#because the fucking writers spent a bit too much time listening to little boys in twitter

[bayzadas]

The thing about NWH is that even though it's so praised and loved there are things that makes me wanna throw hands. One of them being Aunt May's death. May died for nothing. Her death was meaningless.

I mean, sure, she said and taught him the famous line "with great power comes great responsibility" but the thing is, PETER ALREADY KNEW THAT. That's literally one of first things Peter says when he was being introduced to the MCU, remember? When Tony asked him why was he doing the things he was doing, Peter responded saying "When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and when the bad things happen? They happen because of you."

Sure, not the same line, not the same words, but the same fucking meaning. MCU Peter already knew that lesson. That's why he was there in the Civil War. That's why Homecoming happened. That's why he was there with Tony in infinity war. That's why Tony literally saved half of the fucking universe. That's why Far From Home happened. That's why Peter is Spider Man. Because he felt responsibility. Because he knew he had to save people. I mean, what? Did the writer of this movie think Peter was saving people because he was bored? Had nothing better to do? What the hell?

MCU Peter learnt that lesson before he was introduced. He already knew that with great power comes great responsibility. And to kill Aunt May only for him to learn that lesson again? That's only to shock the audience. That's just bad writing.

And the thing about MCU is that the writers make this annoying mistake a lot. Loki, Stephen, Wanda, Thor... The writers are making the same movies again and again. Maybe that's why lots of people are losing interest towards MCU. MCU needs better writers.

[pacifymebby]

Hey what are your favourite books? I’m so intrigued about what books you’ve talked about to musicians about, because I too have ripped into many an indie boy about only ever paying attention to Bukowski hahah so relate

Hiiii!!! This is my favourite thing to talk about so thank I for the ask <3

So I'm not gonna lie, for all I rip into indie boys for Bukowski, some of my favourite books are by people just as bad morally haha

Also this is gonna be longggg because my taste varies so much

I think my favourite books/most treasured/ almost always guaranteed to have one of these in my bag at all times are:

🌿 Quite Early One Morning/Dylan Thomas

Man's a genius when it comes to a vivid, touching, somewhat haunted short story, there's so much life and spirit in every single memory he tells, and if you listen to him reading his own stories you feel them hit all the harder. Something really homely and cosy and I read them whenever I'm feeling sad. This little books been all over with me.

🌿The Dear Green Place / Archie Hind

When I lived down in England with my gran, I'd phone B when I was sad and he'd read down the phone to me, usually Scottish faerie tales and stuff but also this from time to time and then he gave me a copy one day and I read in cover to cover in a day or two whilst travelling and like, this is one of the ones a mean when I talk about like, "nothingy books that are sad af but beautiful, Bukowski take notes.." because it's just about a working class man living in poverty, he meets the love of his life and they marry and they live in poverty, he's desperately trying to be a writer, nothing works out for them, it's miserable, its bleak, it's fucking beautifully written, it captures the hope in being hopeless, it touches your own sadness and idk, also the man just describes industrial Glasgow beautifully. It's just beautiful. (Also no one gets raped, he doesn't think women are whores, he's a kind and mostly gentle man, it really shows you that not all men are like or think like Charles Bukowski which I think is v important)

🌿 God's Silence / Franz Wright (poetry)

Okay so, he's struggling with the death of his famous poet father, he's struggling with his faith, he's struggling with alcohol and feeling hopeless. Again melancholic, nihilistic but... well written, it actually makes you feel something, there's imagery, you can picture stuff, there are lines that hit you in your chest and stay with you forever.

🌿 How Green Was My Valley / Richard Llewellyn

This is one of my dad's favourite books and he read it to me in bits when I was sick as a teenager. But I've read it so many times now too. The funniest thing I think about this is that the guy who wrote it claimed to have based it on his own experiences as a Welshman from a Welsh mining family, but he actually spent most of his life in England. I was always read this with a "isn't our country gorgeous, aren't these descriptions beautiful," kind of attitude and part of the reason I still love it is because it's true, just the first few pages where he's describing the valley are fucking lovely and really do make me a wee bit homesick but like, it's funny to me that the man was actually about as Welsh as me.

Books musicians recommended to me (I did not like all of these):

🌜 a few weeks ago an indie boy in a band went off on one about how Perfume by Patrick Suskind is his favourite novel of all time and I was actually probably a bit too mean but A) me and my dad are both in agreement that it's just not thattt interestingly written B) it's my ex's favourite book and C) guarantee this particular indie boy is only saying it's his favourite because it was Kurt Cobains favourite.

🌜 Hangover Square / Patrick Hamilton

A member of the libertines recced this to me when I was extremely drunk about 7ish years ago haha, like drunk enough that I don't remember which one I was talking to, but he was really laying it on thick about how much he'd enjoyed reading it (I honestly think he'd just finished it because he gave me the copy out his pocket which is either like, he always keeps a book to give to girls he's chattin up or he'd just finished it idk) anyway I didn't read it for ages afterwards but then when I did I was actually like oh shit this is quite good actually. It's very dark but also quite amusing in a similar way to all the Russian stuff, like bad shits happening to the protagonist but the protagonist is a bad person so you're enjoying it I guess.

🌜 Lolita / Vladimir Nabokov

Okay so as much as we all know Lolita to be that book, there's no denying it's incredibly beautifully written, the prose is gorgeous (purposefully so because famously Nabokov was laughing at the stupid Americans he said would praise anything if you dressed it up nice enough, even noncing)

This was another rec from my "wants to be a groupie coquette" days and I'm not gonna say who it was who recommended it to me, but they read me some of it and went on a little rant about how lovely they thought it was. And I laughed at them later when I was reading it because I was like wow, you're the person this mans laughing at wow. BUT I'm also eternally grateful to them for turning me onto Nabokov when I was like 16 because Nabokov turned me onto all the other Russians and also Nabokov wrote one of my favourite books ever also. So I owe alot to the older man in the indie band who should not have been talking to me lol.

🌜 Ham on Rye / Charles Bukowski

So! Many! Men! Told me to read this book or other Bukowski books and I tried really hard with the man's poetry and stuff but fucking hell, I can't do it... I just don't think you can go from idolising Ginsburg's "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked..." to Bukowski's "People run from rain but sit in bathtubs full of water," and accept the latter as a genius because like, those poems are essentially about the same hopelessness that swept up several American generations and yet one of them captures the devastation and the hideous romance of it all and one is making snide comments about baths.

🌜Bright Dead Things / Ada Limon

This is actually one of my favourite poetry collections of all time, it's gorgeous and emotional and you will be so unsurprised to find out that it was a woman who recommended it to me, she also went off on a long and loving rant about Sylvia Plath, it was lovely. Best post gig convo ever.

🌜 Just Kids / Patti Smith

Okay Patti Smith is fine right, but every feminist boy in an indie band is going to rec this to you as proof that he reads books by women. She is good though, I didn't finish the book but that's because I started reading Touching From a Distance/Deborah Curtis at the same time and got my heart trashed so badly I couldn't pick up a book for a month afterwards.

🌜Touching From a Distance / Deborah Curtis

The man who lent me this one actually had really good taste in books and put me onto a lot of good authors (Max Porter - read Lanny - , Amalie Smith, Emma Glass, Fernanda Trias, Victoria Kennefick - eat or we both starve is very good poetry - Daisy Johnson) he's really into his musician biographies as well and he's recommended a few good ones over the years. But this is by far the best one, it's really heart wrenching and it tells the story of a family getting let down time and time again but the government/social care and healthcare in Britain and just, idk, it doesn't glamorise Ian Curtis and it doesn't dismiss any of the bad shit he did, it doesn't paint him as a lovely wouldn't hurt a fly kind of man. But it does give you a lot of insight into a complicated and painful set of experiences, and honestly I think it's written simply and beautifully too.

🌜 Homage To Catalonia / George Orwell

I'm literally just including this to let you know that if a man tells you to read George Orwell run a fucking mile. This is by far the better of his books I've read but Orwell's just a classic shitty misogynist with an inability to even write that stuff in a pretty way. Like I think the fact that he himself was very privileged and constantly trying to convince the world that be actually wasn't, and that he was really interesting just shines through so hard. You sorta read it and you don't get any of the "this man understands me" you just get "this mans boring and wining about something his rich parents could totally fix" like, he doesn't have anything good to say because he doesn't feel idk.

Other big favourites of mine that I recommend to everyone ten times a day:

🍒 Glory / Vladimir Nabokov, The Double / Vladimir Nabokov

Honestly skip Lolita and go straight to the double because it's straight up incredible, it's black humour, self made catastrophes, your main character is bad and you see him cut about making trouble for himself and it's so entertaining and just a good read. Glory is amazing for the same reason. Nabokovs been done so dirty by heart shaped Lana girls (ME!) And the men who fancy them.

🍒 Elena Ferrante / My Brilliant Friend and the rest of the Neopolitan Quartet

These are for the girls and possibly the men who want to understand the girls. It's like This Is What Makes Us Girls but set in post war Italy in a poor neighbourhood, it follows two girls who are best friends who's different lives drag them apart and push them together. It will make you feel things, it will make you write a letter to your childhood best friend, you will want to call your mother and get to know her etc. It's so so good, there's drama, there's emotion, it's not an overly complicated book full of long words so you find yourself really gripped and hooked in without having to concentrate which is great.

🍒 Tropic of Cancer/Capricorn / Henry Miller

Of all the horrific cunts out there he's the worst (apart from William Burroughs because as far as I know Henry Miller never murdered his wife?)

But he was a misogynist, he was a racist, he was just a total lowlife HOWEVER

All is forgiven (joke) because there are some heavenly passages in these two books, I remember being so breath taken when I was reading these as a sad stoned late teens girl in my lonely little London flat. I lay on my rug getting high and read these two in like 3 days and I kept crying cause the words were so fucking pretty. If Bukowski had ever written anything this pretty I'd have forgiven him for being such a pervert.

Trigger warning though, you have to be really careful with Henry miller because there's heavy violence against women in some of his books (I don't remember there being much in these tbh, just explicit but consensual sex in these two) but in some of his others he talks about raping women or beating them and it's unpleasant. He was for sure a deeply unpleasant human being. Very good writer though.

🍒The Unbearable Lightness of Being / Milan Kundera

I only read this one last winter, I was miserable and feeling like I needed to press on the emotional bruise and this book really did the trick.

Again, the main character is a womanising cunt and I would say if you ever meet a man who reminds you of him then run as fast as you can. However there's just so much beautifully written sorrow in it and again, there were passages that stole my breath away or made me swallow a lump in my throat or just straight up gasp on the train home from work.

"But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously the image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"

"In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine."

I remember I underlined a lot in this book and like just searching for the passages I loved most has made me want to read it again.

🍒 The Bell Jar / Sylvia Plath

I just don't think I'd be a nymphet girlie on Tumblr if I didn't tell everyone that reading this book when I was just starting to feel the strain of uni was like, being hit with an emotional freight train and being relieved that it had hit me because that meant someone else had felt the same thing as me in the past. No one's going to write better about the intimate pain of womanhood than women I guess. The expectations everyone has on you to be bright young and beautiful like, no man's ever tapping into that no matter how empathetic they may be.

🍒 The Pachinko Parlour / Elisa Shua Dusapin

Similar to Sylvia Plath, there's just somet really touching and homely comforting when you read women in their late teens early twenties being lost and melancholic and wasting their life away and not achieving as much as they were supposed to, when you're a woman doing all of those things too. And that's what I am and what I was when I read this. The books written quite basically but not primitively, the sentences are all very simple but all the more touching for their simplicity I think.

🍒 Tristessa / Jack Kerouac

When I am miserable I put on Loveless by My Bloody Valentine and I lie in bed, languishing, reading this. It's literally just a real tragic story of love withering to loss and like, it's beat generation, and its written by an alcoholic wanker but, he's a sentimental, nostalgic wanker with a talent for making you feel sentimental and nostalgic for lives you never lived.

I'd also recommend Maggie Cassidy by the same man, his shorter novellas are really good and nowhere near as overwhelming as On The Road. Though On The Road is a good read if you have the time and patience for it.

🍒 The Dangers of Smoking In Bed / Mariana Enriquez

Some of the scariest short stories I've ever read fucked me up good and proper but also kick started my horror revival.

🍒 Rebecca / Daphne Du Maurier

Gothic and haunting but romantic too and she really really hits you in the chest when it comes to fancying gloomy older men who make you feel like a little girl. Again though her descriptions and sense of place are captivating, everything's vivid, you can really picture yourself in the gardens at Manderly. It's beautiful and dramatic and yeah, I love it. I read it at the height of a heatwave but I think it would also be a good autumn read tbh.

🍒 Wuthering Heights / Emily Brontë

Definitely read it when it gets cold and autumnal and gloomy. The books peak gloom. You hate every character and yet you feel their pain and root for them too. Idk I read it in the winter when I was sulking and at home in bed with a fever and it was really good, I've read it three times since haha.

🍒 Little Birds /Anaïs Nin

If you're gonna read Henry Miller you should read Anaïs Nin because she was his better half. She wrote erotica which men sent back complaining she ought to "cut the poetry" some of its very shocking but erotica back in the day was very much about challenging people and subverting the literary worlds expectation for art and stuff. I honestly think it's pretty feminist to read Anaïs Nin, as a teenage girl I think she taught me a lot about sexuality and definitely was how I learned sexuality isn't a masculine thing, that women's pleasure and desire is a fcking art form.

I will be straight up here and say with my whole chest that I haven't read enough women. When I was a teenager doing most of my reading I was reading the beat generation and the beats don't have many famous female writers among them because major sexism of the time meant that if a man went off and did drugs became a bum and lived the bohemian lifestyle he could be Jack Kerouac and be hailed a charming but gloomy tender author. When women did this they got carted off to institutions by their parents or became rhe victims of severe domestic violence. So for a long time I wasn't reading women because it didn't fit the genre I was into.

Then when I got back into horror I got deep into feminist horror but like, some of that is the likes of The Bloody Chamber which I read and HATED. I think basically what it is is that men who are good get published way more but also talked about way way more. Women who are good get published but not as often and when they do they get talked about less. Some of the best stuff I've ever read has been written by women but it's only in the last ten years started being translated because a lot of its from foreign countries and the literary worlds not long since stopped only publishing white men.

Anyways sorry for such a long post!!! If anyone decides to read any of these then let me know what you think of them!!!!

[lxngbottom]

Mistakes That Last Forever. | N.L.

in which neville stumbles across... an “old friend”.

warnings: mentions of cheating, angst, pregnancy, slight trauma mentions (lmk if i missed any!)

i got inspired for this by an outsider imagine that i read like a really longgggg time ago... so enjoy this ig (AND YES THERE WILL BE A PART 2 TO THIS)

(PART 2)

—

neville’s whole life had been filled with regrets. they seeped into his skin, torturing his clouded mind on day to day basis. the trauma from the second war had left a mark on him, and even though he was now in the infamous herbology professor at hogwarts, he still didn’t feel as if he was living the life he had always wanted to. he didn’t feel successful, he didn’t feel... good about himself. and the main source of that?

you.

his biggest regret was losing you. hurting you. leaving you in such a needing time.

it had all started after the war. you two had been inseparable since 2nd year, as you were the one who had helped him down from the chandelier when he was tragically hung up by those pesky pixies. and ever since then, he was enamored with you. he was consumed by the mere thought of you. and, your feelings didn’t differ too much.

so, you two became official in your 4th year. you two were each other’s firsts for practically everything that could be a first. and, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. you were so in love with him, it tore you from the inside out.

but unfortunately, the war arrived. and, it took a huge toll on your relationship. it affected each bit of what you guys had built together. after the war had ended, you guys tried so hard to make it work. but, neville... it seemed as if he just... gave up.

you would never forget the day you came home from work to your shared apartment, and heard strange noises coming from your bedroom. you went up, deep down, already knowing what the noises were. and of course, when you opened the door, your worst nightmare had became a reality. and even worse?

you were pregnant.

neville knew this too, but, he felt as if he had spent so long being “stuck” in a relationship with you, he never got the chance to meet new people. and because of that, for the sake of your child, you left. because, he had left you first, and he had done something unforgivable. something that would leave you scarred, and something that would take hold of you for years.

but, now things were different for you. you were more than content with where your life was at right now. you had an amazing job as the journalist for the daily prophet, and you were damn good at it too. it was a collective agreement that you were definitely a step up from rita skeeter.

neville couldn’t disagree more, though. not that he didn’t think you were good at your job, he always thought that you were an amazing writer. but, he had to force himself to cancel his personal subscription to the daily prophet, as the simple mention of your name on the front page, or sometimes, maybe even your picture, broke his heart to see. some from guilt, but mostly, from just missing you.

just five years later, here you were. walking through a muggle hardware store, looking at all of the houseplants that surrounded the small garden.

“mummy, look!”

you whipped your head around, and smiled when you saw your small son, chubby just like neville used to be when he was young. you had always tried to disregard the fact that he looked exactly like his father, but it was difficult to. you loved your son, with everything you had in your body, but, he was a constant reminder of all the pain that had been caused.

“very nice, nev!” you giggled, watching as your son played with a single pink flower bouquet. he grinned at you, and suddenly plucked the fresh flower off of it’s stem. you gasped, and wanted your hand at him, “neville longbottom! we don’t do that! do you want to get in trouble?!”

his face contorted into a guilty one as he made those ridiculously adorable puppy dog eyes at you, “i’m sorry, mum... i-i-i didn’t know. i was trying to pick it for you...”

you couldn’t help but to feel a little guilty as he sadly dropped the broken off flower on the floor, watching as it blew away from the huge fan that hung above the both of you.

“it’s okay, dear. but, try not to pick them from the actual stems, okay? just... look on the floor. you’ll see a bunch of free flowers everywhere.” you teased, sending him a small smile. he looked up at you, and those sad puppy dog eyes quickly sparkled with excitement as he ran away, looking around the garden for those small, long forgotten flowers.

you chuckled quietly to yourself as you watched your son, seeing how his eyes glowed from all of the plants.

yeah. he was definitely neville’s son.

you turned your body back around, attempting to continue your shopping. but, your body then collided with another, causing you to come to a complete halt.

“oh, merlin! i’m so—“ you were just about to spurt out multiple apologies, until, you looked at the figure.

there he was. tall, muscular, and a intent gaze fixated on his face as he stared at you.

“n—neville?”

he was so shocked. he couldn’t even let out a single mutter. you were right there. right in front of him. after not seeing you for so long, but thinking about you always, you were finally right here.

“y/n...” he breathed out finally, trying to not show how incredibly nervous he was.

this was the first time you two had seen each other since the day you packed all of your things, and left him standing alone at the door step that once belonged to the both of you. he could never seem to part with the apartment, the whole environment still leaving trails of you. so, of course, he still resided there during his off times.

“um—wow... shit—i’m sorry. you know... for bumping into you...” he laughed nervously, stepping away from you. you gave him a nervous chuckle as well, trying to hide the redness that was now blending within your skin.

“oh—it’s alright. i should’ve—you know... been watching where i was going...”

neville opened his mouth to respond, as he wanted to ask you so many things. but, he was interrupted by a small child running up to you, tears streaming down his face as he clutched onto your leg.

“mum...” he sniffled out, and you looked down with a concerned look on your face, “t-t-the lady yelled at me...i-i-i accidentally b-broke one of the f-f-flowers...”

neville knew those eyes. he knew that familiar stutter. he knew those tears. it was like practically looking into a mirror.

that was his son.

you looked over at neville nervously, seeing realization flashing in his green orbs. but, you bent down to neville jr, who was an absolute mess. he never took kindly to people getting onto him, especially if they were yelling.

“oh... it’s alright, nev. we have a whole garden at home that we can grow flowers in...” you reassured him, wiping his small tears. he nestled into your touch, “why don’t you go and pick out some seeds? any kind you like... i’ll get them for you.”

there was a shy smile on his face as you said that, and he looked over at the strange man that stood baffled beside you.

“okay...” he sniffled, wiping his nose, “but... who’s that?” he asked, pointing to neville.

you had never told your son about his father, and you had hoped that he never would. but, you knew the day would come. you just didn’t think that day would be today.

“an old friend, darling. now, do as i say and go find some flowers, alright?”

your son nodded, reluctantly leaving you with the tall man that he had no idea the identity of. you stood up fully awkwardly, and looked over at neville who’s face was now angry.

he watched as the boy ran off, “he doesn’t know who i am?” he asked through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing at you.

you looked back at him, “nev—“

“no... how could you not tell him? that’s my son, y/n. you—you told me you were putting the baby in adoption... how could you lie to me? and him? why would you do that?”

you knew you owed the man an explanation, but all at the same time, he had brought this upon himself. and yeah, maybe it was fucked up that you had lied to him, but, you genuinely did believe at the time you were getting rid of the baby.

“neville... not here. please...”

“no, y/n. you owe me a goddamn explanation. i mean... this is my fucking child we’re talking about. look at him! he looks just like me!”

you looked over at the chubby boy, watching him closely as he skimmed through seeds, staring at the images on the front.

“don’t you think i know that, neville?” you whispered, “listen... we can talk about this. but, not here. and, not while he’s around...”

“no! i want to talk to him! i deserve it—goddamn it, y/n! how could you fucking do this to me?!”

“and how could you cheat on me?! after everything we went through together! you fucking left me in the dust!”

he could see the pain in your eyes. there was obviously still a lot of hurt, so much rage pent up from the whole scenario. of course you had never fully gotten over it. it was still something you thought about on a daily basis, as you had believed at one point that you would be married to neville by now.

“y/n...” neville started, stepping closer to you, “i—i never meant to hurt you...”

you stared into his eyes for a moment, trying to find some sort of other answer other than that stupid apology you had heard so many times before.

“it doesn’t matter, longbottom. i have to go. we can talk about this whole thing another time. goodbye.”

[anabsolutetrainwreck]

oh, honey || h. styles

warnings: mentions of sex, kissing

word count: 2.3k

summary: when harry is struck with writer’s block, you come to the rescue and inspire him to write a song, which later becomes known as ‘adore you’...

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t harbouring a crush on a man you’d known for about five years. And for four and half years of that, you found he was the only thing that seemed to occupy your mind. With any crush, it was fun at first. The thrill of being around him brought a new spark to your life. But then, gradually, it became tiresome; the constant butterflies and the overthinking every tiny action began to aggravate you.

You’d had a boyfriend since you met Harry. He loved you and you tried to love him. You knew it wasn’t fair on him, and you felt an ounce of extra guilt every day that relationship went on. You knew it was selfish to paint yourself a mirage of a perfect life with a man you knew you couldn’t love.

The relationship lasted eight months. It had never meant to last that long. At first, it was all fun and games - neither of you took things too seriously. A bit of harmless sex and late nights with red wine and David Attenborough documentaries. But then things took a turn, and he began talking of moving in together and meeting each other’s parents. Your parents would have loved him, you knew that. But what good was that when you didn’t love him?

Eventually, the two of you sat down and decided that maybe it was best if you went your separate ways. It was a mutual decision. And you both agreed that it was fun whilst it lasted. So, this relationship you’d gotten yourself into to get your mind off Harry had ended because you could never love this man the way he wanted you to.

It had been a rough eight months for you. Harry had been in somewhat of a mood with, well, everybody. Mitch concluded that he was probably just stressed with writing for the album and making sure everything was perfect for his debut solo album. But, though nobody necessarily picked up on it at the time, when you announced that you’d broken up with your boyfriend, Harry seemed to be in a much better mood ever since.

So, now, as you walked into the studio, you ran your hands along your jean-clad thighs. It was a desperate attempt to rid your palms of the sweat your nervousness had caused. Sarah had called you and asked if you were free to swing by the studio. She said something about needing a new mind to help Harry. Instantly, you agreed. You would always be there for Harry.

Sat on one of the couches was Harry Styles himself, his hand over his eyes. He was alone, his guitar beside him. A notebook of his lyrics was tossed aside, clearly neglected in tiredness or frustration. “Harry?” you called out, closing the door behind you.

He looked up quickly, startled by the sudden disturbance. “Y/N,” he smiled slightly, sitting up properly. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could use some help,” you shrugged, slipping out of your black puffer jacket. “And clearly you need it. Where is everyone?”

“Oh, they went to get some lunch at some place down the road,” he replied.

“And what about you? Aren’t you hungry? You need to eat, Harry.”

“I know. I will, I will. I’m just trying to finish this song, is all.”

You nodded slightly, sitting down in front of him on the coffee table. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were resting on top of dark bags. “Let me see,” you said, extending your hand.

Slowly, he placed the notebook into your hands. You stared down at the scribbled lyrics. Things were crossed out; things were circled; things were accompanied by little doodles. On the very top of the page, though, was the rushed title (above a few others, which had been crossed out): ADORE YOU. “I’m just gonna put it aside and come back to it,” he sighed. “Wanna get high? It always helps me write music.”

“No, Harry. I don’t want to get high with you. If you leave it, then you’ll never come back to it and nobody will ever get to hear it,” you replied.

“Except you. I want you to hear it,” he said quietly, so quiet, in fact, that you barely heard it.

He wasn’t looking at you, thankfully. At least he wouldn’t see the mix of nerves and excitement at what he’d just muttered. You shifted slightly, placing the notebook down beside you, “Well, then you’ll have to finish it, won’t you?”

Finally, he looked up at you. You felt tiny as his eyes explored your face, drinking in every last inch of your features. A small smile worked its way up onto his face, “I suppose I will.”

So, Harry began projecting his ideas onto you. He explained what the song was about and the kind of things he wanted to write. He sang the chorus to you, and you swore you melted right there and then. Hearing his voice fill the otherwise silent room you were in, with no other intent than to please you, filled your head with all sorts of fantasies. “It’s good, Harry. It’s really good,” you nodded, smiling sweetly at him.

“Obviously not good enough if I can’t think of anything other than the first verse and the chorus,” he groaned, raking his long fingers through his unruly hair.

In a moment of fleeting confidence, you reached out and squeezed Harry’s hand. He looked up at you, his green lagoons of eyes staring directly into your own. “Harry, stop. You’re doing yourself no good thinking like that. No songs start out as the greatest thing ever written; you have to put time and care and effort into them,” you said gently. “Let me help, Harry. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

He nodded, squeezing your hand in return. He pulled out a pen and stared expectantly at you. You smiled - you were happy he was willing to let you help. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, eager to hear a new outlook on these lyrics he had grown sick of reading over and over again.

“Well,” you began, “it obviously has a sort of ethereal vibe to it. So, summer skies? Like, maybe something about ‘you under summer skies’?”

He nodded slowly, absorbing your suggestion. Until, suddenly, his eyes lit up. You knew the look. You’d seen it many a time before. It was the look he adopted whenever he’d been struck by the perfect slice of inspiration he needed to write an incredible piece of music. “You, Y/N, are a bloody genius! ‘Your wonder under summer skies’,” he grinned.

He scribbled the lyric down desperately. You couldn’t help but admire him as ideas escaped his brain and fell onto the paper before him. He finally looked back up at you, the page now littered with prompts and snippets of lyrics. “Thanks, Y/N. You’re a lifesaver,” he said.

You chuckled, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, you didn’t do anything for my other songs but they exist because of you,” he rushed out, clearly not comprehending his words. “Shit. Sorry, that- that didn’t mean to come out.”

You smirked. You had the power now, after four and a half years of falling in love with Harry Styles and making a massive fool of yourself in front of him. He’d slipped up and now you were in control. “Yeah? What songs did I unknowingly contribute to?” your confidence was rare, especially when it came to things like this, and yet here it was.

Unfortunately for you, Harry’s natural confidence matched your own. A playful grin swept up his features as he said, “Wouldn’t it be more fun for you to listen to the album and figure it out for yourself?”

“Or you could just tell me the titles?” you asked, your tone hopeful.

He hesitated for a moment, his confident smirk faltering for a split second. But, before you had time to say anything else, he said, “There’s this song called Sunflower, Vol. 6. I wrote that because your favourite flowers are sunflowers. And I wrote Cherry because I know you love cherries. And then there’s Golden, because that’s what you are, Y/N. And then there’s Watermelon Sugar because I know that In Watermelon Sugar is your favourite book. And now Adore You, because, I swear to God, Y/N, that’s all I want to do.”

He was rambling and you couldn’t help but smile. Whilst you’d spent your days rambling to your friends about how you were convinced you’d remain single forever if he didn’t happen to fall hopelessly in love with you, it appeared that he’d been writing down all the tiny details about you in his songs. Because it was true: sunflowers were your favourite flowers and cherries were your favourite fruit and In Watermelon Sugar was your favourite book.

He was staring at you now, his eyes searching your face for some sort of a hint on how you were feeling. When you said nothing, your lips parted slightly, he went on, “Hell, I wrote Cherry years ago. I wrote it when you were dating that guy... what was his name?”

“Ollie,” you replied quietly.

He knew what his name was. He never forgot. It had been two years but he’d never forgotten the eight months of hell where he had to watch you cuddle up to him and take him home after your group of friends had gone out for drinks. He didn’t know why he wanted to hear you say his name again. Some sadistic form of self-torture maybe, hearing another boy’s name on your lips. “Yeah, Ollie,” he played it off as if he really had forgotten your ex boyfriend’s name. “I wrote it when you were dating him. And I’ve been sitting on it for two years because I thought if I released it then you would know I’ve been in love with you for four years. But then I just thought ‘you know what, fuck it’, so I’m putting it on the album. And Anna, that was about you. But I’ll never officially release that one. Because I wrote it one night when I was alone and I couldn’t get you out of my head and I needed to tell somebody how I felt about you. Even if that was just a bit of paper. But then I played it to you, do you remember? And you loved it, so I swore to never release it because it felt like I’d confessed to you how I felt.”

