#i just see too many people dismiss church easily

[liuisi]

feel like theres a balance to strike between "people putting guidelines to being a christian (you need to read your Bible everyday, you need to need to never miss church, you should never be anxious... etc.) and saying that not doing them is sinning is wrong" and "you DO need to grow in your faith and be consistent"

[thedisablednaturalist]

Watching the news and they went around in pro-trump areas and asked people if they'd prefer a dictator or 4 more years of Biden and so many people immediately went ID LOVE IF TRUMP WAS A DICTATOR I WANT HIM TO BE PRESIDENT FOREVER!!! Like they know exactly what a dictator is. They WANT him to be a dictator. They want all the powerlessness and cruelty and fascism that comes with that. Even minorities who would absolutely be victimized by that authoritarian system! Because somehow they feel exempt? Or that their loyalty will protect them somehow? Its scary. Looking into their eyes and seeing them say that with joy in their hearts. Maddening...sickening..I want to throw up.

So many people fought and died so we wouldn't be led by dictators. Protestors and suffragettes and panthers. WE ARE STILL FIGHTING. It's just like how so many fought and died to bring vaccines to isolated areas but now people easily dismiss and villanize those life-saving medications. Because they can EASILY access them and have the PRIVILEGE to go to the hospital when they eventually get sick. I'm finally able to get my covid booster and these people who HAVE INSURANCE AND CAN EASILY GET THE VACCINE refuse to. Based on what? A paper they didn't read by a disgraced and disbarred doctor? I wish I could get the vaccine using their privilege. I wish I could give all the vaccines to people who actually want them and can't get them.

Why would you think that YOU'D be safe? You'd be the exception? That Trump would see you as anything more than a tiny piece of dirt that he can exploit and grind into dust for even an inch of power. Even if you are a white, cis, abled, heterosexual, evangelical, neurotypical man. He does not care about you. And you want him to have absolute power? I thought you weren't supposed to have any other gods but you easily bow down to the first rich man to talk to you and worship him like dogs. You suck his boots and thank him for the privilege. You greedily lap up the brainwashing and act like somehow you are the rebel, the badass, for letting him use and discard you. Handing over everything to a man you've never met just because he hates the people you hate. Well he hates you too. Actually, he doesn't care enough to hate you like he does us. You're nothing to him. Not even a pawn, you're not even on the board. You excitedly praise that nazi fascist shithead like hes some kind of messiah. Because you think he'll make your life better, take from those hippie liberals and mexicans and what? Give it all to you? His supporters? He would rather give it all to fucking Biden himself than give you anything more than a sneer.

You could be on the side that's trying and bleeding to prevent suffering. That's trying to HELP YOU. That wants everyone to have a good life. That have way more in common with you than you have with that fuck. That's trying to let you keep your house and keep the air you breathe and the water you drink clean, and let you go to the doctor when you're sick and let you worship in peace but you would give that all up because not everyone wants to go to your church? That some guy wants to wear a dress? That *gasp* you might see some men kissing? That your sons and daughters might be brought up in a school that feeds them, cares for them no matter what, gives them an education FOR FREE because theres a chance they might have to sit next to a kid with brown skin? That our mission is love? You would rather fight for hate? Even if that hate is against you? You refuse the flower to take the gun and point it at yourself while the rich and powerful laugh? They don't care about God or Jesus or whoever your favorite saint is. They don't care about hard-working people (they love exploiting them though), they don't care about children or mothers or fetuses. They'll take your guns eventually and lie about praying for your murdered children. They ONLY care about themselves and will lump you in with us as soon as you're no longer useful. They don't protect Christians, good cops, kids, or unborn babies or anyone else they hide behind. They don't care that you've voted for Trump. He'd be a dictator he wouldn't have to care about anyone but himself.

[fenmere]

We may have to walk back our statement a bit, regarding rates of DID and OSDD. We were working off of our memory of a stat we had seen and thought we had screenshots handy for, but we cannot find them.

However, we do find this:

Which states that about 1% of the world population are diagnosed with DID, specifically, but about 7% report symptoms consistent with the diagnosis.

We also know that it is under diagnosed, and that so is OSDD.

Now, we know that non-disordered systems exist in fairly great numbers from our interactions online. And also from studies like this, where up to 60% of authors experience something they could call plurality if they so wish:

That population is not representative of the whole of humanity by any stretch, it's very likely plural systems are drawn to writing and that there's a higher percentage of us in that field.

Similarly, our own personal social circles have a higher rate of plurality than those of, say, our parents.

But, if OSDD occurs at near the same frequency as DID, and DID (diagnosed and undiagnosed) falls somewhere between 1% and 7%, it would not be out of line to think that the rate of diagnosible (disordered) plurality is between 2% and 14%.

How many more non-disordered systems do you think there are? Do you really think it's as low as 1%?

Considering how many people describe interacting with ghosts, talking to God in church, having imaginary friends (depending on your study, up to 67% of kids report having had imaginary friends, and 7% of adults do), and other culturally acceptable experiences that could easily be a form of plurality, we don't think it's that low. Not all of those experiences are inherently plural, but a lot of the cases probably happen to be. Especially the imaginary friends.

I mean, in our experience, in every core class of about 30 students, we could expect to find 3 of them who would start talking about how the characters in their stories seem to have a life of their own. That's not anywhere scientific, but that's something that's supporting the numbers we're seeing in the articles we're looking up, and our conservative estimates based on them.

There aren't a lot of numbers out there for non-disordered plurality, unfortunately, but plurality is baked into our mythology and literature, all over the world. So many books and movies and comics have morals and messages that are particularly relevant to systems, and the authors of them might not even be aware of it.

If you take the lowest numbers (1% for DID, 1% for OSDD, and 7% for non-disordered plurality - using adults with imaginary friends as a number we know that can represent all non-disordered plurality for our purposes, which isn't terribly scientific, but this is fucking tumblr and that this makes for a lowball esitmate), you get 9%.

We round it up to 10%, because we think that's too low. Because DID and OSDD are undereported and we think that THOSE numbers alone are closer to 10% without non-disordered plurals counted.

That's what makes 10% a conservative estimate in our book.

Anything lower looks like a bigoted, dismissive estimate to us.

Now, for numbers of system members per system, or the average, we want literally the total number of system members in the world divided by the number of systems. Just straight up that. Because we don't want to artificially alter the number of system members in existence with our math when we multiply it back up again.

Again, this is an estimate, but here's why we call it conservative.

We have 4 million system members in our system.

If, we go with our 10% of the population is plural, then we have about 330,000 plural systems in PDX. What is 4,000,000 divided by 330,000? It's bigger than 11. (it's 12)

There are, factually, more than 11 headmates per system in PDX, regardless of how many headmates each other system in PDX has, just by the fact that we live here.

We personally know many other systems with more than a few hundred headmates. We know of a couple who have more headmates than we do.

Now. You could discount us as outliers and consider our populations to be false, if you wanted. But if you do that, we will not be accepting, publishing, or sharing your numbers. And we think for pretty obvious reasons.

We don't like invalidating ourselves. We assert that we exist.

And on our blog? That's not up for argument, either.

But, thank you for keeping us honest here. We really wish we could find the numbers we had. Since we can't, we need to revise what we say and how we explain it.

Statistically speaking, the average person in the greater Portland metro area is a member of a polyfragmented or polyplex system.

To be fair, this is probably true of most cities that are larger than a few thousand people, probably even smaller.

The math is easy for the PDX, though. In the 2022 census, PDX reported about 3.3 million people. That's vessels, singlets and plurals, not consciousnesses.

We, the Inmara, performed our last census in 2021 and clocked in at 3.8 million people. And we live in the PDX.

By our presence alone, that makes our statistic above accurate.

But also, the prevalence of plurality in the U.S. population clinches it. Combining the percentages of DID and OSDD, nearly a full 9% of the population are diagnosably plural, and that's not counting for non-disordered systems, which no one knows the prevalence of.

So, there are at least 33 thousand systems, probably more, in the PDX area.

Even if most of those systems have populations less than a hundred, they don't make a dent in the polyfragmented/polyplex percentages by headmate.

Though, let's be inclusive:

The average person in the greater Portland Metro Area is a headmate.

(And we can estimate that this is probably true for the U.S. as a whole)

[decks-writing-blog]

Lambmas

Summary: Lamb declares a new holiday to replace the Winter Solstice.

~

Lamb had grown up celebrating the Winter Solstice. It wasn’t specifically a religious holiday but for a long while now folk had been incorporating their worship of their chosen Bishop into their celebrations of it. For that reason it had to go. Not completely; abolishing such a popular holiday entirely would make people unhappy and many would chose to celebrate it regardless, which would encourage defiance. So replacement it was.

So on the first of the month, the day everyone normally started prepping for their Solstice celebration, Lamb gathered everyone in the church first thing in the morning. This not being the usual time, everyone was slightly restless through the usual sermon; Lamb only ever held a sermon at a different time when they had something to announce. And that’s why Lamb did it that way; anticipation often made such announcements more impactful.

But finally, as the sermon wound down to a close, it was time for the announcement. “The twenty-fifth of this month is the anniversary of my date of birth.” A lie but it was the perfect reason to declare a holiday without making what they were actually doing too obvious. “I am declaring it as a new holiday that we shall all celebrate with gifts and decorations. We shall spend it with our families and friends before coming to the temple for a special celebration. We are naming it ‘Lambmas’ after myself of course as it is my birthday. Any questions?” Rarely did they allow for questions but they were hoping for one in particular this time.

“What about the Winter Solstice?” a pink bunny by the name of Lilly in the second row asked. “I’m not opposed to celebrating two holidays so close together or anything but how are we supposed to decorate for both?”

“That’s a very good question.” The exact one Lamb had wanted. “Since they are so close together, I feel it makes sense to incorporate our Winter Solstice traditions into Lambmas. So essentially we shall be celebrating them at the same time.” While ensuring everyone only honored Lamb’s name which was what mattered most.

A thoughtful murmur ran through the crowd but no one protested. They did raise a few more questions though, all easily answered. Once it seemed everyone was satisfied, Lamb dismissed them. As they all filed out, one remained; Narinder, leaning against wall with his arms crossed. Once the church was empty, Lamb stepped down from the podium and walked over to talk to him, see what he wanted.

“The twenty-fifth isn’t actually your birthday, is it?” he said in soft voice as Lamb reached him. Hmm… makes sense he’d know what Lamb was doing.

“It might as well be now, right?” Lamb replied, equally softly. “I’m a god now so why should the exact date matter anyway?”

“True. It’s a smart move; getting rid of the Solstice celebrations without actually changing much.”

“Yep, keeps people happy. So, I know it’s early and I just announced it, but what kind of gift are you thinking of getting me for Lambmas? Because you have to get me something.” They’d have to get everyone something as well to cement that this change was a good thing.

“I don’t know.”

“Fair. It’s probably better as a surprise anyway, huh? I eagerly await whatever it’s going to be. Now, I believe we both have work we got to get back to. I’ll be seeing you later.” They blew him a kiss before turning to leave. Perhaps if they were lucky, his gift would be him finally returning their affections. Probably not but they could hope, right?

[nsfwshiggy]

heaven

_______________________________________________

paring: shigaraki x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, virgin reader, public sex, noncon/dubcon, rough, exhibitionism, creampie

word count: 1.8k

author's note: yay i'm finally writing again. i've been imagining this for a few weeks now so i decided to write about it. if you are religious maybe don't read it? idk please enjoy lol kinda nervous to see if anyone will actually enjoy this one D:

_______________________________________________

you had thought about this many times before. if you were going to lose your virginity it would be done the way you wanted. you had no reason why you put it off for so long other than you just didn't care. it wasn't a big deal to lose it way into your twenties. no one was good enough to take it.

you had used toys since you were in high school so at least it wasn't going to hurt the first time and you knew what you were in for. you weren't going to be a log just laying there while some man pushed in and out of you.

there were many guys that you were interested in but they always seemed to fall through, you eventually just gave up. now you didn't care who it was as long as they were clean.

you were talking to this one guy, shigaraki, for awhile now and during the talking period you had mentioned that you wanted to find someone to take your virginity. like all men you said this to, he was interested but you had to see if it would actually happen. you continued to talk to him about it and how you wanted it done.

in the parking lot of a church while they were in service

since you were young, a religion was forced onto you and you were took to church every sunday and sometimes wednesday. you hated everything about it. you hated how some people would forced their religion on other people and hated the different views they had against people who were different.

you were never interested in any of it and you had always heard that you had to save yourself until marriage. shigaraki didn't care about your terms and conditions, all he cared about was getting to be the first time for someone.

you had told him before that you didn't care how rough he was or if he used a condom. you had been on birth control for awhile now and you had somehow developed a breeding kink but you hadn't told him about that part. you two were to meet sunday morning when the sunday services were being let out, when it was nice and bright outside.

you couldn't lie you were nervous not to mention that this was a crime. apart from being nervous you were beyond excited at the same time. it was finally going to happy the way you wanted it done. you were in control.

~

while pulling up to the parking lot you could see how packed it was, it made your stomach flip. they would be getting out soon so you need to hurry and find a spot and then get to shigaraki's car. you made it easier for the both of you and wore something that would be easy to work with. just a simple flowy dress that he could easily push up.

you had been walking for a little bit trying to find his car until you found it and it was right in front of the doors where they would be walking out. "nice parking spot" you told him while getting in the car. you heard him laugh while you look down at your phone to check the time.

he was definitely way hotter in person than any of his pictures so that was a plus. "we don't have much time before they get dismissed so we should probably hurry" you tell him while going over the seat to get into the back, pretty spacious and it would work just fine.

you didn't know what to do to him to get him ready so for a few seconds you just looked at him when he finally got in the back. fuck what now? you could feel the heat in your face rising and your cheeks became hot when you noticed how he was staring at you.

he slowly moved towards you until your lips finally touched. you had done this before with just about anyone who wanted to so you were okay with this. you moved one hand onto the back of his neck and the other hand slowly found it's way towards his thigh. like it had a mind of its own, it moved closer and closer towards the place you wanted the most.

while taking a few moments to breathe in-between the kissing his pants become unbuttoned and were now half way down his thighs. it was just enough for what you both were going to do. your hand was now tugging at his boxers to release his now semi-hard dick. "you can get hard just from kissing? you are pretty easy" you laugh at him. you loved poking fun at guys by how easily they could get hard.

