#crossing my fingers for him to return next season were so clOSE LADS-

[swagginmun]

JOPWJEHEIQ-I love your art so much, especially the way you draw Nezha, do you have any doodles of the lil prince?

I digged around old files and I keep forgetting to poST THESE SO LEMME DO THAT NOW-

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

shelter me from winter’s bite

Everyone’s doing a hypothermia fic so I figured I may as well contribute. It’s one of my favorite tropes.

title taken from Brian Czyzyk’s poem “Hoarfrost” (he’s my favorite young queer poet and you should check him out).

tw: hypothermia, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending

---

“Do you always have to be so damnably loud?” Geralt growls, glaring at Jaskier from across the small room. 

“My apologies for existing,” the bard snaps back. He’d only been rearranging his pack, looking for something reasonably clean to sleep in while his clothes were laundered by the innkeeper’s lovely wife. “I’ll try to do so more quietly from now on, good sir.”

Geralt huffs out a breath in passive-aggressive annoyance and Jaskier bristles. 

“Oh well, then. C’mon witcher, I know you want to say it!”

“Say what?” Geralt asks. His voice is low and threatening. He’s ready to play the game and by god he’s going to win this time.  

“It’s practically your motto at this point,” the bard hisses through his teeth, angry and bitter and tired. Geralt sees victory. Sees some peace and quiet on the horizon. “Say it!”

Geralt does as he’s told, like any good witcher would: “Fuck off, bard.”

“There it is!” Jaskier laughs joylessly, throwing up his hands. He pulls on his doublet and boots and heads for the door. “If you want me gone so badly, Geralt, then I will go. I’ll get out of your lovely white hair and leave you to mope in peace.”

“Fucking finally,” the witcher snarls, turning away. He doesn’t see the genuine hurt in Jaskier’s blue eyes as the bard quietly closes the door rather than slamming it. He doesn’t hear the quiet sob that rips its way out of Jaskier’s throat as he stands very still, shocked and suddenly exhausted all the way to his bones. He doesn’t smell the salt of his bard’s tears as he slips silently down the hallway and out into the late autumn night. He doesn’t notice the snow starting to pile up on the windowsill ahead of season.

He’s too busy being a self-flagellating moron to notice any of that.

---

Geralt is woken in the middle of the night by a commotion downstairs. He can hear several loud, panicked heartbeats and one very quiet, very slow heartbeat beneath all of those; it’s achingly familiar but the half-asleep witcher can’t quite call its source to mind. Geralt listens as the innkeeper barks out a series of sharp orders: “Meredith, you get to the kitchen and make some strong black tea! Florence, fetch a pail of warm water and two or three towels from the laundry. Josiah you lazy lout, get into the attic and fetch some blankets! The poor lad has gone blue all over!”

The witcher peers into the hallway and catches the skinny stable hand, Josiah, racing for the attic staircase. “What’s going on?”

“A farmer from the next town over was on his way over to help a friend’s sow give calf and he found-” the lad pauses to suck in a great gulp of air and launches off again “-and he found that friend of yours lying in a snowbank, muttering nonsense and shivering like a leaf. The poor fool didn’t have a cloak on him or anything, just a doublet and walking boots! He’s near-dead!”

Geralt curses and makes for the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches the main floor. There are voices coming from the kitchen and he follows them as if in a dream, his feet moving without aid of his conscious mind. “Jaskier? Is it the bard, Jaskier?”

“Are you the great brute what kicked him out?” the innkeeper’s wife asks, crossing her arms over her ample chest and narrowing her eyes. Geralt falters. 

“No, he- he left on his own, in a huff.”

“Wonder who could have started the huff,” the woman rolls her eyes. This isn’t about his status as a witcher, Geralt knows; this eye roll was made by a woman who knows a lovers’ quarrel when she sees one. Except that this stupid little spat might have cost Jaskier his life.

“Where is he? May I see him, goodwife?”

The woman points to a table in the corner, which has been cleared of cooking implements and cushioned with a heavy bearskin. Jaskier lies atop the brown fur, his skin frighteningly pale, his lips and fingers tinted a slight blue. Geralt rushes to his side and takes one of the bard’s stiff hands in his own. He brushes a stray lock of brown hair from Jaskier’s forehead and nearly recoils in shock from the temperature of his skin. Even colder than his hands, which are already dangerously frigid. If Jaskier cannot play his lute-

Geralt doesn’t even allow himself to finish the thought. Instead he works on rubbing small, careful circles onto the back of the bard’s hands with his thumbs, warming the skin in tiny increments: “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

The bard remains unmoving, heartbeat fluttering weakly, lungs barely drawing breath; Geralt fights back an overwhelming sense of panic, trying to recall whatever training he’d received at Kaer Morhen concerning freezing humans. 

“Do you mind if I take him upstairs and tend to him myself?” the witcher asks.

“Can you take care of him?” the innkeeper’s wife replies. 

Geralt bows his head, shame licking like flames up and down his bent spine, and nods. “Yes, Ma’am. I have dry clothes for him in our room and I was trained extensively for emergency situations such as this, all witchers are.”

“Alright,” she narrows her eyes. “But he’d best be alive come morning.”

“I’ll happily turn myself over to the village elders to be dealt with accordingly should the bard come to any harm,” he vows. Her eyes widen minutely and he can read the surprise in her body language, but she remains relatively calm. 

“Any further harm, rather. Alright, then. I’ll have my husband and the girls bring those supplies up to your room for him. We’ll be glad to go back to sleep.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Geralt bows formally. She blushes despite her irritation with him and waves him away. 

“Take your bard and go, witcher, before I change my mind and spend all night caring for him myself out of motherly pity. Go.”

Geralt hefts Jaskier into his arms, heavy bearskin blanket and all, and hurries up the stairs to his room. He will not let Jaskier come to any further harm. Not by his hand. Not by his word. Never again. 

---

Back in their room, Geralt quickly undresses the shivering human, peeling away what few damp layers there are with growing disappointment. Jaskier hadn’t been prepared for a walk in the snow at all! Although, to be fair, it hadn’t seemed that cold earlier in the evening and the snow had been sudden and heavy. 

He wipes Jaskier down with a warm cloth and slips one of his own clean shirts over the bard’s head. He tries not to let his gaze linger on the way Jaskier’s shoulders don’t quite fill out the dark material. Or on the way his dark, wiry chest hair peeks out through the open laces at his throat. The witcher quickly shuffles him into clean smallclothes and wraps him in a thick wool blanket. 

They sit curled before the fire and Geralt holds Jaskier against his chest. He hums with his voice like gravel, grating out one note after the other in some attempt to soothe the bard’s aching body. Jaskier shivers and shakes violently in the witcher’s strong embrace, his eyes clenched shut with the cramps that wrack his frame as his muscles return to their normal temperature. Geralt feels like he’s holding a porcelain doll and keeps his grip deliberately loose, tight enough to comfort but not restrain.

“G-Geralt,” he groans. “Hold me, please.”

The witcher squeezes his arms more confidently around the bard’s middle, burying his face in Jaskier’s soft hair and breathing deeply. The warmth that usually emanates from his busy human body is gone and his chamomile-honey scent is buried beneath a layer of damp cold; it feels wrong. Terribly wrong. Geralt murmurs against his temple, begging the younger man’s forgiveness: “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. Gods, I’m so sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me? I’m a fool, you know. I’m a fool witcher who never says anything important until it’s too late. I’m so incredibly sorry, my love.”

“This is a very good dream,” the bard sighs, smiling despite the pain. His eyes open, bleary and addled. “Like I was having in the woods, but better.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier seems to understand the unspoken question, even in his current sorry state.

“The real Geralt would never be so gentle with me, dear heart. You must be a dream, sent to me on my deathbed to ease my passage into the afterlife. There’s no other explanation for your sudden displays of tenderness.”

“It’s... It’s really me,” Geralt affirms. He runs his hand up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine, “I’m here, Jaskier. Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”

“I forgive you for being stupid ever other day, dear witcher. It is of no consequence to me.”

“It almost was,” Geralt frowns. “I nearly- I almost-” 

Jaskier’s arm raises weakly and his too-chilly hand presses to Geralt’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have stormed off like an idiot. I shouldn’t have kept picking the fight. We both fucked up, alright? What matters is our second chance. We got to have one, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I wearing your shirt?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“Yours were all being laundered and this one was clean and it had been in my pack near the fire so it was already warm and-”

“Did you take care of me all night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighs after his hum and glances away for a moment. “What did you mean about... about the dream in the woods?”

“Oh. Well, when I was very cold and things were hazy and slow, I dreamed that you were there with me. Everything got very fuzzy and warm for a little bit, and when it was warm you were holding me like this and giving me little kisses. It was... nice. Even though I knew I was dying because you were being so soft, so considerate; saying things to me you’d never say out loud in real life.”

“I love you, Jaskier. I will try my best not to lose my temper needlessly,” the witcher swears. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Can we still cuddle like this?” Jaskier asks, leaning his weigth against Geralt’s firm chest. “It’s so nice to be held.”

“Of course. Anything you want. I’m not going to waste my second chance by treating you poorly. Not for another second, my beloved bard.”

“B-beloved?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, well then I’m definitely still dreaming.”

Geralt lifts Jaskier into his arms and carries him over to the bed, which is piled high with their extra blankets. He tucks Jaskier into the nest against the wall and lays along the outside of the mattress. He presses his lips to the bard’s, reveling in Jaskier’s returning warmth, and smiles. “I’ll prove it’s not a dream. Every day.”

“Sounds nice,” Jaskier yawns, snuggling into the witcher’s arms and settling down to sleep. 

“It will be.”

[istheresomebodywhocanimagine]

New York Minute PT. 1

anonymous said: I saw you say your requests are open (but your bio doesn’t say they are so I totally understand if I misunderstood and I apologize). I was wondering if you could do a ben hardy imagine where the reader and he aren’t together but he gets jealous about one of the other boys (and realizes his feelings) and the rest is up to you ;) thank you! and anonymous said: Ooh could you do an age gap thing with either roger or ben of like roger being in the early 1980s and reader/oc being in their early 20s and Ben being the age he is now with someone in their early 20s??  

(a/n: this will be a multi-part series!!!! i just had too many ideas for these requests and had to go crazy - sorry i’ve been so inactive lately yall i promise i’ll try to post more now that the summer is winding down. i should have part two out in the next week or so??? anyways this one’s a thickie tbh (like.... almost 10k) so buckle up!!!)

"Ben's moving here? He that blond bitch in all your posts?"  You were draped across Joe's couch, feet resting on his left thigh as you popped another berry into your mouth, humming happily as you chewed. Joe's eyes were slightly glazed over, still focused on the TV that was playing some baseball game as you studied his face, watching the way his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip before he afforded you a quick glance. "Yeah. Real 'lad' type, Gwilym's words. Kid's a textbook definition of a ladies man when he wants to be."   "Kid? How old is he?" you asked curiously, quirking an eyebrow at your rather indisposed neighbor. His fingers tapped at the armrest to his right, and you scowled a bit at his apparent disinterest in your questions. He was always a baseball guy, but you couldn't believe how distracted he could become by a single game. You were less than a couple feet away, and it was like you were speaking into the void. "I thought he was like 30."

"28," Joe corrected, still not taking his eyes off of the TV.  You huffed at that. 28 was still a good half a decade older than you, and here Joe was calling him a kid. "If he's a kid, then I'm baby." "What? What does that.... why do you always say that?" he asked, finally looking at you with a questioning look that seemed more pained than anything else. "I'm baby? What does that mean?" "It means.... I don't know how to explain it, Joey, I'm baby!" you exclaimed, throwing up your arms in defeat before letting them fall back down limply. "Anyways, you said he's a ladies man? Is he gonna put the moves on me?" Joe snorted at that, returning his gaze to the TV as you sat the plate back on the coffee table, waiting patiently for his answer. "Maybe. Like I said, he's a ladies man when he wants to be." "Wants to be? What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, suddenly wanting to clarify the discrepancy. Sitting up a bit, you pulled your feet off his lap and instead hugged your knees to your chest, staring across the couch at Joe, who was slightly slack-jawed and way too interested in the current play to answer. Clearing your throat, you spoke louder, commanding his attention. "Joe!" "Huh?" he asked, turning his head slowly over to you and following with his eyes a few moments later. Slowly, recognition registered on his face and he pulled his jaw closed, swallowing hard before he answered. "I mean he's a smooth talker, but he also gets all messy when he fumbles." "You get messy when you fumble during flirting," you pointed out, and Joe furrowed his eyebrows before sneering a bit, mocking your words under his breath. "You do! Remember that blonde at Feinstein's-" "Yes! I remember the blonde at 54 Below, okay? Let it go," he rushed out all in one go, his face a bit red as he closed his eyes and tried to push his memory of the wine-soaked night to the back of his mind. "And for the record, she did end up coming back to my apartment later." "I'm just saying." Holding your hands up in surrender for a moment, you made a show of letting it go before hugging your legs again, hiding your amused smile behind your knee. Joe's glare was almost burning, his narrowed eyes only making your smile harder to hide. It had been over two years since you moved in next to this dumbass, and you still hadn't learned a single thing about controlling your facial expressions from a well-seasoned actor like him. Finally, Joe sighed and shook his head, deciding to pick his battles wisely. "Anyways, he'll be here next week. Are you free Thursday? We're going out with Chace." "Chace?" you repeated, humming nervously before shaking your head. "No go. Chace still probably thinks I'm a moron from the time I thought he was you on the balcony so I came out and did jumper cables on his side and found out - surprise, surprise - it was not you." "That was like, two years ago. How do you still even remember that?" he laughed, turning his attention back to the screen. "I can't even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday. Chace probably forgot all about it." "It was mortifying, Joe! Imagine some random chick just walking out on your friend's balcony and jabbing your sides with the force of a great typhoon." Pursing his lips, he considered it for a moment before grimacing. "Yeah, no, that's pretty fucking weird." It fell silent, Joe focusing on the game while you watched him once again, back to square one. Finally, you spoke to cut off the silence, wanting to make one last comment before you let him get too invested. "Ben's kinda cute. Is he single?" "Dunno," Joe answered noncommittally, making you frown as you stretched your legs out again, intentionally kicking his thigh lightly. "Ow!" Scowling at you, he reached out to smack your foot away before he crossed his arms, snuggling more into his armrest and fighting back a laugh. "I think he is. Know he has that bee dating app. Buzz....le. Bumblebee?" "Bumble," you snickered, nudging his leg again teasingly and making him fake scowl a bit more before he laughed once at himself, shielding his face from your gaze with one hand. "Stop, I know I'm a terrible millennial! I've got to start keeping up with this shit." "As a fellow millennial - you right."

---

"First night out as an American citizen! How was it, bud?" "Dual citizen, thank you! You'd think as a dual citizen, you'd know what the hell to say," Ben corrected, his cheeks a deep red from the liquor coursing through his veins and muddling his thoughts. Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned against the wall next to Joe's door as Joe fished through his pockets, grabbing the key chain with the worn-down Yankees mini-bat and picking out the key that read 'APT' on some painter's tape. You'd dubbed it so once Joe had forgotten which key it was for the fortieth time when you came over to help him patch a hole left in the wall by the previous renter. Ben just assumed the label was Joe's handiwork. It looked dorky enough. Sliding the key into the lock, he easily turned it and swung open the door a little too drunkenly, leading his equally-as-drunk friend into the living room. "You're American when you're here, okay? I'm requiring it by law, starting.... now!" Ben laughed, trudging his way into the apartment before heading down the hallway towards the bathroom and rubbing the side of his face, the skin hot to the touch. "M'not sure it works like that, but whatever. I gotta take a leak." Before Joe could yell out a half-assed reply after him, Ben had already disappeared into the room down the hall and to the left, only re-emerging minutes later and wiping his still-damp hands on his jeans while sending Joe a look that said everything about the glaringly empty towel ring, even without even saying a word. "Sorry! Laundry day, dude... I gotta piss." "I'm gonna have a smoke, then," Ben mumbled as Joe passed him in the hallway, transferring a slightly bent cigarette from the crumpled package in his pocket to his mouth as he made his way to the sliding doors that led out to Joe's balcony. The lock refused to budge at first, but it slowly slid out of place with a bit of extra effort from Ben and clicked up into an unlocked position before he moved to tug the door open. The door slid open a lot easier than the lock did, smoothly gliding over and letting in the pleasant, if a bit warm midnight breeze on the late spring day. It smelled vaguely of rain, and Ben wondered if it was going to storm later, a sardonic chuckle leaving his lips as he eyed the dark clouds hovering over the harbor. The moon peeked just under the bottom of one, teasing the city with a light that wouldn't last long. "Get a place in America to escape the rain and end up in a thunderstorm. Alright," he remarked to himself, flicking the lighter a few times before raising it to the cigarette end and lighting it. He inhaled slowly as he did so, feeling the familiar light burn of the tar smoke filling his lungs - it didn't taste as well as it once did, but it filled a space for the time being, and distracted him enough. In fact, it distracted him so well that he went on smoking for a good minute or so before he realized that there was another human being on the extended balcony with him. Their arm was dangling over the edge of the reclining lawn chair, which was conveniently placed next to a crate that featured a phone on a wireless charger and a half-drank bottle of Apothic Crush in a cheap wine chiller. Just a single bottle, sans a glass, a red that looked as though it tasted of relatively inexpensive inebriation and drunk texts to your best friend about how you were crying over Keanu Reeves. It was you, though he obviously wouldn't know that. Ben's usually warm green eyes widened in fear as he spotted your unfamiliar figure lazily draped over the fully reclined chair, your mouth hanging open slightly as you dozed away peacefully just out of reach of the rays of moonlight. You were wearing a familiar shirt, though - one for a baseball team Ben only faintly recognized because Joe had mentioned his brother being on that team. A faded 'Mazzello' was printed on the back, the end part visible to Ben as he peered curiously over at you, trying to figure out what in the hell his plan of attack was here. He had a predicament. There was a half finished cigarette in his hand, one that couldn't go back inside with him but also one that he didn't particularly want to drop from several stories up with this many people passing by below. And he sure as hell didn't want to waste the cigarette, so stomping it out was a no-go. But there was a literal stranger on Joe's balcony, drinking what was probably his wine and wearing his shirt, and in his inebriated panic over your presence, Ben conveniently skimmed over the full view he had of the door that led into your apartment. It was a shared balcony, a nice fact that Joe could have shared with his friend before he got 5 frantic texts and a picture of sleeping you in rapid succession. Benjamin: HOLY FUCJ Benjamin: Joe, getout here right now!!! Theres a literal stranger on your balcony! Benjamin: JOE Benjamin: [picture] Benjamin: WHY IN THE BBLOODY HELL IS THERE A STRANGE WOMAN It was less than 30 seconds before Joe came stumbling out, Ben staring at him helplessly as he held the cigarette just over the railing, nodding to your side. Peeking his head around the doorway, Joe managed to keep an even expression on his face as he cleared his throat, stepping out onto the balcony between you and Ben. "Hey!" You stirred a bit at Joe's aggressive tone, your lips smacking together as you ran your tongue over them and peeked open an eye just barely, indicating you were listening. "This is like the fifth time this week, lady, stop getting drunk on my porch and using my reclining chair!" "My reclining chair," you corrected, groggily raising to a sitting position and running a hand over your hair to smooth it down before looking down at the wooden crate and smiling sleepily upon remembering the wine. "Oh yeah. Mmmmm. Forgot about that." "Pfffft. Drunks, am I right?" Joe scoffed, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at you when he turned to face Ben. His hand came to rest on his hip that jutted out with a bit of sass as Ben stared at him in complete confusion, utterly baffled at how calm and collected he was despite the apparent situation.  "Who are you calling a drunk, you drunk?" you giggled quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair as you eyed the back of Joe's head with an unreadable look. Joe rolled his eyes like it was obvious, not even turning to face you as he made an exaggerated annoyed expression at Ben, then proceeded to ignore your question. "I get these all the time, dude, crazy bums just taking up my space out here." "Why do you keep acting like I'm a homeless person bumming on your shit- No, nevermind, fuck you. I'm ignoring you now," you retorted, yawning as you reached for the wine bottle and pointing to the ground between you and Joe with your free hand as you narrowed your eyes. Ben's eyes followed your direction to a line of duct tape on the concrete below, clearly meant to demarcate something, though he wasn't sure what. It was crudely placed, but seemed to have an enormous effect on Joe when he looked over his shoulder and groaned, letting his head roll back for a second before he gave the wall opposite you a withering look. "Are we seriously still fucking doing this?" Joe remarked scornfully while he turned, his hands going into his pockets, and he slumped over a bit in stature as a pout etched itself into his features. "I said I was sorry. I was asleep! Also, is that my shirt? You said you'd bring that back weeks ago." You remained silent, staring up at Joe through your lashes in an unmoved manner before taking a drink of the wine. As you returned the bottle to the chiller, your attention switched over to Ben, who was still standing there in absolutely dumbfounded astonishment. A wondrous smile made its way to your lips, and Ben felt a light blush creeping onto his already-red cheeks as he dropped the cigarette to the concrete balcony floor, stomping it out gently and trying not to shrivel underneath your delightfully bleary, sleepy gaze. It was odd, being so affected by you. Ben usually had a relatively charming, laidback personality, and he was easy to get along with, but something about you sent him into a panic as he kept eye contact for a painful second or two, the sparkle in your hazy eyes enchanting to him. Maybe it was the liquor. Yeah, definitely had to be the liquor, he decided. There was no way that this dizziness was anything but top shelf gin having a row in his digestive system. His eyes dropped to the ground, seeming hyperfocused on his own actions, but it was blatantly obvious he was avoiding eye contact now. Noting the blush, your smile grew even wider as you sat up a bit, suddenly interested in the flustered man across from you. He looked quite familiar, and you were amused that he was so unsettled and shy right now - he didn't seem to be like the type who couldn't talk in front of girls. He must have just been caught off-guard today. "You're Ben, from the Queen thingie! Ah, I'm so glad I finally get to meet you, y'all are so cute on Instagram." Climbing up from your chair, you swayed a bit at the sudden rush of blood to your extremities, reaching out to steady yourself on Joe and grinning sheepishly. Then your gaze shifted once again to your neighbor, your eyebrow cocking slightly in challenge, and Ben let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as you mumbled, "Never puts me on his Instagram like that. You'd think after two years-" "I've told you a million times, I can't let you steal the spotlight from me!" Joe teased back, crossing the duct tape line and dropping into the chair that sat just over the boundary of it, next to your reclining chair, his hand easily snatching the wine from the chiller before he took a long swig. "And besides," he added, his arm coming up to swipe a bit of excess wine that had dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. It looked like watery bloody slipping down his chin, and he quickly wiped it away before reaching over the wipe it on your leg, much to your chagrin. But he retracted his arm before you could reach out and swat at him, instead leaving you with a mildly grumpy expression while he grinned impishly. "Ben wouldn't like sharing his primetime spot." "Ben can share. I'm low maintenance anyways, I only need, like... one feature a month. I'll even settle for just a story shout-out." "Low maintenance? Says the one who has to have Sugar In The Raw or she won't drink her coffee!" "Says the one who now steals my Sugar In The Raw because he knows it tastes better! Fuckin' leech." This dynamic was weird, Ben had decided. No explanation left him hopelessly in the dark as he watched Joe hand off the wine casually to you when you reached out for it, a wordless exchange that didn't even need to really be prompted in order to happen. It made Ben wonder if he'd somehow been ignorant of Joe having a girlfriend until just now. A very attractive girlfriend, at that, despite the mussy, sleep-wrinkled state of you and your clothes. A mouthy girlfriend that was easily out-sassing Joe - a girlfriend that slept on his balcony? This wasn't adding up. "You look confused," you hiccuped, narrowing your eyes a bit as you scrutinized the charmingly quiet blond that stood about five feet from you, still awkwardly stanced up near the railing on Joe's side. A deft observation, too, because Ben's facial expression read like a book, highlighting all of the absolutely baffling thoughts he was having. Suddenly, it clicked. "Joe, you dumbass, did you not tell him we share a balcony?" "It may have.... slipped the mind," Joe admitted, smiling sheepishly as he shrugged and tapped on the armrests of the chair he was in. "Ben, this is my neighbor. She's annoying as hell, trust me. Still holds a grudge from when I napped on her chair at least two years ago and pretended to be asleep when she came out here and yelled so I wouldn't have to move." "And he thinks I'm the bad neighbor," you giggled, rolling your eyes before stepping forward to reach out your hand and offer your name, swaying a bit from the effort. Looking at the three of you from an outsider's position, it was getting hard to tell who was the most sloshed. "It's nice to finally meet you, I've only seen his dumb videos that he sent back from England and posted on Instagram every once in a while." "Oh my god, I'm proper fucked, you both had me there for a second," Ben admitted in relief, laughing a bit as his panic ebbed away into amusement at the mild freak-out moment he'd just had. Taking your hand, he flashed an embarrassed smile and shook your hand gently, letting it go after a moment and immediately flexing his fingers a bit, noting how cold your hand had been from the wine. It was an odd sensation, one that sent a tingle down his spine upon contact, but he did his best to ignore it and put on his best smile before continuing. "It's nice to meet you too. Just glad I didn't call 999 on you." Your nose wrinkled at the discrepancy as you sat back down in your reclining chair, Joe immediately catching it and raising a finger to correct his friend. "It's 911 over here, buddy. Don't worry, you'll get used to it." "Oh yeah! Joe said you're moving over here, welcome to the States!" Laughing lightly, Ben rubbed the back of his neck slowly, then nodded in acknowledgement of your words. "Have you settled in yet, or are you still unpacking?" "Still unpacking," Ben grimaced, making you pout a bit in sympathy as you clutched the shirt that rested directly over your heart, signaling you understood his pain even in your drunken state. "But I should be done getting all my stuff unboxed by tomorrow evening - Joe said he'd be coming over to help?" He tried to speak it as a statement, but the end came out as more of a question as he side-eyed Joe, who nodded in confirmation and pointed a finger gun at him, indicating he'd be there. "Now that you're here, does that mean I'll finally see someone in Joe's apartment besides him?" you joked, Ben chuckling at how well you managed to casually roast Joe with every other word out of your mouth. Maybe the dynamic wasn't so weird after all, he figured. Maybe it was fun. "You telling me that this guy over here doesn't even bring home girls from the bar?" Ben asked curiously, nodding to Joe. He finally took the opportunity to drag a chair from the far end of the balcony over to join the two of you, accepting the wine gratefully when you held it out for him. Joe let out a humorless laugh as you burst into a fit of gleeful giggles, reaching over to smack Joe on the thigh several times in amusement. A small smile played at the corner of Joe's lips, and he glanced at you before shaking his head, his eyelids fluttering closed a bit, heavy from the alcohol. "I tried that once! I'd never seen a woman throw a full wine glass at me until that day! Genius here," he paused, pointing to you with his thumb and ignoring the ensuing peal of laughter that had you doubled over, "popped over in some underwear and a t-shirt to ask where I kept the eggs! She was making cookies! Can you believe that?" Ben shifted his gaze over to you for confirmation and found you to still be doubled over in silent laughter, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding it in. A wide grin spread across Ben's face, and he looked back to find Joe trying to look annoyed, but failing miserably and bursting into laughter with you. "What was her name again?" you asked between peals of laughter, wiping at your watery eyes as Joe tried to stifle his laughter, resting his head on his hand and sighing. "It was Tori, I think," he replied, shaking his head and smiling a bit. "Art history major. You fucked that one up for me majorly." "Well, you got me back the next week anyways," you finally got out when your laughter had subsided, a grin still quirking at the corner of your lips as you looked at Ben and continued. "Knew I had a Tinder date one night and literally waited in my living room in boxers for hours until we got back!" "Joe, that's almost cruel," Ben scolded jokingly, reaching over and giving Joe a gentle punch on the arm before handing the wine back to you. "You're telling me," you mused, a sly smile gracing your lips as you looked from Joe to Ben, your gaze lingering a bit on the blonde. Ben met the stare evenly, his face a lot more level than he felt as you rose from your chair, brushing a hand down your torso to smooth out the frumpy shirt before walking over to the railing and leaning forward against it. Your stomach pressed into the cool metal through the thin Mazzello shirt that denied you any curves, giving you a boxy frame only marginally saved by the corner of the shirt that had got caught in the waistband of your shorts. "Well, feel like I've overstayed my welcome, so I'll probably head in for the night," you stated, looking out to the moon that was slowly disappearing over the harbor before you turned to face the two of them, giving them a sleepy smile. "No, stay out here with us," Joe complained, patting the reclining chair, but you were already making your way past the chair, taking another drink of the wine. "I want you to bond with Ben, he'll be over here a lot now that he's in NYC." "I will? Jake Gyllenhaal lives here too, is he over here all the time because of that?" Ben teased, looking up at you with a dopey grin when you let out a single laugh. Stopping just behind the chair, you raised an impressed eyebrow at him while Joe studied the two of you with a mildly annoyed glare. He didn't appreciate being teamed up on, but he had to appreciate the two of you getting along on your first meeting. You, however, were completely ignorant to your neighbor's pointed looks as you kept eye contact with Ben, noting that he had gorgeous green eyes. "I like this guy. Bring him around again when I'm not sloshed, yeah?" Joe nodded at that, and you began to walk towards your door, yawning. "I've got a hot date tonight, so don't wait up for me, Joey." "God, I told you not to call me that," Joe groaned, but a boyish grin remained on his face as he watched you saunter back over to your door, wine in hand. "And who's the guy? Shouldn't have told me, now I might have to come crash your party." "His name is Mattress, Matt for short. We sleep with each other a lot... Nice meeting you, Ben." Swirling the bottle around a few times, you wiggled your eyebrows at the two men before retreating to the sound of Joe's exaggerated groaning and Ben's hapless attempts at reciprocation of your pleasantries, your door sliding shut just before you drew the curtains.  That left the duo alone on the balcony, the faint smell of smoke still lingering in the space around them as Joe sighed a bit, grinning and shaking his head. Ben, on the other hand, was still reeling from the whiplash that the last few moments had given him, and it must have clearly registered on his face, because Joe laughed a bit as he stood, brushing off his pants. "Sorry I didn't warn you beforehand. Didn't think she'd be out here getting wine drunk. That's Y/N for you, though." A shrug coupled with his last observation made Ben chuckle, cocking his head slightly and curiously gazing over at your door before shaking his head. Following in a similar fashion to Joe, Ben rose to stand again, instinctively reaching for a comfort cigarette and placing it between his lips before offering a weak smile in return, fishing for the lighter while he spoke. "Wasted my first one." Inhaling slowly, the end of the cigarette finally lit and Ben held the smoke in for a moment before leaning over the railing, looking around as he exhaled. When he'd taken in a proper amount of the dwindling NYC night, he finally returned his attention to Joe, the cigarette resting delicately between two fingers as his hands came to rest on the railing he leaned back against. "Y/N, you said, yeah? Seems alright... you been neighbors for long?" "A couple years now, actually. Met her about the same way you just did! She's cool, though," Joe confirmed, coming over to look over the balcony right next to Ben, one foot on either side of the duct tape line that divided the floor. It was scuffed, like it'd been there a while, and that made the stories slowly check out in Ben's brain while he looked over to Joe, a sly smile slowly creeping onto his face.  "She's kinda fit, yeah?" Joe hung his head and let his eyes close for a moment, laughing at Ben's apt remark before nodding a bit. "But definitely seems a bit mean. Got a bite to her all the time?" "She's got her weak moments like everyone else! But yeah, she's definitely quick with the comebacks. I think I'm better for it, honestly, keeps me in check. Always brushing up on my wit, you know? Kids these days always keeping me on my toes." Reaching up to tap on his temple, he only had a moment to grimace before his phone was ringing, prompting him to pull it out of his pocket and answer it as Ben watched. "Hey, Seb... No, I didn't grab your wallet from the bar. Did you leave it there?" As Ben watched his friend retreat back into his own sliding door, his thick blond eyebrows furrowed in mild confusion. Kids these days? She couldn't be a day under 25, as clever as she was. Wait, that didn't even make sense. Cleverness is not an indicator- "Hey!" Ben jumped at the sound of your voice, whirling around to meet your accusatory stare as he looked on helplessly. You looked mad, and he couldn't even begin to think why. The cigarette, maybe, but you hadn't even flinched about it earlier. Was he too quiet? "Do you want the rest of this wine?" you asked, grinning once you'd let him suffer enough, and Ben let out a sigh of relief as he leaned forward on the railing again, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Christ, you scared me again!" Taking a deep breath, he laughed once before shaking his head, taking another drag and turning to face you. "No thank you, though. If I drink any more tonight, my old man body will punish me tomorrow." "Old man body?" you repeated, quirking an eyebrow in disbelief as you looked him up and down for a moment. "Uh huh... Good night, then." You shut the door before he could get the chance to reply, so he just gave a half-hearted wave before he widened his eyes, trying to restore his heart to a regular beating pace. "Jesus Christ on a cross," he mumbled, rubbing his hand over his face for a moment and messing up his eyebrows even more before he took another drag as he stared out at the last hint of the moon just before the clouds completely covered it up, plunging the city into a new darkness.

