#I’ll try today to finally push to straighten it out but everything feels daunting

[floral-hex]

woke up at 4am feeling the weight of my life crushing me, so I’ve been sitting out in my car for the last couple of hours because I just need. to. be. somewhere else.

[goodnightyoongi]

[Yoongi x fem!reader] pt3

genre: hurt/comfort/fluff

rating: gen

word count: 2,5k

summary: Yoongi and you are childhood friends, but you’re overcome by inability to take care of yourself or your life, lately. He’s right by your side to help you, and you recently discovered there might be something more than friendship between you.

warnings: implied depression, some self-critical thoughts, alcohol, drunken kissing. 

Can be read as standalone, but this fic is part of a chaptered series:  

Part I: Catalyze

Part II: Flicker

Part IV: Release

Your arms were awkwardly clutched around your midriff as you watched Yoongi rummage around the crowded corner shop, throwing thing after thing into the shopping basket without much consideration. 

The two of you were probably a peculiar sight right now. One of you looked ready to hurl any second, uncomfortable about being out in public again, and the other one resembled a small-time burglar with his snapback, dark sunglasses and hoodie pulled securely over his head.

“Just want to remain incognito, is all,” was the explanation he provided you earlier, after you giggled at the sight of him as he picked you up. “Fangirls tend to recognize me a lot...not in the mood for writing a gazillion autographs today.

Your initial reaction to that statement made you inwardly kick yourself. You actually felt a tiny ounce of what could only be described as jealousy when picturing him with all these fangirls – before a rational, inner voice reminded you that you were, firstly, being very silly, and secondly, about to head out with him in just a moment.

Oh, how shamelessly smitten you had become. It had already been a week since he surprised you by kissing you before taking you out for coffee, but there had been no second one yet, and this fact pushed you back into the pit of insecurity.

Maybe you were hoping for too much. You were a commoner, dealing with an array of different issues, and Yoongi was Yoongi. Famous, while you weren’t, and even your friendship couldn’t change this fact.

“Alright, we're almost set...just need to get the – hey, what's up? Are you okay?”

Yoongi had noticed the sickly green pallor of your face, and now his dark irises were regarding you with concern. You forced a strained smile, quickly unfurling your arms.

“Oh, yeah, sorry...I just...I'm not really used to being around people, is all...”

Once again, you cursed the way your voice sounded so frail. And you cursed the way everyday tasks such as shopping were so difficult all of a sudden. 

Shopping. It should be easy as pie, but no.

Yoongi was quick to calm you, sneaking an arm around your waist in a bid to chase away the anxiety. 

“You're good, hun. It's all good. We're almost done, just sit tight while I pay.”

Some thirty minutes later he swung the door to his apartment in Hannam open, and you scuttled inside, grateful to escape the ruckus of the busy streets of Seoul. Yoongi's gaze lingered on you, wandering to your behind as you bent down to untie your shoes, and this didn’t go unnoticed by you. You were flustered as you straightened out, and he smirked apologetically.

“Oh god, I’m sorry...I was staring, wasn't I...you just...you look really nice today, sweetie. Well you always do, but...” 

He paused, stepping closer, and your ears instantly heated up. You’d finally washed all your laundry, and the neat combination of light jeans and a loose white top apparently caught Yoongi's eyes.

“You're the most beautiful girl I know, you know that?”

“No I'm not –“

“Y/N...what did I tell you?”

Yoongi dug warning eyes into you, his arms tight over his chest. You yielded with a sigh. This guy wasn't about to allow one single chunk of self-critical narrative escape you anymore, that much was apparent by now.

“Sheesh, okay, okay...I'll accept the compliment...thanks.”

Yoongi looked satisfied, and a while later you were seated by the kitchen island with a glass of wine in your hand. You sipped it casually, trying your best to seem relaxed and unbothered.

Come on. Pull yourself together.

But you felt on edge, even though you'd been in this exact same scenario with Yoongi a million times before. 

Yoongi had discarded his hoodie, and you discreetly watched his t-shirt-covered back as he prepared dinner – just like you had a million times before. And your lower regions stirred just a little as you witnessed the muscles in his arms tense, veins getting more prominent as he cut up some vegetables – just like he had a million times before.

But now was different.

Now your feelings might be reciprocated. You still weren't entirely sure, though, but your sky was illuminated by a big fat maybe.

You cleared your throat, taking multiple distracting sips of wine to calm yourself.

“So um...you guys are just on a break now, then? No shows coming up or anything?”

Yoongi swung around, grabbing his own glass of whisky and stirring the liquid slightly. “Had some stuff scheduled, but I canceled it. I’m taking a few months off, we’ve been working so much this year...so yeah. Have all the time in the world to spend with you, sweetness.”

“BTS taking a break. That's a first. Are you sure the charts can handle that?”

“They’ll have to. I should have taken one earlier. You've been lacking from my life...way too much the past year.”

A blanket of melancholy settled over his face. You wondered what he was thinking. Was he, perhaps, thinking the same as you – that so many years had passed, that so many hidden feelings were harbored and never acted upon, and now the two of you were here. 

And maybe about to change that?

Yoongi blinked cryptically, before returning to his vegetables, and your heart performed a series of double somersaults. The bubble Yoongi created for the pair of you was safe, and you never wanted to step outside of it.

Never. 

Being in here was easy, here in Yoongi's lofty penthouse, tucked away from the real world with all its scary responsibilities.

Unfortunately, Yoongi decided to poke a hole in the protective layers of said bubble, just a moment later.

“Anyway, so...sorry to bring this up, but...have you given any more thought to return to school...to uni...soon?”

Yoongi's face fell when he saw you turn gloomy following the touchy subject. It had been avoided like the plague the past week, but of course you were aware, even though you just postponed it. 

Your mail was overflowing, flooded with reminders of overdue assignments and missed schedules, your phone full of unanswered calls from the guidance counselor. 

You didn’t avoid it by choice, but it had just...happened.

“I have,” you answered, gaze lowered. “Well...no I haven't...but, I know. I know I need to take care of it. I'll get kicked out soon unless I do, but...it just feels so overwhelming.”

Your tone was brittle as you hung your head in shame. The truth was you had made attempts to deal with it daily, but it was hard.

“Hey. Look at me,” Yoongi requested when he noticed your dejection. “It'll be okay. You can do it, just need to start small. But you should go see your school counselor you know, explain the situation, and uh…”

He paused a moment, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. You weren't sure you liked where this was going. You grabbed the glass of wine, chugging the rest of it in one go.

“...I think you should consider seeing a therapist. To talk about this, the struggles you're facing with your mental health and...everything.”

Yoongi's hand had sneakily crept into yours, and he sighed when you instantly ripped it away and pushed your chair back.

