#did this to my brother for more accurate results

[monocub]

asl sibling bonding time :D

ft ace returning their love <3:

*insert clip of dubbed sabo screaming*

[muninnhuginn]

The thing is that the dynamic between John and James does sound genuinely fascinating from the glimpses we get of it.

John says that James was always better at (social) stuff. James did go out and become a police officer, marry Lucy, and just generally have more of a "normal" life, but it's clear that Lucy thinks John and James *aren't* as dissimilar as John believes. James may have been better at masking, but he clearly didn't have an easy ride either. Still, John is envious of his brother and feels like James is what he *could* have been if he'd been able to venture out into the world. The fact that both brothers had crushes on Lucy only serves to hammer that in.

On the other hand, John is an incredibly successful puzzle solver and spending most of his life in his house in no way detracts from that. The murders he solves appear to be beyond the capabilities of James going by the reactions of everyone else. There's an argument to be had about how much is difference in solving vs being tied in by procedure and social niceties, but either way, John gets accurate results much faster than James ever did. Even if John does very much ignore behavioural factors as he attempts to simplify each crime scene to a "puzzle to be solved".

There's also something to be said for how James' coworkers didn't clock he had been replaced. How none of them even knew he *had* a twin brother. Obviously, there's an element of it being down to the writing in that the game couldn't be given away too quickly, but it does speak of a more distant relationship with his coworkers (perhaps aside from his former partner). And there's the voicemail where James says (though given the context, this can't be taken as 100% true) that he was the one most like their father, in his choice to run away. It was a hint to John, but it only worked as such because they had so little that tied them together in the first place. They grew up together, shared their childhood, and yet, they hadn't spoken in years. Makes me wonder how much of it was neither wanting to be the first to reach out. On John's side that makes total sense (James is the "social successful" one, after all) but James' side is much more a mystery (though, "they're more alike than they seem" comes to mind).

Of course, both of them were impacted by their father leaving as he did. It's spelled out several times that John and James reacted differently. John turning inwards (only pushed further by his bullies and discovering his love of puzzles) whilst James focused outwards (to become more socially successful). But we find that John doesn't want to lose the social aspects once he's found a place for himself. That James is able to go almost entirely non-contact with his family despite knowing the impact his own father had on his family. The one stuck in his house ventures out as the one surrounded by family escapes it all.

All in all, John and James are pretty interesting characters even if we only know one of them secondhand.

*However*, when we actually *see* James in person, my main thought is "that's a second David Mitchell"

[sleepynoons]

Locked Eyes

Jing Yuan finally returns from his Grand Tour, but by the bounds of society's customs and traditions, you cannot marry him. This is a romance story told through letters exchanged, secret rendezvouses, red silk embroideries.

jing yuan x afab!f!reader, regency!au, sfw

word count: ~15,300

cw: explicit language, slight suggestive content, minor character death

notes: the regency era is too complex, and i got lazy with my research, so this is not accurate!!! best read on desktop because there are some long paragraphs... would also appreciate reblogs + comments!!!

infinite thanks to @staraxiaa, for always being a fantastic and incredibly insightful beta-reader, and for watching me lose my sanity over the past 1.5 weeks. and to io, wherever you may be, this is for you. you made this piece possible, and even if we do not talk anymore, i hope you are well and happy. every day, i am so grateful we met, and i hope you can enjoy even bits and pieces of this story.

YOU HAD met Jing Yuan in your early years, by chance, peering at each other through the relentless beating of the sun’s rays and the glittering of the sea’s many jeweled crests. At the time, the boy had, you thought, equally dazzling eyes, as golden as the chains that adorned your mother’s neck and wrists, the same in reflecting your curious, admiring gaze.

Now, the gold is shades darker, matured and cured, a reflection of his much more grown state. Even from across the room, past the rotating crowd of other noble families, where you peer at him over the top of your lace fan, you can deduce his transformation, his broader, fitted shoulders and chest, inappropriately loose, long hair, tall stature that dwarfs those lingering near him. Most importantly, though, you cannot help but smirk at the flicker of red when Jing Yuan adjusts the collar of his tailcoat. The flash of color is meant to be discrete, though to observant eyes, it might as well also serve as a challenge.

For now, this will do.

A call of your name from your older brother pulls you from your watchful perch. Beside him is another man, another introduction, another attempt at your mother’s instruction. Your foxy satisfaction melts into your typical countenance, and you curtsy as the two gentlemen approach you. You know this conversation will result in nothing, but you entertain your brother and the baron he has brought over anyway.

–

You have never been the daughter your mother wanted. Perhaps, when you were once little, you were on course to becoming favored, but you have grown, enough, at least, to develop a pointed sense of your own being. Your brother says you think too much, that you are unable to see the bigger picture, and perhaps that is why your mother does not take too kindly towards you. After all, why would anyone favor another that watches, observes, judges their every move?

Even now, as she sits across from you, informing you of the baron and his lineage weeks after your introduction to the man, your mother is aware that while her directions may escape your memory, her movements do not. The shuddering of her fingers, an instinct that comes with age; the adjusting and readjusting of the pleats of her nightgown, a glean into her deep-set fear of abandonment; the twitching arch of her brow, the permanence of her distaste and disappointment in you.

“Mother,” you interrupt, “I suppose you are willing to sacrifice the nobility of our family name in order to satiate your sole desire to marry me off?”

She harrumphs. “Incorrigible.” The word is equivalent to being spat on. You give her some reprieve by pulling out your handkerchief and dab at your forehead, as if she really did. “You dare to claim you exhibit even an ounce of the dignity and lavishness you have been raised in?”

“Not at all.” You cease your acting, slipping the cloth away, and stare straight into your mother’s eyes. The briefest thought, that it is your fearlessness, a lack of tact, that your mother wholly detests you for, flickers in your mind before you extinguish it effectively. No matter. You say, “But we must not forget I still bear your husband’s last name. Regardless of your personal feud,” and you raise your chin towards her, “your husband would never allow even the likes of a woman such as myself to tarnish the family’s honor.”

You can see the tightening, working, grinding of her jaw. She grits, “You must have someone in mind, do you not?” She throws down her fan, the lacquered wood snapping in half when it collides with the ground, and rises on her haunches, towering over your seated figure. “You whore. Who is this man that you are seeing? Do you not understand what a scandal –“

You tilt your head, less than impressed. “There is no other man. That is your job, to find your only female kin a suitable proprietor. I would never do something on your behalf.”

Your response simultaneously placates yet enrages her further. “See yourself out now. And do not appear in my sights again tonight.”

“Of course, Mother.” You finish the last sip of your tea before standing to curtsy and exit the drawing room.

You pad through the darkening halls of your father’s manor with purpose. Instead of returning to your bedroom, you make your way to the third of four floors, veer towards the right end of the hallway, and knock on the last door.

The door cracks open before you can identify yourself.

“I am no postman, My Lady.”

“Oh, Fu Xuan!” You giggle and clasp her hands in yours, holding her fingers up to your cheek. “You are absolutely wonderful to me.”

“I would prefer if you kept your correspondences to a minimum. The servants are already gossiping about the frequency in which letters are delivered to me, and in due time, your mother will begin to pry into this matter.”

“Please, it is only every fortnight!”

Fu Xuan huffs, retracts her hands, and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You would not believe how bored your servants are.”

“Well, then, I do apologize. Perhaps I should have a more extravagant fight with my mother next time? At least she might knock over a teapot or something. That should occupy the maids for a day or so.”

“My Lady, if I may presume, it seems you will no longer have to meet that baron?”

You flash a wide grin at your governess. Born in an unconventional household, Fu Xuan is educated, beginning her academics at the age of no less than three, and prepared her whole life to work as a teacher. At first, your mother was against employing Fu Xuan because you were already struggling to conform to the set of traditions and expectations she had placed upon you then, but after meeting the young academic for a brief hour one morning, Fu Xuan and her adept way with words convinced your mother otherwise.

To you, Fu Xuan is more than your governess. She is also your closest confidant, similar enough in age to understand your perspectives yet more than practiced to offer wisdom when required. Though she was shaking her head as you proposed your strategy, Fu Xuan nonetheless agreed to help send and receive letters on your behalf to avoid the hawkish gazes incessantly monitoring you, to deprive them of another chance to pierce and tear at your person.

You walk over to her desk, cleared of everything except for a paper envelope and a small butter knife. You pick the former up, running a pointer finger across the wax seal, and release a soft, muted sigh. “You have always been so keen, Fu Xuan. How could you tell?”

“My Lady, your strengths have never lied in deception.”

“Oh, please!” You feign offense, dramatically setting the back of your hand to your forehead with faux urgency. “I am always excited to see you!”

“Please read the letter, so I may rest.”

Fu Xuan pulls out her desk chair for you to sit in, and you take the small butter knife in your unoccupied hand. Carefully, you prod the tip underneath the seal, gently pushing and easing its grip, until the wax plucks off neatly.

The envelope is thin this time, slimmer than many of the previous letters you have received, and you feel a pang of disappointment, resounding and clear in the hollows of your chest. You pull out a single sheet of paper and unfold it carefully, as if it might tear and dissipate into dust if you so much as brushed a finger a degree too harshly against the fiber.

Dear Lady,

I would like to foremost extend my condolences regarding your father’s condition. Word has reached the far edges of my relatives’ stays in Bath, and when I had visited a week ago, my family had discussed the news over lunch. I should have returned for a brief stay by the time this letter arrives in your hands, and do give Lady Fu Xuan my utmost thanks. I believe I shall see you at the dinner party that is occurring in just a few days time, and, if the chance arises, I will see to it that I am introduced to your brother.

Regarding your question in our previous exchange, my thoughts on the matter vary. Perhaps we may reach an impasse on the issue, but it is an overwhelming hurdle to pass such aggressive tax revisions without unanimous agreeance from many of the other men on the Royal Council; this is hardly achievable in the current instance, and I would advise My Lady and myself to not fancy ourselves with ill-conceived hopes. However, I do concede that your suggestions come from willful intent and are what is best for the common people, and therefore, I will do my part and pass on word to my father and his heir. I sincerely apologize that that is the extent of my powers. I am also aware that this writing may be shorter than before, and I hope My Lady is not discouraged, though, it may be presumptuous of me to assume My Lady would ever have such moments of wavering.

Once my tour has been completed, I can assure that there will be plentiful recounts of my journeys and more debates to be had about the state of affairs I come across. I bring your embroidery with me at all times.

– Your most faithful friend  

Jing Yuan, ever thoughtful, always considerate, never one to miss a single detail. Jing Yuan has always been thorough, that has been clear ever since you witnessed those dense, molten golds, and you are glad that he actively reciprocates your efforts in conversation, despite how inexperienced and eloquent you may be in comparison. On cue, Fu Xuan pulls out a drawer to grab a quill, a sheet of paper, and a well of ink, setting them beside your dominant hand. A maid will come to check on you very soon, judging by the rising of the moon, so you must write with precise decisiveness.

Sir,

Many thanks for your condolences to the Marquess. He is recovering and should be able to return to his post in a few morns. I did, indeed, witness you at the dinner party, and I am a little dimmed at the lack of correspondence between you and my brother. Instead, I was subjected to quite a drawling meeting with this baron from somewhere in the South, and the Marchioness has been encouraging his affections for me since. I managed to escape the impending engagement, after inciting a fit from her, but good Sir, while I do not mean to expedite our efforts unnecessarily, I would prefer if we could bring our exchanges elsewhere soon. Paper simply does not compare to the excitement and passion one feels in speech and gesture. Miss Fu Xuan is also beginning to fall under scrutiny, and I would never put her in harm’s way.

As for my simple questions regarding the rumored tax revisions, I thank you, truly, and can only implore My Lord to use the full extent of your ability, despite slim chances at approval. I hope your travels are safe and felicitous, and do write to me next month. I will be awaiting your full return.

– Your most affectionate friend

There is very little time for you to look over your reply. Quickly scanning, you pause only for any glaring errors, and at the lack thereof, you set your quill down and fold the letter in half.

“I must go now,” you tell Fu Xuan as you stand.

“I shall see you tomorrow, My Lady.” The two of you share a soft embrace, cheek to cheek, before you creak the bedroom door open and traverse with light steps to your own chamber. You make it in time, already shuffling into bed when one of the servants arrives to snuff out the candles lighting your room.

–

You remember the soft pulses of warm wind against your arms, the crisp, slightly briny scent of the sea and sand the breeze wafted to your nose. There were many families, children and women and men alike paddling in the sea, while others lied underneath umbrellas on the shore. If there is anything you and your mother have ever agreed on, it is that the beach is truly a healing, almost spiritual location.

Although your mother forbade you from wading into the waters, in fear of the sun burning your visage and hands, you did not mind staying behind on the sands in the first place. The feel of the dirt and grains and cracks of shells felt foreign against your palms, your nerves much more accustomed to the smooth, flat texture of grass blades and rough cobblestone. The beach sands were harsh, sometimes sharp, sometimes rounded from years of natural erosion and other children’s curious touches. You also took delight in the colors of the shore, glittering hot white and beige and speckled pink, winking at you as you scoured for conches and clams. The large sunhat you were wearing kept perturbing your digging, constantly sliding down your forehead and obscuring your vision, yet every time, you would pull it back into place and continue shoveling with curled fingers, until the sand transitioned into wet, moist sediment.

Your mother could not prohibit your burrowing for she was under another umbrella with her acquaintances, and you took much delight in being able to cause some mischief right in front of her without repercussion. But more than petty vengeance, you wanted to find a memento to bring home. Though young, you were already aware of some rift between you and your parents, and you were not guaranteed attendance on such trips in the future. The only way you could comfort yourself was by digging for that perfect shell, with its spirals and grooves and gradient of pearlescent white and baby pink, the ones described in the simple novels Fu Xuan lent you.

But the area around your feet offered little reward, and you were dissatisfied by the chips and scraps remaining in your palm as you sieved through the sand with your fingers. You gave up a little saddened and frustrated, as children do before they lose interest. Then, suddenly, you felt a soft tap on your shoulder, and you peered over to see an outstretched hand with a piece of something bright and orange. You glanced up, and that was when you first laid eyes on Jing Yuan.

“What is this?” you asked, voice muted and withdrawn in the face of a stranger.

“A piece of coral,” he answered. His voice was light and energetic, warm and welcoming, what you imagined playing and frolicking in the sea might feel like.

“What is coral?” He grinned wide, and you decided then that you liked this boy with wild white hair and generous hands. He did not shun you for speaking in questions, did not criticize your lack of knowledge, did not comment “little girl” under his breath.

“My mother says it is a type of rock, found on the ocean’s floors.”

“How did you get it?”

His grin softened into a gentler simper. “She gave it to me. She has these beautiful coral necklaces, and one broke two nights ago. She and her maids could not string it back together, so she gifted me the beads.”

The way he spoke so adoringly, lovingly, about his mother was foreign to you. But even then, you knew how important this woman was to him, and you could not understand why he would give you a present that was meant for him.

“Should you not keep this bead for yourself?”

He shook his head adamantly. “I can share.”

“But this is not something to be shared, yes?”

He paused for a moment, considering his response. He cocked his head to the side, rubbed at his temple with a knuckle, carefully stringing and knitting together the words he wanted to say.

“I want to,” he decided, with a tone of finality. “That way, I will not be the only one to remember my mother.”

You would later find out that Jing Yuan is the illegitimate child of one of the honorable dukedoms. Your brother had informed you but elaborated no further. It was then that you learned that it is customary for those of different castes to separate themselves from each other.

–

Jing Yuan listens to you well. You receive his next letter exactly a month later, timed intentionally no doubt, during a luncheon with Fu Xuan. Your father was still recovering in his chamber, and your mother was away for the weekend to spend some time with her younger sister. It has been a while since the last time you could so openly indulge yourself.

Dear Lady,

I believe I must offer my condolences to both Lady Fu Xuan and My Lady herself; I hope this report is delivered not even an hour too soon. Alas, I am also deeply perturbed at the notion of you being engaged to a baron, of all potential suitors. Though I will not fault the Marchioness, for you are of age and she must feel the pressures from the Marquess and other prying persons, it truly is deeply troubling that she has had to resort to such dire methods. Rest assured, however, that I will do my best to build an alliance with your brother.

I am to complete my tour before the New Year, in time for the coming Season, leaving us ample time. I only pray that the Marchioness does not rush My Lady into another introduction in the meanwhile.

“My Lady,” Fu Xuan interrupts, “your countenance is slipping.”

Without removing your gaze from the letter, eager to continue reading, you simply reply, “He will be back in less than two months.”

I am eager to see the familiar fields of the Duke’s estate when I return, but more than that, and I hope My Lady does not take my affections so lightly, I am delighted to reunite with you. As of this writing, I have only just arrived in Rome, with its famed colonnades, brilliant masonry, and fine arts. If my travels allow, I shall ensure that I bring some trinkets back with me to present to you. I will say no more regarding my tour, as My Lady and I will have more than sufficient time and space to discuss all that I have seen and experienced in the past three years.

However, this is where I have to mark the end of good news. My communications with my father have been unsuccessful, and the revisions we have agreed upon will not even reach the table of the Royal Council. The Duke has made it clear in his returned correspondence that he will speak no further on the issue, and therefore, that is the limitation of my influence. While this outcome may be discouraging, I hope My Lady’s interest in the politics and machinations of our nobility will not wane, and I will continue to improve upon myself to aid in seeing your efforts to fruition.

Before I forget, I must say that I had arrived late to that evening party and could not identify you or your brother at the hall. Next time, I will be more vigilant. Do tell how My Lady is faring, and perhaps we are only a letter or two away from being able to speak to each other in person.

– Your most faithful friend

You do not even bother to respond to Fu Xuan’s calls for you to finish your meal. Rushing out of your seat, you head straight to your brother’s study to write your letter in answer. Fishing through the drawers, you manage to find a dwindling well of ink along with an old, ragged quill, but they shall suffice.

Sir,

How excitable that My Lord is to return so soon, but surely, you jest. Upon the conclusion of your tour, you will have met many characters of people, and therefore, will not feel a need to see such a lively creature as myself. If I had the privilege of my own tour, I know I would lock myself in my room upon its finishing for three days or longer, with no disturbance, not even from Lady Fu Xuan, to record and digest all that I have experienced. There are also the remnants of your mother’s garden; though they may be bare in the midst of the winter snow, I am sure the winding branches and thick brushes are welcoming, familiar sights.

That said, I will hold My Lord to his word and shall comment no more on the matter of our formal introductions. I will continue to educate myself, to silence any hesitation or doubt you may have of my fancies towards academics. It pleases me to know that My Lord has such adoring concerns for me, as I to you.

– Your most affectionate friend

Just as you seal your envelope, waiting for the wax of your family seal to harden, a knock comes from the door.

“This is your own room. You ought to walk in and out as you please.”

Your brother laughs, always amused at your quick wit, and pads over to the front of the desk.

“You behave as if this room belongs to you. It looks like someone has ransacked my drawers for ransom and treasure.”

You roll your eyes. “There are none of such wares here. Your most pitiful sister could only employ an abandoned quill and a leaking pot of ink.”

“But you finished writing, nevertheless. To whom may I inquire?” He attempts to peer at the back of the envelope, hoping to catch a glimpse of a name or an address, but you slide it off the table before he can see.

“A friend.”

You know this answer will not satiate your brother’s endless curiosity, one of your many similarities. “Do I know of this friend?”

“You will,” and you wave at him to dismiss his other queries.

Unwavering, he says, “I see my ‘most pitiful’ sister has tricks up her sleeve. I am eager to see what surprises you have in store for me.” You nod cheerfully in agreement.

Aside from Jing Yuan, your brother is the only other male figure in your life that encourages your willingness to explore and learn. In the first place, he distastes the act of patronizing or critiquing you, and only provides guidance when even Fu Xuan cannot convince you of your wrongs. So when he brings up the debates and discussions that have occurred at the Royal Council, you are ever grateful for his generosity.

“I am sure you have heard recent word of the revolts happening in the slums. Such news has reached the ears of those in the Royal Council, and the Dukedoms have unanimously agreed to patiently wait for silence to befall the common folk.” He glances at you to see if you have anything to say. You blink, urging him to continue. He takes a deep breath, and suddenly, leans forward, bending at his waist so you two are now nose to nose. In a hushed voice, he says, “In fact, in the upcoming Season, they plan to raise the taxes again.”

You huff, frustrated. You mutter, “Relentless, they are.”

Your brother echoes your sentiments, wearing a solemn expression as well, and mumbles, “Indeed. How cruel, too, to decide the fates of so many right before the New Year.”

“I am confident Father agrees?”

“Regardless if he does or not, a Marquess cannot possibly rebuke the demands of a Duke.”

Both of you can only sigh. Without lingering for too long, though, you rise, preparing to send off your waiting response.

“Be well,” your brother says as he accompanies you to the study door, “for I have heard this winter will be sinister.”

Rather than feel a chill in your bones, though, your blood rushes with renewed warmth and vigor. An initiative, a motivation to take action, something you have never experienced before, appears in your mind, burning into your thoughts so you will never forget. This is a chance, you think. An opportunity I will never be bestowed again.

–

In and out, through and through, back and forth. You wet the tip of the thread with a flick of your tongue and string it through the silver of the needle. In and out, through and through, back and forth. You tie a small knot at the end of the thread. In and out, through and through, back and forth. 

Stitching did not come naturally to you. If one studied the pads of your fingers at length, one could discern the faint scars of scratches and pierces of the tender skin, remnants of your debacle with the needle before you learned to seamlessly wield it. Now, after many years of practice, you have come to enjoy the meticulous process of creation, watching as each push, pull, and tighten amounts to a stroke of an image.

At first, it began with tambouring, straightforward enough for a young girl to grow accustomed to the pricking and stringing motions of a needle, decorating spare handkerchiefs and old dresses that you could no longer fit in. Then, when you received some canvas and a circular wooden frame from Fu Xuan for your birthday, you transitioned to the needle and began to acquire knowledge of the many different types of stitches and patterns. From there, your practices extended beyond the frayed edges of cut cloth. From lace trimmings of your skirt to the cuffs of your brother’s shirts and coats to the reticules your mother had long abandoned and forgotten about, your work started to resemble that of the many renowned seamstresses in town. Of course, many did, still do not, look favorably upon this talent of yours. Embroidery is considered a lower form of art, incomparable to the ways of music or sketch or paint. But, still, you seek comfort, when your mind is much too tense and worn, in the rhythm and coming together of fabric and lines.

“What is it?” Disinterested, convinced that whatever you have conjured up is of no importance, will always never be important, your mother looks outside of the window panes, more content to watch flakes of white drift from the graying sky.

You are not swayed. You clear your throat and say, “We are mother and daughter. Occasionally, the blood that binds us does show in our behaviors.”

