#how do i best tell everyone that her inner shirt has been etched on my noggin' since watching the trailer?

[hunkydorkling]

And Mommy loves you so much.

(gif version under the cut)

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

⇺ ⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂ ⇻

↣ Masterpost

↣ inspired by @haik-choo’s post

↣ wc: 1.7k 

↣ warnings: some self inflicted pain (nothing major!), cheating mentions, serious heartbreak. 

↣  song recommendation:  tolerate it - taylor swift 

↣  preamble (as written by haik-choo):  akaashi keiji doesn’t get that not everyone can understand how someone feels with one look. he puts an extra sugar in his coffee and expects you to know that he wants to go out to a bakery, he clicks his red pens a few extra times and expects you to know that he needs refills – he says he has a lot of work tonight and expects you to make him midnight snacks. to him, that stuff is easy. why can’t you understand him? he does it for you – he shouldn’t have to say it out loud. you should already know what he’s thinking. if you don’t, maybe you don’t love him as much as he thought you did.

The complexity of love has never been accurately represented in the media. Films present reality through the lens of a fractured mirror to provide viewers a sense of emotion they cannot find elsewhere. Fairy tales are perhaps the worst form of media to exist. They are created to be consumed by young impressionable children who develop unrealistic expectations that are later thrust upon the unfortunate souls that become their partners. You were one of those children who bought the falsities sold to you. Love was something magical, the intertwining of two hearts.

You were sixteen when you fell in love for the first time. Enthralled by how one emotion could paint new colours in the horizons, you allowed yourself to fall… it was perfect, until you found yourself crying on the bathroom floor, wondering why the fairy tales lied to you.

You were seventeen when you first experienced heart break. Even now, you can remember the shame that drenched your soul when you learned that the one you loved, had slept with someone else. Each inch of your skin was tainted by your “prince charming.”

That night, your mother had to drag you out of the bath. The pads of your toes and fingers had shriveled up, while your arms and legs burned a bright crimson from the incessant scrubbing. Yet the tingling of your skin was merely a scratch in comparison to the laceration inside of your heart, and there was no band aid that you could apply there.

That was December 3rd 2014 – the date you abandoned your foolish ideals.

You met Akaashi Keiji exactly six months later.

If you were ever asked to describe the mystery that is Keiji, where would you begin? Were there truly any words that could accurately capture the very essence of his kind soul? Or the depth of this mesmerizing eyes? How would you possibly begin to explain how a single caress by his calloused fingertips had melted away the imaginary grime that had coated your skin? If anyone was prince charming, it was him.

But little did you know that sometimes he doubted whether you were his Cinderella. His happily ever after…

The first indication of his veiled concerns occurred in your last year of high school. With the departure of his third-year friends, Akaashi was titled captain of the boy’s volleyball team. While he enjoyed volleyball, he was never obsessed with the sport like his best friend. Volleyball was his hobby, nothing more and nothing less. He was more concerned with maintaining his high academic record than securing a ticket to nationals. Last year balancing the various fragments of his life was simple. But the absence of his friends weighed on him, each day the anxiety increased until he could barely sit without jitters swarming his limbs. As his girlfriend, you should have known the stress he was battling… Sure, he was pushing you away, but you should have known why.

Yet, when you attempted to thwart his efforts to establish distance, you were chastised for your lack of understanding.

“Y/n. I am busy. Please do not disturb me during practice.” Not the slightest bit of respect was allocated to you, despite your status as his girlfriend. And while his pointed response was undoubtedly directed towards to you, his attention was on the practice commencing inside of the gym. “Listen, I need to go back. If you want to talk, consider picking a more appropriate time in the future.” Rolling the towel within his grasp, he refused to acknowledge you beyond sharing these words.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” To even utter an apology stole the limited resolve you had to address the situation. How much did you have to degrade yourself to fix a relationship he evidently did not want?

But the following day at lunch period, a dozen roses were delivered to you with an apology note attached to the stems. It was only natural for you to grant him the forgiveness he sought. Dismissing his actions was simple once you rationalized it as a normal reaction to an abundance of pressure. Diamonds may be created under pressure, but he was no diamond, and neither were you.

The second indication of his concealed doubts did not emerge from a set of actions, nor did it include the exchange of harsh words. Rather, it was his silence that nurtured your insecurities and provided you confirmation that while he was your happily-ever-after, you may not be his.

To celebrate Keiji’s 19th birthday, his mother had offered to host a gathering at his childhood home. When the details of the party were conveyed to you, excitement had fluttered to life inside of your stomach. It was the perfect opportunity to develop your relationship with the woman who had raised your wonderful boyfriend. Yet, not even the purest of intentions would save you from the humiliation that awaited you that night.

At one point of the evening, Keiji had vanished for a considerable amount of time. Naturally, you searched the house for your boyfriend. When you peaked inside of the kitchen, you found him engaging in a conversation with his mother. You almost called out to him instinctively, except your vocal cords denied you access when you caught the end of their conversation.  

“Has she been tending to your needs yet? Or has she remained as useless as before?” The older woman clutched the stem of her wine glass, with a scoff clawing at her throat. It seemed that the liquor coating her tongue had turned the muscular organ into a knife.

Keiji stood with his back pressed against the kitchen island, listening without a reaction. The nonchalance emanating from his demeanour indicated that this was not the first occurrence. No, this had happened before, otherwise he would have had some form of a reaction. A flinch – a twitch – anything. But he stood still, emotionless, distant. The targeting comments were equivalent to a whisper in the wind – not deserving of a response, nor a stir.

“Keiji, you are aware that you are wasting your time and yet you stay with her?” The sigh falling from her stained lips was extended to emphasize her distress, and the gentle sound was enough to weaken your knees.

No longer able to support your own weight, you leaned against the wall, allowing your eyelids to flutter shut. Your fingers tangled with the fabric of your shirt as you waited for his response.

Say something – anything. Just tell her she’s wrong.

Yet the denial never came.  

The first two indications were shoved aside, dismissed with excuses that would serve as a band-aid on your decaying relationship. But then came the third.

The third indication of his doubt occurred on an average college night when you were in the process of selecting your outfit for the night. Bokuto had arranged an unofficial Fukurodani reunion for the boy’s volleyball team. As Keiji’s girlfriend, the invite was naturally extended to you. Usually your boyfriend would be in higher spirits knowing that he would soon be in the company of his high school friends. But tonight, a frown remained etched into his features, not wavering for even a single moment.

“Which one? I don’t want to be underdressed. But on the other hand, Kou is always dressed really weird. So, I don’t know.” Two outfits were presented towards the male, a scarlet cocktail dress and a navy pantsuit with a low cut.

“Does it matter, y/n?” The sharp remark was blown out with a heavy sigh. It was as though he could not muster the energy to care for your feelings. Or perhaps, he simply chose to display his inner conflict, with no concern of the consequences of his decision.

The noise was startling enough to strip you of the excitement that once animated your movements.

“I guess not, but is it wrong that I want to look good for my boyfriend?” The counter question was voiced barely above a whisper, with each word sounding fainter than the last.

“Maybe if you knew me well enough you wouldn’t have to ask.” His eyes did not meet yours, rather they stayed fixed on the writing utensil within his grasp. “It’s not that hard, y/n. You just don’t care enough to put in the effort.”

The verbal assaults implanted daggers into your chest, but the pain would only become worse – since he was not done just yet.

“If you refuse to love me with your entire heart, what is the point? Let me go.”

“Keiji!” Pain cut along the inside of your throat from the shriek erupting from your chest. Had you ever screamed his name in quite a harsh manner? Liquid blurred your vision, and with your air-filled organs wheezing in distress, your words were stated between staggered breaths.

“I am not a fucking mind reader.” The fog of desperation encompassing you was comprised of poison, one that soon threaded throughout your system. The properties of the poison enflamed your lungs, burning the organs and halting the flow of air. Instinctively your hands were sent to your skin, clawing at the flesh as if you could simply rip out the emotions suffocating you. “Just because I don’t love you the way you think I should, doesn’t mean I don’t.” Whether the words spilling from your lips were responsible for the bitter taste in your mouth, or the tears now gracefully parading down your cheeks was unknown. Either way, the release of the steaming liquid eased the burning sensation in your lungs.

