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heartshyuck · 4 years ago

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Pairing: Jisung x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst,slow burn, strangers to lovers au, first love, early 1900s au.

Synopsis: Lavenders symbolise purity, silence, devotion, serenity and grace. All endearing characteristics of the gorgeous boy, you met in the fields of purple.

Placed in the late 1930s , just before World War two starts, you flee from your family who are forcing you into a marriage. You lie low in a small village where you meet Jisung in a field of lavenders.

Word count: 23k lmao

Warnings: female reader, misogyny and very backwards ways of thinking, forced marriages, world war two + historical inaccuracy for progression of the plot, drinking

a/n: this is the longest fic i have ever written and honestly it was a mission, it took about a month to write and I am genuinely so proud of it and really happy with it. Please don't be scared by the length but when I say slow burn, I really mean it!

Escape the life they’ve laid out for you, the one they’ve planned without your input, you can’t live a life where everything is set out, where ’everything is expected and perfect. A life where you’d get married at 18 to a stranger who was of a worthy social class, attend formal lunches with the wives of your husband’s work colleagues and host dinner parties and occasionally large balls in a manor that always felt empty no matter how many paintings you bought to hang on the never ending amount of walls, no matter how many more bookshelves you tried to fit into one room, a place that you’ll always hate. Then to have children by 20, as many boys as possible of course to then not have any say in their upbringing and watch nurses tend to them, your husband educate them and then watch them get married, meet your grandchildren and when you’ve reached a respectable age, death will meet you in your sleep and you’ll be mourned and then forgotten. A life filled with regret, a constant numbness, no fulfilment and no meaning.

She would buy gifts upon gifts and shower you in expensive luxuries, spoil you in riches as a form of love and yet it always held another meaning behind it. There was a slight sadness in her eyes as she passed a gift every birthday,christmas and any other reason she found, almost as if she was saying sorry for the life you were going to live and how she’d use these moments as blackmail for when that time came. You’d overhear her quiet sobs when you would sneak around the house late at night, read letters she received from someone you didn’t know and how they wished for her life to get better and for her to find happiness in a world where happiness didn’t exist. You saw your mother cry when your father died, eyes bloodshot red in fear rather than grief. Her life was now uncertain and that's when you decided that you couldn't live an empty life, regretting choices and wishing for death to come to you first.

You did better than your brother at grasping algebra, better at them with understanding Versalius's "De humani corporis fabrica" and it didn't take your friend long to understand Karl Marx's theory on communism once you explained it to her. It angered you that this was dismissed especially when your brother soon went off to universities for they had outgrown your father's enormous library and knowledge, there was no more he could teach them but there was still much to learn and you yearned to do the same but as you approached a suitable age for marriage, your everyday classes on Shakespearean English, Tudor monarchy, Greek mythology and Italian art had now been replaced with sewing, crochet, dining etiquette and the differences between napkins, white laced ones for formal lunches, gold embroidery for important dinners and regular silk for everyday use, you'd recite to your mother and the many maids who were on standby.

You've left that world now, left the bustling streets of industrialised London where a black smog always hung around the air and the smell of burnt rubber that stung your nose, you always hated both. Though you grew up in a large estate where there seemed to be a never ending amount of land on the outskirts of London, you never were allowed out to explore. Only allowed out with your mother to pick out fabrics in the markets, surrounded by military men that guarded the general's wife and daughter but now you were alone, no guards, no mother and no black smog to block your view of what lies ahead, only the sun and the ocean sky, clear of clouds as you breathe in fresh air that cleanses your lungs from the toxins that hang in the city air, surrounded by vibrant lavenders that arrive with a strong, sweet smell of pollen which you welcome to replace the bitter rubber your sense of smell only seems to know.

You close your eyes and bask in the warmth of late August , the sun gleaming down on you, rays striking against your skin with the wind between the strands of your hair, blowing the lavenders and they slightly tickle your arms. You’re not sure how long you were in your euphoric trance but you weren't ready to leave yet when the dark shadow was casted over you.

Your eyes lazily open and beauty lies ahead, the sun gleaming behind him, lights him on flames and he burns with a presence so strong you can see it as his aura swirls around you, engulfing you. His features,strong and yet his eyes are soft and even as he's turned away from the sun they sparkle infinitely as they hold the brightest stars, his stare pierces through you and it makes your gut clench as you feel small under his gaze but you don't turn away, daring him to continue staring down on you, well that's what you tell yourself as you can't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes. His face wears a worried expression, his hand out forwards for you to take and place in his and it takes you a while to realise he's trying to help you up, even longer to comprehend the words that leave his mouth, as you just watch his cherry red lips move. You're dazed and for the first time you're not thinking straight, your legs won't move to carry you back up onto your feet but your hand instinctively moves towards him and your own mouth gapes open as it does, and again he repeats himself emphasising the words as his eyes widen further “are you feeling well?” you stare blankly at him, no response until you feel the burning sensation of his hand in yours. A heat that sends shocks through every nerve, it runs through your bloodstream lighting you on fire and as if you were burnt you pull back, shaking off the dizzy spell you rise to your feet, your body finally responding to your screaming brain. A sense of relief washes over you as the fear of losing your mind slowly seeps out as the haze in your mind clears, until your eyes meet his again. “Really y/n, not for a boy” you cry out in your head as your mind seems to be lost in awe looking at him.

You shuffle uncomfortably and it’s just now you realise how much of a mess you look as the embodiment of beauty’s eyes fall down. Your expensive dress torn up, what was once a full sangria and silver ball gown was now rags that wrapped around you with the bottom half missing as it stopped just above your knees, an uneven hem due to the rough ripping which took all of your strength, the white net underneath was visibly stained a brownish yellow, the cuts on your knee not being the only thing the dirt seeped into but his eyes don’t even seem to stop there, they didn't even seem to notice, only meeting a piece of paper that lied on the floor. He reaches down for it, his eyebrows perk up slightly before handing it back to you.“You dropped this” he avoids eye contact, continuing to stare down, his hand abruptly extends out in front of him and he clears his throat, adding to the excruciating awkwardness between you and you wince at the sudden sound.

“Oh thank you..” you can hear your voice waver and crack and for the first time in your life, your voice isn’t confident, seems like a day full of firsts, your mother would’ve been proud if she saw you acting like this, like a lady she would have put it. Quiet, reserved but really it was just a suffocating stiffness that lingered in the air.

“Jisung” he completes your sentence, a small, shy smile appears on his face as his eyes look at everything but you, the letter still in his grasp he shakes his hand at you slightly urging you to take it. Your fingers brush past his ever so slightly as you take the letter back into your possession, a spark is sent through you and your fingers twitch, as if wanting more but you stop them from moving any further, your eyes slightly widen as you catch yourself falling so easily and if Jisung catches the weird expressions on your face, he chooses to ignore them not saying anything. “You are not from around here, are you?” His voice is light and airy as he speaks softly, as if you were made of glass and any harsh tone could break you, you can’t tell if it’s because of the immense awkwardness or because of the pity he must feel seeing you in such a state. You hope it’s the former and decide that’s what it is, when he starts playing with the edges of his white shirt.

“No I live in London” the words die as soon as they leave your mouth, you used to live in London, you don’t anymore. This only adds to Jisung’s awkwardness and it reminds you no matter how beautiful he is, he’s only just a boy who’s probably around your age. So you smile at him, letting out a small breathy laugh in hopes of lightening the mood, it works as he visibly unstiffens. “Used to” Jisung doesn’t press on the matter any further, doesn’t ask anymore questions, just nods. The unsettling atmosphere sets in once again and your incapability of standing in silence for more than a second, you clear your throat "do you know where this address is?" your tone light and airy, you sound almost clueless and it’s now you realise the true meaning behind every etiquette class, the role of the women is the domestic war, the war on power. For one to rise they must make powerful allies and that’s what this voice is for, to obtain the power of a man and trick them into helping you; so you're glad when Jisung takes the letter back into his grasp and examines the writing at the front, it’s worked.

“I’ll show you the way” and you nod with a slight smile as a thank you, Jisung leads the way and you follow soon behind, with his face no longer in my sight you can finally observe the rest of him. Judging by his height and build, seems like he comes from a well off family. Though there wasn’t a day you felt hungry, you weren’t blind to the outside world no matter how hard your parents tried to shelter you from it. The world is living off rations but the wealthy still have access to more, Jisung must have some sought of status or most likely works for a household with high status considering it seemed like he was running errands, why else would he be in a field full of lavenders and it’s only reinforced by the fine silk that flows as wind rushes past you. Somewhat similar to the material that makes up your gown, or what’s left of it, it’s an expensive material imported from colonies in the empire. He walks with no flaw and so you guess he didn’t serve in the war, meaning he has to be around your age; this new life is exciting and scary, you’re not sure what you want yet but you certainly wouldn’t mind if the boy in the lavender field stuck around for a while.

Jisung’s steps slowed and soon came to a stop outside a large estate, it was nowhere near as big as your parent's manor but comparing it to the small petite houses in the village you could just about see; it definitely was the biggest house in the village. You turned to thank Jisung, mouth slightly opened as the words were prepared to leave until you saw him pull out a key and a heat rose up your neck onto your face, in both slight embarrassment and excitement as you realised that Jisung must live here and your mouth couldn’t help but confirm your thoughts, “do you live here?” you blurted quickly with a slight lift in your tone, which you hope wasn’t too obvious in exposing your excitement.

His eyebrows rise, a small smile appears but he doesn’t answer your question, continuing to unlock the doors and allows you to step in first, a women who barely makes it past Jisung’s shoulders calls out to him, embracing him as she tightly wraps her arms around his waist, Jisung leans back slightly as a way of hoping to loosen her grip as his face scrunches up in pain as the struggle to breath sets in but there’s a constant smile on his face right until he peels her off. It’s then she punches him in the stomach, making him crouch down below her, holding onto his stomach.

“How many breaths must I waste in having to tell you to make sure you fulfill all your duties before you head to the fields'' she nags him and a smile is brought to your face at the violent display of affection, you guess he must be a part of the service team that works for the master of this house, which was exceptionally beautiful in the inside; much bigger than what it lets off from the outside, your eyes can’t help but linger elsewhere and observe the hidden beauty in all the small intricate designs. “Young master” the lady continues to punish him for his action and you head whips around at her words, she hasn’t even noticed you but Jisung’s eyes are constantly on you watching your expressions change as more as more information is being released to you, a smile appears on his face and at first it seems like a smirk but soon you notice the constant pink dust across his cheeks and you realise he’s embarrassed. There’s a strange feeling in your chest, a warmth that spreads and has you clutching your fists as you think at how adorable he is, your eyebrows furrow and you shake both the thoughts and the smile off.

Finally after what seems like hours of you staring at Jisung but in reality was no longer than a few seconds, the petite woman turns to you and acknowledges your presence, her eyes widen in surprise and she rushes to your side. “Oh lord, my dear child are you okay?” she grabs your hands and ushers you down the hall into a secluded room that takes up a big portion of the ground floor of the house.

The kitchen, filled with plenty of workers,busy hands and food; she shouts at a maid to move a few things around and to make some space for you around the small table that holds vegetables and freshly cut meat. There’s the smell of spices that are definitely too exotic to be from these lands, parcels with German writing and several people cooking dishes you don’t recognise.

You're pushed down onto a small wooden chair that slightly rocks and it is by far the most uncomfortable place you’ve ever sat but you don’t dare complain even after the minutes pass and your legs begin to ache. The maids ran around you and even as you left that world behind, you still somehow ended up in the same position and then you realise it’s the fine silk you wear that sets you apart, the rows and rows of pearls around your neck and rings on your fingers. They don’t ask any questions, just wiping away at the dirt on your legs; the same women at the door pouring a type of alcohol over your cuts and it stings drawing out a hiss from you, “sorry” she whispers and blows slightly on the irritated skin. The kitchen quiets down and the other maids exit, leaving you and the same women who scolded Jisung, she didn’t bother to ask him any questions and quickly sent him away to carry on with the work he didn’t finish, she doesn’t ask you any questions either for it’s not her place to ask.

She wraps bandages around your knees and your eyes wander around, landing on a picture of her with three little boys, you recognise the smallest to be Jisung, she catches your eyes and smiles “the masters, when they were little devils” she remarks making you and her both let out small laughs, “though they aren't much better now” she smiles fondly as she continues to wrap the bandages, you see love in her eyes and can tell that she raised them.

“The smallest is Jisung, am I correct?” you ask just to confirm your assumption, she nods and smiles, “i can tell by his awkwardness, it’s radiant even in pictures” you scoff and she laughs. "Who are the other two?" Your curiosity seemingly has no end.

"The tallest is master Jeno and the one in the middle is master Jaemin" she says as she cuts the bandage. You take note of their names and match it to their appearances though you assume they've probably changed quite a bit. The tallest, Jeno has crescent moons for eyes as his smile pushes them up, it's adorable. The middle, Jaemin also has a bright smile, probably the prettiest you’ve ever seen but Jisung still stands out the most to you, maybe it’s because you’ve seen how he looks now; the change is definitely visible, he’s grown much taller and into his sharp features. He's definitely handsome, epitome of beauty but by the way he timidly walks you’re not quite sure he knows it.

“Will these do, ma’am?” her hands hold onto a set of clean clothes and you only nod at her as you take the clothes from her hands, calloused and rough from years of labour. "Please just call me y/n" you tell her trying to remove your status and she only nods in return. "And what may I call you" you ask her.

"Daphne" she replies and you notice that she smiles at you, a full smile nothing quite like you've seen before and you'd like to think this what a smile should look like. Genuine. Instead of all the small smiles you recieved, the ones with hidden agendas and meanings, the ones because of who your father was, the one because of your status, name, title, money and a persuasion for your hand in marriage. So many smiles yet none truly considered one. God you hated that life.

"Now y/n let me show you to a room" she leads you out the room and you follow her upstairs, all the maids rushing back into the kitchen after you have left. She turns left and right and you find that the upstairs is far more complicated to navigate, with many different rooms. When she finally reaches a long corridor, she stops to point at the room that awaits at the end. "That will be your room ma'am" and before she even could finish her sentence properly, "y/n" you correct her and she only nods, giving you a soft smile as an apology."Please call for me if anything isn't to your liking" she says and just as she's about to step away, ready to leave you to get comfortable.

You call her back, "Daphne, can you please tell me who this is" you lift up the small blue letter that leads you here to this address, to finally put a name to the mysterious woman who only seemed to want the best for you and your mother. She takes the small letter from your grasp, examining the small font that's slowly fading due to the number of years it's collected dust. Her eyes widen as she reads the letter, her head snapping up to look at you, her lips parting slightly as if her jaw threatened to drop.

"My god" she says as she continues to read, shock written all over her face, "this is from the master's mother, dear" she tells you and you join her in shock as your jaw hangs a lot more obviously in shock. "She worked for your family when she was young" she continues to tell you and the ripples of shock continue to pulse through your body. Your mother and her are good friends from what you've gathered, reading all the letters you found. Yet your mother never even allowed you to mix classes, always telling you to stick with your own people, people who can pay for your time, literally. Yet here she was being friends with a woman considered below her, even considering sending you away to her. The hypocrisy is what shocked you the most, for you didn't think your mother could build relationships if it weren't for a social advantage.

"Can I meet her?" you ask, excited until you see sadness seep into her eyes, she looks down and she shuffles slightly. Her eyes glossy with tears threatening to fall and your own shoulders droop down and a frown is formed on your lips. "I'm sorry" you apologise but she shakes her head and wipes her eyes slightly.

"Don't be silly, you didn't know and it's better you found out through me anyways." She tells you and you're glad that you found out through her too, you don't think you would've been able to handle it coming from Jisung. "If you do not mind me, but when did she pass" you ask carefully as to not break her.

"Last May" she tells you and you hear sadness in her voice , as it slightly cracks and you release a deep sigh as to rid your body from the contagious mood. With that she hands the letter back into your hand and leaves you to wash up, "Dinner will be ready soon, please wash up" she urges you to go into the room.

You walk down the corridor, steps heavy as your heart grieves for Jisung and as you're reminded of your own father's death, though he planned on marrying you to a stranger you didn't love and never truly wanting you to live happily. You loved and still love him with every ounce of your being, all making grief an impossibly hard process. For your heart hurt and your mind could not comprehend why. Your eyes stung with tears and your hands trembling with pain and still the mind was questioning why you felt sad. Then the guilt blooms, hovering above you, for this man raised you and cared for you and yet you question your grief as you sit by his deathbed. Yet you remind yourself that questioning your grief is better than not feeling any at all, you remember looking over towards your mother who wore black and instead of grieving her husband's death, she felt grief for her widow status that crushed her social status, for who was she without her husband.

So as you remove the many pearls and diamonds around your neck, gifted to you by your mother, you’re reminded why you left that life behind. You won’t be defined by your husband but by what you have achieved and for who you are. Yet you leave on the thin golden chain with a single pendant on your neck, as a reminder for where to come from and how far you’ve travelled. It was a gift from both your mother and father, the one gift you like to think wasn’t used as a symbol of your wealth to attract men in asking for your hand in marriage, the simplicity of this necklace led you to believe that this was a genuine gift of their love.

Changing out of your ball gown or the remainders of it, you feel anew. Stripping out of your old skin and into much comfortable and humble ones, you feel as if your new life is finally starting and though it’s far from what anyone would have wanted for your life to be like, it’s what you want. You’ve been here for just under an hour and instantly you're on cloud nine, floating to where only the sun is. The rays dancing on your skin and euphoria runs within your veins, this is life.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in a daze but soft knocks on the door is what awakens you and you're quick to open the door, not wanting to leave the person on the other side waiting but you’re met with a fist, that seems as if it malfunctions as it goes down by the side of the same person who seems to waking you out of all your dazes recently. Jisung stands there awkwardly, legs crossed and hands behind his back, he stutters as he says “dinner is...um.. It is awaiting” and with that he cuts himself off, rushing the words out of his mouth and quickly turns around, rushing downstairs.

You can only smile at him, how was someone allowed to be that cute. Following soon after him you enter into the dinning room, the smile on your face completely wiped off by the shock of two other men sitting around the table. Your back straightens as your body stiffens, by habit, you’ve been taught to look most confident when caught off guard.

“Sit here y/n” Daphne takes out the seat opposite of Jisung and next to a man you don’t know until he smiles your way, you recognise that smile and it’s still as pretty as it looks in the picture hanging in the kitchen. You smile back at him as you make your way by his side and take your seat.

“Hello, I’m Jaemin” he turns to you, dropping his fork and it clatters as it hits the plate, a beautiful smile across his face and you finding it comforting to think it hasn’t changed at all. He then lifts your hand to his lips, placing them softly on your knuckles all whilst keeping that damn smile held across his lips and staring straight into your soul, heat rises up your body slightly thrown back and he can see the shock in your eyes . Your well crafted facade cracking. His eyes are still boring into yours and you can’t move, stuck looking into his eyes, hands stuck to his until a kick. Coming from across the table, a force hits Jaemin’s shin causing him to yelp, instantly turning away from you and dropping your hand, you notice a small smile on Jisung’s face as he tries to conceal his laughter. You turn to look at where such a force came from, fierce strong features and an intimidating stare yet when he turns to you crescent moons appear, his aura changing immediately and the child in the portrait comes to life. “I’m Jeno” his voice is soft yet clear and all you can do is smile back before replying simply your name “Y/N” you tell him and he nods your way.

Thinking that silence would now set in was foolish of you, for you should’ve guessed Jaemin isn’t the type to let there be silence and looking back now you could definitely tell he was itching to ask you so many questions. “I guess you have already met Jisung” he turns to you again and you only nod, looking up at the tall boy in front of you but he only stares at the soup in front of him but you know he senses your gaze as he twitches slightly in his seat, holding himself back from looking up and directly into your eyes. “He is not usually this quiet, he will warm up to you soon” Jaemin apologises on behalf of Jisung yet he grimaces at the words that leave Jaemin’s mouth but you smile at Jaemin ignoring Jisung’s expression.

The rest of dinner is filled with small talk between you and Jaemin, him asking you your favourite colour and trivial things like that, you discussed different authors and scriptors to which Jeno also chimed in on the conversation, both very impressed on your knowledge though you aren’t sure if they were impressed because you were a woman or genuinely impressed by the vast knowledge you had accumulated over the years spent in your father’s library however you brushed that thought aside, carrying on with the conversation, eyes drifting to Jisung at times who just sat there playing around with spoon, twisting it between his fingers instead of daring to look at you let alone to add to the conversation. Finally as Daphne takes away the plates, Jeno stands up dismissing himself from the table, “It was a pleasure to meet you Y/N, I hope you stay a while it was fun having you” he tells you with those same moons for eyes and you thank him for his hospitality “It was a great pleasure to meet you too, thank you for allowing me to stay” you say them at Jeno and Jaemin but they’re mainly directed to Jisung who brought you here.

“If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to tell me” Jaemin smiles, a hand on your shoulder as he stands next to where you sit and you only nod at him, he then comes to your ear, lips so close you feel them brush against the shell “Jisung will come around, I’m sorry if he’s making you feel uncomfortable” he apologises on his behalf for the second time that night and you wave him off with a smile. You could already tell that Jisung is shy and awkward but it’s not confused for hate or resentment, he simply doesn’t know how to act around a female and it’s clear the way he trips over his words and his very own legs but to be fair they are very long.

After everyone left the table and made their ways to their own rooms, you too made your way to bed. Laying there you think back to how far you’ve come, a few months ago this all would have been nothing but a dream and now it’s a reality and the euphoric feeling you imagine is everything and more. Freedom is worth anything is what you’ve learnt, the freedom to live your life the way you want. To be in control of all your decisions, living with the consequences but not a single shred of regret because you chose it and therefore it must have been for a reason. It’s new and exciting but so scary as the colony of butterflies bloom in your stomach, all the possibilities panning out in your head and for some reason as you drift off to sleep that night, you see Jisung in this future of yours.

The sun shined in through the sheer curtains of your room, sunlight dancing on your skin and the warmth made you feel alive as it tingled. The house was quiet and as you look out the window you realise that even the Sun has still yet to wake fully, still sleepy rising out of the horizon. The birds chirp and the lavender fields roar as the wind dances but there in the middle of it all is a figure. Jisung. Your eyes light up and your legs are quick to move, still in your nightgown, hair in a mess you rush to meet him there. The stairs creak as you step down them slowly, as if a child trying not to get caught, you try your best not to wake a soul.

Once out the door you run out towards the purple sea, the cold morning air refreshing to the midday humidity that sticks your clothes to your skin, instead the wind blows through you and you feel free as all boundaries and confinements are washed away but then it hits you, causing your legs to halt. Jisung barely knows you, how weird it would be for you to run up to him at the break of dawn? Very weird you decide as you slowly make your way back to the house, hoping to not make any noise that might draw his attention your way.

Stepping back inside, your back against the heavy wooden door you let out a deep sigh as your eyes fall closed in relief. Thank god he didn't see you, you think to yourself as you just stepped into the living room and your heart dropped down to your stomach, lungs stopping as you see him there. Jisung flicking through a book, his eyes come up to meet yours which are blown out in shock as you stare between him and looking back at the door, his lips fold into a line and you practically see the questions forming in his mind as he scratches the top of his head.

“Good Morning” you say with a smile but the embarrassment isn’t covered well, eyes everywhere but his. He softly replies with a mumble you’re unsure if he actually said anything back or if you just made it up but as your eyes land on the book in his hand and all thoughts are banished. You rush round the table, Jisung’s eyes wide now as it’s his turn to be shocked as you sit down beside him, taking the book out of his hand to have a look at the title. “Ah a classic” you say as your fingers run over the title and Jisung only nods at your words. “Is it your favorite Shakespearean play?” you ask in hopes of starting up conversation, all you get in return is nod of the head but that does nothing but urge you to talk again to fill the silence. “I like Hamlet but i think Macbeth is my favourite. The best character being Lady Macbeth, a strong ambitious women” you state and Jisung only laughs at this causing you to turn back to him.

“She had lost her mind” he laughs again and you smile

“Yes but as a woman she exerts power and it’s not really seen much in female characters in stories and real life” you tell him, explaining how a woman like her is admirable for her strong spirit.

“Yes but doesn’t Shakespear describe her to have a masculine soul that within a femine body, he is saying the ambition and power are masculine and therefore is she really a good embodiment for strong powerful females?” he argues back, questioning you and you can’t help but smile.

“But he uses her and the witches to plant the idea of murder in Macbeth’s head, he shows that they are powerful and can achieve what they want through manipulation which he explains to be a women’s method, they are in control of the men and it shows that if it weren’t for social confinments that they would pursue their ambitions for themselves, is Macbeth really the one in control?” you question him back and he smiles

“You win” he laughs and pride is struck through you, there’s no feeling quite similar to winning a debate but there's sadness at the bottom of your gut as you remember and miss your brothers who you would debate with until frustrations would burst out of you all and it leads to punches being thrown around.

“Let me guess, you hate Romeo and Juliet” he expects you to say yes and you know it’s because he probably thinks their love for each other is shallow but you can’t say you do.

“I don’t actually, aside from the whole love at first sight, I somewhat relate to it” you tell him eyes staring at him but unfocused as you think back to how your own life was in comparison to Juliet’s, “the being forced into something you don’t want and dying for your freedom, in this case her freedom was Romeo but i don’t think he was the only reason she chose to flee, I’d like to think ran away for herself and to allow herself her own choices in life” and then silence as Jisung took in your words, a perspective he had never really thought about, the story was always solely based on romance but then again he had never been put in the position of being forced into something so life changing such as marriage. Jisung couldn’t begin to comprehend how it felt to be used so obviously for social gain and being stripped and deprived of anything else that would hinder that.

Sensing stiffness in the air, you had to do something about it, you finally got Jisung to actually have a conversation with you. “Still Macbeth is the best” and again you manage to get a laugh out of him. The sound is so sweet that angels come down to listen to it, the heavens split open at the first bubble of laughter that leaves his mouth and your eyes light up as your body tingles with pride for causing it, you’re addicted to it and you're itching to hear it again. You need to hear it again.

The moment is cut off though with the entrance of Jaemin and Jisung’s eyes avert to his brother greeting him a good morning as quietly as he did to you and Jaemin sleepy replies in a yawn, rubbing his eye before sitting down opposite you. “Morning y/n” he greets you and you smile before greeting him back, turning back to Jisung to hopefully start up the conversation again. “So what else are you reading?” you ask and your eyes light up as you scan over the many books on the table before you.

“Oh y/n, you know how to read!” Jaemin jumps up, it wasn’t expected for someone to be literate to the extent they could read Shakespeare or any higher educational scriptures, unless of a high class, let alone a women but your father taught you all he could and then you leached off your brothers who were lucky enough to be sent to school but Jaemin had already been aware of this “Yes my father taught me” you tell him and he nods rapidly.

“Yes I know, I just thought you’d like to know that there’s a library upstairs if you ever get bored and want to read something” he tells you and excitement bubbles up inside you and the instinct to run up there and have a look at their book collection is something far harder to conceal then it should be and Jaemin laughs at your eagerness. “Jisung could use someone like you, he’s always trying to get away from his studies” and you hear Jisung let out a nervous laugh as you turn towards him, completely offended.

“You have the privilege of being able to study and you want to run away from it” you gasp and it causes Jaemin to laugh again but this wasn’t a laughing matter, you were completely serious. You would die to be in his position and something about the way Jisung holds an apologetic look makes you think he knows you would.

“I guess you’ll just have to be with him to help him study” Jaemin offers a solution and your eyes light up at this, the excitement running through your veins. You all know exactly what that means, yes it’s babysitting Jisung to make sure he gets all his work done but it also means you get to study whatever he’s learning and expand your knowledge as far as you can. Jisung seemed hesitant at first but after seeing how you visibly lit up at the suggestion he couldn’t help but agree to take you along with him when he had to study.

After breakfast Jisung led you up to the library, it was a large room filled from ceiling to floor with books, the sight alone made you dizzy with excitement, as you stepped in the beloved smell of old books filled your senses and your hands instantly rushed to run along the spines of every book. Your eyes sparkled as you looked over each one and Jisung watched as fascination completely engulfed you, he couldn’t stop watching as you pick out a book, couldn’t take his eyes off you as your eyes skimmed the blurb, he was mesmerized by what he wasn’t too sure of. His eyes didn’t seem to be able to move on from your figure until you turned to face him, time stood still as he watched more and more of the bright smile that was held across your face be revealed to him, you were beautiful. Once met with yours, his eyes scrambled away as they always do and he was quick to turn around and seat himself at the desk that sat in the centre of the room.

You too situated yourself on one of the more comfortable chairs, opposite to Jisung, you watched him begin to write, his head slanted and both arms splayed out on the table, he was the height of beauty and grace, the gods carved him from marble, so ethereal Aphrodite herself was jealous of his perfection, Apollo envied his grace. Though you were here to study, read as many books time allowed you, your eyes were distracted and little did you know they were distracting Jisung as well. Your gaze causes his breath to halt, his hands to sweat and pink dust to decorate his skin. You were dazed, stuck in a trace of his beauty and had to do something to get out of it, you clenched your hand; nails digging into your palms, pressing hard to wake you. You forced your head to the side, eyes looking at the bookshelf once again but your actions caused Jisung to look up, you can feel his stare on you and a shiver is sent through your spine, too scared to look back at him, afraid you’ll be pulled back into his trance.

“You have a lot of German books” you say, hoping your nervousness isn’t obvious and just to be sure you get up and head towards the books. You feel him staring at every step you take and you just pray you're the only one that can hear the loud thumping of your heart against your ribcage as a colony of butterflies bloom in your stomach. Fingers tracing over the German writing on the spine of each book, you try to distract yourself from him and try to compose yourself once again but then his voice echoes through the room, deep and smooth it sends shivers rippling through you.

“My father was stationed in Germany” he tells you as his eyes finally move away from your figure, a sense of relief washes over you as he continues to write once again. Yet you're still too nervous to turn around, too nervous to look at him, he who is the epitome of beauty.

“Still?” you ask, filling in the silence as you pull out another book, examining the words on the front cover but you instantly regret it as Jisung’s eyes fall back onto you.

“After the war he was assigned a higher position in the Rhineland and then after they were dismissed he was asked to stay along the French borders'' he tells you and once again your curiosity gets the best of you and you ask him another question. If you remember correctly, it’s been 10 years since the dismissal of the troops in the Rhineland.

