#he is too precious for this world cause even in the midst of long hour schedules in the middle of the night he wanted to spend time

[hyunpic]

hyunjin singing wa-r-r by colde, ice.cream by hyunjin, traitor by olivia rodrigo

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.  

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

 All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

 A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

 “At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

��I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

[oathofpromises]

“You're mine and I'm yours. It's written in the stars.” — Exarch to Lady Exarch

Entangled in a cosmic dance of destiny, their fated encounter was inevitable, written in the stars themselves. No matter what form they took, their souls would forever be intertwined. Yearning and longing to be reunited once again. They always found a way back to each other, even if that meant defying fate itself. Yet, not all things can go so smoothly. The Lady Exarxh winced, as her headaches were getting increasingly worse with each passing day. There were times she could barely move much and hardly keep any food down. Normally, she would've been up spending time with the Exarch and Lyna, but she felt fatigued suddenly.

It had been only a few weeks since the day she had taken in so much primordial light. The radiance burning inside was too much for any one soul to bear alone. It was a rash decision, one that she hadn't taken lightly but knew would end up hurting the man she loved most and their daughter. It was her plan to defeat as many lightwardens as she could and take the light with her to her death. Thus weakening the hold the monsters possessed over the land, yet there still remained one in each of the different areas.

The Exarch had refused to let her go; the tears he had shed that day and those many days after caused the woman's heart to ache. He knew their time remaining was more limited than it was going to be before. Even though their bodies were connected to the tower, their time was still reliant on it to remain alive. Although, as centuries passed, their bodies slowly became consumed by crystal, the Exarch’s more so considering he had Allagan blood flowing through his veins.

'I refuse to live in a world where you don't exist.'

Her slender waist was encircled by strong, yet tender arms, pulling her closer into a warm embrace. The touch of soft, velvety lips against the delicate skin of her neck sparked a fire within her, causing her heart to flutter. Her soft lips curved into a gentle smile, as she graceful turned, her eyes met those of the Exarch, and in that fleeting moment, the world around them seemed to fade into insignificance. The hood that had concealed his face was now cast aside, revealing his face. It was a sight reserved solely for her, a privilege bestowed upon her alone. She found herself entranced by the sheer beauty that lay within those crimson eyes. The very one that always stirred her soul.

Their lips, devoid of words, hungered for each other, their desires intertwining in a passionate dance. The rustling of their clothes, like a symphony of anticipation, was effortlessly discarded, falling to the ground as if surrendering to the fervor that consumed them. In the midst of their chaotic lives, finding moments of intimate connection had become a precious rarity for them. The weight of responsibilities and the demands of their respective roles often kept them apart. However, in recent days, the Exarch had made a deliberate effort to carve out time, solely dedicated to lavishing her with an abundance of love and unwavering devotion.

Hours later, the two lay tangled in each other as Lady Exarch's head rested against the Exarch's bare chest. The cold of crystal and the warmth of his skin against her own a comfort. Lips pressed gently against her forehead as she felt his hand pull her closer against his body. It wasn't as if they could get any closer than they were right now, but it was cute that he still tried.

"That is one way to greet your wife," laughed the Lady Exarch as she felt his fingers slowly run through her long pink hair. He always loved playing with her hair, whether it was simply caressing his fingers through it or even putting it into a braid.

'Well, when my wife is beyond gorgerous, it's hard to resist. You are such a teasing sometimes, you know.' whispered the Exarch as he cupped her face, thumbing gently at the freckles across her skin. The two smiled softly before their lips met together again, this time more gently.

"I missed you. Sorry about missing dinner. I hope Lyna and you liked what I cooked," whispered Stella as her finger traced patterns across his chest. It was rare that she got to see all of him like this; he tended to keep his robe on around others. He had said it was to prevent the city from seeing how far the crystal had progressed throughout his body, but the Lady Exarch knew it was partly because he was afraid to show such a side to him. Ever since the crystal started to form on his body, he tended to stay mostly in his tower, aside from his daily walks throughout the city or spending time with her or Lyna.

'You know I love anything you cook..the fact you still try even though you're in pain daily now...'

The Lady Exarch slowly sat up as she straddled the Exarch, reaching down and pressing her lips against his again. Their hands intertwined before they parted, and their breath slightly labored.

"Raha...I love you. That has always been the sole truth. If there was another way to have helped this shard, I would've gladly taken it. The last thing I want to do is leave you and Lyna," whispered the Lady Exarch as she glanced to the side. A soft gasp emitted from her lips as the Exarch flipped so she was beneath him.

'Stella... You're mine, and I'm yours. It's written in the stars. It has been since the moment we met. It breaks my heart that we are going to be torn apart, but I believe we will meet again. Our love has defied fate before, and it will again. You are my star, and I refuse to live in a world where you don't exist. You are always you, no matter the form you take.'

Tears started to prickle at her eyes as she raised her arm to cover her eyes. A soft sob escaped her lips as the Exarch gently pulled her arm down.

'You are beautiful—my one and only. The woman that won my heart so effortlessly... I have loved you since the day we first met. At first, it was adoration, but that turned into something so much more.'

"Raha... I have always been yours... I would do anything to remain by your side," whispered the Lady Exarch as she reached up and cupped his face. His red hair was out of the braid, and she smiled at how gorgerous he still was. He had never been anything but the man that she would travel across time and space to be with and she truly had done just that. She gave up her Warrior of Light title, sealed herself inside the two and woke to a land on the brink of oblivion.

You are my destiny. I will always choose you in any form and lifetime.

[erodasfishtacos]

Can I request a prompt of dad!Harry where maybe it’s just him And Sasha and they get mobbed and her slightly hurt but he is furious

JUST A LESSON

word count: 5k+ (how'd i write this in one day)

warnings: language, smut, blood, minor injuries

- If you'd like more from dad!harry verse - check out my masterlist! (pinned post)

- PLEASE NOTE: DAD!HARRY & CEO!HARRY ARE TWO DIFFERENT TROPES.

*** <- click for visuals throughout the story!

---

Harry was quite stressed out. He wasn’t sure how his wife did it all the time. She was constantly packing up Sasha and toting her around the globe to meet up with him for concerts and events when he was away.

The little family had been staying in their Los Angeles home for nearly three months now as Harry had been writing for his third solo album. It involved a lot of late nights were Y/N were putting Sasha to bed by herself.

Harry was eternally grateful that she was so patient and understanding when he snuck into bed quarter past three after finding a rift that fit a new song perfectly or when Mitch had an idea that had Harry on Skype for hours with him.

The stress was overwhelming for her though. She was usually good at self-care and taking time for herself but Sasha had been so needy lately and crabby when her father wasn’t at her beck and call.

The toddler was going through a bout where she struggled to sleep through the night and had a tendency to scream bloody murder when she didn’t get her way.

It was nearly three weeks of this and she hadn’t mentioned it too much to Harry because she didn’t want him to be as stressed out as she was.

Tonight, Y/N had rocked, sang, hummed, and read to her daughter to stop the angry tears that were rolling down her cheeks but nothing was working. It was near eleven at night and she had took Sasha out in the car for a long ride where she finally fell asleep.

But as soon as Y/N unlocked the front door, she startled awake even angrier than before, squirming out her mother’s grip and bolting through the house. When she tried to round a corner, she slipped on her bum.

Y/N felt her anxiety level break.

Sasha began screaming once again, “Mummy! No! No!”

When Y/N picked her up after her slight tumble, she was absolutely not hurt but had become even more frustrated. Y/N was starting to feel overwhelmed - which didn’t happen often.

“Baby, what do you want? What can mummy do?” Y/N asks with desperation, searching her baby’s watery green eyes. She looked so much like her dad it was absurd.

“No! Down! Stop!” The two year old orders with a furrowed brow, lips in a tight line with her nose scrunched up in displeasure.

“Sasha, you just hurt yourself. You can’t run in the house, the floor is slippery,” Y/N tells her firmly despite it falling upon deaf ears.

“Bad mummy,” Sasha shrieks, “Daddy! Want Daddy! Now!”

Y/N is embarrassed to admit that she has tears welling up in her eyes. She was trying everything in her power to soothe her baby. It’s midnight at this point and she’d been at it since seven this morning.

Sasha had refused a nap all day - giving Y/N no respite at all. Harry had left at eight in the morning and hadn’t returned yet. Even though Sasha was only two and a half, Y/N felt a pang at the words ‘bad mummy.’

She didn’t feel any other option at this point than to call Harry for help. She wanted to be capable of being at stay home mum but sometimes it was really fucking hard but she felt guilty because she should be able to do this. Harry was out there working hard, providing, constantly.

When he doesn’t answer, the tears freely start streaming down her face in silence. She scrubs at them quickly so that her daughter doesn’t see them but it’s hard to catch them all - sobs threatening to bubble through her lips.

“Daddy’s working, we need to go to sleep,” Y/N replies to her daughter, jaw clenched to hold back the upset she feels. She needs a minute alone but she doubts her toddler will let her.

“Pool?” Sasha piques, “Swim?”

Y/N wants to laugh, it’s so fucking late and Sasha should have been in bed nearly four hours ago. The mother was so beyond her routine at this point, that she actually just gave in to her daughter.

Sasha’s mood turns around when Y/N wrangles them both into their swimsuits ***and trails out of the back patio, switching on all the lights around as well as in the pool. The California air was still extremely warm, enough to cause a sweat. ***

She tugs a little donut raft into the pool with them that Sasha can float around on while Y/N guides it to keep her safe. She was so tired by this point that her bones felt like they weighed a million pounds.

Sasha’s eyes droop until they finally flutter close within minutes of being in the warm water. Her eyelids splotchy pink from all of the fits and tears from the day. And when she is completely asleep, Y/N lets herself cry as she continues to float the baby around the pool to keep her asleep.

She hasn’t been doing it for more than ten minutes when the patio door opens and Harry is stepping into the back with a confused expression that she can’t see because her back is turned to him.

“Love, why are you in the pool? S’late,” Harry asks softly but he doesn’t get an answer, so he’s slipping out of his plain tee and striped pants, dirty vans kicked to the side ***.

Just in his briefs, he quietly enters the pool to not disrupt the ebb and flow of the water. When he makes his way over to her, he slides in front of his wife, alarmed at the exhausted, tearful expression on her face.

“Baby, what’s happened? Talk t’me,” Harry whispers, hands coming to cup his wife’s face in between his large hands. Rings cold against her hot, wet cheeks. He looks to his sleeping daughter, running his eyes over her a few times and decides she seems completely okay.

“M’fine,” Y/N chokes out but the lie causes a fresh wave of tears.

Harry frowns, “Don’t lie to me, pet. Please, don’t shut me out. M’always here for you.”

“I’m a bad mum,” She sobs silently, her eyes closing as she leans into his palms before moving to rest her head heavily on the crook of his tattooed shoulder, his chest damp from the salty tears.

“Wha-What’s brought this on? Y’the best mum in the world, best wife in the world. The best at everythin’, why are you doubtin’ that, my heart?” Harry murmurs, taking over the rocking motions of Sasha’s raft.

“She wouldn’t settle today, Harry. Like at all, refusing to nap, eat any healthy food, or bathe. She screamed at me the whole day no matter what I did and then she told me I was bad and she wanted you.”

“Love, she’s in the midst of her terrible twos. She loves you more than anythin’ on this earth. Y’her mummy and a damn good one at that. Why didn’t y’call me? I’d come home, work is never more important than our family.”

Y/N doesn’t bring up the fact she did try to call, “I need to be able to do this myself, Harry. M’a stay at home mum, taking care of Sash is literally my only job and I can’t even do that.”

Harry’s face hardens but he tries to not take it personally, knowing his wife is just upset with herself, “That’s not fair to me, dove. M’her daddy, she’s half mine too. She’s just as much of my responsibility as yours, no matter what my job is.”

“I don’t want to stress you out more than necessary,” Y/N mutters into his skin.

“Me coming home to my wife in tears and my baby in the pool at midnight is more stressful than you ringin’ me to come home,” Harry tells her, smearing a few kisses to the top of her hair.

“I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m just tired.”

Harry pulls her back so he can look her in the eyes, “Never apologize for somethin’ like that. Go get a bath and let me put the bub to sleep, okay? I love y’mumma.”

--

Harry calls his mum the next morning while Y/N is out getting a manicure with Glenne. He’d called her favorite salon earlier in the day, coercing them into opening a spot for her with a monetary bribe.

Y/N had hesitated at the door as Sasha threw a fit at her mother leaving the house. She clung onto her calf until Harry had to physically pull her off and hold her tightly in his arms.

Currently, Sasha was playing with a set of dolls on the floor of her bedroom as Harry sat next to her. She’d originally been happy with the presence of her father until he told her he needed to make a phone call.

Harry had to be stern with her when she went to grab at the phone pressed to his ear, gently gripping her wrist and frowning, “We don’t do that, s’not nice.”

Sasha had attempted to grab at it again and managed to tangle Harry’s long locks into his fist, tugging at them. Harry unraveled the small fingers before telling his daughter, “If you do that one more time, y’going on the step for two minutes.”

The threat had her pouting harshly but turning back to her toys to occupy herself, sighing when his mum finally answered the phone, “Hi darling.”

“Hi mum, you alright?” Harry asks, relaxing at the sound of his mother’s melodic voice.

“I’m perfect, you don’t sound okay, dear,” Anne replies with a concerned twinge.

Harry didn’t call much to complain, didn’t like worrying her and most of the time Y/N was able to provide the support he needed or Jeff.

“Y/N’s really overwhelmed,” Harry tells her before choking up a bit, “And I don’t know what to do mum, I feel like m’bein’ a bad husband. Came home to her crying last night and she feels like she’s a bad mum.”

When Sasha hears her father’s voice crack, she looks up at him curiously before recognizing that he’s upset. She crawls into his lap, fitting herself against his chest before playing with a doll there. Comforting him.

Harry wraps his free arm around her, pulling her as close as possible. His precious little baby. A little blessing as sweet as her mother.

“Oh honey, that happens. Mums, good mums especially are so critical when they don’t need to be. Baby’s are overwhelming, plus I know she’s been alone a lot with her. But you’re not a bad husband, dear.”

“It feels like it,” Harry sniffles, burying his face in his daughter’s lavender-scented curls from her bath earlier.

“If you were, you wouldn’t be calling,” Anne chuckles at her son, “Now how can we make this situation better?”

-

The phone call helped Harry not feel so hopeless in helping his wife. He’d come up with the plan to fly to England with Sasha so that Anne could see her but Y/N could have some alone time for a long weekend.

When Y/N enters the front door after her appointment, she’s met by a very excited little human who rushes to her mother and demands to be picked up. Of course, Y/N obliges, looking a bit more refreshed and awake as she tucks the baby against her hip.

Harry had ordered their favorite salads from a shop in the city and had it ready for her, “Oh, looks delicious. Thank you, H,” She smiles at him, leaning to give his stubbly cheek a kiss.

As they dig in, Y/N feeding bits of chicken and veggies to her daughter as they eat, Harry clears his throat, “I’m taking Sash to Holmes Chapel for the long weekend to see my mum.”

Y/N smiles, “That sounds great!”

Harry gives her a perplexed look, he’d thought she’d put up a fight. She despised being away from Sasha - couldn’t go a day without seeing her daughter.

“Really?” Her husband asks, putting down his fork.

“Mhm, I just have to pack a bag for Sash and I. When are we leaving?” Y/N replies eagerly, ready to go back home and get away from California for a bit.

Harry’s stomach clenches, “Erm, I meant just me and the baba? I thought you could stay here and relax for a weekend. Sleep, hang out, shop.”

Y/N’s face falls and is replaced with a devastated look, “You don’t think I’m being a good mum.”

Harry backpedals, realizing he shouldn’t have approached it in the lax way he did.

“No, no, of course not, baby. I think you’re such a good mum that you need a break. You never get breaks, m’the one who always does. S’not fair to you. I just need you to have some time to take care of yourself,” Harry explains, his heart shattering a bit at the tears brimming again.

“I don’t want a break, don’t leave me here,” Y/N begs, tucking a piece of tomato in her daughter’s expectant mouth before Sasha chews and smiles at her mother.

“Mummy, more please?” Sasha chirps, her mood a little bit brighter than it had been the last few days.

“Thank you for using your manners, here baby,” Her mother responds, popping another into her mouth after she sliced it in half.

“Did you book a commercial flight?” She asks her husband with an angry tone.

“No, private but we have to catch it at LAX,” Harry explains, the private airport they usually fly out of was filled to capacity at the moment.

“Either I’m coming or you’re going alone. You’re not taking Sasha without me,” Y/N replies firmly. She stands up and shuffles Sasha into his lap before leaving the room without another word.

Harry didn’t expect that. He should have thought it through more. If Y/N wanted to come, of course she could, but he’d never meant to offend her or act like he was taking Sasha away from her.

--

Harry had attempted to reason his way out of going to the studio with Jeff today. However, with the final cuts and adjustments were being made - he was quickly turned down and demanded in the studio.

When he’d trailed into the quiet house that night, relieved to find his baby in her crib instead of the pool, he went to his bedroom where the lights were still on.

The closet doors were open and Y/N was on the ground folding and sorting Sasha’s clothes before placing them in her suitcase. ***

Y/N’s suitcase already laying zipped and ready to go by the entrance of the closet. Her toiletry bag was placed neatly on top of it. Then his heart pings a bit when he sees that she’s already packed up his suitcase as well.

Harry pads over to his wife, plopping down behind her and tugging her back into him - long arms wrapping around her upper chest.

“Missed you, mumma.”

She hums, “I missed you too. Miss you always.”

“Y’the love of my life, y’know that?” Harry asks, kissing the back of her neck.

“I better be or you married the wrong person,” Y/N laughs softly, her tone still off but lighter than before.

“Married the right person, knocked up the right person.”

Y/N barks out a laugh, rolling her eyes, “How romantic.”

“Baby, y’know what I’m getting at. You’re the best mum and wife. I just wanted you to have a few days to yourself. To lower your stress level and let you do some self-care,” Harry murmurs, pushing the baby clothes out of her hands.

“But your mum can watch her for a bit while we’re there, right? I don’t want alone time, I need the exact opposite. I need company,” She tells him, twisting herself until she’s seated in his lap - straddling him.

“Mmm, can definitely have some alone time,” Harry agrees instantly, his mouth finding her throat - beginning to lay a path of wet, hot kisses down the column down to her collarbones.

“H, I have t’pack, we’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Y/N weakly argues but can’t help but bear down against her husband when she feels him harden in his loose pants quickly.

“S’just a quickie? Yeah, pet? Lemme fuck you,” Harry’s hands dragging the shirt she’s wearing up and over her head. Eyes lighting up boyishly when he realizes she didn’t have a bra on.

She can’t argue as he darts down to wrap his lips around her pert bud, sucking between long swipes of his tongue - just how she liked it. “Missed y’body so much,” Harry states against her heated skin.

“Just had me two days ago,” Y/N laughs but it cuts off into a moan when his hand slides into her pajama shorts and finds her clit over her thin underwear.

“Never enough,” Harry replies easily, “Remember the song I wrote f’you?”

Y/N snarkily asks, “Which one? Nearly all your songs are about me.”

And well...Harry can’t even argue how true her statement is. “The one titled ‘Never Enough’, pet? Remember?”

Before she can speak, he lowly croons out the chorus of the song he wrote for One Direction years ago, “Lips so good I forget my name. I swear I would give you everything. It’s never enough, never enough.”

Harry knows his sweet as syrup singing gets her immensely turned on and so he’s not surprised when she whimpers against his lips, “Fuck me, c’mon.”

He’s delighted at his wife’s pleas and quickly moves them, leaning forward with her until she’s on her back on the ground of their walk-in closet. He accidentally kicks over a pile of Sasha’s dresses but neither even notice.

There is no time wasted as Harry removed every single article from Y/N’s body quickly as well as his own. He’s leaning forward to suck a few more kisses to her chest as his fingers slip down to crook right up into her hot center.

“No teasing,” Y/N complains, wrapping hands around his biceps and bringing him on top of her more fully. She’s squeezing around his two fingers with need, it has him groaning when he brings them up and sucks them between his pouty lips.

Then she’s not waiting any longer, reaching down and grabbing a hold of his thick length. Harry lets out rumble from his chest at the contact before she’s guiding him into her without any further ado.

“Baby,” Harry chastises as soon as she starts goading him into thrusts with her feet against him bum, pushing him into her harder than he’d usually start, “Y’squeezin’ me s’tight, you missed me too?”

Y/N nods, whining every time he pushes against her spot and sends a zip of arousal through her body. His trimmed hair around his base brushing against her clit causing delicious friction for her.

“No, y’need to tell me,” Harry huffs, hand gripping her jaw harsher than he would if they were having slow, intimate sex. He knew she loved it by the way her eyes twinkle with stubbornness.

“No,” She replies coyly, heels of her feet pressing hard against him to the point it itches with a slight pain. Harry loved his wife so much it was looney.

“It’s fine, don’t need y’to come for me to get off, dove,” Harry replies simply, speeding up his thrusts with his hand holding her jaw for him to press bruising kisses against. His teeth are coming to pull her bottom lip in between.

Something switches in her demeanor though without warning, her voice softer and pliant, “Tell me you love me.”

It has Harry slowing down his hips until he’s rocking deeper into her, going down on his elbows so their noses are bumping. He releases the grip of her chin and instead moves to her bum to encourage her to meet him halfway.

“I love you, s’much it hurts most days,” Harry replies obediently, knowing what his wife needed at that moment. Reassurance. “Most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, then you made us a perfect little baby.”

She’s looking up at him with loving, grateful eyes, landing a gentle peck to his upper lip and letting her head fall back onto the floor. This is what she needed right now from her husband and he was so good at providing.

“Breaks my heart when y’don’t think your a good mum or wife. ‘Cause you’re everythin’ I ever wanted. Why’d you think I write every song about you, lovie? S’cause you’re my soulmate.”

“H,” She whimpers, emotion thick in her throat as she meets his eyes, “I love you so much. You’re the best husband and dad ever.”

“Baby,” Harry murmurs into her cheek, picking up speed as she starts to clench around him in a warning of her oncoming orgasm. He slips his hand down to press a few light rubs to her clit before she’s arching her back and moaning with pleasure.

“You look s’good, coming ‘round my cock,” Harry tells her, helping her ride through it before hitching her hips up even further and thrusting harshly until his hips stutter and he’s coming as well.

“Harry,” Y/N sighs, her breathing coming back to normal as she roams a hand down his shoulders and back - scratching lightly.

“Hmm, dove? Y’want my cock again? Need a few,” He replies into her neck, ever the teenage boy.

She giggles, “No, we have to catch a flight at eight in the morning and it’s currently four-thirty.”

Harry grunts before pulling out and sitting up, “Y’better have packed my favorite pajama pants or I’m goin’ to be cross with you.”

--

Y/N now regrets the second round of fun as soon as their alarm goes off. Her body sore from the position he’d twisted her into against the shower wall after they packed the rest of Sasha necessities.

They were nearly at the airport with Sasha nodding back off in the carseat. She was excited to see her Nana and Aunt Gemma once again.

Their daughter was in the cutest, comfiest jumpsuit with comic hearts all over it *** and adorable little sock sneakers*** that slide right on and off her feet.

Harry had chucked on black sunglasses, a black jumper with green lettering, black joggers, and blue checkered van with white socks. He was attempting to fly under the radar as much as possible because he knew paparazzi just sit outside the entrances to spot celebrities. ***

It was annoying but he could deal with it when he was mobbed at the airport when he was by himself. But when it was with his wife and baby - he couldn’t stomach it. It’s part of the reason they fly private from a private port.

When they pull up to the curb, a staff member is waiting for them and helps Harry as well as the driver put his luggage on a cart to be brought to the awaiting jet.

Y/N unbuckles the baby who is awake now but bleary-eyed as she’s sitting on the curve of her mother’s hip.

And well - that’s when the madness begins. A pap spots them within seconds of exiting the car and is pulling up his camera for the first shots, the other photographers sitting around follow suit.

As soon as one of them screams, “Harry Styles - look this way!” The jam packed area looks towards them, seeming fans of his start murmuring before following behind the paparazzi pulling their phones out.

Y/N is used to the crowds by now - but just like Harry, not with Sasha around. They tried to avoid situations like this as much as possible. The lights and loud noises were scary to the little girl.

“Mummy,” Sasha whines, picking her head up from her mother’s shoulder to stare wide-eyed at the gathering in front of them.

Harry started to feel anxiety because this was becoming a massive crowd - scratch that, it wasn’t a crowd it was a fucking mob of people. They were all too close, blinding the family with their flashes despite security attempting to push them back.

Fans were shoving and thrusting their phones in Harry’s face, shoving random things for him to sign in front of him. Paparazzi were screaming questions and taking thousands of pictures in a minute’s time.

Harry grabs onto Y/N’s hand tightly, their diaper bag on Harry’s shoulder, and begins to attempt to guide them through the swarm. It was like trying to move through cement, the crowd not budging despite security’s screams.

Sasha is full blown crying at this point into her mother’s neck. Y/N’s hand cupping the back of her head to keep her head down and out of the photographs - holding her as tightly as possible.

Y/N can hear Harry began to curse - signaling that he’s becoming stressed out because he would usually never be rude to the public despite their actions. But he couldn’t give a fuck when it came to his family.

“Move out of the way.”