"well let's see how wet you got just from kissing, shall we?" he says with raised eyebrows. he lifted up your dress to your waist and could now see your panties. "do you think it would have been easier to wear none?" he asks while pulling them down. his fingers trailed up your leg from your ankle until they reached the spot where he would soon enter.

he let out a small laugh once he felt the wetness that was coming from you, "for a virgin you can get wet pretty fast" he says while moving his finger up and down your slit. you let out a gasp from the unfamiliar sensation, it was always you touching yourself so it felt different when it was someone else. you hadn't used any of your toys for awhile so you had become sensitive to any kind of touching.

"please…" you manage to moan out gripping his thigh once he slipped a finger inside of you. his fingers were long and slender so they went deeper than yours, it felt so good to have something inside of you again. "please what?" he asks, "what does the little virgin want me to do to her?"

hearing him say that made you clinch around the now two fingers that were inside of you. you had always talked dirty while texting but since it was in person, it made your whole body tingle. "please fuck me" you tell him while trying to move on his fingers for more friction.

he smiled at you while you did this, "you looked so desperate right now" he tells you while sliding his fingers out of you leaving you with an empty feeling. he turned you over so now you were facing the window, "you want people to see you get fucked, don't you?" he questioned you with a slap on your right cheek.

you were on your hands and knees with your ass in the air. you looked back at him, he had the fingers that were just inside you inside his mouth licking your wetness off. you were shaking with how eager you were, you just wanted him to fuck you already but he was going too slow.

you were running out of time so you decided to sit back on him with your ass on his exposed dick, "please hurrrry" you say dragging out your words while slowly moving your bottom against him. he grabbed your waist and pushed you down against him to grind even harder against his swollen dick.

he pushed you up again into the position you were in before, "are you ready?" he asks while sitting up so now the tip of his dick was touching your wet slit. you nod your head quickly because you could now see people starting to walk out of the building.

he grabs onto your waist once again before slowly sliding into you. your mouth falls open at him stretching you open, something that you hadn't felt for a long time so there was some stinging like how it was when you first used your dildo. because you told him before that he could be as rough as he wanted, he didn't give you any time to adjust.

he pushed in and out of you quickly making sure to reach deep inside of you each time. the sensation was something you had never felt before but you craved for it more and more. you had ringing in your ears and were unable to answer to anything he said. the only thing coming out of you were noises you had made by yourself when everybody was asleep.

you put your arms against the window and pushed further back onto him, "d-deeper" you manage to say to him. every time you would push back on him he would meet you by slamming into you making him go even further into you, he was now pressing against your womb with each thrust.

you looked out the window to see even more people exiting and walking towards the car. you knew people could see you by the looks on their faces as they walked closer. a smile was growing across your face when you see their hands flying up to cover their mouths.

"aw looks like they aren't enjoying the show" shigaraki says from behind you slapping your ass again making you moan louder. you were getting closer and closer to the edge and seeing all the people watching you was only helping get there faster.

"shi-shigaraki, i'm going to…" you try to finish your sentence but before you could you feel him cumming against your womb. it was so warm and a weird feeling having something so warm deep inside of you. the feeling of his cum deep inside you and all of the people watching you, was the final push you needed.

shigaraki was reaching in front of you rubbing your clit as your stomach was tightening around his cock, you missed this feeling. it was pure bliss. your eyes rolled back. it was nothing like how it was when it was just you. you didn't know why you put this off for so long. shigaraki continued to push into you while you rode out your high before pulling out.

you could feel his cum running down your leg and pooling onto the seat under you. your legs were on fire so you just fell against the door watching all the people watch you. you had a smile on your face. it had finally been done. the way you wanted it done.

©️nsfwshiggy

[ktheist]

nice guys finish last | m

synopsis. you thought you were over yoongi’s dick move of ending your engagement through his parents - not even a text when he disappeared out of your life. that’s why you agreed to the newly arranged marriage with his brother, namjoon, but on the brink of your wedding day, it becomes apparent that you haven’t really let go of the past as you tear up in front of your soon-to-be husband at the back room of the church.

◟alternatively, “we entered into this marriage for a mutual reason. not dreading to come home is more than i can ask for. so it’s okay if you want to see yoongi just... keep out of the spotlight like many in our shoes who found love outside of it have.”

pairings. husband!ceo!namjoon x doctor!reader x ex-fiance!producer!yoongi

genre. arraged marriage au. angst. fluff. smut.

word. 16.2k

content: age gap factor (namjoon is 5 years older than oc and yoongi is 7 years older than oc). pining. teasing. hoseok cockblocking.

warning(s): heavy adult content. mentions of cheating. hospital scenes.

verse. knj. ksj. myg. kth. pjm. jjk. jhs. story time.

x

“i don’t want to marry you at all. the person i love is someone else.” there are tears brimming in your eyes but if there’s anything the years of etiquette class namjoon’s parents forced on him taught him - he’d say he turned out okay - it’s to not mention to the crying lady that she’s crying. but he can’t help stare a little longer. admire a little too much.

the rays flooding through the window paired with the prettiest ivory dress he’s seen you in gives you an iridescent halo. you look like an angel descended from the top most heavens.

but not for him.

“i know,” he lets out a drawn out sigh, hand on his neck. he’s always been the awkward one between the two. if it was him - if it was his brother, he would say it without any ounce of self-reproach. but then again what does namjoon have to be sorry for? for being born? for being the second choice son to step into his brother’s shoes when the aforementioned man threatened to disown the family name if their parents refused to let him marry a girl of his choice who, according to the workers’ gossip, ‘he suddenly woke up one day and decided he was in love with’? 

“it’s yoongi, isn’t it? you love yoongi.”

your eyes are prettier when you’re looking directly at him. the tears give them a kind of glow that makes him want to gather you into his arms and keep you there. the flushed cheeks affirms - despite saying it with full confidence, it was just - his hunch.

oh.

the ceremony proceeds rather smoothly. you’re still sniffling when your father passes your hand to him at the end of the aisle. the older man himself looks distraught. either he knows you’re against this marriage and hates himself for failing to put his daughter’s happiness before the guaranteed wealth that comes from marrying you off to the kim family or you’d gotten into a fight with him in a last ditch attempt to convince him to call off the marriage.

either way, you’re here now. the pastor’s words are muddled in your ears but it’s enough to take note of the end tone and the steely silence that ensues which could only mean it’s your turn to say those words.

“i do.” they’re the easiest to get over with.

after endless fights with your parents, going on two hunger strikes and running away to paris for a year - you know you’re in the endgame. and you’ve painstakingly and sorely lost.

he lifts the veil off your face, taking his time with setting it over your head. it’s no secret that kim namjoon is handsome. the kind of thick, textured-fabric-suit-wearing and sleek-back hair kind of handsome. yoongi was more of the hoodie-and-jeans and messy-in-need-of-a-trim hair kind of handsome. but he isn’t yoongi.

you screw your eyes shut, refusing to let the memories of your own wedding vows embed in your head. those beautiful pink full lips are as soft as they look. but they’re not kissing you on your pressed-into-a-straight-line lips. betrayed by your curiosity, your eyes flutter open only to gaze upon the smooth cream skin that wraps around his neck and just the gentle protrusion of his adam’s apple as he pulls way.

your newly-wed husband has just kissed you on the forehead.

x

adjusting to married life is as easy as slipping on your favorite shoes. it’s perfect. almost unsettling even. the beach house off the coast of the private island namjoon’s family owns is breathtaking. the sound of waves crashing against the shores is your constant companion as you work on your research. it’s a project you had to put aside when you graduated. the first year at the hospital is the busiest, or so your senior colleagues say. 

namjoon strides into the kitchen sometime past noon, all fresh and showered with a fitting long sleeved shirt and trousers. it���s the most dressed down you’ve ever seen and yet for some people you know, it’s the fanciest they can get. sometimes you wonder if the standards have hit the ground or if namjoon’s so well-adapted into the routine of dressing up presentable enough to go to his office on an off day in case something calls for it.

“good morning.” you greet first, traces of the embarrassing tear-jerking wedding ceremony still lingers in the back of your mind - you’d tried to explain yourself on the way here in the boat but namjoon had easily blew your worries away with a light chuckle and a “i’d do the same too if i loved someone and had to marry another person.”

it’s not unusual for you to already be perched on the elegant gold sofa adjacent to the sliding doors that has the best view of the sea. the master bedroom is the other part of the beach house with spectacular view - you’d been entranced when you stepped into the room on your first day. but namjoon suggested you stay in the guest room, knowing there’s no way you would share a bed with him -

“or you can take this room and i take the guest room,” he added a moment later, probably because he saw you staring out the balcony, bewitched by the sea. that had broke you from your trance and you’d shook your head so much in protest, you were surprised it didn’t fall right off your neck. “n-no! i mean - i’ll take the guestroom.”

his parents had been nice enough to lend their private beach house for you honeymoon. you weren’t going to step over their son and conquer the master bedroom - even if technically, you’re now part of the family.

“morning.” he fixes you with that half-smile. the kind of smile you give to someone you’re in an complacent relationship with but nothing more.

at least you’ve got that going for you. and that’s a rarity coming from the gossips you’ve heard here and there about marriages found on the ground of convenience.

his eyes swipe over the ipad in your shorts-donned lap from his spot, leaned against the counter in the kitchen, pitch black mug of coffee with wafts of smoke coming out of it, “how’s your research going?”

“well,” you set the ipad down on the glass surface of the coffee table, it’s bare of anything besides your phone that’s been lighting up from the notifications. one from your mother, another from the group of friends you found in college, and the rest is from your strictly-women group from the hospital, “the world wide web is resourceful and all but it can’t beat the information in actual books - papers, you know?”

“ah, the traditional way of researching.” he chuckles, dimples digging into his cheek, enhancing his handsome features. you never knew he had dimples. not that you knew much about him - you’d only properly talked on the day of your wedding, in the back room and the first thing you said was -

you suppress the memories further down your thoughts. it works for the most part, but you can’t help the flush that spreads across your face. so the laugh you let out is a little strained and if he notices, he doesn’t show - like he pretends not to notice a plenty many things.

but alas, he knew your secret crush - was it still just a crush you had for yoongi? you’re not sure.

“what can i say? i’m raised traditional.”

x

that was two weeks ago. now, you’re back to working your ass off at the hospital, being grilled to the bones by your supervisor, getting reprimanded over being one minute late and then being told to run to the cafe five minutes from the hospital to buy your supervisors their favorite strawberry smoothie topped with sprinkles.

“kim seokjin, that dickwad.” jennie huffs, her cat-like eyes making it appear as though she’s plotting the man’s death. “he’s working you to the bones as soon as you get back.”

“he probably thinks i’m not that serious about my residency since my family has enough fortune to sustain me for my whole lifetime,” you can only laugh at that, her anger has sucked all the tiredness and annoyance you have for your supervisor right out of you. it feels refreshing, “all the more reason to prove him wrong.”

“enough about that asshole,” jisoo waves a dismissive hand off and you know what’s coming is far more terrifying: she blinks, eyes filled with stars and cherry red lips curling into the kind of smile that can only mean one thing, “how was it? the second son of kimcorp. were there rose petals on bed? candles lit around the house? a romantic, sizzling-”

“sorry, jisoo, i gotta go get ready for the dinner. i’ll buy you lunch tomorrow, okay?” you clasp your hands together apologetically when your phone buzzes with the reminder you set a week prior: 8am annual kimcorp dinner.

you breathe a sigh of relief as you shake off your white coat, draping it over your recliner before escaping to the washroom with a bag of makeup and the dust-proof cover bag of the outfit you’re wearing for tonight. by the time you’re touching up on your nude lipstick, your phone buzzes again but this time, the screen lights up with namjoon’s name on it.

“hey,” his voice is deeper through the phone - it’s the first time he calls you. there was never any reason for you to call each other but you suppose, he’s calling to make sure you’re not forgetting the dinner -

“i’m in front of the hospital.”

or maybe not.

“wh-what do you mean?” your cheeks heat up from the thought of namjoon waiting for you in his audi. the image, too domestic for your liking.

“well, you can’t drive so i thought i’d pick you up.” he says it like its the simplest equation to understand.

“namjoon,” the name feels foreign on your tongue regardless of how many times you taste it when you need to tell him something - to set the line straight, “i didn’t know you were gonna pick me up so i already told kyungsoo to pick me up. he’s probably already here. sorry i didn’t tell you sooner.”

“i know,” he says simply.

“e-excuse me?” while you’re beyond confused.

“i told your parents i’d pick you up so kyungsoo’s driving them to the dinner.”

“oh.”

wait. what?! 

x

namjoon is confident in his driving skills - as he is with everything he does. he’s almost perfect. the line of his shoulders seem at ease as he stirs the wheel with one hand and the other rests on the gear, inches away from your scarlet clad thighs.

“why isn’t hoseok driving you?” the aforementioned man sticks to him like glue. everywhere namjoon goes, he goes. it’s a given since he’s the head secretary but anyone who’s seen them interact could tell there’s more than boss-employee relationship between them. they seem like close friends which is unlikely be given namjoon’s too-serious nature and hoseok’s joke-cracking every five minutes - but not impossible.

his face remains the same as he keeps his eyes on the road, humming briefly, “he had a thing.”

“can secretaries have a thing and leave their boss to drive for himself like that?” that doesn’t sound right. you may not be actively involved in fecam industries’ affairs but mr. jung, your dad’s secretary, spends more time with your dad than the two men do with their wives - that’s how demanding the business world is. but could hoseok get a free pass because of his and namjoon’s friendship?

namjoon chuckles, dimples and all and you can’t help but blush at the side profile. if anything, he has a sharp jawline and beautiful neck-

you push the thought as soon as it comes. neck? who finds necks beautiful?

“he had a date but it’s not until a couple hours,” the tone he uses is light and playful but underlined with a sort of bashfulness that you don’t know kim namjoon was capable of, “i told him to go home because i wanted to pick you up myself.”

your cheeks heat up all over again as you stare at him a little too long. so much so, the hand that’s been comfortably perched on the gear goes to the back of his neck in an unsure manner.

“i just needed to talk to you about something.” he explains, just as awkward as he was in the back room at the church.