“So when was the last time you saw him?” and instantly you regret the words that leave your mouth, your curse yourself a million times over. Jisung’s silence is all too overwhelming and your chest grows tighter as guilt takes over your body and just as you’re about to apologise, he answers

“He visited last year” Jisung simply states but you can hear the strain in his voice, the pain he’s tried his best to cover yet it seeps through and your glad you can’t see him right now because you couldn’t bare to see the sparkle in his eyes fade slightly as you remember the passing of his mother, that most probably led to his father returning back home. Silence settles again and your frozen by the shelves, the air so heavy it feels as if weights were holding you down, your mind hazy as you space out and as the common pattern goes, Jisung wakes you out of the depths of your mind with a voice as smooth as honey, it provides a comfort that sends shivers down your spine. “He’ll be back soon though, he’s officially been discharged for retirement” he tells you as if he can feel your stiffness and out of the corner of your eye you see he’s giving you a small comforting smile, just to make the air seem a little lighter.

Time seems to fly past as you both sit there, Jisung’s hands busy writing away as he refers back to scriptures and your eyes busy as you read up on German politics and the structure of the Weimar constitution, that revolutionised democracy, the sun was now high in the sky as noon approached. You didn’t even notice until Jisung let out a loud yawn, arms above his head as he stretched and let out mumbles of how you should stop for today or at least take a break. You only nodded in response as you stretched your own limbs out, you had ended up curled up in the chair with your legs tucked away as you leaned into what you were reading. Jisung couldn't help but smile as he looked up occasionally to see your eyebrows furrowed as you read and he can't help the soft laugh from escaping his lips now as he watches you stretch. "And what is it that you find so funny?" You question him, eyes narrowed but your lips are clearly fighting back a smile and the sight of it flusters Jisung, stammering over his words ``N-Nothing" he answers and you let out a small smile to let him know you were only kidding.

As you both leave the room, you can't help but follow Jisung "and what is it you do after you are done studying?" Your question startled him as he visibly flinched at the sound of your voice and he mentally tells himself to get used to your unquenchable curiosity. "Except for picking lavenders" you tease. He lets out a soft laugh, the same sound you've been itching to hear since this morning.

"Nothing much" he tells as he makes his way down the stairs. Following him down, he makes his way towards the drawing room, sitting himself down in an old velvet chair, you place yourself beside him in a matching one. Your eyes peering over towards his hands that pull at needle and thread and you’re astounded by the sight in front of you, a male who knows how to sew is as rare as diamonds, as impressive as gold. Jisung continuously stuns you, his nimble fingers work diligently as they pull the thread to make patterns across the once plain cloth.

He can feel the burn of your stare on his hands, his chest tightens and his nerves are lit on fire, he is hyper aware of every wander of your eyes. His mind clouded by the mere thought of you watching him, his mind so fixated on impressing you, for a reason he’s not sure of, he doesn’t pay much attention to the needle any longer; a mistake he realises once the sharp point collides with the soft skin of his index, drawing blood. He flinches back away from the sharp contact as you leap forward to cup his hand in both of yours. Pressing your thumb against his finger, applying pressure in hopes of stopping the seeping blood, you slightly blow upon it to relieve it of any pain but Jisung can’t feel any pain not when your overwhelming heat rolls of you and radiates on to his skin, with every touch sparks fly on top of his skin fizzling underneath and seeping into his bloodstream. A fluttering blooms in his stomach and Jisung has no idea what this feeling is, it’s new and exciting. He craves it as his eyes drift to your worried face and once your eyes meet his, the emotion is buried by the overwhelming nervousness he feels engulfing him, his cheeks flush and his breath is caught in his throat. He pulls away from you and quickly stands “I’ll” he pauses thinking what to say next “I’ll get a bandage” he spits the words out as soon as his mind comes up with the excuse.

“I’ll get it, sit down” you stand up and ready to head towards any one of the maids that could help you but your steps are interrupted by Jisung’s voice once again.

“No it’s fine, I’ll get it” he blurts out, hand stopping you as he places in front of you, your head moving back on reflex, and with that Jisung runs out the room; feet moving fast as his left hand tightly wraps around his right index.

You sit there for what felt like forever waiting for Jisung’s return but in reality it was no more than 10 minutes, you were never one to hold patience. So you rose to your feet, eager to find the tall boy that let awkwardness roll off of him. Heading to the direction you saw Jisung turn, you make your way to the familiar kitchen, many busy bodies work their way around preparing for dinner as the clock is nearing sun fall. Your eyes wander the familiar walls with the same pictures you stared at upon the first day of your arrival, until they stopped on the figure they seeked. There he stood by the wooden table that just about reached his waist. He poured flour into a bowl, followed by two eggs and your eyes watched his every moment again and as if he could sense you, his rose to meet you once again. You smile because it just comes so naturally when with him and he smiles back, how could he not?

Inviting yourself in, you step closer towards Jisung, “A cook too” you say, you’re impressed and it’s evident in your voice.

“It’s a basic necessity” he says yet there’s a pink coating that dusts his cheeks, you know he’s flattered by your words despite his own.

“Basic necessity?” you question as you sit down, legs crossed, on an empty wooden chair just by where he stands “I guess I should learn” you state nonchalantly, not expecting the reaction it would provoke from Jisung. His head snaps to turn to you, his eyes searching your face for any indication that you were only pulling his leg, that this was only a joke but those indications never showed because this wasn't a joke, you were serious.

“What? Does a girl have to know how to cook?” you question him in a scoff, an eyebrow raised as you question his thoughts that control his expressions.

“No they don’t but I can be surprised, I know you are surprised I can” he rebuttals, calling out your hypocrisy but to this you only smile, you were glad Jisung could stand his own ground, it wouldn’t be fun otherwise.

“More impressed than surprised” you state, earning a smile from Jisung once again, you pat yourself on the back each time you manage to pull out that sweet, healing smile that seems to wash all worries away.

“Who’s to say I’m not impressed” he questions you once again and continues to mix the batter, adding more ingredients, again you smile at his words and Jisung feels his heart flutter at every stretch of your lips. He craves to see it more.

“Can you teach me?” your question catches him off guard and his eyebrows leap up into the soft brown hair that covers his forehead, “what I’m not totally hopeless, I’ve read a book on it before” you pout. Laughter rings through the air as Jisung has doubled over, unable to hold in the snorts and his breathing unsteadies as your words register in his head and this only makes your pout more prominent and your eyebrows knit together.

“I’m sorry” Jisung laughs out as his eyes fall onto your expression but he can’t hold it in, a few bubbles of laughter spilling out as he tries to calm his breaths, his eyes glossy as tears threaten to fall and you try to fight back your own laughter as the corners of your lips slightly perk up. “Did you say you read a book on cooking” he can’t even get through the sentence without laughing but he’s quick to reign it back in to allow you to answer.

“Yes” you say proudly, head still held high and Jisung bites down on his lips as the splutters of laughter threaten to escape again. “It’s obviously not the same thing but I’ve read basic methods” you state in defence.

“You make it sound like science” he scoffs at your words and you roll your eyes at his.

“Is it not, the mixing of substances to achieve a product. It sounds like alchemy to me” you explain your thought process and Jisung nods in agreement. Though you can tell he has something to say.

“Alright then, let us say cooking is science” he begins and you raise your eyebrow in questioning as to where this is leading “reading a method for an experiment is not the same as doing the experiment, there are things that are not accounted for, practical errors, measuring errors. The method tells you what to do but not how to do it” and before he can even finish his sentence properly you jump up, startling him slightly as he flinches back.

“And that is where you come in to teach me, guide me through the experiment” you plead but it sounds like he doesn’t really have an option, you’re practically telling him. He sighs but he has to give, how could he not when you're giving him your sweetest smile and when your eyes are practically begging him.

“I’m surprised you want to learn” he questions you “I thought you’d avoid anything that would have been forced upon you” he explains as he hands you an apron.

Your smile extends ear to ear as you take the apron from his hands, tying in behind your back you explain your sudden want to learn “Yes but I’m choosing to learn, this isn’t about adding another quality of a wife to my resume. This about extending my knowledge and as you said it is a basic necessity.”

Jisung only nods at your answer as he hands you another bowl, some ingredients already placed inside “follow after me” he says as he cracks an egg and pours it’s insides into the bowl and then turning to you he see you struggle, knocking the egg against the table softly you try and mimic his actions “Did the book not mention eggs?” he laughs and so does Daphne who observes close by as you send him glares that wish him death.

“Like this” he says as he places his hands over yours, guiding you but your eyes aren’t focused on the egg in your hold, you’re focused on Jisung who’s so close, too close. You feel his breath on the side of your neck and goosebumps arise on the surface of your skin as shivers are sent down your spine. The scent of cotton, jasmine and of course lavenders invade your senses and blur your mind. You can’t help but stare at Jisung, perfection personified as he concentrates on explaining how to assure no shell falls into the batter. Yet the words enter one ear and exit the other as you watch his lips move, your eyes stuck and it’s only when his eyes move up to meet yours does he also realise the little space between the two of you. His hands still holding onto yours, his eyes move down. Slowly they trace the features of your face, the bridge of your nose, the dip of your cupid’s bow and then they stop at your lips. His breathing halts, his heart skips beats as it dances in his chest and when he feels unbearable heat take over him he forces himself away from you. Quickly flinching back, his warmth leaves you, he clears his throat and turns from your gaze that still stares, he continues showing you what to do and no more words are exchanged as the heaviness in the air sets in.

Many weeks go by where you and Jisung spend all your mornings in the library, which had now become your favourite spot in the house, you look forward to picking up a new book every morning, look forward to watching Jisung so focused on his work, telling him all about what you’ve learnt and occasionally sparking up a debate but you also find yourself staring out the window wishing for the sun to only raise itself higher and higher as you wish for midday to arrive, to run away with Jisung down into the kitchen where he continues to teach you how to cook, some days he would take you into town to pick out fresh ingredients or some days into the drawing room where he attempts to teach you how to sow. After a few failed attempts, your patience wearing thin and much blood being drawn from your fingers, you give up on sewing however cooking is a much greater achievement and the outcome was worth every bit of it. The smile on Jisung’s face every time he’d taste something he’d liked, every time you remember a part of a recipe and every time he would sit down at the dinner table and Jeno or Jaemin would compliment your cooking. He felt immense pride in you and it fostered a love for cooking within you.

Other days when the weather prohibited it, Jisung would take you out into the lavender field. You’d sit in between the rows and rows of purple, picking at the prettiest ones.The sun high in the sky, august warmth embracing you as the wind blew over the roaring fields, dancing between your hair. “Look I learnt this from a book” you sit beside Jisung, his head snaps up and his attention is on your fingers now as they twirl the thin stems in and around each other to form a knot. “Purity, silence, devotion and grace are what a lavender symbolise” you begin to tell him “and you Jisung” you place the intertwined lavenders behind his ear, he’s visibly flustered as his cheeks turn hues of pink and it only urges you on “are exactly that” you whisper to him as if the lavenders had ears and could hear your confession, for these words are for Jisung’s only.

Jisung’s eyes widened as each word that was revealed to him, his heart thumping in his chest and his mind set on fire as chaos engulfed him. His thoughts scrambled and instantly his mind went to countless different possibilities as to what those words meant but looking up at you his mind cleared for he only saw beauty. The beauty your eyes held, as they sparkled infinitely each time they skimmed over the countless words on a book, the beauty your smile held when someone complimented your new found cooking skills, the beauty in your voice each time you called on him as the new found nickname “sungie” which caused his heart to melt, the beauty you held in the way you carried yourself never letting anyone put you down. Jisung adored you in every way, embers in his chest that grew into a flame, which spreads through his entirety burning all. A blissful pain sits at the core of him, aching, he longs for you but do you long for him? Is he but a fool to fall in love with a stranger, the stranger in the lavender fields. Is he a fool for falling in love with you? Is this even love? His eyes fixated on your lips, he examines the curve of them, the colour, their beauty. As if they were magnets he’s drawn to them, slowly inching himself forward, so close he could feel the warm air that made it past them.

So close and yet so far is he to you, the sweet smell of lavenders is dizzying, the sunlight burns your skin but against Jisung’s it only illuminates his, he glows. The urge to place your lips on top of his, eats away at your skin, the want crawls under and down your spine, shivers resonate throughout your body as he nears. The world falls away, the slight buzzing of bees fade, the tickles of the grass dissipate and you only feel Jisung. His presence, the brush of his knee against yours and the warmth that radiates off him. Your heart stops, you stop breathing, anticipating what’s about to happen next until suddenly Jisung’s head snaps to the right and reality comes flooding in as you hear both your names ringing and ripping through the air. “Jisung! Y/N!” Daphne shouts and Jisung jumps up answering for both of you “We’re coming!” Left completely stunned you sit there, mind in chaos as your embarrassment engulfs you. Your eyebrows furrowed, you think to yourself how you could allow for yourself to fall into his spell. What were you thinking? That’s the problem, around Jisung you can’t think, everything happens on pure instinct and desire. Then as if you had rewinded time, a shadow is casted over you, a hand is placed in front of you to take and as he did on that first day, he snaps you out of your daze. “Are you feeling well?” he asks in that same soft voice. Your hand twitches to move towards him and it takes everything in your power to stop it from falling into his grasp once again.

“Fine” it comes out much colder than you expected it to as you rise up to your feet on your own, his hand is left hanging awkwardly to which he slowly closes before placing it behind his head as he bites his bottom lip and your eyes can’t help but fall on them again, they which were so close and yet so far. “Let’s go” and this time you lead him out of the lavender field.

The walk back to the house is silent, the same awkwardness that hadn’t made an appearance in so long settles in the air, it’s thick and heavy and you can feel it weigh you down. Upon arriving back to the house, a carriage awaits outside, a military emblem on the back and your heart drops, eyes widen and your steps stop. “It couldn’t be” you let out at barely a whisper.

But the slightest sound from you is enough to have Jisung’s head snap up towards you, for he’s been waiting for you to make a sound, any sound to rid this atmosphere. "What is it?" He asks also hushed, his eyes follow yours and there it leads to the carriage, a smile rips through his face and he runs ahead. Confused you rush your steps but the anxiety building up in your chest stays, the lump in your throat is still hard to swallow.

“Y/N!” Jaemin calls you whilst waving his hand eagerly, calling you to come quickly and as you step closer the constraining feeling in your chest dissipates as the figure that steps out of the carriage is an unknown one to you. You stand by Jaemin’s side, who radiates excitement off him and you can’t help but smile as the little boy in the picture is standing right before you, the same eager stance and pretty smile that even the sun envies. The man exists and immediately pulls Jeno into an embrace so tight and you swear you see Jeno’s eyes sparkle as tears threaten to fall. Jisung is much less subtle at concealing his tears, he sobs into the man’s shoulder and it’s only then you presume this is their father. Jisung’s eyes are red and he sniffles as his father let’s go of him and your heart clenches at his adorableness. Jaemin is as happy as ever, hugging his father as tight as ever, eyes closed in pure bliss. You’re smiling like a fool as the heartwarming scene unfolds in front of you, so busy looking at the happy smiles and the stray few tears that are still running down Jisung’s cheeks you don’t notice the new acquaintance step in front of you until he clears his throat and you jump to meet his gaze.

“You must be Y/N” he smiles extending his hand and you place yours in it, shaking it. “I’ve heard a lot about you in all my son’s letters” your eyes widen and your turn to the three boy, Jaemin with that damn smirk on his face, Jisung avoiding your eyes and as always finding his shoes much more interesting, thank god for Jeno who offers a comforting smile assuring it’s all good things. “Sir you’ve raised three fine men, who have all welcomed me” you bow your head in thanks and he smiles once again.

“I couldn’t possible take any credit for it, it’s all thanks to their mother and Daphne of course” he turns from you to her and she pulls him into an embrace “Thank you for looking after them” he says barely audible but Daphne catches it and just as softly replies “but of course”. As everyone heads inside you wait until Jisung is by your side to start heading in as well, “Crybaby” you whisper with a teasing smile you nudge him with your elbow, he scoffs as he’s wiping his tear stained cheeks but he can’t help smile back at you.

Seated around the dining table, as always by Jaemin’s side and opposite Jisung, their father sits at the head of the table and more food than ever is being served tonight in celebration. You’re much more quiet tonight despite Jaemin continuously making sure you feel involved in the conversation, you’re eternally grateful for him. “So Y/N, why did you leave home?” their father asks so casually it almost goes unnoticed by the boys but Jisung almost chokes on his water, Jeno’s eyes widen and Jaemin almost immediately tries to shut down the conversation “Father” he gives him a pointed look, jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowed as he shakes his head.

“Jaemin, it's okay" you smile towards him, "freedom i suppose sir" you answer the question and Jisung's father squints his eyes, as he lets out a hum in acknowledgement of your answer. "Even after all your family has done for you?" He continues to question "you come from the family my late wife used to work under, am I correct?" And you simply nod "yes I do".

"The late General's daughter" he states "I wonder if he's turning in his grave at this moment" Jisung's grip on his silverware tightens and you notice his knuckles turn white and once again Jaemin's stare is begging his father to stop as Jeno looks over to see how affected you are by his cruel words. You don't falter though, you know what you've done can seem selfish but it was necessary "I'm sure he is" you laugh out "but he's always known I'm never one to listen" you continue to pick away at the food on your plate and you can feel all there gazes falls onto you, as you look up Jisung’s eye bore into yours as he mouths a soft “sorry” to you and you smile back at him shaking your head.

“I assume you’ve run from marriage” Jisung’s father starts up conversation again and you only nod as an answer “Are you against marriage?” he asks and it’s if he wants tears to fall from your eyes as he keeps pushing where he knows it’ll hurt. “Of course not but I would like to pursue a higher education or experience the world first” you explain, still keeping your calm.

“You think a woman is capable of doing such things?” he asks again and it’s this question that really makes your skin crawl and your jaw tighten. Questioning your methods of gaining freedom is one thing but looking down on all women and claiming them unable is one you can’t stand for. “I think we are very capable, I think the suffragettes have made that very clear and sir didn’t you work with the Weimar Government, they were the first government to allow women to vote I would think their initiative would have rubbed off on you” and he only smiles at your answer.

“I was stationed in Germany and worked under the Weimar Government up until their collapse, you’re correct” he begins to tell you “I have to tell you that I agree with your view, I’ve seen much that women are capable of doing” he says and your eyes widen at his words “I think what you did was brave and admirable, my three boys could learn from you, I hope you can lend Jisung some of your courage” he smiles at you and your jaw still hangs as does everyone else's around the table and as you look up to find pink hues invading Jisung’s cheeks once again, if you didn’t know any better you would have thought it were always like that regardless. You nod at their father before answering back “I think I’m the one who’s learning a lot form Jisung sir” and the shades of pink darken

The atmosphere had lightened again somewhat although the topic on war was not a light one at all, as their father expressed his worry about sending his three sons off to war and how in ruins the country would be again, worry sat in your chest. Jeno and Jaemin are strong all physically, emotionally and mentally but Jisung is the sweet boy who wouldn’t hurt a bee. “What do you think of the current situation of our country Y/N'' Jeno taking you out of your thoughts, you head snaps up to him “I think the war is unavoidable despite our economic stance, Germany has already invaded Czechoslovakia and it’s only time before they invade Poland meaning our involvement in the war is definite whether we want it or not'' the table falls silent as they process your words and it’s not until Jisung’s father begins to nod and expand on your thoughts but you zone out as you watch Jisung fiddle with the knotted lavenders you had gifted him and your lips can’t help but curve.

The next morning a book awaited you on your vanity, a scarlet red cover with gold print, you ran your fingers along. “Sonnets'' it read and as you flicked open to the first page, familiar handwriting appeared “A collection of my favourite - Jisung” a smile spread across your face as it usually did when your thoughts ran to Jisung. You sat down flicking to the first poem “Sonnet 18” a giggle escaped your mouth and like a schoolgirl already aware of the beauty Shakespear's arguably most famous sonnet holds, the giddy feeling of butterflies blooming caused your heartbeat to quicken and a heat to rise.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And too often is his gold complexion dimm’d:

Annotations surround the poem as Jisung highlights and picks out certain lines. The second line is underlined and next to it he writes “Though you are lovely, temperate is definitely up for debate” he teases and you scoff at his words. You read on and lines four and five are underlined and his annotation reads “The eye of heaven is you who shines gloriously throughout the day and yet too often you allow yourself to dim. Don’t.”

And every fair from fair sometimes declines,

By chance or natures changing course untrimm’d;

By thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

“You are my eternal summer, your beauty is one that isn’t possible to vanish, it’s infinite unlike summer which collapses in winter” you read on as lines nine and ten are underlined.

Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

The the final annotation as the last three lines are highlighted, Jisung says “Your beauty shall remain eternal so long as my heart beats, so long as i live and breathe, so long as my eyes can see your beauty, I only seem to think of you now as i read this poem and in this poem the memory of you shall live on” you heart beats erratically in your chest, you’re breathless as his words halt your breathing. Forgetting such simple acts as thinking and even breathing seem to be a regular side effect in the presence of Jisung, just the mere thought of him. Your palms grow sweaty, your heart clenches reading over the words again and again, you pinch yourself. For this moment, seems like nothing but a dream, your heads in the cloud, you're living in the heavens. The feeling is suffocating, your own throat is closing in on you, the pain in your chest spreads like wildfire, your whole body aches with admiration for him. Yet the constant question looms over your head, what does he really mean by this? Is his feeling the same as yours? Or is he portraying the beautiful friendship you both have built over the weeks? One thing is sure and it’s that you can’t ruin that, can’t let the heavy air seep in once again and weigh you down.

The days folded out as normal, Jisung’s presence still as overwhelming as ever but you couldn’t help but find serenity in it, he was soft spoken yet his silence speaks the loudest for him, his grace and beauty as were one to be envied by all but you were nothing more than grateful for being able to witness it day after day, it were as if he had walked out of your dreams. The stolen glances, lingering stares as he smiled or laughed, he stole your heart and he wasn’t even aware it was his anyways. Sitting opposite him, you stare not caring if he or anyone catches you for your far past the point of holding any shame and allowing your eyes to do as they please.

"I have something to announce" Jeno suddenly speaks up, breaking the silence, all eyes turn to him and he audibly gulps. You’ve never seen him so nervous, fiddling with his silverware you almost mistook him for Jisung. He clears his voice before speaking, taking in a deep breath he prepares himself for the words that are about to leave him, “I am to marry” he says quickly waiting for a response, an outroar, a gasp and maybe a few tears but none of them come.

“About time don’t you think” Jaemin laughs out causing the rest of the table to release small giggles at Jeno’s expense, “You have been all giddy and heart eyes at that girl in the village since we were all but five- OW" Jaemin's face twists in pain, hands rushing to his shin as he's cut off by a harsh kick. Jisung and you burst into laughter not being able to hold it in any longer.

"And what are you two laughing at" Jeno punches at Jisung’s shoulder, immediately causing him to halt his laughter as he rubs his shoulder “Well brother, it’s not like it is a secret. Even Y/N knows” and you giggle again as Jisung enlightens Jeno on his obvious swooning.

“What?” Jeno’s eyes widen as he turns to you and you can’t help but laugh even more. “We visited the village and your eyes were stuck, Jeno you walked straight into Jisung” you burst out laughing as you recall the memory. Once the laughter, the teasing, the amount of huffs that leave Jeno quiet down your left with comfort, a bliss that you’ve never felt before, a smile that just won’t leave your face. It’s a beautiful feeling and you wish to memorise it for if numbness overtakes your body, you can relive this exact moment of the solace you found in those around this table.

“Is that three out of the four of us in love?” Jaemin smirks as he lifts his glass to his lips, looking around the table, Jeno scoffs at his words but confusion is written all over you and Jisung. Did Jaemin know that your heart only seems to beat for Jisung? How did he know? Who was the other person? Was it Jaemin or Jisung? If Jisung, who did he love? The questions ran through your mind in circles and it only spewed more questions to follow, your head was spinning stuck in the spiral of curiosity, but curiosity always killed the cat.

But cats have 8 other lives right? That is what you had decided later that night, sat beside Jisung on the stone wall, letting curiosity take over you - slightly. Your legs dangled, swinging them back and forth, whilst Jisung’s gaze was set on the crashing waves of purple as the moon pulled them back and forth; yours were stuck on him. The moonlight illuminated, captured his beauty in a way the sun couldn’t, it seemed the goddess of the moon saw greater beauty in Jisung than Apollo could ever begin to understand.

“I could not fail to realise that sonnet 23 was not amongst your favourite” your eyes darting out towards the fields as his turn to you, “It’s one of my favourites” you tell him.

“I’m sorry to disappoint but do you not think it’s a bit cliche” he laughs and your eyebrows shoot up in slight disbelief “and sonnet 18 is not” you scoff, finally meeting his eyes.

“Sonnet 18 is beautiful” he argues and he swings into you, nudging you slightly, rolling your eyes you nudge him back “Sonnet 23 is just as or dare I say more” and he smiles slightly, eyes turning back to the night sky, the clouds running over the moon and Jisung is left amongst the stars. “How so?” he dares to question.

“It is, for one, far more romantic” you begin “the thought of one loving you with so much passion, so unconditionally that it can not even be professed by words yet the love they feel is so strong they need an escape, to tell that person what they can not truly express fully, to let them show you how much they love you. To hear with eyes as Shakespear so beautifully put it” you nudge him again and he looks down at you, a smile as radiant as the sun,moon and stars combined graces you and again Jisung has stolen your heart in complete silence

“Yet what I love about Sonnet 18 is that it is not too romantic, that the love that Shakespear professes can be for a lover or a friend, he speaks of all the imperfections of summer yet still he loves it, he describes the person he loves as someone who defies all the imperfections for in his eyes they are perfect imperfections when it comes to them” he nudges you back with a slight giggle but you can’t return his happiness for you have been stung as his words seep into your mind.

“Oh for a friend” you whisper, he hears your words but not the sadness behind them as he continues with that bright smile “and that is why it was so perfect to give to you” his words are daggers to the heart, piercing through, it shatters and the fine pieces scatter throughout you and the sadness seeps through every fibre, cell and atom of your body.

“Are you feeling well?”he asks and worry sweeps the smile off his face as he finds the glossiness of your eyes, the slight redness as well as the unusual silence from you. “Fine” you answer jumping off the stone wall, “Just tired” you say looking out to the goddess of the moon one last time, unable to turn and look at the art she admired most. “Goodnight Jisung” you say as you turn back to the house, not sparing him a glance for he stole your heart and then broke it.

Though that night your tears mixed with moonlight until Morpheus took you to dream and then the next morning tears mixed with sunlight as Apollo pulled his golden chariot, with swollen eyes and a throbbing head you promised this wouldn’t affect the beautiful friendship that had bloomed. Jisung may not love you the way you would like but he still loved you, as a friend. The mere thought of the word stung, another aching rippled through you and your bones quacked.

Many dusks and dawns had passed and since,you’ve managed to create some distance between you and Jisung but as once said distance makes the heart grow fonder and you curse whoever uttered such truth. For every stolen glance and accidental touch seemed to make your dormant heart beat with every intent of being heard as it rose to your throat, suffocating you.

Jeno’s upcoming wedding being the greatest of all excuses to run away from the burning presence of Jisung, for you would flee to the village with Daphne and pick out materials, help Jeno’s fiance pick flowers, handwrite invitations with Jeno and accompany Jaemin on whatever errands he had been sent to do. No one questioned how you decided to spend your time, other than of course Jaemin who couldn’t help but let his curiosity lead the words that spewed out of him, to which you told him he’d regret someday.

“Just tell me Y/N” he groans as he carries the large basket of apples “Why spend your time with me instead of Jisung” he continues to pursue the answers you deny him of.

“Maybe because, and I dare to say, I like your company more” you pinch his cheek and laugh at the pout that forms on his face “What answer are you looking for Jaems, what would you have me say?”

“I want you to say you are helplessly in love with my brother who is just as in love with you however both of you are too busy quoting literature that is up for interpretation rather than professing your feelings because you lack the courage to do so” you freeze at his words and he also comes to a halt, turning towards you his eyes, sympathetic “you both are as obvious as Jeno” he lets out a small laugh.

“He does not love me Jaemin” your voice stern as you try to convince one who believes in fairytales, your steps quicken and he chases after you “and how exactly do you know?” he questions, curiosity endless.

“He said so, he said he gifted me Sonnet 18 as a friend.” You scoff at the absurd word that causes so much pain and you say it with spite everytime.

“Like I said he lacks courage and as my father said you, Y/N, can help him gain it” he tells you, eyes wide with hope and you admire Jaemin for being a hopeless romantic and you only hope he meets someone who completely fulfills his ideology of love.

“I don’t think I possess such courage anymore” you break it to him for Jisung has broken your heart once, how can you have the courage to allow him the chance to do it again.

Jeno’s wedding arrived much sooner than expected, as the weeks rushed past in much haste as the many busy bodies prepared for the beautiful evening and as hard as you tried to separate yourself from Jisung, the universe liked to disrupt those plans. To the place it all started, so close yet so far apart, you stood rows away from Jisung picking only the prettiest lavenders as per Jeno’s request. The air was thick and heavy despite the August breeze that ran through the fields, an unfamiliar heaviness sat between you two for even as strangers you were far more comfortable. Maybe it’s due to the curiosity you held back then, for the boy in the lavender field, beauty that wasn’t done justice by the word but now that you know him, adore him and are in love with him and now that your heart belongs to him but his not to yours. There’s a void left for the seeping awkwardness to fill, an uneasiness sat in your gut and every moment was excruciating to bare as your heart pains at every beat that belongs to him who does not seem to care.

“Lavenders wouldn’t be my first pick for a wedding” he speaks up first, the silence with you was something he wasn’t used to, you always made sure to replace it with continuous talking and contagious laughter and now that you weren’t, it didn’t feel right to him but you only nod in response not entertaining his thoughts any further. Jisung preferred silence, his thoughts more coherent, his emotions understandable, the silence was comfortable and not overwhelming but with you he couldn’t stand it, mind always wondering what you were thinking, what you were feeling, he needed to know.

So he carries on speaking, “If it were up to me, Irises and carnations” he expects an interrogation, your endless curiosity asking why that would be his pick but it never comes. So he continues speaking, giving you the answer you didn’t ask for “Irises mean faith, fitting for a lifelong vow” he laughs as he looks over to you stoic expression, cutting off his soft laughter he again begins to speak “and carnation, white ones that symbolise-”

“Eternal love” you cut him off, turning to him, finally speaking yet your tone is monotonous and there is no emotion evident on your face. There’s slight fear in him and it rises, a lump forming in his throat that he can’t quite seem to swallow “Exactly” he choked out, voice strained.

You let out a breath that seemed to be weighing you down, you couldn’t let him continue talking about the meaning behind the flowers, your heart couldn’t take it for aching stops momentarily and instead it flutters and swoons across your chest but then reality hit and it shatters all over again, the pain shooting through your bloodstream.

