#So you know. This shaped far too much of my childhood for me to ever truly abandon it.

[gyuuberryy]

prince charming's mismatch

pairing: prince!heeseung x princess!reader

synopsis: you and prince heeseung have been rivals for as long as you can remember. what began as childhood clashes has grown into a deep-seated animosity over the years. but when your sister runs away on her wedding day, you're forced to take her place and marry heeseung—the last person you ever wanted to call your husband.

now bound in an unwanted marriage, you’re faced with navigating the tension between your unresolved hatred and an unexpected attraction. as palace intrigue and looming threats surround you both, you must confront the truth of your feelings. will the bitterness between you tear you apart, or will it ignite something far more powerful?

genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, arranged marriage au

warnings: highly suggestive content!!! kissing, hee and reader are mean at first, insecurities, jealous!hee

note: i've been meaning to write this plot for an year now, im happy with how it turned out! e2l with hee is always soo fun to write. enjoyy

word count: 11.5k

royally yours masterlist | next: jay

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the first time you met prince heeseung, it was at a grand summer garden party hosted by your parents in the palace’s sprawling grounds. you were barely six years old, and he wasn’t much older, yet even then, the air between you crackled with something akin to competition. your governess had dressed you in your finest lace frock, with your hair tied in perfect ribbons, but none of that mattered. you were too busy building a grand sandcastle near the fountain, your little fingers carefully patting the turrets into shape.

that was when heeseung appeared, his shadow falling over your castle like a storm cloud. he crouched beside you without so much as a polite greeting, his royal title apparently excusing his lack of manners. his eyes, sharp for a child, surveyed your handiwork critically.

“that’s not right,” he declared, reaching out to touch one of your towers. “the walls need to be thicker, or it’ll fall.”

you frowned, already bristling at the unsolicited advice. “it’s my castle. i know what i’m doing.”

he smirked, a small, superior thing that made your blood simmer even at that tender age. without asking, he began "fixing" it, his hands too rough as he demolished what you had so carefully crafted.

“stop!” you cried, shoving him back with all the strength your little body could muster. heeseung stumbled, landing awkwardly on the grass, but instead of being chastened, he merely laughed.

“see?” he said, gesturing at the collapsed sandcastle. “i told you it would fall.”

tears of frustration welled in your eyes as you glared at him. “you ruined it! i didn’t ask for your help!”

heeseung stood, dusting off his fine clothes, a boyish smirk still plastered on his face. “you should thank me. i was doing you a favour.”

from that day forward, any time your families met, it was as if an unspoken rule had been established—whenever you were in the same room, you and heeseung would find something to argue about. it didn’t matter if it was who deserved the biggest slice of cake or who could recite their latin conjugations faster; the two of you were constantly at odds.

as the years passed, your mutual disdain only deepened. by the time you were ten, heeseung had already earned a reputation as the golden boy of his kingdom, a future king who excelled in everything he touched. your own accomplishments were always impressive—your parents had ensured you were well-versed in languages, history, and the fine arts—but whenever heeseung was around, it felt as though all your achievements paled in comparison.

“did you hear?” one of your tutors asked one morning as you sat in the drawing room, diligently practising your embroidery. “prince heeseung has been awarded top marks in his studies again. he’s to receive a commendation from the royal academy.”

you didn’t look up, but your needle paused for the briefest of moments. “how wonderful for him,” you muttered, the words heavy with sarcasm.

that evening, at another royal banquet, you couldn’t help but bring up your own accomplishments, eager for even a crumb of recognition.

“i’ve been practising my archery,” you said proudly to the gathered guests, though your eyes couldn’t help but flick toward heeseung, who lounged nearby, looking as regal and aloof as ever. “i managed to hit the bullseye several times this week.”

heeseung glanced up lazily, catching your eye with that familiar, insufferable smirk. “impressive,” he said in a bored tone, “though archery isn’t quite the same as, say, fencing. that requires real skill.”

your fists clenched under the table, your pride wounded by his casual dismissal. but this was the way it always went. no matter what you did, heeseung always found a way to make it seem insignificant, as though he were the sun and you were merely a star dimmed by his brilliance.

by the time you were both teenagers, the animosity between you had grown more complicated, though no less intense. you found yourselves at the same royal gatherings, balls, and court functions, and each time, it was as if the entire room held its breath, waiting to see what you and heeseung would clash over next.

at one particularly grand ball, you had been feeling proud of your debut. you wore a gown of the finest silk, and you’d received more than a few admiring glances from the eligible noblemen in attendance. you were certain this was your night to shine—until heeseung approached.

“you look well enough,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge that set your teeth on edge. “though i hope you don’t trip during the quadrille like last time.”

your cheeks flushed, remembering all too well the minor misstep you’d taken at a previous ball. “i won’t,” you snapped, glaring at him. “and even if i did, it’s better than fencing yourself into a corner like you did at the tournament last month.”

his smile faltered for just a second, but that was enough to make you feel victorious.

yet, despite the constant barbs, there was something else simmering beneath the surface now—a tension you refused to name. you hated the way your heart raced whenever heeseung was near, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of a room. and, though you’d never admit it, you hated even more that part of you missed the old days when your squabbles were simple, childish things.

it all changed the day your sister’s engagement to heeseung was announced. the prince who had been your lifelong nemesis was now to become your sister’s husband, the future king of your kingdom. it was a match made for political alliance, but it felt like a betrayal. you had expected more from him—well, not more kindness, but certainly more rebellion. yet, heeseung accepted the engagement with the same cool composure he did everything else.

for the first time in years, he stopped seeking you out, stopped picking those fights you had come to expect. he no longer bothered with sharp remarks or smug smiles. instead, he kept his distance, as though you were beneath his notice.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. after all, what did you care if heeseung ignored you now? he was going to be your brother-in-law, and that was enough reason to keep things civil. and yet, a strange, hollow feeling settled in your chest whenever you saw him and your sister together. he was colder now, more mature, but somehow more distant than ever.

little did you know, your rivalry with prince heeseung was far from over. if anything, it was only just beginning.

the night your world fell apart, it started with a simple knock on your chamber door. the palace had been abuzz with preparations—florists arranging garlands, tailors hemming gowns, and courtiers whispering about the grand union that would strengthen two kingdoms. you had spent the evening rehearsing your duties as maid of honour, biting back any remnants of bitterness that still clung to your feelings about the match. it didn’t matter that you had spent your entire life despising heeseung; your sister loved him, or at least, she was supposed to.

you were preparing to retire, brushing your hair by the dim glow of candlelight, when your sister slipped into the room, her face pale and eyes wide with fear. you’d never seen her look so frantic. your heart sank before she even said a word.

“i’m not going to marry him,” she whispered, wringing her hands in the folds of her silk nightgown. her voice trembled, but it was steady enough for you to know she wasn’t joking.

your heart lurched. “what are you talking about? the wedding is tomorrow!”

her wide eyes darted to the door as if she feared someone might overhear. she leaned in closer, gripping your wrist with trembling fingers. “i can’t marry heeseung,” she said urgently. “i don’t love him. i’m leaving tonight.”

the words hit you like a physical blow. “you’re what?”

“i’m eloping,” she said, her voice firmer now, as if saying it out loud gave her courage. “with lucien.”

lucien. you barely knew the man, a minor noble from another court, but he had charmed your sister quickly. he was handsome and witty, but far beneath her station. you stared at her, disbelief mixing with fury.

“lucien? are you mad? you can’t just abandon your duty for—”

“for love?” she interrupted, her voice rising in defiance. “yes, i can. i won’t be trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who cares nothing for me.”

you swallowed hard, your mind racing. heeseung, distant and cold as he had been with you, had shown no signs of affection for your sister either, but this was bigger than personal feelings. the marriage was political, a union meant to secure alliances, peace, and power. your sister fleeing would bring nothing but chaos.

“you’ll ruin everything,” you whispered, your voice thick with the weight of the consequences. “our families, the kingdoms—this is bigger than you.”

her eyes softened with a mix of guilt and determination. “i know. but i can’t live my life for duty, not like this.” she stood, gathering a small satchel you hadn’t noticed before, already packed and ready for her escape.

“you won’t stop me, will you?” she asked, her gaze pleading.

you wanted to scream, to shake her out of this madness, but your throat tightened. she was your sister. you loved her. and you knew, deep down, that nothing you said would change her mind.

“i should,” you said, your voice quiet, brittle. “but no. i won’t.”

your sister smiled, a fragile, relieved thing, before pulling you into a tight embrace. the hug felt final, like the end of something neither of you could come back from. when she finally let go, you stood frozen in the middle of her room as she slipped out the window and into the night, her footsteps fading into the shadows.

the palace remained blissfully unaware of the catastrophe until morning, when your mother’s scream shattered the early dawn peace.

the palace was in chaos the next morning. servants rushed through the halls, panic etched on their faces as whispers spread like wildfire—the bride had run away. you stayed in your chambers as long as possible, trying to gather your thoughts, your emotions, trying to prepare for the inevitable fallout.

when the summons came from your father, it felt like a death knell. the walk to the throne room felt endless, each step heavier than the last. the moment you stepped through the grand doors, you saw heeseung standing beside your parents. his face was a mask of icy calm, but his eyes…his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, cold and unforgiving.

he didn’t even glance at you as your father spoke.

“your sister has disgraced this family,” your father’s voice boomed, his tone laced with anger and disappointment. “but the marriage cannot be abandoned. the alliance with heeseung’s kingdom is too important.”

you stood still, your stomach churning as you braced for what was coming.

“therefore,” your father continued, his gaze hard as stone, “you will take her place.”

for a moment, the words didn’t register. you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. you? marry heeseung? no, it wasn’t possible. you had spent your entire life in a silent war with him. the idea of marrying the man who had been your nemesis since childhood was unthinkable.

your mother’s voice, soft but firm, broke the silence. “the arrangements have already been made. the wedding will proceed as planned. you will become heeseung’s bride.”

“no.” the word slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your heart racing. “i can’t.”

your father’s eyes narrowed, and your mother’s expression hardened with disappointment. “you will do your duty,” your father said coldly. “this is not up for discussion.”

duty. it always came down to that. your entire life, you had been prepared for moments like this, but not this moment. not like this.

finally, you turned to heeseung, desperate for any sign of protest, for him to say something—anything—that would stop this madness. but he was silent. his face remained expressionless, as though none of this affected him. he looked at you as if you were just a piece of the puzzle, another part of the kingdom’s grand design.

“is that all i am to you?” you asked, your voice shaking. “just a replacement? a stand-in for the bride who ran away?”

for the first time, heeseung’s gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, buried deep beneath the coldness. but his words cut through you like ice.

“you’re a princess,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. “your role is to serve your kingdom. that’s all that matters.”

a bitter laugh escaped your throat. “you’ve hated me for years, heeseung. and now you expect me to just—what? pretend none of that matters?”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. instead, he turned away, his indifference stinging more than any of the insults you had traded over the years.

your father spoke again, his tone final. “the marriage will happen. prepare yourself.”

the grand hall was suffused with the glow of flickering candles and soft sunlight filtering through stained glass windows. the scent of fresh roses—your sister’s favourite, not yours—hung heavily in the air, mocking the gravity of the moment. you stood at the entrance of the hall, your hands clenched so tightly around the bouquet that your knuckles were white. the murmurs of the courtiers echoed around you, a constant hum of speculation and judgement. no matter how well you carried yourself today, the whispers wouldn’t stop.

the switch of the bride was the scandal of the century, and you were at the centre of it.

ahead of you, heeseung stood tall, his face as unreadable as stone. the same detachment was in his eyes, his expression cool and composed as if this marriage was merely another political manoeuvre for him, another step toward the throne. he didn’t look at you with warmth, or even a hint of care. to him, you weren’t his wife—you were the replacement for the woman who had run away.

you walked down the aisle, every step heavier than the last, the reality of your situation crushing you. heeseung’s gaze was steady as you approached, but it wasn’t the gaze of a man looking at his bride. it was a look of cold calculation, a man who had resigned himself to duty.

when you finally reached him, your heart thudding loudly in your chest, you barely registered the priest's words. the vows—sacred, binding—felt hollow, like a cruel twist of fate. how could you stand here, repeating the words meant for your sister? they weren't meant for you. you were never supposed to be the bride.

heeseung took your hand, and the warmth of his skin was a sharp contrast to the chill that ran down your spine. his grip was firm, not gentle, but not cruel either—just dutiful. he spoke his vows with a steady voice, each word sounding rehearsed, as though they meant nothing to him beyond their formality.

and then it was your turn. you hesitated, the weight of the kingdom on your shoulders, your pulse quickening. your voice trembled slightly as you repeated the vows, feeling the eyes of everyone in the hall on you—expecting you to fulfil your role, to be the perfect princess. you could barely choke out the words, but somehow, you managed. and with every word, you felt the invisible chains of your new life tightening around you.

when the priest finally pronounced you husband and wife, heeseung’s lips brushed yours in the briefest of kisses—so cold and devoid of feeling that it felt more like a business transaction than the union of two people. the cheers of the court erupted around you, but in that moment, the applause sounded like the closing of a cage. you were trapped, bound to him, to this life.

as you turned to leave the altar, heeseung offered his arm, the tension between you palpable. his eyes flickered to yours for a brief moment, but there was no warmth there. just that cold, resigned look you had grown accustomed to. you were both playing your roles, just as you had been trained to do your whole lives.

but this wasn’t a game. this was your future, and it felt like a noose tightening around your neck.

the wedding feast had been a blur—a cacophony of forced smiles, hollow congratulations, and polite toasts that masked the underlying tension. you had barely spoken a word to heeseung throughout the entire affair. he hadn’t made any attempt to speak to you either, remaining as distant and composed as ever.

now, as you stood alone in the chambers that were to be yours and heeseung’s, the reality of your new life settled heavily on your chest. the palace chambers were far too quiet, the air thick with the tension that had been building between you and heeseung for years. as you stood in the centre of the room, staring at the enormous bed draped in rich fabrics, it felt like the walls were closing in. the room was elegantly decorated—ornate tapestries hung on the walls, and the grand four-poster bed was fit for a queen. but none of it mattered. the splendour felt like a mockery of the situation you found yourself in. tonight, this room was not a sanctuary but a gilded cage.

your breath caught in your throat as the door creaked open. heeseung entered, his presence commanding even in the subdued candlelight. the tension between you was palpable, stretching like a thin, fragile thread that could snap at any moment. his gaze flicked toward you briefly, but he didn’t speak, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

heeseung moved with practised grace, his movements calm and deliberate. he began undoing the buttons on his ceremonial jacket, the fine fabric sliding off his shoulders and landing in a careless heap on the chair by the vanity. you stood frozen, unsure of what to say, what to do. this wasn’t how you had imagined a wedding night would feel—though you had never dreamed this night would be with heeseung, of all people.

his back was to you now, his broad shoulders tense, though he did nothing to betray any emotion. you could feel the distance between you both, even though he was just across the room. heeseung had always been composed, guarded, but tonight, his coldness cut even deeper than usual.

he finally broke the silence, his voice low but steady. “it’s late. you should rest.” there was no affection in his tone, just the same sense of duty that had hung over the entire day. you weren’t his bride by choice, and he wasn’t your husband by desire.

you bit back a bitter laugh. rest? as if you could simply close your eyes and pretend this was normal. pretend that this marriage was something other than a trap. “is that it, then?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. “we go to bed and pretend everything is fine?”

heeseung turned to face you, his expression as unreadable as ever. he didn’t answer right away, as if weighing his response carefully. “what do you want me to say?” his tone was measured, but there was an edge to it, a hint of frustration that matched your own.

“i don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. i wasn’t supposed to marry you.”

something flickered in heeseung’s eyes, though it disappeared as quickly as it came. he regarded you for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he spoke again. “do you think i wanted this?” his words were quiet but laced with a bitterness that surprised you. “i didn’t ask for this any more than you did.”

you swallowed, feeling a lump rise in your throat. you hadn’t expected this admission from him, hadn’t expected him to show any vulnerability. “then what are we supposed to do?” your voice was softer now, the anger ebbing away, replaced by uncertainty. “how are we supposed to live like this?”

heeseung sighed, running a hand through his hair, a rare moment of frustration breaking through his calm facade. “we do what’s expected of us,” he said, though there was a heaviness to his words, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “we fulfill our duties. that’s all we can do.”

“duties.” the word tasted bitter on your tongue. it had always come down to that, hadn’t it? duty to the crown, to the kingdom, to your family. and now, duty to heeseung.

the silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. heeseung turned away, moving toward the window where the heavy drapes framed the view of the darkened palace gardens. his silhouette was stark against the faint glow of moonlight, his posture stiff, almost defensive.

after a long moment, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. “i’ll sleep over there.” he gestured to the chaise near the window, a fine piece of furniture that now seemed woefully out of place in this awkward, tension-filled room. “you can have the bed.”

you blinked, surprised by his offer. it was the last thing you expected from him, but it was a relief nonetheless. “you don’t have to—”

“i’m not doing this for you,” he interrupted, his voice firm, but not unkind. “i just don’t want to make this any more difficult than it already is.”

with that, he moved toward the chaise, gathering a pillow and blanket from the wardrobe. his actions were efficient, almost mechanical, as if he had already resigned himself to this fate. he didn’t look at you as he arranged the blanket over the chaise.

you stood there, feeling a strange mix of emotions—relief, awkwardness, and something else, something heavier that you couldn’t quite place. this was your wedding night, but it was nothing like you had ever imagined. there was no closeness, no warmth—just two people bound together by obligation and circumstance.

finally, you moved toward the bed, the thick carpets muffling your steps. the soft fabric of your gown felt heavy as you climbed beneath the covers, though they provided no comfort. you lay there, staring up at the intricate canopy above, your mind racing. this bed, this room—none of it felt like yours.

heeseung settled on the chaise, his back to you, the distance between you both feeling vast despite the small room. the silence was oppressive, each second dragging on longer than the last. you wondered if he was as uneasy as you were, or if he had already steeled himself to this new reality.

for a long while, neither of you spoke, the only sound in the room the faint rustling of fabric as you shifted beneath the covers. the weight of the day, of the vows, of your new title, pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe.

finally, you couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “heeseung,” you whispered, unsure if you even wanted him to respond.

he didn’t turn, but his voice was low and steady when he answered. “what?”

you hesitated, searching for the right words. “do you think... do you think this will ever get easier?”

there was a long pause before he responded, his voice quiet, almost resigned. “i don’t know.”

and with that, the conversation ended. heeseung remained silent, his back still turned to you, and you knew there was nothing more to say. you turned onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you, though they offered little warmth. the room felt too big, too empty, despite his presence.

eventually, exhaustion crept in, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts. but even as sleep began to claim you, a cold, sinking feeling settled in your chest. this was your life now—bound to a man you barely knew, a man who had been your enemy for years, and yet, somehow, your husband.

and as you drifted off into uneasy sleep, the last thought that crossed your mind was how strange it felt to be lying just feet away from heeseung, yet feeling as though he was a world away.

the morning after the wedding dawned cold and gray, mirroring the lingering tension between you and heeseung. you woke up in the large, empty bed, the space next to you untouched, a stark reminder of the distance that had been established on your wedding night. the air in the room felt thick, suffocating, as if the very walls were pressing in on you, reminding you of your new reality.

as you sat up, the unfamiliarity of your surroundings only worsened the tightness in your chest. this was your new life. not just this bed, but this room, this palace—heeseung’s palace—and you would share it with a man who barely spoke to you, who looked at you with that same cold distance he had always shown.

you dressed quickly, your movements mechanical, trying not to think too much. the maids moved around you silently, well-trained and efficient, but you could feel their eyes on you. it was impossible to escape the fact that everyone knew. the entire kingdom knew the story—the princess who had run away, and her sister forced to take her place. the whispers would never stop.

when you finally made your way downstairs to the grand dining room, heeseung was already seated at the long table, a plate of food in front of him. he didn’t look up when you entered, simply continued cutting into his meal with precise, practised movements. you hesitated for a moment, then took your seat across from him.

the silence was unbearable.

you picked at your food, barely tasting it, glancing at heeseung from time to time. his expression was as unreadable as ever, his attention focused on the papers beside his plate—likely matters of the kingdom that required his attention. he was already immersed in his duties, the weight of his impending kingship pressing down on him just as heavily as your new role as his wife weighed on you.

finally, you couldn’t stand it any longer. “do you plan to ignore me for the rest of our lives?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

heeseung didn’t look up immediately, taking his time to finish his bite and set down his utensils with deliberate care. when he finally met your gaze, his expression was cool, detached. “i’m not ignoring you.”

you scoffed, unable to hide your frustration. “you’ve barely spoken to me since the wedding.”

he raised an eyebrow, his tone as calm as ever. “what would you like me to say?”

the question took you off guard. you hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. you opened your mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond. what did you want him to say? that he regretted everything as much as you did? that he hated this arrangement, too? or perhaps you wanted him to acknowledge the years of bitterness between you, to admit that this marriage was a farce.

instead, you said, “we’re married now, heeseung. we have to live together. we can’t keep pretending the other doesn’t exist.”

his jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. “i’m aware of that.”

you waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. the silence stretched on once again, thicker than before, suffocating in its awkwardness. you pushed your plate away, no longer interested in eating. “fine,” you muttered under your breath, standing abruptly. “i suppose i’ll just get used to it, then.”

you turned to leave, but his voice stopped you. “you don’t have to like this any more than i do, but we have responsibilities now.”

you paused, your back to him, your hands clenched at your sides. “responsibilities,” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. it seemed like that was all your life had ever been reduced to���duty, obligation, and responsibilities.

without another word, you left the dining room, the heavy doors closing behind you with a soft thud. you could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you even more as you walked through the halls of the palace, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. you weren’t just trapped in this marriage—you were trapped in this life.

days passed, and though you and heeseung were forced to share the same space, your interactions remained minimal, stilted. in the mornings, you would find him already at the breakfast table, poring over documents and barely acknowledging your presence. he would spend his days attending council meetings and handling matters of state, leaving you to navigate the palace on your own, feeling more like a guest in your own home than its mistress.

at night, he would retire to the chambers late, often when you were already lying in bed, pretending to sleep. he would quietly take his place on the chaise near the window, far enough away to avoid any awkwardness, but close enough that his presence was a constant reminder of the divide between you.

it was during these nights that the loneliness settled in most heavily. the silence of the room, broken only by the occasional rustling of fabric or the soft crackle of the fireplace, was suffocating. you had grown accustomed to sleeping alone, but now, knowing heeseung was just a few feet away, the distance between you felt almost unbearable. there was an unspoken understanding that neither of you wanted to bridge the gap.

one evening, after yet another day of awkward meals and tense silences, you found yourself in the library, one of the few places in the palace where you felt at peace. the vast room was filled with shelves upon shelves of books, their spines worn and familiar. you had always loved to read, finding solace in the stories and histories of others when your own life felt too overwhelming.

you were seated by the window, the late afternoon sun casting a soft glow over the pages of your book, when the door creaked open. you looked up, surprised to see heeseung standing in the doorway. he paused for a moment, as if uncertain whether to enter or leave, his eyes scanning the room before they settled on you.

