#genuinely if you cannot see far enough past your nose to understand that this is about more than 'moral purity' i just.

[spitblaze]

hey look we understand that trump is measurably worse than biden, we know, we're aware, so can you stop fucking talking down to us like we're petulant children and not adults who are fucking horrified that our 'best option' is still the guy who's giving israel carte blanche on its genocidal rampage

[ragingbookdragon]

When Will My Weight Be Too Much For You?

Barry Allen x Wondersis One-Shot

Word Count: 1.6 Warnings: Explicit Language, Slight Angst

Author's Note: Based off this ask right here! Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

Diana said this is the way to leave my grievance where you can hear it instead of straight from my mouth. I must deliver it this way because if I were to see you at this very moment, I would say things that would be improper of a princess and a partner in our relationship. Bartholomew, I do not say this lightly, but your unattendance to the unveiling of the museum exhibit has wounded my heart. You promised you would make it in time to see me reveal it to the world. I know you are busy, believe me I know, but I had asked you multiple times to check your schedule to clear it. Please wait for me to contact you again, it should be within the next few days. I would like to exert this potent emotion from mind and body before we meet once more. And though this event has occurred, please understand that my love for you has not changed. I still love you very much, Bartholomew Allen and I always shall. Farewell. End of message. To repeat, please press the pound key.

Barry banged his head on the desk as the message ended for the eighth time that night. He felt like such a fool. Such a bumbling, moronic fool. (Y/N)’d called him the day before and reminded him and he still forgot about the museum exhibit being unveiled today. He’d been so caught up in the labs that day that by the time he’d actually gotten a break, it was past three—four hours past the event.

So much for having super-speed. He’d been late. Again. And this time, he’d upset (Y/N) so much that she didn’t even want to see him for a few days. And Barry wasn’t sure what he was more upset about—missing the event and hurting her or hearing the devastation in her voice from the message. Whichever it was, it hurt Barry to the core. The type of hurt that made even his chest feel sore and his eyes sting. And all Barry could do was sit and wait, planning out how to make it up to her, and hope that she still wanted to be with him after.

***

(Y/N) hefted the javelin by her head, cocking it back as far as she could before she threw it with all her might, taking out an entire tree in the backyard of Wayne Manor. It’d been four days since the museum event, four days since Barry hadn’t showed, and four days since she’d called in sick, instead of being at home, being at Wayne Manor. Oddly enough, it was the one place she could work out her emotion—there seemed to be no end to criminals and Bruce’s family didn’t seem too particularly bothered by an Amazon being present or watching her break the Joker’s legs—they enjoyed that.

With a heavy sigh, she collapsed into the grass, gazing up at the sky as she let her limbs sprawl out. She wasn’t angry or upset with Barry anymore. Well, there was a little annoyance, but the majority had been worked out. All that was left was the feeling in her chest that made her sigh all the time—exasperation. Barry was the greatest man alive, probably better than Clark Kent, but Gods if he wasn’t the latest man alive too. He was always late

Another puff of air escaped her, and she closed her eyes as the grass crunched near her. “Have you come to gloat?”

Someone chuckled. “You’ve been out here since four AM, (Y/N). Aren’t you tired?”

“Not particularly, Bruce.” She returned, cracking one eye open to see him dressed in his suit; he’d probably just gotten back from work. “Are you going on patrol soon?”

Bruce glanced at his watch. “It’s a quarter to six. Sun’s going down. I’m going to get ready.”

(Y/N) nodded, starting to rise. “Then I shall get ready too.”

“Actually, (Y/N), I think you should go back to Central City.”

She paused, looking down at him—though their height wasn’t much different, a few inches give or take—and asked, “Have I overstayed my welcome? I apologize if I have.”

He shook his head. “Never.” Reaching out, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “But I think you should go home and talk to Barry.”

An eyebrow arched on her head, though her heart was fluttering at the mention of Central City being home. “Why?” she was genuinely curious, or perhaps suspicious of his answer. It seemed like he wanted her to talk to Barry more than he wanted her to leave.

“Because Barry Allen is moping so much during League meetings that it makes me look cheerful,” Bruce scowled. “I’m sick of seeing the poor man so distraught over his mistake.”

(Y/N) frowned. “My intentions were not to cause such distress, I just—”

“You left him a voicemail that practically tore his heart out.”

“I just—” she stopped, gaping at him. “How did you know?”

Bruce blinked. “That’s not important. What is important is that you go home to your boyfriend and tell him you love him and that you’re not angry anymore.” He shifted his hands, grabbing her face gently but firmly. “For the love of God, (Y/N), please, forgive the poor bastard.”

(Y/N), with a pinched face, looked down on the man and grunted, “If you wish to keep your hands, I suggest you remove them. Now.”

“Just go home. Please,” Bruce griped, pulling away from her. “I’m so sick of looking at Barry moping like a lovesick drunkard.”

She waved in defeat. “I shall back my bag.”

Suddenly, her duffel bag was in her face. “Already packed,” he said. “Go home.”

“I am feeling the love,” (Y/N) laughed, tugging the tight strap over her body, and rose into the sky. “Until we see one another again, my dear friend.”

Bruce waved as flew off. “See you around, Vanguard.”

***

By the time she’d returned to Central City, it was well into the night, quite possibly the early hours of the morning. The city was asleep, few cars were on the road and even fewer skyscrapers were lit up with company. (Y/N) slipped into the apartment through the bedroom window, too lazy to walk up the six flights of stairs and through the front door like she knew she should, but no one was watching, so who cared?

Apparently, Barry did, because the moment her second foot touched the floor, she was being yanked to the ground, faster than she could realize what was happening. She thrashed beneath the weight pinning her to the floor, one hand wrapping around Barry’s wrist, the other his throat as she cocked one of her legs up underneath his pelvis and to her chest, shoving at him.

Tipping their weight, he went down, and she flipped atop him, then shifted her hand to grab his other wrist, holding them both beside his head.

“Peace Barry!” she comforted firmly. “It is me, (Y/N).”

Barry stopped squirming, blinking in the darkness. “(Y/N)?”

“Yes,” she answered, letting him go so she could reach up and flick the night-side lamp on. The room was illuminated with soft yellow glow, and she glanced down at him with an easy smile. “I cannot imagine how you heard me. I was dead silent coming inside.”

He blinked. “I was awake and rolled over. All I saw was someone in the bedroom.” Barry reached up, cupping her cheek. “You’re home.”

(Y/N) leaned down, brushing her nose against his. “I am home.” Smiling sadly, she added, “And sorry I left like I did…and for making you hurt. I hope you can forgive me, Barry. I should have acted maturely and not run from my problem like a child.”

“No-no-no-no,” he worried, sitting up, taking her with him. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“But I—”

Barry shook his head, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. “I broke my promise to you, (Y/N). You reacting how you did was understandable.”

“Perhaps to a human,” she argued. “But not for a princess. And especially one of Themyscira.” (Y/N) cupped his face in her hands and pressed her forehead to hers. “It was just a museum exhibit, Barry. You are more important to me than pieces of history.”

His blue eyes were bright even in the dull light and his smile was as wide as a mile. “I love you, (Y/N).”

She matched his smile. “I love you more, Barry Allen.”

“Well, I love you most,” he countered, and she giggled, shaking her head.

“Impossible,” she bantered. “My love for you knows no bounds.”

“Oh yeah?” he bet, wrapping one arm around her waist, whilst the other fumbled for the bedside, rising to his feet. “Hmm, my love is eternal.” He turned, (Y/N) sinking into the mattress as he climbed onto the bed, looking at her.

An evil smirk crossed her lips and Barry’s body flushed with heat as his cheeks darkened, and before he could even blink, he was being flipped, staring up as she gazed down at him. “H-honey,” he stuttered as her fingers deftly undid the buttons of his pajama shirt, spreading it open to reveal his toned chest. He really flushed when she bent down and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, ebbing upwards to his throat, only leaving a trail of crimson love bites in her wake.

“Your love is eternal, hmm?” she cooed against his skin, heatedly kissing along his jaw to whisper in his ear. “Prove it to me.”

[shadowsinger11]

John Wayne

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Christmas lights and stunning dresses are enough to spark a desire for a winter romance. But could you have possibly gotten the wrong idea?

Word Count: 2.5k

Genre: fluff, angst

A/N: I might've listened too much to Cigarettes After Sex while writing and this is totally not a song inspired fic, born purely as a result of my procrastination with other projects

Tag list: @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii @jenniweasley @theweasleysredhair @harrysweasleys @loony-loopy-lupinn @whiz-bangs78 @slytherinsunrise @starlightweasley @ickle-ronniekins @gcdric @vivianweasley @aprilsrant @idont-knowrn @thisismynerdyself @wonderful-writer @feetoffthetablee @minty-malfoy @vogueweasley @elf-punk @oh-for-merlins-sake @heart-of-tempered-steel @spilled-prose @itseatyourdamnapples @aaannabbanana @l0ttadreamz @potter-redheads @pastanest | message me to be added/removed! (if you're in bold, I couldn't tag you)

You were staring at the crowded dance floor.

Beautiful ladies were being spun around by their partners, gorgeous gowns twirling and swooshing with their every elegant move. Everything was perfect about them; from their smile which lit up the Great hall more than the sparkling white Christmas trees, to the way their wrist gracefully twisted around their lover's neck, eyes piercing into theirs. The music was playing, slow and melancholic, exactly as it had been playing for the last few hours, luring lovers and encouraging them to bare their souls in front of each other.

And so they danced, connected by fearful desire, united by hope and bonded by love.

It was a kind of magic no one could truly understand, mysterious and private as though you weren't meant to witness it that night. So when among the sea of couples lips met in a silent oath, your heart began to ache, pleading you to leave.

It should have been you. It should have been you the receiver of those loving glances, of those kisses which made your head dizzy and caused your knees to buckle, but it would've been no problem as you would've had the arms of your lover to keep you secure. Then, as you'd dare to look up through your lashes, gorgeous eyes would be already on you, their obscure flame consoling you and pulling you in. And you'd simply fall, letting the warm, velvety darkness envelope you.

You flinched from the slight chill, rethinking your choice of a sleeveless dress. The enthusiasm with which you had picked it months ago now seemed utterly ridiculous and foolish as you were sitting a good distance away from where you believed you'd have been dancing your heart out. But, as you took one last look at your surroundings, only to spot your lovestruck friends indulging in the presence of their partners, the comfort of your pajamas seemed far more tempting than the unreasonably expensive piece of fabric which didn't even matter to you anymore.

It was pitifully funny how things could change in the blink of an eye, in a single breath; how fast you had gone from blooming with excitement to wondering how you were foolish enough to contribute to your own heartbreak.

"How come I'm just finding out about this?" Fred exclaimed, chasing after you down the stairs of the Astronomy tower. "I bet I wouldn't have known if it wasn't for those Ravenclaws chatting back in class."

"You were gonna know eventually, what's the deal?"

"My point is, why didn't you tell me and I had to hear from someone else?"

A group Hufflepuffs gave you questioning looks as you practically ran past them, nearly tripping over your own feet in the process, "You're making a fuss about nothing, stop acting entitled to every piece of information in my life!"

"McLaggen? That git?" Fred yelled in frustration and disbelief; he didn't at all acknowledge the small crowd which had gathered to observe the scene, nor did he care in the first place. He stopped in his tracks, gripping the wooden railing tight, knuckles turning white and jaw tense. "You cannot be serious."

Shocked faces now turned to you, and you desperately wished you could use reducio on yourself. Instead, opposite to what your consciousness was screaming at you, you dug your feet into the floor and shot Fred a stern look over your shoulder, "We're not discussing this right now. Besides, what's in it for you anyway? You're going with Angelina."

Had you kept walking, you would have missed the way Fred's chest was heaving with shallow, rapid breaths, and his face was more maroon than you had ever seen. And you? You couldn't quite breathe yourself.

A week ago your untamed happiness brightened every room and hallway; classes seemed to fly by, exams were over and the Yule ball was right around the corner. Your heart was ringing with joy as you were so looking forward to forgetting your troubles for just one night. 

In the midst of shining Christmas decorations and beautiful dresses a dreamy, yet pretty bold idea had begun to form in your head, an idea which Ginny and Hermione encouraged with their support and affirmations. Deep down you had started to believe Fred Weasley took an interest in you, harboured feelings for you even, and your ever-present goofy banter which contained far more flirting than what would be acceptable between two best friends, only fed your imagination and raised your hopes up.

You were aware you were the only one on the receiving end of Fred's teasing jokes, cheesy pickup lines and lingering stares which had you staying up an extra hour in your bed at night. Even his siblings shared the same opinion - there was no way on Godric's sword that a person who clearly wanted to be around you as often as possible and got his hands on you every chance he could, wouldn't be at least a little bit interested in you.

That's why you nearly broke down when exactly a week ago in the hallway Ron casually mentioned his older brother had just asked out Angelina.

The ground was pulled beneath your feet, vanishing along with your oblivious hopes. The news stung sharply, leaving a sour taste in your mouth; never had you believed you’d spend the few days before the ball stitching up your heart, and you were willing to do just about anything to forget about your humiliation. So when McLaggen invited you with an obnoxiously flirty note in Charms class, you didn’t hesitate much.

You could feel a wave of tears burning your eyes as you looked up to where Fred was standing. His face and ears were still as red as they could get, and his chest was vibrating with every shaky breath he took. Fury had disappeared from his eyes long ago, replaced with concern, regret and hurt which you couldn't quite place.

He climbed down the few remaining stairs.

"He's obnoxious! And beyond what's good for you!" Fred stated, though his voice now lacked power and slightly trembled, loud enough just for you to hear. "You're setting yourself up for a pretty bad night."

You swallowed down the dry lump in your throat and finally turned around to fully face him, looking him up and down.

"Seems like I have a terrible taste in men then."

A second glass of firewhiskey did nothing to burn down the growing turmoil in your stomach. You tapped the edge of the empty glass with your fingers and smiled at your friends who were visibly exhausted from dancing to upbeat songs for quite awhile now, but enjoying their time far too much to take a break. You admired their spirit - just because you weren't feeling your best, it didn't mean your friends didn't have the right to have fun.

However, the inevitable sense of regret lingered in your bones, and you found it hard to not focus on how the ball had gone wrong for you, in more ways than you had originally thought.

Even without Fred as your date, there was still a chance you'd have a good time. McLaggen could undoubtedly make it awkward to be around, and with the fact that your heart had recently been sliced open, you weren't sure how much of his ridiculous antics you could take. But at least he was trying; if you put aside his overbearing ego, you could see genuine effort into creating something romantic for both of you. It was going to be okay. Not necessarily what you desired, but somehow okay.

And that last bit of hope vanished the second you caught your former date snogging your crush's date in an empty classroom merely an hour ago.

You didn't know whether to cry or laugh at the universe's bitter joke, but the tears on your face as you ran down the hallway in your beautiful dress were eloquent.

A bitter, bitter joke.

You couldn't take it anymore. The charming smiles, sultry glances and stolen kisses you had been observing for the past hour were too much. And when another slow song made an appearance, you rose to your feet and headed towards the tall doors of the exit. Perhaps sleep would be a decent ending to your horrendous night.

You had barely made it out of the Great hall when loud footsteps echoed on your right.

"Bloody hell, I've been looking for you!" Fred said through heavy breaths, having run all the way to you as it seemed. His ginger hair had escaped its slicked look long ago, now too messy to fix despite his numerous attempts to smooth it back. His suit was no better, slightly wrinkled and shirt open to the third button.

"Why have you?" you asked and folded your arms, feeling a bit chilly in the hallway.

"McLaggen. About him," Fred sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry for having to say it, but I just saw him-"

"I know."

Fred frowned in confusion.

"You do?"

It was your turn to let out an exasperated sigh as you looked down at your feet, "Yes. A while ago."

Fred's features softened.

"I'm sorry."

You barely found it in you to respond with a weak smile, "It's alright. I guess I was right. I do have a terrible taste in men." Then you gave Fred a sympathetic look, "I'm sorry for Angelina too, it's horrible she did this to you."

Your friend allowed the ghost of a smirk to appear on his lips and he shoved hands into his pockets, "I'm not really affected by it in all honesty," he shrugged. "I'm rather angry about the fact that the prat thought he could pull off something like this and get away with it."

Fred's heart ached at the sight of your slumped figure and glossy eyes; he hated himself for having contributed to the failure of the event you were expecting with so much hope. He tilted his head to the side, attempting to meet your gaze.

"I'd gladly prank the crap outta the git until he doesn't even dare to show up to classes… But for now is there a way for me to make your night any less terrible, love?"

You couldn't help but giggle at the thought of McLaggen skipping classes out of sheer fear of Fred. But then your thoughts wandered to the way Angelina was practically straddling his lap, and you wondered if Fred had been doing the same all this time unbeknownst to you; if right after a flirty joke sent your way he'd go to an empty classroom and kiss Angelina with the passion you had just witnessed.

The image of Angelina's lips on Fred's caused you to become nauseous and you attempted to swallow down that lump again.

"No," you replied. "But please, tell me one thing. What was that entire tantrum for?"

Fred didn't really seem taken aback by your question, realizing you'd eventually bring it up. He furrowed a brow, carefully thinking of an answer, and wettened his lips.

“Perhaps it would be inappropriate of me to say it- selfish even, but the mere thought of you being in the embrace of someone, especially with that someone being a foul git, caused me to get unreasonably angry.” Guilt was seeping into his every word and he bitterly chuckled to himself. “Ironic, isn’t it? Attempting to spare you heartbreak by being the reason for it.”

He gently took your hand and looked into your eyes, remorse swimming in his own, "I had no right to treat you the way I did. I'm terribly sorry for being controlling and you absolutely do not have to forgive me. Just know that I truly regret my actions; I never intended to hurt you."

His words were a feather-light caress to your wounded heart and you shuddered. You couldn't stay mad at him. Reciprocated feelings or not, he was still your best friend and you wouldn't let that go.

"Apology accepted," you gave his hand a light squeeze and Fred beamed, the entire hallway lighting up with him. Dread released your chest of its merciless grasp and you could finally breathe. However, one question never ceased to haunt you. "But I just need to know…” you began, absentmindedly playing with his fingers, “...why were you so upset to begin with?"

Fred's shoulders immediately stiffened and he averted his gaze from you in an attempt to come up with a reasonable reply. His jaw was clenched, and his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I didn't want you to go with him." He stated simply. "Not when you could've easily gone with me instead."

You froze.

"What do you mean?” you asked timidly, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “What about Angelina?"

Fred only shook his head, fighting back a grin.

"Darling, Angelina was never the catch."

The air was knocked out of your lungs.

You could only stare at Fred wide-eyed, and though his expression was unreadable, maroon had begun to crawl its way up to his ears and cheeks again.

"I'm sorry for putting you through all this," Fred spoke softly as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, a kiss that awakened the butterflies within you. "I was really too much of a wuss to confess to you and settled for this instead."

"I guess that makes us two," you smiled sincerely, perhaps for the first time that night. Fred returned your smile with a grin, and asked.

"How can I make up to you for this oh-so-awful mess?"

"Dance with me," you said without skipping a beat. "That's what you owe me at least. Let's finally do what we both wanted."

Fred's expression became serious as he intertwined his fingers with yours, and led you into the direction of the Great hall, from which music could still faintly be heard.

"With the greatest of pleasure, my love."

Most people had already gone to bed, leaving just a few couples and you to drench in enchanted serenity. Fred's arms around you felt like home as you both swayed to the soft rhythm of the song, one of the many to follow, but his racing heartbeat under your palm caused your own pulse to speed up as well. 

You looked up at your lover through your lashes, gorgeous eyes already on you, their obscure flame consoling you and pulling you in. There was an odd, enigmatic allure that Fred possessed, and even after years of knowing this man, it only caused you to fall further into the velvety hell you didn't wish to escape from. 

And when his lips collided with yours, they tasted sweeter than the forbidden fruit.

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

[joaquinwhorres]

Treacherous Waters (Leonard McCoy x Reader)

SUMMARY ››››› After finals at Starfleet Academy all of the cadets flock to local bars in search of a good time. Which is exactly where you meet Leonard McCoy. And you are more than willing to show him a good time with the understanding that come Saturday morning he'll be gone, and you'll never see him again. Which is exactly what happens...until five years later your starship has a massive failure and the only ship around to save you is the Enterprise.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,072

WARNINGS ››››› Drinking and mentions of sexy times. 

A/N ››››› Sooooo originally this was just supposed to be a “dancing in a bar with Leonard McCoy” fic but then I got an idea and well, it’s this. 

Prefer OC’s? Read it on AO3.

Finals Week at Starfleet Academy was a glorious occasion.

Or perhaps, more accurately, the Friday evening after Finals Week at Starfleet Academy was a glorious occasion. Because the Friday night of Finals Week was when the beautiful, young, pent up cadets flooded the local bars in desperate search for some unbridled fun.

Which Y/N was more than happy to provide

"Kirk's here," Kiesh hissed, her fingers digging into Y/N's arm in her excitement. Y/N flinched, and Kiesh released her quickly, but was too distracted to mutter an apology, her gaze fixated on the near mythical figure of San Francisco nightlife.

The tales that followed Jim Kirk were outlandish and obscene and wholly captivating.

There was the story of his birth aboard the USS Kelvin minutes before his father saved the lives of everyone who'd been aboard the ship.

There was the story of how he'd earned his spot in the Academy by taking on three security Lieutenants in a fist fight and walking away with no more than a bloody nose.

And of course there were the stories of his romantic conquests. Although romantic was probably not the right word for it. Carnal, sensual, lustful, and erotic all seemed a bit more descriptive of what transpired between Jim Kirk and the girls of San Francisco.

And like any mythical figure, these tales were enough to warn off a good number of girls from falling into his sheets...while prompting others to search for him to either worship or conquer themselves.

Kiesh fell firmly in the later category. She was no Kirk acolyte, but he had become a point of fixation for her because he was what no other man had been to her--unattainable.

Y/N scanned the crowd for the golden haired casanova, but the bar was too packed. It was an ocean of voices and species and color, all flowing to the electric undercurrent that ran throughout the bar. Y/N's eyes caught on the blood red uniforms of cadets too eager to indulge their youth to waste any time by going home and changing clothes.

Two palms pressed into either side of Y/N's face as her roommate turned her attention away from the cadets, past groups of people wearing the colorful and patterned designs native to their home planet, and to the end of the neon purple bar. There, just visible between the bodies of two friends having a chugging contest, was Jim Kirk with his head thrown back laughing.

"He's gorgeous," Y/N murmured. She'd figured he had to be, but it was one thing to hear about Adonis and another thing completely to see him in person. Kiesh's hands fell from Y/N's head, allowing the other girl to turn back to her. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"I might not make it to breakfast." A coy smile curled Kiesh's lips up as she started off through the crowd, disappearing amongst the crowd.

Y/N followed her progress, watching the other girl choose a space at the bar directly in Kirk's line of sight, sliding into the chair and tossing her long purple hair over one shoulder to reveal the expanse of skin from her neck to her chest, and then below the crop top.

And then she waited.

Watching Kiesh work was a sight to behold. Each trap was delicately set, carefully tailored to the man she'd picked on that given night. She planned each movement--the way she walked, the angle of her body against the bar, the look she painted on her face--to snag men like a siren, luring them into her dangerous waters.

As much as she wanted to see this play out, Y/N had other more important things to accomplish.  Like finding her own catch for the night. And she wasn't going to do that by standing in one spot all night.