“I'm not crazy, okay, I don't need –”

“Y/N.” Yoongi's voice had a sharpness to it now, and it silenced you before you even had a chance to expand on that note. He continued, cautiously, with a hand brushing loose strands of hair out of your eyes as he moved closer.

“No one said that, pumpkin. It doesn't mean that. It doesn't mean you're crazy. But you might be...depressed. And there's help for you, ways to deal with it.”

“I'm not depressed,” you claimed, weakly. An uninvited tear clawed its way out, rolling down before you could prevent it. You angrily mopped your cheek dry, and Yoongi settled a hand on your neck, gently running it down your back.

“Y/N...I know it’s daunting. But you need to figure things out with uni, alright. I'll come with you, baby. You'll be okay. Don't worry about it, we'll handle it.”

You stared at the white marble of the kitchen island a moment, gratitude warming your chest because he said we. You managed a wordless nod, and Yoongi gathered you into a sideways-hug.

“Good. I'll give you a refill of wine, just a sec. Oh, and the stew should be ready soon.”

Yoongi was an excellent chef, but even despite this, eating wasn't the easiest for you, because your appetite had disappeared somewhere unknown the past few months. This fact was neither appreciated nor accepted by Yoongi.

“Come on, sweetheart. Need to eat,” he tutted from across the table, and you sighed, peering out the tall window. The sky was a periwinkle blue, a congregation of soft cotton clouds passing by in the distance, and the view was majestic from up here – it was perfect. You wish you could be too.

But Yoongi shushed you when unnecessary apologies started falling off your tongue, and somehow you managed. Half the plate, with the help of patient cajoling and encouraging nods.

Drinking wasn't hard, though, and Yoongi was the epitome of sweet and gentlemanly as he prepared fresh cocktails for you to sip on during the course of the meal. By the time you moved to the couch you had become charmingly flushed, slurring a little on your words as you thanked your host for dinner. 

“You seem a little tipsy, baby,” Yoongi observed, chuckling when you almost spilled your mojito down your chin as you attempted to take another sip. “Want to try a bit of whisky?”

“Oh, hell no. That shit is nasty.”

“It's an acquired taste. You're just too much of a kid still.”

You glanced at him, feeling your body gradually heating up to blazing temperatures. The comfortable buzz traveling through you thanks to the alcohol definitely didn’t help slow it down. Yoongi's lips looked so pink, so soft, his fingers so elegant and inviting when he raised the whiskey glass to his mouth.

You wanted those fingers to wrap around you.

Impulse overtook you, a coil of tightly packaged desire that spurred you into closing the distance between the two of you. The bitter taste of whiskey mingled with sour lime in your mouth as you pressed your lips against Yoongi's, and the kiss was sloppy, but tender. You half-expected him to jerk away, but he didn't – instead he wrapped arms around your waist, pulling you against himself with a possessiveness that made your downstairs regions scream at you to move this forward asap.

It had been ages since you’d been intimate with anyone. Ages. And this was your dream. Your longtime crush, your Yoongi.

Yoongi's hands were all over you, his fingers threading through your hair, his tongue finding its way into your mouth – but when your brain finally caught up, you ripped yourself away, catching your breath as Yoongi's inky eyes blinked at you in surprise.

“What's up?”

“I'm...shit, I'm sorry, Yoongi...I shouldn't have thrown myself at you like that, like what the hell...I don't know what I was thinking...”

You turned away from him, lowering your head into your hands. Once again you’d just assumed that he was game for whatever it was you wanted...and one kiss meant nothing. After all, Yoongi had acted totally blasé since then, like it never even happened.

A hand settled on your shoulder, tugging in a request for you to turn around.

“Yeah you should, dummy. Why apologize, huh? I want to kiss you.”

“Then why haven't you yet?” You straightened up, glaring at him. You knew you probably sounded accusatory and like a brat and you might regret this, but you couldn't help it.

“Why haven't you, since...last week? I mean...I thought you shared the same feelings as me but then you just didn't make a move and I figured –”

“I didn't want to rush you,” Yoongi bit you off, his eyes radiating sincerity mixed with regret. “I wanted it to be your call, and not just...eh, screw it. That was a mistake. I care about you so much, Y/N. I want to do everything right.”

His lips moved impossibly close again. The backdrop turned into smudged colors and vague contours as his warm breath pumped you full of life again, woke your body from its slumber, made you limbs tingly with need. And you could do little to stop it.

The room around swam around you when you parted from him, roughly pushing him onto his back and settling on top of him, your movements jerky and hasty. You eagerly kissed him, arching your back and grinding against his crotch and smirking when you noticed the blatant hard-on forming inside his jeans. 

“Wait, hold up, hun...wait a second.”

Yoongi had a firm palm on your chest suddenly, acting as a roadblock, and you couldn’t help but feel wounded as you came to a surprised halt.

“What's wrong? Don’t you want me?”

Yoongi shook his head, violently, his hand moving up to cradle your heated cheek. “God, Y/N. I want you. I want you okay, I want nothing more. But...you're drunk, and I'm not. I don't want to take advantage of you, I need you sober. Okay?”

“You're not taking advantage of me,” you stated grumpily, and Yoongi pushed himself onto his elbows, tilting his head sympathetically. He scrambled into sitting again, but you shied away, still reeling from the rejection when he attempted to haul you in.

“Y/N...baby...don't get any funny ideas. I want you. Your mind, your body. But you've been cooped up at home a long time, okay, alone...and this is still new. We have to go slow, i don’t want to hurt you.”

You grumbled something inaudible in response, refusing to look at him. He moved the curtain of hair away from your eyes, his voice honest and pleading when he spoke.

“Please, hun...don’t take it the wrong way. You’re beautiful, I mean you noticed what effect you had on me, but...I just want to treat you well, and I need you to be onboard and completely clear-headed...because you mean the world to me. Okay, pumpkin?”

“Fine...okay, fine” You relented with a huff, but it transformed into giggling when Yoongi dragged you into his arms, peppering your cheeks with kisses.

“Good. Want to watch a movie? What do you fancy?”

You cruelly picked out a horror flick even though you knew your couch company hated them with a passion, and Yoongi agreed with a sigh, stating “anything for you, hun.” He threw a blanket around you, wrapping it around you snugly and collecting you into his arms as the opening credits rolled on the TV screen.

Silence followed as the lame plotline took off, but you weren't focusing on it. You were trying your hardest to still your beating heart, rays of warmth shooting through you when Yoongi drew you closer in, breathing hot air into your hair as he burrowed his nose into it.

It took a while for you to muster the courage to phrase the question lingering on your tongue, but you finally managed it.

“So...do you want to...”

“Be your boyfriend?”

You were stunned. You actually had planned on asking if he wanted to go for a proper date, but this was much better. Yoongi gripped your chin, turning you towards himself with an affectionate smile.