“Are you feeling well?” he asks as he always does and you answer “Fine” as you always do, even though you both know it’s a lie but he doesn’t push any further as always. The longing feeling for you to look at him and spill all your worries and feelings to him is so great but he doesn’t want to push you to nor does he expect you to trust him with that vulnerability when he himself does not have the courage to do the same back to you.

“I’m going to leave after Jeno’s wedding” you announce working up the little courage you have left, if you say it out loud then you’ll have to follow through. “Thank you for everything” you brace yourself to meet his eyes once more as you turn. “What? Why?” concern so evident in the way his voice wavers, eye glossed over as tears threaten to fall.

“I left to seek my own happiness in life, to make a mark on this Earth yet instead I ran from relying on my family to relying on you and yours” again your voice is completely void of emotions, yet every part of your body was screaming. Longing for the warmth, solace and peace you had found here and it’s at this point you curse yourself for memorising that bliss for all you will do is miss it.

“Did you not feel happiness here?” he screams out, harsher than he expected as he voice comes out rough and broken and you stand there eyes wide for this was the first time the pure,silent and serene boy that stands in the lavender fields has allowed so much emotion to course through his body and you can tell by the way he shakes, the way he struggles to breath and the shock that immediately washed over him upon hearing his own voice raised “I’m sorry” he mumbles in a heavy exhale.

“Thank you for everything Jisung” you offer him a smile as you leave, avoiding his question, leaving him standing alone in the lavender fields.

Leaving the basket of lavenders with Jeno, you rush up the stairs and only when behind the safety of your door do you allow the tears to come streaming down your face, sobs escaping and you hold your mouth to conceal them as you take deep shaky breaths to steady your breathing. Your whole body aches and shakes as it mours the end of your stay, the tears cloud your vision and as you lay down to ease the heartbeat in your head, you cry yourself into a slumber. Even as the dreams swirl around you, pulling you into the unconscious, reality never truly slips away, it haunts you as even in the world you build you can’t stray away from it. The ability to dream of anything further isn’t a possibility, he doesn’t love you and that’s the reality. Why bother dreaming of something that isn’t meant to be. Yet you can’t help but dream of him. His eyes, his smile, his warmth, the pink dust that always decorates his cheeks, his laugh and his existence.

In your days you are held hostage by the daydreams, the what ifs. It felt like you had loved him in every lifetime, you wonder if any had got it right? Had any been loved by him? Your body lies stiff, falling in and out of consciousness but your mind never leaves him. Days go by but time becomes nothing but a construct, eating only becomes a chore.

“Y/N?” a soft voice calls as the door narrows open, a steady stream of gold shining in. You don't move, your head feeling like it's weighed down but you can easily identify the soft voice that speaks. "I brought you something to eat" the footsteps near you, the heavy thuds vibrating through your head. Your eyes peek open to meet Jaemin who crouches down beside you. He moves the few stray strands of hair behind your ear, noticing the wet glimmer of your cheeks he wipes away the tears that stain them.

"What's wrong?" He whispers as if any harsher tone would break you, as if you weren't already broken. You shake your head as your only reply, voice too weak and broken to speak up. You would love to talk to Jaemin, to spill all your worries and heartache but this is a pain too painful to speak of. His hands hold onto your cheeks wiping away any of the stray tears that still fall. His warmth is comforting but it only makes you yearn for Jisung’s more.

Jaemin doesn't leave you that day, he sits by your side in silence. He holds your hand and wipes away your tears, he doesn't attempt to mend your heart, he just sits beside you as it cries out the pain. "It will heal, it will mend itself" he whispers to you as you drift off into the unconscious once again.

It’s the constant knocking at your door that drags you out of the depths of your slumber, pulling you back, the light that streams in as the sun is about to set and you wonder how long you have slept, what time it was and what day it is. Then another knock calls your attention from the window and Daphne steps in “Y/N” she says and her voice is high in surprise as she examines the puffy redness around your eyes. “I was expecting you to be already awake, it is almost time to head to the wedding” she chooses to ignore the wet stains on your silk pillow, choosing to bite her tongue. You choose not to answer her back afraid your voice was raspy and would break, you crawl towards the edge of the bed and swing your legs over as you make your way to the chair that neatly holds your gown for the night, the night that has finally arrived,your last night.

You can see her face change, each one expressing the internal turmoil within her as she questions whether or not to say something. “Just say it Daphne '' you sigh out in a weak smile as you change into the many layers that need to be placed under the gown.

“Ah well” she begins nervously as she fiddles with her loose strings of her apron, she stutters and stumbles over her words but you’ve been taught patience by Jisung as he’d do the same.You smile at the memory of him stuttering, blush across his cheeks as he got nervous causing him to stumble over his words more. You loved seeing him so flustered, loved seeing him progressively become so comfortable around you he never stuttered, became so confident and articulate it was as if he became another person but the same dust of pink never faded but the more you think of him the more it pains and your heart swells as it aches. “You see y/n” she finally spits out as if she had been wrestling the words “If this is your last night, would you not want to leave with a loving memory?” she asks nervously.

“So it seems word has travelled” you let out a small laugh as you turn to her to pull the strings of your gown and as her hands move to tie knots she laughs as well “Nothing gets past me” and her nervousness visibly dissipates. No more words are exchanged as she helps you ready for tonight, no more words are needed as she sees you slip into the depths of your mind, thinking of what your next act is.

As she places the same pearl necklace you wore the day you came here around your neck, clasping it, she finally turns to leave and through the mirror you see her hesitate but she turns back around a smile across her face “It was a pleasure to meet you ma’am” she says with teary eyes “Y/N” you correct her as you rise quickly, wrapping your arms tightly around her and from the corner of your eye you see Jisung standing at the end of the hallway, witnessing the goodbye he run back down stairs. You saw the glossiness of his eyes and though you would love to leave as a happy memory, would he allow it?

You nervously make your way to the drawing room, there he sits in a black suit, his hair neatly styled yet it looks not much different to everyday. He should not look this good but he does because he is the epitome of beauty. He is beauty personified. You let out a deep breath before you step into his line of view, preparing yourself for whatever is to come next. “Jisung” you call softly but he refuses to look up at you, you can hear him sniffle and his breathing is heavy and you almost could trick yourself into believing he loved you the way you loved him. You sit beside him and take his hand in yours, rubbing small soothing circles by the knuckle of his thumb you attempt to speak, “I am leaving” you choke out,the words are stuck in your throat and he rips his hands away from yours, turning completely with his back towards you. You sigh once again, “Let’s me leave with good memory” you beg, voice small and shaky. This was not the y/n Jisung first met, not the y/n he knows now and definitely not the y/n he fell in love with for you were never one to speak so quietly, yet here you are broken. So he puts away his own selfishness to feel sadness, anger or whatever pulsing emotion that runs course throughout his body.

He turns back to you, eyes glossy and a pout on his lips as he raises a long string of black silk. “I cannot tie it” his voice breaks slightly and you can’t help but smile at his cuteness. You take the silk from his hand and wrap it against his neck, slowly weaving it in and out of itself, you form a knot. “Learn this from a book?” he teases and you can’t help but scoff and roll your eyes. Falling back to where you were with Jisung was never hard, falling in love with him all over again was never hard. “my father taught me” you say as you pull the silk slightly causing his head to jolt forward. A smile perks at his lips as he lets out air from his nose as a form of laughter and you don't realise the lack of space between you two until you feel it brush against your skin and you near closer, eyes drawn to his lips. Your breathing stops and your heart sporadically jumps around in your chest, beating louder than ever.

Jisung’s eyes are closed as he waits for your lips to be placed upon his but they never come and his eyes jump open at the sound of Jaemin’s voice, your warmth escaping him. So close and yet so far, his eyes land on you who’s now moved as far as possible from him. “Y/N, do you know how to tie a tie?” he walks in looking down at the balck silk he holds around his neck but he cuts himself off as his eyes rise to find you and Jisung awkwardly sitting beside each other. “Oh am I interrupting?” he asks in a chuckle as he raises an eyebrow and you shoot up onto your feet, making your way towards him “No not at all” you wave your arms as if it would convince Jaemin. You grab onto both ends of the silk strand, repeating the same movements as earlier and looking down at the silk you can practically feel Jaemin’s smile that beams from above. You weave the string in and out of itself and pull tight around his neck causing Jaemin’s head to pull back “OW '' he huffs out in a pout, you pat down his tie and with a smile as gleaming as his was a mere moments ago, you apologise.

“Oh y/n you know how to tie a tie, thank god” Jeno rushes in with his father soon after him both holding the same black silk around their neck “Does nobody in this house know how to tie a tie” you laugh in disbelief. “Our mother used to do them,” Jeno whispers as your hands make their way up to form the same knot you’ve made twice already. He thanks you silently with a sweet smile, those crescent moons you adore showing up.You move on to their father, tying his tie neatly and much more carefully than the rest. “Thank you for everything, y/n” he bows his head to you and you whisper “It’s nothing” shyly. “It’s been a pleasure having you become a part of our family” he continues and his words are like a stake to your heart, the same aching reappearing as nothing fails to remind you of your departure.

“Thank you for welcoming me bu-t'' you're cut off instantly

“no buts y/n, you are family” Jeno interrupts and if it was anyone else you don’t think those words would have held such meaning for Jeno is a silent lover, showing his affection through sweet smiles, concerned looks and kind gestures; he was never one for words of affirmation. So you smile, ignoring the tears that prick at your eyes, ignoring the deep breaths that leave Jisung and the solemn sadness on Jaemin’s face.

“We need to go” Jaemin looks down at his pocket watch, as always sensing the tension in the room and ready to dissipate it, he urges everyone out the door and as you’re about to step out, a warmth engulfs you as Jisung catches your hand in his. Turning back you are met with a smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes that hold a sense of sadness as they glimmer in the setting sun.

Hours after the sun had sunk into the horizon, the moon well into its reign, music rang through the center of town as everyone gathered to celebrate the new chapter of Jeno’s life. A ceremony so beautiful, you were sure you witnessed true love when Jeno’s eyes set on his bride that walked the altar.

After all the tears, it was finally time for the bubbling of champagne to intoxicate your bloodstream and to allow the music to take control of every swayed movement of your body. Standing under the yellow dimmed lights, Jisung glew a gold you didn’t know existed but easily was the prettiest you had ever seen. His cheekbones high and lips painted pink, golden flute in hand and silk tie loosened you could easily say he was the prettiest here, outshining all. For Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty lived through him, simple acts such as greeting guests left you stunned. Eyes chasing every movement of his, from the way his hands moved as he spoke, to the way he smiled once seeing an old friend, the way he laughed softly in conversation and when his eyes travelled back to you when he thought you weren't looking.

And to pull you out of that trance was none other than Jaemin, “Would you and Jisung stop exchanging lover eyes and dance already” he whispers as he places himself beside you, you scoff at his words and slightly nudge him with your elbow.

“Are you so bored that your eyes follow mine?” you question and his simple and instant “Yes” make your eyes roll as far as possible but you can’t help but smile. “When will you find your own love story? This is one hopeless”

“So when were you planning to tell me you were leaving after tonight” his words don’t come as a surprise, nothing goes past Jaemin but it still doesn’t fail to make your every movement halt as guilt overtakes you, turning to him you begin to explain “I was going to tell you as soon as the night was over, it was unexpected I promise” you say softly.

“I don’t suppose i can change your mind in any way?” he asks hopefully, still with the knowledge he wouldn’t be able to. You shake your head slowly, unable to say the words that will so obviously ruin the both of you but Jaemin is never one to sit in sadness, always being his priority to make you feel better.

“Would you allow me this first dance?” he bows down asking for your hand and with that you place yours in his, placing a soft kiss to the knuckles he pulls you into the center of the floor. Legs moving to the beat, Jaemin’s hand on your waist he guides you through the waltz, breaths heaving and smiles plastered on your face he bends down once more to place a kiss on your knuckles as the music dies down declaring the end of the dance, a sad smile spreads across his face and he whispers “Goodbye” against your skin, looking up to meet your eyes who hold nothing but despair. Yet the hardest is to come when you turn and automatically your eyes find Jisungs, who just happened to be looking your way.

You offer him a smile before heading towards him “And why are you not dancing, I’m sure plenty of girls are just about dying to be your first dance” you tease him and he laughs along with you, hands rising they scratch the back of his neck as he prepares to confess to you “I actually do not know how to dance” he spits out fast hoping you don't catch his words but you do. Eyes widening and mouth agape, you let out a gasp

“Jisung you do not know how to-” you're cut off by his hand on your mouth as he looks around to see if anyone has heard the sentence about to leave you.

“Quietly, I think the whole of London can hear you” he says in a whisper still looking around. Removing his hand, you roll your eyes at his antics.

“Let me teach you” you whisper back and he turns to you, eyebrow raised as he assesses how good of a dancer you could be.

“I am not entirely sure, who did you learn from? A book?” he teases, still completely in character until you shove him and his laughter comes spilling out “You used the joke once already” you roll your eyes

“I was taught by trainers actually, do you forget I was to be wed” you scoff at his assumption and rise to your feet, hand extended for Jisung to take. He stares at you, watches the way the light bounces off your skin causing you to glow, your eyes glimmer, smile bright and the confidence and charm you carry in inexplicably attractive as you stand under the moon, offering to be Jisung’s first dance and it’s here he decides you’ll be his last.

The moment his hand is in yours, you drag him straight to the crowd, the music is quick to start and you waste no time in giving out instructions. “Place your hand on my waist” you order

“Your what?” Jisung’s eyes are wide as he cluelessly asks

“My waist” you repeat again, emphasizing each word and you drag his hand up and place it on your waist for yourself. Then putting your own hand on his shoulder, you pull him a little closer. “Just follow my lead” you reassure him as you witness the petrified look on his face.

“Left foot forward” you say to him as you move yours back, “Right foot forward, feet together” you continue to guide him through the dance as you spin around the room, ‘Now left foot back, right foot back, now feet together” you repeat the sequined dance around the room, music thumping through your body and you convince yourself it’s that you feel and not the heavy beats of your heart as the space between you and Jisung seems to close more and more. As he leans in so close you can feel the air that leaves him, fanning over you. You look up and his eyes are set on you, only adoration is held in them and Jisung thinks it’s now or never as he tries to fully close the gap between you two, to place his lips on yours but then you let go, head turning to the right “Now we switch you” you say as you land into another man's arms, repeating the same steps you did with Jisung moments ago with another. So close and yet so far is all Jisung can think whilst his eyes watch you twirl about the room.

Once finally back in his arms, the music seizes and he’s forced to remove himself from you. You can’t help but smile at him as he looks down at you, breathing heavily with a flush of pink to his cheeks yet he seems to be gleaming in the buzzing sensation of a waltz. The air is heavy with sweat and alcohol, the room is filled with chatter and loud laughs but that all falls away once you look at Jisung. So you dance to every song as if you were the only two people to exist, for this was your last night and this was your last dance.

Endless glasses of champagne later your dancing feet carry you outside, the cool summer nights air washes over you, clearing your mind of the foggy mist of alcohol yet the coolness of the moonlight is overwhelmed by the warmth of Jisung’s presence as he stumbles next to you, tripping over his own legs he lands in your arms. “I think you drank a little too much” you laugh down at him.

“No I am perfectly fine” He quickly stabilizes himself, straightening out his clothes and you can only smile as he shakes off your support. “If you say so” you turn to the night sky, looking up to the moon who you haven't had the courage to face since. The wind rushing past you, crickets croaking and the stars blazing across the sky, your legs about to give way as the alcohol circulates your body, you find purchase on a stone bridge, Jisung following soon after you. The water trickles down under you, the calming sound washes over you and the solace you so missed seems to make an appearance once again as you allow yourself to surrender to Jisung’s presence. Silence sits between the two of you but it’s not the one you wish to fill, insead you choose to let it engulf you not wanting words to taint this moment. Your last moment.

Jisung however doesn’t think he can hold it in anymore, the liquid courage is just about enough for him to declare his roaring love for you, a flame that won’t go out no matter how far he pushes the idea of you away. He wasn’t sure if this was love but the ache in his chest all these days proved it could be nothing but love. The longing to be by your side as you found happiness, found your own way into this world and to watch you become who you want, is unbearably strong. This is his only chance before the goddess of the moon takes you away with her, for when the sun rises, you'll set into nothing but a memory. So here Jisung turns to you, staring at your beautifully carved features, moonlight highlighting every perfection; deep breaths he calms his nerves. Adrenaline rushing through every nerve, he finally builds the courage and out the words he never knew would feel so good to pronounce “Y/N I love you” it comes out in a whisper but by the way your eyes widen, breathing halts, Jisung knows you’ve heard.

“Jisung you are drunk” you laugh off

“Drunk lies are sober truths” he says in all seriousness, his eyes are begging for yours to turn to him and so you give in to their silent cry. “I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, for I thought soulmates were nothing but a fairytale until mine spoke to me upon laying eyes on you. I denied my feelings towards you, for I didn’t know if it was love I felt for you or not but I do. Love, adoration, affection and warmth. The moon only looks beautiful with you under it, the sun only shines with you beside me.” he professes and the sincerity in his voice strucks you, for every fiber of your being longs for these exact words but can you believe him?

He inches closer, his scent and warmth trapping you in a trance and you can’t find it in yourself to back away as he moves towards your lips, his breath mixing with your own, the flush off his cheeks that are illuminated by the moonlight. Everything is perfect except he’s drunk. Though your heart screams for you to close the gap, place your lips on his and kiss him until he’s breathless, your head scream the opposite, move back, wait till the morning when his head is in the right place, don’t allow him to make a mistake that’ll hurt you and when were you ever one to not listen to your mind. “You are drunk” you whisper to him, so close he can almost feel your lips move against his, flinching back, ignoring the cry of your heart that desires nothing more than to feel Jisung’s confession. Jisung’s eyes open to find you pulled away, for once again he was so close yet so far.

“We should return” you jump up, step fastening back to the crowds of people who were still dancing and laughing. Jisung’s hurried footsteps rush beside you, his hand holding onto your wrist, he pulls you into him. Arms wrapping around you so tight, he’s afraid you’ll pull away and that he’ll lose you. You already pulled away from him once, you’re not sure you have the power in you to do it a second; so you let him hold you. His face hidden into the crook of your neck, he speaks into your skin

“Love for you fades the exhausting hours till Kingdom come, for even then my soul only speaks of you, my heart only beats for you. Let me love and let me give, for both are infinite” he confesses once again.

Your arms instantly wrap around his figure, you allow your love to course through your body to his, you hope he can feel your heartbeat, the steady pace that keeps you alive for his existence, and him only. For without him what was the purpose of living? You stand there under the moonlight, red strings wrapped around you, Eros’s arrow shot through you, and hold onto each other.

Walking back, hand in hand, smiling like fools. The air smells sweeter, the world seems brighter as your heart skips a beat every now and then “In all honesty” Jisung breaks the blissful silence, his voice deep and smooth and it sends shivers down and through you just as it did the first day. Once your eyes are on him, giving him your undivided attention he continues “I lacked the courage to gift you Sonnet 23 but I wanted to” he tells you “Promise” he makes sure you believe his words and you can’t help but smile.

“You still lack courage, this is the alcohol’s courage” you tease him, swinging your arms back and forth as you walk on. He giggles at your comment because he knows it’s true, if it wasn’t for the liquid courage he doesn’t think he would have been able to confess to you but he’s glad he has because if he hadn’t, would he ever get the chance to?

“So will you stay?” he asks, voice hopeful and eyes pleading as he pouts, in hope it would convince you but you didn’t need anymore convincing, for if you want to follow happiness and happiness just so happens to follow Jisung, who were you to seek for more elsewhere. “Perhaps” a smirk makes it way up your lips as you give him vague answers. “I will take that as a yes” he laughs out, holding onto your hand a little bit tighter, to ensure you really weren’t going anywhere.

Love is a complex feeling, one that causes an unbearable amount of pain; as if your chest had been slit open, heart pulled out and crushed. An aching pain resonates throughout your whole body, endless tears and you don’t think you can live to see another sunrise yet it’s euphoric in every way. From the tingling sensation at just the sight of your love, the shivers, the heat that takes over, the trance you left in as their words hypnotise you, the warmth of their presence and sweet scent. In Jisung you found peace,solace,serenity and love.

“Jaemin” Jisung calls out as he can just about make him out in the distance “Y/N said she has decided to stay” he shouts out like a child, excited he’s jumping up and down and you find yourself smiling and laughing again, for with Jisung it’s the only thing you seem to be able to do. Yet as you draw closer to Jaemin and the guests he happens to be wishing a farewell too, your smile and heart both drop.

“Y/N” one of the two men calls out as your figure becomes more apparent to them, disbelief held in their voice as they call out to you. Jisung and Jaemin eyebrows shot up in shock, eyes widening as they wonder how you are acquainted.

“How do you know our y/n?” Jaemin asks, always being the first one to dissolve the awkward silences, the men are taken aback clearly by the way their jaws hang slightly.

“She is our sister” the taller stutters out, your blood rushes cold as the words leave his lips, what would happen now? Would they allow you to just roam free? You thought for a second before you mentally scolded yourself, they would never allow that. They will force you back. “I am not returning” you spit out, not beating around the bush, you get straight to the point.

“But you must, mother is left worried" he tries to grab onto your wrist but you move back not allowing him to get a hold on you.

"Worried for me? Or that the season is almost finished?" You question him and guilt is evident in his eyes as your question takes him aback.

"Don't be silly" your younger brother tries to calm you, "we just want you home" he tries to convince you.

"I am perfectly fine on my own" you stand your ground even though you see the frustration in your older brother, creep closer and closer to the surface "I have no intention of returning" you continue to press forward.

"Do you not feel shame, what would father have to say?" He dares ask. Shame? The word linger in your head for you to wonder if your brother truly knows the definition of the word or were all those years at Oxford a waste. For how had this brought shame upon you or your father, how does a want for purpose,happiness and freedom lead to shame?

"For if father was alive, this problem wouldn't have occurred. He would have listened" you hissed, jaw tight as you teeth clenched and the words slipped out through the small cracks.

"How naive of you to think'' he laughs and finally latches onto your wrist, holding tightly he's prepared to drag you to the carriage until another holds you back. Jisung’s hand holds onto your arm, pulling you back, looking back you don’t think you have never seen such fierce eyes. A red you never thought you’d see engulf Jisung, he’s not prepared to let you go. "Let go" your brother's voice is stern as he clenches his jaw yet Jisung doesn't budge.

"Jisung this isn't our place" Jaemin whispers, defeat in his voice and he is right. What say do they have in this? If you don’t even have a choice, who are they to decide but then again you are certain a man’s opinion will most definitely be heard by your brother over your own anyday. “Let go of her,” Jisung threatened.

Your brother couldn’t help but scoff at his words “She belongs to me, I am her blood and she holds mine and my father’s name” his grip tightening around your wrist as he pulls you towards him once more, your eyebrows furrow and you wince in slight pain, Jaemin instinctively flinches forward before stopping himself, getting involved will just make it worse he reminds himself. You smile at him weakly in hopes it can put him at ease but as both your arms are being held hostage, both cuffs tightening as the seconds go by not one daring to back down.

“She doesn’t belong to anyone” Jisung spits back “She is free to do as she pleases and she chooses to stay here” he continuously argues in hope of changing his mind , yet what can he possibly do? Now that they have found you, what is left for you to do? They will not let you live on how you wish, they will not leave without you and even if they didn’t take you tonight, they will come back for you. It’ll only cause chaos, you will again become a burden on someone else. “You do not own her” he repeats.

The words you so despise form on your tongue and as you open your mouth to say them, Jisung’s eye beg you not to. He knows what's to come and even as every ounce of your being screams and cries as the words are spoken, you let them leave you regardless. “Let go Jisung” voice weak, shaking.

“But you said you would stay” his voice shaky, encased in sadness, his grip weakens but his hold stays, unable to let you go once he’s finally got you but you were always a dream to him, one that never seemed quite real and though you mixed with reality, almost coming true, he was but a fool to believe you could be his.

“I said maybe” your voice quiet, breaking a promise you didn’t make, breaking his heart and breaking yours that was just put back together.

“She said for you to let go” Your brother interrupts, a smirk on his face that Jaemin has a dying need to punch off but he retains himself. Jisung lets go of you hesitantly, his hand still lingering onto the skin of your forearm and you take in his touch one last time. He watches you leave, tears falling from his eyes for you were so close yet so far.

The tears from that night, months ago, have yet still to dry for every living and breathing moment is lived in agony, longing turning into nothing but numbness as it engulfed your being and became you. Days and nights merged, smiles are a forgotten act for it felt awkward even attempting. The large manor is silent, it perfectly resembles the void in your chest. You live as a ghost, sleepless nights and empty days your mind always occupied with the thought of Jisung.

His eyes that held the universe, his warmth the sun envied, his smile were solace was found, his laughter that was contagious, voice that was soothing, beauty unmatched, the gods were both proud and envious of their greatest creation. The years went by and yet the image of his is as clear as ever, preserved in your memories, you live on in your dreams that can’t escape reality. So close and yet so far from each other.

You sit in the empty rooms, walls bare for the art never compared to Jisung’s beauty, you never found art that could express the definition of art as well as Jisung did. Each time looking at Jisung you found a new feature to adore, hidden beauties that appeared when the moonlight hit his skin, features highlighted by the golden rays of the sun. No art seemed to do that, no art seemed worthy of showcasing.

Your library remains empty, clearing it out of all books, you couldn't bear to look at one again. For everyone of them taunted you with the memory of him. The way he used to sit in the center of the room, arms sprawled out on the desk, his head so close to the paper as he would write. Your eyes would follow every one of his movements, so distracted you would forget about the heavy book in your hand. Yet now with a book in hand, your eyes search for distraction. Yearning to find him, to make the pink blush, that you so missed, appear as he couldn't take your stare any longer. The adrenaline of when his eyes suddenly come up to meet yours, the scrambling of his when you catched his stare. You missed it all.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day” the performer begins, as you sit around the large table for dinner. Your every movement halts as the words leave his mouth, your mind runs back to the lavender fields, into the small room at the back of the house, finding the scarlet red book. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate” he continues on but no you are not temperate. Your heart aches, your eyes sting and a wave of nausea over takes you. Your fist smash into the table, legs standing up, you push the heavy velvet chair back

“Stop!” you shout, voice hoarse and broken, you can’t help the tears that roll down your cheek. You can’t help the way your whole body shakes upon hearing those words, you can’t help but miss him. The whole room stares at you, a heavy silence settles, the only sounds are your whimpers as you sob in your palms, falling to your knees. Their eyes lingered, terrified. No one dared to speak to you first, let alone the events of the night. Afraid they would cause you to break down once more but they failed to see it was they, who stole happiness away from you, stole freedom and ripped your heart out of your chest. You wandered aimlessly through the many halls, staring out of windows you wanted the sun rise and fall, watched the goddess of the moon shine down on the earth yet neither held the beauty they did when Jisung was by your side.

Summer has come to find you once again, those who say time heals have never been broken. Time doesn’t heal. Time forgets, the world may move on but you do not, you cannot share the same ecstasy the birds sing, the happiness in summer flowers, For now you hate flowers, you hate how their beauty and meaning are only reminders of your longing.

“How about lavenders for the drawing room ma’am, I’m told they are your favourite” the maid asks, her mission to make you smile, to rid you of the constant tear stained cheeks; nothing but a failure is awaiting her. Just the mere thought of lavenders causes your skin to crawl, for nothing symbolises him more than the vibrant violet. Yet you turn to her, a weak smile and you nod because maybe the scent will help ease your heart and just maybe you’ll find serenity in them once more.

Though days were long, summer left in a hurry for now autumn was here once more. The leaves had already begun to brown and the vase filled with lavenders, which sat upon the grand piano, had wilted now - their scent and comfort decaying with them.

And soon followed the day, the world knew would soon be coming, had arrived upon us, September 1st 1939:

“we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.” you read Winston Churchill’s words in the papers, war has arrived. The heavy ring sits on your finger as you stare out the window reminiscing the day you were watching the carriage be prepared and though it is your two brothers and the Earl’s son leaving you can’t help but let your mind imagine Jeno,Jaemin and Jisung, For the war will take them further away from you, to barren land filled with death, guns pointed at them, bombs dropping at anytime. Though the war has imprisoned many,taken from others, you thank it’s timing for it has liberated you momentarily. The Earl’s son waved goodbye to you and though you raise your hand to send him off to a war you’re not sure he’ll return from, you have no intention of calling him your fiance whilst he is gone and if he returns you have no intention of calling him your husband. You pity him in that memory.

“Ma’am” a voice calls out to you, you don’t recognise who it is for every voice sounds the same but regardless it pulls you back to the world of the present for the war was already well into its sixth year. Though your body is here, your heart and soul never left Jisung for he had stolen that long ago. You turn to find a small envelope, blue like the ones that found you happiness. “To y/n'' the handwriting is familiar but to you all letters were painted the way Jisung’s hand did, for your eyes can simply not forget but it is what the letter contained that brought a soul into your lifeless shell.

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Sonnet 23 with annotations is what your eyes fall upon, the second line underlined it reads: “With great courage I put aside this fear to confess to you such words that I cannot express on my own.” Your hand runs over the lines, the smell of gunpowder but there is a scent that you so long for. The scent of lavender still lingers onto the parchment which ripples under your clutch. .

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;

The next lines highlighted “For this feeling was just as strong as rage yet it was where I found peace, my heart weakened at the sight of you and from that moment onwards it belonged to you.” A smile naturally took over you, the flutter in your chest an ecstatic feeling you forgot.

So I for fear of trust forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense

More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.

O, learn to read what silent love hath writ.

To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

“Know that I cannot express the words my soul speaks, for we are worlds apart so allow the empty words of the English language, attempt to convey my love. Look not at my words only but at the way the fool I make in your presence for my mind is clouded with you, heart beats for you and soul yearns for you. For you are my sonnet 18 as a friend and sonnet 23 as a lover.” Tears fall unnoticed, for you hear his voice so clear in your head, for six years you waited for a single word from him and here he has gifted you a sonnet between lovers, so how could you possibly love someone else.

“Yours forever Jisung, the boy who waits in the lavender field”. You sob as you read those words, a fresh new wave of tears staining the parchment as the longing to be in his warmth and comfort is washed upon you as if it were that day you were forced away from him. Opening a wound that never could fully heal.

Waiting is a virtue of love, it proves your love, for it feels equivalent to death and yet you still wait but there is a point in time where you can wait no longer, where you must stop waiting and strive for love now. At this exact moment, it is time. For you are ready to give up the world to run to Jisung, to find the beauty in the moon once more, to find solace in the sweet smell of lavenders once more, to find the warmth of the sun once more, to find happiness once more. For happiness was the only reason worth living.

