#are you going to have the AUDACITY to give two characters matching scars

[jonathanbyersphd]

I'm having feelings about them and the matching scars again y'all

[plush-rabbit]

Cultural Differences - BNHA Headcanons

Request: Hi! If it's not too much may I request a Shigaraki, Hawks, Overhaul and Dabi with an s/o who likes wearing revealing clothes because they grew up in western country. Like they're half japanese and half western. Thank you!

Warning: Breast is used gn here!! (not sure f that counts as a warning but i felt like the a/n not was too long)

A/N: I hope this is good. I tried to make in character as possible because I feel like I’ve been stray from that the past times i’ve been writing for them

-

Chisaki Kai:

It isn’t that Kai hates the clothes, it’s just that he isn’t used to them. Of course, fashion has evolved and things aren’t as prude as they were years ago, but even so, he’s someone who values traditional customs. The clothes aren’t anything that he hates, and most of the time, he finds them cute, as if you’re trying to fit into some sort of aesthetic, but it’s just different. It shows just a bit too much skin than what he likes and if he were to be honest, he would prefer if you covered up.

Most of the time, he allows you to wear whatever you want, but if it happens to be a certain temperature, he wants you to cover up and will scoff when you actually have the audacity to feel cold. Nonetheless, if you get sick, he can’t see you, so he’ll offer you a coat. If it happens just enough times, he’ll have you either start dressing in appropriate clothes for the weather, or he’ll get you a jacket that matches his. He finds it almost offensive with how quick you are to cover-up when he offers to get you a jacket like his- your taste may linger toward revealing, but he’s sure that jackets over clothing is still something that is considered fashionable.

He’s controlling and there’s no easy way around that. It’s a miracle that he lets you reveal as much skin as you do and that he’s hardly done anything about it. While he does mind that you go out in revealing clothing, there is nothing he can do about it, since he hardly sees you in your own home. However, if you were to visit the base, he has you follow a strict dress code. He doesn’t want people to gawk at you, and even if he isn't the type to officiate something, you are still with him, and that should be enough reason for you to cover up when you are around him and his subordinates. He doesn't want others to see you in a way that he is only meant to see you so before he brings you over, he’ll choose something for you to wear.

There are a few times that his actions and words can be hurtful. It’s nothing new, but sometimes it can be upsetting to hear such awful things leave his mouth- especially when they are directed towards you. It isn’t that he means the words, but sometimes, you just refuse to change into something more appropriate, and he always catches people staring at your exposed legs, or midriff. The few times when he catches people staring at your chest, is enough to send him over the edge. In the end, he apologizes in his own way- a small gift, his hand wrapping around yours- still covered in a glove- or even the next outing, not commenting on how short your attire is. He knows that sometimes his words can be a bit too harsh, that you aren’t like the others that he keeps around him, and that you aren’t used to his way of speaking, so he tries to relax a bit on it. He’ll blame it on the need to protect you, for you to understand that others are viewing you in some sort of way, but when you don't’ care about- when you only care about his opinion, he’s taken aback. He’s left speechless for a moment and then he nods to you and himself.

Of course there are going to be cultural clashes between the two of you, but he hadn’t expected clothing to be one of them. It isn’t that he hates it, he finds that you look rather cute in the things you wear, but, it’s also short. And people are vile, disgusting little things. He can almost sense the motivations behind every person when their eyes stare at the low cut of your shirt, and he just fumes, because you have no real motive to cover up. The last thing that Kai will do is plead for you to cover up, but he will often wrap his jacket around you, until you are away from the public eye. It’s always a weird moment for the both of you- he refuses to look at you and will let his hands linger a bit too long on your shoulders, and when he pulls away, he adjusts his gloves, telling you to keep up. To him, it’s just a bit more than him offering you his jacket at a certain point in the relationship, it isn’t him begging for you to cover up, but rather than the trust that he has with you to wear something of his. He hates germs, anything dirt and grime, but he’d be willing to give you a staple of his clothing as long as it meant that you weren't cold- or stared at by the perverse eyes of others.

Dabi:

Despite Dabi’s upbringing, he shed most of those ideals and morals once he became who he is now. He’s seen much more revealing things in all sorts of ways, so wearing something revealing isn’t a big deal to him. You wearing something revealing, is something up to you. He hardly cares one way or another about your style of attire. There are a few times where his more traditional sense of style will show, such as the almost brooding looks that he gives you when you wear something just a bit too short. However, despite that, he won’t say a word to you- what you choose to do, is what you choose to do- he has no reason to intervene unless it’s something potentially dangerous.

He sits at a weird line where he doesn’t look at you and your exposed skin, and where it’s just where his eyes happen to land on. You look great, there’s no doubt about it, but he’s also seen skin before, so he doesn’t know why it’s you that is so captivating. He doesn’t understand why seeing the side of your breasts makes him feel so flustered. He’s hot, burning at the nape of his neck and constricting around his chest until he’s dizzy and unable to catch his breath properly, and yet, he still can’t pry his eyes away from you. He can’t dare to look away and stop tracing over the soft stretch marks that curve around your thigh or the soft fat of your stomach that stretches when you lean over the counter.

Depending on where and who you are both with, is how he’ll act towards you. He doesn’t mind if you wear something revealing around the League; he knows that the most they’ll do is playfully hit on you in order to get a rise out of him, and as annoying as that is, he knows that around them, you’re safe. Being around strangers is a totally different story. He doesn’t know their intentions and even though he doesn’t, it doesn’t take much to figure out that those intentions are less than playful. He doesn’t like for others to be around you for too long and will often interject himself if you’re having a conversation with what he can assume is a stranger. He’ll put a stop to it immediately and as he pulls you away, he’s tempted to throw his jacket over you, but then you pull him closer to you and tell him how he’s cute when he’s jealous. There are few things to make him react, and that happens to be one of the few; he scoffs lightly, shaking his head and taking you elsewhere- often to another seedy bar or back to the hideout.

Most of the time, he has his hands on you. Whether it be on your knee or curved around your thigh, he keeps you within arms’ length. He doesn’t like for you to leave his side for too long, and tries to keep you around him in the most subtle ways possible. There are few times where he’ll actively ask for you to stay beside him, and even then, those are rare moments where the alcohol has taken over and he’s leaning close to you, his breath warm on your neck as he asks you to not leave him. When he isn’t intoxicated, he’ll throw his leg over yours and keep you trapped there, giving you a short wolfish grin as he refuses to move even when you begin to lightly hit his knee.

There are very few things that Dabi shows to the public, but at the end of it, he is emotional, bubbling over and showing his true nature when it’s late enough. He’ll lean beside you, trace over your skin and watch as goosebumps prick under his fingertip and when he catches your eyes, he waits for you to tell him to stop, but when you don’t, he continues. He likes to touch your skin, to let his touch trace over anything and everything exposed- to trace against your stretch marks, to touch at each birthmark and mole, to let his fingers hover over your scars, and he could fall asleep doing just that. He likes the difference, the way that you laugh lightly when he touches your sides, or how you shiver when he ghosts over your ribs, and when he finally falls asleep, his hand is over your stomach.

Takami Keigo:

Keigo may play the playboy attitude, but he’s under constant watch of the hero commission which leads him to have little romantic relationship. He’s charismatic, and he’s received his fair share of uncomfortable fan-mail, but it’s different when your partner reveals little clothing- at least in Japanese standards. When you come to him wearing clothing that leaves little to the imagination, he can’t help but feel his face grow hot and look away from you. Sure, he’s seen and been given pictures that are much more lewd than what you wear, but it feels different when it’s someone that he cares about in a romantic sense. Each brush of your skin against his leaves him giving you a small smile, while a few of his feathers flutter against each other in a weak attempt to remain calm.

It isn’t that he’s uncomfortable with you wearing so little- just a bit, but that’s more for cultural and personal reasons- but he also just wants you to wear more. The hero commission already controls so much of his life, and he’s fearful that if you get any sort of bad reputation, it’ll follow him and cause the commission to terminate the relationship he has with you. He doesn’t want his relationship to end with you, and he’ll request that you wear more. He hates how you pout and whine telling him that you’re just used to wearing a bit less, but he hints that it’s something that you should do. That usually puts an end to the conversation, but he still feels a bit bad for trying to control you and how you dress.

Control is something that he knows well and something that he’s dealt with his whole life, and the last thing he wants is to control you. He doesn’t want to tell you what to wear or what not to wear, but it’s difficult. You wear so little and while he doesn’t hate it, he doesn’t want other people to judge you. Whether it be for hero work or casual wear, he’s often seen wearing a jacket. Because of that, he’ll give you his jacket most of the time, gently putting it around your shoulders and flexing his wings when you actually wear it, acting as some sort of curtain for you. Truth be told, while he is a fan of you wearing short attire, he prefers seeing you with his jacket around you, loose fitting and just enough collar to hide the lower half of your face.

Your style of clothing isn’t something that he hates. He actually likes it. It’s almost teasing, seeing the bare skin of your upper thigh, or the soft swell of your breast that hides under the low cut shirt. He can see why you would wear those types of things- you look good in them, and they’re quite cute. On more than one occasion, he’s caught himself staring at you, letting his eyes linger just on the edge of where your shorts bite against your thigh, the soft push of the fat or catching your midriff when you raise your arms over your head in a yawn. When he does catch himself, he turns away, clearing his throat and going to hold your hand, his smile tense as he tries to discreetly catch his breath.

Being a hero- a top one at that- requires for the hero to be charismatic. They have to have a good smile and look pretty for the camera, and while he’s all of that, his life has been under control and under the watchful eyes of the hero commission. Keigo has never had time for a romantic relationship, so when you come along, it’s quite a surprise for him with everything that comes with it. You’re affectionate and yet, the cultural difference is never something that he realized would have played a big part in the relationship. You’re so different compared to him and he welcomes it. He likes that you wear revealing attire and even if it does make him flustered, he can’t help but enjoy how much freedom you have. You’re different compared to him and he enjoys it. He loves to lean into your touch and feel how warm your skin is because the sun has touched you, not because you’re covered in layers, but because you just are.

Shigaraki Tomura:

Tomura hasn’t been exposed to much of life outside of murder and hatred. When you come to him with revealing clothing, it’s something that he isn’t used to. He’s used to watching shows that show two-dimensional characters in revealing outfits, but reality doesn’t touch with the revealing clothing. So here you are, wearing revealing outfits that have him scratching more out of anxiety rather than annoyance and hatred, and he can’t help but feel his heart race and beat against his ribs, to make sure that Father is properly placed to avoid anyone peeking at his pink tinted cheeks. There’s still a bit of a cultural shock with how different the two of you dress when compared, but to him it’s insignificant.

Due to being raised in a sheltered environment, he has been denied anything meaningful in his life like relationships- romantic or not- so when given the freedom to finally have a relationship, he doesn’t notice how often he stares. Whether you sit beside him or across the room, his eyes are on you, tracing over your body, watching how you hold your cup and bring the rim to your lips, and when you catch his eyes, he looks away. He’ll deny that he ever stared at you, and if pressed, he’ll only tell you that he stared because you had something on your shirt. He hates being caught, it makes him feel as if he has done something perverse, and leaves him feeling almost shameful, and even if you were to laugh and tell him that you don’t mind, he still can’t help but grumble under his breath and move away.

At a certain point of the relationship, it becomes less shameful to stare at you, and more normalized. He sits close to you and when you start to talk, he’ll keep his eyes on you, and even when done, he’s still watching you. He’ll start to be more playful, softly elbowing your side and teasing at your short attire with a sharp grin. He enjoys how you’ll jab back and pull at his sleeve or even when you stick out your tongue and call him some crude name that he’ll return. The relationship becomes much more lighthearted, where the two of you just lean into each other.

You choosing to wear something revealing interfere in anything that he does, so he doesn’t mind how you dress. He doesn’t own you, and no one owns him, he wants you to feel comfortable however you dress, and if you feel better dressing in something short, then he doesn’t care. At the end of the day, it’s about how comfortable you are, and he’s grateful that you’re comfortable around him to dress in something revealing. There are a few times where he prefers to have you dress a bit more revealing, wanting to touch your skin and watch how you react to him- the little jumps, the bumps that cover your skin, the hitch in your breath when he happens to graze over a sensitive spot. It’s much more than just trying to get a rise out of you, it’s to touch you and feel that you are real beneath him, that you willingly let him touch you despite his quirk.

Tomura just likes having you around. He’ll try to keep you to himself as much as he can, excluding the both of you from events that the league invites him to. It isn’t that he’s jealous of the attention that they’ll give you like the playful flirting, but rather, he just misses you. He wants you beside him, he wants to touch you and keep you by his side. He wants to be greedy and not let anyone see you when you wear so little, he wants it to be for him. He understands that it isn’t, that it’s just how you dressed back home and it’s something that you’re used to, but he wants to believe that it’s for him. The infamous villain wants to believe that you’d wear something revealing for him in a way to show that you trust him, that you’re comfortable in letting him see you and touch your skin that is so different compared to his. To him, touch is important, it’s denied and dangerous for him, and yet with you, you welcome him and that’s enough for him to lean into you and rest his head on your chest.

[thebluemartini]

Battle Scars [Nessian Fic]

A/N: Well, A Court of a Silver Flames is just a little over a week away, so I might as well post one final little Nessian fic before its release! So back in November, @hereforthemoment wrote the following post: 

Nesta and Cassian are sparring, right? And Cassian ends up on top of her with a dagger to her throat but at the last moment Nesta aims her dagger at his heart.

He says, “you’d be dead”

But she chuckles and says, “then I guess we’d go together”

Then they both become very serious and look into each other’s eyes until Nesta pushes him off of her and leaves the ring

I asked for permission to write a fic with this scene, and voila! I finally finished it! So here goes! (Thank you @hereforthemoment!!) 

TITLE: Battle Scars

FANDOM: A Court of Thorns and Roses

SETTING: Post-ACOFAS. 

CHARACTERS: Nesta and Cassian

RATING: SFW

GENRE: Angst/Romance/Drama

SYNOPSIS: Nesta and Cassian finally address the war and its aftermath.

*You can also read this on AO3 or FF

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“Train with me, Nesta.”

She did not need to peel her eyes away from her dagger to discover who was talking to her. The low timbre of his voice was familiar to her—and one she heard nearly everyday. 

“That sounds like an order,” she answered coolly from where she sat on a log and continued to sharpen her dagger against the stone in her hand. “You are well aware that I’m not very fond of being told what to do,” she added in a casual tone. 

“My sincerest apologies,” he replied. Nesta kept her eyes down, but she could tell he must’ve been smiling to himself. These days, he always grinned whenever she spoke civilly to him...a vast difference from how they conversed with each other the first few months of her living in the Illyrian Mountains. Those conversations were more like verbal sparring matches. But now, several months later, the two of them were more like...friends. 

“What I meant to say was...would you do me the honor of dueling against me?” 

Letting the stone in her hand plop onto the snowy ground, she sheathed her dagger and finally looked up to see Cassian standing beside her. His hair was pulled back, allowing her to look directly into his eyes. 

The way he stared at her was...unnerving, and the way he treated her in recent weeks was equally unsettling. That fool actually had the audacity to make comments that would cause her lips to curve upwards into a smile. And he’d done things for her — like make her pancakes and retrieve new books for her — that made her feel like something was fluttering around in her stomach.

She had to shift her gaze. “You haven’t asked me to train with you before, General. Why now?” she asked, while suddenly finding the lacings along her sleeve to be quite fascinating. 

“Well, before, I feared you might actually end up killing me in a duel.”

“What makes you so sure I won’t try to kill you now?” 

“I have reason to believe you rather enjoy this pretty face of mine.”

Nesta’s eyebrow rose in confusion as she stood up to face him. “Whatever gave you such delusions?” 

“I seem to recall you looking quite concerned when Merida scraped my cheek during training last week.”

“That’s because I wanted to have the pleasure of marking you myself,” she assured him as she crossed her arms against her chest. The scratch left by the Illyrian female who accidentally struck her dagger against his face was still there. 

“I can think of a few more interesting ways you could do that without weapons, sweetheart,” he remarked with a smug grin as he allowed his gaze to drop to her lips. 