---

It was a bitch moving to a new country. The DMV, the bank, the moving companies - everything was a living nightmare, and Joe was the only thing getting Ben through it, on call at all times to help him with anything he needed to know. So when Ben texted him that he was frustrated about his internet connectivity ("It's fucking rubbish, seriously"), Joe offered a simple solution - come over and use his until the problem was resolved. And that's what he did after the gym, taking an Uber over to the now-familiar building and making his way to Joe's floor, which is how he walked in on Joe in the middle of an.... argument? Spat? Friendly fight? He wasn't sure how to place it as he entered his friend's apartment to the sound of you switching between laughing and shrieking while Joe made unintelligible noises of frustration. All Ben knew was that this was something beyond teasing - Joe honestly looked like he could drop at any moment, worn out from trying to keep up with whatever you were doing. Though you were keeping it playful, he was definitely at his wit's end. "You have to do the whole thing!" Joe cried out in frustration, dancing along with the figures on the screen and sending quick glares in your direction between moves. His hips were swaying along with the music, limbs flailing accordingly but sometimes not really even resembling anything close to what was on the screen. The scores popping up on his corner of the TV seemed okay by itself, but in comparison to yours, it was meager at best. "Absolutely not, dummy. That's so much energy conserved to do this." You continued shaking your Wii remote around in the appropriate moves, just the remote, and used the other hand to pick up your drink, taking a long sip from the straw and trying not to laugh as Joe made yet another noise of frustration. "Joe, come on.... who's winning here? I think I'm right." You were both playing Just Dance, one of the earlier versions, and a stark difference between the two of you had been quickly found out - while Joe, ever the dancer, did every single move with every part of his body, you were the type to swing only the remote hand around in time with your moves. Joe was beginning to get very annoyed at this tactic, so much so that he paused the game and crossed his arms, turning to scowl at you for a moment before he saw Ben's head peeking around the wall just past your shoulder. "Oh, hey bud!" Joe greeted, giving him a dopey grin before pulling off the Wii remote strap and purposely shouldering past you to greet Ben with a one armed hug. Ben reciprocated, meeting your gaze over Joe's shoulder and nodding in acknowledgement as you turned to face them, a hand on your hip and a cocky smile on your face. This was a much different you from when he'd seen you a few weeks ago, sleepy, slow, and somewhat inebriated. Now you were bright-eyed, alert, and seriously giving Joe a run for his money. "Sorry, she came over with her Wii and knew I couldn't resist a friendly game of Just Dance." "Friendly?" Ben laughed, looking between the two of you as he pulled out of the hug, setting his laptop on the counter. "Seems like you weren't having a good time." Glancing to the screen, he raised an eyebrow at the scores. "She's killing you, mate." "Well, she's a cheater, so." Shrugging, Joe went to grab his WiFi router so he could give Ben the password, Ben taking a seat at the stools  placed under the counter and turning a bit so he could see both of you. "Joe's just mad because I've been roasting him nonstop for the past hour," you informed Ben, pulling your Wii remote off your wrist and setting it on the couch as you lifted your gaze to meet his. You were reminded that they were green, paired with slightly damp, curly blonde hair that fell a bit over his forehead and blonde lashes that were extra visible at this angle. It was a fascinating combo, bright eyes framed by equally as bright lashes, and you couldn't help but smile a bit in wonder as you straightened up again. Was he made in a factory? He seemed too perfect to be real. Ben was intrigued by the look you gave him, so unreadable but so persistent that he almost asked if he had something in his teeth. But Joe ruined the moment, cutting in with his own biting words that severed the eye contact and directed attention back to him. "I hate it when you say roasted. That's my least favorite part of your vocabulary." Breaking out of your trance, you shook your head before giggling at the mild venom behind his words, unfazed by the grumpy pout he currently had on his face. Rolling your eyes playfully, you gave him the middle finger while you made your way past Ben into the kitchen, grabbing a bag of popcorn from the cabinet and tearing the plastic off as Joe helped Ben log in to his laptop. While your bag of popcorn popped, you quietly observed the two men, hunched over Ben's computer together and figuring out which network was his out of the hundreds that had similar names.   Joe was focused, his thin, darker eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he watched Ben scroll through the list on his screen. There was a clear stubble on his chin, a five-o'clock shadow that refused to be hidden as it shaded the area along his jaw and just above his lips, which were pressed together into a thin line when he wasn't murmuring network names to himself. He was cute, a goofy camp counselor kind of cute that was more endearing than anything, and you smiled a bit at the thought of Joe as a camp counselor - that would be too good. In contrast, Ben's lips fell slightly parted, his tongue trapped between his teeth as he directed all of his attention to the list as well. Assessing him sober this time, you realized he was actually quite good-looking, far beyond what you'd seen on that dark balcony through drunk goggles. Like, seriously good looking. This was another level of attraction, way past what you'd felt the first time Joe had showed up with Seb Stan and Chace Crawford. You crossed your arms over your chest, an insecure habit, as Ben's curious green eyes darted up and down the screen, searching for the name Joe had provided. When he finally located it, his plump, slightly chapped lips pursed into a round O shape, and Joe pointed to the name excitedly, his finger tapping the screen. Ben groaned and smacked his hand away meekly, jokingly complaining about a smudge on the the display while Joe laughed and wiped his hand off on the front of his shorts. "Sorry, we've been eating popcorn in between Y/N cheating," Joe explained, making you roll your eyes and suppress a grin as you turned to retrieve the bag of popcorn. Opening the steaming bag, you poured it into the bowl next to the microwave, then turned to sit it on the counter between the three of you as you spoke. "Again - still just salty that he's getting roasted." "Roasted? Is that really a popular slang word here?" Ben asked curiously, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a moment as you hummed and turned to grab a packet of ranch seasoning. His eyebrows furrowed a bit when you flicked the packet back and forth, moving the seasoning to the bottom before you ripped open the corner, and you started to pour it over the popcorn as he watched, dumbfounded. "What kind of monstrosity is that?" "Ranch popcorn," you replied simply, emptying half of the packet before folding it over and pinching the corner, providing Ben with a sugar sweet smile as you did so. "Don't knock it 'til you try it, bloody ol' chap." Your smile disarmed him quite a bit - it was a smile that could disarm anyone, really, and he could tell by the way that Joe smiled with you that it had a similar effect on him. But your attempt at imitating his accent didn't go unnoticed, and Ben cringed a bit as he laughed, shaking his head. "Horrible. Truly horrible. And you didn't answer my question." "In Y/N's world, roasted is the only word," Joe answered for you, reaching to shake up the bowl a bit before he snatched a piece of popcorn off of the top, tossing it into his mouth and making a happy noise as he chewed. For a moment, he paused, then swallowed and added, "Actually, that and dummy." "Makes sense." Ben watched you as he replied, grinning a bit when you just smiled impishly and tossed the packet onto the counter, shrugging a bit before leaning forward to rest your elbows on the counter. Propping your chin on your hands, you cocked your head to the side a bit and fought back a bigger smile as Ben almost mirrored you, his head tilting just slightly to the side out of curiosity. "So, Mr. British Man-" "Ben," Joe interjected, sending you a pointed look and a raised eyebrow that only made you roll your eyes before continuing. "He's American now." "Dual citizen, but I'll look past it for now," Ben corrected, Joe scoffing quietly in response. "Okay, Ben. How has it been so far in America? You liking it?" Joe picked up his slip of paper from the counter, returning it to the router as Ben leaned his head on one hand, looking down to his computer screen and grimacing a bit at the thought of all the hell he'd had to go through in the past few weeks. But you were still practically a stranger, and even if he did want to get to know you better, he figured it was far too early for him to unload all of his problems on you. "Yeah, yeah, it's been alright," he yielded, scratching at his temple with his index finger before sitting up straight again and crossing his arms on the counter in front of him, the fabric of his sleeves straining a bit against the movement. "Unpacking was hell, but the rest was okay, I guess." "Oh, stop bullshitting me!" you laughed, pushing yourself up off the counter so you could go retrieve a beer from the fridge for him, the action in itself revealing your familiarity with Joe's apartment to Ben. Without looking, you grabbed the bottle opener magnet off of the freezer and popped the top off the beer, bringing it over to the handsome blond. "The DMV fucking sucked, didn't it?" "God, it was so terrible," Ben groaned unhappily, relieved that you'd practically read his mind as his shoulders slumped a bit, hand automatically reaching out to receive the beer. "Thank you. But seriously, between that and the bank, I swear I'm going to lose my fucking marbles! I had to go back to the DMV three times before they could finally see me, 'cause the wait was so long and I had other things to do!" "You gotta set aside, like, a whole afternoon for the DMV," you laughed, leaning on the counter again and watching quietly as he went to take a drink, his hand easily dwarfing the bottle. "Screw that, you need a whole day off for the DMV," Joe interjected, climbing onto the stool next to Ben and popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth. "I swear to God my license expiration dates have always haunted me." "Happens when you're pushing 80, dusty bones," you teased, propping your head up on one hand and imitating Joe's bitter, sarcastic laugh when he flipped you off.  "I'd rather be old and scared of license renewal than 22 and a cheater at Just Dance Wii." Twenty-two. So that's what Joe was talking about when he called you a kid. By no means was 22 a kid, but in relation to Joe, that was quite a jump. And yet, you carried yourself like you were at least 30, the confidence in your posture and sureness of your words masking the childishly playful glint in your eyes as you watched Joe, pressing your lips together to fight back a smile. Joe was returning the favor with a playful glare. "Speaking of Just Dance, are you gonna catch these L's again or what?" you challenged, Joe huffing before climbing off the stool again and heading for his discarded remote while you wiggled your eyebrows at Ben, then made your way back to the living room too. Sitting still for a moment, Ben blinked a few times in amazement at the whiplash you'd managed to give him yet again. You were full of surprises, someone that could talk sweet one moment and flame you to high heaven in the next, and honestly, he'd never wanted to be a person's friend so badly in his life. Turning on the stool, he watched as you both restarted the song, Joe immediately complaining when you set right back into your one-armed efforts. "Play the game like a normal person!" he whined, making you laugh and falter a bit in your dance moves as you leaned against him, your head on his shoulder while you squeezed his arm and made him cry out in even more frustration. "That's sabotage! Stop!" Straightening back up again, you fought a round of giggles as you tried to catch up, Joe frowning when you easily got back into the groove. Huffing softly, he reached over and clamped a hand over your eyes, making you cry hypocrisy as you struggled to pull his hand away, laughing in delight as Ben turned back to face his computer again, a contagious smile adorning his lips.  That smile stayed well on into the night, fueled by jokes, laughter, and friendly banter between the three of you that kept Ben there even after he'd gotten his emails sorted through. And somehow, you'd ended up on the balcony, Joe snoozing away in your reclining chair while you shared a smoke session with Ben, chatting about everything under the moon. You didn't smoke yourself, so you definitely didn't actually partake, but Ben didn't mind sharing space with someone who was picking his brain as well as you were. It was odd, bonding with Ben. He'd seemed like such a foreign concept when Joe had started all of this BoRhap business, something you weren't quite attached to - though you did enjoy the movie. But Ben had been nothing more but a character to you, some hot guy who frequented Joe's Instagram pictures and had comebacks/comments to rival your own. Now, he was here and real. You didn't know what to think of him yet - it was hard appraising a person in real life when you'd become so accustomed to the idea of him, the picture that Joe painted of him. To you, Ben was a pretty boy, a fitness-obsessed lad who was a bit of a flirt and couldn't resist a good bromance. Sure, Joe had said he had some shy moments, but really, he'd pegged him as quite a player, and that alarmed you when you found out he'd be around more - you didn't exactly have the best track record with men and a player would most certainly not be the worst blemish so far, so his frequent drop-ins could spell trouble. However, you hadn't seen any red flags about the man so far. Ben was quite a normal person, and you were starting to enjoy his company and conversation just as much as you enjoyed Joe's goofy, 'average Joe' personality. That didn’t mean you weren’t keen on keeping your guard up, though. "That's what I don't get!" Ben scratched his eyebrow a bit before taking another drag of the cigarette, shaking his head and exhaling the smoke to his left so it wouldn't go into your face. "You're saying guilty pleasures don't exist, but I have to hide my Spotify session every time I listen to the Spice Girls so I won't get absolutely walloped by all of my friends for my activity." Giggling at the thought of Ben jamming out to Spice Girls, you wrapped your fingers around the railing and leaned back once more to stretch as you shook your head in response. "I'm not saying they don't exist, but I'm saying they shouldn't exist!" you corrected, groaning a bit when Ben only gave you a more confused look. "Oh my god, I don't know how to make it any clearer here! Guilty pleasures shouldn't exist. If it's a pleasure, why does it have to be guilty, you know?" "I'm.... trying to follow," he admitted with a laugh, glancing back at Joe for a moment before meeting your gaze again and squinting a bit. "So, are you saying that because it's a pleasure, you shouldn't be guilty about it?" You made an excited noise and tapped the railing, then grinned at him and gently poked his arm to accentuate your next words. "Exactly. If I like drinking milk straight from the carton, why should I be ashamed?" "Because that's like, kind of disgusting," he replied, laughing a bit at your excitement and wrinkling his nose a bit. "D'you really drink milk straight from the jug?" Giving him a pointed look, you pressed your lips into a thin line before leaning forward on the rail with crossed arms. "See, that's why guilty pleasures still exist. You can't judge other people for things that make 'em happy, you know?" "Christ, sorry," he grimaced, and you could barely fight back the grin that played at your lips as you watched his expression morph into one of regret. "That was a shitty thing of me to say, of course it's fine if you like drinking milk from the jug. Jesus, I'm such a dickhead sometimes, I really don't think about what I say before it comes out of my mouth..." Scooting over a step or two as he rambled, you gently elbowed his side to get his attention, smiling benevolently when he turned to meet your gaze and his words faltered. "Chill, it's alright. Nobody's perfect." A pregnant pause followed soon after as Ben smiled just a bit, mainly just to make it seem like he wasn't still beating himself up over seeming like a cunt to you, but you weren't thinking about that anymore. Your mind was already moving on, eyes roving over his facial features slowly as you took them in. He was attractive, no doubt, and you had the faintest idea that there was some very real traction to the ladies man persona that Joe had talked about so much. It was wishful thinking to even consider that Ben wasn't at least half-aware of how potent his looks were. It was also wishful thinking to let any attraction you had to him get away from you and convince you that one date really wouldn't be that bad. You desperately needed Joe right about now so you could hear a discouraging story about Ben's conquests during filming, just to knock your self-confidence out and keep you from doing anything rash. It was really quiet now. Ben squinted a bit as he did the same to you, his gaze wandering quite a bit, but not lewdly. There was an innocent gleam in his eye, one that you couldn't quite understand - was he looking at you as Joe's neighbor, or a kid, or the hot girl next door? What was his approach here? You truly couldn't tell whether he was objectifying you, but the idea that he was sent a shiver through your spine as you tore your gaze away from his, unable to handle the heavy air between you and the stocky blond next to you.  A loud snore from Joe seemed to puncture the moment just seconds after you looked away, the both of you jolting a bit as the tension deflated, and you shared a laugh at how quickly Joe had managed to pass out on the balcony despite your incessant chatting. "Sleeps like a log, eh?" Ben commented, pushing himself back from the railing before snuffing out the cigarette he'd been neglecting in the mug that was serving as an ashtray.  "Always," you deadpanned, but a smile played at your lips as you walked around to stand on the other side of Joe, crouching down until you were eye level with the heavy sleeper. Ben could see every quirk of your lips, every subtle expression in your face as you reached out to shake Joe's shoulder gently, murmuring to him as you did so. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You in there?" Joe stirred, though not much, and a soft grumble from him prompted a sympathetic look in your eyes that did not go unnoticed by Ben, who now stiffened up at the interaction. Whiplash, once again, as he tried to reckon with the gentle side of you that wasn't privy only to him like he'd blindly and so dumbly assumed. That warm, somewhat sentimental look in your eyes was achingly familiar to Ben, seeing as he'd only witnessed it mere hours ago when you were nothing more than friendly strangers, your gaze following his while you listened to him groan about the DMV. So why was he so covetous? You'd barely just got to know each other, only having a few hours of talking time tonight where you'd picked up small details about each other, so the fact that your fondness of Joe irritated him was baffling. But it couldn't be jealousy, could it? Not this early. No, for sure not. By the time he'd snapped out of his stupor, you'd already managed to get Joe to his feet, giving him a warm hug before patting his back and sending him back to his apartment. That left you alone with Ben, and the heavy air settled once again as you gave him a somewhat shy smile, sighing before stepping around the chair and pulling him into a hug as well. Reciprocating, he wrapped his arms around you briefly, the warmth of his body surprising as it transferred between the layers of clothes between you and assaulted your skin. While you'd been almost cold out here on the balcony, he seemed like he was burning alive. And his face matched as he pulled away, a rosy coloring to his cheeks making you wonder whether it was you, or just rosacea and you were a dumb bitch. Taking a shaky breath, you decided to pocket the assessment for later. "Thanks for entertaining my bullshit all night." Ben laughed at your words, shoving his hands in his pockets and shaking his head as you moved your hand to the back of your shorts, subconsciously fiddling with the tag that was sticking out. "I'm really sorry if I said anything wrong. I didn't mean to be an arsehole," he admitted, bowing his head a bit before shooting a sheepish look at you that was paired with a boyish smile. "It was nice talking to you, though. Sleepy Joe doesn't make great conversation. And I like getting to know you, you're.... interesting." He said the last word as his lips quirked upwards even more, his eyes crinkling a bit at the vague compliment that made you furrow your eyebrows playfully and give him a questioning look. "Wow, Joe wasn't wrong when he said you were a charmer," you noted. While Ben shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets with the same undying smirk still on his face, you took the opportunity to return to your side of the balcony, your hand going to pull your sliding door open as you peeked over your shoulder. There was a sly smile on your lips as you did so, one that said everything and nothing at all in one go as you spoke. "Goodnight, Ben. See you later." You would see him later. Never had you considered how true that statement could be as you came across his profile on Bumble while you were burrito-ed in your comforter, curled in the fetal position as your nightly playlist was on in the background to lull you to sleep. Hozier crooned to you while a sweaty, cutoff-clad Ben stared you down from the confines your phone screen. You hadn't actually expected to run into him on the app, despite having that nagging memory of Joe mentioning that Ben was on here.  It made you drop your phone at first, a knee-jerk reaction paired with a shocked expression that lasted for a few seconds before you scrambled to pick up your phone, staring at the picture of him at the gym again. It was a stereotypical fuckboy picture in the big mirror at the gym, but you got a good giggle out of the short bio that didn't even remotely hint at him being an actor - how humble, and how juxtaposed with his red carpet flexes in the subsequent photos. Suddenly, you realized that you had to swipe left or right. Your heart seized up for a moment, and all rational thought was thrown out the window as you went into a panic. If you swiped right, what if you matched? But if you didn't and then he swiped right on you, then he would know when you didn't match and that would make things really awkward. "Mmmmfuck no. Nope." You closed the app, too overwhelmed by all of the situations that choosing could cause, and you fell into an uneasy sleep as Ben sat dormant in your Bumble cache, waiting for an answer. Little did you know, seeing your profile had induced the same panic for him. But he'd done something that you couldn't. He chose.

---

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[lauwrite1225]

Vagabond || Finan the Agile || The Last Kingdom || Chapter 2.

Her life was falling apart. She was like a vagabond. Nowhere to return until she had fulfiled her objective. But maybe. Maybe, he was her home.

The story is available with the cast on my Wattpad account : LauFrye

If you want to be tagged for the next chapters, tell me and I will !

Word count : 1048

Elfstan was looking to his window when the King entered into his cabinet.

"Lord King." He said, walking to Alfred. "Lords." He added when he saw Uhtred and Odda behind. He designated the chairs and they took place. Elfstan stared at Uhtred. It wasn't the first he has saw him. But to him, it was still a mystery that Alfred trusted him. Every time he crossed his way, he hoped that it would be the last.

"Lord Elfstan, you are aware that our visit isn't just... courtesy." Alfred said, crossing his fingers.

"I am, Lord King."

"The matter is about your brother-in-law. Osgar." Elfstan arched a brow to Odda. Osgar was Wenyld's brother and for two years, Lord of Dorset.

"What of him?"

"The boy is reckless." Elfstan had to admit that Uhtred was right on the two points. Osgar was still a boy and acted with the fury of youth. He wasn't meant to be Lord, being only the second boy. But his brother died of illness, letting a lad of seventeen years old at the head of Dorset.

"He kept ignoring my words, making his own law on his land." Explained Alfred. He got up and walked to a map hang to the wall. A map of England. "But this land is Wessex's. And as King of Wessex, I can retire his rights on Dorset."

Elfstan frowned and joined Alfred. "I'll write to him."

"Good." Alfred went back to his sit. "We can now speak of other matters, then."

...

Wenyld was walking out of the church alongside the Lady Aelswith. She always thought that she was a good Christian, regularly going to the church. But the King's wife was so pious that she could started to doubt. Even if Wenyld did not know her well, she was of good company. Aethelflead was behind them, remaining silent as they walked into the palace.

"Finan! Steappa!" She finally spoke as they walked past Elfstan's office. Wenyld turned back and saw the huge smile on the young woman face. "What are you doing here?"

"We are waiting for the King. He's speaking to the Lord Elfstan." Answered the tall man.

"Well, when he is finished, maybe we could practice?" Wenyld never thought that Aethelflead would be allowed to learn sword skill. But it seemed that her mother was no more pleased considering the sigh she gave. Steappa nodded and the brunette turned to the Irishman. "You may ask Lord Uhtred if he'd like to join."

"I will, Lady." He smiled. Then the three women went back to their way. Aelswith did not fail to complain about his daughter wish to fight. Wenyld glanced at Aethelflead who was rolling her eyes. She reminded her at the same age.

Later that day, she heard the sound of wooden swords colliding in the palace's garden. She joined them, stopping next to the Irishman sitting on the grass. She stared at Steappa and Aethelflead who were fighting while Uhtred was giving them instructions. The King's daughter wasn't that bad even she had still a lot to learn.

"Ya wish to fight, Lady?" She looked down to Finan. Now that he was in the sunlight, she could distinguish the scar on his forehead and some others. But there was still the same expression in his eyes: playfulness.

"Why not?" She took a training sword on the floor and pointed it to Finan. He seemed quite surprise. "Will you fight me?"

He smiled with amusement and stood up. "As ya wish, my Lady." Steappa, Uthred and Aethelflead stopped their training to watch them. The tall man gave his sword to Finan and they position themselves, face to face. "I'll try not hurting ya, Lady."

"Oh, you will?" She threw her sword towards Finan, but he quickly blocked it. As soon as he relaxed, he tried to hit her legs. She stepped back and deflected the wooden blade with his own. She looked up to the warrior. He wasn't expected her to be so fast. He took his initial position and twirled his sword in his hand. They played like this for a while. Blown away, they stared at each other, waiting for the next move. She couldn't help but thought that he was quite handsome. She raised her arm to cut through the air, but Finan catch her wrist. She dropped the sword and he made her turn so that she was against his chest. She let out a laugh when he put the blade under her throat.

"You're fast, Lady. But not enough for me." He whispered to her ear. She shivered, feeling his breath against her neck.

"I'll get my revenge." She smiled. She pushed him away with her shoulder and he released her.

"You fight well, Lady. Where did you learn?" Commented Uhtred.

"I used to train with my older brother, when I was still at Dorchester." Those days were far now. She was married and Eadmund under the ground. She could only cherish those memories. She turned to Aethelflead. "You should continue to train. Men aren't always there to protect us."

The young Lady smiled, happy to hear such word from someone of her stature. Then, she walked away, feeling the eyes of the Irishman on her.

...

Night had fallen when Elfstan enter the bedroom. Wenyld straightened in the bed, staring at her husband who was removing his boots. He pasted all day with the King and his advisors and she only saw him for dinner. But then again, he was busy with royal affairs. He sighed and poured himself a glass of wine.

"How was your day?" She asked.

"Long." He took a sip and sat down on a chair. "Your brother is troubling the King. Again."

Wenyld rolled her eyes. "He is young and stubborn. He'll grow wiser." She has never been closed to Osgar. Her mother died while giving birth to him and as a child, she couldn't help but feel mad at him for that. With time, she understood the difficulty of motherhood and started to like him. But even though, Osgar was a reckless boy that was far from taking his responsibility seriously.

"He needs an advisor." Commented Elfstan.

"And who?" She asked. Her husband did not answer, but she knew who he was thinking of.

Autor's note: Longer chapter guys! That's quite hard to do long chapter when you begin a story, but i do my best aha. I hope you like the story!

Sunday Season 4 is out and I'm so excited about this !

[gingerpeachtae]

Concentric [3]

masterlist

Words: 8.9k

Genres: fantasy!AU, angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, eventual smut (?)

Warnings: blood, decapitation (yikes), violence

Summary: You had been ready for the end of the semester. You had been ready to spend time away from your best friend, Jimin, and finally move on from the feelings you harbored. Yet, after your friend was forced to reveal a secret, you found yourself in a new world that was chock full of magic, war, and wonder. So, here you were, basically thrown into your own fantasy novel, with your best friend on one side, and six male warriors on the other.

