#and my dream self had gotten this strong urge to find their own apartment

[gifti3]

okay i need work to be over now and not in 4 hours

[yetanotherreader]

Useful—6(2)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Y/N Y/L/N

Genre: College AU

Summary: The school's most popular boy wants to be friends with Y/N, out of the blue. It definitely doesn't have anything to do with her hot best friend, though.

Word Count (For the chapter—both parts): 6,367

Warnings (For the chapter): Fluff, Mentions of Depression, suicide attempts, murder, angst, panic attack, fluff, more fluff?

Two parts in what? 5 minutes? Lol. I hate Tumblr sometimes, and so much.

Useful Masterlist        

Chapter 6(2)

Chapter 6(1)

You felt tears in your eyes, tears that you didn't let out of them, "I just..I-" he squeezed your hands urging you to continue, "I feel guilty. Just not good enough for you. Feels like you deserve a better friend."

Dean's little action continued on the back of your hands as he sighed, "You know you've been a better friend to me in the last few months than most people have been my entire life, right?"

"Doesn't mean you don't deserve better."

"There's no better, sweetheart. You're the best. The best high school girlfriend I could have ever asked for," You let out a little laugh. Only Dean could do that, "Mom. She was amazing."

You knew where this was headed. Dean never talked about his mom, and today he was. You held your breath as he spoke that word. Dean was opening up to you, finally. You felt him stiffen, holding back, "Go on, Dean. I'm listening. I won't judge."

"I know you won't. Out of everyone, you won't," Dean's hold tightened on your palm, "I don't have a lot of memories with her, but the ones I have they're all good. She was the best mother." Dean talked about her in past tense, and your heartbeat rose at that. You thought he had a mother, everyone thought that, "When I was four, there was a house fire. Sam was very small, 6 months. Dad ran to save her, but she forced him to save us instead. And he did. I remember seeing my house burn, with Sammy crying in my arms, with mom.

You gasped, your heart aching in your chest for the scared little boy Dean was hiding inside himself, "In the matter of seconds, dad came and picked us up, running in the opposite direction of the house. I kept yelling at him that he needed to go save mom, but all my cries..they were subsided by the explosion that happened in front. Mom was gone...forever. Only because dad had to save me."

You let out a shaky breath. He couldn't have been blaming himself for it the entire time, right? "Dean, it wasn't your fault." You positioned your head, now, your chin on his shoulder as you looked up in his teary eyes. Your faces inches away from each other. You cupped his face with your free hand and wiped the lone tear that escaped his eyes. What all had he been keeping inside for so long?

"It feels like it is," He shut his eyes, letting his tears out, "everything feels like my fault."

Your heart literally hurt in your chest. He didn't deserve that, he never deserved that, "But it's not. He is your dad, obviously he'd save you, Dean. You-you can't be blaming yourself, De."

"I saw someone that day. In the cupboard," you frowned at the new information as Dean rested his forehead on yours, "But I thought it was my imagination. A man. He had yellow eyes. Golden ones.

"I never told that to Dad. I don't know why, I just never did. But that image wasn't something I could have forgotten. But I thought it was a dream. After mom died, Dad worked overtime. He was a cop. I had to take care of Sam."

"Ever since you were four?" You let out before you could stop. That wasn't something a kid should be responsible for. He shifted so that you both were in your earlier positions.

"Yeah. That day, when I was 10, after putting Sam to sleep, I thought I would go play outside. That's when I heard it. Dad was talking to someone on the phone. Mom didn't die in the accident. She was murdered. I got to know that mom was an agent. Undercover. I didn't know what that meant but I understood she was the police. I didn't know how to process this new information and that's when I got my first panic attack.

You shut your eyes, tears falling on your cheeks, "I went into the bathroom. It was hard to breathe and I was feeling hot. I wanted to cry but nothing came out of my eyes," you brought your free hand to his muscled arm and gave it a squeeze, having a hard time keeping yourself from breaking apart, "I turned on the shower and stood there till I was better. I never spoke about it ever again, until now. I trust you, Y/N. Please don't ever break it."

His voice sounded hoarse from keeping himself from crying, "I won't. You matter a lot to me, Dean. The most."

He sighed, as if getting some reassurance, "Depression knocked after that. There were times I almost k- killed myself," You hid your face in his neck, wanting to get closer to him, to see he was there, breathing. He took a pause, nuzzling into your hair, feeling some life himself, "But the thought of Sammy, it stopped me. Each and every time. Sometimes he called my name just before I was about to do it, or sometimes I'd just remember his smile and how it'd fade forever if I pressed the trigger. That was one time I got dad's gun. I didn't even know how to use it. Sammy was my savior, he was my light at the end of the tunnel. He was the one who first noticed my self destructive behaviour. I was 16 and he was 12. He was a nerd, obviously he noticed," Dean chuckled to himself, "And when he found out that I had depression, he was hell bent on helping me. Even after I pushed him away, he didn't budge. By that time Dad started staying in different cities, so Sam and I were pretty much all. Bobby visited us every few days, dad's best friend. That's who Sam told. I was very mad, telling him that he's not supposed to tell just anyone about it. That's when Uncle Bobby smacked me in the head saying, and I'll quote in his accent, 'Family don't end in blood, boy.'" Dean chuckled at his own voice. A sight you wanted to capture forever. How could someone go through so much alone and still be as good as he was? How could someone be so strong?

"Then? Your uncle did something?" You asked softly.

"Yeah. Lots of love and care," He smiled nostalgic, "I felt like for the first time that I had people who care about me enough to bear with me."

"I'm glad you had them. Uncle Bobby and Sam, both of them sound like cool guys."

"Oh my god, yes" Dean laughed a hearty laugh, "They're the coolest guys. I want you to meet them someday! If, uh, if you're okay with it?"

You smiled, "Yeah, I want to meet them too." 

"Bobby owned a garage. He got busy with it, and Sammy started preparing for law school. And I thought I was doing better, much better. My panic attacks were less and I smiled more. But without them, it was lonely. I was scared that I'll go into that dark place again. That's when I met Cassie."

You clenched your jaw, "The Cassie?"

"Yeah," Dean gulped, "We dated in high school. The first girl I liked, I mean, really liked. I was 18 and it was my first serious relationship. I really thought we could make something."

"You….you were in love with her?" You breathed out the words, a sudden wave of hurt passing through you.

"I guess," he sighed, sounding hurt, "I had liked her for a long time and we hooked up. But I think we both wanted more than just a hookup with each other. She was attractive, you know. She was strong headed and confident, someone who knew what she wanted and she was gorgeous. And that was hot to me." Something you could never be, "And maybe I was hot to her too. We went out for a couple of months. Everything was good. I was at her place once, it was mom's death anniversary. The hardest time of the year. And after a long long time, I had a panic attack."

"She helped you, right?" You asked, knowing the answer to it very well.

"She said I was nuts," you clenched your jaw, feeling fury in your head. You never really cared about Cassie, until you got to know she blackmailed Dean to throw you in the pool and later bully you about it. But right now all you felt was her was pure hate. How could she? How could anyone be so insensitive to someone? And especially when that someone is her boyfriend?

"Bloody bitch,"

"Right?" Dean laughed a little, "It was a long time ago, though. I'm fine now."

"Don't act tough around me, Dean," He sighed, "Is that why you never told anyone about your condition?" He nodded timidly, "Oh, Dean."

This time you wrapped your hands complete around his torso, nuzzling into his shoulders. He deserved all the happiness in the world and what he got was all of this, "When that night you found me...you know, helped me. I thought it was going to be the same. We didn't share a very good rapport. I mean, after what I did with you the first day, it was understandable if you hated me. I thought you were going to laugh at me, or maybe tell everyone about how weak I was.

You felt a pang inside your chest at that accusation, you had never been mean to anyone so it felt bad that he assumed that about you. But you understood it, he had trust issues. The girl he trusted, even loved, did that to him so you were a girl who didn't get along with him, "But you were nothing but kind to me. You helped me. That hug was the realest hug I had gotten in a long time. You comforted me and you did all of that. And now that panic attack doesn't feel all that bad. It gave me my favorite person."

"You're my favorite person, too, Dean. I can't imagine a life without you in it, you know. And I promise you, from now on, you will never find yourself alone when you need someone," You pulled away from him and cupped his face, wiping the stray tears. In that moment, all you wanted to do was press your lips to his and pour all the love he was deprived of in that kiss, but you knew that wasn't something that could happen. So you did what you think was closest, repeat an action from the day. He looked at you with unshed tears in his eyes, and all you wanted to do was take his hurt away. You leaned in, slowly pressing your lips to the side of his mouth, tasting the saltiness of his tears. He let out a sigh, "I'm always going to be there, Dean, okay?"

He nodded against your lips and you swore your breath hitched in your throat when they slightly grazed his. You pulled away slowly, maintaining whatever little boundaries were left between you two. It was all friendly, "Thank you."

"Mm hmm," You stood up, walking towards the lake, "The swans are gone."

Dean followed you, "Seems like they are."

"And for the record, Cassie is a dumb bitch."

Dean let out a laugh, "Yeah, yeah she is,"  He stood next to you, seeing the reflection of the moon in the lake, "Why do you keep pushing me away?"

That was the last thing that you expected to come out of his mouth, "Wh-what do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Every time something happens, you go MIA on me or act like nothing happened. This happened yesterday, before that and today in the fair. What is it that's holding you back from opening up? Is it that you don't trust me?"

It wasn't an accusation, he looked genuinely confused. You didn't think he'd pick on these little things, "It's nothing like that. You're just overthinking thi-"

"It's okay if you don't wanna tell, Y/N. Just don't lie to me. I don't expect you to trust me but the least I can hope is that you don't lie to me and make me feel like a stranger."

"It's not that..I'm sorry," You said, feeling exposed under his stare, "I-I don't know how to talk about.. things. I never did. You mean a hell lot to me, Dean. It has nothing to do with you. It's me. I'm scared. I wish I were as strong as you because trust me, I do want to talk about my feelings. I just can't."

"It's okay, Y/N." Dean sighed and your ears perked up. Is he done with you? Is that all? Your eyes widened as your head turned in his direction. He looked back concerned and cupped your face, "Y/N, I meant it. It's okay. Tell me whenever you think you can tell me. I'm going to wait. I'm not going anywhere."

"Please don't give up on me just yet." Your eyes brimmed with unshed tears, as he looked back with nothing but understanding.

"I'm not. I'll always be here." He whispered, slowly pressing his lips to your forehead, "I promise."

And that's when you knew, it wasn't a silly crush. You were in love with your best friend.

You loved Dean Winchester.

—

A/N: So that's about it. I really hope you liked this one because well, I mean I wrote it I'd obviously want you to like this. Ugh, I'm so bad at this. So yeah, I hope you had a happy reading. Feedback is greatly appreciated, it keeps me going.

Tags for useful:

 @bi-danvers0 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @itsjaybro16 @mml232 @blablatiti @stilltoomuchafangirl @bat-shark-repellant @bluebell-24 @shortwinchester @always-money-in-the-banana-stand @soullessbabee @ima-be-a-mongoose @infinityspacesuniverse @vicmc624 @roonyxx @fandoms-fiend @slythermyg @perpetualabsurdity @whydontwejustgohunting @supraveng @coffeebooksandfandom @justafuckeduphuman @busy-bee-angel-misska @ria123love @woodworthti666 @katiekitty261 @supernatural-fan-123 @yxseminx @janicho88

[pikapeppa]

Professor Solas/Lavellan: Dreams

Chapter 15 of Inadvisable (professor Solas modern AU) is posted! Note: I didn’t post Chap 14 here on Tumblr because formatting/I’m lazy, so if you’re following from Tumblr, make sure you don’t miss that chapter!

In which Solas and Nare have a very productive supervisor meeting. UST ahoy. 😂 ~7000 words; read on AO3 instead. 

***********************

- SOLAS -

Nare leaned away from Solas’s computer screen with a sigh. “... so after I tried for the fifth time to layer the colours and ended up with just a bunch of muddy-looking landscapes, I got fed up. That’s when I texted you.” She shot him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. Bothering you on a Sunday night like that.”

He gave her a gently chiding look over his reading glasses. “I told you, you are never a bother. But this is what I mentioned on Sunday. Layering is not as useful in oil painting as it is with watercolours.” He leaned back in his chair. “What could be helpful, however, is to carry over your gouache techniques instead of the watercolour techniques. Gouache is more opaque — closer in opacity to oils than watercolours, in any case, though the opacity is not nearly as…”

He trailed off in amusement. Nare’s face had fallen into an expression that was very reminiscent of a lightbulb turning on over a cartoon character’s head. 

He smiled at her. “You see what I’m suggesting, don’t you?”

“I’ll just create the highlights after the fact,” she exclaimed. “I’ll add them at the end instead of working around the canvas to get the whites.”

“Yes, exactly,” Solas said. 

She laughed and ran a hand over her ponytail. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that on my own. I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t insult yourself, Nare,” he said firmly. “It serves no purpose.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Sorry. It’s — it’s automatic. I don’t really mean it.”

He relaxed slightly, then tilted his head. “It is not often that a piece frustrates you to this degree, is it?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I don’t usually start over this many times. Even if I’m not happy with a study, I always just finish it so I can start fresh on the next one.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You always finish your studies?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even if I don’t like them, I… it’s hard for me to leave them unfinished.” She sighed and leaned back against his desk, and he studied her pensively for a moment. This was something he hadn’t known about her process, and it was certainly enlightening. 

In truth, everything he had learned about Nare over the past two weeks was enlightening. In the space of a mere two weeks, Solas already felt like he was becoming well-versed in who she was. With every passing day, he learned more about what excited her and what made her nervous, the things she was most passionate about and the things that made her laugh. 

And with every new thing he learned about her, he felt more…  aligned with her than he had any right to feel, considering that they had known each other for less than a month. And it wasn’t just their increasingly lengthy supervisor-student meetings that were giving him these fascinating insights into who Nare was. 

It was the texts. The insidious, unwise, inadvisable conversations by text message that Solas was incapable of cutting off, no matter that he ought to. 

He was still trying to maintain a modicum of professional distance by not being the one to initiate the texts, but that didn’t change the fact that he was checking his phone more eagerly these days than he ever had in his life. In some small and admittedly deluded part of his mind, he had convinced himself that if he kept a small amount of distance, letting Nare be the one to initiate contact, he could maintain a veneer of innocence in this, despite his obvious culpability. 

You are the only one who believes me to be a sweet talker. Should I insist on you having a little more discipline? Are you talking back to your supervisor?

His overly candid texts, his inappropriate innuendo-laced remarks, and worse yet, the voice memos...

He was making a mistake, and he knew it. But with every passing day, he found himself caring less and less. He had never texted anyone as often or in the same capacity as he texted with Nare. His texts with Abelas and Dorian were entirely professional, and his texts with Felassan were a bit more frequent and casual with occasional bouts of banter, but he’d never engaged in anything like the texted conversations he had with Nare. And their exchanges really felt like actual conversations. Solas had never realized that it was possible to have such in-depth conversations via text.  

He had never realized how quickly the intimacy of a bond could be fostered by the simple medium of typed-out messages on his screen. 

Solas forced his mind away from the idea of intimacy and bonds and removed his reading glasses. “Do you recall how in your portfolio submission for this program, I asked you not only to submit your best works, but the ones you consider to be your worst?”

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded. “Your weakest works still displayed good technical skills, and what you remarked on were the technical errors, which told me what you already know: you have a strong technical foundation — a very good handle on perspective, anatomy, colour theory and so on.” He set his glasses on the desk. “What I found interesting is what you didn’t point out in your own weakest pieces.”

Her expression became wary, as though she was afraid of what he would say. “What do you mean?”

“Your weakest pieces all had a stiffness to them,” he said. “A rushed but almost static feel, as though you were stuck on them in some way but forced yourself to finish them just for the sake of being able to say they were finished.”

Her face slackened with surprise. “You could tell that from looking at them?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” She trailed off and stared at him. Her expression was shifting from surprise to an odd sort of melancholy, almost as though he’d exposed her in some way that she hadn’t expected to be exposed, and he watched her changing expression with some concern.

“Did I offend you?” he said softly.

“No,” she said quickly. “No, it’s not that. I’m just…” She licked her lips nervously. “None of my art professors before ever… remarked on that.”

He frowned slightly at this. “It appears quite obvious to me.”

She shot him a tiny smile, then took a deep breath and folded her arms as though she was cold. “So you could see from those bad pieces that I was struggling just to finish them?”

“Yes, I could,” he said. “Now, having become more familiar with your work and the way you think while you’re painting, I believe that those pieces are the result of you getting trapped in a certain mindset. It is almost like you fall into a groove with them, and you become too focused on finishing them rather than stepping back to re-evaluate their quality.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I get what you’re saying, but I just… I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”

“Studies are never meant to be finished,” he reminded her. “The entire point of a study is essentially to play. To figure out the bones of your piece and to problem-solve.” He frowned. “Your undergraduate art professors allowed you to finish your studies?”

She shrugged again. “They seemed to like it when I did. They thought the finished studies were good.”

“But you didn’t,” he said. It wasn’t a question; he knew she didn’t care for her own finished studies, which was why she had submitted them as her weakest pieces.

“No,” she said. 

He frowned more deeply. “You should have trusted your own judgment in this matter.”

She gave him a small smile. “You’re saying I should have ignored the opinions of my professors?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Some professors have better opinions than others.”

She laughed. “I wonder where I can find a professor with a good opinion, then,” she said playfully.

Solas smiled in return, but he didn’t reply. Nare was half-sitting on his desk with her head tilted coquettishly, and he was visited by a heated — and very inappropriate — urge to seat her more firmly on the surface of his desk and to discipline her for her cheeky remark.

Ah yes, he would discipline her slowly. He’d strip off her pants and push her legs apart, and he’d run his tongue slowly and very teasingly along the insides of her thighs until she promised not to talk back to her supervisor anymore.

His cock stirred in his trousers, but he shunted the lustful thoughts away just as he had done every time they’d met in person for the past two weeks. His meetings and his seminar class with Nare were becoming a true test of his self-control. On the one hand, they were satisfyingly productive and intellectually stimulating; every time Solas saw Nare, she had read or watched at least one of his recommended resources, be it an article or a book chapter or a tutorial video, and the ensuing discussions they had were as satisfying as any that he had with any other scholar or artist at the university. 

On the other hand, his treacherous lust-fuelled body was so attuned to her that he had to physically force himself not to reach for her whenever she was near. 

Solas was torn: torn between his dual urges to discuss everything with her and to devour her. His only saving grace was the fact that he’d finally given in and allowed himself to fantasize about her when he touched himself — which he had being doing almost every night for the past two weeks, to his own mild disgruntlement.

He was sleeping very well, however, so he supposed he couldn’t complain.

“For what it is worth, my opinion is this,” he said. “It appears that you have gotten into a habit of making the completion of a piece your goal, and that you’ll drive toward completing a piece even if you are unsatisfied with it, or if you know something about the piece is off. But finishing a painting should not be your ultimate goal. What you should be striving for is to create something expressive — something that captures the feeling or the message that you intend to convey, whether the form of that creation is a completed painting or a half-finished study or a simple sketch.” He gave her a knowing look. “You should be striving to make something that brings you joy and satisfaction, Nare. Something you can take pride in. It is not enough to finish the piece if you did not derive any satisfaction from it.”

She smiled weakly. “I don’t know that concept artists or other professional artists would agree with you about that.”

He huffed in amusement. “You’re right. Felassan and I have had to agree to disagree about this matter. But to my understanding, you are not aiming to be a concept artist.”

“That’s true,” she said softly. She took a deep breath, then released it. “So instead of trying to always finish the piece, I should just… ask myself if I’m happy with it.”

“Exactly,” he said.

She nodded, then gave him a pleading look. “But I want the art to be good, though.”

“That’s what studies are for,” he reminded her. “Your other professors seem to have forgotten that, but the purpose of a study is to practice. To hone your technical skills as well as your ideas.”

“And what if I find myself grinding away at a piece even though I don’t like it?” she asked. “I should just… what, throw it away?”

