#enough that these things were just emblazoned in my brain

[goatsandgangsters]

favorite callbacks/foreshadowing payoff in A Power Unbound that made yell "oh goddammit" at my book

MY MOST SATISFYING "OH GODDAMMIT" MOMENT. FULL ON HAD ME PACING UP AND DOWN MY APARTMENT GOING "OH MY GOD THEY ACTUALLY DID IT, THE CRAZY SON OF A BITCH, THEY DID IT"

it wins #1 because this line always made me SO suspicious, but I also thought it was such a longshot. between the suspiciously specific phrasing of "blow up" and alan calling the lockroom easy to misuse in the same scene, my prediction was actually that the bad guys were going to do some fuckshit with the lockroom, because ART introduced us to the concept of "using hair to channel magic" and having a room full of everybody's hair seemed... uh, bad.

so I was just wrong enough to be delightfully shocked and just right enough to feel so satisfyingly smug. 10/10 felt terrific.

"adelaide tapping her ring" is SUCH a sneaky little detail. because she's tapping her ring all throughout a marvelleous light, and then sURPRISE it was the contract piece all along, beautiful bit of same-book foreshadowing, well done everyone go home

so when it showed up again in a power unbound, I was like "aw cute. I like that she's still got that little habit, even though it's not a Plot Relevant Foreshadowing Moment anymore, what a nice detail"

and then adelaide pseudo-flipped me off with her ring finger and went SURPRISE, GOT YOU TWICE, WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT MY PLOT RELEVANT RING?

this one didn't take me by surprise, but it's exactly what I love about reading a careful and deliberate writer.

this is in the same scene where we find out about jack's secretbind. so when I read it, I thought "okay well, we just found out he has A Mouth Thing. but he subconsciously touches his leg as well as his mouth, so probably he has A Leg Thing too." and then did a quick "probably from the war, right? seems most likely" and felt confident I knew that Jack had some kind of leg injury long before A Power Unbound even came out

and it's just SO FUN, because when you have a really good writer like this, you get the absolute joy as a reader of reading One Single Sentence and going "I see you, I know that means something." it's delightful, it's my favorite kind of puzzle, it's so rewarding

the way robin gets super uncomfortable with the penhallick crowd gossiping about what happened to jack and then changes the subject to magical people born into unmagical families who never discover their magic

the way jack and alan are linked together through this one worldbuilding-during-dinner conversation from two books ago. beautiful. profound.

and finally. my grand final of moments that made me go OH!! FUCK!!—

that's the first mention of jack by name, ever, at all, in the entire series.

that is the very first detail we ever learn about him.

AND THEN HE DID IT AGAIN, AFTER ALL THOSE YEARS OF NO MAGIC, AND I WAS SO PROUD, AND I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, AND ALSO I HUCKED MY BOOK ACROSS MY BED.

HIS FIRST MENTION AND HIS FIRST ACT OF MAGIC AFTER OVER A DECADE, crying, crying forever, we have come full circle

[swappermanent]

Life in Retrospect (Part 3)

Staring into the mirror, with the necklace resting cool and heavy against my chest, I considered my next move. If I was going to convince the amulet—and myself—that this body was mine, I needed to make some changes, starting with the basics.

First things first, Mikey’s wardrobe was atrocious.

I rifled through his drawers and closet, finding an endless array of dry-fit shirts in bright, clashing colors and tank tops emblazoned with gym logos. Sure, being a gym bro was hot—I could see the appeal—but the looks were uninspired. He’d draw even more attention if he put in just a little effort.

“Time for a style upgrade,” I muttered, giving my reflection a grin that felt more confident than any expression I’d worn in years.

Memories surfaced of the days when I’d been known for my sharp sense of fashion—tailored suits, leather jackets, crisp shirts that turned heads on the street. I wasn’t about to step back into the polished looks of my old life; I needed something that fit this younger, edgier version of myself.

I hit the thrift stores like a man on a mission. Racks of vintage leather jackets, oversized sweaters, slim-fit jeans, and distressed tees called out to me. I practically cleaned out half a dozen stores, arms loaded with pieces that oozed effortless cool. My bank account took a serious hit, but I didn’t care. This was an investment—in keeping this life, this body.

“You’re gonna love this,” I whispered to the amulet, feeling it warm slightly against my skin.

Back at home, I tried everything on. A brown leather bomber jacket that fit like a second skin, vintage denim that hugged my legs just right, oversized sweaters that spoke of casual mornings at a café—I couldn’t help but admire the transformation. I looked hot as fuck.

The necklace vibrated against my chest, sending a shiver down my spine. Over the next few days, I noticed the dizzy spells became fewer and farther between, a sign that the amulet approved of the shifts I was making. But I knew this wasn’t enough.

Next, I tried changing up my day routines and friends. I started off by pulling away from the gym bro crowd and the endless banter about protein shakes and reps. Instead, I spent more time at cafes with people who shared my real interests, discussing books and philosophy. I went to art galleries, soaking in the quiet, contemplative energy that contrasted so sharply with the loud, boisterous nights out Mikey used to have.

But still, I felt that nagging doubt—the sense that it wasn’t enough. I was racking my brain, wondering what more I could do. I didn’t know Mikey well enough to pinpoint exactly what would be out of character, what would truly convince the amulet that I had made this body mine.

The answer was out there. I just had to find it.

---

One night, I found myself at a cozy little art event downtown with some of my new friends. The atmosphere was low-lit, filled with laughter and the quiet murmur of conversations over wine and soft jazz. I felt like I belonged here—a far cry from the sweaty gym floors and blaring music of Mikey’s usual haunts.

I’d been chatting up this guy at my table, a sharp, well-dressed guy named Ollie, who had a laugh that made my stomach do a flip every time I heard it.

Then, out of nowhere, it hit me—a realization that made me almost laugh out loud. Mikey wasn’t gay. There was no way he’d be flirting like this with a guy. This was exactly my chance to cement the swap.

leaned in, giving Ollie a smile that I knew, with Mikey’s rugged jawline and smoldering eyes, would have a hell of an effect. Sure enough, Ollie blushed, his gaze flickering down as I held his attention with just enough tension.

Eventually, we ended up heading back to my place. The anticipation buzzed between us, almost tangible, as we made our way up the stairs. I opened the door, pulling him in with a grin, and wasted no time.

The second the door closed, I reached for the hem of my shirt, peeling it off in one smooth motion. Ollie’s eyes went wide, his gaze magnetized by my bare chest, staring at the thick pecs that looked even better in this new, rough lighting. He was practically speechless, caught between awe and desire as he ran a hand up my chest.

“Damn,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, fingers tracing the defined lines of my muscles.

We moved to the bedroom, and the moment our bodies pressed together, the heat between us spiked. I guided Ollie onto the bed, pulling him close as he shifted onto his hands and knees, glancing back at me with excitement and just a hint of nervousness.

I took my time, positioning myself behind him, savoring the anticipation. With a firm hand, I stroked along his back, moving down over his shoulders and arms, then brushing over his toned torso. I could feel him relaxing under my touch, his body trusting me to lead. With a soft, reassuring whisper, I pressed the tip in, and he gasped, gripping the sheets.

“Relax,” I murmured, leaning down to trail a few kisses along his shoulder blades. My other hand moved to his biceps, kneading gently, helping him ease into the moment.

Slowly, I slid in a bit more, feeling him tense and then loosen as my hands worked their way over his muscles, calming him. I kept the pace unhurried, my hand still exploring his back, his shoulders, even reaching around to his chest, keeping him anchored in the moment.

Once he adjusted, I began moving, each thrust steady and deep. The sound of our breaths and the rhythm of my hips filled the room as we found a powerful flow.

I wrapped my hand around Ollie’s cock, stroking him slowly in time with my thrusts. He groaned, his breath coming in shuddering gasps as I picked up the rhythm, making sure he felt every sensation. It wasn’t long before he was practically writhing beneath me, his body responding to my touch, every inch of him pulsing with desire.

“Come for me,” I murmured in his ear, my voice low and coaxing. I wanted him to feel everything, to lose himself completely. And as I stroked him, watching the tension build in his face, his breathing hitched, his muscles tensing under my hands.

With a sharp gasp, Ollie finally came, his whole body trembling as he moaned, tightening around me. That sudden grip drove me over the edge. The intense pleasure hit me hard, and with a deep groan, I gave in, shuddering as I shot my load into his perky, smooth ass.

Laying back and catching my breath, the necklace pulsed against my chest, vibrating harder than it ever had before. I waited, half expecting something dramatic—a flash of light, maybe a jolt through my body that would make this transformation permanent. But, like before, nothing actually happened.

The next morning, as the first light filtered in through the blinds, I got dressed slowly, savoring every step. I slipped on one of my new outfits, a tight tank that clung to my shoulders, showing off my defined biceps, and fitted jeans that emphasized my strong legs. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but admire the transformation—the way this body wore confidence like a second skin.

Ollie stirred on the bed, watching me with a sleepy smile as I flexed my arm a little, just to see if he’d notice. He did. His eyes widened slightly, and I could tell he liked the show. I walked over, leaned down, and kissed him slowly, savoring the warm feeling that spread through me at the touch.

“That was… amazing,” I said, holding his gaze. "I’d really love to see you again, like, on an actual date. What do you say?"

As the words left his mouth, the necklace around my neck flared up in a frenzy, vibrating and heating until it felt like it was radiating warmth through every inch of me. I felt cascades of pleasure as if I was having 10 orgasms all at once. In that moment, I knew, this body was mine forever.

It was the missing piece, I realized. Mikey hadn’t been the type to ask for a second date or care about much beyond the night itself. For him, a hasty exit before sunrise would’ve been enough. But by wanting something real, something lasting, I’d pushed just far enough out of character to claim this life as mine for good.

Ollie sat up, grinning, oblivious to my inner transformation, and ran a hand over my shoulder. “I’d like that too. A lot.” He flashed a look at my huge biceps. "So… when should we make this date happen?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.

"How about this weekend?" I replied, pulling him in for another kiss before standing up to grab my shirt.

As I pulled it over my head, the necklace finally cooled, a final confirmation that I was here to stay. I felt lighter, stronger, more alive in this body than ever. I glanced back at Ollie with a smirk, already planning out the rest of the day, and I couldn’t help but think, Damn, it feels good to be Mikey.

[kelcemenow]

Things Never Change.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 462

Warnings Nothing to warn about here, it's all adorable girl Dad Travis!

Aaaand it's another Anon request! This one was quite vague and simple, so I just went with whatever my brain threw out! Fast forward to whenever Trav retires for this one...not that I want that to happen any time soon! "Travis kelce with his wife and kids at a game maybe superbowl"

"She isn't going to eat that, you know?"

Travis looked down towards the hotdog that he had been holding for a decent amount of time, with Maeve focusing all of her attention towards the action down on the field.

"Baby, you know I really got it for me, right?" He grinned with the corner of his mouth.

You gently nudged him with your forearm as you watched your daughter's chocolate brown curls bounce up and down as her head moved around.

"Do you miss it?"

Travis sighed a short laugh, "What do you think?"

The stadium roared around you as the Superbowl continued to play out in front of you, your feet vibrating in the stands, "I know, baby. Being back, it feels like 3 years ago all over again."

"It's weird. It feels so different being on this side of the field, but the place hasn't changed at all somehow." His gaze drifted upwards as he looked at the thousands of fans that surrounded him.

You noticed a slight smile as he looked upon the large 87 banner that hung down, his surname emblazoned on it.

You heart broke for your husband, "You know, if you wanna come out of retirement, I'd support you."

"I retired for us. For our family and our future. I couldn't stand by and watch you bring up our daughter alone."

You furrowed your brow, "I wasn't totally alone. You were around."

Travis sucked air in through his teeth, "Not enough. I wanted to be home with you and Maeve."

You both looked towards your 5 year old, her hands clapping together as she watched the Chiefs cheerleaders perform down at the side-lines.

"Besides, she's older now, it's a bit easier in some ways."

Travis told hold of your hands, his expression sincere, "Baby, I know you're trying to help, but I made my decision. Of course I miss it, I miss it every single day, but I want to be at home with you and our little girl."

Your eyes creased into a smile as you leaned down, picking up Maeve and resting her against your hip, her small hands clinging onto you. Travis grinned and ducked his head, laying a gentle kiss onto the top of her head.

Suddenly, the crowd bellowed, causing you to look out at the field for the reason for the noise. Instead, you noticed that your faces were showing on the screen towards the end of the stadium.

"Make some noise for Kansas City Chiefs legend, Travis Kelce!"

Travis held his hand out, a static wave to his adoring fans before turning the the side and bringing his arms up into his famous 'Archer' pose. You rolled your eyes quickly as the noise grew louder.

"Some things never change."

______________________________________________________________

And that's the last of my requests! I'm opening my requests back up so if you have anything that you want me to write, just get in touch! Also, if you want to be added to my Taglist, just let me know!

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[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter Eighteen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Eighteen: Christmas Deals

Summary: It's Christmas at the Holmes household, but that doesn't mean there aren't problems.

Months later…

            “Oh dear god, it’s only two o’clock,” complained Mycroft. “It’s been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it only be two o’clock? I’m in agony.”

            It was Christmas Day once more, and Sherlock, (Y/N), and Mycroft found themselves in the Holmeses cottage for the first time. John and Mary had been invited, too, though that situation was far more complicated. Mary had come, but John hadn’t arrived yet. No one knew what he would decide to do.

            After the confrontation in 221B, the pair had split up. No divorce, but neither stayed with the other. John moved back to 221B, and he and Mary hadn’t spoken since.

            (Y/N) had recovered from their injury, and they, Sherlock, and John had gone back to their old dynamic, but Sherlock and (Y/N) could see John was…sadder, more melancholy. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but perhaps Christmas would heal the breach. (Y/N) was told that Christmas sparked such miracles.

            And now there they were, engaging in such “Christmastime bonds of family and friendship” with the Holmeses. Well, currently they were just being annoyed by Mycroft.

            “Do you know John used to make graphs of all the childish things you and Sherlock do?” said (Y/N).

            Mycroft scowled. “You’re not an example of a mature individual, either.”

            “Mikey, be nice to them! They’re our grandchild,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            (Y/N) smiled as Mrs. Holmes ruffled their hair and handed them another cookie. Mycroft fought not to glare. It seemed (Y/N) had become the favorite of the family as soon as they got a proper introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

            Their smile fell as they saw Sherlock reading the paper. “Lady Smallwood Suicide,” “Shamed Peer takes Own Life,” and “63-Year-Old dies following Letter Scandal” lay emblazoned on the cover.

            “Why are we doing this again? We never do this,” said Mycroft, drawing (Y/N)’s attention any from the news.

            “We are here because (Y/N) is home from the hospital and we are all very happy,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            “Am I happy? I haven’t checked,” said Mycroft.

            “Behave, Mike,” said Mrs. Holmes, putting down a mug of tea and walking into the living room.

            “Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end,” muttered Mycroft. However, he didn’t dare say it loud enough for Mrs. Holmes to hear and took a sip of his tea when she looked back at him suspiciously.

            Sherlock started his watch, and (Y/N) furrowed their brow.

            Mrs. Holmes headed into the sitting room and put down a mug of tea for Mary. She sat in front of the fire with a book in her lap and Mr. Holmes staring into space in an armchair near her.

            Mrs. Holmes tutted fondly when she saw Mr. Holmes. “Cup of tea, Mary. Now, if Father starts making humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it.”

            “Did you write this?” asked Mary, holding up the book titled The Dynamics of Combustions by M.L. Holmes.

            “Oh, that silly old thing,” chuckled Mrs. Holmes. “You mustn’t read that. Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!” She tutted as she heard Mr. Holmes start humming. “Now, no humming, you,” she scolded fondly before leaving him a cup of tea and exiting the room.

            Mr. Holmes chuckled. “Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius.”

            “She was a mathematician?” asked Mary.

            “Gave it all up for the children,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling as he glanced into the room where Mycroft and Sherlock sat. “I could never bear to argue with her. I’m something of a moron myself. But she’s…well, she’s got the brains and beauty for the two of us.”

            Mary smiled. “Oh my god. You’re the sane one, aren’t you?”

            “Aren’t you?” joked Mr. Holmes.

            Mary lowered her eyes and took a sip of her tea to avoid answering. At precisely that moment, John opened the door to the living room and paused awkwardly. Mary looked away and focused on the random page of the book she’d turned to.

            “Sorry, I-I just, uh…” John trailed off.

            Mr. Holmes looked between the pair. “Oh, do you two need a moment?”

            John squared his shoulders. “If you…don’t mind.”

            Mr. Holmes stood. “No, of course not. I’ll, uh, see if I can help with…something or other.” He bustled away to the other room and closed the door.

            He looked at Sherlock and (Y/N), and they looked up as he spoke. “Those two. They alright?”

            “Well, you know, they’ve had their ups and downs,” said Sherlock nonchalantly.

            (Y/N) glanced at the door. No shouting. No crying. That was good. At least, (Y/N) supposed so. They hoped the pair ended up happy. They cared about them. A slight sob filtered through the door. Scratch the no crying.

            “Is that good?” asked (Y/N), looking at Sherlock.

            “I’ve heard people cry in relief,” said Sherlock. “I believe you have, too.” He referenced when he returned from the dead.

            “I don’t remember that,” said (Y/N), looking to the puzzle book they’d been given for Christmas. They were nearly done already.

            “Deleted it?” said Sherlock, amused.

            “No, I remember being angry,” replied (Y/N).

            “Ah.” That would be accurate. Sherlock glanced at his watch. “I’m going to get some air while all that—” he gestured at the door “—works itself out.” He stood up and headed towards the door.

            “I’m coming, too,” said (Y/N). They weren’t sure how to deal with the emotions John and Mary were going through, so they’d just let it pass while they waited outside.

            Sherlock and (Y/N) walked outside of the cottage and stood in the breezy air. Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed slightly while (Y/N) tucked their hands into their pockets and looked over the hills. It was peaceful and quiet.

            Until Mycroft walked out after them. “I’m glad you two have given up on the Magnussen business.”

            “Are you?” said Sherlock in a bored manner.

            “I’m still curious, though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you two…hate him?” said Mycroft.

            “Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets,” said Sherlock.

            Mycroft looked at (Y/N). “And you?”

            “Magnussen is like Moriarty. He uses people and doesn’t care what happens to them. I don’t like that,” said (Y/N) coldly.

            That made an impression on both men. They remembered everything that had gone on with Moriarty, all the danger and death. They remembered how Moriarty managed to take (Y/N) and the consequences of it. Sherlock and Mycroft both hated it. Neither had conducted themselves well.

            “The real question is why don’t you hate him?” asked (Y/N).

            “He’s never caused too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that,” said Mycroft. “He’s a businessman and, occasionally, useful for us. A necessary evil—not a dragon for you two to slay.”

            “Dragon slayers? Is that what you think of us?” said Sherlock.

            “I rather think we’re doing the right thing,” said (Y/N).

            “Sherl, Mike, are you avoiding spending time with us?” called Mrs. Holmes from the front door.

            “No,” said Sherlock and Mycroft quickly.

            “Just brotherly affection,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

            Mrs. Holmes gave them all a motherly glare and closed the door again.

            “I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” said Mycroft to Sherlock.

            “I decline your kind offer,” said Sherlock automatically.

            “I shall pass on your regrets,” said Mycroft.

            “What was it?” asked (Y/N).

            “MI6—they wanted to place Sherlock back to Eastern Europe,” said Mycroft. (Y/N)’s eyes widened. “An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to him in, I think, six months. I warned them that he might not take it since he disliked his previous leave of Baker Street. But they still wanted me to offer the job to him.” He tutted and turned back towards the cottage. “I’m going in. The air isn’t agreeing with me.” He paused. “Oh, and…your loss would break mine and (Y/N)’s hearts.”

            “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!” said Sherlock, staring at Mycroft in shock at the sickening sentimentality of his words.

            “Happy Christmas?” remarked Mycroft as he headed into the house.

            “You hate Christmas,” said (Y/N) and Sherlock.

            “Yes. Perhaps there’s something in the tea,” said Mycroft.

            “Clearly. Go and have some more,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) cocked their head as Mycroft walked inside. “Dad, is there something in the tea?”

            “Yes,” said Sherlock.

            “What? Why?” asked (Y/N).

            Sherlock looked down and sighed. “Because it is time for me to face Magnussen, and I can’t have anyone running around getting into danger. Here…here, they’ll be safe.”

            (Y/N) furrowed their brow as they put it together. “You drugged them?”

            Sherlock checked his watch. “It will go into effect in about…thirty seconds.”

            “Dad, why didn’t you tell me?” said (Y/N) quietly. “I thought we weren’t keeping secrets or lying.”

            “Because this is dangerous. And I won’t let Magnussen get any information he could use against you,” said Sherlock. “I can risk myself. I won’t risk you.” Not to mention, this case had gotten them close to being killed. He had to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

            “But you’re not drugging me,” said (Y/N).

            “I could never do that to you,” said Sherlock. He knew it would hurt them oh-so-much. “But I need you to stay with me and stay careful. Please, (Y/N).”

            They stared at him carefully before nodding. “I’ll follow you.”

            But they, too, were willing to lie. (Y/N) cared about their dad. They would go along with his plan as far as they could without stepping in to protect him. It went both ways—even if the parent was supposed to watch out for the child, the child here was as fierce as intelligent as the parent. And if (Y/N) knew one thing, it was that Sherlock needed someone to look out for him. And who else but family? Who else but (Y/N)? They had been helpless with Moriarty. They wouldn’t be with Magnussen. They refused to be.

            Sherlock’s watch beeped. “It’s time,” he said.

            He led the walk into the cottage. Everyone lay in their chairs, asleep. Only John was crouching over Mary and trying to shake her awake.

            “Mary, can you hear me?!” he cried worriedly.

            “Don’t drink Mary’s tea,” advised Sherlock.

            “Sherlock, did you drug my pregnant wife?!” shouted John incredulously.

            “Don’t worry. I’m an excellent chemist,” said Sherlock.

            “What about—?” John glanced at (Y/N), knowing they didn’t like drugs.

            “It seems to be necessary,” said (Y/N).

            “And I’m sending someone to keep an eye over everyone. They’ll be safe,” said Sherlock.

            “What the hell has he done?” said John, staring in disbelief at (Y/N).

            “He seems to have made a deal with the devil,” said (Y/N). They crossed their arms and looked at Sherlock. “What exactly is this deal, so dangerous you wouldn’t tell me about it?”

            Sherlock took a deep breath and explained.

A few months ago…

            Sherlock sat in a small restaurant and finished eating his pasta as someone stepped up to his table.

            “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital doting over poor Mx. Moriarty?” said Magnussen.

            Sherlock didn’t allow Magnussen to have the satisfaction of getting a reaction at the use of that name. “Have a seat.” He got straight to business.

            “Thank you,” said Magnussen, sitting.

            “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Sherlock.

            “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Magnussen.

            “I want to see Appledore, where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you’ve got on everyone,” said Sherlock. “I want you to invite me.”

            “What makes you think I’d be so careless?” asked Magnussen.

            “Oh, I think you’re a lot more careless than you let on,” said Sherlock.

            “Am I?” Magnussen leaned forward.

            Sherlock smirked and leaned forward. “(Y/N) noticed it when you read the paper.”

            “Noticed what?” said Magnussen.

            “The dead-eye stare. Except, it’s not so dead-eye, is it?” said Sherlock. He reached out and took Magnussen’s glasses. “They knew you were reading but not the paper. I suspect a portable Appledore. How does it work? Built in flash drive? 4G wireless?” He frowned as he examined them and found nothing. “They’re just ordinary spectacles.”

            “Yes, they are,” said Magnussen, taking them back and smirking. “Maybe Mx. Moriarty can figure it out. Want to bring them down?”

            “This is between you and me,” said Sherlock. He wouldn’t give Magnussen a chance to get his claws into (Y/N).

            Magnussen chuckled and sat back. “Pity. You continue to underestimate me.”

            “Then impress me,” said Sherlock. “Show me Appledore.”

            “Everything’s available for a price,” said Magnussen. “Are you making me an offer?”

            “A Christmas present,” said Sherlock.

            “And what are you going to give me for Christmas, Mr. Holmes?” said Magnussen eagerly.

            “My brother,” said Sherlock.

Present day…

            “Oh, Jesus,” said John, taking a step back from Sherlock.

            “Dad, this is risking so much. We should’ve tried to figure out Appledore ourselves, first. There’s something…something we’re missing, and he’s going to count on that,” said (Y/N).

            “You’re going out of your mind!” said John, staring at Sherlock.

            “I like to keep you guessing,” said Sherlock.

            Before the discussion—argument—could continue, the sound of helicopter blades split the air.

            “Ah, there’s our lift,” said Sherlock, straightening and leaving behind everything but his eagerness to take on this case. “Coming?”

            “I’m not letting you do this alone,” said (Y/N). They were going.

            “Where?” said John.

            “Do you want your wife to be safe?” said Sherlock to him.

            “Yeah, of course I do,” said John.

            “Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous,” said Sherlock. “One false move, and we’ll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason.”

            “What?” cried John. “But I had nothing to do with it!”

            “You’ll be there,” said (Y/N). “That’s enough.”

            Sherlock nodded. “Unfortunately, Magnussen is quite simply one of the most dangerous men we’ve ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us,” he said.

            “But it’s Christmas,” said John, indignant.

            “I feel the same,” said Sherlock. He glanced at John’s expression. “Oh, you mean it’s actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?”

            “Why would I bring my gun to your parents’ house for Christmas dinner?” exclaimed John.

            “It’s in your coat,” said (Y/N), nodding to it.

            “…It is,” admitted John.

            “Off we go, then,” said Sherlock, walking towards the door of the house.

            “Where exactly are we going?” asked John.

            “Appledore,” said Sherlock.

            Danger, thought (Y/N).

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

[pckwrites]

The Dragon and the Knight

The beast lay on the cold castle floor, withered and gaunt. Its once magnificent scales turned dull and brittle. Tough, leathery skin hung off bones like fabric on a clothesline. Penetrating the silence of the empty castle, the dragon heard the sound of an uninvited guest. 

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The familiar sound of steel plate armor. In old days, the dragon would have flapped its mighty wings, exhaled a torrent of flames into the sky as it prepared to feast. But those days were long gone, barely even a memory.

“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” said the owner of the clink-clink-clink.

The dragon tilted his head and shrugged at the sight of a knight holding a large broadsword high above his head.

“Have at it. Achieve your glory. Save the town. Win the princess. Whatever it is you lot do, " the dragon murmured with weary resignation.

The knight hesitated, searching for a hint of deception. But he found none. He lowered the broadsword and removed his helmet to reveal a similarly withered expression and a head of wispy, gray hair, “Hardly any glory in killing a dying beast.”

He took a seat beside the dragon. A cautious distance, but close enough to hear him whisper. 

The dragon grumbled, “You had many chances. It’s not my fault you were a shoddy knight.”

“I think it is your fault, actually,” The knight replied with a wry glint in his eye.

The dragon let out a glimmer of a grin, “I’ll never forget that day you rode in with all your men, desperate to slay me—“

“Only to turn tail the moment my banner caught aflame,” The knight smiled wryly.

The dragon let out a hearty laugh, interrupted by a sickly cough. The knight frowned at the pathetic sight. He reached into his bag. The dragon instinctively shuffled away, but the knight raised a hand to signal it was no threat. He pulled out an old banner with burnt edges.

The dragon stared in awe, “You kept that ratty thing?”

The knight nodded, “Of course. Proof that I battled with a dragon and lived to tell the tale.”

“And that?” The beast’s claw gestured to the image of a striking red dragon emblazoned on the banner.

The knight ran his fingers along the fabric, “My wife’s handiwork. She was the one with all the talent. Thankfully my children took after her. Of course, before they…” As a rush of emotions surfaced, the knight held them back with an ease that gave away his experience. “Before things went awry.”

“Somehow the world is left with just you and me, “ the dragon remarked. 

After a lingering silence, the knight rose to his feet with a tired grunt. He lifted the steel chest plate off his shoulders and dropped it to the castle floor. A relieved sigh as the heavy weight had been whisked off him.

The dragon stared in surprise, “What are you doing?”

“You never meant to kill me that day. You saw me for what I was—a foolish, young brute that acted with his emotions before his brain,” The knight said as he removed his armor, piece by piece. “Now it’s time to return the favor.”

The dragon turned its snout, “I won’t be given charity. And besides, I no longer have any desire for precious metals.”

“Not charity…” The knight reached into his bag and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. He unwrapped the contents and tossed it before the dragon, revealing raw cow’s flank, “… a meal between friends.”

The dragon looked puzzled, but his questions were soon answered upon looking at the knight. Without the armor, his skeleton-thin physique revealed itself. He was an old man on borrowed time.

The knight made a gesture, asking to approach. The dragon nodded and the knight took a seat beside him. From his bag, the knight pulled out a small meal of cured ham and crackers made from oats.

In the halls of the decaying castle, the dragon and the knight shared a meal, comforted by the presence of a familiar face. 

[senditcolton]

Would It Be Enough?

Knowing their morning routine so perfectly that you already have some of their breakfast/drinks laid out before they get to the kitchen.

part of my Valentine's Day prompts requested by anon | word count: 0.7k | warnings: none!

Dating a professional athlete came with its own unique set of struggles on top of all the other traditional conflicts. You knew that and you agreed to deal with them when you agreed to date Roope Hintz. The conflicts, the hurdles – they all came and you faced them together.

And it worked. It had been working for months now. You two made it work.

However, the only thing that you still hadn’t completely overcome… was the distance. Not the physical distance, like when he was in New York and you were in Texas. It was the distance between the two of you even when you both were in the same city. His career demanded so much of his time and it made you sad that the everyday intimacy that most couples experiences was a rarity.

You wished that the two of you could have casual nights out with no curfew. You wished that he would be able to attend your friend’s parties with you. But more than anything, you wished that you could wake up in the morning with him by your side.

