#dark souls is the only game i know so far that allows me to curl up into a ball (described in-game with these exact words)

[fluffypichu876]

i got carried by big birb!

[dreamscapesofimagination]

I Can't Stop You From Running

Reminder: Chapter 1 of "The Good, The Bad, The Dirty" is out on Wattpad today! It is a detroit:become human fanfiction with Connor x human reader. You don't really need to know the game to check it out, please just give it a chance, DBH is my FAVORITE game of all time and I adore connor! was listening to Save My Soul by Jonah Kagen while writing this! I've been very busy and have also bren struggling mentally. I'm fine, I've had MDD and panic disorder for years and have a great support system, great meds, and have learned to handle them well. Due to the election results and now the inauguration I spiraled a bit and so all my extra energy went into getting myself back on track. Hoping to post more frequently!

Inspired by: the hands that cradled your face and tilted it upwards to kiss your forehead are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood.

I don't know where the original is from, but it inspired me as I imagine even when displaying softness Alan can't help but think of what he's done.

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

You weren't sure why you had done it.

Your finger had clicked the 'call' button before your brain had slowed down enough to process what you were doing.

The images from your dream- your nightmare- rushed through your head, a kicked dog chasing its own tail again. And again. And again.

The ringing only caused your heart to hammer faster, and you quickly hit the end button.

Stupid, of course he wouldn't answer. It was two am, he was sleeping.

Your eyes focused on the shadows dancing through the window. Sleep was far from your mind, closer to an anxiety attack than sweet dreams.

What would they do when you became a Kyklos? Would they imprison you, study you? You figured Yuri would have few qualms about it, your only comfort being that Jiro seemed to like you enough to care.

And how would they react? Would they mourn? Would they move on, chalk you up as another casualty to be recorded as a statistic, lumped in with all the others studied in Anomalous Epidemiology?

A spike of cold fear stabbed through you as your phone rang.

You scrambled, grabbing it and answering.

"Hello?" Breath rushed from your body at the sound of Alan's voice.

"Hi, um. Sorry if I woke you, I just..." you squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment, "I had a bad dream and uh. I just... needed to hear someone's voice."

A beat of silence had a whole new type of anxiety clawing up your throat. What the fuck were you doing?

"I was up anyway, couldn't sleep..." Alan's voice trailed off for a moment as if he were searching for something to say.

"I'm doing some paperwork. If you want you could come here?" his voice peaked in uncertaintly.

You found yourself nodding, though he couldn't see you.

"Yeah, I think I'd like that."

And so a routine was set. When you had a nightmare, you would call Alan. You discovered he seemed to sleep very little. He was doing paperwork, working out, working on a car, or watching old movies when you called.

He never pressed. Never asked you to tell him what terrors were haunting your sleep. Just quietly accepted your presence, allowed you the space to feel better. Before you knew it, you started falling asleep curled up on an old chair he had in his room.

He never pressed, never touched you. His presence was quiet, reliable- safe.

This night you were sat beside him as some old american movie played on the screen before you.

Tonight it was harder to shake the dread that had woken you.

You could sense the concern from all around you. You could see the paleness to your face, the dark circles beneath your eyes, the bitten cuticles, limp hair. Anyone who saw you would know you hadn't been sleeping much.

You worried the skin of your lower lip, gaze going through the television and beyond.

Alan could tell you were not there beside him.

"I get them too."

His voice was like a lighthouse, leading you safely from the storm of your thoughts, back to the safe harbour that was the space beside him.

You blinked at him, "what?"

He glanced at you before turning his gaze back to the tv.

"Nightmares. Most nights they wake me up. Hard to sleep when I know that I'll have one."

Your eyes dropped to your hands. Silence lapsed.

And then-

"I think I'm seeing what's going to happen to me."

Alan turned his head to watch you carefully.

"What do you mean?"

"I feel myself change in the dreams. I feel the most unimaginable pain, and before I know it I'm no longer in control of myself. It's like-" your voice cracked, tears falling before you had realized they had gathered in your eyes, "-it's like my soul is paralyzed, like my body was hijacked. I see the people I care about staring, screaming. And then I see their corpses. And I know, I know that I did it. I killed them."

Your chest heaved a sob as Alan stared at you.

And then you felt him shift.

He tentatively pulled you toward himself, wrapping you up in his arms, body stiff against you as if he was unsure what he was doing.

You gripped his shirt. allowing yourself to break apart. Weeks of little sleep and intense fear had made you fragile, and here you were, falling to pieces.

Feeling safe to do so because you knew Alan was there, and Alan was good at fixing things. He would piece you together again.

He held you as you cried. He never said it would be okay. He didn't speak.

After that night, much of your time was spent at Vagastrom. Other students noticed that something was different between you and the captain. Whispers sprang up, and try as you might, it was hard to deny that the air between you was different. Despite the way you both spent much of the night together, and how once quiet comraderie had become quiet talks about anything and everything (though you both avoided bringing up your nightmares again)- you would not admit how you felt, too afraid to lose the fragile friendship you had built, to scare Alan away.

You had gotten pretty good at ignoring the way your heart hammered everytime you saw Alan, as if it were trying to break free from your chest and fly to his hands, knowing it would be safe with him. Knowing it was his.

There wasn't enough time for that, anyway. The way things were going, your curse would not be lifted. Getting all of the ghouls to cooperate was akin to herding cats- though even that would be easier given the intelligence of the campus cats.

It was hard to blame them. They each had their own pasts, and had their own ambitions. You found it odd that your fate had been placed in their hands anyway- were the faculty incapable of figuring this out? More and more you expected that saving you was not the goal of Darkwick, as if they had a vested interest in you becoming a Kyklos.

You turned to your side, trying to force the thought from your mind.

Tonight, Alan had to go on a mission. You had been assigned to assist Yuri in an experiment- which had turned into Yuri ordering you and Jiro to collect some specimen from Jabberwock (much to the dismay of Haru, though he seemed a bit happier when Jiro mentioned that they just needed a blood sample, and had no intention of harming the creature). By the end of the day you were tired, irate, and thinking about how much you would like to wring Yuri's neck. You had looked forward to crawling into bed and sleeping, nightmares be damned.

And yet, sleep would not come.

Your fingers twiddled at a loose string on your blanket as you stared into the room, begging your brain to shut down for the night.

Groaning, you sat up, accepting that you were unlikely to sleep for the forseable future. You padded down the stairs, deciding that maybe a cup of tea would help your mind quiet.

Your eyes stared listlessly at the electric kettle as it boiled.

A knock at the door broke your disassociation, a startled yelp leaving your lips before your heart settled.

With quiet steps you krept to the door, opening it and gasping as you took in the ghoul before you.

Alan was disheveled, and covered in blood. Blood that you assumed was not his due to the lack of any major visible wounds.

He stared at you for a moment, jaw working as if he were trying to say something, eyes wide like a frightened animal.

Your hand grasped his, feeling the blood stain as you pulled him inside.

He put up no resistance, seeming to deflate once he crossed the threshold.

Wordlessly, you led him to the bathroom. You unbuttoned his vest, tossing the stained article into the tub before doing the same with his shirt.

You turned the sink on, wetting a cloth once it was warm and beginning to run it over his bloodied knuckles.

All the while, Alan watched. Your only sign that he was coming back to himself was the slowing of his breaths.

And finally, "I don't deserve you."

It was quiet, as if to himself.

You paused, watching him carefully, holding still as if he would dart at any moment, sink into himself and draw away from you.

His eyes finally rose to you, meeting your gaze with his own, empty devastation behind lifeless amber eyes.

"I'm... I'm not good," he choked out, staring at you, unblinking.

"All I can do is hurt," Alan shifted to move away from you, pull his hands away.

You tightened your grip, and the ghoul froze, as if he didn't have the strength to pull away.

Showing you how little he actually wanted to leave.

It was the first time you had seen Alan look so fragile, as if he would crumble at the slightest brush of wind. Fall apart at your voice.

"Alan," your voice was gentle, carefully drawing him back, back to you, away from the doubts that plagued him.

"You are the one who comforted me every night, who never expected me to be okay or to talk about what's going on," your hands moved to cradle his face, thumbs trailing over his cheekbones.

His eyes fluttered closed, savoring your touch.

"I-" before Alan could speak, you brushed your lips against his, effectively stealing his breath as his eyes flew open, staring at you.

And then he surged forward, pressing his lips to yours in a desperate kiss.

You felt dampness on your cheeks. unsure if it was from your tears or his.

There you sat, clinging to one another as if you'd drift apart otherwise, lost in the space of infinite loneliness.

[corpseri]

ᝰ.ᐟ serenity | 002

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ novel: twtptflob/roxana

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ databank: here

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ word count: 2.7k

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ tags: @evaxmisu, @00hellohello00, @welpthisisboring, @hsrvl264, @flyingpansaurus, @semi-wife, @elvinapandra

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

two days later:

it’s been two days since your conversation with roxana.

with lante’s permission, you were allowed to leave your room for only one hour a day, and you plan to use that hour wisely.

‘it’s sunny,’ i said. ‘i should go outside,’ i said. well fuck that! i wouldn’t have gone if i knew she would be here.

“[name], dear! would you like some more tea~?” the woman in front of you asks with a gleeful expression, seemingly unaware of your distaste. “i think she would like some more tea! what do you think, sierra?”

the blonde woman next to you lets out an exasperated sigh, “ah, d—don’t force her, maria.”

“oh, it’s alright, my lady. i'm quite full,” you respond, trying to shift the brunette’s gaze towards you and not to the quivering bunny of a woman. i need to get out of here. and fast. the tea here is shit. “excuse me, but i must take my leave. my hour is almost up.”

you do not spare them a second before standing up from your seat and turning your back towards them, leaving the two women behind. “ah, well i do hope to see you soon!” maria calls out, and you hope you’re too far away to respond.

i think i remember how to get to my room. as i recall, my room is in sector 2, next to roxana’s sector. if i can find that then… i think i can make it back to my room?

you wander through the mansion's endless corridors. you've been here before, or so you think. each hallway looks the same, each door identical, each turn leading you further into the darkest depths of the agriches. finding my room should be simpler than this. i’ve done this before. don’t make this difficult for me...

after a while, you're certain you've passed that same staircase at least three times. that scratch mark is always on the third bottom handrail, near the middle and goes around the side of the rail, for every staircase i’ve seen. that can only mean i'm… lost…? your thoughts trail off, suddenly and unwelcomingly aware of something you can't see.

your pulse quickens as you feel someone's eyes on you, similar to the feeling two days ago. your eyes dart around the corridor, hoping someone would come out and show themselves, maybe then you could feel some small sense of relief. your pace quickens as you turn another corner, and you freeze. your eyes widen as you take a small step back, hoping if you’re far away enough you can make a break for it — but you know he won’t let you off that easily.

a figure stands in the center of the hallway. you recognize him immediately, internally gagging just by looking at him — fontaine agriche. the man who unfortunately saved you from going splat on the ground. you've seen him before in the manhwa, short, brown hair and brownish—purpleish eyes and a perverted gaze that makes your skin crawl. you couldn’t have asked for a worse person to claim himself as your savior.

he steps forward, his polished shoes making no sound on the carpet. of course his shoes don’t make any sound when walking on polished wood. that would make it far too easy to detect his movements.

"lost?" he asks, he sounds almost amused.

"i... i'm heading towards my room. my hour is almost up. this place is a bit confusing, so it’s taking longer than usual to get back."

his lips curl ever so slightly. disgusting. "ah. i see," he says, "you took a wrong turn, i believe." he gestures down another darkened hall, one you don't recall seeing before. the air is heavier there; as if you copied and pasted a dark, gloomy hallway you’d find in some old horror game where the souls of the dead spend their days trapped forever, just aching to find release into a fantasy manhwa mansion full of elegance and class. i’ve never seen that corridor before — it looks so out of place here.

i shouldn’t go.

something inside you hesitates. "i think i might go back and retrace my steps," you say, trying to sound as casual as you possibly can. "i don't want to trouble you; after all, you must be a busy man."

his smile lingers, but his eyes narrow slightly. "nonsense! it's no trouble at all. i insist."

“it’s alright, really,” you smile curtly, trying to seem meek and polite enough for him to maybe reconsider doing anything. but the moment you pass him, not to the creepy hallway to his left but in front of you, you feel his gaze down your spine.

you only make it a few steps before his hand tightly grips your wrist. “and here i was trying to be nice to you. what? not even a ‘thank you’ for saving your life? i told you, remember? you will pay me back tenfold. i'm not a very patient man when it comes to stupid women.”

“i don’t know who you are,” you respond curtly, refusing to turn back.

then, a voice — low and sharp — cuts through the silence. "i've been looking for you."you whip around to see another familiar figure approaching from behind — dion. where did he come from…? i didn’t see him coming from behind me. did he come from the creepy corridor?

dark hair falls over his eyes, and the air of detached disinterest around him is impossible not to notice. it’s almost like i ignored his general presence the first time i met him since i was gassed to meet him. but now that i see him like this… shit, he’s kinda scary.

"come on," he says, ignoring his older half—brother entirely. his hand grips fontaine’s arm firmly, pulling him away from you. fontaine watches, his expression a mix of shock and annoyance.

"i was just showing her the way," he says, trying to keep his cool, but the man beside you places a hand on your back and nudges you away.

he says nothing, pushing you down the hall at a fast pace. did everyone in this family win a gold medal at speedwalking? you glance back, seeing fontaine already turning his back to leave. “is he always this annoying?” you ask, trying to make conversation with him.

dion doesn't say anything in response as he leads you back to your room. i know he isn’t exactly fond of fontaine, but i’d thought he’d at least respond to my question. i guess he doesn’t like me that much either.

eventually, you both turn the last corner, recognizing the hallway in which you reside. you’d figure that recognizing which room was yours in a row of identical doors would prove difficult, so you’re glad you scratched a heart into the wooden door with your nail.

when you both reach your room, his hand is released from your back, the warmth of his hand now dissipating, replaced with the cold air. "stay in your room," he says quietly. "don't go wandering again."

before he can leave, you find yourself speaking before you can think, "wait."

he pauses, his gaze flicking back to you. "what?" he asks, his tone seemingly bothered.

uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhh. you hesitate, the words strangled in your throat. "i... i don't know. sorry, and thank you for, uuuhhh, saving me from fontaine, i… i guess.”

something subtly changes in his expression — but you can't quite place what. he steps closer, and for a moment, the distance between you shrinks to something almost intimate. his gaze lingers on yours, searching as if he's trying to understand something.

"...you might die soon if father loses interest in you," he says at last, his voice seemingly softer, yet laced with a warning.

is that a fucking threat?

he doesn't give you time to respond. he steps back, breaking the tension, and turns away. he disappears down the corridor once again, leaving you standing frozen in front of your door.

you turn to it, tracing your fingers over the scratched heart you scribbled on before being whisked away by maria to a tea party this morning. you open the door, inhaling deeply as you enter the familiar room. once inside, you close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. you kick off your shoes and sink into the bed, your thoughts tangled and restless.

“i know this world,” you mutter to yourself, rubbing your eyelids, seemingly tired, even though it was only noon.

“that novel — where dion is nothing more than a side character,” the woman sitting at the vanity lets out a soft hum of acknowledgment, taking in your words. “you heard him. something felt... different. he cared, at least a little. he’s definitely out of character. am i being delusional or is he, like, totally into me?”

what if i told him everything? would he believe me? could i get him on my side? you weigh the pros and cons, your fingers tracing the folds of your palm. he’s hot, strong, smart. but he’s also a wildcard and he may just end up killing me. but dying at the hands of a pretty man won’t be so bad. probably.

you sigh and rise, moving to the window. your reflection stares back at you in the glass. he was meant to be cold and calculating, but something about his actions tonight unsettled you. “he’s a bit creepy,” you admit, watching her carefully. “but fontaime is a lot more creepier, so that has to stand for something.”

roxana sighs, folding her hands on her lap. “leave him be,” she says firmly. “you don't want to fall into his clutches. he doesn't do anything without reason.”

you frown. “but what if he can help?”

she shakes her head before turning to face you. “with what? that man is an empty shell, all that’s left is a murderous beast with no regard for anyone or anything. you shouldn’t base your decision on whether to trust someone based on their attractiveness.”

“you’re one to talk,” you mumble to yourself, climbing into the bed. you drape the blankets over your body and stare at the ceiling, the patterns and intricate design swirling together as your mind buzzes. how do i leave this hell—hole with all of my limbs attached and my safety guaranteed? in fact, how do i even survive this place for longer than a month?

“it’s still noon. don’t go to bed now.”

“shut up, you.”

                                    ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

you sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the candlelight casting shadows against the walls. dion stands by the bed, silent, his presence heavy, similar to a few hours ago when he approached you to take you away from fontaine. i would never have expected he would accept my request for a meeting.

"you wished to know more, right? about the future," you ask, voice barely above a whisper. his gaze is cold, unreadable. he doesn't respond, just watches, the weight of his silence pressing down on you like a blade hovering over your throat. "i need a verbal confirmation, dion."

"...yes."

"very well then; roxana saves cassis after he was kidnapped by lante. three years later, she burns the agriche mansion to the ground. you and lante fight, but he dies by cassis’ hands — not a great look on you, honestly — and jeremy rebuilds the mansion, declaring himself as the new head of the family. roxana leaves with cassis. some stuff happens, and then you..." you hesitate.

wait, what happens to him again? "you, like, died or something— no wait, you lost your left arm. like, it was gone. gone gone. you lost it from saving roxana from rubble or, uh, something."

honestly, their whole schtick is so damn hard to explain without multiple reference sheets to help — god, i hope i don't sound like a complete moron right now—

dion's eyes narrow, and for the first time, a flicker of something (confusion, maybe?) crosses his face. "saved her?" he repeats, as if the idea itself is foreign to him. "would there be any reason for me to do that?"

you meet his gaze. "you felt…" you try to think of the words. "you realized that you were both—" you scratch your cheek, a bit nervous— "alone in this world. so at the same time, you both grew to realize you understood each other."

a second passes. one. two. then, he steps closer, the creak of the floorboards being the only sound in the room. the shadows shift with him, long and menacing. you gulp quietly. "the ending didn’t satisfy me. me being here is already causing the storyline to change, so why not make the best of it?"

"you wish to change the world in which you know the future of?"

"yeah, basically…" he remains silent. "as i said, it already changed. i simply wish to have fun while i'm at it. as long as i survive and not end up being tortured, i think i’ll be okay." roxana’s gonna kill me for this if she finds out. i just spewed at him a number of things i haven’t even told her.

his head tilts; and if you were in a simpler position, you'd have likened that quirk of his to a curious owl of sorts.

"you're quite confident for someone so... fragile," he murmurs, gloved hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, the touch far too light, too deliberate.

you tense. "do you think it's selfish?"

dion’s lips curve slightly, a ghost of a smile without warmth. he doesn't answer right away. he traces his finger across your face, the tips landing on your chin. he looks at you from beneath his dark eyelashes, fingers tightening briefly on your chin. "it doesn’t matter."

"i just... i don’t want to die. is that so much to ask?"

he releases you, his touch lingering like a phantom. "amusing how you assume i care."

"you do, though," you recall, a small smile threatening to play on your lips, "after all, didn’t you save me from fontaine not too long ago?"

"...save? i don’t save."

"ah, but you did," a giggle escapes your lips, raising your arm to cover your mouth with your hand. "you totally care." you get up from the bed in a haste, being put off—balance for a bit due to low iron.

"it was an order; nothing more, nothing less."

dion turns to leave, and something in you stirs — a reckless urge to be a bit bitchy. before he can step out, you leap onto his back, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders and your legs around his waist.

"you’re always so cold," you tease, voice light despite the tension. "even in the novel… but you looked good doing it." you pinch his cheek with your index finger and thumb, causing him to stiffen immediately, his muscles tensing. "so sexy, so strong!"

"get off," he says, voice dangerously low.

if roxana wasn’t going to kill me before, she sure will now, haha. when you don't let go, he tries to shrug you off harshly, but you hold on stubbornly, tightening your grip. the next moment, his hand clamps around your shoulder, yanking you off over his head with brutality and slamming you down to the floor, the thud sending pain from your buttocks throughout your body.

without looking back, dion walks out, the door shutting behind him.

you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling once more, feeling the sting in your butt and shoulder where his fingers had dug in. you sit up slowly, pressing a hand to the small of your back and wincing at the bruise you know is forming at the spot, with many more collecting on other parts of your body. every joint in you aches from the fall, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

after a while of staring, you decide that the cold floor can’t be comfortable to rest in. with a heavy heart and sore muscles, you stumble back to bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a groan. you shuffle into the side of the bed where the blanket is crunched up, using the hand closest to the blanket to cover your entire body.

didn’t his mother tell him that it’s rude to hurt a lady?! well, he’s probably killed quite a few women, so… i guess not. but still, he didn’t need to ‘john cena’ me onto the ground when he literally called me frail not even fifteen minutes ago.

gah — i'm gonna kill him.

[forgottenguinevere]

arthur: [ ✠ ] it’s three in the morning and my muse unexpectedly arrives at your muse’s home [rooms].

Guin had thought that perhaps after the Malconaire ball that she had finally calmed herself, that her worries and fears had been assuaged, wrapped up in the fierce victory of Eoin fading himself into the background of her life so quickly in a way that felt like a harbinger of their life-to-be together. She had thought it a comfort, at the time, to know they would be bound but separate.

And yet, as the darkness fell and the moon and stars rose outside of her windows, as she sat upon their sill and let their light burn deep into her soul, Guin found that self-same serpent of despair wriggling its way through her chest and up through her throat. The fire of its breath burning her from the inside and the smoke of it pulling tears once more to her eyes. Her hands shook, her body trembled, she could barely breathe...