As you listened to him ramble away about all of these songs he’d written about you and how much you clearly meant to him, you couldn’t help but smile. You’d dreamed of Harry confessing how much he, well, adored you. And you’d only ever thought it would be an occurrence in your fantastical dreams, and yet here he was, staring back at you, rambling on about how much he loved you. “Wait, Harry,” you spoke up, “isn’t ‘watermelon sugar’ something to do with oral sex?”

You chuckled as he flushed, “That’s besides the point.”

“And what is the point?”

“That I’m in love with you and, I pray to God, you’re in love with me back.”

Overwhelmed with joy, you couldn’t help but throw yourself at Harry. The feeling of his hands around your waist in a way that wasn’t just a slightly prolonged hug goodbye after a night out or a slightly overly flirtatious gesture of Harry’s felt electric. Harry’s hands on you in a way that was meant to be a moment of appreciation shared between two lovers was how it was always supposed to be.

After so long of knowing one another, falling for each other and sharing life changing moments, everything was finally slipping into place. You’d been there when One Direction first began their hiatus. You’d been there when he cut his hair off. You’d been there when he went to Jamaica to write his first solo album. You’d been there, albeit your eyes were shut most of the time, when he was dangling a thousand feet in the air for the Sign of the Times music video shoot. He’d been there when you finished university. He’d been there when you lost your mum. He’d been there when your sister had her first child. He’d been your date to your brother’s wedding. All of these things, and you couldn’t help but feel they mounted to this very moment.

You pulled your head back, admiring his face for a moment. Your arms were around his neck and everything just felt... right. His smile was bright and his eyes were full of nothing but loving joy. Without another moment’s hesitation, your lips were on his. You weren’t sure who leaned forward, but all you knew was that this was what you’d been waiting for for almost five years. And, now you were here, showing Harry how much you loved him, the wait seemed worth it. “We’ve got so much time to make up for,” he whispered.

“Good thing we’ve got all the time in the world then, isn’t it?”

He grinned, embracing your body. All he’d wanted to do for four years was to praise it. And now he finally had the chance to. That was until the two of you heard a voice behind you, “We only left for lunch!”

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

How Longingly I Look Upon You

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Summary: Valentine’s Day is a holiday you love, for it’s celebration of tenderness and appreciation. It matters very little that you never have a partner to share it with. This Valentine’s Day the Sheriff offers an opportunity, a potential, something you never thought he’d do. 

Notes: This took me way too long to finish thanks to work, but I hope it was worth the nearly 2 month wait! 

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Mando’a Translations:

Ba’vodu - Aunt/uncle Cyar’ika - darling/sweetheart (with Paz, i’m using this informally in a way you’d call your friends babe or love as a term of endearment but non-romantic) Ne shab’rud’ni - don’t fuck with me Cyare - beloved, loved Mesh’la - beautiful Cabur’ika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Din’s term of endearment for reader after ‘Never Mess With a School Teacher’ because she is a true guardian of her kids. Mandokarla - having the ‘right stuff’ basically being truly mandalorian in spirit.

                                                       -------------

Valentine’s day was a holiday you actually quite enjoyed. It was a day to celebrate love, whether Eros, romantic love, Agape, unconditional love, Philia, affectionate love, or even Philautia, self-love. For you it had always been a day to celebrate the people in your life and while certainly you’d never had a suitor or a courtship during Valentine’s day, that hadn’t mattered so much. You filled your life with love for your family, even if they were now gone, love for your friends, and love for your students. It mattered very little in the end, Valentine’s day was a day for love in all its forms and for you, it was a joy. A joy to teach your students about the day, about the significance, to watch them create cards for their families, and see the red faces and giggling laughter when one of your students braved the walk across the classroom to hand a gift to another. Rather than dwell on what was missing, you chose to focus on all the joy that the day brought. 

Today was no different, you had gone into your school house the day before. Spent your Sunday afternoon hanging red and pink bunting, crafty paper hearts and cupids. You wanted every holiday for your children to be worthwhile, to feel like a special day and part of that was decoration. The school house looked like a Valentine’s dream and the lessons for the day were to centre around the same theme. You would cover the history of Valentine’s day and St Valentine, work on mathematical problems in a Valentine’s context, create Valentine’s cards and write stories about great romances and read some of the best love poems that great poets had produced. 

You had even gone with a colour scheme of red and pink for your outfit that day, despite your mother often saying you shouldn’t mix the two. Your dress was neatly ironed, almost gaudy in its Valentine’s nature, but fun. Your mother would have no doubt said that the lace and frills, the large puff sleeves, were all a bit much. Much too gaudy for you, a simple school teacher to wear. You wore it anyway because that was how you wanted it. Gaudy, happy, joyful, and overly extravagant for a day teaching. It was flattering, following your silhouette and grazing the ground gently. You had placed little delicate pink flower pins in your hair, surrounding your high updo. You had even rouged your cheeks, something which you rarely did anymore, usually much too busy. 

You’re at the schoolhouse door smoothing down your skirts when you see the first of your childrens making their way down the main street. Lunch pails are flying behind them, skirts and ribbons whistling in the wind as they run. You greet each of your children with a bright smile and a ‘Happy Valentine’s day!’, like clockwork, as part of their routine they hang their coats, scarves and hats on the coat hooks by the door and settle into their seats, pulling out slates, books, pencils and chalk. They begin to chat amongst themselves as they wait for you and the lesson to begin. You had them well trained and so allowed them the time to chat knowing they’d listen up the moment you called for it. 

Little Grogu is the last to arrive, running on little legs beside Din who always walks him to school in the morning before beginning his day as Sheriff. The little boy wraps his arms around your legs in greeting before wandering in with a wave to his father. While he can speak and you’ve witnessed it more and more, he is generally mute, preferring to use other forms of communication. You’ve noticed this little quirk of his, but don’t mind. If he would rather not speak that’s fine, so long as he’s progressing in his school work then you have little to worry about. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Din.” You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ears, a little nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s Day, oddly enough. All these months of knowing him and he still makes you nervous, not in a bad way. It had gotten worse since that kiss in the school house, the nerves of wanting him but not being sure if that kiss had truly meant more to him causing you to become shy when near him. You feel completely and utterly safe with Din, yet at the same time feel that bubble of excitement and nerves in your stomach, that roiling sensation you’ve not felt since you were a child with a crush. You wanted him to see you as more than just Grogu’s teacher but as a woman, an unmarried woman, a woman he could potentially see himself with. A future wife. While he’d expressed interest in courting you that day, nothing had happened since whether he’d changed his mind or the busyness of life had taken over, you weren't sure. You had never thought much on the prospect of marriage, despite your mother’s many warnings, you had simply not cared all that much. You had decided to live your life on your terms, as much as possible, but Din...Din was a man you could see yourself marrying. 

It had grown over the months of knowing him from an objective enjoyment of his features, an acceptance that he was an incredibly handsome man and kind as well, into what you could only describe as longing. The beginnings of something greater, something akin to love. Din was everything you could ever want in a prospective husband, prospective father of your future children. He was handsome, so much so that you were ashamed of the thoughts that on occasion, usually in the quiet of the night, ran through your mind. He was kind and caring, a surprisingly gentle man despite his broad shoulders, large hands, and more violent profession. Ex-bounty hunters weren’t known for their softness and yet that was the only way to describe how he treated you and the children. He was gentle in voice, never raising it around you, never shouting or yelling, he chose his words carefully. He was soft in the way that he allowed the children to sit in his lap as he told stories or helped them down from trees when they got stuck. He was kind in that he was always caring for you, whether making sure you were given adult company during the school day or ensuring you ate after a long day without stopping. He was protective, but not overbearing. Kind and soft, but not weak. He would make a wonderful husband, that is something you were utterly sure of and you knew that you were not the only unmarried woman in town who’d turned their gaze to him. 

So it made you nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s day because on a day of love, he was someone you wanted to celebrate and yet found yourself too nervous to do so. It wasn’t becoming, it wasn’t ladylike to take that first step, that first plunge into the unknown world that was love. Despite that spontaneous and daring kiss you found yourself thinking of your mother and shying away from making another attempt. Your mother, God rest her soul, had always made it a notable detail, a finer point in the plan of your life. You would be approached by a man, not the other way around, and you would ultimately make the decision as to whether you wished to be courted by him with the intent to marry or whether you did not. Despite breaking tradition in the way you taught your children, this was something you didn’t have the courage for. Not again. While Din had expressed interest in you all those months back, the time between had seen nothing but his usual friendly behaviour. It made you conscious of your behaviour and the risk of getting hurt. If Din had an interest in you as a potential spouse, a riddur as he told you once, then he would have to make the next move. 

Now standing before you with one hand behind his back and the other holding his hat by his stomach he looked infinitely more nervous than you expected for simply dropping off Grogu to school. There was a hint of red to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, his deep brown eyes darted around, from the floor to your own, before looking over your shoulder. You hadn’t truly seen him like this, this nervousness was unusual for him and you could have sworn he’d combed his hair with some pomade, an attempt to neaten the unruly dark curls that you thought were quite dashing on him. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss Y/N,” You frown at the formality, confused as to why he isn’t calling you cabur’ika like he usually does. The formality of calling you miss had dissolved almost the moment you met him and it was strange coming from his lips after so much familiarity between you. He has only ever called you miss when talking to the children about you.

For Din, he has never felt quite as nervous as in this moment. Perhaps it’s the time that’s elapsed that does it. When he kissed you he meant it, he meant his intent to court you, but his job had become busier over the months after...and in truth, he had doubts about his worth. He was unsure if he was truly enough for you. He felt ungentlemanly, improper, too rough. For months he’d been struggling with whether or not he was good enough for you, he knew you wanted to be courted by him, but was it the right thing for you? After months of soul searching, a healthy dose of want and longing every time he saw you with the children or whenever you smiled at him, he’d decided that it was your choice to make. He wanted to be with you and maybe he wasn’t damn good enough, maybe he wasn’t the man that should get to be with you, but if you wanted him then he wasn’t strong enough or selfless enough to or cold enough to do anything but love you. 

“I...I have something for you, it ain’t much but I…well…” The flush to his cheeks grows deeper, a bright beaming red that screams against his bronzed skin. From behind his back he pulls his arm, hand outstretched towards you. He knows there’s a subtle shake to his arm, nerves at bearing his heart open, however, subtly, racing through his blood. More adrenaline than he’s felt anywhere but in a gunfight.

There, clutched tight between the fingers of his left hand is a beautifully bound book, green leather cover and gilded words, tucked between the pages you can see an envelope just peeking out at the top. You gently take it from his hands with your left, the meaning of that burned into your memory from lessons with your mother. To give and receive a gift with the left hand is to recognise and accept an active interest in oneself. The weight of it has your heart pounding in your chest, almost violently so against your ribs. You read the cover, ‘The Complete Poetical Works of Walt Whitman’, the tears gather in your eyes before you have any time or thought to stop them. There’s a blind panic that fills Din’s chest, like the blaring of a ship’s foghorn in his mind, at the sight of tears collecting in your eyes. There’s a moment of genuine fear, that he’s somehow messed up, that he’s caused you to become upset. 

Walt Whitman was the poet you used to read with your father every evening after he finished a long day of work, his works are some of your favourite, some of the most important to you, but you’ve never been one to spend money on yourself. You often spend your wage, what little of it you have, on items for the school, books for the children, a globe, an anatomical skeleton. You have a small copy of his works, old and worn, some pages missing. This book means more to you than you think Din knows. Afterall, Walt Whiteman is a well known poet and books are one of the few perfectly acceptable gifts to give to a woman that you are not married or engaged to. It was presumptuous to assume that the gift had any added meaning behind it. Foolish your late mother might have even said in her damning indictment of romance. 

“How did you know?” You clutch the book tight to your chest, heart aching with happiness and longing, that this man had given this to you, on Valentine’s of all days. It brings burning heat to your cheeks, a stutter to your heart, a dryness to your mouth. This is a step that you had dreamed, hoped of, that move towards something more. This was confirmation that he meant it all those months back, that he intended to court you and hadn’t had a change of heart. 

“You...he’s the poet you mention the most when you’re teaching the little ones, cabur’ika” You realise what this is, what this all means. He isn’t just a kind sheriff or your friend, he’s an unmarried eligible man showing you that he’s paid attention to you, that he’s interested. There’s a shift, a shift from the easy friendship to a new undercurrent of tension at the unspoken understanding between the two of you, at the prospect of courtship that he’s extending towards you. It’s not a marriage proposal, it’s not marriage, but it’s an offer to begin on the road towards that. It is confirmation that the kiss you’d shared hadn’t been a mistake, a whim, something fleeting and insubstantial.

It makes your heart flutter in your chest at the prospect that Din Djarin is putting his foot forward, extending a possibility, an opportunity, a potential future. That out of all the unmarried women in town Din was actively showing interest in you. He could have picked any number of beautiful, intelligent, eligible women to show interest in, to potentially court, but he’d chosen you. The weight is added at the prospect that he’s not just offering you a marriage, but a family, because little Grogu is part of his world, part of his life and you would never want anything less. 

“Thank you, Din...I...Thank you.” You feel a little lost for words, they’re stuck in your throat, knowing that there are so many things you wish to say but so many things you can’t say.

“I should leave you to your teaching, Miss Y/N. I…” There’s a pause as he thinks over the words in his mind, and stops himself. Din is a fool for you, that he is certain, but the last thing he wants at that moment is to make a larger fool out of himself. So he places his hat back atop his head and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

You watch as he says a sweet goodbye to Grogu, kneeling briefly on the ground to touch his forehead to the boy’s before reminding him to ‘be good’ for you.

The envelope is a temptation, sticking out from the top of the book, it calls for you to open it in that instant. But, you don’t, smiling at Din as he walks down the street towards the sheriff’s office, you turn back to head inside, Grogu walking with you to his seat, ready for you to teach the class. Despite the nagging desire to see what letter, what words lie in that envelope, you place the book atop of your desk and begin your day of teaching. You attempt to put the letter to the back of your mind, to keep the thoughts of being courted by Din at bay so that you can effectively teach, but you know you are distracted. 

The children are just as unfocused as you, the day goes both fast and slow with dramatics abound. Jonah receives at least 5 love letters, Grogu catches a frog for little Mary-Beth and your entire class takes time to gift you with a drawing by themselves of you and the entire class. 

Despite a whole class to distract you, you find it hard to teach, your eyes drifting back to your desk. That unassuming little envelope poking out from beneath the pages of a little poetry book that means more to your soul than you can possibly put into any sort of words. You find yourself thinking ahead, of the future, of Din. If he did indeed wish to court you, to go down that path of potential and intended marriage, then he was truly to be part of your future, he and Grogu. 

There was no doubt in your mind that you’d accept such a proposition, that you wanted him in your future. Din was your friend, something that had taken very little time in truth. From the moment you’d met him and his son, he’d managed easily to worm his way into your affections without even a thought to do so. He was kind, competent, caring. He was good with children. Respected you, your intelligence and your authority in your classroom. While he happily joined you to tell stories to the children he would always defer to you and respect your right to dictate what happened inside your school house. He helped when you needed it, but never jumped so eagerly to help that he took over when you did not need it. While he was certainly quiet, had a temper hidden beneath it all and a danger to him that you’d seen on the few occasions he felt the town or it’s occupants were in danger, he had never made you feel anything but safe and secure. He had proven himself competent the moment he stepped into town, arranging your school house to be built and demanding the respect of every inhabitant. He had done more for you in the months you’d known him than anyone else had done in years. 

He, in truth, captured your attention unlike any other person you’d ever met. You had always had an abstract desire for love, marriage, a family. But, no one had ever caught your attention, no man had ever been thought of as a potential father to your children or life companion. Din from the start had you take notice, you couldn’t quite comprehend the idea that he wanted to potentially marry you of all people. 

He had his fair share of admirers, in a small town like your own, he was the man that stood out the most and one of the most handsome. He had a lot of eyes on him at all times and you assumed that he knew it, some were less subtle and ladylike than others. You knew he’d received a few propositions, something your mother would have been horrified at, but he’d yet to accept a single offer. To receive one from him, meant that out of all the people lined up outside the sheriff’s office begging for his attention, he’d chosen you. Something which excited you. 

It’s on your lunch break, the children running around outside, that you finally have time to pull the envelope from its resting place between pages of inked words and sit with it. When you retrieved it from between pages of poetry, you had found yourself faced with little dried and pressed flowers between the pages of Walt Whitman’s works. A little additional that made a smile crawl across your lips. You’re sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, one eye on them, the other on the unassuming letter in your hands. Grogu has come to join you, toddling up the steps on little legs before plonking himself down next to you, leaning his chubby cheek into your arm. 

“Shall we see what your buir has written, mm?” You ask the little boy, he grins up at you at the mention of his father, he’s missing a couple of his baby teeth right at the front and the gap adds to the sheer adorable nature of the boy. You don’t know how much he knows, but Grogu has always seemed to know more than he let on, to understand the world around him better than most. There was always an intelligence behind those big eyes that made you think he knew more than either you or Din. 

The envelope is unassuming, just a cream coloured piece of paper, neat cursive writing along the front spelling out your name. You’ve never seen Din’s handwriting before and it speaks of someone who received a decent education, hours of being drilled on the correct way to hold a dip pen, how to form each letter. There’s a hesitation to the writing that speaks of someone who hasn’t had reason to write in a while, a little judder to the letters. You trace a fingertip over your name, how it looks in his hand, black ink stark against cream paper. It looks pretty when he’s writing it, you think. 

You turn over the envelope and slide a finger underneath the lip of it, careful to open it and not tear the paper in your haste. You glance up briefly at the sound of a yell, seeing that Jerome is fine and just laughing with the others, red in the face from receiving a kiss to the cheek, you turn your gaze to the folded letter that you pull from it’s confines. 

It takes everything within you to keep your composure as you read the letter. There is a girlish part of you that wishes to giddily squeal, throw the page into the air and run around in circles to express the sudden burst of energy that fills you. Instead, you sit there calmly, fingers and hands shaking as your eyes dart across the page following each line, hungry for the next. 

Dearest cabur’ika, Y/N, 

In truth I do not know how to write this letter to you, but it felt less forward and presumptuous to put my thoughts onto paper than to speak them to you clearly and in the open where the town gossip would get involved. I do not want you to feel forced to return my affections or embarrassed by them. While we’ve shared a kiss and i’ve expressed my intent towards you in the past, it has always been private, quiet and anything but bold. It has always left room for doubt, uncertainty and movement. You deserve surety. 

I have never been nor will I ever be a poet or a writer. I am a former bounty hunter, a sheriff, a mandalorian. I was raised to fight, to defend, not to write poetry or put down my thoughts and feelings into prose. I apologise if this letter is less than you dreamed of. If it fails to live up to lofty expectations or childhood dreams. 

I wish to make it plain and clear to you that I find you to be beautiful. Not just in form, or face, but in soul. You are a protector, a guardian, a caregiver and teacher. From the moment I met you you treated myself and my son with a kindness that I doubt I will ever forget. You have enchanted me in body, soul and mind. When I kissed you in the schoolhouse it was not on a whim, nor was it a false promise. I had and have every intent to court you, to one day marry you. I apologise that I have been distant or allowed room for doubt to grow.

I am eager to see but a glimpse of you in the day, to make you smile or offer you some respite. I am eager to hear your voice even as you talk about topics I have no interest in. I am eager to be in your presence, to see the kindness with which you treat each of your children and the sweetness of your smile, the fierceness of your nature when called upon to protect your class. In the words of Walt Whitman, ‘you do not know how longingly I look upon you’.You are mandokarla, built with the soul of a warrior, the kindness of a mother, and the mind of a teacher. Perhaps my words are too strong or forward, perhaps you do not share my feelings, but I wish to lay my intentions at your feet. I do not wish to presume you return these feelings, perhaps that kiss was a moment of weakness, perhaps your feelings have changed. But I cannot in good conscience go on as we have. 

I wish to step out with you, I wish to court you for the town to see, to one day marry you. If you ever allowed me such an opportunity I think I might be the luckiest of men, to have you join me in equal partnership as my riddur. To wake each morning to your smile, to raise our children and Grogu with you. To help you at your weakest and stand and watch you at your strongest. I long to build a life with you. 

I ask, will you allow me the great honour of courting you?

If you do not feel the same then I shall end my pursuit, I shall respect your feelings or lack thereof and we shall be friends, as we have been. But, please, consider my words. I would be blessed if you ever saw me worthy of you, you would not just be an excellent riddur, but a loving buir to Grogu. If I did not feel seriously about you I would not make this offer. But, the choice is yours and I shall respect it no matter what your decisions may be. 

Yours with love and affection, 

Din Djarin

The shake to your breath comes from a good dose of shock and giddiness that collide together inside of your chest like two wagons that haven’t been watching where they were going. It’s not a proposal, but it is a proposal at the same time. There is a giddiness that fills you knowing that Din wishes to step out with you, that he wishes to show the town his intention to one day marry you, that he has affection past that of friendship for you. It’s the giddiness that comes from returned affections, shared interest, you no longer feel as if you are the only one gazing at the other, that your feelings are unrequited. It feels as if all that worry, all that doubt had been for naught, simply a foolish girlish thing to do. How had you ever doubted his intentions towards you? 

“Miss, it’s time for history…” It’s Annie standing in front of you, hands on her hips to remind you that you need to call the children in, that has you hastily folding the letter and pocketing it, picking Grogu up and resting him on your hip as you rise. You, as most teachers, do not have the time to be giddy or dwell on love confessions during the school day. 

The day drags on in its last moments. Your desire to return home, to write a carefully crafted response, to find some sort of gift in addition, has you counting the seconds, minutes, and hours as they slowly tick by. Your children can tell you are unfocused and they become incredibly distracted as a result, but despite this you can’t find it in yourself to be frustrated or irritated, not today of all days when your patience with them has been extended by your supernaturally good mood. 

When Din collects Grogu at the end of the day you give him your sweetest smile and thank him earnestly for the letter. He isn’t sure what it means. It’s not an outright rejection or acceptance and despite the burning desire in his chest to receive an answer, he knows how to be patient, tipping his hat at you and offering to walk you home as a gentleman does. 

It isn’t unusual for Din to walk you home after the school day ends, even on nights where you stay late at school he often comes back with Grogu to walk you as the dark sets in. He has never been anything but a gentleman when it comes to making sure you get home safe even in a small town where very little happens and you know everyone. Still, you’ve always appreciated the gesture and you do now, even if wrapping your arm through his and walking side by side takes on a new tension, a new feeling.  

There’s a little thought in the back of your mind, niggling, that you can’t quite get rid of. The thought that this is what your little family could look like if all goes well. That you, with your arm wrapped through Din’s, hands in the crook of his elbow, and him, with Grogu on his hip, little arms wrapped around his neck, could easily be a future image of a family. Not just the Sheriff, a single father, walking the school teacher home because he’s polite and gentlemanly. 

“Thank you again, for the letter and the poetry book. I...you don’t understand how much it all means to me, Din. I...I want to respond properly, take my time….I.” The air is cold, as it always is in early February, but your entire body feels warm as you try to explain that you’re not rejecting his offer. You don’t want him to doubt for a second that you intend to say yes, but it doesn’t feel right to say it. There’s a desire to take your time, to write a heartfelt reply, to ensure that the time he took for you, you take in return. 

“You ain’t gotta tell me right away. It’s okay to take your time, mesh’la.” The reassurance has your shoulders dropping, a sense of relief, the removal of pressure. Any fear you had that Din would grow impatient dissipates and you're reminded once more of how safe you feel with him. Both physically and emotionally. He is a calming, solid presence. There is nothing fickle or finicky about Din and that is a relief when so much of your social world is confusing to navigate. 

“Thank you.” You tell him earnestly, drawing closer to him as you walk. Your side pressed fully into his, hip to hip, arm to arm. You cannot truly comprehend Din Djarin, the many elements that make him a better man than most, but you don’t think you have to fully comprehend him to enjoy being around him, to find comfort in him. Perhaps it will take years for you to fully understand who he is, but you like to believe you’ll get the time to do so. To learn him just as well as he seems to have learnt you. 

Your home isn’t particularly large. When you first came to town the Mayor had informed you that the post of teacher came with a small lodging. It was small; a separate bedroom off of the main living area, a water closet out in the back garden, enough room in the kitchen and living area for your tub to be placed in front of the fire when you need to wash. It was, however, homey, something Din had admired from the first. 

You ensured that blankets and pillows, knick knacks and trinkets covered the space. That it felt like a lived space, a place filled with love and warmth. 

He’s reluctant to leave you when he reaches the top step to your door. There’s a part of him that rarely wants to part from you, that enjoys your company even if it’s silent. You are comforting and familiar, he feels like he can be himself around you. There’s an implicit trust between the two of you. He trusts you with his son, he trusts you with his safety and protection, he trusts you with himself and even his heart, something he has protected ever since the death of his parents at the hands of bandits and thieves. He would be happy so long as he is in your presence and it is that fact that makes him certain about his decision to propose courtship, there is no one he would rather spend the rest of his days with. Terrifying, overwhelming, massive, but he can sense how entirely worth it it will be. 

“Goo-”

“Hav-”

The two of you go to say goodnight at the same time, stopping short and laughing under your breath. You tug at the fabric of your skirt and shift, feeling a wave of embarrassment at talking over each other, an odd feeling when neither have done anything to be embarrassed of. 

Grogu shifts on his father’s hip, leaning forward a hand reaching out to wave at you. You begin to smile, waving back at the little boy, your smile only grows wider when the usually mute boy giggles out “Goodnigh’!” at you with a large smile on his face. 

The boy manages to break the tension with a simple word and smile, once again you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. That this six year old is, perhaps, wise beyond his years.

“Goodnight, Grogu. Goodnight, Din.”

“Goodnight, cabur’ika” There is a pause from Din as if he wishes to say something, before stopping himself, turning and walking down your stairs. You wait there at your door, watching him leave until your eyes can no longer follow his figure as he disappears around a corner and out of sight. 

Your home feels empty, unusually so, with their presence gone, but you decide to put your energy and longing into a response. The first part is your famous spiced cookies. You know that Mandalorians prize spiced foods highly, a cultural aspect that your teacher Atin’a Caivass had shared with you as a child. 

The recipe was hers, one thing she gifted you, shared with you, and entrusted to you. So you get to work, mixing together flour, butter, sugar, egg. Adding spices that are one of the little luxuries you deign to spend a little extra on. They’re the sort of cookies that have a lovely mixture of sweetness and kick, they hit you in the back of the throat just enough to make your mouth tingle. The coco powder in them balances out the heat nicely,

Once the cookies are on the side cooling you hunt out your letter writing items. You haven’t had reason to write a letter since the passing of your parents many years ago. But, you know, in your organised way, where your things are. You collect your writing paper, envelopes, dip pen, ink. You find out your sealing wax, the stamps you haven’t used in years. You lay out each item on your kitchen table with care, feel a thrill go through you that you haven’t felt in years. You always enjoyed writing letters, taking your time to put thoughts and feelings into words onto paper. 

You take up your pen, dip the metal nib into black ink and bring the tip to cream, clean, fresh paper and begin to write. 

Dearest Sheriff Djarin, Din. 

There are few words in the expanse of the dictionary that could truly describe how I felt upon reading your letter. Ever since the kiss we shared I had worried, doubted. I was scared that perhaps you had changed your mind, decided that I was not worth your time, that I was not of interest anymore. When to me you had only become further ingrained in my dreams and wants. I was scared that I had made a terrible fool of myself.

To know that those feelings are returned, that you can see a life and a future with me means the world, it means everything. Grogu and you have become an inextricable part of my life, a part I would never wish to do without. You and that sweet boy make my soul sing and as Walt Whitman once aptly put ‘I am to see to it that I do not lose you’. 

You enchant me and thrill me to no end and perhaps that is not ladylike to say, perhaps I should write a quick acceptance of your offer and leave it at that, but I feel that such honest and open words should be returned in kind. I adore you. 

I adore the crinkle in your brow, the blinding smile when you drop your guard. I adore the kind, gentle nature you have around children, the ease with which you cause them to smile and laugh. I adore the respect you have for me, the respect you have for my authority in the classroom. I adore the curls of your hair, the hook of your nose, the patchy beard that grows on your jaw. I find there is very little I do not adore about you, Din Djarin and that is both a terrifying concept and one that I too adore. 

There was a time I thought little on marriage. I was told I should marry, but what of it? Why would I? You have, for the first time, made me truly desire marriage, a husband, children, a life of pure domesticity and family. 

To put it plainly, and I hope my feelings are not off putting or too forward, I would be glad, happy, ecstatic to one day call myself your wife and to call you my husband, my riddur. 

You asked if I would allow you to court me and my answer is yes, a hundred, a thousand times yes. I would love nothing more than to step out with you, to hang on your arm and begin to take steps towards a life together. 

I wish to make it equally as clear that Grogu matters to me. That I understand that he is part of this, part of you, and that I would never wish for you to part from each other. If you one day saw me as worthy of becoming his mother then I would take that responsibility on with pride and with love. He is a little angel, he captured my heart from the very first day I met him, even with his mischief and I would never wish to part with the two of you or come between your aliit, only to join it. I understand that he is as much your son, your child, as any child born of your own blood. 