To see the dawning sunlight fall across his skin, to see his blonde hair lit up to the palest of yellows, to watch his bright blue eyes open…

When you had the chance to experience those mornings, they were some of the most magical moments in your relationship. But they were few and far between. Roope would be up and gone, off to morning skate before you even roused from your slumber.

You mentioned your desires to have more of those type of slow mornings with him off-handedly one night. The words were followed by a quick reassurance to Roope that you didn’t hold any resentment towards him. You knew what you signed up for. It was just a wish.

But whenever you wake up to find an empty bed, like you did this morning – the ache in your heart remained.

A sigh escapes your chest as you burrow into the covers for a moment longer. You breathe in, trying to absorb the lingering warmth and scent of Roope that the sheets had trapped beneath them. Another deep breath, another few seconds of holding off the inevitable until you reluctantly throw the sheets off your body. You roll out of the bed, stretching before making your way out of the bedroom.

You walk down to the kitchen, ready to make your daily breakfast, but when you turn the corner, the sight of your insulated to-go cup sitting in the middle of the counter stops you in your tracks.

It was supposed to be in the cupboard. You were certain that you had put it away the night before. It isn’t until your groggy brain registers the white paper bag next to the cup. You walk closer until you are close enough to see the logo of your favorite café emblazoned on the side of the bag.

The piece of paper from your stationary resting on the marble island is the last thing that you notice. You pick up the decorated paper, your eyes dancing over a messy scrawl that you recognize instantly to be Roope’s. You read over the message, your heart softening at every sentence.

Kultaseni [sweetheart], I know that you wish we could have more mornings together. But I want you to know that even though I’m not always the first person you see when you wake up, I hope I’m the first person on your mind. Because you are on mine constantly. I’m sorry being with me isn’t normal. I hope this is enough.

His note makes tears appear in your eyes and you place the paper back down. Your hands eagerly reach towards the paper bag, opening it to find your go-to snack nestled in the bottom. And when you take a sip from your insulated cup, the flavor of your favorite drink dances over your tastebuds.

To anyone else, from the outside looking in, the action may not have seemed like much. But for you, it was enough. It was more than enough.

[tmwcs]

MERMAIDS TALE?!?!! THIS IS THE JUICIEST PLOT EVER OH MY GOD… the concept of the adams and heeseung being one of them is SO GOOD like how does your brain come up with this literary masterpiece i’m?!?!

i regularly imagine prince!heeseung and new royal palace maid! reader… feel like heeseung would be so cruel to every employee, you’d be warned by everyone in the palace not to ever look him in the eyes or speak to him directly, or he’ll have you banished from his kingdom or executed… but then one day, you’re carrying something across the palace, so focused on not spilling or dropping anything, that you bump straight into a chest. not even thinking about it, you immediately apologise and begin to wipe at their chest to remove the spills, but then you realise how expensive the fabric looks, and then you see the royal crest emblazoned on his clothes… you look up, profusely stuttering more apologies despite their silence, and once you look into his eyes you can’t find it in yourself to look away…

heeseung hasn’t felt any emotion other than hatred in… well, ever. he loves the power that his position gives him, loves the feeling of control over his subservient citizens or staff. his parents can’t find it in themselves to care what he does or doesn’t do, mainly because they too are terrified of what he may do in retaliation. so when someone not only so carelessly bumps into him, but spills tea on his finest clothes, speaks to him directly, AND looks him in the eyes? he’s ready to have you executed in the worst way he can imagine… but then he looks at you, really looks at you… and he feels intrigued. unlike other staff, your body doesn’t tremble in fear at the sight of him, your clothes are stained with evidence of a hard days work, and the underneath of your fingernails are dirty from your work in the garden… but he can’t find it in himself to see it as anything other than intriguing. and for him, the boy who feels nothing other than hatred, it’s enough. it’s enough to start a horribly twisted and deep obsession with feeling something, with you.

oh my thank you! i can't wait to finish MT, it's actually a really good storyline and the chapter where i left off, it's getting good. i'll be posting the next chapter either next weekend or the midd of next week.

ooooooh this would be a fun drabble to make, like a nice little one shot filled with intense fluff......possibly some smutty things.....i should make one after i'm finished with DT series.

actually, your drabble reminds me of a time (back when i drafted MGR) where i started a small series of king heeseung, who dismissed every suitable bride and princess away from his kingdom after placing his last wife on banishment for misconduct, therefore unbecoming of the title of queen so he sends her back to her own kingdom she hailed from in disgrace.

he became very bitter and turned unkind towards everyone and just was very cruel to all of his servants. a witch comes across his path and he gets pissed off by her for not recognizing him so he puts her to death by burning her at the stake, before she dies she places a curse on him, where he turns into like a beast, and becomes murderous and disgruntled and all his servants were either killed and mauled by him or they ran away, leaving him isolated and in his castle alone.

but he ends up kidnapping you and locking you away in his castle because he grew obsessed with you and sick in love, despite being a beast. and he kept you for a long time..like a year, and towards the end you finally learned to love him because of some of the events that transpired within that year he had you captured (you may have suffered from stolkholm syndrome like realena from Se7en did) but there were alot of fluff and very like...heartwarming moments throughout the entire storyline, but the kicker was when you finally gave in and loved him, and he turned back into a mortal which led to the only smut scene in the entire series and it was INTENSE bc he had you for a year but didn't really do anything (aside from the stuff he did initially when he caught you bc.....he was obsessed...it wasn't like full on smut but....there were some things he did....) but i had titled it "Beauty and the Beast" (i know...i know..lol) and these were the images and gifs i had to show Heeseung's beast form (its from that movie Helsing, i thought the facial expressions and his humanoid physique was perfect for heeseung's beast form)

[jgmartin]

MONSTERCALL

The Dark Web.

The name itself is a meme. It’s become the boomer boogeyman, the back alley of the internet where you go to get your kidneys harvested and sold off to a billionaire’s all-you-can-torture buffet. It’s the skeezy part of town. The no man’s land of the digital world, chock-full of society’s most vile scum.

It’s also pretty boring.

See, the dark web isn’t that much different than the surface web. Sure, it has a cooler name and better privacy, but most people use it for the same shit. Social media? Check. Shopping? Check. Pirating movies? Duh. Did you know Facebook exists on the dark web? You do now.

My parents are terrified of the dark web. They speak about it in hushed breaths, sort of like Ron Weasley talks about Lord Voldemort. It’s as though they think uttering its name too loudly will invoke the wrath of some serial hacker, just waiting in the wings to delete their bank accounts.

Ridiculous, right? I told them they were paranoid. To prove them wrong, I even downloaded the Tor browser and uninstalled Chrome. There’s nothing to fear on the dark web, I said, so long as you’ve got half a brain’s worth of sense in you.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Now, I wish I could take it all back.

I stumbled across the website after a night of drinking. I’d been out with Jared, my best friend since childhood, reminiscing about the good old days of driving Mrs. Crabtree up the wall. When I got home, I felt a bit nostalgic so I went digging for old pictures on Facebook. Like most drunk missions, one thing led to another, and I landed on an old thread listing the most exciting websites on the darkweb.

Spooky, right?

Well, most were fairly vanilla. Some free textbooks here, a bit of hacked video games there. I scrolled down through the responses until I found one buried beneath the others. It had just a single upvote. 

I stared at the link for a few seconds, then cracked a fresh beer and said fuck it.

The website was plain, mostly white text on a black background. Across the top was a banner emblazoned with the words CALL YOUR MONSTERS. I cracked a grin. It was kind of cute, in an edgelord, emo kid sort of way.

After clicking through a few menu links, I landed on the ORDER A MONSTER page. It said that, for $99, they would deliver a personalized monster to a doorstep of my choice. Free shipping, too. The flavor text read:

Perfect for getting even with terrible bosses, backstabbing friends, and childhood enemies!

I laughed. The idea was absolute gold. They even had a Monster Call Guarantee of same-day shipping. How they managed to pull that off, I had no idea. Maybe they had a network of paid actors, patiently waiting to dress up in Halloween costumes and say a few canned lines on somebody’s doorstep? Or maybe it was like Build-a-Bear, where you got to design your own stuffed version of ghouls like Dracula and the Wolfman?

Who knows.

Whatever it was, I decided I was far too drunk to give a shit about how they made it happen. All I knew was a hundred bucks was a damn steal. I smashed the order button and it brought me to a follow-up page titled DESIGN YOUR MONSTER.

I practically licked my lips. This was the juicy bit! The website gave me a drop-down list of selectable options based on modifiable body parts. The mouth, for instance, had FANGS, BROKEN TEETH, NO MOUTH, MULTIPLE MOUTHS, and TOO MANY TEETH.

I thought the idea of too many teeth sounded ridiculous enough to be awesome, so I picked that and went down the list and selected the rest of the monster’s attributes, including its body type, its subspecies, and finally its ‘power’.

The next page said LEAVE A MESSAGE. I mulled it over for a few minutes before deciding to keep it simple. I typed 'boo' into the text field.

Once I was finished, I clicked COMPLETE and it brought me to a new screen that made me jump. It was a webcam video of me, staring shocked at my laptop. The stream was live. At the top of the page, a red text banner proclaimed PERFORM THE BLOOD SACRIFICE.

Uh, what? I cocked an eyebrow. As if in answer to my confusion, a list of instructions faded into view on the bottom of the screen. 

 1. UTTER THE NAME OF YOUR RECIPIENT

 2. PIERCE YOUR SKIN

 3. CONSUME YOUR BLOOD

I burst out laughing. This was too wild! Not only were they gonna deliver a ‘monster’ to somebody’s doorstep, but they were gonna include a goofy ritual video too. 

Alright, I decided, I’m game. I went downstairs and grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and headed back up to my room. Holding my hand up with a coy grin, I pricked my thumb with the tip of the blade.

“Jared Mayhew!” I announced dramatically, stuffing my bleeding thumb into my mouth and sucking it clean. Once I’d finished, I held it up, drunk and proud, as evidence of my dark ritual complete. Seconds passed and nothing happened. Then, the screen went black and a new page appeared.

ORDER COMPLETE! DELIVERY IN PROGRESS.

I sipped my beer, wondering how Jared would react to my spooky surprise landing on his doorstep tomorrow. I really hoped they included the blood sacrifice bit. Jared and his wife, Alyssa, both hated blood, so they’d never let me live it down— and that was exactly what I wanted.

A couple of seconds later, a new screen popped up.

DELIVERY COMPLETE. STANDBY FOR RESULTS.

Already? That didn’t make any sense. How did they manage to create my order and ship it across the country, all in the span of five minutes? 

A depressing realization swept over me. My drunk ass had been duped. There was no way they’d be able to ship something that quickly, so the only explanation was 

A) it was a scam, or

B) it was just some lame video-mail jump-scare.

Fuck.

Now the $99 made more sense. There was no way a tiny start-up could offer same-day delivery and a compelling product for so little money. It was a pipedream logistically. Who the fuck did they think they were? Amazon?

Defeated, I decided that was enough dark web shopping for one night. Time to pack it in. I closed my laptop, brushed my teeth, and hopped into bed.

My phone vibrated.

I stared at it, wondering who would be messaging me at this hour. Jared, maybe? He was just as drunk as I was and probably high as a kite by now too. I chuckled, picking up my phone. The screen indicated one new email— from MONSTERCALL. That was odd. I’d never given them my email.

ORDER DELIVERED!

CLICK HERE TO VIEW RESULTS.

View results? I heaved a sigh. This was either a virus or some guarantee that Jared got a corny ‘spooky’ email. Still drunk, still making poor decisions, I clicked the link and it opened a video feed.

Of Jared’s house.

I sat up, my tiredness vanishing in a tidal wave of what the fuck. The video was dimly lit, and the way it bobbed up and down looked like it was being recorded off of somebody’s cell phone. Jared’s small, two-bedroom home was there in all of its suburban glory. Something about the video felt off, though. Wrong.

I told myself to relax. This was just some prank or gag. The company probably put out a call for a fraction of the money to any locals, and somebody pulled the contract. No doubt they were going to walk up the front steps, knock on his door, and then say boo and run off or some shit. It wasn’t a big deal. 

So why was my heart racing?

The video neared the house, the footsteps going slowly. In the silence of the night, I heard the person behind the camera breathing. They sounded frightened. Scared. Why? 

Lights went on inside the house, painting the windows in a dull, yellow glow. I squinted, seeing dark shapes darting behind the curtains.

Thoroughly confused, I decided to message Jared and ask if he got my surprise.

TERRANCE: suuup dude, you get my special delivery?? haha

JARED: HE,P

JARED: SKMWTHING

JARED: INSIDE THE HOUSE

Dark splotches splattered against the glass. A moment later, a woman’s scream rang out, and the window shattered. Two hands reached out from behind billowing curtains, gripping the side of the windowsill. Then two more gripped the top. A figure emerged, lurching out of the opening and into the yard.

It looked familiar. 

Jesus Christ, it looked familiar.

It stood eight feet tall, with large bat wings flared out behind it, and four crooked, muscular arms clenching in and out of fists. The person behind the camera stumbled backward, muttering something incoherent. The creature swiveled its head toward them.

The video feed shifted. Images of the sidewalk flew up and down as the cameraman ran full-tilt from Jared’s house, heaving panicked gasps. I caught muffled fragments of prayers. Then a shriek sounded, followed by the flap of powerful wings.

The video crashed, tumbling in a blur of pixels. A man’s voice shouted for help, and then something heavy crunched, and his voice died with a wheeze. Another shriek filled the night, and a shadow appeared, gazing down toward the discarded cell phone. It had four arms, a pair of wings, and a mouth filled with rows and rows of teeth.

Too many teeth.

I lurched forward, swallowing the vomit in my throat. In one of the creature’s arms was a thirty-something man, struggling wordlessly against the monster’s might. His chest looked like it’d been caved in. The creature leaned towards him, pressed its teeth against his face, and slowly bit down. The man's legs kicked and jolted as the beast’s teeth began rotating like a blender, tearing his flesh from his skull.

It dropped him there, convulsing and dying, then beat its great wings and took off into the sky. Moments later I heard confused shouts. Footsteps pounded against the pavement. More hollers. People called for the police, other neighbors told children to get back inside.

I put my phone down, horrified. It had to have been a joke. There simply was no way that had actually happened. It couldn’t have. It was too gruesome— too violent. That was digital effects all the way. It had to be. Apps were great at that these days. 

Weren’t they?

______________________

The next day I got a call from Jared’s parents. His mother tried to talk, but she couldn’t get past the tears, so she put his father, Roger, on the line. He explained that something terrible happened last night.

My breath caught in my chest.

I told myself to relax, that there was nothing to worry about. Monsters didn't exist. I knew that. “What happened?” I asked, as calmly as I could.

"Terrance," Roger said quietly. "This isn't easy to talk about, and god knows it's going to be harder to hear, but last night somebody broke into Jared’s home. Police think it was around two in the morning." 

My jaw hung limp, my hand trembling as I held the phone to my ear. A terrible coincidence. That's all it was. A terrible, horrible coincidence.

"I don't know how to say this," he continued, "so I'm just going to come right out with it." Roger took a deep, shuddering breath, the kind I’d never heard a man like him take in all his life. When he spoke again his voice was as fragile as glass. "The intruder that broke in mutilated them. Jared and Alyssa."

"Mutilated?" I said in a small voice. The sound of Roger’s voice on the phone felt distant suddenly, like the world was falling away from me at a hundred miles an hour. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. These things just didn’t happen to people. 

"Yes,” Roger said. “God, Terrance. I hate to give you this news, I do. But you’ve always been Jared’s closest friend, and I didn’t want you hearing about it in the newspaper. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

He paused. “The police,” he began, pushing the words out. “They said the psychopath ate pieces of them. They say that the monster chewed their faces clean off their skulls.”

I held the phone to my chest as I vomited all over my bedroom floor. I hurled again. Then once more. 

“Terrance?” Roger’s voice said from the receiver. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I said, wiping puke from my mouth. “I mean, Jesus, no Roger. I’m so sorry. Holy shit.” My hand slipped through my hair and I gripped it painfully, praying that maybe if I just pulled hard enough, the pain would wake me from this nightmare. 

“It’s—”

“The funeral preparations,” I said, guilt pooling inside of me. “I’ll handle them. I’ll handle everything. You and Charlene need to take this time to grieve for your son. It’s the—”

“There won’t be a funeral,” Roger said, voice trembling. 

“What? Why not?”

A sound reached my ears, a sound I’d never heard in my life. I listened as Roger broke down sobbing. This man, this construction foreman who’d never so much as wiped a tear from his eye in the twenty years I’d known him, was crying his eyes out.

“Jared and Alyssa… they’re alive,” he said. “Hooked up to tubes in the hospital. The sick fuck left them, my baby and his wife, mangled on their living room floor. Can you believe that?” He wheezed, and I heard Jared’s mother weeping in the background. “The monster didn’t even have the humanity to put them out of their misery.”

My mouth hung limp. What was there to say to that? What words could alleviate that sort of pain? “I…”

“You need to be careful,” Roger said, and his voice evened out a little. “You’ve gotta be careful, Terrance, alright? You might not be my son, but you were over enough that I practically raised you. Pretty soon you might be all I’ve got left. The cops… Well, they told me they haven’t caught the bastard that did this. He’s still out there. So keep your doors and windows locked, you hear? And don’t let anybody inside you don’t know.”

“Wait—” I said. “They don’t have anything? No leads at all?”

“They’ve got something,” Roger said. “It’s… not much. A crumpled up note they found on Jared’s doorstep.”

“A note?” My heart thrummed. 

"Yeah. But it was just one word. Practically useless."

A lump formed in my throat. “What did it say?”

“...Boo.”

[potatoes83]

Random...

Good morning, and happy new year! I didn't make it last night to see the ball drop on TV, was pretty much assed out with the dogs around 10:30. To be fair, it's always been somewhat of a disappointment. Years ago, probably when we were old enough as kids to stay up to ring in the new year, my grandma Fran told us about how they drop this ball in Times Square. From the top of a tall building. And between the way she described it, and the places my brain went, I envisioned this massive solid steel ball being pushed off the top of a building, smashing at all speed into the ground and flattening cars, mailboxes, whatever was unfortunate enough to be there.

See, it's New York, a place I've never been, but had of course built up in my head. And it's only one time a year, and if you could get away with that sort of thing anywhere, it would be New York.

So there I am, mind-blown that I am about to witness such a spectacle. I have no idea what year it was, at least 30 or more ago, so Dick Clark would have still been alive and hosting, not that I knew or cared what a Dick Clark was. Couldn't even tell you who the corporate sponsor was back then. But oh my goodness, it's 11:59, here we go...

... and this shiny sparkly wire frame thing SLOWLY begins a descent on a pole well above Times Square. Now I mean, the ball is an impressive feat of engineering, and I think it's been redone like three times in my lifetime to become even more grand, but based on what I've worked myself up to in my head, catastrophic disappointment. I mean damn. I was expecting carnage, I was expecting this massive ball to leave a crater in the pavement, flatten a couple cars, maybe come to a rest in a storefront, just absolutely wreck up the place. Because again, it's New York. They spend the next couple months rebuilding, everything's back to normal, it's just collateral damage for something that the entire nation, and probably the entire world watches.

And understand, I am all about tradition. That ball has been dropped in Times Square for over 100 years. And if you're gathered with friends and ringing in the new year, it would be kind of weird to not have the TV at least on in the background, so you could count down along with an entire city and nation. But the whole thing still does seem rather flaky to me.

I don't know what sort of tradition Dick Clark started, I've never thought to look back to the '70s and '80s to see how it went but at least in my memories of the last 15 years or so, you've had everyone wearing the stupid swag, the giant foam glasses that say Nivea on them, or the big foam purple top hats with Planet Fitness emblazoned on them, and trust me I'm all about capitalism, but that level of consumerism is obnoxious. Like, there are very few brands that I consider parading about with their name to be a fashion statement. Oh boy, I got big plastic Nivea glasses. Yeah, I'm going to wear those again in my lifetime. They might be a good skin lotion brand, I don't really know, but I'm certainly not that invested in them.

Then there's the "music", and I use the term loosely. You either have the female artist singing about what an unabraded whore she is, and that's really a Sophie's choice because it's typically in the mid thirties this time of year, so they desperately want to show off as much skin as legally possible, but also keep from getting hypothermia. For the gents, it's almost always going to be that one song where you hold the microphone sideways, and the lyrics go: uh, uh, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, yeah, yeah, uh...

If you're into all that, you do you. But I'm just not. I don't care who the corporate sponsors are, I don't care about hearing the same song, doesn't matter who's singing it, or what it is, it all sounds the same, and I think one of the biggest things that happens to you when you grow up is that when you are tired, you go to sleep. When you're a kid, you're sitting there imagining this time, I'm going to stay up so late, I'm going to stay up past midnight every night, yeah wait till you get here. Last night, I became tired, so I turned everything off and went to bed.

So I missed the ball drop. I literally didn't lose sleep over it, and I'm not that invested to look it up on the you tube. I actually watched the replay of Russia ringing in the new year as I was drifting off to sleep. President Putin finishes up his speech, they zoom in on the spasskya tower, the clock chimes down, and they play the anthem while the cameras pan to different shots around the Kremlin. I'm not Russian, but I totally have a thing for tradition, history, architecture, old clocks, and I don't care what political spectrum you're on, Alexandrov wrote one hell of an anthem; it's an orchestral masterpiece.

I don't know how other English speaking countries do it, but like, it would be nice if after Auld Lang syne, maybe we did hear the Star Spangled Banner. I could give a fuck less what mushbrain Biden would wander out of the day room and attempt to read off the teleprompter in his fake oval office set, but I would rather enter the new year with our national anthem than some singer which is apparently called 'jelly-roll'. Like seriously, and this is not a bad thing, I was looking up some history, came across the list of headliners for last night, and the only singer from last night's revelry that I recognized is LL Cool J, who was big in the '90s. I have no idea what a jelly roll is, or a megan thee stallion, or any of the rest. And again, that's not a bad thing.

I don't know about resolutions, seems to be less important the older you get, at least in my experience. But last year, we made a concerted effort to try to more productively spend our time. Instead of sitting on our ass and watching reruns, we were working out in the garden. If the weather was temperate, we grilled and enjoyed a fire in the backyard instead of sitting glued to the couch. That was a big part of it, just getting away from the idiot box. And as part of that, I have been deliberately disconnecting myself and avoiding 'Hollywood royalty', 'influencers', 'YouTube sensations', and all the rest. Not sticking my head in the sand, and no, I'm not going monastic or amish, I still enjoy a bit of TV time every now and again, and the YouTube black hole remains a guilty pleasure, but it's amazing how much better, how much more productively you can spend your time.

Last year was a good year, and whether I quantify that as a resolution, or just continue on the path I've started, I'm looking forward to 2024. A lot of good things happened last year, and plenty of bad, but that's life. And all we can do is move forward. I'm no self-help guru or anything, I'm an imperfect broken sinner same as anyone else, but more and more, I am taking things that just don't work or fit in my life, and I'm divesting them. You can't be happy all the time, but if something is not only not bringing you joy, but is in fact bringing you downright misery, then why the hell are you doing that?

I wish everyone who reads this a very happy and prosperous new year. Make it a good one. Seek joy, keep what works, distance yourself from what doesn't. In the immortal words of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: every shiny dream that fades and dies, generates the steam for two more tries! Always look forward, keep trying, and fight the good fight! In the words of Steve Deace, fear God, tell the truth, make money... Good advice!

🥔

[abibliophobiaa]

Another Love - tasm!peter parker x f!reader (3/3)

a/n: well, here we are. almost 50k words later and we are at the final part of this crazy brain-child i had one day after i knew i would be doing an april au event over on @spidervee’s page. i've loved every minute of it. also, definitely the first time i've written this much in a long time. or ever, for that matter.

warnings: 18+ to be safe - minors dni. blood. gore. typical time period violence. i've also mentioned pregnancy multiple times in previous chapters, so just want to throw out that it is mentioned. briefly. and peter and reader are parents by the end. also mentioned only briefly, as i know not everyone is into that. but it is a royal!au and heirs are a thing. 

cross-posted on my ao3. 

| PART ONE | PART TWO | MASTER LIST |

*

“holy water cannot help you now,

see i’ve come to burn your kingdom down.”

seven devils - florence + the machine

*

Time was a fickle thing. One moment, you were careless and free. Troubles all a faraway memory. Thoughts pushed far from your mind, focused instead on the present. 

Of running through fields. Dancing beneath firelight. Whispering poetry against wine drunk ears. Playing chess in no more than a fur cloak to cover your form. Hot eyes trailing along bare flesh. Of plush pillows and heated hands. Of pleasure so deep, it made your head swirl. Dragged beneath the depths of it. A breathless surrender. 

Even then, you knew it to have been limited. Merely shards of sand falling through an hourglass. Counting down until this very moment. 

You had two months. Two months of wedded bliss at last. Selfishly, it wasn’t enough. 

You kept repeating those words in your mind as Peter dragged you back to the garrison. Lifting your armor he had fitted for you when you began training. Helped you into it as you stared off into the distance. 

Not enough time. 

I am out of time…

“I need you to try to avoid battle as much as possible. Your primary goal is to assist the other healers.”

You barely heard him. Eyes drifting to his face to look at him. Taking in those kind eyes, full of assurance toward you when all you felt was dark, cold dread. It swallowed you in those inky, black tendrils. Till all you knew was breathlessness. 

“Did you hear me?” He asked. Curled his finger around the tip of your chin, turning your head to him. “Hey. Hey…look at me. I am here. I am right here, please do not go where I cannot follow you.”

Your fingers reached up to cup along his cheek. Memorizing every feature. Every line and sharp angle. The thickness of his brows. The curve of his nose. The gentle slope of his jaw. The indent just above his top lip. The way his bottom one jutted out just so. Perfectly made for your own. And his honey brown doe-eyes. Always so full of emotion; your favorite as of late being the love he so deeply bore you. 

“I heard you.”

Your words were so soft, you weren’t even sure you’d truly spoken them. Hollowed, just as your chest felt at the reality etching its way into it. Replacing every shred of joy and replacing it with bitterness and fear. 

“You got a little quiet on me. You are generally very outspoken.”

You forced out a laugh. Your lips dragged downward once more, eyes trailing over your breastplate. Over the family crest; the name you shared with your husband, emblazoned on the metal. 

“We are out of time.”

“Do not say such things.” He demanded, forehead pressing forcefully into yours. 

“What if it is true? What if we have been given a short glimpse at eternity and that is all we get?” Your eyes watered, pinching shut as you shuddered on an exhale. 

“Then I will die happy knowing it was spent with you,” he said, tugging you to your feet.

“Please…do not speak of death like it is an option.”

His hand smoothed down the side of your neck. Your shoulder. “Love, it is not an option. As I said, we will see the sunrise again. I am certain of it. We have many years yet, all of which we will spend with one another. You may even grow to tire of me.”

“I would never tire of you.”

He leaned forward and kissed you once more. Lingered for a bit before Lord Bartrand cleared his throat, hand crossed over his chest. Peter quickly dressed himself and turned to the man, clasping your hand in his. 

“You must address the army, Your Grace. Morale is high—though Carstell soldiers have still not arrived.”

“How many soldiers did Hollowhall bring?”

Lord Bartrand glanced down. “It looks to be thousands. Likely three—maybe more.”

“We are outnumbered,” you whispered out, feeling your heart stutter in your chest. 

Peter turned to you then, smiling. “It is the hearts of the soldiers that matters. Not the number.”

You believed him. Had to believe him. And it was hard not to when he looked into your eyes with an assurance that made you feel like every inch of you glowed. His words inspired. That heart of his steadfast and brave. You loved him. Reminded him of such, as Lord Bartrand looked away for a moment to give you the privacy of a whispered affection between the two of you. 

“I am sorry your honey moon has been cut short,” Lord Bartrand said, as the two of you fell into step beside him. “But your people need you more than ever, Your Graces. We may lose many lives before the battle is over.”

The reality of it settled on you then. Knowing that many of the soldiers here today might meet the end of a blade today, dying for something they believed so fiercely in. Brave soldiers who had a heart for their country—and those of your father’s, coming to defend their once gilded Princess. 

As you stepped out and into the open fields near the garrison, you were met with the countless soldiers standing pressed together in a sea of bodies. Their swords were already in hand, raised with their fists as they shouted their love for the King. And for you. 

You remained at Peter’s side, never allowing your hand to part from his as he tugged you nearer to his chest. Ran a hand along your armored side as Lord Bartrand moved to attach a billowing red cloak to your husband’s armor. The wind made it trail behind him. Stark against the midnight sky, illuminated by torch light. 

Those faces staring up at you made your breath catch as it settled in the back of your throat. So many of which you didn’t even know the name of. Faces you might find buried in a few days time. Whispering words to console to grieving widows, to their children…loved ones. They lived and breathed for Ayelandia. For the hope of a long reign to come. You would not disappoint them. 

“People of Ayelandia! People of Glendhaven! Hollowhall soldiers stand at our doorstep. They would hope to overtake our lands—to take what is ours. But we will not let them. Our hearts beat for our home, and we will do whatever we can this day to preserve it!” Peter began, his voice loud and clear over the din. “In the words of late Queen Gwen, ‘No matter how buried it gets, or lost you feel, you must promise me that you will hold on to hope and keep it alive. We have to be greater than what we suffer. My wish for you is to become hope.’ So we will do that. We will be a hope for our people. A beacon. We do not surrender!” 

Shouts of Long live the King and long live the Queen permeated the air. A chant that beat loudly in your ears as you stepped down the stairs leading toward the swelling crowd. Greeted the soldiers with an arm across your chest as you passed. Reminding them tonight you were one with them. Golden ring twined in your hair, symbolic of your training and acceptance from the Guard. 

So, with your heart beating wildly in your chest, your husband gripped your hand in his own and led his army toward the fields of Ambrosen. 

To war. 

—x—

A healing tent had been prepared some weeks ago on the fields of Ambrosen. Lined with numerous cots, bandages, linens and herbs and ointments which you knew would be vital in the hours to come. As soon as you entered, you counted everyone within. Ten healers. You hoped it would be enough. Hoped none of them would come in the line of battle. 