“may i join you?” he asked, his voice unusually soft.

you blinked, caught off guard by his request. this was the first time he had sought you out since the wedding, and the suddenness of it left you momentarily speechless. you nodded, unsure of what else to do. “of course.”

heeseung crossed the room, moving with his usual grace, and took a seat in the armchair opposite you. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet of the library enveloping you both. he seemed content to sit in silence, his gaze wandering to the bookshelves that lined the walls.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “this is... one of the quieter rooms.”

you raised an eyebrow, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “it’s a library, heeseung. of course it’s quiet.”

to your surprise, he chuckled softly, though it was a dry, humourless sound. “fair enough.”

silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t as suffocating. there was something almost... peaceful about it, the weight of your shared presence not as unbearable as it had been before. you watched him out of the corner of your eye, noticing how tired he looked. the weight of his responsibilities was evident in the slight furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

after a while, you set your book down on your lap, deciding to break the silence. “it must be difficult,” you said quietly. “taking on so much.”

heeseung didn’t answer right away, his gaze still focused on the shelves, but eventually, he nodded. “it is.”

you hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, softer this time. “you don’t have to carry it all alone, you know.”

he turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something softer than the cold indifference you had grown accustomed to.

“and what would you suggest?” he asked, his voice quiet but not unkind.

“i don’t know,” you admitted. “but we’re in this together, whether we like it or not.”

heeseung’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. it wasn’t much, but it was the first step—however small—toward something more than just forced cohabitation.

the shift in your relationship came faster than you expected. it started with a challenge—a reckless, unspoken dare that neither of you could resist.

it had been a clear, crisp day, the first after several weeks of rain. you were restless, tired of the palace walls and the constant burden of your new role. you had gone to the stables, hoping to take one of the horses out for a ride, needing to feel the wind in your hair and the ground beneath you. but when you arrived, heeseung was already there, adjusting the reins of his own horse.

you paused in the doorway, surprised to see him. “you ride?”

he glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “you sound surprised.”

“i am,” you admitted. “i’ve never seen you ride before.”

he chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

the challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn’t resist rising to it. “care to prove it?” you asked, moving toward your own horse.

heeseung’s smirk widened. “what do you have in mind?”

you mounted your horse swiftly, the thrill of the challenge already coursing through your veins. “a race.”

heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “you think you can beat me?”

“i know i can,” you shot back, turning your horse toward the open field beyond the stables.

without another word, you spurred your horse into motion, not waiting for his response. behind you, you heard heeseung’s laughter, low and rich, before the sound of hooves thundering against the ground told you he had accepted the challenge.

you raced through the fields, the wind whipping through your hair, the thrill of the chase making your heart race. heeseung was right behind you, and you could feel the tension building, the competitive edge between you sparking like fire. it was like being children again, challenging each other at every turn, pushing each other to the limit.

but this time, it was different. the stakes were higher, the tension thicker, and the way heeseung looked at you when he finally caught up to you sent a shiver down your spine.

when he finally pulled his horse beside yours, you were both breathless, your faces flushed with adrenaline. you glanced over at him, and the look in his eyes—intense, dark, heated—made your pulse quicken.

“not bad,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges.

you smirked, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding. “you almost kept up.”

heeseung leaned in just slightly, his gaze locking with yours. “almost?” he murmured, his voice sending a jolt through you.

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. the space between you was too close, the air charged with something you weren’t quite ready to name. his eyes lingered on your lips for just a moment too long, and you could feel the heat of his presence, the tension that had always existed between you now manifesting in a way that was far more dangerous.

before either of you could say anything, heeseung pulled back, his smirk returning as if nothing had happened. “we’ll call it a draw,” he said, though there was a teasing edge to his voice.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, shaking your head with a laugh. “you wish.”

but as you rode back to the palace, the tension between you remained, simmering beneath the surface. it was no longer the resentment of old enemies, but something far more complex, far more dangerous. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering what would happen if that tension ever boiled over.

later that night, the air was thick with the remnants of the day’s energy. you couldn’t sleep, your mind still racing from the ride and the way heeseung had looked at you—how close he had come, how your heart had nearly betrayed you in that moment of suspended anticipation.

you wandered the halls of the palace aimlessly, your footsteps soft against the marble floors. the palace at night was a different place, quiet and still, the shadows long and heavy. it felt like a place where secrets lingered in every corner, where the walls whispered of things that could never be said aloud.

as you passed by the study, you noticed the faint glow of light beneath the door. curiosity piqued, you pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. heeseung was there, seated at the desk, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. he was reading, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he focused on the page in front of him.

you hesitated, but before you could turn away, he looked up, catching sight of you. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. then, without breaking eye contact, heeseung set the book aside.

“couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, intimate in the quiet of the room.

you shook your head, stepping into the room. “no. you?”

heeseung’s gaze flicked over you, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin heat under his scrutiny. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone soft but laced with that same dangerous tension that had been building all day.

“about what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you moved closer, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

heeseung’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. “about you,” he said quietly. “about us.”

the weight of his words settled in the space between you, thick and intoxicating. about you. about us. it echoed in your mind, stirring something deep within you that you had tried to ignore for far too long. you weren’t sure if it was the late hour, the dim candlelight, or the fact that you had been dancing around each other for weeks now, but something inside you snapped.

your breath hitched as you looked at him, his eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t quite name. but it was there—undeniable, pulsing in the space between you. and now that it had been spoken into existence, you couldn’t unsee it.

“what about us?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. it wasn’t just curiosity anymore. it was a challenge.

heeseung’s gaze flicked to your lips, and the tension in the room intensified, coiling tighter and tighter until it felt like the air itself might shatter from the pressure. he stood slowly, his movements deliberate, and took a step toward you, closing the already-small distance between you.

“there’s always been something between us,” he said, his voice low, rough. his eyes never left yours, burning with intensity. “even when we hated each other.”

your heart was pounding now, so loud you were sure he could hear it. you wanted to deny it, to tell him that he was wrong, that it had always been pure hatred. but that would’ve been a lie. you knew it as well as he did—whatever had always been there between you, it had never been simple.

“and what is it now?” you asked, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct told you to look away. to run.

heeseung took another step closer, his hand reaching up slowly, as though giving you the chance to pull away. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. his fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. his hand lingered there, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“maybe we’ve been fighting the wrong battle,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost tender. the warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin, and you felt your pulse quicken.

your throat tightened. every word he said felt like a dangerous line, one that you were teetering on the edge of crossing. the tension between you had always been a fire—burning too hot, too fast. and now, it felt like it was about to consume you both.

heeseung’s thumb brushed over your bottom lip, and your breath caught in your throat. his touch was tentative, as though he wasn’t quite sure if this was real or if you would pull away at any moment.

but you didn’t.

instead, you took a step closer, closing the gap completely. the air between you was charged, thick with unspoken desire and the weight of all the years you had spent fighting against each other. your body was betraying you, leaning into him, drawn by a force you had denied for too long.

heeseung’s eyes darkened as he leaned in, his lips barely an inch from yours, the heat between you almost unbearable now. you could feel the tension in every muscle, the way his hand trembled slightly as it cupped your cheek, the way your own body was responding without your permission.

then, in a breathless moment that felt like it stretched on forever, he closed the distance.

his lips pressed against yours—soft at first, testing, as though he wasn’t sure you would let him. but the moment your lips met his, something ignited between you. the kiss deepened, filled with all the pent-up frustration and longing that had been building for so long. it was a clash of emotions—anger, desire, need—all colliding in that single moment.

you responded instantly, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. the kiss was rough, almost desperate, as though you were both trying to make up for years of missed chances in that single moment.

his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped against his lips at the feeling of his body pressed so close to yours. the intensity of it was overwhelming, but you didn’t want it to stop. you didn’t want to think. you just wanted to feel.

but then, as quickly as it started, heeseung pulled back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. his hands still gripped your waist, holding you in place as though he couldn’t quite let go yet.

“this isn’t... what i expected,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. his breath was warm against your skin, and his eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for an answer in your gaze.

you swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. “what did you expect?” you asked softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened for a moment, his eyes darkening once again. “i didn’t expect you to feel this way.” his voice was low, almost a growl, filled with the same intensity that had been building between you all night.

you opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. you had no idea what to say, no idea how to explain the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you. all you knew was that everything had changed in that kiss.

“i don’t know what i feel,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely audible in the heavy silence of the room.

heeseung’s lips twitched into a small, almost sad smile. “neither do i.” he stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact between you, and you immediately missed the warmth of his body against yours.

“but whatever this is... it’s dangerous,” he continued, his eyes locked on yours, as though warning you. “we’ve always been enemies. we don’t know how to be anything else.”

you felt a lump form in your throat at his words, because deep down, you knew he was right. but that didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the desire for something more—for the possibility of what could be.

“i don’t want to be your enemy anymore,” you said softly, the confession surprising even you.

heeseung’s eyes widened slightly at your words, his expression unreadable. for a moment, you thought he might say something—might admit that he didn’t want to be your enemy either. but then, he shook his head, the walls between you coming back up, brick by brick.

“this doesn’t change anything,” he said quietly, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

and with that, he turned and left the room, leaving you standing there in the soft glow of candlelight, your heart pounding and your mind reeling from the kiss that had shifted the entire balance between you.

as the door closed softly behind him, you exhaled a shaky breath, your fingers brushing your lips where his had been moments before.

everything had changed.

the royal court was buzzing with tension, and for once, the tension wasn’t between you and heeseung. the kingdom was on edge, not from war or rebellion, but from something far more insidious—political manoeuvring. rival noble houses were plotting against heeseung’s rule, questioning his right to ascend to the throne, especially after the sudden marriage to you. the whispers had grown louder over the past few weeks, the courtiers’ gazes sharper, waiting for the first misstep.

you had known court life would be full of power plays and alliances, but this was different. it was personal. every snide comment, every hushed conversation behind closed doors, felt like an attack on your marriage, on your family’s legacy. and worst of all, it felt like an attack on you.

one afternoon, as you made your way through the palace corridors, you overheard a group of nobles—close to your family—voicing their displeasure over your sudden marriage to heeseung. it was the same old song—how your sister should have been the bride, how you were never meant for this role, how heeseung marrying you was a strategic disaster.

you felt your blood run cold, but you kept walking, your head held high. you had grown used to these remarks, but today, they stung deeper. not because they questioned your worth, but because they reflected the deep-seated insecurity you had always carried.

that night, you found yourself alone in the study, staring out the window at the darkening sky. the weight of the court’s judgement, the impossible standards, the constant comparisons to your sister—they were suffocating. and then there was heeseung, whose coldness had thawed just enough to show you glimpses of something deeper, something real. but he was still heeseung—your husband, your childhood rival, and now the man who held your future in his hands.

the door creaked open behind you, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him. you had grown attuned to his presence, the way the air shifted whenever he entered a room.

“what’s wrong?” his voice was quieter than usual, but still carrying that edge of command. he always knew when something was off, as if he could sense the turmoil swirling inside you.

you didn’t answer immediately, your gaze fixed on the stars outside. “they’re saying we’re not suited for each other,” you murmured, finally turning to face him. “that i’m not fit to be queen. that you made a mistake.”

heeseung’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar way, but this time, it wasn’t directed at you.

“let them talk,” he said flatly. “they’re just waiting for us to fail.”

“and what if they’re right?” the words slipped out before you could stop them, the fear and doubt bubbling to the surface. “i was never meant to marry you. this isn’t the life i was prepared for.”

heeseung stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. then, to your surprise, he closed the distance between you, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“i didn’t choose you because you were an easy choice,” he said, his voice low but intense. “i chose you because you’re stronger than you realise.”

you blinked, taken aback by the conviction in his words. heeseung wasn’t one to offer praise lightly, and hearing it now, in this moment, felt more intimate than anything he had ever said to you before.

“there are plenty of people who want to see us fail,” he continued, his grip tightening slightly. “but they don’t matter. what matters is that we don’t give them the satisfaction. we fight together.”

the intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you saw beyond the cold exterior he had always shown you. there was something deeper there, something raw and unspoken. a partnership.

but the closeness also brought something else—a heat that had always been there between you, simmering beneath the surface. his hands lingered on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the bare skin just above your collarbone, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air thicker.

“you think i’m strong?” you asked, your voice quieter now, tinged with something more vulnerable. something real.

heeseung’s gaze flicked down to your lips, just for a moment, before returning to your eyes. his voice was rough when he spoke, low and filled with an unspoken promise. “i’ve always known.”

the charged air between you was impossible to ignore now. his fingers slid from your shoulders to your arms, the touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. it wasn’t just the weight of responsibility pressing down on you—it was him, his closeness, the undeniable pull you had both been dancing around for weeks.

you could feel the tension in every inch of your body, your heart racing as heeseung’s hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer, but still leaving just enough space for doubt. he hesitated, as if waiting for you to push him away, to remind him of the enmity that had defined your relationship for so long.

but you didn’t. instead, you leaned into him, your hands tentatively reaching up to rest on his chest. the fabric of his shirt was soft under your fingers, but beneath it, you could feel the steady beat of his heart, as rapid as your own.

“maybe i’ve been wrong about you,” you whispered, your breath hitching as the tension between you reached a breaking point.

heeseung’s eyes darkened at your words, his lips hovering just inches from yours. “maybe you have,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. but there was something softer there too, something almost tender.

before you could talk yourself out of it, you closed the distance between you and kissed him.

the kiss was like nothing you had ever experienced—fierce, desperate, and full of the years of unresolved tension between you. it was as if all the walls you had built around yourselves were crumbling in an instant, leaving nothing but the raw, undeniable attraction that had always simmered beneath the surface.

heeseung responded instantly, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. his lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressing against yours as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

it was overwhelming, the intensity of the moment, the way your bodies seemed to fit perfectly together, the way every touch sent a shockwave of desire coursing through you. you had spent so long fighting him, fighting this, and now, as his hands slid up your back, holding you close, you wondered why you had ever resisted.

when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. heeseung’s grip on your waist didn’t loosen, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat as wild as your own.

“we can’t keep pretending,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your lips still tingling from the kiss.

heeseung’s eyes met yours, the vulnerability and uncertainty in his gaze mirroring your own. “no, we can’t,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion.

for a moment, the world hung in the balance. you had crossed a line, and there was no going back. everything between you had shifted, and the question now wasn’t whether you would move forward—it was how.

heeseung’s thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch so tender it nearly broke you. “we’re in this together,” he said softly, the weight of his words heavy with meaning.

this time, there was no need to say anything more. you both understood what had changed between you, even if neither of you was ready to fully admit it. and though the path ahead was uncertain, you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t facing it alone anymore.

weeks passed, and with each passing day, things between you and heeseung slowly shifted. the cold, sharp walls that had once kept you apart were crumbling, revealing a warmth and understanding that neither of you had anticipated. where there had once been biting words and icy glares, there was now laughter, quiet conversations, and small gestures of affection.

the palace felt different. it was lighter now, with the growing sense of partnership between you and heeseung. your bickering had been replaced with genuine care, and though the wounds of the past hadn't fully healed, you were both learning to forgive. but it wasn’t just the emotional connection that was shifting—there was something deeper brewing beneath the surface. unspoken feelings, simmering tension.

it wasn’t until a grand banquet in honour of a visiting prince from a neighbouring kingdom that these feelings came to a head. you stood at the centre of the ballroom, dressed in a gown that glimmered under the candlelight. it hugged your figure perfectly, catching the attention of more than just heeseung. the prince—prince seojun—had been particularly charming throughout the evening, his eyes lingering on you a little too long, his compliments a little too bold.

“you are by far the most captivating presence in this room, your highness,” seojun murmured, his voice low as he leaned in slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “if i had known such beauty awaited me here, i would have visited sooner.”

you laughed politely, glancing over your shoulder, searching for heeseung in the crowd. he was across the room, deep in conversation with some nobles, but even from the distance, you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and intense.

seojun continued, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he leaned closer. “perhaps we could steal a moment away from the crowd? i would love to know more about the woman behind such an enchanting smile.”

before you could respond, a sudden shift in the air caught your attention. heeseung appeared at your side, his posture tense, his expression a mix of barely contained irritation and something else—something more possessive.

“princess,” heeseung’s voice was smooth, but there was a dangerous edge to it. his hand slid around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side. the claim was unmistakable. “i believe your dance card is full for the evening.”

seojun’s smirk faltered slightly as he glanced between the two of you, sensing the tension. heeseung’s eyes never left the prince, cold and unyielding.

“of course,” seojun replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. “i wouldn’t dream of overstepping. after all,” his gaze flickered to you, then back to heeseung, “she’s your wife.”

the words hung in the air for a moment, charged with unspoken meaning. seojun bowed slightly, a smirk still playing on his lips, before taking his leave. but even as he walked away, you could feel the lingering weight of his gaze.

you turned to heeseung, about to make a light-hearted remark about the interaction, but the look on his face stopped you. his eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, and his grip on your waist was firm—almost possessive.

“did he touch you?” heeseung asked, his voice low and tight.

you raised an eyebrow, surprised by his tone. “barely,” you replied, trying to play it off with a soft laugh. “why? are you jealous?”

his eyes flickered with something dangerous as he leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. “you’re my wife. i don’t like other men thinking they can take what’s mine.”

your heart skipped a beat at his words. the possessiveness in his tone, the way his body pressed protectively against yours—it was unlike anything you had ever experienced with heeseung. you had always seen him as cold, distant, but this... this was different. there was fire in his eyes, and you could feel it burning between you, a tension that neither of you had acknowledged until now.

“and what if i enjoy a little attention now and then?” you teased, testing the boundaries, wanting to see how far he would go.

heeseung’s eyes darkened even more, and in one swift motion, he pulled you even closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he leaned in, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “i don’t care how many men look at you, but remember this—” his voice dropped, sending shivers down your spine, “you belong to me and i belong to you.”

a thrill ran through you at his words, and for a moment, you were speechless, your mind spinning from the intensity of his claim. the ballroom, the crowd, even prince seojun—all of it faded away as heeseung’s gaze held you captive. you could feel the heat of his body against yours, the possessiveness in his touch, and for the first time, you realised that this wasn’t just some marriage of convenience anymore.

heeseung cared—more than he was willing to admit.

your breath hitched as you looked up at him, your eyes searching his, trying to read the emotions flickering behind them. “and what about you, heeseung?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “do you want me to be yours?”

his eyes softened for just a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. “you already are,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “and i’m not letting you forget it.”

the banquet had left the air between you and heeseung charged with an intensity that neither of you could ignore. his possessiveness, the fierce look in his eyes when he claimed you as his wife in front of prince seojun, had stirred something inside you—something that had been simmering for far too long.

as the last of the guests departed and the palace quieted down for the night, the tension remained, lingering like an unspoken promise. heeseung walked beside you in silence as you both made your way through the dimly lit corridors toward your chambers. though no words passed between you, the air was thick with anticipation, the unspoken pull between you stronger than ever.

when you reached your shared chambers, heeseung opened the door for you, his gaze never leaving you as you stepped inside. you could feel his eyes on you, burning with a need that matched your own. the soft glow of the candlelight cast long shadows across the room, but all you could focus on was the man standing behind you, his presence overwhelming.

you moved toward the vanity, fingers trembling slightly as you began to remove your jewellery. you were acutely aware of heeseung standing behind you, the weight of his gaze almost tangible as he watched your every movement. his silence spoke volumes, filled with desire and unspoken emotions that neither of you had fully confronted until now.

the tension was unbearable. finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, you glanced at him through the reflection in the mirror, your voice soft but steady. “you’ve been quiet,” you murmured, meeting his intense gaze. “what’s on your mind?”

he didn’t answer immediately. instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against the bare skin of your shoulder. the touch was light, tentative, but it sent a shiver down your spine. his fingers lingered, tracing the delicate curve of your shoulder before he leaned in, his breath warm against your neck.

“i didn’t like how he looked at you,” heeseung finally admitted, his voice low and rough with suppressed emotion. his eyes met yours in the mirror, dark with jealousy and something more—something deeper. “or the way he made you laugh.”

your heart raced at the possessiveness in his tone. you turned to face him, taking in the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes blazed with something primal. his emotions were raw, laid bare before you in a way that heeseung had never allowed himself to show before.

“it was harmless,” you replied, stepping closer to him, your voice softening. “but i can’t say i minded the way you stepped in.”

his gaze darkened, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the heat of his body seeping into yours, the hard lines of his frame pressing against your softness. his eyes locked onto yours, filled with unspoken desire, but also with something more—something tender.

“i’m not the kind of man who likes to share,” he said, his voice a low growl as he leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours. “especially not when it comes to you.”

your breath hitched at his words, your pulse quickening as the fire between you flared even hotter. you couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through you at his possessive tone, the way his hands gripped you as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“and what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, your voice daring, testing the boundaries as your lips brushed his, teasingly close but not quite touching.

heeseung’s response was immediate. his lips crashed against yours, fierce and hungry, as if he had been holding back for far too long. the kiss was searing, filled with all the emotions you had both kept hidden. his hands roamed over your body, possessive yet tender, as though he was staking his claim but also worshipping every inch of you.

you responded just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, needing to feel every part of him against you. the tension between you, the unspoken desire, it all poured out in that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours with a need that matched your own.

heeseung’s hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bed. the air between you was electric, charged with desire and the intensity of emotions that neither of you had allowed to surface until now. he laid you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze dark and filled with a hunger that made your heart race.

for a moment, he paused, his fingers brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of what had just passed between you. his eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability behind them—the raw emotion that he had been hiding behind his cold exterior for so long.

“are you sure?” he asked, his voice husky but laced with care, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull away, to stop this before it went too far.

you gazed up at him, your heart swelling with the overwhelming emotions coursing through you. heeseung, the man you had once considered your rival, your enemy, was now looking at you with a tenderness that took your breath away. you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumb brushing softly over his cheek.

“i’m sure,” you whispered, pulling him down into another kiss, softer this time, but no less filled with the emotions swirling between you.

what followed was slow, deliberate, and filled with a tenderness that you had never expected from heeseung. his hands moved over your body with care, as though he was savouring every touch, every breath. the fierceness from earlier softened into something more intimate, more meaningful, as he explored you with reverence, his lips following the path of his hands.

your name fell from his lips like a prayer, whispered against your skin in the quiet moments between kisses. heeseung’s touch was both possessive and gentle, as though he was claiming you but also offering himself to you in return. the intensity of the moment was overwhelming, but it was the tenderness in his gaze, the softness of his touch, that made your heart ache with something deeper than mere desire.

and as the night stretched on, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony, you realised that this wasn’t just about passion—it was about the connection you had been fighting against for so long. the rivalry, the bickering, the walls you had both built between you—it all crumbled away, leaving only the raw truth of what you felt for one another.

when it was over, you lay beside each other, your breathing heavy, your bodies tangled in the sheets. the room was quiet now, the only sound was the soft rustle of the fabric and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

heeseung turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. his eyes, once so cold and guarded, were warm now, filled with an emotion that made your heart skip a beat. he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you and holding you against his chest as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. it was comforting, grounding you in the quiet aftermath of everything that had just passed between you. his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, soothing and gentle, as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

neither of you spoke, but words weren’t necessary. the silence was filled with a sense of peace, of contentment that neither of you had known before. heeseung’s touch was soft now, filled with care as he held you close, his body warm and protective against yours.

and in that quiet, intimate moment, you realised something: this was more than just passion, more than just desire. it was something real, something lasting.

heeseung’s hand continued to trace gentle patterns on your back, his lips brushing your temple as he whispered softly, “are you alright?”

you smiled against his chest, your heart swelling with warmth at the tenderness in his voice. “more than alright,” you murmured, snuggling closer to him.

heeseung let out a soft sigh, his arms tightening around you as if he never wanted to let go. and as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the weight of the past finally lifted, leaving only the warmth of the present and the promise of a future you were both ready to embrace.

the next morning, you woke to find heeseung already up, standing by the window of your shared chambers, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the early morning light. he looked deep in thought, his expression pensive as he gazed out over the kingdom.

quietly, you approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. he stiffened for a moment at the contact but quickly relaxed, his hands covering yours as he let out a soft sigh.

