#To clarify that's the side of the road outside the building and it's across the parking lot and also a huge grassy divot

[godtears]

... Huh.

[yazthebookish]

✨🖤 Azriel and Gwyn 🖤✨

I am very much invested in what this couple could serve for us in the future.

I want you to keep in mind that: Azriel and Gwyn are not in love (yet) . Azriel had no other interaction with Gwyn for 2 years since the day he saved her (that we know of) and they did not share a scene until the training sessions began. Why am I addressing this? I do not want to be called delusional and I want to get some points across so bear with me.

• Gwyn is most definitely not a minor or a child. She is 28 years old although there are many things about how age Fae that I hope SJM clarifies one day but we can rely on what's canon. Rhysand's father mated his mother, the former 900 and his mother 18 years old. Rhysand and Cassian fought in the War 500 years ago and they were only in their 30s while Azriel was the High Lord's spymaster. Gwyn is old enough to participate in the Blood Rite. So canonically, Fae in their 20s/30s are not children so the argument that Gwyn is a child/teenager no longer stands. She is taller than Nesta.

• Gwyn's birthday is not in March, it was never confirmed. She was conceived on Calanmai as mentioned in the book (beginning of Spring = March). Calan Mai in real life is celebrated on May and it is a celebration of the coming summer. However, Calanmai in ACOTAR is a celebration marking the beginning of Spring (Spring begins in March). Fae pregnancies spans to 10 months, Gwyn and her twin were conceived in March, 10 months later its January. It is likely that Gwyn and her twin were born in January.

• Gwyn had become a fan favorite instantly and it's not because of a ship. She is intelligent and kind. SJM gave her some background that helped in making her standout as a character. Among the new characters, she is the one that SJM builds up the most. Emerie did get some build up but not as much as Gwyn.

This whole place was utterly silent. The only bit of color and sound came from Gwyn.

• Gwyn has main character potential and it is unheard of in SJM's universe that secondary characters do not star as main character in one of the books (check Throne of Glass and do your count of how many secondary characters joined the main cast).

Gwyn marked the change. “I don’t need your pity.” The words were sharp, as clear as her teal eyes. “It wasn’t pity.” “I’ve been here for nearly two years, but I haven’t become so disconnected from others that I can’t tell when someone remembers why I am here and alters their behavior.” Gwyn’s mouth flattened to a line. “I don’t need to be coddled. Only spoken to like a person.”

• Gwyn is the first female Carynthian in history along with Emerie. This sets her up to be a rival to the Illyrians. ACOSF's ending hints at the Valkyries continuing their training with Cassian and Azriel so there is more potential for them and Gwyn to grow and play a significant role in future books.

• Gwyn's journey is far from over:

“I want to take the road that no one dares travel, and I want to travel it with you two. No matter what may befall us. Not as Illyrians, not for their titles, but as something new. To prove to them, to everyone, that something new and different might triumph over their rules and restrictions.”

• Gwyn is the first person to break in Nesta. There is an allure to her that makes even the people that are hard as stone mellow. Whose personality is hard to break in like Nesta's? Azriel. Despite Gwyn not having spent much time in Azriel's company, like Nesta, she brings out the side of Azriel that we have not seen much of. Azriel who barely chats with anyone, let alone a person that he was barely acquainted with outside the ring, admits that yes he sings and his rage cool over around her (this is a big deal for someone like Azriel to open up about himself).

Alone with Azriel, Nesta bared her teeth at him. Azriel watched her with that cool quiet, keeping utterly still. Like he saw everything in her head. Her bruised heart.

• She works for the horrible Merrill and something doesn't click right with me about Merrill. Merrill came to the library after Gwyn did maybe less than two years ago and she could possibly be a future villain.

“The wind whispers to me even here, under so much stone,” Merrill said. “It finds its way in through the cracks and murmurs the goings-on of the world in my ear.” Merrill snorted. “Do you think you are entitled to do as you please now?” -- “I am descended from Rabath, Lord of the Western Wind,” Merrill seethed. “Unlike Gwyneth Berdara, I am no lackey to be dismissed.” Big villain energy.

Let me go over the moments between Gwyn and Azriel real quick:

• Gwyn being distracted when Azriel joined them for the first time during training and glances at Azriel every now and then.

• Either Gwyn or Azriel asking/offering to help with dagger handling meaning they do train together off screen.

– Winter Solstice –

• Gwyn becomes more competitive and tries her best to win.

• More banter and teasing seen between Azriel and Gwyn.

• Hints dropped of Azriel being more aware when Gwyn is around during training.

"Gwyn let out a high-pitched noise that was nothing but pure excitement. Azriel, on the other side of the ring with the rest of the priestesses, half-turned at the sound, brows high."

"Cassian glanced over at Az, but his attention was fixed on the young priestess, admiration and quiet encouragement shining from his face."

• Their whole scene in his POV chapter. The settling calmness in him around her. His shadows singing. Something sparking in his chest thinking of her joy and referring to it as a thing of secret, lovely beauty.

There are parallels between them: light/dark, Saint/sinner, he is a bastard and she is a half-breed, both their mothers were treated poorly, both sing, both feel unworthy, both feel guilt, both are lonely, both need to heal from their traumatic past. Gwyn's will not break quite recalls to the one Azriel says to Feyre about not breaking.

Cassian wonders if Azriel ever considered bringing his mother to the library or pushed her since it's a sanctuary for females who endured a lot. I think it's possible that Azriel brings her to the library one day and Gwyn meets her.

This is what I call chemistry and SJM proven time and again that her couples do not have to start out at a romantic setting (all of her main couples started out with banter and chemistry). Although it wasn't a book focused on Azriel or Gwyn, I think SJM placed the stepping stones that will lead up to them in his book. There's nothing subtle about the words she chooses or the scenes she writes. She is the Queen of Foreshadowing for god's sake she's known to play with the reader. She wrote every word in the book if she did not want to stir something in the reader about Gwyn and Azriel then explain why so many fellow readers and fans jumped the bandwagon. I do not believe the big number of people that are fans of this couple are delusional and clowning themselves. Not if this is what SJM wanted to happen and what made sense to her readers.

By the end of the day, you can ship and fantasize about your beloved couples or linking up Azriel with any of the characters. This is me indirectly addressing the drama and the bullying I have seen of so-called fans at other fans within the same fandom. Bullying is not and will never ok, these books do not exist to ruin someone's enjoyment. If an author dropped obvious hints that the character might end up in another route aside from what ship you are supporting, you should not attack the other fans for it and you certainly shouldn't attack the author if she decided to go that route. We could question it but never attack.

The last point I want to bring across is just because Gwyn is a SA survivor does not mean she cannot find love and intimacy. It's a harmful message to spread speaking out this way for SA survivors and a few SA survivors whom are ACOTAR fans spoke on this. Intimacy and love is about trust, it can't happen right from the start because they need to tread through the waters until they deem it safe but they are worthy of having a chance at love as much as everyone else and sending the message that they cannot be in love because their trauma will always be there is insensitive. I hope I addressed this properly in words, I understand it's a trigger subject for many. If there was any wrong wording in here, please correct me.

Thank you for bearing with me.

[blu-joons]

You Have History With A Member When You Start Working At BigHit ~ BTS Reaction

Jin:

Your body stopped when you saw who you’d been assigned to for the day, watching slowly as Jin’s head turned when he heard that the manager had arrived. “Oh,” he stuttered, frowning as he met your eyes.

“Are you sure there’s no one else?” You asked your boss.

“We’ll be fine,” Jin interrupted before he could respond, “it’s just a day, that’s all.”

“We’re professional, that’s it,” you snapped as your boss walked away, leading Jungkook down to the car park to drive to set.

He frowned, following a few paces behind you. “It’s been a while since I saw you Y/N, you look well,” he spoke up as you walked outside. “You can’t ignore me for the whole day.”

“You managed to ignore for weeks after our date, maybe I’ll take a leaf out of your book,” you huffed, “I don’t need to listen to any of your compliments anymore.”

Jin sighed, climbing into the car beside you, “if you want to pretend that we’re nothing today, that’s fine. But it won’t change what happened between us.”

“I’m your manager for a day as sick cover,” you reminded him, “after today, I don’t want to ever see or hear from you again Seokjin.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want.”

Yoongi:

He sighed as you continued to move around him as you fixed his hair for the photoshoot, keeping your lips tightly shut throughout so you didn’t have to speak to him. “We could use this time to talk about what happened.”

“Why would I want to talk about it?” You retaliated.

“You work here now, we’ll see a lot of each other,” he responded, “clearing the air could be good.”

“I’m here to do my job, trust me, if I knew I’d be working with you, I’d have gone,” you frowned, roughly brushing through his hair.

His head shook gently, “I know what I did was wrong, I’ve learnt a lot since then. I don’t want to be your boyfriend again, but I at least want to be civil with you.”

“For the sake of everyone else around us, I’ll say hello, but don’t ever expect more than that from me,” you warned him, fixing a few strands of hair.

Yoongi smiled, taking whatever he could get from you. “You’ve always held a place in my heart Y/N, nothing will ever change that for me.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you cheated on me,” you whispered, “I can forgive, but I can’t forget what you did.”

“I’d never expect you to either.”

Hoseok:

His eyes lit up as he looked over the outfit, you’d styled for him for the interview with the other members. His hands straightened out the shirt before looking back at you. “You always did know exactly what I liked.”

“Oh, do you two already know each other?” Your boss asked.

“Many years ago,” Hobi whispered, “but we just ended up on different paths.”

“You were my best friend,” you clarified, handing him a pair of shoes, “and then came fame, and you just forgot all about me.”

Your boss quickly walked away as she noticed the tension. “I never wanted to forget you,” Hobi smiled, “I just became too busy to spend any time with you anymore.”

“Just admit you found better friends and decided that you didn’t need me anymore,” you pleaded, “I don’t want to be here and have you play with me again.”

Hobi frowned, resting his hand against your arm. “We were friends for years Y/N, maybe this is someone’s way of trying to bring us back together.”

“I need time Hobi,” you admitted, “I’ve not seen you for years and now here you are. Maybe one day we’ll get back to our old place.”

“I’ll give you time, I promise.”

Namjoon:

You finished your routine one last time to show to TXT tomorrow, turning the stereo off just as the studio door opened. “Sorry, we’re booked in here now,” a voice spoke, feeling a shiver run down your spine as you recognised it.

“I’m just going,” you huffed, quickly picking up your things and hiding your face.

“I know it’s you,” Namjoon yelled out, “you can’t walk away from me and pretend Y/N.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” you frowned, revealing your face to him. “You were the one that told me I wouldn’t make it.”

He frowned, ruffling through his fringe. “You know I never meant it like that. I’m glad that you proved me wrong though, how long have you been working here?”

“A few months, long enough to be able to avoid you,” you snapped back at him, “I’ve always turned down the opportunities to work with you.”

Namjoon continued to sigh as the guilt ate away at him. “Don’t restrict your own career because of me, we can still be professional with this Y/N.”

“If you want to be professional, please just let me do my job. The studio’s all yours now,” you spoke, walking towards the door.

“Y/N, I really am proud of you.”

Jimin:

As soon as you heard the words BTS you stepped back from the row of trainees, trying desperately to hide your face. Their eyes looked around the room as they walked in, his eyes falling straight onto you. “Y/N,” he muttered.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Namjoon sighed, walking around to shake hands.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” one of the trainees, smiled as the members followed behind him.

“What are you doing here?” A voice asked as Jimin walked straight over to you, moving you aware from the group. “You’re a trainee?”

You scoffed gently, “don’t sound so surprised. Just because you managed to achieve your dreams before I did, didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get here eventually.”

“I never thought you’d come here knowing I was here, that’s all,” he sighed, “I thought you’d join SM seeing as they offered you a contract too.”

Your head shook, feeling everyone’s eyes staring across at you. “I’m focussed on my dreams now Jimin, I’m not here to have my heart broken again.”

“I don’t want to break your heart, if you’ll let me, I’ll be your biggest fan. I always did support you,” he tried to comfort, “I never stopped.”

“Let’s see how today goes first.”

Taehyung:

He sat in the cafeteria as the team of stylists walked in, for weeks he’d had his eye on the group, feeling like a face was familiar. He stood up to get a drink, purposely colliding with the group, and the stylist at the back. “I knew it was you.”

“Don’t,” you frowned, quickly taking a step away from him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he pointed out, refusing to move too far away from your side.

“Can you blame me?” You whispered, trying to keep things private, “you’re the last person I want to see now that I’m here.”

His eyes widened, “you’re here permanently? You could never ignore me forever Y/N, in the end we’d probably end up working together. Everyone knows each other here.”

“I would have found a way,” you tried to argue, “I’ve got dinner with my team right now, I don’t have the time to waste talking to you about why I’m here.”

Taehyung sighed once again, “can we find a convenient time to talk about things like adults? I want to put this past the both of us.”

“You never even said sorry Tae,” you frowned, catching up to your team, “that would have been a good start, but you never did.”

“You know I’m sorry, I mean it.”

Jungkook:

You gripped the steering wheel tighter as you watched all of the BTS boys walk out of the building, knowing they were heading straight for your car. You remained silent as they got in, hearing a “hello,” come from their leader.

“Hi,” you whispered back, unaware of Jungkook’s reaction behind you.

“You alright?” Taehyung asked, noticing the expression on Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah,” he stuttered, trying to peer through the gap and have a look at who was driving. “I thought I forgot something, but I found it.”

You knew he was looking in your direction, keeping your eyes firmly on the road. “Are you the new driver that they’ve bought in, or are you another temp?”

“I’m permanent,” you responded to the leader, hearing a familiar sigh come from the back of the car. “You guys do your thing; I’ll concentrate on the road.”

Jungkook glanced across once again, “how can you expect me to concentrate when you’re here Y/N?” He questioned, recognising the sound of your voice.

“That’s for you to figure out,” you sighed, not wanting to cause a scene around his friends, “you’re the reason we are the way that we are.”

“The way you are? What happened Kook?”

---

Masterlist

[one-boring-person]

Can You Do Me A Favour?

Barney Ross (The Expendables) x reader

Warnings: injury, drinking, sexual content implied, mentions of violence, swearing

Context: the reader is a member of the Expendables and has a crush on Barney. After a job, the two have some time together.

A/N: as promised, here is some Expendables stuff! I hope anyone who reads this will enjoy it! (Just a heads up: I have more Rambo and Escape Plan stuff coming, and most likely some more TLB content, too.)

Masterlist

(I'm also going to tag @yuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh in this, because they expressed interest in Expendables stuff earlier😊💛)

The cold water is pleasant on my heated skin as I cup my hands under the steady stream flowing from the tap, splashing it into my face when a suitable pool has formed in the space. A gasp escapes me from the stark contrast in temperatures, using my fingers to rub slightly at my skin, trying to work out the headache that has set in, only to hiss when I accidentally press into one of the new scars on the side of my face. Pulling back, I repeat my action, doing my best to distract myself from the plaguing thoughts in my head, still disgusted at myself for having them.

But even now, as I massage the contours of my face, I can't get the images of my boss out of my head. Not the sight of him taking out a ring of attackers using his revolver and sharpshooting skills, not the way his exposed arm muscles flexed with each movement, not the determined look on his rugged face and certainly not the fierce eye contact he made with me when he turned around again. At the mere memory of this, a flush of heat goes through me, eyes squeezing shut to force myself to blank them out, not quite realising that his stare is branded into my subconscious. Biting my lip, I shake my head, forcing down the picture of his muscular body and large hands on my body as he dragged me from the collapsing building, not five hours ago.

Growling, I reach over and grab hold of the beer bottle nearby, glancing at my haggard features in the mirror before taking a deep drink, wincing at the stale flavour, having had the drink for far too long. I can see the tension in my body, each muscle tight and uncomfortable, my posture ramrod straight and clearly wrong, my eyes clouded with exhaustion and what I can only assume is loneliness. 

As soon as I'd gotten in from the last job, I'd headed straight into the bathroom, grabbing a beer from the fridge as I went, needing to clear my head. Nothing I did could help, my head always circling back to that one person. Frustrated, I slam the bottle on the counter top, wincing when it shatters from the force, a particularly sharp shard slicing into my palm.

Damn him. Damn Barney Ross for getting into my head.

I clean up my hand, just bandaging it up when my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. Frowning, I look over at it, confused. Nobody calls me. Nobody, except my boss.

Picking up the phone, I groan to myself as I realise it is, in fact, Barney. For a second, I debate letting it go to voicemail, before I finally give in, accepting the call and placing the phone to my ear.

"Sir?" I greet him politely, wondering what he needs.

"How many times have I told you not to call me "sir"?" Barney's gravelly voice sounds through the phone, a low chuckle evident in his tone. I have to ignore the effect his voice has on me, the sound giving me butterflies in my stomach.

"Sorry, sir- ah, shit." I sigh at my own habit, "You alright?"

"Yeah, guess so. Just lonely. Figured you might be, too." He admits, tone going soft as he speaks.

"Bold of you to assume that." I tease, but continue, "Though you are, as always, right."

"Should tell Christmas that, might listen to you." The veteran laughs again, the joke drawing a similar reaction from me.

"We all know he listens to no one but himself." I quip back, still waiting for him to tell me why exactly he called.

"True, true." Barney's grin is almost audible, my mind instantly bringing up an image of that particular expression into my head, much to my chagrin, "You got any plans for tonight?"

Surprised, I take a second to reply, unsure of where this is going.

"No, it's too late. Ain't really got many friends outside work, anyway." I inform him, going out of the bathroom and into the lounge.

"Fancy coming over? I've got a couple of beers that need drinking, and the hangar is pretty lonely this time of night." 

His offer stumps me for a moment, though I am quick to recover, my mouth working before my mind can catch up.

"Yeah sure. I'll be over in twenty." 

"Great. See you then." He hangs up, leaving me wondering why the hell I accepted that, knowing how much I spend too much time thinking about him (in totally inappropriate ways considering he's my boss) anyway.

Annoyed at myself, I steel myself before going and grabbing a coat, pulling on that and my boots as I leave the flat, taking my motorcycle keys with me. I lock my door behind me, leaving the apartment block quickly, glad to have the fresh air on my face as I make my way over to my motorbike. Looking on it fondly, I climb on and kick out the stand, easily getting it revved up, the vibrating engine beneath me a pleasant feeling. 

Thankfully, the roads are mostly clear this time of night, cutting the twenty minute drive short by five minutes as I go at speed through the nearly deserted outer city. The hangar is usually a pain in the ass to get to, the traffic in the roads leading up to it almost always horrific, so I am only too happy to be able to go much faster now that there's not many other drivers around. With the wind rushing around me, I find that my head clears a little, my attention on navigating the roads rather than the thoughts of my boss doing things to me I'm sure he'd find grotesque in nature. 

I arrive quickly, pulling into the hangar slowly, knowing Barney is most likely in the plane, as he usually is. Stopping the bike, I put it in park before climbing off, hanging my helmet on the handlebars as I do so, taking the keys with me as I walk over to the old plane. Nearing the aircraft, I frown a little at the sight of the new bullet holes riddling the side of it, unaware that we'd taken so much damage earlier in the day. Sighing, I go inside, ducking in through the small door, only now hearing the music playing from the stereo in the cockpit.

"It's gonna need a new lick of paint." I call out to Barney, who I can see sat in his seat, the muscular man turning to look at me as he hears me.

"It's been a long time coming, so I'm not complaining." He replies, grinning at me as I walk into the cockpit, dropping into Christmas' usual seat, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach from his stare on me again. As I enter, he rakes his eyes over my body, subtly taking my every curve in from where he is.

"Fair enough." I shrug, leaning back slightly, having missed his look, "Got a beer?"

"Yeah, here." Barney hands me a bottle, opening it for me as he does so.

"Cheers." I thank him, taking a deep drink from it as he chuckles lowly, voice sending a bolt of heat through me.

"You're starting to sound like Lee." He remarks, sipping his own bottle with a smirk.

"Should I take that as a compliment? Or an insult?" 

"Up to you." He looks over at me.

"Eh, I'll take compliment. You two get along like an old married couple, after all. Must mean something if you're comparing me to him." I decide, teasing him.

Barney laughs at my comment, lifting his bottle.

"I can agree with that." He hums, staring out of the front window.

For a couple of moments, we sit in companionable silence, drinking our beers, Barney eventually lighting a cigar. Taking a deep inhale, he offers it to me, which I decline, choosing to finish my drink instead.

"What do you usually do after a job?" Barney suddenly asks, glancing back at me.

Surprised, I think over the question for a second.

"Nothing, really. I get myself cleaned up, have a drink, then get some sleep. I don't do much else with my life." I tell him, knowing how pathetic I sound.

"What, you haven't got anyone you can hang out with?" He questions, seemingly confused.

"No. As I said before, I don't really have any friends outside work."

"Really? No boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

I shake my head, grimacing at the turn in conversation, just missing the slight darkening in his eyes as he looks me over once more.

"Huh. That surprises me." 

Lifting an eyebrow, I look across at him.

"Why?"

He shrugs, making eye contact with me.

"Well, you seem like the person who wouldn't struggle to make friends. You're kind, funny, pretty. You know how to behave in the right situations, you're a good friend to have." He clarifies, seemingly unaware of the impact his words have on me, my heart throbbing as I listen to him, longing building up in me again.

"You think so?" I ask, not quite believing him.

"Yeah, I do." He frowns, looking over at me, "Why, don't you?"

I don't reply, knowing my answer well. He doesn't push it, observing me carefully, his gaze making me blush furiously.

"What'd you do to your hand?" The veteran suddenly asks, gesturing to my bandaged appendage.

"Hm? Oh, I just cut it on some glass back home." I inform him, flexing my hand a little, only to wince at the sharp spike of pain. 

Wordlessly, Barney reaches across and takes my hand in his, his touch setting off sparks through me despite the gentle nature of it. Pulling my arm closer to him, he runs his fingers lightly over my skin, the rough calluses rubbing over the palm of my hand, each stroke making it harder for me to fight off the rising need within me. Being this close to him, able to smell him in nearly every surface around me, feeling his hand on mine has sparked the feelings I've been suppressing as long as I've worked with him. 

Awkwardly, I pull away, swallowing tightly, trying to suppress the urges I'm suddenly feeling, needing to get myself together again. He doesn't stop me, his dark eyes regarding me quietly, observant as always as he seemingly considers something, his gaze sliding over me once more. After a moment, he puts out his cigar, leaning back in his seat.

"Mind doing me a favour?" The muscular man cocks his head at me, a small smirk playing at his lips.

"Er, sure? What do you need?" I agree hesitantly, knowing that expression means only one thing: he's got something up his sleeve.

"Check that control panel up there, would you? It's been giving me trouble for weeks." Barney's eyes are glittering now in the dim light, clearly up to something.

"What, now?" I frown, confused by the instruction.

"If you wouldn't mind." 

Lifting an eyebrow, I place my beer down and get to my feet, awkwardly reaching up to check the panel, which just so happens to be right above his head. I try to keep my body from leaning across him too much, but this is made difficult when I realise that the particular problem lies in the switches even further over. As I go to flick them, a pair of hands takes hold of my waist, suddenly yanking me down towards the chair.

Yelping in surprise, I feel my eyes widen as Barney pulls me down onto his lap, hands tight on my hips, pressing my back flush against his chest. His nose instantly finds my neck, the older man nudging at my skin until I tilt my head to give him access, goosebumps spreading across my skin as I try to process what the hell is happening, my brain short-circuiting with every one of his breaths. They fan out over the sensitive area, my own hitching in my throat as his scruff scratches over my skin, his lips not quite touching me yet, though I can feel their every movement. 

I try to get back up, unwillingly, only for him to loop one of his arms around my front and slip his hand under my shirt, flattening his palm on my stomach to hold me against him.

"I'm not blind, you know, (Y/n). I've seen the way you look at me, the way you behave differently when you're with me. You're not as subtle as you hope." Barney practically purrs into my skin, his smirk obvious against my neck, sending shivers down my spine as I try not to groan.

"I- I don't know what you're talking about, sir." I manage out, not quite catching the sound of anticipation that escapes me when he suddenly presses his lips against my ear, whispering into it.

"Really? I think you know very well what I'm talking about." He grins to himself, the hand on my stomach running down to ghost over the waistband of my jeans, my body tensing in his grip, "Want me to demonstrate for you?

[13atoms]

Lost in Translation (Count Orlo x Reader)

Inspired by some amazing asks, here's the arranged marriage + language barrier oneshot!

I usually try to keep a reader pretty vague in these fics, but I’ve made some compromises here. Mainly: female reader, who speaks English and German, but not Russian, reader is younger than Orlo. I’ve left the country of origin open, but thought I’d add those caveats 😊

Content warning: mentions of nsfw, think that's it!

Word count: 10.9k

✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉✉

For years, you had made a noble attempt to pretend this day would never come. That your arranged marriage would forever be pushed back. That had certainly happened before. You had been due to wed another man in the Court of Russia who had met an unpleasant end after crossing their Emperor. A third-born prince who wed another instead. An older man from your home country who had failed to agree upon a suitable dowry. In some, deep part of your mind you had wanted the same fate to befall the man you were due to marry come the Spring.

He would fail to prove suitable, have some injury befall him, simply change his mind.

The thought of leaving your home forever to marry a stranger was terrifying, even if you knew it was a common reality. But this match, excellent politically, had come to fruition.

He was a Count. A reputable one at that. The marriage represented a social step up, even allowing for the differing nobility systems between your countries. He was a brilliant politician and a well-read man, you had been told.

You tried to let that comfort you.

Marriage had to come eventually, your mother had reassured you, as she helped you into a carriage. A Count of such stature was, at least, a strong option for your family. Regardless of how you felt about the match.

The rest of your household had watched with grim faces as they bid you goodbye.

It was the best thing you could do to help the tumultuous situation back home, you had been promised.

You were doing your duty, you had been told.

With each minute of your journey you could only think of the time it would take to return home – how you were being taken so far from your home that it would prove near impossible to travel back for frivolous reasons. Perhaps your husband might permit a journey back in the event of a funeral, or the birth of a niece or nephew.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

The man was older than you, strangely old to be unmarried. Or so the maids had gossiped. He was a formidable diplomat in a way which likely made him a difficult man, they had speculated, and you could not help picturing the creature who might be awaiting you at the end of the aisle.

Would he be cruel? Ignore you? Would he be desperate for an heir? Or so busy with other members of the palace that he had no interest in consummating your marriage at all?

Arranged marriages may have been customary for people like you, but every young romantic secretly wished to avoid it. You had always hoped to meet your own Prince Charming, the two of you falling for one another so soundly that he insisted upon being allowed to marry you. In your dreams, you had longed for the moment such a man would whisk you away to a beautiful castle, to a life of adoration and comfort and mutual respect.

Perhaps even of unconditional love, if such a thing even existed.

You held a hand to the side of the carriage to brace yourself as the road grew suddenly bumpy, trying not to be jostled until the wheels found smoother ground again. Outside you could hear the coachman and his boy, chattering and clicking to the horses. The sound of the road beneath you muffled their voices.

From your book, you pulled a well-worn set of papers.

“Count Orlo,” you tried the words on your tongue, “Count Orlo.”

His last letter, making arrangements for your travel, had come written in a curious of lines and curls which meant nothing to you. Enclosed with it was a translation of his words, printed plainly in unemotive English by another hand. Even as you had read the translation over and over, you looked for meaning in the original. You had kept it. At the end of it, beneath a flourishing signature you caught yourself staring at, he had written his own surname, spelt the letters out in phonetic English so you might attempt to pronounce it.

You had been practising since, trying to imagine how someone Russian might pronounce it without having ever heard the accent – let alone the language.

Would it be much different to your own?

As you crossed land and sea you noted the air cooling, your body aching from the journey. Yet you constantly found yourself unable to step outside for fear of realising just how far from home you were, the strange biomes you passed only serving to make you anxious.

In the books you attempted to read on the journey you kept that sole letter you had from your suitor, using it as a bookmark and reading it each time you opened the book to read further.

“I have made every attempt to ensure your comfort here, and I await making your acquaintance eagerly,” part of the translation read.

It was a sentence you had let your eyes drift across over and over again.

You wondered how those words had sounded to him when he wrote them. If they even had the same intent as the words you read now, if perhaps there was a way to communicate the subtleties of sarcasm or irritation in Russian which was not translated in the version you read.

Though those words seemed charming, you knew not to read anything into them when their meanings had been mangled through a language barrier by an uncaring stranger.

Until you set foot in St. Petersberg, you would have no idea what kind of man you were to marry for the rest of your life.

*

Too soon, the streets of St. Petersberg were outside the carriage windows. And then they disappeared again, a well-paved road leading into thick forest, making you frown as a busy stream of fine carriages passed you the other way.