Your mother sighs. “Out with it, foolish girl.” She casts a glare at you before her eyes flick back to the scenery outside. “I require total peace, so hurry with your speech.”

“I simply want to request a tea party with a few of the other ladies.”

Eyebrows furrowed, your mother peers at you as if you have sprouted the Devil’s horns atop your head. Incredulous, she asks, “Why such a change in heart and mind?”

“Well, to ease some of your concerns, I think it is best that I learn from those you deem proper enough. Further,” and you stare at her intently now, “your dearest son has informed me that this winter will be particularly harsh. How can we entertain our guests when we are all inside for so long?”

“Is the usual routine of games and food and good laughter not sufficient?” Your mother is fully facing you now. Inwardly, you chuckle with much delight.

You speak slowly, stretching out the silence between each phrase to heighten pressure and suspense. “Fair,” you muse, “but all of our fathers are getting older, too. See your husband, Mother, his state is faring worse and worse. Perhaps... us ladies can spend the time more wisely.”

“I see.”

All you can do is wait as your mother mulls over the idea, letting your suggestion sink, ruminate, digest. You cannot push anymore, so you bid a good night and return to your room. Even without the tea party, even if you have to bear the burden yourself, your work awaits you.

The next morning, you are surprised to find one of your mother’s maids carrying several letters outside.

“What are these messages for?” you ask.

The maid does a brief curtsy before answering, “The Marchioness is sending out invitations for a tea party, My Lady. It is set to happen immediately, a week from today.”

The outcome is even better than you had anticipated.

You rush to the morning room, where your mother is eating bread and chocolate. 

“Mother, thank you,” you say, a hand over your heart as you bow.

She huffs and finishes chewing her bite. Dusting her fingers, she replies with arrogance, knowing you owe her a favor, “I have also gone ahead and asked for layers upon layers of cotton, linen, and wool to be delivered to the estate. Let this be a reminder that you owe everything to your noble upbringing.”

You are much too giddy to smartly reproach her.

–

The tea party is loud and boisterous, filling the usual silence of your family’s manor with tall tales, news on the men’s recent fox hunts, and scandalous romantic couplings. You hear that a baron was caught with his mistress of several months. A Duke’s son fell off his horse because he was severely inebriated, but thankfully only broke his dominant arm and nowhere else. An older earl and countess were blessed with another daughter. 

You sit in a rocking chair and let the conversation float freely in your mind. For once, your mother has truly outclassed your expectations, presenting you with an occasion, an opportunity, so bountiful that you are almost compelled to forgive her historical grievances towards you. You sew together sheets of linen, piling in wool and cotton, before closing the seams. The other ladies also work with unparalleled diligence at having been given a purpose.

“What a wonderful idea!” one praised with joy. Another said you were “incredibly thoughtful.” You smirk within your thoughts, concealed by a pleasant countenance on the outside. Even the accompanying men nodded approvingly at your intentions.

At the beginning of the party, you announced to the many guests, “Please, do enjoy your time here at the manor. I am incredibly gracious towards you all for making the cold journey to this distant estate. However, I urge all of the ladies present to work as quickly yet dutifully as your hands can, for we need to make as many coats as possible. There is no such thing as too much warmth in this never ending cold.” Everyone agreed with solemn expressions before breaking for Chinese green tea, gingerbread, and walnut cake, filling the air with festive cheer.

You pause for a brief break. As you curl and uncurl your fingers, stretching out the strained joints, you glance over at a couch. In a day’s work, the couch is covered in layers upon layers of coats and thicker shirts. Some are small, others are longer, few haphazardly put together, but all will still do. Then, you look around the room, passing your eyes over the faces of all of the guests. The women, more than there usually are at such parties, sit in armchairs around the room. The men stand in between, wherever there is space, holding onto glass cups of wine and emptied coffee cans. Though you have never felt like you belonged in such groups and communities, you cannot help but find today’s gathering rather agreeable and successful. Is this what it feels like to start something and see it through to the end?

Well, not that you are at the end. You count in your head and conclude that there is still a month before Jing Yuan returns. When he does, then you will be able to see your work to completion.

At the thought of him, though, you feel a faint flicker of concern. It has been a month since your last letter, and you have yet to receive one in return. You try to comfort yourself with reminders that Jing Yuan is busy and there is always the possibility of mail getting lost or delayed in transaction. But, in that case, you must try again.

Later that evening, when all of the guests have dismissed themselves and the drawing room brims with clothes, you slip to Fu Xuan’s room and draft a quick message by melting candlelight.

Sir,

My sincere apologies for disturbing your journey. As I have not received a reply since my last letter, I wanted to send another one to let you know that I am, at least, faring well. Winter is rapidly approaching, and I hope My Lord is not experiencing any disorder or illness yourself, that is, if Rome is experiencing such volatile weather as well, I would not know. If possible, since you insist, shall we wait in your mother’s garden when you return, as we did years ago?

I patiently await My Lord’s presence.

– Your most affectionate friend

–

A knock on your window wakes you from your restless sleep. Already half-awake from tossing and turning, you hear the curt raps against the glass pane and slowly blink awake. The person is patient and remains silent, as if knowing you would require a few minutes to get dressed and prepared. 

You pull on another two layers of gowns and a thick shawl. You also grab one of the coats you sewed. Finally, you grab two pairs of gloves, one much larger than the other, and pad over to open the curtains covering your windows.

The sky is overcast, large clumps of clouds blocking the moon and stars from your vision, but occasionally, faint streaks of light pour through the cracks of the grim overhang. And right as you see him, a single ray casts its brightness over the man waiting outside, as if to anoint him prince or king or some holy spirit. His hair gleams the purest silver, and he adorns a coat, one that is seemingly a little too small for him, with floral patterns adorning the length of its sleeves. He flashes a close-eyed smile, and you cannot help but also beam at him.

Firmly, you hold the top sash of the window while pushing the bottom panel up. As soon as the bottom panel is lifted even slightly, a gust of biting air enters your rooms and flurries around your figure. You shiver at the chill but continue to lift until the window is fully open and slip through.

Holding onto your arm with one hand and your waist with the other, he helps you out of your room and onto the tiny balcony with him. When you stand, you two are pressed chest to chest, but by now, the streak of moonlight has disappeared and you can only make out faint traces of him.

“Good day, My Lady,” the man whispers.

You take a deep breath, basking in the sturdiness of his frame against yours and the ticklish sensation against your ear from his breath. “Should it not be ‘good evening,’ My Lord?”

“The day is anew, so I shall be the first one to greet you in this early morn.”

As your eyes adjust to the darkness, his features come into clearer view. The strands of each hair, the creases of his lapels, those molten golds. You cannot stare for too long, lest you blaze and melt as well.

“I will go down first,” he says, “and be there to catch you when you jump down.”

“Yes, yes,” you agree, though, not without a tinge of sarcasm. “As we have done before.”

He nods, maintaining his grip on your waist for another moment, before he releases you, leaps into a nearby tree, and swiftly climbs down to the ground. You, on the other hand, pull yourself up to sit on the balcony railing, and when he motions with waves of his hands, you take a deep breath, feel the pounding of your heartbeat against your ribcage, and propel yourself off with a push of your legs, holding onto your belongings. He catches you, arms knowingly finding their way around your waist and under your knees, as if he did not simply perform a feat of great strength and balance.

“Jing Yuan,” you gasp.

“Oh, now we are using names?” he jests. You are still too excited to reprimand him, and he laughs at your awestruck state before saying your name. He carries you over to where his horse stays, neighing and nosing at the ground, and helps you get on. By now, you have recollected your breath and can say much more.

“Jing Yuan,” you call out. “Your coat is much too small for you. Wear this one instead.” You toss the one you have been clutching onto this entire time, along with the larger pair of gloves, into his arms. “It may not be as comfortable, but it should keep you warm.”

“It seems My Lady has become quite cold-hearted in the years we have spent apart.”

“No, I know why My Lord chooses to wear what he has adorned. But I cannot have you falling ill on me. I need you.” The sound of your last three words seem to soften something in Jing Yuan because when he looks up at you, his gaze is full of longing and yearning.

“Then, we must leave here immediately,” he replies as he mounts onto the horse, sitting in front of you. “Hold on tight.”

And with a tug of the reigns, the two of you are racing through the fields and roads that surround your family’s estate. You bury your face into Jing Yuan’s back, feel the scratch of the linen against your cheeks, and submit to the roaring of the wind in your ears.

Three long years since you have been on the back of this very horse, holding onto Jing Yuan as so. Mimi, a most peculiar name that Jing Yuan imagined, was only a young mare at the time, but she could at least withstand the weight of your younger selves, quite strong for both her sex and age. In the past, the two of you often made such arrangements, every fortnight or so, him greeting you at the window as he did this evening, you leaping into his arms, the two of you escaping to the safety and privacy of his mother’s garden.

You do not know how long it takes to reach his estate from yours, but Mimi must have gotten faster because you arrive before you can fully adjust to the jostling of horseback. With a tip of his chin, the gatekeeper of Jing Yuan’s manor obeys and cracks the gate only enough to let your party slip through. Mimi’s hooves clop against the gravel of the driveway as Jing Yuan slows her down to a slight gallop and guides her towards the left side of the estate, where one can enter his mother’s garden after jumping past a few evergreen hedges.

He gets off first before helping you down. From above, you can see the tips of his reddened ears and scoff, frustrated.

“What is the matter, My Lady?” he inquires, attentive to even the smallest shifts in your disposition.

“I must apologize, My Lord. I should have brought a tippet.”

“Do not concern yourself with such trivial matters. Yanqing has already prepared warm clothes and food for us.” He sets you down and guides you to an open space nearby that is hidden behind granite pillars and dry rose vines, where, on top of a picnic sheet on the floor, lay two oil lamps that illuminate a spread of covered tableware and articles of muffs, coats, and blankets. If you recall correctly, this area used to host a small table and two chairs, allowing Jing Yuan and his mother to nibble on biscuits and talk about the day’s events during spring dawns and summer dusks.

“Yanqing must have grown considerably,” you say as you take a seat. Jing Yuan nods, sitting right beside you, and drapes a blanket over your shoulders.

“Much has changed,” he muses. “He is at my shoulders now. He has taken great care of Mimi.”

“You did not bring her along with you?”

Jing Yuan tilts his head, as he always does when he is about to tell an interesting story. “I had to travel by boat several times throughout my tour. There was no way to bring Mimi, for she is terrified of the ocean.” You perk up at and listen intently, eager to drink in all of the details of his travels.

Jing Yuan speaks of meeting the British envoys and French royals. He recounts the myths behind the statue of the Tiber. He speaks of the many hurdles he experienced as he made his way from one country to the next, once needing to barter with a driver over ten cents for an additional mile, another time having to locate a luggage that slipped into a raging river. He describes the cuisines he ate in masterful language, the fragrant breads, seasoned fish, decadent pastries, hearty stews. He lists cultural differences, how the Austrians bond over musical theatre and opera, the way Italians pore over their massive collections of literature, the Portuguese’s peaceful lives separate from war and political strife.

“I wonder how Portugal does it,” you mumble.

Jing Yuan leans down to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “My Lady,” he mutters, “there is no such thing as a complete utopia in this world.”

“But did you not just prescribe their land as such?”

He hums, tracing his finger from behind the shell of your ear, down to your pulse point at your neck, back up to the under of your jaw. “A Grand Tour is still only a tour. One does not visit the slums or the rural villages or the dirty outskirts of cities, if it can be avoided. We will never fully see or understand how the common people live. How they survive.”

You can feel the intensity of his stare. He is testing you, urging you to look back, to taste the raging of flames and anger and frustration in his golden eyes. But you cannot, or rather, you should not. It would be too presumptuous of you to act like you still know how he thinks, understands, perceives the world.

“You are right, My Lord,” you manage to croak, throat somehow parched, despite the cup of warm milk you only just finished. “We will never truly know.”

You want to say more, but you do not know if you should. Instead, you shut your mouth and lean against Jing Yuan’s shoulder.

Unexpectedly, he shrugs you off. He even pulls away from you. Then, he taps at the middle of your spine, causing you to sit still and upright.

“Speak,” he instructs, voice low yet stable, as if he is waiting with bated breath, patience wearing thin. “I know you have your own thoughts, so speak your truth.”

“My Lord, I…” You falter. It has been a while since you have been allowed to speak so openly about such serious matters, and you are no longer accustomed to late hours past your curfew, neither of which aid you as you attempt to string together some semblance of eloquence. “In reality, I… I will never have the chance to know. To know how it feels like to go without food or shelter. Or to withstand this severe weather in the barest of threads. Or any degree of suffering and hardship, truly. But…” You take one hand out of the muff and place it on top of his gloved ones, running the pads of your fingers over the glazed leather. “But I cannot sit idly by and do nothing, no?”

Jing Yuan interlaces his fingers with yours and asks, “What can you do?” It is not an admonishment or an ironic jab, but instead, a genuine question with hopeful intentions.

“Jing Yuan.” The punctuated way you utter his name alerts him, and he tightens his grasp on you to let you know he is listening. “Forgive my impertinence, but perhaps, I have found a way. Your coat.” You nudge your chin towards his chest, and he finally examines the thick wool keeping him warm.

“Did you make this?”

You nod. “And many other ladies. I hosted a tea party a few weeks ago where we gathered together to make many. Though they may not be lined or hemmed properly, they should last a few winters.”

Jing Yuan shuffles to look around at the coat that he is wearing. You watch as his eyes dart from the collar to the sleeves to the buttons. As if coming to some sort of internal agreement, he nods and releases an interested hum.

“I wonder how you convinced such noble families to partake in charity?”

You chuckle, shaking your head before resting it on his shoulder. This time, he does not shake you off. “They do not know that it is for charity. I simply requested that we do it under the guise of my father’s illness, and bless their hearts, they agreed to assist in making as many winter pieces for the noblemen as they could. My Lord, women can be quite determined if given a meaningful task.”

Jing Yuan laughs at your last comment. “That I know well, for My Lady is a prime example of such fortitude. But will they not realize some of the clothes will be missing?”

“Oh, of course, I addressed that as well. I told them I would be sending the pieces we made to the seamstresses to get it properly fitted, which would require some time and patience. My Lord, you ought to know that, while many noble ladies know how to embroider, that is the extent of their talents. None of them even know how to put together a dress for themselves! At the very least, they can do rudimentary work in sewing together large pieces of fabric and stuffing cotton. Regardless, in the meantime, I will continue to sew as many as I can to substitute for the missing amount, and I will be sure to distribute the coats to their intended owners before the New Year. Speaking of which…”

You nudge at his chest with the point of your elbow. It takes Jing Yuan a second to react, the exhaustion beginning to penetrate and muddle his senses, before he realizes. 

He chuckles again, softer, quieter. “I understand why My Lady said she needed me earlier this evening.”

“Would you be willing to support such an endeavor, My Lord?”

Without a single word, he brings his arms around you and sets his head atop of yours, embracing you with comfortable tightness and security. “Of course, anything at your behest. Let me know when, and I shall act upon your instruction immediately.”

“On Saint Thomas’s Day. Visit as many families as you can, especially those with children.”

“Then it shall be done.”

With that, silence fills the space around you. You should be even a slight bit cautious and careful, with the way Jing Yuan surrounds you whole. You both are much more grown, after all, and if someone, anyone, were to see the intimacy the two of you are sharing, it would tarnish your reputation irreparably. But three long years it has been since the last time you felt his touch. Three years since you could feel his hair graze against your cheek, his fingers hold at your waist, his chest press against your back. And more than anything else, these past three years have cost you the sound of his voice. He sounds different now. More worn and fatigued, yet simultaneously confident and articulate. You have been deprived of his lips ghosting your ears, his hot breath trailing against the lines of your neck, each of his words sending tremors through the flesh and bones of your body. 

“Are you warm, My Lord?”

“Yes, much due to this coat of yours.”

You huff. “You should not have worn such an ill-fitted coat in the first place. It does not fit you anymore.”

He strokes at your side and banters, “My Lady, I truly do hope that you are not, in reality, ignorant as to why I chose to.”

Of course, you know. The way the coat stretched to accommodate Jing Yuan’s growth is only another sign, in testament to how much he has transformed since your last encounter three years ago.

You still remember doing, undoing, redoing many of the countless florals that are strewn across the expanses of the sleeves. The red thread is bold, in contrast to the crisp white of the article’s linen, and you remember how, at the time, you were embarrassed by your brazenness to choose such a distinct color. You had wanted to change it to something else, perhaps a muted blue or yellow, but it was too late, and you had to see Jing Yuan off before his tour.

Seeming to know where your mind is wandering off to, he says something that steals your breath and sets your heart ablaze. “I wear this coat whenever I can.”

You can only roll your eyes, and you are grateful that your frostbitten nose and ears do not give away the warmth in your face. “You foolish man, Jing Yuan.”

Somehow, his hold on you becomes stronger, and you feel as if he is swallowing you, overwhelming all of your senses with only him. “I think it is romantic. It is My Lady’s first gift to me, after all.”

That is true. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to be coddled, and think back to when both of you were much younger and even more so naïve, not yet fully aware of fate’s unfoldings.

After your encounter at the beach, you did not meet the boy again until a few years later at a party. Your parents were unacquainted, but as soon as you saw him, you escaped your mother when she was too busy meeting other guests and pulled Jing Yuan aside to say your much belated thanks. When he was younger, Jing Yuan was mischievous, feisty, energetic. He delighted in your spontaneity as well, and as children do, the two of you decided to meet up after he learned to ride. There was no discussion of details or logistics, only an intangible promise that somehow carried more trust than any vow or oath. 

Yet, he found you. And he brought you over to this very garden, to a small shed where his mother was awaiting the both of you.

You remember his mother in vivid detail. One could describe her as the embodiment of the nobility. Her posture exuded dignity and discipline, her choices in fashion tasteful and elegant, a woman of such gentleness and compassion that you had wished many times she was your blood mother as well. Jing Yuan’s mother was also responsible for introducing you to embroidery. Had she not, you are sure you would never have touched the needle and string in this lifetime. You practiced so diligently, hoping to impress and astound her with your talent. But truly, regardless of what came of your fastidious efforts, she always caressed the top of your head and praised you, repeating honeyed words and phrases until you almost believed them. Jing Yuan would watch the two of you work and occasionally try his hand at your activities, though he was never much good, too impatient and easily irritated as young boys are.

But then, in the spring of your twelfth year and Jing Yuan’s fifteenth, she was gone. There were no more traces of her, and the shed no longer stood where it once was. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully. The tulips, pansies, and hyacinths his mother labored over were in full bloom, yet she would never see those sun-kissed petals and brilliant green stems. She would never witness Jing Yuan’s rapid improvements in the sword or your ability to peruse a text meant for grown men. She would never see the two of you grow up to become the man and woman the two of you are today.

And Jing Yuan did not cry when he told you. But you could see the sorrow and emptiness hang from him, outlining the lines of his face, scenting the tear stains on his button-up, creaking in his joints. You stood behind him, watching as he raised his head to look up at the sun, so bright and gleaming and proud. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully. And he told you everything, answering all of the questions you never voiced or had.

His mother was the mistress of a Duke, making Jing Yuan an illegitimate child. But because his father was a Duke, no one batted an eye, and it never caused a stir, simply a passing comment made as the nobles greeted each other over mealtime before moving onto more extravagant rumors. And, as Jing Yuan described, he did not suffer much either. The Duke still gave him the education and training befitting of a high-ranking noble’s child, and he was granted unrestrained freedom and privileges. But the one thing Jing Yuan deeply, wholly wanted his whole life was never satisfied.

Although Jing Yuan was allowed to do whatever it is he wanted with no dispute, his father maintained distance and never showed much of an interest towards him or his mother. His mother had always been sickly and was often in isolation, yet despite the circumstances, the Duke only slipped farther and farther away. Jing Yuan had longed for a complete family, but to no avail. And his mother passed away, accompanied only by a physician and two maids, when Jing Yuan was away for a hunt. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully.

Afterwards, the two of you became an inseparable duo. You visited more often, almost once or twice every week, and though you never cared much for, or rather, did not know much of, affection, you began to let your fingers linger on his shoulders as he helped you down from Mimi and to sit in a way such that the cap of your knee would brush against his. And when you were not in the presence of each other, the two of you established a line of communication via letters. These letters would bridge the physical gap between the two of you and proved extremely useful when Jing Yuan went on tour.

Aside from letters, when he was away on tour, Yanqing would deliver some clothes to your estate, hiding a bag of shirts or tailcoats in a bush, of which you would collect when you and Fu Xuan would return from your afternoon strolls. These were articles prepared for Jing Yuan during his brief returns, usually due to some family emergency or duty for the Parliament. At this point, you fully embraced the color red and its flare and passion, choosing to take on the burden of a crimson so bright that you are left with no choice but to ensure that every stitch is perfect. You adorned his clothes with the subtlest of details, only meant to elevate them around the collar or cuffs or pockets.

And that is how those three years passed. Now that he is beside you, the time apart feels both painfully enduring yet incredibly effortless. Though he was not by your side, it never felt like he was far away, definitely not across oceans and mountain ranges and plains with names you have never heard of. Regardless, all that matters is, in the present moment, Jing Yuan is truly here, and you are with him.

–

The events leading up to Christmastide and the holiday itself flurried by. As planned, Yanqing had come to collect the coats you and Fu Xuan had left in bags behind a bundle of trees, and on Saint Thomas’s Day, Jing Yuan went out to deliver them, spending the day outside and reporting to you promptly when he returned home later that night. Through the grapevine, you heard of the countless praises the nobles showered upon Jing Yuan and his father, and from Jing Yuan himself, many of the common folk were at a loss for words, shocked that the son of a Royal Council member would dare to tread into their territory.

The end of such festivities also signaled the beginnings of the new Season. January was spent preparing the finest laces, silks, ribbons, jewelries you would be donning at the never ending series of parties, picnics, hunts, and other gatherings for the next few months. This time, though, you were eager, hounding all of the maids, Fu Xuan, even your mother to assist in the wake of your unprecedented enthusiasm.

Presently, you are en route to your first ball. You and your mother are in a coach, while your brother rides on horseback. It is dark outside and the snow is incessant, but the ambience is full of excitement, the hopeful chattering between young ladies and lords, as well as the charming music from the band playing inside, drowning out the howls of the wind. As your party nears the assembly room, you can clearly see the size of the gathering, dozens of middle- and upper-class families present and attendants rushing about to answer calls for help.

Your coach stops near the edge of the driveway, and your brother takes your hand as you step out.

“I heard from Mother that you were fervently awaiting today,” he says with a smirk, brushing off the snowflakes collecting on your shoulders. “This is your third season, so what could possibly be so unique about tonight’s party?”