A/N: here ya go ya peach heads! pls engoy & I would luv to hear any feedback you have for me! 

“…and then he tried fighting with swords, but he would either completely shatter the blade or the handle would fall off!” Tae was laughing so hard while he told the story that he fell on his side, clutching his stomach.

“Don’t forget the time he threw the knife behind him instead of at the target when I tried to teach him!” Hoseok chimed in.

“I-it’s not-it wasn’t that bad!” The male of subject tried to defend his actions before looking to you with pleading eyes. “I swear! It wasn’t my fault!”

You tried, you really did, to withhold your laughter for his sake. But one look at Tae rolling on the ground and you couldn’t hold back any longer.

Sounding defeated, he proceeded to whisper, “I would pick them up and they’d just break or go flying on their own.”

“Nope, you’re just a god of destruction. Our leader is too strong!” Tae exclaimed.

He had been explaining why Namjoon was the only one who fought with a mace. Apparently, the other members of the kiela refused to let him fight with sharp weapons because of how clumsy he was. There had been quite a few accidents until they finally got the sense to ban him from anything with a pointy end.

You shot Namjoon a comforting look through your giggles, and the emergence of his dimples showed you that he appreciated the gesture.

Then, looking toward the fire in the middle of the group, you asked, “Jin, are you sure you don’t want any help? I can cook fairly well, you know.”

You had finally met the eldest member of the kiela when you began setting up camp, which consisted of picking a designated sleeping spot and getting a fire rolling. When the Saeni you had yet to meet started chopping up what looked like carrots, celery, and some other familiar ingredients, you had approached to introduce yourself and offer your help. It would be an an understatement to say that your offer had been immediately and forcefully turned down.

Now, the black-haired male shook his head as he tossed another ingredient into the pot over the flames. Once he stirred it into the pot he turned his dark brown eyes to you, his hoop piercings shaking slightly from the sudden movement.

“Ya! I already told you, I’m the caretaker of this kiela, okay?” He shook his spoon at you in what you hoped was fake aggravation. “Just because you’re a female doesn’t mean you can steal my position!”

“I don’t know hyung… Y/N really is a good cook. Maybe you should let her help just a little bit.” Jimin said.

Jin’s jaw dropped. “How dare you Chim!? How dare you betray me like this?” He moved to point the spoon at Jimin’s apricot head and threatened, “Don’t make me smack you!”

“Aish! Calm down. I know you take care of all of us, but...”

“What?” Jin crossed his arms, finger tapping against the wooden spoon.

You quickly muttered, “You’re not my dad…

“Ugly ass fuckin’ noodlehead.” Jimin finished with you, laughing and giving you a high five.

Jin blinked twice before sighing, rolling his eyes, and returning to his steaming pot. The rest of the Saeni gave you both confused looks, obviously not knowing what you referenced.

Poor lads. Living in a world without Vine.

“But seriously Papa Jin, if you ever want or need help, let me know. I would love to give you a hand.”

The male just huffed and continued to stir his food.

“For Exia’s sake, you’re all so loud. Some people are trying to rest,” the lump curled on the ground complained.

“That would only be you, Yoongi.” Tae chuckled.

“Don’t be such a grouchy pants,” added Hoseok, but it lacked any real bite.

You watched as his eyes traveled over Yoongi’s form with an emotion that was quite familiar to you.

Interesting.

“Yeah, well Kookie is over your babbling mouths too.”

You shifted to look at the burgundy-haired male, noting that he was sitting stiffly, eyes on the ground. You realized he hadn’t said a word since Namjoon decided to stop for the day, which had been over an hour ago. His pea green eyes shot up and locked with yours. They narrowed before he stood up and walked into the trees, mumbling about how he wasn’t tired and wanted to go for a walk.

“Kookie’s been acting so weird.” Tae stretched his arms over his grey head and adjusted his headband.

Not necessarily wanting to get into Jungkook and his poopy personality right then, you asked to no Saeni in particular, “Who’s Eshea?”

“Exia.” Namjoon corrected you.

“Exia…?” You slowly said back and grinned when his yellow eyes brightened at your proper pronunciation.

Tae jumped into the conversation. “She’s the goddess of battle and strategy! BTS Saeni tend to pray to her more than the other gods.”

“BTS? Other gods? Jimin told me that Illain is named after Illai, but there are more?”

Hoseok groaned at Tae’s comment. “He has some fixation on calling us BTS Saeni because we’re-”

“Battle-Trained Soldiers!” Tae interrupted proudly, clearly pleased with his made-up acronym.

You glanced at Jimin out of the corner of your eye, who just shrugged as he decided to let his brothers handle the explanations.

“Okay, BTS. I can dig it Tae,” you tell him, and he beamed. “So, there’s Illai and Exia… what other gods are there?”

Namjoon took the reins once more. “There are seven ethereal beings. Illai, the mother and life goddess. Her siblings, Exia and Juufa. The latter is the god of harmony and accord. Then, the mother goddess has four children, each taking claim to a season: Ilto is spring, Vebah is summer, Keoth is autumn, and winter is Opitax.”

“Who fathered her kids? Was it her sibling?” You supposed the idea should’ve made you squirm more than it did, but you’d read enough mythology in your life to know that it wasn’t exactly a rare thing for deities to do.

“I…” Namjoon paused, thinking hard before frowning. “I don’t know.”

Hoseok began praising you for finally finding something that his leader didn’t have the answer to.

“I heard she was pregnant when she came to be.” Jin piped up.

Tae proceeded to voice his own opinion. “Nah hyung, it was definitely a self-impregnation.”

“Oh! I think there’s a species of lizard that does that on Earth!” You excitedly claim, looking to Jimin for confirmation.

“Why do you think I would know?” He said, making your face drop into a pout.

“Well, clearly, none of us know the answer. I’m sorry Y/N,” The kiela’s leader spoke up before the conversation could totally go sideways. “But anyways, many Saeni worship a particular god or goddess based on their birth season as well as occupation like in our case.”

You didn’t really know what else to say besides a simple “wow.” You weren’t the religious type, but you were intrigued by the various beliefs around the world. You enjoyed learning about them, so it was amazing to hear about the Saeni’s. Although, you did find it odd that none of them knew who fathered the four seasonal gods. Maybe somebody could bring Maury Povich over to Illain and have him do his paternity test segment with Juufa. You could just imagine his “You are not the father!” declaration to the god. Or maybe it would be “You are the father!” Who knows…

That’s why they need Maury!

You were brought out of your thoughts of bringing the American talk show host on a cross-world adventure when Jin announced that dinner was ready. Excitedly jumping off the ground at the Saeni’s words, you pulled Jimin up by his arm.

Pondering missing information from the Saeni culture would have to wait until food got into your belly.

Laying on the mat rolled out underneath your body, you couldn’t find it in you to close your eyes and drift to sleep. Your mind would not shut off and you kept wiggling around like a worm in the hopes of finding a position that would lull your ass to Snoozeland. It wasn’t working. Flopping to your other side once more, you stared at Jimin sleeping next to you. His plush lips were pursed, and he was expelling soft puffing noises.

You’re not going to get any sleep if you keep staring at his cute face!

You sighed before turning your head away. Cursing yourself for not being able to hit your internal power button, you sat up and ran your hands down your face. You cradled your head in your hands as you listened to the bugs in the dark.

All of the sudden, you perked up when you heard a melodic sound drifting through the forest. It was a beautiful, low-pitched song. Curious as to what animal was making it, you removed the blanket from where it was draped over your legs and rose to go find out. You crept around the Saeni silently, not wanting to wake them, and you paused when you made it to the perimeter of their snoring forms. The next round of pretty sounds came from your left, so you angled your body in that direction and tip-toed away, not noticing the pair of green eyes that followed your movements.

Glancing up at the moonlight filtering through the trees, you smiled to yourself. It was so peaceful here. So quiet yet filled with an orchestra of sounds. It wasn’t the buzzing of electricity, the honking of traffic, or the thumping of music escaping past closed doors. It was only the sounds of nature. Plain and simple and nothing else.

You had been looking for that mystery animal for around seven minutes. You hadn’t heard it in about three, so you halted your feet to listen carefully.

Bugs clicking.

Trees creaking.

Leaves rustling.

And was that it? You heard a faint noise, so you held your breath and leaned your ear forward in hopes of catching the sound again.

“What are you doing?”

You gasped at the unexpected voice behind you. You jerked your head over your shoulder and raised a hand over your heart to steady its rapid pace when you recognized the person who startled you.

“Fucking hell Coco! You scared the shit out of me!”

“What are you doing?” He repeated himself, and you were shocked when you noticed his voice didn’t carry its usually venom.

He almost sounded… nice.

Taken back, it took you a few seconds to respond, “Oh, um. I couldn’t sleep, and I heard this really pretty sound, so I wanted to check out was it was. And now that I say it out loud, I realize that that’s the opening scene from every camping horror movie ever, so that was probably super dumb on my part so-”

“I get it. You can stop rambling now.” The male interrupted you before sighing. “It was the call of a tilqua, they’re nocturnal so you don’t hear them during the day.”

“They’re a type of bird,” he continued after seeing your blank face.

“Oh! Cool! Uh, thanks for telling me.”

It fell to an awkward silence after that. Neither of you saying anything and avoiding looking at each other. You shifted your weight foot to foot as the painful quiet continued for another minute.

Not able to take it any longer, you blurted out, “Why are you being so cordial with me all of the sudden?”

You really should have just kept your damn mouth shut because, almost instantly, his entire demeanor toward you changed. He flinched at your question, as if it awoke him a trance. Then, he narrowed his eyes, any hint of warmth they might’ve had was now gone.

“I’m not being nice to you. I was on watch and saw someone leaving camp. I came to check why.” His voice was void of any emotion.

“I… but you... the sound-”

“It’s your fault,” he talked over you, his tone now carrying anger.

“Wh-what? What’s my fault? I haven’t done anything.”

You saw his hand descend to grip the handle of his dagger. Shit. You’d annoyed him, and you didn’t even know how or why.

“Just go back to camp. Go lay down next to Chim, and go to sleep already,” he said through his teeth, hand squeezing the dagger.

Not wanting to be around such an aggravating person anymore, you found yourself following his demand by promptly marching past him, making sure to bump into him as you did. He growled as your shoulder checked his but didn’t retaliate further.

You couldn’t believe it. The audacity of that male! He was the one who had followed you like some creeper. You let out a quiet scream of frustration as your stomped through the forest back to the camp and did exactly what he told you to do.

You woke up to Jimin gently shaking you and saying that it was time to get your ass up.

You moaned. “Mmmmmm-kay Slim Jim, just give me fi-“

“I swear if you’re about to say five more minutes…”

“-ive more minutes.” You rolled over and tugged the blanket closer to your chin.

You vaguely heard Jimin say something about not being sorry when, out of nowhere, a heavy weight plopped down on top of you, making you grunt from the impact.

“Slim Jim, I will personally shave your head if you don’t get off me!”

“Are you always this grumpy in the morning?” A deep voice that was definitely not Jimin’s murmured in your ear.

Cracking an eye open, you saw that it was Tae who had jumped on you. His handsome face was squished against yours and his long limbs were wrapped around your curled-up body. Seeing your eyes open, he gave you his signature boxy smile, which you returned with no hesitation. You couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at the guy when he looked so damn adorable.

You accepted your defeat. “Alright, alright. I’ll get up, but you gotta get the hell off me first.”

He immediately scrambled up, pulling you vertical with him. He gave you a big hug that lifted you off your feet before setting you down and skipping away to talk with Jungkook. You averted your eyes, not wanting to see the burgundy head’s glare this early in the morning.

You yawned and stretched your entire body. The sun was just beginning to peak out over the horizon and you were glad that you didn’t have a clock to see how hellaciously early it must’ve been. After gathering your belongings and shoving them into your backpack, you walked over to join the rest of the Saeni. Jin handed you what looked like an apple and tasted just as refreshing and sweet.

“Aren’t you going to apple-aud me for making sure you eat the most important meal of the day?”

You swallowed your bite before replying, “This is an apple?”

“Uh, yeah? What else would it be?”

Sorry for not knowing ya’ll had apples over here, damn.

“And what about my joke!? None of you appreciate peak humor! Ugh, you let me down Y/N.”

Before you could compliment his atrociously great dad joke, the Saeni walked away in exaggerated disappointment. At least you hoped it was exaggerated.

Lifting your shoulders in a shrug, you continued munching on the tasty, green fruit as you watched Jimin join Tae and Jungkook’s conversation. You had to admit that if you weren’t aware of who these people were to Jimin, you would have been feeling just a wee bit neglected. Your best friend had been spending more time speaking with the Saeni than with you. Granted, he always checked in with you to make sure you were doing okay, but he hadn’t really talked to you. But, you couldn’t be upset at him. He was probably just taking the time to catch up with everyone since it had been about nine months since seeing them last. Plus, you did sort of invite yourself onto the trip, so you were just happy to be here. You had also been getting to know Tae and Hoseok more, since the two of them walked beside you most of the time. They were both loud and eccentric, but they had kind souls. You really enjoyed talking with them and they loved hearing your stories about Jimin on Earth.

Just as you took the last bite of apple, Namjoon called you over. Tossing the core behind a tree to give a forest animal its own breakfast, you hurried over to the tall male who handed you your two daily petals. Tossing them into your mouth to dissolve, your body momentarily froze as the experience of consuming them together hit you in full force. It was almost overwhelming, but once it passed and your vision cleared, you gave Namjoon a smile and wave before bounding over to Hoseok who was leaning against a tree. Seconds later, Tae joined the two of you, thankfully without a certain coconut-headed asshat.

You had been walking for around three hours. Three hours of stepping around trees, leaping over logs, and being the only damn person making a sound as you stepped over foliage. Three hours before finally giving in and voicing the question you had been dying to ask.

“Do you guy carry around hair dye or does Yoongi color your hair with magic?”

When the Saeni striding next to you gave a look of confusion you expanded your question. “Well, you both have dyed hair so how do you maintain it in the field? Doesn’t it wash out? Or sweat out?

“Our hair isn’t dyed Y/N.”

“What? But you have grey hair, Tae! And Hoseok, yours is silver white! You’re not old enough to have grey or white hair!” Your eyes widened as a possibility you hadn’t considered came to you. “Oh my gosh. Are you guys old geezers? Do Saeni age differently than humans?”

Tae snickered at your panicked tone and you went to smack his shoulder, but he easily evaded your hand.

“Okay first off, can you please stop calling me Hoseok? It’s so weird to have someone use my real name.” The male himself asked.

“Uh sure, but you told me that’s your name, so I don’t know what else to call you?” You winced as your foot snapped yet another twig on the forest floor.

“Just call me Hobi, little scorja. Secondly, like Tae said, we don’t dye our hair. None of us do. It’s all natural, baby.”

“All natural my ass. Yoongi has mint-blue hair! That shit at natural, honey.”

At the mention of Yoongi’s name, Hobi’s eyes twitched over to the Saeni and faintly smiled.

Tae then filled in for Hobi since he was distracted. “Yeah, and Chim has orange hair and Namjoon’s got yellow eyes. We’re all born with it, little scorja. Our eye and hair color come from our birth season.

“Hobi, Jin, and I were all born when Opitax had control, so we have winter-esque features, hence the grey and white hair.

Chim and Joonie were during Keoth’s months, so they have autumn coloring.

Kookie has Vebah’s summer tones. And Yoongi is-”

“Ilto. Spring.” Hobi returned to the discussion.

“Hold up.” You raised your hand to emphasize your words. “Jimin had black hair when we were kids though.”

“Oh yeah! I remember when he first showed up, we all though he was an Opitax baby.” Tae laughed while giving Hobi a nudge with his elbow.

“He dyed his hair black to blend in with humans. I’m guessing that vibrant orange is not a normal color for your people, especially kids.”

You looked up to where Jimin was walking with Namjoon and Yoongi, his apricot tresses standing out among the greenery of the forest. Those same tresses that had just showed up at the end of summer one year and never went away. You always inquired how he got his dark roots to never pop up and he would give you a sly smile in return every time. You had thought he was just keeping his superb dyeing technique a secret, but apparently, the only secret was that it was his natural hair.

“And to answer that last part,” Hobi continued, “we age the same as humans do.”

“Well… that’s a relief,” you said as you tilted your head up to catch a patch of sunlight filtering through the leaves.

The conversation died, but it was a comfortable silence. Unlike last night with Jungkook. As the three of you hiked on, Tae would occasionally point out a flower or plant he thought you would find pretty and Hobi would advise you to be more careful when you stumbled over some obstacle. Overall, though, you let the forest do most of the talking. You could slightly hear Namjoon, Yoongi, and your Slim Jim making conversation ahead of you as well as Jin complaining to Jungkook behind you. As you grabbed a hold of a tree trunk to swing yourself around it, a strong gust of wind blew past you, causing your hair to go wild. Blowing the pieces out of your face, you glimpsed Tae’s feather earring swaying in the wind.

“Okay another question, please don’t hate me. Why do you all have ear piercings? They look badass, don’t get me wrong, but couldn’t they be a liability in a fight?”

“How could they be a liability?” Hobi answered your question with a question.

You explained that they could get caught on something or their enemy could yank on them or rip them out if they got close enough.

Both Saeni let out a laugh before Hobi said, “That may be true, but I highly doubt it would happen. Especially our enemies yanking on them.”

“We actually wear them to symbolize what kind of fighter we are!” Tae added as hopped over a fallen log.

“Huh?” You opted to go beneath the fallen tree, briefly pausing to curiously look at what seemed like a black hand print on the bark.

“Feather for archers like me. Metal for swords, daggers, and knives like Hobi, Kookie, and Jin. Dark beads for blunt weapons like Namjoon and his mace, and Yoongi has bone for magic users!”

“That’s what they’re for!? I thought they were just some Saeni fashion statement. Don’t they sort of… give you guys away?”

Hobi snorted as he swatted a branch out of his face. “If the weapons literally strapped to our backs don’t give us away I don’t think our ‘fashion statements’ will be the thing to do so.”

His sassy remark caused you to fake pout. They cooed at you, poking at your cheeks and sides until you giggled at their antics. Pleased they had you back to smiling, they dropped their hands and moved back to a respectful distance.

“That reminds me, I need to give Chim his!” Tae suddenly gasped out.

“Give him his what?”

“His earrings! He’s an archer too, but he leaves his earrings with me when…” He was gone before he finished his sentence, running up to where Jimin was.

You blinked at his rapid departure. For a strict, “battle-trained soldier” he sure was in a world of his own sometimes.

Thankfully, the dagger and knife enthusiast next to you finished for him. “Chim gives them to Tae so that he doesn’t lose them on Earth.”

So Jimin was an archer? Damn, you’d love to see him knock an arrow back, you bet he’d look sexy as heck. You turned your head to ask Hobi how good Jimin was, but you saw that his eyes were focused on where Tae had run up to. Focused on one Saeni up there in particular. Not the first time you had caught him staring at the other male. You had noticed that Hobi’s eyes went to find the other Saeni whenever his there was a pause in conversation. Or he would try to fight back his smile when the other’s name was mentioned. He did it so many times during dinner last night that you were about to smash their faces together and say your godly work was done. But for now…

“Does he know?”

“Hmm?” He replied still staring at the other male.

“Yoongi. Does he know?”

“What!?” He squeaked as he whipped his head to you. He coughed to try to return his voice to its normal pitched. “Ah, I mean what are you talking about?”

You smirked to yourself as you saw his face grow warm, but he obviously wasn’t ready to talk about it. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

He visibly relaxed at your words. You wished you could help him out somehow, but it wasn’t your place to interfere. Especially given your own shitty situation. Unrequited love was quite the bitch, so you truly hoped that that wasn’t the case for Hobi.

You sent him an understanding smile and the two of you walked on.

Namjoon finally called it for the day when the group came across a wide river. The roar of the white rapids was almost deafening as they churned the water and interrupted the otherwise peaceful landscape.

You, Tae, and Hobi stayed at the designated campsite, watching Papa Jin prepare the evening’s meal, while the rest of the boys went to scout a calmer part of the river to wash off in.

Currently, you and Tae were doing your best to annoy the other Saeni as you tossed small nuts at them. You laughed as Jin shook his knife at you in a threat. Calling his bluff, you simply stuck your tongue out in return.

“Exia give me strength,” the eldest Saeni muttered, turning back to his pot.

“You were already a brat, Tae, but with her… aish. You two are the worst.” Hobi tried his best to sound serious, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips destroyed any hope he had.

You fell into Tae as your giggles consumed your body, his arms wrapping around you and holding you close. As your lungs calmed down, you heard footsteps approaching.

“Thank Illai you guys found someplace to wash off. I need to get away from these two tyrants.” You saw Jin point to you and your partner in crime.

Ignoring his comment, you turned your head to great the returning Saeni, but your hello died in your throat.

Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jimin were in the process of putting their shirts on and you caught sight of their defined muscles. You slowly closed your mouth and gulped. You’d obviously seen Jimin without a shirt on plenty of times before, but it hit on a whole different level to see him semi-shirtless and wet.

Not to mention that both Yoongi and Namjoon clearly worked out too. It was… a lot of take in. You didn’t think you could withstand any more pure, male hotness, but the gods of Illain must have wanted you to suffer because Jungkook decided right then would be a wonderful time to show up. Completely sans shirt.

All you could do was look at him as he whined to his hyungs about something that was absolutely no concern to you at that moment. Your eyes took in his physique that was muscular but still lean. The strength of his biceps was evident as he waved his arms at the others, causing the muscles to flex. You softly gasped when you noticed that his stomach was so cut that he had a freaking eight pack. Eight! Your eyes trailed lower and… oh my…

His. Fucking. Thighs. Due to the dampness of his skin, the fabric of his pants clung to his legs, effortlessly showcasing the prominent muscles. Every step he took had them bulging and you swear you almost fainted from the sight. You couldn’t tear your eyes away as you squeezed your own thighs together.

H-holy fuck. Coco was freaking ripped.

“Why is she staring at Kookie?” You heard Tae whisper to someone.

Your eyes widened and before you could look away, Jungkook’s head swiveled to you and saw that your eyes were locked on him.

Fucking hell. Why Tae!?

To your utter shock though, was that instead of bitching at you, he blushed and ran to hide behind a tree. As he yeeted himself out of there, you caught sight of a tattoo on his upper, middle back.

“Why’d you say that out loud? You know he gets shy!” Jin lightly smacked the offending Saeni on his arm.

“Hey, the little scorja was practically drooling! We were all thinking it, I just happened to be the one t- Ow!”

You gave him a smack of your own on his leg while your cheeks heated up in embarrassment.

“That’s not nice!” He complained.

“Neither is voicing when someone is checking someone else out, Tae.” Namjoon pointed out as he sat down next to the fire.

Completely humiliated, you hid your face in your hands. Although, you did peek through your fingers to gauge Jimin’s reaction. The boy was folded in half, cracking up as his eyes squished closed.

Stupid cute squishy eyes.

You knew it was hopeless, but a small part of you had wished he’d be just a tiny bit jealous. Clearly, that was not the case.

Attempting to change the mortifying subject, you coughed before saying, “Uh, I didn’t know Coco had a tattoo.”

“What!? That kid has a tattoo!?” Jin shrieked in alarm before catching Yoongi’s “are you serious?” expression. “Oh, you must mean our draeva marks.”

“Drai-Draiva marks?”

“Drae-va.” Jin pronounced slowly for you. “Saeni are all connected to Illain. This connection can sometimes be accessed and converted to magic by certain individuals like Yoongi. Majority, however, only have the standard draeva marks.”

You didn’t notice the smiles from both Jimin’s and Tae’s faces dropping since you were transfixed on Jin’s words. “Each Saeni is born at the same time a tree begins to take root. These trees are called draeva, though they can be any species. At seven years old, we feel the connection emerge in our souls and we feel a pull to that tree.”

As he talked, you noticed Jungkook come out of hiding, thankfully fully clothed this time. He went to sit next to Tae and put his arm around the Saeni’s shoulders as Namjoon started to elaborate on the subject. He said that every Saeni goes on a journey to find their draeva when the connection is established. Once the tree is found, the connection permanently takes root in the Saeni’s soul when they rest their hand on the trunk. The Saeni’s hand print is forever embellished on the bark, and in return, the Saeni gets a mark that replicates the tree’s inner rings. Every seven years, another ring appears, and the mark provides them with heightened senses and reflexes as well as the ability to feel the state of the draeva and surrounding area.

As you absorbed the information, you realized that the mark you saw earlier on the fallen tree must’ve been a Saeni’s hand print. You wondered what happens to the Saeni when their tree collapses like that. And although you were delighted to have learned more about Saeni culture, something jumped to the forefront of your thoughts.

“Slim Jim, you don’t have one.”

He looked down at your comment. “I don’t, um, I haven’t found my draeva.” His eyebrows pulled together, and his voice was shaking slightly. “I probably don’t even have one since I’m not fully Saeni.”

“Shit. Jimin, I’m sorry I didn-”

“You didn’t know, it’s okay.” He sent you a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes as Jin reached over to give his shoulder a squeeze.

Fuck, I lied. Your squishy eyes aren’t stupid. Bring them back.

“For the second night in a row, people are trying to sleep and you’re keeping them awake with all your emotions.” Yoongi grumbled.

The magic user had been quiet throughout the entire ordeal. Until now. You hadn’t even noticed that he’d gone straight to the fire to lay down on the ground. Though you were beginning to recognize that was standard behavior for the mint-haired Saeni. When he did finally speak up, he kept his usual, annoyed tone, but you could tell he was trying to lighten the atmosphere in his own, slightly questionable way. Trying to distract Jimin from his sadness.

Tae shot to his feet, preaching to Yoongi something along the lines of how emotions are what connect people together and yadda yadda yadda. 

You watched as Jimin’s face lifted in amusement and you silently thanked Mr. Sparkle Hands.

Once again, you were having a difficult time finding sleep. Or rather, sleep refused to find you because you’d tried every position and trick you could think of. Expelling the air in your lungs in a fast manner, you rose to your legs and shuffled over to where Tae was on watch.

He gave you a big smile as your approached, but it morphed into a frown. “You know I love talking to you, Y/N, but you should really get some sleep.”

“Trust me, I wish I could, but ya girl’s got insomnia.”

He hummed to express his empathy before grabbing your hand. “Well, if we’re going to talk, let’s walk the perimeter so we don’t wake the others.”

Waffling your fingers with his, the two of you started walking the circumference of the camp, far enough that nobody would hear you, but close enough to keep an eye on the area.

The two of you had been circling the camp for a decent amount of time, discussing absolute nonsense such as why you considered Steak and Shake fries to be on the bottom of the french fry totem pole.

“They’re skinny little shoestring fries! I like my fried potatoes to be girthy, you know. Give me some thick, crinkle cuts instead.”

As you argued in favor of girthy fries to someone who had never had one, Yoongi appeared out of the shadows. His face was not very happy, and you wondered what was wrong.

“Uhhh, hey Yoongi! Do you have insomnia too?”

He stopped and took you in with a judgmental face. “No. Only the small-minded get insomnia.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Disregarding your request, he turned to address Tae next to you.

“Hey! What are you doing? I wake up to take over watch and I don’t even find you at your post!”

Tae rolled his eyes. “Hyung, you know I can still see everything just fine from here, there’s no need t- Shit!”

Yoongi must have seen it a split-second before Tae had because he was the one that knocked you out of the way when the giant, black shadow of a thing came charging out of the dark.

You hit the ground hard with a grunt, scraping your forearm against a rock. Rolling over, you screamed Yoongi’s name as you saw him get tackled by the creature, the blue glow of an almost-finished spell fading as he went down. All you could do was watch in horror as wild jaws snapped at his head and claws raked down his body. Suddenly, an arrow thumped into the thing’s neck, but it only growled and continued ravaging the mint-haired Saeni who struggled, and failed, to push it off.

Hearing Tae curse, you looked in his direction and saw him running at the beast. He held his bow in both hands and defiantly yelled as he swung down. You gaped at you watched the sharp edge of his bow cut straight through the creature’s neck, causing the head to decapitate and the body to sag. The head hit the ground and rolled away from its previous owner until it came to a halt beside you.

You stared at it, blood still pumping out of the severed end in thick spurts. Midnight-colored skin that seemed rough and leather-like stretched across its skull. A thin, purple tongue hung limply out of its mouth, which was filled with rows and rows of teeth that looked like needles. You just stared at the gruesome head until you heard Tae calling Yoongi’s name.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You wobbled to your feet and stumbled as fast as you could over to the Saeni, doing your best to ignore the headless body as Tae heaved it off Yoongi. You exhaled in relief when you heard Yoongi’s low voice responding to Tae and saw his pink eyes open and alive. Your reprieve was short-lived, however, as you lowered your eyes to Yoongi’s arms and torso.