The dense trees seemed to be symbolic of the country itself, tall and proud and terrifying as they blocked the sunlight from the road and seemed to reach into the sky forever in their bid to escape the ground.

There was not a single pothole, the road perfectly laid, as you moved to attempt to freshen up your appearance. Books stacked neatly to be removed by a footman, you had nothing to do but watch as the traffic grew denser and denser, the trees thinning.

Then opening up.

Vast lawns stretched ahead of you, brightly coloured figures milling around in the midmorning sun, wandering across the manicured grass with the intent-less pace of nobility.

Your breath was taken away as a building came into view, as tall as the forest you had escaped from and twice as intimidating. The crunch of the horses’ shoes became louder on the gravel you drove on to, the carriage moving slower, as the huge palace loomed into view.

There was one name which had been drilled into you before you arrived, Emperor Peter. His palace was to be your new home, and he was not a man to be crossed. You could see why he intimated so much now, as you gazed up at the extravagance of his stronghold.

Too soon, the carriage door was open and you were offered a hand to step down to Russian soil. The building stretched up above you, seeming to stare down in judgement with a thousand glassy eyes.

As you blinked at the cool, bright sun, you noticed a man waiting nervously for you. Your chauffeur whispered to him, and a small greeting left his mouth.

It was in a language you could not understand.

Your heart seemed to jump to your mouth as he reached to take your hand, pressing it to his lips in a movement as gentlemanly as you had ever seen. In the fraction of a second his eyes were closed, you tried to catch your breath.

Unsure what to say, you let him drop your hand and straighten back to standing, his eyes searching your face in something blessedly unlike an inspection of your features. Instead, it seemed as though he was simply taking you in.

The wind was bitter, and you wrung your hands at the loss of your suitor’s body heat. You couldn’t conceal a full-body shudder as a howl of viscous cold blew through the grounds. The man took a step back, welcoming you into the warmth of the open palace doors. You followed, feeling as though you were watching yourself from a distance rather than experiencing your own body.

He was handsome, you noted. Clean-shaven and well dressed, with a significant effort put into his clothes and hair. He was not the old man you had feared, either. In fact, you found yourself quite delighted at the idea of being seen by his side.

Still, you refrained from letting your guard down. You had no idea of anything about him. He could be a monster, though none of his demeanour so far seemed to suggest so.

Say something, your mind screamed to you.

“The weather is rather bitter here,” you smiled, uncomfortable as the man seemed to nervously pace, rocking back and forth on his feet as he regarded your shivering form.

A frown creased his brow.

“It is cold,” you clarified, sounding the words out in an attempt to make it easier for him to follow.

Perhaps the language barrier would be worse than you had feared. Ignorantly, you had hoped that perhaps he would speak some English. Or that your languages might be similar. He looked at you wide-eyed, lips moving silently as he tried to understand you.

“Co-ld,” he repeated back to you, the syllables broken in the way a non-native speaker might dissect them for understanding.

You rubbed your hands on your own shoulders, a mime of the word, and he nodded frantically.

“Snow!” he stumbled, in English, the shape of the word strange on his tongue.

It wasn’t snowing, but you were pleased he had understood your meaning. You nodded, internally devasted at the realisation that the two of you could barely understand one another.

Suddenly an entire, long marriage of devastating isolation from other speakers of your own language, seemed to stretch before your eyes. He did not speak English. Of course he did not, you cursed yourself. This was Russia. And you did not speak a single word of Russian.

Around you, the conversations sounded like gibberish, the international tone and body-language of gossip the only indicator of what those in finery were saying.

“German?” you tried, moving to allow a nobleman to pass through the door you were blocking, wincing at your own awkwardness.

The Count cocked his head.

“Do you speak German?” you repeated, this time in German, sounding the words out slowly.

You knew, even from his first wince at your first word, he did not understand anything you were saying. You sighed and the Count grimaced in agreement. That, he could comprehend.

Around you the building seemed like a breathing organism, its people flowing from room to room, constant noise and sound and smells threatening to overtake your senses.

Even mere feet from the unfamiliar man you were engaged to, you found your attention drifting as the palace became overwhelming. He surged forward to steady you as a stony-faced nobleman barged into you, concerned words spilling from his lips in a language you didn’t understand. He snapped at the man, after you were stable, and you saw him scurry away with a frown.

With wide eyes you watched the Count as he guided you to a safer spot before dropping your elbow. At least he was handsome. And somewhat younger than you had been led to believe, not so elderly or callous as suitors your friends had been forced to wed.

He curiously had none of the politician’s bite that you had been made afraid of – in fact, you might have believed him to have no power at all if it were not for the arrangement of your betrothal to him. And the way he had sent a man twice his size packing, merely for knocking into you.

He just seemed too nice. He was smaller than a lot of men in the palace, dressed well, with no air of arrogance about him as he tried to welcome you without words.

“The room,” he sounded out.

His English was unnatural, the syllables slipping against one another awkwardly, but you smiled dumbly as you recognised the words. He held one hand outstretched, and then snatched it awkwardly away just as you reached for it. You nodded instead, closing your empty hand at his subtle rejection.

The Count watched over his shoulder, taking a few cautious steps, before seeming satisfied you were following. You loathed that you could not speak to one another, could not joke or lighten the mood, as you tried to understand his jittery body language.

He led you in a confusing attempt at being gentlemanly, lacking the words to direct you, but refusing to be ungentlemanly enough to allow you to walk behind him. Side by side, slowly, you reached an overside pair of doors which he clumsily held open for you.

You blinked in surprise, suddenly realising where you were. It was not merely his room, it was also your room. The room you would share with him. For as long as you both shall live.

As he bustled behind you, moving things in a frantic attempt to tidy the already-spotless space, you remembered to close your mouth.

At one end of the large space was a grand four-poster, deep red drapes tied back around it, fine sheets tucked in tightly. Dark wood accented by golden candle-holders betrayed the opulence of the space – but most striking were the bookshelves. Reaching the ceiling, covering an entire wall, French-style Walnut framed hundreds of books. Your elation at the space, accented with pieces of history and culture that made you increasingly fond of the man, was quickly dampened by the realisation you could not read a single one of the titles.

The windows were thrown open wide, thin white curtains fluttering in the wind, framed by heavier burgundy woollen drapes. With each new pass your eyes made of the room you noticed something new. A new painting, a framed letter, a pot of feathers or an exotic tchotchke, all told the story of a man who was more than met the eye.

You only wished you could speak to him. He seemed to be wincing as you took in the space, one hand perched on the door handle, left there from where he had closed the doors. He let you take your time orientating yourself, saying nothing as your eyes finally settled on something familiar: your luggage.

In their own strange way, the trunks were comforting. A reminder of who you were, your family name painted on the side and your possessions sat in there.

Completely out of place for the room.

Even the cream colour of the trunks seemed to clash with the very furniture around it, and your nervousness came back full force, making your stomach clench as you wondered if the Count would allow you to keep your things here.

He seemed entirely unbothered, reaching to adjust his glasses as you turned to look at him, seeming to fluster at the attention. As you opened your mouth to try and say something, you heard masculine shouts outside.

A sudden gunshot pierced the air outside, the sound ricocheting around the palace, loud enough to make you gasp and flinch. Immediately, the Count was by your side, hands hovering at your elbows as you caught your breath.

You realised you were shaking, each inhale coming as a gasp, the stress of the day coming to overwhelm you. As you turned to the Count, fearing judgement for your weakness, you saw nothing but worry in his shining eyes.

In that moment, you felt sure he begrudged the language barrier as much as you did.

He seemed to be fumbling for the little English he had learnt, before closing his eyes with a frustrated huff, pinching the bridge of his nose as he strode across to his desk.

One hand braced him against the heavy wood as his other hand flipped roughly through the pages of a book. You couldn’t help your curiosity, leaning over his shoulder.

As you glanced at the pages of his book, your heart clenched. It had the distinctive smudges of something he had written himself, words in neat Russian and shakily-formed English beside them. He glanced at you, almost embarrassed, as he flicked to the page he wanted.

He made some attempt at pronunciation, but you found it easier to follow the point of his ink-stained index finger.

“Safe.”

Next to a scribble of Russian, was the word safe.

You read it aloud, and he copied you, his eyes childishly-wide as he looked for your reassurance.

You nodded.

“Yes,” you told him, words weak as you tried to force them past your lips without crying, “safe.”

You weren’t sure if his book helped him understand your spoken words especially well, but you tried anyway.

“Thank you.”

It took him a second, but with a gulp and a head tilt, he understood you.

As he looked at you from his hunched position over the desk, hours and hours of translation work in front of him, you wondered what he had expected of you. If he was disappointed that you spoke none of his language, disappointed by some physical aspect of you, or by your strangeness whilst taking in the overwhelming nature of the palace. Did he even want a bride? Had he rejected the notion of an arranged political marriage as vehemently as you did?

Were you an intruder here? In his space?

The two of you stood for a moment, both silent as you regarded one another. Another shout outside made you jump, shoes shuffling against the carpet. It seemed to prompt the Count into action. He was rifling through the book again.

“Food?” he tried, repeating himself until you understood his meaning. His Russian accent was strong, his hands flailing as he tried to mime.

“Food?” you repeated back, and he clapped his hands in realisation, repeating the right pronunciation back to you.

“Yes, please,” you smiled.

With a timid duck of his head, he fled from the room.

*

The Count was gone for a long while, long enough for you to wander around the room, stroking a hand across the soft quilt of the bed, touching the spines of the books, and casting an eye over the translation guide Orlo had put together for himself.

It was an incredible amount of effort, you realised, to have filled almost an entire book to construct his own dictionary. It gave you hope for the type of a man who was willing to put that much effort into understanding a woman he had never met.

After a quick lap of the room you caught yourself in the mirror, realising how exhausted you looked from travel. You turned to your luggage, hoping for time to change before Count Orlo returned.

No luck. As you crouched at your open trunk, you heard the door open, glancing up nervously before sighing in relief as you realised it was just the Count. He greeted you with a smile, nodding.

He watched you curiously as you rummaged through your tightly-packed luggage for a change of clothes, desperate to change from the journey. Your travel clothes were sorely in need of a wash. In truth, you had hoped to change into something nicer before you were introduced to your betrothed.

As you found a gown to change into, the Count stepped backwards and dropped his curious gaze, realising you intended to change.

He called a word, and you flinched at the sudden volume of his soft voice, surprised to hear footsteps come running. A serf appeared, a woman who greeted you with a tight smile, and you looked to Orlo with a furrowed brow. He gave you a nod, his eyes kind, as he left the room.

It was fast, to change and quickly fix your appearance with the help of a serf. Although she did not speak a word to you – though you tried both English and German – she was kind as she fastened and unfastened your laces, and you tried to find some reassurance in the looks she gave you.

Did she think the Count a good man, you wondered? She seemed unafraid and comfortable in his rooms, in a way you did not expect from serfs in this place. You tried to consider it a good sign.

The moment the serf left he returned, slipping through the door and admiring your new dress with a gentle nod. There was a sincere appreciation in his eyes that threatened to make you blush.

For the first time, as he crossed the room to offer you his arm, you could imagine yourself waking up beside the man.

He opened his mouth as if to say something as you watched him curiously, but then closed it. The words would not come to him, and you wished you could tell him it was okay, your own vocabulary in his mother tongue painfully limited.

He reached for a closed trunk, looking to you for permission before he opened it.

There was a slight tremble in his hands, and you felt a rush of appreciation at his sheer gentleness. You wished you could apologise to him for the man who had appeared in your nightmares, sharing his name but not his demeanour, brutish and cruel where the Count seemed timid and polite.

Where his fingers faltered on the latch, you flipped the trunk open, your hand accidentally brushing his. You looked away very intentionally as you felt the warmth of his skin, instead turning to the contents of the trunk.

You were glad it was devoid of anything embarrassing, your undergarments blessedly packed in the box below. Instead he was faced with the spines of dozens of books. The titles were all well-thumbed, favourites of yours which you could not bear to part with. You had hoped you might be able to get more books in Russia, once you arrived, however the greatness of the language barrier was beginning to impress on you.

These might be the only books you could read for a very long time, and you were glad you had persuaded your driver to bring them all this way.

The Count, for his part, was reading the spines in fascination. He might not recognise the language, but he seemed to have an appreciation for the beauty of the tomes.

Certainly, if his own décor was anything to go by, he was an avid reader himself. As his fingers ran along the books you had brought, tightly packed together to survive the journey, you found yourself strangely embarrassed by the language of the books.

He seemed unaffected, a genuine curiosity on his face as he looked for your permission to pull one from the trunk. His fingers teased the spine as his eyes met yours, seeking your gentle nod before taking the book and opening it.

Unreading, he scanned the words in front of him. You recognised it as a beloved novel, one so well read you could recite the passage he followed off by heart.

With a smile to you, he turned the pages, seeming to just admire the shapes of the words.

He finally closed the book, passing it back to you, and you tried to force the book back into its place in the trunk. It was a squeeze, and you winced as Orlo watched you struggle for a moment before attempting to still your hands.

Suddenly he was on his feet, rushing to the huge walnut bookcase which spanned an entire wall, and started pulling his own books from the shelves.

You watched in confusion, as he moved a huge stack of his tomes to space on a lower, empty shelf, stacking them in the space above the existing books clumsily to clear a space.

He said something in Russian, before realising you had no understanding of his words. Instead he reached down for the book you were still struggling with. As he took it gently from you, setting it on the shelf, you finally understood his meaning.

In near-shock, you unpacked the trunk, the pair of you working together to add your beloved collection to his library. The Count displaced his own books until there was an entire shelf at your eye-level filled with your most beloved possessions: stories in a language he did not even speak.

Overcome with emotion, you crossed to his desk, reaching for the handwritten book you had seen earlier. The Count followed, watching you a little confused.

Flicking through page after page, growing increasingly frustrated as you did not find what you wanted, you felt Orlo’s eyes on you. And prayed he was not offended by your going through his personal notes.

Finally you found what you sought, turning the book to him with your finger pointing to the words you wanted.

“Thank you.”

Orlo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he read the translation you pointed to, speaking the Russian words to himself, before looking up at you with an unhindered beam.

Maybe everything would be alright.

*

The food Orlo had brought during the early afternoon was barely more than snacks, hardly touched as the two of you had shared a comfortable silence, each reading your own books. You were glad for the downtime, though uneasy from being alone with a near stranger.

You were hungry by the time the Count sought out the word dinner in his translation book, and you gave him a nod.

With each step he led you towards the rowdy dining hall, which seemed to be the destination for every other soul walking these halls, fear sunk its claws deep into you again.

For the first time, you spotted the man you could only assume was the Emperor, holding the attention of a few long, heavily decorated tables. The entire room was filled with outrageous finery – beautiful dresses and golden candelabras all begging for your focus as your eyes tried to take in the room.

Count Orlo exchanged a few words with the Emperor as the two of you entered, suddenly clasping your hand in his and holding it up, and you tried to smile politely as all eyes turned to the pair of you. Emperor Peter seemed to say something snide to the Count as he spared you a few words of introduction. The rest of the seated masses offered up a few weak claps. Then, you were able to dissolve somewhat into the crowd.

Your fiancé pulled out a chair for you near the head of the table, seeming to offer encouragement in his gentle pat of your shoulder, seating himself beside you just as a starter was brought out.

From here you could see most of the court, noting that your position seemed somewhat elevated over most, a handful of seats from the Emperor and the blonde woman uncomfortably positioned next to him.

You had been seated beside a nobleman who was far more engaged with his fingers under a woman’s skirt than talking to you, and you fought not to look outraged at the debauchery and inappropriateness of it all, as the woman groaned and the Emperor laughed and clapped at the scene.

When you looked away in embarrassment your eyes met the Count’s, and without language, you could see the apology in the deep brown of his irises and the irritated twitch of his lip.

He pulled your chair slightly closer to his own, and you were grateful, as an onion soup was placed before you.

Unlike the rowdy group around you, you endured the meal in silence. Subtle help with cultural things – strange cutlery customs or drinks you ought to avoid – were the only interactions you had with the Count.

Fortunately, the Lord beside you had been distracted from his woman by the arrival of a rather impressive whole Salmon.

So that was some relief.

As you finished your main course you found yourself finally beginning to relax, mentally congratulating yourself for making it through the first of a presumed lifetime of outrageous meals in a foreign country.

At least, you thought you had made it through.

The beautiful young woman from the Emperor’s side was stood in front of you, clearing her throat with an impatiently folded pair of hands. As your eyes met hers, she held out a hand to introduce herself, spouting off a string of Russian you had no hope of understanding.

With one hand under the table, you sought out the Count’s attention, only to find him deeply engaged in a conversation with the soldier beside him.

Damn it.

The woman was looking to you expectantly for an answer, but you could say nothing to appease her. Not whilst lacking a single word of Russian.

Panicked, you turned to the man beside you. In truth it was a relief to see him laughing, so engaged in a rapid conversation with someone, but you were forced to interrupt. The woman seemed increasingly offended by your panicked silence with each second that passed.

“Orlo?” you tried his name, wincing at the distinctly un-Russian sound of it, but the man himself turned immediately.

From the beam on his face, he seemed delighted you had attempted to address him at all, his hand finding yours on the table.

He made a distinctive hum of questioning, before following your eye line to the woman trying to speak to you.

“Catherine!” came her name, before a string of Russian.

You breathed a sigh of relief, wishing you had the language to thank the Count for saving you from further embarrassment or offence caused.

When their short conversation lulled, you found two pairs of eyes on you.

“I do not speak Russian,” you told her, hoping your apologetic tone transcended the English language.

Her eyebrows raised, pretty face contorted in surprise as she turned to Orlo, a quick punch of Russian shot her way before she left once again. Orlo gave you a knowing glance. Then, she spoke.

For a moment you did not recognise her words, before realising with a start they were German.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You were sure your face betrayed how your heart soared at the recognition of understandable words, her face schooled in a sombre mask even as your features lit up in delight at familiar language. With a conspicuous look around, she leant closer to you.

“We will speak later.”

The blonde woman returned to the Emperor’s side for the duration of the dessert course, but you felt your mood immeasurably lightened. The Count seemed to recognise it too, his movements a little lighter as you counted down the seconds until you could speak to someone.

Mere minutes after the Emperor stormed from the dining hall, seemingly on some form of rampage, the Count gently guided you to a side room. The German-speaker was there, and she greeted you kindly the moment the door closed.

“I apologise, I try not to speak German in front of the court. It reminds them my roots are not in Russia – although my heart belongs here.”

You could not help the beam which broke out across your face, even as your fiancé watched with bemusement, and you found yourself subconsciously moving towards the blonde woman.

“I am so glad to have someone to speak to! What’s your name?” you asked her, feeling immediately at ease, elated to see your joy at the conversation mirrored in her body language.

“Catherine. I am the Empress.”

With a glance to your fiancé, you stumbled on the spot, taking an awkward curtsey as you realised exactly who you were speaking to. Was this some sick joke, you wondered, to get you in trouble before you had even unpacked?

“I had no idea,” you apologised, “I apologise for my rudeness, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something in Russian to Orlo. He had the nerve to look embarrassed, at least, and you felt your shame slightly diminished.

“Nonsense. You have done nothing rude,” she smiled, “Besides, I married into this madness. Just as you will.”

Unwilling to make a fool of yourself – or get yourself executed – you silently nodded.

“It is strange, to hear my native tongue so far from home,” she mused, cocking her head and glancing around the room.

You let yourself relax a little, sensing no true offence in her tone or body language.

“I am so glad to hear someone I can understand,” you confessed, “I feel so stupid, to not speak the language.”

She looked at you pityingly, and you ducked your head under her gaze.

“It is not your fault. The language is… challenging, to say the least.”

“I confess, it all sounds like gibberish to me. At the moment.”

You found yourself elated as the Empress laughed.

“I remember that. As a child, I just nodded when people spoke to me.”

It was your turn to laugh. Beside you, Orlo had a smile on his face as he made some quip in Russian to Catherine. The Empress threw her head back in laughter, before quickly letting you in on the joke.

“Orlo is rather concerned we are getting along so well.”

You gave a nervous laugh, glancing at the man as Catherine linked her arm around yours.

“I think he should be worried,” she told you, a theatrical stage-whisper in your ear, although Orlo could not understand her, “I shall finally have a friend who understands me without the burden of translation slowing my thoughts.”

Even in her arrogance, you liked Catherine. How could you not, when someone as powerful as an Empress was treating you like an old friend on your first encounter? She led you from the room, muttering about a tour of the palace, as Count Orlo trailed behind you.

As Catherine explained the layout and rhythm of the hallways, you tried to file every piece of information away, catching yourself laughing at her glib comments – free to gossip and make jabs whilst those around her could not understand her words. For the first time since disembarking your carriage, you felt on even footing with the strangers milling around these hallways. Able to speak, you could be yourself a little more. Though you regretted that it was impossible to truly speak to your husband-to-be.

Abruptly, you caught yourself interrupting the Empress midway through a tale about some curiosity, a strange painting hung in the hallway which she had plenty to talk on.

“Catherine – ”

“Yes?”

Even as an Empress, she seemed unbothered by your rudeness. Perhaps just speaking to someone else from her home country, she felt the Russian role she held stripped away.

You glanced at Orlo, stood beside you staring at his hands as the pair of you spoke in German, patient and yet left out.

“Would you be kind enough to translate some things to Russian for me? For Count Orlo?”

“Of course.”

The Empress seemed to understand. She gave a curt nod, pushing a door open to enter a parlour. The few serfs cleaning and resting in there quickly scattered, leaving the three of you alone. Orlo closed the door behind you, guiding you to sit on the chaise as if you were something delicate, a gentlemanly charm to the way he offered his aid even as you crouched to sit.

Catherine sat beside you, smiling a little as Orlo joined your side at a respectful distance. He was looking curiously between yourself and Catherine, his nervousness given away by the jerky movement of his head as his eyes flickered from woman to woman.

“What would you like me to say to him?” Catherine asked gently, her tone more subdued than you had heard it thus far.

Rather than excitable, bordering on bragging, she sounded serious. You wondered how long ago she had been in your shoes, marrying a stranger in a foreign land. From the haunted look behind her eyes, the memory was fresh.

“I wonder if you could… thank him. For his kindness. And apologise that I do not speak the language, I feel so stupid, that I did not learn before arriving but I could not find any instruction I should learn Russian – and I realise I ought to have known but it simply did not cross my mind. The marriage was all so last minute and I only saw his letter days before I left and – ”

Sensing the panic, as it rose in your throat and leached into your words, Catherine stopped your words with a single politely raised finger.

For a moment she seemed ready to answer back to you, to speak German and comment on the contents of your message for your husband-to-be. Then she simply turned her head a few degrees and addressed Orlo.

You had nothing but trust to prove she had translated for you directly, and yet the widening of the Count’s eyes told you she must have made a valiant effort at repeating your ramblings. His hand hovered in the neutral space between your hand on the chaise and his thigh, undecided as to whether he ought to offer you comfort or respect the boundary of space which still existed between you.

He chose the latter. Strangely, you wished he hadn’t.

Orlo was replying, a stream of carefully considered Russian which Catherine nodded at, a gentle smile on her lips. Then, she turned back to you.

“He says you could not possibly have known he would not speak English or German, and that he is trying to learn. He also says that he has arranged an adjacent room for you, in the event that you are not comfortable sharing with him.”

She seemed to have more to say, a personal comment to add, but Orlo had already interrupted her, cramming in more sentiments he wished to have translated. In all your time with him, you were yet to see him so talkative, desperate to share his thoughts with you. Your heart ached as you realised how much he was unable to tell you.

“He also says he is sorry you have met under these circumstances. And that, should you ever need anything, write it. He is better at translating the written word.”

“He also says that you are pretty, and it is nice to meet you.”

She rolled her eyes, but you shot the man in question a smile. He beamed back.

There was a playfulness in her words which indicated the Empress was mocking Orlo’s desperation to speak to you, but you could not join her in her ridicule. You found yourself truly touched by the lengths he seemed willing to go to in order to secure your comfort with him.

There were very few noblemen who would do that for a bride from a political marriage, you knew. Catherine continued to speak in the same tone, perhaps to prevent Orlo’s suspicion, but her words were suddenly her own.

“He is a sweet one, you know,” she confided, “he has been trying to learn English for weeks. Now I wish I had known to teach him German. You will be safe with him. Ask for anything in the world, and he will provide it. For all his flaws, he is a good man. A true romantic, too. I am glad he seems to have been lucky enough to have a wife who will not abuse that.”

Blinking tears from your eyes, you nodded. Catherine reached out her hands for you, and you took them, a silent promise of friendship which you were surprised by the speed of.

“I am here. If you ever need anything. I know how hard it is, to not understand what is happening around you.”

You nodded mutely, your voice choked by how touching her kindness was after so many weeks of worry, and a day of confusion and fear that you might never be properly understood again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “and please tell the Count thank you. Most – most sincerely.”

With a kindly smile, almost sisterly in how she seemed to both patronise and care for you, Catherine released your hands and began speaking quick Russian to Orlo.

Now relieved from understanding the conversation, you slumped a little against the arm of the chair, concealing a yawn as the late hour and long day caught up with you.

Without being in a proper bed for weeks, having taken in an entirely new country and life over the course of the day, your body was begging you for rest. You forced your drooping eyelids to stay open as Catherine and Orlo spoke, noting the way both of them shot you glances as a heavily-Russian-accented version of your name cropped up in their conversation.

There was a gentle smile on Orlo’s lips, and you found your heart jumping at the very sight of it, your own expression subconsciously returning his look, lazily and slightly as your lips curled up.

He had started to look at you more, as their words grew faster, and you let your eyes slip closed.

It felt like seconds had passed, but from the laughter in Catherine’s words, you realised you had fallen completely asleep. Your feet had slipped free of your shoes, your face pressed against the arm of the chaise, and the hand on your shoulder was accompanied by the light voice of Catherine.

“As I have just told Orlo, I think you ought to get to bed. You have had a long day.”

Her smile was tinged with amusement as her face slowly came into focus, and as you turned to see Orlo’s face, you noted the concern on his face. He said something to Catherine, and you saw as she laughed and shook her head.

He said something again, more insistent, and the Empress rolled her eyes.

“He wants me to apologise for keeping you up so late.”

Against your better judgement you looked into his wide, worried eyes, catching yourself truly touched by his apologetic nervousness. And the way he was, hours after meeting you, already trying to look after you.

“Tell him not to worry,” you muttered, your voice a little rough. How long had you been asleep?

As Catherine began to speak, you tagged on:

“And thank you!”

She translated with an entertained glance to you, before rising to her feet.

“He says not to worry. And I need to go.”

You wondered if she truly had to leave, or if she had merely grown tired of the two of you using her as a translator.

“Thank you,” you called after her, watching the rise of her eyebrows as Orlo seemed to speak at the same time.

“You are welcome,” she replied, first in German, and then in English, “Good luck.”

With that she was gone, and you were following Orlo back to his rooms.

*

True to his word, translated through Catherine, there was a small room conjoined to his which contained a bed, and your clothing trunks had been dragged through there at Orlo’s request.

With a tired smile, which you hoped conveyed your thankfulness, you had closed the door between your rooms and near-fallen into bed.

The next morning arrived quickly, the sun risen as a shouting group in the forest outside awoke you. You jumped at the presence of a stranger in your room, before recognising the serf as the woman who had helped you change the day before.

“Hello,” you tried, wincing at the realisation she could not understand you.

Following her nervous glance to the tub in front of her, you realised she had drawn you a bath.

Wordlessly she undid your corset, and you held it to your chest as she seemed to hover for a moment, unsure of what to do. With a polite nod and a dismissive hand, you hoped you encouraged her to leave for the evening.

Barely five minutes after sinking into the hot water of the bath, you pulled yourself out and crawled into bed.

*

The dawn brought a little more optimism about your time at the palace.

Your husband-to-be appeared both polite and wealthy. There was at least one person here who you could understand. And, as you gazed out the window whilst your serf dressed you, the palace was beautiful.

If a little rambunctious.

You would have to get used to the startling bang of gunshots.

As your maid left and you prepared to leave the sub-room to greet the day, you took a deep breath. This was manageable.

Even more so when you saw the Count sat at his desk, glasses removed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, enraptured by the page in front of him and deep in thought.

You let yourself slightly knock against the wood of the door, alerting him to your presence, and the man smiled to you with all the happiness you might have expected from a true friend.

He cleared his throat and stood as though about to give a speech, before two recognisable words left his lips.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning!” you returned, unable to resist a smile.

The Count nodded his head, happiness creeping across his own features.

Then, he offered you a less recognisable pair of words. After a few tries, you realised it was a translation, and timidly tried to copy him.