“D’you not see I have a fuckin’ baby?”

“Get those fuckin’ cameras out of their faces.”

“Back the fuck away from my wife and baby.”

Then Y/N is being shoved by a teenage girl who trips when she thrusts her arm towards Harry. She tumbles into Y/N with her full weight and Y/N’s loses her footing, falling forward - letting go of Harry’s hand.

When she falls, she manages to catch herself with the arm that’s not holding her daughter. But she feels pain in her knees and Sasha emits a sharp wail that alerts Y/N her daughter is hurt.

“Sash, fuck,” Y/N gasps, her motherly instincts automatically kicking in and she’s cradling her daughter as tightly to her chest as she can, shielding her from the swarm who had quieted only a bit.

It must take Harry a second to realize that something had happened, he turns around - eyes frantic as he absolutely roars, “Back the fuck up! I’ll fuckin’ break each and everyone of your cameras! Fucking leeches.”

With that, he’s helping to pull you up and grasping at the two, “Are you okay? Wha’s hurt?”

Y/N just shakes her head, having a panic attack as she shuffles the crying baby into his arms. “Please, just...Sasha. I think she hurt her arm when I fell.”

“Daddy, ouch,” Sasha shrieks loudly into his sweatshirt as he hikes her up onto his chest, her little legs wrapped around his midsection.

“Ssh, y’okay,” Harry tries to reassure her, matching his wife’s panic.

The crowd seems to give way now, the parents rushing their daughter into the airport.

Employees guide them to the medical office on-site where it’s now silent and calm but the family feels anything but.

Sasha’s sobs have turned into moans and whimpers at this point - but come back with a vengeance when Harry has to set her on the exam table and wrestle her out of her clothes until she’s just sat in her diaper.

The nurse was so amazing and kind. She checked Sasha thoroughly for any signs of trauma or broken bones but luckily, it was just a nasty scrape on her forearm that was hurting her. It wasn’t anything serious.

The parents had such concern for their daughter that Y/N didn’t even realize she had bled through her white joggers at the knees ***. The nurse frowns, “Honey, you’re still bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” She insisted even though her knees were aching.

“I’d like to examine your legs, dear,” The nurse tells her sternly, signaling that Harry can dress Sasha again.

He’s digging into the diaper bag for a spare out that they were always ready with. She was calming even more when Harry dressed her in a comfy pink set of clothes with little deer on them. ***

“Love, please let her,” Harry asks softly, pulling Sasha back onto his chest. Her thumb tucked into her mouth and her father hands her a plushie that Y/N had shoved in the bag last minute.

Y/N obliges with the pressure, wiggling the loose fabric down her legs until she’s just in her underwear and shirt - sits up on the table with her knees off to the side for her to examine.

Harry grimaces when he sees the multiple cuts and scrapes tainting her skin. A few slow trickles of blood still oozing from the gashes. The skin is already slowly covering purple and blue with bruises.

The nurse cleans her up, Y/N wincing when the alcohol brushes the cuts but Sasha is smiling again like nothing ever happened and cooing at her mum. It makes them both feel a lot better.

--

When they’re finally on the private jet, up high into the clouds away from the crowds and paparazzi - it feels like relief. ***

They had tucked their daughter onto the couch with her favorite fuzzy blanket and she’s asleep nearly as soon as her head hits the pillow.

They trail back into the other part of the cabin so that they don’t disturb her, cuddling up on the couch together.

“M’so sorry, I’m such a bad fa-”

Y/N cuts him off before he begins, “If I’m not allowed to be a bad mum - you’re not allowed to be a bad father. It wasn’t y’fault that happened - it’s those careless, crazed people who have nothing better to do.”

Y/N was always the voice of reason in Harry’s head when he started to spiral.

Spiral because his fame was so overwhelming and got his family into difficult situations sometimes. She brought him back to reality.

“Hey, we’re both okay. Just a few scrapes. It was just a lesson, Harry. We just need to be safer and plan better, alright?” Y/N assures him softly, kissing under his chin before resting back - ready to sleep.

“Y’the best. Best mum, best wife,” Harry tells her, encompassing her in his loving hold.

let me know your thoughts bub

come talk to me <3

[rose-edith]

(8) Getting the call to say that Sybil has died in childbirth would include:

(Crawley!Reader x Tommy Shelby. Peaky Blinders x Downton Abbey: Crossover.)

•when the phone started ringing in the middle of the night you instinctively knew it couldn’t be good news. And when you answered it and heard Mary on the other end…your worst fears were confirmed.

•Tommy lingered by the doorway, he’d gotten out of bed when you had done. He wasn’t silly, he knew it couldn’t be good news if a call came in the wee hours.

•and when you seem to crumble, dropping the receiver he’s quick to catch it. He speaks to Mary, who in turn has to hand the phone to Matthew and he tells Tommy the bad news.

•he hangs up the phone and keeps a firm grip around your waist. You’re sobbing, a crying wreck and it breaks Tommy’s heart! He carries you back to bed and holds you tight in his arms, he even cries himself. Sybil was a pure soul, a gentlewoman, she had been family…and now…

•your mind went back to Pol’s weird behaviour around Sybil, how she had pandered a lot to her, warned her to rest and tried to encourage her to stay. Had she foreseen this? The thought made you cry harder, had Sybil’s death been preventable?

•and this tragedy of the death of your most beautiful, most kind sister was tinged so slightly with a little relief of the arrival of a baby girl. Poor child, motherless from day one.

•Tommy held you tight all night long and when his brothers came knocking the next day he sent them away to keep the business running. But he stayed with you.

•Pol came the next day and helped you to pack up a case so you could go to Downton to be with your family, to say farewell to your sister. And Tommy came too.

•Pol felt incredibly sad when she heard the news, but since Sybil left she had sort of been expecting it. And when she saw how devastated you were, how your eyes had gone dull, your cheeks colourless her heart broke too. There’s an old gypsy belief about causing souls to be stuck in suffering in this world if they’re mourned too much, and Pol made a mental note to make sure your grief wouldn’t trap Sybil, she and you deserved better than that.

•it felt horrible when you arrived at Downton. Everyone was cast in black mourning clothes, Papa was stoic, though so evidently sad…and Mama, she was broken.

•even in the midst of your grief you could see the rift that Sybil’s death had caused between them. Less of a rift, and more of a chasm. They weren’t doing well.

•you almost crumbled when you held your precious niece for the first time. She was strong and healthy, but as you held her her face became covered with your tears. A tiny little life had begun with such sorrow. It felt criminal.

•and then there was poor Tom. Marooned at Downton with a newborn babe and no wife. How yours and Tommy’s hearts went out to him! Tommy did his best to support Tom, being someone to talk to, someone to cry to. You didn’t ask what happened during the hours they spent locked away together in the nursery with baby Sybbie. You didn’t feel it was your place to know. But when Tommy almost broke into tears that night in your shared bed you held him, you held him and listened.

•the funeral felt horrible. All your mind kept screaming was ‘How could Sybil, that great force of nature and strength and determination, be in that coffin?’ You wouldn’t have survived the service and then the wake back at the house without Tommy by your side. He stayed close to you at all times, he had a hand on your waist, or holding yours, he seemed to have hundreds of handkerchiefs ready to give you when you kept losing yours. And when inevitably your eyes filled with tears or your lips started to tremble, he pulled you into a tight, warm hug.

•grief is a curious thing. The stages sometimes blend and meld into one, or sometimes they flip and change with the rolling of a sentence. All you know is that Tommy was a Godsend. He took the very best care of you, and you could feel that you’d be ok in the end, if he’d just keep holding you. So you clung to one another, it’s all you could do.

[fire-emblem-drabbles]

Precious Time and Little Lies

Pairing: yandere Xander x reader

Description: Once, when he was a different man, you had loved him. But now, Xander was a manipulative, terrifying monster of his former self, one you had no qualms running away from when the time came. However, you doubted how much he adored you-- and the atrocities he would commit to getting you back by his side.

Rating: sfw

Word Count:

Content Warnings: general yandere behavior, emotional manipulations, mentions of blood

Notes: Another commission for the ever so lovely @modern-zervis-lovemail! In addition, a friends helped me beta this one too, so thank you to @khaenruin for helping me figure this hot mess out. Also would you believe me if I told you I was listening to Kakusei from Promare the entire 5ish hours in total it took me to write this? Because why would I lie about that...

~*~

Today shouldn’t be a day spent on the battlefield. But fate had other plans for you, devious ones that wouldn’t be undone so easily. How long had you been running, escaping his grasp only to find yourself in the midst of his bloody desires? Xander may not be king of Nohr yet but defying still met certain death; or, it would have, had the crown prince of Nohr not held an unhealthy obsession for you…

In better times, kinder, gentler ones, you might have relished in his affection, may have even returned it and been something… more with him. But there was no going back on this choice. Not after you had seen the lengths he would go through for you… that he still continues to do. You can’t think about the lives tolling up in your wake because of him-- that’s just what he wants, for you to think this was all your fault, to break down and lean to him for support. To trap you in his grasp and cradle you there, coddling you and fooling you into thinking he wasn’t a monster with his sweet smiles… You wouldn’t fall for it any more.

Today was the Day of Devotion. You knew, he would be more motivated than ever to find you. You could hear his words now, feel them plaguing your very skull; how sweet it would be, to be reunited on the Day of Devotion. It was sickening. But you had to had to remain strong, Graciously, the Hoshidian’s had allowed you refuge in their country, even letting you travel with their army for a short amount of time to Cyrkensia, where you would hopefully be able to flee the continent altogether, right under Xander’s nose no less. Azura’s performance would be the perfect distraction for you. The fight that would inevitable follow was merely a bonus.

“I can’t thank you enough for allowing me to travel with you this far.” You turn to Corrin and Princess Sakura, as well as Prince Takumi, and bow your head. “I wish I could help you further, but even my mere presence here now is a danger to you all.” Corrin shakes his head, while Takumi just huffs.

“The information you provided is has been immensely helpful. It’s thanks to you we even know Xander will be here today. We can be prepared because of that.” Corrin offers you a small smile, which you return with one of your own.

“You’re absolutely sure they’ll be there?” Takumi isn’t as convinced. For the few days you’ve been here, he’s been on his tiptoes around you; you can’t blame him for his behavior, though.

“Positive. King Garon loves the shows here and…” You heave a sigh, shaking your head. “...had I still been by his side, this would have been the day Xander proposed.”

“Goodness, really?” Sakura gasped. “In front of all these people? How do you even know?” Her face is flush from the mere thought.

“It was the day he wanted to go public with it. We… were engaged far before that. He knew I couldn’t deny him in a front of a crowd of people who adored him…” You clenched your fist tightly.

“Xander…” Corrin looks troubled. Xander was his older brother, after all. The rejection of his younger brother, and now you, his beloved fiancee… Perhaps there was an explanation for his behavior but never an excuse. “I’m sorry this all happened to you _____, I can’t help but feel part of this is somehow my fault.”

“Corrin…” You sigh softly. “It’s no ones fault but Xander’s own. We made our choices, and though they were in opposition to him, they were ours to make.” You take his hand in yours, surprising him before you continue. “But if we fault in the paths we’ve taken, everyone, from the people in your army to Xander himself, will suffer for it. Stay strong.” With one last squeeze of his hand you drop it.

“...Right.” He nods, and you can see him steeling himself. “Today, we’ll end this…”

“The shows about to start, we should hurry.” Takumi sends a look to you over his shoulder, ushering his siblings closer.

“Stay safe everyone. I believe in you.” You send one more smile Corrin’s way before heading off on your own to the ports. If things went okay, they would be able to defeat Garon, and maybe even stop Xander…

You knew little about the world outside of Nohr, Hoshido, or even Nestra, but anything was better than the war that countries faced and the terror that followed you here. It wouldn’t be easy start anew in a foreign place… “You should catch a nice price though…” From your pocket, you produced a ring; casted in white gold, and gilded in the finest of amethyst, any woman would have been proud to where it on their finger. But these engagement ring would be a new start for you in a different way.

“…You kept it?” You gasp and snatch the ring close to yourself, surprised to find yourself cornered by none other than Xander himself.

“W-what? How did you…” Your words died on you tongue as he approached you. You were frozen in place, malleable to his touch as he carefully opened your hand and once more slipped the engagement ring on your right ring finger. His silence, and the lack of any signs on anger on his part made you apprehensive.

“Why did you have to leave me?” He held your shoulders, preventing your escape. His ruby gaze was inescapable, his apparent sorrow scalding.

“Why?” You frown, willing yourself not to fall for his tricks. “Look at you! You’ve become a puppet of your fathers will, Xander!” You wrench yourself free from his grasp, surprising yourself. “Once you were a kind prince, someone the people looked up to; someone who I looked up to.” You take a step but to distance yourself from him. “But you’re just as mad as him now. You’ve taken away my rights, treated me like a child, chased me down the realm and back, and for what? Will you drag me back to your side? Will you prove yourself the craven beast I know you to be?” You glared up at him now, trying your best to read his mood, to not be affected by the hurt you saw in his eyes. He had already done far worse to you.

“Who has fed you these lies, dearest?” Xander approaches you, finally acting on his desire, lies spilling forth from his lips as he stocked towards you. “Who has fed you this poison, that you are so freighted by me even my face before you has you trembling?” You hadn’t even noticed it before, but you were; your hands were shaking and the familiar feeling of adrenaline was beginning to course though your veins. Fight or flight was beginning to over take your mind as he merely got closer, spoke a little more softer to you. “Won’t you tell me who I need take care of?” He got close enough to caress your cheek with his gauntlet only for you to flinch away from his touch. He faltered, if only for a moment.

“You’re too blind to realize it was you yourself who led me to this. I would sooner forsake my homeland and take up arms with the Hoshidian’s than return to your side once more!” You tried to be fierce, to show Xander you weren’t afraid of him. “I won’t go with you.” He was frowning now, lurching forward and taking your arm in a gasp that wouldn’t easily be shaken off.

“Why don’t I take you to see the show? To see what happens to traitors.” His voice was even, his face turning dark as you tried to struggle. His grip was bruising, and you were willing to cause a scene.

“Corrin is your brother!” You argue. “Why are you willing to show lenience to me and not him?” You cry. His shock is enough for him to drop you. You pull back dramatically, gently rubbing the spot on your forearm where he caught you.

“You’ve yet to totally betray me.” His eyes linger on the ring you let him replace on your finger. You hold it protectively to your chest.

“That’s… this is different.” You huff, scowling at him. “There’s nothing left in me that cares for you as I once did.”

“Don’t be foolish.” You yelp, looking back to find Xander’s backed you up to the a large crate near the docks. “You just listened to the same lies those rotten Hoshidian’s fed to Corrin, didn’t you?” He shakes his head softly. “I won’t let them take you from me as well _____.”

“You’ve listened to nothing I’ve said!” You cry. “Xander, stop this! Actually listen to me for once in your life!” You beg him, hands finding place on his chest.

“You must be so confused… And scared…” He sighs, as if some great sorrow was just discovered, as if you really were as scared and confused as he claimed. He was clearly delusional, at least when it came to you and your thoughts and feeling; you really had to escape him now, lest you be stuck with this man who could not see you for what you were the rest of your life.

“I’m not confused! And the only thing I’m scared of is what you’re planning to do-- Xander, Xander stop!” He takes you by the arm, as any prince and gentleman should, and begins leading you over the performance hall. “Let me go!” Though you are loud and vigorous in your attempt to not be lead away from him, the grip he has on you is stronger than anything you could put up a fight against. There isn’t hardly anyone on the streets to see you struggle against him, everyone has gone to the hall to watch Azura preform… You know once you’re in there, it’s too late for you. People will recognize you, hanging off the princes arm. And if his siblings are there, they’ll only reinforce their brothers delusions…

“Everyone’s going to be delighted I found you once more, _____. Elise is even here with us… I dare say she missed you as much as me.” He laughed softly as he lead you inside, as if you weren’t fighting like a rabid animal to be free of his hold.

“...Elise?” You stopped your struggling at her name. You couldn’t let the young Princess know just how twisted and vile her dear older brother had become in your name… if she saw you…

“Xander! _____!” As if on cue, the young girl appeared before the two of you as you entered the building. Barely, you managed to catch her in a hug as she barreled towards you. “Ohh, I missed you so much! I was so scared for you.” She looked at you with big doe eyes, and your heart beat painfully at it. So, this is how he planned to keep you in line…

“Hey sweetheart…” You gently smoothed down her hair as she snuggled into you. “I’m sorry to have worried you, I just…” You pause, looking to Xander as he frowned softly.

“Xander said you didn’t love us anymore, is that true?” Her eyes were watering. You hushed her gently, moving to sit on your knees to better be at her level.

“I could never stop loving you, you know that.” You gave her a smile, a genuine one. Elise’s innocence was something to be protected… You couldn’t let her know the true nature of your relationship with Xander. “I just… had some business to attend to before our big day here, that’s all.” You sigh softly.

“Big day!” She gaps. “Are you two--” You hush her by placing your finger over her lips, and winking.

“It’s a surprise! Don’t ruin it for anyone!” You manage a smile for her.

“Come on you two.” Xander is smiling as well. He helps you to your feet and you can’t help the looming sense of dread that lingers in you as his hands leave you. “The show is nearly over now, and father is expecting us. We’ll get to announce the news after that.” With the joy only a young girl could bring, Elise bounds over to the stairs that lead to the balcony over viewing the stage. Once alone with you, he speaks again. “You even remembered what today was, didn’t you?” You hate how… in love with you he looks. It looks genuine; it brings up old feelings you would rather forget…

“The Day of Devotion.” You frown, looking away from him as you ascend the stairs.

“Today is the day we first say I love you to one another… Was it really two years ago?” He sighs softly and you falter for a moment.

“I said that to a man you no longer are.” He’s silent as the two of you finally make it to the terrace. Elise is there, as is King Garon. You’re greeted with the usual dismissal and nod he had given you in the past; you doubt he even noticed you absence. You look past him, to the crowd gathered on the boats and docks below. You note, its not yet Azura singing… She must not have preformed yet. You can’t see any familiar faces in the crowd, so perhaps Corrin’s army is more well hidden than you thought… Maybe, there was still a chance for you to escape.

“_____…” The songstress’s words are dying in your ears as you meet Xander’s gaze. It’s nothing but tender gazes and bygone feelings that twist around in your stomach. Oh, gods above, he’s kneeling-- Elise is gasping and even Garon has shifted his attention to the two of you, an unreadable look on his face. It’s nearly too much as your stomach turns and shifts inside you. “We’ve been through so much together-- I’ve proven to you I would do anything to keep you at my side. I’ve found you at the ends of our shores, and brought you back where you belong. Please, I can’t bare to be without you-- do me the honor of being my wife, and give me the privilege of being your husband.” He’s so serious. You know you can’t refuse him. Not here, not now. But still, words hesitate to leave your mouth.

“X-xander… I…” You stumble over your words, staring down at him as he gazes adoringly at you. Faintly, you can hear someone else has begun to sing. Their voice is familiar, and even the words they’re singing… Its not until you notice Garon in pain that you gasp. “Azura!” You drop Xander’s hands, much to his dismay, and turn to watch her. Her performance is breath taking and amazingly, its affecting Garon. He looks as if he’s about to burst or something, and things quickly devolve after that.

You can hardly keep up with it; someone is telling Xander the Hoshidian’s are here, Garon is quickly taken away to recover, and Xander is gearing up for battle as Corrin and his army show themselves. Xander, though it all, looks more than angered; you can see through his crimson eyes that this is something that cannot be forgiven.

“They dare ruin our moment?” Xander won’t even let you leave his side, hoisting you up on his horse to fight before you can think twice. “I think it’s high time I show them, and you, just what happens when you betray the kingdom of Nohr.”

“Xander wait! There are still innocent people here!” You beg, gripping on to his back as he rode into battle. “Please, let them escape! It’s not as it if Corrin knew what you had planned today! It’s not worth innocent lives to try and stop them.” You beg. “You have me now. I won’t leave, I promise. I’ll marry you if it means no one gets hurt here today.” Your desperate for Corrin and his army to make their mistake. A battle where they can get away is a battle they might be able to win in the future and that means a future where you might escape Xander.

“_____, dear, had you so easily forgotten what happened when you defy me?” He sighs softly, shaking his head. “These lives I take-- the blood I shed, its all on your hands as well. Perhaps, had you stayed by my side… we wouldn’t be here today.” You hide your face in his back as you feel warm blood quickly rush over you. He’s charging straight for Corrin and the other Hoshidian royals, you know. It’s all you can do to remove yourself from the situation and try not to internalize his words. Still, you can help but wonder… would things be like this had you stayed with him, so long ago? Would there really be no blood on your hands?

[scriptaed]

the redmail.

♡ genre: angst/fluff; college!au;

♡ pairing: reader x yoongi; 

♡ length: 11.0k;

♡ synopsis: stoic, indifferent, and aloof, you’ve always wondered what made that oddball yoongi the heartthrob of the school; that is, until one day, when you finally catch him red-handed and the origins of his popularity are unveiled—that bastard’s been writing himself his own love letters! yoongi’s offer as a wingman for you and your long-time crush, kim seokjin, is the only thing keeping you sworn to secrecy, but nothing ever goes as predicted on valentine’s day... especially when it comes to blackmail.

♡ part of the bound in love collab;

♡ the redmail drabble;

I like you. 

Those three exact words reverberate in your mind, echoing and lurking in every corner throughout the fruitless months of trying to muster the courage to confess. I like you, I like you, I like you—you’ve been dying to find the right time to tell him for weeks on end now and you wonder if the desperation seeps through to your facial expression; because even as you feign a smile at him now, when in reality you have zero clue regarding whatever he’s been going on about for the past couple of minutes, there’s nothing that could possibly wipe the glimmer in your eyes that’s practically announcing your crush to the entire world. If looks like the one plastered all over your face could telepathically convey these radiating emotions of yours, then maybe Jin wouldn’t have been so blind to you like he does standing here right now. 

Nevertheless, from the way his side-swept bangs falls perfectly over his eyes that sparkle like the brightest stars in the galaxy to the way he cackles with that half-shrug grin of his that exudes of sheer confidence, you can’t help but marvel over the boy. He’s everything to you. In fact, it’s almost as if your every waking moment in the past year has been dedicated to your crush: you coordinate your outfits with him in mind every morning, you seize every opportunity after class for a mere albeit invaluable two-minute conversation, and you spend hours upon hours in your reveries, dreaming of the days when you two could finally become an item. Class had just ended and your classmates are hastily shuffling past you two on a one-way-ticket out of hell, but in the midst of all the chaos, you just can’t take your eyes off him… well, that is, if it weren’t for the other boy who’s staring at you.

What? Your darting glare that spares the boy just a split second of your precious time with Jin seems to reach him, judging by the way he snorts at your actions and averts his amused stare to the side, if only for an irking, fleeting second. 

Why? Why is it that this boy can telepathically receive your messages when Jin, the one you’ve been dying of hope to hear anything but radio silence from, remains oblivious to your year-long signals? It’s a waste of your ephemeral interaction with Jin, yet you can’t help but waste a second—and only a second—clamming your mouth shut before you could go off on him. And what’s with that impertinent smirk adorning his face right now? It’s almost as if he’s mocking you for the more than obvious look of adoration harbored in the sparkles of your eyes… almost as if he knows of your irrevocable crush on Jin. 

Psh, only popular boys like him could find a pining scenario like this amusing enough to watch on the sidelines for many long months. You’ve only become aware of his all too familiar name when you noticed how often you would spot Jin around campus with him by his side. Curiosity had piqued your interest in anything related to your undying crush, but all of that had faded the second you discovered just how out of the loop you must have been. That boy, the one that often stood on the side quietly negligent of greetings and acknowledgement of your presence, the one that glimpses between you and Jin with a smug look that you would love to wipe off right this moment, that very boy is the same boy every girl on campus had fawned over at some point in their academia: Min Yoongi.

They refer to him as an enigma, a puzzle that they could never solve but nevertheless felt drawn to. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he spoke gently, curtly, and wisely—as if saving his breath for something actually worth his time. They call him a man with a cold glare that, if and only if you manage to crack the slightest peek into, has a sense of genuineness and a good-willed, golden heart of a man that could have you melting into a puddle of mess from the mere flicker between thawed ice and divine fire. You had heard he treated everyone equally, unbothered as to whether they were the hottest girl in town or the biggest book nerd to be heard, but it’s hard to believe those claims when he’s amusedly watching your interaction with his best friend and the only thing that is missing from the picture is a bag of popcorn in his crossed arms as he sat on the desk to the side. 

To you, someone you would claim to be a rather decent judgement of character, his overwhelming popularity seems to have originated from an abyss of foolish girls’ dreams to save yet another helpless case of a bad boy turned good. 

He’s absolutely nothing like Jin. 

“I’ll, uh,” you stammer, bashfully averting your eyes between the desk separating you and the apple of your eye and you could have sworn Yoongi snorted once again, “I’ll catch you later…? I mean, only if I happen to see you after Psych tomorrow... yeah...?” 

“Of course, of course,” Jin nearly exclaims, vibrantly throwing his hands up with the baby pink sleeves of his sweater, “not like you could really miss someone like me in a crowd, right Yoongi?”