All of it crashing down on her once more in the silence and solitude of her chambers. She was doomed. Utterly and terribly doomed and so very, very alone.

tap... tap tap tap tap... tap tap...Guin froze at the sound, swallowing another heaving sob and trying to crush it against her ribcage. Her eyes darted quickly to the clock upon the mantel. It was far too early for any of her retinue to be coming to stoke fires and lay out her clothes for the next day and far too late for anyone else to call.

With trepidation the young princess picked up the candle she had left burning and began to walk towards the door, picking up a small knife Alistair had given her as a name-day gift only the year before. It never hurt to be cautious in her father's house.

"Guin, it's just me. I couldn't sleep and figured you probably couldn't either." The voice of her brother, her twin-who-wasn't, her other half floated through the door. "Let me in, I brought sustenance and company, much better than crying alone in your room, eh?"

Perhaps she wasn't quite so alone.

Guin cracked the door open slightly, not even bothering to wipe her face or hide her glum expression as she leaned against the doorframe and examined the exhausted and disheveled frame of Imperial Prince Arthur Varmont in front of her.

"You will have to tell me someday how you always know I've been crying even across the entirety of the castle." She whispered back with a small sad laugh before stepping backwards and gesturing for Arthur to come inside. "Come on, before we wake anyone else up and have to host the next party. We're quite the sight, the pair of us aren't we? Can't allow anyone to see the Varmonts in anything but our finest."

Arthur smiled back at Guin and followed with a practiced air, lifting the bottle of wine he'd brought for them to share in - they'd done this before, of course. For all that Roderick wanted the two of them at each other's throats, Guin had always found Arthur to be one of her greatest allies in these royal games they were forced the play, and he her.

After all, who else amongst their siblings were so fervently pitted against each other as the eldest and the first born son? Who else had been set upon this chess board for as long as they? No, for as much as Guin knew that one day she and Arthur would find themselves in a duel only one would walk away from victorious... there was no one else she would rather lose to than him.

"How exhausted are you of congratulations and applause, brother mine?" She asked, flopping down upon her settee and curling her feet under her gown. "You did quite well, of course, as I knew you would, and with Father on your team in the last, there was no possibility of you failing, but..." Guin chewed on her lip lightly and held out her hand for the bottle, taking a deep swig before passing it back. "I was so hoping that your victory would take his searing attentions away from me."

Arthur barked out a small laugh, drinking deeply as well and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ah, so you wished to saddle me with all of the adulation and what... hope you would disappear into the crowd according to Father?"

"I've done it before." Guin's eyes flashed dark in the candlelight. "I've become lesser to him for many things and many reasons, some of which had nothing at all to do with me. Do you truly think that this... this impromptu engagement shall really lift me any further in Father's eyes? I am simply his plaything, his little doll, his trophy to pass off like I am nothing."

"And you think I'm not?" Arthur's voice cut through hers, his dark stare matching her own. "You don't know the half of what Father has asked of me, Guinevere. You don't understand what I have given up, the blood that stains my hands because of him. You get to sit here in your ivory tower, safe and secure while I am out there..." He swallowed heavily, tripping further and further into a past battlefield that Guin recognized all too well. Kil-Kennar...She reached out a hand and took his in her own, recognizing the same tremor there that Guin knew all too well.

They were both such small children still, young and terrified and looking to a father who could never love them the way they needed. Who would do anything in the world to feel something warm and kind from him but would not come.

"Peace.... Peace, Arthur. I am sorry. I know that you and I are both... fighting the same war on different fronts and with different armies. I am frustrated and I struck you because you were here instead of at Father." Guin let out another sigh and shook her head. “This is what he wants of us. He wants us angry and frustrated and at each other’s throats. I won’t - I don’t want that for you and I, Arthur. I love you far too much. I won’t let him take you from me like this.”

[forest-falcon]

WIP Wednesday

The Polaroid 📸

"Is that what I think it is?"

Scott paced over to the wooden unit and scooped up a small polaroid camera.

"One of Gordon's finds - that kids sure loves his vintage gadgets. I like this one though; there's something special about a polaroid," Grandma gave a wistful smile.

"Bring back memories?"

"Oi, I'll have you know, they were old even when I was a girl!"

Scott gave a sheepish grin.

"Sorry."

Grandma batted the air in good humour.

"They're like vinyl records. They don't give you a perfect result, but there's some beauty in that."

Scott set the camera back down, then gathered up the tower of photos stacked next to it.

The first few featured the various sunrises Gordon must have snapped before his early morning swims; the dusky pinks and golds silhouetting slumbering palms.

Grandma was right. The pictures were beautiful.

Scott smiled and continued to flick through the images; the golds and pinks suddenly interrupted with a burst of cerulean blue.

"There's one of me in here!" Scott presented Grandma with the photo. I didn't know he had taken this.

"Oh, now that I like!" Grandma smiled, wafting the photo as though it needed drying.

The image was of John and Scott surfing together. A rare occurrence to be sure, but such a treasured memory.

There were others just like it.

Alan stargazing - the cosmos filling the night with such an abundance of stars, the polaroid looked somewhat surreal.

There was another taken not too long ago of Virgil with a seedling. Scott had walked in to find the gentle giant conversing with the tiny plant.

"Why on earth are you talking to a plant?"

"Helps it grow."

"Plants don't have ears."

"No, but they're living beings. All it takes for a soul to grow is a little time and love."

Scott couldn't argue with that. And although he wasn't convinced by the concept enough to strike up a conversation with the nearest tree; he did love his brother that little bit more for the kindness he brought to the world.

Scott gently set the image down.

"You're right Grandma, this camera is special."

Gordon's photos had captured life on the island in such a wonderful, smell-the-roses way. It gave him pause for thought. Gordon was so like Virg in that manner; seeing the good in the world. The camera was his canvas.

Scott had planned to file some more reports, but the love emanating from the pictures ultimately won out, and Scott sank into the sofa next to his Grandma.

The reports could wait.

It was time to appreciate the little things.

The commander slouched to allow for his head to rest on her shoulder, and they flicked through the remaining pictures together.

The photo pile was deceptively large.

Scott was just about to save the rest for another day when one in particular caught his eye.

"Who's this?"

Scott held up the polaroid for closer inspection.

"Who? Her?"

"Yeah, the girl kissing Alan."

"Oh! That's Mandy, Alan's girlfriend."

"Alan has a girlfriend?"

Grandma took a sip of tea.

"Mmm, I've only met her the once, but she was just lovely."

Scott stared at the picture. The girl was pretty, in a girl-next-door-type way.

"How did they meet?"

"How does Alan meet anyone?"

"Rescue?"

"Gaming."

"Oh."

Grandma set her tea down.

"They've been chatting for years online, then met in person at that comicon the boys went to last year. I believe there's a pic in here somewhere..."

Scott surrendered the remaining stack of photos, but continued to inspect the stranger... Mandy...to try and get a read on her. It was only a headshot of them both, so not much to go on. She was wearing a simple bobble hat and thick woolen scarf. Her face was somewhat obscured by a mass of bouncy dark curls, but as far as he could tell, she was besotted - all smiles as she kissed Alan.

"Ah! Found it!" Grandma handed him a second photo. Four figures beamed back at the camera. Warrior Alan, Elven Lord Virgil, Kraken Gordon and a grey-bearded wizard.

Scott squinted at the photo.

"This is her?"

"The wizard, yes."

Sure enough, some bouncy brown curls could just be seen jutting out from behind the faux beard.

"Hasn't she the most wonderful cow eyes?"

"Cow eyes?"

"Y'know - big, brown, soulful eyes."

"Can't say that I noticed."

"You, Scott Tracy? Not notice a pretty face? Are you feeling alright?"

"Hard to see it behind the beard,” he deadpanned.

Grandma swatted his arm.

“Besides, she's too young, Grandma. And so is Alan." He returned both photos to her and lightly folded his arms.

"He should be focussing on his studies."

"Oh, like you did at his age?" Grandma arched a brow.

"Scott, honey, your brother isn't twelve anymore."

Scott gave a noncommittal grunt.

"And, as far as I can tell, his grades have been exemplary."

It was true, his grades were well-above average, but Alan was still the baby of the family, and Scott wasn't quite ready to view him as anything else.

"Still, he has enough going on, doesn't he? Between coursework, International Rescue, driving lessons..." he trailed off.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

"He games." Scott offered.

Now it was Grandma's turn to fold her arms.

“Scott, he's twenty next month.”

“So?”

"So…you're telling me that you're happy to risk the life of your brother out on missions, but object to him being happy with someone he loves?"

"Loves? I thought it was just the odd date?"

"Like I said; they've been friends for years. But does it even matter? Date, hook-up, love.

I, for one, am just pleased to see your brothers are all happy with nice people."

"John isn't seeing anyone."

"Why? Did he break up with Ridley?"

"Captain O'Bannon is just a friend. They play handball together, that's all."

"Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?" Grandma chuckled and took another sip of tea.

"Grandma!"

Grandma was the epitome of coy as she gave an innocent shrug.

"You're reading too much into things. What Captain O'Bannon and John have...it's strictly professional! They're work colleagues, nothing more."

"Okay Scott."

"What?"

"I'm just wondering at what point you thought International Rescue had become a nunnery?"

Scott cleared his throat.

"I - don't…think that”

He idly picked at a stitch that had come loose on the sofa.

“What I meant was, surely if they were all in relationships, they'd just tell me?"

"What? So you could give them the same reaction you gave me just now?"

Scott stood, and slowly paced in a circle as he digested.

"Is that how they see me...a prude?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. They just don't feel the need to run every last relationship by their brother. You sure didn't with your dad or myself when you were younger. We'd still be here today if that were the case!" Grandma gave another wicked chuckle and Scott groaned into his hands.

"Newsflash, your dad and I weren't as blind to those late night study partners as you thought we were. That script is as old as time!"

Scott squirmed as he looked for a way to redirect the focus back from himself.

"I guess Allie's just remained around twelve years old in my head. I blinked and he grew up."

"That's parenthood for you, Scott."

Scott flinched.

"Look kiddo, nobody could replace your dad. You're simply not him. But what you've grown into... well, you've not just filled your father's shoes; you've sized up! Allie has had one hell of a guardian."

The sincerity of her tone brought a lump to Scott's throat. It was all he had ever hoped for. To do right by his family, his brothers…by little Allie.

"You had to grow up pretty fast and I used to worry about the toll that would take on you, but look how much you've grown - from a bereaved little boy to just the finest man! Not just the Commander of International Rescue, but a wonderful brother, guardian and grandson too."

"You're too kind, Grandma."

"I'm merely stating facts. You never stop worrying. Parents, guardians - it doesn't matter. But you can't let that worry clip their wings. It's time you opened your eyes to see how much your brother has grown too. He isn't twelve, Scott; but the wonderful young man he's grown into is a testament to how much love we, as a family - how much love you have poured his way."

[catsafarithewriter]

A/N: Part 37 of the Bedlam AU! This part is a longer piece, but there was no tidy place to split it, so you get all of this! Enjoy! I certainly enjoyed writing it ;)

x

Haru is not afraid of the dark.

After all, she's been on enough cases where the odd dungeon delving, or cave diving, or secret passage walkthrough with non-existent light has been necessary, so she's familiar with dark. But the thing is, absolute darkness is rare. Usually there's a lantern, or starlight, or even bioluminescent algae to shed some light, and that's not even considering Baron's light magic. Usually, even if she can't see much, there's still a vague sense of her surroundings.

Behind the blindfold, it's nothing but black.

Haru is not afraid of the dark, but her heart skitters nonetheless. There is something about the complete nothingness, something about the spidersilk on her skin, something about the stillness of the air, that feels all wrong.

Then again, simply knowing that on the other side of the blindfold is a soul-sucking monster might also do that to a gal.

"Haru?"

"Haru, what's happening?"

The voices are indistinguishable from one another, perfect copies of Baron's voice. It sounds like both are stood before her, one to the left, the other to the right.

"It's one of the Bedlam's games," she says. "One of you is the real Baron, and the other is the Bedlam in disguise. I need to guess which one is real."

"I am!" one Baron cries.

"Naturally, you would say that," the other retorts.

"Yes. Because it is the natural thing to say. At least, it is if you're real."

"Or if you're pretending to be."

"Enough!"

At Haru's command, both Barons went silent.

"This isn't a puzzle that's gonna be solved by who can shout the loudest, or insist they're a real boy the most often. From now on, you only speak when I ask you something, got it?"

"Yes, Haru."

"Yes."

"Okay, good."

Haru's mind races over the options. There is always a possibility that neither is the real Baron... but somehow she doubts it. It's not that she doesn't think the Bedlam is above cheating, but rather that everything she's encountered so far implies that weaving a new Baron puppet would take time, and she's somewhat sprung this upon him.

So that leaves... well, one Bedlam masquerading as Baron, and one real Baron. Still, there are ways the Bedlam could cheat.

"Both of you, hold out your hand," she orders. "One on my left, the other on my right."

She feels cotton brush against her fingers, and she curls her hand around each gloved wrist. "This way there can be no secret switcharoos happening while I'm blindfolded," she says.

"Clever," the right Baron approves.

"What did I say? No talking unless I ask you something."

Haru wants to pace, but there's no way of doing that without trawling both Baron's behind her like two wayward children. If she could see them, this would be easy – the Bedlam seems unable to create puppets or alter himself without button eyes – but then that explains the blindfold. That said...

She runs her hands up the respective Barons arms If the Bedlam is limited by button eyes, she'll be able to feel them by brushing a hand across his face. Her hands have only reached their shoulders when both vanish.

"Hey!"

"Now, now, now," the Bedlam's voice croons. "That'd be cheating."

"You didn't set any such rules when we started," Haru retorts.

"You're making this a thing of logic, rather than of knowing. The point of this game was you proving you could recognise your Baron blindfolded–"

"Which you've helpfully provided."

"–so if you go looking for my button eyes, where's the fun in that? Where's the creativity? Prove to me you know him for who he is, not who I am."

"I take it from the fact I still can't see a thing that I get a second chance?"

"I'm looking forward to you guessing wrong."

"Bold words from the monster who's just had to take a time out to establish extra rules," Haru scoffs. "So, what am I allowed to do?"

"Why, talk, of course. Ask questions."

"You've been watching me for months. I doubt there's much I could ask that you wouldn't know."

"But you've known the Baron longer than that," the Bedlam assures. "I'm sure there's something you can ask him that only he will know. Now, if you're quite done complaining about the game..."

The world shifts, and suddenly there is a gloved wrist in both of Haru's hands. "Baron? Are you back?"

"Yes," two voices chorus.

"Good. Now, let me think."

The Bedlam's interruption has unnerved her more than she wants to let on. Questioning both Barons on their knowledge had been Haru's next plan, but the Bedlam's assurance that such a scheme might work seems... odd. Even if he had only been watching for a few months – and that is plenty of time – he still managed to make a very convincing perfect world for Haru.

And Haru had talked with the Bureau so often (at least before her exile) that the Bedlam probably overheard them reminiscing about the past. He certainly knew about the Cat Kingdom and Katzen Blüt. And that was at least a decade ago.

Still, there were ways in which the Baron-Bedlam had differed from the original Baron. Maybe the Bedlam hasn't learnt from his mistakes. Some habits die hard, after all...

But, oh, this is going to break her heart.

"I have a question for you," she says eventually. "I want you to answer it truthfully, one at a time. Was what the Bedlam said earlier true? Do you..." She falters, and steadies her voice before attempting it anew. "Do you wish I was a Creation too? Would you have still thrown me out of the Bureau had I been... like you?"

Was I not enough?

She turns her head to her right. "You first."

Right Baron cradles her hand in both hands, his hold soft and precious. "No, never," he promises. "Haru, the Bedlam preys on our worst insecurities, using them make us doubt ourselves until we leave our world and all its imperfections behind. He said what he knew would wound you most. He used the biggest mistake of my life and used it to convince you that I didn't love you, and for that there is no apology I can give that will do justice to the harm I've done."

She feels Right Baron move closer, and she shakes her head, even though all her heart wants to do is fall into the embrace he would surely give.

Right Baron reads her correctly and backs off, but is still closer than before. "It's taken all of... this for me to see the error of my ways – taken me almost losing you – but now I see I never should have pushed you away. Instead I should have told you the truth: that I love you, exactly as you are."

Haru swallows. For the first time, she's glad of the blindfold – glad that neither can see the effect those words have had on her. Still, her mouth wavers as she turns her head to the left.

She doubts either one miss the way it takes her two tries before she can speak, and when she does she cannot fully hide the tremour.

"Now you."

Left Baron doesn't speak immediately. Though she can hear his breathing to be steady, she can feel his erratic pulse from the wrist caught in her grip.

"It would be a lie to say things would not be... simpler, if you were a Creation," Left Baron says. In contrast to Right Baron's heartfelt fervour, Left Baron's words are soft and sad. "Humans are so fragile and, sometimes, I think you forget that. But I don't. I can't. I look at you, and I see all the close shaves, all the near misses, all the times I could have lost you, and it breaks my heart."

His fingers brush against hers, so briefly that she could almost believe she imagined it.

"So would I have thrown you out of the Bureau had you been a Creation? No."

Haru can't help it; a pained, disgusted sound rises through her throat. She releases Left Baron's wrist before she can stop herself, but he grabs her hand.

"But would I love you if you were a Creation?" he asks, and his grip is firm and just a shade off desperate. "I don't know. Maybe. But even if I did, I would be in love with a different person. You would be different. Your compassion and bravery is rooted by your mortality, strengthened by your humanity, and that is the Haru I fell in love with."

Haru blinks and, even blindfolded, her eyes water. "It's you." She drops her hand away from Right Baron and cups Left Baron's face. She feels the dimple where eyes rest. No buttons. "It's really you."

[ditttiii]

gold rush. || kth {m}

⇢ summary: kim taehyung is a walking heartbreak waiting to happen. all narrow eyes and long nose and devilish smirks, he is everyone’s dream. after months of sharing an elevator with the man who makes your heart race until you can scarcely breathe when the chance finally comes; are you willing to risk it all for his touch? 

⇢ genre: porn with feelings, soft smut, angst, is unresolved tension and feelings a genre?

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x reader

⇢ word count: 4.4k

⇢ rating: explicit / 18+

⇢ theme: strangers to lovers, s2l!au

⇢warning/s: public/elevator sex, exhibitionism, fingering, cunnilingus/oral (female receiving), lots of kissing, hickeys, unprotected sex? reader’s on the pill, swearing, tension and so much of it, unresolved-repressed feelings, taehyung is a certified dingus & reader is hopelessly smitten. 

⇢ a/n: betaed by @yeojaa​ who owns my heart and is the most precious bean ever. 

also have all my virtual, socially distanced cuddles @btsmosphere​ @papillonsgf​ @birbdae​ & @unoriginal-username15432​. if it weren’t for their support this wouldn’t be out today. my gratitude knows no bounds ♡ also big thanks to taylor for the fic title.

banner by @chillingkoo​ & moodboard by @today-we-will-survive​​ their art breathed life into this fic ♡ a belated birthday fic for one mr.kim taehyung & the beautiful @kerikaaria​.  this fic is also my submission for @thebtswritersclub​ january monthly project. 

lastly, i had a lot of fun writing this so i hope you guys enjoy it x 2021 here v go ♡

You wonder when the shame stopped making you hide behind a curtain of messy bed hair. When the smell of a man's cologne on you and a fruity fragrance on him started to feel normal; routine.

 The elevator closes with a 'ping', and your eyes track the numbers as they descend, the warmth of another human, the soft puffs of his breath, warming your shivering, scantily dressed body.

 "What happened to ‘she’s too old for me?’ " You grunt, slipping off your six inches of agony inducing footwear and pushing them to a corner.

 "What happened to you not being jealous?" You can feel his smirk, oozing of self-assured nonchalance and smugness that would seem ugly on anyone but fits like a well-tailored suit on him. From the corner of your eye, you watch as he leans back, hands resting on the metal railing while his tall, lean body slouches lazily, almost invitingly, and you have to force your eyes away from tracing the curves of his pecs. It's a tempting sight, but you aren't about to give him any more ammo to goad you with. As it is, he already knows too much, is far too keen. 

 "Of your sugar mama? I don't think so."

 Taehyung hums but doesn't refute the statement and the silence between you two stretches on. A burning ball of jealousy in your stomach continues to eat away at your peace, and with a clenched jaw, you allow your head to rest against the cool metal of the elevator and pretend that the proximity doesn't affect you. 

 It's always the same between you two, a constant game of tug and war, where one pulls too firmly, and then the other comes tumbling close until one of you comes back to your senses and then it's back to square one. Back to bickering and recounting the previous night’s escapades of half-truths and lies told from kiss-swollen lips and hooded gazes as you try your best to rile the other one up.

 It's stupid. You are in your twenties and this isn't like you. The lying, the pretence that you are still seeing your ex-boyfriend and biting and sucking your own lip until it swells; until you look properly ravished; none of this is you.

 You should have known the day he first stumbled into the elevator with a half-buttoned shirt and bite marks painted over the pale skin of his neck, a satisfied smirk curled on his dark pink lips, that he wasn't good for you. But no, like the absolute fool that you are, you fell for him. Fell knowing full well he wasn't yours to have, that back then you weren't his to have.

 The elevator comes to a stop with a shudder. Your eyes, closed sometime during the descent, snap open and your feet pause when the sight of the closed doors grace you.

 "You stopped the elevator." It's not a question, not when his hand is still hovering over the stop button, head tilted as his eyes stay trained on you.

 "I did." He admits to a question you never asked.

 Biting back a hiss at his insistence on being difficult, you twist on your heels, lips pulled into a smile whose edges sting like shards of a broken glass and parry, "And why did you do that, pray tell?"

