#I’ll stick with the political intrigue

[sixeyesonathiel]

roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

pairing – prime minister's son!gojo x princess!reader

summary : as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, even in a world where your family’s power is little more than ceremony. as the son of the prime minister, satoru gojo was raised to rule.

your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future. but satoru has never cared for politics, not when it comes to you. from the moment he met you, he’s been impossible to ignore—too bold, too persistent, too certain that your story was never meant to end in polite distance.

but in a world where power dictates fate, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

satoru has never been one to follow the rules.

tags –> oneshot, 8k wc, modern & royalty au, political intrigue, high society drama, forbidden love, slow burn but inevitable, gojo satoru is a menace but he’s your menace, power imbalance but he makes it so sexy, privilege and duty, crown and dagger, elopement but make it dramatic, longing stares in grand ballrooms, love like a loaded gun, he would burn the world for you, angsty but he's too freaky for the angst to actually angst

colletion m.list.

you were six years old when you first met him.

it was at a grand gala—one of those glittering, suffocating events where chandeliers dripped with light and the air smelled of imported champagne and expensive perfume. women in floor-length gowns whispered behind painted fans, their laughter soft and practiced, while men in tailored suits exchanged nods that meant more than words. your mother’s grip on your tiny hand was firm, guiding you through the maze of political smiles and calculating gazes. you were dressed in a satin gown the color of moonlight, your hair curled into delicate ringlets, a perfect little doll for the cameras. “posture.” your mother reminded, her voice a quiet warning against your ear, and you obediently lifted your chin. everything was rehearsed, every movement precise—but then you saw him.

a boy with hair like freshly fallen snow, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d fought off every attempt to tame it. he stood apart from the other children, his tiny navy suit crisp but slightly disheveled, a stark contrast to his bored expression. a lollipop dangled lazily from his lips, his fingers tucked into his pockets like he had no interest in the stiff elegance of the evening. his eyes—impossibly blue, like the sky at its brightest—found yours, pinning you in place. you had been taught to be polite, to be charming, to be untouchable, but something about the way he looked at you made your heart skip. he tilted his head, considering you, and then grinned—wide and unapologetic, like he had just found something interesting in a room full of dull, gray figures.

and then, with all the reckless confidence of someone who had never been told no, he pulled the lollipop from his mouth and declared, “i like you! wanna get married?”

a hush fell over the room like a dropped veil, murmurs rising in its wake. your mother’s nails pressed into your palm, a silent warning, while prime minister gojo’s sharp gaze flicked toward his son with the weight of unspoken reprimand. but satoru only rocked back on his heels, unbothered by the sudden attention, his grin unwavering. your mind, young as it was, processed the absurdity of the moment—marriage? at six years old? but even then, you had been raised to know your worth, and so you gave him the sweetest, most well-practiced smile in your arsenal.

“silly,” you giggled, folding your hands in front of you like the perfect little princess you were trained to be. “princesses don’t marry commoners.”

for the first time, the boy’s expression shifted—not to disappointment, but to something else, something sharper, something amused. the grin stretching across his face didn’t falter; if anything, it widened, as if he had just been given a challenge. “then i guess i’ll just have to become a king.”

the murmurs that followed were no longer just of amusement. they carried something deeper, something weightier—speculation, curiosity, quiet calculations of what a union between the royal family and the prime minister’s bloodline could mean. your mother’s fingers tightened ever so slightly, enough to tell you that you had done something wrong, even if you didn’t quite understand what. but satoru, in all his childish arrogance, seemed entirely unbothered, as if the world would bend to his whims simply because he willed it to.

“a king?” you echoed, tilting your head in consideration. your tutors had taught you that kings were powerful, that they ruled with wisdom and strength, that they carried the weight of nations on their shoulders. but satoru didn’t look like a wise ruler—he looked like a mischievous prince, untamed and unyielding, someone who had never been denied a single thing in his life.

“mmhmm,” he hummed, hands on his hips, as if he could already picture himself wearing a crown. “and when i do, i’ll make you my queen.”

you only giggled, because at six years old, marriage was nothing more than a fairy tale, a distant dream wrapped in lace and golden crowns. besides, you knew—knew with the quiet certainty that only children possess—that your father would never allow it. still, something about the way he looked at you, with that unwavering confidence, sent a strange little flutter through your chest.

a palace attendant appeared at your side, quick and efficient, murmuring something about your father expecting you at his table. your mother’s sigh was nearly imperceptible as she turned you away from the scene, her fingers firm on your wrist. but even as you were led through the sea of glittering gowns and polished shoes, you could feel it—his gaze, lingering, unwavering, like a promise not yet spoken.

when you glanced back, he was still standing there, lollipop tucked back between his lips, watching you with an expression that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“i’ll come find you again, princess!” he called out, his voice brimming with the kind of certainty that didn’t allow for doubts.

and somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

true to his words, satoru gojo became a fixture in your world—loud, impossible, and utterly relentless.

satoru was always too much. too loud, too clever, too untouchable. he had that insufferable grin, the one that made you feel like he already knew how this story would end—like he had already seen you in white, standing beside him. from the moment he decided you were his, he followed you around like a stray cat who thought he owned the palace, when in truth, he only ever snuck his way in. the difference was that satoru wasn’t sneaking—he had the power to walk through the palace doors without consequence. his father, the prime minister, held the entire country in his palm, and satoru, his only son, carried himself like a prince, even without a crown.

“we should get married,” he told you every chance he got, as if it was inevitable. “i’d make a great king.”

“you’re no king, satoru.” you would scoff, adjusting the perfect bow at the back of your dress. “you’re a tyrant in the making.”

but he only ever laughed, because you never actually said no.

your fathers hated each other. the prime minister saw the royal family as nothing more than a ceremonial relic, a bloodline propped up by tradition with no real authority, while your father saw the gojo administration as a dictatorship in disguise, unchecked power wrapped in empty promises. the conflict between them was a cold war played behind closed doors, in councils and boardrooms where policy was made without your input. yet somehow, despite the quiet battle waged between them, you and satoru were always in the same rooms, always within reach of each other. whether it was diplomatic banquets, charity galas, or private functions where power was traded in hushed conversations, he was there. and oh, did he reach.

when you were eight, he stole your tiara during a diplomatic dinner and perched it atop his own head, flashing a smirk that made your cheeks burn. “look at me, i’m a king now.”

“give it back, satoru!” you huffed, arms crossed, lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“hmm… nah,” he hummed, tilting his head as if considering. then, with an impish glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and whispered, “but you can have it back if you give me a kiss.”

scandalized, you yanked the tiara off his head with a furious huff, your face burning as he cackled like a devil in silk.

when you were ten, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the ballroom, dragging you through the empty halls until you burst onto the palace balcony. below, the city stretched endlessly, glittering against the night.

“you’re bored, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice softer than usual, those sky-bright eyes searching yours. “let’s run away.”

“don’t be ridiculous.” you scoffed, but you didn’t pull away.

instead, you let him hold your hand, let him be the one reckless thing in your carefully measured world.

when you were twelve, he found you curled beneath the oldest willow in the royal gardens, fists clenched in the fabric of your dress, trying to keep the sobs inside. another argument. another reminder that you would never be enough—not as a daughter, not as a princess, not as anything you were supposed to be. the sky was overcast, gray and heavy, the scent of rain thick in the air. you hadn’t heard his footsteps, hadn’t noticed him until he crouched in front of you, head tilting, gaze sharp and knowing.

satoru hated seeing you cry.

so, without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a lollipop, and unwrapped it with the ease of someone who did this often. “open,” he said, pressing the candy against your lips before you could argue, his tone light, teasing, but unyielding. the sugary scent hit you first—something cherry, something artificial, something that had no place in a world of gold-plated cutlery and imported delicacies. you hesitated, your pride warring with the quiet comfort he offered. but then, slowly, you parted your lips, and he pushed it onto your tongue, watching you like he was waiting for the weight in your chest to ease.

“sweet things always make you feel better.” his voice was softer this time, something careful beneath the teasing.

he was right. the taste melted against your tongue, sharp and cloying, and for the first time that day, the ache in your ribs loosened just a little. satoru grinned like he had just won something, bright and self-satisfied, always too pleased with himself. “see? tastes better when it’s from me, huh?”

you only nodded, small and quiet. he only laughed, the sound easy and unbothered, like the world hadn’t just collapsed around you.

in that moment, beneath a darkening sky, in a life that had never truly been yours, satoru became your first and only act of defiance. he became your escape. your rebellion. your one and only soft, sweet thing.

despite the tension in politics, despite the warnings and whispered disapproval, you and satoru always find each other.

your lessons are held in the same grand estate, halls lined with portraits of ancestors who once held the world in their hands. golden chandeliers hang heavy above you, casting a soft glow over the polished marble floors, the silence between lectures filled only by the ticking of antique clocks and the distant hum of the city beyond the palace gates. you see him in the brief moments between lessons, in the gaps between grand affairs, when the adults aren’t watching. but, of course, satoru never cares if they are. he walks into your space like he belongs there, like he has never once been told no in his life. and when he does, you pretend it doesn’t make the air in the room feel heavier.

“you’re such a fake,” he drawls one afternoon, lounging lazily in your study while you sit perfectly poised by the window. sunlight filters in behind you, casting you in a glow that makes you look untouchable, distant. “all that bowing and smiling—you don’t actually believe in any of that, do you?”

your fingers tighten over the silk of your skirts, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. “it’s called duty, satoru. something you wouldn’t understand.”

he snorts, tipping his chair back on two legs, balancing with the ease of someone who never fears falling. “right. duty. you mean playing pretend.”

“i’m not playing pretend,” you snap, rising so suddenly that your chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the still air.

but satoru only leans forward, elbow propped on the desk, chin in his palm, watching you with that infuriating, knowing look. “sure you are,” he says, like it’s fact. “you hate this. you hate them. but you smile and curtsy like a good little princess anyway.”

heat crawls up your spine, your breath catching in your throat. “what would you have me do? throw tantrums like you? break things until people listen?”

his smirk deepens. “at least i don’t lie about who i am.”

the words hit something raw, something you refuse to name. satoru has always been able to see too much, pick you apart with those impossibly blue eyes until you feel like nothing more than an open book in his hands. you hate that he can see through you so easily.

so you don’t answer. instead, you turn on your heel and storm out, the echo of your footsteps chasing you down the hall. when you reach your chambers, you throw the balcony doors shut behind you, and that night—for the first time in years—you leave them locked.

for a week, satoru does not show up.

no pebbles tapping against your window at midnight. no insufferable interruptions during your lessons. no infuriating, knowing glances across the dinner table when you’re forced to sit across from him.

at first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

but the days stretch on, and the silence in your chambers grows unbearable. your eyes flick toward the balcony doors more times than you’re willing to admit, your ears straining for the sound of footsteps, of something—anything—that signals his presence. when you pass by the study, you hesitate just outside the door, waiting for a scoff, a teasing remark, anything to prove that he’s still there. but the room is empty, and all you have is the hollow weight of missing him.

when you finally unlock the balcony doors, the wind feels too cold against your skin, the vastness of the sky stretching too wide, too empty.

and then, at the next grand event, just when you begin to think that maybe he’s left you behind, that he had realized how asinine your friendship with him is, you feel it.

a gaze too familiar, too sharp, too knowing.

when you glance up, satoru is already watching you from across the ballroom, standing just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight. he is dressed in the sharp blues and silvers of his family’s colors, the embroidery on his suit catching the light, but his gaze is the brightest thing in the room. too familiar, too focused, too knowing—like he’s been waiting for you to notice him. the conversations around you dull, the clinking of crystal glasses and rustling of silk fading into something distant, inconsequential. because in a room full of dignitaries, of nobles and politicians vying for power, satoru looks at you like you’re the only one who matters. and it makes something tighten in your chest, something you refuse to name.

“your royal highness.” he greets smoothly, voice laced with amusement as he steps forward. the space between you is swallowed instantly, overtaken by his presence—too much, too overwhelming, like the weight of a storm pressing against your skin. he bows, just deep enough to be proper, but there is no real deference in the motion, no real submission in the way he tilts his head and looks at you through pale lashes. this is not a greeting; it’s a challenge.

“gojo.” your voice is even, perfectly poised, as distant as diplomacy demands. but he sees through it like he always does, like he always has, and you know this because his smirk deepens.

then, before you can stop him, he takes your hand—too bold, too improper, too much.

he lifts it to his lips, the movement deliberate, calculated, yet as effortless as breathing. your breath catches as his mouth brushes just above the lace of your glove, against the sliver of skin left exposed. his lips are warm, his breath soft against your wrist, but the effect is anything but gentle. it sears.

your pulse betrays you, a single, sharp beat against his touch.

his smirk spreads, slow and knowing. “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and the worst part—the part you loathe, the part that makes your throat tighten—is that you have no idea how to lie. not to him.

satoru gojo has always been insufferable.

he is a storm in human form—loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. but sometime between childhood games and midnight rendezvous, something shifts. the edges of him sharpen, shedding the remnants of boyhood, his limbs stretching into something longer, leaner, more dangerous. the mischief in his gaze is still there, but it is different now, laced with something you do not have the words for. something that makes your pulse stutter when he looks at you too long.

and yet, despite it all, he still finds you. always.

at thirteen, he corners you in the royal library, where the scent of parchment and ink lingers in the air. dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light, a quiet world away from the weight of courtly expectations. you are searching for an old genealogy record when fingers, long and deft, pluck the book from your hands with infuriating ease.

“you’re too stiff.” he murmurs, flipping the pages with little interest. “too dutiful. don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?”

“give it back, satoru.”

“make me.”

your patience snaps like a fraying thread. you lunge, reaching for the book, but he is already moving, slipping just out of reach, laughter curling in the silence. it becomes a chase, your breath quickening as he weaves between the towering shelves, always just a step ahead, always teasing. when you finally snatch it back, your heart is pounding, the heat of exertion warming your skin.

he is too close. the dim glow of lanterns catches in his eyes, his smirk lazy, triumphant.

“see?” he hums, voice smooth, teasing. “you’re more fun when you’re mad.”

at fourteen, he finds you on the palace rooftop.

it is past midnight, the city below pulsing with life, oblivious to the girl perched high above it—trapped in a golden cage lined with silk and duty. the wind tugs at your hair, whispering secrets you will never be free to follow. the stars scatter across the sky in cold indifference, the weight of history pressing against your ribs like an iron hand. up here, away from the watchful eyes of the court, you can almost pretend you are just a girl and not a symbol, not a piece on a chessboard carved long before you were born.

“you’re not supposed to be up here.” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the endless stretch of lights below, refusing to acknowledge the presence settling beside you.

“neither are you.” he counters, voice smooth as ever, careless as ever. he sits too close, shoulder pressing against yours, as if he belongs here, as if he always will.

his presence is warm in the cool night air, a stark contrast to the marble halls and empty courtesies you have known all your life. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind rustles through the banners below, and the sounds of distant carriages echo faintly in the night.

“do you ever think about running away?” he muses, head tilting back, exposing the sharp angles of a jawline that is beginning to lose its boyish softness. his hair ruffles in the wind, a mess of white against the darkness.

“you’ve been talking about that since we were kids.” you sigh, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

“and you’ve been ignoring me since we were kids.” he points out, words laced with that familiar, infuriating amusement.

“maybe there’s a reason for that.”

he hums, entirely unbothered, as if he already knows the truth you won’t say aloud. “doesn’t change the fact that you never really leave, though.”

the words settle between you, quiet and heavy, pressing against the space where your heart beats a little too fast. you don’t respond because he’s right.

at fifteen, he crashes a diplomatic banquet, just to get a rise out of you.

he isn’t supposed to be here. technically, his father declined the invitation, sending his advisors in his place. but satoru gojo has never been one to follow the rules, especially when they tell him he can’t do something. so, of course, he waltzes into the ballroom as if he owns it, clad in midnight blue with a smirk that could start wars. the chandeliers cast a golden glow over the polished marble, music swelling in a practiced waltz, but the moment he steps in, the air shifts—people noticing, whispers beginning. his presence is an act of defiance, a quiet declaration that even the prime minister’s absence cannot erase the weight of his name.

you barely have time to react before he spots you, his grin widening like a cat who just found his favorite mouse. “your highness,” he drawls, stepping into your space as if he belongs there, as if you aren’t standing amongst foreign dignitaries who would love nothing more than to report this to your father. panic flares hot in your chest, but you refuse to let it show, only gripping his wrist and yanking him into the nearest shadowed alcove. he lets you, amusement dancing in his too-bright eyes, the scent of something expensive lingering on his skin. “what are you doing here?” you hiss, low and sharp, as distant voices hum just beyond the curtains.

“you missed me.” he answers, unbothered.

“i did not.”

“you totally did.”

you glare. he grins.

“besides,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping to something low and private. “how could i miss the chance to see you all dressed up? you look…” his gaze flickers over you, slow, deliberate, appreciation flickering in those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes. “…stunning.”

your stomach flips, traitorous. you roll your eyes instead, fixing him with a pointed look, ignoring the heat that creeps up your neck. “if your father finds out—”

“who cares?” he shrugs, the picture of reckless ease, of untouchable confidence. “we’re just two childhood friends catching up, aren’t we?”

friends.

right.

but then, before you can snap back, he lifts your hand—bold, improper, scandalous—and bows his head, brushing his lips against the skin just above the lace of your glove. his breath ghosts warm against your wrist, lingering, deliberate, as if committing the shape of you to memory. a slow, teasing kiss, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he enjoys the way your pulse stutters beneath his mouth. you freeze, caught between outrage and something far more dangerous, something you refuse to name. his smirk deepens when he finally pulls away, watching you with eyes too sharp, too knowing.

“see?” he murmurs, amusement curling in his tone. “you don’t seem so bothered now.”

at sixteen, things shift again.

it happens during a fencing lesson, though neither of you are properly dressed for it. no heavy jackets, no masks—just wooden practice swords and the simmering tension that neither of you have the words for yet. the vast training hall is bathed in late afternoon light, golden streaks stretching across polished wooden floors, dust motes dancing in the air. you weren’t even supposed to spar today, but satoru had grabbed a sword off the rack, tossed you another, and grinned like he already knew how this would end. where you are disciplined, he is wild; where you are precise, he is unpredictable. he circles you now, blade tapping lazily against his shoulder, eyes bright with something electric.

“come on, princess,” he drawls, voice laced with challenge. “show me what all those lessons are worth.”

you do. you lunge, and he parries; you strike, and he meets you—wooden swords colliding in a flurry of sharp movements and breathless taunts. your footwork is flawless, your technique impeccable, but satoru is fast, too fast, slipping through your defenses like water through cupped hands. then, in a blink, he disarms you—sends your practice sword clattering across the floor. before you can react, he moves, pushing you back until your spine meets the wooden wall, his weight pressing just enough to keep you there. the air shifts, suddenly charged, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of polished wood and something distinctly him curling in your lungs.

“yield.” he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable.

you should push him away. should remind him of propriety, of duty, of the countless rules you are bound to. but you don’t—because his gaze is locked onto yours, and you can’t seem to look away. your heart hammers, pulse drumming loud in your ears, and for the first time, you realize how much taller he has gotten, how sharp the lines of his face have become. there’s something dark in his smirk now, something dangerous beneath the teasing edge. something you don’t have a name for yet.

“you know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, the dim glow of the lanterns casting sharp shadows across the planes of his face, “one day, they’re going to try to take you from me.”

your breath catches, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeve. there is no mockery in his tone this time, no teasing edge to soften the words. just quiet, unwavering certainty, as if he has already seen the war they will wage over you, as if the battle lines have already been drawn. something cold slithers down your spine, something you don’t have a name for, because this—this is not the boy who used to steal your tiaras and drag you onto palace rooftops. this is someone else entirely, someone sharp-edged and merciless, someone who speaks as though he has already decided the outcome. someone you should fear.

“who?”

“your father. my father. the entire world.”

his voice is low, even, but the weight of it presses against you, heavier than the steel of his blade had been moments before. because satoru gojo has never been the kind of person who loses—not fights, not games, not people. and you know, with a sudden, sinking certainty, that he does not intend to start with you. his gaze flickers down, where your pulse jumps at your wrist, where the lace of your glove fails to hide the way your blood sings beneath your skin. he lifts your hand with ease, brings it to his lips, and presses another kiss to the exact same spot he always does—slow, deliberate, reverent. his lips linger just long enough for heat to unfurl in your stomach, for something traitorous to bloom in your chest.

“satoru—”

“they can try.” he interrupts, voice dropping lower, something wolfish curling at the edges of his grin. his breath ghosts over your skin, his hold unrelenting. “but i don’t share.”

then, as if nothing happened, he releases you. steps back. extends his hand, as if this is still the same fencing match, the same childhood game, as if he has not just shifted the very ground beneath your feet.

you don’t take it.

because suddenly, you are afraid. not of him, but of what you might become if you do.

something changed in satoru after that conversation and it must've had something to do with him suddenly messaging you to meet him in the middle of the night because you aren’t supposed to be here.

the castle is asleep, save for the flickering lanterns lining the outer walls, their glow barely touching the darkness beyond the royal gates. but there, just past the threshold of where he shouldn’t be, satoru waits—leaning against a stone pillar like he owns the place, bathed in moonlight and audacity. he sees you before you even step past the archway, his smirk unfurling slow and knowing, like he expected you all along.

“satoru,” you hiss, breathless with fury, your voice trembling as you glance over your shoulder, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “if anyone sees you—” your words falter, your mind racing with the consequences, the scandal, the way your father’s face would darken if he caught you like this. but satoru doesn’t seem to care. he never does.

“then let them watch,” he says, his voice pure sin, a slow, teasing drawl that sinks beneath your skin, twisting deep in your stomach. he’s taller now, broader, his beauty sharper, more lethal—something sculpted for war, not courtly dances. and yet, the danger in him doesn’t make you step back. instead, it pulls you in, like a moth to a flame, even as your instincts scream at you to run. his presence is overwhelming, his gaze piercing, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering, about to fall.

he doesn’t wait for permission. instead, he tugs you forward with infuriating ease, his hands rough yet deliberate, your body colliding with his before you can even think to resist. your fingers curl instinctively into the delicate fabric of your nightgown, clutching at it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. his touch is heat against silk, against skin, the space between you vanishing before you can catch your breath. you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his heartbeat matches the frantic rhythm of your own.

and then he kisses you.

it is nothing like the carefully instructed, polite kisses you’ve been warned to expect. there is no hesitation, no gentleness—only hunger, only greed, his lips pressing, parting, demanding like he has spent years waiting for this. and he has. your first kiss is not sweet or tender; it’s a wildfire, consuming everything in its path, leaving you breathless and dizzy. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can’t help but melt into him, your body betraying your mind as you lean into the heat of his touch.

you should push him away. you should remind him of duty, of war, of the blood-soaked line that has long divided your families. but you don’t. instead, you let him press you against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping through your gown as his mouth abandons yours, trailing lower—along your jaw, down the column of your throat. his breath is warm, his lips softer than they should be, the contrast making you shudder. when he reaches the spot wrist he had been lavishing attention since forever, he bites, slow and deliberate, his teeth sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

he feels it, hears it—your sharp inhale, your pulse rushing wildly beneath his lips, your fingers clenching in his jacket—and he laughs, low and pleased, his tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. “you are so cute, your highness,” he murmurs against your skin, the words a silken promise, a loaded threat. “i might just ruin you myself before they could.” his voice is a whisper, a caress, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your mind racing with the implications of his words. but even as your thoughts scream at you to stop, your body betrays you, leaning into him, craving more of the chaos he brings.

before you turn seventeen, your fathers were at war.

not with swords, not with soldiers, but with power plays disguised as diplomacy, with whispered threats exchanged in the halls of government buildings. your father, the last vestige of a monarchy that no longer ruled, still held influence, still had loyalists willing to fight for the old ways. and satoru’s father, the prime minister, was the embodiment of the new world—modern, efficient, ruthless.

it was a battle for control, for legacy, for the future of a nation that no longer belonged to kings. but behind the headlines, behind the political chess match, there is this scandalous little thing going on between their heirs.

satoru is breathless against your lips, his hands pressing you against the cold marble walls of a grand ballroom. the air around you was thick with the scent of champagne and the faint sweetness of his cologne, mingling with the sharp chill of the stone at your back. hidden behind a velvet curtain, just out of sight, just out of reach, the muffled sounds of the gala outside felt like a distant dream. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, leaving trails of fire even through the layers of your dress, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours.

the dim light filtering through the curtain cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the glint of mischief in his summer sky eyes. you were trapped, not by his hands, but by the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“we shouldn’t be doing this.” you whispered, your voice trembling as much as your hands, but your fingers curled into his collar, betraying you. the fabric was soft under your touch, but the heat of his skin beneath it was enough to make your head spin.

satoru's breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. the words were meant to be a protest, a reminder of the rules, the consequences, but they came out weak, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. you knew you should pull away, should step back into the light where everything was safe and predictable, but the way he leaned into you, his forehead resting against yours, made it impossible to move.

“then tell me to stop,” satoru murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, his voice an invitation and a taunt all at once. his hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of you, and you could feel the faint tremor in his touch. “but you won’t, will you?” his words were soft, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of certainty, of years of knowing you better than you knew yourself.

and god, he was right. you couldn’t tell him to stop, not when his breath was warm against your skin, not when his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. the world outside the curtain didn’t exist anymore—it was just you and him, and the dangerous, exhilarating thing growing between you.

the older satoru got, the more he loved pushing you, breaking down every fragile, innocent piece of you until you were something else—something that belonged to him.

at seventeen, he kissed you in secret corridors, in the backseats of limousines, in his father’s estate where you were absolutely not supposed to be. each touch, each whispered word, was a challenge, a game he was determined to win. he thrived on the thrill of it, on the way your breath caught when he leaned in too close, on the way your eyes darted around nervously, always aware of the risk.

but no matter how many times you told yourself it was wrong, no matter how many times you tried to pull away, he always found a way to draw you back in. and deep down, you knew you didn’t want to resist.

“if they catch us, we’re finished,” you hissed, clutching at his wrist as he dragged you down a private hallway, past security cameras he had long since learned how to avoid.

your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty space, but his steps were silent, confident, as though he owned every inch of the estate. his grip on your hand was firm, unyielding, and you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your glove. the hallway was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the walls. you could hear the faint hum of the gala in the distance, a reminder of how far you’d strayed from the safety of the crowd, but satoru didn’t seem to care. he only smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glanced back at you.