Bronwynne appeared at your side, wearing only a slip of chainmail over her simple frock, and an apron overtop. You reached forward to wrap your arms around her neck, drawing her near to you. She trembled beneath your grasp, eyes leveling with yours. 

“This is really happening?” 

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yes. You go ahead and make sure everyone is prepared. I am to join my husband briefly, but I will be right back.”

Bronwynne, with a newly secured assurance, began making her way about the room. Distributing orders to the rest of the healers. You had argued with Healer Agatha to stay behind with the other women and children of Ayelandia, despite her many protests. But she had conceded eventually, understanding it was in her best interest. 

“We are all well equipped thanks to you, Healer Agatha.”

Her eyes had burned with unshed tears. Her palms coming up to clasp your forearms. “We are so very blessed by you, Your Grace. Lion heart. Ayelandia will see you and your husband reign for years to come.”

You brushed at your eyes, slipping from the tent to join your husband where he stood on the rampart. Overlooking the field of soldiers baring torches, ready to fight. His fingers tangled with yours, lips pressed against your cheek. 

“Archers, prepare the first volley!” 

Peter shouted, archers all around you moving their arrows into position. You had gripped a bow as well, alighting the tip with flame. You met his eyes briefly, before he gave the order to release the first wave of flaming arrows. 

The results were immediate. Soldiers at the front line screaming and shouting their agony. Some silenced immediately with a bolt to a head or a throat, while others screeched in their pain as fire licked at their forms. Your breathing halted, hands trembling as you reached for another arrow, watching your husband move into position as he prepared one as well. 

The second wave was released a moment later, and all hell broke loose on the battlefield. Hollowhall soldiers rushing forward toward those of Ayelandia and Glendhaven on the lower levels. Swords clashing in a flurry of rage and ferocity. The sound elevating itself up and over the ramparts, amplified only by the screams of the dying men and women below. 

You shuddered beside Peter, preparing to grab another arrow as his hand curled around your wrist. You gazed up at him, understanding settling over your face. You pressed your forehead against his, nodding slowly. 

“I will go join the other healers. Strike lucky and true, husband,” you whispered. 

The teased title curled his lips. Memories of your earlier days flashing across your minds. Of banter and displeasure at first. And then a companionship…melting into curiosity. Morphing into love—a love so deep and so certain. You had never known anything like it. Would never again, you were certain. 

“I love you,” you reminded him. 

“As I love you,” he said softly, kissing you one last time before you began running toward the stairs leading toward the battlefield. 

Nothing prepared you for the sights within the healing tent. You had seen wounded men before. Had witnessed death. Watched a man lose his life for treason many months ago now. But experiencing the men and women struggling on cots in varying degrees of distress eradicated any experience you had thus far. 

People moaned and cried around you. Healers flitting in and out of cots, tending to each of their patients. Deciding what methods might be used to save one—and what methods might bring another relief in their final hours. 

You held the hands of the dying as they slipped away from the world. And whispered words of comfort to others as you stitched their wounds back together, before bandaging them and sending them back into battle. For what felt like hours, bodies kept filtering in and out of the healing tend. Each one worse than the next. Each making you feel all the more helpless. 

Your breath halted when one of the familiar faced recruits you had trained with was brought inside and presented on the bed nearest you. His face twisted in pain. Hand pressed against a bleeding wound on his stomach. Charred marks scoring his body, where a Hollowhall soldier must have gotten him with a flaming arrow or a burning spear. He reached out for your hand, breathing coming out in short, puffed breaths. It wouldn’t be long now, you assumed, from the amount of blood seeping from the wound. 

“Please…please, Your Grace. I do not want to die alone.” 

Bronwynne glanced up from where she stood with her own patient. Bloody palm print scored across her face. Stained there by the woman who had died under her care only minutes ago. You glanced back down at the young man, settling down on the cot beside him. Hand clasped around his own as his murky eyes raised to yours. 

In the distance, one of the other healers began to sing. An unfamiliar Ayelandian tune. Of crossing over into freedom—of passing beyond into death. A comforting tune of a life outside of this one. Of a peace in death. A hopeful thing to ask for as you watched the man’s eyes slowly begin to close. His breathing becoming slower as you pressed your fingers against his throat. Counted the far and few in-between heartbeats beneath your skin. 

“You are not alone, my friend,” you whispered, inhaling through your tears. Brushed your face against the sleeve of your shirt. “You have served well. You can rest now.” 

His head nodded once slowly. 

Then again. 

And the beating against your fingers stopped. 

You slipped away in your mind for a moment, then. Like a phantom in the night as you stood to your feet, wiping your bloodied hand on your pant leg. Watching as soldiers lifted the body from the cot and replaced it with another. Watched as soldier after soldier met the same fate. Bleeding from wounds no medicine would ever be able to heal. 

It seemed futile. Your capabilities limited. More—you wanted to do more.

“You need to take a moment, Your Grace. You look as pale as death,” Bronwynne muttered, stirring you from your stupor. “I will tend to this patient.”

You nodded, walking over to grab a canteen of water. Sipped it briefly before your stomach churned and betrayed you into the nearest bucket you could find. You pressed the back of your hand to your forehead, breathing slowly in and out of your nostrils. Trying to block out the moaning around you. The grief-filled cries. The requests to tell loved ones of their dying family members last words. 

You took another sip of water and returned to your patients. One after the other, passing in and out like the waves on the Ayelandian shores. Cleaning and tending to wounds until your fingers ached. Until you felt you were unable to do anymore. 

It was on your second break to grab water that you smelled the fire. Rushed out of the tent to watch the smoke billowing high above the ramparts separating Ambrosen fields from the gates of Ayelandia. The white cloud unfurling into the sky, and the amber glow radiating beneath it. Your heart lurched. Icy, cold dread spilling into your gut. 

Your eyes searched around the battlefield to find your husband. Your sword drawn and poised at the ready. Commander Ayla spotted you first, rushing over to your side as you walked across the fields. 

“You are not meant to be in the heat of battle,” she grunted, intercepting a Hollowhall soldier with her sword. Kicked him backward and sank her blade deep into his chest. 

You gasped at the way his blood bubbled in his throat. “I need to speak with the King.”

“I will take you to him, Your Grace. Stay close to me.”

Nodding, you rushed after her. Eyes trying to not focus on the people battling around you. Men standing over one another as they dealt final blows. Throats being slit from behind, spraying arcs of blood into the winter air. Arrows sinking into flesh and silencing life. It was chaotic. Constant movement resulting in death. 

Multitudes and multitudes of death. 

There, in the distance, you finally saw him. Red cloak flowing behind him as he struck down a soldier. That golden crown on his head catching your eye. Muscular arms hewn from years of training flexing and moving with each swing of blade. He was a vision on the field. The true king defending his kingdom. 

His eyes darted toward the two of you as you approached, his hand immediately rushing out to grasp yours as he rushed you away from the heat of battle. Pressed you against the trunk of a tree once distanced enough.  

“It is the healing houses,” you gasped, clutching at Peter’s arm. “I must go. Someone has lit them aflame—you can see the fire from here.”

“You will absolutely not race headlong into a fire.”

You squeezed the hand around his forearm tighter to draw his attention, ducking as a Hollowhall soldier ran toward the two of you. Stabbed straight and clean through the heart by your husband as you tugged him along behind you. Gasping for breath, hand tugging at your increasingly too-tight armor. 

“Our storages are there. I cannot help anyone if we run out of supplies. Do you understand?” You pleaded with him, glancing up into those horrified brown eyes. “I have seen so much death; we will experience even more if I do not do something.” 

He nodded. Understanding the reality of the situation you were presented with. Either run and try to save whatever you could or remain on the battlefield and suffer many more casualties. There was no easy decision—though Peter leaned down and kissed you all the same. 

“You come back to me. That is an order from your King.”

“Giving me orders now, love?” You smirked, pressing another kiss to his mouth. “I will be right here as soon as I am able to. I will bring Bronwynne with me; we can bring along sacks and try to salvage as much as we can. I fear we will lose many preventable deaths if we do not.”

“Promise me.” It was a whispered plea. Anguish deeply set on that handsome face. 

You imagined he was thinking of Gwen. Grown cold in death. You would not leave him this night. He had promised a lifelong love. A love that continued even after death. You would find him. Your heartbeat in tandem with his…its perfect partner. 

So you nodded, turning on the heel to find Bronwynne fending off a soldier with a tiny dagger, before Lord Bartrand ended his life. Shouting for the both of you to make a break for it while you had an opening. 

You rushed along with her toward the gates. Only to find them already lifted. That wasn’t right. Your heart picked up in your chest, fear pumping into your blood. There were supposed to be guards posted. 

Where were the guards? 

“Wynne, something is amiss.”

Her eyes drifted to the distance. Unfocused and rounded. “The men were slain. Look.”

You trailed your gaze to where she was looking. Hand coming to cup over your mouth at the sight of the guards with their throats slit on their posts. 

“There are women and children here. We must help them evacuate—”

“The healing houses, Your Grace!” 

“These are our people, Wynne. We will search the healing houses first and then help the people. Have you ever held a sword? You will need it.”

“No,” she muttered, as you reached to grab one from the ground. Settled at the booted foot of the soldier slain before you. “But I will do what I must.”

You made your way through the streets on quiet feet, entering the healing houses. Coughing at the cloud of smoke billowing from the highest point of it. Fear propelled the two of you forward, rushing down toward the lower levels before the fire overtook them. Packing as many supplies you could carry into slings positioned at your back. 

That was, until you heard the coughing from the corner of the room. Lifted your head in the direction it had come from, feet drawing you nearer. There, in the corner, you spotted Healer Agatha. Hand splayed over her stomach. Covering a bleeding wound beneath her apron. 

Bronwynne’s footsteps echoed behind you as you moved the healer’s hand aside and lifted the edge of her apron. Saw the blood pooling beneath it. By your estimation, she did not have long now. Mere minutes separated her from death. Your hand clutched in her own, eyes boring into hers, pleading. 

“What happened? People were supposed to be evacuating to the tunnels. There were boats docked at the ports to rush the women and children to Carstell—to stay with our ally.”

She gasped out a breath. Eyes searching for your face. Clouding. “It was if someone informed them. The Hollowhall soldiers. They cornered the civilians. Cut them down in the streets—”

“No,” you breathed out. Holding back a sob as you glanced over your shoulder to Bronwynne. 

She didn’t meet your eyes. Only stared off into the distance. 

“They…lit the houses on fire. To draw out the other healers. Killed them, too. I tried to fend them off—” 

She broke off into a fit of coughing. Blood dribbled at the corner of her lips, your thumbs coming up to brush it away. 

“You fought well,” you said, noting the dead body of a Hollowhall soldier near to her hip. 

“Your Grace, you must leave here. You must…I fear there is a plot…”

Her head rolled to the side. Eyes staring up into nothingness. Gone now from this world. You lowered her eyelids, pressing your fingers to your lips before positioning them in the middle of her forehead. Standing straight on wobbling legs. 

Too much. You had seen too much death today. But you could not shake the sinking feeling her words had instilled. Someone had warned the Hollowhall soldiers the citizens of Ayeladia would be escaping to the boats. 

An informant lived in your midst all this time. 

But who?

“Your Grace, we can still help the surviving women and children to safety. There is hope to be had yet,” Bronwynne reminded you, pulling you back to reality. 

You slid your eyes toward hers. Noting the blood all over her hands. Her dress. Her face. You were certain you looked the same now. Unrecognizable. You supposed war did that. 

Wondered if anything would ever be the same. 

But she was right. There were lives to still be saved. Death still capable of being prevented. 

So the two of you worked to do just that. Searching through the homes to find the living. Greeted time after time with loss. Grief settling like rocks in a pool in your gut. Each door darkened by the Hollowhall soldiers who had already managed to get there before you had. 

You prayed many had already made it to the tunnels. Knew the courtiers likely already had, spilling from their chambers to rush to Carstell aid. But these people were just as deserving. Your people. The blood of your husband and therefore your blood as well. Spilled in vain, for a nefarious king’s selfish gain. 

Your fingers brushed across the forehead of a woman, sprawled out in the street. Rage pooling violently in your chest. 

You heard it then. The faint cries of a young babe coming from the tavern. The door cracked ever so slightly, you questioned you had seen it properly. 

Gesturing for Bronwynne to follow, the two of you slipped inside and your heart leaped at what you saw there. Dozens of your people filled the room, wielding chairs and knives and tankards in their hands. 

“It is the Queen!” Someone whispered, and the room began to grow louder in volume. 

You stood atop a table. Drawing their attention to you.  “We must make haste. The castle is not far from here. I promise you that you will be safe yet. The tunnels are still opened and there are ships prepared to take you away from here. But we will need to be brave—to fight. Are you all with me?”

Those faces which greeted yours were full of uncertainty. Many already grieved by loss—you could see it in your eyes. They were tired; you did not blame them. Were tired yourself. All seemed lost already. But there was hope. 

A little boy stepped forward first. Gripped an empty tankard in his hand and walked over to your side. His tiny hand reached upward to touch yours dangling at your side. Fingers curling into your own. You glanced down at him, heart shattering with the weight behind his young gaze. 

“I will fight with you, Your Grace.”

“As will I,” a woman said, stepping forward, clutching an unlit torch in her hand. 

“And I,” said another, wielding a broken off leg of a chair. 

Your eyes watered as the room erupted in an endless sea of children and adult alike coming forward and taking up arms. Bravery so gallantly displayed before you in the face of uncertainty. 

The unlikely band of soldiers walked behind you through the streets of Ayelandia. Defending themselves to the best of their ability as enemy soldiers attempted to attack. Thrusting lit torches at them. Throwing chairs. Goods in the market. Anything they came in contact with at them.

The Hollowhall soldiers were met with skirmish after skirmish as they attempted to attack the Ayelandian citizens. Your people rising up to defend one another, even if it meant laying down their own lives to do so. These were you people. This was what your husband had meant. About it not mattering that you were outnumbered…because it was the hearts that truly matter.  

Bronwynne walked beside you at the front, hands curled around the hilt of her sword. Shaking and uncertain, though she had no time to think as a soldier rushed toward her with his sword at the ready. 

You rushed forward to defend her, grunting as his blade slammed hard against your own. Gasping at the weight of him, you pushed as hard as you could forward. Screaming in your rage as another woman came forward and crashed into his side, knocking him off his feet momentarily. 

You seized the opportunity. Slid your blade through his chest, striking that vital organ within. Stomach immediately curling inward on itself at the realization. That you had ended a life. His eyes growing wider as his blood pooled around you. 

Felt yourself growing sick as you vomited onto the cobblestones below—uncaring of those around you. Shrugged off Bronwynne’s hand as she reached forward to console you. To tell you everything was okay. 

Because it was not. Nothing about this was. 

Still, you could only push onward. The castle itself was eerily quiet. Still luckily guarded by soldiers. Unaware of what had occurred in the town only a mile or so away. You loathed to think of it as the men settled their eyes on your bloodied form, shouting for the doors to be opened for the Queen. 

Parted them to allow the people of Ayelandia safe passage. The halls were nearly emptied inside—many of the people already evacuated. Save for the few who trickled here and there toward the tunnels. 

The pace of the people behind you picked up. Certainty beginning to imbue every footfall. Of safety being within reach. You noticed Bronwynne’s disappearance soon thereafter as you ushered the women and children toward the doorway to the underground tunnels. Bidding them safe travels as they rushed onward with torches lit in their hands. Muttering their thankfulness toward you. 

Only saw Bronwynne once more some time later. Her eyes rounded in fear. “There are children hiding in the library!”

Bronwynne’s words struck fear in your heart. There are children hiding in the library! 

Yelling at the others to run and make their way down the underground tunnels, you raced back the way which you came. Legs burning as you darted up a flight of stairs and sprinted through the halls of the castle. Berating the decorator for placing the library so far from anything else. 

Gasped out loud at the sight of the guards who had been posted at the doors to the castle now in bloodied pools on the ground. Prayed that there were no enemy soldiers chasing the women and children through the tunnels—that they would find safety at the end, and not the end of a sword. 

Panicked breaths reached your ears. Mind only recognizing they were yours as you raced after Bronwynne. Not understanding why she wasn’t slowing down for you. 

The door opened in the distance, her form slipping inside, as you slipped in behind her. Searching for her familiar, slender silhouette as you worked your way through the unfamiliar stacks. 

“Bronwynne, I do not hear anything,” you whispered in the night. 

Wondered, briefly, if the soldiers had already silenced the young ones. Shuddered to think of the dozens of broken bodies you might find, slain before their time. Only there was nothing. No light was visible, save for the few candles left lit earlier that evening. Now nearing the end of their wick, flame flickering dully from their containers. 

“Wynne, where are you?” You asked, frustrating rumbling in your gut. “This is not funny. There are ships awaiting our arrival. We must get the women and children out and rejoin the battle. There are people dying.”

You stepped down another path. Noting the brighter flicker bouncing off the wall. Casting the shadow of a form against it. A man, you presumed, by the width and height of it. Slouched against what looked to be a plush couch. He shifted to stand, silhouette growing as he moved in the night. 

Exhaling shakily, you gripped Poison at your thigh and slowly slid it out from its sheath. Pressed the blade to your lips for good luck as you crouched down into a hunter’s position. Heart thudding in your chest like a drum beat. 

Your foot skidded on something beneath you. The object slid across the flagstones at your feet. Your hand clapped over your mouth, trying to hide the rapidly increased breathing. Air trying to escape your lungs. Every inch of your body trembled in panic, dreading the moment someone might find you unguarded and exposed in the library. 

Bronwynne appeared to your left, then. Her eyes trained on your face. Rounded and bright and full of…tears. Your resolve crumbled. A raw awareness replacing every bit of worry had spun you into a panic only moments ago now. 

“You should be heading to the ships, Wynne. You need to get far, far away from Ayelandia for now.” You whispered the words. 

Heart splitting into two as the familiar form of Prince Harry slipped into view. Icy blue eyes and slick brown hair. A silvery crown sitting lopsided on that proud head. He twirled his dagger in his hand, looping it around and around as he whistled. Eerie smirk curling those lips upward. Eyes roving your form as he stood there, taking in every inch of your being. Enjoying every second without remorse. 

“Wynne…go to the ships,” you pleaded. It sounded like your throat was being scraped by shards of glass. Felt like it, too. 

“I cannot.” 

“P-please.” 

It was a mere beg.

A last resort.  

“No.”

Betrayal spilled into every beat of your heart. The downcast eyes. The forlorn expression. The way her teeth chewed miserably at her bottom lip. It throbbed in you. Ate at you, until it became every fiber of your being. You thought back to every encounter. All those moments spilling together in front of you like pieces of a puzzle. Tried to distinguish the moments you might have known. Moments where she had shown her hand. Pieces of a deeper deception you had never seen coming. 

Those early days in the storage room. Secrets shared. Stories of your childhoods told. Jokes exchanged with hysteric tears in both your eyes. Problems worked out from the struggles in your marriage. Her desires. Her many wishes. Her dreams. The inner workings of your own thoughts. Machinations of your mind. 

As of late…war planning—war planning.

An informant; you had supplied an informant. 

The way she positioned herself at his side. As if he drew her to him by some invisible force. They were lovers; had been, for some time now. All those memories of her writing to an unnamed man. Her wondering if she would see another spring. The fear and guilt imbuing her every word. You hissed to yourself, reaching toward your hip to draw your sword. A last, futile attempt at freedom. 

A careless swirl of metal against his own. Grunting as he blocked yours and kicked your wrist. Your blade clattered into the corner of the library. Books tumbling as you threw yourself forward and tossed some sitting atop a bookshelf behind you, making a break for it. Screamed as Prince Harry gripped you by the back of your head. Fingers wrenching you to him. 

“Do not hurt her!” Bronwynne shrieked. 

You snarled at her. How dare she even try to save herself now? You roared at him. Kicking limbs furiously from the tight grip he held you in. Dug at his flesh with your fingers. Whimpered as he hooked an arm around your neck, pressing something into your nose. You inhaled, eyes growing heavy at the scent of the ether. Your eyes grew hazy around the edges. Color seeping into darkness, swirling and blending behind your eyelids as they drooped. 

“So happy I did not marry you. I wanted a tamed wife, not this beastly thing he turned you into.”

Your legs tumbled from beneath you. Fingers growing limp around his forearm. His breath fanned along the shell of your ear. The scent of the concoction and liquor filling your nostrils. Your limbs grew heavy and useless. Head fuzzy, like there were thousands of bees buzzing within them. You opened your mouth to speak—but your mouth came up dry. Tongue like cotton, swollen and unable to form speech. 

“Sleep, Your Grace. You are going to need your rest.”

There was darkness. You surrendered to it. 

You saw Peter. In the wispy fog billowing around the floor. His form bent over, hand cupped around his eyes. 

Searching…searching for you. 

You worked your mouth into a scream, only to find no sound came out. Why wasn’t Peter seeing you? Where had he gone? 

Wasn’t the field of Ambrosen littered with the dead now? All the gore and decay of battle marked earth. This couldn’t be, and yet with further clarity, you knew it was. Your feet moved forward. Carried you toward him. Toward those beautiful arms extended toward you. Waiting for you. 

He called your name and you raced toward him. Fingers reached out to touch him. Gripping onto the fabric of his tunic, his eyes widened as they took you in. Hands reaching up to brush the hair away from your cheeks. Kissed you soundly. 

The taste of iron spilled into your mouth. Bitter and acrid. A coughed whisper of your name spilled into your flesh. Peter’s breathing shallowed. Blood seeping past his lips. Down his throat. Pure, unfettered horror lined those features as he stumbled forward. Crashed down onto his knees, blood spilling from a wound in his gut. 

You glanced down and saw it then. The dagger embedded there. 

Poison, streaked with his blood. Red. So red. Life spilling onto the grass before you. Growing, growing…growing. Spreading in a deep, dark pool beneath him. There was so much. Too much. Life draining home him rapidly. Horror lining his features. 

“Why?” He asked you. 

Eyes trailing downward. 

“I…”

“How could you do it?”

You followed the line of sight. Gasping. Screaming, as you pulled your dagger from him. 

Watched the life seeping from him. Pulsating from him as his own heart gave out. 

As if the blade were the only thing keeping him alive. 

“I love you.” He tried to whisper, only blood bubbled against his lips. 

Perfect rosettes spilled onto the grass. 

Dropped. Dropped. Dropped. 

Bled into the puddle. Joined together like a marriage. 

In the next moment, you were nestled beneath Peter beneath a canopy of leaves dancing in the wind on branches above. One hand cradled against your cheek as he rocked into you. A slow, steady movement. Sending you closer and closer to completion. 

Gasped pants against skin. His lips against your chest. Fingers rubbing at that highest point between the apex of your thighs. 

Each thrust another promise. 

He loved you. He cherished you. He worshipped you. He adored you. Would spend every day for the rest of his life reminding you. 

A memory, yet also not. 

“Open your eyes, dove.”

Tendrils of sleep curled in your vision. Noting the way the scene warped around the edges. The heaviness of your mind as you stared up at him. Those kind, longing eyes only for you. 

“I do not want to. Just want to stay here forever with you.” 

The words were yours, and yet they weren’t. Muffled somehow. As though you hovered inches from your body and the words took some time to form in your own mouth. 

“Open your eyes…”

“Just a while longer. Please.”

“Only a little while longer,” he whispered, pressing his forehead into yours. “I will never tire of you like this…”

You rolled up and over Peter. Pinned his hands against your hips. Watched his irises turn black as you rose above him and sank down against flesh. Moved. Slowly at first, and then with abandon. Chased that string of webbing closer and closer to the brink.

“Open…your…eyes…” 

When you woke, Peter wasn’t there. Instead, the darkness of the tent filled your gaze. Hand locked into place by a chain. Tethered off at the end to a rig in the ground. Tugged at it. Screeched until your throat rubbed raw from the strain. Begged for someone to come. Anyone. Shouted his name over and over again until you rocked forward on your knees and sobbed into the earth. 

There was a moment of silence before you tried once more. Screaming for help. Shouting your husband’s name in the dark. Bronwynne’s. You remembered, then. The way she curled at Prince Harry’s side. Her comfortability in his presence. The way she looked at him with love. In a way you had never seen her before. Driven enough by it to betray you. 

The memories of your dearest friend in Ayelandia stricken by it. Bitter anger burned in your gut. The thought of retribution howled in your veins. Revenge for the betrayal. For so blindly trusting her these many months. You felt stupid. Screamed once more at the reality of those dead because of Bronwynne’s betrayal. 

Healer Agatha. Those soldiers. Women. Children. Did she grieve at all for them? So blinded by her adoration toward the Prince. 

“No one is coming.” 

Bronwynne glanced up at you from the other side of the tent. Positioned behind a desk, feet propped up on the wooden surface. You growled at her low in your throat, clambering to your feet to rush at her. Clawed at her face with your hands, only to come up a few inches short. Whimpered as your wrist screamed in protest. 

She had sealed her fate. There was nothing you could do to save her now. Either she died by your hands or by your husbands, treason against the crown was punishable by death. Even in Ayelandia, where there were lesser rules and regulations. Order needed to be maintained. Yet it grieved you still; despite her betrayal. To watch the young woman who had been a confidant, always present at your side, lose her life would leave an irrevocable scar on your heart. 

There was, however, the matter of getting yourself free from your bindings. The rig buried deep into the earth as if it had been prepared for you. You knew it was likely it had been. That this, too, was planned months ago. During the stormy season in Hollowhall, before death marched onto your doorstep. 

“Whatever you are planning, it is not going to work,” Bronwynne said, shifting on her chair to better look at you. 

Those sad, rounded eyes met yours. 

You found hatred there in your heart burning for her. 

“Do not look to me with pity,” you hissed, tugging once more on the chain for emphasis. “I am your Queen, I cannot help you in this. You will be beheaded, Wynne. You understand that, do you not?”

“I will be far away by then,” she said, waving her hand in the air in a mindless circle.

“And where do you expect to be? We are in the middle of a war. There are only two ways this can go. Either Ayelandia or Hollowhall wins.” 

Bronwynne’s lips quirked upward. Wistful. “Prince Harry said he will marry me. Can you even think of it? Me, a Princess.”

You tampered down the desire to snort. To roll your eyes at the careless nature she carried. That there weren’t the sounds of clanging swords and dying men filling the campsite that very moment. Instead, the woman stared far off into the distance. As if recalling a memory, or conjuring a fantasy in her mind. 

“Do you honestly think King Norman will allow you to wed his son?” You pleaded the words with her. Crawled across the tent and sat before her. “King Norman. Do you know what his desire was and has always been for as long as I have known that man? He wants to rule not just one country but many. His son intended to marry me, but my father would not have it. Did Prince Harry tell you that?”

“He did not wish to marry you—he loves me.” 

“Wynne, what he feels for you likely is a form of love. But people like Prince Harry…people like me cannot afford to love. Not truly. It is not the way; we are often bought and bartered, like sows on a market. It is how it has always been!” You cried out, just as Bronwynne slammed her palm down on the desk. 

“What do you know of it?!” 

You inhaled slowly, shaking your head. “Prince Harry’s marriage contract to me was drawn up before I ever married King Peter. His father, King Norman, wanted Glendhaven to join them. We have a large army. We have skilled soldiers. We are next in weaponry only to them. A marriage bond between Hollowhall and Glendhaven would have amounted to King Norman having dominion over large portions of the world. It was his goal.”

“What does this have to do with me?” She asked, narrowing her eyes.  

“Prince Harry will not marry you, as he cannot marry you. You cannot offer his father anything to advance his kingdom. You have been used—”

The slap echoed in the tent. You felt like you’d been dragged over hot coals. Cheek burning as you reached up to touch it. The woman sitting before you bore you no love. How had you ever thought of anything otherwise? There had always been a goal. Some secret mutterings in the dark; an ulterior motive driving passion. A ringing clanged in your ears, eyes pinched shut against the blinding pain. 

How far the two of you had come, now. From two giggling women in a storehouse to enemies. Thought back to that day in the clearing when the two of you had played like children. Minds focused on nothing but the warmth of the sun and the joy elevating your hearts. 

Only now it was tarnished by blood and ruin and death. Lives lost by her hand, and in some part for trusting her, your own. You loathed thinking of it. Swallowed the pain burning in your chest at the memory of Healer Agatha bloodied and open-eyed at the moon. Ripped from the world. Those children and their mothers, frozen in horror where they lay. Mouths rounded in silenced screams.

“He will marry me. He told me himself countless times. I am to be his wife.” 

The words sounded frantic in your ears. As if even she struggled to believe it. Wanted to believe it herself. You turned from her then, stalking over back to your crumpled-up bedroll in the corner of your makeshift jail cell. Ran a hand against your stricken cheek as your eyes rolled up to her once more. 

“What is King Norman’s plan for me?”

“You will be used as a bargaining chip. The acceptance of Hollowhall as ruler over Ayelandia, so long as King Peter turns himself over for you.”

You laughed. A horrifying low and chilling sound. Disbelief rattled you to the core. “A bargaining chip? Even if my husband rescinds the throne to King Norman, they will take him as a prisoner and murder him. And then after that, I will be killed as well.”

Bronwynne shook her head. Those blonde curls bounced over her shoulders. Reminding you she was still a young girl. Hadn’t seen much of the world, yet harbored such darkness in her heart if she would have sold you over for a lie of lover’s affection. So innocently foolish. You almost pitied her for it. To be so doe-eyed and captivated with a man you failed to see how deep the poison in his family ran. 

“He will not. That was part of the deal. They told me you would be left unharmed.”

“They lied, Wynne.” You shook your head, standing to your feet. “Even if they take Ayelandia, there will be people who will rise up for my cause. Those who would see me still on the throne. Loyal supporters of my husband. There will never be a day of peace again in my country. There is also the chance I am with child. If that is so, do you not think my child would have a claim to that crown that threatens Prince Harry’s? They will have to kill me, too. To silence any chance of unrest.”

Bronwynne shook her head. Eyes watered. “No, he promised me.”