The both of you turn toward the bystander—Jin with an expectant grin on his face and you with a piercing stare nearly-turned scowl—but he only shrugged before hopping off the desk and slinging his backpack over one shoulder as he strides toward the exit. You expect him to just walk off and abandon his friend behind with you, which would have honestly worked to your advantage, but he whirls around once he reaches the classroom door and mutters one last sentence, “doesn’t really matter if you miss our next exam.”

“Oh, shoot,” Jin nearly yelps as he hurriedly gathers his things and bolts for the door, throwing a wave at you with those eyes that have sirens going off like a deer caught in the headlights. “I’ll see you later, Y/N!”

By now, everyone has left the classroom and all coast is finally clear. Taking a deep breath in, you sigh in relief as you shuffle in those uncomfortable booties, lower the hem of your miniskirt that threatens to flash just about anyone in your vicinity, and release your meticulously curled hair from the overbearing clutches of your ponytail. Gathering your backpack, you march toward your dorms with only one thought in mind—wiping all of this grotesque, unbreathable gunk that you call makeup; and as you watch yourself transform from the girl with a crush in the classroom to the girl that stands before the mirror, truly, you would have been disturbed by her desperate efforts. 

You’ve never been the type to change yourself for someone else, but something about Jin has you reaching for every opportunity that could finally make him see you in a different light. Nonetheless, the gnawing in your chest never seems to settle from this moment, as you stare at the mascara smeared over your patch of black panda-like eyes, to the very seconds before you could drift off into sleep with a disturbing epiphany in mind…

...how would Yoongi have reacted if he came to know of your pitiful efforts? 

With just that one irking question echoing through the silence of your midnight-stricken room, a newfound drive has you stumbling to your feet, grabbing for a pen, a blank piece of paper, and a red envelope. You shouldn’t subject yourself to an eternity of catering a girly appearance and soft-spoken personality for the sake of Jin’s tastes. If anything, you want Jin to see you for you and like you for you, even if you know that possibility is a hopeless cause considering his current interests that you’ve come to discover lies elsewhere. You’ve been so desperate all this time, living in another’s skin and abandoning your own, that even you could see how someone like Yoongi would pity you. 

You can’t wait anymore. You can’t pretend anymore. You have to let him know before you lose sight of your own person. It’s time this all comes to an end. 

And so, you work through the night, writing and spilling to your heart’s year-long worth of pented desires but all you can muster for hours on end is a simple albeit truthful sentence:

I like you, and even if you don’t like me, I still really really like you.

♡ ♡ ♡

The next morning seems to arrive dreadfully slow, even if you stayed up to conjure whatever you could into words, contemplating whether to deliver the letter for most of the night’s hours. Perhaps it was a spur of the emotional mess you were last night, or maybe it was the hazy state between sanity and insanity with these overwhelming feelings you’ve had bottled up for so long, but you had managed to text Jin and asked him to meet you in the corner of the university’s library where you had once studied with him. His gleeful albeit curious response just an hour before has you internally screaming at the top of your lungs, your heart squeezing and your blood pumping in frustration over your rash decision that now leads you to your inevitable doom—rejection. 

And the worst part of this already gloomy morning? 

You just have to bump into him. 

Because there he is, in the corner of the library that you had went ahead and self-proclaimed as the spot for you and Jin, scribbling away with piles of papers stacked by him. Tip-toeing down one aisle and making a right turn in between two shelves lined with hundreds upon hundreds of dusty books, you first spot him and his tiny figure far off in the corner at the end of the aisle. Stealthily, you encroach toward the table, occasionally turning to the side and poking at the books as if to conceal your identity from wandering eyes before warily returning to your mission. You’ve never seen Yoongi in a library, not that you visit the library enough—aside from the rare study sessions you never needed but wanted to schedule with Jin—to really know, but if there’s one thing you’ve surmised from his fans and your own observations: Yoongi isn’t exactly the most invested in schoolwork.

So what could he possibly be doing here at 7 A.M. in the morning…? 

Call yourself infected with the disease that so many girls have seemed to have caught this upcoming Valentine’s Day season, but curiosity over this oddball called Min Yoongi seems to get the best of you. Reaching just one bookshelf of a distance away from him, you turn to face the line of books and carefully throw a peeking glance over your left shoulder and to the side. You can barely make out his penmanship…

Dear Min Yoongi…

...I really like you…

To Yoongi…

From your admirer…

...but the words that you do manage to read has a lightbulb of an epiphany looming over you like the sun peeking through the clouds: has this bastard been writing his own love letters?!

This is bad. This is a detrimentally bad position for you to be in. You feel like you’ve just seen something you nor anyone on this planet should have seen, but you can’t help having to clamp a hand over your lips to muffle the gasp that leaves your lips. So is this the origin of his popularity? The dozens of letters and confessions Yoongi has been renowned for receiving on Valentine’s Day are fake? Not to mention written by the receiver, himself? 

It’s a mix of amusement, confusion, and unreasonable self-satisfaction for having discovered a dark secret of your nemesis, as if you finally have a leverage over the one mocking obstacle between you and Jin. Regardless, no matter what you do, you swear to yourself, you should retreat with this newfound information to a safer space where you—eek. 

Your heart stops when a footstep back has the stupidly old floor creaking and your dumb self instinctively glancing up to check on the boy before you. Did he hear you? Has he caught you red-handed just as you had caught him? 

To your horror, your panicked glance locks with his own. On his face, however, he adorns that irritating signature look of his—unaffected and indifferent to your presence that should have been the essence of trouble for him. Time seems to freeze akin to the way you stay affixed to the floor, one step back halfway in a lunge, lips gaped, and widened eyes that fear to budge even an inch from the boy. 

The least surprised whom should have been the most victimized in this situation is the first one to move. 

Calmly and unhurriedly in that leisure composure of his, he raises a forefinger and beckons for you to veto your retreat as well as granting you permission to stand by his side. You’ve never been one to take orders—unless it was Jin’s, you would’ve come wagging with a tail like that of a dog’s—but the panicking hammer against your heart drives you toward foolish, uncharacteristic actions that has you obliging to his orders akin to a child awaiting a lecture. 

“Where were you heading?” he simply asks. His voice is surprisingly lower and rougher than you had imagined, definitely thicker than velvet itself. 

“Uh,” you put on a dense mien, “I was looking for another open table, duh.” 

“Right,” he nods, head bobbing but mind obviously elsewhere when he proceeds to the real question, “so how much did you see?” 

Is he trying to keep you quiet? You scoff at his dominant demeanor because you won’t be tethered down like an obedient dog from a guy like him. Finally snapping that “good girl” persona of yours around the most pivotal figure of your course, otherwise known as your crush’s best friend, you cross your arms and lean your weight against one leg. 

“I saw enough to know exactly what’s going on,” you peer down impudently at him and his letters with a smug grin on your face, “so… the popular boy around school has been faking his popularity after all this time, huh?” 

He arches a brow at you, “and what about you?” 

“What do you mean what about me?” 

“Despite how you look,” he skims you up and down and you shuffle in place, taken aback by his unexpected response, “you certainly speak differently around me than with Jin.” 

“Wh—” you scoff in disbelief “—what, you think I’m being fake around Jin?” 

“I didn’t say that,” he articulates as a-matter-of-factly, “you did.” 

“Well,” you scramble through your mess of a state to find a retort, “you seem to have a lot more to say than you let on.” 

“Oh?” he leans back into his chair and crosses his legs. “And do you know what I have to say?” 

A frown plasters across your face at his oddly complacent position, “how would I know? I just see you looking down on me whenever I’m around Jin. Calm down, would ya? I’m not trying to steal your only friend.”

The boy snorts at your remark, crossing his arms and tilting his head back along with the flow of gravity. Staring at the ceiling, he speaks, “you’re right, I was watching you but I wasn’t looking down on you. Rather, I’ve been wondering: is that the real you or—” he turns his head to face you with that cocky smirk of his “—is this the real you?”

“I-I,” you stumble over your words, nearly choking over your own breaths because never in a million years did you imagine your mask to be exposed like this and not to mention by Min Yoongi of all people. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you better not give him any wrong ideas or…”

“Or?” he beckons for an answer.

“Or,” you take a deep breath before blurting out a threat you never would have made if it weren’t for the sake of your nearly wrecked crush, “or… or I’m gonna have to tell everyone that you’ve been writing your own Valentine’s Day cards.” 

“Ah, I see,” he nods his head, pursing his lips, “okay. Go ahead.” 

“Wait, what?” Everything just seems to incessantly backfire on you ever since you met this damn boy. “Wait, are you sure? You’re really fine with that? Everyone’s going to think you’re lame. Girls won’t like you anymore.” 

“Hm… all the better,” he shrugged before cracking that devilish, tilted smile of his. He peers up at you to watch the slacken jaw of yours in amusement, trailing down until he meets the red envelope of yours that you have clenched tightly in your hand. You’re just about to hide your darkest secret behind you when, before you even knew it, Yoongi has it slipped between his two fingers. “What’s this?”

“Stop. That’s mine. You can’t read it,” you deadpan threateningly, the tone in your voice dropping just as something else does in your stomach. “You’re playing dirty, Yoongi. I didn’t mean to catch you here this morning but at least you have the choice to return that to me.”

“Relax,” he prims, raising the letter by his head, “I wouldn’t scoop that low, just like how you wouldn’t either.” 

“...what do you mean? You know I follow through with my words,” you almost try to convince yourself, too. “You know the real me standing before you right now. You know the lengths I’ll go to for Jin.” 

“Right, but if there’s one thing I know about you and Jin’s friends, it’s that they aren’t bad people… so neither are you.”

“That’s questionable,” you snort, “considering he’s befriended you.” 

“And what if I helped you out with your little crush on Jin?” he only chuckles at the way baffled look on your face. “Would I still be the bad guy?” 

You choose your words wisely, “I… I don’t have a crush on Jin.”

“Right, and I haven’t been writing my own letters,” he nods, shrugging. “Look, I don’t have to open your envelope to know that you’ve written Jin a letter and confessed your undying love for him.” 

How did he know? Are you really that obvious? 

“And if you’re wondering how I know, no, you’re not obvious. I doubt anyone else knows, but it’s exactly how you perceive me,” he cracks a smirk at you, “I have a lot more to say than I let on.” 

This damn boy. You’ve barely spoken to this boy and he already knows how to get on your nerves. Even if you hadn’t discovered his secret, you wouldn’t have been surprised to hear of just how easily he could get girls wrapped around his finger. He’s devilishly handsome, he has that cold mien about him and you finally understand what they mean about the alluring side to him, but you still don’t see yourself falling for a cocky guy like him, even after peering through all that air of his. 

“Why… why are you helping me?

“Well,” he pauses, as if contemplating whether he really wants to invest his effort and time before finally proceeding, “for one, if you keep your mouth shut, then I won’t have to bother explaining myself to everyone.” 

“What kind of explanation would you have anyways? What, you wanted to look popular with the girls?”

“And two,” he continues, completely unfazed by your jab, “wouldn’t it be funny to see how you explain yourself to Jin when you two are dating and you have to drop your act?”

Shoot, he sees right through your mini-skirts, your makeup, your every change in the past months.

“I wouldn’t have to explain myself,” you say through gritted teeth, “because this is me.” 

“And three,” he proceeds nonchalantly and he watches amusedly at the way you’re just about to rip your hair out, “contrary to your belief, I would rather not watch you pining after him for another long ass year. I would have helped you regardless of the former two reasons.”

“Really?” you raise a brow, crossing your arms over your puffed chest. “Then I can tell everyone about your letters?”

Shrugging, he raises both hands as if to tell you, “go ahead.” 

“I can’t believe you,” the words come through a loud huff of air. “Whatever. I don’t care enough to rat on you. I’m not that bad of a person.” 

“See? I told you.”

“Shut up,” you snap and he just raises his hands in mercy, “but I’m just letting you know, I don’t need your help either.”

“Yeah?”

Please please don’t see through my bluff, you plea internally to yourself. Truthfully, you need that letter back in the safety of your hands; because the more you mull over the possibility that Jin could very well reject your feelings, the more you realize that you just aren’t ready to give up yet. If Jin were to arrive any second now, he would catch Yoongi with your precious letter wagging in between his two fingers and you bet on your life that the brat before you would spill everything. 

It takes you a few seconds to respond, but it takes you everything in you to speak your words.

“You can give him that letter all you want. I could care less.” 

“Really? Okay,” he leans forward, offering to return the letter but retracting quickly just as you lash forward in a fruitless attempt to retrieve your inanimate heart. Clicking your tongue, you glare at him in utter defeat; but when he chuckles and something odd tugs at your chest as you watch that alluring quirked grin of his…

“I rest my case.”

...you know you’re treading in deep water. 

♡ ♡ ♡

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!

Those three words have somehow become instilled in your daily morning routine ever since that fateful morning when you awakened and pondered over your next plans with him only to become petrified by an epiphany that dawns upon you in that very perilous moment: since when was the last time you awoke to the image of anyone but Kim Seokjin and why was he your first thought of the day?! The effort you’ve made to erase the seemingly irrevocable bad habit has been painfully clear through various methods like setting up digital reminders or strategically taping sticky notes by the mirror in order to perpetually remind you of your undying abhorrence for the boy. 

Every morning and night as you stand by the bathroom mirror and brush your teeth, the fateful encounter in the library that had entailed a fickle partnership between you and him still burns vividly in the forefront of your mind. You can still remember adamantly denying any relation to the boy and claiming to have ran into him by pure happenstance, which isn’t entirely false, to Jin, the one you were supposed to be meeting. Having lost your reason for inviting Jin to the library and consequently conjuring the dumbest excuse out of thin air, your blood still boils when you recall catching Yoongi from your peripherals, slipping his blackmail against you in the form of a red envelope into his bag. 

Nevertheless, his questionable intents behind his offer to help you out as a wingman has managed to captivate your attention, albeit reluctantly so, and this morning happens to be no exception. Your first thought of the day pops up in the form of a text from the one and only boy, nicknamed your arch enemy, your partner in crime sworn under the secrecy of blackmail, and also known as Min Yoongi. 

Arch Enemy Yoongle [9:03 A.M.] you ready for study session?

You [9:05 A.M.] Noooooooo you’re coming over before right 

Arch Enemy Yoongle [9:06 A.M.] why

You [9:06 A.M.] To help me pick my clothes, duh

Arch Enemy Yoongle [9:07 A.M.] is that a question or a command

You [9:08 A.M.] Your end of the offer was to help me out with Jin so this is the least you could do !!

“Texting you this morning was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

His remark has you shooting him a glare through the floor-length mirror, where you can spot him eyeing you from behind all whilst seated in a chair with one foot propped on the other bouncing knee. 

“Is it really that hard to pick an outfit you think he would like?” you sigh as you run your hands through the crinkles in your skirt. 

“Again, for the thousandth time, how am I supposed to know what Jin would like? You’ve stalked him enough to probably know him better, Ms. Seasoned Pro.” 

“I have not been stalking him,” you snap, “plus, it’s not like this is your first time helping me. Why are you acting so bothered today?” 

“I just,” he scratches his head, “I just don’t get it. They all look fine.”

You whirl around, face clearly plastered with concern judging by the way Yoongi scoffs, “just ‘fine?’”

“Do you really want me to spell it out for you?” he leans forward, cupping his cheek in one hand propped over your chair’s armrest. His eyes flicker to lock with yours, exuding his typical ingenuity and conviction that rekindles those recent sparks from somewhere within you. What he says next is no exception. “It doesn’t matter what you wear, because you look good in everything.” 

A deafening silence ensues as the two of you stare at each other, both still registering what had just slipped from his lips. Once the realization settles in, however, you two are quick to act. Whirling back around, your eyes dart to the side of your mirror where one hand hooks awkwardly over your other elbow or literally any spot on the mirror where you’re safe and away from the boy’s gaze. Your heart threatens to burst through and you swear you had a megaphone to your chest, because even you can hear its thumps through your burning ears. 

Why did he have to say that? What did he mean by that? And why are you reacting like this?!

Even the usually apathetic boy acknowledges the suggestive implications behind his words, for the boy clears his throat loudly throughout the silence and you find yourself gulping before he recomposes himself and recovers that usual velvety timbre of his, “what I meant is that I don’t think Jin could tell the difference.”

Clearing your own throat in a vain attempt to rid yourself of a knot, you find yourself turning and inspecting every angle of your overly put-together outfit that you can’t help but wish to discard the second this study session is over, “...really? Are you sure?” 

Yoongi sighs at your remark—one he has heard a hundred too many times in the past month around you—leaning back into the chair and quirking his head to the side for one last scan of you. Eyes running up and down, your heart rate spikes when the fact that you’re retracting your usual unapologetic bubble dawns upon you; because for some reason, your arm crosses your chest protectively and your hand clutches your elbow as you find yourself more self-conscious than ever. 

“Does his opinion really matter that much to you?”

You gulp, hand squeezing once again and eyes falling to the floor before speaking meekly, “...yes.”

“Personally,” he sighs again and the edges of his profile softens. A brief moment of silence follows as he patiently waits until you find the courage to lift your gaze to meet his; and once you do, you find yourself flickering between his intensity that has your heart throbbing and anything and everything but the boy sitting before you—why, exactly? You’re not sure. Usually he would chuckle, smirk even, at your skittish ways, but today, his voice is much gentler, enough for even a stone-walled girl like you to melt into a puddle of mess, particularly when he speaks lowly. “I think you look the best when you open your door and you’re still in your pajamas and your hair is still a mess because you just barely woke up, even though you invited me over more than an hour ago.” 

Suddenly, that puddle of a mess in you starts to boil as you grit your teeth and mutter, “Yoongi…” 

“Seriously, who doesn’t appreciate a woman who’s comfortable and confident in her own skin?” Yoongi chuckles, cocking his head to the side with that lopsided grin of his. “As long as you’re yourself, I think Jin would see the beauty in that... I mean, I would.” 

...and you don’t know why his words were enough affirmation for you to calm your nerves and let your outfit see the light of day, because once you find yourself seated uncomfortably in the corner of the library and across the table from a boy doubled over in cackles, you begin to regret having ever entrusted the boy beside you whomst must have been out to sabotage your dreams under the guise of your wingman. 

“Oh my God, no, I’m serious,” Jin manages to say in the midst of his giggles, pointing a finger at you, “I really didn’t realize how much you’ve changed until now!” 

“I’ve been dressing like this for over a year now… I don’t know how dense you could be, haha,” your voice trails off into a forced laugh that desperately hopes to slip under that painfully oblivious radar of his, because at this point there’s nothing much more you could do to conceal the crestfallen state of yours. Caught in between disappointment and surprise, you just can’t believe what you’re hearing: has Jin really not noticed any of your efforts in the past year? Typically, you like to proclaim yourself as a maiden with a heart of steel—but damn, does that hurt.

“Oh, really?!” the boy gapes, almost exclaiming for the whole library to hear. “Because I swear it feels like it was just yesterday when I saw you walking into class all bare-faced with some baggy sweatpants and that gray hoodie you  always wear.” 

“Ah,” you fail to find any words to follow through with the shock that had emptied your mind, but you force yourself to continue when you notice the urge to speak written all over Yoongi’s irritated expression, “but that was! Um... that was because I was tired on that day.”

“Oh, yeah, I get you. Second year was pretty tough,” a sense of empathy returns to Jin’s voice when, suddenly, things take a turn for the worst. “But, you know, you should be comfortable for study sessions with us. It’s just me and Yoongi. You don’t have to dress up for me.” 

Ah, but the thing is, you find yourself wanting to tell him, I want to dress up for you. Why can’t he at least recognize that? You know it isn’t his intentions and he has no obligations to, but the way he laughs at you and the way he hasn’t praised you and your newfound efforts even a single time has you crippling in pieces. Does he really have to belittle your efforts, even if unintentionally? Somehow, you muster a meek smile out of etiquette but produced from the bittersweet twist you find churning at your guts, even if it only pours salt over your already deepened wounds.

Gulping down the lump in your throat, you raise your head along with your cracked voice, “I just want—”

“—she looks good, alright?” Yoongi interjects cooly and the both of you turn wide-eyed at the boy who had retained his silence throughout the day. He continues, calmly, “if she wants to dress up for study session, then let her. As long as she’s happy.”

And it’s at that moment that you realize and finally come to accept: how ironic is it that the boy who has had your yearning, fervent heart racing for countless months happens to be the very boy who has your heart shattered in pieces right this moment? And how much more ironic is it that the boy whomst had promised you your greatest nightmares disguised as dreams is the one who has your blood pumping and very being electrified… almost, as if… it’s love...? 

♡ ♡ ♡

“Alright, this is getting ridiculous. I don’t mind going on fake dates with you for practice—I mean, I do—but why do we have to wear these stupid masks?” 

“Hey, you can’t deny that you enjoy these dates. Don’t even lie,” you stop in the midst of your tracks to laugh aloud into the cold, wintery night. 

In the meanwhile, Yoongi has gotten a few steps ahead of you, turning around and pausing in his own trek home as well. He doesn’t have to say it, but you’ve spent enough time bickering, crying, screaming, and surprisingly even laughing your ass off with him to know he’s waiting for you to catch up to his side; and so, you happily oblige, skipping forward and ignoring the sharp pain that jabs at your sore soles after a long day at the amusement park all in the name of intertwining your fingers with his. The boy on the receiving end, however, is much less playful—even more so than his already hard to read self—and you’d be lying if you were to ignore the pitted feeling in your stomach; because when he shoots you an unamused stare but fails to squeeze your hands even in the slightest bit like he inevitably used to, you know that something is off.  

Just as you proclaimed, he doesn’t deny the genuine, hearty laughters of tonight—and to that, you’re utterly relieved—but you’ve never found yourself more desperate and eager to peek through that unreadable mien of his. 

“Well,” you say under your huffs of breaths, “how’re we going to explain ourselves if a classmate catches us holding hands like this? I can’t have Jin thinking we’re dating.”

“Then don’t hold my hand.” 

You know it’s just his unfiltered personality, but sometimes you wish he wouldn’t be so curt—especially when you’re particularly sensitive to his every move, response, and flicker of emotion tonight. 

“But I have to,” you purse your lips. “What if Jin holds my hand and I freeze up? He’s gonna think I’m stupid.” 

When the two of you stroll far enough to reach a wooden bench just a block down the amusement park, Yoongi turns to face you with that usual unamused look on his face; and when he retracts his hand, a part of you flinches forward, as if trying to retrieve the little albeit comforting warmth his perpetually cool, delicate hands provided. 

“Do you hear yourself right now?” he deadpans, reaching his hand up to stretch your clothed mask under your chin and bearing your cheeks to the bite of the cold. “He wouldn’t be wrong even if he were to make that assumption.”  

“Hey,” you pout and reciprocate his gesture, the tips of your cold fingertips grazing against his jaw as you tuck the mask under his chin; and when you do so, the warmth of his gaze quickly flickers to the side before returning to you, something which has you falter for even the slightest of seconds, “i...it’s not my fault someone here is so popular around school. You’ve gotten, what, six cards this week?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, taking a seat on the bench, “I don’t count.” 

“Yeah, well, I did,” you huff as you plop down beside him. “Valentine’s Day isn’t even until tomorrow. You probably have at least six more pending.”

The boy only snorts, shaking his head, “can’t call my popularity a bluff anymore, huh?” 

“But I don’t get it,” you shiver at the cold that creeps along to the tip of your nose and Yoongi, being the observant person he is, turns to adjust your scarf higher and tucks the ends securely closer to your neck—what the boy fails to notice, however, is the burning sensation of blood flushing your face as you freeze under the wake of his sudden attention and the sheer care he harbors into his gentle hands that graze your cheeks. Gulping, you stammer to continue your lost train of thought, “...why do you write your own cards when so many girls already write you their own?” 

“Well,” he pauses, pondering whether it was worth the effort to explain himself to the girl beside him, “I wouldn’t have received so many if someone would have let me fake my own cards.”

“Wait, so,” your face scrunches at the calculation and he follows suit, although mockingly so, “you fake your own cards so that to others, it seems like you already received enough?” When the boy just prims his lips and glimpses away for a split second—something that cocky boy usually never does—even you can tell he’s guilty as charged. “So you’re trying to discourage girls from confessing? By writing your own cards?”

Damn, as much as you had found yourself strangely attached whenever girls would pass by only to do a double take or even boldly ask him for his number only to sense an unexplained validation to be the one and the only one linked to his arm, perhaps one too many times, you still can’t help but empathize for the many girls whomst lost their courage to confess; after all, you know first-handedly just how difficult it could be to muster that courage, how detrimental it was to your spirit with each failure, and how exponentially more dejecting it was to pick yourself back up again for what seems to be another inevitable fall. 

“But why?” you find yourself asking and he turns to look at you with perked ears. “Why would you do that? I mean, in a sense, doesn’t it feel nice to know that so many girls like you? Isn’t that why all the popular kids are so annoyingly narcissistic?”

“Narcissistic? I could care less about the number of admirers if the person I like doesn’t like me,” he scoffs and a puff of white ascends the air. Shuffling awkwardly in his seat and burying his hands into his pockets, he looks away and at the ground. “I appreciate their thoughts. I do. But that’s exactly why I can’t find it in me to turn every one of them away, because even when I do, they always come back the next time. They don’t know when to give up.”

They don’t know when to give up. 