Nesta glared at him. “Are you sure you want to spar with me right now? The urge to murder you is definitely present.” 

Cassian smirked. “Well, I’m not the type to back down from a challenge I’ve already made. Let’s go to the ring.”

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In Nesta’s mind, every duel she engaged in was a story. Many of her fights with Illyrian females told tales of wild beasts that had been tied down for far too long that had now finally been able to roam free, progressing from rigid stances to more fluid movements within the span of the duel. 

Her current fight with Cassian told its own story—one that seemed to echo her and Cassian’s relationship since she moved here to the Illyrian Mountains. At first, his movements were slow and hesitant as he began circling around her, trying to gauge exactly what kind of fighter he was facing, while her own slashing motions at him were rapid. But he was quick to defend himself against her, blocking her dagger with his own. For a moment, her persistence seemed to frustrate him, causing him to finally attempt to strike back at her. Then their arms tired, and they spent less time sparring and more time analyzing the other as they circled each other. 

“You’ve grown stronger,” Cassian noted as he continued staring at her. 

“Are you surprised?” she asked, staring right back and noticing how the snowflakes fell on his eyelashes. 

“No,” he calmly replied. “I’m proud of you.” 

At the sight of her raised, quizzical brow, he continued, “You’ve overcome so much. It’s inspiring.” 

She would’ve raised her brow even higher if she was capable. To hear him say such a thing was...shocking. Alarming. Unsettling. Maybe even infuriating? But maybe she even felt a sense of pride, too...

“But you still have much to learn,” Cassian said with a strained breath and in a swift motion, he suddenly tackled her to the ground. 

Laying atop her body, Cassian pressed the tip of his dagger against her throat, careful not to nick her skin. 

“You’d be dead right now,” he muttered. 

But at that moment, he felt the tip of Nesta’s dagger pressing against his chest, right over his heart. Nesta let out a low chuckle. “Then I guess we’d go together.”

Cassian’s eyes quickly met hers, and her laughter faded. Silence fell between them—only the sounds of their ragged breathing could be heard as they looked at each other. 

Suddenly, with a shove, Nesta winced as she pushed Cassian off of her. Getting up, she sprinted out of the ring, leaving behind her dagger on the ground. 

“Nesta!” Cassian called out. “Nesta, wait!” In a quick movement, he stood up and charged after her as his own dagger tumbled to the ground. 

Determined, Nesta trudged her way through the snow with her arms folded across her body. The gusts of cold wind blowing against her face did not deter her. In fact, the biting cold helped distract her from thinking about the last time she almost died with Cassian. 

“Nesta!” Cassian called from behind her. She wasn’t walking fast enough. “Nesta, please. We need to talk.” 

“About what?” she shouted back, unable to resist the urge to yell at him and release her pent-up anger. Of course, she had an idea about what he possibly would want to talk to her about, but she’d been wrong about that before. Back after the King of Hybern was dead and the war was over, she thought he’d seek her out and address what he said to her on the battlefield. But that never happened.

“Us, the war...everything!” he replied. His voice was louder now.

Inside, Nesta was seething and couldn’t help herself from bursting now. She abruptly halted and whipped around to face Cassian as he approached, catching him by surprise.

“You’ve had months—years, actually—to talk!” she exclaimed. “Why even bother at this point?” 

“Because...I’ve been such an idiot–”

“No argument there,” Nesta grumpily interjected as she crossed her arms against her chest. 

Cassian paused and took a few heavy breaths as he looked at her. “And we need to talk about it in order to move forward. Because I love–” 

“I need to go,” she interrupted him as she shook her head in disbelief at the words he was possibly about to utter. She turned around to resume her journey back to her cabin. 

“Nesta, this is coming out all wrong. Can we please just talk?” he asked as followed her and reached out to grab her hand in an attempt to make her stop. 

Instead, she furiously swatted his hand away, not noticing the patch of ice on the ground as she did so. She slipped, sending her sprawling to the ground, and let out a small yelp in the process as the sharp pain surged through her ankle. 

“Nesta!” Cassian was instantly beside her, crouching down to help her sit up. “Nesta, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” 

“My ankle is twisted,” Nesta answered gruffly through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to bark her head off at him. “Leave it alone,” she ordered when Cassian placed his hand against her boot as if he were going to slide it off. 

“We should wrap your ankle with some snow,” he explained. 

“I will do it,” Nesta insisted with a frown, as she averted her eyes from Cassian. “Just leave me be and go on your way.” 

Confusion covered Cassian’s face. “Nesta, I’m not leaving you out here to suffer alone.”

“Why not? It’s what you’re good at.” Nesta spat back as she remained focused on pulling off her boot.

Cassian froze as her words punctured his heart. Silence passed between them while Nesta inspected her ankle. Cassian then reached for the small pouch belted at his waist, pulling out a  gray lace cloth that was adorned with various Illyrian symbols. 

“I’d like to change my ways,” Cassian spoke faintly. “And become a man worthy of you…if you will let me.”

He grabbed a handful of snow and wrapped it within the cloth, then held out his makeshift ice pack, waiting for Nesta’s permission to place it around her ankle. She peered over at it, curious as to how and why he would have a cloth like that with him.

“This cloth belonged to my mother,” Cassian said upon noticing her staring. “I like to have it with me, especially in battle.”

Nesta’s frown disappeared and switched to a look of slight concern. “Why would you want to use that to wrap my ankle?” she asked in a softened voice. 

“It’s all I have with me,” he replied. “And I am willing to give you all that I have,” he said with a meaningful look. “If you will allow me,” he added. 

Feeling uncomfortable under his gaze, Nesta returned to inspecting her ankle. “Be gentle,” she instructed, granting him permission and not daring to say more out of fear of what Cassian was possibly implying. 

Cassian proceeded to gingerly wrap the cloth and snow around her swelling ankle, tying it so it was secure. “In the weeks when I was laying in bed, recovering from my injuries after the war…” he began hesitantly. “Every time I awoke, I always hoped you would be there when I opened my eyes.”

Nesta’s breath hitched upon hearing Cassian speak of the war, but she did not stop him from speaking. 

“But you never came,” he continued calmly, as he delicately slid her boot back onto her foot and began tying the laces. “And I was left feeling angry, bitter, and sad. I thought...after the way you shielded my body with my own, after our...after our kiss, that it would’ve meant something to you. That you would want to check on me and make sure I was all right and talk to me. But when you never showed, I assumed you wanted nothing to do with a low-born bastard like me. That everything between us meant nothing to you.”

Nesta absorbed every word he said as she watched his hands. But she allowed the sounds of the whistling wind to fill the silence instead of responding. 

“I can carry you back to the cabin, if you want,” he suggested as he stood up off the ground. 

Even when it came to the smallest things, Nesta hated not being the one in control. But with her ankle throbbing in pain and a long trek back to the cabin before her, it appeared she was left with no choice but to accept Cassian’s help. 

Yet, there was something endearing about his offer. He didn’t ask her if he could fly her back, which would be much faster than carrying her by foot. But he knew how much she detested flying and how sick it made her feel. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d recognized how she’d been feeling. As of late, he definitely had taken notice of certain things about her...like never starting a fire within the cabin because he realized its crackling sounds distressed her, always fully cooking the meat in her meals so it’s red juice wouldn’t remind her of bloodshed, and preparing a cup of tea for her each evening knowing it helped her sleep well each night. He even started remembering the little details about her, like how she prefers honey in her tea over sugar. 

Nesta gave a stiff nod. 

Cassian instantly knelt down to lift her up in both of his arms, careful not to jostle her ankle too much. 

As he began the trek to the cabin, Nesta turned her face toward his. While he had been learning more about her these past few months, there were still some things he did not yet understand. And there were things about him that she’d been wanting to understand. 

Feeling her gaze, he looked back at her. 

She took a deep breath. “In the weeks after the war, I was drowning,” she recalled calmly. “I was struggling to deal with all that happened in the war, from fighting the king to dealing with my father’s death to coming to terms with my powers.” Her voice fell into a whisper. “Do you think I was ready to deal with...whatever I may have felt for you at the time on top of that? Do you think I would’ve wanted to visit you and see firsthand the after-effects of a war that I was already having nightmares about each night?” 

With a somber look darkening his face — an expression that Nesta wasn’t sure she’d ever seen grace his face before — Cassian stopped. 

Squeezing her more tightly in his arms, he raised her a little higher so he could bring his face closer to hers. “I’m so sorry, Nesta,” he said. “I’ve...failed you so many times. I chose to be bitter. I was hurt that you appeared to despise me while I was in love with you.”

While she could sense his apology was genuine, there was still more she needed to know and comprehend. And more that he needed to realize. “You promised more time with me out on the battlefield, then abandoned me. Then, you agreed to send me away to live here in the mountains against my will. Is that love to you?” she wondered sadly. “You told me that you didn’t understand how my sisters could love me. Would you call that love, too?”

A tear shone in Cassian’s eye as he shook his head vigorously. “No, absolutely not,” he insisted. “I realize how wrong I’ve been. I’m so sorry I gave into my pain and tried to hurt you the way I felt you had hurt me. I hope, in time, you can forgive me.” 

Nesta found she couldn’t reply. Not just yet. She’d been wrestling with thoughts of how he treated her in the past, compared to the way he’d made her feel as of late. 

Cassian soon resumed walking, striding through the snow with determined steps and an intense, serious facial expression. 

The rest of the journey to the cabin was quiet, but once Cassian stepped upon the porch outside the front door, Nesta held up the palm of her hand and rested it upon his chest, catching his attention. “Cassian, I want to forgive you,” she confessed softly. “But I… I need to see that I can trust you.” 

Cassian nodded, turning his head down. “I understand,” he said. “You don’t know how much I wish we could start over. That we could go back to the end of the war, so I could be there for you afterwards,” he stated wistfully.

Nesta moved her hand up to his cheek, capturing his gaze again. “Then, let’s start over.” 

“What?” he asked, puzzled. 

“Begin again by making me a promise, and prove to me that you can keep it this time,” she proposed.

Cassian took a deep breath before tilting his head down and staring deep into her steel eyes. “My only regrets in this life are the ways I’ve failed you and how I’ve wasted time that could’ve been spent better with you, Nesta. We will have that time now. I promise.” 

He tightened his grasp on her, and to his astonishment, she lifted her head up and planted a sweet, brief kiss upon his lips. 

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his. “It just felt like something was missing after such a promise,” she admitted with a slight grin playing at her lips. Cassian let out a low chuckle. 

“Don’t screw up this time,” she added in a whisper. 

“There’s no way I’m losing you this time, sweetheart.”

________________________________________________________________

A/N: In writing this, I realized that I wished there were more synonyms for “stare” because I am ALL ABOUT intense gazes between Nesta and Cassian! So apologies for the overuse of the word. 

Anyway, I hope you liked it! I was pretty determined to include a Nessian kiss in here, but obviously those two still have a lot to heal through here...more than a oneshot allows :) so thank goodness ACOSF is almost here to do that for us! I had hoped to finish this fic weeks ago so there was a good chunk of time before the release but here we are. (While I am DYING for this book, I do feel a tinge of sadness over the fact that most of my Nessian fics will no longer be canon-compliant! XD) 

Thank you for reading and thanks again @hereforthemoment for the fic inspiration! 

[erickadracula]

The last good-bye

They were in one of the great halls that overlooked the beautiful garden of English roses, which recalled the times when Abraham used to live there. They were just blooming after a long, dark winter. The sun's rays were warmer and the days slightly longer.

"Why have you asked me to meet you here? , it is something unusual of you, grandfather" Willhem adored the frescoes of that room and the harmony in the decoration. High ceilings in cream color with golden motifs and pastel colors with frescoes of deities and gloriously dressed characters enjoying mass parties full of abundance, were magnificently captured. Of all the residences, this was the least somber.

The Van Helsing State was a set of four residences divided, according to their use and time of the year. The main one was where the family members lived and the other three served to guard relics, extensive libraries, art or as offices and chambers to receive ambassadors, politicians, philosophers and nobility and sometimes, royalty.

They were in the spring-summer residence, almost a month before Van Helsing officially began the Easter celebrations.

"There are less people here who can spy on us, most of the servants are in the main residence.”

Abraham had always been a cautious man, but he could not deny that with age he had also become a little paranoid.

He saw his beloved grandson, putting on his three-piece suit and using his distinctive cane as if he were a dandy. He had grown so much, he had become a faithful portrait of his father and sometimes forgets that he is not talking to his son, but to his grandson.

His platinum blonde curls, his mustache perfectly waxed, with harmonious features, he might look like an angel, if he didn’t have a scar on the eyelid of his left eye. He was a stocky man who liked extreme sports and adrenaline in its purest form.

"Grandpa, thank you for entrusting me with this mission of God. You know that I am proud to belong to this institution."

He kissed the hand of the person who had offered him so much wisdom and challenges. Abraham had raised him to be at the same level and likeness of his deceased son and Willhem had a complete devotion.

"You are my pride, I know that you will do a good job and you are willing to run any necessary risk in this mission."

His trip to Africa was not just a diplomatic visit, but a covert mission.

The Dutch ambassador of the Congo had something in his possession that was required for his mission, a map with coordinates that could give the location of the lost city of Atlantis. Inquiring for years, there were only two books that contained what appeared to be a map of that fictional place and Abraham had one of them in his possession but it was incomplete. He had bought it in one of his expeditions in an antique market. Having almost scarce information and hiring secret investigators, he could find the location of the other map several decades later.

"How can we know that we can trust him?”

They were very troubled months, there were many social nonconformities and were difficult times where there was no certainty of anything or anyone. There was also much fear of the monsters, and in some regions, there were rumors that they were causing unfortunate massacres and events.

"We just know, he owes me many favors. And he was the only one who found the person who had this. "

He pointed to the book with worn leather cover that had as its title a series of indecipherable characters.

"When we have this in our power, it is when you say we will embark?" Showing some displeasure at having to depend on others to carry out things, maybe he was not entirely brilliant but he was a man of action.

"Yes, as you know I do not know how many years it will take us, it could be hundreds, but it will be necessary to kill the monsters and especially with Dra ..." Putting his hands together and making faces of displeasure when trying to pronounce that name.

"With Dracula. Are you saying that there is no chance that I would beat him in a close-quarter battle? What are the chances of beating him with this object? "

Abraham loved to see the disposition of his beloved boy.

"If the legends are true, he would perish without any problem. It's something so powerful that it wiped out an entire city. "

That vision was really terrifying and grandiose, Willhem felt like his body was filled with an emotion too difficult to stop.

They heard a few steps and suddenly, the great doors opened wide. It was Dagmar, who entered with her elegant and provocative step, behind her came the butler as well, his face visibly agitated.

"Excuse me, I told the madam that I had to announce her before, but she did not listen.”

Van Helsing,throwing a quick glance of boredom at his grandson, quickly changed his expression to one of joy.

"Oh Daggy, my favorite ornament, how have you been? I'm glad you dignified to say goodbye to me. "

Dagmar made her entrance dressed in a white business suit, with some inspiration in the costumes of the first explorers of Africa, with a matching hat and a cascade of pearls around her stylized neck.

“Don’t come to me with hypocresies dear, but I'm always perfect and you, squeaking as usual?"

The relationship between the two of them had been at first honey on flakes, until she had discovered the true perception that he had about her, and the position that everyone handled in that house, the sun king and the other planets that surrounded him.

"I like this girl, her audacity and her lack of consideration towards elders, I like it" pointing to her while she sat next to her husband.

"Oh don’t start, you look like children. Without further ado grandfather, we will have to retire. The driver is already waiting for us to take us to the hangar. "

"You already told him my conditions, my love, that I want to be active in the missions. I no longer want to be just the companion" Stroking his shoulders as she lay her chin on one of them and watching Abraham laughingly.

“Yes, he already knows sweetheart, I think it's fair that you also take part in this"

Van Helsing hiding his annoyance, swallowed hard. "I'm glad that you're finally taking your role seriously"

"Well, we have to leave" Dagmar felt more than resentment in her heart for that antiquity as she called him in private, and it was difficult for her to contain herself "I hope he takes good care of her.”