He gave you a pleased applause as you finally repeated the words back correctly, accompanied by yet another “good morning!” and you could not help your optimism at the tiny piece of progress.

Your first Russian. Taught by a willing teacher, who seemed to have all the patience in the world for you.

Certainly, things could be worse.

*

As the day wore on, you cursed your own optimism. Of course, things could be worse.

Of course, they got worse.

It seemed as though every person you encountered wanted to speak to you, and that your future husband was far too busy to chaperone you everywhere. It was agony, to be treated as though you were stupid or rude simply because you had never had the change to learn a single iota of Russian.

Worst of all, you could barely pronounce your own fiancé’s name.

He joined you for lunch, finding you in his rooms with your head perched on your hands, a faraway look in your eyes as you lamented an entire morning spent in the agony of navigating the seemingly-brutal palace social circles without language.

All day you had sought out the click of his shoes, or the bright yellow curls of the Empress’ hair, and been disappointed each time it was merely another of the palace’s endless parade of strangers.

He joined you at the small table in the corner of the room, the two of you some distance apart, his fingers tapping arrhythmically against the tablecloth. As food was brought in he seemed to remain lost in thought, sparing you an occasional moment of attention as he stared out of the window.

Suddenly reminded of your earlier discomfort at being unable to pronounce his name, inspiration struck you.

You pulled his letter from the pocket it was stashed in, and he seemed surprised to see it, meeting your eyes with some meaning you found impossible to understand.

Ignoring his surprise, you skipped the English translation to read his original hand, finding where he had written his name. Attempting to remember what he had responded to yesterday at dinner, you sounded it out.

“Count Orlo.”

He nodded in recognition.

You shook your head.

Repeating yourself, you pushed your finger along his writing, trying to make him understand. With a subtle gasp of understanding, he smiled sweetly.

And corrected your pronunciation.

It had been miles off, and you felt shame build hot in you as he had you repeat the name back to you. First ‘Count’, a half-dozen times until you mastered the shape of the Slavic letters, before moving onto his surname.

The realisation you could not even say his name right made you want to sink into the plush carpet of his room. He saw it, as your voice shook across ‘Orlo’, a clear frustration in him as he fumbled for English words and reached for your hand in comfort.

It seemed to take him relatively less time to learn your name, a fact which only made your shame build.

You ate in silence, refusing to look up from your plate and cursing your overwhelmed memory for struggling to recall the perfect pronunciation.

Slowly Orlo’s hand crept across the table, covering yours. As you looked up at him, the shining in his eyes made you want to sob.

“Thank you.”

He struggled through the phrase, but that seemed to only amplify the meaning, making your lip tremble in an appreciative nod.

“Thank you,” you repeated back to him, watching as he mouthed the words to memorise how you had said them.

You forced another mouthful of quiche into your mouth before you could sob with frustration and confusion at it all.

*

As Orlo bid you an apologetic and poorly-pronounced “goodbye”, you had the intent of spending the afternoon reading – however your own nervousness quickly derailed those plans. You were unable to focus on the words in front of you.

You had even borrowed Orlo’s translation book for a little while, before conceding that reading the words in his script gave you very little intuition on how to pronounce them.

It was hopeless.

In a bid to acquaint yourself better with your new home you took another lap of the palace. Generally you tried to avoid people, not keen to endure yet another embarrassing interaction where your words were not understood by judgemental strangers.

Instead you stuck to the sidelines – the shadows of the corridors or barely-used paths through the grounds. Finally you happened upon a crowd of expensively-dressed women, and found yourself fastidiously avoiding them. Until you spotted a pale blue gown adorning and even paler woman: the Empress.

You let yourself exude some confidence as you walked closer, catching her eye over a crowd of poorly fitted wigs and champagne flutes, stumbling at little as she seemed to look past you with glazed eyes.

“Catherine!” you called, closer now, so she couldn’t possibly miss the true Germanic pronunciation of her name.

She ignored you, turning her attention to a conversation with her maid. Your heart sank.

“I wondered if you might help me learn a few words…”

You could hear chatter around you, a few snickers as the Empress ignored you once again, barking a few words of Russian towards her serf. For just a second she looked at you with a warning frown and wide eyes. You realised your mistake, as the ladies of the court began to swarm around you, harsh words you didn’t understand growing louder.

Even as you looked at her for help, for recognition, the Empress stalked past you. You were left at the mercy of the Ladies of the court.

Perhaps this was the worst turn your day could have taken. They bodily forced you to sit with them, feigning friendship as their words almost certainly said something else. You sank into a chair with a sinking feeling in your stomach, nausea rising in your throat as fingers plucked at your unstyled hair.

And the taunting began.

*

They mocked you for hours. For things you couldn’t translate, leaving your own mind to cruelly fill in the gaps each time the conversation seemed to make all eyes turn to you. Each time you thought you might rise and sneak away, sharp nails and etiquette pinned you in place.

Until the arrival of a panting and alarmed Count Orlo, you were forced to mutely endure your role as the centre of their attention.

You recognised the tones of intimidation, if not the words. Their picking at your clothes and touching your hair, peering at your features and demanding things from you in a language you could not understand.

It was your only point of pride that you remained stoic, even as they held you from leaving him and time again, not a single tear left your reddened eyes. When the Count finally sought you out, so late into the day that the air was cooling and men were returning from their hunts, you found yourself cursing the very day you had heard the word Russia.

With an overly pleasant smile and a hand on the small of your back, Orlo had guided you away from the loudly cackling group of ladies, each taking turns to shout increasingly loud insults for the fun of mocking your inability to understand.

But you understood their intent. You had, for the past few hours, understood their mockery. And the betrayal of the only friend you had managed to make here, the only hope you had as a translator – all because she was embarrassed to be seen speaking German to you.

I know what they were saying, you wanted to snap, how dare you treat me like I’m stupid?

You found yourself shaking with emotion. With rage and upset and a hurt which seemed so potent and physical it felt as if your heart was threatening to rip itself apart.

Orlo gave a gentle click of his tongue, and it was enough to drive you beyond all social etiquette.

Storming ahead of him, you refused his hand on you, his calls of your name. Through unfamiliar corridors you marched back to your stupid shared room with him, slamming the door even as you knew he was mere strides behind.

Good.

Your smaller adjoining room was hardly a safe haven, but it had a locking door. Barricading yourself inside you instantly felt childish, wondered if these actions would be enough for some horrific punishment or political consequence.

And then you realised you did not care.

Fuck them all.

Outside Orlo was trying the door handle, calling your name, desperately trying to find the words for an apology. But he failed, and you had no intention of helping him learn any further.

Fuck, you wished you could shout at him.

Or at the Empress.

Or at those women, who thought you less than them just because you could not understand them.

With a dramatic huff, which you winced at the loudness of, you kicked your shoes off and clambered beneath the covers of your bed.

Your travel coat was beside the bed, a hand-me-down from your mother, and with a tremble of your lip you pulled the fabric closer to you. The itchy sting of tears, the tightness of your throat, preceded desperate sobs which violently wracked your whole body.

Outside you heard Catherine’s voice, Orlo’s frantic tone, and you pulled the quilt over your head.

You had no want to speak to either of them.

Even without a language barrier, you were not sure you could articulate the nature of your feelings in that moment. Instead you pulled the thick woollen coat closer, cherishing the worn fabric against you, familiar in its smell and in the strong memories it brought.

You had been happier, you realised, the last time you wore it. At your home and surrounded by people you loved, who knew who you were. Who you could share with, communicate with.

How long until even this smaller haven was taken from you, and you were expected to join the Count in his bed? Until you were no longer ‘new’ and you were expected to simply endure feeling like an outside? All this for a man you barely knew, whose ring you would wear as the members of the Court mocked and judged you for reasons beyond your control.

A soft knock on your door was followed by airy German.

“I apologise,” it said, and you recognised the Empress’ voice, “allow me to make up for my rudeness earlier?”

You couldn’t reply, trying to stifle your crying. Eventually, with one last try at turning the handle, she left.

Then came Orlo.

“Sorry.”

It was English, and your anger was momentarily interrupted at the tiny realisation that he was still trying.

Yet you couldn’t open the door, your tears salty on your lips, eyes puffy as you pulled the coat closer still.

As anger and embarrassment coursed through your veins, tears ached in your sore eyes, sleep finally claimed you – fully asleep and clutching your coat as if it were a lifeline.

*

You awoke at the fall of night, to hunger and the quiet movements of your maid. She had gotten in somehow, and you found yourself a little frustrated to realise that even in this small room you could not fully block the rest of the palace out.

She looked at you in the twilight, an apology in her eyes which told you she took no pleasure from trespassing. To your embarrassment you realised you were still clutching the coat, hugging it like a child. You slowly pulled it free of yourself, standing and folding it back into a half-packed trunk without saying a word.

Most of your personal items were still not unpacked, and the thought gave you a crushing sense of how unwelcome you must be here. How new this all was.

That you couldn’t hide in the shadows forever. This afternoon had taught you that.

The people here weren’t kind, as you had imagined. They weren’t welcoming and patient and keen to welcome you to the fold. They had seen your weakness and torn at you like a pack of wolves, ignoring your whimpers.

With a sigh you hunched over on the bed, feeling lightheaded and disorientated, an ache still in your bones from the journey and a pang in your stomach from missing dinner.

Only the shuffle of her feet reminded you that your maid was still there. Without the coat you shuddered, and she held out a robe for you to wrap yourself in, pulling it over your clothes. You thanked her with a silent nod, trying to bite back the tears of frustration that you could not speak to her.

A timid knock at the door made both of you startle, a shaky breath leaving the maid as she laughed at her own skittishness. You joined her in a watery smile, before the knock came again, this time accompanied by a gentle call of your name.

You had no idea how to welcome the Count in, knowing you ought to in service of maintaining a friendship with at least one person here, but with a nod your maid called for him to enter.

Eyes downcast, the timid man walked inside.

His translation book was clutched to his chest, and he pulled from it a letter, a small, tight smile on his lips as he handed over the piece of parchment.

It was nothing formal, unsealed and ripped from a long piece of notetaking paper, but it had been folded neatly nonetheless. You opened it with a curious look at the man, his eyes following your movements intently.

Confused and intrigued in equal measure, you found your hands shaking as you moved into better candlelight to read. In the mirror, you caught the bloodshot appearance of your eyes. Beside you in the mirror, the Count had the decency to avoid meeting your gaze.

By flickering candlelight you began to inspect the paper in your hands, surprised to realise it was in English. You raised your eyebrows at him for a moment, and he smiled nervously, a glint of his teeth in the light as he tried to contort his face into something more welcoming than the grimace he was managing.

You bit your lip as you inspected the neat script, surprised at the honesty of the note.

‘I am truly glad you are here. I understand the frustrations that you are facing, and I feel the same way. I am trying to learn English, and I hope we might be able to teach one another. I will do everything in my power to make you happy here. What happened earlier was unacceptable. Catherine says she is sorry, and has spoken to the women. They will do nothing to upset you in future, under threat of the Emperor’s ire.’

There was a gap, a single line singled out from the rest, and you traced your thumb along the words as you absorbed them.

‘Everything will get better, I promise.’

Beneath was his flourishing signature, although the letter had blatantly not been written by him. Yet, it sounded spoken, and you longed to hear it spoken by him.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked back to him, and the Count finally stared back, his bottom lip worried by his teeth.

Soft footsteps told you that your maid was finally making herself scarce, leaving without a word from the Count. You wondered if she had told him you were awake, the timing was awfully convenient.

Yet you did not have the heart to see anything insidious or scheming in his worried stare, his irises almost black in the darkness of the room.

You reached for him, seeing confusion in his face until your fingers mimed for his translation book. He passed it too you, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover before letting go, and you flicked through the pages impatiently.

The words were growing familiar now, but you struggled to recall them in the moment.

The page evaded you, although you could picture it in your mind’s eye, and you closed the book, scrunching your face in thought as you tried to remember the pronunciation he had taught you.

“Thank you,” you tried, and a lazy smile crossed his features.

He nodded in understanding, in approval, and you felt your heart grow three sizes with hope.

For once he was the one following you as you crossed to the door of your temporary room, entering the main apartment with a fierce optimism overtaking you. Your confidence only increased as you noticed the plate of food set aside on Orlo’s desk, a nod confirming he had saved it for you.

Thought of you.

The chaise by his fireplace was easily big enough for two people. It would seat two people, you decided. If the two of you were to wed, you could at least begin by sitting side by side, rather than with the distance both of you had kept.

It took a pat of the seat and a raise of your eyebrows to convince him, but soon the Count was sat beside you.

You set his book into your lap, taking a deep breath, before opening it to the first page.

The two of you could do this.

If it took years, page by page, you could teach one another.

You could take turns to repeat the words again and again until the pair of you could hear one another’s true voices.

As you read out the first word, a simple “yes” which the Count repeated back to you in English then Russian, you saw his own twin hope grow.

That this would work.

With time, and patience, and with dedication, you could make things work. Thousands upon thousands had before you, although rarely in circumstances so bizarre, and Count Orlo had already begun the groundwork of a marriage you could find yourself content within.

With each word repeated back to each other you grew more sure of his intention, of your eventual happiness here.

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling as you nodded your approval.

“Yes,” the Russian syllable left your lips.

Orlo’s hand found yours in excitement.

*

There was a certain pride in your chest as you made it through your wedding vows, the Russian strange but coherent on your tongue as the familiar words flowed from you. With mere days to prepare, you had managed to achieve something which had once felt impossible.

You had not forgotten the words. You had not stuttered or run or cried. You had done what needed to be done for your family and for your home. Orlo, for his part, watched you speak with such adoration you could almost imagine that he had wanted to marry you, as the marriage was arranged all those months ago.

The way he had held you the night before told you that he did want to marry you now.

He rocked a little on his heels, seeming as nervous as when you first met him, the shimmer of tears in his dark eyes as you finished your vows.

The priest was speaking, but you had very little idea what was being said. The scant audience seemed to be paying attention, and yet you could barely stand to look at them. Rings were being found, papers laid out behind you, and Orlo was clearing his throat to speak.

You felt tears jump to your own eyes, as you realised you could understand his vows. He had memorised them in English.

[heximagines]

Jealousy pt. 2 | Bo x Reader x Vincent

Hey everyone! Here it is finally, part 2! I didn’t want to skip over reader’s time with Bo but I also didn’t want this to run crazy long soooo I’m going to write a part 3 as well that will focus more on Vincent so hang on for that.

__

You chewed your lip nervously as Bo’s truck rolled past the town line. It’d been over a year since you’d entered Ambrose and by this point you had given up all hope of ever seeing the outside world again. You looked over to your capture, if you could even still call him that now, and noticed a tenseness in his jaw. Cautiously you stretched your hand out towards him and let your finger tips caress his cheek. He initially flinched at the gentle contact, throwing you a wary glance but he eventually relaxed and leaned into the touch. “You have to stop clenching your jaw like that. It’s not good for you.” You watched the muscles loosen as he breathed deeply though his nose. “Thank you, darlin’.” You smiled over at him before letting your hand drop back to your lap, your fingers weaving themselves together. “I should thank you... Again... For trusting me,” you clarify. Bo’s hand left the steering wheel and rested over your own, squeezing softly. “Just don’t make me regret it.” You only nod but that seems to be enough for Bo.

You fiddled nervously with the hem of your shirt as you peered out the window. You had loaded up the truck with groceries and building supplies and now all that was left to do was get dinner. The sun had just gone down and dusk was here, the sky churned a beautiful dark purple color. You eyed the little shops that dotted the stretch of road and all of the people walking around even now as the street lights flickered on. They laughed, smiled, and shopped. You wished you could be so blissfully unaware once again. You’d grown to love Ambrose and care fro all 3 of the Sinclair brothers but... You cut your own thoughts short, leaning back into your seat. As if he could sense your thoughts Bo squeezed your knee to draw your attention. You look up at him with a wavering smile as he parked. “C’mon now. We’re gonna have a nice time.”  He opened the door up before sliding out and offering you his hand. You took it in your own and followed after him. He interlocked your fingers and you supposed it was more so you’d keep close by than anything else. You thought back to when you and Bo first entered town. He’d gripped you tightly by the shoulders and demanded you meet his intense gaze. ‘Don’t talk to anyone and don’t try to run off. Understand?’ You were quick to agree but Bo’s hands seemed to linger near you the whole time, ensuring you wouldn’t get far. Something that the man at the hardware store, Bo had called him Samuel, read as a romantic gesture. You blushed as you thought about how he’d called you a cute couple and complimented Bo on your appearance. Something that made him pull you closer. Now as you walked hand and hand with Bo down the street towards a petite restaurant you supposed you really did look like a couple. You looked over to him and caught his gaze. “I hope you’re hungry, this spot has the best Cajun food out this way. Lester and Vinny are gonna be happy when we bring ‘em back somethin’.” Your lips twisted into a smile, Bo might be rough around the edges but he really did care for his brothers. You thought it was sweet. He’d even made an effort to get things they liked from the grocery store and bought Lester new socks.

As you came to the entrance of the restaurant you grabbed Bo’s arm with your free hand and moved closer to him. You weren’t sure if it was so he’d know you weren’t going to try anything or because you were becoming used to Bo pulling you in. He requested a small table for two at the back of the dimly lit establishment, far from the door and within view of the bathroom if you asked to go. When you arrived at your table Bo’d pulled your chair out for you before sitting with his back to the corner. The waitress left you two with menus before wandering off. Your eyes scanned the options and as they did your stomach growled. Bo chuckled and grinned up at you. “Sounds like I picked a good spot. Get whatever ya want.” When the waitress returned Bo ordered a bottle of white wine for the two of you before placing his order, he opted for a crawfish étouffée. When she turned to you your eyes instinctively moved to Bo waiting for his nod, permission to speak, before ordering your own food. Bo reached across the table and took your hand in his own. You gladly leaned in, resting your elbows on the table. His thumb grazed over your knuckles as he spoke, “I’m glad you came with me. It’s nice to have company.” “I’m glad you don’t regret it. I’m having a good time.” Bo nodded in agreement. “Maybe we can do this more often.” He brought you knuckles up to his lips and kissed them gently. “If you’re good for me.” The tone of his voice sent shivers down your back. When your food wand wine were brought out Bo pulled back all at once. “Let’s eat!”

When you and Bo finally left it was fully dark an you were both stuffed with good food. You clung to Bo’s arm and for the first time he wasn’t holding onto you like you were about to make a run for it. Instead he laughed at you as you stumbled over your own feet. The two of you had polished off 2 bottles of wine and you definitely weren’t used to drinking anymore. “Don’t you laugh at me Bo Sinclair.” You leaned your body weight against him, trying to playfully topple him. But Bo was like a brick wall. “If I knew you were such a lightweight I would’ve cut ya off ya know.” “Pfft, a year ago I could of drank you under the table. Not my fault my tolerance is shot now.” He only shrugged at that as be brought you back to the truck. He opened the door for you before scooping you up in his arms, making you squeak. “Just makin’ sure you don’t get hurt.” He placed you gently into the truck and you scooted over so Bo could climb in beside you. You set down Lester and Vincent’s food before settling easily into Bo’s side. He smirked to himself and wrapped an arm around you. You leaned your head against his shoulder and he looked down at you fondly, his fingers brushing through your hair before he pulled out of his spot and took off back towards home.

The ride back seemed much shorter than the hour ride into town, maybe because you were tipsy and tired or maybe because this time Bo made an effort at conversation. He spoke lowly into your ear, so close you could feel his smile. And even though his words were casual it felt so intimate. You were used to Bo flirting sure but recently things were different. He was softer with you the past month, sweet even. And now he even trusted you to leave town with him. You didn’t know how or why this shift happened but you liked it. You liked having Bo’s arm around you, taking long rides with him, eating dinner alone with him. The two of you finally rolled back into town and instead of the dread you thought you’d feel you were happy. Glad to be home where you could crawl into your warm bed and go to sleep after a nice night out.

You helped Bo carry in the groceries and put them away along with Lester and Vincent’s food before hopping up on the counter. Bo came to stand in front of you, his hands on either side of your waist. “Did ya have a good time?” A shy smile stretched your face. “The best time.” His hand came up to play with the ends of your hair. “Good date?” Your eyebrows shot up in a way that would have made Bo laugh if he wasn’t eager for your answer. “Was this a date Bo?” He hummed lowly to himself,  “I suppose it’s not. Ya know. Dates usually end with a kiss.” Your face flushed but you brought your arms up to wrap them around Bo’s neck, pulling him closer and leaning in. “Well I suppose you des-” you were cut off by Bo’s lips crashing into your own. His hands came to rest on your jaw and his lips moved clumsily but firmly against your own. The pure need that you felt radiating off of him was surprising but you found you liked it. You buried your fingers into the thick dark hair at the nape of his neck and kissed back, your eyes closing. You were so lost in the kiss that you didn’t hear the creek of footsteps just outside the entrance to the kitchen. But it didn’t escape Bo’s attention, instead it prompted him to bite your bottom lip making you gasp. He took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, eliciting a small moan from you. After a moment Bo pulled away, almost like he didn’t want to push his luck. You were both breathing heavily but he still leaned in to give you another small kiss before he stepped back a fraction. His smirk, which you used to hate, now looked so good on him. You giggled softly and leaned your forehead on his shoulder. “Yeah, good date.” He rubbed circles into your lower back before picking you up and setting you back down on your feet. “I’m glad. How about you head up to bed? I bet you’re tired.” You gave a little nod. “Yeah, good night Bo.” You pecked his cheek before walking off towards the stairs.

Bo sighed to himself, satisfied before turning to the hallway you hadn’t turned down. Vincent stood awkwardly just past the doorway. Bo strolled up to him, reaching deep down into his pocket. He pulled out Vincent’s drawing and pressed it against his chest. “You dropped this. And you’d be better off if y/n didn’t see it. Dinner’s in the fridge.” With that Bo slipped bast his brother and into the living room to watch some TV and have a nightcap.  

[mnemosyne-musing]

when you build your house then call me home (river/12)

Here on ao3

They lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and not saying a word. There are mere inches between them physically but it might as well be lightyears for all their connection in this moment.

 Still half-dressed, with sweat cooling on his body and his heart rate still pounding, the Doctor risks a sideways glance at River but she’s staring straight ahead and not meeting his eye. He glances away and steels himself. They need to talk about this. Laugh about it. Make a joke and try again and then it will all be fine.

 He takes a deep breath and rolls on to his side, one hand reaching out for her. But he’s too late and she’s already sat up, clutching the bedsheet to her as she turns away from him. His fingers close around empty air as she stands up from the bed.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she says quietly, still not looking at him as she pads over to the bathroom and closes the door behind her with a firm click.

 He stares at the closed door for a long moment before falling back against the pillows, letting his hand fall back over his eyes as a frustrated noise escapes his lips.

 They should’ve talked first. Dinner had been lovely but they’d skirted around any meaningful conversation. Ever since he’d told her ‘twenty-four years’. He’d suggested a walk to the towers afterwards but she’d shaken her head and they’d headed back to the TARDIS, the atmosphere now heavy and tense between them. Again, they should’ve talked but neither of them had been able to initiate the conversation and instead they’d fallen into their old patterns and stumbled into bed together.

 However, where previously they’d been able lose themselves in a lust-filled haze and avoid any awkward conversation amongst a litany of ‘gods yes’, ‘please’, ‘more’, ‘harder’, ‘oh yes, there…’. This time had been different. 

 This time there was a disconnect between them. His ring had caught in her hair. She’d fumbled over his shirt buttons. His nails had scratched her when trying to undo her bra. And had bras become more complicated? Foreheads had bumped, teeth had clashed, and not in a good way. He’d kneed her in the stomach, winding her in his haste then almost taken out her eye with his elbow. He’d thought his last incarnation clumsy but this performance made Bowtie look the picture of poise and elegance.

 And the sex itself? Well, that seemed to be over almost before it had begun. It had been a long time for him but he’s sure that River used to be more- well, more enthusiastic and certainly a lot more vocal.

 He lets out a long sigh and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he shrugs his shirt back on. He casts another longing look at the closed bathroom door. What he would give in this instant for the confidence to stroll in there after her, pin her to the shower wall and lavish every inch of her with attention until she screamed his name in ecstasy.

 Instead, he turns towards the door. He would go make some tea. Perhaps that would help.

 --

 Tea did not help.

 He’d left a mug for her on her bedside table but when River didn’t reappear after her shower, he’d gone back to the bedroom in search of her. He’d found her curled up on top of the duvet, fast asleep with her hair still damp. He’d pretended not to notice the tear tracks on her face and had covered her with a blanket instead. Her now-cold, untouched cup of tea remained where he’d left it.

 That was two weeks ago. Since then, they’ve been dancing around each other and avoiding the subject. They haven’t even kissed, let alone had sex again. In fact, they’ve barely touched one another. It’s almost funny really. He’s been vehemently avoiding touching people this whole regeneration and yet he’d pretty much give up the rest of his lives if she’d just reach out for him now. If she’d take his hand, run her fingers through his hair, snog him silly or just brush against his shoulder the way she used to.

 But she doesn’t. He thinks she’s going to on a few occasions. She reaches out as if on autopilot, then catches herself and stops. Maybe she thinks he doesn’t want her touch anymore? Or, maybe she doesn’t want him? He’s no longer her youthful-looking, floppy-haired, dashing husband. Instead, he’s old and grey and so very, very tired.

 It’s this worry that keeps him up at night instead. It burrows into the pit of his stomach ‘til it makes him feel physically nauseous. He almost manages to bring it up in conversation. He opens his mouth numerous times to ask but his courage fails him at the last moment and instead he asks if she’s hungry. Or wants another cup of fucking tea.

 He’s ventured outside today without her for the first time since they landed here. There’s an estate agent with an office in the main town near the towers. If they are going to stay here then it might be nice for them to have real house.

 If they stay here.

 He refuses to think about that too deeply.

 He’s halfway down the end of the road when he realises he hasn’t got the shopping list River had handed him that morning. Swearing under his breath as he pats down his pockets, he turns on his heel and heads back to the TARDIS.

 He pushes open their bedroom door and wanders over to the dresser where he’d left the list, calling out for River at the same time. “I forgot the list. Was there anything else you-“

 He trails off as he catches sight of the open suitcase on the bed. Halting in his tracks, he takes in the piles of clothes packed neatly inside next to River’s spare blaster and various other possessions.

 “Doctor?”

 He looks around as River suddenly emerges from the bathroom carrying a robe and looking startled.

 “Are you-, are you leaving?” he manages to choke out, that feeling of nausea welling up inside him with renewed ferocity.

 “I-, well-“ River stutters, looking guilty before she squares her shoulders and glares defiantly at him, “I thought I’d spare you the indignity of a goodbye. I know how you hate them.”

 He stares at her aghast for a moment. “Spare me?” he repeats, his voice sounding too harsh as he notices her flinch, “You’re planning to sneak off while I’m out and it’s to spare me?”

 She purses her lips against a retort and turns away from him, packing the robe in her suitcase.

 “Don’t pretend you haven’t been planning your exit as well,” she mutters tersely, “I’m just saving us both the time.”

 “Saving us-? River, I-“ he angrily takes a step towards her, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing. He wants to grab and her and shake her until she listens to him properly. Shout at her that she’s being ridiculous and stupid and how on earth had they let it get to this.

 Suddenly his anger disappears as quickly as it had flared. He scrubs a hand tiredly over his face and sighs. “I’m sorry.”

 River looks up at him questioningly. “Sorry for what?”

 “I thought I was giving you what you wanted. I thought this,” he waves a hand vaguely around them, “This time was what I could give you.”

 “Doctor, it’s not that, it’s-“

 He ploughs on miserably, regardless of her interruption. “But it’s too late. I know that. You should be here with him.”

 He risks a glance up at her but she’s standing in front of him, hands on her hips and a confused expression on her face.

 “Be here with who?”

 “Other me. Bowtie,” he clarifies despondently, “I know you’d rather it was him here, but-“

 He doesn’t get a chance to finish that sentence as River’s palm catches him across his cheek.

 “Ow!” he stares at her indignantly, raising a hand to nurse his stinging cheek, “What was that for?”

 “That is the most singularly self-loathing yet self-pitying thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she snaps, glaring furiously at him, “And believe me, that’s saying something.”

 “Well, you didn’t need to slap me!”

 River ignores his comment and continues glaring at him. “Why would you think that?”

 He gestures vaguely with his other hand around the room. “Because, well, you know-“

 “It has never mattered to me which face you wear,” she retorts vehemently, pacing away from him as he stares at her, “You know that.”

 Suddenly feeling his anger flare up once more, he blurts out what’s been eating away at him these past two weeks. “Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it!”

 “What?”

 He watches as she turns back towards him in confusion and instantly wishes he could take the words back. He’s not sure he can cope with her confirming his fears out loud.

