#i am losing my sanity when i made this because

[aomiyukataaa]

I’ll never find time to make good Bocchi The Rock OCs :( The only thing I have in my mind is Kessoku Band being like Japanese rock boyband indigo la End. ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION is decent, but whatever.

The last time I post a drawing related to BTR, it flopped 😨

Let me know if you wanna see the reference image of the drawing, I have it right here.

[theultracharmingladynoire]

the exam hater to exam lover pipeline

[ravensmadreads]

LISTEN TO ME-

LISTEN -

I-

Ok i got nothing

the only thing we have to fuck is fear itself

rating: 18+

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 5309

summary: You get drunk at a happy hour and tell Max to his face you don’t find him scary at all. He takes that personally.

warnings/tags: drinking, like two seconds of scary vibes, smut, (secret) established relationship, work hard, play hard, have secret sex with your coworker even harder

a/n: I’m so sorry to FDR for butchering his quote for the sake of a title, but i like to think that horny bastard would have loved my smut.

🤍AO3 Link 🤍 Masterlist 🤍 Get notified when I post new works!

Despite working at a place that was quite literally soul-sucking, your coworkers could throw one hell of a happy-hour. 

There wasn’t a bartender in a ten mile radius from the office who didn’t know you all by name, didn’t shout a greeting over the tightly-packed house the instant you walked in. Rarely was it just a single crew member at the bars – you often got accused of moving in a pack like a five-headed hydra that could drink double its own weight in liquor, beer, and frosés – and being only two-fifths human, the Monster Squad was an alcoholic force to be reckoned with.

Maybe because you actively promoted unity amongst the species, like poster children for positive and “non-toxic human-demon relationships” HR kept encouraging in their Monday-Funday email blasts, but your little group was something of a legend in the area. You thought any notoriety was more likely due more to your faces plastered all over the bars’ trivia night winner boards, but in the office, people tended to stare. Trish, a siren from Santa Barbara, loved the attention, said it was good for her skin – gave her a “dewy” look. Nita, the only other human in your group besides you, disagreed with Ken (a quarter leprechaun on his mother’s side) when Ken claimed the whispering came from the sheer volume of nonsense that started around 4PM in the office on Fridays and continued until you all left the office. Ken was of the belief that the notoriety was actually infamy – to which he was promptly booed and had to buy the next round. 

And yet, to yourself, to the quiet conversations you had in the bathroom mirror after two long island ice teas and whatever was in what the centaur bartender at Lucky’s called an “Ass Whooping”, you suspected there might be another reason the Monster Squad even had a name at all. Within your own fields, each of you were respectable – Ken and Trish were both heads of marketing and Nita oversaw a considerable team of engineers, with you of course a department leader over in legal – one member of your group was, let’s say, more well-known. 

Well-known because he was the flashiest, the loudest, and certainly the most demonic of you all: Max Phillips, VP of sales, money-maker extraordinaire, and a fan-favorite amongst your Overlords, the rest of the sales team, and anyone with working and interested sex organs in the near vicinity. 

To your complete and utter annoyance.

You don’t quite remember how you all came together, who brought who into the group, and when it was unanimously decided that you’d stop snatching up office workers like limes at $5 margarita night after Trish, but it was Max who kept you together, who set up the group chat (somehow mysteriously gathering all of your phone numbers after a very late night), who bullied anyone who responded to his weekly “winner winner liquid dinner” texts every Friday morning with a tepid maybe into coming out that night. He already seemed to know half of the bartenders in the city, all of whom were happy to send over a free round of tequila shots as a “thank you to Max’s friends”. While you’d never look a gift vampire in the mouth, you were suspicious of his influence. Was that vampire hypnosis real? Did he have a pack of lesser, baby vamps to send out to tenderize the hunting grounds?

One thing’s for sure, he definitely didn’t scare them into it. 

“Has Halloween, like, changed for anyone else?” Nita grouched over her second Sangria Spritzer two hours into another fantabulous happy hour at Heel Clicks. The four of you were huddled into your comically small booth up on the landing near the back bar – of course there were other seats available but this had the best view, the closest access to your favorite bartender, and at some point, the shoulder-to-shoulder proximity served as a way to counteract the tipsy swaying. 

Trish leaned around Ken, her beautiful blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. 

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” Nita shrugged hopelessly. “It used to be one of my favorite holidays when I was a kid. I loved the candy, the costumes – all of it. But I really liked being scared the most.”

Ken sorted into his old-fashioned. “Well, if you’re still scared of things you were as a kid, Nit, I think you’ve got a bigger problem than seasonal preference.”

She elbows him and he knocks into Trish.

“Not like that . . . but, like, monster movies aren’t really scary anymore? I mean, I used to watch Ginger Snaps religiously around Halloween, but, uh, now that I know an actual werewolf and he’s the nicest little old man in accounting, I dunno . . . it’s just not the same.” 

“Sorry to burst your bubble on monsters,” Ken shrugged. “But I personally cannot relate. As a member of the Free Folk, my people have always been welcomed, seen as bringers of good will towards man.”

“You know there’s eight movies where a leprechaun murders literally dozens of teenagers, right?” You turned to Ken over Nita, your entire right buttcheek hanging off the edge of the booth. 

“Oh, yeah, baby Jennifer Aniston,” Trish mused, thinking. “If that’s what your uncle looks like, Ken, then I posit Halloween is still fucking creepy.”

“Halloween is definitely creepy and it sucks.” Your ringleader has returned with electric-green jello shots. Max Phillips carried a tray with one hand, his immaculate blue jacket gone to display firm forearms underneath his white, rolled-back sleeves. “Bunch up, kiddies, Daddy’s back with treats.” 

Half the group groaned, the other squealed in delight.

Max hip-bumped you, his ravenous cologne immediately making you think unwise thoughts, as he pushed his way onto the bench absolutely not made for this many people. He looked back at you as he passed out the drinks.

“Now why are we all in agreement that Halloween is a lame holiday?” 

“Nita claims that because she personally knows a werewolf – Ned, right? – she’s not scared of monster movies anymore.”

Max scoffed. “Well, there’s your problem right there. Werewolves were never scary to begin with.”

“What monster movies have you been watching?” Nita gaped at him. “Maybe it’s bad representation, but all the movie werewolves can tear you to shreds!”

Ken nodded solemnly. “This is why affirmative action is so important.” 

Trish smacked him over the back of the head. 

“So, what?” Max continued, crunching up the jello in its plastic cup. “Now that you know me, a vampire, you think all Dracula movies give blood-suckers a bad rap?”

“No, being a human-sized mosquito with too much hair gel is doing that all on its own.” You smirked, dead-eyed, at him. Behind you, Ken and Trish snorted so hard they almost spilled their drinks. 

Max narrowed his eyes at you, in a look he only gave you when you wouldn’t let him ease around legal loopholes “for the good of the business”. Only Nita seemed to be oblivious. 

“That’s a good point, Max.” She thoughtfully stirred her jello with her pinky, unsticking it from the sides of her cup. “I mean, I guess I never watched that many vampire movies to begin with.”

Max broke his heated staring contest with you to look around at Nita, elbow pressing up into your chest as he leaned forward on the table. “I can promise you, doll face, vampires have been and always will be more terrifying and lethal than werewolves.”

“Not the argument I think you want to make, mate,” Ken murmured as you shifted yourself to face Max entirely. 

“Oh, yeah? Enlighten us all –,”

“Nope,” Trish called down the row, “we’re taking this shot before you two get into it again.”

“To Ned!” Ken yelled. 

“To Ned!” 

Plastic crunched, tongues slurped, as jello ungracefully slipped into every open mouth down the bench. You licked your lip, tip of your tongue green. Max watched the movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“So, enlighten us, Max, why should we be so afraid of you?” 

Max grinned out the side of his mouth. “One, I’ve seen more bite out of a pomeranian than one of those Tribbles. And two, whatever-wolves can only get it up once a month. I’m all monster, all the time, baby.”

At this, everyone groaned.

“Dollar to the Dick Jar!” Trish smacked her hand on the table.

“Here, here!”

Max pouted as he took a dollar out of his wallet and slammed it into the center of the table, payment towards tips or the bill or whoever suffered the most due to The Dick. 

“Face it, buzz,” you shrugged as he put his wallet away. “You’re just not scary any more, if you ever were.”

“Is that right?” 

Fuck, you were in a lot of trouble. Beneath the table, his thigh soaked yours in heat. 

“That’s right.”

“You know what is really scary?” Ken muttered, digging around in his crushed up for the last remnants of jello. “Kelpies.”

“Ah – yes! They’ve got sloppy fangs covered in algae!”

“Hey – that’s my cousin you’re talking about!”

Heel Clicks was hands down one of your favorite bars in the area. Devoted to the local music scene in the area, the vibe was a mix of old 70s rock bands, modern steel, and whatever justified lots of mounted horns and hairy cow-skin stools. The drinks were great, seasonal too, and there was always live music on the patio out back. In a twist that you found particularly cool, the old rum-runners tunnels had been converted to comfortably spacious bathrooms in the basement. Behind the solid oak door, the noises from the above bar are nearly entirely muffled, making the slow descent to the bathroom something of an out-of-body experience when you’ve had a few and the sudden silence is almost an echo. 

Plus, these fucking stairs are a death trap. 

You embarrassingly clutched at the railing, the wooden stairs at far too sharp an angle even if you were sober as a judge, much less at a Monster Squad happy hour. 

Stupid Max and his stupid drinks and his –

What was that?

You stand up right on the third to last step, listening. 

In the half darkness in front of you, there are three paths available. To the left, employee storage, the lights above the door flickering, the sign reading “do not enter” pulsating in and out of visibility. To your right, another door, maybe an exit. Always unmarked and always locked every time your drunken curiosity got the better of you. 

And across from the stairs were the bathrooms, left women, right for men.

God, what year is it? Shouldn’t it all just be gender-neutral? You think to yourself, a tad bit more aggressive than you’d usually oppose the gender binary – primarily to wash out the rising concern at the back of your neck.

You are alone down here. It’s obvious. It’s not like there’s that many places for some dastardly villain to hide. Four shut doors and three hallways. Unless some maniac was curled up under the stairs, you are the only person in the basement. 

At least, the only person you can see. 

You don’t realize how sweaty your hands are until you try to continue your way down the stairs. You take a step and nearly slip, the eyes you know are on you somehow laughing. 

One blinking light. No where for anything to hide, so why are you so nervous? You are an adult woman, for god’s sakes. You make it to the floor, the most likely candidate for your demise behind you and –

The stairs creaked. 

The empty stairs that you just walked down creaked and you nearly leap across the hallway to put space between you. Heart in your throat, you make the monumentally stupid decision and call out, “hello? Is anyone there?”

As if the serial killer was just going to announce himself, give up the whole element of surprise.

Blinking through the bleary haze of too many drinks, you take out your phone and flip on the light. A white beam chases back the encroaching darkness, a frantic worried ghost peering through the gloom. And yet, like you consciously know, there’s nothing there. But the darkness feels heavier, the eerie distant noise from the bar above so quiet and removed the sound is more of a memory – the idea of what comfort and community should sound like. But it’s not. It’s too far gone – if anything were to happen, it’d be hours before they found you. If they did at all. 

“Oh my god,” you scold yourself, squeezing your eyes shut. “Get a fucking grip and go pee and then go back up those fucking stairs and –,”

Okay, that was definitely breathing.

Breathing, right behind you. Ragged, hungry, disembodied breathing, in your ear and your heart ricochets into your chest. Your own breath turns short, choppy, panic swelling into your ears, over your fingers. You think you might drop your phone, your fingers are so numb from fear, so you clutch tighter, the trembling throwing white light across the paneled wood in a craze. 

Be rational, this is crazy, there is nothing down here! 

The stairs snarl again and you squeak, all but bolting for the women’s bathroom, desperate to put at least some space between you and those fucking stairs, put some boundaries between –

The door is locked. When the fuck is this door ever locked?

Panic recedes to overwhelming rage because fuck, fuck, fuck, now you’re trapped in here – you can’t go back to the stairs – you rattle the handle, shaking the door against its lock –

“Fucking let me in!”

The light above the exit door goes out. And then the other. You throw all of your weight against the bathroom door. You claw at the handle, begging it to give way. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck – you can hear the darkness breathing –

No, speaking – it’s saying something, chanting, mocking, calling out – calling out your name –

The door suddenly unlocks and you stumble forward – into something solid –

Its hands grab you and like a fucking fool, you played right into its trap. 

It turns you, throws you up against the tile wall, its claws around your shoulders, cold tile against your cheek and you whimper. Whimper when you feel the soft pin-prick of fangs against the back of your neck – fuck, this is how it ends?? – and –

“Got you.” 

That voice.

That condescending, snide, bratty, little –

You elbow the solid body behind you and Max lets out a puff of air, staggering back. You whip around, nearly snarling in his smirking, beautiful face. The bathroom is dark, black tiled walls and floors with a faux-wooden sink and dim lights across the top of the mirror. In the flushed orange light, his eyelashes encourage thick shadows under his eyes and in the collar of his throat. If it wasn’t for that insufferable smile, he’d look painted from thin brush strokes and heavy scarlet paint. 

Caravaggio, eat your heart out. 

“Max, what the fuck was that?” 

He rolls his eyes, rubbing the spot on his chest where you hit him, at the top of his ribcage. “Oh, c’mon, it was just some fun. Saw you sneak off after you got Nita’s drink and thought I’d mess with you just a bit.”

You sigh, willing your heart to slow down, throwing your gaze to the ceiling and dropping your head against the tile.

“God, you asshole, I thought I was gonna die.” You swallow and move your hair out of your face. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I what?”

“You scared –,”

That smile, the crack of fangs across his mouth, widens, the bottom of his lip rolling back over the cut of his teeth, those brown eyes melting into a warm, obscene black, as he meets you hip first against the wall. 

His hands climb over your waist, as though daring you to hit him again, and your thigh muscles tighten. Your hands instinctively trace the exposed skin left by his opened collar at the dip of his throat when he comes closer, chest pressing up against yours, nose against your temple. 

Fuck, it shouldn’t be this easy for him. You sigh through your nose, eyes rolling shut, when he nips at your cheek.

“I think you were supposed to be mad at me.”

“I am,” you groan. “I’m livid. I’m enraged. I’m –,”

His thumb brushes your ribs – not tickling, not entirely touching, but just reminding. Reminding of the force behind his touch, behind his teeth. 

“Baby girl,” he chuckles softly, the sound running down your neck like rain, “you’re melting in my arms.” 

“This doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.” You focus on the softness of his hair between your fingers, the heat of the back of his neck beneath the pads of your fingertips – resolutely ignoring the radiating scent of his cologne coming from up under his collar. More than once had he come across you in his apartment bathroom, sniffing that bottle like some dopey perv looking for a quick fix. Of course, instead of admonishing you, he bent you over his sink and fucked the daylights out of you, his wrists singing with the smell of that cologne. Now he wore it to work wherever he wanted something from you, particularly to overlook some pesky lines of legalise. 

In the hallowed darkness of the bar’s bathroom, he drops a single kiss just below your jaw, inches beneath your ear. He grumbles when your pulse there quickens, and again his fangs find a curve of skin to press against – a reminder. 

Always reminding, always lurking, a threat without a promise.

And he knows exactly what that does to you. 

You release a full body shudder when his hands drop lower, guiding you back against the wall, fingers rounding around your thighs. Like interlocking pieces, your bodies slide together, your arms curling around his neck, the heat of his chest branding yours as it forces you against the wall. You’re breathing all wrong again, but for different reasons this time. You catch a flash of the ink-well darkness of his eyes when he nuzzles out of your neck to admire the mess he has made of your skirt.

“Can I fuck you in this or is this thing too tight?” He asks, like he specifically didn’t get on his hands and knees and beg you to wear that gray pencil skirt only twelve hours earlier. 

You lean up, snagging his bottom lip between your teeth, kissing him roughly and showing him he’s not the only one with a little bite. He groans softly, one hand curling into your hair at the base of your skull, and he licks you, from the front of your lips up to the valley of your mouth. He tastes like the sweetness of his whiskey n’ coke, his tongue rubbing the flexing muscle of yours, the sharpness of your molars. You could spend hours just sucking on his plush mouth. 

Maybe he did scare you. Maybe he should have scared you more, the threat of anyone discovering your relationship a real danger to both of your careers. Maybe it should have scared you, how little you cared about any of that when he palmed your breast over your shirt. 

You inhaled over his mouth, popping off his lips with a moan, his hand cupping you roughly as he dove in to suck marks on your neck. Every moment that passes, you feel your skin ratcheting up with heat, blood almost hot. He thumbs your perk nipple through your shirt and you arch your chest, his massive palm nearly cupping your ribs to your spine.

“Max, either you figure out how to fuck me in this skirt or you owe me a new one.”

“You want me to rip it off you?” He slurs, eyelids heavy, his thigh slides in between your knees, the fabric preventing him from going higher, to the place where you both need him. You groan in frustration and his hands squeeze your hips at the sound. “Tell me fast, baby, because I can’t–,”

“For the love of – just fucking lift it up–,” His hands fumble over yours as your fingers curl under the hem, his own want making that brilliant mind for numbers almost stupid. His warm fingers overwhelm your own as they push your skirt up your waist, and then dig around the line of your pantyhose. 

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to Fort Knox me out of your pussy? Why are there so many layers?” 

You hiss at him as you slide out of your heels and shove your nylons to the ground, hopping on one leg to take them off your feet. “It’s like you’ve never undressed me before.” 

Freed of the chaos of your underthings, Max’s hands rush to his belt, the clinking of the metal sending shivers down your back and straight up your cunt. He doesn’t notice because he’s obsessively watching your thighs. “I’ve never undressed you with our coworkers a floor above us and probably becoming increasingly suspicious about where the fuck we are–,” 

You take him by the back of the neck, hand clenching around the starch white of his shoulder. He comes to you, zipper digging into your hip bone as he pulls you up off your feet. For once that chatty mouth is quiet, open and wet with desire as he takes in your flushed face, the blood pumping under your tits. Max is nothing if not almost supernaturally consumed by the look, feel, texture, and taste of your tits. 

The look on his face is one of those reasons you tend to throw caution to the wind, why your heart almost feels too big for your chest, whenever he’s around. 

He hooks an arm around your low back, tilting your hips forward. You feel the heat of his cock somewhere below you and it takes all of your strength not to grind down. 

“Max –,” he’s not even inside of you and you’re already begging. You bite down on his ear to stifle whatever was rising up your throat. 

