple.  

Man is never content.

The struggle for power is never ending.  

As you grow up, you learn to adapt.  

Learning a trade is the easiest way to establish yourself so, you take up knitting and medicine.  

You sell your wears and remedies in the market every other day and spend your off days replenishing the stock that you sold.  

Your parents live comfortably but in order for them to do so, you’re in the market for hours on end.  

Today starts as any other.  

You’re gathering your wears in your family’s home as the sun is beginning to peak over the mountains.

The colors it throws through your window are breathtaking and, if you weren’t so exhausted, you’d be able to enjoy them a bit more.  

Thankfully, your preparations don’t wake your parents as they sleep soundly in their bed.  

You wish for nothing more than for them to be at peace every chance they get.  

They have sacrificed so much.

The market displays its usual scenery.  

The fishermen are always first setting up their catches from the evening prior, the butchers are hanging up their kills from the overnight hunt whilst the farmers arrange seasonal produce on their carts...

You always have your cart near the end of the market.  

It’s easier for people to think about softer things such as knitted blankets or healing elixirs once they’ve purchased their food.  

Thankfully, business is decent.  

Your wares are well-made and your elixirs have an exceptional success rate.

The prices are fair so you attract all walks of life but, you focus more on serving the lower class folk such as yourself.  

One of the fisherman, who you’ve grown acquainted with over the last few months, nods to your cart as you’re setting it up.

“What do you have today __?”

With a smile, you hold up a mauve woolen blanket which you’ve spent nearly two weeks on.

“This is the item of the day. I used a root dye to get the color- what do you think?”

He purses his lips, nodding in consideration, “I’m sure someone will snag that right away. It looks warm. It will be very useful over the next few months. Do you have any of that uh- “ Lowering his voice, he cranes his neck to assess whether or not any of his team can hear him, “ginseng mixture that you sold to me last week?”

You bite back a smirk as you nod towards the woven basket containing your various medicines, “I do. I made a new batch last night. Did you need some?”

A rapid nod is sent your way along with a handful  of coins, “Thanks. It worked wonders last time. My wife sends her gratitude.”

Your cheeks heat up immediately but given that you’ve heard worse things in the market place, you merely giggle and file your payment away.

Ginseng is a natural stimulant that you often recommend to men experiencing issues with sex or fertility. Whilst you completely stand by its effectiveness, you won’t deny that it’s slightly awkward working with the men you’ve helped. Especially since they often insist on loudly announcing how many times they had sex the night before.

The rest of the setup goes smoothly and by the time the sun fully takes its place in the sky, you are ready for the market to open.  

As your adjusting the sign on the front of your cart, you hear an interesting bout of conversation ignite in front of you

“Did you hear? The Royal Army is arriving today to refuel.”

“You’re lying. Are you serious? Do they- do you think they have him with them?”

“Of course! They aren’t stupid enough to travel without him. They’d be ambushed immediately.”

“Yah, what are you talking about?”

“The Tiger. He’s coming through town today.”

Instantly, your heart stalls in your chest.

You try your best to appear unbothered but, it doesn’t stop the panic from seeping into your bones.

The Tiger and the fleet of warriors he oversees are well-known in your village.  

Word of mouth is truly a powerful mechanism for spreading information and, stories of The Tiger had been circulating for quite sometime.

They started out simply depicting a powerful new recruit into the Royal Army.

Despite his initial inexperience, The Tiger quickly rose through the ranks due to his otherworldly fighting skills.  

According to the rumors, The Tiger was known for his silent destruction.  

By the time his enemies could grasp what was happening, The Tiger and his men had already completed their mission.  

They had already killed, maimed or destroyed whatever they were after.  

A recent success had led to The Tiger becoming the General of the largest fleet in the Royal Army.

From what you had gathered, he wasn’t much older than you so the fact that he essentially lead an entire army is quite impressive.

However, given the stories of his cruel and cold blooded nature, it makes a lot of sense.

“I heard he beheads the enemy general on the battlefield after he wins...”

“I heard he killed 3,000 men all on his own in the middle of a thunderstorm!”

“I heard he keeps a viper on him at all times and he sets it loose on anyone he disobeys him!”

“I heard that he never sleeps.”

“Do you think he’ll come here? Would he be seen out in public like that?”

“Why wouldn’t he? He has nothing to fear, there isn’t a single soul in this village who could take him on.”

“Plus, he never travels alone. He’ll have his men with him.”  

With a snort, you continue displaying your cart as normal and, only then do you realize that you stand out amongst the other merchants.

Every single one of them has an offering for the warriors.

It’s not customary to do so and, you’re only viable guess is that it has something to do with the market fawning over this tiger character.

“Were we supposed to put something out?” You murmur to the woman beside you, brows knitting in confusion.

She chuckles heartily, “When a normal fleet enters, no. We usually just offer them food and the resources we can spare.” A bit of excitement flashes through her eyes as she adjust the basket of radishes on her cart, “However, this is no ordinary fleet. I suggest you put something out too dear, that pretty face of yours could land you husband on the Tiger’s army, any one of his men would be a worthy mate. They aren’t shooting blanks like my husband over here!”

Her body jostles with laughter as she shoves her hand up against the man beside her, who looks whole-heartedly unamused.

“Jane, please...” He grumbles

You can’t help the grimace that comes across your face when Jane mentions finding a husband but, it’s quickly replaced with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.

“I have something for that.” You offer in a hushed tone and, the man seems to unfurl from his submissive position as he offers a meek smile.

“You do?”

You don’t have time to answer him before the mood of the market shifts into quiet chaos.

“I think they’re coming!” The fisherman whispers frantically, adjusting the sign on his cart for the millionth time.

As much you hate to give in to the hype, you feel compelled to go with the flow and, put something out for the warriors.  

You settle on a basket of your most popular anti-inflammatory ailment that’s proven to be quite effective amongst your customers.  

The long strips of white wood are haphazardly placed into a woven basket as you brace your ears for the piercing sound of trumpets.

Magnificent as the musicians in your village are, the blaring cacophony of noise is far from something you wish to be apart of this early in the morning.  

However, the noise never comes.  

The gates open up as normal as a reasonable size crowd begins meandering throughout the market.  

You turn towards Jane with confusion painting your features, “Where’s the music?”

Jane is adjusting her radishes once again, glancing eagerly towards the crowd of people, “The Tiger does not allow fanfare of any kind. A far away village defied his orders once and played for him and his fleet anyway and- well...” She smirks bemusedly, “it didn’t end well for them, so we respect his wishes.”

Your eyes widen at that as you nod, swallowing back any fear that threatens to crawl up your throat.  

“Got it.”

The usual slew of customers begin filing in and as business begins to pick up, you slowly forget about the famous warriors that were to enter.  

Roughly, an hour later, your basket of willow bark remains untouched and, you begin to consider putting it back in its normal place. This particular bark is quite annoying to obtain and you don’t feel great about giving it away to some warrior after you’ve spent hours trying to procure it.  

However, as you glance at other offering baskets, you notice that some of them have been emptied.  

This means of course that either your fellow merchants put their offerings away or, the warriors are already in the market.  

A strange and unsettling feeling washes over you at the thought of deadly warriors perusing throughout town. You expected that they would be recognizable, especially given their reputation but, nothing seems to give away their presence.  

As a paying customer leaves your cart with an armful of various items, you notice something that normally doesn’t garner your attention: hair.  

You see it amongst the crowd, peeking over the tops of heads.

It’s a shimmering icy platinum and it’s tied up atop a strangers head with a beaded string. It moves throughout the crowd slowly, stopping at various points, likely exchanging words with another merchant before you finally make out the face it belongs to.  

A man dressed in cotton linens maneuvers out of the crowd, dark eyes scanning his surroundings almost anxiously. As he moves closer to you, you’re able to fully take in his features.  

Pointed and smooth, his face is the epitome of contradiction.  

Deep brown eyes, rounded button-nose, pouty lips and strong eyebrows adorn his face whilst his rather large hand flexes instinctually towards the object hanging off of his hips.

It’s a sword.  

This man certainly isn’t a civilian.  

Unfortunately, you’re unable to ignore the beauty he possesses. He is quite ethereal once you get a closer look at him; you don’t think you’ve ever seen another person that looks quite like him.  

As he speaks with the fisherman, your ears perk up to in an attempt to hear the sound of his voice.  

Faintly, you can discern a bit of rasp and calculation in his tone but, you aren’t able to absorb it over the sound of the market.  

Its then you realize that you’ve been staring at this stranger for far too long and, if you’re ever going to meet your quota today, you need to avoid distractions.  

You sell another one of your blanket moments later, increasing your daily total by a reasonable amount. Making blankets is enjoyable yes but, it’s extremely time consuming so it feels good when someone rewards you for your hard work.  

“Please have some radishes! They’re grown in top soil from the northern region! It gives them a certain uh- “ Jane’s shrill voice pulls your attention towards her cart which now brandishes a new visitor: the stranger with the blonde hair.

You're realizing that Jane is pausing mid-sentence because, she is desperately looking to you for answers.

You've assisted Jane with her produce before as she was having trouble with the flavor of some of her vegetables. This was mainly due to the fact that she had been using the wrong kind of fertilizer but, you had also given her several tips to improve the overall taste of her produce.

“A certain crunch...” You finish for her, stabilizing your tone as you brave a glance towards the man. “The mixture of the soils helps with the texture.”

His feline gaze rushes towards you at the sound of your voice, as if he wasn’t expecting you to speak.  

At the sight of you, his lips part momentarily before quickly sealing in a tight lipped smile which directs toward Jane.

“Thank you.” He nods toward her as he takes one of the radishes and tucks it into the pocket of his linen pants.

“Of course! Um thank you- sir for your...services...” She stutters and it’s then you notice that she hasn’t made eye contact throughout the entirety of their conversation.  

A bit of discomfort flashes through his eyes but otherwise, he merely grunts in acknowledgement.  

Jane’s comment is the last bit of confirmation you need that this man is indeed a warrior.

However, his reaction to her words strikes you as odd. Warriors rarely shy away from gratitude. They are often proud and boastful regarding their positions but, he seems to be bothered by what she said.  

The man never looks back at Jane as he makes his way to the next cart. Every so often, you notice him looking over his shoulder or glancing towards the entrances/exits of the market. His presence doesn’t necessarily make you uneasy but, his behavior sure does.

He acts as though he is in danger.

It puts you on edge but, you direct your attention back to the customer in front of you.

“Good morning.” You smile, “Anything catch your eye?”

The man cards a hand through his salt and pepper hair as he leans over your cart, eagerly scanning the items you have on display.

“Eh do you have anything for dry skin? With winter around the corner, I gotta start thinking about this old skin of mine. The wind does a lot of damage on my knuckles.”

“You know what? I think I have just the thing...” You bend down to access the crate beneath your counter and grab a medium sized glass bottle, “This is an olive oil and honey treatment, it will treat dry skin immediately but, it’s meant to treat dry skin over a longer period of time too. I also-” You bend down once more to grab a tin of cocoa butter and place it on the counter top, “have this. This should help with daily wear and tear. You only need a little bit so this tin should last you through the winter.”

The man smiles eagerly and quickly reaches for his pockets before he freezes. You don’t notice until you look up from your counter but, the platinum haired warrior is back and, he’s standing right behind your customer.

“O-Oh go ahead, go ahead. I uh- I'll go next...” The man stutters, gesturing frantically to your cart.

With a quirked brow the warrior moves to step in front of him until you raise your hand.

“No sir, it’s ok. You’re in the middle of a transaction.” You insist, eyeing the warrior sternly,  “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The immediate crowd surrounding your cart seems to pause, nervously glancing towards the warrior who merely nods and steps back into place.  

The shock is apparent on the faces of the crowd but you ignore it and send a reassuring smile towards your customer, “Ok, that will be 11.50 and-” You slide a bundle of rosemary towards him, “take this too, on the house. Brew it in some hot water to aid digestion, winter food tends to be a bit harsher on the system.”

The man swallows nervously, dragging his items toward his chest, “Thank you—uh so much. Thank you.” He turns towards the warrior, directing his gaze towards his feet as he bows his head, “Thank you for your service...”

The man doesn’t allow the warrior time to respond before he rushes off back into the crowd but, you get the feeling that it wouldn’t matter regardless.  

The warrior doesn’t seem interested in anyone’s gratitude.  

“Let me know if you have any questions.” You nod your head towards him, pushing the basket with your offering towards the edge of the counter before busying yourself with putting a few things back in their place.

He says nothing but, he approaches the counter whilst his eyes shrewdly observe the ins and outs of your set up.

He’s even more striking up close. His smooth, tan skin is mostly unmarked except for the giant scar running down the center of his right eye. It goes up the center of his eyelid and disappears right above the center of his brow. It’s still red and angrily risen against his otherwise angelic looking face.  

A warrior indeed.

The bit of people around your cart haven’t stopped their staring but, they are at least making an attempt to look like they aren’t paying attention. It doesn’t stop you from wishing that you didn’t have an audience.  

“Tree bark?” He questions with an arch to his brow

You look towards the basket he’s gesturing to before returning your gaze back to his.

“White willow bark.” You correct, almost defensively and it cause his lips to twitch.

“Is this some kind of decoration?”

You shake your head, placing your fingers on the edge of the basket, “No. It’s meant to be chewed. It reduces inflammation. I figured it would be useful since I imagine you deal with muscle soreness quite often.”

He smirks, “Amongst other things yes,” With long elegant fingers, he points to the basket, “So- if I chew on this, I should feel relief from any pain I might be experiencing?”

An all too rapid nod comes from you as you continue your explanation, “Well it’s mainly used to treat pain in your muscles and joints. If you’re looking to treat other types of pain, I have other options...”

He shakes his head, his hair swishing to the side as he does, “This should do, thank you.”  

You suspect that he’s done, given that the bark is (annoyingly) free and he’s only seemed to be interested in the offerings thus far so, he surprises you when he asks yet another question.

“Do you have any more of that salve?”

“Of course,” You offer him a smile now that the initial tension is starting to lift, “Did you want a big tin or small tin?”

He purses his lips in thought, looking towards his hands, “What do you recommend?”

Without a second thought, you step towards him and take one of his hands, bringing it closer to your face for inspection.  

The man seems to freeze in place, eyes widening in absolute shock, his own limb betraying him as it goes limp.

His hand displays evidence of the life he lives.  

Rough, calloused and blistered...

His nails are bitten down to a point that almost looks painful but, the thing that stands out the most is how beautiful his hand is to you.  

The strength in his skin is palpable and the indigo veins protruding against his hand are a firm reminder of what he is likely capable of.  

What you don’t notice however, is the utter panic that flushes across his face or the way his eyes dart nervously between you and his hand.

Just as you would during any consultation, you briefly run your fingers over the palm of his hand and up the length of each of his fingers

“Hmm I would recommend the big tin, I think...you have a lot of rough spots but the skin between your callouses is quite smooth so,”  You carefully set his hand back onto the counter and return your eyes back to his, “what that tells me is that your skin is roughened by your environment rather than by an actual lack of moisture.” You slide the big tin towards him, “Apply this to the dryer areas as needed throughout the day but, every night before you go to bed, make sure to put this on. Sleeping with it will allow it to seep into your skin and heal the dryness over time.”  

The warrior’s eyes are transfixed on you and for a moment he is completely speechless, his hand lingering on the counter before hurriedly places them back at his side.  

He can’t understand you and why you just touched him.  

But what’s worse, is he can’t understand why his mouth is suddenly dry.

Or why his skin is on fire...

Or why his heart is thrashing around in his chest.

He clears his throat and nods, “Very good. I’ll be sure to follow your instructions.” He sticks the hand you didn’t touch into his pocket, fishing around for something, “What’s my total?”