“you’re up early,” you murmured, resting your cheek against his back.

“i couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “i was thinking about everything that’s changed.”

you smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “a lot has changed, hasn’t it?”

heeseung turned in your arms, his expression soft as he looked down at you. “i never thought this would work,” he admitted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “but i’m glad i was wrong.”

you gazed up at him, your heart swelling with warmth. the man standing before you was the same heeseung you had known all your life, but now, you saw him for who he truly was—not your enemy, not your rival, but your partner. your husband.

“i’m glad too,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips.

and in that moment, you knew that this was your new beginning. the past, with all its bitterness and tension, was behind you. what lay ahead was a future you hadn’t expected but one you were ready to embrace—together.

as heeseung pulled you into a gentle kiss, the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window, you knew that this was the start of something beautiful. your marriage, once forged out of obligation and resentment, had grown into something real, something lasting.

and as you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you realised that sometimes, the best love stories were the ones you never saw coming.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

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taglist: @punchbug9-blog @firstclassjaylee @capri-cuntz @addictedtohobi @jaysfavoritegirl

[luveline]

hotch’s daughter and him looking thru baby n childhood pics n realizing just how much they missed angst (her missing out on having a present father n him missing out on raising her)

Aaron’s winded when he sees you that morning. You’re smiling, in sweatpants and a hoodie with a bag on your shoulder that promises an overnight stay, but what hits hardest is the way you light up when he opens the front door. He sees you coming through the window and can’t wait for you to knock. 

“Hey, honey, you’re early!” he says. 

“I know,” you say, stopping just a paving stone away, “but I got this magic jigsaw for Jack that I thought he’d like. Once you complete it you can move it around and create a new jigsaw in the middle.” You smile. “You look happy. Good breakfast?” 

“I’m happy to see you, that’s all.” 

You cross that last step. “Thanks, dad.” You bite your bottom lip, ever so slightly bashful. 

He literally couldn’t be happier. “Did you eat?” 

Aaron brings you inside. Jack is already awake and eating his second breakfast in a meandering picking by the TV. 

You love being a big sister. It’s all the more endearing. “Hey, babe. What are you upto?” you ask. 

Jack whirls and sends a couple of grapes flying. “Oh my gosh yes!” he says, to your laughter and Aaron’s disbelief. He races across the rug in a blur of blue pyjamas to wrap himself around your thighs, face pressed to your hip. “You’re here!” 

“We said Saturday sleepover, right?” 

You get down on your knees to hug him. Your arms around his back, your face to his, you aren’t as rough as you could be —how do sisters hug their brothers? Aaron doesn’t know. But you rub his back in a gentle up and down and lower your voice to say hello. “Hi, Jack. You’re happy to see me?” 

“I’m so happy.” 

“Me too, I’m so happy. I brought you something.” 

“A present?” Jack asks, leaning out of your arms. 

“Not really, it’s for me and you, but I brought you cookies too.” 

“Dad,” Jack says, “can we have some?” 

Aaron holds up a finger. One cookie is enough sugar for the morning. “We can have a couple more after dinner tonight, okay?” 

You take the cookies from your bag, a huge box of palm-sized cookies, chocolate chips shaped like stars, the best kind of indulgence from the bakery not far from here. Aaron catches a look at the inside of your bag, spying a slim white photo album against your weekly medication divider and the plastic wrapped jigsaw puzzle. 

“What’s the album?” he asks. 

“Oh.” You slide your thumb along the sticker that seals the cookies and crack them open for Jack to take his spoils. “They’re my baby photos.” 

He stills. “They are?” 

“And some of me growing up.” You tip your head at him and smile. A little shy, more happy. “I was thinking about Jack, how we both do that chokey laugh when we’re tired, and I wondered if we had any other similarities. And then I realised you’ve never actually seen any of my photos. Would you want to look at them?” 

“Please,” he says immediately. “Yes. I’d love to see them.” 

You lay the album out on the coffee table. Aaron sits beside you on the couch, and Jack sits on his feet, and together you look through your baby album one page at a time. At first, he’s quiet. He has no idea what to say. You are a beautiful kid, you’re perfect, little baby you with a pacifier on your tummy, or in the summer sun with mud on your little hands, wearing a pink dress with matching canvas shoes and a smile so wide he can see all your baby teeth, or sitting beside a fish tank with a party hat on. 

His favourite is a photograph of you that’s been printed oddly, more sepia than colour, where you look to be eight or nine years old. He can see everything in your adult face right there in ink, your smile, the trusting warmth in your eyes when you love the person it’s directed at. Maybe he’s full of himself, but he swears it’s his smile, and Jack’s smile. Hotchner through and through. 

“I wish I’d seen you in person,” he says quietly. “Just once.” 

You tease the photograph from the plastic sleeve and offer it to him. “Sorry.” 

He doesn’t want you to be sorry. Aaron takes the photograph and stares at it against his leg, your little face, your hands behind your back, your left knee wrapped in a bandage. “We missed out on so much,” he says softly. 

“I know.” 

He places the photo on the armrest, precious and needing a frame. You melt into his arm as he wraps it around your shoulder, and you let him kiss your temple, even if he doesn’t deserve to do it yet. He’s polite about it, he knows his sincerity might feel gratuitous to you —after all, he missed out on so much. But you don’t go rigid at his affection, you just breathe. 

“I would’ve loved to have seen it,” he says, too old for tears, and yet a warmth collects behind his eyes anyhow. He won’t cry, only the feeling is there and aching as you move back and give him a typical Hotchner smile. Like he’s being silly, and like you love him. 

“It’ll be okay,” you say, “you’ve got, what, a good ten years left? You can see my golden years.” 

He laughs suddenly. “Ten? How old do you think I am?” 

“You act like you’re nearing seventy.” 

“Oh, I do?” 

You roll your eyes and lean across the photo album for another cookie. “You do! I wish we didn’t have to wait so long to meet, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere. You won’t find me so charming in a few years, so don’t worry. Now, could you leave me and Jack alone for a bit? I’m trying to sneak him another cookie and you’re getting in the way.” 

Aaron hugs you whether you want him to or not, a tight squeeze that you always seem to enjoy, before doing as you’ve asked, promising to find the jigsaw board in the garage so you and Jack can start the newest one. 

“Did you miss him?” he hears Jack asks inexplicably. 

“Who, dad?” Aaron watches you from the door that leads into the garage. He can only see your hands from this angle, your left one landing on Jack’s shoulder for a small squeeze. “I missed him so much you couldn’t believe it.” 

“Thank you for the cookie.” 

“You’re welcome! I missed you too, you know? I have to make up for all my lost time being your big sister. Here, you can hide this one in your pocket, if you want. Just don’t forget it’s there.” 

[random-chaos-and-stuff]

SNOTLOUT SNOTLOUT OI OI OI

Wish I wasn’t in a fandom that has been drowned in shame since the 9 realms so I could be like “I love snotlout” and 100 other people would reply “SNOTLOUT SNOTLOUT OI OI OI”

[lipringlrh]

sneaking around | LS2

summary: hiding your relationship from your brother is hard, should you tell him? should you not?

pairing: logan sargeant x fem!reader, oscar piastri x sister!reader

an: logan’s like my fave person ever atm and this is my first time writing for him!! i have a lot of requests for him so expect more !!

requested: yes

word count: 1.2k

warnings: none

feedback and reblogs appreciated !!

…

“Come and see me later?” Logan questioned, slightly mumbling, head facing down watching as his feet kicked the ground back and forth. He wanted nothing more than to hold you or have you within arms length after not seeing you for almost 3 weeks, but due to your very public setting and your brother, Oscar, standing not far away, it was impossible.

“Of course, lo,” you whispered, noticing the instant lighting up of his face. No one in the paddock knew about you and Logan, and no one could for the sole reason of it ever got back to your brother. You were planning on telling him eventually, you weren’t scared too, you knew that eventually he’d come around, but not everybody likes hearing that your little sister and childhood friend have been sneaking around behind your back for six months.

“Good luck today, baby,” he grinned, catching your eyes when he finally looked up. He took one look up and down, making sure to capture every part of you. He wasn’t subtle but you couldn’t scold him now.

You weren’t racing against each other yet, as you had only just started your first year in F2 whilst he started his first year in F1, but you had been doing extremely well, impressing anyone who had seen you. You had a free practice and qualifying today. You were nervous, like usual, but Logan believed in you no matter what.

You chuckled and turned your head away, for a split second making eye contact with Oscar who was standing at the opposite side of the room. He was looking at you intensely, staring you both down.

You and Logan had never particularly talked until recently, Oscar believed, and he was becoming more and more curious at everything he heard about either of you from the other or anyone else. Months ago he was shocked to find out you had each others number saved in your phones and since then every time you talked you could sense eyes watching you both.

“10 o’clock,” you whispered, “no, Lo-“ You threw your arms up slightly, shaking your head, “you weren’t supposed to look, I was just- great now he’s coming over.”

Like clockwork, you and Logan both turned to face Oscar as he came closer, possibly in the most awkward “we’re hiding something from you” way. Somehow, Logan had moved closer to you and his shoulder rested against yours, relieving his desperation to hold you just a little bit.

“Hey, Osc” you greeted, nudging Logan a bit to try and push him away a little. He response was to immediately nudge you back up, unfortunately much harder, making you lose your balance for a moment before regaining balance.

“You’re both fucking weird,” Oscar laughed, shaking his head. He steadied you with his hand before lightly grabbing your arm to pull you away, “come over here.”

You followed him, not forgetting to turn your head back for one last look at Logan who was unashamedly staring right back at you. He lifted his hand for a little wave before turning it into a phone-shape beside his ear and mouthing “call me.”

You shook your head, giggling, and looked away, trying to focus on what Oscar was saying.

“So there’s nothing there between you two, right?” he paused, stopping walking so he could watch you for any sort of dishonesty.

“What? No, Oscar,” you laughed, lying through your teeth. You carried on walking before he could spot your flustered state causing him to follow right after.

“Promise? Because you’ve never got on like this before and I’m a little worried,” he explained, trying to get you to look at him.

You pretended to throw your head back in disbelief but you didn’t know how believable it was. “No, Oscar, he’s just giving me tips, he was in F2 once, you know,” you try and lighten the situation before spotting Oscar’s trainer walking over.

He grumbles under his breath something that you can’t make out but you’re already leaving before you can think about it too much. You wave both him and his trainer goodbye before aiming to head off back to your team.

———

You snuck into Logan’s room much later than you had planned to, much to both of yours annoyance. You had qualified p4 and whilst usually you’d be annoyed at that, your car wasn’t quite suited to the track so you were more than happy. Logan had finished his free practices and seemed much more confident for this weekend.

The moment you manger to get away from Oscar and your team, you did, and immediately found comfort in Logan’s arms, who had nothing but praise for you for your driving. The conversation changed to focus on the rest of the day when Oscar was brought up again.

“You need to be less obvious, Lo” you giggled, not fully focused on what you were saying but rather on Logan. You were lead half on top of him, half on the bed, but his arms were wrapped around you and his face was only inches above yours. “He’s catching on.”

He just held you tighter and moved one hand up to your hair, pulling your head closer to plant a chaste kiss to your lips, “maybe we should tell him,” he says without any thought, “what’s the worse that could happen?”

He kissed you again, and again, and again until you had to physically hold him back. Your hand held his jaw, keeping it at a safe distance, but it didn’t do much to deter him.

“Logan,” you whined, “he could freak out and- I don’t know, ban us from ever being near each other again?” You were half-joking but the other half of you genuinely didn’t know how your brother would react.

Logan laughed, a deep laugh that you can feel rush through you, and he smiled, his forehead falling forwards to touch yours. “We’ve been sneaking around all this time, I’ll do it again for you,” he promise, “I just want to show my girl off, you just need to let me.”

Your thumb moved back and forth along his jawline, lifting his face up so you could initiate a, this time, much longer and deeper kiss.

Logan’s hands moved to your back, pulling you impossibly closer. You grabbed his shirt into a fist, accidentally letting out a slight moan simultaneously.

His hands travelled lower, eventually manhandling to sit fully on top of his lap. His lips moved slower, brushing over yours with such tenderness and care, professing his love for you whilst he didn’t have the capabilities to speak.

You drew back, breathless, both of you panting against the other. “Let’s tell him tomorrow,” you uttered slowly, still trying to capture your breath.

“You’re thinking about your brother now?” he groaned, his eyes wide, staring up at you, full with love and adoration.

You laughed, dropping your head to rest on his shoulder. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Anything you want, baby,” he grinned, stroking your head, “I’m with you until the end either way.”

…

[yappielestappie]

Some lestappen thoughts in these trying times:

I think Max and Charles have a bond unlike anyone else in F1, even though they’re not that close of friends. I’d even go so far as to say they’re trauma bonded.

We all know Jos was downright horrible. It’s quite reasonable to assume that this was very hard on Max as a child, and that he felt alienated and alone (recall the quote of him saying it would’ve been nice to be able to play football with kids his age, sometimes). The only times he got to hang around with kids his age was on the race track. And who was always there? Always at the top? Always challenging him? Charles Leclerc.

Charles, meanwhile, had the opposite. He had a entire support system built around his racing career. He had both brothers and his godfather with him, and a fathers love to guide him through. In his teens, he lost both Jules and his father, and suddenly, the only consistent familiar part of racing that remainder from his childhood, would have been Max.

Meanwhile, while Charles was suffering this loss, Max was in Formula 1, in a top team, doing quite well, and had picked up a support system (albeit a likely limited one) in Daniel Riccardo. I think Charles was extremely jealous of Max when he also got to F1 in 2018. Their whole lives, they’d been opponents, and then Max beat him to F1 by 3 years & had everything Charles did not (a good seat, a father, an older F1 driver to guide him). I also think that’s why the Austria 2019 podium ended up being such a big conflict. It was a lot more than just a win to Charles. It was proving himself.

Now, they’ve both matured (Daniel helped Max and Seb helped Charles). They can look back on their karting days fondly, and they both recognize that the only real supportive part of their karting careers that still remains, is each other. All the hatred they had for one another has turned into support, and a kind of respect that very few drivers have for one another.

They have something special. It’s undeniable. There’s no other drivers on the grid that have history anything like them (Pierresteban could be discussed but that’s a whole mess). And now I think they’re old enough to realize they have something special.

Max genuinely cares about Charles. It’s obvious. Their racing is so much different to anyone else Max goes wheel to wheel with. Leclerc is the only driver I’ve ever seen him apologize to. The whole “Charlie I’ve got a space for you!” Thing is still blowing my mind. Max talks about Charles like he’s the only one Max actually wants to race, like Charles is the only person worthy of challenging him. He rates Charles over everyone else even when he fucks up “come on Charles man, too many mistakes” comes to mind.

And Charles is the same way right back, he just usually has a bit more shame. It’s worth noting that he speaks highly about a lot of other drivers, but Max always seems special. He compliments max out the wazoo sometimes. It’s clear that he sees Max as the very best - as the benchmark to beat. But more than that, he defends Max just like we do. Charles always supports Max’s moves on Lando, even when they’re clearly in the wrong. He supports Max’s aggressive racing, claims to LIKE it even, when Max is being constantly harassed by the fans and media.

There’s something between them. Some unspoken reason why they support each other like this and the only conclusion I can come to is that the memories they have of each other are inseparable from their memories of racing. They’ve been competing at the top since they were 6 years old. They know how to be rivals better than they know how to do anything else in the world.

I don’t know if they ever hang out outside of F1. I don’t know if we’ll ever see them interact again once Max retires. But I do know that they’ve shaped each other in a way that will impact them until the day they die. Every untainted memory from their childhoods is about each other. All the memories of loss and abuse are separate to their memories of each other. They are the only thing that remains.

The most fundamental part of racing for Max, is beating Charles. And the most fundamental part of racing for Charles, is beating Max. Everyone else on the grid is irrelevant- an obstacle. They are two halves of the same story and I think that’s more beautiful than any romance book I’ve ever read.

oh anon you are so absolutely right. listen for me, it's the fact that we can talk all day about lestappen and ship them or let our imaginations and minds go wild with w/e but fundamentally? at the end of the day? there is also substance to it - even any form of fandom aside, there are simply facts about them that make them such a beautiful dynamic. there is something so mesmerizing about the level on which they drive, perform, their talents and skills and the way they grew up with and around each other in a sense. the beautiful juxtapositions, the red strings of fate, the way their paths kept crossing and intertwining even before they raced each other again (suzuka being max' first proper f1 test drives and then jules etc.)... there is just something cosmic about them that (as stated in some previous post) almost boils down to THEM BOTH BEING LIBRAS which is still driving me insane. the balance. the way this just screams UNIVERSE just as partners in life, as twin flames, as two sides of the same coin, two weights on a scale... again, not even saying this is related to the fandom angle of romance. like you said it almost runs deeper than that. and i, personally, refuse to be normal about it the same way the two of them are never truly normal about each other.

[pinkcowzz]

something about tim & dick’s relationship makes me feel so. !!!

they are both such complex characters and it really makes my heart feel so heavy to think about them for too long.

like. dick created robin out of his parents blood. the costume was inspired by his family's colors. the name was one he was given by his mother and the only reason he took up the role was because he wanted to get justice (revenge really) for his parents death. he was taken in by bruce who was SO YOUNG at the time and who was still learning how to cope with his own loss still. their relationship was built off of that shared grief and understanding. but then one day, dick learned to let go of that grief. he was able to not let it consume and control him. and he grew tired of living in the dark nest that bruce built for them. and bruce doesn't know how to deal with someone else he loves leaving him so he kicks dick out. like yes bruce is dick's father figure of course he is. but he was also his brother in a weird way. dick didn't want or need for his parents to be replaced so bruce offered him something different. he offered him a partnership. and partners are supposed to be equal but somehow bruce ended up placing himself higher than dick and it was suffocating so he had to leave.

and in dicks absence, bruce finds another kid. this time, it's a kid who does need a parent. jason's relationship with bruce is so different than the one that dick had and i have to imagine that it hurt. it hurts to see your father be better for someone else. it makes you think why? why not me? why wasn't i good enough? and to make matters worse bruce gave away dick's blood without a second thought. jason is given the mantle of robin and my god i cannot imagine the pain it caused dick to see someone else flying around in his colors. that was his name. and dick is still just a kid. yeah he's like legally an adult but his prefrontal cortex was nowhere near developed. so he's bitter and short and rude to jason. he has to take time to get used to having another kid at the manor and another kid in his colors but its fine! its fine! he does come around eventually and his guard starts to come down and he commits to being there for jason. but it was too late. dick leaves the planet to be a hero and when he comes back? jason is dead. the kid he was just starting to get used to is dead.

not only is he dead, but he's already in the ground and bruce? bruce goddamn wayne didn't even bother to tell him. how in the world could bruce ever consider them partners. as far as dick was concerned bruce was just as good as dead to him as jason was. and it hurts. it hurts to not be able to go home without seeing the ghost of a kid you chose not to protect, the ghost of a kid who died too soon wearing the same colors that your parents died in.

so dick doesn't go home. he doesn't speak to bruce. he builds himself a new life, the teen titans become dicks home. and he's okay with this. his origin is so similar to bruce's but he refuses to be the same as batman. so he faces his ghosts. he doesn't let them haunt him. he hears about haly's circus potentially getting shut down and he goes to deal with it.

and here is where dick meets tim drake for the first time. tim who tried to help him save haly's circus (albeit he accused the wrong guy but he was trying). tim tells dick that he needs to save batman.

and so dick brings him back to the manor. where tim tells dick just how important he was to his childhood. tim explains how that night at the circus shaped him just as deeply as it shaped dick. tim shares this complete and utter faith in robin, as if robin is enough to save batman from his own grief. but dick knows this isn't true. dick was barely enough to save himself from his own grief much less bruces. but nonetheless bruce saved dick when he was at his absolute lowest. gave him something to believe in. so maybe, just maybe, he can try again for bruce. but not as robin. it can't be robin. his partnership with batman died when he was kicked out and it was buried when he was kept out of the loop about jason. but tim knows that batman needs more than nightwing by his side. so he takes up the robin mantle. he takes it upon himself to 'save' batman. and in a way, he does. he helps bring bruce back from the edge.

and dick. the last time someone took up his families colors, someone died. and he refuses to allow that again. he refuses to be the reason that tim suffers. so he becomes the older brother he couldn't quite bring himself to be for jason. and to tim? he's wearing the mantle of two robins on his back.

his own standards are set so high and he tries his damndest to meet them every time that he puts on the mask because he knows where the colors of the suit came from. he knows why dick created this identity. he was there. he saw the grayson's fall.

and for a while, things are good between them. things are great even.

then the attack at titan's tower happens. and tim is told that he is just a placeholder (not a replacement like fannon likes to claim, but the words jason todd used were placeholder). and seeds of doubt start to be planted. was he ever wanted? was he ever truly appreciated? he did steal the suit the first time he put it on. was it fair for him to wear the colors that were born of dicks blood and that jason died in?

then tim loses his whole support system. stephanie. bart and kon. his dad. and finally, bruce.

dick has been so committed to never being like bruce. he has been so dedicated to relying on those who offer him help. nightwing is pillar in the hero community, but batman. batman was the foundation. he is considered a founding member of the justice league. he doesn't want to take up the mantle. it had never been in his plans. but jason proved too unstable to take up the role and of course he can't ask tim to. so he dawns the cowl he has grown to hate.

this just leaves one little problem. damian.

damian who has just been dropped off on bruce's porch by talia. damian who grew up in the league of assassins and is so out of place in gotham that dick doesn't know what to do. he never asked to be batman and he definitely never asked to be a father. yet here he is. having to do both. so he does what bruce did all those years ago and provides damian with the mantle that he created in order to give this kid some sort of outlet. he knows damian needs it.

by some unfortunate twist of fate, dick has unknowingly created such a painful parallel between his own firing and tim's.

and then tim discovers that bruce isn't really dead.

and this kills dick just a little bit more. of course he wants to believe tim. of course he wants his dad back. he wants someone else to be the one to make these hard calls and he wants someone else to parent damian. he doesn't want to be the one who has to fire his little brother in order to save the other.

but he can't take that chance. he can't risk the hope. because losing it would actually ruin dick. so he tells tim it isn't possible. because to dick? it can't be possible.

and this just furthers the wedge between the two of them. tim feels abandoned and lost and he feels as if he has nothing left.

and dick doesn't understand why tim can't see that he's right here. he's right here tim i'm still here why aren't i enough for you to stay?

anyway this got away from me a little bit but god their relationship could make angels weep it truly makes my heart stop if i think about it too much.