He shook his head. “Don’t throw away unfinished pieces. Set them aside and come back to them. When inspiration leaves you dry, the best approach can often be to come back with a fresh perspective. Set the piece aside, focus on something else, let it live at the back of your mind. Then return to it when you are refreshed, even if returning to it means leaving it alone for years.”

“Years!” she exclaimed. “Have you ever left a piece to sit for years before coming back to it?”

“I have, in fact,” he said dryly. “So I believe my opinion about this matter is a valid one.”

She chuckled. “All right. I’m sorry, professor.”

His heart jolted at her playful — and provocative — use of the term. She smiled broadly at him, then exhaled and nodded. “Okay. I’ll work on just… putting things aside and coming back to them.” She smiled wryly. “I’m so impatient, though.”

“I’ll help to coach you in this,” he assured her. “I am very patient.”

“I hope that rubs off on me,” she said.

His belly flipped at the innuendo in her tone. His eyes locked onto hers, her brilliant oceanic eyes, and for a moment they just stood there, frozen in the forbidden but heated thrill that was building between them. 

She was still leaning against his desk while he sat in his chair. In this pose, this tense and heated tableau they were locked into, Nare’s knee was nearly brushing his, and he wouldn’t even need to fully extend his arm to touch her. He could place his hand on her waist, brush his thumb over her hip, trail his fingers toward the fly of her pants and peel them open button-by-button until she was panting — all with barely having to try… 

He abruptly stood up, then clasped his hands behind his back as he made his way around his desk. “As I mentioned on Sunday, I am happy to provide more hands-on instruction in oil painting techniques. Even one or two sessions could help to build your confidence with this medium.”

“I would love that,” she said. “When can we start? Where should we do the lessons?”

“I will have to check my schedule to determine the best time,” he said. “As for where: the university’s graduate studio would be most convenient. We can easily book a space.” Secretly, however, he was imagining her in his studio at his apartment. The thought of having Nare in his home, standing barefoot in front of an easel while he provided gentle guidance for her slender hands: the fantasy made him feel aroused and protective at the same time, as though he wanted to guard her from others while keeping her selfishly for his own, and he was grateful for the span of space between them as he wandered idly toward his bookshelves. 

“The grad studio space sounds good,” she said. She started edging around to the front of his desk as well. “Or, um. I… Tamaris and I have a studio space at our apartment.”

He looked at her. Her expression was shy but hopeful, and when he met her eye, she ducked her head in that bashful way that always made him want to bend her over his desk. 

She tucked a russet strand of hair over her ear and let out a little laugh. “That probably wouldn’t work, though. Tamaris uses that space most of the day for her tattoo clients and I don’t want to get in her way. But she, um, she also doesn’t work every day, she always picks a day of the week where she sees no clients, so we could always — I mean, you could come and — all my paints and supplies are already there…” 

She was babbling. She looked up and met his eye again, then let out another self-deprecating laugh and rubbed her arms as though she was cold. “Never mind. It’s a dumb idea. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Solas didn’t reply. Truly, in this moment, he was forcing himself not to speak or to move. The way her manner shifted so seamlessly from bold and flirtatious to bashful and demure was so… fenedhis, it was a perfect dichotomy, like two glimmering facets that melded so perfectly in this one beautiful young woman, and each side of her seemed to call to something different and complementary in the depths of his soul. 

He wanted to teach her and to watch her bloom. He wanted to pin her down and make her beg. He wanted to protect her from any clumsy lovers who would fail her, and he wanted to imprint himself on her body so thoroughly that she would forget any other lovers who had come before. 

Solas wanted Nare so badly that it was a physical ache, and with every passing beat of his heart, he had to remind himself of the ugly truth: he absolutely could not have her. He could banter with her and text her and savour the undeniable electricity between them, but at all costs, he needed to remember: Nare was not his to have.

He inhaled slowly through his nose to master himself. “Let us stick to the plan of booking a student space for this,” he said. “Teaching you at your home studio would be unwise.”

He regretted his word choice the moment it left his mouth: Nare straightened with interest. “Unwise? Why?”

Because I would be far too tempted to ravish you if we were alone, he thought. “Not unwise,” he amended quickly. “Inappropriate.”

Her hopeful expression became playful. “What, you’ve never taught any other students at their studios at home?”

He gave her a chiding look, even as his heart swelled with a heated sort of amusement. Shy one moment and cheeky the next… she was such an irreverent little vixen. 

“I haven’t,” he said calmly. “But you are the first fine arts graduate student I have had since I began working at the University of Orlais.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding! Why? There must have been tons of students who wanted to work with you.”

“None that met my standards,” he said. “Felassan says my standards are frighteningly high. And that is not sweet talking, as you would say,” he added wryly. “That is the simple truth.” He paced slowly in front of his bookshelf as he went on. “You are already a very good artist, Nare. With some tutelage and guidance, I have no doubt that you will be exceptional.”

She smiled shyly and sat on the couch. “How can you have such faith in me when I don’t have  that kind of faith in myself?”

“Many of the finest artists are shackled by self-doubt and uncertainty,” he replied. “The artists who succeed are the ones who channel that uncertainty into a drive to improve their work.”

“So do you think it’s good that I’m always criticizing myself?”

“Your self-criticism can go one of two ways,” he explained. “It can become a weight that prevents you from progressing, or it can become an objective lens that will drive you to improve for the rest of your life. As objective a lens as there can be when it comes to art, at least,” he added with a small smile.

“You won’t let me get weighed down by my doubts, will you?” she asked.

He paused in his pacing and faced her. “I will not let that happen, Nare,” he said seriously. “Do not worry about that.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. “I trust you.”

I trust you. Her words were simple and guileless, but for some reason, they hit him like a bolt of emotion straight to the gut. For her to say that to him so easily and so quickly, with such perfect sincerity, even though they had known each other for less than a month… 

She let out another breathy little laugh and nervously adjusted her bracelets. “Honestly, I… I trust your judgment more than… more than any other professor I’ve ever had.”

He swallowed hard. “I am honoured by your trust,” he said quietly.

Her answering smile was sweet, and Solas admired her with a mixture of lust and regret and inexplicable tenderness — tenderness that he absolutely should not be feeling for his student, but which had burst upon him nevertheless, like a sunshower that he had been both unable and unwilling to avoid. 

For a long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke. And in this tense and electric moment, Solas swore to himself that he would never betray Nare’s trust, no matter what happened.

Nare was the one to break the silence. “We spend so much time talking about my work,” she said. “I’d love to hear about yours. Are you working on any paintings right now?”

He relaxed, grateful for the innocuous change of subject. “I’m afraid to admit that I’m not.”

“You aren’t?” she said.

He smirked. “There’s no need to look at me like that. I realize the irony.”

She chuckled. “As long as you realize it. What have you been sketching or drawing, then?”

He smiled at her. In one of their meetings, he had told her that he drew or sketched every day even when he wasn’t actively painting, and he was flattered that she had remembered that little detail of his routine. 

He shrugged and resumed his slow pacing. “I haven’t drawn anything worth showing lately,” he said — a near-lie, unfortunately. In truth, he’d been refining the sketch of the eager hands in the hopes of turning it into a fully-finished drawing. It would be the first realistic anatomical drawing he had done in several years. But he was keeping this particular piece to himself for now. 

Nare gave him a skeptical look. “Oh come on, I don’t believe that. Your sketchbook must be full of amazing work.”

“I don’t use a sketchbook,” he replied.

Her eyes widened. “Wait, really? What do you sketch on, then?”

“I draw on loose cardstock,” he said. “I dislike being constrained by the binding of a sketchbook or the height of a stack of pages. It interferes with the positioning of my hand.”

She beamed at him, and the warmth in her expression lifted an answering warmth in his belly. “What amuses you?” he said softly.

“It’s just such a specific preference,” she said. “Like a special quirk.” She tilted her head. “I like knowing special little things about you.”

He huffed and rubbed his chin. “Then perhaps you’ll be entertained to hear about the shelf of haphazardly stacked cardstock sketches in my studio at home.”

“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed. “What, just piled on a shelf?”

“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “It’s quite a mess.”

She giggled and eyed his less-than-organized desktop. “That actually doesn't surprise me.”

He playfully lifted one eyebrow. “That’s disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry, professor,” she said, equally playfully. “Are your loose sketches dated, at least?”

He winced, and Nare laughed again. “No! That’s really terrible!”

He chuckled. “Athera would be horrified if ever she saw my shelf of sketches.”

“She would!” Nare agreed. “It would be a nightmare for her. I wouldn’t mind helping you to organize your shelves, though.”

Solas carefully maintained his pleasantly neutral expression. This was not the first time Nare had hinted at wanting to see his apartment, and every time she did, he got a thrill at the thought — and immediately changed the subject to stop himself from inviting her over like he so desperately wanted to do.

“That’s a kind thought,” he said. “At any rate, to answer your original question: no, I’m not working on any serious painted pieces at the moment.”

“How come?” she said. “Haven’t you been having interesting dreams?”

“My dreams have been a bit light on inspiration as of late,” he said. “Luckily, I keep a journal to jot down my more interesting dreams so I can come back to them when I am lacking in new ideas.”

Her eyes widened in wonder. “You have a dream diary?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’d love to see it,” she said eagerly.

He hesitated. “Well, it’s… rather private,” he hedged. Few people knew about his dream journal — only Felassan and Abelas and a couple of others — and none had ever asked to see it before. But the thought of showing something so private to Nare was dangerously tempting.

She pulled a little face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I’m honoured by your interest. It’s… uncommon to receive this much interest in my process.”

“That makes sense, if you haven’t had an art student in so long,” she said knowingly. “I bet any fine art student would be really interested in your process.”

“Your interest is what pleases me,” he said without thinking.

A flush lit her cheeks, and the flare of hope in her eyes was so obvious and so beautiful that it made him feel like he was falling off of a cliff. 

He hastily changed the subject. “I would be happy to share some of my more interesting dreams. The ones that I can recall, at least.”

She straightened. “Really? I’d love that!”

“All right,” he said. He leaned against the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “There was one dream I had of late: a figure so striking that I was forced to rise from my bed to sketch it out.” He tilted his head. “The Dalish tell tales of spirits, yes?”

“Yes, we do,” she said. She gestured at her face. “In Dalish traditions, our vallaslin was meant to help us connect with the spirit world.”

He nodded slowly. “The spirit world of which you speak is likely different from our Arlathani lore, but I suspect that our stories share their bones. In any case, the striking figure from my dream was a spirit that I call the Shadow Goddess.” He narrowed his eyes and tried to remember the details of the elusive dream. “Hidden by a cloak of the deepest black, she walked the Fade along the southern tundra — weeping, lonely, and forgotten. More than that, I couldn’t tell; I woke before her story could unveil itself to me. But the essence of her tale still lingers in my mind: a loneliness so dark and deep that even light was chased away by her endless solitude.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Nare spoke. “Solas, that’s… so sad.”

Her voice was small and slightly breathless. When Solas met her eye, it was to find her looking very serious, but also somehow… on edge. Not nervous, not afraid, but still on edge somehow. 

“It was a very sad dream, yes,” he said softly. “You can see why I haven’t been able to bring myself to paint it yet.”

She nodded. “I can’t decide if I’d want to see it painted or not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked.

A tiny frown creased her brow. “If it meant you had to be that sad to paint it? I would never want you to be that sad.”

He smiled faintly. “I suppose you have a point. I should be grateful that I have not yet had the heart to paint the lonely Shadow Goddess.”

She nodded, then leaned forward a little bit. “Can you tell me another dream?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Let me try and recall another.” He stepped away from his desk and sat on the other end of the couch. “There was one dream I had — a dream inspired, in fact, by an article I read in an Elvhen history journal.”

“An article? Really?”

He nodded. “The article was about the ruins of ancient Arlathan. When finally I went to sleep, my sleeping mind was mired among the burning ruins of the ancient city.” He crossed his ankle over his knee. “Marble towers and arches stretched above my head, higher than the eye could see, but all of it grew black with ash: the burnt remains of a once-grand home, unable to stop its own demise.”

She nodded and let out a slow and slightly shaky exhale, and Solas frowned. “Nare, are you all right?” he said. Her expression was still serious, but she looked even more tense than before. Her knees were pressed together, and her fingers were clenched in the leather seat of his couch.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I, um… your dreams are always so sad.”

He studied her carefully as he replied. “This dream wasn’t sad, in fact. It was filled with rage.”

“Rage? Why?”

“It is commonly believed that ancient Arlathan was burned during the old wars between Arlathan and Tevinter,” he said. “But the article I read revealed the truth: the city had been burnt before those wars had even reached their heights — burnt from within by its own people.”

Her eyes widened with surprise, but Solas couldn't help but notice that the tips of her ears were pink, almost as though she was getting flushed. 

Curious now, he went on. “Rage was what defined my dream. The blackened ash that stained the stones and hid the beauty of old Arlathan: marks of rage, brought upon the city by its own forgotten people.” 

She inhaled slowly through her parted lips, and Solas’s own breath stalled in his chest as he watched her. She was shifting subtly on the couch, arching her spine and brushing her knees together in a distinctly restless way…

He suddenly realized what was going on.

Her tense posture on his couch. Her request to hear more of his dreams, and her shameless texted requests for voice memos. Her precious confession, saved in his phone, that ��I really like your voice’... 

The realization hit him like a thunderclap — an incredible, terrible, maddening thunderclap. 

She was getting aroused.

She nibbled her lower lip — fenedhis, it wasn’t fair, he wanted to be the one to nibble that lip — then she looked him in the eye. “Can you tell me another?” 

He stared at her, stunned with wonder. Nare was turned on by the sound of his voice. And by requesting more stories, she was shamelessly asking him to arouse her even more.

This was bad. He should say no. He ought to say no. He knew exactly how dangerous this was for them both, and it was his responsibility to say no. 

But that smug and foolish sense of pride was unfurling through his limbs again, taking control of his body and making him shift slightly closer to her on the couch. 

He lowered his voice. “I will tell you one last dream,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes please,” she breathed.

Yes, please. Ah, to hear her say this in a much more intimate context — and with considerably fewer clothes between them…

He leaned back and draped his arm along the back of the couch. “This final dream I’ll share with you was about a garden,” he said quietly. “Flowers bloomed across a vast expanse, stretching far into the haze of a horizon that my eyes could not perceive. But these flowers were unlike any I have ever seen. And this, I admit, is why my hand has never given shape to this particular dream: the flowers in this garden were so strange and foreign that I couldn’t hope to replicate their likeness.”

He paused for a moment to study her. Her eyes were half-closed and her lips slightly parted, and a rush of nearly-vicious desire fanned through his body. The look on her face right now, this look of languorous and shameless desire: how many times had he imagined such a beautiful expression on her face? How many times had he imagined seeing her look like this while he stretched her arms above her head, while he dipped his fingers between her legs, while he whispered soft and heated words into her ear — not unlike what he was nearly doing now?

Her eyelashes fluttered for a moment, then lifted as she turned her head to look at him. “Please,” she said. “Can you tell me more?”

Please. Such a simple and innocent word, but in Nare’s husky voice, it sounded anything but innocent.

He hesitated before speaking, however. There was, in fact, more to this particular dream that he could tell her, but he knew he shouldn't. 

And for that reason, his contrary and lustful lips opened to tell her anyway. “At first, the garden was like any other: rich in colour and pleasing to the eye,” he said. “But as I waited in that garden, I discovered that those blooms were not just simple static flowers. With every breath that filled my lungs, the flowers seemed to pulse and sway. Their pulsing was… familiar somehow, like a song I had once known and had forgotten: the heartbeat of a foreign place, made familiar again by the whims of my sleeping mind.” He leaned toward her slightly and lowered his voice a little more. “I felt myself begin to wake, but I wasn’t ready to rise yet from that strange and familiar dream. I remained in that garden, feeling the pleasing floral beat as it swelled inside my chest, and when finally I woke…” He trailed off. This whole suggestive story was leading toward one conclusion, and it was a conclusion that he didn’t dare verbalize to her, not even with this misplaced cocky pride that had taken control of his tongue.

She gazed at him, her expression avid with curiosity and desire. “What happened when you woke up?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows, and her eyes went very wide. “You — did you, um…” Her eyes darted to the bulge at his crotch, and Solas felt himself throbbing as though his cock was summoned by the heat of her gaze. 

Her eyes returned to his face, and she swallowed hard before speaking again. “Did you have to take a shower when you woke up?” she whispered.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, very quietly.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh gods. Um, that’s…” She clenched her fingers on her thighs, then pressed her knuckles to her mouth, and Solas studied her very obvious reaction with all the ravenous hunger of a wolf studying its mouth-watering prey. 

Nare closed her eyes, and for a long, delicious, endless minute, Solas stared at her while she dragged in a series of deep and tremulous breaths. Her knuckles were pressed to her lips as though to muffle herself, and her other hand was clenched on her thigh, and Solas wished that he could push her hand away and replace it with his own. 

But he didn’t reach for her. He didn’t shift any closer to her on the couch. He stayed exactly where he was, still and unmoving with one arm draped casually along the back of the couch. For all that he craved her, for all the lust that was howling in his blood as he studied Nare’s arched spine and her fiery red hair that he longed to wrap his hands in, he couldn’t bring himself to touch her first. 

If she touched him, however… 

Fenedhis, he didn’t know what he would do. At this particular moment, he was fairly sure that the mere brush of her finger on his knee would be enough to make him pounce.

I can’t, he thought desperately. With an enormous effort of will, he forced himself to stand. “Well, I hope that this meeting gives you enough guidance to try again with your study,” he said briskly. “And I will certainly email you about a time for us to meet at the studio for a lesson.”

She lowered her hand from her lips and looked at him, and he very nearly quailed. The look in her eyes, the sheer uninhibited lust and pleading in her beautiful face: her expression was exactly as he’d always imagined — no, it was better than he’d imagined. Both better and worse, if he was honest. The naked desire in her face was better than he’d imagined, because it was real: it was real and true, tangible and visible proof that the way he felt for her was mutual and shared.

And it was worse than he’d imagined, because this incredible feeling was completely forbidden. 

She tilted her head pleadingly. “Solas, please…” 

Please. He couldn’t bear to hear this word from her, because it was exactly what he wanted to hear. 

He shook his head slightly — both for his own sake and hers. “That’s enough for now, Nare,” he said. “Come.” He made his way over to his office door and waited for her to rise. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled heavily and stood up from the couch. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder as she joined him at the door, and when she reached for the doorknob, he was torn between relief and a very visceral sense of loss. 

She paused and looked up at him. “So I’ll… I’ll see you on Thursday morning, then?” she said breathlessly. “For our usual meeting?”

He smiled, genuinely amused despite his horrible desire. “You’re forgetting about our seminar this afternoon.”

Her jaw dropped, and she burst into laughter. “Oh no, I did!” she exclaimed. “We really are fated to keep forgetting about the seminar!”

He grinned and clasped his hands behind his back. “To date, you have forgotten more often than I.”

“It’s not my fault!” she protested.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I’m to blame for your poor memory?”

She laughed again, then gave him a sly smile. “Not for my poor memory, no,” she said quietly. “For your sweet talking.”

He huffed, but her words gave him a little pang of guilt. Now that the worst of his prideful lust was starting to abate, the reasonable part of his mind was growing louder and clamouring at him for his extremely irresponsible behaviour just now.

He bowed his head. “You are probably right. I should curb my tendency to talk at such length.”

To his delight and his deep dismay, she took a little step closer to him. “Or maybe I should try some sweet talking of my own,” she murmured.

His semi-calm cock instantly hardened once more, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked.

He gazed into her eyes: her bold and beautiful cerulean eyes, bright with laughter and mischief — provocative eyes to go along with her provocative smile… 

Provoked by Nare’s taunting, his barely-leashed sense of lustful pride reared its head once more. He took a step closer to her, and her eyes widened. 

Then he took another step closer to her still, and another, and then she was backed against the office door while Solas loomed over her. 

He placed one palm carefully on the door beside her head. “You know exactly why,” he said, very quietly.

She didn’t reply. Her eyes were huge and feverishly hot, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. Beautiful, he thought dizzily. Nare was beautiful and lustful and brilliant, and most strange and unfathomable of all, she wanted him. But… fenedhis, this was utterly and completely inadvisable, and they both knew it. 