If Kiesh was a siren, then Y/N was a shark, moving constantly throughout the room in search of the perfect prey. She weaved in and out of small groups, eyes scanning the members therein. There were groups of friends laughing together, cadets challenging each other to drinking games, girls who like her and Kiesh came with one purpose in mind, and others who came to have a good time by themselves, cadets be damned.

But it wasn't until her fourth slow, methodical lap that she saw him. Or rather, she saw Kirk slap him on the back with a large grin before making his way over to where Kiesh leaned on her elbows. More than the broadness of his shoulders, the tussle of dark hair, and the deep red color of his uniform, it was the scowl he was shooting at Kirk's back that caught her attention and drew her across the bar to him as if smelling blood in the water.

"You look like a man who doesn't dance," Y/N said, folding her arms on the back of what was once Kirk's chair. It took him almost three seconds to realize that she was talking to him, and when he did, he lifted his eyebrows--the look an interesting combination of amusement and apprehension.

"Well, that's a first," he remarked. There was just a trace of an accent under his words that Y/N couldn't quite place.

"I highly doubt I'm the first person to notice," Y/N said, rocking on the balls of her feet. "Unless of course I'm wrong, and you're constantly barraged with requests to hit the dance floor."

He exhaled a laugh, the sound sailing past his lips, and into the glass he lifted up to his mouth. "You're not wrong," he said, taking a sip of his liquor and then placing it back down on the bar in front of him.

"Didn't think so. I rarely am."

He gave her a cautious look out of the corner of his eye as if still unsure where this conversation was going and why she was talking to him. As if people chatted up strangers in bars just to pass the time.

"So, since you don't dance, that begs the obvious question���what's a man like you doing in a place like this?"

He cracked a smile then, slowly tilting his head to look at her, really look at her, for the first time. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"Only if you subscribe to archaic 20th century gender norms," Y/N shrugged, smiling back at him. "Besides," she leaned closer, tipping her head towards his conspiratorially, and he shifted closer as well. "I don't think it's much of a mystery for me. I mean, look at our clothes."

His eyes wandered down to her deep V halter before seeming to realize he was still in his reds. "Fair point," he conceded, pulling back a little to take another sip of his drink.

"So?"

"A friend dragged me out," he admitted, eyes sliding back over to her. She raised both of her eyebrows as if she was surprised and didn't see Kirk abandoning him just five minutes ago.

"And left you to fend for yourself in a dive like this?" She shook her head as if scandalized by the idea. "You need better friends."

The cadet snorted and nodded his head. "You've got that right."

"Well, you're very lucky I found you before another girl did," Y/N said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"That so?"

She nodded. "They may try to take advantage of you in such a defenseless state. All alone by the bar nursing a...what is that, whiskey?"

"Bourbon, actually." His eyes sparkled with an intoxicating warmth similar to the liquor he was drinking.

Y/N rolled her eyes lightly. "Same thing."

"Only technically."

"Technicalities are everything," she grinned. "Anyway, I'm willing to offer my protective services as a long time San Francisco resident to navigate these treacherous waters."

"You're from here?" he asked, genuine curiosity overtaking his features for the first time in their conversation. Y/N's smile turned a bit strained, but she nodded.

"Not quite. But I've been here for fifteen years. Just haven't figured out how to drop the accent," she shrugged.

"So are you from England then?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Next round's on me if you can guess where."

"Lon…" he started, and a grin grew across Y/N's face before he switched course. "Birmingham?"

She shook her head. "London."

"You tricked me," he accused lightly, his brow furrowing slightly but into more of mock offense and surprise at her cunning than anything else.

"You're highly suggestible," she shook her head, fighting to keep a smile down. "Which brings me back to the fact that you absolutely cannot remain alone in this bar tonight. It's far too dangerous for you."

"Guess I'll have to take you up on that offer then, darlin'." His smile was more subtle--apparently the fight to keep it off his face was going better for him.

"Y/N," she corrected, lifting her hand to offer it to him.

The man took it, his fingers surprisingly soft for a cadet. "Leonard," he answered.

Y/N let her hand linger in his, not pulling back until his grip loosened and his fingers trailed against hers to go back around his glass. She leaned her elbow on the back of the chair, placing her chin on top of her hand. "So Leonard," she asked. "Are you going to buy me a drink or am I working for free?"

He smirked, lifting a hand to call the bartender over as Y/N slid into the seat next to him, leaning her arms against the smooth chrome bar. The Tellarite bartender made his way over, and Leonard looked at Y/N.

"Well are you going to order or sit there staring at each other?" the bartender snapped. Leonard shot him a dirty look, and Y/N snorted.

"I'll have a Samarian Sunset on his tab," she ordered, pointing a finger at Leonard, and the man grunted. Leonard still looked rather displeased with the exchange but ordered himself another bourbon. The bartender walked away grumbling, and even Leonard looked rather grumpy.

"You know that's just his way of greeting right?" Y/N asked, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Tellarites consider it polite to attempt to start an argument when meeting someone. If he wasn't mildly insulting I would have been majorly insulted."

"And I thought you were kidding about being a guide."

"I would never," Y/N said with mock indignation, placing a hand over her heart. "Leonard, I take my promise to you very seriously. I will be at your side all night."

"All night?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

"All night," Y/N repeated with a nod, keeping her eyes locked on Leonard. He met her gaze with an intensity that made her stomach twist with delight.  And of course it was right then that bartender reappeared.

He placed a martini glass full of clear liquid in front of Y/N, and a rocks glass with amber liquor in front of Leonard before making a derisive noise in his throat and walking away. Leonard didn't seem to mind as much this time.

"Cheers," Y/N said, reaching forward with her glass, and Leonard clinked his against hers, lifting it to his lips. She watched intently as she swirled her own drink so that a luminescent gold wisp spiraled out, turning the clear liquor the color of a burning sun. He pulled the glass from his lips, and she returned her attention to her own drink, taking a slow sip before placing it back down on the bar.

"So, Leonard," Y/N let the name roll off her tongue teasingly. "Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? What are you studying?"

"I'm a medical student," he said, setting his own glass down. "And I'm from Georgia."

"Ooh, a doctor and a southern gentleman," Y/N teased, shimmying her shoulders. "My mother would be so proud of me."

"Who said I'm a gentleman?" he asked with raised eyebrows, leaning closer to her. Y/N's mouth fell open slightly before she caught herself, stopping her body from melting completely right there in the seat.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Leonard," she quipped, taking a sip of her drink.

"If you didn't want a good time then why did you come over here?" he asked, and Y/N grinned at him.

"Because you look like a man who doesn't dance."

"Well darlin," Leonard started, his eyes sparkling with the slightest bit of mischief and a look on his face that was enough to make something delicious twist in the pit of Y/N's stomach. "The night's still young."

The night grew in both the amount of time passed and the amount of drinks finished. It was hard to state exactly how much of either had slipped away from the two of them as their glasses had been cleared a few times, but the world was just a bit lighter and hazier at the edges than was usual and the crowd slightly thinner than it had been when Y/N entered.

"Well, darlin'," Leonard's accent had grown heavier with the liquor, words dripping like molasses from his lips. "I should be gettin' back before curfew."

Y/N exhaled, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Leonard," she said slowly, dragging out the word. Her own accent adding a richness to her words that had been precise and sharp earlier in the evening. "I thought I made it quite clear that I wasn't leaving your side all night, so you can't go running off to the dorms on me now."

"Need me to walk you home?" he asked, pausing from putting on his coat to settle the tab.

"Such a southern gentleman," the words rolled like waves from her, her voice rising and falling as he lifted an eyebrow at the screen he was signing. "Yes, I require an accompaniment home," she mocked. "And then I need you to pick a side you want me on for the next part of our night: top or bottom."

Leonard's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide before grabbing her hand and leaving the bar behind.

The cab ride to her apartment was...restrained. The two of them sat shoulder to shoulder in the backseat, eyes focused ahead through the windshield. Even as Y/N's hand drifted from her own lap into his, venturing up his thigh, both of them remained focused on the passing San Francisco streets. Leonard's hand came on top of her own. "Just wait, darlin'," he said, his words dripping with the richness of molasses as he folded his hand around hers.

"It's not polite to make a lady wait," Y/N quipped, shooting him a look out of the corner of her eye.

He snorted but made no attempt at a retort, instead patiently holding her hand until the cab stopped. Y/N opened her door, dragging Leonard by the hand and towards her apartment building.

The ride on the elevator was just as restrained as the cab drive, only instead of the beautiful lights of downtown, the pair stared at their distorted reflection in the sleek chrome doors.

There was a hum in the elevator though. Inaudible, but she could feel it singing across her skin, radiating from each part of her body that touched Leonard's. She bit her lip, and could feel Leonard look down at her. She allowed her gaze to slide over to him, drifting up to his face, meeting his eyes, already dark and boring into hers.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the doors slid open, pulling their attention away from each other and out of the elevator.

The pair walked down the hallway, stopping outside of her door so she could punch in the code. It took two tries for her to get it before the door clicked and she pushed it open, revealing her dark apartment. Y/N ventured in first, turning to invite Leonard in, but she'd barely opened her mouth before her face was in his hands, and he was walking her back into the wall.

The light switch jammed into her shoulder blade, and she felt a bit off balance, but his lips moved over hers with such a ferocity, it pushed everything else from her mind. Instead, all she could focus on was the feeling of his lips against hers, the taste of the sharp tang of alcohol he'd been drinking all evening. He invaded her senses, making it impossible to think of anything other than pulling him closer to her.

Y/N wound her fingers into his hair, urging him nearer to her, which he did, stepping forward, and moving a hand from her face to her waist, pulling her flush against him. His other hand wandered down to her chest as his lips began a journey down the curve of her neck. "I don't usually do this type of thing," he murmured against her skin.

"Go home with--ah--a strange woman from the--fu--the bar?" Y/N panted, pushing her hips into his for a taste of the friction she needed.

He pulled himself away from her collarbone to look up at her with hooded eyes. "Exactly."

"You're missing out," Y/N grinned, chest heaving. "Now take off your clothes so I can prove it to you."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of bare skin and desperate sounds and more pleasure than Y/N had gotten out of a night out in a while.

It almost made her sad to see him go in the morning. Almost.

But him leaving was always a part of her plan for Saturday morning. Whether it was before or after breakfast, he would walk out of her apartment, never to be seen again. Instead, he'd fade into a memory of lips trailing against skin, fingers tangling in hair, bed frame rattling into the wall.

At least that's what was supposed to happen.

She wasn't supposed to see him again.

And she especially wasn't supposed to see him in a starship's transporter room, rushing towards her as she pressed her hand into Kiesh's side, desperate to keep the blood inside of her friend's body and not spilling out onto the transporter pad. He wasn't supposed to be there. And neither was she.

[barnesbabee]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ - ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ

WONDERLAND MASTERLIST ⇜ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ - ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ-  ɴᴇxᴛ ⟿

CHARACTER LIST: White Rabbit - Choi Jongho Absolem (Blue Catterpilar) - Kang Yeosang Cheshire Cat - Kim Hongjoong Mad Hatter - Choi San Haigha (March Hare) - Jung Wooyoung Tweedle Dee - Song Mingi Tweedle Dum - Jeong Yunho Bloody Red King - Park Seonghwa

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @myunvillage @mirror-juliet @jess-1404 @earth-to-leiki [Send me a DM, an ask or comment to be added to the tag list]

"Teach you what?"

"How to be a better man, how to have mercy, and compassion."

Unbeknownst to you, a little purple and pink cat watched every step you took. Of course, it wasn't because he cared. Cheshire (unlike many other Wonderland villagers) genuinely wasn't affected by your presence, or lack there of, but the Hatter had asked him, in exchange of a hefty reward, of course, to keep an eye on his beloved Y/N.

While watching over you Cheshire just did a whole bunch of growling and nose scrunching. He hated the sight of the King, and even worse, was the sight of such a man in love.

"Such a shame to be the bearer of bad news dear friend," Cheshire said, not at bothered by the fact that he had bad news to tell "but it seems as if Y/N will be our new Queen."

The cat twirled a strand of his coloured hair around his index finger, as he fell down onto one of the many chairs along with the Hatter's never-ending table.

The Hatter's eyes widened and so did his toothy smile.

"She's carrying on with the plan! She will decapitate him herself and become our Queen! Oh but I'm so happy I could dance the Futterwacken again!"

He clapped feverously and suggested a toast, clearly missing the meaning of Cheshire's words.

"I'm afraid you missed what I meant, Hatter. She will be our Queen, because she will be marrying the King."

The atmosphere suddenly became silent, eerie even. The Hatter's green, sparkly eyes transformed into an ugly, rage-filled, yellow. The man gripped the teacup on his hand so hard it broke, but the rage, disappointment, and growing heartbreak fogged his brain to the point where he didn't even notice the pain, nor the blood trickling down his palm.

The Hatter was rarely angry, but when he was, it was enough to scare poor Cheshire, who didn't hesitate in disappearing into thin air. Or he tried to. Before every bit of his body could be gone, the Hatter grabbed Cheshire's hair, making the cat groan in pain, and threw him on the ground.

"What has he done to her!? Was it a curse!?"

Cheshire caressed his head and stood up to look at the Hatter.

"It wasn't a curse Hatter, she fell in love. After you deceived her and the King showed her nothing but truth and love, the choice was pretty evident."

The reasonable explanation seemed to calm down the Hatter, whose eyes morphed back into their greenish colour. However the dread and panic in his face were still evident. Cheshire, still quite upset at Hatter's tantrum, could see on his friend's face an expression of someone about to spew a terrible, terrible idea.

"We must get her away from the Palace. It's gotten into her head. Let's get her back to us!"

The man-like cat floated back to his usual place in the air, twirling in the process. He chuckled audibly, showing his sharp canines in the process.

"Hmm yes, let's steal her away from the man she's come to love, so she could be with us, the people who lied to her for our own benefit. Sounds like a party if you ask me..."

"A party!?" Haigha exclaimed, his left eye twitching as he smiled widely at the mention of his favourite hobbie.

"That's where the King's behaviour comes in our favour," the Hatter said, patting Haigha's head so he'd sit back down "once he sees her take her beloved Queen away, he will show his true colours, Remember how scared and freaked out she was last time we saw her? She said he seemed really sweet while talking to her until he eventually snapped. Once he snaps, he will freak out and bring out the tyrant's behaviour and scare her away."

It was hard for Cheshire to admit, but his mad friend's plan wasn't so mad after all. It was possible to accomplish what the Hatter suggested, and there was nothing to lose, you already hated them anyway.

The Hatter slapped his thighs and stood up, fixing his big top hat in the process.

"Shall we go?"

Haigha was already standing up from his seat when Cheshire stopped them.

"Perhaps we should discuss the plan further... Something tells me we might need some help from Absolem and Bayard..."

Sneaking you out past the Card Knights would take a lot of help, and Cheshire had already worked out in his head the escape plan. It would take a little pressure on Absolem, as he managed to care even less about the people around him than Cheshire did, but the cat was sure he could get a shrinking cake out of the blue catterpillar. After shrinking you and hatter down to the size of a strawberry, Bayard (the loyal dog friend of Hatter's, that Cheshire tried his best to keep a distance of) would bring you to the White Rabbit's house, as it would be too obvious to come back to the Hatter's cabin.

The cat had no intention to help you, but he did like to see some drama and commotion in Wonderland once in a while, and this was his chance.

Whilst all of the furious planning went on on the greenlands of Wonderland, in the Palace you and the King sat opposite of each other on his bed, gossiping like two high schoolers.

"And then my best friend at the time, Anna, slept with my boyfriend and said it was 'because of a dare'. I forgave her because we had been friends for so long but then she told my crush that I smelled so I stopped being her friend."

The King nodded along and listened attentively (trying his best to cross his legs just like you, but failing miserably) to your story.

"Hm yes, yes, I understand. My best friend ate one of my tarts so I cut off his head."

You couldn't help but scoff at the way he compared the situations, although you reprehended him right after for the heartless act.

He had asked to know of your previous life, how it was back in your world, and so you sat there reminiscing your past for hours on end. Most people in Wonderland came from other places, but Seonghwa had never been elsewhere, as he was born in the Kingdom.

"So this establishment you call 'school', was it like a club you went to where you reunited with your peers?"

"No, no. School was a mandatory thing for all kids, we went there and a bunch of teachers taught us about different things."

"Hm, but all you've told me so far were anecdotes about these friends of yours, what were these classes like?"

You blushed slightly, realizing that in fact, you didn't remember shit from school, aside from past dramas.

"Well, they told us many things about earth, about what makes the world move, about how society works, and what makes things work. We learned about gravity, about numbers, about stars-"

"Stars!?"

The King's eyes lit up as if he was a child whom you had promised ice cream to.

"Yes, stars. Why?"

Seonghwa stood up from the bed in such a violent manner, he nearly fell. The man ran over to his closet, from where he retrieved an old book. The hard cover was beginning to tear, and the once white pages had become a weird mix of brown and yellow, but you took it in your hands nevertheless.

"This book once fell into the Wonderland when I was a child. I was alone most of the time, so it kept me company. I can tell from the images it talks about the stars, and I think I learned a lot from it since I stared at them a lot, but I cannot comprehend the alien language."

The King leaned against the headboard, and you laid beside him, placing your head on his chest, so you could hear his now nervous heart beating fast from the contact. Out of instinct, the King placed his arm around you and pulled you closer, as you opened the book.

You chuckled slightly, after seeing the author of the book and opening its pages.

"Seonghwa this isn't an alien language, it's Italian. Well, I guess it's an alien language to you, but it was funny that you said it that way... The person who wrote it was very influential back where I'm from, he taught the people of Earth many things about our space."

The male listened carefully as you tried your best to explain the things in the book as best as you could.

"This here is what we call the Solar System. It has nine planets, but only one of them has people, this one, where I live." You told him, pointing towards Earth.

Seonghwa noticed how your posture changed, after you remembered once more that you would never return home again, and panicked for a second. He disliked many things, but your tears had definitely gone up to his number 1 on the list.

"How about I ask for a picnic to be arranged in the garden, and at night we can watch the stars."

You turned to face him and smiled as you nodded. Seonghwa's thumb caressed your arm, and you couldn't help but to place a soft kiss on his lips, as a 'thank you'. No matter how many times you did that, the King never seemed to get used to it. He would always feel butterflies in his stomach and fireworks exploding on his chest. Sometimes you felt perverted, thinking of how he'd react if one day you decided to take it... further. You imagined how pretty he'd look... But you decided to take your time. Baby steps...

The King couldn't wait for dinner time, and you could tell from the number of times he had gone up to the window and pushed away the blinds to see if the sun was finally setting.

As he was staring out the window, you came behind him and wrapped your arms around his figure.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Seonghwa looked around, to make sure no one was nearby eavesdropping. He wouldn't want your secret to being known.

You tiptoed so your lips could be leveled with his ear.

"You're adorable."

Once you got back down and looked into his gleeful eyes, you smiled.

"Let's keep this secret between us!" He joked along.

"Yes, I wouldn't want the other ladies to know and steal you away."

Seonghwa held your face and lovingly placed a kiss on your forehead.

"The other ladies don't stand a chance next to you princess."

Your cheeks heated up and you slapped his chest out of embarrassment. The King's face grew worried and confused.

"Why did you hit me? Have I done something wrong? It was meant to be a compliment I'm sorry I compared you to-"

You grabbed his face and squished his cheeks, making him form an adorable pout with his red lips.

"Seonghwa, it was a good thing. I slapped your chest because I was embarrassed, I was really touched by your compliment."

Once you let go of his face, the King tapped his chin with his index finger, in a pensive manner.

"I have much to learn about our future interactions, I do not understand many things."

You just chuckled and took his hand in yours.

"We have many years ahead of us, you will learn someday."

The small acknowledgment of your future made Seonghwa very happy. Never in his pitiful life had he even thought of being this happy over small actions... Last week the only thing that brought him joy was the sound of a traitor's head hitting the concrete floors of the palace's main area, but since you arrived, a smile was all it took for his cold heart to start beating again.

It didn't take long before one of the frogmen knocked on the door to inform the picnic was ready. Seonghwa didn't let go of your hand as you walked outside, to sit among the red roses.

You had finally come to terms with Wonderland's weird food. You had no choice really...

"Have you never been attracted to anyone, Seonghwa?" You asked as you munched down on a sandwich of... whatever it was.

Seonghwa's expression faded a little.

"Once. I had just become King and I thought that the next step would, logically, be the find a Queen. Every woman displeased me. All but one. She was beautiful, hair as dark as the night sky, tanned skin from the sun, and a beautiful mole under the eye. But she was cold, evil... I thought that it was a perfect match. After all, I wasn't the most caring person. But she would treat me like a servant. Our relationship was purely to serve a purpose to the Kingdom, nothing else. We slept in separate rooms and spent the day apart. We only dined together, but since I saw the same behavior from my parents I thought that that was love. Our wedding had been scheduled long before she moved into the castle, we were simply waiting for the preparations to be finished. Everything was custom made, from the clothes to the flowers on every table. The day before the wedding I walked to her bedroom and found her laying with a servant of mine. You know, back when they weren't... Frogs. I had them both decapitated, of course. And I swore off love forever. That is until you came along."

You flashed him a sad smile and set down your food. He looked awfully confused as you climbed onto his lap, but he didn't protest.

You brushed his dark hair away from his eyes. Both of them. He suddenly felt very exposed and insecure, but you kissed his cheek, reassuringly.

"Ever since I came down here you've shown me nothing but love, and honesty. You didn't try to sugarcoat who you are, or what you've done, and I appreciate your honesty. My place in Wonderland is with you."

The male smiled, and kissed you, a little more passionately than all of the previous times. The male's hands trailed down your ass, and pulled you on top of his growing erection.

"For someone who has never been with anyone you're quite good at this."

"Well I... I lied. I had a fiancé after all, and we laid together but we didn't get far. There was no kissing involved, she just wanted to get it over with since I was the one who suggested we should... do it. But she made fun of me for not being good at it and I became... insecure. I was insecure and for the longest time I've wanted to try it with you, because you give me those special butterflies but I was afraid I'd disappoint you."

"What a cold, heartless bitch!" You thought to yourself. No wonder he was so bad at human interactions, every relationship he had was a trainwreck!

You grabbed his face and placed a long kiss on his lips.

"Well then, let me lead at first. If you start feeling more confident, you can take the lead, if not, I'll stay in control, okay?"

The King simply nodded and kissed you once more. This time deeper than he had ever kissed anyone. Tongues fighting so intensely the King nearly missed the way your hand expediently undid his trousers. Your hand slipped inside his boxers and took out his length. You looked down at the dick in your hand and widened your eye.

"Well aren't I a lucky girl."

You spat in your hand and kissed him again, as your hand worked up and down his shaft. The King was surprisingly very vocal, and he didn't try to hide or suppress any of his pretty moans (and for that you were thankful.

You stopped your hand, right as he was getting riled up.

"Ready for something better?"

The King watched you strip from your panties, and he cursed the frilly dress that covered your womanhood, but as soon as you sunk down on his cock, all of his worries and anguishes washed away. It was automatic, the way he gripped your hips and made you bounce on him as he snapped your hips against yours was something he did naturally as if he truly knew what he was doing. You brought out something different in him, and the King was simply doing was his body was telling him to do.

You gripped his shoulders, overwhelmed with the feeling of having him inside you.