“then don’t let them catch us.” he said, his voice low and teasing, as though the idea of getting caught was just another part of the game. he stopped suddenly, pulling you into a secluded alcove, his hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders. the space was small, intimate, and you could feel the heat of his body even through the layers of your dress.

he traced the edge of your gloves with his fingers before slipping them off entirely, his touch light but deliberate, and you shivered as his lips brushed against your bare wrists. “you still taste sweet,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and sending a jolt of electricity through you. “but i want more.” his voice was a whisper, a promise, and when you gasped, his smile turned sharp, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

at eighteen, the arguments start.

they are sharp-edged things, honed by frustration, by fear, by the unbearable weight of wanting something neither of you are supposed to have. they happen in hushed whispers behind closed doors, in stolen moments between political meetings, in the space between your duty and his defiance.

the fight happens in the royal gardens, beneath the cold glow of lantern light. the evening air is thick with the scent of jasmine, too sweet, too cloying, pressing in around you like a reminder that this—this moment, this thing between you and him—should not exist. satoru stands before you, white-haired and furious, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face.

“you’re playing pretend.” he snaps, voice low and angry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“and you’re reckless,” you bite back, every word laced with frustration, with fear. “our families—”

“our families don’t get to decide what i want.” his voice cuts through the night like a blade.

“it’s not that simple, satoru.”

“it is.” he steps closer, unrelenting. “you just don’t want to admit it.”

and maybe he’s right. because no matter how many times you tell yourself this has to end, no matter how hard you try to keep your distance, you always end up in his arms.

one night, he climbs the palace walls just to see you, tapping against your balcony door like a fairytale gone wrong. moonlight pools over him, silvering the edges of his hair, making him look almost otherworldly. he isn’t supposed to be here, in your world, in your life—but he is, always, always finding his way back to you.

“you're insane.” you whisper, glancing toward the locked door of your chambers, every nerve alight with the possibility of being caught despite having done this dance with him a lot of times.

“so stop me.” he challenges, standing too close, breath warm against your skin, eyes dark with something you can’t name.

but you never do.

at nineteen, it becomes something worse—something all-consuming.

it happens in the dead of night, far from the glittering ballrooms and suffocating eyes of court, in a forgotten wing of the palace where the candlelight flickers against aged stone. you shouldn't be here, but then again, neither should he. yet, satoru stands before you, disheveled from the wind, hair messier than usual, his cravat undone like he had run through the city just to reach you. there is something feverish in his expression, something that crackles in the air between you, thick as a storm about to break.

"marry me.” he says, voice hoarse, desperate, the words landing between you like a live wire.

you laugh, light and brittle, because surely this is one of his reckless games, another push to see how far he can take you before you break. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he doesn’t smile. doesn’t tease.

his gaze darkens, something furious and unrelenting burning behind those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes.

"i’m serious," he says, fingers tightening around your wrist, thumb pressing against the flutter of your pulse. "we could disappear. right now. no titles, no families. just us."

your breath hitches, a treacherous, shaky thing. because the truth is—you want to say yes. want to follow him wherever he leads, want to run until your name is just an echo, until you are nothing but his and he is nothing but yours.

but you can’t.

and satoru gojo is not the type to be denied.

at twenty, it becomes undeniable—you and satoru were never meant to be together.

your fathers made sure of that. your engagement to a foreign prince was inked onto paper, sealed with signatures and handshakes, a carefully calculated move to secure the monarchy’s fragile standing. meanwhile, satoru was no longer just the prime minister’s son; he was the rising sun of the nation, the man poised to inherit an empire built on power, not love.

but neither of you had ever been good at listening.

the breaking point came on the night of your engagement announcement.

the ballroom was suffocating beneath the weight of gold and glass, chandeliers spilling warm light over a sea of carefully curated guests. you stood beside your fiancé—a stranger who held your hand like a possession, like a duty—accepting congratulations with a flawless smile, a mask you had worn since childhood.

and then you felt it.

a gaze that burned hotter than the lights above, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve.

satoru stood at the far end of the room, silent, still. his presence was a fault line beneath the glittering facade of the ballroom, a quiet promise that everything was about to break. the golden glow of the chandeliers softened nothing—the sharp lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled at his sides as if holding himself back. his expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than you’d ever seen, his usual mirth stripped away, leaving only something raw, something furious beneath the surface. and for the first time in your life, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

that terrified you.

you turned away, the weight of his stare pressing against your spine as you moved, each step measured, careful. past the marble pillars, through the gilded archways, down the quiet corridors where the walls didn’t have ears. your breaths came too shallow, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat, your hands trembling at your sides. the mask was slipping—cracking at the edges—and you just needed a moment. a moment away from the expectations, the duty, the suffocating weight of a future you never wanted.

but the second you stepped onto the darkened terrace, a hand closed around your wrist and yanked you into the shadows.

“satoru—!”

your gasp barely left your lips before your back hit the cold stone wall, the breath knocked from your lungs. the scent of him wrapped around you—something clean, something sharp, something familiar—and it made you dizzy. moonlight cut through the darkness, slashing across his face, catching the bright, seething blue of his eyes. his grip was firm, almost trembling, fingers pressing into your skin as if convincing himself you were real.

“tell me you don’t love me.”

his voice was low, ragged, the edges fraying with something desperate, something reckless.

you swallowed, your throat dry, your heart a wild thing caged in your ribs. you wanted to say it—to end this before it destroyed you both. but satoru was too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his presence a force of gravity you had never been able to escape.

“tell me,” he repeated, his voice an ache, a command, a plea. “and i’ll let you go.”

you couldn’t.

because you did love him—fiercely, recklessly, in a way that made it impossible to breathe. it wasn’t something delicate or gentle, not something you could tuck away behind locked doors and polite smiles. it was violent, all-consuming, a love that sank its teeth into you and refused to let go. a love that could ruin you, that already had.

his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist, and you knew he felt the way your pulse stuttered beneath his touch. “run away with me,” he whispered, voice low, raw, a plea wrapped in command. “leave all of this behind.”

for a moment, the world shrank to nothing but him—the way his breath ghosted over your lips, the sharp edge of desperation in his voice, the promise in the way he held you like you were something he would never surrender. like he would burn the world down before letting you go.

it was insanity. you were royalty. he was power itself. the country would burn for it.

but that night, when the palace fell silent and the world believed you were safely asleep in your chambers, you slipped out of bed and pressed your palm against the ornate mirror.

it clicked.

the passage behind it was cold, narrow, the air thick with dust and secrets. it had been there for centuries—an escape route once used by queens in times of war. but to you, it had always been his passage.

satoru had discovered it as a boy, slipping in and out of the palace long before he was supposed to. he had shown it to you when you were twelve, smirking as he dragged you through the hidden tunnels, laughing about how he could steal you away anytime he wanted.

now, years later, you were the one stealing yourself away.

you moved quickly, heart pounding, hands trembling as you pushed open the passage’s final door—out into the night, into the city that had never truly belonged to you. the air was crisp, thick with the scent of rain on pavement, the distant hum of traffic reminding you how far you were from the life you were supposed to be living. you had never been alone here, not really—not without guards, not without duty shackled to your wrists like golden cuffs. but tonight, the city stretched before you, dark and endless, a freedom you had never known how to grasp. and in that vast, unfamiliar quiet, he was waiting.

not at the gates, not where the guards stood watch. no, satoru gojo was leaning against the hood of a brand-new, custom-designed car, sleek and untraceable, its glossy frame catching the glow of the streetlights. his suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loose around his collar, a portrait of effortless rebellion wrapped in money and recklessness. but it wasn’t the car or his defiant stance that made your breath hitch. it was where he was waiting. the old, abandoned chapel—the one the two of you had found as children, where you had once played pretend, weaving stories of running away, of rewriting fate, before you were old enough to understand how impossible that was. except now, as his sharp gaze found yours across the empty street, you realized he had never stopped believing in it.

“satoru.” you whispered, stepping closer, the word barely more than breath.

he didn’t speak. instead, he reached into his pocket, fingers curling around something small, something that had been weighing him down the entire night. for a moment, he only stared at it, thumb brushing over the edges, hesitant, as if still debating whether to do this—whether to let himself want this. then, with a quiet breath, he flipped open the velvet box, revealing what lay inside.

“marry me.”

your breath caught.

it wasn’t a question. he didn’t kneel, didn’t offer flowery words or grand declarations. he just stood there, holding it out, the blue diamond gleaming in the low light—impossible, priceless, his. he looked at it for another moment, then back at you, as if deciding, as if still waiting for some part of him to pull back.

but he never did.

you stared at him, stunned, breathless, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest like an iron hand. the world outside the chapel was still, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding in your ears. satoru stood before you, bathed in silver moonlight, sharp edges and reckless intent carved into his very being. his fingers were curled so tightly around the velvet box that his knuckles turned white, but his smirk—god, that damn smirk—never wavered. it was defiant, cocky, but underneath it, something deeper flickered in the ice of his eyes, something unspoken, something raw. he was waiting for you to understand, to accept that there was no going back after this.

"you said it yourself, didn’t you?” his voice was low, smooth, a blade sharpened with amusement and something darker. his lips curled, something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something wolfish—predatory in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. but his fingers, still gripping the box, betrayed him, tension coiling beneath the surface of his casual defiance. "princesses don’t marry commoners." he let the words settle between you, let them hang in the charged air like an accusation, like a challenge. then he took a step closer, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving yours.

“so i guess it’s a good thing i’ve never been one.”

your heart slammed against your ribs, a wild, dizzying rhythm that sent heat rushing to your skin. the space between you shrank, the night folding in around the two of you, suffocating in its intensity. you had seen him serious before—calculating, determined, ruthless—but this was different. this was satoru stripped bare of pretense, of politics, of the role he had been born to play. this was him, standing in front of you, asking you to choose him, to burn down everything for him. the realization sent a sharp ache through your chest, twisting something deep inside you.

“you’re insane.” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction, your voice betraying the tremor beneath your carefully constructed walls.

his grin widened, wicked, knowing, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his too-bright eyes. “considering i’m about to whisk away the dearest princess of this country like a big bad wolf," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you through thick lashes, “i guess i am, but you'd let me anyway, won't you?”

he wasn’t wrong.

your fingers tightened around his, around the ring, around the impossible weight of what you were about to do. you didn’t even need to say yes—he already knew. the moment you let him slip that ring onto your finger, something shifted, something irreversible. satoru laughed, breathless, triumphant, his lips brushing against your knuckles, against the cold metal now resting against your skin like a brand. you felt it then—the silent vow, the inevitable destruction, the promise of a future you weren’t meant to have but would take anyway.

“see?” he murmured, lips ghosting just above the lace of your glove, his breath warm against your wrist. “fits perfectly.”

and then he drove—fast, reckless, free.

and you let him, because for the first time in your life, you wanted to be.

a/n : wrote this pretty fast when i was just yapping about it last night because this is what satoru brainrot & ovulation does to an idiot. if you see some errors please do tell & i apologize in advance, i stayed up all night writing this & now i finally get to sleep zzzz

also pls do tell if you are interested in the aftermath, i already have a rough plan on how it will go, just whole domesticity and fluffy stuff (as if he didn't corrupt you into eloping with him but let's not talk about that)

[mywritersmind]

TROUBLE - LN4 part one

next part

summary : Trouble comes in many forms, for Lando Norris, it comes in the shape of his teammates sister. A week at Oscars brings more temptation and impulse than any other start to a season.

listen up : lando x piastri!reader. hii i’m back with a series!! im so excited for this one it’s gonna be perfect. comment to be on taglist!

words : 1890

⋆｡‧˚⋆

lando

I’ve met Oscar’s Mum before, but she seems even more like a goddess in her own home. She kisses both my cheeks when I walk in, going off about how excited she is that her ‘papaya boys’ are both home for the week.

I feel at home immediately.

Even though I haven’t moved from the entryway, I can see that Oscar’s house is insane. It’s incredibly open with an immediate view of their whole backyard because of how many windows are in this place.

Nicole hugs Oscar from the side, my teammate seemingly unphased until a small smile breaks onto his face. “I’m so happy you’re here! Do either of you want a drink? I’ve made-”

“Mum where’s the-” A very loud and very sweet voice cuts Nicole off, followed by a brown haired girl sliding around the corner in just socks and an oversized t-shirt. She stops talking when she notices us.

Nicole blinks, “Love. Lando’s just gotten here.”

The girl, Y/n, looks at me… then back to her mother, “Oh that’s today?” It’s then when I realize she’s eating candy because she pops the lolli back into her mouth as she smiles and walks closer to me.

I’ve never met this specific Piastri sister, but I know her instantly before anyone says her name. She’s easily the most stunning sibling (sorry to my teammate) and clearly the most trouble. Oscar has told me many stories of his childhood, all in which include his spunky little sister wanting to be involved.

“Hi to you too.” Oscar rolls his eyes as his sister gives him a look, waving her fingers casually then turning to me. Shit. She really is stunning.

“I’m Y/n.” She puts out her hand, using the other one to grab onto the lolli stick and pull the sweet out of her mouth. She holds eye contact like every journalist ever, her eyes a piercing blue that match her nail polish.

I clear my throat and smile, “Lando. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, her grip is firm but fleeting, her arm around brother in seconds.

“Hi Oscy.” She says, squeezing him tight as he acts annoyed. “Sorry for interrupting… I’m looking for my bikini.”

Nicole just shakes her head, smiling at her children lovingly, “The white one? You left it in my room.”

“Ah, thank you!” She stands up straighter and kisses her mom on the cheek, practically skipping down the hall, “Anyone wanna join me for a swim?”

“Sure.” I say it so easily that Oscar looks appalled.

“No.” He says, about to continue but is cut off by Y/n who’s walking down the hallway backwards.

“Lily will be here soon Oscar! You are swimming!” And with that, she’s gone and Oscar is sighing, dragging his bag down the hallway and looking back at me.

“C’mon then. I’ll show you your room.”

⋆༺

you

The white bikini in question is my favorite item of clothing I own. If you can even call it that. It’s tiny but mighty, making me honestly look the tannest I've ever been.

I sit up in my chair, the sun hot and contrasting the cold drink in my hand. Oscar’s across the pool, all smiley now that his girlfriend is in his arms. His other lover (or teammate I guess you could call him) is definitely asleep on one of the lounge chairs.

I eye his body shamelessly. His arm is over his eyes, his tanned and very fit body looking great in the sunshine.

I always wondered about Lando Norris. About his reputation… about his curl routine. But up until today, I've never met the man. He’s nice, polite, and definitely loves my mom.

There’s just something about the way he looks at me… like he’s curious or something.

That’s dangerous for me. Because if he looks like that when he’s just intrigued, I wonder what he’ll look like when that curiosity is fed.

Lando wakes up at Oscar jumping into the pool, the brit sitting up quickly, clearly disoriented. And then he looks at me.

Well, more like he catches me staring. I just smile, his eyes confused and his mouth slightly parted. I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. And then, I stand up, and dive into the pool.

⋆༺

lando

“So!” Nicole says, spinning around in the kitchen as she plates chips and guacamole, “Are you boys ready?”

Oscar glances at me, “For…?”

“The season, idiot.” Y/n hits the back of Oscars head, “What else?” She walks into the kitchen, still in that little bikini that made me blush when I first saw it.

Oscar flips her off, Y/n sticking out her tongue right back before biting into an apple. “I’d say so.” Oscar shrugs, looking at me for an answer.

“We definitely are.” I agree.

“What about your team?” Y/n chews, smirking as if she knows it’s problematic.

“Can you not stir shit up for two hours?” Oscar shakes his head as Lily walks in, smiling per usual. Y/n grins and walks out, her hand lingering on the countertop.

“Oh leave your sister alone.” Nicole shakes her head, handing the bowl to Lily, “She’s happy you’re back.”

“Right she seems it.”

“She is!” Lily nudges his arm, “You know, she just graduated uni and does want to see her brother for more than a couple hours every two months.”

Oscar says nothing, just nodding along with his girlfriend who is definitely in the right.

“I’m glad you two are here when no one else is!” Nicole sighs, “I love your sisters but sometimes I wonder if they know you’re actually an athlete.”

Oscar smiles at this, “I think it’s better if it’s just us.”

“Plus, now we can show Lando around!” Lily smiles, “Y/n is a great tour guide.”

⋆༺

you

Night comes as fast as ever, our dinner is finished quickly and Oscar is dead asleep on the couch soon after. Lily shakes him awake softly, telling him it’s time for bed.

“Night Lil.” I say, walking down the hall with a bowl of ice cream in hand and past my moms shut door. Hosting always tires her out.

I’m about to walk in my room, an old episode of Love Island waiting for me, but then I hear a loud bang in the room next to mine.

Considering it’s just a guest room, it surprises me. And then I realize that my lovely family put Lando in it. I can’t help myself, knocking on the door even though my common sense is screaming at me to run.

It swings open a second later, a messy haired Lando Norris standing very close in the doorway. “Hi!” He pulls his hand out of his curls.

He’s wearing a baggy shirt, some new quadrant creation I assume, and gray sweats. “You alright? I heard something.” I try to peek around his head but his face is in front of mine in an instant.

He looks a bit panicked, “Yeah! Yes! Of course.” He’s completely lying. I push past him and into the room that’s already a mess from his unpacking.

And then I laugh, “I didn’t mean to!” He defends himself instantly, “Really! I swear it broke so easily-”

He kneels next to the dresser drawer and frowns, a pair of shorts is the only thing occupying the space. “Don’t worry.” I bring my ice cream spoon to my mouth, “It was already broken. Just… don’t tell my mom.”

He looks even worse at my words, “Why…?”

“I’m the one who broke it.” I lean against the doorframe, “Long story, involves a guy.” I shake my head at the memory, “It just needs a good-” it’s like he reads my mind, shoving the drawer back into place as I smile, “Shove.”

He sits back on the end of the bed, shaking his head, “You break a lot of stuff secretly?”

“Apparently only my grandmother's items. Ran into her vase once… did not go over well with my mother.” He smiles at this, leaning back on his hands. “Well, if you need anything else unbroken, just ask.”

I pull the spoon out of my mouth, about to turn and leave before he stops me, “Hey- I could use some of that.” He points at my bowl, “Unless you want to get to sleep.”

I shake my head, “I’m never too tired for more ice cream.” He stands and follows me back into the kitchen. “You’ve got options.” I pull out a lemon sorbet, plain chocolate gelato, and a peanut butter crunch.

He snatches the gelato as I take a seat in one of the bar chairs, crossing my legs and watching him muscle out the ice cream. “Christ-” he scrunches up his nose while shoving the spoon into the top, “Isn’t gelato supposed to be soft?”

I just eye him, still struggling and making his arms look absolutely magnificent. I go through everything I know about him… He’s hot, 25, party boy, insane racer, mental health advocate, my brother's teammate, and someone who makes everything (even bright orange) attractive.

He catches me staring again, the corner of his lips quirking upward, “What?”

“Nothing.” I say simply, “Maybe let it thaw a bit.”

He drops his spoon, clearly frustrated. “Good idea.” He leans back against the counter, facing me and crossing his arms, “So. I heard you just graduated from uni.”

I almost laugh at his sentence starter, “Yeah. I heard you just extended your contract.” He laughs to himself, tilting his head down. “I hate small talk. What has Oscar said about me?”

“Right to it then…” He mumbles, “He said you’re his favorite sister.”

“Well of course I am. I’m the only one who didn’t taddle when he would sneak Lily into his room.” Lando laughs at this, “I may have bribed him after but…” I trail off, watching his eyes which remind me of the greenish blue shore, study me.

His posture is a bit slumped, he looks different from all the posters and media, much more chill. “I heard you were a bit of a trouble maker.”

“Were?” I scrunch my nose a bit.

“Maybe still are.” He shrugs, “Don’t know you well enough yet. Although from what i’ve gathered… what i’ve heard is true.”

“Can’t handle a little trouble, Norris?”

“No…” He looks down, a rogue curl falling onto his forehead as he sighs, “I can.”

I swirl my spoon around my bowl, my ice cream abandoned in a pool of melted chocolate, “Just not in the form of your teammate's sister?”

He doesn’t say anything, just scratches the back of his neck and brings his eyes upward, his head still tilted down. Then, he pushes off the counter and in one step, he’s back at the gelato, now melted enough for Lando to scoop.

He doesn’t answer my question, yet I know what he’s thinking. I slide off the stool and drop my plate into the sink, letting him off just this once. “Sweet dreams, neighbor.”

I walk past him, his mouth holding his spoon in his mouth and his eyes tracking me. “Neighbor?”

“My room is next to yours.” I glance back at him, taking a mental photo of his state, “Hope you don’t snore, the walls are thin.”

[misspygmypie]

Meet & Greet... and more? Pt. 5

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader Words: 2066 Click here for Part 4

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

Lando stood in the lobby of the hotel checking his watch and rehearsing his lines mumbling to himself. A sleek black car parked outside was ready for their drive. Luckily he didn’t have to wait long before Y/N emerged. She looked stunning, even though she was only wearing some jeans and a semi-elegant black top but it complemented her complexion perfectly. Lando’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of her. He approached with a warm, nervous smile.

“I’m sorry if I’m a bit underdressed,” she apologized with a low voice. “I didn’t expect you to ask me out, so I didn’t pack anything fancy.”

Lando’s smile widened and he shook his head gently. “You look gorgeous, Y/N. I’m just glad you agreed to going out with me.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, her cheeks flushing slightly after hearing the compliment. “You look great too.”

Lando stepped forward to open the car door for her and she slipped into the luxurious interior of the car. He quickly got in the driver’s seat and soon they were driving through the streets heading toward their destination.

The drive was filled with a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the soft music playing on the radio. Lando kept sneaking glances at Y/N, stealing moments to admire her profile and the way the city lights danced on her face. Y/N, for her part, seemed content, occasionally turning to him with a smile that made his heart race.

The restaurant’s terrace that Lando had reserved for their table overlooked the city, offering a breathtaking panorama of the city below. “This is beautiful,” she said and admired the view. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Lando said, his gaze lingering on her. ���I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter arrived to take their drink orders and soon they talked about everything and nothing - shared memories, future dreams and light-hearted banter. Each moment seemed to draw them closer and Lando found himself more captivated by Y/N with every passing minute.

“Speaking of quirks,” Lando began at some point, leaning in slightly, “Years ago I tried to impress my team with a homemade dinner.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh really? How did that go?”

“Well,” Lando said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I thought I’d go all out and make a fancy pasta dish with some chocolate mousse for after but I got so carried away that I accidentally used salt instead of sugar in the dessert.”

Y/N chuckled, “That sounds like a disaster. How did they react?”

“They were polite at first,” Lando said, trying to keep a straight face. “But halfway through the meal one of the guys said, ‘Well, at least we know Lando can make us laugh.’”

Y/N laughed, imagining Lando in the kitchen with a confused look on his face. “Sounds like you’re quite the chef.”

“More like an accidental comedian,” Lando replied with a wink. “But if you ever want a taste test, just let me know. I promise to stick to the recipe.”

“Deal,” Y/N said with a smile. “And I’ll bring my own sugar, just in case.”

The moment was light-hearted and endearing and Y/N couldn’t help but feel even more charmed by Lando’s playful and self-deprecating humor. 

A little while later, while he was telling her about his early karting days, she took a moment to really look at Lando. She couldn’t help but think how he looked like he’d stepped out of a fairy tale. There was something almost magical about the way he carried himself. The sharp lines of his black pants served timeless elegance, while the white shirt accentuated his toned body. His hair was perfectly styled, every lock in place as if it had been sculpted by an artist.

He reminded her of a Disney prince, the comparison making her smile. He had that same kind of defined, classic appeal, a blend of charm and grace that seemed almost otherworldly and she was the lucky one to share this evening with him. 

What had started as a simple Meet & Greet for the sole purpose of making her son happy, had turned into something much more. She had come to the event knowing very little about Lando, only the little bits Noah got excited about and told her but he was a toddler, so how much could he really know? But now she was fascinated by who Lando was as a person.

She was surprised at how Lando’s passion, his down-to-earth nature and his genuine kindness had drawn her in so quickly. The more they talked, the more she found herself appreciating the real person behind the public persona. She was falling for more than just the image of the driver; she was falling for the person he was, the one with a great sense of humor, love and genuine care.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Lando met her gaze and Y/N realized that this was more than just an ordinary night. It was a magical moment and Lando was indeed her very own prince charming, making the evening feel like something out of a storybook.

“I have to tell you,” Y/N began at some point, “this is actually the first date I’ve been on since before Noah was born. It’s been a while, but tonight feels... special.”

Lando looked at her with genuine surprise. “I can’t believe no one has asked you out,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing, anyone would be lucky to spend time with you.” He meant every word he said but soon noticed the change in her demeanor. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”

“Oh god, Lando no,” Y/N tried to calm him down immediately, then took a deep breath, her gaze momentarily drifting to the city. “There’s something I’d like to share with you, if that’s okay.”

Lando nodded encouragingly, sensing the gravity in her tone. “Of course. I’m here to listen.”

“Noah’s dad…” Y/N hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I already told you he left shortly after Noah was born, he was just two months old. It wasn’t easy and I’ve been doing everything I can to raise him on my own. I guess I’m just a bit unsure about opening up to someone new, especially with Noah involved.”

Lando’s heart ached as he listened to Y/N’s words. He could sense the insecurity and vulnerability in her voice and he wanted nothing more than to reassure her that he was genuinely interested and understanding.

“I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you,” Lando said softly. “I want you to know that I respect you immensely for how you’ve handled everything and for how much you care for him. The fact that you’re willing to open up and share this with me means a lot.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty but there was also hope. “It’s just that I’ve been so focused on protecting Noah and making sure he’s okay. I’d hate for him to get attached to someone else who’s going to leave and disappoint him.”

“I understand that completely but I want to be clear about how I feel. From the moment I met you and Noah I felt something really special. It’s not just about being interested, I’m here because I genuinely care and want to see where this can go.”

Y/N’s gaze softened and she took a small but relieved breath while Lando gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m serious about wanting to get to know you and Noah better. I understand that trust takes time and I’m more than willing to be patient and supportive. I genuinely believe there’s something here and I’d like to explore that with both of you.”

Just then he decided to share a small but - what he hoped - meaningful gesture. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping the screen to show Y/N. It showed the photo from when they first met at the Meet & Greet.

“This has been my phone background from the moment you two left that day,” Lando said, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I have been thinking about you nonstop since then.”

She looked at the photo, then back at Lando, her heart swelling and with slightly shaking hands she pulled out her own phone, showing it to the young man sitting across from her who got a perfect look at the exact same picture on her device. “Looks like great minds think alike,” she giggled softly.