“You have sold me to my death, Bronwynne. I know you now to be cruel, but never knew you to be a murderer as well.” 

“No. You are wrong,” she rushed over to you, clasping your hands in her own. You hated the fact she was touching you. Felt burned by it. Yet met her gaze anyway, tears brimming on her lashes. “He will not kill you.”

“What else did he promise you?” You asked, breathlessly. 

“He said once King Peter rescinded the throne King Norman would declare Prince Harry as the King of Ayelandia. We would then marry.” 

“And of my role?”

Bronwynne’s mouth worked on the words. Eyes dropping. As if she finally understood. Pain bloomed in her features. Stark as death, in the way she looked at you. As if already picturing you in a grave beside your husband. Gone from this world. 

“He…he never mentioned it.”

“Do you understand now, Wynne? What he intends to do? I know you care for me…in a way that is hard to grasp in this very moment; but please know his intent was never for me to survive this war.”

She swallowed. Your own chest burned as she squeezed your hands tighter. Her bottom lip trembled. “He p-promised.”

“He lied,” you whispered. The sorrow in your voice was genuine this time. “You must help me. Free me from these chains…please.”

Bronwynne shook her head, teeth pinching her bottom lip. “I cannot do that. You know I cannot.”

“Please.” 

She exhaled, running a hand through her blonde curls. “I do not have the key. I am not even certain of where it is held.”

You returned to the other side of the tent, dropping down onto the bedroll. “Then I am as good as dead yet.”

You weren’t certain of how long they kept you there. Locked away without so much as food or drink. You could tell the sun was beginning to rise, the darkness dissipating into golden light. Your wrist ached where you’d tugged against it for the past few hours. Skin already bruising around the edges. 

You hung your head low. Wondered if you might yet start screaming again. Maybe earning the pity of a defecting soldier, fueled by a sudden desire to honor Ayelandia’s royals. Sighing, you curled up onto your side and brought your knees upward toward your chest, hugging them. Pictured your husband’s face in your mind. Prayed he was still alive this very moment. 

Wondered if you’d ever be able to run your fingers through his hair ever again. If you’d ever be able to reach upward onto your toes and press your lips to his. If you’d ever even hear his voice. You wished you could hear him now. If only to comfort you—remind you that everything would be okay, when in all actuality it felt like everything had fallen apart around you. 

“Oh good, you have stopped your incessant screaming,” Prince Harry said, sauntering into the tent with a dagger in hand. 

You jolted upward onto the bedroll. Feeling his eyes on you as you shifted onto your knees before him. Bronwynne entering a moment later, taking up residence once more at the desk. 

Prince Harry leaned down toward you. Pressed his pointer finger and thumb to your chin. Pinched it as he shifted your jaw toward him. Wincing, you met those icy blue eyes. 

“Things are going to get exciting soon,” he said, smirking. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?”

“I am a Queen,” you hissed out. 

“For how much longer is questionable, my dear.” He released your chin. Twirled that dagger around in his hand. “You know, it will be fun seeing King Peter. The last time I saw him…he was in a bit of distress. So sad what happened to his wife. It is such good luck for him he found a new one.”

Ice spilled down your spine. “What did you just say?”

His lips only turned further upward. Those eyes closing as he tilted his head upward, laugh spilling from his lips. You knew then. You knew his intended meaning. Screamed and raced for him, his cackling only strengthening as he dodged your attack and stepped away far enough you were met with empty air. 

His wife. Peter’s wife. He had been there. Harry had been in the room and…no. 

“You did it. You killed her.”

“See…that was quite an unfortunate event. I had intended to kill your husband instead. She had gotten in the way, but it weakened Ayelandia all the same.” He laughed again. “We could have avoided a war if it had been him that day. But this is more fun, do you agree?”

You thought of Queen Gwen in Peter’s arms. Body broken and bleeding onto the stone floor as he held her to him. Begging her to stay with him. To hold on just a while longer. Until a healer could come—until he could put her back together again. As if his love might have stitched her mortal wound.

You thought of your people on the battlefield. Fighting for their lives this very moment, while a coward of a man stood before you. Taunting you.  

You hated him. Hated the both of them. All of Hollowhall. Screamed at him, incoherent words spilling from your lips. He had taken so much from your husband, and now he intended to rip him from you as well. You wanted to kill him. To watch Poison slip between his ribs, right in the spot Peter had shown you would kill a man, and watch as his own life seeped from him. 

“I had help, of course. How do you think I slipped out of the castle so easily after?” Prince Harry said, running a hand down the side of Bronwynne’s neck. “Thank you for that, my love.”

She glowed under his affection. Like a flower blooming beneath the sun. 

So even then Bronwynne had been dreaming of sitting beside her Prince on the Ayelandian throne. Had pictured it for years now. Waited for the perfect moment and was willing to commit regicide to do it—had actually committed regicide, despite the intention being for Peter to have been the one to die that day. And she was willing to attempt once more, solidifying her rule once and for all. 

Your stomach heaved. Limbs carrying you to the nearest bucket, emptying out the contents of your stomach there. Prince Harry wrinkled his nose, tossing you a dirtied rag. 

“Clean yourself up. We have a gathering to attend.”

“The two of you, then. All this time…?” 

Prince Harry’s lips dragged into a smirk. “Ayelandia was always our ideal first step. Some of its land resides close to Hollowhall’s border. Technically it should already be ours. But we had planned on Glendhaven helping us invade it.”

“It is why you intended to marry me,” you said, grimacing. 

He nodded. “Your father’s army is impressive. And I would have had a pretty wife. There are worser things a man of my station could be given.”

“You are disgusting,” you hissed at him. “You killed an innocent person.”

Prince Harry paused in his pacing, head turning to look your way. “It is the cost of war—of ambition. Lives will be lost along the way. You and your husband are no better. You beheaded one of my soldiers as well.”

“They attempted to kill us—”

“Fighting for something they believed in! Do not look down upon me for the loss of human life when you have ended lives in the name of your kingdom. We are no different, Your Grace.”

“Darling, this is a waste of time. Let us eat before we begin the negotiations.” Bronwynne reached up to press her hand to Harry’s cheek.

“So today, then.” Your words were soft. Laden with fear at the prospect of watching Peter be killed.

Prince Harry reached down and pushed a strand of hair away from your face. Tucked it behind your ear. You trembled as he leaned down and pressed his lips to the hollow of your ear, inhaling slowly as he whispered. 

“Oh, but we would have been so happy.” He said, and you shivered against him. “You certainly would have kept your pretty little head if you had married me instead.” 

And then the two of them were gone. Slipped out of the tent leaving you trembling in their wake. Wondering, at last, if you were finally running out of time. 

—x— 

Bronwynne returned sometime later with a bucket and fresh linen. Some sort of delicious smelling soaps had been dropped into the water, and you nearly sighed into the cloth as she reached up and pressed it to your cheek. Wiping away the smell of sickness. 

Neither of you spoke for some time. The discomfort between you thick in the air. Her recognition over the fact you were no longer friends hanging in the air. The woman before you wanted your throne. Would be willing to put you and your husband to death to do so. It wasn’t something you could or would ever forget. 

“I am sorry. I know you do not believe me, but you must understand I was mistaken. He assured me nothing would happen to you.”

“He lied to you. You see that now, do you not?” You whispered, staring up at her through your lashes. Frowned. “What else might be be lying about? Think of it, Wynne.”

She exhaled, pressing the damn cloth into your chest. Grimaced to herself. “I looked for a key while he was distracted by some of the other men. Believe me when I say I tried to free you.”

She had no reason to lie to you now. You were likely to be placed in a jail cell in a few hours time depending on how the evening rolled out. 

“I did grieve Queen Gwen, I hope you understand that. I am not this unfeeling woman. She was never meant to die; it was a needless death. Harry told me there were things we needed to do…obstacles we needed to overcome to ensure we could be with one another,” she said, brushing near your lip. “I never meant to like you, though. Becoming your friend—that was all real for me, Your Grace. I love Harry, yes, but I love you too.”

“Then help me,” you begged. 

She glanced down at the bucket. Tossed the linen inside. “I am trying. I will do whatever I can.”

You nodded, understanding she was limited by what she might do in order to help. Without a key, the only person able to free you was the very man who intended to become King of Ayelandia after the bargaining took place. 

“I know we can never be friends. But I never wished for him to hurt you.”

“I know.” 

The words were a forced out lie. But the uncertain smile lining the girl’s lips before you brought some peace to your aching heart. You stood up then, running your fingers through your hair. 

“When will they begin negotiations?” You asked. 

“Prince Harry had a Hollowhall informer speak with Lord Bartrand. King Peter has been summoned.” She exhaled softly. “You will be brought before the King in an hour’s time.”

So soon. 

In an hour you would see your husband. Very likely for the last time. Your heart twisted at the notion of it all. Of seeing those eyes fall on you one more time before he was taken from you. 

You had a year—twelve months with him. 

It hadn’t been enough. Though part of you understood that no amount of time would have been enough for the man who had earned your heart. The person who filled those crevices and filled them with himself. Entwined his soul with yours, in a way only two people made for each other could. 

Your hand wiped at your eyes. A sob spilling unwillingly from your mouth. “Then it is to be done.”

“It is to be done,” Bronwynne whispered, glancing off into the distance. 

Part of you wanted to blame her. To shout at her and remind her this was all her doing. That when the life slipped from Peter and you lost your love, it was because of another woman’s selfish ambition. But you reminded yourself there was still some time yet. A possibility Prince Harry revealed his hand and Bronwynne was able to free you once and for all. 

There would be no negotiations without anything to bargain for in the first place. If Prince Harry lost his captive, Ayelandia still had hope yet. All was not lost. Your kingdom not yet fallen. 

The two of you settled into uncomfortable silence as Bronwynne returned the bucket into a far corner of the tent and kicked her feet up onto the desk. Leaned back in the chair and tilted her head to the ceiling. Your fingers plucked at the earth, finding it so strange now to sit in a room with her and want nothing to do with her. 

There had been a time Healer Agatha would have raced down into the storehouses to reprimand the two of you for causing a ruckus. Now, it was as if you both were strangers; in a way, had always been so. 

Sighing, you tilted your head up and took in Bronwynne’s profile. Her pretty jawline. That slender nose which upturned at the edges. Freckles dotting the highest points of her cheeks. You’d loved her once. Part of you still did. 

You played on her sympathy toward you. 

“Do you know where he put my dagger?” 

Your sword had been discarded somewhere in the library. But if you managed to get your hands on some sort of weapon…there was an opportunity to attempt a final attack. A last ditch effort before submitting to whatever fate had planned for you these next hours. 

“Your Grace…you know I cannot.”

“You can, Bronwynne. You can.”

“It is not beyond me to think you might try to kill him. I cannot let you do that.” 

You toyed with the chain at your wrist. “Your lover is going to kill my husband.”

She had no words for that. The silence which greeted you bringing no comfort. Countless lives already lost. How many mor sufficed? To what end would one go for absolute power? 

“At least there is comfort in knowing I will join him soon thereafter.” 

You thought back to the moment in the alcove. Basking in the afterglow of simply being with him. The way his words had burned into your skin. That he would love you long after you departed the earth. How foolish to imagine you had a whole lifetime stretched out before you. 

It almost came as a relief when Prince Harry and Bronwynne entered the tent after slipping out for some time. Ignoring Bronwynne’s affection as she reached forward to press a kiss into his cheek. Her face dropped as his footsteps carried him over to you and unhooked the chain from the post. Before moving to lock both your hands together, despite your protesting. 

“So you do not stab me in the back,” he said coolly, dragging you by the arm in front of him. 

“My love, you promised,” Bronwynne reminded him, voice shaken. 

“Will you mind your tongue, woman? My father already has half a mind to leave you behind in Ayelandia.” He grumbled out, your eyes narrowing at him as Bronwynne paused in her footsteps. “Let their people do whatever they wish of you once they have heard word of your actions these years.”

“Do not speak of such things,” she whispered. The sound seemed choked on your ears. 

“Then do not pester me so incessantly and I may not be inclined to listen to him.” 

He whirled on her, face inches apart as his eyes bore down into hers. His lip curled up a moment afterward, ire slipping into something sensual. Something wicked which made your stomach churn as his hand spanned upward and around her throat. Fingers pressed into flesh, her eyes blown out in fear. 

“This is what you wanted, is it not?” He leaned forward and pressed a slow, forceful kiss to her cheek. “Then mind your tongue and do not question what I am doing.”

“Can I have a moment? With my friend before…” Bronwynne asked. Voice low. 

“I suppose. Make it quick, we have a meeting to attend,” Prince Harry grumbled, slipping out the parted flap of the tent. 

“What is it—”

Bronwynne cut you off with her palm flush against your mouth, finger pressed to her lip to try and shut you up. Understanding, you watched as she pulled her hand away, moving toward the top of her corset to pluck what looked to be a key. You nearly cried with joy as she pressed the metal piece into your palm, leaning closer to you to speak, so as to not alert the guards posted outside. 

“Too many are near us now for you to run. But as soon as there is an opportunity, you run. I cannot save your husband, but I can at least try to wipe some innocent blood from my hands this day.”

“How did you?” 

She smirked. “There are ways, as you know, a woman can obtain exactly what she wants.”

“Thank you for this kindness. Wynne, I cannot save you from punishment. But…my husband may yet be merciful,” you whispered, leaning forward to wrap your chained arms around her neck. 

This time, the affection was not forced. You could not deny the life laid on the line for a chance at your own safety. Exile was a kinder punishment than execution; Peter might be inclined to allow her life outside the walls of Ayelandia, instead of forfeiting it completely. 

“Now this might hurt a bit—”

“What?” 

“My love, we are ready to move!” Bronwynne called. 

You reeled back as Prince Harry entered the tent once more, Bronwynne’s hand connecting with your cheek. You grimaced at the feeling of your already bruised face burning once more. The split lip you bore parting as blood dribbled onto your chin. The moan which spilled from your lips brought a smile to Harry’s face, those cool, blue eyes trailing your features as he tugged you beside him. 

“Wynne, you did not have to ruin her face more than you already have,” he cackled, giving her a playful shove as you walked through the campsite. 

“I needed to remind her of what her place will be when you come into your power, My King.”

Your heart lurched at the title, though you steeled your face into an unfeeling mask. Eyes narrowed. Jaw hardened. Shoulders tucked back. You imagined a string from your belly button to the top of your head, pulling your spine straight. Tilted your head up, imagined you were sitting on your throne back at the castle. You were fierce. You were lethal. A beautiful, deadly thing as your husband had called you. You would not break. 

Not even as soldiers parted around you. Blood staining their armor. Some missing limbs. Some groaning in the throes of agony, bleeding from sword wounds. So many Hollowhall soldiers. You knew Ayelandia had to have been depleted. Carstell delayed for battle due to choppy seas. You whispered a silent prayer there was still hope yet. Glanced up at the sky and saw the beginnings of the sunrise starting to form. 

It had been at least one day since you had seen your husband. You anticipated as much, given the fact you had been drugged and left to sleep for hours. 

You had lived through another sunrise. 

And today you had lived to see another. 

You kept your eyes locked on the ground as you walked toward the fields of Ambrosen. Heard the comments from jeering men as you passed. Of being the foreign bitch. Of what they would have liked to do with you had you given them the chance. These men, who viewed women like possessions. Objects to be attained. You wanted to kill every last one of them. Nearly screamed it at them all. 

Instead, turned toward the crowd and growled out, “I cannot wait until my husband and his men repay you for every atrocity you have bestowed our lands.” 

Prince Harry tugged you along harder at that. Your feet skidded beneath you as you were whipped against his side, your heart pounding as the battlefield stilled at the sound of a horn blowing. Men and women soldier alike separated. Every eye turning your way as Prince Harry pushed you forward. 

It was then you saw him. Peter, in all his battle regalia, whirling toward you. That red cloak billowing about his shoulders. Blood seeped from a wound on his forehead. Dirtied features on his face dropping as he beheld you. His relief rushed across his face, ignited something within your chest. You wanted to run to him. To wrap your arms around his neck and never let go—slip away from the brutality of war for just a moment. 

King Norman approached Prince Harry on your path down the battlefield. His voice echoing on battle scorched land as he shouted. “King Peter, it seems you have lost this battle. You are outnumbered. We have your wife. Give us your word of concession of your crown and we will end this war. There need not be anymore bloodshed.”

Prince Harry allowed you a brief moment, muttering, “I am not so cruel as to not give you a moment to say goodbye. You get one minute.” 

Your feet stumbled to reach Peter where he stood. The two of you dropped to your knees before one another. His hands coming to press against your cheeks. Fingertips running across your bruised face. The split lip. The burns from the fire at the healing houses. 

Those eyes—his beautiful, kind eyes watered as he took you in. As if he were seeing a ghost; in many ways, you felt the same. Sitting before him, your forehead pressed into his as you sobbed against his mouth. Disregarding the men and women standing around you as you kissed him. Over and over and over again. Aware it may very well be the last time. 

“I am here, dove.”

“So scared…I have been so scared.” You leaned forward to kiss him once more, whispering, “It is him. Prince Harry. He killed her.”

He nodded then. Understanding. “Everything is going to be okay. And look, my love, we made it to sunrise.” He swallowed, standing to his feet and bringing you with him. “I did promise you.”

“I love you.” 

You whispered the words. Heart splitting as he mouthed them back to you and turned to look over your shoulder at Prince Harry. 

“It has been some time, my friend. And what a situation you have yourself in,” he laughed, twirling that annoying dagger in his hand. Leather jerkin rippling as he moved. “You know…to lose one wife is a tragedy. But to lose a second one? Well, that is simply irresponsible. Which is why you must give up this fight. You do not need her loss on your head as well.”

You turned to Peter. The short jerk of your head meant to be a screaming ‘no’ from your own lips. But you found you could not form words. Only began working with the bindings at your wrist as Lord Bartrand and King Peter began talking amongst themselves. Prince Harry and King Norman a few paces away. Leaving you there in the center, trying to gauge who was nearest to you. 

Commander Ayla and a small group of your fellow recruits were nearby. Enough so, that if the opportunity presented, you could run and find cover with them long enough to obtain a weapon and fight. You saw another group a little further away. You could even form a shield wall under your command if needed. 

Sighed in relief as the latch around your wrist popped. Pushed the links together enough so no one would be likely to notice you’d managed to free yourself. Glanced over to Bronwynne as she stood there. In her too large armor. 

Many things happened in tandem then. The glint of metal was the first. Your heart pounded as Bronwynne approached the Prince, her small knife hidden up her sleeve. No one saw it coming as she sunk it into his side. Her screamed ‘RUN’ coming out garbled as Prince Harry slashed a blade across her throat in the next second. 

You tumbled over your feet as you raced toward your husband. Him and Lord Bartrand calling for defense against oncoming arrows beneath the veil of a shield wall. Body crashing into Peter’s as he tugged you into the center of the group, chains around your wrists at last clattering to the ground.

Through the little gaps you could see in the shield wall you saw it then. Bronwynne’s body on the floor. Her hand stretched out toward you. The other cupping the ugly wound scoring her throat. 

To stop the inevitable. 

To plead with her lover as the life and love seeped out of her. 

Your first friend in Ayelandia. Your betrayer. Now gone from the world before she turned one and twenty just as she feared. You thought back to her words. A hoarse sob at the time. She had thought she might never see another spring—and your heart lurched at the notion she had not.  

“S-she—he killed her. Peter, he killed her…they were lovers—”

“It is not the time, my love. Right now you need to pick up a sword and prepare to fight. Hollowhall outnumbers us, but Ayelandia and Glendhaven are strong. We will not submit to their rule, do you hear me?”

You nodded your head, standing to your feet as a soldier tossed you an extra sword. Your body ached from the hours of captivity, but will ruled out. The world exploded around you in a flurry of steel and blood and destruction. Your movements limber as you ducked and rolled away from oncoming soldiers. 

Striking down foe after foe as you fought for your kingdom. Hollowhall soldiers dropping every where you looked. A newfound strength pumping in the hearts of your soldiers. In your own self. 

Your husband battled nearby. His back turned to you as he blocked and swung at his enemies. Slaying them as they drew closer to him. Your heart battering in your chest as you moved closer, breathing easier once his back pressed against yours, the two of you striking down your enemies in tandem. 

Until, that is, Prince Harry snarled and rushed at the two of you. Breaking past the soldiers littering the field around you. You brought your blade down to attack him, grunting as his sword clanged against yours. His foot came up then, kicking you backward onto your rear as Peter attacked the Prince. 

Rage burned in his eyes. Unbridled and terrifying. The knowledge of one wife’s murder fresh in his mind as his blade came down against Harry’s again and again and again. Paired with the fact he had captured you and held you hostage. Used only as a bartering piece for a kingdom he would never rule over. 

“You will never touch another person I love, if that is the last thing I do,” Peter shouted at him, swinging upward with his blade. Meeting metal. 

You whirled on your feet, parrying an oncoming attack from a Hollowhall soldier. Grunting as you kicked him square in the chest and ducked below his blade, before stabbing upward in a deadly arc. Grimaced as blood poured onto your wrist. Dark and final, as his body slumped forward at your feet. 

It was then you heard Peter’s strangled cry as Harry’s blade sunk into the vulnerable gap in his armor. Your own scream deafening on your ears as Peter pulled out a dagger and jabbed it low into Harry’s neck. Silencing him immediately. You rushed to his side then, pressing your hand into his wound. 

“I am okay. I am okay…” He ground out, covering your hand with his own. 

“Peter—”

You heard it then. All of you did. The thunderous pounding of what sounded like a drum beat. Faraway at first, before it became deafening. Echoed on every ear on Ambrosen fields. The pounding, you realized, of hundreds upon hundreds of Carstell soldiers, led by King Eugene bearing the Carstell flag. 

He whirled it around above his head, the Hollowhall soldiers shifting in the direction of their newest enemies. Uncertainty filling their gazes, searching for their king to direct their steps. Their now decimated ranks clearly outnumbered. 

Your hand pressed tighter to Peter’s side as soldiers from your newest ally’s began pouring onto the fields. Their swords and arrows finding purchase in enemy Hollowhall soldiers. Screams of ‘THE PRINCE HAS FALLEN’ and ‘RETREAT’ bellowed from King Norman and the garrison commanders. 

The world swirled around you in a flurry of chaos. Soldiers rushing back to their encampments. Hollowhall men retreating with haste, carrying the dead body of their cruel Prince as they escaped back to their camp. Carstell soldiers chasing them down,  ending their lives before they might slay yet another. 

Only you remained at Peter’s side, grimacing at the way his breathing had changed. Becoming ragged. Face breaking out into a sweat. Cheeks flushed as you lifted his chainmail and inspected the wound below. A wound that would not normally kill a man—thankfully. But you knew right away he needed to lie down and rest. 

“You are okay,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek as Lord Bartrand appeared at your side, requesting to know the health of the king. “He has been wounded. We…the storehouses have been depleted, but I will need fresh water, linen and thread. Anything to sew up his wound. He has lost a bit of blood.”

“Bind it for now,” Peter grunted out, squeezing your palm as he stood to his feet. “I must address our ally’s.”

“Peter—”

“Please, my love. I will be a quiet patient after I thank the people for allowing us to see another day.”

You hated the suggestion, but still rose at his side as he did. Winced as his form hunched over as he stepped toward the center of the field. His voice rang out clear above the crowd as a horn sounded. An Ayelandian flag erected in the middle of Ambrosen. Cheers ringing out as Peter declared Ayelandia free from Hollowhall influence. 

It was a sight to behold. The thousands of soldiers coming to crowd around the King, awaiting to hear what he had to say. Adrenaline still pumping in all the hearts of the men and women standing around you. Those who had fought and lived to see another day. To bring peace back to your country. 

You stood beside Lord Bartrand in the distance, stained with the blood of the many lives you had slain in the past two days, glancing over toward the woman left behind by Hollowhall soldiers. 

Bronwynne, who had betrayed you and spared you all in the matter of days. Stirred by love into betrayal, only to find the love she bore Prince Harry was contingent upon what throne he sat upon. 

As Peter gave a speech of bravery and of friendship, crowd raising their voices in victory, you found yourself stepping closer to Wynne’s body. Dropped onto your knees and closed those beautiful eyes once and for all. Pushed her bloodied blonde hair from her face, wiped at the dried blood on her fingers with the hem of your tunic. 

“Sleep now, Wynne.”

And as the cheers around you lifted toward the sky, your gaze drifted upward. 

To the sunrise. 

To the promise of spring to come. 

You were, at last, free. 

—x—

As requested, you were brought supplies to your bed-chamber. Husband currently sitting in a bathing tub filled with soaps you knew to carry healing properties within them. You kept the needle and thread on a nearby tray, presently focused on the task at hand as you rubbed a lavender scented concoction into your husbands hair, cleaning the bloodied strands as he sprawled backward leisurely into your touch. 

He’d been like this for some time now. All honeyed moans, happiness and comfort radiating from him despite the fact his skin appeared paler than you would have liked. His under eyes a blueish hue, veins straining against skin. You knew he needed sleep, but there would be time for that yet.

Your fingers roamed through the strands once more, before sliding down the sides of his neck and settling over his shoulders. Fingers pressed into the highest point there and began rubbing. Slow circles along muscular flesh.  

“You are a dream, my love.” He sighed, gripping your hand mid massage to press a kiss into the inside of your wrist. 

At your shudder, he tugged you closer to him. Tilted his head back so your lips would press against his. Moved against his mouth slowly, still grateful you were reunited with him once more. As his mouth opened beneath yours, you trailed your tongue along his bottom lip. Heat making your toes curl as a moan rumbled against your flesh.

“There is more than enough room for you to join,” he said, smiling up at you with hooded, blown out eyes.  

“You are in no condition for any of that.”

“A man cannot enjoy a bath with his wife without it leading to something else?”

“Precisely, my love.” You pressed another kiss to his lips, reaching to grab a cloth and run soap along your husband’s bloodied face, grimacing at the cut on his forehead. “This one should not need to be stitched.”

“I will keep my looks then?” 

He teased, tugging you closer still. You groaned in acquiesce, stepping into the bathing tub in your thin sleep shirt you had slipped into. He shifted to allow you to sit between his legs, back pressed against his chest. Careful to not aggravate the wound on his side. 

“You will keep your looks yet,” you murmured sleepily, smiling as his arms slid around your abdomen and settled there. Hugged you close. You closed your eyes, humming quietly. “I could sleep for ages.”

“And we will once we have dinner with the soldiers and citizens.”

You shifted in his arms, glancing upward at his face. His profile was on full display,  your fingers inching upward to trace the slope of his forehead. The line of his nose. Brushed along his bottom lip as he opened his mouth against it. Pressed a slow kiss to your flesh before reaching over with his palm to cup your cheek. 

Those dark eyes met yours before fluttering shut, lips slanting over your own. A slow, sensual kiss that promised more. Your breathy sigh fueled him onward, hands coming to shift your hips over his. Slotted your thighs on either side of his, careful to not aggravate his wound. Pulled back as a stuttered breath slipped from his lips. 

“You should be resting,” you whispered, eyes rolling backward as his fingers curled around your throat. A nip and scrape of teeth against your collar bone. “Your wound—”

“I do…” He pressed you flush against him, rolling your hips in a circle onto his. “Not care…” Awareness building in your stomach at just how little he truly did not. “About the wound.”

“Peter.”

He kissed you once more, fingers brushing beneath your sleep shirt. Trailing around the side of your rib cage. “I am a man who just wants to make love to his wife. Will you have me?”

Your nodded reply was all he needed. The two of you became a mass of tangled limbs, lips, fingers and teeth against skin. Of panted gasps as you allowed him to tug your sleep shirt up and over your head, before you lowered yourself down onto him. Watched his head roll back with his eyes as you began to move, his fingers trailing up your spine. 

You came together a second time after Peter had finally allowed you to stitch his wound and bind it with a new dressing. His smile warm as his form shadowed your own, fingers hooking around a knee as he parted you to him before settling himself there. Swallowed your gasp as he moved over you, and then within you. 

And in a way…it had become like that. All the parts of him you loved most, woven intricately in your own heart. Stitched into the innermost parts of your own self. 

And you knew, simply in the way he looked down at you, he felt the same. 

Creating a moment so infinite...so wholly yours. Untouched and unmarred by the world. 

Hours later, as soldiers drank and celebrated in the vast courtyards of Ayelandia, you walked around the exterior of the party with your husband. Arm looped through his own as you went. Your heart soared at the idea of another day within his love. Of being so cocooned in it, you might never resurface. 

Today, he had told you, you would celebrate the war won. Tomorrow, you would come together as a country and mourn the lost. To remember those loved and now gone. 

“When I heard you were taken…I did not think I would ever see you again. I nearly lost myself when they informed me. Having you here now, I find that I never wish to let you go,” Peter whispered, brushing his lips against your own. 

“Every moment I was gone it was your love which kept me grounded.” You cupped your hands in his own, squeezing them. “We will never be parted again. Promise me.”

“I promise you,” he breathed out, drawing you closer and kissing you deeper still. 

Wrapped his hands in the back of you gown and bunched the fabric there, pressing himself further into your body. Breaking off in a pained moan. His hand moved toward his side, palm clutching where he had been stabbed. 

“You need to rest.” You admonished. “You have already exerted yourself too much.”

He smirked down at you. “If I remember correctly, my wife, you were very happy to participate in such exertion.”

“You are very…persuasive.” You teased, drawing him alongside you. “There is something I wish to tell you, however...”

He turned to look at you then. Curiosity brimming in his gaze. “What is it?”

“Your Graces,” Lord Bartrand said, approaching the two of you on the walkway. 

“Lord Bartrand, you fought bravely, my old friend,” Peter said, chuckling as his drew the older soldier toward him in a hug. 

You lingered behind, palms smoothing along the bodice of your gown as the Lord in question looked over your husband’s shoulder in your direction.

“Your Grace, the people are already singing your praises. Said you led a band of women and children through the castle like a true commander.”