 He doesn't answer, just looks at you with that half-lidded gaze and his silence only infuriates you more, makes the back of your neck feel heated as an angry flush rises from your chest all the way up to your cheeks and with a few angry stomps you’re in Taehyung's space, barely a few inches left between you two.

 "God!" You start, and the anger, the jealousy, the ugly ball of insecurity and lust and something you haven't quite found a name for yet all coagulate and rise up your throat, burning your heart in their wake until you are hurting and seething. “I don’t get you, nor do I want to anymore!" The words tumble out, one after another and half thought out but your chest still burns and the ugly ball still feels scorching hot in your throat and you can't bring yourself to stop, to shut up and think. "Stop doing this. Stop flirting with me and stop looking at me with those hooded eyes of yours and for the love of god, do you really need to lick your lip that often? Why don't you carry a lip balm if your lips are that dry, huh?"

 The cross of your eyes is almost painful, but you have started and fuelled by anger and unreciprocated feelings there’s no stopping your steam. "And now this! Stopping the elevator! What the hell is this supposed to mean?" His lips part as if to answer but without waiting for his response, you plow on, "What! Do you actually have an answer? Really? Let's face it; you think I’m some sort of challenge that needs to be conquered. Another notch on your bedpost. You and your stupid smirks and half-lidded eyes and that damn mole on your nose and god, can you just not—"

 The soft pad of his finger on your lips pauses your rant, leaves them parted and your heart hammering while unsaid words clutter the hollow spaces in your throat, tighten around your vocal cords like a noose until they become their own nemesis. 

 "I broke up with her last night," Taehyung says, and from where you are standing so close to him, his breath on your neck, cheeks, lips is too enchanting, too much like something you had hoped and begged and prayed for far too long now. Breathing out harshly you blink yourself back to reality because you must be hearing him wrong. 

  "Huh?"

 His hand slowly comes up to hold your chin, thumb running over your lower lip with a feather-like touch, "I broke up with her last night, went home and came back early because I didn't want to miss you." He says, and your chest feels tight, palms numb and it's only when his hand gently settles over the nape of your neck and you inhale painfully that you realise that you had stopped breathing.

 "Why?" You rasp out. 

  Don't hope. This means nothing. Do not hope. 

 Something twists in your belly, a thread tightens around your heart, and you know, despite it all, that you are hoping. 

 "Why do you think?" He asks instead, and you stifle the sudden desire to bash his head into a wall. 

 "Don't play games with me." 

 A sigh, his breath dancing on your lips and you barely suppress the tingles that burn down your spine, "I'm not. I don't want to, not anymore." The hand resting around your neck curls, fingers caressing the soft skin behind your ear.

 "What do you want then?" Your words are quiet, hope and longing laced into every syllable that you desperately hope to hide but fail. 

 Your heart hammers into your ribs with so much force you are half afraid it will leave them cracked; splintered just like your love for the man who is touching you, holding your entire heart in the palm of his hands while you wait for it to be crushed. Because it will, it's inevitable. Kim Taehyung is a walking heartbreak waiting to happen. All narrow eyes and long nose and devilish smirks, he is too good. Too good for the woman he was with and certainly too good for you. You would be happy if you looked half as good on your wedding day as he regularly does because he is that gorgeous. And unreal, and pretty and it hurts. 

 It hurts because you can never have him and any second now he will push you away and ridicule you for getting flustered so easily and he will never understand, and god it cuts. It tears at you because despite knowing better, you long for him, his touch, his warmth.

 Maybe even his love. But that is one hope you refuse to acknowledge out loud. 

 Your breaths mingle from where you two are standing so close, and part of you aches to reach out, to pull him closer and wrap yourself around him until you can sync the beat of your heart to his, to nestle your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in, drown in the scent of that spicy cologne that you associate with him and nobody else. Because it's tempting, oh so inviting and he is so so close.

 You could touch his chest, caress the skin peeking from in between the dip of his low neck shirt and it would be easy, he would let you, you know that too but what about after? How do you come back from holding someone your soul is in love with and then pretend that being with them for one night was enough? How does your hope keep living on in the name of that fragment of love? His arms your shelter for one night and then you are back to being strangers, sharing elevators and bumping into each other at the grocery store, pretending all the while that you do not yearn to visit that one night you spent together whenever your head hits the pillow? 

 "I..." Taehyung struggles, chews the words before his lips form them because this is his last chance and if he loses you now, it's over; he knows that too. The pair of you are done playing cat and mouse. 

 "I know my words don't hold a whole lot of value. I could promise you things, but you won't believe me and that's fair. I get it." He admits, another hand coming up until your face is cradled in his open palms, fingers slipping behind the edges of your ears and you will yourself to not drop your gaze, to look into his eyes and search for...love? Honesty? You wish you could say you know what it is that you are hunting for, but held so close all you can think about is the chestnut brown of his eyes, the black that rims them, the high arched brows and the thin, smooth lips and that mole; that mole that you can only see when you are pressed close, a hair's breadth of space between you two. 

 "But...?" You ask, pray, and yet again, against your better judgement hope.

 "But I love you." He confesses, voice forever rich and deep and you feel the hum of his baritone from where your chest is still pulled tight to his. "My love for you is unlike any I have ever known, and it scared me; it still scares me because I don't know. I don't know what I will do if I ever lose you. I care too much, I—" His grip on you tightens and instinctively your hands snake around his waist, clenching the soft cotton of his shirt, nails biting into your skin as his words thread your hopelessly lovesick heart back together; piece by piece.

 "I love you too much." Taehyung whispers and the ice around your heart thaws, his raw confession lighting a fire in your nerves until you are left buzzing from the high of his admission. "Trust me. Just this once. Please." He is vulnerable in his plea, and for the first time you wonder if you had characterised him wrong. Boxed and stored him like a gift on a shelf without bothering to look underneath the paper wrapping.

 Taehyung doesn't have to beg, he doesn't have to try and persuade anyone, and for all the gibes you threw his way, all the daggered words about him dating only for money, you didn't truly believe any of them. Sure, the woman he had been with for the last few months was older (a voice in your head whispers wiser), but that wasn't because she was, as you would often insist, his 'sugar mama', but instead because their interests aligned. Kim Taehyung is a man of taste, whether it be his fondness for a violin's trill, fascination with modern art, or his love for jazz music. He is an enigma and with no small amount of embarrassment you think back to all the times you have bought a book after he made a passing comment on it, searched the pages and the characters to find some semblance of him.

 Maybe you are pathetic, perhaps you are far too infatuated with this man for it to be healthy. Just maybe...

 "No," Taehyung commands, his voice so determined you’re snapped back to the present, head thrown out of the haze your wandering thoughts had created.

 Seeing your obscure expression and strayed eyes (look away because you can't acknowledge how much he matters), he pushes, one hand sliding down to grip your chin and urge you to look him in the eye. "Don't." 

 Maybe he sees something in your eyes, spots your hidden insecurities, reads you like an open book and dog-ears the pages that hold your weakness. 

 "Don't what?" You deflect, gaze drifting away again as you pretend to not know what he means but secretly long for him to keep pushing, to keep trying—your denial’s a facade to hide all your pleas. 

 "Don't do this to me. To us."  

 "You'll hurt me." You protest, a half-hearted attempt at trying to protect your already doomed heart even as your fingers clench tighter, pull him closer.

 "No, I won't." He speaks with certainty that you don't wholly believe but fuelled by far too much love and longing, you don't protest any further and instead toe closer, rise higher, and breathe in the shaky exhale he lets out when your lips skim the sharp curve of his jaw. 

 "I've wanted this for so long." Unadulterated desire courses through your veins at his admission. Even if Taehyung is lying, even if he leaves you stranded after today, you'll live. You'll live on the high of this moment, the memory of his skin under your touch, the crisp of the cotton draped over his lean torso. 

 It's easier to let go and surrender yourself, easier to lay yourself bare because you have already come too far and there is no protecting yourself anymore—your heart is now his to do with.

 Your hands twine around his waist, slide over the vast expanse of his back like he is yours; as though if you try hard enough, you'll leave an imprint, a sign that he belongs to you. Mark him for the rest of eternity and brand him with your name on his heart. 

 Kissing him is easy, the slight ache of staying on your tippy-toes going by unregistered as you get lost in the sensation of his lips, his sighs on your chin, the tickle of his lashes against the high curve of your cheek. 

 The cradle of his palms around your face is gentle, almost careful, as though you are a porcelain doll and he is afraid one harsh move will leave you splintered. Chest tight, you push down the last remaining traces of hesitation clinging inside your throat and twist to catch his lips instead, licking a long strip from the soft cleft of his chin over to his parted lips, dip into the hollow of his mouth and slide over the soft flesh on the inside before you catch his upper lip in between yours and suck.

 His responding groan has you clenching your thighs and you break the kiss, breathing in to replenish the oxygen that doesn't seem as important when his lips are on yours. When your gaze catches his, for once you don't look away, don't force yourself to stop from swimming in the beautiful, clear pool of his eyes.

 "I love you too." Your admission is quiet, more a careful whisper than anything else, as though any louder and you'll break this spell and things will go back to the way they were. He will come to his senses and realise he doesn't love you after all and then you'll go back to being a pining, lovesick fool, only this time with a broken heart and no hope to cling to.

 His eyes grow soft—gentle in the curve of two crescent moons, and you smile your first real smile, the edges twitching and pulling into a gentle grin before you can bite it down and the answering smile that Taehyung rewards you with has your heart squeezing almost painfully inside your chest.

 "Yeah?" He asks as though he already knows the answer but just wants to hear you say it again, profess your love for him again and you do. You say it again and again, press your lips over every inch of his face and emboss the words onto the smooth, unblemished skin.

 Taking in a shuddering breath, you answer from around the suspended ball of disbelief and love in your throat. "Yeah." 

 When the clothes start coming off it’s a gentle, slow affair, the spaces in between filled with tender touches curious to explore the skin that they had desired for so long and open-mouthed kisses pressing promises of forever and happily ever after onto the naked expanse, leaving goosebumps in their wake.  

 Legs twined around his waist like ivy, you arch off the floor. A tug of your hand and his shirt slips low, and then your mouth is pressing warm, wet, kisses, tongue slipping out and desperately tasting his skin, his sweat— him. You lean back and then he's on you, low, low, low until his lips are close enough to skim the edges of your panties and you buckle, arch and push without meaning to as you ache for relief only he can provide. 

 "You are beautiful. So so beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen." 

 His words are rough, less speech and more growl as he pushes his head closer to your soaking heat and inhales. "Fuck." 

 Breathes turning to hitches, words into gasps, you can scarcely keep your eyes open when he runs a long, slim finger through your folds and circles your wet opening before your walls are pulsing around him, sucking and pulling the finger in as deep as it will go. One and two then three, your cunt can't have enough of his fingers, his heat and him and oh— 

 His lips are velvet against your clit, your body a molten mass of gold moulding itself around his fingers, your sanity and restraint slipping and dripping down onto the carpeted floor from in between the spaces. With the last left strength, you prop yourself onto your elbows and the sight of Taehyung's mouth on your sex is almost enough to send you slipping back down again. His tongue laves across your folds with the desperation of a man parched, caressing every fold, greedily licking away your dripping arousal and moaning out obscenities too vulgar for how early the day is. 

 When you come, it's with a cry that sounds too animalistic to be yours. One that comes from your chest and leaves your back arched like the ends of a boomerang. "Good?" He asks with glistening lips, and you wanna scream, hysterical in your pitch— good? Is there anything better that exists in this world than his lips on you making you come? Again and again, until you can no longer stand the sensitivity? 

 But instead of screaming, or shaking him by his shoulders until it gets through his head, you reply with a spent nod and let your elbows slip. This is what being eaten out by Kim Taehyung feels like. The pleasure coursing through your veins is something far more potent than any you have ever felt before. The blood in your veins thrumming, almost sizzling under the thin layer of your skin. 

 He presses his forehead to yours, rests to catch his breath and with every shuddery inhale you breathe your arousal in, a swipe of your tongue across his glistening lips, and then you can taste it too. It tastes of nothing and yet everything. Coming from his lips, it tastes of what your dreams are built from, like liquified recklessness and yearning and above all —Taehyung. 

 It tastes of him and his smirks and all the kisses you couldn't have and all the kisses you now hope for. 

 His fingers are gentle when they tuck your hair, eyes bright behind the curtain of messy, ink-black strands, "There's a law somewhere that says when you love someone with all your heart, you are unavoidably loved by them as well. Amor ch'a null'amato amar perdona." 

 Your eyes search his, frantically rove all over his face, search the lines under his eyes, pause at the small mole on his nose, and then stop at the sight of the one on his lower lip, the one that your eyes would always drift to every time he'd smirk or grin in the past. Now he's smiling, lips stretched into a soft boxy curve, the mole evident against the edge and you raise a trembling hand, run your thumb across it. Cup his face with both your hands until your vision blurs and then your lips are on his. Locking and licking and your mouth is a leaking faucet of I love you's, hands working to the back of his head and getting lost in those perfectly long, wavy strands. 

 You hope this is the real thing when you wildly take off your dress, rip off his shirt unmindful of the last few buttons that clatter to the floor and undress until the both of you are as bare as you were the day you were born.

 The steel railing is startlingly cold against your rear but before you can wince Taehyung's large hands are on your waist, pulling you closer until all that's on your mind is the feel of him, hard and hot against your dripping heat. His mouth is on your breast, lips sucking marks into the flesh and tying you to him, leaving traces of his presence behind until you can no longer differentiate the ache in your heart from the burn in your belly. 

 Somehow through the haze of want and compulsive need, you collect yourself enough to tell him you're on the pill when he remembers the lack of protection in his wallet, and then he's inside you. The thrust inside is fluid, and you are moaning, keening at your wetness, at how long he is, at how unbearably, entirely full you are. 

 Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, like the last words of a man dying an untimely death, desperate and hurried and like if he takes a second too long he might never get the chance again. The scratch of your nails against his back must hurt, the grip of your heels around his sides must be painful, and still you can't bring yourself to let up; to let go. 

 The air inside becomes humid, reeks of sex and sweat and everything that shouldn't seem so right, and yet does. 

 You come first, hit your peak and crash through it like a ship in a torrential sea, hot and volatile and like something vital that you'll retain even in the afterlife. Taehyung–sweet, sweet Taehyung – helps you ride it out, makes your body sing with the honed practice of a pianist who has spent more decades playing than he can recall. His tongue is on your neck, stroking that one sensitive spot in the hollow of your clavicle while his hand brushes your clit, builds the pleasure and lets it drift, unhurried and soft until you are crying from the overwhelming rightness of it. 

 With a shudder, you finally push his hand away from your quivering heat and bring it to your lips, kiss the bony knuckles and let it rest on your thigh from where he wraps it tight around your waist and drives to chase his own high. 

 Sated you watch Taehyung, catalogue all the features that you had never seen before but up close can. Just in case—just. File them all in a part of your heart where only he resides, a piece you will always come back to, regardless of if the man in your arms chooses to stay or not. You will be selfish with these memories, hoard and treasure them in secrecy until the day you can look back upon them with nothing more than nostalgic fondness. 

 The appearance of a deep furrow on his forehead, between those long arched brows and the breaking rhythm of his thrusts, alerts you to how close he is and you clench. Clench with all the love and devotion you nurture in your heart and hope that somehow it will be enough. If not forever, then at least until you can have your fill, until you can love him for a life's worth and live off on those memories. Live on them like a late mother's half-finished perfume bottle that you take out and sniff on your sorriest days, a push strong enough to keep you going. 

 One more day, then one more and then just one more until you can finally meet him in the afterlife, old and having done all that you had been sent to do. Except for love. You doubt you can ever love like this again. 

 Kissing him after feels like the best kind of heartbreak because you know, somewhere deep in your gut where you house your intuition and insecurities, you know this won't last. 

 Yet you wouldn't take back anything. Your lips form words on Taehyung's shoulder 'i love you so much. i always will', and you tighten your arms around his waist. Anchor him to the present and pray that the defence will be strong enough to keep him with you for a little while more. 

 Just a little.

a/n: the end is up to your interpretation, you are free to imagine whatever end you’d have liked to see. If you enjoyed reading this please let me know through comments, reblogs, tags or asks. the feedback makes me insanely happy and i love hearing from you guys ♡

[fruitcoops]

Sometimes I forget that Leo is 19 and can’t drink in the states. I think he would get away with stealing drinks from the boys or having someone on the team order for him in public for a while but once the season’s started and people are actively watching the games, the bartenders and wait staff start to figure out who he is and catch him being sneaky

I only write drunkenness on a case-to-case basis because it squicks me out sometimes, but something about this ask really stuck with me. To @lalalasocks, I hope your sinuses feel better! Have some outside perspective of Coops to soothe the soul <3 SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for a drunken rookie (no explicit alcohol)

“Pots and I are going to take it up the left,” Sirius said, never taking his eyes off his whiteboard as he drew out the lines of the play. iPads were generally the more conventional tool, but he had a thing for tradition and Sirius Black’s flair for the dramatic never ceased to amaze. “Knutty?”

Leo nodded and leaned forward, swiping a drop of sweat off his temple with a glance toward the game as Talker flew past. “I’ll be in for the rest of the period as soon as Coach calls it.”

“Bien.” He tapped Remus’ shoulder pad with the end of his pen and marked a path up the other side. “Loops, the puck is coming to you fast, so you need to keep eyes on us. Once you get it, turn on the jets and get it in. Good?”

“Good,” Remus confirmed, bumping fists with James. Leo watched them with no small amount of surprise—even though Remus had only been a player for six months, their line was rock-solid. James was the powerhouse while Remus flashed down the ice; Sirius counterbalanced them both in the middle. He was grateful he wasn’t the one to see them coming at him on plays.

“1, 6, 7, 12!” Coach barked. Leo clenched his teeth around his mouthguard and got ready to hop the boards. A swish of skates, a bump of Kasey’s shoulder, and it was game time.

-----------

“I love you,” Leo hiccupped, plopping himself down in Logan’s lap and tangling a hand in his dark curls. He went to kiss his cheek, then frowned. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Sirius laughed with a gentle pat his side. “Good night so far, Knutty?”

Leo made a face. “Where’s my Canadian?”

“I have no idea.”

His lip slid out even further into a pout. “He told me I could sit on his lap,” he whined plaintively, resting his head in the crook of Sirius’ shoulder with a heavy sigh. The bar was warm—a little too warm, actually—but it felt nice to be sitting on something soft rather than feeling the sticky floor under his sneakers. And there was one more reason he needed to find Logan, one other highly important thing… “An’ I gotta give him a kiss.”

“Do you want to go look for him?”

Leo made a noncommittal noise and swung his leg under the table absently, letting the alcohol in his system lift all his post-game tiredness away. His head hurt a little from being awake so long. “How ‘bout I stay here and wait?”

“I think it’s about time to get you home.”

Leo sighed again, picking at a string on the knee of his ripped jeans. “Am I squishing you?”

“Non.”

“Mmkay.” A bright square of light half blinded him and he squinted. “Who’re you texting?”

“Finn.”

“Why?”

“So that he can pick you up and get you home before you fall asleep on me,” Sirius said, quite amused for some reason. “Comfy, rookie?”

He shifted even closer into the warmth and closed his eyes. Usually he got horny when he drank, but that feeling had already passed and a nap was sounding awful nice. “I like it when you call me that. Hate when other people do it, but it’s different with you.”

Sirius gave his upper arm a light squeeze. “Glad to hear it.”

“Used to drive me nuts,” he snorted. “Those first couple’a weeks on the team were rough.”

“…why?”

“Cause I had a huge crush on you.”

Cozy silence fell between them until Sirius moved to look at him. Leo blinked sleepily. “You what?”

“Well, Kasey was my first crush, right? I had his jersey an’ his poster an’ he’s fucking hot, but you’re the captain.” Sirius was so nice to him. Not everyone would have let a 6’4” hockey player sit on their lap and wait for their boyfriends. At the moment, though, Sirius looked a bit like Leo had thrown ice water in his face. “And obviouslyFinn and Logan are my boys and I love them so much and they were sopretty when I met them but, y’know, it’s the thrill of the captain vibe.”

“Am I interrupting something?” a new voice asked through poorly-suppressed laughter.

Leo turned his head to look up with a smile. “Hey, Loops, how’re you?”

“Pretty good.” Remus shared a look with Sirius, grinning, before taking the seat next to them. “You two look…content.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius said immediately, though Leo felt his chest hitch with a laugh; he tapped Leo lightly on the elbow a moment later. “Finn’s heading over, d’accord?”

“But I just got here,” he mumbled.

“You’re in my spot,” Remus teased, sliding a glass over. “Drink up, bud.”

Leo narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“Water.”

He thought for a second—he wasn’t thirsty, but his mouth was getting dry—and yawned, sitting up enough to stretch before grabbing it. In two gulps, it was gone. “Aw.”

Remus bit his lip and passed a different glass over. “You can have mine too, it’s okay.”

“How are both of you so nice?” he asked, looking between them in something like distress. The music was getting too loud, but they were both watching him intently. “It’s not even fair, man. Can’t you just be an asshole for once so the rest of us don’t look bad?”

Sirius shook his head and pressed the water cup into his hand. “Been there, done that. Do not recommend. Besides, the designated drivers don’t get to be mean.”

Leo felt a little better once the water was gone; he blinked slowly, scanning the crowds for any signs of Finn’s hair or Logan’s ass. Both were identifying features he would never get tired of. “Loops?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is your hair soft?”

“I—” He tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Have you ever touched my hair?”

He leaned back against Sirius, stretching his legs out until his knees popped. “No, but it looks soft. Like Finn’s, if Finn was blonder and had curls. Fluffy.”

“It’s very fluffy,” Sirius confirmed, pulling him up a little more.