Once they had finished their meal Lando led Y/N to the edge where they stood side by side taking in the stunning view. He turned to her, his eyes reflecting the city lights. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and soft.

“It is,” Y/N replied, her gaze fixed on the horizon before meeting his eyes. “Thank you for this night, Lando. It’s been absolutely amazing.”

Lando’s eyes were locked onto Y/N’s, his gaze intense and filled with an emotion that spoke volumes. The air between them was charged with a palpable energy. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

His eyes softened and he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away if she chose. Y/N’s own heart raced as she felt the pull of his presence and slowly but surely her eyes fluttered shut. She tilted her face upward, her lips parting in anticipation.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and electrifying. At first, it was a soft, lingering touch, a gentle exploration of what had been building between them. Lando’s lips were warm and reassuring against hers, his kiss a promise of all the words he hadn’t yet said.

Within seconds the kiss deepened, it became more urgent, more passionate. His hands moved to frame Y/N’s face, his fingers threading into her hair as he pulled her closer. The intensity of the kiss conveyed everything they had both been feeling but couldn’t quite put into words. Y/N responded eagerly, her hands grasping the front of his shirt, drawing him even closer. The world around them seemed to disappear, leaving only the sensation of their lips moving together. 

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, both of them were breathless, their hearts racing from the intensity of the moment. Y/N opened her eyes slowly, meeting Lando’s gaze with a look of pure happiness and love.

“That was…” Y/N began, her voice trembling slightly and she was unable to put the buzzing feeling in her stomach into words.

Lando smiled, his eyes shining with the same emotion and a soft smile on his features. “I’ve been wanting to do this the whole weekend.”

They stayed there for a few more moments, simply holding each other and enjoying each other’s presence until Lando gently took Y/N’s hands in his, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“So,” he started with a grin, “when you tell Noah about our date, how do you think he’ll react? Will he be thrilled to know his mom’s got a new boyfriend or will he just want to know if I’m bringing him a toy car next time?”

Y/N laughed, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “Oh, Noah’s definitely going to have a lot of questions, he’s been very curious about everything lately. I’m sure he’ll be excited but he might also want to know if you have any cool stories to share.”

“Well,” Lando chuckled, shaking his head, “I’ll have to make sure I have some good stories ready. Maybe I’ll even bring him a little something again next time. I have to make sure he still likes me.”

“You’re already his hero, so I don’t think you will have to worry about that,” Y/N replied smiling.

Lando’s gaze saddened slightly as he added, “I’m not looking forward to you two leaving tomorrow but I’ll be there to help you get to the airport. It’ll be nice to spend a bit more time with you before you two have to go.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Lando and we will find a way to make this work.”

_________

Click here for Part 6!

Tag: @barcelonaloverf1life @remmysthings @poppyflower-22 @vickykazuya @hadids-world @ririyulife @deafeningunknowntyrant @lexiecampos @littlegrapejuice @eloriis @yawn-zi @landossainz @taliya8346282844eliviahdgdajs @casuallyeating @dramallama9 @hc-dutch @alana4610

[julia-lestrade]

60s!Paul McCartney x reader

Tunes and Timeless Moments

Authors note : this is a SMUT FREE 60s high school au where the band will exist but it plays before " The Beatles " fanfic

Slow burn and fluff

Warnings : tooth rotting fluff , romance , teen romance , and some use of Y/N

——————————————————————

It was a nice summer day in Liverpool and your class and other people from your grade were getting settled in a school bus as you were about to go on a 4 week field trip , because of a shortage of teachers , so your school has to make time to find new ones . And even though it was a bit full when you and your friends were boarding the coach you still found three free rows and you got one to yourself right next to a window without any things to block it . Now you were chatting with your friend a row ahead when a boy from your class slid into the last empty seat next to you. He flashed a casual grin and said, “Seems like I’ve nabbed the final seat. Hope you don’t mind the company—uhm what is your name again ? “ you look at the boy a bit weirded out , because who Tf speaks to someone they don’t really know , right ? But to be polite you have him a light smile and stretched out your hand to and introduced yourself to him . " y/n – l/n y/n pleasure to meet you ! " the boy just smiles at you and shakes your hand and after a while you start to pull away and ask him for his name wich he finally shares with you … he was called Paul McCartney and then it clicked , he was the music obsessed boy you sat behind of in math class .

(Ugh you know what imma switch to first person perspective)

We both had made small talk from time to time in between school hours or had greeted each other in the school hallway but there was nothing more of any interaction than those . So as one figured after a bit of small talk, the conversation naturally fizzled out. You exchanged names and brief introductions, but now there was an awkward silence. You glanced out the window, watching the few teachers coming with you loading the bus with the bus driver , while he fiddled with his bags straps .

After some time the silence became insufferable and you had to start talking again .

“So, are you excited about the trip ? “ Paul looks up at you and replies with a relieved sigh

“Yeah, sounds interesting enough. I’m just hoping it’s not another one of those places where you’re not allowed to do anything but for things that have educational purposes .”

With slight intrigues I reply to him “Oh, I know what you mean. I find it super annoying . What’s the most trouble you’ve ever gotten into on a trip?”

Paul thinks for a Minute and then replies a few seconds later with a smile playing on his lips “Well, there was that time I tried to ‘borrow’ a statue’s hat at the last museum visit. Turns out, it wasn’t a prop. How about you?”

“I once got stuck in a gift shop because I was trying to sneak a peek at the secret stockroom. Got caught by the shopkeeper. Classic.”

“Sounds like we’re both experts in getting into mischief. Maybe we should stick together today. We could be a team of troublemakers.”

“Deal. Just promise you won’t get us thrown out.”

“No promises. But I’ll try my best. So, what’s your favorite part of these trips?”

“Probably the bus rides. It’s the only time we get to just talk and hang out without worrying about homework.”

“I’m with you there. The bus ride’s the best part. And who knows, maybe we’ll come up with a new adventure story by the end of the day.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies that were suddenly making themselves at home in my stomach. There was something about the way Paul spoke, so effortlessly casual yet with a glint of mischief behind every word. I hadn’t thought much about him before, but sitting next to him now, I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“So, do you play any instruments?” I asked, half expecting a standard reply. It was a question that usually led to a predictable conversation, which, given the awkwardness earlier, felt like a safe bet.

He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Funny you ask. I’ve been known to mess around with a bass now and then. You?”

“Mess around?” I echoed, laughing lightly. “That’s not very convincing. And no, I’m more of a listener, to be honest. Though I do own a dusty piano .”

“Ah, a listener. Even better. Musicians need an audience, after all,” he teased, tapping his fingers on the armrest as if playing an invisible rhythm.

I rolled my eyes playfully. “Are you trying to recruit me as your personal fan?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone in the crowd rooting for me,” he joked, but there was a flicker of something sincere in his eyes.

“Are you any good?” I asked, feeling the conversation loosening up as we both settled into the bus seats. The awkwardness from before had faded, replaced by a lightness that I hadn’t expected.

Paul shrugged modestly. “I suppose you’ll have to find out one day, won’t you?”

“Maybe I will,” I replied, half-smiling. There was a pause as I glanced out the window again. The teachers had finished loading the bags, and the bus was finally starting to pull away from the school. The familiar streets of Liverpool blurred past, but I could already feel the sense of freedom that came with leaving it all behind for a while.

Paul leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him as much as the cramped bus would allow. “Four weeks, huh? Hard to believe we’re getting out of school for that long.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s weird, but kind of exciting. No classes, no homework... just us and a bunch of museums and... whatever else they’ve got planned.”

“Sounds like trouble waiting to happen,” he mused with a grin, then turned to me with a curious look. “So, what do you reckon we’ll do with all that free time?”

I shrugged, thinking it over. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see where the trip takes us. Maybe we’ll be well-behaved and stick to the itinerary, or maybe we’ll end up sneaking off and finding our own adventures.”

“Now you’re talking,” he said, his grin widening. “I like the sound of that. Let’s make a pact, yeah? No matter what, we find a way to have some fun on this trip. Deal?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Deal.”

We shook on it, and for the first time since he sat down next to me, the silence that followed felt comfortable. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled with words. I leaned back in my seat, feeling a little more at ease, and glanced over at him. He was staring out the window now, lost in thought, his fingers

The hours passed as the bus hummed along the winding roads out of Liverpool, and the initial excitement of the trip settled into a comfortable lull. Most of our classmates were either dozing off, flipping through magazines, or talking quietly among themselves. Paul had gone quiet beside me, staring out the window again with that distant look on his face. I wondered if he was thinking about his band or maybe even some new lyrics.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “You ever been away from home this long?”

I shook my head. “Not really. I mean, I’ve gone on a few trips with my family, but never for four weeks. Feels a bit strange, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, stretching his legs out as far as they could go in the cramped space. “Not that I’m complaining, though. Gets me out of school for a bit. Gives me time to work on some songs without all the usual distractions.”

I turned toward him, curious. “What kind of songs are you working on?”

He smiled, but there was something almost shy about it this time. “Just, you know, stuff about life, love, that sort of thing. Trying to find a sound that feels right.”

“Sounds deep,” I teased lightly, though I was genuinely interested. “Think you’ll play any of them on this trip?”

Paul chuckled. “Not sure how well that’d go over with the teachers. But maybe if I can sneak my guitar along, we’ll see.”

“Hey, you’ve got four weeks to work your magic. You could start a bus sing-along or something,” I joked, imagining how chaotic that would get.

“Now that would be a sight,” he laughed. “Though I’m not sure everyone here’s ready for that. You might be the only one who appreciates my questionable taste in music.”

I smirked. “Questionable, huh? Now I’m curious what kind of tunes you’re into.”

He thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on the seat again, before grinning. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a taste later. But you’ve got to promise to be brutally honest—none of that polite nodding if you think it’s rubbish.”

“Deal,” I said, feeling a bit of excitement bubbling up. It wasn’t every day you got the chance to hear original music from a classmate who just might be the next big thing.

The bus hit another bump, jolting us both slightly, and Paul shifted in his seat, his expression turning a bit more mischievous . “You know, this trip could be a real chance to get away from all that usual school stuff—figure out what we’re actually good at, you know?”

I nodded, understanding what he meant. “Yeah, it’s nice to get a break from the usual routine. It feels like everything’s always about exams and homework, and you never really get time to think about what you actually want to do.”

He looked at me, his gaze steady. “Exactly. Feels like we’re just going through the motions most of the time. Maybe this trip’s the chance to shake things up a bit.”

We shared a moment of quiet understanding. It was strange to think that this boy I’d barely talked to before today was someone who seemed to get it—the feeling of wanting more than just the typical school routine, of wanting to do something that mattered.

After a moment, Paul’s easy grin returned, and he tilted his head toward the front of the bus. “Think we’ll make it through this trip without any major disasters?”

I laughed. “Not a chance. But hey, at least we’ll have some good stories to tell when we get back.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his seat again. “That’s the spirit. Let’s make sure they’re worth telling.”

With that, the conversation fell into a more comfortable silence. The miles stretched out ahead of us, and I found myself looking forward to whatever came next. Maybe this trip would be more than just a break from school. Maybe it would be the start of something… interesting.

As I glanced over at Paul, who was now lost in his thoughts again, I couldn’t help but feel that this was just the beginning of whatever adventure we were about to stumble into.

The bus continued to hum along the road, and after what felt like an eternity of winding through the countryside, I noticed Paul had gone quiet again. He was still beside me, lost in thought, staring out the window at the rolling hills. The earlier ease between us had settled into something quieter, something a little more comfortable but still new.

I shifted in my seat, feeling the stiffness in my legs from sitting for so long. Paul must have noticed because he turned to me with a small smile. “Long ride, huh?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “My legs are starting to feel like they’re turning into jelly.”

He chuckled softly. “Maybe we should’ve brought a guitar or something. Could’ve passed the time with a sing-along.”

I smiled at that. “And what would you have played? Something we all know, or one of your originals?”

Paul shrugged, that same casual smirk playing on his lips. “Depends. I might’ve tested out a new tune if I felt like the crowd was up for it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “New tune? So, you’ve got some secret songs you’re hiding from us?”

“Not exactly,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Just a few ideas, you know? Scribbles in a notebook, half-finished lyrics… nothing special.”

I laughed softly. “I doubt that. You seem like the kind of person who’s always working on something creative.”

Paul looked at me, a little surprised by the compliment. “Maybe. It’s just… you never know when something’s going to stick. Sometimes, you’re just playing around, and then all of a sudden, it turns into something real.”

I nodded, feeling a bit of admiration for him that I hadn’t expected. “I guess that’s the exciting part, right? Not knowing what’s going to come out of it?”

“Exactly,” he said, his eyes lighting up a bit. “That’s what keeps it interesting.”

We fell into another comfortable silence, and this time it didn’t feel awkward at all. Instead, it felt like we were both content to let the conversation come and go as it pleased. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I glanced over at Paul, feeling the conversation drifting into silence again, and decided to ask something that had been on my mind. “So… do you play in a band or anything? You mentioned the bass earlier.”

He looked a little surprised at the question, then smiled, a hint of something more serious in his expression. “Yeah, actually. A few of us have been messing around with the idea. It’s nothing big yet, just playing a few tunes in garages or wherever we can.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “That sounds pretty cool. How’d you get into it?”

Paul shrugged, a bit more relaxed now. “I’ve always loved music, ever since I was a kid. My dad plays piano, and I just sort of… picked things up. Then, once I got my hands on a guitar, there was no going back.”

“That’s impressive,” I said, genuinely meaning it. “I always thought about learning an instrument, but I never really got past a few half-hearted piano lessons.”

He chuckled. “Piano’s not a bad place to start. But you know, it’s never too late to try something new. Could always join us for a jam session.”

“Me?” I laughed, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Hey, everyone’s got to start somewhere,” Paul said with a grin. “Besides, it’s more about having fun than being perfect.”

I smiled at that, appreciating his easygoing attitude. “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I’ll surprise you one day and show up with a tambourine or something.”

He laughed, the sound light and easy. “Now that would be something. We could always use more percussion.”

Paul’s laughter lingered for a moment, and I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a bit more comfortable now. The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by a casual warmth between us.

“So,” I said, glancing out the window at the countryside rolling by, “what kind of music do you guys play? Is it, like, rock and roll?”

He nodded, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “Yeah, that’s the idea. Rock and roll, a bit of skiffle—stuff that makes you want to move, you know? We’re still figuring it out, but we’ve been covering a lot of Chuck Berry, Little Richard… those kinds of tunes.”

“Chuck Berry, huh?” I raised an eyebrow. “That’s some serious stuff. You must be pretty good.”

Paul shrugged modestly, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. “We’re getting there. It’s all about practice. But it’s not just about being good—it’s about having fun with it, and seeing where it takes us.”

I nodded, impressed. “That sounds amazing. I don’t know many people who actually follow through on something like that.”

“Well,” he said with a grin, “we’ll see if we can make something of it. For now, it’s just nice to have an excuse to hang out with the lads and make some noise.”

“Do you have a name for the band yet?” I asked, leaning into the conversation now, genuinely curious.

Paul laughed, shaking his head. “Not yet. We’ve been throwing around ideas, but nothing’s stuck so far. Naming a band’s harder than you’d think. It’s got to feel right, you know?”

I smiled at that. “Yeah, I can imagine. It’s like naming a baby or something—it’s got to fit.”

“Exactly!” He pointed at me, nodding. “We don’t want to pick something we’ll regret later on.”

“Well, if you need any suggestions, I’m here to help,” I said playfully.

Paul chuckled. “I might just take you up on that.”

We fell into a more comfortable silence after that, but this time it didn’t feel awkward. Instead, it felt like the start of something new, like this conversation was the first step toward an unexpected friendship. The bus continued to rumble along the road, and I leaned back in my seat, feeling lighter than I had at the beginning of the trip.

As the scenery blurred by outside, Paul tapped his fingers on his knee, lost in thought. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I think this trip could be a good time to work on some new songs. Get some fresh ideas.”

“Yeah?” I asked, intrigued. “What inspires you when you write?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Anything, really. A bit of life, love, people I meet… sometimes it’s just a feeling that comes out of nowhere. You never know when inspiration will hit, so you’ve got to be ready.”

“That’s pretty deep,” I said, half-teasing but also impressed. “I guess I never really thought about songwriting like that.”

Paul smiled at me, his eyes softening. “It’s not as complicated as it sounds. You just… write what you feel, you know? Maybe one day you’ll give it a try.”

“Maybe,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I had that kind of talent. Still, the idea of trying something new, of exploring creativity, sounded appealing.

The bus hit a small bump, jostling us both in our seats, and we shared a brief laugh at the unexpected jolt. The conversation started to drift again, but this time, it felt natural. We didn’t need to fill the silence with forced words. The bus continued on, carrying us toward whatever adventures lay ahead.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the next few weeks would bring, and whether this unexpected connection with Paul would turn into something more than just a fleeting conversation on a school bus.

After we all gathered our bags, the teachers started dividing us into our assigned rooms. The sun was nearly set by now, casting a soft orange glow through the windows of the old estate. The long day of travel had caught up with everyone, and the buzz of excitement had faded into tired chatter.

"Y/N, Room 12," one of the teachers called, ticking off names on a clipboard. I nodded, tightening my grip on my bag and heading inside the building. Paul was still beside me, waiting to hear his own room assignment.

"McCartney, Room 9," another teacher announced, and Paul raised his hand with a small grin.

“Looks like we’re not too far from each other,” he said, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Not bad.”

I smiled back. “Yeah, close enough to find each other if we need to plot any late-night escapes.”

Paul laughed lightly. “You never know. But for tonight, I think I’m just going to crash. Too knackered for any adventures.”

"Same here," I agreed, stifling a yawn. The thought of a bed sounded incredibly appealing after a long day cooped up on the bus.

We both followed the hallway until it split off into different sections. My room was down one corridor, and his was down another. Paul turned to face me as we reached the split, flashing a tired but sincere smile.

“Well, goodnight then,” he said softly. “See you tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” I replied. “Goodnight, Paul. Sleep well.”

“You too,” he said with a small wave before turning and walking off toward his room.

I headed to my own room, pushing open the door to find it was already half-occupied by another girl from my grade. She looked just as exhausted as I felt, already halfway through unpacking her things onto her bed. We exchanged tired smiles and quick introductions before both agreeing to call it a night and save any further conversation for tomorrow.

After a quick change into my pajamas, I climbed into bed, the weight of the day finally settling over me. I could hear faint murmurs of conversation through the thin walls, including what might have been Paul's voice from down the hall. But soon, even that faded as the building grew quiet, and sleep started to pull me under. The last thought I had before drifting off was that this trip was just beginning, and I had a feeling there was much more to come—especially when it came to Paul.

-Paul’s POV -

Paul flopped onto his bed with a contented sigh, letting his tired limbs sink into the surprisingly soft mattress. The room was modest but comfortable, with a pair of neatly made beds, a small dresser, and a window that let in a sliver of the moonlight.

George, who was sprawled on his own bed across the room, looked up from fiddling with his guitar case. “So, how’s your day been, mate?” he asked, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and exhaustion.

Paul grinned, propping himself up on one elbow. “Not too bad. Got to know someone from our class a bit better. You know, Y/N? They ended up sitting next to me on the bus.”

George raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh, really? And how’d that go?”

“Pretty well, actually,” Paul said, shrugging. “We talked about the trip, a bit about music. Seems like a decent sort. We’re both in for some fun, I reckon.”

George smirked. “And here I thought you’d be too busy plotting your next great escape to talk to anyone.”

Paul chuckled. “Hey, a little adventure is always better with company, right? Besides, I didn’t exactly get any time to plot today. The bus ride was more about trying not to fall asleep and making sure I didn’t annoy everyone around me.”

George laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the small room. “Fair enough. And what did you think of the place so far? Not too shabby, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s got its charm,” Paul said, glancing around the room. “Bit different from the usual. Feels like we’re really on a proper adventure now. I mean, four weeks in this old place? It’s bound to be interesting.”

George nodded, strumming a few chords on his guitar absentmindedly. “Sounds like it’ll be a good time. And you know what they say—new experiences are always worth a shot.”

“Exactly,” Paul agreed, sitting up and stretching. “It’ll be nice to get away from the usual grind. Plus, we’ll have plenty of time to mess about, come up with new tunes, and maybe even make some new friends.”

George glanced over, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve got that right. And with this lot, who knows what kind of trouble we’ll get up to.”

Paul grinned, feeling a surge of excitement. “Trouble, new friends, and maybe even some inspiration for new songs. Sounds like a good plan to me.”

As the conversation continued, the two friends talked about their plans for the upcoming weeks, sharing their hopes and expectations. The room was filled with a relaxed, easy camaraderie that only grew stronger with the passing minutes. It was a quiet, comfortable end to a long day, and as Paul finally settled into his bed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this trip might just be the beginning of something extraordinary.

“Well, time for some shut-eye,” Paul said, stifling a yawn. “Big day ahead tomorrow.”

George nodded in agreement, his guitar case now closed and resting by his bed. “Goodnight, Paul. See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, George,” Paul replied, turning off the bedside lamp and letting the darkness envelop the room. As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts wandered back to Y/N and the promise of the adventures that lay ahead.

As George’s breathing settled into a rhythmic, steady pattern, Paul lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. His mind was a whirl of thoughts and images from the day.

He couldn’t help but replay the moments he’d shared with Y/N. Her easy smile and quick wit had made a strong impression on him. He found himself wondering what it would be like to spend more time with her, to see where their conversations could lead. There was something undeniably engaging about her—a spark of curiosity and a willingness to engage in lighthearted banter that had struck a chord with him.

Paul thought about the little details of their interaction: how she had seemed genuinely interested when he mentioned his band and how she had laughed at his jokes. The thought of her intrigued him more than he expected. He recalled the way she looked when she mentioned her dusty piano, her eyes lighting up just a bit. He wondered if she might be someone who could appreciate the kind of music he was passionate about, someone who might even share some of his own interests.

He shifted slightly in his bed, trying to get comfortable as he continued to muse over the potential for new friendships and adventures. The trip was supposed to be a break from the usual grind, but Paul was beginning to see it as a chance to explore not just new places, but new relationships and possibilities.

As the minutes ticked by, Paul’s thoughts wandered to what the next few weeks might hold. Would he and Y/N find themselves paired up for group activities, or would they stumble upon shared interests that brought them closer? He imagined showing her his guitar, maybe even playing a few of his songs, and wondered if she would be interested in hearing them.

There was a small thrill in the uncertainty of it all—the sense of adventure that came with not knowing exactly what was around the corner. Paul felt a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. The future was full of potential, and he was eager to see where it would lead.

-Time skip to the next morning -

(Still Paul’s pov)

Eventually, the gentle hum of the night and the comfortable rhythm of his own thoughts began to lull him into sleep. Paul’s mind settled on the possibilities that lay ahead, the idea of new friendships, and the hope that this trip would bring some unexpected but welcome surprises.

Paul settled at the breakfast table with his friends and bandmates, John, George, and Ringo. The morning sun filtered through the dining room windows, casting a warm glow on the old wooden tables. The room buzzed with the chatter of students excitedly discussing the day’s activities. Paul, however, found himself somewhat distracted.

As his friends debated over the itinerary for the day, Paul’s gaze kept drifting toward Y/N’s table. She was laughing at something her friends had said, her laughter a pleasant melody that seemed to stand out against the background noise. Paul tried to focus on the conversation at his table, but he couldn’t help but glance over every so often.

John, ever perceptive, noticed Paul’s wandering attention. With a smirk playing on his lips, he leaned closer to Paul and nudged him with an elbow. “Oi, Paul, what’s caught your eye?”

Paul snapped out of his daydream, his face warming as he realized he had been caught. He looked at John with a sheepish grin. “Oh, nothing much. Just... taking in the morning.”

John raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Right. It seems like you’ve got a special interest in Y/N this morning. Didn’t know you were so keen on the company.”

Paul tried to brush it off, though he could feel himself blushing. “I was just thinking about how the trip might turn out. It’s nice to have some company, that’s all.”

John’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Well, if you’re thinking of making a move, you might want to be subtle about it. Can’t have you making a fool of yourself right out of the gate.”

Ringo, who had been listening with amusement, chimed in. “Looks like Paul’s got himself a bit of a crush. We’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

Paul chuckled nervously, trying to regain his composure. “It’s not like that. Just trying to figure out how we might end up interacting more. Could be interesting, you know?”

George, sensing Paul’s discomfort, gave him a supportive nudge. “Don’t worry about it too much. We’re all here to have a good time. If you end up talking to Y/N more, that’s just part of the adventure.”

As breakfast wound down, the group’s attention shifted to the plans for the day. Paul couldn’t shake the feeling of excitement mingled with nerves. He stole one last glance at Y/N, who was now chatting animatedly with her friends. Despite the teasing from his bandmates, Paul felt a genuine eagerness to get to know her better.

The transition from breakfast to the first activity of the day was quick. The group gathered their things and made their way to the bus, ready for the day’s adventures. Paul joined his friends, the teasing continuing in good spirits, but his mind kept drifting back to the promise of new experiences and the possibility of spending more time with Y/N.

As the bus pulled away from the accommodation, the landscape of the small town began to unfold before them. The anticipation of the day ahead mingled with Paul’s curiosity about Y/N, making the journey feel both exciting and full of potential.

The bus pulled up to the Natural History Museum, and the students began to disembark with excited chatter. The grand facade of the museum loomed ahead, its imposing columns and intricate stonework hinting at the treasures inside. As the group gathered in front of the entrance, the teachers began organizing everyone into pairs for the day’s exploration.

Paul and Y/N had been mingling with their friends, chatting about the exhibits they hoped to see, when one of the teachers called out. “Alright, everyone, we’re going to pair up for the museum tour. Make sure you’re with someone you can work well with!”

Paul glanced over at Y/N, who was also scanning the crowd, likely looking for a familiar face. Just as he was about to suggest they stick together, the teacher’s voice rang out again. “Paul McCartney and Y/N L/N, you’re a pair for the day. Find a partner and get started on the tour!”

Paul’s heart skipped a beat as he turned to Y/N, who looked pleasantly surprised. “Looks like we’re teamed up,” he said with a grin.

Y/N returned the smile. “Guess we’re spending the day together. Ready for some museum exploration?”

Paul nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. Let’s make the most of it.”

As they entered the museum, the grandeur of the exhibits immediately captured their attention. Fossils, minerals, and ancient artifacts filled the expansive halls, each display more intriguing than the last. The museum guide provided a brief overview of the day’s activities and handed out maps, urging everyone to start exploring.