“Hang on, baby, I gotta make sure you . . .”

Using your shoulders as counterbalance, he holds himself up against the wet warmth of your cunt, breath stuttering as he rubs the head of his cock against your slick folds. That bratty aloofness is gone; he wants to sink so, so deep into you.

“Fuck, baby, I didn’t even get you ready – but you’re already so wet –,”

You don’t resist grinding down now and he knocks his shoulders forward, needing movement, but fighting against the urge to buck up into you, gasping from the feeling of your cunt. 

“Please, Max, just –,”

“Yeah, I know, baby, okay, just, I gotta . . .” 

He angles himself and you arch your back, unable to watch with the mess of your skirt around your waist, but he finds it, finds your opening, the place he loves to mark, and without any warning, thrusts his length up into you. 

The stretch, the surprise, the ear-ringing split between being empty and then stuffed so full – you can’t help but moan so loudly, you sing to the ceiling. For a moment, your bodies hum with the stillness, the blood in your cunt pulsating around him, you claw at his broad shoulders, need him closer, needing that smell of him that haunts your empty bed as far inside of you as his cock is. His hips stutter and he presses one hand against the tile by your ribs, teeth clenched against the sensation. 

“When I fuck you, every time feels like the first time. Every goddamn time.” 

It’s not particularly the confession it could be, but you shake your head, clearing it of anything stupid like feelings for Max Phillips, your chin brushing his jaw, his nose against your ear. 

“Then do it,” you whine. “Just fuck me, Max.”

With a groan that could be mistaken for a snarl, he lifts you both up right, pushing your hips down and spreading yourself over him. You lock your ankles around his back a second before he pulls out halfway, then to jerk back in with such force and precision your eyes roll to the back of your head. He sets a pace that has pleasure weaving a tight drum just under your stomach. Each sweaty thrust fires sparks up your spine. He really is so fucking good at this. 

This is the release you need, you both need. Sure, it’s an after-effect of having a high-powered job, but it’s also more than that. Max fucking you is unfortunately very often the highlight of your day. He knows what you need, how you need it – how hard to drive his cock into you, it makes you tongue-tied and dizzy. The fast pump of his cock, how it feels to split you apart over and over again, the back zipper of your skirt digging into your back – it’s too fucking good.

“Don’t know where you get off giving me orders,” he grunts, the pounding of his hips into yours rapidly shoving you up your ascension. The slapping, wet noise in the empty room is obscene. “I’m a fucking VP, little girl, and I–,”

You tense your muscles around his cock and he fumbles, his knees buckling momentarily. 

“Do not fucking bring up the org chart right now,” you hiss, your own edge yanked away when he stills. “I’m almost there–,” 

Quicker than he’s been all night, Max lunges forward, mouth open and teeth bare. He bites your neck and then he bites you. 

Fangs puncture your skin, not deep, but enough that your body is thrown into a messy coil of nerves and adrenaline. It knows you could die like this, even if you’ve only ever called the vampire a mosquito to his face, and triggering a self-preservation instinct, your body trembles from the sudden blast of sensation.

Your pupils dilate further than they were, your skin becomes overly aware of every drop of sweat, every flutter of hair, every rub of flesh – and your fucking nerve-endings feel like static, as if brushed by lightning. 

Pleasure so-white hot it almost burns roars up your spine, slick coating his cock inside you, and you cry out. Wail in his ear. Begging him to make it better. To give you your release. The feel of his cock pounding up inside your now-overly ripe cunt brings tears to your eyes.

“Oh, fuck – fuck, fuck, fuck – Max, p-please –,”

“Can you handle it if I touch you?”

You shake your head. “Yes, yes, please, touch me.” 

“You can’t keep screaming like that,” he scolds you breathlessly, the punch of his hips bouncing you against his cheek. For all his vampire stamina, the flush of exertion across his cheeks is truly staggering and a triumph for your ego. Flecks of blood dot his mouth. “Someone’s going to come looking.” 

“I don’t care,” you groan, angling your hips to take more of him. His hand not on your back cups under your knee, tugging it higher up his torso. His pace is relentless, overwhelming – with his weight on top of you, and his cock up under you, inside you, you’re consumed by Max Phillips. “Whatever you do, d-don’t stop. Don’t stop.” 

“You scared I’m gonna?”

“Yes,” you whine. You can feel your heart pounding out its shape into your ribs. 

“Good girl. And good girls get to fucking come.”

Balancing your increasingly limp body, he holds you up right, his hand snaking beneath your skirt, between the sweat of your thighs and his torso, and –

He thumbs that buzzing bundle of nerves, “come for me, baby”, and you do. You come screaming, the tension snapping, vision sparkling with stars, and you are shoved over the edge. You don’t know you’re wailing his name until he comes too, all concern for getting caught seemingly gone as he begs you to continue as he fills you up with his pearly, gooey cum:

“That’s right, say my name. Say my fucking name, sweetheart.” 

His hips thrust weakly, some instinct choking him until he makes sure every drop of him stays in you. You’re going to be dripping for hours. 

His skin is fire-hot beneath his starched white shirt. You’ll be thinking about that for days afterward when you see him in the hallways of the office. 

This is what scares you the most. When you realize it's over and neither one of you want it to be. 

Shaking from exertion, Max slowly sets you down, unwinding your legs from his waist, your ankles trembling against the cold tile. You couldn’t imagine putting your nylons back on, the thought of that pressure against the curve of your lower stomach while you are so full of his cum practically unbearable. 

He lifts his head from your neck, eyes intentionally avoiding you as he inspects where he bit you, breath coming in ragged, long gasps. Sweat darkens the hair at his temple and that post-fuck blush is staggeringly gorgeous on him. He pricks his thumb on the sharp edge of his fangs and with a scarlet bead balanced on his thumb, he smears his blood against the puncture wounds, like someone would wipe dirt away from a loved one’s skin. 

It doesn’t really hurt, but the effects leave your neck tingling. You’d never say this out loud, but you fucking loved when he did that. 

He steps away without looking at you, giving you time to adjust your skirt, your hair in the mirror. You help him straighten his collar because it’s not like he can use the mirror to check himself.

He grins, the flush fading far too rapidly from his cheeks. 

“What are you going to tell them?” You nod to the stairs on the other side of the wall. “This can’t look good for us.” 

“You got attacked by a werewolf on the way to the bathroom. I saved you.” 

“Thought you said werewolves weren’t scary.”

He shakes his head, smirking, then presses a kiss to your temple. “Just said I was the bigger monster between the two of us.” 

“My hero.” You turn your head until his lips drink in yours. 

It is dangerous, your feelings for him. 

He taps you on the butt, pulling away. The lines around his eyes do an excellent job of masking the hurt in the brownness of his eyes. 

“Gimme five, then you come up. Can’t have you looking so completely debauched.”

He kisses you again, betraying whatever amounted to “cool and collected” he attempted for, and without another word, he slides out the door. 

His smell lingers in the air long after he does. The throbbing of your cunt also serves as a fantastically bitter reminder.

You go back to the mirror because yes, you could not have been more obvious if you were wearing a sign that said, “hi, yes, I did just get my back blown out.” You try to fold your hair around your ears at least a dozen times before pulling it back in what you hope to be a casual pony-tail. You toss your nylons into the trash can, pleading that the “oh, I tore them in the bathroom” excuse might hold an ounce of water. 

You think about what’s waiting for you a floor up and your stomach clenches. 

Fucking Max could upset the dynamics of your little group, your little Monster Squad. Whatever the stupid office bylines were, your happy-hour social group is one of the bright spots in your life, especially while working at a place run by those bastard Overlords. 

And Max knew that. He didn’t want to risk your long-term happiness for his short-term. 

Max didn’t scare you because he was a monster.

He scared you precisely because he wasn’t.

You open the bathroom door and return to the world. 

[yeahxsurexokay13]

cat's outta the bag, lando norris

summary: after lando's win with y/n back in the mclaren garage, fans now have to go back to getting used to not seeing the actress and the driver together anymore... or not.

warnings: the 'monaco may gala' is made up, as everyone would've guessed. and i think that's it really.

this is part 2 to ideal weekend requested by @maysofi and @nan-lzzn. not sure if it's just me not knowing how to work tumblr or what but i couldn't reply to your comments /: but here you go!! hope it lives up to your guys' expectations x

y/n.y/l

Liked by landonorris and 1.200.329 others

y/n.y/l la dolce vita

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y/n.y/l and the occasional tiramisu when i feel fancy

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username i was also hoping for an oscar comment

username NOT YN IN ITALY THE SAME WEEK OF THE ITALIAN GP

username last time this happened we got y/n back in the mclaren garage!!! i'm not saying it'll happen again but.....

username AND we also got a Lando win!!!

username will you be there the whole week?

username you really did clear your schedule to attend every race like you told Lando, huh? 😂😂😂

username can u accidentally spoil the release date for obx4 pls

y/n.y/l missy, that's illegal!

username says the one who spoiled the release date for obx3

username that's how she knows lol

username Italy suits you so well

username the duality of y/n y/l omg

username IF SHE ACTUALLY GOES TO THE RACE ON SUNDAY I AM GOING TO COMPLETELY LOSE IT

username everybody filming y/n:

username SO REAL 😂

username Huge obsession with you!!!!

15 May 2024

ynupdates

Liked by username and 1.208 others

ynupdates 📸 | New pictures of Y/n this morning. Apparently she flew home from Italy with Lando and Oscar, who raced in the Italian Grand Prix yesterday.

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username Y/NLANDO CRUMBS WHO CHEERED

username ok but where is the pic with oscar

username are we sure this isn't the plot of a rom-com?

username every time I see them together I get my hopes up again 😩

username These two need to either get back together or start hating each other for my sanity, my heart can't take this friendly exes thing

username same!! like ok it is adorable but also torture

username not us asking for a social media interaction and getting a whole ass reunion !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

username I need details ASAP

username Her not going to the race but flying back home with Lando and Oscar is the unexpected content I didn't know I needed 😲😲

username from 1 to 10 how stupid am i for thinking they might get back together

username 11 lol

username this has me screAMING

20 May 2024

mclaren

Liked by username and 2.091.134 others

mclaren An elite squad backing the papaya brigade at Monaco GP 🧡

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username MASON FREAKING MOUNT AND PHIL FREAKING FODEN AAAAAHHHHHH someone better get me a picture of those two with lando and oscar i'm begging

username STOP EVERYTHING!!! last slide?!??

username hate when celebrities fake an interest in f1 just for the publicity

username pls y/n literally dated one of the mclaren drivers 😭😭😭 she's been involved in f1 since 2021

username and mason's mentioned liking f1 a million times in interviews

username will never get used to seeing y/n attending in the capacity of a celebrity and not as lando's partner

username not spiderman at the Monaco gp🫡🫡

tommyhilfiger Our dear Y/n ❤️

username is she there with them?

username they saw the tweets and said "hold up, let me make sure y/n actually shows up this time so fans don't come at us again"

username @/username I don't think so because I'm pretty sure Tommy works with Mercedes but it would've been hilarious

username I am legit SCREAMING with excitement!!

username what if we get another lando win with y/n there😭😭😭😭

username I really don't want to get my hopes up about y/nlando but they're making it so hard to not let delusion win

username girl i feel like i could pull myself out of this delusion anytime but i just LOVE living in it

username so like i know they're there for mclaren but i would do ANYTHING for a pic of tom holland with George

username McLaren is winning both on and off the track!!

username my favourite celebs and my favourite team together??! sign me up

26 May 2024

lando.jpg

Liked by martingarrix and 389.982 others

lando.jpg Cat's outta the bag part 2

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username SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

username PIC 3 IS FROM MAY GALA DAY SHE WAS WITH HIM IN MONACO WE WERE RIGHT

username we do make a lot guesses based on literally nothing but some how we always (most times) end up being right

francisca.cgomes Excited for my baby to be back to being a regular at race weekends @.y/n.y/l ❤️

username cause of death: pic 1

username ON THE JPG ACCOUNT 😭😭😭

username the real question is: can lando fight??

lando.jpg i can

oscarpiastri I don't think cat was ever in the bag, mate

lando.jog we tried 🤷🏽‍♂️

username HARD LAUNCH IS ABSOLUTELY HARD LAUNCHING OMFG

username children of divorce no morEEEEE

username the 'part 2' is sending me looool but I'm so happy omg

username i don't get it could you explain?

username he wrote the same caption when he posted the first pictures with her in 2021 :)

username someone pinch me 😭😭😭😭😭 i missed them sm

carlossainz55 Happy for you, cabrón! ❤️

username parents are back together!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

charles_leclerc LET’S GOOOOO!!!! ❤️

username always had a feeling he too was a y/nlando shipper

username I'M GONNA CRY

y/n.y/l absolutely no one saw this coming

y/n.y/l i love uuuu!! <333

landonorris I love you ❤️

username AND I LOVE YOU PLEASE NEVER BREAK UP AGAIN

username it's him changing accounts for me

[reidmania]

IN BETWEEN | spencer reid

good riddance x spencer reid one shot series masterlist

part one, part two, part three

summary; after meeting in person for the first time, you and spencer only fall deeper when you visit him.

warnings; pure fluff again, they’re love sick fools ur honour. fem reader, briefly mentions of anxiety and overthinking, they make each other flustered and nervous.

an; there could most definitely be a part three if u guys want one bc theres still the bridge of the song?? this fic literally sent me to the grave never again am i writing this much in one sitting i might lose all my sanity.

tags: @reidmarieprentiss @spencerreidsreads

‘he laughs at her eyes, at her smile, at the glasses on her face, he loves how he talks late at night, when there's no one else to say, how she's beautiful and funny and smart like nothin' he's ever seen, he's good to her and she wants it more than everything in between’

<>

You didn’t think your hands had ever pulled your phone from your pocket quicker than the minute it started ringing, excitement and something more lingering in your mind when Spencer’s name lit up on your screen. A smile found place on your face as you leant against the shopping cart you had been pushing around.

The minute you answered you heard him breathe out a sigh of relief, “I am so glad you answered” Was the first thing he said, it made your smile widen as you held the phone to your ear, your other hand pushing the cart forward.

“When have I not answered- I always answer” You mutter out. It was true, not so much because you were always on your phone but because Spencer had your schedule memorised. He knew exactly when you would be free and when you wouldn’t, unless something came up but you always made sure to let him know before hand. After finding out how much he panicked when you internet went out and you didn’t email him for three days, you didn’t want him to have to worry like that again.

You heard a warm chuckle through the phone, it sent the warmth straight to your chest. “The 5th, I called you at 2:43 and you didn’t answer” He memorised. It made your heart fill with fondness and butterflies alight your stomach. Despite the roll of your eyes as you thought back to the date.

“I was at work! I called you back literally two seconds later, that doesn’t count” You mumbled out as your free hand reached for the shelves, placing the products in your cart gently before moving on.

You could picture his grin, on the other side of the phone. You knew he was at work, like he was more often than not. It didn’t stop him from going out of his way to check in on you throughout the day, and deep down you knew how important it was to him that he did so.

“I miss you” He said quietly, not bothering to add anything to the previous topic. His words made you grin as your lip became tucked under your teeth. You were sure to anyone else around you, you looked like a lovesick teenager. You felt like one too.

It had been two weeks since you saw Spencer for the first time, the kiss played repeatedly in your head as if your brain was rewinding a clip a million times, it made your cheeks burn all the same every time. You two hadn’t necessarily talked about it, but it wasn’t like either of you were avidly avoiding it.

It was enough to ensure Spencer felt some way about you, some way more than friends or internet buddies. The two of you saw each other again the next day, where you went to the a bookstore and a little cafe. He remembered you rambling in an email about the small bookstore you adored on the corner of the street near your work and then when you nervously muttered about it over the phone in the morning, he asked you to show him it.

“I know, I miss you too.” You said softly as you decided you had enough of grocery shopping, you had gotten most of the things you needed and everything else you could live without. You pushed your cart towards the checkout line.

He smiled, you couldn’t see it but it was clear enough in his voice to make your heart swell at the image in your head. “Do you have any time off work?” He asked, almost nervously.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you tucked the phone into your shoulder, holding it in place with your head by your ear while you scanned your items at the self checkout. “Um, not anytime soon but I have accumulated enough sick days if necessary. Is everything okay?” You asked, slightly concerned at his sudden inquiry about your days off.

He hummed through the phone before you heard some shuffling, voices in the background but nothing clear enough that you could pick up on. “Everything is fine but, I miss you” He repeated, as his explanation for his previous question.

You didn’t know if there were any words that could explain the feeling that bubbled in your stomach. The butterflies that seemed to live there now taking over your ribcage.

You paid for your groceries before taking the bags in your hand and returning the cart, hard to do with the phone pressed tightly between your ear and shoulder, but you managed, carrying the bags in one hand towards your car as you took the phone back in your hand.

“Is this you asking me to come see you?”

It came out more teasing than you intended originally, but the soft laugh and idea of his cheeks slightly tinted was enough for you to mean it all the same. There was a moment of silence before he sighed.

“Yes.” He said, before he turned into a rambling mess trying to over justify what didn’t need any justification.

“I can pay for your flight - and If you’re worried about work I’ll pay you your rate. I’ll take time off work as well. You can stay at mine- If you want to of course, you don’t have to. Theres some good hotels close by as well.. not the one i was telling you about the other day, the crime rates there are substantially higher than any others. I think we have had six different cases there alone, Its honestly shocking it hasn’t been shut down yet. Between the crime rates and the horrible reviews I don’t truely understand how they still get business, two people every week thats not a lot of money so they must be getting it else where, especially because there prices are so low, maybe thats why people still go there, ignore the bad reviews and go anyways”

You smiled fondly, letting the boy ramble as you got into your car after placing the groceries in the back seat. You connected your phone to the blue tooth of your car, his ramble ringing out through the radio.

“What reviews does your place have?” You cut him off, a hint of teasing in your voice. His rambling stopped and he went silent for a minute, making your smile only widen when you realised you had flustered the man.

He almost squeaked when he talked, “None so far.. I can give you one though.” He muttered out trying to play along. Spencer got a lot less flustered now than he would’ve a few years ago, you knew that because he told you how much of a nervous awkward mess he was then. You found it cute.

Still, you had a way of bringing that back out of him.

“Go on” You encouraged softly, playfulness lacing your tone.