“okay.” eyes turned to the road too, you can see namjoon breathing a sigh of relief from your periphery. that couldn’t have been because of you could it? was he nervous because you were watching him? “what did you want to talk about?”

he clears his throat, that natural ease in his tone returning, “if it gets uncomfortable - if anyone asks, we met because you were yoongi’s fiancee and we couldn’t help but fall in love. but you wanted to intern at a hospital in paris so that’s why we’ve only gotten married now.”

you take awhile to digest the information until something in your stomach doesn’t sit right with you, “you want me to... lie?”

his bottom lip gets trapped between his teeth just for the briefest moment as he thinks about it. he probably didn’t expect you to disagree but he admits his mistake faster than half the people you know your whole life would, “i’m sorry, i didn’t think it would weight on your conscience. i was thought it’d be hard on you if some ass- someone’s going to start a rumor about you but i didn’t ask how you’d feel about it.”

“i see.” you simply nod. it’s true that you’re the pass-up fiancee who got between two people who fell in love in college but the other is the son of a renown family and engaged while the other is an arts major from a normal working family. unable to let bygones be bygones, you decide to marry the younger brother to your fiance - or so the story goes. “but they already know i was yoongi’s fiancee and i ended up marrying you. i don’t need - no, i don’t want to explain myself to anyone.”

despite that big talk, your can feel the prickle of tears in your eyes. namjoon steals a glance at you and he never mentions the glassiness of your gaze - if anything, he smiles. it’s different than the usual smiles. this one, though wordless, says he’s following your flow. do what you like and if and when things get though, you can count on me.

x

dinner has yet started when you arrived. guests are still arriving and waiters and waitresses are carrying trays of champagne glasses around. in a distance, your friends wave at you to come over. you smile, hand falling away from namjoon’s since you needed to at least do that in front of the paparazzo that were waiting outside. eager, hungry for gossip about the wedding that shook south korea’s business world.

“girl, you are glowing.”  yerin literally screams. it’s a secret to no one that she’s hinting on your recent marriage and private island getaway. but nothing happened.

“how are you girls? it’s been so long.” you side hug eunha, letting her arms wrap around your waist as you stand huddled together.

you haven’t seen them since you got back from paris. the wedding was attended by thousands of people - all of whom, your and namjoon’s family’s associates. but you had your hands full shaking hands and smiling next to your husband because these people matter to namjoon. or at least he has an interest over them. business deals. merges. trades. kimcorps carries out every kinds of business they can get their hands on. namjoon passingly mentioned about the work-in-progress for a private hospital.

you dread the likelihood of having to leave the hospital you’re working in right now for family-run one but you know it’s quite impossible to not get involved when you, yourself is a doctor.

“we weren’t the ones who went under the radar and came back and got married to the second son of kimcorp.” yuju huffs sulkily, cheeks pinked from the champagne she’s had but she isn’t that far gone when she clamps her mouth shut a second later, eyebrows furrowing in guilt.

sowon nudges her side anyway, mouthing her something as your gaze falls on the light caught in your black gucci heels.

“i-i’m sorry, ___ that didn’t come out right.” comes a heartbeat later, she sounds just as sorry as her words as you offer her a small smile. 

“it’s okay, it’s the truth anyway.”

“stop that,” eunha suddenly gripes, her gaze boring into you and rips apart the barrier you’ve tried so hard to maintain, “we’ve been friends since elementary school, we know how whipped you are for that asshole so-” she sniffles while you’re left wondering if it’s her who had an ex-fiance break if off and had his parents relay the news on a bi-weekly dinner. 

“she’s trying to say you can cry or get mad or curse that dipshit around us. don’t hold back.” sowon finishes, lips twitching as she enjoys watching the vulnerable state of the otherwise fiercest one among you.

something in your chest feels light. like a weight being lifted off your shoulders as you study the girl’s face one by one. sowon’s and yerin’s smirk, yuju’s nodding and eunha’s teary eyes. 

“yoongi, he’s-” you take a deep breath and it feels almost dramatic as the second stretches on while you build up the hurt, the anxiousness, the disbelief that the man put you through, “-a fucking idiot.”

“you bet he is,” yerin’s basically screams, swiping a glass for you and holding hers up, “that fucking idiot.”

you tighten your side hug on eunha in an ‘i’m okay’ gesture as you clink your glasses together.

it’s a few moments later that murmurs start to spread around. the tension that comes with the latest arrived guest thick enough to command every attention in the room.

“she’s ballsy. coming here.” sowon offhandedly comments, eyes trained on the girl who has her hand on yoongi’s arm like an iron clamp. “right into the lion’s den.”

she may not have her parents’ money to groom her into the women you and the girls are. but maybe that’s why she has her own air. her poised steps, coupled with a cocktail creme laced dress and relaxed smile easily gives her an innocent cloak. someone friendly and good-tempered and can adjust well to her suddenly-plunged-into-money circumstance when she married yoongi. that must have been why you never heard any bad rumors about her even though there’s almost always at least one gossip enthusiast in these socials.

“ugh, i hate her!” yuju hisses, eyes more focused as she places her glass onto one of the waiter’s trays.

“i-i think i’m going to get myself some snacks.” with that, you slip past the guests until you’re at the end of the room, standing in front of the everything-you-can-eat table lined up with pastries only from the best bakes.

that moment, when you looked from her to yoongi, your eyes met. his hair is a little longer than you remember it, flowing in light blue tresses until just a few centimeters above his eyebrows. the first two buttons of his shirt is undone. her doesn’t wear a necktie - he despises how suffocating they feel. but he’s managed to keep on his blazer - he used to say they were hot and took them off and left them in the back seat of the car when you arrived at an event. he used to attend these events with you. just the two of you. for four years. you thought you’d keep doing so for longer after you got married.

“you know, they’re not plastic and made for display.” a voice breaks you from your train of thoughts.

“p-pardon?” you blink once. confused.

“the pastries,” namjoon lulls his head to the side where towers of tarts, macaroons, pavlova and sliced cakes stand tall and proud, “they’re edible.”

it takes a moment for you to register that he was joking - kim namjoon? cracking jokes?

his smile tilts higher when you chuckle. it’s brief but the look of relief oh his face lingers. he must have seen you escape from your group of friends. and this is his own way of checking up on you.

“thank you, namjoon.” you murmur low enough for only you and him to hear, lips tugging in the corners. “but i’m fine - i just - seeing him for the first time like this - it’s just unexpected. even though this is an annual dinner held by his family and he has every right to be here.”

“that’s her? the ex-fiancee?” a guest asks in a hushed tone somewhere a few feet away. but she’s not very discreet as she thinks she is.

“yeah, she couldn’t get the older brother so she went for the younger one.”

apparently, her company needs to attend classes on how-to-whisper-101 too.

“how mortifying. and the brother just goes with it?”

“he must have felt compelled to save her face. you know how nice and well-mannered he is-”

the low noise namjoon makes under his breath catches your attention. the muscles on his face is strained and twisted. it barely shows. just a crease between his eyebrows and the lack of smile. he hardly ever smiles from the tabloids and interviews you’ve seen of him so people might not notice the displeasure. but after a whole month of knowing namjoon, if there’s anything you can say for certain about the man, it’s the stockpile of smiles he has to offer.

“namjoon, it’s okay. i don’t care.” you smile, it’s forced and you know he notices it right off the bat but sighs anyway, shoulder line falling just slightly as he runs a hand over his sleek styled hair.

his lips move and you hear the words he uttered but somehow your mind couldn’t comprehend the information without going blank. “s-sorry?”

“it agitates me that they’re freely spewing bullshit like this,” he huffs, cheeks tinted pink at having to repeat his words. “it’s taking everything in me not to go over there and tell them their husbands have at least one business deal with kimcorp. and i can end it and it’d plunge their family into bankruptcy.”

“wh-why would you do such a thing?” the question comes out almost dumbly but if it did, he doesn’t say. he just... keeps looking at you.

you’re barely able hold yourself from squirming under his scrutiny, the smile now awkward in all places.

“if you don’t mind, can i kiss you?” his eyes widen just the slightest bit as he corrects himself, “on the forehead i mean.”

he clears his throat, eyes straying away from you as if he couldn’t bear to look at your face after that mistake. “just so i can prove to them i wasn’t forced to marry you.”

the light pinkish blush spreads to the tip of his ears and neck as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. you’re not sure why, but the sight in front of you is endearing and you find yourself saying-

“okay, kiss me.”

you didn’t specify where. and maybe, as the heat flares across your own cheeks when his arm band around your waist and a warm hand presses up against you cheekbone - maybe you want him to kiss you somewhere else.

the chatter stops and so does time. but it’s only for as long as namjoon’s full lips are on your forehead, kissing you for the second time. then, time resumes and murmurs begin to spread louder than when yoongi made his arrival. when the gravelly voice speaks from somewhere behind namjoon, you know why.

“get a room, will you?” yoongi’s tone is light - you’d taken a whole year getting used to it to know he’s being playful and not condescending.

“yoongi.” namjoon greets, unlike the elder man, his sounds better natured but there’s a sort of underlying detachment. his arm is still on your lower back almost as if he needs to feel that you’re here or he’d be completely detached. “i didn’t think you’d show up. you hate these events.”

the aforementioned man draws out a long sigh as though he’s been found out over a poorly told lie. “i don’t but naeun wanted to go - you know how things are with mom and dad. she thinks it’s gonna make them open up.”

it’s no secret your father and mother-in-law doesn’t talk about yoongi’s marriage - they never do around you but you thought they were being considerate. but what yoongi’s saying right now could mean his relationship with his parents are far more strained than you thought it’d be. especially since they had let him marry the girl of his dreams who’s clearly below their standards.

she - naeun - is standing somewhere near the exit, conversing with the notorious older generation that yerin duped ‘the wickeds’. for their ways of gaining wealth, for their poor treatment towards their employees, for socially shunning a young man - new money, for addressing one of them casually. she is ballsy.

“it’s been awhile,” yoongi’s directly addressing you now. the tug on his lips as playful as an old friend’s greeting. you don’t know how he can look at you like nothing happened. “you’re finally a resident now, huh?”

“yeah, finally.” you smile, the kind of smile that celebrates her triumph. the celebration part is true but the smile is every bit unnatural. but it seems to fool yoongi as he nods, proud.

somewhere in your chest, the strings on your heart clenches at the unchanging personality of this man. no wonder you like him.

before the conversation can tread further down memory lane, there’s an announcement to have the guests move to another room where dinner is being served.

“we’ll get going first then.” namjoon announces, guiding you by the waist as yoongi nods, waiting for naeun to come to his side before going in himself.

x

 dinner went smoother than expected. yoongi and naeun showed up uninvited and were placed in the back seats where the people socially displaced guests are. you felt bad when you saw naeun’s distorted expression as waiters bring in chairs to the table for the both of them. but there’s nothing you could have done.

“you have an 8am shift tomorrow, right?” namjoon asks as you slip your heels off, wincing at when one of them brushes against the blisters. they’re gonna be a bitch to deal with tomorrow.

stretching your arms out as you walk up the stairs, you hum in confirmation. “mhm, and you have dinner with ms. yoo, right?”

it’s ironic how you know each other’s schedule despite not being anything more than two people sharing one house and happens to be married. guess you’ll chalk it up with the fact that you both respect each other enough to be aware of each other’s whereabouts - not the creepy kind of way but the share-me-your-live-location-so-i-know-you’re-safe kind of way.

namjoon was quiet until you take a left to where the guest bedroom-turned-permanent-bedroom is, “it got rescheduled.”

your hand hovers over the door handle as you crane your neck to look at the man on the top of the stairs. his bow tie is loosened, the button to his color undone and his blazer is draped over one arm - a telltale sign of a final end to the night. “i was hoping we could have dinner to together. after work.”

yes but you don’t usually go straight home after work. you usually spend time at the library either at your previous college or at the hospital. you’ve decided to continue your research no matter how taxing it may be since you came back from the honeymoon. namjoon knows and the fact he asks you to dinner anyway - it’s unlike him.

he’s the kind of person that would ask if you had free time and match his schedule to yours. not ask for your time.

“yeah, sure.” you say and you think you see his shoulder line sagging as if he’s just let out a long-held breath, “pick me up at 8?”

“yeah.” he nods, dimples showing as his lips curl at your answer, “at 8.”

only when the door closes behind you, do you let yourself slide down to the ground. heels lying next to your thighs and dress in need of being sent for washing. your cheeks are and neck and ears are hot. dinner? just you and namjoon? like... a date?

x

jisoo isn’t around when lunch rolls by.

“a patient got rolled into er this morning - couldn’t contact any of his family members. suho decided to go ahead with surgery but he reacted badly to the anesthesia so she had to make up for her suho’s mistake and monitor his patient.” jennie’s face scrunches at the other woman’s supervisor pushing the task on her. shoving a forkful of the cheese cake, she sighs as the medical professional side take over, “thank god the surgery went smoothly though despite all that.”

you hum in contemplation, comparing the well-established crazy bitch seokjin who pushes those under his supervision to their limits and suho’s less-than-extreme approach. you used to envy jisoo and jennie for getting suho as their supervisor but at the end of the day, with every push from seokjin, you get out of it stronger and wiser. “i hope she doesn’t forget to have her meals.”

the day ends faster than usual. of course with rounds and surgeries you have to assist with, you’ve always find yourself barely realizing the setting sun - the sign of that your shift has ended.

but you could have sworn it was 5pm when you last checked the time. an car crash patient had arrived at the er and you forgot you’d left your phone on your desk, running out to assist the critical patient. it’s only when you’ve plopped into your recliner, head thrown back in fatigue, do you notice the vibration of your phone.

namjoon’s name flashes across your screen. your eyes almost bulges out of their sockets as you swipe to the right.

the deep voice from the other end is as calm as ever, “hey, ___-”

“namjoon!” you almost scream with guilt, phone pressed between your cheek and your shoulder as you shrug the coat off one shoulder before using the free now free hand to hold the phone and shrug off the other shoulder, “where are you?”