“That will be 3.50.” You say with a smile, holding out your hand.

He dispenses his payment into your palm before stowing his items away in his free pocket.

“Thank you.” He grunts, the hand you touched still kind of awkwardly lingering away from his body.

Was he going to wash it as soon as he got the chance?

Did you smell weird?

“Of course, have a nice day. Safe travels.” With a wave, you send him off, missing the small smile that momentarily appears on his face.

You’re genuinely relieved that the encounter is over but, you’d be lying if you said that it didn’t intrigue you.

Before you’re able to get your bearings and move on, Jane is rushing over to you frantically.

“What on Earth was that??? Do you know him??? Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?!” She swats your arm, her eyes wide with incredulity.

“Ow!” You grip your arm, “What are you talking about?”

The man has already disappeared back into the crowd but, you’re still attempting to keep your voice at a reasonable level.

Jane does not follow suit.

“You just put your hands on the Tiger!” Jane shrieks causing you to recoil in response, “He could kill you for that! What were you thinking?”

“He’s going to kill me because I touched his hand?” Your brow arches in amusement, as your lips threaten to smile, “I had no idea who he was Jane, I was just helping a paying customer.”

She doesn’t like your answer and quickly swats your arm again, “Y/N this is not a joke! He’s a dangerous man. I nearly fainted when you looked him in his eyes but, then you touched him and-”

“Jane, that’s enough.” The fisherman hisses, gesturing wildly to the crowd of people, “You’re making a scene and he’s still out here somewhere.”

She huffs her hands rushing to smooth out the apron over her dress before rushing a finger into your face, “You won’t be laughing if he shows up at your house with a sword in your face. You need to be careful.”

You smirk at this but otherwise comply, not wishing to fire her up any further, “Thank you for your concern Jane, I’ll make sure to carry my sword around too, you know, just in case.”  

Jane snorts then and rolls her eyes, scurrying back to her cart and mumbling something along the lines of:

“That mouth is going to get you killed...”

You can’t help but giggle.

There’s no doubt that the man you just spoke to was a warrior and, maybe he was some almighty warrior but he other than an intense staring problem, he didn’t scare you at all.

Thankfully, business is booming for the remainder of the day and although you’re thrilled at the money you’ll be taking home, you aren’t looking forward to all the replenishing you have to do.  

The last order of business before heading home is picking a few things for your parents and grabbing the last of the steamed buns for your best friend.

Rachel has lived beside you ever since you can remember. The two of you spent most of your childhood running around the village, causing mini bouts of chaos everywhere you went. Despite the challenges life had brought the both of you, you grew together rather than apart.  

Rachel is the village’s most treasured teacher and she’s been running the school for the past few years. She’s kind of the best and, you have a feeling she’ll be interested to hear about the rather interesting events that had transpired over the course of your day.  

As you turn down the dirt path towards her home, you start to wonder where the Tiger and his fleet would be staying.  

Your village wasn’t run-down but it wasn’t exactly luxurious by any standards.

The rubble near the beginning of the street along with the various empty wooden barrels doesn’t exactly count as décor and, the occasional drunken argument outside the village’s tavern certainly doesn’t add any class to the area but, its home.  

Rachel's house is easy to spot amongst the rest of the street as it’s the only one completely covered in plants.

She’s had a love of greenery for quite sometime and, it’s amongst the many things you two bond over.  

Adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you immediately reach for the handle and use all your weight to shove the front door open.  

Rachel is sitting on her sofa and despite the fact that she was expecting you, she still jumps at the sound.

“Oh my goodness!” She exclaims “Have you ever heard of knocking???”

You giggle but otherwise ignore her and lean against the door dramatically, “Rachel, you better get one last look at me because, this might be the last time you ever see me.”

She laughs lightly and folds her arms, “What did you do this time? Did you call the apothecary a fraud again?” Wiggling her fingers, she reaches out for the snacks your holding.

“Ok first of all, he is a fraud but no....it’s much much worse.” You shove the snacks into her awaiting hands before flopping down on the armchair, “I touched a man’s hand...”

She freezes, the bun lingering near her mouth, “Alright, now I am officially curious, why is hand touching worse?”

You smirk, “I touched...the Tiger’s hand” You point a finger at her quickly as her lips part, “Before you even make the joke, no it wasn’t a real tiger...it was THE tiger.”

Rachel snorts with laughter before going wide-eyed in shock, “You...wha--the Tiger? THE Tiger??? You TOUCHED the Tiger?!!?!? What were you thinking?!? Oh my god, did he bite? Wait, focus, Rachel---Why did you touch the Tiger?!?”  

Whilst she’s rambling on you burst out in a fit of giggles, snuggling back against the chair, “He came to my cart looking for a good salve for his hands. All I did was do an assessment as I normally do to see what he needed. I don’t understand why everyone is freaking out...he seemed pretty harmless to me.”

She leans forward on the couch, “Harmless? He seemed...harmless?!?” She whispers frantically, “He has personally slain hundreds of men with those very hands!!!  

“Why are we whispering?...”

Rachel returns to normal volume, rolling her eyes “Fine. More like thousands if you count how many his army has obliterated. And you just pawed at him--are you insane? He has killed people for less! At least that’s what the rumors say.”  

You keep giggling, completely unfazed as you make yourself at home, “The rumors also say that he killed an entire village because they played their trumpets for him. I don’t know how credible these rumors are.”

“Well....what was he like then? You cannot drop this information on me and not give me every detail.” She insists, gesturing wildly at you before leaning back and sipping from her mug.

“Uh he was fine. I mean- he was normal I guess, I don’t know. He has really long hair, its blonde- like really blonde. He looks young, way younger than I thought he’d be. He has a big scar over his eye. Jane was practically drooling over him...”

Realization crosses Rachel’s face as she watches you intently. She relaxes back into her chair as a knowing smile spreads across her face, “Ohhhh young, blonde, mysterious...Jane must really HAVE been drooling. Seems like she’s not the only one, though...”

“I mean- the fisherman guys were pretty excited too I guess. I don’t know what the big deal is honestly, I know he’s supposed to be good on the battlefield but they were treating him like he was some kind of king or something.” You narrow your eyes “Are you suggesting I was drooling over him? Because I definitely wasn’t...I even told him to wait his turn in line.” You insist, shifting around on the chair.

Rachel crosses her legs dramatically, steeping her fingers as she observes you, “Was that before or after you found out he was handsome? Hmm?” She smirks again, holding her hands up innocently, “I am implying nothing, I am just NOTICING that you are definitely affected by him. I haven’t seen you impressed by....well, anyone.”

She’s not wrong.

“Hey hey whoa...who said anything about impressed?? I’m not impressed. I’m not impressed at all.”

Rachel eyes you suspiciously”...right...not impressed at all. Well, did you at least hear anything about them? Any word on how long the army will be here? We’ve got to be the safest village in the country as long as they are in town.” Suddenly, she facepalms in realization, “My students will be so distracted as long as they are here.”

“Not impressed. He’s just a man with a scar and sword...” You insist, twiddling your thumbs “I guess they are just refueling, I’m not sure how long they will be here. Jane told me I need to watch my back so, hopefully not for long...” You giggle again, thinking of how excited the schoolchildren will be now that the legendary Tiger is in town, “maybe you can make an assignment out of it...”

She stares off into space for a moment and mutters, “that’s not a bad idea...we could get outside, maybe a soldier could come speak to them? There’s got to be at least one that’s not terrifying?...” Rachel shakes her head, unimpressed with your lack of understanding, “Just a man with a scar and sword—he is the most feared military leader of our generation! And I wouldn’t worry TOO much about watching your back. After all—none of the legends involve the Tiger killing civilians, do they? At the very least his presence here means good business for the village. If you can get the Tiger as a repeat customer I can only imagine the profits you’ll turn at that little stall!” She muses, laugh heartily, “Buy the salve that soothed a beast! I can hear the gossip already...”

You point a finger at her, “I like the way you think. If you ever want to stop educating and enriching the minds of our youth and be my business partner, let me know...” Suddenly the humor within you dissipates as the reality of your situation seems to sink in, “You don’t think I should be worried though right?”

Rachel lets out a short laugh, “Thanks for the offer...” She shakes her head, “As far as this Tiger business is concerned...I don’t think your safety is under any threat. How did he react when you touched him? Did he seem angry?”

“He just froze...” You recall, your eyes unfocusing slightly, “It was kind of weird honestly. I’ve never had anyone do that before. It’s pretty normal to get checked out during an apothecary visit. I guess I wasn’t supposed to look at him either but, how the hell am I supposed to do an exam if I can’t look at his face?”

“Hmmm...that is strange. I’ll be honest, I thought he would have scolded you or pulled away based on the stories. Unless...” Rachel slumps back against her sofa, her face relaxing into a smirk, “...he was just as surprised by you as you were of him.”

You wrinkle your nose, “Ew no. Definitely not.”  

Rachel doesn’t look convinced but you continue nevertheless, suddenly wishing to change the subject.

“He looked nervous I guess- I don’t know. His hand just sort of hung there after I finished. Today was weird...anywayyy-” You nod to the dough between your palms, “How are the buns? Did anything interesting happen in the education world.”

“Oh three boys got in a worm eating contest and threw up on their practice parchment so I could go without that kind of interesting for awhile. The buns are transcendent as usual but you-” She narrows her eyes in your direction, “- are dodging. Why would a general be nervous around you hmm? You said he is young...is he also handsome?”

“Ah god I love kids...” You note with a giggle before shrugging, shrinking back into the chair, “I don’t know. Objectively he- he definitely wasn’t ugly.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow, “I sense there is more to it than that.”

“Fine. He was easily the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. There! Are you happy now?” You grumble before dramatically staring off into the distance, “Oh to be murdered by the most handsome man alive...how romantic.”

This prompts a twinkling bout of laughter from Rachel who has finally finished the first of her many snacks, “I can think of worse ends my friend. Perhaps that was your only interaction? I am sure he is busy making preparations; too busy to be executing smart-mouthed apothecaries. I wouldn’t fret too much Y/N.”

With you sigh, you accept her analysis, sending a nod her way, “You’re probably right and, that’s probably for the best.” Despite the conviction in your tone, you can feel the disappointment on your face, “Thank you for calling my mouth smart.” You smirk before nodding toward the door, “I should probably head home. My father has a nasty cough and I seriously doubt he’s taken the medicine I left for him.”

Meeting you at the door, Rachel pulls you in for a big hug, “The smartest mouth in town- that's why I keep you around. Give your father my love and tell him, if he gives you a hard time—I will find out!”

You laugh, hugging her tightly, “The second smartest mouth in town...” You insist, “let’s do the tavern this weekend please. The children have been taking all your time and I miss my best friend!”

“Of course! No pack of tiny ruffians can get between me and a night out.”

You pat her shoulder gently before stepping out of the doorframe, “That’s right.” You smile, thankful to have someone like her in your life, “love you, have a good night.”

“Good night, sleep tight...” She sings, slowly closing the door, “don’t let the Tiger bite!” She laughs wildly before slamming the door shut to prevent your retaliation.

She’s a menace.

The walk back home is pleasant, the fall breeze nips at your skin through your sweater but, it feels refreshing against your flushed cheeks.  

Your parents are asleep by the time you return home.  

It’s common for you to arrive well past their bedtime but, despite your lack of contact, they still manage to make you feel loved.

On the kitchen table sits bowl of stew and freshly baked bread, along with a new blanket for the winter.  

Your mom makes a fresh one everywhere with thicker fabric to combat the icy freeze of the winter climate. The stew will be cold but, your heart will be warm and your stomach will be full.  

In truth, these are the only things that matter to you.  

Living simple certainly has it’s drawbacks but overall, you are comforted by it. Your parents raised you to be thankful for the things you have and to only set your sights on obtaining things that truly matter to you. It doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have goals but, your parents have always stressed that external success can be fickle and, material possessions only take you so far.  

Being content is truly priceless and, you’re thankful they instilled these values into you.

Climbing into bed, you allow your mind to wander to the man you met today.  

You couldn’t quite understand the legend behind him. Not to say that he wasn’t worthy of such folklore but, it’s more so that you didn’t exactly understand the warnings behind it.  

He didn’t seem scary.

Although, it’s possible his demeanor is something he uses along with his beauty.

It could be that the Tiger lives up his animal comparison.

Beautiful and deadly.

Village gossip shouldn’t keep you awake longer than necessary, you think, it’s time to rest up so that tomorrow’s work day doesn’t feel like a never-ending task.  

With the sound of the whistling wind just outside your home, you slowly close your eyes and drift off to sleep.

Your plan for a peaceful nights rest is completely demolished when you feel the frantic hands of your mother shaking you awake.

“Y/N! Wake up! Wake up! Raiders- they are raiders outside, hurry!” She drags the covers off of you, “We have to go!”

In a haphazard blur, you spring to your feet and arm yourself with a few important possessions and your sword.  

Your parents tow behind you as you make your way out of your home.  

The village is in utter chaos; shouting, clanking metal, screaming, amber flames peaking out from above the rooftops.  

You grab your mothers arm, keeping her close to you as you try your best to follow procedures.

Like most smaller villages, your area is equipped with a protocol that will ensure the least amount of damage if there were to be an invasion.

Collect the essentials and gather your loved ones

Arm yourself

Make your way to the town square; there is strength in numbers.

Allow the raiders to take what they want (with the exception of human lives)

Negotiate

Simple in theory but, rarely in practice.

It’s difficult to keep up with a protocol during times of intense stress.

Amidst the chaos, you see Rachel scrambling out of her house, with a bag slung over her shoulder.

You cry out for her, desperately hoping she will hear your voice over the madness,

“Rachel! Over here!”

With wide eyes, she reaches out for your mother’s hand, bowing her head to shield from any possible debris.  

“The army is here, they will protect us.” Your father murmurs solemnly beside you, his face stoic and rid of any bit of positivity

This could end very badly.  

The four of you rush into the town square, trying your best to remain calm throughout the screaming, back up against a wall. Your grip tightens on your mothers hand as you spot the tents of the armed guests currently residing in your village.

The raiders continue their plundering throughout the town accompanied by the sounds of glass breaking and shouting.  

Suddenly, there is a different sound: the clanking of swords. Briefly, you can see glimpses of armor peeking out of homes, the sight causing your eyes to widen.

“Look!”

Rachel and your parents crane their necks to see what you’re pointing out as the sounds coming from within your village begin to change.

Grunting, groaning, more clanking swords and a bit of shouting shoot out of the main street like fireworks.

“Clear the path!” An unfamiliar voice shouts and it’s then you can see what’s going on.

The raiders have been captured thanks to the ominous group of tourists that arrived yesterday.

Oddly enough, you don’t even remember seeing them leave their tents and it makes you wonder how the hell they managed to move so quickly undetected.  

There are several men, dressed in black and gold armor, dragging the raiders by their shirts to the center of town square. One of them is a tall, doe eyed looking man with shaggy brown hair and biceps that could likely snap a neck if they so desired. He has his sword to the back of one of the raiders who scuffles along on his knees to meet with the rest of his captured teammates.  

As the rest of the soldiers file in, another leader of the troop, tall and equally broad, gestures to Bambi with the biceps.

“Jungkook-ah! Bring the leader to the center; let our general deal with him.”

Jungkook does just that, quickly the toe of his boot into the back of the raider and jerking his head to the center of the plaza, “You heard him- move.” He grunts and the raider reluctantly shuffles forward.

Your fellow villagers are reasonably alarmed but, they all seem to freeze in place as they watch the show unravel before them.

This is already more excitement than your village has had in ages and, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t eating it up.