“Hey!” Leo protested. “Watch the hands, your boyfriend is right there!”

Sirius rolled his eyes with a huff. “I was making sure you didn’t slide off the bench.”

“Sure,” Leo said with a suspicious glare. “Just ‘cause I won MVP for this game—”

“Okay,” Sirius groaned, standing and detangling his limbs to transfer Leo’s weight onto Remus. “I’m going to go get your boyfriends from wherever they got distracted, and then you’re going to go home and sleep so you’re not dying at practice tomorrow. Oui?”

He disappeared into the mass of people without giving Leo time to respond, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he craned his neck to see over people’s heads. “Rude,” Leo sulked, cuddling up into Remus’ side instead.

“I know, right?” He took a sip of something lemony and Leo pulled a face. “What?”

“Aren’t you DD?”

“Last I checked, DD’s are allowed to drink lemonade,” he laughed, patting the top of his head. “That was an awesome save in the third, by the way. You could’ve got the hat from that one alone.”

“Which one?” Leo yawned again, licking his lips to rid them of the stickiness he could feel forming.

“The splits one.”

“Mmm, yeah, that was pretty badass.” More people darkened his periphery and he scooted over to make room. “Hey, mes amours.”

“I hear you were bothering our dear captain?” Finn asked, kissing his cheek with a grin. There was no alcohol on his breath, only the mint from the peppermint candies he always stole from the little container by the bar. “Come on, baby, time to go.”

“But Loops and I were talking,” he whined, though it only took a small tug on Finn’s part to get him to snuggle up into his soft shirt. “He was telling me how good I did in the game.”

A warm hand stroked his hair out of his eyes; warmer lips brushed his forehead, and he felt Logan’s hand on his knee. “Bedtime, love,” he said in a quiet voice, almost too soft for Leo to hear over the noisy bar. “Wanna be in the middle?”

Leo looked up in hope. “Really?”

“Ouais. C’mon, Knutty, up you go.”

He wobbled a little as he stood, but got his feet under him within a few moments with the help of Finn’s arm around his waist and waved off everyone else’s offered help. “Gonna be fine for practice,” he promised, patting Sirius’ hand with a nod. “Totally fine, don’t worry. Go—hic—go grind on your boyfriend, ‘kay? You both need it.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Sirius muttered. “I pity your head in the morning.”

“I’m fine,” Leo scoffed. He was already sleepy—there was no way he would have a headache, not after he had two whole glasses of water. “G’night.”

“Drive safe,” Sirius and Remus chorused as Logan fit himself under Leo’s other arm to kiss his neck twice, sending butterflies through his stomach. The outside world was nice and quiet; Leo barely got himself buckled into his seat before dozing off with his head against the cool passenger window.

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (4)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 5.2k warnings: symptoms of depression, PTSD, anxiety, some really sweet moments to balance it out, more book recs 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“You’re staring at the doors again, sweetie.”

Chin resting on your hands, arms folded out on the countertop of the library’s front desk, you tore your eyes away from the entrance to find Mrs. Jefferson peering over at you from over the bridge of her glasses. She smirked as she returned to her book, knowing she’d caught you in the act.  

“Have patience,” she said simply.

“Book club is tomorrow and—” you sighed, a heaviness returning to your body as you slumped back against the counter, stare drifting back to the doors at the entrance. The sun was beaming outside, reflecting in beautiful rays as it illuminated the walkway and touched over old oak and the colorful bindings of novels. 

You frowned. “I really thought he was going to come.”

“This James Barnes... he’s a soldier, yes? Like my boy?”  

You nodded, disappointment burning like a lump in your throat, though you swallowed it back. “A Sergeant. Sam said he came home a little under a year ago.”  

“Then he’ll come,” Mrs. Jefferson pressed confidently, sliding her glasses up her nose, the chain of purple beads clicking against the gem stones on her sweater. “Boys like that don’t break their word. Even if he is a bit of a hesitant one.”

You knew what she meant by that. Hesitant.  

No one liked to talk about the dangers of a soldier post-war. It was uncomfortable; the idea that they could still be fighting a battle long beyond the absence of a weapon in their hands and the threat of present danger. Heroes weren’t supposed to have chinks in their armor. They weren’t supposed to crumble and break under the weight of what happened beyond borders and the guilt they carried.  

They were supposed to be strong; a symbol of a great country and a willing tribute to place upon a pedestal. It was unacceptable to be a burden, unacceptable to do anything other than seamlessly integrate back into a society that they never really knew to begin with.  

It was all a farce; a rigged game set to line the pockets of the rich and exploit everyone else in its path – sent off to fight for a cause no one really understood or believed in. It left behind good men and women to the rubble; Bucky Barnes among them.  

Sam hadn’t told you much about Bucky before you met him, but you knew enough to tell that it was a struggle to get him to leave the apartment. He was isolated and quiet and hardly recognizable from the man you’d seen in photos. Only, it wasn’t the lack of his left arm that drew your attention when you first saw him, but the lingering sadness in his eyes.  

Sam had a picture hanging in the office that often pulled you in. Bucky stood on his left side, smiling so wide it left lines on his face. He was bright, light as a feather, only weighed down by Steve’s arm slung around his shoulders. You wondered if the man in the photo would have flirted shamelessly with you, if he’d have corny pickup lines or offer to take you dancing. He looked like the sort of man who had girls chasing his tail, a line of heartbreak in his wake. He was beautiful.  

It was strange to see him like that, comparing him to the man he was today. Now, it was like a cloud lingered over his head, draining the color from his skin and chipping away at his soul until it dimmed and crumbled and faded away.  

But you’d seen glimpses of the man in the photo. He was still beautiful; a little hurt and dragging his feet, but beautiful. His smile wasn’t quite as wide and the cloud was still present, but there was a peak of sunshine peering through. A single ray puncturing over stormy skies, but it was something. He’d laughed and teased and it was more than Sam had known him to do in months. You were determined to see the sun touch his skin again. If only he’d let you guide him there.  

“I’m going to go restock on the second level,” you conceded, pushing yourself up from the counter and sauntering over to the cart lined heavy with books.  

“Alright sweetie. I’ll be sure to page you when your Sergeant shows up.”

You felt a heat burning in your face at the very idea of ‘your Sergeant’. Mrs. Jefferson chuckled to herself, eyes still down on her book. She waved you off, not giving you a chance to object, even if you could string together a coherent sentence.  

***

Bucky couldn’t get out of bed.  

He’d been in this predicament hundreds of times before; staring up at the ceiling, wasting the days away as the curtains blocked the light and shielded him from the reminder of another sun daring to rise beyond his window. His energy would be drained and his willingness to so much as brush his teeth was obsolete. He’d known what it felt like to not be able to get out of bed.  

This was different.  

He had somewhere to be. He actually wanted to get up. He really fucking wanted to.

But the pain in his arm had flared to one of the worst episodes he’d had in months and it rendered him useless; the arm that was both there and not there. He could feel his left hand curl to a fist, could feel the itch on his palm, but when he tried to scratch it, he was only met with thin air, his right hand sinking to the mattress in search of the sensation that didn’t exist.  

It was infuriating.  

The nerve endings in his shoulder were going haywire. It felt like his arm was being ripped from his body and it took nearly all the energy he had not to let it consume him. He’d even gone as far to bite off a piece of his cheek in an effort to suppress the lump in his throat.  

Sam would have frowned at that, spewed him some bullshit about how crying can be therapeutic and Steve would nod his head annoyingly in agreement, but Bucky was tougher than that. He had to be tougher than that. If he allowed himself to unlatch that gate, it would consume him whole. He’d drown.  

Hinges squeaked at the front entrance as the door swung open and a pair of heavy footsteps came rushing into the apartment.  

“I’m coming, buddy! Hold on!” Sam called, the plastic swish of the grocery bag handing off his arms dropping to the floor. Bucky tried to concentrate on the sound of running water, the bottle of pills shaking in the small orange bottle, and not on the pain threatening to tear him in half.  

The door to his bedroom flung open and Sam rushed in with a glass of water and his fist closed around two red capsules. He paused in the frame, a frown pushing down at his mouth, and Bucky could only imagine what he looked like; disheveled, sweating, laying in day old clothes and muddled sheets. His right hand was shaking.  

“Alright, help me out, Barnes,” Sam said, setting the glass down on the bedside table. He placed a steady hand on Bucky’s back to help push himself upright. Bucky swung his legs off the side of the bed, finding his balance before Sam placed the pills in his hand.  

Bucky threw them back into his mouth, holding his hand out for the glass of water that would come next. It landed in his grip and he gulped down the medication. There was no instant relief with pain like this, but the knowledge it would soon wear off to something manageable was enough.  

“Thanks,” he mumbled out, voice tense as he struggled to find it.  

“Insurance companies are assholes,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head, though he patted Bucky on the knee. “Cutting off coverage for a fucking vet with no warning like that? Can’t believe you’ve been without this stuff for almost a week. It’s messed up.”  

Bucky had come to expect it. He knew something had to go wrong eventually with how things were starting to turn around. He’d actually been looking forward to seeing you at the library and almost went that next day if it wasn’t for the sudden attack on his own body. He'd tried to deal with it on his own, thinking he might sleep it off, but then it became unbearable. Insurance wouldn’t budge and he didn’t have the energy to argue on the phone with them all day. Thankfully, Sam did.  

Except now it was a day before the next book club meeting and Bucky didn’t know how he was supposed to face you. Part of him wondered if you'd be disappointed, if maybe you’d steal a glance over the doors and hope that it was him walking through, only to be let down as each day passed by. The other half wondered if you’d care at all.  

But he’d seen the way you’d smiled at him, how you’d lit up at the idea of him stopping by.  

You’d care.  

He wasn’t sure if that hurt worse, seeing as he never showed up.  

“You could still go.”

Bucky sighed at Sam’s suggestion. He wasn’t teasing him, wasn’t wearing that shit-eating grin. He was being serious. It was the kind of look that reminded Bucky that under it all, Sam was one of his closest friends, one of the few that stuck around when everything went to shit.

“She’ll want to see you,” Sam continued, nudging Bucky’s side with a soft smile, but Bucky shook his head, unconvinced.

“What am I supposed to say to her, Sam?” Bucky groaned, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “’Sorry I stood you up, but I felt like my hand was being sawed off on an arm I don’t even fucking have?’”

“Why not?” Sam shrugged, earning a glare in response he let roll off his shoulders with ease. “She’d understand, Buck. She knows what comes with the territory here. She’s a lot more familiar with this stuff than you think.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, a pang of jealousy burning hot in his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe you should ask her why she got involved with the VA in the first place.”

Bucky pressed his lips to a thin line, a silence coming over them. That was an immensely personal question; one akin to someone asking him how he’d lost his arm. He wasn’t sure that was an answer you’d be willing to share.  

Sam exhaled a heavy breath, patting Bucky three times on the knee before he stood up. “Let the meds kick in, but promise you’ll try to go, alright?”

Bucky stared up at Sam for a moment before he conceded with a short nod. The pain in his shoulder was starting to lessen, at least. It didn’t feel like his arm was being torn from his body or a knife was plunging into a part of him that didn’t exist anymore. It would likely get back to a place he could deal with within the hour.

“I promise,” Bucky said. “I’ll go.”

***

A brush of warm air filtered in through the vents as Bucky stepped inside the library. It was bigger than he remembered with large stain glass windows on the outer walls, filtering in a colorful sunlight onto the aisles upon aisles of books. At the center, just ahead of the entrance, was a reception desk. Bucky exhaled a tense breath in an attempt to rid himself from the nerves rattling in his veins and made his way to the woman sitting behind the counter.  

She was reading quietly in her seat, a pair of glasses on a beaded chain perched at the very tip of her nose. She didn’t look up in his direction until he stood at the edge of the desk, and only then, she caught glance of him over the top of her glasses before a smile rose on her lips.  

“Can I help you, young man?”  

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to meet someone. She, uh, works here. Y/n.”

The woman nodded. She wore the kind of smile on her face Bucky was familiar with. He’d seen it in Sam about a dozen times in the last week; the kind of smile that said ‘I was right.’

“You must be Sergeant Barnes,” she said as she picked up the radio from the desk.  

Bucky nodded quickly, glancing over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he felt jittery. He tried not to let the fact that you’d clearly talked to this woman about him throw him completely off his game. If he even had game to begin with…  

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky replied with an even tone. She smirked.  

“Y/n,” she called into the radio, “you have a guest at the front desk.”

The woman held up a finger to him though it trembled with age, signaling for him to wait a moment. Bucky nodded, tucking his hand into his pocket as he silently made his way over to the series of chairs lined along the wall.  

He gripped his fist tight inside his pocket, trying to ignore the pulsing in his shoulder. It had lessened considerably since Sam brought him his meds, but it hadn’t gone away completely. Showering had taken longer than usual and it took him nearly four minutes just to pull a shirt over his head. His army jacket hung over his shoulders, wrapped in a protective layer, loose sleeve at his side. 

“If you’re pulling my chain, Mrs. Jefferson…”  

Bucky perked up at the sound of your voice. You were crossing the main entrance from the staircase, half jogging to the counter where the woman, Mrs. Jefferson, was grinning to herself from behind her book.  

You draped over the counter, toes barely keeping hold on the tile floors as you attempted to reach for her book, but she snatched it from your grasp just in time. You huffed, sinking back down the floor.  

“It’s not funny!” you whined and Bucky almost felt a little guilty for not making his presence known yet, but you were just so cute the way you slumped your shoulders and glanced back at the entrance.  

Mrs. Jefferson pointed over to where Bucky had slowly begun to make his way towards you, but you folded your arms over your chest. Bucky cleared his throat when he stood a few paces off your shoulder, but you didn’t seem to hear him.  

Mrs. Jefferson caught Bucky’s eye before she turned her attention back to you. “Sweetie, he’s—”

“He’s not coming, okay?” you groaned and Bucky felt a stone drop into his stomach. “I—I thought he would but… I was wrong.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak but suddenly his throat was dry. Mrs. Jefferson’s smile started to fade. Clearly, Bucky wasn’t the only one who heard the disappointment in your voice, the sliver of heartbreak, too. He tried to speak, to call your name, to say something, but he was marbled stone.  

“I’m going back to work.”

There wasn’t time to pull his words together before you slammed head first into Bucky’s chest. He stumbled back a few paces, surprised, and you gasped, hands flying to your mouth.  

“Oh God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t—” You stilled, taking in who was standing in front of you. “Bucky?”

He pressed out a smile, though his ears were burning red. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No! N-no, you’re totally fine! I didn’t—I didn’t think you were—” You blinked a few times before your eyes darted back at Mrs. Jefferson who only smirked from behind her book, adjusting the glasses on the tip of her nose. You turned back to Bucky, brushing out the hem of your skirt and wrapping the thick layer of a lavender colored cardigan tightly around your waist, almost like a blanket.  

You exhaled a nervous breath, a nervous smile lifting into your cheeks. “I’m happy you came.”

“It would have been sooner, I swear,” Bucky replied quickly, watching helplessly as your smile brightened into a laugh. “But, um, my uh—”  

He chewed on the edge of his lip. Was he really going to tell you what kept him held up in his room for days on end? Would it bitter the sweet way you looked at him to know that he was a mess under a poorly constructed surface, tied together with string and scotch tape? But you were looking at him so fondly, he wondered if there was anything he could say that could take that away.

“My arm,” he admitted, waiting for a flash of disgust on your face that never came. You softened a bit, but your eyes never left his. He cleared his throat. “It, um… It was just acting up. I ran out of meds and the pain it—it got bad. The kinda pain that sorta makes me wish I had the arm just so I could saw it off myself.”

Shit. He hadn’t mean to say that much but there was just something about the way you looked at him that made him feel like he couldn’t say a damn wrong thing. You pursed your lips, nodding in as much understanding as you could offer. You gestured to the staircase and Bucky followed you without question.  

“I would have been here last week,” Bucky finished because he needed you to know. He couldn’t stand the idea of you being upset, of that sliver of disappointment in your voice when you’d accepted he wasn’t going to show. He needed you to know he’d tried.  

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said simply, though he could tell you appreciated it nonetheless. You offered him a smile, one that washed away any feelings of doubt that crept up to the surface. The pain in his shoulder was long forgotten when you looked at him like that.  

“I just wanted you to know.”

I just wanted you to know I’m trying.

He had something to look forward to now, a reason to get out of his bed and open the curtains and look at the fucking sun for once. He had reason to shower and go outside and shove away all the thoughts of self-doubt and paranoia because there was something incredible waiting for him beyond the door.  

I just wanted you to know you’re the reason I’m trying.

“Come on,” you grinned, leading him to the staircase. “I have a few books in mind you might like.”  

Your hand extended in his direction, but you caught yourself when you realized what you were doing. It was seamless enough that you easily played it off as you tugged your sweater tight around your body, but he noticed. It was an intimate gesture, a closeness he hadn’t known in years.  

He hadn’t remembered what it felt like to crave something like that.

***

It didn’t take long for Bucky to settle on The Martian by Andy Weir. It was the first book you pulled from the shelves, one amongst a series of alternatives you had ready in the event this one didn’t appeal to him. All it took was a single glance over the back cover, a slight incline in his brow, and he was sold.

“I trust you,” was all Bucky had said; so simply, as if it didn’t take the breath straight from your chest.   

Bucky didn’t have a library card you realized as you brought him back to the front desk. He’d sheepishly asked to check it out on your account, but you were determined to see more of him and you hoped that by getting him his own card, he might be more inclined to come back. Not that you explained it that way per say, but he didn’t object at least.

It had taken a lot less time than either of you anticipated and you found yourself following him to the exit, both of you dragging your feet.

“So, um…” he started, a nervous chuckle in his voice. “That was easy.”

“Yeah,” you scratched at the back of your neck, glancing to the clock hanging high on the eastern wall. “I hope you like it after all this trust you’re putting in my judgement.”

“I’m sure I will.”

A short silence swept over. Neither of you moving to leave. A couple swerved around you in an effort to get to the doors. The silence wasn’t awkward, but there was a nervous energy in it, like you were both waiting for the other to make the first move. Only, you both did it at once.  

“Would you want to—”

“I’m off at four—”

You bit down on your lips, suppressing a laugh. You gestured for him to go first. His looked so sweet with the pink in his cheeks. A man who had been once rendered as a weapon and he wore a blush in his cheeks. Your stomach held butterflies in its cage.  

“There’s a coffeeshop nearby,” he continued nervously. “I was thinking I could replace that coffee of yours I spilled last week…”

Your cheeks were starting to ache from how wide you were smiling. “Give me five minutes? I just need to wrap things up with Mrs. Jefferson and then I’m yours.”

Bucky’s eyes widened for a second, a flash of something unreadable on his face. He shook it off quickly and nodded, telling you he’d wait by the chairs along the wall until you were ready. It wasn’t until you were halfway to the desk that you’d realized what you’d said.  

I’m yours.

A harmless saying; one people used every day in passing. Still, you felt that same surge of energy at the thought. From the twists in your stomach and the stammer in your heart, you knew that if he’d asked, it would be true.  

***

Bucky watched as you scurried back to the main desk, a few quick glances back over your shoulder in his direction like you were making sure he was still there. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it ached in your cheeks. He’d never known anyone to smile as much as you did, like you had this limitless supply of joy eager to be tapped into. He couldn’t help but feel a twist in his stomach, knowing he had been able to syphon some of that joy and bring it to the surface. It was him you were smiling at. It felt like a dream.

He glanced down at the book nestled into the sleeve of his bag; a stunning ombre in shades of orange to red to black, a lone astronaut in the center – like he was floating adrift. You’d told him it was a story of survival, of the intricacies of humanity and human connection. It was funny at times and filled with science beyond your pay grade, but it was mesmerizing.  

There was an unspoken hope he could read in your eyes that he might connect to the main character, Mark Watney in his search for connection, in his desperate hope to free himself from the isolation, in his resilience. You’d said Mark was an exceptional character, one with courage and determination to be admired.  

Bucky wasn’t sure he could stand up to the likes of Mark Watney, but he would certainly try.  

The glimmer in your eye as you spoke about the book, almost as if it were an old friend, was enough to convince him. For the first time in years, he felt the urge to read when he got home, just so he could see the look on your face in book club when you realized he’d already started it. He wanted to make you proud, wanted to see more of your smile. It was his new drive.  

A few minutes later, you came jogging back up to him. Your purse hung over your shoulders, a few new books of your own tucked under your arm. You’d done more than finish your shift at the desk though, he realized, because his eyes flickered to a reflective shine on your lips, one that hadn’t been there before. You’d put on lip gloss.

His heart flipped.  

“Ready?” you asked, gesturing to the doors. All bright eyes and sunshine as you looked at him.  

“There’s a café called Luciana’s not too far from here. I’ve heard good things about it. Might be quiet,” Bucky offered and a flash of something unreadable crossed your features. “Do you know it?”

“I go there every Sunday before book club! It’s my favorite,” you replied, nearly skipping in your steps. “Replacing my coffee and getting it right down to the same shop? I’m impressed, Bucky.”

He chuckled, hanging his head as he followed you down the descending staircase and into the heavy flow of pedestrian traffic. He’d forgotten how busy the sidewalks could get at rush hour and the smile quickly drained from his face, though he wouldn’t let you see.  

Bucky tried to focus on you as the strangers circled in around him, how you were laughing at the coincidence of it all, starting on a tangent of your favorite donuts at the shop. Your voice was like a beacon and he did his best use it as a guide.  

But he could feel the quicken pace of his heart inside his chest, how it thumped through his ribs and pulsed into his head the closer strangers got to him. He swerved out of the way of a tourist who was too busy looking down at his phone to notice Bucky in his path. He kept his head down, hand clenched tightly in his jacket pocket, eyes staring at the concrete.  