“I’m done, Keiji. I’m done.” Slowly claiming your insides was a thin layer of ice. By now, you had run out of excuses for his behaviour. There were no longer any band-aids you could use to tend to the wounds. The question of whether your boyfriend considered you “the one” was answered.

Despite the ache weaving into your muscles, your feet dragged you to the front door. A piece of you desired to catch one final glimpse of him – as your heart knew this would be the final time you would see him. But afraid you would lose your resolve to leave, you pressed the car keys against your palm, and remained fixed on the exit.

Behind you, the brunette voiced a weak apology – you were unable to catch the exact words, as they were muffled by the fabric of his sleeves. But not even the sweetest words could remedy the situation. Since, now you had accepted the truth.

Love was never a fairy-tale, and Akaashi Keiji was not a prince. Love would never be what you wanted it to be, and it would always hurt.

Love would always hurt.

A/N: I ended up finishing this today because I got into a bad mood and so I needed to channel it into something lol 

Taglist: @sayakaaaaaa @sanitisegermsfree @haikyuufairy @newfriendjen @lvoejimin @moonlightaangel @gyozaaaaa @byun-nies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @amberalisa @graykageyama @yourstarvic @chaichai-the-weeb @chibishae34 @haikyuusimp91 @volleybloop  @rajablast @idiot-juice-enthusiast @melonmayhere @cuddlesslut  @athenarosaline @memes-and-money @coconut-dreamz  @mismatched-loves @elianetsantana @tsumume @tsukkismamagucci @the-golden-jhope @camcam1617 @prettyforpapiiwa @swoonhui​ @neobakas​ @azumane-kun @elephantloser​ @dreamstormings​ @anejuuuuoy​   

~ message me to be removed from the general taglist + bolded means I can’t tag ya 

[cinnaminsvga]

Hug-o-gram Preview | Yoongi

→ summary:

“This is probably the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Yoongi hisses, but it’s kind of hard for Seokjin to take him seriously when he’s wearing a cardboard sign around his neck that says ‘Huggie Wuggie Machine!’ in bubble font. 

“Like, even worse than when we DIY’d your car into a convertible by sawing the top off?” Seokjin asks, genuinely curious. 

“Worse,” Yoongi admits, trying his best to stay out of your line of sight. His cheeks redden, matching the gaudy pink kitten ears he was forced into wearing.

{or alternatively: Seokjin is a terrible wingman. He also runs a profitable business by sending “hugs” to people’s crushes for a fee. Mix them together and you have a recipe for Min Yoongi’s worst nightmare.}

→ genre: college!au, hugging booth!au, fluff, humor → warnings: yoongi is so smitten that he’s a walking disaster, so much shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to *o*e him, seokjin just tryna get his homie some y/n love coochie bro ;o; → words: anticipated 10-12K  → a/n: who the fuck am i... why am i writing so much??? let’s all thank miss kwaranteen for that, my friends. but what’s with the fluff, you ask? thank miss @jincherie​ for that because her weak heart can’t handle angst so i have to use my limited fluff muscles to write this for her... anyway idk when this is coming out but its probs soon,, enjoy this lil snippet i guess LMAO 

“Yoongi, it’s time for me to head to work. You want to come with me today?” Seokjin asks, though he knows what answer he’s going to get. You see, Seokjin’s new booming business is another one of his fantastic ideas, but it is a little... inventive. Sure, Yoongi had scoffed when he had originally suggested the idea, but Seokjin knew that it was going to be a money-maker. Sure, it had taken a few years for the business to really take off, but once it finally did…

Enter Kim Seokjin’s Hug-o-gram Service! Students from his university are able to send anonymous payments directly to him, with little notes attached for their crushes. Each love letter delivery comes with a hug from Seokjin himself, delivered straight to the person without them ever knowing who the hug came from. It was ingenious! It was lucrative! But most of all…

It allowed Seokjin to cause drama and have an excuse for it! Nothing could have been more perfect for a man like him.

“No thanks,” Yoongi snorts, rolling over to face him. He watches from the floor as Seokjin changes into a butter-less shirt, which also happens to have his own face printed on the front and back. His trusty cardboard sign that reads “I’m Gonna Glomp Ya!” also joins his attire for the afternoon, a long piece of string tied to its edges so that he can wear it around his neck. Throwing on a pair of white sneakers with the tags still attached, Seokjin is ready to tackle today’s list of would-be hug-ees.

“How do I look?” Seokjin asks, combing his hair with his fingers. It leaves an oily sheen, which he somehow makes it work.

“Ugly,” Yoongi says, like a liar.

“It’s okay, I understand. I can speak tsundere, so you don’t need to explain,” Seokjin snickers, nearly getting hit with a TV remote by Yoongi. He opens his phone again, swiping to his e-mail to see his list of hug deliveries for the day.

Seokjin gets around 10 requests a day, with around half of them coming from regular clients. He’s especially fond of this boy who has been sending hugs to his TA named Namjoon for almost a month now. He has no idea why this kid has so much disposable income, though seeing the blush on Namjoon’s face everyday makes Seokjin think that he would spend every last penny for him too. Namjoon had begged Seokjin for his secret admirer’s identity, but snitchin’ isn’t a part of his service, unfortunately.

As much as Seokjin wants to know who is crushing on who, his little business wouldn’t work as well as it did if anonymity wasn’t included in his package deal. It allows people to thirst in public without facing the repercussions, like getting a knee to the groin or a slap to the face. Not that Seokjin has ever been at the receiving end of that; everyone loves him! Like, have you seen him? He must have saved a civilization in the past with how devastatingly beautiful his forehead is.

“Why am I suddenly filled with the relentless urge to deck you right now?” Yoongi says, getting up to change into clean clothes as well. His black t-shirt unfortunately does not have Seokjin’s face on it, but that can quickly be amended if the elder of the two decides to follow his every intrusive whim.

Seokjin laughs, completely unaware of the murderous capabilities of his friend. Due to his smaller body size, his percentage of evil is unusually concentrated. “Maybe it’s because you know that I’m into pain pla–” but Seokjin’s retort suddenly grinds to a halt. He chokes mid-sentence, coughing wildly as he pounds his chest with a balled-up fist. When Yoongi looks up at him, he finds his hyung staring slack-jawed at his phone, seemingly flabbergasted by what he finds on his screen.

“What’s the matter? Accidentally sent a dick pic to your prof again?” Yoongi snorts.

“That was one time! And no, it’s…” Seokjin trails off, uncharacteristically hesitant. He shifts his gaze from his phone to Yoongi, a drop of sweat quickly forming on the back of his neck. Yoongi raises a brow, silently urging him to continue.

Instead of replying, Seokjin hands him his phone. Yoongi finds a copy of one of Seokjin’s newest hug requests, only having just received it five minutes ago. As he scrolls down, he finds that this secret admirer is a new client, but that isn’t what made Seokjin stop in his tracks. Instead, it’s the recipient of the hug that catches his attention–

“Y/N has a secret admirer?” Yoongi says, voice cracking at the end. He clears his throat, trying his best to school his face into something less… jealous. He swivels away from Seokjin, forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose. He convinces himself that he is the very epitome of calmness.

“You okay there, Yoongi? You look like you’re about to vomit,” Seokjin says, immediately breaking his inner peace. Yoongi groans loudly, shucking the phone over his shoulder, uncaring of where it lands. Seokjin, with his superhuman and God-given reflexes… doesn’t catch it. But he did dive to the floor like a seasoned Olympian, and his ass cushioned his phone so he supposes that’s a win.

Back to the matter at hand––

“I am fine,” Yoongi says, as he continues to not be fine.

From the floor, Seokjin shoots him a disbelieving look. He lies down more comfortably, propping his head on his elbow. Screw his hug-o-gram appointments for now; nothing brings him more joy than seeing Yoongi absolutely losing it. “Really? So you wouldn’t mind if I marched up to Y/N right now and give her the warmest, coziest, most tender hug of her fucking life?”

“Y… Yes,” Yoongi squeaks, neck glowing a furious red. He has his fists clenched (adorably) by his sides, head bowed as he faces the wall of their apartment. Seokjin’s brain makes the unhelpful comparison of Yoongi with that cat meme who says “no talk me angy” in Impact font.