She nervously licked her lips, and Solas’s gaze helplessly dropped to her mouth. She lifted her chin—  

Someone knocked on the door.

They both jumped, and Solas hastily stepped away from her. “Just a moment,” he called. “I’m finishing a meeting.”

“All right,” Abelas replied through the door. 

Solas exhaled through his pounding heart and looked at Nare. She was covering her mouth with both hands, and her eyes were huge. 

He gave her a reassuring look. “Be calm, Nare,” he whispered. “You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

She nodded and took a few slow breaths, and Solas carefully backed away from her. A tense moment later, she lowered her hands and gave him a sheepish but beautiful smile. “I’ll see you later,” she whispered. 

He nodded, then smoothed a hand over his scalp before gesturing politely at the door. Nare opened the door and smiled at Abelas as she stepped out of the office.

“Hi, Professor Abelas,” she said politely, and Solas felt a completely unreasonable rush of possessiveness. He was feeling jealous about Nare calling Abelas by his own title? He must be going mad. 

Abelas nodded to her. “Nare,” he greeted. He stepped into Solas’s office and held out an envelope. “Tamlen gave this to me by mistake.” 

“Ah,” Solas said. He took the envelope and carefully did not watch Nare as she walked away. “Is that all?”

Abelas nodded briskly. “I’ll be leaving the office for an early lunch. I’ll go straight to my one o’clock meeting when I am finished.”

Solas raised his eyebrows, actually distracted by this surprising news. “You’re leaving the office for lunch? Is there a lecture happening somewhere?”

“No,” he said. “It is a working lunch. A last-minute arrangement.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “My condolences.” He was well aware of Abelas’s distaste for last-minute plans. “You couldn’t turn it down?”

“Apparently not,” Abelas said ruefully. “I will see you later.” He turned away to return to his office, and Solas closed his office door. 

He made his way over to his desk, then plopped down in his chair with a sigh and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He really must be going mad. Allowing himself to be provoked by Nare’s subtly arched spine and her soft little murmurs of please, telling her tales about his dreams even though he knew that his voice was riling her up, pinning her against the door and staring at her lips like a mindless lustful fool…  

He rubbed his face, then straightened in his chair and clicked his mouse. He opened his documents and forced himself to concentrate on the article he’d been translating from Elvhen to common, but even as he worked on his translation, part of his mind was greedily running through his meeting with Nare, picking out the most deliciously suggestive things she’d said and done and storing them away for later when he was alone.

Her coquettish smile… Solas, please.. The arch in her spine as she sat on his couch… Maybe I should try some sweet talking of my own… The heated, feverish, pleading look in her eyes as he pinned her back against the door… 

He cock throbbed insistently in his pants. He sighed and ignored it, then went back to tapping away at his keyboard. 

Nare’s degree was going to be a very long two years. 

[unwiltingblossom]

The Karaoke Date (MLQC, MC x All, oneshot)

The MC sings for each of the men. The same song, each one with their own response to it.

AN: Specifically this version. It’s recommended to listen to it whilst reading it, like any fic using a song.

      The other night dear, as I lay sleeping                I dreamed I held you in my arms                But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken                So I hung my head and I cried      

       You are my sunshine, my only sunshine                You make me happy when skies are gray                You'll never know dear, how much I love you                Please don't take my sunshine away      

She'd gotten a little ahead of herself, running across the jet to the karaoke machine when she'd spotted it, but they had an 18 hour flight left, and she had too much energy in her to try to watch any movies. She didn't know most of the songs, or if she did the lyrics were in languages she couldn't read. It was a happy coincidence, then, that one of her favorites was an option.

Although she hadn't expected Victor to participate, the music immediately caught his attention and his gaze turned from the papers he was reading up to her. His expression was as predictably exasperated, and by the end of the second verse, he scoffed lightly and shook his head. "...How childish."

In the musical lull, she couldn't help frowning a bit, blush creeping on her face. Thinking about it more...maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. "S-sorry, I'll just--"

"No." Her hand stopped, hovering over the power button on the machine. There was something strange in his voice. A softness she couldn't quite pin down. "If you're going to start singing, you might as well finish the song."

       I'll always love you and make you happy                If you will only say the same                But if you leave me and love another                You'll regret it all some day      

       You are my sunshine, my only sunshine                You make me happy when skies are gray                You'll never know dear, how much I love you                Please don't take my sunshine away      

If his laughter weren't so sweet and infectious she might have lost confidence in her 'genius' idea to invite Kiro, musical idol, to go to a private karaoke bar with her. Of course Kiro shared the same sense of humor as her, though, and he'd lit up brilliantly at the idea of going in disguise and the two of them singing karaoke with each other.

She'd decided to go first...mostly because if he started, she'd probably be too insecure about her own singing voice to follow up. While she didn't fool herself about her singing ability, her company kept rapt attention to her, sitting forward in his seat, blue eyes shining in the dim lighting of the room while she sang.

By the second refrain, though, he suddenly jumped up from the couch. It startled her a little, before she saw him reach for the second mic. His face shone in a fascinated sort of glee as he walked up next to her, before giving her a conspiratorial wink - as if there were more than just the two of them there. "Let's make it a duet, okay?"

Before she could protest, he broke into the next verse, voice as clear and beautiful as crystal.

       You told me once, dear, you really loved me                And no one else could come between                But now you've left me and love another                You have shattered all of my dreams      

       You are my sunshine, my only sunshine                You make me happy when skies are gray                You'll never know dear, how much I love you                Please don't take my sunshine away      

Gavin sat quietly in his seat. He'd looked awkward since she started singing, but she couldn't really blame him. Normally, she'd have gone to one of her employees or coworkers about potential programming ideas like this, but she'd just been too sheepish. It didn't feel right calling on Kiro to help her with a little song like this, but she just couldn't help feeling that a specific scene in the television show she was working on would only be complete with this song.

Poor Gavin. She'd caught him on the street, and before he'd been able to come up with any excuses to escape, she'd sat him down and made him her test audience. At least she knew he wouldn't make fun of her too hard if her voice wasn't up to it, but she also trusted him to be honest enough to tell her if it was good enough for the spot. If it wasn't, she'd just have to find someone to pay for it on short notice.

He made it almost entirely through the song before he abruptly stood. His head was turned away from her, face obscured by the relative darkness of the room and the angle. Which wasn't a good sign.

"...Is it that bad...?"

Strong arms wrapped around her, before she really knew what was happening, she felt Gavin's face against her neck, and she was almost sure his skin felt wet against hers. "...Sorry."

"Huh?" She frowned in confusion, reaching up to gently pat his back. Could it be...she was secretly so good at singing that she could move someone to tears?

Well...even if that were the case...the hugging felt pretty nice anyway. So her arms curled around him after a few more moments of hesitation, and let herself sink into the reassuring warmth of his arms.

       In all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me                When I awake my poor heart pains                So when you come back and make me happy                I'll forgive you dear, I'll take all the blame      

       You are my sunshine, my only sunshine                You make me happy when skies are gray                You'll never know dear, how much I love you                Please don't take my sunshine away      

He hadn't moved. At all. She'd felt pretty self-conscious doing it to begin with, but he'd looked so distracted and upset with whatever it was that had caught his attention that she couldn't think of anything else but to sing a song. Her voice wasn't the best, she knew, and the only song that came to mind was pretty simple...but she'd seen so many people cheer up when Kiro sang to them - herself included - that she couldn't help wanting to try.

It did work to get his attention on her, but aside from his gaze immediately fixing on her instead of some middle distance problem he'd been fussing over, he hadn't moved. The apartment was still dark, the sun just recently set and neither of them having turned lights on. His face was only lit by the computer screen across the room, casting much of it in heavy shadows while she sang the little song, and those eyes of his were inscrutable, shimmering with something she couldn't identify at all, and intensely focused.

When she finally trailed off, she tilted her head a little and offered him an encouraging smile, expectant. He stayed silent, simply watching her.

Although he had a tendency to know exactly what she was thinking or what she meant to do, she couldn't help the urge to go ahead and try to explain herself anyway. His hand came up to gently touch her cheek before she could, the sudden contact effectively silencing her.

"You..." He always spoke softly, a sort of quietness to his voice that suggested nothing could be so urgent that one needed to raise their voice to get their point across, but now he spoke in little more than a whisper. Like he worried someone else might overhear them, despite it being only the two of them in the dark apartment. "won't sing that song for anyone else."

She couldn't quite read his tone. Was he asking her a question? Or making a request? She couldn't tell, and the darkness of the room made it harder for her to tell than even his tone. All that was clear was that he clearly expected some kind of response. So she smiled up at him and laid one of her hands over the cool fingers on her cheek.

"I wouldn't."

[starstruck-thirst]

My Hero Academia/ Boku no hero Academia

Hawks (Keigo Takami) "Dreams of Flying"

Warnings/tags: Hospital setting, no medical descriptions other than clean bandages, SFW, fluff, Gender Ambiguous Reader

________

Dreams are strange things. One minute you're eating breakfast at a table you are convinced is from your childhood home- though you've never seen that shade of wood at a single family meal in your life- and the next minute you're being rushed off to save the city.

It always feels worse when you go from being you to being someone else though. Because that loss of self makes it hard to focus in the moment.

"Fly!" An old woman yells at you when you turn the corner of a familiar street. Her command causes your pulse to quicken in your veins, the thrumming of your heart bearly audible over her words as she cries out, "If you want to save them, fly."

So you do. As easily as one would if they were born with the ability. A powerful flap of your strong wings has you airborne and speeding towards your destination immediately. Everything in your dream brain, foggy with the mysteries that come with sleep, is telling you where you are going magically. As if you actually knew through some instinct.

It isn't until you can see the familiar skyscrapers of the city in front of you that you question it all. The shining of the sun off the buildings was suddenly so strong that it could completely blind you if you didn't block the rays with your arm. "How am I flying?" you wonder.

And then you fall. The screams of whoever you had failed to save ringing in your ears. It mixed with the whistling of the wind into a cocktail of horror. "I have to fly again," you thought, terror trying to consume your mind. "I have to fly again or I will die."

There is no way to explain how you know, but due to the luxuries of dream logic you know you'll land on your back soon if you can't right yourself. Unfortunately, you also know the impact will kill you.

With hands pressed to your ears, trying unsuccessfully to smoother out the screaming wind, you focus on that feeling of flight you just had. "Come on," you mumble aloud dor the first time. Then your eyes go wide. That wasn't your voice coming from your mouth.

But the screaming is. The screaming is your voice.

You gasp, head shooting up from where it had been resting on your arms. The feeling of the dream being reality didn't slip off very quickly and your shoulders ached from the strain of imaginary wings trying to save your life.

It takes a minute for your panicking brain to begin to register your environment. The smell of cleaner, plastic, and bodies. The sound of the heart monitor beeping loudly. There was a taste of disappointing vending machine coffee still lingering on your tongue. The feeling of sheets that were too clean to feel natural. And the sight of Hawks laid out in the hospital bed you had fallen asleep on.

You had fallen asleep on the small space next to his hip, but you weren't quite sure when.

Even though you felt reasonably grounded now, some part of your brain was still screaming about the dream. It still felt real somehow even though it had been completely fabricated by your subconscious. Nothing had been correct. Not your dining room table, or the voice you heard from your own lips, and especially not the part of you being a hero.

No. That wasn't your job. It was his.

A hand touched the top of one of your hands. They were both still splayed out onto the too clean sheet as you had gotten your grip on reality back. The touch made you jump for a moment but you felt better when your eyes met Hawks' yellow ones.

"Hey." Hawks' voice was rough from lack of use, husky and rocky all at once, but still calm and so self-sure. It would have been a bit attractive if he wasn't looking at you from a set of white bandages that covered his forehead and nose. "Bad dream?"

Without thinking about it, your hand turned palm up so you could clasp his hand in return, the last dregs of the weight of the dream slowly dripping off your shoulders. "Yeah. I think so," you whispered. It felt natural to speak quietly because of his own low voice, even though it was only 5pm in the hospital. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be awake when you came-to.”

He gave your hand a small squeeze of assurance. “Don’t be. I was happy to see you getting some rest. Plus you’re so cute when you drool like that.” He chuckled, though it was short due to the dry nature of his throat.

The sound of his rough dry laugh made you come back into yourself as you turned to find the water that had been left when the nurse last came by. You kept his hand in yours as you collected the cup with a stretch, turning the straw with your thumb so Hawks could easily sip it when you brought it to his lips. “I was not drooling,” you said.

Banter was normal. It helped the situation feel more stable for the both of you. But under each word was the underlying, unspoken “are you okay?” And the question wasn’t only aimed at Hawks who looked the worst in the room, it was aimed at you too. It joined the myriad of unspoken questions that Hawks directed at you every day.

"Are you sure you want to deal with me?”

“Is this too much for you?”

So many unspoken, heartbreaking questions.

Hawks sipped from the straw, knowing better than to take too much water all at once. He’d been here before, but it was your first time. Well, first time at the hospital with him seriously injured. There had been other visits, easier ones. But you knew that Hawks’ job was to be a hero and yours was to just be there for him.

Not that he had ever asked that of you.

Hawks’ job was to be the hero. That thought lingered.

The dream flashed in your mind, even though it was already fading at the edges. ‘Fly' the old woman had urged. But it wasn’t you who could fly. Why had your mind done this to you? What was it trying to say?

You snapped out of your thoughts as Hawks called your name, forcibly peeling your eyes away from the wall that you had zoned out into and going back to his face. He had one eyebrow raised in question, and you realized you hadn’t heard a word he had said. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked what you dreamed about.” His voice sounded much more normal now. It was amazing what just a little bit of water could accomplish.

Seeing he was done with it for now, you turned away to set the cup back where it was. It was only a moment away from his perceptive eyes, but you took it to remind yourself that your job was to be here right now. Mentally and physically. “It was just a dream. Nothing to worry about,” you replied as you turned back to him, smile perfectly in place.

Your hands had never broken apart in all of that, and he ran his thumb on the back of your hand. “I want to hear about it, if you’ll tell me.”

The unspoken ”are you okay?" again.

It felt wrong to deny him this insight into you. Especially because he had to know it involved him in some way. “I was at home,” you started, leaning forward on your arms so you could rest your head very gently against his hip. That area wasn’t damaged- other than some minor bruising- so it seemed okay to do. He didn’t protest.

“Your apartment?” he asked.

“No. My childhood home. Or rather a dream version. You know, when things seem familiar but you’ve never seen them before?” He nodded. “I was having breakfast and my mom was talking about work, I don’t really remember the details of what she was saying. And then I was… walking down the city streets.”

You knew the path. It was part of Hawks’ regular patrol path, but you didn’t really want to share that detail. You had walked it with him a few times when you were still unconnected, but hoping that would change. “And an old woman saw me and… she told me to fly. So I did.”

A long pause followed that thought, you weren’t really sure you should continue the dream. So it lingered in the air, unfinished until Hawks slipped his hand from yours and pet the top of your head sweetly. “How’d it feel?”

You closed your eyes, enjoying the sensation of his hand on the top of your head. “Scary.”

“Scary?”

“Yeah. Because I knew that if I didn’t someone was going to be hurt. The old woman told me that. That if I wanted to save someone I had to fly. Usually flying in dreams is freeing but this just felt… scary.”

I heard a scream. It resonated through the air like a thunderclap. Loud, rolling, inescapable. And my wings stopped working. Then I fell.” Hawks’ hand on the top of your head stopped moving, but he didn’t pull away so the weight of him was still with you as you remembered the dream. “I don’t know if I have ever felt that kind of falling in a dream before. I was so high up and I knew the ground was coming but I had completely forgotten how to use my wings.”

The corners of your mouth turned down. “I realized I wasn’t me. I mean I was falling, it felt like me, but it wasn’t. I was you. The scream though… the screaming was me.” Slowly you opened your eyes, looking at Hawks from your position on his lap, his hand still resting on your head but at an angle which allowed him to see your face.

His lips were turned down in a frown of concern, brows lowered to match. Your heart squeezed in your chest. You had answered his questions, both spoken and unspoken.

You weren’t okay.

“Y/n, I-”

“I think I just wanted to see how you saw things,” you interrupted. You had to. In your heart you knew the words that he was about to say could ruin everything. If he apologized or offered to break things off to spare you, everything would be different. Those words couldn’t come out into the open because then you’d both think about them all the time, even if you said no to breaking up each and every time. It would become a parasite that would drain the relationship you were managing until it eventually died.

You couldn’t let him say those words.

Sitting up you took his hand from your head and put it to your cheek, closing your eyes and planting a kiss into his palm as you cradled his fingers with yours. “It must be so hard to have such a gift that comes with such weight. I’m so proud of you. You’re so strong,” you whispered, kissing his palm between each sentence and nuzzling the hand when you weren’t.

You heard his breath let out slowly and chanced a glance at his face again glad to see that concern easing off, the words that had almost escaped slowly backing back down into his heart again. “It’s not all bad,” he said. He wanted to sit up but was too sore, so instead he urged your face to his which required you stand up and lean over the bed. He brought you close so he could put your forehead to his. “Because flying also takes me to you.”

[imagitory]

HPHM Profile: Carewyn Cromwell

<<<updated: 12/6/2020 // original template by @hogwarts-misery >>>

“I can’t just live my life however I want! Maybe I want to — sometimes I want to — sometimes I want to so much that I think of just saying ‘forget the Cursed Vaults! Forget about R and their death threats and the fear and the not-knowing-what’s-coming!’ But...I can’t. As long as Jacob is out there — as long as I don’t know whether he’s alive or dead — whether he needs my help or not — how can I put myself first?! How can I justify chasing the Quidditch Cup, or joining the Dueling Club, or singing in the Frog Choir, when anything great I might do won’t mean a thing, without my brother there cheering me on whether I win or lose!? How can I fight for my dreams...while not knowing if Jacob will be able to share them with me? What sort of person would I be? What sort of disgusting — selfish — cowardly — terrible person would I be, if I abandoned him!? How could I face my mum again — face myself again — if I just threw my brother away?!”

[PROFILE]

NAME | Carewyn Lane Cromwell

NICKNAMES | Carey (by her friends, especially Bill, Charlie, and Tonks); Winnie (by her mother); Pip, Pippa (by Jacob); Cursebreaker (by Andre) [Note: In AUs, Jacob calls Carewyn “Wyn” instead of Pip, as “Pippa” is a reference to the Robert Browning poem “Pippa Passes,” which often doesn’t exist in other universes. XD]

GENDER | Female (cisgender)

SEXUAL / ROMANTIC ORIENTATION | Asexual / Panromantic

[PERSONALITY]

In some ways, Carewyn is an ideal heroine. A bright, compassionate girl, she often finds herself drawn to those less confident than her and feels the urge to protect and take care of them. Even when she was very little, she ended up “mothering” her older brother Jacob by encouraging him to eat and sleep more and offering advice, just as much as he often “fathered” her by inspiring her and shielding her from any perceived threats. But don’t mistake this young Cursebreaker for a saint -- Carewyn actually is an incredibly proud person who protects her fragile, sensitive heart with a hard shell of seemingly unbreakable confidence and cool insight. There is nothing she hates more than showing her insecurities and fears, and so she does her best to always look her best and put her best face forward no matter what, even around the people she cares about. This means that almost none of her many friends have any idea about the demons Carewyn is secretly fighting in her pursuit of the Cursed Vaults and her brother. Carewyn dresses the part for whatever situation she’s in, and she always feels most comfortable when she feels in control and believes she has the moral high ground -- admittedly her moral compass is pretty strong on its own, but she also buries any more selfish and meaner feelings she has as deep as she can, pushing herself to be the best, most moral person she can be, even if it’s difficult for her. She wants to be everything that everyone needs, and unfortunately that can result in Carewyn setting standards that are way too high for herself and secretly resenting and berating herself whenever she falls short, or worse not even participating in something she thinks she can’t put all of herself into or wouldn’t do well in. Her self-loathing is so strong that when something traumatic happens to her (such as Jacob’s disappearance or the death of Redacted), she can suffer from severe spells of depression where she neglects her own well-being and as a consequence forcibly removes herself from the people around her so as not to let others see her in such a terrible state. Because of her own high standards for herself, as well, Carewyn also can be judgmental of others, not being prone to change her mind about a person easily. When backed into a corner, Carewyn can freeze up, but when her own self-preservation or her loved ones are threatened, she can bite back really hard, though she’ll almost always regret losing control after the fact. Carewyn has a very organized mind and works best when she has a plan and knows where she’s going at any given time -- ambiguity and mystery are not this girl’s friends. This sadly can result in her being a real stick in the mud, which makes her an easy target for pranks and mischief. Fortunately, despite her overly serious attitude, Carewyn has a nice dry sense of humor and is a very passionate, driven person. In her fifth year, she was even made a Prefect largely due to her protective, nurturing instincts, though it’s good to note that that doesn’t make her a rule follower. Carewyn only respects rules and the people enforcing them if they have earned her respect and she sees the reasoning behind them. If there’s one thing Carewyn can’t stand, it’s condescension. Carewyn’s core interests are singing (her favorite wizard band is the Weird Sisters and her favorite Muggle band is the Eurythmics), Charms, magical history, and magical creatures.