The man who has now been identified as Jungkook, steps away from the raider, still pointing his sword at him, a smug smirk on his face, “You know for a master thief, you were far too easy to catch. Lucky for me, I made a bet with my brothers here that I would catch you in 10 minutes,” Jungkook walks back towards the man, entangling his fingers in the roots of his hair before tugging backwards, “, and according to the clock tower, it only took me 8.”  

Beside you, Rachel seems to swallow back her surprise before subconsciously starting to fan her face,  

“Goodness, he really is something huh?”

Despite the tense nature of the situation, her demeanor makes you giggle,  

“Stop drooling over the calvary...”

She smacks you playfully which causes your father to shush both of you, a moment which reminds you of your schoolyard days.

A bit of immaturity is actually refreshing after the events of this morning.

“Jungkook-ssi,” A voice bellows throughout the plaza, sending a chill down your spine, “What have I told you about placing bets on our captors huh?”

As the voice grows louder, you see him: the Tiger, stepping out from the main street, his long platinum hair flowing freely in the wind. His hand brandishes a sword, one that most certainly possesses the ability to inflict some serious harm.  

Sheepishly, Jungkook smirks, releasing the man’s hair roughly and stepping back to his original spot, his sword posing to strike.

“Sorry hyung, this one was just too easy. I saw him skirting the perimeter last night, I know it would be a sure win once I saw his technique.”

So that’s how the army was able to move so quickly; they already anticipated this attack.

The Tiger chuckles darkly, his eyes alight with pure delight, “Aish- what am I going to do with you people hm?”  

He moves like his name; slow, deliberate, deadly- you know that you’re about to witness an execution and you aren’t sure if you can stomach the sight, even if these raiders deserve it.

Its your turn to swallow back your reaction to him which doesn’t go unnoticed by your best friend standing beside you.

“Now look who’s drooling...” She teases, giggling as you playfully shove your elbow into her side.

The crowd is dangerously still, hanging on each syllable the Tiger speaks whilst his men, six other soldiers roughly his size, watch intently.

The rest of the raider clan are being held captive by the remainder of the fleet, bowing their heads in shame and fear but, the leader seems unaffected by their defeat.

“You lot aren’t men.” The man spits, his accent thick,  “you’re narcissistic little boys who like to play dress up. You’re cowards, hiding behind your swords, killing everything that stands in your way. You have no idea how the other half live. You have no honor.”

There are gasps throughout the crowd then as your village grows shocked at the way he’s spoken to the Tiger.

If you had any hope that this wouldn’t end violently, it’s been squashed by the time the leader finishes his sentence.

The Tiger however, merely chuckles again, a light smirk on his carnation lips,

“It’s odd that a man who earns his keep by stealing from others would have the authority to lecture my men and I about honor.” He kisses his teeth and slowly raises his sword to brush against the man’s cheek, “Look at all these poor people hm? You've terrified them. Your lack of intelligence isn’t their burden to bear now is it? But you have made it their problem; ripped them from their homes, terrorized their children, their livelihoods and, all because you’re too incompetent to learn your own trade.”

The Tiger’s words infuriate him and the next thing you know, he’s lunging off the ground towards the Tiger, a snarl arising on his mouth.

It prompts your hands to fly to your face and your feet to nearly trip over themselves as you brace for the inevitable fight.

But it doesn’t come.  

With one swoop of his arm, the Tiger has the leader knocked to the floor and underneath his leather boot. Jungkook has reacted quickly as well, his arm raising in the air to slice his sword through the man’s body. With one twitch of his hand however, the Tiger stops Jungkook from following through,

“See? You can’t do things like that my friend. Because if you do, my big friend here with the sword will slice your greasy head in two.” The Tiger smirks again, before turning his head over his shoulder, “You folks wouldn’t want to spend the day cleaning blood of your beautiful plaza now would you?”

Overexcited villagers quickly shout various commentary at him,

“Kill him!”

“Cut his head off!”

“Make him pay!”

The Tiger chuckles once more, raising his brows as the man struggles beneath his boot, “Well, I guess you’re lucky they aren’t in charge of your punishment...” He looks up towards the remainder of his fleet, nodding his head at the other prisoners, “Namjoon, Jin: ensure that none of these men are here against their will. If the rest of you are here by choice, I suggest you make yourselves disappear into the forest before I allow these fine people to get ahold of you.”

Immediately, the Tiger’s fleet begin following his orders and take the men away towards their tents. As they walk out of the plaza, only Jungkook, the Tiger and the clan leader remain.  

You notice Jungkook scan the crowd then, peering out at the eager faces watching the show he is willingly apart of. Very briefly but noticeably, his eyes land on your best friend and as they do, they seem to linger.

He looks curious, almost boyish in a way as his ways seem to memorize her face but before Rachel even realizes what’s going on, his eyes quickly return to the raider.  

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it. Don’t be a coward, I can’t listen to you ramble any longer.” The man growls which prompts the Tiger to push his foot down a little harder upon his back.

“I’m not your executioner, thief. Your fate resides with the Queens.” He explains, matter of factly before jerking his head towards Jungkook, “Put him in the portable cell. I’ll send a notice to the council that we have a criminal that needs to be dealt with.”

Jungkook nods, eagerly crossing the bit of plaza and kneeling down to restrain the man with handcuffs.

He grips the chain linking them and heaves him upwards so he’s standing between the two men.  

“I’ll hose him off first,” Jungkook wrinkles his nose in disgust, “I don’t want him stinking up our camp.”

“Fuck you-” The man spits, jerking his wrists in Jungkook’s grip which then causes the Tiger to raise his sword once again.

“Behave yourself, thief.” He commands, his eyes darkening for the first time, “I’m assuming if you’ve heard stories of my fleet, you are privy to the fact that we don’t miss our target. Please don’t give me a reason to live up to my name.”

With that, the two men drag off the clan leader towards the rest of their fleet, not bothering to look back at the dozens of people they just saved.

They ignore the applause, the gratitude, the pleas for them to return and feast.

You have to admit that you’re shocked.  

The supposedly wicked and ruthless Tiger sure seems to have quite a bit of restraint and diplomacy.

“Did he- did he really just let him go? Unharmed?”

Rachel asks a very good question and it seems to be the one on your parents minds as well.

“It’s extremely odd. I was fully prepared to witness an execution, he would have been within his right.” Your father notes, his eyes still trained on the center of the plaza.

Generals have a certain level of freedom with the prisoners they choose to capture; they are expected to have good judgement and carry out punishments if necessary.

In essence, the Tiger had every bit of authority to end that mans life and, given that he an eager crowd behind him, it genuinely perplexes you.

“Organized raids come with an automatic life sentence, the leaders are usually executed within a few days of their trial.” Your mother notes and it’s then that Rachel notices your silence.

“Well I think it’s safe to say that you didn’t make it on his hit list. You can’t be worse than a lead raider...” She grins, knowing full well that your confusion also comes with an annoying amount of curiosity.  

She also knows that you plan on finding a way to speak with him again.  

And she is absolutely right.

--------------------------

“Should I say hi to Jungkook for you? Ask if he’s betrothed?” You tease and Rachel promptly throws balled up dress your way.

You went to her house after the excitement in the town square to bake a batch of fresh bread for the Tiger’s fleet.

Bread is increasingly hard to come by these days due to a crop shortage in the northern region so despite what people may think, most military diets consist of salted meat and corn.  

Doughy, fluffy, cheesy, rosemary bread is a luxury.

“I have a feeling you’ll be preoccupied with your mission to court the Tiger.” She retorts but a deep frown comes over her then, as she wraps the last loaf in parchment paper, “Are you sure you should be doing this? Waltzing over to a tent full of dangerous soldiers doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“I want to thank them.” You insist, loading your basket with the rest of the loaves, glancing up at your worried friend, “All the village ever talks about is how ruthless they are, how cruel they are known to be but, the reality is: they saved us. It must be frustrating to refuel just as any other fleet would and have people gossip about you or fear you unnecessarily. I’m not planning on staying for tea or anything, I just want to show my appreciation.”

Rachel raises her brows, “That’s all hm?”

You nod, “Yep.” Your lips pop with the sound of the p and Rachel remains unconvinced.

“This has nothing to do with the Tiger?”

“Of course not.” Your answer tumbles past your lips far too quickly and, it causes your friend to grin knowingly at you.

“I know that look-”

“Ugh what look?”

“The look. That one-” She points at you, “You’re about to do something you know you shouldn’t.”

Her smile is far too contagious and her knowledge of you surpasses anyone you’ve ever known in your life.  

She has your number and there really is no point in lying to her.

“Fine, ok maybe it has a little something to do with the Tiger-” You smirk, trying to stifle the giggle that threatens your disposition, “Don’t laugh at me!”

Rachel’s twinkling laughter fills the room as she rounds the counter. Placing her hands on your shoulders, she smiles fondly at you, “Just be careful ok? I know he intrigues you and honestly I’m not at all surprised but, don’t let your curiosity get in the way of your safety. That’s the most important thing.”  

“I won’t.” You promise, smiling back at her, placing your hands on hers, “I promise, I’ll be careful.”

Rachel helps you out once again, insuring you have everything you need before her soft voice is answering a question you asked moments earlier.

“And uh about that Jungkook boy-”

You smirk, “He’s definitely not a boy, did you see his muscles? He looks like he could bench press a mountain lion.”

She grows flustered, “No, I didn’t see any muscles, I have no idea what you’re talking about-”

“Oh so you also didn’t notice him staring at you in the plaza today right?”

Rachel’s eyes widen, “Wait he was?” She clears her throat, amending her eagerness as you giggle, “He definitely wasn’t staring at me don’t be ridiculous. What I was going to say-”

“What you were going to say is that ‘no Y/N, I don’t want you to check on Jungkook’s marital status directly but, should you happen to come across his left hand, let me know whether or not you see a shiny band around his finger, not that I would care or anything. Because, I totally don’t have the hots for him.’ “

Her mouth opens and then closes like a fish before she playfully nudges you through her doorway, “Shut up.”

With a laugh and a few parting words, you are off to visit the tent of your village's heroes.  

You would be lying if you said you weren’t nervous.

But you’d also be lying if you said you were nervous for the right reasons.

The concept of walking into the basecamp of a supposedly elite and ruthless fleet is one thing but, talking to someone you find attractive?  

Absolutely terrifying.

Your presence is immediately noted by the men inside the camp.

Two of them are seated at a table outside of one of the tents, hands and teeth full of meat, their motions freezing in place as they see you.

As you pass by one of their horses, you notice of them is speaking with a group of raiders.  

The conversation seems amicable, suggesting that many of the raider clan was indeed in your village against their will.

You approach the main but, before you are able to make ring the bell on the outside, you are crashing chest first into a very firm and very broad chest.

“Holy-” The voice sounds familiar and as you look up, you are meet with the bambi with biceps himself: Jungkook.

“Hello I-” You attempt to begin but his panicked voice interrupts you.

“Yah hyung??? Uh there’s a-” He swallows thickly stepping away from you, “There’s a girl here!”

The word seems foreign on his tongue and his behavior genuinely surprises you.

Where was the cocky warrior from this morning, brandishing a sword and placing bets on his captors?

“Jungkook, for the last time- we don’t use that word. We say young lady or woman...” Another voice, one you don’t recognize fades into your scope of hearing before pushing open the fabric of the tent. He is arguably just as beautiful as the other men, tall, dark haired, buff- as if he would be anything else.

“Oh, hello. Are you...” The man narrows his brows as he looks towards the group of raiders speaking with one of his counterparts, “Are you with the group or?”

You shake your head, your basket swinging when you turn back towards the village, “Oh no, no I’m from the village. My name is Y/N Y/L/N...” You bow your head slightly, “I came here to bring you this,” You gesture to the basket, “It’s fresh bread. I wanted to thank you for saving my people today.”

You feel the need to rush out your explanation as the rest of the fleet continues to stare at you. In fact, the way they are looking at you is rather unnerving.

It isn’t disrespectful just intrusive; they are looking at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head.

“You-” The man before you cocks his head, looking befuddled, “You came here to- thank us?”

“Well yes, I know bread is hard to come by and I figured you could use a pick-me-up after your fight this morning.”

He smiles now but his incredulity doesn’t change as he takes the basket from your hands, “It’s warm.” He notes, “Did you bake this recently?”

“Yes I baked it today, just now actually uh-” You decide to speak candidly now since the possible threat margin seems to be closing, “You look confused.”

Jungkook is practically hiding behind the man you’re addressing and it takes a large part of you not to laugh at his behavior.

“Forgive me.” He chuckles, “We aren’t exactly used to hospitality. Most villagers avoid us like the plague, it probably has to do with our General but regardless.” He bows his head, “We appreciate the gesture. I’ll make sure to pass along your gratitude to him once he returns.”  

“Oh is he not here? I was hoping to thank him myself.” You try and mask the disappointment in your tone, not wishing to come across as stranger than you already did.

The man shakes his head, “No. He often takes a walk after an invasion; gotta make sure the perimeter is secure.” He smiles and you are taken aback by how white his teeth were, “My name is Seokjin, I’m the outreach expert on the fleet and unofficial chef. I promise your bread will be put to good use, it’s been months since we’ve had any decent carbs.”  

His comment makes you smile and you are delighted that his demeanor is so welcoming.

“I’m sorry to heart that. Will you be in town long? I can try to set you up with a few more baskets before your departure?”

Seokjin chuckles warmly before snorting as Jungkook paws at the basket, “Easy.” He admonishes but its too late, Jungkook already has half a loaf down in his mouth, his chest rumbling with the sound of his groan.  

“Oh my god hyung, it’s so good...”

Seokjin looks disgusted with him but hands him the basket anyway, nodding to the rest of the fleet, “Share. Make sure you save a loaf for Yoongi and I.”

Jungkook happily obliges but not before turning towards you and bowing, “Uh thanks for the- for the bread....”

His sentence is choppy and over before it even begins as he goes bounding off in the direction of his team.

“Pardon him, he’s been in the army since he was fourteen. We haven’t done an amazing job at socializing him but, he’s getting better. He’s still a bit antsy around women though.” Seokjin chuckles, fondness in his eyes, “Ah but to answer your question, yes. We've decided to set up here for a few weeks to train our new recruits. I would love to more of this bread if it’s not too much trouble.”

You smile, waving him off, attempting to conceal your happiness at the news he’s just delivered, “Nonsense, I’d be happy to bake some more.”

“Excellent!” He chirps, clasping his hands together, “I’m sure Yoongi would be happy to know we’ve finally manage to contact with a villager. It’s been an issue for us, stories spread like wildfire you know? And just like wildfire, they tend to do more harm than good.”

“And Yoongi is?”

Seokjin chuckles, “Ah I believe you’d know him better as...” He flutters his fingers dramatically, “ the Tiger.”

Yoongi.

So that was his name.

“Oh yes,” You amend, “I’ve certainly heard of him but, I prefer to make my own judgements rather than succumb to the gossip.”

He smirks, “That’s very noble of you Y/N. I for one,” He places a hand on his chest, throwing a wink your way, “, live for the gossip.”

Your meeting with Seokjin ends soon after that with a promise that you would return with more bread.  

As much as you wanted to rush back to Rachel’s house to inform of your meeting with the ‘most dangerous fleet in the world’, you remind yourself that school is in session; a necessary but annoying inconvenience.

However, there are plenty of ways you plan on keeping busy for the remainder of the day and one of them involves visiting the river to collect more herbs for your remedies.  

You obviously weren't able to sell your wares today as the marketplace was still littered with evidence of the robbery.  Your parents had insisted you take the day off to restock and recuperate whilst they helped the village leaders clean up.