“i’m at the parking lot. i couldn’t wait at the lobby because i was obstructing the other cars - i called you a few times.” he sounds almost concerned and your heart clenches tightly in you chest at the thought of him waiting for you for over an hour.

you burst onto the parking lot - searching for the sleek black audi until a red bugatti rolls over. you’re about to take a step back seeing as you’re almost standing in the middle of the road - when the driver on the other side of the car steps out. his usually gelled hair is mussed from the amount of times he ran his hand over it, cuffs rolled to just below his elbow, revealing the dark veins that run just below the skin on his arm. 

namjoon fixes you with that eased smile, going around the gently purring vehicle and opening the door to the passenger seat for you. the arm which hand he uses to hold the door open pulls on the thin fabric of his button down in all the right places. so this is a the normal end-of-the-day look.

you always get back a bit later than him and by the time he looks up from his work that’s laid out over the coffee table, he would usually already have bathed and changed into one of those long-sleeved shirts.

x

the restaurant he initially booked for dinner had cancelled. naturally. so you end up in a barbecue place five minutes away from the hospital. this is where you and your colleagues go when to celebrate a birthday, promotion or finally-having-a-boyfriend/girlfriend.

the slices of meat sizzles on the grill, its marinated aroma wafting in the air. but your stomach churns with a different kind of sensation - guilt. “i-i’m sorry. because of me you had to wait an hour and got cancelled by the restaurant.”

then, he chuckles. it’s the same kind of good natured chuckle that reverberates every time you say something amusing - but you can’t see how any of this is.

his says your name. the syllabus rolls out of his tongue in waves but you chalk up the blush spreading on your face with the heat of the grill so close to you. he leans back against the backrest, sleeves filled out to the brim as he crosses his arms over his chest. “you were the one saving a life. all i did was wait.”

“y-yeah but still.” no emergency is foreseeable, otherwise you could have saved more lives than you do now. and it’s still not enough. “i forgot about you.”

namjoon nods, taking your words into consideration - as if he never thought about it that way. as if he truly doesn’t mind wasting his time over some woman he has to tolerate because he’s married to her. “cook me dinner then.”

“wh-what?”

“i don’t want you to beat yourself up and i know whatever i say is going to come off as me being nice.” the corners in his lips tugs upwards, “so make it to me by cooking dinner.”

once your brain is done registering what he said, you clutch your hands in your lap as though you’re clinging onto this one time chance to make up for your fault, “yes! i-i mean yeah, sounds fair.”

the smooth sound of his chuckle isn’t lost to the sizzle of the meat. to him, it must be a small matter but to you, it’s a matter of pride.

“this saturday then?” you offer, a bit too eager.

almost as if remembering something, he releases a long drawn out sigh, “business trip to tokyo.”

“next weekend?”

“mom’s home sweeter home fundraiser for the orphans on saturday. sunday?”

“night shift. how bout breakfast?”

“golf with seollyu’s director.”

a heavy pause lapses in the room. after a moment, namjoon reaches for the chopsticks, flipping the slices of meat over.

your shoulders sag, lips pursed in a pout. this isn’t an unusual occurrence in your years of being the daughter of your family. your father is devoutly involved in the family business and your mother is busy with her charity work. you’ve celebrated birthdays with the staff more than you do with them.

the glint of the chopstick that’s placing a piece of meat on your plate catches your eyes. you study the long nimble fingers to the vein that runs from the back of its hand and disappear somewhere below his arm before you gulp, meeting his eyes - did he notice you checking out his arm?

“we’ll figure something out.” if he did, he doesn’t say as he fixes you with an assuring smile, “but right now you need to get some food in you. eat up dr. ___. you did great today at work.”

this time, you really can’t blame the grill for the blush.

x

“you could’ve told mom you couldn’t do brunch.” namjoon tells you in the elevator to the 15th floor of your in-laws’ house. it’s been three days since that night. he’s left for work but prior to this morning, he’d already made it clear that it was no problem at all picking you up from home.

he’s probably saying this because of the lack of makeup you’d put on. some pats of compact powder and bright red lipstick can’t hide the bags underneath those tired eyes. you’d spend extra hours reading about the defective genes and the fix to remodel them so every child born from parents from a history of relatives with inheritable diseases could live a life without the risk of said disease.

“i’m fine.” you wave a dismissive hand before stretching in the compact space in a last ditch attempt to wake yourself up and hopefully look fresher by the time you reach the floor. “’sides, i’ve been so focused on work, it’s nice to see mom and dad every once in awhile.”

you’ve gotten used to referring to mr. and mrs. kim as if they’re your own parents - in a way, they are. you’ve known them for as long as you can remember.

“you have to be at the hospital by noon, right?”

you hum in confirmation. though you insisted on grabbing a cab to the hospital since it’s on the opposite side of the office, namjoon had insisted better. “mhm, oh we’re here.”

a ding! echoes throughout the elevator when it stops, doors opening to a hallway with black and yellow walls and ceiling, paired with honey marble flooring. it takes a few seconds before the black door at the end of the hallway to swing open but instead of the warm smile of the elderly lady, a bring and vibrant naeun beams at the both of you.

“you’re here. come in.” she steps aside, the hem of her sundress fluttering as she moves.

your body tenses at the proximity of the woman who you thought you could avoid until a much later time. and from the barely noticeable lifted brows that namjoon does, you know he wasn’t expecting his sister-in-law too. if she’s here, so is yoongi.

“we picked these up on the way.” you hand her the paris baguette paper bag. you’d ordered a mix of fruit tarts, cinnamon rolls and macaroon. all of which you remember mrs. kim mentioning to be her favorites. 

“oh! you shouldn’t have but thank you.” up close, naeun is much more prettier with a natural pinkish tint across her cheeks that makes her seem dreamy and glossed cheery lips that complements the gentle air she carries around. she passes the bag to one of the staff that’ll probably unbox them and plate them.

you offer her a smile - though a bit strained. and she must have noticed when she sighs softly, eyes darting to her fuchsia flats before looking back up at you with a furrowed brows. but even when she’s frowning, she’s pretty.

“i’ve been wanting to meet you and properly apologize for not being able to attend the wedding - i had an exhibition that day in prague and yoongi wouldn’t let me go by myself even though i thought at least one of us should go to his brother’s wedding.” she chuckles at the last part as if replaying the heartwarming scene of her protective husband choosing his wife over his family. you can feel every fiber of your body coiling and writhing - it takes everything for you not to leave through the door. would yoongi have done the same for you?

“this must be awkward for you, isn’t it?” her lips tug into a half-smile - a telltale that she’s equally uncomfortable to talk about this topic. “with you and yoongi being engaged before but now i’m the one married to him. but i hope we can put everything past us and be a family.”

but something in the way she talks - it’s as if she sympathizes. as if she’s saying it’s okay, you shouldn’t feel ashamed. but what are you supposed to be shameful of? of being engaged to yoongi before? of marrying his brother when said engagement fell through? perhaps you should have gave mrs. kim a hard ‘no’ when she pleaded with teary eyes for you and your parents’ forgiveness when she and mr. kim had to break the news over dinner two years ago. so you wouldn’t have to develop a hard skin and pretend you didn’t care about the ruthless rumors that have spread far and wide after your marriage to namjoon. 

“oh? yeah, it was a long time ago.” you offhandedly say - it’s that moment, when her eyes twitches just the slightest bit that you realize it wasn’t all just in your head. she did mean to make you feel embarrassed when she started mentioning the engagement.

you join namjoon and mrs. kim at the garden while naeun follows suit a second later, taking the middle among the three seats. the elder woman’s eyes light up at the sight of you, her heels clacking against the wooden flooring as she crosses the distance and engulfs you in a hug. you hug back, smiling at the woman’s motherly warmth.

“___, my favorite daughter, what happened to you?” she cups your cheeks, brows furrowing as she seem to examine your complexion.

you should’ve used concealer. 

“the hospital is working you to the bone isn’t it? why, it’s been awhile since i had lunch with chairman lee, maybe i should give his wife a call.”

that’s how it works when you have connections. if someone’s daughter or son fails to get into college or a job through regular exams or interviews, a dinner or lunch with the director of the institution will get the child admitted overnight. that’s probably why seokjin was harder on you than usual when you got back from your honeymoon - he must think you’re not serious about being a doctor. it’s not a secret he came from old money but he’d cut off all ties with his family when he started working. he has more ethics than half of the people you know.

“___ doesn’t like it when you do these things, mom.” yoongi grumbles - always the painfully honest one. the chair screeches as he pulls it and plops between naeun and namjoon while their father occupies the seat next to mrs. kim. it looks like they just came from mr. kim’s home office. and judging from the stiffness of their posture, the talk must have been a serious one.

namjoon’s shoulder line tightens just the slightest bit - you almost thought it was just a figment of your imagination but when you steal a glance at his face, you know he’s not too keen in having yoongi sit next to him. so you weren’t imagining it when he seemed like he was escaping yoongi by not waiting for naeun to come and walk with you to into the dining hall.

you’re not lost to yoongi’s familiar tone when he spoke on your behalf. but you’re not happy either. forcing a laugh, you push a strand to the back of your ear for the sake of doing something, “i-it’s not the hospital. i’ve been staying up late to work a bit on my research.”

a worker comes with the baked goods you brought. they’re plated on perfectly polished ceramic - you can easily see your forced smile in its reflection when the woman sets them down the table in front of you. 

“research?” yoongi lifts one eyebrow at you. too casually. and it takes you back to those times when you used to visit him at his college’s library and you’d bring your homework with you whilst you slip in a few ‘what i did’s as he typed away on his mac but still managed to keep up with you and asked questions here and there. a sign that he’d been present and listening.

“___’s been working on researching how segregate defective genes during the fetal stage so the fetus won’t take on their parents’ inherent diseases when they’re born.” namjoon explains the simplified version almost as though it’s part of his day-to-day line of work. he grins at you, the corners of his lips tugging with pride - a gratification of being able to show you off.

“that’s good. you’re making a difference in this world.” mr. kim is the first to break the silence. and in the years you’ve known him, it means the highest level of flattery you’ll ever get from the man.

your cheeks are flushed red and you know well enough it’s not because of mr. kim’s compliment than it is his son’s. “it’s still just a research draft but th-thank you. mister-” the elder man raises his brow and you quickly correct yourself, “i mean, dad.” 

he nods at the word, the slightest hint of smile disappearing under the cup of tea he brings to his mouth.

“but still, don’t push yourself too hard. working as a doctor takes up a lot of time already.” naeun fixes you with a worried gaze but something about her tone makes your stomach churn - it’s as if she’s playing down the time and effort you’d invested in your research and reminding you to focus on your paying job. even if you did downplay yourself when you were responding to mr. kim. before you can sort out the wave of emotions clashing inside you, namjoon seems to beat you to it.

“not everyone can do what ___’s doing. it’s okay if she wants to do more,” a hand slips under yours in your lap, reverting your gaze from the beautiful woman to the apparent difference in the size of yours and namjoon before you turn your cheek to him. it was a mistake because now you’re holding your breath as you come face to face. his body is leaned into you as he speaks, “i’ll just take care of ___ better.”

he turns to naeun, lips twitching upwards in a brief smile as if to enforce it more and putting a finality to the topic. but you’re left staring at namjoon’s sharp jawline until mrs. kim makes a squealing sound as she clamps her mouth shut in an attempt to tease you.

“gosh, is my baby all grown up now? he’s saying he’ll take care of his wife!”

the chuckle you let out is nowhere near natural or entertained. not when your insides are burning and you think your heart is going into overdrive from how fast it’s beating. and it doesn’t help that namjoon’s too casually playing along “of course, i only have one wife.”

x

“namjoon,” you take a second to gather yourself, hands fiddling in your lap as the car rolls to a stop in front of the lobby. the man fixes you with an inquisitive gaze. of course, who wouldn’t be wondering what’s up if their name was spoken with so much weight in them like you did with namjoon’s? “what was that? the wife thing?”

he stares into the street as he sifts through his memory before he fixes you with a gaze clouded with guilt, “i’m sorry. i got carried away - it won’t happen again.”

and that’s the thing. namjoon is too fast in admitting his fault. but you didn’t bring it up because you wanted an apology-

“no, i don’t mind.” you shake your head almost too eagerly before back tracking and clearing your throat, “i mean, it’s true. we’re married - i am your wife.”

the corners of his lips upturns at your last words and he doesn’t bother to hide it as he waits for you to finish - but how can you when he’s looking at you so tenderly like that?

“it’s just - too soon?” you curse yourself for sounding so meek but any louder, your heart might just jump out of your throat.

namjoon nods, that contemplative look settling on his face and takes away that smile only to return it with a dimpled grin. one hand slides in between yours and guiding the back of your hand to his lips.

“we’ll take it slow then.”

you can only nod, afraid that if you tried to speak, you would forget how to. the light rap on your side of the window catches both your attention. it’s the parking management. stealing a glance at the cars that are beginning to queue up behind you, you hurriedly gather your bag and hop out of the car.

cheeks flushed, you barely register waving back at namjoon when he leans over the passenger seat just to shoot you that dimpled smile and a ‘see you at home’.

you turn on your heels. the sharp click bounces against the white walls. a small smile spreads across your lips as you think about namjoon’s words.

yeah, the penthouse does feel like home.

x

this isn’t slow at all. you’re barely progressing.

it feels like everyday is passing by too fast what with the abundance of functions you’ve told namjoon you wanted to go with when you’re not working, to cramming some time for research and trying to find the time to at least make breakfast when you’re not on morning shift. though on some mornings, he’d beat you to breakfast and you’d wake up to the delectable smell of omelette or bacon.

“you must be thrilled about the new hospital, mrs. kim,” mrs. hwan is generally an agreeable woman along with her husband, the president of a small startup firm. they’re the first couple to approach you and namjoon since you arrived at the party. but that’s just it - the smiling, the talking, the eagerness doesn’t show in their eyes. it’s all about building connections while maintaining a good enough acquaintanceship. “are you going to be managing it directly since you’re a doctor yourself?”

“naturally,” the tug on your lips and the smoothness of your response is almost effortless. you’re no stranger to this scene - except back then, you would be standing next to yoongi. though your hand wouldn’t be tucked in his arm like yours is with namjoon. “though i still have a lot to learn, i hope the next two years will help me prepare to for eden.”

two years is the estimated time that eden hospital will be able to run. you’d finish your residency by then. all that’s left is to take the next step. just like your parents had planned for you as they’d planned many things. you never had the power to object.

mrs. hwan goes on to sprinkling empty praises while her husband laughs in deflated humor. they say the way to a successful business deal is through the wife.

once namjoon gets swamped by more people, you gently pull your hand away from his arm. you don’t miss the pleading look he fixes you when he notices your intention but you can only return a ‘you can do it!’ smile and slip away from the limelight.

the balcony area is dark, illuminated only by the fading light the pours over the floor past the door frame. you don’t expect the air to be this chilly at the beginning of summer but then again, namjoon did suggest bringing a coat - you were just too stubborn to because it would ruin the off shoulder look of your dress.

a sneeze escapes you a moment later as you hug yourself in an attempt to retain your body heat. but the warmth that engulfs you seems impossible to have come from just your puny palms - heck, your fingers were starting to feel prickly cold. there’s a sort of weight on your shoulders that wasn’t there before-

“idiot, you’re gonna catch a cold.” yoongi tuts from next to you - he has his hands in his pockets, all donned in crisp white shirt and checkered grey trousers and vest. all that’s missing is a matching blazer - the one that he placed around you just now.

somewhere in the recesses of your memories, you remember him taking off the muffler he had on and wrapping it around your neck when you showed up for your ‘christmas date’ with a pink nose and pinker ears - you could barely feel them. yoongi was that kind of person - the kind that acted like everything is a whole load of inconvenience and yet went to greater length to inconvenient himself for you.