“Well it’s extraordinarily clean.. Warm too, but not too warm to the point it’s.. too warm.” He cleared his throat awkwardly when realising he had repeated himself. “It’s adjustable— The temperature, if it’s too warm or not warm enough it can be um- adjusted. This is more difficult than I thought”

You bite your lip, shaking your head, deciding to put the boy out of his misery. “And you call me a nervous rambler. Of course I’ll come see you, and stay with you.. If you want that. You’re also not going to pay for my flight, spence. You don’t need to pay me to hang out with you” You breathed out.

“I don’t want to make you pay for a plane ticket when I’m the one asking you to come see me.” He said, his voice quiet and sincere. You knew he meant every word and it made your smile dampen slightly.

You sighed, “Don’t act like I don’t want to see you just as much.” You said as you turned your keys in the ignition of your car, looking behind you for a moment as you reversed out of the parking space.

“Are you driving?” He asked.

You nodded, a common occurrence of you forgetting he was unable to see you. Sometimes you forgot he wasn’t right there. “Uh- Yeah I’m leaving the store. You’re connected to my bluetooth. Im being safe” You said, reassuring him of your safety before he even had the chance to ask.

You wondered if his worry for your safety would decreased if you lived closer to him. If he was able to see you and talk to you more. You weren’t sure what specifically spiked his worry but his constant need to know you were okay, it made your chest tighten in the grip of warm hands.

After muttering a quiet, “okay, good” He jumped back to the previous topic before he heard the beeping of you reversing. “I want you to stay here as long as you’re comfortable with it.” He said.

“Of course I am. When do you want me to come? Theres nothing important going on at the office — Like always. so I can basically come whenever..”

Spencer breathed out a laugh before he was called back to the conference room. You heard Hotch’s voice which you had gotten more familiar with the more you talked to Spencer. “I have to go, I’ll talk to Hotch tonight and find out when its best for me to have off and I’ll call you tonight okay?”

You agree and bid your goodbye, theres a moment of comfortable silence mixed with longing before he mutters a similar sort of reply mixed with an apology for having to go, before the call ended.

A week later, the sound of chaos filled your ears the minute you got off the plane while waiting for your bag, young kids running around trying to catch one another, a man missing his flight, families reuniting. The chaos was a bittersweet feeling that provided a weird calming sensation to your nerves.

You knew the minute you saw Spencer everything would be fine, but it didn’t stop the anxiety that dwindled, with the thoughts of every possible wrong outcome that may occur. It was thoughts you tried to ignore, and avoid but sometimes they made their way and consumed all your thoughts.

Once getting your bag you were able to wander towards the airport entrance way where Spencer had told you he would be. Your eyes searched the other people waiting for their own people, along with other biding goodbye.

When your eyes landed on his own you were pretty sure you could feel your heart bruising your ribcage. You wondered if you looked silly standing there looking around but those thoughts were quickly forgotten when he started walking towards you, meeting you half way as you too walked towards him.

The minute you were in reach his arms were around your waist, your body pulled flush against his. A smile filled the space on your face as your arms reached to wrap around his neck, standing on your tiptoes to better reach before he was lifting you off the ground.

A laugh left your lips before you could stop it, it was only for a moment before he was placing you back on the ground, burying his head in between your neck and shoulder as if it belonged there. The scent of his cologne mixed with his body wash took over your senses, consuming your mind.

“Hi” You whispered as you pulled back to look at his face, you felt your face flush slightly as his eyes lowered over your face, a goofy sort of smile on his face, his own cheeks flushed.

“Hi.” He whispered back.

You weren’t sure what to say but it didn’t matter, he was already taking your hand and leading you to his car, asking about your flight until you were pulling your seatbelt on, his gaze was focused on you completely, his body turned in the drivers seat to look at you.

“I came straight from work, I was worried traffic would be horrible and I wouldn’t get here in time.” He said softly as his hand brushed up to curl in on your jaw.

You leant into his touch, “I could’ve waited.” You said, the warmth of his hand sending your skin into a frenzy.

He tilted his head to the side to mirror how you leant into his touch, a wonky smile as he squinted his eye slightly. “I didn’t want you to have to wait.” He said, his voice did that thing you had grown all too familiar with, where it went slightly higher in sincerity.

You smiled, “Well you made it, is there some scientific facts behind that.” You asked, looking up at him with slight soft eyes. You knew Spencer would take any opportunity possible to ramble about statistics and scientific things you didn’t quite understand a lot of the time, you’d listen and love it regardless.

He paused slightly, his eyebrows furrowed. “Uh- Im sure there is.. I- Um.” You mirrored his expression, eyebrows furrowed slightly at his words.

“Sorry- I- I can’t think straight. You look so pretty” His words went straight to your chest and you could’ve swore you would’ve married him on the spot, you knew deep down that was dramatic when all he did was compliment you, but it was more than that. It was the way he said it with such honesty, so gently. The way he was looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

You felt the need to change the topic. Your face slightly pulled away from his hands as you replaced them with your own hands, trying to cool the burning of your cheeks at his words. He smiled and started the car.

You let your hands cool your cheeks. “Was work okay?” You mumbled out as you turned your head back to face him, you admired the way his jawline looked and the way his hands looked holding the steering wheel, which did not help your face cool down. Your hands pulled away from your face, to rest together gently in your lap.

He looked away from the road for a moment to glance at you. His own expression slightly flustered making your heart skip a beat before his eyes returned to the road.

“No- Well yeah- It was fine. Boring, nothing real interesting just paperwork all day.. I was just, hanging out for it to be over so I could see you. How was the flight?” He asked through a breathy chuckle, his eyes glancing back towards yours for a second, noticing the way your fingers fidgeted with themselves.

He decided to leave out how all day Derek had teased him about you, saying anything he could to make Spencer’s cheeks heat. He didn’t mention the way when Emily asked why he was so moody all day he went on nearly an hour long ramble about how he just wanted the day to be over because you would be there, and then went into detail about how he had cleaned his house, bleaching it entirely just so there was absolutely no chance of any germs you couldn’t contract.

“I was stressing, honestly. The airport was so busy when I got there— Like there was a million people, I’m not even kidding. I’ve never been so.. overwhelmed by people and normally I don’t mind but there was a lot of people Spence. Oh and then the man tried to tell me my flight was wrong, and I wanted to cry — like break down into tears in the middle of the airport, then he got his boss and everything was fine, he just read the ticket wrong. I also fell asleep and woke up to the kid next to me asking if id play uno with him — So I did of course”

The simple answer turned into one of your nervous blabbering sentiments he had come to adore. His hand reached over from the steering wheel while the other remained on it, it hovered slightly over yours for a second. Your breath hitched slightly cutting off your ramble, you swore at this rate you would be dead from your heart rate being too high before you even got the chance to see Spencer’s house.

When his hand peeled yours away from your lap to interlace your fingers with his your head turned towards his, a soft smile on your face as your eyes met his for a moment when he stopped at a redlight.

“Is this okay?” He asked quietly, as if he was nervous you might push him away. Your hand softened in his gentle grasp, squeezing his hand gently you smiled and nodded.

“This is perfect” You breathed out.

"I don't have a guest room- I should've mentioned that" Spencer said, he was leaning against the back of the couch watching you as you stood in front of his book shelf, eyes scanning over the large amount of books, your mind dancing with the memory of when he had emailed you telling you he needed one, because his books were just in piles across his living room.

You smiled fondly at the memory before you turned your head to look over your shoulder at him, eyebrows pinched together. You weren't sure what to say, was he telling you that you'd be sharing a room with him? was he saying you'd be sleeping on the sofa? was he kicking you out and telling you to find a hotel?

You pursed your lips slightly, "Right.." You hummed as you turned your body to face him. You weren't sure what you were expecting honestly, sure you spent the last week leading up to this wondering but it never went much further until you got distraction making up different scenarios and interactions in your head that you'd fall asleep thinking about.

Spencer looked awkward for the briefest moment, before he let out a breathy laugh. "You um- We can- You can sleep in my room" He said, he spoke like the words were trying to be held back in his throat. It made you smile.

"And then where will you sleep?" You asked, raising your eyebrow curiously at him.

His eyebrows dipped, "Well- In my room as well- if you are comfortable with that, or I could sleep on the sofa." He said, the crimson heat making its way over his cheeks. You couldn't help the way your smile widened.

Your head tilted, "You know, I think that would be okay." You said, your smile almost giddy as you walked towards him. He let out a heavy exhale he didn't know he was holding it at your words as the smile made its way to his face -- looking the same sort of giddy.

"Yeah you think so?" He asked, the teasing tone as if he wasn't the one flustered and nervous almost seconds ago. You nodded your head in agreement as you moved to stand in front of him. A odd overwhelming need to be closer, one you couldn't explain.

He didn't seem to mind, nor did he question it as his hands hesitantly moved to wrap around your waist. You only smiled as you found your place against his chest, letting out a gentle breath as his scent overwhelmed your senses.

There was something so comforting about his scent, there was a fresh hint from his aftershave and then something that resembled the smell of old paperbacks and espresso, it was so delicate while being intoxicating all at once. There was something familiar about it even though it wasn't a combination you had ever smelt before meeting Spencer in person.

Yet it was the sort of scent the resembled a warm hug on a cold evening at sunset, or the warmth of a smile from an old lady in a cafe on an early sunday morning.

"When did you get a book shelf?" You asked, your voice slighly muffled by the cotton of his sweater, he hadn't told you about getting it. He hummed softly and you felt the vibrations from his chest against your ear.

"Yesterday, figured you deserved better than a house full of books all over the floor." He said, his voice was quiet and just loud enough for you to hear slightly raspy as his hand gently pressed against your back, brushing over the fabric of your own sweater.

You felt your heartbeat genuinely stutter at his words, the way his voice sounded. You were standing in his arms with not a clue in the world of what any of this meant between you, but you knew you didn't want it to end, not now, not ever.

"I wouldn't of minded" You said in the same quiet tone, as if there were other people around that the two of you were trying to hide your conversation from. There wasn't, it was just the two of you yet the conversation felt intimate and sweet and it ingraved its place in your memory.

His head shifting slightly from where it rested ontop of yours. You could've swore you felt his lips brush against the top of your head, you wondered if you imagined it, made it up in your head.

"I know" He whispered softly.

The rest of the evening consisted of you and Spencer attempting to make nacho's (which was more of you making them and him leaning against the counter staring at you), making him watch the notebook after finding out he had never seen it and then regretting it when you both spent the next thirty minutes bawling like babies into each others arms.

You also spent a while trying to convince him to let you paint his nails, before giving up. He probably would've gave in if you persisted for more than two minutes before getting distracted.

Now, you had just walked out of the bathroom after changing into your pyjamas while Spencer was already sitting against the headboard, a book perched up in his hands. You stood silently watching in awe as he went through 4 pages in the time it would've take you to read one, also part focused on his hands and the way they wrapped held the book

He looked up from the book noticing you standing there, your eyes lifted to meet his. He offered you a soft smile and sat up a bit more, shuffling a bit more to the side to allow you extra room on the bed. You realised that you were still standing which made the back of your neck heat in embarrasment.

You walked over to the bed, his eyes followed you as you moved, you sat down next to him as if it was normal, like muscle memory even though you had never done it before, the idea of everything feeling so unrulely natual with Spencer made your mind a mess as you wondered what is what about him that made everything seem so.. Safe.

"Is this okay?" You were pulled from your thoughts at the sound of his voice, your eyes met his as you nodded briefly before your eyes moved back to the book in his hands, you shuffled slightly closer to him without thinking, but he had no complaints when one of his hands left the book to wrap his arm around your shoulder.

Goosebums followed where his arm laid, "Can you read aloud as fast as you can read in your head?" You asked, almost absent mindedly as you thought about what it would be like to read 20,000 words aloud in a minute, you knew his brain could process that much information but that was just because he was brilliant -- He didn't need to explain the facts to you about it, you had already decided, it was just because he was brilliant.

He laughed softly, "No, your brain can work a lot faster than your mouth can" He said softly as his finger tips brushed over your arm, a smile on his face as he looked down at you, his eyes as warm as his hand felt against your skin.

"Okay good" You mumbled out, you looked back at him for a moment feeling slightly nervous under his gaze, "What are you reading?" You asked as you shifted slightly to see the title of the book, he helped by flipping the book to its side, his fingers in between the pages to keep his place.

You 'oohed' softly, making a soft chuckle leave his lips as you leant back against his arm. He kept his eyes on you, a fond smile filling the space of his cheeks. "Its about the pyscology of love" He muttered softly, eyes trailing over your face.

You wondered if he could feel your heart beat increase in your back as it pressed against his arm. You didn't mean to pay it any thought, but the way his voice got quieter and his eyes were looking into yours. You couldn't help it.

"Read it to me?" You asked, chewing at the inside of your bottom lip nervously. You weren't sure if you would understand it completely but you didn't really mind, more focused on just listening to Spencer read.

His eyes widened slightly as if he wasn't expecting it. There was something in his eyes, and emotion you couldn't quite place. "Y-yeah, Yeah, Of course" He fumbled over his words

You pulled your eyes away from his to shuffle down more to have your head resting against his chest, his arm followed your body still wrapping around you tightly. There was a moment of silence before you heard him clear his throat and began reading the words on the page, his voice sweet and gentle with every word.

You didn't mean to, really but within minutes your breathing had slowed and your muscles relaxed in his touch as you fell asleep. He didn't have to look at you to know that, he could tell by the soft breaths that left your lips as his words paused for a moment, before he leant down to brush his lips against the top of your head gently.

He continued reading aloud despite you already being asleep, his voice was quieter and softer, but he continued just in case you woke up.

"Should I be concerned about your sugar intake?" You asked, a warm smile on your face as you watched the man pour his tenth sugar into his large coffee, after the two of you made the decision to go for a walk around. You had borrowed one of his scarfs that was wrapped gently around your neck over the knitted sweater you were wearing. Your hands were intertwined for the most part until now, when he was tearing open sugar packets.

He grinned as he added one more before stiring the otherwise plain black coffee with the wooden stick, disposing of it then placing the lid back on his cup. "They never add enough sugar, I hate it how people at have to add their own" Spencer smiled as he tilted his head at you.

You scoffed playfully as you held up your own coffee cup as he other hand came to hold yours as the two of you made your way out of the small coffee shop. "I didn't" You reminded, waiting for his reply before you finished your idea for a joke as you tilted your head to look up at him.

He hummed, amused as he glanced down at you, "Yeah 'cause your sweet enough" He finished the joke for you.

You gasped, as if he just completely read your mind, playing into your running joke "Exactly!! See if we were both thinking it, it must be true" You sigh out dramatically, the smile on your lips never fading.

"Must be" He agreed, biting back as wide grin as his eyes pulled away from yours for a moment, looking around the street he was looking down, his eyes stopping on a little flower shop.

"Thats where I was when I got your email.. Your first one" He muttered out softly, your turn to follow his gaze. Your chest going fuzzy at how this all started at such a sweet place, a flower shop.

"I was with Derek, we were suppose to be picking up coffee for the rest of the team but then he got distracted wanting to ask out a girl who was in here.. I was forced to stay here for about an hour as they talked and then eventually he brought her flowers, but I was a sitting--" He pauses to point at a chair outside the flower shop, next to a little table, the rest of his hand still wrapped around the coffee cup.

"There. I was reading through my emails and I remember reading the one from you and I was so embarrased, I wasn't going to reply at first, but there was just something- I don't know but I'm really glad i did" He rambled.

You listened silently and fondly as you could almost remember the day like the back of your hand, unfotunately your experience wasn't as sweet as his or in any pretty place like a flower shop, instead you were in your office when you had gotten his email. He turned his head to look at you with a soft smile.

"I'm really glad you did too" You said honestly.

His eyes lingered on yours for a second before he smiled, "Come with me" He said gently as he started walking. You laughed, as if you were going to go anywhere else. You followed him, hand in hand as he walked towards the flower shop he had been talking about.

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as he pulled you inside. It was a sweet smelling store, you looked around the pretty flowers in different bouquets, before turning back to look at Spencer, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

His eyes were scanning the store for the flowers he remembered you telling him were your favourites, he remembered everything you told him, even if he didn't want to he couldn't help it. The minute Spencer saw them in the back corner of the store he was dragging you towards them gently, not missing the sound of your laugh ringing through his ears -- another thing about you he would never forget.

He had been grateful for his eidetic memory many times in his life but never more than the moment he saw your face light up at the sight of the flowers, and moreso at the fact that he did remember -- you knew deep down he remembered everything but it didn't make it any less special to you.

"Spence" You cooed sweetly as your head turned to face him, his eyes were already on you.

"I wanted to get you flowers to give you when you got to the airport, but I couldn't stop because I didn't want to not be there when you got there and the first time we met, but the shops around didn't have any of these" He mumbled out, nerves lingering in his tone.

You huffed out a laugh as your chest tightened in wake of his sweet words. You wondered how on earth this man was real. You wondered if maybe this was all a dream and he was just a figment of your imagination, a creation that could only exist in your head and outside of reality. But there he was, standing in front of you looking so pretty, and sweet, and talking about wanting to get you flowers.

"Spencer" You repeat his name, its becoming a real challenge to not cup his face in your hands and kiss him. "You don't have to" You say softly.

He shakes his head, "I do, because thats the least of what you deserve, I think of you everytime I walk past this place, I think of you everytime I see those flowers -- I- I think about you all the time." He breaths out.

You stomach swams, you wondered if this was the begining of a romance confession, or if you had just watched too many love films. You didn't think love like that existed, and yet you were standing here with Spencer, feeling the exact way you imagined it to.

You were almost at a loss for words, thankfully, like always he was saving you from your mind blank by talking again, almost as if he needed to say it just as much as you needed to hear it.

"I'm not good at.. This.. thing. Feelings and situations, they make me anxious and uncertain and I don't like it, I like labels, and satistics, and science, I like certainity." He mumbled out his hand squeezing gently around yours.

You squeezed his back.

"In saying that, I am going to ask you a question and if it doesn't work out like I am really hoping it does, that is okay. I really really enjoy having you in my life. I have ever since you became apart of it. I hated email and now I don't because everytime I use it, I think of you. I am not a nervous rambler, a rambler, yes, but not because im nervous -- most of the time, until I met you. I really, really like you and I would really like for you to be my girlfriend" He breathed out.

You couldn't break the grin on your face. You didn't think anything could, your heart was beating outside your chest and you were almost scared it was going to break your ribs with the intensity. You had to pause and take a deep breath as you tried to regain your ability to talk.

This was something out of the sweetest romance novel, he was something out of the sweetest romance novel.

"I would really like that too" You huff out a heavy breath through your words, as your hand frees from his to wrap around his neck gently, careful of the coffee that was still in your hand.