Reluctantly, you agreed and you are now very grateful that you had.

The river has always been one of your favorite places. It was rich, green, buzzing with life and, always a few degrees colder than your village. Surrounded by mossy trees that seem to stretch as high as the clouds, the river is encased with life. Rabbits, squirrels, tortoises, frogs and a plethora of birds all coral in the area the river resides in whilst bears, big cats, wolves and monkeys hide behind the dense forest. It’s any apothecary’s paradise as it is also the residence of any herbs capable of growing in damp areas.  

Angelica, Blue Vervain, Marshmallow, Stinging Needle and more: the river is your one stop shop for so many of your essential ingredients.

Today you’re after a particular herb though and armed with another woven basket, you make your way towards the large bushels of it growing at the base of a tree trunk.

Valerian is an essential herb in your arsenal and due to its popularity, it’s something you’re consistently having to restock.  

Gathering it carefully, ensuring you don’t disturb the root of the plant.

You are so enthralled with your current task that you don’t even notice that you are no longer alone.

“Is this where the tree bark grows?”

You jump nearly six feet out of your skin, whipping your head around to face your intruder.

Standing before you is the myth himself, the Tiger or as you’ve recently learned: Yoongi.

He’s still in his armor from earlier, his long tendrils pulled back away from his face into a low ponytail. Between his lips, which are curving slightly, is a piece of the bark he had taken from your cart the day prior.

He is chewing it as you instructed.

“You of all people should know not to ambush someone like that...” You breath, placing a hand on your chest, “I could have wacked you with this basket or something.”

He just smirks, “I’ve had worse.” He notes, taking the bark from between his teeth, “I’m sorry I frightened you though, I didn’t expect to see anyone here.”

“Likewise.” You retort, nodding your head at the bark, “Is it helping?”

He shrugs, “Too early to tell I suppose but, it’s tending to my oral fixation so, either way it has a purpose.”

You straighten up a bit more and smooth out your dress, “It will work, it just takes a bit of time.” You assure him before adjusting the herbs in your basket, “I came by your tent earlier to offer my thanks for what you and your men did today, your outreach coordinator Seokjin told me he’d pass along the message but-”

“You did what?”

His tone doesn’t entirely lean one way or the other and you quickly grow worried that you offended him.

“I brought a basket of bread to uh-” You swallow thickly, meeting the intensity of his gaze, “to your camp as a thank you for saving my village.”

Several emotions flicker across his face before he settles on surprise, “I see. Were they polite?”

You can’t help but smile, this day truly has been full of surprises and, Yoongi’s demeanor is only adding to that list.  

“I only had the privilege of meeting Seokjin and well- I kind of met Jungkook but, he seemed a little-”

“Awkward?” Yoongi smirks

“A little.” You amend, “But both of them were very polite. They explained that they often don’t receive any hospitality on stops like this; I was very sorry to hear that.”

Yoongi’s teeth seem to catch the inside of his cheek as he nods curtly, “There’s no need for apologies. Hospitality is welcome but, never expected. I try to teach my men that we should never expect gratitude for what we do as it so often comes with a price.”

“I suppose gratitude should be offered situationally then, there was very little draw back to what you did today. Our village is privy to raiders; maybe if word gets around that you all were in town, that might prevent this from happening again.”

He purses his lips before nodding in consideration, “I see you’re point. Regardless of its necessity, gratitude is always welcome: especially when free food is involved.”

His comment makes you giggle and your laughter makes his lips itch in a way they never have.

“I wholeheartedly agree with that. I get a surprising amount of baked goods sent my way doing what I do so, I’ll have no problem dolling out the gratitude while you all are here.”  

Yoongi’s brows knit in confusion, “Do you people often pay you in baked goods?”

Laughter flows freely out of your mouth then and you shake your head at his question, “Definitely not, I sell my goods for currency as does any obedient member of society,” At this Yoongi smirks again, he likes your wit, a lot, “but I do receive muffin baskets, cakes, pies and whatnot from happy customers. They’re mainly from women whose husbands have taken my ginseng remedy.”

His curiosity blooms, “And why is that?”

You feel a bit of heat rushing to your cheeks, “Ginseng enhances uh- drive, often times it can be used a stimulant to promote you know-” You’re hoping Yoongi will put the pieces together but instead his eyes remain expectant, “passion.”

The word makes Yoongi straighten up a bit and in an effort to look casual, he nods quickly and hums a little too loudly.

“Ah yes. Of course. Well, as I said- free food is free food right?” He wagers, his fingers rubbing at the bit of bark.

Its your turn to smirk now but, you quickly change the subject when you ask, “Is the leader of the clan secure? I didn’t see him when I passed through your camp.”

He clears his throat, bringing the bark back towards his mouth, “He is. I have him locked up just behind the trees so he isn’t able to influence the new recruits. He had an alarming number of unwilling participants within his group, many of them claimed to be brought there with the threat of physical harm.”

You kiss your teeth and shake your head, “I don’t understand that kind of behavior. I understand that sometimes desperate people do desperate things but, to exert power or harm over another person without a viable cause...it just makes no sense to me.”

He’s intrigued now and as he brings the bark back to his lips, his brow knit with curiosity, “Hm. So do you think there is a justification to steal but not to commit violence?”

You can’t figure out why your opinion would matter to him but, you sure as hell aren’t going to question the length of this conversation.

“I think that some people believe they have no other choice but to steal. Wealth and power aren’t possible without a poor man to stand on, to oppress- I don’t support the idea of taking what doesn’t belong to you but, I could see why people are driven to do so. People are growing tired of being the poor man. Senseless violence isn’t something I could find a justification for. What the raiders often do, is both so I guess-” You hesitate, “I’m conflicted.”

Yoongi is captivated by your explanations, not because they are particularly ground breaking but, because they are particularly human. You aren’t afraid to discuss the complexity of life nor are you afraid to admit when certain things confound you.

“That’s a fair assessment. Do you agree with today’s outcome?”

Your smile returns, as you adjust the basket on your arm again, “I did. Especially because it seemed to surprise everyone, myself included.”

His lips return to his smirk, “Why? Because I didn’t behead him?”

“Exactly.” You breathe out a laugh before continuing,  “I for one was shocked to see you deal with the situation without your trusty viper...”  

His face turns to one of incredulity, “Oh my- you're not serious are you? Do people genuinely think I keep a viper on me at all times? Do they have any idea how unpractical that is?”

Yoongi’s reaction sends you into a fit of giggles and the sound makes his lips itch again.

He decides he enjoys the sound very much.

“I’m sure you’ve set a few people straight after this morning,” You offer, wiping a bit of moisture from the corner of your eye, “I doubt the rumors will repopulate the same way after you leave.”

“What do you think of them?”

“The rumors?”

“They’re entertaining.” You shrug, “But I don’t like to make assumptions about people unless I’ve met them, not even scary and supposedly cruel generals like yourself.”

The ghost of a smile shows itself on Yoongi’s mouth and his eyes seem to glimmer, pleased with your answer.

“I wish more people had that mindset.”  

It’s all he says before promptly dropping the subject again, nodding in the direction behind him, “I should probably head back to camp. I have a feeling that the longer I am away, the smaller my chances of getting any of that bread become.”

“You’re probably right, I have to be back before sunset anyway.” Your parents don’t like it when you’re out at the river after dark, “It was very nice meeting you Yoongi. I hope you enjoy the bread.”

His lips as he realizes something vital, “I’m sure I will. Forgive me, I don’t remember catching your name...”

At his observation, you extend your hand towards his, “Oh of course, my name is Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”

Without looking down, he grasps your hand gently as if he were afraid to break it, “Y/N- I’ll remember it.” He promises unnecessarily but it still sends a flutter through your heart, “Get home safe.”

When he releases your hand, you step back towards the bushel of Valerian before smiling once more,  

“You too.”

As Yoongi departs from the river, he smirks to himself.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be the routine stop he had planned on.

Perhaps this would be so much more.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Enough, For Now

CW: Sickfic, sick whumpee, feverish whumpee, shock collar, brief VERY vague emeto reference, child of whumpee POV, intimate/creepy whumper, noncon touching (nonsexual), noncon kiss (brief)

Jax Gallagher belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with their permission.

"Oh, honey."

The little girl watches around the doorframe as her mother lays a soft hand over her father’s forehead. Her mother’s hair is a waterfall of darkness, the air between the trees on a starless night in the woods behind the house. Her father's is more like tree bark in sunlight, when she doesn't need to worry about what might be hiding in the woods, when they are allowed outside and she can run her fingers over the roughened texture and smell the air. 

Sometimes, her father’s necklace - the thick black band he wears that her mother uses to hurt him - is changed so they can go into the woods. He carries her little brother, who is still a baby, and she walks alongside him proud to help carry things, and the three of them are alone with the whisper of the woods around them.

She saw a bluebird, once, singing. Her father had smiled, just a little, at the flutter of wings when she got too close and it took flight.

He’s not smiling now.

Her father lays on his side on the bathroom floor, his cheek pressed to the impeccably clean black-and-white tiles. His face is flushed and there’s a thin film of sweat sticking his shirt to the curves of his shoulders and stomach. It makes him shine under the gentle warm light even as he shivers, compulsively. When her mother’s hand touches his head, he tenses, just a little, but he still can’t stop shivering. "Miss S-Savvie-"

“Look at you.” Her mother’s voice is simpering-sweet, syrupy, like the maple syrup that her father pours on pancakes when they are alone in the mornings when her mother is out of the house. “Poor thing. I suppose this is because I took you to that party last week, isn’t it? You must have picked something up while we were there.”

The little girl remembers - a swirl of colorful dresses and jewelry, too many adults in too small a space. Everyone wanted to congratulate her mother on getting out of the house just a few months after Jamie was born. A person with a thin smile, who was impossibly elegant, had said her mother’s dress was lovely in a voice that didn’t seem like they meant it. Then they’d looked down at her, and something in their severity had softened.

They’d asked to take the little girl to play with their own child, who was in her bedroom because grown-up parties are pretty boring.

It had been fun, although she had been nervous to be away from her father so long, leaving him without her in the throngs of people and all the perfumes in the air. He’d been nervous, too, happy to sweep her into his arms at the end of the night and carry her to the car with her head on his shoulder, her mother’s hand at the small of his back.

Like a family.

Now, though, her father is sick, and her mother’s eyes are brilliant and sparkling as she presses two fingers into the space just underneath his ear, just behind his jaw. In a real family, the little girl thinks, maybe the mom doesn’t look happy to see the dad is too sick to move. He makes a sound almost like a whine, barely escaping, and the little girl swallows. Her own heart races to see how hard he works to open his eyes.��

“Swollen lymph nodes,” Her mother murmurs. “Jax, did you manage to get the flu from someone? Honestly, sweetie, the first time you’ve gone out with me in two months and you get sick immediately?”

He turns his head to look up at Savvie, and the little girl doesn’t understand it exactly, but she loves the profile of his face because it is her father’s profile, the line of his nose and neck. His hazel eyes are fogged-over and hazy as he moves, and he might nuzzle into her hand, or he might simply hold still and her mother’s hand was already there. 

Then he jerks away, just as quickly, and the little girl goes still and her heart stops with fear - he isn’t allowed to pull away, he isn’t allowed to not smile at her touch, he’ll be in so much trouble. Just as her mother’s eyes go wide their sparkle changes to sunlight off the darkest, deepest ice, Jax begins to cough.

The coughs wrack his body, and he barely covers his mouth. By the time it stops, the first hints of anger have fled her mother’s expression and it has softened again. She sighs and rubs at his back, in soothing soft circles. He drops his hands and turns back to her, a slight half-smile playing on his face, gone, back again.

Wavering, like he’s struggling to remember how to make it.

“‘M sorry, Miss… Miss Savvie,” He says, voice rasping and hoarse. “I-I’m not exactly sure… when I started to feel like this, but…”

Two days ago, the little girl knows. For two sleeps straight, her father’s body has been strange - too hot to the touch, and his hugs have been timid, as though he hurt too much inside to hug as fiercely as he usually did. 

She knows. And he knows.

They don’t tell her mother.

He’s been on the bathroom floor all night. The little girl had found him there when she woke up - not in the big bathroom, but this smaller one in the hall next to her room - and had run to get her mother in her grand bedroom. 

She never ever went in her mother’s room unless she was allowed to or asked, but she’d been so scared when he barely moved at her shaking his shoulder that she had forgotten the rule. He had laid there so pale and listless, collapsed on the cold floor. 

For once, Savvie had not been angry. Instead, she had followed the little girl and told her to wait outside. For a few moments, Savvie had held her hand the way her father usually did, and the little girl had felt… like this was her mother.

But then… then she’d seen Jax. As always, in the little girl's life, the second her mother saw her father, the girl herself was forgotten. Her hand was dropped and she was told to stay out. So the little girl is left on the outside looking in, fingers curled around the doorframe, watching them together.

Her mother's pale pink chemise has a white lace trim that lays across her bare thigh, and her rounded nails are a soft deep mauve as she sighs and moves to kneel, touching his face just at his cheekbone, brushing it with the backs of her knuckles. She smiles, sweet and soft and loving. "It's not your fault, Jax. My poor sweet husband."

Jax only looks up at her, his hazel eyes glimmering and barely focused. But he looks only at her. 

Even sick, he knows not to look away. 

"But... why did you come all the way out here, honey?" Both her hands are on him now, one cupping his face and the other slipping behind his head, to lift it gently off the floor. "Oh, you're so sweaty. Gross.” Savvie's nose wrinkles, a little, and the little girl wonders if her own nose looks like that.

She hopes not.

"Got… Got sick." Her father breathes and it sounds wrong, somehow, too much air or not enough. "Didn't w-want to wake you. You have… an interview today." He coughs again, and Savvie has to let go for him to roll onto his side again and get the awful sounds out. 

Savvie's smile widens. Her blue eyes shine so bright. "How thoughtful," She says, and runs her fingers through the damp strands of his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, again and again. It looks like petting an animal, not trying to be kind to a man. 

If he likes the touch or not, she can't tell. She thinks sometimes he hates every single one. 

“Thought I’d feel b-better afterward,” He says, rough-voiced, eyes closed tightly. “Don’t.”

"Oh, sweetie." Savvie smiles and leans down, presses a kiss to his hair. He holds perfectly still for it. He doesn't even breathe. "I don't deserve you," She whispers, just loud enough for the little girl to hear. "But I'll love you forever anyway. Forever, Jax.”

His eyes open again, turning to look over her face as she pulls away, as though he’s checking for something, searching there. Whatever he finds, he relaxes, just a little. "Love you too, Miss Savvie," He says, and the little girl hears that it is flat, compared to how sometimes he hugs the little girl and says nice things to her. "Need… I just need a minute."

“Of course, darling. We’ll move you downstairs once you think you can walk.” Savvie keeps her fingers moving through his hair, sweaty or not. 

His gaze shifts a little, and he sees the little girl for the first time. He tenses, eyes widening only slightly. "Is-..." He clears his throat. Both of them freeze at how close he comes to the nickname neither of them wants her to know. "Isabella? Why are you-"

"She woke me up," Savvie says, and slides to her knees, slipping her arms around him and carefully helping him to sit up. He leans heavily against her, so heavily Savvie nearly loses her balance, but she manages not to land in an undignified heap. “She saw you and came to get me. She knew you needed my help.”

The girl would have gone to anyone else, if there were anyone. But they’re here alone, and she isn’t allowed to touch the medicine. 

One day, when she’s big enough, she will get him medicine all by herself and she won’t tell her mom anything at all.