[BIOGRAPHY]

DATE OF BIRTH | August 29, 1973 (Virgo)

BLOOD STATUS | Half-Blood

FAMILY INFO | Carewyn is the second child and only daughter of Evan Bach and Lane Cromwell. Carewyn’s mother Lane alienated her parents, younger brother, and older sisters -- a well-respected, but very overbearing magical family called the Cromwells -- upon moving to Wales and marrying Evan, who was a Muggle. Unfortunately Evan and Lane’s marriage took a turn for the worse after Jacob was born. Jacob’s magical abilities peeked through at an early age and were interpreted by Evan as deliberate misbehavior despite Lane’s best attempts to diffuse any tension. Nine years into their marriage, Evan and Lane were surprised by a late addition to the family -- their daughter, Carewyn. Rather than bringing Evan and Lane closer together, however, Carewyn’s arrival only seemed to drive Evan further away, as he already had had no instincts about how to be a father to Jacob and felt even less sure about how to raise a daughter. Deciding it was better to give up and just let Lane do what was best rather than mess up, Evan withdrew from Carewyn almost completely, leaving Lane and even his son Jacob to look after her. Fortunately Jacob, an nine-year-old boy at the time of Carewyn’s birth, adored his little sister immediately and went out of his way to coddle and protect her however he could. When Jacob turned 11 and received his Hogwarts letter, Lane was finally allowed by law to tell Evan about her magical heritage and the Wizarding World, but by that point, Evan and Lane’s marriage was so rocky that the revelation finally made it buckle and fall apart. Evan left his family that very night, leaving Lane heartbroken. Knowing her family would insist upon her returning to their estate in Yorkshire if she went to them for financial help, Lane instead charted out alone and raised her two children completely on her own while working as a magical historian and Runes expert. Although Lane, Jacob, and Carewyn lived in poverty for almost all of Jacob’s school career and Carewyn’s childhood, the Cromwells managed to dig their way out of debt a year before Jacob disappeared, now sitting on the perimeter of “lower-middle class.”

MYERS-BRIGGS TYPE | INFJ “The Advocate”

[MAGICAL ABILITIES]

WAND | Hornbeam and dragon heartstring, 11 inches, inflexible (broken by Rakepick) // Laurel and phoenix feather, 12 inches, unyielding (nicknamed her “Excalibur wand”)

BOGGART | Voldemort [Carewyn’s greatest fear is a threat she has no hope of overcoming, fighting, escaping, or controlling...which, yeah, is Voldemort in a nutshell!]

ANIMAGUS FORM (IF ANY) | Robin

PATRONUS | Abraxan Winged Horse

[AFFILIATION]

HOUSE | Slytherin

QUIDDITCH POSITION (IF ANY) | She prefers playing Chaser in Quidditch friendlies, but she’s been reluctant to commit to the Slytherin team due to her extreme focus on finding her brother and fear of letting Orion and the others down.

PREFECT? | Yup!

[ACADEMICS]

BEST CLASS(ES) | Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, History of Magic (thanks to her mum!)

WORST CLASS(ES) | Transfiguration, Divination

OWL SCORES | 

Charms - O

Transfiguration - O

Potions - O

Herbology - O

History of Magic - O

Care of Magical Creatures - O 

Defense Against the Dark Arts - O

[RELATIONSHIPS]

PARTNERS |

Andre — In the beginning, Carewyn was completely and totally dedicated romantically to Andre, having attended the Celestial Ball and gone on two dates with him. In the darkest part of her heart, though she was a bit afraid that she wouldn’t be “exciting” enough for Andre in the long term, given that he’s always been quite popular and outgoing and she’s only really gotten any esteem at Hogwarts for being a Cursebreaker, which she didn’t really ever want to be. Add onto this some tension brought on by the All-Wizard Tournament where Andre got so obsessed with winning that he took help from his girlfriend and then flat-out didn’t even consider helping her in return and Carewyn’s severe trust issues, and soon the two had a lot of trouble communicating properly. When times were good, they had a lot of fun together, but if they ever weren’t, the two just couldn’t seem to connect and fix it as a team. Not long after the All-Wizard Tournament, Carewyn finally told Andre she needed a break, and after a talk, they decided it was better to end their romantic relationship and try just being friends again. Despite the break-up, they both remain incredibly fond of each other and respect each other deeply.

Chiara — In the beginning of my game-playing journey, I had considered matching Carewyn with Chiara in the long-term. Ever since they first met, Carewyn has both identified with and greatly admired Chiara. Even if Chiara has had such a rough life, she remains ever gentle, kind, and forgiving -- everything, in essence, that Carewyn wants and tries to be -- all without seemingly even trying. She’s never expected anything from Carewyn, no matter how big her reputation as a Cursebreaker has grown, and is always supportive of her choices. She even wants to Heal others, even if her werewolf form is so hell-bent on destruction and harm. Chiara, meanwhile, identifies with and admires Carewyn just as much for her nurturing, sensitive heart, and thinks she’s one of the bravest people she knows. She understands Carewyn’s self-loathing from a first-hand perspective since she struggles with it herself, but she can’t understand it in the sense that she sees Carewyn as a truly wonderful, strong person who should be able to love herself just as much as she loves others. Carewyn frequently spends time with Chiara in her Animagus form during the full moon to keep her company, singing sweet songs to brighten her darker nights. A Chiara/Carewyn ending would’ve been what I considered the “Peaceful” ending, AKA the “Soft uwu” ending -- but it also sort of struck me that the two’s personalities and demons were similar enough that there wouldn’t be as much chance for growth for both of them, and there wouldn’t be as much action or engaging contrast in their interactions, as they would both be pretty universally supportive of each other except when they’re blocking the other out “for their own good.” Even if Carewyn doesn’t end up with Chiara romantically, though, she cherishes her as a friend and would do anything to make her happy.

Diego —  This option sort of came out of nowhere, but quickly developed from a crackship into a genuine ship for me, given that like Chiara, Diego would be able to bring some sunlight into Carewyn’s life and be a dependable partner who wouldn’t put high expectations on Carewyn’s shoulders. As for Carewyn, she finds Diego’s flirting absolutely hysterical. Part of this is because Carewyn herself is asexual, but she also just isn’t the sort to actively “flirt” with people. Funnily enough, however, Diego’s charm does end up endearing him to Carewyn anyway, though not for the reason it might charm others! Although she does find his behavior funny, she can still tell he’s sincerely trying to compliment the people he’s talking to, and he’s also amazingly modest despite his clear talent at wizard dueling. Add onto this that he likes dancing, and music-loving!Carewyn has found he’s an all-around pretty fun guy to spend time with. Diego also isn’t turned off in the slightest by Carewyn finding amusement in his flirting, either -- if anything, he finds it rather endearing, as Carewyn is usually so serious and he thinks she should laugh more often. A Diego/Carewyn ending would’ve been what I considered the “Fun” ending, AKA the “Romcom” ending -- but it also felt as though it was an ending that could only come to be and work well in peaceful times, with Diego not being as well-equipped in dealing with Carewyn’s darker spells or in dealing with more serious issues or deep heart-to-heart conversations.

Orion — This, after a lot of deliberation, is the final end-game ship I’ve decided for Carewyn post-Second-Wizarding-War. Orion really wasn’t what Carewyn expected out of a Quidditch captain when they first met in her third year and his fourth, but being related to two Ravenclaws, she actually finds his vague, philosophical bent kind of refreshing. It can still frustrate her sometimes due to her desire to plan ahead, but she sees how his off-kilter affect keeps others on their toes and, therefore, can shift control over a situation his way. (Rather appropriate display of cleverness, for a Slytherin.) Learning his backstory prompts a lot of empathy from Carewyn as well, given that she also didn’t have any real friends before attending Hogwarts, and she greatly admires how wise Orion has become both about himself and about life, even after going through what he’s gone through. After being on his team for that short time, Carewyn’s developed a lot of respect for Orion, and even after leaving, she’s remained very supportive of her house team and especially of Orion as their leader. Even if Carewyn’s not on the team, she keeps up with Quidditch not just out of love for the sport, but because of her desire to see Orion’s team do well. As for Orion, he got the sense they were kindred spirits ever since they first played side-by-side in the match against Hufflepuff and quietly laments that she’s never been a permanent member of his team. He frequently cites that Carewyn has “more fire than a Firecrab” -- although he can find it a bit overpowering at times, her passion was the thing that first sparked his interest in her, and over the years, Orion has come to see her as an equal, admiring her not just for that passion, but for her determination, courage, and selflessness. Orion and Carewyn are also both incredibly insightful, thoughtful, sensitive people who have the tendency to “create a family” out of their friends that they support and nurture in an almost parental manner. After Carewyn left the Slytherin team after the match against Hufflepuff, Orion attempted to persuade Carewyn to rejoin several times over the years due to his lingering fondness for her, even though he’s always respected her decision not to. It’s only after Carewyn returns to the team to help Slytherin win the Quidditch Cup for the first time in ten years and gets injured in the process that Orion learns that he and Carewyn have the same Patronus -- an Abraxan Winged Horse -- which, according to the old wives’ tale, suggests that they are soul mates. By then, however, Orion is set to graduate within weeks and he knows that Carewyn’s life is of course consumed with dealing with the Vaults. And so he decides not to pursue the chance of a relationship solely based on a superstition, however much he regrets his lack of action later. As adults, the two reconnect after the end of the Second Wizarding War and an unconventional romance starts between the two. This endgame ship gives Carewyn both things I wanted for her while shipping Chiara/Carewyn and Diego/Carewyn -- peace and fun -- while also matching her with someone who can bring some balance and positivity to her life and help her let go of her inner demons and yet who she can also defend, protect, and love with all of her fire. And because of their differences -- Orion being so chill, passive, and philosophical and Carewyn being so sensible, perfectionistic, and passionate -- they’ll constantly contrast and challenge each other too.

FRIENDS |

Bill —  The Weasley family overall filled the void in Carewyn’s heart that Jacob left behind, none more so than Bill. Carewyn adores Bill like few others and supports him in his Cursebreaking 110%, to the extent that she probably would help him do it even if it didn’t involve the Cursed Vaults. Bill quasi-“adopts” Carewyn into his family pretty early on, but only grows closer to and fonder of her over time, as she’s the first person who he’s ever been able to lean on the way he always let his siblings lean on him. Bill’s accompanied Carewyn to every single Cursed Vault, and he is her right-hand man when it comes to who she’d pick to help her with something dangerous. By the time Bill’s graduated, the two stand on relatively equal footing despite their age gap, and after the death of Redacted, Bill and Carewyn solidly become each other’s best friend and confidante, leaning on and supporting each other more than anyone else. The rest of Carewyn’s friend group likes to jokingly refer to her and Bill as the “Mum” and “Dad” of the group, given their shared tendency to “parent” the others. Bill was the one who coined the nickname “Carey” for Carewyn, and the rest of her friend group has totally run with it since, none more so than Charlie and Tonks.

Charlie — If Bill is Carewyn’s surrogate big brother, Charlie is Carewyn’s twin brother from another mother. Carewyn loves talking about dragons with Charlie. (They’re just so cool!) Charlie and Carewyn also like playing in Quidditch friendlies together, even if they’re in different houses, and they can often be seen handling Prefect duties together. Ever since Charlie, Bill, and Carewyn went into the Portrait Vault with Ben and Merula, the two Weasley boys and Carewyn have been closer than ever. Charlie and Carewyn in particular have latched onto each other in Bill’s absence, given how close both of them were to him. As adults post-Hogwarts, Charlie frequently crashes on Carewyn’s couch whenever he flies in for a visit from Romania, if his mother doesn’t insist upon him staying at the Burrow. Charlie and Carewyn refer to themselves as a pair as “Fireballs,” because Chinese Fireballs are the only dragons known to live among their own kind -- and so the word represents how Charlie and Carewyn see each other as kindred spirits.

Rowan — Rowan was Carewyn’s first friend at Hogwarts, but recently they’ve sort of been growing apart, due to Rowan’s extreme focus on academics and Carewyn’s extreme focus on finding her brother. For Carewyn, it feels like she’s changed a lot in five years -- starting as the shunned younger sister of the delinquent Jacob Cromwell and growing into a renowned Cursebreaker who has learned so much and made so many different friends and now tries to protect Hogwarts and her fellow students however she can -- while Rowan has rigidly stayed put where she was, remaining as studious and socially awkward as ever. Carewyn doesn’t resent Rowan for this -- on the contrary, she’s always admired Rowan’s single-minded ambition to be the youngest professor in Hogwarts history, damn what anyone else says, and wishes she had the luxury of chasing her own dreams that doggedly. But at the same time, Carewyn wouldn’t have felt good about herself, if she’d stayed the way she’d been when she first arrived. She sees herself as having been weaker, less competent, and less capable back then, while Rowan was always so brilliant and both emotionally and intellectually ahead of everyone else. Rowan and Carewyn have grown into very different people over the last five years, but Carewyn still loves and treasures Rowan like few people in the world as her first real friend and the friend that in some ways she wishes she could be more like.

Talbott  — The two at first didn’t see eye-to-eye at all, given that Talbott tends to hide most of his positive emotions at first and Carewyn hides her negative emotions constantly --- but once the ice broke between them, the two really connected and became good friends. Carewyn loves Talbott’s sense of humor and was also pleasantly surprised to find out what a great writer he is! She often volunteers to read whatever he’s working on, which kind of weirds Talbott out, but he secretly is happy she likes his stuff. When Carewyn wants some peace, she’ll take some time to fly around in her robin Animagus form, and she always loves it when Talbott joins her for a flight around the grounds. Carewyn often sings little tweeted songs the entire way, and even if Talbott teases her for it, he does actually really enjoy it. Post-Hogwarts they work together a lot, as Talbott is an Auror and Carewyn is a lawyer.

Ben — Ben was one of the very first people who Carewyn took under her wing, and even now, she remains a bit protective of him. She was always really proud whenever he expressed more courage and initiative in the past, but with the advent of sixth year, Ben has grown a lot more reckless and blunt, to the extent he could easily get himself into a dangerous situation and get hurt. Carewyn isn’t sure at all how to react to the development, but she doesn’t like it -- not one bit. Ben himself is struggling with how much Carewyn wants to look at him as someone to protect while never letting anyone else do the same for her. Because he’s known her longer than most, he’s seen Carewyn’s own dramatic transformation from a quiet, but overemotional little girl into a micromanaging, fussing, stoic, confident Mama Bear, and as much as he’s glad Carewyn’s gotten more confidence, he laments being on equal footing with his friend and feeling like he could help her as much as she helps him. Once they get their emotions and issues sorted, Ben and Carewyn become closer than ever, to the point that he, Merula, Charlie, and Bill are co-leader of the Circle of Khanna with Carewyn.

Barnaby — At first Carewyn couldn’t help but look down on Barnaby a bit given how dim he could be, but once he agreed to help her, she was surprised by how sincere and sweet he really was. Soon enough she felt her protective instincts kick in, and now she’s incredibly encouraging and supportive of him. These days you can usually see them chatting excitedly about magical creatures together in class -- Carewyn’s really happy to see Barnaby succeeding in Care of Magical Creatures as well as enjoying it, and Barnaby loves it whenever Carewyn sings to the creatures they’re working with in order to soothe them.

Jae — Although their personalities are pretty diametrically opposed, even down to house placement, Carewyn gets along pretty well with Jae. She doesn’t entirely see the appeal of him dealing with shadier merchandise, but he still agreed to help her when she needed to go to Knockturn Alley despite the risks and he’s a pretty sharp, resourceful person. Carewyn mostly just thinks he should push himself more, rather than just be content with where he’s at. After learning how much Jae likes cooking, Carewyn has enjoyed spending time with him in the kitchens whenever she wants to try out a new recipe.

Penny — Carewyn was actually a bit startled when popular Penny first took an interest in her in their first year. In their fifth year, Carewyn grew a bit more protective of Penny with the Portrait Curse capturing her younger sister, Beatrice -- now that Beatrice and Penny have started to grow apart, however, Carewyn now finds herself stuck between them, feeling sympathy for Beatrice’s position but still valuing her friendship with Penny.

Liz — Carewyn and Liz’s friendship is a bit more casual than others, but they’ve really connected well thanks to their shared interest in magical creatures. You can usually see Carewyn hanging out with her, Charlie, and Barnaby in Care of Magical Creatures.

Badeea — Art buddies! Carewyn is very encouraging of Badeea’s artistic talent, and the two love talking about music and Charms together.  

Tonks  — Carewyn greatly admires Tonks’s wish to be an Auror and loves how funny her imitations can be, but more often than not ends up being the butt of one of Tonks’s pranks.

Tulip — Like Tonks, Tulip loves pranking Carewyn. A LOT. Carewyn doesn’t find most of her jokes that funny, but can’t stay that mad at her.

Fred and George — Carewyn has only just met the twins, but she can already tell they’re going to be a handful. But they’re Bill and Charlie’s brothers, so in Carewyn’s mind, they are already family, so she feels a bit of protectiveness toward them.

Cedric — When Carewyn met Cedric, her first reaction was immense pity, given how much attention he’d managed to accrue in his first year alone when he clearly didn’t feel like he deserved it. Cedric reminds Carewyn of herself in first and second year, when she was still so shy and insecure whenever people would talk about her, so the Slytherin Prefect feels a lot of compassion for Cedric. She sort of hopes everyone will lay off him a bit so he can just have a normal school life without so much pressure.

Percy — Carewyn hadn’t thought she’d ever encounter someone that she would consider a stick-in-the-mud...until she met Percy Weasley. His rat Scabbers is kind of cute, though -- when he doesn’t bite!

Skye — Carewyn appreciates all of the help Skye gave her when she first started playing in Quidditch friendlies, but at present, she’s not talking to Skye, thanks to her going off and starting unfounded rumors about the Ravenclaw Beater, Erika Rath, the way that people spread rumors about Carewyn when she first started at Hogwarts. NOT COOL, SKYE. Orion deserves better than to deal with that sort of drama!!

Murphy — Both he and Carewyn are planners, and that’s great...but Murphy only plays Wizard Chess, a game he’s great at and Carewyn is terrible at, and that’s not so great.

Professor McGonagall —  The Deputy Headmistress is by far the professor Carewyn respects above all others. Even if she finds her class very challenging, she gives every assignment her all because of how much she respects McGonagall and wants to impress her. McGonagall herself nurtures a soft spot for Carewyn, even despite her being in Slytherin, due to her strong moral streak and desire to protect others.

Professor Flitwick — Charms is Carewyn’s best and favorite class, and Flitwick is a large reason why. Carewyn also really admires Flitwick’s talent in wizard dueling and is always thrilled to learn new dueling spells from him. Flitwick had a soft spot for Carewyn’s brother Jacob back in the day, since Jacob was in his house, and he’s nurtured a similar soft spot for Carewyn because of her great talent in and enthusiasm for Charms.