That separation was painful, in spite of being a rather cold mother, her little one was the only being in that house to whom she could show love and of whom she felt genuinely concerned.

"You do not have to ask me, you know I would give my life for my great-granddaughter" feeling slightly assaulted by that comment.

Willhem hated being in the middle of that field of fire before two such explosive personalities, he had learned to get all of that out during in his workouts and always kept the composure.

“I did not talk about my daughter" lying to herself made her feel like she was winning some kind of battle against him. “I spoke of my mare, I already left the servants the instructions for her care" Looking at the butler who watched them silently.

Van Helsing was baffled at that clarification while she gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. He hated being approached too much, except by his grandson.

Leaving him a red lipstick mark, she just smiled as she saw the surprised face of her husband. It was her little revenge.

"You already know that I detest these unnecessary expressions of affection" he said while cleaning the place where he had been kissed without realizing that he was getting even more stained.

"At least you did not say it was Judas' kiss. Is it because of the connections my family has with royalty.” She straightened her hat and took her purse, “or because my grandfather was a great friend of yours? Oh yes, thanks to him you could work for the queen, I had forgotten. "

Going to the exit, and stopping just before to make him, with a cynical pose, a farewell signal before disappearing in the hall.

Once again the two alone, returning the sight towards one another, felt that whatever happened in that trip would be the last thing.

"Dear boy, take great care of yourself" somehow he felt a great weight in letting him go and he couldn’t explain it. "I'll wait for your return."

"Please do not take it the wrong way, do not listen to Dagmar, and please take good care of our daughter. If something would happen to us, I know she would not be in better hands" embracing what was left of him.

"Don’t say nonsense boy, the next time we see each other, it will be to embark, and to finally conclude our legacy" he took his hands and shook them tightly.

That was just another mission of the day-to-day life he carried out in the name of Abraham, he was used to being his spokesman and being the public image of the family. Even if there were risks, he would be willing to take them.

Taking his cane and heading for the exit decisively, he stopped short when he heard his ancestor with a loud voice telling him.

"The Van Helsing honor you and you honor them."

[baepsaetan]

Inkarnate

Summary: Hoseok is a film student looking for muse, and Yoongi is a tattoo artist looking for money. When they meet, the two find that they could give each other far more than creativity and cash, but soulmate isn’t spelled p.e.r.f.e.c.t, and Yoongi’s tattoos cover up more than just his skin.

Chapters: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt.8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11 -> read on Ao3

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst

Warnings: Smut, swearing, implied alcoholism, implied past abuse, seriously a lot of angst, main character death.

Length: 8.5k

A/N: “Eventual smut” warning has changed to smut in this chapter, as a heads up to readers. Thanks for keeping with me, everyone, and I hope you enjoy! (Honestly, I did writing it.) Oh! And just a reminder that this is fiction and as such should not be used as a reference for safe sex.

Cold water splashes over his hands, and Hoseok sings to himself as he washes the dishes from their dinner. Yoongi told him to leave them while he took a phone call from someone wanting to set up an appointment, but Hoseok likes keeping busy and he likes cleaning up. He hasn’t showered since they got home from the camping trip, only an hour or so ago, too busy with making something to eat, but washing the dishes is a pleasant relief from the dirt and smoke that feels embedded in every fiber of his being.

Besides, he’s in a good mood. Their conversation is nestled at the back of his mind, cautiously optimistic, cautiously enthused, and he can’t help but ransack Yoongi’s words into a scattered mess in his brain. It makes him stir in places he shouldn’t be stirring – another benefit to the cold water – but jumping the gun aside, Yoongi’s seemed so tired recently, Hoseok can’t help but be simply relieved that the artist can even joke about it. Not for himself, but he’s glad for any indication that his boyfriend is feeling good. Sometimes… sometimes he’s not so sure.

Hoseok is worried about that, very much so, and he’s caught in a frustrating tug-of-war match with himself about it. On the one hand, Yoongi’s dropping weight and there’s something… something wrong about him, sometimes, something that Hoseok can’t quite put a finger on. It’s like a shadow crosses his being, tired, dark lines swathing his normal intensity, but it doesn’t stay for very long. Hoseok would worry more, but Yoongi just seems so… content.

Well – not seems. He is happy, Hoseok feels that with a deep certainty that rings true with every laugh, with every goofy, wild joke that the other man makes. The camping trip had been one of the happiest times he can ever remember having, and he’s pretty sure Yoongi feels the same. He doesn’t know how to reconcile the shadow with the light, or which one to believe in more, and he’s not sure if it’s weakness or his nature that makes him want to believe Yoongi will be fine. For now, Hoseok contents himself with nagging and either bringing around Seokjin’s cooking or making something himself whenever possible. And doing whatever chores he can get away with, to help Yoongi out with his schedule. And thinking about the bed upstairs, which is not exactly productive or helpful.

His singing is a little off–key, though that hardly deters Hoseok; it’s a nice distraction from his conflicted thoughts. He’s just missing a high note by a particularly admirable amount when hands tuck around his middle, neatly tugging the last bowl from his grasp and setting it in the sink. Yoongi’s chest is warm against his back when he says, “I told you to leave them.”

Turning within the cage of those arms, Hoseok grins at his companion. “Yeah, but I never agreed.”

“My house, my rules,” Yoongi drawls, his nose scrunching, the lazy syllables dropping without anger from his lips as he pulls Hoseok closer. “Besides, you’re my boyfriend. I don’t remember hiring you as my maid, too.”

“I hired myself. You’re paying me by the dish.” He loves the way Yoongi’s smile overwhelms the little frown lines embedded around his mouth, loves the way Yoongi’s low chuckle comes without any hesitation. Months aren’t enough to scour away scars – if they can ever be gotten rid of entirely – but the artist’s have certainly softened.

Like the quirk of his lips, no longer as ironic or mocking. “By the dish? Shit, how much do I owe you?”

“At least a million dollars,” Hoseok says firmly. “That, or a kiss. I’m sure I’m worth at least one of those.” His heart leaps at the stupid audacity of those words, no doubt brought from the gutter his mind can’t seem to hop out of.

And immediately Yoongi is stretching up, their lips meeting in an easy, luxurious press that still makes his breath catch. A moment later the tattooist draws away, gaunt cheeks faintly flushed. “You’re selling yourself short, Hobi,” he murmurs. “You’re worth thousands more of those.” His arms rise, rest on Hoseok’s shoulders, and he pushes him back a short step until Hoseok’s pressed into the kitchen counter. Yoongi had a shower before they ate, and the fresh tang of citrus envelops them. The next time Yoongi kisses him, it’s not on the mouth but on the neck, hard and dragging, the hot pressure eventually drawing a shaky exhale from Hoseok. That does nothing to deter the other man; he sucks hard enough that it’s going to leave a mark, pleasant pain dwelling in the shape of his lips and the scrape of his teeth.

They haven’t had much alone time in the last few weeks, and Hoseok is happy to take advantage of Yoongi’s touchy mood. The conversation from the tent lingers in the back of his mind, itchy and breathless and apprehensive in the best way possible, but he doesn’t think much about the looming hours ahead. His boyfriend was probably joking. He didn’t mean it was going to happen tonight. Yoongi’s body demands to be touched, though, and Hoseok skims his fingers along his spine, frustrated by the flimsy fabric between them. For his part, the artist presses against him, making the edge of the counter dig into his back, and strikes a match with his lips alone.

When Yoongi breaks off, it’s only to press light kisses into a path up his throat, making his way to Hoseok’s jaw, the fluttering contact leaving dissatisfaction writhing in Hoseok’s stomach after the harsh pleasure of before. The film major wants to hurry it along, even if it is just a make out session, but Yoongi senses his intentions and traps his head in gentle hands, keeping him from moving. He kisses the side of Hoseok’s mouth repeatedly, teasing, a slip of tongue and teeth, and Hoseok makes a sound equal parts pleasure and complaint.

Yoongi pulls back, cocking an eyebrow. “What?” he asks. “You didn’t say I had to pay you back quickly, Hobi-yah.”

“It’s never quick,” Hoseok retorts, though that’s not entirely true. Their make out stints are as varied as the tattoos in Yoongi’s portfolio, and he distinctly recalls a particularly hot one taking place for the span of three minutes behind one of the bookshelves in Namjoon’s store before the owner had come looking for them. Sill, there’s almost always something playful about Yoongi, something drawn out and just a little bit provoking, like he’s decided to teach Hoseok the painfully sharp meaning of patience before getting down to business.

It’s not that Hoseok doesn’t enjoy it, but there’s something torturous about always being left wanting more.

“Mmm, poor baby.” Grinning crookedly at Hoseok’s offended huff, Yoongi suddenly drops his arms. Before Hoseok can be caught by disappointment, the other man is taking his hand and pulling him out of the kitchen and into the living room. The film student goes willingly, his mouth tender with the memory of rough pressure, expecting to be towed to the couch, but Yoongi pulls him to the black stairs leading to the loft bedroom. When he hesitates, his boyfriend looks back. “Come on,” Yoongi says. “You think I already forgot what you said last night? About physical stuff?” He tugs on Hoseok more firmly and then they’re climbing up and entering Yoongi’s private space.

For all the changes they’ve made together, this is not, typically speaking, a place Hoseok feels comfortable in, and the few times he’s been up, Yoongi has been equally uneasy. He can’t honestly say it’s not a little hurtful, having an area Yoongi finds so difficult to share with him, but he’s resigned himself to it; some people just need their sanctuary, even if he can’t relate. This unprecedented invitation catches him off guard, makes him antsy as the blonde man pulls him to the bed. Hoseok doesn’t sit down, shifting on his feet as he looks around.

The dark blue and black loft bedroom is small and personal, a stark contrast to the wide-open living room down below. It too has a window, albeit smaller, set high on the far wall, and the light it lets in is the languid orange of a sun that’s getting ready to give way to night. There’s a small desk that Hoseok suspects Yoongi doesn’t use; there’re a lot of photos and little knickknacks scattered on the surface, too much so for it to be anything more than a display stand. Only one plant has been placed up here, on the desk, a sharp-leafed green succulent that’s growing slanted towards the window.

Off to the side, a laundry basket is settled next to a dresser, and Yoongi throws his shirt into it before turning to Hoseok, seemingly unembarrassed by his bared skin. “Well?” he asks, his hands encompassing the space like he’s introducing it, but Hoseok knows he’s not really asking about that.

He’s seen the artist without his shirt on before, but it’s always a hasty flash of canvas and colour, designs half-glimpsed before he’s pulling on a clean sweater or top. The times when he’s shoved Yoongi’s shirt up while they’re making out don’t count (he’d been distracted with other things). His first feeling is a blush of heat – embarrassment, desire – blooming out from his core and scalding across his skin. For all that Yoongi is slender – too slender, probably – the tattoos across his body give him a solidity, a strength that overwhelms his slight frame. Outlined in the soft light from outside, he doesn’t look frail; he looks like a golden promise that can’t be broken.

His eyes wander across the jagged lines of ink on Yoongi’s arms – easily recognizable – to more unfamiliar territory. At the edge of his ragged, lowriding jeans, a hint of red peeks up at his hip, the shape indistinguishable, but it makes heavy anticipation dance in Hoseok’s fingers, imagining running over the jut of smooth skin. Yoongi’s chest is partially covered by shaded storm clouds with pale lightning bolts licking at their edges. The art takes up the left side of his body, spilling onto the front of his shoulder, and Hoseok is initially enthralled by the thunderous grey and black, the colours summoning electricity in his own chest. When he looks closer, though, three letters – DNR – are shrouded in the clouds, which makes Hoseok’s mouth thin, and the static warmth dissipates like sunlight through gentle rain. Yoongi sees where his eyes are and smiles.

“Don’t sweat it, Hobi. Even tattoo meanings can change. Now it could stand for…” A pause as he gropes for an alternate meaning, but not a long one; Yoongi’s good at making stuff up on the spot. “Now it could mean Damn Near Respectable. That’s legit, right?”

“Only if it’s for real.” The sight of the letters pulls back on the heat shading his vision, making it harder to concentrate on his tight appreciation of Yoongi’s body. Even if it’s just a ghost of Yoongi’s mindset, it still hurts to consider the tattooist deciding to put that on his body, especially with how much weight he gives to tattoos. Hoseok swallows. “You don’t mean it anymore?”

Coming nearer, his boyfriend’s smile has faded into something more serious. “I don’t. If you see me taking a kick at the bucket, resuscitate my sorry ass, okay?”

“Nothing could stop me,” Hoseok mutters, his heart steely with that conviction, and when Yoongi laughs, he sounds surprised.

“You know what? I could almost believe that.” Before Hoseok can reply, the small man’s hands slip under his shirt, his palms leaving tingling impressions as they skim upwards, shoving up the shirt as they go. Without complaint, Hoseok helps Yoongi take off the stifling fabric, though the taut strain the tattoo summoned is still trembling through his nerves. God, he just hates the thought of his life being empty of this man who’s started taking up so much space.

Yoongi must know he’s upset; he tosses Hoseok’s top to the side with rough carelessness, but when he kisses him, it’s soft. An apology. “Relax,” the artist murmurs. “I still need to pay you back, remember?” Unconsciously the words begin to work on his tension, heating it up, and Yoongi’s lips, pressing against his mouth, his throat, his collarbone (though meticulously avoiding the tattoo, like always), speed up the melting process. Under his boyfriend’s maddeningly deliberate mouth, he has to let go of his anxiety; he’s trying too hard to hold on to his sanity to clutch at anything else. The warm pressure, sometimes gentle – sometimes not so much – dots his body in tingling pleasure, and when Yoongi dips lowers still, tongue hot and wet against his chest, Hoseok’s hands curl in his hair, stopping his progress.

His heart is thundering like a furnace, and the sight of Yoongi’s swollen lips and dark eyes does nothing to soothe the sweltering heat passing through his body. He wets his mouth against the cotton-dryness of his throat. “Are we – are you really sure you want to…” He’d hoped this was going to happen – had, in point of fact, longed for it with a violence that was just short of sinful – but it’s happening so suddenly, so out of the blue, that he can’t help but feel like he must be doing something wrong. There must be something he should do more of, or less of, or –

“Relax.” The husky demand crackles like lightning against his muscles, doing absolutely nothing to soothe them, but the resulting tautness is a different kind of strain. In the low light, he can see that Yoongi’s mouth is creased into a private smirk. “I’m sure, Hobi. I’m sure I want to be with you, and I’m sure I want to kiss you, and –” His hands drop, snuggly fitting around Hoseok’s waist, and with a dextrous movement that belies his small size, Yoongi shoves Hoseok backwards onto the bed.

The smirk becomes provokingly wicked, and the artist moves between Hoseok’s legs, hanging over the side of the mattress. “And I’m sure I want to fuck you, too.”

He can’t reply over the maelstrom of desire that rips up like it’s attached to Yoongi’s rough voice, like the words are a guillotine cutting straight through his doubt, and Yoongi chuckles, low and velvety. He rests his hands on Hoseok’s thighs, and his light fingers are all at once too much and too little and somehow just right. “Mmm, Hobi,” the artist says, leaning over him, his touch gliding upwards to tease Hoseok’s throbbing groin. “I think you want me to fuck you, too.”

“Yoongi…” He’s not sure if it’s a curse or a plea dwelling in his dry throat, but when the other abruptly straightens, removing his hands, the impulse veers towards swearing. It’s unbearable to be separate, to release the friction without any sparks, and he has to strangle the impulse to call the smaller man back.

Smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing, Yoongi wordlessly heads over to his desk, rummages around in one of the drawers. A few seconds later he returns, throwing the lube and condoms in his hand onto the pillow. Hoseok is too far gone to be embarrassed, and he shifts restlessly, drawing himself up more fully onto the bed, propped on his elbows. The aching hollowness in his chest demands to be filled, and his boyfriend is obliging, if far, far too slowly. Stradling his hips, Yoongi’s deft fingers find his stiffening nipples, playfully pulling at the sensitive skin even as his lips return to Hoseok’s mouth. When he moves, he grinds against Hoseok’s groin, and the pressure makes Hoseok groan and buck upwards, straining for more contact.