“Yeah, I do. I’ve wanted to be your boyfriend for quite some time,” he mumbled, before leaning in for a kiss that made you drunk. Drunker than all the alcohol you'd had during the course of the entire evening.

[longhornanderson]

he left the bloodstains on the carpet ₪ seblaine

TAGGING: Sebastian Smythe & Blaine Anderson

WHEN: 5 MAR 2020, 1900

WHERE: One of the many UT Gyms

WHAT: One smooth criminal stops to lay down some lines on a sexy fellow student. Both of them fill with tension in a hot moment, however that tension shifts when they realize who exactly they’re flirting with. 

BLAINE ANDERSON

Before every workout, Blaine always washed out the tightly held down curls and put away his bow ties. Then it was a tank top, zip up jacket, and shorts. Just like California, Texas always had that crisp air that made joggers unneeded. There was a bit of cold weather every now and then, but he liked to let his skin breathe for once. 

Even though the university had several gyms, Blaine always choose the same one. He used his student id to check in and abandon his things in a locker. Walking into the gym, he was typing up his hands. He took his usual position next to the punching bags. He noted that somebody was there and did a small head nod. He knew them from days before. He started to move his arms in a bit of a warm up before peddling his feet. Hoping up and down, he started to get his body warmed up while his friend was just finishing up his own work out.

SEBASTIAN SMYTHE

the  thing  about  sebastian  is  that  he's  a  man  of  routines.  or  rather,  the  sort  of  man  who  plans  a  routine,  follows  it  for  a  few  days,  and  then  changes  it  completely  to  better  suit  whatever  he's  got  going  on  that  day.   but  he  makes  the  effort,  which  some  days  feels  like  half  the  battle.    some  of  it  is  petulance,  a  way  of  thumbing  his  nose  at  the  strict  PT  regimens  he  used  to  have  to  follow  after  the  accident;   it  is,  if  he's  honest,  the  only  reason  he  still  bothers  with  the  gym.  (  though  picking  up  hot  guys  is  surely  an  added  bonus.  ) 

he's  fresh  off  the  treadmill,  40  minutes  of  light  cardio  down  and  about  an  hour  of  weights  training  to  go,  when  he  let's  his  ennui  get  the  best  of  him.   his  eyes  dart  around  the  room  as  he  wipes  down  his  equipment,  eyes  locking  onto  fists  connecting  with  a  punching  bag  a  few  stations  over.   he  doesn't  recognize  the  guy  —  not  unusual,  given  he  usually  frequents  the  gym  closer  to  his  dorm  room,   but  decides  there's  no  better  time  than  to  change  that.    so  he  tosses  the  cloth  over  his  shoulder,  approaches  like  a  predator  stalking  his  prey  as  he  comes  up  from  behind.    (  in  reality,  he  simply  dips  his  head  down  to  drink  from  the  water  fountain  ...  affording  him  the  opportunity  to  get  a  good  look  at  that  ass.  )      but  he's  not  a  creep,  so  he  straightens  up  and  makes  his  presence  known.   "  nice  form. "

BLAINE ANDERSON

Eventually, Blaine high fived his friend and waved him off. Afterward, he put up his hood and continued his warm up. Striking lightly, getting use to the sensation. There was nothing he was particularly angry about today, but he had enough energy for short loud burst. With his body warm, he started one of his usual routine. 

Blaine fell in love with Gym culture. Every once and a while, you'd run into that one jackass. Overall, everybody was cool. Blaine found himself talking to some of the regulars after his workouts. Especially if they come talk to him during. So when he felt eyes on him, Blaine didn't stop. He kept hitting, letting the sweet sound of the sand bag vibrate in his ears. 

"Thanks." Blaine growled through clinched teeth. He didn't mean it, he was in the moment. He breathed out his next sentence. "Better be, being doing this for years." He got in three more jabs. Left, right, left. Front curls flopped out the front of his hoodie. The last hit was louder than the rest. He breathed out the tightness in his muscles. He leaned onto the punching bag as he reached down to get his water bottle, keeping his face unintentionally hidden from Sebastian. His dark eyes glanced around to the other punching bags. "I'll be off in about five minutes if you want a round." Blaine offered as he took a drink.

SEBASTIAN SMYTHE

the  guy's  intense,  focused  on  what  he's  doing,  and  sebastian  respects  that.   he  watches  as  fists  hit  the  bag,  interest  in  his  eyes  as  he  comments.   "  it  shows.   impressive.   how  ...  rocky  balboa,  of  you. "   he  turns  away  for  a  moment,  goes  through  the  motions  of  filling  his  water  bottle  even  though  he's  already  decided  to  cut  his  work  out  off  short.

the  smirk  settles  easily  when  the  guy  responds,  his  voice  smooth  like  silk  as  he  responds.   "  depends.   if  you're  asking  if i  want  a  round  with  the  bag  ...  i  think  i'll  pass. "   it's  as  subtle  as  a  giggle  at  a  funeral  but  that's  sort  of  his  M.O.   he  sees  what  he  wants  and  he  goes  for  it.    "  --  but  i  was  just  about  to  hit  the  showers,  maybe  go  for  a  drink. "    brows  lift,   eyes  still  dancing  over  the  muscles  of  the  mystery  man's  back.    selfishly,  he'd  be  just  as  happy  skipping  the  drinks  and  heading  straight  to  dessert  ...   but  he's  patient.   or  can   be.    (  you  have  to  work  for  the  things  you  want  in  life.  )    "  what  do  you  say,  killer  ? "

BLAINE ANDERSON

Blaine almost blushed at the compliment. He had to admit, it was nice to get this sort attention. This wasn't the first time that Blaine picked up numbers at the gym. A smile formed on his lips around the water bottle. He finished his sip. 

Drinks though? This was new. It took all his might not to whip around to get a look at the man who was flirting with him. Oh that voice, it was so smooth, silky, so sexy. But there was something so familiar about that voice. Especially the use of that word, Killer. "Well, if you need a partner--" He finally turned around and his hoodie fell off his head. Loose curls bounced out and adjusted to the frame of Blaine face. The words got caught in his throat as he finally saw Sebastian's face. "Sebastien." Blaine articulated every syllable of his name carefully. "Sebastian." He repeated with wide eyes. 

SEBASTIAN SMYTHE

he'll  kick  himself  later  for  not  waiting  to  see  a  face  before  laying  on  the  charm.   he's  a  sucker  for  tight  muscles  and  loose  curls  and  apparently  they've  finally  gotten  him  into  trouble.   he'd  always  figured  it  would  happen  one  day,  but  he'd  never  expected  to  accidentally  flirt  with  his  archenemy  (  okay,  that's  a  stretch.   blaine  barely  cracks  the  top  five  '  worst  people  he's  ever  met '  list  on  a  good  day  )   like  something  out  of  a  romantic  comedy.    a  meet  cute.   ugh,  he  hates  everything  about  this.