“thanks. i thought i was going to freeze to death if i have to hide out here for another hour.” you tug the thick material of the blazer closer - the warmth of his heat feels just right.

“then you shouldn’t have come in the first place.” he must have noticed the higher-than-an-octave tone he uses before ruffling his hair - it’s the first you’ve ever seen him so unsure. is it really because of you?

“it’s fine. besides, what kind of wife would i be if i let namjoon get eaten by the pack of wolves by himself?” you chuckle at the fact that you’d done just that when you escaped the growing crowd of businessmen.

but when you notice the lack of humor on yoongi’s face, your own dies down. he’s staring at you with an indecipherable look. it’s not the bored expression he usually sports - not also the anger from the outburst just now. before you can say anything, namjoon’s lean silhouette appears in the doorway. you can’t see his face but his tone is strained. “we’re leaving, if you’re both done catching up.”

“so soon?” you know for a fact it probably hasn’t even been fifteen minutes - and you’re supposed to linger for at least two hours before leaving. that’d be enough time for namjoon to scout any potential business associate - the worthy ones at least.

“hey little bro.” yoongi waves, the disinterested look now returning but the way he phrases his next words oozes with revulsion. it’s no surprise. while yoongi hates these events - he’s probably here because of naeun, you heard the director of seoul’s annual art exhibition is here - namjoon strives off it. garnering attention and making the best of it by bringing in stockholders. “had enough of ass licking?”

you never understand the tangibility of the tension that feels the air when these two brothers are in the same room together - they’re barely able to remain civil in the presence of mr. and mrs. kim. anywhere without their parents’ watchful eyes, a fight would always be at risk of breaking out. whenever you were around, you’d be the one to interfere, whether it’s to tug on yoongi’s sleeve and tell him you’re hungry, or step in front of him just so he’d remember you’re here or right now-

“thank you, yoongi.” folding the blazer in half, you hand it back to the man - only that he’s not taking it back. momentarily, you wonder if you’d stained it with your lipstick or foundation but the lapels never touched anywhere above your neck. but deep in the crook of your conscience, you know it’s when his mind retracts back to you, to the present.

the sigh that escapes yoongi is a telltale of fatigue - you wonder if this is the first time of the day he came out of his studio. taking the blazer from your outstretched hand, he slings it over his shoulder, “don’t get too caught up with these functions. focus on your goal.”

your goal meaning what comes next in your career: the fellowship. you thought that information was lost on him, buried among the many things you told him just because you were comfortable telling him everything. 

and as you watch him walk back into the lion’s den, you wonder, how didn’t you realize he was in love with someone else during the visits you paid while he was doing his masters and phd?

x

namjoon doesn’t say anything about yoongi in the car. but both his hands are on the wheel. knuckles a little paler from holding onto the wheel.

“you don’t have to be part of eden’s board of directors.” he huffs, as though annoyed but from the way he continues, you know he’s not annoyed at you. he’s annoyed at himself. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to - i don’t want to force anything on you.”

and you know - you know more than anyone how conscious namjoon is of things. from the change in your mood to the people that tries to get close to him because of his status - that’s also why he didn’t kiss you on your lips that day. but a kiss was the prerequisite of a vow so he kissed you on the forehead. the area where his lips landed burns your skin as your cheeks flush from the memory.

“i know.” you hesitate for a heartbeat but reach out to cover one of his hands on the wheel still. to let him know that you’re not just saying that to ease the guilt.

when you pull away from the thought of how risky and distracting what you did was, the hand that you were lightly caressing pulls at yours, intertwining your fingers as he keeps them on his thigh. your entire body burns from the contact yet you’re sitting frozen in your spot. it’s the gentle squeeze on your hand that brings you out of your shell-shock state. a smile tugs on your lips subconsciously as you squeeze back.

x

the following week, you almost got into a fight with namjoon when he caught you dressing up prettily. he told you it was okay not to attend these functions anymore - the ones your tight schedule barely allow you to. fight was an overstatement. your feelings were hurt when he’d kissed your temple and said, “it’s okay, you don’t have to push yourself.”

well, you were but he wasn’t seeing the bigger picture. “can’t you see? i wanna spend more time with you and the only way i can is if we attend these functions together.”

in hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have thrown your strapless black diamond purse at him out of frustration.

but the following functions, you did spend more time together. he’d declined the usual advancement of business people the way only kim namjoon could pull off - with a dimpled smile and a hand around your waist as if to indicate that they were interrupting - and they were. they’d come up to the both of you while you were telling namjoon about a new skillet spaghetti recipe you’d wanted to try making for the long overdue dinner you owe him. and you’d expected someone to approach namjoon and take his attention away but you didn’t think he’d decline them.

“hm? i don’t think we have tomatoes or beef. should we go grocery shopping?” he suggests calmly as though he didn’t just turn down the chairman of tvn broadcast. the man had to do a double take in case he had mistaken namjoon’s smooth rejection.

you place a hand on his chest, restraining the urge to pull your hand away as if you’ve touched fire. you knew he goes to the gym for an hour after work and his shirts always seem a size too small around his arms but you didn’t expect anything beyond that underneath that shirt of his. you clear your throat when you realize his neck is craned so he could look at you - give you all the attention in the world, “you know, we can discuss dinner some other time - when you’re free.”

but neither of you are free. you barely see each other at home because of your unpredictable schedule and his that’s set in stone.

“then what would you rather us talk about right now?” a corner of his lips tugs upwards. if you first met him, you wouldn’t easily dismiss the smile as nothing more than because of his amiable nature. but you’ve been married for almost five months now and you clearly pick up on the playfulness that lights up his eyes.

“the desserts.” you announce too quickly in an attempt to avert his attention from what he’s thinking - one thing you’ve realized is that namjoon is painfully aware of your blushing fits and your avoidance to look him in the eyes. “they’re nice, aren’t they?”

all of a sudden, he’s scooping a forkful of the chocolate souffle he’d picked up from the desserts section while you’d opted for the luscious almond torte. a small smirk tugs on his lips as he holds the fork to your mouth the way he does during breakfast. he knows you have no objections of being fed like a child but he also knows where you stand with public display of affection.

“say ‘aaaaa’ and i’ll give you a treat, doctor ___.” and he loves to tease you. he’s taken to calling you that because of that one incident where he’d seen you discuss about a patient with one of the nurses while you were on your way to meet him. in his own words, he’d ‘never seen you this scary before.’

in your defense, it was five minutes till lunch break so it was still working hours and you were acting the way you usually did at work - but you’d understand. the person you are with friends and the person you are at work are two separate entities. suppose you’ve mastered separating personal business and work. namjoon seems to take pleasure in making that steadfast side of you squirm and blush like a tomato.

your fingerpads gently grazes the back of his hand as you hold the fork in place before taking it in your mouth. your eyes flit over namjoon’s for the briefest moment before taking a step back, licking the residue of souffle off your lips.

“they really are nice.” you murmur as you throw your gaze at the stage where a man sits at the piano before flickering back to namjoon.

you wonder why he’s so quiet all of a sudden -

the man in question still has the empty fork in the air, eyes wide and staring at you, you would’ve thought he’d seen a ghost. until you notice the dust of pink across his cheek and spread to the tip of his ears.

oh?

x

mrs. kim’s fundraiser is held at the school where the children attended. about four canopies were set up on the field. one for the children’s activities - you remember reading something about coloring, origami-making and storybook reading.  the volunteers - possibly college students hoping to earn the graces of kimcorp’s president’s wife for an internship - already have the children huddled up in groups of three or four.

one canopy is specifically set up for a table of wide range of food - if there’s anything you like about these functions, it’s the abundance of food they never fail to prepare. as if spending a lot of money on a fundraising event is something to flex about.

the other two canopies are for the people of interest - acquaintances of mrs. kim and those who come with an ulterior motive be it to get sponsors for their own project, a business deal or simply to regain a higher social hierarchy by falling into your mother-in-law’s graces.

you press a light kiss on namjoon’s cheek before he’s whisked away by the second category. business men who jump at the sight of your ceo husband who got a fair warning from mrs. kim to “play nice. what’s gotten into you all of a sudden? these days i keep hearing things about you turning chairmen down! your father didn’t work this hard just to raise a stuck up son that could ruin his business in a matter of days.”

once you’ve had a slice of red velvet and tiny macaroons, you decide to hide yourself from the few people who try to do the same to you when namjoon is too preoccupied by the ones who claimed his attention first. just like preys on the top of the pyramid sinking its claws, the lower level preys couldn’t come close.

but one manages to follow you into one of the classrooms.

“nothing’s changed has it?’ yoongi stands in the doorway, tuxedo and brown loafers and all. hands tucked into both his pockets, he strides across the room and stops in front of the window that overlooks the light pink canopies and the people underneath them. “same old assholes using a charitable cause to proliferate their influence.”

the muscles on your face pulls your lips into a disapproving frown, “that’s how our parents manage to give us an education. a good life.” you don’t agree to the way they go about it but you give credit where it’s due.

yoongi scoffs, his shoulders jolting slightly. you can’t see his face as he stands with his back on you but you know he’s smirking that condescending smirk. the first time you saw it was when you were in your senior year of high school and yoongi was doing his masters in business and accounting. he’d looked down on the man who approached the two of you like he was scum just because everyone knew his company was wallowing in debt and he’s desperate enough to ask the lion who hates the jungle for help.

“always finding a middle ground. if you like what they do so much, why did you become a doctor? why didn’t you follow their footsteps, huh?”

you can’t help but let out a tired sigh. you’ve been here before. you’ve seen this. yoongi hates the world he’s born in and you understand why but you can never feel what he feels. “why are you here, yoongi? shouldn’t you be with naeun?” there’s a pause. a heartbeat before you decide to let yourself free. say what you want to say. “before the wolves get to her.”

“she’s fine.” it's almost offensive how haughty he sounds. he must either be aware of nauen’s innocence that makes the wolves eliminate the possibility of her being a threat or he just doesn’t care. the latter presumption makes your stomach churn.

did he also not care about you when you were together? when you went to these events as a couple?

“we should head back. it would be bad if anyone saw us alone like this even though we’re just talking.” and that’s that. you turn on your heels, making way to the door but before you can even take another step forward, lithe fingers wrap around your wrist.

“what?” it comes out harsher than you intend it. funny how you put on a face of a woman made out of steel when your knees can barely hold your weight the moment you feel his warm hand on your skin.

“i knew - i knew but i didn’t want to tie you down.” with his head lowered and his long hair, you can’t see his eyes for an idea of what he’s saying. 

“yoongi, what-”

“i knew how you felt.” at that moment, his grip on you loosens. it’s almost as though it’s an overdue confession and the weight on his shoulders has finally lifted, “you only knew me - you turned down every boy that tried to ask you out in high school and college. you -you were only looking at me and i didn’t want that on my shoulders - i didn’t want you to turn down every opportunity to life - to dating, to heart break to - to sex with someone - several someone’s just because we were engaged.”

his fingers traces down your index finger before falling away. but you won’t tell him - you can never do it to namjoon - that it took all of you not to twine your fingers with his just because it felt like he was letting go.

your breath hitches in your throat when you turn your cheek towards him. the sight before you is something you’d never thought you’d see in your entire life. yoongi’s pink dusts his otherwise snowflake skin. the bored expression he usually wears is gone - almost as if he’s never worn it his entire life as something akin to desperation pools in those dark eyes. his soft pink lips are agape as though he wants to say something. and you wait, wait, wait but he never does.

so you turn your back on him, heels clicking against the ground as you slip past the door without a word. only when you’re at the end of the hallway, do you turn the corner, back pressed against the wall because your buckling legs might not be able to handle your weight.

those unsaid words - you can hear them clearly: i fucking regret letting you go.

x

the following week, you spend by drowning yourself in work and later working on your research until the library closes. by the time you’re pressing the 20th floor to the penthouse you both shared, you know for certain namjoon’s gone to bed. he values his sleep time. says it’s essential to keep himself in a good mood so others who work with him would be at ease. sometimes you want to tell him it’s okay not to think about others for once but the words lay buried the depth of your heart because you’re exactly like him. suppressing your feelings, smiling and saying you’re okay even though you’re not. the only difference is there’s a side of you that wants to lash out, do something worse to those who hurt you while namjoon does it from the good of his heart.

“it’s hard, being nice.” he says in between the clink of the stirring of the spoon in his coffee mug.

you look up from the peanut butter you’re spreading over your toast. “hm?”

he shakes his head, as if to say it’s nothing, i’m just thinking out loud. but the words he says next is enough to make your heart drop right to the ground. “yoongi told me.”

“wh-what?” it’s denial in your tone - the combination of those three words are simple enough to take you back to the school nine days ago. in side that little classroom.

“yesterday. he came over to the office.” he shrugs as if it’s no big deal but the tensed line of his shoulders is apparent no matter how casually he brings the mug to his smiling lips - that too. his lips are smiling but his eyes are not.

you don’t know when or how you started noticing the little things. sensing namjoon’s moods - his reactions and his retractions. you never realized you were so in tune with the things he does. all you realize is you’re already able to read him like a book - thick, best-leather book that was safeguarded by a lock.

“namjoon,” the clink of the butter knife being set on your plate resonates like a pin drop in a vacuum room, “nothing happened. i promise.”