“Now…I would not say that,” you mused, coming to stand beside the soldier as the three of you continued on your stroll. “Though some of the women did smack Hollowhall soldiers over the head with chairs. And that was the bravest thing I have ever seen.”

“You must tell us all about it,” Peter said. 

And so you had. News you wished to share with your husband placed aside as you recounted the stories of what happened when you rushed to the aid of the healing houses. How you had found the women in the tavern. Their bravery as they took up arms with a willingness to fight for what they believed in. 

Shared the story of Bronwynne’s betrayal. Of Harry’s plotting. Your eventual capture after leading the people to safety. The true confession of Gwen’s murder. And even the too-late redemption of Bronwynne coming to your rescue. The sadness in which you regarded her love gone cold. How it must have felt in those final moments as her lover ultimately murdered her. 

So foolish. 

And yet your husband gripped your hand in his own. Brought it to his lips and kissed it slowly. Thanked Bronwynne for the sacrifice that had led you back to him. 

You carried on for what seemed like hours. The firelight basking the soldiers in an orange glow as you eventually joined them. Joining in the celebrations and drink with your husband. Until your eyes began to flutter closed at the table you were settled upon, Lord Bartrand seated on your right as Peter jested with your step siblings and King Eugene by the fire. 

“Does he know yet?” Lord Bartrand asked, eyes sliding toward yours. 

You lifted your head from your palm, sleep clinging to your vision. “I do not know what you speak of,” you said, barely containing your smirk. 

The next morning you woke curled against your husband’s chest. Uncertain of how you had managed to end up there. Could vaguely remember the events of the night before. Sighed and stretched your arms above your head as you shifted out of his arms and walked over to the mirror in the corner of the chamber. Sliding your eyes to your face there. The purpled cheek. The split lip. Burn scoring your forehead. You had survived. 

You shuddered, pinching the bridge of your nose as you pushed memories of the battle and death from your mind. Instead, searched through your wardrobe to slip on a simple black gown. A Queen garbed in black to honor the dead. 

You were midway through brushing a comb through your hair when your husband appeared over your shoulder in the mirror, fingers sliding along the side of your neck. He held out his hand for the brush, gripping the cool handle as he ran it through your strands. Stopping every so often to press a kiss into the skin of your neck. 

“Today we will honor the lost. I just cannot help but to be overwhelmed with gratitude that you were not one of them,” he whispered, voice shaking as he spoke. 

You tugged him down onto the chair beside you, smoothing your palm up his chest. Rested it over his heart. “It was you who promised me we would live. Prince Harry is gone now. He cannot hurt anyone else we love now.”

He pulled you against his chest then. Fingers threading through your hair as your arms slid around his waist, ear pressed over his swiftly beating heart. Squeezing him tighter as he cried into the crown of your head. Remaining there as an anchor. In whatever way he needed you. 

“I am here, Peter. You have me…for the rest of our lives you have me.” 

“And even beyond that,” he echoed, kissing your forehead. 

“Even then, my love.”

You stayed like that until the two of you were required to join your people for the mass funeral to be held for all those lost. Soldiers had begun to gather the dead in the wee hours of the morning, lining them across the fields of Ambrosen. A mass grave was dug out, and bodies were settled within to be laid to rest. 

Bronwynne, naturally, had been left on the field. Traitors were not buried with the fallen, you knew this. But she had saved you in her last moments. Changed her mind before time had run out. A fact that Lord Bartrand repeated to two soldiers as they grabbed her fallen form and laid her within. 

You walked beside Peter onto the fields. Both of you donning black mourning clothes to honor those killed to see your throne secured. Sacrifices not in vain. 

“You said you had something to tell me,” Peter said as you approached the grave, looping your arm through his own. “What is it, my love?”

“Now is not the time. I will tell you later.” You promised, coming to stop before the freshly filled grave. 

Lord Bartrand stepped forward to raise his voice above the crowd. Speaking of the lost. Of lives so bravely lost. Of lost loved ones. Fathers who would never see their children. Sons. Daughters. Children to parents. Wives. Friends. Simply put—people. Innocent people. 

Memories of those who would never be forgotten. Even as winter turned into spring. And spring into summer, their memories would linger in the hearts of those who loved them. 

You brushed at the tears in your eyes as soldiers began to filter away from the burial site. As men and women alike clasped arms around shoulders with the promise to grab ale together and toast to life. To celebrate the dead. You lingered behind with Peter, dropping to your knees in the grass. 

Glanced over to him as he settled down beside you and watched you grip a handful of fresh soil in your palm and tossed it onto the pile. For the women. The men. The children. 

For Healer Agatha. 

For Bronwynne. 

He did the same. Fingers curling around dirt and tossing it over the grave. Pieces being swept across in the wind as it whipped your hair about both your faces. 

And in the fading sunset, the two of you walked back to the castle. Looking ahead. 

To the future and to restoration. 

To a new beginning. 

Ayelandia celebrated that night. Instead of sitting shrouded away in the shadow of death, the people toasted to life. The women and children carried off into the safety of sea retuning as the moon grew to the highest point in the sky. 

The joy of seeing loved ones reunited bringing a smile to your lips as you sat beside your husband, a goblet of wine pressed into your palm as he stroked a slow circle along the back of your palm. 

You watched as the little boy who had grabbed your hand in the tavern ran over to his father, jumping into his arms and giggling as he spun him in a great circle. As parents were reunited with their sons and daughters. Joyous crying as they wrapped each other in warm embraces. 

The weeping of new widows and widowers as they found comfort within the arms of friends and other family members. 

You looked over to him then, placing your goblet of wine on the table as you extended a hand to him. Grinned as he led you onto the dance floor. Spinning you round and round in a circle as the people flitted about the room. Your step brothers raising a glass in salutation. Father beaming as he clasped hands with King Eugene. Lord Bartrand dipping his head to the two of you. 

To success in the Battle of Ambrosen as many had now titled it. To your marriage. To your lives. To your reign. 

And later, as your feet had begun to hurt from dancing and your heart felt lighter in your chest, you settled back down beside Peter as your guests continued in their feasting and celebration. 

At one point, reached over and gripped his palm, pressing it over the lower portion of your bodice. His eyes rested there, realization dawning across his features. Eyes widening as they glistened with tears—of joy unbridled. You reached up with your free hand and brushed at the tear that rolled down his cheek. 

Nodded in answer to his unspoken question. 

“I was not certain at first, but it seems flowers will not be the only thing blooming come summer.”

—x—

EPILOGUE:

TO SEE THE SUNRISE

“I am upset with you, husband!” You grumbled, walking into your bed-chamber to find Benjamin and Peter nuzzled up together beneath the downy furs on your bed. 

“Can you be upset with me a little bit more quietly? Benjamin just went down for a nap,” he asked from the bed, eyes closed as his son curled up against chest. 

Your smile grew at the sight. Their dark hair spilled over both their foreheads. Peter with his arm curled around the one year old prince, as the little one pressed his hand into his father’s chest, thumb in his mouth. 

Sighing, you lifted your skirts a bit as you climbed onto the bed beside your two favorite boys, running your hand down your husband’s arm before curling up beside your husband and son, running your fingers down his little cheek. The curve of those chubby arms. 

“I have been informed you picked out a dog for our son. A son who is not even old enough to appreciate or understand the responsibility of having something living to take care of.”

“My love, how could I not? One of the stable dogs had puppies and Lord Bartrand thought it would be a great gift—”

“You are not blaming Lord Bartrand for getting yourself a puppy.” You teased, batting your husband’s hand away as he reached over to run his fingers through your hair. “Where is this puppy, then? If I will be a mother again, I would like to see the little one.”

He pointed toward your bathing chamber door. Your feet immediately moving to take you over to it, opening the door wide and watching as a blonde haired pup with massive paws came barreling out. Jumping up onto the bed and plopping down beside your husband and sleeping son. 

At your crossed arms and unamused expression, Peter chuckled uneasily. “What can I say? He loves me already.”

You groaned and settled back down on the bed. Watching as the pup wiggled over to you, paws toying at your dress clad thigh. Nose bumping your hip. You reached out tentatively and giggled as the thing leaped in response and swiped his tongue across your cheek. 

“Okay…okay. He is cute. We can keep him.”

The months after the war proved to be challenging. Those first months of winter some of the most grueling you had experienced since becoming Queen of Ayelandia. The alliances forged through your marriage had become a blessing. Goods being sent from Glendhaven as your country rebuilt. 

Many had come together to start the process of fixing the destroyed homes and burned healing houses. Roofs being rebuilt as the lives of those affected within learned to continue on. The streets those first weeks were empty. Somber in nature. Nobody seemed to truly mill about until the spring arrived and the weather started to warm. 

Lady Cecilia and her children had revisited as new buds began to form on the trees in the gardens. Her little girls now talking and excited over the prospect of their new ‘cousin’ coming in a few months time. 

Lady Cecilia overjoyed at how much had changed in the months since you had last seen her. Over the way your husband seemed only that much more in love with you. Worshipping the ground you walked on.  

Hollowhall had grown silent, King Norman’s throne now unsecured with the loss of his son. Though there were whispers of those who still hated King Peter and wanted to see him uprooted. Those whispers squashed, however, before they could come to any fruition. 

You continued your work at the healing houses for some time, despite Peter’s many worried of you working yourself too hard. Those first few weeks of walking in without seeing the familiar faces of Healer Agatha and Bronwynne breaking your heart all over again. You still mourned them both, and were certain you would for many years to come. 

But time healed the lands, just as it did anything. And before long you found the people settled into a new routine. Found new things to be grateful for—to be happy about. 

Peter had found that in the gift you kept nestled away beneath your heart. In the first cries of your son as the spring turned into summer. Would never forget the way he had settled down on a chair that day, looking down into Benjamin’s eyes with a love so deep it had split your heart in two. 

You were finally at peace. 

Sighed against the downy pillow as you reached over to grip Peter’s palm in yours and twined your fingers with his. The puppy coming to rest his snout across his new father’s forearm. 

But you did have to admit he was adorable. What with those floppy golden ears and sagging lips as his mouth puffed in his sleep. 

“We should be getting ready. The court is practically buzzing at the prospect of celebrating Benji’s first cake day.” You mused, watching as Peter lifted himself and the sleeping prince into a sitting position. 

“They just wish to use it as an opportunity to drink and be merry,” he said, pressing a kiss to the little boy’s forehead as he stirred. 

“Precisely,” you said, circling around the bed to kiss your husband soundly. “So let us drink and be merry, my love.”

The prince in question did not care for the party. Only enjoyed spending time within Lady Cecilia and Queen Freya’s arms with his fist in his mouth. 

Had thanked Lord Bartrand and Lady Cecilia when they offered to take the boy for a while when you and Peter eventually decided to slip out into the gardens, giggling as he laid you down on a his fur cloak beneath a tree on a patch of grass. Watched as the leaves danced above your head. Dappled light casting shadows over your husband’s face. 

“I had dreamed of this once—or something like it,” you muttered dreamily, reaching up and untying the leather keeping his now shoulder length hair tied behind his head. Toyed with the strands as they fell forward. 

He snorted, blowing a strand away from his face. “Did you now?” He curled you up against his side, arms circling your waist. “And what exactly happened in this dream.”

You tugged at the strings of his britches. Freed the shirt from within and ran fingers along bared flesh. Gasped as he leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses into your skin there. 

You reached forward and guided him where you wanted him. Skirts tossed up around your hips as he moved against you. Peppering kiss after kiss against your lips. 

“It started just like this…” You whispered, back arching as his finger brushed against that sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“And then?”

“And then…” 

You shoved him over onto his back, palm pressed against his chest to keep his back rooted to the ground as you moved above him. 

Like in your dream, each roll of your hips another promise. 

You loved him. You cherished him. You worshipped him. You adored him. Would spend every day for the rest of his life reminding him. 

When you parted in a panting tangle of arms and legs, you curled your arms around his waist. Nuzzling your face against his chest as you settled down with him. Basking in the fading summer sun dancing along your skin. 

“To think, when we met we were mere strangers,” you said, thinking back to those early days. 

To your wedding day. Standing before him as a quiet princess, uncertain of who she was. 

“I was a beast to you.” He brushed a hand along your cheek lovingly. 

You remembered those early dinners. The clanging of silverware as you danced around one another. Figured out how to navigate the murky waters of your relationship. 

“We became friends, though.” 

“We did become friends.” 

He kissed your nose as you pictured him. So long ago now in that tent, looking at you overtop your makeshift pillow barricade to separate the two of you. 

“And then there was a flirtation,” you said, running your hand along his chest, moving toward the waistband of his pants. Then lower still until he shuddered against you. 

Your mind conjured up the sight of him in your bathing chamber. Looking over at you with heat swirling in his gaze. And even after still, to those first exploring kisses over a game of hangman’s noose.

“I was a beast again,” he groaned, chuckling. 

You felt your skin as it flushed at the memory of sparring with Peter at the garrison. Mere moments before he confessed he had done the unthinkable and fell in love with you. 

“And now you are my heart,” he said, kissing you soundly as he rolled back over you. 

Making love to you anew in the grass as images of the last months continued to flit across your mind behind your closed eyes. 

Those first moments of new intimacy. The moment you were reunited on the battlefield after the war when you had feared you might never see him again. The first time he had learned he was to become a father. The tentative way his palm had settled over yours that day when you had felt Benjamin quickening for the first time. When he looked at you for the first time with his son in his arms, as if he had fallen in love all over again. 

And even still, as he looked at you now, reverently. Like he had been searching his whole life for a treasure and found it within you. 

The two of you ventured back to court some time later, earning the curious gazes of the other royals who would dare not say anything of what you had gotten up to. Instead, you pushed past them and lifted Benjamin from Lady Cecilia’s arms, as Peter bid the rest of court good night. 

You settled the little Prince down in his bed and smiled at the pair of arms that had come to slide around your waist. Leaning into the warmth of the man leaning his chin against your shoulder. His fingers brushed along the mop of brown hair on Benjamin’s head, your sighs echoing in the chamber. 

“I love you, you know?” You whispered. 

He turned your head to the side, your eyes locking with his. “And I you. I am yours. Until my dying day.”

“And even then.”

“Even then.”

tag-list: @rae-gar-targaryen @spidervee @withahappyrefrain @mrshipsmcgee @squiddtheekidd @ambivalence-is-me @levylovegood @novaalexander @spideysfav @wolfiepirate @withahintofpestoaioli @basicrese @andrews-lovr @nxstalgicnxbxdy @daisiesandinvasives @namoreno @liz-allyn @mysticfluffyness @thrashc4n @dovesandorchids @ouralcohol @bijleegiregi @itsfloorcry @mad-elia @decadentpaperduck @iprobablyshipit91 @aa-li-yxh @ethereal-lovers @standarizedpumpkins

[mellowswriting]

devotion

pairing || Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

word count || 3,442

summary || Bucky never thought he would achieve that life he dreamed of all those decades ago - the idyllic house full of kids and a wife he adores to kiss him when he comes home from work. But of course, you just had to go and prove him wrong.

content || housewife kink, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, dry humping, oral, possessiveness, praise, riding, baby daddy!Bucky being adorable, and also the best husband

a/n || i mean this with my whole chest - sir, put a baby in me 

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist!

Bucky Barnes has always wanted a family. Ever since he was old enough to truly imagine his future, he pictured a pretty wife and a few of his rugrats running around causing chaos. But of course, he didn’t imagine his life going off the fucking rails the way it did. By the time he’s actually in control of his life, gets to decide the direction he goes, the world is an entirely different place. Even so, he found that the picture didn’t change much. It just felt more impossible than ever.

And then he met you.

The first time he caught a glimpse of you is an image so emblazoned in his mind that sometimes he still sees it when he closes his eyes at night. You were laughing at something Sarah had said, your head tossed back with the biggest, most genuine smile on your face. Bucky was enamored in an instant. Before he could think up some excuse to talk to you, Sam swooped in, dragged him over by his arm, and introduced the two of you. He said something about being childhood friends but Bucky didn’t catch anything after that; he was too distracted by the feeling of your soft, small hand in his when you offered a friendly handshake.

The homemade brownies you brought to the bustling cookout completely upstaged his store bought cake. The taste of warm chocolate melting on his tongue had him downright moaning, claiming you must have some sort of magic in you to make something so delicious. His heart races at the way you smile up at him at the compliment and offer to show him how to bake.

It made for a wonderful first date. Your little kitchen was full of laughter as the two of you joked around and baked, and Bucky learned that he wasn’t actually all that bad at baking after all. Turns out, all he needed was a good teacher. The pan of brownies turned out just as perfect as the batch from the cookout and Bucky can’t hide the big, proud smile on his face when he turns to show you. That smile dropped in surprise, his brain completely blanking out at the warmth of your fingers brushing a streak of powdered sugar off of his cheek. He didn’t miss the way your fingertips lingered, like you didn’t want to let go of him and fuck, he didn’t want you to either.

Bucky covered your hand with his own, his metal fingers curling around yours and flattening your palm against his cheek. The smile you gave him was so genuine that he couldn’t help but lean in and kiss you, the first kiss he’s had in decades. He expected to feel a thrill of nerves or excitement, but he just felt… calm.

Right then and there, you became his peace.

It doesn’t take him long to put a ring on your finger. Bucky spent so much time stuck in limbo, wanting but never being able to reach for it, so he isn’t wasting time. Not anymore, not with you. A year and a half later, you’ve taken his last name and bought a new house together. It’s a beautiful place; three bedrooms, high ceilings, a ton of natural light. The area is nice, too. There are parks in walking distance and Sam’s place is only a few blocks away, plus the school district is great.

Which is a good thing, considering he knocked you up within a few months of moving in.

The moment he saw that positive pregnancy test, Bucky’s entire world shifted. Fatherhood becomes him in the deepest of ways, long before your belly even begins to grow. Books begin to take up the empty space on his nightstand and the bedroom closest to the one you share slowly fills with boxes of toys and other things to be put together for the little life that you’re creating. Every piece of knowledge is eagerly consumed by him, especially from those willing to answer his millions of questions.

The one thing that really doesn’t change is that need he feels to pamper you; if anything, it just grows.

The mother of his child, so beautiful and vibrant as you carry his baby in your belly. He couldn’t get enough of you before, but now… now it’s a miracle either of you manage to make it out of bed in the mornings with his wandering hands holding you close and lavishing you with attention. Bucky wants to hold you close, curl himself around you and never let go. But there are responsibilities to be taken care of and no matter how much he pouts as he tries to cage you in his strong arms, he knows there’s still work to do.

Luckily, Bucky’s best friend and the godfather of his child has a lot of pull. Being so close with Captain America has a lot of perks, but his favorite is getting out of unnecessary work to go home to his wife. Everyone knows it keeps him from getting grumpy anyways, so it’s a win all around.

It’s a rarity for him to not bring you something on his way home. Sometimes you text him and complain about not having whatever snack you’ve been craving all day, and who is he to deny you? Bagful of goodies hanging off of his arm, Bucky comes home to the sound of happy music playing lightly and the smell of dinner cooking away in the kitchen. The sight you make takes his breath away.

The fabric of your favorite little sundress flutters around your thighs, the baby bump that swells between your hips stretching the fabric, and he gets the most spectacular view of your ass where you bend over to peek into the oven. The moment you turn around and catch a glimpse of him, a smile breaks across your face and your shoulders relax, your entire body softening as you toss the oven mitt onto the counter and make your way to him.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate to drop the bag on the couch and wrap you up in his arms, his metal hand cradling the back of your head as you bury your face in his chest. This… this right here is all he needs in life. His wife in his arms, his home warm and happy. It’s everything he’s ever wanted - you are everything he’s ever wanted.

“How was your day, honey?” You ask sweetly, your chin propped up on his sternum to look up at him with those big eyes, so full of love.

“Good.” He replies and rubs up and down your back. “Better now that I’m finally home.”

You hum a happy little sound that makes his heart flutter. “Dinner is in the oven - it’s that roast you loved last time. It’ll be done in a few hours.”

A low groan rumbles through his chest. God, Bucky can’t believe how lucky he is to have this life as his own. You’re just so beautiful, so nurturing, already the perfect wife and mother. He could never wish for anything more. “C’mon, let's get you off your feet. I brought you something.”

“Again?” You ask with a laugh. You follow him anyway, let him pull you towards the couch and right into his lap. The curve of your belly presses against his and Bucky can’t help but splay a possessive hand across it. It amazes him to no end that you’re capable of such a thing; creating an entire new life out of next to nothing, nurturing them with your body even long after they’re born.

“You’re really gonna complain about getting everything you want?” Bucky teases, snickering when you smack at his chest lightly. “Let me finish dinner, okay? You should rest.”

Early on in your pregnancy, you would’ve scoffed at him, told him you were pregnant and not injured and could handle yourself - all of which are still true. But the further your pregnancy progressed, the quicker you grew exhausted. Even a simple trip to the grocery store would leave you in need of a nap by the time you got home. Now your shoulders just slump slightly as you regard him with those soft, appreciative eyes. “Are you sure? I can handle it, you’ve been at work all day -”

“I know you can handle it, sweetheart.” Bucky interrupts gently. “But you've been hard at work all day, too. Growing our baby, keeping the home fires burning… you work harder than I do, trust me.”

That gets you to laugh bashfully, the guilt washing away under his kind words and the warm back and forth rub of his hand over your belly. You try to look down, away from his intense gaze, but his fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your gaze right back up to meet his eyes.

“You take such good care of me, of our home… of our little family.” He insists, voice falling to a whisper as his thumb grazes your lower lip gently. “You’re an amazing wife, you know that?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows and nods at you in that emphatic, goofy way of his until he gets you to nod along with him in agreement, and only then does he pull you in by your chin to give you a kiss, a warm brush of his lips against yours that has your eyes fluttering closed with a happy sigh. It takes a moment for you to break away from the distraction of his affection and finally reach for the bag, the plastic rustling between you as you dig through it to find the very thing you’ve been craving for the last few hours: your favorite chocolate bar. It’s such a simple thing, the gift of a candy bar from a man who’s already given you the world. The smile you give him is so tearful and loving, and you say the very words that make his heart explode in his chest.

“You’re gonna be such a good daddy, James.”

It's the use of his first name that does him in even more. Bucky groans and drags you in for a deep kiss, eagerly slipping his tongue into your mouth. He loves the way you hum against his lips and settle further into his lap, the telltale sign that you're about to become the most beautiful, needy little thing. You're already starting to grind yourself down into his lap and Bucky breaks the kiss just to lean back and look at you. This is far from the first time he’s seen you like this - hell, it isn’t even the first time today.

It seemed like the moment your morning sickness relinquished its hold on you, your libido skyrocketed. Suddenly you weren’t constantly having to step outside because the smell of dinner made you nauseous or crying at laundry detergent commercials, and all of that was replaced with a relentless craving for your husband. It’s so easy to make you a writhing, begging mess for him and he loves it.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Bucky coos as he rubs up and down your sides. “You need me again?”

“I always need you.” You whine, finally setting a slow pace against his denim clad thigh. Your fingers fist at his shirt and Bucky watches, completely enraptured as your eyes fall closed and that adorable look of concentration crosses your face. “You make me feel so good, can’t help it.”

Bucky lets you keep going for just a moment, urged on by the gentle hold he has on your hips and the pride he feels at making you feel so good. The fabric of your dress bunches up under the push and pull of his hands as he squeezes and rubs your soft curves. A soft whimper falls from your lips and you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, little kisses and licks gracing his throat seconds later. He can’t get enough of how sensitive you are like this - it's so easy to get you off over and over.

“Go on, cum for me.” Bucky encourages, taking over the slow rock of your hips and guiding you to grind against him harder. His cock twitches in his pants just from the way you cry out his name and shudder as a lazy orgasm pulses through your entire body, leaving you trembling in his lap. “That’s my good girl…”

Bucky’s hands rub up and down your back as you float through that pleasant, full-bodied tingling, content to help you ease back down to earth, but the feeling of your hands slowly drifting down to unbutton his pants tells him you want something else far more. He can’t help but chuckle at your insistence, making you lean back to give him an annoyed look that is so adorable, he can't help but laugh again.

“Don’t laugh at me.” You pout as you slowly lower the zipper of his jeans. “It’s the stupid hormones.”

“Well, I happen to like to stupid hormones.” He teases. Bucky sets you onto the cushion next to him with a gentle pat on your ass and eagerly finishes the job of shoving his pants and boxers off. You’re quick to mirror him, pulling your dress up over your head and barely getting your panties off before he’s pulling you right back into his lap where you belong. You’re both becoming breathless with the neediness of it all, aided along by the sloppy kiss you draw him into. His cock twitches against your bare thigh, aching for your attention after that little show you put on for him. “C’mon, sweetheart… let me fuck you.”

A smirk curls your lips as you slowly stroke his cock, making his head tip back against the cushions, lips parted with a heady sigh. He’s like putty in your hands, so willing and ready to bend to your will. Heat licks up his spine, forces him to finally discard his shirt along with the rest of his clothes.

“I missed you all day, you know.” You pout.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Bucky rocks his hips in time with your slow strokes, struggling to hold back the animalistic urge to slam you back into the couch and fuck you. He wants you to touch your fill, knows you've spent all day thinking about this and he doesn't want to disappoint. “Missed you, too… so fuckin’ much, couldn't even focus on the debrief ‘cause all I could think of was gettin’ my hands on my pretty wife again.”

His words spur you on, make a spark of undeniable need curl even tighter inside of you. You rise up on your knees as you shuffle forward with the help of Bucky’s strong hands at your waist, and a breathless moan rushes out of you as you sink onto his cock. He can barely keep his eyes open at the onslaught of pleasure, his mind shifting into overdrive the moment he feels your warmth enveloping him. Fuck, you’re so wet that he’s buried deep inside of you with no resistance, your body pliant and absolutely begging for him.

The pace you set is slow and deep, something Bucky fucking loves. He feels so close to you like this, with your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders and his around your waist, holding you close while being careful not to put pressure on your belly. The rhythm is easy for him to match and he rolls his hips up as you rock down to meet him, drawing out those sweet whimpers that set his heart ablaze.

“You're doing so good for me, sweetheart.” He whispers, reveling in the way your fluid rise and fall stutters at his praise.

“I love you.” You whisper right back. It’s so sincere, the way the words fall from your lips before capturing his in an almost chaste kiss, as if you need to say it and show it for him to truly understand the magnitude of your words. You need him to hear it and feel it and see it all at once, to be washed out in your love - and fuck, if you don’t succeed.

It’s too much, the overwhelming wave of intimacy and trust and flat out, undeniable devotion threatening to send him over the edge. He can’t have that, not when he hasn’t given you the attention you deserve, so one hand leaves your soft curves to slip between your sweat slicked bodies and tease your clit with those featherlight touches that drive you crazy. He watches with hooded eyes as you use him, your hips grinding in those short, desperate jerks between his cock and the gentle rub of his fingertips, the metal warmed under your touch.

“I love you.” A wild quality has overtaken his voice, something intense tearing through him demanding he voice it over and over - and he does. Bucky whispers the declaration over and over, even as your forehead presses to his and his name starts spilling from your lips, in between the short, desperate kisses you give him.

He doesn’t stop pouring out his love for you, not until his voice is choked off by the feeling of you breaking against him, your face falling to hide in his neck as you cry out his name. You feel like fucking heaven around him as you cum, pulsing around his cock and drawing him even deeper, your body begging him to finish deep inside of you. It doesn’t take much more, just the feeling of your lips latching onto his pulse point and sucking, your teeth and tongue working in tandem to leave a pretty bruise. It won’t last long, but that’s okay. You’ll just leave more.

You don’t bother trying to slip off of his lap. Your husband wouldn’t let you up anyway, those strong arms wrapped tight around your back as his hands drift up and down your back soothingly. Exhaustion floods your body, lets you sink into Bucky’s firm body and breathe in that heady scent of his. You’re at risk of falling asleep on him, something he realizes as soon as your lips stop the little kisses you’ve been gifting his neck.

“How about I get you cleaned up, sweetheart? Then you can take a nap.” Bucky murmurs against your ear, smiling softly when you grumble about not wanting to move. It takes you a moment to gather the motivation to leave his warmth, but eventually you ease back against the arm of the couch - and Bucky finds himself dumbstruck.

Arm tossed up over your head, your legs curled slightly as your other arm comes down to cradle your belly - you’re radiant. Even though you’re exhausted and your skin has a slight sheen of sweat, you look beautiful, vibrant in a way he knows he’ll never tire of. Bucky has to drag himself away from your side, reminding himself that you still need him. He’s sure to bring you a bottle of water along with the warm washcloth he uses to gently swipe between your legs. The sleepy way you blink and smile at him as he takes care of you makes him feel so needed, like he’s doing right by you as your husband.

“Come here,” You whisper, your arms wide to welcome him to squish himself between your body and the back of the couch. It’s a little cramped but he likes it that way; the warm line of your body pressed fully against his is such a simple comfort.

Bucky’s hand settles over yours where it rests against your belly. “I can’t believe there’s a whole person in there.”

“It’s easy to be amazed when it’s not your bladder they’re elbowing.” You say with a light laugh. The little one flutters about at the sound of their daddy’s voice so close, a volley of little movements following as they shuffle around. Bucky’s lips part in awe at the feeling and he follows the feeling of them pressing against his hand. No matter how many times he experiences it, feeling his baby move never fails to amaze him.

“Be nice to your mama,” He whispers before kissing your belly, right where they just kicked. “She’s workin’ so hard for you, the least you could do is be nice.”

“And let me finally eat bacon again.” You grumble.

“And let her eat bacon, apparently.” He adds quickly. Another flurry of movements is the response he gets, and he can’t help but look up at you with a grin. You shake your head fondly at his antics as he continues talking to the baby, your fingers raking through his hair as you doze and bask in the attention of your husband.