You open your fan, concealing everything below your eyes, and shrug. Behind the fan’s ribs, though, you are smiling widely, unable to feign even an ounce of indifference.

“I simply hope this is your sister’s final season,” your mother remarks as she exits the carriage.

As soon as the three of you step into the hall, your brother is hounded with warm greetings and impatient requests. Your father had fallen ill once again, and given his series of absences, many have turned towards your brother as the patriarch of the family.

“I shall tend to these matters. Do enjoy your time, dear Sister!” your brother calls as he gets pulled away.

You and your mother walk over to a group of ladies, many of whom attended your tea party and took part in your ambitious project. One lady in a pale pink gown, in particular, seems to be at the centre of the conversation, as all the rest are peering at her with palpable expectation. You can hear bits and pieces of the conversation as you approach.

Another in tea green pokes at her. “Miss, please share! We are begging you to tell us how!”

The lady blushes deeply, fanning at herself. “Friends, there is no how! I simply met the man at a closed gathering the week before.”

“What is his demeanor?”

“Is he of your rank or above?”

“Have you garnered affections for him yet?”

Questions are flung at her, and she simply responds by closing her fan and tapping at one of her cheeks at each query.

When the arguably most important question is asked, whether or not she wants to be engaged to the man, she places the tip of her fan against her right cheek, and everyone breaks into surprised gasps and delighted murmurs.

Then, as if staged, the music in the room diminuendos until the band tapers into silence. There is a brief shuffling of sheet music before the musicians break into the first country song of the evening. A gentleman comes over, a son of an earl from a glance, and bows in front of the lady in the pink, holding his right hand out in search of her left. The other ladies, you and your mother included, watch with intent and rapture, and follow the extension of her elbow as she lets herself be taken. As the pair slip away, mutterings break between the remaining women before they, too, are asked, one by one, to dance with other single gentlemen.

As usual, you excuse yourself to the corner of the ballroom, finding a seat that ensures an adequate view of the dancing attendees. There are rumors that you do not participate because you are not well-trained, but truly, it is only because you have very little interest in dancing with men you have never met before. 

From here, you can observe the subtlest of details without disturbance. You notice a younger boy slip into the room with refreshments, bound to gorge himself on bread and butter even though dinner is scheduled in two hours or so. An old couple stands at the tailend of the dancing line, half a beat behind everyone else, chuckling to themselves as they attempt to keep up with the steps they know by heart. The mothers of many of the debutantes are lined against the walls, their eyes not on their respective daughters but rather on the many potential suitors in the room, cherry picking the perfect son-in-law. 

And then, a flash of red. You see it at the edge of your periphery, and your head whips to the left. You do not see the red again, but instead, a dense cloud of white. You are about to leap up and pace forward, but you catch yourself and hurry to rearrange your expression to one that is more neutral and acceptable.

Jing Yuan comes to stand before you, followed by your brother.

The latter says, “Dear Sister, this is Lord Jing Yuan.”

You bite at your lip to prevent yourself from reacting to the comedy of the situation, and curtsy towards Jing Yuan as he bows to you.

“Pleased to be in your presence, My Lord.”

“I should be thanking My Lady.”

Your brother chuckles. “The two of you are too stiff. Sister, Lord Jing Yuan has just returned from his Grand Tour and is the son of Duke…,” and he prattles on, listing facts and details you are already aware of. Jing Yuan is also amused and glances at you every so often, but you avoid returning such stares and focus your attention on the sound of your sibling’s voice.

However, soon thereafter, the Master of Ceremonies interrupts all activities, including your trio’s brief exchange, and calls for mealtime. Jing Yuan dismisses himself, returning to his step-brother’s side.

Suddenly, your brother grabs you by the shoulder. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you shake your arm in response, urging him to loosen his grip.

“What a miracle!” he exclaims. You furrow at him with confusion. “Sister! Lord Jing Yuan himself rushed to greet you. That is unheard of!”

It takes you a second to understand, to remember that there are customs and traditions in society’s place, and the oddity of the situation finally dawns on you. “Brother,” you respond, “tell me how you encountered him.”

“Well, I paid the Duke, his father, a quick greeting on behalf of our family, and Lord Jing Yuan was there as well. When I was about to take my leave, he followed after me, and asked if I had any time. Can you believe it? He asked if I had time!”

“Yes, yes, please proceed.”

“I was worried I had done something imprudent in front of him and the Duke. I began saying a flurry of things, but he simply asked if I knew of any ladies that are seeking engagements, as he is in a rush to get married himself. I should have asked why –”

“Brother.”

“Ah, dismiss that thought. Anyway, of course, I had to say that you are of age, and he requested I direct him to you. I resisted, because as our father is only a Marquess and him a part of a Dukedom, it is only proper that I bring you to him, but he said he needed to be somewhere quieter and hurried us off.”

Your brother takes a deep breath and waits for your response. With much effort, you remain stoic.

“How peculiar,” you muse, with as even a tone as you can muster.

“Dear Sister, perhaps…” The two of you share a quick look, his expectant, yours knowing.

After a lingering moment of silence, you can only sigh. “We shall see.”

Ecstatic, your brother takes your shoulders with renewed vigor, lightly shaking you back and forth. “How auspicious! Of course, I will miss you, but Sister, you would be much happier away from our estate! You must seize this chance!”

You go along with his antics and incessant chattering, making slow progress towards the dining hall.

–

The third month of the year promises a multitude of changes. Primarily, fox hunting ends in March, therefore the men are rushing to organize their final hunts. As the men are occupied during their outings, the women pass their leisure time inside, rather impatiently, too, for Easter and the height of the Season, which will be at full throttle within a few weeks’ time. For noblewomen in particular, they also have the option to accompany the hunts, and on this late morning, you and your mother stay in a carriage to support the participants from afar.

Today’s hunt is small, exclusive to a few select Dukes and Marquesses of the nobility. Your father, now recovered, and your brother are present, and you notice Jing Yuan and his step-brother are also members among the group. 

Truly, Jing Yuan stands out amongst the crowd. Again, you are reminded of his towering and broad stature, and even when he is not speaking, he carries a solid aura of authority and a command for respect such that the other attendants do not dare to mention, let alone mock, his birthright. At the moment, he is running his hands through Mimi’s mane, and even his trust and care for her alone are superior to the mediocre handle the other men have of their horses.

The hunters seem to be strategizing, plotting out routes and dividing themselves into smaller groups, and with each passing second, your interest dampens, and it seems your mother is also growing disinterested.

With a flick of her wrist, glass-beaded bracelets clinking and clanking, she speaks, “The white-haired man, is it?” 

You nod.

She huffs through her nose, but she is not unhappy. She is silently beckoning you to question her.

And so, you inquire, “Mother, what are your judgments of Lord Jing Yuan?”

She leans towards the window and narrows her eyes. “A man of benevolent nature… Quite handsome as well… But a bastard child, is he not?”

You shrug. “What does it matter? His father is a Duke.”

“It does not change that he is born from the womb of a wicked woman.”

A striking flash of anger and urgency erupts in your gut, and you are close to hurtling uncouth insults at the woman sitting before you, but there is no need because your mother finishes her thought before your outburst can materialize.

“That brings me great pleasure,” the absurd woman says, with a twisted snark, “for you do not deserve happiness in your marriage. While I may be gone, misfortune shall always befall you. You will always suffer from your ill nature.”

Without a word, you swing the door of the carriage open and step out, in need of space. You strut to a group of barren trees, sparkling with melting dew, and lean against the trunk of one, looking off at where the hunters and their hounds are racing after the scent of foxes.

The biting cold does nothing to cool your raging internal heat. The echoes of your mother’s spiteful words act as fuel, a permanent well of dark, staining oil, spinning and stubborn in your mind. In fact, you become more bitter and sensitive at their persistence, and if anyone were to say one wrong phrase or make one wrong move towards you at this very instance, they would, for sure, catch your ire. 

How dare she. Even in your most distant memories, the thought of Jing Yuan’s mother brings warmth, a tight embrace, an affirming kiss on your forehead. In comparison, your own blood parents have done nothing more than bring you into this world. Even the jewels, fabrics, food, shelter they provide you are done out of obligation; given the option, they would abandon you without hesitation.

The taste of acid and iron surprises you. You are usually tame, capable of extinguishing any sign of anger or disappointment, so to find yourself so outraged that you have bitten open the inside of your cheek serves to worsen your temperament. You refuse to let that woman, only bound to you by blood and flesh, grate at your nerves, but it seems, this time, she has poked at your most sensitive vulnerability.

Suddenly, a loud neigh from a horse rings through the field, and you turn your head just in time to see Jing Yuan, a crumpled body, and Mimi leap through the air and land near you.

“Jing Yuan!” you cry, hands clutching at the sides of your skirt, annoyance and frustration set aside.

He tugs at Mimi sternly, and with a kick of her front legs, she rears to a halt. You rush over as Jing Yuan hops down with a man on his back, the latter wearing a deep-set frown and releasing low groans.

“What happened? Someone, please –”

Jing Yuan intervenes with a call of your name, shaking his head. “No need for your people. I shall bring the Marquess to his carriage and stay with him till he reaches his estate.”

You could care less about the injured man. “And what about you? Are you injured, Jing Yuan?”

He nods. Then, under his breath, he mutters, “Careful, for we are being watched. But thank you.” Something in his eyes glitter, a light diamond yellow, a new color so beautiful and mesmerizing. You force yourself to tear your gaze away. “I am fine, My Lady. Please, take care.”

You clamp your mouth shut. With that, he paces away, doing his best to carry the injured Marquess steadily.

You do not see him again for the rest of the day. But his heroics, over the course of an evening, become the talk of the town.

Two days pass, and for the first time, Jing Yuan and you meet during the daytime, accompanied by Fu Xuan. A nearby promenade has been kept cleared, as more and more folks spend time outside, and it is only proper that the two of you extend your public interactions beyond simple greetings, primarily to discourage and drive away any suitors who still retain hopes in having your or Jing Yuan’s hand.

“My Lord has certainly come under scrutiny,” you say, playful and amused in tone.

“Ah, the nobles do love their entertainment, I suppose.”

“Do not be so bashful, My Lord! I have heard of everything, and what you did during the hunt is truly an accomplished feat.”

“Tell me, then, My Lady, what you have heard.”

You switch your parasol to your other shoulder and tilt it up so that you can better see in front of you. There are other prospective couples, as well as their respective chaperones, but all eyes seem to be on you and Jing Yuan. With no fan in hand, it is difficult to signal to your partner, but he, too, already seems aware of the prying stares.

You begin to tell, “I much prefer the noble ladies and their recollections. Their recountings began before the hunt even started.

“You were steering the conversation, as if you were a general and the others your cavalrymen, planning every possible move and route.”

Jing Yuan stifles his fit of laughs with the back of his hand, and you do as well.

Resuming, you say, “Then, the group broke into partitions of four or five men each. The hunt seemed already destined and fated for success, with you in charge. However, many of the noblemen are elderly, yes? So as you and Mimi galloped so freely under the blue sky, the other men in your group struggled to keep up, and one Marquess with very little talent in horseback did not jump over a jutting root in time and came tumbling down with his English thoroughbred.”

Jing Yuan claps when you finish. “I am surprised you know what a thoroughbred is, My Lady.”

“I do not. To me, a horse is simply a horse. But, more importantly, what does My Lord think of my rendition?”

You glance up, only to see that he is watching you, and immediately, you turn your cheek the other way.

“I think,” he muses, “that My Lady is an excellent bard.”

“A bard?” You feign shame, because you already know how hyperbolic the noblewomen are in their gossiping.

“Indeed.” He continues to tease. “My Lady seems unmatched in her lyricism, rhythm, and most importantly, exaggerations. A true bard in nature.”

You cackle out loud, at which Fu Xuan shoots you a swift glare. You calm yourself and ask, “Exaggerations? A bard only makes songs of tales they hear from their journeys. My Lord, then, must tell the truth himself, as he is the protagonist of this one.”

“It pains me to say, then, that the story would no longer be as interesting.”

“My Lord does not aspire to be a bard or a court jester, so please speak.”

He sighs. “I did no such leading or commandeering. I simply listened from the side. Though the noble ladies are not wrong that it was an older Marquess who felled, it was not due to his own carelessness. Rather, one of the younger hounds must have caught the trail of a fox, and ran in front of the Marquess and his horse. His Lord was only trying to protect the little one, but injured himself in the process. I happened to be riding behind the Marquess and assisted him in returning him home.”

Jing Yuan, ever observant, always humble. You do not know if he is dismissing the finer details of his saving the Marquess, but you cannot even pinpoint where to press him further.

You settle with a simple platitude. “My Lord’s kindness knows no bounds.”

He does not say anything, only closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the winter-spring air.

“What plagues My Lord?”

“My Lady, tell me another story, one from your childhood.”

You still, and he takes two steps forward before he pauses as well.

You turn around to face your governess. “Fu Xuan, shall the three of us sit somewhere?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Fu Xuan replies. “There is a bench around the bend.”

Between you and Jing Yuan, neither of you speak until you both sit down. Fu Xuan finds another spot, a shady patch underneath an old willow, to supervise from afar.

Your bench is located beside a fountain, a large stucco vase with carved borders, emblems of flowers and reeds, gilded bronze around the circumference of the bottom. The water splashes past the rim, wetting the surrounding pavement, amusing the toddlers that belonged to some of the lounging women.

It is not rare for Jing Yuan to ask about yourself, to request to learn more about who you are in the moments when he is not by your side. While it is not always enjoyable, especially when you reflect on the less joyous memories, you do like that he is the only person in the world that knows so much about you, your strengths, weaknesses, likes, dislikes, fancies, displeasures.

But on occasion, he asks you to share because he does not want to speak about himself anymore. Today, as you judge the crease between his brows, the white of his knuckles, his hair free of its usual braided cord, this seems to be the case.

You speak of the many sleepless nights you had in December, how you had pricked the pads of your fingers several times from trying to sew by dim candlelight, hurrying to finish as many coats as possible, lest the noblewomen became suspicious. You speak of the shelf of books your brother had lent you when you were only ten years of age. You finished the literature within a fortnight, and your sibling was shocked, jaw agape, from your intellect and efficiency. Lastly, you speak of the morning of Jing Yuan’s departure, how you refused to come out of your room because of how distraught you were from bidding goodbye, needing to lie to the maids that your tears were only a result of a gut-wrenching stomach ache.

The entire time, the two of you sit side by side, shoulders brushing against each other, staring straight ahead, never at each other. But you do not need to see to know that he is listening with rapt intent to each and every one of your words, and you feel empowered to continue and please him with whatever he wants to hear.

Many hours pass, from high noon to late afternoon, finishing well past lunchtime. The atmosphere has relaxed, and Jing Yuan himself seems more at peace, and you are grateful that you have an eternity to indulge him.

When the three of you retrace your steps back to your family’s coach, he grips onto your hand as he assists you into the vehicle. His grip is tight, restricting you from sitting down, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his forehead against the back of your hand, nose brushing against your fingertips.

“A fortnight,” he mutters, loud enough for only the two of you, and promptly releases his hold.

You bring your hand, the one Jing Yuan held moments ago, to your cheek, basking in his lingering, escaping warmth, and nod in understanding.

You repeat, “A fortnight,” and he closes the coach door behind you.

– 

It is uncharacteristically cold for April. Frost forms a thin sheet over all of the foliage and herbage, the rabbits and woodchucks still slumber in their dense burrows, the moon silvery and thin in its wake.

You tuck yourself into Jing Yuan’s hold, where he sits behind you with his legs propped on either side of your figure. He grabs another blanket and lays it over your knees down to your feet, and sets his chin on your shoulder.

“I wish your mother’s shed was still here,” you admit through gritted teeth.

A little sleepily, he agrees. “I, as well, but please bear with our conditions for tonight.”

You are grateful, though. The worst of winter is past, and there are no clouds to conceal the stars or moon, meaning outside, you can make out his features and expressions with little effort. Before, you would have to strain and squint at his visage, but there is no need anymore and you think Jing Yuan appears softer, younger under the placid moonlight.

“My Lady,” he says, “if it is not inconvenient, I have an inquiry to make.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Why is it that you never look at me?”

You startle, jumping in your skin, not expecting such a jarring interrogation at this hour and place.

“Of course, I look at you. What can you possibly be insinuating?”

If you sound offended, you do not mean it. Rather, you are, to a minor degree, disgruntled at being caught. Internally, you have been well aware of your sudden shyness towards Jing Yuan. Before his departure, you had no such fears, but since his return, upon seeing all of the ways in which he has transformed and grown, you can no longer allow yourself to be so bold. You cannot look at him with wholly pure intent.

“Apologies. I meant that My Lady does not seem to look me in the eyes anymore, as we used to. Have I done or said something to deserve such avoidance?”

“Do not be foolish, My Lord.”

“And what is with the use of ‘My Lord’?”

“Do you not refer to me by ‘My Lady’?”

“Only because you seem so insistent on such etiquette. If I had a choice…” He takes a sharp inhale. “I would call you by your name all the time.”

The chill of the atmosphere does not seem so acute anymore. You feel a rush of heat, from the crown of your head all the way down to the lengths of your toes.

“How improper,” you mumble.

He laughs. He knows you could care less.

To drive his point further, he enunciates your name, rolling the letters and phonetics out with the curve of his tongue and a caramel sweet, taffy-stretched tone. He then whispers, “You seem to only use my name when you are quite agitated or excited.”

You swat at his arm. “Jing Yuan!”

Your reaction causes him to bark out true laughs, ones from the gut and stomach, and he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck. You want him to press further into you, to bite and nibble and mark at the tender skin, to meld into you so you always have him with you. You need more of him, all of him. Being by his side as a confidant in public, a lover in private, for eternity will never satiate your greed.

“My Lady, you never cease to entertain me! You are absolutely darling.”

“You are totally arrogant.” You shrug his head off of your shoulders, to your own disdain, only for him to place his chin on top of your head, entrapping you once again.

“My Lady, I believe I am not so arrogant. Rather, my actions are demonstrations of my affections for you, and the latter seems to grow at an astounding rate with every moment we spend together.”

He utters your name again, so sincere, full of unconditional respect. This time, you are forced to look at him, scooting yourself forward and twisting your back halfway around to soak in those melting, incandescent golds, brimming and spilling over with unfiltered love, loyalty, trust. You cease, completely bewitched and spellbound.

Slowly, he leans forward until the peaks of your foreheads touch. He is still staring at you, you are still unable to breathe. His hands have come up to cup your cheeks, and by sheer instinct, yours grasp weakly at his sleeves.

“Finally,” he breathes, “you are looking at me.”

Shuddering, you try to nod, but his hands keep your head in place. Regardless, he knows.

Jing Yuan, ever knowing, always understanding. He can see through you at all times, and you do not mind that it is him. In fact, you want it to be him, always him, and you have been waiting for this moment. Since you saw him on that sandy beach, with the orange coral bead and crystal clear waters and damp earth. Since you saw him standing alone in the garden, his back turned to you, tearless yet grief incarnate. Since these three long years, where he was seas and mountain ranges and plains separated from you, only brief moments of respite when he would return for business, yet never to interact.

You, who have waited this entire time, can finally see him again. You have no reason to disallow yourself. You have an eternity to indulge him, and an even longer infinity to indulge yourself in him.

The oil lamps flicker no more. The hawks and owls no longer cry. The vines and stems of the flora no longer sway in the wind. 

The only movement is from Jing Yuan, when he purses his lips and takes a deep breath.

He whispers your name, as if it is a prayer, an oath, full of promise and reverence. He says it once more, twice more. Then, he closes his eyes briefly before looking up at you again, a fire and determination now smoldering in bright gold.

“I have kept you, yet you have patiently, without any complaint or excuse, waited for me. You, the only person in the world who has witnessed me a mischievous child, a brooding boy, and now, an older man. I cannot fathom being with another, and this has been true since I first met you.”

You can only gulp, and staring wide-eyed, anticipate his next words.

“You cannot imagine how many times I begged my mother for permission to visit you during the day. At the time, I could not understand her unshakeable refusal, and even now, I am still resistant in some ways. Did you know I became jealous of my mother? I have never been adept with delicate work, and at one point, I was convinced you only came so you could sew with her. I would leave the shed to shake off my anger with the sword. And then my mother was gone, and I thought you, too, would disappear. But, of course, in light of all of my deepest fears, you stayed.”

There are traces of tears in his eyes, but he is more preoccupied with brushing away the ones that stream down your face. You do your best to cease the trembling of your lower lip, the blur of your vision, the cries that threaten to spill out. 

“I was frightened once again, when my father announced the beginning of my Grand Tour. I knew you would come of age as soon as I was scheduled to leave, and I wanted to propose right then and there. But my father does not know who you are, and not even the illegitimate child of a Duke could get away with marrying someone of a lower caste. A coward I was, am, indeed. Yet, we maintained correspondence, and we wrote to each other at length. Many times, I wanted to abandon my Tour, but your curiosity and eagerness convinced me otherwise. 

“It has always been because of you. I am who I am today because of you and your endless affections. And it is my turn, now, to let you know that my love for you goes beyond words and actions. My existence is solely yours.

“May I?”

You nod vigorously, desperately, longingly.

He presses tender kisses to the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips. After, he takes your hands in his palms and kisses at your wrists and knuckles and joints and fingertips.

Finally, he sits up, and you raise your chin to follow his eyes.

He says your name, this time firm, grounded, determined. “I love you. Please, let us never part again.”

–

The Season has reached its peak, and at long last, June permits enduring hours of sunlight, hot, humid evenings, a myriad of blossoms of all distinct shades and colors. Your brother guides you into the ballroom, your mother trailing behind the two of you, feathered fan concealing her rather displeased disposition.

“I still cannot believe it,” he gasps with incredulous wonder.

“No? Will I have him come to ask for your permission again?” you reply, indifferent, more concerned with identifying Jing Yuan amongst the crowded halls.

“No, no, no need for that, Sister! I am, well, rather, well –”

“See, Brother! There he is!”

Adorned in a handsome cream ensemble, Jing Yuan stands near a table of refreshments, collecting two glasses, one of which you presume is yours. You rush to his side, your brother in tow, and curtsy when he notices. And, as you suspected, he bows and hands one of the cups over to you and the other to your brother, already turning around to grab another for your mother.

Your brother takes a nervous sip before exclaiming, “Lord Jing Yuan! Good evening!”

“Good evening!” Jing Yuan greets, festive and light-hearted.

“I wanted to give you my thanks, again, Lord Jing Yuan. I have never thought my younger sister would marry anytime soon, but you have truly done her a wonderful service. How could I –”

Your mother coughs and interrupts your brother. “Son, cease with your rambling. I could hardly stand the fuss you are making, let alone imagine how exhausted Lord Jing Yuan must be.”