Seokjin grins, his wickedness from within coiling and yearning to burst from his seams. This is it! Maybe if he pushes a little more, then maybe Yoongi will stop pining like a pathetic loser! Also, it didn’t hurt that he got to push Yoongi’s buttons while he’s at it, but hey! Not all heroes go to heaven or whatever.

He grabs his phone from his ass, scrolling back to the e-mail. “So… You wouldn’t mind if I walk up to Y/N right now and tell her ‘Hey! I’ve had an embarrassingly long crush on you and when I heard about this hugging service… I couldn’t miss the chance to shoot my shot! If you’re single and ready to #mingle, then please meet me at the Corner Cafe at 2 PM tomorrow.’” Seokjin sing-songs, snickering loudly when he sees the absolute pain etched onto Yoongi’s face.

There is a pause, and Seokjin waits as Yoongi uses his tiny kitty brain to think of what to do. He can only imagine what’s going inside his head, but he has a guess. Yoongi could either: 1) finally admit his feelings for you and come clean before Seokjin has to deliver your hug, or 2) do something stupid and counterproductive.

It comes as no surprise when Yoongi goes with option number––

[twiceblackvelvet]

Blame

Pt. I, Pt. II

June 2nd, 2022. 14:32 PM. Busan.

“That’s a wrap everyone, thank you!”

The booming voice of the director echoing throughout the set. Lighting rigs are taken down by the many production staff on hand. The few extras needed to walk in the shot background shuffle out of sight without speaking a word, grateful for the opportunity to be working, and not willing to do anything to risk their position here. You can see the hunger for more in all of their eyes and the envy they feel towards those with speaking roles. None of them have caused trouble, something the former male lead should learn from.

The first few weeks here had been tortuous but finally, Joy has completed the filming of her first acting job since the split of Red Velvet, without murdering the god-awful co-star initially hired which is an accomplishment. The role of a mistress seeking revenge against the man who murdered her father just seemed too good to pass up on. However, had she known it would come with dealing with by far the most pretentious man to exist, she might have thought twice.

The first few days it was plain sailing. Everyone just got on with their jobs and kept things moving along. But then, trailers needed to be made bigger and fine foods had to be stocked inside every day. The final straw being a request for an assistant solely to hold water bottles close by the actor. To say Joy was annoyed would be an understatement. So, she confronted the man for his poor behavior and put him in his place. Respect should be earned not just given, and this man had earned zero.

After being showed up in front of everyone, things spiraled quickly into ruining scenes on purpose just to make shoots run late or purposefully blocking the camera with his body during close-ups. Eventually, the director settled on replacing him with another actor, far better both in the talent and attitude department. The firing caused a setback in the schedule, but luckily everyone worked twice as hard to finish within the allotted time-frame.

To finally be rid of this experience feels like a breath of fresh air. Not that she didn’t enjoy portraying what most would deem the “bad” character for a change, it just became difficult to do so when a real-life villain was haunting the production.

“Hey, the director has arranged a wrap party, are you going?”

Eunseo, a petite woman in charge of the third camera who everyday likes to inform Joy she owns all of Red Velvet’s albums asks. Her toothy grin is remarkably unpleasant as the question escapes her mouth. However, Joy has gotten used to her overexcitement over the small pleasures in life.

“Sure, I just need to grab my things from the trailer and I’ll get my manager to drive me straight there.” A lie. A very obvious yet unnoticed lie.

“Great, I’ll see you there.” Eunseo latches her arms firmly around Joy’s neck, although, she barely reaches because of her lack of height.

Joy quickly squirms her way out of the smaller woman’s arms and gives only a smile in response before scurrying away to her trailer, not daring to allow her a second chance at grappling her neck.

Unlocking her phone as she gets closer to the spacious trailer she’s spent the last few months getting used to, a few notifications appear about her upcoming drama, which she subscribed to the alerts for. If the former male lead tries to tarnish her name despite his own actions being the issue, she wants her team to be on the case of fixing it immediately. A few missed calls from her sister and mom, likely wondering how long they need to keep babysitting Haetnim whilst she’s out of Seoul. But finally, some texts from an unknown number that she deletes without reading. If it’s anyone or anything important, they’ll contact her manager.

Getting closer to the trailer, the door appears to be slightly ajar. Joy stops in her tracks, trying to think back to whether or not she locked it before heading to the set. She’s certain she did, however, with the excitement of the final day looming over her, she thinks it’s possible this slipped her mind.

Not willing to risk a masked assailant, however, she shouts inside first to see if anyone responds.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

Silence is all that follows. Not trusting this, she asks again in a more threatening tone.

“Hello? I’m calling the police if you don’t come out!”

A small chuckle is all that can be heard, but there’s no one in sight. Fed up with the not knowing, Joy steps inside of her trailer attempting to use her phone like some kind of weapon. The last person she ever imagined being sat inside of her trailer, however, is there in all of her glory as made-up and ready for the runway as ever, despite her “normal” life now.

“Irene?” She asks, as if unsure of whether the older woman before her is real or just a figment of her imagination.

“Joohyun. It’s Joohyun now.” Adjusting her shirt as she speaks, Joy can tell that she’s nervous to be here, with her, for the first time since the day they parted as members. “Nice trailer, I can see you… decorated.”

There’s clothing thrown on the floor with little to no care, a reminder of their days in the dorm, everyone making a mess, and no one in the mood to clean up after themselves. However, if Joy had known that Joohyun was dropping by, she’d have attempted to at least make it slightly presentable. She does still mean a lot to Joy.

“Um… What are you doing here?” The bluntness to Joy’s tone being something she didn’t mean to let out, however, her voice naturally shows that she too is on edge.

The pair look at each other for a few seconds before Joohyun stands and attempts to leave. However, Joy places her arm up onto the door frame to block her path before she can whisk back out of her life as fast as she has re-entered it.

“This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.” Sadness drips off every word Joohyun speaks, her eyes averting to the ground.

“Come on, sit back down. I’ll make us a drink and you can tell me all about it.”

Joohyun desperately wants to escape, but Joy has always had a way of roping her into things she’s not so sure of. So she sits. They drink, something that is far too stiff for both of them to handle, however, it helps the words flow from Joohyun’s mouth and Joy’s ears do a lot more listening than they’re used to nowadays.

She tells Joy all about the offer from Dongchul and how she’s considering stepping into the acting world, about her garden that has become a haven where she can let all of her thoughts out and about how her parents’ smiles have become the thing that makes her heart feel alive now.

Joy has always found Joohyun beautiful, so has anyone lucky enough to lay their eyes on her, however, seeing her happy like this makes her feel that her own actions regarding their group splitting are justified if Joohyun is enjoying her new life this much. Joy desperately hopes to feel the same way one day about her own.

“How about you? Do you keep up with the others?” Joohyun asks and breaks Joy from her own inner monologue of life. “How are they all?”

Joy hesitates in answering Joohyun’s innocent question. She knows that her former leader is not trying to stir up any negative feelings by asking about the others, yet, sadness is all Joy can feel when she thinks about the state the group has erupted into.

“I don’t speak to Seulgi, she stopped speaking to me that day,” A frown replaces Joohyun’s smile from seconds ago at this. “Yeri and I hang out sometimes, she’s just as busy as I am. We check in with each other when we can.”

“That’s good, you two were always close. Annoying, but close.” Joohyun adds, “What about Wendy, do you see her still?”

Confusion etches across Joy’s face. Granted Joohyun is yet to reveal whether she has kept in touch with anyone, she figured that she would have at least saw the news on the internet or television.

“Well that would be difficult, given that she’s in America now, did you not know?”

Joohyun almost chokes on her drink at Joy’s words. America? Why would she move there? Why did no one tell her?

“No, when did she move?”

“She left about two months after the split.” If Joohyun thinks this is the only bombshell awaiting her about her former members, Joy has yet another shock in store for her. “So, you don’t know about the singles clash then, I guess?”

Placing her drink down onto the table, Joohyun shifts her body closer towards Joy’s, unsure of what she’s talking about.

“Singles clash? No?”