[thebigsl33p]

Last Words of A Shooting Star (Part One)

A/N: this is the longest fic I've ever written, and this is only part one. A lot of love has gone into this, I'm super excited to share it! If there any mistakes or stuff please let me know. Uh, Aleksander's kinda OOC bcs it's early days and I'm not traumatising him yet but I am gonna make everyone so miserable in Part Two, I promise, and then he'll become a mardy bastard. Masterlist will be up with the second part, and my main will be updated.

Main Masterlist

people I thought might appreciate being tagged: (If not, sorry!!!):

@augustwithquills @myanmy @noortsshift @archangelslollipop @vaguekayla @budugu @inlovewithfictionalmen444 @weallhaveadestiny @dreamlandcreations @bookloverfilmoholic @lost-tothe-centuries

Warnings: Violence - murder, not too graphic, I don't think. I think that's all, if not please let me know. tbf, canon level I think but maybe I'm delusional

Word Count: 8260

Fic Playlist:

Aleksander has always had a fascination with the night sky. He can’t help it. It’s the darkness, he thinks, it runs in his blood and makes up his flesh, how couldn’t he be absolutely enamoured with it? 

Maybe it’s because it was the only constant. 

So much of his childhood, his years as a teenager and as a young adult were spent travelling, creating new identities, learning new landscapes, new faces, new names, new buildings, all of which would disappear and be replaced every two weeks. And sure, the daytime was nice with the sun and all. But it wasn’t as peaceful, didn’t bring him that same tranquillity as when he would lay down in a field, gaze up and try to name all the constellations, find new shapes and make up new stories. 

Perhaps it all changed due to the incident at the Grisha camp. He had loved sunlight, the dark had scared him. But now, something was different - that air of peace was replaced by a penchant for the tenebrosity that the night brought with it, and a love for the small lights which decorated the dusk. 

No matter where he went, whether he was North, East, South, or West, the night-sky was the same. Always that deep monumental blue speckled with little dots - little lights, little moons, little stories - which people like him called Stars. There was nothing quite like laying in a field, feeling the cool summer breeze or the biting winter gusts and knowing that you were so small, so insignificant compared to everything that burned up in the cosmos. 

He was young then. Young and naive. And it was before her.

Looking back on it, Aleksander should’ve known better. Hadn’t the incident at the Grisha Camp taught him that? Wasn’t it what his mother drilled into him constantly? Trust no one. Never show your abilities. Touch no one. He was, politely put, a fool. 

He was a young man when his life changed, for the better and for the worse. It’s hard to remember exactly, but he believes he was around nineteen, and he remembers it was a hot summer’s evening. The day had been spent working. He couldn’t have known then, but that ‘work’ was the beginnings of The Little Palace. But back then, it was him being - as his mother would put it - foolish, and helping other Grisha travel across Ravka. They were hard to find, and even harder to trust, but gradually, slowly yet surely, he was building a good network.

But during the nights, just for a little while he could let that go. He could lay in the tall grass, head tipped towards the dark vast sky and he could stare up at the stars and pretend he was normal, that shadows weren’t absentmindedly curling around his fingers.

For some reason he struggles to remember memories before that time. They’re blurry and vague, little snippets and days that he’s lost with his extended age. But that particular night, he remembers it vividly - his long hair brushing his cheek in the wind, the hard dirt under his head, the hum of nature and bugs, the bustle of a town not so far away carried on the wind, and the stars. They were the brightest he’d ever seen them, almost restless, buzzing in their eternal placeholders. Something, he could feel, was wrong.

The image of the star falling to Earth is eternally seared into his memory.

It appeared faster than he could comprehend - one second it wasn’t there, and then one second it was. He sits up on his elbows, completely transfixed and stunned by, what he at first presumes, is a shooting star. But gradually, he realises it’s getting bigger, faster… closer.

This burning bright ball of cream yellow light, tumbling through time and space and existence, tumbling towards him. Sitting there in the field, stunned by the sight, he’s sure he can hear it fizzling and crackling, knows it’s completely impossible from this distance, but he’s certain of it. Something tugs in his chest, somewhere between unbridled intrigue and panic, his mother’s words of warning echoing in his head. The intrigue wins, it’s an easy internal battle of common sense and childlike wonder which he thought he had long abandoned. 

Aleksander scrambles to his feet, accidentally getting dirt on his palms and his trousers but he barely notices, head still tilted to the sky and his breath caught in his throat. He can see the trajectory of the star, where it will land in a section of the forest just a bit off from where he’s camping out. His eyes widen, a small smile, and before he knows it he’s stepping towards the tree-line, his black boots thudding on the ground as his footsteps get quicker and quicker. 

To anyone else, the forest might’ve seemed daunting, especially so late at night. But the Shadow Summoner stepped into it without hesitation, the wizened terrain underfoot switching to a softer crunch of twigs and leaves. Once inside, he loses sight of the star, the canopy of the forest shielding it from him, its only indication being the unnatural light it shines through the leaves onto the forest floor, making his journey easier. He dodges twigs, branches, spider-webs, ducking and batting them out of the way quickly, balancing looking at the floor and where he’s going with gazing up at the foliage covered sky for any indication he’s travelling the right way. 

He doesn’t know why he’s following after the star. He doesn’t know how he knows it’s a star. It feels more akin to when you’re in a dream, and you just know something is. Something about it compels him, drags him forward and pushes him on, deeper into the forest.

When the star makes impact, he feels it. In fact, Aleksander’s sure the entire world might’ve felt it, the shake in the trees and the ground, the birds disturbed from their midnight peace quickly fleeing their homes at the rattle of the branches and leaves, the dust-like dirt stirring. And it guides him to the star - the cracking noise it made as it hit the ground unmistakably came from a fraction to his left and so, he followed that way. 

He knows he’s getting closer when the damage becomes more destructive. It’s no longer just disturbed birds and dirt, it’s entire trees tilted at an angle as if God had pushed a finger into the dirt and tilted them, their roots peeking through the soil. But in the middle of the makeshift clearing it is dark, the disturbed dirt floating and drifting through the air and concealing his surroundings. The ground is severely dented and compacted, forming a large dark crater which Aleksander can barely peek over. 

He shuffles from the damaged treeline, his boots creaking on the soil as he tries to catch a glimpse over the edge of the vast crater, but it’s wide and deep, and the edges are loose. He’s careful, his Shadows waiting obediently for his hands to move - for some form of attack or defence. But it never comes. 

Instead, as the clouds of dirt clear, the centre of the crater gradually became more visible. The middle was, overall, smooth but it slopes and nicks here and there. He had expected to see a rock, some large grey bland thing which ultimately would’ve made this all less exciting. But what he sees instead has his eyes widening. There, in the middle of the crater, is a young woman. She’s asleep - passed out maybe - her arms loosely stretched outwards, her hair splayed, messy and white. It’s not even like he can say it’s grey, or silver, or blonde. No, her hair is white, paper white, as white as the dress she’s wearing. It fits her well, skims over her body without constricting too much movement.  He notices she has no shoes on. It dawns on him that this sleeping woman, this girl, is the Star and his brow furrows softly. 

He barely hesitates before he’s sitting on the ledge of the crater and sliding down it, his boots landing on the compacted soil with a thud. In a few strides he’s standing over the sleeping girl, and then in another quick action he crouches down and picks her up, the back of her knees bent over his arm, her waist in his other as he supports her back and her head lolls. He huffs in soft amusement, and walks back the way he came, gently hoisting her up the wall of the crater with as much care as he can, using his shadows when he has a spare hand. It’s hard, and takes a bit of manoeuvring, but he gets there eventually before he pulls himself up. It’s a surprise to him that she hasn’t woken up yet. 

He didn’t feel comfortable leaving her there like that, asleep, vulnerable and barefoot where anyone could’ve found her and not have known what they had stumbled on. He picks her up again, and begins his journey back through the forest, a little slower and with a little more care, mumbling to himself - to her - as they go. She doesn’t stir once, her head propped against his chest, her hair tickling his arm slightly. 

The journey back to where he was camping out is peaceful. It’s quiet, save for his footsteps or the rustle of clothes. Occasionally, the moonlight catches her and she sparkles a bit. Literally sparkles, reflects it like a goddamn mirror. It really is a sight to see and it makes his lips quirk up a bit. 

When they get back to the field, he’s careful. Aleksander lays her down on his mat, adds a few more logs to the fire and covers her with his coat. He thinks of checking her for injuries or damage, but decides that can wait until she wakes up. He doesn’t want to be a creep, and if she’s in pain she’s probably better off telling him when she wakes up, than him finding out for himself. 

And so, he settles himself on the other side of the campfire. He leans his head on his pack - considering the girl next to him has his mat - and tries to get what little sleep will come. 

-

When Y/N wakes, it’s in unfamiliar surroundings. The first thing she’s aware of is the cold. It’s not freezing, but it’s uncomfortable, and she tucks her legs up under her until she’s in a ball, tugging the blanket under her chin. Blanket? No. She shouldn’t have a blanket. It shouldn’t be cold… 

She sits up fast and quick, all lethargy gone from her body as her eyes widen and she takes in her surroundings. She’s in a field. On a mat. And someone’s dark, large coat is over her body. It’s early morning, the sky a pale grey, a low mist settling on her surroundings and a light dew coating the grass. She can feel heat on one side of her, but her head is turned towards the foggy treeline. She tries to recall the last things she remembers… being in the sky, existing, and then a sudden gap which she can’t figure out, and then she wakes up here. 

She’s caught in thought, trying to make sense of her surroundings when a voice says, “You’re awake.” and her head whips around. On the other side of a fresh campfire is a young man, dark eyes, long dark hair, pale skin and dark clothes. He’s roasting a rabbit over the fire - no doubt freshly caught from the knife that sits beside him. His pack sits beside him, his eyes never leave her, even as she expresses soft panic. 

She tries to get up, but her body aches, and he holds out a hand, “Easy. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?” he asks softly, waving to her to relax. 

She answers hesitantly, her eyes scanning the boy, “Y/N.” she says eventually, “You?” 

“Leonid.” Aleksander lies, looking between the campfire and her, “Are you hurt anywhere? You took… quite the fall.” 

“Funny.” Y/N says drily, “How long have you been working on that one?”

From the grin that splits his face, he’s clearly secretly pleased with his dad-joke, “Just this morning.” Leonid - Aleksander - turns a bit more serious, “Are you, though? Hurt?” 

She shakes her head, kicking the coat off her and putting it to one side so she can sit up properly, “No, I’m fine.” she mumbles, “Just achy.” 

“Mhm, I suppose that’s to be expected.” he holds the cooked rabbit out to her on a makeshift fork, “Here, eat. You’ll need it.” 

Y/N takes it hesitantly, sniffing it before picking a bit of meat off it with her fingers and eating it, “Thanks… who are you?” 

“Leonid.” He repeats. 

“No, I meant like - where am I? Who are you - like - how did you find me?” 

“Well,” he leans back on his elbows, glances around, “You’re in a field, near Vernost, in Ravka.” he says, “and I am…” his brow furrows softly as he figures out how to phrase this. She’s a Star - would she even understand the difference between Grisha and Otkazats’ya? 

He says it anyway. 

“As I said, my name’s Leonid, I’m…” he’s hesitant - would a star really have prejudices? He hopes not. He takes a foolish chance. “Grisha. You know what that is?” 

She nods, offers him what remains of the Rabbit. He waves it off, indicating that she finishes it. “Why are you helping me?” She asks, tilting her head. 

“My, you’re just full of questions.” he sighs, “I saw you fall. I wasn’t just gonna… leave you.”

“Right.” Y/N’s eyes narrow slightly, “is this your coat? Here you can have it back.” she nudges the coat towards him. 

He gives her an amused look, his eyes moving down, then back up, “I think you’ll need it more than me, zvezda.” he muses, smug almost. 

She glances down at the dress she’s wearing. It’s simple, plain, and he’s right. It’s too thin for the current weather - she’ll be better off as it warms up during the day - but for now, she accepts the coat with a small, amused huff. 

"C'mon, eat that fast," he says, indicating to the rabbit, "We've gotta get going before the sun is too high." He's already tucking away the few things he got out, "I'm gonna walk you to the nearest town, Vernost, leave you somewhere safe, okay?" he glances at her, "Get you some shoes and some more suitable clothes. Until then…”

He reaches into his pack, produces a spare undershirt and hands it to her with an almost apologetic look, "Better than nothing." she nods in thanks.

She takes the shirt with a grateful nod. Once she's finished the rabbit, she stands and hands him the mat, watching as he rolls it up and tucks that away too, and then they're set to travel. She pulls on the undershirt over her dress and while it hangs loosely it provides a bit more comfort, and then she shuffles on his coat. It’s too big for her, completely contrasts her bright eyes and white hair, the sleeves hang loosely and she has to roll them up. 

 He wants to make her as comfortable as possible, and so shows her the map he’s using, highlights the path they’ll be travelling with his finger, showing their way through the woods, worries a bit over her lack of shoes and then they’re walking. 

The path to the town is simple, through the woods, past her crater, and then a little further for about fifteen or twenty minutes. He’s careful to go first, his harsh boots making some attempt at flattening the ground for her barefoot condition. Aleksander considers picking her up - no, too weird for someone he’s just met - and she doesn’t seem to be in any pain. 

They keep walking. The sun rises higher, the morning beginning just as they make their way into Vernost. It’s a small town, but a good town. The hustle and bustle of people, farmers, artisans, builders and blacksmiths is accompanied by the gentle murmur of the small local market, travellers and locals who move between stalls and shops, horses’ hooves on the cobblestone, the crowd parting for an occasional rickety wooden carriage.

He glances over to her. The look of awe on her face is somewhere between sad and endearing. She’s struck completely by this tiny town, the smallest, simplest form of inhabitance, and yet it brings nothing but awe and wonder to her gaze. There’s a sense of yearning in the way her eyes run over everything as they walk, as if she’s desperate to take it all in, to retain it, keep it held to her chest - to make life hers. To have all of it - to know the joys and the sorrows like the back of her hand. Aleksander could practically see the light come to life behind her eyes, as if she’d finally woken up to something wonderful. 

He smiles, somewhere between amusement and appreciation, and places a hand on her shoulder to steer her through the crowds which are slowly getting busier, “Easy tiger.” he says and she laughs sheepishly. 

“It’s just all so…” she doesn’t know how to describe it, the words to explain the way her heart is racing all jam up in her throat. She has a heart. The rushing of blood, just the wind against her skin, it’s all she ever wanted to feel, and now that she can feel it, now she’s no longer confined to the night sky, she’s in complete and utter astonishment, raptured by everything around her. 

“Kinda overwhelming?” He suggests, raising an eyebrow as they walk. He’s keeping an eye out for a Cobbler - or anywhere that sells shoes, really. Again, he casts his eyes down to her bare feet and feels guilt and concern rise in him, that the streets of Vernost, nor the woods are exactly clean, and they must be hurting by now.

But one glance at her face and he can tell she barely feels it. It’s just dirt - it can be washed off. However, it doesn’t ease the guilt. 

-

The first time she ‘shines’, is over a piece of cake. 

They’d been travelling together for a few weeks now. Aleksander was a fool to think he could leave her alone in Vernost, his worries, concerns and guilt over the Star getting the better of him. They stayed for a few days there, giving her a general introduction to the workings of human life in a contained and somewhat non-threatening environment. 

In their few brief days in Vernost she tries a range of food, stews, desserts. He explains money, the current politics of the country over a bowl of stew from the Inn they were staying at, explains the prejudices and segregation of Grisha, the violence. They get her clothing, a shirt, an overvest, trousers and boots, and a small bag to carry her non-existent belongings. She folds her dress into it for the first few days - that silky silver material which catches in the moonlight - and it fits surprisingly well, tucks into the corner of the satchel. He explains to her how to read the map, all the different little symbols. In some ways, she’s like a child. Her lack of general knowledge about the world is understandable, but she catches on fast, much faster than anyone else could’ve. 

Well, they’d been travelling together for a few weeks, developing a relationship that might even be called friendship. Aleksander had to make a few adjustments to the way he travelled - he was still telling Y/N his name was Leonid - occasionally they travelled at night. Honestly, it made more sense, he felt more comfortable in the darkness, and she had more energy. But it also made them bigger targets for suspicion, people travelling at night were often suspected of Grisha related activity… which is exactly what he was doing. She was just along for the ride, and the last thing he wanted was for her to get dragged into his problems and potentially harmed. Conflicting morals, he knows. 

They’d passed through a few villages on their travels, small places which minded their own business and were good for occasional stock ups on food, water, supplies. 

He doesn’t know why he bought the slice of cake. Aleksander had decided it was good for her to develop her own independence, and so she had gone to make her own way around this small town they’d stopped in. Meanwhile, he perused the sparse shops for anything of use. 

The slices of cake were sitting in the shop window, all of them uniform in their cream decoration and the small slices of strawberries which sat inside and on top of the layers of sponge, and all of them placed delicately on little porcelain dishes. He enters the shop without thinking, purchases a slice to take away, lets the person wrap it away in a small tissue and carefully takes it, slipping it into a safe part of his own bag. He’s careful for the rest of the day in the way he moves - making sure not to squash or compromise the baked good. He can’t quite wrap his mind - nor his heart - around why he’s done it. Why did he suddenly feel the urge to buy her a slice of cake of all things. But he’s glad he did. Aleksander hopes she’ll like it. 

He presents it to her over their campfire for the evening. It’s a small thing made of dried grass and twigs or any larger pieces of wood they could find but it provides light and heat and that’s enough. They’re sitting either side of it, across from one another, having just eaten bread and cheese for dinner. Twilight is setting in the sky, and he can see it on her - the way her eyes are slightly brighter, her laugh slightly more mellow as they chat over their food. 

He reaches into his bag by his side, clears his throat and says, “I got you something.”

Y/N’s brow furrows softly, and she tilts her head as he continues, “I just… it’s small, but I thought you might like it.” and he produces a square shaped thing, slanted, and wrapped in tissue, still preserved, offering it to her in the palm of his hand over the campfire. 

She takes it gently, “What is it?” as she delicately peels back the tissue. The cake is… well, cake. The sponge is a soft pale yellow, the cream delicately placed and the strawberries are slightly softer than they should be, but won’t make too much of a difference. She raises it to her nose and hesitantly sniffs it, which gets a chuckle out of him. 

“It’s cake.” he answers, “Go on, try it.” Aleksander encourages her with a wave of his hand. 

She raises her eyebrows and lifts the cake to her mouth, taking a small bite. Her eyes instantly light up, and he laughs at her reaction as she mumbles, “Oh, Saints, this is really good..” Around a  mouthful of cake. 

She eats a bit more, and then holds it out to him, “Want some?” 

And that’s when he sees it. She’s shining. Literally glowing. Radiating light, her very skin and hair giving it off like it’s nothing. His breath hitches as she lights up the field. It’s not particularly bright, but it’s strong and it makes itself known. She’s like a mellow night light, and it only causes his smile to widen, “You’re um…”  he gestures at her - at her glowing. 

Her brow scrunches up - it’s cute - and she laughs sheepishly, “Shining?” 

“Yeah. That.” he grins, leaning back on his palms. 

She huffs, a huff of mock exasperation, “I’m sorry - I can’t… it’s not something I can really control. It just happens, y’know. Like…” She averts her eyes to the flames of the small campfire, “If I’m happy. I shine - it’s what stars do best.” They both laugh a little. 

“Well, it suits you.” Aleksander says gently - his voice much softer than he meant it to be, or than he’s comfortable with. When did he get so… compassionate? He internally grimaces, but for some reason he feels an odd sense of endearment to this girl. 

“Yeah,” She responds with a wry grin, “I should hope so. I am a star, after all.” 

And again, they both laugh. 

-

Aleksander didn’t intend to keep her with him for so long. He didn’t intend to introduce her to his friends - to his connections, to the people across the country who help him with his work. He didn’t intend to get her involved. But they’ve been travelling together for three months and in that time, he’s discovered a wide array of things. 

The first is that she’s good with a sword. Perhaps good is an understatement. She has a natural balance about her, maybe it’s her celestial nature, but watching her with a sword is like watching art. The handle sits in her palm with an easy weight, she swings it with an air of freedom and lax, yet with complete control. The blade is, undoubtedly, hers. 

They had discovered her penchant for swords in a rather unfortunate situation. They had been a touch careless. He was feeling more secure with someone else travelling at his side. And so, had paid less attention to his surroundings. If there was one con of her having her around, it was that she was a touch of a distraction. 

They had passed through a village. They stayed to briefly eat lunch sitting in the town square, and then had gone to pass on just as quick as they came. It shouldn’t have drawn attention. But it did. 

They hadn’t noticed the group of men watching them, looks of disdain on their features as they eyed up the two of them, mumbling to one another. They’d managed to avoid trouble so far, steering clear of Druskelle and negative situations, but on that day, something had given them away as both travellers and Grisha. It was hard to say what - perhaps it was the way they murmured and laughed quietly with one another, maybe the tell-tale way his hands moved. Perhaps he’d been careless and a slip of shadow had been noticed. They couldn’t say for certain. But these men, standing and sneering, they knew.

Either way, Y/N and Aleksander were followed back to where they were camping out by the night. It was just a clearing off the main path they were following, and they had been very comfortably sitting, eating, laughing as they did each and every evening, lit by firelight and accompanied by the low hum of bugs and the weather slowly turning cold. She noticed the figures first.

They seemed to come out of nowhere, far enough away that she could tap his shoulder with a quiet, “Leonid. There’s people.” 

His brow furrowed softly, and he turned over his shoulder in the direction she was looking at. Three men, two shorter, one that was a bit taller and lagged behind - all three variously armed. One man - short, dirty blonde hair and a face marred by smudges of dirt - carried a small dagger. The second, slightly taller with a slightly more muscular frame, had dark hair that was greying at the roots, a knife, and a snarl. The third and final man, the tallest of the lot was passive, but his eyes glinted in the firelight with nothing malevolence, and in his goliath hand was a sword. 

The man with the dark hair speaks first, accented and gruff, his eyes pinned to Aleksander, “Grisha, aren’t you?” he asks the question in a way that betrays he already knows the answer. 

Aleksander doesn’t answer. He’s careful. Delicate. She’s sitting behind him, watching the interaction, hesitant to move. He needs to think this through in a way that puts Y/N out of harm's way. His eyes never leave the men. 

There’s a movement out of the corner of his eye - the second man, wielding his dagger up quickly, his movements fueled by disgust. Aleksander’s quicker, raising his hand with two fingers pointed up, creating a wall of shadow which the dagger clashes against, and in that moment he’s scrambled up to his feet, grabbing Y/N by the arm and pulling her up with him. He runs. 