Yoongi has always been curt with his words, but shit, this one hits the hardest. Perhaps it’s because of the way it strikes home, but somehow it resonates with your own love conundrums. Some part of you could understand where Yoongi was coming from, especially when it occurs to you how you never considered the receiving end of confessions; but the other part of you sympathizes with the girls, wondering just where and how were their unspoken attractions discarded and if at least the abyss could pay witness to the echoes of their confessions. 

Then the most haunting epiphany strikes you: what would you do if Jin had been avoiding your feelings all this time as well? 

Somehow, even if you had the previous notion that Jin could do no wrong, the hypothetical scenario leaves a bad taste in your mouth; so when you turn your gaze to the boy beside you, the soft affection settles into a gut-wrenching disappointment. 

“Hey, Y/N,” he utters lowly, eyes averting to lock with yours once again, “there’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

What is this? The endless fall you find yourself situated in from the pools that were his eyes? The sudden flush of heat that ripples through your veins from his utter attention fixated on you and only you? The way something keeps hammering at your chest, unashamedly and loudly so, in the wakes of the potential pivot his one confession could take?  

“...what is it?” you manage to say, even if meekly so, because something about the return of his stoic, unreadable expression tinted with a rare hint of an apology has you bracing for whatever comes next. 

“...Jin already likes someone else.”

Ah—you don’t know why, but somehow his big reveal elicits a stifling, pathetic laugh to yourself—so he finally knows. It was like an omnipotent force had latched onto you and dragged you deep into the underwater depths and you had felt heavy, dejected, and avoidant of every and any thing that reminded you of him when the curtains were first unveiled. Time and a fleeting, ignorant memory, however, had proven to be the cure in the next few months, for the weight had gradually dissipated into thin air and you were up and ready again, as if you had slammed reset and you had never stumbled upon a realization that never should have come to light in the first place… until now. 

Someone—and not just someone insignificant—Yoongi, your supposed wingman, proves to be the one to ultimately cut your dreams short in exchange for a long ignored reality, almost as if everything in the past month has been a cruel feat played by fate itself.

“I know.”

“What?” Yoongi furrows his brows, the most evidence of offence streaking his profile. He leans in, as if he didn’t quite catch you the first time. “You knew all this time? Since when did you know? Before you asked me to help you? Or even before you started changing your whole persona?” When you fail to answer him, eyes falling ashamedly to the floor, Yoongi scoffs at your deafening answer. “So you knew all this time and you still chased after him like a lost puppy, huh—’

“—I don’t get it,” you snap at his impertinence, shooting a glare at him that he equally reciprocates, “you already knew I changed and did everything I could to get his attention, so why are you only mad at me now?”

“Because this is different,” he articulates. “I was helping you out, because I wanted a happy ending for you; but you... you knew all this time that he wasn’t interested and you changed everything, the way you dress, the way you talk, hell, the way you were yourself, out of desperation?” 

“What? Do you pity me now?” you laugh in disbelief, shaking your head. “Or even worse, do you hate me because I’m just another one of those girls hopelessly chasing after a guy like those girls who chase you?” As much as your blood is boiling from his sudden rage, his unsettling silence has something gnawing from within you—you wish he had denied it. “Oh. So I’m worse.”

After a long, stagnant silence that screams through the night and the empty streets, Yoongi turns to face you and you brace yourself for the piercing, intimidating glare of his, but what you find is much worse to your spirit. Soft and glimmering with a hint of hopeless desperation, his gaze speaks a thousand more words than what follows, “why can’t you just love yourself more?”

He’s right. What is it about Jin that has you infatuated enough to change everything about yourself? Why can’t you love yourself more? It’s a question you’ve stumbled upon months ago, but one you’ve never been willing to face head on. Why? 

 “...I don’t know. I guess the heart just wants what it wants. I can’t do anything about it now. It’s almost like…” you have to gulp in order to swallow the knot in your throat, “...if I happened to fall for you—”

“—you can’t.”

His words fall short in the wind that passes by, whisking away his confession and yours off into the distance; but even so, his words stay with you—they echo, they reverberate, they scream, they keep you reminded of every worst scenario you had conjured in the countless nights where you had dreamed of this very moment. 

“What do you mean?” you say, almost begrudgingly so. “Why not?”

He looks at you head-on, even if his next words should never elicit such audacity; because when he speaks, you don’t think you’ve ever broiled with such injustice nor have you ever been so pitted by something someone else said before. 

“Because I don’t like girls like you.”

It isn’t that he doesn’t like girls, he just doesn’t like particular girls like you—the one who had so proudly stood by his side, linked arm to arm, and passed by the countless girls that burnt with jealousy with a head high and a smile that could challenge the sun. How ashamed are you now that you, too, have been rejected by the boy you so thought was fate’s convoluted way of bringing you to your soulmate? All this time, you thought you were the special one; because to you, somewhere along the way, Yoongi had become the Jin in your life…

...and maybe that’s exactly what he doesn’t want.

“Like the other girls…” you nod absentmindedly. “I thought there was something between us. I thought out of everyone I knew, you would be the one to have my back… but did you have to put it like that? Now I just sound stupid—”

“—Y/N,” he says firmly, sighing loudly as his chest heaves and his jaw clenches, “I do have your back. But I’m supposed to be your wingman, not your rebound. I can’t love you while you’re in love with some other guy.”

“Don’t you get it,” the rush of frustration forces you to pause as your mind scatters for the proper words, “I don’t… I don’t like Jin anymore! I like you!”

“Are you sure?” his eyes widen with threat. “Because when you’re dressed like that in this freezing cold, makeup done and skirts and everything, looking like a downgraded carbon copy of Jin’s crush, when I’ve told you countless times before just how beautiful you look as yourself, I find it hard to believe!”

“‘Downgraded carbon copy?’” you bite your bottom lip to distract yourself from the way his words have you wincing from within and waterworks forming. It isn’t that you don’t want to cry out of embarrassment or the vexation of losing this argument—because you’ve cried countless times in his arms before—but it’s the daunting thought of materializing Yoongi’s greatest fear that has you holding back; because even in moments when he hurts you like this, the last thing you would want is for Yoongi to realize that, for once, he is the reason behind your tears.

And that, in itself, is enough to prove to you just where your heart lies… but how could you convey that to Yoongi? 

“Don’t…” his voice lowers amidst the silence, “don’t confess to me now when I’m only the second option. Don’t be like the others.”

“...like the others?” your eyes flicker from the ground and up to his evident frown. “Like the other girls who you don’t even have the decency to accept their feelings? Like the other girls you don’t even have the courage to reject?”

“This isn't about me. It’s about you,” his stare stays fixed on yours. “I really don’t want to hurt you. It’s the last thing I want, but I can’t help you anymore. It’s doing you more harm than good. Confess to him or I’ll tell him myself—”

“—you know,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at his irritatingly still ones, “I would have confessed to him and none of this mess would have happened if you hadn’t taken my letter!” 

“What mess?” 

It takes you a long second for you to speak, but only a split second after it slips your lips for you to regret it all.

“Us,” you utter and you recoil when something in those enigmatic orbs of his winces, “I wouldn’t have fallen for you like those ‘other girls,’ and you wouldn’t have had to bother rejecting me. Everything would have been okay if you hadn’t taken that damn red envelope. We would have been happier than we are now. We would have been strangers.”

“Y/N,” his hand hovers over yours, debating whether his touch would only hurt you further before pulling back empty-handed but not without a part of your already sinking heart, “I don’t regret meeting you. You know that’s not what I mean. We just didn’t meet in the right circumstances.” 

“Why? Because I didn’t love myself?” the desperation of your heart, whose incessant screams seem to fall upon deaf ears, seeps into your wavering voice. Can’t he just listen to you for once? Does he really find it that hard to accept your feelings? Or is this his supposedly gentle way of rejecting you along with all his other admirers? “You’re right, but at least I accept myself for who I am. I know I’m a pathetic girl who just wanted a single second of attention from a boy who already likes another girl, but at least I know that. Can you say the same? Can’t you at least accept the courage it took for the other girls to confess to you? Can you not be a wuss for once and let pitiful girls like me confess?”

Yoongi’s about to challenge your retort, lips flinching but freezing and eyes stirring but melting. You know him well enough now to know acknowledgment and self-reflection is a rarity for a stubborn guy like him. This momentary silence is his way of surrender. Instead, the horrifying thought of having hurt you, the very last intention he had proclaimed himself, dawns upon him and his softened features that you’ve come to so adore. The bittersweet tint to his profile makes it only harder for you to gather your things and stand to your feet. 

“And when you do allow them the chance to confess,” you utter one last time, “can you turn them down bluntly like the way you did to me?”

♡ ♡ ♡

It’s ironic how things work out in life; because here you are, sitting alone with Jin across from you in a diner on the closest thing to your long coveted date, but all you can see is the loopless flashback of last night’s argument with Yoongi. The fact that Jin had texted you at the stroke of midnight, coincidentally only a couple of hours after you had left Yoongi at the park, was enough for you to realize how misconveyed and misconstrued his intentions were yesterday. His words of denial and your words of lash still have something in you wrenching. 

“So, Y/N,” Jin chimes through a puffed mouth full of fries, “what’s on your mind?” 

Glancing up from the red and blue lights’ reflection on the glass tabletop, you blurt out a mindless, “huh?”

“Well, clearly,” he grabs a napkin to wipe the ketchup on his lips, “something seems to be bothering you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, downing another gulp or two of your strawberry shake as he follows suit, “it’s nothing much. Sorry, am I boring you?” 

“No, no, no,” he hastily denies, cackling. “In fact, I’m kind of amused. You aren’t wearing your usual makeup. You don’t have your hair done at all. You’re even wearing your usual grey hoodie today! I feel like I’m seeing the old you again.” 

The old you. Huh, how odd yet unexpectedly relieving is it to finally hear that?

Sights falling to the flickering reflection on the tabletop once again, you mumble, “is that… bad?”

“No, it’s a good thing. I’m glad to see her again. I thought I had lost her,” Jin chuckles for a few seconds before settling into a silence that you’ve come to recognize as a time when he’s adorning a comforting, pressed grin. “So, what happened between you and Yoongi?” 

“Yoongi?” you glance at him wide-eyed. “What do you mean? We don’t talk much. Why?” 

“Oh, cut the crap! You know I can see right through the both of you,” Jin laughs, shaking his head as he plops back into his seat. “Yoongi has been going out much more often in the last month than his entire life added together, and whenever I ask him where he’s heading, he just mumbles ‘I’m hungry.’ Hah! As if! He couldn’t eat more than me even in his dreams!” He leans forward with a raised index finger on each hand. “And you know what’s even more interesting? That ‘I’m hungry’ turned into ‘something important.’ So, you see, when Yoongi comes back to the dorms in a bad mood, too dejected to even greet me, his treasure of a roommate, and when I see you sitting here with a mirror image of him,” he pauses to bring his two fingers together, “I put two and two together, and tadah! Sherlock Holmes can retire now.”

“...oh,” you say with barely parted lips, because how do you explain yourself after being caught red-handed by the last person who was supposed to find out?! The ironic thing is, he must not have been aware that he’s the very reason you and Yoongi were even associated in the first place—”

“—you know, Y/N,” Jin’s laughs settle into a firm yet most serious tone you’ve heard from him as he folds his hands on the table and looks at you head-on, “Yoongi actually asked me to invite you out tonight yesterday. He said it would comfort you, but now that I’m sitting here with you, I think he asked the wrong guy.” 

“Wait,” you interject, brows furrowing as panic catalyzes your racing heart rate, “did Yoongi—”

“—no, Yoongi didn’t tell me anything. He refused to tell me but eventually I came to realize it myself,” Jin gives you a soft, lopsided smile as he places a hand over yours. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize. I hope I didn’t hurt you and I hope I won’t hurt you now, because you’re a precious friend to me, but I can’t accept your feelings, Y/N.” 

“Huh,” you laugh in disbelief at the sudden turn of events, brows knitting and lips upturning in confusion over how little of a weight was lifted off your shoulders and how the gut-wrenching sensation in your chest still sits heavily with you, despite having come full circle. “That’s odd. All this time, I thought I would literally die if I were to hear those words from you… and yet, right now, I can’t help but feel… relieved?”

“Hm, and I wonder why,” Jin muses, happily sipping his milkshake away before he retracts the warmth of his hand over yours in order to point a thumb over his shoulder and at a familiar silhouette out the window and across the street. “Let me help you two dense balls out. If you look across the street, you’ll find another dumb boy with shades on in the middle of the night who has been following and watching us this entire time. Recognize him?”

Squinting, you follow his line of sight only to lock eyes with a very familiar gaze that had you stirring in your sleep the entirety of last night—and when the boy jumps in his seat and frantically shields himself with a menu, your heart skips at the revelation. 

Is that really… Yoongi? 

“You know, I never thought Yoongi would be the soft type, but I guess they’re right when they say love changes people,” Jin cracks up over the way your eyes light up before him. “When he found out that I realized how you felt, he begged me not to tell you until you told me yourself. He wanted me to go out for dinner with you at least once, which is odd, considering he’s always been the type to believe in harsh realities and never indulged in false hope. I guess to him, though, you’re an exception.”

“He really did that…?” you can’t help but smile to yourself, even if the bittersweet aftermath of his unnecessary yet incredibly appreciated notions overtakes you. “He’s… stupid.” 

“Agreed. Much dumber than you or me. And you know what?” he cackles once again, leaning forward eagerly. “He told me if it really didn’t seem like you were going to confess and that if I decide to break it to you first, then I should do it, and I quote, ‘very very gently or else he would kill me.’” 

“Yoongi said that?” you gape in disbelief, cracking up in a laugh mixed with scoffs that eventually overwhelms you with an unexplainable swelling warmth and flutters and gratitude and everything that Yoongi has brought you in the past month—and before you know it, warm waterworks are brimming in your eyes. Hurriedly, you wipe them away with the back of your hand. In between sniffles, you look up at Jin with a reciprocated goofy grin, “I can’t believe he would embarrass himself like that.”

“And,” Jin adds, “he did it for you.”

Smiling to yourself, you repeat, “for me—”

“—Kim Seokjin, I swear!” 

The both of you avert your attention to the diner door that had just been swung wide open—Jin leaning his body into the aisle and you whirling around to crane your neck at the baffling sight—because there he is in all his glory, chest heaving and panting as he shoves his lowered shades into his pockets and comes marching toward the two of you. 

“I told you to do it gently!” he continues adamantly, pointing an accusing finger at Jin.

His best friend raises his hand mercifully, “hey, hey, I did do it gently! Right, Y/N? Right?”

“Really?” Yoongi then unfolds the rest of his fingers to gesture at you with a gentler, less accusing hand. “Then explain to me why she’s crying.”

“She isn’t crying over me, bro!” Jin half-laughs, half-exclaims. Yoongi only scratches his head with a quirked brow, glancing at you for an explanation that you’re just too stunned to give. Grabbing his jacket and standing to his feet, he exchanges a quick glimpse between the two of you. “I’m just going to give you two some much needed alone time. Good luck, goofballs.” 

“Hey,” Yoongi turns around when Jin passes by him, “where do you think you’re going?”

“Home!” he retorts without bothering to glance at him before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder and whispering to you. “Tell this stupid boy everything you’ve been wanting to say, alright?” 

And with that, the newly appointed wingman departs and the former wingman stands there awkwardly by your side. 

“H-Hey,” Yoongi stammers, clearing his throat and seating himself across from you in order to grab some napkins by the window. Handing you the white pile of napkins, he looks off to the side, as if to provide you some privacy. When you just sit there and stare, however, he turns to glance at you and prims his lips at your lack of motion. He then plops the pile and grabs one single napkin before leaning forward to gently dab at the teardrops on your cheeks and mumbling under his breath, “silly, there’s no need to cry, alright?” 

“Y-Yoongi,” you utter after a hiccup, sitting still as he wipes your tears away, “I’m not crying because of Jin. I’m crying because of you.” He pauses, hands freezing—but damn, the sheer care he devotes into his every touch has your insides turning into mush. “And… and I swear I’m going to cry even more if you keep helping me like this.” 

But he persists.

Instead of turning a blind eye to a near-confession he knows you’ve disguised in your tear-fest, he continues to take care of you.

“Then you can keep crying,” he utters, dabbing your newfound tears, “because I’ll always be here to wipe them away.”

You didn’t think you could fall for him any more, but he just keeps proving you wrong.

“Hey, Yoongi,” you say after a long minute of silence. “I think I like you.” 

He doesn’t respond.

“No, I know I like you.” 

He still doesn’t respond. 

“I mean, I really,” you invest every ounce of energy into your emphasis, “really like you.”

He continues to wipe your tears. 

Hesitantly, you ask “...do you believe me this time?”

Nodding, he answers, “yes.”

“And…” your heart almost stops as it screams at you stop, but your mind runs ten times faster, “...how do you feel about me?”

Yoongi takes a second too long to answer and something drops in you, “I’ll tell you when I’ve taken care of my end of the deal.”

At that moment in time, you didn’t realize exactly what he meant until weeks later; but, for now, his disappointing albeit unsurprising answer has you smiling with even more bittersweet tears. This time, you’re able to take light of the fact that now you can declare your feelings unashamedly and unabashedly and all Yoongi can do is shiver at the mushy atmosphere. 

“I like you, Yoongi.”

So you do… and you do it again.

“I really like you.”

And you keep doing it until he responds.

“Hey, Yoongi!” 

“What?!” he finally exclaims, tossing the dampened paper to the side of the table.

“I said I like you,” you grin mischievously. 

“Okay, I heard you,” he prims, eyes flickering to the side and back to you as he scratches the back of his head and mumbles ever-so-quietly the two words you would be repeating endlessly for days on end, “...thank you.” 

♡ ♡ ♡

The last week of classes would’ve gone by agonizingly slow, considering the preceding spur of events, if it weren’t for the endless stream of gossip flying about groups of girls in every corner of the school… including the library; because here you are surrounded by tables of chattering girls whilst sitting in an isolated yet familiar table where you had once shared with Jin, but most engraving of all the fleeting, cherished memories in this dusty library is the fateful encounter between you, the foolish girl willing to change just about anything over a silly confession, and him, the heartthrob of the school whose cowardry keeps him feigning his own confessees.

Rumor has it, girls have been receiving their sign of rejection from the infamously unattainable boy Min Yoongi, whether it be through a blunt albeit heartfelt text or a pull to the side for a short talk after class. To your pleasant surprise, their rejections don’t spark a moment of rejoice from you, as they would have just a week prior, because you, yourself, had been in their shoes before; and as satisfying as it is to finally come to terms with your feelings, it would be a lie to deny the slightest bit of relief that ensues after having accidentally eavesdropped on the latest rejection… because, after all, you still undeniably and irrevocably feel for that boy. 

“Shh, guys,” a girl at the table behind you hisses, “he’s coming over here.”

“Let’s go!” another girl whispers just as several bags zip closed and everyone hustles to bolt out of there quick. 

Just as you turn around to stare in awe over the already abandoned ghost town that is the table behind you, the subject of all the rumors around school stands in the way of your sightings. Spotting his uncharastically bright red sweater that resembles a belated celebration of Valentine’s Day, your eyes warily trace upward, from his stomach, to his chest, and finally, locking gazes with his usual calm, surreal pools of warmth. 

“Hey,” he greets lowly. 

You pause for a second, finally answering when you fail to blink the reverie away, “...hey.”

Eyes skimming you up and down, he smirks at the hoodie and sweats draping over you and your midterm-influenced state of appearance, “looking good.” 

But before you could reply with your own little quip, Yoongi walks over in front of you as you spin back around to spot him seating himself on the tabletop before you; and without another word, he uncrosses his arms and flicks out an all-too-familiar red envelope held in between his two fingers. Frowning at both his remark and his gesture, you stare at the treacherous envelope that had done you a whirlwind of a mess in the past month—from discovering your arch enemy's secret letters to having to team up with him in order to covet for a crush with an inevitable, foreseen rejection, that redmail is the last thing you want to see right now. 

“What?” you snort. “After finally facing your fears and rejecting your suitresses, you’re finally returning your blackmail material to me now? To seal your end of the deal?” 

Groaning at your remark and rolling his eyes, he bends over to grab both of your hands and places the envelope firmly into your palms. “I’m not returning your letter,” he states as-a-matter-of-factly, “I’m giving you a letter.” 

“What?” you wrinkle your nose, mumbling incomprehensible strings of words under your breath at his endless enigmatic ways but still obliging to his beckoning as you fiddle with the white card hidden under the veils of the red envelope; and just as you unfold the mail, Yoongi holds a finger to your chin and tips your attention back onto him. 

“You said you wanted my answer, right? Well, here it is,” he utters with a crooked smile—but when your eyes flicker between the letter and back onto him, he smiles the gummiest, most genuine of grins that you’ve come to so adore… and the next time he speaks, repeating the same words he had scribbled onto the letter before you, you swear you would never curse that treacherous blackmail turned redmail again...

“I like you.”

[livingcorner]

‘Paradise Lost’: How The Apple Became The Forbidden Fruit

Left: Title page of the first edition of Paradise Lost (1667). Right: William Blake, The Temptation and Fall of Eve, 1808 (illustration of Milton’s Paradise Lost) Wikipedia hide caption

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You're reading: ‘Paradise Lost’: How The Apple Became The Forbidden Fruit

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Left: Title page of the first edition of Paradise Lost (1667). Right: William Blake, The Temptation and Fall of Eve, 1808 (illustration of Milton’s Paradise Lost)

Wikipedia

This month marks 350 years since John Milton sold his publisher the copyright of Paradise Lost for the sum of five pounds.

His great work dramatizes the oldest story in the Bible, whose principal characters we know only too well: God, Adam, Eve, Satan in the form of a talking snake — and an apple.

Except, of course, that Genesis never names the apple but simply refers to “the fruit.” To quote from the King James Bible:

And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat the fruit of the trees of the garden; but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God has said, ‘You shall not eat it, nor shall you touch it, lest you die.'”

“Fruit” is also the word Milton employs in the poem’s sonorous opening lines:

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste

Brought Death into the World, and all our woe

Read more: Papergarden

But in the course of his over-10,000-line poem, Milton names the fruit twice, explicitly calling it an apple. So how did the apple become the guilty fruit that brought death into this world and all our woe?

The short and unexpected answer is: a Latin pun.

In order to explain, we have to go all the way back to the fourth century A.D., when Pope Damasus ordered his leading scholar of scripture, Jerome, to translate the Hebrew Bible into Latin. Jerome’s path-breaking, 15-year project, which resulted in the canonical Vulgate, used the Latin spoken by the common man. As it turned out, the Latin words for evil and apple are the same: malus.

In the Hebrew Bible, a generic term, peri, is used for the fruit hanging from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, explains Robert Appelbaum, who discusses the biblical provenance of the apple in his book Aguecheek’s Beef, Belch’s Hiccup, and Other Gastronomic Interjections.

“Peri could be absolutely any fruit,” he says. “Rabbinic commentators variously characterized it as a fig, a pomegranate, a grape, an apricot, a citron, or even wheat. Some commentators even thought of the forbidden fruit as a kind of wine, intoxicating to drink.”

A detail of Michelangelo’s fresco in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel depicting the Fall of Man and expulsion from the Garden of Eden Wikipedia hide caption

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A detail of Michelangelo’s fresco in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel depicting the Fall of Man and expulsion from the Garden of Eden

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When Jerome was translating the “Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,” the word malus snaked in. A brilliant but controversial theologian, Jerome was known for his hot temper, but he obviously also had a rather cool sense of humor.

“Jerome had several options,” says Appelbaum, a professor of English literature at Sweden’s Uppsala University. “But he hit upon the idea of translating peri as malus, which in Latin has two very different meanings. As an adjective, malus means bad or evil. As a noun it seems to mean an apple, in our own sense of the word, coming from the very common tree now known officially as the Malus pumila. So Jerome came up with a very good pun.”

The story doesn’t end there. “To complicate things even more,” says Appelbaum, “the word malus in Jerome’s time, and for a long time after, could refer to any fleshy seed-bearing fruit. A pear was a kind of malus. So was the fig, the peach, and so forth.”

Which explains why Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel fresco features a serpent coiled around a fig tree. But the apple began to dominate Fall artworks in Europe after the German artist Albrecht Dürer’s famous 1504 engraving depicted the First Couple counterpoised beside an apple tree. It became a template for future artists such as Lucas Cranach the Elder, whose luminous Adam and Eve painting is hung with apples that glow like rubies.

Eve giving Adam the forbidden fruit, by Lucas Cranach the Elder. Wikipedia hide caption

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Eve giving Adam the forbidden fruit, by Lucas Cranach the Elder.

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Milton, then, was only following cultural tradition. But he was a renowned Cambridge intellectual fluent in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, who served as secretary for foreign tongues to Oliver Cromwell during the Commonwealth. If anyone was aware of the malus pun, it would be him. And yet he chose to run it with it. Why?

Appelbaum says that Milton’s use of the term “apple” was ambiguous. “Even in Milton’s time the word had two meanings: either what was our common apple, or, again, any fleshy seed-bearing fruit. Milton probably had in mind an ambiguously named object with a variety of connotations as well as denotations, most but not all of them associating the idea of the apple with a kind of innocence, though also with a kind of intoxication, since hard apple cider was a common English drink.”

Read more: Feng Shui Tips For Luck And Wealth: 7 Ways To Use Elephant In Your Home Decor

It was only later readers of Milton, says Appelbaum, who thought of “apple” as “apple” and not any seed-bearing fruit. For them, the forbidden fruit became synonymous with the malus pumila. As a widely read canonical work, Paradise Lost was influential in cementing the role of apple in the Fall story.