I accept your offer of courtship and I knowingly enter into it, and all that it entails. 

All my love and affection,

Y/N Y/L/N

You wait for the ink to dry, in the meantime you take some muslin and begin to wrap the cookies carefully in the fabric. The twine you wrap around you knot into a bow. Redoing it multiple times until you're happy with its shape. There’s no real need for a knot of twine to be perfect, but you want it to look perfect, to be perfect, for him. 

The ink of your letter is dry and you’re careful as you go through the motions of folding the pages, slipping them into a crisp envelope and weighing down the lip. You’re selective in your choice of wax and seal, careful as you melt the wax, pour it and stamp it. There’s a quiet calm about it all, sealing your words behind wax and paper. Knowing that the next time they’re revealed the one person they’re meant for will be reading them.

You place the times together on the side with care, ready to be collected in the morning as you leave for the school house. You take a few moments to think about when it would be best to deliver them, deciding that as much as it pains you to wait, the evening, after school, is better than the morning. It would simply distract you more, you have little time to do it, and the evening gives you that time to talk, to enjoy the change in your relationship. 

You go to sleep that night with thoughts of Din’s smile, the one he gives whenever he tells a story to your class, soft, gentle, filled with contentment. Thoughts of the way his hair curls over his ears and his neck moves as he swallows. Thoughts of how he had come into your little mining town of Navarro and shaken everything up in the best sort of way, put to right all the wrongs, solved problems and brought forth solutions.

When you wake the next morning you’re extra particular about what you choose to wear, how your pins look in your hair and how much rouge is on your cheeks. You know, deep down, that Din could care less about the way your hair is pinned or how much rouge is on your cheeks, but it’s something to occupy your hands and mind in the morning before you get to the school house. Once you’re teaching you know you’ll have little time to worry or think about the response you intend to pass on to Din at the Sheriff’s office that evening, but in the meantime you busy yourself with your daily routine. 

The day seems to drag, your smile and good morning to Din as he drops Grogu off for school is filled with tension and unspoken words. Your lessons seem to take forever to teach and where you’d normally be enthused you find yourself more eager for the day to end than anything else. 

Paz is the one to come by and collect Grogu at the end of the day. The large man had settled into town as the deputy not a month into Din’s stint as sheriff. You knew that Paz and Din were close, practically brothers, having grown up together in the covert and that had been the main reason for you warming to him so quickly. Without Din’s presence you would have likely shied away from Paz. He was large, if you’d thought Din was broad shouldered, then he had nothing on Paz, who was a veritable giant. His size and his resting scowl made him intimidating, but his interactions with the children and women of town showed his character instantly. Like another Mandalorian you knew he’d been gentle and sweet, respectful, despite his size and intimidating demeanor. You liked Paz, even if he seemed to enjoy embarrassing you around his brother. 

“Hey there, Little One!” You watch Paz crouch down, arms open as the little boy barrels towards him as fast as his little legs can go. Grogu absolutely adored Paz, he was his uncle, his ba’vodu, and the little boy loved being swung about, hefted to and fro by the giant man. It was the tenderness with which Paz always encompassed Grogu in his arms, lifting him gently to his shoulders, that reminded you of the soul inside Paz. The cover of his book was intimidating, scary, tough, the face of a mercenary and bounty hunter, but his inner pages, his soul was just as soft as Din, just as caring. You were happy to call Paz a friend. 

“Hello, Paz”, You smile up at the man, Grogu now sat about his shoulders, arms wrapped around the top of his head with a little smile. The man in question smiles down at you, “Good evenin’, cyar’ika”, You smile wider at the familiar endearment, happy to see your friend even if the nerves from your impending visit to Din buzz in your stomach and chest. 

“Is Din working late?” 

“Yeah, the kid’ll be at mine for the night, Din’s working the graveyard shift so to speak.” You’re, in truth, glad that Paz is watching Grogu for the night, that Din is working late. It gives you the privacy to give your response, without either the watchful eyes of a child or any other sort of audience. 

“Well, have a good night, Paz” 

“Not as good as yours i’m sure” It’s said with that teasing glint that Paz often gets in his eye and a smirk that twists the shape of his beard. It causes a sort of panic to fill you, at the thought that Paz knows, that he knows what’s going on even if it’s completely believable and acceptable that Din would tell his brother about his intentions towards you. Your body feels warm all of a sudden and you're sure there’s a look of panic in your eyes because Paz’s glint softens down to something kind and gentle as he nods a goodnight to you and walks away. 

You force yourself to go about your normal routine, spending a few hours at the school house marking books, organising the next day’s lessons, tidying up and generally making sure you were ready for all your children the following morning. You may spend a little too much time rearranging the items on your desk and sharpening pencils that don’t really need to be sharpened. 

It’s as the sun begins to dip low in the February sky, and people begin to light lamps in their houses or, for those with enough money, turn on their electric lights that you finally decide enough is enough and grab the parcel and letter from your desk. You march with a strange sort of determination, that hides the mess of emotions you are inside, across the street and to the Sheriff’s Office. It doesn’t matter that Din had already shared his feelings with you, you were still nervous of his reaction, had you responded well enough? Was it romantic enough? Would something in your letter be off putting for him? Was it too forward? Not clear enough?

He is leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on top of his desk, heels of his boots digging into the wood of the table. The warm light from various gas lamps bounces across Din’s features, accentuates the sharpness of his cheek bones, the curve of his hawkish nose, the shadow from the brim of his hat. 

His chair makes a sharp screech across the floorboards as he rushes to stand at the sight of you, feet falling to the floor as he bounces to them. The hat is swept off his head, politely removed to show the curls of his hair as he, dare you say nervously, tugs at his waistcoat and checks his attire. It’s somewhat relaxing, the endearing nerves with which he greets you, the quick attempt to perfect himself, to show you the best of him, even if you would have happily been greeted by him even if he were covered head to toe in mud. 

“Cabur’ika…” He’s a little breathless and it causes a flush to reach his cheeks. He’s embarrassed that he sounds like a school aged kid, that he isn’t standing before you behaving like a man, an adult. But, you take the breath out of him. You’re frazzled looking after a long day teaching, the hair of your up-do frizzy and falling out in places, chalk across your cheeks and skirt, wrinkles in your clothes that he was sure weren’t there that morning, but you still looking breathtaking, you still make his heart jump a beat. 

“Din…” You’re breathless yourself, it feels like your nerves have a hand around your throat, a tight grip keeping the breath from leaving your lungs. You fumble a little as you step towards him, tripping on a loose floorboard but catching yourself. Your hands nearly drop the precious cargo they’re carrying and you clutch tighter in response. 

“I...uh...Here.” You had the parcel and letter to him, as he reaches for the envelope first you panickedly say, “The parcel! Open...open the parcel first?” He can see the nerves in you, the way you twist your fingers and bite at your bottom lip, in an effort to ease them he nods with a smile and puts the envelope on his desk, focusing on the package of muslin and string. 

He’s careful as he opens it on his desk, pulling apart the perfect bow you’d tied and unravelling the package with careful hands. His fingers are too delicate in that moment for such large hands, for hands that have choked men unconscious and lassoed bounties, that have held guns. It’s odd for him, how easily he has fitted into the domesticity of town, odd, but not unwelcome. 

The wrappings fall away and he’s greeted by the sight of warm brown cookies, irregularly shaped, although somewhat circular. They’re delicious looking, but what gets him the most is the smell, it reminds him of winter nights in the covert, of his adopted parents and warm cookies and milk, spices that he’s almost forgotten about. He should really ask before grabbing one and tucking in, but he can’t resist the urge to find out if the spices are the ones he remembers from his childhood. 

The cookie is moist and soft as it crumbles away easily onto his tongue, he can’t resist closing his eyes at the taste. He recognises the spices, the taste taking him back to fond memories and warmth, a familial bond between him and those who had taken him in, protected him, given him a purpose, a life. He finishes the whole thing without really realising it. 

You watch on, anxious to see if he likes them. It had been a risk, spicing the cookies, you hoped the significance to his culture was a good thing and not bad. You found yourself second guessing your decision as his brow furrowed, eyes closing, but then he took the next bite, and the next, until the cookie was no more and Din’s chocolate coloured eyes opened and blinked over at you with the lightest sheen of tears. 

“How did you know?”

“I...I had a mandalorian teacher, remember? She...she always liked spiced cookies, I…are they okay? Was...should I not have?” You feel the worry bounce through you, at the thought that you’d crossed some invisible line, some sort of boundary not meant to be crossed. 

“No, no! They’re lovely, thank you. They...they remind me of home, Mesh’la.” He’s quick to reassure you, a warm hand reaching out to give one of your own a quick squeeze, just long enough to comfort you, but no longer than appropriate.

You watch him turn back to the envelope, picking it up with care before glancing between the seal and you, eyes darting back and forth as if he is unsure if he is allowed to open it, to read it. “Open it.” You force the words from your throat, nervous for him to read your words, your thoughts and feelings put to paper, but knowing that the relief once he has done so will outweigh your current anxiety. 

You stand and watch, a lump in your throat, your hands twisting into your skirt as he opens the envelope. A careful finger pulling the seal free and gently easing the pages of your letter from it’s confines. You wait and you watch, eyes intent on his features as his own carefully trace across the curvature of your words. 

He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tears well in his eyes as he reads further throughout your letter. It is not just your open acceptance of his offer that has his emotions rising within his chest, but the clear admiration of him and the openness with which you accept his son. Grogu was his child, you were right, as much as any child of his own blood would be, and he had, in truth, stupidly worried that you might not accept the boy as your own. Your excitement at the prospect of one day being a mother to him causes his heart to ache in the best sort of way. 

Din was purposeful as he placed the letter down and strode up to you, the toes of his boots touching the hem of your skirt. He invades your personal space in a way that sets your skin aflame, yet it is not uncomfortable. You welcome his presence as much as it causes your heart to beat rapidly and your throat to swallow. 

“May I kiss you?” He asks, his voice soft and gentle, the southern twang just under the surface. He’s so close you can feel the warmth from his skin. You nod, letting out a shaky breath as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. So large they enclose you so well, make you feel secure even as your heart tries to stutter out of your chest. It matters little that you’ve kissed before, that was quick, this was slow, your attention undivided, your thoughts completely encapsulated by him and his entire being. His hands are warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth in gentle strokes as he gages your reaction, eyes focused on your own. He’s slow as he moves forward, as if giving you time to back out, to pull away, but you don’t. 

He tastes like spices and sugar, the cookie lingering on his tongue long after it had melted away. He is soft, but not so gentle, the gentle, delicate nature of your last kiss is replaced by depth of emotion, passion and fire. His lips firm against yours, a large hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer, while the other falls to your waist. His beard scratches against your skin pleasantly and you think you could happily grow used to this. You think little of propriety, of politeness, when you open your lips to his and meld yourselves closer together, think little of it as you clutch at his shoulders and breathe him in, as your fingers come up to tangle in those chocolate curls and tug incessantly, as his tongue tangles with your own. There is no fear of it going too far, of Din pushing you for more, of demanding more because you both know the lines that must not be crossed, because you trust him implicitly and because you know he respects you enough to not risk your reputation or livelihood for something carnal or baser, even if he desires it. Even if you desire it.

The lack of fear is what allows you to get swept up in the kiss, in the feeling of his hands and lips on you, the warmth of his skin, the smell of his soap. It allows you to forget that the world outside exists, that you are not in your own private world, but in the easily accessible space that is the Sheriff’s Office. 

The spell is broken by the sound of the door slamming open and heavy, booted footfalls on the floorboards. You pull apart with a gasp and Din is quick to stand in front of you, as if to protect you from view, scowling at his deputy in the doorway. Not even the little boy on Paz’s shoulder can take the frustration from Din, he is frustrated at the interruption, embarrassed for you, that you were caught in a compromising position, and irritated by the smirk that’s heavy on Vizsla’s lips. 

Paz hadn’t meant to interrupt, in truth he hadn’t expected to find you there, lips locked to his brother, but Grogu was being fussy. Refusing to eat his dinner and then outright refusing to be put to bed. Paz had decided the kid just needed to see his buir, he hadn’t expected Din to be...in the middle of something. 

“Am I interrupting something, Djarin?” He’s teasing and he feels a little sorry when he sees how embarrassed you look, but it’s worth it for the glare he gets from Din. His smirk widens as Din practically growls at him, teeth clenched tight. 

“Vizsla, don’t make me shove my boot where the sun don’t shine. Ne shab’rud’ni.” He softens a little at Grogu grinning at the two of you, but he still wishes the interruption had never come. He knows it was inevitable, he has a young son, the chances of romance going uninterrupted are slim, still… 

“We’ll be outside, Vod. Don’t take too long” Paz says it, still with that smirk attached to his face. He’s gracious enough to give Din a little more time with you, before demanding the man take his son home and tuck him in bed. 

The door closes softly behind him, the moment he’s out of sight Din turns back to you, sighing out an apology, “I’m sorry, cyare…”

He presses his forehead to your own, hands smoothing across your waist and back in gentle motions. As if trying to soothe the embarrassment from you, bring you back to a sense of peace that had since been disrupted. 

You push your forehead back into his and nudge his nose with your own, “Don’t be. He’s your son.” You mean it. As embarrassing as being interrupted is, as frustrating as it may be, you understand. His son is massively important, and he’s young, there are bound to be interruptions. It’s okay. 

“So, we’re really doin’ this, huh? Haven’t changed your mind yet, Mesh’la?”

“Not at all…” You press forward, a soft, sweet little kiss to lips before pulling back, “You should go...Grogu needs you. Wish him a goodnight for me?” You pull away slowly, untangling yourself from his arms despite your own reluctance. You want to stay there, warm and safe forever, but Grogu needs his father and you do not have the heart to deprive him. 

“Always.” 

Din doesn’t want to leave you, but you make the decision for him, grabbing his hat and carefully plopping in atop his head before ushering him out the door. You watch as he takes Grogu from Paz, putting the boy onto his shoulders and walking with the man down the street. 

He can’t help but look back.

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[fireemblems24]

Azure Moon: Chapter 17

I'm an emotional wreck right now.

If you're looking for a coherent review of events - this isn't it. I'm going to need to cry in a corner for a bit first.

Pre Battle:

Oh, right. Now Gilbert and Rodrigue are talking about fog. Did they just forget to make this Fog or War or something? Not that I'm complaining.

Oh, boy, Duscur talk. Poor Rodrigue. He lost a best friend and two sons that day 😭I still hope Felix forgives him. I really don't think Rodrigue did anything wrong.

So I had to look up who Lady Patricia was again, and please, dear God, no. Please tell me Dimitri's step-mother didn't arrange that.

The writers are like - how much trauma can we shove into one character: all of it. Oh, wait, oh wait, let's have his step-mother arrange his brutal death too! Oh, great idea. 😑

HOLY SHIT - DIMITRI ALMOST DIED AT DUSCUR. HE DIDN'T TELL ME THAT. OMG. All this time.

So he spent the whole time talking about how everyone else got hurt and didn't even mention he ALMOST DIED 😭😭😭😭. This character makes my heart hurt.

So are we gonna see Patricia again? Is she part of that evil mage group?? God I hope not.

Oh, no, the messenger to the Alliance got killed. That explains how the game is going to be like - no two lords for you! - even when it makes more sense to team up in AM. Did this happen in VW too? That would explain why Dimitri didn't want to join Claude tbh.

Sounds like a pretty brutal death too. 100% picked it was the Empire. Dimitri's all about it lol.

Oh, "Maiden" Fleche is back.

Good God this feels 100x more epic on AM than VW. I'm honestly starting to feel sorry for Claude. He got done dirty compared to the other two.

And now it's Ferdinand's birthday. Now is not the time, bro.

I'm betting it's the same cut scene? I get to see Dimitri say "Kill every last one of them again" lol.

Edelgard be like - last time we were classmates fighting, this time I'm here to kill all of you and take over your lands.

Battle:

Alright - the battle. Thankfully I have Bernie recruited so no more fires for her, poor thing.

Lysithea and Ignatz are on here though. I'm assuming Claude retreats? Probably not the other two. But I'm trying to stick to the "kill everyone" (or I guess I should say "Kill every last one of them!" lol).

Gotta have Dimitri fight Claude and Edelgard to get that sweet-sweet dialogue.

Dimitri's just going to solo the alliance troops. Batallion Wrath/Vantage/Retribution is one hell of a drug. Just gotta watch out for gambits, but only really worried about Claude tbh.

Claude's range is too big, which is why Dimitri's taking that route. Thematically I'd love to watch him just solo all the Empire troops, but I can't risk Claude flying around if I want that unique battle dialogue.

LAMO - Byleth crit Hubert. Though, interesting note. In VW, Dedue insists he can still fight when he's defeated, and Dimitri tells him to get off the battlefield and live (rudely). Hubert says he needs to retreat, and Edelgard says nothing about his injuries.

Oh, shit, Petra too. Didn't see her there.

And now Leonie and Hilda too. Does Hilda retreat like Hubert and Dedue?

So Leonie, Lysithea, and Ignatz are dead. Hilda, Petra, and Hubert retreated. Hubert really likes to show up, get his ass handed to him, and then retreat. Who do you end up doing this to more, Hubert or the Death Knight?

Guys, I think Dimitri might have an issue with Edelgard. If you let them fight each other in VW, does he say the same thing?

OMG Edelgard philosophizing about death after Dimitri's like - pick a way to die. For some reason this is amusing.

And then he crits. Dimitri likes doing that.

Oh, shocking, she retreats too.

OMG Dimitri was MVP (shocking, I know), but it's so amusing to see "Dimitri's motivation is maxed out" right after criting Edelgard.

Post Battle:

So Dimitri goes to chase after Edelgard, which kills him in VW.

Man he sounds so enraged - like a setback after the progress. And yelling at Rodrigue 😭

Oh, shit, what is Fleche doing here.

Man, this is so much more intense than VW.

Oh shit - Fleche stabbed Dimitri. OMG. Saw that coming. Rodrgue's so worried.

Oh shit. Oh God. Rodrigue just died saving Dimitri, didn't he? Dimitri wasn't even going to fight back, was he?

OMG 😭😭😭😭😭😭

He's really dying guys. Why.

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

WHY DID HE DIE THOUGH?

"Live for what you believe in. Your life is your own."

If I ever hear anyone shit-talk Rodrigue, I'm going to have words.

Oh, shit Felix. Felix never made up with his father.

Nevermind, I want VW back. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

(Oh, wait, nevermind, Dimitri just died in VW. I take that back)

Chris Hackey though. (I get the feeling he really liked Dimitri. How could you not, though?)

Oh shit guys, I'm getting watery-eyed.

Rodrigue just fucking died saving Dimitri.

Yo - Lambert is hot though. WHY DO ALL THAT HOT OLDER GUYS DIE? Please someone look out for Seteth.

Oh, shit Lambert should've listened to Rodrigue.

Rodrigue is so loyal and good. Fuck any haters.

On a side note - Byleth pretty badass taking Fleche out.

Ok - here comes the Byleth part.

Dimitri's "I haven't slept in a week" look is gone.

Oh, shit, where is he going? He's going to leave, isn't he?

C'mon, Byleth, don't let him leave. 😭😭😭

Dimitri thinks he'd just too far gone 😭😭😭😭😭😭

There's Survivor's Guilt, and then there's Dimitri, holy shit.

OMG his little voice wavers asking the professor for answers. Dimitri's going to be the end of me.

Also - Chris Hackney is a gem. Like, all the VAs are pretty good with a few exceptions, but Dimitri demands more range than most of them, and he sells all of it. It's what Dimitri deserves though.

I picked "You must forgive yourself," because holy hell 😭😭😭

He really just thinks he has no value, doesn't he. 😭😭😭

"As the sole survivor of that day, do I . . . Do I have the right to live for myself?" 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

And Byleth just reaches out her hand again 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

"Your hands are so warm . . . have they always ben" 😭😭😭

Shit, man, I don't like Byleth much, but this is good shit. Maybe I like Byleth a little.

Next Chapter title is "The King's Triumphant Return" 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Hell yeah, we're going to free the Kingdom!

Does this mean I get Dimitri's supports now?

Oh, boy, Dimitri's here. And Dedue's worried about his wounds. OFC he is.

He sounds so normal now.

Dimitri's apologizing. Is it weird to feel proud of a character? Because I feel proud of a character.

"I wish to do the right thing from now on." 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

OMG, Dimitri, this route is an emotional ride.

Hell yeah, let's go kick the Empire out of the Kingdom!

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

He's finally going to start living for himself, I'm just feel like a proud mom.

OMG FELIX CALLED HIM DIMITRI. WHY IS THIS ROUTE LIKE THIS?😭😭😭

I love all the Blue Lions so much. They're all precious.

[herstroywritten]

Darn Pigtails

Hello! I genuinely have no excuse for this monstrosity of a piece that I agonized over for the past few days instead of focusing on my uni work. I’ve spent the last month obsessing over Fate and Rivusa (the latter has been a life long obsession and Fate has only added fuel to the fire, with just one scene...). Yes, I am a part of that clown circus and honestly, I’m proud. I’ve always been a writer, but never posted anything but I figure here goes nothing. I was very inspired by some very talented writers in this tiny little club that’s been created on here for this ship (you all know them by now...). I couldn’t resist adding my own (not so) little addition to the collection. I don’t currently have an account on ao3 or anything, so this is just what’s happening. Be warned, it’s long and maybe excessive (8k words, oops). Other than that, enjoy and feel free to let me know your thoughts!

It started with pigtails.

He'd seen Dowling parading her around the square as students fought tooth and nail to kill the fake dummies that seemed to embody their realistic counterparts more than they should have. She's had a raincoat on at the time, not that he would have cared what she was wearing because… how could he notice anything but the pigtails? Fucking pigtails! Long enough to reach her waist, dark enough to have him thinking that the darkest of night skies must have been modeled after that same color, and pin-straight from root to tip. She walked by, lavender sweater and loose jeans, and that's the first thing he noticed. Her pigtails. He felt his tongue move, the tip pressed against the top of his mouth, ready to make a crude comment about how he'd love to tug on those pigtails in more than one scenario because honestly, was he not supposed to with the way that they swung about perfectly matching the sway of her hips? His eyes lit up as he just about let the words tumble out, and then she let her eyes lift to meet his as she made her way through the specialists' training grounds. Brown eyes lingered over his green ones for longer than any normal interaction accounts for, before dropping downward to the rest of his form. His mouth quirked into a smirk.

 "Oh," he thought. "So this is how we're going to play this game."

 Never let it be said that Riven ever backed down from a game or a challenge. And it just so happened that this particular game, the cat and mouse chase, was one of his favorites. So he figured, if she could stare at him like that, it would only be rude not to return the favor. He turned around, let his eyes fully graze over her whole figure the way he'd been too distracted to do before, and that's when he noted the stick she held. Whatever dumb comment he'd been so eager to make about her pigtails was quickly replaced by, "You like holding that big stick?"

 He'd hoped for a reaction. And boy did he get one, a swift and lithe little trick she'd been hiding, seemingly waiting for the chance to pull it out. And even though he'd been training his whole life to defend himself, he just about let her jab his left eye out because he was so very much intrigued by the way her hair swayed to meet her movements and her brown eyes that bore into him with rage. Yeah, this was going to be all kinds of fun.

 "I think I just threw up," she said, her face twisting into clear disdain. But her eyes sparkled and he thought maybe her hair is not the only thing the night sky was modeled after. He'd seen her before, somewhere in the background perhaps. Class? No. If she were a specialist and in his classes, there was no way in hell he wouldn't remember her. The cafeteria? Probably, there was only one place to get food in this godforsaken place and he doubted she hadn't made her way down there at least once. The Alfea hallways? Again, not unlikely. And that's when it clicked into place. She was one of the too many to remember (in his opinion) roommates of Sky's new obsession- Bloom. The four, sometimes five, of them were always together, huddled up beside one another in the cafeteria benches or on the way to classes. Honestly, now that he thought about it, was there ever a time when he'd seen those girls- besides Stella- alone? He definitely had never seen her alone. "Well, better take advantage of the chance," he thought. So, he dug into her, asked about her little run around the training grounds with the headmistress. He wanted to see how far he could push her rage, how willing she was to give him a good show. Between comments about dancing and fairies versus specialists, her eyes flashed purple and he soon realized that he'd bit off more than he could chew. As if her natural brown irises weren't alluring enough, the way they looked when he powers took over held a whole other sense of siren's lure within them. It took him a second to realize what was happening, that she was reading him. And he would have let her continue too, if it meant that he could hold her attention just a little while longer and feel whatever kind of electricity was rippling between the two of them for a few more minutes. Too bad she chose that moment to let him know exactly what she was doing, and exactly how he felt.

 "You really hate being here, don't you?"

 In this school, yes. Here, right now, with her eyes all over him and his hands twitching to edge upwards and brush his hands against those darn pigtails? No. No, he would have loved to stay right here just a little longer. But he was more scared of whatever hell she'd dig up from within him, so instead he told her to stay the fuck out of his head. He caught a glimpse of her prideful smirk, taunting him about this lost battle and her evident win, right before he whirled around and walked his way back to wherever his legs would lead him.

 Passing by the guy he'd seen constantly following her around like a lost puppy dog, the one he assumed was her boyfriend, he murmured under his breath something along the lines of "Good luck with that one."

 And then he was gone. But not before he remembered that he hadn't caught her name. No matter. As previously mentioned, never let it be said that Riven ever backed down from a challenge. She'd won this battle, but he was going to win the war.

_______________________________________________________________

The next time he found himself in her company only, the world had flipped on its axis.

Dowling and Silva were gone and Harvey had turned into a muted professor, almost never seen anywhere except in the greenhouse when he had classes to run. The new headmistress, Rosalind, ruled with a grip tougher than steel. Andreas was  the male version of her, so not any better. Fairies were being forced into combat positions, whether they liked it or not, and upperclassmen specialists were forced into being their mentors, whether they liked it or not. Classes were stricter. You miss one lesson, you make up two class times in personal training with either Andreas or Rosalind herself. At first, everyone'd thought that was a stupid rule. Who doesn’t want a one-on-one with the professors? It took just one dumb third-year specialist missing his first lesson on the first day of the second term for everyone to realize that these training sessions were practically abuse covered with a prettier name.

But the thing that had changed the most, the thing that he couldn't even begin to name, was whatever the hell was happening to his mind. He no longer knew where his day started and where it ended. He knew he must have gotten up every morning and  gone to classes and eaten to sustain his body for the brutal training session that followed and delt with whatever else needed dealing with. And yet, he remembered none of it. None of it except the moments spent chasing Sky around (which inevitably meant chasing the Winx suite around), the moments spent training his new fairy mentee- Musa, and the nightly runs to Dowling's- no, Rosalind's- office where he involuntarily spilled every little detail about his day. His mind had become an utter blur, his thoughts were no longer his own. He knew somewhere in his mind that he needed to stop, had tried endlessly to stop, but the more he held back from Rosalind's spell, the faster his words seem to come out. So, he'd stopped trying to fight it.

It was to his horror when he had been assigned Musa for training. He wasn't sure what he had expected. Of course they were going to pair him with a Winx suitemate, he just had expected it to be Bloom. Bloom was who they wanted details on after all. Even Stella would have made more sense, what with her mother being so very controlling. But no. Bloom went to Sky, Stella to some third year specialist, and he got Musa. If guilt wasn't already shredding him to pieces, it would be now.

He tried to console himself with the fact that he was better prepared to handle her this time. He'd spent enough time with Sky and the girls to have picked up the little details about her. She constantly listened to music to block out the world, she liked wearing shorts and miniskirts (a fact he quite enjoyed), she had an unhealthy obsession with bomber jackets (a fact he could do without when she was also wearing lacy silks under those same jackets), she liked pancakes for breakfast (but only when they were drenched with maple syrup), and the list goes on. His personal favorite fact, however, was that her hair was always immaculate and never the same two days in a row.

The point was, he could do this. All he had to do was train her. No talking necessary. She sure as hell was not about to strike up conversation with him if he didn't bother her. So, he'd keep his mouth shut and just teach her what he needed to teach her. Then he'd leave. That way, when his legs would inevitably carry him to Rosalind at midnight on the dot, he'd have nothing to give her but a good rundown of what moves they had practiced.

How wrong he had been.

He had clearly overestimated his ability to not falter in front of her, because the second she walked into the mat, he knew he'd have to say something.

This time, her hair was in tightly wound braids. Two of them, wrapping vertically down her scalp like fine rope. This time, he wants to undo her hair, to tug the black elastic ties out of place and run his fingers through each threaded piece until the strands lay about her shoulders in waves. He'd like to know what she looks like with her hair down, like fully down.

As if the hair wasn’t enough, she was also dressed in the tight female version of the specialist gear. It's all green woven material that crosses her chest, black mesh that lines her sides, and tight leggings that bring an ungodly amount of attention to her ass.

So, he slips up. "If I knew this is what you'd look like in a uniform-" he starts, but never finishes.

"Don't you dare finish that thought," she warns, voice dripping with a no-nonsense attitude.

"What's gotten into you?"

"It has not been my day. Hell, it has not been my week."

"It hasn't been anyone's week," he feels the need to remind her. And when she looks at him with those eyes, he wonders if she can read right through him without having to use her magic.