 “What is that supposed to mean, Doctor?” she presses again, her voice sharp.

 He glances away for a moment before licking his lips nervously. “You-, you don’t touch me anymore,” he mutters, almost too quietly for her to hear and gods, it sounds pathetic even to his ears. No wonder she wants to leave him. “Not like you used to.”

 He risks a glance back at her, steeling himself for her admission.  Instead, she stares at him like he’s grown another head.

 “Because you don’t want me to,” she states matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe.

 He stares at her dumbfounded, shaking his head as if he’s misheard her. “Why on earth would you think that?”

 “Because you told me, Doctor!”

 “No, I didn’t!”

 She nods her head, frowning at him. “Yes, you did. You told me this body doesn’t hold hands, or do hugs. Or touching in general.”

 He throws his hands up in the air and virtually growls in frustration. “I didn’t mean you!”

 “Why not?” River shrugs. He thinks she’s trying to seem nonchalant but he can almost feel the tension radiating off her. “I thought you-, this body,” she waves a hand in his direction, “I thought you didn’t want me like that anymore.”

 “For heavens’ sake, River, of course I do,” he pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes in deeply, trying not to snap at her in his frustration, “You’re my wife. I love you. Of course, I want you.”

 He glances up at her with what he hopes is a sincere expression and then falters when he sees her staring, glassy-eyed back at him.

 “What?”

 She swallows heavily. “Nothing. It’s just-, you’ve never said it before?”

 He frowns at her. “Said what?”

 “You love me.”

 It comes out as barely a whisper but it stops him in his tracks. The same feeling of total self-loathing that had swept over him when she’d made her passionate declaration in front of Hydroflax now resurfaces with a vengeance.

 “Of course, I have.”

 She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip. “Well, once. But you were dying. And needed me to save you, so-“

 He gapes at her open-mouthed in horror. “But-, but you knew? You always knew. That I-, that I’ve always-“ he trails off as he watches her, her arms wrapping protectively around herself.

 “Yes. And no,” she shrugs again, clutching herself tightly, “Recently, it’s been difficult. You’ve been so young. And then Manhattan-“

  “But, it was all-, all those trips from Stormcage, all those dinners, every birthday, every anniversary. It was all because-,“ He closes his eyes in shame, cursing his younger self for every missed opportunity to tell her how much she really means to him. For ever leaving her in any doubt.

 “And now?” she asks tentatively after a moment, as if she’s afraid of the answer.

 “And now, what?”

 “You’ve seen me in my full glory,” she says, a hint of bitterness in her voice, steeling herself as if braced for his rejection, “’What I get up to’ as you put it, when you’re not there,” she throws his words from Hydroflax’s ship back at him.

 “River, I didn’t mean-“

 “I was happy to kill Hydroflax, Doctor,” she continues over him, lifting her chin defiantly and looking him in the eye, “I wouldn’t have regretted it.”

 “You’ve killed me as well remember, I thought that was just what you did with your husbands,” he quips, trying not to let the exasperation creep into his voice but she simply glares back at him.

 “Don’t be flippant, Doctor,” River snaps and he half expects her to slap him again but instead she turns away from him once more, chewing on her bottom lip with anxiety, “I can cope you know,” she adds more quietly, her fingernails picking absently at the sleeve of her shirt, “If you leave. It won’t break me. It will hurt. But I won’t break.”

 Another wave of self-loathing washes over him and he has to forcibly swallow the bile that rises to the back of his throat at her words. He watches as she keeps her gaze averted from him. He can tell she’s trying to stay strong, trying to keep it together but he can see how tightly she’s strung. He breathes in deeply before taking a small step towards her and then another one.

 “I know,” he says softly, watching as she tries not to flinch at his words, clearly preparing herself for the worst. He raises a hand and gently brushes the back of his fingers down her cheek so she glances up at him. “But it would break me.”

 There’s a small intake of breath as she tries to stifle a gasp, her eyes searching his desperately as she looks to see if he’s serious. “Doctor, you-“

 But he cuts off the rest of her sentence by pressing his lips to hers and softly kissing her. It’s a gentle, chaste kiss, completely unlike their frantic, biting kisses from before but he tries to convey everything he can’t quite say out loud to her. Just how much she means to him and how terrified he is of losing her.

 Pulling away, he rests his forehead against hers and gently swipes his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the single tear that’s spilled over.

 “I want this, River,” he whispers hoarsely, looking desperately down at her, “You, me, twenty-four years.”

 “But, you don’t really-“

 “I do,” the Doctor insists earnestly, “All of it. Every last sodding domestic detail. Sunday papers, breakfast in bed, evenings in front of the telly.  I want it. Hell, we can even get a cat if you want.”

 “I hate cats.”

 “Fine, no cats,” he deadpans before adding more seriously, “But the rest of it.”

 River stares up at him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as if she can’t quite trust what she’s hearing. “All of it?” she asks hesitantly, “Because we don’t have to-“

 He frowns as she trails off. “Don’t have to?”

 She pauses for a moment before answering reluctantly. “Sex. I know you say you want me but I know tastes can change and I don’t want to make you feel-“

 Again, he cuts her off mid-sentence by kissing her. This time, the kiss is more demanding. He nips at her bottom lip and when her lips willingly part, his tongue slides against hers, tasting her as he stifles a groan. His free hand slips into her hair as she winds her arms around his neck and pulls him closer.

 When they pull apart this time, they are both breathing hard. Still catching her breath, River tries again, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulders. “But, that first night here-“

 “Was a disaster,” he interjects firmly, “It’s been… a long time.”

 River quirks an eyebrow at him. “How long?”

 He pauses for a moment, looks away sheepishly then back to her. “Since you,” he admits, watching as her eyes widen before a slow smile spreads across her face, “I’m a little rusty.”

 River trails one hand down to the open neck of his shirt to toy with the top button. “Well then, sweetie,” she murmurs as she looks back up at him and the Doctor feels his hearts stutter in his chest. For the first time since they arrived, she’s not looking at him with a guarded expression on her face, like she’s waiting for him to disappoint her. She looks happy. “They say practise makes perfect. And we now have the time.”

 “We do indeed.”

 “Twenty-four years.”

 He leans in towards her, one hand gently cradling her cheek as he tilts her chin up towards him. “Twenty-four years,” he echoes against her lips as he kisses her again.

 --

[ecrivant]

to be known by you | reiner braun

(reiner braun x reader)

it had been the strangest summer of recent memory: the days were lingering and dilatory, and rife with inexplicable phenomena.  when reiner meets a stranger he feels he recognizes, someone as ethereal and bizarre as the summer atmosphere itself, he cannot resist the beguiling nature of this newfound acquaintance and decides to accompany them for a night.  

word count: 2.7k

It had been the strangest summer of recent memory.  The days were lingering and dilatory and often seemed swathed in some turbid and ethereal atmosphere, augmented by an interminable humidity which each day lasted far past dusk.  The sun would hang in the sky for longer than its allotted time, and at duskfall, all terrene happenings stilled and gave way to strange, supernal movements to which no living being bore witness.  The beach house tenanted by the Brauns, which sat in the very center of this surreal environment and was not much more than a well-maintained shanty abutting the shore—the transition from sparse greenery to sand occurring directly beneath its raised foundation—was too pervaded by this sense of uncanny.  The inside seemed impossibly large for the dimensions of its edifice, and doors within moved on their own, and one could easily lose himself, sitting in one place, for hours at a time, staring at the irregularities in the wood wall panels or the microcosmic topography of the popcorn ceilings or the addled patterns in the stained, grey carpets.  Reiner liked to taunt Gabi and tell her the house was haunted, but it was something neither was completely disinclined to believe.

It had been the morning of third day that his mother mentioned the storage shed for the first and last time. Reiner, awake since sunrise on account of his prolonged restlessness, and Gabi, wanting to be with him, sat at the kitchen table, Reiner’s unfocused gaze resting on the view outside the window and Gabi’s on a spoon she mindlessly fingered.  His mother’s words had drawn his eyes towards her—her stare, intense, eyes narrowed in questioning:

“Were you doing something in the storage shed last night?”  

He shook his head ‘no’ and watched her interrogation move from him to Gabi.

“Gabi?”

“Mm?”  Eyes not acknowledging her.

“Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Doing something in the shed?  The storage shed.  Last night.”

“No.”  Gabi finally looked up, not at her aunt but at Reiner, eyes wide and brows raised.  Body turning, she met her aunt’s gaze.  “Should I have been?”

“It was open this morning,” his mother finally clarified, turning and reaching for a glass as she spoke. “The door was just cracked, but it was open.”

“Maybe someone didn’t shut it all the way.”

“Maybe.”  

Her response hung in the air, suspended by doubt, unconvinced of her son’s suggestion.  She glanced out the window, towards the shed in question—its door long since closed and locked after her curious discovery that morning—and it seemed to stare back at her.

“It’s nothing.”  Gabi’s remark interrupted her aunt’s staring contest with the building.  Her tone was playfully dismissive.  

“I think you just want to find something to worry about, Aunt Karina.”

“Maybe.”

There was no more mention of the shed after that day, but Reiner, usually awake before the rest of the house, would, without fail, hear his mother exit the house, creep into the backyard, and shut and lock the shed door each morning in the dim-blue dawn light.

Later that same week Reiner had convinced Gabi to camp in the backyard with him under the guise of fun activity, though he truly intended to observe the shed for the whole night. She had been excited at the prospect of staying awake into the morning and then promptly fell asleep before midnight, and for the rest of the time he simply sat, cross-legged and perspiring, under an ether rife with stars, eyes unwavering from that damn shed.  

Apparently having dozed off, though, as he awoke to the sound of the back door and his mother’s soft footfalls and opened his eyes to see her locking the shed.  Like every morning, a cyclical action of the damned in hell.  He accepted the phenomenon as an unknowable and moved on.  

—

Reiner could not remember how long they had been there; time moved differently in this place.  He drove to explore and found that the main road stretched on forever, never bending or turning, and the area itself laid among an immutable scenery: an arrant wasteland of vacant beachfront housing, like some vast and spanning afterthought.  Could you get lost on a road like this?  A pavement belt, flanked by stark shrubbery and shallow gullies full of groundwater. Sometimes, the rare stretch of unsettled coastline with a view of the sea uninhibited by copy-pasted housing.  There was something beautiful in the desolate and purgatorial landscape.  

The road ended at a bridge, one with caving beams and a skeletal substructure which barely supported its own weight.  He never dared explore it, or God forbid drive over it, but he often sat in his car, pulled off to the side of the road, and stared at it.  Captivated by the disrepair, what it represented—nothing better elucidated the mortality and impermanence of humanity than infrastructural decay.  The view would eventually become too unsettling, as if it watched him as well, and he would reverse the car and turn around and drive back towards the house.  When he would arrive, his mother would sometimes report he had been gone for hours, sometimes thirty minutes.  

—

“Why don’t you take Gabi to the farmers’ market today?”

He didn’t know there was a farmers’ market, much less even a place to host one.  At his mother’s suggestion, though, he drove down that endless stretch of road with Gabi in tow, and miraculously came upon a densely populated park, filled with tents which did little to block the relentless heat. Gabi bounded towards the entrance, Reiner trailing behind, and they quickly ate through the two twenty-dollar bills unceremoniously handed to them before their departure that morning.  Reiner was glad his mother hadn’t expected any money to be left.  

The park itself held towering trees with sparse canopies which casted amorphous shadows on the dirt paths.  So unlike any area found at a coast.  Walking along, enveloped in shade and shielded from the sun, one could almost be comfortable. The main walkway was wide, easily fitting five people across, and flanked by densely packed tents.  Each with their own smiling vendor.  They were nice, maybe a little too nice, and each offered a too-wide smile at Gabi as she made off with their too-good products.  He was uneased by the whole affair.  In retrospect, he couldn’t remember the last time he actually saw people in the area, and he assumed it was because it was so sparely populated.  Yet, with the sheer wall of bodies milling around the park, he felt he had accidently wandered into a city, the market itself some kind of microcosmic metropolis.  Strange to have never noticed the park while driving; it was never there until it was, as if it materialized out of nothing.  

He glanced around him, suddenly struck by Gabi’s absence.  A warning call of her name, and at the lack of response, another, more frantic one.  He spun around once, scanning the area, and continued to do so despite remarking how the crowd—a singular, ebbing mass of people—perfectly and wholly obscured her location.  But she soon yelled his name and beckoned him over to a booth replete with floral bouquets and emitting an aroma so intense he had to pause before continuing into the miasma.

“Can we get some?  For Aunt Karina?”

Her eyes pleaded with the potency of a mendicant’s—nothing but a scoundrel, he thought, who knows I cannot say no.  He reached into his wallet and searched for bills and found none.  He sheepishly asked the vendor, who was obscured by the perennial heaps before them, if they accepted cards.  A soft ‘yes’ spurred Gabi on to grab at a bouquet of yarrow and roses, a perfumed, white and yellow amalgam; a movement which revealed the vendor’s face.

Reiner was struck immobile. You, once hidden, now revealed, were immediately alluring, aura imbued with such profound familiarity.  As if you were already his lover.  He stumbled through his transaction as you stared at him with eyes he felt he knew.

“Would you like to include a handwritten note?”

Gabi nodded furiously, as if possessed by some excitable demon.  She dictated a note, childishly simple yet unequivocally kind, and you wrote it out on a notecard with a flourish.  Wrapping the cluster of flowers in tissue paper and tulle and tucking the note in the center, ending the routine by handing it to Gabi.  With a smile that was just right.  She ran off again, and Reiner waited for a moment longer, as if he knew to wait to be handed that scribbled note which read, ‘Meet me at the bridge tonight.’  

You felt so much like a memory.  He could not shake the feeling he knew you, deeply and wholly.  

—

Such vague wording, as if designed to make one second guess himself.  He would have to trust his instinct about the time.  In the moment he felt as if he knew you, but your thought process was unfamiliar to him—had you been struck by the same overwhelming feeling of familiarity?  Assumed he would understand what ‘tonight’ meant?  Or was this some omniscience taunting him and his implicit trust of a stranger?

He was at the bridge by sundown.  Car idled. He waited.  An hour, a minute.  And suddenly you were there—he jumped when he saw you.  You sat on the rotted and caving beams of the bridge, beckoning him with a gaze.  He approached you and stood at the first interstice between road and bridge and after a pause, dumbly said:

“I think I know you.”

And you confirmed his sentiment with echoed words.  He creeped onto the railing, supporting himself on rusted girders resembling steles erected to commemorate some bygone and lost epoch.  The chapped wood on which he sat dug into his thighs, and when he looked down, his feet hung over a canyon which in the dark became some measureless void.  Your sillage, floral and penetrative and everlasting.  You seemed to fluoresce in the pitch.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Your timid venture—the question, just for him.  He stared at you and thought for a moment and replied no, not that he could remember. You asked him if you could tell him of your first love, puerile and real.  He nodded yes.  And you began:

You spoke beautifully and openly about your childhood with a rawness, a candor, otherwise unshared between strangers.  You spoke of how your memories were places and people, painted in golden hues.  How your childhood room was always bright—in the morning, the rising sun would creep onto the bedroom wall and stay there as if resting in a lover’s embrace; and at sunset, the light would grow weary and slink away to make room for the night.  How those walls saw many things: your great-grandfather’s paintings, your mother’s smiling face.  And how it all smelled so distinct, even now, like old books and incense.  How, as a child, you often felt like some unchanging cairn laid solely to watch the world move around you.  

And as you spoke about the young boy you had once loved, Reiner thought of the way this intellection you so tenderly painted sounded like him: a child, tall, with a mess of blonde hair and hazel eyes that held an unusual intensity; a child with a tender voice, high-pitched and soft, and a lopsided smile.  And you repeated the words, “I can so clearly remember him,” like some unspoken truism.  You had shared your favorite places with this boy; your first kiss, and your hopes and fears; and the pain of aging and coming to know the dark and black and crushing void associated with it.

You spoke of how the young boy suddenly died, without explanation.  How the last time you saw him, there was such a pervasive sadness in his gaze.  How you despised this was the way you remembered him—with mournful and darkened eyes.  You had asked what was wrong, and he had not been sure.  Instead, the two of you clasped hands and sat in silence for a last time.

“I just remember the chaos.” A whisper, spoken more to yourself.

“I remember waking up to blue lights on my ceiling.  It was a cold blue light, a crude perversion of the warmness of the rising sun.  I looked out the window, and cars were crowded under the flickering streetlamp below, and I heard the wailing through my window.  I knew. I knew, but I just climbed in my bed and pulled the covers over my head, as if they would drown out the light and the shouts of a broken mother, and squeezed my eyes shut and saw his eyes and cowlicked hair and a toothy, lopsided grin.”

You asserted that part of you died with him.  A pause.

“It felt odd to be in love with someone who was already dead.”

And then you were finished. You took a deep breath, as if the story had been spoken with one, single inhalation.  Reiner blinked hard and processed the words and tried to think of something to say.  ‘Sorry’ seemed so blithe.

“What was his name?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“I can’t remember.”

He stared at you, incredulous, half-expecting you to be joking.  How could one possibly—

“Sometimes I think he didn’t have one.”

Your whispered voice, as if about to shatter: “You remind me of him.  That’s why you’re here.”

Effervescent words that dissolved in the air.  Something nagging at the back of his mind.  He wrapped you in an embrace and held you there, and he thought not of you as a stranger.  A hand on your back and the other in your hair.  Breathing your exhalations.  An intimacy impossible between two unfamiliar people.  He swore he knew you.  

He felt your lips on his neck, testing, inquisitive.  He pulled back, meeting your gaze, eyes melancholic and wistful and searching for something intangible, possibly nonexistent.  You had the eyes of someone who was never anything but lost, and despite your shared unfamiliarity, he hoped you would find something within him as he leaned to press his lips to yours.  This kiss begot another and another, and his hand was on your cheek, and your skin was warm beneath his fingers, betraying your spectral nature. He thought he heard you whisper his name, though it was something you couldn’t have known.

He held you, again, with no desire to do more; this chaste intimacy was so much more potent. He savored your embrace and felt he could stay here, in your presence, with your touch, until he aged and crumbled like the disintegrating bridge on which they sat. A moment of abject redamancy.  Time moved differently here, with you.  

He was then inexplicably struck with the feeling that he missed you, as if he had finally found that which he had gone years without.

You pulled away and stood. Without warning.

“Can I see you again?” His plea, desperate, closing.

“I’m not certain.”

And with that, you asked him to leave.  He somehow knew he was meant to comply without question.

As he departed, and behind him the road and the bridge and you faded into blackness, he was reminded of the first time he moved homes—that unsettling and melancholic feeling of abandoning something familiar.  He drove and drove and missed his street, and instead of turning around, he surrendered to the compulsion to keep driving, and he drove some more.   He thought of you the entire time, oblivious his own existence.  He then thought of himself, and when reflecting on his childhood, he could not remember it; he only saw himself in the presence of a young child who looked like you, a shared heart between you.  He drove through the sunrise and another sunset, and he stopped to fill up his car with gas and kept driving.  He wasn’t sure how, but he eventually found his way back to the beach.

He arrived at the house and quietly climbed into bed.  He imagined you dissolving into the landscape; the canyon beneath the bridge widening like an open mouth and swallowing you.  Purloined by the purgatory which begot you.  

He suddenly could not remember your face.  

A thought, lost, just as he heard his mother closing and locking the shed door outside.  

—

thank you again to @casualityrantfun​ for suggesting a reiner piece!  it was very sweet of you to request something, and i hope you enjoy it.  also, thank you to everyone who has been reading/liking/reblogging my stuff!  it means the world to me, and i really love being able to write creatively for something i enjoy!

part of me wants to make this a long-form piece, but i don’t think i have the patience or the talent to do so.  maybe later down the line, though, we’ll see.  also, this piece is inspired by @dappermouth’s art, specifically this piece, which has literally captivated me for years, as well as the campfire scene from my own private idaho, which i watched the day before yesterday and fell in love with.  go hold someone you love, xoxo

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taglist: @flam3bird

[haircoveredwriter]

Welp, it happened again. I guess my subconscious is more excited about S11 than I knew or maybe I'm just so bored with the lack of spoilers that it's taken matters into its own hands (so to speak). Again, this is a free flow of phone word vomit.

This convoy is huge.

Carol glances up at The Commonwealth truck a few feet ahead, feeling the earth rumble beneath from the 4 others she knows are behind them. It would be easy enough to catch a ride in one. Been walking most of the day already without more than a few minutes to catch their breath or get a needed bathroom break, but it's easier this way. Sitting between a bunch of worried children and parents isn't the kind of heartbreaking reminder she needs right now to bring back everything she's lost. She only has to close her eyes for that.

Daryl: Hey, you good?

His soft tone soothes the burning pangs building in her chest as she offers a weak smile in return.

Carol: Yeah ... just tired is all.

It's not the whole truth and they both know it, yet now isn't the time for mending fractured souls. Daryl quirks his mouth awkwardly and nods, allowing the fib to pass unnoticed while he changes the subject.

Daryl: Think we're bigger than any herd of walkers left. Guess that means we're safe. If anybody's still out there, they'd have to be crazy to try anything.

Carol: Or Mercer's arms will scare them off.

Their eyes travel together to land upon the red-clad mercenary riding a horse at the front of the pack. Stifled laughter fills the space between them as the horse objects, and the man's tensing arms glisten under the fading sunset.

Daryl: Nah, he seems alright. A little uptight but Ezekial trusts him so we should probably give him the benefit of the doubt.

Dog pads to Daryl's side, leaning wholly into the face scratches offered and groans when fingers reach his ears.

Carol: When did you join the Ezekial fanclub?

Her tone is quizzical and playful, knits brows offset by the coy smirk she's directing straight at him. Letting Dog wander off into the crowd, Daryl shrugs, toying with a worn strap across his chest.

Daryl: You told me once he was a good guy. Figure, if he passed the test with you ... that's all I need to know.

Her lips curve into a full smile.

Carol: Remembering minor opinions I made years ago ... knowing about my claustrophobia. You're a regular Encyclopedia Brown, Mr. Dixon.

Daryl: Huh?

She can't help but laugh slightly at his confusion, pulling it together moments later to clarify.

Carol: He was a boy detective in a whole series of children's books growing up. Knew everything that was going on. What, not your cup of tea? Bet you were more of a cowboys and Indians type of kid.

Daryl: Liked the Hardy boys enough but none of them dealt with anything real. Just lost, secret museum stuff or some myth about a creepy guy living in a haunted house outside of town. Nancy Drew was better. She did it all on her own.

The thick silence which follows lifts his head, finding Carol frozen on the road behind and he scoffs at her expression.

Daryl: Stahp.

Her hands raise in mock surrender.

Carol: I didn't say anything.

They fall easily back into moving without words, ghosts of faded laughter settling in to an accepted comfort that's always been. There isn't anything they couldn't say to eachother. After a long beat, he breathes in deep before uncovering the last leaf of his heart.

Daryl: I spent a lot time as a kid out in the woods ... more than at home. If you'd even call it a home. But being out there taught me one thing though; it taught me how to pay attention.

Taking hold of her hand, his palm fits effortlessly against hers and their fluttering pulses beat in time. Her bottom lip wavers as he holds the promise in her eyes.

Daryl: I pay attention to what's important.

[matbaerzal]

Agree To Disagree | M. Barzal

Summary: Mat isn’t really an animal person, but his new neighbour loves dogs.  A/N: This all started when Mat said he didn’t like small annoying dogs, and I wrote a post joking about an “enemies to lovers” fic, and then I actually started writing it and it got way out if hand..  Warnings: PUPPIES!! accidental slowburn, awkward silences. a very non specific timeline (?) Words: 5,5K Copyright © @matbaerzal 2020 All Rights Reserved Tagging: @bluebarriemuzzins​ @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69​ @zuucc​ because why not??

When you first saw your new neighbour you were intrigued. He was wearing a suit, looking important, he gave you a polite smile as he walked past you. He was handsome, and he held the elevator door for one of the movers that was going down to get more of your belongings. It seemed like the two of you would get along as neighbours. Unfortunately first impressions aren’t always right.

When Mat first saw you he was intrigued. You were carrying boxes, moving into the apartment across the hall from his. You looked tired, but you had a smile on your face nonetheless. You were wearing an old The Office t-shirt, so you had that in common. You were really polite to the movers helping you. His first impression of you was that he’d get along well with you. Unfortunately first impressions aren’t always right.

You were by no means new to New York, you’d grown up in Manhattan, and as you were looking for a new apartment, you happened to find the perfect place in Brooklyn. It was close to your new job, had a nice kitchen and most important, they allowed pets in the building. Your old building had a strict no pets policy, and Zoe, your Golden Retriever, had to stay with your parents. Now, she could finally move in with you, and you could open your home to shelter dogs too.

You loved dogs more than anything in the world, so to be able to foster dogs and help them find loving homes had been a dream of yours for a long time. You got in touch with the local shelter even before you moved in, because you were so excited. Your job as a writer for a magazine luckily allowed you to work from home a few days a week, so you could spend as much time as possible with the dogs.

---

The second time you see your new neighbour is the day Zoe finally moves in with you. It’s also the first time you actually speak to him. You were about to take Zoe for a walk around her new neighbourhood when he exits his apartment, he’s wearing casual clothing this time around. Zoe is a well behaved girl, but she can be very curious so when a stranger joins you in the elevator it’s natural she wants to introduce herself. You don’t expect everyone to be a dog person so you hold her back until you see him smile at her as he walks into the elevator. Much like anyone else, he greets Zoe before he introduces himself to you.

“Hello” he says in that high pitched voice most people get when they see a cute dog, he reaches his hand out for her to sniff it before looking up at you. “Hey, you’re my new neighbour” he says matter-of-factly. “Hi, yeah” you say, reaching out your hand telling him your name as you shake hands. “I’m Mat, who’s this?” he says, referring to the dog before scratching her behind the ear. “This is Zoe” you laugh as the elevator dings and the doors open. Your interaction is cut short as you exit your building, going in separate ways, giving each other polite smiles. “I’ll see you around,” he says.

Bruiser

After living in your new building for two weeks your paperwork to start fostering dogs is finally done and approved. Your main job would be to socialize the dogs and make them ready for adoption. The first dog you take in is a little chihuahua named Bruiser, you and Zoe have met him a couple times at the shelter, and you’ve been told he’s usually not too fond of strangers.

You walk into your building with Bruiser in your arms. As the doors are about to close you see Mat enter the building, his steps rushing towards you. You hold the door for him, and he gives you a small smile. “Thank you” he says, before looking down at Bruiser, the expression on his face unreadable.

“What happened to Zoe?” he asks eyeing Bruiser suspiciously. “Oh I left her at home whilst I was picking up this guy” you say lifting the little dog up slightly. “This is Bruiser, Bruiser, this is Mat, our neighbour” you say. That’s when the elevator dings and the doors open, Mat shoots out and into the hallway, suddenly in a rush. “See you later” he throws over his shoulder, he unlocks his door and then he’s gone. “That was a bit strange, huh?” you look down at Bruiser, walking over to your apartment door

You go about your day, forgetting your interaction with Mat. Spending the day introducing Bruiser to his new temporary home, and for the most part it goes really well. You notice he has a tendency of barking and getting restless whenever he hears something outside your door, so you take note of that, so you can work on making him more used to unfamiliar noises.

---

A couple weeks later, Bruiser has already improved a little, he’s much less timid and has even made some friends in the dog park you liked going to. You’re about to take him and Zoe there, and you see Mat in the elevator. You make eye contact with him, so you’re hoping he’ll hold the door for you. His eyes shoot open when he sees the little chihuahua and instead he presses the button to make the doors close. You frown, looking down at your dogs, “that was a bit rude, no?” you say. You think, maybe he was in a hurry, or maybe he accidentally pressed the wrong button.

The next few weeks, similar things happen and he keeps avoiding you. Barely says hi to you in the hallway, and on the rare occasion that you’re actually in the elevator together he is practically pressed into the corner, his head buried in his phone. You’re not one to impose yourself on someone who obviously doesn’t want to be around you, so you start avoiding him too. If you’re about to leave and you hear him in the hallway you wait until you can’t hear him anymore before you leave.

Your co-worker had mentioned her aunt was interested in adopting a dog. And eventually Bruiser moves out of your apartment. You’d grown fond of him, so obviously you're a bit sad as you make your way home with Zoe next to you. You don’t even notice Mat walking up to the elevator as you’re stood there trying not to cry. The doors almost close before he stretches his hand out to stop it. “Are you avoiding me or something?” Mat says with a laugh, a little out of breath. You frown, it’s your first time interaction in who-knows-how-many weeks. “Me? Avoiding you?” you scoff

The doors close and an awkward silence fills the space between you. Zoe stays by your side, pressing her head into your hand. You can see Mat looking at you in the corner of your eye. “Where’s the little one? Bruce?” he asks, his tone cautious. You look up at him and so does Zoe, a scowl on both your faces, and as if the universe was on your side that’s when the elevator dings and the doors open on your floor. “His name is Bruiser, and why do you care?” you snap and stomp out. You quickly find your key and get into your apartment before he can even react.