Jing Yuan shakes his head and intercepts. “Not at all. Brother-in-law, I understand that our engagement has only been newly confirmed, so your surprise is inevitable.”

The boisterous chattering and guffawing seem to quiet down, passersby slowly redirecting their attention to your quartet.

Your mother seems to notice as well and fans at herself. “How could the son of a Duke possibly have taken an interest in the daughter of a Marquess?”

The encompassing crowd falls into a hush. All are thinking the same question, almost bloodthirsty in their intrigue to know the answer, and they flit their eyes between you and Jing Yuan, wondering who will speak first.

You, for one, have no interest in such public or dramatic gestures. You put your glass back down on the table and comment, “Mother, Brother, My Lord, the dancing is about to commence.”

Someone whispers that they have never seen you dance before, adding another layer of suspense.

Jing Yuan extends an arm out, and you take it without a shred of doubt or hesitation.

But before the two of you leave, you pause to speak with your mother. “Oh, Mother, please, take my fan!”

She glares at you, and you smile back, taunting and urging her to keep watching you, to see what you can and will do.

You can imagine the way the room will uproar with shock and rage as soon as you step out. You know your mother will splinter your fan in her wrenching grip, and your brother will have to figure some way to placate her. You know you and Jing Yuan will reminisce on this memory with much jest and delight.

And so, you do it.

Committing to putting on a show, everyone watches the flick of your wrist, the extension of your index finger along the frame of your fan. You direct your gaze to Jing Yuan, who is already looking at you with unreserved adoration, and slowly draw the fan across your cheek, dragging out the moment for as long as you can.

You hear the gasps, the cries, the confused mutterings. But the Master of Ceremonies, always in a timely fashion, calls for everyone’s attendance in the ballroom, and you drop the fan in your mother’s upturned hand before Jing Yuan whisks you away.

Now everyone knows you and Jing Yuan are lovers, to be married in a little over a month. Though you would prefer to be married already, you remind yourself that your shared happiness has already begun, and nothing will change that. 

Hand in hand, you and Jing Yuan, along with many other couples, approach the middle of the ballroom, taking your positions in the dancing circle.

“When was the last time My Lady danced at a party?”

“Never before, actually.”

“Then, I must be blessed to have your first dance.”

“And many more, of course.”

“How many more? And just dances?”

You raise your head to stare at him, right as the Master of Ceremonies gestures at the band to begin. Jing Yuan’s eyes shine a brilliant gold underneath the glow of the chandeliers, clear and proud in their affections for you. Jing Yuan, always loving, forever yours.

As the waltz begins, you rise en pointe, and he clutches onto you so that your chests press together and your faces are only a breath apart.

You speak, the words you articulate only for him to hear.

“My existence is entirely yours.”

[tfatwsbarnes]

birds of a feather | joel miller

3 times joel miller’s plans to propose almost got foiled +1 time it did.

pairing: jackson!joel x fem!oc - oc is referred to as honey. joel’s pov

word count: 4.2k

trigger warnings: spoilers of tlou!! bad language, one sexual them if you squint v v hard lol (no smut), an age gap but not referenced in this! (oc is in her 30s), alcohol, trauma, violence and death. this is angst romance!

a/n: love u joel! again with most of my writing, the plot may not be accurate to the actual storyline, personalities and ways people react sometimes change for self indulgence. enjoy xo

gif credit: @mellxncollie

Commitment was a foreboding concept to someone like Joel Miller. Heart scathed one too many times as a result of his leniency toward letting himself open up his heart to the act of love. He had the broken watch and scar tissue across his nose to prove of his past commitments leaving an everlasting mark on his life twenty years on.

        Never settle down and get comfortable. Because, all would be lost at the end of the day.

        His concrete views of commitment altered slightly when he saw her in a fleeting visit to the Tipsy Bison with Tommy and Maria Miller after a hard days work. He was hook, line and sinker the moment she introduced herself, feeling thirty years younger with sweat building under his collar as he stammered his name out much to the amusement of his younger brother.

Honey had him ensnared and trapped, his heart thrumming when she smiled just for him that night. Her touches suggestive in interest, gentle against his bicep when they spoke closely about nothing, just so Joel Miller could listen to her sweet drawl for a few seconds more. He soon figured why the nickname Honey stuck.

       They fell in love without fault. Joel had made sure of it after their first encounter.

        She had pulled the pin on his grenade, and now he found himself carefully curating a bouquet of flowers with the local florist on his way home, picking her favourite flowers of the season; something poetic about hands that had seen much bloodshed, being so delicate not to damage the stems of the flowers for his woman.

        Now, Ellie Williams, his Honey, The Jackson Commune and therapy — thanks to some gentle persuasion from Honey — was the furthest his commitment stretched in his older years. As far as he was concerned, Joel Miller's cup was as full as it could be for a man that endured a great amount of loss.

He would happily live out his days in a house big enough for a reasonable sized family for just him and Honey, a kid that half filled that relatively deep hole left behind by his biological daughter and his woodwork for downtime in the evenings.

Honey, as sweet as could be, never asked for more than what they had together. A smile never leaving her face as she cooked their meals, added her touch to Joel's rather meagre interior design, and making sure Joel was taking his vitamins every single day.

"I want you to live forever." She had teased as he grumbled at the bright orange pills in his hands before throwing them to the back of his throat and swallowing with a swig of black coffee. She'd take her wins.

They were undoubtedly happy. No paper needing signed to solidify their devotion to one and other. It was shown through their actions.

Of course, that was until Joel Miller watched her fawn over a local's engagement ring. Her delicate fingers holding the other woman's hand up to inspect the glittering band around her wedding finger as her face feigned a brightness Joel hadn't quite seen on her before.

He blinked thrice, like he had just found a gold mine in the middle of the Commune. The dimly lit scenery of the Tipsy Bison caught the way the oval cut Moissanite reflected against her skin as she commended the woman's — now — fiancé at how well he had done. The imagery stuck in his head like glue. He wanted nothing more for flecks of shimmering diamond to catch her features as she walked around with a ring around her wedding finger; a stamp of his commitment to their love.

        Maybe a piece of paper mattered after all.

        The first time he was almost caught with his plans was right underneath Honey's nose. God, he could've held the shape of his heart as it beat out of his chest when she padded through to his woodwork desk, as quietly as she ever had before.

        He scrambled when he heard her call, thick fingers ripping at pages, forcefully crumpling them as he jammed them in the second drawer in his desk. Profanities under his breath, he pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, elbows thudding onto the wooden top, mustering a casual, brooding expression on his face.

Peering over the brim of his new glasses, his thumbnail scratching above his brow, as Honey peered in from the doorway, eyes bleary and plump lips pouted.

         She was so fucking beautiful.

        "Mornin', baby." He drawled.

        "Joel—It's, five o'clock in the morning." Finger pointed to the clock on the wall, "Your patrol isn't until eight."

        Joel shrugged, "Just workin', honey."

        He wasn't lying. Joel was just altering the truth for the next question. Unable to sleep, his mind was throbbing at the endless possibilities of how to prepare the best proposal on God's Green Earth for Honey, which included the ring. They'd never directly spoken about her idyllic design, although, she'd make comments in passing if she caught a secondhand one glistening in the Jeweller's shop window. 

        The clock ticked two in the morning when he crept out of the bed, leaving Honey, drool sliding down her cheek in a deep sleep. Joel wanted that vision forever.

And there he sat, forefinger and thumb twiddling his pencil, a facade of casualness as his lady folded her arms, hip jutting out with a sleepy smirk on her face.

“Oh?” She mused, “What are you working on?”

Joel cleared his throat, “Jus’ drawing some inspo for my next wooden piece. ‘M thinkin’ something Ellie would like above the mantelpiece.”

“Uh huh—” Honey nodded, her eyes darting downward to his desk and back up to his brown eyes, “—How can you draw without a notepad?”

Joel felt his mouth dry instantly, the slip of the mind when he had shoved the notepad into his drawer along with the crumpled evidence of three different ring designs he was mulling over. He couldn’t think quick enough for an articulate excuse as Honey hummed in suspicion, crossing the small space between them to lean over his desk with a creak; pressing a couple of kisses to his lips before sauntering off.

“I’m going back to bed.” She called through, “Keep on drawing, I guess.”

Joel stumbled through after her.

The second time happened when he spent his morning, the day after patrol, at the new Jewellers on the Main Street. He had managed to wrangle his way out of the house without Honey’s pressing questions on his whereabouts. He utterly adored that she cared about his whereabouts — even off patrol — when the Jackson Commune was only so big. He was never far.

Papers in hand, Joel had greeted the owner of the shop, Stanley, a sense of urgency in his actions as he tried to speed through the introductions to place his sketches down on the glass panels that held jewellery locked inside — quick to pull the wooden ring from the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Is this somethin’ you could make?” He asked as Stanley fingered the flimsy paper, he watched the bald man pull his lips into a thin line as he inspected his woodwork. Joel peered over his shoulder, out into the street from the window to make sure Honey hadn’t miraculously teleported to him. He looked back to Stanley with brows raised, “Well?”

“You’re quite the artist.” Stanley stated and Joel almost rolled his eyes from impatience. “Yes. It may take some time, but, if I alter a few minor details—”

Joel interjected, “—No cuttin’ no damn corners, this ring design and only this ring design.”

“OK. Then it’ll be January 4th.”

Three weeks from then. Just after the New Years Dance. Joel agreed with the timeframe, taking the ring back. He was confident that Honey would wait forever for him, three weeks would be a pure breeze in the face of a proposal. It gave him time to compile ideas on how to pop the question to her.

Joel could already feel the nerves creeping up the back of his neck.

With little time to have an inner quarrel with himself about the logistics of proposing to Honey and the possibility of her rejecting his open-hearted request for eternity with her, the bell chimed above the front door, his sixth sense, the Honey sense, prickling goosebumps on his forearm as he turned to see her stood, a brown bag of groceries balanced on her hip.

“Joel?”

“Honey.”

Stanley subtly put his hands holding Joel’s papers behind his back. His eyes shifting between the lovers.

“What are you doing here?” Honey looked between Joel and the owner, Stanley, whom she had acquainted herself with prior. She had a way with new residents, and or, the traders passing through the Jackson Commune to sell their goods. Her eyes went wide, “You’re not fixing your watch, are you?”

The mouth drying came for round two. His jaw clicking as he gawped like a fish, “No, baby. Jus’ meeting the owner here.”

Joel didn’t have a tendency to lean into being social. He often let Honey do the warm welcomes before thumbing over to him, telling them he’s her brooding partner who definitely bites — the joke usually going over their heads in the midst of infected biting to kill.

Not having the need to spend time embarrassing him, relieved he wasn’t fixing his broken watch, Honey sized him up as she stalked closer. On tiptoes, she pecked his lips, pressing at his chest when he tried to follow her lips when she pulled back.

Folding his arms, Joel threw the question back at her when Stanley backed away to give them a little more privacy for their PDA — Joel’s artwork tucked neatly into the band of his pants. “Say, honey. . . What are you doin’ here?”

“Oh, y’know,” She waved her free hand flippantly, “Getting my finger sized.” The words left her mouth and Joel felt like his chest caved inward as his knuckles went white from clenching so suddenly, his Adam’s Apple bobbing at her comment. Honey let out a laugh, “I’m kidding, Joel! Good lord, you don’t want to marry me that bad?”

She had no idea.

The third and final time happened just a day before their lives were flipped on their heads.

Joel had just returned from a briefing of the Patrol duties for New Years Day. Hands in his winter coat, he kicked the steel-toe capped boots against the steps to his home to rid of the excess snow, grumbling about the bitter cold as he reluctantly removed a hand from his jacket pocket to let himself through the front door.

His mind elsewhere, his body jumped for him as Honey appeared just a breath away from the doorway; a gasp leaving her own lips as she clutched her chest.

“Holy shit, Joel.” She breathed, “Can’t you knock or somethin’?”

Joel placed his hands on her hips to manoeuvre her back a few steps, “Into my own home? Don’t think that’s a standard custom.”

“Yeah—well, it should be. Infected can’t knock.”

“Yes, they can. Jus’ not like us.” Joel argued with a light tone, his fingers tingling from the sudden change of climate, “Where are you headed off too?”

“Oh. Maria asked for a hand with the New Years Eve Dance setup. One of the table legs broke and half the food ended up on the floor.” Honey gestured to the tupperware stacked on the bench Joel had built next to the door, “I just whipped up a couple of things for the buffet.”

Joel Miller almost caved in there and then. Proposing to her was no longer a want but a need. He wanted to propose so desperately he took a pregnant pause to think about getting down on one knee with just the prototype of the ring he had carved out for reference for her real one that was in the hands of Stanley, the bald headed Jeweller.

He loved her so immensely that even mundane acts of service to help others in the community made him swell his chest with pride that he could walk into the room with her and present her as his. She had given him a new perspective on their lives together, and he couldn’t be without her.

“Is there something on my face?” Honey joked at Joel’s silence.

Shaking his head and leaning down, he kissed her with a passion that was seen when drafted soldiers were bidding farewell to their loved ones in World War Two. Unsure if they’d make it back alive, they kissed their partners as if it were the only oxygen to keep them alive.

Honey made a squeal of surprise, not arguing against Joel’s momentarily passion at their front door. Her fingers threaded through his salted hair whilst they shared the kiss for a few seconds longer.

Reluctant, Honey parted their lips, her voice lowered to a whisper, “I have to go. Can I borrow your jacket?”

As she pointed to the brown jacket on the hanger, Joel nodded as she pulled it off and threw it round her shoulders, her hands patting the front down once she had zipped it up. Her brows pulled together as she felt the breast pocket, wasting no time to reach into it, pulling out the small wooden ring — making Joel’s vision go white.

He almost snatched it off of her. But, he was an intellectual man, and he knew that would cause more suspicion than if he thought of a little white lie on the spot.

“What is this?” She held it out and inspected it as Joel felt the sweat begin to dampen his forehead.

“A ring.” He couldn’t lie. It was obvious.

Honey gawked, “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. Tommy asked me to throw an idea of a ring together for him to give to Maria for an anniversary present.” Their anniversary wasn’t for another couple of months, but he continued coolly, “Jus’ some prototype before he gets it made.”

Honey grinned, “Your brother is a sweet one.” Without hesitation, she pushed the ring onto her own finger and gasped with glee as she held it up, admiring Joel’s handiwork, “Fits like a glove!” Yeah, cause it’s your finger size. “Does she know?”

“No, baby, so don’t go spewin’ the news.”

Pulling the ring off her finger, Honey crossed her heart, “You have my word. Now—New Years Dance Tax.”

What she was referring to was a self indulgent game she had created between her and Joel when they had first started dating. The premise of it was simple: whenever Honey wanted extra loving from Joel Miller prior to them parting ways, she’d demand it by calling ‘The Tax’ and Joel would have to comply with a couple of pecks to her lips for good measure.

They kept a list of the things she had called ‘The Tax’ upon on the fridge door, held up by a magnet of two lovebirds kissing.

Joel didn’t argue as he kissed her thrice. A squeeze of her backside in tow.

Satisfied, Honey picked the stacks of food up with the assistance of Joel, turning on her heel to look back at him, chin tucked to balance the tupperware, “How ‘bout you make me a ring too?” She grinned at his reaction, “OK. Stop flirtin’. Love you, bye!”

Joel doubled over with his hands on his knees as he breathed through such a close shave.

+1

Joel Miller never got to propose.

Death became him on his final Patrol for the Jackson Community. Abigail Anderson had murdered him to avenge her father who was killed by the very man.

His body had been returned with Ellie Williams, Tommy Miller, Ellie’s close friend Dina and the Patrol leader, Jesse.

Honey had been helping out with livestock when Maria Miller called out to her, face struck with a solemn look that spoke a thousand words to Honey before Maria verbally broke the news of his death to her.

        Later on, Honey stepped into the darkened room, where Joel had been laid to rest temporarily. Bodies upon tables, feet peeking out from under the blankets covering the rest of the graphic sights for their own dignity. Tommy Miller stood from his stool, the light catching the glistening tears in his eyes, cheeks wet from the ones that had fallen. He stared at her, hand clenching a bloodied sponge, lips wobbling as she tried to pull feet out of the cemented spot she was in.

        Joel Miller laid with the other bodies. His face uncovered, eyes open and sad, presumably the way he had died. Honey stared at his side profile, heart stammering against her ribcage that it thrummed so loudly in her ears. Death wasn't an estranged subject for her since the Outbreak, yet, she wanted to avoid the cruelty of it seeing her love lay cold and still forever.

        Braving it, for Joel, Honey stepped forward, jumping at the creak beneath her feet. Her eyes began to well the closer she got to his body, her hand instinctively reaching for Tommy's arm to ground her before her other hand reached for Joel's grey dusted hair, fingers locking into his once growing locks as her forehead came down to meet his temple.

        Sucker punched, she gasped so loudly, she ought to wake up the dead. Her fingers stroked the hair matted with blood on Joel's head, her eyes screwing shut as her nose began to run from the sheer force of her sobs.

        She loved his hair. She regretted making fun of how long it had grown that morning. If Honey had known his fate, she would've asked him to grow it forever. Because, forever now ended with Joel Miller in a body bag, his hair remaining the same length for eternity.

        The sobs wracking her body invited Tommy to begin to cry again. His hands placed on her shaking body as she gently pressed her lips to Joel's forehead. He couldn't digest the idea that his brother was at his final stop in life.

        They spoken so briefly a few nights prior about Honey. It had come as a surprise to Tommy when he pushed the envelope on the idea of marriage to his brooding older brother, only to find out he was ten steps ahead in that department.

        "C'mon now, brother. You gotta hurry up with it.” Tommy remembered teasing as they sipped on whiskey at the Tipsy Bison, "Think she might be the only one willin' to love you these days."

        "Yeah, I know, Tommy. Leave it be." Joel muttered into his glass of whiskey, feeling scrutinised under Tommy's playful glare. He kissed his teeth, clinking the empty glass with his fingernail as he stared further, "D'ya think she'd say yes?"

        Tommy had grinned, "Think the whole of Wyoming would hear her say it, if ya asked."

        "Hm." Is all Joel returned for the conversation. Now, as Tommy watched Honey grieve so openly over his body, his stomach twisted at the lost opportunity for both of them to catch a pocket of happiness after the great losses in their lives.

        Now. Honey had one strike more than Joel.

It was days after that she managed to step foot into their household. An eery silence blanketed over the home as Honey stepped over the threshold of the front door with her breath held.

Everything was just as they had left it that morning when Joel Miller kissed her goodbye, ‘Patrol Tax’ and all, eyes scrunching from the low winter sun peering through the windows as it rose into the skies. His second pair of boots — the ones that the soles were peeling away — laid at the door, one on its side from when he slid them off with a grumble when he lost balance, his arm bracing against the wall adjacent to regain balance.

She blew out hot air, her chin wobbling at the image of his shoes, knowing they’d never be worn again.

Making her way through their home, she had made it to his desk where he had spent most of his time carving out wood in shapes of animals. Wood chips laid fresh on the desk, just a few nights prior as he hacked away to make an owl.

Hands between her legs, Honey slowly sat down in his chair, she lifted her hands to smooth over the desk as fresh tears fell from her eyes. She could feel him there, even though he physically wasn’t present anymore.

“Joel Miller, you promised you’d live forever.”

Eyes drifting downward, she pulled at the top drawer of his desk, peering in to see simple things such as measuring tape, glue, a handful of pencils and a pencil sharpener with the pencil shavings still stuck in it. Again, her fingers went to the second drawer, slightly fighting with it as it became wedged.

It yanked open and Honey cursed as a box fell to the floor from the sheer, unexpected, force; her hands quick to pick up the velvet box, twisting it in her fingers to inspect it. She hadn’t seen the box before, and Joel wasn’t there to tell her to quit snooping, so she separated the top from the bottom; eyes wide at the gorgeous ring cushioned neatly within.

Maria’s ring. Of course.

She made a mental note to give it to Tommy.

Leaving the velvet box on the desk, Honey plucked the crumpled papers that had been flattened out and placed face down in the drawer. Turning the first one in her hand, it felt like a sharp punch to her throat. Breath seizing as she read the title written in Joel Miller’s chicken—scratch over and over.

HONEY’S ENGAGEMENT RING. FINAL PROTOTYPE.

Chest heaving, Honey blinked at the paper, turning it over and back again, her comprehension not computing that the ring was for, in fact, her all along. She looked up from the paper, thinking back to the times she had caught Joel in the Jewellers, even when she had tried the wooden version of the ring on just a day prior!

She couldn’t believe how naive she had been to his motives. Sobs elicited from the back of her burning throat as she pressed the paper to her chest where her heart could be heard breaking in two. Wishing that Abigail hadn’t murdered Joel Miller for revenge — so he could be back with her, so he could give her the ring when he was ready.

Honey stayed at his desk all night.

Bonus:

The funeral held for Joel Miller was a simple one. Unexpected and premature, but Tommy Miller knew his brother didn’t want theatrics if and when it came to his demise — whether that be the death of old age, or killed due to being bitten.

Being murdered wasn’t truly on the list of ways he could’ve died. Nevertheless, Tommy made sure Joel’s wishes were respected.

The turnout was more than expected, clearly, Joel Miller had touched more lives in the Jackson Commune than anticipated. Sure, he had softened during his time amongst them, more thanks to the two important women in his life: Ellie Williams and Honey.

The group travelled ten miles out of town to bury him. Flowers and notes in tow as the reached the empty graveyard ground that he would be lowered into.

Honey and Ellie held onto each other tightly as they stared at the casket that Joel was concealed in. Tommy Miller was on the other side of Honey, his arm wrapped around her shoulders — thumb rubbing the fabric of her jacket for comfort.

Separating from Honey, Ellie stepped toward the casket, her eyes catching Dina on the other side, staring straight at her. Ellie attempted to feign composure as she placed a few coffee beans, her eyes betraying her as they began to well with hot tears. Pressing her lips together, her hand smoothed the side of the wicker coffin before she stepped back in line with Honey.

She looked to the older woman with an effort of a smile, before Honey took her turn.

It was a hard pill to swallow that Joel Miller was truly gone from her life. Even in the days after his death, she would catch herself looking to his side of the bed in the morning, expecting his face furrowed with worry in his dreams, to be there. Splitting the vitamins for two people rather than just for herself. A hot plate of uneaten food waiting on the table that was discarded angrily the morning after.

Commitment to love was a terrible thing.

Honey stood before his coffin, staring the intricate weaving of the wicker for a moment before she reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a silver ring sized for his finger. She turned it in her hand, smiling softly to herself when the sunlight caught the imprint of her fingerprint that Stanley had pressed on the inside of the band as per her request. Pressing it to her lips, Honey tucked the ring neatly between part of the woven wicker, her forehead pressing against the side of it.