“Thank-... thank you, Isabella,” Her father says, in this new sick-voice he has, and when he looks at her, for just a second some of the haze in his eyes is clear. He’s looking at her. It’s only for a second, before he turns back to her mother, and the little girl stores up the way he looked right at her, to save for later times when she is alone. He turns back to Savvie and says, “And th-thank you for coming, Miss Savvie.”

“Of course, sweetie.” Savvie shifts, and the little girl watches as the two of them very slowly stand, Jax working to get his legs under him, standing finally in a way that seems tentative, ready to tip back over at the slightest nudge. His eyes close and his face greys, and the three of them are briefly silent, waiting it out, until the dizziness passes and his eyes open again. “You’re right, though. I do have that interview, and I can’t just be thinking about you, I need to plan… let’s get you downstairs for today. I’ll bring James down once you’re settled.”

There’s a pause, full of meaning and thought the girl doesn’t know how yet to read. “Can… can H-Hannah come to watch them with m-me, or Isaac’s steward, please?” He rarely speaks so many words all at once, unless they’re alone in the sunshine room, where he tells her all the stories about his own family, far far away across an ocean. 

Those are the secret stories, the ones that the little girl knows to never let her mother know she’d heard of. 

He’s not supposed to think about his other family anymore. Her mother says that she made that rule so he wouldn’t leave the little girl and her brother. He never wanted you, anyway. If I told him he could, he’d walk right out the door and leave us all heartbroken, Isabella. So we have to make sure he never thinks of them, so he can’t leave us.

The little girl is scared that her father might leave, if he could. That her mother’s words are true. But she loves the way he smiles when he tells his stories much, much more than she is scared - and he has promised her, over and over with his arms around her, that he would never leave her here alone.

Now, though, Savvie just rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Jax. How is my uncle’s household supposed to stay in order if you keep trying to steal away half his staff?” 

They’re near the door and the girl backs away quickly to stay out of their way, not quite ignored but not needed, either. She watches them move, her mother’s arm around her father’s waist to help him stay upright, and the way he moves so carefully, so slowly, beside her. 

The medicine is in the cabinet in the bathroom, but her mother doesn’t go back for it. Instead, she leads Jax away entirely, towards the grand curving staircase that moves down to the ground floor. The little girl watches, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before she realizes what’s happening.

An interview day. 

That means her father will spend the day in the basement where no one can hear him - that must be where her mother is taking him, to be hidden away. The little girl licks nervously at her lips, and then flies back into the bathroom. There isn’t anything she can stand on in here, but when she climbs up on the side of the bathtub, she can grab the sink and hold, arms shaking with effort as she pulls herself up. 

The cabinet opens for her easily, as she totters, barely balanced on the rounded, shining edge of the sink. Their voices are fading as they move downstairs, her mother’s voice mostly. 

Almost entirely.

The little girl finds what she’s looking for - the last time her father was sick, he was allowed a packet of these little discs that come inside a box. The girl can’t read, but she knows the sun and moon signs on the packages, one for day and one for night. She grabs the whole thing, and then looks down, ready to climb-

Oh.

Oh, it’s farther down than she thought.

Her heart shivers in fear - but sometimes you have to do scary things, her father says it all the time when he tells her he is proud of her after her mother locks her in the dark for time out. This is a scary thing, but-

She jumps.

She crashes hard into the tile floor and lets out a high-pitched cry of pain, rolling along the ground. A bright ache flashes in her knee and arm from how she landed, and she presses her lips together to silence any further sounds. They’re swallowed into whimpers that don’t make it further than the door.

Still, she hears her father call, “Isabella?” He’s worried, he heard her, and the little girl stands back up, clutching the box of medicine with white knuckles on her small hands. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay!” She calls back, voice shaky, but she tries to sound fine. It will be much worse for her if her mother thinks she wants attention she’s not supposed to have.

“See? She’s fine,” Savvie says, and their steps fade again. The little girl moves with a focus rarely seen in small children to her room, where she picks up a soft little-kid backpack that is pink and lacey. Her mother picked it. She hates it. In the backpack she stashes some crackers and juice, and on top she puts her favorite stuffed animal, and some crayons. Finally, she forces in a coloring book. Then she moves out into the hall.

Her brother isn’t awake yet, no sound from his room, so she moves like a ghost down the staircase, following her parents to the closet with the hidden door. The door is already open, the wooden steps leading down and down and down. It’s scary, to take each step with the single light leaving so many shadows around, shadows that could have monsters hiding in them.

But sometimes, you have to do scary things.

She sets her jaw and lets her chin jut out, raised a little, and makes her slow and careful way down into the chilly basement, where the secret house is. The little place that her father has to hide, when people who aren’t ‘the right people’ come over, so that the ‘wrong people’ won’t know he’s here.

Her mother is already laying her father down in the little bedroom at the back of the basement place. It's so dark it feels like nighttime in there. She can hear them speaking, but not their words, and she tries to be very good and sits very quietly on the couch, out in what looks like a tiny little living room with a television in it, to wait. 

"Thank you, Miss Savvie," She hears, low and rough. "I l-love you, Miss Savvie."

The little girl winces, gripping the little brightly colored cardboard box with sweaty fingers that start to dampen the ink. Love is a wrong word. It's a word of threats and anger, of making things better by being good.

Her mother's voice is low, and soft, heavy with something the little girl is too young to know. "I love you, too, sweetie. Feel better."

There's silence.

The seconds draw out, and every single one of them is awful. 

Then, her mother murmurs, "I suppose we should stop. I'd hate for me to get sick, too. I'll bring James down once he's up and it'll be just you and the kids. That'll be restful."

He hums, and the silence draws out again, and then she sweeps past the little girl and away without even looking at her. Up the steps, up and up, and the little girl knows they are locked up down here, like always. 

Once her mother is for real gone, the little girl moves, silent as any ghost, down the hall herself, leaving her backpack on the couch. In the bedroom her father lays on his side, coughing a little, mostly just shakes of his shoulders. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and coughs again. The room is all dark except for the light in the hallway that frames her when he catches the motion of her shadow and looks up.

He manages a slight, faint smile. "Izzy. Did you follow us?”

“Yes.” Izzy’s voice is soft and grave. “I didn’t want her to need to bring me and get mad.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second, and nods. “I get it. What've you got there?"

She moves up to the bed and shoves the box into one of his hands. The sweat from her hands has buckled the thin cardboard but the packages inside are still good. "Medicine for your sick."

He stares down at the box, blinking. "Alka-Seltzer Severe Flu," he reads, and then meets her eyes. Theirs nearly match - hazel brown for both. “Izzy, honey, you’re not allowed-” The next round of coughing hits and Izzy scrambles up onto the bed, pulling herself up and moving around behind him, rubbing at his back with her hand like he does when it’s her that’s sick. Her mother’s hands move in circles, like the snake’s eyes in The Jungle Book movie, but her father is a straight line down, lifts up, starts at her shoulder blades and down again.

Izzy presses her lips together in concentration and comforts him just the same way. She whispers, “It’s okay, Daddy, you can cough down here, it’s okay.”

There are tears running out of his eyes when he is finally able to stop, and he’s closed his hand so tightly on the box he crushed it in the middle. He jerks in a breath, then another, and gradually the tremors through his body fade. She keeps rubbing his back. “The-... sound. Was that… was that you getting the medicine?”

She licks at her lips, and whispers, “I’m sorry. You’re sick. I didn’t know what, um, what to do-”

“It’s okay. Hey, I’m not mad. I’m not. C’mere.” He rolls onto his back and holds one arm out in invitation, and she snuggles up to his side, skin burning hot through his clothes but still her father, through and through. “I’m not mad. You’re…” He coughs but this round is short and doesn’t seem to hurt him so much. “You’re a good kid, Iz. D’you know that? Not just a good kid, you’re a good fu-, uh… A good person, too.”

Izzy, who is told every day by her mother that she is not a good child, holds onto these soft loving words and buries them inside herself, a barrier against her mother’s sweet-voiced violence. 

“I’ve got you, Daddy,” She says, an unconscious echo of his reassurances to her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, okay? You just lay down and do rest.”

He doesn’t answer. His chest moves, inhaling like he wants to speak, but then he only breathes out again and turns his head to kiss her over her curly brown hair.

In a minute, she’ll get up and get him a water cup, and watch with him as the little discs fizz and turn to nothing and make sure he drinks every single bit to feel better. Her mother will bring James down, and Izzy will be the best big sister and her father’s helper and keep Jamie quiet and happy while Jax sleeps, and feels bad for having to sleep, and then sleeps some more.

But for now, in the silence and chill of the little space in the basement where Savvie hides them when other people come who might take her father away from her, Izzy holds on to his shirt and his arm is tight around her shoulders.

If a tear soaks into her hair where his cheek rests on her scalp, she doesn’t notice.

All she knows is his heartbeat, against her ear, and the steady certainty of his love for her, and her love for him. In a house where they have nothing else, that’s enough.

For her, anyway.

For now.

 ---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whumpiary @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Kismet {9}

Henry Cavill x Famous OFC Aliya Taylor

Warning: Slow Burn, Mild Cursing, Dialogue Heavy, POV Changes

Words: 3.5k

Summary: Aliya is a singer turned model turned actress. Since she was fifteen, she’s been creating her empire in the entertainment world. As the daughter of a famous fashion model/designer and Hollywood director, you’d think life is easy for her, but her past has been anything but easy. Due to past trauma, she’s forever changed and no longer trusts any man that is not in her family and a select few in her team. She’s sworn off love and serious relationships and has planned never to fall again, but love isn’t something that can be planned. It just happens when it’s meant to. Can Aliya outrun a love that seems hellbent on holding tight to her, a love that is Kismet?

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***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 

The change within you was instantaneous, and your body fought it like a foreign virus. You’d barely slept a wink the night before. You tossed. You rolled. You took up your phone and hovered over Henry’s contact only to put it back down and toss and turn some more. Half of you wanted to talk to him so badly, but the other half wanted you to practice some restraint. There was no happy middle ground, and because there wasn’t, you struggled to find any peace in your mind. By the time you managed to fall asleep, it was one hour before you had to get up to prep for your day. When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was a message from the culprit to your sleeplessness himself.

 MSG Henry: Good morning, beautiful. I didn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I must have picked up my phone ten times to text or call you. It’s torture not being able to hear the one voice you want to hear more than anything.

 As soon as you read the words, your heart literally melted, and butterflies filled your belly.

 “Christ almighty,” you whispered as your fingers itched to rapid-fire. Before you could catch yourself, you’d already typed out a reply and sent it.

 MSG: Good Morning to you too, handsome. I know what you mean. I didn’t sleep either. I almost called you so many times. I think you’re addicting.

 You reread the message then groaned at the last sentence.

 “Really, Aliya, addicting?” You rolled your eyes hard and pushed to get yourself ready for the day.

 By the time you’d left the hotel, he still hadn’t replied, and you regretted responding altogether.  So, here you were sitting in one of your four meetings for the day trying to keep your head in the game and your mind off of Henry’s lips, or his eyes, or the feel of his muscular arms around you. It was proving more complicated than it sounded. When you weren’t thinking of his lips, or his eyes, or his arms and kisses, you were overthinking your message and his lack of response.

 A little more than halfway in your first meeting, your phone went off, and you had to make yourself slow down and not leap for it. Nonchalantly, you glanced at the screen and saw Henry’s name.

 MSG Henry: Addicting, huh? I like that, but you should not be talking. I have been addicted to you since the day you bumped into me.

 Any worries you’d had the last few hours melted away, and a smile spread across your face.

 MSG: Do tell me more, Mr. Cavill.

 Barely a minute passed before another message came in.

 MSG Henry: I would rather tell you while looking in your eyes so you can see the depth of which I mean them in my eyes.

 You bit your bottom lip and closed your eyes. He was different alright, you thought.

 MSG Henry: I’m sorry it took me this long to reply. I’m trying to finish up all business between today and tomorrow. I had to hide my phone from myself, or else I would have been messaging you this entire time.

 You couldn’t lie. That felt good to know that he was having as much of a struggle going about his typical day to day tasks as you were. The knowledge of that comforted you, but it also worried you. This thing was still so new. For the duration of your meeting, you texted on and off. It continued as you moved to your second and third meetings, and by then, your focus was shot. The only thing you cared about was what he was saying.

 You loved how open he was. He always found a way to describe to you just what he was thinking or feeling while still remaining mysterious enough to have you wondering what he felt and thought. It was interesting. You’d always been able to predict every man that tried to enter your life. You could predict their motives, what tactics they’d use to try to weasel themselves in, and you often could predict how things would end. With Henry, you’d been having a difficult time with those predictions. It bothered you.

 By the time you got back to your hotel room, it was nearing seven o’clock. You wasted no time putting your phone on silent to concentrate on a little self-care beginning with a soak in the jetted tub. You did your best to keep your mind open to allow the meditation track you played to really work at loosening the knots in your shoulders and tension in your neck. The stress of your life, mainly from work, was really beginning to show. It had always shown, you just never listened to your body whenever it told you to slow down or take it easy.

 Many of your friends and family teased you that you lived to work instead of working to live. There were times you were inclined to agree with them because you didn’t need to work so much to maintain the lifestyle you were accustomed to. You had more money than you knew what to do with. You could afford to take time off to recharge but, you’d lived with the belief that the less time you had to be idle, the better it was for your mental and emotional health. Idle hands, after all, were the devil’s playground. You’d grown so accustomed to working nonstop that you didn’t know how to just do nothing.  

After almost two hours in the bath, as you walked into the bedroom, you saw your phone light up. It was an incoming call from Henry. Sighing, you plopped onto the bed, trying to fight back the smile that wanted freedom. The smile won the battle.

 “Hello?”

 “Did I wake you? I called earlier but--.”

 “No, I’m awake. I put my phone on silent and took a long bath,” you clarified.

 “Ah, that sounds relaxing. Maybe I should try that. I’m feeling this burnout more and more.”

 “Those who are serious about their craft work too much.”

 Henry sighed softly, and you wondered if there was a hint of mint and Guinness on his lips.

 “I don’t want to work tonight,” Henry declared. “Tonight, I want to be with you.”

 You dropped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, do you now?”

 “Yes,” Henry confirmed, his voice dropping in baritone. Your belly fluttered, making you press your palm against it.

 “Have you eaten?”

 “I haven’t,” you breathlessly replied.

 “Good. I’ll be around for you in forty-five minutes.”

 You sprang upward. “That’s not enough time.”

 “Oh no? High maintenance are you?”

 You snorted and shook your head, hearing the tease and challenge in his voice.

 “Forty-five minutes then, just don’t get mad when I don’t look like pictures in magazines,” you quipped.

 “Come as you are.”

 Your reflection caught your eye. Because you’d gotten your hair slightly wet in the tub, it was now in a half natural half blown out state, making you look crazy. You doubted forty-five would be enough to tame it.

 “See you soon,” you said before hanging up to focus on getting yourself together.

 Forty-nine minutes later, you were dressed and on your way down in the elevator. As it made its way down, you assessed your appearance, thankful you were able to straighten your hair again to add a few loose curls. Part of you hadn’t wanted to bother, but you knew the dress you were going to wear would be better complemented with a sleek look. Your eyes skimmed the half sheer and half bodycon black dress you wore, loving that it was the right mix between sexy and classic. You added another layer of your mauve tinted lip gloss and just in time for the doors to open.

 It didn’t take long for you to spot him sitting in the lobby where one of the big-screen TVs were placed. He was watching a rugby match. You crossed the black and white designed tiled floors and approached behind him. When you dipped to his ear, his scent almost had a moan escaping you—almost.

 “Either, no matter where you are, you gravitate to rugby, or I took too long,” you whispered.