"S-shit Seonghwa, you're good, r-really fucking good."

"Oh yeah?"

He flipped you two around, so he could pound into you with all the strength he had. Your words of encouragement were all he needed.

Your consistent (and loud) moans got him on the edge quickly, and he knew he wouldn't last long.

"Y/N forgive me, but I don't think I can last much longer."

Your hand reached down and began circling your clit, so when he came inside you, filling you up with his cum, you came right after, with a loud cry for his name.

Seonghwa laid on top of you, his face nuzzled on the crook of your neck, trying to regain his breath. You ran your hand through his hair as you did the same, looking up at the sky.

"The stars sure look beautiful today."

[omniscientwreck]

Hi🖤 Omni! If you're looking for a fic request I've got one.

Okay so Essek is Feeblminded by remaining Volstrucker at his tower. Verin came to visit later that day and has been taling care of Essek, as they both would be scared of the Umavi's wrath should someone find out.

Well Caleb comes to visit a few day's later and Certainly gets a surprise.

Fluff ensues.

I'm talking the Unicorn from Despicable Me level Fluffy😁😁😁

Hi Umbra! Sorry I'm incredibly late answering this, life is weird but I hope the length makes up for it! I know I said drabble but like this just turned into a whole fic so I hope you enjoy!

Verin had worried when Essek’s door hadn’t opened of its own accord, usually he knows when he’s arrived. Deciding something was certainly wrong he barges his way into his brother’s tower. He finds it silent which is normal but unnerving and the unnatural stillness as he calls for Essek has his hackles up.

His knuckles pale as he grips the hilt of his sword and searches methodically throughout the tower. Finding the main floor empty he heads up the stairs to the library. There’s a shuffle, a falling book, a whimper. He draws his sword, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The door is ajar and he can hear shuffling. He thrusts it open is momentarily relieved to see his brother. His hair is tousled and white is stained with flecks of red, his robes are torn and his mantle is askew.

He’s never seen him like this before and his heart lurches. Surprise and fear are plastered across his features, far more freely than Verin’s ever seen him feel. He doesn’t talk and he seems to not even recognize him. Checking the rest of the room, the sword is returned to its sheath and Verin crouches, reaching a hand to Essek.

“Brother, what happened?” Silence, a whimper. “Essek? What’s wrong? It’s Verin, your brother.” His brows unknot, and the tension in his jaw slackens. There’s a looseness to his demeanor and as he stands he waves his hand as if to float, but nothing happens. He tries again and again. The first try was decisive, after watching him for so long Verin knows what it looks like when he casts it. The second time it’s not quite right, the third time it gets looser still. By the time Verin has stopped counting and Verin has grabbed Essek’s hands to calm him it seemed like Essek didn’t know what he was attempting to do.

“Is this some kind of spell? What happened?” His brother looks up with the face of a stranger. His eyes are open and sad, his ears fall just a touch and Essek leans in to hug Verin. He’s never wanted to do that before.

Verin hugs him back. “Oh Essie, what are we going to do?”

Caleb approaches Essek’s tower and is struck by immediate concern when the door doesn’t open for him. Essek always lets him in when he arrives, and with everything that’s happened he immediately panics. Caleb tries to tell himself Essek must be busy and has missed him tripping the wards. So, he lifts the knocker and gives the door a few raps.

He’d asked Caleb to meet him here to assist in the transport of his most important items after their trip to Aeor. He needs to run, he knows it and Caleb knows that turning himself in to the Dynasty would mean certain death so he’s agreed to help. No amount of good will from the Bright Queen would let them bargain for his favour. Selfishly, Caleb won’t allow him to get caught, so he will harbor Essek for some time, helping him stay out of the eyes of the Dynasty.

Eventually he knocks again, beginning to hold a firebolt just in case. “Uh, just a minute,” calls a stranger’s voice from behind the wood. “I’ll be right there.”

The door opens just a crack, “Who is it?”

“I am Caleb Widogast of the Mighty Nein, who is this?” His hand is up and encircled in flame.

“Oh thank the Light, one moment.” Whoever he is, he’s clearly relieved. Caleb’s firebolt stays held.

As the door opens Caleb is greeted by a tall drow, muscular with long braided back hair. He looks familiar but Caleb cannot place him. His features are slowly fading into relief from what must have been a deep concern. “Hello Caleb Widogast, I am Verin Thelyss and I am so glad you’re here. Your the wizard yes?”

Nodding, bewildered as he’s being dragged into Essek’s home by his brother, Caleb can hardly remember to respond, “Uh ja, that’s me. Where is Essek?”

“Well so I came by a few days ago and he didn’t let me into the tower which was weird. There have been some rumors going around and when our mother said he was back I had to ask. I don’t know if you know but… well it’s bad.”

He’s leading him upstairs as he explains and the back of Caleb’s neck is on fire. Verin doesn’t know, but there are rumors that are most likely true. Is he too late?

“So, I’m hoping since you also practice the arcane you might know what’s happened here and how to solve it.”

He leads Caleb into the library and Essek is seated on a chair idly flipping through a book far too quickly. It doesn’t even look like he’s reading, Caleb knows what he looks like when he’s reading. The quiet concentration and the tension it brings his jaw is completely missing. When Essek looks up at him there’s recognition but no words and when he rises to make his way to Caleb, he walks.

He’s wide-eyed and has a sweet smile across his face, it’s difficult to look away but if he doesn’t the heat rising in his cheeks will show. “Essek, what is it mein Freunde?”

No words. Why can’t he talk and why isn’t he floating?

“Essek?” A gentle hand reaches up to rest on his cheek and the heat takes over at the abrupt contact. Especially with Verin standing over his shoulder observing them. “Verin how long has he been like this?”

“About 2 days. I didn’t really know what had happened and if the Umavi found out well… I’m unsure what she would do.” Verin is a little more easier to map out than Essek had been initially and he’s been told enough stories about Dierta to understand the undercurrent of Verin’s words.

“Ja, I understand.” Verin starts at that and Caleb just continues past it, “I believe he has been affected by the spell Feeblemind. I - ah - have experience with this kind of thing. We have friends that can cure him but I will have to contact them, which I will not be able to do until tomorrow.”

Essek’s hand has wound its way into Caleb’s and he tries and fails miserably to contain the blush that he knows is spreading to his ears. Memories of little touches in Aeor flood back and Caleb pushes away thoughts of conversations he’d promised they’d have later, after Essek was safe. To call to attention this thing between them and get it out in the open before it drives him mad. Even if Essek’s feelings do not align with his it will be better to have it in the open.

“So this isn’t hurting him?”

Caleb turns to Essek, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He remembers a blur of time, when his mind had failed him. He remembers terror, looking down at his hands and not knowing whose they were. He didn’t have an anchor, nothing but his own thoughts, with someone there it might be different. Essek can’t understand him but the tone of voice seems to elicit some positive emotions and Essek squeezes his hand, a contented smile across his face, “He seems alright to me. It is unpleasant to be cut off from your casting, but he isn’t in pain and he isn’t alone.” It’s difficult to mitigate the emotion bleeding into his voice.

He pushes down memories of the years he’d been locked away and squeezes Essek’s hand back, reassuringly. “Have you gotten him to eat?”

Verin nods, “Occasionally. Probably not as much as he needs. I’m not exactly an excellent cook and nobody can see him like this so I’ve sent his staff away.”

“Alright, well I’ll just do this then.” he begins casting the tower, “I understand if you want to stay but if you need to go I can care for him.” he wants Verin to leave, he wants him gone so badly, to just take care of Essek properly without the shadow of somebody who doesn’t know hanging over them.

“I should be back to Bazzoxan soon. They’ll begin asking after me.” Caleb finishes casting the tower and leads Essek in. Just before he enters, Verin stops him, “You mean something to each other. I’ve never seen him act this way before, granted there’s an arcane influence but genuinely he has never smiled like he did when he saw you. I trust you with this because I think he would. Do not betray that.”

Caleb nods, “Of course not. We’ve faced the most difficult challenges of my life together and with our friends. I will care for him.” Verin seems satisfied with that and makes to leave, and Caleb enters the tower to find Essek waiting in the centre of the tower. He has an idea of where he wants to go. As the tower door closes behind Verin, he and Essek begin to drift upwards. Essek opens his mouth as if to reflexively murmur ‘up’ as had become their custom in their long travels together and his brows knot in distress, as if he’s realized again that his voice will not come. Caleb reaches for his hand, to comfort him and says it for them both, to which Essek smiles.

The drow releases Caleb’s hand and begins to swirl around, never leaving the central column and Caleb is forced to mirror his motions lest they collide. He flashes back to a moment of levity when they’d first come to Aeor. They had showboated then, dancing around each other as their works often did. This Essek is less restrained and his eyes and nose crinkle into a genuine smile when Caleb joins his frivolity.

They stop at the ninth floor which Caleb had known to be Esseks’ destination and immediately Essek lays on the pillows he always places in the corner. Usually, on their research expedition, he tranced in his room but on particularly emotional days they both preferred an expanse of stars above them as they rested. It became tradition and over time they’d drifted closer and closer together, until they would sometimes come to consciousness to find that through the night Essek had curled into Caleb’s side or that their hands had wound together unknowingly.

Now, Essek’s eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open in wonder as though it’s his first time seeing it all over again. Caleb stands over him, following his gaze up to the idly shifting starscape above. Caleb is quickly distracted by the versions of them that traverse different paths. Sometimes in each other’s company, other times in solitude. In a few they hold hands or make contact at the shoulders. Those are the ones he likes the most.

When his gaze is pulled back downwards, Essek stares up at him with a tenderness that quickly turns to expectation. He’s arranged burgundy cushions across the floor beside him for Caleb and so he obliges. As he stretches out across the crude bed slender, cool fingers interlock his own and he lays back and tells Essek of the constellations he’s hidden among the stars.

When Caleb himself was in this state he remembered lacking familiarity. Nothing around him made sense and the upheaval of his life only moments prior had only amplified the disorientation of the magic that kept him prisoner for 11 years.

Essek has someone to watch over him, he’s in a place that evidently brings him much joy and in recent months he’s found himself halfway to peace. Caleb finds his heart swell at the idea of making this experience bearable.

The silence was always the worst so he points to guide the elf’s eyes as he tells them the stories behind each constellation. He tells him of Nila, gentle and fierce. Of Twiggy, ever optimistic and wholly delightful. He tells him about Reani who Essek has spent some time with. Brief recognition flashes across his face, though it’s quickly replaced with frustration. Caleb remembers. He remembers knowing that someone was there who he should recognize but not having the words to know he had forgotten their name. He was in terror and treated everyone as a threat. Essek treats everything with wonder and discovery. The innocence is sweet and a syrupy feeling pools in Caleb’s throat as he’s again confronted with the way his heart swells when Essek looks at Caleb with that same contented smile.

He scoots closer and this is entirely too much. The idea that this version of Essek may curl into his side willingly, while they were fully conscious where the other version cannot unsettles him. Instead he stands, offering his hand, “Why don’t we get you something to eat ja?” There’s a momentary droop of his ears, much more pronounced than any movement he’d seen before before he lifts Essek and they go down to the dining room.

If there is to be anything significant between them it cannot be spurred under these circumstances. Caleb has to know he means it. As they wait while he cats prepare what had become their usual fare while traversing Aeor, he defaults to telling stories. First he tells him of the tunnels they traversed to reach the Dynasty, crafting an illusion as well as he can of the crystalline caves they made camp in. Food arrives and he continues weaving story and image as Essek picks at the well spiced soup comprised mainly of squash and potato. As he crafts an illusion of the dragon turtle they’d fought just after the peace talks out of amber and morphs its shape to a smaller turtle and then a sea slug, laughing to himself at the absurdity, he notices the clink of Essek’s spoon has long subsided.

Glancing over electric eyes focus on him instead of the illusion, so he drops it. “Ah, Es tut mir Leid, I know I tend to get carried away.” A little contented noise bubbles from Essek’s throat and his heart squeezes. In a desperate attempt to try and get Essek to eat more he turns back to his own soup and looks expectantly over to his friend.

Giving him a look of exasperation, he mirrors Caleb and eats most of the soup. Caleb rips up bread and encourages him to dip it in what’s left of the soup and finally, the bowl is empty. They leave the cats to clean up and Essek’s hand grasps Caleb’s again and squeezes. He knows he shouldn’t draw conclusions or let himself be taken by these gestures that the man wouldn’t make if he’d had the presence of mind, but it’s turning into a losing game.

With the time spent on the ninth floor and the prolonged battle of coaxing Essek to eat they only have a few hours until sleep. Essek takes his customary seat on the couch in the study and Caleb withdraws some of the lighter fiction that now populates the shelves. Lying back on the sofa, feet resting on the armrest, head by Essek he holds up the copy of Der Katzenprinz to show the illustrations. “You seem to like hearing me talk so why don’t I share this with you? Either way you won’t understand what I say so I will read it to you as it was originally intended.”

He begins, in Zemnian to tell him the fairy story that had brought him so much joy as a child, and the cats bring them hot chocolate as instructed. Warm mug in hand, Essek sits patiently through the story and as it turns to a close, picks up another of the books Caleb has gathered and thrusts it upon his chest. A real laugh bubbles up at that and he obliges.

As the night winds on and the mugs are emptied, Essek’s hand winds its way through Caleb’s hair, gently combing. When he looks up at Essek he’s met with soft, drooping eyes and a plain smile laced with nothing but care. He tries to stop Essek over the course of the book but finds that the drow always goes back to his hair so eventually, he leaves it. When Essek’s breaths even and elongate and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, Caleb sends him to trance.

He’s met with a slightly mournful look as Essek settles into the cushions he’s provided for trancing, but Caleb squeezes his shoulder, “If something goes wrong the cats will know to come get me. This is for the best.” Looking not at all reassured, but staying in place, Essek lets him leave without protest.

In the middle of sleep, dreamless and warm, there’s pressure. Then a caterwaul cuts through his subconscious followed by several more. He awakes with a start and immediately the cats gather around his feet as he pulls on slippers. They lead him to Essek’s room, where through the closed doors he can hear the sounds of furniture being disturbed.

Barging in, heart pounding, he finds Essek with tears streaming down his face. “Essek Schatz what’s wrong?” He kneels, abandoning any sense of propriety or boundaries and as he collapses into Caleb’s arms with nearly silent sobs he’s struck by how small the other man is.

“It’s alright Essek, whatever it was it cannot hurt you. I will keep you safe as you have done me.” They’ve never talked about the nights when the cats would do the same to Essek as they’d done to Caleb. When he’d been awoken from nightmares with angry red scratches down his forearms and a friend to bandage them. They’ve never quite discussed the comfort in Essek trancing just beside Caleb’s bed on difficult nights and he’s tried to stifle contemplation about the safety the man brings to his subconscious. The timing wasn’t right and despite his own longing he couldn’t make that step towards Essek. Not then.

Now, however, the elf shudders in his arms and he brings him into his lap, lighting soft amber globules of light to examine Essek. When he finds no physical harm he puts them out again and draws him in tighter as Essek clutches at the sides of his nightshirt and curls into his chest. He sings gentle lullabies his mother had once used to soothe him, voice cracking slightly as he flexes it in a long forgotten way. Eventually the shaking stops and breath becomes more solid, but hands stay grasped into his shirt so, with assistance from the cats, he maneuvers them into an easier sleeping position. Ever determined, Essek stays in his arms the whole time and when he tries to encourage him to trance beside him, arms wind around his waist.

“Okay, okay. If this will help.” Caleb resigns himself to creaky joints the next morning and sleeps with Essek in his arms, pushing away any indulgent thoughts of future nights spent with him in the same orientation.

When he awakes Essek is gone from his lap, though their fingers are laced and his head rests atop the drow’s on his shoulder. “Guten Morgen Essek.” He startles and smiles over at Caleb. Open, honest, vulnerable. They need to fix this. “I just need to prepare and then we will see Jester ja?” He receives a blank stare in return and nods to himself. “I will be back in a few moments and then we will go to Nicodranas. Just wait here.” He leaves and dresses quickly, returning to find Essek essentially where he’d been left. He takes a moment to glance over his spellbook and concentrates as he casts Sending, “Hallo Jester, I need your assistance with a pretty big restoration. Can you help today?”

She sounds half-asleep as she responds, “Caleb? Oh hi! Yeah I can help, just come to mama’s, we’re in Nicodranas. Oh my gosh I have to tell you, the dragon turtle-” her word economy same as ever.

“Okay Essek, Jester can help. I don’t know where you kept your parasol but I’m sure she can make you another.” With that they head out the door and Caleb transports them safely to the Lavish Chateau. Essek’s hand never leaves his.

Upon arrival they’re beset by a shouted greeting and Jester crushes Caleb in a hug before even realizing the other man is there. “Ohmigod Essek hi! I missed you!” Instead of awkwardly patting her back as he usually does, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her in. “Hey Caleb, what’s going on with Essek?”

She pulls back and sees his broad smile and dancing eyes and looks at Caleb distinctly concerned. “Ah- I’m afraid he is a victim of the Feeblemind spell. It’s what they used against me in… well.” Her face clouds with understanding. “He’s okay physically though, whoever attacked him clearly just needed him out of the way. If you can use Greater Restoration that will undo the effects. He’s been ah - rather clingy.”

She waggles her eyebrows at him, making suggestive noise, and gets out the required diamond dust, sprinkling it delicately over Essek who watches in wonder. She puts both hands on her shoulders and green radiant energy emanates from her and passes to him. Before long he’s shaking his head and stepping back, voice hoarse from disuse, “Where- Jester? Thank you oh my gods thank you.”

She grins back at him, “I’m glad you’re back Essek! It’s a good thing Caleb brought you here you were acting so weird-”

She’s cut off as he chokes out, “Caleb.” and looks over with a deep violet flush and wide, apologetic eyes. “I ah- I am sorry for putting you through that. I-”

“Nein, do not apologize. Maybe we should get back to your tower to try and piece together who did this to you and what they were after ja?’

Essek nods and casts his levitation cantrip, shoulders sagging with relief when it works. “Yes, of course. Thank you Jester, I’m sorry we can’t stay but-”

She hugs the both of them again, “It’s okay, you have lots to talk about probably I don’t know bye!” she gives Caleb a wink as he begins casting the spell again and to his surprise Essek’s hand winds itself in his as they vanish.

They’re back in the tower and Caleb looks down, Essek’s hand still in his. Essek drops it and there’s a flush set deep into his cheeks and it spreads to his cheeks as their eyes meet. “Caleb I-” he swallows “I remember most of what happened, though not very clearly. I um-” his eyes are downcast and Caleb braces for what he believes to be coming, “Thank you for your patience. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable it is very difficult to explain but I think you’re aware of the feeling. I didn’t exactly have my full faculties and I fear I broke boundaries that may have encroached too far on your hospitality and our friendship.”

It’s difficult to see him so apologetic for the affection displayed. This thing between them has gone unspoken quite too long and before he realizes it he’s speaking, “Don’t apologize for that Schatz, I ah- I didn’t mind. There’s something I think we ought to discuss fairly plainly because I do not want to mince words about the way I feel anymore, it’s tiring.”

Essek looks up to meet him, steeling himself and as Caleb is about to speak he cuts him off, “I am aware enough of how I acted to realize I cannot properly hide my feelings further.” He takes a deep breath, the back of Caleb’s neck is burning and time has all but frozen, “I care deeply for you Caleb. It is difficult to bring myself to those words for I know this is the last thing I deserve but here I am, a fool for you. I know that there were moments in Aeor, I hold them close to my heart as precious things in a life of solitude. If you do not do the same, if you do not feel the same I will remain your friend if you’ll allow it, your research partner, anything. But-” he looks down almost sheepishly, “I owe it to you to be forthright and so I will tell you that if you’ll have me, I would very much like to see where this takes us.”

A smile breaks across Caleb’s face as their eyes meet, “May I kiss you?”

Essek draws in a sharp breath, eyes wide, and nods. It takes Caleb only a moment to close the gap, hands sliding around Essek’s waist and over the back of his neck as he leads them together. Essek’s hands hold his shoulders and his eyes flutter closed as their lips meet, electricity and heat mixing. When they finally pull back they’re both flushed. Essek lets out a huff of a laugh and Caleb wraps him tightly as he brings him in again, smiling into another kiss.

[cinnamon-bebe]

Chemtrails (Pedro Pascal x Fem!Reader)

Chemtrails (Pedro Pascal X Fem!Reader)

Summary: "If you died today, would you be happy with the life you've lived?" What happens when you've sacrificed your love for fame and fortune? Despite the glitz and glamour, the Reader is all Pedro can think about. The stars have never been on your side but can you rewrite the plans they have for you?

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Occasional Cursing

Inspired by the song Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana Del Rey

"I'm on the run with you, my sweet love

There's nothing wrong contemplating God

Under the chemtrails over the country club"

"Baby what's your sign?"

"You're in the wind, I'm in the water

Nobody's son, nobody's daughter

Watching the chemtrails over the country club"

Pedro's POV

The chatter of a hundred people and yet I still only hear your voice. Memories of your words, from years past.

You asked me what my sign was, I told you I was an Aries. You laughed and told me we shouldn't be friends, the stars say so. The stars say we're incompatible, we'd be at each other's throats. I'm a fire sign and you didn't need any more drama. I kissed you for the first time and told you I'd prove you wrong, you simply smiled and looked off to the chemtrails that flew over us.  

Memories from years past.

I didn't have much to offer you but I told you that you could take my word. At that time, it was worth more than anything I could have given you.

"You want me to defy the stars?" You raised an eyebrow, a smile teasing your face.

"The stars can go fuck themselves." I told you and kissed you again.

We were so young. We were nobodies. Running through the concrete jungle, with your hand in mine. Sun dress and kisses at midnight convenience stores, splitting a hot dog on a summer day because we needed money for the show at 7.

We used to contemplate the meaning of life over a bottle on our little balcony. I asked you if you were happy and you smiled but did not reply.

"If you died today, would you be happy with the life you've lived?" You asked me instead.

"No." I told you. "There's so much more I want to do. I want to be somebody."

I didn't know it then but that was the moment I started to lose you.

Memories from years past.

I find myself sitting at a restaurant now, with more money to line my pockets, pats on the back from strangers. People know my name and it comes out in whispers, as they stare over their expensive plate, getting cold just to catch a glimpse of me.

A beautiful woman sits across from me. As if a movie star isn't a big enough draw, a woman like her only invites more gazes. She looks like she'd just stepped off a screen herself. She gives me all her attention, so much so that she does not register the envious stares from the others around her.

Her lips are moving, perhaps a funny anecdote came to mind or is she telling me about her sister's wedding again that she mentioned before?  I cannot tell you, for my mind is elsewhere, with someone else.

"So would you like to come?" She smiles brightly at me, her perfect teeth sitting between her lips, painted in a dusty pink.  

"Huh?" I snap out of my daze, embarrassed that I was clearly not paying attention.

"Jule's wedding, did you...want to be my date for the day?" She blushes, hopeful.

"Oh. I...uh. I don't know Kate. I have a pretty packed schedule coming up, I don't know if I'll have time." I try to make up an excuse.

"It's too early isn't?" She bites her lip sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I know we've only been dating for a few weeks, I shouldn't have sprung this up on you so fast."

"No no, please don't be silly. I love weddings!" I try to laugh it off. "It's just that, with the new movie coming up, I need to start preparing before we go into production."