Professor Kettleburn — Carewyn adores Care of Magical Creatures and, by extension, Professor Kettleburn. She just really doesn’t want to lose as many body parts or clothing pieces as he has. Kettleburn always enjoys when Carewyn sings to the creatures in his class -- he finds it incredibly creative and entertaining.

Hagrid —  Carewyn loves Fang SO MUCH. And Hagrid too. Just not his rock cakes. And Hagrid...well, Carewyn’s just so tiny, but with such a big heart!

FOES |

Rakepick — Pre-Portrait Vault, Carewyn didn’t trust Rakepick as far as she can throw her, largely because she couldn’t get a good fix on her. Even Snape, who Carewyn clashes with at times, seems to have a wonky code of honor (META: largely because she is a Slytherin and -- more notably -- is at school before she could see how terribly he treats Harry and Neville!), but Carewyn wasn’t even sure if she could ascribe that to Rakepick. Her initial judgment seems to have been justified, given how Rakepick acted in the Portrait Vault -- but Rakepick’s betrayal, which was somehow even worse than Carewyn could’ve imagined, has only served to make the young Slytherin feel less sure on her feet, as she’s started to connect the dots and realize that her comrades may have trusted Rakepick for the some of the same reasons that they’ve trusted Carewyn herself. Rakepick and Carewyn have encouraged the others, but have also never trusted them with their true feelings or motives, and they both led them into danger all because of their desire to get to the Cursed Vaults. Although they pursued the Vaults for different reasons, they were both relentless, resourceful, stubborn and proud in their pursuit -- and in enlisting others to help them in that pursuit, they were both responsible for every terrible thing that ensued from it.

Ismelda — Carewyn really doesn’t like her intense interest in pain and suffering -- like...at all. Even if she might put on a strong, unflappable face, Carewyn is way too big of a bleeding heart to enjoy death or pain. Ismelda also considering using a Love Potion on Barnaby soured Carewyn to her quite a bit, though Carewyn is glad Ismelda changed her mind and they were able to come to some sort of a truce.

Merula — Their rivalry was much more intense when they were younger and Merula was actively bullying Ben and Rowan -- nowadays Carewyn just uses her help when it’s useful and ignores her when she’s being her usual awful self. After seeking counsel from her mother and Rowan, Carewyn was even nice enough to give Merula her spot on the Frog Choir, even if she’d really wanted it herself. Although Rowan staying constant and unchanging throughout the years is something Carewyn admires in her, however, she absolutely loathes the quality when it’s expressed in Merula. At the end of year 5, she and Merula came to something of a truce, but with the start of their sixth year, Merula’s taken a couple giant steps back in her evolution, which greatly frustrates and disappoints Carewyn. Carewyn wouldn’t ever call Merula her friend, but...well, she’d still been happy to see Merula had actually been able to prove her a little wrong and become a slightly better person. It’s awful to see her regress after going through that slight improvement.

Professor Dumbledore — Although Dumbledore is an amazingly powerful wizard with a very amiable attitude, over the years Carewyn has gotten very, very frustrated with how much she’s told to stop trying to deal with the Vaults. On top of that, the Headmaster of Hogwarts frequently obfuscates things a bit too much for Carewyn’s liking. She can sense that he is trying to be helpful, but that in a way makes things all the more frustrating, as she finds his methods so phenomenally misguided. Carewyn tries to conceal just how low her opinion of the man has fallen, but in truth she’s become rather resentful of him.

Emily —  Oh gosh. Given how fond Carewyn is of Bill and how ridiculously condescending and prone to bullying Emily can be, Carewyn understandably despises her. She hates her more than she ever hated Merula.

PETS (IF ANY) | Mimi (orange tabby cat), Sir Robin the Brave (toad), Lune (bat), Balto (Cruppy)

ANIMAL PRESERVE (IF ANY) | Wicket the Niffler; Tumnus the Porlock; Arjuna the Abraxan; Belle the Fairy; Esmeralda the Welsh Green; Leila the Thestral, Peter Quill the Knarl; Apollo the Hippogriff; Barnaby Jr. the Bowtruckle

[caffeine-catastrophe]

New Fic! Go the Distance

A/N: I have been working on this idea for over almost two years now. In my spare time, I alternate between writing this story and Don't You Stop Believing, and I've kept this a secret from all of my writing friends since I've gotten the idea. I was going to wait until I finished it before I started posting, but I can't wait any longer, and it's far enough along anyways. Updates will be sporadic and work around my schedule, but I hope you'll stick around for the ride.

Go the Distance

Three days, four million dollars, and a cross-country road trip that will change their lives for good. OR: The Dreyar Grant for Brighter Futures is a prestigious scholarship granted to only the most deserving of candidates, but even miracles don't come without a price.

I have often dreamed of a far-off place... ...And a voice keeps saying this is where I'm meant to be...

At first, Lucy thinks she might be drunk.

"Excuse me?" She stammers, pressing her cellphone closer to her ear and stepping regretfully over the shards of her favourite wine glass.

"Miss Heartfilia, we're pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a recipient of the Dreyar Grant for Brighter Futures," comes the sweet voice on the other side.

"We'd like you to come in for a brief meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss the details of the grant. That is if you're interested in accepting the offer," the woman on the phone sounds like she's trying not to laugh.

"Y-Yes! Of course! I'm honoured, thank you so much! I'll be there," Lucy manages to choke out.

"Wonderful! I'll have the details of the meeting sent to you via email. I look forward to meeting you, Miss Heartfilia. Bye now," the phone call ends with a click, and Lucy forgoes the mess on the floor to wander shakily over to her bed. She perches at the foot in dazed silence, nearly startling herself out of her skin when her phone beeps a few moments later.

Dear Miss Lucy Heartfilia,

Congratulations! We have reviewed your outstanding application regarding the Dreyar Grant for Brighter Futures, and we are pleased to announce that you have been selected as one of four lucky recipients. You are eligible for this grant of up to one million dollars, provided you are in the possession of a piece of government-issued ID confirming your status as a citizen of Fiore.

Please bring a legal piece of picture ID, as well as proof of your successful completion of secondary school to your scheduled appointment.

The meeting will be held in the company's Magnolia branch in Conference Room 1407 at 2 PM sharp on Thursday, July 28. Please do not be late.

We look forward to meeting you!

Sincerely,

Mirajane Strauss Secretary Dreyar Industries

She looks over the details once, twice, three times, trying to convince herself that this isn't just another alcohol-induced hallucination. She is not going to find herself sprawled out on the bathroom floor of a sketchy club somewhere tonight. She lies there, staring up at the blank ceiling of her cramped apartment until she finally accepts that the springs of the mattress digging into her spine are entirely too uncomfortable to be a dream.

"Holy shit."

---

"Alright, deep breaths. You can do this," Lucy mutters herself the next day, straightening her pencil skirt and clutching at the envelope in her lap. Balanced on a bench outside of Room 1407, she is a good half hour early and exudes the air of a chicken in a nugget factory. The girl perched gingerly beside her seems equally on edge, smoothing down her pretty red hair now and then and tapping the toe of her crisp heels on the pristine carpet. She looks about as green as Lucy feels.

"Are you here to meet Ms. Strauss as well?" Lucy asks hesitantly, trying to relieve some of the unbearably awkward tension. The girl lets out a startled squeak, tensing as if she is unused to being spoken to. She turns uncertainly towards Lucy, brushing aside the scarlet curtain to reveal delicate features and a pair of wide brown eyes.

"Yes, I am," the girl answers in a low voice, glancing around the hallway as if she might be disturbing those in the rooms nearby.

"You applied for the scholarship?" Lucy tries again gently. The girl simply nods. "That's really cool. Honestly, I was so shocked when they called me. I applied for the grant, but I didn't actually think I'd get it, y'know?" She continues casually. "My name's Lucy, by the way," she introduces herself with an encouraging smile. The other girl finally responds, rewarding Lucy for her efforts with a slow smile that seems to light up the whole hallway. Her gracefully lifted hand shakes Lucy's with a grip so strong she's pretty certain she can hear her own bones cracking.

"I'm Erza," the girl tells her, and Lucy mumbles a vague response. She's too busy being stunned that someone so demure in appearance could probably snap her like a toothpick. Erza, oblivious to Lucy's internal monologue, seems like she might continue the conversation when she spots something over Lucy's shoulder. Her brown eyes widen in panic, and she clamps her mouth shut, dropping her gaze back to her hands. Confused, Lucy turns to see a man approaching from the direction of the elevators. Average height, athletic build — probably the brooding type, she assesses; dark hair and cold blue eyes. He's good looking, but not enough to render someone speechless. Besides, Lucy is pretty sure that there's more to Erza than what meets the eye — she doesn't seem the type to lose her mind over a guy.

The man meets Lucy's gaze with an equally calculating stare, sizing her up as he comes to a halt just in front of their designated meeting place. He glances towards Erza, and Lucy is surprised to see his eyebrows shoot up and his gaze soften minutely in recognition. At his reaction, Erza shrinks back, practically cowering behind Lucy in the most inconspicuously conspicuous way possible. She isn't exactly sure how the two know each other, but Erza is clearly too sweet to be mixed up with someone so standoffish. She clears her throat abruptly to gain his attention, rolling her eyes when he simply raises an eyebrow and levels her with an unimpressed stare.

"Dreyar Grant recipient?" she settles on raising her own eyebrows and matching his expression. He looks to be a man of few words, and while Lucy can respect that she can't say she's too impressed with his attitude. That is, until the newcomer rubs the back of his neck with a boyish grin and his demeanor shifts from cold businessman to sheepish teenager in a split second.

"Yeah, I guess you are too, huh? I'm Gray," He introduces himself brightly.

"Lucy," she responds with an incredulous shake of the head.

"Sorry I walked over here and didn't say anything like a creep," he chuckles ruefully, leaning against a nearby wall. He leans in conspiratorially, "If I'm being honest, I'm kind of hungover. I told my friends about the grant last night and they insisted on taking me out to celebrate. We got a little carried away."

Lucy chuckles sympathetically, amazed at this guy's natural charm when he isn't being all silent and moody. Even Erza's mouth quirked up into an amused smile. Gray seems about to continue when a flurry of pink and white comes barreling out of nowhere, crashing into him with a muffled curse.

"Shit, I am so sorry man, I got really lost on the way here and I thought I was going to be late," the stranger pants, regaining his balance. Lucy tries not to stare at what must be the final member of their scheduled meeting. The boy's hair is dyed a shocking pink, sticking up in all directions and flopping carelessly into his green eyes. Sharp, angular features, muscular build, shorter than Gray by a couple of inches. Familiar, too. I've definitely seen this guy before, Lucy thinks, resisting the urge to smack herself when her dad-joke addled-brain responds, yeah, in your dreams.

"I'm Natsu," he tells them cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the way Lucy is still trying to remember how she knows him while he shakes her hand. "Sorry about scaring you guys like that," he apologizes, "I thought I was going to be late, so I drove here and almost got pulled over for a speeding ticket, and then I thought I was getting followed by a cop so I had to drive the rest of the way like ten miles under." The newcomer rambles on for another few minutes, filling the stale air with his chatter. It's like he's got a built-in oxygen tank, Lucy thinks, marvelling at his sheer ability to go five sentences without a breath. She gets so caught up in his animated conversation that she forgets to be nervous.

And then the door to Room 1407 swings open, and Lucy realizes she might've accidentally swallowed a golf ball with her cereal this morning. The woman standing in the doorway is gorgeous, with big blue eyes and long silver hair that curls down her shoulders. Lucy is usually comfortable in her own skin, but a curling iron has never been her friend and something about this woman makes her adjust the sleeves of her freshly-ironed blouse self-consciously. She sneaks a glance at the other three. Erza is deathly pale, subtly tugging at her crimson locks with shaking fingers. Gray's icy, uncaring facade has returned, his shoulders rigid as he shoves his hands in his pockets. Only Natsu seems unfazed — his posture is as relaxed as ever and the easy grin still tugs at his lips. He catches her eye, winking, and Lucy can almost hear his voice in her head.

Don't worry, we've got this.

The woman finally speaks. "I'm Mirajane Strauss," she introduces herself with a sweet smile. "Won't you come in?"

---

Thanks for reading! Please leave me a comment; your thoughts, a moment you found particularly interesting! There's nothing better than posting something you're truly excited about and getting to see all the reactions!

Part 2

[ddaeng-angmoh]

Realm of Dreams

He promised that he would never leave you and that he would get you out of the darkness. But at the end of it all, he had lied because what he was meant he could never step into the light and give you the love you deserved.

Date: April 4th

Est Word Count: 1,800

Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Supernatural, Romance

~~

 Jimin pulled at his shirt, letting the feeling of the cotton swallow him. His feelings tore away at him, he was scared, he was worried, and he was not ready to let go. He had walked a long way with his human. You had been a relief for his grief-ridden days, a way to let go of the disappointment that he had so willingly accepted as his own way. Your beautiful eyes sparkled at him as you teetered on your feet, looking for validation. He wanted to give it to you, he wanted you to be sure of what you were doing. He wanted to encourage you to leave his realm, the underworld was no place for a human after all. But, he couldn't help the selfish urge to hold you close, and to never let go. He had spent his days in such a lonely daze. Every day he would eat, then lay on the ground and stare at the ceiling of his room and wonder if there could ever be anything more. His records would scratch their way into his ears, shaking his inner self and reminding him of his inner darkness. He never had an escape, he never had a way to leave what he was behind.

 In the end, he was a coward.

 "You'll visit me right?" Your voice shook him out of his musing and made his plump lips pull into a morose smile. He knew what your expectations were. You wanted him to follow you to the human realm and live with him. You had told him already that you were willing to let him live with you, you had coloured a picture of him with his own room and a set of CDs. You told him that music had grown so far that he would be astounded by what there was. Jimin had felt a mournful acceptance when he listened to you carry on about movie nights and eating out. He had let you explain what your favourite places were and why he would like them too, and it had all torn him apart.

 "You're asking a lot." His fingers gripped at the striped cloth, and his eyes dwelt on your form, trying to carve You into his head. "Monsters are here because we were banished. Our peoples have never gotten along peacefully." Jimin couldn't find it in him to tell you the truth, that he could never follow you through the arches and into the wooded paths beyond his realm. He could see the leaves shaking in the background. He could smell the taunting crisp spring that he knew was lying in wait past the rocks. Everything was there to remind him that he had failed you in more ways than you knew.

 "That doesn't matter, you know that." You said, your forehead pulled taunt as you took his hands into your own, pulling his trembling digits from his ratty shirt. Jimin could see the hope in your eyes, and the confidence that what was between you was more than he could deny. The relationship between You and him had grown strong. It had been a long time since he had woken up to find you staring down at him. He could still feel the leaves sticking to his skin when he remembered the pile had napped on. Jimin knew that his meeting with You was by chance. You could have walked through any walkway in his realm, but you walked right to him instead. You could have found any monster to guide you home, but you had asked him instead.

 "It doesn't, does it," Jimin said with a shake in his voice. He could feel his lips shake as he allowed himself to indulge himself. He pulled you close, his fingers resting on your hips. He felt assurance in feeling you against him, he knew that as long as he felt you he could never fade away. "But it does to others." He hadn't known how much he liked you at first. When he had just met you, after all, you were just a confused human that was holding a bag of cookies, strands of a long forgotten web clinging to its cloth. You hadn't been able to comprehend anything that had occurred, and he found that so expected that he hadn't cared about learning about you. He may have been a kind soul, but he didn't care for the mortals that had left him in the cold caves of the underworld. But eventually, that had changed.  Jimin couldn't say when he realized he had fallen for you. It could have been when You had slipped in the snow of his realms mountains and smiled at him, willing to face the embarrassment with a glee he had long forgotten. Perhaps it had been when you had taken a crying monster child into your arms, assuring the young boy that he would be home for supper. All he knew was that when he had laid on the floor on his living room with you, listening to his music, he had felt affection for you. Your eyes were closed, and you were so relaxed, so content. He could feel everything from you that he had lost so long ago. It had been a long time since he had closed his eyes and felt happy since he had seen anything but the darkness. When he had seen you so vulnerable and open, he knew he was in love. But that hadn't been the moment, he knew it wasn't. He knew because You had pulled at his heart from the moment he saw Your gentle smile. There was never a chance he wouldn't have fallen for you. Jimin knew that the path he had been on with you was always meant to happen. He was always supposed to guide you home, and he had always been the one that was fated to love the beautiful You.

 "You never cared about them before," Your eyes fluttered as you pulled away from him. Jimin's fingers curled into the empty air as if trying to catch Your warmth from the space. He could see your fear. "You promised you would never leave me." Your voice cracked and he felt his heart break along with it. You were so scared of being alone, you had confessed that to him from the start. He had understood that from the beginning, he had understood the cold that clasped itself around your soul. Jimin had promised You that he would never leave you behind, that he would always stand by you. But, it had been a foolish promise from the start. "You're leaving with me, Jimin, you promised."

 "I will." Jimin nodded diligently. He wanted to pretend he was scared, that he didn't fear what would happen when he followed you. Monsters never left the underworld, if he followed you the way he promised, he didn't know if he would simply cease to exist. He had only screams of warning. He could feel centuries of wisdom telling him to stay where he belonged. Yet in the end, he knew he could only truly live if he was by your side. "I won't break my promise." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to push himself to ignore the look of distrust you were giving him.

 You had every right to be wary. Only hours before he had pulled you close and asked what you truly wanted. If he ever actually meant enough to you that he could be convinced to follow. You had read the conversation correctly, it was a feeble plea to be released from his purpose. You had looked him down and told him what you wanted. You wanted him, no matter what. Jimin couldn't say no to that, he couldn't say no to you. If their roles were reversed he knew that he would have said the same, and challenged you to pursue the future you wanted.  In the end, he knew Your dreams of the future meant nothing, and that his desires had nothing to do with what would happen. Moments after walking into the mortal realm he would lose everything he had ever cared about, he would lose you.

 "I don't want to lose you." You were stubborn, so stubborn. Jimin loved it. He loved watching your eyes steel themselves as you made up your mind. He adored the way you helped yourself, and how you refused to let your dreams pass you by. You had an inner strength that he craved. He knew that he was stronger when he was by your side. But the result of his strength was your weakness. You had spent so long alone and fending for yourself. You had forgotten what it meant to love and he knew that you loving him was only a weakness. It gave you something to miss, and someone to lose.  However, that was the game. To love one must give themselves to pain, and to the reality that never lasts forever. His love for you was authentic, and it was real. But, that meant that it would never last forever. It meant that one day it would fade away and disappear. Nothing good ever lasted, and he supposed that made it all the sweeter. He cherished every moment with you because he knew that it was all he would have.

 "Never, my love." Jimin kissed your forehead, his lips red from how roughly he had bitten them. His stress had blossomed within him so strongly that even his light skin had hit a new shade of pale. "I will never let you go, no matter what happens." Despite his hold on you, he felt as though he was alone. The arch taunted him, reminding him of the frailty of his love. Monsters and humans were never meant to be. He could love her as fiercely as he wanted but that could change nothing.

 "Thank you." You shook against him, feeling the end of it all. Your adventure was so close to ending, all you had to do was to walk through the arches. And so you did. Jimin watched you walk past the boundary and smile at him so sweetly, then he wondered how such a being could exist. If monstrosities existed, then it only made sense that such a beautiful being like you could exist as well.

 "I love you." Jimin closed his eyes, feeling tears warm his skin, running the length of his cheeks. He couldn't forget the expectant look on your face when he walked after you, and he could never forget your screams that followed. In the end, he held you, in the end, he never broke your promise.  But, in the end, you had lost him because a ghost like him could never exist in the plains above.

[smallblueandloud]

TV Show Meme

pick 5 shows, then answer the following questions. don’t cheat. tag 10 (or however many) peeps.

i was tagged by @everythinghappens-love just now and @asthewheelwills several weeks ago (i’m very sorry, it’s been... busy).

(also, i was going to do emmys edition, but i’ve seen at least one full episode of a grand total of... two emmy-nominated shows, so uh. not gonna happen, lol.)

1. Doctor Who

2. Agents of SHIELD

3. The West Wing

4. Frasier

5. The Good Place

1. Who is your favorite character in 2?

oof. i mean, i’ll pretend this is a hard question, but daisy. hands down. i mean, not only is she gorgeous, she’s really unconventionally smart, super powerful, and full of longing to have a family.