He let out a sigh he had been holding in as his eyes smiled at you, his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing you flush against him as his head bent down to sink in place in your neck.

You felt so full. Everything felt so right. Here, with him, in his arms, like this. There wasn't quite a feeling that compared to this moment that you had felt before, there wasn't anything you wanted more than him in, this moment.

The minute his head pulled away from your neck to look at your face, he had that sort of look in his eye, the same one that you had where there was just a different sort of glow, a different happiness behind them.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked, it gave you deja vu to the first time the two of you had met, you smiled widely. Nodding your head.

"You're my boyfriend now, you don't have to ask"

[myceliacrochet]

I feel so overwhelmed. I have no income, no stable place to live, and hundreds of people coming to me who need thousands of dollars each to avoid getting incinerated, starved, tortured. I make crochet -- when I can get supplies -- and I'm trying to make stickers, when I can get supplies... I'm not very employable and everything is so expensive and it's all falling on my roommate.

I need to hold a fundraising event

Everyone is either stretched to their limits helping or can't be bothered

I'm doing my best to reblog, follow, and react every single campaign I can that is either vetted or has a clean RIS. I'm telling myself that I'm doing enough by contributing art and promoting these campaigns, but the reality is people need money and I'm giving them condolences and things that may not help much.

I had a bit of success promoting Omar's campaign and foolishly believed I could get those kinds of results again. Tumblr staff is being beyond ruthless, attacking even the critical and dangerous vetting work people are risking their lives for on the ground.

I don't know what to tell people who are coming to me for help in what may be their last moments and I'm like "hey here have a shitty art I made that might make a miniscule difference but probably won't. All the best!" I try to respond through my actions instead of words because like Kurt Vonnegut said there's fucking nothing to say about genocide because no one's meant to say anything they're just meant to get blown up. So then I'm ignoring the people who most need help in the world, coldly turning away. So I say sorry and offer these small useless things as if it means anything and every day I lose more sanity and meaning in my life because doing less than what I can to help people not get genocided takes all the color out of my world. I can't imagine truly relaxing or enjoying anything until there's no genocide happening anymore, and I don't see that happening. I feel hopeless like I did in 2016 but this time there's no back door out.

Every time I start to work on something I feel hopeless like it won't work

I have to get my ass into gear, which means I need to:

- pick up my prescription for strattera, I guess I have that now. That will help me focus

- get back on my antidepressants as soon as Fatima's campaign hits $10,000. That will help me keep moving

- talk to other organizers so we can work together.

I am drowning, I am burning in this hxll created by my own culture. Every day they torture the children and the adults come into my DMs and scream help us please please someone help us.

All I can do is do my best every day. I'll keep moving forward

Doing something is better than doing nothing, gxddammit, which means I'm doing a good job I guess, it's just little comfort as I watch the children get engulfed in flames.

Like, I know I can't end all genocide on my own but there's got to be more effective things that I personally can do.

I guess I'll check out one of those lists of things you can do other than donating money

If anyone has yarn to donate and/or could cover shipping or help me find free yarn in my area, that would be so helpful. Because there's nothing I'd rather do than tune out and crochet most of the time and sell it for myself and others.

Please talk to me about how we can work together to help these precious people!!! I need to do more

@monstermashpotato @sylvianritual @gazavetters @determinate-negation @dlxxv-vetted-donations

@gaza-evacuation-funds @gazagfmboost @fly-sky-high-09 @90-ghost @nabulsi @halalchampagnesocialist @huzni @hussyknee @notallmensheviks @neechees @fuckyeahmarxismleninism @fayruz0-blog @gothhabiba @radicalgraff @marxism-transgenderism @marxist-lesbianism @voyagerprobe @workersolidarity @cheezbot @gayspacemonk @bogleech @slitherbop @butchniqabi

I guess I just need to work on my small business... Idek if I'm even helping by reblogging all this stuff, I'm just spending hours a day spreading stuff around to other people who can't really donate. I just seem to be wasting people's time who are going through genocide, I might even be only adding to their suffering. I don't know if I have the moral fibre to do this work, idk I just seem to cause bad things to happen to myself and everyone around me by dedicating so much time to reblogs instead of just securing an income, paying my bills, and being content to give a "reasonable" portion to genocide relief. I can't do that, I have to give all or most of myself but then I'm just a burden to my roommate and others. Or going all out and doing something really big that could really bring in the money they need

I'm sick but people need me

I guess what I'm seeing here is that I need to switch gears to working on crochet more and that will help me be able to help people and it will also be better for my mental health. I'll work on getting the supplies I need to continue. But idk I'll come back to this later and figure it out.

Thank you for listening I wish I could just let my brain scream to death but like people need me to keep it together so I can actually help but I'm at a loss as to how to help

I'll do it gxddammit I'll fucking get it done I'll crochet for this and it will make a difference and I don't have to suspend happiness until this is over I have to maintain some of that light of happiness within. It's not all on me we are working together

Hey 🩷 So I wanted to let people know that I am safe now. I'm back on my most necessary meds, I've applied for SNAP and general assistance, and I'm feeling stronger after having some more success promoting campaigns.

We are living during multiple holocausts. I take comfort in doing the work. We're making a difference in people's lives.

Thank you for helping me keep my head up. Let's keep going.

[sleepynoons]

Locked Eyes

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

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

word count: ~15,300

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

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

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

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

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

For now, this will do.

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door cracks open before you can identify yourself.

“I am no postman, My Lady.”

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

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

“Please, it is only every fortnight!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Lady,

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

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

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

– Your most faithful friend  

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

Sir,

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

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

– Your most affectionate friend

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you get it?”

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

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

“Should you not keep this bead for yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

Dear Lady,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Your most faithful friend

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

Sir,

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

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

– Your most affectionate friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A friend.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am confident Father agrees?”

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

“What are these messages for?” you ask.

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

The outcome is even better than you had anticipated.

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

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

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

You are much too giddy to smartly reproach her.

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir,

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

I patiently await My Lord’s presence.

– Your most affectionate friend

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jing Yuan,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did not bring her along with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you make this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then it shall be done.”

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

“Are you warm, My Lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is his demeanor?”

“Is he of your rank or above?”

“Have you garnered affections for him yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should be thanking My Lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, please proceed.”

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

“Brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened? Someone, please –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What plagues My Lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes? What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not be foolish, My Lord.”

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

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

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

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

“How improper,” you mumble.

He laughs. He knows you could care less.

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

You swat at his arm. “Jing Yuan!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I?”

You nod vigorously, desperately, longingly.

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

“See, Brother! There he is!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, you do it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Never before, actually.”

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

“And many more, of course.”

“How many more? And just dances?”

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

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

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

“My existence is entirely yours.”

[amongemeraldclouds]

Things I’ll Never Say

Why say things out loud when you can write them all down in a journal? No need to inconvenience everyone else with silly declarations of love that’s only guaranteed to break your heart. So what happens when your enemy - of all people - finds it?

Lorenzo Berkshire x Reader

“Is it that, or is it because you’re in love with me?”

Thanks to @thatdammchickennugget for the prompt. Here's my official entry for the Hogmarch challenge, prompt one. 1k words.

Author’s note: The way I screamed when this idea came to mind! Journaling is such a big part of my life, I’ll take any and every chance I can to incorporate it to my stories.

Indented text are journal entries.

Warning: Cursing, no use of y/n, slight angst but it’s kinda cute. Fluff express coming through!

✿ Masterlist

“Stop copying my notes!” I hiss at Lorenzo, moving my arm to cover my parchment.

“Come on, I missed class today. I need to catch up,” he says, tugging at the arm of my sweater.

“Go ask your friends,” I retort, moving my arm away from his grasp.

“You know they’re not in that class, just you,” he insists.

“Oh we’re not friends,” I deadpan.

“It won’t take long,” he tries again.

“If you weren’t busy sleeping around with everyone, Berkshire. You would have made it to class this morning.”

 He leans in to my ear and whispers, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

I grab the nearest hardbound book and swing it in his direction. Thwack! It strikes his shoulder.

The librarian looks at us sternly. “Your final warning was just given five minutes ago. No noise in the library!” She points her finger to the exit, “You two, out!”

“Great. Thanks for that, Berkshire. Good luck with your notes.” My face gets hot with embarrassment as I gather my things and rush off to the exit.

Enzo spots a black leather bound journal in the area you just vacated. He takes it with him as he exits the library. She’s always writing in this notebook. I’m sure she won’t mind if I take a peek, I’ll give it back to her anyway.

He damn well knew you would mind. When he reaches a quiet corner of the hallway, he proceeds to turn the cover anyway.

I know, I know. I’m not supposed to like Lorenzo Berkshire. Why the fuck did I just draw a heart over the “i”! That’s it. I’m losing my mind! I can’t be caught liking the boy who spewed the word mudblood in my direction our first year. Like it’s my fault I was born into my family. And screw him okay, muggles are awesome. I can break my own heart with my misguided affections, but I’d rather die before I ever let him break my heart. So before I check myself into a mental asylum, I need to just say this somewhere. Anywhere. A last ditch effort to save my sanity.

He’s the intrusive thought I love to entertain in my head.

As a dare, he took off his shirt at the party. My toes curled. I pretended not to notice him.

I heard him laughing with his friends. I love the way it lit up his face.

I saw him enter his dorm hand in hand with a girl. I never wish to be her, another one night stand. Once would never be enough. 

I nearly kissed him again.

He helped me pick up the pile of books I dropped at the library. He seemed kind and concerned. Ha! Who am I kidding?

I count down the hours until I see him again.

Maybe in another lifetime it wouldn’t matter: bloodlines, social status, and hierarchies. So unnecessary.

I noticed the veins in his arm at quidditch practice. I tried not to bite my lip. What must it be like to be wrapped in those arms?

And there he was again with his stupid hair breaking my stupid heart.

Enzo hears determined footsteps approaching and he shuts the journal, hiding it behind him.

“Fine, Berkshire,” I sigh when I reach him. “Here, take my notes,” I say, handing it out to him.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“Weren’t you so desperate to get them earlier?” I fold my arms. “I will not be part of the reason you fail in class.” I point at him, “you and your dumb ass can very well do it yourself. I have more important things to worry about.”

“Is it that, or is it because you’re in love with me?”

My brain short circuits, the fire freezing in my veins. How the hell does he know?

He smirks, pulling out a familiar black journal. My eyes widen.

“On second thought,” I say, stepping back. “It doesn’t matter,” I turn around and walk away. “Fail class for all I care.”

I’m yanked back when I feel Enzo’s grip on my wrist. “Wait.”

My heart thumps in my chest. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. He knows!

“I’m sorry,” he says. What? I turn back, my confused expression directed at him.

“That I called you a mudblood,” he explains. “I was a dumb ass when we were younger.”

“Finally, we agree on something,” I state, trying to mask the tremble in my voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you back then and I was prejudiced. Over the years, I enjoyed watching your passion for magic and studying. How you light up when you talk to your friends about a book you just read. And how you’re always the first to volunteer when someone needs help. You have this fire and warmth in you and I just need to be around it all the time. I’m reduced to being a moth to your flame and I don’t mind it at all.”

I blink, speechless.

He takes a step forward, voice softening. “Why do you think I tease you all the time?”

“Well how the fuck was I supposed to know?” The anger not quite there in my voice.

“I just wanted a chance to talk to you and I thought you hated me.” He brushes the hair from my face and cups my face. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

I roll my eyes, “Oh no, I do hate you.” I falter, “but maybe I kind of, just sort of, like you too.”

He grins. “It seems there are things we need to talk about. Will you go on a date with me?”

My heart stutters. “You already know my answer.”

He laughs, “stubborn as always. I’ll take that as a yes.” He pulls me in for a hug. 

Oh. Being wrapped in his strong arms is even better than I imagined. I rest my head on his shoulder when a thought occurs to me.

“You’re sure this is not just some elaborate ploy for me to keep giving you my notes?”

He sighs, “of course not, just enjoy this moment."

He moves his mouth to my ear, "But if you do, I solemnly swear I will make it worth your while.”

I don't hit him this time.

✿ Masterlist

A/N: For those who get the Avril Lavigne title reference, here's a tight hug for you! ♡

I may or may not have also had a place where I wrote down love confessions for someone I couldn’t have. Some of those may or may not have been included in the journal entries.

Two fics published in one day? Who is she?

[beautifulpaprika]

The Island Castle; Jungkook

pairing: queen!f!reader x life-keeper?!jk

summary: The castle on the small island behind yours has been sitting there since before you were born, but you've never known what was in it. Everyone tells you there are monsters, but you have yet to see any. When you set out to uncover that mystery you find someone who explains everything and makes you feel everything.

warnings!: shower sex, unprotected, a storm!

word count: 7.7k

a/n: Someone else edited this picture! I got it from here (Pinterest)! On with the story!

“Your majesty?” Alana’s voice calls behind me. I turn to her, tea in hand.

“Alana, I thought I told you mornings are for staring and relaxing time,” I chuckle, looking back across the small body of water to the multi-storied castle sitting on a small island, only slightly different than our Castle Maine. 

“YourMajesty,” she sighs, “you need to erase that castle from your mind, focus on the people who are focused on you,” she advises while taking a seat next to me. 

“I am a face for the people, it’s not as if I actually do anything in government, we both know that. I bet the people don’t even know about it.” The castle, Castle Island as I like to call it, was hidden behind our own castle, Castle Maine as I like to call it, with such tall walls of rock and waterfalls here and there. The cove was beautiful but it held too much mystery. My advisers, my parents (may they rest in peace), the servants- they all ask me “Why are you so curious about that place and what’s in it?” and the answer is simple: because I was told not to be curious about it. 

It had been there before I was born, and all I’ve been wanting is to see what’s inside. 

“Sometimes it’s better for Queens to keep their secrets,” Alana pulls me out of my thoughts.

“I know I’ve asked you many times Alana,” I look into her starting-to-wrinkle face, “but are you sure you know nothing of what’s in there?” I gesture to the silent castle with my teacup.

“No, your majesty. When I started to work here I was told many stories of ghouls and ghosts. Even a man-eating man,” she shivers. “It’s best not to wonder, otherwise, you’ll get a headache.”

“Sounds like you know from experience,” I tell her, going back to looking at the castle. There’s a terrace on the front, but not a soul comes out onto it. No royalty, no servant, nothing. 

“We need to get you ready soon,” Alana pushes her chair back in standing, “Suitors are waiting,” she squeals. I roll my eyes. 

I need to know what’s in the castle across the waters before I’ marry another royal who thinks they can stop me from going. 

***

When I was six, I discovered a boat along the coast of Castle Maine, however, when I dragged my nannies to the same spot, they said they could not see any boat. 

It was disappointing and made me believe I was losing my sanity for a few months, but I kept seeing this boat. Even now. There is no evidence to suggest that it was not meant for me to explore with. 

So, tonight I’m finally taking the small row boat across the waters. There was always a voice that said I should wait, but the voice is quiet now, my own invitation to the quiet, golden palace. The only thing lighting the way is the moon when I hop into the boat, paddling my way across. 

“This is a lot tougher than I thought,” I murmur, my muscles aching from the strength going into moving. I look back at Castle Maine, the lights littering different parts, then I look forward to Castle Island. 

Complete darkness. The air feels cold, the sound of something splashing off to my right. Maybe it’s best if I turn around. Back to light. Back to humans and not ghouls, ghosts, or man-eating men. 

Then I think about the men waiting for me on Castle Maine. The suitors who want to take over the kingdom. Lord Alloy has been especially annoying today. There’s no fun in going back to it. 

I realize I am already halfway out into the waters and that turning back would make me a failure. 

“My best advice? Something you should never do as queen? Never. Go. To that island,” my mother’s face haunts me. It’s pathetic of me to go against her dying wishes, but I keep rowing. Castle Island is much bigger from the shore than from the high balcony in my bedroom. Now I can see that it most likely has not been cleaned in decades, the walls are painted in water mold. 

I reach the shore, grabbing the lantern from the boat, not shining it yet so as not to alert anyone. There are steps leading up to the door, inviting me in. 

Adrenaline pumps through me, and it’s enough to keep me going. The door’s creak is louder than any thought passing through my brain. I’m greeted with darkness and the sounds of floorboards creaking. My lantern moves from left to right, shining onto trinkets and wall decorations. Paintings litter the walls framed in gold. The place does not look so abandoned from the inside. 

A skittering noise whips my head to stare down the end of the seemingly endless hall. 

Just a rat. 

“Calm down,” I whisper to my heart, “It’s only a small rodent. It won’t hurt us,” I laugh to myself. 

“Unless you hurt it,” a voice whispers behind me. 

I scream, whipping around in a panic. My panic doesn’t rest when I see there’s no one there. The words were right in my ear, how is it possible that there is no one there? 

Footsteps to my left. I flash the spot. There is no one there. 

Footsteps to my right. I flash that spot. Nothing. 

“Come inside,” the voice whispers from above and fades ahead. 

My breathing picks up, but I don’t want to leave without answers. 

“Come on,” the voice is deep but playful. There’s a slight shadow moving with me, then ahead of me. I flash light on it, watching a vine with flowers spiral ahead, showing me the path. “I’m waiting for you, your majesty,” the voice whispers. I run after the vine as it grows faster. I wind through halls and large rooms, not paying attention to any of it. 

The vine stops in an open, what looks to be, ballroom. 

“Welcome!” the same voice yells out. It’s dark for a moment longer, then candles and torches light the entire room. 

I gasp at the flowers growing up the sides and consuming the ceiling, the moonlight shining through the large windows. There is gold holding flames, speckled on the ground, and on the curtains on the stage where a man sits on the edge. 

“Hi,” he grins, like a predator to his prey. I can’t bring myself to say anything to him. He’s ethereal. He’s what they would describe angels to look like. His white, long hair matches the white I can spot in his eyes despite standing 30 feet away. He’s got a boyish grin on his face, piercings in his ears, and clothes that are also white. If it weren’t for the unnatural colored eyes and hair, he would look like any person I would see in the streets. 

“Who are you?” I ask. I realize it’s rude to greet him that way and immediately apologize, “I’ve been staring into this castle for years and I’ve never seen you.” 

He shrugs it off and hops down from the stage. 

“Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough,” he suggests. It’s a suggestion that irritates me considering I’ve been looking plenty hard enough. “Funny, that you’re asking the questions when you’ve broken into my home,” he moves to one of the flower walls, caressing the petals of a pink one. 