“i know - i know you’d never do anything like that so that’s why i’m telling you it’s okay.” something in the way he looks at you make you bite your tongue - as if he’s asking you to listen even though you’re bursting at the seams. you’d do anything to prove that nothing happened even though you knew he knew. “we entered into this marriage for a mutual reason. not dreading to come home is more than i can ask for. so it’s okay if you want to see yoongi just... keep out of the spotlight like many in our shoes who found love outside of it have.”

he chuckles but it’s strained and tense, dumping the coffee into the sink because he couldn’t bear to stay in the kitchen any longer. you slip out of the high stool, feet padding around the counter and before you know it, your arms around his body. you feel him freeze under your touch and this is wrong - wrong on so many levels because he would have asked if he could touch you and you’re not reflecting the same amount of respect he had for you.

but for some reason, you can’t let go - you’re afraid if you let him walk out of the door, you’d never be able to grasp even a shadow of his existence.

“i don’t want to.” the words are muffled from your cheek pressing against his back.

a pause lapses between you when you don’t say anything else. no explanation. no reason. because you don’t know it yourself. you don’t know why your heart clenches in your chest at the sight of namjoon’s dismal smile. you don’t know why you acted on your instincts and hugged the man.

you don’t know.

“okay.” he sighs softly as a warm palm rests above your fisted hand. you wish you can see him - wish you can see what kind of expression he’s making because it’s killing you to not know what he’s thinking. “you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

that’s when the sniffle escapes you. internally, you curse yourself for being so emotion-driven. it’s not a good trait for a doctor to have.

namjoon calls your name. the syllabus rolling off his tongue makes your stomach churn with butterflies. “are you crying?”

you don’t expect him to say that. don’t expect the teasing undertone either. naturally, your respond comes a heartbeat later, “n-no.”

the body under your touch shifts. all of a sudden, you’re eye-to-eye with him. there’s a sparkle in them that almost makes you forget how to breathe. his dimples dig into his cheek as his lips curl into a smile whilst his large hands frames you face.

“wh-what?” you feel your brows furrowing, lips pursed.

“you’re too cute.” his thumb grazes your burning cheekbone feather light, “i want to kiss you.”

“then do it.” you don’t know the reason behind that angry, pressed tone but namjoon doesn’t seem to mind - or he knows something you don’t.

you don’t have the time to ponder on that when a pair of lush lips meshes with yours. the scent of the coffee he had engulfs your senses as one hand finds its way to the back of his neck and the other rests on his accelerating heartbeat. time seems to stop when namjoon’s kissing you. somewhere in the back of your mind, you distinctly remember something perpetually important but you couldn’t be bothered as his hands fall away from your face and finds the dip of your lower back and pull you closer until your bodies are pressed together.

somewhere in a distant, you hear the beep of the front door. hoseok’s voice booming across the hallway that leads to the living room and the kitchen where you’re at now.

“namjoon? you here? did you oversleep? man, i never thought i’d see the day our ceo is late to work.” hoseok’s footsteps stops at the end of the hallway, “oh great, you’re all dressed.”

he blinks, surprised at the sight of his boss who’s leaning against the edge of the sink - hands pressed on either side of the edge, doing absolutely nothing while you dip a butter knife into a jar of peanut butter and jelly but equally as out-of-it as his boss appear to be.

“y-yeah, let me grab my blazer.” namjoon pushes himself off, going around the counter and heading towards the stairs where his bedroom is until -

“it’s here.” hoseok points out.

“what?”

“your blazer. it’s this one, right?” the secretary loyally scoops up the thick maroon blazer off the couch and hands it to his boss who’s just barely recovered from what seems to be a trance. 

he’d went down and tossed the blazer on the couch before making his coffee - before the kiss.

namjoon clears his throat, refusing to look at the man’s scrutinizing eyes as he thanks him and slips the blazer on. but he loses those eyes when he peeks over the man’s shoulder, mini-waving at you, “hey, morning, doc.”

you return the greeting, refraining a blush as you feel the ghost of namjoon’s lips when you fix his secretary a smile, “hey, hoseok. care to join us for breakfast?”

the man shrugs, eyes flitting over his boss who now seems ready to go, “thanks doc but i had some cereal and cold milk.”

he bids his farewell and escapes out of where he came from, letting the two of do what newly weds do before the other goes to work. it’s in that moment that he realizes with a chill running down his spine as he sat in the driver seat - that namjoon isn’t a bachelor anymore and he couldn’t come and go as he pleases and that he might have interrupted something. come to think of it, both you and namjoon’s cheeks were flushed...

“h-hey boss,” hoseok steals a glance of the man at the backseat through the rear view mirror. he almost chokes on his next words when the man’s eyes meet him but he persists like a man on a mission to not get fired , “y-you know, i’ve been with kimcorp. f-for a long time. i-it’s like my family a-and i’ll work harder from now on.”

confusion flashes across namjoon’s features for the briefest moment. he doesn’t know what makes hoseok say something so out of his character and shakily at that but it’s not the first time that his employee’s said something like this to him - of course, minus the stutter and all.

“that’s good to know, hoseok.” he says simply.

x

it’s been a week since you told namjoon you didn’t - wouldn’t see anyone. yoongi or not. when you told him you were going to meet yoongi at a cafe near his studio to give the man an answer - a hard no, there’s still some needling doubt in namjoon’s gaze as he reverts his eyes away from you. as though he was afraid that the illusion would fade away and he’d end up catching the smolder of passion he’d always seen you look at the man with.

he’s not lost to your feelings - in hindsight, it was pathetically obvious how smitten you were for the elder man. even your and his parents could see. and they’d foreseen many things but not having to plead and then beg and then finally, force you into a marriage you didn’t want with the brother of the man you loved.

your only regret was leaving without kissing namjoon goodbye - but it also felt like anything you said, any sort of assurance you offered would just be an act. until you tell his brother to stop.

“come to think of it,” you set the warm cup of latte down. it would have tasted better if the circumstances were different, “we never properly ended things. the only way i knew the engagement was over was through mom and dad.” his parents you meant.

he tilts his head to the side as a response - an indication that he’s listening. he’s dressed in plain white shirt and the darkest jeans. the bags under his eyes is an indication that he hasn’t slept in days - either it’s because of working late nights trying to make music or because of what he’d said to you.

you know he’d do this - detach himself from reality when things gets tough or when he’s stuck in a situation he doesn’t have control over. but you still had hope. still held onto the past seven years you’d spent together for him to regard you with enough respect to offer closure.

“do you love naeun that much?” and yet you still ask.

you meet his hollow gaze, not knowing the intensity yours hold until your fingerpads wrapped around aches and he lets out a heavy breath.

“she was different.” he says simply - almost tiredly, “she caught my eyes. we started talking and we found out we had some things in common. i thought she’s what i needed to get over you.”

“don’t.” the churning starts from your stomach and spreads across your body like a poisonous fog. “don’t use me as an excuse for leaving. you loved me as much as i loved you and you got scared.”

a lump forms in your throat as the memories, the inside jokes that built up over time, the comfortable silents spent - everything comes crashing in like tidal wave. you knew he loved you deep down. that was why the news of him getting married took a toll on you - so much so, you decided to leave everything behind and fly to paris.

“you could’ve pushed me away if you truly had no feelings for me but you kept me around and let me think we were going to have a happy future together.” his image is distorted from the prickles of tears in your eyes but you blink them away, “but you didn’t really know you were in love with me back then, huh? that’s why you got scared shitless and decided to leave.” you’re not sure if you’re choking on your words or if you’re actually scoffing. maybe both.

in that moment, you watch as yoongi’s expression switches from that signature boredom to realization and finally unbridled sorrow. he must feel suffocated - like he’s drowning in emotions the way you did in that suite you spent for two weeks in paris before you decided to buy an apartment and stay for good. and you would have if your parents didn’t call you back - recounted all their sacrifices for you to make you guilty enough to agree to the marriage with his younger brother. he’ll spend the same amount of time sleeping and waking up in his room and realizing he can’t turn back time.

“i fucked up big time, didn’t i?” he laughs dryly as he presses his palm to his face, hunched over the minute round table.

the latte is still half-full when you swipe your phone off the table and stand up. he doesn’t spare you a glance - he probably couldn’t bring himself to face you now.

‘you’re a fucking coward min yoongi.’ is what you want to say but for some reason, you leave the words to die on the tip of your tongue. you won’t - can’t wish him a happy life and propose to put everything past you. it’s not that simple and you’re not that forgiving. but namjoon’s easy smile flashes at the back of your head at this moment of all time and makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. their relationship is already strained and if you insist on prolonging this, it’s only going to end up hurting namjoon one way or another and the cycle will just keep going on with naeun getting hurt if she found out.

“you did.” your hand is trembling around the strap of your bag, “but it’s all in the past and i don’t blame you. things wouldn’t turn out the way they do otherwise. so just... live for the present, yoongi.”

his shoulders rise and fall a little faster than normal but there’s nothing you can do - and it’s better if you leave him to collect his thoughts. the censor at the door beeps as you pass through. it takes a moment for you to feel the morning air brush your cheeks and sunlight to seep into you. your chest still feels tight but in due time, you know it’ll lighten.

x

“hey, boss. you have a special guest.” hoseok peeks into namjoon’s office like the slyboots he is. the wiggle of the man’s brows before he disappears gives namjoon all the more reason to prepare for the worse.

“send them in.” he sighs, not bothering to hide his feelings in front of hoseok. they’ve been working side by side for a long time and friends for longer he knows his friend is aware of the contrasting definition of ‘special’ but this once, as he sees you walk through the door - he admits that him and hoseok may finally be of the same mind.

namjoon shoots up from his seat, clearing his throat and buttoning his blazer together the way he’s so used to doing it when he receives an unannounced visit from his father. “what brings you here?”

instead of shooting him one of your brilliant smiles, you drop your bag on the crisp white leather couch and run right into him. arms wrapped around his torso, he can smell your favorite floral shampoo from your hair but he can’t bring himself to hug you back. his heart is palpitating inside his chest and he can only pray for some miracle that you can’t hear it. which is most unlikely what with your head coming up just a few centimeters above his shoulder line and your ears being the same height as the beating organ in his chest.

if you notice, you're not saying anything about it.

“i met yoongi just now.”

namjoon doesn’t say a word for the longest time - it’s so namjoon of him not to. but it’s also not where you stand now. that day, when you partially admitted to liking namjoon and you’re pretty sure he felt the same - you’d seen a side of namjoon you never thought you’d saw. vulnerable. fearful. all because he thought he was going to lose you - and it felt like he’s always been prepared for it. it was just a matter of time.

the muscles in your arms contracts at the thought of namjoon being so ready to let you go - is it like that too, right now? is he expecting you to go back on your words and tell him you’re going to have an affair with his brother? you don’t know and that’s driving you insane. 

and just when the muscles in your arm contract, just when you’re about to pull away, namjoon’s arms band around your body and a kiss lands on top of your head.

“did you tell him what you wanted to tell him all this time?” his voice is velvet and smooth and you can hear that easy smile as he speaks.

you nod against his chest. “it’s over. i told him to get lost.”

the chest vibrates against your cheek as rings of chuckles tumble out of namjoon’s mouth. it makes your body light up with a sort of fire. and for once, you welcome the heat spreading across your cheeks like an old friend.

he knows the last part is a bluff - it’s comforting that he knows without having you say it.

does he also know...

“after that i came here because i wanted to see you.” you crane your neck to look up at him.

true enough there’s that smile and gets wider when he meets your gaze. a hand comes to rest on your neck while his thumb grazes your chin as he presses his lips to yours. you think your heart might explode at any moment now as you kiss him back, your hand snaking to his shoulder but he stops your right hand, holding it on his chest. his heart beats the same rhythm as yours. his shoulder line heaving the same way yours do when the back of your thighs hit the couch and you finally break apart. but before you have the chance to gather your thoughts, his lips are on you again. the hand on your lower back pulling you closer until your thighs press on either side of his legs.

“let’s go home now.” he murmurs between breaths, “i might really go crazy if i touch another part of your body that’s covered in clothing.”

it’s in that moment that the door swings open.

x

hoseok bursts through the door with the photostatted files in his hand. there’s a skip in his step.

“hey boss! here’s the files you asked for.”

he looks between you - well your back - and namjoon. the ceo is fixing his tie with a hard expression while you’re standing facing the ceiling-to-floor window that overlooks the streets and several stores in the area.

d-did he just walk into you two fighting?

“thanks, hoseok.” namjoon swipes the files from his hand, walking back to his seat around the desk and dropping the files with a sharp pap!

“n-no problem boss.” he takes one frightened step backwards before turning around but before he manages to escape the lion’s den, you stop him.

“hoseok wait.” it comes out a bit rushed. granted, you’re not in any position to waste time. you dropped by even though you know you can’t afford being late to work but somehow you ended up at namjoon’s office anyway. the secretary seems to physically turn into a rock before shakily turn his cheek to you with a smile.

“uh, yeah doc?”

“namjoon, do you mind me borrowing hoseok for a bit?” the heat comes on full force as you turn to namjoon. he’s burning a hole through the files he’s flipping through but you don’t miss the pinked tips of his ears and the way his adam’s apple bobs at the sound of his name on your tongue, “my shift is starting at noon so i need to be there by,” you check the watch on your wrist, “now.”

the way namjoon doesn’t even look up from flipping the papers is how hoseok know for sure you’re fighting. “sure thing. oh and hoseok, no detours. come straight back once you drop ___ off.”

but to you, it’s because he’s flustered beyond imagination - you know, like you know how he’ll condemn himself for not being able to control himself like that. your whole body heats up as you slip into the back seat when the image of namjoon’s hooded eyes, reddened cheeks and half agape lips flash at the back of his mind. a part of you - the reasonable one - chides yourself for even thinking about ditching work and actually going home with him but another part wishes to indulge in the endless possibilities of what will happen if you did.

x

“____,” your name tumbles out of namjoon’s mouth in a breathy huff. naturally so. he hasn’t even caught his breath from when he finds you crawling over him like a woman in on a mission. now, the same exact woman his cuffing his wrists and holding them over his head with one hand while the other is undoing the buttons of his shirt while she kisses him in all the right places.

“wh-where did you even get cuffs?” his headboard is one of those pristine white cushioned ones meaning there isn’t any rails for you to hook him on and keep him in place. but you don’t need that because namjoon can barely move - all that time he spends at the gym has gone down the drain as invisible threads tie him down.