"Yeah, well. Let's just say I'm having a particularly more-so-than-average-shit day. So I'd appreciate it if you kept the comments to yourself." She's frustrated, he can see it. She's giving him the perfect out of a bad situation. She's begging him not to talk to her and that's exactly what he needs but goddamn it, he can't back away from a challenge even when his mind is in literal hell.

"What, can't handle me?" She scoffs at that.

"I can handle you just fine. I've been handling other's comments and thoughts since my powers started showing up. That's not the problem.

"What is the problem then?" He's digging, searching for something. For what, he's not sure. She's just finished lacing up her boots. She looks at him then, stares him down.

"The problem is I don’t want to handle you right now, Riven." And with that, she shoves past him to the center of the mat. But he's not done yet.

"You sure about that? I've never met a girl who doesn’t want to handle me before…" He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she chuckles a little at his antics.

"Yeah, no. But even if I did want to, you'd really have to do better than that.

"What, the line wasn't up to your standards?"

"Was it up to yours?"

"Not my best, I'll admit. But I make do. And you can't tell me Harvey Jr. has done any better." Rage flushes through her features at that particular comment. He watches as her cheeks flush bright red and as the flush slowly spreads to her neck and below the rounded collar of her uniform, slowly cursing whoever created the damn thing for not making it a V-neck. 

"Ooh, a reaction! Go on, then. Tell me what's going on in that pretty little head of yours."

"None of your fucking business."

"It never is, and yet I'd love to know."

"Seriously, Riven. Let's just not talk." She wound up, ready to burst. Her hands are balled into fists by her side and her back is arched towards him in anger. She's a spring ready to jump, and he wants to see how high she can reach.

He goes for the typical line, "Trouble in paradise, then?"

Turns out she can jump pretty damn high, something he expected. What he didn't expect was for her to jump him. She pushes him with so much force that he barely catches himself before he falls. Tears stream down her face as she punches at his chest (hopelessly, he notes… he's got a lot to teach her). He lets her continue the onslaught on his chest, is impressed by her force and strength and persistence even if the form is all wrong. When she finally stops, the tears do too. All that's left are her hiccups and his eyes following her every movement. He watches her dry her eyes vigorously, hears her curse him and the school and herself… and Sam? He's not sure what's happening right now, not sure why his arms suddenly want to wind around her frame and pull her in, or why his heart clenches at the sight of her tears. He chooses to ignore it all.

They continue the rest of the training session in silence, with him only speaking to direct her movements and point out a thing or two about her form. Later that night, after running through his nightly routine with Rosalind, he finds out from Sky that Bloom was especially distressed today because Musa was especially distressed today because Musa and Sam had decided to call it quits. Riven feels light-headed at that news,  and he's still not exactly sure why his body is so adamant about reacting to news involving her.

He rolls into bed, thinking bitterly to himself that he won today. He won this battle. So why does it feel like he lost it?

______________________________________________________________

They continue their training sessions in silence for a while, until eventually a banter sparks between the two of them. He's not quite sure how it happens, just as he's not quite sure how anything happens anymore. He assumes he probably made some joke about how good her legs looked in those damn tights or about how she desperately needed help with her fighting stance. Maybe he just wore her down with his constant questions. He doesn't really care, to be honest. He knows he should care, in the same way that he knows he should actually avoid talking to her instead of showing up every day eager to see her. He just can’t bring himself to do it, not when she shows up in that uniform every day or when she looks at him with so much pride when she finally nails a move they've been working on for so long, and definitely not when she starts to initiate the playful conversations with the same smirk that he would maybe like to kiss off her face. There's so many things he should do at the end of the day, but he does none of them. He just lets whatever happens happen, and it kind of works out for a bit. They tease each other, teeter-tottering somewhere between playful and full on flirting. They fight in close combat corners, sometimes ending up on top of each other. Those days are a personal favorite of Riven's, especially when she's on top of him and he can feel her thighs straining against his waist as she pins his arms above his head. (He may have taught her that one move just for this moment. He felt it was a shame to not put those dance-trained legs of hers to use.)

The perfectly odd tightrope they walk snaps on a Wednesday afternoon, after they've finished training and are walking toward the benches that hold their water bottles. He takes a swing of his water, and then looks up from his seat to see her standing up and chugging her own bottle. A loose droplet slips past her lips and down her uniform's tank top. He follows it with his eyes, not even bothering to hide the very obvious motion even as she finishes her drink, looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and then chuckles at him while rolling her eyes.

"You could be a little less obvious, you know." She calls him out casually. He smirks at the comment before dragging his eyes back up to her brown orbs.

" Subtle isn't really my forte. Besides what fun would it be if you didn't know I was staring at you?"

She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away. "You're gonna give some poor girl a heart attack one day if you look at her like that." It's a teasing remark, but he feels his adrenaline hike up at her comment. The game is back on.

"Some poor girl, huh?" He leans into her on the bench, invades her personal space. She blushes, looks directly ahead, and he thinks he's winning another one of the many secret battles they seem to find themselves fighting. Then, she turns to him and looks him dead in the eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" He didn't expect that. Again, he knows he should just leave or say no. Anything to avoid a conversation that could lead to more than just a flirting banter, anything to avoid something that Rosalind may actually be interested in. But she's looking up at him with wide eyes and he's convinced he's become weak and that she's won this battle because he can't bring himself to say no.

"Uh… sure?"

She looks around nervously, as if deciding whether to ask what's on her mind or not. Finally, she leans close to him and asks in a slow and quiet voice, "Where do you sneak off to every night at midnight?" He pulls back from her faster than he thought he would ever be able to pull away from her, blinking down at her now shocked face.

"How-"

"How do I know? You have a roommate, Riven. He hears you leave every night and says nothing about it, but he's been worried about you. He says you've been acting different… For what it's worth, I think he's right. Especially when we're not in training sessions, you're completely out of it. I know this has been a rough mon-"

This is it. She's dug deep enough that she has hit rock bottom, she's found the dead-end at the bottom of his soul. He has to let this banter go now. He can't have her asking questions he'll then have to report back to Rosalind.

"You know nothing." He words are curt and sharp. She flinches at their edge, but doesn’t back down. It's one of his favorite things about her, her persistence.

"You can talk to me if something is wrong, you know? Or to Sky or the girls… you can talk to any of us…" He watches as her eyebrows furrow, traces the line they form down her nose to her lips and then back to her eyes. And that's when he notices that her eyes have changed color to purple. He grabbed her hand quickly and firmly, enough to break her concentration but not enough to hurt her (God, even in his rage, it would never be enough to hurt her).

"I've told you not to do that. Not to use your damn mind powers on me." His voice is strained, laced with anger and something resembling fear. 

"I'm trying-"

"I don't care what you're trying. You shouldn’t be in there. You shouldn't be in my brain. There's nothing in there worth your time or energy and there never will be."

And with that he spins on his heel and marches into the forest behind the training grounds. He doesn’t turn around, but if he did, he would have seen Sky moving out of the shadows and heading toward Musa.

"Did you do it?"

It takes her a second to interpret his question. She still staring into the distance as Riven's figure fades out of view, her eyes finally returning to their normal brown color. She continues to stare at the dot in the distance, unwilling to look away as if she's daring him to turn around and spare her one last glance. He doesn't.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." She finally turns to Sky. "He's completely blocked from my powers. Dowling was right, he's under some sort of mind control."

______________________________________________________________

It’s 2AM by the time Riven finally makes his way to the room he shares with Sky. He's once again not really sure where his day went or what he did after he flipped on Musa and marched his way into the woods after their little spat. He remembers anger, a lot of anger. He's angry at her for trying to dig into his brain when they had already established that he hated it. He was angry at Dowling for dying (at least, he assumes she's dead because where else would she be?) and leaving the school to the psychopath that is Rosalind. He's angry at Rosalind for manipulating him, controlling his mind. He's angry at Beatrix for getting him into this stupid mess. But mostly, he's angry with himself for letting it all happened, for somehow always making the wrong move at the wrong time, for managing to screw up his own life in such a grand manner that it constitutes an award (truly, he's outdone himself this time). He's mad at himself for not being able to control his own mind, for letting Rosalind take up residence in his brain and being able to do nothing about it. He's even angry at himself for not just standing there and letting Musa read his emotions, because maybe if she did then she'd know the hell he was in. His brain was constantly pulling in all different directions, trying desperately to get away from the constraints of Rosalind's spell. Headaches are nonending and thoughts leave as soon as they come. It's like there's two people waging war within him, but one of them brought swords to a gunfight and is losing horribly. But it’s a war he feels he should fight on his own, and maybe that's why he didn't let her read him. As much as he hates to admit it, the mind control and guilt was breaking him but he could handle that. What he couldn't handle, however, was getting her involved in this stupid mess by mistake, which would inevitably lead to Rosalind getting ahold of her as well. God knows there's only so much room left in hell or sins, and he'd be damned if he hadn't already filled all the available spots.

He was glad for the day to finally be over, glad to be heading to bed (not sleep though, sleep did not exist when his mind was in so much pain all the fucking time). It seemed the world had other plans for him, however, because upon opening the door to his dorm, he was met with a sight that he both dreaded and wanted to burn into his memory for the rest of however long he had to live before Rosalind finally took pity on him and bent his brain to death. 

Perched on his bed, leaning forward ever so slightly, elbows meeting her knees, and head bend toward the floor was Musa. From his angle, he could only see her side profile, but apparently that's all his body needed to be automatically sent into a frenzy. The first thing he notices was, not to his surprise, the hair. She'd replaced her training braids with buns, big ones that hang precariously form her head as tendrils of her dark hair fell in loose waves and framed her face. He again found himself wondering what she would look like with all of her hair fully down. His fingers itched to burrow into those carefully constructed space buns and pull their pins out of place, just to see if she'd look half as beautiful with her hair down as she did with her hair up.

He stood like that for a while, taking her in and letting her continue to stare at the dark wooden floors with her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He's not sure when, but eventually she turned toward the door, eyebrows first shooting up when she noticed him staring at her, and then falling back into place as she shot him a shy mile from across the room.

"Hey," came her greeting in a small voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His question was harsh, but he knew himself well to know that if he even let just one layer of himself down with her, he may as well just lay down all his defenses. She had a way of getting him to speak and break down and he wasn't about to let himself get her mixed up in whatever evil plan he'd been helping construct against his will.

Too bad for him, because it seemed Musa had been expecting a fight and was ready to fire back his quips with some of her own. She simply rolled her eyes and casually stated, "Well, then, straight to it, are we?"

"If you're looking for Sky or Bloom, they're probably in a dark hallway somewhere snogging each other half to death," he answered. She grimaced at the image.

"Yeah, no. I'm not here for Bloom or Sky."

"Then you're not here for anyone." She gave him a pointed look at that phrase. He wisely chose to ignore it and instead made his way to the couch in the middle of the room, throwing his jacket somewhere on it.

"What, that's all you have today? I'm standing on your bed, we're alone in your bedroom, I'm in a miniskirt… and you're not going to make a comment about showing me a good time? You're losing your touch, Riv." She was teasing him, he could tell by the light tone of her voice. Maybe she liked to see his reactions the way he so enjoyed watching her react to his own snarky comments. Maybe she saw enough into his brain earlier to have dug up some of his fantasies. Damn her, he'd been avoiding looking anywhere but her face since he walked in, and now here she was basically challenging him to do more. Damn him and his inability to back down from a game he was so clearly not apt to win at the moment. He turned around and finally got a good look at her. She was indeed in a miniskirt, under which she had tucked a lacy white top that was very clearly meant to showcase the black bra she wore underneath the pitiful excuse of a shirt. Her signature red bomber jacket hung from her shoulders and the black boots she had on were laced all the way up to her kneecaps.

This must be it, he thought. This must be his punishment for spilling his guts to Rosalind every night. Or maybe, his guilt and the pain throbbing through his veins had finally won out and he was finally cracking under all that pressure. That's fine. He wasn't even surprised this is what his brain chose to tease him with at the brink of destruction. He figured she'd be the one to shatter him, it was only a matter of time.

"Hello? Are you even listening to me?" Her voice broke him out of his trance. Ok, maybe he wasn't imagining her.

He sighed, defeated and broken and just tired. "Why are you here, Musa?"

It’s a staring match now. He watches as her eyes soften and the sarcasm leaves her features.

"I couldn’t read you earlier today. In the training grounds-" No. Anything but this conversation.

"Maybe you should consider working on those powers of yours then. Seems to me like you're the one losing your touch."

"I'm serious, Riven-"

"I am too."

"Jesus, Riven, let me just finish!" Anger sparked in her features. "You're loud, Riven." He scoffed at that. "Your emotions, I mean. They're usually loud… but they're also lively and harmonious, in a weird way that I can't seem to figure out. Lately, however, they've been quiet… as if they don't exist at all. And at first I thought it was me, I thought I was getting better at controlling my powers. But when I tried to read you today, I felt nothing…" There is was, she had figured it out, and now she looked at him as if he was a science experiment she couldn’t quite figure out.

"… Maybe my hearts just finally turned to stone." He tried for a joke. She did not find it amusing.

"I know, Riven." He's not sure what that was supposed to mean. What did she know? That he was a horrible person? That he'd snitched on her and all their friends (were they his friends?) to the queen of evil? Or worse, that his body lit up whenever she was around?

"Cryptic, but ok. I guess between that line and the fact that you somehow snuck into my room, you could make the whole 'good girl turned bad, mysterious girl' vibe work. Honored I'm the first you're trying it out on. If you'd like to take it a step further, the bed's right behind you." She may have the upper hand in this game, but he's still a stubborn ass.

"Seriously, Riven. I'm not kidding." She took a step toward him. Wrong move, angel.

"I know you're not. That shirt doesn't exactly scream 'kidding'. Tell me, did you just choose the first thing you found in your closet to put on?" He took a step forward this time, one long stride before they stood chest to chest and he hooked his finger under her chin. "Or is that shirt part of this whole 'mystery girl' scheme? Because, I won't lie, it's working." He sees her shiver at his words and doesn't bother to hide the smirk that graces his face. Finally, things were getting interesting. "Wonder if it looks half as good on my bedroom floor…" He noticed her eyes flicker downward, to is lips, but they moved back up just as quickly. He stared right back at her, watching as she struggled to make up her mind about where to slap him for that last comment. He didn't have to wait too long for a response.

"I'm sure you do." Her words came as a whisper, and the smirk that followed was just as alluring. He barely had time to process the meaning behind it all, before she crashed her body onto him and her lips found his. Her hands gripped into the sides of his t-shirt, keeping him to her with such force that he vaguely wondered why in the world she felt the need to do that when he wouldn't dream of walking away from this, from her. It's frantic and it's rushed. One of his hands find her waist, pulls her impossibly closer to him. His other hand delves into the hair at the back of her head before sliding to the side and pulling at the pins that hold her right bun in place. It takes him pulling out just one pin and the structure falls apart, her hair tumbling around them and cocooning them in place. He hears her gasp, her hands finally unlatching from his shirt as she splays them apart over his muscles, moves them up to his shoulders. 

He's moving backward, whether to ask her if this okay or make a comment about that noise she just made, he's not sure. He never gets the chance. She pulls his to her again, kisses him like she's been starved in a thirsting in wasteland for days and he's the first sign of water she's stumbled upon, bites his lip- fucking bites his lip and sucks on it and pulls it with her teeth… and he thinks that her being here could not have been his punishment. This, right here, her kissing him like this, this is his punishment. This is his pain finally taking over and shattering his soul.

Maybe Rosalind somehow found out about his little crush and is getting payback for the fact that he didn't show up for their nightly midnight story time. Maybe, he's already dead and in hell and some devil out there is playing a cruel, cruel trick on his brain. Maybe that's why his body is shaking, literally shaking, and his mind feels like its tearing apart. He feels Musa's hands on his scalp, her palms splayed out at his temples and fingers tightly wound into his hair. Again, he is surprised at the sheer force she seems to pour into her touch, anchoring him to her as though he could ever want to leave her embrace.

He's so wrapped up in his thoughts and in her touch that he barely hears the whimpers of pain coming from her or feels the tears streaming down her face as she hold him to her. When he finally feels the tears trickle between their lips, be pulls back (genuinely, pulls back because her fingers are still forcing him to her), opens his eyes to find her already looking back at him. But instead of the brown irises she wore when this rough little make out session started, her eyes are now purple. And her face is red. She looks exhausted. He feels exhausted. 

He's about to ask her what's wrong, if she's ok, if her powers are going haywire. But he's so dizzy and so tired and suddenly he's leaning on her and she's pulling him onto the bed. She looks down at him, whispers "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over in his ear and he finds himself wondering what she's sorry about and where the pain that haunted him for weeks has gone before he slowly sinks into oblivion.

________________________________________________________________

He wakes up and she's gone.

It's Sky who sits next to him the next day, Sky and Headmistress Dowling of all people. He mumbles something about being dead and hallucinating, but Sky just laughs and tells him he's happy to have him back.

It takes a good few hours to catch him up on all the shit he's missed while he was being controlled by Rosalind. Apparently, Dowling was stuck under a bunch of plants? The girls somehow managed to free her with some potion from a cousin of Terra's. Turns out they've been sneaking out every night, pretending to go to parties and instead heading outside the barrier trying to find clues on what the hell Rosalind is up to. That would explain Musa's choice of clothing the other night. 

Sky tells him it was the girls' idea to keep him out of the loop at the beginning, worried that his weird obsession with Beatrix and her even weirder obsession with him would lead to Andreas and Rosalind finding out. Sky swears they were going to tell him eventually, and Riven has to tell him that he's glad they didn't. That's when Sky tells him what he'd already guessed. It was Musa who refused to tell him even after time has passed, sensing that something was wrong in his mind. Her being in their room the other night had been no mistake, but an orchestrated move. She'd practiced with Dowling for weeks, training to unlock his brain, pull it apart so that she could mentally remove Rosalind's control from his brain by sheer willpower and might, and then put it all back together as best she could. 

He's instinctively proud of her, she did it. But, he also wishes she'd done it with less kissing and in some less distracting attire, but he probably deserves the type of torture that will surely follow as a result of last night. After they fill him in, Sky throws his gear at him and tells him to get dressed and ready.

"We leave tonight."

"What? Where are we going?"

"That's a bit complicated." It's Dowling who answers this time. "Silva and Professor Harvey will meet us in the woods beyond the barrier. We will lead you the rest of the way. We're going to collect forces. There will be a war, and Rosalind will know that something is wrong when you miss your nightly meeting with her for the second time in a row. The Winx suite is already with Silva and Ben. They're waiting for us."

They leave the dorms using Stella's ring, which she has given to Dowling as a backup to her magic, which Rosalind is be able to track within school grounds. When they arrive to the location in the woods, Riven is only slightly surprised to find Sam among the girls. He's leaning on a tree, talking to Silva and his father, both of which look like they haven't slept for days. The girls are gathered together by a fallen tree. Musa is in the middle of them, huddled into herself, as Terra and a new girl with brown skin and long honey-brown hair rub her back. Stella, Bloom, and Aisha stand back, watching Musa with worry evident in their eyes. 

It's Stella who notices them first. She wipes the worry off her face with mastered ease that only comes with practice, straightens up her back, shoots Musa a look and calls loudly, "There you are! Took you guys long enough!"

From then on, it’s a quick fill-in on what the plan is, an awkward introduction to the Harvey cousin whose name he can't remember because his mind was too stuck on the girl whose hair is back in those buns he managed to loosen yesterday, and a small little "welcome back to the good side" before they're trekking their way through the woods.

He stands behind her the whole time. Watches as she follows the professors, but stands at the tail end of the line the girls have formed. She looks tired, the bags under her eyes tell him that the girls have probably been out here all night. He wonders how much of her energy it took to tear and mend his brain, if anyone bothered to let her rest after she did it. He wishes he was braver, wishes he could walk up to her and… what, thank her? Ask her why she did it? Why kiss him and then cure him? She could have just as easily done it while he was asleep. He bides his time, observes as one by one the girls take turns standing next to her, linking their arms with hers, smiling down at her, whispering who knows what in her ear and earning a laugh form her every now and then. He likes her laugh, it's cute.

He's currently watching as Bloom pull Musa to her and makes some joke about chickens, when he feels a punch land on his right arm.

"Are you as stupid as you look?" He turns to find that Stella has somehow walked backwards and is now next to him.

"Missed you too, princess," he mutters back.

"Oh, cut the bullcrap, Riven. You've been staring at her for the last two hours and I told her I wouldn't say anything but honestly, you two are hopeless. I've never met two people so oblivious in my life."

"I don’t know what you're talking about." he starts.

"Like shit you don't. If you don't know it yet, figure it out." And just like that she's running ahead and linking her right arm with Musa's as Bloom tries for another joke, this one about pigs that fly.

He tries to ignore Stella's stupid comment. Honestly, he figures it's probably safer to stare at her and look like a total creep than try to talk to her and make sense of his feeling about who the fuck knows what anymore. But Stella's words ring through his mind and he lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe…

In the end, he convinces himself that the reason he walks up to her once Bloom goes to hold Sky's hand and Stella moves in on the new girl to make conversation is because Stella offered him a challenge, and he likes to win at those. (He's heading straight for a loss, he's fully aware of that, but whatever.) 

"Long time no see," he jokes when he reaches her side. She cranes her neck up at him, not surprised to see him.

"Thought I heard your loud-ass emotions coming closer."

"Yeah, I've been told they can be quite the riot." He shoots her a smirk and she smiles up at him.

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, you know. Just some girl."

"Some girl, huh?"

"Yeah. Then she gave me a good snogging before tearing my brain to pieces without my knowing it."

"Mmm. She seems like a handful."

"Tell me about it." Her eyes fall downward and he doesn't need to be an empath to see the gears turning in her head.

"I'm sorry," she starts, "About that. I didn't want to do it, I know you have me reading your emotions."

"Yeah, but I hated having them controlled by someone else even more…" There's a pause and he quickly moves to fill it, scared that whatever courage juice that's coursing through his veins will run out soon. "Thank you, by the way." And he means it. He hopes she can sense the sincerity coming from him because he only has so many words in his vocabulary when it comes to her and fears he's already run out of them when she turns to look at him once more.

They've fallen behind the group at this point. He figures he won't get the chance to do this again for a while, so he asks her the question that been running rampant through his mind. It's pathetic, really. They're headed to god knows where to do god knows what and instead of worrying about the fact that war is coming or even being slightly concerned that he's just had his mind abused and prodded around by an evil mastermind, his biggest worry is if this girl really wanted to kiss him or if she just did it for show.

"So, umm, just so we're clear… did you mean it?" If he felt dumb thinking it, he feels like a world-class idiot saying it out loud.

"Mean what?" She stares back at him intensely, and he thinks to himself in an amused manner that they seem to be making a habit of staring at each other for longer than average periods of time. "The part about you being loud? Cuz, yeah, I meant every word. You're a walking catastrophe." She's smirking at him. He rolls his eyes her words.

"Couldn't care less about that. In fact, I'm glad my emotions are as obnoxious as I am- means they've been driving you crazy for a while now." Her smile falters a bit at that line. "What I want to know," he continues. "Is if you kiss everyone whose mind you go digging into like that." He still has not taken his eyes off her, and he's not going to start now, when she blushes and ducks her head under the collar of her red bomber jacket.

"That was a… last minute choice."

"What for?"

"I had to get close enough to you to make contact. I've only been practicing with Dowling for a few weeks and I didn’t want to screw it up. I can't really do the whole mind thing without some sort of contact just yet…" Her words drift off.

"Hand holding didn't cut it? Had to go for a full make-out session, complete with lip biting and everything?" He watches as she shivers into her coat, arms wrapped around herself.

"You would've pushed me away."

"How did you know I wouldn't push you away while kissing me?" She mutters something under her breath. He doesn’t catch it, not between that stupid jacket that she's using to shield her face. He gently takes a step forward, catches her chin between his fingers just as he had done the night before, makes her meet his eyes. "Come again?"

She sucks in a breath, her eyes waver to something behind him when she finally lets it out, "We both know you weren't going to say no to me throwing myself at you."

"And if I did?" He doesn't know who he's kidding, but it’s still a game and he's still playing to… lose?

She's still staring behind him when she frowns and says, "Then we would have seen just how great this shirt would have looked on your bedroom floor, after all."

And goddamn it, her words send his blood boiling. He's about to kiss her senseless, but he refuses to do it if she's not staring at him when he asks one last question.

With his finger still hooked under her chin and them standing mere inches away, he whispered into the air between them, "Look at me, Musa."

Her eyes slowly move to meet his. He gives up his last question, which just so happens to be his first, "Did you mean it?" And when her small "Yes" makes its way through her lips as her steady brown eyes catch his green ones, that's all the confirmation he needs.

His finger leaves her chin and moves to her head and then he's pulling her in, closer and closer and closer until she's all he can feel and smell and see and breathe. And she responds with the same vigor she used last night, wasting no time to wrap her arms around his neck and lock him to her. It's a new kind of game, one where they battle for dominance until they both run out of breath and need to break free. It makes him stronger, it breaks him down, it makes him wonder why the hell he ever wanted to win against her when he could instead let her win and lose himself to her as he is right now. And when his hands pull the pins from both buns from her hair as he kisses down her neck, she groans in half pleasure and half annoyance.

"I'll have to fix them again now," she whines, pouting her bottom lip out, which he takes as an invitation to bite and pull on it.

"You'll manage. Let me just have this now. I've been waiting a while to see you with your hair fully down." She scoffs but lets him stare at her in awe once he finds it in him to pull back from her lips in order to get a view his handiwork.

And to think, it all started with some fucking pigtails.

[sour-n-salty-citrus]

Do you like the backstory for rick? Idk I kinda preferred it when Rick's past was a complete mystery and i dont really care about diane at all. I didn't expect the writers to actually write a canon for him either but I guess they realised how much the audience wanted one for him

Ajdjdjeidjs ack, I'll be honest I'm not... keen on it.

(Bolly-quinn actually puts it into words well how I feel about Rick's backstory here)

I liked the mystery element of his backstory! I know it's always exciting to have things in canon, but like... it being open to interpretation was something I always appreciated.

And... ugh, hoo boy. I'm torn. I mean, I love that Rick is completely different from what dudebros and like- "high iq" redditors present him as. He's a man who loved his wife and daughter, loved them so much he would rather give up travelling the multiverse, becoming a genius scientist, just to stay with them. He was vulnerable, soft, and caring. He wasn't nihilistic and reckless and selfish and some "alpha male who wouldn't let anything tie him down". He was ridiculously romantic, optimistic, sweet and loving, and maybe even kind.

And I don't give a shit.

I don't! I don't care. This might sound incredibly cruel and unfair, but I don't care that Rick lost his family.

Ok- let me explain.

I'm... disappointed. I'm disappointed that losing Beth and Diane is all it was that made Rick into the complete and utter monster he is today (or the start of the series anyway). I don't mean to undermine his loss and grief- at all! It's just... for him to go on a (seemingly decades long) killing spree, slaughtering any version of himself he seemed to come across... christ. Maybe in his eyes, they were all as bad as that One. Which is understandable. I'm very lucky to have not experienced that kind of loss. I haven't had to Grieve the way Rick did. Maybe I just don't get it, because I've never felt it. That's fair.

It just felt... god, I don't want to say excessive. I know, people process grief in different ways, and for some it manifests in unhealthy ways, some lash out at the world, fixate on trying to find an explanation, to find justice, etc. And I like how Rick was an absolute inconsolable wreck at first. Something like that, it needs time to process and overcome before you can start moving again.

I just- I don't know. Something rubbed me the wrong way about it all.

It's like- it's not that I wanted Rick to have spent all that time partying or something. It's just- argh, i don't know! Maybe someone else can put it into better words lol.

I hate that he immediately jumped into not giving a single shit about other people (save birdperson and squanchy!). Like- when he blew up those aliens who gave him whatever it was he needed. Ah- ok, they probably weren't exactly innocent or anything, but still. I think it was just I felt if we ever saw Rick's backstory, I'd want it to be a slow decline into who he is, show him gradually losing so much of his morality and becoming so jaded. Idk i guess i just wanted it to be like, a series of significant (and lesser but still important) events that lead to him going down that path rather than- this ONE thing that just apparently completely ruined him? And yeah ik ik it was a BIG thing, but like- i guess i was expecting.... more? Maybe something like idk Rick trying to save all the other Beths and Dianes and failing, idk, just... something more.

I actually would have preferred it if Diane lived. I dont know, I just- man I really hate the dead wife/daughter turns ordinary man into callous asshole trope. I agree, it's hard to really care all that much for Diane, and for a while I couldn't understand why. I thought, idk, is it internalised misogyny? Do I just not like Diane because I want to ship Rick with someone else?

I think I get it now. Diane, for all her significance in Rick's backstory, just... isn't a character. She's just- the motivation Rick needed to kick off the story. You could replace her with literally anybody else Rick could have loved and it wouldn't feel any different. She just doesn't feel special. She's no more unique than any other Dead Wife. We get nothing, literally nothing of her. I kept thinking, why? Why does this just not hit that hard? Rick's had emotional moments with Beth, with Birdperson, even with Summer and Jerry. And then I got it- it doesn't feel earned. It felt like how you feel when you see side characters or extras in the background of an action movie die. Maybe some faint sadness, but mainly nothing. We as an audience get nothing from Diane, we don't know her, don't get to see how she matters to Rick, don't get to see her relationship with Rick, we don't get any chance to connect with her character. So when she dies and Rick gets his montage of seeking revenge, it doesn't feel earned. It feels more like I'm being told about how this guy suffered than really seeing it (which i believe, may have been the writers intention actually...). It's kind of like a feeling of "damn that sucks bro... and?". There's no real heavy emotional response that I could really get from it...