A deep sigh leaves Joy’s body. Dealing with her awful co-worker had also been made more difficult by the decisions made by two of her former members. Interviewers desperately wanting her to comment on what ended up being a situation blown out of proportion, but a stressful one to deal with. Fake smiles were plastered on and rumors of a feud swiftly denied by both her and Yeri on behalf of Seulgi and Wendy.

“Seulgi got to debut solo two months ago, SM did their first thing right in years and went all out for her, the whole works,” Joy can see Joohyun’s mental cogs shifting trying to figure out where an issue comes into play here. “But Wendy released her first solo song in the US at midnight, an hour before Seulgi’s showcase here.”

Suddenly, everything makes sense. But surely this was all coincidental? Joohyun thinks but doesn’t verbalize as Joy is in before she can.

“Wendy insists that she had no idea Seulgi’s debut was that day but, I don’t know. It turned into a messy situation and fans didn’t know which to support. Seulgi still topped the charts, but it can’t have felt good to have her thunder stolen from someone who was once her friend. She already blames us for the disbandment, this just added fuel to the fire.”

Joy’s hand’s motion between the two of them as she speaks.

“She blames me?” Joohyun asks softly.

Joy pauses and recalls that Joohyun missed the blow-up from Seulgi in the office that day having left before it happened. She decides it’s best to stick the knife all the way in and tell Joohyun everything instead of trying to spare her with a lie.

“Except for Yeri, she blames all of us.”

pt. iv

[weartirondad]

All My Broken Pieces (You Found Them, Glued Them, Made Them Whole)

Relationships: Rhodey & Tony, Pepper / Tony, Peter & Tony, Tony & Touch

FF.net I ao3

Tony had always craved touch.

When he was a toddler, the only way for Maria and Jarvis to calm him down or get him to sleep was always through touch.

Maria would hug him and sing him a lullaby, lips so close to his ear that he felt her warm breath on his skin and only then, when he was certain that his mother was there with him, would he relent and close his eyes, falling asleep almost immediately.

Jarvis would calm the body shaking sobs and soul splitting screams he tried to bury in his pillow by running a warm hand up and down his spine, whispering soothing words that Tony never really picked up on.

It was always the touch of a person he trusted that kept him from falling apart any further. It was the touch that was his crutch when he couldn’t stand back up on his own. Touch was the glue that held all of his broken pieces together even when he himself had given up on repairing the damage because it seemed futile.

When he meets Rhodey he has long since come to accept that needing someone else’s touch is a weakness. A weakness that he can’t afford if he wants to make his father proud.

Stark men are made of iron.

It’s etched into his heart, the incision aching with every beat, and he feels his father’s word in his lungs with every breath he takes. Like acid the words dissolve him from the inside, battling the very core of who he is – was.

He’s 15 and he’s by far the youngest student on the MIT campus.

Everything and everyone around him feels so much bigger than he is, than what he feels like, but he’s used to feeling small and worthless so he squares his shoulders and he puts on the persona that has gotten him through his one dreadful year of high school. He’s smart, he’s sassy and he doesn’t mince his words. He lets everyone know exactly who he is.

It doesn’t take him more than two weeks to troop together a group of people who love hanging out with Howard Stark’s son. (It just happens to be Tony, he knows that.)

It takes him three parties to get his reputation as a player. (Because sex, he was taught, is the only physical connection that is about control not weakness and he can’t shut down the last pathetic part of him that still craves human contact.)

James Rhodes is not a player. He shows up to some parties, he socializes easily and is an all-around all-liked person. He speaks his mind but he does so in a polite way, inviting discussion and discourse as long as it’s on-topic und respectful. He doesn’t let frustration and anger cloud his judgement. He’s resilient in his work and his intelligence is quiet and steady.

In short, he’s everything Tony is not and normally their paths would never have crossed.

Maybe it’s fate that decides that they should meet. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Whatever it is, Tony is grateful they do.

When they do, Tony is running on four hours of sleep in just as many days and he’s shaking like a leaf. His hands are trying to connect the last few wires on his robot but they’re too jittery to perform the delicate action and he ends up electrocuting himself. Just for a moment, though, and no one else in the big lab seems to notice so he just keeps going like he always does.

That is until a heavy hand settles on his shoulder, making him flinch so hard he drops both the unfinished robot and his tools. Every little fiber in him is screaming alarm. Sudden touches can only ever mean pain and he is too tired to deal with any more of that right now, too hollow to put up his mask.

Somehow he manages to keep himself from yelping but when he turns and his eyes land on the other boy who’s standing way too close for comfort, his fear morphs into anger. (Anger, Howard taught him, demands respect and installs fear in his opponent.)

“What the actual fuck?” he exclaims. What started as a deep manly curse ends in a high-pitched screech, informing the other kid of just how young he actually is. Tony fucking hates puberty.

“Sorry.” The other boy backs up immediately, brown eyes open and free of any trace of malice.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t there, just means he hides it well, Tony thinks.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to let you know that they’re closing up the labs in about twenty minutes.”

Tony nods and he thinks, hopes, that this is it. That the other boy just came to tell him that and that he is going to leave now. But these eyes – they stare right into his soul and it makes him feel lacking because he knows what they’ll find, he knows what everyone has always found so far. No one has stayed after all.

“What are you working on?” the older boy asks. He seems truly interested and it’s confusing Tony. No one is ever interested in what he’s doing. Not really anyway.

He frowns. “What? So you can make fun of me?” And damn it if this doesn’t sound absolutely pathetic.

“No, of course not.” The boy seems honestly insulted at the accusation. (Good, maybe he’ll leave before he can hurt him.) “It just looks really cool. Is that a robot?”

Tony shrugs, giving up on trying to get him to leave in favor of trying to finish his work before the lab closes. “He’s supposed to be one.” For some reason the extra set of eyes makes him move more carefully and, without any more incidents, he manages to finish connecting all the wires.

He waits. Something is supposed to happen. Or has he messed this up, too? Is he really not capable of doing anything right at all?

Suddenly the machine makes a sad beep-boop, moving its claw once, twice, three times before it short circuits and dies down with a gurgling noise.

Pathetic.

And Tony? He’s this close to a mental breakdown and he knows he can’t succumb to it here because no one is allowed to see Howard Stark’s son cry. Least of all an older guy from MIT, smart and on the lower range of popular, who’s going to tell everyone about how much of a scalawag he is.

Stark men are made of iron.

But Tony isn’t.

His body is shaking with sleep-deprivation, too much caffeine and shame when he picks up the useless robot that he has already internally labeled Dum-E. He hoped that Dum-E would show his father that even dummies like him can be useful sometimes but it seems like his old man was right. Like he always is. Tony truly is good for nothing.

A dummy who builds dummies who aren’t good for anything either.

“That was pretty impressive,” the other boy interrupts his inner monologue and Tony fails to find the sarcasm in his voice but maybe he just can’t even read people anymore, so he glares at him. He doesn’t seem to care about it too much, though, and reaches out to inspect the inner workings of the robot with gentle, steady hands.

His arm is resting lightly against Tony’s and he doesn’t dare to move, mind hyper-focused on the contact. The stranger is warm and soft and real and Tony’s heart aches suddenly with how much he misses his mother’s hugs. So he doesn’t pull away and tries to shift his focus a little until he can tune into what’s apparently a conversation now.

“I think if you took a little time to actually sleep this could end up being really useful,” he tells him with a small smile, “I’m actually working on an assignment about the most basic form of artificial intelligence. What do you say? We could put your heads together over lunch tomorrow?”

Tony is too stunned at how nice he is being treated to tell him to go fuck himself so he simply nods. The other boy grins, seemingly happy about their date.

“Great, then tomorrow at Dan’s Diner around noon? My treat.”

“You do know I’m Tony Stark, right?” He frowns then at the weirdly likeable boy who’s clad in a loosely fitting t-shirt that has seen better days and worn shoes that are distinctly lacking any real sole at this point and who’s offering to pay for his meal.

The boy cocks an eyebrow and shrugs. “And I’m James,” he tells him matter-of-factly, “James Rhodes, not Bond.”

“That’s a boring name,” he can’t stop himself from saying, cringing inwardly at his own bluntness, even as he shakes the extended hand. “There’s no cool nickname for James. I’ll call you Rhodey.”

He rolls his eyes but they seem to twinkle at the nickname and his voice is pleasantly teasing when he answers. “Whatever you say, Tones.”