Henry turned, and the moment his eyes landed on you, a dumbfounded look washed across his face. You tried not to bashfully look away as you watched his jaw drop when his eyes took in the full view.

 “Wow.”

 A giggle that would have been nauseating from someone else slipped from you, making you press your fingertips to your lips.

 “You’re breathtaking.”

 You smiled, then gently tapped his chest.

 “Stop.”

 “I’m being completely truthful.”

 Those damn butterflies made their presence known once again.

 “Thank you,” you whispered.

 Henry held out a single peony to you. “For you.”

 As you took it, your smile widened. “Wow, one of my favorite flowers.”

 “Is that so?”

 You nodded.

 “Hmm, happy coincidence,” Henry replied as he stood and buttoned his suit jacket. Once done, he held out his arm for you. “Shall we?”

 You nodded and looped yours with his, ready for whatever the night brought on.

  -Henry-

As you sat across from him under the hanging flowers and dim lighting of the restaurant perusing the menu, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. It could have been the way the golden light bathed your skin, giving it an almost glowing aura. Or it could have been the soft smile pasted to your subtle painted lips. It could have even been the spell of the restaurant, the classical music playing, and the sweet scent of flowers that surrounded the two of you. Whatever it was, he itched to touch you, itched to get closer, and itched to do nothing but find a way to keep a smile on your face.

 “What?”

 Realizing you were now looking at him, he smiled back at you.

 “Nothing.”

 “No, no. That’s a something look,” you said, still not able to not smile.

 “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

 “Henry, seriously. What is it?”

 You reached out and gently slapped his hand, then rested it on top of the table.

 “Nothing, really. It’s just—I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of you,” he admitted.

 Your smile slipped, revealing a serious expression for a few seconds before you smiled again and dipped your head in a bashful way. Unable to keep his hands to himself any longer, he closed the gap between your hands and took yours.

 “Your parents must be proud to have raised such a charming son.”

 He smiled, then shrugged. “She has five of them.”

 “Bless her heart,” you added, making him chuckle.

 A comfortable silence drifted between you as he enjoyed the softness of your hand in his and the way your warmth mingled with his. He could get used to this, he thought to himself. When the waiter returned to the table to pour the chosen wine into your glasses, you pulled your hand away, but he didn’t take offense.

 “So, by this time next week, I will be off the grid,” he said after the waiter walked off again.

 A quizzical look swept across your face.

 “Off the grid? Are you a spy?”

 He smiled. “I promise I’m not.”

 Another waiter approached the table, this time carrying your selected third and final courses. He thanked the waiter as he laid the plates before you before he retreated.

 “You were saying,” you prompted, lifting your dinner fork from the selection of three different ones to your right.

 “I’ve earned some much needed R&R.”

 With your fork paused at your lips, you smiled. “Oh, that’s great. Congratulations. When was the last time you took a holiday?”

 He watched you chew and quickly got lost watching your mouth. It took him several seconds to regain his train of thought.

 “Eh-em, uh—perhaps a year and a half, if we are talking about a true holiday.”

 “Wow, that’s a long time.”

 “What about you?”

 You smirked, then scoffed. “Define holiday.”

 He returned your smirk then rested his knife and fork atop the braised beef on his plate before he replied. “Time off, no work, nothing that you have to worry about that can cause stress,  anxiety, or tension. Oh, and of course, sleeping late, drinking until three or four in the morning, fun every day, and feeling refreshed upon return.”

 You smiled as you finished chewing. He watched you take another sip from your glass and knew the wine was only making your lips even sweeter than they already were.

 “Ha! Jeez, when you define it like that, it’s been years upon years,” you replied.

 “Not good at all.”

 You nodded. “Tell me about it.” A soft smile was still on your lips as you placed another forkful of the pan-seared sea bass you were eating.

 With those words, a thought formulated in his mind, and it was a thought he wondered if he put words to would you be receptive. The remainder of dinner passed comfortably. Another reason why he couldn’t stop thinking about you and enjoyed being around you was because your conversation was always excellent. There was never any form of discomfort or awkwardness between you. You easily talked about so many things, and the things you said were always thought-provoking and intelligent. While everyone thought you were just a pretty face, you’d repeatedly allowed him to see that the world knew nothing.

 His hand was rarely without yours in it, and when he held your hand, you softly raked your fingernails against the palm and fingers. Every time you did it, the goosebumps that raced across his skin sparked a reaction that was visible much, much lower than his hand. Everyone else in the restaurant could have disappeared for all he knew because you’d captivated him and every single one of his senses.

 By the time you left the restaurant, it was close to midnight, but you didn’t seem to care what time it was. You held onto his hand as you walked along The River Thames. He often did this late at night when he couldn’t sleep. It was really the only time he could come and not be bothered or recognized because he was more than likely the only one there. Tonight your laughter danced through the air, and the gentle ebb and flow of the water only helped the glistening light from the bridge and neighboring buildings shimmer that much more. It was quite romantic.

You stopped and pressed your back to the iron gating that kept pedestrians out of the river. You stretched your arms out, leaning back as if to really enjoy the gentle breeze.

 “It’s a beautiful night,” you sighed out.

 Just like that, he drifted closer to you until there were only a few inches between your bodies. When you came upright again, your smile was still bright, even realizing he was so close.

 “Are you trying to push me in?”

 He smiled and shook his head. “Never.”

 “Oh no?”

 “No,” he repeated, taking another step to you.

 You bit your bottom lip then sucked it into your mouth, and he became even more painfully aware that he hadn’t sampled them since the night before.

 “Unacceptable,” he whispered.

 “What?”

 Reaching out, he cupped your jaw and slid his thumb across your cheekbone while he slowly traced every inch of your face to his memory. When his eyes met yours, he fell another foot or two deep into the quicksand-like pit of his growing feelings for you. He was so close to going under it was alarming.

 “It’s unacceptable that I haven’t tasted your lips in over twelve hours.”

 He heard a soft gasp escape your lips, and it was the only sound you made before his lips pressed to yours. The only move you made was to entangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. The feel of your fingers against his skin brought those familiar goosebumps. He moaned, then pulled you flush against him. The feel of your body against his made his heart thump rapidly, and when you moaned against his lips, the need to consume you took precedence.

 When he delved his tongue into your mouth, he was shocked when you swirled yours around his, and the sensual move had him pressing you firmly against the iron behind you. It was out of character for him to do this so wide in the open, but he felt himself doing things that no one would ever guess he would do when he was with you. Your soft nibbled on his bottom lip brought his mind back to the rising dilemma, rising being the operative word.

 Pulling his lips from yours, he rested his forehead to yours. Both of you didn’t speak; instead, you were both lost in trying to catch your breath. Long moments passed, and in those moments, he fought to regain his composure. He’d never reacted to anyone the way he reacted to you.

 “Come with me,” he whispered, his voice shakier than he’d expected.

 Your eyes fluttered open, and he didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, but he swore he saw actual stars in them that put the night sky to shame.

 “Where?”

 “Away on holiday.”

 You pulled back a few centimeters and gazed into his eyes more intently. He watched them dart from his left eye, then to the right and back again. Slowly the stars vanished, and humor replaced them.

 “Good one,” you said before you laughed out loud, pulling your body from his.

 “Oh my god, you really had me going for a second,” you said through laughter.

 You took two steps as if to continue walking, but he laced his fingers with yours and pulled you back before him. You gasped, and the sound of it made him close the space between you again, pressing you onto the iron bars. With his body pressed to yours leaving no evidence of there being two bodies, you moaned, and the sound almost had him capturing your lips again. If he did though, he didn’t know if his hands would remain respectful.

 “I wasn’t kidding.”

 Your eyes were on his lips, and the desire for you to take control, almost overrode his desire to be in control—almost.

 “What?”

 “Come on holiday with me, just the two of us, a beach wine somewhere—anywhere.”

 He saw the moment you realized he was as serious as a heart attack.

 “You’re serious,” you reiterated.

 “More serious than I’ve been about anything.”

 You didn’t speak for the next minute, but you also didn’t move away. He decided he’d give you the time to consider it.

 You scoffed before you spoke. “What? Henry—we can’t.”

 “Why?”

 You gaped at him as if he were insane.

 “Why?” That was when you pulled away from him and took a few steps sideways while still leaning against the gate. “We—we don’t--.”

 You looked as if you were wracking your brain for a response, but you also looked like you were trying to catch your breath.

 “We don’t know anything about each other.”

 He took a step to you. You didn’t move.

 “Which is why a private holiday would aid in us getting to know each other—uninterrupted without the pretexts,” he replied.

 Your eyes widened before you shook your head then turned to face the water. You peered out silently, baffled. “Henry—we can’t.”

 He approached you, and as he leaned against the gate, you looked at him. “Tell me why,” he requested.

 “Why—because—I—I don’t do—that,” you stuttered.

 “What holidays?”

 He saw the exasperation wash across your face before it went blank. You stepped away again, then cleared your throat.

 “I have an early flight out tomorrow.”

 It was hard not to feel the rejection, but he hid it the best he could. Nodding, he held out his arm for you to take.

 “Then let’s get you back to your hotel.”

 The entire ten-minute walk, his mind went from one thing to the next. He worried he’d come on too strong, or that he’d said the wrong thing, or somehow offended you. Then he went back and forth with his decision to even ask you. Part of him felt like maybe he was jumping a little too far ahead, but the other part of him felt there was nothing wrong with inviting you especially based on how things had gone the entire night and the vibes he picked up. That made him wonder if he’d read the evening entirely wrong.

 When he stopped with you in your hotel's lobby, he was in no hurry to ask you again. He’d begun to feel quite stupid. His hurt feelings needed the night to recover. He took your arm from the crook of his elbow and held your hand. Again, you didn’t pull away. Deciding he couldn't afford to give you the time to, he lowered your hand and stepped away from you.

 “Thank you for dinner.”

 “T—thank you,” you said barely above a whisper.

 He nodded and debated his next move. He took a timid step forward and kissed your cheek.

 “Have a safe flight.”

 “Thank you.”

 This one was a whisper.

 “Good night, Aliya,” he breathed out before he quickly kissed your forehead then walked away out the door and down the street without looking back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[rachelsheart]

DIAL 111: HOW TO WORK WITH YOUR SPIRIT GUIDES

BY: RUBY WARRINGTON ·

Do you know how to work with your spirit guides? Ruby Warrington gets a lesson in life’s celestial helpers from spirit-guide-whisperer Rebecca Campbell…

There follows a lesson in how to work with your spirit guides by Rebecca Campbell. Read more at Thenuminous.net

Inviting them into your dreams is one way to work with your spirit guides…

It happens fairly often among my Numinous circles that somebody will casually drop into the conversation that they’ve been working with their “spirit guides.” At which point I’ll nod and be like, “that’s rad, dude” – because, conceptually, I’m totally down with the idea that there are benevolent Universal forces working on our behalf all the time, and that we get to choose how and when we interact with them. That’s called “creating your own reality,” right?

But then I meet Rebecca Campbell, an Aussie author, mystic, coach, and co-founder of The Spirited Project, who insists that our guides are actually more like real entities – angels, I guess – who are just kind of hanging out, polishing their wings, until we call them into action. Learn to work with them, and they can offer assistance in every area of life – in fact; “no request is too big or too small, too specific or too broad,” she says.

It’s a pretty out there idea, even for me. And I (obviously) embrace a LOT of out there ideas. But I LOVE the concept (I’m already picturing my guides like a kind of spiritual Spice Girls, with the dance routines and everything), and so I asked Rebecca for the full low down. Here’s what she had to say…

Your guides – kind of like spiritual Spice Girls?

So does every individual on the planet have their own spirit guides?

Yep, everyone has their very own team of spirit guides who are completely devoted to their growth. I like to think of them as a group of amazing cosmic beings who have our back no matter what. But because of free will, in order to receive their support, first we need to ask. Asking is super simple (like, you can do it right now).

For general guidance:

“Hey spirit guides…I am open to receiving your loving guidance in all areas of my life. Thank you, and so it is.”

For more specific guidance:

“Hey spirit guides…I am open to receiving your guidance surrounding (insert specific request here). Thank you for guiding and supporting me.”

The thing about spirit guides is that they’re always there – we just don’t notice them. When you’re devastated by a terrible break up, they’re there. When you’re looking for a spot to park your car, they’re there. If you’re trying to make a difficult decision, they’re there. They’re by your side right now. What do you want their help with right now? Go on, ask them right now!

Okay, but first I need to know how they actually do their work?

Our spirit guides work with us through signs, people, nature, synchronistic events and our intuitive senses (inner seeing, inner knowing, inner hearing and inner feeling).

So the best way to start working with your spirit guides is to ask them for a sign. When I first started working with my guides I asked them to send me a light peach feather to prove to me that they were really there. Within half an hour I had received two peach feathers, which was pretty amazing – and what I needed to open my mind and heart up to noticing the support they could offer me. (nb: I tried this last night by asking for a blue crystal – nothing yet. I’ll keep you posted. Update: two hours later I was working out and found a mini crustal on the studio floor – but it was mauve. Close!)

The more you work with your spirit guides, the stronger the connection gets. It’s just like working out – you can’t expect to have a six-pack like J-Lo if you only do one sit up.

Okay, so is there one team of spirit guides working for us all, or are they individual for each person?

Everyone has their own team of spirit guides, which are assigned just to them. We are born with spirit guides and also recruit them as we go about our life.

I find that most people have around six spirit guides in their “inner circle.” These are the guides who are completely unique to us. Some spirit guides have had lifetimes here on earth (often appearing as “people” e.g. an American Indian teacher, a Tibetan monk, an inspirational business leader etc.) – while others may just appear as beings of light.

I believe that our purpose on Earth is twofold:

1. Evolve as a soul (learning, growing and raising our vibration)

2. Be the light (light up the world by following what lights us up)

Our spirit guides are assigned to us to help us do both these things. The more we allow and receive their guidance and support, the easier our path becomes.

Accept their support, and move forward more smoothly on your journey

I like the idea of us being “assigned” out guides at birth – how does this happen?

Your soul recruits your spirit guides based on your unique soul calling and the path you are here to walk. Your guides are perfectly suited to your highest calling, and waiting to guide you as much or as little as you wish. No matter what you’re facing, their presence means you always have the support around you to make it through.

I believe that we are born with one main guide (also known as a Guardian Angel) who stays with us throughout our lives – and by the age of 18-25 most people have recruited their spirit guide “posse.”

We can recruit more guides as needed though. For example, while writing my book Light Is The New Black I recruited two light beings and a new teacher guide to help me – in exactly the same way as I used to call on famous ad men to help me present my creative ideas in a way that would most resonate with the client when I worked in advertising.

What if I’m still having a hard time getting my head around the concept…

What holds most people back from developing a relationship with their spirit guides is their need for hard core visual “proof” that they exist. For a long time, I was waiting for my spirit guides to ring my doorbell and chat to me over a bottle of vino (clearly that never happened).

I wanted to know their hair color, their favorite movies and where they grew up. But the moment I Iet go of any need for them to appear in a certain way and just opened myself up to the possibility and trusted, the more my relationship with my guides grew and the more evidence of their presence I received in other ways.

Everyone’s experience with their spirit guides is personal, and because they work in the subtle realms, it takes practice to sense them. We are all six sensory beings, but we need to work our intuitive muscles each day to strengthen our intuitive connection with them.

Most people experience their guides through their predominant intuitive sense: Clairvoyant (clear seeing), Clairaudient (clear hearing), Clairsentient (clear feeling) and Claircognizant (clear knowing).

Can you give us some tips to start working with them on a regular basis then?