They were… not in good shape. Deep gashes were twisted all around his arms, pouring out tiny rivers of blood that soaked the ground beneath him. Luckily, he had his main armor on, protecting his vital organs, but the creature had still found an open chink with its claws. You felt a tear run down your cheek as you saw where it had dug into the flesh on his left side. He was breathing weakly and his chest was spasming as Tae moved his hands to press against the wound.

You dropped to your knees and whispered Yoongi’s name, your voice and hands trembling as you took in his damaged body.

There was just so much blood. It was everywhere. Your vision was only red, red, red.

What do I do? What do I do!? Oh god…

“Y/N. Y/N! Y/N!”

You broke out of your crimson-filled trance.

“Y-yes?” Your chin quivered.

“I need you to go back to camp and wake up the others, alright?” You could tell he was trying to speak as calmly as possible to not panic you further. “I need you to bring Hobi back, so he can help me move him. Can you do that for me, little scorja?”

You nodded as confidently as you could before shooting to your feet and sprinting back to camp, the image of Yoongi being mauled and his wrecked body burned into your brain.

Somewhere else, hundreds of miles away from a frantic you, an injured Yoongi, and a shocked kiela, was a male sitting inside of a large tent, which was erected within his own encampment. Most of his face was shrouded in darkness, only the bridge of his nose and peak of his cheekbones were visible in the light of a few burning candles. He looked up from the map spread out before him when someone entered his tent. The wolves beside the male lifted their heads in attention at the intrusion.

“Sir? We’ve gotten word that he is back in Illain.”

The three wolves regarded the subjugate with aggressive eyes, causing him to gulp in fear.

“Anything else?” The shadowed male inquired.

“Their magic user was attacked by a lupinx.” He replied without looking away from the massive canines.

The male leaned back in his chair, a sinister smile creeping onto his face while his eyes twinkled in satisfaction.

“Perfect. Tell them to proceed with the plan.”

You felt horrible as you watched five of the Saeni train the next morning. You hadn’t been able to defend yourself last night, and Yoongi had paid for your weakness. You fisted your hands and dug your nails into your palm.

You couldn’t forget how pale he had been. How odd it was to see such a complexion smeared with bright crimson.

You couldn’t forget the Saeni’s faces, who were already on their feet by the time you’d arrived, when you stammered out what had happened in choppy, broken sentences.

You couldn’t forget the way Hobi’s expression had gone from concerned to utterly terrified in an instant.

Nor the way he’d rushed over to you, eyes unnerved as he grabbed your arm. You had wanted to whimper when he clawed into the sensitive skin around your scraped forearm. He begged you to tell him where Yoongi was, and without even telling him to follow, you had turned and run back to the bloody scene.

You loosened the pressure on your hands, but a throbbing remained where your nails had almost punctured small crescents into the soft skin. You sniffled as you observed Jimin practicing with Tae’s bow while the grey-haired owner critiqued his technique. Following the sounds of ringing metal, you shifted and saw Jungkook and Jin sparing with their swords. And behind them was Hobi, who was throwing his blades at a tree with much more force than was likely necessary. Your eyes burned as you watched them.

Expelling all the air in your lungs, you hung your head. You were so thankful that Yoongi would be okay. He as currently resting back at the camp with Namjoon looking after him.

But what if it had been more serious? What if he had died because you had needed to be protected?

What did you expect when you came to a new world with a bunch of warriors? To just skip by joyously and never be in danger?

You felt pathetic. You were a liability to the entire group. All you did was get in the way. Feeling a lump grow in your throat, you swiveled and walked away from the clashing of swords and thumping of arrows. When you could no longer hear them, you let out a frustrated roar and punched the rough trunk of the nearest tree. Your knuckles scraped against the bark, opening bleeding wounds. You brought your right hand close to your face to inspect the torn skin before shaking it out and punching the tree again and again and again, each hit eliciting an increasingly louder yell from deep inside you. Finally, your legs gave out and you slumped down while cradling your bleeding and splinter-filled hand. You felt exhausted.

“Your form is terrible.”

Raising your gaze from your damaged hand, you saw the last person you wanted to see.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying that your form is completely fucked.”

Why the hell did he have to come berate you on your shitty punching technique. Was there anything you could do around this guy that wouldn’t have him talking down to you? And why was he even here? Shouldn’t he be back with the others?

On a normal day, you would’ve given him a smartass’ response. But this was not a normal day. You felt like crap and this was the cherry on top of your self-depreciation milkshake. Your breathing went from strained to erratic and you felt the wall barely holding yourself together start to crumble. Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you tried to shut Jungkook out in a last-ditch effort to keep yourself together.

“Your hand is thrashed because you can’t even throw a punch properly.”

Welp.

“Why!?” You screamed at him. “Why do you hate me!? What did I do to you!?”

You started to cry. You were so overwhelmed. “You said it was my fault, but what was my fault? I’ve never done shit to you!”

Truly crying at this point, your breathing was now stuttered and gasping. You lowered your head to try to hide your vulnerable state. As sobs wracked your body, you wrapped your arms around your torso in a desperate attempt to find comfort.

Not taking pity on you, Jungkook responded in a vicious tone, “You want to know what you did? You’re the reason my kiela is broken.”

“W-what?” You lifted your head to look at him through your tears.

His right hand grasped on to his ruby-hilted dagger and his other was clenched tightly.

“We’re supposed to stay together. We’re not supposed to leave each other, but Jimin does. He always leaves! And why? Because. Of. You. He doesn’t stay because you’re on Earth and he doesn’t want to leave his precious best friend, so he leaves us, his brothers, his family, instead.”

“What-I-Jungkook, I never asked him to do that. I didn’t even know you guys existed.” You defended yourself, but it came out weak.

“My family is never whole because of you. I almost lost my hyung last night because of you. It’s all because of you. Because of a stupid little human.” He spat the words out.

He was breathing heavily as he towered over you. “It’s. All. Your. Fault.”

Your heart ached in pain as what he said fully resonated with you. He was hurting because of you. Because Jimin would rather live on Earth, would rather abandon his kiela for most of the year, partly so that he could keep you in his life. You felt your stomach drop at the thought and you gripped your arms hard, curling into yourself again. You felt so frustrated, so lost, and so… human.

You’ve been hurting his family and you hadn’t even known. The others might not have been so up front about it, but they must have been hurting too. They had to be. A new wave of tears erupted over your cheeks as you considered how much the Saeni must despise you. How much they must be pretending to be fine with you for Jimin’s sake. You continued to sob as your mind shifted to think of how you’d been keeping Jimin away from them. You’d been keeping your best friend and the person you loved away from the most important people in his life.

And Yoongi…

“Kook! Y/N!”

You hastily rose to your feet and stepped back from Jungkook while you wiped your tears away, hissing as you moved your injured hand. It was a futile effort, though, since you knew there was still evidence in your meek disposition and red, puffy eyes.

“Hey hyung,” Jungkook said without looking away from you, but he stiffened and turned to his brother when he noticed that Tae was panicking. “What’s wrong?”

Gasping for air, he looked at you and Jungkook, obviously taking note of his heaving chest and your red eyes, but he didn’t comment on them.

Instead he said in a stressed, frantic tone, “They got him, Kook! They got Chim!”

You were pacing back and forth in front of Yoongi, who was laying down on his mat. You ran your hands through your hair, the crappy self-wrap job you did on your knuckles catching on the strands. You gripped fistfuls of your hair and yanked at the roots in frustration.

“Y/N. I swear to Exia if you pace in front of one more ti-“

“Yoongi! They’ve been gone for so long! What if something happened? What if they’re hurt?

“Okay, firstly, it’s only been like twenty minutes, so you can calm the fuck down.” He rolled his eyes. “Secondly, as Tae would put it, we’re BTS Saeni. This is literally what we do for a living… so yet again, you can calm the fuck down.”

You stopped in the middle of taking your next step as you considered his statements. Deciding to agree with him, you placed your foot down, but stopped moving around.

“Fine! Fine. But I want it to be known that I hate having to just sit here and wait.”

“You’re not sitting, and you didn’t have to say that. It was already obvious.”

You glared at the Saeni but your eyes softened after taking in his wrapped arms and torso. The bandages didn’t seem to have any blood staining them, so either they were freshly changed or Saeni’s bodies healed extremely fast. You still dropped your head in sorrow at his injured body.

“I-I’m sorry Yoongi. For what happened. It was my fault.”

He scoffed at your words. “It wasn’t your fault, idiot. Stop blaming yourself.”

“I really don’t know whether to take that as an insult or not, and I’m not sure I believe you, but… okay.”

Sitting down on the ground next to him, you thought back to the events that occurred after Tae had shown up.

---

“They got Chim!”

While you asked Tae what he meant, Jungkook had immediately reached out to grab ahold of the other Saeni’s shoulders.

“Where?” His demand was filled with anger, but it was controlled.

Contrary to how he’d been a minute ago.

“Chim saw you leave to follow, uh, Y/N.” He glanced at you. “So, he followed you¸ Kook. That’s the last I saw him.”

He stepped away from Jungkook, causing the latter’s hands to fall off his shoulders. You had never seen the usually aloof Saeni so serious before. It worried you.

“Namjoon came running over a few minutes later saying he saw them dragging Chim away unconscious.”

“You’re telling me that Namjoon saw them… AND DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!?”

You were so goddamn confused at what was going on. All you knew was that someone apparently hurt and kidnapped your Slim Jim.

“Can someone please tell me what in the fuck is going on!?”

Ignoring you, Tae said, “Jungkook, come on, use your coconut head for a minute.”

You would have snickered at his use of your term, but it definitely was not the time or the place to do so.

“He was by himself and he didn’t know how many there were. You know he did the right thing to get us all together to get him back,” Tae continued.

Without another word, the Saeni turned and started running in the direction of camp, Jungkook following without missing a beat. You stared, dumbfounded, for a second before sprinting after them.

Your lungs were burning by the time you caught up with everyone at the camp. Your burst through the trees and abruptly stopped due to the five standing Saeni having their weapons drawn and pointed at you. You blanched and stammered out that it was just you, raising your hands to show you were unarmed for good measure. When they recognized your face, they collectively sighed and lowered their weapons.

“Sorry Y/N. We’re just a little on edge right now,” Namjoon apologized as he returned his mace over his shoulder.

Giving him a timid, but understanding nod, you replied, “Noted. Um, so can someone finally explain to me what happened?”

It was Yoongi, still laying down to recover, who spoke up. “Some very bad people took Chim.”

“Yeah, I got that much, but… but why?”

Hobi filled in. “We have an idea as to why, but we aren’t completely sure.”

So that was absolutely not informative. Thanks.

“Okay? Well, what do we do now? We gotta get him back!”

“You will do nothing, except stay here and look after Yoongi. The rest of us will get him back.” Jin firmly said.

You tried to protest, but one look at Yoongi and your breakdown from earlier came rushing back to you. Taking a deep breath, you slowly nodded your consent as you exhaled. Then, you asked how they were going to get Jimin back.

Surprisingly, it was Jungkook who answered, “Just leave it to us. You do your job by looking after Yoongi and we’ll do ours.”

Again, that wasn’t very informative.

Namjoon backed up his words. “Honestly, it would just waste time explaining it all, so like Kook said, leave it to us. Trust us.”

“Alright,” you hesitantly agreed, “I trust you guys, so just… just please bring him back.”

“We aren’t sure where they took him yet, so we don’t know how long we’ll be gone,” Namjoon informed you as he glanced to Hobi. “Since Yoongi shouldn’t access magic right now, Hobi will cast a glamour over you two in case anyone is still lingering around.”

Hobi can do magic too!?

Seeing your bewildered expression as he came up to you, Hobi sent you a small smile. He raised his hands and they began to glow a blinding white while he muttered under his breath. As the light faded, he stepped back.

“Yoongi and I grew up together,” he explained softly. “I can tell you more about it later, but for now the short version is that he’s taught me a few things about harnessing Illain’s energy. I can’t manipulate it to his extent, but I can do some basic things like this.”

“Well, you better come back to tell me the long version.” You demanded through your shock before turning to the others. “You all better. With Jimin.”

They each gave you some sort of acknowledgement before running off into the trees. You watched their backs disappear one by one behind the foliage, except for one. Instead of leaving with the rest, Tae jogged up to you, gave you a hug, and whispered into your ear, “We’ll be okay, little scorja. And we’ll bring Chim back safe and sound, I promise.”

With that, he turned and sprinted away to catch up to the others.

---

You sighed, praying that Tae would be able to keep that promise. Looking at Yoongi resting underneath the blanket covering him, you had to let out a dry chuckle.

“Well, since you’re hurt, at least you have an actual excuse to lay around now.”

You were lucky he couldn’t use a lot of magic right then, because his face told you that comment might’ve pushed him to use it on you in a not so pleasant way.

“And why do you think I’m tired all the damn time?”

“I thought you were just a natural slug.”

“Partly true, but I’m exhausted from making those petals for you. They’re not big, but they require a lot of fucking energy to make.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ So, don’t call me out for wanting to res-”

He didn’t finish his sentence as his entire body perked to attention.

“What?”

He quickly and sternly hushed you, bringing a finger first to his lips, then to his ear. Telling you to listen.

And then you heard it. Or, you should say them. Voices. Ones you didn’t recognize and neither did Yoongi, it seemed.

Briefly, you panicked before remembering that Hobi had put a glamour over the two of you, so you were essentially invisible to the outside eye.

You sent Yoongi a questioning look and he gave you a serious one in return. He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it closed when the voices grew loud and three armed strangers appeared around a tree.

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“Wizards” AU fic: Chapter Ten

I’m finally FINISHED at last!! This fic was a labor of love and passion for me, and I’m really happy that I was able to finally complete it. I hope you guys have all enjoyed the story, and I hope you all like the happy ending!

A few days after the events of the festival, Sean and Emilia had eventually decided to both tell their parents about their engagement to one another. Upon hearing the news, the king and queen were thrilled, for now their kingdoms could finally be united as one, and the two lovers would be crowned as the future monarchs. It was agreed that the ceremony would be held the next year on the first day of spring, and both that and the Spring Festival would be combined into a week-long celebration. 

As the months passed along with the changing seasons and their corresponding festivals, Sean and Emilia grew closer together, and seldom a day went by when they weren’t seen spending time with one another. During the summer, they snacked on ripe strawberries and went stargazing in the evenings, and when fall and winter arrived, they drank hot apple cider and spent the nights inside the old oak tree they called home, curled up together underneath fluffy blankets to keep warm and reading stories to each other out loud. They felt safe and content in each other’s arms as they drifted off into a peaceful sleep. Sean himself felt like the luckiest guy around to have someone like Emilia, and Emilia felt very fortunate that someone like Sean loved her in return. 

Eventually, the snow began to melt as winter slowly transitioned into warmer weather. The kingdom’s subjects knew it was time to prepare for not only the next festival, but for the royal wedding as well, and they wasted no time in getting to work right away. Under the instructions of the king, decorations were crafted, fruits were being harvested, and the utmost care and attention was given to the flowers and plants to make sure they looked their best for the big week. All the fairies could hardly wait, including Sean and Emilia, as well as their parents. 

At last, the big day arrived, and the entire kingdom waited with bated breath for the ceremony to begin as they took their seats on rows of toadstools underneath an apple blossom tree. Both Sean and Emilia were excited, but very anxious at the same time. The bride-to-be was almost finished being dressed and made-up by the servants, while her soon to be groom was nearly done getting ready himself. He straightened out the white bowtie he was wearing, brushed his hair once more, then took a good look at his reflection in the mirror on the wall of his bedroom, drawing in and letting out a deep breath. Peter and Daryll, who were acting as Sean’s best men, were watching nearby. 

“You nervous?” Daryll asked. Peter made a face at him and lightly smacked him on the shoulder for asking such an obvious question. “Ow! Sorry.” he replied. 

“No, it’s alright,” Sean started. “To answer your question-y-yeah, I am...a little.” 

“I’m sure it’s perfectly normal to be feeling that way before your big day, Sean.” Peter reassured him. 

“I don’t know...it’s just that this has all been planned practically since the day I was born-and now, it’s finally happening.” The prince let out a sigh, his mind going back to all the lessons and wisdom his mother had taught him growing up, as well as all the interactions he had with Emilia during his childhood. “What if I’m not good enough to rule the kingdom?” 

“Sean, what are you talking about?” Daryll exclaimed. “You’re going to be a great king!” 

Peter nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re smart, hard-working, and I’ve never seen anyone quite as skilled in magic as you.”

“And besides, you’ll have Emilia to help you.” Daryll winked. 

“But what if I’m not..good enough for her?” The thought briefly crossed his mind, and it was enough to make his stomach drop.

“Now that’s the craziest thing I’ve heard yet!” Daryll quipped, rolling his eyes. “You love her, don’t you?” 

“Yes, with all my heart.” Sean answered. 

“And she loves you, right?”

“Of course.” Reinstating that out loud made him feel much better, and pushed away those negative thoughts. 

“Then there’s nothing to worry about! I think you’ll be just fine.” Daryll finished. “But you’d better hurry up! You don’t want to leave her waiting!” 

“Alright, alright, I’m ready!” Taking another deep breath, he headed out with his friends following close behind. They landed at the foot of the apple blossom tree, his mother waiting there with a gentle, comforting smile. Sean smiled back. Just then, Jacob and his band, who were sitting off to the side, started to play a sweet concerto. The crowd went into a series of excited murmurs as two little flower girls dressed in pink fluttered in between, tossing pink petals from a woven basket. At last, they were followed by Emilia and her father. Giving her a smile and her hand a tight squeeze, he escorted her down the aisle. 

Sean didn’t think it was at all possible for Emilia to look more beautiful than she did at last year’s spring festival, but his breath was taken away as soon as he saw her. She was wearing a gorgeous off-the-shoulder dress fashioned of white rose petals, and tied around her waist was a ribboned sash made of woven spider’s silk and dyed a peachy pink color. Hovering a few feet behind her, two other girls were holding up the ends of the ribbon, following along with each step she took. White roses and a spray of pearls on wire adorned either side of her head, and baby’s breath was scattered in her hair. A cobweb veil concealed her face, and a floral anklet on her right leg completed the look. When at last they reached the floral altar at the tree’s base, the others stepped aside as Sean turned to face Emilia. He lifted the veil, revealing her face to the crowd before her as she smiled warmly at him. Sean returned the expression, and in that moment, they knew that their love was truly meant to be. The music then stopped as the king began to speak.

“My fellow subjects!” he declared, stepping forward. “Today is a momentous occasion for us all! Not only does today mark the first day of the season of Spring, but today, the time has come for my daughter, her royal highness, Princess Emilia…”

As he gestured to her, Emilia smiled and bowed her head gracefully. 

“As well as my son, his royal highness, Prince Sean…” the queen added, gesturing to Sean, who smiled and nodded.

“To take their places as the future king and queen of the mountain fairies!” the king finished, arms outstretched. 

The crowd cheered and applauded before the king continued. “When our reign comes to an end, it shall be Sean and Emilia’s solemn duty, to protect this kingdom and its people-to rule from the heart, with wisdom and integrity.” 

The queen then gestured for Emilia to step forward towards her as she reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out her wand. “Dear Emilia, noble and pure-hearted,” she began as she gently waved it over the bride’s head. “You’ve shown knowledge and maturity beyond your years, and you always wear your heart on your sleeve with pride. These are the qualities that, when the time is ready, will greatly suit you in becoming who you are destined to be-Emilia, guardian of the forest glen-queen of the mountain fairies.”

As she spoke, a sparkling shower of fairy dust shone from the wand’s tip, and in a brilliant flash of light, Emilia found herself wearing a golden headpiece with a sparkling sapphire in its center, just like the queen was wearing. She grinned with delight as she gave a curtsy in appreciation, and the queen returned the gesture.

 The king drew out his wand from within his robes as Sean stepped towards him. The future monarch closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly as the king waved his wand and began to speak. “Sean, dear lad, your hard work and dedication to your kingdom is truly remarkable, and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that you’ll be a great ruler someday. Wear this hat with honor, for you shall become-Sean, leader of the Knights of Stardust, protectors of Dolan-king of the mountain fairies.” 

With a touch of the wand and in the blink of an eye, Sean’s simple feathered cap transformed into a wide brimmed light green and blue hat. As he opened his eyes and looked upwards toward the new garment, he couldn’t help but think it suited him perfectly. He and the king bowed towards each other as more applause from the fairies followed, and then the king spoke again.

 “May I have the rings?” he asked. At once, a small boy dressed in red and pink and wearing a yellow daisy cap appeared by his side holding a miniature satin pillow with two glistening dewdrop wedding rings resting on top. The king took the pillow, standing in-between the couple, as Sean took one ring and carefully slid it onto Emilia’s index finger, with that same sweet, shy smile she had come to love so much. Emilia smiled back and put the remaining ring on Sean’s gloved finger as they intertwined hands. 

“Do you, Queen Emilia, take King Sean to be your lawfully wedded husband, and pledge your love and loyalty to him from this day forward, now and forever more?” 

“I do.”

“And do you, King Sean, take Queen Emilia to be your lawfully wedded wife, and pledge your love and loyalty to her from this day forward, now and forever more?”

“I do.”

“With that, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” the king declared, smiling warmly. “You may now kiss the bride.” 

Emilia, practically jumping up and down with excitement, closed her eyes and cupped Sean’s head in her hands, kissing him tenderly, as Sean did the same. As they kissed, a light breeze swept through the apple blossom tree above them, causing a shower of petals to flutter down, surrounding them. The crowd erupted into a frenzied applause, cheering wildly for the newlyweds. Even Peter and Daryll were finding it hard not to get a little misty-eyed. As the band began to play once again, Sean and Emilia walked down the aisle hand in hand as the fairies continued to clap with delight. One of the flower girls from before handed her a beautiful bouquet of white roses, as the newly crowned queen tossed it behind her. The guests leaped high into the air to grab it, but in the end, Gerda was the one to catch it, much to Greta’s dismay, as she crossed her arms with a huff. 

The wedding reception that followed soon after was a grand celebration, complete with a great feast full of delicious food and desserts, including an extravagant three-tiered cake, as well as more music and dancing. But everyone had to agree that the stars of the afternoon were Sean and Emilia as they raised glasses of punch, giving a warm toast to the happy couple. And indeed, they couldn’t have been happier as they waltzed together, lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes. In that moment in time, both Sean and Emilia knew that with the other by their side, their future would be a bright one. 

And of course, they lived happily ever after. 

The End

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

It felt as though we had been walking for a long time. I had long since lost track of our turnings amid the towering boulders and thick dead undergrowth. I could only hope that Murtagh was somewhere behind, keeping within earshot if not within sight. The man who had come to the tavern to fetch me, a middle-aged Gypsy with no English, had flatly refused to have anyone but me accompany him, pointing emphatically first at Murtagh and then the ground, to indicate that he must stay put.

The night chill came on fast at this time of year, and my heavy cloak was barely enough protection against the sudden gusts of icy wind that met us in the open spaces of the clearings. I was torn between dismay at the thought of Jamie lying through the cold, wet nights of autumn without shelter, and excitement at the thought of seeing him again. A shiver ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

At last my guide pulled me to a halt, and with a precautionary squeeze of my shoulder, stepped off the path and disappeared. I stood, as patiently as could be managed, hands folded under my arms for warmth. I was sure my guide—or someone—would return; I hadn’t paid him, for one thing. Still, the wind rattled through the dead brambles like the passing of a deer’s ghost, still in panic-stricken flight from the hunter. And the damp was seeping through the seams of my boots; the otter-fat waterproofing had worn away, and I’d had no chance to reapply it.

My guide reappeared as suddenly as he had left, making me bite my tongue as I stifled a squeak of surprise. With a jerk of his head, he bade me follow him, and pressed aside a screen of dead alders for me to pass.

The cave entrance was narrow. There was a lantern burning on a ledge, silhouetting the tall figure that turned toward the entrance to meet me.

I flung myself forward, realizing even before I touched him that it was not Jamie. Disappointment struck me like a blow in the stomach, and I had to step back and swallow several times to choke back the heavy bile that rose in my throat.

…

“I’ve news,” he said abruptly.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. News, and not good news, from the expression on his face. I took another breath, swallowed hard, and nodded.

“Tell me.”

“He’s alive,” he said, and the largest of the ice lumps in my stomach dissolved. Dougal cocked his head to one side, watching intently. To see whether I were going to faint? I wondered dimly. It didn’t matter; I wasn’t.

“He was taken near Kiltorlity, two weeks ago,” Dougal said, still watching me. “Not his fault; poor luck. He met six dragoons face-to-face round a turn in the path, and one recognized him.”

“Was he hurt?” My voice was still calm, but my hands were beginning to shake. I pressed them flat against my legs to still them.

Dougal shook his head. “Not as I heard.” He paused a moment. “He’s in Wentworth Prison,” he said reluctantly.

…

“He stood his trial three days ago,” Dougal said. “And was condemned to hang.”

The ice lump was back, with company. I closed my eyes.

“How long?” I asked. My voice seemed rather far-off to my own ears and I opened my eyes again, blinking to refocus them in the flickering lantern light. Dougal was shaking his head.

“I dinna ken. Not long, though.”

My breath was coming a little easier now, and I was able to unclench my fists.

“We’d better hurry, then,” I said, still calmly. “How many men are with you?”

Instead of answering, Dougal rose and came over to me. Reaching down, he took my hands and pulled me to my feet. The look of sympathy was back, and a deep grief lurking in his eyes frightened me more than anything he’d said so far. He shook his head slowly.

…

“Claire.” It was the first time he had ever used my first name, and it frightened me still further.

“Claire,” he said again, loosening his grip so that I could look up at him, “do ye not think I’d do all I could to free the lad, did I think there was the slightest chance? Damn it, he’s my own foster-son! But there is no chance—none!” He shook me slightly, to emphasize his words.

“Jamie wouldna have me throw away good men’s lives in a vain venture. Ye know that as well as I do.”

I could keep back the tears no longer. They burned down my icy cheeks as I pushed against him, seeking to free myself. He held me tighter, though, trying to force my head against his shoulder.

…

The light was poor in the cave, but I was watching carefully, and I could see indecision flicker momentarily across his face as he chose his next move. He stepped toward me, hand out, but stopped when he saw me flinch away.

“Claire. My sweet Claire.” The voice was soft now, and he ran an insinuating hand lightly down my arm. So he had decided to try seduction rather than compulsion.

“I know why ye talk so cold to me, and why ye think ill of me. You know that I burn for ye, Claire. And it’s true—I’ve wanted ye since the night of the Gathering, when I kissed your sweet lips.” He had two fingers resting lightly on my shoulder, inching toward my neck. “If I’d been a free man when Randall threatened ye, I’d ha’ wed ye myself on the spot, and sent the man to the devil for ye.” He was moving his body gradually closer, crowding me against the stone wall of the cavern. His fingertips moved to my throat, tracing the line of my cloak-fastening.

…

The deepset hazel eyes traveled slowly downward over my body, lingering on the roundness of breast and hip that showed through my open cloak. One hand moved unconsciously back and forth, stroking lightly across the muscles of his thigh as he watched me.

“Who knows?” he said, as though to himself. “I might have yet another son—legitimate, this time. True”—he tilted his head appraisingly, looking at my midsection—“it hasna happened yet wi’ Jamie. You may be barren. But I’ll take the chance. The property is worth it, at any rate.”

…

“Well, you took your bloody time about it,” I said crossly.

A look of incredulous shock spread across his features before he realized that I was looking beyond him, toward the cave mouth.

“It didna seem mannerly to interrupt,” said Murtagh, advancing into the cave behind a loaded pair of flintlock pistols. He held one trained on Dougal, using the other to gesture with.

“Unless ye mean to accept that last proposal here and now, I’d suggest ye leave. And if ye do mean to accept it, then I’ll leave.”

“Nobody’s leaving yet,” I said shortly. “Sit down,” I said to Dougal. He was still standing, staring at Murtagh as though at an apparition.

…

“Well?” Dougal inquired. “Now what?”

…

“We’ll need money,” he said promptly. “And men.” He cast an eye appraisingly over the bundles stacked against the wall. “Nay,” he said thoughtfully. “That’ll be for King James. But we’ll take what ye’ve got on your person.” The small black eyes swiveled back to Dougal and the muzzle of one pistol gestured gently in the vicinity of his sporran.

…

“As to the men, no. If you and the lass mean to commit suicide, I canna stop ye. I’ll even offer to bury ye, one on either side of Jamie. But you’ll not take my men to hell with ye, pistols or no.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the cavern wall, calmly watching us.

Murtagh’s hands didn’t waver from his aim. His eyes flickered toward me, though. Did I wish him to shoot?

“I’ll make you a bargain,” I said.

Dougal raised one brow.

“You’re in a bit better position to bargain than I am at present,” he said. “What’s your offer?”

“Let me talk to your men,” I said. “And if they’ll come with me of their own accord, then let them. If not, we’ll go as we came—and we’ll hand back your purse, as well.”

One side of his mouth came up in a lopsided smile. He looked me over carefully, as though assessing my persuasiveness and my skills as an orator. Then he sat back, hands on his knees. He nodded once.

“Done,” he said.