Maybe it’s the sleep-deprivation or the looming of despair at yet another failed project. Maybe it’s because that’s the first casual conversation he’s had in weeks and he’s been longing for another person to talk to. Or maybe it’s because for some inexplicable reason James Rhodes’ company makes him feel safe.

But for the first time since leaving Jarvis and his mother behind he laughs, a deep-belly laugh that shakes his whole body up and that warms his chest with something other than dreed.

They end up working on Dum-E for a little over two weeks and when they’re finally finished he can’t talk but he’s capable of understanding basic voice commands and even answers in beep-boop’s that seem to convey emotions such as sadness, cheerfulness and anger. (Or maybe they’re imagining that. They have barely slept in days.)

The best thing about getting his robot to work isn’t the fact that they prove Dum-E to be actually useful but the way Rhodey becomes the first person in a long time he feels truly comfortable with.

Rhodey, ever so perceptive, figures out Tony’s bivalent relationship with touches in a matter of days and he’s always careful not to crowd him, backing off when Tony needs it, but there when a gentle touch is all he needs to not fall apart.

After finishing Dum-E his new friend leans forward carefully, holding his gaze as if asking for permission, before he engulfs him in a tight hug. And Tony realizes, as he lets himself rest against the older boy’s chest and relaxes in his friend’s arms that this is one of the most peaceful moments in his life. It gives him hope for the future that, for once, has nothing to do with being the heir of Stark Industries.

And he vows to himself that he won’t ever give up on Dum-E just like Rhodey, for some indiscernible reason, never gave up on him.

.

“Tony! Stop for a second, please!”

Her raised voice catches him off guard even though it shouldn’t have. He has seen this coming, has prepared for it. Still, when he lowers the spatula his entire body has gone rigid and it’s all he can do to stare at the sizzling pieces of bacon in the pan. The sound feels weirdly out of place in the otherwise quiet room and he can only watch them in crude fascination, certain that in a couple of minutes they’d be burned and he’d have to throw them away but not moving to change the setting on the stove.

It’s like waiting for a train wreck you know is going to happen. It’s an apt description of his life, he figures.

Pepper’s voice is soft again and he feels more than hears her step closer to the kitchen counter he’s hiding behind. He can picture the way her long hair falls over her shoulders in artistic waves and he knows that there is a frown on her forehead, a tiny wrinkle sitting right between her eyebrows. He knows the look in her eyes, the blue eyes that are deeper than the ocean, similarly infinite and so much more beautiful.

“Can you turn around for me?” she asks, gently and probing but not demanding. Leave it to Pepper, the most demanding woman he has ever met, to be the first to let him decide whether to look at her or not.

He’s sure she knows how much he hates being yelled at and he can’t help but feel thankful for her thoughtfulness. It makes it a little easier for him to release the death grip is hand has on the wooden spatula. Olive wood, he thinks absentmindedly, his mother always liked the olive wood spatulas, said they reminded her of home.

His skin is still crawling with barely veiled anxiety but he manages to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

He finds the tiny remains of his shattered masks somewhere deep inside him and it’s enough to make him shake his head.

“Nope. Don’t think I can,” he says, voice light and cheerful and oh-so-fake. “Gotta watch that bacon before I burn down the house again, right? You told me yourself that that’s not a very responsible thing to do and I –“

Suddenly her hand comes into focus, delicate fingers turning down the stove before settling on the countertop.  

Again, her voice is so sweet that it runs down his back like honey. It’s warm and a little sad and it makes his anxiety spike. His heart is thumping so loudly in his chest, he’s sure she hears it too because she sighs very quietly and then her hand is gone from his sight and he thought he would feel better but he doesn’t. He feels worse. As if she’s already gone.

“Pep –“ he all but whispers because he doesn’t know what else to say, how else to explain the fact that he slipped out of bed and left her all on her own after they spent the night together.

Oh god. They spent the night together. They –

When her voice comes back it’s accompanied by a feather-light touch on his wrist. No force, just a question.

“Tony,” she starts and he squeezes his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to hear it, can’t stomach listening to it but also can’t stop himself wanting more of that angle-like voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He feels her slender fingers run over his palm and toy with his. Hers are warm and soft where his are cold and calloused. They make a good pair, he thinks, and before he can stop himself he intertwines his fingers with hers and pulls her marginally closer.

“Because,” he whispers, raising their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to the back of hers, “Because then you’d see me and you’d find that I’m lacking and I’d just rather not do that today.” Or any day, really.

“I’ve already seen you,” she answers and he can hear the smile in her voice, would love to see it on her lips but is too scared to move.

Tony shakes his head but doesn’t release her hand. As if he could make her stay if he just held on tightly enough. “Not like this, you haven’t.”

He’s not sure anyone has ever seen him like this. Hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever been like this – all butterflies-in-stomach and sweaty palms.

It’s love, he thinks. But he’s not sure because he’s never felt it before, doesn’t know how it’s supposed to feel like and if people like him even get to experience something so sacred. If he had to describe it, though, he’d say he’s in love. It’s the scariest thing he has ever felt in his life.

It’s scarier than terrorists in a cave, scarier than falling to his death and scarier, even, than his old man’s raised voice and the smell of whiskey hanging in the air.

“Yes, I have,” she replies easily, in the no-nonsense voice that only Pepper Potts can ever really pull off, and tugs on his hand. “Look at me, please. I promise I won’t run.”

Those were the exact words he has wanted to hear, still he can’t help but question their sincerity. After all, who did stick around after seeing him? Only Rhodey so far. And Pepper but –

He turns around and meets her eyes and she just holds his gaze.

The first thing he notices is the sleepy sand in the corner of her eyes. Dried rheum – a combination of mucin, dust, blood cells and skin cells – entirely gross if it would be anyone else but this is Pepper and he marvels at the sight.

She has never been this raw in his company and he wants to cherish it and tell her how beautiful she looks without make-up on. He wants to tell her about the sun light reflecting in her eyes and how her freckles are like a treasure map. He doesn’t say any of that, though.

They just look at each other.

It’s Pepper who moves first. (Of course she is. That woman is fearless and he’s a mess.)

Very gently she pulls her hand out of his grasp and takes a step closer before he can complain about the loss of warmth. She raises her hands, telegraphing every movement as if she knows that he flinches when someone raises their hand too suddenly (she probably does), and settles them on his cheeks.

He leans into the comfort she’s providing with her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. He lets himself relish in the warmth her touch is offering and his free hand settles on her hip, just a few centimeters over the hem of his shirt that she’s wearing.

“I’m a mess,” he tells her, eyes closed and she is so close he feels her body vibrate with soft chuckles and her hot breath is tickling his chin.

“I know,” she answers and without having to look he knows that she’s grinning up at him in a way that makes the dimples on her cheek stand out. “But I’ve known that before.”

“I’m going to mess up. I’m not good at – this.” He’s not sure why he is trying to make her turn away but he knows that he has to be open if this can have any chance of working out. God, he wants it to work out so badly.

Her reply is instant and makes his eyes fly open. “Well, then you apologize and work on making it better the next time around. You’ll improve. We both will. It’s what people do in a relationship.”

Again she meets his gaze warmly and without hesitation, a smile curving her lips upwards just the tiniest bit.

It’s in that moment that his love for her overwhelms him. It comes crashing down like a wave of adoration and appreciation and devotion and for a second he’s stumbling until he regains his balance and matches her smile with his.

“I wouldn’t know what people do in a relationship, Ms. Potts.” He grins down at her cheekily and a weight falls off his chest when she starts laughing loudly.

“Believe me, I know,” she smirks and leans up to press a lingering kiss to his lips, “But I think I’m up to the challenge, Mr. Stark.”

Her hands are still resting on his face and it feels like they have always been there, as if this is supposed to be. As if they were meant to be.

It takes them a lot of effort and ups and downs but Pepper’s touch slowly glues all his broken pieces back together, blowing kisses to the faint scars that remain.

.  

When he hears the blood rushing in his ears and feels his heart beat violently in his chest out of nowhere, he stops mid-movement. Screwdriver in hand with his body bent over the wiring of the suit he’s working on he tries to take a deep breath just to see if he can.