Yoongi breaks away, hands hot imprints against Hoseok’s chest. “So impatient,” he observes, still slowly shifting, and Hoseok grunts and pulls him down to crush their lips together.

“Feels like I’ve been waiting forever,” he pants against Yoongi’s mouth, only the truth, and the responding laugh is uneven enough to make him groan again.

“I’m gonna make it worth the wait,” the artist promises hoarsely, and then he’s dipping down, his wet lips marking up Hoseok’s chest, one hand holding himself up while the other trails to fit under the band of Hoseok’s jeans. His tongue swirls around Hoseok’s nipple, his hand dipping lower, and the resulting throb makes the film major’s back arch violently, his fingers curling into the other man’s hair.

“Let me –” he huffs, but Yoongi cuts him off.

“No,” his boyfriend rasps, lifting his eyes for a brief moment. “I told you to relax. You can get me off later, if you’re that desperate.” There’s something ruthless in Yoongi’s smile, a challenge and a vow all at once, and he corrects himself in a voice that’s a knife wrapped in velvet. “I mean, if you’re still up for it when I’m done.”

He moves to kiss Hoseok’s ear, bites at it playfully, his breath hot against Hoseok’s skin. “I’m guessing you won’t be,” Yoongi whispers, and shifts against Hoseok’s crotch, harder than before.

Gasping as pleasure wracks his burning nerves, the student can’t find any words, and there’s so much certainty in the other man that he’s not entirely sure if Yoongi is boasting or not. Anticipation pools like hot lead in his stomach, and it feels so right to have the other man on top of him that he’s swept up in a heady, sweltering relief. His heart is beating hard enough to break the cage of his ribs, but his boyfriend’s presence keeps everything contained, controlled, and there’s something deliriously gratifying about giving that control to Yoongi. Hoseok’s leagues beyond ready, and already hard enough that tremors slide over his limbs every time his boyfriend touches him.

And Yoongi touches him again and again and again.

Under the artist’s graceful hands, Hoseok feels like a piano being played, each muffled moan eased from his lips with seamless perfection. His pleasure hums in his bones until Hoseok is struggling to breathe through the vibrations, and every time the rolling waves makes his eyes flutter, he forces them back open, grudging every second he misses his boyfriend’s expression. He’s unwilling to miss the way sweat glistens across Yoongi's forehead, to miss the tight anticipation gracing every hard line of his face. It occurs to Hoseok – a distant camera flash and nothing more – that the artist looks like this when he’s working on a tattoo, too, all intense focus and unfailing certainty. It makes it harder to look away, though the throbbing ache in his core sets his whole body to tensing in an infinity of want, and his eyes are heavy with the need to close.

After awhile Yoongi unbuckles Hoseok’s pants, and as the student writhes out of them, he helps, yanking them off and throwing them to the side. His warm fingers run against Hoseok’s thighs – a breath of touch – before they find Hoseok’s cock, his smile fading at the groan that Hoseok makes.

“Fuck,” Hoseok spits, and then again when Yoongi’s hand wraps around. “Fuck!” His lover strokes him, again too lightly, again too slowly, stretching him out until he wants to scream, fingers clawing into the sheets and sweat dampening the mess of hair in his face. His lungs scrabble at his ribs, too shallow, too pitifully incompetent to draw in the air he needs, and it doesn’t end; Yoongi is utterly merciless to the breathy pleas escaping his mouth in whining bursts. The artist’s face is a study in concentration, his mouth slightly open, lips shining with spit as his tongue constantly slides over them.

When Yoongi removes his hand, it’s like he’s carved out a bit of Hoseok himself, and if anything, the pressure builds, the need to have Yoongi closer to him rising on a wave of agonizing want. “Yoongi,” Hoseok pants, “Yoongi, come on. Come on, I need you –”

His head tilts, considering, and then the artist smiles, lazy with satisfaction. “I know,” he says. “But I owe you a fucking lot more than that.” Before Hoseok can question what he means, the man ducks his head, shimmies down the bed until he’s kneeling at Hoseok’s feet, and his hands are soft against the jut of Hoseok’s hips. He pauses, lingers in that position until Hoseok is squirming with desperate impatience, and it’s only when he whines that Yoongi relents from his teasing.

He bends over, barely taking Hoseok in his mouth, licking up the precum that’s already leaking out. The warm pressure is enough to force Hoseok’s eyes to close this time. He’s so hard Yoongi has no problem keeping up, and he seems to have no problem taking Hoseok’s length, either. There’s something obscene about the throaty sounds the man is making around his cock, the noise sliding slick and wet over his ears, as slick as Yoongi’s mouth. Hoseok finds his hands tangling in Yoongi’s hair, not quite hard enough to control his motions but needing to feel his hands on something before he loses it altogether. He’s almost afraid he’s going to come now, too soon, his hips jerking up against his control, and Yoongi takes every errant thrust with a hum and a tightening of his fingers against Hoseok’s flesh.

Breath hurtling from his lungs in ragged pants, instead of losing himself in the pleasure Hoseok loses himself in his boyfriend, in the slender hands digging into his hips, in the wet feel of his tongue and the unbearable press of his lips, instead of losing himself in the pleasure. Somehow Yoongi knows exactly what Hoseok wants, and his tongue and mouth become fervent disciples to those needs, to drawing out every last straining drop of pleasure. Each wracking wave sends simultaneous tension through the both of them, their muscles stiffening, and Hoseok knows he’s not imagining just how much his boyfriend is enjoying himself.

Even in this though, Yoongi takes his time. He draws up and down Hoseok’s length, right to the tip, his tongue lathing around Hoseok’s cock before he pushes himself deeper. It turns Hoseok’s nerves into electric currents and nothing else, constantly short-circuiting and making him twitch. It just feels so good, so much, like each indecent choking sound that Yoongi makes is putting more and more of something into Hoseok’s body. It’s not anything as liquid as water, but something heavier, hotter, weighing Hoseok down with shackles of desire his straining muscles can’t break. He keeps himself on those short chains, glad to stop himself from coming, reveling in the feel of Yoongi’s mouth.

He might even have managed to hold on for longer, too, if his boyfriend hadn’t moved his hand from Hoseok’s hip and started roughly running his fingers over Hoseok’s ass, over the curve of flesh and then lower. If Yoongi hadn’t added his touch on top of everything else, he might have ridden out the crippling heat soaking every single atom of his body. But Yoongi is an expert in saturation, and he douses Hoseok with so much pleasure that everything becomes a sharply jagged blur of colour.

“Yoongi,” Hoseok groans, his hands tightening, holding the smaller man in place. “Shit, I –” With a last pull of lips and swipe of tongue, Yoongi gets him off, and Hoseok comes in a burst of heat so intense it feels like its cracking all the bones in his body, right down to his curling toes. Yoongi takes it all, makes no attempt to get off of Hoseok’s cock, and with a wild, desperate abandon Hoseok fucks his face until the other man is choking, choking but still swallowing everything that Hoseok gives him, letting him ride off the high.

The pleasure fades like a starburst behind his closed lids, leaving a wrecked, weak sensitivity that howls with every little bit of pressure from Yoongi’s mouth, and eventually, his frantic movements slowing, he opens his eyes. When Yoongi pulls off of him with a wet pop, drool and cum stretching out in a long rope from his swollen lips, tears staining the corners of his eyes, Hoseok almost chokes on how sinful he looks, his throat suddenly sore. Sagging back, hands going limp as they fall from Yoongi’s hair, Hoseok can’t imagine being more complete than this. He thinks he’d die if there was something more added, his heart already sagging in his chest (but it might just be worth it to feel his boyfriend shift against him again).

There’s some part of him that wants to return the favour, but his boyfriend’s prediction is proving to be true; he’s so drained by the intensity of the last few minutes that he can barely lift his head, let alone start doing something productive with his hands. Hopefully the other man won’t mind too much, just this time.

Next he’s aware, after their ragged breathing has subsided, Yoongi’s straddling his hips, lightly this time, without the playful riding, though even that gentle weight sends near-painful skitters through his groin. Bending down, his boyfriend kisses him. The salty taste of his own cum has Hoseok stiffening instinctively, and Yoongi immediately pulls away, grinning. He’s never looked like the Cheshire Cat so much as he does now, his face flushed and splotchy, lips flecked with white until his tongue darts out to clear it away.

“Feel good?” the tattooist rasps, and this is the kind of sardonic that Hoseok can definitely get behind, sultry and dirty and so raw it’s almost red.

“Like I should be paying for it,” Hoseok replies, and that’s sharp enough to startle a laugh from Yoongi.

Wiping a hand across his mouth and chin, the slick motion making Hoseok swallow, the artist says, “I’m taking that as a compliment.” Which is exactly how it was meant to be taken, though to be fair, he’s pretty surprised at just how good Yoongi is at blowing. Maybe he shouldn’t be. Yoongi’s never been shy about his previous partners, and though extended relationships are few and far between in his history, the one-shot stories of bathroom stalls and strangers’ homes are a lot more prevalent. It’s never really bothered Hoseok before, but the thought makes him feel strange now.

Not angry, or insecure. He has no room for that in the tingling fullness that’s still contracting his lungs and shortening each breath. Angry at Yoongi for his past? Hoseok doesn’t have the heart for that. But the thought of Yoongi on his knees in front of someone else, erasing his life in the feel of someone else’s skin, it makes an uneasy, churning guilt fill his stomach, a strange conviction that he should have been there. He should have been the one to shelter this hard, broken man with his body, or been the one to make the storm so safe neither of them needed to hide from it. He should have...

Yoongi kisses him out of the memory of a mistake he never made. Hoseok is happy to leave, and kisses the other man right back, running his tongue over yielding lips that are perfect pictures of the present. “How many do you still owe me?” he asks suddenly, and the man settled against him tilts his head, clicking his tongue reprovingly.

“You’ve got a shitty business sense, you know that? Not keeping track? What if I told you that was the last kiss?”

Hoseok lets his expression slump into one of abject dejection. Softly, so softly that Yoongi has to lean closer to hear, he murmurs with extremely deliberate dramatics, “Then I wish you would have told me before. I would have treasured it more.”

He has the unusual pleasure of seeing his boyfriend go scarlet so fast it could almost have been a magic trick. His neck awash in red, cheeks stained but mouth stretched in a gummy, shy grin that refuses to morph into a scowl, Yoongi looks away, his hand trailing hesitantly over the flushed patch of skin just below his ear. Honestly, he looks so adorably uncertain that it hurts Hoseok’s chest, just a little, prickly shards of fondness burrowing under his ribs until they find his heart and stay there. It’d be a mood killer, except all it does is make him want to grab the other man and share all of his pleasure, just so that neither of them ever feels uncertain again.

Of course, Yoongi eventually manages to rein in his expression; he always does. But the sharp lines of his mouth have softened when he mumbles, head still turned away, “Shitty at business and dirty talk. Damn. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

It’d be easy to give the artist a hard time over it, except Yoongi’s shifting, restless with embarrassment, and it’s a somewhat pointed reminder that Hoseok is not currently wearing pants, that he has a very attractive man sitting in his lap,. and that he’s been – literally – down for the count for a good ten or so minutes now. Yoongi notices and latches on to that so quickly an ungenerous person might have said he was looking for an excuse to move on. He certainly does move on – Hoseok’s dick, specifically – with an abrupt, familiar smirk.

“Shit, you don’t take much time between shots, do you? Is that your experience, or have you got a special lens?”

Hoseok rises to the occasion – literally – with a careless smile, his hips beginning to roll against Yoongi’s ass. “Both. It helps when the person I’m shooting can keep up, though.”

Yoongi laughs roughly, making small, rocking motions that do nothing more than brush Hoseok’s thighs, the scrape of his jeans against Hoseok’s groin sending little jolts of lightning arching through him. “I can keep up,” the tattooist promises, and honestly Hoseok kind of wants to test that; it seems a little unfair his boyfriend hasn’t had a chance to take any shots, yet.

“How about you take off your pants, and we’ll see?”

“Mmm, you asking or telling?” There’s friction in those words, and the laughter dies in Hoseok’s throat when he meets Yoongi’s eyes.

He has to swallow against the suddenly renewed tension, but eventually he says, “Telling.” It even sounds convincing, his voice dropping an octave through the tautness in his chest.

Yoongi rolls his shoulders, inhaling deeply, insolence dripping from the motion… but a moment later he strips off his jeans and they join the growing graveyard of discarded clothes on the floor. The red at his hip turns out to be a blue moon with the crimson word “lunatic” slashing through it, and Hoseok’s fingers curl, again imagining tracing those lines. He’s more than happy to watch Yoongi take off his lowriding underwear, stepping out of them with thoughtless ease, and finally – finally – he gets to see the full picture of his boyfriend, stripped of everything else.

The sight swamps him with a sudden surge of déjà vu, hot and restless, like cinders under his skin. It’s like – it’s as if he’s seen Yoongi before, like this, a hundred times, a thousand times, a hundred thousand times. Like he’s been seeing him, stripped of everything, exactly as he is, for all his life. It’s not an overwhelming realization, not some awareness that drowns the fire radiating through every fiber of his being. If anything, it stokes the flames with relief, with desire, with certainty, stokes them until they roar across his skin in a searing rush that sets his blood boiling. If he was turned on before – and he was, God, he was – he’s amped to the breaking point now, the filaments of his body shuddering like they’re about to shatter. He just wants Yoongi’s breath, his heart, his – God, his touch. He leans closer to the other man.

And, just out of reach, seated near the edge of the bed – he suddenly realizes something else about Yoongi. There’s a swath of darkness just below his tattoos, a dimness barely seen, blending with the overwhelming fire.

Hoseok can feel it like an abrupt draft of cool air against his enflamed skin, can read the shadow like a neon sign set against the night. It’s not a sexual reluctance – he’s well aware of the state of Yoongi’s dick, as if he needed more encouragement – but something else, something deeper, something that lurks tantalizingly close to the surface of sight, of feeling. In the ever-growing sensation of connection, shot through with lust and heat, he can’t – quite – understand what it is, what the darkness he sees in his boyfriend means. It feels like a hallucination, or a delusion, or a – a lie, a lie set in the dilated pupils of Yoongi’s dark eyes, set so deep it almost disappears.

He falters. “Yoongi…” Hoseok whispers, and his boyfriend blinks, his expression abruptly rigid, and Hoseok wants to ask, the words are teetering on the tip of his tongue, ready to collapse, and –

Suddenly Yoongi wipes away the space between them, is clinging to him, frantic, desperate, like he’s trying to delete the question he’d glimpsed, and his scent overwhelms Hoseok in a heady wave of sweat and citrus. When Yoongi kisses him, his presence is like heated tar, suffocating the sudden misgivings in a layer of thick sensation, and the presence just gets heavier and heavier. Their skin brushes together, searing them both with a sharpness that’s panting breaths away from pain, but neither of them cares. Hoseok feels like he’s being consumed, but he doesn’t mind because he’s devouring Yoongi’s existence, too, and what they pull from each other might just be enough to make something whole.

He can’t hold on to his thoughts, let alone his questions. They melt away into a void, and all that’s left is Yoongi.

Yoongi, with his matches for fingers and kerosene lips and sparking eyes. Yoongi, with his catching fire that’s setting every single piece of Hoseok alight and only searing away what doesn’t matter. Yoongi, who touches Hoseok like he’s stroking a god, divine worship in his face and his touch and his every hitching breath. Their pleasure grows, mingling together until the one is the other, and it gets hotter still, sweat soaking their skin and doing nothing to quench the boiling temperatures.

They prepare themselves with feverish urgency, and Yoongi’s fingers, coated in lube, make a moan rip from Hoseok’s lips, even as he helps Yoongi with his condom. When they tumble together, a strain of strength and sinew, Hoseok finds himself on his back, his legs hitched over Yoongi’s hips, blotting out the moon, the other man leaning over him. There’s no placid teasing in his boyfriend now, no inclination to go slow; his fingers spread Hoseok open with rapid strokes, only easing when a strong flicker of pain crosses their connection. Both of them are shaking, wracked by the tension of keeping themselves together, and trembling anticipation curls ever more violently in the pit of Hoseok’s stomach.