"I understand." She nods with a smile, "Comes with the territory when you're dating a big movie star I guess." She looks at me, I'm not sure if she's anticipating a response but I reciprocate with a grin and wave at the waiter for another drink.

Soon enough, she excuses herself from the table to go to the ladies room and I'm left sitting alone at our spot. I grow tiresome of the incessant chattering from the tables around me and I massage the temples of head, wishing I was at home in the comfort of my bed with just the company of my television.

I see glances from a small table to the side of me, a group of young women clearly too shy to ask for a photograph, egging each other on to make the first move over to me. Their hopes quickly dashed as I feel a firm hand on my shoulder, turning me around.

"Pedro?" A familiar voice calls my name.

"Anthony! Fancy seeing you here!" My eyes widen as I pull an old friend down for a hug.

"It's my anniversary with Charlize, we're just celebrating! God I haven't seen you for so long!" He shakes his head, slowly looking me up and down, examining my so-called transformation. I've aged so much since we last we saw each.

"How long have you been here?" I ask.

"A couple of hours, I actually saw you before but I..uh...I didn't want to interrupt your date."

Date? I swallow the word whole.

"You lucky man. She's very pretty." He comments.

"Yeah, she is."

"You could seem a bit more interested though but those are Charlize's words, not mine." He raises his hands up, letting his wife take the blame.

"I must seem like an ass, don't I?" Poor Kate, how spoilt am I to show a woman like her so little interest. "I haven't dated for so long, it's just hard getting back into the scene that's all."

Anthony let's out an inaudible "oh" and I know he's thinking the same thing, I can practically hear the name sitting on his tongue, desperately wanting to come out. 

"How is Y/N?" I break the ice, allowing the elephant in the room an escape before he suffocates along with me.

"She's good, very good actually. She's a documentary film maker now. Her work is amazing, you'd love it." Anthony couldn't help his excitement when speaking about you and I feel an intense pang of sadness and jealousy seeing his eyes light up. To see you, celebrate you. I wonder if you've aged like me or do you still look the same as how I remember. Do you still crinkle your nose every time you hear a bad joke? Do your eyes still get red and glassy when you look at the sky because you're wondering if anyone's looking down on you? I wish I knew.

"Listen, I have to go." Anthony looks back at his wife who gives me a polite wave from a distance.

"It was really good seeing you Anthony, I'm sorry we haven't spoken all these years. It's just with work..." I recycle that old excuse again.

"Don't worry about it...you made it! I know you worked really hard to get where you are now. I know you had to make a lot of sacrifices..." The last sentence, spoken so softly, it was almost drowned out. "I'm genuinely happy for you."

I nod, giving my friend one last hug before I ready for him to turn and leave, instead he hesitates and looks at me.  

"Hey Pedro?"

"Yeah?"

"She still lives in the neighbourhood." He looks down at the scarf in his hand before patting me on my arm. "Just so you know."

With that, he waves me goodbye. Walking back to his wife, who he wraps his arm around. The way she naturally rests into him and slips her hand into his coat pocket as they exit the restaurant, I wonder if I'd ever have that level of intimacy with Kate.  

__________________________________________________

I sent her home in a taxi. "I have an early morning and need to prep for some meetings", my excuse for her this time. Kate's disappointed expression, as I gave her a kiss on the cheek is the last thing on my mind.

Scuffing the cap of my leather shoes, I kick at the pavement. The world moves past me as I hide myself in the bubble of my thoughts. I have no sense of direction, my legs taking me to no intended destination, only letting the neon lights around guide me to where it desires.

Anthony's words were still ringing in my ears.

Would you want to see me?

My mind reminds me of the last time we were together.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, if I don't leave the city now, I may never get my chanc-"

"Get your chance to do what? Be a star?" You were sat deep in the corner of the sofa, far from me. Your voice calm and monotonous as you watched me pace up and down our tiny apartment. I couldn't decipher your expression, it was as if you knew what I was going to say.

"I want to make something out of my life! I want to prove to everyone and myself that I can make it Y/N. I don't want to waste my life away." I moved towards you, our presence separated by the little vintage coffee table I hated but still bought home because you loved it so much.

"Well then go, I don't want to hold you back from chasing your dreams."

"Y/N-"

"No. It's okay Pedro. I understand...I really do. I don't want to stop you from pursuing what you love." You got up from your spot, you seemed so small to me as you closed the gap between us. Your hand felt so light against my face, like you were disappearing before me. "Don't live in regret because of me."

"Y/N come wi-" I tried to hold you, hold you before you evaporated.

"No. My place is here." You took your hand away, moved back, the space between us grew more and more distant. "I don't have big dreams like you do. I like normality. I like living my life however I want it, do whatever I want, whenever I want. You asked me if I was happy...and I am."

"Would you still be happy without me?"

I stared at you. My gut sank because I already knew this was the end. You didn't have to tell me.

"I don't know..." You managed to smile, even through the gentle tears that formed in your eyes. "But I know you would be without me."

"That's not true." I tried to reach for you but you pulled away.

"We're very different people Pedro...I told you, we're incompatible. It's time we listened to the stars."

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted as I feel a hand rest softly on the small of my back.

"Hello sir, would you like to buy a rose?" An elderly woman smiles up at me. A child stands obediently nearby, holding a bouquet of individually wrapped stems, clearly past his bedtime but still helping Grandma late at night. The child looks tired, sad. Judging by the number of roses still in his hands, they must have had an unlucky day.

"How much for one?" I return her kind smile, taking out my wallet.

"$2. Thank you, thank you so much sir." The old woman sighs in relief calling the child over to bring the flowers for me to pick. Each stem had a handwritten tag with various cheesy sentiments adorned.

....A kiss in exchange for a rose...

...You're more beautiful than any flower but here's one to show you my love anyway...

....Would you be my Valentine?...

....Please forgive me, I was an idiot.

I chuckle at the last one before picking a rose at random.

I take out $100 and watch the old lady's eyes panic as she reaches in her purse to find change. Taking her hand firmly in mine, I assure her it wasn't necessary.

"I'll take one rose for the $100. You keep the rest of the flowers and have a good night okay?"

The woman looks at the child with her mouth agape and then back at me, clearly taken aback by the gesture.

"Sir, are you sure?"

"Yes, take the kid home and get some rest. This one rose itself is worth every dollar." I pat her hand which trembles in mine.

"Thank you! Thank you! Bless you and the woman who receives your rose!"

Taking the child's hand they quickly walk away, whispering to each other and disappearing into the night.

I stare at the flower in my hand and bring it closer to my face, studying the message on the tag.

...Let's defy the stars and write our own destiny.

I stand in the dark of night, illuminated only by the cafe lights ready to turn off for the day. My hand grips the stem as if it weighed a hundred tons yet afraid it would float away like a feather. The frantic honking of the traffic seems to taunt me, the laughter from the bars nearby seem to be mocking this idiot of a man standing in the middle of the streets, holding a flower he paid $100 for.

"Just do it!" I hear a young boy shout at his friend attempting a skateboard trick up the block.

Just do it. I repeat to myself. Just fucking do it.

"Taxi!"

 _________________________________________________

I remember these steps, we used to sit here with the neighbours' kids. Charlie, I think that was his name? I remember little Charlie proposing to you with a plastic ring and threatening to get his kindergarten buddies on me, simply for existing. I can't help but laugh at that memory.

Everyone was in love with you, the young, the old. They couldn't help but fall for your charms, your kindness, the way you'd smile at them even if you've never spoken a word to each other. Everyone was under your spell, including me.

You told me you loved me on these steps.

I had gotten back from a bad audition and couldn't bear to go home to you. I sat here for hours until you saw me from the balcony and came down. You didn't ask me anything. You just sat with me as we watched the kids run up and down the block, racing each other, teasing each other. I looked at you and you gave me a kiss on the nose.

"I love you."

You said it so quietly at first that I pretended I didn't I understand.

You rolled your eyes and pulled my face into yours, telling me you loved me over and over again as you smothered me with your kisses.

That was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Walking past our faded figures, I enter the building and see that nothing has changed.

The walls were the same duck egg green. The bulletin board covered in layers of flyers and advertisement, some new, with plenty dated months back. I wouldn't be surprised if the audition ads I tried out for from years ago were still there.

The smell of various cuisines mingle together to form its own unique indecipherable aroma.

A comforting aroma.

I look to the elevator, still out of order. Obviously.

We only lived on the third floor, the stairs will be fine.

I prepare myself for the incline when a voice calls out to me.

"Where are you going?"

I turn around and see our old building superintendent, decked out in his uniform. Stanley.

"Stan! It's me Pedro! Wow, you're still here!" I walk to him.

"Who?" He looks me up and down, completely confused as to who the hell I am.

"Pedro from 3B upstairs? I used to live with Y/N...maybe you don't remember me because of the moustache." I rub the bottom of my nose sheepishly.

"No...I don't remember you."

Old Stanley, perhaps age is catching up to him.

"I'm just going to see Y/N." I try to resume my journey but he stops me once more.

"No entry into the building if you're not a resident!" He points to the sign on the wall.

"Since when was that a rule?" I throw my hand in the air.

"Since today. We have too many unsavoury men try to come into the building, how do I know if you really know Miss Y/L/N? I'm not letting any potential predators or burglars into the building."

"But Stan she-"

Pointing to the sign on the wall again, he raises an angry brow. Not wishing a full body beat down by ol' Stan, I take myself back out the building like a bad dog.  

I sit on the steps, sighing in defeat. I try to convince myself that coming here is a mistake.

"Defy the stars...pfft! You've been in way too many movies Pedro." I mumble to myself, as I dig my thumb nail into the stem of the rose.

Perhaps we're only given the choice to rewrite our destiny but it doesn't mean destiny would just sit idly by and let you do whatever you want. It's probably for the best. What would I say anyway?

Running my hand through my hair, I get up to leave. The adrenaline from earlier had drained so quickly out of me, that its left me a fatigued mess. Move on Pedro, it's time to go home.

"Hey movie star." A voice calls from above. "You looking for me?"

Your hair falls past your face as you lean over the balcony and in that moment I feel my heart break into a million pieces.

There you are.

Standing before me, even more beautiful than when you left, if that is even possible.

You're wearing a simple white vest and grey shorts, one leg rubbing softly against the other. Your skin bears the warm orange glow reflected from the lights inside your apartment.

You look so raw, so delicate.

Every pulse in my body aches seeing you again.

"Wow." I breathe. "You look..."

You hide your laugh and I can see you blushing from behind your hand.

"Thanks. You look great too. I'm like the...um..." You rub under your nose with your finger.

"Thank you, I grew it out for a role but now people tell me I look like their grandma without it." I shrug, much to your amusement.

"What are you doing here?" You speak, more softly, more seriously.

How do I even respond to this question? I was out on a date with another woman but I bumped into our old friend who told me I should find you? Or should I go with I met an old woman and her kid, who I'm pretty sure were cupid's little minions, sent down to earth to give me a rose and to fuck with me?

"I was just in the neighbourhood. I wanted to see if you wanted to um...go out for a coffee?" I lie.

You look at me incredulously, clearly seeing through my bullshit.

"Everything is shut by now." You simply respond.

"Oh...well maybe we can just talk then?"

You tap the metal rails, where you lay your arms. Are you contemplating whether to come down or throw a bucket of water over me? I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Without saying a word, you disappear out of sight. The lights in your apartment switches off.

What does this mean? Are you off to bed?

Before I could ruminate any more, the doors open from behind me and you slip through.

God, you look even better up close.

My hands instinctively reach out to touch you but I withdraw quickly before you could see. You had wrapped yourself in a fleecy blanket, the threads a deep purple.

Without saying a word, you sit down on the step and I can only follow suit, my mind can no longer make decisions for itself it seems.

You smell the same, that same soft floral scent I used to love. The one I used to breathe in when I'd hold you close to me in bed because I didn't want you to leave for work.

Our knees are so close, they almost touch.

"So what did you want to talk about?"

For a minute I don't know how to respond, I just don't want to stop looking at you.

"I was...I was wondering if you were thinking about me?"

You laugh, I laugh too. Of course you weren't.

"I think about you all the time." You tell me so casually, it catches me off guard.

"You do?" I whisper in disbelief.

"It's hard not to when you're on every other billboard in the city."

Oh.

"I think about you all the time too Y/N."

You smile and look up at the sky. The night is aligned with many stars tonight and they all call for your attention but mine. I feel greedy staring at you but I'm simply making up for all the nights that I was alone without you, all those kisses I've shared with women that weren't you.

"What do you think the stars are telling us tonight?" I ask.

You grin and without looking back at me, you say "I think the stars are laughing at us."

"Do you think the stars have changed their mind about us?"

You finally turn to me, your eyes drop. "I don't think that's how it works Pedro."

"If this is the life the stars have planned for me, a life without you, then I don't want it Y/N."

"Pedro-"

"I thought if I made a name for myself, if people knew who I was, then I'd be sure of who I am...but who I'm meant to be, who I want to be...is to be with you." Your eyes meet mine, coloured with emotions you are scared to express. "I look for you everywhere I go Y/N, in every women I meet but you are always a world away."

"We don't even know each other anymore Pedro."

"You are the only one who has always known who I am, even before me Y/N. I'm still as strange and as wild as I have always been. I'm still as messy and as clumsy as I was before. I still love cheap corner store liquor and dancing terribly in public. I still look at chemtrails whenever they past me...because they remind me of you."

"Chemtrails are bad for you, they say they're chemicals."  You tell me, your voice low and expressionless.

"If I die with you as my last thought, it won't be so bad."

I finally find the courage to reach for you and you don't recoil from me, you let me gently run my finger against the hair that falls down past your face. You close your eyes and I selfishly take you, pulling you towards me.

I rest my forehead against yours and I savour this moment where I can be close to you and not let it be a memory.

"What if I've changed?" You whisper.

"Well then I'll spend the rest of my life getting to know you again."

"If I told you to run away with me tonight, would you?" You open your eyes to see me, your expression as serious as ever.

"You're my home Y/N. I'll go wherever you go. Even if it's to another galaxy, we'll drive a little red Corvette into space together and leave this all behind."

You smile and tug on the bottom of your lip. "You think the stars would still allow us to go to space?"

"Fuck the stars." I say as I take your lips.

Oh, how I've missed the sweetness of your taste; in this moment you are spoiling me rotten. You wrap your arms around me and allow the blanket to drop from your shoulders. The only stars that mattered now are those in our eyes. They're telling me the future and it's you. It's always been you.

The sirens of the city and the plane overhead may be loud but I hear nothing over the sound of your heart beat.

You pull away and we both laugh.

In this moment, we are perfect. I am no longer the famous celebrity that belonged to everyone. I am not a son and you are no one's daughter.

We only belong to each other.

I see you shiver and look towards the door.

"Let's go inside." You get up and take my hand, guiding me back to our home. The one I've longed for ever since I left.

The building is quiet, everyone asleep by this hour but old Stan at his desk. I try to shuffle past as inconspicuously as I could, my hand entwine with yours.

"Welcome back Mr Pascal." Stanley greets us as clear as day, his head not even looking up from above his phone.

"Wha- so you do remember me!"

Sly old dog.

Stanley doesn't respond and concentrates on his screen instead.

You shake your head and pull me up the steps but not before I set down my lucky rose on the desk.

"Good night Stan."

I call out before I chase my love up the stairs, both of us ready to write our next chapter together. I don't know what it will entail but I know if you're in it, it will be the greatest adventure I'll ever take.

"Kids these days." Stan sighs, closing the article on his phone and clicking on a familiar app. Putting his feet up, he relaxes with a smile on his face as the Mandalorian theme song begins to play.

[qqueenofhades]

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

[neonponders]

I never thought I’d write a court jester!Steve x King!Billy fic, but here we are. I entirely blame @ghostofjellyfishforgotten and @drinkingbeerfroma for this 💋

The original king!Billy and jester!Steve fics are here~ (this is a gift for Ghost and meant to be read in tandem with their fics 🌹)

Drinkingbeerfroma’s fanart is here~​​ (the enabling source, send them some love 🌹)

P.s....you can probably tell how much of The Witcher: Blood and Wine influenced this for me lol Ch. 2 coming soon! Or, you know, some time!

Read on ao3.

• • • • • • •

Billy strolled into his royal chambers with a tune on his lips. Usually the rustle of clothing, the scoot of furniture, reacted to his whistle so that he could meet his jester right at the door. Or by the bed.

Then again, Steve did wander. Perhaps that’s why he worked as a jester: always the desire to move, to fidget, and it had lent into a natural proclivity for acrobatics.

Billy had never much cared for the athleticism of the job. Not that it wasn’t impressive, but the stunts were the bottom of his jester’s abilities. His Steve.

Steve, who was nowhere in the expansive rooms. Billy huffed a sigh through his nose. He began loitering around, investigating what his jester had left behind and what it could mean for where he’d gone.

Except…he’d left everything behind. Billy’s gaze locked on the sapphire and green velvet of the suit he’d gifted Steve himself, now left in a rumbled state on the bed. The gleaming silk fibers moved with the midday light of the window as Billy circled around the bed to touch them, as if to test that they were real. The fool as good as lived in the king’s royal chambers by this point, so he opened the dresser beside the large writing desk and—

Steve’s original suits and garments sat in the drawers, untouched. The yellow shirt Billy had torn—twice—until Steve left it in disrepair, tired of mending it. The red and purple suit which he’d first strolled into court wearing. His blue boots. The red boots. The god-awful yellow boots to go with that shirt apart from how stained they were from daily living.

What the hell is my fool wearing? Billy mused in disbelief, his amusement only checked by worry.

Amusement that snuffed out under the weight of a paper he finally saw on the desk itself. Both of Steve’s jester hats stood on either side of it, crowning the white square to garner Billy’s attention. More than once, Billy had marveled at his jester’s ability to read and write. This was not one of those times.

Majesty,

An emergency called me home. Nothing to worry about. I’ll return soon.

Yours,

Steve.

Billy read those four lines over and over again, worry tussling with indignant rage, and then confusion. He wanted more out of a note from Steve, which ought not be the prior concern in his mind, but there it was.

Why not address me by my name? This note is for me, nobody else. Who did you fear seeing it? In my own chambers? We’re far past courtly manners.

Largest understatement of his entire reign, but whatever. More annoying and concerning details eclipsed Billy’s focus.

He had no idea where ‘home’ meant for Steve. His Steve. Billy’s pride ordained that Billy is his home; what other place—or person—could have the audacity to yank his fool right out from under him?

Billy’s voice roared down the corridors outside his chambers. His staff was certainly used to making haste in their duties, but this was something else. The king had lost something precious to him, and hell would shiver until he had it back.

It is both a blessing and a curse that the lesbians in his court did not fear him.

“Would you shut the hell up?” Heather barked, swinging out of her room fully dressed in robes but hair a disaster. “Some of us like to do our own fucking now and again.”

“Where is Steve?” Billy growled, damned note in hand. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning,” she sighed with a tone that Billy did not understand until she added, “When he left with Robin. He warned me that you might be grouchy—”

“Grouch—” he began to seethe, but Heather took the paper right out of his hand to give it a look.

“He said he left you a note, your majesty,” she purred through a voice he now noticed to be quite raw. Overused. Her eyelids hung low like she was drunk, or three orgasms gone to the wind.

This only abated Billy’s nerves slightly. Steve genuinely left on his own?

“Where is home?”

Heather frowned at the lines. “For a musician, he isn’t great with words.”

“HEATHER.”

“Same home as my lady, Robin’s. They complain about their corner of the kingdom often enough,” she retorted while surrendering the note as if it had caught flame. “Good grief. How many months has it been? You really don’t pay attention. Your majesty.”

He grimaced pointedly at her lackadaisical manners this morning, but snatched the page up. The sour expression did not fade as he asked, “Who are you fucking if Robin’s not here?”

Heather’s groggy eyes rolled. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself many times over. You’re not the only one around here with an abundance of energy.”

Fuming and feeling too hot for his clothes, Billy marched back to his chambers, yelling orders about a horse.

* * *

More than one person urged against this decision. The more people who tried to talk him out of it, the more disheartening the whole point of secrecy became. Then again, roaring for the whole castle to hear, might not have been the wisest start.

So he sent a rider in one direction, on some pointless “errand for the king,” while he road in another.

It had been a long time since Billy wore commoners’ clothes. He also did not usually go clean-shaven, but he was a different person now. A lone rider on the king’s road, journeying his way to the edge of the kingdom. Two advisors had urged him to take an entourage, at most his best guardsman—but Billy is the best guardsman. First knight and crown prince under his father, The Tyrant. Every dawn stolen from him until the late king’s passing, utterly devoted to training hard, practicing consistent, and never, never losing.

Until the old bastard finally croaked from pneumonia. How simple. How mortal. And ironic, considering his playboy—rat of my blood—heir paraded around with open shirts whenever he was off duty. Constantly challenging gods and climate to do away with him whenever they wished.

The gods took a different king, though. Billy is the monarch now, and for a while, he will be nobody. A fool searching for his fool, and it was not lost on him how ironic his own death might become. But traveling alone on his own roads did not deter him. He’d been on these highways many times—hell, he’d even been assigned to designing and monitoring the reconstruction of the kingdom’s infrastructure.

His last steps on these roads occurred during the funeral tour for his father. An obnoxious tradition, but he’d made the journey in his first month as king. He wondered if anyone would recognize him now. He’d grown his hair out, and so often adorned his face with nothing less of stubble; often indulging in his own shaving kit to manage his facial hair himself and styled it differently whenever he wished. He liked the way lovers shivered against him when he touched their skin. When the lion pressed his lips against the lamb’s pulse.

He liked applying creams to Steve’s inflamed, beard-burnt skin.

He sighed over his horse’s even, medium paced trot. He was a fool, indeed.

* * *

The only thing keeping Billy from scolding himself for knowing so little about his jester, was the fascination of where he came from. Lady Robin entered court to jeers and teasing over her humble, bumpkin origins—before she rightly debated and venomously talked her way around every gnat who dared flaunt a lower intelligence over her.

Billy knew she and Steve got along, but not how much they had in common. Originating from one of the farming districts was one thing, but specifically the dairy and vineyard region proved a fascinating piece of information.

As well as a gorgeous journey. It took a day and two nights, but forests soon exhaled into rolling hills for lines of grape trees, pastures for cattle, sheep, and goats. Billy knew he was getting closer to the center of it all because grapevines began to line the road, with signs every couple of miles encouraging travelers to eat their fill, along with a number informing how far they were to more accommodating civilization.

The smell of shit and manure dampened the experience, but Billy could not claim ignorance over how his own city smelt during the summer. Even under royal decree that half the fleabags leave the capital in order to minimize summer fever and pestilence, the place still reeked.

The road began to veer down into a lush valley of hills; below was the bustling city of this region, and above stood a number of large homes. One ought to have appeared bigger than the rest, but such shared opulence suggested a wealthy middle class instead of one lord standing above them all. Economically, this was healthier. Socially, Billy felt utterly foreign to this hierarchal shape. His court was an uneven, pyramid hourglass. With himself standing on its point, a bloated pool of lords and deceit, then a strangled middle class before an even bigger pool of lower class just trying to feed themselves. It is a shape which cannot hold itself up, and yet he tirelessly managed it.

It’s not my fault, he defended to nobody. It’s what I inherited.

He pat his horse’s neck, feeling the silken grey fur that drew passersby’s glances. He had a beautiful mount: a grey so vibrant she looked blue under storm clouds. His saddle and bridle were humble; couldn’t very well walk around with his embossed leather saddle or a bridle glittering with the king’s golden medallions on every buckle.