But whether the forbidden fruit was an apple, fig, peach, pomegranate or something completely different, it is worth revisiting the temptation scene in Book 9 of Paradise Lost, both as an homage to Milton (who composed his masterpiece when he was blind, impoverished and in the doghouse for his regicidal politics) and simply to savor the sublime beauty of the language. Thomas Jefferson loved this poem. With its superfood dietary advice, celebration of the ‘self-help is the best help’ ideal, and presence of a snake-oil salesman, Paradise Lost is a quintessentially American story, although composed more than a century before the United States was founded.

What makes the temptation scene so absorbing and enjoyable is that, although written in archaic English, it is speckled with mundane details that make the reader stop in surprise.

Take, for instance, the serpent’s impeccably timed gustatory seduction. It takes place not at any old time of the day but at lunchtime:

“Mean while the hour of Noon drew on, and wak’d/ An eager appetite.”

What a canny and charmingly human detail. Milton builds on it by lingeringly conjuring the aroma of apples, knowing full well that an “ambrosial smell” can madden an empty stomach to action. The fruit’s “savorie odour,” rhapsodizes the snake, is more pleasing to the senses than the scent of the teats of an ewe or goat dropping with unsuckled milk at evening. Today’s Food Network impresarios, with their overblown praise and frantic similes, couldn’t dream up anything close to that peculiarly sensuous comparison.

It is easy to imagine the scene. Eve, curious, credulous and peckish, gazes longingly at the contraband “Ruddie and Gold” fruit while the unctuous snake-oil salesman murmurs his encouragement. Initially, she hangs back, suspicious of his “overpraising.” But soon she begins to cave: How can a fruit so “Fair to the Eye, inviting to the Taste,” be evil? Surely it is the opposite, its “sciental sap” must be the source of divine knowledge. The serpent must speak true.

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour

Forth reaching to the Fruit, she pluck’d, she eat:

Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat

Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe,

That all was lost.

But Eve is insensible to the cosmic disappointment her lunch has caused. Sated and intoxicated as if with wine, she bows low before “O Sovran, vertuous, precious of all Trees,” and hurries forth with “a bough of fairest fruit” to her beloved Adam, that he too might eat and aspire to godhead. Their shared meal, foreshadowed as it is by expulsion and doom, is a moving and poignant tableau of marital bliss.

Meanwhile, the serpent, its mission accomplished, slinks into the gloom. Satan heads eagerly toward a gathering of fellow devils, where he boasts that the Fall of Man has been wrought by something as ridiculous as “an apple.”

Except that it was a fig or a peach or a pear. An ancient Roman punned – and the apple myth was born.

Nina Martyris is a freelance journalist based in Knoxville, Tenn.

Source: https://livingcorner.com.au Category: Garden

source https://livingcorner.com.au/paradise-lost-how-the-apple-became-the-forbidden-fruit/

[nightfayre]

a donation drabble request for the ever kind and supportive Ayobami @tps31! thank you SO MUCH for your donation and support!! you’ll never know how much it means to me <3

prompt: tianshan quarantine fluff, aka “why the hell am I stuck in a house with you all day every day?”

(a/n: this is just a random thought but I honestly don’t think I’ve written a fic about the boys still in middle school like, ever, so thank you so much for this prompt! it was so refreshing to write them as the flustered, airheaded, and teasing boys they are!) <3

tianshan, 3600 words, rated T

*   *   *

Guan Shan hates this. 

The laundry basket next to his. The pair of shoes at the front door. The extra toothbrush in his bathroom, and the second phone charger plugged in next to his bed. There’s a gray duffel bag taking up the corner of his bedroom and a black jacket draped over the back of his desk chair. None of it takes up too much space, carefully put into their respective places and never crossing the boundary, but—

Guan Shan hates it.

And, what’s worse: he never asked for this. He was stupid enough to mention He Tian’s name at the dinner table one night; a passing comment he hadn’t really thought about. But then his mother had paused with a spoonful of miso soup at her lips, pensive.

“He Tian,” she’d echoed, as if the name felt foreign but sweet on her tongue. “Isn’t that the one who lives near the center of the city? The one who lives alone? The tall and polite and handsome one of your friends?”

“Uh,” Guan Shan had said, smirking with distaste. “Yeah. Sure. That one.”

“Poor thing. Alone throughout all of this mess.” She sighed. “Why does he not live with his family?”

And Guan Shan had thought about it for a moment, sifting through his mind like pressing rewind on a VHS. “I don’t know,” he’d admitted, reaching for the soy sauce. “Never asked.”

She nodded, thinking. “Well, you should invite him over, then.”

Guan Shan choked. 

Oblivious, his mother had continued: “Have him stay a few nights. No one should be left alone throughout this entire period. Who knows how long this will last, what with how many cases that have been reported. He’ll go stir crazy by himself, poor soul.”

“He’s already stir crazy,” Guan Shan said, eyes watering from a dislodged grain of rice. “I don’t want him here, ma. I’ll literally do anythin’ else. Seriously.”

She’d given him a disappointed look. “Ah-Shan, I thought I raised you to have a little more compassion than that.”

“Trust me, a person like him doesn’t need compassion.”

“Now, you don’t know that,” she reprimanded. She tapped her chopsticks against her bowl, succinct. “After we finish dinner, you should reach out to him and invite him to spend the week with us.”

“A week?”

“Well, now that school is postponed and I’m working from home, wouldn’t it be nice to have company for a bit?”

“Ma, please—“

“You will text him, Ah-Shan. No excuses. The world needs kindness right now, and we will do whatever we can to contribute to it.”

And that, unfortunately, was that. 

That night, Guan Shan deleted the message immediately after he sent it, as if that would erase it out of his memory, too. But it was hard to forget the string of skeptical yet blaringly enthusiastic string of response texts that followed the invite, and even harder to forget the sight of He Tian at their front door half an hour later, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and smile bright as he greeted Guan Shan’s mother with practiced sweetness and feigned gratitude. 

Guan Shan hated it. 

But as his mother shot him a warning look, Guan Shan couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t just ignore him like he did, sometimes, at school.

And now, five days in, there’s a knock at the bathroom door. 

“Little Mo, are you naked?”

Running a towel over his hair, Guan Shan scowls at his reflection in the mirror, still foggy from the steam. “Fuck off, chickenshit.”

“I’m kidding.” He can hear the smile in He Tian’s voice. “I just need to brush my teeth.”

“Then you can wait.”

“It’s been twenty minutes, sweetheart. Are your showers usually this long?”

“That’s an average fuckin’ time for showers!”

A hum, muffled by the closed door. “Really? Mine only take ten, and that’s generous considering the precious amount of time I spend washing my—”

The thunk of the lotion bottle against the door rattles its hinges. “Fuck off!” 

He waits until he hears He Tian’s footsteps recede. Guan Shan hates that he knows He Tian is walking away with that smug-as-all-hell smile, satisfied. 

He dresses quickly after that, doing his best to ignore the citrus-scented face wash by the faucet and the contact lens case by the hand soap. The first time he’d seen all of He Tian’s things laid out like this on his bathroom counter was something like a revelation. It was like some things clicked into place, unbidden. Now it makes sense why Guan Shan sometimes thinks he catches a whiff of lemonade every time He Tian gets too close, and why He Tian looks like he’s scowling whenever he reads but, really, it’s just because he’s blind as a fucking bat and has to squint to see fine print. 

If nothing else, Guan Shan suspects at least something valuable might come out of all this time he’s forced to spend together with He Tian — (read: blackmail) — but then again, He Tian hasn’t commented on the old, stained state of Guan Shan’s pillow like Guan Shan thought he would because he’s used it since he was four and can’t really sleep well if he’s not using that specific pillow. And he also hasn’t said anything about the way Guan Shan jumps, sometimes, when the toaster springs up his toast in the mornings because he never fucking sees it coming and it — sometimes — causes him to drop his jam knife.

A stalemate, Guan Shan supposes as he pulls his shirt over his head. Except, deep down, he knows that He Tian probably isn’t even aware that such a concept exists. After all, what would He Tian be if not someone to fight ‘til a broken victor is left standing? 

By the time Guan Shan walks out into the living room, it’s ten o’clock. His mother, having finished washing the dishes because Guan Shan made dinner, is nowhere in sight, likely huddled up in her bedroom with a book like she always does before bed. That leaves He Tian alone on the couch, casually flipping through TV stations in a t-shirt and sweats, and he doesn’t see Guan Shan at first when the latter turns the corner. 

“Bathroom’s open, dipshit,” Guan Shan mutters. He Tian looks up as Guan Shan approaches, settling on the opposite end of the couch.

“About time.” He Tian tosses Guan Shan the remote, and he barely catches it before it smacks against his chest. Standing, He Tian smiles and says, “Find something good to watch by the time I get back, okay?”

“I don’t work at your beck and call,” Guan Shan seethes. But despite his retorts, his fingers find the remote buttons as He Tian saunters back to the bathroom, hands in pockets and steps quiet against the creaky floors. 

For a while, there really is nothing interesting on any of the channels. Guan Shan flies past a romcom, an old horror film, a few cartoons, the dreaded news. Nothing catches his attention — and he feels exhaustion coming on quick. He thinks, maybe, of just going to bed. But behind the apartment’s thin walls, he can hear the water running from the faucet. Despite himself, he frowns. 

It’s odd, really. He never thought he could get used to the image of He Tian’s broad frame hunched over his sink in the mornings, or the way He Tian can reach the bowls at the top of the cupboards without going on his toes, or the sight of He Tian’s nape pressed against the twin-sized air mattress on the floor of Guan Shan’s bedroom. He never thought anyone could make his mother laugh as much as he can, or finish puzzles as fast as he can, and he certainly never thought that his mother would spill Guan Shan’s childhood stories to someone she’d only met... once? Twice? He doesn’t keep track. He never had to before. 

Nevertheless, it’s not nearly enough time to warrant such trust. Such comfort. 

Guan Shan hates it. 

But in the midst of his lamenting, the faucet shuts off. A few moments later He Tian returns. And when he plops back onto the couch — too close — he smells of mint and vanilla-scented chapstick. 

Too aware of his presence and the way his knee almost touches Guan Shan’s, Guan Shan takes a long second to snap back to reality when He Tian asks, “What’s this?”

Guan Shan blinks. On the TV, there’s some kind of documentary playing. A narrator drones over the images of a complex space aircraft, and the camera pans out to show footage of the stars it swims in. As the screen switches to an interview of someone very important-looking in a suit, Guan Shan scowls.

“I don’t know. Nothin’s on.”

He Tian stretches his arms above his head, long and lithe. “Well,” he says, drawn with a sigh, “if you’re trying to put me to sleep, it might actually work.”

“Fuck off, I don’t control the damn stations,” Guan Shan bites. “And you shouldn’t be tired to begin with. You did jack shit today, just like every other day.”

He Tian looks at him, the corners of his eyes softened with drowsiness in a way that Guan Shan has become used to seeing. 

“That’s not true,” He Tian says. “I went with you to pick up supplies so your mom can sew masks. And we went to get the mail downstairs. And I helped you go grocery shopping—“

“You fuckin’ stood there with the cart and didn’t help at all—“

“—and I chopped the onions and peppers for dinner. That’s a lot. I’m exhausted.”

“That’s a normal person’s life,” Guan Shan says, exasperated. “Honestly, what the hell did you do all your life until quarantine?”

He Tian seems to take a moment to genuinely think about his answer. “Homework,” he offers, brows a bit pulled. “Basketball. School, obviously. I usually go to the convenience store for dinner, but sometimes I’ll get takeout. And I don’t get mail, but my groceries get delivered to me, so.”

And then he looks at Guan Shan, almost as if expecting some kind of praising reaction — but Guan Shan can only stare. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Guan Shan says after a long moment. “That’s ridiculous and fuckin’ miserable. You live like a robot, and a broken one at that.”

Silence. Then He Tian sits up a little straighter, as if a puppetmaster had pulled on his strings.

“I mean, I used to take piano lessons,” he says, frowning as he rubs at his neck. “And Cheng took me to shooting ranges. And…” A pause. “Camping. Yeah, we went camping some weekends. Went to rivers and fished together all day. I caught a few sometimes.”

Guan Shan blinks. “What, are you tryin’ to prove somethin’ to me right now?”

And He Tian shrugs. “Maybe.”

The answer takes Guan Shan by surprise. But He Tian’s face is neutral — expression always so put together — and Guan Shan wonders if maybe He Tian is lying to him. Building up some kind of persona again just to tear it down later. Because, surely, with that much fucking money and privilege, the guy doesn’t just sit there in that empty apartment all day and twiddle his thumbs. Surely, with his reputation, he has a regular posse of socialites always seeking him out and inviting him to some kind of get-together or event. Surely, considering all that he is, He Tian doesn’t waste his time looking for, or teasing, or protecting, or calling up—

“Guan Shan?” He Tian says, mouth a little twisted. “You still awake?”

The low rambling of the space documentary suddenly seems louder. Guan Shan swallows, once, then forces himself to look away. 

“You make no fuckin’ sense to me,” Guan Shan mutters. Then: “When are you leavin’?”

“Ouch,” He Tian remarks in an empty but unsurprised tone, shifting back on the couch. After a moment, he shrugs and responds, “Depends. Your text said a week but your mom says forever.”

A scowl. “She didn’t fuckin’ say that.”

He Tian smiles. “No, she didn’t. But she did say as long as I wanted — which, really, isn’t that much different from forever.”

Guan Shan swallows; feels inexplicable heat crawl up his neck like a spider, and he clenches his jaw against it. 

“You should go live with your own family,” he says, staring ahead. “I’m sure they’ve got all the time in the world to shower you with attention.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees He Tian smirk. 

“If I didn’t want to live with them at the best of times, what makes you think I would want to live with them at the worst of times?”

Guan Shan considers that. “This… isn’t the worst of times.”

“There’s a pandemic with no cure killing hundreds of people every day,” He Tian says, bland. “School is practically cancelled. People aren’t going to work. You invited me over to your home, unprompted. Even I know, with all things considered, that these are pretty bad times.”

Guan Shan can’t argue that. Instead he stares at the television, watching an astronomer point out weird symbols on some kind of map. It takes a lot of concentration to focus on nothing. After all, if he shifts his gaze any more to the right, he’ll see He Tian. If he lets his eyes slide down any further, he’ll see the way He Tian’s knee is still too close to his own. Both are dangerous territories for dangerous thoughts, and he doesn’t want anything to do with either. 

After a moment of silence, Guan Shan says, “You know, you should get friends. Real friends, and not your fuckin’ fangirl group.”

He Tian raises a brow. “I have you and Jian Yi and Zhan Zheng Xi.”

“That’s not—” And then Guan Shan stops, frowning, because he’s not actually sure what their ragtag mess of a group isn’t. Instead, he swallows and pathetically hides behind: “I’m not your fuckin’ friend.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Or, maybe, it’s exactly what He Tian thought what he’d say. Guan Shan isn’t sure; he’s never fuckin’ sure when it comes to him. But it doesn’t stop him from tensing up when He Tian turns to face him, fully. Wholly. It leaves no escape, and Guan Shan realizes with a sour kind of reluctance that he has no choice but to look back.

“No?” He Tian asks, meeting his gaze. “Then, what are you to me?”

The way the television’s screen lights up He Tian’s face — it’s like looking at a painting, alone in the museum, at the dusk of day. Blue hues shine through his hair, dim, and his eyes are only bright enough to reflect the silhouette of Guan Shan sitting in front of him. It’s eerie, how the both of them are so undefined in this moment. Maybe, in a way, that’s easier. 

Guan Shan’s voice feels thick when he says, “I’m not answerin’ that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t— need to.”

“Why?” And then: “Overthinking it?”

Guan Shan flares. “What? What the fuck does that— No, I just— I don’t need to answer fuckin’ anything, asshole. I… I owe you jack shit.”

Silence responds to him. He Tian watches him; studies him. Guan Shan feels like a specimen under his gaze, split apart layer by layer under the microscope. He feels like, somewhere, something in him is splintering. And He Tian is watching it happen. 

“I don’t have a fuckin’ answer,” Guan Shan admits, sudden, like a sinner in a confession booth, heavy and quiet and raspy. “Okay? I told you, you don’t make any goddamn sense to me. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for my ma.”

He Tian soaks that in, almost as thoroughly as he takes in the sight of Guan Shan’s flushed scowl. 

“You didn’t want me here?” he says, teasing.

“No, dipshit. Every time you’ve been here hasn’t been because I asked you to be.”

He Tian smirks. “Ouch,” he says again, except this time it’s said in a way that pricks Guan Shan like a rose thorn.

Guan Shan pushes down the heavy feeling in his throat. “I don’t know what you were expectin’,” he says, truthfully. 

And then He Tian looks away, rolling his head. There’s a kind of empty look in his eyes that Guan Shan thinks he recognizes, and after a moment he realizes it’s the same look he’s seen in He Cheng’s eyes in the few rare times they’d crossed paths.

“I wasn’t expecting a pandemic,” He Tian says. His voice sounds loud in the small room. “I wasn’t expecting school break to get extended. I wasn’t expecting all the restaurants to close, and for all the store’s shelves to be wiped clean.” He runs his tongue along his teeth. “But I guess, for some reason, I was expecting a text from you after weeks of nothing.”

It hits Guan Shan, hard and heavy, like a ring-laden fist against his cheek. The last time he’d seen He Tian before all of this mess was a month ago — more — and at the time, none of them had known that this is how it would turn out. How could they? It’d only taken a week for things to turn south, and Guan Shan was too busy worrying of how he and his mom were going to file for unemployment to think of the way his phone had been silent for longer than he’s been used to. 

He wants to pull it out right now; check his recent messages. It would be with a sort of disbelief when he would find the timestamp on He Tian’s contact, he already knows. But the shock wouldn’t come from his own lack of outreach. No, his perplexity would stem from He Tian, the same person who couldn’t go a single weekend without a conversation about nothing over Facetime back when things were normal. The same person who, apparently, hadn’t messaged him once until Guan Shan texted him that dreadful night five days ago. 

Had he been— testing Guan Shan?

“I didn’t reach out to anybody else,” Guan Shan hears himself saying. The words taste bitter as they leave his mouth. What is he doing? What does he have to justify? “I... It was weird, those first few days of the lockdown order, and my ma and I— we had a lot goin’ on. It wasn’t— I mean, I haven’t talked to Zheng Xi or Jian Yi this whole time either. I just... don’t have time. Or, I did, but it wasn’t urgent. I— yeah, I barely use my phone anymore, anyway. I’m always at home now so I just... don’t need it.”

He stops, his tongue feeling thick. He Tian isn’t looking at him, but he knows he’s listening. Somehow, the thought makes it even worse. 

“What,” He Tian suddenly says, and there’s a curl to his mouth that he can’t seem to help, “are you trying to prove something to me right now?”

“I—“ Guan Shan flares, teeth clenched and ears hot. “Fuck you. No, I’m not, asshole. I’m actually rescuin’ your damn pride, but apparently you’ve got too fuckin’ much.”

“Hey, hey,” He Tian says, wrapping his fingers around Guan Shan’s wrist when he makes to get up. “Come on. Don’t make me finish this documentary by myself.”

Guan Shan scowls. “I’m tired. Let go.”

“Then we can sleep on the couch,” He Tian replies — and then almost as if it were an afterthought: “again.”

Guan Shan warms at the implication of it. “Why the fuck would I do that when my room is around the corner?” he hisses. 

He Tian tugs his arm. “Because I’ll follow you anyway since I’ve only got two days left with you and I’m not letting today end like this.” He smiles. “We’re not sleeping yet. I’m selfish.”

“I could’ve fuckin’ told you that,” Guan Shan mutters, dry. But he relaxes, settling back on the couch, and eventually He Tian lets him go. The skin he had touched feels electric in his absence.

“Let’s make popcorn and ride this out,” He Tian says, settling against a throw pillow. His eyes, no longer empty, are content as they drift back to the screen.

Hand in chin, Guan Shan smirks. “We both brushed our teeth already. I’m not doin’ it again.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He Tian gestures to the TV. “Popcorn and something more interesting than this.”

“If you think this is so damn boring, then why are you still here?”

“When else will I find an opportunity to spend time with you like this after I leave?”

Guan Shan doesn’t respond. After a moment, He Tian huffs. 

“That’s when you’re supposed to invite me back over in the future, little Mo,” he says, amused. Guan Shan shoots him a warning look as the documentary goes to a commercial break. 

“Don’t push your luck,” he snaps. “And don’t try to convince my ma, either.”

He Tian hums, shifting, and Guan Shan suppresses a flinch when his knee presses up against his. Warm. “I hadn’t even thought about that. That might be the agenda for tomorrow, now.”

“I’m sick of you,” Guan Shan growls. And He Tian laughs, like it’s the funniest thing ever, how easily he can get under Guan Shan’s skin and force him to worry about nothing and get him to stay with him to watch shitty television all within the span of twenty minutes. How Guan Shan has managed to survive more than three days is an incredible feat. How he’s unable to chase away the thought of inviting He Tian over for dinner after he leaves, sometimes, is an inexplicable one. 

And when the documentary comes back on with a cheap intro jingle and the streaming quality of a disposable camera, Guan Shan feels He Tian’s foot hook against his and tries to convince himself, over and over:

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

*  *  *

thank you for reading! likes/reblogs would be greatly appreciated, as this fic is dedicated to the Black Lives Matter movement. if you would like a fic/drabble written for you (and you want to support the BLM cause!), please see this post!

have an incredible week! <3

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

The Visit to Nazareth (Luke 4:16-30)

Christ never forgot the place where He had spent His childhood years. We are not given many facts of His life there. Nothing indicates that there was anything unusual in the story of the thirty years He spent there. The more we think of His life at Nazareth as simply natural, without anything unusual - the nearer shall we come to the true picture of the boy and young man - who grew up in the lowly village of Nazareth. Our passage today tells of His visit to His old home after He had been away for many months.

"He came to Nazareth, where He had been brought up." It was not an easy place for Jesus to visit. Everybody knew Him. He had lived there for thirty years. He had been playmate and schoolmate with the children of His own age. He had been a carpenter, doing work for many years in the shop and about the town. The young men of Nazareth thought themselves as good as He was, and were not in any mood to receive instruction from Him. It is easy for us to understand the prejudice and envy with which people listened to Jesus, as He spoke to them that day in their synagogue.

There are some lessons to be taken, however, from our Lord's example in thus going back to Nazareth. One is that we ought to seek the good of our own neighbors and friends. Many young men go away from plain country or village homes, and in other and wider spheres rise to prominence and influence. Such ought not in their eminence, to forget their old home. They owe much to it. It is pleasant to hear of rich men giving libraries or establishing hospitals or doing other noble things for the town in which they were born. Among our first obligations, is that which we owe to our old friends and neighbors .

Another lesson is, that as young people - we ought to live so carefully that when we grow up - we may be able to go back to our old home and, in the midst of those who have know us all our life, witness for God. There are some men, good and great now; who's preaching would have but small effect where they were brought up - because of the way they lived during their youth. Sins of youth - break the power of life's testimonies in later years. A blameless youth-time, makes one's words strong in mature days.

"And he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up: and, as his custom was, he went into the synagogue on the Sabbath Day, and stood up to read" (Luke 4:16). Here we have a glimpse of our Lord's religious habits. From childhood, His custom had been to attend the synagogue service on the Sabbath. Here are good shoe prints for young people to set their feet in. The time to begin to attend church-is in youth. Habits formed then - stay with us all our life. If our custom is to stay away then from church services, we will be very apt to keep up that custom when we get older. On the other hand, if we go to church regularly from childhood, the custom will become so wrought into our life - that in after years we shall not incline to stay away. And the value of such a habit is very great.

"He opened the book, and found the place where it was written." The book was part of the Old Testament. Some people have the feeling that the Old Testament is dry and uninteresting. But we see here what precious things Jesus found in it, that day in the synagogue. The passage which He quoted drips with the sweetness and tenderness of divine love. It is a great honeycomb of gospel grace !

Some men were about to tear down an old frame house, long unoccupied. When they began to remove the outer boarding, they found a mass of honey. As they removed the boards at different points they discovered the whole side of the house, between the weather boarding and the plastering, was filled with honey. People regard the Old Testament as an old, worn-out book, a mere relic of old ceremonial days. But when they begin to open it - they find honey, and as they look into it at other points they find that all the passages, in among the histories, the chronicles of war, and the descriptions of ceremonial rites - are full of sweetest honey! Here is a bit of dripping honey-comb, and there are hundreds more, which are just as rich. We do not know what we lose - when we do not study the Old Testament.

"The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed ." These are the special classes of people - to whom Jesus was sent. What a picture this is of humanity! Some people ridicule what the bible says about Adam and Eve's FALL. They tell us there never was a fall, and that the world is all right. They talk eloquently about the grandeur of human life. But this eighteenth verse certainly looks very much like the picture of a very bad ruin. Read the description - poor, prisoners, blind, oppressed. There is not much grandeur in that. Anyone who goes about and looks honestly at life - knows that the picture is not over-drawn. On every hand we see the wreck and ruin caused by sin. Then suffering and sorrow follow, and hearts and lives are crushed and bruised!