"  you. "   it's  almost  an accusation,  like  somehow  this  is  blaine's  fault.   "  you're  ...  not  who  i  expected. "    no  way,  no  how,  in  a  million  years  would  he  have  imagined  that  this  was  what  lingered  beneath  the  bowties  and  excessive  amounts  of  hairgel.   the  fact  that  blaine  anderson  is  hot  is  borderline  offensive;  it  should  be  a  crime.   he  refrains  from  saying  as  much  though,   he  needs  to  maintain  a  modicum  of  self-respect.   (  he  can  bounce  back  from  this.   he's  a  smythe,  it's  what  he  does  best;   spin.  )    "  so  this  is  what  happens  when  you  strip  away  the  hairgel  and  the  sweater  vests. "   he  observes,  clicking  his  tongue  against  his  teeth.    "   huh. "    despite  his  annoyance,  his  eyes  are  still  reluctantly  glued  to  the  sweat  gathering  at  the  hollow  of  his  throat.   (  he  wonders,  with  his  traitorous  mind,  how  satisfying  it  would  be  to  push  him  up  against  the  wall  and  taste  the  salt  against  his  skin.     so  much  for  self  respect.  )

BLAINE ANDERSON

Two seconds ago, Sebastian's voice made him trip. The way those golden words had captured him and made him eager. Blaine could feel the high he got whenever he was talking to Sam or another cutie. As he took in those beautiful green eyes, Blaine cursed himself for falling for that irresistible charm. Damn it. How did it get to this point. If Sebastian knew, Blaine knew he wouldn't live this down. 

His lips wavered slightly at Sebastian's harsh tone. Now that Blaine was looking at Sebastian clearly, Blaine suddenly became flushed with rage. That way he spoke reminded him of the daunting arguments in class Sebastian's infuriating way of speaking. Surprisingly, that's not what caught him off guard. Sebastian was... hot. Hidden beneath preppy clothes and a smart mouth, there were well defined muscles and lean long legs. Blaine's jaw clinched. His brown eyes danced over Sebastian's body. If it was anybody else, he wouldn't even be wasting his time on drinks. 

"Right back at cha." He stretched out neck, gave slight glare and matched Sebastian's tone. "And it looks like you're a big fan, considering five seconds ago you were just asking me out to drinks." The words poured from his mouth as if somebody else were taking over him. The water bottle in Blaine's hand crumpled under the pressure. "Or did you come over here just to tell me that? Because that's a little bit weird to stalking a gym Bas." Blaine hissed Sebastian's name, as if Sebastian were the dark lord.

SEBASTIAN SMYTHE

the  fact  that  blaine's  right  might  be  what  makes  this  all  the  more  infuriating.   he  has  him  backed  into  a  corner,  unable  to  refute  the  claims  that  —  yes,  he'd  clearly  liked  what  he  saw.   denying  that  now  would  simply  be  an  insult  to  both  of  their  intelligence.   (  blaine  might  get  under  his  skin,  but  he's  no  idiot.   he  can  acknowledge  that.  )     he  huffs,  jaw  clenching  as  he  sucks  in  a  breath.    the  anger  clenches  white  hot,  knuckles  in  a  similar  state  where  they're  gripping  his  water  bottle  in  a  deadly  fashion.    were  it  not  stainless  steel,  he's  sure  it  would  warp  under  his  fingertips.    "  congratulations.   you're  attractive. "   a  pause,  deliberate.   "  when  you're  not  talking.    quick,  someone  get  him  a  medal. "    or  a  muzzle,   he  thinks  dryly.

he  sees  red  at  the  nickname,   something  he  feels  is  too  personal  for  blaine  to  spitting  at  him;   like  its  a  weapon  in  his  arsenal,  twisted  to  inflict  pain.    (  well  two  can  play  at  that  game.  )     "  trust  me,  stalking   you  is  not  on  my  to  do  list. "    he  takes  a  step  closer,   crowding  in  on  blaine's  personal  space  as  his  eyes  narrow.    there's  a  fire  burning  in  his  chest,  whether  it  be  the  rage  or  something  more,   and  rather  than  try  to  extinguish  it   —   he  pours  the  gasoline  and  watches  it  ignite.    "  it's   sebastian. "    words  are  light,   but  there's  an  edge   to  it.    "   unless  we're  in  bed  and  you're  moaning  it. "     right  inflection,  wrong  words;   because  now  that's  where  his  head's  at,    and  he  knows  almost  instantly  that  he's  toeing  a  line  he  should  be  wary  about  crossing.

BLAINE ANDERSON

Blaine felt his body go ridged when he realized he called Sebastian a nickname. What came over him in that moment? The air that came out of his mouth wavered. How did Sebastien have this power over him? To make him stumble. Neck cranked up and a scold on his face, he took in Sebastian’s words. Sebastien though he was attractive? Oh how this made Blaine want to cave to Sebastian. Steal him away into a broom closet to enjoy seven minutes in heaven. A more adult version of that though. Then Sebastian had to ruin it. Send Blaine back to the original reason why Sebastian made him angry. When Sebastien stepped over him, Blaine cranked his neck. He felt every cell in his body. From the tips of his toes, to the fibers in his chest hairs, and to the roots of his hair. Suddenly, Blaine felt his nakedness in front of Sebastian. Instead of cowering away, Blaine leaned his head back more to match those intense eyes. He put on a scold of his own. He let out a brave scoff, knowing the heat of his breathe would reach Sebastian. “Even though you’re hot as hell, never in your wildest dream.�� Those words lingered on his lips. At the end, Blaine could feel his heart thumping wildly in his neck. If it weren’t for the height difference, Sebastian could probably felt Blaine heat rising from his skin. “I’ll try to remember that next time.” Blaines brown eyes lingered just a second longer before he ripped his gaze away. He stepped aside and aimed for the door with his chest held high.