One hand scrabbles across Yoongi’s back, desperately searching for an anchor in the midst of the flaring drive, and Hoseok’s other hand wraps around the artist’s dick, inspiring a hymn of curses and grunts. It’s the least Hoseok can do – and the most, actually, given his muscles are melted, every movement clumsy with heat – but it barely repays the way Yoongi is working him over. Every few seconds new waves of pleasure ripple through his body, growing higher and higher, pressed into being by the other man’s slick, relentless fingers. Both men gasp and moan around each other, fragmented words dropping onto their skin like incomplete tattoos, and the words go deeper, too, wrapping bones and veins in burning, dirty sentiments that can only bind them closer together.

Eventually Yoongi’s fingers aren’t enough, leaving a yawning ache that the stretch can’t fill, but Hoseok isn’t left writhing for long; almost as soon as the ghost of dissatisfaction begins, his boyfriend changes tack. The fervent touch withdraws, making him whimper, but the tattooist isn’t gone, isn’t a hairsbreadth away, and his hands palm Hoseok’s ass, spreading him wider. The lube is more than enough to smooth the way. His boyfriend pushes into him with a guttural grunt that sweeps ash and embers across Hoseok’s vision, and he cries out, almost crashing over the edge with that one motion. Yoongi stills, letting the black and charcoal-red recede from Hoseok’s eyes, and then he begins to move again, rocking into Hoseok with strong, deep certainty.

The slap of their skin, Hoseok’s breathy gasps, Yoongi’s hoarse groans, they blend together and blanket the sound of his heartbeat, pounding against his eardrums, his blood thrumming like it’s alive. It’s too dark in the room to see much of anything at all by now, but somehow his boyfriend doesn’t really leave his sight, like he’s been burned into Hoseok’s mind and no darkness can possibly erase him. He takes up so much space, and Hoseok revels in that fact, in the air that Yoongi’s weight is pushing from his lungs, in the hand stroking his cock and splintering his bones with too-sharp pleasure.

Yoongi somehow manages to control himself, not throwing on the breaks but making every move so deliberate that he strings Hoseok out into a mess of motion and near-madness. Everything outside of the two of them doesn’t just fade; it stops existing altogether. Each thrust fills him to the brim, and it’s only a matter of time until Hoseok overflows, a matter of time and heat and pressure that builds and builds until his fingers are digging into Yoongi’s back, nails biting into his skin, anything, anything to release the steam roiling under his flesh.

It takes longer to get there than before, but when he comes for a second time, the ecstasy tears through Hoseok like a hurricane, ripping up his remaining coherency and leaving it in shreds. He comes in Yoongi’s hand, and the feeling tips beyond delirium, beyond anything he’s ever experienced before – and it doesn’t stop. Yoongi’s steady momentum arches his back, rocks his body with every jerk of his hips, sending tingling drops cascading down to the tips of his fingers. His pleasure strains, wild, a peak of heightened everything and nothing all at once – and it doesn’t stop.

Hoseok is in no condition to question it; he’s barely conscious, his orgasm stretching out in a cloud of combustion through his nerves. Yoongi’s thrusts get faster, harder, until Hoseok’s whimpering and twisting through the buzz of over-stimulation. Somehow, faintly, he’s aware of – two colours, two temperatures, two drives that are separate but still together. One is – a little outside of himself, still burning, still building in a crescendo of ever-tightening tension, and the other is – himself, his orgasm, fading but not really because arousal still dances through his groin as if he hasn’t just come as hard as he ever has in his entire life.

Yoongi’s close; his hand falls away from Hoseok’s raw cock, fisting tight around the sheets, and through his delirious haze Hoseok rolls his hips, doing his best to keep up with the other man’s jarring pace. A gut-wrenching thrill surges through his stomach, a thrill that’s bewilderingly present and removed, all at once, like he’s sharing it with someone else, and Yoongi makes a choked noise that sends a completely familiar skitter across his skin. His body seizes in a paroxysm of pleasure, just as Yoongi’s does, and for one long, breathless moment they’re frozen in a picture-frame of incandescent, overwhelming indulgence, hitting each other note for blinding note.

As he stares up at Yoongi’s face, barely discernable in the dim light, caught in the fervent web of scorching sensation, a dizzying vertigo strikes Hoseok so hard that his eyes flutter, muscles once again seizing, almost to the point of pain. His bewilderment goes hand in hand with his release, and he has a momentary, sickening impression of looming over himself – of sweat trickling down his face, dripping onto the person under him – of red, thoughtless pleasure pulsing through his dick, still buried in Hoseok’s ass – of the sound Hoseok is making, strangled gasps every time Yoongi trembles inside of him – of – of –

Of Yoongi collapsing on top of him, energy abruptly spent, a sudden warm, lethargic surge loosening the visceral claws buried in their quivering bodies. The heat slumps across them like a tattered blanket, and for a long moment, Yoongi lies on him, struggling to catch his breath – and Hoseok is struggling, too, sinking back into himself amidst churning confusion and stinging satisfaction. Each time either of them moves, it provokes a groan, rising from their jumbled lungs, and the smaller man is very slow to pull out. He hefts himself up, and a soft, drawn-out fuck falls from his lips, no edges in any of the syllables. His movements languid, Yoongi pulls off his condom, disappears for a few seconds to throw it away.

They’re both soaked in sweat, sticky with it and Hoseok’s cum, but neither of them can summon up the energy to get up and do anything particularly productive about it. They use a sheet, pulled from the bed, to wipe themselves off, and then banish it to the floor. Yoongi subsides against Hoseok, partially resting on him, and they don’t say anything to each other. What could they say? He can’t get a grip on his emotions, can’t understand what happened, restive uncertainty fighting with a powerful, relaxed haze that he doesn’t want to battle his way through.        

He leans back against the headboard, each movement sending strains of delayed gratification singing through his body, a balm to his suddenly disturbed calm. Hoseok impulsively reaches out to trace his fingers across Yoongi’s collarbone, like he needs to prove the other man’s still there. He’s gratified to find that Yoongi isn’t impervious to his touch; he can feel the other man’s heart beating hard under his hands, and the artist leans into the contact. Contentment stretches between them, sluggish with sexual satisfaction, and on a sudden whim, Hoseok pulls his boyfriend down to cradle against his chest. The weight is too much against his strung-out nerves, making them whisper in protest, but he embraces the feeling even as he embraces Yoongi.

Their breathing is in-sync, he notices after awhile. It’s actually harder to draw in a breath offbeat to Yoongi’s inhalations than it is to breathe at the same time. The smaller man seems content to nuzzle into his neck, only occasionally brushing his lips against Hoseok’s tingling skin, and Hoseok finds his arms tightening around the warm body settled against him. Protective fondness laps like waves at the edges of his mind, a gentle murmur, and he slowly draws his fingers over the little stories embedded in Yoongi’s flesh, some of which he knows by memory and others lost to the shadowed room.

Eventually his searching fingers find themselves resting in the crook of Yoongi’s arm, just above the circle of intensely brilliant colour that he can’t see in the dark. That’s not unusual. He often finds himself drawn to the sun, more so than the other tattoos, and his boyfriend is affectionately tolerant of his tendency to stroke it whenever they’re settled together.

“Yoongi…” His whisper settles into the silence more than brushes it aside, and the tattooist’s response is a worn, inquiring murmur. “Why’d you get this?” He’s never asked before, shying from the subject, but it leaps from his mouth now. It feels like an important question, somehow, connected with the connection that’s fading just as sluggishly from his memory as the pleasure is draining from his limbs.  

He thinks the man won’t reply; for a long time, there’s nothing but empty quiet in the full space taken up beside him. He’s just beginning to wonder if Yoongi fell asleep – the atmosphere is thick and drowsy enough for it – but no, once again the silence is joined by a hesitant voice. “You remember when you first saw it?” Hoseok hums his assent. “I… it was after our fight. It’s something that can – fuck, I don’t know. Make me remember, or…” He pauses, fights with the stillness pressing on them. “You’re – you know how much you mean, right? How much you’re… what you are, to people?” Yoongi’s voice drops, losing ground to the quiet. “What you are… to me?”

The tightness in his chest is a strange hybrid of trepidation and warmth. All the words bunched on his tongue are inadequate, and he doesn’t really know what to say. There’s a suggestion there, a hint that he doesn’t know how to embrace. He’d known Yoongi had gotten the tattoo during that dead-grey week of separation, but he’d just assumed that was a coincidence; he hadn’t thought it had anything to do with him. How could it? Why would it? Why would anyone spend money on anything even remotely related to him?

He ends up laughing lightly, because it seems like it’d be a good thing to do, for Yoongi and for him, too. His shoulders lift, a brisk shrug, but the other man refuses to be put on a different track. “I’m serious, Hobi,” Yoongi says flatly. “It’s… look, this is some stupid shit but if you laugh, I’ll kill you. We stopped talking and I realized that – that I had lost something. I’ve lost a lot of shit in my life, but…” Another pause, deeper and longer than the last, before Yoongi finishes, so rushed it’s hard to catch everything he’s saying. “I dunno. I’d never had a sun to lose before, but I didn’t want to start, y’know? That’s why the tattoo’s there.”

There’s utter, dumbfounded silence, at least on Hoseok’s part, and he’s faintly certain that Yoongi’s stopped breathing. Then, so fast he can’t keep it contained, a rusty sort of screech hurtles from his chest, from his heart, his limbs abruptly flailing in a wild release of the jaw-aching tension. If he’d been on his feet he would have started jumping up and down; as it is, he wriggles in one spot, immersed in a totally different kind of heat so painful his cheeks might as well be on fire. Yoongi’s fist clouts his shoulder reproachfully, but that does nothing to dim the urge to dance in place. He doesn’t know what to do with the teeth-rotting glee, excitement and embarrassment.

It overflows until he abruptly can’t keep it to himself anymore. Disregarding Yoongi’s extremely half-hearted protest, Hoseok wraps his arms around the other man, little shrieks still escaping him, shakes both of them around until Yoongi’s objections dissolve into helpless laughter.

“You’ve lost it,” Yoongi manages to choke out somewhere in between, and he has, he definitely has, but Hoseok’s pretty sure whatever it is, it isn’t worth keeping.

They laugh until they’re on the verge of tears and Hoseok’s stomach hurts and his body just wants to flop over and turn off. Their mirth subsides in fragments, excited giggles continuously climbing from one or the other and pulling them both back down into hilarity. The explosion of amusement eventually simmers down, not gone but contained, and, his laughter still thrumming in his voice, Yoongi says, “You’re too fucking cute, you know that, right?”

Hoseok snorts, trying to dampen the leaping of his heart. “Seriously? I don’t think you get to be the one to say that.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s like – what is it? The pot calling the kettle black. Except cute instead.” He laughs and tacks on teasingly, “So cute!”

Yoongi groans, buries his face in the crook of Hoseok’s neck. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he mumbles, and Hoseok’s got to disagree with that.

“I’m glad you did,” he says, and strives to get it out seriously, without giggling, because he means it. He’s only partially successful, but the student figures Yoongi appreciates the effort; the other man snuggles closer, and if he’s embarrassed, Hoseok can still feel the way his lips are quirked into a smile, branding it on Hoseok’s skin. “It was... nice. To hear,” he continues, softer now. Did that completely capture the extent of his uncertain delight in hearing Yoongi compare him to the sun? No. Not at all. But it’s all he’s got.

“I meant it, too,” Yoongi says, almost belligerently. “Even if it sounded stupid.”

“It didn’t,” the film major assures. “And – that week seriously sucked, for me, too. I didn’t – I can’t say it like you did, but I’m glad we figured it out.” And they did, mostly, although there’s still a bit of a learning curve. Clearly, they’re on the same page when it comes to sex – and most other things, too – but there’s still that feeling that hasn’t quite escaped his chest, that he can’t quite put to rest as it paces the misty confines of the back of his mind.

Hoseok’s tired, though. He’s not in the mood for calculations today. Truth be told, he rarely is when it comes to Yoongi. They seem to fit together even when they shouldn’t, to equal something whole even when they’re both just broken fractions. That’s a truth he knows, and the other questions, the – the thing that feels like a lie, sometimes, when Yoongi speaks… They just don’t seem to be important enough to risk the sleepy, unabridged comfort that the man in his arms brings.

“I’m glad, too.” Yoongi’s voice is hoarse with fatigue, low and getting lower as it slips away. He shifts drowsily, until his head is resting on Hoseok’s chest, one arm laying across Hoseok’s stomach, the other tucked under his cheek as he curls up in that adorably compact way he always has.

They let their conversation die, breathing still in sync, and the night presses hard against their eyes but can’t expunge the comfortable warmth of their bodies pressed together. Yoongi is the first to go, his small frame slowly going limp as sleep climbs over him. For his part, Hoseok runs his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair, an idle stroking that soothes away the raspy murmurs coming from the unconscious man, a gentle touch that stills a brief period of agitated shuddering. Before too long, he too feels the heavy weight draping over his limbs, and there’s no point in resisting. His eyes are already closed, so he just slides down the headboard, careful not to jostle the person on his chest, and pulls Yoongi closer to him.

He holds on to the other man, and with that solid, reassuring presence in his arms, his grip on his doubt collapses. When Hoseok finally nods off, he’s still holding on to Yoongi, but everything else has fallen away.

---

Yoongi rarely dreams, and tonight isn’t an exception. He doesn’t need to, though; wrapped around Hoseok, he sleeps for an unheard of eight hours. It’s a sleep that’s painless and quiet except for the soft, steady sound of Hoseok’s heartbeat, present even in Yoongi’s unconsciousness, and it’s all the dream he needs.

[sl-walker]

I tend to take a really holistic view of character understanding.  I think that’s why I jump between storylines the way I do; there’s something I’m supposed to be learning over here that I can’t learn over there.  Like, I’m writing three different main timelines, and all three of them are different, even starring the same characters largely.  And even though these are all different iterations of these characters, what I learn in one timeline gives me a depth of understanding and a platform in another.

Plus, there’s something really fascinating about changing a variable and seeing how differently it plays out.  Like-- GoT:A Maul never slaughtered the Orsis cadets, so his kill-count is exceptionally low.  In most of my timelines, I don’t acknowledge that bit in Darth Plagueis that had him in gladiatorial matches because I don’t know why Sidious would ever risk him being caught, though I have no trouble seeing Sidious risking him being killed.  But in GoT:A, that’s the catalyst for getting Maul out of Sidious’s control; still, I am reasonably sure he can count the number of people he’s ended the lives of on two hands and not use up all his fingers to do it.  And all of those situations, unlike Orsis, were kill or be killed, as well. (So was that, but they weren’t the threat to him.)  So, he’s ultimately-- softer.  A lot softer in some ways.  He’s not the same level of ruthlessly pragmatic.  He’s more capable of altruism, though he’s still not universally altruistic.  But of the three, he’s the only one who would be willing to sacrifice his life for an ideal instead of something more concrete, though even he is much more grounded in loyalty to people and places than in a philosophy.

But he would intrinsically be willing to lay down his life for Alderaan by his middle twenties, for example, and never think himself poorer for that, whereas WM!Maul, who got the full suite of canonical brainwashing, is only selectively willing to sacrifice for a very small number of people -- Obi-Wan, Vokara Che and Bail Organa, as of the end of SIOF, though as time goes on and he bonds with others, he adds to that list; Breha, his Blackbirds, likely eventually Ahsoka, and eventually Savage.  But even then, WM!Maul is incredibly selective about what he’s willing to die for and that never actually changes.

TF Maul exists somewhere between the two.  He did go through the massacre at Orsis, did kill a whole lot of people, but it was before Sidious got those final hooks into him -- his trials -- and so when he gets his wings, he’s not so blindly brainwashed that the terror of them being cut off fails to override his loyalty and sense of no way out, and so he bolts.  And honestly, he bolts like a teenager does; he doesn’t plan it, he just panics and runs and once he’s run, he realizes right quick that going back will probably mean the end of his life in some gruesome manner and so he kind of almost traps himself into leaving.  Out of options, he runs to the Jedi because they’re the only ones strong enough to protect him.