— Outlander/Cross Stitch

Photos: outlander-online.com, Season One, Episode Fourteen, May 9, 2015

Gif: carrielt21.wordpress.com, (Dougal)

Gif: decider.com, (Claire)

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 22, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season One Episode Fourteen #S1E14 #The Search #Outlander/Cross Stitch #Chapter Thirty-Four #He’s in Wentworth Prison #I’ll even offer to bury ye, one on either side of Jamie #Claire Fraser #Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser #Dougal MacKenzie #66 #092218

[victorineb]

Some omegaverse Tristhad prompted by the fabulous @hotsauce418​ (love you, you gorgeous possum!).

Also on AO3.

Gawain:

“Did one of them steal the other's woman?” Lancelot asked, predictably assuming that the trouble was to do with a bit of skirt.

“When was the last time you saw either of them with a woman?” Dagonet scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Galahad had that tavern omega what told Lancelot to fuck off a couple of moons back,” Bors informed them, sniggering.

Gawain raised a brow at that one; even he hadn't been aware Galahad had made a conquest.

“Little shit,” Lancelot said, an expression halfway between irritation and pride on his face.

“Long time though, two moons, and fuck knows how long since Tristan got his end away,” Bors continued. “Fucking celibate alpha, it ain’t right. Could be the pair of ‘em just need a bit of a rut, cheer them up a bit.”

The assembled knights turned their attention to the pair in question, currently engaged in a heated argument over Tristan's bird and its propensity to land on Galahad's head during target practice.

Not that such an argument was unusual between the two, but two things had changed recently:

First, rather than Galahad losing his temper every couple of weeks, it was now happening on a daily basis, and always with Tristan.

And second, Tristan had abandoned his usual Galahad-wrangling technique of meditative silence seasoned with the occasional barbed remark. Instead, he couldn’t seem to resist butting heads with the obstinate beta, even raising his voice for the first time any of the knights had ever known.

Case in point:

“Lay one hand on Isolde, pup, and I will hang you by your own bowstrings.” Tristan was looming over Galahad, closer than was strictly proper.

“I don't need my hands. Next time she distracts me she'll be getting my dagger,” Galahad snarled up at him, lifting his face towards Tristan until their noses nearly brushed. It would be almost indecent, Gawain thought, in a different context. Galahad was lucky that his beta senses wouldn’t be too bothered by the pheromones Tristan had to be giving out while posturing like that.

Something really had to be done, the knights agreed. And an idea of just what that something might be was forming in Gawain's mind…

“Whoops, look out boys, time to separate them again,” Bors chortled, rising from his seat and moving in the direction of Tristan, who now had the beta in a headlock.

The subsequent wrestling match knocked Gawain's clever idea out of his head until much later, when Tristan and Galahad had stormed off in opposite directions and the rest of the knights had made the sensible decision to get well and truly rat-arsed.

Leaning against Dagonet, whose gigantic, solid frame made an excellent cushion, Gawain blearily remembered his amazing plan.

“Dag?” he said, prodding at the man next to him, who just rumbled in response. “Dag!” he repeated, louder, and with more extensive prodding, which earned him an elbow to the gut. Undeterred, Gawain decided his friend was awake enough to hear the genius of his idea.

“You know Tristan and… the little one, looks like an angry kitten?”

“Galahad?”

“Yeah, him. I don't think we can get them to fuck, right, but what about…” He held up a finger, intending to prod Dagonet again but found his way impeded by the massive hand that grabbed his.

“Stop. Poking.”

“Right, no poking,” Gawain slurred. “But! What if instead of poking, we make them fight instead. Proper fight, none of this pansy arguing, good old fashioned man on man action.”

“Heard worse plans,” Dagonet muttered, already sliding into sleep.

“Could take bets too: angry kitten beta or silent but deadly alpha?” Gawain continued, fighting sleep to continue his scheming.

“Put me down for ten on the kitten and shut the fuck up, would you, there's people sleeping in this pub!” Bors roared from somewhere under a table.

Gawain nodded to himself as he decided sleep sounded like a very good idea and cuddled up to Dagonet's bicep. Tomorrow though, tomorrow training was going to be a little different…

In fact it wasn't for three days that Gawain was able to put his plan in action. The first day everybody was entirely too hungover to do such a crazy thing as training. And the second and third, Arthur had them taking care of a particularly persistent bunch of Woads who couldn't seem to take the hint that they were tragically outnumbered and required proof in person.

That was ok though, it just gave him time to increase the number of bets he had taken.

It was surprisingly balanced, given that most people still tended to assume alphas were always stronger fighters than betas. Tristan was winning, yes, but by far less than Gawain had imagined. Though, truth be told, he'd have bet on Galahad too, if only on the basis that while they were pretty evenly matched fighters, Galahad was by far the most stubborn.

Of course, given that the other way Gawain had spent his extra days was to wind the pair of them up at every opportunity, he was certain they were going to get a good show, regardless of who ended up the winner.

On the fourth morning, all the knights - even Bors - turned up early and split into pairs, leaving Tristan and Galahad only each other to train with. Gawain was fairly certain there'd be objections, but none were forthcoming, both knights unexpectedly keen to spar with each other, picking up their blades and heading to the - conspicuously empty - ring without a word between them. They didn't even notice the other knights drifting away from their own practice towards the clanging of steel until they had already worked up a sweat, by which time they were surrounded.

“What are you all so bloody interested in?” Galahad shouted at the throng, finally tearing his attention away from Tristan long enough to glare at them (and receiving a swat on the backside from Tristan’s sword for breaking concentration).

“You two!” Bors roared back.

“And what, pray tell, is so interesting about us all of a sudden? Have you all suddenly realised that we are the better swordsmen and have come to observe in hopes of learning from us?” Galahad turned to grin at Tristan, then seemed to catch himself and scowled instead. Tristan, for his part, remained stoic and watchful. Possibly, Gawain considered, his face was not capable of expressing actual emotion.

“We are looking in case we can ascertain the reason you two have been a pain in our collective backside for weeks now,” Lancelot told him, mildly.

“Shouting bloody murder at each other every night when good folks are trying to have a quiet drink,” Bors grumbled.

“I’m not certain why it is any business of yours how he and I are with each other,” Tristan cut in, stepping in front of Galahad a little and crossing his arms.

“Because we live with you too,” Dagonet said quietly, “and fight with you, more importantly. Tension between you off the battlefield could be fatal if allowed to bleed onto it.”

“So, what, you’re going to give us a lecture on knightly behaviour?” Galahad said, outraged at the idea.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bors grinned, “where’s the fun in that? You boys are just gonna have a nice little scrap, swap some blows, get good and sweaty, work out all that tension.”

At this point Galahad’s cheeks turned from their typical training-induced flush to a furious crimson, and his mouth dropped open in preparation to reprimand his brother knights for their impropriety, when Tristan moved fully in front of him.

“Who is in charge of taking bets?” he asked, passing a searching gaze along the crowd and coming to a stop as his eyes met those of a somewhat sheepish looking Gawain.

“Just a few friendly wagers,” Gawain said weakly, wilting under Tristan’s steady gaze.

“Mhmm.” The noise Tristan made was entirely unimpressed and Gawain winced at it. “How many is ‘a few’?”

“Um… fifty… six?”

“That’s practically the whole fucking camp!” Galahad screeched, before Tristan reached a hand back to touch his arm, rendering Galahad suddenly, surprisingly quiet.

“And what is the split?” Tristan asked, his tone still low and even.

“It’s… uh…” Gawain’s eyes flicked towards Galahad and then back to Tristan. “Thirty for you, twenty-six for Galahad.”

“Flatteringly close,” Tristan surmised, to be met by a derisive snort by Galahad.

“Why? Because no mere beta could ever be expected to best a mighty alpha?” he spat. “I have beaten as many alphas in combat as you, what makes you think-”

“Flattering to both of us, pup,” Tristan interjected mildly, “to be held in such close regard by our friends.”

“Some friends,” Galahad muttered. “How are you so calm, shouldn’t you be jumping down their throats like you've been doing to me for weeks?”

“Ha, you admit it!” Gawain pointed a finger at them in triumph, before snatching it back as Tristan and Galahad glared at him.

“My calmness comes from curiosity,” Tristan said, turning back to Galahad. “It's true that we have been… short with each other of late. Perhaps a chance to settle scores might not be such a bad thing. And besides,” he added, raising an eyebrow and a minute smirk at his friend, “are you not curious to discover which of us is truly the more talented warrior?”

Galahad opened his mouth, closed it, and then allowed a smirk of his own, far wider than Tristan's, to slide across his face. “I suppose it would be foolish to refuse a chance to beat you into submission.”

Gawain would swear later he saw a hitch in Tristan's breathing at those words, a harder swallow than seemed necessary from Galahad. But just at that moment he was far too concerned with grabbing the opportunity to ensure he wouldn't be returning all the coin currently secreted in his riding pack.

“Foolish indeed, so let's not make fools of any of us,” he cried, jumping into the sparring ring and gently shoving Tristan and Galahad to each side of him. “Off you go and prepare yourselves, lads, while I introduce this fine group of men to what's sure to be an excellent morning's entertainment.” He received a pair of unimpressed looks for his trouble, but both knights moved to their respective sides and began checking their blades, while Gawain turned back to the crowd.

He tipped them all a wink, in his element now, and began the show.

“Gentlemen and gentlemen… and Bors-”

“Oi!”

“Welcome to what promises to be the greatest show any of you have laid eyes on. To the south, the alpha of few words, the braided beast, he'll kill you as soon as look at you, if his birdy don't get you first… TRISTAN!” Gawain bellowed, to a general response of cheers and applause from the crowd.

“And to the north,” he gestured to Galahad, who looked like he might run Gawain through as a warm up, “he might be pure but he’s not innocent, the pup whose bite is as bad as his bark, he’s a better beta than you or anybody… GALAHAD!” Gawain raised his arms in triumph as the crowd bayed for their favourites, and then ducked out of the way as Galahad’s sword very nearly took his head off.

For some reason this seemed to enrage Tristan, who stalked forward and struck Galahad’s blade away from Gawain with his own. “Must you be always looking elsewhere, pup?” he growled, an intensity to it far too strong for a lighthearted brawl.

Galahad looked bewildered by the comment, and opened his mouth to respond, but Tristan moved in again, this time with a wicked looking stab of his sword and whatever Galahad might have said died in his throat. He threw himself back to safety, took a moment to right himself as Tristan advanced, and then flung himself forward with a yell. The fight was on.

Gawain scrambled up and out of the ring to take his place with his friends. He wasn’t worried about Galahad doing him any harm – he’d probably get a good punch later for tricking the pup, but they’d done worse to each other and come out with their friendship unscathed. So it was with a wide grin he settled in to watch the fight, and worth watching it was indeed. Tristan and Galahad were a close match, both possessed of preternatural reflexes from their scouting duties, and while neither was the best swordsman in Arthur’s army (despite Galahad’s protestations), their skills were still fine and deadly.

More than that, though, they seemed to complement each other, Tristan’s grace and precision a foil for Galahad’s speed and daring. The two of them spun and weaved together, blades working in smooth arcs, seeming almost to spark with the heat of their battle. Neither one could land a decisive blow, switching fluidly from attack to defence, a perfect balance keeping each other at bay, the joy of encountering an equal seeming to suffuse their movements.

And then.

“Oh shit, looks like it’s over.”

Tristan had finally succeeded in knocking Galahad’s sword to the ground, and Galahad along with it. Gawain stepped forward, ready to announce a winner, but instead of holding his sword to Galahad’s throat as expected, Tristan threw away his blade in turn and dropped to his knees above Galahad, the two of them immediately beginning to trade blows.

“Should we separate them?” Gawain took another step, looking back at the other knights who all shook their heads violently.

“Do you want to get in the middle of that?” Lancelot asked. “Nah, let them have it out properly, with their hands.”

The two knights were by now wrestling on the ground, kicking and snarling and… did Galahad just bite Tristan? Gawain was taken aback by his friend’s viciousness and was about to ignore Lancelot’s advice and go to pull the scrapping pair apart, when Galahad let out a wail that stopped him in his tracks.

That hadn’t sounded like a cry of pain.

Gawain took a closer look at the writhing bodies before him.

“Oh. Oh shit.”

 Galahad:

Galahad's first thought on surfacing for air was, “What the fuck is happening right now?” 

Well, no. His first thought was, “Where did Tristan learn to do that with his tongue and how do I get him to keep doing it?” But it was definitely next after that.

He knew things between him and Tristan had been strange the last few weeks, with no real reason behind it. They'd never exactly seen eye to eye - Tristan was arrogant, opinionated, and morally suspect after all. But he had his good sides: he never talked too much, could match anyone drink for drink and he was beautiful when he fought… um, his form was beautiful, that was.

But recently, every single thing Tristan did made Galahad's blood boil. And he always seemed to be right there, in Galahad's space, teasing him, touching him in ways that Galahad had only dreamed of…

Ahem. Ok, it might have been possible that Galahad had a little crush on Tristan. But he had it under control. He did.

Except for the part where he was writhing underneath Tristan's warm, solid body, as his fellow scout sucked kisses into his throat. And when Tristan's teeth grazed the join between neck and shoulder, Tristan couldn't help himself, it just slipped out.

“Alpha!”

Tristan reared back at that and gazed down at Galahad with fire in his eyes.

“Mine.”

“Yesssssss,” Galahad hissed, content to let Tristan lean back down to capture his mouth, rutting lazily against each other. Until, that is, Tristan nipped at his bottom lip with sharp, alpha fangs and Galahad could barely keep himself from begging to be claimed.

“Wait, hold on, this isn't right,” he grunted, shoving at Tristan. Who, to his credit and with visible effort, tore himself away from Galahad's mouth.

“Pup?” he asked, looking concerned and, god that was a good look on him, flushed cheeks and soft eyes and swollen lips that Galahad just wanted back on him…

“Fuck, what is this? I'm a beta, I've always been a beta, why am I…”

Galahad was cut off as Tristan leaned in to scent him. “You are no beta, pup,” he growled against Galahad's ear and Galahad bucked his hips, unable to stop himself.

“I'm not, not, can't be,” he breathed between kisses at Tristan's jaw, his beard unexpectedly soft and wonderful. “Too old to present, this is… I'm not…”

“Late bloomer,” a voice interrupted  Galahad's protestations. A voice that was decidedly not Tristan's.

Galahad raised his head, already mortified, to see that they were still being observed by their brother knights, all with varying expressions of amusement all over their faces. It was Bors who had spoken, and Galahad couldn't decide whether he wanted more to punch the smug grin off his face or ask him for an explanation.

Fortunately, Tristan decided for him. “By which you mean?” he asked, somehow managing to convey a murderous tone despite the civil question. 

Even Bors was wise enough not to piss off an alpha protecting a potential mate, and held up his hands placatingly. “Keep your braids on Tris, I'm not making fun. Happens sometimes when kiddies are taken from their families. Especially ones who're put to fighting, bodies keep ‘em as betas. Vanora says it’s protection, so as they don’t go into heat round all them stinking alphas on the battlefield.”

“That’s absurd,” Galahad grunted from beneath Tristan, who was still caging him in protectively. “And even if it wasn’t, why now?”

“Erm…” Bors looked mildly sheepish and rubbed the back of his neck. “Dunno exactly, but the one Vanora was talking about, it was a territorial thing. Lad had a crush on this alpha, ‘cept the alpha was sniffing round some other girl; boy was half mad with jealousy then BANG, presents as an omega. Didn’t do the poor kid any favours, mind, alpha still didn’t want nothing to do with him. Sad little story, dunno why Vanora was telling me, she gets that mouth of hers moving, there ain’t no quiet sometimes. I told her-”

“Shut your own mouth, you big bear,” Gawain told Bors, elbowing him in the gut.

“That doesn’t work though,” Galahad shook his head, frustrated. “I haven’t been jealous of anyone, Tristan never goes with anyone…”

“Unlike some,” Tristan muttered.

Lancelot had been peering at Tristan while this exchange took place, and now cocked his head and asked, “When did you say Galahad had that omega, Bors?”

Still wheezing from Gawain’s blow, Bors choked out, “Two moons ago.”

Lancelot nodded, his thoughtful look gaining the edge of a smirk. “And when did these two start trying to kill each other?”

“About two moons… oh.”

The entire group turned to look at Tristan, who was doing something none of them had seen him do before: blushing.

“Guess it works the other way too,” Bors croaked.

Beneath him, Galahad sat up a little – manfully ignoring the slick that sluiced down the inside of his thighs – and gently pushed Tristan back until he was sitting on his haunches. The distressed noise that Tristan made in response, a low whine drawn from the depths of his throat, caused a strange ache within Galahad, and a desperate urge to draw the alpha back to him and cling on. He ignored this too, though, and tried to hold on to the anger that had flared through him at Lancelot’s insinuation.

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” he hissed, causing Tristan to wince and draw in on himself. Galahad was having none of that and, for reasons he wouldn’t be able to explain later, sat up fully and grabbed Tristan by the braids, pulling his face close again. “Talk, alpha.”

The word seemed to hit Tristan like a physical blow and he drew in a gasp of breath before speaking. “It was not my intent, pup. I wasn’t even aware-”

“That you were wandering around pumping out hormones like some territorial asshole? What fucking business is it of yours who I’m with?”

“None, Galahad, I know-”

“Why would you even care? What’s it to you if I sleep with someone?”

“Because I-”

“And anyway, I’ve been with people before, I wasn’t some untouched virgin! What’s different now?”

“Bloody hell, Gal, shut up and let the man speak!” Gawain burst out, receiving a murderous look from Galahad, who nonetheless chose to keep his mouth shut… for the moment.

“It was… not conscious, entirely, on my part,” Tristan began, not quite meeting Galahad’s eyes. “I saw you with that omega and… ached. Not a new feeling, pup, but never before with such intensity. It was as if the world had shifted and everything was wrong. Especially you. Especially me.”

“You… ached? Since when? Since when did you decide I was anything you wanted?” Galahad was still yelling but he couldn’t quite hide the edge to his voice now, hurt and vulnerable.

Tristan hesitated, then drew himself as straight as he could. “Since the day Arthur recruited you, though we were nothing but boys then. And every day since, without exception or alteration.”

Galahad stared at him, wordless. Then, abruptly, he let go of Tristan’s hair and flopped back down against the ground. “Well fuck me, I thought I was the only one.”

This time it was Tristan who hauled Galahad towards him, a frantic look on his face. “What do you mean by that, pup?”

Galahad just laughed merrily at him. “You idiot,” he said, and then kissed him, hard. And pulled on the braids again, for good measure.

A cheer went up behind them, and Galahad managed the feat of rolling his eyes while slipping his tongue into Tristan’s mouth. It was a little amazing how well they fit together, none of the awkwardness of a first kiss, just mouths and hands moving in perfect sync, the same feeling as when they sparred, only softened and diffused, a sunrise instead of harsh midday light.

Finally, somehow, Tristan managed to pull away and stare at Galahad in wonder. “Truly, Galahad?”

He grinned, he couldn’t help it. “For years and bloody years, Tristan.”

Tristan ducked his head a little, contemplating that. “We have both been… short-sighted.”

“If by that you mean oblivious idiots, then yeah.”

They proceeded to grin at each other just like said idiots, as an argument erupted around them at Lancelot claiming he’d known they were sweet on each other the whole time.

“Bullshit!”

“How the fuck did you know anything?”

“When one is as well-versed in the art of romance as myself, one picks up on… THAT HURT, BORS!”

“Not as much as listening to your pretentious fucking nonsense it didn’t!”

In fact, they were so busy arguing, they failed to see the way Galahad was looking at Tristan, first at his neck and then into his eyes. They missed the minute nod Tristan gave in response, and the way he tilted his head to expose his throat. And they definitely didn’t notice the way Galahad’s pupils expanded, and the soft growl he let out before sinking his fangs into Tristan’s bonding gland.

“Oh shit!”

Apparently, while Galahad was gently licking the blood from Tristan’s skin and feeling him grow hard against his thigh, somebody in the crowd had finally cottoned on to what was happening.

“Did they just?”

“They definitely did.”

“Bonded! The fuck are we going to do with them now?”

“Get them to the nearest room that can safely be barricaded?”

“Are you kidding? They bonded, you idiot – Tris is about to go into the most powerful rut of his life and the pup’s heat will follow!”

“So?”

“So they’re not going to let anyone touch them without blood being shed! Whatever’s going to happen-”

“Lot of sex, that’s what’s going to happen.”

“-is going to happen right here.”

“Oh. Fuck. But we can’t just… leave them here? Can we?”

“Obviously not. What if a kid wandered past? Poor thing’d been traumatised for life.”

“So we… what are we doing?”

Galahad was faintly aware of this fevered discussion going on around him, enough to understand that it had something to do with him and Tristan, but it was increasingly hard to follow with Tristan once again pressing kisses against his skin and fumbling alternately with his clothing and Galahad’s. Galahad was pretty certain he should be helping with that, but a sort of pleasant haze had been building inside him since he bit into Tristan and he was feeling entirely too languid and blissful to do anything about it.

That soon changed, though, once Tristan gave up on getting them naked and simply rucked up Galahad’s pteruges, ripped off his undergarments, and slid down to lap hotly at his increasingly slick opening.

“Alpha…” Galahad whined, bucking up at this new and intoxicating sensation. His contentment quickly transformed into desperate need, as Tristan’s tongue nestled against him, soon joined by two fingers, his slick easing the way.

At some point a completely mortified Gawain leaned in next to them and muttered something about setting up a ring around them to ward off any prospective voyeurs, at least until they’d got a couple of decent knottings under their belts. He barely escaped with his life, between Tristan grabbing for his throat and Galahad trying to break both of his arms, and retreated along with the rest of the knights to a reasonably safe distance, just as Tristan flipped Galahad onto his knees, content with his preparations.

Just as Galahad felt Tristan slide into him, wonderfully solid and warm, his knot already expanding, he heard Bors exclaim with a laugh, “See, told you all they needed was a good rutting!”

And, as Galahad felt his new mate begin to give him just that, he found he had absolutely no reason to disagree.

[snowbellewells]

CS Fix Exchange Entry: “Sky’s Canvas”

by: snowbellewells 

So, I’ve been toying with the idea for this one for quite some time – and I hope now that I have finally gotten it accomplished, it isn’t so late that no one will care about reading it.  It’s written for the CS Fic Exchange, and the prompt elements that I have used are: a museum, the phrase “it was just a joke”, and also some small art facts – mostly about the particular museum itself (which is real).  I have also put in a CS daughter (my personal head canon imagined one, Morgan Ruth Jones, whom I have written about before), and a college aged Henry.  So, this is set somewhere in an alternative post-season 6 reality, where Henry stays in the Land Without Magic to seek his story, and also to be close enough to visit his family often, and for them to return the favor…)

This can also be found under my TutorGirlml account on ff.net, in the short story collection “Of Swans and Swords and Hopeful Hearts.

Tagging @csficexchange  for Prompt #5 and a few others who may enjoy: @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kmomof4 @flslp87 @hollyethecurious @drowned-dreamer @kitkattin92 @laschatzi @ilovemesomekillianjones @bromfieldhall @cat-sophia

I don’t own any of them – clearly! ;p – but I would love to hear what you think of this little story!  Enjoy!

“ Sky’s Canvas”

The bubbly, nonstop chatter of her four-year-old little girl, which has cheerfully been filling Emma Swan’s ears for the past hour and a half, suddenly stills, immediately grabbing her attention and setting off an interior maternal alarm.  She turns to seek out Morgan Ruth Jones – her little pirate princess – wondering if her daughter has yet again managed to sneak away from them and find herself in some sort of trouble.

           Luckily, Emma doesn’t have to look far before she hears a chortling trill of baby laughter and locates her toddler with the disheveled head of dark, ringlet curls and twinkling, mischievous eyes – an aquamarine mix of her own green gaze and her father’s ocean blue – standing before a huge oil painting of a Spanish galleon rocking precariously on the stormy main and looking up at her father with fixed adoration.  “Really, Papa?” Emma hears Morgan chirp, practically bouncing on the balls of her little feet as she tugs anxiously at his hook in eagerness to hear his answer. “Was it a storm that big you sailed ‘Roger’ through when you went to save Henwy in Neverland?!”

           Emma is just chuckling wryly at the changes which have transpired in her life to give her a little girl more interested in daring adventures, ancient naval ships, and sword fighting than frilly dresses or dolls and makeup, even as her husband raises his eyes just enough to smirk at her knowingly over Morgan’s head, when another voice, youthful, warm, and settling into its masculine, adult timbre, answers Morgan’s question from over her shoulder, announcing Henry’s arrival to join them.  “It was bigger, Pipsqueak,” he confirms jovially, pausing briefly to wrap a wiry arm around his mom in a quick side-hug before continuing to the side of his younger half-sister, kneeling to her level and adding with a gleam in his eye, “A mermaid summoned it to drown them all.”

           “Hen-wy!!” Morgan squeals with glee; the painting, and even her papa’s beloved ship, forgotten as she flings herself into her brother’s arms with enough force to nearly bowl him over, causing Henry to chuckle as he catches her close to his chest.

           “Hey Munchkin,” he greets affectionately, standing to his full height again – now even with his stepdad’s – still holding Morgan, her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly that Emma has to wonder if she’s ever going to let go. Turning to include his mom and his surrogate father in his next statement, Henry adds.  “It’s great to see you all.  Things must be quiet in Storybrooke, if you’re still going to stay all weekend.”

           Here he arcs an eyebrow in curious bemusement, a trait Emma realizes all too well that he has picked up from her dashing scoundrel of a husband and probably uses to equally charming effect on all the girls he meets in his freshman courses at Bowdoin College.   It is clear he has settled easily into the small arts school in Brunswick, Maine, just under a two hours’ drive from them, and that the campus atmosphere and freeing anonymity and normalcy he has there must be agreeing with him. Emma wants to snort in disbelieving laughter at his jest, though well aware that he knows better than to ever think his hometown would go completely, boringly normal.  Instead, she shakes her head resignedly, merely giving her grown son a playfully long-suffering sigh.  “You know how it is,” she shrugs, “never a dull moment.  But – if you don’t count the dwarves coming to blows at Granny’s the other morning because Tom Clark accidentally sat in Leroy’s spot at the counter and got his flu germs on Leroy’s plate of bacon and eggs…”

           “Which I do count,” Killian interrupts smoothly, winking at his adopted son.  “I am the one who risked infection from the virus in forestalling their skirmish.”

           Emma rolls her eyes at her deputy husband’s interruption and mutters “drama queen” under her breath, which Henry and Morgan both clearly hear and snicker at before she continues, “Otherwise it’s been as quiet as it ever gets.  No deathly dangerous villains or curses meant to tear us apart and wipe our memories blank.”

           “Yet…” Killian adds on needlessly, an ominous tone in his voice acknowledging the fact that they all know it’s only a matter of time before some new threat is wreaking havoc again.  Their sleepy little town might seem like a place lost in time and space, but it is still a veritable magnet for trouble, and none of them can deny it.

           Killian, however, waggles his brows playfully after his foreboding aside, making Henry shake his own head at his stepfather.  It had seemed a rather grim pronouncement for the reformed pirate – more like his mom, really.

           Morgan grins widely back at her father, nodding in gleeful agreement, her gap-toothed smile showing where she has lost a fair few of her baby teeth recently. “Yeah…yet!” she exclaims, not fully understanding the concern behind the sentiment, but always ready – as is her entire extended family – for action and excitement.

           Emma shakes her head in humored exasperation at her two “children” – wondering, as she often does, how someone who has seen and experienced as much as Killian, who has witnessed some of the worst humanity had to offer and suffered at their hands, who has lived so long and weathered such crushing heartbreak and hate, can still easily find such simple, child-like joy in the littlest things. “Really, guys?” she questions, looking to her college student son for more mature support.  “Can’t we just enjoy things being normal for once?”

           “Aye, of course, my Love,” Killian replies deftly.  “ ‘Twas merely a joke,” he adds, leaning over to brush a quick kiss to her brow that makes Morgan giggle, hide her face in Henry’s shoulder, and cry out, “Eww, they’re kissing again!” in a frank, tickling whisper against her older sibling’s skin.

           “Just a joke is right,” Henry declares, motioning them forward to venture on into the rest of the Bowdoin College Museum and toward the particular exhibit he wants them to see.  The collection was an 1811 bequest from a wealthy benefactor to the school and was one of the earliest college art collections in the country, as Henry had enthusiastically told her over the phone some weeks ago when his project had commenced. His Maritime History class had done a cross-curriculum partnership with the arts department to put together a student exhibit of research and mixed media in the college’s museum, and Henry has been quite secretive about his entry, even if insistent that they needed to see it in person. “Like anyone could be around you lot for long and think you were normal!” he scoffs.

           “Ha ha,” his mother laughs drolly, bumping into his side with her shoulder in playful retribution as they move ahead side-by-side, with Killian, who is now holding a wriggling Morgan once again, following closely behind.  However, once the jostling ceases, Emma grasps her nearly-grown son’s hand in hers for a moment, stunned anew at how much he has changed from the little boy who had found her in Boston all those years ago, and led her into the very life she has now. Squeezing tightly with emotion welling up in her throat, she wishes he could truly understand how much she loves him.