Paul and Y/N made their way through the exhibits, their conversation flowing easily as they navigated the museum’s vast interior. The initial awkwardness from the bus seemed to have dissipated, replaced by a shared curiosity and enthusiasm for the exhibits. They wandered through the dinosaur gallery, marveled at the minerals on display, and even took turns trying to identify the various fossils.

At one point, they found themselves in front of a particularly impressive diorama featuring prehistoric mammals. Paul leaned closer, examining the display. “These creatures are incredible. Imagine what it must have been like when they roamed the Earth.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes wide with fascination. “It’s amazing to think about how different the world was back then. I’ve always found stuff like this so fascinating.”

Paul glanced at her, noting the genuine excitement in her expression. “You know, I’ve got a bit of a fascination with history myself. Not just the music stuff. There’s something about learning how the world used to be that’s really intriguing.”

Y/N smiled, clearly enjoying the conversation. “I can relate. It’s like stepping back in time and seeing things from a different perspective. Makes you appreciate how much things have changed.”

As they continued their tour, Paul found himself more and more comfortable around Y/N. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by shared discoveries and laughter. It was clear that their time together was turning into something enjoyable and meaningful.

With each exhibit they explored, the day seemed to get better. The initial excitement of the field trip had settled into a genuine connection between the two of them. By the time they took a break in the museum’s café, Paul and Y/N were laughing and chatting like old friends.

“So,” Paul said, taking a sip of his drink, “how are you finding the museum so far?”

“It’s been fantastic,” Y/N replied, her eyes sparkling. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much, but having a good tour guide and a great partner definitely makes a difference.”

Paul grinned. “I’d say we make a pretty good team. Here’s to more adventures.”

Y/N raised her cup in a mock toast. “Cheers to that.”

As they finished their break and headed back to explore the remaining exhibits, Paul couldn’t help but feel that the day was turning out better than he’d imagined. Spending time with Y/N had been unexpectedly enjoyable, and he was looking forward to what the rest of the field trip would bring.

-Y/Ns POV -

As Paul and I finished our break in the café, we headed toward the museum’s next big attraction: the Butterfly House. The sun streamed through the glass ceiling, creating a warm, almost magical atmosphere. The Butterfly House was a lush, green paradise filled with colorful flowers and fluttering butterflies of every shade imaginable.

“Wow, this place is incredible,” I said, looking around at the vibrant display of nature.

Paul grinned, clearly just as taken with the exhibit. “It’s like stepping into a different world, isn’t it? All these butterflies—such a riot of colors.”

We walked along the winding path through the Butterfly House, surrounded by the gentle hum of butterflies flitting about. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the soft rustle of the leaves added to the serene ambiance.

I watched as a particularly large butterfly landed on a nearby flower. “Look at that one—it’s huge! I’ve never seen one like it before.”

Paul leaned closer, squinting at the butterfly. “That’s a Swallowtail, I think. They’re pretty common, but they’re always impressive to see up close.”

We continued down the path, pausing occasionally to admire the butterflies landing on the flowers and even a few that landed on our shoulders or arms. It felt like a gentle, almost playful interaction with nature.

“So,” Paul said, breaking the pleasant silence, “what do you think of all this? It’s pretty amazing, right?”

“I love it,” I replied, smiling at the sight of a butterfly landing gently on my hand. “It’s so peaceful and beautiful. I never expected to enjoy it this much.”

Paul chuckled, clearly enjoying the moment. “I’m glad we’re having a good time. It’s nice to just take a break from the usual routine and soak in something like this.”

We continued walking, enjoying the beauty around us. Paul’s easy demeanor and the relaxed environment made for a perfect combination, and I found myself feeling more at ease with each passing moment.

After spending some time in the Butterfly House, we decided to explore the museum’s main exhibition hall. The hall was grand and filled with a diverse range of exhibits, from ancient artifacts to natural history displays.

As we moved through the various exhibits, Paul pointed out interesting facts and shared his own observations, making the experience more engaging. We found ourselves getting lost in conversations about everything from historical events to the mysteries of the natural world.

“This place is a treasure trove of information,” I said, looking around at the impressive displays. “There’s so much to take in.”

Paul nodded, his enthusiasm evident. “It really is. I could spend all day here just exploring and learning new things.”

We spent hours wandering through the exhibits, and as the day went on, I felt a growing sense of camaraderie with Paul. Our shared curiosity and enthusiasm made for great company, and I was genuinely enjoying our time together.

As we made our way back to the entrance, Paul looked over at me with a smile. “So, how do you feel about the day so far?”

“It’s been fantastic,” I said, returning his smile. “I didn’t expect to have such a great time. Thanks for making it so enjoyable.”

Paul’s eyes sparkled with a mix of gratitude and amusement. “Glad to hear that. It’s been a pleasure exploring with you.”

We walked out of the museum together, the sun beginning to set and casting a warm glow over the city. The day had been filled with discovery and laughter, and I found myself looking forward to more moments like this as the field trip continued.

As Paul and I made our way back to the bus after a full day at the museum, we decided to take one last stroll around the museum grounds. We came across a small garden area that had been carefully maintained and was home to a variety of plants and, of course, more butterflies.

I stopped to admire a particularly vibrant flower bed, and Paul followed my gaze. “Look at that—more butterflies. They really seem to love this place.”

I chuckled and pointed to a patch of bugs crawling on the leaves. “You know, seeing all these bugs makes me think of something ridiculous.”

Paul raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Well,” I began with a grin, “I couldn’t help but notice that some of these little guys look like they’re having a bit of a band meeting. If I had to name a band after these bugs, I’d call them ‘The Beetles.’”

Paul blinked, then burst into laughter. “The Beetles? That’s brilliant! They’d definitely have a unique sound—imagine their hit single, ‘I Want to Hold Your Beetle.’”

I laughed along with him, enjoying the playful banter. “Exactly! And their debut album could be ‘With a Little Help from My Bugs.’”

Paul wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “You’ve got a real knack for coming up with names. I’m impressed.”

“Well,” I said, “if you ever need a band name or a joke for your future concerts, you know where to find me.”

We continued our walk, still laughing about the joke. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden hue over the museum grounds. As we approached the bus, Paul looked at me with a thoughtful expression.

“You know,” he said, “that’s actually not a bad idea. I think ‘The Beetles’ could work—if only there were enough bugs to fill out the band.”

“Hey, you never know,” I said with a wink. “Maybe we’ll discover a whole new world of insect rock stars.”

We boarded the bus, the laughter from our earlier joke still lingering in the air. As we found our seats, Paul and I exchanged smiles, feeling a new level of camaraderie. It had been a day full of discoveries and laughter, and I couldn’t wait to see what other adventures awaited us on this field trip.

As we settled back into our seats on the bus, the remnants of our laughter still lingering, I couldn’t help but continue with the playful theme. “You know,” I said with a mischievous grin, “if you’re serious about naming a band after these bugs, maybe you should tweak the name a bit.”

Paul raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I began, “instead of ‘The Beetles,’ why not change it to ‘The Beatles’? It sounds a bit more... musical, don’t you think?”

Paul’s eyes widened in surprise as he processed the suggestion. “The Beatles? That’s actually quite clever. It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly,” I said, pleased with his reaction. “And it’s got that whole play on words thing going on—‘beat’ as in rhythm and ‘beatle’ as in the bug. It’s perfect for a band.”

Paul chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. “You know, you might be onto something there. If I ever start a band, I might just have to use that name.”

I laughed. “Well, if that ever happens, I expect a backstage pass.”

Paul grinned. “Deal. And I’ll make sure to credit you for the name idea.”

As the bus began to pull away, taking us to our accommodations for the night, Paul and I continued chatting about music and our favorite bands. The playful banter had turned into a more engaging conversation, and I was enjoying every moment of it.

The name ‘The Beatles’ had become an inside joke between us, a reminder of a day filled with unexpected fun and connection. As we arrived at our lodgings and prepared for the evening, I couldn’t help but feel that this field trip was turning out to be far more interesting than I’d originally anticipated.

As the days rolled by on our field trip, what started as a casual acquaintance had evolved into something much more meaningful. By the time the final week arrived, Paul and I had settled into a comfortable rhythm, our conversations flowing effortlessly and our shared laughter becoming a staple of our daily interactions.

Our time exploring museums, historical sites, and even the occasional impromptu adventure had drawn us closer. We had spent countless hours together, whether it was discussing our favorite bands, trying to solve random trivia questions, or simply enjoying the quiet moments on the bus rides between destinations.

The final week of the trip arrived with a sense of bittersweet anticipation. On one hand, we were looking forward to returning home and sharing our experiences with friends and family. On the other, it was hard to imagine not seeing Paul every day, not sharing those spontaneous jokes or planning our next playful escapade.

One evening, as we sat on a bench overlooking a scenic park near our lodgings, I turned to Paul, who was idly strumming on his guitar. The soft strains of his music blended with the tranquil surroundings, creating a serene atmosphere that seemed to echo the sentiment of our time together.

“Can you believe it’s almost over?” I asked, watching as the last rays of sunlight painted the sky in hues of orange and pink.

Paul glanced up, his expression thoughtful. “It’s gone by so quickly. Feels like just yesterday we were trying to come up with band names for a bunch of bugs.”

I laughed softly, the memory bringing a warm feeling. “Yeah, and who would have thought that joke would turn into one of our favorite inside jokes?”

Paul smiled, setting his guitar aside and turning to face me. “It’s been an amazing trip. I didn’t expect to make such a good friend, let alone someone I’d look forward to seeing every day.”

I met his gaze, feeling a flutter of emotion. “I know what you mean. This trip has been a lot more memorable because of you.”

We shared a comfortable silence, the evening air cool against our skin. The park was quiet except for the distant sounds of other tourists and the occasional rustle of leaves. It was a peaceful moment, one that seemed to encapsulate everything we had experienced together over the past few weeks.

As the sun set and the stars began to twinkle in the sky, I felt a sense of gratitude for the connection we had built. The upcoming departure felt like a poignant end to a chapter that had brought unexpected joy and companionship.

Paul’s voice broke the silence gently. “You know, even when this trip ends, I hope we stay in touch. It’s been really great getting to know you.”

I nodded, smiling warmly. “I’d like that too. It’s been an incredible journey, and I’m glad we’ve shared it.”

As we sat there, watching the stars emerge and the city lights begin to twinkle in the distance, I couldn’t help but feel that this final week had been the culmination of something truly special. It was the end of an adventure, but also the beginning of a new connection that I hoped would last long after the field trip was over.

The final days of our field trip flew by in a whirlwind of excitement and nostalgia. Before we knew it, the bus was pulling back into our school parking lot, and the familiar sights of our hometown began to come into view. As we disembarked and said our goodbyes to the teachers and other students, there was a palpable sense of both relief and sadness.

Paul and I lingered near the bus, our luggage in hand, as the excitement of returning home mingled with the wistfulness of leaving behind the memorable experiences we had shared. We chatted about our favorite moments and laughed over inside jokes from the trip, trying to hold onto the easy camaraderie we had built.

As the crowd began to thin and students reunited with their families, Paul glanced at me with a thoughtful expression. “Hey,” he began, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

I looked at him, curiosity piqued. “Yeah? What’s up?”

Paul hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Well, we’ve spent a lot of time together over the past few weeks, and I’ve really enjoyed it. I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me sometime. Maybe catch a movie or just hang out, you know?”

I felt a surge of warmth at his words, a mixture of surprise and happiness. “Are you asking me out on a date?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light but unable to hide the excitement in my voice.

Paul’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he nodded, a hopeful smile on his lips. “Yeah, I guess I am. I’d really like to get to know you even better.”

I smiled back, feeling a flutter of excitement. “I’d like that too. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

Paul’s grin widened, and he let out a relieved laugh. “Great! I’ll figure out a time and place, and we can make plans. I promise not to drag you into any more bug-related band name discussions.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I’ll hold you to that. But seriously, I’m looking forward to it.”

As we gathered our belongings and headed toward the school entrance, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation for what was to come. The field trip had been an unforgettable experience, and now, with this new chapter beginning, I was eager to see where it would lead. The prospect of spending more time with Paul, exploring our growing connection, and creating new memories made the end of the trip feel like a new beginning.

Authors note: I initially intended on making this a series but I wasn’t sure if anybody would read it so please tell me if you are interested!!!

[auraxins]

heliotrope - shouto x m!reader, wild west au

wc: 10.5k

summary: as the son of the town mayor, you have certain duties to uphold. one must find a wife, sire an heir, and take charge of the role of your father. you most certainly are not supposed to fall in love with a travelling cowboy, but how can you resist a face as pretty as his? 

tags: nsft, period-typical bigotry, sexism & homophobia, use of slurs, star-crossed lovers, cowboy/mercenary shouto, fluff, hurt/comfort, depiction of a panic attack, plot-relevant ocs, frottage, hand-jobs, multiple orgasms, bittersweet ending

this was written as part of @andypantsx3's pretty boy summer collab! parts of this wip were also very generously sponsored in support of the @ficsforgaza initiative, which i strongly recommend people take a moment to check out. a lot of this fic fought me tooth and nail to write, but i'm happy with the results and i hope you all are too <3

Days in this town pass slowly, as though they’re enclosed within a bubble, travelling viscous through the passage of time. 

You have a routine, and you stick to it. Wake up, kiss your wife good morning, go downstairs to make breakfast for your guests. Maybe here and there you change it up by letting yourself have something to eat quickly amongst the work- a spare slice of bread or, if you’re feeling particularly indulgent, you pilfer a fresh apple from the basket. The early risers get first pick of the finished goods, and the stragglers barely make it up before the lunch preparations begin. 

For the most part, very little of interest happens.

Even your guests tend to be predictable. Most are typically overnighters, people stopping by on their travels. But there are a few who have taken up near-permanent residence, those you barely see in the day and who slink out to frequent the bars at night. They’re used to your routine, and you’re used to theirs. It works, in a strangely symbiotic way. 

When you’d inherited this inn, a part of you had hoped it would open doors to a more fascinating level of existence. Instead, you’ve been left the same feelings raging turbulent in your stomach that you’ve burdened all your life. Feelings you’d rather not name, rather not bring light to. For if they were to lay bare in all their visceral truth, the world’s gaze would rest heavy upon you.  

This quieter lifestyle works well enough for you, all things considered. 

One particularly warm morning, you man the counter in the lobby as usual. Your sweet wife Delilah is cleaning up a room one guest had evacuated in the earlier hours of the day, and the inn is otherwise quiet. 

That is, at least, until the front door creaks open. The old worn bell you keep swearing you’ll get replaced rings out with a sharp high note, drawing your attention forwards. 

Shocks of red and white drop below the brim of the mysterious stranger’s stetson, framing the soft curves of his cheeks. He looks worse for wear, with dark circles clinging to his lower lids and a nasty scar that stretches across the top left of his face. 

And yet he approaches you with as much politeness as he can seem to muster. Shy in the way his gaze flickers around the room as he waits for you to acknowledge him, in the way his hands seem to clasp tight around the strap of the leather bag strung around his back. 

Perhaps this stranger is the very intrigue you’ve been waiting for. 

“Afternoon, sir,” you call, resting against the counter. “Looking for a room?” 

“No,” he says bluntly. “Are there stables near?” 

You frown, tapping your fingers against the wood. “‘Fraid not. We ain’t a horsefaring sorta town, y’see. Keep to ourselves for the most part.” 

Then it’s the stranger’s turn to frown. He stays quiet for a moment, pondering over something, before he speaks up again. 

“I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll be on my way.” 

His voice is quiet and reserved, overly polite. Not the sort of way of speaking you’ve heard around here before, save for perhaps an occasion in your youth. There’s no lyricality, in fact it holds rather monotone, but it’s soft and rather pleasing to the ear. 

“You sure about that, sir? We’re an awful long way from the next town.” 

The stranger hesitates. 

“I have no money.” 

“Ain’t no problem,” you insist. “It’s on the house.” 

“This feels like poor business practice,” he returns, and yet he doesn't make to leave. 

“Just doin’ my duty, sir. Can't send a nice young fella like yourself back out there with no horse and no place to rest his head, now can I? Why, that'd be a downright crime.”

You lead him up the stairs and to one of the spare rooms. They’re only quaint, barely suitable for a bedroom in reality, but you rarely hear a guest complain. It’s a comfortable place to rest their head, clean and well-sheltered. They do the job. 

“These are nice rooms,” the stranger comments politely as he follows you inside, surveying the area. “You keep the place well.” 

You resist the urge to fawn over the compliment, choosing instead to cover it up with a polite smile. “I try my best.” 

With your new guest settling, you decide to take your leave. There’s no point to lingering after all, it does nothing for your reputation as a host. 

“Uh,” he hesitates, and you turn back to face him. His lips have curled into an almost shy pout, and his gaze is fixed upon you. “Thank you.” 

“Any time,” you nod. 

“My name is Shouto,” he says. 

A pretty name for a pretty face. Maybe you really will need to keep an eye on this one. 

“Nice to meet you, Shouto,” you flash him a warm smile. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ you around.” 

Shouto is a surprisingly quiet guest, you learn in the few days that follow. 

Polite, considerably so. To the point that even some of the other guests seem to pick up on his energy and pepper in a few extra please and thank yous to their speech. (He fast becomes a favourite of Delilah’s, and she makes a point of bringing him up in conversations with you of an evening. You know where she’s going with it, and you nod along with a laugh nonetheless.)

But that courteous behaviour of his seems to be so finely attuned with his being that even his very movements are quiet. 

Not even in the way that your other enigmatic regulars usually are. Even though he leaves his room for mealtimes, goes to take walks around town and familiarise himself with the setting, you rarely end up realising he’s gone anywhere until you see him coming back at the end of the day. 

He’s unnaturally silent as he moves around, footsteps barely audible even on the inn’s infamously noisy wooden floors. 

So you aren’t surprised when you don’t register the familiar creaking of the staircase until Shouto is already stood by the side of the counter. He’s looking over towards you rather intently, as though there’s something on his mind. 

“If you’ll excuse me one moment,” you say, raising your hand politely to the trader you’ve been speaking to, “I’ve got a customer needin’ my help.” 

She acquiesces and bows her head, stepping to the side to allow you to traverse the room. You reach the counter and balance against it, donning a warm smile as you ask how you can assist Shouto today. 

“I think she’s overcharging you,” Shouto says simply. “Those aren’t worth that much.” 

“Hey!” the trader balks from her seat across the room. “I’ll have you know I charge the fairest price this side of the river.” 

You lower the volume of your voice and lean in close to Shouto as you respond to him; “What’s got you sayin’ that?” 

“There’s a market due north of here, about a day or two’s travel, that sells these for half the money. You’re being upcharged for the convenience of her bringing it to the inn.” 

“You’re kiddin’,” you whisper, otherwise speechless. 

“Oi!” comes a cry from the neglected trader. “Are you really gonna listen to that drivel?” 

With a sharp cough, you rise from your position at the counter and take a step towards the woman. 

“You said thirty for these, yes?” 

“That’s right,” she beams with pride. “It’s a bargain the likes of which you ain’t gonna get nowhere else.” 

Pretending to mull over a decision, you exaggerate a few uhms and ahs. “Well, then. I think it’s settled.” 

“You’ll be takin’ ‘em?” she asks, eyes lighting up with the prospect of cash. 

“I’ll take exactly zero of your stock today, thank you ma’am.” 

“Great, pleasure doin’ business with y- “ she stops abruptly, your words registering in her head -  “WHAT!?” 

“We won’t be making a trade,” you reiterate. “You’re welcome to rest here for as long as you need before you continue on your way.” 

You don’t get more than a grumble and a pointed glare as she finally acquiesces, roughly stuffing her produce back into the burlap sack she’d hauled in here earlier. 

“You’re gonna regret fuckin’ with me,” she spits, slamming the front door behind her. The little bell almost falls off its mount with the force of the movement, quaking and ringing frantically. 

“Thank you,” you say, turning back to Shouto as you breathe a sigh of relief. “You’re a lifesaver, you know. I can put that extra cash towards some real nice stuff for the inn.” 

“I couldn’t stand by in the middle of an obstruction of justice,” Shouto confesses. “It wasn’t fair, what she was doing to you.” 

“You know, I’m surprised you ain’t some sorta sheriff,” you tease, before your tone drops serious. “You… you ain’t, right?” 

“I’m not,” he says. “Something about the legal systems here… leaves a lot to be desired.” 

“Ain’t that the truth! So, what- you do mercenary work?”

A disappointed frown quirks at the corners of his lips. “I’ve been trying to, ever since I came here.” 

“Since you came here,” you echo. “Well, how long you been here?” 

“I think it’s almost a year,” he says. “The ship docked last autumn.” 

It’s the middle of summer now, if the blazing heat is any indication. You can’t help but wonder how difficult it really must be to get work around here. It isn’t like you have any sort of reference- you worked for your father until you were left with the inn to run. 

“Sorry to hear that,” you offer. 

And then, an idea springs to mind. 

“Listen, if you’re looking for work, why don’t you help out around the inn? Lord knows Lilah could do with an extra pair of hands in the kitchen, ain’t much I can do for her all the way out here. It ain’t much, but I could pay you for your time. You just saved me the money I can do it with.” 

“I thought you said that would go towards nice things for the inn,” Shouto states. 

“Well, you’re nice,” you say, flashing him a smile. “Ain’t that good enough?” 

Shouto denies your efforts to pay him for his time, in the end. He insists you’re doing enough, but that doesn’t stop you pulling some extra strings for him when you can over the next few weeks.

Only small things, like serving him extra portions of food and offering snacks when you can. Going out of your way to ensure there is fresh water and ice to hand when he’s working, even at the expense of pulling a muscle when cranking away at the communal well. 

Typical things you’d do for a guest. Obviously. 

It is one of these very trips to the well that brings you back to your inn during the early hours of the afternoon, the summer sun at its highest peak, with a heavy bucket full of water. You use your hip to force the front door open and it slams against the wall before attempting to enact its revenge on you by ricocheting all the way back. 

Conveniently, Shouto is right there to witness your folly. 

As heat rushes to your cheeks, he rushes to your side. Levies the weight of the pail and holds the door open with one foot as you bring it inside. 

“I could have gotten that for you,” he says, almost chastising you for underestimating your workload. 

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, shifting the weight of the bucket to your other hip as you bring it through the lobby. 

Delilah is waiting by the doors to the kitchen, holding them open for you. You thank her as you heft your way inside and place it down on the countertop with a groan of exertion. Shouto hangs in the lobby, one foot forward as if ready to jump to assist you at any given second. 

It’s rather endearing, if you think about it. 

You try a little harder not to think about it. 

As you fidget around with miscellaneous kitchen jobs- you’re in there already, you might as well- you hear the front door bell ring out again. A bustle of commotion follows, cries of ‘pew, pew!’ and ‘get down, bandits!’ echo through the lobby and make their way down to your ears. 

If you didn’t recognise it as the youthful voice of your little brother, Cole, you just might have been scared. 

The young boy jumps around the tables like a whirlwind, diving for cover as he ‘shoots’ his ‘gun’ around the room, aiming towards a rather bewildered Shouto who has had the misfortune of being caught in the middle of his antics. 

Cole cheers, pretending to blow smoke from the barrel. “Take that, fiend!” 

Shouto blinks once, twice, and for a moment you’re unsure whether he understands what’s happening. 

Then he looks down at his chest, before announcing in a blank tone; “you got me.” 

“Ya could at least act dead, mister,” Cole pouts, folding his arms. “Ain’t fun when you don’t play properly.”

Shouto nods solemnly, and proceeds to lay down on the floor. “Oh, the pain. I’m dying. Bleh.”

You take the opportunity to walk back properly into the lobby, coughing loudly to announce your presence.

“Cole, it ain’t nice to shoot strangers,” you chastise gently, as said boy balks at the sight of you and runs around your legs, clinging to the back of your shirt. 

“He don’t mind,” Cole argues from the safety of his personal meat-shield. “Do ya, mister?” 

Shouto looks utterly caught off-guard by the entire interaction, straight-faced but wide-eyed. 

“You’re, uh, fine,” he manages awkwardly. 

“He’s too polite for his own good,” you say to Cole. “Tell ‘im you’re sorry.” 

Cole refuses at first, stubbornly balling his fists tighter into your clothing and shaking his head. 

But then you dip to your knees and take his hands in yours, fixing him with a stern gaze that seeps with genuine concern and care. When Cole meets your eyes, after a few more beats of futile non-compliance, you release a soft sigh.

“I know you were just playin’, but you can still be brave and strong without bein’ violent.”

“I was bein’ like daddy,” Cole pouts. “He plays with guns all the time.” 

The words send a sinking feeling straight to your gut. 

Of course this is your father’s influence. What else did you expect? The man is constantly flashing a firearm, an obscene show of power that does far more harm than good. You’ve grown sick of it, but there’s not much you can do to stop it whilst your existence depends on him. 

“If ya wanna be like our daddy, why not try helping big sis Lilah out with the dishes? A mayor has to be respectful of the womenfolk, after all.”

Like the heavens themselves had summoned her to you, Delilah appears from the kitchens and stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “C’mon little man, I’ll let you play with the washboard when we’re done.” 

That’s enough for the boy, whose head perks at the mention of more playtime, and he eagerly runs past Delilah and out of sight. You use the nearby table to anchor yourself as you stand, letting out a groan as something pops somewhere it really shouldn’t. 

“Thank you, sweet Lilah- ” you reach across and place a kiss on her cheek- “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

She grabs you by the cheeks and squeezes you as she says, “you’d have been long gone years ago, darlin’.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” you chuckle heartily.

An uncomfortable cough from Shouto reminds you of his presence, and suddenly Delilah’s hands are burning hot against your flesh. You part from her like you’ve been shocked.

“Why, do forgive me. I seem to have forgotten my manners.” The space across the room between yourself and Shouto feels unfathomably larger now. “We have a guest and I haven’t even offered him a drink yet. What can I getcha?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Shouto responds politely. “I did want to see if you have any news from the stables, though.” 

A frown twists its way onto your face, and you can’t decide if it’s from courtesy or disappointment. 

“Not a word,” you admit. “I was fixin’ to go down there in a few days; make sure they ain’t been raided, y’know?” 

“I could join you,” he says, all too eagerly. “Maybe it will help.” 

“Now that’s a mighty fine idea,” Delilah pipes up. She reaches across to nudge you in the ribs pointedly, flashing you a look. “Let him go with, why don’tcha?” 

A sharp cough wracks you. “Right, of course you can tag along.” 

You meet with Shouto early in the morning on the day of your excursion. He’s more prepared than you, somehow, with his stetson to block out the sun and a satchel full of provisions across his shoulder. 