Teenagers were whispering behind him, snickering under their breath, and Bucky could hear the harsh ‘shhh’ of a father at wit’s end. His lungs felt tight, certain that the boys were mocking the loose sleeve hanging down by his side. He could have taken it if here were on his own. His ears would flush red and a wash of shame and embarrassment would flood his senses, but he could have taken it.  

Not with you by his side. Not when you could be privy to the harsh stares and the cruel voices, the validation to a fear he’d known to be true long before he met you – that he was a broken mess of who he used to be and he would never find that sense of normalcy again. He was kidding himself into thinking that you could ever want someone like—

“Bucky?”

When he looked up at you, your smile had fallen away, replaced with concern. It must not have been the first time you called his name. He didn’t know what to say. He felt small, like a child, embarrassed that even on a good day the influx of people still rendered him to a state of panic.  

“Come on,” you said quietly, glancing around to an alley off your shoulder. “Let’s take the scenic route.”  

He followed gratefully, staring at your shoulder blades as you led him away from the busy hustle of the crowd and along empty side streets and residential neighborhoods. It would take longer this way, but you didn’t seem to mind. You were too busy admiring the architecture of the brownstones and the beautiful array of plants and flowers hanging along the windows. In the open space, you skipped a few paces ahead, arms out wide and twirled around, simply because you could. You laughed and it echoed up along the buildings.  

Bucky could have handed you his heart right then. He could have pulled it straight from his chest and set it into your palms. He wondered if you would handle it with the tender sort of care he hoped you would. His heart was fraying and damaged, after all. It required a gentle touch.  

You fell back in line with him easily and you checked to make sure the next block wasn’t too busy before you led him down another side street. He tried to ignore the voices telling him he was a burden, that his baggage was dragging heavy at your feet, but it crept to the surface no matter how many times you smiled at him.  

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled out, willing his voice to be stronger than it felt. “I don’t know why this is such an issue for me. I was fine on the way over.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Bucky,” you said gently, slowing your pace until you came to a stop.  

Bucky dragged his feet, stopping along a bush of pink hydrangeas planted outside a stunning brick townhome. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your hand reached out to him instinctively, almost in slow motion, and you only paused as you realized what you were doing and pulled back. You cleared your throat.

“I’m not ever someone you have to apologize to about this stuff, okay?” you continued with a kind of sincerity in your voice, Bucky didn’t have a choice but to believe you. The way you looked at him nearly pulled him to pieces. “It comes and goes. Waxes and wanes. There’s no fault. No blame. Just tell me if something’s wrong, so I can help. That’s all I ask.”

Were you speaking from experience? Did you know someone who had been as shattered as he was? Was it the reason Sam wanted him to ask about why you were involved with the VA to begin with?  

It was quiet on the side street; the only sound the distant footsteps from traffic up ahead and the low rumble of car engines in the distance. A bird chirped from a low handing branch above.  

You shoved your hands into your pockets in an effort to keep yourself from reaching for his. He was surprised at the twist in his stomach when he wished you would have tried just one more time. Maybe he could have had some courage to take it.  

“Okay,” Bucky agreed, feeling a weight lift from his chest. When you smiled again it was small— a little heavy— but it touched your eyes. There was a relief in it, maybe an appreciation, too. It swept away some of the anxiety from his veins.  

“Okay.” Your smile widened as you continued to walk down the sidewalk. Bucky found himself feeling a little lighter as he followed behind.  

When the two of you approached the main street again along the block Luciana’s was tucked away in, Bucky didn’t feel as though he was suffocating anymore. He could sense his reflexes picking up, a subtle increase in his heart rate, but he walked a little closer to you, your hip bumping against his every so often and he found that it grounded him. It kept him firm on the surface when he felt like he was floating up into a distant unknown. He wondered if you knew the extent to which you affected him.  

Luciana’s was quiet inside as Bucky jutted out ahead of you to reach for the door. A soft strum of an acoustic guitar and a Spanish speaking singer’s intricate melody hummed over the speakers. He felt a solid breath of air fill his lungs, tasting of coffee beans and fresh pastries.  

“Welcome to—” a voice called from behind the counter before she paused, eyes falling on you. “Y/n!”  

A woman ran out from behind the counter, dressed in a stained apron and a long, bright pink dress, and held her arms out to you. You laughed as she enveloped you to her chest.  

“My darling! It is not Sunday, you know. You’re getting your days mixed up!” she exclaimed, wagging her finger at you. She didn’t even give you time to explain before she turned to Bucky, who suddenly felt a burn of heat on his face. “Ah! You finally brought me one of your boys!”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, turning to you quickly. His stomach dropped.  

“She means at the VA,” you explained, a little embarrassed at her implication as you shuffled your feet, eyes darting at the floor. Bucky raised an eyebrow in realization, eyes flickering back to the woman – who he assumed to be Luciana herself – as she scurried back around the counter. He noticed then that she was wearing slippers on her feet.  

“Come, come!” She called eagerly, waiting with a tapping toe at the register.  

You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a breath of a laugh escaping before you stepped up to the counter. You didn’t hesitate in your order, though you took some extra time in looking over the pastries and donuts after Bucky told you to pick something out for him. You put so much thought into it, it was really quite sweet. He waited until you reached down for your purse to slip his card over the counter to Luciana.  

She wore that same smile he’d seen on Mrs. Jefferson at the library. That smirk. Like they knew something he didn’t.  

You heard the ring of the cash registered and looked up at him, agape. You swatted his arm without thinking twice about it and there was a comfort in that. He laughed, taking his coffee and settling in at a table by the windows as you followed behind.  

As he watched you across the table, your eyes glancing out to the pedestrians as they walked back, nursing the steaming mug of coffee between your hands, that morning suddenly felt like it was a life time ago.  

Had he really been paralyzed with pain, unable to move from his bed, just a few hours earlier? It felt like a century had passed in between. In a rare indulgence, Bucky let himself wonder what it would feel like to spend all his time with you; if maybe time moved so fast it swept him off his feet or if it moved slow enough to allow him to catch every second.  

All he knew was that he wanted more.

[spacedikut]

Derek would ask Spencer to explain how he feels about u to try and get him to understand that he’s in love with you but Spencer would just be like... is that not friendship?

god this idea is so fucking good but. i didn’t do it justice cause i went down a way more serious route :p 1.4k words, gn!reader

the team have been trying tirelessly to get spencer to just... see. what the rest of them see. the longing, lingering looks and requests to work together, the subtle touches that are so sweet in themselves but, with the added knowledge that spencer is Spencer, its...well, the team knows what they see. spencer is just lagging behind a little.

they try a whole plethora of methods. everyone talks to him and spencer either doesn’t connect the dots or simply says “we’re just friends!” and emily gets so frustrated she flicks spencer on the forehead and leaves a mark (i ask you picture pure, innocent spencer sat at his desk, watching emily’s retreating form with nothing but a puppy-dog confused expression and a red dent in the middle of his forehead).

penelope is at her wits end, so derek decides to step up and retry a very basic method: talking spencer through how he feels for you. surely he’s self-aware enough that he’ll hear himself and hear how un-friendlike it all sounds and... tada! love.

but it’s never quite as easy as you’ll think it’ll be, is it?

spencer should’ve known something was amiss when derek asked him if he wanted to hang out and let him choose where they would go - spencer? being allowed to choose where to hang out after work? have you ever heard of something called a red flag?

so spencer chooses a cafe which - immediately, the second they step through the doorway - spencer has a joy to him, telling derek about the last time you and him came here and what you ordered and what you thought of it and all these details that even the most attentive best friend wouldn’t think were anything more than trivial matters. he remembers the shape you tore your napkin into, for goodness sake. in what realm is that friendly behaviour?

then, to make matters worse, spencer, mid-walk to a table in the corner by a large window, abruptly changes directions, making derek almost spill his coffee. spencer apologies, then says they can’t sit in that booth cause that’s where you and spencer sit and - well. that’s your and spencer’s place, you can’t disrupt that! friends! friendly things and friends doing friendly stuff. friendship.

derek gives this scoff that spencer is so used to he barely reacts. when they sit, spencer is acutely aware that derek is staring - furrowed brows and this intense, firm gaze that only appears when he’s thinking. spencer’s only slightly intimidated. 

he’s never been able to lie to derek. he’s never been a good liar, period. he’s good at omissions and burying himself and his emotions but, god, if someone asks just the right question, he’ll fold like the cheap deckchair he truly is.

and derek... derek knows spencer better than he knows himself sometimes.

(is there anyone else that has similar qualities? no. of course not. only his best pal derek and not a colleague/very pretty person known as You)

a question. a question is all it takes.

“so, you and y/n come here a lot?”

derek’s starting light and spencer is so enthralled at the mention of you every worry he had about why he’s here with derek and why derek is looking at him like that flies out the window. 

“we do! actually, it’s the perfect meeting spot; the most convenient distance between our apartments and we both have favourite drinks here. we’ve become regulars, actually, so we make a habit of coming at least once a week at a minimum-“

and he keeps going, sweetly reminiscing about the first time you visited to the silly games you’ve created - because you’ll spend that long here, sitting opposite each other and just each other - and derek wonders how spencer doesn’t see it. doesn’t see the way he lights up at the mention of you, rambles like you’re a statistic spencer’s known for years and can’t help but bestow on everyone at every opportunity, not to mention the physical reaction he has to you. you’re not even present and spencer is wide-eyed, rosy cheeked, permanent curl to either side of his lips that looks involuntary.

he’s in love with you. his entire self, from head to toe, from mind to soul. everyone can see it, except you and him, apparently.

“they make you happy, huh?”

“well, obviously,” spencer hehs, “they’re my best friend.”

there’s an opportunity here, shyly gleaming from the corner of the conversation and derek digs it out. “you got a definition for best friend, reid?”

spencer’s taking a sip of his drink, but is happy to share his knowledge. he’s not quite as bright when he’s saying it. “a best friend has many definitions. friendship itself is usually defined as a relationship of mutual affection between people - it is a stronger form of interpersonal bond than an association, and has been studied in multiple academic fields-“

derek hums, encouraging him to keep going. he’ll get there.

and he does, after delving a little too far into the nature versus nurture debate.

“id consider you a best friend. jj, too. and garcia, of course. except... except with y/n it’s- it’s different.”

derek pretends to be shocked. “how’s that?”

“well... they have all the qualities id want in a friend - honesty, generosity, empathy...humour-“ spencer smiles to himself, small and intimate, remembering an inside joke between the two of you. “but they’re more than that, too. they’re there for me - not-not that you guys aren’t there for me too-“ derek just raises an eyebrow. “but...it’s different, with them. it always is.”

the shift of topic from friendship to you has spencer unfocused on his surroundings, eyes glazed over as he stares to the side of derek, who feels like he’s intruding - he rarely understands what goes on in that big head of spencer’s, vast in it’s knowledge and memories and self-perception, but right now he’s confident he does. 

it’s you. he’s thinking of you, the moments you have together - perhaps in this very cafe - that are reserved for spencer and spencer alone, a side of you derek will never know because it’s not his to know; it’s spencer’s, just as spencer is yours.

his voice is level but distant, the warning signs of that magnificent mind finding the pieces and putting them together. “i think-i think about them often. how they are, what they’re doing, if they’re thinking of me too. i know they’re only a text message away or-or, on cases, a few feet away... i guess i don’t want to seem clingy. or desperate.”

“they’d never think that. you know that, right?”

“i know. i-i know that. but-i don’t... i can’t.. i don’t want to risk losing them, i guess. one wrong move and they’ll realise what a-what a complete mess i am. ill unravel and they’ll see all the dark inside and they... they don’t deserve that.”

derek goes to interrupt, because god is spencer wrong, but he doesn’t have the chance.

“they deserve love and laughter and everything i can’t give them if they... if they get too close.” now, spencer brings himself to look derek in the eye. there’s a seriousness there, a solemn stand that spencer doesn’t often take. “i can’t lose them, morgan. i can’t.” his hands tighten around his coffee cup. “i want them here, with me, for as long as i can convince them to stay. i don’t want to be selfish, i don’t- i don’t mean to be, but. i want this. i want them. every day for the rest of my life, i want them. i choose them. im just terrified they’ll see me and... they won’t choose me.”

there’s an expected silence that befalls the two of them, the busting background noise of the cafe the only moving piece. does he get it now? does he understand what has motivated every thought and feeling? every worry and action?

“reid,” derek says, softly, in a tone that has spencer straightening his back. “that’s not... that’s not just friendship. you know that, right? you can see that?”

spencer blinks. 

no. you’re friends - close friends, yes, but friends nonetheless.

but he thinks back to what he’s just said - 

he’d say the same for jj, right? for penelope, and for derek. even gideon, perhaps.

except... no. he wouldn’t. it’s for you, he’s for you, all of it and all of him.

and then the picture is as clear as day. no fog, no obscurity, no hesitance - and spencer’s relieved. relieved that finally, finally, he can put all of his feelings into one simple sentence.

“im in love with them.”

“yeah,” derek says, leaning back against the booth. “yeah, reid, you are.”

[creativeashproductions]

Curiosity // Luke Patterson

Summary: After filling up another journal designed his songbook Luke is left empty handed. With the offer to a shelf of blanket journals is given he’s immediately choosing. But Luke’s curiosity leads him to a discovery. In other words Luke finds Perfect Harmony in Reader’s bedroom.

Requested: Yes by @averyharrypotterlife​ 

Warnings: None.

Words: 1.7 (including lyrics)

A/N: Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the 5000+ followers whether it was years ago and you didn’t unfollow or in the future. Thank you for enjoying and interacting in something I’ve always loved: writing.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX PLEASE!

Masterlist

Luke’s always been a curious person going as far back as his early childhood. The most consistent evidence being during the Christmas holidays. Until he was ten, yes, he’s aware that his friends stopped believing in Santa way earlier. The young lad would stay up hidden in the living room waiting to catch Santa. Without fail, Luke would wake up in his outer space planet sheets having fallen asleep in his mission.

When he was twelve years old, he was left at his aunt and uncle’s house for the weekend due to a work-related thing. His older cousin was eighteen at the time and at college, so Luke stayed in his bedroom. Luke couldn’t help but snoop through Bryan’s personal items, and in a drawer with a false bottom, he discovered magazines.

Luke had a lot of fun that weekend diligently going through the magazines his mother would skin his hide even knowing about them. He may have had to use the excuse of having a cold for the entire box of Kleenex missing. No one was the wiser on that weekend.

Now when Luke was fourteen years old, he had snuck into the Rated R film Candyman with Alex and Reggie. Luke’s parents had been strict in their rules and definitely had shot down the question of seeing the film. The three didn’t sleep with the lights out for a month after that, and the truth came out when no lie was sufficient to their concerned parents.

Luke Patterson didn’t care about boundaries. Why ask for permission when you can just ask for forgiveness? It worked with going through Julie’s dream box, but all personal items got hidden from the ghostly guitarist.

“No!” Luke exclaimed flipping through his song journal once more in hopes of a blank page. The frustration in his body snapping the pencil he had been using.

“You good?” You questioned glancing up from the essay you graded as a teacher’s assistant for an AP course. Luke’s frustrated brown met yours with a cute pout on his lips.

“I’ve filled my journal up. I hate using loose-leaf, but no money means no buying things.” Luke roughly scrubbed one hand on his face.

“You could always just forever borrow one from the- “Luke quickly shot that down with a look of absolute horror, “Okay…so stealing a no.”

“I did listen to my parents on certain aspects. I would never steal anything, other than the food when we didn’t have enough cash.” Luke’s brown hue had softened back into the hazel that caused flutters in your heart, “I have no respect for thieves.”

You nodded before scribbling a suggestion on the paper in dark red, “I have a shelf in my room dedicated solely to blank journals. If you want to, you can take one free of charge.”

With a quick smile, Luke disappeared from the room to your personal domain he sometimes hung out with you in. You had no misgivings on the teen finding solace in your room and gave him free rein; your prized possessions hidden very well.

Luke appeared in the soft blue and lilac bedroom with the queen white iron wrought style bed in the middle. A white desk in the corner with a multitude of bookcases and shelves in the room. The desk chair neatly pushed into the desk as well he went straight to the shelf.

Journals of all colours and styles with a label on the shelf noting them as empty. It was packed with dozens, but it was the midnight blue one that called to the boy. In his reach, he bumped an emerald green one off the edge. It opened having hit the edge of the desk.

As he leaned down, he noticed notations in the margins, now remember how Luke is a curious guy? He only hesitated a second before he was reading the pages of words in your signature script.

The guilt flared for a second before he justified it as being on the shelf you declared free game. So Luke settled sitting criss-cross against the side of your bed reading the words so eloquently written. Even notes allowed Luke to hear the melody in his mind.

Assignment: Write a piece of literature from two points of views. Genre doesn’t matter as long as it is a minimum of one page and not exceed eight.

Step into my world

Bittersweet love story ’bout a girl

Shook me to the core

Voice like an angel

I’ve never heard before

The words took his breath away, recalling a moment he gushed to Alex on how he had caught you singing. He had described your voice as being angelic, and it took him by complete surprise. He remembered Julie, and you entered the room shortly after with a nervous feeling if you had heard. Now Luke had his answer. His phantom heart pounded in anticipation for the reply to this first point of view.

Here in front of me

They’re shining so much brighter

Than I have ever seen

Life can be so mean

But when he goes, I know he doesn’t leave

The smile threatened to split his face with the elation as he continued reading with a subconscious hum. His fingers tapping the sides of the paper as his hazel irises tinged green ate up the words.

The truth is finally breaking through

Two worlds collide when I’m with you

Our voices rise and soar so high

We come to life when we’re

In perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

Perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

Perfect harmony

The world faded as Luke distinctly heard your angelic voice singing the parts he could easily recognize as perfect for you. There was something so powerful in this incredibly personal song only intended for your eyes and your teachers.

The next handful of lines left him breathless and astonished as he visualized not sitting across from each other. But engaging in another art form that can be so incredibly intimate for people; he imagined singing this while holding you in his arms.

You set me free

You and me together is more than chemistry

Love me as I am

I’ll hold your music here inside my hands

We say we’re friends, we play pretend

You’re more to me, we’re everything

Our voices rise and soar so high

 We come to life when we’re

 In perfect harmony

 Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

 Perfect harmony

 Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

 Perfect harmony

Luke went from humming to softly singing to the heartfelt tune with a flutter of butterflies deep in his stomach. When Julie saw Unsaid Emily, he had denied it as an experiment, and it was the truth. Luke wrote rock anthems and rock-pop with his living friend. He never dabbled into romantic ones.

He’d never read something so poetically beautiful it felt him weeping at the sheer amount of feelings.

I feel your rhythm in my heart

Yeah yeah yeah

You are my brightest burning star

Whoah whoah oh

I never knew a love so real (so real)

We’re heaven on earth

Melody and words

When we’re together we’re

In perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

Perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

We say we’re friends (we play pretend)

You’re more to me (we create)

Perfect harmony

His eyes found the last line of the song setting him back in a dead silence returning to the start to reread it. On his third read, he found the notes from your teacher on a separate page.

Y/N, in my years of teaching, I’ve never read something with such meaning behind it. The longing, passion, respect and love you artfully encapsulated is rare. To have written, this means you’ve felt this. No corrects needed, and I felt compelled to not mark on the piece. Thank you for being vulnerable with me, for letting me step inside your mind and please never let this emotion fade.

Your grade is A+.

Luke’s lips pulled apart at the genuine words your teacher had written because it indeed was a word of art. Carefully Luke returned the notebook back to the shelf to retrieve the blue one that caught his attention. AS he turned, he found you leaning against the door frame with a soft smile.

“I am so sor-“

“No.” You replied, walking into the room, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I told you any notebook on that shelf. I can’t get mad, and I’ve seen you can’t leave something half-read.”

“Probably why my book reports were insanely well done in school.” Luke joked as you stepped in his personal space. The tension faded from his shoulders as he took in your features, “You got a perfect grade.”

“I did.” You simply spoke, staring up into his eyes, “You helped me with it.”

“How?”

“You told Alex what you felt about my voice. You looked nervous when I walked in, so I let it go. It wasn’t the time to bring it up. It’s called Perfect Harmony.” You told the ghost gently grazing your fingertips on his hand. The feeling sends shudders down his spine.

“I guess it just wasn’t the right time. With the band and-“

“-the whole soul owning thing. Too much but now that you’ve read that…what do you feel?” You hesitantly asked because reading it and discovering how someone feels is another to if the feelings are reciprocated back.

“That I was always meant to live in 2020. That I was meant to love you with every atom in my very being.” Luke murmured before he crashed his lips onto your own in a searing kiss that had your toe-curling.

The midnight blue journal dropped to the floor as his large calloused hands cupped your face to feel the warmth. The very journal would be filled with songs all about this person, Luke adored not matter his state as a ghost. Two worlds collided just as two souls came together in perfect harmony.

So, wrapped up in each other Luke didn’t notice something magical encased in the warm love. In the bedroom, the two teens were kissing in had two distinct heartbeats with a glow emanating from Luke Patterson.