But there is something here a great deal brighter than this sad picture. Light breaks on the ruin - as we read that it was to repair such moral desolation as we see here that Jesus came. He came "to preach good news to the poor; to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed." He saw in all these ruins of humanity, something that by His grace - He could make beautiful enough for heaven and glory. Christ is a restorer. There are men who take old, dimmed, effaced, almost destroyed pictures - and restore them until they appear nearly as beautiful as when they first came from the artist's hand. So Christ comes to ruined souls, and by the power of His love and grace - He restores them until they wear His own beauty in the presence of God!

"To preach the acceptable year of the Lord." For the Jews this "acceptable year" closed with the condemnation of the Messiah. Jesus stood on Olivet and looked down upon the city and wept over it and said, "If you had known, even you, the things which belong unto your peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes!" (Luke 10:42). When He spoke these words, amid the rush of tears and with loud outcry of grief, "the acceptable year" closed. After that - the doom hung over the beautiful city, which in forty years burst upon it in all its woe and terribleness. This is history.

But there is another way to look at this matter. There is an "acceptable year" for each soul. It begins when Christ first comes to us and offers salvation. It continues while He stands at our door and knocks. It closes when we drive Him away from our door by utter and final rejection - or when death comes upon us unsaved and hurries us away forever from the world of mercy. Since the past is gone and there is no certain future to anyone, the "acceptable year" to us all is NOW. Shall we allow it to pass and close - while we remain unsaved?

"Today this Scripture is fulfilled in your hearing." Seven hundred years before, had the words been written. Now Jesus reads them and says to the people: "I am the One to whom the description refers! I am the One the prophet meant!" The whole Old Testament was full of Christ; and the New Testament is full of fulfillments of the Old Testament.

It is pleasant, too, to take this particular passage and show how Christ indeed fulfilled in His life and ministry - the mission which the prophet marked out for Him. He preached to the poor, He healed the broken - hearted. Wherever He went, the sorrowing and the troubled flocked about Him. As a magnet draws steel filings to itself - out of a heap of rubbish; so did the heart of Christ draw to Him the needy, the sad, the suffering, and the oppressed. He was the friend of sinners. He brought deliverance to sin's captives, setting them free and breaking their chains. He opened blind eyes ; not only blind natural eyes to see the beautiful things of this world - but also blind spiritual eyes to see spiritual things. Then He lifted the yoke off the crushed and oppressed, inviting all the weary to Himself to find rest. His whole life was simply a filling out of this outline sketch !

They "rose up, and thrust Him out of the city, and led Him unto the brow of the hill… that they might cast Him down." Their envy grew into murderous rage. We see first, the danger of allowing envious feelings to stay in our hearts; they are sure to grow into greater bitterness, and may lead us into open and terrible sin. We should instantly check every thought or motion of envy, anger or hatred - and cast it out of our heart.

This act shows also the natural hatred of God which is in human hearts. We talk severely of the Jews' rejection of their Messiah - but this opposition to God is not exclusively a Jewish quality. Is it not the same with all of us? So long as the divine teaching runs along in lines that are pleasing to us, we assent, and applaud the beauty of God's truth. But when the teaching falls against our own tendencies and dispositions and opinions - we wince, and too often declare our disbelief. They tried to kill Him; is not the rejection of many people now just as violent? They would kill Him if they could!

His word was with authority. His words are always with authority. We remember how all things hearkened to His words and obeyed them. Diseases fled at His command. The winds and waves were quieted and hushed at His word. The water changed to wine at His bidding. The dead in their graves heard His call and answered. Evil spirits owned His lordship. Nothing for a moment resisted His authority. Shall we not take Christ's Word as the rule of our faith and of our conduct? Shall we not yield to His authority?

[twokinkybeans]

Company Chapter 4: Ostara

Moodboard made by Kim <3  

Peter returns to the woods on Ostara. Will he find who he's looking for? Or will someone else find him first?

Warnings for this chapter: Angst with a good ending, magic and folklore, mischief, lightly implied dub/non con.

Go to the Masterpost for all the teaser poems and chapters! Read Company - Chapter 4: Ostara on AO3! —————————————————————————————- I can’t believe I made it! This chapter would not have been posted on time had it not been for Kim, who has majorly helped me out writing this chapter! Thank you so much bean! Words can’t describe my gratitude! <3 The next chapter will be posted on May 1st (Beltane) and will contain only good things so get ready for that! <3 Thank you for reading this chapter, if you do! I hope you enjoy! <3 - Lien

...

Peter knows he shouldn’t stare at the clock every minute of every day but he can’t help himself. The days on his calendar are crossed out one by one but it’s not going fast enough. Never fast enough. Oberon is out there, somewhere, being punished for being kind and good. All Peter can do is wait it out and, by God, does he hate waiting. The final day is the worst by far. The train ride seems to take three times as long as it normally does and the walk from the train station to the woods weighs heavy on his shoulders, almost as if the edge of the forest is miles and miles further than it actually is. When the trees finally appear in his field of vision, Peter can barely contain himself. His feet are on autopilot, quickening their pace as Peter’s heart pumps between his ears. Once he reaches the border of town into the woods, his mind catches up. Peter’s body halts abruptly. His breath catches in his throat and he closes his eyes. “I can’t go in,” he mutters to himself. If he does, the Fae will come for him and he will never be able to find Oberon. They’d make sure of that. Frustrated, Peter paces back and forth along the edge of the woods, trying to think of a way to contact Oberon this far away from where Peter vaguely recalls his cottage being. He doesn’t notice he inches further and further away from town, but he doesn’t really care. He cares about finding Oberon. Nothing else. After half an hour of walking, he opts to sit down right at the edge, just out of the Fae’s reach, but hopefully close enough for Oberon to sense his presence. He crosses his legs and stares intently into the distance. He guesses he will be here a while.

… It’s nearly noon and doing nothing always exhausts Peter rather quickly. He listens to his breathing, eyes scanning past the nature scene in front of him. Sometimes he catches an animal scuttering over the ground between the bushes. The green trees, with the sun shining through them, distort Peter’s vision slightly as his gaze unfocuses over time. He blinks, trying to refocus, but he can’t really fight his sleepiness anymore. “Puck?” A distant voice calls out. The silhouette of a figure appears among the trees in Peter’s vision. The young man immediately perks up. Tears well up in his eyes and distort his vision even further. “Oberon?” “Puck,” the Fae confirms. Peter scoffs relieved, crawling to stand up and once again his feet have a mind of their own. Peter runs as fast as his legs can take him. Oberon spreads his arms invitingly and Peter automatically gravitates towards the Fae. The pull is so strong, Peter couldn’t deny it if he tried. Tears of relief now stream down his face and soon enough, he crashes into his love. The man embraces him immediately, gently stroking his hair as Peter sobs against the Fae’s chest. His grip on Oberon is tight; he’s not planning on letting go anytime soon. “I- I thought- I-” “Sssssh, ssh-ssh,” Oberon shushes gently, not pausing the kind petting. It feels slightly possessive, but Peter doesn’t mind a bit. It’s what he has wished for for all this time he had to wait. It’s what he wants- yearns for. To be Oberon’s. To be Stark’s . Peter’s shoulders shake through his crying and he melts when he feels Oberon’s lips on the top of his head. Oberon’s smell is different, yet intoxicatingly sweet. The fragrance has Peter slightly lightheaded and for some reason, his cock takes interest in it too. There are whispers beyond the trees, but Peter phases them into the background, only for his subconscious to listen to. He doesn’t care about other Fae right now- only about the man he is with. “I thought I lost you,” Peter finally whispers. “You cannot lose what is not yours,” Oberon replies, causing Peter to frown slightly against the Fae’s chest. “For you are mine.” “Not yet,” Peter says quickly, pulling back to look into Oberon’s deep eyes. “But there’s nothing I want more in the world than to be yours.” A wide grin spreads on the Fae’s face. Peter blinks a few times, briefly wondering when this strange fog had appeared and surrounded them. The scent is even more intense than it was before and he sways on his feet, not understanding what’s happening. His head is swimming, but when he vaguely processes Oberon is smiling, the corners of his own mouth gently curl up, smiling along. “Be mine?” Oberon asks. “Please-” “Then give me your name, beautiful. Give me your name and give yourself to me.” Oberon’s hand caresses Peter’s cheek and the young man closes his eyes, leaning into it. “Forever.” “ Peter… ” The tug Peter feels at his heart is wanted now. Needed. It feels delicious and it has Peter leaning against the Fae in front of him even more. He opens his eyes to see Oberon’s face shift into Beck’s, but he feels so good, that he no longer cares. This is where he is meant to be now. With the Fae who knows his name. “ Peter Parker .” ... As the sun begins to set, Tony wonders why he’s still out here. It’s Ostara after all. He should be at home to celebrate the first hints of spring. He may not be a part of the Summer Court, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t respect nature’s natural cycle. Especially since residing in his cabin in the forest he finds himself more in harmony with the life around him, no matter how small. He never misses a celebration. Well, except for this past year. He’s already skipped Samhain, Yule and Imbolc. All because of a boy. Tony sighs when he thinks about Puck’s lovely smile. He should’ve known it to be a bad idea. A relationship between a Fae and a human is destined to go wrong. The power imbalance is too big. It’s too dangerous. Yet, here he finds himself, wandering the edges of the forest in the hopes of perhaps catching even the slightest glance of the boy he’s grown so attached to. Tony knows his attempts are fruitless. Puck is no longer bound to their agreement. He’s not coming back, and while Tony knows he did the right thing… It hurts. “The decades will pass,” he whispers to himself. “You’ll forget about him soon enough. He’s just human, after all." Tony frowns when a sudden, awfully annoying tune demands his attention. It’s a human song, that much is certain. No fae would ever dare playing something this appaling. Somewhat curious, he makes his way over to where the sound comes from. He’ll put a stop to the screeching melody and chase the humans away. He doesn’t like the anxious thunderstorm whirling in his chest. The sound grows louder and louder, but otherwise it’s awfully quiet. Almost as if the tune plays by itself…? Tony pushes past a large low-hanging branch- and stops walking. He stares at the familiar device on the floor and his nostrils flare. Could that… Could that be Parker’s phone? He walks closer, careful in case it’s a trap, and then crouches down. He taps his finger at the back of the phone once. When nothing happens, he turns it around. There’s a large crack in the screen and Tony swallows. He remembers how Puck told him that phones are incredibly expensive. He pushes the button and gasps, nearly dropping the device when the familiar picture of Puck and his aunt lights up underneath the damaged surface. “Parker…” he whispers. Then, louder, “-Parker?” He stands up and his eyes scan past his surroundings panickedly. “Puck, are you there?” When no response comes, Tony can feel the dread settle deep within his chest. He winces as the hurt digs so deep that it nearly physically pains him. Puck had come back for him. Puck waited for him- and Tony hadn’t showed up. Parker would never leave his precious belonging in the forest like this- not even because of the cracks. Something happened. Another Fae must’ve found him. Beck. - It doesn’t take Tony very long to find Beck’s large residence in the midst of the Winter Court’s Royal grounds. He stares up at the large, labradorite granite staircase leading up to the dark, wooden doors. Puck’s phone is clutched tight within his grip. The bothersome, harsh-sounding tune keeps playing every few minutes. It’s been quiet for a short while now, but Tony knows it’ll start playing again at any given moment. There’s no chance he’ll be able to sneak inside unnoticed. Then again, he knows Beck is counting on him to show up. Beck loves to put up a show. Tease and torture poor human beings and then ultimately claiming them to use them as slaves. It’s not unusual. This is how fae are. Tony grew up with the same values. Yet his father had taught him to not take the ordeal lightly, and how to look after human beings to make sure they’re well taken care of. Beck is cruel. Driven with greed and jealousy and every single bad thing the fae have ever been known for in the human world. Tony has to save Puck before it’s too late. Every single fiber in his being wishes for Puck to not have given up his name. If that’s the case… Tony can’t even think about that. Puck may hate him, or despise him all he wants. But Tony won’t let him rot away in this hellhole of a house. Tony straightens his shoulders. While Beck may be royalty, Tony still is the rightful heir of the entire Winter Court. He’s a prince . Beck will have no choice but to let him in. The black-haired fae resolutely makes his way up to the staircase and bangs his fist against the doors. “Beck, I demand access to your property!” The doors swing open and Beck leans against the doorpost with a smug grin plastered on his face. “Ah! What did I do to have earned Your Highness’s valuable time?” Beck cocks his head, but Tony ignores the mocking use of his title. “Cut the playing. I know you have Puck and you’ll give him back to me. He does not belong to you.” Tony says through gritted teeth. Beck laughs, the sound echoes through the large hallway behind him. “I admire your spirited devotion to the human boy, but he is in fact, not yours either. Is he? You should’ve claimed him when you had the chance.” Beck chuckles. “He’s lovely. Come, I’ll show you how… pliant he is under my spell.” Tony feels sick to his stomach. Beck’s twisted words make him want to slit the other fae’s throat, but then he may never see his loved one again. His flower. “Just lead me to him.” “As you wish, Your Highness-” Beck physically flinches when the phone starts it’s awful tune again. The Winter Court Fae’s head snaps around and he stares at the device in Tony’s hand, but he doesn’t comment on it when he sees what it is made of- what it contains. Iron. There’s nothing Beck could do and suddenly, Tony wishes he could dial up the volume even more. He’d happily endure the painful screeching in his ears if he knew it’d torture his cousin. “He’s right here,” Beck announces as he pushes through a large drape hanging from the ceiling. Tony’s heart sinks in his chest. Puck’s body is lifelessly pressed against the back of a throne, only a tight silken rope around his chest keeping him from tumbling forward onto the floor. “Isn’t he pretty?” Beck tuts, circling the seat and grinning wide. “A true treat for my eyes.” “You’re sick,” Tony mumbles, restraining himself from running over to the boy. Shake the limp body to bring his Parker back to life. Beck halts his saunter when he’s at Puck’s side and slowly moves in, planting an open mouthed kiss before speaking. “Do I make you feel good?” It seems to take Puck a lot of effort to lift his head slightly and reply weakly. “Yes, My Lord.” It’s a pleasured sigh, but Tony can hear part of it feels forced. Beck grins victoriously. “Mm, I told him to call me that- doesn’t it sound good as it rolls off his tongue? Finally, I get the respect I deserve.” “You are not worthy of his respect, nor are you worthy of mine,” Tony growls, taking another step forward. “I demand you return Parker to me.” “Return? He was never yours to begin with, Oberon! ” Beck spits out mockingly. “The boy is mine. I have his name. He gave it to me.” The scowl on his face turns downright evil and the heavy weight of desperation sinks in Tony’s chest. “And now I will use him however I see fit. My pretty Peter Parker .”

Tony feels an empty tug at his heart now, but something feels off about it. Incomplete. “You cannot do this!” “No, Tones. I’m a Winter Fae . This-” his voice betrays his delusions. “This is what we do. You! You are a disgrace to your father. To our legacy!” “I-” Their conversation is interrupted when the phone starts playing again. Beck lets out an exasperated sigh and he snarls at Tony. “Stop doing that!” Tony shakes his head, holding his hand up defensively. Beck inches closer and stares at it intently, clearly wanting to rip it apart. The only thing holding him back from doing exactly that is the iron matter inside of it. Only Tony can touch it. Only Iron Man. Beck’s fingers would burn if he’d touch it. Tony has never been more grateful for his strange tolerance towards the substance. “I don’t know how to stop it. It’s human technology.” Beck swiftly turns his attention back over to Parker. He tugs at Puck’s hair roughly to lift his head. Tony swallows when he hears a pained moan fall from the boy’s lips. Beck narrows his eyes and lowers his lips until they’re right next to Puck’s ear. “Dearest,” he whispers. Parker visibly shivers. “Please tell our Prince how to cease the music, will you?” Puck whimpers quietly, his eyelids fluttering a few times but never opening fully. “W-What’s on the screen?” Tony hates how grave Puck’s voice sounds, but he does raise the device and looks past the cracks. It says one simple word and Tony frowns. “May?” Puck’s lips curl into a faint smile and he mumbles something incoherent. After a particularly aggressive tug on his hair, Parker speaks up louder. “Swipe… Swipe the green button to the right and bring the phone to your ear.” Tony wonders why on earth he’d have to bring it to his ear, but he follows Parker's instructions. Carefully, he presses his finger onto the green image in the screen and drags it towards the right. Immediately, the colors on the screen change. Tony’s eyes widen and he quickly brings it to his ear, glancing at Parker for any cue as to what to do next. He- Tony freezes when he hears a surprised breath coming from the phone. Is… Is someone in there? “PETER. BENJAMIN. PARKER- WHERE ARE YOU?” Everything happens insanely fast after that. Tony shivers, his legs buckling as he drops onto his knees. Parker. Peter Benjamin Parker. Tony looks up at the boy and a smile cracks through his face. He ignores the worried shouting in his ear. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters . He feels a light, energetic turmoil within his chest as his magic springs to life automatically, forging his interminable bond with his loved one. Beck approaches, a confused frown wrinkling his face. “What happened? Tony? What are you-” “He’s mine.” Tony breathes, a surprised, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat. Beck’s eyes widen at the statement. Tony is a Fae after all, he can’t lie. “What?!” “His name. I have his name.” Tony whispers and stands up again. “His full name.” He walks over to the chair and licks his lips. His fingers tremble when he touches Puck’s- Peter’s - cheekbones carefully. Beck steps away, his eyes big and frightened with his leverage on Tony slipping through his fingers. “No, you do not. He gave his name to me. Not you!” “Peter Benjamin Parker, ” Tony breathes, the name foreign but so incredibly good on his lips. Peter’s eyes flutter again, until they open fully. They’re big and bright and awe-struck. Love-filled. Beautiful . “S-Stark?” “Anthony Stark,” he replies softly, leaning in to connect their foreheads. Peter’s chest heaves as he takes in a breath of fresh air. Beck is already forgotten, his importance ceasing to exist now that the two of them are eternally connected. The Fae and the human smile at each other, grateful for this turn of events and for each other. “But you may call me Tony.”

[divasdamselsandsmudgedmascara]

Film Commentary: Betty Field in “Flesh And Fantasy” from 1943

Several hours of a lonely and frightened woman's life in the classic horror anthology, Flesh And Fantasy.

Everyone wants to be loved. And Henrietta, played by the remarkable actress Betty Field, is a woman who feels unloved, unwanted and rejected. It is a night filled with Mardi Gras revelers in 1943 New Orleans. She's a seamstress struggling along in her own private misery, having built up a wall to the people around her. Henrietta blocking out the world, friends and relationships, because she feels happiness has passed her by is represented in the joy of the costumed party-goers milling by her little apartment as she sits in the tiny room, smashing mirrors at her reflection and feeling sorry for herself.

In the midst of the giant party going on, Henrietta, on the brink of ending her life in total despair, is given a second chance at happiness by an enigmatic old man with a kind face who shares some insightful words on her feelings, her state of her mind and her personal torment. They’re so insightful, it's as if he's reading her very mind. 

He takes her back to a small, dark shop stuffed with a variety of Mardi Gras masks, of all shapes and sizes, from the grotesque to the gorgeous, making her an offer of picking one mask out of the many, free of charge,  but only until midnight that night. His parting advice to her is that “she will learn the truth”. It is a gorgeous mask Henrietta chooses--a beautiful woman's face with perfect features. At last, she hopes, she will be able to catch the attention of the man and neighbor she has been adoring from afar, Michael, a handsome law student, and perhaps finally be able to spend a few precious hours with the object of her desire. What happens with Henrietta that fateful evening, however, will turn out to be a great deal more shocking and unexpected than that. A mysterious force will gently guide her towards reckoning with the self-destructive and toxic behavior she has been showing towards not only other people, but towards herself, tearing her own opportunities and confidence down, which has led her towards self-imposed isolation all based on how much shame she has been made to feel about what she considers her ‘homely’ appearance.

What this segment of Flesh and Fantasy does so well, surprisingly well for the time period, is the uplift and encouragement of an unconventional female character. It explores the pain and conflict of a woman who, because of how she feels society has treated her, has internalized emotional poison and self-sabotage which has translated into meanness towards others, making her unattractive in a far more significant way than the superficial. Bitterness and self-pity has warped the way she moves through life and how she interacts with her fellow human beings, causing a self-fullfilling prophecy of solitude for her. It may be comparable to some of the people floating around the internet right now whom, instead of seeking ways they can be the best person they can be, in whatever way that might be, slump inwards, becoming spiteful and embittered for the things they perceive themselves as NOT having instead of celebrating and focusing on the positive things they DO have. They can eventually transform into the modern-day incels or cyber-bullies who try to hurt others because they can't look past their own hurt, letting it warp their entire personalities. Beneath her own hurt and anger, it turns out though that Henrietta still has the remains of a kind and caring personality buried inside of her, despite the fact that she has let the cruelty of the world become her baggage for far too long.

In the end, Henrietta comes face to face with her internal demons and wins the love of Michael, before revealing a shocking aesthetic after the lovely mask is finally taken off...her mysterious benefactor, the bearded man? He has disappeared into the balmy southern night, with a certain twist to his identity being both surreal and utterly fascinating, leading the viewer to question whether he was a spirit, an angel or maybe just a man who felt the need to conceal his own appearance in order to get Henrietta to listen to his words of encouragement without premature judgement.

Flesh and Fantasy came out of an era of brilliant filmmaking, deep and meaningful performances, and phenomenal scripts, and this was one of the best representations of the horror genre from that fabulous decade of cinema. This was only one part of the three-part anthology but this poignant, powerful and haunting tale has lingered with me for over twenty years when I first saw it as a child. It's criminally underrated yet truly unforgettable in its approach to the supernatural and the emotional. 5 stars!

[ikevampeventarchive]

[ERS] Urgent Bloodsucking ～Vincent

Duration: 11/8 (Fri) 04:00 PM ～ 11/15 (Fri) 09:00 PM

Even in the midst of being assaulted by a horrible thirst, Vincent won’t bite you. Desperately resisting his bloodthirsty urges while telling you to run away, how will you reply...? 

Once unleashed, drown in the endless depths of sweet desire ——

Event Prologue | Route Preview

[This is an unofficial work based on fan-translation. Copyright belongs to Cybird.]

Common Route

Arthur, Isaac and Vincent all drink down their glasses of Rosé, and for a long moment, nothing happens. Arthur says that he doesn’t feel anything out of ordinary, while Vincent says that the Rosé is really sweet, commenting that Theo would enjoy the taste. Arthur pouts because he expected something to actually happen, and Sebastian chides him, reminding that the purpose of Rosé is to act as another blood replacement, not for thrills. 

Arthur: Compared to drinking blood directly, however, this isn’t as satisfying. Doesn’t that count as a failure then?

Isaac has been silent for the entirety of this exchange, and when Vincent checks up on him, he turns and lunges towards MC, growling that he wants blood. Vincent quickly steps between him and MC, and while Arthur holds Isaac back, Sebastian quickly brings a glass of Blanc for Isaac. After downing the Blanc, Isaac bemoans his fate and wonders why the side effects had to kick in for him of all people. Arthur agrees, saying that it’s quite pitiful that it worked on Isaac, the person who already suffered from such thirst.

Vincent suddenly requests another serving of Rosé from Sebastian, explaining that while Isaac was experiencing the side effects, he couldn’t think of what to do for Isaac since he was protecting MC. Thus, he needed to experience it himself to know what to do. MC and Isaac both protest this, with MC worrying about the side effects and Isaac exclaiming that it was perfectly normal for Vincent to worry about his lover first. Sebastian and Arthur, however, start teasing Vincent, Sebastian remarking that they all live in a kind world with a smile while Arthur says that he expected as such from their resident angel. MC pleads for them not to joke around too much.

While MC is busy with Sebastian and Arthur, Vincent gets his hands on another glass of Rosé and downs it. He starts groaning and pressing a hand to his mouth. MC panics, wondering if the side effects have really kicked in this time. 

Vincent: Ugh…. argh…..

MC: Vincent!?

Vincent: ….It really is too sweet for me. 

Everyone watching lets out a sigh of relief when nothing happens. Isaac again tells Vincent that he doesn’t need to push himself so hard, and Arthur reasons that the side effects probably won’t kick in for Vincent because he isn’t the type to have a strong sense of bloodlust. With disaster avoided for now, the scene changes to Vincent and MC out in town for a shopping trip. 

Vincent is still disappointed at not being able to understand the pain that Isaac’s thirst causes him, and tells MC that he was hoping that Isaac would feel more at ease if there was someone who knew what he was going through. MC chuckles and says that Vincent is truly a kind person. She also thinks to herself that even though Vincent is kind, that also means that he would put others ahead of his own well-being, and she doesn’t want to see him in pain. 

Suddenly, Vincent doubles over, groaning. Through labored breaths, he tells MC to run away from him right now. MC quickly realizes that it must be the side effects from the Rosé kicking in at the worst moment, and tells Vincent to hold on as she pulls him into an empty alleyway. Checking one last time for any passersby, she quickly unbuttons her blouse and sweeps her hair to the side, telling Vincent to bite her and ease his pain.

At MC’s urging, Vincent is about to do just that, only to push her away and refue. His actions leave MC floundering, and she’s left wondering what to do when Shakespeare appears on the scene. 

The three of them relocate to Shakespeare’s house and explain the situation as Shakespeare gives Vincent some Rouge. 