A few more weeks go by and you notice Mat isn’t trying to avoid you anymore, though he never says more than a small hi to you and he almost always looks a bit guilty. You still try to avoid him sometimes, you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the inevitable awkward silence that follows whenever you see him. Maybe you’re a bit embarrassed by how you snapped at him when he asked about Bruiser. All you know is that sometimes you like to check if you see or hear him in the hallway before you leave your apartment.

Stella

The next dog you take in is a Beagle, Stella, she doesn’t bark as much as Bruiser, but she growls if you approach her when she’s eating or playing with a toy. She’s also been known to bite if she gets cornered. She’s warmed up to you and Zoe a bit more, but she’s still cautious around other people.

You’re out walking the dogs when it starts raining, you’d been to the dog park to try and socialize Stella. The weather had been really nice when you left, so it catches you off guard.

You try to find cover under a tree in the park, but you’re still getting some rain on you. Your building is about a 10 minute walk away so you’re dreading the thought of having to walk that far in the pouring rain.

Just when you start considering just running for it, a car pulls up next to you. The window opens and there’s Mat with a worried look on his face. “Hey, do you need a ride home?” he shouts through the rain. You look around weighing your options, ultimately you look back at him and nod. Sprinting over to the car, he gets out and opens the door for Zoe to get in the backseat and you run to the other side, picking up Stella before getting in the passenger seat. You sigh out a breath as you close the door, “thanks” you huff out, trying to get Stella to settle in your lap.

You see Mat in the corner of your eye looking at Stella for a moment before he starts driving towards your building. “You replaced Bruiser pretty quickly, huh?” Mat says and you see him instantly cringe after the words leave his mouth. “What do you mean?” you frown at him, “shit, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just you got a new dog, and it’s not long ago that Bruiser, you know-” he trails off at the end, leaving you confused. “You know-, what?” you ask him to clarify, “died” he almost whispers. 

You laugh in surprise, “Bruiser’s not dead, he got adopted” you say. “What do you mean adopted, wasn’t he yours?” he asks, glancing over at you before looking back at the road. “No, I was just fostering him, like I’m fostering Stella here” you say, Stella is still wiggling in your lap.

There’s a moment of silence before Mat speaks up again, “are you fostering Zoe too?” he says. “No, I’ve had Zoe for about 5 years now” you say just as he pulls into your building's parking garage. He parks and turns the engine off, but just as you touch the door handle he turns to you.

“So, just to be clear, the chihuahua and Stella aren’t yours?” he says. “Not really, no” you say, “you sound very relieved by that” you laugh. “I’m not really an animal person, especially small overly energetic dogs, I don’t like those” he says, eyeing Stella who, to prove his point, is still trying to wiggle out of your lap. “Zoe is great though” he rushes to add. “You’re just saying that to be nice now” you tease him. “No! No, I really don’t mind Zoe” he says and you hum, you don’t really believe him.

As if she could understand what you were saying Zoe suddenly sticks her head in between your seats making Mat jump. You roll your eyes at him with a smile on your face as you open the door. You keep a hold of Stella as you get Zoe from the backseat, walking over to the elevator where Mat is standing waiting for it to arrive. Silence fills the space between the two of you and you can’t help but think this was a one time thing, after this you’ll go back to the awkward silences.

The doors open and you internally cringe as you steal glances at each other and he motions for you to go in first. The doors close and Mat presses the button to your floor, the moment just before the elevator starts going up feels like an eternity. You clear your throat “thanks again for the ride” you say “and sorry if your car smells like wet dog for a few days” you add with a small laugh as Stella squirms in your arms. “It’s no problem, really” he says, and the space is filled with silence yet again. 

The elevator comes to stop as you reach your floor, the doors open and you step out, Zoe following after you, you finally put Stella down and she tries to pull you towards your door. You laugh at her, but follow after her regardless.

Mat walks a few steps behind you and speaks up again just as you reach your door. “I’ve been kind of a shit neighbour, haven’t I?” he admits, you turn around to face him, not sure how to reply. “I swear I wasn’t avoiding you, I just- Chihuahuas and I don’t get along” he says and you can’t help but laugh out loud. “You avoided me because of the dogs?” you say and Stella pouts and scratches at your door with a small bark. Mat looks at her pointedly as to say see what I mean?.

Ignoring his look you quickly open the door so Stella can go inside, Zoe calmly follows after her. “I realized how stupid I was being after a week, but I guess I’d started a pattern and I didn’t know how to break out of it” he says, his hand scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe we could start over? Could I make up for being a bad neighbour somehow?” he says. You take a moment to think before you get an idea, “you could help me with Stella, come with me on walks and all that” you reply. For a brief moment you see regret in his eyes before he swallows it, “yeah, sure” he says hesitantly.

“Are you free tomorrow?” you smirk at him and he shakes his head, “I’m actually going away for a couple days for, uh-, work” he says. A pang of disappointment hits you, so much for making it up to you. “I’m back again on Thursday, though” he rushes when he sees the expression on your face that you failed to hide. You hesitate for a moment before nodding, “I can do Thursday”. You hear a suspicious noise from inside your apartment, “I should-” you say pointing behind you. “Yeah, I’ll see you Thursday” he says and starts walking backwards towards his door with a wave goodbye.

---

Thursday arrives before you know it, and you realized you never set a time to meet up. Around 3PM you decide to just go over with Zoe and Stella and knock on his door. He opens his door almost immediately, already dressed to go out. “Hey, you going somewhere?” you say, “I was just about to go knock on your door actually” he chuckles. You smile and offer Stella’s leash to him, he eyes it sceptically, you roll your eyes at him “fine, you can take Zoe” you laugh.

You get to the park pretty quickly, on the way Mat explains what he does for a living, and you realize that’s why he’s away a lot. Once you get there you tell Mat to let Zoe off her leash, and he looks towards you. “What about Stella?” he says, “she’s got a tendency to get territorial, and could bite if someone tries to take something from her” you say and Mat takes a small step away from you and you laugh a little at his reaction. “My job is to help her get out of her bad habits, so that someone will adopt her” you explain.

“You get paid to do that?” he asks, and you shake your head “no, I volunteer”. He looks at you with wonder in his eyes. Zoe comes running back to you carrying a stick, instead of going to you she surprises you and goes to Mat. With the way he acts around Zoe you would have never guessed his dislike for small dogs. He fakes his throw once before throwing the stick as far as he can, Zoe runs to get it back.

The following weeks he comes with you for walks whenever he can, and Stella takes a liking to him, much to his dismay. You could see Stella get more and more comfortable around strangers, and she doesn’t put up much of a fight when you want her to let go of a toy. You’re comfortable enough to let her off the leash at the park now, and she plays catch with Zoe without any conflict. Whenever Mat comes with you to the park Stella refuses to play with you,  it’s as if she can read his mind and she’s doing it just to annoy him.

---

It’s getting warmer out so you and Mat decide to pack lunches with you and spend the day at the park together. He’s become a regular part of your life now, and the time you were ignoring each other seems like an alternate reality. You’d even caught a few of his games from the comfort of your living room and whenever the camera closed in on him your dogs would perk up and look at the TV. Sitting close to him on your picnic blanket, leaning your head on his shoulder whilst watching the dogs, feels natural.

“Do you want to come see the game on Sunday? We’re playing the Rangers” Mat says out of the blue and you lift your head off his shoulder to look at him, “I’d love that” you say with a smile. “Cool” he says and leaves it at that. “Cool” you say laughing at him, “It’s just, everyone wants to meet my cute neighbour” he says and you swear you see a small blush on his cheeks. “Cute neighbour, huh? You invited Mrs. Davis too?” you tease, referring to the sweet old lady living a couple floors down from you. He breathes out a small laugh and looks down, definitely blushing this time. “Oh yeah, she’s a huge hockey fan” he laughs. You shove your shoulder against his lightly, “she’s probably only in it for the cute players though” you say.

The flirting wasn’t entirely new, but your heart beat still raised whenever he used his charms on you. And you always felt nervous whenever you would flirt back, but you couldn’t help yourself. You were too in your own bubble to notice the change of the weather and when the first couple rain drops fall on you it catches you completely off guard. You quickly gather your things and call the dogs over. The second you get the leashes on the sky opens up, and Mat grabs your hand with his free one and drags you to the nearest tree.

The tree doesn’t give you much cover, it’s barely even enough for one person. He sets the picnic basket down and pulls you close so you don’t get rain on you. “I can’t save you with my car this time” he laughs as you’re both looking around at the downpour. When you look back at each other you realize how close the two of you are, chest to chest, his arm tightly around your waist. A couple of hair strands are stuck to his forehead and you instinctively move your free hand to brush them away, your cheeks going warm as you do, resting your hand on his shoulder afterwards.

Mat is studying your face, as if he’s looking for something. Stella, ever so mischievously pulls on your leash bringing you impossibly closer to each other. You’d looked at his lips before, but they had never seemed as inviting as they do now. Mat takes a breath before he leans in, your noses brushing together as he hesitates in his actions. You move your hand to his neck as you lean into him closer, closing your eyes as you take a deep breath. The world stands still and it seems like you stay like that, lips almost touching, forever. Until, Stella pulls on your leash again, this time pulling you away from Mat.

You almost drop the leash from the pull, and you have to move yourself away from Mat completely to settle her down. You hear Mat swear under his breath and he’s scowling at Stella when you look back at him. You give him a sympathetic smile before turning back around to calm Stella down. The rain doesn’t last long, and you start making your way home, keeping the conversation to a minimum, the air between you filled with disappointment because of a ruined moment.

---

Mat leaves for a road trip the day after, and when he comes by to say goodbye he hugs you a bit longer than normal, and your eyes linger a bit longer before he walks down the hallway to the elevator. You know you won’t be able to see him until Sunday at the game and time moves so slowly the days leading up to it. You text back and forth a little, but neither of you mention your almost kiss. You can’t stop thinking about it though, and you keep wondering if he’s thinking about it too, but you’re too afraid to actually ask him.

He’d texted you where to go, and you’d heard enough about the other players girlfriends to not be so nervous as you go to find your seat at the arena. You’d gotten Amy, a friend from work, to look after the dogs in your apartment, just to be safe. Just as you’re looking down at your tickets to check if you’re in the right section you hear an unfamiliar voice speak up, “are you here for Barzy?”. You look up to see a blonde woman looking at you with a smile, “he did invite me, yes” you stutter shyly.

You learn her name is Grace and she takes it upon herself to introduce you to all the other girls. Your first observation is that watching a hockey game on your TV is very very different from seeing it in person. Sure, you would celebrate some goals in your living room, but not like this. You blame it on the atmosphere, but you have to admit to yourself that you were enjoying yourself. The game was tied for most of the third period, and after the Rangers scored a flukey goal near the end, the Isles weren't able to respond.

It’s quiet between you and the girls as you walk to where you’re meeting Mat and the rest. His hair is still damp, a frown on his face, and there are a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead, bringing you back to the moment in the park. Your heartbeat speeds up as he meets your eyes, he gives you a small tired smile. He stops in front of you, a respectable distance away, you take another step towards him and he looks relieved when you do. Before he can say anything, who you assume to be Anthony steps up next to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. “This must be that cute neighbour” he says with a smirk, making Mat blush.

Mat introduces the two of you as you make your way towards where their cars are parked. You’d taken public transport to the arena and Mat was “obviously driving you home”. You say goodbye to everyone before getting into the car. On the way home you talk about the game and the past couple days. You tell him a couple people have shown interest in adopting Stella, and you can see in his eyes that he’s not as excited as he pretends to be.

As you’re walking up to the elevator your hand brushes against his accidentally, but he takes a hold of it, without saying a word. In the elevator you lean into his side and he puts his arm around your shoulder, without saying a word. It’s a comfortable silence, but it leaves your mind running. The feeling of his thumb rubbing back and forth on your shoulder making you warm. Wishing you’d just went for it in the park, wishing you knew how his lips felt against yours. You’ll kiss him tonight when he says goodnight, you think.

His arm stays around your shoulder, your arm around his waist, as you walk down the hallway and to your door. He turns to face you as you arrive, keeping the embrace you’re in. “Thanks for coming tonight” he murmurs, his hand moving down your arm, he goes to take a step away, but your arm on his waist urges him to stay. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say. The moment feels oh so familiar as he studies your face, his eyes finally landing on your lips as you lean in even closer. Your noses brush against each other as you close your eyes. Then, just as you're about to lean in the rest of the way, Amy opens the door.

She swears, and you break apart from each other as she apologizes, going back into your apartment. Again, the moment is ruined and Mat clears his throat awkwardly, your whole body is flush with warmth. Amy emerges again, her movements sneaky, “dogs are sleeping, see you at work” she says in a hushed voice, she looks at Mat and gives him an awkward smile. “Nice to meet you” she says, before walking fast over to the elevator, pressing the button several times before the doors open.

The comfortable silence the two of you had earlier is now filled with frustration, and when you hear an unidentified noise from your apartment you know there’s no saving the moment. You can’t help but groan, “it’s ok” Mat says, giving you a sympathetic smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch?” he asks, “yeah” you say, hesitating as you open the door behind your back. Mat takes a few steps backwards towards his door. “Good night” you say in unison before slowly getting into your apartments.

Stella runs up to you as you lean against the door, leaning your head backwards hitting the door with a thud. You flinch slightly and swear under your breath at the impact, your hand going up to rub the back of your head before leaning down to Stella. Zoe is peacefully asleep in her bed as you enter your bedroom. You put Stella back in her crate, figuring Amy must not have closed it properly before she left.

As you go back out to the kitchen to get some water there’s a soft knock on your door. You furrow your brows, wondering who it could be, before going over and opening the door. Before you know it Mat is pushing you back into your apartment and against the wall next to the door, he stops for a moment as he’s leaning in before shaking his head, “fuck it” he mumbles. Then, his lips are finally on yours, his hand on your waist pulling you closer as you kiss him back.

 One of your hands grip his arm, the other hand moves to his neck, threading your fingers through his hair. His lips soft, moving against yours as you get lost in each other. He breaks the kiss, letting you catch your breaths for a moment before he leans in and gives you another short, firm kiss.

His forehead rests against yours and you feel his lips break into a smile before you open your eyes, leaning back a little to meet his eyes. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” he grins, his voice hushed. You bite your lip as you look up at him, breathing out a laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow” he repeats his words from earlier and you nod eagerly, leaning up to give him another brief kiss, not able to help yourself. He chases your lips as you lean back again, he breathes out a laugh before forcing himself away from you, grinning as he walks back to his apartment.

---

He greets you with a kiss and a blush the next day when he meets you at a cafe after his morning skate. It feels a lot like a first date to you, but you’re not sure what he wants or what this means to him. “Is this our first date?” you burst out and he looks surprised for a second as he looks up from the menu. “I’d say we’re way past our first date, no?” he smirks making your cheeks flush with color. 

“Yeah?” you manage to let out and he reaches his hand over the table finding yours. “All those walks in the park- do you really think I’d put up with Stella if it weren’t for you?” he jokes making you roll your eyes. “I’m trying to be serious here” you laugh. “Well, I seriously really like you” he smiles, his eyes genuine making your cheeks even redder. “I really like you too” you shyly admit.

On your way back to the apartment after lunch, he holds your hand, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your skin. He’ll be going away for another few days tomorrow, so you make plans to have dinner together when he comes back. You tell him you’re meeting a potential couple to adopt Stella, and he goes a bit quiet.

When he’s been gone three days you’ve met Stella’s potential new parents, and made your decision. You call him right after you’ve dropped her off at her new home, and he’s sweet about it. You wonder if you hear some sadness in his voice, but you don’t ask him about it. 

He keeps the focus on making you feel better. When he comes home he gives you a long crushing hug, and when you’re in the kitchen getting you something to drink you overhear him talking to Zoe. “I miss the little bother, too” he whispers as she cuddles closer to him on your couch.

Zoe

A few weeks later you’re in the park with Mat and Zoe. You’d been there for a few hours already, Zoe was taking a little break, lying peacefully next to you and Mat. You’re seated between his legs and resting your head on his chest, the sound of birds chirping and people having fun filling the space. 

You’d teased him about wearing shorts when you left, but now, as you’re running your hand mindlessly up and down his thighs, you’re grateful for his choice. Eyes closed, basking in the sun, you can't help but hum in content as he kisses your shoulder. You automatically lean your head to the side as he kisses up your neck.

“Do you think it’s going to rain later?” he murmurs, and you hum in a questioning tone, “Wouldn’t mind a redo on our first almost kiss” he speaks against your neck, leaving another kiss there as you laugh. You lean forward a little to look back at him and he’s got a content smile on his face. He leans in and kisses your lips, not able to help himself. You smile into the kiss, “If I remember correctly, we were under that tree over there, not on the picnic blanket” you tease. He raises his eyebrows before getting up, offering his hand to you.

Zoe picks her head up as Mat drags you up, leading you over to the tree. His arms wrap tightly around your waist, pulling you close to him. You hum as you move your hand to brush away hair from his forehead that isn’t even there before moving to his neck. 

Mat leans in, brushing your noses together stopping just before your lips touch, your eyes closing as you stay like that for a moment. Then you thread your fingers through his hair at his neck pulling him the rest of the way. The world melts away as your lips touch, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You’re left breathless as you pull away, smiles plastered on your faces. He gives you another short kiss before leading you back to the blanket.

You sit just like you were previously, your head resting on his chest, hands on his thighs. You sit in silence watching Zoe play around with a little chihuahua. “There’s a new dog at the shelter that needs a foster home” you tell him with a smirk. “Please don’t say it’s a chihuahua” he groans, you laugh barely able to finish your sentence “No, don’t worry, it’s a Pomeranian” you say, making Mat groan even louder.

[writing-and-bad-decisions]

One Rainy Night

A Haikyuu Fanfiction

Pairing: Yaku/Lev

Words: 4632

Summary: 

“Wait!” Lev called out, but it was no use, and the two boys watched pitifully as their bus sped down the road, around the corner and out of sight. 

“Dammit!” Yaku shouted, though it was mostly drowned out by the rain. The two ducked into the bus shelter, finally getting coverage from the storm.

“What time is the next bus coming?” Lev asked, running his hands through his wet hair, dishevelling it even more. 

“Half an hour.” Yaku huffed, dropping himself down on the bench with an audible squelch. His muscles were burning from the exertion.

“Should we walk home instead?” Lev asked. The two stared out at the torrent, the rain clattering loudly on the metal roof. 

“No, it’s too dangerous. We should wait. God we’re drenched.”

Alternatively,

The weather is disgusting, Yaku is locked out of his apartment, and apparently all it takes to make you realise your feelings for someone is a little power-outage.

Note:

Hello! I wrote this over the course of 15 days, and am very proud of myself for my consistency (that’s the longest writing streak I’ve had all year, with is awesome!). I’m pretty happy with how this turned out! Any comments/constructive criticism is always welcome, I hope you enjoy!

-----

The rain was incessant, pounding Yaku’s body with cold pellets as he sprinted through the school yard, Lev following close behind. It was soaking him from all directions, the splashing of puddles like shrapnel on his exposed legs. The two ran, panting and shivering through the haze as they made their way down the street, weaving through the few pedestrians also foolish enough to be wandering about in the onslaught. It was currently 6:04, and their bus was going to be arriving at the bus stop at precisely 6:05. Yaku was hoping that the rain would have delayed it at least a few minutes, but as they rounded the corner, his stomach sank. 

“Wait!” Lev called out, but it was no use, and the two boys watched pitifully as their bus sped down the road, around the corner and out of sight. 

“Dammit!” Yaku shouted, though it was mostly drowned out by the rain. The two ducked into the bus shelter, finally getting coverage from the storm.

“What time is the next bus coming?” Lev asked, running his hands through his wet hair, dishevelling it even more. 

“Half an hour.” Yaku huffed, dropping himself down on the bench with an audible squelch. His muscles were burning from the exertion.

“Should we walk home instead?” Lev asked. The two stared out at the torrent, the rain clattering loudly on the metal roof. 

“No, it’s too dangerous. We should wait. God we’re drenched.” Lev shuffled over to the bench, slinging his soaking bag off his shoulder. 

The two had discovered that they lived in the same apartment complex pretty quickly once Lev had joined the volleyball team, which in itself had its ups and downs. On the upside, Yaku wasn’t lonely on his commute to and from school anymore. On the downside, Lev took their close proximity as an excuse to bug him for help every chance he got. “Yaku-san! Can you help me study for my maths test?” “Yaku-san, can you help me practice my receives?” “Yaku-san~”

“I could have sworn rain wasn’t predicted today.” Lev said. Yaku peeled off his volleyball jacket, attempting to ring it out before giving up and dumping the wet clump of fabric on the bench beside him. The two fiddled around with their clothing for a minute, attempting to get a little more comfortable before giving up and settling into their seats. 

“God it’s freezing.” Yaku muttered, rubbing his arms aggressively. He could almost swear his bone marrow was freezing over.

“Do you want my jacket?” Lev asked. Unlike himself, Lev had been wise enough to put his jacket in his bag before the sprint to the bus stop, so despite the bag itself being soaked, the garment was relatively dry.

“No, it’s fine.” Finding the friction rather impractical, he settled for curling his arms against his body.

“Are you sure?” Lev asked, peering at him with concern. He had a few specks of water clinging to his eyelashes, which glittered in the streetlight. “You’re shivering.”

“Yeah. Besides, I don’t want you to get cold.”

“I’m Russian, that makes me immune to the cold!” He declared.

“You’re half Russian.”

“Okay then, I’m half immune.” Yaku smiled and shook his head, though his body stiffened as the wind picked up. “At the very least…” Lev slid closer until their shoulders and thighs were pressed against each other, before resting his arm across the back of the bench. 

“For warmth.” He clarified when Yaku gave him a funny look, though he didn’t complain, and instead leaned into his body. 

“You’re really warm.” He said quietly, his head rested against Lev’s shoulder. Lev chuckled, angling his head away slightly. 

“You feel like a corpse.” Yaku slapped his knee. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! You feel frozen though.” After a moment’s hesitation, Lev wrapped his arm around Yaku’s shoulder, pulling him closer, and in turn Yaku curled into his side. To keep warm, Yaku reminded himself, though he couldn’t help but think how nice the arrangement felt. The thought itself concerned him slightly, but he was wet and freezing, and Lev was soaked, and he could feel the first year’s warmth through his shirt. Despite the horrendous weather, and their sticky clothing, and their aching muscles, it was a nice moment. The two stayed like that, silently cuddling, until the bus arrived. 

-----

After a very cold wait, and an even colder bus ride, the two boys finally arrived at their apartment complex. 

“I cannot wait to get changed out of this.” Lev said as they quickly strode across the lobby. 

“God I need a hot shower.” Yaku grumbled as they stepped into the elevator. Lev hummed in agreement, pressing the button for Yaku’s floor, and then his own.

“Sounds nice, though honestly I think I’m a little sick of being wet today.” Yaku nodded.

“Fair, you look like a drowned cat.” Lev squawked in offence as the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, and Yaku stepped out. “I’ll see you Monday.” He said in farewell. 

Lev stuck his tongue out at him, before breaking into a grin and waving as the doors shut. Yaku smiled, shaking his head at his antics as he made his way down the hall. He stopped in front of his apartment, slugging his bag off his shoulder and sending droplets across the tiled floor. The bag sagged pitifully as he opened it, and Yaku began to riffle through it for his keys. His eyebrows began to knit together the longer it took, before he froze. His keys were in his wallet, which he kept in his gym bag… which he left in his school locker.

“Fuck.” He groaned, hitting his head on the door with a gentle thud. Fantastic. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and thumbed the keypad. It dialed a few times, before his father picked up. 

“Morisuke?”

“Hey dad.” He said. “I left my keys in my locker at school, what time are you going to be home tonight.” There was a long sigh through the phone, and Yaku’s stomach knotted with guilt. He sounded exhausted. 

“I’ve still got quite a lot of work to finish off in the office, and there’s a lot of delay with the rains in this weather… I’m sorry Mori, I don’t think I’m going to be home for another two hours or so. Is there somewhere you can go in the meantime?”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to drag you away from your work. One of my kouhai is in the building, so I can probably stay at his place.”

“That’s good then. I’ll see you tonight Morisuke.”

“Get home safely.”

-----

By the time Yaku had made it to Lev’s floor, his teeth were chattering painfully in his mouth. His clothing, though no longer soaking, was still plastered to his skin, and the chill of the building’s hair conditioning sent painful shivers through his muscles. His hand shook as he raised it to knock. There were a few moments of silence before he could hear footsteps towards the door, and briefly, he wondered what he would do if Lev’s parents answered instead. Standing in the doorway, shivered from head to toe and explaining his situation would be awkward, to say the least. Thankfully, Lev answered, albeit with a perplexed expression. 

“Oh, Yaku-san,” Unlike himself, Lev had gotten changed out of his wet uniform, sporting a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve short. To Yaku’s envy, he was noticeably dry. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just, I left the keys to my apartment at school, and my father isn’t getting home for another few hours. Would I be able to hang out at your place for a while until he arrives?” He tacked on quickly, “That would be fine with your family right?”

“Yes, of course! Come in!” Lev stepped aside and practically herded Yaku inside. “My family won’t be home tonight anyway. You’re still soaking though, I’ll get you a towel, and a change of clothes – actually, would you like to take a shower?” 

“Please. That would be great.” He licked his icy lips, the thought of a warm shower sounded heavenly. 

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Lev disappeared down the hall, and Yaku took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. Despite Lev harassing him for help every other weekend, study sessions always took place at Yaku’s apartment, so he had never actually seen Lev’s home before. He was standing in the entryway, which led into an open-plan kitchen, living room and dining room area. The design was modern, very similar to his own apartment, but more homey, with several photographs and other memorabilia decorating the walls. Across the room, situated in the living room area, was a large window spanning across the wall, showcasing the heavy storm outside. Lev appeared a moment later, a towel and a change of clothes nestled in his arms. 

“Here you go! You can just leave your shoes and bag right here.” Yaku dumped his bag and kicked his shoes off, before eagerly grabbing the items out of Lev’s hands. “Down the hall, the bathroom is the second door on the left. 

“Thanks.” Lev gave him a grin, before turning and heading into the kitchen, whilst Yaku made his way through the apartment.

He closed the bathroom door behind him, quickly stripping off his sodden clothes and jumping into the shower. The hot water was euphoric on his cold skin, and he closed his eyes, sighing contently. Yaku stood under the steam motionless, allowing the warmth to ebb away at the tightness of his muscles and seep into his bones. Once the numbness had faded and his limbs had thawed, he grabbed the bottle of soap and began washing himself. 

The soap smelt of lemongrass and lime, so distinctly Lev that it took him off guard, though the thought was somehow comforting, instead of weird. He let his thoughts carry him. The scent reminded him of the sun, of countless warm days spent in the gym playing volleyball. Of the crisp air, and morning jogs to school with Lev, who’s hyperactivity was quelled by the exercise and instead of making boisterous conversation, he would simply smile down at him. Yaku turned off the water, pursing his lips at where his thoughts had brought him. It was true that he had been spending a lot more time with the fair-haired first year recently, with them commuting together, hanging out on the weekends and spending time after volleyball practice to work on Lev’s receives. Yaku wondered when it was he stopped thinking of Lev as irritating and instead thought of him as… rather pleasant, he supposed. 

Dismissing the thought, he stepped out of the shower, and immediately regretted it as he was met with the cold air. He dried himself and changed, though noticed an apparent issue. Right, Lev was tall, so of course his clothing would be massive on him. He fixed himself up as much as possible, at least, until he was mildly presentable, and left the bathroom. 

“I’m out.” Yaku said, leaving the hallway and entering the kitchen. Lev turned from where he stood at the stove, apron tied around his waist, and froze. He stared at Yaku, his expressions shifting from shock, to confusion, to… something else, before finally landing on amusement. He laughed.

“Come on, it’s not that funny.” The sweatpants Lev had provided had ended way beyond his feet, resulting in them needing to be folded a considerable amount and causing two lumps of fabric to accumulate at his ankles. The shirt, which sat unevenly on his shoulders and reached his thighs, had been tucked into the tightly tied waistband. To say he looked rumpled would be an understatement.