SEBASTIAN SMYTHE

he's  almost  grateful  that  blaine  retreats,  leaves  him  feeling  like  he's  won  even  if  it  wasn't  a  competition,  or  a  fight.   has  he  won  though  when  he's  still  thinking  about  him  even  as  he  retreats?   (  he  hates  that,  a  little.   hates  how  he  fixates  on  things,  how  he  can  never  just  let  it  go.  )     the  fact  that  blaine  clearly  finds  him  attractive,  has  said  as much  and  made  it  abundantly  clear,  only  fuels  the  fire.   "  until  next  time. "    he  calls  out  after  him,  the  beginnings  of  a  smirk  warming  his  features.    with  blaine's  back  to  him,  it's  likely  he  won't  see  the  flush  to  his  cheeks.    it's  good;    for  the  best.     on  the  list of  mistakes  he'd  made  this  week,  he  has  no intentions  of  adding  hate  fucking  blaine  anderson  onto  it.   no,  no  thank  you.    "  i'll  see  you  around.    in  your  dreams,  i'd  bet. "   he  turns  and  makes  a  beeline  for  the  treadmills;     weight  training  will  have  to  wait,  he  needs  to  run  —  burn  off  whatever's  pounding  in  his  veins.    (  if  he  won,  why  does  it  still  feel  like  he's  fighting?  )

BLAINE ANDERSON

Stiff back, head held high, quick legs. It took all of Blaine's control to keep his body from collapsing at the exhaustion of that interaction. He kept this up all the way to his locker room and even beyond the doors of the gym. It wasn't until he got to his car did Blaine finally let a breathe out. *What the hell*? He thought to himself. With the thought he breathed out. Suddenly light headed, as if for the last ten minutes he was all on one breathe. One thing was evident, Sebastian had gotten to him. However, not in the way he wanted.

[writingonthemoon]

Old Clothes Part 4

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Word Count: ≈ 2116

Warnings: Mentions of death, murder, fear of failure

Author's Note: Okay, so I accidentally started previously that Odette first Burned when she was nine.  That was incorrect as she was much younger.  Also, this isn’t exactly what I wanted for this part, but I think it sets up my plans for the next part nicely.

Old clothes are always a little strange.  Someone once loved them—cherished them—and now they’re nothing more than a mask.  The quality vanishes with the donation bin.  Dresses for the rich are now for the poor and those for the poor are falling to pieces.  Those stitched by mothers have a different energy about them.  The love that holds the fabric together never quite fades and it always remains soft, even after the countless storms and attacks of nature.  The items warmed your soul whenever they were held and the rush of emotions was overwhelming in the most brilliant way possible.  My sister missed the opportunity for that feeling.

     My mother used to make my clothes for me. She would buy the fabrics and spend an entire Sunday making me a new outfit. They were my favourite things in all the world. We only kept one when we first left. It was the one I was wearing, but it wasn't the same when it was handed down to Clara. Ashes had woven their way into the seams and the smell of fire lingered no matter what we would do. The warmth of love carried the burning of a fire. Delicate lace that lined the edges were rough with hardened emotions.

      I sighed and motioned for my audience to sit down. Jack and Davey pulled chairs out from my table, still staying quite close. Albert grabbed a seat for Crutchie and himself, while Buttons plopped himself on the ground with his legs crossed. "Before I say anything else, you have to promise you won't tell anyone. Not a soul. I shouldn't be telling you any of this since it puts more people than just me in danger, but I think you deserve to know. Promise." I made eye contact with every one of them and they all nodded in reply. "Great. Fantastic. Brilliant." I ran my hand through my hair once again.

     "I was born in London, I believe, in 1791. My father's name is—was James and my mother's name was Lilijah. At least, that's what their names were while I was growing up. The Burn existed long before I was born, probably back when the first monarchies began. It was never meant to be a way of life. The Burn... it was always a safety procedure, a cautionary plan if you will.

     "Say everything goes wrong. You're being framed for murder or are being chased by the police or mafia or it's anything else that's basically the end of the world for you. Well, in my family, that's the end of the world for whomever you were. Then, you are reborn, so to speak.

     "It's simple enough, really. Everything you once owned, your clothes, books, anything that could identify you, would be taken out to an empty space. There, you set a match to it, lighting everything ablaze and erasing all evidence of you ever existing. It worked exceptionally well when I was little since towns and cities were so spread out and people just died suddenly, but people would notice if you just disappeared since there were so few people living in the area. Today, it's easy to vanish, but harder to locate a burn spot.

     "Once the ashes lay at your feet, you build yourself again. New name, new place, new story. Of course, this plan wasn't meant for frequent use. So you have to get creative sometimes. I can't even tell you how many people I've become. My name is Odette Davenport, though. It's the one thing I've always known. I don't know my birthday, where I'm truly from, how I prefer my tea or if I even like tea. At this point, Odette is just another character I'm to play before I move on from this place."

     My gaze met the ground as I paused, not knowing how to go on. Two of these boys were related to me. They have a right to know, but should they? Who knew how many times Clara and Elijah had Burned before settling down and washing the ash from their nailbeds. Did they even share the family shame with anyone or was it the secret that killed them? No, they should know. They should know why.

     Jesse. No, he's not Jesse. Jesse is gone now, he doesn't matter. This one does. He's different, better than Jesse. In his eyes, I'm a person. A real person who feels the same as others do and thinks the same thoughts. I'm just older, suffering a long-lasting curse, just as he is. His leg was the poison that was crawling through his body and killing him slowly. The water rushed through my veins, stripping away any sign of illness or death, keeping me alive. How I wished I could switch with him, feel sickness and pain and worry about mortality instead of harbouring the fear of my past coming up behind me and pushing me over the edge, only to fall forever.

      Jack and Davey must think I'm insane with my tale. That or they're calling into question what they knew about life and the universe.  Perhaps it was both at once.  The two need not be here, listening to my woes, yet they sit in anticipation, awaiting my next breath.  But why?  This has no consequence upon their lives.  I’m merely a single person in a list of thousands that they’ve met just in a day.  Compared to the years they would exist, it’s an interaction that means most nothing.  Yet they are content with sitting and giving me their attention as if I were the Queen during a time of war.  An odd comparison since my actions would lead me down a far less noble path where I would abdicate the throne and flee the country.

     "I was four when I first Burned.  I had accidentally stolen food and my parents feared the worst.  We weren't living in a town known for forgiveness.  We packed up in the middle of the night, brought everything out to the field.  I still feel the scorching heat on my face sometimes, when I’m at my lowest.  The smell of burning memories in one you never think you'll know, but you’ll never forget it either.  We kept very few things from my first life.  My grandmother's ring," I held up my hand to show off the flat gold front with worn initials carved into the front, "some money, the clothes we were wearing, and our names." There was a small gasp from Buttons and Albert.  The family trait for worry and fear of failure seemed to run deeper than I thought.

     "My brother Elijah Burned when he was five and Clara was only one at the time.  Once again, it was all my fault.  My mind escaped me and I wandered to follow it.  I was only ten and they shouldn’t have blamed me for what I came across." I huffed and shook my head, clearing the daunting image from my brain, "It was a body, what I found.  I...They thought I killed him.  Me, a ten-year-old, killed a fully grown man.  I was going to be arrested, put on death row, for something I didn’t do.  So we Burned.  After that, it became frequent.  The five of us carried matches on our person just in case we had to leave in a hurry.  We no longer controlled the burn.  It controlled us."

     "Wait, you was four when youse did this?" I nodded to Jack, confirming the answer he knew, "But you was just a kid!  That ain’t right!"