“oh these?” you let one corner of your lips tug deviously. it’s been six months since you got married and you and namjoon has never gone past the occasional cuddles and light kisses. the morning after that day when you dropped by his office after meeting yoongi, namjoon had declared his intentions to ‘do it right’ - like dates and getting to know each other better before anything else. 

it was sweet of him. until you realized you barely had time for dates - only late night conversations that ended up with you on top of him but before things could progress, he’d do everything he could to avoid bedroom affairs. but over time, it gets a bit discouraging. so this is the last straw - there’s no wine or champagne for him to use as an excuse to carry you to your room. you’re both sober, and if he doesn’t want you -

“never mind where i got these.” the low sound emitting from his throat makes your heart skip a beat as your lips brush against the shell of his ear, “don’t you want me, namjoon?”

trailing hisses down his smooth jawline, you let your lips hover over his - it only lasts for a heartbeat before he closes the distance and starts kisses you like a famine beast.

“i want you,” he confesses when you pull away just to reinforce your control. he may be the one lying down with his hands bound but it almost felt like you’re the hopeless one here - almost. the  a feral glint in his eyes sends hot waves down your core - you have to tell yourself to breathe. “of course i fucking want you ___.”

you hum in contemplation - taking just enough time to sit straighter and let your fingers undo the rest of the buttons and stopping just above his belt. the few times you laid together and he lets you lie on top of him - you knew he was brains and brawn. but you didn’t expect a perfectly sculpted body of adonis himself to be lying beneath you. the ridges of his abs heaves helplessly as he drawn in deep breaths. 

somewhere on the edge of the bed where you’d tossed it, your phone vibrates - someone’s calling but that can wait.

you lean down, soft tresses brushing his skin as you kiss that spot that illicit a delicious sound from him the first time you discovered it. somewhere in the junction between his shoulder and neck.

“fuck.” his voice is raw and desperate and carnal as his body yearns for you. his legs bent at the knees, feet ground into the bed as he grinds his hip into you - the signs of his arousal painfully obvious.

you can’t help but giggle at the way he so vehemently yearn for you. somewhere on the bed, your phone starts vibrating again.

“y-your phone.” he manages to stammer out. it’s the third time it’s vibrating.

“don’t worry about it. the only people who would call me at this time is jisoo’s drunken butt dial or the hospital-” you sit back up, heat still pooling in your stomach when your hips grind against namjoon’s arousal in the process but the urgency in the way you swipe your phone off the sheets has stolen your attention.

clear as day, it is one of the two possibilities you’ve mentioned and it isn’t your quirky colleague.

x

when you first started working, you were of the ripe age and eager to help those in need. you loved your job despite the long arduous hours, missed meals and ungodly hour roll calls because at the end of the day, it was what you wanted to do - it was the one thing you wouldn’t let your parents take away from you. you fought blood sweat and tears to get where you are now.

and doctors don’t usually start a family until they’ve at least finished their residency - but you had to get married early to keep your end of the bargain. of course, you didn’t expect to commit to said marriage. you didn’t also expect to fall for namjoon either. and you certainly didn’t expect for him to still be here in the waiting area when you walked out of the emergency operating room, head lulling to the side as sleep begins to take him, arms crossed over his chest. he didn’t even get the chance to change when you hurriedly uncoffed him, informing him about an emergency at the er. he’d offered to drive you since you couldn’t drive and waiting for an uber driver to accept your request this late at night would take more time. you’d rushed out of the car with a ‘thanks, namjoon. i owe you one!’ thinking he’d go home and get some rest - there’s no telling how long these surgeries take after all.

when he leans too far to the side, his eyes flutter open softly before noticing the turquoise-clad body in his periphery.

“___, you’re done? did the surgery go alright?” he’s always had a way of saying your name. it makes your heart warm and your chest full as he stands up to close the distance between you - to cup one side of your cheek with his hand. though your delayed response may have been the reason for that.

“the surgery was a success.” you finally say, your smaller hand covering his, lips curving softly. guilt creeps up the creeks of your chest but gratitude washes it away. it wouldn’t have been very namjoon of him if he didn’t consider everything: how you’d go home once you’re done. if there’s even any uber working this late of an hour. your heart is swelling - you don’t think you can ever love him more than you do now but namjoon being namjoon, he’ll make you fall in love with him more and more until your heart is filled to the brim, “thank you, namjoon.”

and he gets it. just like that. the words that you’re saying without putting them into words because there are many ways to say it and a plethora of intrepreting it but namjoon gets it because his heart beats the same rhythm as you: i love you.

a dimpled smile curls over his lips as he places a kiss over your forehead, “should we go home?” he leans down to whisper into your ears, his tone changing dangerously, “and pick up where we left off, yeah doc?”

[heavyarethecrowns]

Forget Wills and Kate - it's Harry who's found love - May 2007

Gazing into the flames of a campfire on the banks of Botswana's Okavango River, a scruffily dressed young man took a sip of his beer and let out a prolonged sigh.

Minutes later, he was pouring his heart out to the three strangers sitting beside him.

"Apparently, he had fallen in love with some girl in Cape Town who was the daughter of a rich businessman in Zimbabwe.

"He seemed really serious about her, saying he couldn't understand how he had fallen head-over-heels only four days after meeting her," one of those fellow travellers later recalled.

The love-sick youth was, of course, Prince Harry, then on holiday in Africa during his gap year. And the girl who made such an impact was Chelsy Davy.

Three years on, almost to the day, Harry is preparing to wave goodbye to his girlfriend and march off to war.

Much has happened to the young prince in the intervening period: officer training at Sandhurst; periodic brawls with the paparazzi; and his father's marriage to the woman Harry once blamed for causing his late mother so much anguish.

But, to the surprise of many observers, one of the few constants in Harry's life has turned out to be the coltish, snub-nosed girl he met in Cape Town.

Indeed, some of his friends believe that an engagement is almost certainly on the cards, though probably not for a few years yet.

Of course, feelings can change. A tour of duty in Iraq, fighting for his country, may accelerate the progression from pampered prince to more mature man of the world: he may want to close the book on his youth, open a new chapter, find a different kind of soulmate.

But maybe not. Even 12 months ago, few could have predicted that Harry's long- distance relationship with the coquettish daughter of a Zimbabwean wheeler-dealer and former Coca-Cola model would outlast William's romance with the eminently proper Kate Middleton.

The truth of the matter, however, is that Harry has always seen himself and Chelsy as better suited and more capable of going the distance.

"And now," said a well-placed source this week, "he's been proved right."

The 22-year- old prince has become increasingly irritated by what he saw as the "hype" surrounding William and Kate's relationship.

A friend of Harry's says: "Harry doesn't want to be subjected to the level of interest people have been taking in William and Kate.

"It's his idea of hell. But he also feels very frustrated at the way people are so dismissive of him and Chelsy.

"They are always portrayed as a pair of poor little rich kids who will burn themselves out sooner rather than later.

"In Harry's mind, there is nothing ridiculous whatsoever in the idea that one day, in the not-too-distant future, Princess Chelsy could be standing on the balcony at Buckingham Palace - even though she would probably be hiding a cigarette and a bottle of Malibu behind her back."

Despite the stream of paparazzi photographs that reveal a fondness for partying and a distinctly beach-chick style, the 21-year-old Zimbabwean has been an "A" student at school and university.

Harry would not want to change anything about her.

While others - including his own father, according to Harry - find themselves transfixed by Chelsy's more obvious charms - the prince has always believed that his girlfriend has some sterling qualities that Kate probably lacked.

"Harry has always been quietly very proud of the fact that Chelsy - or Chedda, as he affectionately calls her - loves him for who he is.

"In fact, she sees the fact that he's royal as more of a hindrance than a help," says a confidante.

"As the hugely popular daughter of a multi-millionaire businessman with homes in at least three different countries, she doesn't really need to take advantage of Harry's birthright."

One source close to the prince suggests that he actually sided with members of William's circle who felt that Kate Middleton had started to take advantage of the relationship.

"Harry had sympathy with those of William's friends who felt Kate had begun to rather enjoy her fame by association a little too much - unlike his own girlfriend, who he thinks is a 'real class act'," the source explains.

'When she first met William, Kate had few friends of her own - but over the years, she carefully assimilated herself into his circle.

"There was a feeling among some of William's friends that Kate had become a little too self-aware - she even had the cheek to bag herself a cut-price Audi, thanks to her royal links - while publicly insisting that she wanted to be treated as an ordinary girl."

Although Chelsy and Kate were photographed together on several occasions, most notably at the Beaufort Polo Club last summer, Harry's girlfriend apparently didn't particularly take to Kate.

"It wasn't that she disliked her - it's just that they had nothing in common. One only has to look at them to see it," says the source.

"Chelsy is a lot sweeter than she looks, but she is still a very outgoing girl who likes a beer and a fag.

Thanks to her rather indulged upbringing, she is incredibly sociable and self-confident - qualities that don't come naturally to Kate."

Others more sympathetic to Miss Middleton's cause, suggest the reality is that Chelsy has been just as keen to turn a royal relationship to her advantage.

She may protest about the attention, but she has not raised objections about her new status as international cover girl.

Last year, the society magazine, Tatler, even bracketed her with the Duchess of Cornwall as one of the most powerful blondes in Britain.

Her brother Shaun, meanwhile, has taken to styling himself as one of Harry's official bodyguards, and has been known to chase after photographers when they try to take the prince's picture.

Yet, in Harry's besotted eyes, Chelsy and her family can do no wrong.

Courtiers who have expressed concern about the Davys' controversial business links to Zimbabwean despot Robert Mugabe, have been told that she is a "non-negotiable" part of his life.

And he is undoubtedly entranced by the relative normality of his girlfriend's close-knit family.

Which is perhaps hardly surprising. By the age of 13, Harry had weathered not only his parents' separation but had also been forced to cope with the tragic - and endlessly raked-over -death of his mother.

Since then, his upbringing has been marked by a lack of parental discipline, thanks to his loving but laissez-faire father.

Even those with reservations about Chelsy concede that she has had a positive effect on the headstrong, devil-may-care young prince.

"It's far from a coincidence that when Harry does slip up - the times when he falls out of nightclubs drunk and brawls with photographers in the streets - Chelsy isn't around," says one who knows them both well.

"Believe it or not, he has matured in recent years - in large part thanks to Chelsy, whom he is incredibly protective of - and really does try to keep his head down.

"They are so besotted with each other - like a couple of lovebirds, really - that when they are together, nothing else really matters.

"Their body language is so different from that of Kate and William, who always used to look more like brother and sister.

"The trouble is that when Chelsy isn't around, Harry is easily led astray."

On their recent jaunt to the Caribbean, the couple barely left their luxury condo in the exclusive Glitter Bay resort in Barbados, preferring to lie, holding hands, by the pool.

And at last Friday's raucous Blues and Royals party to celebrate Harry's deployment to Iraq, it was William who stayed out clubbing until 4am with a bevy of beautiful girls.

Harry and Chelsy quietly sipped cocktails in a private booth before slipping off discreetly at 1am.

Lately, friends have noticed that the relationship seems to be deepening - although that is not to say there haven't been some pretty intense spats.

Unlike William, who was accused of leaving Kate to flounder under the weight of expectation while he forged on with his own life, Harry has been actively encouraging Chelsy to make solid plans for their future.

Bristol University has flatly denied rumours she plans to do a postgraduate degree there in the autumn, but friends say she is definitely planning to spend more time in England, where she has many friends from her days as a boarder at Stowe, a co-educational public school in Buckinghamshire.

She has even cancelled her plans to return to Africa over the summer and will instead wait for Harry to return from Iraq on leave.

"Chelsy hates the weather here, but is desperate to be nearer to her darling Haz. She is willing to make sacrifices if it takes their relationship a step forward," says a friend.

And Harry has already asked Chelsy to attend the memorial concert in July that he and William are organising to mark the tenth anniversary of their mother's death, though they are still discussing whether she should attend the formal church service later that month.

A Clarence House source says: "The problem is that every senior member of the Royal Family will be there, and Harry knows that taking her is tantamount to making a public statement on the future of their relationship.

"He doesn't think that it's fair on her to open the floodgates just yet."

In the immediate future, he knows that he needs to concentrate on leading his men in Iraq.

The highly charged public debate over his deployment to the Gulf has radically increased the pressure on him to make a success of his career - and he wants to show that the Army's confidence in him has not been misplaced.

"After what happened to my mother, I'm not afraid to die - but I am frightened for those around me," he recently confided to one close friend.

Although he did once petulantly threaten to quit if he were not sent to Iraq with his troops, his attitude has changed in the last few months.

"He knows that the situation is bigger than him now, and he'll take whatever he is told to do on the chin," says a royal aide.

Indeed, those who know him well say he is haunted by the fear that one of his men could be captured or even killed because of him.

"That's something he just couldn't bear, and he knows he would be held to account for the rest of his life.

"The men in his troop have tried to reassure him - joking that they will all wear ginger wigs to confuse the enemy, which is typical of Army gallows humour - but he is wracked with guilt," says another friend.

Iraq, however, is also Harry's big opportunity to strike out from under his elder brother's shadow.

For the first time in his life, the spare to William's heir will be taking centre stage.

"Harry loves his brother very much, but he is acutely aware of the way in which he is overshadowed by William.

"He is determined to go to war and make his family proud," says a friend.

But unlike William, he will have a long-term sweetheart to sweep into his arms when he returns.

[ofdragonsdeep]

29: Debonair

Count Artoirel de Fortemps attends a ball for the Members of Parliament.

(ArtoirelxHilda? Sort of?)

The sound of the orchestra echoing out in the high-roofed walls of the Vault promised the trappings of high society to those within. Count Artoirel de Fortemps was no stranger to such functions, wending his way through the crowd with practised ease, but the surroundings sought to subvert the expectation of any passing noble, or indeed anyone who remained familiar with Ishgard, reimagined in the image that her saviours had planned for her.

Commonfolk in their best dress rubbed shoulders with nobility here, a formal gathering held for each and every member of the Republic’s new council. Artoirel had endeavoured to learn the names of each and every person sent as speakers for the House of Commons after the parliament’s formation, but even his memory was taxed to recall the names of their spouses and friends and other miscellaneous plus-one’s. In the same breath, the House of Lords was far expanded from the days of decisions made solely by the church and the four High Houses, though his upbringing had at least given him a head-start on remembering those names.

A buffet had been provided that had likely cost more than many of the commonfolk earned in a year, and champagne was being passed around among the merrymakers. It was not, Artoirel had noted, the best champagne, but perhaps that was the point. Besides, it made no difference to him, as he had made an art of refusing every canapé pressed beneath his nose, a cautious part of him still remembering the events of Falcon’s Nest, the reports he had heard of attempted sabotage on ceremonial functions, and his own persisting dislike of being intoxicated in public.