Out of the three, though, he was the only one who chose his own rescue.  And that changes a lot about how he interacts; yeah, he might have trapped himself into said rescue, but he did run to the Jedi on the ridiculously convoluted thinking that if they were weak because of compassion, then that weakness would save him, which is paradoxical, but he was a very hurt and terrorized sixteen year old, so there you go.  Any which way, he’s too messed up to even start to function outside of a structured environment, so between his own choice to be there and the detangling of his brainwashed thought patterns, he gets a lot of remedial socialization in a fairly short period of time and responds to it because he chose that.  And honestly, he’s still young enough there that even if he thinks he’s a monster, he hasn’t had his ability to feel lonely and isolated broken from him, so he’s a lot more receptive to gestures of friendship.  He’s a lot quicker to figure out that his prior isolation was by design and to then go forth and defy that design.  And, too, he’s a kid who’s never in his life had a genuine caretaker, and now he has a couple adults -- Qui-Gon and Vokara -- who are old enough and stable enough and with enough authority to keep him in line and show him the right way to deal with things.  Like, you’d think punishing the kid by making him babysit little kids is mean, but it was exactly what he needed; not only to ‘pay’ for body-dropping Quin and underage drinking, just to satisfy his own fucked up mental wiring, but to learn that he does have boundaries that he’s supposed to stay inside of, healthy sensible boundaries, and also Qui-Gon’s reasoning for sending him to the creche to work was perfect.

Like legit, @shadowmaat hit a gold mine of brilliance with Archix Clan and then Vos Encounter.  That punishment was brilliance.  It was designed to impart a lesson or several, in a gentle manner, and oddly I think that did more good for Maul than almost anything else could have.  The rules were clearly defined, the punishment was in line with them, he got to show just how naturally good -- if unrefined -- he is at being a teacher himself, and the sheer level of patience he’s capable of. He gets trusted with the safety of a whole bunch of children and even when he makes mistakes, their trust and innocence means so much to him that he has a fairly infinite fuse with them.  That’s how, not terribly long later, he can forgive Vos, even if not forget.  And really, it’s this that settles a lot of things in his head: He answers to Master Jinn, and if he gets in trouble, he’s supposed to think things through and ask for help if he needs it, because like, that’s exactly what role he was filling in here or there for the crechelings.  LOL!  So, by Gambit, he defers to his elders and calls for Obi-Wan and even though it’s all initially hard on him, emotionally, he copes and leans on his support network and does pretty amazingly well for what he started like.  And these are all the foundations that, in three or four years, will lead to him poking his big brother and rough housing and being the genuinely delightful young adult he often turns into when you put him in the right circumstances.

Whereas, in three or four years, WM!Maul was a hardened assassin and a mental disaster.  Everything he was came down to his blade and his skill and his ability to kill.  He managed to hang onto some things which were sign of how lonely he actually was -- I’ve gone over them before -- but his entire concept of self-worth was so tied to being Sidious’s apprentice, because this was the only way any of the abuse and manipulation and awfulness made sense.

I’ve always maintained that Maul was an understandable crazy before Lotho Minor.  He reacted to life exactly how you would expect a thinking, feeling, reasoning person to if you stuck them in those same circumstances.  He tried to make sense of his own abuse through any lens that kept an identity intact for him, including internalizing it as something he required.  He tried to find ways to avoid more of it, all while telling himself it was making him stronger.  He was slavishly, painfully loyal to Sidious.  He was insecure and desperate for any approval, because that was his only compensation in life; he also regularly, narratively, beat himself up pretty badly for wanting even that.  Sidious had that boy so twisted up that Maul could and did abuse himself when his Master wasn’t around to do it for him for the audacity to want approval.

That’s something I -- and I have a feeling a bunch of you -- get, too.  That internalized self-hatred, where the voice in your head tells you that wanting even basic acknowledgment of your accomplishments and even existence is wanting too much.  It being somehow a burden.  That you should be above needing such things and that if you’re not, that makes you bad, that makes you a failure.

GoT:A Maul has some of that; even after years of having a wonderful family and a beautiful world, when something hurts him enough, he has to refight that war all over again, between the part of him that’s prone to self-abuse and the part of him that knows better.  And he’s the one who got out earliest, though one can make a solid argument that his time in prison shattered him further.  Taking Flight Maul has internalized the hell out of it, enough that when Qui-Gon is holding up a mirror and asking him if he would judge Issa the same as he does himself, in the same circumstances, everything in him is fighting that because she’s good and he’s not and has never been.

Both of them, though, struggle so hard because they’re still capable of fighting their conditioning in a more overt way; they’re more capable of realizing it’s even there and then fighting it.  It’s hard, and there are a lot of psychological meltdowns involved; there’s a lot of time and work that goes into it.

WM!Maul, though, actually doesn’t.  He’s the one who survived Theed and was canon right up to immediately after that battle, and even ten years later, he’s only starting to grasp boundaries.  He’s only starting to figure out who he is and what his purpose is.  And man, he’s exhausted.  The other two both had periods where you could feel how achingly tired they were while writing them, where they were shaking off the brutality they’d survived.  WM!Maul is the same way, in terms of being just-- worn out, but you can’t call ten years of stagnation rest.  Because it wasn’t.  The closest he comes is in And in between the moon and you, and that’s mostly because he has a support network and quiet and he doesn’t have to hide his relationship.  Even then, he doesn’t get enough time there.  Of the three, he’s the one still due a reckoning in that regard and eventually it does come; of the three, too, he’s the one with the deepest scars and the least number of strategies to cope with them.  The one who still suffers serious PTSD blackouts and occasionally panic-attacks, the one who struggles so hard with words and expressing himself.  He’s tough, make no doubts about that, but he’s been walking wounded for a long time and unfortunately, it takes more than a loving Jedi and a best friend (and eventually eleven -- then twelve -- brothers) to do something about that.

I suppose all this rambling has a point.  LOL!  I’m not sure why I’m all up in GoT:A right now, except that it helps me learn something about the other two that I need to know.  Some of it, in GoT:A, is figuring out who Breha is; she isn’t a main in WM, so learning about her means understanding her in a context where she is.  Some of it, though, is also figuring out more of Maul and Bail, too; what it is in them that responds to one another the way they do, because even if they’re lovers in one timeline and best friends in the other, they’re still dear to each other regardless of how it manifests, and how important that is can’t be stated enough.  That friendship is life-changing for both of them.

Anyway.  My rambling.  I unabashedly love questions and deep thoughts on anything I do, so feel free.  Please.  (I might beg, even.)

[giveitashance]

Day Two: Anger/Depression

For @shangst-week.

Trigger warnings are self-harm, blood, and gore. Established Shance, “fite me irl” Keith, worried Pidge and Hunk.

“Can we fucking hurry up?”

The infamous phrase came to surface. Shiro bit the inside of his mouth, sighing as he muttered, “Language, Lance,” because he knew it was a wasted command.

“Oh, what the hell.” The blue lion rushed forward, a reckless cloud of dirt and grass accompanying it. Several voices called after the person piloting, with the black paladin already going behind him. Everyone else found themselves lagging behind, with Keith almost matching with Shiro. Black rushed in front of Blue the second they caught up, Lance’s angry “Tch,” being heard on the intercoms.

“Hey, calm down, or I’ll send you back to your room!”

“I’m not a fucking child!”

“Well, you’re acting like one. Fix the attitude.”

Lance grunted, suspiciously sounding like an insulting word that meant female dog, but, Shiro could care less as long as the younger man was landing. The rest of his group stopped, already landing themselves.

“What the hell, Lance?” Keith called out, almost screaming. “And you call me hot-headed?!”

“Shut up, mullet!” Lance growled, stepping towards Keith with such audacity that it sent the red paladin back slightly. “At least now you know I’m faster than you!”

“Why you little...!” Keith rushed forward, grabbing the blue paladin’s throat while Lance pulled back a fist. 

“Hey, both of you, end it!” Shiro was quick, pulling off his helmet and rushing to separate them. Hunk grabbed hold of Keith, while Shiro grabbed Lance. Pidge rushed over to the red helmet Keith had dropped in his anger, returning it to it’s owner.

“Thanks, Pidge.” He sighed, holding it to his side as Hunk held him back by one arm. Keith usually calmed down quickly. Lance was now a different story.

“Let me go,” Lance hissed, thrashing slightly as Shiro held him back.

“Not until you control yourself. I’ve had enough of this attitude. Go back to your room until you can calm down.”

Lance looked ready to spit in the man’s face when he sighed, running a hand through his hair and grumbling as he stomped out into the castle.

The only time Lance was ever calm anymore was at night. That didn’t mean he slept or relaxed. His “calm” was much more drastic than that. A while ago, he had discovered a whole supply of sharpener-like objects fixed with small blades in the center while raiding a Galra ship. He had kept quit about his find, not seeing it being any use in their search for Shiro, and being able to hide the small box within Blue this entire time. The razors had caught his attention, and he spent months staring at the shiny sharp objects before finally giving in to old habits and using his bayard to rip a few out. He stored the rest as back up in his room’s closet.

The first time he had sliced his wrist open, it had made barely a scrape. He was scared, remembering how addicted he had been to the feeling of metal opening his skin. After a few more times, he felt that nostalgic sense of release. He was able to feel. He was alive. Despite everything he had been feeling during Shiro’s disappearance, despite the constant fights he got in with Keith now because the boy was shadowed by far too much grief to realize it, Lance was alive.

Each one got deeper, he even experimented with a vertical one at one point before being too scared to continue. Over time, it only became another habit he’d picked up thanks to Shiro’s disappearance. Such as sleeping alone and training at one in the morning because he couldn’t do it anymore.

One night, on a mission set right after Shiro’s return when team Voltron was feeling strong and invincible, Lance fought a Galra. Alone.

At first, Shiro has worried insistently, because Lance was silent. He didn’t reply to anything the black paladin said, even ignoring the commands he gave to lure the Galra over to him so he could help. Groans and whimpers of pain came in through the intercoms, only causing Shiro more grief.

At one point, Shiro could have sworn he heard Lance giggle out, “Oh, that was a good one.”

Turning a corner in his desperate search for Lance, Shiro was horrified to see his beloved boyfriend, a sweet and kind soul he had just been reunited with the week before, ripping open the abdominal of said Galra and leaving him gutless, blood staining Lance’s hands. He almost looked like he enjoyed it.

Shiro turned and ran, convincing himself it was the PTSD.

Another night, at around three am Earth time, Shiro woke up in a cold sweat. Not only because the AC Pidge had programmed to work according to Earth seasons was on full-blast, but because he heard someone cursing quietly in the training room near his room. Without thinking, he rushed out, Galra hand ready to fight with a glowing light of purple.

However, when he got there, he found a drastic sight. Lance was fighting, but almost as if he was trying to get hit. After that display on their mission, Shiro knew that Lance had gotten a lot more capable at hand-to-hand combat than what he showing here. His nose was bleeding, bruise on his left cheek prominent, and a slight limp showed as he moved around. A kick from the training droid brought him to the ground and Shiro almost ran to help immediately if it wasn’t for the noise Lance let out next. 

He was laughing.

A full-blown laugh, intertwined with incomprehensible rambles about his low self-worth, tears streaming down his face. For a moment, Shiro didn’t know how to feel. Lance looked happy, sad, and emotionless at the same time. As though he was a broken concoction of chemicals. That is, until he lifted up the blue sleeve of his shirt, which was usually covered with his signature green jacket.

And, suddenly, Shiro wasn’t confused.

Lance’s arm was covered with scars, some obvious new ones, some looking like they were maybe a few weeks old. They all came together like a horrible, bloody painting on his arm. Shiro felt disgusted, not only with the harm that Lance had caused himself, but also because these looked like they dated back to the time before Shiro was found again. Lance had been doing this all under his nose, without him noticing.

They slept together, for Pete’s sake. Not sexually, not since Shiro had disappeared. How could Shiro not have noticed how Lance’s hands shook whenever he suggested taking his shirt off for comfort? Why had he always assumed it was just self-esteem issues that they would have to work slowly? The issues seemed a bit more deeply rooted.

And, yet, Shiro turned, not knowing how to handle the situation just yet.

I was going to add in another scene near the end that would have totally given even more hearthurt to the reader, but, this seemed like a good place to end it. How horrible, not being able to help a hurting lover. The hurt goes both ways, Shiro. You’ll soon learn that. Okay, enough riddle talk, I hope you enjoyed! Sorry that the way I write usually makes the characters OOC, I think the only one I got right here was Keith, but, hey, space fighting changes a man. Also, btw, sorry if this seems rushed. I get into a writing mood, and don’t proofread half the time, so when I look back, it’s not as good as I know I could do. Oops??

[themadlostgirl]

Not Dead Yet (Part 30)

*I enjoy writing slowburns way too much. Development. I live for watching and creating development between characters piece by piece. Hope you do too cause I just keep dragging this baby out.*

Pairing: Reader x Peter Pan

Warning: language

The next couple of days I was more than able to keep my silence around Peter. He’d make a comment here or there to try and get me to crack but I let it roll off my shoulders. I would acknowledge his presence, nod along, or do what I was asked but without a word spoken. Only problem was that it didn’t seem to bother him. If things continued like this I’ll just have to start ignoring him altogether.

“Devin,” Peter approached where Devin and I were lounging, “We need extra stores of dreamshade, take someone and go collect more.”

“Come on, Y/N.” Devin nudged me.

“Someone else.” Peter grabbed my arm keeping me in place. Devin gave me a sympathetic look before grabbing Nick and heading off. Peter dragged me off in the other direction. He pulled me in close with an all too familiar look in his eyes. Oh this poor naive thing.

I brought a hand up to to his lips and pushed him away. He peered at me annoyed. “The vow of silence I can handle but you won’t even let me kiss you now? Why? You don’t have to make a sound if you don’t want to.” he reached for me again. I rolled my eyes and spun him around, stole his dagger from his hip, stabbed the material of his tunic into the tree and left him pinned there as I went back to camp.

I sat down next to Ben with a huff. He glanced at me before going back to his whittling. “Still not talking to him?”

“Yep.” I picked at the shavings on the ground. “I think I’m starting to wear him down.”

“Is that what you’re doing? I’ve never seen him happier.” I glared back at him, “What? You not talking to him put him in the best mood I’ve seen him in years.”

“Do I need to stop speaking to you too?”

“I’m only teasing.” Ben assured me. “This spat between you two will be over in a week or so like they usually are.”

“Not this time.” I drummed my fingers against the log, “I am gonna make that boy crack and I don’t care if it takes me a decade of silence. He will admit that he was in the wrong.”

“Care to tell me what it is that he is wrong about?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay then. Need a pointy stick?” he held up the slightly sharpened branch in his hands.

“Sure, we can go sneak up on people and poke them.” I took the stick and hopped up.

Ben followed right after. “Sounds fun.”

The day went on but Peter didn’t approach me again though I could feel the pissed off glare he burned into the back of my skull when he thought I didn’t notice. I don’t care what Ben says, Peter is getting annoyed. Best case scenario, he’s nearing breaking point. Worst case, he’s just being his overdramatic pouting self because I won’t let him grind on me while I’m not speaking to him.

If anything this break from him the past couple of days has given me the chance to think about my life. I’ve lived on Neverland for decades now. I am not the same person I was when I was first brought here. Most days I couldn’t even remember who that girl was. Years will go by between realizations that this wasn’t what I always was. Sometimes it makes me sad to think about. If I think really hard I can remember living in a little shack somewhere very cold with weak lungs struggling to breath the arid air. I can remember my father long dead. Not a name or even a face. Just a warm nostalgic murmur amid the blaring noise of my demented life.

Some nights I’d lay out where I could see the stars and pretend I was somewhere else. I’d hum to myself an old tune dredged up from life past. Perhaps it was a lullaby, maybe something else. Who knew. The only song that ever got stuck in my head that I could remember was from years ago when Peter and I were stranded in the Enchanted Forest. It wasn’t the night of that wedding we crashed (the wine made sure all I could remember clearly was my hangover the next morning.) No. Another day during our travels we came across an old fiddler playing for alms. I tossed him a spare coin and he began to play anew. Peter spun me once before we fell into a ridiculous dance right there in the square. At the end of the song we laughed about it and Peter tossed the old man another coin.