When a woman gazed a little too long at him instead of his horse, Billy eased to a stop and smiled charmingly. “Excuse me, where might I find the House of Buckley?”

She adjusted the basket in her arms to hold it on her hip while she swayed coyly. “Peach-colored house on the hill, sir. May I ask what business you have there?”

“Visiting a friend.” Unless she’s in disguise too.

“Best to wait until evening time. Everyone’s in the market or out in the fields right now.”

Billy tilted his head at her. “Buckley is a noble house.” Nobody is working in the fields from that family—

Then she laughed. Laughed. “Are you from the capital?”

Billy’s charm faltered on his face, but he picked it back up easily enough. “Thereabouts. Why?”

“Because people from the capital believe everyone’s rich. Rich enough to sit or poor enough to not own a chair. We all work here, and we’re all in the market or the fields. I can tell you which are Sir Buckley’s, though.”

The little twit liked being a know-it-all, but it served Billy a great deal to be given the tour. Here, property decided who reigned, and property came in the form of land, livestock, or both. With that came a handful of useful names: Buckley, Hagan, Harrington, Wheel—

Billy’s eyes widened like a cat’s pupils dilating on prey. “STEVE!”

Because…there he was. His Steve, strolling right up the cobbled road from the hills and into the market with a donkey loaded with grape baskets beside him. He hadn’t heard his name, giving Billy the time to absorb every new detail about the man who vanished from his castle.

The white, puffy shirt held close to his body with a waistcoat. High-waisted trousers made his legs look long and lean over workman’s boots. He shoved up the colorful fabric ties around his biceps, holding up the shirtsleeves but failing due to all of the sweat from a day in the sun. A belt sagged a little diagonally around his hips, on which such things as pliers, shears, a garden knife, and a pair of leather and canvas gloves waited for use.

Steve took off a large sunhat and set it on the donkey’s head, combing both of his hands through his voluminous, brown hair—

“Steve!”

Billy began to walk his horse in that direction, having long since dismounted for the courtesy of his guide, but now the latter gripped his arm in warning. “That’s Lord Harrington to you.”

Billy blew a raspberry right into the air, scoffing, “Excuse me?”

The woman rolled her eyes so hard, she would have been thrown into a stockade for behaving like that to—well, to a king. But she let go of him and went on her way, leaving him to his fate.

So off he went. Billy walked his mount over to where a collection of people were attending to the donkey and the grapes, and Steve nodded in discussion with an older man.

“Lord Harrington, I hear?” he crooned in greeting.

Two heads rotated toward him, and Billy felt rather smacked in the face by the matching eyes and nose. Father. This is Steve’s father.

Lord Harrington. Twice over.

Steve’s features opened with shocked eyes and a dropped jaw. His eyes darted to his father’s frown, and Billy quickly backpedaled, “I apologize. I know the younger, but not the older. My name’s Billy Hargrove.”

He’d bowed his fair share as a knight, though the gesture felt far removed since he was out of practice. Never the less, Steve gaped at his king bowing slightly at the hips and extending a hand for Lord Harrington to shake.

Thing about being king, not many people actually know the monarchy’s family name. They knew William the Second. William of the Grove. Some whispered the Second Tyrant, but only because Billy was still young and new to being king. They were waiting for him to prove them right.

Lord Harrington shook his head with a glance at his son. “You didn’t say anyone was coming with you.”

“I didn’t think anyone was,” Steve answered bluntly, but he picked up the gist of Billy’s disguise easily enough. “Billy’s been a big help to me in the capital.”

“How so?”

Billy’s brows lifted, but before he could provide a veiled innuendo, Steve chirped, “Roommates. Got me a job. Kept me fed.”

“I did my best,” Billy crooned. He watched Steve’s apple bob in his throat.

Lord Harrington, with his similar, albeit shorter and silver, hair and weathered skin opened his arm to gesture Billy up the road. “You’ll be our guest, then. I’ll show you along. Are you staying at the inn?”

“No, my lord. I’ve only just arrived.”

“Very good. This way. Steve, remind Roger about the textiles. We’ve sheared the animals twice already this season. He needs to either wash it or sell it. We can’t hold onto it or else it will mold and be useless to barter.”

Billy peeked at Steve, who similarly veered to go on his separate way. He met Billy’s gaze for the briefest second, and he looked…not entirely happy to see Billy.

The king did not like that at all.

* * *

Billy looked around the Harrington estate, taking in every detail that Lord Harrington granted him. He had yet to see an inkling of whatever this emergency could have been to rush Steve out of the capital. Out of Billy’s bed. It made sense, now, why he had left everything behind, since he had a home and full wardrobe waiting for him here. Billy had not seen a glimpse of Lady Buckley, though.

People are supposed to ask my permission to leave, damn it. Or at the very least, inform him first. Not skip town like bandits.

The Harrington house looked out over the estate’s vast hills of grapes, goats, and sheep. It would have been endearing, the farmers using their canes to nudge the goats along the alleys of vines so they could snack on fallen grapes. Endearing, if Steve had been the one to show him all this. Billy wanted Steve next to him on this veranda—if it could be called that. The house and its balconies overlooking the city and hills were much smaller than his castle’s, of course.

Billy did not stay long in his rooms—room. Just a room. You certainly acclimated to luxury, he reminded himself. One of his first orders in the castle had been a complete renovation to his chambers. He would not live in his father’s rooms. Those were turned into a storage branch of the castle, and Billy had several walls knocked down to make way for the new royal apartments. Let the old bastard haunt the broom cupboards.

Billy trotted down the narrow stairs into what felt like an abrupt arrival at the dining room. Further down in the house would be the kitchen but there was a smaller, stewards’ pantry, of sorts, in which a woman stood and rotated upon hearing him. It took a second, but Billy remembered to bow.

“Am I correct in addressing the lady of the house?”

“You are,” smiled Lady Harrington. It came as no surprise that she looked at least ten years younger than her husband, but the blonde hair did catch Billy off guard. She offered her hand, which he took and kissed its back.

“For some reason, I didn’t think Steve took after his father so much.”

“In looks only. He has all his personality from me.”

Billy rocked a little on his heels, humming an acknowledging sound. He certainly did not voice his amusement that she might’ve just revealed more about her marital bed than she meant to. He simply replied, “I believe it. May I ask: Steve and Lady Buckley rushed out with hardly any explanation. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, everything’s no more out of the ordinary than it usually is,” she began, returning to her task of preparing what looked like a fruit-soaked wine for their dinner. She sliced up apples and peaches with a curved blade and a practiced hand. “However, our ordinary can be quite sudden and busy.”

A different hum came from Billy’s chest at that. “I understand. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, if you’re offering, you can half those grapes right there.”

Billy sent the wooden bowl of fruit a dubious glance and then laughed breathily, “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she smiled. “For now, you can help me prepare the wine.”

A long dead growl moved through Billy’s mind. Woman’s work—

Stay dead, tyrant, Billy hushed with finality. He accepted the spare knife from her and did the task he was given. She couldn’t know that he was who he was, after all. No one in this town apart from Steve knew that Billy could supply the money, machinery, and manpower at a moment’s notice for whatever reason they might need—

Chatter and laughter moved like a reverse echo outside the house, blooming quickly until, of all people, Robin Buckley herself clapped on the stoop of the Harrington’s side door. Open as it is for the breeze to come and go, she waltzed right in, and stopped at the sight of Billy. Her laughter cut off only to be replaced with, “You!”

“Me,” he threw right back. He raised a brow at a woman of the royal court wearing trousers and boots.

Lady Harrington chimed, “Oh, so you are friends.”

Billy peered back at her. “Was there any doubt?”

“Oh, dear, you look like you’ve never worked a field in your life.”

Billy had never heard his jaw hit the floor until that moment. Robin’s chuckle arrived beside him as she ripped off a handful of grapes for a snack. “When did you get here?”

“Not an hour ago.”

“You could’ve stayed put.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he growled, hoping that she heard his meaning through the words. I’m still your king even if no one here knows it.

She smirked, hearing loud and clear. “Steve gave me the heads up.”

He matched her smile, tone dripping with charming venom. “And where is he?”

She shook her head at him, cooing a tone that was both soothing and condescending. “He’ll be around. You’re in…his house, after all. Thanks, Anne.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” came Lady Harrington’s reply, but Billy hardly heard it.

He was in Steve’s house. A lord’s house. Lord Harrington’s house…and Billy was just some nobody.

Robin really was enjoying this too much.

[katie-writes24]

Cursed Blessings

Pairing: Thomas Jefferson x reader

Warnings: MAJOR MENTIONS/BRIEF SCENE OF RAPE! Language, angst, alcohol, suggestive material, and this is just really sad. 

Chpt. 2

Okay, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS! I don’t think the scene is graphic, however it’s there. If you feel that I should put a stronger warning, please don’t be afraid to dm me. 

So, my first ficlet, where do I begin? This story was supposed to be a cute little scene with Thomas and an ex lover but omg, I went so off track but I hope yall like it. I did lots of scheming with this fic and @tinywhim I cannot thank you enough for all the help! Brainstorming with you gives me so much more motivation to actually finish writing stories ngl. But yeah, please be wary. Next part will be much lighter I promise. Let me know if you want to be tagged, I’m tagging my original tjeff taglist. Feedback is always appreciated! And....hope you guys continue this story with me! Enjoy!

Y/N didn’t believe in soulmates, even if she was surrounded by so many people who seemed to be destined to each other. Her parents were married for 27 years, never once betrayed each other, they even died together. Even though her mother would call them soulmates, she didn’t believe it, she just thought they were two people who found an undeniable love. 

It was this phrase that was tossed around so much that it was starting to seem like a far off fantasy. 

That changed when she met Thomas. 

He was brilliant, charming, he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. He had little quirks about him that she knew was just for her to see. Y/N liked when he would tell a story and he would get this fond look in his eye, and start scrunching up his nose the faster he talked. To her it was adorable, to him it was stupid. 

Thomas made her feel safe, she’s never felt like that before. 

They met at an art exhibit, and the two spent the whole night talking about different pieces and ended up going to a small diner, looking ridiculously overdressed. She could see her mother gush about how romantic it was, how she could picture the wedding now. 

Y/N still didn’t believe in soulmates, but she did start to imagine a future with the man. 

Two years in, they were finally thinking about moving in together. Thomas found a nice place in Charlottesville, not too far from his family’s estate. It felt like a perfect dream. They were going to close on it at the end of summer. 

It was all perfect timing. The Jefferson's always threw a big charity event in July, the house would be filled with hundreds of snobby, rich attendees. Trying to fill in a conversation with any of them bored her to death, but Y/N couldn’t complain because while they had no genuine personality, they did have money. The event usually does really well each year, and this year was no different. 

Y/N spent that whole weekend at the Jefferson's estate, helping set up decorations and enjoying her time with him and his father. Ever since Thomas’s mother passed, Peter hasn’t been as social with outsiders. 

And even though she had heard some stories from the past that gave her dreaded chills, the man seemed to mean well. Thomas had told her that it was all in the past, and that he still cares for his father, so she shouldn’t hold it against him if Thomas wasn’t. 

The night after the fundraiser she learned more about Peter Jefferson. He liked to golf, he enjoyed telling awful jokes, and he liked to drink. 

He drank a lot that night. 

Y/N was in the study, reading the final chapter of her book on the couch. Thomas had gone out with James for the night, seeing that he would be leaving to go up to New York till the end of summer. It was peaceful; she was wrapped in a large blanket, feet on the table with a mug of coffee and a good book. 

The characters were clashing, it was something she hadn’t expected. She leaned forward and focused more on the words, not noticing the door open and shut quietly behind her. She only lifted her head when she felt cold fingertips run up her backside. 

Y/N turned around quickly, noticing Peter barely standing on his own. 

“Peter, are you alright? You don’t look too good.” His eyes were foggy, there was a stain across his shirt and he hiccupped to himself as he laughed. 

“Well, I think...you do, darling.”

“Do what?”

“You look..good, very-very good if I might add.” He staggered into the seat next to her and immediately put his hand on her thigh. 

“What are you doing?!” She pushed his hand off and he chuckled again. 

“You know, Thomas...my son he sure did pick out...a beautiful lady. And, heh, at least he did something right, he did something good in his life. But that boy, he still doesn't have the mindset yet...he doesn’t see that-” Peter drifted off as he looked like he was about to vomit all over himself. 

It was an opportunity, it was the perfect time to leave. 

“He’s so blinded by your wit that he doesn’t see that you’re taking as you please, and maybe not even to him alone, right huh?” He grabbed Y/N’s calf as he tucked himself into her neck. 

“He doesn’t see the way you dress, the way you look, how you’re just asking for it! Is he not giving you enough attention, darling?”

His hands felt slimy and unfamiliar, and they were certainly unwanted. 

But what was Y/N to do? She could’ve easily ran out the room. The man was drunk, she could’ve easily shoved him, hit him hard enough, and he would probably stumble and she could get out. She could call Thomas-

Thomas. 

Thomas kept her safe, Thomas promised her that she was his and nobody else’s. Thomas left the house, Thomas brought her into an abuser’s house. 

Thomas was going to be so upset. 

And she could avoid this, Y/N could put an end to this hand running up her shorts. 

But she was numb, she was lost. All she could see was Thomas, all she could think was Thomas. But that certainly wasn’t Thomas’s hands, not his soothing touch, not his caring praise. It was Peter’s, and it was disgusting. But if she ended this, what would he say to Thomas? 

By the time she could feel her feet, it was already over. 

Y/N sat up to her pants on the floor along with a spilled coffee and puke smears on the rug. Her bones were cold, but that blanket had a white stain that made her uncomfortable. She looked and found the door closed. 

As if he never even came in. 

Maybe it was seconds, maybe it was hours, but when she finally sat up her whole body weight caved in on her. 

She had to clean up the mess, she needed to get rid of the evidence. 

She had to clean herself, she felt like this wasn’t her body. She was violated, she was abused, she was used. 

Y/N took the longest shower of her life, whether it be from her crying or trying to disinfect the feeling of hands crossing her torso. 

She went to bed alone, and surprisingly, sleep caught her quick. When she woke up, she was still alone. No Thomas, no Peter. 

Her emotions ran over her again and she sobbed gently into her pillow. She was too afraid to leave the bed, too afraid to go downstairs and see what broke her, is breaking her. It was too much. 

When her tears finally ran dry, there was a knock on the door. Immediately, she pulled her knees up to her chest and felt her heart jump. She stopped breathing until she heard her boyfriend’s voice. 

As he walked in, he had bloodshot eyes, wearing the same clothes as the night before. 

“Sorry I didn’t come back home. I drank a little too much, crashed at James’s place.” 

I drank a little too much. 

“It’s okay,” Her voice cracked and she hoped he didn’t notice it. Y/N couldn’t bear with his overwhelming care right now, she wasn’t ready for questions. 

“Hey, so, turns out I do have to go in tomorrow, and early at that. So, what do you say getting a head start on the drive back?” Raising a brow, Thomas had a soft look on his face. He looked so different all of a sudden. 

“I would like that.” Y/N put on her best smile. 

But she couldn’t hold it forever, she would eventually give herself away, and of course after being together for a couple of years, Thomas would know a difference. The lack of hugs, the uncharacteristic quiet, working, what she claimed, “overtime.”

They were signs. 

The next few weeks, he made an effort to do better, try harder. Thomas booked reservations at the most expensive restaurants, he surprised her at work on Wednesday’s, he made sure to leave the office on time so he could cook dinner for Y/N, always asking how her day was. 

He said those three words at every chance he got because he needed her to know, he needed her to understand that whatever was happening, whoever she was seeing, they wouldn’t love her like him. 

It wasn’t enough. 

“Is there someone else?”  

Y/N turned to look at him, luggage in hand. She’s never seen him so broken, so lost. He had stopped crying, clinging to himself as if to hold him close to the ground. Those eyes, those deep brown eyes that she fell in love with...they were too similar. 

It was like she was back on that couch, seeing those drunken orbs that ruined her forever. 