“We only got ol’ Duke here,” you say, gently patting the side of the steed’s snout, “but if you don’t mind ridin’ behind, he’s a strong’un. Carries me and Lilah like it’s nothin’.” 

Shouto looks apprehensive as he sizes up your stallion. “You’re sure he’ll be alright? I wouldn’t want to hurt him.” 

“He’s done it for years,” you assure. “Besides, you’re experienced, ain’tcha? Just hold on tight, move with him, and you’ll be fine.” 

It takes another hem and haw for him to finally agree, and you stretch your hand out to take. His grip is firm as you help him up behind you, and his fingers are… surprisingly soft. You try not to dwell on the sensation, nor on how his arms cinch your sides for support. 

And you try even harder to ignore the way his breath tickles against the nape of your neck, or how oddly pleasant his chest feels pressed flush to your back. 

“We should get going,” Shouto says, and the smooth monotone of his voice reverberates through your very bones. “You said the journey’s half a day, right? It’ll be nightfall soon if we aren’t careful.” 

“Yeah,” you cough. “You’re right.” 

As you let the reins fall slack in your grip, Duke breaks into a walk. The steady motion is enough to bring you back to focus, attention redirected to the trail ahead. You’ve walked it plenty of times before, especially with Duke, so it becomes rather easy to tune out from your emotions and sink into the pleasantry of the ride. 

“He’s well-trained,” Shouto comments. 

“Broke him in myself,” you confess proudly. “He was a stubborn lil’ bastard, but I took my time and did things my way.” 

“Your way?” Shouto echoes. “As opposed to… ?” 

“My father’s.” The words leave you like vitriol, spat out as though you’ve swallowed something foul. “He’s a fan of tough love, and his horses ain’t no exception.”

You can’t ignore the way Shouto seems to tense up behind you, fingers digging into your waist. They relax almost immediately after, and he shifts his grip to your arms. 

“Your father seems…” Shouto quietens as he tries to find the right words. 

“Like a real piece of work?” you finish for him with a dry chuckle, a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood. 

“I understand,” Shouto says. “My father is not exactly worthy of praise himself.” 

“Sorry to hear it,” you offer. “Nobody should have to deal with a shitty old man.” 

The ranch is closer than you remember- or, perhaps, you simply lose track of time tied up in the idle conversation you share with Shouto. Either way, you’re tying Duke’s reins to a nearby post before you know it. 

There’s a little shack by the front of the lot, a big hand-painted sign above the doorway directing visitors to ENTER HERE. You oblige and guide Shouto inside, immediately faced with a rather flustered stablehand and a boisterous stranger. 

“‘M sorry, sir,” the stablehand stammers. “We don’t got no racehorses here. My boss only raises workin’ breeds.” 

“Well, you tell yer boss to get his ass in gear and rear some purebred racin’ stallions already!” 

“The poor boy said he ain’t got none,” you interject, much to the stablehand’s gratitude. “Why not give him a break, huh?” 

The large stranger turns on his heel to face you, deep frown etched into his features as he sizes you up for the audacity to interrupt him. And then his brow furrows. And then, his eyes widen. 

This man seems to recognise you, much to your dismay. 

He takes a step closer to you and juts out an accusatory finger, before his deep grating voice is launching an assault on your eardrums.

“Ain’t you that faggot boy of the mayor’s?” He sneers, puffing himself up to appear more intimidating. “What’s a sissy like you doin’ in a man’s establishment?” 

The words pierce harsher than a bullet. You feel a lump form in your throat, and your fingers start to tremble at your sides. This uncharacteristic helplessness reminds you of your boyhood, of your father, and a deep-rooted fear takes hold of your heart and refuses to detach. Blood rushes through your veins to your head, dizzying you as you fight the urge to seethe. 

“He’s got a fine lady wife back home,” Shouto interjects matter-of-factly, leaping to your rescue, “which is more than I can assume that you have, if you waste all of your time picking fights with men you hardly know.” 

“It’s okay,” you manage quietly, “he’s not worth it.” 

But Shouto doesn’t hear you, or at least he chooses not to listen, as he steps in between yourself and the stranger. He has no need to broaden his stance or force himself to stand taller to appear imposing. Something about his steeled gaze and the calm way that he holds himself is far more intimidating than a false show of bravado. In fact, you’d argue he looks downright dangerous like this. 

And the other man seems to feel it, too. 

He bites out in spite of it, like a threatened animal. “What? He too much of a girl to fight me himself? Needs a real man to step in and fight for him?” 

“I’m not going to fight you,” Shouto says coolly. “I have no need.” 

The stranger stammers, torn between arguing back or throwing a punch. Off to the side, the stablehand looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He finally throws himself into the commotion, hands outstretched to put space between Shouto and the other man. 

“The boss will not tolerate brawling in here!” the stablehand exclaims desperately, trembling as he continues to serve as a human boundary. “I have to ask you to leave, please.”

“Outta the way, brat- “ the stranger goes to grab one of the stablehand’s wrists, but Shouto raises his hands gracefully in surrender. 

“We wouldn’t want to cause unnecessary trouble, right?” 

After a few seconds- which stretch to a small eternity in your frame of reference, heart pounding and head light- the stranger finally acquiesces. Raises one hand flippantly over his shoulder as he turns to leave. 

“Aw screw this, I got better shit to be doin’.” He casts one final glare your way, and doesn’t hesitate to share it with Shouto. “Stay outta my sight, gayboys. I won’t be so nice a second time.” 

You release a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. The soles of your feet feel rooted into place, two precarious anchors for the wobbling of your frame. 

“If you two could leave as well,” the stablehand chimes, and you find the resolve to speak up at last. 

“We wanted to see if there was any progress with acquiring a horse for my friend here.” 

The stablehand looks uncomfortable as he hesitates to respond. “I’m afraid we won’t be doing business with you any further, sir. You’ll have to look for a horse elsewhere.” 

“But you’re the closest ranch to our town!” you exclaim. “If we don’t trade with you, it might take months to find somewhere new.” 

“That ain’t our problem, mister. Have a nice day.” 

You go to retaliate, take a step forwards, and Shouto places a hand on your upper arm to hold you back. He’s right; you already know. If you lash out at the poor boy, you’re no better than the hulking brute that came before you. The stablehand repeats his have a nice day with a more insistent tone, ushering you to walk away. 

It takes all your willpower not to slam your fist against the wall in frustration as you leave. Instead, you let slip a few choice curses and grit your teeth as you storm towards your horse. The hot summer sun blazes overhead and batters against your face, amalgamating with the heat building from your frustration until you almost feel faint. 

“I’m truly sorry,” Shouto offers tentatively, voice almost lost against the ringing in your ears. “The way he was speaking to you was unacceptable.” 

“My family’s been tradin’ with them for decades,” you lament, reaching Duke’s side and placing a gentle hand against his face. “I don’t know what I’m gonna tell my father about this.” 

“We’ll tell him the truth.” 

“The truth?” you balk. “You think the mayor wants to hear that there’s a rumor going around that his only son’s fuckin’ other men?” 

You release a shaken breath as you take hold of the saddle, hoisting yourself up. There’s no point staying mad when you’ve got to travel; it isn’t fair to poor Duke. 

“That isn’t what I meant,” Shouto argues. “I was going to suggest telling him that it was my fault.” 

“He won’t give a crap,” you say matter-of-factly. “God, I just hope he don’t do anything with the inn.”

“I thought the inn was yours?” 

“We inherited it young, didn’t know what we were doin’. He offered to put it in his name, and we let him.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Ain’t your fault he’s a piece of shit,” you sigh. “I just gotta hope he either don’t find out, or don’t care when he does.” 

Quiet falls for a few moments, save from the rustling of trees and the distant ambient chatter from inside the stables. You hold your hand out for Shouto to mount Duke behind you, and he squeezes a little harder than he had the first time. 

“I’ve been told I’m not the best at offering comfort,” he says carefully as he situates himself on the saddle, “but I want you to know that I understand how you feel.” 

“Right,” you nod, urging Duke to move. “Appreciate it.” 

The world begins to pass you by as Duke carries you home, surroundings shifting into nothing more than hues of brown and green. Once riotous pounding in your chest, your heartbeat finds its way to a more level pace, and you feel like you’re finally able to breathe properly again. 

“I’m sorry, by the way,” you speak again at last, breaking the silence, “about the horse thing.” 

“It’s okay,” Shouto says. If his tone were more expressive, you’d be able to sense the disappointment that lingers in his words. “I can figure something out.” 

“You’ve been stuck here for two weeks now,” you argue. “I ain’t been the help I promised you. If anythin’ I made it worse.” 

Shouto is quick to respond; “but you’ve let me stay at your inn all that time. You haven’t even charged me.” 

You fall quiet for a moment as you think to yourself. He isn’t wrong, after all. You’ve been gracious enough to give him room and board for nothing, gone out of your way to ensure he’s been comfortable. 

Shouto isn’t the first pretty face you’ve been so kind to. He is, however, the first you’ve felt this strongly drawn to. He’s the first who’s gotten so involved with your family so quickly, friendly with Delilah and even Cole. He’s the first that Cole has even liked, you realise rather abruptly. Winning that boy’s trust doesn’t seem like something that should be such a feat, and yet Shouto had achieved it effortlessly.

More importantly, Shouto is the first you’ve had to face the reality of disappointing like this. 

Your grip on Duke’s reins tightens as a thick wave of anxiety grips you once more. The stallion feels the shift and instinctively slows, pulling to a stop just shy of town. A sharp huff leaves him, and he shakes his head as he settles down. 

“Is everything alright?” asks Shouto cautiously, peering over your shoulder to check for roadblocks. 

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I mean, it’s fine.” 

He gives you a tentative okay as you gently urge Duke to move again. The rest of the ride back to your inn passes in relative silence, though your thoughts echo so loud in your head you could easily be convinced they’re being yelled at you externally. 

When you return, you’re still quiet. Not for lack of trying- you really do want to strike up some other conversation- but the mood seems to have soured past a point where your bones seize up when you make the attempt. The most you get out is a quiet see you later when you part ways. 

It ends up a few more days before you talk again. 

You get busy with the inn, tending to a small group of travellers from the south who party hard and demand a lot. But they pay well, and their stay is relatively short, so you suck it up and take it as the opportunity you need to reset your headspace emotionally. 

The weather seems to gauge your mood and adjust accordingly. Turbulent rain strikes up on the second day, and on the third it’s accompanied with a strong wind. By the fourth, the travellers have left and you decide you’ve recovered, and everything feels calm again. 

That is, at least, except for the damage control. 

First on the list is surveying the inn itself, to check what may or may not have been damaged in the storm. Not much is out of place- save for a poor fencepost that had undergone a dramatic journey across the expanse of the town- and you’re almost convinced that you’ve avoided a hefty workload…

… until you look up. 

The panels of the inn’s roof have blown out of place, and a handful have broken entirely. The splintered remains hang on for dear life by the nails that held them down, and the sight near gives you a heart attack. 

It was only a light storm, all things considered, but that poor roof has been neglected for a few years too long. The wooden slats didn’t stand a chance. 

As you try to size up the true scope of the damage, pacing around the outskirts of the property, you hear the front door bell chime. Shouto walks out onto the porch, scanning the area until his eyes land on you. 

“You alright there?” you call to him. 

“I was about to ask you that,” he replies. 

“All good over here!” you offer a quick salute, and immediately mentally berate yourself for the embarrassing display. “Just checking the damage.” 

Shouto steps down from the porch and wanders to your side, stepping back to peer up at the roof. 

“I could fix that for you,” he says easily. “Do you have the supplies?” 

You can’t help but let out a laugh. He really does seem to think he’s capable of everything. Maybe that’s one of the reasons you like him. 

“It’s gonna take a whole team to get this sorted.” 

“Can I try?”

“Sure- “ you point across to some spare wooden slats you’d managed to drag out earlier- “knock yourself out. They ain’t all that heavy, but carrying them up to the roof is gonna be a bitch.” 

He gives you a determined okay, and walks off to collect what he needs as you stand there and watch. 

You can’t believe what you’re seeing, really. 

Shouto has managed to prop one of the slats over his shoulder as he climbs up the side of the inn, with all the strength and precision of a trained professional. No, that’s an understatement– you don’t know anyone skilled enough to do this. 

It’s impossible to do much more than watch, awestruck, as he heaves the slat up on top of the roof and drags himself along after it. He takes a small leather bag of nails from between his teeth and finds a suitable spot to nestle it, before calling for you to pass up the hammer. You comply dumbfounded, doing everything in your power to keep your jaw from falling agape. 

“That’s mighty impressive of you,” you get out at last. “Who taught you to do that?” 

He looks back at you, confused. “Nobody taught me this.” 

“So you learned how to fix up buildings all by yourself?” 

“This is the first time I’ve done this.” 

You think you might burst a blood vessel. He has no right to be this perfect, truly. Strong, capable, intelligent? Able to size up a situation and just know he’s able to handle it? Delilah’s right, if you don’t snatch him up soon who knows who might. 

No, you can’t think like that. You still don’t even know if he likes men. Let alone you. 

The thought alone is enough to have you spacing out until he’s already finished with the roof and making his way back down to you. 

“Good job,” you praise. “That looks like it’ll hold for years.” 

“I hope so,” he nods. “I used some of the old boards to reinforce the new ones- it doesn’t look the neatest but it should be sturdy.” 

“I appreciate it. Lord knows what I’d do without you.” 

“It’s nice that you’re talking to me again,” he says, abruptly changing the subject. It isn’t spoken with malice, no more than a passing comment, but the words hit you with a hard pang of guilt nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” you say, embarrassment flooding your veins. “I wasn’t feeling myself after that incident at the ranch.” 

“They hurt you. You’re allowed to feel that pain.” 

He just has to be insightful and empathetic too, huh? This man really might be the death of you, you realise there and then. 

“Thanks,” you return lamely. 

In an attempt to save face, you think for a moment, before an idea hits and you speak again. 

“We got a nice family dinner planned for Sunday, why don’t you join us? My way of apologising for being so weird around you the past few days.” 

“That sounds nice,” Shouto agrees, and you can’t stop the smile that weaves its way onto your face. 

Shouto arrives at your father’s house on Sunday with a gift basket in his arms and a nervous look in his eyes. 

“You’re here!” Delilah greets him enthusiastically, ushering him into the house with a hand on his shoulder. “Esther’s been dying to meet you.” 

“Esther?” Shouto echoes. 

“My older sister,” you say, popping your head out from behind the kitchen door. “Nice to see you, by the way.” 

“Uh- you too.” 

“C’mon- “ Delilah brings him through to the dining room, and takes the basket from his arms- “dinner’s gonna be ready soon.” 

Your sister is in the room to greet him, and he offers her a polite bow of acknowledgement. 

“Ooh, he’s got manners!” Esther fawns, practically running to take hold of his hands. “It’s nice to meet you, my little brother’s said so much about you.” 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Shouto says. “If you don’t mind my asking, I was told this is your father’s house? It’s lovely.” 

“Yeah, it’s our daddy’s,” Esther says. “He’s out on a trip with my husband, so he won’t be joining us today.” 

“What a shame,” your voice calls sarcastically from the kitchen. 

“Now then squirt, that ain’t very nice.” Your sister releases Shouto to face off with you in the kitchen, and comes back out with both you and Delilah in tow like a pair of naughty children. 

“Yeah, squirt,” Delilah echoes, pinching at your cheeks. You fend her off as best you can, but she’s a strong woman, and when she wants to torment you she always succeeds.

“Please, feel free to sit,” you say to Shouto, almost pleadingly so. 

Esther had set the table, and you’d been the one to assist Delilah in the kitchen with preparing the main course. If your father had been here, he’d surely have strongarmed you into forcing the poor woman to do it all by herself. Luckily, you’d been granted the freedom to hold this dinner your way. 

“We laid a place for you,” Esther says sweetly, pointing towards the end of the table. A small dish of fruit slices lays pre-served, her attempt at a pleasant welcome. 

“Thank you,” Shouto offers her a polite bow in response. “I appreciate your hospitality.” 

“Why, of course,” she beams, giving him a sharp pat on the shoulder. It’s purely intended as amicable, but you can’t help noticing the way Shouto flinches at the contact. Esther plays it off smoothly nonetheless, her natural friendliness oozing from every word. “Oh, you’re a lil’ jumpy, ain’tcha? Well, no bother. Come on, sit and eat with us!” 

By the time everyone is seated- even Cole, who you’d had to wrangle from an intense solo game of marbles that had until now left him silent in the living room- the thick scent of cooked meat permeates the air. 

There are three whole pies to split between you, two with meat and one with only vegetables- just in case, Delilah insisted, because you still don’t really know what sort of food Shouto prefers, because all you’ve seen him eat are foods he’s had served up to him, and it’s nice to offer choice. You serve up Cole’s portion, who declares he has to try part of each pie at the same time, and extend your innkeeper habits to ask if Shouto would like you to do the same for him. 

“Ooh, you’re lucky,” Esther teases, “he never serves portions up for the women in his life.”

“That is a lie and you know it,” you snap on instinct, immediately biting your tongue. It doesn’t phase your sister, who has long been used to bickering with you (she’s the most notorious instigator, after all) and she bursts out laughing instead. 

“They’re always like this,” Delilah giggles, leaning towards Shouto. “It’s the feistiest I ever see him, you know.” 

“Really?” He peeks past her to look at you, still engaged in a pointless argument with Esther. You make eye contact with him somewhere in the middle and immediately fluster, falling silent. 

“You got any siblings, Shouto?” she asks, and the focus of the room pans across to him. 

He flounders over the question for a moment, gaze fixing intently upon you as if to beg for help. When you give him a reassuring nod, he takes a breath and speaks. 

“I’m the youngest of four,” he says. “Two brothers and a sister. We… don’t really talk much.” 

“I’d think not, if you’re all the way out here,” Esther cracks a smile, tone light and airy. “Any of ‘em come with you?” 

“My eldest brother wanted to see more of the world, so I travelled here to find him. If my other brother and sister knew about it, they’d probably have joined.” 

“Sounds like an interesting man,” Delilah says. “Your father must be real nice for his boys to have such a strong bond.” 

You feel your heart churn at the sentiment, and as you share another turbulent glance with Shouto you can’t even begin to imagine how he feels. 

“My father has a strong personality. I’ve been told we inherited that.” 

“Funny,” Esther notes, “people say the same about my little brothers.” 

As though proving her point, Cole slams his utensils down on the table and declares he’s finished with a shout to rival a warcry. 

“Now, can I go play again?” he asks eagerly. “Can I? Can I?” 

“I dunno, little man, did you eat all your veggies?” you ask. 

“Uh-huh! Look- “ he sticks out his tongue and wiggles it around, showing a slimy but empty mouth- “all gone!” 

“Well, I think that’s good enough,” Esther chuckles. “Go on, get.” 

He’s gone like a flash, practically leaping down from his seat to pelt into the living room. How he has such an abundance of energy, you’ll never fathom. 

Esther stands soon after, her own plate since emptied. “I’ll get started on the dishes. You three good in here?” 

Shouto nods politely, “thank you.” 

“You can come round for dinner whenever you want,” Esther beams. “I’m sure my darling brother would love to see you here more often.” 

“Essie,” you whine pointedly, “stop embarrassing me.” 

“But you’re so easy,” she teases, blowing you a kiss as she dips out of the dining room. 

“She got you there,” Delilah notes, gently nudging at your side. “Don’t worry, it’s why we love you.” 

You grumble out an I love you too as you regain your composure, trying hard to keep yourself together in front of your guest. He has a smile on his face as you look across to him, and it’s infectious enough to rekindle your mood. 

“It's nice how in love the two of you are,” he says. 

Delilah laughs loud, slapping her hand against her knee. “You got it wrong, mister. We ain’t in love. He’s like a brother to me.” 

“But you’re married?” he questions, tilting his head. 

“The world don’t accept me, nor sweet Lilah here,” you confess, hoping your subtlety is enough to convey the message. “We did what we had to do. I love her, it just ain’t like that.” 

“Besides,” Delilah adds, leaning in close and raising her hands to her mouth as if to obscure the words from potential onlookers, “I’ve got a girlfriend.” 

“Nice woman,” you vouch. “Met her a few times now.” 

“And this… works for you?” 

“It does the job,” Delilah says. “We get to live our lives at the small price of living with each other. I could think of worse ways to do it.” 

You nod along. “Lilah’s my best friend. Spending my life with her don’t seem so bad all in all, you know?” 

Shouto ponders over it for a moment, and then seems to hit an epiphany. “I have a friend back home. We grew up together, and I think at some point our parents wanted to arrange a marriage. If we’d had to, it would have been okay.” 

“What happened to her?” you ask cautiously. 

“I left her behind,” he admits. 

Delilah rests her chin in her hands as she leans forward, invested. “You wouldn’t go back to her?” 

“Maybe one day,” Shouto says. “If things worked out that way.” 

You start to lose track of the conversation as Delilah takes over, fascinated by any story Shouto is willing to share of his youth. He doesn’t divulge all that much about himself, you notice, tending to focus on the people he knows instead. You learn about a Yaoyorozu, and an Iida, a Midoriya and a Bakugou. Half a dozen more names are infrequently mentioned and you try to catch them all, but it’s difficult when you’re already entangled in the way that Shouto looks when he’s talking about the people that matter to him. 

It’s as though he starts to glow, radiant as he recalls the fond moments that shaped his teenhood. The corners of his mouth are upturned just the slightest, resonating with a tender sentiment that feels utterly enrapturing to witness. 

You just about manage to catch the end of the conversation, a comment about the lively atmosphere at the table earlier. 

“It reminds me of home,” Shouto says. “The good side, at least.” 

“You’re welcome here any time,” you say. “Lilah and Essie loved seeing you today, and you know Cole’s happy so long as he can cajole someone into playing with him.”

Shouto catches himself partway through asking what about your father?, falling silent and turning away. “Sorry, don’t mind that.” 

“If you weren’t my friend, he’d probably like you,” you confess, placing a comforting hand on his knee. He seems to flinch at the touch at first, but makes no further move to shy away. “Everyone connected to me is the devil to him somehow.” 

He looks back to you, heterochromic eyes glistening in the candlelight. You swear you can see something new in those depths, a spark of something warm and hopeful. 

“We’re friends?” he asks. 

“Of course we are,” you promise.

“You’re my friend too,” Delilah interrupts, giggling to herself. “Anything you need, you just ask. Okay?” 

And for the first time, you think you see Shouto as embarrassed as you’ve been today, a pink flush creeping up across his cheeks. 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

The rest of the evening passes with little event, and you have to admit it’s an entirely pleasant affair. Cole ropes Shouto into playtime for a while, and you go to help Esther finish with the cleanup duties. 

By the time you’re all leaving, Shouto accompanies you on the walk back to the inn. 

“I had a plan for getting you a horse,” you break the evening silence. “We got some open plains out to the east, chances are there’s a herd out there. Think that’s where the ranch we went to first got theirs from.” 

It’s not a surefire idea, but it’s better than what you’ve managed to try so far. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all. 

Shouto meets you readily the next morning, but you’re met with disappointment when you reach Duke’s stable. He’s slow to move, and refuses to take his morning treat. 

Perhaps you’ve been working the poor boy too hard. 

“He needs to rest,” you say. “But that don’t gotta stop us, if you wanna take the trip by foot. Lord knows I’ve kept you stuck here too long.” 

“I don’t mind the wait,” Shouto insists, “but the trip out with you would be pleasant.” 

Well, that’s all the encouragement you need. “We should be able to get there by the late afternoon. By the time we’ve found you a horse, that should just about give us the time we need to get back here.” 

If only it had been that simple. 

Another storm hits suddenly when you’re halfway down the trail, the heavens opening solely to hinder your progress. Rain pelts from above and wind rages, blowing into your eyes and battering your bodies. 

Thunder cracks overhead, an unholy sound that rends the sky. You’re fast soaking through, heavier clothes straining your muscles as you lift your arms to cover your head. 

“We need to find shelter,” you call across the cacophony of rain, “else we damn well might die out here.” 

Shouto’s eyes must be better than yours, because he points out the vague figure of a building far off in the distance and you bolt for it like a lifeline. 

As you draw closer, you almost stop in your tracks at what he’s managed to find. 

It’s a familiar old barnhouse, though in a state of disrepair completely unhelped by the pouring rain. 

You’ve been here in your youth, before it had been left abandoned at least. Your family had moved into town some years before Cole had come along, and until then you’d lived out here on the outskirts. With your very own ranch. It had been your father’s decision to abandon the place and move somewhere with more influence, somewhere ‘civilised’, once your younger brother was on his way. Which had left the house your mother, your sister and yourself grew up in to rot under the whims of time. 

You had almost forgotten that this was still out here. 

“We can hide out in here ‘til the storm passes,” you declare, taking Shouto by the hand on instinct as you guide him inside. 

The varnish is peeling from the wood, and the carpets have long since gathered such a thick layer of dust that the original colouring is utterly impossible to determine. You vaguely recall the warm creams and browns that had accented your childhood, and the chill of the storm starts to leave your bones. 

“Are you sure it’s safe to be here?” Shouto asks. 

“I promise,” you say. “Ain’t nothin’ to hurt us here.” 

You’re lucky, really, that the roof hasn’t caved in. Clearly it had been built to last, and it endeavours to remind you of such as the rain pounds against the outer walls. 

There’s an old broom left gathering webs in a corner. You take it to clear away the dust from a sizeable section of the living room, near to the fireplace. It doesn’t do much, but at least you feel relatively comfortable with the idea of having to settle there for the night now. 

As you turn back to check on Shouto, your jaw almost hits the ground. 

His shirt is hanging loose off one arm, chest entirely exposed. He has a fantastic build, you note, and it’s no wonder he’s proven so strong and so capable over these past few weeks. The sight makes you gulp hard to stay composed. 

“We’re wet,” he says, as if that magically explains it all. “A wet shirt could make us sick.” 

Shouto looks at you expectantly, and your gaze falls down to the buttons of your flannel. God, he wants you to strip, too? You’re not going to survive the night.

You oblige with hesitation, knowing his logic is sound. But there’s something so horribly vulnerable about exposing your chest like this, to him of all people. It feels like you’re bearing your very heart and soul to him in a way that has you fumbling over each button. 

“Better?” you ask, dropping your shirt to the floor. It hits the carpet with a dull thud. The sound echoes in your ears. 

“Does it feel better?” 

“I suppose.” 

“Good.” 