I actually would have preferred if Rick and Diane broke up, divorced. I feel like that would offer so much more for them BOTH as chatacters. Instead of their relationship being happy and sunshine and rainbows until a Big Bad came in and took that away, I'd prefer it if Rick's downfall was just... his fault. (Actually His fault.) If his marriage fell apart because he couldn't make it work. If he estranged his daughter because he couldn't properly handle fatherhood, despite loving her. If he was flawed, terribly flawed, because of his own misjudgement and shortcomings. I guess my biggest problem, is that this is presented as someone having the perfect life, which is then taken away as a result of someone Else. It's too easy to then say, oh, it's not his fault he's like that! He had his heart broken, his life ruined! He lost himself in a revenge spree, poor thing... I'd have rathered if it was just a little bit more... realistic? If Rick had been the root cause of his own problems. If he'd experienced tragedy, but also been the cause of much more. I just wish there'd been more of a balance? It just felt so rushed. And not because of the montage- it just like Rick became completely apathetic way too fast. I just hate hate HATE the "he was a good guy with the perfect little life until tragedy struck and he was never the same". Rick never made the effort to improve his life, to do better, to be better. He's actively a cruel, callous, unkind person (complex, yes, but these are traits no one can deny he harbours). He's done far worse than was done to him, and that will never be justifiable to me... it just all feels so very cliche and out of place, and out of everything, this was the one thing I had hoped they wouldn't do.

I think the writers are aware of this, strangely enough. I mean, Rick even calls it his "crybaby backstory". I think they didn't want to leave it open any longer, and just got it out of the way. I don't think they really want to elaborate on it anymore. From what I predict, they want to focus on the here and now of Rick (and Morty, haha), and the development of who Rick is NOW, instead of who he WAS. I think they kind of just went, here's your gut-punch, your tragic backstory, now leave it alone. Diane is dead, Rick had a hard past, the series is about moving on and change. Now can we PLEASE get back to the sci-fi shenanigans?

(There was something I LOVED about the backstory though, and that was the soundtrack! Like the music for the Battle of Bloodridge, it fucking SLAPPPEDDDD. I can't imagine making synthwave emotional, but it actually kind of worked! The swell of the music actually did a lot more for getting a reaction out of me than the content lmaooo. It kind of reminded me of Kurzegast's "optimistic nihilism" for some reason... I actually liked the Bloodridge track so much, it got me a little into synthwave, which i never listened to before! The music producers this season have just KILLED IT!)

[drabbles-mc]

Hear You Now

Angel Reyes x Reader

Warnings: angst, language, Angel being a very sad boy

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Why do I always make Angel sad?? Why do I always give him commitment issues?? I don’t know. I owe him a happy fic or two. 😂 If you’re curious, this is 110% inspired by the song Hear You Now by Old Dominion.

Angel Taglist: @mayans-sauce @helli4nthus @angelreyesgirl @starrynite7114 @queenbeered @sincerelyasomebody @sadeyesgf @thesandbeneathmytoes @appropriate-writers-name @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @multiyfandomgirl40 @sillygoose6969 @beardburnsupersoldiers​ @louisianalady​ @gemini0410​ @paintballkid711​

You were walking through Merchant Square, hand-in-hand with your fiancé. You laughed as you leaned your head against his shoulder for a moment as the two of you walked through town. It had been a long time since you had been back to Santo Padre, and you wanted him to see your hometown. He had asked on more than one occasion because he wanted to see where you grew up, but you hadn’t been ready to face the ghosts that you knew still haunted those streets. But now you were engaged, and you knew that there was not going to be any more running away from anything.

It was refreshing to walk through town, and your heart wasn’t as heavy as you thought it was going to be. Not too much had changed and you liked how there were so many aspects of the town that would always be frozen in time. You tugged him into a bookstore, and he followed you with a knowing smile—it was nearly impossible to ever get you to pass up the opportunity to find something new to dive into. Almost every wall in your house had a bookshelf built into it or pushed against it. Eventually you told him you were going to buy a whole separate house and make it your library.

You were perusing the aisles, dragging your fingertips along the spines of an endless sea of titles. Your fiancé was a couple rows away looking for a few books of his own. There was a comfort in the mild hustle and bustle of the little book store. The aisles were close together and it all felt so cozy.

You stumbled upon the hardcover edition of a book that you had loved for years, and your eyes lit up. You snatched it off the shelf and went to find your fiancé. You quickly walked up to him and nudged his shoulder, “Look what I found?”

He looked at the novel in your hands and a knowing smile crossed his face, “You definitely have that one already. I know I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but look,” you shook the book in front of him, “Hard cover! I’ve never seen a hard cover edition anywhere! I need it,” you pleaded.

He laughed, “How am I ever supposed to say no to you?”

You kissed him quickly on the lips, “You’re not, that’s the whole point!” you laughed.

Angel’s ears burned from the opposite side of the store. He would know that laugh anywhere, even from a million miles away. He never thought that he’d hear it again. He turned and tried to look around the store for you, and his heart instantly sped up when he saw you standing in the checkout line with a book clutched tight to your chest.

He started to walk over to you, but as quickly as his heart sped up, it nearly stopped when he saw another man walk up behind you and wrap his arms around you and place a kiss to your temple. He saw the way you melted back into him with a smile, and his stomach turned into a knot. His grip on the book in his hand tightened and he couldn’t force his feet to move in one direction or another. He didn’t know if it was worse to have to take in the scene in front of him, or to have lived with never seeing you again.

After paying for your book, you turned to leave the store, and that was when you saw him standing there. Your heart sank inside your chest—it had been years but that was definitely the Angel Reyes that you had known and had loved. You wanted to walk out of the store and not open up that box of memories, but something impulsive inside of you burst through.

“Angel?” you said, causing your fiancé to look up from the book that he had bought and was skimming through.

It got Angel to finally force his feet to move, “Hey, Y/N,” he cleared his throat as he walked up to you, “It’s been a minute.”

“Yea,” you laughed nervously, “Oh, shit, where are my manners? Angel, this is Jordan, my fiancé. Jordan, this is Angel. We grew up together,” it was the understatement of the century but you weren’t going to air out that laundry in the middle of a book store.

You could see Angel’s heart break at the word fiancé, but Jordan didn’t seem to take any notice of it as he held out his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he shook Jordan’s hand and nodded, forcing a small smile, “You’re a lucky guy.”

Jordan laughed as he pulled you against his side, blissfully unaware of the tension that was beginning to build, “You’re telling me. Can’t believe that this one said yes.”

You chuckled and leaned your head against his side, trying to let the familiarity of his touch and scent comfort you in this situation. It half-worked, but your mind was still racing, trying to figure out what Angel was thinking as he stood there and watched you talk about a forever life that didn’t involve him.

“I had no idea you were back in town,” Angel looked at you, eyes soft as he tried to memorize every detail of the woman he hadn’t seen in so long.

“Yea,” you shrugged, “kind of flew in under the radar. I was gonna see if I could find you and your brother while I was here,” it was a lie, but it sounded nice.

Jordan gave you a light squeeze, “Do you want to catch up? Don’t let me stop you—I’m sure I can find something to do for a couple hours or so.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you shook your head, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not just going to ditch you on our trip together,” you smiled up at him.

He pressed a light kiss on your lips, “It’s fine! You guys go grab coffee or something and catch up and I’ll find somewhere we can go to dinner.”

“You sure?” you wanted him to stay with you, but one of the things that you loved about being with him had always been that you were your own separate people just as much as you were a cohesive unit as a couple. It was just this particular situation that made you wish that that wasn’t the case, that made you wish that he was a little more possessive.

“Positive. I love you,” he kissed your forehead, “Give me a call when you’re done,” he reached and shook Angel’s hand again, “It was nice meeting you. Hopefully I’ll see you again before we leave town.”

Angel nodded, “Yea, for sure.”

Jordan walked out the door of the bookstore and there was a long stretch of silence between you and Angel as the two of you stood there. You wanted to step in and hug him, but you knew that you couldn’t. You eyed the novel in his hand, “You buying that?”

He had completely forgotten where he was and why he was there. He shook his head as he set it down on one of the small display tables, “Nah,” he cleared his throat, “So, I guess we’re getting coffee?”

You chuckled, not able to hide the awkwardness that you felt, “I guess we are.”

The two of you walked down the street in silence. You gripped your book, pressing it tight against your chest. There was a small café right down the street from the bookstore, another place that seemed to go untouched by time. Angel held the door open for you and told you to grab a table and he’d grab drinks for the both of you. You set your book down on the table, nervously tapping your fingertips on the cover as you waited for him to come back over.

He sat down across from you, handing you your drink. There were a few beats of silence and you desperately wished for the power to read minds so you could know what Angel was thinking that was making his eyes look so sad.

All Angel could think about was the fact that every day, for years, he thought about you and wondered where you had gone off to. He wondered if you were safe, if you were happy, if you had found someone else. He wondered if he was ever going to have a chance to see you again, to make things up to you, to win you back. He wasn’t expecting to get the answers to all of those questions within the first fifteen seconds of seeing you again. Reality had hit him like a freight train and he was still trying to recover.

“I see you’ve upgraded from Prospect,” you nodded towards the secretario patch on his kutte.

It snapped him out of his spiral for a moment and he managed a smile, “Little bit, yea. EZ’s sporting the Prospect patch these days.”

Your eyes widened, “Seriously?”

He nodded, “Yep. Patch-in vote is coming up in a couple months.”

“Holy shit,” you shook your head with a laugh, “How things change.”

“Yea,” he tried to push the words down but he couldn’t, “I’ve missed you.”

Your heart hurt at the sound of him saying that. The heartbroken girl that you used to be wanted to say something snarky, to rub a little salt in the wound that he had been carrying around with him. But you worked so hard not to be that girl anymore, and the better-healed part of you wanted to comfort him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, “It has been a while,” you traced your fingers around the edge of your cup, “hasn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he’d been sitting on those words for years and he couldn’t keep them in anymore, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You shook your head, “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Angel. We were kids—we were young and dumb.”

“I was young and dumb,” he corrected you, “I should’ve listened to you. Things could’ve been so different.”

You nodded, not having it in you to lie and say that he was wrong. Your mind was taken over by a tirade of memories, of arguments that ended with screaming and slamming doors, with you crying alone at the kitchen table trying to figure out how to force the puzzle pieces to fit. You had begged him for just a little more, just a little bit of commitment, and he could never give it to you. Eventually you had gotten fed up waiting for something that was never going to happen, and you left. It hurt, and you spent a lot of days crying as you packed up and bought a plane ticket, but you never looked back. You changed your number and completely detached yourself from the person that you had been.

“You always said I was gonna fuck around and hurt someone,” he pressed his lips into a thin line for a moment as he shook his head, “Just didn’t think it was gonna be me.”

“Thought it was just gonna be me?” it came out more bitter than you had intended, but there was no taking it back.

It caught him off-guard, “I…yea…I guess,” he stared at the engagement ring on your finger, “He is a lucky guy. Seems nice.”

You nod and a smile passes over your face for a moment, “He’s a good man. I never thought that I’d find someone as ready as I was for the whole settling down thing. I thought men weren’t ready for that until they were in their forties or whatever,” you chuckled, “I guess I just got really lucky.”

“So did he.”

“You seeing anyone these days?” you asked, genuinely curious to the answer.

He shook his head, “Nah, not really,” he laughed despite the aching in his chest, “But I’m guessing that’s not surprising to you.”

You smiled and sipped your coffee, “I dunno, people can change,” you waited for him to look you in the eyes, “You’ll find someone, Angel.”

“I already did,” it came out before he could think better of it. He reached across the table and set his hand on top of yours, “I should’ve been better, Y/N. I should’ve listened.”

“Maybe,” you nodded as you pulled your hand away and let it rest in your lap, “Maybe you should’ve. But it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? Guess you’ll just have to listen a little better to the next girl.”

“If you hadn’t laughed in the middle of that bookstore, I might’ve never known you were here,” his eyes were getting glassy with tears, “But I’ve heard that laugh inside my head so many times for so many years. I thought I was going insane. But then it was really you.”

“Angel, please, don’t do—”

“Please, just let me get this out,” he waited for you and once you nodded for him to continue, he did, “I spent so much time thinking that you wanted me to be a different person, and I was so angry about it. It felt like you didn’t want me to be who I was. It wasn’t…it wasn’t until you left that I realized that all you wanted was more of me. It was never about me changing, not really. It was just about me getting my head outta my ass. I spent so much time fuckin’ around and wanting to be free that I completely missed the fact that that freedom had nothing to do with you leaving. I hate that I never really heard what you were trying to say until after you left.”

You were fighting back tears, “Maybe there was just a little too much noise with me around.”

“You told me that one day I’d be sorry,” he couldn’t peel his eyes away from your ring, “And fuck are you never wrong.”

You laughed humorlessly as you blinked back tears, “I never wanted to be right, Angel. I just wanted to be happy, to be yours. But it just…wasn’t right I guess.”

“What you have now,” he stared down into his coffee cup, “that’s right?”

You slid your fingers along the band of your ring, and nodded, “Yea, it is.”

Those three words felt like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever recover from it.

“I don’t think you should keep beating yourself up over what happened, Angel,” you looked at him, “I think we’re different people now.”

“Are we?”

You chuckled, “Maybe not. Maybe that’s all the more reason not to worry about what happened. There’s no way to make it turn out any differently.”

There were a few beats of silence before Angel took a deep breath and managed a smile, “Damn. This is not what your fiancé thought he was signing you on for, huh?”

You laughed, and for a moment you caught a glimpse of the Angel that used to drive you around on the back of his motorcycle in the middle of the night. The same Angel who could get you to laugh when you showed up at his place in tears. You missed that, but you knew that going back wasn’t going to do anyone any good.

“Poor son of a bitch,” you laughed, “One day he’ll learn,” you paused for a moment, “I know it’s hard, Angel, but I am glad I got to see you.”

“Me too,” it sounded a little insincere, but you knew it was the heartbreak making it sound that way.

“Keep taking care of yourself, alright?”

Angel’s heart sank, knowing that this was the start of another goodbye that would last a very long time, “You too.”

You reached and put your hand over his, your finger tracing lightly over his knuckles, “I’ll see you around, Reyes.”

“Yea?”

You smiled, “Well, maybe.”

[bangtae-sohotddaeng]

we’ll be counting stars | k.th. | 3

(^ gif cred: ON THE VOYAGE | pinterest)

pairing: idol!Taehyung x publisher!Reader

rating: nc-17 (for language and themes)

summary: You’d sworn off love and relationships forever. You were here to do your job - work with the biggest boyband of the world. Not forge friendships and...and whatever it was that you and Taehyung were building up with these sneaky glances. It was, to be very fair, your Chief Editor’s fault that you’d landed in this mess. Maybe you should quit your job? Maybe you should quit life -

Oh, he was staring again, and did he freaking lick his lips?

warnings: swearing (reader’s got a potty mouth) + this is set like 5 years in the future + reader has emotional issues, she's a relationship phobe + mentions of weed

genre: so much ANGST ugh + fluff + comedy + some crack

words: 5 k

note: hey, y'all. so last month i went on a new year's trip to my boyfriend's city (yes, covid has forced us into an ldr, fml) and got too occupied in all the celebrations and reunions, and this got delayed. also, you might have noticed how the chapters progressively grow wordier, lmao i'd been confused. but i think i've found the perfectly comfortable number now. expect this length from now on. thank you for reading~💜

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gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

You were, to be very honest, a complete mess at this point.

You hadn’t been quite certain as to what to expect when you’d picked Jungkook’s name out of the bowl in your office, but you could say with certainty that it hadn’t been even close to this. 

This boy was brimming with ideas! You hadn’t been able to get a single sentence in the midst of his own enthusiastic chatter, with words and ideas folding and layering all over each other. All you had done was nod, mumble words of agreement and appreciation—that you were pretty sure he didn’t even hear—and type it all. Freaking typing. So much typing.

So basically, the entirety of yesterday spent fussing over the repertoires to ensure that the list of tasks for the first set of three weeks were well-constructed had led to this—not being able to so much as tell him about the questions your team had so meticulously framed! You felt irked, amused, exasperated, exhausted, and at the same time, really fucking lost. 

How were you supposed to interrupt him without disrespecting him? You didn’t have a great amount of tact and usually just cut to the chase. Which was generally an appreciated quality in your profession, because no writer wanted to be just lathered with compliments to later find out his work was actually bullshit that no one wanted to read. But this situation was different. You felt pressured, nervous and out of your element. Because you really had no idea how to respectfully stop this guy from making a mess of all your hard work.

He was Jeon freaking Jungkook of BTS, for God’s sake!

How could you shut him up?

You were both in Jungkook’s personal studio in the BTS dorm. The boy was seated on a couch across the coffee table from your own, literally swimming in a trillion size bigger t-shirt and some loose sweatpants. His hair floof-ed all over the place as he spoke, bubbling and bursting with enthusiasm. Which he was doing a lot of. Speaking, that is.

For the better part of two hours now, you’d been listening to him go on and on about what all he wanted to include in the book. Your fingers were nearly cramping with all the typing, but you’d promised the guys no recorders and you didn’t wanna miss anything he said. But it was freaking difficult with the speed he was going at! 

And also with the mess and reluctance in your own head. You were used to pulling the reins with writers. This situation was making you feel incompetent.

You hadn’t even touched your list, yet. What would your teammates think of you if their very team leader failed to finish with the assigned data collection and messed up the team’s hard work? Ugh!

Currently, Jungkook was having you make a list of all the people he needed to talk about in the book.

“And there was this boy my age, Ji-Hyun, he was so much better than me at everything! It is him, truly, that I credit my overachieving traits to. I had to work so, so hard—oh! Please also note down Mun-Hee’s name! She was the best dancer in my entire school. So… wait, where was I?” He looked up at you with wide big, round eyes.

You opened your mouth to speak—was this when you asked him to shut up? It had to be, right, because this was the first time he’d actually prompted you to speak. 

You meant to take your shot, but then stopped. You blinked. Looked back at your laptop. Blinked again. 

You were so confused, right now. “Uh, Ji-Hyun was better than you—”

“Oh yes!” Jungkook exclaimed, launching off into a detailed story about how and in what respects, exactly, this guy was better than Jungkook.

You shut your eyes. This had gone beyond “taking notes” and was quickly turning into Jungkook enthusiastically reminiscing his childhood and freaking telling you tales about it. And he seemed to be enjoying himself so thoroughly, looking so adorable, that it felt very wrong to ask him to stop even when you tried to avoid the added pressure of him being a whole ass idol.

But you had actual work to do. And you were leading a team. You couldn’t act so unprofessionally.

In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have told the boys that this was going to be like “making friends.” Jungkook seemed to have taken it too literally.

Biting down on your lip, you cleared your throat. He didn’t acknowledge it. Sighing, you shut your laptop. “Jungkook?”

This time, he stopped mid-word, looking at you with his lips rounded in a pout, sparkling eyes turning into saucers. 

Now, you were in no way attracted to the guy, but you really could not deny how freaking cute he looked in the moment. 

“All okay?” he asked, looking at you and then the shut laptop on your lap.

You took a deep breath, winced a little, and then shook your head. “No, Jungkook. We need to pause…” You had to stop speaking when his face crumpled. “Whoa…um?”

Jungkook slumped in his place, shoulders sinking. “I’ve been giving horrible ideas, haven’t I?”

Your eyes widened. “What? No! Absolutely not! That isn’t the case, I was…”

He wiped his face with both his hands before looking at you with really sad eyes, all enthusiasm from some time ago washed away. “Then what? You can tell me, it’s okay.”

Now. You prided yourself to be a practical human being who strived to be as straightforward in her life as possible. But right now, you really could not stop yourself from lying your way out of this one. You decided to blame it on the fear of upsetting a client, and not the impossible-to-control empathy that Jungkook’s doe eyes seemed to naturally draw out of people. 

“I just need a coffee. It’s been a while, my hands need a break. And my brain’s kinda overwhelmed, too,” you expertly lied, relaxing when Jungkook’s eyebrows lifted.

“We’ve been sitting here for long, haven’t we?” he said in an almost guilty tone before standing up. “And I didn’t even show you around the dorm!”

You tried to tell him how it was really not necessary, not to mention a bit too personal and…not what you were here for? But he was already moving towards the door and beckoning you along.

“Come on, let’s drop by the kitchen and then we’ll take a walk around the property!” he enthusiastically announced.

You stood up and followed him out of the room, awkwardly trying to ignore the two bodyguards that had stood as still as mannequins while you were in the room and then started to follow Jungkook wordlessly as you left.

The walk to the kitchen was a short one, and the place was, unsurprisingly, not empty.

Your team members along with their partnered BTS members had been assigned one particular space in the dorm, each. According to the email you received last evening, the kitchen was supposed to be used by Simon and— 

“Taehyungie-hyung! Are those chicken burgers?” Jungkook excitedly rounded the kitchen island to peek into the paper bag Taehyung was fiddling with. “They smell so good…”

You looked from Jungkook’s face that was awash with childlike excitement to Taehyung’s, and your breath caught when you found his eyes already trained on you. While you struggled to formulate a coherent thought at the intensity his eyes seemed to be emanating, yet again, his lips slipped into an easy smile.

“Hello!” he greeted you cheerily, bowing his head.

You, dazedly, bowed back and dragged your feet up to the island, standing across from the two guys. “Hey,” you mumbled in English.

His smile widened further to show his teeth. “Food?” he asked you in English, nodding at the burger Jungkook was pulling out of the bag.

You shook your head. “No, coffee,” you responded in Korean, earning raised eyebrows from him.

“I hate coffee.”

You smiled, this time. “You’re missing out.”

“Can I call you by your name?” he asked out of the blue, and you did a double take.

“Uh…yes?” you stammered. “Yes, of course Taehyung-ssi.”

“You should call me Tae.”

You swallowed, continually nodding your head like a damn puppet. “Yes. Tae. Sure.”

“I’m bac—boss?” 

You twisted on your heels at the familiar squeak. “Simon, hi,” you mumbled, professionalism slipping over you in the blink of an eye at having a member of your team in your vicinity. “Where did you wander off to?”

Simon seemed to be sweating a bit, and you really couldn’t really tell why. You’d just asked a simple question. 

Maybe you’d become too scary…

“Just the loo,” Simon responded with a forced giggle. 

You nodded, giving him a long look and observing how his smile grew progressively weirder. Then you turned back to the island. And nearly choked.

Taehyung’s fringe hung over his eyes, making his eyes look that much more hooded. His lips were twisted up as he watched you.

Oh, dear God, did this guy have a crush on you or something? But how? Why? 

He was a bonafide Greek God, and you were…well. Not.  

And needless to say, he was literally not allowed to have a crush on you. Or anybody else, for that matter. It was against BigHit’s policies. According to what you’d read, the boys were to wait out one more year, as of now, before indulging in any sort of romance.

You were, by contract, also bound to not encourage any such advancements. Not that smiling at you could be considered one, to be honest. He could very well be trying to make friends, and you could be reading too much into it.

You decided to stop thinking so much.

“You want to eat something?” Jungkook asked as he handed you a cup of brew.

You smiled and shook your head. “I don’t eat at work. None of us do.” You eyed Simon and he nodded with his gaze wide. “Disturbs the momentum.”

“Hey, you shouldn’t consider this strictly work,” Taehyung spoke up in that deep ass voice of his, startling you. “We’re also making friends, here. This is also not your office, but our home.”

And then he grinned at you with all of his teeth. You felt your cheeks heating up.

This was not going according to plan. 

You were panicking.

Flashing Taehyung a close-lipped smile, you stepped away from the counter. “Um, Jungkook?” you mumbled. “D’you guys have a pool in the house?” 

Jungkook looked surprised but as enthusiastic as ever. He nodded, his hair bouncing all over. “Come on!”

Throughout your walk around the house, you had tried to slip in ideas from your first three week’s layout to Jungkook that would fascinate him enough to make him at least want to hear them out. And, you’d proudly like to claim, it had worked.

Jungkook had heard your plans and had even asked you to pull the list up on your laptop to have a look at it. And henceforth, you’d made tremendous progress.

And now, at nearly nine o’clock of the night, you and your team were taking your leave for the day. 

You had exchanged brief words with all the members to see how they found their partners. Currently, you were conversing with Yoongi.

“ARMYs know a lot about all of that,” the guy said, referring to his life before BTS. “But there’s still a lot that they don’t. I talked to Nathan about all of it, we made notes. I’m really excited about the book.”

You gave him a professional grin. “I couldn’t be happier! Nathan’s got a really innovative mind. I’m sure he’ll make this a good experience for you.”

Nodding, Yoongi wished you a good night and bowed. You bowed back, moving away from the building and towards the vans waiting to drive you back to your hotel.

Jimin flashed you a wide grin as you got into the car. “Have a good night,” he wished you, shutting the door like a gentleman. Then he peeked and waved at Areum, your team member assigned to him. “See you tomorrow, Areum-ssi!”

Namjoon followed suit with a hand forwarded through the window for you to shake. “How did today go for you?” he asked you in English, causing Hoseok to elbow Jungkook, probably asking the younger to eavesdrop. Jungkook’s eyes met yours, though, and the two of you shared a covert giggle. “Did we meet your expectations?”

You smiled, formally. “It was… a good introduction of sorts, I’d say. Highly informative. Moderately productive. And we didn’t have any expectations, per se, but my team really loved you guys. We’re super excited to be working with you.”

You looked around yourself, prompting the three team members seated with you to nod in agreement. “Likewise!” Namjoon nodded at you, his smile turning his eyes to crescent moons.

“Thank you. How was your experience with Sana?” you asked him, nudging the girl sitting next to you.

Namjoon grinned with his teeth. “Amazing! She’s really compassionate and driven. Today’s session was interesting and felt comfortable. I’m eagerly looking forward to more.”

You secretly exhaled in relief. Sana had been the one person on your team that you’d been the most worried about. It was good to learn that she’d managed to impress Namjoon despite her initial nerves.

Next to you, she gave a short, very professional chuckle, and leant by you to nod at Namjoon. “Thank you, Namjoon-ssi.”

“Have a safe journey and a good night,” Namjoon wished you before peeking into the car. “Bye, Sana! See you tomorrow!”

You waved at the boys and their manager as your van started to move. You looked behind to check that the other one, carrying the remaining three members of your team, was following closely behind.

“What a day!” Simon exclaimed from his seat opposite you.

“You can say that again,” you mumbled, massaging your temples. “And what was up with you? You looked really wound up when I saw you in the kitchen.”

Simon took his glasses off and rested his head against the back of the van’s seat. “Let’s just wait it out, boss. I’ll tell you later if I absolutely have to. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

You frowned, but let him be. 

Today was just the first day. If you stuck to your schedule, you would have a hundred and twenty five more of these before this project was done.

You could do it.

Right?

You, as it turned out by the end of the first week, could do it. The same couldn’t be said about Simon, though.

On Saturday night, barely an hour after you’d all retired to your rooms after dinner, Simon sent an SOS to the group chat. The six of you were in his room within a minute.

“You look physically okay,” Nathan, the only other guy on the team, mumbled as he squinted at the bespectacled nervous wreck. “What’s up?”

“I can’t do this anymore!” Simon blurted out.

All eyes immediately landed on you.

You did a double take. “Come again? You can’t do what anymore?”

He sighed, shrinking into himself as Riya, another member of your team, sleepily sat on one corner of his bed. “You can’t quit the project, Si,” she mumbled, patting his shoulder. “You signed a contract.”

Simon’s wide eyes met yours. You raised your eyebrows.

“Then—then I need a different partner.”

Sana clicked her tongue. “No can do. We’ve all worked on our homeworks. No one’s gonna sacrifice theirs for you.”

You agreed, so you stayed quiet when Simon looked at you in hopes of a counter.

“I can’t go into another week, please! It’s…” Simon trailed off with a helpless expression on his face.

You sighed. “Everyone, out.”

Your team trickled out of the room, tossing curious glances and hushed whispers your way.

“What is it?” you questioned Simon when it was just the two of you.

“He’s too intense. I have a huge crush on him.”

Your jaw fell open. “Dude… I… what? You have a fiance!”

He exhaled. “Yeah, he cheated on me.”

You drew a sharp breath, shocked. “Oh. Oh, my God, what? What the hell’s been going on with you, I’m so sorry, Simon. Are you…okay? When did you find out?”

“I’d been suspicious for a whole week, hoping it’d turn out to be a lie.” He sighed. “Guess not. But, don’t worry.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll deal with it, no big deal. It’s happened before. I’ve done it before, too, that’s not the issue. The problem is that, right now, this is all making me wanna kiss Taheyung. What the fuck do I do, boss?”

You sympathised with the guy and felt responsible, in a way. After all, you’d been the one that forced him to propose to his boyfriend so that you could bring him with you on this project. If only you knew what kind of a toxic pair these two were! Goddammit. 

But, this guy was really telling you he couldn’t focus on work properly because he wanted to kiss Taehyung? For real?

What a guy.

“Get a fucking grip, Simon, what else?” you exclaimed, throwing your arms up. 

“No, I can’t. Don’t you think I have tried, already? Please take me off this project before I fuck things up for all of us and the company.” He shut his eyes, rubbing his face with both his palms. “And I’ve also, technically, broken the contract, so… Ask Boss to send someone else in.”