“Yes, I apologize,” my eyes fall to the floor in embarrassment. It was foolish of me to think no one lived here. “This castle has been dormant ever since I was born. There have been no boats coming or going from this place, and you’re hidden in a cove behind my own castle,” I try explaining. However, he rolls his eyes at all of it. It’s clear the explanation was not worth it. 

“You don’t truly think that story is going to work on me, do you?” he asks.

Confusion sets in and my eyebrows pinch together. “It’s not a story, it’s the truth.” He laughs at my words, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so insulted. 

“You’re the queen, and allegedly no one has told you a single story about me?” he laughs again. “That’s very believable, your majesty, but I’m not an idiot,” he plucks the flower off of the vine and crushes it between his fingers. “What’s the real reason you’re here?'' His steps are heavy as he approaches me. I don’t dare to move from the spot. His face hovers over mine and I can't help the gulp. 

“I’m telling the truth,” I say again, looking into his eyes. “I’ve never seen or heard of you.”

The ballroom is silent for a few moments, his eyes narrow. 

“Are you-” I hesitate, “Are you the man-eating man?” I whisper. He blinks then scoffs, before a laugh escapes him.

“So nothing then?” his body is still so close to mine and it’s becoming difficult to breathe. “Let me explain it then,” he moves to the stage. The plants on the wall crawl over to the stage and I gasp when one wraps around my middle, pulling me to him. 

“What the-” his arms wrap around my middle, pulling me closer to him. My mouth closes, afraid to breathe into his mouth. 

“Pay close attention, Your Majesty,” my heart pace picks up as I follow his eyes to the plants on the stage. “And listen closely.” 

They form a shape that looks like a king on a throne and the other figure that represents the man standing next to me. 

“More than a century ago, I was invited to Castle Maine-”

I flinch. How does he know I call it “Castle Maine”? And a century ago? How is that possible?

“I was invited there on the premise of needing help with the crops and the nature of the kingdom,” the plants change to the king kneeling before him rather than the other way around. “They were desperate,” he turns to me, “I should’ve left them to die,” the smile wipes from his face now. 

The image changes to him raising his hands over the ground, crops rising up.

“But I was put on this earth to sustain life, and that’s what I did,” as he talks, more and more questions appear in my head. “The king was, as expected, very grateful,” the scene changes back to the throne room, the king bowing his head slightly. Then a vine wraps around the white-haired man’s middle, pulling him back and out of frame. 

“He wanted more,” his fingers squeeze into my side, “But the oh-so wonderful-king justified his actions to his kingdom,” the Castle Island appears in forms of many flowers and vines, “‘The ‘Life-Keeper’ has been gifted a large castle where he wants to reside until we need his assistance again,’ are the words he used in his speech. That witch he was married to put a spell on this castle, trapping me in it forever. The royals would be the only ones who could 

Take me off of the island when they needed something,” his eyes lock onto the scene of him on his knees, wrapped in rope and vines.

“You couldn’t escape when you got off the island?” I ask. 

“They realized that too,” he laughs. “Ever since I’ve been trapped here, I’ve never been taken out for fear of killing everything they had instead, or spreading the truth that the royal family are selfish and greedy!” he looks straight into my eyes when he says it. 

The vines release me, and I don’t feel any lighter from the information just fed to me. 

Memories of my parents who have told me time and time again not to go or even wonder about the castle. Meanwhile, we’ve been holding the gatekeeper of life hostage. 

“There’s a reason there’s so much life around your castle,” he tells me, I think of the cove and beyond and how full of life it is compared to other kingdoms. “I can’t hold all of it inside me. So if I go, all of it does too,” he reveals. A gasp leaves my mouth at the thought of losing all of it. How would I explain to the people that the reason they aren't starving has just left. 

“Why would you tell me this? I thought you wanted to escape.”

“I’ll never do what your family did to me,” he looks away now to the flowers crumbled on the stage floor. 

“I have to think,” I rush out. Castle Island has become a suffocating space and I can’t form my questions properly. “I need to return. Everyone will wonder where I am,” I make my way to the exit and he doesn’t stop me. Surprise enters my body but he did say that he would not do to me what my family has done to him, i.e. taking someone hostage. 

“Do you know the way out?” he calls. I pause in my tracks because, no, I can’t recall a single room that I saw on the way here. 

He sighs behind me, a vine leading out of the door.

I look back to him before I leave and say, “I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.” His eyes narrow, skeptical. “Who will I be visiting when I return?” 

“Jungkook,” he tells me his name. 

“Thank you, Jungkook,” and bow to him, a flash of surprise painting his face. 

I follow the vine back home. 

***

Lord Alloy has invited me to a picnic on the shore in the back of the castle. The same shore that faces Castle Island. I had initially wanted to skip it, but the idea of possibly seeing Jungkook somewhere lurking excites me. 

The sand gets all over my dress as we sit down together. He pulls out a basket, slowly revealing all the food he packed. 

My eyes wander to the quiet castle across the water. 

“I’m sure you know why I’ve invited you to be here,” he says, pouring two glasses of wine, setting one next to me. I try not to roll my eyes at the tone as if he has control over me. 

“I can guess,” I say, a smile plastering my face. 

“Now,” he takes a sip, “I am aware there are many suitors at your beck and call ready to take the throne beside you,” I want to scoff again at his choice of words ‘take the throne’. No one will be taking it from me, I’ll be granting them access.

But . . . semantics.

“I know you’re considering many options,” I’m not, “and I wanted to meet with you, hoping you might consider me as one of your top options,” he takes another sip. “There are quite a few benefits if you and I were to unite. . .” he rambles on, but my ears are already tuning out when I spot a moving figure in the second story window of Castle Island. 

A curtain moves in the window beside it and a white head pops out, watching. If I hadn’t known now what to look for, I would’ve never seen Jungkook snooping. 

I don’t know what comes over me when my posture instantly corrects, my eyes relaxing to fluttering lashes, and the tense feeling in my shoulders washing away to relaxation. I’d have never thought of the possibility of him watching me, but now his gaze is all I can feel despite him being so far. 

“Financially, I don’t believe there’s anything to worry about- eh. Your majesty?” Lord Alloy’s voice calls me back to attention.

“Forgive me, Lord Alloy, but I think there will have to be more than financial stability to convince me of marriage,” my eyes stay on Castle Island. Jungkook shows his full figure now through the window. 

Is it odd that I feel safer knowing he’s watching me while I’m in this meeting. I certainly trust him more than I trust Alloy. 

***

Despite my muscles aching from rowing the night before, I keep my promise to go visit Jungkook. 

I’ve gone over a script more times than I can count throughout the day, preparing myself for any answers. I wanted to find the truth yesterday and I received about half. Now my curiosity is hungry for more. 

Alana has been noticing something strange the past 24 hours asking, “You haven’t drank your tea. Do you have a headache? A stomachache?” when I told her “no” she gave me a strange look. 

I know she’s suspicious of me now but that isn’t stopping me either. 

I feel giddy when there’s a vine that sprouts from the ground when I arrive. I bring my lantern and the bag of food I brought with me out of the boat and inside the beige palace. 

It takes me left, right, left to a room that simply takes my breath away. A large swimming pool sits in the middle, while flower walls climb up the sides to a glass ceiling where I can spot almost every star. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I jump at the whisper in my ear. I turn to face Jungkook whose head is tilted. “You’re obviously going to bombard me with questions today. It would be kind of me for us to at least have a chat in a comfortable place rather than sitting on the ballroom floor.” 

I’m already put off by the fact he knows I’ve come to mainly interrogate him. 

“What’s this?” he points to the bag. 

“Oh!” I set the bag on a table near me framed in gold, “I’ve come to the conclusion that because you have been trapped here in this castle with no one coming in or out,” I start to pull out pastries, fruit, and cheese from the bag, “you must have not tasted food in ages.” 

He scoffs. 

“Your majesty, I have no need for food. I’m a gatekeeper of life. I can also grow food,” he explains. Humiliation rises in me for not thinking of that, my cheeks burn, most likely causing a deep red. He sees this and his smile slowly drops. “But I appreciate the gesture,” he grabs a piece of cheese, biting into it with fervor. 

I raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Cheese isn’t grown,” he defends. I snort a bit, then quickly cover my mouth. 

He drops it onto the table, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to offend you-”

“Enough,” he puts his hand in my face and I yank it down.

“I’m a Queen, sir! And a lady nonetheless! Your hand in my face will do you no favors,” I tell him. “There are many things I can tolerate, but I’ve been trying to show kindness, so I beg of you- no hands in my face,” he only blinks at my words then laughs. 

“I like you, Queen! You’ve got a bit of spunk I haven’t seen in the royal family in quite a bit. Granted, not many have ever visited me, but you’re refreshing.” He doesn’t know how much his words affect me. To be compared to the other members but as a compliment has not been something I’ve experienced much. 

“I saw you,” he munches on more cheese, “today with that man on the shore,” his tongue pokes his cheek before taking another piece. “Who was he?” he doesn’t make eye contact as he grills me. It pushes me to wonder why he wants to know. 

“That was one of my so-called ‘suitors’, the name is ironic seeing as he doesn’t suit me very much,” I tell him. His eyes glide to me from underneath his eyelashes, scanning my body, then focusing back on the foods I’ve brought. 

“Are you going to marry him?” 

“No. He’s never caught my interest. Especially, because he thinks he can take charge so easily if he were to marry me. While it would have been nice to humble him, marriage is a bit too permanent,” I explain. The plate of cheese is gone before I know it. 

Jungkook seems . . . relieved? His shoulders are a lot less tense than before, and that smirk from yesterday paints his face yet again. 

He turns to the pool and starts to slip his shirt off. 

I panic and turn away from him.

“A warning would have been nice!” I yell out, still turning away. A deep chuckle escapes him. 

“We’re going swimming, what did you expect?” 

“I’ve never seen a man shirtless,” I admit. It’s not embarrassing to admit. Everyone around me knows I’ve been sheltered by my parents inside Castle Maine my whole life. 

“It won’t kill you. I won’t judge you either,” he says, before I hear a big splash! Sprinkles of water fall onto my arm, making me gasp. I turn back around to see Jungkook swimming away under the water. He swims to one side, comes up for air, then swims back, and comes back up, his arms resting on the side of the pool. 

“You want me to ask questions while you’re like this?” 

“You could join me,” he suggests, a smirk painting his face. 

“In my dress?” I scoff. 

“Don’t be silly. Without the dress,” he says it very nonchalantly, but my heart drops into my stomach, the feeling of something new being foreign to me. “You don’t have to act like a queen here. It’s not like I can tell anyone but the plants around me,” he floats backwards. As sad as his words are, they are true. 

I debate with myself for a few moments, and eventually feel that it would be nice to swim after the hot summer days we’ve been having. It’s also a way to show this Life-keeper that I’m willing to do what he wants in exchange for more information. 

The dress starts to come off. I try to ignore his burning gaze on me. I feel the heat rising through my body, but push it down. It’s only swimming. My undergarments are exposed now when the dress pools at my feet. I throw my shoes off, then look at the waters. The adrenaline pumps through me at the thought of Jungkook watching me and I jump in. 

The water consumes me. My arms fling around.

I don’t know how to swim. 

How could I forget I don’t know how to swim? 

My arms search for solace, but there is none. The air is leaving me.

Finally, a hand grabs my wrist and pulls me up. Air finally reaches my lungs, but there’s still so much water. I cough up water, Jungkook placing a hand on my cheek at the same time. 

“Shh,” he soothes me, and I feel clean air filling my body. My arms wrap around his neck.

Life. 

“You know you’re supposed to know how to swim before getting in a pool, right?” 

“I wasn’t aware,” I tell him with a hint of sarcasm. “I was blinded by the adrenaline. I’d never been swimming before,” I still cling to him like the life line he served for me earlier. 

“They really haven’t let you do anything, have they?”

“My job was to be a Queen. Not to compete in the summer olympics,” he laughs at that. I start to relax, my hands still on him, but he floats around easily. “Now you know something about me. I’d like to ask about you now,” he nods, fully expecting this. “You said ‘more than a century ago’ last night. You don’t look older than 25 years.”

“Not even 20 years? I’m insulted,” I give him a look, “I’m the keeper of life, Your Majesty, that includes myself,” it makes sense now that he says it. I suppose gods don’t die, so why would he? 

“How old are you truly?”

“It’s rude to ask a lady her age,” he teases. I roll my eyes. 

“Fine, next question,” he pulls me closer when he changes directions, and I try not to focus on our hips aligning so well. He could enter me- 

“You’re taking a minute to think of that next one,” he says. My mouth opens up, but closes again. It’s hard to focus. I’ve been on several dates with past suitors waiting for their chance to be King, but nothing can compare to what’s happening in my stomach and the thoughts wanting to take over my brain. 

“Um, well, you called the castle I live in “Castle Maine”, but as far as I know, I’m the only one who calls it that,” I explain. 

“You wrote a letter and sent it here. Do you remember?” 

I recall when my mother died and I was about to become queen. When my mother made that dying wish, I tried to give up on Castle Island. I sent a letter apologizing that I had to give up on it. 

“‘You’re a dream that I’m not allowed to wish on anymore. Signed, Castle Maine.’ That’s what you wrote,” he says, his voice is low as if the memory is one that hurts him. I watch his eyes avoid mine and my heart sinks. 

“Obviously, I lied. I couldn’t get this place out of my head. Did you know they say there are ghouls and ghosts here? A man-eating man?” he laughs at that. 

“A natural tactic to keep others out of course,” his eyes come back to land on mine, “and yet here you are.” 

“Here I am,” I echo. His eyes fall down to my lips, simultaneously licking his own. My heart picks up speed but not before I bring myself back to why I’m truly here. 

“If I were to help you get out, what would happen?” his eyes rise again. 

“The life around the kingdom, of course, won’t be flourishing as much as it is now. The cove will not be growing as many flowers. Your castle may fall apart-”

“Wait, what?” 

“Castle Maine is rooted down by plants that I’ve grown. It won’t fall all the way apart, but the damages would be unsafe to live in,” he explains. My mind is reeling from even more information. “This castle is one big hold of my power, and it spreads out. Think of it as a tree and its roots are spreading out,” his power and how important he is to the kingdom is prevalent now. 

“I see.” Jungkook must notice my uneasiness as he swims to the steps of the pool, setting me down so my feet touch the steps. I climb out, the water falling from my body back into the water. He follows behind me. I reach for my dress, still sitting on the ground. 

Jungkook grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“It’s midnight, and that dress looks expensive to be washed with pool water,” a vine creeps into the room holding clothing on a plate - a simple shirt that looks like it will reach down to my knees. I take it with careful moves, imagining the vine trapping me if I make one wrong move. “It’s very late. There’s a storm that might be coming. We have plenty of rooms here in the castle and you can return home in the morning.”

I’m about to reject the offer, but he’s already making an escape. Alana will have to worry about me for a few minutes in the morning. 

***

I doubted Jungkook when he said there would be a big storm, but the thunder and lightning are evidence of no lie. 

I can’t sleep. Every loud boom! yanks me out of sleep. 

I get up, holding my lantern in hand. My mission now is to try and find the kitchen for a glass of water. There is no vine to lead the way this time, but it’s a chance to explore the place. I find a room full of paintings. I explore the canvases, some of them painted over many times. 

I continue on, finding other bedrooms, until finally, there’s the kitchen. His is much bigger than mine, but it’s more empty. There are hardly any plates or cups in the cabinet, but if I think about it, there was never a need for him. He was all by himself. 

“Can’t sleep?” Jungkook appears behind me. 

“The storm really isn’t letting up,” I explain. “I just needed something to do,” I peek into his fridge, filled with lots of fruits and vegetables. He wasn’t joking when he said it’s what he could grow. 

“I’m not a big fan of them either. There was a fire here,” my attention is off of the midnight snack now. “Lightning struck and I had to take care of it myself. It wasn’t big by any means, but it makes me paranoid to this day,” he explains. 

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say to that. There’s a guilt that the king who put him in this eternal loneliness had his blood running through me. I can’t help but feel responsible despite not being alive at the time. 

“Nothing you could have done,” he says, but it doesn’t help the sinking feeling. Lightning strikes, and thunder shakes the room, I flinch back and frustration consumes me. Typically, a storm is over after a few minutes, but this is enough to wash a house away.

Then realization hits. The boat!

“I need a path to the exit!” I call out. He calls my name, but I’m already running, following a vine slithering up and down the wall. When I reach the outside, the boat is just barely hanging onto the shore. 

It’s my only way back to the castle.

I’m drenched when I reach the shore, the rain making my clothes heavier on me. I step into the water and try lifting the boat, but the water keeps pulling it back. 

“Hold on!” Jungkook calls, he joins me on the other side, “On the count of three! Three, two, one!” We both heave the boat onto the shore, the bottom scraping the sand until at least 90% is hitting land. 

When it feels secure, we run back up the stairs and inside, our breaths heaving. 

“Thank you,” I say, relieved that I thought about it on time. I turn to him, preparing to give gratitude with eye contact but his eyes aren’t focusing on mine, they’re a bit lower to the white shirt that is soaking in water and sticking to my skin.

I would feel completely embarrassed if it weren’t for the fact that now my eyes were traveling to the shirt sticking to his skin. A perfect outline of his chest and abdomen peeking out. Saliva almost spills from my mouth, but not before I pick my jaw back up and meet his eyes again. He looks just as embarrassed as I feel. 

“I recommend we change clothing,” I tell him. He visibly gulps, causing a wave of nerves to run through me. 

“I have a few spares in the bedroom,” he says, a bright smile on his face. I can’t help but to wonder why he didn’t send one of his plants to his room to get it. 

Thunder sounds from outside, and I hasten my steps after him. My eyes stay on his back muscles as they move through the halls. If you were to ask me what rooms we were walking through, I wouldn’t know how to respond. My fingers tingle to run them through his pale hair. 

Walking into his bedroom is not what I was expecting. Considering he is the only person who lives here, I expected his room to be the biggest and most decorated space. It’s the size of my biggest bathroom in Castle Maine. 

“Don’t look too disappointed,” he interrupts my thoughts, chuckling at his dresser where he takes a few pieces of clothing out. “The shower’s right-” he stops, the clothes are immediately placed on his bed and I take a step back when he approaches me quickly. I startle when he grabs my arm. “Where did this come from?” 

I look to my arm where a large gash runs down my arm. I hadn’t even felt it, but now there’s blood dripping down to my fingers.

“It must have been from dragging that boat up,” I explain. 

He doesn’t say another word, instead dragging me to his bathroom.

“Sit on the counter,” he demands pointing to the wood before crouching to look in his cabinets. His tone is a shot to my core. 