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[sassyhobbits]

Guess I lied “Holding everything in doesn’t help, you know.” someone from the Cadre telling this to Fen and him breaking apart and crying and dying I want him to suffer

had to so this one. always happy to write about my boy fen!!! luv him

heres day 4!!!

~~~

“Are you sure you want to make that move?”

“Yes. No. Fuck. What’s wrong with this move?”

“Why the hell would I tell you? I’m trying to win.”

Aelin laughed at the stormy look on Fenrys’ face as his dark gaze studied the chess board before them intently. She knew he was determined to beat her for once. She had been on a winning streak lately.

Aelin settled in her seat before the fire, studying the board before them. It was a beautiful set, something she had bought Rowan for Yulemas the year before. Her husband loved the game, but loathed buying anything for himself. She knew he was pleased to have such a nice set, though he tried to play it casual. They played together at least one night a week. Rowan was terribly good at the game. Three hundred years of practice of both chess and military strategy had made him a truly formidable opponent. Aelin had yet to beat him, though she had been getting better.

Fenrys, however, she beat over half the time. Learning from Rowan had given her an edge.

The male across from her finally picked up a knight and moved it, capturing one of Aelin’s pawns that had been protecting her king. She raised a brow at him. “Really, Fenrys?”

“What? You were too well defended.”

Aelin tutted and shook her head. “Short-sighted once again, my friend.” She reached out and moved her queen on it diagonal, placing it down firmly and smirking at Fenrys. “Check mate.”

A slew of terribly, dirty curses streamed from Fenrys’ mouth as he knocked over his king. He shook his head, studying the board. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I’ve always been good at keeping my schemes to myself,” Aelin shrugged. “That’s all chess is, anyway. Schemes.”

He cursed once more. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Fenrys sighed, accepting his defeat, reaching over to the bottle of wine they had been working through and topping off both of their glasses.

Aelin enjoyed having her friend so close. Aedion, Lysandra, Elide and Lorcan visited Orynth when they could, though they were busy running their own territories. Dorian and Chaol were in Adarlan, Manon rebuilding the Witch Kingdom. Even Fenrys had been traveling until recently. She had truly missed her companion.

They spoke and joked between one another for a few more moments before the door to the parlor opened. Aelin recognized her mate’s scent without needing to look back, even beneath all the sweat.

She sensed his presence as he stopped by where she sat, tilting her head up and smiling at him. His silver hair was in disarray from training with the guards that evening, but his green eyes were bright as he looked to her and then to the board.

Her husband studied it with a general’s intent for a few moments before a smile curled on his lips, looking towards Aelin with pride glimmering in his eyes. Good job, Fireheart, he seemed to say before pressing a lingering kiss to her temple.

Aelin’s nose crinkled at the smell of him. “You, husband mine, are in desperate need of a bath.”

“I agree,” Fenrys added. “My eyes are watering.”

Rowan looked to him dryly, though it held no venom at the younger male’s teasing.

Aelin began asking him about how the training had gone. They had a recent surge of new recruits and though many of them had potential, they were rough around the edges. Aelin knew that if anyone could whip them into shape, it would be Rowan.

Aelin fell into the lull of conversation, and it wasn’t until a while later that she noted a strange quietness coming from across from her. Fenrys wasn’t one to hold his tongue for an extended period of time. She glanced away from Rowan, looking towards the male across from her. Fenrys’ face was somber, staring hard into the fire that made his dark skin glow. His brows were pinched together, lips pressed tight, eyes glazed. Somewhere far away.

Rowan followed her gaze, ceasing his report to study his comrade.

It took a few moments for Fenrys to recognize the sudden silence, blinking away the haunted look in his eyes before glancing towards the king and queen before him, as if he could feel their gazes.

Something in Aelin’s chest clenched. She knew what the look meant, had worn it herself plenty of times. Her head tilted to the side before asking softly, “Where did you go, my friend?”

The smile that slashed Fenrys’ face came just a fraction of a moment too late, confirming that whatever he had been remembering had shaken him more than he could admit.

“I’m just tired. Losing to you takes more energy than you would think,” Fenrys sighed, trying to muster some bravado into his voice, though Aelin saw right through it. “I think I’ll head off to bed.”

Aelin watched her friend warily as he pushed to his feet, nodding a brief farewell before heading towards the door. She glanced up at her husband, seeing a familiar look of concern on his handsome face. It was evident that the White Wolf of Doranelle was not alright.

…

Once Fenrys deemed himself an appropriate distance from where the king and queen sat in the parlor, he allowed himself to let go. His shoulders curved in, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he rested his back against a cool stone wall and hung his head in his hands.

Everything had been going well. He had spent the day assisting his queen with her duties while Rowan worked with the guards. He was fine through dinner, through their game of chess. Maybe it was because he had kept himself thoroughly distracted but… when he had let his mind quiet, even for a moment, he had felt himself drift away.

One moment he was laughing and teasing with Aelin, a smile lighting the queen’s face. The next, he heard echoes of her screams of agony, flashes of Cairn carving her up bit by bit while he had to sit aside and do nothing. Once he started, he couldn’t stop, spiraling down into the darkest part of his memories: Aelin sobbing in that iron coffin, the sight of Connall spilling his own blood, the feel of Maeve’s cold, pale hands on his body.

It happened from time to time. The memories getting the better of him. He always tried to play it off to the best of his abilities, making himself flash an easy smile to hide the vulnerability. He knew that the others suffered from similar afflictions, knew his queen was still haunted by nightmares. There were nights when he would wake to a knock on his door only to find Aelin standing on the other side, eyes hollow in a way Fenrys recognized. Sometimes she would talk about it, others she would just sit silently in his presence. The only person who truly had an inkling of what she had suffered for those two months. He knew Rowan still feared losing his mate, still saw the flash of panic in his eyes when he couldn’t find her in the sprawling palace, even though she was always safe and content. It was just… difficult to shake off those feelings.

And yet… Fenrys never wanted to burden his already burdened friends with his own troubles. He knew they would protest that description. Burden. They wouldn’t feel that way about it but… he did.

Fenrys was lost in his thoughts, all of them dark and swirling like a storm through his head. It distracted him enough that he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching until the purposeful scuff of a boot over stone caught his attention.

Fenrys raised his head, finding Rowan standing before him, green eyes studying him carefully. He stood straighter, forcing a wobbly smile to his lips.

“You miss me already?” Fenrys said, though his voice betrayed him, crackling towards the end.

Rowan’s expression turned sympathetic, a look Fenrys had never seen on his commander’s face until he had met Aelin. He stood a step closer.

“You doing alright there, pup?”

Fenrys shrugged, still trying to hold on to some semblance of nonchalance. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Rowan didn’t press him right away, sliding his hands into the pockets of his dirty trousers. “Your quick departure made my wife quite worried about you.”

“Aelin has enough on her plate. She doesn’t need to worry about me too.”

“I’m worried about you as well, Fenrys.”

Fenrys blinked, sure he had heard the king consort incorrectly. Rowan had certainly warmed up since he fell in love with Aelin, but he was still rather stoic most of the time. He saved most of his compassion for the woman he loved. Rowan wasn’t cruel to Fenrys, he never had been. Though he was a massive bastard and a pain in his ass once upon a time but… he had never reached out like this.

It seemed that Rowan took his stunned silence as a cue to continue.

“You try to hide it, but I can see it in your eyes. The pain.” Rowan’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “I did the same thing for years.”

“Yeah, but you took it out on the rest of us poor soul.”

Rowan gave a dry chuckle. “That I did. But you know what helped me heal?”

“Bedding your stunning wife?”

Rowan smacked him softly on the side of the head. Rightly deserved, Fenrys knew. He was being immature.

“I’m serious, boyo,” Rowan said lowly. “I didn’t start coming out of that darkness until I started opening up. Talking. Confiding in people who knew what I felt and what I had gone through.”

Fenrys rubbed at his eyes before rasping, “I don’t know where to start. I don’t want to burden you. Burden Aelin.”

“Aelin loves you,” Rowan said plainly. “She would never feel burdened if you reached out to her. You’re her friend. You’re my friend too, Fen. We’re always going to be here for you.”

Fenrys nodded, not trusting that his voice wouldn’t fail him. He was grateful for the friends, family, and support he had found in the recent years. This life that he had now… he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

He was silent for a few more moments, simply looking down at his boots and trying to banish the lump clogged in his throat. Rowan, the perceptive bastard, simply cocked his head to the side and met his gaze.

“Holding everything in doesn’t help, you know.”

It was with those words that Fenrys broke. The tears began falling freely down his cheeks, blurring his vision.

“There are moments where I forget where I am,” Fenrys confessed. “When I get so lost in the worst of the memories that I fear there’s no way out. I don’t know how to escape, how to be free of it. At times, I feel like I’m drowning.”

Fenrys didn’t bother to try and smother the tears, the shaking breaths he took. He knew Rowan was right. Holding everything in certainly didn’t help. He wasn’t sure if crying in the halls of Orynth would do much either but-

His train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt when he felt arms wrapped around him. Fenrys blinked once, sure he was hallucinating. But no. It was real. Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius was actually hugging him.

He was frozen for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Some older part of him hissed that it was a trick, that the moment he let his guard down Rowan would put him in a headlock as part of a training exercise. But, Fenrys also knew that the cold and calculating commander of his past was no more.

Slowly, Fenrys reached up and returned the embrace.

For a few moments, neither of them said anything, until Fenrys whispered, “Thank you, brother.”

Another few heartbeats passed before Fenrys felt another pair of arms wrap around his torso from behind, the scent of jasmine and ashes tickling his nose. Aelin.

“You were snooping that entire time, weren’t you?” Fenrys asked with a tiny laugh.

“Of course I was,” the queen mumbled against his back. “How else am I supposed to stay three steps ahead of everyone if I don’t snoop?”

Fenrys chuckled lightly, already feeling lighter than he had before. He was a lucky bastard to have such friendship and support in his life. And, although he was still healing, he knew they were as well.

They would find the path to the light. Together.

[some-dr-writings]

Gundham x shy reader who asks for kisses

·       Gundham always found himself enjoying his time with you, you were by far one of his greatest companions in this life. With how shy and meek you seemed to be when you first met, he never thought someone like you would become his partner, he always imagined that if he were to find one they’d be more outwardly bold, yet he fell for you.

·       Time and time again he had seen you try to approach others only to back out, running away in the end. It seemed you might have had a social anxiety of sorts, there had been several times where he had happened upon you after running, leaning against a wall breathing heavily, telling yourself that everything was alright. It was a rather pitiful state to find a person in, Mikan for as… flighty as she was could at least stammer out a few words to people if they talked to her, you on the other hand ended up just blabbering nonsense.

·       Well he thought what you spoke was gibberish till one day he found a little tablet on his desk. Curiously he turned on the device and was met with a box of text. “In a fairy tale kingdom far, far away peoples anxieties exist as monsters who follow them around. Tired of their monsters getting in the way of making friendships a shepherd and riddle solver devise a plan to meet without their anxieties. A river divides their lands and in that great river, a single, small island. There they would meet. First they would capture their anxieties and meet on the island in case they escaped to still be away from them. The shepherd successfully captured his monsters but the riddle solver failed, and more monsters were born of the failure, the riddle solver now having “hopelessness”. Can you get the shepherd and the riddle solver to the island? There are several conditions to this however. 1, no monsters can be with the shepherd and the riddle solver on the island, 2, with every trip the boat makes across the river another monster will find the riddle solver, the shepherd’s monsters will find him every other turn, 3, if the shepherd or the riddle solver are with 5 of their monsters they will be consumed and it’s game over, 4, if the shepherd or riddle solver are left with their monsters for three turns they will be consumed by anxiety and it’s game over, 5, the boat needs two people to row it they can be human, monster or both, but the river is too powerful for only one to move the boat”

·       Tapping the screen he was greeted to a picture on a person on each side of a river, one of them with a black creatures beside them as well as a boat, and island in the middle of the river. There were also buttons at the top labeled “rules and “hints” and such. The style seemed to be like a picture book. After some tapping around he learned the controls and intrigued by whatever this exactly was he played along. Eventually he found a way for them to meet, but it took much trial and error, and was certainly not helped by the fact he refused to check the hints. In the end when he did beat it he was instructed to leave the tablet in between specific books in the library.

·       The next day on his desk he found that tablet again, this time with a new game in it and once beaten, instructed him to hide it in the library once more. Over and over this went on.

·       Once more he had solved the mystery of the new game, however he found the library was about to close. Not wanting to have to wait another day for another fun game he and his devas raced for the library. Though everyone was being ushered out Gundham charged through, bolting straight for the appointed section, the crossroads between mathematics and history. There he spotted you, pulling out a book then looking in between books, sliding them over, a tablet exactly like the one Gundham held in hand tucked under your arm. “… Excuse me-” A high pitched squeak sound escaped you as you flipped around, looking to the Dark Overlord, dropping your tablet in the process. “A-ah, oh, uh, h-hi- uh ummm, hamster squeaking, lost, find the-” Then you ran, leaving behind your tablet. Turning it on Gundham found the new mystery had to do with a woman dying and her sister getting her pet hamsters but the person who was to deliver the hamsters to her lost them in a pet store, and though the sister never saw the hamsters before, she could recognize them by their squeaks always hearing them in the background of her video calls with her sister, and the mystery was to figure out which hamsters made which squeaks in the giant group of them.

·       “Hmm, so the hiding soul speaks riddles…”

·       After the encounter Gundham did research on you, he didn’t know your name or talent, but since Hope’s Peak attendees were always a hot topic on the internet he was sure he could find something on you and that he did, Y/N the Super High School Level Enigmatologist.

·       “Hint.” “AH! Oh, uh, huh?” Before you could panic you were consumed in confusion seeing the dark brooding man before you, holding your latest puzzle before you. It was on the hint page, strange since he had never used the hints before. “Your words fall on deaf ears. Extract the meaning of this!” “… uh… n-new hint? Okay.” And so you began mumbling to yourself about the puzzle, while trying to not give away the answer till you came up with a new hint. Then after Gundham had solve it and was given a new puzzle to solve, he insisted that you give him a new hint again, then again with the next puzzle. Every time there after he came to you, asking for a new hint.

·       Gundham was rather intrigued by you, who found comfort in puzzle solving, getting lost in finding solutions to strange problems. He was willing to help meet you half way across the river, secluded on an island with you, away from the monsters that consumed you anywhere else, he wanted to get to know you without them in the way.

·       He rather liked so much about you, how passionate you were about your craft, going on rants about it for hours, your willingness and even enthusiasm to learn about his passions, how despite your anxieties you always tried your damnest to become a better person and push through them, how you never were confused by his words, always understanding him, how that even extended to his body language and understanding his boundaries on touch.

·       You were a rather logical sort even if your emotions of fears tended to get the best of you. It was only natural since you always were working on puzzles. Even emotions to an extent were logical to you. You saw everything, even yourself as a puzzle to be solved, and so often times the solution to aches and pains was affection. Usually you’d ask Gundham what he thought of you, knowing you’d only receive honesty which was mostly praise. Eventually after a long time you would get to hold hands or hug.

·       It was a rather lazy, sleepy day, it was just so peaceful, before Gundham knew it the day had already passed and it was past dinner time. “Hmm? Y/N?” Usually you’d have come to see him by dinner, but it seemed you never showed up. Did something happen? Sitting up from his desk he found his devas before him. “Ah, so you know where my mate hides?” He slowly got up following him companions.

·       “… the closet?” They simply sniffed at the door, and cautiously he opened it. “Ah!” You sat on the floor, curled up in a ball, cowering in the corner silently. It… had been a very long time since Gundham had last seen you in such a state, it had taken him aback for a moment and there he stood, his mind blank. “G-gundham… affection ple-please.” Your voice cracked and wavered, your breathing ragged. And hearing it almost brought tears to the Ice Lord’s eyes. Did… did you have a panic attack, and he never noticed? Why else would you sound so wreaked?

·       He slinked into the closet, closing the door behind himself before sitting beside you. Taking a deep breath, he took one of your hands into both of his own, squeezing it tightly. “Of course my Emperor, one who unravels the world, who reveals the truth behind veils of deceit. How could I not? You who takes my heart each and every moment, you who I cherish so dearly, you who is so cunning, what possible words could I have other than praise and love?” He felt how tight you squeezed his hand, how you trembled. He was not sure this would be enough this time, he had failed to be by our side when you needed it most.

·       “… My Emperor. Would you be so kind as to unravel my next words?” “… a riddle?” “Yes. Would you solve my riddle?” “o-okay.” “I… I, uh…” Preferably Gundham wanted to come up with a good riddle, one that you would have to think on for a long time, but he doubted he could come up with one. You had asked for affection so maybe… “I am… I am one action that can only ever be shared by two at a time. I am a way to show love. I am… uh… I am-” “A hug?” “…” Slowly Gundham wrapped his arms around you. “I am… something Gundham has never shared with you before.” “Huh? Something……… a kiss?”

·       Damn it. Gundham thought the darkness would make this easier but it only made him more anxious. Placing his hands on your shoulders, he clutched them in a tight grip. Okay! He could do this! He could hug you, and this was less contact than a hug, so he could do this!

·       “of course… someone as brilliant as you could solve my twisted words.” Leaning into you, he felt as if his heart were trembling. Even in darkness he closed his eyes. He tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead for a few moments before somehow managing to loosen the grip on our shoulders, though his fingers were still tense. Slowly he traced them up your neck as he pressed his lips on the bridge of your nose. Finally his hands stopped, cradling your head in them, allowing him to easily kiss your cheeks.

·       “P-perhaps… we can… prepare a meal for ourselves and by the time we’re finished I’ll have come up with an even more confounding riddle for you.”

[stars-are-just-ghosts]

harrisco 12.

Here it is! I hope you enjoy it! -QD

* * *

It was nearly two a.m. by the time everyone began to leave the West's house, the Christmas party fully wound down and people exhausted from the frivolity. Harry had never really been much for parties of any sort before getting close to Team Flash. And normally, he'd been able to weedle his way out of them. Claim he was content on his own, or tired, or busy. None of which anyone really believed, but they also knew how stubborn he was.

The problem there was Cisco Ramon could be just as stubborn at times.

This time, he'd practically shoved an ugly Christmas sweater into Harry's face and demanded that he get off his 'tall-dark-and-brooding ass' and get moving. When Harry barely budged, he then informed him he'd hidden Harry's pulse rifle and was not ever giving it back unless he came.

The result was Harry begrudgingly wearing a very colorful and festive sweater with a depiction of Grumpy Cat in a Santa hat, and following... well, grumpily... along.

He never counted on enjoying these things.

It always surprised him when he did.

Watching Caitlin and Barry sing on the pint-sized karaoke machine, the lady Snow half buzzed off of spiked egg nog, had been a small delight. During dinner, Iris ended up inhaling a bit of too-spicy apple cider and flipped a spoonful of pumpkin pie at Joe's face during her coughing fit, which had Harry chuckling before he could stop himself. And at one point, he even let himself enjoy a badly played game of charades with everyone.

Though the highlight of the entire evening, start to finish, was Ramon.

The man was effortless in his joy and happiness tonight. It oozed off him, sinking into everyone around him. And for some reason, he seemed to be doubling down his efforts on getting it to latch on to Harry. Not that Harry would complain in the least. A slightly clingy, pushy, somewhat buzzed and completely glee-ridden Cisco Ramon was a gift in itself.

The easy bickering between them flourished with each passing hour, till they'd been practically in tune with each other's words in a way that only they ever seemed to accomplish. Cisco spent a great deal of time sitting right next to Harry, lined up side by side like he was trying to steal Harry's warmth. Or maybe his soul. It was hard to tell. And Cisco would touch him a little more than usual.

There had always been this thing between them. Nothing Harry could ever put a name to, nothing he could accurately describe. It hung in the air like a promise... like a piece of mistletoe, just waiting for one of them to make a decision.

And after tonight, it was very clear to Harry now what decision he would make. If he trusted himself enough. Truth was, he'd fallen for Cisco Ramon a long time ago. But he would never allow himself to tell the other man. It wasn't the idea of rejection, or even of losing their friendship. It was the idea that he could ever hurt Cisco. And he knew he could. His temper, his past, his... everything. He wasn't an ideal partner, not for anyone. He was better off alone. And Cisco was better being with literally anyone else. Or so Harry tried to convince himself.

Tonight, it was a little bit harder to feed himself his own lie.

They'd been walking for nearly ten minutes, Harry's hand hooked easily into Cisco's arm to keep him from slipping all over the place. It had snowed that morning. Nothing heavy. But the ground was wet and slushy and Cisco was one or two more drinks away from being drunk. He was also tired, Harry could tell. By the heavy way his eyes blinked, and how he would breathe in deeply every now and then just to let the cold air wake him enough to keep walking.

Cisco could have taken a cab, but had insisted on needing the fresh air. Harry hadn't been about to let him walk alone.

"You're glad you came tonight." Cisco said as they got to a crosswalk, looking up at Harry. Ramon's cheeks were slightly flushed, steam billowing out from between his plush lips into the cold air, his hair somehow still perfectly in place, his scarf haphazardly wrapped around his neck and shoulders. He looked... delightful. He looked like a dream.

He was a dream.

"You're assuming." Harry forced himself to say. Cisco chuckled and began walking again.

"Don't think I didn't see you, Harry. You can't deny how much fun you actually had. I was watching you the whole time." Cisco's comment made Harry raise a brow, slow his steps once they got to the other sidewalk. Cisco paused as well, both men stopping. But Ramon was looking at him with curiosity.

"What were you doing watching me?" He asked pointedly. Ramon's brows slowly went up. And the flush in his cheeks got even redder almost instantly.