Was this happening for real? You were caught between wanting to smash the glass vase kept next to you over Simon’s head, and hurling yourself over the balcony.

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. You could, realistically, do neither of the above. So you thought clinically and professionally, and made the sound decision to burden your boss with this mess instead of trying to sweep it under the rug by yourself.

“Fine.” You cleared your throat. “Take a break tomorrow. I’ll have a word with Manager Woo, he’ll talk to Taehyung. Tomorrow’s a Sunday, so I’ll be calling Boss for the first weekly check-in. I’ll ask her if something can be done to replace you on the team.”

Simon nodded with a grimace, which may have been his attempt at trying to smile.

You retired to your room on heavy feet. How could things go south in a week? You had barely begun and a buckload of bullshit was on you already.

Exhaling, you opened your laptop to leave a mail for Manager Woo. Quoting a personal emergency, you drafted an apologetic letter stating Simon’s absence tomorrow and asked the man to forward your apologies to Taehyung as well. At the same time, you were also mentally seasoning yourself for a possible confrontation with Taehyung when you went in tomorrow. 

You’d just put your laptop away when your phone rang. Frowning, you lifted it up, only to silent the ring with a groan.

Ever since you landed in Seoul, your best-friend cum roommate back at home had taken to giving you a call every single night. Even when you didn’t pick up. Ever.

Every morning you would text him an apology, and every night he would call again. It’d been a week to this pattern, now.

Why was he doing this? You’d made it abundantly clear that you weren’t going to get roped into any kind of affair with him—emotional or physical. What did he want, now?

For a second, you wondered if he was maybe only just concerned about your well-being in a foreign country? But then you dismissed it, immediately. Why would he? What had you ever done to deserve his—or anyone’s, really—concern? You were a bitch to the majority of people in your life, without trying and even meaning to. Why would anyone give a fuck about you without ulterior motives, right? 

Lying back on your pillows, you looked at the ceiling.

You’d been absolutely horrible at treating people with compassion and care for the majority of your life. You were always labelled either too prudish, too selfish, too career-oriented, or plainly, too narcissistic by people around you.

And, strangely enough, it never bothered you. 

But that didn’t mean you had not cared about anyone, ever. You had. Too much too, once upon a time. But what had that left you with? Expectations and hurt. 

So then, wasn’t it better to not care at all, and not expect at all? You never got hurt, this way.

Sighing, you rolled over to your side, tugging the covers up to your chin. Lifting up your phone from the nightstand, you turned it to silent.

An unread message was displayed on the locked screen:

Looks like you went to bed early again, lol. Hope you’re safe, warm and relaxed. Have a good day at work tomorrow xo

You sighed, yet again. You did not need anyone’s hugs and kisses for your day to be good. Why couldn’t people take a hint?

Shutting your eyes, you tried to get some sleep.

You were absolutely not surprised when, barely an hour into a fierce discussion about his school life, you and Jungkook were disturbed by a knock on the door. But Jungkook was, and jumped at the loud rapping, his wide eyes flashing to the door.

Your back being to the doorway, you looked at the boy expectantly to inform you of the intruder. Not that you didn’t already know.

Jungkook didn’t say anything, though, and simply kept looking behind you with raised eyebrows and rounded eyes. You sat very tightly wound up, contemplating whether to peek around the sofa’s high back or to stand up, when a deep, heavy voice enunciated your name. 

You stood up, slowly, pulling on a professional frown of very minute concern on your face. You willed yourself to act surprised when your eyes met a timid looking Taehyung’s. And, you actually slightly were, too. Why did he seem so shifty and nervous?

“Hello, Tae,” you wished, formally bowing to greet him.

He bowed back, licking his lips as he stood back straight up. “May I please borrow you for a few minutes?”

You twisted on your heels to look at Jungkook. It took him a few seconds to focus on your stare and recognise the question. “Oh! Sure! Of course! I’ll be here, I’ll wait.”

Nodding in gratitude, you stepped out of the studio to join Taehyung in the lounge area attached to the kitchen.

“I know what you would ask—”

“Have I not been cooperating well with Simon?” Taehyung cut you off with a question you were not expecting.

You frowned. “What makes you say that? He had a personal emergency today, Tae, that’s all! I’m sure he must be having a great time working with you.”

Taehyung sighed. “You think, or you know?”

How were you supposed to answer that? You bit your lip, trying to read Taehyung’s eyes, but the collar-bones peeking above the wide neckline of his oversized, brown t-shirt kept distracting you. On some level, you could understand what Simon must have been facing. But! You were all supposed to be professional adults and quell any unprofessional thoughts and not foster them!

You turned your face to your feet, not missing the wide-legged, knee-length shorts Taehyung wore. You mentally cursed yourself.

His sigh floated over to you. “I hope it isn’t something I did. I know I can seem a bit overwhelming sometimes and uninterested at other times, but… I am excited for this project and I really want to give it my best, too.” His eyes looked pained when you met them again. You softened. “Please tell me the truth.”

You drew in a breath. “It’s just as I told you, Tae. Simon has to sort some issues out in his personal life. And what makes you think you’re too overwhelming or uninterested? Did Simon say something?”

“No, no!” Taehyung immediately shook his head. “I just…speak from previous experiences. I don’t collaborate with people that well. I tire them out. And Simon… I don’t think we like each other’s approach very much. I feel like he doesn’t really agree with my ideas, just goes along out of courtesy.”

Your lips turned downwards. “I’m sure it’s none of that, Tae. Absolutely positive. And if worse comes to worst and the two of you actually aren’t able to work together, we will arrange for a switch-up so that you’re able to work comfortably.”

Taehyung seemed to perk up at that. “Switch-up? Will you work with me?”

You narrowed your eyes. He seemed a bit too keen about wanting to work with you, didn’t he? You could very clearly recall your first meeting and how he’d seemed to wane when you told him you were paired up with Jungkook.

Curious.

“We’ll see how it unfolds. But as of now, I am partnered up with Jungkook and you’re fretting over nothing. Simon will be back tomorrow, and things will get back on track. I promise.”

You hoped.

Taehyung nodded, excusing himself to visit the kitchen and you took your leave and came back to an eagerly waiting Jungkook.

He stood up the moment you entered the room. “Is everything okay? Hyung looked sad.”

You honestly had zero idea as to what to tell Jungkook. Pursing your lips, you slowly nodded in contemplation as you made your way to your seat. “He’s not working well with Simon,” you honestly told him.

“Oh.” Jungkook’s lips rounded, forming an adorable pout. “Taehyung hyung has a very artistic soul,” he said, taking you by surprise. You leant forward to listen in with interest. “He tends to get awkward and insecure about his ideas and conceptualizations. They’re usually off-beat and hard to work with, but they’re amazingly creative if you look at them like an artist. Not everybody has the right vision for those things, though. Maybe that is why Simon is…” Jungkook trailed off with a shrug.

You bit your lip in consideration. Taehyung’s words echoed in your head. 

‘I don’t think we like each other’s approach very much.’

Maybe they really were mismatched, outside of Simon’s immature, unprofessional, god-awful behaviour, too.

“Hey, could we add him to our group?” Jungkook suddenly asked, confusing you.

“Huh?” you very eloquently responded. 

He gave a small giggle. “Hyung. Could he work with us? We have been pretty efficient, and you certainly seem to have an artistic vision.”

You smiled. “Thank you, Jungkook, that’s really flattering. But also, no, I don’t think we can do that. The contract we’ve all drawn has a couple of strict clauses and one-on-one sessions is one of them.”

Frowning, Jungkook nodded in acceptance.

The two of you resumed your discussions from before, but the vigour and drive was now lessened to a great extent. You, especially, couldn’t stop worrying. You were the leader of the team, after all.

Sunday night brought in the awaited conference call with your boss. 

Looking at her excited, smiling face on your computer screen, you couldn’t help but dread the news you were about to break to her.

“So. How is it going?” Your boss rubbed her hands together, wiggling her eyebrows. “How is Sana doing? You were quite wound up about her, if I remember correctly.”

“You do remember correctly. There’s good news and bad news,” you responded with a grimace. “Which one first?”

Your boss pursed her lips. “Don’t wanna immediately spoil my mood, so, the good one please.”

“Sana has been doing fantastic. She’s been nothing short of professional, and according to what I’ve seen and heard, Namjoon is really pleased with her,” you relayed, smiling when your boss sighed in relief.

“Okay, so that’s out of the way. What’s wrong?”

You sighed. Better rip the band-aid straight off. “Simon has a huge crush on Taehyung and feels like he broke the contract. He wants to leave.”

You watched quietly as your boss choked on an inhale, coughed, had some water, and sat back down to blink at you with a blank face. “These words must not leave your room. Or Simon’s. None of the BigHit staff must catch a wind of it.”

You groaned. “Please don’t ask me to work through this, boss, please—”

“Work through it, Y/N!” your boss cruelly cut you off. “This is such a tiny, little, manageable thing! Resolve it.”

You gawked. “You literally just choked—how is this little, boss?”

“Counsel Simon. Ask him to push through. Threaten his employment with us, if necessary.”

It was your turn to blink at her, owlishly. “And? That’s it?”

Your boss shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work out, swap him with someone else on your team.”

You sighed. “This is all such high school, teen flick bullshit. What the hell.”

“I know, hun. Which is why I’m asking you to manage it. And I know you can. You’re my favourite, Y/N.” Your boss nodded at you with a solemn look. “I have believed in your capabilities since day one. It’s time to make them shine.”

You nodded, dumbly. The back of your mind was hinting at an inkling that you were being manipulated by flattery, but the forefront was basking in all the praise and could really not be bothered.

All you had to do was keep the whole thing hush-hush from the BigHit people and keep Simon in line, right? You could manage that.

Bidding your boss goodbye, you rung up Simon.

“Hey, boss.”

“You’re coming with us tomorrow and you’re gonna be a fucking professional like you’re supposed to!” you barked into the phone. “Bottle up your feelings, or eat them—I don’t care. You’ll do the job you were here for, and you’ll do it right.”

There was a long, suspended silence at the other end. And then a sigh escaped Simon. “I don’t think I have a choice. Fine, I’ll try.”

You put your phone to silent and shut your eyes, knowing you’d receive another call tonight and that you won’t pick up tonight, either.

You lay back in the bed, gearing up for tomorrow.

If worse actually did come to worst, and Simon sent everything down the rabbit hole, who would you make him swap places with? All of you had built really amazing rapports with your assigned partners in just a week. No one would be willing to start over.

If it came to it, would you have to? Would you be able to?

You could maintain professionalism a hundred times better than Simon, that much was certain. But you and Jungkook had been working so well! And who was to say Simon wouldn’t cause trouble with Jungkook, too? 

You let out a whine, beyond mad at the situation this guy had landed you in.

But you’d have to navigate out of it, somehow. This was the biggest project of your life so far—the first ever you were heading. You would ensure everything worked out at the end.

You would tie all the loose ends and make it all work. You would.

(You literally had no choice.)

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Hang the Stars, and Name Them Too

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It was cold. It wasn’t winter, or he wouldn’t be here, but it put an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach regardless. Three months until he left for Kaer Morhen, and yet there he was, bundled up in his bedroll, an extra blanket stuffed inside, letting the warmth of the campfire linger on his face for at least an hour longer than he would have normally. Geralt lay there silently.

Jaskier, however, did not.

The topic of conversation had moved from Roach, who earlier had snatched Jaskier’s last apple and eaten it in record time, to apples, to orchards, to the unseasonable weather, to …wind, maybe? To the moon, to stars, to the sky, and now to Jaskier’s Oxenfurt days.

“Really, though, I don’t think I should have earned half as good a mark as I did. I’m not knocking my abilities! Well, I am though, but only in Astronomy. I only did so well because Adrien let Essi and I borrow his astrolabe last minute. Pretty little thing, I think it was his grandfather’s; don’t you just love seeing little trinkets like that passed down through the generations?”

“Hmm.”

It was one of the nice things about traveling with Jaskier. It had taken Geralt a long time, years longer than it should have, maybe, to figure out what Jaskier wanted from him. The answer was nothing. Perhaps ‘nothing’ was a bit too simplistic, but Jaskier had really meant it when he’d said he just wanted to see the world, write some songs, travel the Path. He wasn’t after a conversation partner, or even someone to listen, necessarily. Frankly, Jaskier hadn’t even been looking for someone to be kind to him, which put a discomfort in Geralt that he didn’t bother addressing. So Jaskier would talk, and Geralt would allow it to wash over him, and if it happened to keep his mood up even when things got difficult on the Path, well, that was fine.

A wind picked up, strong enough that Geralt felt a chill run down his body, as wrapped up as it was. The fire flickered for a moment, bending against the wind and slowly climbing back as the air around them settled. He tossed a glance at Jaskier. After years of traveling with Geralt, the bard’s bedroll was a least sufficiently packed; warm, largely weatherproof, and, when they had time to stop by a market, scented. But even still, he could see Jaskier shudder against the cold with a small wince.

It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t think of Jaskier as human, it’s just that he preferred not to follow the line of thought. Early on, he’d pointedly remind himself every time they crossed paths; Jaskier was human, Jaskier was no different than any other human, Jaskier would either turn on him, or grow tired of him, or, at the very least, one day grow old, or get injured, and die. And Geralt would have to move on, without him. Years later, it had become more and more difficult, especially as they spent longer stretches together.

The thoughts of Jaskier turning on him had faded fairly quickly— if nothing else, Jaskier was loyal to a fault. It had taken years for him and Yennefer to get close, and longer still to not worry when she and Geralt fell back into bed together, time and time again. Geralt was grateful the two had moved on, even if they were an absolutely devious pair.

The thought that the bard would grow tired of traveling with him faded as well; much as Jaskier complained, Geralt had learned he needed to be a bit dramatic to let off energy, to not keep the frustration inside him. It was always surface level.

By the time the final options were all that was left, Geralt had just… stopped thinking about them so much. He didn’t like to think of Jaskier as a fragile thing. He didn’t feel fragile. He felt whole, and solid, and there in a way very few people had felt before. Most everyone felt like wisps of smoke, here and gone before Geralt had really registered them; his bard was not.

“…and, in any case, I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about anyway, but I wish I did know, just so I could write something scathing to have published in a journal. Maybe that’s what I’ll spend the winter doing, hmm? Learning about the stars just to tell Valdo fucking Marx his song is off. Is that awfully petty? I know it’s petty, but is it overboard? Before you answer, I want you to know I respect your opinion, but I may not care about what you say; this is almost certainly happening. But I do want the approval.”

Geralt snorted a laugh, and Jaskier gave a small giggle in response. All was quiet for a moment, and Geralt turned his gaze skyward. The clouds passed over the moon quickly, and a few bats flew to some nearby trees, wings flapping excitedly. A cricket chirped somewhere south of them, Roach was nibbling on some grass, and Jaskier’s heartbeat was pleasingly calm and steady. He still itched to pack up and start heading North, but the constancy of his bard kept him anchored. More clouds moved aside and then the sky was open above them, hundreds of stars glinting down.

“Wow,” Jaskier said, and that was enough. The night sky was irreplaceable, and even Jaskier knew when to let things speak for themselves.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed again in response. They lay there in silence again. Geralt wasn’t really good at showing affection, and his gestures of appreciation were more often practical than frivolous. But the stars had given him an idea, and though Jaskier had never asked for kindness, Geralt liked giving it when he could. Time had softened him, a bit. “Come here.”

Jaskier looked over at him, bemused, but Geralt simply gave a ‘come here’ motion with his head.

“Alright, alright. Give me a second, and if it’s bumpy over there I’m moving right back, do you hear me?” and Jaskier shuffled over, head inches away from Geralt’s own.

Bracing for a moment before the chill, Geralt maneuvered his top half just out of his bedroll to point up at the sky. “Polaris, Sirin, Caph, Alpheratz, Hadar, Octantis, Elviran— you know where those are?”

“Oo!! Okay, a lesson on the stars, yes, let me see, ah—” and slowly, Jaskier pointed them all out one by one. “Got that, I think. Directional stars I remember, only way to figure out my way half the time.”

“Mmm. Do you know their constellations?”

Jaskier blinked. “I absolutely do not. I mean. Vaguely, maybe? They’re somewhere in my brain, probably.”

Geralt smiled and pointed up. “So, Caph—” Which was directly above them, “Is part of the Dragon constellation. It’s the eye, see it?” Geralt traced a rudimentary image of a dragon with his pointer figure, and Jaskier’s eyes followed dutifully.

“Alright so,” Jaskier said, wiggling a bit out of his own bedroll and a bit closer to Geralt’s, for warmth. He pointed up. “So that’s the eye, and then this— this is the neck?”

“The nose,” Geralt corrected.

“Neck, nose, all the same really—”

“The same? I feel sorry for your bed partners.”

Jaskier swatted his hand. “Oh, hush. Now— now so that’s the— oh, oh! Oh, this is the foot here, isn’t it? And that’s the wing and that’s the— Oh, Melitele I actually see it now,” he said softly.

“Mmm. Want the story?”

“The— the st— yes of course I want the story, Geralt, who do you think I am?! You’ve been holding back on stories from me, I knew it.”

“If you’d paid attention in your Astronomy class, you might already know it.”

“Yes, but then you wouldn’t be the one to tell it to me, and that’s far more fun.” He snuggled back into his bedroll. “Alright, Alright, Tell me.”

So, he did. Eskel had always been better at telling stories, and Lambert had always made them more exciting, but Geralt remembered the details well enough and made sure not to skip the parts he knew the bard would most enjoy. But nobody told the stories like Vesemir, who had read every version, studied every line, translated a few copies himself. He knew every detail, made sure to preserve them all in his library, but most enjoyed telling the version he’d been taught as a boy, before even his own trials. Those were the versions he'd tell his wolves gathered around a fire in the dead of winter, sipping on something warm, all kept close to him.

The story came to him more naturally than he had expected. Geralt figured it was easier to tell stories that weren’t your own— no need to hide the pain or the details that stung your eyes. No obligation to the truth, if you didn’t know it. Really, it didn’t matter if the stories attached to constellations had any truth to them, the only truth that mattered was that they had been passed down for generations. So, myths, legends— Geralt could enjoy those, to an extent. Telling his own stories— there was nothing to tell, was there?

When he’d taught the constellations to a much younger Ciri, she had always wanted to add in her own details, change the stories and make them her own. Maybe that was its own sort of tradition.

“…so, they shuffled around the stars, and made the constellation,” Geralt finished and then pointed to a small cluster of stars just below it. “There’s the apple.”

“You hear that Roach? An apple you can’t reach,” Jaskier said, muffled by his bedroll. “That was really good, Geralt.”

“Mm. My brother tells it better. And Vesemir tells it best.”

“It’s like—” Jaskier yawned. “It’s like the astrolabe a little then, isn’t it? It’s the thing you pass down. I know Witchers aren’t especially materialistic, but this, you have. It’s,” he paused, looking anywhere but at Geralt, “It’s nice. You can’t lose a story.”

“Mmm.”

“I think that’s really why I like writing songs so much,” Jaskier said quietly. “Nobody can really take that from you, can they? It gets remembered. Even if it’s changed, it keeps getting passed along. Not everybody even has to like the story, it’s just got to be someone. Anyone can tell you you’re going to be forgotten, but that way you really can’t be.” Jaskier shifted. So did his mood.

“Now, I don’t— I, I mean, a songwriter, a writer of any kind, a storyteller, really, that’s all you need, they’re going to be remembered more than many kings and queens and earls and duchesses and so on and so forth. You don’t have to be some powerful person to be remembered! You don’t! You tell a story, and really, it sticks there. In fact! The people who hear it don’t even have to know they like it or say they like it!” Geralt smelled Jaskier’s anxiety rising, tart, and sour, and his heart had begun to race.  

“Jaskier.”

“I mean, really,” he continued, allowing no pause for Geralt, “Nobody will care about some obscure law or edict or whatever. This, this is the way you can be rememebered. You tell stories and you write things that make the world maybe a fraction of a kinder place to be, and that, that, you won't get forgotten like that. There’s always someone who will hear it, and remember, and tell someone else, and if it’s good enough, you know, really good enough, people care about getting it right, about remembering what you said, and how you said it. Right? Even—” he sped up a bit, the same nervous energy he got when he knew Geralt would reject his idea to stay at an inn, or when he asked to divert their travels to stop for a Bardic competition.

“I mean, even Yennefer once told me that at Aretuza the students stay up all night sometimes, telling versions of the same myth they heard growing up, trying to compare versions from all over the Continent and figure out how much could be true. What the original story was. Tracing them all back. Finding themselves, finding other mages, discovering feelings or experiences they thought they were alone in having. But the storyteller knew, or the characters knew, or someone, somewhere in the past, they knew. And you feel less alone and so you hold onto it. And then you remember the person who told it to you and then in some way you remember the person who told it to them, and back and back and back to the very first person who told it. I don’t know, it’s nice, right? Keeping someone else close like that, even if you never met,” he finishes, almost breathless. He waits a beat. “Even when you’re gone.”

There was a silence. Geralt’s hand had yet to retreat back to his bedroll, and Jaskier’s breath had begun to be visible right above his lips. Geralt closed his eyes. He knew Jaskier, knew he was waiting for Geralt to shut him down, even playfully. But he didn’t have the heart.

“Mm. You’re right, for once,” He said, voice gruff with tiredness. If Geralt had been expecting a playful retort from Jaskier, it never came. They lay there, side by side, and watched a lone cloud roll by.

The sounds of the evening fell around them. Roach let out a small huff, and Jaskier’s heartbeat slowed a bit. Geralt’s itch to move was still there, his thoughts still gravitating back to the halls of Kaer Morhen, but Jaskier’s warmth kept him steady.

“We should put out the fire,” said Jaskier softly.

Geralt just looked at him for a moment— his gaze was still skyward, his eyes a little lost. It didn’t happen often, but it reminded Geralt of just how little he knew about his bard, sometimes. He knew everything and nothing. Jaskier didn’t talk about his past much, save Oxenfurt, and Geralt was fine to leave it that way. And then occasionally Jaskier would look lost, like now, and he’d wonder.

“Mm.” Geralt agreed. The fire, he noticed, was dimming on its own. “…One more?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier asked after a moment, confused.

“One more constellation?” Geralt asked. “There are plenty.”

Jaskier blinked at him, once, twice. “You’re talkative tonight.” He’d been more talkative for ages now. One of Yenn’s more positive influences. Ciri’s, too. Ironically, Jaskier’s chattiness usually enabled his desire to keep silent. But there was something else in that moment that he wasn’t willing to name, easing his way.

Geralt shrugged. “Some nights it's easier.” He looked at Jaskier. “Some nights are harder. Just happens.”

“…Yeah. Ah, yes, yes please, another tale would be lovely. Bedtime stories with Geralt! Perfect way to end the night.”

“Elviran?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier was quick to pull his hand out again and point it out. “Good. That’s Lara & Cregan— it’s where their hands join.” He pointed to the left, “That’s Lara,” and to the right, “That’s Cregan."

“Ah! Yes, this one I actually know, I wrote a song all about them at Oxenfurt. It wasn’t terribly good— I should rewrite that one, actually, now that you’ve mentioned it. An elf and a mage, the bridge between cultures, all dashed to pieces… it’s a good story! I mean, tragic, I almost hope it’s not true at all, but a good story is a good story.” Many years ago, Geralt would have been fooled by Jaskier’s deceptively cheery tone, but he knew his bard well enough now.

“Mm. Sirin?” He asked.

Jaskier pointed the star out once again and said, “That’s the wolf one, though I’m afraid I don’t know more than that.”

“That’s the chest— the head is here—”

“Do you mean— wait, I can’t see. Is it the—”

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and guided it along the unseen lines of the constellation. Both their hands were so cold it didn’t even register as such, and Jaskier’s head twisted to see the stars from another angle, hitting the side of Geralt’s neck. “Oh— oh! Oh, I see, so—” and then Jaskier’s hand, still gripped in Geralt’s own, had begun leading them both excitedly. “So, head, this is the head, yes? And then Sirin is the chest, and the legs go here, and then the tail is this way? Okay yes, yes, yes, absolutely, I am on board with the star dog, I see him now. Is this a special one for Witchers? Wolf Witchers like yourself, at least?”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed, and went to nod, but knocked his chin into Jaskier’s head a bit. He let it rest a moment in the soft hair, the breath from his nose hitting back at him, warming his face.  

“He always caught what he hunted,” Geralt began, and let Jaskier’s hand warm his own. Or, maybe he was the one who warmed Jaskier’s hand, it was hard to tell. The two were truly huddled now, Jaskier’s head rested comfortably in the crook between Geralt’s chin and shoulder, and their bedrolls nearly overlapped. He used their joined hands to point out more of the constellations, more stars, and eventually, Jaskier made the simple but somehow stunning gesture of interlacing their fingers together. It was practical, it was easier to guide Jaskier’s hand around that way, but then, Geralt hadn’t needed to do that, had he. Just wanted to, he supposed. He continued the myth as Jaskier’s heartbeat slowed, and their hands got somewhere close to truly warm. It was just returning the favor, he reasoned; every day they had traveled together, Jaskier talked and allowed his words to hang in the air, not expecting a response or even acknowledgment; now it was his turn. After all, Geralt more than most understood the value in someone trusted filling the silence.

By the time he was finished, Jaskier’s arm had turned a bit heavy and they were both nearly asleep. Geralt let their hands come down to rest between them, though still outside the bedrolls, which was just too cold to maintain. But neither moved.

“You really are good at that,” Jaskier said eventually.

“Not like Vesemir. Or you.”

“Yes, well I’ve had lots of practice. You’re good at it, really.”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you, by the way. I’m sorry I— it just happens, you know—”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Thank you, still,” Jaskier said, and a moment later he had untangled their hands, and it slipped away as though it had never been there at all. The itch the cold brought, to pack up and move on, head North, returned. He tried not to think about it. The cold settled around them, and Geralt put out the fire with a wave of his hand while Jaskier, head still nestled under the witcher’s chin, let out a soft breath. Geralt adjusted his arm back into his bedroll, and relished the warmth the fur inside brought; it was never the same as the contact with skin, but at least this was familiar, and didn’t promise to leave him one day.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, as though they weren’t pressed up against each other. He felt the breath on his neck and tried not to think about the ghost of a touch. “Would you mind if I— You’re warm and— ah, fuck it,” he mumbled, and suddenly Geralt felt Jaskier shift his body to lie on his side. A warm, calloused hand slip between Geralt's bedroll and landed on his chest, sitting just below his medallion. “I’ll move if you mind, but your bedding has fur, and—”

He didn’t think about it, really. He just reached up and grabbed Jaskier’s hand with his own, kept it safe and warm between his own hand and his chest. For a moment, it was as if the night held its breath. Geralt thought about how rarely Jaskier’s fingers stood still, and waited for something to break.

Jaskier exhaled softly, and Geralt could feel his smile against his shoulder. “This is nice,” he said, not a whisper but still almost lost on the light breeze that blew past.

“It’s cold,” Geralt said, because it was all he could think to say. It was Jaskier’s turn to hmm a response, and soon Jaskier’s breathing had evened out, and sleep finally claimed him. Geralt followed soon after, the itch to move finally settled, a warmth blooming within him.

In the morning, they’d slid apart from each other as they always did after nights they’d huddled close. It wasn’t that unusual; sometimes it grew cold, even in nicer inns. Sometimes it was something else unspoken, the need to hold, or be held, and it had always just been allowed to exist between them, a quiet reality. This had been something else, and he’d feared the worst when he woke. But whatever existed in that nebulous space, whatever had been built the night before didn’t feel quite broken to Geralt, at least not yet. He had been braced for impact, even if it were small, and yet… the day felt… delicate, not fragile. Jaskier’s mood was lifted considerably from the night before, and was happy to go on about how all the talk of myths and constellations had him dreaming up a new song. And eventually, a new idea entirely.

“Alright! New goal,” the bard said as they walked the Path, the sun high in the sky, chill of the evening prior replaced by a pleasant breeze. Roach walked between them, soaking up the sun and setting some safe distance between the two travelers. Jaskier let his fingers dance over the strings of his lute as he spoke. “I’m getting you a constellation. It’s happening! Do they still make those, actually? When was the last time we got a new constellation? I think it’s far past time for a new one, don’t you think?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “That’s not how it works.”

“You know, people have been saying that to me my whole life, and I’ve never listened. And now look where I am!” he strummed a few notes. “Valdo Marx wants to write a song about stars, he can do what he likes. But I’m getting you a constellation. Another crown jewel in my legacy.”

“If it’s your legacy, why would I be the constellation?”

Jaskier waved him off. “Oh, you’re far more memorable. More adventures, more stories. Really, now that I’m thinking about it, if I really work at it I think I could write enough that they’d make a constellation for Yennefer, too. Maybe Ciri as well, but I think another bard might have to come and finish what I started with her. She’s so young! Do you ever think about that Geralt? I know she’s grown, but Melitele, she’s still so young.”

If a pit had formed in his stomach, he didn’t mention it. “I’m not sure you’d be able.”

“You doubt my skills, after all these years? Geralt please, my stubbornness is outdone only by your own. I’m a master bard. Crafting myth is my bread and butter.” Roach huffed, and Jaskier squinted. “I’m going to choose to believe that was an agreement, but you’re still on thin ice, miss. I haven’t forgotten your apple-related crimes.”