           “Missed you too, Mom,” Henry murmurs softly, pressing her fingers back with his own wrapped around them.  It is more than enough and makes her heart flutter in gladness.  

           Once Henry leads them through a few different rooms and several intriguing displays, he slows when they reach a large, somewhat circular room with a high, arched ceiling, and then turns to them with a mysterious smile on his face and clear anticipation in his big, brown eyes, just as they have always held, even at ten years old.

           At first glance, this particular exhibit, this room in itself, seems empty. Looking around with faces equally full of curiosity and confusion, Killian, Emma, and Morgan end up staring back at Henry expectantly until Killian finally speaks up, “Begging your pardon, Lad, but I’m afraid I am not quite certain what you wish for us to see.”

           Henry gives a nod of acknowledgement, rather knowingly pleased, and making Emma smirk to herself with a mother’s satisfaction at seeing her son so confidently happy and in his element.  ‘He’s definitely got something up his sleeve,’ she thinks affectionately, admittedly finding herself anxious to see what his surprise might be.  She knows that Henry has been loving this course all term – not to mention how thrilled her husband had been at the news – and that the long term practicum research projects are being showcased here throughout the entire month of April.  Emma can only conclude that her son’s hard work has paid off in a way he’s proud of, and he must believe wholeheartedly that they will be too.

           All Henry says is, “I take it you’re ready then?” and at Killian’s nod and Morgan’s “Yes, yes, YES, Henwy!!” exclamation, while she hops up and down exuberantly, he switches off the lights and presses a previously unnoticed button next to the light switch.

           Immediately, the light and airy sound of some sort of flute or piccolo trickles through the quiet air of the room, a gently evocative melody with a lingering, haunted quality to its tone, enhanced by the sound echoing beneath of waves washing gently against the hull of some easily floating ship or back and forth over the shore of some deserted bay.  Even as the sounds which are familiar and comforting to his tiny family audience wrap around them, small pinpricks of light appear just like stars in the night sky out on the ocean, sparking to life on the walls around them and the high ceiling overhead.  It is a constellation spread out just for them in breathtaking majesty.  Then, the Author begins to narrate his newest story…

Listening to Henry’s words, Emma feels her breath catch just a bit in both awe and emotion, glancing quickly over at her husband and daughter, before either of them realizes they are being observed. Morgan’s green eyes are wide and sparkling with interest and excitement, her mouth an open “o” as she looks above her, dazzled at what would appear for all the world to be the stars and constellations in the night sky brought indoors and spread out for their entertainment.  Killian is silent and still, so much so that Emma knows – as few others would – just how valiantly he is battling some strong emotion…how very touched he is.  Emma was never as great a student of the star charts and navigational astronomy as her sailor would have loved to make her, but Henry ate it right up, and she would bet her battered and beloved old VW that Henry has recreated some particular display that holds an extra meaning for he and his stepdad alone.

Shaking herself slightly to bring her focus back to earth and her attention back to the words of Henry’s presentation once more, she hears her son’s voice – soothing, engaging, and reeling her into the adventurous stories behind the scattered specks of light arrayed above them and their meaning and guidance to generations of sailors making their ways on a wide and pathless sea.

“The Cygnus,” Killian mouths silently beside her, appearing genuinely awestruck as he takes his gaze just momentarily from Henry’s representative “sky” to look in the eyes of the young man he has for years now cared for and loved like a son; a sincere gaze of fond understanding passing between them that brings a film of unshed tears to Emma’s vision that she has to rapidly blink away.  In fact, soundless though it may be, she catches Killian’s comment only because she is so focused on her husband and his emotional reaction to this gift Henry has given all of them – but her pirate in particular.  Emma senses that Killian knows it in this moment and holds tightly to his fingers twined with hers while practically beaming at her son, wondering again how she ever got lucky enough that the two most important people in her world would love each other as much as they each love her.

Morgan reaches over from Killian’s arms to pat her mother’s cheeks as Henry concludes his tale and turns the lights back up. “Don’t cry, Mama,” Morgan coos sweetly. “Henwy’s story was happy in the end. The Swan leads the sailor to his home.”

Emma smiles shakily at her daughter, and then the rest of her family with their looks of understanding.  “I know, Baby,” Emma murmurs softly, still brushing away the evidence, but with her smile growing broader all the while.  “Don’t worry.  These are happy tears.”

[accio-ambition]

This chapter is mostly banter. So enjoy. As always, a million bajillion thanks to @shipsxahoy, @queen-icicle-fandom, @sotheylived, and those crazy kids at @captainswanbigbang. With each new chapter, I get a little sadder that this project is wrapping up and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank them enough.

Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she’s happy in the city. It’s where the most camera operating jobs are, and that’s how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she’s never been with people she doesn’t know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But when the captain of the ship she’s filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU Rating: M Content warning: Character death, some violent situations

FFnet/Ao3/Cover/Snapshots/Gifset/Manip

Chapter Eighteen

“We’re not getting another ship.” Killian slides onto the bench across from her at Granny’s, nabbing an onion ring as he scoots by her plate.

“What?” she asks, confused about both the statement and the idea that he thinks she won’t mind him stealing her onion rings. Rotating her plate so her rings are closest to her side of the table, Emma repeats herself. “What do you mean, you’re not getting another ship?”

He shrugs. Somehow, the action conveys sass. “What part don’t you understand, Swan? ‘We’ refers to my brother and I. ‘Are not’ means - ”

“I mean why aren’t you guys getting a new ship?” she interrupts, glaring at him. “You said you were looking into it before the Jewel sunk. Why stop looking now that it has?”

Glancing anywhere but at her, Killian explains, “There’s nothing out in the market right now that’s what Liam’s looking for. I think he wants to try and salvage the Jewel, build it up again from scratch and make some changes.”

“How long would that take?” she asks, ticking her head to the side.

“It’s anybody’s guess,” Killian says as Ruby comes up to their table with a smile on her face, asking Killian if he needs anything. He orders a cup of coffee, more out of kindness than necessity or desire. Once she’s gone to place his order, he looks back at Emma. “He’s calling up some of his mates in the Coast Guard and throughout the harbor to see if any one of them is willing to help haul what’s left on the shore back to a shop.”

“Huh,” she hums. It’s an interesting proposition, one that could make for good TV. She isn’t sure if that’s at all what they would want - they being the Jones brother or the executives - but it could be interesting. That is, so long as no one is breaking their contract. “Have you told Jefferson?”

Killian shakes his head. “He’s the next call, after Dave.” Reaching across the table, he steals another onion ring, narrowly avoiding Emma’s slap. He takes a bite and chews it for a moment. “I didn’t know Granny made onion rings,” he comments idly.

Emma smirks, taking a bite out of one of her own rings. “She does for her favorite customers,” she snarks.

An extremely dramatic frown crosses his face. “I thought I was one of her favorites,” he mumbles.

She knows he’s playacting for her pity, but Emma still feels the need to comfort him. “I don’t think there’s anyone in town who isn’t Granny’s favorite.” She reaches across the table to pat his hand. “Don’t worry, you’re one of my favorites,” she says.

He grins. “As much as I will cherish that admission,  I don’t get free food out of our relationship.”

“Hey, I still have to pay for this stuff,” she whines. “And I can make you food.” His eyebrows shoot up and she shrugs. “It’d be free for you.”

“I feel like we’ll have more time for that in the near future, what with there being only one ship in our possession.” Sighing again, Killian rests his head on the table in front of him, grasping blindly for her hand. He entwines their fingers together. “What are we going to do, Emma?”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles, relishing in the warmth and weight of his hand in hers. “We’ll figure it out.” In the meantime, Emma uses her other hand to slide her plate reluctantly between them, a silent offer for assurance in the form of onion rings.

Peeking up from his arms, Killian smiles. He actually thanks her this time as he takes an onion ring and munches on it thoughtfully. “What do you think Jeff’s going to say about the show?” he asks.

She shrugs this time. “He’s probably going to refer back to whatever contract you guys signed, then take it up to the channel execs. See what they say.” Ruby finally returns with his cup of coffee and another small plate of onion rings for her. “It’s a huge guessing game until the end of this season. I’m sure it won’t end badly. They might just find another trawler somewhere nearby and focus on them instead of the Jolly Roger and the Jewel.” She rolls her eyes. “Who knows?”

Looking off into space, Killian reaches over to the plate of fresh onion rings, only to be met with empty air. He looks up to find Emma hoarding the plate close to her, Gollum protecting the one ring.

“I don’t care how good looking you are,” she threatens him. “You want onion rings? Fucking order some and stop stealing mine.”

A huge smile breaks across his face before he salutes her sarcastically. “Message received loud and clear, love.” Still, he actually stands up and grabs one last ring from her possession. “They just taste so much better when it makes you feisty.”

Bending over to press a short kiss to the top of her head, Killian pops her onion ring into his mouth and smirks on the way out of Granny’s, leaving Emma fuming.

0000

Jefferson’s reaction, at least according to Liam and how Killian relays it to her on the phone later that night, is more positive than either of them had expected. While Emma prepared herself to hear about screaming and cursing in true Jeff fashion, Killian tells her that their producer understood considering the circumstances.

“Liam said that Jeff said that he’d inform the proper executives and get back to me if there was anything else he needed,” his voice crackles through the line. Emma’s walking in the front door, a bag of Chinese food dangling off her elbow and her cell wedged between shoulder and ear.

“Well, that sounds kind of promising,” she assures him, shutting the door behind her. “Hold on a second.” Taking the phone from her shoulder, Emma yells for Henry to set the table before returning to their conversation. “Do you think he’ll have something to get back to you with by the barbeque?” she asks.

“Dunno,” he grumbles. She can just imagine him scratching behind his ear, the uncertainty of the future causing a frustrated blush to rise on his neck. He sighs, and then says, “I’ll let you and the lad get to supping. See you soon, love.”

“Bye.”

Emma hopes for all their sakes and sanities that Jefferson does have something to tell the crew by the time the Nolans’ barbeque rolls around in a couple of days. It’s the end of summer though it feels more like fall, coming up on the end of regular trawling season, and to celebrate that or maybe just help each other grieve and mourn the recent past. Either way, Mary Margaret had brought up the idea and Emma had wholeheartedly volunteered her and Henry’s manpower to help set up.

“Mom, Phillip’s mom was gonna take us to a movie,” he complains where she tells him of their plans.

“Well, you’ll have to call Phillip and tell him sorry,” she says. “It’s going to be a beautiful day and David promised me there would be ice cream.” Flopping back on the couch they share and changing the channel, Emma adds, “Invite him to the party while you’re at it. Phillip and his parents.”

“This is Mary Margaret and David’s party, remember?”

She shrugs. “We’re setting it up, I’m saying we can invite people.”

And Emma really begins to agree with her own words as she’s helping David set up the eighth fold-out table in an hour in their backyard, his wife directing them on its placement and Henry plugging in lights around the fence. Mary Margaret keeps saying she needs to keep an eye on food she’s pre-cooking in the kitchen, but Emma’s sure she just doesn’t want to do the heavy lifting. Literally.

All the while, the possibility of having to leave Storybrooke - of no longer being able to use her son for chores, of no longer being close to Mary Margaret and David, or Ruby, or even the Joneses - lingers in her mind.

It’s something she doesn’t want to do unless it’s absolutely necessary.

But now that there isn’t a second boat and no intention of getting one, there might be no show that needs a camera for her to operate. She’s in a bit of a tight position. She has enough saved up for her and Henry to survive for a little while, but the mastering of camera operation can only take you so far in life.

These frightening thoughts sneak in and out of her mind during the party, almost ruining the beautiful sunset that cools what remains of a scorching day. Henry’s having a blast, he and Phillip shooting each other with water guns in between hot dogs and ice cream. Mary Margaret’s in full-on hostess mode, talking with everyone she walks by to make sure their drinks are cold and their stomach are satisfied. And David, standing next to Emma, taking in the scene with his own internal commentary.

“What am I going to do?” she asks David in one instance of darkened thought, beer in hand.

Reading her mind, he shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “What are we going to do?”

Emma chuckles darkly. “At least Mary Margaret’s got a job.”

“Hey,” David reprimands her. With a shrug, she rolls her eyes at him. “I know you don’t particularly like asking for help, but you know you don’t have to do this alone.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulls her into his side, a brotherly gesture of comfort. “Some other project will come up. And in the meantime, enjoy your time with Henry. Relax.”

“Easier said than done,” she grumbles. She takes a swig of her beer only to find it empty. A frown growing on her face is halted by the somewhat magical appearance of another drink in David’s other hand.

“Maybe you just need a little push in the right direction,” he suggests, handing the beer over.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

David nods to Killian, who’s now chasing after Henry and Roland, Liam and Robin and Regina laughing at his antics. He’s spent the majority of the evening doing so, choosing the adventures of children over alcohol for entertainment. Liam even had to scold him for running about the deck too fast.

(He’d been sheepish naturally, being treated like a child, but Emma had to admit that the entire situation was adorable.)

“Don’t make me spell it out for you,” David nearly begs.

Catching his drift, Emma grimaces. “You’re gross.”

“I’m right.” She glares at him as he takes another drink of his beer, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smug smile. When he finishes, David shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“There’s nothing for you to know, we just - ”

“Don’t want to know,” he interrupts her, his hand coming up between them. “All I need to know is if he makes you happy. Because I can lie to myself all I want and pretend that you’re happier here because you have us. But even I have to admit you look a hell of a lot happier when he’s around these days.”

Taking a moment to contemplate the idea, Emma finally shrugs, hints of a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “I’m not unhappy.”

David nods once sharply. “Good enough for me,” he says, taking another drink. “The rest of that stuff, you can talk to Mary Margaret or Ruby. Not my department.”

Emma nudges his shoulder in good humor. “You mean you don’t want to know the intimate details about-”

“Nope,” he interrupts her. “Not my department. Not at all.”

With a nod and a smile, David takes his leave, mumbling something about making sure there’s enough food. It’s as much a fake excuse to get away from the uncomfortable conversation as it is an inside joke - like Mary Margaret would ever let anyone go hungry at her house.

As though his ears were burning, David’s space is quickly occupied by Killian himself, out of breathe and damp from being chased with water guns.

“Those lads are quick,” he says nonchalantly.

Emma chuckles. “What, Captain Hook can’t keep up with the Lost Boys now?” she teases him. “Finally admitting defeat and letting old age and a croc get you?”

Killian’s frown is so dramatic - honestly, it makes him look like a blobfish - that her laughter flourishes into guffaws and even a few tears. “I am affronted, Swan,” he says. his voice equally put off. “How dare you insult the captain as such. I should make you walk the plank!”

So she’s had a few drinks, as he probably has too, but that matter doesn’t do anything to quell the warmth that bubbles up inside with this ridiculous man next to her. She thinks of what David said and maybe it’s just become obvious to her how obvious she and Killian are together. How often and how much time they spend with each other, how their countenances change when in each other’s company.

It nearly makes her sad when she forces the conversation to other, less amusing topics.

“Did Jefferson get back to you yet?”

Shaking his head, Killian runs a hand through his hair. “I even inquired about it the other day after Liam’s check up,” he tells her. “Alas, nothing from executives or any other higher up.”

“I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything,” Emma assures him, though a different discussion sets off in her mind. She knows better than Killian that, unlike in other realms of the world, no news in show business isn’t good news. Sea of Chaos is quite a money maker for the network: it’s grown a fanbase, it’s interesting enough and original enough that it could bring in more ratings, and the cast is memorable enough that they can quote them on merchandise. Changing it in any way - or worse, cancelling it - could be detrimental to their entire lineup.

But Killian doesn’t need to know that.

“No news is good news, right?” Emma lies easily.

He shrugs. “I can only suppose so.”

[fire-bear]

13 and 17 with Ladynoir! :)

This is #13. #17 to follow once I’ve written it.

Note 1: I’ve not seen the Christmas episode or any of season 2 so this is based on what I’ve seen so far.

Note 2: This either occurs before Stormy Weather and The Puppeteer happen. Or it happens in a slightly different universe where Manon wasn’t involved in them. Either way, Manon has never met Adrien. Or, because she’s 5 and she met him in different circumstances, she doesn’t remember him? I dunno. Whatever.

Manon’s Christmas Present

“How am Isupposed to get her that, Alya?!” exclaimed Marinette, pacingaround her room. “It’s impossible!”

“Now, honey,don’t be like that,” Alya replied from where she sat backwardson Marinette’s rolling chair. “It’s not impossible.”

“Whydoes she even likehim?!” Marinette cried, throwing her hands in the air.

“Because ofthis.” Alya waved her phone to gain Marinette’s attention beforeturning it around. Marinette rushed towards her, grabbed her handsand pulled the phone closer, squinting at the screen. She instantlyblushed.

There,in all his glory, was Adrien. His blond hair was swept back, hisgreen eyes gazed happily at the camera as if it was where hebelonged. A black scarf was draped around Adrien’s shoulders,artfully situated so that people could see the t-shirt he wore, whatappeared to be a yo-yo printed onto red fabric, black dots litteringit. Underneath was a caption: Get your kids the latestLadybug fashion, for girls andboys.

Marinette grinneddopily at his visage before Alya managed to extricate her hands andpull the phone away. Pouting at her friend, Marinette stepped over toperch on the edge of her desk. “Urgh! Why’d he have to go and dosomething like that?”

“Daddy dearestprobably told him to,” Alya pointed out. “Besides, you knowhe likes Ladybug – he probably jumped through hoops for theopportunity.”

“Right, okay,Adrien is amazing – but we both knew that.”

“Sure,”said Alya, raising a pointed eyebrow. Marinette barely noticed andkept ranting.

“AndI can understand her wanting some of the merchandise,” Marinettecontinued, despite trying not to blush at the idea of it. “Buthow did she find out he’s in my class?! And why does she want meto ask him? That is not going to go well.”

“Come on, girl,” Alya said,looking amused. “It’s not that hard. All you have to do is get himto meet you in the park.”

Marinette stared ather for a moment until what she had said sunk in. “You mean ask himon a date?!!” she cried.

Alya laughed. “Nowthat I think about it, that might be the hardest point. But she looksup to you, Marinette. That’s why she’s asked you for this.”

“Urgh!”Marinette stood, took a few steps over to her sofa and collapsed facedown onto it. For a few moments, she sullenly waved her legs in theair, wondering what she could do about the situation. There wasdefinitely no way she could ask Adrien - it was so embarrassing!She’d look sostupid.Maybe she could leave a letter for him on his desk and tell Manon tobe wherever and no-one would be any the wiser. Or she could shovethem in a room together and lock the door behind them.

Oh! She couldtransform into Ladybug and ask Adrien that way!

Atapping on her leg gained her attention. Alya smiled at her when sheturned her head so she could look at her friend. “It really won’tbe as bad as you think it will. He’s not going to think you’restupidorsomething. I bet he’ll say yes, becauseit’syou!”

Marinette smiled atAlya, comforted by her kind – and probably mistaken – words.“Really…?”

“Ofcourse, girl! And I’ll be nearby for moral support!”

“Um,okay.”

At school the next day,while Adrien and Nino were hanging out in the courtyard, Alya draggedMarinette towards them. Marinette kept her gaze fixed on the stringsof tinsel draped across the ceiling and walls. Chloe had alreadycomplained, wanting lights and flashier decorations. Everyone hadtheir fingers crossed that it wouldn’t happen as they wouldn’t beable to move through the halls if she had her way.

Suddenly, Marinettewas pulled to a stop and tugged around so that Alya could look ather. “All right, girl. This is it. You know what you want to say?”

Marinette glanced atthe boys. Adrien was laughing at something Nino had said and lookedas handsome as usual. She whimpered. “I can’t do thi-” she began.

Alya shook her untilMarinette was blinking at her in surprise. “No negative thoughts,”Alya reminded her. “What is it you’re going to say?”

“‘Canyou meet me in the park after school?’”

“Andhave you asked Manon to be there?”

“I’vetold her mother what’s going on and they should be there,”Marinette answered.

“Thenyou’re all set! Go!” And, twirling Marinette around, Alya shovedher towards Adrien.

Marinette stumbled afew steps but managed to keep upright. She glanced back at Alya whogrinned and gave her a thumbs up. Over her shoulder, Marinettespotted Chloe, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the nervous look onMarinette’s face. Quickly, Marinette spun around and walkedhesitantly onward, taking one long, confident stride for every threeshort, hesitant ones.

“Okay,”she muttered to herself. “Okay. You can do this. Nothing’s goingto go wrong. Everything’s fine.”

Hearing the clasp ofher bag open, Marinette looked down to see Tikki beaming up at her.“You can do this, Marinette!” the little kwami declared. “Ibelieve in you so believe in yourself!”

Marinette couldn’thelp but smile at her. “Thanks, Tikki.”

By that point,Marinette was nearing the boys so Tikki hid and Marinette’s bag shut.Steeling herself with a deep breath, Marinette jogged the last fewsteps. She was only a few steps from them when she caught her foot onthe ground and promptly tumbled intothem with a yelp. Her eyes widened as it looked as though Adrien wasgoing to catch her. Then Nino turned to see what the noise was, movedinto her path, and caught her instead. He set her onto her feet,eyebrows raised.

“Woah,there, Marinette! What’s the rush?”

“Ah,er, sorry,” Marinette replied with a little giggle, her handrubbing the back of her head nervously. Adrien was watching her andshe could feel her heart racing, her breath shaky. She shyly glancedat him and tried to remember what she was meaning to say. “I…Well, I… Adrien…”

“Youwanted to talk to me?” asked Adrien, tilting his head slightly.Strands of hair shifted across his forehead and Marinette wanted toswoon at how pretty that looked. Somehow, she managed to hold herselftogether and tried valiantly to remember the question.

“Er.Um. Park with me?!” she practically shouted. As soon as she saidit, she could almost hear Tikki’s facepalm.

“Huh?”said Adrien.

“I-I-I,um…”

“Areyou trying to ask Adrien to go to the park with you?” askedNino, looking at his phone.

Marinetteblinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Alyajust messaged me.”

“Oh.”

“Youwant to go to the park? With all our friends?” asked Adrien,looking rather happy.

“Ah,er, no. I’m… I’m sorry but I babysit this little girl and, uh, shedesperately wants to meet you as a Christmas present. See, I askedwhat she’d want from me and she asked me to ask you to let her meetyou. But, of course, I told her no but then Alyasaid it couldn’t hurt and, well, she’ll be in the park afterschool…” Marinette trailed off and allowed herself to take abreath.

“Wow,really?” said Adrien. “Well, that seems like it’ll be morefun than just going straight home! I’ll come with you to the park.”

“What,really?” asked Marinette, dumbfounded.

“Yes.”Adrien smiled at her in an encouraging manner and she smiled dopilyin return.

“Okay.Wow. Yeah, cool. Okay. I’ll… see you after school, then.”

Adriennodded and, before she could embarrass herself any further, Marinetteturned and dashed back to Alya on shaky legs. As soon as she reachedher friend, Alya grabbed hold of her shoulders and drew her to abench they could sit on.

“Well?”she demanded.

“Hesaid yes,” Marinette said, a little absently. She felt as if shewas floating, extremely happy with the outcome.

“Didyou tell him about Manon?” asked Alya, speaking slowly andclearly so that Marinette understood.

“Yeah.”

“Thenthe only thing left for you to do is to ask him on a proper dateafter he meets Manon,” Alya said, folding her arms and smirkingdown at Marinette.

Blinking,Marinette fell heavily back to Earth. “What?”

Adrientold Marinette that he’d forgotten his phone and told her that he’dcatch up. Marinette was a little relieved as she hadn’t preparedanything to talk to him about. She made her way to the park, worryingto Tikki about how to ask Adrien on a date as Alya had suggested. Orwhat to talk about.

Assoon as she walked through the gate, however, she was distracted by acry of her name. Giggling, Marinette caught Manon as she camebarrelling towards her. Lifting her up, Marinette spun with her,their scarves trailing behind them, until Manon was giggling as well.Then she settled Manon on her hip and carried her towards her mother.

“Hi,Marinette!” Manon peeked beyond Marinette’s shoulder and thenlooked back at Marinette, blinking. “Where’s Adrien?”

“He’llbe here soon; don’t worry!”

“Yay!”she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air while Marinette steadiedher. Beaming at Manon, Marinette placed her on the ground and greetedMrs. Chamack, exchanging a few pleasantries while Manon ran aroundthem in excitement. Eventually, Manon stopped with a gasp andcollided with Marinette’s legs. “Adrien!” she cried.

“Hi!”called a familiar voice and, fighting down a blush, Marinette turnedto see Adrien jogging towards them, hand lifted in greeting.Marinette waved back, almost hitting herself in the face, and waitedtill he’d gotten close enough to put a hand on Manon’s head.

“Thisis Manon,” she told him.

Manonblinked her deep, brown eyes up at Adrien. Then she shyly smiled andgiggled. “You’re Adrien.”

“That’sright,” said Adrien, smiling as he went down on one knee tospeak to her. “I hear you liked the things I modelled for theLadybug collection.”

“Yes!”Manon declared, rushing forward to grab his hands. Marinette triednot to get jealous. “No-one believed me, you know.”

“Hm?”

“Itold them I was going to get to meet you for a Christmas present andthey told me I was being stupid.”

“Well,we’ll just need to take lots of pictures, won’t we?” saidAdrien, smiling wide. “And I’ll make sure to sign some-”Before he had finished, Manon darted away and tugged at her bag.

“Mama!”she cried until Mrs. Chamack lowered the bag enough. As soon as Manoncould reach, she unzipped it with such force that Marinette winced.Then Manon pulled out a Ladybug notebook and rushed back to Adrien.“Sign this!” she demanded, opening it up to reveal cut-outsfrom magazines pasted inside. Marinette peered closer and realisedthat they were all of Adrien wearing various Ladybug merchandise.

Nodding,Adrien pulled out a pen from his own bag and wrote out a message forher before signing. “There. Will that do?”

Manonspun the book around and read it, her lips moving. Then, slowly, sheblushed and nodded. “Yeah! Pictures!”

WhileNadja pulled out a camera and Manon pulled Adrien into differentposes, Marinette stood to the side and watched them. She couldn’thelp but smile: Adrien was a natural with kids. He was so open andcarefree – and completely gorgeous. Sighing, Marinette was startledwhen her handbag opened just enough for Tikki to peek out.

“Areyou going to ask him on a date?” she asked, curiously.

Marinettegulped. “I’m not sure. What if he says no? What if he feelsterrible for sayingno? It’s Christmas. I don’t want to upset him…”

Tikkihummed in consideration. “Well, don’t do anything you’reuncomfortable with. Ah!” she added, suddenly struck with athought. Marinette made a questioning hum. “What if heasks you on a date?”

BeforeMarinette could reply, Tikki disappeared and Marinette saw Manonrunning towards her from the corner of her eye. Turning to her at thelast moment, Marinette was quite unprepared for Manon’s arms wrappingaround her legs. With a cry, Marinette waved her arms around in anattempt at balance, failed and fell backwards. Manon didn’t seem tonotice for she immediately clambered onto Marinette’s stomach to giveher a proper hug.

“Thankyou, Marinette!” she said, sweetly. “That was amazing! Waituntil my friends find out!”

“They’regoing to be so surprised!” Marinette agreed, patting Manon’shead.

Mrs.Chamack called on Manon and the little girl scrambled off ofMarinette, waving to her as she rushed off. Marinette sat up anddusted herself off. She was just about to clamber to her feet when ahand appeared in front of her. Surprised, she looked up to see Adriensmiling down at her.

“Needhelp?” he asked.

“Thanks,”murmured Marinette as she accepted it.

Adrienpulled her to her feet and waited while she brushed dirt and dust offherself. When she’d finished, he pushed his hands into his pockets,looking rather nonchalant. “Have you got anything to do now?”he asked.

“Huh?No,” Marinette answered.

“Neitherhave I – except for homework. Would you like to do something funwith me? I expected that to take longer and nobody will be lookingfor me until dinnertime.”

Marinettegaped at him. “Right now?” she asked.

Laughing,Adrien nodded. “Yeah.”

“Likea da-” Marinette began, thoughtlessly. She was saved from makinga fool of herself by the screams. Shocked, they both turned to lookwhere they thought they’d heard them and watched in horror as a freaksnowstorm blasted across the road Manon and her mother had taken togo home.

Thatmade Marinette’s decision for her.

“Oh!I’ve just remembered that I said I’d help my parents with somethingso I have to go,” Marinette hastily explained to Adrien.

“Ah.Okay. I should probably get that homework out of the way,”Adrien said, grimacing at Marinette. “I’ll see you tomorrow atschool.”

“Sure!”

Theyparted ways, each running off to a different corner of the park.Marinette kept watch over her shoulder until Adrien was out of sight,thankfully not tripping up while her attention was divided. Once shecouldn’t see him, she darted off the path and hid behind the bushes.She opened her handbag to find Tikki’s determined face looking backat her, ready for action.

“Tikki,spots on!”