“Take your vitamins whilst you wait for me.”

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Wingspan

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: Minors denied. Don't want me to write the list of all shameful things I wrote under the cut

Because I've spent whole week with sick 2 years old child, managed to get sick as well and I'm deprived of Azriel because last two months I'm writing only Heal me and as soon as he appeared on scene, this invaded my mind.. Honestly too many reasons to write something silly ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠-⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠)⁠⁄

"Okay, guys. You know why we are here," I started. "At first I'd like to thank you that you voluntarily signed up as subjects for this research."

"We compare our pricks whole life. It's our pleasure that somebody finally took it seriously and wants to write a whole book about it," Cassian teased, laughing hard.

Rhysand was trying really hard to keep a straight face the whole time, but after Cassian's comment he was about to lose it, and Azriel standing in the dark corner rather disappeared in his shadows after this comment.

How did I even get into this situation? Well, I knew how. It all happened because I was a passionate researcher. Too passionate for my own good.

It all started with mated Archeron sisters and Mor who wouldn't stop debating about this thing of a correlation of wingspan with the size of Illyrian male's private parts. It picked up my interest and I searched the entire library to find out more info about it. Utterly failing in the process, there wasn't a single mention. There wasn't even a proper documentation of their wings alone. So I took it upon myself to collect necessary data to confirm or deny truth of this rumour. I briefly mentioned it to Rhys hoping he could help me find enough subjects for the research. Which he did in surprisingly short time. And as if it wasn't enough he and his brothers signed up, too.

"That part I will leave to you. I hope I can count on you to deliver accurate numbers. If you try to cheat I'll have your mates to do it properly," I laughed, but I meant every single word.

"I'm sure Nes would be all for it," Cassian grinned proudly.

"As if Feyre wouldn't," Rhysand lost it. I had to laugh. I was afraid it would turn into something awkward, but with these two it was impossible. They were like kids, turning everything into a funny game.

I met Rhysand under the mountain. He witnessed the moment my ex betrayed me and when Feyre saved us all, he picked up my remains and brought me to Velaris to heal. In the end I decided to stay here. I buried love, lust and everything related to it as deep as possible and focussed on what I liked - research - occasionally helping inner circle.

"At least they certainly won't cheat," I smiled. "This research origins in their concern after all."

The three of us laughed so hard we cried. Only Azriel stayed silent hidden in his corner.

"And who will make sure Azriel doesn't cheat?" Cassian wondered.

"Why should I," Azriel stepped out from his hideaway, lowering a challenging gaze at me.

"I believe Azriel is the last one of three of you to use such dirty tricks to manipulate the results," I said, returning his gaze. "But if he does, I'll personally make sure he delivers true data."

His hazel eyes lit up with mischief and corners of his full lips slightly moved upward in a hardly there smirk. He wasn't so different from his brothers. More serious than these two? Certainly, but he could be playful, too.

"Okay, guys, let's get it done. Who is the first to show off the wingspan?"

This was the part I'd been looking forward the most. Illyrian wings, the most important subject of my research and to be honest, the main reason of this fuss. So sacred that sometimes even their lovers weren't allowed to touch them. Not that I could touch them by any mean. Boys only granted me to take measurements and a close look to make detailed sketches. Totally understandable given how sensitive they were.

All three of them took turns one in a time, helping me when my arms were too short. I took measurements of different parts of their bodies, too, just to be sure I have all I could possibly need to get accurate results. I wrote down numbers into my notebook, already amazed by the results.

"That's all for today. Thank you for your time. When can I expect the other data?"

"You can get them even right now, if you want, but I guess you don't want to see it, do you?" Cassian, always such a tease. I shook my head laughing.

"Would tomorrow morning be a soon enough for you?" Rhysand purred, flashing a smile. "Tonight we're going to have a lot of fun with Feyre."

"It would be perfect," I agreed. The sooner I was done here, the sooner I could go to camps to collect data from volunteers Rhysand had found for me.

Cassian and Rhysand left soon after, but ever-silent Azriel stayed behind.

He seemed to be so flustered and nervous while I was taking his measurements. Cassian was picking on him for that, but Azriel stoically ignored him and held still. It seemed he didn't even breathe. I knew he didn't like to be touched. It was the biggest of the surprises that he voluntarily signed up for this, so I was extra careful with him.

Ever since I met him, he was always very kind and considerate to me. However it took some time until he opened up. It's just few months since we started to hang out more. Not that I wouldn't like him. If I were honest, I would admit that he was very interesting person, I liked him a lot and he was so incredibly handsome. Too handsome to be real.

But that's exactly the way I wasn't suppose to think about him. I'm the type who falls easily and hard, and loves with all her being. That's why I was so devastated last time. Nobody could possibly love somebody like me. I'm unbearable in many ways.

Plus he is too high league for somebody like me. He can have anybody he wants and the line of prospects is long. Elain and Gwyn for example compete for his attention for years. Successfully. There's no way he would think of me that way. I shook my head to get rid of these self harming thoughts.

Turning I smiled at him encouragingly. Azriel cleared his throat, wings rustled behind his back. He did this often when he was nervous or uncomfortable.

"The camps.. are you planning to go there alone?" His deep voice always did this strange thing with my insides. And today was no different. I pushed the feeling aside, to the box of things I shouldn't think about and shut it closed.

"No, I believe last time Rhysand mentioned something about sending an escort. Mor is going with me, too."

"Okay," he nodded. His one word responses the were death of me. It was so hard to keep conversation going.

"Uhm.. So tomorrow? You don't have to hurry if it's inconvenient for you."

"Tomorrow is fine."

"Oh.. So.. uhm.. I'll see you tomorrow." Shadowsinger just nodded looking down at me a little longer than necessary and then finally he turned and left. I let out a long breath.

Next day Rhys came as the first one as soon as I entered my office. I guess he couldn't wait. Cassian stopped by as soon as the training with priestesses was over. I checked their results with their mates during the lunch break just to be sure the numbers are correct.

It was almost evening and Azriel was nowhere to be seen. I packed some of the stuff I needed to take to camps and took a look around. There was nothing else to keep me occupied, so I decided it's time to go home. I was about to open the door when a knock sounded. It was Azriel.

"You came," I greeted him with smile.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner. I was-"

"It's okay," I interrupted him. "You really don't need to apologise. I'm grateful you signed up for this."

He made a small noise and handed me a piece of folded paper. I took it and returned to my desk where I left the notebook with all data.

"Were you going to go home already?" he asked while I unfolded the paper.

"Yeah, you came just in time. One minute later and I would be gone." I looked at the number and froze. No way, this was certainly wrong. I compared it to the other numbers. Definitely wrong.

"Something's wrong?" he stepped closer, peeking down on me.

"What?" I was so immersed in my thoughts I didn't hear him. "Excuse me," I said boldly and reached for his crotch. Just to make things clear, I wasn't completely myself, otherwise I wouldn't dare to even think about doing so. In that very moment I was simply researcher and nothing else.

Azriel sharply inhaled, eyes widened, but he held still, blushing heavily.

"As I thought," I mumbled to myself releasing him. "Sweetheart, you were supposed to measure yourself when you are.. You know.. 'excited'. I really didn't think you would try to sabotage the research," I tried to joke to lighten his embarrassment. "With your .. equipment.. there's no reason for you to lose. I thought you are quite competitive."

He just silently looked to the side while the shadows danced around him as if trying to hide him.

"Or did you want me to help you with it?" I smiled teasingly. His head snapped up, hazel eyes finding mine. "Sit down there," I pointed to an armchair near the window. While he did as I asked him, I took a chair, placing it next to the armchair, facing the other side. I took the notebook, a towel and a tape measure I used the other day, and sat down on the chair.

I looked at him amused. From this angle I could see only his face and shoulders. "Go ahead. I won't look." With that I opened the notebook looking for the page, but he hadn't moved gazing up at me.

I smiled still leafing through pages. "Let me tell you a secret, okay? We have something in common, Az." I leaned closer to him as if it was really a secret I was about to reveal. "When I say I won't look, then I really won't do it." I looked straight into his eyes to make it clear that I meant it. "I can even measure you without seeing it. I don't need to touch you either. All I need is for this measure to touch you. That's all. So take your pants off and let me know when you are ready."

At this moment he was panting heavily, his pupils dilated. "Do you want me to chit chat you through it? Or do you prefer silence?" I added, arching a brow at him when he just sat there gazing. Finally he moved and I heard as his pants slid down. Azriel's gaze darkened, his eyes never leaving mine.

He swallowed, his broad chest heaving. "I'm ready" he rasped, his usually deep voice deepened even more. I'd be lying if I said it didn't effect me. Now it was my turn to blush.

I handed him the towel. "Cover yourself." I stood up slowly to give him enough time. I turned to him placing notebook on a small side table within arm's reach. I gasped when I looked down at him. My heart went crazy, running for marathon and I could only wish he didn't hear it.

Azriel sat in the armchair in full grace as if it was his throne, his bare legs with muscles on right places spread wide, towel crumpled in his fist. He grinned challengingly.

Okay, maybe we have more than one thing in common. I hate losing, too.

My mouth went dry and I was panting as heavily as Azriel. My head emptied. It took me every ounce of self-control to step between his legs, control my trembling hands and measure him. But I did it, I didn't break.

"Much better," I said coolly as I wrote results down. I collected my things, ready to leave.

"You want to leave me like this, Y/N?" Azriel growled lowly.

I made the mistake and looked into his beautiful eyes. I wasn't sure what I'd seen in them, but it dug out all forgotten feelings. As wave of lust washed over me I lost control over myself. I sat down on the armrest, my legs brushing his thigh lightly. I placed hands on his shoulders and leaned in.

"You are right. I should repay you," I whispered inches from him.

For a while Azriel watched me as a starved man. Slowly, very slowly he erased the distance between us, his soft lips colliding with mine. The moan that came out from his throat made me forget whatever happened after that.

When his fingers found a waistband of my pants and started unbuttoning them, it was like a cold shower. I broke the kiss, untangling my fingers from his silky dark strands. Eyes still closed, his lips followed after me. I squeezed his fingers in my hands and he looked up at me. I could see he wasn't pleased that I stopped him, but he didn't try to pressure me.

"This part of me is not on offer," I said calmly sending him a sad smile. There wasn't reason to be mad. It was my fault in the first place, I was the one to provoke him. "For you it might be just another one night stay that you forget all about very next morning, but I'm different." I stood up fixing my clothes. "I take male to bed only when I have feelings for him and vice versa." He frowned, ready to say something. "I'm trying to say.. for me it isn't just sex.. To do it, I need real relationship, real feelings, security.. Lust isn't enough. I'm sorry." I left quickly and he didn't try to stop me this time.

Next day early in the morning I left to collect data at camps. Work helped me to forget about that night, but as soon as I stopped, it all returned. The most scary thing was to return back to Velaris and meet him. So I extended my stay as much as possible.

Four months later I was sitting in a sitting room of River House, chatting with Feyre and Mor by the fireplace after the family dinner. I collected all data to get some presentable results and currently I was half through writing in down. (Just between us, the rumors have proven to be true. Larger wingspan equals bigger you-know-what)

It was few weeks since I returned to Velaris and so far Azriel was avoiding me as much as possible. When we happened to be in the same room, he didn't even acknowledge me, looking the other side. So much for my fear.

Did it hurt? As hell. He was my friend. The feelings he awakened that night also didn't disappear over night, haunting me down every spare minute I had. I pushed them deep down, but it was too late. I'd already fallen for him.

During our stay at camps, Mor found out that something must have happened before we left, but she'd never asked about it. Which I was very grateful for. I wasn't ready to talk about it.

Now she kept peeking somewhere behind me, biting on her lower lip, unusually silent. Something was obviously bothering her. I could ask her straight away, but I decided to give her 5 minutes to see if she would start to talk on her own. It took exactly 3 minutes.

"Uhm, Y/N, tell me. Something happened between you and Az?"

"I may have hurt his male ego. Why?" I replied as casually as possible.

"He keeps eyeing you and I know that look too well. He watched me like that for five centuries, but it's never turned into something so... Desperate?" She turned to Feyre. "What do you think?"

Feyre inconspicuously peeked behind me, too. "Yeah, definitely desperate. And sad. Rhys said that lately he isn't himself. As if something was wrong with him? Maybe bothered him? But he won't talk about it."

Mor nodded. I had the urge to turn around and see for myself, but I resisted.

"What happened?" Mor asked and Feyre leaned closer, eager for details.

"Well, he kind of misunderstood the situation.. and I told him.. that I don't do the one night stay thing.."

"He actually went after you?" Mor beamed lowering her voice.

"Not really. I might have provoked him a bit," I reluctantly admitted.

They giggled like small girls, looking at each other.

"Y/N, believe me when I tell you that you can't provoke him," Mor whispered enthusiastically. "Nobody is able to break him. He is like.. granite."

"There must be something more behind it," Feyre added. "You should go and talk to him."

"You should," Mor agreed. "He looks to be on the verge of total breakdown." She again peeked behind me. "Go. Right. Now."

They both gave me nod, stood up and moved to another chat group. I stayed alone, just like Azriel who sat in an alcove with window behind me. I inhaled deeply, slowly breathing out. I could at least give it a try. Standing up I took my glass and walked to him.

"Hey."

"Hey," he answered lowly. I hardly heard him. His face was as unreadable as usually, but his impossibly beautiful hazel eyes.. Yeah, they were right. He looked to be on verge of breakdown. Even his posture was all wrong. Slumped shoulders, hunched over, wings hanging down. The shadows hoovered around him like embodiment of his current mood.

"Everything alright?"

He nodded looking away. Ouch. He didn't want to talk with me. I probably hurt his ego more than I thought. I was lost for words. Did he expect me to apologise? I certainly wouldn't do that. I had every right to stop him back then.

Oh, male and their ego. Suddenly memories of my ex flooded my mind. And I got mad. Rage was the only emotion that never disappeared completely nor healed.

I turned around, ready to leave before I could take it out on the wrong person. Strong fingers wrapped around my arm, stopping me. They held me gently, but firmly. I looked back at Azriel and all the rage was gone instantly.

"Would you mind to it down with me?"

I couldn't speak, still shocked by the pain in his eyes. Just when I was seated in the alcove, he released me and sat back down, too. Silence stretched between us.

"I meant to say this much sooner," he started slowly. "I'm so sorry for my poor behaviour. I'm so ashamed." My fingers curled into fist, but I didn't dare to interrupt him. "I know you were just joking to make me feel better, to relax. I knew it even back then. I wish I could explain why I did it, but I can't. I was.. dick."

And how big dick. I had to bite down on my lip to stop myself. This was serious situation. But in all seriousness, he broke the records. Nobody had bigger than him.

"I should have covered with towel as you asked me. I shouldn't have stopped you. I shouldn't have kissed you," he whispered the last sentence. "I should even be sorry that I kissed you, but I am not. I wanted it. Really wanted. Still want it. I'm trash." He stood up quickly. I managed to pull him back down before he could run away. My pulse skyrocketed.

Waitwaitwait. Had he just said that he still wanted to kiss me? My rational part demanded answers. I had to solve this question before my reckless heart could come to own conclusion. I didn't need another heartbreak.

I looked deep into his eyes. I looked only for truth and nothing else. "Tell me, Az, why? Why do you still want it?"

He blushed fiercely and tried to look away, but I wouldn't let him. "Please."

"I..love you," he whispered and my heart stopped for second only to start racing at a crazy pace later.

I wasn't sure he really said that. That must be just my imagination, right? I gazed at beautiful, elegant Elain with big doe eyes sitting on the other side of room, laughing with her sisters. Yeah, I imagined it. But when my eyes slid back to him, he was gazing right back, tensed, waiting.

"I'm sorry. I think I misheard," I smiled nervously.

"I said.. I love you," Azriel repeated quietly, but clearly.

A single tear rolled down my cheek. I didn't think. I couldn't. I just surged forward and hugged him. He stiffened for a heartbeat and then his strong arms wrapped around me and held me firmly. Another tear followed the first one and then another, until it turned into an endless stream. I felt a cool touch of his shadows. They hid us from prying eyes. Or so I thought.

World tilted to the side and we were in my office where it all had started.

"More private," Azriel whispered when I released him to take a look around, confused.

I quickly wiped tears away. "Oh." I still wasn't ready to talk. My head was a total mess. Love. Azriel just told me he loved me. And he was still waiting for my answer. But I wasn't currently able to put the words together to make even a simple sentence.

"Do you need water?" he offered, helping me to sit to an armchair, the very same armchair where he.. Nope, I couldn't think about it now. It would be too much.

What was the question? Ah, water.. Did I need it? I nodded anyway and he handed me a glass. I emptied it immediately.

Azriel watched me carefully as if I could explode any second. I was trying to find something to ground me and my eyes fell to the notebook. "Wingspan," I blurted. His brows furrowed. "You have the largest wingspan."

He huffed in amusement. "Do I?" Azriel took a step back, his eyes were sad again.

Maybe I was crazy, but I reached out and pulled him down on me. "I believe I still haven't repaid for your help."

He shook his head. " You don't have to-"

"I want." I cupped his cheeks between my hands. He hesitated searching my face, his body tensed above me.

Azriel slowly leaned down and kissed me. It was nothing like the last kiss driven by lust and desire. This kiss was careful, exploring. I pushed against his shoulder and we exchanged our positions.

Just like the last time, Azriel was sitting in the armchair and I was above him. I made sure there was space between us. I didn't want to provoke him, sex was out of the question yet. He knew it, too, and kept his hands on my waist.

I deepened the kiss and soon enough we both turned into a panting mess. Azriel's moan startled me.

"I'm sorry," he rasped.

I giggled. "You moaned back then, too."

"I can't help it," he smiled. Azriel leaned forward, keeping small space between us. He hid his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply again and again. "Touch them."

I swallowed. "What?"

"You can touch them," he spread his wings wide around us. "I've never allowed anybody to touch them. But now I want you to do so."

I was speechless second time today. Sacred Illyrian wings and he asked me to touch them. This was Illyrian way to say he trusted me. He trusted me even with his life.

I ran my fingers through his soft hair. "You know that.. there will be no sex today nor any time soon.." I hoped it came out as a joke. Truthful, but still joke.

He laughed breathlessly. "I know. That doesn't change the fact I want you to touch them. You said you want to repay me. So please.." He kissed the sensitive spot under my ear.

He got me there. If he only knew what he had called upon himself. I wanted to touch them, badly, but not only because they were his. I wanted it because I was the damn researcher which equals to a monster at times. I longed to feel the texture of the skin, to feel every single bone and muscle in them, everything.

"Are you really sure about this?" My attention was already trained on the beautiful enormous wings around me. This was his last chance to back out of this.

"Absolutely. So put those damn little hands of yours on them already," he rasped, landing another kiss to that sensitive spot.

He didn't need to repeat it again.

I gasped as tips of my fingers traced the soft skin around the bone. It. Was. Perfect. I expected them to be cold and rough to touch. Even though I touched him just lightly, I could feel every single muscle, even the smallest ones. The bone seemed to be so fragile and strong at the same time. Skin was so warm, stretchy and impossibly soft like baby's skin. I mapped every vein running through the membranes, his pulse drumming under my hands. I traced every scarred tissue I found, paying it extra attention.

I was so immersed into exploring his wings that I hadn't noticed what my curiosity did to Azriel until he came under me with a wall shattering roar. I winced, looking down at him.

His head was tilted back, eyes closed tightly. He was trembling and panting, his broad chest heaving heavily. Streams of sweat were running down the column of his exposed neck. His hands were fisting the material of armrests so tightly he almost torn it into shreds.

I couldn't believe I'd missed something so..amazing. Azriel was a piece of art in every possible meaning. My fingers traced the vein that bobbed out on his neck. He shuddered, his eyes slowly opened, looking up at me. Shadowsinger smiled weakly. "Only you can do this to me," his voice was hoarse.

I brushed away a damp strand of hair that fell to his forehead. My heart was beating wildly as I leaned in and kissed him slowly and deeply. His hands embraced me, pulling me closer.

"I love you," I whispered to his mouth.

I wasn't scared anymore. In this very moment I was more confident than ever that I would spend the rest of my life with this perfect male. Because he was mine and I was his.

[mymoshangthoughts]

some fanon vs canon questions LOL

i'd check myself but i lent out my books to a friend to read pff but i've been seeing enough trends in fanfiction that ive been like "wait is this just popular fanon or did i miss a passage in the novels?"

(tagging it as moshang bc its stuff i found in moshang ff LOL)

linguang-jun hates his brother bc his bro stole his wife (i thought mobei and linguang-jun were supposed to be similar in age so this one confused me a lot LOL)

airplane and mobei have been pining for 20-40 years (i thought the ages were ambiguous and i actually thought 'shang qinghua' was around 30-ish years old, making the pining more like 10ish years)

'shang qinghua' is older than mobei jun by 1-2 years (i assume this is fanon? bc to my knowledge neither of them are given a canon age??? but also wondering if i just missed something)

(this one is a disagreement im having with my sib LOL we dont know which of us is remembering correctly, so while im asking about fanon! please help with this!) shen jiu never ever tried to do anything untoward to ning yingying and this was a misunderstanding just like the brother situation OR shen jiu at some point in pidw tries to sexually assault ning yingying, resulting in the commenters demanding his castration and one of the many reasons luo binghe tortured and killed him. ((we're both huge shen jiu fans either way pfff it's just a matter of getting his backstory accurate))

an ding's robes are yellow/orange/gold (to my knowledge an ding's robes arent described but again, i coulda missed that LOL)

tbh if you have any fanon vs canon facts, i'd be interested in hearing them!

ANYWAY anyone who can help, please do! but also, if at all possible, i would love to have a quotation or a chapter reference for the info! (for example, with the thing im fighting with my sib about LOL if i just tell them "look the internet said im right" without a quotation or smth, they'll hang me. but just more generally, i like knowing where to reference the information)

[dw-flagler-deactivated20250701]

How about this?

Where there any instances on canon (or in a midlly divergent timeline) you could see a character second triggering who didn't canonically, and what do you think the resulting altered power would be like?

really interesting idea!

Very obvious answer though. Single most likely character to second trigger who didn't is lisa. I wouldn't go as far as to say she should have triggered, because I think that's too far and kind of accusatory but she absolutely could have second triggered during Speck and not for a second would I think it was out of character or unfitting. I mean it would have shattered the pacing but it would fit her character.

There is literally nothing anyone can do to lisa more truly agonizingly torturous than what happened to her in canon. Except for some dead dove fics by figures like Alotoaxolotls and even then it's still close.

The parahumans series is basically about lisa wilbourn triggering from watching her brother die and knowing she could have saved him and didn't and then watching that happen again. Twice.

I think the line "you couldn't have made it easy?" is maybe the single most heartbreaking line in the entire parahumans series for me. The whole pepper spray thing genuinely crushes me every time.