“You could manage all three,” Geralt allowed, hiding a smirk. “But you wouldn’t have time to sleep with anyone. So I don’t think you will.”

“Rude!” Jaskier exclaimed, “Rude, terrible, you’re so cruel to me. I write you songs, I make you famous, surely I’m allowed a dalliance or two!”

“Or ten.”

“How could you ever imply— I’ll have you know my reputation is impeccable, in many social circles—”

“Twenty. More in the winter.”

“This is— this is friendship treason. And here I was, thinking we had grown closer last night! Listen, I may not be alive to see it, but when you inevitably get that damn constellation, you better remember it was me that put you up there.”

It was all fun, really it was. But it was like Jaskier had shone a light on the delicate thing, and Geralt didn’t really know what to do with it. He tried to remember the truths about Jaskier he used to recite to himself. He’d grow old, he’d die. He’d be remembered, but Geralt would have one fewer constant in his life. And still, he’d spend his life hanging stars in Geralt’s honor.

“…with the way things are now,” Jaskier said as Geralt tuned back in. “See I couldn’t do it this winter, I don’t think, I’m fairly set on the course, and much as I love scrapping everything and starting again, I really am trying to get in the new headmaster’s good graces. Her name is Beatrice— have I mentioned her? — A goddess, truly, but she comes from the history department so she’s far more structured than we are. Actually, history, mythology, sort of the same almost, don’t you think? I’d have a good shot at convincing her to let me teach it next year. Wait! Let’s think of names. A good course must have a good name, it’s where half my colleagues go wrong. Okay, I go first, You’re second. Roach can go third if she likes. How about— how about, ‘Hanging the Stars: Crafting Your Own Mythology’. Is that something?”

“I’ll remember,” Geralt said.

“Hmm? I’ll Remember— actually you know what, that’s not half bad for part of the title at least—”

Geralt’s grip on Roach’s reigns tightened. Jaskier made many things easier, but this was not one of them.

“No. I mean. I’ll remember. What you were saying earlier.”

There was a pause as Jaskier muttered softly to himself, tracing the conversation thread. Geralt took the relative quiet to appreciate the rolling hills around them, and fought the urge to run for them. Jaskier made a small sound of realization. “Oh. Oh. Oh, Geralt, no, I know you would. You know I know you would, don’t you? I don’t worry about you remembering me, so much. I used to, early days, you know. But not now. No, I know you.”

“Mm.”

“Everyone else, well, we’ll see. Or, you will. I won’t. Ha. I mean, unless I haunted people, but I don’t think you’d appreciate if I turned into a ghost, would you? I’m certain you’d be cross with me. I’m not even sure I’d enjoy it, really. I like touching things too much.”

He meant to let Jaskier’s words was over him again, but he couldn’t. Jaskier wanted nothing from him; he didn’t even feel compelled to ask for kindness. It was stinging in Geralt now, hitting the same place the itch to return to Kaer Morhen had the night before. Instinctual, almost familiar. He thought of Yenn’s fear of being alone for too long, of Ciri’s hands gripped tight when something startled her, thought of his own need to soothe those worries, and the knowledge that had come with age that he couldn’t. Could only ease their way.

“You’d end up there too,” he said. “A constellation.”

Jaskier paused, and the sound of their footsteps against the soft dirt road sounded so much louder than they had even a moment before. “Well. Maybe. That’d be nice, I think,” Jaskier agreed.

And suddenly it hit him like a torrent. Like he had broken a dam he didn’t know was there, and all he could see and feel was that delicate thing that sat between them. “I’d want you up there. You deserve to be up there just as much.”

“Geralt—”

“I mean it.”

“Is there…” Jaskier frowned and kicked a stone from in front of him. “Is there something wrong? Can you smell me dying, or something? You’re not usually like this.”

“You’re not dying,” he said through gritted teeth.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it! Really, Geralt, trust me, I do, I’m loving this, I’m just... I want to make sure you’re not saying it so that you don’t say something else, I suppose.”

Well, there it was again. “And if I am?”

“I’d prefer you just say it,” Jaskier said, though it sounded like a guilty admission. “But— I know you’re not one for words. Which is fine! It’s why I’m relishing this right now. But sometimes… well, I don’t think it’s surprising that a bard enjoys hearing words, really.”

It was true, Geralt knew he’d lap up any gesture, any token, but Jaskier lived on words. It had never been that words had been hard for the witcher, but words related to... emotion, to feeling, to himself, those never quite came. These, though, these were words he could give Jaskier. Ones he deserved to hear. Geralt sighed. “If I have to end up some… some constellation, some amorphous... thing, I’m dragging you with me.”

The silence was comfortable, at least. Jaskier played a short, wordless tune. Then; “You really would, wouldn’t you.”

“I really would,” Geralt replied. It wasn’t serious, he didn’t think a constellation could possibly have consciousness. But it felt serious, somehow. And he’d long since given up believing anything was impossible.

“Well! Well, to the stars we go, then. I’ll look forward to that.”

“Mm,” Geralt said, and gods, did he desperately want to leave it at that because saying anything else truly scared him, he was willing to admit that. But time had softened him, and if his child surprise had taught him anything, it was that sometimes the scary thing was the thing you needed to reach for most. “I will too.”

“Eternity with you doesn’t sound half bad,” Jaskier said, and if he blushed, Geralt didn’t look over to see. “You know, it sounds like a joke. ‘A Witcher, a Mage, a Child Surprise, and a Bard walk into the stars and become constellations.’ I don’t know what the punchline is, though.”

“‘And the sky was never silent again’?”

Jaskier barked a laugh. “Good! Get them all talking. Good, yeah, I could spend eternity with you, I think.”

Geralt swallowed. He would have to talk to Yenn about this. “I could too.” She would probably agree.

“Mm, and Yennefer? Don’t think she’d get sick of me?” Jaskier’s hands brush against the strings of his lute, and a few high notes ring out.

“You’re too fun to tease.”

Jaskier brightened with everything Geralt said. Surely at some point, he’d grow too brilliant to look at.

“And Ciri? Think she’d grow weary of me?”

“No more than she would of me and Yenn. Better make her a comet instead,” Geralt reasoned. “Don’t think she’d like staying put very long.”

“Mmm, you know that girl well. Oh! Roach. Dear girl, I haven’t forgotten you. I figure she’ll be in your constellation though.”

“Roach is her own horse.”

“Actually— yep, no, you’re right. She gets her own. We’ll keep her close to the Dragon constellation, so she can finally get some elusive starry apples. You’d like that, wouldn’t you girl?” Jaskier asked as he gave her a pat on the neck. She tossed her mane in response, before she gave Jaskier's shoulder a gentle nudge with her nose.

“You know, if we were up there together, you’d have to hear me ramble on and on and on. No breaks in the winter, or slipping out of the inn before I wake up and running off somewhere. I’d be up there watching the turn of the world with you forever. I’m certain you’ll both lose your starry minds over me eventually.”

For the first time that day, Geralt looked over at Jaskier for longer than a glance and waited until Jaskier had finally looked up to meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t. We wouldn’t.”

Jaskier flushed in the cheeks, and for once, Geralt didn’t want to wave it off as the sun, or Jaskier being a bit out of breath. Geralt had done that, had caused that blush. The delicate thing grew more solid, then, took root somewhere in him, and he let it. Jaskier swallowed, and Geralt watched the bob of his throat, and missed when they’d been so close he could feel that small movement against his own skin. (Yenn would have a field day with this.)

When Jaskier speaks next, his voice has that honest, soft quality Geralt had always liked, the kind Jaskier only had when he was saying something he’d kept close to his chest. Like he was offering something to you, hand out, knowing you could grab it, twist it, ruin it, and trusting you not to. And yet, still, bracing for impact.

When Jaskier speaks next, it sounds like every song he’d ever sung and a million more he hadn’t even written yet.

“Then I’m with you,” he said, “Til the stars run out.”

“And every day after that,” Geralt replied, and he let the words wash over him, and into him, and he kept them there, like a star to guide him and ease his way.

[pucksnsticksnhockeyboys]

summertime mindset - p. 2

bracelets & coffee

masterlist of summertime mindset

Timing is hard to get right and summer doesn’t last forever. You and Tyson learn the hard way.

word count: 2.4k

note from the writer: if you haven’t read the first two parts (part one and the prologue) then do it now! all linked in the series masterlist! 

SUMMERTIME

Tyson was, without any competition, the most attractive man you had ever laid eyes on. The summer was treating him well, he was all tanned skin and muscle and you were very much enjoying the view as you sat in the backyard of your aunt’s house, watching him and Michael play a two-person game of spikeball. You were sitting in a lounge chair, Rachel on your left and Kacey on your right, your eight year old cousin sitting on the grass across from you.

You were trying to focus on what Kacey was telling you, you really did, but it was hard to pay attention when Tyson was running around the yard with his shirt off, laughing loudly and getting extra competitive.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Rachel commented, and apparently it was loud enough for the boys to hear because Tyson tipped his head back and let out a laugh. You flushed, and it didn’t help that Tyson decided to embarass you further by winking at you and flexing his muscles like the dork he was. Kacey made a gagging sound, and your little cousin, bless her, giggled like she actually knew what was going on.

They continued their game, and Michael swatted the ball at an awkward angle, sending it flying across the yard. As he chased after it, Tyson rushed over to where you were sitting and gave you a quick kiss before heading back to his game. Kacey rolled her eyes, but you couldn’t care less in that moment as you smiled widely. It was always like that with him, smiles and laughs and feeling like you were on top of the world. Your younger cousin gasped as she remembered something, shouting a quick ‘I’ll be back’ before dashing into the house.

“This one’s for you, Rach!” Michael called dramatically, and Tyson was giggling at his goofiness too hard to return the serve, allowing him to score a point. Rachel grinned at her boyfriend, shaking her head in mirth and you simply leaned back and smiled, basking in the feeling of total contentment as you sat with your friends.

“Come on, Tyson, you’re supposed to be a professional athlete!” Kacey chirped her brother and you giggled at the mock-annoyed look he gave her. It didn’t last long, because the game started back up and his competitive nature returned. You were pretty sure he was up a few points, but he acted as if it was the game winning point they were playing for. It was then that your little cousin reappeared, holding a box of colored string.

“We can make friendship bracelets!” She cheered, and you couldn’t exactly say no to her, so you sat up, along with Kacey and Rachel, to sift through the box and find the colors you wanted. You had already made an anklet for yourself the week prior, and a bracelet for both your little cousin and Rachel. You bit your bottom lip, unsure of what to make, until a cheer from the spikeball game in front of you gave you just the inspiration you needed.

“Hey, Tys?” You called, still searching through the box of string. Rachel and Kacey had already picked out theirs, and your little cousin was helping them cut the lengths they needed. You glanced up, seeing that Tyson was waiting for you to continue with that same grin on his face that he always wore, that same one that never failed to put a smile on your own face. “What are your favorite colors?”

“Babe, I’m colorblind.” He chuckled, and you rolled your eyes. This got a laugh out of everyone around you, your little cousin giggling enough to put a smile on your face.

“Just shut and tell me, you dork.” You couldn’t help the way your response was delivered with a chuckle, but he was grinning at you like the doofus he was that you had come to admire.

“What are your favorite colors?” He asked, moving closer to you as Michael declared a break. You took a second to admire Tyson, the tanned skin that was on display, the slight sheen of sweat across his torso that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was. He had been letting his hair get a bit longer, and you made a mental note to tell him later that he should let the curls grow out more.

“Tyson, just tell me.” You pouted, though it didn’t last long as he pressed a kiss to your lips that had you grinning like usual. You sighed, and he chuckled knowing he had won without even having to put up much of a fight. “Fine, I like yellow, orange, and pink.”

“Then I like those colors.” He told you, the cute moment lost as Kacey made a gagging noise, again, at the cheesiness of her brother. You chuckled, giving Tyson the extra kiss he ducked down in search of once again before searching through the box of string to find the right colors. “Are you making me a bracelet?”

“Yeah, and I wanted it to be your favorite colors…” You trailed off, grinning as Tyson playfully rolled his eyes. You vaguely heard Rachel mutter a ‘cute’ to Michael, and him question why she didn’t make him a bracelet. His comment earned a slap to the shoulder, and you grinned at how happy your cousin was with her boyfriend, how happy you were with Tyson.

“Well, I want a bracelet that’s your favorite colors.” Tysons shot back. “That way, I can always have a piece of you with me.”

You flushed at his comment, heart soaring. Kacey teasingly gagged.

Again.

PRESENT

If you thought that getting sent a picture of Tyson threw you for a loop, you were completely knocked off your feet by seeing him in person. Immediately following your run-in with him at the grocery store, you had texted Rachel and told her to call you ASAP, and then spent another half hour freaking out to her on the phone about how good he looked and how you missed him.  

For the most part, she listened quietly, only interjecting at points to ask questions about how he looked and what he said. You had repeated the entire conversation verbatim—well, the parts you could remember through your panic—and she was set on analyzing his every word.

“Well, are you going to text him?” She asked the question you had been avoiding the whole conversation. The one you had contemplated on the entire drive back to your apartment.

“I don’t think so? I mean, it was really weird seeing him.” You confessed. You weren’t sure that you could handle getting left on read by him again, even if he did make it seem like he wanted to talk to you too. “Whatever you do, don’t tell your mother about this.”

“Are you kidding me? She wouldn’t leave me alone until I told her every last dirty detail.” She chuckled, and you rolled your eyes at her word choice. There weren’t any dirty details, he had barely gotten within five feet of you the whole time. “Just keep me updated if he texts you.”

He did text you, three days later at the very end of your lunch break. You saw his name pop up on your screen just as you were shoving your phone in your bag and your class was filing back into your room after recess. You didn’t dare read it, not that you had the time since students were already calling your name, so you tucked the device away and pushed any and all thoughts about the hockey player to the back of your mind.

By the time the last bus left and you were finally in your classroom alone, you took a breath and unlocked your phone. Your eyes scanned over the message, once, twice, three times before you actually came to the realization that you would have to come up with a response. You had, after all, basically invited him to text you by telling him your number had stayed the same.

Can we talk?

The simple message was how you found yourself sitting anxiously in a nearby coffee shop the following Sunday, having agreed to meet him there. It was a neutral location, one that if need be, you could slip out the door and leave him behind.

Your leg had been bouncing restlessly since the moment you sat down, but your eyes were glued to the door and you froze when a familiar set of curls and brown eyes entered. Instead of ordering, he spotted you in a booth and headed straight to you. He wore an apprehensive smile, and you offered him one weakly in return.

“Uh, hi.” He mumbled, and you repeated the stitled greeting, taking a sip of your coffee to avoid having to come up with the first thing to say. He had invited you, you weren’t going to be the one to make awkward small talk. “I’m sorry, so fucking sorry.”

It was like a switch had been flipped in him. One moment he was cautious, obviously and understandably nervous, but now he was clearly upset. You could still read him, like summer was just last week and you had spent the past few months practically glued to his side, so you could see how much whatever he wanted to say was eating him up inside.

And something changed inside you, too. You had been so torn up about losing touch with Tyson for so long, but the blame wasn’t just on him. Conversations go both ways, and you honestly couldn’t remember who had sent the last text.

“It’s not just your fault, I stopped texting too.” You shook your head, voice quiet and gaze trained on your cup. You could practically feel the distress radiating from him, and you wanted to reach across the table and comfort him. But you didn’t, you stayed rooted to your spot and let him say what he needed to.

“No, I promised that I wouldn’t let you go and I—I did, and I should have tried harder.” His words were rushed, so far from the Tyson you were used to that you were unsettled. Though, you figured he was thrown by your silence, too. “It’s just, when the season started I got so busy, and that’s not an excuse, I know, but it just got harder and harder to send a text with every day that passed since the last one you sent, and eventually I just… stopped. And I blame myself, even if you don’t.”

“Tyson…” You sighed, finally forcing yourself to look up and meet his gaze. He looked as disheveled as he sounded, and though he had grown with the years that had passed since you had last seen him, his eyes stayed the same from the last time you had seen them this close in person—red-rimmed and bloodshot. “Don’t carry this on your shoulders, if you need me to forgive you, then I do. I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

He smiled then, small, and it wasn’t nearly as wide as the ones you were used to receiving from him but it was something, and you were already back to wanting as much as you could get from him. You mirrored his expression, leaning back in your seat. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from your chest, just getting to sit down and talk with Tyson again.

And you did talk. You talked about how his hockey career was going, that he was improving with every game and that his teammates were his best friends. You told him about how Rachel and Michael were doing—they had just gotten their first apartment together, you tried to brush away the thought that if things had been different, that could be you and Tyson. You told him about your job, and he nearly jumped out of his seat in excitement that you got your dream position, the one he had heard you talk about excitedly all summer. He listened to you complain about your roommate that you didn’t get along great with, and he told you a few funny stories about when he lived with JT.

You also talked about Jon.

You had been dating Jon for three months, and it was nice. He was a nice guy, had nice friends, and had a nice, steady, job. But it was just nice. You’d never admit it to anyone—save for the one time you got wine-drunk with Rachel when she came to visit— but you felt like you were comparing your relationship with Jon to your time with Tyson. And Jon really wasn’t winning that battle.

Tyson tried to act like he wasn’t bothered by the fact that you were dating someone else, but you could see through him easily. And you understood, there had been a time when you thought that Tyson was it for you, and the image of him being with someone else made your stomach churn.

But you ignored that, because for the first time since you had met Tyson, you were just friends.

“Are you, uh, seeing anybody?” You hated the stutter in your question, you tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter if he was. Hell, you were in another relationship. But he was Tyson, your Tyson, and you don’t think you’d ever be able to get over that. He drew his brows together, pulling a face like he couldn’t believe you’d even consider that he was seeing someone else and you tried not to read too much into it. As quick as it happened, he schooled his features, gaze dropping to the tabletop as he shook his head.

He reached a hand up to run through his curls, something he had done a dozen times since sitting down, but this time a flash of something yellow and orange and pink on his wrist caught your gaze. He rested his hands on the table, and yours shot forward to grab his wrist and push the sleeve of his sweatshirt up before you could even tell yourself not to.

“You still wear it?” You questioned, looking between him and the bracelet you had made him two years back. You ignored the rush that went through you at the feeling of him under your touch, but were hesitant to pull your hands back nonetheless. The tips of his ears turned crimson, and suddenly he was sheepishly looking anywhere but you. But he spoke his next words with so much confidence, like it was the most obvious thing in the world and it contrasted his demeanor so much you wondered if it truly was that simple.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

[tbhwhocaresanymore]

Nancy Drew 2x2

Me in my naïveté: surely, the Nancy Drew writers, the best writers the CW has on staff, have run out of ways to bring back past moments and episodes that seemed unimportant at the time.

ND writers: Bitch you thought?

Y’ALL

When I say tonight’s episode made me absolutely lose my actual goddamn mind that is not in any way an exaggeration. My brain physically pried itself out of my skull and ran away down the street.

Jesus Jedediah Christ the way they brought back those five people/ghosts who at the time seemed absolutely unimportant and sent me so entirely off my rocker if I even attempt to think about it for more than two seconds I’ll spontaneously combust so we’re going to have to work around it.

First off, no surprise: HANNAH GRUEN. My bae. My wife. Love of my life. You were only there for two minutes but they were exquisite.

Second I fucking KNEW that dude from the Marvin funeral episode was important. If you’ll recall from my review my theory at the time was that maybe HE killed Owen, but you know what this was so much better.

Okay, to business. At the beginning when Nancy is seeing all of the scratches on Douglas Marvin’s grave and then we zoom out to kind of see the Aglaeca in the side of the frame, and then zoom out more and it turns around and LOOKS at us doing that creepy little swaying thing? POETIC CINEMA. Riverdale wants what Nancy Drew has.

That “unfortunate first meeting” George had with Nick’s mom and her subsequent attempts to prove herself, culminating in Millie giving her the dumpling recipe? Adorable. Speaking of the mom, I do indeed hope we see more of her. Her and Nick’s moment at the end of the episode where he talked about seeing her cry in the courtroom absolutely broke my heart. I can’t handle the thought of him not at the very least having the occasional phone call with her from this point onwards.

To be entirely honest almost every scene with the mom broke my heart. When she was talking about how she and her husband raised Nick to always do everything right and lost him anyway? Hhhhhhhhhhhhh it hurts. The writers said they would be keeping BLM in mind while writing this season, like how they kept Me Too in mind for the first one, and I was a little worried it would be hamfisted. But if they continue as they did tonight it will be nothing but beautiful.

Guys. Guys. I know I said I had no idea how to talk about it but I have to talk about it. That scene in the orphanage. When they find the photo. And Nancy realizes she has seen all of those ghosts before.

GUYS.

EPISODE 3.

SINCE EPISODE THREE THE WRITERS HAVE BEEN PLANNING THIS.

GODDAMN DO WE LOVE CONTINUITY AND FOLLOWING THROUGH ON PLOT LINES AND WRITERS WHO KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY’RE DOING. I WANT TO FIND THE SHOWRUNNER AND KISS THEM ON THE MOUTH.

Ahem.

Anyway.

I thought Carson and Ace had some really nice moments this episode. i.e. “The guy at the store said it was a one man job.” “I think the guy at the store lied to you.” I am, however, curious if Nancy is going to ever bring her father in on the fact that supernatural beings exist and that she deals with them on the reg. Like I know he helped them out with the coma ritual with McGinnis (McGinnis come back 😭😭😭) but they never really brought it up with him again, and he’s been like kept out of the loop on it all ever since. I’m just wondering if he in fact actually knows and is just remarkably calm all the time, or if he’s in denial, or what. But tbh I do have a very strong amount of sympathy for Carson, and I really want him and Nancy to get back on good terms. At the end of the episode when she brought him the coffee and stuff I teared up a little. I’m an adult, I can admit it. Maybe it’s just because I’m such a massive fan of the books, where she and her dad were so close, but having them at odds especially after they started out that way, is painful.

Speaking of the books.

Fernwood orphanage. Hhhhhh writers I see what you did there. But for those of you who don’t know, in Nancy Drew #9 The Sign of the Twisted Candle, Nancy Bess and George stop at a roadside inn/bed and breakfast type place. At the inn is a 100 year old man named Ada Sydney who Nancy befriends, along with a young orphan waitress named Carol Wipple whom Ada has a soft spot for. The next day he dies, and turns out Carson is his lawyer and Nancy goes with him for the will reading. Long story short, Carol is apparently his granddaughter and he leaves her like EVERYTHING, but when she was young she grew up at, drumroll please!

FERNWOOD ORPHANAGE. I AM DECEASED.

And the Stratemeyer woods? For the same people, Stratemeyer Syndicate was the place that published all the Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Bobbsey Twins, Tom Swift books, etc. You will not be able to find them today however, as they were bought by Simon and Schuster in like 1987.

Back to the show.

When Detective Tamura (aka The Inferior McGinnis Who Can Rot In Hell) said the skeleton was Buddy and NOT KJ (AJ? I’m deaf) I got suspicious. And then as soon as they played the record and only five ghosts showed up, I was all ‘HOLY SHIT HE IS ALIVE’ and then he WAS. At the end of the episode, when they saw the flowers on the graves? You guys I was LOSING. MY MIND. And then the note saying “forgive me -kitsune” aaaaaaah. I am in fact afraid that he wants forgiveness because he sacrificed the others to save himself, but I am praying the writers do not do that to me.

I’m interested in finding out, assuming we meet KJ/AJ next episode, WHY the 1975 group reached out to the Aglaeca in the first place. Nancy and Crew did it because they needed Lucy Sable’s bones from 20 years ago to get Carson off the hook for murder, I am assuming these guys had at least as good a reason. And the Aglaeca herself. Dear god you guys. Odette Marvin. I’ve been saying and we’ve all known for a while, that she was wronged by the Marvin family. But Lordy that’s extreme. Listening to the overlaying recording? They low key abducted her, stole her fortune, her chaperone and the captain betrayed her, she was presumably bound hand and foot had her head shaved and got thrown into the ocean. I think I might be a little murderous too ngl. Although it begs the question, why exactly did Douglas Marvin have her painted into the hall of tragedies? I don’t think it was to gloat. Maybe Odette haunted him after the fact and added herself into the painting? But my favorite theory is that Odette as the Aglaeca started killing all the people who were in on it, her chaperone, the captain, etc., (I assume there were six) and Douglas saw the others dying and painted her into the portrait as a way to warn future generations of Marvins, rather than fess up to what he had done. I also want to know the deal with the first women to summon her, and the mirror? There is potential there I KNOW IT.

If you’re not a Drewson shipper feel free to skim this paragraph but guys Nick and Nancy are soulmates it’s confirmed. I’m not even kidding guys I was in no way shape or form prepared for the amount of Nick x Nancy content I got tonight. When Nick is at her house and they mention how they skipped friendship the first time around? “We skipped a lot of things the first time around.” DEAD. And then later at the Claw, when Nancy and not George came to comfort him post fight with the mother? And then he saw that look Nancy gets where her eyes flit around cause her mind is working overtime? *chef’s kiss* My prediction is they will spend this season building up a strong, solid, foundational Nancy x Nick friendship and then when they give the romance a second go they will be so. much. stronger. I’m guessing season 3 will be spent in a bit of a complicated love triangle with Nick and Nancy (re)developing feelings for each other while still having them for George and Ace, making the eventual payoff all the more delightful.

I close this review - which was admittedly less of a review and more of me shrieking incoherently - off with a plea to the writers.

*eyes turn black*

WHERE IS DEAD LUCY

WRITERS

WHERE IS SHE

IT HAS BEEN ALMOST A YEAR. FOR TEN MONTHS NOW I HAVE GONE WITHOUT HER. SHE HAS BEEN GONE SINCE EPISODE 16. NO SCREAMING. NO CREEPY CRAWLING. NOTHING. WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER. BRING HER TO ME.

*shakes self* Glad to get that out of my system. See you all next week for 2x3, The Secret of the Solitary Scribe.

[smutty-ki113r]

Hiya! I saw your blog and was interested in asking for a romantic matchup! You can involve nsfw if you would like.

My name is Ronan, my nickname is Ro, my most used pronouns are she/her/he/him. My sexuality is demi-sexual meaning I don’t get sexual attractions to people unless I have formed a strong emotional connection with said person. My zodiac is Scorpio (that’s pretty much all I know about that lmao) also my personality is ISTP-T

Starting with my mental trash I have a VERY low self esteem. I never liked the way I look and probably never will. I suffer from chronic depression that’s pretty much taken over my life. I have a very hard time with social cues and can come off as an asshole most of the time and I’m extremely blunt. People tend to think I’m cute since I’m fairly small; I’m a 5’3 Nordic female with thicker thighs. I am absolutely OBSESSED with The Legend of Zelda franchise, it’s been apart of my life for as long as I can remember. I’m pretty musical; I play bass, drums, and sing. I also voice act so that’s really fun. Not gonna lie I say I have a huge ego but really I just hate everyone. Having depression I mostly lock myself in my room and work on my art.

How I look: I have black/brown hair in a boy cut. I have big round hazel eyes, my face is round with slightly chubby cheeks and freckles. I want to get my lip pierced but sadly have not gotten to that yet.. My fashion sense is kinda everywhere but I typically go for the cottage core aesthetic. I love muted nature ish colors, I think they look so pretty. I love to go on long walks and sit alone at my local park. I find being alone outside very calming. When I’m not outside or in my room I’m mostly playing video games with my friends and kicking their ass. Believe it or not I used to do boxing but now I just lift weights and workout some. I have a long history of physical illnesses that really render my body kinda useless so I always try to strengthen myself up however I can. I spent most of my childhood in the hospital due to these illnesses. I have been homeschooled my whole school years but I taught myself German, Japanese, and computer science. I actually have a job around it. I’m terrible at explaining my feelings and asking for help so telling people I love them is a huge chore for me. A lot of the time you can find me alone singing to myself with my eyes closed daydreaming.

I love to read. My friends say I’m really boring but whatever. OH I’ve always wanted to be a DJ. I know its a really weird dream but it just looks so cool. Nobody ever expects the sick quiet girl to want to be a DJ. Speaking of shy I’m a huge introvert if you couldn’t figure that out already. I’m extremely shy, don’t talk to me I’ll run away or you’ll be enveloped in my Zelda talk. I have amazingly crazy music taste (according to my mom) I listen to mostly heavy metal and Corpse Husband.

NSFW: Huge HUGE brat. You want me to do something? Yeah fuck you. I’m a huge sub you can pretty much do anything to me. I have a big daddy kink like please let me call you daddy UGH. Also praise but degrade me at the same time? Please thanks. I’m also a pillow princess. Um um ddlg yes thanks.

I match you with…..💖BEN_DROWNED💖

NSFW bellow~

OK OK I KNOW I KNOW, DON’T @ me for picking Benny boy for you Ro. I just think it’s the right fit. Let me start off with the whole depression thing, BEN relates to locking himself in his room and hyperfixating on something. At least you’ll have a gaming buddy to get you through it. Plus, he’s a very competitive guy. Get him to not cheat and you will have fun for hours. Not to mention you sound a bit like Jeff in the way that you can come off as rude. BEN and Jeff are pretty good friends, so you’ll make a wonderful partner for BEN.

Voice acting? BEN will love that, he’ll try to get you to do different characters from his video games or even anime characters. He loves your chubby cheeks, likes to squish them and make them puckered and then give you kisses. It’s quite adorable. Zelda talk? Yeah you don’t need to worry about him running off about that.