I wasn’t entirely sure what to do when Manon met Adrien so it became this ‘almost asking out on a date thing’ instead… Sorry. ^^”

[gothika666faerie]

Let it Go

He should have been more contented. Happiness was too much of a stretch and honestly, no one could ever be truly, blissfully happy. At least, there was the possibility-or there should have been-of him reflecting back on his life with some feeling of accomplishment. Here he was, an established Duke of Ramsford, the highest and most noble aristocratic family in Cordonia. Certainly, not anything to sniff at. Bertrand Beaumont stared listlessly at the sheaf of papers on his desk, waiting to sorted through, read and more often than not, crushed and chucked away in a frustrated fury. 

He was discontented. Unhappy even. One could even label him miserable beyond belief. His father always bemoaned the curse that his elder son was so inclined towards random bouts of depression but now at this stage in his life, Bertrand swore it could become a regularity. He was already in his thirties and living the life of a true blue blood, with all the boredom, the stifling responsibilities and the many forever watchful eyes of society laying into his back. He rests his chin on his palms and lets the text blur into streams of black scattering insects. Eventually, he had reclined all the way in his chair and stared straight up into the ceiling. When was the last time he did something truly interesting or exhilarating? 

Skinny dip for the hell of it? Eat ice cream straight out of the tub while dancing as though no one was watching? Hell, he could barely remember the last time he laughed so hard, so long and so loud that his sides hurt. Along that note, when was the last time he had a pulse-pounding, ecstatic and breathless orgasm....that wasn’t by his own hand? He reached a hand up to finger his thick hair, always slicked back and hugged closely to his head and frowned. 

And great. A grey hair already. Just perfect. 

Outside, somewhere in the lounge, Bertrand could hear rollicking, careless laughter. He sneered. Of course, at least he was having fun. Maxwell always had fun. He never needed to aim for valedictorian in finishing school, go for etiquette lessons or watch his every move lest he were to ruin the name of the house. Bertrand was the heir, Maxwell was the darling of the family. How his parents fawned over the little puppy who cooed back in return with his haphazard crayon scribbles and hideous attempts at cartwheeling. Oh, and what was Bertrand doing? Learning how to play Mozart because “you would want to impress your guests when you hold your soirees. Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Bertrand! Maxwell is too young and he is already so naturally charming. You need a special talent to make sure you don’t bore your guests to tears.” 

Rage coursed through Bertrand’s veins as the memory and he sits back up, gripping tightly at his arm rests. It was not fair to Maxwell to be so angry, so resentful. Maxwell loved him and had been through the thick and thin with him; defending him when their father never saw any good in him, sometimes crawling into his room and imitating the old bastard for a laugh and always there to force him to look on the bright side. In return, Bertrand knew he needed to look out for his excitable and often too flighty little brother. When their parents died, he truly needed to be the man of the estate and that meant ensuring Maxwell would grow up right as rain. However, the boy was as stubborn a boy as always. They were just too different. Bertrand was cold, reserved and apathetic. Maxwell was warm, exuberant and a live wire over everything. It was no wonder the latter always had friends. 

Bertrand groans as he remembers their respective sixteenth birthdays. Maxwell’s was teeming with guests from all over and he watches from the sidelines, shadowed over by balloons as his little brother break dances on the floor and gets applauded and blown kisses by the girls around him. His birthday was his parents, his little brother and the towering pile of presents sent from all over by relatives and other noble families. He received about eight of the same set of suits from that pile of “gifts”. This was his lot in life; he never was the type to socialize so whatever. He was a grown man. He reaped what he sown. He just was not Maxwell. He was thirty-four to Maxwell’s twenty-five. He was old. Over the hill. Used up. At a standstill. 

He slams a fist on the desk and stands up, determined. He could still do something. Anything. He gazes at the hanging wall clock; the short hand at eleven and the long hand just past one. He rummages through one of the desk drawers and removes a small box with a lock. Fishing out its companion from his lapel, the box snaps open to reveal a ring of jagged keys and a key chain that bore their family crest of crossed tentacles and topless sirens. 

With his new bounty in his pocket, the duke marches out of his office and down the stairs and was nearing the door when he hears the voice he really did not want to deal with right now. 

“Bertrand....where are you going?” It is Maxwell of course, in a simple pajama set of Crown and Flame shirt and boxer shorts wrapped up in a blanket. Oh Christ, was the boy really having a marathon at this time of night? 

“Out.” The reply is short, curt and unfortunately, unsatisfactory. Maxwell’s brow furrows as his brother reaches for the doorknob ready to unlock it and leave. He grabs onto Bertrand’s jacket.

“Bertrand, it’s 11:10 pm. It isn’t like you to go out so late for no reason. Is something wrong?”

“Maxwell,” Bertrand’s voice was cold and heavy, his brow creased with a sternness that made the boy shudder. “You’re the younger brother. You don’t need to keep tabs on me. I can take care of myself.”

“I know...I just...you haven’t looked really happy nowadays. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid alright?” Bertrand sighs at his brother’s thoughtfulness and softens, placing a hand on Maxwell’s shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. I...I just need to go for a ride. To clear my head.” Maxwell smiles up at him and nods. “I understand. Just be careful alright? And don’t come back so late...wow, it feels weird sounding like you.”

Bertrand snorts and shoves at his brother’s head but cannot help the smile spreading on his face before he is finally out the door. Maxwell holds the front door ajar and peeks out, staring at his brother as he heads for the gates and pushes them open, locking them behind him afterwards. Convinced and satisfied that his brother could take care of himself and was admittedly, more responsible and cautious than he was when he went out on late night partying escapades, Maxwell retreated inside to continue on season 3 of The Crown and Flame and was certain eventually Sei and Dominic were going to fall in love. 

Bertrand was not going to take the limo. Nor a horse. His choice of ride tonight was going to fit his mood. He enters the garage at the far back of the estate, surrounded by their plantation of Cordonian rubies and white roses and sidesteps around the array of their expensive, vintage cars before considering the vehicle at the far end, covered unglamorously with a silver tarp. He tugs it off and smiles in nostalgia as he takes in the polished exhaust pipe, the buttery leather seat and the handlebars ergonomically designed to be gripped tightly when the bike would take to rougher terrain. 

It had been his one moment of teenage rebellion; saving up his hefty allowance to get himself his own motorcycle; a Harley Davidson no less and he remembered tearing down the highways and pavements with the wind whipping his face and hair as he laughs in virile triumph, scraping the bark of an apple tree here and there. Obviously, that phase never lasted and his father had confiscated the keys, given him a good tanning with the rod and Bertrand had been sent to a commune to think over his indiscretions. Maxwell was given the bike as a last minute birthday gift on his nineteenth birthday but oh, the sweet lad could never dream of enjoying the fruits of his brother’s labor and merely kept it clean and running before giving it a home in their garage under that silver tarp. 

Bertrand traces the sleek body of the ride with fond affection, smirking when he got to his initials that he had spray painted on the side in violet indigo, a stark contrast to the iridescent silver of the paint job. It was settled. Tonight, he was not going to be Duke Bertrand Beaumont. He marches towards the metal lockers lined parallel to the wall and opens one to reveal a duffel bag hanging on a hook. He takes it down, unzips it and removes the articles of clothing inside along with a pair of aviator sunglasses. He makes quick work of his suit, first the jacket, that awful sweater vest, his tie and shirt and folds them up neatly, stuffing them in the bag. He catches sight of his half-naked form in the mirror in the locker and smirks. Maxwell may be limber and flexible but he had nothing on him. 

On goes the deep blue, almost midnight black shirt that drapes against his broad firm chest. The leather jacket slips on snugly afterwards. His sensible pants were next to go and were replaced by some well-fitting-thankfully, still fit-black jeans and lastly his Oxford shoes were tucked away as he slipped on some ragged, sturdy boots, as soft and rugged as his jacket. All that was left was to ruffle his usually put together hair (fuck that grey strand) and slip on the aviators. He finds a pack of Menthol cigarettes too in the bag and lights up, knowing it was positively foolish to smoke in a garage with flammable objects just within reach but he honestly could not care. He blows out a stream of the tobacco fumes and breathes in the intoxication he was going to immerse himself in tonight. Letting it carelessly fall to the ground, he snuffed it out with his heeled boot and kicks up the stand of the bike, wheeling it out of the garage and positioning in the driveway. 

Key in the ignition, Bertrand gives it a few turns till the engine was putting and purring like a jungle cat that had come out of induced tranquility. Bewildered, confused but raring to pounce at any minute. That was him right now. He straightens his jacket to fit tightly onto him and mounts the ride. He revs it up and soon enough, he was tearing up the paved road, leaving his castle, his home and his prison for this one night and oh how he laughed. He laughed. He laughed. And he laughed. 

The stars were winking down on him as he whoops, getting on the expressway and weaving in and out of traffic, finding that empty lane where he could just go at full speed, let the wind mess up his normally neat coif even more and truly let it all go. The wind billows out his leather jacket and the sunglasses keep it from getting in his eyes but they are still watery. He had never remembered feeling this alive, this free and as he gets on the shore road and gazes out to the expanse of the deep blue sea that surrounds Cordonia, he realizes that he had been missing out for far too long. 

This could be a nightly ritual. No one would find out. He just had to keep in disguise. He could go out to the slums of Cordonia, the seedy nightclubs and brothels and drink till he fainted, do lines of imported drugs till his blood was set alight and actually remember what it felt like to fuck a woman. 

He had been hiding, been forced to hide since he was young. It was high time he let go. The night air was getting chillier and the wind picked up. Above him, thunder roared but Bertrand could only laugh in the storm’s face. 

The cold never bothered him anyway. 

(( Written out of pure randomness and also, cause we KNOW Bertrand is the Elsa of The Royal Romance. I like to thank @ladyashtonofcordonia and @smartlillian. Their fanfics have been inspirational. Also, this goes out to @ohmymaxwell and @mochimicho who also absolutely adore Bertrand (and think he is hot like me) so yes, you beautiful people, thanks so much))

[jbankai89]

Do You Believe in Fairies? [1/12]

Out of this wood do not desire to go.

Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate,

The summer still doth tend upon my state;

And I do love thee. Therefore go with me.

I'll give thee fairies to attend to thee

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep

And sing while thou on pressèd flowers dost sleep;

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act Three, Scene One by William Shakespeare

Chapter One – Unworthy

Trees dotted the edge of a meadow where the flatlands gave way to thick woods. The sun hung high in the sky, washing the earth in its golden light, bleaching the wheat, painting the river blue, and bathing the earth's creatures with its warmth.

A young man sat on the edge of the wood. It was as close to danger as he dared venture, but still near enough to it to make the village's maidens tremble from his bravery, and the young, jealous lads scoff at his stupidity.

The young man sat with his back to a thick oak tree, a book in his hands, and his posture was relaxed and unconcerned. The woods were safe for him; he was one of the few in the village who did not believe the stories.

Little did he know that he was being watched, ironically, by the thing that he claimed did not exist.

Yuri stood close to the Reading Man.

Yuri peered out from behind a nearby tree, his lips parted in quiet wonder. He was very handsome—for a human—and Yuri liked the way his hair refused to stay tied up, and the locks frequently fell from the high bun and into his dark eyes.

Yuri fidgeted, and the grass at his feet rustled. The Reading Man turned, brow furrowed curiously, and he looked directly at Yuri—through Yuri—and apparently content that he saw nothing, he returned to his book.

Yuri knew the rules. He was Fae, but the Reading Man did not believe in his kind. According to the ancient laws, that meant that Yuri was forbidden from showing himself to the object of his desires.

The Fae slipped out from behind his tree, and approached his human. As Fae, he was beautiful, and he knew it. Fair as snow, with hair the colour of pale gold, his eyes as green as cut emerald. His skin seemed to glimmer in the sunlight, and at his back swirled a twinkling light in the rough shape of fairy wings, but a mere illusion compared to the true wings of his sprite cousins.

The Reading Man did not look up as Yuri crouched down next to him and read over is shoulder. Yuri cocked his head to the side as he read, and found the text to be some sort of fantastical story that made little sense to him. It was written in an ancient language that Yuri had not heard spoken in many centuries, and he found himself impressed that his human could read it so easily.

A throat cleared quite suddenly behind them, but the Reading Man, once again, did not stir. Not that he would, for it was a vocalization made by Fae. Yuri turned, and saw what appeared to be a young man standing there, his arms crossed and a disapproving frown upon his face. He was far from young, however. It had been over a millennia since Yuuri of the High Court had been viewed as young by anyone.

“What are you doing, Yurio?” he hissed as Yuri stood up reluctantly, wrinkling his nose at the nickname, and stepped over to the king.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” he replied in the same tone, and Yuuri scowled at him.

“It looks like you're pining over a human who doesn't believe in us...again. We're supposed to help the believers, not the nonbelievers, you know that.”

“I could make him believe,” Yuri mumbled, but before he could say anything else, Yuuri cut him off.

“We do not make humans do anything; we are not wizards, we are Fae. We work with the earth, we tend to her and her elements, and we reward those who are gracious enough to let us into their lives without fear, and take from them only the firstborn son as payment. You cannot keep pining over a human who scoffs at our very existence.”

“I am not pining,” Yuri sputtered indignantly, “I'm—I'm...watching. He's...I'm just watching him. I know the rules, I won't show myself to him.”

“Yuri,” Yuuri said, his voice softening as he gazed at Yuri. In that moment, he looked every part the respected, all-knowing king that he was. “Let him go. A human who does not believe in us is not worthy of your time.” He lifted his hand, palm up in supplication, and starting with his little finger, he curled his hand into a fist.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Yuri's human looked up at the darkening sky with a frown.

Yuri glared at Yuuri, and mirrored him. The sky cleared, and with a simple shrug, his human went back to his reading.

“You see? He does not even question it!” Yuuri said, “please, there are plenty of humans out there, why waste your time with this one?”

Yuri's eyes narrowed into a glare.

“Because I want him.”

~*~

Yuri sat with the Reading Man all day. The human did not move, save to wander to the stream for a drink, and to pick some wild strawberries to eat around midday. The Reading Man did not seem to question the out-of-season berries, their unnatural size, or their perfect, sweet juice that they contained. Nor did he did not question the way the water was as clear and refreshing as a mountain spring, or how it would be as energizing to him as a health tonic from a healer.

Yuri frowned, frustration bubbling inside him as he watched his human put away his book and wander back to his village at dusk. Yuri followed him as far as he dared, but stopped roughly a hundred yards from the border, knowing that in a place mostly of believers of his kind, they would see the signs of his presence, even if Yuri had not allowed them to see him.

Reluctantly he backed into the woods, and headed for home.

Yuri took the slow path, a human's pace to reach the Fae High Court. He could have been there in an instant if he wanted to, but there was something peaceful in taking the slow path. The way the animals of the forest came to pay their respects, the nods of acknowledgement from the human sentries who served the High Court, and the way the elemental sprites swirled around him, chattering excitedly as he passed them by.

Yuri heard the High Court before he saw it, and passed the agaric mushrooms as he stepped into the fairy ring.

Oberon, King of the Fairies sat upon a throne made of a living tree, and his king sat next to him. The current Oberon was a man named Viktor, eldest and wisest of the living Fae. His choice to take a king instead of a queen caused a minor stir amongst the elders of other Fairy orders, but none of them had been foolish enough to try and contest it in battle. Even if the sprites, brownies, dragons, djinn, leprechauns, and even the Dark Elves banded together, they did not have the skill to match even one Fae in battle.

And so, Yuuri became the second king.

“Yurio!” Viktor cried over the music, the dancing, and the general merrymaking as Yuri made his appearance within the circle. Again, Yuri scowled at the nickname, but did not dare protest it. His late grandfather may have been Oberon before Viktor, but he was not foolish enough to assume that this granted him any sort of special privilege. Viktor waved him over while a human servant dragged over another seat for Yuri, and presented him with a glass of honey wine.

“Have a good day?” Viktor asked innocently as he turned from the dancers and looked at Yuri. The sparkle in his blue eyes told Yuri that Yuuri had likely told him what he'd been doing. That, and the fact that Yuuri had suddenly found the backs of his hands positively fascinating.

“Fine, I suppose,” Yuri replied mildly, and sipped his wine.

“Yuuri tells me you were trying to charm that human again. The one who doesn't believe? And I felt your magic from here. Yurio, nonbelievers will not believe, period. They believe in logic and reason. They believe only what their eyes can show them. Magick does not exist for them. Please, stop hurting yourself and find another human, or you can take one of the firstborns from my collection.”

“I do not want any of your starry-eyed harem boys,” Yuri snapped. “I have to keep trying. My human...I don't want to trick him into a fairy ring and make him mine by some sort of magical contract.  I only want him if he wants me.”

“He'd want you if he could see you, Yurio, you are still Fae, and you will always be impossibly beautiful to a human's eyes. But he cannot. I will not tell you what to do, but you know the rules of the Court.”

“I know, I know,” Yuri grumbled, “never show yourself to a nonbeliever.”

~*~

Yuri loved to dance, and often partook in the Night Dances, to dance from dusk until dawn, and as Fae, such a feat was simple, and would never cause him to tire.

Tonight however, he was far too lost in thought for even a short dance (short for Fae being a few hours long, their view of time being somewhat different than a human's, given their long lives) and instead he sat and drank, and watched Viktor tease his firstborn sons, the humans he had collected as payment from their parents, and watched the humans regard the King Oberon with a look of deep longing as he would step back at the last moment to embrace his king.

Yuri felt an endless burn of jealousy, seeing the pair together, and he thought of the Reading Man.

He did not know his name, despite the fact that he could have discovered it easily if he was so inclined. To read the mind of a human was as easy as paging through a book, but he did not wish to trick his human, or do magic on his human. Yuri had no issue doing magic for his human, but that was as far as he would allow his manipulations to go. He wanted to do right by the Reading Man, whatever that might be.

As the night progressed, Yuri watched the humans collapse from exhaustion, and the gentry Fae carried them off to the sleeping quarters. Yuri paused in his meditations to approach a young man who seemed to be reaching his point of exhaustion and touched his arm. A starry eyed look overcame him, as though he'd been blessed by the gods.

“You look tired,” Yuri said simply, “come sit with me a while.”

The order, dressed up as a request was often how the royal families often spoke to their underlings. Unkindness was rarely vocalised, and wars were often waged over the smallest of verbal slights. All the humans of the court were prisoners, technically, and were obligated to obey every command the Fae put to them.

No human who was taken would ever think to disobey a Fae, especially not a Fae prince, and their lives were better for their time in the court. They lived as long as the Fae did; they never aged; and they were never maltreated. If a human came to try and take them home, they would always refuse.

The human Yuri approached was a pretty young man with soft brown hair and a meek, quiet demeanour. He appeared startled by Yuri's appearance and subsequent request, but smiled brightly as he nodded, and obediently followed the Fae back to his seat, motioning for another chair to be added, and they were both provided with wine and fruit.

“Your highness is very generous,” the young man said, his fair cheeks flushing pink as he bowed his head a little, and Yuri waved off the compliment lazily.

“My reason for calling you over here extends beyond the clear need you had to rest your weary limbs,” Yuri said dismissively, “tell me—what do you recall of your human life, before Viktor—King Oberon, to you—took you?”

If the human was startled by this question he did not show it, and did not speak at first, but sipped his wine thoughtfully, his gaze cast towards the Fae and humans that continued to dance.

“It was a long time ago that I was taken,” he said, “I do not recall when exactly, time here is so different than how time flows in the human world, but I think it must have been a century or two, and my memories are fuzzy.”

“Tell me what you can remember...Guang-Hong,” Yuri urged gently as he looked into his mind, and offered the human a bakeapple, still on its vine. Guang-Hong seemed to be quietly transported when Yuri spoke his name, and obediently plucked the white berry off the greenery and ate it, honey-sweet and far more delicious than any human-grown fruit ever could be.

“I remember...” he sipped his wine, “...I remember that I had a lover, I think. I cannot remember. He was always smiling, but we had to be careful, because my father did not approve of our involvement, because it was a marriage that would produce no heirs.

“My father was an herbalist, but one season his foxglove would not grow, and he called on the Fae for help, and they agreed to help him tend to his fields if they could take something of his. He agreed before he knew what the Fae would take, but...I can't remember if he was sad or not about losing me.”

“If you could return to your father, would you?” Yuri asked curiously. “Please, answer honestly. I would truly like to know what you think.”

“No,” Guang-Hong said as he shook his head vigorously, the movement causing his hair to fall into his eyes. “I loved my father, and my lover, but it is beautiful here, and it's so...so...I don't know the word. I would never leave.”

“That is good to hear,” Yuri said, and Guang-Hong beamed under the praise. Yuri lifted a slice of apple, and held it a hairsbreadth away from the young man's lips. Obediently, he ate the piece of fruit straight from Yuri's hand. “Tell me more of your lover. How do humans court each other?”

“Oh, um...” Guang-Hong paused, and Yuri offered him another piece of fruit, which he accepted. “It is slow sometimes, and many different villages have their own customs. Some approach their intended by showering them with gifts, taking them places—not faraway places, but sometimes it is as simple as a walk through the woods, or to the beach, or accompanying them to a ball or festival. Some people have their parents arrange their...partnerships, and they do not meet until their wedding day. But the most common I think is simple gifts and outings together, means to get to know one another before you marry.”

“What sort of gifts would you deem simple?”

“Erm...Flowers, I suppose, a single red rose is considered very romantic. It sort of depends on what the intended likes.”

“If for example they read a lot, would they appreciate a journal, or perhaps a book of poems?” Yuri ventured, and Guang-Hong smiled as he nodded his head vigorously.

“Oh yes, those would make excellent gifts, your highness,” he replied, still smiling, and Yuri nodded as he offered another piece of fruit to the human.

The pair talked through most of the night, and by dawn, Guang-Hong had utterly exhausted himself. He fell asleep curled up in the chair that Yuri had offered him, and one of the Fae servants carried him off to bed. After they had gone Yuuri approached him, smiling approvingly, a look of relief upon his face.

“It's good to see you speaking with some of our firstborns again—” Yuuri began, and Yuri shook his head.

“I want him—no, don't look like that,” Yuri added with a slight scowl, and Yuuri's hopeful smile fell. “I want him as my Companion. Will you speak to Viktor on my behalf?”

Yuuri sighed heavily, defeatedly, and nodded.

“I'll speak to him. But, Yuri—”

“I'm not going to do anything stupid, I promise,” Yuri said, but his reassurance was met with a dubious look. “Really. I am not breaking any of our laws, I swear.”

“Yurio, this is...please. This human is not worthy of you. You cannot have him.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes.

“I want him, Yuuri, and by the Lady Moon, I swear, I will have him. Just you wait and see.”

A/N: Next chapter will be up October 12th.

If you like my work, please consider throwing a few bucks into my Digital Tip Jar. I am a starving artist, and I like not actually starving to death :P

DYBIF Masterpost

[setaripendragon]

Not All Who Wander - Chapter 4

[Chapter 1] - [Chapter 2] - [Chapter 3] - [Chapter 4] Here it is, as promised: Chapter 4. I had a lot of fun writing this, because Fili and Kili make everything more fun. Thorin has no idea how much he’s giving away to people who know him well, with the way he acts around Bilbo =P Also, cultural differences are still so much fun.

Spring came, and Thorin’s Halls woke. Thorin was itching to leave, to take his travelling forge back to the Shire, to Bilbo, and he jumped at the first opportunity. Balin gave him a suspicious look, as though he suspected Thorin of doing it only to dodge administrative work, but didn’t outright protest. No one would, Thorin knew, because they needed the gold.

Kíli was almost more excited about the idea than Thorin was, all but bouncing off the walls in excitement, eager to get out of the mountain, to travel and work after the confinement of the last couple of months. Of course, where Kíli went, Fíli followed, even though he seemed like he’d much rather hibernate for another month or two. In more normal circumstances, Thorin would have grated at being on the road with a hyperactive Kíli and grouchy Fíli, but he had the promise of seeing Bilbo to buoy him through the tedious days on the road.

They stopped in a few towns of men along the way, but Thorin made a relatively straight path towards the Shire. The day they crossed the border into the North Farthing, Fíli gave Thorin a squinty-eyed frown. “We’ve never gone this way before, Uncle. I thought the halflings didn’t like outsiders?”

“Hobbits.” Thorin corrected automatically. Bilbo had made his distaste for the term ‘halfling’ quite clear several times over in his dream-memory, and Thorin would really rather his nephews didn’t make as bad a first impression on Bilbo as they did in his dream. “And I was assured we would have customers, so there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.”

“Assured? By who?” Kíli interjected from where he was walking beside the pony-driven wagon.

“A hobbit.” Thorin replied dryly.

“When did you have the chance to meet a hobbit?” Fíli pressed, sounding grumpy.

“While I was working.” Thorin answered, unwilling to respond helpfully to that tone.

“Uncle…!” Kíli whined, half laughing at Fíli, who had rolled his eyes dramatically, and crossed his arms in a petulant huff. “We’re just curious. You’ve never bothered with half-” Thorin shot Kíli a reproving glare, and Kíli corrected himself hastily. “-hobbits before. You didn’t seem to like them very much.”

“I don’t, as a whole.” Thorin agreed. They were just the same as Thranduil; content to sit back in their comfortable little holes while the rest of the world burned. They’d ignore the suffering of others so long as it didn’t affect them, and woe betide the dwarf that knocked on their door, looking for help. Unless that door belonged to one Bilbo Baggins, of course. “But I don’t like men, either, and their gold is still good. The same is true of hobbits.”

It took them the best part of the day to reach Hobbiton, and they set up in a corner of the marketplace that a very flustered young hobbit guided them to, on the instructions of a very cantankerous old hobbit who informed them that she was only allowing this because “Mr Baggins has vouched for you, and he’s got his father’s good sense, but if you cause us or that young lad any trouble, you’ll be very sorry indeed!” She then limped off while muttering uncomplimentary things about dwarves.

Thorin glowered at her back, and glowered at their young hobbit guide, and glowered at the ponies as he set them loose in a paddock their guide pointed him to. As they were setting up the forge for use, he reminded himself that he would see Bilbo tomorrow, and that did help soothe his ire at being surrounded by small-minded well-fed people.

The next morning, they started work at dawn, along with the rest of the marketplace. Business was slow, but they got a handful of grumpy, anti-social hobbits stopping by to ask for repairs, and one young fauntling who managed to convince their mildly terrified mother to buy one of the small trowels Thorin had made in his practice for Bilbo’s gift. Thorin’s mood had deteriorated steadily as the day wore on, but he soldiered through the undeserved mistrust as he always did. Thorin left his nephews watching their wares and trying to attract customers, and set to work repairing a broken hoe. He had always found solace in his work when the world had nothing to give him but more pain.

“Good afternoon, Thorin.”

Thorin’s head snapped up at the familiar voice and his hammer stilled. Bilbo was standing on the other side of their little display, looking quite dapper in a red waistcoat, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers, and a cheerful grin on his face. Thorin couldn’t help but smile back as he placed his hammer aside and stepped away from the anvil. “Kíli.” He called, jerking his head towards the hoe, and Kíli obligingly bounded over to take up the work, although he did give Thorin a befuddled look as he passed him, which Thorin summarily ignored. “Good afternoon, Bilbo.” He greeted as he stepped out of the forge, using the rag tucked into his belt to wipe the soot off his hands.

“I was starting to wonder if you were going to keep your word.” Bilbo commented.

“Winter isn’t the best time to travel.” Thorin admitted, a little sheepish. “The mountain closes over the coldest months, so you’re either inside or outside, no coming and going.”

“Ah, I see. How fascinating.” Bilbo mused, looking honestly intrigued. “We hobbits tend to venture out and about more during the winter. Since there’s very little work to be done until spring, winter is when we tend to be most social. So, what do you do in your mountain all winter, then?”

“Sleep, mostly.” Thorin admitted easily.

“Sleep? What, all the time?” Bilbo echoed, surprised. When Thorin nodded, his surprise became intrigue. “You mean dwarves hibernate?” He wondered.

“We can, we don’t always.” Thorin corrected.

Bilbo nodded, looking thoughtful. “Goodness, but that does sound useful. If I could sleep a season away and avoid having to entertain the Sackville-Bagginses when they come to call, I would be a very happy hobbit indeed!” He declared, and Thorin snorted.

“The Sackville-Bagginses are the ones who’re after your house, yes?” Thorin checked.

“Yes. Lobelia, really, is the one that wants it, Otho just wants her to have whatever she wants.” Bilbo elaborated. “She’s utterly fixated on the fact that Otho is my closest male relative on my father’s side, and therefore should inherit the place when I die. I think I’m going to leave it to a Took, just to spite her.”

“Your mother’s family.” Thorin remembered, smiling.

Bilbo nodded, looking distinctly pleased. “Yes, that’s right. Oh, and these two must be the nephews you spoke of, yes?” He checked suddenly, shooting a polite smile over Thorin’s shoulder at Fíli.

“Yes.” Thorin confirmed, turning to gesture at Fíli, who he only then noticed was watching him with a slightly slack-jawed expression on his face. “This is Fíli, my sister’s eldest, and the one at the forge is Kíli.” He added, indicating Kíli, who looked up and spared a moment to wave cheerfully, before returning to his work. Bilbo waved back, then offered his hand to Fíli. “Boys, this is Bilbo Baggins.”