"I, well... ya know. You..." He stopped talking, something thoughtful passing over his features. Harry couldn't help but stare right now, at the sparkling in Cisco's beautifully dark eyes, at the way he focused on Harry's own hues. It took Harry's breath away, like it almost always did. And he almost always could hide it. But something passed over Ramon's features, a look, a knowing. "What are we doing?" He suddenly asked. The question made Harry's brows furrow lightly.

"We're talking?" Question for a question.

"No duh, Harry." There was a soft dusting of humor in Cisco's eyes. "I mean... all the time. You and me. We're... close. Not just friend or colleague close. Closer than that. And I feel like we're getting closer every day." He stepped right into Harry, reaching up and tugging Harry's coat lapel a little flatter. "But we're always dancing around each other, ya know?" His words made Harry's heart stutter, flare, and ache all at the same time. But Cisco couldn't be saying what Harry thought he was saying. It just... wasn't possible. Right?

"I don't recall there being any dancing tonight. Unless you count Iris attempting to do the macarena during charades." He smirked a little, the slight curve of his lips catching Cisco's gaze. The shorter man chuckled and shook his head.

"Not what I meant, Harry, and you know it." Ramon sighed a little. "If I'm wrong, and I really don't think I am, then tell me I'm wrong. Right here, right now. And I'll never say another word about it." Cisco demanded, but softly.

Harry could read nearly every emotion Cisco had to offer by now. And what Harry saw on his face, in his eyes, was hope. And fear. Hope that Harry wouldn't reject him. Fear that he might. It made Harry swallow hard, his own anxiety flaring. Because, fuck... he didn't want to reject Cisco. Not Cisco. Never Cisco. But could he live with himself if he went into this knowing that someday he might just hurt him? Could he really so selfishly subject Ramon to his anger and grief and self-loathing ways on such a level? Could he-

Harry froze in place.

He didn't get the chance to finish running through his thoughts and reply to Ramon. Because the shorter man had a much different idea.

The feel of Cisco's cold but softer than soft lips on his own erased every thought, every worry, every possible argument Harry might have had. And before he could think logically about it, he was relaxing. He let himself move against Cisco, their lips slipping together in deliriously wonderful presses. Harry brought his hand up to the back of Cisco's head, fingers curling into his hair, his other sliding around to Ramon's back and holding him firm. Cisco's hands had minds of their own, clinging to Harry in near desperation as they began to deepen that kiss into something far more encompassing.

Cisco tasted like eggnog and warmth and... did joy have a taste? Because he tasted like joy. The way his tongue slid along with Harry's was just like dancing. And Harry couldn't get enough of this, would never get enough of Ramon.

The kiss ended naturally, leaving them both heaving hot breath into the winter air, hands still decidedly stuck to each other, foreheads pressed together as though separating themselves would be a truly horrible idea.

"I knew I wasn't wrong." Cisco whispered, then smiled. Bright, beautiful, joyous.

"Are you sure about this, Ramon?" Harry had to ask, had to know. He lifted his head, studied the slight swollen quality to Ramon's mouth, brought a thumb up and slipped it across Cisco's lower lip. Goddammit, he was delicious. He blinked at the urge to take those lips again, and forced himself to look in Cisco's eyes. Because this was important. Very, very important. "I'm not..." He swallowed, cleared his throat a little, let his hand fall, "I shouldn't be anyone's first choice." Cisco's expression grew stern in a heartbeat.

"You think I don't know what kind of asshole you can be?" He scolded. "Cause I do. And I know you think you don't deserve to be happy, either. Which is total crap." He sighed a little at what had to be a stunned expression on Harry's face. Then he brought his mouth back up, a soothing kiss lingering for a few breaths before he pulled away again. "I also know you're the strongest, bravest, most intelligent, caring, loving man I've ever met. Which means I'm good with all the stuff you think I shouldn't be. Because I can handle all that, as long as it means I get to have the rest."

Harry's smile was slow, but full-blown affectionate in a way he would never be able to disguise.

Kissing Cisco again was all the response he had.

Eventually, they made it the last two blocks to Ramon's apartment building, just to stop on the stone stairs and kiss again. And again. Now that they could, it was like they didn't want to stop.

"You can spend the night, if you want..." Ramon offered, when they'd separated just long enough to get a word in. Harry chuckled, pulling back enough to really examine Cisco's face. "And don't you dare ask me if I'm sure, because I am. I'm very..." Cisco inhaled sharply as he looked Harry over, "Very sure."

Harry couldn't say no to that.

He'd learned he couldn't say no to much of anything when it came to Cisco Ramon. Not that he regretted that in the least.

He did stay the night. In fact, he rarely slept in his own bed again after that.

Life went on exactly as it had before. He and Cisco kept their well-earned rhythm, their dynamic changing only as much as how physical they were with each other and how annoying it was to everyone else.

Cisco never once thought it had been a bad decision. Harry found himself steadily agreeing, a little more every day.

And eventually, he began feeling something he didn't know he could feel... joy.

All thanks to the stubborn love of Cisco Ramon.

[januarywren]

Hello I hope you don’t mind but can you please write a snamione domestic fluff where they have triplets? Love your stories a lot. ❤️❤️

Done!

I expanded the Severus/Hermione story that I posted last week, ‘Without Her,’ that focused on them falling in love after the war. 

I’ll post the second chapter down below, I hope that you enjoy it! ‘Without Her’ is more hurt/comfort than fluff, but I thought your request fit well with the story. Thank you for trusting me with your idea!

He blinked once.

Twice.

And again, as he realized what his witch meant.

Children...

He’d never imagined they were a possibility, let alone something he wished for. “Truly?” Severus asked, tautly swallowing. He could never imagine her being so cruel, yet he felt uncertainty creep beneath his skin still.

Memories of the Marauders haunted him still, with childish jeers ringing in his ears. There were the bitter remnants of his father too, every cruel word and look one that Severus couldn’t forget. His cheek ticked, a gesture that he had never learned to control.

“Would I lie to you, Severus?” Hermione asked, her lips curling upward into a knowing smile. She'd suspected her pregnant state for weeks before visiting a muggle doctor in London and had waited for just the right moment to tell her lover...they would not have one child but three.

Three!

It was more than Hermione had ever considered, given how she was an only child. Severus was the same raised without any siblings and neither of them had ever wished for one. Was it natural then, that she’d only imagined them having one? Or none, given how their nights were spent enamored with one another.

Hermione had tucked the sonogram into her battered copy of Hogwarts: A History, one of the few surviving mementos from her childhood. She had wondered at surprising Severus, perhaps with a balloon or stuffed teddy bear, but decided against the idea. She knew that he valued her words more than her actions, for she was one of the few who meant them. So she whispered the news to him, as she lay reading and he rested his head in her lap, as the world outside their door was bathed in thunder and bitter downpour.

“You’re the only one who never would,” he admitted, swallowing tautly. He was on his knees before her, his head resting in her lap, yet he felt as if he were her equal.

Perhaps he was.

“Never,” she echoed, before threading her fingers through his dark hair. He hummed in pleasure as she wound locks around her fingers, before letting them free, once more.

Time had no meaning then, the grandfather clock that stood in the corner of their room not making a sound. Even Crookshanks was quiet as he curled in his woven basket, with his tail covering his nose.

The rest of their home was a buzz of quiet activity, as they’d found themselves welcoming a handful of House-Elves that had lost their families during the War. They tended to the small flat, the same as they would a sprawling manor, though they never disturbed the couple’s bedroom.

(Only Crookshanks held that honor, to the House-Elves displeasure.)

A flat full of books and abandoned House-Elves and a stubborn familiar was nothing like the future that Severus had imagined. As a child, he'd dreamed of little more than escaping his father, soon pinning his dreams on Lily Evans. He was blinded by obsession as he spent years at Hogwarts, everything he did meant to hold Lily's attention.

The obsession had followed him as he became an embittered man, one that hadn’t lived until he found his way to the woman he served then. Hermione held his very heart in her small hands, an arrangement that he had no wish to deviate from.

He found his belonging with Hermione, the only woman whose shadow he would remain in. His relationship with her was nothing like he’d expected, instead, being everything, he needed. He found it was natural for him to obey, as it was far from her way to force him to give a piece of himself away. She wanted him, and only him, without forcing him to perfect a game of charades.

It was a lesson that Riddle had never learned, nor Dumbledore, for all of his sugar-coated words and knowing gaze. There was no falsity with Hermione, only praise.

And when they did row, it was followed with scenes of passionate devotion, as Severus worshipped between her legs. His greed for her was unrestrained, as he delved his tongue into her dripping cunt, and he made her scream his name. It made him feel alive in a thousand different ways, and he made a strangled sound of amusement, as he realized their last session had led to his witch’s current state.

They had argued for days about her interest in visiting a certain dragon sanctuary in Romania, with Severus dead set against her going. The security risks kept him awake at night, as he knew the goblins had never forgotten the release of their former dragon and their desire for another one. Who was to say they wouldn't try to take another one?

Hermione had only so much influence with them, and Severus doubted she could keep them from coveting another dragon. Greed was as natural as breathing to the goblins, perhaps, even more so. There was little right or wrong to the goblins, their views far from black and white.

Hermione had adamantly refused to listen until she refused the invite at the last possible moment, after which they ignored each other for days – until Severus had awoken his witch with slow, lingering kisses and touches that swept her hurt feelings away. He took no delight in hurting her, content with how she clung to him, his touch leaving love marks behind.

Neither had given thought to cast a preventative spell then, their preferred method of birth control in place of the potion, or muggle birth control. They had never discussed having children, though Severus knew his witch wasn't averse to the idea. Hermione's sudden friendship with the goblins wasn't entirely a secret, as Luna and Neville maintained a relationship with them as well. They were friends of Hermione's more than Harry or Ron were, and she was delighted when they announced their pregnancy.

He’d never forgotten her soft, joyful expression when she was named godmother to Luna and Neville’s daughter, Aurora; the sight taking his breath away, for reasons that he never imagined he would voice, let alone consider.

The horror of his childhood kept him from imagining a family with anyone, even Lily. His family line would die with him, as he had no wish to see a child with his father’s features, nor his hooked nose. Yet, he’d found himself enjoying the time they spent with Aurora, as he often listened to Hermione read aloud to her, and Crookshanks. It was a warm, childish scene, the likes of which had never existed in his childhood.

If he were a lesser man, he would deny his envy, one that had long ago rooted into his soul. His childhood was filled with nothing he wished to look back at, nor repeat with his children. There was only coldness there, one that stung his cheeks and tore at his soul; making him recoil from thoughts about turning into his father, or allowing abuse to occur, as his mother had. His children would never know the mistakes of his parents, grandparents they would never meet, nor know of.

Severus was silent as his hand found Hermione’s, his fingers gently squeezing hers. He said nothing about her parents, away in Australia with no memory of their only child. They all had to make sacrifices during the war, yet Severus loathed that he couldn’t make the matter right for her.

All he could do – all they could do – was ensure that her parents had a plentiful bank account and a small condo that was thoroughly warded against any magical visitor. Her parents remembered nothing of their old lives, and the world they had known. Hermione kept two things from them: a suit jacket that belonged to her father, with a missing button and a tear in the collar and her mother’s china tea set.

There was nothing more that she needed, his witch said, and that was the end of the matter.

“We’re going to be parents,” Hermione whispered, her voice cracking at the end. It seemed utterly real then, though she had yet to physically show. It was only when she missed her course that she thought to see the doctor, along with how sensitive she’d become, “Can you imagine, love?”

“I’m afraid so,” Severus replied, a hint of dry humor tangled around each and every word.

He could easily imagine her with a child on her hip, the picture too vivid and bright. It was one that men like him were never supposed to grasp – he was meant to be alone, and embittered with redemption held away from his hands.

Yet still, he wanted it, more so than anything before. He wanted her.

He wanted a future with his witch and their children, with books and half-kneazles forever underfoot.  

[jimlingss]

Moirai [4]

Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

➜ Words: 7k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

“Not bad.”   The old woman twirls her the point of her quill all over your parchment, giving check marks with the flick of her wrist while you hold in your sigh. Of course, it’s not bad. You’re probably as old as she is if you count your other life. You might be in the body of a seventeen year old, but you’re smarter than one. Probably.   “Fix your posture,” she barks a beat later without sparing a glance and your spine straightens on instinct. “It seems like you can move onto the next volume of philosophy social theory.”   “What? Uh, I mean, pardon? I thought I was finished, Lady Devon.”   “Learning is never finished. The faster you learn that, the better Queen you will make for the empire someday.” The Viscountess, the one assigned to oversee your princess training, shuts the textbook. “But we will move on next time. It’s time for your dance lessons.”   You hold in your groan.   On your sixteenth birthday, instead of being gifted diamonds or laced dresses from the best seamstress like any child of a duke would receive, you were shipped off to the royal palace.   It was the worst present ever. And you once got soap in your other life.   Ever since, you’ve been officially considered the Prince’s fiancée. Not much different from how the game was set up when the main character enters the stage. So you’ve long given up on trying to avoid this, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t happy about it.   You might be free from your parents. But unlike the Devereux estate, proving your worth only gives you more to do. None of your tutors or mentors are ever satisfied with your performance. If you show your capability, then they push you further and further to see your limits. You can’t run away or swing your sword either — the tolerance in the castle is at zero.    “Excuse me.” Lady Devon gets up from her chair and walks to the door with a grace that only fifty years in high society can bring you. “The dance tutor should be down the hall and coming shortly.”   You hum and cordially smile. “Please, take your time.”   Her wrinkled eyes pin on you until the door shuts. Only then do you breathe a big sigh, tension released in your body and your back slouching into the chair again. But you don’t waste much time getting comfortable.   Instead, you jump to your feet and rush underneath your bed.    In a spooled pile in the dusty back is a make-shift rope you tied from spare clothes. It took three nights to rip and weave together, but it was a surprisingly fun activity when you envisioned this moment — knotting the end around your balcony railing and throwing it overboard.    As strict as the castle is, that doesn’t mean you’ll give in so easily.    Even you deserve a break once in a while.   An older man in a frilly jacket enters the room. His eyes dart around before they land on you out the balcony doors, standing at the other side of the marble railing.    His jaw drops. Brows raise. “My lady—!”   Oh shit. It’s now or never. With your eyes shut tight, you jump.   Your dance instructor’s shout echoes through the palace and you peel your lids open when the impact of the landing doesn’t come. When your feet don't touch the ground. It’s then and there that you realize that you’re dangling midair, the clothing rope in your grasps.   You didn’t make it long enough!   Oh fuck! Fuck!   The cloth rope starts to slip from your grip, between your fingertips and you brace yourself. It’s just the second floor of the castle. You’ll survive if you fall, right? Right?!   Your teeth grit and your scream is soundless as you let go.   But instead of slamming into the ground, you tumble on top of something much softer yet still firm. Something that lets out a pained groan, that’s quite warm.   You bolt upwards and your eyes double as you realize that something is someone. By sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you’ve fallen on top of a dark-haired man and pinned him onto the ground.    “S-Sorry! I’m so sorry! My deepest apologies.”   You bow your head and slide off of him as he sits up while gripping the back of his head.   The two of you look at one another, eyes meeting—   The moment is interrupted by a shout. “Lady Anastasia!” The sprinting stomps crescendos in volume, coming closer and closer and you start to panic, not sure where to go, where to hide.   But then the person in front of you reaches out, grabbing a hold of your forearm.   You frown in confusion, about to shake him off until you find your fingertips becoming translucent. The palace guards slow down right where you’re sitting on the ground, yet their pupils move past you as if you were part of the stone wall.    “The Crown Princess must be this way!”   The parade of guards sprint past.   The man lets go, undoing his invisibility spell.   “You…” You fall back. “....ended up learning magic?”   The corner of Taehyung’s mouth curls. “So you do remember me.”   “O-Of course, I do.” How could you not? There’s been only two encounters with him in the past seventeen years, but even before your first meeting, you’ve already had his name imprinted in your mind. For reasons that are perhaps not positive ones. But he looks different now — different from how he was at ten.    You suppose seven years would do that to a person.    Taehyung is dressed in a white blouse, darkened trousers and a navy cape embedded with gold around his broad shoulders. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was the prince. A height that towers your own. Cheeks that are no longer plump but chiselled with his sharper jawline. Eyes that aren’t impoverished. He is less like the pitiful boy than you remember him.   You try not to stare for too long, but by the smirk on his face, you know it’s too late.   You get up and dust your blue gown off.   “Do you need a place to hide?” he asks with a small smile, catching on quick as the guards’ shouts fade. “If you are, I know just the place.”   You cross your arms and look up at him. “Lead the way then.”   Taehyung grins, brown irises lighting up and his lips tugging into a boxy smile that catches you off guard. But he swiftly turns on his heels and you’re left trailing behind him.   The castle grounds stretch across the horizon. If someone didn’t know their way, they could get lost forever and potentially starve to death. You know Taehyung’s been largely confined to the Western towers while you’ve been managed closely in the Eastern wing. It was pure coincidence that he happened to go this way and you happened to try to escape at the exact same time.   A coincidence that you left your paths and crossed, a coincidence that you landed right on top of him.   It’s definitely not a part of the original story.   You wonder if you should deviate from the storyline so much. The first time Anastasia and Taehyung are supposed to meet is weeks from now after he lures her in and tries to convince her that she needs his help to keep Prince Jungkook around.   Taehyung most certainly did not bring Anastasia to a quiet corner of the garden, far from the stone walls, a private place that’s shrouded in trees with a welcoming white bench.    “I come here often to read,” he murmurs as he gazes up at the canopy of the tree providing shade, listening to the leaves rustle. “It reminds me of someone special.”   You know that person is his mother.   Taehyung gestures to the bench and the two of you sit next to one another, looking out at the beds of pansies, orchids and marigolds.   “How have you been?” you pipe up, curiosity nibbling at your skin.   You haven’t seen him in so long. You can’t help but wonder if he’s in the same mindset as the Taehyung you know from the game — pained, lonely, blood thirsty.    But you aren’t scared of him or what he might do. You feel hurt for him.   Taehyung smiles to himself as if he knows what you’re thinking. “I’m fine. Frankly, I’m much more interested in your situation and why you would jump out a window and have the whole castle looking for you.”   You sigh, not sure where to start. Maybe the beginning.   “Actually...I’m the Crown Prince’s fiancée.” The words are muttered out of your lungs, uncomfortable on your tongue. But when you peek at Taehyung, he simply smiles, seemingly not surprised. So you inhale a breath and allow yourself to slouch. “I’m going under what they call ‘rigorous princess training’. But it’s really awful.”   He grins. “Is it?”   “They never give me a break,” you whine. “I’m supposed to go to dance class, but I know I’m going to step on their feet so what’s the point?”   As you turn your head to look at him, you realize the game animation and drawings really didn’t do him any justice. Taehyung’s shaped up to be a handsome man.   You clear your throat. “Since when did you learn magic?”   “A long time ago. It’s nothing special.” He glances at you. “Although, I never had it blown up in my face yet.”   His words tickle a memory in the back of your mind — the night at the Solar Festival.   He smiles as your eyes connect. Taehyung gazes tenderly at you as if your irises are the most interesting kaleidoscopes, like he’s searching for something deep within your soul. Your breath hitches, heart pounding within your ears and you quickly turn away, wondering what this weird tension is.   Or shit — maybe this is the beginning of the co-conspiracy that will lead you to your doom.   Instantly, you stand on your feet and grab the skirt of your gown. “It was nice seeing you again, Prince Taehyung.” You bow your head and muster a polite smile. “I should get back before I get into any more trouble. I appreciate the help you have offered me today.”   You spin around, prepared to strut off. But then your arm is held back.   Gently. By Taehyung’s grip.   You turn to look at him.    “When’s the next time I’ll be able to see you?”   You frown in bewilderment. It takes a delayed moment for an answer to come out of your throat. “Will you be going to the debutante ball?”   The corner of his mouth turns and he bows. “I will be now.”   He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles before you slip away and weave out of the gardens. For some reason you’re left with a strange feeling swirling in the pit of your stomach.   //   There’s a scolding of your lifetime waiting for you when you return and you muse that you finally found someone worse than Edith and your own mother. The tutors are even more brutal with their discipline and you know there’s only one person who can help you, one person you can escape to readily.   “My lady,” a young girl speaks up and you stop right in front of the door. “Lady Devon said you were supposed to be studying embroidery for the rest of the da—”   “Am I not allowed to visit my own fiancé?” Your timbre holds firm and you look down at the flinching girl. God, it’s just too easy to play into the villainous role that was set up for you sometimes. “And who are you to tell me what to do? I think you’ve forgotten your place!”   “My apologies!”   You scoff and your knuckles rap against the surface. There’s a muffled ‘come in’ and you throw open both doors.   Jungkook is sitting on the sofa in front of his desk with papers in hand. He looks up expressionlessly as you strut inside. “Anastasia. What brings you here?”   “I have matters to discuss, Prince Jungkook.”   “Very well.” He looks to the attendants at the doorway. “Please bring in refreshments.”   They bow their heads and within the next minute, a pot of tea with two cups and several tiered cake stands full of pastries and tarts are set down. The doors shut shortly after and you count.   One. Two. Three.    The coast is clear and you immediately flop on to the sofa across from Jungkook’s, kicking off your shoes and slumping with horrible posture into the soft furniture. Jungkook, likewise, throws down the papers in hand with a grin.   “You should’ve come sooner,” he complains. “I was getting tired of reading reports and letters from advisors.”   “Yeah, well, I was busy.”    You lurch forward to grab a sweet fruit tart and stuff your face. Jungkook might laugh while watching you, but no one gives desserts to you in this place. Not like they did in the Devereux estate either, but at least they didn’t watch closely at every single thing you chewed.   You don’t care if you can’t fit into those tight dresses.   Jungkook pierces a strawberry on top of the cake and chews in his cheek. “I heard you ran out on princess training again.”   “Hey. The last time I did that was months ago. Plus, you’re not the one to speak. You’re the lucky one here. Why do you get to do whatever you want and I can’t?! It’s so unfair!”   “That’s because two days after you came, you dueled me and won. What kind of Crown Princess wins in a sword fight over the Crown Prince?”   You burst out laughing. No one really expected you would win. They were already horrified when you held the sword. You suppose they’re just trying to get rid of those rumours and make you into a dignified, soft-spoken, honourable lady that will win over the public with her gentleness.   Yeah right. Like that’s gonna ever happen.    “You should’ve just been better. You’re the Crown Prince.”   “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and it’s because of you that I had to go under more training with the royal knights until it felt like my bones were going to fall off,” he mutters and you snort.    The two of you devour the table like children starved on sweets and once you’re full, you lay down on the sofa as if you’re a stuffed pig ready to be roasted in an oven. Jungkook smacks his lips together and eats the last strawberry.   “Are you at least ready for the debutante ball?”   “It’s just dancing.” You turn to look at him. “What’s there to prepare for?”   The ball happens every other year for the girls in the empire as a coming of age ceremony. It’s a celebration that everyone looks forward to. But for you, this year, it signifies the beginning.   “You better not step on my toes,” Jungkook warns.   You scoff. “You better not step on mine or else I’ll throw a ladybug at you.”   “That was one time!” he yells and you laugh.   You gaze at the ornate, painted ceiling of the study.    Jungkook doesn’t know that the debutante ball is the start of everything. It marks you turning eighteen. It’s where the game begins and where he’ll meet the heroine. It’s where the gears will set in motion.   You’ve long given up on trying to run away from the storyline. Perhaps it was when you came to regret being unable to prevent Taehyung’s mother’s death. Maybe it was when you turned around at the Solar Festival and decided to sit by him. But whatever the case, you decided to stay and fight, to find a way to survive instead of escaping. It still startles you when changes are made that are so different from the original game, when it deviates far out of your reach and control.   But one of the biggest changes and probably the best is your relationship with Jungkook.   Unlike Anastasia’s, you and him are not just polite on the surface. There isn’t a wide distance. You don’t yearn for him. He doesn’t disregard you. Rather, you’re friends.   And you hope that fact doesn’t change. That he never becomes an enemy.   From here on out, all the efforts you’ve put forth for the past seventeen years will finally come to fruition and show its effects.   You hope you tried hard enough.