     "I lived in different times, Jack.  Very different times.  I was British in America not eight years after the War for Independence.  They would do anything to get rid of us.  It was like we were a plague when we wanted out of England the same way they did." I glanced out the dingy window, seeing the onset twilight, "Oh god, I best be going." I pushed myself off the table I was perched on, "Thank you for the supplies to fix myself up and I guess for listening to part of my life story." My mouth met the cheeks of each boy in thanks, something I had picked up in my travels.  I started backing out of the room when Crutchie’s face caught my eye.  He was crestfallen, the corners of his mouth turning down as he sighed and kicked lightly at the ground.  I couldn't just leave like this.  Not after what I had told them all.  But I needed to. "Do one of you think you could walk me to my hotel?  It is quite dark and I don’t want to be in any danger."

     Before anyone could respond, Jack stepped forward, "I'll take ya.  I know dese streets betta than anyone else." He led me out the Lodging House as I waved at the boys in a final goodbye.  I uttered the address of my temporary arrangements and we stalked the streets in silence, becoming long shadows that extend for miles around sharp corners.  I watched Jack more than the path ahead of me, trying to piece together the mystery I wanted to know.  He and Davey... what was it about them?

     "You know, if ya wanna look at me, starin' like that ain't too covert."

     "Davey," Jack's posture straightened and I could tell his breaths were shallowing, "there's something about him you like, isn't there.  More than just a friend perhaps."

      "I don't know what youse talkin' 'bout.  Dave is one a my best friends," I saw the slight fall in his expression, turning to sadness and bitterness, "Why would there be anything else to 'im that I like?  It's not like I'll just listen to him go on hours 'bout nothin'.  And it ain't his pretty eyes or soft hair or anything.  Definitely not." He shook his head and met my gaze, a pleading look on his face.  Nobody could know.  Even if Jack couldn't help himself when it came to talking about his counterpart, no one could know.

     "Definitely not." I winked at him and we chuckled.  A quiet followed afterwards until Jack broke the invisible barrier

     "You ain't gonna leave us, right?  Not yet?"

     I stared him dead in the eye, ready to avoid making the real decision, "Of course not.  There’s still so much you all don't know yet."

     "Great.  I think Al and Buttons really enjoy having you here.  Crutch too.  He doesn't trust many too much.  There's only a few of us he’s real close to.  Somethin' about you is different.  I could see it in his face.  I think he really likes ya." I blushed at the thought of Crutchie liking me.  It wasn't a concept that was foreign to me, but I didn't expect it from this boy after hearing I was immortal.

      The middle-class building loomed above us, beckoning me towards the room I had booked, "I guess this is me." I shrugged and thanked Jack for walking me.  he stole a hug before running back into the night.  My fingers found my hair as I entered the building, climbing the stairs.  The room I had booked was tiny, a single bed crammed against the wall and a trunk placed at the end.   A window was across from the door, leading to the fire escape, and there was a cracked mirror mounted by a closet that would fit only a child.

     My fingers found their way around the room, collecting my things as my mind ran around the world, searching for a place to run to.  The checklist was losing empty boxes and the panic inside me wasn't reflected on the outside. This was normal.  My footsteps were almost nonexistent as I floated out of the room and to the empty bathroom shared by all the guests on my floor.  The lock flicked shut at my will and I carefully stacked my items within the confines of the bathtub.  I opened the window to filter the air into the black night.

     But the boys.  I couldn't do this to them.  My family.  Crutchie.  It wasn't fair that I was leaving them in the dark, no idea of the end or middle of the story.  then again, life was never fair either.  Certainly not this one.  The moment I started this, it went downhill.  I studied the pile across from me, spinning the historic ring around my finger.  My hand found the box in my pocket.  A snap of the wrist later and my face was illuminated with the soft glow of the burning match. Ashes were always the beginning, but what was the end?

[oppafiction]

Mr. Nameless (1) | {Optional Bias}

(cr. @zipcy, her art is amazing!)

Genre: Fluff, College AU

Word count: 1,797

Summary: You come across a stranger who insists he's not as strange as you think he is.

A/N: This part starts off a little slow, but let’s just call it “buildup”.

***

I really should have checked this room out earlier...

You curse at yourself for being uncharacteristically unprepared for your first class of the year, breathlessly jogging down hallway after hallway. This part of the campus was in the middle of major construction, and was currently proving itself to be a maze with its endless detours and dead ends. You stop running to study the map on your phone, searching around you for anything that might look familiar.

Why is no one else around here? Surely I can’t be the only person that can’t find this room!

As if on cue, you hear the sound of footsteps padding down a hallway nearby but out of view. A guy suddenly appears as he turns the corner, his eyes trained on the phone that’s partially covering the confused look on his face. You watch as his steps falter and he glances up, his eyes immediately meeting your own. A look of relief softens his attractive features, leaving your breath lodged in your throat.

“Hey,” he greets brightly, shoving his phone into his jeans’ pocket as he stops to stand in front you. “Are you looking for room ST101 too?”

You nod slowly, averting your focus from his wide, charming smile to a notice board off to the side of his head. He tilts his head into your line of sight, still smiling, this time with a raised eyebrow.

Focus, you have a class to get to!

“I could have sworn it was in this general area, but with all the construction going on...” you trail off, peering over your shoulder.

“Well I don’t think it’s back there,” he gestures his thumb behind him, “So let’s continue ahead.”

You nod again, taking a quick glance at your phone. You were five minutes late, but being late with this stranger somehow made the whole ordeal a little less stressful to you. There’s nothing but the sound of your footsteps walking in sync as you continue your daunting search for this room. That, and the loud thudding of your heartbeat in your ears.

You’re so distracted by the strong presence beside you that you don’t notice the door tucked away in the corner off to your right. You’re snapped out of your daze the moment the stranger speaks again.

“Over there!” Your eyes follow the direction of his long arm as it extends to point at the door. He scrambles off towards it, peering into its little window. You follow suit, standing on your toes to glimpse over his shoulder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you let out an exasperated sigh. “The door opens to the front of the room???”

“It’s okay, there are two seats right there in the back. C’mon, just follow me.” He slowly swings the door open, to which you hear the professor pause mid-sentence to glance off in your direction. You bow apologetically as she continues talking and follow the nameless guy, disregarding the many eyes focused on the both you.

You approach the last row of seats, watching as Mr. Nameless squeezes by the first few people to get to the empty pair of seats in the middle. You draw your bag closer to yourself, offering hushed apologies to the students pulling their knees in and clearing their backpacks from the floor by their feet. You both take your seats and as you’re getting settled, you feel a pair of eyes on you.