Shakespeare: So it is all because of this Rosé…

Vincent: Ha…. Sorry for troubling you, Will… 

Shakespeare: I do not mind. 

Shakespeare: That being said, however, it must be quite the intense side effect to make Vincent crave blood so. 

Vincent drains the bottle of Rouge, and after seeing how his forehead is beaded with sweat, MC heads over to try and wipe it for him. Just as she is about to do so, however, Vincent’s hand shoots up to grab her wrist before letting go like he’d been burned. Shakespeare explains that Vincent’s reason and instincts must be warring with each other, and as Vincent questions why the Rouge did not cure his thirst, he suddenly changes his line of thinking and loudly requests for Shakespeare to tie him to his own bed. 

MC is, quite reasonably, shocked by that statement, to which Vincent explains that he doesn’t know what he would do if left unrestrained. Shakespeare agrees with a serious face, while MC tells him that he really shouldn’t just jump on the idea so easily, thank you very much. 

As Shakespeare goes to retrieve some rope, MC wonders to herself why Vincent’s symptoms had not stopped even after one hour had elapsed and drinking some Rouge, finally realizing that it must’ve been due to Vincent’s two servings of Rosé in an attempt to understand Isaac’s thirst. Shakespeare sighs, commenting that it does sound like Vincent to do something like that. 

Vincent calls MC from where he’s curled up on the sofa, telling her to return to the mansion before him. MC is confused as to why he would say such a thing, and thinks back to the time he avoided drinking her blood in the alleyway earlier. Shakespeare explains that her presence is like poison to Vincent right now. As there is a direct connection between romantic love and bloodlust, having MC around — who is Vincent’s lover — while he is in this state is similar to hanging a piece of meat in front of a starving beast. MC counters that it’s because she is his lover that Vincent should just drink her blood, only to be interrupted by Vincent yelling that he would not. 

He explains that he doesn’t want to hurt MC, and that he's scared of drinking too much if he does bite her. Even as MC protests, he smiles and pleads for her to leave. Frustrated by her powerlessness, MC bites her lip, unable to say anything in the face of Vincent's request, yet also unwilling to let him suffer. 

Shakespeare takes that moment to tell MC that they would be able to use blood replacements to placate Vincent’s bloodlust. On the other hand, with Shakespeare living on his own, his Rouge and Blanc supplies are limited, and since none of them know how long Vincent’s symptoms will persist, he would likely be suffering for an extended amount of time. 

Shakespeare: Now, what shall you do, MC?

—

Sweet (Love’s Devotion) End

The thing he truly wants, even more than blood....

“Because you are my precious treasure, I held myself back.”

Wholeheartedly drown in this sweet and gentle time for just the two of you—

—

As MC struggles to decide on the best course of action, Shakespeare suddenly presents another bottle. He tells them that he had already received a test batch of Rosé as well as an antidote in case the rare side effect did occur. MC and Vincent are shocked, MC saying that the mansion never received such a thing. Shakespeare continues, saying that though an antidote, it is not a guaranteed solution because, like the Rosé, the antidote is also a trial product. There is a chance that Vincent’s symptoms can take a turn for the worse. Vincent accepts anyway and drinks the antidote without hesitation. 

Shakespeare: Drinking an unknown poison, all in order not to harm the one you love. … That is very much in character for you, Vincent. 

Vincent: But it’s not poison, is it…? You would never give me something like that… Will. 

Shakespeare agrees to that assessment, and Vincent smiles. Soon after, however, Vincent starts coughing violently. MC rushes over to prop him up, telling herself that if the antidote didn’t work, then she’d tell VIncent to drink her blood, no matter what happens to herself. 

Vincent’s coughing stops and he perks up, telling MC that he feels a lot better and the thirst is gone. Seeing that he’s okay, MC and Shakespeare both relax. Vincent thanks Shakespeare for the antidote and Shakespeare smiles, saying that the situation was quite dramatic, so he might even take some inspiration from today’s events. 

MC and Vincent return to the mansion, where they tell Isaac and Sebastian what happened. 

Vincent: Now I know how painful it is when you thirst for blood like that. 

Vincent: From now on, I’ll support you more when it hits, Isaac! 

Isaac: No, I think you had a harder time than I did, Vincent. 

Vincent says that he was actually okay since he had MC, which confuses her, since MC thought she wasn’t able to do anything at all. Just as Sebastian was expressing his joy that Vincent was okay, Theo barges into the room, yelling for Sebastian to prepare some Rouge. It turns out that Theo and Arthur were out drinking when the side effects suddenly kicked in. Theo had to stop him before he attacked any of the women at the bar and dragged him back home, leading them to this current situation. 

Later, MC comes to Vincent’s room, asking him if he’s really okay. Smiling, he assures her that he’s fine, adding that he feels pretty good right now. They sit on his couch together and MC thinks back on the day, remembering Vincent’s earlier words and lamenting her helplessness. Noticing her dark expression, Vincent asks her what’s wrong. MC reluctantly tells him, and Vincent reveals the reason why he didn’t want to bite her both in the alley and in Shakespeare’s house.

He tells MC that the moment the thirst revealed itself and he was suffering, MC immediately offered him her blood without hesitation. Seeing her selfless kindness, Vincent resolved himself not to hurt her; to protect that kindness and endure his thirst. MC is touched by his words and resolves to support him the best she can from here on out. Vincent agrees in good humor and they laugh after bowing to each other. 

Vincent then kisses MC softly, saying that he had been wanting to do that all day. MC narrates that his kiss warmed her from the inside out, ending the route on a gentle note.

—

Premium (Instinctual Bloodsucking) End

Ensnared by desire, he yearns for blood....

“Your sweet scent always makes me feel weird...” 

Vampire instincts steal away both your heart and body ——

—

Hearing Shakespeare’s words, MC thinks to herself that she can’t leave things as they are. No matter how small, she wants to help relieve Vincent’s pain in any way she can. Resolved to do just that, she picks up a sharp letter opener on lying on the table and presses it to her palm.

Shakespeare and Vincent: !

MC: I’m sorry Shakespeare, I’ll repay you for this knife afterwards. 

Vincent: MC, what are you doing?!

MC: Don’t worry, I’m only making a very small cut. 

MC: If I don’t, you won’t be able to drink my blood, no? 

Vincent: You shouldn’t hurt yourself because of my own selfish needs…. 

Seeing how Vincent is still attempting to stop her while suffering himself, MC smiles and gently admonishes him. 

MC: Vincent, you said that you didn’t want me to be hurt, but I also don’t want to see you in pain. 

MC: That’s why I’m going to do everything I can. Be it sadness or pain, let’s shoulder it together. 

Having said that, MC brought down the knife — only to be stopped by Vincent catching her wrist at the last second. He apologized to MC, but stated that he will not let her do such a thing for him, turning her hand over and checking for injuries before stroking it gently. Seeing the scene before him, Shakespeare retrieved a small bottle from his table, murmuring that while it might be risky, they might as well try it out. 

Shakespeare presents the bottle to Vincent and MC, informing them that the dark pink liquid inside the container is an improved version of the Rosé, complimentary of the producers due to Shakespeare’s friendship with them. MC suddenly felt like she just heard something that shouldn’t be revealed to others and doesn’t make another comment. 

Vincent asks Shakespeare what he intends to do with the other version of the Rosé, to which Shakespeare replies that he intends to fight poison with poison. 

Shakespeare: Originally, the Rosé was formulated to combat the expected bloodlust from the side effects in addition to serving as a blood substitute. 

Shakespeare: For its high effectiveness, however, said side effects could turn out to be even stronger than usual, depending on the individual in question. 

Shakespeare: Yet, it is exactly this thicker concentration that may be able to assuage the thirst that even Rouge was unable to cure. 

As he speaks, Shakespeare pours out a cup of the improved Rosé and places it down in front of Vincent. MC protests, saying that if this is the same Rosé, then wouldn’t the side effects kick in as well? Smiling, Shakespeare confirms exactly that. He never hoped to cure the side effects, but rather delay the current thirst affecting Vincent long enough for him and MC to return to the mansion. Skeptical, MC thinks to herself that it’s better to give Vincent her blood after all. 

Just as she starts to voice as such, Vincent stops her with a smile and drinks the Rosé down without hesitation. He immediately starts coughing, saying that it’s bitter yet burns his throat like something incredibly sweet. Shakespeare wryly remarks that the taste was also one of the things the producers had to improve. As MC rushes to Vincent’s side to check on him, Vincent confirms that he does feel better and Shakespeare bade him return to the mansion and drink ten times as much Blanc and Rouge as before to combat the stronger side effects. 

MC and Vincent both thank him, and Shakespeare smiles, saying that the two of them suit each other; both prepared to get hurt instead of letting harm come to their partner. 

After returning to the mansion and retreating to Vincent’s room, Vincent clutches his throbbing throat before rushing to drink the Rouge that Sebastian sent to his room. MC frets over him, telling Vincent that she could run to grab more from the kitchen if this isn’t enough for him. 

Vincent turns and pins MC down to the floor, panting out that he can’t restrain himself any longer, yet also telling MC to run away from him while he can still bear it, his words contradicting themselves within the same sentence.  

Vincent: Sorry, MC. I can’t hold on anymore….

Vincent: There’s Rouge here too. I can endure it by myself, so…. 

Vincent: So, this time… run away from me…. 

Realizing that he’s still trying to protect her while suffering through the effects of the painful thirst, MC tells Vincent to bite her, reminding him that she wants them to share their pain and shoulder it together. Touched, Vincent does bite her for real this time, drinking deeply while MC moans into the heated air. He breaks away, murmuring that this thirst isn’t just due to the Rosé alone, but also due to the sweet scent that MC is giving off and kisses her. Giving into the throes of passion, they spend the night together. 

Note: This is where the paid Epilogue starts.

—

Epilogue Preview

Reaching its limits, his desire yearns for you to the point of madness....

Vincent: It’s not just blood, I want you too...

Vincent: I want... to just stay like this. 

(For Vincent to lose his composure and become this needy...)

Directly faced with his want, my body becomes hot like a fire has been lit deep within. 

Vincent: MC.... 

(He’s rougher, than usual....)

Vincent: Sorry... I’m so rough with you.

Mingling breaths and lewd, wet sounds. 

As we are pulled between pleasure and immorality, love and affection grow stronger  ——.....

Vincent: I can’t stop anymore... accept my everything. 

Event Info | Isaac Route | Arthur Route

[sasorikigai]

Uno reverse card: Imagine if Commander Hanzo 1) ended up thrown far into the future to wittness Yang the last one standing and a broken person still standing and holding her promise to survive. 2) He's died. But pulled himself back into the world as Scorpion to see the hell it became after all these years with Yang yet remaining. 3) A terrible nightmare for Commander Hasashi of watching Yang die slowly to fight for his survival.

UNO REVERSE I DID NOT EXPECT || @yetremains || always accepting 

1) ended up thrown far into the future to witness Yang the last one standing and a broken person still standing and holding her promise to survive

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || How his own words would whisper their way into his head until he was just as airy and fleeting; nothing, but a wisp of smoke swirling through a dewy mist in the midst of verdant, stacked forest of people he had known throughout his lifetime. Warriors who survive trauma wear a certain vulnerability around them, and some are still hungry for prey, their tongues filled with lies to pull victims and innocents back into the void they have just escaped from. How Hanzo Hasashi will fall with the moments, both treasured and forgotten in the rapid path of his strenuous life, as he would fall into the the abysmal, vicious loophole of repeated destruction and hollowed loss, as the battering sandstorm will scoop the chambers of his heart and lungs hollow. He would let all the unfettered emotions seep in, with his mind’s voice perilously low and convulsing with visible tremor. He would too often let life think it was going to win, but little did it know; he bares serrated, glinting teeth, too, sharper than its and a heart that has survived terrible pain young. 

The untamed, towering behemoth embers are the catalyst of his own heart and soul, for even the most hardened warriors who survive trauma do wear a certain vulnerability around them, but this kind of vulnerability is from where the pyromancer’s greatest strength emanates. He was meant to be the last man standing, having endured the merciless barrage of losing everything in his grasp; starting with every one of Shirai Ryu, then his wife and son, even his own precious life and soul in the end as an ultimatum. 

While he does not have to unburden his soul for everyone; it will be enough if he does that for those he loves, as another moment, another eternal recurrence and chaos once again. Chaos that surrounds both, chaos that reflects their perdition; perdition that will haunt them to their inevitable grave. The shadows feel overwhelming again, as Hanzo fears not being strong enough to face her. “You are allowed to sink, I’ve been striving to stay afloat so long as I have forgotten about how it feels to dive into the beauty of darkness,” perhaps he had already been succumbed into the devastation, settler-colonial dispossession that would rob him of his sanity and threaten to sever his sustenance. And he would eventually capitulate beneath the swift, all those moments of shocking, quick, abrasive rapture that would come out of the blue, that is worse than any collisions and destruction he’d face. “I refuse to see you as a ghostly body on the same road, with all the dangling pieces of heart, as the unoffered love will only frightfully abloom further as the barren land within my own heart bursts open.” 

2) He's died. But pulled himself back into the world as Scorpion to see the hell it became after all these years with Yang yet remaining

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The widowed dead spirit within Hanzo Hasashi begins his weeping, the forsaking god is sleeping, and Scorpion, savage ravaged keeper of infernal flames mark the humble hour of his own leaving. For the fog lifts at cusp of evening, conjuring feelings, the bottle he is drinking, memory best left to the side of the road, near the spot by the bridge, by the by, and a salt-swept bay, in his dreaming, seeping down concrete, so very lonely, the last survivor, somber and sweet, not worth marking, nor lamenting. The resurrected spectre of the Netherrealm’s undying fire continues to unravel of his despair; a fallen god’s weaved gold, shining, brighter than a supernova taking forth the falsified magnanimity of a wreathed hearth-fire turning into rushing crescent of a macabre grin, bubbling crimson until the shredding fragments of his heart runs dry.

In an afterwards of his catalytic annihilation, the valley of the mountains would permeate with squelched spillage running amok, and no quenching of solar flare would completely dry the sanguine stretch, as his sin would continue to feed the soil in scorched, charred blackness. And Scorpion’s bursting firestorm would intensity, and his being would breach through the stacked crevasse of the realms’ layers, as the coagulated pool would taint the Earth for eons, as muddy maroon would fade to the faint gray of his irises. Mother Earth could not bear the violence she had witnessed, but she could only ephemerally cradle him. Now, moss mimics the shape of a girl, wisteria bound; held fast to the mountain land. 

But a warrior’s hand would be thrown out, left to an eternity’s, reaching for another’s. Talia Jones Yang’s silhouette remains blanketed by roasted daisies and roses, red as blood. Perhaps she came to offer him either an excruciating, perpetual torment and damnation, or panacea to go through the hollowed chasm of his path, as he would breach through the condemned fate of existing as an intangible spectre, living in-between worlds, existing, yet forgotten as the scar tissues will continue to rupture from the clotted stage, festering and emitting suppurations as his throat becomes acid-kissed. Burnt sugar atonement, penance paid in rough tongue and bubbling scar tissue. Perhaps the female warrior was the withering, eroding fragment of Hanzo Hasashi, clawing through the indomitable eldritch magic of his nihilism and deadly vengeance, wrought unhinged towards the world that refused to support his existence. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

3) A terrible nightmare for Commander Hasashi of watching Yang die slowly to fight for his survival

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Hanzo sees himself in the stream, his fingertips becoming nonexistent gossamer upon the shoulder of Yang’s reflection. How his agony would flare so bright, the black waters becoming molten, as the obsidian ripple of death-saturated mountainous tides whiten with the dust of his crumbling bones as they sculpt his face in the bleeding, macerated flesh. Amber and ochre baked, parched soil of his flesh causes the earth of his being to crack open; veins spreading, flowers wilting, fleshy fruit browning and shriveling. The ecosystem of his unhealed bruises building up underneath his soaked uniform, weighing him down like a hardening cement. One bruise for each memory, as he unravels trauma like he would of old, knitted sweaters and consume hopelessness between temporal respite, as Commander Hasashi struggles with all the stacked layers of fear and betrayal of his resilient will as he attempts to breach through the guarded gray, the swirling fog. 

It’s not the violent conflict between parts of the truth, but the quiet suppression of half of it, which becomes the formidable evil; there is always hope when people are forced to listen to both sides; it is when they attend only to one that errors harden into prejudices, and truth itself ceases to have the effect of truth, by being exaggerated into the semblance of falsehood. How he wishes to scoop out the turmoil hinder the storm of moribund death, of its serrated maw. 

The imagined susurrus of the sea becomes the soundtrack behind his safehouse summer, and it has become Hanzo Hasashi’s confession; a place to keep his heart safe. The water will always reach and run to the shore like the eternal cacophony of whooshing black hole. He hopes Yang could hear his voice in the silence; stuck in-between the inescapable give and take, a push and pull, a heaven and hell - spent living for love, as he would grotesquely feel guilty of gravitating towards the act of living. And he would drown in such concepts that has lost meaning; hunger, pain, anger, shame, regret, loss, and unease. In all sickness, discomfort, grief, which is deep and endless. As he would continue to dance around the diseases of his soul and hope to romance his death in the hopes of his life, as he continues to witness the varying vicissitudes of Yang’s death, Hanzo finds himself waxing and waning and waiting the iridescent black white of his viewfinder to dig further graveyards. 

This is the way of things; for every stagnation and motionlessness is just another death, and he is surrounded by the mangled, gnarled expanse of floating bodies. He would let go of his heart as he would drift away on a sea of moonlight, and dream to make a home in the shore of Harumi’s eyes, as built veins and tissues and cells - all disintegrate and crumble as legion of pain becomes Atlas upon his broken shoulder. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[ajokeformur-ray]

Silver clouds with grey linings // J x Rosie x Pat 🎅🎄💜💚💙🖤

Summary: It has been an absolutely awful year and as a result of that, you can barely find it within you to celebrate this time of year, much less to celebrate the time with your two greatest loves. But within your whirling emotions are you safe, dear one, and J and Pat will do everything they can to make you feel like you can enjoy this time with them. They love you dearly, in their own ways, and they won’t let you forget it for even a second!

Written for @loveletterstoledger​! Merry Christmas, darling one! I hope that you’re able to relax and enjoy yourself during this time. You are so, so loved and you are so much more than you know. You deserve the entire world and I wish that I could give it to you. You’re one of my dearest friends and you’re a constant source of inspiration to me. It is with lots of love that I wrote this for you and I hope that you like it! 💛🧡💛🧡

Word count: 5, 521.

These were separate images which I spliced together for ease of posting; 

J source || Pat source || both links provide the source for their usage of these pictures.

So many bad things, so many truly awful things had happened this year, not just to you but to the world itself, and you were, it seemed even through the fog of your mind, the physical embodiment of exhaustion. You felt like you had nothing left within you. There was nothing left to give to anyone, least of all to yourself; the person who was most deserving of all the love which you so selflessly gave to others. Indeed would it have been an understatement to say that this year had been awful and you would have considered it a complete write off were it not for the fact that you had met your greatest loves; Pat and J, during the first half of the year, and for the fact that you still had yourself. Yes, for all that you had been through and for all that you were going through did you still have yourself. You were the one who had been there for you through even the worst of things which had happened this year. During those especially difficult times it had seemed like even J wouldn’t be able to comfort you and yet from somewhere within you had come the strength to look after yourself in spite of what you had been going through. You were the one who looked after yourself and made sure that the people and the things which had hurt you wouldn’t be able to do so again. You were your greatest ally and J and Pat, though they hadn’t been with you for very long, couldn’t have been prouder of you. You had been through so much more than anyone should ever have to go through, most especially in one year, and yet there you were, facing each day and facing yourself even when you didn’t want to. Even feeling as you did much of the time were you still so loving and that was, perhaps, the truest display of strength you ever could have showed. You were strong all on your own and most often with J and Pat did you feel unstoppable. They were truly in awe of you and of your continued strength and often did they make their pride and belief in you known.

The two men had their own ways of loving you and while sometimes did they have trouble reaching you or getting through to you, never did you feel unloved, neglected or truly alone with them in your life. They made sure that they came together when it was most important to take care of you, for sometimes were you unable even to care for yourself and during those times did your husband and your life partner pick up the slack. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for you and there was no storm the three of you couldn’t weather so long as you were together. Your very existence was a cause for celebration and with it being the festive time of year that it was, this only made it more important for your loves to participate in the holiday season with you and to celebrate you. Rosie, the woman who unfailing gave them everything they had ever wanted or needed, each and every single day, even without trying. Just by being yourself were you the perfect partner for both men. J, for his part, had long since given up on maintaining any pretense of being anything else or anyone else than what he already was, The Joker, and Pat, too, had similarly almost made his peace with the fact that he was to be perpetually misunderstood by people who had never even tried to understand him or to get to know him beyond the realms of hearsay and rumours. Just by being you, darling one, you gave your loves everything they had never truly thought they would have within their lives, young that they were both were, and J and Pat were determined to truly spoil you during this time of the year so that what had turned out to be an absolutely horrific year would at least end on a good note for you. It was the least they could do for you but all the same was it everything to you.

For Pat, the year had started on a positive note and even with everything which had happened, it had stayed a good year because of the way you had given him an intangible gift on the day you had met. It was a gift which kept giving and so would it continue to do. You had given Pat acceptance and love. For so long had he been mistreated by the world. He had had to care for his dying grandfather all on his own and then arrange a funeral in the midst of his grief while taking care of his re-enrolment back into Padua High... and during those years, he had been the subject of many a cruel rumour, of many a difficult emotion and no one had ever listened to him, no one had ever seen him... apart from you. You had seen Pat; the way he smiled at bees as they hovered around gardens and found a new flower to land on and pollinate. The gentleness with which he had once used a leaf to guide a bee which had landed on him back onto a flower. Others would have needlessly screamed and ran away, critically misunderstood were bees, but Pat had understood that he had been confused for a flower and chuckling had he carefully set the bee to rights. The way that Pat had once caught wind of someone’s car breaking down and there was to be a rush between them finishing their shift at Pat’s workplace and then getting down to the nearest car shop, which was the cheapest one around... only for them to finish their shift to find that Pat had repaired their car while he had been on his hour long lunch break. He hadn’t asked for anything in return at all. He had just seen the car troubles and decided to do something about it because he was the only one in the immediate area who knew cars. Generous was he with his time and at total odds was he with the rumours which people had spread around even before they knew him. Pat was beautiful and within only days of meeting one another had you seen him for all that he was and all that he would ever be and you loved him for that. This gift which you had given him was acceptance for who he truly was, deserving at the least was he of that. No matter what happened to Pat, so long as he had you by his side, his strawberry, then he already had the world.

J, too, strong enough was he to stand up on his own even with his grey and uncertain past, had received such a wonderful intangible gift from you. You had not meant to give it to him, but so beautiful a soul were you that you had and J couldn’t have been more grateful to you for everything that you had ever done for him. You had given him validation, which was not to be earned or something which would ever be taken away from him. You made sure every single day that J knew he was loved, that he knew that he had a place to come home to, and that, no longer did just The Joker have a home to return to at the end of every day, but so do too did Jack... the man The Joker had totally done away with, perceived had he been as a weakness. There was a great deal of humanity in J and you had found it so easily, without even trying. You made sure that he knew that his true intelligence and his genuine wisdom was seen, that he was valid, and you treated him like he was just anyone else. You loved the menacing man clad in royal purple and acid green as much as you loved the casually dressed man you saw first thing most mornings. It mattered not to you what he looked like or how he dressed, for you would always see J for who he truly was, so loving and gentle a soul were you, and J couldn’t have been more grateful to and for you. He was roughly a decade older than you and Pat and so he had taken up something of a guardian role for the both of you even within the romantic dynamic which you shared, of varying degrees, between you.

No matter how bad things had ever gotten in any of your lives, there was one constant. Just one thing which never changed or faltered or been anything other than what it had always been: love. There was more love between the three of you than any of you knew what to do with and it only grew more of the same. Sometimes when you gazed at J and Pat having their moments of banter, which you were sure they sometimes did just to hear you laugh, so precious a sound was your amusement, your heart swelled with love to the point that it made your rib cage ache as it strained to constrain the organ keeping you alive within its boned walls. There was so much love which you felt for the both of them; for the love you felt for them but also for the love which they undeniably but stealthily held for each other, that you just couldn’t handle it. It was so beautiful that it just made you want to cry and today, Christmas Day, was most especially one of those occasions.

The day had started out as it always did, with you spending time with your family and your loved ones. Gifts had been exchanged, food had been eaten, and memories had been reminisced upon and made, for every day was the chance to create something new. As the day progressed and turned from early afternoon to early evening did you drift from familial loved ones to your romantic partners and now was it time for yourself, Pat and J to celebrate the day and to simply be with one another. Indeed so strong was the love between the three of you that it seemed to create almost a fourth entity in the room, which hovered in the spaces between your bodies and kept you warm and safe from all that which sought to cause you any kind of harm. It came to pass that your bedroom, the room which had seen everything between the three of you, was to be the room where the celebration would be carried out, and you all got comfortable upon your bed. J sat up against the headboard, the pillows moved so that his back had some support. Pat had cracked a couple of “old man” jokes to light the carefree and delicate mood, but you could sense... urgency, almost, within J, and you could already tell that he would insist upon giving you any gift first. Patient could he be out in the grimy streets of Gotham but within the four walls of your bedroom would no such pretence be maintained.