{Taglist} 

@h-hxgirl @amneris21 @badassbaker @meshlababy @greeneyedblondie44 @acourtofsnakes @chaotic-fangirl-blog​ @stuckybarton​ @rosie-posie08​ @just-blogging-around​ @jxlystan​ @the-chaotic-cow​ @janebby​ @bloodsuckingbastards​ @mtjoi​ @triggerhappyflygirl​ @asta-lily​ @peterpstuff​ @mummifymecaptain​ @livstilinski​ @jessyballet​ @learning-howto-be-myselfx3​ @ji5hine​ @mswarriorbabe80​ @alleycat2496​ @mrsbentallmadge​ @magicengr​ @petersunderoos96​ @hypnoash​ @buckybby​ @onlyjamesbuchananbarnes​ @girl-lost-not-found​ @creatingjana​ @iamburdened​ @tenaciousperfectionunknown​ @fan-of-encouragement​ @alina02​ @itssmashedavo​ @kirsteng42​ @todorokis-whore​ @beminetokeep​ @goblinsimp​ @everything-burns-down​ @one-hell-of-a-disappointment​ @spicymangoz​

[tenshinokorin]

All right, folks, I'm going to tell you a story about why we need to teach people--especially cis males of a certain age group--to keep their goddamn mouths shut on the street when they feel they have some pearl of wisdom to drop about a stranger's appearance. This is, of course, mostly about me being fat and female-presenting, so it will bring up stuff about fatphobia, street harassment, and various other things. It's also about Stevie Nicks. Mostly, it's because this happened last month and is still bothering me, and that means I've missed my window to magically forget about it, so it has to go on file now with all the other fun street harassment encounters over the years that are likewise taking up valuable space in my brain and that come up to haunt me every time I think about going for a walk on a nice day. So maybe if I can unload this here I can go back to wearing my favorite sweatshirt in peace. 

For starters, I have a Stevie Nicks sweatshirt. I got it on clearance last year and like to joke that it is, in fact, the LEAST SteevishNickery kind of garment to have her face on it, which I think is really funny, like having a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel roof painted on the underside of your tool shed. It's also very soft and oversized and comfy, and it makes my on-the-spectrum brain feel safe and hugged without being smothered. That's a really big deal. It is in no way a flattering garment, and I do not care. I can deal with shit better if I have Stevie emblazoned on my tits, because how could you not feel better with that kind of protection? I've loved her since I was a kid, and of course loved her style as well, although as a fat girl in the 80's my options for imitating her look were limited. The sweatshirt is like a shortcut, though. I have worn this sweatshirt to the emergency room at midnight, I have worn it for days on end during depressive episodes, I have worn it to scary doctor appointments. I might not be able to face stuff myself sometimes, but hey, if Stevie's with me, I feel a little bit better. 

On the day in question I was wearing this sweatshirt because my parents were visiting. That should tell you all you need to know about my relationship with my parents. Especially since I tend to overdress on these occasions to try and preemptively fend off my mother's criticism about my appearance. This time, I said fuck it, I'm tired, I'm sick, I'm wearing Stevie. I'd been out to lunch with my wife and my folks, and since we'd parked downtown a ways from the restaurant and my mom is a little wobbly, I'd gone to go get the car and pick up everybody. 

So I'm walking up a busy downtown street to my car, my brain full of cold meds and the things that it's full of when you're managing aging parents and a relationship minefield, just trying to get the car so my wife won't be left on her own with them too long. And in the corner of my eye I see this guy. And I know. I know by the look of him that he's winding up what he thinks is a real zinger, and I also know by the look of him that he doesn't have the sense to keep his trap shut. I'm in my 40s, I've been fat my whole life, and you develop a sixth sense about these things. I know I don't have time or energy to deal with this kid, so I just keep trucking on to my car, but sure enough as I go by I hear him say: "Wow, it's like a Stevie Nicks made out of a thousand Stevie Nickses." 

I do not have time to deal with this asshole. My mom is right now standing on a street corner with my wife, probably asking her awkward questions about her mental health. I do not have time to whirl on this kid and tell him to shut his fucking face before I put it through the comic-shop window. I do not have the energy to tell him I'm old enough to be his mom and if I was I'd be ashamed to own up to it. I do not have the space to tell him--also fat, only barely groomed and dressed like a drunk toddler--he's no fucking prize himself. I just have to get to the car. 

Only now, my precious Stevie shirt is covered in his invisible shit. I try to reason out of it: maybe it's some Stevie meme I don't know, and he's doing that dumb thing where someone tries to strike up a conversation by referencing something they assume everybody knows, but even if that was the case, I know what's really going on. I had the gall to be walking down the street alone while being fat and female and unsmiling, and some manchild had to let me know what he thought about my body. 

I get in the car. I pick up my family. I go out and spend the day with them. And the whole time this event is still running on a background process in my brain, trying to extract the toxin, or at least dismiss it, so I can forget about it. There's plenty going on, so I think if I can focus on other stuff maybe the encounter will be overwritten and I won't remember it. My favorite safe shirt won't be ruined. 

It doesn't work, of course, or I wouldn't be writing this. I have no idea what we did after I picked them up, or anything in the hours between then and dinner. Memories with my family (problematic as they can be, but still very loved and not seen very often), are blotted out by this fleeting episode. And even though the sweatshirt's been washed multiple times since then and I have never seen that guy again, even though the whole thing took less than ten seconds, there it is, forever, in vivid color every time I wear or even think about my favorite shirt. And coming with it are all the other sidewalk occasions I don't want to remember either, when boys or men would scream at me about my ass from their car windows or from the safety of their groups, when for days after I would analyze everything I had been wearing, how I had been standing or walking, whether or not I was wearing too much makeup or not enough makeup, trying to figure out what I had done to deserve to be the target of ridicule. 

But I hadn't ever done anything except be fat, and nobody deserves mockery and abuse for that. Not you, not me, and not my poor Stevie sweatshirt hiding in my closet. I feel like Mabel Pines being sad about her sweater with the dog dunking a basketball because Pacifica said it was dumb. It's grade-school stuff and shouldn't even be there, either. Nobody should have to put up with this. 

Don't be that guy. Don't let your friends or your kids or anyone be that guy. You want to say something about my shirt? Say "Nice shirt" or "Stevie Nicks is a goddamn Queen." Or maybe just don't say anything at all. 

[kkrazy256]

“ i thought i lost you. ” with my fav bros Fox and Thorn? <3 (all the sentences are soooo good)

Hey Amiko <3 Hope you don't mind that I used this prompt for CommanderFoxWeek @loving-fox-hours

Title: Redemption Inside the Grave

Prompt(s): Day 2: Hope | Forgiveness, "I thought I lost you"

Warnings: None

Characters: Commander Fox and Commander Thorn

Additional Tags: Post- Scipio, Commander Fox Needs a Hug

Word Count: 1821

[On Ao3]

The amount of datawork that sits on Fox’s desk after a mission is usually a good indicator of how it went. 

Good missions start with stacks of blueprints, detailed strategies, and the files of his best troops. These missions end with minimal thanks (it’s expected, it’s what they’re made for. What need is there to show gratitude?), and most troopers on the file with their status update still green and labeled functioning. There isn't much datawork for these types of missions. 

Bad missions start hurried by time and Senators, with minimal preparation, and not enough vode (never enough vode). They end with everyone important mad. Mad at him (of course, who else? He deserves it. He deserves it all. He fucked up. He’s always fucking up). It ends with spitting insults about incompetence and hurling threats of decommissioning. But none of it hurts. At least it never hurts more than the blocks of red (deceased) on the files he has to read through and sign off on. These missions end with more vode coming back in bodybags than on their feet, and Fox can’t help but think, I did that to them.  

The worst missions? It’s the ones where he wakes up underwater, a weight heavier than an anvil over his chest, stealing every breath and pushing him deeper and deeper into the dark. Missions where he does things he doesn’t fully comprehend beyond I followed my orders, I am a good soldier. Only to look back and think, is he?  

It’s holding up his blaster with still hands and perfect calm. It’s taking deadly aim even when he sees the resignation in Rex’s eyes and feels nothing. Nothing until the body hits the floor and he can’t take his own helmet off to pay respects because what right does he have? Because his hands are finally starting to shake, the weight of his actions hitting all at once and dragging him to the bottom of the ocean floor. 

But this, 

Fox looks down at the stack of datapads on his desk. The room is dark, the desk lamp unplugged and on the ground. There are no windows. The air is stuffy and stagnant; he wonders if they are cleaning the vents again. 

The top datapad lights up when he lifts it. The halo of blue illuminates his immediate area. The helmet sitting at the corner looks purple, the visor staring back at him like a void. Every time he blinks, it burns from somewhere behind his eyes. Fox doesn’t remember the last time he truly slept. (Before the ARC trooper, before Scipio —) 

It’s a mission summary report, written hastily enough for there to be a few typos. It’s short, barely a few paragraphs long, and his eyes glide over the words without retaining anything. His focus is on the attached list of updated statuses.

It’s all red. Red Red Red Red.

He thinks these types of missions are even worse than the ones where he doesn’t have control. 

 Red Red Red.

These missions should not end like this. They go prepared, they go with their best. 

Red Red Red.

So why do they end like this?

Red Red Red —

Green. 

The stack of datapads shift slightly, and the desk trembles as a shadow settles on the edge.

“If it breaks, I’m stealing your desk.” He pinches the bridge of his nose hard, and the throbbing ebbs away into something dull. 

“Does that mean you’ll do my datawork too?” Thorn’s voice is light and teasing, but something’s off. He leans forward to pick up the helmet and the blue lights up his face. His eyes are tired, but the crinkling around the edges always betray his mirth. There’s no crinkling there right now; Thorn just looks exhausted. His hands turn the helmet around, fingers tracing over the painted wings on the temples. 

“I’ll do it for Scipio.” Fox blurts out, and the fingers pause. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I do,” Fox doesn’t know why he does, but there’s something pressing in the back of his brain, telling him that he shouldn’t let Thorn do it, “you should get some rest. Remedy would kick your sheb if he finds out you came here instead of to medbay.” 

“Well, you don’t have to snitch.” Thorn sniffs and Fox shakes his head with a scoff. He picks up the stylus to start going over the report in detail.

A gloved hand lands on the corner of the datapad, and Fox looks up. Thorn’s eyes reflect the blue glow, flickering to read the upside-down words. 

“Hawk found me.” Thorn whispers.

Fox remembers the pilot during one of the 501st’s shore leaves. Thorn’s batchmate is slightly more serious than Thorn himself, but they share the same air of wild freedom, unable to be tied down. He remembers them taking off their helmets with matching grins, showing him their twin emblazoned wings. 

“How’d he look?”

“Horrified. Scared.” Thorn’s laugh is humorless, “I thought he was going to kill me himself if I wasn’t a—.....it wasn’t pretty, Fox.” he swallows hard, “there wasn’t much we could do.” 

“...You went with less than two platoons. None of us were expecting the level of activity you got.” 

The hand pulls back, leather creaking under the pressure of a clenched fist, “I lost them all, ori’vod.” 

“But you’re here.” Fox places his own hand over Thorn’s. Everything feels cold, “I...it’s not your fault.” 

“I think if any fingers are to be pointed, it would be towards the commanding officer during the mission, Fox. Which would be me.” 

“You weren’t supposed to be the one leading Scipio.” Fox snarls and the aftermath of his outburst echoes through the room. He takes a shuddering breath.

“I was.”

“Fox…”

The air gets stuck in his lungs, and he kneads his palms into his eyes hard enough to see sparks behind the lids. 

Scipio was supposed to be his mission. But he was—still is, a complete and utter wreck. After the incident with the ARC trooper, he hadn’t had a chance to stop. It became a blur of meetings. With the Chancellor, with Skywalker, with Rex, with his Guard. All with little variation. Everyone just wanted to know, what happened?  

And Fox didn’t have a good answer for any of them.  

He’s so tired.

And Thorn had found him in his office then, just as he did now. He had found Fox sitting at his desk with the stylus in a death grip, staring at plans and contingencies. Found him running on fumes that not even caf could fix at that point. Found Fox in his arms immediately to steady him when he stood and started careening to the side. 

I fucked up, Thorn. I fucked up so bad. 

I’ll go to Scipio. We’ll talk more when I get back, alright? Please get some rest, ori’vod. Please.

And Fox had agreed. Because he was tired.

Tired of seeing the ARC trooper’s bone-white armor out of the corner of his eye every time he started to slip. Tired of the Chancellor’s oily praise for a job well done in killing a vod for the Republic. Tired of Skywalker’s needling curiosity. Tired of Rex not blaming him. Tired of everyone telling him, it’s—

“Fox, it’s not your fault.” Thorn’s words from before the mission mesh with the words that Thorn’s repeating right now. 

“Well, who’s is it then?” Fox snaps, slamming his palms back down on the desk. His vision blurs with random patterns from the prolonged darkness, and Thorn’s image swims in front of him. He had gotten about an hour of unconsciousness before his comm beeped with urgent matters from the Chancellor. He’s been on his feet ever since. 

He should’ve just stole some stims and gone to Scipio. 

“Why aren’t you all angry?” He continues, the plastic of the datapad strains under his grip, “not you, not Stone, not Thire. Not—” He stutters, “not Rex. None of you are, and I don’t understand .” 

“Why do you want us to be, Fox?” 

He falters, heart stuck in his throat. It beats erratically and his stomach turns. 

If they’re mad, there’s something to work with. He can apologize (even if it means absolutely nothing). Amends can be made (how. You fucking bastard, how?) He can fix it. He has to fix it. 

How?

“You want us to be angry because you’re angry with yourself.” Thorn sets his helmet down, leaning forward to study Fox with dark eyes that see through his very core. 

His lips curl upwards.

“Oh, ori’vod. You want us to forgive you.” 

There are tears in Thorn’s eyes. (Or are they his own?) 

Thorn’s forehead presses against his, and Fox presses back with a sobbing exhale. 

“You already have it. We’re not the ones you’re looking for forgiveness from.” 

 A strand of long hair slips from Thorn’s ponytail and brushes against his cheek. It hits Fox with a sudden urge for how things used to be. Back when the war had only just started, and they were all shiny and thought things would get better. Back when he had enough time and energy to sit in the command lounge and braid Thorn’s hair clumsily. 

Hound’s better at this than I am, you know.

Mmm, yeah but I want my ori’vod to braid my hair.

Spoiled little kih’vod. 

“I thought I lost you.” He manages between hitched keening breaths ( when had he started to break down? Just now? Months ago? Two years ago?) 

“I’m never gone, ori’vod.” Thorn hums, reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck. It’s so cold, “Just marching—” 

Far away. 

The door to his office opens, and Fox jumps back. 

“...You alright, Fox?” Stone stands at the entrance, a datapad in his hand. 

Fox blinks, glancing down at the one in his own hands.

The list of troopers stares back, every name in red.

The Separatist Blockade was successfully broken through. Senator Padmé Amidala was safely extracted from Scipio under the command of Jedi General Anakin Skywalker and the 501st Legion. 

No other Republic survivors were extracted. Recovery efforts have been approved and engaged. 

 — CT-4991 (Hawk) 

“Fox?” 

“...What is it?” 

“The recovery mission on Scipio just returned. We’re heading to the crematorium right now.” Stone shifts on his feet, “you coming?” 

“...Yeah.” Fox reaches for the helmet on his desk, red and black without any wings. His eyes feel crusty and swollen. At this point, he has no idea if they’re even open and seeing the right things anymore. 

He’s so tired.

Fox slips the helmet on and stands. The world spins, and he bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood. He walks towards Stone. 

“You sure you’re alright? I could have Thire take the next shift. He’s—” Stone’s breath hitches, “he’s up for promotion now anyway.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Fox says as he passes his Second, stepping out into the hallway.

He’ll be fine.

/

<3

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[hyungieyoongi]

Found: “Run Away to You” Part 1

Let me go.

He was, without a doubt, your hardest goodbye.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Former Actress!Reader 

Word Count: 1.6K

Genre: Fluff + Angst 

Series Masterlist: Run Away to You 

Premise: You ran away from your acting career one year ago, disappearing from the spotlight without a trace. No one from your past life knew where to find you. On the anniversary of your disappearance, your carefully constructed reality is shattered.

// Part 2

---

Looking at the calendar on your wall, the date glared back at you, red marker encircling the number as if you could forget it.

One year. It had been one whole year since you ran away from your old life.

Happy anniversary to me, you thought bitterly.

It hadn’t been easy–no, it had been tactful, strategic. Your best friend-turned-publicist, Marianne, had programmed your social media accounts to simultaneously deactivate. The phone you used for “celebrity” contacts and business-related matters was permanently turned off, stashed away in the back of a drawer. You had already moved all your belongings to a new apartment on the other side of the city, address undisclosed to everyone except Marianne and your parents on the other side of the world. Everything had been in place for you to completely disappear.

You were instructed to lay low for at least one entire month, groceries delivered to your door under a fake name with Marianne’s credit card. You had cut your hair, once long and flowing, to your collarbone. It was often hidden under a baseball hat when you went to your favorite café for a coffee or took your elderly neighbor’s dog for walks around the park. You were completely off the radar, just as intended.

That didn’t stop the world from trying to track you down for a while. Fan blogs speculated where you could have gone, and tabloids splashed old pictures of you on their covers with speculative headlines. Your parents even had to install a state-of-the-art security system in your hometown in the States after a magazine found out where you grew up and tried to break into their backyard. But you weren’t naïve enough to go back home; that was the first place people would expect you to go. Instead, you were hidden in plain sight in Seoul, just sans the flashes of the cameras following you. Without the designer clothes or big sunglasses hiding your features, you looked just like anyone else. Undetectable.  

You had grown up in America, studying acting and Korean during your time at university with Marianne. Upon graduation, you landed a major role in a K-drama, uprooting your entire life to move to Seoul. For five years, you lived in the spotlight under the industry’s microscope. People said you were living the dream, but it started to feel more like a nightmare. It became overwhelming, suffocating.

When the show wrapped after three seasons, you knew it was time. You decided to run. You just wish you didn’t have to hurt anyone else in the process. Especially him.

You had instructed Marianne to give him a letter explaining why you had to go away, but she never heard back from him.

Let me go, Yoongi. Don’t look for me. This is for the best. I will always care about you. – Y/N

The words were emblazoned in your memory, your eyes tearing up at the thought of him reading the words you wrote to him.

Let me go.

He was, without a doubt, your hardest goodbye.  

Your cell phone rang, distracting you from the memories that plagued your thoughts today.

“Good afternoon, dearie!” Marianne chirped on the other end of the phone. “It’s a big day for you. The first half of your manuscript came back from the publisher, so get excited to do some editing!” Hiding away from the world for a year gave you a lot of time to think. For you, that meant time to write. Marianne seamlessly transitioned from being your publicist for your acting career to managing your budding career as an author, even helping you pick out a pseudonym.  

“That’s great news,” you mumbled in reply, taking a long sip of your coffee, the bitterness blooming on your tongue.

“Are you alright? You sound, I don’t know, a little off,” Marianne questioned, concern lacing her normally peppy tone.

“It’s been one year, Marianne,” you replied, knowing she’d understand.

“Oh my,” Marianne said after a beat of silence. “It completely slipped my mind. How are you holding up?”

“I’m alright just a little…weird, I guess? I’m so relieved to have my own life again. But I’m also just kind of mourning my old life today.”

“Oh babe, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Do you want me to come over after work–we can order takeout and watch a movie? Take your mind off things?” Marianne offered.

“No, that’s okay. I think I’m just going to spend the day doing some self-care. We’re meeting tomorrow to discuss the manuscript timeline, right?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll be at the café at 11:00 a.m. Are you sure you’ll be okay today?” Marianne asked, clearly not convinced that you were telling the truth about being alright.

“I’ll call you if I need you, I promise,” you reassured her.

“Night or day, Y/N, you know I’m here.”

After you both said your goodbyes and ended the call, you started to feel restless, needing something to take your mind off the date and the competing emotions swirling in your brain. You decided fresh air and comfort food were the solution.  

Grabbing your keys off the table by the front door, you slipped on your shoes, heading for the local corner store in your neighborhood, mindlessly forgetting your hat on the hook on the wall.

---

Mask pulled over the lower half of his face to conceal his appearance, Yoongi slipped into a nearby corner store, saving himself from the prying eyes that seemed to be examining him a little too closely from across the street.

He had snuck out of the studio without security, wanting to just take a moment to breathe all to himself. He had driven around Seoul with no destination in mind, eventually stopping in a neighborhood he found with a quiet park for a walk. His thoughts betrayed him as they kept going back to you and the letter he received one year ago, now crumpled in the top righthand drawer of his desk. He didn’t need to pull it out today to remember exactly what it said.

Let me go.

Once he read those words, he had stopped reading, smashing the paper together between his fists in frustration, shoving it in the drawer. It had stayed unopened since last year.

Yoongi aimlessly wandered through the aisles of the store, his mind continuously returning to that drawer. He had worked so hard to stop thinking about it–about you–over the past year. Today was a harsh reminder that you were still on his mind. He had stopped calling a long time ago, knowing that you wouldn’t pick up or return his calls. Sometimes though, if he had a little too much to drink with the boys, he’d call your number just to hear your voice on the voicemail recording. He didn’t tell anyone about those late-night calls.

Rounding the aisle corner, he collided with someone, knocking the snacks they had bundled in their arms to the ground. They immediately knelt down, trying to collect them.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you,” Yoongi offered, starting to lean over.

“Oh, no that’s okay I’ve got it.” Yoongi froze, his body going rigid. That voice. Your voice. He hadn’t heard it in-person in over a year. The sweetness of it rang through his ears, reminiscent of the voicemail he knew by heart.

It was you. After all this time.

---

Standing up with your snacks back safely in your grasp, you looked at the man in front of you who seemed to be barely breathing.

You were about to ask if he was alright, but then you recognized it. The black hat–the one with two rings on the edge that he would often wear when he went out. His mask had slipped below his nose, his pale cheeks slightly squished under the pressure of the fabric. Black hair poked out from underneath the hat, falling onto his forehead and into his dark brown eyes. They were wide with shock.  

You felt the color rush from your face, hands beginning to shake because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were safe. Safe in your self-made bubble away from the world.

Until he found you. And it burst.

You contemplated turning around, pretending you hadn’t recognized him. Leave him again. But you knew that wasn’t an option now. You had to face the thing you were most scared of–him.

“Yoongi, I-” your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“Your hair,” Yoongi remarked, cutting you off, tone flat and quiet. “You cut your hair.” His eyes narrowed at you.

You swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “Just...wanted a change, I guess.”

Hide. You wanted to hide.

“You seem to have gone through a lot of changes,” Yoongi said, bitterness seeping into his voice.

You winced at the implication of his words. You took a deep breath to try and collect yourself before replying.

“Can we...can we not do this here?”

“Fine.”

“I live around the corner. Maybe we could just...talk?” you asked, averting your eyes to the ground. When you didn’t hear a reply, you looked back up to Yoongi, who nodded at you once in agreement.

Abandoning your would-be purchases, you walked out the front door of the store, Yoongi silently following behind you. You felt his eyes burning into your back.

Just put one foot in front of the other, you thought to yourself.

As you and Yoongi silently walked to your apartment, neither of you noticed the camera pointed at the two of you, snapping the photo that would change everything.

// Part 2

---

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[cinnaminsvga]

A Boy Like You | Yoongi

→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff → warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is → words: 11.5K → a/n: whaddup kids it’s ya girl... back from the dead after months of not writing shit, and what’s this owo... it’s a fluff fic?? miracles do happen... anyway i wrote this bc i just thot “man, wouldn’t it be super epic if i wrote a super self-indulgent fic where yoongi fulfills every single one of my deepest desires?” well... here is THIS!! pls feel free to scream into a pillow bc i certainly did!! enjoy!!

There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:

The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.

You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are left cold and umbrella-less.

You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.

Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.

In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered “thanks” leaving your lips.

He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.

He doesn’t find the words after all. You aren’t too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid getting wet.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you can return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.

You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm.

x x x x x

Umbrella boy has a name, and he happens to work on the same floor as you. You know this because he is standing right in front of you in all his bespectacled glory.

He ducks out of view the moment your eyes meet his. There is a stack of folders in his arms, and he bows his head until his nose touches manila. It’s too late––he knows you caught him staring. He scurries behind walls of filing cabinets and desk cubicles, desperate to get back to his desk where he hopes you’ll never find him.

The office floor is large, but it is not large enough to hide in. It takes only a few minutes until you find him hunched over his desk, every inch of space taken by enough towers of paper to cover a forest. It is no wonder that you never encountered your mysterious umbrella boy; he does a wonderful job of blending in.

Your eyes trail his form, not out of any perverse intent, but just out of curiosity. You never would have guessed from his unassuming and meek nature, but the boy is devastatingly beautiful. The devil is in the details: you admire the soft slope of his nose to the adorable pout of his lips. His eyelids are charmingly mismatched and his cheeks are begging to be pinched. It takes a year’s worth of self-restraint to keep your hands at your sides, if only so you don’t scare him away before you can even introduce yourself.

(You can already imagine your HR department contacting you about nonconsensual manhandling… You admit that you tend to get overzealous with your affection, especially when confronted with cute things. This boy would definitely need to watch out for you if he knows what’s best for him.)

((Also note to self: Stop having these psychopathic conversations with yourself. Being stuck inside the cage which is your brain is torture enough, so let’s not encourage it to get worse.))

There is a lanyard laced around his neck, the gaudy orange color of your company’s logo emblazoned across the thin material. And just out of your line of sight, you catch a glimpse of his ID. His name is––

“Y-Y/N?” He stutters out–no–he squeaks. Ah, so he’s noticed you. The folder in his hand slips out of his grasp, an avalanche of white tumbling all over his lap. He curses loudly, frantically sweeping away the mess under his desk, as if he could somehow magically make them disappear if he just kicked them hard enough. Unfortunately, the papers stay stubbornly tangible, and he is left with a halo of accounting reports around his workspace as a result.

“Are you… umm…” You hesitate with your words, fearing that any sudden movement on your part might cause umbrella boy to combust on the spot. “Do you need help… picking those up?”

“I–Well, no–Yes, but–” His sentences are stilted, his brain struggling to catch up with his tongue. He clamps his mouth shut, then shakes his head like he’s trying to reboot himself. Finally, after a few more deep breaths, he goes, “No. I’m fine. Thank you for offering.” He says that, but he appears awfully content with staring holes into the keyboard of his laptop when he is speaking to you though.

“Still… I’m terribly sorry for startling you,” you say, lips tugging downwards into a frown. You should have guessed he was skittish from how he had acted yesterday, but it’s quite a surprise to see one man so… disastrous, for lack of a better term. It’s awfully cute. “I just wanted to properly introduce myself and thank you for lending me your umbrella yesterday, but it seems like you already knew who I was.”

His face does a weird thing then and there. It almost appears like he was caught in a time loop, like someone was manually reversing and replaying his facial expressions like a video. It takes a few minutes for his little stroke to settle down, but even then, his cheeks remain a rosy pink. “I–I just… remembered your name during the company retreat the other month. I’m not weird or anything, I swear!”

“Well luckily, I was never going to accuse you of being weird anyway!” You laugh, trying to ease the perpetual look of anxiety on his face. However, it only seems to worsen his nerves with how quickly his skin starts to redden. “In fact, I should be apologizing for not remembering your name, Mister..?”

“Min Yoongi,” he replies, pausing for a second too long. He must have realized his delay because he coughs awkwardly into his forearm, averting his gaze away from you in a futile attempt to become nothing more than an abstract thought.

He must be equipped with some sort of superpower, because you’re starting to feel his secondhand embarrassment flood through you like a tsunami. Are you that difficult to converse with? Does he want to be left alone so badly that he’s trying to subtlely tell you to fuck off?

You’re about to start apologizing and scurry off back to your desk in barely concealed mortification when Yoongi clears his throat, his gaze fixed somewhere to your right. Whatever caught his attention must have been revolutionary with how large his eyes are, although last you remember is that the wall behind you is the same dull jailcell gray that you have come to know and hate.

“I just… I’m sorry if I’m acting odd right now. I just wasn’t expecting you to come to my cubicle and I would’ve… I don’t know, tidied up? If I knew you were coming,” he mutters, propping his glasses back up when they start sliding down his nose. They make their slow descent back down immediately after, forever on an endless cycle of up and down his face.

“You don’t have to clean up just for me! I’m not your manager or anything,” you say, surveying the absolute disaster zone that is his workspace. For his benefit, you sure hope that he has a map of his desk and filing cabinets, as it would have been a miracle otherwise if he memorized where anything was located in his personal office sty. “Though, it would be nice if you could see the bottom of your desk every once in a while.”

To your immense surprise, Yoongi lets out a resounding laugh at your quip. Though Yoongi isn’t a mute by any means, it isn’t like he spoke with much volume either. You hadn’t even thought your joke was funny enough to deserve a strained Caucasian™️ smile, so you appreciate that he had considered that you were even slightly funny. You love the pleasant tinkling of his laughter, so genuinely joyous that you can’t help but want to make a fool of yourself just so you can hear it again and again.

When Yoongi stops, the familiar reddish hue that has made a home on his cheeks resurfaces, though it’s less from embarrassment now. His shoulders are more relaxed, and he doesn’t look like he wants to crawl out of his skin as much. He still has eyes averted away from you, however. “Sorry. I don’t know why I laughed too hard at that. I’m normally not this weird… I think it’s just the nerves.”

You cock your head to the side. “Nerves? From what?”

Yoongi freezes, mouth gaping open slightly. “I, umm…” He coughs into his white button-up sleeve, pupils shaking as he formulates a response. “Just from… work. Yeah, I just have a lot of paperwork to do this week and I’ve been, er, having difficulty relaxing.”

Yoongi visibly breathes a sigh of relief when you accept his flimsy excuse, not really lingering on the validity of his statement. “Oh, sure! Don’t overwork yourself too much, okay?” you say, smiling sweetly back at him. He stares, wide-eyed, not really sure how to go on with his life after he’d been blasted by the full force of your grin.

God, you hope you remembered to use a toothpick during lunch. Was there spinach in your teeth? Oh fuck.

“Gah,” he intones, his brain not fully cooperating with his mouth just yet. If you were any more socially inept, you’d probably be doing the same. Eventually, he clears his throat and tries again. “Uh. Yes. I’ll try to do better next time.”