The dress is a deep wine red.   The layered tulle skirt poofs out in the shape of a bell, spilling from your waist. You turn around in front of the mirror while picking at your translucent sleeves, noticing that the fabric sways with each of your movements. Your hair is in a half-updo with flowers, pinned up as curls drop over your left shoulder. It’s better than what Joan could’ve ever done back at the estate. But altogether, it’s a magnificent yet imposing look.   You gotta admit, in this get up, you feel like you could cackle and step on the main character’s hand with your pointed heel as she cowers in front of you. Being the villainess is the easy way.   “My lady…” the younger servant steps back with the tape measure.   You nod at her. “It’s acceptable. There’s no time to dwell either way. The Prince’s fiancée shouldn’t show up late.”   “Of course!”   The entourage of servants follow as you stride down the castle halls. The muffled violins become clearer the closer you get to the main ballroom and there at the doors, Jungkook’s already standing there with a cordial smile. He wears a navy jacket with golden buttons, trousers to pair and white gloves that matches the sash over his body with the royal emblem.   The maids bow their heads, taking their place at the sidelines and Jungkook offers you his arm which you take. The pair of you stand in front of the doors.   “You actually look decent for once,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth.   You scoff quietly. “I’ve always been this beautiful.”   “You always look like you’ve just rolled in mud or hay.”   “And you’re beginning to sound like Lady Devon.”   Jungkook snickers as you jab him discreetly in the ribs. At the same time, the squire finally makes his announcement — “His Royal Highness and Lady Anastasia!” — and the doors open.   Your expressions wipe over with only the corners of your mouths pulled and you enter together.   You make sure your back is straight. That your head is raised. Chin out. Steps light. Every scrutiny and detail about perfect posture is displayed right into your body language and the pair of you stop momentarily at the stairs with your plastered smiles.    Everyone watches as you both descend the stairs.   It’s quiet — some older women awed behind their feathered fans, men sipping their glasses of bubbling champagne. But their gazes are loud as Jungkook guides you to the middle of the cleared floor.   Nearly eighteen years of lessons have led up to this moment.   Jungkook kisses your knuckles and you slip into position — right hand in his, your left on his shoulder as he mimics you. The mellifluous violins in the corner start to crescendo and you follow Jungkook’s lead, stepping from side to side, back to front.   “Looks like you’re not stepping on my feet,” Jungkook murmurs as the two of you begin to take bolder steps and sweep across the ballroom floor.   “I might’ve skipped dance every chance I got but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do it.”   “Touché. Just keep smiling.”   “I am.”   “You look too concentrated.”   With his criticism, you fix the furrow of your brows and your smile tries to widen. It feels a bit stiff and psychotic, like you’re forcing yourself to pretend you’re Rose from Titanic who went with Jack to dance when in reality, this is as fun as watching paint dry. “Better?”   Jungkook grins. “Sure.”   The music continues as you dance, but while you maintain your bright expression, your eyes flicker through the thick crowd. You spot the King who sits in a grand chair at the back. He nods along with an approving expression and your parents are standing by him too. Your dad seems to be getting a comment in every other minute while your mother appears wholly satisfied.    You’re happy at least someone’s enjoying this debutante ball.   But you don’t look at them for long, not when you’re focused on searching for a girl you have yet to see in the flesh. The main character. The heroine of the game. You know she’s in the room tonight.    You know she’s watching right now.   Yet, as your eyes travel through the surroundings, instead of trying to find the girl, your mind strays for someone else — Taehyung. He said he would be here tonight. But you don’t see him…   “Anna, it’s over,” Jungkook mumbles and you snap back to attention, giving a curtsy.   The Prince bows as well and the music continues to a jovial tune. The people around start to enter the floor, dancing with their partners and from your peripheral vision, the King approaches.   He’s gotten old since the first time you met him. Each strand of his hair has turned gray, wrinkles deepened and eyes slightly protruding. Yet the man is still dignified and the righteous King of the empire with his commanding, aristocratic presence. But you wonder if he aged so quickly because of the Queen’s sudden death years ago, an event you know shook the Royal family.   “Your Majesty.” You curtsy again, pulling the edges of your dress.   Jungkook smiles. “Father.”   “Very well done job, you two.” He smiles. “I’m confident that the pair of you will lead this empire well.”   “Thank you, Your Majesty.” You smile cordially at the older man. “You’re too kind with your words. I can only hope that one day we shall live up to your legacy.”   He laughs merrily from the pit of his stomach and even though you and Jungkook both know you’re laying it on thick, there’s no harm done. “Spectacularly spoken. I’m sure you will.” The King turns to his son. “I heard you were managing the finances in the Southern provinces well.”   “I was actually going to seek council on that issue,” he exhales and in the meanwhile, you notice a few potential ladies-in-waiting looking at you. You try to ignore them, but their stares are too pointed. They’re outright gawking at you and you grit your teeth, knowing there’s no other choice.   “If you’ll excuse me.” You dip down and the King nods.    As Jungkook continues talking to the King, the both of them striding to his throne, you’re trapped in small talk.   “I believe we’ve met once before. I am Countess Ashburnum.” — “I am Lady Herington, my husband is Baron of Herington.” — “Oh my! You absolutely look beautiful in your gown.” — “I know a seamstress who makes the best lace dresses in all of Ashea!”   The conversation drones on and on with the circle of women and you make short replies while maintaining a friendly smile.   It’s only when your eyes boredly wander off do you notice a girl eating at the refreshments table.   She’s out of place. You can tell with how her eyes dart around the hordes of people and she fidgets alone, dressed in a yellow dress that looks like it’s been sewn from sunflower petals but worn at the hem as if it’s someone else’s. But as unremarkable as her presence is, her features are soft — eyes rounded, lips pouty and cheeks full.   You’re beginning to understand how someone can be described as lovely as a rose.   “If you’ll excuse me, there’s some few other people I need to meet.”   “By all means.” The ladies dip down and you nod your head, beelining through the people to the refreshments table. But it’s hard to get through with the amount of people that want to stop and greet you.   You watch the girl in the meanwhile.   You don’t blame her for appearing so awkward, like she’s not sure where to go or who to talk to or what to do. If this is who you think it is, then she’s just a baron’s adopted daughter. She hasn’t been to many social events. She hasn’t been exposed to high society. And it’ll be a world that’ll be difficult to adjust to.   You remember in the original game, Jungkook just chose her because she looked out of place and he wanted to get away from dancing with you. But considering your relationship with Jungkook isn’t sour in any aspect, a catalyst might be needed to continue the plot.   If you start the encounter, then perhaps you’ll have control over it.   “The desserts are delicious, aren’t they?” you pipe up beside her, stuffing your cheek as you look out at the crowd.   The girl is taken aback at someone initiating a conversation and her excitement is practically tangible. “Yes, they are! I like the strawberry cream one.”   “Ah. I’m more of a fan of the fruit tarts.” You turn and meet her eyes with a smile. “What’s your name?”   “My name is Lucienne, but my family calls me Lucy.”   “Your family?”   “The Helena family. My father is Baron of Liza,” she says and that’s enough to confirm it. This is her. The heroine. The main character. The one who will take your place, become the Crown Princess and be with Jungkook. And if such a thing is inevitable, then you can make her perception of you different from how it was in the original game. Just like you did with Jungkook.   “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you then.” You curtsy and she does as well after a delayed moment. “My name is Anastasia Loretta Devereux.”   Her eyes widen. “You’re the Crown Princess! Oh my goodness, I just watched you dance! It was amazing.”   You smile and this time, it's more genuine. The heroine’s personality traits are dependent on the player, but it looks like in this world, she’s pretty excitable, extroverted and innocent. If you weren’t so secretly tense, you’d muse that you might actually make a good friend tonight.    “Thank you and thank you for coming. I hope you’re enjoying the ball.”   “Yes, I am, your grace— I mean, my lady.”   “Please, you don’t need to be so formal with me in private,” you tell her even though she insists otherwise. The conversation starts to slow and you scramble for ways to continue it. How did you use to get girls to like you back in school? What the hell did you use to do again?    The answer comes a second later— “I love your dress.”   Lucy’s eyes light up and she looks down. “Really? I actually sewed it myself.”   That revelation has your eyes turning into saucers and your sociable facade falls. “What?”   “It’s not much,” she giggles. “The servants were taking down some dusty curtains back at home to replace them, but I thought it was such a waste, so I washed it and hand sewed it myself. I was afraid it would look shabby for tonight’s ball.”   “N-No, it’s amazing!” She looks like she’s straight out of a fairy tale. She is straight out of a fairy tale! Even Snow fucking White would feel outdone. “You have some real talent.”   You wonder if the girl sings to squirrels in her spare time. You wouldn’t put it past her.   She beams. “Thank you.”   The violins seem to dial down into a waltz piece and several more people enter the floor with their partners in hand. You turn to Lucy with a smile. “You should dance.”   “Oh, well, I’m not much of a dancer.” She brushes a strand of her hair loose from her bun behind her ear. “And I wouldn’t know who to dance with either…”   You hum and at the exact same time, someone with doe eyes unsuspectedly passes by. You steal the opportunity when it’s handed to you— “Jungkook!”   The Prince turns at the familiar call of his name, one without any title to it. His brow is quirked and you take Lucy’s hands, pulling her along with you as she remains stunned. This is it. This is the first meeting.   For you, it’s like you’ve dragged your best friend down the school hallway to talk to her crush. But for them, you wonder if it’s a life-changing moment. One of the ones where time seems to stop and fireworks are bursting in the air and their breaths hitch and their hearts sycroniz—….   Probably not by the confused look on their faces.   But you’ll take it!   “Prince Jungkook, meet Lucienne. She’s Baron of Liza’s daughter and she goes by Lucy.” You turn, hand gesturing out towards him. “Lucy, meet Prince Jungkook.”   “N-Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” She curtsies and you can feel her nervousness by the way her hand shakes in yours.   “Likewise.” Your fiancé turns to you with a skeptical brow raised. “Seems like you’ve made a friend tonight.”   You plaster on a big smile. “I know right.” He and you both know you don’t like to play nice and hence, don’t have friends at all. So it’s an oddity for you to bring around someone you met five minutes ago. But you don’t let Jungkook ask too many questions. “You should dance with her.”   “Pardon?”   “Why not?” You push the girl towards him and she nearly stumbles into his frame. “Ball’s are all about dancing and Lucy here’s looking for a partner and I know you have to get that practice in!”   By the narrowing of his eyes, you can tell Jungkook’s suspicions of your intentions or what could possibly be up your sleeve. You wish he was as dumb as he was seven years ago. “Anastasia.”   “Umm...I really don’t have to, Your Highness.” Lucy bows her head, placed in an awkward position and you internally apologize to her, but you gotta do what you gotta do.   “Come on,” you continue to pressure Jungkook. “You’re not going to leave her hanging, right?”   Jungkook exhales out of his nose and he looks like he’s not going to let this go so easily, but for now, he relents. He bows slightly and takes Lucy’s hand. “Will you have this dance, Lady Lucienne?”   “Yes…?”   Okay. It’s not a storybook, fairy tale moment or anything like the game, but this is as good as it’s going to get. This way, your engagement with Jungkook can smoothly end, Lucy will take your place and you’ll be able to survive in peace while supporting them like a secondary character instead of the villainess.   With your arms folded, you stand at the sidelines and watch them dance together.   It’s stiff at first, but soon, Jungkook’s murmuring something to her and she’s laughing.   They look like the picture perfect couple. Even others are nudging each other and watching the pair. A smile tugs on your features, but your observation as an audience member soon is interrupted.   “Would you like to dance, my lady?”   It’s a husky timbre, one that startles your senses and has your head whirling around.   You didn’t know you were waiting for him until he appeared, until a feeling of ease that you didn’t know existed washes over you. Taehyung has his arm extended, a tender smile on his face. His dark brunette hair is combed to the side and he’s dressed in a black jacket with a navy cape draped on his left shoulder, not any less handsome than the others in the room.   The corner of your mouth curls. “If you don’t mind me stepping on your toes.”   Your hand slides into his palm and he grasps your fingers. “I don’t.”   If Jungkook and Lucy had eyes straying then you and Taehyung have eyes turning — most don’t know who he is when he’s never shown up to any social engagements, but few do and while they’re shocked, already whispering tales of scandal, you don’t notice.   You’re far too mesmerized by him. By the fact that he’s here, that he’s looking into your eyes, guiding you along the ornate ballroom floor. The skirt of your dress sways as he twirls you carefully, the two of you synchronized to the rest of the dancing crowd.   “I didn’t think you would show up,” you murmur once you’ve landed back into his arms again.   “Were you waiting for me?”   “I decline to answer.”   The corner of Taehyung’s mouth tickles into a smile. “Well, looks like it was a good thing you skipped out on that dance lesson since you obviously didn’t need it.”   You grin, scoffing lightly. “That’s because you’re a good lead.”   “You’re a good partner,” he replies as the music diminuendos. You wonder since when the pitiful boy you knew became so sly and mischievous. Or maybe he was always this way and his mother’s passing simply made him quiet. “And of course I would come if you were here.”   Your brow lifts. “And why is that?”   Taehyung hums. “Let’s just say, I’ve been meaning to get a chance to speak to you for a long time now.”   You wonder what he means. If he’s simply planning to build rapport to conspire with you. But your relationship with the royal family and Jungkook is known to everyone as being decent. The Taehyung in the game also never went out of his way to meet Anastasia either.   It was always her. Anastasia’s choices led to her being used as his pawn.   Taehyung breaks your train of thought as he leans in close to your ear, “I’m always scared of getting you into trouble, but you can’t when everyone’s here. We can chalk it up to a coincidence that we met and danced, right?”   “That’s the bastard’s son, isn’t it?”   Your ears suddenly tune into the murmurs, words hidden behind gloved hands and feathered fans.   If people didn’t know Taehyung before, word was spreading like wildfire. “The one who was born from that maid.”   “You mean the King’s first son?”   Your head turns when there’s a heavy set of eyes placed upon your form and you realize the King is sitting on his throne, expressionless. He’s staring at Taehyung who hasn’t noticed, or maybe has and yet chose to ignore.   Taehyung’s right.    A ball like this is truly the exception. The only time you and Taehyung would ever be able to meet in public.   His eyes meet yours once more and you realize the reason Taehyung never sought you out. He never looked for you because he was afraid of what that would mean for you.   How the slander and hatred of his name would attach to yours.    The dance ends as the turmoil inside of you overboils. Your mouth parts to speak, but Jungkook approaches and interrupts. “Taehyung?”   The younger brother has his eyes wide and the older smiles. “Good evening, Your Highness.”   Jungkook laughs. “What’s with that? Actually, no, what are you doing here? You never come to these things!”   Maybe because he’s not allowed to.    You haven’t seen the half-brothers interact before. But you wonder how much Jungkook really knows about Taehyung — probably not a lot based on what you know in the original storyline.   The two brothers had to fight each other to the death in a civil war.   Jungkook came out victorious.    And knowing that future makes you feel queasy as you look at the both of them being friendly together.   “I just thought it was time to change that.”   “You should’ve appreciated not having to go for longer. These things can be so boring. You’re honestly the lucky one,” Jungkook says.   Taehyung’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Am I?”   “I wish I was in your shoes sometimes,” Jungkook sighs and turns to you. “Anna. Anna? Anastasia!” You’re startled, brought out of your trance and Jungkook grins. “I was going to ask you how the dance was.”   You loll your head to your shoulder. “Taehyung’s a better lead.”   Jungkook’s jaw drops in offence and he scoffs. “He’s probably too nice to say anything badly about you.”   You roll your eyes and glance to his side, wondering where the main character went. Lucy should be here or at least beside Jungkook. Or maybe something went wrong….   “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highnesses.”   You bow, eyes already set off on the crowd. You don’t notice Taehyung reaching out, brows lifted, expression distraught that your moment together was so short. But by then, you’re already gone.   You look around, searching for the girl in the soft yellow dress.   But instead, your arm is yanked back roughly. You spin around to meet wrinkled but stern gazes. The ones that can only belong to your parents — the Duke and Duchess of Devereux.   Even if you’re in the castle now, you’ll never be able to be free of them.   They pull you out to the hall and into a nearby private room meant for quieter conversations for the guests. The doors shut and the silence simmers tensely around you.   You muster a smile. “Mama, papa, how have you bee—?”   There’s a sharp sound that echoes throughout the empty space and you’re shaken, breath staggering when you find your head whipped to the side. Your right cheek is numb.   She just….slapped you.   You turn to her, voice shrill. “What was that for?!”    “How could you dance with that man?”   “What?”   “Did you know you could ruin your entire marriage by associating with the likes of that man? Everything you’ve worked for, Anastasia, everything that your father and I set up for you and the Devereux house could be ruined.” Her voice sends chills to your spine, quiet, deadpanned and yet full of venom. “Do you know who he is? He’s the bastard son. Do you want to get on the wrong side of the King? Or are you trying to show that you favour him as the next heir instead?”   “What?”   They’re jumping leaps and bounds, thinking ten steps too ahead.   “Do you know how much trouble that would cause?” Your father pipes up behind her, his voice low. “It could get the entire family executed for treason.”   From the corner of your eye, you see your mother’s hand raise again. But you clutch her wrist before she has the chance to slap you another time.   “Once is enough,” you spit through gritted teeth. “You don’t want people outside to know, do you?”   She yanks her hand out of your grasps. “Ingrate. If you’re not careful, everything the family has done for you will be gone in an instant. Don’t you know everyone in that room is watching your every move? You are the only heir of this household. You are the Crown Princess. The future Queen. Every decision, every choice, from what food you choose to put in your mouth to what colour you decide to wear, it affects not only yourself but everyone.”   You know. You know the burden on your shoulders better than anyone else.   But is one dance with Taehyung not even allowed?   Your mother rounds the table and sits down on the sofa. “Not to mention, you allowed another whore to dance with your fiancé. She’s just a measly baron’s daughter. There’s no royal blood in her.”   “Neither does our family have any,” you mutter.   The Duchess whirls her head around in absolute shock.   The Duke is the one who intervenes, level-headed yet stoic. “You must be the Crown Princess, Anastasia. You must keep that status and causing the King to be unhappy will do nothing to help.”   “There are other ways to stabilize our family status,” you reason with him. “I don’t understand—”   “No matter how talented you are,” he says slowly as he paces to your mother’s side, “even if you can wield a sword better than most palace knights, this is the only way.”   Your staggering breath inhales through your mouth and out your nose, frustration, torment suffocating. You want to leave this place. Leave the castle, leave the Devereux name, leave these duties burdened onto you. The scrutiny that comes along with the wealth and power.   You want none of it.   You might be Anastasia. But you’re also Y/N.   Wanting to survive and living a long and fruitful life was your goal even before this lifetime. And as selfish as it may be, you cannot fulfill that wish while maintaining your parents’.   You can’t.   You can’t fight to be the Crown Princess if you want to live. You can’t see yourself into old age if you’re executed. You can’t keep Jungkook close and Taehyung at a distance. You can’t run away, but you can’t ground yourself and stay either. Everyone! Everyone wants something from you, everyone is expecting you to play some kind of role — daughter, survivor, saviour — and you don’t know what to pick and choose. What decisions to make and how to make them.   And because of this indecisiveness, the half-hearted middle ground, you couldn’t save Taehyung’s mom.   “It’s because of your narrow mindedness that you’ve pushed yourselves to only one option.”   You turn and leave the room, slipping away before they can say another word.   If you choose happiness — the happy ending of Jungkook and Lucy with your survival and support, an ending where you will be able to stand in the background, the Devereux house will fall. If you choose to follow duty and selflessness — you will die and ruin their name anyway.   You’re not so sure why it’s so hard to make a choice. In the original game, the Duke and Duchess cut ties with you anyway. They threw Anastasia away when she needed them most.   But even with that resentment, it still hurts.   You exhale, escaping to the terrace and leaning against the stone wall to look up at the stars.   Your own words echo back to you and you wonder if you’ve narrowed yourself down to only two options. You wonder what other possible way you can have it all. If it’s even possible….   Or what fate has in store for you.