It’s strange, standing in your childhood living room with a man you’re definitely attracted to, both completely shirtless. You’re sure he can’t be viewing this from the same angle that you are, but a part of you has yet to hope. 

There’s no better time to test than now, you suppose. 

If he rejects you, so be it. The storm will pass and you’ll find him a horse and he’ll leave- and there will be no consequence. 

But if he accepts… 

…oh, you pray that he’ll accept. 

You take a tentative step towards him, and he doesn’t step away. In fact, his eyes haven’t left you since you removed your shirt. Almost as if he can’t find the strength to look away. 

“Listen,” you start carefully. “Stop me if I’m way off track here, but… we like each other, right?” 

“You said that we’re friends,” Shouto responds. 

“We are,” you assure. “I was just wonderin’ if you’d ever- “ the words lodge in your throat, and you swallow thickly to force them out- “considered anythin’ more.” 

“Like best friends?” 

“Ah.” You think of a better way to say what’s on your mind. “Like Delilah, and her girlfriend.” 

“You want me to… be your girlfriend?” 

“You have to be doin’ this on purpose,” you sigh, taking another step closer. He still doesn’t move, instead welcoming your advance. “Do I have to show you?” 

And then you catch it, the glimpse of mischief in his eyes, the quirk of a smile on his lips. This bastard has been playing you the whole time. 

“I think you should,” he says, with near-insufferable smoothness. 

You take it as a challenge, and feel a surge of confidence wash over you as you bridge the gap between you and take his face into your hands. He’s so beautiful this close, and part of you is dying to savour it. 

The louder, more insistent part of you, however, screams to devour him whole. 

Shouto’s mouth tastes like iron, with a vague hint of the breakfast you’d served up this morning. It’s a dizzying sensation, and you can’t help yourself from coming back to kiss him over and over every single time you draw to part.  

He’s nervous, breath hitching as your hands fall to his waist. Though his kisses never cease, lips meeting yours time and again. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he utters suddenly between breaths. “What if someone catches us?” 

“Ain’t nobody gonna know where we are in a storm like this,” you assure him, running your fingers through his hair. “‘Sides, sweet Lilah’s at the inn tonight and she’s mighty smart. She’ll keep people off our trail.” 

Your words seem to be enough to placate him for now. He’s more pliant, responsive to your touch as you nimbly work at his belt. 

A particularly large flash of lightning illuminates the room and you finally catch a good glimpse of the state he’s in. 

His cock is gorgeous, you think. Thin, but a fair length, with the slightest curve that entices you to wrap your hand around it and give a light squeeze. Shouto keens into your touch, hot breath fanning your neck. 

“That feel good?” you ask softly, stroking along his length. His hands come to your biceps and grip hard as his eyes fall shut and his head rolls back. Satisfaction bubbles in your gut and you simper with pride. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

A curse falls from his lips in a language you don’t understand, but it sounds beautiful from him. You coax him slowly to release, an almost teasing pace that keeps him whining for you like a symphony. When he cums for the first time, the way your name forms against his tongue damn near has you finishing in your pants right there with him. 

“Can I?” Shouto asks, shy in the way his fingers hook around the loops of your belt. 

It has to be the first time he's done something like this. He's clumsy as he works your buckle, and his hands seem to tremble as he pulls down your pants. You don't mind. In fact, there's something incredibly flattering about his eagerness to share this experience with you above all others. 

When the warmth of his hand envelops your cock, your body erupts into flames. The pace he sets is steady but slow, similar to your own, as if he's enacting revenge for your earlier torment. A proud smile plays on his lips and you indulge in the urge to kiss it away. 

He's still hard too, and you shift so you can guide his hand to stroke you both at the same time. Feeling his cock pressed up against your own is addictive, you think, and the coiled tightness in your gut spirals ever closer to release. 

The sight of your stomachs and his hand covered in a mix of both of your cum is enough to keep you hard, and instinctually you grind against him as you take his face into your hands to smother him in wet, open-mouth kisses. 

It doesn’t take long for you to climax a second time, this time with your body intwined tight with his, your hands since shifted to play with his hair and his sunk deep into the soft flesh of your waist. 

Your knees fold as the pleasure wracks through your body, finally crumpling you to the ground. Unceremoniously, you manage to drag Shouto down with you, until you’re half-sitting half-laying in a heap together on the floor. 

“You’re surprisingly needy,” Shouto observes. “I like it.” 

“I like you,” you confess in response, mind hazy in post-orgasmic afterglow. 

He lets out a mild chuckle, the sound of which would likely drive you wild if sleep wasn’t already fast encroaching upon you, and shuffles you both to a more comfortable position to rest. 

“We should get to sleep,” he says, placing a chaste kiss to your head. “Hopefully the storm will have passed by morning.” 

When morning comes, the storm has long since moved on. 

You take Shouto back out to the plains, and you search around for the perfect horse. After a few failed attempts, spooking the poor things away, Shouto catches the attention of an elegant young mare. Likely only a few years old, but well-built and friendly. She’s the one that walks up to him, taking the food he offers and letting him pet her. 

“She’s the one,” he says. “I’ll call her Kansei.” 

She saddles up with surprising ease, and though you’re hesitant to double-mount a fresh steed, you’ve little other choice if you want to make it home before nightfall. You’ve little reason to worry with how smoothly she adjusts, and you decide to give her some of Duke’s treats when you return as a way of thanking her.

There’s something bittersweet about the ride back to the inn. 

This time, you’re the one riding behind Shouto with your hands around his waist. You think briefly that you should have done this sooner. You know solemnly that this is likely to be one of the last times you ever will. 

Now that he’s got a horse again, he’s able to leave town; and it’s not like you have any right to try to ask him to stay. 

You’ve got a life to get back to, an inn to run. He has a brother to track down. It isn’t like you could even… be with him if he did stick around. Despite how much you might want to. 

As the prospective future head of your family, you are under a spotlight at all times. You’d been lucky enough to get the time alone with Shouto that you had so far. Once your father returns and finds out about your loss of the connection with the stables, you’ll be on such a short leash that you’ll lose every last inch of slack you’ve scraped and fought for over the years. 

You try not to think about it. Naturally, you manage to fail this task miserably. 

When you reach the inn, you’re immediately greeted by a frantic Delilah. 

“Sweetpea, we got trouble. Thirteen guests just showed up and we only got room for twelve.”

“You’ve let them know?” 

“Of course. They’re insistin’ we find ‘em the space.” 

“Right,” you say firmly. “I got this. Leave it to me.” 

Before you run back inside, you turn quickly back to Shouto. “Sorry to leave you so quickly. You know what it’s like.” 

“I do,” he nods. “I’ll see you later.” 

And you believe him, because why wouldn’t you? 

But there’s a burden that comes with falling for a man who is so incredibly quiet. When he thinks he’s overstayed his welcome, there’s nothing you can do to stop him from leaving. 

You return from your sudden embargo to a note at the front counter. Neat handwriting, with your name penned at the very top. 

I didn’t want to leave like this, but I figured it would be the best solution for your problem. That remaining guest can take the room I had. I’ve left it clean. 

Thank you for everything. I’ll write again soon. If you’ll forgive my sudden departure, I’d like to see you again soon.

Yours, 

Shouto.

Of course, despite it all he’s still thinking how best to be helpful. 

There’s no way you can be angry at him for it, despite the ache that builds in your chest and drops heavy into your gut. 

Shouto was always destined to move along. He’s a traveller with a purpose, a reason to remain on the roads. You were never more than a rest stop on that journey. 

You try to send him a letter in the days that follow. Something to let him know that everything is alright. But the ink comes out splotchy, and your hands don’t want to write the words. So, you give up. 

And one day, you find he’s reached out first. 

To whom it may concern, 

Recently, I passed through a large city and saw those carved boats that you mentioned Cole has wanted. The courier wouldn’t take more than my letter, but I have kept hold of it for him. I… don’t particularly know when I will be able to get it to him, but I thought I would tell you nevertheless. 

There has been little luck on my search for Touya, but I received correspondence from a friend of a friend further north who swears they saw a man matching his description several weeks ago. It should take three days to reach the town they mentioned, and I can only hope he’s remained there. If not, at least it points me closer to the right direction. 

It feels strange to travel alone. I know my conversational skills leave much to be desired, but the silence that I have been left with aches more than the pleasant quiet we used to share. 

Perhaps, when I have completed my mission, I can return to visit? Touya would like you, I think. It would be nice to see you make him laugh. 

Yours, 

Shouto

Shouto, 

You’ve made a nine-year-old boy very excited for his new boat. (That was real kind of you, thanks.) He’s been asking after you every day. You really made a strong impression on him. 

Sorry to hear the search is dragging out. If you need provisions, Delilah’s parent’s live up in a town up north too- maybe even the same one. She’s sent a letter to them already, they’re there for you if you need it. (Her idea, by the way. She misses you too.) I’ve clipped a map to the backside of this letter for you.

I know what you mean about the travel. Went to the market yesterday and even Duke seemed to miss having that extra weight around. Hope Kansei is adjusting well to you, though. She’s a good horse, strong and smart. 

There’s always room for you at the inn. Touya too. I hope we can meet soon. 

Yours always

You place the pen back in the inkpot and hold the parchment up to air-dry. A few of the letters have smudged as you’ve written them, but it’s legible at least. 

It fits neatly into its envelope, and you seal it with some wax from the candle you’ve been burning to write by. Rudimentary, sure, but it works. You’ll take it to the post office in the morning, you decide, and place it neatly on the edge of your desk. 

A few months have passed since Shouto first left. Though he’d only been around for a handful of weeks, you can’t ignore the void that seems to be left in his absence. That’s just the sort of man he is, you suppose. Enigmatic, in his own way. 

You’ve fallen back into your familiar old routine. Wake up early, kiss your wife good morning, work the inn, go to sleep. But now, something has changed. 

This time, the promise of adventure lingers just beyond the horizon. 

[arealphrooblem]

Kidnapped by the Boss Part 6

Part one here

Synopsis: Civilian is a secretary to the Prime Minster. But when the political summit between the city states goes awry, she finds herself kidnapped by the very boss she tried to protect and nothing is what it seems.

CW: Hunger Strike, disordered eating *summary of chapter will be at the bottom for anyone who wants to skip it.*

Breakfast was delivered via servant a short while after he dropped her off. Her stomach roiled at the sight of all her favorites carefully arranged on the tray. It reminded her, quite forcefully, of how her grandmother used to wrap bitter pills in peanut butter balls or turkey for her ailing dog.

He wanted so badly to preserve the relationship they had before, as if he hadn’t completely obliterated it himself. He must have thought it would keep her complacent when her fear faded out.

He thought he knew her, but he had only ever seen her at her job. And sure, some days were hard and he caught a glimpse of her frustration or anxiety. As the years bled into each other, he learned little things about her, like her favorite foods or the TV shows that she rewatched obsessively.

But he never actually saw her. Even at the height of her newfound crush on him, Val kept a tight lid on any unprofessional slip ups and her personal life rarely leaked over into her job.

He thought patient, reliable, helpful Val was the only facet of her being. He knew nothing of the depths of her rage, her pig-headed stubbornness,

She took a slice of toast and threw the rest in the trash.

“Knock knock, Val. I hope you’re decent.”

The driver’s voice sounded about two seconds before the door opened. Of course, by the afternoon Val had already showered and dressed for the day. Still, it was a little unsettling how little time he’d give her if she wasn’t.

“Does it ever get old, coming here to irritate the shit out of me?” she demands, crossing her arms.

“Angel, it got old the first time.” He rolled his eyes. “Do you think it's my choice to be here?”

“Do you actually have free will or are you just a highly realistic robot?”

“Do you want a tour of the castle or do you want to stay stuck in this room?”

“ . . .What?”

“Apparently the rumor goes that your incredibly lavish and luxurious rooms are not good enough for you. So I’ve been tasked to show you around, let you stretch your legs or whatever.”

“Stretch my legs?” she repeated skeptically. “Where? Over the edge of the roof?”

“Or, you know, to the library. Or the zoo.”

“There’s a zoo here?”

The driver waved his hand dismissively. “Technically a rescue animal sanctuary. He calls it a menagerie because he’s pretentious as hell. But let’s be real — its a glorified petting zoo.”

A zoo and a library. Val had to admit both intrigued her greatly. Staying in this room did her no favors, mentally, with nothing to do but stew in her own fear and frustration.

She opened her mouth to comply and then promptly shut it closed.

Bitter pill. Peanut Butter.

Any kindness from him came with strings, no doubt, so he could yank her around like a little puppet.

“No,” she said instead. “I’m staying here.”

The driver’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t need to be afraid. I’m not going to kill you unless he asks me to — no matter how annoying you are. And if he does, I’ll snap your neck. Quick, efficient. Shoving you off the roof is cowardly and makes too big of a mess.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but it has nothing to do with that. I just don’t want to go. You can tell your king to stick his zoo and his library up his ass.”

The driver gave her a long stare. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a stubborn fucking idiot?”

“Once or twice.”

He shook his head. “If you want to go slowly insane in this room, have at it, I guess.”

Lunch came. Her stomach growled at the sight of her favorite sandwich but she forced herself to throw that away too. (she ate the pickle spear though). He wanted something from her and he wasn’t going to get it just because he plied her with food and entertainment.

 A cage was a cage.

She didn’t even bother to check what dinner was. The tray and lid sat untouched on the table for the servants to whisk away tomorrow.

Hunger woke up her up later that night, her mouth dry. Head dizzy. Her stomach cramped with it, a howling beast. It was so tempting to tear the lid of the dinner off and eat it with her hands that she went and locked herself in the bathroom for a while.

A few handfuls of water from the sink was all she allowed herself. When she felt strong enough, she set the tray in the bathroom floor and shut the door to block the temptation. Sleep claimed her for a long time.

“My lady. You need to wake up.”

A hand kept delicately patting her shoulder, chasing her out of another nightmare. She jerked awake, scrambling to sit up in the bed.

One of the servants, a woman old enough to be her mother with a calm but impassive face, stared down at her. Her uniform was immaculate.

“I’m sorry,” Val found herself saying. “What — what time is it? Has something happened?”

“It is nearly eleven, ma’am. His majesty will be here in roughly ten minutes with breakfast. I advise you to dress.”

“Ten minutes?” she squawked.

“Do you need any assistance?” the woman asked.

God her head was splitting now that sleep started to fall away. “Painkillers?” she asked weakly. “My head hurts.”

To her surprise, the woman gave her a stern look. “I’m sure it does,” she said with a bland tone that did not match the look in her eyes.

The woman swept off through the door without another look in Val’s direction.

What was that about? she wondered as she stumbled to the dresser. But the fogginess in her head lay too thick to figure it out. She felt like complete and utter shit and the last thing she felt ready to deal with was him.

The bed beckoned her with its feather pillows and down comforter and high thread count sheets. She stared longingly back for a moment, debating on how convincingly she could pretend to sleep when he showed up, before sighing and putting on a fresh change of clothes.

She had just tamed her hair into another pony tail when a knock came from the door.

“Rise and shine, princess,” said the driver’s voice.

Goddamn it. She had to deal with both of them.

“Can we reschedule?” she yelled out. “I’m busy.”

“I’m afraid not, love,” said the king’s voice.  “I’d rather not wait.”

She did not like the sound of that. “Fine,” she growled. “Let’s get this over with.”

The door opened, the driver propping it open with his foot as the king stepped in with a large covered tray.

“I don’t know why you bother with knocking,” the driver muttered. “It’s not like her permission matters.”

“Because I have manners,” the king sniffed, setting the tray down on the table. “Unlike some people.”

He looked up and gave her a wink, as if sharing an inside joke.

“You don’t keep me around for manners.” The driver hopped up on her unmade bed, pulling a knife from his belt and setting it on the comforter.

“Make yourself at home,” Val said scathingly.

“How generous of you.” He bared his teeth in a dangerous smile. “I think I will.”

The king made himself busy setting out the spread. Toast and jams and sausage links and cubed cheese and a thermos of coffee with delicate china cups.

“Children, play nice. It’s not even noon. Val, please, heave a seat.”

Just looking at the food made her stomach rebel, even as the rest of her body desperately craved it. The smell invaded her nose, making her swallow back a gag. God, why couldn’t she just sleep all day? It’s not like she had anything else to do.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “What do you want now?”

“I have something for you.” The king lowered himself down in the chair opposite of her and gestured for her to do the same. “But first, we should eat.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You’ll think differently when you see what it is. Now sit.”

He gave her a warning look, the danger of his true self slipping out from behind the mask. Val sat, feeling the presence of the assassin behind her with a knife like a prickle on the back of her neck.

“Which jam would you like on your toast?” he asked. “We have peach, strawberry, lemon chardonnay, and cherry.”

“No thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach felt as if it were trying to eat itself.

“I insist you try the lemon chardonnay, it’s phenomenal. I have it every morning.”

He covered a triangle of toast in a thin layer of bright yellow jam before setting it on a tiny plate and handing it to her. The citrus smell washed over her, intoxicating. Any other time she would have devoured it. She loved lemon flavored pastries and he knew it. Which was why it didn’t cost her much to set her plate down off to the side  and ignore it.

The wave of twisted self satisfaction more than made up for her hunger.

Next he poured her a glass of clear water from another thermos and slid it over to her.

“Water?”

“I’m not thirsty.”

She wanted to drown herself in that glass of water, but she’d rather drop dead than give him that satisfaction. He wanted her to eat and drink so badly. He wanted her healthy enough to pretend that her life wasn’t in his hands. To forget how responsible he was for ruining it.

She wouldn’t let him.

“You are thirsty, though,” he said, his stare cutting her from across the table. “Because you haven’t eaten or drank anything in almost three days.”

“That’s not true.”

She had a pickle slice. And a piece of plain toast. And some water from the sink. His gaze narrowed, though, the previous warmth in his gaze clouding over.

“Oh but it is. The servants have found your food in the trash after every meal, save for last night’s dinner, which they found in the bathroom while you were sleeping.”

“I’m still figuring that one out,” muttered the driver from behind her.

“Why does it matter what I do with my food,” she retorted.

Silence answered her. Silence and that unnerving gaze pinning her down like a push pin in a cork board. She fought the urge to squirm under it, to feel like a student confronted by an angry principal. Though only a decade separated them, she felt like a child around him at times. A silly, clueless child.

But of course . . . He wasn’t actually a decade older. He was several decades older. Over a century older, at least in his mind.

“Val.”

He kept using her name like it meant something to him and it pissed her off.

“Eugene,” she said, his old name still feeling like sacrilege to the part of her brain still clinging to her previous professionalism.

If it bothered him, he showed no sign.

“I know what this is,” he said finally. 

Her hackles raised.

“Breakfast” she said, raising a brow.

“Control,” he countered. “Rebellion. Whittling yourself down to spite me.”

She hated how easily he saw through her. How well he could guess what laid under her professional mask when she couldn’t get a read on him at all.

“Maybe I don’t like the food,” she said, purposefully obtuse.

“Nonsense,” he said dismissively. “I know everything you like.”

“You’re not going to get anywhere because of that,” she snapped. “I’m not a kid you can bribe with candy and a trip to the zoo.”

“So that’s what this is.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m not trying to bribe you, Val. I’m just trying to feed you.”

“Well I don’t want to eat it.”

“Would you rather I send you food that you hate? French onion soup and pork rinds and spicy curry? Would that make you feel better?”

“I’m not eating anything that you give me.” She crossed her arms, fingers clenching tight at her sides, feeling as if she were digging and digging further into her own grave.

She would rather die than give him any kind of satisfaction and it scared her that that thought could be literal. But she didn’t know how to back down yet she couldn’t stomach the thought of giving him the one thing she could deny him when he had taken everything else.

“For how long? Because I’m not sure if you noticed, Val, but the only food available to you comes from me.”

She shrugged, not having an answer. It’s not like she planned a hunger strike. But refusing to eat fueled the rage simmering inside her and that felt so much better than the fear. It felt like she could do something, even if it only hurt herself.

His gaze flickered over her shoulder for a moment before returning to hers.

“It stops today. I am not leaving this room until you eat something.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time,” she retorted with bravado she didn’t feel.

Especially with the hands that dropped suddenly onto her shoulders. She launched forward, even when she had nowhere to run, but the hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms back behind the chair. Tugging only brought sharp pain in her shoulders, the driver’s hands a shackle around her own. 

The king stood up and stepped towards her. “You will eat today, by your hand or by mine. The choice is yours. And if you make either impossible I will chain you to a hospital bed and an IV drip. To be fair you might be close to that already with your dehydration. So we will start with that glass of water.”

He plopped a glass straw into the cup and held it out for her.

“Why does this matter so much that I live?” she demanded. “That I’m healthy? What does it matter to you what I do to myself?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he set the glass back down on the table and knelt down on one knee beside her chair, hand resting lightly on the arm. It brought him a few inches under her gaze so he had to look up, dark eyes fathomless. She couldn’t tell what emotion shone out of them, but it burned unfiltered.

“I must admit, when I pulled you into the car and onto the plane I didn’t know what I was going to do with you,” he said quietly. “ But I never considered torture or punishment — you’ve done nothing wrong. And yet, it didn’t matter, because you have done nothing but torment yourself since you got here.”

She broke away from his gaze, her stomach twisting uncomfortably, but he didn’t stop. 

“You don’t sleep and then you stop eating. You live in constant fear despite our reassurances that you’re safe. I try to give you comforts, things to make you happy and you reject it all. It’s not meant as a bribe to lull you into complacency or servitude. The reason why you’re here is because you cared about me enough to risk your safety and I refuse to have you punished for it but that’s exactly what will happen when you go back home.” 

Fingers nudged her chin until their gaze met again. 

“I’m trying to give you a life here. Bit by bit. Will you let me?”

He looked so beseeching, so soft. It hurt. She wanted to believe it so bad. 

“You tell me I’m safe but  you’ve threatened my life multiple times since I got in that car,” she pointed out. “You both have. He especially loves to point out how I live on borrowed time and borrowed favor,” she added, jerking her chin back towards the driver. 

Ice settled in those dark eyes as he flickered them over her shoulder. Immediately the driver released her arms, relief following immediately afterwards. She shook them out, then cradled them to her chest. 

“Rook has a penchant for practicality that borders on the sociopathic,” the king said. “And I haven’t threatened you so much as warned.” He took one of her hands in his. “I’ve been building up to this moment for three lifetimes and I cannot allow anyone to stand in my way. Not even you. So long as you don’t actively impede me, you have nothing to fear from me.” 

She swallowed. “You’re a very terrifying person for someone who wants my trust.”

He smiled then, a soft rueful thing. “I was not always so. Will you trust me, anyway, Val?”

And this was why he was elected, she thought with a mental shake of her head, despite his vague past and unknown status. 

“I will . . .consider it,” she said slowly. 

“And will you eat with me? . . . .Please?”

Val sighed deeply, knowing she lost this round. “Yes.”

His smile spread, slow and bright, like the sun coming up over the ridge and butterflies rioted in her chest to meet it. Goddamn it. If kidnapping and captivity and threat of potential murder wouldn't kill this stupid crush, did she have any hope at all of ever being rid of it?

Tag list:

@rivalriotrenegade @sunyside-world @fishtale88 @those-damn-snippets @suspiciousmuffin @thats-alittle-gay @girl-of-the-sea-and-stars @tobeornottobeateacher @burningkittypoet @kurai-hono-blog @clover-sage

Summary: Val goes on a spontaneous hunger strike, not really intending it to be one but because she sees serving her favorite foods as a bribe to get her to comply. She compares it to the peanut butter her grandmother wraps medicine in for her dog.

After three days of very little to eat and drink, the king and the driver visit with breakfast. The king tries to force her to eat, Val and the King have a confrontation when she refuses, and he admits that he isn't trying to bribe her, but to help her make a life here since she will be punished if she ever went back home. He doesn't want her punished just because she cared enough about him to look for him in the parking lot. Eventually Val agrees to eat again and she says she will consider trusting his word when he told her he didn't want to hurt or kill her.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (27) Jealousy

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter27)

Summary: Rosie and Timothy travel the Greek islands. An intriguing experience on Santorini, puzzles and irks Rosie immensely. When Timothy doesn't react to her liking, there's only one option on how to move forward.

Twenty-Seven Years Old

To celebrate my birthday and my new fulltime job as a political risk analyst, Timothy and I went island-hopping in Greece. Liwia and her girlfriend had done it last year, and it appealed to us both. Having nothing but the flights planned, made me feel a bit reckless but it was quite freeing as well.

The only thing we’d decided on was to stick to the Cyclades and we started our journey by taking a ferry to the small island Antiparos. Several people who let out rooms stood waiting on the quay as we disembarked. An elderly and friendly looking man caught our attention, and the room he had to offer was more than sufficient.

Our first breakfast is one I’ll remember forever. The small restaurant was situated by the seafront where the fishing boats came in with their catch. Faded coloured fishing nets hung to dry in the sun, the scent of salt weaving its way to our nostrils.

Freshly pressed orange juice and the fluffiest omelette I’d ever come across, ensured the perfect start of our day.

We hired a moped to explore a little. The trip took us through a landscape of olive trees and flowers we didn’t have in the UK. Our destination was the famous cave with stalagmites and stalactites. The stalagmite at the entrance is apparently 45 million years old, the oldest in Europe. 

We were warm and a bit sweaty after standing out in the sun, while we waited for our guide. The air inside was pleasantly chill and got even colder as we descended the 411 steps to the heart of the cave. It was a mesmerising sight, and knowing that this was the nature’s own doing, left me amazed and humble.

At a cosy taverna we ate the best Greek salad to date. The ripe tomatoes paired with the salty feta cheese, olives, onions, the rich olive oil and the homemade bread, almost made me religious for a moment.

The beach close to our quarters, was small, secluded and blessedly free of crowds. We had taken a boat to a famous beach the day before, but we’d barely found a free space to lay down our blankets, so this felt like paradise in comparison. 

Another short boat ride away was the bigger island Paros. We took the bus to the other side of the island. I don’t remember anything else from that trip than the hours we spent in Naoussa. Several boats painted in bright colours lay bobbing in the water close to the restaurants that encircled the bay. It may sound simple, but it was the most beautiful view, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. We sat there for hours, eating seafood and drinking Greek white wine. 

***

So far, it had been a “normal” vacation, or tedious as Papa would’ve called it. That all ended when we sat foot on Santorini. Getting a room was easy enough, and relieved of our heavy rucksacks we went for a stroll in the main street of Fira. Every other shop was a jewellery shop, and the necklaces displayed bore the resemblance to what pharaohs and Cleopatra wore. Heavy, massive and ridiculously expensive. For each shop they seemed to grow bigger and uglier. We had quite a laugh at that.