You peek to your left to find Mr. Nameless watching you in amusement, a playful glint in his eyes. Your breath catches for the umpteenth time that day, and you hope it doesn’t appear as obvious as it feels. You manage to regain enough composure to squint your eyes at him with furrowed brows. His only response is a small shake of his head and a silent laugh that makes the dimples in his cheeks settle deeply.

You immediately feel your face flush, averting your eyes to the front of the class in hopes that he wouldn’t notice. As you readjust your posture you swear you can hear him laugh, but decide to pay him no mind. You already missed the beginning of the professor’s introduction, this kind of distraction was the last thing you needed right now.

“Copies of the course syllabus are going around. Please hold onto this as it outlines everything we’re going to be covering, exam dates, and the grade weight of all assignments and exams.”

As the papers are passed down the rows, your attention is drawn to the feeling of something resting against the side of your knee. You look down to see Mr. Nameless’ right knee pressed against your left one. The gesture itself was innocent enough, but coming from him you sensed there was purpose behind it. You surveyed him as he laid back comfortably in his seat with his legs spread wide, occupied with spinning the pen in his hand between his long fingers. His attention seemed to be focused at the front of the room, but you were certain he was observing you out of the corner of his eye. The sudden slight upturn of his lips confirm your suspicion.

Is he teasing me???

“Excuse me?” A female voice interrupts your thoughts, and you glimpse towards its source to find the girl beside you handing you a stack of papers. You don’t know how long she’s been trying to get your attention, but the slight annoyed expression on her face tells you it must have been a while.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you apologize with an embarrassed smile, hastily taking the papers from her hold. You grab a sheet for yourself and set it on your lap before handing it off to the guy beside you. He offers you a small smile, the playful glint in his eyes still present and making its way to his lips. He reaches for the papers, his hands momentarily holding onto your own as he readjusts the papers into his grasp. His fingers are warm and soft against your much colder ones. Again, had it been anyone else you wouldn’t have given the gesture a second thought. But that look in his eyes combined with the touches that linger a little longer than they should hint that these gestures are deliberate.

“Is something funny?” You find yourself asking him in mild annoyance, glancing sideways at him with a slight frown. He straightens in his seat, replacing his wide smile with a childish grin. As he parts his lips to reply, the professor’s loud voice cuts through the steady buzz of chatter throughout the room.

“Alright everyone, let’s go over the grading scheme together.”

You watch as the guy’s mouth snaps shut before he opens his notebook to a fresh page and begins scribbling a few words in the top corner. Assuming you weren’t going to get a reply from him, you brush off his odd behavior and redirect your attention to the professor.

A gentle nudge at your shoulder rouses you out of your brief moment of focus. You look down to see a notebook being pushed towards you, and your eyes zero in on the neat block letters written on the top right corner.

You get flustered really easily.

It’s cute.

You blink slowly at the words, rereading them a few more times as if there’s more meaning to them than there actually is. You met this guy less than 15 minutes ago, hardly exchanged any dialogue, and here he was brazenly calling you cute. Okay, he didn’t exactly say you were cute per se, but it was still forward enough of a comment toward a complete stranger. Your lips are drawn into a straight line in an attempt to remain indifferent.

When he realizes you’re not going to write a reply, he takes the notebook back and adds another comment below his previous one.

And yet that comment didn’t fluster you.

Interesting.

You feel your cheeks flush and mentally curse yourself for giving him the exact reaction he wanted. You clear your throat, avoiding eye contact in the hopes that he wouldn’t be able to see the crack in your composure. The faint, suppressed laugh to your left that followed this told you that your attempt was futile.

What is going on here...

The remainder of the class went on without anymore distractions, save for the part of your brain insisting to draw your attention towards the boy beside you. You occasionally find yourself glancing sideways at him, never long enough for him to notice.

In your peripheral vision you can see him lean forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his thighs with his face in his hands. You dared to sneak a peek, only to find him looking right back at you.

Oh my goodness!

You quickly look away and hold your breath, as if staying as still as possible will make you disappear into your seat. There’s no recovering from this, but being the stubborn character that you are, you try anyway.

“Okay class, that’ll be all for today! If you have any questions about anything so far, I’ll be staying for a few minutes. See you Wednesday!”

As the chatter of a finished class begins to fill the air, you gather all your things and try to calm the persistent hum of your heartbeat in your ears. Did he know you were sneaking looks at him and wanted to catch you in the act?

What is wrong with me today?

“Hey,” the voice responsible for your racing heart speaks out, and you look up at him skeptically.

“H/N!!! Why were you so late this morning? I was saving you a seat!”

Your head whips in the direction of the interruption to find a guy standing at the end of the aisle, his arms raised over his head dramatically.

“It’s a long story,” the guy beside you starts as he stands up, swinging his backpack over his broad shoulders.

“Sorry,” he looks down at you with an apologetic smile before continuing, “I’ll see you around, right?”

You nod up at him, your tongue a twisted lump in your mouth. He offers you a wide smile and two thumbs up before squeezing his way down the seats towards his friend. Your heart doesn’t cease its chaos in your chest as you watch him leave, the pair talking animatedly.

Mr. Nameless finally has a name.

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

For Better or Worse (Three)

Part One Part Two

*tags:  @everyjourneylove @somewhereinimagination @this-kitty-has-claws @veganeddie @life-is-righteous @sdavid09 @aidanturnersass@decadentenemyturtle @leah-halliwell92 @k-youre-a-fantasy @lotte142 @fountainsofsilver @jotink78 @raindancer2004 @annice21 @the-butterfly21 @supermoonpanda @emrfangirl@imaneternalflamebb @maniczebra83 @why-pace-why @-waythe- @lidda @ara-toa-min @meanlilbean @sherala007 @jvail2011 *

You had buried your head beneath the pillow, hiding yourself under the covers in your anguish. You wept into the mattress, waiting for your husband to reluctantly take his place next to you. Dwalin would certainly not touch you but you could not imagine he would pass up his own bed after such a long day. But the mattress never shifted and you fell asleep with tears in your eyes.

You awoke, suffocating below the pillow. You rolled over, the other half of the bed vacant. You stretched your arms and slowly pushed yourself up. Dwalin snored in the corner of the room, sitting in the ancient chair, arms crossed and head lolling unceremoniously to one side. He would rather sleep upright than next to you. Your chest seized as it had done over and over since you had stood at the altar.

You closed your eyes and turned away, shuddering as you held back another bout of tears. You rose, your shift thin against the chill of the morning. You left the hearth unstoked and passed into the bath chamber. Your eyes were puffy from weeping and you splashed the frigid water from the basin across your splotchy faced. It almost made you feel alive. Almost.

Dwalin’s bath chamber was nicer than your own, unexpected given the state of the bedroom. You crossed to the faucet, pumping the handle until steaming water spilled from the silver tap. The forge heated the Mountain naturally and pipes were built into the stone wall; a marvel in itself. You watched as the tub filled and stripped yourself of your shift, stepping into the water with relief.