Such a simple memory but one of my favorites. It’s one of the reasons I know Peter’s wrong now. You don’t have times like that, you don’t smile like that, laugh like that, you do not enjoy something so mundane that much unless you also care about the person you’re doing it with. You, for sure, do not break open an entire island for someone you only think of as a comrade and piece to have.

Am I thankful that he saved me? Yes. Am I surprised that he acted the way he did when he thought I had died? Not as much as I initially thought. I know Peter’s gotten close to past Lost Boys and was upset when they left or died so maybe his reaction to what happened to me wasn’t unexpected entirely. But the degree to which he took it was.

I am glad that I mean something to him even if he won’t admit it. I am proud that I know him as well as I do. I’m thankful that he finds my life worth saving. What I cannot condone is his disregard for others in order to keep one alive. The safety of the many does not yield for the safety of the few...or the one. What is the life of one Lost Girl to that of say, twenty Lost Boys? Can I honestly sleep at night knowing that the reason they are dead is because of circumstances regarding my own fate? That I should live at the cost of their lives when their lives need not have been lost in the first place?

Knowing all this and thinking of all this just made my anger at Peter more substantial. He struts about this island with no regard for anyone or anything he deems unworthy of his attention. Then he gets upset when he doesn’t immediately get his way.

It’s been two weeks since the kissing incident where I left him stuck to a tree. He’s tried a couple more times to coerce me into giving in but the response, or lack thereof, was always the same. What had gone from being a fun game morphed into a personal challenge and it was starting to get bothersome.

Finally it all came to a head during training one morning.

“Alright everyone, gather round!” Peter called to the camp, “We’re going to be doing something a tad different today for training. Based on what I witnessed during our last fight with the pirates your reflexes have faded hysterically so.” He gave me a pointed look, “So that’s what we’ll be doing this morning.”

He took a dreamshade coated bolt from the quiver on his back and loaded it into a crossbow. “Let’s begin.” he shot the first bolt directly at me. I ducked out of the way just in time for it to fly over me and land somewhere else. I am going to literally use my last dying moments to physically emasculate him if he hits me with one of those.

The rest of the Lost Boys scattered. Felix and Peter alike were shooting dreamshade bolts at the quickly retreating targets. One of the younger boys wasn’t paying attention and Peter shot a bolt at him. I tackled the kid out of the way and the bolt tore through my sleeve as a result. I could feel the blood rushing out of my face as I rolled up my sleeve and inspected the spot. Oh thank the gods above, he only got my shirt.

I shot daggers at him. He hid any kind of remorse behind a mock innocent face. That’s it, I had had about enough of this. I gripped the hilt of my club as I rose to my feet. I don’t need words to knock the teeth from his head.

The egotistical blockhead had the audacity to smirk at me in that triumphant way of his. We’ll see how smug he looks when I’m tearing the ears from his head and shoving them down his throat!

Wait a second. I paused for a moment when I noticed he was pointing the crossbow at the ground. I looked back up at those startling green eyes and realized what this all was. This was just another attempt to get me to break. This, my anger, it’s what he wants.

With great difficulty I drew in a deep breath, lifted my head high and turned my back on him. Let him shoot me in the back. He won’t do it. If it was my attention he wanted then it was my indifference he would receive.

A bolt flew by my head embedding itself in the tree. I smirked at the last ditch effort and continued on my way. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

~~~

“So…” Felix watched as Y/N disappeared into the jungle, “I’m guessing this was a failed experiment.”

“I don’t get it. I shot deadly poison at her and she just walked away. She never backs down from a fight, never. So why would she run away now?”

“It’s not so much running as...sashaying away.” Felix pointed out.

Pan aimed the crossbow at him. “You want another scar?”

Felix held up his hands in defeat. “I merely meant that perhaps riling her up isn’t the best way to try and break this silence.”

“Don’t come to me with your well-meaning advice. You’re the one that spoke to her and started her on this whole annoying tirade.”

Felix took a step back. Yes, he did tell Y/N to rein things in with Pan. Did he care that they had their disgusting arrangement? No. He could quite honestly care less about their indulgences. What he did care about was the safety of the island and the remaining Lost Boys on it. If that meant poisoning their relationship, figuratively and literally, then so be it. She had too tight a grip on him and it needed to be loosened if not dropped entirely. Felix would always be loyal to Pan, that would never change. But if it took his anger at Felix to get things back to a safe and normal state then he would allow it.

Pan shoved the crossbow at him then disappeared in the blink of an eye. Seems that ends training for today.

~~~

Stupid, annoying, insane Lost Girl! This had been fun at first. Hell, it had been downright bliss. No nagging, none of her annoying jokes, and no screaming matches. Peter figured that Y/N would go through with her tantrum for a week at most then everything would go back to normal. Now it had almost been a month and he could count on one hand the number of times Y/N made eye contact with him for more than three seconds.

What did he want from her? He saved her life, again, and she acted like it was a crime. Yeah, some boys died but it was just the way things were. Boys died. They’d bring more in.

Sometimes Peter had to keep from yelling at her that she was in fact a murderer just like him. She’s taken lives and yet she still acts the martyr. Y/N can claim that all the boys are her family and that she cares for them all in her own sisterly way but it is all a load of crap. Besides her idiot trio she couldn’t care less about the others. She barely remembered their names half the time and if she wanted to she would strip this island bare until she was the last one standing with the makings of her own empire. She’s a wolf that wants to believe she’s a sheep. But the red on her hands will never wash out, it will only grow, he’d make sure of it.

The only way to ensure his ruthless Lost Girl stayed on his side though was to play along with her game.

He found her at camp playing games with the boys. “Hey,” he tapped her shoulder, “I need to talk to you.”

She didn’t so much as turn her head. Okay, she was going to be like this about the whole shooting her thing, was she? Peter shot a glare at the others and they scattered. Y/N made to follow them but he kept her in place. “I know you’re not talking to me but you need to listen.” He sat her back down. “Things got a little out of hand yesterday, I’m sorry for shooting at your head. What do you say we put that behind us?”

She remained silent staring off into the jungle. “Y/N, I know you’re not speaking to me, for a really dumb reason I might add, but you can at least give me a nod or something.” He tried not to let his irritation show on his face.

A solid minute passed of Peter just sitting there watching her while she made a blatant point not to even glance in his direction. “What? Are you just ignoring me altogether now? Not even going to acknowledge I’m right next to you?”

At this she stood up and left to follow the other boys. Her demeanor immediately changed and Peter could hear the sound of her laugh as she joked with the boys. “Hey! We’re not done yet!” he grabbed her again. She shrugged him off like he was nothing and continued on with her conversation despite the boy’s clear apprehension. That’s it! He gripped her wrist and transported them to the beach. “Now listen here you--”