The most peculiar thing happened at the restaurant we had lunch. It was a terrace with a breathtaking view over the Aegean Sea. We’d decided to stay for a while and ordered more iced tea, making ourselves comfortable under the big parasol. We had both brought a book, and for a while we read in silence. A repetitive sound of paper being ripped, caught my attention.

An elderly woman had taken up residence at the table next to ours. She had short frizzy hair, more grey than brown now, her glasses were round with a white frame. The summer dress she wore had big patterns in green, red, white, and orange. On her feet were white flip-flops. 

“Stop staring,” Timothy whispered.

He startled me and I looked annoyed at him, but averted my eyes and took a sip of my drink. The moment the sound of ripped paper reached my ears again, my eyes were drawn to the spectacle at the other table.

The woman read a book too. A paperback. The curious thing I almost couldn’t fathom, was that whenever she finished a page, she ripped it out and placed it in a pile under her plate. Why would anyone want to do such a thing? What if you needed to go back some pages to look up something you’ve missed. It could never be read by another person, since she apparently left pages wherever she sat down to read. It bore no logic, and it irked me.

“Aren’t you curious about why she does it?” I whispered to Timothy.

“Not particularly. My book is far too interesting, and you won’t get an answer unless you ask her, and I guess you aren’t inclined to do that,” was his phlegmatic answer.

Timothy’s ability to turn off the world and disappear into his reading or writing, was admirable, but now it almost made me jealous of his book. I wanted to speculate with someone, solve this odd conundrum. There would be no more reading on my part after this, so I took out my phone instead.

Want to solve a mystery for me?

Pray tell! I’m bored to death and about to shoot the wall. P

Also available on AO3

Friendly warning: after 25 years the mystery is still unsolved. Don’t be shy about suggesting what the meaning of this appalling behaviour could be 🤭

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[newbeginningsrekindled]

Hey you!! Yeah you! Are you interested in deep lore? Fantasy settings? Steampunk, magic, political intrigue, and the like? Do you like… Minecraft, I suppose? Well have I got good news for you!

Introducing: New Beginnings!

New Beginnings is a LGBTQ+ Friendly, RP-Based Minecraft Server, with an ever-evolving world that you can help to shape! Our community has been kicking around for nearly 2 years at this point, and is still going strong! We have members from the U.S., as well as a range of European countries. We have an active playerbase, and would love if you would join them!

The project we’re currently working on is called New Beginnings: Rekindled, a sequel to the first project we’ve done. As it is a sequel, it has a little bit of prior context, but don’t worry! There’s been a large timeskip, and a whole new location to work with! It’ll be just like starting fresh. In case it does become relevant, though, I’ll give a little summary.

———————

In the original New Beginnings, the story began with a Theocratic Monarchy called "Justyce.” their society put a major emphasis on arcane ability, and long-standing noble families were highly respected. As time moved on, the nation developed, andthe rise of technology became more prevalent. This caused a political divide between the noble and royal factions, the nobles hailing this technology for its myriad uses, and the other aristocracy reviling them for scorning their arcane gifts. Eventually a separate nation formed based on the more Materialistic beliefs: "Ebonspire". A nation fueled entirely by technology. These nations went to war with one another, sparking an arms race. This increased the need for resources drastically.

This is where our first project took place, with two colony ships, one from each nation, coincidentally arriving on the same landmass. The story focused mostly on the conflict between the two camps, and how characters chose to either stick to their beliefs, or branch out and choose humanity over duty. Some agreement was eventually reached, but the leader of the Justycian colony, "Alexander Cirillo", and the de-facto leader of the Ebonspire camp, "Alcar Nymmons", continued a new war by proxy.

———————

The story for this sequel follows the after-effects of the war they accidentally started, and what happens multiple decades down the line after its ending. More information regarding this will be in the lore docs on the discord server.

Speaking of the discord server! If you’ve read this far, you’re probably at least a little interested. So go ahead and join! There’s some questions you’ve gotta answer, some rules you’ve gotta read, and a character to write! So get in there!

[notquinnsea]

BEYOND MONTICELLO - CHAPTER FIVE

| A Thomas Jefferson x Reader fanfic |

The morning was crisp but already busy at the Washington estate. The sound of footsteps echoed faintly as Thomas Jefferson sat in the dining room, sipping his tea. Across the room, Martha Washington spoke quietly to her husband, listing the items she needed to complete that evening’s dinner preparations.

President Washington eventually turned to Thomas. “Mr. Jefferson, since you’ve expressed your appreciation for Martha’s cooking, perhaps you wouldn’t mind assisting Miss Y/N with gathering the ingredients. The market will have what we’re missing.”

Thomas glanced up, caught off guard, but quickly nodded. “Of course, Mr. President. I’d be glad to help.”

Martha added warmly, “It shouldn’t take long, but with the crowd this morning, an extra set of hands will make things easier.”

Y/N, who had been tidying the table, gave Thomas a polite smile. “I’ll get my list together. Thank you for offering, Mr. Jefferson.”

Before they could leave, Polly appeared in the doorway, bright-eyed and eager. “Papa, can I come with you?”

Thomas hesitated. “Polly, it’s a market. There won’t be much for you to do.”

“I won’t be any trouble,” Polly said, her voice insistent. “Please?”

Y/N looked at Polly and then at Thomas. “She’s welcome to join us. It might even make the trip more pleasant.”

With that, Polly was grinning, and the trio set off in the carriage.

The market was bustling when they arrived, the hum of voices blending with the occasional clatter of carts. Polly clung close to Thomas at first, but her curiosity quickly got the better of her as they navigated the stalls.

“Do you come here often, Miss Y/N?” Polly asked as they walked.

“Not often enough,” Y/N replied with a small smile. “Usually, I’m in the office or running errands closer to the estate.”

Polly tilted her head. “Do you like working for Uncle James?”

Y/N adjusted the basket on her arm. “I do. He’s fair and always clear about what needs to be done. Though I wouldn’t call it thrilling work, it’s important.”

Polly seemed to consider this. “It sounds like you’re good at it.”

Thomas glanced down at Y/N, his expression thoughtful. “Polly’s right. Important work often goes unrecognized, but that doesn’t make it any less valuable.”

Y/N met his gaze, momentarily caught off guard. “Thank you, Mr. Jefferson,” she said softly.

Polly piped up again. “Papa, did you always want to work in government?”

Thomas chuckled lightly. “Not exactly. When I was younger, I was more interested in farming and reading. But life doesn’t always allow you to stick to your preferences.”

“And you, Miss Y/N?” Polly asked, her curiosity still burning. “Did you always want to work with Uncle James?”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I can’t say I planned it, no. But I’ve always wanted to contribute to something larger than myself. It seemed like a good place to start.”

The conversation flowed easily as they moved from stall to stall. Thomas paid for a bundle of fresh carrots while Y/N selected herbs and Polly inspected a jar of honey. Though he tried not to let it show, Thomas found himself watching Y/N more often than he intended. There was something refreshing about her—sharp, capable, and far less affected by his presence than most people he encountered.

By the time they returned to the carriage, Polly was clutching a small bag of sugared almonds that Y/N had bought for her, chatting happily about the things she’d seen. Y/N handed the basket of ingredients to Thomas as they climbed aboard, their hands brushing briefly. He lingered on the warmth of her touch longer than he cared to admit.

As they rode back to the estate, Polly leaned against Thomas, already dozing off. Y/N sat across from them, her focus on the passing scenery, but Thomas’s thoughts remained divided between the two women sharing the carriage—one the daughter he cherished, the other a woman who was becoming far too intriguing for his comfort.

_____________________________________

The sun hung low in the sky by the time the carriage returned to the Washington estate, casting a warm golden light over the grounds. Polly stirred awake as the wheels slowed, blinking sleepily as Thomas helped her down first. She mumbled a quick thank-you before heading inside, still clutching her little bag of almonds.

Y/N stepped out next, holding the basket of ingredients. Thomas extended his hand to her, steadying her as she stepped onto the gravel. Their eyes met briefly, and before Y/N could pull her hand away, Thomas bent slightly and kissed her knuckles.

Her breath hitched, and her cheeks warmed at the unexpected gesture. “Mr. Jefferson—” she began, unsure how to respond.

“Thomas,” he corrected softly, his lips quirking into a small smile. “You’ve earned the right to forgo formality, don’t you think?”

Y/N hesitated, searching his face for any trace of mockery. But there was none—only warmth and something she couldn’t quite place. She nodded, her voice quiet but steady. “Thank you… Thomas.”

He released her hand, and the moment lingered as they stood there, the sounds of the bustling household carrying faintly in the distance. Finally, Y/N cleared her throat, lifting the basket. “I should take these to the kitchen. Thank you for the help today.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied, stepping back with a slight bow of his head.

Y/N turned and walked toward the house, her steps brisk but her thoughts a jumble. Behind her, Thomas lingered for a moment, watching her disappear inside before heading toward the front of the house to check on Polly.

The kitchen was alive with activity as Y/N entered, setting the basket of fresh vegetables and herbs on the counter. Martha Washington was already there, directing a servant to fetch more wood for the stove. She looked up and greeted Y/N with a knowing smile.

“Ah, there you are. How was the market?” Martha asked, tying her apron.

“Busy, but we found everything you asked for,” Y/N replied, beginning to unpack the ingredients.

Martha raised an eyebrow, her expression playful. “And I hear Thomas was quite the gentleman on the way back.”

Y/N froze for a moment, then glanced at Martha, trying to keep her composure. “Who told you that?”

Martha chuckled softly, her hands busy peeling potatoes. “No one had to tell me, my dear. I saw it myself through the window. Quite a scene—a man like Mr. Jefferson kissing a young lady’s hand.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush again as she focused intently on arranging the herbs. “It was nothing,” she said quickly. “He was just being polite.”

“Polite,” Martha repeated, drawing out the word. “I’ve seen polite, and I’ve seen… something else entirely. And that, my dear, was something else.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Instead, she sighed and grabbed a knife to begin chopping the carrots. “I don’t know what you’re implying, aunt Martha.”

Martha smiled knowingly, turning back to her potatoes. “Oh, I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying, sometimes a little attention from a man can be quite flattering. Especially when it comes from someone like Thomas Jefferson.”

Y/N shook her head, but she couldn’t entirely suppress a small smile. She didn’t know what to make of Thomas’s gesture—or the look in his eyes when he told her to call him by his first name. But for now, there was dinner to prepare, and she wasn’t about to let Martha get the last word.

“Well, if he’s such a gentleman, perhaps you should thank him when you see him,” Y/N said lightly, earning a laugh from Martha.

As the two worked together in the warm kitchen, the conversation shifted to lighter topics, but Y/N couldn’t help the occasional drift of her thoughts back to the moment outside the carriage. Whatever Thomas Jefferson’s intentions were, he certainly had a way of leaving her unsettled—in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

_____________________________________

The carriage rocked gently as Thomas and Polly made their way back to Monticello under a star-studded sky. Dinner at the Washington estate had ended late, with lively conversation stretching long after dessert. Polly had been unusually quiet throughout the evening, but Thomas had attributed it to her being surrounded by so many adults. Now, as they headed home, she sat across from him, bundled in her shawl and gazing out at the darkened fields.

Thomas leaned back, letting out a soft sigh as he loosened his cravat. “You were very well-behaved tonight, Polly. Mr. and Mrs. Washington were impressed by how grown-up you’ve become.”

Polly glanced at him with a small smile. “I liked seeing Uncle James again. And Miss Y/N is really nice too.”

Thomas’s expression softened at the mention of Y/N, but he kept his tone casual. “She is,” he agreed. “She has a way of making people feel at ease.”

Polly hesitated, looking down at her hands before speaking. “Papa?”

“Yes, my dear?”

She met his eyes, her expression curious but earnest. “Do you like Miss Y/N?”

Thomas froze for a moment, caught off guard by the question. “What makes you ask that?”

Polly shrugged, though her gaze was unwavering. “You smiled a lot when you talked to her. And when she gave you that plate of food, you said thank you twice.”

Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle, though a faint blush crept up his neck. “Did I, now? You’ve been paying too much attention, Polly.”

Polly tilted her head, her smile widening. “It’s okay if you like her, Papa. I think she likes you too.”

Thomas leaned forward, his tone playfully stern. “You’re supposed to be focusing on your manners and your studies, not matchmaking your old father.”

Polly giggled, though she didn’t press the matter. Thomas settled back against the seat, a small smile lingering on his face despite himself.

The moment of lightheartedness passed, and Polly leaned against the carriage wall, letting out a soft sigh. Thomas noticed immediately and straightened.

“Are you tired, Polly?” he asked.

She nodded. “A little. I’ve been tired a lot lately.”

Thomas’s brow furrowed, concern washing over him. “How long has this been going on?”

Polly hesitated, avoiding his gaze. “A few weeks, maybe. I didn’t think it was important. I thought it would go away.”

Thomas leaned forward, his voice firm but gentle. “Polly, you should have told me. Have you felt unwell in any other way?”

She shook her head quickly, though she seemed uneasy. “No, Papa, just tired. And sometimes… out of breath.”

Thomas’s chest tightened, his thoughts racing. The memory of Martha’s illness was fresh in his mind, no matter how many years had passed. He reached out, taking Polly’s small hands in his own.

“We’re going to see Dr. Gilmer as soon as we get home,” he said firmly. “I won’t take any chances with your health.”

Polly’s eyes widened slightly, her voice soft. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Papa. I feel okay, really.”

Thomas’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re my daughter, Polly. If something’s wrong, I need to know. Promise me you won’t keep things from me again.”

Polly nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence, the familiar silhouette of Monticello eventually appearing against the night sky. Thomas’s mind, however, was far from quiet. Polly’s words had shaken him in a way he hadn’t expected.

As the carriage pulled to a stop and he helped Polly down, he resolved that no matter what it took, he would ensure her health and happiness. He couldn’t fail her—not like he failed Martha.

[kingnlionhearts]

✶ Evenstar

. *. ⋆ CHAPTER 14

gif by @houseofamidala

pairing: anakin skywalker x oc

word count: 5.1k

✶ . *. ⋆ read on ao3 & wattpad

Anakin sat slouched on the sofa. He watched Oberyn pace across his room, working on one of his datapads while also talking with his brother. It amused Anakin that his brother could not stay put in one place — perhaps it was a Skywalker thing: always on the move. Oberyn was trying to set Anakin on another task to follow Elia around. This time she had to go North to Aphelion’s second largest city, Nolwenn, which lay protected in a carefully designed dome to protect all of the planet’s history. If the thought of exploring did not intrigue him so much, Anakin would be putting up a far greater fight.

“Why aren’t you going?” Anakin asked when Oberyn set his datapad down at last and collapsed into the armchair across from his brother.

“It’s a wedding thing,” Oberyn answered. “I’m not allowed to go. It’s supposed to be a bad omen or something.”

Suddenly, Anakin wanted to stick out his bottom lip and ask to stay with his brother. If he was to be in this wedding, he wanted to be by his brother’s side. Especially not when he was trying to avoid the Princess after he confessed his fears about his mother to her. But equally, he also did not want to sound like a silly little kid.

“And besides, I would really appreciate it if you accompanied El and Lilith.” Oberyn leaned forward as he spoke. “Nolwenn is very anti-war. And even though El opposes it too, I can’t let her be caught in the middle of something.”

Anakin gave a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll go.”

So now Anakin was stuck on a very long train journey with dozens of other passengers travelling North. The worst part of the journey was that the train could only travel underground. Elia had explained it to him as they boarded the isolated first class. The North was inhospitable and was constantly ravaged by violent snowstorms and freezing temperatures. It was the antithesis of Tatooine in Anakin’s eyes, and he was intrigued to see it. Therefore, to keep Aphelion connected, underground tunnels had been dug out — stretching all the way around the planet, as well as from Alora to Nolwenn. Anakin knew that mining used to be one of Aphelion’s main trades, but now he could see the degree to which they worked.

To pass the time, and to avoid the Princess and her friend, Anakin sat quietly by himself and meditated. (Obi-Wan would be proud.) Beneath the surface realigning his focus to the Force, Anakin could not explain it but the Force felt very strong here. Anakin realised he had not dwelled on it since they arrived, his head being preoccupied with a dozen other things that felt more important at the time.

Suddenly, Anakin felt a bumping against his knee. “Artoo!” He heard Elia scold as he opened his eyes to see that the Princess’ astromech had come to inspect him.

Anakin knew this blue-and-white R2 unit. They had met on Tatooine nine years ago — R2-D2 had never been far from Fallon Uttara’s heels. Anakin had met many astromechs and R-series droids, but never had he encountered a droid with Artoo’s personality and modifications. The young Jedi enjoyed talking with fellow mechanics and wondered what he could learn from this droid’s creator. Anakin thought of his own droid he had made as a boy — C-3PO, unfinished in Anakin’s eagerness to run away to Coruscant with his brother and new friends, abandoned to the always unforgiving sands of Tatooine. (He thought about his mother again and almost wished he could stop.)

“Hey, buddy,” Anakin said to the droid with a smile. He found himself chuckling as Artoo recounted his favourite — and least favourite — memories from Tatooine. (Most droids had their memories wiped often, especially those involved with politics or a Crown, so Anakin was quite surprised when Artoo beeped along about events like they were yesterday.)

Took hours to clean the sand out of all my gears. The droid ended with a trill, still not amused by the Tatooine climate.

Anakin laughed, truly. There were scarce beings who understood what Tatooine was like. While most of him wanted to forget his past, Anakin found it refreshing to confide in someone — or something — that had a slight understanding of what hardships he used to face. Even if it was only the weather. “You could pay me a million credits and I wouldn’t go back there willingly. I still don’t like sand.”

Don’t blame you. If droids could laugh, Artoo was doing it. Anakin grinned.

“Aphelion’s beaches are far softer and prettier than desert sands,” Lilith commented, peering over the top of her sketchbook. Anakin looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Lei, you should show him.”

Anakin watched a smile grow across the Princess’ face, light spilling into her soft brown eyes. The glow faltered when Elia looked at him. Whatever she was trying to hide, she did it well. (Anakin wasn’t sure why he noticed the way her expression changed.) “Neptune is wonderful,” she told him. “The villages are really pretty and the ocean is especially beautiful on a clear day.”

Anakin nodded without more of a reply. He trusted Elia’s opinion far more than Lilith’s. He didn’t think Athena had ever mentioned her planet’s beaches before — perhaps that was because Rhea was from Hemera and their beaches were famous galaxy-wide for being near perfect, or perhaps it was because Athena had always preferred Naboo to her homeworld. Anakin realised that Athena’s distance from the location was likely rather to do with her accident taking place there (Anakin still did not entirely know what happened that day — besides knowing that Elia was at the centre of why Queen Ianthe had made the decision to take her daughter out of the Jedi Order with Chancellor Palpatine’s support.) Elia caught his eye and the same dots connected in her head. She looked away from him and did not look back at him for the rest of the journey.

Despite knowing that Nolwenn was a city enclosed in a protective dome, Anakin still expected the city to merge into the surrounding landscape and be covered in a pretty layer of snow. Instead, the city was dominated by tall and sleek skyscrapers, reaching towards the sun, and many smaller districts that felt more familiar to the rest of Aphelion’s infrastructure that Anakin had seen. It was an interesting mix of metal and brick across the city, but Anakin didn’t think they clashed uncomfortably. The core of the city contained the highest concentration of high rise buildings — Anakin assumed the massive data vaults were either stored in them, or underneath. When he looked up, Anakin could see the raging snowstorm through the clear bubble. Its howls were muted by the gentle hum of the bustling city, but Anakin could imagine what it sounded like.

“We’re going to my Mum’s first,” Lilith informed Anakin as she and Elia linked arms and began walking down one of the neat cobbled streets outside the train station. Artoo gave the young Jedi a nudge to follow close behind the girls.

Lilith’s mother lived in a modest building. A small, two-storey home, tucked away in the artist’s corner of the city. Caught between two identical houses on a street of sameness, all that made each house stand apart was their painted exterior walls: some were one shade of pastel, others had intricate forest landscapes or constellations. Lilith’s mother’s house was on the simpler side: the brick wall was painted in a pale pink with delicate white and blue flowers drawn on vines looping around the windows.

Verena Stark looked just like her daughter: the same dark curls and snowy complexion. They even shared paint splatters across their fingers. Anakin’s mother was desert-warm, roughened by sand and hard work. Verena had the same maternal warmth that Anakin recognised in other women, but she bore more resemblance to a soft, crackling fire, her hands marked by splinters from old paintbrushes and her eyes tired from staring at colourful canvases. If Anakin looked at Lilith, he would have seen a similar fire — only burning more fitfully; weakened by snowstorms but bright against the sun’s glow.

Verena welcomed her daughter and Elia with tight hugs and admittance to soft prayers that they would arrive safely. When her gaze fell to Anakin, she gave him a pleasant smile — a flicker of silent remarks passed between her and the girls. Years of knowing and quiet secrets that Anakin was not privy to. But he did not care — especially when Verena brought them into her kitchen, bags abandoned at the door, and offered them a plate of warm cookies. Anakin wondered where Lilith’s loyalty had been led astray for her to leave Elia alone the other night when the young Jedi got the impression that Verena would not have imparted cheap abandon to her only daughter. It wasn’t really Anakin’s business (but it felt like it).

“How long are you guys staying for?” Verena asked as she and her visitors took seats in her living room.

“Not as long as I would like,” Elia admitted. “We’re here on ‘official business’,” she added with a roll of her eyes.

Anakin’s attention was caught by the number of paintings that adorned the walls — most were incredible, but there were a number of crude illustrations made by a child. Every piece was dated and named. Anakin noticed that while most of the works were obviously Lilith’s, there were some with Elia’s name attached. He knew nothing about what good artwork technically was, but he thought Elia’s was very good — he recognised the lakes of Naboo and the city of Theed, as well as purple Apheli moorland and mountain ranges.

His obvious distraction caused a shift in conversation as the women around him slipped into whispered conversation. Anakin tried not to eavesdrop, even though he was in the same room as them. He only paid attention when Elia offered to help Verena bring their empty cookie plates into the kitchen. Lilith did not look sideways at him, and Anakin didn’t particularly care. He didn’t mean to listen in to Elia and Verena’s conversation in the next room, but he was intrigued when they mentioned him. They spoke in hushed whispers, all too aware of their company, but Anakin caught snippets.

“Is he the one you used to talk about all the time?” Anakin overheard Verena ask. He did not catch Elia’s response, but she tumbled back into the living room a moment later. Anakin wasn’t sure why he cared, but he wanted to know what Elia said about him. Her cheeks were tinged pink. For all Anakin’s power in the Force, the Princess was still a mystery to him. He didn’t know how to read her.

“We should get going,” Elia told Anakin as she lingered in the doorway. There was a distance kept between them with Lilith in between. “We have another short journey to go.”

R2-D2 stayed behind at the house with Verena while Elia and Anakin set off for the caves. Elia could not wait to get this over with. Lilith had an art show on the other side of the artist’s district and Elia was bitter that she could not also attend. Their art-related hobbies were what bound Elia and Lilith together at fourteen years old, and Elia still wished she was free to create whatever she wanted like Lilith could.

The route to the mineral caves was simple. Nolwenn was a well-connected city with most of its traffic sitting at ground level to keep the sky clear. Three streets away from Lilith’s house was a taxi hub, where Elia hailed a droid-driven speeder for her and Anakin. The speeder took them to the other side of the city. Like the royal palace and Alora, Nolwenn was built close to a mountain range — the second biggest on the planet. Another mile-long tunnel ran deep below the city into one of the mountains. There laid the caves.

Elia explained the ritual to Anakin on the walk into the mountain. It was a silly old thing that came about before Aphelion became a matriarchy, all about female purity. Oberyn also thought it was a stupid thing as he did not have to undergo any such ritual. There was a silver lining that Elia found worthwhile was that the caves were laced with minerals that had a dozen healing properties that she could not name. Her scientific knowledge was limited to her school education; Zara Palpatine, Elia’s sister on a few technicalities, had tried teaching her some things, but Elia had less interest in learning why the galaxy worked in the way it did. Elia did not share the vast majority of Aphelion’s superstitions and she was hardly religious, so all she really cared for was the caves being pretty.

And the mineral caves were pretty. Even deep underground, the caverns were lit brightly by light beams bouncing off crystals lodged in the walls of stone, and the air still felt fresh with the calming scent of petrichor and not of damp, like she had been expecting. Elia walked towards the water and crouched down, dipping her fingers beneath the surface. Supposedly, the mineral pools were still warmed by dragonfire. She set down her bag of dry clothes next to the pool and slipped out of her shoes. Anakin stood somewhere behind her. When Elia stepped into the water, the fabric of her dress rose to float and stuck to her legs when she submerged up to her waist. She took a few more steps to see where the water deepened before reaching out and letting the water pull her under.

She felt weightless, floating in the water, and dove deeper. There were gaps of light in the bottom of the pool that poured water into the deeper ponds. The mineral pools all fed each other, using the melting snow as their birth point and fell through crevices through the mined out insides of the mountains. The water would eventually feed into Nolwenn’s water filtration system and be used by everyone in the city. The water cleansing reduced many of the mountain’s minerals, which was why girls travelled into the high points of the caves where the water was most healing.

When she came back up for air, she pushed her hair out of her face so it was slicked back against her head. Elia found her gaze reaching towards Anakin. “You can come in too,” she said. “It’s only husbands that aren’t supposed to come in with their future wives. The water is quite nice actually.”

“Do I need to wear a white dress as well?” Elia liked the way he laughed.

Elia rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushed pink from the warm water, and rose to stand where the water only met her waist. The bodice and skirt of her dress had transformed and was now stained lilac. “It represents a transformation: leaving an old life behind. Traditionally men visit Neptune to bathe in the salt water to shed layers of their past. But I know Oberyn wanted to follow more Naboo traditions, so I don’t know what he’ll be getting up to.”

Anakin huffed a little. “He was always better at looking to the future and letting go of the past than me.”

Elia nodded. She had gotten that impression from Oberyn early on. She waded back, deeper into the water. “It’s never too late to try, if you want to.”

She watched as Anakin stared at the ripples in the water before he confessed shyly, “I don’t know how to swim.”

For a moment, Elia wondered if she had forgotten that the Skywalker boys grew up on a desert planet, but Oberyn loved to swim with her in the lakes on Naboo. Was a Jedi’s life simply that restricted? She gave him an honest smile. “Don’t worry. I can show you.”