He’s not used to running. He’s used to fighting. But at the moment he’s responsible for two people’s safety, and so he pushes forward, yelling at her to go. He expected the men to follow. He didn’t expect the largest to go after her, the three men separating into groups of one and two. The two come after him, dagger and knife, and he has little time to worry about Y/N before they’re gaining, 

Aleksander’s efficient, his hands move fast to bring forth his shadows, forming sharp points which pierce the chests of the two men with harsh crunches, their weapons dropping into the grass as their bodies go limp, blood drooling from their mouths as the light leaves their eyes. 

He breathes a sigh of relief, but then he’s alert again at the sound of someone crying out from behind him. His head whips around, and he sees Y/N, and the largest man. He’s backing her up against the tree line, she’s almost frozen in fear when she trips over her own feet and onto her back. Her eyes widen, the man leers over her, sword readied and in a brief moment of fear and desperation she rears her legs and kicks his knees. 

The man grunts, hisses in pain as the sword drops from his hand so he can clutch at where she kicked him. Amateur. And in the next instant she’s lunged across the ground for the sword, where he dropped it, scrambling for it. She’s still on the floor, and she turns onto her back as the man’s attention is brought to her again, large hands reaching to cause her harm. 

The sound of the sword cutting into the man is almost deafening. She does it without thinking, pure survival instinct as she cuts the man's stomach, her hands firm on the handle as blood coats them both, her breathing heavy as she pulls the sword out and the man falls back, dying slowly. 

She’s frozen, and Aleksander’s eyes are almost as wide as hers. He takes a few loose footsteps towards her, a few more which are a bit firmer before he’s by her side, kneeling beside her and cleaning the blood off her cheeks with his sleeve, gently taking the sword from her iron grip and laying it beside her. 

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, and it feels stupid. She’s covered in blood, shaking, tears in her eyes and the only thing he can think to ask is ‘are you okay’? Saints, he’s an idiot. 

He moves on, still wiping the blood off her as well as he can as she nods her head shakily, “It’s alright. You’re alright.” He says quietly. He remembers the first time he killed someone - the guilt, the fear, the horror at yourself. He frowns softly, as the thin shine of tears comes to her eyes and she looks away. 

Without thinking about it much more, he picks her up, scooping her into his arms, hooking the back of her knees over his arm as she turns and curls into his chest, her crying quiet and barely audible as he carries her back to their camp. 

-

After that, things are different. They’re closer, in a way.

Y/N keeps the sword, keeps it tucked by her side, takes care of the metal and the handle. She’s good with it, he knows for a fact, and he feels more comfortable knowing she has a means of handling herself. The emotional toll of the murder hit her hard. Perhaps, she thinks, she wasn’t meant to feel emotions like this. Her very existence is in conflict. She’s not meant to be able to feel this way, she’s meant to be a star for Saint’s sake! 

But there is something so very human in the guilt she carried in the days after the attack. She was quiet, much quieter than she usually was. At first, she was hesitant to carry the sword. So, instead he carried it for her, catching her eyes flickering towards it occasionally, the way it swung by his hip and the metal caught in the sun. 

One evening as they walked, she offered to take it instead. 

“Do you want me to take that?” she had said, a quiet, unspoken I think I’m okay now. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, “It’s not heavy, I’m okay to carry it for as long as-” 

“No, I’m sure.” She nodded, her look determined and firm, “My safety shouldn’t be your responsibility alone.” She explained, “We should be responsible for one another if we’re going to be travelling together. And I can’t do that if I’m unarmed.” 

He nodded in understanding, and softly unhooked the sword and the holder, and offered the handle to her. She took it, measuring the weight in her palm, before she put the holder on herself and slipped the sword into it. She took a breath. 

He spoke first, “I should tell you something, Y/N. Y’know, if we’re going to be stuck together for a while, I don’t want to keep you in the dark.” he said. 

She didn’t respond, simply nodded and waited for him to say what he had to say. 

“My name isn’t Leonid, I lied. I’ve spent most of my life having to conceal who I am, what I am, and so I hope you can understand and forgive my deception.” He paused, breathing relief into the night air, “My name is Aleksander.” 

“Aleksander?” She echoes, and a small, intimate smile finds her features, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Aleksander.” She says, in that half-teasing tone he’s become so accustomed with.

He rolls his eyes but can’t fight back the grin, “You’re an ass, do you know that?” 

“Ah, you may have mentioned it once or twice.” She shrugs, unable to wipe off that teasing smile from her features. 

He huffs in mock exasperation before his tone turns softer. He’s found he has a habit of doing that. Something about her makes him better, gentler. He almost feels human around her, “I mean it Y/N,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry I lied to you, especially for so long.” 

“It’s fine,” she says with a small smile, nudging his shoulder, “You’re forgiven, if that eases your conscience.” She’s still slightly teasing, but her tone is mostly compassionate. Endearing, even. 

“Thank you,” he says, grinning as he nudges her back, “Saints, you’re insufferable.” 

She gasps, dramatically feigning offence. For a star, she’s caught onto the culture of sarcasm and drama rather well, and he laughs at her display, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as they walk. It feels right. 

“How are you finding it?” He asks, as they walk, “y’know, being human? Is it weird?” He checks in on her this way every now and then to make sure she’s not overwhelmed. But this is the first time she answers differently. 

“...As a star…” She sighed softly, weighing up her words, “You’re constantly watching. You’re up there, watching all these little people have adventures and lives and romance, and it’s… it’s yearning. You want those things too, y’know? You want to be flesh and bone as well, to feel emotion. To cry, and be happy, and be angry, and to know what love feels like. You want adventure, the big things in life like… meeting someone. Or having a family. Or getting an education. Making a difference.” She laughed softly, “But you also want the little things - like cake, for example. And music, and friendship, and to share meals with people you care about.” 

She glanced at him, and then back to the path, “I’m glad you found me. I don’t think anyone else would’ve done such a good job at making me feel welcome in a world that isn’t strictly mine.” 

Her words were soft, quiet, and sincere. And it made Aleksander’s heart stutter in his chest, but he kept his composure and managed, “I’m glad I found you too.” 

-

Aleksander takes her to a place he calls ‘the sanctuary’. 

He explains it to her on the way there - a building, a place, where Grisha can support, aid and train other Grisha. 

It’s been months since they first met, and by now the warm comfort of the summer is fading, replaced by cold golden sunlight and browned leaves, wetter grounds and harsher gales. And so, he takes her there.

The sanctuary is a medium-sized, pale stone structure, hidden away in the middle of nowhere, concealed by thick woods and trees. It’s squat, but wide, the front of it gives away nothing but a set of rounded wooden doors. He takes her hand - she’s not even sure he realises that he’s done it - and guides her with him to the front. Her sword swings at her side as she follows, standing beside him as he raps his knuckles on the wooden door a few times. 

The door opens a crack, she can’t see who’s on the other side, but Aleksander’s gaze meets theirs and they open it. On the other side is a man, short brown hair and green eyes. He’s rather skinny, but his strength is held in his eyes. He lets Aleksander in without issue, nodding his head softly. Their hands are still linked together and so, she goes to follow. 

But the brown haired man stops her, a hand coming to her chest to halt her, his eyes narrowed and dark, glancing back at Aleksander. He answers, “She’s with me, Andrei.” 

“Grisha?” The man interrogates. 

Aleksander huffs, “No, Andrei. But she’s been helping me for the past five months, let her through.” 

Andrei’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and he glances at Aleksander finally before letting his hand drop and allowing her entrance. She nods her head softly, and follows after Aleksander. Y/N feels him squeeze her hand, a quiet apology. She squeezes back as he guides her deeper into the sanctuary. They pass rooms, beds, people who nod at him as they pass and whose eyebrows furrow when they see her trailing after him, and her stark white hair. 

Inside, the sanctuary was busy. It was filled with the hum of people working, all in various clothing - some injured, some healing, some cooking, some reading, teaching, training - it was almost a wonderful study in the kindness of human nature and community that had her eyes widening. 

“Are you alright, Zvezda?” he asked softly, turning back to her over his shoulder, “Are you overwhelmed? We can…” 

“No, it’s… it’s wonderful.” She said quietly, her wide eyes meeting his, “I mean- it’s astounding. I’m good.” she nodded, indicating for him to keep going, “It’s just… in all our time travelling, I’ve never seen anything like this.” 

He laughed softly, pulling her closer by her hand, “I guess,” he grinned, “I’m proud of this place. I’m glad you can see it like that.” 

They spend at least three weeks at the Sanctuary. 

Aleksander takes his time to introduce Y/N to those around her. He shows her around to all the Healers, the Heartrenders, the Inferni, the Squalors, Tidemakers - technically, he shows her off to everyone. But no one knows, really, who - or what - she is. He doesn’t say. People press and ask and inquire, “Oh, what’s her Grisha order?” “Grisha, are you?” And everytime, one of them answers, “Oh, uh, No.” and refuse to elaborate further. 

It has the entire building utterly perplexed as to who this strange white haired girl is, and why she has the Shadow Summoner wrapped around her little finger. Not that The Star or The Shadow Summoner can see it, no, they’re completely oblivious. They don’t see how they’re quiet giggles, teasing, conversations might be perceived as intimate. Nor how the amount of time they spend together might be seen as suspicious.

But when you’ve spent everyday with a person for just over five months, all day, everyday, it’s very hard to separate yourself from the comfort they bring.

The confession comes late at night. 

Now that they’re in a place like the Sanctuary, they have their own rooms. They’re only small, and they’re a short walk away from one another, and it gives them each a privacy they haven’t experienced for a few months. For the first week - it’s nice. Having their own beds, their own time, being able to spend some of it alone with their thoughts. 

He notices it first. That he’s restless. It’s late at night, most of the building is asleep save for those on night watch, and he can barely close his eyes without feeling disturbed. He feels the need to do something - anything - and so, he gets out of bed, slipping back on his boots at the end of his bed and deciding he’s going to go for a walk. Maybe it’ll help clear his mind. 

Aleksander’s almost embarrassed. He can’t… he can’t stop thinking of her. He’s annoyed at himself for it, for letting him get that close, for letting him be so vulnerable to someone who wasn’t even human, who had a child’s grasp on the world… 

No, that was being unfair. He calms himself as he steps out of his room. He knows he’s just agitated, tired, a little giddy, and he takes a deep breath as he starts off down the corridor, careful not to let his boots thud too heavily. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he decides he’s just going to walk until he comes across something distracting or gets tired. 

His feet take him to her room. 

It’s the same size as his, and from the crack in the door he can tell she’s still awake, can hear a slight shuffling inside, candle light flickering on the floor. He realises now, why he’s there. What he’s come to do. And his heart lurches in his chest, but he understands that it’s now or hold his tongue for another few months and he doesn’t want to do that. 

Aleksander wants her to know about the Y/N shaped cavern she’s carved into his life. He wants her to know about how all those nights spent travelling in fields were not something he was willing to give up so easily - that when spring came he hoped to do it all again. With her. That he thinks of her endlessly. That when he wakes he hopes she’s still sleeping beside him, just a campfire away. And he wants her closer. He wants her. It’s as simple as that, that he wants to see her smile at him, and laugh - he doesn’t care if it’s at him or with him - Saints, he just wants her happy. 

The revelation comes to him, standing so close to her yet so far, on her bedroom doorstep. He takes a breath, steels himself to the sound of her soft humming from the other side of the door, and then raises his fist and knocks three times. 

By the first knock, the humming stops. By the second, she’s walking over to the door, he can hear her footsteps. And by the third, the handle is turning. The door opens and he lowers his hand. She’s standing on the other side. Of course it was her, he knew it was her. It doesn’t stop his heart from thudding against his ribs, nor his breath hitching quietly. 

The light from the candle makes her seem fully celestial, casting a golden hue across her features, and darkening half her face to accentuate them. It bounces off her silver hair, catching in the strands like a contained forest fire. 

“Aleksander?” Y/N greets softly, a small amused smile as she tilts her head in soft confusion, her brow furrowing. 

“Zvezda,” He greets softly, his eyes catching in the candle, so dark you can barely separate the pupil from the iris, “Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head with a small laugh, beckoning him in with her hand, “Always got more energy during the night,” she sighs, “And it’s taking some getting used to, not sleeping in a field, not waking up…” next to you. 

But she doesn’t need to finish the sentence, he simply hums in agreement and shuts the door behind him, leaning on it, “I know, it’s a big adjustment.” He runs a hand through his long dark hair, “How are you finding the Sanctuary?” 

“It’s nice,” she says softly, briefly fixing her words in a slight hurry, “Sorry, that sounded- it’s lovely. The people are kind, the community is wonderful, food’s much better than bread and cheese and meats,” She grins, “No offence.”

He laughs, his nose wrinkling with the action, “None taken. In fact, I completely agree.” 

She sits on her bed as they talk, tucking her legs underneath her, “Can’t sleep either?” She probes.  

Aleksander shakes his head as well, “No, feeling restless. Same reasons as you.” He admits, feeling a bit more at ease with the slight indication that the comfort they feel around one another may be mutual, “I guess,” he sighs, bracing himself to admit it, “We spent so long together. A week was fine - but it’s weird. I keep on… waking up and expecting to see you.” 

“I know,” she agreed quietly with a small laugh, her head bent down to her hands in her lap, “it’s strange, isn’t it? I feel weird not… walking with you, or doing something, seeing a new town or whatnot. And I have this feeling.” She frowned softly to herself.

He tilts his head, folds his arms, “What feeling, Zvezda?” He asks, his brow furrowing gently. 

“I… I don’t know.” she said, her eyes narrowing as she looked not quite at him - but just over his shoulder - “It’s like… this…tightness.” her hand came to her chest, her nose scrunching softly, “Here. Like… nausea. But not quite - I’m not going to be sick. And I can feel my heart. And it… it feels like wanting. But stronger?” 

His eyes widened a fraction, “And uh, when do you feel it?” 

She tilted her head, her eyes zeroing in on him in confusion and uncertainty, “When…” when I think about you. “Oh.” She said quietly, “Is that what that is?” her hand gently rubbed her chest, clearly where she felt it strongest, a sheepish laugh as she turned her eyes to the candle, anywhere but him, “They don’t describe it like this in the books.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that he wouldn’t have to explain to her that what she was feeling was, at least, a crush. If not more. Aleksander laughed softly, “No, no they do not.” 

Y/N laughed too, mildly embarrassed and still somewhat avoiding looking at him, her hands fidgeting, “Look, I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t be.” he cut her off, “Don’t be, please don’t be, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He cleared his throat and took a sharp breath, standing up from leaning on the door, “It’s… it’s  mutual, Y/N.” and he took a hesitant step towards her, “Zvezda.” He said the nickname to get her attention. 

It worked, her head turning slightly, and he continued, “Please don’t ever apologise for having feelings.” He said, his tone so much softer than he was comfortable with, “You’re a human now.” he laughed a little, crouching down in front of her as she sat on the bed, “It’s your job now. To feel. To make the most of life. So,” he said with a playful shrug, “we both have… crushes on one another.” It felt childish to say ‘crushes’ but he couldn’t think of a better word. 

“I mean…” he sighed softly, “That’s kind of… why I came here.” He confessed. 

“Really?” she asked quietly, watching him intently as he spoke. 

“Really.” he echoed, standing up. She patted the bed beside her for him to sit, and he gratefully took it, glad she was taking this all so well and she wasn’t clamming up about their feelings for one another, “Look, Y/N, Zvezda. You’ve changed my life,” he said with a small laugh of disbelief, “I mean… you’re a Star, for Saint’s sake. You are, by nature, brilliant. And you’ve been nothing short of that in the months we’ve been travelling. Even if your humour is appalling.” He softly teased, earning a playful grumble of, “It is not.” from her. 

“It is!” he insisted with a teasing grin, “You laugh at all my bad jokes, dear.” 

“Yeah well,” her initial embarrassment was beginning to fade as they engaged in their usual banter, “I think that says more about you for making the bad jokes.” to which he scoffed, and she dispersed into laughter, the two of them leaning back on the single bed. 

The laughter lasted a moment longer before fading out with a soft, content sigh. He grinned at her from where he was, a hand reaching forward for hers as he softly, half-teasingly, murmured, “You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what?” “Shining, Zvezda.” 

“What can I say?” she laughed quietly, her head finding his shoulder, “I’m happy.”

A/N: I cannot wait to go to bed. And also to start part two. Goodnight!! <;3

[whiteskullofroses]

Hi! I saw that you accept request for Baldwin IV. If you do still accept, could you pls write one where y/n and Baldwin would stay up too late talking to each other until one falls asleeps? Thanks 💕

Hi there thank you for the request! And to clarify, you can always request any characters you want❤️ Enjoy!

LATE NIGHT TALK

Baldwin Iv x reader

It was a cold night in Jerusalem. You were walking around the palace gazing up at the stars and thinking about life when all of a sudden, a familiar voice grabbed your attention: "Y/N!" He called out to you from his room. It was all lit up with candles so you could see his shape clearly: "Care to join me?" The young king's voice sounded so energetic, even though it was already midnight. You answered: "With pleasure!" And happily headed out to his quarters.

Once you reached the hallway that led to his room, you noticed that the door was already opened for you but still, you knocked on the wood to make your presence known.

He turned from his desk to look at you. His mask shone from the candles around him and made his blue eyes sparkle.

"Care for a round?" Baldwin gestured towards the chess set and sat down at the table. "Y/n" Sitting down and listening to his words "I've missed you tonight. I rarely see you these days."

You smiled and replied: "Work has been incredibly tiring," taking a sip of some wine a servant poured: "I've hardly found any time for friends."

Baldwin leaned closer to you: "Well now it's the time. Relax."

You started the chess game and asked: "How come weren't you at the banquet last Monday?"

The King moved a pawn and sighed: "I had an unexpected meeting which I couldn't miss."

Nodding, you moved on since you didn't want to trouble him with hard topics so late in the night.

"Have you read any new poetry lately?" Asking him like you always do, you always loved to listen to him talk about the things he was passionate about, one of them being literature.

Whether it be myths from across Europe containing dragons and other mystical beings or poetry that many saw as simple, however from a trained eye's perspective it was true art projected onto paper.

"Yes, I've read this wonder piece from a book from France Preseren called 'Poezije'" Grabbing the book from a nearby chair and flipping through it, Baldwin proclaimed: "Would you like to hear it?"

"I'd love to, Baldwin." You supported your head with your elbow on the table, as the late hours of the night cut into your brains. "Where did you get it from?"

"I believe I got this book as a gift from my sister when she visited Carniola."

Finally, he started reading, his voice soft as ever:

Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near,

Like roses when the winter's passed away.

Your eyelids became heavier and heavier with every word he spoke:

And spring displays its marvelous array,

While through the trees white scattered blossoms peer

Your breathing became deeper, with waves of relaxation washing through your body. All of a sudden you felt like you were 10 years old again, when your mother used to read you books to help you fall asleep.

All this time away from your parents and away from your childhood made you forget how soothing it was and how much you enjoyed it.

Baldwin continued reading the poem whilst you were drifting off into peaceful sleep, right there on his 'chess table'.

He hardly noticed you falling asleep right opposite to him as he was focusing on the text he was reading. But when he finished reading the poem and looked up from the book, he realized you slept through half of it.

He chuckled to himself. Baldwin wasn't mad or annoyed with you, rather he felt a sort of fulfillment that he managed to get you to fall asleep.

For a moment he just sat there, staring at you. You didn't know it at the time but he admired you deeply. For your intelligence and your beauty. He found that this was one of the times he could truly silently look at you and not feel bad about it.

Whenever he would catch himself gazing upon you he would get this guilt deep in his chest. He felt as though it was appropriate for him to look at you when the two of you were just colleagues.

So he slowly walked up to you and carefully picked you up. Walking up to his bed and laying you down in the middle, he knew he couldn't sleep there that night, that would be simply too much.

He decided to go and spend the night in the guest room. Just as he was about to leave your side, you woke up and grabbed him by the wrist, gently but enough so he could feel it.

"Baldwin, stay."

THE END.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

fearless - d. wagner

a/n: i know wagner wednesday was yesterday, but fuck it. everyone can leave me alone I AM IN LOVE WITH HIM!!!! notes/warnings: extremely suggestive relationship, no use of y/n, secret relationships, tooth rotting fluff at the end, childhood best friends to lovers, danny being jealous, cursing, like so many allusions to fucking, me writing this late at night, sam, josh and jake being extremely oblivious like just the epitome of "so close! that is a shape! <3" word count: 2.3k summary: daniel has been acting awfully weird lately. luckily, the kiszka brothers are on the case! pairing: danny wagner x gn! reader now playing: fearless (taylor's version) - taylor swift “run your hands through your hair/absentmindedly making me want you/and i don't know how it gets better than this/you take my hand and drag me head first, fearless"

Samuel Kiszka had met you way back in elementary school, back when you were kind of regarded as a freak. You were playing with a ladybug on the playground during recess, and he came over and asked what you were doing. When you explained, he became fascinated with the ladybug and declared you would be its parents. Then, a stray kickball had flew over, crushing your new baby bug. Some kid laughed at Sam when he started to cry, so you decided to punch that little fucker in the face.

You had been best friends ever since.

A year after that, he came to you and introduced you to a different kid he had met in his new class, the one right beside yours. His name was Daniel.

And since then, it’s always been the three of you, against everything.

You became awfully close with the Wagners and with the Kiszkas, going as far as to call them your family. You grew up in sort of a rough environment, but there was always a place for you on Daniel’s couch or Sammy’s floor.

You smoked your first blunt together, took your first shots together, and cried over breakups that didn’t even matter anymore.

You were a tech kid in high school with a certain knack for equipment and stage managing. Sam and Danny were just starting to get more serious about their music, so there was a time when you didn’t see each other that much. You were busy with whatever production your high school was putting on, and they had formed a band with Sam’s older brothers, Jake and Josh.

You knew it had been Jake’s dream for years, so besides their mother, you consider yourself the first Greta Van Fleet fan.

When their song, Highway Tune, went viral, you just knew it meant huge things for them. You could see it in Jake’s face, hear it in Josh’s voice. This was something bigger than any of you. So, you weren’t really shocked when they came to you and told you that they had a record deal and a few shows booked around the country.

You were only sad that you’d be stuck in Michigan while your best friends toured around the country, maybe even the world.

Then, Sammy told you a stipulation of their contract was that you would get to be on the set team, and with enough experience, you’d lead that team in all the equipment and stage management you could get your hands on.

And you jumped in with them, headfirst, fearless.

That was years ago, and you haven’t looked back since.

But then Sam started to notice something.

Daniel Wagner had been distracted. Never a good thing to be while on tour.

So, he came to you with the problem.

“I’m telling you, there is something up with Daniel!” He practically whined as you packed your bag to go to the next venue.

“Sammy, nothing is up with Daniel. There’s no way.”

“He doesn’t eat, he is always staring off into the distance, he’s always scribbling in his little notebook, he’s acting weird!”

“You guys are on tour, that’s stressful. Maybe he’s just like, at max stress.” You argue, checking that you have your lights and pyro cues for the next stop of the tour.

“Why aren’t you worried about this? You should be worried, he’s your best friend too!”