You're not sure how long you’ve been running, legs moving on their own, you don’t look back you’ve learnt never to look back, never return. As the metallic taste at the back of your throat rises, oxygen running thin and your legs almost collapse from exhaustion. It’s as if you jumped out of the past, gown torn at the train station, you’re left in rags but it’s different this time. For before you ran to find your happiness and now you run to where happiness lies. In a field of lavenders.

Every fiber of your being pulses with the need to see him, hear him, touch him. To feel his warmth once more, to have his voice send serenity through you, to see his eyes again and to smell the sweet scent that lingers around him. You’re not sure what souls are made of but whatever it is yours and his are the same. For your heart yearns for him, desperate, it aches every living second of everyday without him. For a life without love, is a life unlived.

The rows and rows of purple are in sight and there in the middle of it all stands him, waiting. Jisung doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, he can tell by your footsteps, your breath, your scent and the sudden ease he feels. You are there. Yet he does anyways for the memory of you has haunted him for the past 6 years, on the battlefield, in the barracks, he would only see you, only hear you but he couldn’t touch you; for you were merely a dream mixing with reality.

But here you are standing in front of him, Your expensive dress torn up, now rags that wrapped around you with the bottom half missing. He smiles as nostalgia washes over him, was this real or were you just a fragmented memory. Was he simply remembering happier times, a time where you were in his grasp. “Jisung” you call out, voice soft and unsure, a hand reaching out for his own, to make sure what you saw in front of you wasn’t a hallucination, a cruel trick your mind played on you. Slowly a warmth overtook your hand, sparks sent through your skin and into your bloodstream and the beating of your heart returned. Tears formed but never fell because one of you needs to be strong, Jisung sobbed as he fell into your embrace, gripping onto you. “Never leave again” he chokes out, breathing heavy and uneven. “Promise me” he whispers into your hair.

Pulling him back to face you, his eyes are red and puffy yet they burn with passion, his cheeks stained with tears but the pink dust is always still there, you smile at him closing the gap and finally placing your lips on his. The taste of salty tears invade your mouth and your lips move against his and he kisses you back, placing his hand on your cheek he pulls you closer, thumb brushing over the top of your cheekbone. Your knees weaken and you grip at his shirt, desperately clinging to him as your knuckles turn white, as he kisses you with passion overflowing with each soft movement, sincere and full of the love he can't express through words. The scent of lavender is overwhelming and intoxicating, you press yourself against him. Your lungs burn as he kisses you breathless, sparks flying into your bloodstream and unbearable heat takes over whilst your lips move as one. Pulling away, chests heaving as you pull in as you regain all the oxygen you exchange, Jisung places his forehead on yours, his cheeks pink and in between breaths you whisper against his lips “I promise” and again he pulls you in, lips crashing on yours.

This is your first love, it may not be your last but it will be the one you remember most, for it taught you how to love, it taught you the struggles of love and it taught you to feel loved. In search of fulfillment and meaning, you weren't looking for love but it found you and soon after fulfillment and meaning came in the form of a boy in a lavender field.

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vulturhythm · 5 years ago

Text

tell me what you hate about me

geralt is used to words of venom being spat in his direction.

he’s used to those words being accompanied by rocks or stones or scat or food, sometimes, depending on who exactly his presence has managed to offend.

he’s used to retreating from the village and wandering a good few miles away before finding a quiet patch off the road to rest.

he’s used to taking off his shirt in the peace of the forest to inspect the damage - never more than some bruises, although some do wind up being far darker and more painful than others. nothing a little salve won’t fix.

he’s used to laying back to sleep in the grass, comfortable in the knowledge that, for all the beasts in the woods that may want a taste, they will never wound him so sorely as the words of man.

geralt is... geralt is not used to jaskier.

- - -

the bard throws the worst of stones into the workings of geralt’s once-routine existence, and for the longest while, geralt isn’t quite sure how he’s meant to adjust. he knows how to handle the rumors and the hatred and the venom. how in melitele’s name is he meant to handle the kindness, the determination to help?

jaskier says that he can change geralt’s reputation, that he can make the world fawn at his feet.

geralt has his doubts. for many a month, he keeps to the back corners of the taverns in which his newfound menace performs, wary of the people who cast him even warier glances. even as he sees the people learn the words to “toss a coin” over time, even as he sees them loosen up, even as he comes to be greeted with a sort of cautious awe rather than outright, fearful disdain, he finds it difficult to grasp.

surely he’ll slip up somehow. surely humanity will go straight back to hating its “friend.”

- - -

slip up he does, two or three years into jaskier’s time with him.

they had meandered toward blaviken out of necessity - the shortest path between two towns in search of contracts, growing scarce in the winter months, as they headed for kaer morhen - as much as geralt loathed the idea of returning. jaskier had long since noticed his growing discomfort, and when he’d said that surely even the folk of blaviken would have forgotten, would have learned him as the white wolf by now...

when he’d said that surely nothing would go wrong, geralt had been fool enough to believe him.

- - -

it’s late at night when they amble into town, jaskier seated on roach’s haunch just behind him. the bard is rambling on about something or other - no doubt a story he’s told dozens of times before - but geralt has long since tuned him out.

he’s rigid in the saddle, his grip on the reins tight enough that roach snorts when he turns her head, jerking her chin up in reply. the streets are empty at this hour, illuminated by the lanterns hanging on the walls; a handful of chickens and a mutt are meandering about, patiently scattering when geralt guides his mare through their midst. he glances down a street he recognizes, shudders at the memory of the men he’d slain on those very stones... at the memory of a dark-haired shrike, bleeding in his arms -

“geralt,” jaskier is saying, and from the urgency in his tone, he’s been trying to say it for some time now. “geralt, talk to me, what’s wrong?”

he feels fingers come to rest on his arm, and geralt jerks away on instinct, a muffled snarl rising in his throat - panicked, caged, unsure. jaskier pauses then, but even as geralt turns roach toward the inn, the bard sets his hands more firmly upon him, touching first his upper arms, then his waist, squeezing gently. “geralt,” he repeats, his voice smoother now. “get off the horse for a moment.”

geralt is already obeying, looping his mare’s reins about a hitching post to the side of the building and backing off a few steps, instinct driving him from the glow of the lantern and into the shadows just beyond. he watches, tense and silent, as jaskier hops down after him, leaving his lute where it’s strung up on roach’s saddle in favor of slowly drawing near.

“can you tell me what’s going through your head right now?” jaskier asks, in that same low tone, and part of geralt bristles, for it’s the same sort of voice you’d use to soothe a child or unruly animal. “what are you remembering?”

he scoffs then, lip curling in a sharp-toothed mockery of a smile as he backs off another step, one hand up - signaling jaskier to keep at bay, and, blessedly, the bard complies, staying within the lamplight and allowing geralt to retreat into the shadows. “everything,” he huffs, low and frustrated. “all the blood, all the - all the pain...”

something in jaskier’s eyes softens. “that street you were looking down?” he asks, and geralt nods. “oh, geralt... i’m sorry, i didn’t think about... the memories, when i said we should cut through here - “

“why would you?” he mutters, slowly dropping his hand once he knows jaskier won’t approach. he feels caged regardless, caught within his own skin - restless, frightened, burning. “witchers don’t feel.” he spits the words out like a curse, fangs still bared as he looks away.

he doesn’t have to look to know that jaskier’s face has fallen - he can smell the guilt on him.

“geralt,” the bard repeats. “you know i’m the last person who’d think that... i’ve seen you, i’ve seen who you really are...”

the witcher laughs, short and bitter, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. his gaze is darting between the buildings around them, marking the familiar ones, the things that happened there, and then - then his eyes light on the tavern across the way, where renfri first approached...

he’s drawing away before he knows it, jaskier all but forgotten as his gaze strays next to the inn they’re standing beside - to the slanted rooftop and the attic window above.

“of course it is. i’m a princess, aren’t i?”

the shrike’s voice creeps into his ears unbidden, and geralt shakes his head, a muffled snarl rising in his throat. he doesn’t realize he’s neared the back of the little alley until his back collides with the wall of the stable attached; geralt flinches away, then gives in, sinking down to crouch at its base.

“geralt,” jaskier is repeating, slowly easing closer. “geralt, my wolf, can you let me nearer? i want to try and help...”

“there’s nothing you can do,” geralt scoffs, but he doesn’t protest when the bard draws nearer, sinking down to kneel just in front of him. he watches him with uncertain eyes, breathing in deep and smelling only sympathy - not a trace of fear. “jaskier...”

the bard gives him a small, weak smile, asking, “may i touch you?”

geralt hesitates, trying to take stock of himself through the frightened, anxious haze he’s lost in. this sort of kindness... he’s not used to it. he doesn’t have the slightest fucking clue how to handle it. “not... not now,” he mumbles at last, and there’s guilt in his tone. “i’m s - “

but jaskier cuts him off. “don’t start,” he says, moving slowly as he comes to sit against the wall with geralt, a half-foot away - telegraphing his movements, geralt realizes, bewildered. “you’ve done nothing wrong.”

he scoffs, shaking his head; with jaskier here, it’s easier to close his eyes, to try and block out the town around them. “you wanted a bed tonight,” he mumbles, wondering why he doesn’t smell a hint of anger or disappointment or... or anything on his friend. “i can’t - jaskier, i can’t stay here - “

“i don’t blame you for it,” jaskier breaks in once more, tone soft and steady. “what happened here, it was... it was terrible. i shouldn’t have asked that we come through here.”

“you couldn’t have known this would happen - “

“but i should have guessed. i should have listened when you expressed your doubts.”

geralt is truly fucking bewildered now, some of his anxiety easing in the face of utter confusion. why is jaskier accepting blame here? “if we’d come here during the day... there’d be people throwing stones...”

he scents pity now - no, not pity, genuine sympathy. it has geralt reeling. “when you feel up to it, we can ride on,” the bard murmurs, and geralt feels his eyes on him, even though his own are closed. “got to be a good, cozy patch of grass somewhere ahead.”

“you stay for the night,” geralt tries, soft and weak, “i’ll leave roach here, you can catch up to me at dawn - “

“no,” comes jaskier’s reply, and it’s so firm that geralt winces. “fuck, sorry - geralt... i’m not letting you go out there alone tonight, not when you’re like this.”

geralt heaves a sigh, finally opening his eyes again, though he doesn’t dare lift them to the streets ahead, instead staring down at his hands, clenched tight on his knees. “why do you care?” he asks abruptly.

jaskier pauses.

it’s the longest few seconds of geralt’s painful life.

“because,” he says at last, and geralt doesn’t flinch when he feels a gentle hand come to rest on his shoulder, “you’re my friend, geralt... my closest and truest friend...”

the words have him reeling.

“can’t imagine why,” he mutters at last. “thought surely you’d hate me, too, by now...”

jaskier breathes out a little sigh; the sound of rustling fabric is all the warning geralt has before the bard is kneeling just in front of him, a delicate hand coming to tilt his chin up. geralt meets his gaze reluctantly, startled when he finds only affection there. “do you truly think i could ever grow to hate you?”

geralt doesn’t answer.

everyone else does. beyond the taverns where you perform, they all loathe me. they’re afraid of me. they tell horror stories to their children, and i’m the monster.

he doesn’t say that.

he doesn’t have to.

“geralt,” jaskier is murmuring again, so soft and soothing, “listen to me... i’ve traveled with you, what, nearly three years now? in that time... in that time, i’ve only ever known you to do your best, and isn’t that the most that any of us can manage?”

“my best still leaves innocent people dead,” geralt mutters in reply.

“those deaths aren’t on you,” he says firmly; geralt tenses only slightly when jaskier’s hand comes to cup his face instead, though he relaxes into the touch when the bard’s thumb brushes along his cheekbone. “i know you feel that they are, but... geralt, you can hold no guilt for that.”

he gives a vague, weary laugh in reply, closing his eyes. he doesn’t protest when jaskier reaches up to comb his matted hair aside. “you can’t deny what i did to the people here,” he says.

jaskier hesitates. “no,” he admits softly, “but i can tell you this... you did what you thought best, what needed to be done. how the rest reacted - all their hatred? that’s on them.”

“renfri,” he murmurs, uttering the name for the first time in what feels a lifetime. “i shouldn’t have killed her. i should have taken stregobor’s life when given the chance. she was barely even grown, jaskier, she could have lived well without him hanging overhead - “

he’s growing agitated again, that restless snarl returning to his voice, and jaskier must be able to tell, for suddenly he’s pressing closer, working his way into the gap between geralt’s legs to draw him in for - for a hug.

a hug.

i’ve never been hugged. not that i can remember.

“geralt,” the bard is murmuring as he pulls him in, and geralt finds it only natural to tip his head forward, to rest it against jaskier’s shoulder and close his eyes. “you did what you could.”

they both fall quiet then, geralt far too focused on the feeling of jaskier’s hand rubbing slow circles onto his back to bother with protesting. it’s... it’s nice.

it’s nice.

at long last, he speaks again, breathing in slow and tucking his head closer into jaskier’s neck. “if - if we leave now... will you hold me like this again...?”

jaskier pauses, and for an instant, geralt is certain he’s said the wrong thing. “of course,” he murmurs, a few seconds later; geralt blinks when he feels a gentle kiss bestowed upon the top of his head. “of course...”

- - -

they leave blaviken behind, well before sunrise.

geralt doesn’t begin to properly relax until the livestock town is many miles at their rear. jaskier, seated behind him like usual, is holding him close, arms about his waist and head against his back.

when they stop at last to camp, geralt doesn’t hesitate to settle in at jaskier’s side; somehow, he knows that comfort is always offered now.

he doesn’t quite understand it...

he doubts he ever will.

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #my fics #written in like thirty minutes #with no sense of direction #only with enthusiasm

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 5 years ago

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pls scream about Leo a lil bit cause my love for that man is neverending and i live for you guys' blog,,, and ur comte love fuels me??? head empty except for those two pureblood clowns

HNGNGNG I hope that both you and everyone that reads my shenanigans knows how utterly understood I feel when I see anyone stan Comte, if not both of those idiot purebloods bc good lord...I live for two tired fossil men that just want DOMESTIC BLISS. Literally they have no brain cells beyond respect women and we love that for us, it’s spectacular!!

Under a cut bc I went off and is long:

That being said I’d be happy to yell abt Leo!! Where do I even begin, this man was the reason I got into Ikevamp in the first place, and I’ve read just about every single one of his events at this point. He just makes me so TENDER!!!!!! For whatever reason the first thing that came to mind was this one time he lies about being jealous and MC is lolol u a fool if you think I can’t tell when you lie to me. And he’s so fuckiNG SHOOK?????? It’s even funnier because she’s internally like [I’m not 100% sure but for a second there he almost looked mad...time to test this theory even if it’s just A GAME T H E O R Y] And he’s so fucking pikachu meme that shit sends me. I can’t handle the fact that he’s so used to people just assuming he’s fine, that he can handle himself. That he’s lived for so long without really anyone noticing at all. (Comte absolutely notices and will lightly roast him, but doesn’t really push him about it or wants to overstep). And so when MC just actively pays attention and is so gentle with him he’s just floored???

God I’m crying now, but I will just never forget the funeral scene in his fucking rt. This asshole, this absolute moron, straight up tries to come at us with “yOu GeT uSeD tO iT aFtEr HaLf A mIlLeNiUm, i’M nOt SaD”. Like are you serious. Come here and let me hold you before I throttle you. Absolute clown. He’s just always trying so hard to get by on his own and it breaks my heart. How long...how long has he lived just getting by, nursing his own wounds and dragging himself up all by himself. HE LEFT HOME AT LIKE 14 (whatever the fuCK SOME TOO YOUNG AGE) AND RAN STRAIGHT INTO THE HANDS OF PEOPLE THAT HATED HIM FOR HIS TALENT. HE REMEMBERS HIS MENTORS DESTROYING HIS UTENSILS WHILE TRYING TO ESCAPE PARENTS THAT WHOLEHEARTEDLY REJECTED ANY EXPRESSION OF LOVE OR COMPASSION FOR HUMANITY THAT HE CHERISHED SO DEEPLY. I DON’T NEED SLEEP I NEED TO HUG HIM IMMEDIATELY FUCKING HELL.

Like.........there’s just........I don’t know how to explain it, but I once saw it explained so well in a post. It was basically talking about Castlevania, and how in that show Dracula sees humanity’s folly and develops so much hatred he just goes straight to murder rage. And while in some ways I understand that, I understand even more deeply Trevor’s response to humanity’s fear and violence. He says that he knows they’re short-sighted, that maybe we all just don’t deserve saving...but that he’s going to do it anyway. Leonardo just so much gives me that energy of knowing there’s so much pain in the world, but all we can do is keep walking--keep trying, even if we have to claw our way forward. Because if you only see the awfulness in front of you, you forget the way that strangers make silly faces at babies to make them laugh on the train, how a friend will put everything down to race over to someone and comfort them with some ice cream--do anything they can to distract them from the hurt. How the sight of a child crying will prompt careful cooing from a stranger as to their bravery, an offering of cool water, the gentle placement of a bandaid. How a pair of teenagers will spot a lost child in milliseconds and help them seek out their parents protectively. There is so much wretchedness, but also so much beauty in it all, and the older I get the more I see myself wanting to believe in the latter. I want to be hopeful, and easily impressed, and full of love. To be bitter and jaded accomplishes nothing, and only becomes a worsening self-fulfilling prophecy. The more you seek negativity, the more you will find it; and worse, create it.

I also scream a little bit bc like. I’ve gone on and on about how Comte is very obviously in love with MC all the time, and sure that may be true. But...I really don’t think Leo is exempt from that either if I’m honest lmfao. Only because what does Leonardo do when it isn’t his route? He almost never shows up. Once in a while he might appear for a split second in a scene, but he almost never converses with MC beyond those short moments. While Comte is the one to pine openly, I’d wager Leo is the opposite. He pines in absolute silence, because he knows that if he gets any closer--he’s going to fall. He’s going to enjoy it too much, going to keep seeking out more before he can stop himself. And losing another person he loves...he just can’t do it anymore. In his first meeting story he talks about seeing MC’s eyes and feeling like he’d known them all his life, and even in his MS he speaks to just being completely fascinated by and enamored of her. She doesn’t hesitate, always does her best, meets people head-on and without much hesitation. After a lifetime of people that are probably just immediately interested in him for his talents, or always seeking out his company for the novelty, this is someone that doesn’t give a single fuck if he’s Leonardo da Vinci. Sure she’s aware, and sure she’s impressed to some extent, but her respect--her attraction and admiration--is something that has to be earned.

There’s something so refreshing about how their love was written. Sure it’s the whole fake marriage to a real relationship, but it’s also a kind of subtle enemies to lovers pulled off masterfully. MC is 100% minding her own business, just wants to do what she must in order to get home, tries to focus on her work to keep from thinking about how much she misses her old life. She doesn’t rely on anyone, doesn’t talk about how hard it is or how scary it is or how confusing. And even Leonardo forgets in his curiosity, is just chillin and also just trying to do the bare minimum to keep from getting too attached--figures he can admire her from a distance. And then he sees her staring at the hourglass. And suddenly, he can’t just watch her do that herself. Just wait for the hard times to pass, just sit with her own loneliness--that hollowing silence. There’s something so moving about it because he reaches out precisely because he knows that feeling to his fucking marrow, and literally just cannot watch somebody else do that to themselves. Sure he’s been dealing with it for three hundred years, BUT THIS GOOD BABIE CHILD DOES NOT DESERVE THIS. SHE WORKS HARD AND DESERVES NICE THINGS!!!!!!!! And so he drives her crazy as he races ahead of her, intercepting any attempt for her to preserve that silence and hide. She doesn’t see any pattern to it, and that’s just how he likes it--he doesn’t want her to worry about the how or why.

Like I fully remembering playing in Japanese and being like oh my fucking god this is hilarious, this man is just a wild fucker and I love this. I was enjoying myself, mostly laughing and shaking my head. But then it just gets so, so serious. I was having so much fun that I, like a fool, forgot the anime effect. If you’re having fun, it’s going to come crashing down without mercy soon enough. And it does. He helps a little girl without any hope play her violin again, and maybe I’m just too English major but I was fucking FLOORED when I realized I didn’t see that that was straight foreshadowing. That little girl without hope? That was MC (and by extension depending on how you play, us). Though the metaphor isn’t quite so easily mapped without a physical space, the connection is clear when you think about it. With his careful social awareness, he makes a place for MC to exist in the mansion so naturally--as though she was meant to be there from the start, crafts a positive impression of her presence with each of the residents. And he does it with zero expectation of anything in return; he’s just happy to see her not stressing herself out anymore or trying to do everything alone. MC doesn’t fall in love with him despite their differences, she falls in love with him because they are the same in a singular and all-encompassing way that matters; they both care about other people so deeply, to the point where they will forego any personal needs in order to make that person’s life easier. Whether it be muting their own hardship, or working to involve another person in a new space (or opening up to the point of self-destruction to keep a person from feeling alone), they go above and beyond what anybody asks of them--perhaps strong to the point of their own detriment, in some cases.

It’s why I always laugh when he says to Sebastian “That cara mia, she has a good heart.” Of course she does, Leonardo; it certainly takes one to know one.

And because I literally have no brain cells beyond being in fucking love with Leonardo THE LAKE SCENE IS AN AFFRONT TO MY DIGNITY AND SELF-CONTROL. HOW DARE YOU, SIGNORE. HOW DARE YOU ASK ME TO SIT THERE AND WATCH YOU OPEN YOUR HEART TO ME AND NOT BAWL MY EYES OUT AND TRY TO KISS YOU ALL AT THE SAME TIME. SIGNORE “hAhA yOu’Re So SmAlL yOu LoOk LiKe YoU’rE DrOwNiNg In My CoAt.” I WOULD DROWN AND DIE HAPPY--BITCH I TELL YOU THAT.

Like. I can’t think of another route I’ve ever done where I spent a good amount of time like “lmfao this guy is so wild im gonna punch him” to just be in a whirlpool of my own tears, regretting my entire fucking LIFE days later. Like Leonardo’s cultural impact???? Fucking immeasurable, I wish every white man disaster I ever met had a hidden heart of gold in all of his boyish dumbassery, an ICONIC himbo of our time.

Also because I remembered it before posting and I am Dying^TM. The event where MC was a pureblood and he was human. That entire fucking event. I literally can’t think about it without screaming and crying. Her just so flustered at his reaction to her like “oh look, free real estate” as he plops her in his lap, absolutely no fear, treating her like a princess because of her noble title despite NO NECESSITY BEYOND PLAYFULNESS BUT ALSO STILL MEANING IT IN AN EARNEST WAY, being charming to no END just to see her laugh or look away shyly.

WHEN HE SAID. WHEN HE SAID “...Can’t leave you alone, or you might go off someplace I can’t follow.” I. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU STRIPPED DEVOTION DOWN TO ITS BARE ESSENTIALS!!!!!! GAH HOW MC HERSELF SAYS “I would tell him the truth but...he’s much too generous for a human. I know he would offer his life without a moment’s hesitation.” How Leo describes the aftermath of her biting him: “Lucky for you, I’m a true gentleman, Unlike my principessa, who took me like a storm” HELLO??????? H E L L O ???????????????????????? ARE WE JUST GOING TO SLEEP ON THE FACT THAT HE LOST HIS ENTIRE SOUL WHEN SHE BIT HIM???? I--

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

(Also as much as I love him the cigarillos have got to go at some point, boy do you have any idea the shit secondhand smoke does good lordt)

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp comte #can you feel me going through 800 different emotions in the course of writing this #fucking hell #he absolutely kills me i love him so much #would do ANYTHING for him #if you listen v closely you can hear the soft sound of me grabbing tissues #god i was just rewatching some of his events and i just #THE SHEER WARMTH OF HIS PRESENCE HOW IT WASHES OVER YOU WHILE READING #IM SHAKING AND CRYING I LOVE HIM SO MUCH #SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#like leo is just one of those routes where its like 'my life was before and after this moment'#otome is honestly destroying my standards OTL #he just makes me feel So Much my coherence disappears #brain cells???? don't know her only Leo tiddy #in conclusion: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Text

Whumptober 19: Survivor’s Guilt

TIMELINE: Takes place in the Iris Michaelson, Teen Badass AU of the Fillis Angst Parade AU - look, @whump-tr0pes and I make our own fun, and by “fun”, I mean we make “Isaac and Finn suffer”.

Basic Plot: Fourteen years ago, Finn Dunham and Ellis Price were taken captive. The team has never been able to rescue them, and knows only that Finn lives life as Patrick Michaelson’s plaything and Ellis teaches at a Syndicate dayschool and tutors the Michaelson’s adopted teenage daughter. When Iris Michaelson sends a message to the famous rebel Isaac Moore, he can’t help but answer it.

CW: Referenced noncon/dubcon, referenced torture

“If this is a trap, I’m going to owe Gavin fifty bucks.” Vera checked and rechecked her handgun, as though it would suddenly be less loaded than it was just a few minutes before. Her jaw was set in a grim line, eyes flashing a kind of damped-down fire, embers ready to spark. Her thick black hair, showing growing hints of gray, was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a pair of black pants and a tucked-in t-shirt, ready for the fight she was definitely expecting. “I don’t want to owe Gavin money, Isaac.”

“It’s not a trap,” Isaac replied, making his own nervous check and recheck of the table and chairs. “I don’t think it is, anyway. My instincts are saying it isn’t.”

“Your instincts-”

“My instincts have been spot-on for a decade, Vera. Just trust me on this. She let us pick the day, the time, the location… she let us give her the location with less than four hours’ notice, even. If this is a trap, she’s piss-poor at setting it.”

“Hm.” Vera snorted, and checked the second gun, the rifle they had leaning up, hidden on the other side of a doorframe, where Vera could pick it up and keep shooting if she had to.

If they needed the second gun, it would be because she was buying time for an exit, not because they had a shot in hell of getting a win.

“She wouldn’t have let me pick the spot with such short notice if she was planning on killing us,” Isaac said, but he felt less certain than his voice sounded.

“She’s a teenager, isn’t she? Who the fuck knows why teenagers do anything?”

It was Isaac’s turn to snort, then.

Their scheduled meeting space was a busted-out house an hour outside of the Michaelson Syndicate's largest stronghold city, a hidden place they had used, in the past, to run dissidents out of the city north, always north. A few years ago it’d been compromised, the house was half-burned down in the attack, but there was a room at the back that was still standing… more or less.

The girl had agreed readily to meet here - which Vera didn’t like, such a quick agreement made her think the youngest Michaelson child had some kind of plan, but it was a cleared space and Isaac had put his people all around. If the girl was bringing weapons, well, so were they.

Isaac had sentries watching for miles around, covering every road. It paid to have his reputation, and have so many people willing to sign on to help him out with this. It didn’t hurt that his reputation meant he’d managed to scrape together enough money to pay them.

Not in money, no - Isaac had traded pallets of flour with boxes' worth of packets of yeast, a couple of beat-up cars that could at least be broken down for scrap, and cough syrup from their carefully hoarded medical supplies. But it had been enough to draw in some people willing to take the risk.

Sentries had reported by radio - one car, following the directions Isaac had given it. No escort cars, no one caught sneaking through the scrubby woods around the house. Just one, single, shining black Michaelson Syndicate vehicle, clearly marked, making no effort to hide.

She was following every rule she’d been given, right down to the tiniest detail.

Still, his nerves were on edge. What the youngest Michaelson child could possibly want with them - what had made her reach out to schedule a face-to-face - had had him up at night ever since the first message had come in, sent via dissidents who didn’t even understand what they were carrying in the envelope that no one dared open until it got to him.

My name is Iris Michaelson and I need your help. I know Finn Dunham and Ellis Price. Please call me. Then a number, everything written in a childish looping cursive, and the sight of Finn and Ellis’s names had meant Isaac could never have stopped himself from calling.

“I wonder-”

“If she wants a way out, I’m not doing it,” Vera snapped, interrupting Isaac’s thoughts, her fraying nerves given away by the edge in her voice. “We can’t handle that kind of heat, Isaac.”

“I can find her someone to go to for that,” Isaac said, not quite in agreement. “We’re not in the business of hiding Syndicate kids.”

“Oh, are we not?” Vera’s dry humor edged on sarcasm. “Because I’m wondering what exactly you think we did with Gavin, then-”

“Anymore. We’re not in the business of hiding Syndicate kids anymore. That was fifteen years ago, are you-”

“Ever going to let it go? Nope. I’m too old to escort a spoiled rotten rich kid into the real world again, and you’re sure as fuck too old to fall in love with another one.”

Isaac felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, and shook his head. “Calm, Vera.”

“Isaac, so far you’ve turned Gavin into your goddamn life partner and tried to give Danny fucking Michaelson a place-”

“All I did was give him my name to help him get as far as he and Nate could get, when he was ready.” Isaac ignored the twist of bitterness inside him. “And he never was, was he? He’s still there.”

Some part of Isaac would always wonder why - when given the chance to get out - Danny had chosen to stay.

He sighed, and kept talking. “In any case, that’s not going to happen here. I’m not going to give her safe harbor with us. I’ve already spoken to some other communities, just laying groundwork. If she needs a place to run, she can have it - but she’ll have to give up a tremendous amount of intel to earn her sanctuary.”

“What kind of intel does a fucking fourteen-year-old girl have?”

“Don’t know, but she might have enough. She didn’t drop Danny’s name to meet with me, did you notice? She dropped Finn’s and Ellis’s names instead.” He shifted the chair on the other side, the one she’d sit in, this way and that until he had it just right. His own weapons - he carried two, one under his left arm and one on his right hip, plus another hidden taped under the table on his side - were fully loaded, too. All this to take on a single teenage girl.

Granted, it wasn’t just a teenage girl. Iris Michaelson happened to be the daughter of Patrick and Corrine Michaelson. Danny’s parents, and she was the beloved youngest child of the fucking assholes that had stolen his family, and kept them. The last Isaac had directly seen of Finn and Ellis was them being surrounded by Patrick’s men fourteen years ago as the car with him inside spit gravel and sped away.

Isaac swallowed, tightly, wondering if it was a good sign or a bad one that he rarely teared up when he remembered the moment, now. He’d cried too much for them already, and Iris Michaelson would be here soon.

“Would you have met her if she’d namechecked Danny?”

Isaac shook his head, jaw set firmly. “No.”

“But you will if-”

“Listen, maybe it’s about Finn, or Ellis,” Isaac said, softly. He barely dared hope. “Maybe she’s willing to trade intel on them. We know they’re still alive. We know Finn is-... that Finn has-”

“Yeah,” Vera said heavily. “Maybe. Hell, maybe the daughter has a heart. Anything’s fuckin’ possible, right?”

“Right.” Isaac took a deep breath. He heard the sound of car tires on gravel and raised his head, jaw setting into a determined line. “Here they are.”