“Jungkook, I don’t think-”

“Now,” he interrupts. I blink once. Twice- then move to lift myself onto the counter. It doesn't take long for him to conjure up some bandages and set them beside me. “I’d prefer my queen not be harmed while she’s here,” he whispers, a smirk on his face. I’m shocked that he isn’t calling me ‘Your Majesty’ anymore. ‘My queen’? I like that a lot more. 

“So, has your perception changed of the royal family then?” 

“Not at all. I still think most have been the most selfish beings to ever walk the planet earth,” he says, dumping water on my wound. I scowl at him. “Chin up. I said ‘most’,” he taps the bottom of my chin. 

I try resisting the smile surfacing. 

“However, I could be being manipulated by your beauty. It’s easy to fall into you,” he doesn’t even glance up to watch my reaction. In a way, I’m glad he doesn’t, it’s a full face of pure shock. “The shirt doesn’t help,” he expresses. 

“Jungkook! Who knew you could be so bold?”

“Have I not always been bold?” his hands are gentle as they slide up and down my arm. 

“Jungkook?” I try grabbing his attention again, but he’s still examining my wound. 

“The rain water can’t be good for it, we need to get you in the shower,” his voice is low. He said ‘we’? I imagine the water running down his front, his body glistening as he takes care of me. My brain flashes images before I can stop it and there’s a different wetness between my thighs that isn’t a result of rain water. 

“Are you going to help me?” I ask. His head doesn’t move, but his eyes do, looking up at me. I suck in air, waiting with bated breath. “Usually there are people in Castle Maine who help me,” I lie. Every rational thought has officially flown out of my mind, the only thought in my head is him in the shower with me. 

He scoffs instead. 

“And do you want me to think of you as a queen when I help you?” he asks, now his hands are planted on each side of me, palms face-down on the counter as he leans his body in. I shiver when his breath hits my face. There’s an itch on my neck where I want him to place his lips.

I shake my head ‘no’. “I want you to think of me as a woman,” my fingers have a mind of their own when they slowly caress the skin where his shoulder and neck meet, sliding up to the wet tendrils of his hair. His eyes slightly close at the contact, leaning into the touch. 

“It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me. I hope you understand that what you’re starting would be very cruel to stop,” he whispers. I can’t bear to think of how long it has been for him without contact with another person, but it’s comforting to know that he might be out of experience just like me. 

“I didn’t plan on stopping,” my fingers hide under his hair, massaging his scalp, he leans into it with a moan. When he recovers, his hands slide over my thighs, moving them apart and standing between my legs. A rush of nerves and excitement courses through me as he stands there, his hands roaming, touching, groping. I’ve felt hands on my legs and body before, but not in this manner, not this boldly. The touches before were shy and cautious because I am queen. But Jungkook doesn’t seem to want to waste any more time. It’s as addicting as they say. 

“Let’s get ready for your shower, then,” I feel a tug on the shirt still stuck to my skin. His eyes trail down. I feel the heat of his eyes moving up, left, right, down. 

I raise my arms up. 

“Go ahead,” I say, letting him do it. The cold air is even colder when the shirt is lifted off of me, the water not helping me stay warm by any means. I hear him mumble something when it comes all the way off. My chest is bare and in the open now, my nipples hard when exposed. 

He throws the shirt off to the side with a plop somewhere. 

“Y/N, if you don’t know this already, you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve laid my eyes on. And I’ve lived a long time,” he leans closer, lips hovering over my neck. I try not to pull him in and come off as needy already. It’s something I want to take more time with. 

A peck is what he gives me. Just one on my collarbone, then two, then three. 

“Jungkook,” I whine, impatient. 

He comes up, meeting my eyes, and drags my legs forward, forcing our hips to meet. I can feel the result of our touches between his legs and curving up to his stomach. 

He’s about to say something, but I can’t take anymore of this talking when he’s right in front of me. I take the opportunity, planting my mouth on his, my breasts pressed up against his chest when both of my arms stretch over his shoulders. 

He doesn’t respond at first, but it quickly changes, his hands roaming to my butt and pulling me even closer, his hips grinding into me. Finally, some friction. He groans into my mouth. 

“I need you, right now,” his hands come off of me, removing his shirt and pants and throwing it the same direction as mine. I try not to faint at his body fully uncovered. Not because I’m horrified, but because he looks just as expected when it comes to how they describe immortals to be built. Perfect. 

“You can have me,” I whisper into his mouth, his face already looking as if we’d just finished when we haven’t even begun. When I kiss him again, the heat from his chest spreads onto mine, our skin rubbing against each other. 

The same heat is gone when he turns to go turn the shower on. I sit on the counter needy and half-naked. I watch him moving and bending, his muscles contorting when he reaches me again. 

He lifts me easily, setting me on the floor. Without warning, he pulls my underwear down, but he doesn’t come back up. Instead, his fingers are gentle on my calves, sliding upwards. 

“Jungkook,” I breathe. His nose and lips graze my thighs. It’s hard to concentrate on anything when his face is so close to being in-between my legs. 

“Before you leave,” he says, the words vibrating against my thigh, “Grant me at least this one wish,” he pulls me closer. At this point I’ll give him anything he wants. The castle, the throne, me. He lifts my leg over his shoulder. “Let me taste you.” 

I don’t get much of a chance to respond before his mouth is already on me and my hands are grabbing onto the edge of the counter for dear life. The shower runs in the background, but I can’t help the moan that releases, overpowering the water. 

His tongue moves and sucks. Where? It doesn’t matter when I feel a finger slip in. I’d like to think that I would be warned about what’s going to happen next, but the surprise sends more adrenaline in my veins. 

He groans, the vibrations traveling through me. He lifts himself from the ground, dropping my knee. The bottom of his face glistens from his personal feast, he doesn’t say anything, but I feel the warmth from his hand move into my hair, pulling me towards him. 

“I want you to taste yourself,” his voice is a whisper. His lips press into mine and I indulge him. The kiss is messy, and it gets even messier when he begins to move us. 

I break from him, moving to get on my knees, but he pulls my arms back up, shaking his head.

“What is it?”

“You don’t have to do that. Trust me, if you do, I won’t last very long.” 

He turns me around, my butt on his hard-on. The moment is still and silent. 

“Jungkook?” I call for him while his nose runs up and down my throat. “Are you okay?” I run my hand through his hair. 

“More than okay. I’m trying not to rush this.” Our bodies are sticky with sweat and rain water. I’m able to break away and keep his hand in mine when I get in the shower. The water feels amazing against my skin, but Jungkook feels better. “Don’t leave in the morning,” he pleads, holding my face in both of his hands. 

“The thought never crossed my mind,” I tell him against his lips. 

I thought it would feel strange to have a man’s naked body against mine, but it’s much more comfortable because it’s with him. 

Our mouths mend together for a few more moments before his hands move down. I’m nervous about what he wants, a possible slipping happening. However, when I take the leap and jump to wrap my legs around him, he shows no struggle- the perks of practically being a god. 

“I don’t think I can wait much longer, Jungkook,” I whine, my back on the cold wall. 

“As you wish, my queen,” I hold onto his shoulders when he separates us. I decide not to watch, looking up when his penis enters me. It’s painful for a moment. The cry in my throat on lockdown for fear of embarrassing myself. 

He looks at me, his eyelids hooding those white eyes. I nod, a signal that I’m ready. His movements are slow first. 

I notice the vines creeping up the walls and the flowers blossoming. They cover the shower, turning it into a dome of flowers with only the two of us in it. 

Our moans and groans mix and echo and bounce off of the walls of plants. 

“I don’t know how much longer-” he whines into my neck, grabbing onto my left breast, then sliding down to rub circles on my clit. I feel a buildup in my stomach.

“I won’t last- ah!” I moan. His ministrations and thrusts are getting faster. I can’t stop the wave that crashes into me and I grab onto his hair, scratching my nails down his scalp as he groans onto my collar bone while filling me up. 

He sets me down, but we’re in the same position while the shower runs down our skin- the sweat and fluids washing away. 

My eyes open and I gasp at the colors on his arms. 

“Jungkook!” There are drawing patterns encircling his arm, all the way up to his shoulder where I have to blink twice to make sure I’m looking correctly. His hair is black now, and his eyes are dark. The color in his skin no longer looks flushed and pale. 

And the drawings! 

“How- What-” I stutter. 

“I’ve got some of my life back.” 

***

The rain goes on, but the lightning has slowly dialed down since our escapade in the shower. 

I can’t stop looking at this new Jungkook. He was always more handsome than anyone I’d ever met, but the new look makes him more handsome than even my wildest dreams can conjure. 

I look up at him, tracing my fingers on the black ink running up his arm at the same time he’s rubbing my neck. He looks blissful, on a high. 

“I’d like to take you out of this castle,” I propose. His head whips to look at me and his back rubbing stops. 

“Say that again?”

I sit up, making sure he can read my lips when I say “I want to take you out of this castle. A royal has to do it, right?” He nods slowly, still skeptical. “I don’t want the kingdom to fall apart, Jungkook, but if I had stayed in this castle by myself for as long as you have?” I shake my head, not wanting to think about it. “I came here looking for an answer, and I found much more than that. And what you do with your freedom is not my business, you don't ever have to see me again,” he raises a hand in the air sitting up.

“That's not going to happen,” he tells me, placing the same hand on my face, a thumb on my cheek. 

““I’m saying to keep it in your back pocket. If I were to take you out of here, I wouldn’t want you to feel trapped in another space.”

“We don’t have to,” he proposes. I raise an eyebrow. “If you travel with me, we’ll come back often and I’ll grow the crops for your kingdom, I’ll do anything. Just go with me so I won’t have to be alone again,” the fire shines on his face, helping me scan for any insincerity. 

I think on the offer, not wanting to abandon my duties as a queen, but they certainly won’t miss me either. 

“You don’t have to say yes, but I would be elated if you did. I'll teach you how to swim, I'll show you things you never thought you could see. You won't be trapped anymore,” he continues. I stare at his newly dark hair and eyes, thinking. I suppose I am more similar to him than I thought.

“And we’ll come back every few days? How?”

“I’m the gate-keeper of life,” he laughs. I laugh with him, falling back onto the mattress. 

“I’ll go with you,” I tell him. 

“Anywhere?” he asks, laying back down beside me. 

“Maybe not back here,” I laugh. He agrees and kisses me on the forehead. 

“You think we could trap that Alloy in here?” he whispers, and I laugh before falling into a sleep surrounded by warmth. 

[derehono]

24.02.2022.

The day that changed my life forever.

24th of February 2022 should have been my usual day. No, not usual. A wonderful day. I should have been checked with a doctor, gave notice to teachers in high school of my absence, and then fly away on vacation, my parents wanted it so much.

On 23rd of February 2022 I felt happy. I had a secure, happy life, preparing to finals, hanging out with my friends, already having an offer from university.

Until 5AM 24.02.2022.

I had not a single class in my school since then.

I haven’t seen my friend group in 2 years.

I didn’t have my finals.

We did not have that vacation.

“Daughter, wake up. This old psychotic man attacked us. We are leaving.”

That was my first photo of the day, trying sarcastically keep myself normal. I remember that actual emptiness, reading my classmates texts about how their windows were shaking because of explosions, the sky was orange. They sent that video.

He called it “a special military operation”.

I collected random clothes, some hobby stuff just to keep my sanity, grabbed my pet, emptied my safety locker. I was scared that russians would intrude into our home and steal all my savings, so I throw away key to that lock. This key became my symbol of war, I have never found it even after return.

When I with my parents and pet got out of flat to car we heard for the very first time air raid siren. We would hear so many more of them, we would learn to differentiate them, but then we were confused.

It was my second photo. People were going away. Foot, cars, bicycles. I remember such a surreal picture. Some moms were carrying their toddlers, one woman was carrying a bucket of water with turtles, other people were carrying cages with parrots, with dogs, with cats, with exotic pets despite air raid siren, temperature, rain. Everyone was so confused and scared.

Few days later the road we were riding was occupied. Bridges destroyed. Factories burnt. Supermarkets demolished. Houses in ruins. Road in holes. On the side of the road burnt cars with “DO NOT TOUCH, POSSIBLY EXPLOSIVE”. That gut wrenching feeling seeing photos of dead bodies and recognising the place.

But back then it was still lively, not a road of death. I remember reading news then. First victims, first shelling. Invasion from East. Invasion from Kharkiv region. Invasion from Crimea. Invasion from Chernihiv. Invasion from Zhytomyr. And we were in Zhytomyr region at that moment. Explosions in Kyiv. The border was destroyed.

I felt nothing. Just emptiness.

This precious girl was keeping my head cool all the road. She was also scared and irritated, but she was so strong, such an amazing girl. I am so proud of her.

We were heading to my grandparents who lived closer to West Ukraine, so we would be safer. The road that takes usually just 4 hours but that time it took 13 hours. 13 hours of driving exhausted and nerved. We saw soldiers, trucks, jets, how barricades were built, signs were removed.

But we made it. We were lucky. Lucky to be alive, to have family alive and mostly close to West, further from russia. Even though, part of my extended family still was under occupation in Chernihiv region, suffering from such close border with belarus.

When we arrived, we were just silent. Then collected mattresses for shelter, asked grandpa to grab some patrol (we knew that they would definitely destroy reservoirs and literally next day the started doing that), and just fell asleep in something that we arrived in, being so scared.

That day I also cut ties with russian friend who I am shamed to admit having. He was proving me that this is just a military operation, no one would be harmed.

Then, arrived spring that I will never forget but at the same time never remember. I remember 10 people in one floor house. I remember the whistle of rocket that woke us up. I remember sirens. I remember news. I remember losing hope. I remember first photos after deoccupation of Kyiv region. I remember how forgotten friend of my dad suddenly called him saying that his city is fully destroyed, his neighbour right on his eyes was exploded attempting to get into the car and evacuate.

I remember my first mental breakdown. How I was crying in the darkness, but quietly so no one would notice.

We were able to return home three months later. But we are just lucky. Someone would never return. Someone is not even alive to see their home again. Someone’s home is forever destroyed.

I was lucky that I have secured my place at foreign university before war, but my whole family is still in Ukraine.

War is not over at all. 20% of Ukraine is occupied. So many displaced civilians, so many deaths. No one could even count, we do not have any access to bodies. Only way to identify is to deoccupy and find mass graves. No other means. Children are suffering from PTSD even in such a young age. Almost in every city, big or small, you would find graveyards covered in Ukrainian flag, grave of the soldier.

Maybe media does not talk that much of us, but it doesn’t mean that everything is alright. Avdiivka is destroyed, right now operation searching for people under debris of the civilian house after attack is undergoing.

And this is happening all the time.

Who was punished for Olenivka? Who was punished for destruction of Kakhovka Dam? Who was punished for all fully destroyed cities? Who was responsible for all that absolutely atrocious videos torturing Ukrainian soldiers?

Please, remember, Ukraine is still on fire. People are still dying. Soldiers cannot even counterattack because they do not have enough ammo, just for protection. Information war is also waging, sharing all that misinformation, Nazi narratives, russian propaganda.

Remember.

Help.

Share.

russia is a terrorist state.

Glory to Ukraine.

Glory to the Heroes.

[kit-williams]

Mind if I dump some Konrad Curze fluff in an AU where the Horus Heresy never happened?

---------------------------------------------------

It had all started when he got a new serf. She was an odd creature, kind and soft-spoken, yet shunned by the other servants.

This was curious, usually the serfs aboard the Nightfall were as thick as thieves, sharing crucial information that would keep them away from the bloodthirsty astartes.

He supposed that it made sense that the pariah of the group would end up doing the worst jobs, such as having to clean the Primarch's quarters.

Another oddity of yours was how you didn't seem to afraid of the Marines or of him. You would even come to clean his quarters while he was still present.

The serfs on board would only ever clean anything if the occupants had left this area, this along with the general gore that was constantly being brought in by the Night Lords made the Nightfall one of the filthiest ships in the Imperium.

And yet, ever since you became his serf, his private quarters were never short of immaculate. You never seemed to attract any attention, you did what you had to do, to the best of your ability, that was it.

Maybe that was what drew him to you. In a galaxy where he was shunned for being overly cruel, and could feel his sanity slipping away, you were something to ground himself to. So that he wouldn't lose himself to the Night Haunter.

You had an aura of calmness around you that seemed to calm him down, to the point where he would sometimes knock something over on purpose and call the serfs for a clean up. His tension and migraines always seemed to vanish after you entered.

One day, as you were cleaning up his latest mess of broken ceramite from a fit of madness, he decided to call you over. You were just putting away everything when you got your new orders.

"Come sit by me." The primarch of the Nightlords stated.

An odd request, but one you dutifully fulfilled. You looked up at him for your next order.

"Why are you shunned by the rest of the serfs?"

A straightforward question with straightforward answer.

"I am a null my lord."

The simple sentence surprised him, and just when he thought that he had you figured out. He knew of Nulls and Pariahs, he's met with the sisters of silence after all, he know that the Ordo Assassinoram trains powerful Pariahs into Cullexus assassins. But the question remained, why would one so powerful, as to negate the psychic power of the warp, be a serf aboard his ship?

"Why are you a serf? You should be in the imperial guard, or a part of the sisters of silence."

He watched as the serf thought for a moment.

"My Pariah gene is recessive, and as such I cannot be a sister of silence."

"But it still has a noticeable phenotype with how your fellow serfs avoid you." Konrad argued back.

She sighed. "That is true my lord, I was trained by the Astra Telepathica, but I was wounded in training, so I was discharged. My null sphere was strong enough that not many people trusted me enough to hire me, one of the few jobs where I was accepted was as a serf aboard you ship."

He swallowed. It was obviously unfair, but the Imperium wasn't known to be fair to anyone.

You being a semi-powerful Null did get the gears in his mind to turn however. Maybe that was why he felt so calm around you, your null sphere numbing the worst of his precognition.

With a wave of his hand he dismissed you. You simply bow your head and move on, your work complete.

You were useful to him. He needed to figure out a plan to keep you around.

---------------------------------------------------

In case you didn't know, Nulls are basically anti Psykers. This is because those born with the Null or Pariah gene exhibit a null force around them which negates all psychic energy.

Powerful Pariahs are recruited by the Imperium to become sisters of silence, who are the emperor's personal force to deal with Warp shenanigans, or become Cullexus assassins who are trained by the assassinoram to kill powerful Psykers.

Lower level Nulls are useful in the imperial guard as their force wards off chaos, rogue Psykers, the Eldar, and causes tyranid synapses to misfire.