BEN will be obsessed with the cottage core, probably likes those little white flowy dresses. Maybe one day wear those elf ears and surprise him, I think he’d think it’s cute. You should definetly do his makeup, put that holographic glitter on his cheeks and some hair clips in his hair- maybe a skirt if he feels up to it.

BEN is very understanding about your illnesses, in fact he would be super impressed that you even lift weights. And is so so supportive about you wanting to be a DJ. He gets excited and calls over Jeff to show him. He’s not very shy about saying I love you, maybe the first time but after it’s constant affection.

For the smut! He can get rough sometimes, loves the daddy kink. He’s the type to soak all that up like a sponge. Praises you for taking his cock so well but will call you pathetic for making those noises. Probably wants you to wrap your thighs around his head and suck your clit for hours, he likes to feel you cum.

Ok Ok I hope you enjoyed that! I love how you have a big ego and then- low self esteem, sounds like me. I literally hate myself so much and then… holy shit I’m the hottest person alive. I know what depression is like, those thoughts just wrap around your throat and choke the life out of you, and it’s not even fast. It’s every day just heavier and heavier, dragging you down and making you feel horrible. I mostly lock myself in my room too, but writing helps me through it. I love love love your hair, boy cuts are so cool. And get that lip piercing! IT WOULD LOOK AWESOME. I love that you’re talented in music, I wish I was musically inclined. Scorpios are so cool, like I said, my best friend is one and so I LOVE YOU GUYS.

I am so incredibly proud of you, homeschool and then the illness stuff must be so hard but you are so strong for going through it. You don’t deserve it but sometimes life works that way. It’s ok to be shy and introverted. For the record, I think you would make an awesome DJ. DO it, I believe in you, so should you. I mean we all have our passions, work hard enough and I promise you’ll get there. I used to write a lot about my feelings and nobody ever read it, but I continued and look where I am now! Im so proud of myself for having this account, and you for being ALIVE. Thats all you need to do, you don’t need to be cool, or popular or skinny to be an amazing person.

Ro, I swear you are an awesome person. I can clearly see it, and I promise one day you’ll look in the mirror and think the same. If your friends say you’re boring they aren’t your friends. They sort of suck because reading is so cool. Without readers I couldn’t be a writer now could I? I believe in you. I know you can do it. Lifting weights is so badass I couldn’t even- I can barely do 5 pound weights man. Ya know I believe that the people who go through the most pain and sadness are the ones who will be the happiest in the end. The universe has to give us back what we lost, there is balance in everything and pain is only temporary. Everything is temporary. So I promise it’ll be ok man, and hey, you’re valid. I see you ro, and I know that you’ll make great places someday.

[adultswim2021]

Home Movies #51: “Temporary Blindness”  | March 28, 2004 - 11:00 PM | S04E12

Man, season four is really disappointing me this time around. I always conceded that it was “a little weak” compared to previous seasons, but yeah, this one is pretty dull. Brendon, Melissa, and Jason all have to do a school project about their family trees. This could lead to something interesting, but it doesn’t, really. Melissa decides to make hers up and Jason does his about his ferret. And that’s the end of that.

McGuirk gets discount laser eye surgery and experiences the titular temporary blindness. Brendon thinks he’s psychic because he mutters something about chocolate milk going bad before Brendon goes to goes to school where it’s announced that the chocolate milk has gone bad. We reveal later that he’s the cause of said chocolate milk going bad; he was confessing to a crime, not being psychic. Regardless, McGuirk winds up working various crowds as a psychic and raking in a lotta cash. Does this sound like a post-classic Simpsons episode yet?

Oh yeah, Brendon, Jason, and Melissa are making a movie that’s like Tommy but called Timmy. There’s not much of a significant twist, but it is thematic. The ending of the episode has Jason giving his report at school and the episode ends by inexplicably fading into him as Timmy in a similar pose, I guess just so the show can end with a reprise of the Timmy song. I remember listening to the commentary and the participants groaning like “well, we had to end the show somehow.” It’s pretty pathetic. Also there’s a better Timmy song and it’s from South Park. They should’ve just used the Timmy & The Lords of the Underworld song to end on. In fact, I’m prepping an entire Home Movies fan-edit where every episode ends with either a South Park or DVDA original song. This will finally give the series the edge it was so sorely lacking.

I remembered this one fondly because of the opening scene with McGuirk at the eye doctor. It’s very funny. The tone’s a tad off from what Home Movies typically does best, but the bit where he watches the stupid instructional video while getting more and more fucked up on painkillers is irresistibly fun. The doctor is great, too. There’s some mild body horror but it’s cartoonish, and the gag is that McGuirk is over-drugged so he can’t feel anything. It hits similar notes as Melissa’s fairy princesses video from “Storm Warning”, and it seems like a prelude to Metalocalypse with the wacky floating skull mascot (whose name I don’t feel like looking up... is it SKULLY? SKULLFACE? it’s one of those, right?) who does similar videos on there.

EPHEMERA CORNER

Commercial: Quiznos (Space Ghost) (March 30, 2004) 

MAIL BAG

So many cartoons and children's programs did Rear Window episodes that when I saw the actual movie I spent the whole thing trying to figure out what the misunderstanding would be and couldn't believe that the guy really did just murder his wife. That's simply too much for the likes of Bart, Rocko, Plucky Duck, Fred Flintstone, Heathcliff, ALF, and of course our boy Brendon. (I assume, I was too scared to watch the ending of any of these episodes) Thank you Brendon

My issue was that I was under the influence of the Simpsons audio commentary track where somebody points out that Ross Bagdasarian aka Dave Seville plays the frustrated jingle writer, so I kept waiting for a chipmunk nod. Maybe some origin story where we see him get delivered groceries and he opens his carton of eggs and he’s like “what the hell these are chipmunk eggs” and all hatch and start cannibalizing one another until just our three cool guys are left. Would’ve been cool. I wrote the Hitchcock estate explaining how wrong they were to make the movie so badly and they just sent back a letter saying “Madam, I suggest you have her dry cleaned”

Bitch, you talked about the Simpsons in that last post more than you did Home Movies don't tell me I wrote the wrong blog.

This is fair. I did write about The Simpsons extensively above as well. I’m sorry for being so coarse, I just felt like I was being messed with. It’s not a nice feeling. Is it, bitch

[13-reasons-ideas]

I love that you’re one of the few writers that will write about Monty. I don’t support what he did but I love how much of a complex character do you think you could do a imagine where the reader used to date Monty but broke up bc of his recklessness. She started dating Justin but found out he cheated on her by hooking up with Jessica. Then Monty sneaks into her bedroom window and comforts her and it’s fluffy

“I’m sorry Montgomery.”

“Why (Y/N)?”

“I just can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep watching you self-destruct. I thought that when we got together, that maybe you would stop? That you would realize that your reckless behaviour had to come to an end? You’re an adult now. Your behaviour has actual, real consequences.”

“Self-destruct? You think that’s what it is?”

“I don’t know Monty. That’s just it. You don’t let me in. I never know what is going on in your head. I get you don’t like talking about stuff, but when you’re in a relationship with someone, you’re supposed to talk to them.”

“This is stupid.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But you can’t sit here and tell me you haven’t seen this coming. Your behaviour needs to change. Your recklessness needs to stop. Before you do something you really regret or gets you hurt. Or worse. I just can’t be around to see it.”

“(Y/N) please. I’m trying.” He said, grabbing my hand.

“I really am sorry Montgomery. I hope you figure things out.” I smiled sadly at him before walking away, trying my damnedest to hold back tears. I couldn’t bring myself to look back.

TWO MONTHS LATER

I walked into school with my bag slung haphazardly over my shoulder, listening to a podcast on my phone. Before I could make my way to my locker, I was stopped abruptly by a blue and white jacket, causing me to stumble.

“Oof.” I grunted.

“Shit, sorry.” I heard Justin Foley, er… Jensen. Foley-Jensen? say.

“Yeah, whatever.” I replied, trying to walk away from him. Birds of a feather flock together. Same principle for jocks.

“Actually hey (Y/N). Wait up a second.”

I stopped and turned to him, “yes Justin? What can I do for you?”

“Well, when you put it that way, you can let me take you to dinner on Saturday.” He told me, rather than asked. I think I saw his chest puff out a bit.

“Uh, let me think for a minute about that.” I said, fully intending to say no. Suddenly I saw a familiar flannel shirt coming towards us. Making a show of thinking about it before responding, “pick me up at 7. I’ll text you my address.” I turned and walked away. Behind me I could practically hear Montgomery ringing Justin’s neck in his head. As I made my way to physics, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I didn’t need to turn to know who was watching.

Justin kept his word and was outside my house at 6:55 on Saturday. My mom let him in as I was grabbing my coat from my room. “Samantha is just about ready Justin, why don’t you have a seat.” I heard her say to him. Oh no, not the seat trick.

Running out of my room with my coat, I yelled, “that’s okay mom. I’m ready. He doesn’t need to sit.” When I got to the top of the stairs, I stopped. “Hey Justin.”

“Hey Sam.” He waved, “you look pretty tonight.”

I giggled quietly, “thanks.” I haven’t giggled in a long time. Pulling on a pair of worn chucks, I pulled on my coat and Justin led me out to the car. “Bye Mom. Don’t wait up.”

We joked around in the car a bit on the way to the restaurant. “Wait, so you actually told Clay that you’re a ‘fucking awesome driver’ and he believed you? Clay?”

“Yes. And I am, or had you not noticed?” He confirmed, motioning to the steering wheel with one hand.

“No, no I noticed. I’m just surprised Clay agreed. It took him like eight years to acknowledge you as more than ‘that kid’ or ‘ew Justin’.”

“Well, detoxing in a guy’s bedroom can do things to your relationship.”

“You puked on his bed, didn’t you?”

“Yeah… not my finest moment. At least it wasn’t Tony’s jacket.”

“Meh, happens to the best of us. Sometimes it happens. You’re right though. If it was Tony’s jacket, he would have killed you so you were all dead.”

“As opposed to?”

“Just mostly dead.”

Justin laughed heartily at the cheesy joke, “That was a good movie.”

We arrived at the local Italian restaurant and Justin was a wonderful gentleman. He opened my door for me, and we walked hand in hand to the door, which he also opened for me. After we were seated and had ordered, we continued our conversation from the car. “So, skipping over the ‘I was friends with Bryce Walker and that was a time’ thing, who are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ve known each other since we were in middle school and all I know about you is you’re a jock, you were friends with Bryce, you dated Jessica Davis, and you were adopted by the Jensen’s for reasons I don’t think we need to discuss too much right now.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you like?”

“Like in general?”

“Yes. What does Justin like?”

“Hmmm… okay. Justin likes crappy movies.”

“Okay. What else do you like?”

“Annoying Clay.”

“Well that’s a given. Something I don’t know please?”

“You.” He responded, taking a sip of his water.

I blushed, and played with a strand of my hair, “oh?”

“Yeah. Why else would I have asked you to dinner?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t want to go to a restaurant by yourself?”

“Oh, sweetie. I wouldn’t just ask you for that. I would bring Clay or something. Or put my big boy pants on and come by myself.”

“Okay, okay. I believe you.” I surrendered as our meals came. I tried to hold back a very not first date appropriate moan as I took a bite. My eyes widened instead and Justin chuckled. At least, until he had a bite of his own food. His eyes widened and rolled back slightly. Wow. That’s… wow.

After a few more bites of the wonderful food, Justin directed his attention back to me, “what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you like?”

“Oh umm, I like to run.” I said simply. I usually save the absentee father thing for the third date.

“That’s cool. What do you like about it?”

“I like that I can do it by myself and its just me, whatever I’m listening to at the time, and the pavement. I can just focus on that.”

“I can understand that. What else do you like?”

“I like art.”

“I know. I’ve seen you at lunch, hunched over your sketchbook. You always look so focused.”

“It’s nice to have something specific to focus on and get an end result that lasts a lifetime.”

“Can I see some of your drawing sometime?”

“Sure. Only if you let me draw you though.”

“Like one of your French girls?”

“No, you perv. You.”

“Okay, deal.”

“Great. I can’t wait.”

After dinner was done, we made a stop at Monet’s for some dessert. We split a slice of cake and a cookie before calling it a night. He drove me home and we sat in the car for a while, neither of us wanting the night to end. “I should probably head inside. It’s getting late.” I whispered.

“You should. But do you want to?” he whispered back, reaching over to turn my face towards him.

“No.” I whispered back.

“Me either.”

My eyes flickered between his eyes and his lips. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and I leaned in slightly to place a chaste kiss on his lips. They were smooth and tasted like vanilla.

I pulled away first, not really wanting to. “I should go inside now.” I whispered softly, so as not to ruin our moment.

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Okay.” I nodded and reached for the door handle.

“Bye (Y/N).”

“Bye Justin.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” He’s really trying to drag this out.

“Bye. I’ll talk to you tomorrow and see you at school on Monday.”

“Okay.” He nodded and I took that as my queue to exit the vehicle. He waited for me to unlock the door and enter the house before leaving. I waved to him from my doorway as he backed out of my driveway and made his way home. That was perfect.

Justin called me the next day around one and we spent two hours on the phone together, just talking about random stuff. I learned of his very odd dislike of watermelon and he listened intently as I explained various art mediums. By the time Monday morning rolled around, I had a whole different idea of who Justin was. He was no longer the somewhat cocky jock. He was the sensitive boy I had only heard existed from friends of friends.

Monday morning, I decided to actually get up early and make myself look at least a little nice. I pulled out my favourite outfit, did stuff to my hair, and put on a touch of makeup. I stopped to get a coffee on my way and asked the barista what Justin’s order usually was. She was working Saturday night and saw us together, so she gave it to me readily. When I got to school, I sought Justin out and surprised him with his coffee. “Katie told me your order.” I explained at his questioning look.

“Thank you, it’s perfect.” He said, pulling me into his side and kissing the side of my head. I smiled, taking a sip of my own coffee and leaning into him.

“You guys are already cute. It’s sickening.” Clay said, giving Justin a light push. Once again, I felt someone’s eyes on the back of my head and had to resist the urge to turn to look at him. We broke up. Quit staring at me. If Clay noticed, he didn’t mention who was staring at me. Justin and I talked a bit before I had to literally run to Physics. I turned around to wave to him and I caught sight of Monty standing at his locker, looking as cranky and pissed off as ever.

Between classes, I was minding my own business, going over some biology notes, when I felt a hand grab me and pull me into an empty classroom. “Jesus. Could give a girl some warning before you grab her.” I spoke into the darkness. The sound of the door locking set my body on edge.

“I had to talk to you.” Monty said.

“Really? You had to talk to me? And you thought grabbing me and pulling me into an empty classroom was the best way to go about that?”

“Would you have given me the time of day otherwise (Y/N)?”

I was silent for a moment. “Fair point. Now what do you want? I have class.”

“I want to know why you agreed to go out with Justin.”

“Maybe because it’s a free country Montgomery?”

“That’s the worst explanation you have ever given, and you know it.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation. We aren’t together anymore. I am free to date whoever I want. You are too, if you ever decide to do that.”

“You broke up with me because you said I was reckless. And now you’re dating Justin fucking Foley.”

“I think he goes by Jensen now.”

“Who gives a damn? My point is, you left me because I’m reckless, and now you’re dating someone who is equally if not more reckless than me.”

“I fail to see how a recovering addict is more reckless than you.”

“You fail to… wow. I’m shocked we didn’t break up sooner.” Okay that stung.

“Thanks Monty. That was real nice of you.”

“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“So how did you mean it?”

“Not how it sounded. But (Y/N), tell me you realize that Justin is just using you to fill the time until Jessica gets bored of Alex again. Because we all know she will. Or until he decides to run away again.”

“Huh. I didn’t think you could make yourself seem like more of a dick than you already had. Yet, here we are. I have to go. I’m running late.”

He was silent as I pushed past him and left the room. More reckless? More reckless than beating kids up for no reason? More reckless than any of the other shit he has pulled in the last four years? How pissed in his Corn Pops this morning? I was angry but I couldn’t help but replay his last statement over and over in my head, you realize that Justin is just using you to fill the time until Jessica gets bored of Alex again. Because we all know she will. Or until he decides to run away again. I was so distracted in biology; I missed an entire section of notes.

By the time lunch had rolled around, I had convinced myself that Montgomery was just pissed off and trying to fuck with my head, since he wouldn’t and couldn’t actually hurt me in any other way. I sat with Justin and his friends at lunch. I watched as he laughed along with them and smiled to myself. His friends included me as much as they could, but I could tell it was a little strange for them, seeing him with someone other than Jess. It’s not like I wasn’t friends with them, but with dating Monty and being so close to him, it was hard for us to hang out. Not that he kept me from them or anything, there was just a distance. It was nice to have them again. I decided to pull out my sketchbook and doodle while my friends talked amongst themselves. It wasn’t long before I had given up on doodling and had begun to draw Justin. It was a side profile and it was quick, so it wasn’t the greatest thing I had ever drawn, but it was okay. I would do better later when I had more time.

**

A few weeks after our first date, Justin invited me home to meet his folks. I had met them before because I was friends with Clay and sort of friends with Justin, but this was different. I was meeting them as Justin’s girlfriend now. For some reason I was more nervous to meet them than I was to meet Monty’s parents. Probably because you knew his dad wouldn’t like you and his mom was never really a concern for you. I pulled up in front of the Jensen house and looked up at the front window. The curtains fell back into place, so I knew at least one of the family members was waiting for my arrival.

I knocked on the door and it was opened almost immediately. Justin was waiting on the other side and he pulled me in the door excitedly. “You’re early.” He commented as he pulled me into a hug.

“I noticed. Have you been waiting by the door all morning?” I asked.

“No, he made me sit and wait when he had to go to the bathroom or wanted snacks.” Clay called from the couch.

“Lies.” Justin called back.

“Not lies. Hi (Y/N).” Mr. Jensen said as he came into the living room.

“Hey Mr. Jensen. How are you and Mrs. Jensen?”

“We are good. How many times do we have to tell you, its Matt and Lainie?”

“I know, I know. Old habits die hard, is all.”

“You still like tacos?”

“Uh… yes. They are great.”

“Good, its taco night.”

“That’s great dad, we are going to my room now.” Justin exclaimed, taking my hand and leading me to the back door.

“Um, okay.” I said.

“It’s my room too.” Clay called after us.

“Welcome to my room.” Justin said as he opened the door with a dramatic flair of his arm.

“Justin, I’ve been in your room before.” I laughed as I shook my head.

“I know, but this is different. Oh, I told clay you wouldn’t sit on his bed, so you can sit on mine.”

“Okay.” I nodded and sat down. As I looked around, I noticed there was more stuff on the walls, “what do boys call the stuff on the walls?”

“Clay calls it putting shit up, I call it homing.”

“Like the pigeons?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” There was a bit of a lull in the conversation. We had never been alone like this before.

“Did you bring your sketchbook?”

I gave him a look.

“Sorry, dumb question. Of course, you brought it.”

“I did yes. Why?”

“Can I look at it?”

“Not yet. The deal was I get to draw you and you get to look at it.”

Justin looked at his watch, “dinner won’t be for a while yet.”

“You want me to draw you now?” I asked, my brow raising.

“I mean, yeah. Why not?” he shrugged. “Where do you want me?”

I looked around the room again, deciding on an ideal spot, “well, your bed has really good natural light. I’ll grab a bar stool and sit there.”

Justin nodded and walked over, as I went to get up, he placed his hand around my arm. I looked at him questioningly before he placed a sweet kiss on my lips. I blushed as he pulled away. I will never get used to that. We changed spots quickly and I pulled a stool over. After a few directions and some time spent positioning him properly, I set to work. A bit after I started, he began speaking, “I feel like I don’t know much about you (Y/N/N).”

“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat distracted.

“You know all these things about me, but I don’t know much about you personally. I know we were kind of friends, but you don’t really talk about yourself.”

“There’s not much to know. It’s just me and my mom. She’s a nurse and worked a lot growing up. I learned how to be pretty self-sufficient.”

“What about your dad?” He asked, moving slightly to get more comfortable.

“Never knew him. He walked out shortly after I was born. They weren’t married, so there wasn’t much to divide up when he left. Mom said when they went to court, he agreed to pay child support but didn’t want to have to be involved. Judge wasn’t thrilled when they submitted the paperwork, but my mom and her lawyer agreed to it.”

“That sucks.”

“I guess, but I never knew any different. What about you?”

“Never knew mine either. No real story. Amber is an addict, so I don’t know much.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“I had a goldfish when I was a kid. His name was Napoleon.”

“Napoleon the fish?”

“Yes. I wasn’t allowed to have a dog or anything because my mom worked so much. And so, I gave my fish a weird name.” He made an impressed sound and face.

I had gotten about half the drawing done before clay knocked on the door and opened it with his eyes covered, “Dad says dinner is ready.”

“You can open your eyes, you squeamish child.” Justin chided.

“Nope. No I’m good.”

“We will be right in.” Clay nodded in response before backing out and closing the door firmly again. I closed the book and hopped out of my seat, placing my book on the counter.

“Can I see it?” Justin asked, beckoning me over.

“Not yet. It’s not done yet.” I told him. I walked over slowly, “dinner?”

“In a minute,” he started as he took my hand and pulled me down towards him, “have something to do first.” I smiled brightly at him as he pulled me down into a kiss, straddling his lap. A moment later, I pulled away and sat back.

“As much as I would like to continue this, your dad said you were having tacos.”

He sighed, nodding, “I know. We can continue this later.”

I stood up and smirked at him. Yes we can. I walked to the door and he smacked my ass playfully. I gave him an exaggerated shocked look and he grabbed my hand as we walked through the yard to the main house.

Dinner was fun and less awkward than I expected. I had gone over many times to hang out with Clay but going over as their son’s girlfriend was different. Matt and Lainie couldn’t ask me too much because they knew a lot about me. Tacos are always a fun food for company, and Justin made fun of my topping choice playfully. Clay overfilled his and it fell apart in his hands, drawing laughs from the table. It was nowhere near as bad as I expected. I couldn’t help but compare it to the awkward dinners I would have when Monty came over for at first and my mom wasn’t sure where she stood on the idea of him. I had always refused dinner with his family, so I didn’t need to hold my tongue around his dad for too long, which he never objected to.

Once dinner was over and it was time to go, I ran back to the boy’s room and grabbed my sketchbook. It’s not that I don’t trust Justin not to look… but I don’t trust Justin not to look.Justin and I said our goodbyes much quicker than we did that first night and I texted him when I got home to let him know I was safe. The following day at school, I was surprised to find Justin waiting at my locker with a muffin.

“Stopped by work on the way this morning and picked this up for you.” I smiled and kissed his cheek as I took it, biting into the fresh baked good. A very NSFW moan left my throat before I could stop it. I looked at Justin with wide eyes and a bright red face. He looked like he was trying to talk himself out of either laughing or dragging me to my car and driving to my place, education be damned. I looked down, embarrassed, waiting for the cheeky comment. When none came, I looked up at him through my lashes. I kind of miss the stupid innuendos. He was smiling wide and though he wasn’t looking directly at me, but you wouldn’t be able to tell unless you were as close to him as I was. I heard her laugh before I saw her. Jessica was walking towards us, laughing at a joke or something Alex had said. Montgomery’s words played in my head again you realize that Justin is just using you to fill the time until Jessica gets bored of Alex again, causing me to shake my head slightly to clear it. Get out of my head. You’re just jumping to conclusions (Y/N). Nothing is going on with them. Ignoring the possibilities in my head, I let Justin walk me to class. By the end of the day, any thoughts of Justin and Jessica were out of my head.  

**

Justin and I had grown closer over the past couple of months than I thought I would ever get to another person ever again. We talked about everything. Our hopes and dreams. We shared our biggest fears and most pointless phobias. He told me about what it was like when he left and how Clay had saved him. I knew he was leaving some stuff out, but I was too. Neither of us were going to pry. I told him about the time I had gotten curious and looked into finding my dad. I explained how any lead I could come up with came up dry and whenever I felt like I was getting close, something would happen to make it slip through my fingers. We talked about our favourite things and the things we couldn’t stand. It was everything a relationship should be. Then why do I feel like there is something missing? I continued to avoid Montgomery as much as I could, lest he try and give me more crap about my relationship.

On one of the rare nights it rained in our area of California, Justin opened up to me about his addiction. We were in my room and I was working on another portrait of him. He explained to me how he had started it as a way to escape the reality that he had left everything he had ever known and how it had quickly snowballed from there. He told me about detoxing at Clay’s and how the Jensen’s went out of their way to make him feel welcome in their home. He told me about relapsing and how even though they weren’t as close as they had once been, Bryce Walker had been the one to help when he got into a bind with Seth. I asked him about what happened, but he wouldn’t elaborate. He continued on and said that Bryce tried to help by giving him his old pills instead of the H he was using. I asked him about rehab and was not surprised when he said it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. “It’s still a struggle, but I have people around me who I know I can lean on and go to. So that helps on the bad days.” I nodded at him, as I finished the drawing and turned it to show him. “Woah. That’s amazing. Probably the best one yet.” I smiled at him and carefully removed it from the book, giving it to him.

“Keep it.”

A week or so later, everything changed. I walked to class the long way since the rain the past few days had stopped this morning during class. As I walked past the locker room, I heard voices that sounded suspiciously like Justin and Jessica. They seemed to be getting closer to the door and I quickly hid in an alcove. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this to Alex, Justin.” Jess said, as he opened the door for her.

“I know. (Y/N) is a really sweet girl. I just can’t get you out of my head.”

“She really is. I’ll see you after your shift tonight?”

“Yeah, Clay is going out with the new girl.”

“Great. I can’t wait.” Justin looked around to make sure no one was watching, no one he could see anyway, before he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. I gasped quietly and quickly covered my mouth. They didn’t seem to notice. As they walked away, I noticed how disheveled his shirt looked. That jerk. Oh… Monty was right. I’m such an idiot. When I was sure they were gone, I snuck out of my hiding spot and ran to class. I’ll deal with this at lunch.

Lunch came sooner than I wanted, since I had again, gotten distracted in biology. Justin was waiting for me at the entrance to the cafeteria. I ignored him as I walked up to Monty and his friends. He was mid-bite into a sandwich. “Incoming Monty.” Bryce warned. He ignored him. I tapped him on the shoulder lightly, and he finished his bite before turning to me.

“Hey, (Y/N).” he greeted, slightly confused as we hadn’t spoken since he had dragged me into a classroom a couple of months ago.

“You were right.” I spoke quietly, so only he could hear me. His brow furrowed until he looked up and saw Justin walking towards me. His face went from confused to understanding.

“(Y/N)? What’s going on?” Justin asked, behind me.

“I don’t know Justin, why don’t you ask Jessica?” I asked, turning to him.

“Shit. She’s mad.” Scott said. I hummed in response. Justin looked like a deer in the headlights. Before anyone could stop me, I slapped Justin across the face, drawing ‘oooo’s and ‘ahhh’s from the surrounding tables. Calmly, I picked up my bag and walked away. I didn’t walk to a table where my friends sat. I didn’t share a look with Jess or Alex. Alex is smart. He will figure it out. Instead, I walked straight out to my car and drove home.

I spent the afternoon and evening in my room, alternating between crying and trying in vain to get the image of Justin kissing Jessica out of my head. My mom was working a forty-eight-hour shift at the hospital, so I had the house to myself. I had finally started to fall asleep when I heard a familiar sound. It sounded like pebbles hitting my window. Monty. I got up and opened the window.

“Monty? It’s like… one in the morning. What are you doing here?” I whisper called down to him.

“I thought you could use some company. I brought your favourite ice cream. You get any better at catching things in the last four months?”

“I was never that bad.” I called down to him as he threw the container up to me.

“Okay sweetheart. We will go with that.” He joked as he climbed up the lattice work along the side of my house. After he was up and, in my bedroom, I decided to let him know I was home alone.

“You could have used the front door. My mom is at work.”

“Now you tell me.” he rolled his eyes playfully as he stood up and enveloped me in a hug. This feels nice. I directed him to sit in my bed as I ran to get a couple of spoons from the kitchen. We had shared enough ice cream and… other kinds of DNA to not need to worry about bowls anymore. By the time I got back, he had made himself comfortable on his side of the bed, leaving my spot open for me. We ate in silence for a while before he spoke again. “I’m sorry I was right.”

“I guess I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t. At the time I was just saying it to be an ass. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. You were right. He is reckless and it wasn’t fair to break up with you because of your recklessness, and then start dating him. I hurt you and I’m sorry Monty.”

“It’s okay, (Y/N). But there is one thing you can do if you want to make it up to me.”

“What?”

“Switch pillows with me. This one is all lumpy.”

I laughed at him as I switched pillows before cuddling up close to him. “Hey Montgomery?”

“Yes (Y/N)?”

“How would you feel about breakfast in the morning. Like out somewhere.”

“You mean like a date?”

“Exactly like a date.”

“I think that would be some of the best breakfast I’d have in a long time.” We were quiet for a while before he spoke again, “(Y/N/N)?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you want me to talk to Justin?”

“Do you mean talk to him or talk to him?”

“Just talk.”

“No, you don’t have to. I think he got the picture this afternoon. Thank you though.”

Monty and I spent the rest of the night talking and had a delicious breakfast at Rosie’s. He drove me home and came in to say hello to my mom. It wasn’t the perfect morning or the perfect new beginning, but nothing about our relationship ever was.