Apparently, her silence was his answer. Thomas nodded his head sadly and walked back towards the bedroom, leaving Y/N stuck to the doorstep. 

~~~

“It could turn out to be a blessing.”

Her jaw was shut tight, hand over her mouth, restricting even the tiniest sob from letting loose. 

“No matter what happens, we’ll help you out….” 

This town wouldn’t let her live peacefully if she dared approach one of those buildings. 

“Have you at least called the father?”

Peter gave her a check and a note two days ago. 

“Why don’t you just come up here? We can figure this out together.”

Her phone dinged, and there was a ticket to New York staring at her. 

“Whatever you need, whatever you decide, we’ll support you, Y/N.”

She was gonna need it. 

Jefferson Taglist: @notebookgirl30 @dontblinkumightmiss @checkurwindow @einfachniemand @astralaffairs @daveeddiggsit @ramp-it-up @ohsoverykeri-blog @i-know-i-can

[luna-redamancy]

Two Fools In Love (Legolas x Reader)

Word Count: 1429

Warnings: None

Story idea provided/requested by the lovely @royalpuglife​, I hope you enjoy the fic lovey!

“I’ve heard by a wee birdie that you were in a love storm, elf” Gimli teased, sharpening his ax by the fire. 

“I think you’ll have to elaborate a bit more on that, dwarf” Legolas smirked, the teasing tone in their conversation clear to everyone.

“Oh you know, your courtship.” 

“How did you know about that?” 

“I’ve got eyes, I may not be an ‘all-seeing-elf’ but I do have them nonetheless.” 

“I haven’t even finished making the moonstone clasp for Tauriel yet, how do you know I was planning to ask to court her?” Legolas was genuinely confused, he had been tight-lipped about this for weeks. Not wanting anyone to find out and tell Tauriel before he had the chance to properly ask her. 

“You mean… You and (Y/n) aren’t courting?” 

“Why in the name of Valar would you think that?” Legolas’ voice sounded horrified and you could only imagine his face. Riddled with disgust for the thought of courting someone so low. You were no former captain of the royal guard, that’s for sure. 

Taking a step back, you flinched when you felt a branch snap beneath your boot, drawing attention from the two males, halting their conversation. 

“I...I’m sorry,” You gasped out, struggling not to drop the intricately carved bow with it’s matching quiver. Arrows held inside of it, created by hand. Your hand. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.. I’ll t-take my leave.” You finished, feeling tears building in the back of your eyes. Tossing the bow and quiver to the side you hurried away as quick as you could without breaking into a run. Once you were far enough, you rested against a tree, tears slipping past your eyes as you broke into sobs. 

All this time, you thought he accepted your courting. All this time you thought he was going to be yours. 

“I’m such a fool…” You whimpered, your chest heaving, your heart clenching as you covered your mouth to keep your sobs from escaping. He obviously didn’t know, and you didn’t want him to know this was the cause of your distress. 

“You are such an idiot.” Gimli stated after a few moments, both of their eyes locked on the quiver and bow that were now laying in the dirt. 

“What did I do?!” Legolas swirled around to look at Gimli, bewilderment on his features. Gimli shook his head, a frown tugging down his features. 

“For being a part of a race that is so smart and magnificent, you really are stupid.” Gimli chuckled sadly, “She’s been courting you for months, and you just now noticed.” 

“S-She what?” 

“Braiding your hair? Cooking you dinner? Repairing your quiver when it broke, helping you find the best spot for when you’re on watch?” Gimli reminded Legolas of all the things you’ve done for him to try and prove that you were the perfect woman for him. But he was so blind. 

“And now--” Gimli looked behind Legolas. “A freshly carved bow, with what looks like the words ‘forever yours’ carved into it. And a matching quiver to boot…” Gimli was protective over you, after all this time you became like his little sister. 

“All this… To find out you were wanting to court someone else? The lass is heartbroken. That’s what you did.”

“I-- I never knew.” Legolas put his head in his hands, pondering on what to do. 

“How could I not see,” He chuckled sadly, turning to look at the bow that was on the floor. He had no idea how to make it up to you. Picking up the bow, he felt a frown tug at his lips. ‘Forever loved and cared for…’ He recalled the meaning of presenting your beloved with a bow and quiver. 

Your nose was stuffed and bright red, your eyes still watery. “‘Tis no one’s fault but my own.” You told yourself, lightly smacking your cheeks in an attempt to pull yourself together.

“(Y/n)?” Legolas called softly, not wanting to startle you. 

“Y-Yes, Legolas?” You looked up after wiping your eyes, putting a smile on your face, not wanting to imagine how pathetic you looked in his eyes. 

“I don’t really know what to say,” He trailed off as he sat across from you a good distance away to make sure you were comfortable and could leave at any time. 

“-I never knew you felt this way about me.” 

A sad laugh left your throat, “Yes… I realize that quite well now.” You refused to meet his eyes as you stared at the dirt underneath your fingernails, from carving his bow. 

Before he could respond you sniffed, looking up to the sky before finally meeting his eyes. Feeling your resolve threatening to crumble, you chose to speak quickly. 

“I am a fool, simple as that. I should have known you didn’t understand what signs of courtship were outside of elvish ones, I should have asked you if you understood the implication of letting me do things such as braiding your hair but… I wanted to keep myself wrapped in the comfort of seeing you smile when I would show you the courting gifts…” 

Sighing you fiddled with your fingers. “I heard about the importance of establishing your care in a relationship in elvish culture, and thought ‘what a perfect way to show my care than to make you a bow’...” You felt tears build up in your eyes again. 

“I’m so sorry,” You finished, giving him a weak smile. “I shouldn’t have assumed…” You tried to explain, only to shake your head. “Doesn’t matter now. I wish you the best with Tauriel, she’s a lovely woman so I’ve heard.” 

Pushing yourself up from the ground you turned to leave, Legolas’ flabbergasted face now permanently imprinted in your mind. Before you could get too far, you turned, a fresh tear staining your cheek on its way down. 

“Could we still be friends, Legolas?” You questioned, hope bubbling in your stomach. 

“No,” Legolas’ voice was firm, causing your heart to crumple and drop into the pit of your stomach. 

“Oh.. A-Alright then,” You couldn’t hide the heartbreak on your face as you nodded, “I understand.”

“I cannot be your friend when I’d rather be your beloved.”

Whipping your head around, your eyes were widened in shock. Legolas wasn’t on the ground anymore, but standing tall in front of you. 

“You don’t mean that,” You shook your head, a sad smile on your face, “Just a moment ago you were talking about making a moonstone clasp for Tauriel,” Disbelief in your tone wasn’t hard to miss as Legolas strode over to you, his hand cupping your cheek.

“I couldn’t believe that you were trying to pursue me, how could the woman of my dreams want me?”

“What about Tauriel, you wanted to give her a moonstone clasp?” 

“I want to give you my moonstone clasp… My father has been pressuring me to settle down soon, to prepare to take over the kingdom so he can sail with our kin to the Undying lands. I thought--  thought that it would be best to fulfill his wishes instead of clinging onto hope.”

“I don’t think  your father would be too keen on you settling down with me over Tauriel.” 

“He was never too fond of Tauriel to begin with... “ Legolas shook his head. “Why does it seem like you’re trying to convince me to not love you?” 

His thumb brushing over your cheekbone was causing your thoughts to blur together. Inhaling deeply you sighed, “I just don’t want to pursue this only to feel pain again…” Legolas heart broke at your words, moving to press his forehead against yours. 

“I will spend the rest of my life making up for being so blind, if you’d let me?” 

“I’d like that,” You mumbled, opening your eyes to meet his as he gave you a soft smile. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it as he pulled you into his embrace. 

“Give me time, I will make you a moonstone clasp that will never break. I will prove that your love has not been misplaced in me.” Legolas vowed, enjoying the way your body molded to his in his embrace. 

“I will hold you to that,” You mumbled into his chest as he rubbed your back. 

Gimli grinned from a few yards away, resting his arm on his ax. 

Does love make one a fool? Or do only fools fall in love? Gimli couldn’t tell you. But he definitely knew these two fools were definitely in love.

Tags:

@lady-of-lies @all-things-fandomstuck  @fizzyxcustard @izzydaelleth @aquaangel18@raindancer2004 @love-colorfulglittercollection @underthemoon-n​​ @ladylouoflothlorien​ @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @bad268​​ @legolaslovely​ @bthtallmadge2​ @abesottedlass @wilhelmyna @tigereyesf​ 

Legolas Tag:

@skylarkvip @iloveyou3000morgan @katiegoddessofmischief  @queenofmankind​

[astralaffairs]

voltaire to versace 02 | thomas jefferson

title: voltaire to versace 02

pairing: professor!thomas jefferson x reader

words: 8.7k

warnings: honestly not much. sex jokes n references, dolley simping for james, broke college student meals

desc: from francis bacon to foucault, descartes to dante, your political philosophy seminar doesn’t promise to be a blowout — and yet, one mysterious stranger and a risqué evening later, your burberry-clad professor gives you the feeling it won’t be quite the snoozefest you’d expected.

tags: @lunariasilver @tinywhim @nyxie75 @wreakhavoconmacroissantdiggs @checkurwindow @katierpblogg — let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future parts!

"Dolley, holy shit; please tell me you're already home." Y/N's words were breathless as she hurried across the quad, muttering under her breath into her phone. She'd darted out of her lecture hall the moment they'd been dismissed, having no desire to stick around for the confrontation she knew was inevitable.

"I'm just getting out of class, dear," Dolley responded, but when she continued, her words were teasing. "What sort of trouble did you manage to get yourself into while I was gone?"

"I cannot begin to explain." Y/N let out a huff, glancing over her shoulder and ducking her head as she whispered, "but it's not good."

"Oh, good lord, Y/N; I was joking." She could hear the genuine worry begin to creep into Dolley's voice and couldn't help but wince.

"Yeah, I wish I was, too." She chalked the subsequent rush of static through the line up to Dolley's sigh. "Where are you right now? Can I meet you somewhere?"

"Want to go to dinner?"

"Too broke for that."

"Packaged ramen from the drugstore on the east side of campus?"

"Now you're speaking my language." Y/N grinned, and she could only picture Dolley rolling her eyes from wherever she was. "I'll be there in a few."

"You'd better. I can't wait much longer to hear what sort of nonsense you've been up to."

-                              

"You slept with a professor?!"

"Shh, Doll; not so loud," Y/N hissed, pulling her back into the soda aisle and frantically checking for any prurient eavesdroppers. Her voice was low when she added, "It was the guy at the bar last night. I had no idea he was a professor here."

Dolley let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is... a mess."

"You're telling me."

"So, what's the plan going to be?"

When Dolley folded her arms, raising an amused eyebrow (a little too amused, in Y/N's humble opinion), but Y/N furrowed her brow. "What d'you mean, 'what's the plan?'"

"What are you going to do the next time you run into him?" Dolley asked. There was a pause; Y/N hadn't thought that far. "You don't really think you can make it through the semester ignoring this, do you?"

"I... Maybe? I don't know!" Y/N let out a frustrated huff. "That's what I need you to help me figure out. What else are you here for?"

"Oh, you make an excellent point," Dolley sighed. "All I do is pay half the rent and help you get laid at bars downtown."

Y/N scowled. "You helped me get laid by a professor. Just help me."

"Mmh, I don't think I heard a 'please' in there."

"Please, Dolley, my white knight to whom I owe my life," she pleaded, clutching her roommates arm and sighing wistfully. Dolley's lips were pressed into a line, but that didn't stop her smile from showing through. "I would be nothing without you; just please, do me this one final favor."

"Alright, alright," she conceded with a huff, shaking free from Y/N's grip. "Drama queen."

Y/N shrugged shamelessly. "I bring excitement into your life. Don't be ungrateful."

"Whatever you say, dear." The defeat in her words made Y/N grin. "So back to your excitement, then."

"I'm so lost," Y/N groaned, finally emerging from the soda aisle with shoulders slumped in defeat. "If the sex hadn't been so good, I'd probably just pretend it never happened."

Dolley creased her brow. "Was it really that good?"

Y/N turned to her with a serious demeanor, a hand on her shoulder as she looked her in the eye. "Dolley. I am covered in hickeys from my neck to my hips. That man damn near threw my back out. I won't bullshit you; there's no way I'm gonna be able to sit comfortably for—"

"Okay, alright! A 'yes' would've sufficed," Dolley cut her off, pushing past her to the shelf of instant noodles. Y/N looked disproportionately self-satisfied when she followed. "That's about enough details for one evening."

"You asked!"

"But you can't spend the entire semester ignoring him, Y/N," Dolley continued, ignoring her words. "That class is notoriously difficult — the only people I know who didn't frequent his office hours were the ones who got 'C's."

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples as her roommate pushed cup after cup of beef ramen into her basket. "So then shouldn't I just put this whole thing behind me? I can't really start asking him to help me analyze Kant if I open the conversation with, 'hey, good to see you again, you're almost as good at teaching as you are in bed.'"

Dolley laughed at her dry tone. "I don't mean that, of course."

"Then what do you mean?"

"If you never agree to put this all behind you, I think it's going to be on both of your minds for the rest of the semester," she said matter-of-factly, hesitating when the freezer at the side of the room caught her gaze. "Should we pick up pizza rolls, too?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course we should," Y/N scoffed, brushing past her toward the Totino's section. "But if he and I both just ignore it, wouldn't that be an easier way to put it behind us?"

"Oh, grab a bag of the cheeseburger flavor, would you?" Dolley leaned in to look over Y/N's shoulder, ignoring her words altogether, and she glanced back with a raised eyebrow.

"Can you focus for five seconds?" She dropped three bags of pizza rolls — pepperoni flavor — into her basket with a huff. "Anyway, the cheeseburger flavor is disgusting. Get some taste."

"Don't discount the nostalgia of it!"

"Dolley." Y/N fixed her with a pointed look, and she sighed.

"We both know ignoring it is a poor idea, even if it is the easier option." Dolley didn't waste a second in pushing right past Y/N when she stood, grabbing a bag of the cheeseburger pizza rolls (an oxymoron in itself, as Y/N would've told her) before the freezer door could fall shut. "Just talk to him after class one day. Don't make it take more than five minutes."

"I don't even know where I'd start with that. I've dealt with awkward fallout from one-night stands before, but never with a professor." Her footsteps stalled within the last yard of the frozen section. "I've just gotta ignore it and focus on the coursework, Dolley. Wanna get some Ben and Jerry's?"

"Are you trying to distract me with a pint of chocolate fudge brownie?" Dolley asked incredulously, before adding, "Because it's working. Let's get two."

She grinned. "Excellent."

Y/N figured that was the end of it, that two pints of ice cream and an incredibly vague game plan would be enough to satiate her friend for the time being, but after they checked out, trying to figure out how many meals they could extend one pack of ramen to (because, really, if you just add more water, doesn't it make the servings bigger?), Dolley felt the need to return to it as they walked through the sliding glass exit doors, her words holding an air of finality.

"If you really want to insist on not just communicating with the poor man, Y/N, then fine." Y/N raised a quizzical eyebrow, not yet following where Dolley had abruptly turned the trajectory of their conversation. "But after his lecture on Wednesday, when you realize that leaving the subject untouched just makes it more unbearable—" ("'When'?" Y/N muttered dubiously.) "—then I need you to agree to go talk to your professor."

Dolley didn't wait for her response, squinting at the nutrition facts on the ramen labels as her focus drifted elsewhere (sure, it said two servings, but she was fairly sure that only the bourgeoise couldn't have stretched it to three), but Y/N let out a surrendering sigh.

"Wednesday's going to be just fine," she said, realizing but not caring that Dolley was no longer listening. "But if it isn't, I'll talk to him."

-                        -         

Wednesday was not 'just fine.'

Y/N spent the entire class on edge, trying futilely not to let her thoughts drift back to the other night in the bar, then on the street in front of her building, then in the elevator, in her living room, even in the kitchen— but no, she was getting off track. Little did she know, Thomas was having precisely the same issue.

She jotted down his words almost robotically, the meaning of them going into one ear and out the other, more focused on the sound of his voice than on what he was actually saying.

Only once did she manage to focus for long enough to actually process a thought, but when he was fielding questions about the material, Thomas conveniently managed to miss her having raised her hand from where she was seated. She supposed she'd just positioned herself too far back and thought no more of it.

Despite how 'not fine' that day had been, she dismissed it as a fluke, showing up the next Monday with her head on straight, her readings prepared and annotated, and took a seat several rows further forward. Her motivation may have been misplaced, leaning a bit too far toward wanting to impress her professor and not far enough toward a desire to understand the material, but she was familiar enough with the content to feel comfortable giving her input on the questions he posed to the class throughout the lecture.

Again, her efforts bore no fruit. Her notes were better that day, so that was certainly something to count as a plus, but she left feeling put-out by the fact that she hadn't even had a chance to participate. Usually, she wouldn't have been so perturbed by this — sitting through a Socratic seminar playing tetris on her laptop was no unfamiliar experience — but this class accounted for six of the twelve credit hours she still needed for her chosen major. She didn't suppose that it'd be a good look to have the class dragging down her GPA to be the same one she was supposedly most passionate about; generally speaking, that wasn't what graduate schools were looking for.

Besides, she liked the subject, too. Surely that had to count for something?

And that was how she kept pushing off the inevitable conversation with Thomas — sorry, Professor Jefferson — and coming up with increasingly creative excuses as to why her efforts were being so plainly ignored, not only that following Wednesday, too, but also the Monday and Wednesday after. She'd made it through three weeks of classes before she could finally work up the nerve to confront him.

Unfortunately, that task proved to be no easier than her previous one.

Thom— her professor was always the last one into the lecture hall and the first one out, leaving no opportunities for chatter, or in her case, a supposedly inevitable clash she'd already begun arming herself for. She'd nearly caught him in the halls at various times, but he always seemed to have somewhere he urgently needed to be. The same doctrine followed in his office hours; apparently, another student had scheduled a meeting with him three minutes after every single time she arrived, without fail, so could she please just come back another time? Surely, another time would be better for both of them.

That time never came.

It was near the end of the fourth week that she was entirely fed up. They'd moved from Kant to Machiavelli, and so far, The Prince had her ready to tear her hair out. It didn't help that they'd all just finished the book, their first paper of the year on it due the next Monday.

She was far past lying to herself about her motives being purely academic while she continued to privately just want his attention — no, by then, she was hopped up on forty ounces of sugary coffee and just a touch of RedBull, and she hardly had a thesis for her paper. She'd read the same passages time and time again — she likely could've recited them word-for-word by the time she demanded feedback — and any shallow, vain desires for recognition were the furthest thing from her mind. She needed a professor, and she was pissed that Thomas didn't seem to have any interest in acting like one.

It was late Thursday evening when she marched across the green from the library to the building that housed his office in a fury. Yes, it was the last week of January; yes, the entire city was still coated in snow, but no, she could not bring herself to care about the very real possibility of frostbite as she trudged through the snow in sweatpants, slippers, and a tank top. Practicality wasn't her priority. Finishing her paper was.

Thomas's office hours were from 7 to 10 PM every evening, a schedule he stuck to religiously. It was 9:24 when Y/N began tracking snow through the bottom floor of his building, and 9:31 when she finally managed to locate and reach his actual office.

It was reluctant when she finally knocked, struggling to resist the urge to simply bust in and rip him a new one, but to her relief, it was simply met with a 'come in.' That was when she threw the door open in a fit of annoyance.

"You've been avoiding me," she said, eyes narrowed and tone accusatory before he could so much as react to her presence.

"Y/N, I—" His eyes were wide; he seemed to be at a loss for words as his eyes drifted down to her sweatpants and Hello Kitty slippers. He couldn't have convinced her it wasn't a dignified look even if he'd tried. "What are you doin' here?"

"We need to talk." She dropped her bag into one of the chairs in front of his desk, though she chose not to take a seat, instead glaring down at him, arms folded.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and though his head was down, his shadow of a grimace told her everything she needed to know: he'd been dreading this conversation far more than she had. "Look, right now really isn't a great time. I've got—"

"Don't bullshit me, Thomas."

"Professor Jefferson," he corrected her, the words hissed through gritted teeth, and she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"My bad. Don't bullshit me, Professor Jefferson." Y/N scowled as she took another step towards him. "Your office hours don't end until ten. There's no way you have time for a meeting between now and then if you haven't already started one."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Alright. Alright, fine. And I know what you're gonna say, but—"

"Do you really?" she challenged him, head cocked to one side. "Because the fact that you haven't given me one chance to speak to you in almost a month tells me pretty clearly that you don't. Generally, you find out what people have to say by listening to them."

"We can't have this conversation here. You've gotta come find me some other time." The urgency in his voice only served to infuriate her further. What right did he have to be dictating this when he'd tried to stop the conversation altogether?

"Oh, believe me, I've tried," Y/N huffed. "I'm done accommodating. If you wanted to talk about this some other time, I would've been happy to, but we're well past that."

He held her burning gaze warily for another moment, but she didn't let up. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. Say your part. I'm listenin'."

"You've been completely freezing me out. You haven't been answering my questions in classes; you haven't been letting me contribute to discussions; you, most recently, haven't let me talk to you for more than five seconds, hence why I'm here." She launched into an irate monologue without any further encouragement, and to his credit, Thomas at least had the decency to look guilty. "You've been turning me away at your office hours; for fuck's sake, Thomas, you haven't even answered any of my emails!"

"I know, I know," he said, and though she could see the exhaustion written across his face, she didn't let him continue. "But you've gotta understand—"

"I'm not done," she cut him off, and it was then that he raised an affronted brow. "Anyway, I get why you're keeping your distance. Really, I do. And honestly? I can't really blame you for it."

"Well, great, so—"

"But with that said," —she gave Thomas an expectant look as she continued to speak over him, challenging him to try and interrupt— "You've been doing more than keeping your distance. You've been outright ignoring me, and that's where I'm drawing a line in the sand. Refusing to engage with me doesn't help either of us."

She let out a heavy breath when she finally reached the end of her rant, and though he was certainly taken aback, Thomas looked unimpressed.

"May I speak now?" he asked mockingly, and she scowled. "Or are you just gonna keep cuttin' me off?"

"Depends how much bullshit comes out of your mouth."

He rolled his eyes. "Sure." He put his pen back into the cup on the edge of the desk before drawing himself up to the fullest height he could reach in a rolling chair. With how he was looking at her, with how cross his tone was, Y/N may have backed down in another context, but quite frankly, she was beyond having anything to lose. "I understand that you're hurt, Y/N, and for that, 'm honestly sorry, but—"

"I'm not hurt, I'm ticked!"

"Y/N." That time, his hard voice, his barely-contained anger, did make her shrink away, just a bit. "You've gotta realize that what happened is in the past. It was a mistake. I didn't know you were a student here — you even told me you went to school in Chicago."

"I did, for two years."

"Doesn't matter. Moral of the story is that you've gotta leave that in the past. I'm your professor now, and that's a boundary that can't be crossed. We both need to stop dwellin' on it." His saying 'we' rather than 'you' certainly didn't go unnoticed, but Y/N deemed it not worth addressing.

"Great. It's behind us. Can you stop ignoring me now?"

"Come on, Y/N—"

"Seriously? You're gonna argue with that?" She threw her hands up in a huff, beyond exasperated and crossing the line to indignance. "You wanna remind me that you're my professor? Then stop acting like I don't exist. It's that simple, Thomas."

"It's Professor Jefferson. And I'm not tryin' to ignore you," he defended. "But don't you see the position this puts me in? My job's at stake here. This can never happen again!"

"And who said I wanted it to?" she bit back immediately, and for just a moment, Thomas was rendered silent.

"If that's not what you're lookin' for, then what are you here for?" His voice was quiet, his gaze searching, and Y/N sighed.

"Seriously? I haven't made myself clear enough?" She raised an eyebrow, but his blank look told her all she needed to know. The tension in her shoulders dropped; her combative stance went neutral when she reached into her bag, pulling it from the chair in front of his desk. "You're the one who keeps emphasizing that you're my professor — and that's what I need you to be right now."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly lost as she withdrew Machiavelli's The Prince from her bag, beaten up and slathered in colored tabs around the edges. She added in a small voice, "I've been struggling with the reading. I did it all, but there are just a couple passages that... I need help with."

Thomas — no, Professor Jefferson (god, was she ever going to struggle with getting that down) — looked stunned, plain and simple. Y/N had expected all of his assumptions for why she'd shown up there. Two weeks earlier, they may have also been accurate ones, but ultimately, she was still just a student. He'd really had to have had a big head to think he'd take priority over that for any extended period of time.

His eyes were wide. He continued to look toward her, but his gaze was blank, slowly drifting to his desk, until finally, he sighed. "Well, shit. I, uh... I'm really sorry, Y/N. Really." If the growing guilt behind his shock hadn't been clear enough in his demeanor, it was woven tightly into his voice. His stare flickered back up to her, and despite her lingering irritation, the apology in it softened her. "I got so caught up in my own problems that I didn't even consider. I didn't mean to assume that you... y'know."

"Came here to try and get dicked down?" Y/N supplied, voice dry as she watched him expectantly. He cracked a sheepish smile.

"Somethin' like that."

"As though it'd be worth the effort," she snorted. "There are, like, thirty frats on campus, and I have a paper due Monday — in case you'd forgotten. If I wanted to get laid, I'd do it much more efficiently."

"Mm, but would it be as good?" At the clear ego in Thomas's playful stare, Y/N's eyebrows shot toward her hairline.

"Now who's crossing boundaries?"

Despite the skepticism in her voice, Thomas laughed. "'M just kiddin'. Promise."

"Hilarious." Her small, persistent smile undermined her sarcasm, and his gaze was soft.

"Alright, alright, come take a seat. Show me which pages you're strugglin' with."

"Yeah, so it's less full pages and passages than it is key phrases I just can't seem to connect to the rest of the work." Y/N lowered herself into the chair that wasn't already holding her bag as she flipped open her book to her third pink tab, turning it to show him. "Like, here. Chapter 19."