The downside to all of this is that the more powerful the null sphere, the more people dislike and distrust them. Many powerful Nulls don't even make it past childhood because of this.

Konrad likes this serf because she quiets down the visions in his mind.

I knew about Nulls so thank you for adding it in for the people in the back

Just I never thought about it like this... oh how just nice

[theroundbartable]

My position on the war in Israel/ Palestine

Below the cut, because this is my opinion, and you are, of course, not expected to share it, or even care about my position at all. You might not even like what I have to say.

This is for myself and for the people who decide whom to follow based on the flags I raise in my bio (which is none).

It's a bit long, sorry.

The war in Israel/Palestine has now been going on for over a year and I keep seeing blogs that are entirely pro palestine, and then others who are entirely Israeli, accusing each other of rape and murder and genocide, of antisemitism and zionism, etc. etc. Most of these accusations were fact checked and true. Some arguments I heard of people were quite obviously formed through what their government told them, might even lied to them about. I cannot blame these people for clinging to faith, to clinging to the vague idea that there is a sense to their suffering, or who are trying to deflect of their own guilt.

I am German. I know the arguments. I know why they exist and I cannot blame people who's life might be depending on that hope, who's sanity might depend on that faith.

So far, I have not really posted my own opinion on it and I understand that my position on this is not a common one. Nor is it one that many people will accept or find satisfying. Never the less, this is my point.

Under normal circumstances, I would never have made a post and I already am very late to the debate, but since elections in the US are up and more dangerous than ever, since the debates and the war lead to attacks on people online and world wide, since all this enables the same fascistic views that once dominated my country and are threatening to dominate the field once again, I think I should at least say something.

I need to, in order to make up the the past my grandfather took part in as a German soldier, to honor my grandmother's memory who welcomed refugees of war and "war criminals" who were stationed in the neighboring Arbeitslager in her home; in her home where she was all alone with her sick father and waited for the news of her brothers falling in the war while the polish captive cooked them dinner and taught her to read. I need to, as someone who's ancestors were both shooting and housing their enemies. As someone who carries both the guilt and the pride into the next generation.

This is not a football game.

I can't go and pick a side and root for their win. I can't go out on the street with other students and hold up "free palestine" signs, when I know that the words are war propaganda from a group of terrorists. I can't go and side with Israel and justify a genocide by telling people they are being antisemitic if they criticise the Israeli government.

It is the Israeli government under Netanjahu, it is the Hamas who are fighting this war, and to say that the people under their leadership aren't in on it is naive to a degree.

We are not talking about winning and losing here. Because there are no winners in war. I CANNOT debate on who's human rights are worth more than the other. I CANNOT ignore that the Hamas started the war, I cannot ignore that they abuse their captives, I cannot excuse that the Israeli government shoots back at hospitals and abuses their own captives as well.

I can't choose between the grays, because to me, they are the same shade.

But to say they are all supporting those leaderships, to say that not most of them are just trying to survive is terrifyingly cold. That would be like saying they deserve what is happening to them and that can never be the truth.

This doesn't mean I'm not judging between the two. I judge the obvious violence on both sides, I fear for the victims on both accounts, I hate the idea that categorises who is allowed to live where in the country, I despise the idea that Israel alone is to blame.

"You can't not pick a side."

I did. Because there is not just two sides to this war. There is three or four, perhaps even more than that.

There is the terror organisation, there is the government, and then there is the people stuck in the crossfire. I refuse to side with the criminals. I refuse to side with the abusers. They are both wrong, they are both murderous and violent, and siding with one would be - for me - like pointing the gun at the other.

That said, I do not believe that people who raise the palestine flags are wrong, neither do I judge the Israel one. Both sides deserve justice for what happend and what continues to happen. But to a German who only raises the flag once every four yeara at soccer games, worshipping the government that is doing all this, that feels wrong. I know that my view is distorted because of my family's Nazi history, but I can't help feeling that way.

If we're talking about violence, justice would mean that more violence is the answer. An eye for an eye is justice too, but this will never result in peace.

Quite honestly, I don't even think a two state solution would be the answer either. It could be, if Hamas and Israel wanted peace. If Natanjahus war wasn't a ploy to keep himself in power. As it is right now, with the war expanding, even if they managed to somewhat put down their weapons, they will continue to be neighboring enemies, they will continue to hate each other and they will continue to never forgive, to never forget, justifying future reasons to war.

Honestly, I'm not arrogant enough to say I know the solution. All I know is that I know where I stand. And I will never, under any circumstances, judge you if you live in Isreal or in palestine. Nor will I judge you for fighting for each of their rights. Because unless you wish for the complete destruction of the other, unless you justify a genocide, then I am on your side. Because you are, in this war, on your own. And I don't want to see you there alone.

And I will not raise your flag, I will not raise the flag of your enemy, I don't even raise my own flags because I'm honestly not that much into soccer. Because I separate you and your life from the system you live in.

All I can do is tell you that if you flee to Germany, I will be one of the people voting for your safety, for your right to stay, and for being properly integrated. I will not side with the right wing fascists that dominate this country. I will not side with people who simply picked their favorite oppressor. It's not enough to save you. But I'm not a hero. I can only refuse to be the villain.

This makes my position obviously debatable, to some even unacceptable, and I understand that it's not very satisfying to read this from someone who is lucky and priviledged enough to watch from the sidelines.

But I simply cannot support either of these systems. Because neither of them value human life, let alone human rights.

[wasteofbandagesxx]

I wanna live

{Dazai x reader}

warning: toxic relationship, suicide, forced suicide, lack of communication, pressure, Dazai losing his sanity

"Dazai your not listening to me!"

"Shut the fuck up. I'm tired of listening to people telling me that there's hope in life, and things are gonna be ok."

The relationship has been complicated these past few weeks, almost a few months. You were dating one of the port mafia executives and of course, your dating the demon prodigy himself. Dazai Osamu, his charms never failed to amaze you, but it's his humor and personality that attracted you.

His sweet words pulled strings to your heart, you couldn't help but fall for the devilish man. He had a demons tongue, almost like the master of seducing woman. He was a womanizer after all, until he met you. Something about you just made him interested, wanting to know more about you. You weren't like any other woman he's ever dated. You were genuinely sweet, carefree, and resilient.

Now the relationship has gone down hill, after 3 years of dating, everything has changed. The death of friends and the constant missions be affecting their relationship. It didn't cause any fights, just less time together, but ever since Oda died, things completely changed. Dazai did nothing but drink his sorrows away and slightly take his anger out on you. You do your best to comfort him, let him know that he's not alone. On the top of the mafia base, you two were having a little date, until Dazai lost his shit. His day was bad, but he pretty much reached his breaking point. You tried talking to him, but he just pushes you away.

"Dazai, there's more to life than just suicide. You know I can't handle the negativity no matter how hard I try. You pressure it into me and it scares me! I constantly worry about you and check on you because I care about my boyfriend. My own boyfriend can't even acknowledge the fact that someone is there for him, that I'm there for him! Am I not enough for you to live?" You sobbed, pouring your heart out and all Dazai could do is stand there speechless.

"Y/n, Darling....there's nothing for me here. This place is s hell hole. It's not like I-"

"....Dazai?"

Dazai stood frozen, a crazy smile slowly formed onto his face before he even looks directly at you, as if he came up with an idea.

"Let's commit double suicide, for real this time." He said, the desperation in his voice was obvious. You got scared, as much as you wanted to run off you still wanted to try and support your boyfriend, even though Dazai will never listen or seek for your comfort in a time like this. "Dazai, I've told you this 100 times. I'm not doing it." The anger in your voice was very clear that you didn't want to have this conversation again. He's tried convincing you multiple times, even when your at your worst. Despite all that, you were never broken enough to take your own life. "Dazai, please-"

"Let's go to the afterlife together! We won't have to worry about anything. Belladonna, we can rest in piece and live the way we want in the afterlife!" He grabs you by the hand and pulls you close in excitement but you weren't having it. You quickly pulled away and shoved him back. "Your fucking insane."

"Only for you, and death!" Dazai laughs it off like a kid at a comedy show, he knew that wasn't right to say but he doesn't think before he says something.

"Dance with me Y/n! Let's dance our way into the afterlife, and rest in peace like forever lovers." He grabs your hand again and drags you to the edge of the roof, u tried hardening your foot on the ground but he kept dragging you until you both were on the very edge. The air blows against your face, you were too focused on trying to stay alive and Dazai couldn't care less as he admired the view of the city that he will no longer see. You screamed and yelled, trashed and tried to punch at him but it was no use, his strength was too much for you to overpower and there was nothing you can do. Nobody can hear your cries of help because you were too high in the air for them to hear. You didn't want this. "Ready my love?"

He slowly leans forward over the edge, and that's when you found the strength to save yourself.

"I wanna live!!"

You forced your strength against him with your back and made him tumble backwards, he hit his head on the hard concrete as he groaned in pain. You immediately got away from him and stood up with tears streaming down your face and your eyes showing fear. Dazai sits up and takes a good look at you, but he couldn't bring himself to say something as he spotted the tears running down your face. The fear in your eyes made him finally get the hit, he understood, you didn't want to die with him. He was too much in his delusional fantasies to be thinking about what you want, how you felt about all this. Regret written all over his face, you had to sit down when your legs were trembling so you wouldn't fall and hurt yourself. You were too busy processing what just happened while Dazai was processing his mistake. He couldn't force you, not when you don't want it. It's not love, it's forced . He felt bad, he looks at you again to apologize but couldn't find the words when he witnessed the fear in your eyes gotten worse. How could he mess up this badly?

"I wanna live."

[somegrumpynerd]

HEY. POINTS FINGER… any thoughts on how everyone reacted when the other joined the team? as in how did killer react when dust came, how did he and dust react when horror came, how did they all react when cross came, etc. i love love LOVE your bad sanses thoughts way too much they make me so happy. if i write hurt you write comfort and it’s awesome. also how do you think they slowly started to get closer? just.. bah give me your thoughts on them!!!! any thoughts!!!!!!!!!

You fool!! You’ve given me a chance to ramble about my special little guys and now this post will stretch on forever!! Mwahahahahah >:3c

No but seriously this is probably gonna be wicked long cause I have 1 million thoughts about these guys joining and meeting each other so uh, readmore for everybody’s safety and sanity

(^ I wrote that in the document before I started typing out my actual thoughts and uh

yeah no kidding, this is like a fucking essay so proceed with caution)

OKAY SO

I’ve said before that Nightmare got Dust for two reasons; one being that Dream had just recently started working with Ink (and soon Blue) so he and Killer were no longer able to gang up on Dream. He wanted somebody else to bulk up their numbers and give Killer a little back up. He also was starting to realise that Killer didn’t handle being alone very well, since this was when he most often got worked up and broke things around the castle (and sometimes tipped over into stage 3). Dust would be a perfect fit since he had the same amount of lvl and fighting experience as Killer, and since they were so close in circumstance they would be practically like brothers right?

The irony that he thought this about a guy he was recruiting to help kill his brother was apparently lost on him.

They absolutely hated each other. Like, it was instant. Killer saw him as a replacement, why would boss go out and get another sans - one with almost the same backstory as me - when I’m right here? Does he think I’m not good enough? Am I disposable and this is the backup for when I die in combat? He didn’t take it well. He took it all out on Dust too, not cooperating in battle, trying to start fights in the castle, etc. He couldn’t outright kill him because Nightmare had given him strict orders not to, but Killer loves a loophole. If he roughed Dust up down to 1hp and something else happened to finish him off, technically he’d followed orders.

Dust just straight up didn’t want to be there. Nightmare just showing up and yoinking him had worked fine with Killer, but Dust had wanted to sit in his empty au and die, he had no intention of joining a team or doing work of any kind - good or bad. The only reason he didn’t just lie down and refuse the entire time was that he had to fight back against Killer, as much as he wanted to die he refused to give this ass the satisfaction or lvl. He didn’t intend to be any help out in the field either, but again, Killer was making sure he got fired at so he had to retaliate to stay alive.

Eventually it got bad enough that Nightmare had to pull Killer aside and demand answers. In the year or so of knowing him Killer had never willfully disobeyed orders before, so Nightmare needed to know what had gotten into him. He dispelled the replacement rumour right away, he still wasn’t quite softened up enough to be sappy about it but he made sure Killer understood what a good worker he was and that Nightmare had no intention of losing him. It didn’t help a lot, they still hated each other for other reasons, but it eased a little.

Killer still had pretty frequent dips into stage 3, except now he would go straight for Dust usually. Nightmare had tried to explain what he’d learned about it to Dust, but he didn’t really believe that it wasn’t just Killer deciding to try and kill him for funsies. He only accepted it after a particular episode where he attacked Nightmare instead, which Dust knew Killer wouldn’t try in his right mind.

After he came back to his senses he sought Dust out. The air around Killer was very different after a stage 3, sort of sombre and almost calm, so Dust let them sit together and Killer apologised for giving him such a hard time. They actually talked for the first time in months while Killer was still calm (or tolerable, as Dust describes it), and it didn’t magically fix everything but, things were a little better. They still fought and argued and bothered each other but it wasn’t as sharp, there was a lack of real murderous intent in it all, and sometimes after an episode they would talk a little bit. It was the best Nightmare was going to get for now, so he took it.

They were still completely incompetent about taking care of themselves though. Neither of them would eat unless prompted and Nightmare didn’t have good enough knowledge of mortals to know when that should be to stop them passing out from hunger on the job. Not to mention the stars were now a full team, and with the way Killer and Dust would sometimes rather target each other on the field he could do with more backup.

Horror was the first of the group to get a choice in joining. Nightmare had taken note of how much Dust didn’t want to be part of things, and while it was in his best interests in the long run given his situation, Horror’s au was still mostly intact - though a little in disrepair. Horror was also the first in the group to have a good (and ongoing) relationship with his brother, so Nightmare knew he couldn’t just pop in and steal him, he had to be a bit more diplomatic with this one and offer a deal.

He gave Horror some time to think on his proposal - he would set up regular deliveries of food to Horror’s au in exchange for him joining their team - and was quite surprised when Horror agreed, with some stipulations. Horror was equally surprised when Nightmare agreed so easily to his terms (that he didn’t want his brother to know what he’d be doing, and that he wouldn’t kill). A little down the line the terms were altered to add that he would also be left to visit his au every week or so.

Horror was not impressed meeting the other two. He didn’t need his power as judge anymore to sense the lvl coming off them both, and given who they were working for he was instantly distrustful of them both (the uh, brother situation did not help). He was also in a place that had an abundance of food for the first time in probably years, so he was doing a lot of going hog wild in the kitchen and then getting very sick as a result.

Dust didn’t particularly feel anything for him. This guy hated him, sure, but it wasn’t forward and slashy like with Killer, it was just quiet loathing which was fine. That’s how Dust felt about himself so, y’know, mood. He did kind of feel sorry for him though, not just because of the whole famine and everything, but also because he was watching this guy eat like his life depended on it and then get sick and undo it day after day. He was the one who suggested Horror getting his food in moderation to Nightmare, which did help but was an absolute ordeal to enforce. Y’know how some people get hangry? Imagine that but you haven’t had a proper meal in years and now these people give you tiny amounts of food and don’t let you eat more for hours. The hunger mood swings were a sight to behold, you would never have guessed in those days that Horror specified not wanting to kill.

When his ability to eat had evened out and he was in better shape, Horror made a point of apologising to Dust for being aggressive with him. Over time he’d kind of softened up on him from his initial impression, since he could see plainly how wracked with guilt Dust was over his situation. It was a little easier to imagine that whatever he’d done was truly out of desperation and not just for fun, as Horror had assumed at first sight. 

They also both retained that classic sans laziness, so it was easy for them to share a space while saying and doing nothing. It made Horror the first person that Dust willingly spent time around in the castle (and vice versa since Horror was still largely suspicious of Nightmare and Killer - the deal seemed too good to be true and the stage 3 episodes didn’t help). As time went on, Horror kind of became Dust’s emotional support skeleton in a way. Dust had become quite averse to touch in his solitude and Horror very slowly brought him back out with casual gentle touches, until not only did he no longer freeze or stiffen at being grabbed but Dust would seek him out to flop next to on the couch. Horror claimed it was just returning the favour for helping with his eating situation, but really it was nice to have something resembling a friend here.

Killer, for his part, was going through This is My Replacement 2: Electric Boogaloo. Not to the same degree as with Dust, since Horror was quite a bit different, but Killer was still wary of this new addition. He didn’t really instigate anything though since, to be honest, Horror had the intimidation factor. He was like a foot taller than both of them, he had a cracked skull and completely different magic and it seemed like every time Killer saw him he was eating bread like a wolf eats a deer. So while he was going through his food moderating, Killer mostly just stayed quiet and kept his distance.

Horror had not softened on him like he had with Dust, since Killer didn’t openly show remorse. He still watched him with distrust, especially after seeing the way he scrapped with Dust for seemingly no reason other than for violence’s sake. Killer was still mostly targeting Dust in his stage 3s, but Horror had to be careful to stay out of his way since he was still working with much lower hp than the other two. What did start to convince him was seeing how similar Killer and Dust were after a stage 3 episode. Once Killer was slightly more composed (ie stopped crying), he became so tired and quiet and blunt about things he normally joked his way around. It was a little startling, but also started to bring Horror around to the idea that Killer might regret his actions too, just buried under several layers of whatever the hell is also wrong with him at any given time.

Killer and Horror only really started interacting after talking about Dust. Killer was asking how he got Dust to like him since he seems to hate everyone and everything else, Horror told him very pointedly it was because he wasn’t trying to kill Dust. Killer admitted he wasn’t trying to kill Dust, at least not anymore, he just wanted to fight for fun. It opened up a better channel of understanding, knowing that Killer did not actually have murderous intent behind his swings (stage 3 notwithstanding). It made it easier for Horror to occasionally get involved in the roughhousing which Killer delighted in, knowing that the other two knew how to hold back enough to keep him from dusting.

Speaking of stage 3, it was around this time that Killer and Dust made a very important deal. After a particularly rough episode with a little too close of a call, Killer showed up in Dust’s room and begged him shakily to make a promise - that if he ever got too out of control during one of his stages, Dust would kill him. He’d been told over and over by Nightmare that it was impossible for Killer to hurt him since he was immortal, but now there were more people around him where that wasn’t the case, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he came out of a stage and found himself alone. Dust promised.