You stop what you’re doing and turn to face him.

“Maybe he’s fallen madly in love with someone.”

Sam actually laughs out loud at the thought.

“Good one!” He says with a goofy grin on his face. “We would know if he was in love, don’t you think?” He asks.

“Then I just don’t know, Sammy. Go argue with Jake and Josh about this, I have to go meet with the crew about the inventory for the road.” You say, and Sam just drops it to go do exactly that.

His brothers are on the tour bus when he gets there and luckily, Danny is running late. And he is sure to mention that.

“Seems like Daniel is late again... He’s been doing that a lot, huh?” He says, trying not to act too suspiciously.

Josh and Jake share this look, like they’re trying to figure out if Sam has a point or not. But Jake starts to really think about it, and you know what? Shockingly, their younger brother does in fact have a point.

“Now that you mention it, He is acting kind of weird.” He says softly, and Josh nods.

“I had to ask him for my earrings back the other day and when I got to his room, he looked like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. I thought he was in the middle of jerking off but now that I think about it, he’s been like that a lot. Always acting like a deer in the headlights.”

So, the whole situation perplexes them, but before they can say anything else on the matter, Danny strolls onto the tour bus.

“Good morning, boys! How are we today?” Now that they had all discussed it, any behavior from him would be suspicious.

“Fine. Why are you late, Dan?” Danny was immediately alarmed by this, since Sam never called him Dan. It was always Danny or Daniel.

“Uh, I just lost my shoes in the room, and they were under my bed. Sorry, I didn’t realize I was keeping you guys waiting.”

Josh, the only one able to play anything cool, just nods, “It’s alright, we weren’t waiting for long. We should probably discuss the setlist for tonight.” Jake hums but he can’t help but notice that Danny has these large black stud earrings in. And he’s sure he’s seen them before, but he can’t quite put his finger on were.

For now, he lets it go. But he keeps it in the back of his mind for later.

They stop at a rest stop that afternoon, along with most of the tech crew who travel in their own bus. You go to check in on your boys and buy Sam a snack as a peace offering for not believing him this morning.

But instead, you run into Josh, who decides to find the others with you. You get to talking but you feel him staring at your face, and you blush.

“What, do I have something on my face?” You ask bashfully.

“No,” he hums softly, tilting his head. “You just— Where’d you get that necklace?” He swears he’s seen it before but can’t put his finger on it.

Your hand goes up to fiddle with the necklace, almost nervously.

“It’s a gift from my sister, I wore it when we graduated, remember?” Josh does not remember.

For now, he lets it go. But he keeps it in the back of his mind for later.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Toots, Guess I forgot.” He links arms with you, “Let’s go find the guys, huh?” He smiles. Happy to drop the subject, you go with him willingly.

Sammy, Danny, and Jake are getting their snacks when something catches Danny’s eye, and he won’t stop staring, so Sam looks to see what he could be so bothered by. And all he sees is his older brother, linking arms with you.

He smacks Danny’s arm, whose head snaps to look at him.

“Just Josh, Dude. At Ease, Soldier.” He teases. But he can’t shake this feeling that Danny was bothered by it. But why would he be?

Nothing else weird happens throughout the day, and the show that night goes well. So well, in fact that they invite you to a local bar where they can grab a few drinks and decompress from the day. And that goes really well too, except when Sam sees you the next morning and hickeys cover your neck.

“Dude! What the fuck!?” He asks, investigating your neck further. You blush and shove him off gently.

“Relax, Sammy, I just—I hooked up with someone last night that I met at the bar, and they were kind of rough. No big deal, I’ll never see them again.” You say, with a casual shrug.

Something is off about your tone. But he says nothing.

For now, he lets it go. But he keeps it in the back of his mind for later.

And then, he notices these earrings you have in.

Large black diamond studs.

“Nice Earrings.” He comments casually. He swears he’s seen them before, but like, recently! It perplexes him a bit and it must show on his face, because you are quick to clear up any confusion.

“Oh, thanks! I wore them last night for the bar and I just forgot to take them out. They aren’t too casual, so I don’t wear them too often.”

And it makes enough sense. Why would you lie to him about something as stupid as that?

Then, when he sees Danny that night, he’s covered in hickeys.

And Sam thinks he might still be drunk or high, or both. Because what the fuck is going on?! You both were acting strange, and he’s noticing these little things, so he decides to confide in Josh and Jake again, who relay their findings, and they decide they must confront Danny together.

Danny is not too shocked when he goes to get undressed and get his makeup removed only to find the boys waiting for him there. It took him a while to get back to the dressing room.

“Oh, hey guys! Sorry, I didn’t realize you were waiting for me. I got caught up talking to one of the security guards and then I got lost, this venue is so damn confusing.” And then Sam knows he’s lying because if HE could figure out how to return to the dressing room, then Danny, who has an amazing sense of direction, definitely could!

“What’s going on with you, Man?” he asks as he begins to wipe the makeup off his face.

“What? Nothing is going on with me, dude, I told you I just got lost.”

“Bullshit,” Josh calls. “You’re distracted, always late, and have suspiciously good jewelry taste as of late!”

“Yeah! And it’s affecting other people too,” Jake recalls, “Even the tech crew has noticed it! Our stage manager, our best friend, is acting weird too, and I have a feeling it’s because of your shady actions!”

And that’s when it hits Sam.

The earrings.

The hickeys.

The necklace.

The lateness.

The god damn hickeys.

“Just be real with us, Danny—” Josh starts, before Sam stands up.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” He gasps.

And that stops everyone in their tracks. He says your name to Danny, and it immediately catches his attention.

“What about them?” He asks.

“Are you sleeping with them?” Sam asks.

“What?! Sammy, c’mon—”

“Daniel Wagner, are you fucking our stage manager?!”

There’s a pause.

“Sammy. You’re acting—”

“Answer the question.”

“No!” He sighs. “I think they are lovely, and I would love to, and I want to take them on dates and woo them, but I am not fucking our stage manager, Sam. You guys are being paranoid. And if you don’t mind I’d prefer they don’t know about the fact that I like them, okay?”

All the other boys nod. Of course, It makes perfect sense! You and Danny both like each other but you aren’t able to tell each other that because of your long-standing friendship, but you’re sharing jewelry as a way of subtly telling each other. And that explains why he was staring at you and Josh the other day! And the hickeys were from other people because you couldn’t have each other! Duh! Maybe he really did get lost going back to the dressing room.

The conversation quickly shifts and moves on from Danny’s confession, and everything is normal. They could help you realize that the feelings were reciprocated.

When Danny eventually makes it out of there, he makes his way back to his hotel room. But on his way up, he quickly checks to see if any of the boys are following him, before making a stop on the way.

The knock on your door doesn’t startle you, in fact, you were kind of ready for it. You had gotten back a little while ago and turned on the shower to let it heat up. When you answer it, you grin up at him and grab his arm, pulling him inside. He shuts the door behind himself, before his arms are around your waist, leaning in for a long kiss.

It’s full of this gentleness that he grants you because, well, he always greets you with one sweet, truly loving kiss.

When he pulls away, he grins back at you.

“Hi, sweets.” He hums.

“Hey, handsome.” You respond, “Did you put the boys to bed like I asked?” He laughs at your phrasing, leaning down to kiss your jaw. And then your neck. Again. And again. And one more time for good measure.

“Mhm. They asked me if we were together though.” He keeps kissing your neck.

“I figured as much; they’ve been acting weird.”

“They might think I have a crush on you, now.” He says between kisses.

“And what would give them that idea?” You ask.

“…The fact that I told them I had a crush on you.”

“Well, do you?”

“Mm... I dunno. Might have to kiss you a few more times before I decide for certain.” You grin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah... Maybe a little more than kissing too...”

“Well, don’t let me stand in the way of your methods, Danny.”

He grins, and kisses you again, this time, deeper, with none of the gentleness of the initial kiss. But there’s a new feeling you get from him now. Hunger.

And you kiss back, as if you have something deeper than hunger. Starvation, maybe.

And you don’t think either of you will ever be satiated.

By the end of the night, he decides he most definitely has a crush on you.

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

Hi, I absolutely love the way you breakdown tswift songs, and I just wanted to clarify something, that's been bothering me. In 7 she mentions this part "we'll move to India forever" at first I was just like yeah, but the more I listened to it, the more I was like what kind of fucking colonist/white mindset is that? You'll never tour to India but you want to move here?? LIKE??? NO!!!! Don't!!! We've had enough of you white people exploiting us without ever actually ever caring for our country.

Feel free to vent about whatever Taylor Swift lyric you hate. I literally love it. :)

Because you're right, I always saw the line "we'll move to India forever" in the most charitable light. I remember thinking to myself, when I first heard it, that maybe she just loves India.

It made sense to me- because during the pandemic I fell into reading a BUNCH about India's culture, religion, food, anything. (My interest was mostly a result of linguistic interest into how India has shaped the English Language over time). Despite English only being present in the region due to colonialism, India has had a remarkable impact on shaping the Language itself! I emphasize post-colonial theory in my real job- and while I don't write much on India's relation to English Linguistics, I enjoy reading on the subject. So that's why I find it so interesting- because it really speaks to human ingenuity and perseverance. You know? The linguistic diversity present in India alone is so cool- and I really could talk about it forever.

So, I heard the line, and my first thought was like "yeah, okay maybe she just loves India?"

I think I was being too kind with that initial response.

But dude- she's never even toured in India? Like she just refused to go? She's never once talked about India in a positive light at all. So then why would she write that line? Like she will go to any random country in Europe, go to any random state in the USA, and go to couple of select places in Latin America, but it seems like she outright ignores Southern parts of Asia? Except Singapore- because they gave her a boatload of money, I guess. So, why write that line? Why write all of "Karma" is she has no genuine interest or respect for the people from which that philosophy comes?

In combination with her obvious pro-colonialist imagery in her other work, like the "Wildest Dreams" music video, the line in "Bejeweled" about reclaiming the land, and the latest line in "But Daddy I Love Him" about how she wants to win the West, I now believe her line about moving to India to be pure Orientalism.

Plus, the whole issue with the "Karma" song in which she is denigrating the philosophical concept of Karma and making it seem like nothing more than a shallow idiomatic ideal on revenge.

I think she's just an idiot who wants to mention "India" like it's some fantastical realm far away from "reality" (Eg), to her, the USA, as if India is not a real place with a real history and real culture. This is what I mean when I say she offers India no respect or appreciation- you can't liken a place to a mystical realm removed from reality without removing it from its history, culture, and people.

If the whole line is "Pack your dolls in a sweater/ We'll move to India forever/ Passed down like Folksongs" ("Seven" 2020).

She is intuitively linking the concept of moving to India with that of a childhood fantasy- with the word "dolls"- one childhood fantasy which will be ultimately unfulfilled. Thus, I support the argument that her line about moving to India is only in reference to the fact that it's like an unreal fantasy- worlds away from reality.

In literary theory, we call this process of subjective reality removal, and fetishization of the East as a fantasy realm, Orientalism. Orientalism is the act of creating a fantasy of the East, in this case India, that is often full of stereotypes or predicated solely on the myopic lens of western perspective.

Naturally, this facet of literature was mainly popular during the height of British Colonialism in India- in the 19th century. So why is Taylor Swift negotiating Orientalist attitudes in a song in the year of 2020? WHY! Uh- (because she's a fucking Racist with no respect for anyone who's not White and from USA). I've been blind- I fear.

It's such a rude oversimplification of such a diverse and interesting place- and all of her many nods towards Colonialism are so disgusting - I'm actually pissed off about it.

Anyway- That was my long-winded way of completely agreeing with you. You're right it's a shitty colonialist attitude and she should not be getting away with it.

[gretavanfleetposts]

Chapter Two: The Music of the Night

Summary: In 1880’s Paris, you join the company of the Palais Garnier Opera House, newly financed by your childhood friend Daniel with whom you reconnect, and haunted by the man you will soon come to know as your Angel of Music.

Content Warnings: mentions and subtext of stalking, ***this is not a smut chapter but I’m still marking it as dubious consent*** (18+ minors dni)

Word Count: 7.5k

Masterlist

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The moment Daniel was gone from the room, the music started, like whispers at first, convincing you you were only hearing things. But it grew more definitive with each passing second until finally you heard it, your name, whispered all around you, spoken in hushed tones beneath the music radiating through the very walls that surrounded you.

You were on your feet before you even heard his voice, that voice which called to you each night now and left you so cold and empty when it went silent.

“He will hear us, master-” you urged quietly, turning back to the door that Daniel had disappeared through only moments ago.

“Do not pay him anymore mind, my dear,” your angel called in thunderous answer.

It was a voice wholly disembodied, unable to be located, try as you did. You’d have been quite the scene to stumble upon, spinning round in circles searching gleefully for your angel whom you believed would soon bare himself to you at long last.

“What is this magic?” you asked to the empty room in breathless wonder. And yet, your angel called back.

“I am all around you. Do you feel it? Do you see it?”

You spun wide once more when your eyes befell the mirror, having caught a glimpse of yourself: an image that was almost entirely you. Almost.

“I feel it, yes,” you attested in a voice that cracked and failed as your eyes fixed to that spot in the mirror that looked ever so slightly un-mirror-like. “But I do not see it.”

How long those many months had been as a pupil of some great invisible teacher who showed you music you never could have fathomed. But his physical form still evaded you. He was the air, the wind, he was the walls, the very fabric of the curtains. He was your angel, no man, no shape, no body. A voice. A tantalizing voice. And a spirit that moved through you precisely the way your father had said the angel he would send to you would when he was gone.

“Must you see me to believe that I am there?” your angel questioned.

“No,” you answered quickly, “no, I just…I would like to meet my angel. Who has been my great tutor these many months?”

“If you wish to meet me, then tell me this: did you sing for that boy tonight?”

You took a step toward the mirror. You were almost certain something was behind the thick glass now. “I sang for you, only for you.”

“He is an ignorant fool.”

“He is nothing, my angel!”

Daniel’s voice rang faintly in the distance, sounding close and yet worlds away. Too far for you to really hear. But not even his very presence could have ceased the steps that carried you closer to that mirror, to the feeling of what might lay beyond it beckoning you closer.

Your angel bellowed from the depths of some place far beyond, “Then you shall know me finally. Come to the mirror. Come to me.”

Like a mirage in the desert, tempting you with some secret that changes entirely when you get to the thing which you thought you saw, the image of your reflection rippled as you stepped closer and closer, until the illusion dropped entirely to reveal a dark, shadowy figure, and then a black gloved hand outstretching from the depths and into the light.

There was a rhythmic thumping beating hard all around you, something much faster than the music that still surrounded and swathed you: the pounding of your heart like a fast-paced drum in your ears. It almost deafened you, almost silenced everything else around you as you eyed the gloved hand carefully. It marched onward in your chest, like it marked the high point of the end of the first act of a performance, begging the question of you alongside the audience, more obvious to you now as you lifted your hand.

And then, against any judgment that might have fought for you to do otherwise, you laid your palm against glove and took the shadow's hand.

The world behind you, the one you had once known and played about in, fell away as you stepped through the hole in the wall that was once partitioned by glassy mirror. And as that world fell away and became secondary, the figure that had stood on the other side which now held your hand firmly in its own took form. It was a man who had led you through the wall, something like a phantom shrouded in deep, rich, black velvet, with only one part standing out from the blackness that he had drawn you into: his face.

It was remarkable, much like a skull held up by shoulders made of nothing more than the black air that surrounded it. It was a ghostly white face, standing bold against its backdrop as he gazed backward at you, bony, hard, and stark, with a brow bone jutting into a permanent, strict scowl.

He led you silently down a long corridor made entirely of stone, slanting and sloping so harshly downward you would have lost your footing for not his hold on you. Even in the dark, you could hear the moisture beneath your feet, dampening each tap of your heels against the stone below. You could feel the moisture in the air, clinging to the walls as deftly as it did your skin. And from the chill in the air that grew none too gradually with each step you took, it was evident that you were retreating from the hearth of the opera house and plunging into the cold depths of the tunnels that laid buried underneath.

But even at such depths of perceived unusedness, it didn't appear to be abandoned, at least not totally. There were torches that lined the walls that ignited as you passed, ridding the place suddenly of its inky black darkness down the entirety of the corridor, guiding you as surely as the hand holding yours. Cobwebs had been cleared and heavy drapery hung at increments between slick mossy patches of stone. The very walls seemed to operate at his own beck and call. Here one moment, blocking your path further into the ground, gone the next, revealing a hidden passage like the fiery gates of hell accepting their master. Your Angel, you presumed, commander of it all, although as you watched him move silently like a shadow in the night, like a part of that architecture itself, he seemed far more like the devil than any angel. How long he must have lived there to convince even the walls to obey his every whim.

The long, sullen path quite maze-like in its construction only earned his glance every so often, when some fixture with a hidden purpose blocked it and required his magical touch to bend to his will or when some small set of cobbled stairs stood ahead to be descended. There wasn't much that seemed potent enough to tear his stoic gaze from you as he led you to some abyss. Perhaps you had even thrust upon him fully your own credulity, having watched him work some magic with that mirror in your dressing room which you had thought much like any ordinary mirror. You longed to know this sorcerer and you bent your will before him just like the very walls themselves which seemed nothing but a farce when he dared want to go through them.

These were depths of the opera house you’d never ventured toward. Never even neared. They were the very bowels of the place, where the furnaces breathed their fiery breath like dragons and obeyed only their riders covered in soot and slaves to the shovel. Even the warmth of those fervid hearts seemed to be dampened by the cold of the earth when one ventured that deep. You could feel the chill in your own bones, not to be confused with the chill of whatever mystery had been so suddenly thrust upon you.

The stone path led you past the four levels you knew to be buried under the Palais Garnier, to the fifth, which you had seldom heard any talk of. Of course, there were rumors of ghosts who inhabited that depth, though Joshua felt assured those ghosts were nothing more than the poor man banished there to catch rats. Perhaps a vagrant or two. But what you found there was a silence unlike anything that inhabited any other inch of the Palais Garnier. Up top, where the daylight deigned to touch, there was music and footsteps and chatter to be found everywhere you went. But down where the blackness surrounded you like a blanket, there was only the sound of your breathing mingled with the click of your heels, for your Angel practically floated and moved so silently he could not be perceived. And you were very much alone.

It was there in that fifth level that stone turned to rocky foundation, where the masons had built upon the natural formations and bothered not to cover it. And where civilized path ended and rocky edge appeared, you heard the sounds of water in the distance, approaching as quickly as your footsteps allowed it. Your Angel turned to face forward, exchanging your hand into his other behind his back to free the one that would perform his next trick, undoubtedly.

Finally the source of the sound came into view: it was a lake (a whole lake!) buried beneath the Palais Garnier Opera House. Perched atop floated a little dinghy with one oar strewn across it and with his free hand, your Angel lifted the heavy anchoring rope from the rocks and helped you step in.

Just as he had guided you down to the deepest part of that place which he ruled, he steered you across the dark, frigid waters, into a cavernous formation that seemed to be the last stop before the very gates of hell greeted you.

He stared at the waters so studiously, keeping his eyes locked upon the horizon. All you could make out in that swartness was long cascading locks of hair flowing over broad shoulders. It wasn’t until you reached that other edge that was to be your destination and lights sprang up from every corner of the natural earth hollowed out before you that your angel materialized fully before you.

He stepped out of the boat and pulled it more securely to that little shore that sat at the threshold of what appeared to be something of a dwelling, filled with little magical things and instruments beyond number, some of which puzzled you as to the sound they might make, others which puzzled you as to how one would even go about producing any sound from them. But it wasn’t this dwelling which stunned you, turned your gaze to stone, unbreakable and unwavering where it sat resting upon its newest fixation. It was your very angel himself.

In the clarity of light, you saw him better. He was no ghost, no apparition, no heavenly body in form itself, but rather a living, breathing thing. A man, you should think, for not the extraordinary feats he had performed before your very eyes. And in that light, a new discovery: that which you had mistaken to be a skull was in fact nothing so morbid. It was a mask, made of something rigid and crisp white, and covering only half of his face like bones protruding from his skin. It cut along the top of his forehead on the right side of his face, following the edge where skin met hairline until it met his jaw where it curved upward so as to leave his lips unimpeded. And then the matter of his lips, soft, plush, and pink on his face and held barely floating apart from one another, as his breath almost heaved with the way he watched you watch him in turn. They looked soft. That was what you noted.

The mask drew a straight line up over his nose, a tiny hole allowing him free breath where it otherwise mimicked perfectly the other half of his nose, almost like the face itself had been dipped in stone. It cut his face in equal parts, up through his strong brow bone, which was mimicked perfectly on the other side in that white case, and back up to the height of his forehead. The only other hole cut into the thing was for his right eye and as you took him in more wholly, you noticed the pair, warm brown albeit rimmed with a purplish hue that seemed to suggest your angel hardly slept despite a need for it.

Yes, a man indeed. One with brawny hips and deft hands, burly legs and a rugged tawniness to the unruly hair and eyebrows that suited this dark figure. The sneak of skin on his face and the repute with which he held himself begged you yearn for any more glimpse at him. But his body was hidden away. Even so much as a sliver of skin any lower than his neck was impossible thanks to the staunch white collar high upon his neck and the thick black vest with matching jacket, worn in some spots, weathered by age and habitation. Even his hands, covered by black leather gloves, were hidden from you.

But what he did not show of himself, he let you hear. What he did not let you see, he let you feel, for all around you, just as suddenly as those candles had been conjured up, so had that sweet music which had surrounded you back in your dressing room. It was there, his very work, swirling around you as easily as the wind might have despite the fact that he still stood there before you, unwavering in stance and gaze. Watching. Eyeing. Closely, closely.

You eyed him back with a curiosity you could not contain, your own lips parted as if standing at the ready should you see fit to gasp. Although, you were much more breathless than all that. You would have even felt that you were gawking up at him, should you not have been the only two souls for some stretch. And to be certain, you were gawking, but you were powerless to stop yourself.

Finally he opened his mouth further to speak and your body, void of any inclination of the mind, leaned forward so as not to miss a word.

“May I?” he asked, outstretching his hand to you once more.

Admittedly, you had no idea for what he was asking permission but it was permission you granted him regardless. And when you took his hand yet again, he lifted you from the boat and onto solid ground.

You spared a moment then to glance around, letting your eyes travel the scenery laid before you, scenery just as tantalizing as the angel himself.  It was a home, somehow, built into the foundation of the opera house, deep beneath the earth. Not hindered by the natural rock formations there but rather built in harmony with them by some seemingly mad genius.

The only source of light were the candles burning devotedly for their master but there were plenty of them to cast a beautiful haze-like glow about the entirety of the place. In that light, you could make out little inlets sectioned off by thick red velvet drapery, partitioning quiet little corners with their heft. The focal point of the whole place seemed to be his organ, the pipes weaving in and out of rock, decorated by even more candles in dangerous proximity to the sheer amount of parchment littered all over the place. And tables upon tables upon tables, writing desks and other flat surfaces to hold even more paper, and tiny little trinkets that you couldn’t quite decipher from where you stood.

It was all so very bewildering. There was a whole life being lived here, beneath the foundation of the Palais Garnier.