1. Start asking them for guidance…right now

2. Thank them for guiding you – they love a bit of positive reinforcement!

3. Ask them to send you a sign (e.g. a feather, a butterfly, elephants…whatever you fancy)

4. Keep a little notebook by your bed, and jot down any experience you might have had with them and any signs you spotted throughout the day. The more your book fills up, the more you will notice their support

5. Before you go to sleep ask your spirit guides to come to you in your dreams. The moment you wake up, note down any experiences you may have had with them

“She’s behind you…” Your spirit guides have always got your back

I’m almost convinced – can you share any amazing experiences you’ve had working with your guides?

These days I speak to my spirit guides every day – but my favorite story of working with my guides happened earlier this year, when I handed in my book proposal to Hay House (twice) but hadn’t heard anything.

One of my spirit guides is a woman (spirit) named Charlotte. Charlotte appears as a terribly English high society lady from the 1920’s who wears big dresses, hats and gloves. A gifted gossip, with her fingers in all the most influential pies, Charlotte is here to help me get my message out there and the name spoken about in the right circles. Knowing that getting some publicity might increase my chances of being published, I called on Charlotte for help and then surrendered it.

That same day I was connected with a journalist – and one week later she was commissioned to write a story, “Like a Prayer”, for the UK’s Sunday Times Style Mag (which also happened to feature the who’s who of Hay House authors, as well as The Numinous).Two weeks later, I got the phone call from Hay House offering me a deal!

When I went into Hay House to meet the team for the first time, the Publicity Officer mentioned that she’d seen the Sunday Times article and asked who my publicist was. Without thinking I responded “my spirit guide Charlotte!” Now, I’ve sat around a lot of boardroom tables in my life, but that was the first one that I was able to casually drop the name of one of my spirit guides and credit them for their work. I love it!

Ruby Warrington

RUBY WARRINGTON

MY MANTRA: Believing is Healing. MY MISSION: To help create a world where everybody gets to feel whole. // MY STYLE: Rock 'n' roll yogi fashionista. 99% recycled and vintage. // MY SIGN: Aries Sun, Sagittarius Rising, Cancer Moon. // MY HEALING: Time with friends, time alone, time offline, getting Sober Curious, and being f*cking real with myself!

Rachel's Heart

[straymackerel]

18 from the prompt list for our sucide maniac?💗💗💗

dazai + dépaysement (french, n.) the feeling one gets of not being in one’s own country, of being a foreigner; disorientation, being lost in something you don’t understand.

➽─{hehe great choice… heads up, this fic assumes you don’t hail from japan. feel free to pick another country if you do}─❥

warning(s): angst parading as fluff

Dazai took to your home country surprisingly well. In fact, you were shocked when he made the decision to join you so readily. But your beloved didn’t care if it was a job offer or family business or mere homesickness that brought you back—all he cared about was that someone or something was trying to take you away from him. There was no debate; he would leave with you. Wherever you went, he decided he would go, too.

Having lived in Yokohama city for most of his life, Dazai was quickly engrossed by the wonders of your country, the flow (or lack thereof) of your seasons, the little quirks and idiosyncrasies of your region. It was as if he up and forgot about Yokohama Cosmoworld and Minato Mirai 21 and the port to Tokyo Bay. In their stead, he learned everything he could about the place you grew up. It delighted you to no end. Who wouldn’t want such a devoted boyfriend, one who wished for nothing more than to stay by your side?

You were downright spoiled, if truth be told.

One of your favorite moments of the day was waking up in the morning. Every time you opened your eyes to peek at Dazai, he would─without fail─be up and admiring your sleepy face already. His fingers would often dance a safe distance around your head, restraining themselves from tracing the curves of your face. It was the drowsy yet proud smile he wore that made your heart swell several sizes.

Some mornings you giggled at the sight of his pantomime, often against your own will. Even in his silence, you could hear him loud and clear: “I can barely keep my hands off of you.” 

Some mornings he’d have to work for your laughter. On the occasion you awoke with closed eyelids, you knew better than to let the opportunity go to waste. Pretending you were still asleep, you peered at Dazai through snake slit slivers, hoping to observe him observing you in secret. But your efforts were for naught; he knew you all too well. Dazai would center himself in your limited line of sight and pull the silliest faces, determined to get a reaction out of you. Of course, you’d end up laughing all the same.

Some mornings you rolled right into him and asked what he was thinking about. He’d reply with a sappy sweet little nothing like how lucky he was to have you or how the sun didn’t hold a candle to your beauty. You’d laugh it off, shooting back something about how you were even luckier, or how you and the sun looked like itsy bitsy fireflies compared to his light. And every time, no matter what novel new counter you came up with, he’d tell you to drop the self slander.

“Oh, darling,” he’d say, leaning into you. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand. I promise I most definitely love you more.” Sealing his vows with a firm forehead kiss, he made you fall for him again and again, over and over and over.

You were blind to the amount of hurt that lurked behind those words... just as you were unaware of Dazai’s true nighttime habits. They were nothing salacious, god no─but learning of them might still break your heart. Because all the nights you thought he was sleeping in bed next to you, he was actually wide awake.

As the moonlight shone upon your eyelids, Dazai would spend his nights looking out the window, wondering what the Yokohama sky looked like. Was it a peachy white? A baby blue? A dusty mauve? Even as the moon passed out of sight, he would obsess over this one idea for hours on end. 

An ocean blue? A twilight purple? An amber set aflame, as it was the exact moment he found Oda’s bleeding body?

There was no relief from the thought of Oda once it entered his mind. Dazai would try to distract himself, wondering if he was missed by those he left behind. After all, Kunikida might be getting rather lonely without his inventive pranks. 

Oh, who else might miss him? Atsushi, whom he was supposed to mentor? Akutagawa, whom he already mentored? But eventually, Dazai’s thoughts would travel in full circle.

Odasaku, whose grave he used to pay regular visits to?

It was always at the most ungodly of hours that his vividest memories of Yokohama came flooding back: the physical fights, the psychological battles. The taking of life and the saving of it. Dazai had blood on his hands: the blood of his enemies, the blood of his friends. He owned hands that he believed were only good for committing and solving crimes, hands that served little purpose but to cuddle and coddle you now.

Every facility that Dazai had come to know as home was stripped away from him the moment he agreed to move with you. There was no such thing as a Port Mafia or an Armed Detective Agency in your area, no place he could feel like he truly belonged in. The streets looked different, the buildings unfamiliar. The path he should take was indiscernible. Any which way he could turn, he was met with something alien. Any way but your direction.

That’s what it all came down to: you or Yokohama. Yokohama or you. But the one other close confidant he had in the city laid six feet under for years, and Dazai knew better than most that the dead did not rise from the ground, did not crawl from their deathbeds and upheave their tombstones. His last chance at companionship seemed to be you and you alone.

So Dazai played his sleepless nights off as if he was always waking up before you, ready to welcome you to a new day. As time wore on he would continue his cycle of all-nighter after all-nighter, fueled only by the happiness his performance seemed to bring you. Without a hint of homesickness he ate the strange foods you fed him and the foreign clothes you provided him with. Not a single complaint ever escaped his lips; in fact, anything he said about your country was likely the exact opposite of how he truly felt. It was all he could do to hold tight to this handcrafted facade, showering you with his affections so you might never notice how disoriented and estranged he really felt. 

Like a lovesick puppy, Dazai clung to your reciprocations and doted on your every move. He faked, he feigned, he falsified. He did it for years.

Absolutely anything if it meant holding on to you.

--

source(s):

link i

link ii

[emeraldtawny]

IkeVam Headcanons: Crying Headcanons (Angst)

...I apologise for nothing. This was spawned by some filthy enablers in the IkeVamp Discord server (you all know who you are....love u guys uwu). 

Vague structure is as follows: how they would cry and what made them cry. Full steam angst ahead. Enjoy~ ^w^

~

Napoleon 

Life as an Emperor made him establish a stone face; show no weakness or emotion and let no one see you struggling. This led to Napo always bottling up his emotions whenever he felt the need to cry. And he was too good at doing so, people being none the wiser when he bottled up his frustration, his anger, his despair. However, there was a limit, even for him. When his mentality is withered down to nothing and he can’t hold back the tears any longer, his breath will leave him with a choke and a single tear will squeeze out despite itself. He’d hastily wipe it away and attempt to recollect himself, but he’s too tired, too burdened, the faint cacophony of war echoing within his brain like an inescapable terror. Perhaps that’s another reason why he sleeps so much...

~

Mozart 

He would be physical to stop himself from crying when he feels it bubbling up. He'd punch walls, door frames, even his dear piano if there was nothing else close by. But the pain from his punches would only fuel his tears, his face tight with rage and a snarl on his lips, but his eyes sparkling with tears and his eyebrows desperately pulled together. He’d be cursing at himself as he felt the first tear fall, his self-berating words only growing into a crescendo in his ears as he fights with - and loses to - himself. He’ll probably clench his fists enough to cut his palms with his nails. His reason for crying? Simply put, he feels worthless, he doesn't feel improvement in his music despite others' praise. 

~

Leonardo 

None would consider the Renaissance genius an emotional man, even in private. And he is well aware of this stigma people have crafted for him and has since molded to it himself. Leo would be able to school his features perfectly so no one knows he's upset (except Comte of course). When MC falls asleep cuddled up sweetly against his chest and he knows she's out, he lets a soft, choked sigh escape and finally lets a few tears out, stroking her hair softly as he does so. He lies there just....dwelling on her existence, knowing her not being as long for this world as him and it weighs on him so much that sometimes he just needs to cry. But he'll only do it in front of MC when she sleeps, so she won’t see him at his weakest. He doesn’t think he could bear it.

~

Arthur  

He would try to smile and play it off that he’s fine when he cries, even though the smile would be shaky at the edges as his lips tremble and he tries to blink back his tears. MC would just watch the collapsing of his smile, his mental state, his resilience; she would be watching a man fall apart. Tears collect in his eyes, but they wouldn’t fall until he does first, his knees collapsing and him hunching over himself as he digs the heels of his palms directly into his eyes. His breaths would be shaky, shallow and he’d be whispering countless choked apologies and baseless self-deprecating remarks of himself. He’s sinking into the black, inky depths of his own mind and even when he wails, even when he screams for release, it all feels hopeless. How he survived without MC there to pull him back from the brink of himself, he does not know. But he’s thankful for it every time, without fail.

~

Vincent 

He may be akin to a doll and when he cries it's with the same beauty, but more in the way of if you saw an actual doll crying; unsettling and spine-chilling. For him, it'd feel like his blood stopped pumping, his body stopped responding to him. He knows that he's crying, but he can't wipe away his tears, can't lift his hands to cover his eyes, can't open his mouth to wail; nothing. His mind is screaming though, and it screams so loud that it drowns out everything else. His baby blue eyes are more striking with a thick ring of red outlining them and his bottom lip quivering like a frail fallen leaf, the faint taste of salt on his tongue from the tears streaming without obstacle down his face and past his open lips. Years of repressed and unknown emotions mean that when he cries, he cries until he physically can't anymore and needs to sleep it off. And when he wakes up? He doesn't remember a thing.

~

Theodorus 

Theo would be pretty physical like Mozart, but just in a more violent yet shorter outburst. He might have thrown a vase to the ground with a groaned yell and shattered it into pieces, his fists clenched tight and his chest heaving with heavy breaths, as if the air was viscous and unyielding in its oxygen. The adrenaline subsides and he just sees the room around him submerge in water. When MC runs in frantically and worriedly asks what's wrong, he pulls her into a death grip embrace and rasps out to stay still and not look at him. She'll comfort him until he loosens his grip enough for her to hug him back and he'll keep his head buried in her shoulder. His cries are shaky exhales and the rogue tear that seeps into her blouse goes purposefully unnoticed by her for his own sake. His reason? The art world is shit, obstacles at every turn, and even Theo ain't strong enough to deal with that every day without fail.

~

Dazai 

He would keep smiling through his crying until his face basically collapses into one big sob...and then, silent crying. Not a whisper of sound; no sudden intake of breath or rasped exhale. Just a man standing there with his head hung low and his mauve bangs masking the glassy, lifeless expression of long-established despair on his face. Tear streaks run down his cheeks and tears hang off of his lashes with his gold irises accentuated by his reddened eyes, yet not one ounce of emotion can be seen - can be felt - emanating from him. He just feels overwhelming moments of despair and nothingness at very frequent times. Most times, he can handle it; it’s what he knows, daresay what he’s comfortable with. But sometimes the stress of...life is just too much. Oddly fitting for a man who wants to die but can't. 

~

Isaac 

Despite his best efforts, when Isaac gets too upset to handle, he becomes extremely volatile. He would collapse to his knees and hold his chest with a pained expression. His eyes would be open, wide with fear, as he physically feels the sob bubbling within his chest and rising into his throat like a lump of lead. Moments pass in agony until he lets out a strained sob that rips from his throat and sends a dull yet prevalent pump of blood to his head, a moment of dizziness passing over him. After that, he quietly cries, curled into himself and resting his head atop his clenched hands, letting the tears soak into his skin, hoping - praying - that the pain will stop. If he happens to be in a public space when he gets overwhelmed with emotion, he’ll be quick to extrapolate himself and hide away in a secluded spot, crying with short, almost hyperventilating breaths and whispering “I’m okay, I’m okay” over and over.

~

Jean 

The type to have the most guttural sobs where his throat is ragged and dry, and his breaths heave with effort. He would bottle it up until his vision physically blurs, his tears lining his eyes and obscuring his vision, and he would run to an isolated place if he wasn’t there already. Every time he cries, he hears swords clashing, groans of pain; every drop of blood, sweat and tears of Jean’s falls for those who have fallen for him. A growl of pain wretches from his throat and his fist collides with the nearest wall. He rests his back against the same wall and lets his feet slip out from under him as he sinks to the floor, glaring with frustration at the ceiling until the storm clouds clear from his conscience.

~

Shakespeare 

Shakes would seem to be the type that doesn't realise he's crying until he feels it or until someone points it out. But what if he was well aware that he was crying? But his smile would look so natural and out of place to his blood and gold eyes shimmering with tears that no one would know whether to approach him over the situation or not. It’s like the boy who cried wolf; no one would know he’s actually in pain because all they see is deceit. So when he feels his heart finally begin to pump with pain, he wears a smile even when his own eyes betray him. When he has a moment to himself, he'll dab his eyes calmly with his handkerchief, all the while biting on his tongue - hard enough to bleed - to stop any unbecoming sounds escaping him. He'll massage his closed eyelids to recollect himself and return to business as usual. Sometimes, even Shakes doesn’t know why he has these moments, his memories too repressed to remember the reason for his own tragedy.

~

Comte de Saint-Germaine 

Like the other immortal, he presents himself in a way to suggest crying being a foreign sensation to him and, when he does cry, tries to repress it where he can. He at least has more of his head on to know when it's safe to cry; alone or in front of MC. He won't sob, he won't wail. If anything, it'll look like he's the one comforting MC, him holding her head against his chest so she can't see the strain on his face as he desperately holds back his tears. A few will fall - glistening scarlet, tears of immortal blood - and he’ll catch them on the back of his hand to prevent them from staining her hair red. But she won't say a word, simply embrace him back and let him cry in complete silence. Being an immortal vampire with responsibilities and obligations weighing on you every second of your endless life? It’s a miracle that the Comte hasn't broken down more.