It’s also worth mentioning that, once they were all close enough to be on speaking terms, Horror started bullying the shit out of these two about eating. Now that Horror knew neither of them were going to kill him, he felt safe enough to pick them up by the scruff and set them at the table to say they weren’t leaving until they had at least a snack. He let them pick what they would eat - he wasn’t that cruel about it - but he had to see them eat at least 3 times a day or they would hear about it.

It was by no means perfect or regular, but after about half a year Nightmare finally had henchmen who ate food and worked together (mostly).

Now here’s the problem… I still haven’t really figured out how or why Cross joined the team. Like, obviously there’s some kind of point in the events of underverse where it splits off into an alternate timeline, but I haven’t really figured out where yet so. Leave that one with me just a little longer. Cross joins.

Nightmare really truly didn’t intend to take anyone else in. They were (mostly) getting along, they were pretty well matched to fight the stars, he had no need of more mortals.

…but he was also pretty soft at this point. Every one of them had taken a blow to his I’m immortal I’m an island I don’t get attached to others persona and he’d gotten pretty damn fond of them all. This was why when he felt the sheer weight of loneliness radiating off of Cross, he just couldn’t bring himself to leave him.

So Cross entered the castle. 

He did not particularly intend to stay or make friends, he was trying to get his world back and nothing more. He even revealed a little down the line that he outright refused to kill, and was quite surprised to find that Nightmare was fine with that. At the start he was polite but not friendly with the others and mostly kept to himself.

Dust, as is often the case, did not really have an opinion. Another new guy, this one was self sufficient and didn’t bother him so he had no reason to get involved. He was content to be in the same room as Cross but didn’t start up any conversations.

Horror felt the need to speak to Cross, since Dust would happily stay silent for years and Killer was, well, Killer. Horror was somehow the closest thing to normal they had, so he was the one that made small talk. Mostly asking what Cross would like for meals and encouraging him to pick something he liked when he got the answer of “anything is fine”. As Cross settled in a bit more and actually opened up, they bonded over being the only two to enjoy food. Horror made a point of adding chocolate to the stock they kept in the kitchen and making tacos here and there for Cross.

Horror was also the first Cross kind of warmed to, mostly because he was the one devoid of lvl and Nightmare had mentioned he’d also said he wouldn’t kill. Learning a little about his au’s situation only softened Cross to him more, especially seeing that he still cared a lot for his brother and was trying to protect his home (even if Cross found it unthinkable that he lived away from it). It was through Horror that he also got accustomed to Dust, how being quiet and distant was kind of his default and that he also felt deeply haunted by the loss of his world. They weren’t exactly friends, but it was comfortable enough.

So now boss had taken in another new person, someone who takes orders like a soldier and fights with knives and ruthless precision and aims to be his righthand man, and Killer was ecstatic. By now he’d mostly put his fears of being disposable behind him, Nightmare had gotten a bit less subtle in showing how important they all were to him and Killer felt confident he wouldn’t be replaced. Which was a little bit funny, because the only guy he didn’t feel threatened by was the one who absolutely competed for his spot.

Cross needed to prove he was useful, he had to feel like he earned his keep and that all the training and suffering he’d done was for a reason. When Nightmare sent them on missions, Cross aimed to be the fastest and the most efficient and to report to Nightmare without question. Horror and Dust looking on would have expected Killer to see this 100% as a threat to his position as (self proclaimed) Nightmare’s second in command, and to go for this guy’s throat when nobody else was around.

But Killer was fascinated. Cross was completely different from any of them, bar Nightmare whose au is a whole different kettle of fish, so he had a certain element of unpredictability to him. Horror and Dust were both based on classic sans just like him, so to a certain degree he knew how they would feel about most things and what they might say, the only differences being in what they had experienced through their own timelines. Cross was based on a swap sans and his au had taken wild twists and turns away from usual events, so Killer had to learn everything about him by poking and prodding for answers or observing from a distance, much like back when it was just him and Nightmare. Cross was something new to be studied and Killer loved taking notes.

Cross did not see this as friendly. He was competing with Killer for approval, not realising Killer was playing their contest like a game. When he saw Cross training he would jump in to spar for fun, but Cross saw his rival trying to get a jump on him and take him out of the running. When Killer would hang around and pester Cross in their off time with questions, it didn’t seem like someone taking interest, it seemed like someone being nosy and looking for weaknesses to exploit. When Horror mentioned that Killer was being surprisingly contained and friendly, Cross really thought he was fucking with him.

The first time Cross was willing to even consider this was the case was when his locket came loose on the field and Killer ran back to find it, since one of the notes he’d taken was how the locket wasn’t something Cross would play about (the same as Horror with food). It didn’t make sense for someone who was seriously competing to have him kicked out to just hand his necklace back, no ransoms or attempts to crush it to upset him, just some vague remark about “owing him one” and then right back to Nightmare for orders.

Cross had to give him something of a chance after that, Horror helped a lot by telling him “he doesn’t want to hurt you, he just doesn’t know how to be normal”. It was mostly a playful jab at Killer, but reframing their interactions changed it significantly for Cross. Now they were sparring playfully and having friendly competition on jobs. He wasn’t as put off when Killer went into stage 3 because he knew he could match him in combat and the others were always on hand to help restrain or distract him. Cross also took note of how Killer calmed down a lot for physical touch, not unlike how Dust had warmed up to Horror. It went a long way into not only making him a little less combative for attention every day, but it seemed to put longer stretches between his episodes (which Cross had also started tracking so they wouldn’t be caught out by them as much).

For his part, Killer has disobeyed instructions in the past to benefit Cross, usually ignoring the task to help him if he’s hurt. He’s also given Nightmare nudges towards praising him because he’s noted that that’s what Cross needs in the same way he needs touch (not that Nightmare doesn’t praise them normally, but when Cross is going through it and needs something). He also doesn’t particularly like chocolate but has made a point of not admitting this to Horror so he can give his chocolate to Cross.

(It’s also worth noting that Cross is the only one, besides Nightmare, that has been to Horror’s au. He offered to help out during the food delivery and got to meet Horror’s Papyrus (who he is a little intimidated by but ultimately friendly with, even though it’s a little weird since he’s a good bit different from his own Papyrus). Dust and Killer can’t really visit for a few reasons, mostly because everyone will notice their lvl immediately and know what they’ve done. Dust especially doesn’t know how he would react to having a Papyrus in front of him again and doesn’t want to put Horror's family at risk to find out. Whenever he visits, his Papyrus asks about Cross now and sometimes tries to make tacos for him (key word tries, he’s still a Papyrus after all). He may have joked that seeing Cross sometimes is “like having another brother but younger and less lazy” and when Horror told him this Cross may or may not have cried.)

And that’s where we are now!

They’re a very strange group who’ve been through some inexplicable events and have all changed each other in one way or another. And whether or not it can be admitted, they are a family c:

Now onto how Nightmare was made emotionally open by each of them!! In this essay I will no just kidding could you imagine this is already like 7 pages long

If you got to the end of this post please drink some water and get yourself a snack

[simphornies]

So my sad gay self found this while scrollin: https://youtube.com/shorts/KTjKsm2uLPA?si=aHCxEMjey1iZ_u0A

Very cute, very wholesome I AM YEARNING. So if I may request a mlm!reader who will just casually people soda tabs as a subtle means of flirting or asking for affection (mostly because its such a uncommon practice that it removes most of the actual stress of flirting) with Vox?

No pressure, please take you time! Kisses darling <3

-📽

A/N: Honestly the soda tab thing is SO CUTE. I'm experimenting with more with how I write Vox so hopefully this is good

Word Count: 1.7k (1,755)

Soda Tab [ Vox x M!Reader ]

“Vox what the fuck is that?” Velvette pointed at a jar full of soda tabs on his desks.

“I’m gonna be real honest with you.” He took a deep breath in, “I have no fucking idea.”

You were just a regular sinner in the Pride Ring. You grew tired of the one time dates that ended with your date wanting to take you home into their bedroom. You held yourself to a standard. It made sense why you were placed in this ring considering your pride never allowed you the speak freely, not wanting to damage whatever was left of your reputation after a failed relationship.

You eventually landed a job with VoxTek as an operation’s manager. The job wasn’t easy but it paid and gave you shelter. Your soul remained intact but your sanity was slipping.

Then it all changed when the fire nation attacked when Vox personally invited you into his office to discuss a promotion. He needed someone that could hold their composure better than the Vees during important meetings and speak on their behalf. You were basically Vox’s representative so they wouldn’t have to deal with whatever, or whoever, you had to deal with. You held your status with pride and Vox admired the way you didn’t take anybody’s shit professionally.

After years of working with the Vees, you became close with them. Conversations with the three weren’t easy but they were mandatory for you to be able to represent them properly. You and Vox were particularly close.

So when he invited you to a celebratory dinner, you donned yourself in the best suit money could buy and set off. You never admitted it but Valentino definitely caught onto your secret crush on Vox.

Vox rarely faltered his usual persona in front of you, only losing composure a couple of times when his emotions were at an all time high. What you didn’t know is how he admired your consistency with perfection. Perfection. Running this business with Velvette and Valentino, who are both hot-heads in their own way, was difficult at times but since you stepped in, it’s been smooth sailing. Your constant shower of praise fueled his ego and he enjoyed keeping you around, just so he can get his fill of ego juice.

This dinner he arranged was to celebrate your work, and to boast about how he’s so smart and picked perfectly because of course he picked perfectly. He was the Vox after all. So when he saw you running up to him a couple minutes early before the arranged meeting time at the limo, he was taken aback at your suit. He was enamored.

You matched him in colors, even wearing the same bowtie as him but blue. Your suit was a darker shade of his and he loved it. It was perfect. You were perfect to him. He didn’t know why his heart pounded louder so he assumed that he was just excited to talk about how he made an amazing decision to you.

“Vox, sir! I hope you weren’t awaiting my arrival.” You said, anxiously fixing your suit and straightening out any loose ends.

“Oh don’t worry about anything. I just got here. The suit is perfect. Where did you get it?” Vox spoke, looking down at you with his hands behind his back.

“I listened to your suggestion, sir, and went to Velvette to get suited. I paid her in full, of course.” You spoke formally. So formal that it somehow bothered Vox in a way. As much as he loved being perfect, he wanted to see you when you weren’t so…tense.

“Paid? You shouldn’t have to worry. You are a part of the Vees, services are free for us.” He laughed. He took note of how you looked in front of him. You stood up straight, not a single thing out of place. He wondered what exactly could break this perfectionist standard you held yourself to.

.

“He likes you, Vox.” Valentino said, “I’m fuckin’ blind and I can see the way he eye fucks you whenever you start talking about how you’re the shit and you know what’s right or whatever.”

“And how can you be so sure, Val? I think he just respects me.” Vox scoffed, “Not any of that nonsense.”

“Yeah and because any other demon would willingly hang out with your egocentric bullshit. I’ve known you for years and I can’t stand hearing you say you were right. Even if you were.” Velvette rolled her eyes, “He literally posts romantic bullshit all the time and they’re all about bosses.”

“Are you stalking our employees?”

“Cut the shit. It’s not ‘stalking’ if his account is open to me.” She flipped him off, “And he’s basically a Vee. He likes you. And now you’re going on a date. Be a dear and stop beating around the fucking bush and own up to it.”

.

Vox recounted the conversation he had with the two other Vees. This wasn’t a date. Or at least he didn’t arrange it to be one to begin with but with this revelation, it might just turn out to be just that.

As the limo began to slow, he glanced over at you. He sees you fiddling with…a soda tab? He squinted at it, trying to understand why you kept fidgeting. “We’re here.”

You quickly shoved the tab in your pocket and looked at him, “I’ll get the door for you sir.” You reached for the door on your side but he stopped your hand with his own.

“No, I got it. Come on.” He opened his own door and pulled you out, keeping your hand in his as you stepped on the curb. Your hands were warm and he enjoyed it. He looked at the way you instinctively held his hand back and he couldn’t help but feel how perfect it fit in his own.

“Thank you, sir.” Your thanks got a scoff and you stiffened, pulling your hand back down to your side. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Not that.” He said, grabbing your hand again, “For tonight, call me Vox. No more of that sir bullshit.”

You nod in response, unaware of why he’d grab your hand to say that. You were even more confused when he didn’t let go until you had to sit across from him.

“Regarding today’s meetings, I’d like to discu—”

“Hush. Please. No business talk. This is to celebrate you!” He proudly spoke, “I picked the best demon to be our representative and I’d like to give you another promotion. To be one of the Vees.”

You choked on your wine, “Excuse me? Me? No, I can't possibly be a fit person for that.”

“Look. You’re aware of our image, correct?”

“Yes. Perfection.”

“Well that’s exactly why you’re going to stand by us and be part of us. I have contracts ready for you to sign so you can get a couple of souls under your belt. Some goons to do your dirty work.”

“Sir—Vox. Vox, I thought this was a business dinner regarding my work quota for the week?” You questioned.

“What—No. You already exceed the quota triple the amount majority of the time. Consider this a…date.” He grinned, taking enjoyment in your flustered state. “A congratulatory gift for your hard work and your promotion. I called it too, by the way, your success with us.”

You were dying on the inside. He just gifted you a promotion and a dinner and now the dinner’s actually a date? You panicked, not having anything to give him.

“Well…I’m flattered but I don’t have anything to give you a gift in exchange.” You rummage through your pockets. Your fingers grazed the soda tab and your cheeks flushed a light red. “Actually…Here. A small token of my appreciation.”

Vox squinted at the soda tab you held towards him. “A soda tab?” He asked, “Do you just carry soda tabs? Why?”

“Just…trinkets! You know, my little collection. Actually you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s probably stupid.” You start to retract but he swipes the soda tab out of your hand.

“No. I’ll keep it. It’s weird and a little stupid but it’s…” He flips the soda tab around, looking at it from different angles, “Admirable. In a sense. Thank you.”

Oh if only he knew what he unlocked. Ever since the date, he’s been getting soda tabs from you. You were greeted with confused acceptance every time you gave Vox one out of nowhere. He tried asking you what they’re for exactly but you’d just run off, using work as an excuse.

“Vox, when are you going to cash these in?” Velvette asks, picking a pink soda tab out of his container.

He looked up, confused, “Cash them in? What are you talking about?”

Velvette bursts into laughter, “Oh my god. You’ve just been collecting these and didn’t know?!” She taps through her phone and shows him a video explaining the soda tab trend.

His face turned red, “These…these are for kisses? He didn’t tell me these were for kisses—I thought they were just trinkets! That’s what he said!”

“Vox for someone as smart as you, you’re really fucking dumb.”

“Velvette.”

“What?”

“Can you go get him for me?”

“I guess.”

.

You walked into his office thinking it was to talk about the latest update on his Angelic Security System. “Vox, I’m pleased to inform you that production is 80% complete. I was thinking the best workers get compe—” He cuts you off by placing a single soda tab on the stack of papers you had in front of you. You look at him confused.

“I’d like to cash one in.” He says, looking at you with a confident smile.

“Cash one in…” You think for a bit and as soon as you realize he knew what they were for, panic sets in and your face turns red. “Oh! Uh—Haha. What do you mean?” You lie.

“Y/N, dear, you’re terrible at lying. You’re perfect at everything but lying. And if you wanted some special attention, you should’ve said so.” He leans closer to you as he gestures to the jar on his table, “Also. I’d like to cash in half of this jar. 280 of them, including this one, I believe.”

“Sir! I can’t possibly—” He shuts up you with a sudden peck on your lips.

“Ah ah. None of that sir bullshit. I told you to call me Vox. Now…” He leans back and pats his lap, “I believe I have 279 left? Chop chop.”

[dangermousie]

The dynamic between Jiang Li and her husband continues to be FASCINATING to me and honestly, while man needs both serious jail time and serious therapy, he is the most interesting character in the drama to me. He saved her during the examination (it hinged solely on him whether she lost and had to go to the nunnery or won and stayed) but here this all comes to a boil point blank. Princess Wanning brings the charge of her actually being Xue Fangfei and when her other witness implodes, decides to use Shen Yurong to prove her identity.

(Side note: loving that she managed to put in a dig about him loving her even in the middle of this! She's unhinged as fuck, is this really the time for one of her games?)

The problem is if you push someone enough they will break or hit back and honestly, Shen Yurong is at the stage where he's reached both. Maybe if she did this right after she made him kill his wife, he'd be in such terror etc he'd agree with anything she said and did. But he's been living haunted by what he did and wandering his mansion clutching his hair for months; he's dug up the grave like a mad person, and she's abused and humiliated and ground him down non stop since then (and at one point almost killed him), basically smacking down any time he tried to show any will or idealism and messing with even his career. He's just burned out. And if she can't control him by terror, she can't control him (he may feel some lust for her, who knows, but certainly not enough to derail his sanity or overcome his issues.) This man is a ghost and ghosts are not really controllable.

I love the intercut of him walking towards her in court as to how he walked when he tried to kill her because that is what he is flashbacking to and picturing in his head.

This is a dead man.

I am genuinely unsure as to whether he believes this is his wife who survived and is protecting her (because he didn't want to kill her and doing so thrust him into hell so he's trying to make amends/dealing with regrets/trying to appease his demons) or he's so utterly broken he believes his wife is dead no matter what he sees (because he needs to, to maintain some sanity) and so his denial sticks to that an also is making some sort of protection to his wife's doppelganger in her honor. I don't think even he is 100% sure because he's not 100% sane any longer. But I love it.

Love Li's face as princess loses her marbles in the background. For the rest of her revenge, it's very clear cut for Jiang Li - they are all monsters and for most of them she has no feeling and never had (the Jiangs, the princess, the new magistrate etc.) But the thing with the husband is so complex - she hates him but she loved him, he married her and killed her, he killed her under duress and is living in hell but HE KILLED HER and it's all such a mess. Whether she ultimately kills him or not, this is the target who haunts her the most.

This is amazing. He's found the courage of despair and a spine because being spineless made it all worse. Once again, he's got nothing to lose so what can you threaten him with? (By making his life so bleak, she's taken away a lot of his fear of death.)

OMG, he SNAPS!!! My jaw dropped open.

She's really lost it. It shows what a loose cannon she is btw. Even if Shen Yurong was saner and more terrified of her, at least coordinate with him earlier, psycho! Even a fully rational man with zero pangs of conscience and genuine fondness for you (we are 0 for 3 here with SYR btw) might decide admitting this is his wife would lead to big issues for him and not bother.

I am beginning to heavily bet he murders her. He was fail at first murder (seriously, there is no sufficiently describing the fail - he hit his wife with a shovel and she didn't even get a concussion; he buried her so shallowly and in such loose soil she was able to climb out with arms tied and without any martial skills) but practice makes perfect.