"Mhm."

"I understand what the whole page is getting at, but look at this..."

They sank easily into the text, despite being focused more on one another's voices than on the writing itself. Ten PM had long since come and gone, but as the night stretched on, the pair only continued to pass Y/N's book back and forth, bouncing from passage to passage, idea to idea as though no time had passed at all. Neither of them bothered to check any sort of a clock until Y/N let out a loud, drawn-out yawn. Thomas raised an eyebrow.

"You gettin' tired?" Y/N gave a halfhearted shrug as he finally checked his watch, and his eyes widened. "Shit, it's past eleven. We should get you outta here."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right." Her voice was weary as she lifted herself out of her seat, tucked her book back into her bag. "I've got everything I need for my paper, anyway."

"Glad to hear it." Thomas reached for his coat as she made her way to the door, but she paused when he asked, "You're not thinkin' of walkin' home, are you?"

She glanced back over her shoulder. "What if I am?"

Thomas furrowed his brow. "Tell me that's a joke. That's gotta be a joke." Y/N shrugged, and Thomas groaned lightly. "In that outfit, you freezin' and gettin' abducted are equally likely, you know that?"

"Aw, thanks for letting me know! Now I feel so much safer," she said, plastering on a mocking smile.

"Lemme call you an Uber," he offered, and Y/N quirked a brow.

"Are you that much of a one-trick pony?"

"If makin' sure women get home safe is my only trick, I think it's a pretty good one to have," he said matter-of-factly, and Y/N had to laugh.

"I can appreciate that. An Uber would be great." Y/N pulled her bag up her shoulder as she returned to his door. "I'll see you Monday?"

"Mhm. Your driver's named Amy, and she's drivin' a blue Camry, by the way," Thomas informed her, and Y/N smiled. "G'night, Y/N."

"Night, professor."

             -           

From then on, Y/N began frequenting Thomas's office hours, only hesitantly at first. While her motives were genuine, all of them being centered around getting into grad school, she didn't want to become overbearing, especially with the one night, the sixteen stolen hours that still hung over their heads. She stopped by twice the following week, neither time staying long as other students began to trickle in, peeking nervously around the corner toward his office, knocking so quietly at first that neither Thomas not Y/N realized someone was there. She didn't need him any more than her classmates did, so she yielded her time gracefully.

Moreover, she knew that only very little of the time he offered to students wasn't already occupied, and while the reason for that was certainly clear to her, she wasn't sure whether it'd gone over his head. It wasn't until the fourth time she went to meet with him that she found he was every bit as aware as everyone else.

"Hey, Thom—" Y/N cut herself off with a wince. "Professor Jefferson, you around?" she called down the hall to his office, nose still buried in the email from the anthropology department that she'd pulled up on her phone (apparently they were having a bake sale on the east green; Y/N didn't bother to read further and learn why once she saw they'd have caramel brownies). She only glanced up when she didn't receive an answer, instead hearing chatter drift down the hall, and her footsteps slowed as she neared his doorway. Her eyebrows shot up.

Y/N recognized the woman seated — well, hardly still seated, at that point — with her back to her as Lucy Hart, who sat front and center during every single one of their lectures, who was now all but draping herself across Thomas's desk, leaned onto her forearms and with a pen between her teeth.

Though she seemed to find whatever Y/N had just missed to be hilarious, Thomas's amusement was forced, uneasy as he eased his hand away from where hers had fallen to cover it, holding the book open by one of its ends.

"Alright, Miss Hart, we'll see." Whatever the question was, Thomas wasn't about to give her a straight answer, but Lucy seemed to take that as a challenge. Her cleavage finally spilled back into the neckline of her dress when she sat back in her seat, but she traced one finger up Thomas's forearm.

"I guess we will," she replied. She hadn't seemed to have caught on to how wildly uncomfortable she was making him — Y/N could only assume Lucy had decided she'd left him 'flustered.' She reached for his copy of Hobbes's Leviathan, her perfectly manicured fingers brushing over his as she did so. "Now, where were we?"

Ahem.

From the angle they were seated at, neither Thomas nor Lucy had noticed Y/N standing in the doorway, an eyebrow raised — when she cleared her throat, though, they both jumped. Their reactions to her presence couldn't have been more disparate. The relief written deep in Thomas's tiny smile was obvious, but Lucy was looking her over with a scowl.

"Hey," Y/N finally said, taking a step forward. "I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"'Course not." It was Professor Jefferson who answered, tone formal and body language neutral, but how quickly he'd answered, overtly cutting off Lucy, told Y/N she wasn't misreading the situation. "What can I do for you, Y/N?"

"Yeah, Y/N," Lucy furthered, eyeing her dubiously. "Why are you here?"

Y/N's gaze flickered between the pair of them, the tension in Thomas's shoulders subtle but clear as he inched his arm further from Lucy's. "Last I checked, Professor Jefferson, we had a meeting scheduled for right about now."

Her smile was genuine despite how Thomas knit his dark brow; she hadn't yet moved past finding the ordeal wildly entertaining. "Do we?"

"I thought so," she added with a shrug, and when her pointed gaze fell to Lucy, who still looked irate sitting in the small tufted chair across from him, Thomas sighed, and Y/N felt confident it'd been a sigh of relief. He seemed to have realized the escape rope she'd thrown into his lionness's den. "Unless I got the time wrong? It could've been tomorrow evening, I—"

"No, no you're in the right," he cut her off a little too adamantly, and though she'd already begun to dig through her phone for the nonexistent calendar event, she looked up with her eyebrows raised. "'S my bad. I took the timing down wrong."

Y/N had to bite down her self-satisfied smile. "Are you sure? Because really, we can reschedule; I'm also available—"

"No. Now's just fine," he assured her, and the indignant look Lucy shot him had the beginnings of a smile creeping past Y/N's innocent mask. "Made a promise, and it'd be only right to keep it, wouldn't it?"

"It is your responsibility to model integrity, professor."

"Then I guess I've gotta make sure I don't give anybody the wrong idea."

Y/N wasn't sure whether the words, 'the wrong idea' were pointed at her or at Lucy, or whether they were even pointed at all, with her simply reading too far into a nonexistent subtext to take them at face value. She didn't dwell much longer.

"Well, thanks for stoppin' by, Miss Hart—" Vindication flashed in Y/N's eyes when she noticed his electing not to use Lucy's first name. "—I hope all this discussion's deepened your understandin' of Hobbes's view on human nature."

"Oh, I've learned quite a bit about human nature," Lucy said as she stood, and Thomas's discomfort hadn't faded. Y/N was struggling to comprehend what about her words possibly justified her tone being so suggestive. "I hope I can come back another night for you to teach me a little more of it, Thom— oh! I mean, Professor Jefferson."

She glanced bashfully at Y/N with her final few words, her sheepish front fooling no one. Y/N wasn't sure to what end, but this was a clear ploy for her jealousy — she'd been around the block once or twice. Y/N genuinely struggled to contain her amusement as Lucy shot him a wink before turning to leave, exaggerating the movements of her hips. The door fell shut behind her.

It wasn't until Lucy's footsteps were out of earshot that Thomas let out a heavy sigh, sinking down in his chair, and Y/N let out the laugh she'd spent the past ten minutes swallowing.

"So, Lucy Hart, huh? That's who you've been spending all your alleged 'office hours' with?" she started, and Thomas's glare was weak.

"C'mon, Y/N."

"Is that why your door's locked half the times I show up here? Today wasn't very subtle, you know."

"Y/N." His voice was hard when he gave her a pointed look, but with how tired he looked, she didn't push it further, just smiled.

"Relax; I'm just kidding." She shrugged off her jacket. "I know that if you were to sleep with a student, it wouldn't be Lucy. Don't worry."

He raised his eyebrows at her audacity, her smug grin, but he couldn't prevent the amusement that showed through to his expression. "Really? You're gonna go there?"

"Go where?" When she knit her brow, plastered on a confused frown, Thomas had to swallow his laugh. "Now, I'm just not sure what you're implying, professor. Do you plan on sleeping with Lucy?

"Hilarious, Y/N." His rolling his eyes left her undeterred. "In all seriousness, though, I think she really believes she is bein' subtle."

"Unfortunately, I'm well aware," Y/N sighed. "I've seen her at a few too many parties to have any illusions about what a painfully tactless flirt she is."

"You're tellin' me."

"Has it been like this all semester?" she asked. Sure, Y/N had seen how shameless Lucy was during lectures, leaving no stone unturned to draw attention to herself, but this seemed a new level of egregious. Yet, Thomas nodded.

"Once a week, every week. Least, when it isn't more than that."

"Sometimes it's more?" Y/N let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, and Thomas nodded his solemn confirmation. "Jesus. So this is why you look pissed every time she participates in class. I figured you just hated the sound of her voice as much as I do."

"Believe me; I've been startin' to."

"That's so harsh!"

"Aw, c'mon, and you wouldn't?"

Y/N shrugged, pursed her lips, but her eyes glinted with hubris. "Well," she said, "It'd depend on how hot the student was. I mean, in my opinion, if Lucy was me, it just might be a different story."

Thomas couldn't bring himself to look annoyed. "Yeah, yeah. Alright," he said, shaking his head at her words. "You think you're fuckable. I get it."

"Glad we agree." Y/N's lips quirked up into a smug smile, but Thomas raised his eyebrows.

"Hang on, now. That's not quite what I—"

"But if she's really bothering you," Y/N continued, altogether disregarding his protests, and Thomas sighed. "You know you could just, like, talk to Lucy about it, right? You're the one with the power, here."

She couldn't put her finger on exactly why he winced at the latter sentence.

"Guess so, I just... I dunno. 'S really no big deal; I'm just gettin' fed up with all that." He gave a halfhearted shrug that made her raise an eyebrow. "But don't worry 'bout that. Why're you here, if not for the meetin' we've supposedly got scheduled for tonight?"

His tone was light, playful with the question, but Y/N was still stuck on what he'd started with. "Hold on; you can't just deflect that easily."

"Deflect from what?" He furrowed his brow, but Y/N just huffed, walking toward the near side of his desk.

"From whatever you're getting 'fed up with all of,'" she said, and when she eyed him skeptically, his fatigued sigh told her she wasn't imagining things. "Can I sit?"

"Yeah, sure, join me." Thomas beckoning her toward his empty chairs was almost absentminded. "But really, it's nothin'."

"No offense, but I don't know if I believe you." As she sank down into one of his guest's seats, a conflicted look flickered across his gaze, building further on the concern in her words. "What's up? C'mon; talk to me."

He hesitated. "'M serious, Y/N; it's not—"

"Thomas."

He raised an eyebrow, but it took her a moment to notice her own error. "Excuse me?"

"Professor Jefferson, I mean. Of course." Her smile was sheepish, but it just made him chuckle.

"Alright, alright. 'S nothin' serious, anyway, but 'm just gettin' sick of not bein' taken seriously."

Y/N's words were hesitant as she raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? People take you seriously."

"Mm, but do they?" He sighed as he sat back in his chair. "I'm the youngest professor on campus; half my office hours are taken up by undergrads hittin' on me. It's hard to feel like I'm gettin' a lot of respect when you don't even treat me like a professor."

"Hey, come on, I respect you," she defended, and he shook his head.

"I don't mean you, specifically, Y/N. Just... your whole class. I'm already hardly old enough to be teachin' at a university, but it also kinda sucks to see how many people pretend to care about learnin' just to get my attention," he said, and his voice was soft. His quiet sigh made Y/N frown, especially as his absent gaze wandered through his own office.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he glanced back over to her. "Keep in mind, though, you made the first move on me. Not the other way around."

Despite her having been entirely serious, her words made Thomas laugh — a full-bodied laugh, too, one that couldn't help but make her smile in return. "Thanks for lettin' me know," he said, and though she rolled her eyes at his sarcastic tone, she was glad to see him lightening up. "Sorry to say it, sweetheart, but not everything's about you."

Neither noticed his casual term of endearment. "What a shame," Y/N sighed.

"Mm, I'm sure. I guess I just..." When he trailed off, Y/N raised a brow, and the concerned look in her eyes was what prompted him to continue. "I know I'm smart, 'n all, but it never feels great to feel discounted. Especially bein' new to the faculty."

"I hear that," Y/N said, her tone light but gaze solemn. "For what it's worth, I do come to your office for help because I know you can and want to provide it, not because I have some ulterior motive."

"Glad to hear it." Though his tone almost suggested he may have been being facetious, Y/N could tell that he wasn't making fun. "But on that note, thanks for givin' me an out with the Lucy fiasco. What'd you need, comin' here?"

Y/N's smile was small, all but apologetic as she unzipped her bag after pulling it into her lap. "Right. So, I know this isn't your job, and all..."

When she trailed off, Thomas eyed her suspiciously, especially as her lips only seemed to stretch further into a grin. "What's this about?"

"Is there any chance you'd be willing to read over my paper for my constitutional law seminar?" At the hopeful look she wore as she withdrew her printed essay from her bag, he had to laugh.

"Really? You're not even here for somethin' about my class?"

"Yes or no, professor?" She raised a brow, waving the packet back and forth expectantly.

"And why'd you decide to come see if I'd look through it? What makes you think I'm gonna?"

"You read over my French paper last week!" she pointed out, and Thomas sighed.

"Yeah, 'cause I speak French."

"You speak English, too. And you worked in government." Y/N shrugged, putting the paper down on his desk regardless. "So, please? I'd ask my roommate, but she's studying business, and you must know how that goes."

"You trashin' on business majors?" Thomas raised an eyebrow.

"If I was, would I be wrong?"

Her deadpan stare made him laugh. "Can't argue with that. Give it here."

He held his hand out for the essay, and she gave it to him with a wide grin. "You're the best."

"What else is new?" he asked, and despite how dry his tone was, his eyes were teasing. "You wanna go through it with me now, or should I get it back to you some other time?"

"Any chance we can go over it now?" she asked. "It might sort of be due in two days."

His eyebrows shot up. "Are you tellin' me I'm some kinda last resort?"

"Of course not!" she defended, but she hesitated before continuing, "Just an eleventh-hour supplementary resource who's going to help me get a diploma."

"I'm sure," he said, and the skeptical look he gave made the corners of her lips twitch. "You owe me, y'know that?"

"Really. I should start paying you, one of these days."

"To be fair, you do pay my salary."

"Mm, maybe some students do, but I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you."

Thomas furrowed his brow, confusion permeating every aspect of his expression as he looked back at her. "What, you 'n Elizabeth Warren linked up in a personal campaign for free college?"

"No, but the president of financial aid and I did." She shrugged. "Honestly, they saved my ass. Sorry I'm not raising your salary, or anything, but I hardly pay to go here."

When he slowly nodded, she could see the small, subtle smile tugging at his lips. "I'll try not to hold it against you. 'M glad you ended up here anyway."

Y/N's grin was exaggerated, a fact she did nothing to conceal. "Aww, professor, I knew you secretly liked having me here."

He rolled his eyes, but his smile mirrored hers. "I meant that I'm glad that money isn't holdin' you back from gettin' a good education."

"I'm sure you did."

Thomas cocked a brow. "D'you want me to read your paper or not?"

At his words, Y/N had to bite back her cocky grin, and she nodded. "Yes, please."

"Then get off your high horse 'n listen." Despite his words, amusement sat heavy in the way he was skeptically eyeing Y/N.

"Of course, professor."

-                         

"It's been shockingly chill."

Y/N was sprawled out on the carpet of her living room, a styrofoam cup of ramen in one hand and chopsticks in the other, while Dolley sat curled up at the end of the couch flipping through Netflix on their TV.

"No lingering sexual tension?" Dolley challenged, glancing down to where Y/N was slurping her noodles (she'd asserted that ramen on the couch was too high of a stain risk). Y/N shook her head, and Dolley raised an eyebrow. "Really? No secret desire to end up bent over his desk?"

"Okay, listen, what I want and what I act on are two very different things." She pointed her chopsticks at Dolley accusatorily. "I can have it both ways."

"So you're still looking for another night of fun?" Dolley raised a playful eyebrow, and Y/N only grinned.

"Are you offering?"

"I could be convinced, dear." The wink Dolley sent her made Y/N laugh, broth sloshing down the side of her cup that she didn't hesitate to lick off of the back of her hand.

"Mhm, because my sex appeal is through the roof, I'm sure."

"Alright, I'll confess. I am only joking, after all," Dolley sighed, a wistful look in her eyes as she scrolled through the Netflix TV dramas category. "But only because things with James are going better than I expected."

Y/N's eyes widened; she spun in her spot on the floor. "Dolley, oh my God, spill! You've been holding out on me."

"There's not much for me to spill, really." She shrugged, and the smile she wore was coy. "He and I have just been getting on well. Nothing more to it."

"No. Uh-uh." Y/N shook her head, setting her near-empty instant ramen onto their coffee table. "You're gonna give me more than that. You have to. Clearly something's been happening."

Dolley bit her lip. "So, would we rather watch Stranger Things or The Good Place?"

"Don't you dare change the subject!"

"Alright, alright," she finally sighed, and her gaze was soft when she finally met Y/N's eyes. "So, we've been seeing each other more often. Getting coffee, grabbing lunch between classes. He's even had me read over different drafts of his thesis."

"Aww, he's using you as an editor? How romantic!"

"Make fun all you want, but he trusts me with it. Isn't that worth something?"

"Of course it is, Doll." Y/N smiled, unable to tease Dolley further when she had such a sappy look in her eyes. "But if you've been dating, why am I just finding out?"

She didn't meet Y/N's gaze, fiddling with the cuffs of her sleeves. "We haven't been going on dates, really."

"Oh yeah? This is how you talk about hanging out with everyone else you aren't dating?" The challenge in Y/N's tone made her scoff, roll her eyes, but they both knew she had a point.

"It's nothing official."

"But do you want it to be?" Y/N quirked a brow. Dolley's smile was faint.

"Maybe a little," she said quietly, and Y/N's grin broadened.

"That's adorable. I'm thrilled for you," she said, but there was a heavy pause before she hesitantly added, "but be careful with him."

Dolley furrowed her brow, finally turning toward where Y/N sat. "What d'you mean?"

"You have a habit of quickly getting attached to men who turn out to be terrible for you. Remember Henry?"

"Knox or Clay?"

"Either. You're making my point." Y/N gave her a knowing look, but Dolley didn't seem overly offended. "You're just too quick to give people the benefit of the doubt. Not everyone deserves it."

"But that's what you love about me, dear."

"Don't you turn my undying love and affection for you against me!" Y/N protested, and though she rolled her eyes, Dolley appeared to be entertained. "I adore you for what a sweetheart you are, but it's also what men take advantage of."

"Yes, I know; you've given me this talk before," Dolley sighed. "But really, I think this time might be different. I really like James."

Y/N pursed her lips. "It'd better be. Otherwise he's gonna have hell to pay."

"I'm not too worried."

"I am."

"Would you feel better if I gave you a chance to screen him?" Y/N raised an interested eyebrow at Dolley's words. "Because I invited him to come over Wednesday night for dinner. If you'd like, it'll be a prime time for you to interrogate him."

She sighed. "I dunno, Doll. I don't want to third wheel."

"You live here. You won't be third-wheeling," Dolley pointed out. "And you wouldn't have to stay! You could just pop in, say hello, and either leave or just go wait him out in your room."

A small smile grew across Y/N's lips at her words. "And you'll seriously let me interrogate him?"

"Have at it."

"I'm in."

-                                  

Dolley 🥺💋 sent: James is coming over in five minutes, so get home whenever

Dolley 🥺💋 sent: unless of course you've decided to grant him your tacit approval

Y/N sent: be home soon 😪

Dolley 🥺💋 sent: see u 😘

"Y/N?"

It was Wednesday evening, around 6 PM. Y/N's political philosophy seminar had just been let out, but she'd really spent most of her focus over the past three hours on figuring out exactly how to determine whether or not James was a piece of shit. Apparently he was bringing takeout to her and Dolley's apartment for all three of them, which she saw to be a point in his favor.

However, as her classmates filed out of the lecture hall, Y/N stood idly, taking hesitant steps forward out of her row as she tried to multitask, neither eager to stop texting Dolley or to trip all the way down the steps to the front of the room. It was Professor Jefferson who knocked her out of the reverie that'd been induced by the promise of James delivering what she imagined to be the best food she'd had in weeks.

She looked up with a brow raised, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "Hey, professor."

"You have a second to talk?"

"Oh, um..." Despite her deep-seated motivation to get home before dinner was cold, she supposed it could wait just a little longer. She nodded. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"

She pulled her bag onto her shoulder as she stepped out onto the hall's staircase, maybe three rows up from where Thomas stood at the bottom floor.

He leaned nonchalantly against the first row of desks. "So, the TA I've had since first semester's leavin' in a week or two. He's goin' abroad to South Korea for the fourth quarter, 'n he's decided to resign from bein' my assistant at the end of this week, so that he can make sure he's got everything in order for the next three months."

She frowned. "That's too bad. I'm sorry to hear it." She folded her arms, paused before adding, "So what, you want me to break the news to the class that we aren't getting those papers on the Enlightenment back anytime soon?"

At her quirked brow, her playful smile, Thomas had to give a light laugh. "Mm, I'm hopin' it won't come to that."

"You should probably get to grading instead of keeping me from dinner, then."

"Oh, 'm sorry; how dare I, really?" He responded, a hand over his heart, and she had to bite back her entertained smile at the irony in his indignance.

"Honestly. I can't imagine why I put up with it."

"I'll make it up to you," he said dryly. "But seriously, 'm not just tellin' you that for the sake of small talk. What I'm sayin' is that I have an openin' to find a new TA."

"I see," she said, raising an eyebrow. "And where, pray tell, do I come into all this?"

It wasn't that his train of thought was hard to follow, nor was his implication, but until he said it outright, Y/N had no desire to make any sort of an assumption.

He smiled. "You have any interest in becomin' a TA?"

"Seriously?" She furrowed her brow. "I mean, I appreciate it, but why?"

"First off, your work's consistently at the top of this class," he said matter-of-factly. They both knew she was well aware of this, after the hours in his office she'd spent grilling him on the historical context of every one of Voltaire's assertions and the implications of every early revolution. "You're a good writer, 'n you're more than capable of reviewin' other students' work. You've also already taken most of the other classes I teach, so you're familiar with all the material."

She nodded slowly, folding her arms, and though her expression would've conveyed that she was deep in thought, she couldn't suppress her growing smile. "I see. So it doesn't have anything to do with how attractive or charming I am?"

When she raised a playful eyebrow, he laughed outright. "Whenever your charm can start gradin' thirty ten-page papers a day, I'll start takin' it into account."

"Don't underestimate it."

"Alright, alright, I'll keep it in mind." He shook his head, and his lingering smile made the corners of her lips twitch. "'M serious, though. If you've already got enough on your plate, and you don't wanna take on another commitment, that's cool 'n all, and I can always ask someone else. But would you want the position?"

She pursed her lips, eyed him hesitantly. "Will I need to apply for it?"

"Nah," he said. "By the university's policy, you've gotta send me your resume and transcript, but if you wanna be my TA, you've got it. So?"

When she bit her lip, his eyes flickered down to her mouth so briefly that she almost didn't notice it. "I don't know, Thom—" He raised a brow. "Professor. Is there any chance I can think on it and get back to you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, 'course. I can give you 'til the end of the week, if that's enough time?"

"That'd be great." As she held his gaze, she couldn't help but ponder exactly what she was being asked. She was sure his motives were pure; she couldn't imagine for the life of her Thomas giving her a job with the intent of breaking down professional boundaries so he could sleep with her, but that was where her mind was going regardless. "I'll stop by and let you know on Friday."

"I'm countin' on it." He wore a wide grin that shouldn't have and usually wouldn't have put her on edge. Her mind had fallen down the rabbit hole of fixating on just how much more time she'd be spending with him as his TA — he saw enough of her during his office hours, but she was of two minds with that. On one hand, what would a few more hours change? However, on the other, all she was hearing was that he didn't mind spending a few more hours with her. "I'll see you then?"

When he raised an eyebrow, she finally realized she'd spaced out for a solid minute, and she fixed on a smile, though it was tense. "See you then."

She left without another word.

James proved to be a nice guy when Dolley had him over; he brought burgers and milkshakes for all three of them. However, Y/N knew she'd only find herself on Dolley's bad side however many hours later. As much as he was talking, Y/N didn't retain a single word he shared about himself, despite having promised she'd use the evening to formulate her opinion on him. So much for protecting Dolley.

Instead, Professor Thomas Jefferson occupied every one of her thoughts.

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 32

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31

WangJi is deep in thought for the majority of the flight.

His mind keeps circling back to the string of incidents in the Immortal Mountain, insisting that even those events which may seem coincidental must be a part of a larger picture.

Except that there is no picture. There is only a patchwork of uneven pieces, refusing to fit into a coherent narrative. The information supplied by the Rogue Prince and his companion, instead of providing some clarity, only seems to make the pieces more distorted. Still, his mind is adamant that there is a connection to be made, one he simply cannot grasp.  

Thinking so, he does not catch his brother’s words right away.

They are flying side by side, the Emperor to their right, the escort comprised of both the Nie and the Lan Sect disciples flying at their back. WangJi does not ask his brother to repeat himself. Conversation while flying is difficult on the calmest of days; now, flying into the north-western winds which snatch their words away before they are fully formed, it is nearly impossible. He follows XiChen’s gaze to the Immortal Mountain City, noticing that the small lanterns illuminating the Five Phoenix Gate steps are finally visible. The wall surrounding the City rises tall to the north and the south. Approaching by the main road, a traveler could perhaps catch a glimpse of the gray stone, or if the sun is in the correct position, the gold phoenix rearing above the gate, but the City itself is well concealed from the eyes of those who have not been invited past its gates. At this altitude, however, WangJi can see a hint of roof peaks in the distance, as well as a mysterious bright light in the south part of the City.

For a few moments, WangJi is genuinely puzzled by the sight. Wei Ying--

He closes his eyes, scolding himself. Calling the Emperor Wei WuXian is too bold as it is, even in his own mind. It is infuriating, that the man can wreak such havoc on WangJi’s entire existence with nothing more than a few words.

I really like you.

I was not unprotected. Lan Zhan was with me.

No.