“Sorry, just – you look like a cute little kid in my clothes.” Yaku glared at him, but the shower had relaxed him and he was too tired to retaliate. He was also choosing to ignore the strange swell he felt at the word “cute”

“I’m not cute, and I’m not a little kid. I’m older than you, remember.” He grumbled. Lev looked like he wanted to say something mischievous, but held it back, instead replying 

“Of course.”

“What are you cooking?” He asked, moving on. Yaku could smell the spices from out in the hallway. 

“Just some curry. Are you going to be staying for dinner?”

“Yeah, if that’s alright?” 

“Of course!” Lev beamed, “There’s heaps anyway, I wouldn’t be able to eat all of it on my own.”

“Cool. Anything I can help with?” Yaku peered around his body to the stove, where a pot sat simmering. There was a rice cooker steaming off to the side. 

“No, thank you, I’ve got it handled. You can just sit around and relax if you’d like.” Deciding not to contest against Lev’s cooking abilities, which, if he was being completely honest, he didn’t have much faith in, he made his way into the living room. Yaku picked up the remote and turned on the TV, but was met with a wall of static. 

“Oh yeah, I tried that earlier.” Lev called out from the kitchen. “I think the weather has messed with the connection. The wind has really picked up outside.” Glancing towards the window, Yaku could confirm that, yes, miraculously, it seemed to be storming even harder. 

He turned off the television and instead began investigating the room, drifting towards the bookcase in the corner.  He assumed it belonged to the rest of his family, as Lev wasn’t really the reading type. Only a few weeks ago, Lev had been complaining about the assigned book he had to read for English class, and after much harassment, the issue ended with Lev and himself sprawled out on Yaku’s couch as he read the first few chapters to him. Lev was a handful, that was for sure, though comparatively, he wasn’t the worst kouhai in the world. Yaku and Sugawara-san didn’t text very often, though from their few conversations, Yaku had heard just how illiterate the Karasuno first years were. He was thankful Lev wasn’t that stupid, the thought bringing a small smile to his face. 

After another few minutes of snooping, Yaku settled himself down on the couch and gazed at the dark void of the window. Behind him, he could hear Lev shuffling around in the kitchen. He listened to the soft bubbling of the stove, the high pitched rustle of metal as Lev rifled around in a draw. He was humming some kind of melody as he cooked, though Yaku couldn’t make out the tune. A sudden wave of melancholy washed over Yaku, grounding him into the softness of the couch. There was something special about this moment, the complete calm and normality. It was a stark contrast to his usual nights, where for once instead of the silence and haunting loneliness of his apartment, he was met with the comfortable domestically of Lev’s home. It brought about a strange yearning inside of him that he couldn’t place. A deep tugging on his heartstrings which made him acutely aware of how significant this moment was, as it was the beginning of something big, and beautiful, and life changing. He wanted to cherish this feeling, to hold onto this strange comfort that he didn’t understand. 

His thoughts were broken by Lev’s call for dinner, and he stood up, feeling quite disoriented, and joined him at the table. 

-----

To Yaku’s surprise, the food was absolutely delicious, and inwardly he apologised for ever doubting Lev’s cooking abilities. As tactless as he seemed, the kid could cook. Yaku reclined in his seat, eyes closed, and enjoyed the warm sensation of a hot meal in his system. He felt absolutely exhausted, his muscles still sore from practice and the cold, but somehow, he felt extremely content. He opened his eyes to find Lev staring at him, cheek rested in his palm and a small, impossibly soft smile on his face. The sight made his chest flutter. 

“What’s up?” Yaku asked, and Lev’s trance broke as he realised that he’d been caught. 

“Oh! Nothing, just,” He sat back up in his seat. “You look really happy right now.” Before Yaku could even think of a response, Lev rose from his seat and began clearing the table.

“I’ll help you clean up.” Yaku offered, and Lev waved dismissively. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to. I’ll dry.” Lev didn’t disagree anymore, instead giving Yaku another of those abnormally soft smiles which sent his heart racing, and the two proceeded to clean the kitchen in a comfortable silence. Once they were done, Lev said

“I’m going to make a hot chocolate, do you want one?” 

“Right after curry?”

“Yeah! Why not?” Yaku shook his head.

“I think I’ll pass, I’m not a big fan of sweets.”

“Oh come on.” Lev pleaded. “I make pretty amazing hot chocolates.” He stared at him with a small pout which Yaku found uncharacteristically endearing, and he couldn’t find the will to refuse. 

“Okay, fine.”

“Yes!” Lev cheered, and got out the supplies for the drinks whilst Yaku watched with mild amusement. 

The two of them settled down onto the couch with their hot chocolates, and Yaku had to admit, the beverage was pretty nice. He listened to Lev ramble on about some gossip with the other first years, something about Inuoka asking out two different girls, who both ended up being gay, which resulted in him setting them up. Apparently he was happy for the two of them, but quite sour about Lev and Shibayama teasing him about it. The conversation was quite meaningless, but there was something special about Lev’s company tonight, and Yaku was very much enjoying himself. Lev’s babbling was interrupted by a large crack of thunder, and they both looked up as the lights flickered.

“I hope the power doesn’t––” a sudden darkness enveloped them.

“Spoke too soon.” Yaku remarked. 

“What should we do now? Should I go get a torch?”

“No, don’t bother, we have our phones anyway. I guess we can just sit and watch the rain?” Lev hummed in response, and the two shuffled closer to angle themselves towards the window. 

It was pitchblack with the lights on, but in the dark they could see the surrounding city outside, the dull artificial light providing a small bit of illumination to the room. The world seemed quieter in the dark, though Yaku quickly realised that was due to the heater, which he had barely noticed earlier, being off now. Lev seemed to have come to a similar conclusion. 

“I’ll go get a blanket.” He said, and disappeared from the couch for a minute, reappearing with a large cotton blanket to cover themselves with. After a few minutes of silence, Yaku asked

“Hey Lev, what’s your type?”

“My type?” He asked, seemingly caught off guard.

“Yeah, on the topic of dating.” Lev was silent for a moment, thinking. 

“Well, I’ve never dated anyone before, but I’d say I like girls who are quite tall, and on the flip side for boys, um…” He paused for a moment “I think short boys are pretty cute.” there was a flicker of something in Yaku, a sudden nervousness that turned his mouth dry. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. 

“You like guys?” It came out stiffer than he intended. Lev hesitated. 

“Yeah… that’s not a problem is it?” The insecurity sounded foreign in his voice.

“Oh! No–” Yaku realised how he had sounded. “Not at all, I’m gay.”

“Ah.” Lev replied, before breaking into giggles. “That kind of makes sense actually.”

“What? How so?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Lev shook his head of whatever he was thinking. “So what’s your type then?” The atmosphere felt heavy somehow, and Yaku wasn’t sure how to reply. What was his type? He supposed he liked guys who were tall, and lanky, and sweet and goofy, but how could he say that aloud when it sounded a lot like Lev and–

Oh. 

Oh.

Shit.

The realisation made home want to slap himself, he was so fucking stupid. Huddled under the blanket, only a few inches apart from each other, felt suddenly intimate. He was aware of Lev’s body heat radiating beside him, of every small shift of his limbs. Yaku felt very small beside him as Lev stared down at him, expression masked by the darkness, with his head quirked to the side. 

“Yaku-san?” He said questionably, oblivious to his inner turmoil, and Yaku realised how long he’d been zoned out for. 

“I-I’m not really sure.” He stuttered out, but before Lev could say anything else, the chime of a phone interrupted their conversation. Thankful for the distraction, Yaku shuffled around in the blanket, trying to find where his phone had been wedged. 

“It’s my father.” He explained once he found it, before picking up. “Hello?”

“I’m really sorry Morisuke.” His father began. “The weather’s gotten so bad that the trains have stopped. I’m going to stay at your grandmother’s house for the night, are you okay where you are?”

“I’m fine.” He replied. “The power’s gone out in the building, but we’re alright. Stay safe, I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Bye Mori.” He hung up. 

“Is everything alright?” Lev asked, his voice filled with concern. The tense atmosphere from earlier had dissipated, much to Yaku’s relief. 

“The rain has gotten so bad that the trains have stopped, so my father isn’t able to get home. Is it–”

“You can stay the night.” Lev interrupted, a little too enthusiastically. “You can sleep in the guest bedroom.”

“Thank you.”

-----

“Does your father always work late Yaku-san?” Lev asked quietly after a long stretch of silence. The silences seemed to be getting longer between them, not that either of them minded. There was a certain comfort that came with sitting with someone else in the dark.

“Hmm? Yeah, always has.”

“What about your mother.” Yaku shifted in the blanket. 

“She’s… out of the picture.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“So, are you alone most of the time?”

“Yeah. When I was younger I used to get really lonely but I'm used to it now, so it doesn’t really bother me anymore.” Lev nodded. 

“My parents are both working most of the time as well, though I’ve always had my sister for company. Now that she’s moved out, the apartment just feels… empty without her. And, well,” Lev began. “I guess I’ve just found out recently that I don’t like to be alone.” 

The rain on the window punctuated the moment of silence. There was a familiarity in Lev’s words which made his chest swell, and Yaku was brought back to hollow nights in his empty apartment, a somber solitude that, as he reflected now, had never really left him, but instead had become an ever-present heaviness he stubbornly ignored.

“I’m… glad we’re not alone tonight.” Yaku said, and he meant it more than he could put into words. Right there, in that moment, there was nowhere else he wanted to be. No one else he wanted to be with. Lev turned his head to look at him, and although Yaku couldn’t make out his features, he could feel his smile. 

“Me too.” Yaku’s eyes were drawn to Lev’s hand, which rested on top of the blanket, and he had the sudden urge to grab it. “You know, back in middle school, I had a lot of friends, but I never really felt that close to any of them. But, now that I’m in high school and on the volleyball team, I kind of feel like I’m a part of a big family or something. Everyone’s been so nice showing me the ropes and teaching me how to play, even though Kenma doesn’t like me and I annoy you, I’m really happy.”

“You don’t annoy me.” The words slipped out on their own, and Lev huffed a laugh. Yaku tried to recover. “Okay, you annoy me a little bit. What can I say, you’re a handful.”

“But?”

“Who said there was a but?” He teased. 

“Yaku-san!” Lev whined, and he laughed. 

“But… the longer I spend around you, the less you annoy me and I discover that under that tall, lanky, dopey exterior you’re actually… really sweet, and nice, and kind of endearing I guess.” Lev looked at him for a long moment, his full attention on his words, before reaching out and wrapping his slender fingers around Yaku’s hand. He stilled, surprised by the sudden contact, before entwining their fingers. Lev’s hands were large, but delicate, not worn by years of volleyball practice like Yaku’s were.

“Thank you.” Lev whispered, and Yaku looked up from their hands. 

“For what?”

“Just… everything.”

They stayed like that for a while, hands laced together as if it was the most natural thing in the world for them, though, Yaku reflected, a lot of things seemed to come easy with Lev. 

The apartment felt small, disconnected from the outside world by the storm. Nothing and no one else existed outside of this space. For this night, it was only Yaku and Lev in the world, alone but together, and neither of them wanted it any other way.

“Yaku-san?” He pulled his eyes from the window and turned to see Lev staring down at him. Yaku was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, shoulders pressed together, faces mere inches apart. It would be so easy to kiss Lev, here in the dark, isolated from everyone and everything, where nothing existed but the two of them. Lev seemed to have the same idea as he slowly lowered his head. 

Their lips brushed gently, as if Lev was waiting for him to reciprocate, and he did, unravelling their fingers and gripping at his shirt collar, pulling him down further. Lev snaked his arm around his waist and they leaned into each other. It was a gentle kiss, soft and sweet, as Lev’s lips moved delicately against his own. Despite how inexperienced they both were, there was no hesitance from either of them, and instead they held each other with impossible ease. 

A loud crack of thunder broke the spell and they fell apart, staring at each other in bewilderment before breaking into laughter. 

“We should probably go to bed soon, it’s getting late.” Yaku said, a little breathless. He fought the urge to touch his fingers to his lips.

“Or…” Lev began, and he could feel the mischievous smile in his voice. “We could stay here for a while longer.” Yaku laughed, rolling his eyes as Lev cupped his cheeks and joined their lips once more. 

-----

It was easy to lose track of time when kissing Lev. Moments seemed to blur into each other as he focused on the sensation of their brushing lips and the weight of Lev’s hands gently around him. Eventually though, sleep beckonned them, and they couldn’t ignore it any longer. Lev stood, letting the blanket fall away and offered his hand to Yaku, which he took eagerly. 

“Yaku-san,” Lev started, pulling him into a standing position. Yaku stumbled slightly, finding his muscles weak from exhaustion, and was thankful to have Lev holding him for support. “Do you want to sleep with me?” The question was quiet, bashful, and Yaku squeezed his hand tighter. 

“Yes.” Lev led the way through the blackened apartment and into his bedroom, where they slipped under the covers once more. They embraced, Yaku’s head snuggled into his chest and Lev’s face resting in the crook of his neck, his hot breath grazing his sensitive skin. They laid like that, warm and intertwined, with the chill of the rain a distant memory, and drifted slowly off to sleep.

[sweetwritertanya]

Nothing To Be Jealous About (Jimin)

A/N: Hope you all enjoy this last chapter for the ‘Jealousy’ series. I had the idea for this series a good while back and I had a lot of fun writing all the parts. Some of the story-lines came to me a long time ago, others I had to think deeply about, but I am more than happy with all of them and I hope you all are too. If you read all of them, thank you so very much! It means the world to me to know people actually enjoy my stories, so I can’t be thankful enough. Sending lots of love to all of you, wonderful people!

Summary: Dressing up a bit more elegantly than usual, it rises suspicions from the some of the members when they see you walk by. At the conjecture that you might be going on a date after work, Jimin comes to a life-changing realization.

Warnings: ANGST and FLUFF! Just a bit more angsty than I was expecting, but also ends with a lot of fluffy goodness, so it’s okay! The reader is a bit insecure, but nothing major!

Word Count: 2830

The day was warm and sunny for autumn as you walked down the corridors of BigHit’s company. Your strapped kitten-heels closed-toe sandals making a loud clicking and clacking noise as you moved forward. It made you a bit self-conscious, a constant reminder that you weren’t in your favorite sneakers or flat boots like usual.

Turning the corner, you come across the company’s pride and joy group entering their practice room, seven boys and their managers as well as some staff members having just arrived from early morning interviews. Your heart shudders and aches a bit; you were hoping to avoid them all the whole day. No such luck.

Clinging tightly to the folders in your hands, you force yourself to keep up the pace and smile shyly as you approach them, trying to go by as unnoticed as possible.

“Hey, Y/N! Morning!” you hear Taehyung greet before you could sneak by, a gentle smile on his lips and waving politely.

“Morning” you greet back, trying to sound as cheerful as any other day.

“The elevator is still out of service?” Jin joins the conversation, referring to how you were forced to carry the documents in your hands through the hallways and up the stairs instead of just taking the elevator to your team’s floor.

“Yeah, but they should be able to fix it before lunch, I think” you share, already taking a few steps forward as you talked, subconsciously trying to escape as soon as possible.

“What’s that? Fix what?” the person you were most dreading to see joins the conversation.

Jimin comes around his hyung to see what you were all talking about, catching just the end of the conversation. He was wearing some black jeans, a red and black window pane plaid shirt with two pockets at his chest and the first few buttons undone, showing off his collarbone. He had only one or two piercings in his ears, a very casual outfit considering the fashionable looks he wore so much.

“Hi, Y/N” he says as he realizes you were there, smiling friendly like he always did.

“The elevator” Jin responds to his question, capturing his attention for a moment. “You know, the one who shut down yesterday during the afternoon? They’ll fix it in the morning, it seems.”

“Oh, right. Y/N, you…” Jimin doesn’t get to finish what he was about to say, as he looks back and you were no longer there.

Searching, he finds you already down the hallway, determined steps taking you to the staircase. He frowns a bit, confused about why you left suddenly. It is only then that he realizes what looked different in you. Instead of the baggy t-shirts and sweaters, jeans and some sneakers, you were actually in a medi-dress, a tartan white and grass-green plaid over the dark forest green base, singed at your waist, a white blouse underneath the strappy garment and some beige sandals on your feet.

“Say, guys, didn’t Y/N look… different, today?” he asks, eyes still set at the end of the corridor just before you disappeared from his field of view.

“Yeah, she was wearing a dress. She looked pretty cute” Taehyung declares, crossing his arms and shrugging his shoulders.

“I think she looked nice too. I wonder if she’s going on a date or something” Jin conjectured, making Jimin’s head snap in a flash to his side.

“What? Why a date?” his voice is just maybe an octave or two higher than he meant to be.

“Why not? She’s single as far as I know, and that looked like an appropriate outfit for a first date” Jin continued, defensive. “I mean, I’m just guessing, I don’t know.”

The boys all enter the practice room and start preparing, but Jimin is still unable of letting it go. His angelic face is scrunched up in thought, strong eyebrows pulled together as he thinks.

“You know, not all single women have to go on dates! And people can dress up whenever they like, not just to go out with someone!” he continues arguing, next to his friends.

“Geez, Jimin, just let poor Y/N go!” Taehyung whines, patting Jimin’s shoulder.

“Go? Go where?”

Taehyung shares a look with Jin and Jungkook steps into the circle with wide knowing eyes and sucking on a cartoon of milk. Jimin remains confused.

“You do know that Y/N had a crush on your since, like, her first day here, right?” Taehyung asks, chuckling by the end of the sentence.

Jimin’s blank stare and paralyzed stance is all the answer they need.

“Yeah, she always got shy and nervous when you were around, I’ve seen it” Jungkook contributes, nodding his head.

“It was pretty obvious, Jiminie. Which is why I think it’s great if she is really going on a date or something, she’s trying to move on” Jin explains, a wondering look in his eyes as he regards the still in shock Jimin. “You do want her to move on, right? I mean, you’ve shown no interest in her so far, so… right?”

And he hadn’t. Not really, he was just as friendly with you as he was to anyone else. All warm words and smiling eyes, helping hands and soft touches that lasted just a moment and remained in your memories forever. You knew he had no special interest in you whatsoever, you were far from the type of girl he probably saw himself with. Round and bulky, shy and quiet. Romantically, you were sure he wouldn’t look at you twice. And yet, it took you years to finally accept it, to push your own feelings aside and try and move on, find somebody else.

So, here you were. Waiting for the elevator – freshly fixed that morning – about to go on a first blind date with a friend’s friend. You’d put in the effort and got a bit dressed up, put on just a tad more make-up than usual, did your hair and dressed nicely. Somehow it still felt like it wouldn’t be enough.

Shorter days meant the evenings were darker than you were used to. You wished you had the foresight to bring a jacket that morning, as the outside looked a lot colder now. You hugged yourself with hands going up and down your forearms, hoping the restaurant your date had chosen was a warm establishment.

Abruptly, a dark leather jacket fell onto your shoulders from behind, covering your back and arms from the chilly air you were feeling.

“Hey.”

Jimin stepped next to you and suddenly your heart was at your throat and your stomach turned in your belly, taking every ounce of willpower in you to not blush furiously or stutter as you responded.

“Hello.” You took one of your hands to grab the sleeve of the jacket, keeping your eyes set on it rather than at the man you were talking to. “What’s this for?”

“You looked chilly” he shrugged, nonchalant. “I don’t need it and it’s a cold evening, so you can take it.”

“Thank you” you accept with gratitude, trying once more to not read too much into this. Good-hearted gestures like this were what started all this mess in the first place.

The arrival of the elevator saved you from having to continue the conversation for now, as you entered the opening doors and pressed the button to the ground floor.

“Lobby?” you ask him.

“Yes, please. Thanks.”

A few minutes of silence as the elevator starts to descend, your hands nervously grasping and ungrasping the strap of your purse.

“You look very pretty today” he compliments out of the blue, in the softest of voices.

Absolutely shocked, you freeze for a second, ignoring your singing heartbeat and the shiver down your back.

“T-Thank you” is all you could say. Much of all you said to him so far, actually.

“Are you… Are you going out on a date after work?” There’s a crack in his voice for a split second, but he rapidly glazes over it and continues. “Some of the guys said that but I thought they were exaggerating. Could be a family meeting or a friend’s reunion or-”

“It is a date” you clarify, even though you are not sure why you feel like you owe him any explanation. “A blind date, to be exact.”

The elevator is almost to the lobby and your legs are restless with energy as all you want is to leave through the still closed doors in front of you. This conversation hurt, his sudden curiosity hurt, just his mere presence hurt. You wanted, needed to escape.

“What… What if I said don’t go?”

It was barely a whisper, just the smallest of voices coming from the man standing behind you in the small elevator room. The doors ping open but you stay frozen despite the restlessness from before. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head to look back and finally glance at Jimin’s face. He looks serious and slightly scared, plump lips tensely closed, eyes searching yours, arms crossed.

“What?” you whisper back in disbelief.

“Don’t go. On a date.” He presses on, this time in a clear voice.

You turn your back over, looking straight again as a dry chuckle leaves your parted lips. A mixture of anger, embarrassment and hurt make you shake your head as your eyes begin to sting a bit and you march away from him, intent on making your way to the building’s door and reaching the outside road, where your date should already be waiting.

“Y/N! Y/N, wait!”

A hand reaches for yours but you pull it out of reach and stop dead in your tracks as you turn to Jimin, eyes already much too glossy for your own good, eyebrows grimacing and bottom jaw quivering a bit.

“Why are you doing this to me?” you question, almost an accusation. Surely, he knew. He had to. He knew of your feelings and instead of allowing you to move on, he was purposely holding you back. You never knew him to be a selfish person, but there was no other reason possible for him to do this to you.

Thankfully, the lobby was mostly empty aside from the guards and the workers at the front desk. None of them seemed to really noticed you two just yet, so Jimin guided you gently towards the door to the staircase that was no longer used. Once the door closed behind you two, he started pacing, a guilty expression ever-present in his features.

“When they told me-….” He takes a deep breath with closed eyes, forcing himself to stand still in front of you. “When the guys suggested you might be going on a date, I felt weird. Never have I ever felt quite like this before, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I felt sick and betrayed and hurt and-”

“Stop!” you almost beg in a broken voice. You feel your face heat up and your eye vision blurs due to the tears you try to hold back. “Stop. Don’t do this to me. Not now. Not when-!” A sob escapes you in mid-sentence and you try to quickly clean the tear rolling down your chubby cheek. “Not when I’ve been in love with you for all these years a-and I’m finally tr-trying to move on! Y-You don’t have the right!”

If only your eyes had been set on his instead of at his feet, you would have seen the ache your words produced, the way his neck and ears grew red as he was trying not to cry too, seeing you break down like this in front of him feeling the same as if someone clawed their way into his chest and ripped his heart out. Each tear that fell from your beautiful eyes brought more tears to his and it was making it impossible for him to breathe.

“You don’t love me, so you c-can’t say you are betrayed or hurt or anything. Not to me.” You finish expressing, hands shaking by your sides.

Jimin takes hold of your trembling hands in his and raises them up to kiss at the knuckles, a gesture that finally makes you look up at him with uncertainty and puzzlement.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Y/N, I’m sorry” he says, wanting nothing more than to erase the painful appearance on your face, erase the salty drops that stained your cheeks. “I didn’t mean for this to happen like this. I got jealous and wanted to stop you from going, I didn’t mean to hurt you ever, Y/N.”

You actually laugh with no humor behind it, shaking your head as you look somewhere behind Jimin, rather than at him.

“That’s just it. You don’t even like me and got jealous about me going and giving attention to some other guy. But the thing is, you have nothing to be jealous about. I could go on a hundred dates and I honestly think my feelings wouldn’t change.” You look at him then, with fresh tears drowning your lower lashes and a sad smile. “How pathetic am I, right?”

The jacket around your shoulders suddenly gets pulled forward harshly, making you lose your step and fall right into Jimin’s open arms.  Your mind goes blank for a moment, when all your can smell is his herbaceous musky scent, all you feel is the way his arms are squeezing you by your shoulders, pressing your corpulent body against his lean one, all you hear is his tiny voice whispering against your hair.

“No. You’re not. You’re not pathetic, I am. I am.”

Regaining control over your body, you try to wiggle away from him, hands pushing at his chest, trying to get away.

“Jimin, stop it! Don’t feel sorry for me, I don’t need your pity.”

He allows you to get out of his embrace, but only to in turn grab your round face in between his hands, effectively still keeping you in place, standing closely in front of him.

“Hey, it is not pity. Y/N, it’s not pity.” He leans down to force you to look him in the eyes as he says it and you see the importance behind them, the truthfulness.

“What then?”

Instead of answering, you see him press his lips together and eyes stare blankly at your lips in thought. Your heart hammers on your chest as you sense what he was about to do and you panic, shaking your head and about to tell him to let you go, but it’s too late.

Leaning forward, any hint of refusal you had dies at the first contact of his soft lips on yours, mouths joining in a feather like touch before fully merging together, precluding any effort you could even think of to stop it. The rest of the world drowned as a flare of heat bloomed to your cheeks, butterflies sprung to life at the pit of your stomach and a thrill shot up your spine. He traces your lips with his own, claiming your upper lips in little nibbles and then your bottom lip with small bites. Your legs quiver and hands sweat as they hold on to his shirt, heart skittering in your chest.

When his lips detach from yours, they leave the taste of sweet berries behind and you are sure you found a new favorite flavor in the world.

You slowly open your eyes, highly aware of the state you must be in and of his hands on your face, but in turn noticing his own flared up cheeks, even more so than when he was trying not to cry, and intense stare.

“Don’t go on the date with that guy” he requests of you again. But this time, he adds on. “Go on a date with me. Give your attention to me. Love me. Because I might just be in love with you too.”

And it’s all so sudden, so much, so unbelievable, you shake your head in his hands.

“But, Jimin, you never-”

“I was oblivious” he interrupts, knowing what you were about to say. “I’m so sorry it took me this long to see it. I’m sorry it had to be pointed out to me in order to notice, but I know it now. I always liked you a lot, Y/N. I just regret never letting it show and making you think I didn’t. If you let me, I’ll spend as long as you want making it up to you. I’ll prove it to you. Please?”

For once, just this once, you listen to your heart rather than to your head.

“Okay” you whisper, almost afraid of saying it too loud.

Jimin smiles so brightly that his eyes disappear behind his cheeks and he envelops you in a strong embrace again, certainly having twirled you around if he had the strength. Instead, he squeezes your fluffy skin against his and rocks you both side to side, chuckles of happiness escaping you both.

[tact-and-impulse]

With These Hands Chapter 11

Look, I say we’re ending 2020 with affection and fluff! Also, now that I know what it’s like working in a hospital, I can write this AU better, and this episode has heavy influence from my first night call shifts. For my fellow healthcare workers, because this was...a year. Here’s to staying safe in 2021!

The rest of this chapter is under the cut or on FF.net and AO3

Chapter 11: Endurance

Admittedly, Kenshin’s stomach dropped when he saw her. She was limp in her chair, arms dangling at her sides and her face turned away.

“Kaoru-dono?!” He rushed to her desk, panic overriding sensibility. But before he could touch her, her eyes snapped open and her right fist lashed out in a glancing blow that brought him to his knees. Acting on instinct, he latched onto the edge of her desk, elbow colliding with the hard surface. “Oro!”

At the contact, she blinked away her drowsiness. “Ken…shin? Oh, no! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” She sat up, her fingertips brushing his aching cheekbone. The pain was already fading, and he resisted leaning in.

“This one is fine. It was this one’s fault, surprising you.” He managed to answer. Despite how his skin was buzzing, he was not going to behave like a hormonal teenager.

“I still shouldn’t have punched you.” She withdrew, her voice full of concern. “I hope it won’t bruise.”

“There have been worse hits that this one has taken, so don’t worry.” And on that same side as well, he ruefully thought. “Are you still working?” It was already past seven.

“I’m on night call.” Her explanation contained no small amount of misery. “And I had a meeting in the afternoon, so I only got an hour of sleep before I came here. It’s going to be a long Thursday night; at least, I have the weekend off. What about you?”

“This one is also in the same situation, filling in for a colleague who was supposed to work tonight. There was a family emergency, so this one is here instead.”

“Oh, good. Not that you have to work on short notice,” She hastily added. “But we can keep each other company.”

“That’s true. It will be easier to stay awake.” He would have been content to stay at her desk; he had nothing urgent at the moment. But she did, as signaled by her blaring pager. She mouthed an apology, before taking the call. Leaving her to her responsibilities, he drifted back to his spot across the room, to print his list of patients.

***

He was reading the interim notes on his patients when she commented.

“By the way, I forgot to mention earlier. I like your scrubs.”

“Oro?” The faded magenta met his downward gaze. “These are very old.”

“But you look so cheerful! The other male doctors stick to blue or black.”

“So did this one, in the past. However, brighter colors can be comforting or distracting for the children, so that’s something this one can do for them.”