Feeling like you’ve overstayed your visit, you decide that it might be best for you to leave him be before either of you do or say anything more awkward and stupid. Before you turn to leave however, you decide to extend your hand forward, hoping to erase all the previous awkwardness between the both of you and hopefully start afresh. Even though you’ve only just met, you can’t help but feel drawn to him, wanting to see him again and somehow gain his friendship. “Hey, no sweat. It was really nice meeting you, Yoongi-ssi.”

“Just Yoongi is fine,” he says, almost like an afterthought. He’s so busy staring at your proffered hand that you are afraid that you might have offended him unknowingly or something. Does he think you don’t wash your hands? Given by the fact that your office’s manager refuses to restock the soap dispensers at the washrooms, that isn’t that much of a stretch. Or maybe he was weirded out by your random handshake? Have handshakes become antiquated these days? Are the kids no longer doing it? Are you supposed to do those awful brohugs like the fresh-out-of-college interns do in the breakroom? Oh God, does Yoongi think you’re old?!

While you were in the midst of your mental breakdown, you soon begin to realize why Yoongi had contemplated returning your handshake for so long. Instead of taking your hand immediately, Yoongi rubs his own two palms together first, much like how one would when warming their hands in front of a fire. He takes care to blow on them slightly before grasping your hand firmly in his, finally bestowing you with your much awaited handshake.

“Umm..?” You stare at your intertwined hands, a little confused about the previous series of events that just happened five seconds ago. Yoongi, in all his adorable and flustered glory, releases your hand much too quickly like he’s been shocked, most likely realizing (belatedly) that what he had done might not be as clear to an observer as it is to himself.

“Oh, I – I’m so sorry about that, again.” Yoongi stutters, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s just – my hands are really cold so I was trying to warm them up before I held your hands. I’m – I only just realized how odd that must have looked. Sorry.”

A rush of endearment and warmth surges through you as you behold this high strung boy, your heart flooded with a mix of emotions that make you feel gooey and blissful in one perfect package. No, this boy is the perfect package, all soft edges and blushy cheeks. It’s going to take a mountain and a room of vengeful deities to stop you from walking past his desk to catch a glimpse of him at this rate.

Oh God, you’re whipped already and it’s only been a few minutes since you said hello. He warmed his hand for you for heaven’s sake! Surely your enthusiasm can be excused in this one instance.

“That’s, uhh…” Now it seems that it is your turn to be at a loss of words, your throat clogged with a clump of newly discovered feelings that you don’t have enough time to sort through at the moment. The hamster running circles inside your brain has long since ground to a halt, and if Yoongi is going to keep staring at you with those charming cat eyes for any longer, you aren’t sure you’ll be able to convince the little vermin inside your skull to puppet your body again. “That’s… really sweet. Thank you.”

Thank you? Really, Y/N?

“It’s, uh, no problem. Really.” And with that, Yoongi presents to you his most deadly smile to date: blinding whites coupled his prominent pink gums, with his cheeks stretched like proofed dough that make his dark eyes disappear. Is there a pencil wedged inside your chest cavity, or were you just spontaneously having a heart attack? It’s hard to say; all you know is that your organs have turned to slush, and you make a mental note to send the imminent hospital bill to a certain Min Yoongi.

Cause of hemorrhage: being too fucking cute.

With your daily dose of embarrassment fulfilled, you turn to leave with short stilted steps, as if you have to force yourself away from him like those stubborn souvenir shop magnets that never come off the fridge. “I guess I’ll see you around?” you say more like a question, unsure if he’ll even want to ever see you after that disaster of an interaction. Kim Namjoon from Accounting would be entirely too delighted if he ever found out that he wasn’t the most awkward human being in the office.

“Sure? I’ll just be here. As always,” Yoongi replies kindly, same gummy grin on his face, albeit a little more hesitant. “It was nice speaking to you, Y/N.”

When he returns his attention to his workspace, it serves as a signal to you that you really should be going. Before you leave, you take note of the subtle red tint of his ears that reaches the back of his neck, the gentle tremor of his hands as he reorganizes the files that he had previously dropped. It makes you feel odd for relishing in the fact that you hadn’t been the only one feeling the tension between the two of you, though that doesn’t help lessen the confusion that soon follows anyway.

Why are you so drawn to him? You have never felt so strongly for someone this quickly, and frankly it sort of frightened you. You’re too afraid to confront that blossoming curiosity inside of you. No, it’s much too soon for that. For now, however…

“Oh shit. I totally forgot to give him back his umbrella,” you curse yourself once you return to your desk. The smiling face of Kumamon looks at you knowingly, as if this had been planned all along.

Well. Now you have an excuse to see him again tomorrow, at least.

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his tenderness quietly. It would go something like this:

Company dinners shouldn’t feel like as much as a punishment as it does, but that’s just how social gatherings with semi-professional coworkers are like. No one here really wants to be there, but the carefully worded e-mail sent to the entire company clearly suggests that this was more of a “go to the party or risk getting fired” type of deal than anything remotely enjoyable. As much as free food and booze are often harbingers of a good time, it hardly makes any difference when your inebriated boss spends the entire time chatting you up in front of the presence of a dozen or so indifferent associates.

“Oh, Y/N! Good job securing that deal with Mister Park the other day. It’s all thanks to my valuable tutelage, is it not?” your manager guffaws, slapping your back with misplaced camaraderie. He leaves his warm, sweaty palm there, feeling it slide an inch lower than you were comfortable with anyone being. The smell of cheap wine on his breath is making you feel nauseous, and the tacky black and white tiled flooring isn’t doing anything to lessen the incoming migraine.

“Right,” you say with a tight-lipped smile, unable to say anything else lest you lose your job over something silly like establishing boundaries. It’s no wonder that the number of female employees on your floor has significantly dropped over the years, especially with rumors attaching themselves like maggots all over your stupid manager’s name. You wouldn’t be surprised if his stomach exploded ala Alien (1979) style with how much bullshit resides in his body and soul.

You’ve long since given up on anyone saving you, not when everyone was either too busy taking advantage of the free food or too scared to confront your shitty boss. You resign to your fate, ready to scrub yourself clean with a brick once you get home in a futile attempt to rid yourself of the feeling of his hands on you.

That is, until someone clears their throat from behind you.

Salvation comes to you wrapped in a crisp white button-up, thick-rimmed glasses, and cat-like eyes. You almost want to start breaking into Gregorian chant just then to fully express your gratitude to the deities of above for sending an angel in your time of tribulation.

“Excuse me,” the (welcome) intruder says, voice quiet but clear even amidst the cacophonous music and chatter. Min Yoongi steps forward until he is to your right, and you don’t miss the way his shoulder “accidentally” bumps your manager hard enough for him to drop his hand from your back. When Yoongi smiles at your manager, it is all teeth and no mirth, his eyes carefully blank.

Thankfully, your manager isn’t quite as fortunate in his brains department as he is in his stomach. “Oh, Yoongi! It is so nice to finally see you attend one of our social functions. You are enjoying yourself, I hope?” your manager asks, guffawing loudly despite no joke being said. You never did quite understand how some men think they are the most hilarious thing to ever exist since clowns, though you suppose your manager was only missing the red nose to complete the look.

“Thrilled, Mister Lee. Absolutely thrilled,” Yoongi says in a dead monotone voice. You can’t help but giggle at his sarcasm, and Yoongi points a wicked grin back at you before returning to his neutral and passive “work” face.

The sarcasm flies over your managers head like you expected, though you can hardly blame the alcohol for his lack of cognizance. You wouldn’t be half surprised if you knocked lightly on his head, only to hear a resounding echo following thereafter.

“I have never seen you at any of our parties before, Yoongi. What’s with the sudden change of heart?” your manager asks.

“Sir, I’ve attended every single social gathering since I was hired,” Yoongi says plainly, his composure never faltering. He must have better control than you, because you’re sure you would’ve barely held yourself back from smacking your manager had it been you. Though in fairness, you aren’t sure if you’ve ever noticed Yoongi at any of the other parties before this one either.

“Oh really? Well then, you mustn’t have said hello before then!” your manager laughs, patting Yoongi on the shoulder. “Always so enigmatic, our dear Yoongi! Well, keep up the good work.” When your manager turns his attention to speak to another one of your poor coworkers, Yoongi visibly gags from behind your manager’s back, grimacing as he pats away all traces of that foul man’s hand germs away from his dress shirt.

“Gross. Now my sleeve is damp,” he mutters, just audible enough so that only you could hear. You laugh out loud at that, nodding in understanding.

“Same here. There’s probably a gross sweaty handprint on my back now,” you say, wincing when you do feel a noticeable damp spot near the small of your back. “Ugh, what a pig.”

“Tell me about it,” Yoongi shakes his head, making a move to get away from your awful manager. He gestures for you to follow him, and you are more than happy to oblige.

“Thanks for saving me, by the way,” you add, keeping in step with him. He leads you out of the disorienting ballroom, though he doesn’t head towards the exit like you had expected. He appears to know the building much more than you do, given by how assuredly he walks. Either that, or he could be leading you to a deadend, but confidently.

“No problem. You honestly looked like you were about to punt him across the room, though I doubt anyone would be opposed to that magnificent spectacle,” Yoongi jokes, same mischievous grin from before decorating his face. He is so different from the taciturn man you had met two weeks ago, back when he had half-hidden behind his desk like an animal being cornered. Though, that might not be the best analogy to think of, as it only painted you as some sort of predator who came after meek and soft-looking men. Which you aren’t. Hopefully.

“Oh, I would’ve done more than just that, so really he should be thanking you for saving him,” you snort, and Yoongi chuckles lightly in response. Like before, his laughter is just as pleasant as you remember. Your greedy heart yearns to elicit the same sound from him once more, for as many times as you can muster before the night ends.

You had been so immersed in trying to keep up with his quick strides that you don’t notice where exactly he has taken you. The two of you haven’t gone too far away from the ballroom before he stops right in front of a metal double door, the neon green exit sign about it glowing conspicuously in the otherwise dimly lit corridor. He pushes it open, allowing the cool evening air to blow across you and your hand-me-down dress.

“Are we… at the balcony?” you ask, though the view that greets you is answer enough. How Yoongi could have known where the balcony is, you can’t say for certain. But any sort of question dies on your lips when you see how beautiful the skyline is: the stars and city lights twinkling indiscriminately, the sound of nightlife and traffic sounding loud despite the streets being so far away, the smell of ozone signalling an oncoming storm.

This, of course, is what you imagine the view to be like. You know, if the ever reliable Seoul smog wasn’t there to obstruct any sort of magical, romantic view that you should have been privy to.

“Oh damn. I forgot the smog forecast today was especially bad,” Yoongi groans from beside you, quickly shuffling through his pant pockets for a face mask. He procurs two black masks, still in their plastic packaging, and hands one of them to you. “Jesus. Sorry about this. Didn’t expect the smog to be so bad… We can just go back inside, if you want?”

Then, you are reminded of your manager, who is basically pollution incarnate with how terrible his breath is. So, you accept Yoongi’s proffered mask and promptly put it on. “Yeah, no thanks,” you say, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. The implication of your acceptance makes Yoongi grin cheekily back at you (or so you think, guessing by how his eyes crinkle cutely above his mask.)

Now properly equipped to not inhale disgusting air matter into your lungs, you step out farther across the balcony, enjoying the way the cool night breeze feels against your alcohol flushed face. (Though, if you were being honest, the heat on your cheeks has less to do with the meager flute of champagne you had earlier and more to do with the company you currently find yourself with.)

“I fucking hate these company dinners,” you whine a little bit too petulantly, complete with the jutted lip of a child who has been forced to wait as her mother engages in an eternity long conversation with an acquaintance. You lean against the railings near the edge of the building, watching idly as Yoongi does the same. “Don’t you think that if they wanted us to get ‘closer’ with one another, they’d first want to address the fact that some of our coworkers happen to be pigs dressed in white collared shirts?”

Yoongi snorts at that, his right hand immediately coming up to his mouth to silence the unflattering sound. Not that it wasn’t completely charming to you, but you do enjoy the slight abashment that blooms across his face shortly thereafter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh like that. But, I do agree with you… I can’t say that anyone in our department is especially fond of that Habsburg motherfucker.”

Maybe it was the little bit of alcohol in your system, or perhaps it was the sudden rush of realizing that Yoongi is strangely attractive when he swears, but the laugh that exits your mouth sounds a touch too crazed for your liking. Either that, or perhaps you’re finally dying from the pollution.

Luckily for the both of you, it seems that Yoongi likes your weird laugh just as much as you like his. He tries to hide a smile before continuing, “Like, come on! I’m sorry for saying that because attacks on physical appearance is always a low blow, but why the fuck does that dude look like he’s been compressed and flattened on Photoshop? He’s got perpetual flat-face syndrome. You could -  you could land a damn plane on his face or some shit.”

The cork inside of your bursts, and you let out the most ungodly guffaw in your life. You don’t even have the time to be embarrassed by how loud your howls are, not when every word he says hits the mark a little bit too close to home. There’s nothing quite as pleasing than sharing mutual dislike for the same person, and it fills you with the utmost glee that Yoongi is no exception to that rule.

“Oh god… You’re right. You are absolutely right. I seriously can’t believe anyone can put up with him. I mean, the damned bastard couldn’t even remember my name until two weeks ago,” you say, shaking your head in disgust. The first few times he had forgotten, you had been gracious enough to laugh away his mistakes as little more than that: mistakes. But when five years pass and peanuts-for-a-brain still hasn’t deemed that remembering your name to be as important as when the “next big Game™” is, then it’s easy to understand the depth of your resentment towards your manager.

“Are you for real?” Yoongi asks, brows raised in shock. “How could anyone ever forget you – I mean, shit, uh,” Yoongi coughs suddenly, red-faced. You tilt your head in confusion, waiting for him to finish. He’s still kind of spluttering when he continues, “What I meant to say is… H-how could anyone forget their employees name after working here for so long?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I have no idea. Honestly, I think he’s trying to purposefully forget everything I tell him. One time, he had asked me what plans I had for Christmas, and I mentioned to him how I was going to be visiting my parents back home, and he has the gall to ask what country I’m from. Like???” Your face contorts as if you had eaten an entire lemon, so wracked with disbelief that Yoongi can see the hypothetical question marks floating above your head. “Bitch, do I look foreign to that bastard? I’ve lived here all my life!”

Yoongi hums, thoughtful. “Your parents live just an hour away from here, right?”

“I… Yeah, they do,” you reply. You eye Yoongi curiously, watching his all-too familiar flush resurfacing on his neck once more. “Wait… How do you know that?”

“You… You were talking about them, once. To Seulgi? Yea, you were, um…” Yoongi coughs unassuredly, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous tick of his, you suppose. “It was a year ago? Something about visiting them during the weekend… Not that I was eavesdropping on purpose! I would never, er, do that…”

You don’t even register his embarrassment as you are mostly shell shocked that he had even remembered that little tidbit from over a year ago. Hell, you didn’t even remember going to your parent’s house until he mentioned it. “No it’s fine, I get it. I’m just surprised that you even bothered to remember that.”

Now it’s his turn to look at you strangely. “Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I?”

You stare at him in disbelief. Fluttering of wings begin to erupt in your stomach, but you hardly have the peace of mind to fully grasp why you were even feeling so flustered in the first place. It was just that he had said it so… matter-of-fact, like there was no possible way he could’ve forgotten even if he tried. It was kind of disconcerting, but flattering all the same. But more importantly--

“Wait, you’ve been working at the company since last year? How have I never seen you before this month?!”

“Oh,” Yoongi coughs out a laugh, scratching the end of his nose. He turns his gaze away, looking anywhere but you. “I was just, umm… Really quiet? I don’t really talk to anyone unless I need to. I’m more of a listener.”

“Oh my God, now I feel even more terrible for not knowing your name! I must look like an egotistic bitch to you,” you despair lowly, cupping your face into your hands in shame. You feel another pair of cold hands clasp your wrists, and you watch in shock as he pulls your palms away with a determined expression.

“What? Of course not. You are definitely not an egotistic bitch, Y/N. In fact, you’re the complete opposite,” Yoongi whispers, so quiet that you might have imagined it. He grasps your hands tightly, like he’s desperate for you to believe him.

You stammer in embarrassment, staring wide-eyed at Yoongi as you try to regrasp your comprehension skills. It’s especially hard to concentrate with how close Yoongi is to you, the latter unaware of his own proximity. He had stepped closer towards you to hold your hand, and normally you hated it when people touched you without permission, but somehow… This was alright.

(Unbeknownst to you, this will not be the first time that Yoongi becomes your secret little exception. It’s only the first of many.)

“I-I don’t really know what to say?” Your gaze is locked on his firm grip on your hands, the only thing flitting through your mind: damn, this dude’s hands really are fucking freezing!

It takes another few seconds for Yoongi to calm down, and you know when it happens because the realization of what he had said makes itself apparent on his expression. He turns beet red in a second, stepping away from you with his arms flying off of you like those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, taking two steps away from you. You almost take two steps forward to keep the distance closer, but you have a feeling that he would keep walking away from you until you both inevitably fall off the balcony, so you smartly choose to stay away (even if it pains you to do so). You wait for his breathing to settle, all the while still reeling from his blatant confession just moments ago.

Could you even consider it a confession? Were you being delulu, or is there some sort of connection that you and Yoongi were both feeling?

“Yoongi, it’s fine! Really,” you smile wryly, raising your hands towards him open-faced, much like how you would do when approaching an agitated animal. Like a nervous kitty, you think privately to yourself. “I’m really flattered that you feel so… strongly?”

“I’m… I’m really not like this normally. Honest,” Yoongi says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I… I never… do that. Whatever that was. Umm.”

Because you’re a freak of nature and enjoy exacerbating awkward social interactions, you decide to respond to him like this: “No worries, I’m flattered, honest! But hey, maybe next time you try to give me a compliment, you could look me in the eye?” You know, like an asshole. Who points out people’s social anxieties like that? You bitch!

On cue, Yoongi’s cheeks bloom into cherry blossoms once more. “I––I, I didn’t mean to––uh!” he stammers.

“No, no, I’m sorry for even saying that!” You apologize profusely, bowing so low that he could probably see the top of your spine. “I didn’t mean to tease you like that! I’m sorry! That was seriously out of line!”

What a pair the two of you were… Like two trains crashing into each other at mach speed, continuously and eternally. A constant and ongoing catastrophe!

(The little gremlin living inside your brain is knocking at your empty skull, whispering deviously, “But doesn’t that make the two of you the perfect pair?”)

When he doesn’t respond back immediately, you have to wrack up enough courage to look back at him. You gasp audibly when you do, and you have to forcibly grip the insides of your bicep to keep yourself from squealing in pure anguish.

Because there, right before your very eyes, is a blushing Min Yoongi looking you straight in the eye with his face squished between his hands, as if he’s forcibly keeping his head locked in place. His pupils are noticeably shaking and his brows are furrowed in concentration, but he’s looking at you. Like you asked.

He’s… He’s too…

“Okay, let me try this again.” Yoongi takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what may be the most embarrassing thing he has ever done in his life. “Y… You’re a great person, Y/N. I hope you know that,” he whispers, voice trailing off by the end of his sentence.

He’s dry heaving like he’s just finished a marathon, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You’re worried if he even remembers how to blink with how intensely he’s staring you down, but you can’t bring yourself to ask him when your heart is quite literally beating out of your chest like a cartoon character from the 80’s.

“I…” You’re at a loss of words. If Min Yoongi can capture you like this with just a look, then think of how much more powerful he would be if he just learned how to use it. You’re slipping into real dangerous waters, and you don’t know if you’re just a frog in boiling water or if this is where you were meant to be all along.

“Yoongi, I didn’t mean for you to… force yourself like that, really…”

The moment breaks, finally, when Yoongi begins to cry.

“Shit!” you both exclaim, but for two different reasons. “Are you okay? Oh my god!” you reach out for him, not even thinking when you cup his cheeks in your hands. He gently pushes you away with one hand, while the other goes to scrub at his tears.

“Yes, I’m fine! A piece of dust got caught in my eye and I was too slow to blink it away,” he explains, still wiping at his cheeks. He pulls his mask down to his chin, pouting cutely at you. “Sorry. I’m not used to looking people in the eye yet. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Oh my god. At this point, you’d be surprised if your heart was located anywhere near your body. You were running purely on autopilot, so enamored by the boy in front of you that you could almost faint. He was entirely too unreal, unbelievably so. Perhaps, if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to find your heart again, and you know the first place where you’d look.

“Give it back,” you mumble, and Yoongi tilts his head at you in confusion.

“Sorry? Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” you reply, reaching over him and snapping his mask back on his face. You laugh as he splutters in surprise, floundering about overdramatically as if the elastic on the mask had done any damage to him at all. “Oh, stop it. You’re just being silly now.”

“Hey, I have delicate skin! You never know,” he jokes, but stops when you give him an unimpressed look.

“Sorry,” he laughs again. “And well, since I keep saying sorry today, and you look like you could use a little warming up, do you wanna leave this place and get some coffee? My treat.”

And really, who were you to say no to that?

And really, who were you to say no to Min Yoongi?

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his thoughtfulness quietly. It would go something like this:

A steaming hot coffee cup from the nearby cafe manifests itself on your desk one Monday morning. In your sleep-deprived haze, you had originally failed to realize that there was a hand connected to that cup and that it hadn’t actually just materialized from thin air like you had thought. After much blinking and staring, you crane your head up to see Jesus standing in front of you, his glasses still fogged from the outside chill.

“I got you a drink. I hope I remembered your order right,” Yoongi says in lieu of a greeting, a small smile gracing his lips as he watches you lethargically reach over for the cup to lift the lid open. His grin widens when he sees your eyes light up at the sight of little marshmallows bobbing up and down in your hot chocolate, bits of whipped cream already melting away from the heat. When you take a sip, you breathe a content sigh, your eyelids fluttering shut.

“Yoongi, I’m going to kiss your feet right now and you can’t stop me,” you say, upper lip lined with cream and sugar. Yoongi’s hand twitches by his side, but he doesn’t move.

“Even if I have toe fungus?”

“Especially if you have toe fungus,” you say, downing as much hot chocolate down your throat without choking and barfing all over him.

From the rim of your cup, you can see that Yoongi still has his parka on, his signature black mask pulled down his chin indicating that he’s only just arrived at the office. It makes your heart jump a little, knowing that he went straight to you first before anyone else that day.

“I still don’t understand how you hate coffee. Like, I don’t think I’d be able to be conversing with you right now if I didn’t have caffeine running through my veins,” he says, staring at you(r lips) as you chew a marshmallow thoughtfully.

You want to tell him that Yoongi doesn’t talk a lot anyway in the first place, though you have begun to notice that he’s becoming more talkative the more you hang out with him. However, you aren’t quite sure if you’re imagining it, but it seems like Yoongi’s change in personality doesn’t really apply when he’s with anyone else. On the days where you’d pass by his cubicle on the way to the water coolers, he’d still have his usual stoic expression on his face as he goes through his paperwork with the grace of a robot. When he’s with you, however…

“Says the guy who’s started drinking frappes after I suggested them to you. Don’t lie to me, Min Yoongi.” You’re giggling softly, and you can tell Yoongi’s seams are already breaking. Pink gums and straight teeth are seconds away from peaking through. You wink cheekily at him.  “You’re just as sweet as your personality is.”

“Stop, that’s so embarrassing!” he exclaims, hiding behind his hands. He’s already smiling. “I’m not as sweet as you think! I’m a mean guy!”

“Yoongi, you literally just bought me hot chocolate with marshmallows because you remembered what I like. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body,” you retort, rolling your eyes at the prominent pout on his face.

“Not true! I stole an extra coupon booklet when I was at the grocery store the other day.”

“Ooooh, I do love a bad boy,” you say, but the two of you are already laughing hysterically. “Seriously, thanks. I really needed this today.”

“Dang, bad morning already?” he winces, having noticed the purple moons under your eyes when he had approached you. He didn’t want to mention it without you bringing it up first, but he had been worried about you since last Friday when you had left the workplace with a slammed door.

“Try bad weekend. Mr. Lee has been pushing my buttons for months now, but I seriously didn’t think he thought it was a challenge. He’s been giving me shitty filing jobs to complete like I’m some overworked intern!”

Yoongi cocks his head, confused. “Aren’t you, like… In the advertising department? Why would he make you file things?”

“Exactly!” You’re all but roaring now, but Yoongi can’t help smirking at the stray dollop of whipped cream that had somehow found its way on your nose. He pulls his sleeve over his wrist, swiping it away with the fabric as nonchalantly as possible (which is to say, he’s as red as a spanked ass when he does it.)

You don’t even notice his actions, still deep in the abyss of your rage. “And also! My shitty phone ran out of storage space the other day so I’ve had to delete all the songs on my library and I can’t find any good playlists on Spotify to help me dissociate on the train!”

“Wow, that’s a mood,” Yoongi says, chuckling. He clears his throat, an idea popping into his head. He turns bashful all of a sudden, gaze diverting upwards as he musters the courage to say, “I-I mean, I think I can help you with that last problem, if you want…”

You stop huffing and puffing long enough to appear intrigued. “Oh? Are you gonna send me a playlist?”

Yoongi splutters. “I mean! If you want it, I do have some songs that I like listening to.”

Yoongi squeaks when you smile at that, radiant and all-encompassing. He wonders how he’s not dead right now.

“Oh god, that would be great actually! Text me the link, would you?” you say, already making grabby hands for his phone. “Here, lemme put my phone number in your phone.”

Yoongi almost drops his phone as he takes it out of his pocket, staring in awe as he watches you type in your number into his phone. He has to keep himself from outright howling when he sees you place a sunflower emoji beside your name. How fitting, he thinks to himself.

When you return the phone back to him, he immediately texts you the link to his playlist. You have to keep yourself from screaming to the heavens when you see the very Yoongi-esque title, “Songs for the Sleepless,” complete with the grainy-noir-film-type playlist art to complete the look. It was just so… personal, so Yoongi, and it’s making you clench organs that you didn’t know were clenchable.

You whistle at the sheer number of songs on the playlist, with the first song being—“Didn’t peg you as a Lana Del Rey fan,” you pipe up, scrolling through his playlist with acute interest. “Kendrick Lamar and Epik High, I understand. But Lana?”

To his credit, the playlist did seem like it had a narrative of sorts, despite the eclectic range of artists and genres. You only recognize maybe ten of the songs from his five hundred song playlist, and you’re very curious to see what type of songs he connects to.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he shrugs his shoulders, though a little bit embarrassed. “Lana Del Rey could sing my obituary and I’d jump out of my grave in an instant.”

“Bit morbid but okay,” you laugh, finger ready to close your music player app when you catch sight of a song with an artist you didn’t expect to see. You reach over to tug on his sleeve, your sly smile already causing Yoongi to break out in hives. “Hey… I didn’t know you shared your name with a singer, unless, of course…”

Yoongi doesn’t even let you finish your sentence when he yelps in surprise, snatching your phone out of your grip as his eyes bug out of his sockets. His ears redden, words tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall as he tries to explain himself despite your raucous giggling.

“I––You weren’t supposed to––I forgot about! That was––I was just––Ugh,” he groans despairingly, smacking himself in the forehead with your phone. You’re still giggling madly, enjoying the spectacle before you as Yoongi’s ears are practically shooting out steam.

“You’re so cute.” It slips out of your mouth with such ease that you almost don’t notice saying it at all; you’re still smiling dreamily at Yoongi as he stares at you in shock, mouth still agape from his earlier rambling. You gasp loudly when your brain cells finally catch up, but by then it’s already too late. Now, the two of you were a matching pair, with your fire engine red ears standing at attention.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that,” you mutter into your hands. You wish the earth would swallow you whole right now.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that,” Yoongi wails beside you, but you don’t notice the small satisfied smile he’s sporting on his reddened face. “Y-You can’t just say things and not expect me to…”

You look up, wondering why he’d suddenly trailed off at the end. “Expect you to what?”

Yoongi, once again, defies the laws of the universe by somehow turning even redder than humanly possible. “N-nothing. Ignore me. Let’s just admit we’re both embarrassing and carry on, can we?”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding enthusiastically. “But, does that mean I can listen to your songs, Mister Min ‘I’m-a-superstar-singer-in-my-spare-time’ Yoongi?”

“I’m not a superstar! I just record songs in my free time, that’s all,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Says the guy who apparently raps as a hobby! Seriously, I can tell I’m gonna love it already.”

His gaze is turned upwards, cheeks puffed up in embarrassment. He looks like he wants to say something else, however, and you wait for him as he tries to gather the courage to say what else is on his mind. “S-say, I was wondering… Since I’m already here and all, do you want to maybe go out wi—”

“Yo! Hyung!”

A deep voice from across the office floor snaps the two of you out of your little bubble in an instant. It doesn’t take a genius to tell who it is, not when there’s only one person in the entire company who would dare wear a sushi-print tie to work at one of the most lucrative companies in the country.

Kim Namjoon hobbles over to your little cubicle space in all his sushi-print tie glory, knocking over a coworker’s potted plant in the process. Between you and Yoongi, you had been more surprised by Namjoon’s sudden exclamation, mostly because you’d never been particularly close with the eccentric man. Yoongi probably can’t say the same since he had briefly mentioned that he and Namjoon go way back, though you’re starting to have some doubts about that due to the dirty glare Yoongi was currently pointing at the sentient noodles-for-legs.

Namjoon waves cheerily at you before cutting to the chase as he envelops Yoongi in a not-too-gentle hug. “Hyung! I’ve been looking for you. You weren’t at your desk this morning so I was wondering where you’d wandered off, but of course I’d find you here at Y/N’s de––”

Yoongi promptly stomps on Namjoon’s feet, causing the younger to yelp out in pain. “Namjoon. I told you I’d talk to you later.” Yoongi smiles sweetly, but you can see the aura of danger radiating off of him in waves. “Emphasis on later.”

Namjoon pouts petulantly, but he doesn’t look all that offended. “I was just gonna remind you to ask Y/N if she wanted to join us for lunch la––OUCH! WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET!”