(also, she’s ridiculously easy to write)

2. Who is your least favorite character in 1?

um. i mean, if we’re talking about davies!who, i don’t really... have a least favorite character? i love them all a lot, and they’re all super nuanced and it’s just... really wonderful

if we’re talking all of nuwho, either missy or river song. nothing against them personally, their writing was just. really horrible.

3. What is your favorite episode of 4?

the inkeepers. it’s hands down the funniest episode in the whole show.

i hunted for a gif of any moment and couldn’t find one, so i’ll leave you with a quote:

Frasier: All right, stop it! Get a grip. You're not being asked to do anything that none of us hasn't done before in our own kitchens in our own homes! Now quick, Niles, kill five eels!

Niles: Wait, wait! What?

Frasier: I'm serious! Every restaurant critic in Seattle is out there and they all want anguille, so start killing eels!

Niles: Wait, wait. How do you suggest I do that?

Frasier: How do I know? You're the chef. Throw a toaster in the damn tank for all I care!

[a few minutes later]

Frasier: Not to worry, Gil, the eels are on their way.

Gil: Our mouths are watering, Frasier.

Frasier: Our chef is in the process of...  

The lights flicker, a humming sound is heard from the kitchen.

Frasier: ...frying them now.

4. What is your favorite season of 5?

probably season 2. i don’t know why, but the idea of the six of them being a team in the afterlife when there’s no one else to help them is... i don’t know. i really like it, can’t tell you why lol. (oh, and the montage of the different attempts is my favorite scene in any tv show, ever.)

5. Who is your favorite couple in 3?

josh/donna, obviously :D

6. Who is your favorite couple in 2?

i’m gonna cheat and put my favorite ship from aos, which is, as all of y’all know, fitzskimmons.

i have nothing to say except that i love my babies

7. What’s your favorite episode of 1?

turn left! definitely, for sure, always and forever.

god, it’s like someone wrote, combined, and filmed the dhr and donna fics of my dreams.

8. What is your favorite episode of 5?

it’s a tie between 2x10 (best self) and 3x07 (the worst possible use of free will). i turn on the former whenever i’m feeling down/bored/sick, and the latter... look, i’m cheleanor trash, okay? moving on.

(no gifs because i’m starting to feel guilty for the length of this post)

9. What is your favorite season of 2?

s3, because it has the most clips of normal team life (from what i remember, haven’t gotten there in the rewatch i’m doing for the fsk rewrite yet lol). also, the storylines were interesting and they actually put time into developing the friendships, which i’m missing a lot these days.

10. How long have you watched 1?

HA. huh. uh. four-ish years, i think? yeah. it was around the time that i discovered queen, and i would play bohemian rhapsody on repeat as i read fanfic (which means that now, sometimes, i hear a certain queen song and am hit with a very strong, very specific urge to read 10rose fic for the next 72 hours.)

11. How did you become interested in 3?

my mom made me watch it at first, and i was hooked by the first episode. it’s just... so smart, and so fast, and i love it very much.

12. Who is your favorite actor in 4?

is this even a question? david hyde pierce. obviously.

13. Which you prefer, 1, 2 or 5?

wow, you really just... went for my three favorite shows, huh? i guess as a measure of overall quality, the good place. for characters, agents of shield. and for plot, definitely doctor who.

14. Which show have you seen more episodes, 1 or 3?

doctor who! although-

as it turns out, i have watched 100 doctor who episodes, exactly. (go me!) on the other hand, i’ve watched 68 episodes of the west wing. so that answer’ll change pretty soon, lol.

15. If you could be anyone from 4, who would you be?

frasier? frasier? you want me to become someone from frasier?? uh... okay, uh...

niles, i guess? just because his apartment is... truly magnificent, lol. also he gets to marry daphne

16. Would a crossover between 3 and 4 work?

surprisingly, yes? i think this is the best combination on the list, actually. frasier knows... uh... i don’t know, sam? he went to school in *googles frantically* new jersey, so that could work?

honestly, i have no idea, but i need toby ‘i am a know-it-all’ zeigler and frasier ‘i am a pompous ass’ crane to be in a room together. it would be hilarious.

17. Pair two characters in 1 who would make unlikely but strangely okay couple.

clara/yaz. i will not be taking questions at this time.

18. Overall, which show has the best storyline, 3 or 5?

oh, oh man. you had to choose the two shows with the most cohesive storylines?

sorry, tww, but i’m gonna have to give it to the good place. the storyline and pacing are *chef’s kiss* divine.

19. Which has a better theme music, 2 or 4?

uh? i don’t even think that’s a choice, since frasier barely has any theme music and anyway, i hate letting frasier crane win at anything (lol). agents of shield!

i’m tagging @paperairplanesopenwindows, @aethersea, @florchis, @skyler10fic, @cassiesinsanity, and *flounders* @nereb-and-dungalef, just based on who i’ve been talking to recently. feel free to ignore this, or, conversely, if i didn’t tag you, feel free to pretend i did!

[doodlelolly0910]

Love Don’t Cost a Thing

Summary:  Emma thought she was living her happily ever after until she wasn't. Now Neal is living his with someone else and Emma has a plus one option to the wedding from hell but no one to fill the space. Enter Killian Jones, devastatingly handsome male escort and the answer to Emma's problems. She hires him for the wedding because he's the safe choice. The temporary choice. Falling in love wasn't on the invoice.

You can also find this on AO3 and FFN!

A/N: Hello! I come bearing new fic! So this was supposed to be a oneshot. I wrote it as a oneshot. The fic clearly had other ideas and it is now an MC lol. So here we are! Super huge ginormous thank you to @superchocovian​ who was just a the most fantastic beta and a wonderfully patient person. She thought she was signing up to beta a oneshot and she got me instead haha. And another super huge thank you to my wondertwin @artistic-writer​ who has made the most AMAZING picset for this fic that I could have ever wanted. It is seriously fantastic and I nearly squealed her ear off about it. I honestly love it so so so much. And she was an awesome second set of eyes on this project and frequent calmer of my anxieties and just an overall wonderful, lovely person. Thank you in advance for reading this fic! I hope you love it as much as I do. It's been my pet project for quite a while now and I'm so excited to share it with y'all. Watch for updates every Friday, and you can yell at me on here if you want. Away we go!

Chapter 1

Ten months.

Ten measly fucking months is all it took for Neal Cassidy to send out wedding invitations after he tossed Emma aside like yesterday's newspaper. Of course it wasn't too much of an asshole move to send an invitation to the mother of your child when you'd found a new love, especially if said child was going to be in the wedding. Was it? Her fury at the envelope grew as she decided yes it was an asshole move and she took another generous drink from the glass in front of her.

It still stung, even three months later, as she sat drowning herself in her sorrows at the bar on what would have been their ten year anniversary. To add insult to injury, the one he'd sent to her was addressed to Miss Emma Swan and Guest, written on the front in elegant gold script. She scoffed and tossed back her drink, fingering the edge of the envelope absent mindedly.

Miss Emma Swan and Guest.

Neal knew. He fucking knew she didn't have anybody. He knew how hard it was for her to let people in. He sent her the invitation just to rub it in her face. Just another message that she'd never find happiness. She conjured an image of his smug smile in her mind's eye and felt the sudden urge to find him and slap it off his face. She signalled to the bartender for another drink instead of doing something stupid, like driving to New York City from the Boston hotel bar she sat in and punching her ex. Repeatedly. She sipped slowly this time at the vodka cranberry in her hand, newly delivered by the petite blonde behind the counter. In reality, she wanted to be slamming back shots of whiskey, but self preservation told her that advertising her heartbreak in such a way would be ill advised. So she sipped and turned the envelope over in her unoccupied hand again and again, looking at its broken seal and debating whether or not to open it again for what felt like the millionth time since she'd gotten it those short few months ago. She couldn't believe this was happening. Couldn't believe he would have the solid fucking steel balls he must have upgraded to since he left her to send her this after all they'd been through. She had been with him for nine years, since she was seventeen and naïve, a runaway foster kid with no family, no friends, and no place to go, all the while planning their future together as she thought he had been. They'd met when she tried to steal a car that he'd already stolen, and they kept up the Bonnie and Clyde act to survive. It stung the first time she had asked why he hadn't proposed and he told her neither of them were ready for that. They'd only been together a year and they were still having fun. At least she wasn't alone. So Emma carried on, and didn't ask questions. They were happy. Not long after that, she'd gotten pregnant. Neal had wanted her to get an abortion, but Emma couldn't do it. She was eighteen, he was twenty four, and she followed his lead in most things, but she just couldn't bring herself to do that. They'd settled on adoption. They got real jobs, a real apartment, and everything was okay for awhile. But once Emma heard the strong cries as her son was freed from her womb and she laid eyes on him for the first time, she couldn't give him up either. She and Neal had fought about it. He'd even left for three whole weeks when she wouldn't relent. But he came back, saying he didn't want to be like his father and walk out on his son. Emma quashed the urge to remind him he'd already done that and welcomed him back with open arms. She knew what it was like to grow up without parents; she didn't want the same for her child. He still didn't want to marry her, citing the need to work on their relationship and being parents. She accepted that. At least she wasn't alone. The next few years seemed to fly by as Emma threw herself into her little family. Henry wanted for nothing, and Neal even ended up being a really good dad. But they fought a lot. Bills piled up and Emma worked two jobs while Neal struggled to hold down one most of the time. He would work whenever a job offer came to him, but he never really looked for one. And they never seemed to last long. Emma made enough as an office clerk for a private investigator by day and a waitress by night to keep them afloat. Around that time, Robert Gold, Neal’s estranged father, had come back into Neal's life and wanted a relationship with him and his grandson. Neal rejected his requests, and Emma always tried to support him, whichever way he wanted to go with it. Emma asked one night that had been mostly calm and normal if he wanted to get married. He dismissed the idea easily, telling her he wanted to be more stable in a career, that way they could afford the ring and wedding they deserved.  Emma told him it didn't matter to her, but dropped the subject. They could wait to get married. At least she wasn't alone. In the end, one of Neal's biggest complaints was that she never had time for him (or Henry, as he had callously tossed in her face a time or two during some of their more heated spats) and he needed more from a relationship. Ironically, he started seeing his father regularly and looking for work more frequently around this time as well, stretching his own time at home thin. Nonetheless, she tried harder, losing contact with her friends and even her foster brother David, that she'd reconnected with when Henry was born, in favor of making more time for her boyfriend and son. It never seemed to be enough. Tamara Herr had time for Neal though. The caramel skinned beauty lived right across the street from their apartment building and was decidedly everything Emma was not. So, when Emma caught them together in their bed after coming home early one day to celebrate her promotion, all she could do was laugh as her heart simultaneously closed up tight and shattered into a thousand pieces. And now they were getting married. Neal got the girl of his dreams that it was clear Emma wasn't and a relationship with his father that came with his very own trust fund. And she was alone. "Bad night?" Emma jumped at the sound of a British baritone voice coming suddenly from behind her. Her face pinched in a scowl and she turned to make sure whoever this interloper was knew she wasn't in the mood for company. She looked up as a tall, well built frame placed itself in the seat next to her. Emma was almost shocked off her stool when her gaze meet his. She wasn't expecting someone so... well, gorgeous, if she was being honest. Dark chocolate hair fell just over his forehead, dusting his quirked brows. Bright ocean blue eyes watched her with mild amusement, studying her as she was him. His pink, plush lips were framed by dark, neatly trimmed facial hair that was interspersed with auburn whiskers here and there that she almost would have missed if the light hadn't caught it just right. There was a single onyx stone in his right ear that matched his cufflinks on the lighter gray dress shirt that he wore under a steel grey suit. The shirt had several buttons undone, exposing his chest and the thick smattering of umber hair across it. Realizing she'd probably been staring too long, she reset her mouth into a hard line and tilted her head back away from him. "It has been a pretty shitty night. That's usually how one finds themselves drinking at a bar near eleven o'clock alone," she replied stiffly, hoping her tone and words would prevent him from pursuing whatever this interaction was between them. It seemed, though, that the man only took it as an invitation. "I could tell. If you stared at that envelope any harder, it may burst into flames, love," he said with a chuckle. Emma's scowl deepened. "Not your love," she huffed. "Not anyone's love," she added before she could stop herself. Her cheeks flushed at the admission and she hid her face in her drink, letting her golden hair fall in front of it as she dipped her head down.Maybe she’d had enough to drink. To her surprise, the man reached out and tucked a good portion of her tresses behind her ear so he could look at her face. He continued to amaze her when she saw no pity in his expression, just a glimmer of understanding. "I can't imagine anyone not wanting to love someone as beautiful as you," he murmured. Emma wrinkled her nose at the over the top declaration and he cracked a grin in response. "Too much?" "That was epically cheesy. Does that line really work on anyone?" She took another sip from her glass and felt her eyebrows climb her forehead. "It wasn't a line at all, love. But I have plenty of those as well, if you'd like to hear." He nodded towards her, almost begging her to pick up the gauntlet he'd thrown. She remained silent, not wanting to further encourage this conversation, but feeling strangely uplifted by his presence. So he continued on. "Here, how much would you say a polar bear weighs?" Emma gave him a funny look, contemplating where he might be going with this. "I'm not sure, like a thousand, two thousand pounds?" she guessed. He looked positively gleeful that she'd played along. "So you might say then... enough to break the ice? Killian Jones, at your service." He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. Emma rolled her eyes and groaned, drawing her hand back but still feeling the sear of his lips just below her knuckles. "I can't believe I just walked right into that one." She shook her head with a laugh.

“It's a gift of mine, leading women places they don't expect to go,” he said, his voice low and sultry, and oh, man, he was definitely flirting with her. “Would you like to go somewhere else unexpected?” He swiped his tongue over his lower lip, his darkened gaze holding hers.

"Sorry, pal. You just aren't my type," she lied, her breath catching in her chest as she flitted her eyes back to the bar and her drink. Truth was, she was far more attracted to him than she'd been to... well, anyone really. More attracted to him than she had been to Neal, that was for sure. "Darling, for the right price, I'm anyone's type," he replied, his words hanging heavily in the air between them. Emma's eyes widened at the implication, snapping back to his face, and Killian's own blue orbs smoldered into her gaze, waiting for her reaction. They stared at one another in silent challenge, willing the other to expand on the proverbial elephant that now sat quite noticeably in the room. Curiosity won out and Emma licked her lips before responding, flushing slightly when the handsome man tracked the movement with his eyes. "Are you telling me you're a hooker?" She hissed under her breath, darting her eyes around the room as if someone might be listening, and Killian grinned at her. "Please, love. 'Hooker' sounds so crass. Not to mention, illegal." His grin grew larger as she sighed in frustration. "Well isn't this just my damn luck. Sitting alone, wallowing over my ex-boyfriend's happiness wasn't enough, I suppose. Now the one guy who even talks to me is only here to make a quick buck." She scoffed and shoved the envelope violently into her clutch purse before digging out some cash to leave for her drinks. His careful eyes watched her flustered movements before he reached out to loosely grip her wrist. She froze, unsure of whether or not she should pull away. He stroked the pad of his thumb over the small flower tattoo nestled at the base of her palm, prompting her to look up at him again. She did, ignoring the electric sparks shooting up her arm at the contact. "For what it's worth, love, I would have approached you whether I was on the clock or not." He brought her hand up and placed a soft kiss to the place his thumb had just been smoothing, never breaking eye contact, causing her breath to hitch again involuntarily. She cursed herself mentally for acting like a hormonal mess. "How many girls has that bullshit worked on today? Bet your bank account is padded with the results of pick up lines like that," she spat, snatching her hand back from his gentle grip and standing abruptly. She was more embarrassed than she could recall feeling in recent memory and she hated it. Hated how he'd gotten under her skin so quickly. Killian seemed to accept her retreat gracefully and smiled softly at her. He stood as well and reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulling free a small black card. Boldly, he reached down and slipped it into the gap of her clutch, not even bothering to try to hand it to her, knowing she wouldn't take it. "Think what you'd like, Swan, but that was also not a line. That's the absolute truth. And should you change your mind about some company, well, you have my card." Emma stood in shock. She could feel her face reddening further. Then the bastard winked and smoothly turned, walking away to find his next companion. And that is when it hit her that he'd used her last name.

It had to be a coincidence, or she must have misheard him, because why the hell, how the hell, would he have known her name?