It works surprisingly well but the sensation of his body shaking with every beat of his heart - like it’s a wrecking ball not a pump - is still there and while it’s nothing entirely new he really doesn’t enjoy the feeling of his ribcage threatening to tear open with every thump of the vital organ.

Quietly he sets down the tool and moves his right hand to rest over his sternum, right above the scar where his arc reactor used to sit. The feeling of skin on skin and the light pressure he puts on his thorax help ground him only marginally and his stupid heartrate is hell bent on accelerating no matter how evenly he breathes which is just annoying.

His left hand comes up, fingers routinely grabbing his radial pulse point as he tries to will his heart to slow down. The moves have become instinctually over the years. Having had shrapnel mere millimeters from one of the few things he quite literally can’t live without has made him hyperaware of everything that might be going wonky in his chest.

It’s that hyper-fixation that makes even the smallest palpitation seem like a coronary, complete with mortal agony and phantom pain spreading into his left arm until his pinky starts cramping.  

Three counts in, five counts out.

He coaches himself to breathe evenly. The chances of this actually being a heart attack are slim to none. His doctor had him checked out just three days ago. As the doc would say: his fear is understandable but unnecessary. It’s fine. Just a random spike of anxiety that doesn’t mean anything.

Three in. Five out.

One, Two, Three.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five.

Again.

“Mister Stark? Are you okay?”                          

“Huh?” he opens his eyes all at once to see Peter standing next to his work station, a tube of something in his hand, worrying at his bottom lip as he watches Tony cling to his own chest.

Upon seeing the big brown eyes that peep out under the messy shock of curls he feels warmth spread through his chest like a wildfire. It’s almost unpleasantly fast but it leaves a field of peace in its wake which is doing more in calming his racing heart than any breathing exercise he’s tried so far. There’s something undeniably powerful about this kid’s presence to ground him to reality.

“Yeah,” he says and when the words leave his mouth they’re barely a lie anymore but they have a pact where they don’t lie at all, so he tags on, “Just my heart running riot for no apparent reason. Don’t worry about it. What were you working on? Is that Chemistry project going well? Do you need help?”

As has become the norm in moments like these, Peter completely ignores his attempts to change the topic and cocks his head to the side in a mix of worry, amusement and plain adoration as he gingerly takes a seat on the swivel chair next to his mentor.

God. His love for this kid is making his heart clench painfully. He’s never really experienced this kind of unconditional love before and some days it feels like his body hasn’t been made with emotions like that in mind. They’re burning too hot when he’s freezing, leaving him reeling and unsure of where to turn.

“Did you take your meds?” He turns on the chair until his left thigh is resting against Tony’s right knee and the petite touch is incredibly welcome, almost disturbingly calming.

He makes a face because he doesn’t like talking about his mental health and everything that’s wrong with it but he relents with a soft sigh and a shake of his head. “Nope. Doc said we could taper off them as long as I keep seeing her and nothing new comes up. But it’s fine, Pete. I promise. Just not all that comfortable, that’s it.”

When Peter only pouts but doesn’t argue any further, he eases his hands down from his own chest and rests them on the kid’s shoulders instead, preening inwardly when the boy meets his gaze openly without further prodding.

“I’m not going to die in the next couple hours. I promise.”

The teenager relaxes then, huffing and leaning forward to rest his forehead on his mentor’s shoulder and like clockwork calloused fingers find the tense spots on his neck and start kneading it gently. “I just – worry. I’m sorry.”

“Tell you what,” Tony grins, standing up and pulling the kid with him, “Let’s call it a day down here and catch a movie until Pep gets home for dinner, whataya say?”

“Can we just listen to music?”

“Sure we can, bud.”

They end up listening to one of the few recorded pieces of Guido Agosti, an Italian pianist that taught his mom to play when she was young and it brings him back to a time when touch was not yet forbidden. A time when Maria Stark would sing him to sleep and he stayed up well past his bed-time only to listen to her play.

Sometimes they would listen to recordings together, from her priced possession of vinyl and those are some of the few moments of his childhood that he still revisits frequently and joyfully albeit with a heavy heart.

It’s not that all that different now.

Peter’s ear is resting right above his heart, his breathing coming out in soft even puffs of warm air against Tony’s collarbone. He’s curled up into him, fitting into Tony’s embrace like he was meant to end up here. Like this has been life’s grand goal all along and if that’s true then Tony can’t even be mad at everything that’s happened so far.

His fingers run through the mess of curls ever so gently, working on the numerous knots with a proficiency that has come with hours and hours of practice.

The kid’s already starting to nod off to the quiet calming sounds of his mother’s childhood hero and he pulls him impossibly closer, index and middle finger coming to rest over the soft thump of his temporal pulse point.

 Peter Parker came into his life when he was lost, only held together by Rhodey and Pepper but always dangerously close to falling apart. He thought there was no more room in his heart. That there was no way someone could get past the barriers he’s built over the years and, honestly, he didn’t think there was any need to.

Somehow, and without meaning to, Peter has barreled past all of them and quietly but firmly made room between all the scars and the betrayal and the fear. He settled down between all the pieces, build himself a shelter and, simultaneously, filled an aching hole in Tony’s chest that he hadn’t even realized was there.

Tony leans over to pull a blanket on top of both of them, smiling into Peter’s hair when he nestles closer and lets out a soft snore. Before he drifts off to sleep, heart beating strong and steady and normally in his chest, he presses a kiss to his temple.

“I love you, Petey. Never change. Not like I did.”

[the-truth-will-light-the-sky]

Pandora’s Box

@ravus-week​ Day 2 Prompt: Day Off

Summary: Away from Gralea for a time, Ravus Nox Fleuret returns home to Tenebrae. He skillfully plays his favorite instrument as a sort of reprieve yet forgetting his role as Niflheim’s commander for a while strips him of his facade, pushing him to unwittingly dabble with his box of emotions and fear.

Pairing: Ravus Nox Fleuret and Veritas Lux Seculum (oc)

Warning: Slightly mature, angst, mentions of death

Footsteps echoed in the halls of white within Fenestala Manor, the sunlight filtering through the foliage that tapped on tall, clear windows on a bright morning. The footsteps ceased in front of a gigantic door that was left ajar. Creaking as it opened further, the sound of soft piano keys spilled from the brightly lit room into her eager ears.

Veritas Lux Seculum smiled at the figure whose brows were uncharacteristically calm and beneath those were the palest blue eyes of young sylleblossom colors. As she walked towards him, Ravus’ lips curled upwards in a smile.

‘You always know when I’m coming.’

‘Quite so. Those soundless steps are betrayed by your perfume. Soft notes of spring florals do suit you well, my darling.’ 

‘Perhaps I ought to refrain from putting it on. What kind of guard am I if I could be detected just as easily?’

Ravus chuckled, tilting his head to the side to look her in the eyes. Strands of stray hair drooped down on his face as a playful smirk spreads across his lips, eyes full of mirth.

‘Leave it on. I shall miss this scent once I’m away again.’

Seeing her blush at his honest declaration, Ravus pushed on as the piano keys shifted to a livelier tune.

‘Although, I do not need to put perfume on my person anymore. Your scent seems to have seeped in to my clothes. I like it. It’s rather comforting, especially at night.’

Veritas found herself breathing in deep at his openness, her hand resting upon his shoulder as he continued to play.

Ravus scooted to the side of the bench and she sat down. Her warmth enveloping him in an embrace. The momentum of shifting keys slowed down to a familiar gentle tune. Veritas hoped she remembers the notes her lover taught her the first time she tried to play the piano.

‘Shall I?’

Veritas asked meekly, surprised to even find her voice at a very delicate moment such as this one.

‘If you would, that would be a delight.’

‘I might make mistakes. I always do, in fact.’

The soft chuckle that escaped Ravus’ lips was encouragement enough so she lifted her fingers up and started following his playing. Her clumsy fingers and her lack of good memory skill for remembering even a short piece indeed pushed her to make mistakes despite her willingness to learn.

Ravus continued to play on his left hand as his right one gently lifted up his lover’s fingers, carefully placing them on the correct keys. 

Chuckling nervously, either because of another mistake or with the sudden touch of his skin on hers, Veritas pushed on, trying her very best to follow through.

Another mistake, oh dear. 