You scrubbed at your skin with your nails, eager to wash yourself of the shame of the previous day. Perhaps you could start over. But if you couldn’t, you wouldn’t give up. You had lived many years on your own and you did not see why that had to change now. If Dwalin truly did not want you, you would not let it ruin everything.

After cleaning yourself thoroughly, you drained the tub and wrapped yourself in a large towel, retrieving your shift from the stone floor. You re-entered the bedroom to find Dwalin once more stacking logs in the hearth. He stood and turned to you as you neared the fireplace, standing close to absorb the warmth of the flames.

“Ahem,” He cleared his throat as he looked away from you, shy at your lack of clothing, “I, uh…I have much work to do today.” He stepped away, brushing his fingers through his few tresses, “My apologies but—”

“You know, you don’t have to sleep in the corner,” You interrupted before he could continue with his excuses, tossing your shift across the bed, “We’re married…”

He looked away guiltily and you shook your head in frustration; was it such a repulsive suggestion that he sleep beside you.

“I have my own duties to see to. You needn’t worry for me.” You dismissed him sharply.

You nearly regretted how blunt you had been. You stared him down as he avoided your gaze and you huffed with irritation. Your turned your attention to the fire, letting it dry the dampness of your body through the thick towel. You could hear the oaf shuffling around behind you and sighed when the door opened and shut noisily.

Let him run and hide. You couldn’t care less.

Three trunks. You had thought you possessed more but it didn’t matter much whether you had three or three dozen. One held your various weaponry; sword, axe, knives, and pieces of armor. The second; your clothing, and the third; a dozen books, some trinkets collected throughout the years, and the rest of your miscellanea.

You looked around your empty chambers, mourning the loss of them. You had only resided there a little over a year but it had felt like home. You were to relinquish them for your harsh and unwelcoming marital abode. You could at least make it a little less hostile. A carpet and some curtains, maybe some new bedding. You were far from the traditional dam, but you could learn.

You were startled as a pair of footsteps shuffled in behind you, the door left ajar amidst your reminiscing. Your mother smiled at you, reaching out to take you by the shoulders and kiss both your cheeks in greeting, “My daughter,” She preened, “You made such a beautiful bride.”

“Sure, amad,” You scoffed, “As pretty as an ox in silk.”

“Truly, Y/N,” She pushed back your braid and considered you carefully, “You’ve ever been my beautiful daughter.”

“Mmm,” You grumbled as you looked back to the trunks, hands on hips, “I’ve got to get moving. I haven’t much time to waste.”

“Nonsense, what are you doing working on the day after your wedding? You should be celebrating with your husband,” She pinched your side coyly and you tried not to blush. 

You could not look at her for fear that your eyes would betray your failure, “My husband is just as busy as me.”

“Bah, that’s the beauty of marriage. That husband has to listen to you,” She touched your arm gently, “I know, it’s new and scary but you’ll learn, my dear.”

You stared back at her dully, growing annoyed with her banter. She was happy, as you had wished her, but you were less than. The idea of returning to Dwalin’s chambers and doing thus for the rest of your life was daunting. It was a greater defeat than any battle you had ever fought.

“You just listen to me, Y/N,” She had her arm around your waist as she spoke and guided you towards the door, “You go fetch lunch for yourself and that hubby of yours…Oh, he must be quite naughty,” You cringed visibly and she chuckled at your discomfort, “Sorry, I do get carried away. But as I was saying, you take him his lunch like a dutiful wife and I’ll see to it that I find myself some strong, young lads to move your things.”

“Amad,” You pleaded as you turned back to her, “I’d rather do it myself.” And not disturb Dwalin, you thought.

“Go,” She ordered in that motherly tone which brooked no argument, “Now…and make sure to bring him something sweet.”

She nudged you out the door with a wink, blocking it with her shrinking figure as she grinned at you wickedly. She waved at you in a shooing motion and you finally turned away from her with a resigned moan. You dragged your feet along the corridors in the direction of the kitchens, hoping your mother would call you back before you turned the corner. She did not.

You swung the bucket at your side as you trudged with dread down the corridors. The heat from the forge grew more intense as you neared the vaulted doors and you stopped before them with a grimace. You chewed your lip, smoothing back your hair in a last effort to make yourself presentable. You subconsciously touched the grey strands along your temples and straightened your posture, hoping to appear graceful.

You pushed through into the noisy forge, the sound of hammers and the occasional holler ringing around you. You had longed to work their but had instead taken up work as a carpenter during the repairs. With the Mountain close to restored, you had yet to resign and take up an anvil. You didn’t mind stonework and the occasional woodcraft and found it calming, and thankfully, solitary.

Among the heads bent over anvils rapt with their work, you spotted a shining, bald cranium. What little hair Dwalin had was tied back at the nape of his neck and his hand moved endlessly at his task. His broad shoulders and thick muscles were visible through the sweat-dampened fabric of his tunic and for a moment, you were enraptured with his decisiveness.

You neared uncertainly, your toe colliding with his anvil as you stood before him and you swore loudly. He looked up in surprise as you coloured with embarrassment, staring back at him wordlessly. In your misstep, you had forgotten why you had come. Upon recollection, all you could do was lift the bucket dumbly before you.

“Um…” You swallowed as his brows lowered in confusion, “I, uh, brought you lunch.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” He stood straight and lowered his hammer, setting it atop the anvil.

“I wanted to,” You lied, barely audible over the crashing of metal, “Can we go in the corridor?”

“Of course,” He accepted though he seemed less than eager as he came out from behind his anvil.

He walked at your side silently as you marched back along the aisle between working dwarves and into the cooler hallway. The door closed behind you as you sat on a bench along the comparatively quiet corridor, Dwalin following without haste. You shimmied over waiting for him to sit and he did so reluctantly.

You set the bucket down between you, removing the cloth which concealed your wares. You took out the sandwiches from within and handed one to him before unwrapping your own. You bit into it silently, waiting for him to speak. He didn’t.

He sat chewing his sandwich with his eyes to the floor. You watched him, your lunch tasteless upon your tongue as he remained as evasive as the day before. You nearly choked as you forced yourself to swallow and crinkled the paper around what was left of your crust. You tossed it into the bucket heavily and crossed your arms.

“Are you ever going to look at me?” You challenged exasperated, “Or speak to me?”

“Wha—” He seemed genuinely puzzled by your chagrin, “I do—”

“Just…ugh,” You stood and wiped your hands on the tails of your tunic, “Enjoy your lunch, alright. I was only trying to do something nice…” You left the bucket beside him, no longer craving the other snacks within, “Like a wife would.”

You turned on your heel sharply and stomped away down the corridor, turning the corner without looking back at him. As if he cared.

Nobody could say you hadn’t tried.