“You also can pull it off, because you’re an attending.” She pointed out, and he laughed.

“There’s nothing wrong with navy either.”

“It’s not navy, it’s indigo.” Grinning, she tugged the front of her scrub top. “But it’s my favorite color.”

“It suits you very well.” Belatedly, he wondered if that was harassment, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she blushed. At the sight, his own face warmed.

“Thanks.” For a heartbeat, the only sound was the humming of their computers. Abruptly stretching her arms over her head, she declared. “I need coffee. The cafeteria’s closed, but do you want anything from the vending machine?”

“This one can join you.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy, and you can just text me.” They had already exchanged numbers, thanks to the group chat Misao had started for the workroom.

“No, it will be a long night and this one prefers not to stay in one spot.” He pocketed his pager and stood from his chair.

Her smile widened. “Yeah, I won’t argue with that. And I’m glad! It’s more fun with you.” Her blush had not faded, and his cheek tingled.

He replied honestly. “This one feels the same way.”

Unfortunately, the closest machine had its interior lights off and the glass front bore a paper sign. ‘Out of Order’ was written in large block letters, punctuated by a frowning face. If he had to guess, it appeared to be the handiwork of either Sano or Misao, perhaps even a joint effort.

“That’s a shame.” He said. “Should we search for another?”

“Sounds like a plan! Let’s hope the others are still functioning.”

Their workroom was at the injunction between the main building and the children’s hospital, so they had options. He allowed her to decide, and she headed for the pediatric side. She swiped her badge to access a corridor that was glass on both sides, from ceiling to floor.

“This part is one of the best, in my opinion. Well, at least during the day.” Outside, it was dark, except for the street lamps. Occasionally, a car zipped past on the road below, illuminating the surrounding greenery. But he understood her. When it was sunny, they were provided with a scenic view of the city beyond.

“Yes, it’s the closest we have to stepping out. It’s important to have something to look at, other than the interior of the building.”

“Right? I always feel more rejuvenated when I go through this way. Although, I do love the murals in the children’s hospital.”

“Which do you like best?”

“Hmm. I think the bamboo forest, on the sixth floor. The animals are cute, the pandas and the tanuki.”

“Also, because that is where shinai come from?” He innocently referred to her love for kenjutsu.

“Okay, a little bit.” But she laughed. “Well, which is your favorite?”

He already had an answer. “The fourth floor, with the countryside motif. It reminds this one of his childhood.”

“You were a country boy?”

“In the Kansai region, yes. However, it has been almost twenty years since this one lived there. This one doesn’t even remember the closest town. We did grow rice and vegetables, and there were some chickens.” He pieced together the fragmented memories. “But it was a very long time ago.”

“It must have, I couldn’t tell at all.” She was thoughtful, and he realized he might have shared too much. But she didn’t pry, instead asking. “Did you have any baby chicks?”

“Not that this one can remember.”

“That’s too bad.” Disappointment showed on her face.

He smiled. The image of Kaoru, cradling fluffy chicks in her arms, was sweet.

In a corner near an empty waiting area, they finally found a working vending machine. Kaoru cheered at its presence, peering within to decide on her snacks. She was terribly adorable, depositing her change and punching the buttons. Holding her coffee and a package of chocolate-covered biscuits, she beamed. “Alright, your turn!”

As she walked past, he caught the scent of jasmine flowers. Too subtle to be perfume, it must have been her shampoo. He thought it was pleasant.

“Kenshin? Aren’t you going to buy something?”

He jolted, realizing he hadn’t moved. “A-ah, yes.” Breathing deeply to settle his nerves, he chose a bottle of green tea, and the same cookies she picked. She had already opened her drink and sipped it as they walked back.

“Whew, I feel a lot better.”

“That’s good. You need your strength for the hours ahead.”

“Yeah. I still wish I had more sleep, but I just remind myself that at least, I’m not in one of the hospital beds. That was much harder.”

“And now, you’re here. Your patients are extremely fortunate to have you, because you understand what it must be like.”

Her blush had returned in full force. She nodded, before her brows drew together. “Wait-”

Overhead, the loudspeaker crackled, calling for a medical response team. They both stopped, listening attentively. The alert meant that a patient’s condition was deteriorating. He checked his list as the room number was announced. It did not belong to any of his charges, and judging from how Kaoru exhaled, it wasn’t any of hers either. But elsewhere, someone was struggling and their colleagues were doing everything they could to save them.

As they approached familiar walls, it was his pager’s turn to vibrate, and reluctantly, he excused himself.

***

After midnight, he had one emergency surgery, for a patient that had gone into hemorrhagic shock. Two hours later, he emerged from the operating room, the worst outcome kept at bay. He ordered for two units of blood, to be transfused if the patient was anemic, and headed back to the workroom.

Kaoru had her earbuds in, obviously engrossed. Upon his entrance, she removed them and greeted him. “Hey, Kenshin. How’d it go?”

“Well enough. The patient is stable for now, but this one will keep a close eye. Did you have any new admissions?”

“Just one in the emergency room, who’s waiting to be placed in a room, but it seems like a straightforward case. History of glycogen storage disorder, so I’ve been reading up.”

“This one didn’t realize articles were accessible on CD.” He had noticed the small player next to her keyboard, that had appeared in his absence.

“Oh, no, this is an audiobook. It’s an old one, I already know all the twists. I only replay it because of the narrator.” Her expression became very fond.

“Ah.” Inwardly, he was caught off guard, but he maintained a neutral face. “Is he a good actor?”

“I think she was. This book is one of my mother’s recordings, after all. Would you like to hear her?”

Somewhat embarrassed, he agreed, and she transferred the CD to her computer. Momentarily, a woman’s gentle voice filled the air. Her cadence and intonation were similar to Kaoru’s, and she switched between characters with impressive ease. It seemed to be an anthology of short stories.

“You were not wrong; her performance is wonderful.”

“I’m glad you think so! She’d be happy to hear that, if she were alive.” Kaoru clarified. “She had lupus, and she passed away from kidney failure when I was young. She couldn’t get a transplant in time. The Mirror Wing in the main hospital is named for her.” The dialysis unit was located there.

“You must miss her.”

“I do, but at least, I have Okaa-san in this way. Not many people can say the same.”

He definitely couldn’t. Then, the staccato beeps of her pager interrupted them again. He was beginning to dislike that particular ring.

By three in the morning, Kaoru was starting to falter. She was continuing to type on her computer, but her head nodded and she occasionally jolted, unconsciously trying to stay awake.

“Kaoru-dono.”

“Hmm?” Her gaze lifted, though not quite focusing.

“Please, get some rest. The work can wait.” He gently said. “This one can turn the lights off, if that would help.”

“Would you? That’d be really nice.” She murmured.

He flipped the switches, leaving the glow of his monitor. “If there was a bed, that would be better.”

“It’s okay. Hospital beds aren’t very comfy.” She certainly spoke from experience. She opened one of her desk drawers, taking out a spare surgical mask. “Please don’t tell anyone else in your department.”  Before he could inquire further, she proceeded to wear it over her face, and it was large enough to cover her eyes.

He had to stifle his laughter. “This one promises.”

It was uneventful afterwards, without beeping pagers or loudspeaker announcements. He lasted another hour and a half, before he felt the familiar pull of exhaustion. He logged off and sat back in his chair. He could never fully sleep while on the job. That was especially true now, with Kamiya Kaoru in the same room, softly breathing.

It was Director Kamiya who had offered him a place at Kamiya Kasshin, while he was still working for Katsura. He had been disillusioned and burnt out, entertaining ideas of quitting medicine. He was too ashamed to talk to Hiko, but he caved to the “fates” as his guardian liked to refer to them. Akane, Kasumi, and Sakura had sat him down, persuading him to take the new job before deciding anything further. Akane was particularly fervent, she had never liked Katsura.

So, he had accepted the position and adjusting to the new work environment occupied him. Then, the accident happened. It was on a night not too different from this one, and he had also been on call. He heard there was a group of people, on the phone with the director at the crash site, trying to obtain details. He had run to that desk, preparing to encourage the man who had helped him so far. It was at the other end of the hospital and he was relatively late, everyone else mobilizing for the victims’ arrival. When he picked up the phone, he was out of breath. “Kamiya-dono?”

Instead of Director Kamiya’s voice, there was a young, feminine one. Choked with tears, but still strong. “Hello? Please, can you hear me?”

One fateful conversation, and she reminded him of what he loved about his profession. But she didn’t seem to remember. That was alright, the memory was wrapped up in tragedy, and he didn’t want to hurt her. Getting to know her was enough. Even after six years, she was very much the same woman he had spoken to. Compassionate, brave, honest.

Hiko, being his usual infuriating self, had accused him of having a crush, although Kenshin was disgruntled. Not that Kaoru wasn’t attractive, but it was not the point. It wasn’t a crush, he was immensely grateful to Kaoru as well as her late father, for his current life. Originally, he was trying to repay their kindness, in what little he could manage on his part. So far, he enjoyed spending time with her, even when on call. Around her, and for that matter, their other workroom colleagues, he felt at ease in a way that he hadn’t experienced in decades.

But if she asked about him…? He hadn’t decided what he would do yet.

***

Kenshin slowly emerged from his trance. The blinds had been opened, the sky pink with dawn. He clicked his mouse and the monitor lit with the time. Just past six. Night call was almost over.

Kaoru’s chair was empty, and he drowsily recalled her rummaging about, before the door closed. She must have gone to pre-round on her patients, to check on them before meeting with the rest of her team. He hoped they would let her go before noon.

He relayed the night’s events to the day shift’s surgeon, who insisted that everything would be taken care of and please get some rest, Dr. Himura. But he went to check on his shock patient, who was thankfully stable. Then, the parents arrived in the waiting area, and he took the opportunity to speak to them. By the time he returned to retrieve his things, it was already ten. Kaoru was also there, greeting him as if she hadn’t spent the night at the hospital.

“Morning, Kenshin!”

“Good morning. How were your rounds?” He inquired, clearing his desk.

“Quick, thank goodness.”

“And how are you?”

“I feel fine. Well, I know it’s fake, I’ll probably crash once I get home. I’m just going to submit my notes, and then, I’ll go.” She didn’t sit down, her eyes glued to her screen as she logged in. A few clicks, and then, she grabbed her bag. “Done! Geez, I’m ready to leave.”

“Good work, Kaoru-dono.”

“You too.” Despite how little she must have slept, her smile was as radiant as ever. “But you’re still here? I thought you would have been out by now.”

“This one had a few tasks, but this one was just about to leave as well. After you.” He urged her ahead of him. They shared an elevator down, luckily without any stops.

“Have you already eaten breakfast?” She asked.

“This one had a leftover rice ball. The cafeteria is…” His weary mind searched for a word that would be appropriate.

“I know, I really want Tae to expand her hours, but she can’t while she has her regular job. I think I have cup ramen in my pantry.”

“Next time, this one will bring enough onigiri to share.”

“Next time?” She repeated, emphasizing the implication of another call shift in the near future, but she was laughing. “Would they have caffeine in them?”

He smiled at her. “For you, this one will make an exception.”

Her cheeks grew pink. “Thank you, I’ll look forward to it.” After a pause, she added. “What would even be inside such onigiri? Instant coffee?”

Matcha powder actually, but he needed to perfect that recipe. “It would be a surprise.”

“Geez!”

They passed the lobby, and bright sunshine filled his vision. After spending so long in the hospital, it was a relief to be out in the open again. The cloudless sky was an immaculate blue, the fresh air crisp. Beside him, Kaoru sighed, her lips curving. The wind tossed her ponytail, and she shoved her hands in her pockets, continuing on. Suddenly aware that he was staring again, he picked up his feet. Then, they were already at the garage and had to part ways. Work had truly ended.

“Drive safe and sleep well! I’ll see you on Monday!” She waved and he did the same.

“Take care.”

There was no traffic, and his empty apartment was cool. It was quiet as he meticulously cleaned his belongings. As he walked to his bedroom, he barely made a sound. The shower seemed too loud, and so did the hair dryer. Slipping between his clean sheets, he noticed the lack of scent. After leaving his glasses on his nightstand, he checked his phone again. Nothing new, which was supposed to be good. He hovered over Kaoru’s name in the group chat. Well…it wouldn’t hurt. His thumb pressed down, and he began to type.

This one hopes you returned home without issue and that you have a relaxing weekend.

With the message sent, he locked the screen. She could reply on her own time.

And at last, he closed his eyes.

[missperfectlyfine13]

A Bandaid For Your Bullet Hole (1/?)

I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while now and I’m still not sure how I feel about it (I kind of feel like it’s crap lol). Let me know if I should continue! 

Summary:  Outside of Barden, Chloe’s life is harder than she would like to admit. When she’s at school she gets to forget all about problems, she gets to be normal. She doesn’t like to let people know about her life outside Barden, with the exception of her best friend Aubrey. Then she meets Beca Mitchell, and somehow she becomes the second exception. Will Beca be the answer Chloe has been looking for?

Read Below or on AO3/FF

“Our Sorrows and Wounds Are Healed Only When We Touch Them With Compassion” – Buddha

May 2012, End of Chloe’s Junior Year

Chloe watches sadly as Aubrey packs up her bags, her side of their shared room in the Bella house looking dreadfully empty. Their last day of classes was yesterday and all the girls in the house are working hard to pack.

Aubrey and Chloe are going to be the only Bellas left next year, so Aubrey is moving all of her stuff from their shared room to the room across the hall. Leaving Chloe feeling even more empty than she already is.

“You sure you don’t want to come home with me this summer?” Aubrey offers one more time, her eyes soft and sympathetic, because she knows, she’s the only one who knows.

Chloe shakes her head, “No I’ll be fine here. It’ll give me a chance to clean this house up before next year anyways. The other girls aren’t exactly cleaning up their mess.”

“Ok, but if you change your mind…the offer stands,” Aubrey zips up her last bag of clothes, standing up to survey the damage.

Going home with Aubrey for the summer actually sounds amazing, but Chloe feels bad. She feels like she would be imposing. Aubrey’s home isn’t the happiest most days with her dad gone 90% of the time, so she doesn’t want to cut into the little family time they’ll have.

Chloe stopped going home over summer after her freshmen year. Her mom has only gotten worse in the last 6 years, making her near to impossible to be around. Not to mention the endless stream of men in and out of their house. Her brother Jake isn’t an option either, with him being on the road for his job most days. Which leaves her with her only other option, staying on campus all summer.

“I appreciate it,” Chloe thanks her best friend quietly, knowing she won’t take her up on her offer.

“Have you talked to her lately?” she immediately knows who Aubrey is talking about.

Chloe shakes her head, “No. I know nothing has changed…she knows I won’t come home unless she gets her shit together.”

“I’m sorry it has to be that way,” Aubrey reaches a hand out and places it on her shoulder.

“Yea me too.”

************

September 2005

Chloe watches grimly as her mom polishes off her second beer of the morning. There’s an empty case next to her recliner in the living room, providing an awful memory of the night before. She had been angry, angrier than Chloe ever remembers her being. Chloe locked herself in her room and hadn’t come out until this morning.

“Mom,” she tries to keep her voice steady and strong, but it still quivers betrayingly, “the funeral is in an hour…are you going to be ready?”

“I’ll be ready,” she replies flatly, tossing her empty bottle into the recycle bin.

“Grandma and grandpa are coming to pick me up,” Chloe clarifies.

It sounds awful, but she doesn’t trust her mom not to be drunk. She doesn’t want to ride in a car with her. Chloe would drive the both of them, but she only has her temporary license. She’s not 16 until next year.

“They could take you too,” she offers quietly.

Her mom shakes her head, “I’ll be fine to drive myself…I could drive you too.”

“Um that’s ok,” she shifts anxiously between her two feet, “just be careful.”

Her mom gives her a dark stare, before cracking open another beer. She always liked a drink, but it was something that never got in the way of her life. It never got in the way until her dad died. The day the call came that he had been in a car accident and most likely wasn’t going to make it, her mom just lost it. She hasn’t been the same since. Well, neither has Chloe.

Chloe and her dad were so close. She always got along better with him than her mom. A part of her died that day and she’ll never get it back. The only other person in the world who gets her like her dad, is her older brother Jake. Jake is in college across the country, so Chloe rarely sees him. He flew into town yesterday, but after assessing the situation, he refused to stay at the house, checking himself into a hotel instead. Chloe almost hates him a little for it, for leaving her here with their mom. Regardless of her feelings about him chickening out, she’s aching to see him. Chloe just needs a hug; she needs to talk to him. She needs someone else around her, someone other than her drunk mother.

Chloe’s still worried about her mom driving, so she throws a last-ditch effort at her, “I could see if Jake could come pick you up?”

Her mom scoffs loudly, “He didn’t even want to come home, what makes you think he’s going to pick me up.”

She’s clearly not winning this one, “Ok, well I’m going to go put my dress on before grandpa gets here.”

************

The funeral is just as painful as Chloe had assumed it would be. It makes it real, she’s really saying goodbye to her dad. She’s really left here with her mom.

Chloe’s not sure her mom will ever pull it back together and that scares her. She smelled like a 12 pack of miller light when she got to the church. As person after person walks up to her to give their condolences, Chloe cringes. She knows they can smell it too, it’s embarrassing.

“You going to be ok with her Chlo?” Jake walks up to her, the two standing side by side watching as their childhood pastor talks to their inebriated mother.

Chloe sighs deeply, “I’m going to have to be, someone needs to watch after her. I’m worried Jake.”

“I am too,” Jake runs a hand through his hair anxiously, “you know I’m only a phone call away though.”

“Like you can do anything to actually help though, you didn’t even stay at the house last night,” Chloe replies bitterly.

“I’m sorry about that,” he shuffles his feet nervously, “I couldn’t bear to watch the train wreck…I should have been there.”

“Dad would want someone to make sure she’s ok,” Chloe swallows back tears as she says it, “I have to stay with her.”

“He loved you so much Chloe, he’d want you to be safe and happy.”

Chloe knows that’s true, but in three years she’ll be in college. She has an out, she owes it to her dad to hang in there.

“I’ll be fine,” she forces a smile at her brother.

Jake pulls her into a tight hug, “Love you Chlo.”

“I love you too Jake,” she mumbles into his shoulder, willing her tears to not escape.

************

September 2012, Chloe’s Senior Year

“I can see your toner through those jeans!” Aubrey barks out into the mostly empty practice space.

Chloe cringes internally. She likes Beca…ok she also likes Beca. Something about the little alt girl drew her in right away. She’s not sure if it was the sass she dished back to them at the activities fair, or when she had an impromptu duet with her in the shower. Maybe it was her audition, where she blew everyone away with a simple song and a yellow cup. Chloe can’t put her finger on it, but she can’t seem to shake the brunette from her mind.

And Beca is talented. Aubrey has such a grudge against her she can’t even stop to see it. They desperately needed talent, especially after last years explosive ICCAs finals. The two of them had a hard enough time getting the girls they did, it’s a miracle they got someone as talented as Beca. Even if it took a little coercing from Chloe.

“That’s my dick,” Beca spits back, before turning on her heels to leave.

The response rips a quiet chuckle from the back of Chloe’s throat, but she manages to conceal it before Aubrey turns around. The blonde is red in the face, her hands shaking slightly.

“You don’t have to be so hard on her you know,” Chloe knows she’s playing with fire by saying something like that to her best friend right now.

She can practically see the flames roaring in her pupils as she turns to look at her, “Yes I do Chloe. She has an attitude and no respect for authority. Do you want any shot at finals this year?”

Of course she does, she’s not going to deny that, so she nods.

“That’s what I thought, so don’t question my methods,” Aubrey retorts quickly.

Ever since the year started, and Aubrey and Chloe took over the Bellas, there has been a certain bite to Aubrey that Chloe has never seen before. This isn’t the Aubrey Chloe knows, she’s starting to think she never knew her at all.

“I’ve got to get going Bree, I’ve got homework to do,” Chloe grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder.

Aubrey is staring intently at the white board in front of her, wiping away some of the marks she made on their master plan, “Ok, see you back at the house.”

Chloe rushes out of the building, hoping that maybe she can still catch up to Beca. She wants to apologize, wants to make sure the other girl is ok. Chloe doesn’t want Beca to quit over this incident, for some selfish and not so selfish reasons.

Luckily, Beca is leaning against a large tree right outside the building, large headphones covering her ears, her face looking down at her phone. Chloe stalks quickly over to her. As she gets closer, Beca’s head snaps up, immediately making eye contact with her.

“Hey Beca,” Chloe chirps, as the younger girl slides her headphones down around her neck.

“Hi,” Beca replies cautiously, like she’s not sure what Chloe is here for.

“I’m sorry about Aubrey, she’s been extra control freak lately, that wasn’t cool of her to accuse you like that,” Chloe is quick to get her apology out, Beca doesn’t look like she would want to beat around the bush.

“I appreciate the apology,” relief washes over Chloe, that is until Beca continues to talk, “but that’s a really dumb rule. I’m not even sure I’m into Jesse, but I should be able to be with him…if I was.”

Chloe sighs, “I know it’s dumb…and if you really do like Jesse, I wont say anything to Aubrey. I’m pretty sure Bumper and Fat Amy have something going anyways.”

Beca wrinkles her nose, her mouth turning downward, “Oh uh wow…didn’t see that one coming.”

“Me either,” Chloe laughs.

“Thank you, I don’t see anything happening with Jesse, but still, thank you,” Beca says sincerely, before starting to slide her headphones back up.

This must be Chloe’s cue to leave, “Ok, well I’ll see you around!”

Beca nods, “Yea, see ya.”

************

Chloe wakes up the next morning with an ache in her heart and a sour taste in her mouth. She rolls over groggily and sees the date on the calendar above her desk.

September 14th. The anniversary of her dad’s death.

The hardest day of the year for her. Much like years gone by, she just wants to get the day over with. Go to class, go to practice, come home and go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day.

“Miss you dad,” Chloe mumbles, clutching the locket around her neck.

The locket was a gift from Jake, a year after the death. There’s a picture of her dad inside. She hasn’t taken it off since the day she got it.

Chloe eventually manages to pull herself from bed and start her day. She goes to class, she tries hard to pay attention. She goes to practice and sings and dances like she means it. Inside though, she feels like she’s barely there. Her body is present but her mind is miles away.

None of the other girls seem to pick up on her mood, except for Aubrey…and surprisingly…Beca. She catches a few sympathetic glares, but Beca’s are more worried, presumably because she has no clue what has Chloe under the weather.

So, she’s almost not surprised when practice is over and Beca hangs around until it’s just the two of them left. Just as she’s about to leave, Beca walks over to her.

“Hey Chloe,” Beca pulls the straps of her backpack tight against her, “are you ok?”

Chloe nods and gives her a small smile, “Yea, I’m fine.”

“It’s just…you don’t seem fine, you kind of seemed really distant today,” Beca shrugs.

Beca clearly isn’t going to let it go, normally Chloe would jump on the opportunity to share with the younger girl, but she’d rather not share. But something in Beca’s expression lets her know that she’s not going to drop it.

“Um well, I guess I’m just kind of depressed today,” Chloe answers her as vaguely as she can.

“Why?” Beca immediately fires the question back.

Beca has never seemed to care much about any of the other girls like this. It has her wondering why she’s pushing so hard. Maybe her little apology yesterday spoke to Beca louder than she thought.

Chloe sighs quietly before answering, “Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death.”

“Oh god, wow,” Beca casts her gaze to the floor, “Chloe I’m really sorry.”

“It’s ok, I’ll be better tomorrow,” Chloe tries to reassure her.

The two stand in awkward silence, while Beca shifts around uncomfortably. This is Chloe’s cue to leave.

Before she can even consider walking past her, Beca puts a hand out, “Um, I don’t know if this would make things worse…or if you’d just prefer to be alone, but would you want to grab dinner with me? Or we could just go back to my dorm for a while and just chill, we could order take out. My roommate is going to be gone tonight and I thought maybe it would take your mind off things?”

Normally Chloe would prefer to spend her day in her bed and not move until tomorrow. But even under the circumstances, she doesn’t want to pass up an opportunity to spend more time with Beca and maybe get to know her better. Something tells her that spending some time with the other girl really would make her feel better.

“Sure, that would be great,” Chloe grins and Beca looks shocked that she said yes.

“Ok, cool,” Beca leads the way out of the building and towards her dorm.

“Do you like Chinese?” Chloe asks as they walk through the crisp autumn air.

Beca nods excitedly, “I love it.”

“I know a great place we could order from.”

Being with Beca already has her calmer. She’s not sure if it’s because of how much she likes her, or if it’s just the girl’s presence in general. Something about her puts all of Chloe’s anxiety behind her, it helps her forget why she was even sad today. Which makes her almost feel guilty, but she knows this is what her dad would want for her.

One thing is solidified in her mind now. Beca Mitchell is special and Chloe would be a fool to let her slip away.

[pennamesmith]

Skeletor Takes a Holiday

Catra thinks on the past. Adora gives out presents. Glimmer looks to the future. Entrapta drives a tank. Hordak and Bow do their best. A She-Ra Day Special. 

More “Skeletor” stories here! 

*

“Blast you, you miserable cat! Let me go!” Skeletor squawked. 

“Reel it in, bonehead,” Catra replied coolly. She was leading Entrapta’s rebellious reprogrammed robot by what amounted to an ear, his arms full of stolen sugar plums. 

“Please, let me explain!” Skeletor protested. “I must save the children!”

“Tell it to the queen,” Catra shrugged back. “If you really wanted to get away with it, you wouldn’t have let me catch you. And anyway, Wrong Hordak says we need more help at the snack tables.”

“You overgrown fur coat,” Skeletor grumbled. “How dare you embarrass me in front of everyone?”

They were walking down a hallway of Bright Moon palace, making their way toward one of the large common rooms. On most weeks, Wrong Hordak used the space to hold a support group for clones and other former members of the Horde, who met to talk about their lives and their feelings. Together, they healed, held on, and let go. And, with great bravery and reluctance, they tried new ways to be themselves. 

Today, they were hosting a wellness afternoon. 

Catra pushed open a pair of double doors and was greeted by the sight of a warm, bustling room. The therapy group regulars were there, but so were various palace staff and citizens of Bright Moon, as well as former Horde soldiers cautiously following the flyers distributed by an enthusiastic flock of clones. Mixed together, they mingled, tentatively. 

Stations were set up in this and the adjoining rooms, each providing sample servings of various simple self-care options. In one area, Netossa and Spinnerella taught comics and cartooning to a circle of curious clones. In another, Swift Wind pranced at the head of an aerobics group. Glimmer had set up a portable kitchen by the window and was showing some palace guards how to make vegetable dumplings. Just about everyone looked like they were having a good time. 

Catra waded through all of this and found Wrong Hordak teaching an improv comedy workshop — alongside the regular support group’s newest member, who was currently hanging off the cheerful clone’s shoulder like a feathered boa constrictor. 

“Yes, and?” Double Trouble prompted the group, raising an emphatic hand. “Tell me what comes next! Show me passion! Show me imagination!”

“Start the performance! I demand to be amused!” interrupted Skeletor. 

Everyone fell silent and turned to look at Catra. “I got Skeletor back,” she said simply, showing off her perturbed prisoner.

“Wonderful work!” Wrong Hordak exclaimed. He pulled a small instruction manual bearing the seal of Dryl out of his pocket and flipped through the handwritten pages. “Skeletor, please perform…” He squinted at the messy longhand. “...Relationship-building subroutine eighteen. Ah, I think I see what the problem was.”

Skeletor abruptly saluted, dropping most of his plums in the process. “I hate to leave this touching scene, but I see my plan has failed! I’ll be back another time, my friend,” he said, marching off to greet new arrivals and attend to the snack tables. 

Catra turned to go, but found her way blocked when Double Trouble materialized in front of her. 

“It’s good to see you back, kitten,” the lizard smirked. “We almost thought you’d abandoned us! And speaking of, look who I found while you were away.” They pointed. “Some old friends of yours!”

Following the gesture, Catra looked around and felt her insides do a flip-flop as she recognized Kyle, Lonnie, and Rogelio among the group. Double Trouble seemed about to say more, but was instantly distracted when Wrong Hordak winked and called them over for help with an armload of props and costumes. 

...Which left Catra alone to face her three erstwhile friends. Who had already made eye contact and started walking towards her. The former force captain wished furiously for an alien abduction, or to be struck down by lightning, but she had no such luck. 

“Hi Catra!” Kyle squeaked. Rogelio rumbled something in a friendly tone. 

“Catra,” Lonnie greeted simply, wearing an unreadable expression. 

“Oh wow,” Catra stammered. “It’s, uh, it’s been a while guys. Haven’t seen you since…” 

“Since you went off the deep end and we deserted the Horde?” Lonnie finished for her. 