“Showtime,” Vera said, voice low. She shifted back until she was mostly hidden in a doorway, covered enough in shadow that she wouldn’t be immediately visible unless she wanted to be. “I’ve got you covered, Isaac, but if it looks like it’s going south-”

“I’ll drop so you can start shooting and cover me until I can fire, too.”

“Right. Again, just for the record-”

“You won’t owe Gavin money. I promise.” Isaac took a seat on his side of the table. He knew his own people littered the woods around the clearing, weapons at the ready. He’d brought a full fucking team to meet with a teenage girl. But as far as Isaac was concerned, Iris Michaelson might as well be more dangerous than just about anyone else he might meet with.

Isaac knew enough, from his short time with the Michaelson family going on fifteen years ago, to know that their Syndicate wasn’t entirely human.

Crunch of footsteps - Isaac counted. The girl’s steps - lighter, but firm. Projecting a false confidence, Isaac thought. She was trying to sound stronger than she felt. He knew the feeling. A large… man, he guessed, from the time between heavy footsteps. Bodyguard, probably as armed to the teeth as Vera was. He waited to count more but… heard no one.

Isaac’s eyebrows furrowed, frowning. “Vera-” He turned to look back over his shoulder.

“I heard,” Vera whispered. “Eyes straight ahead, Isaac. I heard it. She’s only bringing one inside with her. Gavin might just owe me money.” Vera’s smile flashed white in the darkness. “Now that idea I like.”

She melted back into the shadows, and when Iris Michaelson entered the room, Isaac would seem entirely alone.

Iris moved into the room with the unconscious certainty of power that every Syndicate son or daughter carried, although her steps were a little hesitant and her breathing tightly nervous, but that wasn’t what caught Isaac’s eyes. Her head was slightly down, auburn hair catching the dim light, a thick braid down her back with two smaller braids that ran on either side along her head to join the larger on. She also had a small, almost delicate-looking handgun on a small holster on her hip.

He froze watching the lanky, gawky, all-elbows-and-knees girl in her soft black off-the-shoulder sweater, jeans, and combat boots that cost more than the gun on Isaac’s hip enter the room. He hadn’t seen hair quite that color since…

“Iris Michaelson.” His voice somehow came out even, but he heard himself speak as if from some far away place. His heart had started to race. “You requested a meeting with me?”

She raised her head to meet his eyes, and Isaac’s world broke apart.

The shape of her face was unmistakable, as was the color of her hair. Her eyes were wide and a strangely startlingly clear hazel leaning towards brown, but…

Isaac heard Vera’s soft gasp behind him and knew she saw it, too.

Iris Michaelson was the perfect spitting image of Ellis Price - except for the fact that she had Finn Dunham’s hair and eyes.

Iris came to a stop, warily, the hulking bodyguard - a brute of a man who seemed to carry himself with an absurd gentleness, with cropped dark hair and dark eyes in a pale face - that followed close on her heels putting his hand to his gun. Isaac automatically raised both his hands, empty and open-palmed, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

My God, I know who you fucking are, now.

Finn and Ellis had been captured during their flight from the Michaelson stronghold nearly fifteen years ago. They had disappeared into the depths of the Michaelson’s mansion, and every attempt the team made to understand what might have happened had dead-ended into the common knowledge that anyone who went into the Michaelson mansion never came back out of it alive. Isaac had refused to believe they were dead at first, and when no one hunted them down - no one found the safehouses Ellis and Finn knew about, no attacks were made on places the two of them might have given up under torture… he had refused to believe they were broken, either.

The team had never been able to go back for them, it had been too dangerous a risk even though Isaac had tried and failed and tried and failed again. They’d been… gone.

Not dead - there’d have been some closure then.

Just… disappeared.

The Michaelsons had adopted a baby girl - philanthropic move, adopting the orphaned child of their employees, a couple killed in an attack by rebels. They'd named her Iris, and she'd been raised as just as much a part of the family as Ryan or Danny.

Then, shortly after the public announcement of Iris joining the Michaelson family, Finn popped back up. They were kept at Patrick Michaelson’s side, his willing, branded plaything, photographed sitting in his lap at parties, glass of champagne tipped to their lips, eyes dead and empty above a gorgeous smile, head tilted to the side as Patrick's lips pressed into the brand on the left side of their neck.

Isaac had been shown photos of Finn - with Patrick’s mouth on theirs or their neck or his hand between their legs, Finn with their back pressed up against Patrick’s car like Finn was just an object, even right out in public, even in plain sight. Finn wearing perfectly tailored suits, Finn half-wearing those suits, Finn wearing nothing but a harness of knotted navy blue rope with their legs wrapped around Patrick Michaelson’s waist, smiling and begging for more, harder, deeper…

Broken and leaning into Patrick’s touch, over and over with that same dead-eyed smile. Standing with Patrick’s arm around their waist, leaning into him, a carefully crafted expression of adoration there. Isaac had shed bitter tears over being too late to save them. Whatever had broken Finn was something Isaac could never have brought them back from.

Ellis… Ellis had been gone for more than four years. The team had eventually assumed Ellis was dead - Isaac had grieved their fucking death. He’d thought losing them must have been what broke Finn, made them give up and resign themself to life in Patrick Michaelson’s bed.

Then… an envelope, and a set of photos Isaac had never expected to see. Ellis, nearly five years after Isaac had last seen them, teaching children at a Syndicate school, heavily guarded but still clearly themself. Smiling for children but expression set in a furious grim line the second no one was looking. Photos snuck out of the city by secret dissidents, Isaac had spent so much of what little money he had on every bit of information he could get about the two of them.

They were miserable, captives held behind enemy lines for more than a decade. But they never tried to run, never tried to contact anyone. Never took the chance. Isaac had managed to leverage people who owed him favors, new and old contacts, but every attempt to get Finn alone at a party had ended in their soft refusal - an insistence that I'm happy living this way, thank you or I love Patrick Michaelson, who could want to escape from living like this? or please, I can’t talk about it, I have to love him - and they’d move back to Patrick’s side - and Ellis was never fucking alone at all.

They weren’t trying to be alone, though, and Isaac just didn’t understand it.

Isaac hadn’t been able to grasp why Ellis could look so unbowed and so… utterly Ellis, and still be there. Still go day by day to the school, teaching children their ABCs, spending their nights and weekends tutoring the Michaelsons’ youngest child like it was nothing. Like it was a life they wanted, evenings and weekends helping raise a fucking Syndicate daughter, a pampered little princess.

It should have been something Ellis would rather die than do.

Isaac had wondered, again and again, what could possibly keep Ellis from trying to escape. Now, staring as Iris Michaelson crossed the room and settled herself in a chair across from him, Isaac understood.

He understood, and he would have made exactly the same choices they had made, for this.

Ellis had been tutoring their own daughter, grasping for time with her. Doing anything it took not to lose her. And so, in their own way, had Finn. Ellis wouldn’t try to escape because they wouldn’t leave their daughter - Finn was at Patrick’s side to stay as close to Iris as they could get. The two of them had spent fourteen years like this.

Corrine Michaelson hadn’t taken Iris from a dead employee to raise as her own.

She’d taken Iris from Ellis.

The two of them had managed to leverage their captivity to stay close to her, no matter what they had to give up, no matter how much of themselves they had had to give away. Isaac had to blink away tears that blurred his vision, wanting to stare at Iris for as long as he could.

Was this why Danny had stopped contacting Isaac about possibly leaving himself? Had he gone radio silent and stayed here because he didn’t want to leave Iris, either?

She looked up at him uncomfortably, rubbing at one arm with her other hand. It was… strange, to see the child’s roundness in Ellis’s face with Finn’s brown eyes, the hint of nervous shyness that he’d never seen in his friend, his family. But… he couldn’t look away. “What? What are you staring at? I’m adopted.”

Isaac just blinked, until Vera cleared her throat behind him and Isaac jumped a little, startled out of his thoughts. The world felt like it had just tipped sideways, all of it made sense now, all at once. Puzzle pieces falling to the floor and magically into place. “I-I’m sorry, I just-... I know. I’ve met your brothers-”

“I know.” Iris’s voice was low, but held a sharp edge. “They told me.”

“They did?” Isaac almost asked her what exactly Danny and Ryan had had to say about him, but he could feel Vera’s eyes on his back, and he cleared his throat again. “My apologies. You wanted to meet with m-me?”

His voice was trembling. If he wasn’t careful, he’d cry right here in front of her. How are they? How broken? Is anything left? How much did they lose just to keep you?

“Yes. I, um. I thank you for-... meeting with me today. For agreeing to meet.” Iris’s voice was carefully even, but it shook, too, giving away that Syndicate daughter or not, she was nervous. Probably scared - she didn’t have any good reason to believe Isaac wouldn't just kill her or take her hostage. She’d shown a lot of trust, having just the one bodyguard and probably a driver come with her. She’d shown a lot of courage.

That’s Finn and Ellis for you, Isaac thought, and his throat nearly closed again.

“I-I’m not here for my own sake,” Iris said, quietly, looking slightly down, as if reciting something from memory. Her face was red, and Isaac decided this might be as close to seeing Ellis blush as he was ever going to get. “I don’t-... I don’t. Um. I’m sorry, this is just. Wait, I was supposed to start with-... shit.”

Isaac’s lips quirked in the slightest smile - he heard Vera huff a laugh from her hiding spot. There’s Ellis’s daughter, through and through.

Iris’s bodyguard leaned over, putting a hand on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. He looked up at Isaac, then, without the instinctive loathing or derision that Isaac usually expected from the Syndicate guards he’d gotten into fights with in the past.

“Right. Right, thanks, David.” Iris put a hand up over the bodyguard’s, looking back at Isaac, sitting up straight again. Her black sweater fell just lightly off one bony shoulder. Loyal to her, Isaac thought, watching the bodyguard. Not Patrick and Corrine. We can use that. He’s not a Syndicate bodyguard - he’s Iris Michaelson’s bodyguard. There’s something there, if I can just figure it out.

Jesus, what had Ryan and Danny said years ago? Not everyone in the Syndicate was human. Was this David human? Or something else?

His heart was pounding. He had to make it through this meeting and then he was going to let himself be crushed under the weight of what he could see only in hindsight, only with Iris sitting here in front of him. Now that he understood that his attempts to save them had been fruitless because they didn’t want to be saved - not if… not if it would take them from their daughter.

He understood, now. He got it, all at once. Finn wouldn’t leave Ellis. Ellis wouldn’t leave Finn. And they wouldn’t leave Iris.

God, he could feel fourteen years crushing him, all at once. Freedom he’d had and they hadn’t, could never get back. And they’d only been caught because Isaac had been running from being turned into Danny’s unwilling plaything, against both his and Danny’s will.

If he hadn’t let himself be rescued, he could have stayed with Danny and Nate. Danny would have… would have tried to make it feel as close to normal as he could.

Stop it. You couldn’t have known. You could never have known. This isn’t your fault. This isn’t-... this isn’t your fault.

Felt like it, though. If he’d just… belonged to the Michaelsons - spent his days with Danny - then Finn never would have, would they? They’d be a rebel medic still, probably, not a plaything who spent their time being felt up or worse by the Michaelson patriarch-

Stop it. She’s fucking talking, listen to her, Isaac.

“Ellis,” Iris was saying softly, “is my real mother. And they told me to tell you, um, something that proves-... that proves that I’m here for them. They said… it’s been a while, motherfucker. Is-.. is bitchboy behaving?”

Isaac closed his eyes, briefly, wanting to laugh and cry and do both at once. Vera huffed a laugh from her position behind him and Iris jumped, glancing back at David, who had a gun up, out, and pointed right at Isaac in less time than it took for Iris to flinch back when she realized Vera was there.

“Hands where I can see them,” David said, voice deep, low, and flat.

Vera stepped out into plain view, holding her gun pointed upwards with the safety on and her finger off the trigger. “Here I am,” She said, carefully. “I’m going to lay this down on that side table. No shooting. Yeah?”

David held steady. “No shooting. I don’t put this down until yours is down.”

Isaac’s hands slipped down, as if lying in his lap, the get a grip on the gun under the table, ready to pull it free and aim. “She’s with me. I promise we’re not planning on hurting anyone today, if you’re not.”

“So have her put her gun down,” Iris said, lifting her chin.

Isaac felt a stab of surreal pride that this near-stranger made her voice so strong, that she seemed so brave. It fit, that Ellis’s daughter would be good at hiding her fears.

“Vera,” Isaac said softly.

“I’m doing it.” Vera laid her handgun down on the side table and then backed slowly away, hands still up, until she was leaning against the wall. When David’s gun lowered, so did her hands. He reholstered his weapon and everyone let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding simultaneously. There was a round of nervous laughter from them all.

Isaac tried to remind himself to just keep breathing. "So... they're still Ellis, definitely. Angry?”

Iris smiled, and you couldn’t mistake that smile for anything but someone who was talking about her mother. “Angry all the time. They’re good with the dayschool, though. I go see them every day, mostly.”

“And… and Finn?"

There was a pause, and Iris’s eyes dropped. She picked at a loose thread on her sweater. "They're, um." Iris paused, and Isaac heard her shift in her chair. "They're… very sad. All the time. With my father-”

Isaac winced. “He’s not your-”

“I know. But he is my father, too. Please don’t-... please let me talk.” Her voice did tremble, then, and Isaac went quiet. “With my father, and around everyone who works with us, they seem mostly happy, I guess. I know my fathers love each other-”

“Bullshit,” Vera said, her voice flat. “They don’t love him.”

Iris didn’t look up. “They do,” She insisted. “They do love each other, but… but when I’m alone with Finn, they’re… they’re very sad. And they don’t love him any longer. Did you… do you know them? They told me stories, but they didn't-... there were always other people around, so-"

"So they didn't tell you everything."

"No. But… but I-... I want to get them - Ellis and Finn - away from my, um. My family."

Isaac wasn't thinking about self-protection. If Iris had wanted to, she could have had her bodyguard kill him, in that moment, his eyes closed and his guard down. He leaned slowly forward and put his head in his hands, the silence drawing out. No one drew a weapon. No one fired.

Isaac felt the punch of pain, anyway, the tears running down his face.

That's not your family, Iris. We are. Or we were supposed to be.

“Do they know-”

“Ellis knows. I mean, my mother knows.” Iris laughed, airily, and Isaac looked up through his hands to see the piercing sadness in her features, the blend of her mother and father so deeply written in every single gesture, each expressed emotions. “I’m not allowed to call them that, so, so I hope you don’t mind if I just do it all the time, for right now? My mother knows. But-”

“Finn doesn’t know?”

Iris swallowed, and glanced back at David, who looked impassively down at her, but he kept his hand on her shoulder. “No, Daddy doesn’t know.”

Isaac’s breath hitched. Daddy-

“I can-... I’m sometimes allowed to call them that. I call, um, my father is just… Father. Or Da, sometimes, he likes Da. But Finn isn’t-... Finn doesn’t know that we’re meeting today. They know I want to, and they know I’m doing something, but we can’t tell them what or when or any details.”

“Why not?” That was Vera - but there was a set to her jaw, and a tension to her words, that suggested she knew the answer before Iris ever spoke it out loud.

“Because… if Father asks them, they’ll tell him anything. Everything. Anything they know.”

Isaac breathed out. Slowly, slowly, trying to control the despair threatening to well up inside of him. “They’re tortured?”

“Um. Not… not exactly. They just… will. Father will ask, and he’ll… kiss them, or something-” Iris’s nose wrinkled in something like disgust. “Which, watching your fathers kiss is pretty weird, for the record-”

“No doubt,” Vera murmured, “When one of them doesn’t want to.”

“Um. Sort of.” Iris’s expression shifted - something Isaac couldn’t read there - and she shrugged. “In any case. He’ll ask, and they’ll tell, sooner or later. So Ellis - my mother, God, it’s so nice to say that out loud just like that - says they can’t know, it has to be a surprise for them. So we, um, we kind of have to abduct Finn, but-... but they’ll go, we just-... have to make it a surprise abduction.”

“As opposed to the usual kind, where you send a note they can RSVP to,” David rumbled behind Iris, and she shot him a brilliant smile over one shoulder, bumping her shoulder into his side.

“Anyway… my uncles Nate and Danny know. Nate and Ellis trade books a lot, they’ve been hiding messages in them.”

“Nate Vandrum,” Vera said. “Loyal to Danny Michaelson, not his last name. Which means…”

“Which means Danny wants in on this, wants to get them out.” Isaac ignored the odd little thrill of nostalgia. One week, fourteen years ago, and it had ended in disaster. And still part of him leapt at the idea of seeing Daniel Michaelson again. “Why now?”

“Because…” Iris took a breath, closed her eyes. Opened them again, and Isaac was caught all over again by how thoroughly Finn those eyes were, but full of all the sparkling life and light that was missing from Finn’s in every photograph taken since their disappearance, since they’d been turned into a plaything, but something worse and more than that.

Playthings are discarded. They die or get paid off to disappear.

But Finn… Finn had been at Patrick Michaelson’s side for fourteen years. They were far more than a plaything. Patrick introduced them, Isaac had been told, as his consort. Like a fucking monarchy.

What were Syndicates, really, but petty fucking kings and queens with little kingdoms where their word was law? Why wouldn’t Patrick style himself king, and style Finn something like consort, or concubine, or-

Or royal fucking whore-

His hands had closed into fists, palms aching where his nails were digging in. Isaac forced himself to slowly, carefully relax them.

“Because what, Iris?” Vera had moved closer up behind Isaac, and he felt her hand settle warmly onto his right shoulder. A comfort - and Vera could reach down and take a gun from Isaac’s underarm holster in less time than it took to catch a breath.

“Because, um.” Iris picked at her manicured fingernails, then looked up from under her lashes at them both. “Because I want to go with them, with you. I want-...” She swallowed, again and again. “Because I don’t want them to hurt anymore. Because Daddy’s so fucking sad, for me, and-”

“It’s not your fault,” Isaac said, his voice strangled, caught in his throat.

It’s mine, for taking the opportunity to run and never seeing that my freedom would be paid for with theirs.

“They’re ready because I’m ready. I want to be with my family, just the three of us. I want-... I want them to be my family. And Ellis said Isaac Moore was the only person they could think of who could ever get all three of us out alive.”

“No pressure, though,” Vera said softly.

“None at all,” Isaac said. He was floating. He was a thousand miles away. He was barely tethered to earth. “Well… fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.” Vera’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “We’re doing this, right?”

“Of course we are.” Isaac watched Iris from across the table, and then did his best to smile for her. “Okay, Iris Michaelson-”

“Iris Dunham-Price,” She countered, and Isaac nearly choked on a mix of pride and grief. “I mean. I hope to be. Once we’re out.”

“Iris Dunham-Price, then. You have yourself a deal. You want to help your family escape, and escape with them. I’ve-... I’ve been waiting to bring my family home for fourteen fucking years. So let’s both get what we want, okay?”

“Okay.”

Isaac held out his hand, and Iris held out hers. Her fingers were thin, but she shook his hand with a firm grip.

“Deal,” Iris said, nodding once.

“Ellis teach you to shake hands that way? Thought you’d crush all my bones for a second.”

Iris laughed, really laughed, for the first time she’d entered.

Her laughter sounded exactly like Finn’s.

---

@astrobly @slaintetowhump @finder-of-rings @orchidscript @burtlederp @whumpiary @sableflynn @moose-teeth

#whumptober2020 #no. 19 #survivor's guilt #honor bound au #fillis angst parade #iris michaelson: a 14 year old who will fuck you up #ash whumps athena #referenced noncon #referenced dubcon #referenced torture #captivity #long-term captivity #whump

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musedblues · 5 years ago

Text

Send My Love

summary: Eugene misses home. You miss him. But there's a lot neither of you can say.

a/n: Here's an angsty bit of nonsense I word vomited out of the blue for no reason at all- besides the fact I love Eugene. Plus I sort of owe this to @joemazzmatazz for hooking me up with The Pacific and for also just being the angel that she is!

w/c: 5k

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

He couldn't burden you with his darkness. He couldn't tell you that he hadn't caught a wink of sleep in three nights straight. He dared not tell you whose blood was on his hands, if he even managed to figure out who it'd belonged to. Or how he'd become fearful of lingering silence. His chest would fill with lead as seconds crept by in the twilight and even the blowing of the wind pricked his ears as he waited for the next big bang. He couldn't even tell you he missed you. Because all the other throat constricting truths were tangled in that one simple fact. He missed the warmth of your bed. The smile on your face on a breezy Sunday drive. He missed never knowing what he was missing out on, before.

I love you. Now that, he could say. Actually, he said it all the time. He said it when he admired his only worn photo of you near candle light. He said it when he thought of you, as all his friends and enemies cries pierced so loudly it deafened him.

I love you. He thought, hours after sending you another letter, as he dug his nails into the dirt of a foreign land. He thought only of how dearly he loved you because even the mud he crawled through wasn't enough to ground him. Not when the dirt clouded his already blurred vision.

///

"I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I-"

You let the new letter fall against your writing desk as your eyes scanned the page. It was chock full of those same three words without punctuation. His writing was sloppy, almost careless. But he'd taken the time to scribe the sentence in repetition, so you knew his heart was in the right place.

But the word's meaning didn't leave a long enough effect on your heart before worry swallowed you whole. He loved you, and you knew it. But a whole page full of the declaration felt tragic. Like a warning. Not at all what it should have felt like.

You bit your lip as you pulled your own stationery in some kind of sudden hurry. The quicker I write this the better. You though. But the thought caught you off guard. You'd never thought it before.

"Dear Gene,"

No sooner than your pen hit the paper did a knock come across your bedroom door.

"Come finish dinner before your father and I have to leave to beat the snow." Your mother softly demanded, and you stood without haste. But your eyes lingered on Eugene's letter as you turned to leave.

"The mail was from Eugene, wasn't it?" Your mother grinned, stabbing her fork into a lump of mystery meat she insisted on coming over and cooking for you. The exchanges between yourself and Eugene had dwindled significantly over the while he'd been away. And quite the while it had been indeed. So when a letter finally did arrive between the collection of cobwebs in your mailbox, it was like Christmas day. Better.

"Uh-huh." You agreed, biting into some asparagus and hoping to high heavens that your voice sounded even and calm. The new letter was so sweet. So why did it leave you with such a heavy heart?

"How's Gene, then?" Your father boomed.

"He's good." You decided, keeping your gaze fixed on your dinner plate. Sure enough, your father spun into the most frightening updates of the state of your country's men. You pretended to listen, white noise flooding your ears and stealing your focus. The sinking feeling in your gut took up too much space for any more food.

Your sister changed the subject to some school girl fantasy. The boy she fancied had yet to leave the comforts of his family home. But he would likely be up and away like the rest of em' soon enough. So was it really a change of subject at all?

///

"Gene?" You called. His silhouette was shaped by a sunlit door frame. When he stepped into the room all the way, the floorboards didn't creak. But your heart did. He lifted a silent arm toward you, but you couldn't let him any closer.

"This isn't real. Don't break my heart in another world, Gene."

You shot awake from the dream with the realization that you hadn't finished writing a response to Eugene's latest letter. You couldn't be stopped from padding toward your writing desk in the black ink night.

You scribbed a hurried response that assured your lover you loved him just as much as all the times he said so on paper. You tried to keep it short, but as you kept jotting down your feelings, you couldn't stop. You took up three pages confessing how scared you were. How lonely and worried and dazed you'd become. If anyone should know your heart's murmurs, it was your Gene. So you sealed your words in an envelope and sent your lengthy letter through priority mail the next day.

///

You couldn't be sure if your letter got to where it was meant to go. Six long dreary months passed since you'd seen anything besides bills in your mailbox. The winter's snow had been melted by a warm spring. Trees blossomed and flowers too. So why were you wilting? Because you hadn't received one single bit of mail from Eugene since his page-long declaration of his love for you.

The repetitive letter laid exactly where you left it on your writing desk, something your eyes glanced over at least once a day. It had become a fixture of your scenery, and you were glad for the reminder.

Maybe Eugene knew he wouldn't be sending more letters. Maybe he filled up every blank space in his last with love, for all the times he feared he'd miss out saying so in the future.

Some days you let ideas like those get the better of you. Friends of friends would be united with their war-torn lovers. A girl dropped her grocery basket in the produce aisle to sprint into her long lost man's embrace. Another would brush past you at work to tackle her husband to the ground with all the kisses she'd saved up. You would pretend to smile for them and curse at yourself for feeling so selfishly bitter. Their love came home. And in a way, yours did too, in so many written words. You had to remind yourself that Eugene's last letter was better than nothing at all.

But soon, nothing at all was your everything. No letters, no calls, no news from anyone you'd hope would have some. Nothing. You kept Eugene's side of the bed neatly tucked in, and his clothes on his side of the closet. You ran out of shirts that smelled of him, after cuddling them all too close. Their charm might have washed off in the laundry, but they were still Eugene's.

///

You worked through the summer and went out with your friends on the weekends, if you could. When another lonely autumn started to approach, the steadily dissipating hope you'd been grasping hold of, had been lost. You'd passed the stage where everything made you sad; like frequenting Eugene's favorite shops in the city, and catching glimpses of his favorite cars on the road. You'd turn the radio down when songs he liked came on air. You'd noticed his favorite trees outside your cozy home, but wouldn't let yourself admire how they'd grown.

One afternoon you noticed the letter on your desk for the first time in a while. It'd become a part of your background, something your eyes were so used to it was almost like the letter wasn't even there. But one day, you sat down to do some mind numbing paper work; and glanced over to realize half of Eugenes scribbles had started fading from the sun that crept past your curtains day in and out.

You took the sun bleached letter into your grasp and let your eyes fall across the page. His words might have started to disappear but you didn't have to squint to know what he'd written. The patterns of each sloppily scrawled line had been burned into your brain for good, by now. But you couldn't let it go on fading. It was all you had left. So with a heavy sigh, you pulled out the box where you'd kept all the other letters, and stuck it in the very bottom of the pile. That way, if you'd ever venture to read through some of Eugene's outdated updates, the last one you received would hopefully keep some semblance of it's original form. And if the words were even harder to make out by the time you came upon them again, you'd know exactly what was missing from the washed out letter.

///

Your friends stopped asking if you were alright, because they knew you'd only answer like you always did, by pretending you were. Secretly hoping that forcing a smile on your face would make it stick till it became real, or at least natural, again. But you hadn't felt that fizzle in your chest for a long time, the one that bubbled up in the theater during a funny film, or a thrilling plot twist. You hadn't even felt a tinge of jealousy when your coworkers went on trips to spend time with their lovers distant relatives.

By Halloween, you barely felt anything at all.

Your sister begged you to come along for a night-long hallows eve celebration. You didn't know what kind of night she planned on having, but you simply weren't up for pretending to have any kind of fun. And you really didn't want to be pulled through a house of horrors or tossed a handful of sweets to tied you over till the next scary thing popped out. You'd spent too many nights scared of what might happen next. You wanted to stay in and practice your new routine of praying for a better tomorrow.

But nothing could stop the neighborhood children from knocking on your door, asking for candy. And you'd be a real monster if you didn't have any to offer. So you filled a big bowl with chocolates and spent the night marveling over kid's homemade costumes.

You spent a while chatting with little werewolves and ghouls, musing with their parents about the weather. You handed out candy as the sun went down and put a record on in between. Your home felt lonely as ever but the bustling streets were an odd comfort.

When a fireman, and a lion knocked on your door for a treat, a princess was leaving a trail of flower petals on your porch, dedicated to her role. You chuckled and watched her twirl into the crowded street, shouting about the excellent quality of the candies you were handing out. Children of all ages were floating down the block, and your neighbors were giving out sweets too, on their aptly cobweb-covered porches. For a moment you wished every day could be so full. You wished the streets were always jam packed with smiling faces. You wished the knocks on your door were always so frequent.

Among the sea of costumed kids, and parents with cameras, one figure slowly parted through the rest, making their way toward you. It was akin to an eerie vision. A sick joke. You'd had dreams like this, that never came true...

You stilled as the kids on your porch reached into your candy dish, and more came up the steps for their share. But your gaze was fixed to the person in the road.

Could it be? A lone soldier was drifting closer and closer, a familiar swath of auburn hair tousled in the warm night air. This was no costume. Suddenly, children's laughter was muddled, and the record inside your door sounded miles away. This wasn't another one of your dreams, for once- even though time seemed to slow down while your heart beat a mile a minute.

Eugene was here. Eugene was home. He was looking right at you, and when he realized you noticed him, his face relaxed into something softer, sweeter than a smile.

You dropped the dish of sweets in the doorway because you were only capable of running now. You pushed through the group of children scrambling to collect your mess of candy and bolted down the petal covered porch steps.

Eugene stopped walking through the crowd in order to brace for impact. He scooped you up in a long-awaited embrace, nearly stumbling over from the momentum you'd gained.

"Hey watch it!" Some kid cried, ringing the bell on the front of his bicycle. The crowd of comers and goers had to redirect their swarm that you'd rushed into the middle of. But you were in no state to offer up apologies for disrupting the bustle. All you knew was the feeling of Eugene's strong arms around you. That's where you belonged. You wrapped yourself around him, like if you didn't cling on for all it was worth, that he would evaporate into a fever dream you'd had once before. But then he spoke up, reminding you this was all really real.

"I missed you." Eugene's warm voice was muffled in your hair. And he meant it. He always had, of course. But now that he was back, he didn't have to miss you anymore. So he could finally say it. And it wasn't until then, that you realized he'd never said it before. You realized why, too.

You couldn't hold back your tears as you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck. If you could have focused on anything besides the reappearance of your long lost love, you would have been able to register the neighbor's chatter and the children's ongoing griping for you to get out of the middle of the road. But you just kept on crying.

So Eugene kept one arm around your middle, and pulled the pair of you steadily toward the porch steps, apologizing to the candy snatching children he maneuvered around.

By the time he shut the pair of you inside your home, the record had stopped playing and the neighborhood's collective buzz was reduced to white noise.

Eugene pulled you to the floor and held on to you all the same. He couldn't tell you he was too relieved too cry along with you. He couldn't ever find the proper words for a moment like now. So he just savored the way you adhered to him; as he held you close in the living room of your home that's carpet felt like clouds beneath him.

Your cries slowly morphed into whimpers as he smoothed back your hair and hummed in your ear. It was amazing, the way Gene sent you reeling and calmed you down all at once.

"I'm sorry." Embarrassed that you couldn't stop crying, you buried your face in Eugene's shoulder. Only then did he dare to release his comforting grasp on you.

He tugged you to face him, wiped your tears away and peppered your cheeks with soft kisses. The way he always used to do, when you were angry or exhausted. You lifted a hand to his face and relaxed into his frame in a way you'd longed to do for ages.