Close second is "this makes me feel really sorry for your dad, because I’m starting to get a sense of what you put him through." Not very pithy, though.

If lisa triggered during speck it probably would have been late, when lisa realizes that she can't be the one to translate for khepri. This is a fucking crushing moment for smugbug fans (platonic or otherwise) because it's truly the moment where lisa had nothing left of taylor (and her facade as the smartest one in the room fully shattered).

If you wanted to put it somewhere else for some reason, maybe you could put it at the point where taylor leaves the undersiders to join the protectorate, but gold morning is just better. Or worse? If both of those are out for some reason then you could look at my fanfic where taylor dies post-leviathan, but that's distinctly divergent from canon, where these other two would just be completely canon until lisa second triggers.

For her second-trigger powers, this I always had trouble with. I'm not sure, cause the problem is that a second trigger has to be powerful compared to a non-second trigger, but still at least a little limited, and if you take like any limits at all away from lisa she basically becomes a god in purple spandex. Practically omnipotent. And that's not very interesting to write, except as a "lisa stomps all of canon" thing I guess.

My first and most comprehensive idea is basically that you increase her capacity for power use, making it way less of a debate whether it's worth it to use her power (it almost always because the tradeoffs are far less significant) but you make it far more prone to misfires or unhelpful tangents, especially about how people around her are lying-to or betraying her! This basically shifts the debate lisa has from "should I use my power?" to "should I trust my power?" The idea being that her power is less reliable but she's necessarily more reliant on it.

The opposite is also a possibility, where her power basically becomes way more reliable and accurate, but she has way less capacity. So it's basically always reliable but she really has to consider whether or not it'd be worth it because she gets very little power use per day. So it's more reliable but she can't rely on it. This one is probably a more concrete upgrade compared to tattletale 1.0 than the machine gun approach to thinker powers.

Since lisa's first trigger is mainly about regret, I guess her second trigger would be mainly about what she regretted. Did she more regret not knowing more or not knowing better? Something like that.

The problem with these is that they're kind of conceptually boring.

A third idea some others have floated around is if she gets an ability to control who suffers the migraine, so she could make others around her suffer the brunt of the migraine instead of her. However, my main gripe with this is that it makes her even more comically powerful than the other two options. Not only is it a lisa without migraines, it's a lisa with a shaker effect to induce migraines in others!

I'm not actually sure which of these (or maybe a fourth option i had not even considered) is the best option.

tl;dr: ask a lisa expert. I dunno. get silvianorton on the horn

[assriels]

gravity

pairing: lucien x reader

summary: falling in love with lucien felt like trying to resist gravity and realizing it’s a futile pursuit. slowly, and then all at once.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: none/mostly fluff!

a/n: i played around a little bit with my writing style and i really enjoyed it :’) also i’m only capable of writing fluff for lucien i think lol

masterlist

banners by @/cafekitsune !

lucien: derived from the Latin root word lux, meaning light. 

When you had first felt yourself falling for Lucien Vanserra some odd years ago, you had been keeping a watchful eye on him — per Rhys’s request — upon his initial arrival to the Night Court under the guise that you would help him research ways to persuade the human queens to your cause against Hybern. 

Initially, it had been just that. A favor for your High Lord, your friend. 

But what had once felt like a vague indifference for the youngest Vanserra brother quickly devolved into a genuine appreciation for him. The more time you spent with Lucien, the more you glimpsed the light peeking out from beneath his guarded exterior.

(You nearly laughed at how aptly Lucien lived up to the brightness belying the meaning of his name.)

It had started with friendly teasing, then secret smiles over piles of textbooks, then not so accidental touches in the quiet of the townhouse. With each evolution of your relationship with Lucien, the more and more you found yourself wanting to be around him, seeking each other out with flimsy excuses that would guarantee a day’s worth of cherished company. 

The inextricable desire you had to be near him that was growing exponentially with every subtle glance he stole had made you nervous. Wary, even. 

You were an academic – the coveted researcher for the Night Court – relying heavily on concepts you could study, could quantify. Well-evidenced theory informed much of your advice to Rhys and his court, and you were often the first point of contact when anyone had any questions about…anything; your wealth of knowledge was endless.

But Lucien — his undeniable magnetism — was an enigma; you could never quite understand why you’d felt so drawn to him, could never formulate an accurate hypothesis for how easily he could coax a smile to your lips and make butterfly wings tickle your stomach.

But it was becoming increasingly evident that he felt the same indisputable pull that you did. He had spent much of his time in your presence, bringing you tea in the late hours of the nights you spent in the townhouse’s reading room, poring over tomes and texts that you and Amren had thought might be useful. Lucien always made the excuse that he made too much tea and didn’t want it to go to waste. 

(Later, you’d find out that he didn’t even really like the tea he brought you every night, only brewing an excessive amount of it because Feyre had offhandedly mentioned it was your favorite.) 

He was rarely there to give his opinions, merely lingering to offer his quiet companionship, situating himself in a comfortable lounge chair in your periphery as he perused the pages of his book of choice. More often than not, he’d fall asleep in what had to be a supremely uncomfortable position, untouched tea cooling on the table. 

It was in those sweet and fragile beginnings of your relationship with Lucien that you had begun to contemplate the potential cosmic underpinnings of your mutual fondness for each other, and what that could mean for you and your future. 

Orbiting each other like stars caught in the same gravitational field, you and Lucien were on a steady course of stellar collision, sure to erupt in some unexplainable astral phenomenon that would certainly result in your doom. Or your salvation. 

(It was the latter.)

The same way you could track the trajectory of an apple falling from a tree and calculate the force with which it would hit the ground, you could guess — with near one hundred percent accuracy — how hard you would fall for Lucien. It was a dangerous descent, you knew, but one that you could hardly fight against. 

Despite being quite the closet romantic — how could you not be, with the knowledge of endless possibilities at your fingertips? — you had been hesitant to pursue anything more with Lucien, wanting to preserve the innocent, lighthearted flirtations that had come so easily between you. You’d been hurt before, been wickedly tricked into the dangerous downward spiral of broken promises and fleeting loyalty of lovers past. And you’d be damned if you’d let yourself make that mistake again. 

But Lucien…

Lucien was all of things your previous paramours had not been. He was kind and gentle and genuine. Funny and insufferably sweet. He was a wonderfully fresh breath of air in an otherwise stagnant atmosphere. 

He had his darkness — he’d admitted as much to you himself. But he had never hidden it from you, had even allowed you the privilege of holding the most tender parts of his past in your hands to examine, always providing ample opportunities for you to deny him, decide that you didn’t want all the pieces of his whole after all.

You had never been afraid of the dark, though, not in the literal or metaphorical sense. It was comforting, quiet, familiar. Besides, before Lucien, you had never found a light bright enough to fear the return of the dark. 

But when faced with the sheer enormity of the warmth his light provided, suddenly you were afraid of its absence. You wanted only to spend your time basking beneath the sun you had discovered beneath Lucien Vanserra’s ribs. 

It was torturously paradoxical, how the more you chased Lucien’s light the more you were plunged into the dark unknown of what loving him would mean, and how afraid you had become. But resisting Lucien’s solar gravity was like trying to defy the very laws that governed the universe you were lucky enough to live in with him: near impossible. 

The way he so effortlessly drew you to him, enticed you to trust him, open yourself to him was something that the greatest physicists of your time could never explain. It was a mystery you weren’t sure you wanted solved for fear that once discovered, he’d be taken from you; you selfishly wanted to keep Lucien’s impossibly beautiful energy to yourself. 

He was undefinable in his unwavering loyalty and limitless consideration. Lucien’s love for you seemed to be as intrinsically written into his existence with the same certainty that you knew the sun would rise over the horizon every morning. It was with that same certainty that you knew falling in love with him was inevitable, and fighting it was a futile resistance of gravity.

So you had let yourself fall, let yourself dive deep into the unknown, praying – begging, really – to whatever gods that were listening that this wasn’t another funnel towards heartbreak. 

You fell with maddening speed and Lucien caught you – having already fallen long ago – with all of the warmth of the sun that his name promised.

If your past self had ever doubted the stability of loving Lucien Vanserra (read: you did), none of that doubt existed in you now. Especially in moments like this: skin to skin in the morning light of the first spring day in the Night Court. Three years since you and Lucien (separate) became you and Lucien (duo), you could hardly believe that you ever considered any other choice but him.

The sun was warm on your back as you lay on your side, arm tucked comfortably beneath your head as you listened to Lucien give you his annual spiel about how the springs in the Spring Court were unbeatable, though the Night Court did have some acceptable weather sometimes. You giggled at his remarkable consistency, love and fondness filling the space between your ribs, momentarily seizing your heart to flutter giddily.

“Okay, Lu,” you responded in mock exasperation. “And then in the fall –”

“Autumn,” he corrected, just to jest further.

“ – you’re going to tell me that the Autumn Court has the best autumns.”

“Naturally.” His grin was blinding as he teased you, pressing a firm kiss between your brows. 

You rolled your eyes but gave in, leaning in towards him – always leaning in towards him (that pesky gravity again).

“But I guess your court,” he continued, “has us beat as far as stargazing goes.”

“Naturally,” you mimicked, winking.

His laugh was a resounding bell of warmth and you took the opportunity to drink him in, warm skin tinted pink with joy and the heat of the morning sun. His hair was disheveled with sleep, but he was impossibly effortless in his beauty.  

The freckles on his cheeks reminded you a lot of the stars that illuminated the streets of Velaris, and you spent the next few hours of the early morning drawing constellations on his skin and fabricating stories of their origin while Lucien’s own fingers drew matching patterns onto your back.

He whispered cheesy lines about how you outshone all of the stars in your beloved Night Court, and then his cheeks dimpled — beautiful craters of mirth — as he smiled at your feigned incredulity. He kissed you then, and you once again found yourself at the mercy of his gravitational pull, your body arching almost instinctively against his in an effort to satisfy your craving for the feel of his skin against yours. 

Lucien – as always – indulged you, snaking a muscled arm around your waist to pull your body flush against his as he whispered in your ear about how he had heard once that freckles were the spots that past life lovers had kissed the most. In an act of petulant pseudo jealousy at the idea that someone had the privilege of loving Lucien before you, you spent the rest of the morning peppering his skin in a thousand kisses. 

“No need to be jealous, my love,” he said as you anchored your lips to the apple of his cheek. “I’m certain that in every life before this one, I enjoyed the pleasure of your affections. And I will continue to find you in every one after.”

Maybe that was it. Maybe the undeniable, visceral need to have him, be with him, love him was written into your bones by the infinite previous lives you spent within each others’ orbit. Your devotion to Lucien seemed as intrinsic as the laws of the universe; there was no life in which you did not feel the warmth of his yearning. 

You hummed in contented agreement, feeling as though you’ve just discovered the unthinkable as you continued your quest, reveling in the gentle shiver you earned with a well placed kiss to the junction of his jaw and neck. For a brief moment, you made a mental note to thank whatever force – physical, cosmic, celestial – that had bound you and Lucien together.

[muttering-folklore]

clopin headcanons letsgo. mix of the movie & musical, taking some elements from the book because why not

He takes considerable care with his puppets to make sure they’re accurate. Followed Frollo around for a while to ensure it looked exactly like him. That’s also why you don’t see Quasi during the opening (as a puppet/during the opening song) because he didn’t know what he looked like until he saw him so decided to leave it up to interpretation/purposefully vague

Also he probably didn’t imagine him as a pale ginger with green eyes so I know he was a little surprised when he saw Quasi for the first time 😭

Fought with a scythe during the final battle/siege like how he does during the book — actually owned the scythe for years before then because he did odd jobs while moving around with the other Rromani and had to own the tools in order to help out.

Taught Esmeralda how to do her old man disguise with Djali. He was a little mad he had to put a bit more effort into it (eg painting his facial hair grey) and his inability to quickly change between disguise and a normal outfit so as a result he taught himself how to do those quick changes out of spite LMAO. Also taking this from the book but she’d always sit with him while he painted his injuries onto his leg or arm and they’d talk quietly.

Will not put the puppet away. That thing is travelling everywhere with him. People have given up telling him to stop pulling it out of god knows where during conversations. If you tell him to put it back where it came from or God Help Him, he’ll just stand there mournfully while making the puppet look like it’s crying until you give up. Then it’s immediately back to smiles 😭

Constant generator of bullshit excuses. Whenever he gets captured by guards it’s all, “Oh, no, Officer, that was my twin/cousin/brother/uncle.” Sometimes they believe him, sometimes they don’t. Once spent three hours looking for himself with some guardsmen until Frollo showed up and exposed him.

Whenever he can’t work out a song lyric or a specific scene for his puppet shows he either calmly stands or sits on a bridge overlooking the Seine and lets his mind drift until he gets a good idea OR he just barges in on someone in their tent/room and talks at them until he figures it out and then leaves without saying goodbye. People are used to it by now but it’s still funny to them to watch their leader pace around dementedly and gesticulating wildly, ranting about how he just can’t rhyme this, goddamn it, while they’re having their dinner.

Scared a kid super badly on accident once because they saw him without his mask on when he was taking a break from a show.

Gets food stuck in his teeth a lot so he always has to pick the bits out after he eats. Uses a dagger or something sharp to do so and has zoned out and made eye contact with people while doing it on accident a TON before. People think he’s threatening them when he’s just really concentrating on getting this piece out

[hamletshoeratio]

didnt she also say something nasty about the queen when one of her kids had just died

Yeah here's part 2 of this

The way she talked about the death of Queen Charlotte's granddaughter; Princess Charlotte, who was historically only twenty-one when she died in childbirth. The Lady Whistledown commentary in QC is just outright cruel, it's clear Queen Charlotte in the off-season (QC present day timeline being set in the Winter/Early spring break between season 2 & 3) becomes Penelope's biggest target in the aftermath of her fallout with Eloise. There's no other way to describe it.

Ngl the above is really disturbing to me. She's angry at Eloise, has lost access to info from the Bridgertons because of her falling out with Eloise, and she's angry at the Queen for getting angry at Penelope's own words as LW, and trying to discover LW as a result. And so she spends the off-season insulting and attacking a grieving Queen Charlotte. I mean that's one way for a flower to bloom I guess...

Theo, one of the only working class characters in the show, nearly lost his job because of lady whistledown and may have lost it in the aftermath of the season.

A lot of her general commentary as Lady Whistledown isn't clever or witty; it's just outright cruel.

The way she talks about the Bridgerton family, a family that trusts and cares for her, is horrible. Particularly, the way she wrote about Daphne in season 1.

Betraying Eloise's trust for two entire seasons because it didn't start with the Theo situation. She listened to Eloise's frustrations about Daphne and then used LW to attack and belittle Daphne. Speaking as a sibling, I will rant about my sisters until kingdom come to my friends but the minute a so-called friend starts publicly attacking my sister, it's over. I would not be in control of my actions. Like over the course of two seasons, she's attacked and nearly destroyed the reputations of Eloise's eldest sister, two of her brothers, her first love, and the entire family as a result. Judging by the Bridgertons were born to shine line in the trailer, I doubt Francesca will make it through the season unscathed.

She hasn't felt real remorse. Despite nearly causing Marina's death (as she tried to miscarry in the aftermath of LW revealing her pregnancy), she ends season 1 smirking about being LW. Hasn't written or contacted Marina to see how she has been since, got jealous Colin went to see her and still probably hasn't written or visited her. Not to mention her "I least did something. All you did is talk" speech at the end of season 2 to Eloise. A speech that wasn't even accurate as Eloise had been to meetings, listened to speeches and debates, debated with Theo, shared and read and discussed different political leaflets with Theo, Eloise had grown intellectually from the beginning to the end of the season. It's because of Penelope that that came to an end.

Outside of rescuing Daphne from her betrothel to Berbrooke in s1, what good has her work as LW actually done? It's ruined far more lives than it's helped, and intervened countless times when it didn't have authority to. Many secrets weren't Penelope's to tell.

I could honestly keep going but I genuinely don't know how she's supposed to get redeemed in eight episodes because the character we have at the minute in no way deserves a happy ending. LW didn't really matter in the books as it wasn't as active a plot point as it is in the show. By expanding the LW concept to give Penelope a more complex arc, they've unwittingly robbed her of what made people like her book counterpart and as a result created a villain that they have no intention of trying to redeem, because they don't believe she needs to be redeemed.

[teddysplushie]

Today's Valentine's day Login, Teddy Brown

Note: I don't translate professionally so my tls aren't exactly accurate so there's some parts that I'm not sure of,,,

One day... I gave Teddy a letter with several questions in it.

🧸: I see.... You have some things to ask me, right Aruji-sama?

Understood! Please let me answer anything as long as it's okay with me.

The first question is [How long have you been wearing Teddy's piercing?]

You mean my left ear piercing? I got it pierced when I was still in my hometown.

At the time, I didn't like being compared to my twin brother, who was very talented... I was a bit rough around the edges. It was a little tough for me.

So I wanted to do something different from my brother... So I drilled the hole myself....

My brother saw it and said, "Cool!" and did the same, piercing his left ear.

We ended up wearing matching earrings but our parents became unusually upset with my brother afterwards.

Since then, I've been wearing the same piercing. I love the sword design!

🧸: Well... that brings me to the next question.

[What was Teddy like during his rough times?]

Ahaha... As I said before, it was hard for me to be compared with my brother.

I was afraid of the way others looked at me.... In any case, I tried to avoid being seen.

I would wander from place to place in the middle of the night for no reason... As a result, I ended up running away from home repeatedly.

But I think it is wonderful to have a safe place to go home.

So I'm very lucky to have been invited to become a devil butler, and I'm forever grateful!

🧸: Hmm... Well then, the next is the last question.

[How much of an appetite do you have to pay for unleashing your demonic ability/power?]

That I... I don't really remember it myself either...

However, according to the other butlers stories.... they told me that I ate more than Bastien.

Surprising, isn't it! I can't believe I ate more than Bastien!

Well, so that concludes it for now.

How was it? I hope I met your expectations!

More and more, to let Aruji-sama know and learn more about me...

Please ask me more questions when you get a chance!

[End]

[lazorbeanz]

Ninjago: Dragons Rising S3 pt.1 is finally out! So I decided to note my crazy thoughts and reactions as I was watching lol

Spoilers below the cut (obviously)

Episode 1

- THE SHATTERDRAGON OF CHAOS OOOH I LOVE HIS DESIGN

- AYOOOOO NEW INTRO!!! AND THE THEME SONG REMIX SLAPS

- omg Sora continuing Arin’s pie deliveries in his absence!! She finna give the whole town food poisoning tho xD

- JAYA FLASHBACK AAAAAAAA

- HSHDHSHSH KAI BEING THE ANNOYING BROTHER THAT HE IS

- I’ve missed Kai and Nya’s interactions so muchhh I love their sibling banter xD

- I need more of Sora and Frak lol

- “smartest, most attractive member of our team” - Zane

AHHAHDJSJSBSJD AAAAAA HE MISSES HIS WIFE SO BADDDD

- Frak right after: “but Sora’s right here.”

WAIT WAIT WAIT HOLD UP- IS THIS WHAT I THINK IT MEANS?! YO-

- HELL YEAAAAA KAI RESULTING TO FIRE ONCE AGAIN. OMG AND THAT MANIACAL LAUGH HES SO SILLY

- hold up why did that woman look like Arin’s mom?? 👀

- TEEHEEE NYA LISTING OFF ALL OF JAY’S QUALITIES ALSO IS THAT THE FIRST TIME SHES CALLED HIM CUTE?! IM GOING INSANE

- nya: “..the real heart of our team”

Kai: “Not sure that’s accurate…”

I’ll never get over this thing he has at Jay LOL

- WOAHHH THE FORBIDDEN FIVE ALL TOGETHER THEY LOOK SO COOL!!

Episode 2

- awww Lloyd doll :D

- NOT IT BEING USED AS A DOG TOY 😭

- aaaaa Arin accepted it! I honestly thought he would and then idk get rid of it as soon as he left

Who knows he may still do that in the next couple of episodes or smth ;_;

- AWWW WYLDFYRE RECEIVING MAIL FROM ROBY AAA THEY DID KEEP IN TOUCH AFTER ALL 🥹🥹

- AHAHHAHA KAI TRYNA TAKE A LOOK AND GETS TOLD TO BACK OFF HEHE SO DAD AND DAUGHTER CODED

- HEHEHE I LOVE HOW SELFIES ARE JUST DRAWINGS OF THEMSELVES AHH SO CUTE

- “wait, should I have waited a few minutes before sending that? Am I gonna sound too needy?! UNSEND!! UNSEEEEND!!!!” Ahh so me HSHSHDHD

- omg Polyphemus made a debut in ninjago XD

- *LE GASP* JAY?! JAY IS THAT YOU?! *ANOTHER LE GASP* IT IS JAYY!!!!

Episode 3

- me: oh yea Ras is dying atp

Ras soon after: “I am DYING”

- LURING JAY WITH VIDEO GAMES I LOVE IT XD

- poor wyldfyre thinking parent teachings are video games 😭 she’s in for a treat HEHEHHE

- *deeeply inhales*

MORROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

- ANOTHER FLASHBACK OF THEM PLAYING VIDEO GAMES TOGETHER AWWWW

- FUGIDOVE RETURNSSSS YAAAAAAAAAAAASSSS!!! MY BABY I- NOOOO COME BAAAAAACK

- Kai, the whole point of you setting that record was for it to be broken by jay anyways xD

But like fair enough, bro spent all day setting that record just for it to be broken in 5 minutes or so probably

- also Wyldfyre becoming obsessed with video games now YESSS KAI IS GONNA HAVE A NEW GAMING BUDDY NOW :D

Episode 4

- awww Zanth dancing with the bird xD and then Zane telling her to stop bc he did that with falcon and got absolutely ridiculed for it 😂😭

- wait that’s a capsule…could it be???!!!

- IT IS!!!

- PIXALLLLLLL!!!!! MA GURL!! OH HOW IVE MISSED YOU

- oooh jay doing secret totally legal dealings now?? 🤨

- BUT OH HOW ZANE MISSED HER MOREEEEE. THE GOOD LONG 10 SECOND HUG SPINNING HER AROUND AAAAAHHHH MY PIXANE HEART

- omg i forgot he can perfectly mimic voices hehe and his acting of each person is supreme i love this silly nindroid

- AAAAAAA IVE MISSED ZANE AND PIXEL FIGHTING SIDE BY SIDE. Together they are a well oiled machine fr fr. THEY KICK BUTT YASSS

- OH GOSH BUILT TO PROTECT PLAYING IN THE BG PLS ZANE DONT DIE AGAIN NOOOOOO YOU 2 JUST REUNITED

- HES OKAY I think HE HAS TO BE- ohh im scared

Episode 5

- awwww Roby has a little dragon called Hermes🥹

- NOOOOO THEY KILLED HERMES 😭😭

- AAAAA KUR GOT ROBY D:

- wyldfyre: “did you check the father board” HAHSHSHBDJSB

- awww more love letter teasing xD

- HEHEHEHE KAI GETTING READY TO KICK ROBY’S BUTT INCASE THAT LETTER WAS A BREAKUP LETTER. HE AINT SPARING NO ONE IF THEY DARE BOUTA BREAK HIS DAUGHTER’S HEART

- Ras needs to learn to appreciate Arin’s flight commentary xD

- I love how Wyldfyre forgets it’s called the City of Temples lol

Ehh ig “Roby-Town” just has a nicer ring to it 🤣

- OMG HERMES IS ALIVE!!! WAHOOOO!!!