Your eyes trailed back to him in the wake of your wonderment.

“Are you my angel? The voice that has been teaching me?” you asked breathlessly, so much so that for a moment, you questioned whether or not he heard you. But he turned to you more fully and let his forefinger, one singular digit, rise to the underside of your chin at the very peak.

“I can assure you, I am much more than a voice.”

He walked backward a few steps with your hand still in his to gently pull a rope near the wall and at his signal, the idle music shifted into something more melodic, more haunting.

“You have no idea how many nights I have pictured this moment, you standing here with me,” he whispered as he pulled you in a few steps closer to him. “You have no idea the things I wish to do to you. The music I wish to make with you.”

Your body went willingly. Your fingers itched to have him within their reach. His eyes alone could have haunted you for the rest of your days. He was stunning, his body, his voice, his music. 

He guided you toward the more central part of the dwelling but your eyes hardly took their leave from him. The need to see him bared to you fully seemed innate within you now. Your chest burned with your desire to touch him and to know all that there was to know of him.

You raised your hand to the skin on the side of his face that was bared to you and a surprising warmth seeped into your fingers expelling the cold at once. But even given your cold touch, he leaned into it. He seemed to savor it so fully that you couldn't help but wonder when it was that he had last felt someone's touch. You could hardly even fathom a man so hauntingly beautiful going without such a thing.

If beauty and warmth and touch had evaded him so thoroughly as it seemed, you would be his provider, you resolved. You would uncover the side of his face that he kept hidden and bring him back into the light. So you lifted your hand from its gentle resting place and moved it to the side with the mask. But as your fingers began to curl around the hard edge just along the bridge of his nose, his hand snapped to your wrist with a bruising force that squeezed an exhale from you just the same, like a deep gasp of fear and morbid fascination. His eyes, however, fluttered open so slowly it was as if he were waking from a dream. Once set on you though, whatever softness they had contained was gone and in place of that softness was something that terrified you. A heated anger boiled behind liquid hot brown, melting and oozing and so clumsily contained that if your hand had been at your side, it would have shook in fear. Your angel had at once turned into a devil.

“You will never be in any danger with me, my dear, that I can promise you. But only so long as you never touch the mask.” He spoke deliberately, awaiting some answer on your part, some sign of your understanding.

There was no real understanding to be had, of course. The secrets that he kept so boldly would plague you long after you awake from your dream. But even so, that vague feeling of knowing better, like a scolded school child knowing when to quit, gave tilt to your head and you conjured up the smallest movement which could be perceived as a nod, even as your mouth hung ajar to give way to your breath which came faster even though it threatened to fail.

Still, he did not free your wrist. Instead, he turned away from you, pulling his arm behind his back and switching the grass of his hand so it once again took yours in lead and he brought you to a place in the wall where a tall, heavy curtain hung and shook its golden tassels. When you reached it, he turned back to you and gestured to the long pull rope next to it with his eyes, expectancy wading at the surface.

Hesitantly, after your eyes met the rope before traveling to his face and back again, you moved your body in a small motion to face the curtain more earnestly. But there was something of his presence, something about him, that prevented you from ever really looking away for too long. Even as he dropped your hand to let you reach up and pull the rope, your eyes somehow searched for him.

At the tug of your wrist, the curtain breezes by your face to reveal a large statue of a mirror, intricate gold leaf covering the carvings around the thick outside edge that framed you so nicely, like a blanket of white with your shadow behind you. Or perhaps more like a predator stalking its prey; you braced for his touch.

“You may touch me however you like,” he whispered as he stalked close behind you, his chest pressing a ghost-like touch against your back and his words whispering a fan of breath like a mask of their own over your temple, sending chills sprinting down the length of your neck and arms. 

His gloved fingers ghosted over your own hand at your side and your eyes, now fixed to his mirror image, couldn't for all their strength find another home. His movements enraptured you, the way he plucked your hand from your side and pulled it up along his neck, where the curve of his jaw met the curiosity of the skin he let you see so much more freely than the other half of his face.

“Any part of me at the will of your fingertips…” he continued as his nose grazed a long, ghost of a line at the edge of your jaw which seemed to draw out the breath from your lungs with the power of its movement. That was the first bit of desire he pushed through you, deep into your bones which might have ached in soreness from lack of whatever touch it was they yearned for from him when you woke.

“...as long as you never touch the mask,” he repeated, stealing you back from your trance-like state.

He turned you sharply in his arms then, so sharply that the breath you inhaled caught in your throat like the pitiful squeak of a mouse when the trap snapped shut, now face to face with its master.

“Tell me you understand,” he demanded. And that fire was back, igniting the seriousness behind his eyes that you had almost forgotten when your bodies had been pressed tightly to one another.

Another small squeak of a sound pushed it's way from your lungs, this time intelligible word, just barely. “I understand.”

His face turned up all at once, another turn of his expression so sharp it could have cut you. This time though, it was a smile that he flashed, wide and miraculous like the heavens had opened up to exalt you for your good deed.

“Then I shall show you more music than you can fathom.”

He pulled you from the mirror with a jaunt in his step, past a large wall of miniatures, the opera house to be precise, in all its likeness, with pulleys and levers and little strings all over hidden corners. Even tiny figurines including Madame Kiszout kneeled at an alter of candles in the little chapel hidden away in a closet of the place, the new manager posed in a hunch over even tinier papers in his office, and yourself, on stage, singing Faust as you had only hours ago. He breezed you past tables of parchment with scribbled sketches and paintings, past little desks with candles tipped, dripping wax mixing with sticky clay, a messy ode to the tiny sculptures being born on those surfaces. But it was the organ that was his destination, a fixture so grand and impressive, it begged all the attention of the room.

He flung himself onto the tufted bench that sat before it and let his fingers dance excitedly over the keys, hammering out something heart wrenchingly beautiful, even in his haste. And loud, so much so that you might have thought the sound would travel upwards and shake the whole of the opera house from those very depths. The stoney walls didn’t dampen the sound as narrowly as the heavy drapery might have if you wrapped yourself in it. They echoed the sound back until you were surrounded by it, engulfed in it. They delivered that poignant sound and laid it at your feet until your head spun. They let it echo and reverberate even after his hands abruptly stopped until it waned to a soft then silent memory after several moments.

When the air cleared, he lifted his eyes back to you, rising slowly, like a mere shadow moving in the night. He hardly walked but rather glided over to you, or maybe stalked given the intensity of his gaze which had once again shifted.

He kept silent as he moved, the only sound being that of your breathing which quickened as he neared and then stilled completely when he raised a single gloved finger to your chin which followed his movements as he took his place behind you.

“I will caress you with my music, if you let me.” His hands encircled your neck delicately until they found a home hanging round your neck like a loose necklace where you feared for a moment that they may tighten. But instead, it was his gentleness that made you jump in his hands, as he ever-so-delicately tilted your head back, guiding you to rest against his shoulder. “I will possess you with my music, if you let me,” he hissed in a low, tempting whisper against your temple.

That black leather, so cold to the touch, it glided over your skin so imperiously, giving quicker rise and fall to your chest. But it was gone far quicker than it came, leaving you standing there alone with dizzy head and a craving so fierce your fingers twitched at your sides.

He was such a curious man, moving about so unpredictable, there one moment, praising you, singing to you, touching you, and then gone the next, leaving you cold in his absence. He was far more a ghost than he was a man, now you were certain of it. Only an apparition could evaporate and reappear the way he did.

Where he stood several steps away, his face seemed to be asking you a question that he hadn't yet spoken. And now he was looking after you with an eagerness, perhaps even a nervousness if you were to pay close enough attention to your Angel’s face. His very happiness, maybe even his very life, seemed to depend upon the words which you spoke next. In truth, you had no idea what he hoped you’d say, but there were questions bubbling at your lips, coating your mind in a thick layer of inquiry.

“You live down here?” It was the best you could do. A poor attempt at conveying the wonder clouding your mind and perhaps your judgment as well.

It was a silly question, indeed, the answer written all over the comforts of the place, but even so, you watched him swallow and gleaned more from that action alone than you had anything else.

“Yes,” he said simply, breathless and taken aback by the simplicity of your question, certainly after all he had already said and done. He had bared his soul to you, brought down from the heavens by God himself, and that was your question.

His answer displeased you as much as your question did him. Far too simple, far too easy. None of this was simple and none of it was easy.

“Did you build all of this?” you implored further, braving a single step in his direction toward his mounting confusion.

He blinked back something like startlement and swallowed, answering in an even more hushed affirmation.

You turned back to the grandness of the organ and the papers littering the floor and the music desk, even hindering the keys at the high end of the instrument. Scribblings, music notes and shaky hand-drawn staff lines, sheet music scrawled out in ink and written over again, all dripping a dye as red as blood, as if he has put his own into the work. It all appeared to be the musings one might attribute to a mad man. Or maybe a genius.

You looked up at him again, bewildered.

“Where do you sleep?” you asked, a feeble attempt to ask the real question on your mind, which was much closer to ‘when do you sleep’, or maybe even ‘do you sleep’.

This time you caught the slight smile that touched his lips and you anticipated the outstretching of his hand before it ever greeted you. He led you to a little nook in the stone, a far corner just barely out of sight and shrouded by layers upon layers of thick curtain that he pulled back with one deft sweep of his arm. Like a magician uncovering some great beauty, he revealed to you the little isolated island that he called his bedroom and the large bed that took up most of the space made entirely of bronze, forged and figured into the shape of a swan with its body carved out just at its back so as to hold a rider, a sleeping person, between its wings. Nestled into that divot was a sea of plush red as vivid as it was inviting. It called to you like a gentle reminder to your body of how late the day had grown, though your mind was awake and wide with all of the newfound possibilities of your most recent discovery.

Your fingers nimbly felt their way along the cold copper piece, so much dissonance in its existence alone: a haven of plush comfort built within hard metal walls. It seemed to argue with itself. You wondered if he had built it.

“You can sleep here tonight,” he said, gesturing to the bed with a quick glance and nothing more. “It is quite late.”

Your fingers lost themselves in the overflowing tulle of your skirts, diamond-studded and far too fragile for sleeping. But your body did long for it, a deep sleep, if only it didn’t promise to usher you from your dream. “I have only my gown.”

An armoire stood tall in the corner, dwarfed still by the sizeable comforts of the gilded swan

There stood an armoire in the corner that, large as it was, was no match for the grandeur of the bird-like bed and sat almost hidden off to the side like it dared not draw attention away from the real beauty of the room. He pulled on long bronzed handles emblazoned with tiny feather carvings, swinging the doors wide like wings themselves to reveal fabric pouring out of it’s shelter with the gust of wind he’d given it: a nightgown made of intricate lace and drooping silk and just as white as the gown you already wore.

He stood like some sort of chauffeur, a face like he hoped it was to your liking, but only for a moment before he uttered a quick, “I’ll let you change”, and then evaporated as was his habit of doing.

He was like a part of the whole apparatus under the opera house, as much of his current surroundings as you suspected he was of the angels he met with when you weren’t there. You, on the other hand, felt out of place. You felt you were an intrusion into his little palace, no matter how greatly you longed to belong there.

Usually Madame Kiszout was there to untie you or unhook you or unlace you. The act alone required a great stretch of the arms, twisting and feeling blindly for the strings that would make the whole bodice give. You fumbled, hands far shakier than you had realized when they hadn’t a single task, but now they needed a steadiness they didn’t possess. Surely your angel saw everything though, did he not? Was he not always watching over you? It made you wonder if he would come to your rescue but that wonderment was dashed when you heard the familiar pounding on the keys of his organ yet again, although this time the layers of the curtain that separated you from him did a remarkable job of muffling the noise to a mere tranquil melody, aggravated as it sounded.

With him distracted by his music, you felt more assured you could take your time with it and you let your fingers work more calmly. The cold air hit your body hard and the nightgown was a welcome shield from the chill you felt, not just from your surroundings but from your nerves as well.

When you finally pulled back the curtain you were confronted more squarely with his work, deafening and defeated. You craned your neck as you walked to try and steal a glimpse of him even sooner, to see that heavenly host hunched over his instrument as it wailed for him. And when you finally stood a mere few feet away from the beastly organ, tears were beginning to fall from your eyes at the tragedy of his tune.

“My life’s work,” he said without prompting, his fingers finding a stillness that you suspected was rare, “Don Juan Triumphant. I work on it for months at a time then leave it alone for years. You have inspired me once again to finish it this time.”

You sat next to him on that dutiful little bench, feeling emboldened by the first true glimpse of himself that he had given. When he met your face, he seemed taken aback by the tears he saw there, staining your cheeks with a rosy red blotchiness that followed. He stopped one of the culprits in its path with a single finger, that finger which saw fit to taunt you and tease you with his touch.

“It is heartbreaking, my angel,” you offered by way of explanation.

He cleared his throat and dropped his eyes. “You may call me Jacob. Please.”

“So my angel has a name.”

Rather than answering, offering any polite word to soften the astonishment that drew lines on your face and tied your features together, he stood and wandered away, like it was your very gaze that he aimed to evade.

“We shall practice here from now on. Less distractions this way,” he all but mumbled.

You gave him a gentle nod, afraid to say much. You had this strange feeling that he might fly far away, up and out of your grasp, and in truth, it scared you beyond reason. The idea of Jacob not being there with you, leaving you chilled without his presence and his magic and his music; it terrified you.

“You will become the triumph of the Palais Garnier,” he continued, almost matter-of-factly like this was all some transaction he meant to sell you on. “But you will be my greatest triumph.”

Of course, it enticed. How could it not when the Palais Garnier was home to more talent than you'd ever had the privilege of knowing yourself? But far moreso, you fancied yourself his muse. That was the true gift he had chosen to bestow upon you: his very attention.

“Why me?” you suddenly asked, struck by the thought that he could have chosen anyone over you, and perhaps all more fitting of his gifts and his focus.

“I beg your pardon?”

You stood to match his pose, now poised toward you and awaiting expectantly as you straightened and the long silk of the nightgown slunk down around your bare feet and past your wrists to hide your hands from the damp cool that bit through the air. You felt almost like a bride marching up to meet her fate, dragging your veil behind you as your feet brought you to him.

“Why have you chosen to bestow this gift upon me?” you asked, watching him firmly with beseeching eyes.

“Why you?” he repeated. He seemed incredulous at the question but nevertheless met you halfway from the imaginary place in front of him you sought to stand on and traced an invisible line up your neck to your chin, never actually touching your body until he reached his own destination, tugging your head back by a grip around the nape of your neck with a force that threatened to be anything close to forceful. There, he looked at you, really looked at you, his plush lips parted and looking quite like they might mean to do something. But all they did was speak.

“There is no one else on this earth but you.”

Utterly speechless in his hands, unable to move or think, unable to blink or even breathe, he broke the silence you were bound to.

“You need sleep.”

— 🌹 —

When you woke, you woke most certain the night before had been a dream. It wasn't until your eyes, freshly opened, were met with the back of the head of a bronze swan larger than life that a sense of realness pooled in the pit of your stomach.

The feathery down laid smooth and untouched in all the places your body hadn't occupied and if you didn't know any better, you'd say your ghost hadn't slept at all but maybe stood watch over the place like a dog guarding a bone. But you knew he was still there by the way muffled his music trickled through whatever cracks or crevices it could find in the curtains that partitioned you off. Like he sought you out, wherever you might be.

A tray on a little slab of wood teetering on three legs next to the bed was your only indication Jacob had even been past that curtain while you slept. And despite having not seen anything remotely resembling a kitchen in that alcove he called his home, the tray carried a tea kettle that steamed so hot it fogged its own silver and a plate of berries.

Your eyes skipped past the tray in their search for any other proof that your angel was indeed a real human and not, as you believed, an angel come to you in a more appreciable form when they landed on a small figurine that seemed as bound to time as any tattered toy. The figurine took the shape of a monkey that smiled back at you with a cymbal in each hand sitting on a windup box striped like a circus tent. A curious little piece, and one of few that didn't appear made by the master who worked on the other side of the curtain.

You outstretched a hand, giving it a little wind not even a full revolution of the key before sitting back to watch it work. The monkey’s arms began to move, clapping the cymbals together on a winded rhythm as a twinkling little melody played. So kiddish and quaint but it captivated you, so much so that you didn't notice the playing on the organ had ceased until Jacob was suddenly throwing back the curtain to your hideaway and standing squarely in the entrance with a look of annoyance owning his every feature.

In two strides he was by the figurine clenching the cymbals together to stop the noisemaker in its place and when he turned back to you, he stood rigid and angry like a gargoyle.

“You must return,” he said brusquely. “They've lost their wits looking for you.”

You said nothing in fear of further jostling his anger, though when his eyes moved from your unflinching form and to the tray you had not so much as touched, his annoyance only grew.

“You did not eat,” he sighed, plainly vexed.

You shook your head, a light and hurried motion that startled you in its own uncertainty.

“If you are to be my visage, you'll need your strength.”

“My body and your voice,” you answered hoarsely, your voice having been coaxed from its reluctant hiding place.

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I could conjure up any hunger,” you tried this time, barely meeting his eyes, piercing as they were.

He pulled you roughly to your feet with a hand grasping your bicep, bringing you face to face with his patience, far thinner than it had been the night before. So flimsy, in fact, that when he raised his hand to your throat, you were almost certain there would be a danger there that it had lacked each time he had done it previously. And you braced for it only to be surprised when his fingertips, ever gloved as they were, met your skin with a touch so delicate the air in your lungs expelled itself all at once.

But that was about the only forbearance he offered you, using considerably more strength to turn you sharply by your neck until your back collided with his chest. His hand still adorning your throat like a permanent necklace, he dipped his head to speak against the shell of your ear in a severe whisper.

“You'll do as I say.”

The gasp you sucked in at the rasp of his demand was involuntary, as was the way your body pressed back into him despite how vulnerable you felt in his hands. There was something about his touch that intoxicated you, obscured by the leather of his gloves though that it was.

With his freehand, he plucked a berry up off your breakfast tray, a plump, deep blue sphere of perfection that looked so frail between his black leather fingers. “Must I feed you myself?” he asked, his voice low and deadly.

Without waiting for any answer you might have thought to give, he lifted the berry to your mouth. Your lips parted on their own, expecting the fruit between them, but all he did was run that sweet fruit along your lips, first the top, letting it glide close to your tongue, before teasing it along the pillow softness of your bottom lip. Then finally, when you felt you were pressing back into him with an immeasurable force, he tilted your chin back with his pinky, signaling for you to take the berry into your mouth at long last where it burst with relief.

“Eat. I will not ask again.”

His hands and body disappeared from you, as was their habit of doing, already gone back to his piano.

He didn't eat while he worked. Didn’t seem to drink either. He was enveloped by it. A slave to it and you a slave to him. You could do nothing but listen to him work until he guided you back to your dressing room.

Taglist: @roving-blade @vanfleeter @readyforthegarden @stardustthread @Wrldabomination @josh-iamyour-mama @notsostrangerthing @runwayblues @redundantrachel @i-choose-the-road @Notsostrangerthing @MyLeftSock @sacredjake @Stardustjake @earthlysorrows @kiszkas-canvas @golddustwoman777 @xserenax-13

[thesharktanksdriver]

Determination! to where the sand blows and where the heart goes (platonic)

Made this for foreshadowing and fun

Decided to do a poem kinda format just for experimenting and symbolism

The next determination! Will take awhile to come out due to my finals coming up so I made this instead.

Wish me luck yall

Once upon a time, a long….Long time ago, Mother spoke of sand

She grew up on a sandy island you know? A large one where water was scarce and rain was a blessing.

She said that the place was beautiful but she never quite felt at home there.

She never was one for the sandy dunes that was the ever-expanding horizon

Sand

Golden particles in the hundreds of millions scattered on the ground, piling up to the size of castles and threading through the air.

“Sand is the crushed up hopes and dreams of wanderers” she told you one day at the beach.

Said material pooling her hands before she let it slip between her fingers and scatter back on the ground.

The golden dust sparkling in the sunlight as she continued.

“It’s uncaring and apathetic to our cries. It’s both soft and course, it’s terrible and it’s beautiful”

As you walk the desert you reflect on her words and find the truth in them

You remember a spring island with sand as soft as flour beneath your feet but now the sand you walk on scorches you’d soles.

Sandcastles were fun but not climbing a mound of sand as big as a castle is a chore.

Your throat is parched and your skin is burned and rubbed bare

Hands coated in sweat that stings your cuts

Despite being in the dunes of shattered hope you keep moving forwards

Down into a valley

Down into the depths of a cave that you instinctually somehow know better than your childhood home.

You can’t even remember that house

You can’t call it a home anymore

It’s forgotten to time and your mind

The open world is your home now

The sea is your bed in which you lay

Ever Drifting

Ever dreaming

This place is made of sandstone and dust and ancient ideals

Intricate carvings decorates the tomb, blood, sweat and tears clearly poured into the effort of doing all of this.

Of chiselling into the stone that leaves their lungs stocked up in dust that chokes them

Of planning out the entire piece that all 4 walls and ceiling connect to one another in artistic harmony

Of using precious stones, diamonds, rubies and sapphires to be set in place to represent the stars

It’s all too beautiful to describe as you slither deeper down into this place

This temple to a god unknown to you (but your not unknown to them)

Glowing stones Illuminate this place

Made into the shapes of 4 pointed stars on the walls that guide your path

You don’t notice they fizzle out behind you as if your the activator of their light

You don’t notice a lot of crucial things in this place

Like for instance why you know which tiles are meant for traps and you don’t see the writing quite literally on the walls that you would understand despite the fact you’ve never seen that language before.

But it doesn’t matter

It makes things more funny for them in the end

Knowing how so much was presented to you but you stubbornly ignored it because of your determination to continue onward

It’s why they liked you

Why they chose you

Why it was fate

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, you continued forwards

Deep deep down the spiders thread you go

Whirling and twirling down into the abyss

Will you reach the end?

You don’t know

Not when hawks could snatch you up at any moment in the dark

But your accustomed to that fate

Of having your little spider legs cracked and snapped in half before getting up again

It’s what you did best

So you keep twirling down your web

Descending deep down

The only light being provided by the stones that shine like the glint of silk

Keeping going down the rabbit hole little spider

And see where it goes!

Will you find time?

Or will you find peace of mind?

It doesn’t matter in the end

Not after all your journeys so far

Time is a loop and you’d see it countless times so far

But that’s fine in the end

Perhaps you’d have it no other way since you get to see and meet new friends

So keep going little spider

Deeper in the dark

Fight your fear and shine bright with your spark

Keep going little spider

Or rather Little pearl of the sea with great big starry eyes

You shoulder the world like atlas but why?

You are but a child in mind, body and soul yet the years fly by and you say your not anymore

Things will change little spider who weaves the fate of everyone but their own

Little pearl In the great big sea that floats amungst the waves

Little spark of a match that lights the flames of the revolution

Little hope for the hopeless sinners who pray for redemption

Little star In the night sky that shines the brightest despite its size

Your eyes trail up to a statue at the bottom of the temple, alone and barren in the golden sand that pools around it

And in yellow glowing stone read

“Bright little one, don’t become like the sand you tread. Stay strong. Stay determined little starcatcher”

And you wake up, eyes hazily staring up at the rocking ceiling of wood as your hands clutch at the feather duvet that shields you from the gnawing cold. You blink….and you blink again as you slowly rise and get out of bed.