Emma's cheeks were still flaming as she stormed out to her car. She wasted little time in jamming her keys into the ignition, making the little yellow Volkswagen rumble to life and peel out of the parking lot in haste. How dare he. Men like Killian Jones were the absolute worst, preying on women who were vulnerable for their own gain. The thought that he'd recognized her as vulnerable made her stomach turn. She should have never let her guard down so low. She hadn't even been aware that she'd done it. How often did she have her weaknesses on display? she mused as she waited at a red stoplight. She slammed her open palm into the steering wheel. In the five minutes she spent in Jones's company, he'd managed to peel back her layers and reach her in a way that she hadn't been reached in years. If she didn't know any better, she may have even admitted that she felt a connection to Killian Jones. Damn him. It was all an act, she reminded herself. He was skilled in the art of flirtation, ready to seduce and take advantage of every sad sob story that would make him a few bucks. A loud honk from behind her jerked her from her thoughts and she realized the light was green. Putting her foot on the gas, all she was focused on was getting home. No more thoughts of handsome male hookers--or shitty exes, for that matter. Except that was all she could think about as she parked in her designated space and made her way into the apartment building. She kept a brisk pace as if she could physically outrun her train of thought. She was glad that Henry was staying with Neal this week, not expected back until the day after tomorrow. She loved her kid, but he was too damn smart for an eight year old. He would have picked up on her distressed state in no time. She didn't bother with picking up the house that night, only dropping her purse on the table in the entryway, stripping away her shoes and clothes as she made her way to the room and slipping into an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants for bed. As she slipped under the covers and settled on her pillow, the last thought that ran through her mind before sleep consumed her was of Killian Jones. The next morning was no better. She scowled at herself for waking up with Killian's blue eyes dancing through her head and decided she needed a distraction. Usually, she and Henry would spend their Saturdays in a park or a library, or the occasional museum, but he wasn't here and she didn't fancy doing any of that alone. She could call her sister-in-law, Mary Margaret, or her friends Elsa or Ruby, but all three of them knew her well enough to know when she was hiding something and she was still embarrassed just enough by her run in with a male escort and her subsequent escape to decide against putting herself through the ringer. Mary Margaret would be appalled and tell everyone (she was horrible at keeping secrets), Elsa would be sympathetic to the point of pity (which she was not ready for), and Ruby would either make fun of the whole situation or try to find him herself (based on how much of a description she could get out of Emma). No thank you to all of those scenarios. She padded barefoot into her kitchen, grabbing a mug and leaning against the counter to wait for her coffee pot to finish percolating, silently thanking the heavens that she remembered to set it before she went out last night. She looked around the apartment she shared with her son and sighed. It was a good sized apartment, much better than where she'd started with Henry. Her eventual licensing as a private investigator afforded her a much better lifestyle for her and her son. One that could have included Neal. She'd actually been on her way home to share her license confirmation when she'd caught him with her. And the rest was history. The coffee pot gurgled its last drops into the pot and Emma happily made herself a cup. Maybe she should've RSVP'd that she'd be coming alone. It would've been much easier, but she was so mad to see that plus one included on her card that she'd gotten out the Jack Daniels and the whiskey checked the box for her. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it wasn't like she hadn't moved on from Neal; on the contrary, she had, she just hadn't moved on with someone else just yet. Sipping at her cup, her mind automatically went to her phone. She usually skimmed news headlines and went through her email with her morning coffee, but she didn't have it with her and she didn't remember seeing it on her nightstand. She let out a groan when she remembered that she'd left it in her purse. Grumbling, she pushed herself away from the counter and made her way to the entryway, picking up her purse with one hand and setting her mug down with the other. She shuffled through the contents and pulled her phone free, but as she did, a small, black square fluttered to the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, frowning and trying to remember where it came from or what it was. She flipped it over to read it and her face immediately flushed, though she wasn't sure if it was out of embarrassment or something else. KILLIAN JONES PERSONAL ENTERTAINMENT 617-555-9870 Emma snorted. 'Personal entertainment' indeed. She didn't even know why he slipped her his card. She'd never paid for sex and she wasn't about to start. She was lonely, not desperate. She tucked the card against her phone for the moment and went back to her clutch for her charger. Her fingers bumped against the thick envelope inside as she searched and she scowled at it. And then a lightbulb went off in her head. She thought of the little nest egg she'd put aside for a rainy day as her mind began to hatch a plan. Maybe she was a little desperate. "This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid..." she muttered, grabbing her phone and heading to the couch, flicking the edge of the business card with her finger. She plugged her phone in and sat down, letting a large sigh escape her, and punched in the numbers on the card. She fiddled with the ties on her sleep pants while the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Just as she was about to hang up, a sultry English voice came on the line. "Hello?" Emma's throat closed up immediately and her mouth felt like she'd poured a shaker of salt into it. Her heart pounded in her chest and every word in the English language fled her frazzled mind. "Hello?" he said again and Emma jumped as she realized she should be saying something back. "Uh, hi." Smooth, Emma. "Hello, love. Can I help you?" He sounded amused and that incensed her. "Yes. No. Maybe. Dammit, this isn't how this was supposed to go," she rambled. "Look, you gave me your card last night, and I'm calling." "I gave quite a few women my card last night. Refresh my memory a bit, love." He didn't sound the least bit confused and Emma was positive he was messing with her now. She clenched her jaw. "Well, aren't you a regular Romeo." She was sure her scowl could be heard through the phone. He laughed out loud, warm and rich, the sound crackling through the phone and warming her to her toes. "Why don't we start with a name?" he prompted, mirth now flowing freely through his warm voice. She sighed. "It's Emma. Er, Swan. From the bar last night." She felt her grip tighten on her lap. He was silent for a beat and she began to rethink if he actually did know it was her before the reveal. "I was hoping it was you." His voice had dropped an octave and something twisted in her lower belly at the sound. "Yeah, well, it's me. It's kinda weird that you know my name, though. Or, y'know, that you remember me at all," she mumbled, tugging at her shirt nervously. "As if I could forget the most beautiful woman I've spoken to in recent memory," he purred and Emma wrinkled her nose at the flirtation, but he continued on. "And your name was easy enough to discern since you were waving it around on that envelope you had with you." "Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense," she said, embarrassed. An awkward silence fell over the line. "As much as I'm thrilled to hear your lovely voice, Swan, I'm assuming you didn't just call for a chat?" The amusement in his voice was back and Emma felt her blush deepen, thankful for the barrier the phone provided. "Uh, yeah. I was actually calling because, well, I'm looking to procure some of your, uh, services-" "Really, Swan?" The surprised delight in his tone made her frown. She wasn't a conquest. "Not like that. What I meant to say was I have sort of a proposition for you.” Her voice was all business and she found herself straightening her shoulders in resolve, though she knew he couldn't see her. "Color me intrigued, love. What sort of proposition?" he asked and Emma fidgeted nervously. "Can we meet to discuss it? Lunch, maybe? My treat of course, I know you're," she cleared her throat, "on the clock, or whatever." Killian chuckled low on the other end of the line. "Alright, darling, where and when?" he asked. "There's a diner near downtown, Granny's. Do you know it?" She grimaced at the thought of bringing him there. Ruby Lucas, her best friend, ran the place with her grandmother. She'd be ruthless with questions upon seeing her with a man, but she wanted to be somewhere that was familiar in case things went wrong. "I know it. Never been inside, but I've heard good things," he replied. "Can you meet me in an hour?" she asked, looking at the time. It was already approaching noon. "Aye, I'm free until this evening. I'll see you there, Swan," he confirmed and Emma hung up the phone as soon as he did, getting up and heading into her bedroom. What did one wear when they were potentially making the dumbest decision ever?

Tag list (if you would like to be added or removed from this list, please send me a message): @artistic-writer @snowbellewells @bmbbcs4evr @kmomof4 @xemmaloveskillianx @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @courtorderedcake

[imaginedeliciouspancakes]

Heya! First I wanted to say I absolutely love your work! May I request an awkward Goro proposing to his s/o scenario? I wish only happiness for this precious boy Thanks!

AAAAAAAA THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! You guys are really too kind... ;;w;; I don’t know why I haven’t been motivated for the past few months. You guys are giving me so much support!! I hope I can be back for a bit longer soon! :’p

Anyways, here it is!! I’ve been thinking about this scenero a LOT lately so this is really long and self-indulged ahsdjak;;;; Enjoy!!

- Mod Blake

- Marriage is something both foreign and a big decision to him. His parents were never married nor truly loved one another; saying "I love you" to S/O for the first time was a hard enough decision.- But, regardless, he knows in his heart that they're the one he wants. S/O saved his life, after all. He wouldn't be alive today if they hadn't spent so much of their time and energy helping him recover and discover what it means to live.- He's deeply in love with S/O and S/O are deeply in love with him, so he knows that there's not a chance they would reject him. The love between the two of them is as strong as ever and can only get stronger from here.- ...But he cannot help but be a nervous wreck.- He thinks he's ready and buys the perfect ring for S/O, one that he knows they'll love (not as much as they love him though), but once he's home with his purchase, nerves are already starting to kick in.- He's doubting himself. What if they say no? What if they don't actually love me? What if this was all just a dream? What if this was all fake? So many doubts. This boy cannot calm himself.- His nerves are so strong that S/O see his behavior change and you question it, only making him more on-edge and suspicious to the surprise he had waiting for them whenever he got the guts to make it happen.- He wants the moment to be perfect. He wants it to be a moment they'll remember. And even if S/O would say things like "it doesn't have to be perfect" and "i'll always remember it no matter what" if they heard his doubts, he still cannot help but want to make it that way.- It's months after he bought the ring. He has it hidden away in a place S/O would never think to look, one they wouldn't think of being a hiding place for something so important and special. Even so, he hasn't forgotten about it. Not even for a moment.- The proposal has gotten into his head so much that it interfered with his detective work. He couldn't focus on anything at all. So he put his foot down, that winter day, that he was going to finally do it.- The weekend rolls around and he tells S/O that he's got something planned, just for the two of them, Sunday evening. This is out of the blue to S/O, since he has been swamped with work, spending long hours at the precinct, ever since he re-entered the police force a few years back. But they don't mention it to him and keep their suspicions a secret.- What he decided on was a bit cheesy but endearing. He took S/O to Tokyo Tower, a place neither of you had been despite having been in Tokyo for around a decade now. A decade since you two met. He then takes you to the park, despite the chilly, frozen winter air. - By the time you two reach a serene, romantic spot in the park, Goro's heart is pounding in his chest. He's surprised they hadn't said anything yet, since they were in his arms and very close to his chest. He wasn't going to back down. It was time and he was going to do it tonight.- The two of you share each other's warmth, kissing under the clear night sky, far away enough from the busy city that cars could hardly be heard. It was as if everyone else in the world just disappeared and it was only him and you. - He wasn't planning for the time in the park to be so long, but they letting out a soft sneeze made him realize: it's been 20 minutes since they arrived. It was getting late and cold. S/O were definitely going to catch a cold at this point.- The tremors in his body grow, going from what was just a reaction to the cold to the nerves about to boil over. S/O bring it up, suggesting that you two should head home before you both freeze. But a yelp of disagreement from him makes them jump and stare at him.- He's got their attention and curiosity. He has to do it now. He cannot just let this slip by, rack in his mind any longer.- He unwraps his arms from S/O's body and takes both their hands into his, standing before them with a constantly shifting expression. He doesn't know where to start since there is so much he wants to say, so much he wants to tell them. But he just lets the gate of emotions open and pour out his true feelings.- "S/O, I..." His trembling increases and he messily intertwines his fingers with theirs, stage fright kicking in. "I-I... I, uh.. I...!" He cannot keep his hands still with theirs, constantly fidgeting and moving.- "Yes, Goro?" S/O urges him to continue speaking, showing him that their attention is all his, but they have no idea how hard this all is for him.- "I love you!!" He blurts out and they let out a giggle, causing his face to turn even redder. "I love you, too," They reply, oblivious to everything going on in his head at that very moment.- He's silent for another minute, eyes averted from them and his body still unable to keep still. But he's gotten this far. He's got to keep going. For the both of them.- "S/O, I... I didn't know there was anything... any chance in this world that I would be loved as much as you love me, l-let alone be alive today..." Tears are threatening to streak down his face, but he sniffles and lets it come out as snot.- "I didn't think much of myself. Not ever in my life. It wasn't till you came into my life that I started to realize... M-My life meant more than just getting revenge on my father, more than being worth something to a world that didn't cared regardless, more than just- m-more than just a waste of space..."- "It was you who made me realize what I wanted. I... I wanted to live. I wanted something beyond my revenge, beyond my days as the high school detective prince. I-It... It was scary, thinking about how my involvement with you could've made your life a living hell. How someone could harm you. How much I would hurt you if I just, one day, left without a word or.... o-or even died..."- "For once, I knew someone not only needed me but wanted me. Someone in this dark, cold world actually loved me, someone who's own parents didn't care to love or... or raise... In a world that rejected me just for being who I was, despite not asking to be the me they had so much hatred for."- He gives a short laugh and sniffles. "I'm dragging this on and on, saying things I'm sure you already know and have heard me say before. But... I wouldn't believe in any of this or myself if it wasn't for you. If you had given up on me like everyone else had, I don't think the world would have remembered me after I was gone... I would have... died without knowing my true worth..."- "S/O..." Their name from his mouth puts them further on the edge of their seat. "From the moment you saved my life and stayed at my side in the years that followed, helping me recover, helping me find myself and find happiness, I knew that I... I..." The stumbling was returning and his tremors from before returned immediately.- "I, hmm... With this life you saved, I... I...!" He squeezes their hands tighter than ever and looks them straight in the eyes.- "I want to spend it with you!" He blurts out, practically shouting at them as the tears finally started to come down. S/O's eyes widen in shock at the words but isn't sure they heard him correctly, so they stare at him, completely surprised.- He didn't care that there was an inch or two of snow on the ground, he was going to do it the traditional way. He got down on one knee before them, the snow and cold seeping into his leg and knee, stumbling at both the sudden drop in the temperture of his skin and his nerves completely controlling his body. S/O steps back, hands covering their mouth and staring at it him with water in their eyes.- "S/O..." He murmurs, his breath visible before him. He pulls out the special item from his pocket and opens it up for them to see. "Will you marry me?" Inside was the ring he bought those many months ago, shimmering in the moonlight and park lights. - S/O is beyond elated, murmured under their breath "Oh my god," several times. Tears were now pouring down their face as well, looking into Goro's deep red eyes that too watered and cried.- "Yes! A thousand-! No, a million times, yes!" They start making small jumps, kicking up a bit of snow with their boots. "Oh Goro...!"- Goro's eyes immediately go wide, more tears pouring out as a wide, joyful smile spreads across his face. He stands up and they jump into his arms, catching him by surprise and almost making the two of them fall into the snow. They squeeze him tight, wrapping their arms as much as they could around him.- They pull apart and Goro slides their glove off their hand. Their hand was cold, despite being protected from the cold with the wool of their glove. It probably wasn't very smart of Goro to choose such a cold, winter night to pop the question.- Their foreheads are basically touching as Goro removes the ring from its box, takes their hand in his, and, with a shaking hand, delicately and slowly slides the engagement ring onto their ring finger.- The two of them, still in happy tears, give an awkward yet endearing laugh as they both stare at the ring that now adorned their finger. It's a perfect fit.- Goro looks up at S/O as they cover their mouth with their other hand, trying to muffle their crying of joy, and his heart just soars.- He cannot believe it. S/O is going to be his for the rest of their life. For the rest of time.- S/O places both hands on his cheeks and pulls him in for a smooch, causing him to give a muffled gasp, followed by a chuckle as he kissed back, wrapping his arms around them and putting his hand on their back.- They stood there for a few minutes kissing, the cold no longer a bother to either of them. It was just as he wanted: Just him and S/O.- Of course, the two of them got sick days after. But that just means they can cuddle and share each other's company as they sipped soup and watched trashy crime shows.

[medusamyra-blog]

Helloooo! I’ve (finally) filled out the talk tag post to give you guys some info on my version of Medusa! Please let me know if you have any questions about her, or if you’d like to plot! I’m definitely looking for a roommate or two, as well as any other connection under the sun (especially for fellow New Olympians). Let’s get this party started! (Well...it’s been started...for awhile now...I am very late...but for ME it’s a very new party, okay?)

Also I might have made some assumptions here as far as our characters go, so if you see something wonky please tell me

BASICS

full name: Myra Shirin Bahl

The name is commonly associated with the Latin word, myyrh: a bitter resin extracted from a small, thorny plant. Though many bitter things might make you pucker when they first touch your tongue, they are often proven to be very useful, such as in medicinal herbs, or flavoring fine wine. And as they say, many beautiful, wonderful things are known to be protected by thorns. 

any nicknames?: As a child she went by Mimi. She doesn’t use that name anymore. Though she hears some of the folk at Old Olympus call her Medusa behind her back.

age: 25. a quarter of a century, oh no!

birthday/zodiac sign: August 19th, 1992. Leo. A fiery lioness filled with passion. 

height: 5′-6:

any tattoos, piercings?: Though she has done a lot of breaking boundaries and exploring new options for herself, piercings and tattoos have been a little too permanent for her to take the plunge on. Besides a single piercing in each of her ears, her skin remains undecorated for the time being. Though she considers it from time to time, she still wonders if she’ll ever be able to reconnect with her family and her old self, and something like a tattoo is just a little too much of a commitment for the time being. 

FAVORITES

sound: Ocean waves softly kissing the shore ( she sleeps with a soft noise machine when the other apartment tenants are particularly loud )

color: Dusty lilacs and calming blue hues. The color of a clear, cloudless sky. And deep, royal purple ( not just for the matriarchal implications )

person: A multitude of faces rush through her head--her mother, her father, her brother, her ex-lover, her ex-best-friend--before she reminds herself they can’t be her favorite anymore. She has to be her own favorite person now.

memory: It’s hard to pick a favorite memory when so many of the people she shared them with no longer see her in the same light. Every good moment becomes a cherished memory in hindsight. They appear in flashes: peeling carrots with her mother, sharing lighthearted conversation about how men were helpless in the kitchen. Walking down the street as a young girl, holding her father’s hand and feeling so safe, like nothing in the world could touch her with her impenetrable father there to protect her. 

place: Gritty, warm sand beneath her toes, the hot sun on her back, the cool water at her feet. Specifically, the beaches home in Los Angeles (especially Malibu). New York beaches just can’t compare, though when she’s desperate for some sun she’ll use them as a placeholder.

vice: Warm lips on her neck, rough hands on her skin. She never expected to be the type to fall for such carnal pleasures, but once she got a taste, it was an urge that always came back to haunt her. Though it has never been as fulfilling as the first time, with the woman she’d loved, she loved the feeling of another person on top of her. 

HAVE THEY EVER…

…been in love?

Luli had been the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. At first, Myra wasn’t sure if she wanted to be with her or simply wanted to be her. Soon, the question answered itself. She never thought she would want a woman in such a primitive way, nor a romantic way, but Luli changed Myra’s perspective on just about everything. It was passionate and warm and enlightening and thriving and everything Myra had never thought she’d wanted, or needed. It was the most wonderful and thrilling feeling she’d ever experienced--

even if it didn’t last. 

…done drugs?

When she’d first gotten involved with Olympus, still new to the big city. There were so many new opportunities for her here that hadn’t existed back home, and she wanted to try everything. Nothing too dangerous, but she’ll never forget the bubbling excitement of her first joint. There had been a naive air about her that both made people protective of her, and also made people want to push things on her, but she stood her ground. She wanted to enjoy her newfound freedom, but within reason, and she certainly wasn’t about to ruin her new life by getting hooked on something bad.  

…killed someone?

Not by choice. Everything that night had gone wrong. It was her first year on transportation and things weren’t going as smoothly as everyone expected them to. It was her or them and she panicked. She did what she had to do, but the first time she took someone else’s life was the hardest, even if it was for her own safety.

…betrayed someone’s trust?

Despite the age difference, Victoria had been her best friend. She’d been the first person Myra had connected with in New York, and Myra had crawled under her wing and adopted her as her mentor, whether she’d initially wanted it or not. Victoria was her secret keeper, the first person she’d told about her life back in California, what she had fled from and what she had fled to become. 

At first, it hadn’t felt like cheating. But then it did. And she knew it was wrong. And she didn’t put a stop to it until it was too late. In the end, she isn’t sure which loss was worst: her lover or her best friend.

…had their heart broken?

If love was the best feeling in the world, heartbreak was the worst. It had teared her to shreds, ripped her apart after every attempt at glueing herself back together again. What it also did, however, was harden her: make her strong, impervious, impenetrable. Just like the myth of a broken bone healing stronger than before, her broken heart and broken soul came back ten times stronger after that, and she swore she would never let it break again.

…lost someone?

Never by death, but unattainable by the weight of her own actions. Not lost, but simply impossible to find as they once were..

DO THEY…

have any pets?: This is technically TBD since I don’t know who her roommates are yet, but in my head she has two small pet (land) turtles, named after women’s rights activists Susan B. Anthony and Lucretia Mott (“Susie and Lucy”)

have a family they still talk to?: No. Sometimes she wishes she could, but she feels it’s just too late. Even if she were to contact them, she would probably have to change back into who she was--into Mimi--and she’s just not willing to do that.

have a best friend?: It used to be Victoria, back when she first touched down in NYC.  Someone she could tell anything to, confess her deepest fears and biggest secrets. Well, she left out one particularly large secret, and their best-friendship was broken forever. (Who is it now? Only time will tell)

want to get married and/or have kids?: It used to be a given that as a woman, she would settle down with a husband and pop out a few kids. Now that she’s breached so far past the Bahl Family Norm, she’s not so sure she could ever go back to that. Sure, after a stressful, dangerous day, she might think a normal, quiet life in a suburb with a family might be nice, but as far as she’s concerned, she’s too far gone to ever get that old little girl dream. 

want to leave?: Sometimes, but she’s already run away once before, and reinventing yourself certainly takes its toll on your identity. Everyone has hard days, where they want to leave their life behind and start somewhere new, but she doesn’t feel she’s been in New York long enough yet to call it quits. Not to mention, she would be letting down the other members of New Olympus, the people who took her in when she was still new to the city and had no place to go, and she wouldn’t let her own flight risk tendencies harm them in anyway..

THIS OR THAT?

phone call or text? T E X T. They’re straight-forward, to the point, and leave interpretation out of the equation. “Meet at 11:05 in the alley?” There’s nothing else to it. It’s quick and it’s efficient., and there’s no way for it to be construed 

wealth or loyalty? L O Y A L T Y. All the money in the world can’t buy you trust or friendship. Though she could really use the money, everyone needs at least one person they can trust in above all else. 

love or lust? L U S T. Love gets you nothing but heartbreak. It tears down your walls and pillages your heart like an invading army and it leaves nothing but ruin in its wake. Lust allows you “all the same perks” without the emotional investment and vulnerability. It is clearly the superior choice. 

5 Friends or 100 Acquaintances? 5 FRIENDS. True loyalty is hard to come by these days, and the less you know a person, the more dangerous to you they can be to you. 

summer or winter? S U M M E R! Having grown up in California, the New York winters are pretty bracing to her. Even if summer weather reminds her of home, she will never not love the sun.  

[bangtangurlarmy]

Wings [Part 20] || Taehyung

EVIL RETURNS

Pairing - Kim Taehyung x Reader

Genre - Fantasy, Fallen Angel! AU, Fluff, Smut, Angst

Summary - Getting captured is one thing, and getting killed another. And when neither happens, Taehyung wants to heave a sigh of relief. And also kill Min Yoongi.

A Banished Angel finds his way out of exile with a deal that could possibly cause not just your life to end - but other’s as well. And Min Yoongi will will never cease to find his Father’s true motives as he begins to help the Sinner - in other words, breaking a law that had been the pride of the Red Blood family for eons.