"It's alright. I'm just glad to know you missed me so much." Eugene admitted through a sweet chuckle as you pulled back to gaze into his eyes that were even more striking than you'd managed to remember.

"Why didn't you tell me you were comin' home?" You asked, not unhappy in the least, just curious when you recalled all this time you'd gone without hearing from him.

He couldn't tell you why he'd gone so long without sending you something. He couldn't tell you that time seemed to tick, and when it stalled, the words he could have conjured just for you were stolen away when those rare moments of respite were, too.

But he could tell you that when he was finally sent on his way, the train he'd boarded with anxious glee- broke down in the middle of no place at all. He combated another couple days of waiting to get home with the peaceful knowledge that he was headed in that direction without a doubt.

"Well, welcome back." You smiled, sitting up with your knees on either side of his legs, pulling his shoulders closer toward you for a kiss. You felt Eugene melt in your clutch as his strong arms coiled around your waist. This was just like before. But better. You could get used to this.

///

He was everything you missed. He was patient smiles as you fretted over what to wear. He was the last to ask for help with anything, but you were the first he asked, when defeated. He was around every corner with big strong arms already outstretched, eager to pull you in for a bit of reassurance, or just because he simply longed to hold you close.

And as the weather turned cold and you got used to his being home, readjusted to the way his presence brought you warm peace; you had a few other things to get used to, as well.

He still waited for the perfect time to crack jokes, when he knew they'd make you laugh hardest. They made your family laugh too. And when all the champagne bubbles and chuckles fizzed out near the end of a big dinner, so did something in Eugene's gaze. He didn't go missing his spark or the warmth that radiated from his forest toned eyes. But you noticed the shift before everyone else seemed too. You watched his focus break away before he got up from the dinner table without a word and slipped down the hall.

Your sister's boyfriend would halt mid tall tale and act as if he couldn't wait to go on telling his story without Eugene near to listen. You had to rest your hand on top of the schoolboys, when he made as if he was going to shoot up away from the table and down the hall to talk your man's ear off. The boy would cast you a curious glare, and you would shake your head as your father made a show of kicking conversation in an all new direction. Then you all sat and waited, hard as it was.

You wanted to run after Eugene too, but you knew he needed the space.You knew, when he'd found whatever he went off looking for, he'd always come back in time to help clean up with a soft smile that reminded you why you'd fallen so hard for him way back when.

So you learned to leave him be. You learned it was normal to find he'd wake up before you, now, and linger in the kitchen with a cup of tea. He'd let the drink go untouched and grow cold till you found him nodding off at the table, and offer to make him another.

When you went on walks, you watched him drift toward the nearest patch of quiet until you'd finished catching up with the women you bought fresh flowers from. When you'd finally manage to float in his direction again, he'd hold his arm out for you to take; and then greet you with some cheesy line that left you blushing, despite all your years of becoming accustomed to his sweet talk.

So you'd let Eugene go quiet. Because you knew sooner or later, he'd pull you into his lap or close to his side, where you'd spend the rest of the day dreaming of the many more you had left to waste away together.

Of course, though, some days you couldn't let him go by sulking in the sunroom one minute longer. Your heart would crack down to the wire, each hour you passed by the door to peek in on him- slumped a little lower in his favorite old chair.

And when the day started turning to night and all that time passed without a peep reminded you too much of the quiet that crept in when he wasn't around at all- you swayed into the sunroom on a mission.

You found Eugene how you'd left him early in the afternoon, flipping the yellowed page of a book you knew he'd read a thousand times before.

"Why don't we call it a night, then?" You wondered softly, leaning against the chair and letting your hand fall to Eugene's mess of hair. His locks were mused by wrestling for a wink of sleep the night before, and his fingers today, as he fought to stay awake through his parents surprise morning visit.

He glanced up at you now, letting the book in his lap flutter to close. You knew just the method to settle his duo of restless exhaustion. So with tender encouragement, you got him up from the chair and scurried to run a bath.

His smile flickered back to life in the dim light of the washroom. The softly coloured walls and the scents of the soaps you'd always found worthy of splurging on, all combined into some kind of small luxury. You filled the tub with bubbles, and unbuttoned your man's shirt while the sky went dark.

When you ushered him to settle in the bath, you kneeled at the edge and asked Eugene if he was happy; like your efforts were a tried and true formula set to melt away every trouble. He responded by splashing a bit of warm water your way with a grin that faded, like he was exhausted by the effort to remember how to smile.

"Would be happier if I had a little company..." He swept his eyes across the vast expanses of the bath as if it were the sea that had kept you apart for too long before.

So then you joined him without discussion. He watched you ease before him, your form disappearing below the steam and bubbles. His gaze was dazzling, albeit foggy, but entirely fixated on you. His brow furrowed when you brought a hand to his face, like he'd never been treated so kindly in all his days. As you studied his expression Eugene hung his head with a deep slow breath, solidifying his unsettled nature. His long, water warmed fingers trailed up your wrist, pulling your hand between both of his to hold.

"I should have written more."

"You wrote plenty." You assured, firmly, softly. Shifting closer, trying to catch his eye.

"But I could'a done more. I went so long without-" He looked at you just in time, before you managed to hide the flash of sadness that crossed your eyes.

"What you must have thought..." Eugene suddenly realized in a shudder, reaching up to wipe drops of water that he'd splashed to your cheeks.

"It doesn't matter what I thought." You spoke decidedly. "You're home, now." You watched Eugene watch you, the crease in his brow deeper from being so permanently furrowed, his lips curled into a small frown, still. And when you nodded, to guarantee you were simply glad to have him back in your arms again, he still wasn't settled. Eugene's eyes searched yours as his frown grew.

"You... you thought I died, didn't you?" He asked.

It wasn't so much a change of topic as it was a direct acknowledgment of the matter you'd both been dancing far around since long before his leaving. It was always a concern, always a worry. Always something morphing into an ugly, mangled, all consuming thought you'd never let come out from the very back of your mind. And as you try to hide the way Eugene's question made your heart plummet, and as you consider what to tell him without lying or adding to the sadness filling his gaze; you failed to say anything at all.

Eugene decided your silence was plenty loud enough of an answer.

And then his troubled gaze started turning to the look that flooded his expression you'd come to recognize. The look he'd get before leaving families to wonder where he'd gone at the end of dinner.

So to save for the way your silence deafened the room, and the way you still couldn't say anything, you pulled Eugene to your chest. You threaded your fingers through his mused hair and held him close, because your "doesn't matter, you're home now speech" hadn't worked this time around and it was the only one you knew how to give without breaking up.

Then, Eugene's cold breath fanned across your collarbone as he started stammering through a speech. All about how he could have done more and how he'd so carelessly broken the promise he made to take care of you even while he was away. How he'd failed you and how he hadn't done nearly enough for you, and how he'd never be able to make it right...

"I'm sorry for makin' you think I was dead but, for a while... well I might as well have been. But damn it you don't need to hear that kind of thing. I could have done more then and I could be doing more even now but-"

"Gene stop." You gripped his shoulders, pushing him away from your hold until your eyes met. His expression was still curious and grim, but it slowly morphed into something even more somber as your eye's pierced into his.

Eugene broke your stare to hang his head. When he started to cry, you clamored closer and wrapped around him all the same. You held him close as ever and assured he'd done enough. Assured he had nothing to be sorry for. Assured you loved him and were glad to have someone to worry so feicrly over. You held him close while he held you too.

///

And you stuck just as close after the water turned cold and you'd slipped into your night clothes, together. You held Eugene right against you as you both pretended to sleep.

When he drifted from under the covers as the sun rose, you let him clatter about the kitchen for a beat before you followed close behind. Then you both sat at the table with cups of tea and let the silence set in. Eugene's knee brushed against yours every time he snapped back from staring at one page of the newspaper for too long. You bumped your elbow into his side every time you rose your cup of tea for a sip.

And then, as often as you could get away with- without offending too many of your neighbor ladies who stopped for a chat, you let Eugene pull you along when he floated away. He'd never said much, then. But he made tiny promises to do better, for you. You'd tell him he'd already done enough, and sat with him till the quiet seemed less suffocating.

Then, one day, you checked the mail to find Eugene had left a brand new letter. It was written in careful scrawl, echoing the promises he'd always repeated, when he wasn't too burdened to say so out loud. And though it was still missing so much of everything he'd never be able to say, it was full of thanks for you. He wrote how he'd never even want to try and claw through the darkness that seemed to swallow him whole, if it wasn't for you. For your dumb jokes and your pretty hair, and the effort you made to show him how much you cared. He wrote that every little thing about you, were the only things that got him through minutes he couldn't kick the habit of counting as they passed by.

You had to slip into the darkest room of your shared flat to cry where he couldn't hear. But these tears were less bitter, much more sweet than before.

Eugene wrote more letters, when he skipped out on parties you attended. He wrote about how he wished he could have gathered up the guts to have gone along with you. He wrote how grateful he was to know you'd come home to him at the end of the night. He wrote to you when he couldn't sleep, about how sorry he was for keeping you up with worry, all the same.

Your mailbox was usually full of bills, but you weren't surprised to keep finding odd envelops from Eugene. You collected the notes in the same box you'd stored his others away in, and watched Eugene sit up a little straighter each day he'd managed to get some of those heavy thoughts off his chest, in so many words.

Between letters, his laughter came back. His conversations lasted longer. And he'd stick around to join in the chatter at the end of big dinners.

Of course, there were still nights his tears mixed with the bathwater and his cries seemed to echo from places you'd never know. You'd never ask, not directly. You'd just make a warm drink and sit with him in the silence that told you all you needed to know. He'd never tell you. Not even when his thoughts spilled over onto papers he'd leave for you to find. He'd just hold your hand a little tighter under the dinner table until your father was done rambling about his own time fighting.

For fleeting moments, you wondered what Eugene had been through. But you reigned in your imagination as soon as it threatened to keep you up at night. And you made sure to sing along to songs on the radio- even the ones you didn't like very well, theatrically enough to get Eugene to smile, and turn his blank gaze from the empty fields you drove past.

You realized the thoughts that kept him awake till dawn might always. You realized there wasn't much you could do. Sometimes, you wrote letters back, and left notes under his pillow, when sharing silence wasn't enough to ease his frown. But more often than not, you'd started to spend nights together that reminded you of the day's before everything changed. You'd take each morning in stride, next to Eugene.

You got back to some kind of normal. The war was over. Eugene was back in your arms and in your world. He was your world. And no matter how far away he seemed to drift some days, Eugene was finally home.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

#joe mazzello #joe mazello x reader #joe mazzello fanfic #joe mazzello imagine #eugene sledge #eugene sledge x reader #eugene sledge imagine

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tolstoyamericanrevolution · 4 years ago

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Turn Christmas: Hidden in Finery

A Robert Townsend & Arielle Nathan story I was meant to publish awhile back but forgot about so happy late December 17th!!

The problem of forgetting you are trapped is when the trap twists itself around your ankle, and you dare to show your distress. At Rivington’s, she had forgotten about it all, the redcoats and the beatings from Captain Hennely’s wife. In the daze of candlelight and a humorous conversation, she forgot about the war outside her door. She forgot about her role as prisoner & friend, governess & respectable guest she forgot about all the titles given to her when James Rivington made a joke or John André mused a poem out loud.

Arielle forgot about her family being miles away in Philadelphia when Robert smiled at her.

That rare secret smiles that she tugged close to her chest. Robert Townsend had many ways of smiling- the polite line for drunk customers who ranted about everything and nothing, that reserved smile of amusement when Rivington would refer to him as “Robby Boy” or her favourite- well favourite two.

The sly one that would catch the glint in his eyes when something amused him- genuinely unrefined. It could be a joke or a complaint made by a person, or perhaps it was a thought that crossed his mind. Those rare melancholic free thoughts as he laughed to himself about a uniform three sizes too big on a young officer or the invisible ink debacle. Arielle liked those smiles.

The one she loved, was that gentle smile unaided by a raise of his eyebrows or a slant of his chin. No, instead it draped over his lips in momentary content. His witty smiles were regular affairs that fluttered her chest- these gentle ones; a rarer variety as if budgeted and allotted in his monthly account books—emerging when he felt in control when the world stopped spinning, when everything felt in order- as if Robert had not sacrificed all his prospects in a high stakes gamble. That of a spy; that of life and death.

When he first gave her that smile, her heart melted. She realised that the love she thought she had felt previously was nothing because she wanted to imprint this moment in her very being. She was longing for some reception, for some encouragement. Arielle could still recall the way his eyes softened when the coffeehouse was closing, and he glanced up from his books and smiled—not seeing her as out of place in this world of his but rather a comforting part of it, amongst the candles burning low and the day's numbers recorded.

This sense of belonging was not here tonight. Andre was away at dinner and Rivington was entertaining a table of ladies. The one man she did care about was tending to his wares—streets away which at this table felt like oceans away.

Bitterness coursed her chest, gripped at her tongue, forcing her to taste anxiety in her bones and the resentment of this cage. This cage that had deceived her so well until the cards were laid in front of her. Numbers racked up in debt, the men around her smelt like gin and rum, like a pulsing wound under bandages. Toxic and jaundiced.

Captain Hennely, the fool, was in debt and racking it up fast as he insisted on another betting coin. Arielle watched him with abject horror- leading him to snap at her “Shut your damn eyes constantly!” “Judas of a woman!” the two alternating every two minutes. When he lost a round, he slammed his fist down in front of her. If he chose not to bring it down on the table, he could quickly bring it down on her, to her stomach and thighs, causing her heart to patter in her throat.

Arielle could not just leave, to find another table even when she longed for anyone else's company. For if she tried to move he would snap about having to keep an eye on her. That someone should see his victory should learn the value of coin over-etching it out in budget plans.

The man he gambled against was a wolf of a man. Conniving and greedy for anything that glittered. Rivington once told her that he got violent with anyone who tried to cheat him. Oft, dragging them to the nearest alleyway to crash bone against bone. Townsend’s nod told Arielle this wasn't just James’s typical exaggerations. This man focused his gaze on her neck, on her necklace like a fox upon a goose.

Upon the pearl and aquamarine choker, a gift from her parents, the first necklace of significance she was allowed to own; Not to share the diamonds and pearls with her sister or mother from the family safe. Not the gold chains of girlhood. This necklace was her sixteenth birthday present, a present that told her she was now allowed her safekeeping items. The pearls were small white river pearls that circles her neck in singular role while in the center was a cushion-cut aquamarine secured in gold plated brass while hanging from it was a baroque seawater pearl, with its pear shape, that felt like a tear, the size of her thumbnail- small, delicate yet strong.

This necklace may not have been the most costly, but it had sentimental value, it demonstrated when Arielle has first trusted with value herself and now this man wanted it. Hennley failed his bet and had no money to give. Taking the opportunity, the man demanded her necklace to settle all debt- so he could play another night again.

She began to refuse, this was not his to give it was hers- it was her possession. “I apologise sir but this is mine, it is not for sale”. It was then she realised she was still entrapped that she was the property of the crown, that a last-minute cry saying it belonged to her father meant nothing.

He slammed his hand in front of her, the same way Hennley did. Demanding it outright or else that captain would be no longer, and she wouldn’t want that. Oh, see how I care Arielle thought spitefully, at first. Drag him by his guts for all I care this is mine. Her barred teeth in a snarl meant nothing. For every time, her emotions began to get out of check, that another guest may notice- this same captain pinched her hand. “It doesn't belong to you, it belong to the Crown and as you’re exchequer I demand you hand it over”

Protests died on Arielle’s lips as tears pricked her eyes. Her neck felt cold as her possession was stored safely in the man’s hand. “It will fetch for a fair price” he murmured as he passed her. Straight to the market. Away from her hands. Standing sharpley she demanded a coin- a carriage she was going home. Henley handed her a coin reluctantly “be prudent with your travel” he had such a nerve.

No one met her eye, Rivington continued chatting, Andre was still gone and Robert was far away while she was left feeling like a bartered whore- none of her possessions bound to her by ownership let alone honor. Her anxiety fretted- what else will they take from her?

The accounts were in check, the stock for the Christmastide sales was prepared. When Robert Townsend came back to Rivington’s the following day everything felt alright. He was prepared for last minute officers trying to barter the price of rum. He had everything from second hand goods to newer ones. Abraham often critiqued him for his loyalty to his business. Accusing him of not engaging with the Ring fully in order to save his own income. Fool.

That was the only answer Robert would give to it. It is not like he spent nights awake pondering if there was any merit in his words.

There was one thing out of place, however, Miss Nathan’s regular expression of glee, often smiling with some wit on her tongue. Her choleric rants. Her general ability to hold court in the room. That is what made her and Rivington work so well. He would work one half of the room and her th either. Yet while James was intentional- Robert thought it was just Arielle’s nature to challenge, twist, debate and laugh.

Instead she appeared late; strange. Her dress plainer than her regular vibrant colours or patterns. No jewellery around her neck. The most telling was the way she sulked around the room. Eyes dark refuting anyone who came near her. Watery and untrusting. Perhaps that was what concerned him, Arielle was as volatile as he was. One minute light hearted next minute serious, melancholic then temperamental. While he was private however; her face was a stage informing everyone of her mood. Robert didnt know how he felt about the twisting in his chest when he caught her eye.

It felt strange not to have a presence by his elbow, peering down at whatever he was working on. It was all very strange indeed.

Yet; Mr Townsend could not go and talk to her. Risk showing the world their closeness. No instead he would have to make inquiries. The hint came when Captain Hennley- he never bothered to catch his first name, scoffed past her and she scowled, teeth bare like a fox disturbed.

Pouring a glass of port, he delicately placed it next to the man.

“Gambling good, sir?”

“Could be better,”

“is that so?”

“Aye, some wolf like bastard bet me out of my money” Robert cringed but continued.

“I hope you found a way to remedy it” He tried to sound neutral, not generally given to inquiries.

“Oh I did- he wanted the girl’s necklace, she has been in a wicked temper ever since, the King doesn’t pay me enough for this”

Over the next couple of days, Arielle felt herself go from bad to worse. It was not the material object of the gif that mattered. It was this idea of not having any grounding of being trapped. She suddenly became more aware of her limits, of her confinements. Of how much she missed her family. The necklace was a symbol.

Who was her ally?

The bustle of officers, actresses and curious traders made for decent observing; they were like headless chickens on the 24th. Arielle failed to take notice of the man behind her. His hand dropped to her shoulder, startling her with a squeak. “Hush now” came Mr Townsend’s voice “Do not startle all of York City.”

Even now, she felt herself chuckling. “Come”. He was gesturing to the cellar. Leaving first; curious Arielle disappeared from the crowd into the back. Two seconds later, he held out his arm. “Where are you escorting me to, Mr Townsend?” “You will see.”

Robert guided her to his room and with the wit she had left she turned “Now this is not very proper”.

“Look what is on the bed.”

There was a small brown paper package wrapped neatly in twine. It was not very thick, and she could tell there was cloth under it. “Am I to open it” “Well it is a gift, I believe that is what you do with them” Too curious to retort Arielle undid the tie and noted underneath one of his handkerchiefs- the one subtly embroidered with white cross-stitch. Unfolding it, she felt something cold. By God, it was impossible.

Sparkling back at her was her necklace.

“It is not a replica; it is the same one...I traced down Captain Hennley’s contact and made some inquiries the man he sold it to is in debt to me for sharing stock so in exchange for settling our debts I got it back” Robert explained, each word gave her this urge to embrace the living daylights out of him and never let go.

“Before you ask why you were far too miserable for this establishment and I could not have it affecting business” “business? What one?” “the one of my mental state.”

So he was concerned about her. She had an ally.

“I suppose it is a Christmas present.”

“Don’t tell any of the other Quakers” Robert cooed with an amused expression.

“Now, let me put that on for you” gently moving her hair out of the way he clasped it around her neck, his breath warm against it. If Arielle could have melted, she would have. Then he knelt down placing an intense, warm kiss to the back of her neck.

The gesture made her think of customs. In Sephardi culture, a groom as a sign of engagement would gift anything of value, a coin, a ring or a necklace. It was a sign of the marriage that he could support them. It was not limited to the Ashkenazi ring or coin. It could be earrings, or it could be the hunting down of the string of pearls around her neck.

“I won’t tell the Quakers if you won’t tell the Jews.”

With a grin, she added “or else we might be engaged.”

Startled, Robert sharply inhaled before laughing “I think I could think of worse things.”

“Run along, go light up the room again.”

Instead of moving, Arielle sprung up and embraced him. Her head in his shoulder, arms tight around him. Robert’s arms were soon around her. A quiet, warm embrace. Murmuring a thank you, she caught the sight of him.

Robert Townsend was smiling, gentle and unaided.

#12 days of turn #12 days of christmas #turn: washington's spies #turn amc #Robert Townsend #gifts #Arielle Nathan #𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 #𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 #𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 #𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 & 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝

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heartshyuck · 4 years ago

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Pairing: Jisung x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst,slow burn, strangers to lovers au, first love, early 1900s au.

Synopsis: Lavenders symbolise purity, silence, devotion, serenity and grace. All endearing characteristics of the gorgeous boy, you met in the fields of purple.

Placed in the late 1930s , just before World War two starts, you flees from your family who are forcing you into a marriage. you lie low in a small village where you meets Jisung in a field of lavenders.

Word count: 2.3k (preview), projected to be around 16k?? (5th of February)

Warnings: sexism and very backwards ways of thinking, forced marriages (for preview)

a/n: let me know if you wanna be on the taglist, also please listen to the merry go round of life whilst reading this (from howl's moving castle). The full fic is hopefully to be released on the 4th of February

Your legs seem to be moving on their own, feet hitting the ground at a steady and fast pace, you don’t look back and can’t seem to see what lies ahead but still you run until your lungs burn, run until the bitter metallic taste is at the back of your throat where bile threatens to rise. You run until finally your legs collapse, knees hitting the ground, grazing them and it’s the slight sting of the sediment seeping into the cuts that stop you from passing out. You’re not sure how far you’ve ran or how long you’ve been running, you don’t know where you're running to but you have to escape. Escape the life they’ve laid out for you, the one they’ve planned without your input, you can’t live a life where everything is set out, where everything is expected and perfect. A life where you’d get married at 18 to a stranger who was of a worthy social class, attend formal lunches with the wives of your husband’s work colleagues and host dinner parties and occasionally large balls in a manor that always felt empty no matter how many paintings you bought to hang on the never ending amount of walls, no matter how many more bookshelves you tried to fit into one room, a place that you’ll always hate. Then to have children by 20, as many boys as possible of course to then not have any say in their upbringing and watch nurses tend to them, your husband educate them and then watch them get married, meet your grandchildren and when you’ve reached a respectable age, death will meet you in your sleep and you’ll be mourned and then forgotten. A life filled with regret, a constant numbness, no fulfillment and no meaning.

You saw your mum live that life, a smile that never quite reached her eyes, always plastered on at any given moment as she walked around the large hall with a glass of nothing but champagne in hand greeting the hundreds of guests that you were never able to comprehend how she managed to remember them all. She never spoke unless spoken to, never put in any input and always obeyed your father even when you could see the frustration bubble up inside her as her eyes glinted and her jaws tightened with the urge to say something. She would buy gifts upon gifts and shower you in expensive luxuries, spoil you in riches as a form of love and yet it always held another meaning behind it. There was a slight sadness in her eyes as she passed a gift every birthday,christmas and any other reason she found, almost as if she was saying sorry for the life you were going to live and how she’d use these moments as blackmail for when that time came. You’d overhear her quiet sobs when you would sneak around the house late at night, read letters she received from someone you didn’t know and how they wished for her life to get better and for her to find happiness in a world where happiness didn’t exist. You saw your mother cry when your father died, eyes bloodshot red in fear rather than grief. Her life was now uncertain and that's when you decided that you couldn't live an empty life, regretting choices and wishing for death to come to you first.

Your father had always made sure that you would receive a proper education, one where you'd read hours upon hours of the finest English literature, works of science and learned of the past and present politics. He always said "a lady should know about the world around her but should never venture off on her own" you hated that phrase but it was better than what you overheard your friend's father saying to her when she asked for him to explain the concept of communism, "a women does not need to busy herself with politics, for your brain could not even begin to comprehend it" he announced with his nose high up in the air as if he had just said the most inquisitive statement known to man. It baffled you how one could even think that, let alone truly believe it enough to announce it so stupidly in the open, it was obvious that women were capable of understanding concepts like politics,maths and science for you were living proof. You did better than your brother at grasping algebra, better at them with understanding Versalius's "De humani corporis fabrica" and it didn't take your friend long to understand Karl Marx's theory on communism once you explained it to her. It angered you that this was dismissed especially when your brother soon went off to universities for they had outgrown your father's enormous library and knowledge, there was no more he could teach them but there was still much to learn and you yearned to do the same but as you approached a suitable age for marriage, your everyday classes on Shakespearean English, Tudor monarchy, Greek mythology and Italian art had now been replaced with sewing, crochet, dining etiquette and the differences between napkins, white laced ones for formal lunches,gold embroidery for important dinners and regular silk for everyday use, you'd recite to your mother and the many maids who were on standby.

Your eyes lazily open and beauty lies ahead, the sun gleaming behind him, lights him on flames and he burns with a presence so strong you can see it as his aura swirls around you, engulfing you. His features,strong and yet his eyes are soft and even as he's turned away from the sun they sparkle infinitely as they hold the brightest stars, his stare pierces through you and it makes your gut clench as you feel small under his gaze but you don't turn away, daring him to continue staring down on you, well that's what you tell yourself as you can't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes. His face wears a worried expression, his hand out forwards for you to take and place in his and it takes you a while to realise he's trying to help you up, even longer to comprehend the words that leave his mouth, as you just watch his cherry red lips move. You're dazed and for the first time you're not thinking straight, your legs won't move to carry you back up onto your feet but your hand instinctively moves towards him and your own mouth gapes open as it does, and again he repeats himself emphasising the words as his eyes widen further “are you okay?” you stare blankly at him, no response until you feel the burning sensation of his hand in yours. A heat that sends shocks through every nerve, it runs through your bloodstream lighting you on fire and as if you were burnt you pull back, shaking off the dizzy spell you rise to your feet, your body finally responding to your screaming brain. A sense of relief washes over you as the fear of losing your mind slowly seeps out as the haze in your mind clears, until your eyes meet his again. “Really y/n, not for a boy” you cry out in your head as your mind seems to be lost in awe looking at him.

#neothestars #neowriters #neowritingsnet #nctcreations #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #nct 2020 #jisung #nct dream jisung #nct fic #nct fluff #jisung fluff #jisung x you #jisung x y/n #jisung x reader #loml jisung #teaser #lavender fields

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the-observant-frisbeetarian · 6 years ago

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Chapter 14

Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart by George deValier

"Feli! Mio Dio, Feli… cosa faccio… non so cosa fare!"

"Schwarz Leader, another one coming down on your tail, six o'clock high, over."

"Listen to me, Lovino. I can't understand you. You have to stop panicking. He is still breathing."

"I'm on it." Ludwig manoeuvred his plane into a hard dive descent, turned abruptly, and fired. The Mustang had no chance. It exploded into a dazzling inferno against the clear blue sky. Ludwig flew over the falling wreckage and went immediately, determinedly, for the next enemy aircraft.

"You have to keep him warm during the drive, and keep this pressure on the wound. Do not stop the pressure, Lovino, understand?"

"Schwarz Leader, you are flying too erratically. I am having trouble keeping on your wing..."

"I am so sorry, sir, I did not realise... i-it was j-just… just a mistake... I swear, sir, if I had known…"

Ludwig practically snarled into his mask. "You will keep up, Schwarz Two. You will do your damn duty and you will push them back!" Another Mustang fell, spiralling towards the ground in trails of flaming smoke. Ludwig felt only the slightest rush of satisfaction before scanning the sky swiftly for his next target.

"I can't... We can't go with them! Ma è una pazzia! What if they..."

"There are too many, Schwarz Leader! Lieutenant, you're flying directly into - Beilschmidt, what the hell are you doing?"

"Lovino, they will take Feliciano to the nearest doctor, then leave immediately. They are just soldiers, not SS. They do not know you are Resistenza."

Ludwig couldn't stop. Enemy planes surrounded him, outnumbered his squad. But he could not stop; he could not make himself stop. This familiar, comforting chaos was the only thing that almost drowned out his memories, almost drowned out his fears. Almost. Ludwig shouted into his mask. "I am the commander of this squad, so you will follow my orders, Schwarz Two. Engage enemy aircraft!"

"They just shot him! How can we trust them? Why should I trust you?"

Turn, fire, dive, climb. Get one down, move on to the next. Keep his squad together. Focus, breathe. "This is Schwarz Leader to Schwarz squadron. We will not pull back from this. Force them into retreat. That is an order."

"Because you have no choice. I would die for him, Lovino, if I could. But this is all I can do. Now go!"

Only when the skies around him were clear did Ludwig finally feel his heart beat in his chest, his lungs fill with air. Only when there were no enemy fighters left to engage did he stop to think. An angry voice crackled through his speakers and drowned out the blood roaring in his ears. "Ground Control to Schwarz Leader. You will bring your squad back to base immediately!"

Once safely landed at the base, Ludwig leapt from his plane, his blood pounding, his head hazy with fury. He threw his headgear angrily to the ground and charged immediately to where his wingman climbed from his own plane. The man's feet had barely hit the ground before Ludwig grabbed him by the collar and slammed the shocked pilot against the side of the machine. "You will never question me in the middle of battle, understand? NEVER!"

The wingman looked like he was about to respond angrily, but Ludwig felt his eyes flare and the man just dropped his gaze and looked away. "Yes, sir."

Ludwig shoved him away forcefully before turning and marching across the airfield, feeling the eyes of his squad on him as he went. He headed directly for the command tent to explain himself yet again.

When Ludwig first arrived back, the military had not asked too many questions. For that, he was grateful. They accepted his made-up story of how he had escaped, sent him on to the next base, and almost before he knew it Ludwig was back to flying, back to doing what he knew best. Back to the same daily schedule, the same day in, day out, the same old black and white. And yet, something was different now. It used to be so easy. When he flew for duty, and his country was all that mattered. When he was a rising young hero of the Luftwaffe who knew nothing of true love or real fear or wide, amber eyes that glittered in early sunshine and afternoon firelight. Now, when Ludwig flew, all he wanted was the fire and the fury of it. The heat and the anger and the blood firing through his veins. Now, all he wanted was to take his mind somewhere else, and he was never quite sure if he wanted to remember or forget.