No one pretended anything when the world fell away and it was just the three of you.

Pat got comfortable beside you, loathe was he to leave your side for even a moment, and the small pile of presents in the centre of the almost triangle formation in which you sat were quickly given to the intended recipients. You had gotten J one thing more than you had gotten Pat, but that was because Pat’s was ultimately expensive and you knew that he would have been legitimately angry if you had gotten him anything else on top of what you had already gifted. For J, you suspected the same, so well did you know the both of them, and so you had restrained yourself in what you had bought the both of them, though you had definitely pushed the boat out with your budget a bit too much. You gave them your gifts first. Pat received an envelope and J received a hastily and messily wrapped box. You hadn’t enlisted help with the wrapping of their gifts, though you had asked J for help in buying Pat’s gift. Pat, too, had helped you with J’s gift, and both men had been sworn to secrecy on pain of no cuddling for an entire night if they told the other person what you had bought for them. As they sat there with their gifts, each held a contemplative look within their similarly dark eyes as they quietly appreciated the moment. J leaned over and kissed your cheek chastely before he tore into his gift, revealing a top of the market sketchbook and some tools; charcoal, pencils, watercolours and the like, and a pamphlet for the online art courses which you had enrolled him in.

“J, I - “ You hesitated. J’s past was a known open wound, though he denied its existence to all except you and Pat, and you wanted to believe that he would appreciate this gift even with how delicate the emotions behind it were. “I wanted you to try these art courses. You never got to pursue an art degree and I know you’re still secretly passionate about drawing, so I - “ There was a look in J’s chocolate eyes and you froze. But then he grinned and held his hands out, his fingers flexing in a gimme motion. You smiled, relief coursing through your body, and you leaned forward for J to do whatever he wanted with you. You trusted him implicitly and you knew, even before the acceptance of your thoughtful gift, that J trusted you, too. Jack trusted you, and that meant more to you than anything else. J’s arms wrapped around you like a vice, but you felt infinitely safe within that as he held you to his body and laid a tender, lingering kiss atop your head. A second kiss. A third. Each one came with an enthusiastic mwah, to fully convey his emotions, and you allowed yourself to sink into J’s affection. He didn’t thank you verbally, but he didn’t need to. J was a man of action, he always had been, and right now was his gratitude for you almost screaming out in the things that he did as he kept you close to him. Even as your back began to ache and you pulled away from the hug, J insisted on keeping you close to him and you ended up shuffling closer to him to give him what he wanted.

You.

It was Pat’s turn next to open his gift, waited patiently had he for J, and he cracked the envelope open without taking his eyes off of you. You smiled in encouragement and Pat winked at you as his fingers dipped inside the fold of the envelope. He slid out the piece of paper within and then gasped quietly. His fingers went slack and he dropped the envelope back onto his lap and J chuckled darkly.

“Told ya’ the kid would make a big deal outta it.”

“J, stop it! Let him be!” You made to elbow J, but purple leather encased your elbow so that you couldn’t come into contact with his ribs. J’s grip remained where it was as the both of you watched Pat shakily, carefully, pull out the plane ticket. His eyes roamed around the page quickly, like he hardly dared to believe what was right in front of him, and then he read it over slower.  As the shock wore off did the appreciation set in, a tender soul was he. The date was for next month, which gave him plenty of time to prepare for his holiday; the gap between receiving the gift and going on holiday was J’s idea and you appreciated now, more than ever, his forethought and attention to detail. Oh, how you loved him. “You haven’t been home in years, Koala, and I thought you deserve to go and at least visit and see it all again.” You made to point out that there was three tickets within, one for each of you so that you could all go together, but Pat found that out for himself and when Pat finally tore his eyes off of the plane tickets, there was so much love within his chocolate gaze that your breath caught in your throat and you felt the stinging of tears in your own eyes. You loved him, too, you always had, and you felt like the rest of the world ceased to matter so long as you had your clown and your koala with you. They were your world, they always had been, and you cherished them with everything that you had.

“C’mere, love,” Pat waited not for your response and instead did he come to you as he threw his arms around you and held you tight. J kept his grip on you, too, protective and loving was he most especially when it was only the three of you, and you sunk into Pat’s body, too, finding comfort and solace. J grunted as Pat rained kisses down on your face, his eyes alight with a fire which made heat similarly pool low within your stomach. “Thank you, wallaby. I can’t wait to show you my hometown!” You could see his mind turning as he began to think of all the places he could take you and you felt yourself becoming excited because he was excited, too. So deeply connected were you that each other’s emotions were mere extensions of your own. The three of you remained close, now, as emotions heightened and the love blossomed into its own life form; a fourth entity in the room, as always did it become.

“My, ah - my turn.” J shifted in his seat as he handed you a small but deep box, and his subtle movement clued you into the fact that whatever was inside this box, or the meaning of it, was incredibly important to the usually impassive man. There was a card which came with the gift, and you read that first:

You smiled and a few tears slipped down your cheeks as you reached out for your clown and pressed a reverent kiss to his full lips. J hummed into the kiss and allowed you to give everything you could within that moment. J had spoken of explosions within the card and your love for him had always been like that; something you couldn’t control, something which kept you warm. For the first time in your life did you not have to set yourself ablaze just to keep others warm, for the love the both of you shared was that warmth and it only reached out to others who could also feel that heat. “Thank you, J.” He motioned impatiently for you to open the gift, and you did so, your wrist deftly untying the ribbon which held the box closed.

At first you saw only a hunk of metal, so you lifted up the box to put the lid underneath, getting comfortable within the moment. You jumped to see a grenade in the box and suddenly did J’s insistence to only exchange gifts when it was just the three of you make plenty of sense and you smiled distractedly at his forethought. Then again, you wouldn’t have expected anything less than that from the man who held your whole heart within his calloused hands. You had always genuinely loved and appreciated the way that J’s hands, which could and would murder someone so easily in the same way one would swat a fly, could also be so tender and loving within the way he treated you. Indeed, no one except Pat held you, loved you, in the way that J did; with tenderness as warm as the summer and with the absolute lack of danger which he so presented to everyone else. You saw, seconds into your panic, that the pin was missing, and with your heart pounding in your chest did you look up at J, confusion written all over your face. You were safe, you knew that now, but the initial shock was still very much with you and you needed J’s reassurance. What was he trying to say to you? Your mind raced to find out.

“Look, sweets, I - “ J dipped a hand inside his royal purple jacket and pulled out the missing grenade pin. It was barely recognisable as its usual function, for it had been twisted and manipulated into a ring. It was wire-thin in some places though you had no doubt that it would be strong. Other places were thicker, more filled out, and you lifted the deactivated grenade from the box, turning it this way and that. Some pieces were missing, having been added to bulk out the ring, which had ultimately been folded back on itself to make it even stronger. Just like the love you shared was it unbreakable. Indestructible. “You, ah - you complete me.” J’s voice was unusually quiet, his eyes devoid of humour but a small, almost imperceptible smirk on his lips.

“Oh, my - “ You surged forwards and almost climbed into his lap as you grabbed J’s painted visage in your hands. Once more did you press the most intense, fiery kiss to his plush lips that you could muster, so overwhelmed with love were you. “I love you too, J.”

There were no cackles. No bounces. No sarcastic comments. There was only Jack in this moment, the man beneath the paint, the man behind the suit, and so you considered yourself to have received two gifts from J this day as he finally pulled away and rearranged his clothes, pulling himself together. You were certain of the fact that, were he not wearing face paint, that he would have been visibly blushing. Most likely was that why he had not removed his paint prior to coming into the bedroom. He remained close to you, however, loathe was he to ever leave you for even a moment. Actions of love screamed at you and you found yourself almost unable to speak with all the unconditional love which you were both giving and receiving. 

Pat had been quiet for the duration of J giving you his gift, respectfully keeping himself out of the moment which was between yourself and J. Now that it was over, J had signalled to Pat to start his own with you; everything was an equal balance of give and take between the three of you. “Here, hazel eyes,” Pat’s watery gaze only made you cry a little bit more, your body physically unable to deal with all of your emotions. He cupped your face in his hands and the calloused pads of his thumbs swept easily across your cheeks in the same moment that he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Merry Christmas.” As he pulled away but still remained close to you, he handed you a small square gift. It was neatly wrapped and there was a card taped to the top of the gift:

Pat always made sure that you knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that you were loved. He told you often how much he loved you and how proud of you he was, and he made sure that you knew you had a support behind you. It was only one more thing which you did for Pat, too, and everything which you gave out to him and to J was returned in kind. The three of you were equal in love in every single way and none of you ever allowed any other person within your relationship to doubt their own place within the dynamic. You felt the wounds of yesterday begin to be soothed by the joys of today and the promise of tomorrow and you swore to yourself that you would hold all of these memories close to you. Love did you have in abundance and as you began to open the gift, you kept your eyes firmly on Pat. You knew that you would be okay so long as you kept your sights on what mattered, on who mattered. 

The gift unravelled, held together had it been by just a few pieces of tape, and you pulled out a mixtape. It was home made and a card detailed every song by name, artist and year of release. It was a compilation of all of your favourite songs, as well as the songs which were sentimental to you, Pat and J. Right at the bottom was a rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You, sung by... 

“Oh my god, Pat!” 

You loved Pat’s singing voice; so much so that you sometimes felt the urge to cry just because of the way it made your heart squeeze in your chest almost to the point of pain. You kept a hand on the mixtape even as you threw your arms around Pat, and if it hadn’t been for the way J quickly snagged the CD, you may well have accidentally hit Pat with it. Pat chuckled and wrapped his arms around you as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You completely missed the look which J and Pat exchanged with one another. It was one of trust, reverence, and of love. They didn’t get each other gifts but they didn’t need to; each other’s existence was enough of a gift and the two men would express that to each other later on when they thought you to be sleeping, for the evening was growing later and the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. 

“I, err - you like my singing, right? And I know these songs... I know what they mean to you and I know what I mean to you, as well, so I wanted to make you something which served as a reminder to keep us close, you know? Keep love close, baby girl, that’s all that matters.” Pat’s rich and deep timbre rumbled through his chest and you smiled to feel it vibrate against your own skin. So wise was he for one so young and your heart ached to be aware of all of the pain he had ever been through in his life. He had always deserved so much better and you would always do what you could to give him those things. He had been alone for so long in his anguish and never had anyone been there for him, but you would do your best now and for the rest of your days together with your husband to give him that love, support, understanding and acceptance which he had always craved. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You squeezed Pat and moved so that you could press your lips to his. Affection was shared so easily between the both of you and it seemed almost as though every kiss was a renewal of the vows you had exchanged only this month. J was settling easily into his new dynamic with the both of you even as your relationship with Pat had progressed to legalities, which for obvious reasons J would refrain from participating in. There were no gifts which J or Pat could give you which would properly be able to convey the depth of their love and gratitude towards you not only for the very expensive material gifts which you had bestowed upon them this day, but also for the intangible gifts which you gave them without question every single day. You were such a loving and gentle soul and there were entire worlds within you. Stardust was within your veins and you were the universe experiencing itself all over again. It was in your nature to nurture people and even J’s rougher edges had been sanded down by your gentle touch and loving glances. Every single day, no matter how badly you felt or how horrifically you were treated by people or by situations which were simply beyond you, you still faced the day and yourself and you still loved. If love was a form of magic then you produced the purest form of it; unconditional and undying was it towards those lucky enough to be loved by you, and Pat and J’s lives had been changed infinitely by your existence. You never had to try to be anything more than you were most naturally on any given day; you were already and you meant the world to both men. 

As you sunk into Pat’s embrace and the man sighed affectionally, you shuffled forward even further until Pat’s arms slid down so that he could lift you onto his lap. There, in your favourite seat, though conscious were you of J, you fully relaxed; surrounded by your husband and all that he was. From behind you did you feel J shuffle forward so that he could wrap his arms around you and Pat. Usually was he exuberant and deliberately obnoxious in his movements but right now was he only slow and careful, sure of himself and of his way was he. J knew what he was doing at all times when it came to his younger but assuredly world-weary loves, and on this occasion was that rule without exception. 

“All right, ah - c’mon.” J kept one arm around you and moved gifts and papers out of the way before he wrapped his other arm around Pat. With the message that now was the time to relax upon you all, you and Pat shifted until you were both on either side of J, and both of you as much in physical contact with him as you wanted to be. J took what you gave him and he only returned it to you in kind, fair was he. He brought you both home and with gifts held close but with each other held even closer, the last few hours of Christmas Day were spent the way that it had started: with love. “Wanna watch your, ah - your show, sweets?”

You grinned and looked over at Pat. “Well... I got you that art stuff, J, so why don’t we watch some Bob Ross?”

J’s dark eyes flicked up to the ceiling in mock annoyance and Pat chuckled as he reached over J’s lap to hold one of your hands. His calloused thumb, a worker was he, rubbed across the top of your hand, and he leaned his head against J’s upper arm as J flicked the television over to Bob Ross. He hated this show and didn’t understand what the fascination was, but he wanted to spend some quality time with his soulmates and the ways in which the both of you so pressed up against his body on either side really made J feel wanted and... loved. As one of J’s hands came to rub across his chest, a light frown on his face, Pat caught the movement and grinned. He moved up to press a kiss to J’s cheek.

“I see you, J,” Pat grinned at J, who only rolled his eyes once more and dropped his hand back onto his lap, “We love you too, you know that?”

J did. How could he not, when the two of you told him in every single way that you could every day? He nodded but otherwise said nothing. He only pressed play a bit harder than he should have done, and settled back into the headboard. He allowed you and Pat to take whatever affection from him you wanted or even needed, and as Bob began his introduction and Pat nestled into J’s side, J dipped a hand into the pocket which he had stowed the ring away in and pulled it out. The dulled silver glinted in the harsh blue light of the television and he handed it to you with a small, barely there smile on his face. You took the ring from J and reached out for the hand which had been rubbing at his chest. His hands were bare and you slid the ring onto the finger next to his littlest digit; you were devoted entirely to one another in feeling and though you questioned his reaction to this even as you did it, you also knew J well enough to know that he would have stopped you by now if he didn’t like it. J didn’t move in protest or in acceptance, he just allowed you to do whatever felt right to you, intuitive were you, and then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. His nose remained in the strands for a few seconds as his lips lingered, and you understood everything that he was saying to you. 

Merry Christmas, indeed.

I’ve never made moodboards before so I don’t know how I’ve done, buuuut I wanted to try for you, so here you go!💙

A Verose Date

A date night with J

Us against the world

[dayasbun]

kinda soft but reader and zendaya just had a baby :)

THISISSOCUTESTOPMAKINGMECRY okay this starts w you and z waiting for the baby to be born so you two are in the waiting room of the hospital. {ya’ll are married!!} the birth mom {Sofia} is in labor and you and z are nervous as hell waiting for this lil one to come out healthy and strong. then after that will be just a few new parent experiences! this is so precious and by far one of the cutest and favorite soft requests for z i have ever gotten, so enjoy angel, and i genuinely thank you for this request, it brought me so much joy to write

-

The Waiting Room.

“What if she doesn’t live or- what if she’s born with challenges? Baby, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if she- I didn’t even carry her, I know Sofia did but-”

“Love.” You said in a soft and reassuring tone. “Our baby will be just fine. I know it.” You rubbed your thumb against your wife’s hand softly, something that always reassured her and calmed her down a bit.

Zendaya let out a shaky sigh and nodded. “I’m probably freaking out over nothing…”

“Yeah, pretty much!” You chuckled. “Baby Sky will be just fine. I bet you in less than an hour we’ll be holding her, telling her how gorgeous she already is and how many things she’s going to accomplish. Telling her that she’s a lover, not a fighter, just like her Mommy Z.” You leaned your head on Daya’s shoulder, closing your eyes and smiling. “It’s crazy, I couldn’t wait for 9 months to be up, and now all I gotta do is be patient for an hour or two and I feel like I’m over here dying.”

“Me too-”

“Zendaya and Y/N, I have news!” the male gray-headed doctor announced as he walked towards you guys. He was the same one that had told you two to stay calm from the start, and was sure to send nurses out now and then to update you two.

You and Zendaya quickly jumped up out of your seats, your eyes wide. “Which is?” You questioned. All you could do was pray in your head that your baby would be born healthy, and all would be well.

“She’s here. And she’s absolutely gorgeous- healthy too.”

-

The Delivery Room.

You had seen a multitude of beautiful people in your life, your wife being one of them. Some days you just looked at her and thought, ‘Wow. Out of all of the people in the world, I got her.’ It was a common thought you had, but never about anyone but Z.

But as you held such a little bundle of joy- such an angel in your arms, and as you felt her tiny hand wrap around your finger, you knew.

You knew that this little girl was one of the most beautiful human beings you had ever laid eyes on. You felt so lucky to be blessed to know she would call you ‘Momma’ or ‘Mommy’. And it was in that moment you decided that you would do everything you could- ever- to protect her from all of the dangers of the world, to keep her safe, and always smiling. 

Miss Skylar Rose Coleman was born on October 10th at 9:42 A.M. Daya wouldn’t stop calling her ‘Spooky Baby!’ because every time she said it she earned a little smile from her. Skylar Rose had the most beautiful curly brown hair you had ever seen, and quite a head of it considering she had just been born. She cried when she first came out, but after that, she stayed quite silent. The doctors were worried for a moment, thinking something was wrong (which almost send you into a full panic attack), but soon learned she was just fine as long as she had some lovin’.

As soon as the nurses dared to pull the little one away from you or Zendaya’s arms, screams could be heard throughout the whole hospital. And though you told her to “Shhhh,” You didn’t really want her to. That was her way of showing you that she already loved you, and that was something you would never forget.

-

1 month.

“Daya!” You screamed upstairs. The woman quickly ran down the spiral staircase wearing a tank and shorts, her bushy brown hair pulled up into the messiest bun you had ever seen.  

“What?!” She asked worriedly, and you could tell you had scared her.

“Look, just look.” You picked up Skylar from the floor and held her close to you. “Who does Momma love? Does Momma love…Daya?”

A quick grunt was heard from Skylar and the most unpleasant facial expression show on her face. Zendaya raised a brow and chuckled as she watched, fully amused.

“Oh, that’s right!…Does Momma love Skylar?”

Instead of the past reaction, this time the little angel cooed with a smile, blinking a bit as her lips turned to a satisfied ‘O’.

“See! Baby knows who Momma really loves more.” You teased, placing Sky in between some pillows for some supervised tummy time. 

“Hmmm, I don’t know. I still think Momma loves me more.” Z replied, wrapping her arms around you from the back, her face comfortably fitting into the crook of your neck. She peppered kisses against it, causing you to shiver a bit.

“Shhhh.” You said spinning around and facing her. “Don’t tell Sky this but…I still love her more!” You giggled pulling away.

Daya shook her head laughing, sitting on the floor next to Sky. “I love you.”

“I love you too-” you replied, but were quickly cut off by a jokingly snarky Zendaya.

“Oh, is that you Y/N?! I was talking to Sky!”

-

4 months.

“Come on angel girl, you can do it!” You and Z cheered as though you two were cheerleaders at a (very soft?) football game.

But no, you were simply sitting on the floor with a very determined baby girl that you were lucky enough to call your daughter in front of you. She was trying to roll over, and god she was close. The doctor told you two not to force it, which meant not helping her to do it, and to let her do it herself. So you two weren’t per se forcing her- a bit of cheerful encouragement couldn’t hurt.

Just moments after you two had begun cheering her on, she rolled over completely- and Z got it on tape. You two burst into excitement, attacking the small child with kissies and little huggies. She beamed with joy and absolutely loved all of the attention.

You and Z knew from a very very young age that Sky would be a little show stopper. You both knew she would be gorgeous- which was something else within itself, but the way that girl did stuff just to get one of her Mommies’ attention was unreal. Put her down for two seconds? Suddenly it’s time for a diaper change. Gotta use the bathroom for two minutes? You come back to her striking a pose in the crib. It was quite precious though, the way she loved you two endlessly. And all you and Zendaya did was love her back just as much.

The press tended to ask you a lot of the exact same question. Since you and Z had decided on not bringing Skylar up in the public eye quite yet, that’s all they seemed to have questions about. The most common one was always, “Is little Skylar Rose spoiled at all?” And every time, the same answer.

“Yes.”

-

8 months.

‘They grow up so fast!’

Something you had heard your whole life and was so tired of hearing.

Until you started saying it.

You never realized how truthful the statement was, you still couldn’t believe your baby- your Skylar Rose was almost one year. She was crawling, babbling, feeding herself and playing with toys. It seemed as though she was trying to say words, and the growth was incredible to watch.

You talked to her often, she loved your voice. Whenever she would cry, all you had to do was talk to her and away went the tears. And don’t even get me started with when Daya started singing.

Sky was getting even more clingy, and at a whopping 21 pounds, it was harder to carry her as much as you usually did. Of course, that didn’t stop you from acting like your baby was velcro to you. Though Zendaya started trying to convince you that you should let your baby be a bit more independent, crawl more places and get to the walking stage, you honestly didn’t listen. 

It was a warm June day the first time Skylar said both of your names. After doing a bit of research you learned that it was quite rare for a baby to officially start babbling names on repeat out of nowhere, so you felt blessed. The three of you- excuse me, four, Noon was included as well- sat on a light blue picnic blanket in the backyard. Skylar ate her applesauce as you and Z talked whilst eating sandwiches. And in the midst of the conversation came:

“Momma! Zee-Zee!”

You practically choked on the sandwich, while Z actually did. 

“DID SHE JUST-” she sputtered out through coughs.

“SHE DID-” you exclaimed in awe, partly patting her back but mostly focusing on Skylar.

“Toon!” Sky giggled pointed at Noon, who scooted closer to her and placed his head by her feet. He had already embraced the name, he knew Sky didn’t say it right, but hey- it was an attempt.

Quickly pulling out your phone you turned on the camera. “Say it again cutie patootie!”

“Momma, Zee-Zee!”

“SHE SAYS TOON TOO LISTEN-” You screamed excitedly.

Sure enough, after 30 seconds of dead anticipation filled silence, out squealed Sky. “Toon,” she said softly, placing her chubby hand onto his fur. You dropped the camera as you hugged Z, both of you welling up with emotion and a sense of pride. “She’s not even 10 months yet this usually happens at 10 months-”

You usually didn’t post videos of Sky on social media, now and then maybe a rare picture. But this video was going up immediately.

- 

1 year.

“Happy Birthday to youuuuu!”

Skylar Rose Coleman was officially a year old.

You called your baby a genius- she may not have been, but you still couldn’t believe how early she started talking. The doctors said it was due to you and Z never shutting up around her- Sky wanted to join the conversation too! 

Now she had longer nails, longer hair. She had the cutest little button nose that had barely changed in the year you had raised her, and the tiniest fingers and little toes. She had the cutest laugh and the most gorgeous smile- she was a little person now, not just a small being that lived off of milk and crawled around looking for toys. She had a personality, she understood what was going on around her. It was quite scary to think that she was growing so fast, already beginning to comprehend things.

You grinned as you watched Tom smash cake in his hands just like Skylar did. The first birthday party was quite the success, everyone that knew Skylar loved her just as much as you two did. This resulted in gifts from not only friends and family that were invited to the party, but from people all over the world. A total of 1,798 gifts had been given to publicists, managers, or to you and Z personally on outings to give to Sky on her 1st birthday.

‘He’s such a mature man.” You joked to Z pointing towards Tom. Now he was putting the cake on his face, getting quite the laugh out of both Jake Gyllenhaal and Skylar.

“Mhm, remember when you used to be so jealous of that mature man?”

“Oh shut up, I was never jealous!” You defended yourself, knowing you were lying. Watching Zendaya and Tom together used to completely boil your blood, especially considering the rumors you and everyone else heard about them.

“Why do you spend more time with Tom than me?! Am I not good enough?!” She mocked you.

“One time- and that was like 3 years ago, how do you even remember that?!”

“I remember because that was the exact moment I decided that I was going to ask you to marry me.”

You smiled a bit and shook your head. “I love you…We did this. Can you believe it?”

“Can I believe I kept a living thing alive that wasn’t a plant or a dog alive for a full year? No, I can’t.”

You laughed wrapping your arms around her neck. “There are so many more years to come, Baby.”

“And I can’t wait to spend every single one of those years with you…by the way, the way that dress is hugging your body…”

“Damnit Daya can’t we have one romantic moment?!” You joked. She knew you loved the attention, both her girls did, you and Sky.

“Oh, I can get romantic if you’d like me to…you know Sky has started sleeping pretty much through the whole night now.”

“Mhm.”

“And there’s a lot of things I would absolutely love to do that we haven’t properly done in the past year.”

“Oh really now?

“Lemme just say be glad you’re not a man.”

“And why should I be glad about that?

“Because well…we would probably be making another baby.”

Your lips parted as you looked up at her and shook your head. “What am I going to do with you?!” 

“Right now I would like to think that you are going to go cut me a piece of cake!”

“The way your moods change- and yes, I will. But before I do, one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you Zendaya Maree Stoermer Coleman.”

“I love you Y/F/N Y/M/N Coleman.”

“Forever!” You called back to her as you walked away and over to Sky.

“Foreva!” Sky giggled, smearing a bit of cake on your face as you leaned down to give her a kiss.

Yep, definitely a genuis.