Everything feels surreal even as you eat breakfast as the men around you all hustle and bustle with talking and drinking. You pick at your food, fork stabbing into a piece of strawberry whilst your eyes stare down blankly at it.

Your still not fully there after that Dream, how can you be?

With a sigh you finally take a bite, you don’t taste the sweet juice of the strawberry coat your mouth, you taste nothing. Just mush you chew down on to make into more mush that you swallow down. You barely feel like you can stomach it, barely feel like you’d should’ve gotten out of bed at all.

It feels like your energy was drained in both a literal and mental sense.

Like everything was sucked out of you and spat out.

Like-

“You alright there little captain?” And like that your brought back to reality as the familiar sound of Roger makes your head snap up. He’s sitting beside you, the usual joyful smile replaced by one of wordy as you stare up at him.

He already knows the answer

He can read you like an open book or the palm of his own hand

But he still asks to see if you want his help

Need his help

Lazily you shake your head. You can’t bother to put in the effort of doing much more and he understands whole heartedly. To be honest he’s surprised your not like this all the time considering all you’ve been through.

He smiles and it reminds you of the sunshine from just rising above the horizon line. Beautiful and bright and joy and warm and understanding.

Your lifted into his arms without needing to ask.

His arms cradle you and the world seems to disappear. Safety and security wrap around you like a blanket, warm and cozy as you seem to melt into his hold. He laughs, jolly and loud in the way that makes you smile as he peers down at you with worry and care.

You fall asleep in his arms and wake up in his cabin tucked away on a fainting couch. Head cushioned by plush tufted velvet as you burrow into the warmth of it and the jackets draped over your shoulders like a blanket.

You feel warm and safe

You feel….at home

Tired eyes gaze up to Roger who works at his desk, you smile and close your eyes once more

Missing his coughing fit then after.

[hotwritergf]

Word game!<3

Hi friends! I was tagged by the lovely @finntheehumaneater to take part in the word game! My words were ache, tear, sob, grip and scream. Thank you for tagging me, it is so sweet to know my mutuals think of me!

CW- Smut, Masturbation, Phone Sex, DDLG? (Use of the term daddy) Blow-Job/Hand job, Eddie x reader, Steve x reader, Established AU Steddie, Boyfriend!Steve, Boyfriend!Eddie, Mention of menstrual pain, tears, tickling and fluff.

I nominate anyone who would like to take part who has not been tagged yet, your words are 'Bisexual' 'Alone' 'Princess' 'Supervision' and 'scent'. I picked the most random words I'm sorry!

Ache

It had been a week. Just one week away, you knew that it wouldn’t be fun being away from your boyfriend, everything about Eddie radiated comfort for you. It's not that you didn’t like coming home and visiting your parents, but it felt oddly haunting. The ghost of your childhood floating through the halls, you remember how they felt so much bigger when you were younger. But now at 23 you were able accept your family home for what it was, not a home but a house, it was simply four walls. You missed Eddie’s trailer. The familiar mess of his clothes piled up in the corner ready for laundry day, the assortment of his rings you’d find scattered around the place and the faint smell of weed and lager. It felt more homely than the overwhelming scent of vanilla washing powder that dominated the three-bedroom house you found yourself back in.

Checking the time on your phone, your fingers hovered over the call button. Eddie wouldn’t mind you calling this late, but you always felt a sense of guilt knowing he had to work early the next morning. He never did handle early starts well. You needed him. Displaying yourself on the bed in just your black underwear he’d bought you for valentine’s day the year prior, your fingers were tracing shapes on them mindlessly ignoring the ever-growing heat beneath them. Your mind playing mental pictures of all the times those fingers had been Eddie’s on nights like these, lazily zeroing over your underwear clad clit for far too long for your liking, he has always been such an immense tease. You let your body make the choices, hitting the call button. “Princess?” he almost growled answering the phone. His voice exposing the fact he’d been asleep only moments before this. “Need you Eds. Missing you.” whimpering under your own touch you manage to stifle your moans, not wanting to show your boyfriend your arousal so quickly. “What am I? Your booty call? Angel.” Rumbled. He was so intuitive, as if he had a sixth sense for your horniness.

Your clit was beginning to ache, shimmying your underwear down your legs to gain access to your heat. “Can’t I call my boyfriend when I miss him?” you whispered, slipping your middle finger through your folds and massaging yourself simultaneously gaining goosebumps on your arms from your touch. Moaning softly as your breath hitched, he teased “Of course you can darlin’ but I gotta tell you, hearing those sweet sounds from that pretty little mouth of yours had me questioning what it was you could possibly want from me at three in the morning, but who am I to deny a girl her daddy?” You could hear him shuffling around on the other end of the phone, undeniably undressing himself from those pajama bottoms he found so comfortable. You vision him taking his shaft in his fist, spitting onto his hand longing for it to be your cunt. He groans through his stroking; your once gentle massage had turned into sliding your fingers into yourself to the melody of Eddie’s hoarse sighs. “So princess, tell daddy what you were thinking about while you play with my pussy.” He grunts making your body writhe and your voice quiver. The next five days couldn’t pass fast enough.

Tear

You'd managed to hold it together all day, the rude customers that had no empathy for you, a young woman working a dead end retail job in the height of summer who had been given the most innapropriate comments from older men all day. You even managed to keep your public service smile on throughout the excruciating pains in your lower abdomen because of course mother nature would hit you hardest when you had to concentrate. The second you got home, you threw yourself onto your bed and let the tear that had been in your eye all day fall. You were strong willed at the best of times but it was just all too much today, sobbing into the sheets felt oddly theraputic, the outlet was a good relief but you still felt awful. The only thing you could think to do was fall asleep and hope it would all be okay when you woke up.

You woke to the sound of the bedroom door being flung open, Your boyfriend throwing down his work bag onto the desk and sitting down next to you. "Sleepyhead" he spoke as he stroked your hair, moving some rouge strands out of your face. Within an instant he was up again, you groan at the absence, curling up into a ball you closed your eyes again. Steve never could do anything quietly, its not that he ever wanted to disturb you but subtlety wasn't his strong point. Standing upright, you looked into the mirror. Your skin had broken out into hormonal acne and that fire in your stomach was still raging. You stared, trying to find anything familiar about yourself at this time. That's when you saw it, of course you'd bled through your jeans. You mentally added this to the list of things that had gone wrong today.

"Now baby, there's a nice warm bath with your name all over it" he whispered, entering the room but just peaking behind the door, you rushed to turn around. Its not that you were embarrassed of yourself leaking, you just didn't want Steve to see it. "If you just take off those jeans, I'll have them good as new by the time you're out of the bath." Steve looked at the ceiling, noticing that you couldn't hold eye contact right now. That was okay with him, being best friends with Robin as long as he had been, he'd learnt the do's and don'ts of these situations and practically wrote the handbook of 'How to handle people on their periods.' He just wanted you to be comfortable. Taking off your jeans and handing them to your boyfriend with a weak but grateful smile, with flushed cheeks you spoke "Thank you baby" rushing into the bathroom. You wondered how you got this lucky, viewing the rose petals in the bath and a full glass of water and pain killers on the side. He'd even set out for you a pair of his pajamas for you to change into once you were dry. Steve was an incredible boyfriend, even if you could hear him calling Robin to ask what stain remover to use on jeans..

Sob

"You're not gonna sob on me now Harrington are you?" Eddie teased, his smirk almost audible. The two had been watching rom-coms all evening because Steve "It's all they had left at Family Video" Harrington chose to, Eddie agreed begrudgingly knowing even if it wasn't his choice his boyfriend wanted to share these movies with him. "Shut up, don't think I didn't see your eyes watering at the funeral scene loverboy" Steve grumbled, his face nestled into Eddie's chest. "We wouldn't be sat here holding back tears if you'd had just rented Star Wars" he mocked playfully, his face flushing a little at the emotional admission. He'd never really let himself become emotionally vulnerable with anyone but Steve was different. He was soft, open and angelic. He wore his heart on his sleeve and he didn't care who knew. So if Eddie Munson was going to sit here sobbing with anyone, he'd choose Steve on all days ending in a y.

Grip

All Eddie could see was a mound of brunette hair moving down his chest, Steve's kisses were travelling south from his chest downwards and they felt extraordinary. He interlocked his fingers in his hair, needing to hold on to something as his boyfriend devoured his length into his mouth, teasing his tongue around the tip. Eddie's ecstacy encapulated the entire room as Steve's tongue possessed him. Eddie had to grip onto the bedsheets, almost ripping them off in the process as his hips began to buck under the pleasure. "Am I doing okay?" Steve hesitated as he came up for air, "Perfect darlin' so great for your first time." Eddie responded, caressing his love's cheek with his thumb before leaning in for a kiss hungrily "Want to make you feel good Teddy" Steve teased in between kisses, jerking him in the palm of his hand craving to give him the most pleasure imaginable. "Don't stress sweetheart, you're doing great." He replied with a fistful of Steve hair before he returned to his position. He never knew that sex could be this passionate but so gentle too.

Scream

"Oh my fucking god Harrington, make that noise again!" Eddie had just found out a very interesting quirk about his boyfriend, you'd think after a year of dating he couldn't have hidden something like this but here they were. Wrestling on the Harrington's living room floor, laughing alongside each other because Eddie had discovered Steve's weak spot. All he did was wiggle his fingers under his arms when his boyfriend was reaching for something from the top shelf that he was just a little to short to grasp. "Scream for me again princess, come on! I don't wanna have to tickle you worse. Or do I?" Eddie teased with a smirk. His boyfriend curling up into a ball to protect himself from Eddie's wandering hands, he wouldn't complain. Obviously not. Any physical affection from Eddie Munson, his long term crush made boyfriend was a god sent gift.

[sunnysssol]

I am very sick today, and so that naturally means it's time for me to rotate Alfred and Suzie in my mind. Here's what was originally a short drabble that got way too long, before I go to sleep. Set vaguely in the 1780s. Enjoy ✨️💕

— "I suppose..." 

Alfred watched as she drew back from the table, bracing herself on it with her hands as she balanced precariously on the chair's hind legs, rocking back and forth lightly. Surprisingly childish for someone who acts like she knows it all. He'd never call Suzie Knightley childish, or annoying�� but sometimes, he does think it. No matter how kind her heart is and how much they have in common. He thinks it’s a common affliction of those who live together, to find the other unbearable at times– especially to those whose relationship is as ambiguous as messages in dreams. All the same, Alfred waited for her answer.

"I suppose I don't want much else in this life." She spoke, stilling her motion and instead looking at her hands, splayed about her lap. He looked down at his own, too. "I don't really know what else I should want. It seems like everyone wants something these days."

"Do you truly not want anything because you believe you have all you could ever want, or do you only say you don’t want anything because you don’t know what you want?”

He usually surprised himself with his prodding– never one to question a lady– but with Suzie, he never felt beholden to any of these rules and conventions. He trusted her enough to speak freely in her presence. And sometimes, when she did serve him with some resistance, he found amusement in her reactions.

"When I was a girl I dreamed of going wherever the wind might've taken me," To his surprise, she responds sincerely. She paused for a beat– then she huffed out a laugh, turning her head to face him. “I meant no offense. I do enjoy New England, but I’d always wanted to go to my mother’s childhood home in Lombardy.”

“You’ve given none,” He responds, blinking owlishly as he tried to make sense of her reaction and the foreboding feeling that he was about to cross a boundary. To learn something he wouldn’t be able to unlearn. “And then what? Sir Knightley tells me you’ve been. To Lombardy and Britain and whatnot.”

“I have,” She nodded. “It wasn’t anything like I imagined. I thought I wanted to be like her. And… I thought I wanted her family to like me as well. But…”

When Suzie paused to stare out through the windows and into the dark night, Alfred turned his head to where she’d looked too. But when he saw nothing but the inky sky and the city below, he furrowed his eyebrows and turned back to her.

“But?”

“Nothing is ever so simple, I think. And now here I am, maybe… thirty or so years now, and I’ve not a single idea what I want. Or could want, or should. I don’t feel strongly one way or another.”

She turned to smile at him, eyes soft and just ever so slightly misty.

“Does that make me dull?”

“No,” He shook his head, the word tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could truly think about it. “No, not at all.”

Suzie looked at him– really looked at him– the way she always does. Under the scrutiny of those soulful hazel eyes, Alfred was always left feeling vulnerable. Like he can’t hide from her no matter how far away he is or how long it’s been. It made no sense to feel this way about a friend– he’d only known her for forty-something years! To his surprise, she punches him on his shoulder playfully. He reaches up to place a hand on the spot out of reflex, a laugh surprised out of him.

“What was that for?!”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not!”

She laughed, shaking her head. 

“But… I guess if I were to choose, I’d choose to be free. Not… in the same way as you– and it’s more than just being a free woman in a man’s world, but…” Suzie paused thoughtfully, and Alfred let himself commit the sound of her voice to memory, her words shaping the image of her in his mind. “To be free to go where I please when I please, and eventually to be free to die unremembered. I’ve never been sure if that’s a selfish thing to desire, but I’ve never claimed to be selfless.”

At that, she nudged him with an elbow– a smile with the slightest hint of mischief on her lips. Only Suzie would be joyful whilst talking about death and dying without even the memory of you to go around. Alfred didn’t find it quite as funny as her.

“But– wouldn’t it be better to die loved and remembered?” He asked, frowning. He didn’t like the idea of Suzie dying– he thought the point of Assistants was that they didn’t die! “... I only mean… well, what’s the point of living if no one remembers you when your time comes, then?”

“People always forget,” In a gesture that would’ve shocked him otherwise, Suzie reached out for his hand and squeezed it. He didn’t feel as though he should maintain his appropriate, acceptable distance now. The frown remained on his face even as he met her gaze, feeling partly responsible for the dour topic despite his trepidations about it. 

“That’s what time is for. People will always forget. Do you mean to tell me that you remember people from empires millennia prior? I think not. I believe there’s a comfort in that. When we die, our bodies are all accepted back into the Earth from which we sprung from. Regardless of who we were in life– what we’d done, seen. Who we loved and hated. I want that. Not to die before my time, certainly– but to be afforded the freedom of being erased by time at the very least."

“Luckily you don’t have to try very hard for that…” Alfred grumbled, her words only serving to dampen his mood even more. She laughed that bell-like laugh of her again, the sound momentarily distracting him from the many unpleasant images he’d just mentally conjured up. 

“‘For dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return’.”

“I keep forgetting your grandfather was a minister.”

“And I loved him, thank you very much.”

“... And I’m not going anywhere,” She spoke softly when Alfred didn’t respond again, giving his hand another squeeze. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Even when you drag snow on my floors because you refuse to take your boots off, or enter backdoors.”

“Sure,” He lightened up a little at that, squeezing her hand back as he offered the smallest of smiles.

[velvet-games]

hmm ok thoughts/questions so far on hazbin hannibal au (feel free to chime in):

okay full disclosure I haven't watched hannibal in like four years but I was obsessed enough with it at the time that I can hopefully still analyze it without forgetting major chunks of plot (emphasis on hopefully)

also full disclosure that a lot of my view of alastor is based on fandom/my own extrapolation; I rewatched some of hazbin recently, and we honestly don't get much! there's a lot of room for different interps and I'm just using mine

the most obvious choice for hannibal is alastor, but the characters are just different enough that I can either a) have someone else be hannibal or b) have the whole point be that alastor is not hannibal (and why that's interesting)

hannibal is a lonely devil (but like, not from the bible): he's the only guy in the world that knows how to play chess, and he'll do anything to keep playing with the one other guy that knows how to play chess; hannibal is legitimately better and cooler than most people, and he is only actually made vulnerable by will.

alastor is like. just a guy tbh. even in hell, he's kind of mediocre; not all of the other overlords respect him, and he's not even as powerful as the goetia, much less anyone in heaven. and that's not even touching on human alastor.

hannibal is born into a lot of wealth, and I think that shapes his sense of "morality;" instead of absorbing actual morals, he absorbs a need for decorum and propriety (the aesthetic of morality basically). he kills because people are "impolite." he fucks with people because it's genuinely just interesting, and he doesn't respect them as people.

I don't really know what to do with hannibal's trauma with later being destitute and having to eat his sister; it wasn't fully explained in the show, and I think it's kind of a relic from the more human version of him in the books. maybe it speaks to a level of having to remove oneself emotionally because being invested means Something Bad Happened to Hannibal, which cannot happen ("nothing happened. I happened." etc etc), and that's why he needs to see everything as a game he can control. that makes will a lot more significant because hannibal could've chosen not to play chess, but now that he does, he needs someone to play with him (or he might have to go back to believing something bad happened). eh.

I don't think alastor was born into wealth at all; I'm good with the general fandom interp of him growing up poor with a shitty father, and I don't really see him as ever becoming wealthy in life. I doubt being a radio show host paid that much, especially since his whole thing is not being a sellout.

alastor's morality is kind of a big question mark that everyone has a different answer to. I don't like the politeness thing because again, I see it as being shaped by hannibal's childhood, and I also do think alastor is Invested. I think he's too invested, actually; there's kind of this desperate edge to him that hannibal would never have. alastor's ego is wounded multiple times and he is, at least to the audience, very obviously ticked off by it. he doesn't like that the other overlords aren't impressed by him, he has a meltdown over husk's minor jab, and tears out his own hair at the idea that other people might've thought he had a heart. he's less of a master chess player and more of a wounded animal that got really good at scaring other animals into not hurting it again. but he's still an animal. and no one has gotten close enough to heal the wound.

so I guess alastor's morality is just whatever feels good/safe. I watched swarm a while back, and I liked the use of murder as a kind of coping mechanism: "this feels bad. I don't feel safe. I don’t know how to deal with this. no one in my life has taught me how to process emotions normally, so I'm literally just gonna do murder." dre's killing is subtextually compared to stress eating; it feels good, there's a dopamine rush, and you stop thinking about the bad things. you can also eat comfort food just because you want to and enjoy it.

something I realized while I watched the show is that I'm pretty sure we don't see alastor actually kill that many people? like he fucked with pentious and tried to kill adam, plus we get a flashback about killing other overlords, but I only remember him actually killing the sharks that were after mimzy. so. lots of extrapolation still.

I think all of those examples can be read using the eating metaphor, but obviously there's some other stuff going on too. killing the overlords was a reputation-building (no one will hurt me if I'm scary enough) moment, but it was also just for the more practical side of gaining power/souls. killing for mimzy helped confirm to charlie that he could defend the hotel, and it also plays into his role as a gentleman that will clean up mimzy's messes. he gets to be a hero in a fucked up way.

there's obviously no redemption arc for hannibal. I don't even know what the fuck that would mean in a thematic sense. but I do think alastor can be softened a lot if he lets someone in to heal the wound. not sure who that would be though.

I have a lot more, but just one little thing to end on and get y'all's thoughts going: what if vox is hannibal? not in the full character sense, but just to fill the role as the rich guy that psychoanalyzes people. he's probably more obviously suited to a freddie lounds-type role, but maybe he does hypnosis "therapy" and realizes it doesn't work on alastor, which sparks his interest. just some food for thought.

[desceros]

You & GB are RUINING me with your blurple villain Leo au How dare you sirs?! You've turned me absolutely feral a slobbering bitey mess /pos

Unfortunately for you activating my hyperfixation also means activating my obsessive brain spinning... Questions be upon ye!!!

Did Lamb-chan grow up with Donnie? How did she first meet villain!Leo? What did she do/say that flipped Leo from "you're a pretty dumb innocent little lamb huh" to "you're *mine* I am keeping you forever"? How did Donnie react the first time Lamb-chan came home smelling like Leo? Is that what snapped his control, the moment his instincts drove him to finally (thoroughly) demonstrate just how well he can take care of her? How did Leo react the next time he saw Lamb-chan & she smelled like Donnie?

I humbly submit these questions in the hopes that you may see fit to give me any crumbs nay even specks of delicious brain food that can be spared 🙏 pls & ty 🙏🙏

[after i gush for twenty minutes about how this is all their fault for enabling me] oh man i love questions

EDIT THIS GOT SO LONG. OH MY GOD. IM PUTTING IT UNDER A CUT also hi @gbao3 <3 please add your thoughts to this as well

so it aaaaaaall started with this post, with leo being the wolf and donnie being the sheep dog.

as such, you're childhood friends with donnie, since sheep dogs grow up with their sheep. i imagine he's basically always been a little in love with you, but it hasn't always been... ah... healthy? like. when he was young it was that kind of 'when we grow up let's get married bc we're best friends' love. and then as a teenager it became kind of an obsession. doesn't the world know how important you are to him? can't you see how dangerous it can be without him to protect you?

it's during this stage that he's maybe a bit self-destructive with it, literally at one point putting himself between you and another mutant, ending up with him having the scars on his shell. he mellows out a little as he grows older, to the point where now it's just a fact of his life that he's in love with you and there won't ever be anyone else; it's less of a fire inside of him and more just. yeah. duh? of course i love them and would die for them? zzzzz next question. but he's still very much the kind of person who asks you your itinerary down to the fifteen minute mark when you leave so he can make sure to know exactly when you'll be home.

i suspect that as lamb-chan, as much as you also love donnie, that can get a little, uh. overbearing. to say the least. i think that you have a habit of slipping out from time to time (since you live at the lair where donnie is always always always watching), just to breathe, to get away from it a little. the world looks a little different without donatello at your side, after all, and you're a little curious. so maybe you wander a little too far, sometimes.

and leo. god. leo is a breath of something that feels like air, but you're not sure what it is.

i don't have the exact first meeting pinned down in my head, but i do have this mental image of him sitting on a fire escape, one knee bent up to his chest and the other hanging down the side, a toothy grin on his face as he mockingly asks what a soft little thing like you is doing on this side of town. and you see him and you're just like, oh. he. he looks a lot like donnie. so you're a lot less scared than you probably should be, and that—that fascinates him. what kind of world do you live in where he's all but a perfect picture of the underbelly of the world, and you smile at him?

what would it take for you to look at him like everyone else does?

so he invites you to come back again. and you, well, you're just like. wow!! friend shaped!! so you do. but this time leo's not on the fire escape. he's on the ground, and he circles you a bit like a predator would. he's looking for you to be uncomfortable; to be afraid. but he made one small mistake; the shape of his smirk, now that he's close, is eerily familiar. it looks so much like donnie's, you could swear the two were twins. and it makes it so, so hard to be anything other than curious. mikey and raph don't look so similar to donnie, after all. why does leo?

so it continues like that until one day, leo says something and you laugh. and that—that hits him like a bludgeon to the chest. it's not like any laugh he's ever had directed at him before. and when you open your eyes, wiping away the amused tears, your gaze is so fucking soft. in that moment, leo realizes that he's hungry. and you—you look like you'd taste so. good.

meanwhile donnie is like. no really. where the fuck are you going. and one day he follows you and who the fuck is this guy with his arms around you. (but i think i'm going to leave that one for another day bc i have a nice one-shot in my drafts folder about how that'd play out)