But now every memory of Feliciano was tainted. Every image of him smiling in the sunlight cut through with the image of him falling and bleeding and turning white. The look of joy and innocence on his face replaced by an expression of wrenching terror and wordless agony. The sound of his clear laughter and singing drowned out by his desperate gasping for breath. This constant turning in Ludwig's mind, this recurring, inescapable replay of events, this endless onslaught of bitter, inescapable memory. The sound of that shot, the twisted look of pain on Feliciano's beautiful face, the way he tried so hard to fight it and keep his eyes open, the way he looked up at Ludwig as though silently begging him for help.

And Ludwig could do nothing. Nothing but cling to Feliciano with desperate hands, order him, plead with him. Nothing as Ludwig's world fell apart before him, as a cold, sick terror unlike anything he had ever known engulfed his mind and body. Nothing as he yelled, confounded, at the German patrol soldiers, as they apologised for their stupid, pointless, world-ending mistake. As Lovino panicked beside him, as Ludwig forced him to take Feliciano and go with the soldiers to a hospital. As Ludwig watched Feliciano go, beyond any fear he had ever imagined, beyond any pain he had thought possible, beyond any hope he dared bring himself to believe.

Every time the circle of memory replayed, Ludwig's mind told him the same thing. No one could survive that. He knew no one could survive that. So why did he refuse to believe it? Maybe because some part of him knew that if he did, he would have nothing left. And he could not live with that. As it was, Ludwig lived for one thing - to know if Feliciano was alive. Yet he had no way to know, and no possible way to find out. And it was killing him. So every day, Ludwig did the only thing he could do. He went up, he did his job, and he tried to remember; tried to forget.

Ludwig walked slowly up the cement road: command buildings and the large, steel hangar on one side, the wide, open airfield on the other. This new base Ludwig had been assigned to was much further north than Feliciano's village, closer to the Austrian border. The Germans had lost too much ground in Italy, lost far too many bases in the northern area. With nowhere left to accommodate them, a small section of the airbase was serving as a temporary base for a small group of SS officers, and even occasionally members of the Gestapo. The very idea of it caused Ludwig's skin to crawl in disgust, uneasy at the proximity of such people. None of the pilots liked the arrangement; but then, as Ludwig was quickly coming to realise, their thoughts had never mattered anyway. Ludwig used to believe they were making a difference. Now he knew that all they were was puppets.

Ludwig pulled on his gloves forcefully, ignoring the occasional glances and whispers he received from other pilots and personnel as he passed. He was used to everyone here staring and speaking about him. He was the brilliant young lieutenant who had not only survived being shot down by the Americans, but had managed to escape them as well. He was the once strict, reliable, straight-laced flight leader who now ordered his squad into dangerous, impossible situations and yet still managed to come out successful. He was feared, respected, misunderstood – and Ludwig could not give a damn for any of it.

Ludwig continued to prepare mentally for the flight ahead, to get himself into the right space, to crave the white noise and red fury of combat. To try not to think, or to think of nothing; still with that photograph in his jacket and that flower in his pocket. He nearly did not notice as he almost walked into a group of pilots standing at an intersection of the road. They all stood silently, watching where a car sat at a short distance, several grey-uniformed SS members milling around it. Ludwig halted immediately. "What's going on here?" he barked at the assembled pilots. "Do you men have nothing better to do than stand around spying on the Secret Police?"

The pilots looked at him guiltily, but one, another lieutenant, spoke up. "They've brought a prisoner in. A pilot."

Ludwig narrowed his eyes. "A pilot? But why…" He trailed off when the door of the car opened and a man in an American air combat uniform was hauled from the back seat. He was barely able to walk, supported under each arm by an SS officer. The front of his jacket was burned black, his hair looked matted with blood. He had no strength to resist the violent grip on his arms. Ludwig remembered the almost courteous way he had been brought into the American base, and nearly choked on a wave of anger and disgust. The lieutenant's voice beside Ludwig broke him from his angry haze.

"That's the Magician they're bringing in." The small group of pilots stared silently in dismay and awed respect. "Looks like he couldn't disappear this time."

The American pilot raised his head slightly and Ludwig bit back a gasp of shock. The man beside him was correct – this was the Magician. The American pilot who had shot Ludwig down, the one who had chatted to him cheerfully; who had treated him with a strange, arrogant sort of civility, who had placed the photograph of Feliciano in Ludwig's pocket. Lieutenant Alfred Jones. He looked almost dead. Ludwig shook his head at the bitter irony, at this horrible twist of fate. "When was he brought down?" asked Ludwig. "Why did we not know about it?"

"Squadron up north apparently, right on the border. SS says he took down seven of them."

Ludwig glanced at the man in stunned disbelief. He couldn't have heard that correctly. It was impossible... "Seven?"

The lieutenant nodded. "That's why we haven't heard about it, I imagine. The SS have been interrogating him. Haven't gotten anywhere. So now the Gestapo are going to have a go."

Ludwig felt sick and confused. "For God's sake why, he is just an American pilot… we shoot them down every day!"

"Didn't you hear? They say he's been collaborating with the Italian resistance." The lieutenant shook his head and spat on the ground. "Who knows how these bastards get their information."

Ludwig felt his blood and muscles freeze in shock. His mind flashed briefly back to those words of Feliciano's… Someone gave me information, but it doesn't matter… In the frantic rush of that late night getaway, in the incredible, breathtaking bliss of just being again with Feliciano, in the panic and terror of those excruciating moments on the road, Ludwig had barely had the time to properly wonder just how Feliciano had managed to find out where he was. But now, Ludwig knew. It was Jones. It had to be him. Ludwig clenched his fists at the sight of the American lieutenant burnt, bleeding and broken. His nails dug into his flesh. "It's not right."

"Not for us to decide, is it?"

The officers dragged Jones off the road and into one of the long, grey buildings which had been designated for SS use. As they passed, Ludwig's gaze met Jones' briefly, but he wondered if those desperate eyes saw anything. This was the man who had told Feliciano where Ludwig was. This man was the reason Ludwig was free and standing here, watching him being dragged to interrogation and torture. Anger and grief and utter hopelessness all fell on Ludwig, pushing him down, turning everything he ever thought he knew of honour and duty and loyalty to ruin.

"Come on," said the Lieutenant beside him, the pilots slowly starting to drift away, their eyes cast downward. "We have a mission briefing."

Ludwig reluctantly walked away.

Another flight, another chance to forget. But there were no enemy aircraft today, and no aerial battle to lose himself in. With no way to release any of his anger and frustration, Ludwig lay staring at the dark ceiling in his tiny room at the base, unable to sleep. There were too many dark emotions thrumming under his skin, too many twisting thoughts racing through his brain. Ludwig never used to think like this, to feel like this. But factions seemed so blurred since he'd met Feliciano, and nothing was the way it was supposed to be anymore. Along with the ever-present thoughts and fears and images of Feliciano, now Ludwig also could not stop thinking of Lieutenant Jones. Of his wide, panicked, unseeing eyes, of his battered body hauled into an interrogation building. Ludwig did not like to think of it, but he knew what happened in that building. He knew the Gestapo did not represent the true soul of his country; he also knew what they did in the name of it. And Alfred Jones was a good man. He did not deserve what was happening to him. Ludwig tossed in his narrow bed, uncomfortable with the thoughts crowding his mind, and tried to tell himself – there were millions of good men who did not deserve what was happening to them every day in this war. That was what war was. Ludwig tried to justify it, but he couldn't. Because this was one situation he could do something about. And if Feliciano could be that brave for him – then Ludwig could do something brave and right as well. All traces of fatigue and sleep fell from him, and Ludwig pushed himself from the bed, awake and thrumming and determined. And he came to a decision.

These buildings were not designed for Gestapo use. There were no impossible collection of locks on the doors, no hidden rooms behind innocent walls. There was simply a long, brightly lit corridor, doors leading to windowed rooms, indifferent staff whose eyes glossed over the tall, large blond in the grey police jacket who marched through the nearly empty hall. Ludwig kept his eyes forward, his shoulders straight. If there was one thing he had learnt from years in the military, it was that if you looked like you belonged somewhere, few people asked questions. His pulse beat steadily, his focus sharp and unwavering. He felt like he did in the middle of a flight – ready, determined, and prepared. Fear did not enter the equation.

Ludwig took a sharp turn into another corridor, and his stomach immediately jumped. The lights ended halfway down the hall, leaving the far end covered in shadow. It was entirely empty, entirely silent. Ludwig took a deep, steadying breath and marched briskly down the hall. His mind could barely acknowledge what he was doing. Pilots were not allowed in this section of the base. He had no idea how he would explain himself if he was caught. He had no idea how to even explain it to himself. Just what was he doing, trying to find this American pilot? Just what did he think he could do in the end? And why did it suddenly matter so damn much?

Ludwig reached the last door on the right, the only one with a folder attached to the front and a small, makeshift lock above the door handle. Ludwig turned and looked again down the hall, his eyes sweeping through every shadow and his ears tuned for the smallest echo. There was nothing. He raised an eyebrow, finding himself strangely put out by his military's lack of security. Yes, it was the early hours of the morning, but it should not be this easy to make his way to an important prisoner's room unimpeded. Ludwig turned back and studied the door closely in the dim light that filtered down the hall. Since these rooms were never designed to be prisons, proper locks had not been fitted. And this bolt on the door looked far too flimsy to be effective. Ludwig simply grasped the handle, pulled to steady it, then slammed his arm down on the lock. It ripped from the door, and Ludwig dropped it disdainfully to the ground before entering the room.

It felt colder in the small, white room. A cold, sterilised smell pervaded the air, mixed with a hint of blood. Only one high window lent a small amount of light to the place, showing it empty but for a table in the centre and an iron bed against the far wall. And there, unnervingly still and white in the moonlight, lay Lieutenant Alfred Jones. Ludwig hurried over to his side with a mixture of relief and horror in his gut. Jones' eyes were closed, his breathing low and shallow. Ludwig could not tell if he was asleep.

"Lieutenant Jones."

Jones did not open his eyes. He answered in a slow, broken monotone. "Name, Alfred Jones. Rank, Lieutenant. Serial number, 501/7." His voice was low and hoarse.

Of course… the only three things required to be said in military law. Ludwig had employed the same tactic when he had been captured. The Americans had tried to get more from him, had kept him awake for hours asking questions. But they had never tried anything like this. "Jones, I need you to tell me something."

Jones' breath came faster and his hands clenched. "Name, Alfred Jones. Rank, Lieutenant. Serial number, 501/7." He obviously thought he was still being interrogated.

"No, listen, I…"

Jones' voice rose louder. "Name, Alfred Jones. Rank…"

"Damn it, listen to me, I am not an interrogator. My name is Lieutenant Beilschmidt." Jones did not answer. "Ludwig," Ludwig explained. "Ludwig Beilschmidt."

Jones' eyes shot open. They were a sickening shade of red and darted frantically before settling on Ludwig's. "Ludwig… the German pilot… Feliciano…"

Ludwig nodded in relief. So it was as he had thought. Jones had spoken with Feliciano. "Yes."

"What are you doing here? You escaped? How?" Jones spoke slowly, his words slurred.

"I was hoping you could tell me. Are you the one who told Feliciano where I was being held? Because if you did, I am here because of you."

Jones made a croaky gasp which might have been a laugh. "I see. Forgive me if I don't celebrate your release." It seemed to be increasingly difficult for Jones to form the words. "My regard for German servicemen has been somewhat damaged lately." He suddenly gasped and clutched at his shoulder, his face twisted in pain. He was in terrible shape, yet as bad as it looked, it seemed the Gestapo had not yet got to him. If they had, he would be far worse than this. Jones' entire manner was slow and groggy. Ludwig had heard of the drugs the SS used to extract confessions from prisoners, and wondered just how much of this conversation Jones would remember.

"I am sorry," said Ludwig softly, honestly. "I just want you to know that… that…"

"Yeah?"

To know what? What could Ludwig do now? At the sight of Alfred Jones lying in drugged agony from the hands of Ludwig's own military, he knew immediately. He could not leave this man here much longer. "I am going to repay the debt I owe you."

Jones glared at him with blood-red eyes. "We'll see… about that." He dissolved into a coughing fit and turned away. Ludwig nodded and walked out the door, passing a lower ranked SS member on his way down the corridor. He snapped at the man loudly.

"The last door on the right. Fix the damn lock."

Once the decision was made, it became surprisingly easy to follow through. For the first time in his life, Ludwig was doing something because he thought it was right, not because it was what he was told. For the first time, he was ignoring his duty, and breaking the rules. Damn the rules. Damn it all. His superiors, his leaders… what did he owe any of them? Which of them had ever done more for him than this unknown American? Ludwig was reminded of the words Feliciano had asked him so simply, so innocently, on that long ago winter afternoon they had walked together to the village market. Is that why you do it? Because it is your duty? When Ludwig had been so sure it was not his place to question his country's reasons; when Feliciano had told him so easily that it was.

Ludwig sat at the outdoor café in the little border village, waiting for the contact he had been assigned. Whether this was to betray his country or redeem himself, he did not know. It had taken him two days and endless broken, suspicious conversations with villagers to track down someone who knew something of the Resistenza, and a further day to convince them to allow Ludwig to meet with one of them. Ludwig was unarmed and dressed in civilian clothes. To the busy throng of Italians who passed by on the sunny street, he could have been anyone. Watching them pass, Ludwig again could not stop the memories of Feliciano flooding his heart and mind. How charmingly innocent he had looked sitting at a street table just like this as an SS execution squad approached the town square; how afraid and horrified he had looked as he realised what was happening. How desperate Ludwig had been to get him away from that, to protect him from having to see something like that. How his lovely face had lit up as Ludwig brought up their language lesson, trying to take his mind off the ugly events that had just occurred. Ludwig put his head in his hands briefly, overcome by this familiar, desperate, unbearable ache for Feliciano. Feliciano, who was too innocent, too pure, too sweet and honest and beautiful for any of this. Feliciano never deserved any of this.

Rubbing his face with his hands, Ludwig looked up to see a broad, dark haired man push through the busy café crowd, his eyes fixed on Ludwig. Ludwig's entire body jolted to a rigid halt. His eyes froze, wide and unblinking; his very lungs seemed to steal the breath from him and turn it cold. He could not remove his hands from his face, could not make himself stand, could do nothing but watch as the man marched through the parting crowd to stand directly over him. The man stared down with hard, dark eyes, with a disapproving, hostile expression. For the first time in weeks, Ludwig felt a flash of fear. He knew immediately who this was. The same hair, the same eyes. A bigger, older, sterner version of Feliciano. This was Feliciano's grandfather. Ludwig finally swallowed heavily and forced himself to his feet, completely numb to the sensation of it. When he eventually managed to speak, he stumbled over the words. "Signor Vargas."

"Lieutenant Beilschmidt."

They just stared at each other, silently, neither making a move to back down or look away. In the heavy silence, Ludwig realised – this man knew who he was. Knew what he was to Feliciano. This man knew everything. Finally Vargas broke the silence, speaking in English. "You are taking a very big risk coming here, German."

"So are you."

Vargas did not respond to that. "I have been informed you have information for..."

"Please," interrupted Ludwig, unable to wait anymore, unable to stand it. This was more than he had dared to hope. This was the chance he had prayed for, begged for. This was finally his opportunity, after weeks of ignorance and hell, to know the only thing he had ever really needed to know. "Feliciano. Please tell me he is alive."

Vargas raised an eyebrow dangerously. "If that is all I am here for, German, if you have lied about having something of vital importance for us only to be able to ask…"

"I have not lied." Ludwig barely noticed or cared that he was interrupting. He had never needed anything in his life like he needed to know, right now, if he had anything left to live for. "I swear, I have your information. I am simply asking to know one small thing in return. I need..." Ludwig broke off shakily and ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm his ragged nerves. "Please, signore, I need to know."

Vargas took a deep breath, pondering the request. "Perhaps we should take a seat to discuss this, Lieutenant."

Ludwig nodded, sitting so fast he nearly knocked the chair over. He gritted his teeth and told himself to get it together. Vargas sat carefully in the seat opposite him, not tearing his eyes from Ludwig's the entire time.

"You have been asking questions in town, Lieutenant. Questions that an officer of the Luftwaffe should not be asking. You are very, very lucky that information of this came to me, and not to others who might be dangerously suspicious of what a German officer is doing asking after the Italian resistance." Vargas sounded like Feliciano, but deeper; his eyes were Feliciano's, but slightly darker. And he knew. He knew if Feliciano was alive. But this was a man of battle, and he was going to make Ludwig fight for the information. Ludwig drew himself up in his chair, squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He would show this Italian how he could fight.

"And you are giving your name, showing your face to a German officer in close contact with the Secret Police. I believe we could both be in a dangerous situation here, signore." Ludwig glared evenly.

Vargas' eyes flashed, but the corner of his mouth actually rose slightly. "Well said, German. Although I doubt very much you went to all this trouble just to put an old man in the hands of the SS."

"Not just any old man. From what I have heard of you, Roma Vargas, you are an enemy to be feared." Ludwig knew immediately this was the right thing to say. Vargas looked quite pleased.

"All right, German. Give me this information of yours, and we will see where we go from there."

Ludwig nodded and leant forward slightly. "There is an American pilot at our base. He is being interrogated."

Vargas furrowed his brows. "Interrogated at an air base?"

"Due to certain circumstances, we are being forced to share our base with those we would prefer to distance ourselves from. When I say I am in close contact with the Secret Police, signore, I mean it quite literally."

Vargas' features twisted in disgust. "I see. So the SS interrogates shot down American pilots now?"

"This one is different. They believe he has information about the Resistenza."

Vargas again looked confused. "How could he possibly..."

Ludwig interrupted quickly. "His name is Lieutenant Alfred Jones."

Vargas broke off and sat back silently. He shifted nervously, rubbing a hand across his chin. He appeared to be thinking, then just shook his head, his expression puzzled. "Lieutenant Jones… yes, I remember. But no, there was nothing we said… no, this is ridiculous, we simply drank with him. What can they possibly think he knows?"

"Is it not enough that he knows where to find your faction of the resistance?"

Ludwig could see Vargas understand. The man almost turned white, but then shook his head again stubbornly. "But our village is no longer occupied by the Germans. There is no way they can reach us there."

"Signore, it is now the primary focus of both the SS and the Gestapo to root out factions of the Resistenza in this country. To think they can not reach you because your village is close to an American base is nothing but willful ignorance."

Vargas ran his hand over his forehead, looked away then down, breathed out heavily. "He is an honourable man. He will not..."

"Talk? Signore, honourable or not, after several days with the Gestapo, he will be screaming every single thing they ask and more. The SS have had him for days now, and I believe he has said nothing. But he is badly injured from the crash. Once the Gestapo get to him…" Ludwig broke off. "I have seen him. It will not be long before he breaks. I know what the Resistenza does. I know you can get allied combatants out of this country. You can get him to London, to a hospital."

Vargas leant back in his chair and gazed across at Ludwig intently. Ludwig started to feel uncomfortable, the silence between them filled with the noisy and oblivious chatter of the crowd around them. "I know you want to know about my grandson, German," said Vargas finally, the words shooting through Ludwig's nerves and veins. "But that's not all this is, is it? After all, you had no way of knowing it would be I who would meet you today. So, tell me. Why are you telling me this? Why are you going to such lengths to try and hand this American over to us?"

Ludwig returned Vargas' intense stare. It was as though the Italian was trying to break Ludwig down with his eyes. It would not work. "I believe in repaying my debts," said Ludwig evenly. "I owe this man."

"What can you possibly owe an American pilot?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Vargas' eyes flashed and his lips twisted. A sudden rush of understanding lit his face. "He is the one who told Feliciano where you were being held." Ludwig just nodded. "Yes. The afternoon he came to the cantina, he spoke to Feliciano… he must have known, somehow…"

"He shot me down," Ludwig explained. There was no point hiding any part of this strange, incredible story now. "Lieutenant Jones shot me down, captured me, and saw a photograph I had of Feliciano. That is how he knew we were…" Ludwig stopped and wondered how to phrase this. "…how he knew Feliciano and I knew each other. And how he knew where I was being held."

"So he is responsible for what happened too." Ludwig could see Vargas growing angry. "So why would I..."

"Signore, you must understand. He knows who you are. He knows your names. You, Lovino. Feliciano." Ludwig shrugged and spread his hands. "He knows where you live. And I do not know what else you spoke of with him, but…"

Vargas closed his eyes, his forehead furrowing painfully. "He can not stay in the hands of the Gestapo."

Ludwig almost sighed in relief. "No."

Vargas opened his eyes and fixed Ludwig with a piercing stare. He spoke simply and steadily. "I detest traitors." Ludwig's stomach churned at the word. If there was one thing he could always rely on, one thing he would live and die for, it was his loyalty to his country. To be considered a traitor was worse than death. And yet –

"I used to see everything in black and white as well." Ludwig felt the smallest smile on his lips, unable to stop it. "Then I met Feliciano."

Vargas placed his hands on the table. The sound of the world outside them faded, the sunny light seemed to darken, and Vargas tilted his head just slightly as those dark eyes so like Feliciano's bore into Ludwig's soul. "You love my grandson, don't you, German."

Ludwig responded with every ounce of certainty in his possession. "Signore. I used to live and breathe for my country. Now, I do it for him."

Vargas stared for a moment more before standing. Ludwig followed, a little surprised at this sudden termination. Vargas reached into his jacket then handed Ludwig an envelope. "We will meet you at these coordinates, tomorrow night, at exactly 0200 hours. Bring this American pilot. And pray he has not been made to talk." Vargas turned to leave. He was leaving; leaving, and Ludwig had not been told; leaving, and Ludwig still did not know…

"Wait, no!" Ludwig cried out before he even thought of saying the words. "Signore, please."

Vargas stopped, his hands clenched, his shoulders rigid. He did not turn. "He is alive." The world turned briefly black as Ludwig's blood rushed through his head. He felt his knees weaken and had to grasp onto the back of a chair to stay standing. "He was unconscious for days. He called your name the entire time. But he is alive, and doing well, and should make a complete recovery."

Ludwig's chest lightened, soared, and he actually laughed briefly, almost unable to bear the exhaling sensation of relief. Feliciano was alive. Life had meaning again; the world had purpose. Now everything would be all right. Ludwig put a hand to his mouth, had to restrain himself from crying out or falling down or breaking into ridiculous hysterics. He just breathed calmly and nodded, his eyes focused firmly on the ground to control the rising tears of release. "Thank you."

"Ludwig." Ludwig blinked in surprise at the use of his name, then looked up to see that Vargas was staring back at him, his expression stern, yet his eyes somehow sad. "Even when this war ends, you do realise. There is no way for you and Feliciano to be together."

Ludwig dropped his hand and clenched his fingers around the envelope, then drew himself to his full height and turned away. He refused to even acknowledge Vargas' words. "Tomorrow night, Signor Vargas."

This time, Ludwig brought two stolen SS jackets with him. He marched again down the central corridor of the SS building, turned into the side hall, and made his way to the same room he had broken into a few nights earlier. He did not stop, did not think. The building was again almost empty in the silence of midnight. When he reached the door, Ludwig slammed the new lock, again breaking it easily, and threw open the door. The smell of blood struck him violently. "Jones." Ludwig rushed over to the bed, and immediately recoiled in sickening dismay.

Jones was not good – not good at all. The pale moonlight through the window illuminated the red stained sheets, Jones' face paper white but for the deep, black bruises beneath his eyes and the drops of blood that beaded his hairline. His bare chest was covered in fresh scars, the skin red and raised and bloody where it had obviously been recently gouged. It barely rose with his shallow, irregular breaths.

"Jones," whispered Ludwig again, softly, trying to keep his voice steady. There was no response. "Lieutenant. Alfred."

"I told you," Jones replied finally, whispering the words under his breath. "I don't… told you… don't know what you want…" Ludwig closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He had not been fast enough. Jones must have finally been interrogated by the Gestapo. The hand that lay on his stomach was missing two fingers and covered in a bloody bandage. Ludwig's stomach churned. He had heard stories that the Gestapo kept fingers as trophies. He had never wanted to believe it. Ludwig reached out and hesitantly touched Jones' shoulder.

"Jones…" He was interrupted as Jones suddenly thrashed and screamed.

"I DON'T KNOW!" Ludwig jolted, then grasped Jones' shoulders to restrain him, but that just brought another scream from Jones' lips. Ludwig immediately snatched his hands back. Of course, where Jones' jacket had been burnt through… he must have been burned in the crash. The skin was completely burnt away, bloody across his shoulder and down across his chest. Ludwig wondered how he had survived so long with such a wound and no proper treatment.

"I am sorry, but please, you must be quiet. You are coming with me."

Jones' eyes were wild and blood red as they darted frantically. He could obviously barely see anything. "Name, Alfred Jones. Rank… I mean… name, Alfred…"

Ludwig looked anxiously towards the door, worried that Jones' harsh shouting would be easily heard down the hall. "No, ssh, Alfred, it's me. Lieutenant Beil - Ludwig. Feliciano's friend. I am getting you out of here."

Jones started to calm, his breath still fast and frenzied. Sweat mixed with the blood in his hair and ran in red rivulets down his pale face. "Ludwig?" He sounded half insensible.

"Yes," said Ludwig. He grasped Jones' arm and pulled him upright on the bed. "Listen. I know you are in pain. But you have to stay quiet. I'm going to put this jacket on you. I am sorry, it is going to hurt." Ludwig threw the SS jacket over Jones' shoulders, and Jones winced and bit back a shaky hiss. Ludwig did not pause, just pulled Jones to his feet and dragged him insistently towards the door. Jones slumped immediately in his arms. "I am sorry," said Ludwig again, forcing Jones to stand. "Once we are out of the base I will carry you. But you must force yourself to walk out of this building." Jones nodded, and Ludwig could see that he was bewildered. But they had no time for explanations, no time to talk through this. They just had to get out. Ludwig knew the SS jackets would probably do nothing if they were seen, and he knew he had no plan for what he was doing. Standing in the door to the corridor, Ludwig took a deep breath and felt himself fall into the determined and accepting headspace he knew so well from hours of aerial combat. "Are you a religious man, Jones?" he asked impulsively.

"Don't know anymore," Jones mumbled in reply. Ludwig nodded.

"Well, I'm going to go ahead and pray for both of us. Keep moving."

Ludwig had no reason to believe they would not be caught. But all he could do was trust to chance, let go of his control, and half carry, half drag Jones out of the SS building. They passed no one on their way through the corridors. Ludwig kicked open the locked back door and dragged Jones insistently from the building, through the dark, silent shadows of the sleeping base, past empty trucks and poorly manned fences. Jones' breathed heavily as he leant against Ludwig, occasionally gasping or hissing in pain. Ludwig tried to hold him as upright as possible. He avoided the main entrance, instead leading Jones to the east side of the base, cutting through another unarmed fence and out onto the wide, country road.

Once outside the base, Ludwig lifted Jones onto his back, taking care to put the pressure on his unburnt side, and set off immediately down the long road. "Good work, Jones," he said breathlessly, wiping the sweat from his brow, feeling his blood thrum vibrantly beneath his skin, shoot tingling down his spine.

"German bases… terrible security… no wonder we're winning the war."

Ludwig could not be sure he had understood that correctly, though he felt massively reassured to hear it. "I could say the same about yours, you know." Ludwig did not bother to marvel at how they had made it out unhindered. Right now, he was at the stage of just taking everything as it came, and there was no need to fear, and no need to worry, because the only thing he could control was how far he could walk with this man on his back. There was perhaps a two hour walk ahead, depending how fast Ludwig could keep his speed up. Jones' head rested on Ludwig's shoulder, his arms clasped in Ludwig's hands. Ludwig took care not to apply too much pressure so close to the open wounds of Jones' mutilated fingers. "Nearly there, Jones. I'm taking you to the Italian resistance. They'll get you out of here. You're going home."

"Home," said Jones quietly. "Arthur…" He sighed softly, sounded like he was drifting. Ludwig knew he had to keep the American awake until he got to proper medical care. If he passed out with those injuries, there was too great a chance he would not wake up again.

"Who is Arthur?"

"Arthur is everything."

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. Well, who'd have thought. He had something in common with this American after all. "Tell me about Arthur."

"He can't play baseball. And he swears too much. And drinks too much. But he's perfect… and he doesn't know it…" Jones again started to drift, his words coming slower and softer.

"And?" Ludwig prompted. "Jones? What does Arthur look like?"

Jones coughed faintly. He was shaking, and his skin was so hot to Ludwig's touch. "His eyes are green. Like… like something green."

"Like fresh grass," Ludwig supplied. "Or wide fields in winter. Or the leaves of an oak tree."

"Or sapphires."

"Sapphires are blue."

"Oh."

"Emeralds are green, though. As green as emeralds."

"Yes," said Jones faintly, his voice fading again. "Emeralds with bloody big eyebrows."

Ludwig shook him slightly. "And what else?"

Jones sighed again. "And I love him."

"So just stay awake, Jones, and soon you will see him." The night was warm around them, the weather quickly warming up to summer. The bright moon overhead shone soft light onto the close trees on either side of the deserted road, and Ludwig felt strangely calm and peaceful walking down this tranquil Italian country road with an enemy on his back.

"Ludwig."

"Yes?"

"You are a good man."

"So are you, Alfred." Silence. "Alfred, stay awake. Tell me…" Ludwig felt at a bit of a loss suddenly. How was one supposed to speak to an American? "Tell me about something you like."

"I like Arthur."

"Yes, I gathered that. Anything else?"

"I like frogs."

Ludwig paused a moment. Of all things… "Frogs. Really?" Jones was probably still half delirious.

"Yes."

"Hmm." Very well, frogs, Ludwig could talk about frogs if he damn well had to. "Do you know that there is a species of frog in Africa that grows to over thirty centimetres long and weighs over four kilograms?"

"How the hell big is that?

Ludwig snorted. Americans and their outdated measuring systems. "Fifteen inches, nine pounds." There was another silence and Ludwig started to worry Jones had lost consciousness. "Alfred?"

"That is one big fucking frog.'

Ludwig almost laughed. "And do you know, there is a small frog, in South America I believe, whose skin is covered in enough poison to kill two thousand people, can you imagine…" Ludwig stopped abruptly. Oh Lord, he was starting to talk like Feliciano.

"Huh. Hey, instead of bombs, we could fill our B-17s with those frogs and drop them over Berlin." Jones let out a small snort. "Shit, sorry."

All right, time to change the subject. What else did Americans speak about… sport, probably. "So, Arthur can not play baseball. Are you a fan of baseball?"

"More sense than cricket. You ever played cricket?"

"No. I always preferred soccer."

"Soccer, huh. Soccer's just baseball without the bat."

This time Ludwig actually did laugh, to his deep surprise. "I don't think so, somehow."