Yoongi appears unbothered, not even looking back at Namjoon’s shouts of betrayal. All the while, he still has his gaze trained on you, never wavering for one second.

“Please ignore my colleague. He can a bit… Unnecessarily loud,” Yoongi says, accompanied by Namjoon’s splutters of indignation.

“Umm?? I’m right here?? Your actual best friend?? Geez!” Namjoon huffs, looking at the both of you incredulously. You just shrug your shoulders, completely dumbfounded by the last five minutes of human interaction.

“As Namjoon was saying before we were so rudely interrupted… I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with me? Namjoon can join too, but only if he behaves,” Yoongi jokes, smirking at Namjoon’s ireful glares.

You giggle quietly at the unlikely pair, amused beyond belief at this new side of Yoongi that you hadn’t been aware of. So this is how he is with his friends… Cocky Yoongi is definitely someone you wouldn’t mind talking to occasionally, you admit.

“Sure, I’d love to. Just let me finish all this filing crap for Mr. Lee, then I’ll head over to your desk at around 12?” If you work at a breakneck pace, then you could probably finish sooner if you didn’t let anything else distract you. “Oh! And I should probably return your umbrella before you leave. I keep forgetting to give it back to you.”

“No worries,” Yoongi says. “You should keep the umbrella. I’ve got a spare anyway.”

Namjoon’s head whips toward Yoongi at that, staring at him skeptically. “Dude. Ain’t that your favorite Kumamon umbrella though? Didn’t you almost murder me that one time I forgot it at the McDonald’s last mo––WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET! I’M GONNA GET FLATFOOT SYNDROME!”

“Not my problem,” Yoongi replies, pinching Namjoon’s nose for good measure. He turns to you, waving goodbye. “See you in a few?”

You stretch your back, psyching yourself up to get back to work. “Right. I’ll text you when I’m done okay? See you at 12-ish!”

The boys make their leave, bickering all the while. You catch wind of a bit of their conversation as they turn the corner, their voices echoing down the hall.

“Hey, I noticed that you were looking Y/N in the eye when you were speaking. Why don’t you ever look me in the eye when we talk!”

Yoongi snorts, flipping him off. “It’s because you’re not as nice to look at. Simple as that.”

In your seat, you smile secretly to yourself, butterflies erupting in your chest. Filled with newly found fervor, you chip away at the pile of work on your desk until it starts to vanish from view.

Before you know it, you’re off to see Yoongi once more.

x x x x x 

There is a boy you know who likes to show his vulnerability quietly. It would go something like this:

x x x x x 

There is a boy you know who likes to show his love quietly. It would go something like this:

Your day begins with a phone call: a warning. Your boss tells you to come into work as soon as possible, not a note of enthusiasm or friendliness in his tone. He ends the call just as abruptly as it had come, the silence following soon after deafening your ears. Your heart races marathons in your chest, and your brain goes to the worst place it can go.

Your hands are sweating gallons upon gallons as you shrug your coat on, fumbling with your keys as you struggle to place them in your pocket. For a brief moment, you think about calling Yoongi for moral support, but think better of it. You don’t want to bother anyone, especially not him.

You, the lone ranger, walk out of your apartment and into the murky urban outdoors, the first pitter-patters of rain making their descent the moment your foot meets the pavement. You don’t have quite the energy to go back inside to grab your umbrella, not when you’re unsure if you’ll be courageous enough to leave your bedroom once more if you did.

You’d always been a coward, a soft-hearted fool. Content with shouldering the consequences of your actions without another word: a sufferer in silence. For the past few weeks, you thought you might have changed. You’d been smiling a lot more, laughing a lot more. Your cheeks were often more red than any other color these days, and it was all thanks to a boy you know.

He was shy, but brave. Quiet, but talkative. Mysterious, but vulnerable.

He made you realize that there was no need to settle for one side of a coin, not when you could have both. The longer you stuck around him, the stronger your desire was to become… more.

You wanted to be open; you wanted to be known. You wanted to be able to ask for what you want, and never feel the crushing sense of guilt that usually came afterwards. You wanted to be unapologetic, wanted to keep your hands open, waiting for good things to come your way. To never cower in the face of a gift being handed to you. You wanted to have all that life has to offer––

(Him. Him. Him.)

But there is something pitiful about being unable to keep your own promises. The embarrassment of returning to the state where you once were, of turning meek at the first sign of adversity. The dreams of a happier life drifts away from you like mist under the morning sun, and the pressing weight of the world once again makes its home on your shoulders.

And so, you do not cry when your boss tells you to pack up your things within the hour.

You do not cry when you cut your finger on the corner of your desk that had never been replaced during your five-year stay at this company.

You do not cry when one of your potted plants smash to the floor when you try to carry too many things at once.

You do not cry when co-workers you’d only barely spoken to come over to your desk with showers of condolences, as if you’d already died.

You do not cry when Kim Namjoon walks over to you, quietly bending down to help you carry your boxes down to the lobby.

And when all is said and done, you most especially do not cry when Min Yoongi runs to you with his lungs burning in his chest, glasses still fogged up from the morning cold outside. His hair is in disarray and his shirt is on backwards, as if he’d jumped out of bed the moment he knew something was wrong. When he skids to a halt right in front of you, the pain etched on his face is as plain as day.

Wordlessly, he takes the last box out of your hands, placing his car keys on top when he can’t hold onto them both. His eyes flit towards your clenched fists for a second, but looks away the moment you notice. Instead, he walks out to the elevator, and you follow soon after.

You do not cry when Min Yoongi helps you load his car with your things. You do not cry when he takes a first-aid kit out of his glovebox and puts a band-aid on your finger. You do not cry when he offers to pass by the local home depot to pick up a new plant when he notices yours is gone. You do not cry when he doesn’t treat you like your life has ended.

(But you feel it. Pricking along your eyes like a dam about to break. He is doing this to you. He’s making you feel again, and it fucking hurts.)

And so, he drives you home.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Yoongi starts after a while, tapping a rhythm away on his steering wheel as he waits for the morning rush traffic to subside. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, worried when you don’t respond. You keep your head pressed against the cool car window, staring blankly at the gray skyline.

“I… I hope you don’t mind if I play you something. Just… Just listen to it, okay?”

You don’t see him, but you hear his fingers switch their tapping to his phone as he unlocks it, searching for the song he wants you to hear. It takes a moment or two for him to find it, soft curses tumbling from his lips as he goes through his Google Drive for the unfinished draft that he hadn’t meant to show you until it was complete, but well––

You were always an exception to him, weren’t you?

The first notes come creeping up from behind you, and it reminds you of the way Yoongi would speak to you. All soft whispers and gummy smiles, like he’s restraining himself. Slowly but surely, the music grows louder, more confident with its sound. You can picture Yoongi standing upright, hand outstretched towards you as he asks you to follow him.

The song is unfamiliar, but there’s something about it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. You’re trying to go through your memories, sorting through the hundreds of songs that Yoongi has made you listen to but none of them seem to ring a bell. You’re still trying to figure out if you’d heard this before when the lyrics finally start.

“Lost in the sea of my regrets, you became my polaris.”

Yoongi’s voice comes from the radio speaker, jolting you from your seat. Your spine straightens, and you stare bullets at Yoongi’s phone as the song continues to play. When you look towards him, Yoongi’s face is a statue; the only thing giving away the fact that he was with you at all was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“The shadows, which had been my haven, no longer feel as good as they once did. You, my light, have changed all of that.”

You gasp, and Yoongi’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. It seems like the two of you stop moving at that moment, neither of you daring to breathe. Even the outside traffic sounds muted compared to the sound of your hearts hammering inside your chests.

“I’ve long since forgotten to pray, but I will remember for you. I only dream of happiness for you, my morning light, my northern star. And I’d give it all up for you.”

Yoongi notices your tears fall before you even do; he’s quick to fluster, scrambling through his car side door for a tissue to hand to you, but he stops the moment he feels your hand fist the elbow of his sleeve. He turns to look at you, all blotchy and tear-stained, but beautiful all the same. And even through your tears, you smile just as radiantly as when he had first seen you.

“Thank you,” you mouth, fingers trembling as you fight to keep more tears from falling, but nothing can stop a dam from breaking. Not when you’re sitting beside the hurricane who broke it in the first place; it was the boy with feelings that never did quite fit in his body the way other people’s did.

Luckily, they fit right in with you.

When the song comes to the end, you’re sniffling up a storm, but you still haven’t let go of him. When you’re only a few minutes away from your apartment, Yoongi parks a little bit far off from your doorstep, so you have to walk the rest of the way home. But you’re still unwilling to let go, not yet.

Gently, Yoongi pries your hand away from his sleeve and you’re about to protest, but the words die on your lips the moment they form when Yoongi rubs his hands along the side of his slacks before placing them in yours. His hands are still cold, but comforting all the same.

“Let me walk you home?” he whispers.

You nod. Of course, you want to say. But he knows what you mean, anyway.

When he goes to unpack your things from the trunk, you shake your head, stopping him from moving any further. “I… I don’t feel like sorting through those things right now. Is it fine with you if I just… Go home for now? Please?” Your brain feels like lead in your skull after all the bottled up tears had finally escaped from years of constant pressure, and you don’t think you’re quite ready to go through all those emotions again. You feel deflated, but better. He always makes you feel better.

Yoongi closes the trunk, locking his car before stretching out his hands for you. You stare at the proffered hand for a moment.

“Oh, right.” Yoongi goes to rub his hands to warm them, but you stop him once more in his ministrations. He looks at you, confused, as you grab his hand from him. You rub circles into his palm, staring at the ground in embarrassment.

“You’re always warming your hands for me… So this time, I’ll warm them for you, okay?”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything in response to that. Instead, he tugs you along towards the sidewalk and keeps you close to him. As he walks with you, you notice the way he leans slightly to the left, like he’s drawn to you––like he can’t help be more than an inch further from you.

You keep glancing back down at your linked hands; he’s shaking, but then again, that could also be you.

You arrive at the gate of your apartment quicker than you would have liked. Neither of you move to separate; when you look back at Yoongi, you see that his eyes are trained on you. He doesn’t even flinch away like he used to. His lips are pursed, like he wants to say something but he’s still too afraid to.

So you say it for him instead.

“Do you have… somewhere to be?” Unlike you, he still has a job. He still has commitments. He still has a life outside of you. You’re hit with fear, once again, at the sudden change in your circumstances.

You might never get to see him again. Is this where your paths cross, never to intersect again? Your stomach drops at the thought, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“No, I don’t. I could…” Yoongi trails off, glancing at your apartment with soft hesitance. “If… If you want me to…”

Yes. Please. I’d love it. I love yo–– ”Yes. Stay with me?” you mumble.

“Always,” he promises.

The pair of you trudge up to your apartment, passing by the prying eyes of housewives with your heads bowed in embarrassment. They don’t miss your pinkies linked behind your backs, nor the subtle blushes on the apples of your cheeks. Thankfully, they don’t comment when Yoongi enters your apartment after you, but they do giggle when his coat gets caught on the door handle in his rush.

When the two of you are finally alone, the air isn’t as awkward as you had feared. You work like two cogs in a machine; he readies your TV and scrolls through your Netflix for a movie, while you go to your kitchen and have a small mental breakdown (while also microwaving some popcorn). Soon, the two of you are snuggled into your small couch, elbows barely brushing against each other.

You’re only half paying attention to the generic action movie that Yoongi had put on; you were still deep in your thoughts. You’re picking away at your hangnail, worrying your lip as you try to enjoy what might be the last time you’ll ever get to hang out with Yoongi again. You’re so deep in your musings that you don’t immediately feel when Yoongi wraps his arms around your shoulder, nestling your head into his chest.

“W… What?” You crane your head and stare at Yoongi in shock, but he’s already returned his attention back to the movie. His cheeks are burning.

You’re still stiff with tension despite his comforting caresses against your hair, so he changes tactics and brings your hand up to his.

You think he’s just going to hold your hand, but he keeps bringing your hand up until it gently caresses his face. Just as you’re about to ask him what he’s doing, he curls your fingers until only your pointer is left unfurled, and casually uses it to poke himself in the cheek.

He leaves it there for a second or two, and when you finally turn to face him, he’s smiling so sweetly at you that you almost feel compelled to cry again. His eyes and nose are all scrunched up, rose petal gums on full display. Your finger is still pressed gently into his soft cheeks.

“You said you liked to dream about poking my bread cheeks. Well, here’s your chance,” he says, like it’s nothing at all. As if what he has done was as simple as breathing.

Yoongi’s smile brightens when he feels your form relax against him, giggling softly when you go to pinch his cheek for good measure.

“Bread cheekies,” you say, like you’re in a trance.

Yoongi nods. “Bread cheekies,” he repeats. “And it’s all yours.”

There’s a promise in there, you know. Somehow, he had sensed your worry and had thought of the perfect way to calm you. Like always, he never has to say it. He’s never needed words, anyway.

The two of you stay like that for hours. The sun sets as surely as the moon rises, and Min Yoongi stays with you through the night. When your mind drifts off and only your steady breathing fills the room, Min Yoongi brushes a small kiss against your forehead.

“Dream of happiness, my love,” he whispers into your skin, just when he thinks you’re asleep, “I’ll dream of you, too.”

It’s a promise that he keeps.

There is a boy you know who never learned how to say he loves you, but it never mattered all that much to you––not when he’s willing to show you over and over again. It goes something like this––

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Xuexiao Goes to the DMV

Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen go to the DMV (aka Where Hope Goes To Die) and share a kiss.

That’s it. That’s the fic.

Xuexiao - T (just for some cursing) - Read on AO3!

*

“If you hear about someone going berserk in a DMV on the news, that’ll be me,” the mechanical text-to-speech voice reads aloud, and Xiao Xingchen turns to Xue Yang questioningly.

Xue Yang reaches over and turns the volume down on Xingchen’s phone. “Meant to send that to A-Qing.”

“Are we going to be escorted out? Again?”

Xue Yang grins and looks around the room. They’ve already been at the DMV for over an hour. Dozens of people are draped limply over the hard orange seats, eyes glazed, going down for the third time in a sea of government bureaucracy.

“Ticket 4352, now being served at window thirty-three,” announces the robotic voice over the loudspeaker.

“It would take an alien invasion to wake these people up,” Xue Yang says as a man in overalls shuffles past. “You should see these people. This must be what a lobotomy post-op recovery room looks like.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Like the world’s most incompetent deli, filled with zombie customers waiting to eat the brains of whatever the opposite of employee of the month is. Well, ‘brains.’ They work at the DMV, after all.”

Xiao Xingchen adjusts his sunglasses. “Let's not be mean.”

“And we can all hear you,” adds a woman on his left. “Not that it made much sense.”

Xue Yang makes a face at her and turns back to Xingchen. “If they make me come back a third time, I’m going to go postal. You know, going postal should be called ‘going DMV.’ It’s catchier, for one thing, and I’ve never so much as stepped foot in a post office—”

“I’m keeping you far away from post offices. Those poor people have suffered enough.”

“How so?”

“Well, there must be a reason they go postal, right?”

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “If the post office has the same taste in music as the DMV, I don’t blame them. Who picked this station? If it’s not Justin Bieber it’s whoever inflicted ‘Kiss Me Through the Phone’ on the world. I’d like to do something to them through the phone, and it won’t be a kiss, I can tell you that much.”

Xiao Xingchen takes a Snickers bar out of the fanny pack Xue Yang has vainly begged him not to wear. “According to the television commercials, this will improve your mood.”

“My mood?” Xue Yang takes a bite. “If I have to hear ‘Baby’ one more time—”

“Ticket 9753, now being served at window fourteen.”

“ ‘Served.’ Ha. As if.”

Xiao Xingchen feels around for another Snickers bar but comes up empty. He should have planned this better. He’d sensed Xue Yang’s mood coming on last night as Xue Yang went through his documents. He’d been cheerful enough until he found his birth certificate in the bundle of papers he’d been given after leaving his last group home.

Then he’d grown strangely quiet, and wandered aimlessly around their apartment for an hour, carrying his phone around with him and switching between a half-dozen different YouTube videos before deciding to bake brownies at 1am and burning them when he got distracted playing video games. He wasn’t paying much attention to the video game, either, going by his cursing as he got repeatedly blown up by what Xingchen suspects was a twelve-year old somewhere in Japan, and eventually gave that up to go take apart their toaster in the interest of “fixing” it.

Now he sits beside Xingchen, jiggling his leg. Xiao Xingchen wants to ask him about his birth certificate, but he hadn't dared to last night, and doesn’t dare now.

“Ticket 9755, now being served at Window 26.”

“Weren’t you 9754?” he asks Xue Yang.

“Oh, crap—” Xue Yang jumps to his feet and rushes to Window 26, brushing past a mohawked man holding a ticket marked 9755. “I’m 9754.”

The woman behind the glass may as well have been carved from wood. “You missed your number.”

“There was no announcement!”

“Or your number isn’t working. It’s not showing up on my computer.”

“What the hell does that mean? I’m on the screen! Look!” Xue Yang jabs a finger at the screen above the booth. At the bottom of the list it reads Ticket 9754 – Window 26. “9754! Window 26! All you need to do is take my picture—”

“Get back in line. Get a new ticket. Window 13.”

“Get back in line?” He looks over at the line for Window 13. It wraps around the entire room. “I already have a number! I’m on the screen!”

“Back. In. Line.”

“Just take the damn photo—”

Xingchen lays a hand on his arm. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll get back in line.”

“Like hell we will! I’ve been here since 5 o’clock—I made an appointment! I even brought my own pen! You ever watch Monsters Inc.? You know Roz? Are you her evil older sister? Because you look exactly like—”

“Back of the line.”

“Younger sister, then. Happy?”

The woman doesn’t bother shrugging. “You’re blocking traffic.”

Xingchen begins to move, heading in the wrong direction. Xue Yang has no choice but to follow or else let him walk into a column plastered with posters emblazoned with, Make your visit easy - download the forms at dmv.gov! , Streamline your visit - make an appointment online today!, and We’re here to help!

“Let’s just go home,” says Xue Yang. “The gray, water stained walls are starting to close in. At any second I expect a giant ball to roll towards us. Well, wrong movie—whatever. I’m sick of this place. It’s cursed.”

“We’re just going to have to come back, and you’ll have wasted the hour we already spent here.”

Xue Yang groans and gets in line behind a woman with three small screaming children. “This whole thing is stupid. We can barely afford rent, let alone a car."

"We will, one day. Besides, it's good to have a license."

"We’ll just take trains and buses everywhere, or you can learn to drive. We'll fudge the vision test."

Xingchen laughs. Xue Yang relaxes slightly at the sound. After a moment, Xingchen slips his hand in his. He’s not one for public displays of affection, but there’s an edge in Xue Yang’s voice that has nothing to do with his return to Window 13.

Xue Yang’s hand tightens in his, and Xingchen rubs it reassuringly with his thumb.

“You again?” says the woman at Window 13 when they finally make it there, twenty minutes later.

“That power-mad dictator at Window 26 wouldn’t take my picture.”

The woman tilts her head at Xue Yang. “She wouldn’t?”

Xue Yang tilts his head back at her, as if to say, I know! Who wouldn’t want to photograph me ?

She smiles, a synthetic smile that reminds Xue Yang of his friend Lan Xichen’s dimpled little fiance. “Strange.”

“ ‘Strange’? I knew she could have just done it had she wanted to—”

The woman blinks at him, her smile growing faker by the minute. “I’m sure what she told you was accurate.”

“Sure, and there is no war in Ba-Sing-Se—”

Xiao Xingchen squeezes his hand, and Xue Yang stops talking and passes her his form. She stamps it a second time and hands him another ticket.

He and Xingchen return to the waiting area. Xue Yang puts his boots up on the seat next to him, resting his head on Xingchen’s shoulder.

“Describe the room to me again,” Xingchen says, trying to distract him from his brooding and, with any luck, keep him from taking out his Swiss army knife and carving his initials into the seat and get them kicked out again. Xue Yang has a talent for describing things, and Xingchen has been trying to encourage him to start writing.

Xue Yang begins to play with his long sleek ponytail. “Purgatory’s antechamber. Humanity’s lost-and-found. A void where time has no meaning. Pit of despair and industrial cleaner.”

Xingchen chuckles, making sure it’s loud enough for Xue Yang to hear.

“If their posters were honest, they’d all be in Comic Sans font, with things like, Where hope goes to die; This is your home now; Nothing escapes our pull, not even time; Human sacrifices while you wait—”

“Human sacrifices?”

"Yeah, I think so."

A crackle of static over the speaker as a new song comes on. “You know you love me, I know you care...Just shout whenever and I'll be there….”

Xue Yang starts up violently, but Xiao Xingchen gently pulls him back down beside him. “Some kind of cannibal conspiracy?” he asks, hoping Xue Yang’s knife has remained in his pocket and is not seconds away from being embedded in a blaring loudspeaker.

Xue Yang settles back against his shoulder. “I’m positive Overalls Guy never returned from Window 17. He’s probably in the office barbecue pit.”

“This must go all the way to the top. Shift supervisor too, I’d guess.”

“Baby, baby, baby oh���.Like baby, baby, baby no….”

Xue Yang stops playing with his hair and starts picking at his black nail polish. He’s feeling a bit better, Xingchen’s shoulder warm and solid. “I swear that Roz lady put a curse on me. They all probably dance in a circle around a stack of burning Social Security cards every night, chanting.” He squirms, suddenly bored. “You got any more food? I’m starving.”

Xingchen rummages in his fanny pack. “Just a burned brownie.”

“I swear I set a timer!"

The timer had gone off while Xingchen was in the shower last night. Xue Yang had simply ignored it, too absorbed in trying to virtually blow up his twelve-year-old nemesis. He tends to ignore timers while cooking, usually followed by a mad rush to the kitchen to salvage dinner. “You know dinner is ready when the smoke detector goes off,” he likes to say.

Xue Yang sniffs the crumpled foil surrounding the charred black brownie chunk. “Is this the same foil I wrapped your tuna sandwich in yesterday?”

“We only have one earth!”

“Xingchen, I swear—” Xue Yang stops, rolling his eyes fondly. He’s never met anyone who can be so annoying and endearing at the same time.

Xingchen takes the brownie back. “I'll eat it. I like the burned bits.”

"It's all burned bits."

"Exactly. Perfect."

“She knows she's got me dazing, 'cause she was so amazin'....And now my heart is breakin', but I just keep on sayin'....”

“Who wrote this? I swear I won’t hurt them. I just want their address.”

Xingchen knows he shouldn’t laugh at that, but he can’t help it.

They sit there for another half hour, talking. Xue Yang has succeeded in denuding the nails of his left hand when his number is finally called. He gets his photo taken by a man with glazed eyes and no chin, and is shuffled off to the next waiting area.

“They refused to show me my photo,” he says as they settle back down. “I swear the camera stole my soul and is using it to power the fluorescent lights. I feel at peace now. Kind of floating.” He discovers a piece of gum in his jeans pocket and begins to loudly blow bubbles, making full eye contact with the annoyed Bluetooth Guy and irritated Woman With Facial Tattoo Of Bugs Bunny. “I am one with the DMV demigods, part of something larger than myself.”

“Like joining the army.”

“Or drowning in the ocean.” He lays down with his head in Xingchen’s lap, boots on the edge of Bluetooth Guy’s seat. “Why does your fanny pack smell like patchouli? Have you been burning weird hippie incense again? You promised you’d stop after you set fire to your curtains.”

Xingchen would rather Xue Yang didn’t semi-cuddle him in public, but Xue Yang’s energy is calmer when he’s touching Xingchen, and he lets him stay. “It’s that new candle you bought me, remember?”

“Right. Bought you.”

“What do you—”

“I thought it was peppermint.”

Xingchen bites his lip. Xue Yang is…well, he can read well enough to pass a driving test, but his education was…slipshod at best. Next on Xingchen’s list is encouraging Xue Yang to get his GED.

“You smell like a music festival,” says Xue Yang. “I must have grabbed the wrong one in the store. I sniffed all of them. My picture is probably hanging beside the register of every Bath & Body Works in town: ‘Beware the Candle Perv’—”

“At least someone was willing to take your picture.”

Xue Yang laughs. Xingchen rests a hand on his chest, heedless of the people around them. He likes how Xue Yang feels when he laughs, his whole body shaking, making no attempt to hide his feelings. Xue Yang makes him laugh so often, it’s a special joy for him to return the favor.

They’ve been there almost two and a half hours when Xue Yang’s number is finally called. As if the DMV curse is kicking in again, the loudspeakers creep up another few decibels.

“Like baby, baby, baby no, like baby, baby, baby oh, thought you'd always be mine, mine….”

“Xue Yang—” Xingchen starts before Xue Yang can say anything.

“I know, I know. This is penance for my putting that egg in Song Lan’s shoe last week. The DMV knows all. The DMV was here before us, and will be here after we are gone. The DMV—”

“—The DMV will make us wait in line again, if we don’t hurry.”

Together they go to Window 10, where a drab little man sifts through Xue Yang’s documents. “Fifties, balding, completely dead inside,” Xue Yang whispers to Xingchen.

“I’m thirty-nine,” says the man in a monotone, not looking up, “and you’re missing a birth certificate. And what’s this stain on your Social Security card?”

“Definitely not blood.”

The man stares at him with eyes that, had his life force not already been sucked out of Xue Yang by an afternoon at the DMV, would have done the job. “Current passport, or birth certificate.”

Xue Yang hesitates, then slips a folded piece of pink paper under the glass partition.

The man unfolds it with the sterling speed of a drugged snail and spreads it over the counter. He lines up Xue Yang’s Social Security card, bank statement, and birth certificate, and examines them line by line as if he’s a Bletchley Circle analyst and Xue Yang’s documents are intercepted enemy transmissions.

He looks up at Xue Yang. “Is this a valid birth certificate? There are no parent names listed, and the date of birth has an asterisk—”

“I know what it has!”

“What’s your date of birth?” The man slowly pushes his chair back. “I’m going to have to get a supervisor—”

Xue Yang slams the counter. Xingchen lays a hand on his arm. It’s a miracle Xue Yang’s knife isn’t out. “Don’t you fucking dare! This is what they do when—just Google it, okay? I don’t know what day I was born, they just put whatever date they thought was accurate—”

Xingchen swallows hard.

He had known Xue Yang had grown up in foster care, but had assumed he had been given up by his parents as a child when they could no longer take care of him.

Not—not abandoned as an infant—

“And change the fucking station!” Xue Yang adds. “If I have to hear that stupid fucking song one more time I will go fucking berserk —”

The man’s dead-eyed stare intensifies. “Sign here,” he says after a moment, pushing a slip of paper at Xue Yang.

“You want my love, you want my heart….And we will never, ever, ever be apart…”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Xingchen asks as they step outside. The words sound hollow, and he wishes he had simply remained silent.

Xue Yang takes a deep breath. It’s almost cool out, a welcome change from the week’s heat. “Well, we escaped. Now we just have to get help for the others. Or do we abandon them to their fates? I vote we abandon them. You should have seen some of the looks I got. It’s like they never saw someone threaten a DMV employee before, something I’m willing to bet happens a dozen times an hour.”

Xingchen takes his arm as he begins to walk. It’s easier than using his stick in the crowded city. “Xue Yang…”

Xue Yang’s muscles tense beneath his arm. “What?”

“Nothing.” He bites his lip. He’ll have Xue Yang feeling better soon enough. “What street are we on? Turn in on 33rd.”

“What’s on 33rd?”

“Just let me know when we’re there. 33rd and 7th.”

“The train’s on 36th.”

“But the restaurant’s on 33rd.”

“The what?”

Xingchen wants to smile, but is afraid Xue Yang might take it the wrong way after what happened at the DMV. For someone who does his best to project an I-don’t-care attitude, Xue Yang is surprisingly sensitive.

“What’s today’s date?” He already knows the date, of course. It’s been on his mind for weeks now.

Xue Yang’s arm grows even stiffer. “Is this a ‘you-don’t-know-when-your-birthday-is-so-every-day-is-your-birthday’ thing? Because—”

“Not at all… Remember the day we met? You made fun of my shirt—”

Xue Yang frowns at this sudden change of subject, but goes along with it. Better than talking about that damn birth certificate. “It was white, and ruffled. You looked like an escapee from a high school production of Hamlet. What was I supposed to do?”

“You crashed a motorcycle not three feet from me. An unregistered motorcycle with stolen plates.”

"I bought you coffee to make up for it, didn’t I?”

“You had them put four sugars in my cappuccino. It was undrinkable.”

“One was a Splenda, and anyway I took you to dinner to make up for the coffee, didn’t I?”

“Pizza at one of those dollar-a-slice places you have to stand at a counter to eat. I paid for it.”

“And I paid for your kombucha, whatever the heck that is.”

“And I paid for the band-aids we had to go buy after you cut yourself after playing catch with your knife.”

“You were distracting me!”

“I was quietly eating my pizza.”

“The light reflecting off your shirt ruffles got in my eyes.”

“Four dollars for the band-aids. You insisted on Hello Kitty.”

“Spongebob was also on the table." He wrinkles his nose. "I've got about three-fifty in my pocket, if you want it. But what’s your point, exactly?'

Xingchen smiles. He enjoys winding up Xue Yang, and it’s by far the most effective way to distract him when he’s in a dark mood. “Just that you better not put extra sugar in the fondue.”

“The what?”

“A-Qing read me the dessert menu. Chocolate fondue with bananas, blueberries, pineapple, and cherries. Strawberries, too, I think, and marshmallows, maybe even non-charred brownies—”

Xue Yang stops walking. “Xingchen—”

Xingchen lets go of Xue Yang’s arm, takes his hand instead. Kisses him soundly, right there on Sixth Avenue.

“Forget your birthday," he says. "We have a new date to celebrate every year." He gives Xue Yang's hand a little squeeze and kisses him again. “Happy anniversary, Xue Yang.”

*

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Ruffle shirt reference

Obviously, Xue Yang was simply distracted by how pretty Xingchen was.