Without as much as a pause in her step she turned and headed back into the jungle. “No! Get back here! Y/N, I’m talking to you!” she disappeared from view among the foliage, “I am your leader and you will listen to me! Turn your ass around! Y/N!” Thunder cracked to life up above. Y/N never came back.

~~~

A storm like nothing I had ever seen broke out after I left Peter on the beach. With the first clap of thunder my poised steps faltered. “Damn…” I looked back at where I came from, “Why do you have to be such a pain?”

Maybe I should go back. Not talking to him was doing the job fine enough but ignoring him altogether may have taken things a tad too far. The rain poured down soaking through my clothes in seconds. I shivered against the cold.

No. This is exactly why I’m doing this. He claims to not care about me. That I am just another child on his island to do his bidding and such. Peter refuses to acknowledge that I affect him whether he likes it or not. This storm just proved my point.

I want to forgive him. I really do. I want to have him back in my life. I miss joking with him and relaxing with him. Hell, I even miss making out with him. He is my friend. I’ve told him things I haven’t even told Devin. In a way he is my best friend, despite how much I want to kill him most days. He understands me in a way I can’t comprehend. But that doesn’t excuse what he’s done. He let boys die and didn’t think anything of it. He looked me in the eye and told me that I was nothing to him. After everything I’ve done for him and he’s done for me he denied that I meant anything to him.

I risked my life to get him his damned eye. The eye that will give him the information he needs so he doesn’t die. I’ve kept his secrets. I’ve followed his lead without question. He’s saved my life in more ways than one. He rescued me from a terrible life. He brought me somewhere where I can have a family and adventure. He listened to my trauma and took me to find closure. Yet after all that he has the gall to say I mean nothing? Was this damned storm he conjured up because I simply won’t look at him nothing?

I turned back and ran further into the jungle clutching my doused, freezing arms to my equally frozen body. If this was all an act then it was bloody convincing. King of pretend indeed.

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[shouldntliu]

First Love

Pairing : Min Yoongi × Kang Nayeon [OC]

Warnings : None, not a single sin in there

Genre : Fluff, fluff, fluff, and maybe a teeny tiny hint of angst ?

Summary : “Years ago, I had a best friend who has been torn away from me against her will. Since then, we made a certain promise…” Inspired from a dream I had and from Yoongi’s solo “First Love”.

Word count : 1.5k words

(Gif isn’t mine and I give all credits to the owner, whom I couldn’t find unfortunately)

A/N : This is my first scenario, at least since I’ve given to this blog a second life ! I did it in one day and tried my best to use pretty sentences, so I hope you like it ! I am also thinking of posting other scenarios with Yoongi and with the same pairing. I don’t think this would be a fanfiction, but a series would be nice, what do you think ? I’m thinking about some “Slices of life” if you can say it like that in English haha! Anyways, I hope you enjoy this scenario !

I suggest you read this while listening to Suga’s song “First Love”, but it’s up to you ♥

          He remembered, he remembered everything, every little detail about her, every little thing that would make her small and chubby face smile or contort in disgust. He genuinely remembered everything, yet she was now so far away… Oh, how he had wanted to forget about her, he had tried everything in order to sink into oblivion. However, Yoongi seemed to be unable to forget who has been his first best friend, and his first love.

          But now, he had grown up. Now, he was twenty-three years old, he was an adult and he had to move on. He wasn’t in love with her anymore, at least he was pretty sure he wasn’t, but still, the feeling of missing her lingered in his heart, constant nostalgia looming above him whenever he thought about their childhood memories and when he thought of them always sticking together despite their differences.           Effectively, he was the Moon, whereas she was the Sun. He has always been that quiet, shy and calm child, and she was the complete opposite. A perfect match, indeed. The little daredevil she was would always get in trouble, and he would be the first one to fix everything for her. And a smile crept up on the twenty-three year old’s lips when he suddenly recalled everything. He could remember every one of her scars. He could remember the countless times she fell badly from her bike and cried from the pain. He could remember how he would always say something in the lines of «You should be more careful, now let’s go heal this wound» while leading her to his mother. He could also remember how, despite his advices, she would still end up hurting herself in such silly ways. «What a stubborn child », he thought. Nonetheless, his nostalgic smile could never fade away. Because this stubborn behaviour was just her signature. It was her character. And Yoongi often wondered, during times when he lost himself in his reminiscences, if she would be the same to this day.

          «What makes you all goofy and smiley ? Are you ticklish ?»

           Yoongi had noticed the soft brush stopped stroking his skin, which was, by the way, a very pleasant feeling for him. Even though his eyes were closed, he could imagine the makeup artist looking at him while making art on his face. And all he had to do to make her forget about this was to shrug, like he always did.

          «Oh, no, noona, it’s nothing. I was just thinking about something.»

          A little nod and she was focusing on his face again, putting on some highlighter for him to literally glow as the hair stylist was about to finish with the blonde man’s hair, making it look flawless even if all the bleach damaged his scalp a lot. But it was true, he was just thinking of something simple. Sure, if he told anyone about what he thought, he would be teased to no end, he would lose all credibility as a rapper who was to debut as Agust D, he would lose the appearance of an originally underground rapper who spits rhymes like a dragon spits fire, but, like everyone, he had his moments where he just thought about anything. Yoongi just could never refrain this goofy smile as the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia always kicked in after a deep sigh, whenever his mind drifted off to his sweet childhood memories. This smile would then disappear slowly as he remembered everything crashing down, even if there was this promise he couldn’t forget. But now wasn’t the moment to think of it. As he could get up from his seat when the stylist noonas were finally done with his face and his hair, Jimin entered the room only to look at him.

          «Yoongi hyung ! Do you have a minute ?

          ー Yes, I’m ready. What is it for ?

          ー There’s someone for you. A trainee, I guess…

          ー Well, let them in. What can I say ?»

          Yoongi didn’t understand why a trainee would come to see him either, but his train of thoughts suddenly stopped when he saw a young woman in front of him, so familiar yet so remote. Her hair, dyed in a greyish dirty blonde tone, almost resembled a waterfall and her face, slim and pure, only hinted the fact that she could be a really nice lady. But still, he didn’t know her, and didn’t intend to stare for too long, so he just cleared his throat, waiting for her to say something, anything. Which she finally did.

          «Yoongi sunbaenim ? Yoongi oppa ? I don’t really know what to use anymore. Anyways, how are you ?

          ー I’m fine, thanks. But… Who are you ?»

          For a moment, it seemed the woman was taken aback, not really knowing how to answer this question as it was unexpected, and maybe a bit blunt. But this was Yoongi she was in front of, he was never one to beat around the bush and rather went straight to the point. However, the young woman emitted a laugh, which seemed more nervous than anything else, before she started speaking again.

          «You never change, do you ? Actually, that’s quite embarrassing, that you don’t remember me. To say the least, I didn’t expect our encounter to go this way.»

          Did he have to remember this girl in any circumstances ? He actually had a sensation of déjà-vu in this moment, while he stared at her face in complete and utter silence. Maybe she was a distant memory, an important person in her life that he had to meet again. Maybe, just maybeー

          No, this couldn’t be. It couldn’t be her, she couldn’t be real. Nevertheless, he saw in her every trait, every particularity that he found in this very person. He saw in her eyes the same glint of audacity that he saw in the one he hasn’t seen for years. He saw in her speech the same manners, the same comments about his behaviour, the same way of making fun of an awkward situation. Could this be her ? He had to take this chance. He had to try it out, it wouldn’t cost anything other than second-hand embarrassment, anyway.

          «Wait a minute… No. By any chance, are you…

          ー Am I what ?

          ー Nayeon ?»

          The second he pronounced these two syllables, the woman couldn’t help breaking into a heartwarming smile, a relieved sigh escaping her lips that were painted with a rosy tint. Yoongi, for his part, didn’t even wait for her to say anything, for her entire face was smiling, from her lips to her eyes. This simple gesture made everything fall into place, this simple gesture made him understand he was right. This was Nayeon just in front of him. However, she seemed so unreal, he had to make sure this wasn’t a dream, he had to make sure she was there. He had to make sure he just wasn’t going crazy, and for that, he rushed to her and pulled her in the tightest embrace he could ever give her. He remembered, of course he did.

          «Well, it looks like Grandpa Yoongi hasn’t lost all his memory.» she said in a teasing tone, trying to hide the tremor in her voice, which wasn’t as much a success as the attempt of hiding her trembling hands.

          Who knew this encounter would be this intense ? Both of them didn’t show much of their feelings, but they were also on the verge of crumbling in the arms of each other, and while they were desperate to hide this fact, part of them knew it very well. Yoongi could feel her being trembling against him, he knew she was moved, and though he was better at hiding his emotions, he was in the exact same state. It took so much of his self control to lean back and look at her, right in her eyes, without breaking down. The feelings weren’t bittersweet anymore, now it was complete happiness that consumed him.

          «You know, at some point, I thought you would never come back and we would never meet again.

          ー What ? This wasn’t in my plans, dummy. You know I always keep my promises.»

          A small laugh escaped Nayeon’s lips as she lightly pinched Yoongi’s arm, making him hiss in the process, before his laugh would mix with hers. All these years, all these times he had needed her, and all these times she had needed him, were they about to make up for all of this ? This was at least what Yoongi wanted. The Moon and the Sun had finally reunited, respite was the only word that could describe this day. And, in this moment, the young man made a promise with himself. He promised himself he would make up for all the times he couldn’t be here for her. He promised himself he would be his best friend again, and act like a proper one. He finally promised himself to always stay by her side, as long as she wanted him to.

[oohnoniall]

Queen of Serpents || Galan Ashryver x OC [Chapter Four]

{WARNINGS: adult language, fantasy violence, woman owning her sexuality and her body, woman using her sexuality and body as a weapon, woman saying “fuck emotions i’m scared”, manipulation mentions, toxic main character but she learns, toxic parents, self-harm in the form of self-poisoning, self-hate, fucked up family}

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two 

Chapter Three 

        She'd been avoiding him since that day in the garden. It had been easier said than done. Galan had been called away to the coast. She had not been informed of the reason why. There was no reason to alarm the foreign princess. Not when the war was not her business. At least, that's what the king seemed to believe.

        It seemed rather stupid to keep her in the dark. She had sway with her parents. Kalthanen could be an ally in this war. Yet, they were overlooked. The small island nation was often overlooked. They were too far from Adarlan, too far from anything save the elements. With their overbearing summers that bled into the winter months, it seemed that they had pissed off an ancient sun god at some point. Yet, despite this, the country had a relatively nice-sized navy. 

        She just would not provide the information without first having an alliance in place. Arya was not a fool. She knew better than to give. Knew that she needed something in return. Something that her parents would find worthwhile.

        A basket filled with chocolates and books was not worthwhile.

        'Please accept this as an apology for abandoning you for the past few days - Galan.' The note almost made her smile. Almost. That boy had the audacity to assume that she was troubled by his not being there. He had to assume that she was charmed by his smile, the dimple that came out, and the way his eyes sparkled when they looked down at her.

        Arya scowled to herself as she began to tear the note into very small pieces. She was going to ruin this whole thing. He was looking for nothing more than a girl to tumble, to have his way with, and then throw aside. How many times had she seen Aragorn and Calanon do the same thing?

        "Careful, cousin," the devil spoke from behind her, amusement clear in his tone. "One would think you find His Highness aggravating. We can't have that ... Can we?"

        If there was one thing she hated most about her dear cousin it was that he was right most of the time. She hated that he would make a good advisor should she ever take the throne. Otherwise, she would have had him quietly killed long ago. She would have done it after he had mutilated her. 

        Once his use had run out she was certain Luna would find her way into his bed.

        "No, we cannot," she said after a moment of hesitation. "But we can't have the poor boy believing that he can get everything he wants. Surely we should keep from spoiling him."

        "Currently, he's your best chance at a husband." Calanon took a sip of spiced wine, his fingers lazily spread over the glass. She knew those fingers would curl around her throat at first chance. "You wouldn't want to upset your parents. Would you?"

        A demure smile graced her lips as she looked at him. The fire in her eyes did not match it. Calanon did not get the benefit of her masks. Not now, not ever. "You of all people know Mother and Father want someone they can control. Aragorn is still without an heir or a queen."

        "If you marry Galan, you'll never have to worry about Aragorn finding a bride."

        "Mhm," Arya moved gracefully to the chair her cousin sat in. She stood behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "And then Kalthanen would be yours, if you could manage to rid the throne of Aragorn."

        "Arya, I only want what is best for you." She could hear the smirk in his voice, her fingers twitched. Her pinky brushed across a pulse point.

        "Kalthanen will never be yours," she whispered in his ear. "I'll cut your throat before I ever bow down to you, dear cousin."

        Her nails dug into his shoulders, drawing blood through the silk fabric of his shirt. To his credit, he did not show the pain. Did not make a sound or move. He just sipped his wine and stared at the basket of gifts the prince had sent her.

        "If you're so deadset on letting go of a crown, who am I to stop you?" He swallowed the last of the wine, setting down the cup and snapping for Miliana to refill his glass. "What do you plan to do about His Highness?"

        Arya stepped away from her cousin, perching on the arm of the chair across from him. Her left leg crossed over her right, her hands clasped around her knee. A small smirk on her features. The picture of sophisticated grace.

        "The ball celebrating his birth is at the end of the week." 

        Calanon's eyebrow rose, the scar she had given him eight years ago rising with it. She could barely see it now but just knowing it was there filled her with a deadly sense of calm.

        "Every nobleman in Wendlyn will be there. Supposedly, there will even be a group from Doranelle. It should be easy to pick one."

        "And you'll be the most ... Daring one of all." He laughed, the sound brutal. Goosebumps rose on her arm at the sound, it still haunted her nightmares at times.

        "I always am." Arya did not falter, did not waver once. She knew the plan wasn't one that would go ... well. But she did know that she could not afford anything else. The ball was good timing. The fact that she would only have another fifty weeks to convince a man to love and wed her was enough to make her balk. 

        She would have to be her most charming. She would have to seduce and please without ever laying a finger on the man. She would make damn sure that whoever she wed would be wrapped around her finger. She would have a plaything, not a husband. But it would be better than anything else she would have.

        Arya was a queen. She was supposed to rule Kalthanen, supposed to make it a force to rival Adarlan. She couldn't do that with a man who had a will of his own. She needed someone who craved the attention, the ideal of what being a king was. 

        After she got her throne, after she was certain that Calanon would take the fall, she could kill him. She could rule by herself. There was no law against it. No one would have seen it coming. The Crown Prince of Wendlyn seemed to be ruining her plan though. 

        A knock sounded on the door, bringing Calanon to his feet. Arya slipped into the chair, picking up a book that had been left open on the table beside it. She made herself look docile, like a woman born to be a housewife, while Calanon opened the door.

        "Your Highness," Calanon bowed to the man as he opened the door. 

        Arya sat the book down, a bright smile painted on her features. "Galan!" It was not hard to put the enthusiasm in her voice. Anything was better than spending the rest of her day with Calanon. "I was beginning to think you'd be gone until the ball."

        She stood as he neared, taking the hand that he had offered. He brought her hand to his lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles. She allowed herself to blush, to let the prince see a princess being wooed. The worst part was the flip of her stomach. She had not scripted it, could not have. 

        "I feared that would be the case," he admitted, staring down at her with amusement. Or was it something else? Something that made his cheeks tinge pink and the gold stand out in his eyes. "I was hoping we could speak about that actually."

        She wanted to pull away from him, wanted to stiffen at those words. But she did not. Years of practice had kept her from reacting as instinct told her. She did not listen to what her body wished to do, instead cocking her head just slightly to the left, widening her eyes just a bit to appear curious.

        "Of course, Galan. What is it?" Arya's voice was soft as she looked up at him. The role of the princess who was desperately in love with the handsome prince. It would have been a fairytale had she not known the truth of the matter.

        Galan Ashryver was a strong, foolish man who would be king. Arya would never marry a man like him.

        "I was hoping we'd be able to speak alone," he glanced once at Calanon. 

        "That wouldn't be proper, sire," Calanon interjected. He had a harder time keeping the glee from his tone. "You'll find I am quite discreet."

        Arya didn't like the smile that had quirked onto Calanon's lips. She didn't trust him, didn't think he had anyone's interests in mind. He could play the doting cousin as much as he liked. He could fool her parents, Aragorn, everyone on the council. But he would never fool her.

        "Of course, Cal," his smile faded as Galan spoke. "But I assure you, Arya will be safe with me."

        The look on Galan's face was not one that she had seen before. He looked unconcerned yet his eyes blazed with a cold fire. One that showed that he would get what he wanted. He was a prince, a soon-to-be king. A man who had been to war and back. One who knew his enemies, one who knew just how to get of problems.

        It sent chills down Arya's spine. She had to fight to keep the smile off of her face. There was no reason for it.

        She had never been attracted to strong men before. Had never wanted a man who would dare think he could control her. Dorian had been weak, easily toyed with. She was a pretty face, he had needed a queen. That was when she could afford to leave Kalthanen. She could've controlled all of Adarlan without ever putting it at risk. Now, she couldn't control anything. Except for her beloved Kalthanen.

        Calanon's left eye twitched slightly as he stared back at Galan. The two stared at each other, one full of anger and the other full of that cold fire that left her wanting more.

        Her cousin looked away first, his spine straighter than her own as he slipped out of the receiving room. She knew he had slipped into the hallway. She had to fight to keep from smirking. She quite enjoyed seeing Calanon being made into a fool. He needed to be brought back down to earth more often. Otherwise, things would end up very badly for him.

        "I'm sorry about him," she said as she brushed a strand of her red hair behind her ear. "He has this horrible habit of trying to protect my honor."

        The fire in his eyes fled as he turned to look at her, a smile taking its place. She quite enjoyed how bright the blue could become. She hated that she did. Galan Ashryver was nothing to her. He needed to be nothing to her. She needed to be stronger than girlish fantasies of love and storybook endings. Arya was not destined for one.

        She had known that since she was a child.

        "He loves you," he told her. "I think it's admirable. Even if he is somewhat annoying."

        His expression fell slightly, as though he was worried that she would take offense to it. She only smiled, hoping that her eyes shone with amusement.

        "If you think he's bad now, you really should try growing up with him." 

        "Are the two of you close?" Galan sounded interested, as though he had not had the experience himself. Arya did not know much about his family save for the fall of Terrasen. She doubted he'd ever had another child growing in the castle with him.

        "He's like a brother." It was not quite a lie. Calanon had spent enough of his life giving Arya hell. She supposed that was the most brother-like quality a person could have. Aragorn had been far too ... Stupid to do anything to ensure her love or her hate. "I feel as though I am closer to him than to Aragorn at times."

        "I understand," he said with a small smile. "I always wondered what it was like to have a sibling." 

        She noticed that he was playing with his fingers, that he seemed less sure of himself than he had just moments before. What was happening in his mind? What was making him pop his knuckles in an almost constant fashion? Did he even notice that he was doing it? Or was it just habit when he was in the presence of a woman?

        "Might I ask why you needed Calanon to step out?" One of her brows rose as she shifted in her seat. She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair, her chin casually on her palm. She did little to conceal her cleavage. It was amusing to see the blush rise on his cheeks, to watch him become less certain as she peered up at him.

        "I wanted to ask you something, privately," he cleared his throat once. He did not look at her for more than a few seconds. Those few seconds he kept his eyes on hers. It was more respectful than she had expected him to be.

        "What is it?" She ignored how her heart was pounding in her chest.

        Galan Ashryver should not have any sort of effect on her. She should not feel like some silly girl when he was around. She should have better control over herself. Maybe she just needed more time to herself, more time away from the bastard.

        He swallowed, the motion causing his Adam's apple to bob slightly. A part of her that she wanted to strangle briefly thought about what it would be like to kiss it. Galan could very well be an easy source of fun for her if things did not turn out well. 

        "I was wondering," he cleared his throat once more, an almost shy laugh escaping as he did so. "Sorry, what I mean to say is that I was hoping that you would be ... Free to attend the ball with me."

        She did not bother to conceal her shock at the question. She had known that the two were spending far too much time together. The basket filled with chocolates and books had been enough to show that he had some sort of feelings for her. She had just assumed that he was lonely. That he needed a friend.

        This was a disaster. Yet, it was also quite a good opportunity. She could gain attention by being on his arm. She could break whatever hold she had on him as well.

        Arya knew that it was wrong of her to play these games with him. He had been kind. Kinder than she had deserved. Yet, he had been stupid enough to embrace a falsehood. He didn't see her for who she was. Why should she care if she broke him? Why would she ever care about his feelings?

        It was not the Nostariel way to care about a chess piece.

        "I'd love to," she had not meant to say that. Her mouth had betrayed her, offering her salvation that she did not want. She knew that it would be harder to seduce other men if they thought she belonged to him. That was the disastrous part of being on his arm. Yet, the attention would be good. 

        Arya had always thrived under the spotlight.

        A bright smile lit Galan's face, his eyes twinkling like the sea on a warm, summer day. His complexion was less red as the blush began to leave his face. He looked like a young man, instead of the future king he would become. She hated that she liked it. She hated that she could imagine him in her bed, laughing at some stupid thing that had been said.

        It was not the future she would have. Not if she wanted to be who she was destined to be.

        After all, she doubted that he would ever allow her to make decisions. She doubted he'd ever want her if he knew who she was behind the girlish mask she put on.

        She was a Queen. One that would make Kalthanen the powerhouse it was meant to be. They deserved to be more than just a small, overlooked nation. They deserved as much as Adarlan. She would kill the Havilliard family as a declaration of war. It would serve them right. Dorian should never have made a fool out of her.

        She never should have loved him.

        Perhaps that was why she fought so hard against whatever it was she felt for Galan. They were not friends. They were not anything. Yet, she felt calmer around him. She felt as though she could be whoever she wished around him. Even though she knew that would never be the case. Arya could never be who she was. Dorian had made sure she knew that. He hadn't exactly liked the real her, she would never show that side of herself again. Not to someone she genuinely thought she could care about at least.

        "I was certain you would say no," Galan brought her out of her thoughts with a nervous laugh.

        "And why was that?" Arya questioned.

        "I was sure someone had already asked you by now," Galan shrugged his shoulders once. The blush that had so recently left had started to creep back up. She watched as it stained his cheeks, spreading across the bridge of his strong nose.

        "Do you have so little faith in me?" Arya teased, her smile bright and more real than it had been before. A few men had asked her, but it had been easy enough to look down her nose at them and tell them no. No remorse, no care. If they had the ego to ask a princess, they weren't the type to be easily controlled. Or they were. It would just take too much simpering and batting her lashes for Arya.

        "It's not you that I'm worried about." The fire blazed in his eyes again, as though he were imagining whatever man had been stupid enough to encroach on the prince's territory. She would never be any man's territory. Never would she be anyone's property. Although she would not be able to say this to him. Not when he hadn't made any sort of move to suggest that she was.

        "Then what exactly were you concerned about?" Arya's brow rose as she looked up at him. He was only inches taller than her. 

        "I was concerned that you would think I waited too long."

        She hadn't expected him to be so honest. Hadn't expected the fire in his eyes to be towards himself. Towards the idea that he had done something wrong. It was rather intriguing. Did he really think that he held that much sway in her mind? That she was waiting for his beck and call?

        Or did he just hope to impress her?

        Arya didn't know. She was unsure if she even wanted to know. The answer was not something she was sure she could handle. Arya could handle whatever he threw at her. Unless it was something stupid like attraction, love. The wish to know her, to see her.

        It was frightening. More so than any punishment her parents had ever come up with. More than when Calanon had sliced open her back. Feeling her blood flowing out of her and her life dripping away had been far less scary than thinking what some idiotic boy might think of her. Might want her to be.

        Arya Nostariel would not be afraid. She would be the weapon she had honed herself into. The poisoned queen. The seductress. Anything but a failure.

        "I wouldn't have thought that," she moved to take his hand as she spoke. His hands were rough, filled with callouses. He was not the boy king that Dorian Havilliard had been. He was a warrior. Brave and filled with strength that she did not know could exist. "I would have waited for you."

        Pretty words. That's all they were. Pretty words that she never thought she would mean. But did she? Did Galan Ashryver mean a damned thing to her? She didn't know.

        The not knowing was going to kill her.

        A knock on the door caused her to drop his hand, almost as though it had burned her. Calanon popped his head in, an amused smile on his features. The slimy cretin couldn't keep himself from showing his hand. How he had ever gotten one over on her was a question she'd never have an answer to. 

        "Excuse me, sire," he said, trying to wipe the smile off of his face. "But your guard has informed me that you're late for a meeting."

        Galan cursed lightly under his breath as he moved to stand. "I'm sorry for leaving so soon," he told Arya as he looked over at her. The smile on his face could light a fire. "I'll make it up to you, I swear it."

        Galan took Arya's hand in his, brushing a gentle kiss along her knuckles. Her cheeks heated without her wanting them to. She didn't understand what he did to her. It was ... Horrifying. 

        He nodded a quick goodbye to Calanon before he slipped out of the room. Arya did not watch him leave.

        Calanon took Galan's chair, a smug smirk on his lips. The lanky man did not turn the simple leather chair into a throne as Galan had. He was dwarfed by it. 

        "I see things with the prince are going well."

        "Too well."