Catra shrank a little. “Yeah. Since that. I’m… really sorry about all that, by the way. Have you all been okay?” 

“We stick together. We have a good life. And we heard that you and Adora got married, so now I guess I owe Rogelio money.” Lonnie laughed. “No invitations for us, huh?” 

“It was really small,” Catra muttered, feeling worse by the second. She touched her ring. “Just a few guests in the park. Nothing major.” 

Lonnie held up her hands. “Hey, it’s cool, none taken. I just hope you treat her better now than you did when we were in the Horde.” 

Catra felt her hackles rise and did everything she could to squash them back down again. “We’re fine,” she managed, eventually. “You haven’t seen her around anywhere, have you?” 

“Yeah. Over by the board games with the science princess and, you know...” Lonnie mimed a tall, fanged figure with a squinting scowl. “Though I still don’t know how I feel about those two.” 

Kyle and Rogelio looked at each other.

“Thanks,” Catra muttered, and slunk away. 

Catra found herself stuck in her own thoughts as she wandered in the direction Lonnie had pointed, barely able to muster a friendly wave as she passed Scorpia in Perfuma’s yoga group or Bow at the jigsaw puzzle table. She kept replaying the conversation in her head, thinking about things she could or would or should have said. 

In the pit of her chest, she could feel the faint fear of a voice that said she hadn’t changed at all. Unbidden, the image of her own hand on the portal lever came to her. Stupid, stupid, she thought at herself, until the self-loathing drove away the shame. 

Catra sighed. She was working on it. 

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to perseverate. Sure enough, Adora was in the board games area, seated around a table with Entrapta, Hordak, Emily, and Imp. All five of them were thoroughly engrossed in a heated round of Betrayal at Horror Hall. 

“I’ve rolled a three,” Hordak declared as Catra approached. “Is that good?” 

“No, it means you’re still trapped in the Dark Dimension,” Entrapta explained evenly. “My turn! I move into the throne room and attack the ghost!” 

“Attack! Attack!” Imp echoed in her voice. 

Emily beeped. 

“Hey Adora,” Catra sighed with relief as she joined them. “How’s it going?” 

“Emily betrayed us all, the Dark One has escaped, and I’m dead!” Adora wailed. “In the game, I mean,” she clarified, gesturing to her battle figurine, which was tipped on its side. Catra smiled and settled in, already feeling more assured of herself. 

“Oh, and you have got to try Hordak’s new coffee,” Adora continued, proffering a steaming paper cup. “He called it a… peppered mint mo-cah?” She looked at Catra with immeasurable eyes and giggled. “I think I can hear space.”

Catra had a thought. She glanced at Entrapta. 

“That reminds me,” Catra started cautiously. “You know that charity stunt or whatever you goons have planned for the night before Adora’s birthday?”

“You mean She-Ra Day Eve?” Adora asked, a huge grin plastered on her face.

“Yeah, that one. I changed my mind about staying home. I want in.” 

“Oh, yay!” Adora nearly fell out of her seat leaning over to hug her wife. “We’re gonna have so much fun!”

“It will be a significant benefit to have extra helpers,” Hordak added with approval as he looked up from the game board. “Entrapta has engineered quite an undertaking for this event.” 

“She has? Uh, how elaborate are we talking, exactly?” Catra asked, already beginning to regret her decision. 

Entrapta leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s gonna be big,” she boasted, grinning. Then she sat back in her hair and laughed madly, swinging her feet with delight. 

Catra gulped. Somewhere, she could hear a bell ring. 

*

They were standing outside in the starry night. 

It did not snow in Bright Moon, but the air was chilly, and everyone assembled was wearing heavy winter coats. Catra, sinking into hers like a turtle, leaned against Adora’s arm and groaned. 

“I’m gonna be so bad at this,” she complained. 

“You’re gonna do fine,” Adora cajoled. “You’ll get to throw stuff at people! You love doing that.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without the whole Best Friends Squad anyway!” Bow added, as Glimmer nodded beside him. 

“It’s better with you here,” the queen said, smiling. 

Catra felt her stomach twist and looked away. But that only faced her toward the group’s tallest member, looming lazily on her other side. 

“You seem stressed, Catra.”

Catra glared back up at Hordak. “Easy for you to say! Your wife’s birthday isn’t a national holiday!”

Hordak huffed. “Perhaps not where you come from.”

“I can’t take much more of this,” moaned Skeletor. 

Catra threw up her hands. “Okay, and why is Skeletor here?” she asked helplessly. 

“Silence, you furry fool!” Skeletor retorted. “You ought to know me better than that by now!” He crossed his arms and sulked. 

“We require a full crew for this endeavor,” Hordak explained, more calmly. “Entrapta insisted upon using one of the larger models.” 

“Models of what?” Catra demanded. 

As if on cue, a loud rumbling sound filled the air. The ground began to shake, and an enormous Horde tank rounded the corner, trundled down the road, and came to a juddering halt in front of the gathered friends. It was covered in tinsel and had been repainted with jolly, festive colors. 

“Speak of the gremlin,” Catra mumbled, staring. 

The tank’s front hatch popped open and Entrapta emerged astride Emily, hefting a huge burlap bag. Imp was sitting on her shoulder, wearing a new pair of booties with curled and pointed toes. 

“Merry She-Ra, one and all!” Entrapta crowed. “Welcome aboard the Wrapper Tank!” As they filed past her up the ramp, she rummaged in her bag and passed out what appeared to be accessorized figurines resembling each member of the group. 

Skeletor stared long and hard at his. “Only one is really me! Which one is it?” he mused. 

Glimmer was delighted with hers and immediately set about making it hold hands with Bow’s. Catra held hers uncertainly while Adora toyed with the miniature She-Ra’s sword arm action. 

“Look, it’s a tiny Hordak!” Entrapta squealed with glee as she presented her partner with his own likeness. “Isn’t he cute?”

Hordak smiled as he accepted the gift. “Your craftsmanship is remarkable, as always.” 

Inside the tank was a command bridge the size of a throne room. Several more bags stuffed with small toy princesses rested in the center of the floor. On every surrounding wall there were blinking control panels and swiveling gunners’ chairs. Skeletor sat down in one and spun giddily. 

“I made tiny versions of all the heroes of Etheria!” Entrapta exclaimed, sweeping her hands over everything. “Bow helped with the designs. And then I used my fabrication lab to mass-produce them!” She held her sides and cackled wildly. 

“We’re going to give them out to all the homes in Bright Moon,” Adora added, settling into another chair. “Something for the kids, you know?” Catra, already brightening at the sight of weaponry, grinned and joined her. 

Entrapta tossed herself back into the pilot’s seat. “If this experiment goes well, we’ll be able to expand the operation to other kingdoms next year! Maybe even the whole planet!” 

“Okay, but how are we going to be able to deliver presents to every house if we only have one night?” Bow asked. 

“That’s easy!” Entrapta bragged. “Behold, the power of the Wrapper Tank!” 

With a flourish, she dropped one of the trinkets into a large funnel near the control panel. In seconds, automated arms had bound it in wrapping paper and a purple bow, and fired it out the front cannon at high velocity. 

“This baby can do thirty of these things a minute!” Entrapta shouted proudly as she continued shoveling toys into the machine. 

“Is everyone comfortable?” Skeletor asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before pushing as many buttons as his bony arms could reach. 

With a roar, the engines came to life, and then they were rolling down the road, strafing the kingdom with presents that mostly landed where they were supposed to go. The inside of the tank became a bustle of activity as the crewmates passed gifts to one another and sent them shooting off into the night. Distantly, they could hear people cheering, as well as the occasional sound of something breaking. 

“Is this what we’re doing all night?” Catra asked. She flipped a switch and raised her eyebrows as a Frosta doll hurtled through someone’s window. “You were right, it is kinda fun.” 

“This is the main event, yeah,” Adora replied, launching a volley of Sea Hawks down the block. “We’ve got a few more personal stops to make on the way, though. The first one’s in the Whispering Woods!” 

Catra froze for a moment, imagining the ghosts that were waiting for her in those dark and shifting trees. She shook her head and ignored the thought. 

“What idiot started this whole thing anyway?” Skeletor griped. 

*

The tank made its first stop at a tiny cottage, so small and low that it would have been easy to mistake for nothing at all. 

“Madame Razz?” Adora called as she ducked through the doorway. The others followed behind her in a curious huddle. 

“I brought you some cookies and sweets and stuff,” Adora said, setting the goodies on the table. Bow and Glimmer gazed with interest at the many mystical odds and ends decorating the walls. Entrapta struck up a conversation with the broom. Hordak, who was taller than the ceiling, crouched in as dignified a manner as he could manage.

“Who knows what evil lurks behind these doors?” Skeletor hissed in a hushed whisper.

At the far side of the cottage, Razz sat in a rocking chair and tipped slowly back and forth, staring at nothing. Catra felt her hair stand on end. 

Adora looked worried. “Razz? You there?” 

Madame Razz blinked and snapped out of her trance. “Yes, yes, deary! Come in! I remembered this was going to happen.” Leaping to her feet, she held out a stuffed doll with pointed ears, blue hair, and soulless eyes. “Look here! I have a gift for you also.” 

Adora took it gingerly. “How… nice. What is it?” She turned the doll over in her hands. It wore a rainbow jumper and a plastic smirk. 

“It’s a Loo-Kee on a Ledge!” Razz explained cheerfully. “You put it in your home. Move it every night. Tell the children it can see them. Makes the young ones more obedient!” 

“Thanks, that’s terrifying.” Adora passed the doll to Catra, who seemed far more interested in its potential applications. “I bet it’ll make a nice game.”

“Game?” Razz turned and stared through her glasses in confusion. “We are not here for games, we are here for fruit cake!” 

Before Adora could stop her, the old woman had rushed to her little cottage oven. She made a show of reaching inside with protective mitts and extracted a cold stone brick, which had been placed in a pan with some wild nuts sprinkled on top. 

“You want a slice now?” 

“Oh, absolutely!” Entrapta pushed her way to the front of the group, producing a small buzz saw and a sample jar. “I’ve been reading up on geological gastronomy!” 

”Uh, hey, Entrapta!” Adora intervened. “Did I ever tell you that Madame Razz knew some of the First Ones? Like, personally?” 

“What? Really?” Entrapta turned toward Adora in surprise, and then back to the old woman with renewed interest. She peered through a pair of multi-lensed goggles and raised her eyebrows. “Though that would explain all the tachyons in here. Quick, how many temporal causalities am I holding up?” 

“Ah! You’re a sharp one, deary!” Razz laughed. 

Entrapta shook her hands and pulled a recorder from her pocket. “Aah! You — you’re a walking quantum event! Tell me everything!” 

And in her own way, Razz did. As they chattered back and forth, Adora looked between the old witch and the scientist and wondered why she hadn’t introduced the two of them sooner. 

“That’s a handsome, strapping lad you’ve got there!” Razz whispered conspiratorially to Entrapta. “Does he have a brother?” 

Entrapta smirked. 

“You have a brain that could warm my heart,” Skeletor said. “If I had a heart!” 

*

Much to Catra’s consternation, their next stop did not take them out of the Whispering Woods. While Entrapta and Skeletor tuned up the tank, George and Lance cheerfully embarrassed their youngest son in front of his friends. 

“We’re delighted by your presents!” George punned as his husband passed out mugs of hot cocoa. Hordak took two and carefully decanted the extra into several tiny thermoses. 

Bow handed his fathers a huge stack of neatly handwritten pages. “We brought these for you — Adora’s been helping me translate some of the First Ones records you found at the ruins!” 

“It’s… not very exciting,” Adora admitted. “There’s a lot of complaining about this one guy who just sold really terrible etherium.” 

Despite this, George and Lance seized upon the pages and flipped through them eagerly, talking over each other in excitement. While they sat and chatted energetically with Adora about what the writings contained, Glimmer dragged Catra away to show off her increasing knowledge of the expansive library. 

This left Bow standing alone with Hordak for the first time in the night. The archer and the ex-lord looked at one another, the former desperately searching for something to say while the latter gently nursed his cocoa. They both seemed to sense that some sort of social interaction would be appropriate, but were entirely unsure of what that ought to be.

“Excuses, excuses! I’m tired of all your excuses!” Skeletor yelled from outside. “Fix the problem and go!”

Hordak cleared his throat. “Entrapta tells me you are the one who gave my brother his rather... derivative name,” he tried after a moment. 

Bow made a noise. 

“He thanks you for it,” Hordak said sincerely. 

“I’m sorry! I mean, what?” Bow cautiously opened his eyes. 

“He considers it an essential part of his journey to freedom from Prime’s grasp.” Hordak studied his claws with a careful expression. “Many have encouraged him to take on a more singular moniker. I am among them. Perhaps someday he will. But for now, it is as beloved to him as that theatrical lizard seems to be.” 

“You’re… welcome?” Bow ventured. 

“You are a highly competent engineer,” Hordak stated. “I once mistook your work for Entrapta’s. When we were still enemies, that is.” He hesitated. “I… am pleased that we are not enemies any longer.” 

“Thank you?”

Hordak bowed.

Skeletor popped his head around the door.

“Get a move on, you slugs!” he called. “Hurry! Faster, faster!”

*

Eventually, the Wrapper Tank rolled to a stop at the front gates of Bright Moon palace, precisely where it had begun. There was only one visit left to make. 

“Micah! It’s so good to see you!” Entrapta chirped. “How have things been since we both lived at the mercy of techno-organic island monstrosities?” 

“Quieter,” Micah remarked. “And my food doesn’t get stolen nearly as often.” He smiled. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I made you She-Ra Day crackers!” Entrapta exulted, holding out a pile of shiny paper cylinders. “They’re an old Dryl tradition, ever since last year. When you pull the ends, tiny snacks come out! And I’ve improved these ones with twenty percent more explosives!” 

“It should be quite a blast!” Skeletor chuckled. “Enjoy the fireworks!”

Gingerly taking the armload of gifts and setting them down as carefully as she possibly could, Castaspella welcomed everyone into a warm and cozy den. She and Micah had lit a roaring fire in the fireplace and were decorating a fir tree with glowing light-charms. A small table held a large platter of cookies, which Adora immediately set about devouring. 

Skeletor paused at the door. “Tell me a riddle!” he demanded. 

Castaspella looked confused. “Excuse me?” 

“He thinks it’s what sorceresses do,” Entrapta told her. “You gotta humor him!” 

“Oh.” Castaspella tapped her chin. “Well, in that case, um… why did the twigget cross the road?” 

Skeletor considered this for a great deal of time before surrendering. “Oh, I’m horrible at riddles,” he groused. “Who’s good at riddles here?”

However, everyone else had already settled in around the fire, tired from a long night of bauble bombardment.

“What do you think of our She-Ra Day decorations?” Castaspella asked proddingly. “Micah wanted a fake tree, but I set him straight on that. Honestly, I don’t know how my brother survived on Beast Island without me.”

“You certainly would have helped scare the monsters away,” said Micah. 

“Y’know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a sibling,” Adora thought out loud. “Could you imagine me with, like, a long-lost First Ones twin? We’d kick so much butt!”

Hordak, Bow, Micah, and Castaspella all shared a look that spoke to something universal. 

“It’s a mixed bag. Casta used to trick me into stealing food for her,” Micah complained. “Pretended it was a game and I got more points if our parents didn’t see me sneak into the kitchen.”

“He hit me with a tree branch once, you know,” Castaspella responded.

“I did no such thing!” Micah argued. “All I did was lead your horse under a tree. It’s not my fault it had remarkably low hanging branches. Or that you didn’t duck in time.”

“Anyway,” Bow cut in, “I think what Micah and Castaspella are trying to say is that despite their differences they get along now and they’re glad to still have each other after all this time.” He glanced at Hordak. “...Even if they used to be enemies.” 

Micah nodded sagely. “That is precisely what I meant,” he lied. 

While they continued with their conversation, Glimmer noticed that Catra was standing alone at the far side of the room, her back to the others, staring at a small portrait of Angella hung above the door. 

“Fascinating,” Skeletor said. “That little insect is feeling sorry for itself!”

Glimmer whispered something to her father and stood up to approach the fretting feline. “Hey, everything okay?” she asked. “You’ve seemed off a lot tonight. You didn’t even laugh when I showed you that book of dirty First Ones jokes in George and Lance’s library.” 

“Huh?” Catra looked up, surprised to have company. “I guess so. Maybe. I don’t know. I mean… are you really sure I should be here?” 

“Well, it’s all Adora has been talking about for the past week, so yeah, pretty sure.” 

Catra shook her head. “No, I mean here at all. Being happy, instead of rotting in a dungeon somewhere.” She scowled. “I know we’ve talked about it, but I just… I did so much bad stuff, back in the Horde. I hurt people. I was awful to Adora. I’m even the reason your mom…”

Catra trailed off. A deep gulf of silence stretched between her and Glimmer. The queen appeared pensive. 

“I’ve done some really bad things too,” Glimmer said eventually. “So I guess maybe I’m the wrong person to ask?” She gave a lopsided smile. 

“But what do you do when people hate you? And you deserve it?”

Glimmer looked concerned. “I don’t think anyone here hates you. Not currently, anyway. Where’s all this coming from?”

“I’d hate me if I were you,” Catra quietly admitted. 

“Maybe. But I’m not you, and you’re not me.” Glimmer turned away and hugged herself. “I’m always going to miss my mom. And it’s always going to hurt. But… I don’t think it’s much use to make that hurt worse by hating you.” She looked back up. “I think anyone can make up for a mistake, as long as they really know it was a mistake. I hope so, anyway.”

Catra scratched her head. “So, what, feeling bad means that I’m good?” 

“Something like that,” Glimmer giggled. “Seriously though, there’s responsibility in this. We never stop working on it.”

“Was that a royal ‘we’?” Catra quipped. 

“No, it goes for both of us. All of us. I mean it.” Glimmer gazed around the room. “Mistakes… never really get completely fixed, you know. It took me a long time to get that. But we can grow something better and stronger with the lessons we learn from them.”

The queen smiled again. “Besides, I’m happier being friends. Look at us all!” 

Catra did. 

Everyone, in one form or another, was relaxing around the glow of the fireplace. Entrapta and Imp knelt by the hearth, doing something with chestnuts and an acetylene torch. Hordak and Micah sat on the couch, swapping horror stories about Shadow Weaver. Bow watched closely as Castaspella instructed him in a new knitting pattern. And Adora appeared to be trading pleasantries with Skeletor as though they were age-old friends. 

“Here, She-Ra! A gift!” Skeletor said. He held out a freshly-baked doomberry pie.

Catra laughed. Suddenly feeling lighter, she went to join them. Glimmer followed. And the great world spun on. 

*

Entrapta clapped her hair. “Thanks for coming, Catra! This was loads of fun!” 

It was early morning and they were all going their separate ways again. Glimmer had already dragged a dozing Bow back to the palace, while Catra and Adora disembarked in front of the small home they shared together. 

“The mission was a great success,” Hordak agreed as Entrapta leaned into his side. “You showed exemplary courage in the field.” 

“Thank you,” Catra said, and meant it. 

Adora, gazing at the sky in contemplation next to her, suddenly realized that the stars weren’t the only things twinkling. 

“Entrapta?” she asked. “You know the space tree?” 

“The large plant growth that overtook Horde Prime’s flagship when She-Ra defeated him and which remains in low Etheria orbit as a constant reminder of the power of love and healing? Yes, I’m familiar with it.”

“Did you put lights on it?”

Entrapta beamed. “Yeah, little blinky ones! Or at least they look little from here. They actually have a diameter of about one Darla each. Alternating current, naturally. Aren’t they great?” 

“You know,” Adora smiled, “I really think they are.” Catra concurred.

They turned and went home together, which left Entrapta and Hordak to return to the Wrapper Tank hand in hand, relaxing into each other’s arms as they sat and shared a tiny thermos of hot cocoa. Under Emily’s supervision, Skeletor and Imp drove the tank back to Entrapta’s Bright Moon lab, and only argued over the steering wheel once along the way. 

As soon as they returned, Hordak sought out their bed and fell gratefully into the soft sheets. Entrapta made to follow him, but before she did so she pulled Skeletor aside with one ponytail, hands hiding something behind her back. 

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Skeletor questioned. 

“Skeletor, you’ve been a big help over the past year,” Entrapta said to the spindly robot. “And I wanted to say thank you. So, I made you another present. You deserve to have a helper too!” 

She pulled her hands from behind her back and revealed a lop-eared robot puppy with wide and innocent eyes. It sat up in her arms and fixed Skeletor with a curious gaze. 

“His name is Relay! What do you think?”

Skeletor gasped in surprise, reaching out to take the robotic canine. “Even Hordak doesn’t have anything like this!” he gushed in a joyous tone. 

The puppy wagged its tail and let out a tiny synthesized bark. It licked Skeletor’s face. 

Skeletor hummed happily. “This is perfect!”

Above them, the stars and the lights shone brightly. And even Skeletor, despite his better instincts, was merry. The world was at peace. 

“A season of love? Caring? Joy? Ugh! Very clever, you muscle-bound moron,” Skeletor conceded. He patted Relay on the head. “Another time, She-Ra! Another time!”

[ofdragonsdeep]

25: Silver Lining

A friendship of a scant few moons, a vigil of centuries. Neither was something made to be borne alone.

(ShB spoilers up to 5.3)

In the cool, clear light of the day, Ar’telan sat on the steps outside the Crystal Tower, his back against the cold and uninviting door. The power about the building hummed through every inch of it, and the wards around it buzzed whenever he moved, reminding him that he had come as far as he might.

Victory tasted bitter, as it often did. The long road was lined with those he had not been able to save, all of the people who had looked to him - their hero, their Warrior of Light. He hadn’t wanted it. Hadn’t wanted any of it. But they looked to him still, and again and again he failed them.

Raha…

He would have known that saying something would have driven all of them to stop him. What had he felt, as the great doors closed one final time? To know that when he woke again, all of those he knew and loved would be gone?

If nothing else, he could be sure they would remember him fondly.

—

“Gil for your thoughts?”

Ar’telan blinked, roused from his vigil of staring at the fire in front of him by the sound. On the opposite side of the fire pit, G’raha knelt, watching him with playful curiosity in his two-tone eyes.

“I am not sure my thoughts are worth the price,” Ar’telan said, and G’raha chuckled, easing himself down into a more comfortable position and tracing one finger through the dirt.

“Make it two, then. You’ve an awfully long face for a hero,” he said, and Ar’telan sighed, shaking his head.

“It’s nothing,” he dismissed. “Personal troubles, nothing more.” His eyes followed the motions of G’raha’s fingers, movements which had at first seemed random instead tracing out arcane sigils of minor power. “Not the heroic deeds you want to write about, I think.” G’raha shrugged, the smile soft on his face.

“If you only record the grand gestures, you say little of real history,” he said. “And I am not interested for selfish reasons. We are colleagues, are we not?” His ears flicked happily at the thought of it, and Ar’telan hid a laugh behind his hand. “A burden shared is a burden halved. Tell me your woes, and they might ease.” Ar’telan shook his head, shifting his position to stop his legs from falling into numbness.

“I would rather keep these burdens, I am afraid,” he replied. “But a distraction would be welcome. The sigils - they are arcanima, but I don’t recognise them from my studies. Would you tell me of them?” G’raha seized on the opportunity, delighted that someone had recognised them at all. He told Ar’telan of his studies with the Students of Baldesion, the odd, old magics of Allag that he had learned despite his weapon of choice being an entirely unremarkable bow. Ar’telan drew the symbols in his grimoire, Lily manifesting at his aether-imbued brush strokes to watch his work. And for a little while, he felt better.

—

The string of the bow bent back, wood creaking with the strain placed upon it. A moment of stillness, then with a thunk of releasing pressure and the whistle of arrow through the air, the projectile found its mark.

It was the fourth such arrow to land in the bullseye, and the second that Ar’telan had watched G’raha fire. He had thought about interrupting him, but the focus on his face was intense, and Ar’telan did not have the support of sentences to break through the concentration.

With a mournful sigh on his lips, G’raha lowered the bow. Rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead, he turned around, and jumped near out of his skin when he saw his quiet observer.

“Ar’telan! How long have you been there?” he demanded, accusatory from his voice but embarrassed from his pose. Ar’telan offered a smile.

“Two arrows,” he said. G’raha looked at the scene around him - a half-quiver full of arrows precisely fired to rows of targets - and drooped.

“Well. It is nice to see you, too,” he said, hopping over the rope barrier and pulling an arrow from the stump with a quick and precise tug of his hand. “You could have said something.”

“I was afraid that you might shoot me if I touched you,” Ar’telan replied, and G’raha pouted.

“Fine. Well, now that you are done thoroughly embarrassing me, how do you fare? I hope it was not an important task which took you to my side,” he said. Ar’telan shook his head, crossing the distance of the archery range to assist G’raha with his clean-up task. G’raha made the motion look easy, but with a little work Ar’telan succeeded in working one arrow free.

“I just wanted to check on you,” he said, molding the words around the arrow in his grasp. G’raha walked over, plucking it from his fingers and returning it to its rightful place in his quiver. “After meeting Unei and Doga, you have seemed…” Ar’telan cast his eyes to the targets, the myriad holes that peppered them speaking to how often the historian had come out to train. “Unsettled.”

“Must people always ask after me?” G’raha lamented. In response, Ar’telan reached into his pockets, took out two gil, and dropped them into his confused hands.

“For your thoughts,” Ar’telan clarified, and G’raha laughed in bemused understanding.

“Alright, alright. I yield,” he said, passing the gil back to Ar’telan and returning his bow to its place on his back. “I fear I have no words for it, though. There’s just… a strange sensation in my gut, gnawing at me like a forgotten task.” He cast his gaze up to the Crystal Tower, looming in the backdrop of the camp like an ill omen. “But no matter how I try, I cannot remember it. And I… I am afraid it is not mine to remember.” He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, not meeting Ar’telan’s eyes. “Is that strange? It is hard to put it into words.” Ar’telan shook his head.

“I don’t think so. Everything we have learned about the Tower, about Allag, has been… heavy,” he replied. “And even if you do not yet know what burden you carry, we know that it will be a burden still. It is not wrong to dread the pressure of a duty that should never have been yours.” G’raha blinked, surprised at getting so many words at once from the normally reticent Warrior of Light.

“I suppose so,” he allowed. “My father told me that the truth of our eyes lies with Allag. But everything we find…” He shook his head. “I have spent my whole life trying to learn the truth, and now it is within reach, I am afraid to grasp it. But I cannot back away. Not now.”

“You do not search alone,” Ar’telan told him, pausing to touch a reassuring hand to G’raha’s arm. “Not just me, but all of those in NOAH walk beside you. The eye is yours alone, but the weight of it need not be.” G’raha smiled at him, seeming a little more at ease.

“You are right, of course,” he said, shaking his head in exasperation at his actions. “It would seem you have the best of me again. I must apologise for my conduct.” Ar’telan shook his head in disagreement, his eyes going back to the lake and the vast, tangled crystals that rose from it.

“If it were easy, we would not need the help.”

—

With a sigh, Ar’telan pushed himself from the floor, the hum of energy at his back his only accompaniment. He put a hand against the great crystal door, eyes on the gold inlay. Those of royal blood…

When you wake, Raha, I hope those you find are worthy of your care. Your sacrifice.

But time would march on for them, and the world would not wait for his grief, agony at the grave of someone who had not yet died.

—

It had taken every ounce of restraint in his body not to sprint for the tower as soon as the rift had opened and he had stepped out into the darkness of the Syrcus trench. His cargo of vessels, brimming with precious life, sang out from within the confines of his robes. The wait would be a little longer.

He had left almost all of them with Krile. Told her how they would work, left her and Tataru to oversee them as they delivered their contents back to those who had lost them, and took off at a run.

Time did not often take him out across the flats of Mor Dhona, not in recent times. The same aether-warped cobras stalked the shores of the lake, ignoring the passage of one who could have cut them down without a second thought. The gigas had long since retreated into the mountains. The leftover aether still crackled around the Eight Sentinels, the yawning, empty void of the Labyrinth beckoning him across it.

He reached the door. It still sang and hummed with power, standing in solid defiance to him. With the crystal of Azem in one hand and the final vessel in the other, he prayed for it to open.

The hiss of aether and the rumble of crystal on stone was all-encompassing, drowning out the ambient sound as it creaked its way inexorably open. Ar’telan stepped through the ingress, the crystal lamps lighting up in welcome of their monarch.

His steps took him through the familiar route to the Ocular, though it served no such purpose on the Source. In the centre, shimmering in frozen time, G’raha’s body. Swallowing back nerves, Ar’telan held out the vessel.

Wake up, G’raha Tia. ‘Tis no time for sleeping.