Anakin looked very uncertain, but he complied and shrugged off the outer layers of his Jedi robes and let them pool next to Elia’s bag. He moved tentatively, unsure. Elia offered a hand to guide him but he did not take it. She half-expected him to panic when in the water, but he watched and copied her instructions calmly. Elia showed him the way to float and move his arms to cut through the water. But she kept distance between them — they were already in close quarters, he wouldn’t want her any closer (not when the last time she was alone and secluded with a Jedi, Athena almost died). Anakin was a quick learner, a natural. She was ready to teach him another stroke when they were interrupted by a great tremble in the ground.

The shallow water in the pool sloshed over the edge and ripples broke the previously undisturbed surfaces of the other smaller pools in their room of the cavern.

Anakin turned to look at her. His short curls stuck to his forehead. “You guys have earthquakes and you brought us to a cave.”

Elia felt her stomach sink, like she was being pulled to the drain. “We aren’t supposed to… Aphelion only has quakes far out to sea where they can’t hurt anyone.”

Anakin dove towards Elia, pulling her under the water by her waist as the ceiling began to crumble and drop rock on top of them. Elia reached back to the surface, snatching back their discarded belongings. Anakin also surfaced for breath. They watched as the cracks in the ceiling grew bigger, water from the pools above them started leaking inside. The tunnels that led in and out of each room were much smaller and likely to be cut off quickly.

“Do you see the cracks of light where the water pulls you to?” Elia watched as Anakin followed where she was pointing and she nodded. “Dive for them, we can escape through the tunnels down there.”

They both took a deep breath and dove again. The water was clear enough for them both to see where they were going. Elia dove first as she was more experienced. But she had not yet gone this deep. All the pools fed into each other through tiny streams between rocks and drains that took away water so the highest pools would not overfill. But when Elia reached the bottom, the gap was not big enough for either of them to squeeze through. She tried to point it out to Anakin without inhaling any water before she began trying to break the rocks surrounding the drain. There were already cracks in the surface, they just needed to be bigger.

Anakin pushed her out of the way and reached out with the Force. The cracks in the rock grew bigger but did not fall away until Anakin was able to break them away with his hands. Like a plug being pulled, Elia and Anakin fell through the ceiling. The water cushioned their fall and they were lucky that the rocks fell around them and did not hit them. Elia was grateful to breathe again when she surfaced in the next pool and gasped for air. She dragged herself out of the new pool. This room was darker, the floor flooded by the overspill of the other rooms. But the walls were sturdier and the tremors were gone.

“Do you know what way to go?” Anakin asked, gaining his footing next to her.

“Not exactly, but all paths lead the same way.”

He motioned for her to lead and they took off running before another earthquake, or aftershock, appeared.

They reached the mouth of the cave quickly and slowed to a staggered walk. Dripping wet and breathless, Elia promised herself, I am never doing that again.

Elia noticed a small number of visitors approaching the cave with a guide. They all stared at Elia and Anakin. “You shouldn’t go in there right now. The earthquake made the ground unstable, it isn’t safe.”

Every one of the newcomers stared at her and glanced at their companions like she was crazy.

“What earthquake?” the tour guide asked.

Elia turned to Anakin. Perhaps she was crazy. But he was giving her the same expression of disbelief. The tour guide quickly rallied the group and they set off into the caves, all of them looking back at Elia and Anakin. The Elia noticed blood staining his hands.

“Sweet gods, are you okay?”

Anakin shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Elia made him sit down on one of the nicely placed rocks outside the cave. She pulled him around by the wrist and found some damp but clean fabric to clean the deep, but not threatening, cut across Anakin’s hand. He winced but complied as she fashioned him a makeshift bandage.

“I’ve seen people use the Force to heal,” she commented. “Sometimes I wish I could connect to it.”

“The Force is very strange here,” Anakin said. “It feels different on other planets, but Aphelion is something else. Every time I try and meditate or try to use it, I feel some resistance. I have never had trouble using the Force before.”

Elia was curious. Her experiences with the Jedi, and the Force, were very limited but they fascinated her. “Just here, or in thr capital too?”

“Everywhere. It’s this planet. It clouds things.”

Elia chuckled. “Aphelion is just a planet. Maybe the Chosen One just needs to give it a better chance.”

Anakin gave a disapproving huff. “I have given it plenty of chances.”

“The people, yes. The planet less so.”

Anakin raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I’d rather have the people like me.”

“Because they named you their hero?”

“Yes.” The Jedi frowned and pulled his hand out of her grasp to finish tying the bandage himself. Elia sat back and watched him to it wrong but she did not want to correct him.

Elia gave a half hearted laugh. “Is one title not enough for you? The Chosen One and the Hero.”

“I didn’t want to be the Chosen One.” Anakin bit back. “At least here, they gave me the title because I did something. I know I’m going to be the best at what I do. It’s written in the stars that I will bring balance to the Force but…”

“It’s a lot of pressure. I understand.”

He shook his head. “No you don’t. No one does. You’re a princess. You breathe and everyone loves you.”

Elia frowned and narrowed her eyes. “Like you do? Everyone pities me, same as you. You were born great. I was born nothing, the same as everyone else. It was chance and horrid, rotten luck that I stand here now. You have a lot, you should not take that for granted.” She stood and bundled up her stuff. “Let us please get back to the city so we can get my wedding done with and then we can leave each other alone.” Anakin stared at her and gave a small nod and they moved to Bevin their journey back into the city.

They were almost dry when they walked back through the city. They had walked in silence the whole way. Elia was quite tired of Anakin’s ego and his distaste that he could barely hide for a moment. She wanted to make a brief stop at one of her favourite bookshops to pick up a gift for Eden, and then she could go home.

The wedding was close now and Elia would not need to leave the palace again. Anakin would have no need to stay near her any longer. And yet it still weighed heavily on her heart that he refused to give her anything. She understood his reasons to feel protective over Athena — they were best friends; Elia felt the same way towards Lilith and Oberyn. She was mostly frustrated at herself that she still hung onto the hopeless, wretched feelings that had followed her since she was fourteen on Naboo, racing around Theed with Anakin. (Every part of Elia that was still Alana clung to the past with a steel grip.) She would just have to force herself to move on, push Alana further away.

The city centre was busier than Elia normally saw it in the times she had visited before. Nolwenn had a large population, but people did not often come together in vast groups unless there was a celebration or the market was fully stocked. But when Elia looked closer at the crowd as she and Anakin found themselves unwillingly brought into it, she saw dozens of signs being waved in their air.

“Look,” Elia said with a smile, “they don’t want this Bill to pass either. I just wish the Senate would see it too.”

“I wouldn’t celebrate these people’s decisions too soon — look.” Anakin pointed beyond the peace signs. Elia’s chest tightened as she saw dozens of posters of the Apheli crown or throne wreathed in flames. “You need to get out of here. Now.”

Elia shook her head. “They’re protesting. I should see what their complaints are so we can fix them–”

The crowd came closer together, trapping the Jedi and the Princess in the masses. Chants were being thrown around, graffiti strewn across buildings. Panic seized in Elia’s chest. These people hated her family. They hated this wedding. She heard a voice ring out — shaming each member of the royal family. Including Elia. They thought her plea for peace was a disguise for her ‘Separatist sympathies’? It was completely untrue, but they believed it. They hated her too.

Strong hands fell onto Elia’s waist, pulling her free from the crowd. She stumbled, trying to hide her face. Anakin was in front of her, steadying her when they broke free. Elia curled her hands into fists and ignored the stab of her nails cutting into her palms. What had she done wrong? She did not agree with her mother all the time, but Elia did not doubt that (besides the wedding), Ianthe Valarys had her planet’s best interests at heart. That was why she had Alerie join Padmé’s opposition. The people did not truly hate them, did they? Elia had never sat in on one of her mother’s meetings with her advisors and staff. Did the Queen know what her people thought? Elia wished she could talk to all of these protestors, these people — hear their grievances and tell the people that Aphelion was strong, that her adoptive family cared. But she did not even like speaking up in her lessons at university. What help could she truly give? She did not know how to fight, how to convince. She only stood as a shield when trouble came. Trouble she could not predict in any way that was helpful. (Not like little Eden’s vast and spiralling dreams, or Aerrik’s precise and rare glimpses of the future.) She was just there. Always just there. She was nothing. She did not even know why Ianthe had taken her in. She was just Alana. Alana the scared girl. Alana who froze when the fire came. She would never stop the flames. She would never run into them.

Elia scarcely noticed when the crowd noticed she was there. All she saw between her gasping breaths and stinging blurred vision was the shouts and the flash of Anakin’s lightsaber. He took her hand, begging her to come with him. Elia could imagine the crowd chasing them with torches and pitchforks.

They stopped running four streets away when no protestors were anywhere behind them. Anakin tugged Elia into an alleyway. He was saying things — telling her to breathe, helping her to do so, telling her they were safe. Worry creased his features, and then Anakin started talking. She didn’t hear him fully at first but whatever place Elia had found herself stuck in, Anakin was helping her come back.

Elia braced herself against the wall, dropping her head into her hands and muttered out a string of apologies. She had never seen so many people angry at her family before. Even if she seldom felt like one, Elia was still a Valarys in almost every way.

“It’s fine. Don’t apologise,” Anakin said. His hands caught around her wrists. “Just let me get you back to somewhere safe, okay?”

The walk back to Verena’s house was thankfully short. No one was in when they arrived, but Elia knew where the spare key was kept and she let herself and Anakin in. Despite all that had happened, Elia still found a way to feel glad for the experience in the caves. The minerals still gave her a numbing calmness.

Damp hair coiled back and pinned behind her head, Elia nibbled chocolate biscuits in the kitchen. The house was quiet, peaceful. At least it was until Anakin found her.

He lingered in the doorway, leaving space between them. “I wanted to thank you, properly, for the caves,” he said. “Not just showing me how to swim, but you were quick thinking and you saved us both.”

Elia shrugged and licked crumbs off her fingers as she turned to face him. “You would have done the same.”

Anakin gave a short laugh. “I probably wouldn’t have taken us through a safer route.” He paused and began to move closer to her. “I, um, also wanted to apologise for what I said after. I don’t pity you.”

“It makes no difference. You still don’t like me.”

“No. That’s not true. It’s–”

“Complicated,” Elia mused. Isn’t everything. “It’s fine. You’re Athena’s friend. I understand.”

Anakin shook his head. He was stood in front of her now, catching her between him and the kitchen counter. “No. It isn’t just about Thena. It’s more than that. I…”

He was looking at her like he often did. Elia did not like the way he confused her — sometimes he would not look at her. Then he couldn't stop (like he was doing now). But he wasn’t looking at her with distaste. Maybe half of the looks he gave her weren’t of dislike. But she could not explain how he was looking at her now. There was an odd light in his eye that she had not seen before. She liked when he looked at her, it made her feel fluttery and girlish — but this was different.

“Anakin…” His name was heavy and left her lips softly. He was gazing down at her — his eyes mapping her face. Elia’s breath caught in her throat, they were inches apart and she could feel the warmth of his body quell the goosebumps across her skin. “Please stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Before Elia had to define his expression and question the heat that was rising across her body, the front door unlocked and swung open. Her heart raced. Elia broke free from their eye contact and fled the kitchen. She hated this, hated him. And she wanted to go home.

[munsonownsmyass]

Forbidden pleasures

Tristan Thorn x reader

Summary: Your desire for Tristan is big and you can't wait until your wedding night, so you decide to give him a little surprise.

Notes: This is a little smutty piece in "Yours forever after" universe (yeah, I gave it a name. It's a series now 🤣) and takes place between the proposal and the wedding. Hope you enjoy 😜

Warnings: Smut, 18+. Oral, m receiving. Tristan getting his first blowjob (technically his first time, I guess? First sexual experience with a woman, at least).. yeah, that's it 🙈

Words: 965

The last few months had been the hardest of your life. You had always wanted Tristan, but after you’ve tasted his sweet lips and felt his desire for you, it had become harder and harder to be near him. Your desire for him had turned from small embers to a big flame, your desire burning through you like a wildfire. Your wedding night couldn’t come soon enough or else you fear you might burst into flames.

Even now, as he innocently holds your hand while politely talking to his father, your mind is elsewhere, thinking about what those hands could do to you.

Once the innkeeper swings by and steals your father’s attention, you pull Tristan with you, heading for the doors. “Where are we going?” He grins, not knowing your true intentions. You’re sure that if he knew, he’d try to stop you.

Out of sight, safely hidden from the crowd at the harvest dance, you push Tristan against the brick wall of his childhood home, claiming his lips in a heated kiss. He kisses you back with equal passion before his mind catches up and he pushes you away gently.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I know you can’t bed me until our wedding day, but my desire for you is burning me up.” You say bluntly, watching how his cheeks turn bright red. One hand moves down his body, finding the hard bulge waiting for you. A soft gasp escapes Tristan as he throws his head back against the stones.

“No, L-love. We can’t do t-that.” He mouth might say no, but behind his eyes is a fire matching your own and you feel him twitch against the palm of your hand.

“Don’t worry, my love.” You whisper seductively in his ear and with a smile on your lips, you fall on your knees in front of him, your hand caressing the hard outline of his cock. He bucks into your touch, whimpering your name. Whether it’s a plea to stop or a desperate notice to keep going, you do not know. But you choose to believe the latter.

“Sweetheart.” He breathes out, fighting to keep his composure. “I… I don’t want to compromise your virtue.”

“Don’t worry.” You feel bold and wink at him, pleased at the moan that escapes him. “Clara showed me what to do. Trust me.”

With a timid touch, you unbutton Tristan’s pants, feeling nervous. Clara had a thing for the butcher’s boy and confessed a week ago what they had done. She hadn’t been careful and had given her virginity to him, but she told of other things that had intrigued you. Things you could do with Tristan until your wedding day was finally here.

You look up at his flushed face, seeing how rapid his breathing is as his cock spring from his pants into the cold night air. He hisses at the cold, but he almost looses his footing when you wrap your hand around him.

“Love, you don’t have to do this.” He whispers through ragged breaths, and you know he speaks the truth. Had you walked away now, he wouldn’t be mad, but you want this. Want to feel his desire for you.

You’re nervous, your eyes settling on Tristan’s cock that’s just a few inches from your mouth. You let out a gush of air, trying to stifle your nervousness. Tristan gasps onto the wall behind him when he feels your breath on him.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing.” You say as you lick your lips, scooting closer.

“I’m sure I’ll like whatever you have in mind, my love.” Tristan blushes again, one of his hands cupping your cheeks softly.

You’re eager, remembering all that Clara has told you. Sticking your tongue out, you lick up the length of his cock. There’s no more hesitation and what you lack in skill, you make up for in enthusiasm. Above, you hear Tristan groan, doing his best to keep silent. Your mouth moves to the tip, taking him into your mouth. It’s sloppy, messy, and you fear its too wet. But all doubt evaporates when you look up at Tristan.

Mouth wide open as moan out your name, lost in the feeling of your mouth around him. Cheeks flushed as he pants, trying so hard not to buck into your mouth. He looks down at you, almost coming at the sight. His future wife, so innocent, now with your lips stretched around his cock, spit on your chin.

“Oh my God.” He moans again, his hand moving to hold your hair as you keep bopping up and down on his length. When you look up at Tristan, you can see how hard he’s fighting to keep his eyes open. His breathing becomes more ragged as you eagerly suck his cock, taking it deeper each time.

“I’m so close, sweetheart.” Tristan whimpers as you lick up his length one more time, your mouth closing around his hard cock as Tristan falls apart before you.

You swallow every drop he gives you, smiling to yourself as you hear him out of breath, endless praises for you falling from his lips. When he finally comes down from his high, he offers you a giant smile, still speechless.

“Was… Was that good enough, my love?” You ask with a coy smile as you stand. Tristan pulls you in for a passionate kiss before looking into your eyes.

“I need to buy Clara a gift it seems.” He chuckles, his cheeks a bright red. “Did… Did she mention if there’s any way I could do something similar for you? Perhaps?”

“She did actually.” You giggle before kissing Tristan again. You couldn’t wait for your wedding night, but this would certainly make the wait way more exciting.

Tagging: @mindidjarin @e-dubbc11 @itwasthereaminuteago @theradioactivespidergwen @mattmurdocksscars @saintmurd0ck @yarrystyleeza @chvoswxtch @idrinkcoffeeandobsess

Soft tag: @acharliecoxedfan @murdock-and-the-sea

[svjetllost]

A concerned citizen. Really? Eve bit back the urge to scoff, managing—barely—not to let her face betray her thoughts. It wasn’t like this was their first time working together; they’d had their share of back-and-forths before. Carmen was annoyingly resourceful, the sort of person who could dig up secrets even MI5 didn’t know existed. That alone made her both intriguing and dangerous. But the next thing Carmen said made Eve pause. She wanted to fire back something sharp, something that would cut through the ridiculousness, but what was the point? Carmen wasn’t the type to be rebuked.

The truth was, Eve had changed. A year ago—no, longer—her life had been so meticulously ordered. She’d known exactly where she stood, what her mornings would bring, what she’d eat for dinner, and which polite conversations she’d have to endure. It had all been so perfectly, maddeningly structured.

She didn’t even realize how detached she’d been from it all, going through the motions like a well-rehearsed actress in a dull play. She’d smiled, crossed the road when the light changed, and nodded at the right moments during dinner parties. And yet, somewhere along the way, that version of her—the precise, predictable Eve—had become a stranger. An empty shell she’d long since discarded. Eve tilted her head, studying Carmen. “So, what’s your angle here? You’re suggesting we work together? Why? What’s in it for you? Because let’s not kid ourselves—you’re not doing this out of the kindness of your heart. You want something, and if I’m going to agree to any of this, I need to know the whole picture. No games. No half-truths. We lay it all out.”

Her voice was firm but low, just enough edge to make the words stick. There had been moments—fleeting, maddening moments—when she could’ve walked away. Slipped back into her old life, and convinced herself this was just a detour, some absurd midlife crisis. But she hadn’t, and she wouldn’t. It was too late for that.

She’d stepped too far into the unknown, and now, the thought of returning to the person she used to be felt as impossible as it was unappealing.No, the map was gone. The structure she’d clung to for so long? Shattered. It terrified her—and thrilled her in equal measure. She was alive, more than she’d been in years, and though she had no idea what came next, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Eve leaned back, exhaling sharply. “I think I’ll need another drink. You?”

continued from here with @agentinred !

[findswoman]

Writer 20 Questions

Tagged by @jedi-valjean. Thanks so much!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently 115.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

363,324.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

For the most part just Star Wars (various flavors thereof), but I have a very few Tolkien things too.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Cards against Monotony; or, The Best Rainy Lothal Day Ever (47)

Sixth Time’s the Charm (40)

Beautiful, Inexactly (32)

The Song, the Sea, and the Mand’alor (29)

“I saw the wolf…” (28)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Of course! I want to let my commenters know how appreciated they are! And it’s fun to meet new readers and writers.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I have a good number of stories with angsty endings, but the angstiest to date may be Opus Sixty-Six, in which two OC non-Human musicians captured by the Empire are forced to perform for the Emperor but resist by playing a different piece of music from what he ordered, based on what happens to the two performers at the end (not going to spoil it).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I have a good number of stories with happy endings, too! A lot of them involve OCs, but one that involves an happy ending for an EC following from particularly angsty source material is The Rains of Scarif, in which #JynErsoLives.

8. Do you get hate on your fic?

Thankfully this has never happened to me, at least not to my knowledge.

9. Do you write smut?

Nooo. I gave it a very, very tentative try a long time ago, but it was a complete and utter no-go.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I haven’t yet, but maybe sometime I’ll try!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No, at least not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! Between the Porch and the Altar was translated into French by Yahiko: Entre le portique et l’autel. It was a prize that he offered for TheForce.net Fanfic’s Fanfic Awards one year, and it’s definitely one of the most unique ways I’ve ever had a fic recognized!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Just a few times, and the results are posted on the TheForce.net forums rather than AO3: Cupcakes for a Cupcake (with Ewok Poet) and Dinner at the Hungry Hutt (with Chyntuck). But I also had aikisenshi (TheRynJedi) contribute part of chapter 22 of Shaman, Traveler, Oracle.

14. What‘s your all-time favorite ship?

I am of course partial to those that involve OCs of mine, but in terms of established characters, perhaps Kanera, and perhaps the Frog Lady and Frog Gent? I don’t tend to think in terms of ships most of the time, though (but have nothing against those who do).

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I used to say this about The Book of Gand, but it may not actually be in that category anymore! Actually, currently nothing is in that category for me right now, but that could certainly change.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Setting descriptions! OC creation! Whimsical humor! Economy of expression! Worldbuilding! Anything involving alien cultures/traditions/ceremonial/etc.!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Action and battle scenes! Political intrigue! Characters double- and triple-crossing each other! Overly long sentences with too many clauses! Too many em dashes! Too many sentences/clauses that begin with “and” or “then”! (Linking sentences/thoughts together in general!)

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

In terms of in-universe languages, when this happens within my stories I try to signal it in some other way. In terms of real-life languages: oof, I don’t know if I’m the right woman for that job, but I have immense respect people who are able to write stories in languages other than their mother tongue.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars. One sticks with what works, I guess!

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Ah, I hate this question so much. 😁 I love them all, don’t you know! But I would say that I have a very specific soft spot for the 20K+ fics I’ve somehow managed to write: The Book of Gand and Shaman, Traveler, Oracle, just because I’m so proud of myself for managing to get through them (or, in the case of BOG, the component stories thereof, all of which are in excess of 15K words and three out of four of which are in excess of 20K).

Tagging:

Anyone I know (or don’t know) who is a writer who happens to see this. 🙂

[thatoneguy56fanfic]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Thanks you! Oh man, it’ll be hard to pick five of my favorite fics, but I’ll try.

1. https://archiveofourown.org/works/39929529 What Lies Beneath: My attempt at a canon version of a Korvira fic. Has political intrigue and a mysterious cult that worships the Avatar. It’s not finished yet, but I’ve had a lot of fun writing this one.

2. https://archiveofourown.org/works/40193310 Fire & Water: A post B4 Makorra reunion fic. Korra and Mako decide to give their relationship another chance, and take a mini vacation to the Spirit World together. (Of all the Makorra I’ve written, I love this one the most.)

3. https://archiveofourown.org/works/41842386 Blood Moon: My first attempt at a horror fic, and I think it turned out pretty good. Just FYI, it’s very, very antsy. Korra is a werewolf. Asami and rest of Team Avatar have a plan for how to deal with her wolfing out during full moons. Except the plan failed this time.

4. https://archiveofourown.org/works/46793707 Lips Of An Angel: A Korvira fic that was inspired by my favorite song. It’s pretty short, but I really love how it turned out and I’m honestly proud of it.

5. https://archiveofourown.org/works/44518048 Eye To Eye: My first Makorra family fic. This is another one that has a special place in my heart. I just love these two as parents, and exploring how they’d navigate parenthood together is something that I enjoy thinking about.

This was a lot of fun! Although I had to remind myself to stick with five fics lmao.

[philologique]

"send me a ship/piece of media and i’ll give you an au i think would be fun and/or compelling for it" talking last night reminded me how much i love my school president so... that

this one is hard bc i let my school president wash over me like a cat in a pool of sunlight and never really sought out fic for it. that said:

1) selective amnesia au in which tinn keeps forgetting gun. I have no idea what this would look like or whether/how it might extend to their friends and families. maybe a curse that eternal sunshines them and keeps resetting when they remember each other? perhaps one incident of mutual retrograde amnesia but then new memories one-sidedly won't stick à la fifty first dates?

I have such a soft spot for tinn's sad birthday crush origin story and would love to see a tinn who doesn't know he's already in love developing the world's biggest crush over and over again in the face of gun's kindness. I need tinn to pine and to daydream and for them both to feel like they're teasing at a loose tooth trying to remember something just out of reach.

2) as much as i love a plotty, fantastical AU I see tinngun as fundamentally the kinds of people to consult a responsible adult when they're really in over their heads. tiwpor, however,,

tiw's mysterious offscreen older sibling gets involved in political intrigue and they have to do something about it and solve a mystery... or maybe a canon-compliant fic from tinngun's pov except tiwpor have been psychically sharing dreams and don't realize they're real until por breaks his leg... idk. let tiw mastermind things and do a million things that he pretends aren't in service of his crush (shout out to his transparently por-inspired outfits!!). give por something new to lie to his parents about!!! i want them to address a bonkers situation armed with tiw's logic and por's obliviousness and occasional flashes of sharp perception and their different brands of resourcefulness, and i want to laugh while reading it

[theshakespeareproject]

The Shakespeare Project: An Introduction

I have always had trouble reading the Bard. It started in high school, each year I was assigned one Shakespeare play to read and analyze and write reports on. Starting from freshman year they were: Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and Othello. As with all high school students… I read the sparknotes version, with one exception: Macbeth. The magic, the intrigue, the political turmoil, or maybe it was just my teacher being particular excited about that story, either way, it was the only one I actually read. 

Not a single word of it made sense to me except “Double, Double, Toil and Trouble” and that was because of a certain movie that shall not be named. 

After finishing Othello and watching “O” before Febuary vacation during my senior year, I did not think about anything related to Shakespeare or even reading for many years.

I went to college and “earned” (we’re being very generous with that word) a degree in Film Media and a minor in Writing. Which only occurred because I dropped out of all my ComSci classes during junior year when I realized programing was just not sticking. 

Thanks to bookTube I got back into reading, but mainly fantasy novels (thank you Sanderson, please stop filling your books with literary crack because it’s a little too addicting), occasionally horror courtesy of the King, some absurdesism from the likes of Pratchett and Adams, a journey to regency era England with Pride and Prejudice thanks to a sudden addiction to the show Bridgerton and needing something similar. And, of course, reading all of the Sherlock Holmes stories last year thanks to the Dracula Daily inspired Letters from Watson. 

Having completed my dive into the world of Holmes, paired with the ending of The Crown and the return of Doctor Who, it felt right to my anglophile self to take on the big one. I grabbed my copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare that I had bought from Barnes and Nobles many years ago and cracked it open. 

I am terrified of this journey. I was originally going to pair each play with a filmed version as LadyKnightTheBrave suggested in her video essay “Love & Mend: Much Ado About Nothing”, I even found a copy of The Age of Kings, a 1960s black and white miniseries that adapted most of Shakespeare’s historicals on british King’s into one series, but I really just want the experience of reading these. I want to try to piece together whatever words don’t make sense. Or maybe it’s because I watch every show with subtitles, and this is just like subtitles, without the show playing behind it. 

Well, either way, I started this journey. Hopefully, I’ll finish it. See y’all soon.