Prologue ; Part 19

Taehyung, who had been at the gates of your apartment, sprinted right through the them, before disappearing into thin air, making the security guard rub his eyes and stand up in shock of what he saw.

He appeared right outside your front door. He disappeared again, only to reappear at the same place. He kept doing it for a few more times until he was sure of what it was.

There was a barrier - the Invisible Barrier that could be put for their own safety of the Fallen Angels, and can only be invaded if invited or walked through by a human. He cursed endlessly as he tugged at his hair, trying to think of a way to get in. He could hear your breathing getting shallower and urgent, somewhere from inside your house. Think, think, think, he urged himself, his own heart feeling like as though it were being clenched, the air being slowly choked out of his lungs. Your life was on the line. And he could smell the foreign scent of whoever was in there.

"Y/N! Stay where you are!" Your head throbbed brutally, hearing Taehyung's voice ringing in your head. How he did that - you'd think about it later - when you could actually think. You wanted to scream, yell at him to stay and not go - to save you; you didn't know how. You huddled in closer to the walls of your closet, wanting nothing more than the wood to swallow you whole and perhaps never let you out again. But fear was what the thing was following, sniffing at the scent of it, letting it trail towards the closet where you currently squatted mercifully. And you were sure it was reeking from you - enough to let him make a clear path out of it. You placed a palm over your chest, right on top of your heart as you silently inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying desperately to tame the wild beating of your organ. You jerked as you heard the door crash open of your room. You involuntarily let out a loud yelp, and you knew right then you had that thing's attention. Death - death was right outside the doors of the closet, in your room - separated by only the thin and flimsy panels of wood.

You heard the chains, each clank louder than the other as he walked towards your closet, the nails scratching on the walls beside him, making your insides twist in fear and horror. Calm down, your conscious screamed. But a greater part of you simply slapped it unconscious - letting the fear grow. You should've listened to Taehyung - God, you were an idiot. A completely ruthless idiot.

Meanwhile, Taehyung was dragging along the security up with him, hauling him into the elevator. Teleporting only seemed to endanger his life if he was a talkative man. He wouldn't want to die in Taehyung's hands - he had made that sure with the amount of sweat he was dripping with. Pulling him out, Taehyung bolted, almost forgetting the security was a human. He cursed colorfully.

Taehyung kept pulling at his hand, stopping only when he got to your door.

'Open it.' He spoke, the guard cowering at the sudden order. He stared at Taehyung, looking trivial, as though he hadn't heard him. Taehyung's eyes turned red, making the guard fumble for the keys instantly as he stuttered out incoherent apologies. With trembling hands, the guard had the door opened and scurried - more like darted - out of the corridor and this time didn't bother to take the elevator. Foolish mortal.

Taehyung was about to enter, his hand at the threshold to make sure it was safe to get in, when he heard an ear splitting scream.

'Y/N!' He darted inside, and saw what could possibly haunt his dreams that moment on.

Hauling you by the neck, the exiled brother of the King of the Underworld stood smack in the center of your room. You scratched, pulled, kicked, but to vain. Hijin kept you at arm's distance, his lips parting in a feral grin: 'I've finally got you, Y/N.'

You wanted to scream. But the thing in front of you itself had taken your breath away - quite literally. His face looked so badly mauled you bothered to spare a thought about what might have happened to him. The scars so deeply engraved, it looked as though his skin had been split open until the very bone. As for the hair - there was barely any, save for the strands that hung at random spots. Ugly would have been an understatement. His nails dug into the skin, tearing your flesh as it took refuge underneath the skin. You felt the wetness of your blood trickling down the length of your neck.

'What are you doing here, Hijin? Aren't you supposed to be serving your lifelong exile down in Hell?' Taehyung snarled at him, his eyes blood red, reflecting Hijin's. He sniffed, and growled as he got a whiff of your blood in the air before his eyes averted to the slits on your throat where his nails rested. But he knew better - knew of Hijin's killer skills. It was what had gotten him banished from Kronell in the first place. And his sadistic nature.

'Kimroe offered me a good price in return to kill Y/N.' He chortled, as he spoke like a lunatic. Taehyung didn't dare make a move. One step, and you could be laying dead on the floor. Taehyung's wings, slowly and majestically, unfolded themselves behind him, it taking space of at least two and half doorways. Your eyes widened at the sight of them, while you struggled with the strong grip on your neck. Black dots began dancing in your vision as the supply of air to your lungs was slowly but surely getting deducted.

He stopped laughing all of a sudden, a sneer replacing his sinister laugh, 'Mmph..' He moaned, as he sniffed the air, before looking down at you, 'Blood,'

With a dirty smirk, he looked back at Taehyung, 'But, it's too bad you're supposed to be alive. My brother's very pitiful - he shouldn't have been king.' Hijin turned back to you, his eyes gulping every inch of your face, 'If I had you for myself, Y/N-' His lips curled up, his tongue rolling over them, almost making Taehyung lose the control of his rage, '-I'd do such things to you...' His voice reduced to a purr - grainy and writhing. He jerked you close to him - close enough that he dipped his head to the crook of your neck, and you felt a deep intake of breath, 'You smell absolutely divine,' Hijin threw a suggestive glance towards Taehyung.

He was enraged, his power thrashing in him. No, he pushed it back down with much effort. He couldn't transform - couldn't let Hijin find him in his actual self. He didn't care if he knew his weaknesses, he had to focus more on keeping you alive, and his power in control. But he knew, he knew the Banished Angel was mocking him - taunting him.

Hijin came back up, not even sparing a look towards you before he pulled you in closer, and before either you or Taehyung could see it coming, you were hauled across the room, your back and head colliding with the wall before you slid down, pain stabbing at all your joints from your neck to your shoulders, your head pounding as more black dots danced, clustering together - slowly shutting your vision out. 'No...' You whispered along with Taehyung's scream.

'You bastard!' was all you heard Taehyung yell, before you blacked out, darkness embracing you.

Min Yoongi watched, unconcerned and with unflinching eyes as Taehyung took large and mighty strides towards Yoongi's desk, nostrils flaring, and eyes burning red. Yoongi could see his bleeding hand, his shirt nothing but a bloodied mess and half of it falling apart with tears on some parts of the material. Taehyung reached his hand across the wide oak desk and grabbed Yoongi's shirt collar, raising him from his seat, snarling into his face. Yoongi barely reacted.

'Why the hell did you do that Min Yoongi?' Taehyung spat, his knuckles turning white at the amount of force his fist was itself using.

'Do what, exactly?' He stared at Taehyung, placing a cold hand over Taehyung's that held his collar.

'You know exactly what I'm talking about!' Taehyung roared with one violent shake of his hand that should've fazed Yoongi, but only made him respond with a frown. Yoongi's ebony hair only seemed to have any effect as it fell over his matching eyes.

'What even in the name of all hell are you talking about? I've been chilling in my office only to have a psychopath like you barge into my office.' Yoongi raised his voice, but his eyes remained calm and patient, which was wearing off. It was dancing merrily at the edge of a cliff.

'Kimroe had Hijin come to kill Y/N!' Taehyung let go of Yoongi's collar with a harsh jerk, making him fall back into his seat. He stared up at Taehyung, whose bloodied hand was grabbing at his hair, as he sat down on the chair opposite Yoongi. It took a heartbeat. A heartbeat before Yoongi was on his feet, the patience and calm long forgotten as his chair rolled backwards, hitting the wall, his hands slamming the table. Let peace go to hell.

'Wait, what?' Yoongi shouted, looking down at Taehyung. He looked up at Yoongi for a brief moment, and let out a dry chuckle that held no humor.

'Great acting, bleach face.' He snapped, only to be smacked on the head by Yoongi. He snarled at him, 'What?'

'Taehyung, honestly, get a devil damn grip on yourself and think what you just said - Hijin is serving eternity long exile in Hell!' Desperation coated his voice. It was as though he was begging Taehyung to take his claims back. And Taehyung would have, if he had the choice.

'You think I don't know? That bastard was standing right in front of me, his hands covered in blisters and chains - and it doesn't help I had to fight him with nothing else but my wings!' Taehyung yelled back at Yoongi, only deepening Yoongi's frown.

'You didn't shift?' Yoongi asked, his voice lowering a great deal, catching Taehyung slightly off guard. He sighed, digging his head in his hands as he whispered, 'No...I couldn't- I couldn't risk Y/N's life. I might lose control if I ever did shift again.'

Yoongi gave him a long assessing look. Finally nodding, he asked, 'Where's Y/N?'

'I didn't know where to take her so I left her at the hospital-'

'You left her? You left her at the damn hospital?' Yoongi's lips twisted into a snarl and Taehyung watched with horror. His own eyes widened, 'What-'

'You moron!' Yoongi hissed before making his way around the table and grabbing Taehyung before twisting into thin air.

They found themselves wrapped in darkness as they reemerged into an unknown place - unknown to Taehyung at least. Yoongi didn't bother explaining, and neither did Taehyung dare raise a question as the former opened a door that was now visible to Taehyung, the sudden bright lights of the corridor hitting him, making him flinch. It was a moment before he recognized it as the hospital he had gotten you admitted in. He pointed to the door of the room in which you lay. Either Yoongi knew what he was doing or it was just pure luck that he had landed on the same floor as your room.

Yoongi was, at the least, glad that the Sinner hadn't asked any questions. He was sure he would have ripped out his head if the younger did. He wanted to slap him, though. What had even made him think that the hospital would be a safe refuge for you - especially if Hijin had quite easily - according to Taehyung - broken into your house and managed to put a barrier around your apartment to prevent anybody else from entering. How Taehyung had managed to break through it, he'd ask him later.

The two Angels walked into the room, Taehyung silently thanking whoever was watching over them - if anybody even was - for nobody to take notice of his bloodied clothes.

You were sleeping peacefully, and it twisted Yoongi's heart to see your face so peaceful, when everything around you was soon going to be anything but that. He hurried over and stood by your side while Taehyung stood by your other, before he pressed two fingers by the spot on your neck where he could feel your faint pulse, 'Did the doctor check on her?' Taeyhyung nodded, still looking at you.

'What did he say?' Yoongi questioned, his eyes scanning you critically from head-to-toe for any visible injuries.

'He just asked me to make sure she got enough rest before she walks around again,' and when Taehyung saw Yoongi's question already stringed and ready to be voiced, he added, 'She hit her head.'

That silenced Yoongi. He tried to look at the bright side - at least Hijin hadn't killed you...yet.

Yoongi sighed through his nose, glancing around the room and listening - whether anybody was making their way to the room. When it had seemed as silent as the night, he pinned Taehyung with a stare, 'We're getting her out - right now.'

'And go where?'

Shit. Yoongi paused. Taehyung had a point - even if they did manage to get you out, where would they take refuge? Which one place would it be where Hijin couldn't come after you? He racked his brain - think, think, think.

'She has a house mate...Kim SeokJin-' Taehyung said quietly.

'But?' Yoongi filled in, seeing the doubt in Taehyung's eyes. He just hoped it wouldn't be bad.

'He isn't at the apartment- I don't know where he is.' Taehyung's voice sounded defeated - as though he himself had searched all places possible. Yoongi raked a hand through his ebony hair. If SeokJin wasn't at their place, where could he have gone...

Yoongi's head snapped back, his eyes wide as one thought crossed his mind. And that thought was enough as Taehyung too held his stare, knowing what he was thinking of.

If SeokJin was not foolish, he would be with Namjoon. And knowing Namjoon, he knew the Fallen Angel didn't have a habit to take anybody to his house - mate or not - for whatever reasons he had. If both possible places were struck out, then there was one last place where both of them could be.

Taeyhung immediately scooped you into his arms and disappeared into thin air with Min Yoongi, the picture of the cafe you worked at clear in both their minds.

[Part 21 on Thursday]

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

OK!!! saint-loup. it is saint-loup o’clock. i do not have these thoughts well formulated so this might get kinda long n messy but i promised myself i’d Talk This Out w/ myself on this reading, so. icee straw kazoo.

ok so saint-loup is the narrator’s friend tho like... to the extent this term is applicable in friendships m’s kinda The Unrequiter, often exhibits w/out expressly saying that he feels kinda guilty for Using Him or at least for like. not being able to match the energy saint-loup brings to the relationship. in fact the main thing he consistently notices in saint-loup is energy, strength. but also solicitude! which combination to me seems weird? i’m fond of saint-loup but he makes me uncomfortable, i think bc while, on one hand, his slightly sophomoric intellectualism and nervous quickness and tendency to be officiously solicitous*--which 3 traits m associates w/ saint-loup’s ability to assimilate quickly (3.98, 153)--all remind me of me, and also of many people i’ve known, but then...? on the other hand, i have never seen those traits (esp. solicitude) in a strong person; saint-loup is passive-aggressive and i have only ever observed that demeanor in weak people--most of them sick, bats and/or non-men; certainly not in a straight-passing man (as saint-loup does at this time) if he’s also healthysane--since passive-aggression is so. roundabout, and mind-over-matter &c. like. all the things i have in common w/ saint-loup are traits i’ve developed because i’m not a man, not straight, not neurotypical, not strong, u know? and certainly these traits are ones people like me are supposed to dislike in ourselves, but i find that recognizing them in someone usually makes me more comfortable around them, because... well, you know. because the ways in which we’d be likely to hurt each other are basically the same?

meanwhile early in volume 3 you get this scene where saint-loup introduces m to a bunch of his friends, all adorably over-eager to Show Off m’s intellect, make sure he makes a good impression, and

“No? You don’t agree about Stendhal?” he went on, with a naïve confidence in my judgment which found expression in a charming, smiling, almost childish glance of interrogation from his green eyes. “Oh, good! I see you’re on my side. ... The Chartreuse is after all a stunning work, don’t you think? I’m so glad you agree with me. What is it you like best in the Chartreuse? Answer me,” he urged with boyish impetuosity. And the menace of his physical strength made the question almost terrifying. (136)

N.B. THO that here and elsewhere m fuckin glories in that strength. here, for example:

My departure depressed me less when I was no longer obliged to think of it alone, when I felt that the more normal and healthy exertions of my energetic friends, of Robert’s brothers-in-arms, were being applied to what was to be done (179)

but also, before we even GET to rachel:

“I’m furiously jealous,” Saint-Loup said to me, half laughing, half in earnest, alluding to the interminable conversations apart which I had been having with his friend. “Is it because you find him more intelligent than me? Do you like him better than me? Ah, well, I suppose he’s everything now, and no one else is to have a look in!” (Men who are enormously in love with a woman, who live in a society of woman-lovers, allow themselves pleasantries which others, seeing less innocence in them, would never dare to contemplate.) (153)

idk, like. i’ve had multiple people talk that way to me? but i possess what almost seems like an “only we can say it” sentiment about it--only people who don’t pass for straight men, maybe, or only weak people, neurotics. and saint-loup has that entire demeanor he seems to think he’s entitled to it as an intellectual or maybe just picks it up from m and rachel but it’s weird on people whose intellectualism does not compensate for frailty of body and/or “willpower,” idk. he does the fuckin... what do i mean, um. OH!--i associate his flirtatious self-deprecation w/ the thing women do in victorian books and in old movies; the thing lizaveta nikolaevna does in demons when she asks what’s his face whether he’d still wanna hang if she broke her leg. and possibly i’m wrong to see saint-loup’s comments as the outpost of a similar thing? but

“You know,” I said, “I did come to say good-bye to you the day I left Doncières. I’ve never had a chance to mention it. I waved to you in the street.”

“Don’t speak about it,” he replied, “I was so sorry. I passed you just outside the barracks, but I couldn’t stop because I was late already. I assure you I felt quite wretched about it.” (233)

haha yeah no i don’t think i’m wrong. so maybe it’s like the last few days’ irritation at hearing my mom employ the detached, bodily-self-contemptuous infodump tone i often use irl to talk about My Limitations--sitting like i do then, w/ that buzzardy hunch as though to tell a secret, and w/ the same aporetic expression--without having also to euphemize, circumlocute, pause and screw up her face and twist her wrist around for long intervals, blushing, trying to think of a less self-flattering [vulnerable] word for what she means, like i would in that situation. but i think it’s... also that i’m uncomfortable on m’s and rachel’s behalf? that in order not to intimidate or seem to condescend he adopts a piece of their demeanor that makes him look harmless. because like. another way in which saint-loup attempts to Regain His Dignity (or at least vent frustration) during his fight w/ rachel is that when the journalist w/ the cigar refuses to put it out, um,

“Would you mind, sir, throwing away your cigar? The smoke is bad for my friend.” [...]

“There’s no rule against smoking that I know of,” said the journalist. “If people aren’t well, they have only to stay at home.” [...]

“In any case, sir, you are not very civil,” observed Saint-Loup to the journalist, still in a mild and courteous tone, with the air of appraisal of a man judging retrospectively the rights and wrongs of an incident that is already closed. (239-40)

and see THIS IS ME this is exactly how i act when i’m angry at someone in public (incl. or maybe esp. if that someone is myself ha), fuckin carrying on another conversation in the background as proof ur Still Sane, BUT THEN

[A]fter the courteous words that he had just uttered, he brought down his hand with a resounding smack upon the journalist’s cheek. (240)

AND LIKE?? i don’t think this would creep me out nearly so much if the pretext (tho obv not the reason) for it weren’t. an ableist comment. “If people aren’t well, they have only to stay at home.” but i’ve more than once gotten angry w/ someone, chewed someone out, for saying something ableist to my friend (tho in the case that comes to mind the comment could be applied to me as well), and in my experience that kind of vicarious anger is?? because you know your friend’s upset about it but don’t know what to say to help them, so you resent the perp for showing you your own impotence, for distracting your and your friend’s attention from more important things w/ their needless judgmental bs. and THAT makes sense here? but without those other layers--of 1. “this insult implicates me also” and 2. “you have upset my friend and therefore obliged me to Avenge them since i don’t know how to make them feel better”--it’s... weird. it’s just so Not His Fight i guess, and. i’ve actually written a similar scene, too? in which case some of the interest was in like... the assumption by stronger people that we’ll be flattered to see them use their greater strength in defense of Our Honor, when. no, saint-loup; that’s a nonsensical n paternalistic pretext to vent ur own unrelated anger? m neither needs nor wants a healthy person to punish ableists’ contempt of his ill health? and in fact it’s embarrassing in the first place when ppl respond to our not making a fuss by making the fuss for us?? blugh! i don’t know. i can point out so many gross things about this but still am not satisfied i have identified The Thing About It that makes me so uncomfortable; maybe it’s just because at the same time i do understand both m’s fetishistic admiration of saint-loup’s strength and aristocratic solicitude and saint-loup’s paternalism itself. i’ve been on both sides, tho without the... punching. thing, ha. on that note:

Now that to the measured conversations of the diplomats, to the smiling arts of peace, had succeeded the furious onthrust of war, since blows lead to blows, I should not have been surprised to see the combatants wading in one another’s blood. ... Fortunately the journalist who, staggering back from the violence of the blow, had turned pale and hesitated for a moment, did not retaliate. (240-1)

M OH MY GOD ur purely academic understanding of How Fights Work! sees a guy 2 whose general opinion on violence he defers punch someone n is just like “well, shit, this is it, we’re all gonna die” fdlahgsdf ur......my favorite, and also, same, but possibly this is a mistake we both oughta quit making. Fuckin Liberals &c. &c.

*appropriate since he’s a sergeant!! but what i mean is e.g. when rachel (his gf w/ whom he needs to break up) makes him feel small in public saint-loup will then try to get back some dignity by turning to m like “You oughtn’t to stand about in the cigar smoke like that, it’ll make you ill” (3.237). it’s like what i said yesterday about my own solicitude--that it’s about liking to feel useful, liking for there to be a subject on which you know what to say. but it’s jarring to me to see this sense of return to familiar ground detached from same-feeling--to see the “useless person’s dream come true” phenomenon in a situation where saint-loup has no obvious reason to consider himself an expert other than his general aristocratic + busybodyish(!!!) tendency to anticipate people’s interests, to want to Know Everything about his friends.