As he played, Ravus leaned lower to his side and kissed her hair, his chuckle reverberating with every wrong tone that echoes in his brightly lit library. 

He smiled and secretly hoped that she would make more mistakes. He would freely give his kisses if she wished for it. And she does, thank the stars.

The shadows cast by the Tenebraen oaks outside the window shifted, slowly then violently, submitting to the whims of the summer breeze.

The lovers kept on playing and correcting for a while until their throats reminded them of thirst.

‘Ah, no wonder. We’ve been playing for an hour. Or I should say you have been playing. Shall we take a break?’

Veritas suggested, stretching her hands above her head as she did. 

Ravus watched her, his eyes falling to the golden necklace of two hands joined together in a loving clasp.

Noticing his curious observation, she turned in her seat to face him fully, her eyes shining in mirth.

She leaned closer to inspect his neck where a similar adornment should be.

‘And where is yours, Ravus? I thought you hoped to always see this upon my person all day and even all night.’

Veritas teased, her eyes searching for a hint of soft gold on his neck, only for the lord of Tenebrae to fasten his hands on hers before she can part his collar.

‘My goodness. Surely you would have the decency not to undress me here? If you missed me so much Veritas, pray tell me. I shall endeavor to please.’

Ravus’ eyes turned a shade darker. His initial gentleness slowly being replaced by a mischievous and suggestive demeanor, his hands wanting to wander someplace else.

A surge of red tinged the cheeks of a stunned Veritas, the sudden slightly naughty proposition of her usually stoic lover sent a jolt of surprise.

‘N-no! I would not do such a thing! I daresay it is you who missed me so. Cheeky!’

She did not pry her hands away from his iron grip. Instead, she pulled him to her gently, pressing her forehead to his.

As Ravus bent towards her, a faint shine of soft gold caught her eyes — it was the same necklace they both share, and it was neatly tucked beneath his inner shirt.

‘Ah, there it is. I’m quite pleased to see it around your neck, Ravus. Shall we have tea then?’

Ravus pulled away to cast her a look of disappointment.

‘Tea can wait, my darling. I, on the other hand, could not.’

Hot cheeks turner even redder, Veritas pulled her hands away from her lover’s grip. Ravus reached out to grab her once again but she agilely dodged to safety.

‘No more, darling! I’ll shall steep the tea. And if you would rather conduct yourself as a proper lord of Tenebrae would, you would keep your teasing in the latter part of the day.’

Veritas warned as Ravus sighed, her petite frame tiptoeing to reach for the tea pot that sat on the highest part of the shelf by his collection of illustrated books of flora and fauna.

Seeing her dilemma, Ravus stood and acquired it for her, only to keep it on its perch, his body bending down to reach his lover’s lips. 

Veritas’ eyebrows knit together, yet still she tipped her toes again so that she may reach his eager lips.

A soft kiss, but it was much appreciated and loved.

Ravus’ eyes softened even further, seemingly melting in the short but intimate moment.

Tea and scones with fresh fruit jam laid on top of the table, silence and the occasional banters and laughter filling the room. 

Ravus misses moments like these where all he could ever worry about is how to be able to coax his beloved into spending more time with him than what was necessary or possible. There was no one to demand him of anything, really. He can be himself once again in her presence.

Seeing her in his home with his sister along with everyone and everything he grew up with gave Ravus a wonderful surge of emotions. Emotions that, according to him, were quite unnecessary now given the circumstances of their fate. But even for just a day, they’re welcome to come back to the young prince that slept deep within Ravus Nox Fleuret’s hardened heart.

Veritas’ feet swung from the chair, a carefree smile etched upon her youthful face. She sipped her tea slowly, her eyes resting upon the sylleblossom flowers  on the table.

‘The flowers are blooming really well this summer. The farmers even made tea out of sylleblossoms. It’s a rather new trend but it seems like everyone’s gone fond of them. Perhaps you’d like to see the farms tomorrow? The people miss you, Ravus. It has been some time since you visited them to teach medicine and natural remedy.’

‘A singular drop from a dark nox blossom upon innocent fragrant tea taken every day for a month can induce a slow and painful death to its drinker...’

‘What was that?’

Ravus’ heavily lidded eyes looked at her, the shade of blue now cold ice. 

‘I was only musing.’

‘Pray tell me who you were planning to poison? If it’s that idiotic and repulsive Calligo, do let me know. I shall make it so.’

‘My, aren’t you the wicked one,’ Ravus said as he bit on his fourth piece of honey biscuit.

‘It takes one to know one, my darling.’

They played with the idea for a while, the macabre talk of poison and slow death are masked behind their innocent laughter. But thoughts of death slowly ate away the lively discussion.

A man such as Calligo deserves such a fate, Veritas thought. He was and still is ruthless. His laws that were imposed upon the land and people of Tenebrae made the nation suffer not just their loss of freedom, but their loss of hope. 

In a month, scores of so-called ‘traitors’ are put to the sword, all done with just one word from the commanders of Niflheim. Tenebraen retainers dwindled to half their size, either they died fighting for their country or they cowered away to the iron rule of Niflheim. 

Veritas had once tried to murder Calligo and the other Gralean officials a few years ago but failed. Ravus tried his best to stage their accidents yet he too, succumbed to failure. 

It was then that Ravus decided to use Veritas’ advice.

Use whatever it is that is available to you and twist it to your advantage. That way, you can gain the upper hand.

A sound advice turned into a plot that Veritas never wanted to implement. She felt guilty of all the blood that she shed despite the sense of righteousness it gave her once the deed is done. Now the idea of killing does not sit well with her no matter how much of a warrior she has become over the millennia. 

Veritas despaired at the fate of the once gentle prince. At the loss of his innocence and freedom, Ravus fell prey to hate. Hate that consumes not just the mind but his whole being. 

‘Revenge by death shall not pacify a wounded heart. Only forgiveness.’

Ravus stood up from his chair, obviously irked by her admonition. 

‘Death comes to those who deserve it. I shall see to it.’

‘Your revenge is directed to someone unworthy of your hate. Ravus, King Regis is --’

‘The man I’m expecting to see once my revenge is ready for the stage. He did all of these things. If he had only helped us...’ Ravus stopped, shaking his head.

Ravus’ hand opened the window to the balcony, his body shaking.

‘...every thing would have been different.’

Veritas’ throat suddenly hurt as if thorns had decided to strangle the life out of her. She replied with a trembling voice.

‘The empire is using you. They played with your loss and turned it to hate. They deserve your vengeance, not the Lucian king.’

Ravus turned his head to see Veritas standing beside him, her hair blowing violently in the wind.

‘You’re wrong, Veritas. I am the one playing this game!’ 

Ravus’ voice boomed in his fury. 

‘They are my puppets. The lot of them.’ 

He clutched his side where his father’s sword usually resides. Sonus Nox Fleuret died by the Empire’s sword, his blood spilling unto his mother’s pristine white clothes and shaking fingers. He heard in his mind his own teenage cries of despair, echoing so loud like a taunt.

His voice suddenly turned flat as if he was an entirely different person. It came out like a whisper, a shadowy trace of the strength that marked his fury a few seconds ago.

‘In the end they shall see how the prince of Tenebrae delivers justice to those who murdered his family and his life.’

Soft arms encircled around his body, the sound of tears seeping into his heart. She could say nothing more at the moment. Words could not reach him. 

Only love.

Veritas could only hold him, hoping that somehow she could ease his pain. His body went rigid, tremors shaking his inner core.

‘Every day I see more and more of my country falling to inhuman hands, their limbs bound in shackles. The night reminds me of the once passionate violin that echoed in this very room, the laughter, the love and everyone that deserved to be saved. And yet here I am, devoid of every thing that once were mine.’

Ravus felt his heart spilling forth. He frantically grabbed his emotions and tucked it deep within himself once again, sealing it up to open again on another day. He nearly slipped but he caught himself. 

Veritas’ small hands soothed his back as words of reassurance filled Ravus’ ears.

‘I know for certain that one day, you will overcome the shadows of the past, learning from it and growing even stronger of heart and soul. I have seen you and you have come a long way. Believe me when I say this -- there is a future for all of us. I believe in you, Ravus. You need not fear the unknown for I am here with you, always.’