- the forbidden five and those freebooters really need to learn TO NOT FRIKIN MESS WITH PIXAL BC SHE IS BACK AND MORE BOSSGIRL THAN EVER🙌🙌

- PIXAL WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR MANS?!

BUFF ZANE LOL

- oh….

OH….

OHHH NO NONONO

ARIN’S PARENTS DIED IN THE MERGE?!

SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY MY POOR BABY CAME ALL THIS WAY JUST TO FIND OUT-

AAAAAAA

Episode 6

- ooooh Jay on a task to find and capture Ras? This’ll be interesting

- AINT NO WAY…ITS DARETH

- NOT HIM TRYNA WISH TO BE A NINJA 😭😭😭 (even the djinn thinks it’s a bad idea HAHAHA)

- wait so are you tryna tell me there was a dragon icon hiding in Ras’ hammer this entire time? Or is the hammer the icon itself?

Episode 7

- the fact Zane has not yet gone out and explored the merge lands because he didn’t want to without PIXAL is so sweet he was waiting till he found her again

- NYA AND PIXAL’S FIRST EXCHANGE SINCE THE MERGE AHHH MY FAV GIRL DUO IS BACK

- Kai the “Solver” who has no solve…xD love when this man gets humbled (esp by none other than his own sister LOL)

- PIXAL AND ZANE DANCE TOGETHER AS THEY WORK?! THAT IS SO FRIGGIN CUUUUTTTEEEEER

- aww Wyldfyre stayed back with Roby to try help him 🥺❤️‍🩹

- HES GONNA GET BETTER RIGHT?-

Episode 8

- ooooh yesss flashbacks of young Arin and Sora in the early stages of their friendship THEYRE SO CUTE

- RAS JUST GETTING SNATCHED MID CONVERSATION LMAOOO

- oh gosh not Drix being entirely formed out of bugs 😭

Lowkey reminds me of the vermillion warriors being formed out of the lil vermillion snakes…but this is worse

- AHHH THAT SCENE OF SORA SAVING ARIN AT THE END THERE WAS SO GOOD 😭🩷🧡 it’s only been a couple of episodes BUT IVE MISSED THEM SO MUUUUCHHH

Episode 9

- YAYYYY HERMES GOT BETTER!!!!

- the way Zane holds Sora’s hand so she can walk across the extremely polished floor (w/o slipping) like an adult walking a child across the street or smth is so adorable

- ahh more Arin and Sora sentimental moments yas! I’m glad they’re back on better terms

- ooooh wyldfyre using her elemental power to heal Roby? This is bound to work

- IT WORKED HAHA YESSS HES BEAUTIFUL AGAIN

- oh did I ever mentioned how I LOVE Wyldfyre’s new mech?! I’m happy to see that she has one of her own now :D

- oh ofc ThunderFang was gonna betray the Forbidden Five I sensed that coming a mile away lol

Episode 10

- Kai: “can I try?!”

Wyldfyre: “It won’t look as cool on you”

AHAHDHSHBFJSHD

- I noticed how when Lloyd was confronted by ThunderFang, he had both Kai and Nya beside him

RGB SIBLINGS FTW!!!!

- “Rando mercenary” ahem uhh Nya that’s your husband right there

Ofc u don’t know that…yet heheheheh

- KAI IMMEDIATELY RUSHING OVER TO CHECK ON WYLDFYRE AFTER HER CRASH TO SEE IF SHES OKAY HE IS HER DAD YOUR HONOR

- OMG JAY REVEALS ITS HIM TO NYA USING HIS ELEMENTAL POWERS (and bad lightning puns xD)

- NOOOO LLOYD GOT DRAINED MY BBY-

- ARIN KILLING A SHATTERDRAGON WITH THE POWER OF LOVE HECK YEA XD

- AWWW THE GROUP HUGGG (with a revived Lloyd dw)

- okay I expected Arin to leave the ninja again to go with Ras…BUT SORA TOO?! SHE REALLY DID MEAN IT WHEN SHE SAID SHES NEVER LEAVING HIM AGAIN

#TOGETHER FOREVER

- AHHHH JAYYYY MY BOIIII!!! SO GOOD TO SEE HIS FACE AGAIN xD

AND HES STILL SILLY AS EVER EVEN IF HES MISSING A LOT OF HIS MEMORY HEHEHEH

BUT OH LAWD WHAT HAPPENED TO THE HAIR?! 😭💀

- Lloyd: “…but this win, doesn’t really feel like a win.”

Well ofc not…your children have just left you

- tho i wish for him to go back to normal, I’m kinda liking salty Jay lol

- WAIT ARIN’S PARENTS ARENT DEAD?! THEYRE REALLY ALIVE?! WHERE ARE THEY THEN?! I NEED ANSWERSSSS

- Ayo welcome to the spectral lands ThunderFang lol

- NOOO MORROOOOO

NO WAYY THUNDERFANG JUST ATE MORRO LIKE THAT

IS HE GONE GONE NOW?!

[carelessmirel]

Black cousins at the Ministry Gala 1938, 2nd of August

From left to right: Top line: Cassiopeia Black, Dorea Black (future Potter), Charis Crouch neé Black Bottom line: Lycoris Black, Cedrella Black (future Weasley), Callidora Longbottom neé Black.

Not my picture, it's from pinterest. Not my fancasts, but I just love the vibes this picture is radiating. Plus, the dresses are somewhat historicaly accurate. It's 1950s fashion from what I can tell (I'm not an expert)

«Last time all Black cousins were seen together. Despite the age differences, before that year they were rather close, but after they all walked different paths.»

The very next year (1939) Cedrella will elope with Septimus Weasley and end up burned from the tapestry. Her father Arcturus however, will attend her wedding and gift quite a lot to the newlyweds. Her sister Callidora will never talk to her again, but her sister Charis will stay close, even becoming Arthur Weasley's godmother.

Cedrella will live a life very disconnected with her pre-marriage one, but a happy life nonetheless. Her cousin Dorea and distant niece Lucretia will be with her when she dies in 1979. Charis will not be there only due to her death in 1973.

Lycoris will have a fight with her mother about woman's role, about "not wanting to be a fucking broodmare" as Lycoris herself put it. She would not be disowned, but her relationship with her family will remain cold for the rest of her life, with a few exceptions.

In 1939 Lycoris will open a salon in a house that she bought with her brother Regulus II. It would take a few years, but the "Black Vine Salon" will gain popularity, especially in the potioneer circles. The nature of Lycoris' relationship with one of the salon's visitors, Eustace Prince, are a topic of furious debate among the purebloods.

It's even rumored that Lycoris had a child with Eustace in 1950s. None of the involved give commentary on this.

Callidora will give birth to her second son Albert in 1940. Boy will be, unfortunately, born dead. Broken by the loss, Callidora, along with her husband Harfang Longbottom, will become recluse, growing famous mourning roses in the greenhouses for the rest of their life. Callidora would still keep in touch with her closest cousin Cassiopeia, whom she even named her eldest son after - Cassius Longbottom.

Charis, who lost her daughter Berenice just a few months before, unlike her sister will get more active. Together with her husband Caspar Crouch and Potter family involvement, Charis will shape the future politics of Magical Britain - firmly against Grindelwald's.

Minister for magic of the time, Hector Fawley, did not take Grindelwald's threat to the wizarding world seriously enough and was, as a result, will be forced out from his office by the public. Crouch family will support the next, more proactive Minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon. Rumors often say that Leonard slept with one or both Crouches, but in reality their interest in him was purely political.

Cassiopeia, who never strode far away from the family, will end up in St. Mungo with her mind lost in 1946. Healers would not be able to lift the curse and Cassiopeia will spend the rest of her life in Mungo. Her cousin Callidora and Lady Roanne Lestrange, mother of Rabastan and Rudolphus Lestange, would often visit her there.

Funny enough, several decades later her cousin's grandson Frank Longbottom and his wife Alice will be admitted to the same department with the same symptoms. Only connection between two incidents are the Lestranges' involvement.

Two years from that (1941) Dorea will join the war against Grindelwald, namely the "Resistance", along with her future husband Charlus Potter. As a mental mage, she will be a rather important member of comutications department. She and Charlus will be both present at the series of trials in 1945, all condemning Grindelwald's Acolyts.

However, their and some other Resistance members' involvement in the war will be hidden for the next thirty years due to secrecy protocols. It's theorised that this is because Dorea Potter was a spy in Grindelwalds ranks.

[cripplecharacters]

hello! first off, i want to say thank you so much for this blog. it's absolutely wonderful.

i'm currently writing a story set in the 1890s, and one of the characters (12 y/o girl) is deaf (she got meningitis as a baby and as a result she lost her hearing). her situation is complicated - her family is british, and always spoke in a british dialect. however, due to her poor living situation, she never got the chance to learn BSL and had to use alternate ways to communicate.

however, once again due to her complicated circumstances, she and her older brother (who she is very close with) ended up in the united states after running away from their living situation. neither her brother or her know sign language, but my question is, if she were to learn it at this point in her development (while she is living in the united states, where people would use asl and she could possibly get the opportunity for someone to teach her) would it be more realistic for her to use asl, bsl, or just to have her use alternate ways to communicate? ive tried googling this but its really no help, and im unsure how to approach her way of communication because of that. i really just want to make sure it's not offensive in any way, and that i can accurately portray her and her experiences as a deaf person.

Hi!

The simple answer is: If she learns sign language in the US, she will learn ASL. If she learns sign language in Britain, she will learn BSL.

Your setting makes this a little more complicated.

It's not unrealistic that she would have grown up without sign. Even despite her circumstances, you have set your story immediately post-Milan Conference. Your character would have grown up in a world where signing was punished.

Since she grew up with no sign language, I would encourage you to look into language deprivation. Depending on her level of hearing loss, it's very possible she would be language deprived, especially if her family did not put in a lot of effort to teach her to read from a young age--and I would be surprised if they had.

It does seem unlikely that she would end up learning any sign language without immersing herself in a Deaf community space. Even if she attends a deaf school, the predominant method will be oralism. (And the roots of oralist methods in Britain go back further than the ones in the US.)

That being said, it's not impossible she would learn sign. Some students (and teachers) at the Deaf residential schools knew how to sign, and even though it was punished, they would teach other, younger, kids. Sign language didn't die out under oralism. It was just severely punished, restricted from the public view, and frowned upon--attitudes that still influence modern perceptions of sign language.

So, the long answer is, the history and use of sign language at this period in time is particularly complicated. Your character may not have the opportunity to learn a sign language, and she might not have learned English either due to language deprivation. This is a character you're going to have to research further, and make some decisions regarding her deafness and her education before you continue.

I'm happy to answer any more questions if you have them!

Mod Rock

[for-ests]

Suffocation: Gojo Satoru x Reader

Pairing: Gojo x reader Warnings: none for this part, later violence and sexual themes  Wc: 6k+ Summary: When you show up to Jujutsu High on nothing but a hunch to find your long-lost brother, you get more than you bargained for when you meet his handsome teacher. Who seems interested in you not only for your abilities but also your body. Please let me know if you’d like to be on the taglist. This story is also on my ao3 and wattpad. COPE fic alert. some things will not be canon accurate please keep in mind!

∘∙∘☾𖤓∘∙∘

There was no way this was the correct address. 

Truthfully, you had already forgotten how you even made your way into the stunningly vibrant complex with historically accurate landscaping and architecture—but you were somehow there. The path had turned from gravel to stone within one step, leading you toward decorated buildings and temples that seemed to tower into the sky. When you finally looked up, even the clouds seemed more plush. 

Birds were chirping loudly, and you heard faint voices in the distance. Confused, you turned your head and looked for your car but found it had vanished. The path you thought you traveled down was no longer there and was replaced by a forest that stretched for miles. You hadn’t walked miles; you had only taken one step past a threshold that only someone like you could see. 

Something was off, and you knew it deep within your bones. But as your eyes scanned your surroundings, you found no hostilities, ghosts, or curses. A sigh of relief left your lips at that. Wherever you found yourself seemed inviting enough, so you would persevere. 

But that didn’t matter. You were there solely to reunite with your supposedly long-lost brother. A sibling you didn’t learn of until a month ago when you were sorting through the boxes in your adoptive parents' basement. It wasn’t fair. You were only twenty-six and had lost two sets of parents, your adoptive perishing in a car accident a few months ago, and your biological parents were still unknown. You were only ten at the time and hardly remembered anything, yet the need to solve their case was always in your mind. The suspicious death of a pregnant woman never went unnoticed, so you always had an inkling there was more to the story. A story you were now beginning to piece together a decade and a half later. 

None of this made sense. The child your mother was carrying did survive, and instead of keeping the two of you together, they ushered you into the foster system? It was all so jumbled together, undoubtedly buried in layers of secrets. You were told you had no extended family, let alone a full brother. You’d been led to believe your life was as every day as possible, only to find you’d been lied to by the couple who took you in. 

The curses were the only hint that something was off. But you’d never spotted any around your adoptive parents. And because they were oblivious, you refused to burden them with the knowledge. Instead, you practiced secretly, exorcizing what you could to keep your new family and friends safe. 

You would do the same for your brother if he would have you. 

Determined, you kept walking down the cherry blossom-decorated path, desperate to solve whatever mystery you’d been thrown into. Jujitsu High made enough sense, and the suspicions were confirmed when you saw through the spell. When you saw the DNA test results, all you had was your brother’s name. Weeks of searching on the internet led you to find the school he was enrolled in. There was no other address, and you found that strange. It made you suspect he was forced to suffer through your same predicament. 

When you realized this high school was for sorcerers, it all clicked into place. Maybe he could see curses, too. He could have similar talents or be even stronger with practice. Did your sibling also have the same ability? Was he here for a reason? Maybe you had gotten your hopes up; perhaps you were hallucinating. You panicked and checked your phone, only to find no signal. 

Why does this always happen to me? 

You stopped abruptly under a sakura tree, the scent it emitted more enchanting than you ever thought possible. For a brief moment, you closed your eyes to take it in, only to realize it was not of cherry blossom. It was a musk of amber and turmeric. 

Your eyes drifted down the hidden path that led off campus. It intrigued you. Somehow, it called you. A piece of the puzzle that you were trying to solve. You were about to indulge until you suddenly felt the presence of another. 

“How did you get in here?” someone asked, the tone half accusatory and half amused. The deep, alluring voice caused you to stiffen. 

And when you turned, your breath stopped. The man was striking, somehow able to captivate you by the faint smile on his lips. You could not see his eyes through what you presumed to be a charcoal-tinted blindfold. He stood a few feet away with his hands shoved in his pockets, radiating confidence and power. Before you could even muster a reply, the white-haired man swaggered toward you, somewhat curious but also cautious. 

No words left your lips as he approached you; all you could focus on was the aura surrounding him. It was blaring, basically engulfing him, possibly the strongest you’d ever been able to comprehend. 

It was as if you were suffocating, wasting precious air as you tried desperately to configure all he entailed. All that he was. He was far past your understanding, spiritual, bewitching, and commanding. His looks could kill. The black uniform was not concealing enough, and you fought past the spell he seemed to cast on you, making you fathom what was underneath. 

Lucky for you, your determination cleared the haze he left you in. 

“I’m here to see my brother.” That was all you managed to reply, but it was enough. Somehow, you knew that was what you needed to say. You were grasping at strings but understood that being truthful in a realm you couldn't fully comprehend was the best option. 

The stranger was standing too close, towering over you as if inspecting every fiber of your being. Even if you couldn’t physically see his eyes, you could feel them all over you. 

The intensity of his concealed gaze almost made you gasp out loud. 

Silence passed before the man asked, “Do you even know where you are?” 

Blinking yourself out of the embarrassing way you were staring at him, you reached into your purse and pulled out a piece of paper, brandishing it to him as a defense. “Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College” 

“Ahh.” He plucked the paper from your fingers and took a step back. Since his eyes were covered, you didn’t even know if he read the contents. Regardless, it was your proof that you’d been led there thanks to Google Maps and your own detective work. 

Frowning, you watched him closely for a reaction. The initial energy you witnessed was now barely a flicker. Was he a teacher? He seemed friendly enough but also shocked—as if you were trespassing. 

“What's your name?” You practically squeaked, internally wishing you could display more confidence.

“Maybe you can help me.” 

“Gojo Satoru,” he replied, folding the piece of paper and handing it back to you, suddenly becoming unbothered as his hands stretched above his head, a yawn threatening to escape his lips. “Not that I don’t enjoy the company of a beautiful woman, but you aren’t supposed to be here.” 

Something in you fluttered, but it didn’t diminish your sudden panic. “I would have called, but there was no phone number!” You rushed out, trying not to sway nervously on your feet. You were antsy, knowing you were so close to finally getting the answers you’d dedicated the last couple of months of your free time to. 

It was the only thing that had kept you strong through your mourning. 

Gojo crossed his arms. That wasn’t a lie, but there was definitely something you weren’t sharing. Notably how virulent your cursed energy was and why he had never heard of you. “Why don’t you just call his phone?” 

You slumped in defeat, knowing you had set yourself up to be trapped. But you needed to be honest to find the answers, to find your baby brother. That mattered most at the end of the day, and you would make this man help you whether he liked it or not. 

“Look, I just figured out I had a brother, okay?” You paused for a moment and shifted your purse farther up your shoulder. It was hard to gauge his reaction when you couldn’t see his eyes. That was your specialty; it was how you saw the true intent of someone’s soul. “I just want to confirm he’s here and I’ll set up a meeting with his guardian. I know I showed up unannounced but I just need to make sure he’s alive…”

“What made you think he wasn’t?” 

“I don’t know. It was hard to find him.” You glared. “Are you gonna help me or not?” 

“Maybe.” He smirked. 

“Maybe?” You scoffed. “What more proof do you need?”

“A few things…” He tapped his chin as if it was apparent. This man was being far too playful with you. 

“Can you fucking help me or not?” Your question was laced with venom, so much so that you were shocked. Being toyed with about something so profound to you caused all your manners to vanish. If he would keep you from seeing your brother, you would find an alternative. 

“Tell me why you’re suppressing your cursed energy.” Gojo shrugged, like admitting something so personal was an everyday experience. 

After the initial surprise of his statement passed, all you managed to do was tilt your chin up in defiance. So, he was like you. Though in a different way. 

“Take your blindfold off, and I can show you,” you replied back just as casually. 

He whistled mockingly, but the way he stepped closer to you ensured he was impressed. And he was wondering if your previous anxiety was just a well-played facade.

“What a feisty little thing you are,” he whispered, dipping his head down, invading your personal bubble. “But I keep it on for a reason.” 

Instead of backing up like your instincts told you, all you could do was stand your ground, trying to stare through the thin fabric, imagining what color they would be and what you would find once he let his guard down. All you needed was a glimpse of his soul. 

A long stillness passed, and the stranger was way too close, but you were unbothered. You knew he was teasing you, possibly trying to flirt with you, and it took all of your strength to hide your bashfulness. The reason you were there mattered much more than your sudden curiosity for him. 

“I want to see my brother.” You tapped your foot against the stones anxiously. 

Sighing through his nose, Gojo finally asked, “What’s your name?” His hands fell back down to his pockets, demeanor relaxing now that he acknowledged you were not a threat like he initially anticipated, only demanding and impatient. 

Your eyes were focused on him, analyzing his movements. A debate was ongoing in your mind. Part of you wanted to keep everything a secret, and the contrary was willing to admit everything. It was obvious, even to someone inexperienced like you, that this man could have killed you already if he wished. 

So, possibly against your better judgment, you took the first step and entrusted him with information. 

“My given name was Y/N Itadori.” 

…Itadori? 

Gojo’s entire reality almost collapsed at your reply. There was no way you could be related, not even a chance. Extensive background checks had been put in place, and an immense amount of effort was put into ensuring that Yuji remained a secret at Jujustu High. Yet somehow, you managed to appear.

A woman, an older sister that Yuji didn’t even know about. You looked nothing like the youngster. You were far too beautiful. It wasn’t just that, though. It was in the way you held yourself, the power pulsing through your veins, the way you smelled—your voice and your eyes. No woman had ever piqued his interest the way you currently were. Perhaps it was because something else about you was impossible to configure. 

He was so stunned that his eyes widened and his eyebrows raised. You could only see his eyebrows, but that was the hint you needed. The hesitation was expected and revealing—his reaction displayed that he was closer to your brother than you thought. 

“So he is here,” you pried further, crossing your arms and shifting your weight to a single hip. Your snarkiness was blatant, and that was because you felt naturally drawn to play whatever game he had in mind. 

“Maybe?” He shrugged, gritting his teeth, left hand raising to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“You better tell me where.” 

“I can show you if you ask nicely.” 

“Absolutely not,” you hissed but didn’t make a move to retreat. There was no way you were going to make the first move. Whether you were leaving or staying, you needed to be cautious. Even if he was playing with you, your eyes did not lie. He could be dangerous if he wanted to be. And you wanted to be nice, but God, was he pissing you off. 

“How rude.” He frowned as if the potency of your tone actually wounded him. “I’m trying to be nice, and this is how you repay me?” 

What you initially wanted to say was definitely discourteous. But that would get you nowhere. Instead, you tried your initial approach. Honesty.

“Gojo,” you said his name bitterly but managed to lower it to a hush. “I can see that you’re powerful, but you also know who my brother is.” You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the nerves rushing back. Your brother was close. He was there, within reach. “I’ve been traveling all day…So please, show me where he is or let me find him myself.” 

Your sudden shift surprised Gojo. Maybe that’s what he wanted his teasing to unveil—your true desperation to see Yuji. It became apparent that his dramatics would not work on you. His suspicion was also correct. You could see curses, and you could see his power. 

“He’s here, and he's under my supervision,” Gojo replied, analyzing you again as he contemplated what to do. He shouldn’t let you meet your brother, as that would only cause more problems for him and the higher-ups. But you…could be useful. You could be something special. Despite his initial curiosity for you and the way you blinded him with your beauty, he wanted to know you as more than what you could be. He didn’t just want to use you. “He can’t leave. You still want to see him?” 