Someone in the Immortal Mountain is trying to assassinate the Emperor, and now, there is also a mass-murdering madman loose in YiLing. WangJi will not allow himself to grow distracted. He must be more cautious in governing his thoughts.

Wei WuXian had mentioned that lanterns are released from the Immortal Mountain as well, but this should have occurred hours ago. The Emperor’s palace is the heart of the City, located slightly to the north of the gate, and cannot be the source of the mysterious light.

“Fire,” Wei WuXian says on the other side of him, the words nearly lost in the rush of the wind.

When his voice comes again, it is louder, sharper, a voice that demands attention, “MingJue, those are flames. Something is on fire.”

As if Wei WuXian had issued an order, Nie MingJue separates himself from the formation with a burst of speed. The Nie Sect falls in rank behind him, arranging themselves to the left and right, a wedge that easily cuts through the wind. Soon, they are far ahead, dark robes fluttering in the wind.

“The main palace?” the Rogue Prince asks, “Another assassination attempt?”

He seems unruffled by the fact that someone might have attempted to burn down the Emperor’s palace. Flying on the other side of Wei WuXian, he also seems incredibly at ease for a man who is essentially flying blind.

“The flames are to the south,” Song Lan says, positioned directly behind him.

“Ah,” the Rogue Prince says, “curious. Guests are rarely placed to the south.”

WangJi’s heart drops, turning his knees weak.

The Peach Blossom Pavilion is south of the gate.  

His sword pierces the air. He can hear Wei WuXian’s shout, but the words are indiscernible, and already far behind him.

They had assumed that the target would be the Emperor. They had left uncle alone. Alone, in the Immortal Mountain City, in an old pavilion to the south, where no other guests can raise an alarm, even if they cared to. An easy, convenient target.

The Nie Sect is a blur of color and movement against the dark sky. He passes them in the space of a breath. At this speed, the cold air feels like a thousand icy blades on his skin, tearing at his robes, locking the breath in his chest. An alarm sounds the moment he passes over the wall. Wei WuXian had told him about the array, a harmless safeguard intended only to disorient. The sound of the bell ringing is loud enough to rattle his teeth, jarring and nauseating, pressing against his temples. He is out of its reach in a matter of moments.

The Peach Blossom Pavilion no longer has a courtyard wall. It looks to have been torn down in haste, blown in rather than out, bricks and mortar carelessly scattered. There is a chain of Imperial Guards, throwing water onto the flames. There is a barrier of spiritual power keeping the flames from spreading. But it feels quivering and fragile, as if the person holding it is nearing the point of exhaustion.

WangJi notices all of this, somewhere in his periphery, all of it small and unimportant. 

The Peach Blossom Pavilion is engulfed in flames.

He dismounts too early, misjudging the distance. When his feet meet the ground, his right ankle folds awkwardly, dropping him to one knee. 

The flash of pain is irrelevant. The shouts of the men around him are irrelevant. The waves of heat are scalding after the cold of the flight, making his eyes water. He thinks that someone has landed behind him. Someone is shouting his name. WangJi can see nothing but the wall of flames.

He has to get inside, he has to--

Something latches on to his robe, stopping him. His ankle and knee scream in pain as he tries to shake the grip off and fails. 

Fury overwhelms the fear. He whirls, Bichen leaving the sheath, the hilt still icy cold from the wind, flashing to dislodge whoever dares stop him.

It does not land. 

XiChen is by his side, his hand gripping WangJi’s wrist so tightly that his fingers immediately begin turning numb. The sound of other blades being unsheathed echoes sharply across the cobblestones, louder than the hungry roar of the fire.

The tip of WangJi’s sword is trembling at the hollow of Nie HuaiSang’s throat.

Nie HuaiSang’s gaze is dark. He does not blink. He does not speak. His breaths are steady and even.

WangJi knows Nie HuaiSang’s appearance well. He would never mistake the boy for someone else.

He had despised this creature from the first time he had laid eyes on him. He had felt pity, and resentment, and a grudging type of respect. But at this very moment, he cannot be sure whose gaze he is holding. This person, expression cold and calculating  despite the tip of a blade under his chin, utterly devoid of fear, is not the same Nie HuaiSang that WangJi had judged and found wanting. This boy is a stranger.

“He is at the Jade Sword Palace,” Nie HuaiSang says, his tone flat, “He has inhaled some smoke, but is otherwise unharmed.”

“WangJi,” XiChen hisses.

WangJi lowers the sword, but not by choice. A quivering rush of relief is sweeping through his muscles, threatening to knock him back down to his knees.

He swallows heavily. His throat feels raw from the wind and the smoke.

Nie HuaiSang takes a step back. The light of the flames shifts across his features, and suddenly, he is no longer a stranger, but the same boy WangJi had despised.

Unease ripples down WangJi’s spine.  

He thinks he understands now, why this boy is the Royal Companion to the Emperor.  

“Put your swords away,” Nie HuaiSang snaps at the Nie Sect, “If you want to be of use, put out the damn fire.”

They do not hesitate to obey. Nie HuaiSang opens his fan and wrinkles his nose.

“I will never get the smoke out of these robes,” he grumbles, then turns away.

The Emperor is standing behind him.

The Emperor is standing behind Nie HuaiSang, his sword still clutched in his grip, his face pale, his hair wild.

WangJi, who had almost killed the Emperor’s Royal Companion mere moments ago, finds that he cannot meet Wei WuXian’s gaze.

“Your Majesty,” Nie HuaiSang says, “we need to speak. In private. Please allow my brother to escort the Young Masters to the Jade Sword Palace. I have placed Lan QiRen in the Imperial guest chambers, but now it seems that we must find a home for a dozen Lan disciples too. Perhaps we can give them lodgings in the East wing?”

The heat of the flames keeps pressing against WangJi’s back, a physical touch he cannot get away from. Inexplicably, now that he knows uncle is safe, he feels small and fragile, as if a single word could shatter him to pieces.

He can see the flash of the Lan Sect robes; the disciples they had brought with them are standing some distance away and grouped close together, doubtlessly worried and afraid. The Nie Sect has joined the line of guards attempting to put out the fire. Someone is yelling at them to move faster; WangJi thinks he recognizes Wen Qing’s voice.

XiChen tugs on his wrist, pulling him away from the Pavilion, and WangJi does not resist.

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony: 

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father. 

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad. 

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps. 

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time. 

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist. 

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall. 

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him. 

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only. 

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness. 

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face. 

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook. 

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you." 

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure. 

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home. 

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white. 

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight. 

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy. 

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

[bedbellyandbeyond]

Unexpected Visitor

(Story Post)

“Oh. Hello.” Nathan came home to a bit of a surprise. After coming home from a meeting with Korsgaard, he opened the door to find Jeffrey in his kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. He looked up and smiled to Nathan. “Oh, hey! What’s up?” Jeffrey asked. “What’s up to you first. What are…you doing here?” Nathan asked. Jeffrey shrugged. “Ya know, just hanging out with Wano.” “Ah.” Nathan felt a chill. “And where is Wano?” “I think he just finished up in the shower,” Jeffrey said. “Water stopped running.” “…How long have you been here?” “Hm, I got here… Maybe at noon-ish?” Jeffrey answered. Nathan just went quiet. He carried the twins in with him and set them down in the living room play pen before going and calling up the stairs. “Wano?” The Eclulan called back from the bathroom. “Yeah?” “I’m home! Can you come down please?” “‘Kay.” “Make sure you’re wearing clothes!” “‘Kay!”

Nathan went and grabbed some water from the fridge while he waited. He watched Jeffrey intently, but the young man just kept eating his cereal, oblivious to Nathan’s stare. Wano came down with boxers and a T-shirt on, with a towel around his neck. “Welcome home.” “Uh, yeah, thanks. Um, so Jeffrey’s here,” Nathan said. Wano looked at Jeffrey, who waved to him, and then looked back to Nathan. “Yes.” “What is he doing here?” Nathan asked. “He asked if he could come over,” Wano said. “I said yes.” Nathan blinked. “And you didn’t think to ask me, maybe?” Wano tilted his head. “Why?” “Uh…” Nathan motioned around. “Because it’s my house?” Wano frowned. “Are you mad? I don’t understand. Jeffrey is a friend to us, no?” “He… He is, but it’s still my house,” Nathan said. “I’d like to know when other people are in my house when I’m not here. You need to ask me first.” “It’s okay, Nathan. I’m heading out anyway,” Jeffrey said, after drinking his cereal milk. It left him with a milkstache. “Ollie’ll probably claim Ben as his own if I don’t get back soon…” He got up and made his way to the door to get his shoes on, but Wano intercepted him. “You have milk on your lip,” Wano stated. “Oh?” Jeffrey smiled and leaned into him, puckering his lips. “Can you get it off for me?” “Um, okay.” Wano took a finger and wiped the milk from Jeffrey’s face then wiped his hand on his own shirt. “There, you are clean.” Jeffrey chuckled and then moved on to get his shoes. “You’re so silly…” Nathan was just watching them, completely frozen. Wano waited and watched as Jeffrey finished getting ready to leave. “You will text me when you are home?” “Yeah, ‘course,” Jeffrey said, grinning. He straightened up and took Wano’s cheeks, pulling him down into a quick kiss. “I’ll see you soon, handsome.” Nathan was screaming internally. “Do you want to walk me to the bus stop?” Jeffrey asked. “Sure,” Wano said, without a second thought. “No!” Nathan cut in. Then he managed his volume. “Sorry, no. Wano can’t go too far from the house. The bus stop is too far.” “Ah. Right…” Wano angrily kicked his leg out with the ankle bracelet. “Aw, okay.” Jeffrey smiled and waved. “I’m off, then. Bye!” “Bye,” Wano said. Jeffrey walked out and Wano waited at the door until Jeffrey turned the corner towards the bus. Nathan sat down at the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. “Could you close the door, please?” Wano did as told and then wandered over. “You look angry in your face. Was your meeting bad?” “No.” Nathan straightened up. “So, you and Jeffrey are serious now?” “Serious about what?” Wano asked. “You’re in a relationship,” Nathan said. He remembered he had to be plain with the Eclulan. “Wano, did you have sex with Jeffrey today in my house?” Wano shrugged. “Yes.” Nathan groaned. “Seriously?! At least tell me you’re using protection…” “Protection? From who?” Wano asked. “Not Jeffrey. I am much stronger than him.” “No, condoms! Contraceptives!” Nathan said. “Safe sex!” “I don’t understand any of that,” Wano asked. “Are you kidding—did you put anything on your penis to protect yourselves from illness or pregnancy?” Nathan tried one more time. “No. None of that makes sense,” Wano asked. “Why would we do that?” “Um, maybe so that you don’t get a sexually transmitted illness and you don’t get pregnant!” Nathan exclaimed. Wano shrugged. “But I cannot get your human diseases and I cannot get pregnant.” “But Jeffrey can!” Nathan said. “Yes, is that not the point of sex?” Wano asked. “Not the diseases, but to reproduce?” Nathan wanted to shout but he held it in and just turned around to try and calm down. Wano frowned. “I have not seen you so angry before… Do you need food? Are you hungry?” “No, Wano,” Nathan gripped his kitchen counter with white knuckles. “…I am trying so hard to figure out a way for you to realise why what you’re doing with Jeffrey right now is wrong.” “I don’t understand. Do you not like Jeffrey?” Wano asked. “I thought you were friends.” “I…” Nathan grit his teeth. “I like Jeffrey. We are…group friends. But, Jeffrey is immature and what you two are doing right now is so blind of the consequences. You’re about to be deported off the planet!” “I am very aware of that,” Wano said, defensively. Nathan turned back around. “Then why are you trying to make a baby?!” “It is because I am leaving that I want to,” Wano said. “My planet is dangerous… I might not come back. I would like Jeffrey to carry my legacy so my life was not without meaning.” Nathan wrinkled his nose. It sounded noble in a way but still rubbed him the wrong way. “Wano, that is probably the most selfish thing I have ever heard in my life.” Wano was taken aback. “What? Why?” “Legacy? Are you kidding me?” Nathan said. “If you expect to die, the last thing you should do is try to leave behind a fatherless child!” “They would not be fatherless, they would have Jeffrey,” Wano said. “Unless you are trying to say Jeffrey is a mother, but I learned that's not very ‘progressive’ or something.” Nathan growled in frustration. “You know what I meant! Creating a child just to walk out on them is so irresponsible! You need to give me a much better reason than that! But there isn't one because that's bullshit!” Wano frowned. “You don't understand… I want to be a father. This could be my last chance.” “Wano, you're deportation is only two months away,” Nathan said. “Even if you did get Jeffrey pregnant right now, you won't be here when they're born. And return applications can take a long time. You might not be able to even see the baby for a few years. You'd be more of a sperm donor than a father.” Wano shook his head. “You think that. I don't care what you think.” Nathan had enough. “Whether you see it that way or not, I'm not going to facilitate this in my home. You can't have Jeffrey over here anymore. You didn't have permission in the first place.” Wano stepped right up to Nathan and loomed over him. “What are you going to do? You can't stop me.” Nathan wasn't going to take this. He straightened up and growled, glaring down at Wano. When he tried to speak though, he could only emit a loud thunderous snarl. Wano immediately backed off and looked genuinely scared. “Nathan?” Nathan realised suddenly that something was wrong. Wano had a couple inches on him. It shouldn't have been possible for him to look down on the Eclulan and yet there he stood looming a good foot over the frightened alien. The twins in their pen nearby had both turned, Grace starting to howl and Gabriel letting out little bear cries as well. “The wolf…” Wano emitted. “Nathan, you're big…” Nathan looked at his own hands and saw the fur grown straight out all over, and his claws curled out longer than he'd ever seen. Panicked, he turned about looking for something reflective. He found a new pot and looked into the polished surface. In his reflection he didn't recognise himself. His hair had grown over his face, his ears had elongated past his head with fur all over and all his teeth had pointed. He was looking into the face of the wolf for the first time. Wano was doing his best not to cower in fear. He kept eye contact with Nathan while he tried to figure out what to do. “Nathan… Are you okay? I am…sorry…” Nathan didn't want to scare Wano but any time he talked it just came out as growls and snarls. He waved his hands to try and communicate for Wano not to worry and then he pointed to his phone on the counter which he couldn’t pick up himself now without scratching or crushing. “You want me to call?” Wano asked. “Dax? APID? The doctor?” Nathan just nodded. Any of them would do so long as they could help. “I'll call Dax.” Wano picked up the phone and dialled. In the meantime, Nathan tried sitting so he could calm down. He yipped uncomfortable as sitting initially cause him some pain. He realised he suddenly had a tail and he'd sat right down on it. Trying again, he leaned forward and sat down without crushing anything. It didn't make sense. It was daytime, he was still part man, and he was conscious. Nothing like this had ever happened before and he was scared. He put his face in his hands and took deep breaths, just trying to calm down. After a few minutes, Wano put down the phone and came around the kitchen counter to where Nathan sat. He looked him over and then touched his shoulder. “Nathan? Are you okay?” Nathan tensed up at Wano's touch but when he pulled his hands from his face, they were normal again. Or rather, relatively normal, he still had his permanent claws but they were back down to a manageable size, same as his canine teeth. He touched his face and felt the smooth hairless skin. He heaved a sigh and looked up to his friend. “Wano…” The Eclulan smiled. “You are alright. You are not wolf.” “I don't know what happened...” Nathan was shaking and he couldn't help tearing up. “What was that?” “Dax called the doctors to see you,” Wano informed him. “I am sorry… If I did not anger you…” Nathan shook his head. “No, I…” He tried to steady his breathing. “There's a monster in me…” Wano could tell words weren't helping his friend at all but he didn't want to see him like this. He got down on his knees and pulled him into a hug. Nathan shuddered and wrapped his arms around Wano's torso. He just wanted to calm down and get back to normal. “You are nice guy, not monster,” Wano said gently. “Thanks…” Nathan managed. The twins were still exchanging animal cries and Nathan started getting up to check on them. “Nathan, no. Just relax,” Wano said. “I'll take care of them. You rest.” Nathan sighed but agreed. “Okay, I... Maybe I'll take a shower...” “Yes, sounds good,” Wano encouraged. Nathan did so and went upstairs to shower. The sensation of the water running over him helped him feel more attached to his body, something transformation often disconnected for him. He thought he'd always wanted to be conscious as the wolf, not to lose all control, and yet this sudden transformation had made him feel betrayed. He wondered what Syd or even Korsgaard would have to say about it. He only imagined they'd want to recreate it. APID would want it studied. But he had no idea how it happened or what triggered it. He didn't want to think it was his emotions because the idea of being irate and becoming a dangerous monster scared him the most. The last thing he wanted was to endanger his friends and family. He just wanted to forget it happened at all.

[cupofteaguk]

i think i’m in love with you and i’m terrified

FROM THE PETALS COLLECTION

[pairing] :: jungkook x fem!reader

[genre] :: fake dating au + fluff 

[word count] :: 1.9k 

[note] :: previously “things you said too quietly” on my old blog 

.

In retrospect, maybe inviting you over to his apartment with the excuse that he ‘needed a favor’ hadn’t been the brightest idea Jungkook has ever come up with. But when the basis of your relationship sprouts from that exact same line, it doesn’t really leave him with too much legroom on how to go about conversations with you, especially ones that involve these particular moments. 

‘These particular moments’ pertaining to instances like these where he just really wants to see you and he can’t seem to get you out of his mind. Not because his mother had thought to call again to ask about your wellbeing, or to ask about grabbing another lunch with another family member; not because he needs you to spew up some lie about different milestones in a nonexistent relationship—but because he just really, really, kind of sort of maybe really enjoys your company. A lot more than he probably should, which is dangerous, considering that once his parents deemed his relationship with you ‘good enough’, you wouldn’t necessarily be… needed in his outside life anymore. 

And that thought, that uncertainty of what will follow, frightens him deeply. It’s gotten to the point where he can no longer picture an evening without you by his side, a dinner party where you aren’t grumbling snarky remarks about the wine underneath your breath, or filling him with stories about your childhood that makes him double over the chair in laughter—can no longer picture a day without your hands which, although much smaller than his own, still manage to fit perfectly in his own, can no longer picture a moment in front of his family where he couldn’t kiss you, partly because he had to but mostly just because he wanted to. 

However, his own hesitation, his own insecurities that you couldn’t return his feelings the way he wanted you to, keeps him from spilling the truth of his thoughts and emotions, keeps him hiding away in the dark, hiding behind poor ‘Hey, I need a favor’ text messages as an excuse to see you. 

Somehow, in spite of his pathetic nature that makes friends such as Kim Taehyung and Min Yoongi roll their eyes at him, it makes everything worth it to see your frame lingering outside his door, suddenly all wide gazes and the concerned curl of your lips. “Hey, I saw your text,” You say, brushing past him to enter the apartment, whirling back around to face him. “Is everything okay? Is your mom asking for another dinner?” 

“A-Ah, no, not today,” Jungkook manages, followed by an internal cursing because maybe he really should have thought this through just a little bit more. “I just needed some advice. Your opinion on something.” 

You inhale, exhale, shift slightly on the balls of your feet, and he wants to know what you’re thinking, what immediate thoughts are plaguing that brilliant mind of yours. 

And he’s nervous, although this isn’t necessarily the first time he’s called you over to ask of such a thing. He’s definitely engaged in a handful of these calls—but each invitation brings that choking anticipation of whether you were going to figure out his real intentions, the underlying fact that while yes, he really did require some advice over whatever predicament he’s caught himself into, that desire to see you overpowers his own independent responsibility. 

So he stares at you, just as you stare at him. He thinks he sees a flicker in your eyes, and his heart might give out because you know, you know, oh man, you definitely know and you’re going to confront him and reject him and leave him alone—!

“Oh yeah, for sure. What do you need help with?” 

The previous flicker is gone, no trace of it left behind in your eyes and he briefly wonders if he had imagined the whole thing just to give him some hope that maybe, just maybe, you returned his feelings and his internal, one-sided pinning wouldn’t be for nothing. But you are back to wide smiles and understanding eyes and he doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. 

“W-Well, uh, just follow me.” He waits until you have discarded your coat and purse, resting it down atop the counter in his kitchen, before following his form down the hall and into his bedroom. You enter the space hesitantly, lingering by the door frame momentarily before he beckons you to sit on the bed next to him. 

“Oh god, this seems serious,” You muse, clearly trying to keep the atmosphere light as you gingerly join him. Even though the pair of you have had to engage in similarity intimate moments within the company of his parents to keep up the facade, it’s different when no one is watching the pair of you, when there’s no expectation—and somehow that makes Jungkook more nervous than ever before. 

 “It is.” He elects to momentarily play along, distracting himself by opening his laptop and rummaging around for the file he’s looking for. “This is pretty life or death.” 

Your eyes widen slightly, taking his banters under a serious context—as always, an endearing quality about you that makes the smile want to spread itself wildly across your lips. “Is it really?”

Without a warning, he pokes your cheek. “Of course not, you moron. Would I really be this casual if the situation was that serious?” 

You furrow your eyebrows, lips pressing together, cheeks feeling as if it’s been set aflame. “I don’t know!” You retort. “You can be very calm under pressure sometimes!” 

For a moment, Jungkook cannot say anything, too caught up in his small fit of laughter over your protest. “You’re so cute,” He says without thinking, immediately halting his light-hearted giggles as the smile diffuses quickly from his face as he tears his gaze from you to the computer screen once again. 

Why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to speak such words without thought, even though he’s the one who put himself in this situation and knew more than anyone that it was important to separate emotions from objectivity. His mind is reeling, unable to think of anything other than the fact that he’s always been an open book, and if you were having doubts before about his feelings before then you would certainly know by now, there’s no way you couldn’t know at this point. 

But you don’t say anything. Not at first, anyways. Then, you pout. “Since this isn’t a life or death situation, what’s going on?” 

He doesn’t know how to feel about you brushing over the previous topic, but he decides, in this moment, to be thankful for it instead. He’s not sure he can handle you confronting him right now, especially when he has something important to ask of you. 

Which reminds him… 

“Oh, right,” He says, smiling softly to himself as he opens the file of his choosing, followed by making a grab for his headphones. “Well, remember when you encouraged me to get that composing software?” 

Your pout and the tension from his previous observation fades away as you look at him, lips twisting as if you don’t know what to make of his statement quite yet. “Yeah, I do,” You reply. “Why?” The corners quirk up. “Did you get it?” 

“I may have,” He answers, smile growing bashful when you grin and start clapping your hands together softly. “And I used it to record a cover.” 

“Jungkook!” You exclaim. “That’s so awesome.” 

He swallows thickly, looking down, looking over at you. “Would you like to listen to it?” 

“Of course,” You reply, taking the headphones that Jungkook offers to you. You have to move closer to him to avoid stretching the cord out too far, which immediately allows him to feel your body heat. He barely manages to talk himself out of tensing at the gesture, but you don’t seem to notice as you seem too fixated on readjusting the headphones so they are snug against your ears. “I’m ready,” You say, a little louder than necessary, but that only makes Jungkook exhale quietly through his nose in the form of laughter before he’s hunching over and clicking the play button on the program. 

At first, there is only silence, before some of the music from his cover start blasting out from beyond the headphones, meaning that you have turned the volume up incredibly high to hear every single detail he’s put into the track. Every breath, every curve and inclination of his voice, every key from the piano or every move of a string. He watches with bated breath as you listen with bated breath. 

He takes in the furrow of eyebrows that you’ve developed to signal the level of concentration you’ve put into making sure that you could really listen to his song. He takes in the way your lips have curled up into the softest of smiles at the sound of his voice, and he can feel his previous nerves disappearing at the sight of you enjoying yourself so much. 

He sees the fondness touching along your features, and can’t help but wonder how much different things would be in his life had you not decided to accept his plea for a fake girlfriend, had you not decided to indulge within your curious state of mind for him, had you not grown determined to dig through the realms of his past and his interests. Maybe he wouldn’t be feeling this way about you, but maybe certain passions would never have been uncovered, maybe his life would never have been the same. 

You start lightly humming to the track of his song, your voice barely above a whisper, something you probably don’t even realize you’re doing, but he sees it, and he feels it—his heart swelling, his eyes fixated across your features. You care so much, you care so deeply and so powerfully and you genuinely want to help Jungkook out in any way that you possibly can. You’re his friend, but you’re more than that. On the days his parents drop by into the city, you’re the one by his side, you’re the one running your hands through his hair, the one gazing into his eyes, and even though nothing about your relationship is real—it feels real and hopeful and influential. There’s no real title, but real feelings that are like warmth rushing through his body, his mind, lighting all the nerves from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” He says, barely above a whisper, watching the way you watch his work, his passion, his dreams come to live through the wire. He pauses. “And I’m terrified.” 

You don’t hear him over the ringing of his own voice in your ears, but you see the movement of his mouth out of the corner of your eyes. You turn towards him, lifting one side of the headphones up to address him. “Did you say something?” 

He straightens slightly, watching the same way you’re watching him, your eyes big and wide and curious and his own holding the truth neither of you were ready to face yet. 

That fear keeps him grounded, keeps him from saying too much, keeps him from spilling the truth of his feelings down across the bed on this Thursday evening. You expected just a typical friendly favor, not a confession. It doesn’t feel right, it feels far from such, and he would never want to lay anything emotional upon you just for his sake. 

So his lips remain shut, hoping that there will be a moment, and hoping that it will be alright. 

“No, I didn’t.”