~

Sebastian 

Surrounded by his work and with hardly a moment to let his thoughts get the better of them, when Sebas does let his walls down, it will be controlled. He would let out a shuddering breath, his eyelids closing and his breaths forced into and out of his lungs in a controlled manner. Attempting to control his quickly spiraling thoughts, his brows furrow and his hands at work pause. The tightness and anxiety in his chest grows and he allows himself a quiet sob over the sink, before--  Tick tock tick tock.  Only a few seconds passed, but they felt too long to Sebastian, his head hanging over the sink. Splashing his face with water and with a few good slaps to his cheeks, he reassures himself that he has no time for this - that if he has time to cry, then he has time to work. With a couple of sniffles to fully rid his body of its lasting bout of sadness, his hands begin to move again to finish preparing dinner. Even the perfect butler needs a moment of reprieve sometimes.

[foursideharmony]

The Cat, the Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 5)

Summary: Roman confronts the other Sides.

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: Violence and threats of violence, nightmare imagery

Word Count: 3,194

Read on AO3: here

“Won't be long now,” said Mr. Beaver as the group rounded a low hill. The sun was just starting to sink, and the resulting shadow made them all the colder. They had been on the move for nearly twenty hours, with only brief and infrequent rest stops, and had long since begun dragging their feet. Their trail made a continuous ragged line through the snow.

“I can't feel my anything,” Patton moaned.

“Well if nothing else,” said Mrs. Beaver, trudging alongside him and patting his hand, “they'll at least have decent campfires where we're going.”

Another twenty-five or so minutes brought them around the base of that hill and the next one, and then the Beavers led the group up the slope of a third and tallest hill. “And here we are,” said Mr. Beaver once they reached the summit. “The hill of the Stone Table.”

The hilltop was a broad space, clear of trees, with a grim gray construction in the very center: the Stone Table itself. It seemed like the whole snowscape of Narnia spread out before them, all the way to the twinkling ocean. It would have been a lovely view if not for the circumstances that had brought them there.

No one greeted them. They thought at first that no one was even there, but Virgil pointed to a hunched figure crouched on the ground some distance away from the table, tending the embers of a small fire by means of an awkwardly long poker held at full arm's length, as if she were afraid to go too near it. She was very slender, with lightly tanned skin and misty pale green hair that stuck out from her head in bristly locks, falling down to merge with her dress, which was the same color and texture.

“Ailim, is that you?” said Mr. Beaver.

“Oh!” said the woman, rising to her feet in one motion, more gracefully than any human could manage. “Beaver...I wasn't expecting you.”

“Ailim...where is everyone?”

She shook her head with a sound like leaves rustling in a breeze. “A few are nearby, keeping to cover. As for the rest...they are safe in their homes. Where else would they be? Aslan has not come after all. Of my people, only my conifer siblings and myself are even awake. The rest of our cousins still sleep.”

“Ailim is a dryad,” Mrs. Beaver explained. “That's the spirit of a tree. In her case, a fir tree.”

“And you must be the humans of the prophecy,” said Ailim. “Do you know why Aslan has not returned?”

“B-beats me, Miss,” Patton said, teeth chattering. “The story seems to have hopped off the rails at some point.”

“Oh, how rude of me not to notice how cold you are. Do come sit by the fire. She crouched to poke up the flames, and used an equally long-handled set of tongs to add another log. Soon it was crackling nicely, and the Sides were clustered around it, sitting on small boulders that had been cleared of snow and soaking up the warmth.

“It doesn't bother you?” Virgil said as Ailim fed the fire again. “Burning wood? I mean, if you're a tree too...”

“This was all fallen and dead already when it was gathered,” she explained. “No Narnian of good heart would ever cut down a living tree, or even take so much as a single branch. Sometimes an aged dryad who knows she will die soon will bequeath her wood to those who need it, but living trees are sacrosanct. Or,” she added sadly, “so it was before the White Witch came.”

“We'll figure something out,” Patton said. “I think…I think the Witch is hurting someone we care about too.”

“In the meantime,” Mr. Beaver cut in, “this lot needs food and rest.”

“Of course,” said the dryad. “There are shelters in the thickets on the southeastern slope, and provisions. Tap three times quickly and twice slowly on the large boulder and the fauns will let you inside.” She met each of their gazes in turn. “In the morning we must hold a council of war.”

*******************************************

At least Jadis's bed was comfortable enough.

Roman had found it eventually, after wandering the frozen castle for what felt like hours. It was only a broad, thick slab of ice on the floor, but it was heaped with enough blankets and furs that he was adequately shielded from the worst of the cold, both from the frigid air of the castle and the bed itself. He crawled in, his head still spinning, and wrapped himself in layers of bedding like a caterpillar forming its cocoon.

Sleep came quickly, but proper rest did not; Roman's dreams were full of ice and crystal and stone and snowflakes that came spinning down out of a black sky like tiny sawmill blades. Where they touched him he flinched and bled, and his blood was the pale turquoise of a glacial core. It whispered to him in sounds that were almost words and phrases in a language he only partially understood.

Perhaps he thrashed or cried out in his sleep, but if so, no one noticed or responded.

And with the coming of the dawn, Roman opened his eyes...and knew who he was. And what he was.

*******************************************

The war council never happened.

After their long trek, the Sides had just enough energy left to swallow a few mouthfuls of the stew  the fauns had prepared and fall asleep on rough cots in a den of sorts excavated from the hillside. The Narnians hadn't the heart to disturb them, and they didn't wake until the sun was well over the horizon, and then only because a strange, piercing sound was blaring from outside the shelter, coming from some distance away. It was like a horn, but shriller, and it set their teeth on edge.

Bleary-eyed from stolen sleep, they bustled out to find their hosts interrupted in the act of preparing breakfast. “What's going on?” Patton yawned. “Is it time for the council meeting thingie?”

“We're not sure,” said one of the fauns, whose name escaped him. The peculiar sound continued at intervals of a few seconds, and seemed intended as a signal of some kind.

“Something is approaching!” came Ailim’s voice from the hilltop. “Let us all gather as a show of our numbers!”

“What numbers,” Virgil muttered, but he joined the other two, and the Beavers and fauns and other handful of Narnian citizens now emerging from their respective shelters, in hiking back up to the summit, where Ailim was waiting with another dryad, taller and wirier than herself. They got there just in time to see, bursting through the trees on the northern slope, a Dwarf they barely recognized as the White Witch’s driver. He was blowing on some kind of wind instrument that appeared to be made from silvery crystal—or perhaps ice—which was of course the sound they had all been hearing. Behind him, further downslope, there was some kind of commotion that wasn’t yet visible through the brush and piled snow.

“Narnians!” bellowed the Dwarf. “Make ready to receive your most exalted ruler, the White Warlock!”

“What?” Virgil growled.

“White Warlock?” said Patton. “No, it’s supposed to be the White Witch. A scary lady! I remember that part!”

“'Warlock' is a semi-archaic term for a male witch,” Logan observed.

“Guys, I have the worst feeling about this…” said Virgil.

More creatures were emerging from the trees on the hill slope, and it took the Sides a moment to realize that they were looking at a procession of monsters. First was a group of Goblin heralds carrying gonfalons that seemed to consist only of crosspieces crusted with masses of icicles. Then came a formation of Dwarf archers, and then several Ogres bearing clubs. Following this were a few Hags, hissing and pointing threateningly into the gathering.

(“What is this, the whole bloody entourage?” whispered Mr. Beaver. “Dear! Mind your language!” Mrs. Beaver retorted.)

As the procession reached the hilltop, it broke to its right, circling the space counterclockwise and fanning out along the other side of the Stone Table from the Sides and their allies, effectively corralling them—they could retreat, technically, but there was only one direction available; they would be easy pickings if they tried.

Finally, the White Warlock himself appeared, lounging in a fur-lined sedan chair on the shoulders of four massive Minotaurs. His crown glittered as he moved in and out of patches of shade and his robe was made entirely of ermine, with a train that trailed behind the chair for ten yards, held off the ground by a team of Yew-dryads, their short shaggy hair speckled with scarlet berries. The Minotaurs crested the hill, and one of them kicked snow over the smoldering campfire, extinguishing it. They eased the chair down, and the Warlock rose from his seat, stepped lightly to the ground, and turned to face them.

It was Roman...and he was wrong.

They knew what “evil Roman” was supposed to look like. The fans loved to imagine him, for some reason, and they tagged Thomas in their fanart of the concept often enough that the Sides were familiar with the consensus image: the haughty expression, the gaudy gold crown studded with rubies, and especially the transformation of his suit from pristine, heroic white to Disney Villain black.

It wasn't...it wasn't supposed to become even whiter. It wasn't supposed to gleam almost too bright to look at in the sunlight, so that even the ermine barely looked white by comparison. The gold braid wasn't supposed to be replaced with silver, nor the noble red of his sash with a dusky grayish mauve like dried rose petals under a veneer of frost. The crown was not supposed to be made of silvery ice, with only a single huge diamond set under the central point.

His hair was not supposed to be shot through with white strands that turned out, upon closer inspection, to be ornamentation of impossibly delicate ice filigree. His eyes were definitely not supposed to be gray, flecked with blue-green. And he was not supposed to be pale, but he was—paler than Virgil, if such a thing were possible, lacking even a cold-induced blush to his cheeks, yet without looking the least bit unhealthy. It was as if he had been molded out of ivory.

The only hint of warmth in his appearance was that diamond, which flashed all the colors of fire.

He was wrong.

“Hark! You are all guilty of high treason against the Crown!” he said without preamble, and his voice at least, if not the disdainful tone, was familiar. “Except you three,” he added with a curt nod at his fellow Sides. “However! We are in a lenient mood! Abandon your rebellion at once, and swear fealty to us, and you will not be punished...this time. As for you...” He addressed the Sides again, and for just a moment, his cold arrogance retreated, “...in exchange for your fealty, I will make you all lesser Kings in my court. Think of it! This glorious winter kingdom could belong to all of us!”

The Narnians shuffled on their feet, making no reply. The Sides traded glances, Logan frowning uncertainly and Virgil shaking his head with a haunted expression. Finally, Patton spoke.

“Roman...this isn't fun anymore, with you acting like this. This isn't how you said the story was going to go. Can we just...go home? We can talk out whatever's bothering you.”

It was shocking how quickly Roman's eyes hardened. “I will not be mocked,” he said, low and dangerous. “You have one day and night to change your minds...or else prepare for war. And these—” he made an expansive gesture at the creatures he had brought with him, “—are merely the outermost tip of my armies.” He returned to his sedan chair and the Minotaurs hoisted it up. The procession began to descend the hill.

“Down with the White Warlock!” blurted the taller Dryad, Ailim's companion. “Aslan is King!”

Roman's head whipped around to glare at her. Without a single word, he nodded to the nearest of the Hags, and she lunged at the Dryad, shrieking and making a throwing gesture. There was something like a flash of light in reverse—a flash of darkness—and the tall tree-spirit sank to the ground with a sigh.

“Muricata!” Ailim cried as one of the Ogres stepped forward and lifted the fallen nymph in one massive hand.

“Find her tree,” growled the White Warlock. “Cut it down while she watches.”

“No! Please!” Ailim begged. “She is my sister!”

“Take the other one as well. Let them both watch.” A second Ogre seized Ailim and began dragging her along while she screamed in terror and grief.

“Roman!” Patton gasped. “H-how could you?”

“Don't make me punish you as well!” Roman snarled. “Move out!”

The procession withdrew back down the hill, leaving the Narnians devastated and the Sides both bewildered and appalled. “So now what?” Virgil said, pacing erratically and pulling at his hair. “This is really bad, you guys. Super bad. We're not just talking rail-jumping here. Roman's taken a flying leap off...off something, I don't know, but there is something wrong with him. I thought maybe he was just throwing a surprise twist at us, but did you see him? That look in his eyes? This is so bad—”

“Virgil, you are spiraling,” said Logan. “Try one of your breathing exercises.”

“I don't understand,” said Patton. “Why would Roman go this far? Do you think he's mad at us for something?”

“It is possible,” said Logan. “He has undergone a number of upsetting occurrences recently, and his mood has not been the most stable. Then again, with his talk of 'swearing fealty'...perhaps he is simply craving validation.”

“Should we just give it to him then?” said Virgil. I mean if it's the fastest way to get him off the crazy train...”

“Unfortunately, I have to advise against indulging him in this,” said Logan. “While it may work in the short term to, as you say, 'get him off the crazy train'—which does not sound like a practical or enjoyable means of transportation, by the way—the likely long-term effect would be to encourage him to continue these destructive methods of addressing his self-esteem deficits.”

“Patton, you're the 'should' guy around here...what should we do?”

“I'm honestly thinking we should just leave. The best way to send a message that the game is no good, is to quit playing. He can grapple with his feelings as long as he needs to, and we'll be there for him when he's ready to come out and talk.”

“I would tend to agree,” said Logan, “but I doubt there is any way for us to leave the Imagination without Roman noticing, and in his current state he would be certain to take steps to stop us, possibly violently.” He began to pace rapidly, wearing a tamped-down groove in the snow. “However...perhaps one of us could make it back to the door undetected, leave, and come back with...additional resources.”

“What kind of 'additional resources' did you have in mind?” said Virgil.

“It occurs to me,” Logan said, still pacing, “that Roman is rather...comfortable, with the three of us. That may cause him to take our points of view for granted, which ironically makes him less likely to listen to us than to someone with whom he might experience more interpersonal friction.”

There was a beat while Virgil and Patton took that in. “Oh, no!” Virgil said after a moment. “If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, then...no. I can't agree with that.”

“Just so we're on the same page,” Patton said carefully, “you want to go get Janus? You think he could help?”

“I think his presence might shock Roman just enough to shake him out of his assumptions about how this story is meant to go,” Logan explained.

“You could be right,” said Patton. “Roman arranged all this because he hasn't felt much like a hero ever since we started including Janus in our discussions. But somehow he wound up going completely the other way, to being the villain. Maybe seeing Janus will remind him of what he's trying to avoid?”

“Okay, cool, so I'm outvoted. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool. So which one of us should go?”

“I was planning on doing it myself,” said Logan. “It would not be fair to ask you to carry out a plan to which you object, and between myself and Patton, I believe I have a greater chance of making the trek without getting sidetracked or losing my nerve. No offense, Patton.”

“None taken. It's an awfully long way to go by yourself, though. Are you sure you even know the way?”

“I have an excellent head for navigation and I believe I can triangulate the location of the door based on our travels thus far. I would feel more confident if I had some form of transportation, however.”

“I can carry you, sir,” said a deep but young-sounding voice from among the Narnians. It was the largest of those gathered, a Talking Bear not quite full grown but undeniably burly and powerful. “Name of Stoutpaws, sir. I'm not as good as a Horse but I'll do my best.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Stoutpaws. My name is Logan. If we start now, I estimate you can get me to my destination before sundown.”

“You're leaving already?” Patton said, fretting.

“Roman has only given us until tomorrow, Patton. Given the round trip, I need to use every minute I can to make sure I bring Janus back here before the deadline.”

Patton strode up and pulled him into a hug. “You be careful.”

“Likewise,” said Logan.

“I'll guard him with my life, sir,” said Stoutpaws. He crouched on all fours so that Logan could climb onto his back and then loped away down the westward slope of the hill.

“Gosh, things are happening fast,” Patton said, watching them go. “It all started so simply.”

“Come on, Pat,” said Virgil with a lopsided smile that got nowhere near his eyes, “you should know by now that nothing in this mind of Thomas's is ever simple. And on that note...we should probably pull this bunch together and come up with some contingency plans, just in case Logan doesn't get back in time.”

“Yeah,” Patton agreed noncommittally. “And someone oughta buck them up. They just watched two of their own get dragged away by the bad guys to be...” He trailed off.

“Don't think about it too much,” Virgil said. “Just...yeah, don't think about it.” The gathering was breaking up, the Narnians returning dejected to their hillside shelters. Patton and Virgil joined them.

Unseen in the snow-dusted brush nearby, someone was watching...