Veritas hoped her words reached the deepest pits of his heart and crushed the darkness within. He was such a kind-hearted man; he still was today yet his kindness is not freely given to anyone anymore.

She felt strong arms embracing her, his scent mingling with hers felt like a reassuring hug.

After a while, Ravus pulled away. The gentle breeze blew, heralding the coming of night. 

‘Shall we retire for the day?’ Veritas asked, wiping her tears away.

Nodding, Ravus took her hand in his.

And so Ravus Nox Fleuret spent his last night once more as he lay beside his lover, holding her tightly as if melting into her as they sank in the warm sheets,  his lips whispering reassurances that he would come back again. 

Ravus held on to his words as a sort of string which he attached to her heart. She kissed him so and only hoped that soon they can all live without fear or regret.

I couldn’t think of a proper title, so I went with ‘Pandora’s Box’. It sort of symbolizes Ravus’ emotions, that when left open, his painful memories would come spilling forth, forcing him to remember who he truly is. But as his plot begins to unfold, this box will be a hindrance. So he hides it all the time. 

‘What can not be seen nor felt can never hurt me.’

Also, this is supposed to be a light story, but somehow Ravus insisted that his voice be heard. So I obliged, willingly.

[magicrobins]

Cole and galen elfroot ;^;

By Your Side Wherever You Fall

Galen Lavellan & Cole. Dragon Age Dual AU. 1,449 words. Mentions @bxtgrl’s Aya Lavellan. More under the cut. AO3. Herb Prompts.

Whoops this prompt has been waiting in my inbox longer than any other prompts, sorry for the wait!

Galen was a complicated person to help, Cole had realized. He was harder to help, to heal than other people. He was like a puzzle with glass pieces that shattered too easily. Or perhaps it wasn’t that he shattered too easily, but whereas others would shatter into pieces, when he shattered, there weren’t fragmented pieces left but rather a pile of dust. That wasn’t to say that he couldn’t be helped, that he couldn’t get better. But the whole process was hard, complicated by obvious self-resentment and doubt.

It was obvious when the Inquisitor was hurting. He wasn’t good at hiding it. Even if he had been able to hide it, knowing what had happened would have been enough for anyone to know he was in pain. The news of Clan Lavellan, of that slaughter, had reached the farthest corners of Skyhold. Everyone knew what the Inquisitors had lost. What they didn’t know was how they were both reacting.

Aya was gone – some suspected she just needed space from the Inquisition, others whispered about her avenging her fallen family. Galen remained at Skyhold. He rarely left his room. Cole still remembered the state he’d found the young mage in after grabbing Dorian, insisting that Galen needed him. Dorian seemed to be one of the keys to helping Galen heal. He made Galen brighten up and smile against the pain. Dorian and the others among the Inner Circle helped give Galen a distraction from his pain.

But eventually he had to face that pain again. Eventually he had to crack and crumble all over again.

It happened in the middle of the night. Cole sensed it rather than saw it, making his way up the steps that led to the castle. He slipped inside quietly. Moonlight shined through the windows behind the two thrones. Galen sat in his usual spot. The throne at his right was empty, emphasizing his sister’s absence. Cole didn’t have to wonder to know that the young man in front of him didn’t just notice his sister’s absence, he felt it in his core. To Galen, missing Aya was like missing a limb. He leaned on her so heavily and now she wasn’t there so when he leaned, all he did was fall back.

Galen had thrown on Dalish styled clothing. His pants were brown, the stitching done in the pattern of leaves on a branch. His shirt was a loose fit, long-sleeved. It was dark green with gold laces tying up the sleeves. It was a simple shirt, though the lacing looked complicated. He wore no shoes on his feet or gloves on his hands. The usual glove he wore to cover the Anchor was absent as was the small braid he usually had in his hair. His hair looked like it had been messy and lazily fixed with his hands rather than a comb.

It was safe to assume that the young Inquisitor had snuck out of his own room after falling asleep with Dorian, not wanting to wake his lover up. The way he sat in the throne, lazily slumped in the chair, made him look tired, relaxed, but there was an absent, empty look in his gaze. The way his eyes glowed in the dark made it obvious that he wasn’t looking at Cole.

But he knew Galen had heard him enter, even with how quiet he’d been. It was either that or somehow the Inquisitor had sensed him enter. There was a silence that lingered for a moment or two. With Galen, it was a roulette of words. Which words would help? Which ones would hurt? And which would he just ignore? It was a race against Galen’s mind. It was a call to arms to help him fight the thoughts that plagued him. He had tried to help before, but everyone spoke comfort and the words always seemed to bounce right off Galen.

“I have all this,” Galen spoke, his gaze never wavering from whatever distant spot he was staring at. It was obvious what he was referring to, though. “All this… And I couldn’t – I couldn’t save them.” His voice splintered with pain, a deep rooted agony that had made a home in his heart and mind and refused to be evicted.

Cole walked up the steps to the thrones, coming to stand by the Inquisitor. “You did all that you could. You sent the soldiers. You protected them the best you could. They knew that. They wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.” He thought back to when he had met Clan Lavellan. The clan had traveled near Skyhold before traveling all the way to Wycome. He remembered meeting the Inquisitors’ parents, watching them, seeing and feeling the way they loved them. They didn’t have to be alive and at Skyhold for him to know what they would have wanted.

Galen pushed himself off of the throne, the movement made rough with frustration and anger. “But I – I didn’t do everything! I should have left with the soldiers. I should have been there.” He placed his hand on the arm of the throne and stared down at its intricate design. “My family… They were ma vhenas – my home.”

“They’re not all gone,” Cole pointed out, “You have Aya and Elaith.”

Galen cringed and his ears lowered at the mention of their names. “Aya – she’s gone, and Elaith… she’s mourning because I couldn’t protect her parents.”

A silence stretched between them. Galen came to stand with his back facing Cole, leaning to the side against his throne. His arms were crossed, tightly hugging his stomach as if he was afraid he’d get sick. The light of the moon shined through the large glass windows, illuminating him and dulling the glow of his emerald eyes. With the light, it became obvious – the pain he wore like a second skin. His eyes were red from crying, his cheeks tear stained. Clutching his stomach, it was likely he had cried, sobbed so much earlier that he had, actually, made himself get sick. No one had seen him suffering but Dorian. Whenever someone else had visited, he had gone quiet, silent as if caught in a moment of numbness.

But any numbing wasn’t real. Cole could feel it. What was real to Galen was this pain. Any other feeling was an illusion that shouldn’t exist, and that included happiness. How could he heal someone who didn’t think he deserved happiness? How could he heal someone who thought he deserved to suffer?

“Piercing,” he found himself saying, “Like a dagger into flesh. A dagger that should have struck me down, not them. If I could return the blood to their bodies, and replace the blood on the ground with mine, I would. Light and happiness, anytime they were together. Like stars sparkling in a dark sky – but stars die. Stars fade. Stars fall. Why can’t I catch them and put them back in the sky? They belong in the sky. I belong in the ground.”

Galen was half-turned, no longer leaning against the throne. His eyes were wide, tears forming, staring at Cole. His mouth was partly open as if he wanted to speak, but the words were caught in his throat. It was how he felt, what he thought, put into words he’d been unable to speak. Words he’d been afraid to hear.

Cole met his eyes, a sadness etched into his expression, mirroring Galen’s own grief. “You wish you were dead instead.”

Galen stared at him for several minutes, unable to find his voice or look away.

“Aya will come back,” Cole insisted, “She’ll always come back.”

Galen bit down on his lower lip. “Do you… Do you feel when someone – When they die? Even if – if they’re not here, near you?”

He knew what Galen was asking for. “They loved you, both of you. You two were the sun and the moon, day and night, to them, and they loved both. They were your stars, but you were the entire sky. Standing tall before everyone – that’s our son, our daughter. Our da’len. We couldn’t be prouder. You have our strength, our courage, our love. No matter where we go, we are behind you both. You will always have us with you.”

Galen held himself around his waist with one arm, his free hand covering his mouth. He was crying, and though he was crying, Cole realized this had helped. For Galen, assuring him it wasn’t his fault did nothing when he was constantly telling himself it was. What helped was reminding him that the people he cared about, the people he loved, loved and cared about him too. That was all he needed.