Ludwig continued to try and keep Jones awake. There were short periods of silence, but then Ludwig would fear Jones had fallen asleep and he would again start prodding him with questions. Ludwig had not spoken so much since Feliciano. Jones was obviously in incredible pain, with a high fever, yet Ludwig was impressed at his composure and coherence in such a situation. He found himself wondering vaguely whether or not they might have been friends in other, kinder circumstances. The hours passed peacefully, and just when they were nearing the contact point, Ludwig could not stop himself from asking.

"Jones." Silence. "Alfred."

"Hmm?"

"You spoke with Feliciano."

"Yeah."

The dark sky was bright with a thousand stars, the little country road silent in the still, early hours – just like that last night with Feliciano. But now Ludwig knew Feliciano was alive. Whatever happened to Ludwig himself, he could accept it, because Feliciano was all right. "And… and what did you speak of? With Feliciano?"

Alfred laughed shortly, weakly, just a slight exhalation of breath. "So happy, so friendly. He gave me an apple." Alfred was drifting again, Ludwig could hear it. "Funny boy, really. Only not a boy. He's my age. I was surprised…"

"It seems like that, at first. But he's so much smarter than you think. He is just honest, and simple, which is not the same as stupid. He does not get caught in all these stupid ideas, in the politics of a world where hate controls so many lives..." Ludwig broke off, tried to think of a way to describe Feliciano's beautiful outlook on life. Then he remembered and laughed suddenly, an unstoppable burst of light in the darkness. "Alfred, wouldn't it be wonderful if instead of all this fighting we could just play soccer?"

"Yeah," agreed Alfred weakly. "Or baseball. Just…"

"…Just not cricket," Ludwig finished.

A pool of light appeared in the short distance and Ludwig sped up towards it, sweat falling from his brow, his back and legs starting to feel the effects of carrying a full grown man on his back for hours. The light came from a dark truck, and as Ludwig drew closer he could make out men standing beside it. "We're nearly there, Alfred," he said firmly. "Nearly there."

Lovino shot Ludwig a dark glare as they approached, but then nodded slightly and helped take Alfred from Ludwig's back. He helped the half conscious American into the back of the truck as Signor Vargas stood before Ludwig with an expression both surprised and impressed. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You have done a good thing tonight."

Ludwig nodded, breathless, the entire mad evening finally falling into place around him. He was not quite sure what he had done, or what the consequences would be. But he could only think of one thing to ask. "Feliciano. Tell me, please. How is Feliciano?"

As soon as he said the words, as soon as Vargas opened his mouth to answer, the deep, rumbling roar of a car engine came from the road behind them. Vargas' face turned white in the truck headlights, and sudden, impulsive response shot like a bullet through Ludwig's veins. "Go!" he shouted, backing away as Vargas' eyes shot between him and the distant, approaching headlights. "For God's sake, go!"

Vargas looked at Ludwig for a second more, his eyes narrow, almost appraising him, his chin raised in a strange, approving sort of gesture. But then Lovino's voice shouted from the truck - "Nonno!" - and Vargas was shaken from his split second reverie. He raced for the driver's seat, shouting as he went.

"Feliciano is doing well, German. You'd better survive for him. Or I will kill you."

Ludwig did not have time to ponder the strange words, just watching as the truck took off down the road, as the shiny, black car approached from behind. It screeched to a stop beside him, grey suited officers jumping immediately from the back seat, handcuffs already in hand. And then it hit him – just what he had done. Ludwig had betrayed his country. He felt the world turn slow and cloudy around him, watched the SS officers glide towards him in slow motion, watched his eyelashes move as he blinked. There was no fear, because fear had long ago given way to more painful emotions. There was no anger, because his limited anger had drained away. There was only acceptance, because right now there was nothing he could do, and he had no way to control this. Cold metal encircled his wrists and Ludwig heard his breath flow in his ears, watched his slow eyelashes blink before him. He tilted back his head and gazed at the clear, endless stars in the black sky overhead. He only ever wanted to do his duty. Only wanted to fight for his country. How had it come to this? And how could he not bring himself to regret it?

"Lieutenant Ludwig Beilschmidt. You are under arrest for treason."

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

#Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart chapter 14

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siamesesouls · 6 years ago

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I’m All Yours Tonight

Lioness, the big and prestigious institute was getting ready for their new graduation party for last year senior students. King was a nerve wreck, it was the first time he wouldn’t be awkwardly sitting away from everyone at a celebration; this time he meant to enjoy the company of the person most precious to him; his beloved Diane. It’s been a couple of months since their first date, one which King couldn’t relax at all since he was at the presence of the cutest girl he had ever seen. Although he is still hasn’t changed that much, not with the girl he’s been in love ever since meeting her at their time as elementary students. He was sporting his best outfit, one his mother made for him, on his way to his lover’s home. Now that he thinks about it, he has never been inside of Diane’s house; this would be the first time for a lot of things for King, including meeting her parents. It’s a huge step indeed. —“This is it…O-okay King, you can do this” He arrived at the door and hesitantly rang the doorbell. The tension grew stronger with every passing second he was standing there. “What if his family doesn’t like him? What if they don’t approve their relationship?” He was filling his head with way too many silly thoughts. —“Yes? Who is it?” A built hairy man opened the door asking on a deep dry tone. He was so scary; King could barely say he was looking for Diane, without peeing in his pants. —“Oh, you must that King my daughter can’t stop talking about” Even though what he said clearly was something that warmed the young boy’s heart, he couldn’t show it on his nervous face; her father didn’t look happy at all seeing him. Maybe it had something to do with him crackling his knuckles threatening at King, maybe. —“I-it’s my pleasure to finally meet you, sir” He tried to liven up the mood between them, and failed miserably. —“Let me just make this clear, I don’t like you, and if you ever dare touching my little girl in an inappropriate way, I’ll skin you alive myself” —“Dad, stop harassing my boyfriend!” Diane jumped up next to him and grabbed King’s hand to let him in. Thank God she came. —“I’m so sorry; he can be a little overprotective sometimes; as you can see I haven’t gotten ready yet, so give me a couple of minutes, and I’ll be all yours” She let out a soft giggle, making him blush deeply. Once she went to her room upstairs; King stayed in the living room waiting for her. She was so gorgeous and beautiful, so perfect. He couldn’t just believe how wonderful she was, and how lucky he was to be with someone like her. Just as Diane finished fixing herself up and went downstairs to where her prince charming was waiting. King remembered something he wanted to give to her, a beautiful white rose in a crystal box; he took it out of his pocket ready to give it to her but immediately froze up with the mere sight of his beloved in a beautifully crafted dress. —“Do…you like it?” Diane asked shyly while trying not to cover her face with the newly combed hair He couldn’t believe what his eyes were looking; she was more than just gorgeous; it was perfection itself. His hands begun to shake nervously almost letting the box fell off, which got Diane’s attention. —“Is that for me?” He nodded violently at her to let her know it was a gift meant only for his one and only girlfriend. She unwrapped loose the bindings to open it; looks like she liked it as a soft yet noticeable “Wow” came out of her lips. —“It’s so beautiful King, thanks” Diane took her time looking at King from top to bottom while caressing his white shirt; he could feel her fingers moving across his chest. —“You look so handsome” The blush in both their cheeks made its way across their faces until there was no single spot left without the beet red color on their skin. The tension in the air was growing as King noticed Diane’s father looking to him; almost like making sure he doesn’t do anything with her. —“Oh, t-that reminds me; my mom is waiting for us outside, she will drive us to the party” Diane was still flushed, and a little disappointed she didn’t make her move with him when she could. Some things can’t be helped. They went outside holding hands to where King’s mother, Elise, was waiting for them. She was euphoric; taking pictures at the couple like there was no tomorrow. Obviously King protested, so not to make Diane uncomfortable. As they were about to enter the car Diane’s father went outside as well, demanding to enter as well. —“E-Elise; this is my dad” Diane said with a grim sigh. —“Oh, you don’t say? I’m Elise it’s so good to finally meet you, Sir” Elise extended her hand kindly to say hi; but was met with coldness as Diane’s dad brush it off. —“Are you serious? Can’t you be nice for ONE night?” Diane was furious at him; her father fretted at the sight of his pissed off daughter. He replied with bitterness and took Elise’s hand in a handshake position while making a forced smile. —“Nice…to meet you too” He said in between his clashing teeth; squishing her hand harder by every passing second. —“S-sir, you are hurting me” Elise began to sweat at the crushing strength of Diane’s father. —“Dad. Let. Her. Go!” Diane took her father by the wrist in an attempt to calm him down. Once Elise was released from his grip he invited himself inside the car; sitting on the front side. While on their way to Lioness, Diane remembered the frustration of not being able to make a move on her boyfriend before and so she decided to make it up to him; she placed her hand on top of King’s followed by her head resting onto his shoulders in a tenderly manner. —“I cannot wait to be there; this is going to be the best day of my life” Elise was looking at them from the rear-view mirror with a gentle smile on her face. While Diane’s father…well, let’s just say he wasn’t happy at all. After a brief awkward silence they finally arrived at their destination. The blinding lights were on spot this year; everything looked perfect. The main hall was filled with people dancing non-stop; this was the moment both King and Diane were waiting for the whole year. Their parents sat on one of the tables near entrance as the young couple headed straight to the dance floor. —“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the Lioness Graduation Party. We are going to start this lovely evening with a gift from us to every student couple in here; You better be accompanied by that special someone right now, ‘cause this party is gonna start softly with a calming love dance. All couples head to the center of the hall and show us the flame of your love” Diane dragged King’s hand to the circle where the couples were dancing; he was still focused on her father’s angry eyes, slowly doubting what to do with Diane so to not unleash his fury. Noticing this, Diane took her boyfriend’s hands and placed them on her hip and lower back as a sign for him to relax. She wanted this; she wasn’t gonna let her father ruin this party for her, especially with her loved one so close to her. She rested her arms on top of his shoulders, surrounding his neck; so to close the distance between them. They didn’t spend too much time in that position as Diane leaned in close to him, placing a loving kiss on his lips. King shuddered violently; for a beat of a second he actually considered stopping the kiss before melting in her completely. It was amazing; as a warm sensation started inside their chests like a campfire burning bright towards the climax. It was just them, not their parents, not the announcer. Not a single soul besides them and nothing in the world that could stop them. —“I love you” they finally ended the kiss with a love statement. They spent the whole night in each other’s company; Diane’s father was silent the whole evening and even on their way home on Elise’s car. King thought he was finally going to be killed by him; although he didn’t care, he didn’t mind dying right there after experiencing the best party he ever had. King, Diane and her father went out of the car; King decided to face his lover’s father so to make him understand he only wishes to protect Diane. Before he could actually speak, Diane’s dad extended his hand to King to give him a handshake. —“I know I’ve been a pain in the ass to both of you; I now understand that you truly care about my daughter. Although I still don’t like you; I have no doubts that you will take good care of her, son” —“Thank you Sir, it means so much to me. And I promise I’ll make your daughter happy for the rest of my life” Diane jumped on top of them; hugging them on the floor. —“You two are the most important men in my life” King and Diane’s father spent a really long time latches onto her arms, holding her tenderly and lovingly until it was time for King to go. While on their way home, King received a message from Diane. “Thank you for making this the best day of my life. I love you so much <3” He was definitely happy to be able to spend his graduation party with his special someone. Once he replied to her message he rested his face on the door’s window; losing himself on the thought of what awaits for them later on.

#modernAU #king x diane #diane x king #nanatsu no taizai #NNT #manga #fanfiction #fanfic #graduation #party

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raendown · 6 years ago

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Commission for @crystallizedshadowfire, thank you!

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Rated: E Word count: 4493 Summary: The Chief of Police and the boss of the local mob, an unlikely pairing for sure. Keeping their relationship a secret is hard, coming up with excuses for why they haven't taken each other down yet is harder, but of course Madara always finds a way to complicate things that don't need complicating.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Criminal Malpractice

Madara scowled and flinched at the sound of a bullet impacting the concrete wall he and his subordinates were hiding behind. He was getting too old for this shit.

Okay so he wasn’t actually all that old yet, barely creeping up on his mid-thirties, but his poor ears had suffered through more than their fair share of this bullshit. He would find a new line of work if he hadn’t already entrenched himself so deeply in to this lifestyle that the mob might very well fall apart without him. Maybe he should start thinking about training a replacement soon so that he could retire. Obito was showing a lot of promise as he grew in to his later adolescence, he would make a good successor. He was also just crazy enough to enjoy this lifestyle and all the insanity that came with it. Kids these days were wild.

A chunk of something that may have been concrete but also may have been a fragment of skull bone went rocketing passed his face. At the same time one of his men jerked backwards and collapsed to the ground, falling utterly still in a way Madara recognized all too well. His nose wrinkled. Yet another widow to console, another life lost to cover up while he tried to keep his own mourning quiet to help the lower ranks keep up morale. Lately he was running out of ways to make bodies disappear in a manner that wouldn’t lead suspicion back to him or anyone that worked for him and his family. Just because it was common knowledge that the Uchiha family were connected with the mob didn’t mean they should make it easy for the law enforcement to pin them with any actual evidence.

Mistakes like today notwithstanding. If he hadn’t already taken out the cameras in this area it would be very hard to talk his way out of being accused of something here.

Speaking of law enforcement, Madara dared to peek around their cover and count the heads popping up from behind the barricade of police cruisers. He forced his eyes to skip past the head of shining white hair they wanted to catch on and focus instead on the actual bane of his existence. In another world Shimura Danzo would definitely have followed a similar nefarious path as Madara had – although probably with less than half the morals. Madara’s life was filled with illegal acts but he had a code of conduct, okay? He took care of his own and really he was just trying to make this city better. Just because his methods were shady didn’t mean he didn’t care, he simply cared in all the ways that people who followed the law couldn’t.

Unfortunately for the City of Konoha the illustrious Shimura Danzo had instead decided to dedicate his life to being a police officer. At some point he must have had high hopes for what he surely thought would be a shining career. It clearly rankled that he hadn’t made it even to Captain, stuck forever at the rank of Sergeant and taking out the frustration that gave him on the men he led. Serving under a much younger Chief of Police – the youngest their city had ever seen yet also the most competent – had turned him even more bitter. Several times now the man had tried to reach out to the underbelly of the city, determined to turn dirty cop. Madara, however, owned the underbelly of this city and he had a standing order forbidding his people from dealing with the man.

The chaos of a shootout seemed like the perfect opportunity to remove a problem he was more than tired of working around. Across the way he could see Izuna pausing at the sight of his satisfied grin, though his brother only narrowed his eyes in suspicion. It cut to the quick to be so mistrusted by his own kin. Really it did!

“What are you planning?”

“To get rid of a nuisance,” Madara said. In one smooth motion he stood, aimed, and fired then immediately dropped back down hoping no one caught enough of a look at him for a positive identification. Then he looked over to where Izuna was using a small mirror to keep track of the action. “Did I get him?”

“Yup. You definitely shot the Chief of Police.”

“WHAT!?”

Completely disregarding his own safety, Madara jerked around and popped his head out in to the open. Shimura was still standing. A foot or so to his left side Senju Tobirama, the man who had skyrocketed up the ranks since the day he joined the force, was being dragged away to safety while he very calmly attempted to staunch his own bleeding and sent a thunderous scowl toward the mob forces. Their eyes met across the mayhem for a brief moment and Madara swallowed thickly.

“I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

The hours he waited in the empty house that night were some of the longest he had ever spent. Owning the city always felt like less of an accomplishment during the times when he was faced with how little rights he had to his own life partner. Falling in love with a police officer was a terrible idea, he’d known that right from the moment he realized where his heart was headed, but staying with the man and supporting him all the way up to being named Chief of Police was such a spectacularly bad idea he still wondered how neither of their associates had caught wind of it yet.

Having only a select few people who knew where he called home helped with that, as well as his partner’s infamous reclusive tendencies. It did not make the waiting any easier when he knew that Tobirama was spending those hours in a hospital undergoing surgery where Madara was quite unwelcome to go visit. A known mob boss visiting an officer of the law? Yeah, not obvious at all.

Adrenaline rushed through him at the click of the lock on their front door and Madara hurried over to peek down the hall just as the tumbler slid back in to place. Tobirama’s movements were stiff but he was blessedly alone as he slid off his shoes and toed them in to the neat little spot where he always kept them, eyeing the coat hooks then sighing and trudging down the hall without removing the fur trimmed civilian jacket buttoned over what remained of his uniform. When he spotted Madara skulking around the corner he stiffened even further and turned in to the kitchen without a word.

Madara slinked after him like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Silence stretched between them as Tobirama went through the motions of drawing a mug of tea one handed and the guilt rose higher and higher in Madara’s throat until he couldn’t take it and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“So how was your day at work?”

Obviously he realized how stupid that was the moment he said it. He really didn’t need Tobirama to slam his cup down hard enough to slosh precious Darjeeling in every direction.

“You fucking shot me, that was my day at work!” Shaking out his now scalded fingers, he turned around to return fire with the daggers in his eyes. “I’m out of commission for at least a week, if not several, and what do I have to show for it? Another ‘failed’ attempt to take down the man living in my own home. You are very fucking welcome for covering that abysmal escape, by the way, because I had to cover your ass from a god damned ambulance!”

“I’m sorry, okay!? I was aiming for that Shimura dick head!”

“Well your aim fucking sucks, go ask Kagami for a few lessons on marksmanship before you take my head off next time!”

Madara shuddered. His nephew was a walking ball of sunshine terror, too happy to be natural and too gifted with long range weaponry to be entirely human. No way was he putting himself through another round of cheerful hours on the gun range just to come out even more thankful that he’d somehow managed to keep the kid happy in the role of budding assassin. Unhappy assassins usually came after their boss and he certainly wasn’t looking to have both eyes taken out from three streets away with no evidence.

Tobirama cruelly allowed him to stew in those thoughts while he turned away again and ran cold water to soothe the fingers he had spilled tea all over. Watching him, Madara cringed as he realized he had effectively taken both the poor man’s hands out of commission. He really wasn’t doing so hot today. Some big bad boss he made when he couldn’t even care for his own partner properly.

“Let me,” he offered quietly. Tobirama subsided with a grumble, throwing himself down – gently – at the kitchen table to watch every movement with an eagle eye. It was a little nerve wracking but Madara bore up well enough until the tea was cleaned up and remade, delivered with a shamefully bowed head. While his lover drank the offering Madara tried several times to open his mouth and make his apologies but every time he thought he had the words straight in his head he would look up at Tobirama and everything in his brain would scatter all over again in favor of the heavy guilt weighing him down.

He shot his own lover. He put a bullet in to his own partner’s flesh. What words could possibly make up for that? How could Tobirama ever forgive him when he was quite sure he would never forgive himself?

“Nothing vital got hit, at least.” He jerked in surprise when Tobirama broke the silence first.

“Oh. Good. That’s…I’m sorry.” If any of his subordinates could hear how small his voice was in that moment he had no doubt that they would laugh themselves silly and lose all respect for him. No one would ever fear his retribution again if they knew how far gone he was for the man across the table.

“I’m going to bed.”

“But-!”

“Madara, I am tired. I spent nearly thirteen hours in the hospital because they allowed a first year resident to operate and he was so incompetent they had to open me up again and go back in as soon as he stitched me closed. They wanted me to stay overnight but I assured them that I had a ‘guest’ staying with me who could help and now speculations about my personal life have tripled. My own partner shot me, my officers are chomping at the bit to have you behind bars for it, and I am in so much pain I can hardly think straight.” Pushing his empty mug away, he struggled to his feet with his jaw tightening when the motion tugged on some sensitive areas. “I want nothing more than to let this fucking day end.”

He was tottering out of the kitchen a moment later, leaving Madara glaring at the floor in personal offense that it had not yet opened up and swallowed him whole. If he were as brilliant a man as his beloved then maybe he could turn to evil science, create a time machine, go back to this morning and crack himself around the head for ever pointing a weapon anywhere close to his most precious person.

Since he wasn’t a mad genius he hauled himself out of his own chair and shuffled down towards the bedroom after the other man. He found Tobirama hovering by the end of the bed plucking at the buttons of his jacket and scowling deeply, unable to move one arm and unwilling to fiddle too much now that his other hand was covered in mild burns. Madara inched in to the room until he was spotted and told himself that it was perfectly normal for a grown man to feel so small when faced with such a sharp gaze.

“Want some help?” he offered. Tobirama snorted, dropping his hand and turning his head away moodily.

Having two working hands, Madara made quick work of the buttons and helped to slide the jacket off as gently as possible. With soft-spoken requests for a movement here or a shift there he got Tobirama down to nothing but his skin, at which point he hurried over to fetch a pair of pajama pants from one of the dressers against the eastern wall of their bedroom, scurrying back to kneel down and keep Tobirama steady while the man slid one foot in to each leg. It was hard to resist letting his touches linger like they usually would with so much skin on display and his face right there where it would be only too easy to turn his head and take the man’s length in to his mouth. Fortunately he wasn’t stupid enough to do something like that without warning when the mood in the room was so clearly not headed for such activities.

Although…perhaps he could fix that. They both knew that apologies weren’t his strong suit, his words better suited to barking orders than expressing the feelings trapped in his chest. And they both also knew that he was prone to finding more physical ways to making his feelings known, whether that be doing more than his fair share of the household chores or offering certain bedroom services without asking for reciprocation.

Of course what he had done this time was hardly something he could erase with a hand job or two but there was nothing wrong with trying and doing one thing for his partner didn’t mean he was going to call it a day and forget the whole issue. He was an asshole but he wasn’t completely heartless.

Well, not when it came to Tobirama, at least.

The possibility stayed on his mind all through helping Tobirama brush his teeth and wash his face then pulling the sheets down to tuck the man underneath them and go do all those things for himself as well. By the time he was turning off the lights and sliding under the blankets he was half hard in his pajamas and almost ashamed of how much the idea appealed to him. Not because he was ashamed of his own desires, that ship had sailed more than a decade ago and he certainly had no regrets about where his appetites had taken him, but rather because he was sure it wasn’t an appropriate apology for this sort of situation.

But really, was there ever going to be a proper way to say sorry for shooting his own partner in the chest? Or shoulder. He hadn’t had a chance to take a good look at the wound yet, covered as it was by several layers of gauze. At least that particular wave of guilt could be left until tomorrow when he would of course insist on helping to change the bandages.

Madara squirmed and fretted in the dark bedroom until he nearly leapt out of his own skin when Tobirama was once again the first of them to break the silence.

“Do you know how much paperwork I would have had to do if you did manage to shoot that asshole?”

“You…” All the tension in his body was violently expelled with a hard snort of laughter. “Is that what has you so fucking grumpy?” With a grin of relief he rolled over and fitted himself again the other man’s uninjured side. Tobirama sighed moodily.

“No, I’m grumpy because you shot me. With a bullet. It hurts. And I don’t know what painkillers they gave me but I am so high but I still fucking hurt.”

Madara sniggered. “You don’t seem high to me, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t. The room is spinning. Make it stop.”

“Actually, I had a thought. I was thinking of making it spin even faster – in a different way.” He pressed a kiss to Tobirama’s shoulder but got only a huff for his troubles. Stubborn man, refusing to be seduced even when Madara was clearly being obvious about what he wanted to do.

Lolling his head to one side, Tobirama grumbled, “Faster would not help.”

“Stop being stupid and let me give you an apology blow.”

“Ah. I’m quite sure that’s not a great idea at the moment but I am also not going to stop you so long as you understand that I can’t do much in return.” His lover turned to blink hazily at him and Madara could finally see what he meant about the pain killers. That was not the same sharp gaze he had seen in the kitchen. Something must have finally kicked in. With a laugh he pressed forward to kiss those pouting lips.

“That is entirely the point love. You’re going to be angry at me again in the morning anyway so you might as well enjoy tonight, yes?” Madara waited for the other man to nod in concession of his excellent point before shuffling around and sliding further down the mattress. “Good, then just lay back and let me take care of you.”

He gleefully chuckled over the agreeable hum from his partner. Usually it was a lot easier to fluster Tobirama with blunt sex talk but apparently the influence of whatever drugs they had him on mellowed out certain inhibitions. It was a shame his job kept him strait-laced and prevented them from recreating this again another day because Madara would have loved to see what kind of filthy things he could talk his way in to like this.

A quick blowjob to see if high-Tobirama was any louder than sober-Tobirama was a good start, though. Madara licked his lips as he gently wriggled his way in between the other man’s legs, being careful not to jostle him too much, then reached for the ties of the pajama pants he had picked out just a few minutes before. If anyone happened to ask he might be convinced to admit that he had chosen these ones because this shade of red looked lovely with Tobirama’s skin and the stretchy cotton made his ass look fantastic. Luckily no one was ever likely to ask.

Briefly mourning that he wouldn’t get to see that ass bent over for him – probably for a long while – Madara bent his neck to draw his tongue along the crease where thigh met groin, smooth skin devoid of hair because his lover liked to keep himself neat in all respects. Steady breathing increased gradually the further his licks and kisses moved inwards until finally Tobirama let out a soft gasp when Madara pressed his tongue flat against the underside of the cock now stiff and full as it waited for his attention and slid all the way up to take the head in his mouth. Then he himself was tempted to moan at the feeling of having his mouth filled.

“Shit,” Tobirama whimpered above him – honest to god whimpered. Legal or not, Madara was definitely getting his hands on something to get this man high again.

In reward for such a pretty sound he slid further down to take as much in as he could. One of his hands pressed down on the hips that were beginning to squirm, hoping Tobirama didn’t hurt himself moving around too much, while his other explored whatever heated skin he could reach. His head bobbed in a slow rhythm in time with the hand that skimmed trembling thighs and traced the grooves of a clenched abdomen. It had always been Tobirama’s body that spoke his pleasure the loudest; hearing him swear so easily and so honestly went straight to Madara’s own cock.

He’d already been sporting a semi. Just that one word combined with the soft groan that followed in the wake of his hands was enough to have him rock hard inside his own pajamas.

Were he not hyper aware of the fact that this was all meant as the start of his – likely to be months long – apology he might have tried to suggest something that would be a little more mutually satisfying. Or if he also weren’t aware that doing so would probably end with Tobirama tearing out his stitches in the heat of the moment. Madara rolled his hips down and moaned around the hard flesh in his mouth, tempted by the idea of grinding himself against the mattress until another thought wriggled its way in.

Tobirama’s protest when he pulled away was garbled and indistinct in a way it never would have been were he entirely sober. It was just enough encouragement for Madara to shuffle around until he was up on his knees where he could go back to work with one hand still holding the weakly bucking hip underneath him in place. With his other he took a moment to skim down and cup his partner’s sacs, rolling them and sliding his fingers lower to trace the places he couldn’t explore until Tobirama was healed enough that the writhing he was prone to wouldn’t hurt him. Then another soft curse met his ears and Madara began to frantically pull at his own drawstrings until they were loose enough to shove the material down and take himself in hand.

His moan vibrated around the shaft he was pleasuring, earning himself yet another intoxicating sound from his partner and encouraging both his mouth and his hand to move faster. Madara was sure if he weren’t already busy concentrating on other things he would be panting as quickly as he could hear the other was. If they continued on just like that he wouldn’t have lasted all that long anyway but then the most amazing thing happened.

For probably the first time in his life Tobirama began to babble.

“Shit, feels good. Don’t…don’t stop. Just- ah. Warm. And wet. Fuck, your mouth is wet. Feels amazing. Do that – with your tongue? That-? Yes, fuck yes, that. Ma-hah! Madara…”

Every word that spilled from him wound the man between his legs higher and higher until Madara was working himself as desperately as he was bobbing his head, praying he could hold off until his partner found satisfaction yet unable to stop his hand from chasing the incredible end he could feel coming on fast. He’d never heard anything like this from Tobirama. Since the day they first gave in to the helpless attraction between them their intimate activities had been filled with a chorus of noises from his own mouth and little more than the occasional grunt from his stubbornly reticent partner.

He had almost forgotten how hot it was to hear someone else enjoying themselves as much as he was.

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the moment Tobirama finally noticed that he was pleasuring himself at the same time. The apparently unexpected discovery was accompanied with a long drawn out sound that could only be described as lewd and an enthusiastic bucking of the hips. Madara had just enough time to brace himself before his tongue was coated with seed, the entire world fuzzing out around him a few seconds later as the tension inside him burst at last and he spilled over his own hand as well.

Gasping with a cock still filling his mouth was a little hard but Tobirama seemed to appreciate the sensation of his continuous moans until finally they were both completely spent and Madara swallowed the bitter come with only a light grimace. As much as he enjoying sucking cock he’d never really appreciated the taste of the end results. He did very much appreciate the blissed out expression that was waiting for him when he lifted his head, half-lidded eyes staring back at him, satiated and full of warmth. Madara shivered with renewed interest that he regretfully set aside for another time.

“Was a v’ry good apologize. Apology. S’a good blowjob.” Tobirama’s lips curled up in a dopey smile and Madara paused to appreciate the rare sight.

“Should I help you get back in to your pants?” He offered, not trusting himself to say anything else just yet. If he did then it would either be some mangled form of dirty talk or he would spill his whole heart out on the floor in the form of terrible poetry mixed in with a hundred more apologies. And not even sexy ones.

“Mmm. Probably should, yes.”

“Right.” Nodding to himself Madara set about righting both of their clothes and found something to wipe his hand on, snagging a bottle of water from inside the nightstand to rinse out his mouth as well.

Then he crawled up the mattress to lay himself carefully at Tobirama’s side and pulled the blankets up over both of them. He made sure they were all perfectly even and straight, just how his partner liked them, then pressed a kiss against the man’s good shoulder and curled up against him as much as he could without having to worry about jostling the injuries he had caused.

“I’ll cook you breakfast in bed tomorrow,” he promised in a whisper. “And I’ll fetch anything you want around the house. And I’ll even do my best to hold my temper when you inevitably get irritated that you can’t do anything for yourself; we both know you will, don’t deny it.” Despite his words he paused, waiting for the expected denial because Tobirama had a very selective memory when it came to his own temper, but it never came. Curious, Madara lifted his head and peek around to see what was holding his tongue.

Fast asleep. Whatever drugs they had given him were finally doing their job, pulling him down in to dreamland where the pain couldn’t touch him. As much as Madara loved having his partner’s attention he was glad that he would spend the night comfortably and find good rest.

Tomorrow he would spend the day waiting on his partner’s every beck and call. And the next day he was calling Izuna to schedule a council of the Family. Some things in this city had needed changing for a long time and while he was certainly the right man for the job he was not willing to risk the only person who had ever loved him as completely as Tobirama did. Which meant that they would need to change some things about how they themselves operated as well. First he would help his beloved feel better. Then he could go out and make the world better as he’d always intended.

By force if necessary. A smirk tilted the corners of his lips and he looked over at his sleeping partner. He always had preferred to act first and apologize later; at least with some things he rather enjoyed the apology.

#rae writes #commission #madatobi #madara #tobirama #modern au #fanfiction

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