You nodded furiously, hope appearing back in your radiant doe-like eyes. “Please.” 

Gojo cursed himself for making it disappear in the first place, even if he had to. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to apologize. Why?

But instead of apologizing, Gojo gestured behind him and turned on his heels. He didn’t need to ask you to follow him, knowing you were going to anyway.  

He led you down a winding path, and you tried your best to remain focused. It was hard not to become distracted. His physique and the power radiating from him were engulfing when you let yourself notice. 

The breathtaking nature surrounding you was also impossible to ignore. This compound was picture-perfect. If you had another reason to be there, you would have pulled your phone back out of your pocket. 

The air was crisp, not heavy like the city air. No curses were around, and you felt a foreign sense of peacefulness. 

You followed Gojo into a building and then into a long hallway. You tried your best to trail the path but came up empty-handed. That was when you realized you were trusting the white-haired man too much. Far more than you would have ever anticipated, but your gut wasn't twisting. The hairs on the back of your neck were not prickling with warning. It felt safe. 

When he finally spoke minutes later, you registered just how desperate you were trying to pick him apart with your mind. 

“This is my office,” Gojo said, sitting in the chair behind the desk, kicking his feet up nonchalantly. “I’m a professor here, or an equivalent.” 

“It's nice,” you replied, trying to hide your wandering eyes as they scanned the office. It would be nice if you had a blindfold as well. 

You didn’t exactly know what you were looking for but were satisfied to see nothing suspicious. There were no clear signs of deception. An empty office with a few decorations. There was only one picture frame on the desk, presumably with students. One had black hair, and one had pink hair. You couldn't help but smile once glimpsing it, as they all looked so happy. Gojo was in the middle with the biggest smile on his face. 

You wondered if he would ever smile at you like that. Your stomach flipped with warning the second you realized what you wished for. What was wrong with you? Who was this man, and why did he have such a hold on you? 

“I already texted your brother,” he finally replied, face focused on yours. He knew exactly where your eyes were wandering. And that was what gave him confidence. It made him aware that his flirting attempts were successful. Whatever the two of you had going on, it wasn’t just him that felt it. You did, too. 

Thank God. He was lucky his eyes were hidden. There was a mystery even with what he expected your abilities to be. Gojo was already craving for you to be underneath him, and he hated himself for it. Those thoughts definitely had a time and place. 

“How long?” You asked, finally sitting in the opposite chair and away from his propped-up shoes. 

You hadn't even asked for clarification on your brother's name. Still, your stare was so intense that Gojo couldn’t help but be physically flustered, his usual nonchalant behavior mending into something more severe in your presence.

At least Yuji had already replied to him. But Gojo did not know how to respond back. He didn't learn how to navigate a situation like this. Yuji would take the news of a long-lost sibling the best out of everyone, but Gojo was still nervous. 

“Any minute,” he rushed, staring at the door, trying to ignore the beauty that commanded even the power of his six eyes.  

There was no way you weren't feeling the same fervor he was. He could see it in your eyes, the way you chewed on the inside of your cheek. He was making you flustered, but he could be wrong. A few years had passed since he'd been intimate with a woman, let alone interested to this degree.

You had a facade he'd never seen before. You acted like you had a secret, even as you admitted the truth. When he pried for the truth, you gave it. So… what were you hiding? 

You were looking at your hands, but Gojo was entirely enticed by you. 

Studying your features, he almost lost himself in them before the door slid open—revealing Yuji Itadori. His student, your brother. A catalyst that tied your souls together. 

If it was possible for Gojo to hear your heartbeat stop, he did. Your aura immediately changed, and all the sassiness you threw his way vanished, replaced with shyness and uncertainty. 

“Yuji!” Gojo greeted enthusiastically to compensate for your silence, finally sliding his feet off the desk and sitting up straighter. 

It took extreme willpower not to start bawling on the spot as you finally glimpsed your long-lost brother. You just knew it was him, and it made your eyes sting. They stung for all the months you’d been searching, for all the years you missed out on, and all the times you couldn’t be there for him. You wanted to reach out to him, but you were frozen. You couldn’t formulate a single word as your mouth hung open, embarrassingly so. 

He casually greeted his sensei before glancing apprehensively at you. “Who’s this?” 

A moment passed when nobody said a word. Gojo was waiting for you to say something, anything, but it seemed you’d short-circuited. How cute.

“This is your sister, Y/N Itadori!” Gojo almost yelled, throwing his arms up and pointing at you in a V-shape. “Isn’t that wonderful?” 

Gojo’s exuberant nature snapped you out of your internal debate, realizing what he had just admitted. 

“Really?” You snapped your head at Gojo, eyes wide with disbelief but your lips pursing with contempt. “That’s how you’re going to tell him!?” 

The sorcerer dropped his arms in defense. “You weren’t saying anything!”

Frustrated, you returned to Yuji, who stood in the doorway with analytical eyes that were boring into you and trying to find any sense of a joke. You tried to think of something to say, but it was fruitless. No excuse or apology seemed sincere enough. Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind. 

He stepped closer to you, oncing you over and putting the pieces together. “You have grandpa’s nose,” he finally said. “Which means you also have mom’s nose.” 

“Yeah…” You slumped in your seat, slightly out of relief. At least he believed you. And because of that, you chuckled to release the tension. 

“You’re really my older sister?” he asked, apprehensively pulling out the chair beside you and sitting down. “I didn’t know I had one.” 

Whether or not you should have invaded his personal space, you couldn’t help but reach for his hands. And when he didn’t shy away, you gave them a squeeze. “I can explain everything to you, if you want.” When you released his hands, you leaned back in the chair. “Or at least the pieces I’ve put together.” 

“Of course I want that.” Yuji smiled, but there was a sadness behind it. Undoubtedly, he was thinking about everything you’d been stressing over. Right then and there, you decided you would do everything you could to make it up to him. 

A tear escaped your cheek before you even realized it. He was a handsome young boy; he was strong and intelligent. He was everything your parents could have ever asked for, and it made you miss them even more. “God, Yuji,” you faltered. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

“Really?” he asked, eyebrows raising in distress at how quickly your mood shifted. 

You nodded, wiping your tears and laughing again. Too many emotions were racing through your body, and you didn’t know where to start. You took a moment to compose yourself and decided to start from the beginning, knowing Gojo was listening but not really caring. It would be beneficial for him to know as well. 

Taking care of your brother was something you would forever be indebted to Gojo for. 

“My adoptive parents were killed in a car accident,” you started, feeling your throat tighten at the memory of getting that police call. “I was sorting through their documents, and I found a folder from my adoption…” 

Everything poured out quickly after that. You even gushed about how excited you were about having a little brother when your parents broke the news to you all those years ago. You told him about the good and the bad, about the struggles, about your sadness and belief he was dead. You told him about how angry you were when you found out that he’d been alive the entire time and how the adoption system failed both of you. 

An immense amount of relief filled your being when you finished the story. Yuji hardly asked any questions as you spoke, and Gojo sat there perfectly calm, listening intently. Just being able to tell Yuji about his past was satisfactory enough. At least he knew. At least you were able to find him and be at peace that he was alive. 

You glanced at the documents sprawled across Gojo’s desk. The proof was all there, and so were your intentions. “I’d love to be in your life, Yuji,” you said somewhat nervously. “If you’ll have me.” 

Your brother’s face was blank for a second but then cracked into the warmest, brightest smile you’d ever had the blessing to witness. “Of course I will, Y/N!” 

And before you could muster a reply, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you. You giggled, returning the embrace, holding him extra tight, cherishing such a tender moment. The best possible outcome. A healthy brother. 

But when you pulled away and got a better look at him, you let the curiosity overtake you. The power inside of you couldn’t resist taking a closer look to truly know if his soul was untainted, if it was pure, and what the future had in store for him. 

Within a split second, hardly a glimpse, you peered into Yuji’s eyes and beyond the surface level of his corneas. You broke down the barrier to see into his soul, desperate to know the color of his heart, the essence of his being. 

Sunset orange. 

But there was something else, faint but there. Crimson and black, ancient and all-powerful. Deadly and evil—from the deepest pits of hell. It wasn’t your brother, though. It scared you, the foreign essence constricting around your brother’s soul. And as you tried to look deeper, you brushed the barrier and were met with black and soulless eyes, feigning death and domination. 

“How dare you try to see me, pathetic woman senkensha.” 

Panicked, you came back to reality. You could barely even gasp before standing up, hands slamming down at the table. You were not going to blame Yuji for it; you would direct your anger to Gojo. 

“What's inside him?!” you hissed, finger jetting out and pointing with malice. For a split second, your eyes were able to bore through the black blindfold that covered Gojo’s eyes, and you saw them widen with shock. The color filled your senses, but it disappeared before you could process it. 

Gojo and Itadori glanced at each other. 

“How do you know there’s something inside him?” Gojo asked, harshness blaring in his tone for the first time, covering up for that millisecond where you infiltrated his fortified barriers. 

“I don’t know,” you said curtly. “I just do.” 

“Wait…why do you assume it’s my fault?” Gojo asked as the surprise and pique faded away. 

“Can you see curses too?” Yuji questioned somewhat excitedly. 

You nodded, still on edge, as you glanced back to your brother. “Since before you were born.” 

But Sukuna was different. Gojo knew that. A sorcerer, let alone an ordinary person, could not sense anything of Sukuna in the first place. You had also slipped through his own fortifications, closer to his infinity than he’d ever felt before. Did you have an ability he couldn’t sense? 

“Doesn’t explain how you know there’s something inside me.” Yuji narrowed his eyes. 

At the slightest hint of contempt from your newfound brother, your voice's hesitation and accusatory tone vanished. 

“I can see souls,” you whispered. Neither Yuji nor Gojo replied, but you could feel their gaze as you fiddled with your thumbs. “I don’t like to. It’s invasive. I only do it as confirmation.”

“Of what?” Gojo asked. 

“That I'm making the right decision.”

How extraordinary. With all the power you wielded, you could use it for good. You had kept it a secret, had lived among those who were weaker with no hunger for anything more.  

But Gojo could see more than you could ever imagine. He could see your potential bubbling, strengthening each time you gathered the willpower to use it. Did you even know you could scramble someone’s mind with a technique like that? 

“I just needed to know, Yuji.” You bit your lip. “Forgive me.” 

“It's fine,” he replied. “You’re right.” 

You lifted your head. 

“I'm a vessel,” Yuji said. “There’s a demon inside me.” 

“What!?” Your voice raised in concern. 

“Its under control for now,” Gojo interjected. Before you could say anything else, he continued. “Yuji, its getting late, go back to your room. We will talk later.” 

He nodded and rose from the chair immediately, which shocked you. “It was nice to finally meet you, Y/N.” Yuji lowered his head respectfully. 

“Wait, Yuji!’ You stood up and rushed toward him, handing him a post-it note you snatched from Gojo’s desk with your phone number scribbled. 

“If you need me,” you whispered faintly. “I’ll be there.” 

Smiling brightly once again, Yuji took the note from you and embraced you. “I’ll see you tomorrow sister, yeah?” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured, watching him leave and sliding the office door shut. Your head turned with his footsteps as they pattered down the hallway, only hoping he got back to his bedroom safely. What you had learned was nothing short of terrifying, but if he allowed you to be there every step of the way, you would. 

“There's an extra room for you,” Gojo said after a long silence. “I think you should stay.” 

“I’ll be alright.” You smiled. “My motel is only a few minutes away.” 

Gojo had a horrible feeling about it but knew he couldn't do anything to stop you. It would be impossible to convince you of things you couldn’t understand. Even if Yuji was your brother, he was still a stranger. So was Gojo, but he was wary of letting you leave now that you knew part of the truth, possibly one of the best-hidden secrets in the world. The least he could do for his sanity was give you his number and a few incentives to make you return and remain comfortable. 

“How much is the motel room?” He asked nonchalantly. 

“About 10,00 yen.” You shrugged. “Nothing fancy.” 

Reaching into his pocket, Gojo pulled out his wallet. You watched him with a confused expression as he separated the bills and handed them to you. “This should cover tonight, but after that cancel the room.” 

Hesitantly, you let him place the bills in your hand. “Gojo, I don’t-” 

“If you want to learn everything I can teach you, what I’ve been teaching Yuji-” he paused momentarily, awkwardly reaching up and scratching the back of his neck. “You may become a target. You’ll be put in danger, so I need you to stay on campus.” 

You took a moment to mull over his words and how he said them. His once confident posture had become somewhat humble, and you thought over your answer as Gojo turned to grab a post-it note and scribble on it.

“Preferably… as close to me as possible,” he faltered but pinched the paper between his fingers and brandished it to you, waiting for you to take it, to accept the deal he wanted to make. 

Snatching the note, you saw that it was his phone number. And next to it was nothing less than a winky face. 

Your eyes shot to what would be his, immediately searching for any signs of a prank. Yes, it made complete sense for him to give you his number, but your heart sensed an ulterior motive behind it, and you couldn’t help but blush, finally understanding what he said. 

Gojo grinned at your stupified expression. 

Tilting your chin up, you recovered from your hesitation.“I won’t trust you until I see your soul.” Was all you said, but then you went to pull out your phone and save his number in your contents.  

“You can’t see it now?” Gojo smirked. 

Shoving your phone back in your pocket, you began to take your leave, only looking over your shoulder once you had slid the door back open. 

“Take off your blindfold,” you requested again.  

“Not a chance.” 

You chuckled, nodding your head in acceptance. It did bum you out, though, as you suspected the eyes under that blindfold to be incredibly mystifying. A pair that would only cloud your judgment, if anything. Gojo had already flattered you enough for one day, and you didn’t want to get your hopes up that the flirtatious sorcerer wanted something more. 

It would have been easy to tell if he took that blindfold off. Perhaps it was the mystery that intrigued you. A mystery that would eventually torture you if you couldn’t solve it. 

“Goodnight, Gojo.” 

And then you left, stepping through that barrier like you had only hours ago. But this time, leaving felt much more intimidating. The safety you felt inside was no longer surrounding you, and you were left in the middle of a forest, standing on the decaying steps of an abandoned cabin, with your car only meters away. 

The crickets were loud, and so was the wind. It was cold and dark compared to what you’d witnessed being so close to Itadori and Gojo. 

But it was too late now, and you had too many belongings inside that motel room to lose. As you walked to your car and started it up, you ruminated over the proposal Gojo made. Staying there couldn’t be that bad, right? 

For some reason, you felt the urge to send Gojo a text before departing. Perhaps he’d instilled a new fear in you, but you also learned to listen to your intuition when your gift was absent. Your mind was in shambles, your instincts convincing you that something bad would happen if you left. 

Stay. Your mind blared. Stay the night. 

Taking a deep breath, you ignored the warnings and theorized them just to be the intrusive thoughts that came with being in the presence of an attractive, powerful man. 

Y/N:> Leaving now, thank you for the money. 

Annoying ass teacher guy:> Let me know when you get back ;)

Y/N:> fine 

Annoying ass teacher guy:>I’m open to pictures as well

Annoying ass teacher guy:> I mean

Annoying ass teacher guy:> As proof that your safe 

Y/N:> you’re*

>Contact Name Successfully Changed

Yuji’s sister?? </3 :> it’s gonna take more than 10k yen to impress me 

Annoying ass teacher guy:> noted

Shaking your head, you tossed your phone in the passenger seat and drove off. The teasing made you smile enough to etch a giggle from your lips. Embarrassing. It had been way too long since you’d flirted with someone. 

Your giddiness only lasted for a few minutes, though, as the further out you drove, the stronger your trepidation felt. You turned your music up louder and glanced at your GPS. Only a few more minutes. A few more minutes and you would be in your room, safe and sound. 

Down the long stretch of road, you could see the light illuminating through the forest, the neon-lit sign peeking over the darkness of the trees. 

Shoulders relaxing, you were about to admit you were only paranoid before the hairs on your neck stood up. It made you gasp, the sudden alert of evil eyes on your frame, location, and vulnerability. 

With one hand on the wheel, the other desperately reached for your phone. You quickly opened it and tried to type a coherent message with your thumb. 

Yuji’s sister?? </3 :> something is wronfgg

And when you glanced in the rearview mirror, your heart almost stopped at what was barreling down the street toward your car. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, only seeing the mass gain a staggering distance with each significant, inhuman stride. A curse. A large one, an intelligent one. Something way more advanced than your current capabilities. 

You barely managed to press call before watching its arms reach out, seeming to stretch misshapenly, its mouth opening with a deadly, vengeful smile. 

Instinct took over, and you slammed on your brakes, screeching to a stop. The force of its body colliding with your car caused you to lurch forward in your seatbelt and slam against the wheel. Coughing, you looked up and saw its body fly over your car and smack against the pavement. It rolled, seeming to break into pieces before they snapped back together. 

The curse jolted, and you heard it scream. 

All you could smell was the burnout from your tires. You were frozen in place, hands gripping the steering wheel with so much force that your knuckles were starting to cramp. Your foot was still pressing the brake to the floor. 

“Y/N?!” You heard Gojo’s voice yell through the phone speaker. “Are you okay?” 

You coughed again, struggling to breathe. But his voice snapped you back into place, the adrenaline fading only enough that you were able to speak. 

“No,” you whispered, unable to think of an explanation for how to describe the situation to him. 

“Where are you?!” Gojo asked a little louder, a little more frantic. 

But his questions faded into nothing as the ringing in your ears grew louder. The curse shot up from the ground, its neck cracking back into place, flexing a total of six arms. That same decrepit smile was still on its face. You couldn’t even fathom what it was and what it could possibly want with you. 

“On the road, just by the motel—!” you rushed as a sob of fear rose in your throat.

There was no way to know. The why didn’t matter when you were the prey. You wouldn’t even live long enough to ask. 

“I think I’m gonna die,” you whispered as the curse took a wobbly step forward. Despite its imbalance, the ground still rumbled from the weight and force. 

Its mouth snapped open, revealing layers of razor-sharp teeth and a decaying uvula. Its mouth consumed its entire face, causing you to scream in fear. 

Then, the creature lunged as you slammed on the gas. 

[crooked-wasteland]

hey- I’m the anon who sent in that ask about why I think the shows are influenced by viv’s want to control interpretation- and I just wanna clarify that I don’t see any of what I spoke about as directly malicious. I feel like all artists at some point have to go through that point where they realize some of what they intend isn’t gonna be read that way- I disagree largely with Viv, but I don’t like the tendency people have to psychoanalyze her, I was just going off of what I could perceive as a writer. I don’t even think viv is envious of her fandoms headcanons or anything, I feel like while the relationship between her and her fanbase is concerning it’s hard to get a real idea of how she feels about the whole community. The reason I brought it up and a few other examples of it is because it feels like a prevailing issue, I don’t think anyone who does it ever has mal-intent, but I feel it’s natural that when you tie yourself so closely to something you’ve created it becomes hard to let go. If I came off as trying to imply aggression to her actions, apologies, I also can’t identify malice in most of what I’ve seen from her regarding this at least.

My apologies Anon, I think I was right with my first response but then thought maybe I was losing the plot. Basically, your first ask came across as two disconnected topics of Medrano's relationship with her fanbase and Medrano's need to control the narrative of her stories, but I responded based on the assumption you did intend for those ideas to connect more cleanly than they felt.

I also want to say my use of the word malicious just means with a selfish intent, not that someone is doing anything with hatred or bitterness. It's more about the emotional source of the motivated action and less the outcome of the actions. By my usage of it, I simply meant that I don't think she has any intentional, selfish motivation over her involving the fans in her process. Even the sense of jealousy wasn't one I'd define clearly as such, but the English language lacks words for emotions in a rather depressing way.

I definitely want to give you the space to correct me on that misunderstanding and I do apologize for the position my response may have put you in.

But I think this is also proving the point you had wanted to make as well, correct? About making sure everyone is seeing the story the same way. When we communicate directly in a manner like this, the entire point is to be accurately understood.

The thing with art is that it's a fundamentally different form of communication that survived through ambiguity. The more direct writing is, the less serious it gets taken. You are speaking to people in a transcendental way that direct communication cannot achieve. Having people sharing in a creation you made is a way of having this sort of spiritual closeness to others. And being able to let others embrace you and your work in their own way is a sign of maturity.

Which is where I pointed out Medrano's immaturity.

One of my favorite books is The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton. I read it as a middle schooler and it spoke to me in the softest of ways. It was the piece of media that broke through my religious indoctrination to soften me towards the LGBTQ community. All because I experienced a story about male love that changed my perspective of queer relationships.

I've mentioned before I was raised in an evangelical cult, so this was a world-tilting shift in my preteen little brain. The relationship between Johnny and Pony Boy was very platonic to me. It felt like that normal love between brothers that I understood. But the relationship between Johnny and Dally was so very, obviously queer to me.

The book was written in 1967. There was a much larger, interconnected cast and yet the relationship between Dally and Johnny always stood out to me. Though I suppose it makes sense as no other relationship literally resulted in suicide by cop. Spoilers, for this nearly 60 yr old book, by the way.

I also wasn't the only one who noticed this, and when asked about it, Hinton said this in 2016:

The whole point being, Hinton is right. I have no doubt that Hinton wasn't intentionally writing a queer relationship in the 60s. But that didn't make those identifying queerness in the relationship as wrong.

And I think my favorite part is that Hinton clearly states that her goal was never to make anyone else feel safe through her art. The purpose of art is to actually not feel safe. Art itself is a safe place to engage with yourself through the work. Art is the space to feel however you feel about something without there being a right answer in the first place.

You are safe to feel however you feel about a piece of art. It isn't going to hurt you to think two characters may be queer regardless of the author's intent. If a painting makes you sad, it is a safe way to engage with sadness, as there are no consequences to the painting being sad. It is a form of emotional exercise.

But the appeal to authority people look for has become increasingly disturbing for me, especially on a social level. It started with a fear of being wrong. Then it was people asking to be told how to think and feel about the art they consumed rather than have their own experiences. They wanted instructions by the creators to tell them how they should interact with the material. They didn't want freedom, they wanted security. And in the pursuit of security, of being right, which was morally superior to being wrong, they lost the point of it all. They lost themselves.

It feels pretty similar to a lot of things going on lately, but it started in the art. The rise of conformity started in the artist circles online. And now we're watching a new fascist regime.

That has nothing to do with Medrano of course. I just see patterns in our societies. It isn't Medrano's fault fascism is on the rise, though that will be a hilarious out of context accusation. It's just that I think Medrano using social media to tell her story rather than actually making art is less the fault of Medrano giving people the "right answers" and more the fault of people demanding answers to things that just are. There's a sickness in our society that has lost the plot. Critical thinking is on a decline because it is morally inferior to be wrong nowadays. And if you aren't right, you're wrong, and wrong is bad. And no one wants to be bad.