“At your service, Mr Baggins.” Fíli said politely, shaking Bilbo’s hand, and bowing a little out of habit.

“Oh, uh, likewise, and please, call me Bilbo.” Bilbo replied, fumbling a little over dwarven manners.

Fíli nodded, and then clenched his jaw on a yawn in case it would be rude by hobbitish standards. Thorin knew it would have been, so gave his nephew an approving nod, to which Fíli smiled a little. “Thank you for vouching for us here, Bilbo.” Fíli added politely.

“Oh, it was no bother, no bother at all.” Bilbo waved the thanks off immediately. “Your uncle does very good work, I could hardly not. And really, anyone who would turn their noses up at buying from you just because you’re dwarves deserves to be using sub-standard tools, and serves them right.” He declared, his nose twitching in his irritation.

Thorin couldn’t fully repress a fond smile at the gesture. He wished he had made better progress on Bilbo’s gift, because if any hobbit deserved the best dwarven craftsmanship to tend their garden, it was Bilbo Baggins. Abruptly, he remembered the other present he’d been intending to give Bilbo, and made a small noise of realisation, which had Bilbo and Fíli glancing at him curiously. “I just remembered, I have something for you, Bilbo.” He explained.

He ducked into the forge to root through his pack, ignoring Kíli’s repeated curious glances as he found what he was looking for and stepped back out into the weak sunshine again. “Here.” He said, handing over the roll of several sheets of thick parchment.

Bilbo blinked, but took them curiously, nimble little fingers undoing the leather tie holding them together. The parchment unfurled into a much looser cylinder once it was undone, and Bilbo pulled them the rest of the way. “Oh…”He breathed, once he’d gotten a good look at the first map. “This must be Erebor, I take it?” He asked eagerly, leaning so close to the map that his nose was almost touching it.

Beaming at Bilbo’s evident delight, Thorin nodded. “Yes. There’s another one that has Erebor, the Iron Hills – where my cousin lives – and the Grey Mountains, and one of Eriador and the Blue Mountains. I thought you might like to see what a dwarven map of the Shire looks like.”

Bilbo lifted his head just enough to stare at Thorin over the top of the maps. “Thank you, Thorin.” He enthused, and then disappeared again to flick through the maps and find the one Thorin had mentioned. “Oh, goodness, that is strange. No wonder you had so much trouble with my first map, I barely recognise anything when it’s the wrong way up. Ah, and there’s Hobbiton, oh, how lovely.” His eyes reappeared again. “Really, this is absolutely wonderful, Thorin. You – and your nephews, of course – must come to dinner again so I can thank you properly.”

Thorin was a little taken aback, but not at all displeased. “That- would be most welcome, thank you.” He agreed, which earned him a bright smile.

“Bilbo?”

The new voice caused every head to turn, and Thorin saw a hobbit lass – all rosy cheeks and rich dark curls – walking over, looking very wide-eyed and surprised. Thorin assumed that was at the company Bilbo was keeping, rather than seeing him out and about, or with his nose buried in maps. “Jasmine! Lovely to see you!” Bilbo greeted cheerfully, rolling up his maps swiftly to shake Jasmine’s hand. “Oh, Jasmine, this is Thorin Oakenshield, and his nephew, Fíli. He’s a very excellent blacksmith, fixed my broken spade in about half an hour, you can barely tell it was ever broken at all. Thorin, this is Jasmine Cotton.”

Thorin bowed a little stiffly. “At your service.” He greeted, and Fíli echoed him a moment later.

“Right…” Jasmine said distantly, dipping a clumsy little curtsey. “Pleasure to meet you.” She managed a moment later, and seemed to find her balance with it. “It’s all been a bit of a scandal, Bilbo talking about dwarves for months and inviting them into the Shire. If it were anyone but the Mr Baggins, he’d have been shunned.”

“You’re exaggerating, Jasmine.” Bilbo chided, but Thorin didn’t hear much conviction in his voice, and Thorin had to grit his teeth against the irritation that wanted to come spilling out in defence of his people.

“We’ve been very fortunate in Mr Baggin’s patronage.” Fíli interjected, which was far more polite than anything Thorin might have managed in that moment. “Can I interest you in anything?  We have a small selection of gardening and farming tools available, but we also do custom work if you don’t see anything you’d like.” He explained, the usual spiel for customers.

As Jasmine got drawn into examining the tools, Bilbo touched Thorin’s elbow lightly and leaned in to mutter quietly to him. “I’m sorry about that, we hobbits really aren’t used to Big Folk being about, but they’ll get used to it after a while.”

Thorin let out a slow sigh. “Was my discontent that obvious?”

Bilbo shook with silent laughter that he was clearly trying very hard to suppress. Thorin gave him a disgruntled look that only seemed to make Bilbo laugh harder. “I’m sorry.” He chortled, waving a hand in the air. “To be fair, you’re a lot better than some others I know at hiding when someone’s annoying you, but you do rather get this look in your eye. Steely, that’s a good word for it.”

“Uncle Thorin very rarely looks anything other than steely, so most of the time, people really can’t tell when he’s actually upset.” Kíli interjected from behind them. Thorin turned a raised eyebrow on him, but Kíli was studying Bilbo curiously and didn’t notice.

“Really?” Bilbo asked, looking quite honestly surprised. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Kíli’s curious gaze slid over to Thorin. “Huh.” He said after a moment.

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Is the hoe finished?” He asked, instead of indulging whatever was clearly filling Kíli’s head at the moment.

“Yup. We’ve just got that bent gardening fork and the commission for a new rake left from our orders this morning.” Kíli confirmed. Thorin nodded. It was good that they’d be able to get most of the work done that day, but a little disheartening that they weren’t building up enough work to keep them there for a good long while.

Bilbo seemed to read his mind. “Well, I can hardly run around recommending you without buying something from you when you are here. Let’s see what you’ve got to sell, and I’ll think about making a commission another day.” He declared brightly.

Thorin bit back the automatic response that Bilbo didn’t need to commission anything, Thorin was going to make him every tool he could ever need for his garden for free. Instead, he just smiled, nodded, and gestured Bilbo closer to the stall. It turned out that Fíli had managed to get Jasmine to commission a set of gardening tools for her youngest child who was still only very small and mostly playing at gardening than actually gardening. Bilbo chatted to her and Thorin as he browsed, drawing them both into conversation. By the time Bilbo had bought a trowel – that was hardly good enough for him, in Thorin’s opinion – Jasmine looked far less uncomfortable, and Thorin didn’t instinctively scowl at her back as she left.

“Be polite. Remember he’s not a dwarf, he’s a hobbit, and their customs are different. Leave your boots and weapons at the door-” Thorin instructed his nephews as they climbed the hill to Bag End. Fíli and Kíli both looked a little alarmed at the suggestion of going unarmed and bootless in an unfamiliar environment. “-it’s a sign of trust, but you may keep one dagger each-” Relief flickered across both of their faces. “-and don’t offer to help cook, apparently. Don’t eat with your fingers, try not to spill your drink, and remember that hobbits find burping rude, not complimentary.”

“Weird.” Kíli remarked.

“Better than men, though. Men have five different forks for every meal.” Fíli muttered.

Thorin’s lips twitched. “Glad to know you’ve been paying attention in your lessons with Balin, nephew.” He remarked, half amused, half genuine. Fíli looked rather proud at the compliment. Then they were at the door, and Thorin knocked.

A moment later, it swung open to reveal a smiling Bilbo. “Hello. Do come in, come in.” He encouraged, stepping back and waving them inside. They obeyed, and began removing their boots and weapons. Thorin and Kíli were done in short order, but Fíli was still pulling out knives and daggers and laying them in a neat pile. Bilbo’s eyes got wider and wider until Fíli added the thirteenth knife to the pile and straightened with a smile. “Goodness, that’s- that’s rather a lot of knives. What on earth do you use them all for?” Bilbo asked, sounding a little faint.

Fíli shrugged. “Fighting, cooking, whittling.” He listed off easily. “The bigger ones are for Orcs and wargs and the like, the thinner ones for whittling and preparing firewood. The one with the hook is a gutting knife, and the serrated ones are very good for butchering a fresh kill.”

“I see.” Bilbo murmured. He cleared his throat. “I suppose I have just as many in my kitchen.” He admitted, although he sounded a touch bewildered by the comparison.

“A few more, I would think.” Thorin muttered, amused.

Bilbo shot him a narrow-eyed suspicious look, nose twitching in annoyance. “Perhaps.” He agreed with great dignity. “Well, do come in, make yourselves at home.” He encouraged, ushering them all away from the door.

Fíli and Kíli perked up, and Thorin made sure to catch their eyes and shake his head minutely. Bilbo did not mean that the way a dwarf would mean it, if he said it. Bilbo had not appreciated a hoard of dwarves making themselves at home in his smial. The two boys wilted, and allowed their host to chivvy them into the dining room without causing any of their usual chaos.

The spread laid out on the table took Thorin aback. It stalled Fíli and Kíli, too. At first Thorin wondered if Bilbo was cruel enough to subject them to some of his relatives as an impromptu dinner party, but on counting the place settings, he found only four. It would not, perhaps, rival the ratio of food-to-people of feast days in the Erebor of old, but to even the royalty of Ered Luin, it was impressive.

“Whoa.” Kíli breathed.

“It’s a bit slap-dash, I know.” Bilbo said, completely misinterpreting their awe and fidgeting where he stood as if afraid he’d disappointed them. “I hadn’t thought to plan for a dinner party this evening, but I did pick up some pork and fresh trout while I was at the market this afternoon.” He explained quickly.

“Slap-dash?” Thorin echoed, swallowing hard on the bitter ache that was stirring in his breast. “Bilbo, this is a feast.”

“A feast!” Bilbo exclaimed in disbelief, although he did seem reassured and flattered all the same. “Oh, goodness me, not hardly. It’s just supper. Do sit, and I’ll fetch the drinks.” He urged them. “I’ve got some excellent home-brew that I think you’ll appreciate, Thorin- And, forgive me, but are you two lads old enough to drink?”

Fíli and Kíli exchanged a look that was one part amused, one part offended. “We’re not pebbles.” Kíli finally said on a laugh.

Bilbo slid a sideways look at Thorin, silently asking him to confirm that the boys were, in fact, allowed ale. He nodded, a little bewildered. Fíli and Kíli didn’t look like children by any race’s standards, so he wasn’t fully sure why Bilbo felt the need to check. He dismissed it as hobbitish peculiarity, though, when Bilbo scurried off towards the kitchen.

The three dwarves seated themselves, and before long, Bilbo returned with four mugs full to the brim with frothy ale. He shared them out, and Thorin raised his mug in a toast. “To our generous host.” He called, and Fíli and Kíli echoed him with loud enthusiasm, before all three of them drank deeply.

“Oh, well, that is- I mean to say- Um… Thank you?” Bilbo managed, clearly very flustered by even such a small display of dwarven manners.

“Nay, ‘tis we who should thank you.” Thorin informed him through a smile.

“Well, then, you’re welcome.” Bilbo announced firmly. Then he cleared his throat, muttered something about the strangeness of Big Folk, and waved a hand at them. “Do help yourselves.” He instructed. Fíli and Kíli fell on the feast with ravenous hunger.

“Mind your manners!” Thorin reminded them.

Fíli, fingers mere inches from the slices of honey roasted pork, withdrew his hand like it had just been bitten. Kíli froze in the act of shoving a slice of bacon quiche into his mouth with his fingers, cheeks bulging under his guilty eyes. “Sorry, Uncle.” Fíli muttered. Kíli matched him, although his words came out far more muffled.

“It’s not me to whom you should be apologising.” Thorin chided them, then risked a look at Bilbo. He was gaping like a fish, clearly attempting to find words, but still arrested by Kíli wiping his fingers on his tunic and hovering over his cutlery as though unsure which would be appropriate. Fíli was having better luck with the serving fork, and had already laden his plate with pork and roast potatoes and even a sampling of a few of the assorted vegetable dishes. “Forgive them, Bilbo.” Thorin requested on their behalf. “They have rarely had cause to dine with other races, and I confess, we know little of the manners of hobbits.”

Finally, Bilbo tore his eyes away from the boys to look at Thorin. “Oh.” He said a bit dumbly. Then he seemed to wake from his shock, and he clucked his tongue. “Oh, goodness me, of course. If you don’t even draw your maps the same way, I can hardly imagine how different your idea of table manners must be.” He realised.

“Extremely.” Thorin informed him dryly.

“Burping.”

“Tossed food for trust.”

“Spilled ale for cheer.”

“No forks. What’s the point?”

“Fingers work just as well.”

“Arm-wrestling.”

“Wrestling.”

Snorting, Thorin shook his head. “Enough.” He chided, but he couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice, and that softened the reprimand. Fíli and Kíli both grinned at him as they went back to their dinner, this time remembering to use the utensils.

“Wrestling? At the dinner table?!” Bilbo squeaked.

“Aye.” Thorin confirmed. “It is a… display of skill and strength. And to the victor goes the spoils, usually.” He gestured pointedly at the last few slices of pork left after both the boys had had their turn at raiding the platter.

Bilbo stared at him for a long enough moment that Thorin began to wonder if he’d somehow offended the hobbit. But then Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth to cover sounds that were unmistakably snickers. “Oh, oh dear.” He chortled. “I’m terribly sorry, I was just… Well, I couldn’t help but think of a Baggins family dinner where we all had to arm-wrestle to get any food.”

Thorin grinned at the idea. “Perhaps a contest of conkers, instead?” He suggested wryly.

“Ha!” Bilbo exclaimed in delight. “Then they would all starve, and I would be a very comfortable hobbit indeed.” He declared smugly.

“Conkers?” Kíli asked curiously.

Bilbo began to explain the game, and Thorin turned his attention to his mostly neglected meal. He couldn’t help glancing up every now and then, however, to watch Bilbo as he talked. The conversation moved on to some of the games Fíli and Kíli had played in their youth, and then to crafts. “Do you have a craft, Mr Baggins?” Fíli inquired.

Flustered at the question, Bilbo flailed about uncertainly for an answer. “Ah, I don’t-”

“I would hazard a guess that, by our people’s standards, Bilbo would have his Mastery in wordsmithing.” Thorin interjected. “If the number of books I saw in his study with his name on are anything to go by.”

Bilbo turned startled eyes on him, flushing all across his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. “Oh, well, I wouldn’t say-”

“Certainly, at least, I can vouch for his skill in map-making.” Thorin added.

“Did he make a map even you could follow?” Kíli teased.

Thorin scowled at him. “It is not my fault the rest of the world does things upside down.” He announced with as much dignity as he could muster. Fíli and Kíli both smirked at him without shame, though Bilbo at least has the respect to duck his head over his plate to pretend he wasn’t amused at Thorin’s expense.

“A scribe, though.” Fíli said, changing the subject, much to Thorin’s relief. He cast a curious, faintly admiring look at Bilbo. “That’s not what I’d expected.”

“Well…” Bilbo began, befuddled. “You’re not going to find many hobbits who… smith much at all.” He paused, and shook his head. “Word-smithing, what a concept. Although I suppose it’s not all that far from the truth. They do sometimes need to be hammered into submission.” He muttered to himself.

“Our crafts are not all based on metal-work.” Thorin informed him, faintly chiding, but mostly just amused by Bilbo’s mumblings.

Bilbo looked startled, and then embarrassed. “Oh! Oh, no, of course not.” He said, even though it was clear he’d never actually thought about it before. “That would be silly.” He cleared his throat, fiddled with his knife, then looked up again, a stubbornly composed expression on his face. “Do you, um, have a craft, other than blacksmithing?”

“None I can claim a mastery at.” Thorin admitted. He didn’t want to tell Bilbo that the only other craft he’d studied at any length was statecraft. “Most crafts that have ever interested me have been forge-work. My nephews on the other hand…” He said dryly.

“We can both work a smithy well enough,” Fíli explained to Bilbo, who looked surprised, “but that’s out of necessity, rather than passion. My chosen craft is composing.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Bilbo enthused, lighting up. “I would love to hear something of yours at some point, then.” Fíli visibly lit up, and Thorin smiled softly, even as his heart ached. Fíli should be able to spend all his days with instruments and sheet music if he so chose, but instead he was all but shackled to a forge, craft turned to drudgery in their exile.

They conversation wound through a discussion of favoured songs and poems, and by then most of the food had found its way into stomachs. Bilbo bustled around bringing out desert, which vanished much more slowly, but all three dwarves made a valiant effort, because the sweet treats were too enticing not to. Afterwards, Bilbo chivvied them into the parlour, getting very flustered about propriety when Fíli and Kíli offered to help with the clean-up.

When they looked to Thorin for back-up or an explanation, he merely shrugged and signed for them to leave it be. By the scowls on their faces, it sat as well with them as it did with him, being unable to repay their host for supplying such a generous feast. They cheered up, however, when Bilbo persuaded them to bring out their fiddles and play a few songs. Bilbo served tea, and they talked more, long into the night, until Thorin abruptly realised that it was already the wee hours of the morning.

“We should go.” He said regretfully. Fíli and Kíli immediately began to whine and protest like dwarflings half their age. “We have work in the morning.” He reminded them sternly, and they got to their feet reluctantly.

“Of course, of course.” Bilbo agreed, looking over at the clock on the mantle and nearly dropping his teacup in surprise. “Oh, goodness, look at the time! I’m so sorry, Thorin. Fíli, Kíli. I never meant to keep you so late.”

Thorin let Fíli and Kíli reassure him that they’d been happy to stay as long as they did as they ambled towards the door, and waited until they had retrieved their weapons and stepped out into the chill air to make his own goodbyes. “Thank you again, Bilbo.” He said, with all the depthless sincerity in his heart. He offered the remarkable hobbit a bow of gratitude.

“Oh, you’re quite welcome, Thorin. It was my pleasure.” Bilbo assured him, smiling brilliantly. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat. “Your nephews are wonderful boys, you know, I’m very pleased to have had the chance to get to know them better. And you.” He added, tucking his thumbs into his pockets and nodding decisively. “We must do this again before you leave.”

“That would be most welcome.” Thorin replied, finding himself smiling back before he realised it.

“Good, good.” Bilbo said. “Well, good night.”

“Good night.”

[onlycags]

Proposal | Çağlar Söyüncü

Request: Hello babe, could you do a cags one where you start to panic that he’s cheating and then he goes to turkey on the break and you think it over and seek comfort in Ben but it turns out he’s going to propose and he went to turkey to get an engagement ring. Don’t know if this is a very good idea I just a a dream about like it last night, love you 😘

Love you more! This was so much fun to write! Hope you like it! xx

- - -

He had been distant lately and you couldn’t figure out why. Whenever you brought it up he claimed it was just because of football, but you were worried you had scared him off. Two months earlier, the two of you were laying in bed and you had felt safe enough to bring up the possibility of marriage. It had seemed like a good idea at the time - you had been dating for almost three years and everyone around you seemed to be getting engaged - but ever since then things had been different. Neither of you had brought it up since, as you had discussed everything from engagement rings to venues to food and flowers.

This was how you found yourself at Ben’s door, the anxiety and fear of Çağlar on winter break in Turkey without you making you need your best mate.

All it took was one look at you and Ben was ushering you in, placing you on the couch and giving you the blanket seemed ‘yours’ at his flat for many years while he heated water for tea.

When the tea was ready, Ben handed you a warm mug and sat down beside you. “What’s wrong?” He asked, concern in his voice.

Just as you were about to speak, a sob came out instead and you began to cry, the flood of emotions too much for you to bear. Ben sat silently next to you, a hand on your shoulder that soon turned into your head in the crook of his neck, your body wracked with sobs.

Finally you were able to speak. You looked up at your best mate and whispered the words that you hadn’t ever said out loud to yourself. “I think Çağlar is cheating on me.” More tears welled, but you held them back.

You watched as Ben took in your words, his face going from emotion to emotion: surprise to confusion to anger and then outrage. “What makes you think that?” He asked, the calmness of his tone slightly scary.

“I just-” you started, trying to find your words. “I don’t know. A couple months ago, I brought up the idea of getting engaged and we talked for hours about it on a Sunday and then suddenly we’re barely talking and he doesn’t ask me to spend the night and I don’t ask him and now he’s gone back to Turkey without me and he didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go with him and the tabloids had some picture of him taking some girl out to dinner that I know isn’t a family member and…yeah.” You sighed, clutching your mug for safety.

“So you haven’t asked him about any of this?” Ben asked after a long period of silence while he took in everything you had said.

You shook your head. “No. I want to but I’m scared that if I bring it up it’ll be the end of us.”

“Would it be the end of the world if you two broke up?”

“Benjamin James Chilwell!” You yelled, anger replacing any other emotions you had been feeling. “How dare you ask me that!” Luckily, he had the nerve to look ashamed, but you kept going. “This is just a bump in the road - I know we’ll get through it. How would you feel if I asked you the same thing about you and Val?”

“I’d tell you I love her more than anything in the world and that I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her,” he said solemnly.

“Exactly.” You groaned - of course, when you wanted to talk to your boyfriend, he was three time zones away. “I just realized that I have no idea when he’s coming back.”

“I think he’s going for a long weekend. He’d mentioned something about visiting family and picking up an heirloom.”

You didn’t pick up on the last part, your brain already running a mile a minute, mentally calculating down to the second when you would see Çağlar again.

~~~

As Ben had said, Çağlar returned three days later, looking like the man you were in love with. Apparently, he had texted Ben the details of his arrival back in the UK, which your best mate had then forwarded to you to have you surprise Çağlar at the airport.

You stood at the arrival gates, anxious. His flight had already landed, but it was just a matter of de-planing and getting bags.

It didn’t take long for him to spot you, a smile spreading across his face as he realized Ben had set this up. He enveloped you in a hug, enjoying the feel of having you in his arms once again. It had felt like a lifetime since he’d held you. When he set you back down on the ground, he kissed you, so happy to see you. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.”

The last two months had been torture for him. With the second half of the season just around the corner, the lads had been working extra hard to stay in the top three of the Premier League and Çağlar had been trying to plan a proposal on top of it all. He had it all planned out, starting with the meal he was going to cook for you tonight.

“I was thinking we would stay in for dinner tonight,” he said, pulling you into him and kissing your temple.

“I’d like that. I have so much I want to talk to you about.”

~~~

Three hours later, Çağlar was setting down the first of five courses of traditional Turkish food. His flat smelled amazing, and you were positive you wouldn’t be able to finish everything.

“How was Turkey?” You asked, enjoying the warmth from the red lentil soup. It had been so long since Çağlar had cooked for you and you were flooded with memories from your very first date.

“It was good. I got to see my family and rest.” An apologetic look crossed his face. “I am sorry I didn’t bring you, love.”

“It’s okay,” you said and you meant it. “I’m not sure I would have been good company. We’ve been so rocky lately, I think all I would have done was fought with you the whole time.”

“Why do you say that?” He asked, and your anger flared a little.

“C’mon, Çağlar. You know things haven’t been good between us since I accidentally brought up the possibility to getting married.”

“What?! No!”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “It’s true! We haven’t been as close since then and every time I tried to talk about it, we just ended up shagging each other and not spending the night.” You looked away, trying to hide the tears that were starting to fall. “Are you cheating on me, Çağlar?” You asked, your voice breaking.

In seconds, he was at your side. “[Y/N], look at me. You are the best thing to happen to me since football. There is no way that I would ever cheat on you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whispered, kissing him.

He broke the kiss, shocking you as he pulled something out of his pocket and got down on one knee. “I was going to wait until dessert to do this, but I do not think I can wait any longer. Will you marry me?”

Tears started streaming down your face, but for the first time in a while, they were happy tears. “Yes, Çağlar! Yes!”

You laughed, kissing him before he even got a chance to put the ring on your finger. When he finally slipped it on, you were awestruck. “Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful,” you said, examining the ring from all angles.

“It was my grandmother’s. She had always promised it to me when I found the right person to spend my life with. It is the reason I went back to Turkey this weekend.”

You gaped at him, speechless. “Oh my gosh,” was all you could say.

“After we had started to talk about getting married, I was planning out this day ever since. I wanted to make sure that everything was perfect before I asked you to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“It would have been perfect no matter what, because it was with you.”

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

Usually a busy place, on Quarter Day the manor house simply bristled with activity. Tenants came and went all day. Many came only long enough to pay their rents; some stayed all day, wandering about the estate, visiting with friends, taking refreshment in the parlor. Jenny, blooming in blue silk, and Mrs. Crook, starched in white linen, flitted back and forth between kitchen and parlor, overseeing the two maidservants, who staggered to and fro under enormous platters of oatcake, fruitcake, “crumbly,” and other sweets.

Jamie, having introduced me with ceremony to the tenants present in dining room and parlor, then retired into his study with Ian, to receive the tenants singly, to confer with them over the needs of the spring planting, to consult over the sale of wool and grain, to note the activities of the estate, and to set things in order for the next quarter of the year.

I puttered cheerfully about the place, visiting with tenants, lending a hand with the refreshments when needed, sometimes just drifting into the background to watch the comings and goings.

Recalling Jamie’s promise to the old woman by the millpond, I waited with some curiosity for the arrival of Ronald MacNab.

He came shortly past noon, riding a tall, slip-jointed mule, with a small boy clinging to his belt behind. I viewed them covertly from the parlor door, wondering just how accurate his mother’s assessment had been.

I decided that while “drunken sot” might be overstating things slightly, Grannie MacNab’s general perceptions were acute. Ronald MacNab’s hair was long and greasy, carelessly tied back with twine, and his collar and cuffs were grey with dirt. While surely a year or two younger than Jamie, he looked at least fifteen years older, the bones of his face submerged in bloat, small grey eyes dulled and bloodshot.

As for the child, he also was scruffy and dirty. Worse, so far as I was concerned, he slunk along behind his father, keeping his eyes on the floor, cringing when Ronald turned and spoke sharply to him. Jamie, who had come to the door of his study, saw it too, and I saw him exchange a sharp look with Jenny, bringing a fresh decanter in answer to his call.

She nodded imperceptibly and handed over the decanter. Then, taking the child firmly by the hand, she towed him toward the kitchen, saying, “Come along wi’ me now, laddie. I believe we’ve a crumbly or two going wantin’. Or what about a slice of fruitcake?”

Jamie nodded formally to Ronald MacNab, standing aside as the man went into the study. Reaching out to shut the door, Jamie caught my eye and nodded toward the kitchen. I nodded back and turned to follow Jenny and young Rabbie.

I found them engaged in pleasant converse with Mrs. Crook, who was ladling punch from the big cauldron into a crystal bowl. She tipped a bit into a wooden cup and offered it to the lad, who hung back, eyeing her suspiciously, before finally accepting it. Jenny went on chatting casually to the lad as she loaded platters, receiving little more than grunts in return. Still, the half-wild little creature seemed to be relaxing a bit.

“Your sark’s a bit grubby, lad,” she observed, leaning forward to turn back the collar. “Take it off, and I’ll give it a bit of a wash before ye go.” “Grubby” was a gross understatement, but the boy pulled back defensively. I was behind him, though, and at a gesture from Jenny, grabbed him by the arms before he could dart away.

He kicked and yowled, but Jenny and Mrs. Crook closed in on him as well, and between the three of us, we peeled the filthy shirt off his back.

“Ah.” Jenny drew in her breath sharply. She was holding the boy’s head firmly under one arm, and the scrawny back was fully exposed. Welts and scabs scored the flesh on either side of the knobby backbone, some freshly healed, some so old as to be only faded shadows lapping the prominent ribs. Jenny took a good grip on the back of the boy’s neck, speaking soothingly to him as she released his head. She jerked her head in the direction of the hall, looking at me.

“You’d better tell him.”

I knocked tentatively at the study door, holding a plate of honeyed oatcakes as excuse. At Jamie’s muffled bidding, I opened the door and went in.

My face as I served MacNab must have been sufficient, for I didn’t have to ask to speak privately with Jamie. He stared meditatively at me for a moment, then turned back to his tenant.

“Well then, Ronnie, that will do for the grain allotment. There’s the one other thing I meant to speak wi’ you about, though. You’ve a likely lad named Rabbie, I understand, and I’m needing a boy of that size to help in the stables. Would ye be willing for him to come?” Jamie’s long fingers played with a goosequill on the desk. Ian, seated at a smaller table to one side, propped his chin on his fists, staring at MacNab with frank interest.

MacNab glowered belligerently. I thought he had the irritable resentment of a man who isn’t drunk but wishes he were.

“No, I’ve need of the lad,” he said curtly.

“Mm.” Jamie lounged back in his chair, hands folded across his middle. “I’d pay ye for his services, of course.”

— Outlander/Cross Stitch

Photos: Starz, Season One, Episode Twelve, April 25, 2015

Photo: outlander.wikia.com (Rabbie) 

Photo: pinterest.com (Outlander trading card)

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 20, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season One Episode Twelve #S1E12 #Lallybroch #Outlander/Cross Stitch #Chapter Thirty-One #on Quarter Day the manor house simply bristled with activity #”Grubby” was a gross understatement #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #Ronald MacNab #Rabbie MacNab #62 #092018