“Reckon you’ve turned down enough food to feed an orphanage, your Lordship. There better grub somewhere I should know about?”

Artoirel jumped at the noise, spinning on the spot to find Hilda - captain of the Watch, who were the de facto guard for this function - stood just a little bit too close.

“Sadly not, Lady Hilda. I simply neglected to prepare.” He took a step backwards, just slightly, and straightened the collar on his shirt. “I trust that the evidence of your keen eyes will stay between us?” Hilda laughed at that, folding her arms and regarding him with an appraising look. He appeared to come up short.

“Lady Hilda. Don’t get that one much,” she said. “How’s about this then? I won’t mention your disdain for Ser Aymeric’s fancy sausage creations, but you have to dance with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Artoirel said, taken aback. Hilda winked at him, the smile fitting easily on her face.

“All that book learnin’ and here we are. You. Me. One dance.” She held up a single finger. “That’s the thing where you lead your partner round in circles, in case that was what was holdin’ you up.” Artoirel made an empty noise, then collected himself, clearing his throat as if it would save him face.

“Yes, I am aware of what a dance is, Captain,” he said, exercising incredible restraint to keep the ice from creeping into his voice. “I am simply at a loss as to why.” The single finger was pressed against her lips, inviting him to take part in her secrecy, as if he had any choice when he was not aware of the secret.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder, your Lordship,” she replied. The gesture became a two-finger salute, and she turned on her heels and disappeared back into the crowd. Artoirel could only hope that she had retreated to actually do her job.

—

Though the guests were unusual, the itinerary was not. Entreés were followed by a time to mingle and exchange the latest gossip, and Artoirel’s feet took him around the room with all the emotion of one of Stephanivien’s strange robotic creations. Though he had despaired of his little brother in the past, he could not deny that Emmanellain’s head was far more suited for such endeavours than his, but he was a master at polite conversation nonetheless. The atmosphere was far more cordial than any such event would have been before the end of the war - there was less power to squabble over, more people who held it, and so less to gain by knowing a few choice and guilty secrets. Artoirel spoke with Aymeric and Lucia, shared their worries on the war which yet fomented at the front at Ghimlyt, all three of them hoping nothing untoward would occur in their absence. He listened to news of the progress on restoring the Firmament from Aurvael, attending with his father the Count. The Dzemaels ignored him, as they always did, but Count Charlemend and his young nephew at least engaged him in pleasantries.

The commonfolk had far more to say, if you knew who to ask. The view of the ongoing reconstruction of which Aurvael was so proud was well-received among the people, despite certain members of the nobility dismissing it as seeking glory from the worthless. Lord Francel had a good heart, and those who he was helping saw it, it seemed.

And the news. There was much of it, and the fine details a little different for each mouth it came from, but Artoirel listened and attempted to filter the nuggets of truth from the sheer volume of it. If only Emmanellain had not been busy with his duties at Dragonhead - though he could not help but be grateful that his brother was applying himself for once, he found himself at quite the disadvantage.

And then, as Artoirel had dreaded, the music changed.

Artoirel was a good dancer. He had been taught from a very early age precisely how one was to dance at a ball, the correct amount of attention to pay one’s partner to not suggest too much but not offend with inattention. The eyes will judge you on every line of your form, his mother had said, and he had taken it to heart, as he had many of her lessons, not all of them in his best interests.

Hilda caught his eye from across the room, and offered him a cheeky little bow. Artoirel let out a long breath, and crossed the room to join her.

“Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Captain?” he asked, holding out his hand precisely as he had been taught. There were whispers immediately, of course, although rather more of them were jealous than he had been anticipating.

“You’re flatterin’ me, your lordship,” she said, playing coy as he had expected her to. “I suppose it would be rude to refuse.” Artoirel mentally went through the motions of gritting his teeth, in order to remain outwardly poised.

Hilda was not dressed to dance the same way the other ladies who had taken the floor were. She had no dress to float with each step, but sturdy trousers and solid leather thighboots that clacked upon the dancefloor with a noise that was, at least, quite satisfying. Her fingers were not smooth, but calloused from holding a gun and holding the line against the ever-rising tide of pushback against their nation’s struggle for equality. Her nails were not painted, but filed down to not catch in the trigger. She carried herself with the confidence and expectations of nobility, the pointed tips of her hyuran ears the damning reminder of why she was not.

She could, however, dance.

“See, your Lordship? This ain’t so bad,” she said, sounding amused by his predicament more than anything else.

“Only one of us will be quashing foolish notions in the aftermath,” he replied, to which Hilda laughed. They separated, turned - Artoirel did not raise his arm as high as he was used to, when dancing with an elezen, and Hilda performed the top spin with remarkable grace. The dexterity that gave her the eagle eye and uncanny trigger finger she was famed for were putting in their work here, though he could not help but wonder who, precisely, had taught her.

“Don’t you think it would be more interestin’ to give them somethin’ more to talk about?” she offered. Artoirel did not stop dead on the strength of reflex alone, but the hells-damned woman had felt the way he stiffened regardless, and it seemed only to egg her on.

“It would be unbecoming,” he managed, and Hilda tutted.

“You need to learn to relax,” she disagreed.

They turned again, Artoirel holding his arm out just so, her gloved hand in his. He could not tell if she was fooling with him and - to his rapidly growing embarrassment - could not tell if he wanted her to be or not.

If his mother had been alive, she would have fainted at the notion of her eldest carrying on some scandalous affair with a commoner, and a half-blood at that. But she had been wrong about Haurchefant - he had loved him as a brother, or tried to, in the gulf between the two of them. There was no need for distinction between high and low-born now, and besides - did her ruby-red eyes not speak of a noble heritage that she had quite rightly cast aside as worthless?

She had asked first, he supposed.

“Perhaps we shall discuss this further when this event has concluded,” he allowed, and Hilda raised an eyebrow. She was surprised, but not displeased, and Artoirel wondered what that said for his character.

“Perhaps we shall, Lord Artoirel,” she said. “Damn, I owe Stephanivien ten gil now.”

Artoirel thought he should not have been surprised.

[her-leading-man]

Re-branding D/s - Leaders and followers

I have written in the past about how I prefer to use the term Leader/follower when describing relationships where there is an exchange of one power between the two parties.  It does not matter to me if the relationship is Master/slave, Dominant/submissive, Daddy/baby girl or any of the other perfectly acceptable varieties of the dynamic.  These are all different forms of the same relationship dynamic.  The nuances of each meet the needs of the particular participants and that is a wonderful thing.  But Leader/follower is an over-arching term that describes all of these relationships in whatever form they take.

Why is a new term helpful? There are several points that make me feel as though a re-branding is in order.  They are all coming at it from the standpoint that you should care what the vanilla world thinks about D/s.

We need more power exchange participants.  Markets and economies are ruled by the balance of supply and demand.  At this point, there is an imbalance in the supply of “good” Dominants and the number of willing submissives.  Sure there are males and females who claim to be a Dominant/Domme, but we all know that many of these are just kinksters looking to prey on those who are driven to explore their sexuality.  They aren’t really willing, able and deserving of the Dom/Domme title or anyone’s submission.

If you want there to be more Dominants that are learning to be strong leaders, you’re going to have to win them over from the vanilla world.  The vanilla world is not teaching people how to be leaders.  The vanilla world teaches that relationships flourish when everyone is 50/50 with control and decisions are made by consensus opinion. Power exchange relationships do not agree with that thinking.  Across the timeline of humanity, power exchange relationships have been the norm. Granted, often that came with oppression and seeing one party as being inferior.  We have evolved from that thinking, but the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction.  Just because we have evolved from oppression, it does not mean that we have to adapt to an egalitarian form of decisions making.

Dominance and submission are not positively received by the vanilla world.  The two main terms that make up our brand are littered with negative connotations.  Let’s look at them separately.  Try to think like someone who is vanilla.  You probably love these terms because you have had positive experiences with them.  But someone who is vanilla just sees them for what they are and has to grapple with their connotations.

Dominance - The dictionary definition of dominance is technically accurate.  It is the condition of being dominant.  It is the disposition of an individual to assert control in dealing with others. All of this is true.  But put yourself in the frame of mind of someone who is not familiar with power exchange.  Does someone who is vanilla want to be dominated?  Who are the dominant people that come to mind when they think about who in history has been dominant? It is probably the villain in a movie or one of a handful of fascist, maniacal dictators throughout history.  When they think about their supervisor at work, do they long for them to be a dominant personality?  My guess is no.  They want their boss to be a good leader.  They want to trust their boss to make good decisions and to lead their team in the direction that is best.

Submission - So dominance as a word is not great.  Is submission any better?  How has our culture viewed submission as a word?  What feelings does the term evoke to someone who is vanilla?  Terms like “beaten into submission” probably come to mind. Or perhaps they remember back when they were in church and were taught from an old man behind a pulpit that wives were to not speak in church and were to submit to and obey their husbands. How many of the people who run from the word submission have been taught since they were a toddler how they should follow their leaders and respect authority?  All of them.

D/s is inextricably linked to BDSM in the minds of the vanilla world.  BDSM is not the same as D/s.  You may like BDSM.  You may like D/s.  But they are not the same and it is not a requirement that people like both.  Tops and bottoms love BDSM but aren’t in a power exchange relationship.  Many Dominants and submissives love their D/s relationship, but rarely incorporate BDSM play into their dynamic.  When it comes to the vanilla world though, most of the world is NOT a fan of BDSM. When someone in the vanilla world hears about BDSM or worse yet types it into their search engine, what are they going to see?  A red room of pain.  Black patent leather.  Gags. Whips.  Bondage.  There is nothing wrong with any of these things as long as the participants consent and are willing to engage in them.  But these things are not going to give the vanilla world an accurate view of the beauty of power exchange relationships.  In the minds of the vanilla world though, BDSM and D/s are inextricably linked.  You don’t have one without the other.  The end result is that it makes D/s easily dismissed as being something that those kinky people do.  

Why Leader and follower? Are these words better?  I don’t know.  I did not want to complain without offering a solution.  Leader/follower is the best term that I could come up with that would easily convey the power exchange in a non-threatening and positive light.  If we want more people to embrace power exchange relationships, we need to use terms that do not have such dramatically negative connotations.  Let’s look at Leader and follower and their connotations:

Leader - I asked earlier who will come to mind if you ask someone to name a real life dominant personality.  The results would probably not be good.  Now let’s ask that same person to name real life Leader.  The list would no doubt be long and give us many positive memories of someone admired.  Thousands of books have been written for decades on how to be a good Leader. There are so many resources from which would-be Leaders can pull in their development.

Follower - We are taught that it is good and appropriate to follow Leaders from an early age.  We are taught to respect our elders and also those who are authority figures like policemen and firemen.  Later in life, we are taught to obey our teachers, coaches and professors.  It isn’t threatening and no one feels oppressed by it.  There are positive connotations all around.

These are my opinions and opinions are like armpits.  Everyone has them and sometimes they stink.  I really don’t expect anyone to follow suit.  But I am a business man and I do enjoy strategic thinking.  Because I am passionate about D/s, I do think strategically about how it can be advanced.  To be advanced, I feel that it needs to be more widely accepted. Perhaps a re-branding can help in that regard.

What are your thoughts on the need to re-brand?

HLM

[minervacasterly]

👑 🌹Queen Katherine & King Henry VIII 🌹👑

The fateful moment is coming, with season 2 of "The Spanish Princess" setting the stage for Katherine of Aragon's transition to motherhood. Unfortunately, this was a road that was paved with much sorrow that eventually ended in tragedy for the Spanish Infanta who was once held as the epitome of female virtue and triumph. The lasting effects of Katherine's downfall were more heartfelt for her daughter, who ultimately fulfilled her and her mother's ambitions and became queen. But as with everything in Katherine's life, Mary's triumph was temporary and it came at a high cost.

Notwithstanding these tragedies, it's in everyone's best interest to depict the happy moments in KOA and Henry VIII's union. Despite the miscarriages, tragic death of their firstborn son, the couple remained together for over twenty years. Even after it became clear KOA could no longer bear any more children, Henry VIII still shared a bed with her and he always took especial care to be seen together in public so any rumor concerning his possible estrangement to her was proven wrong. Yet, Kings aren't meant to be happy. Charles V wrote to his son (Philip) when he was a teenager, that kingship was a prison. Trust and depend on no one but yourself.

If Henry also came across this advice, it is clear he took it more to heart than his one time nephew and later rival's son. Notwithstanding the initial joy the young couple experienced, the needs of his dynasty, his country (which happened to coincide with some of his own selfish needs), destroyed Katherine's last hope of keeping her union intact and her daughter, Henry's one true heir.

Presenting the joyous rapture felt by the young couple as well from their new subjects will help history buffs and newcomers to this era understand why a lot of the English people were outraged with Henry's decision to annul his marriage with KOA and break away with Rome. The most outraged were (unsurprisingly) the common folk. For one, they knew that big changes were coming as a consequence of Henry becoming pope of his new church, and attacking the Catholic institutions that had economically sustained them for hundreds of years. Secondly, but no less important, was their love for Henry's Spanish consort. Unlike most of her foreign predecessors, Katherine's apparently docility, humility, excessive charity and kind tact quickly won over the English people. During the May Day riots, she fulfilled her duties, begging her husband to spare the lives of the violent rioters. This display of queenly behavior and female subjection further reinforced their view of Katherine as the epitome of female virtue and role model.

In her biography on Mary I of England, Linda Porter explains that their quick acceptance of Katherine is easily explained by her rigorous education and (almost) unusual upbringing. Katherine received an education that was enviable by many royals at the time. Religious devotion and domestic duties expected of a royal consort were drilled into her and her sisters from birth, but unlike most princesse, she also received a scholarl upbringing almost equal to that of princes. Queen Isabella I of Castile wanted her daughters to take advantages of the opportunities presented to them. She and Ferdinand II of Aragon wanted all of their children to outshine other royals, in manner of dress, religious demeanor, and with their academic upbringing. The latter made Katherine a suitable match for Prince Arthur and later King Henry VIII.

Less than a year after Henry VIII and Katherine's joint coronation, scholars and courtiers were still singing praises of the young couple. Thomas More, most of all, pointed to the obvious.

"Henry had certainly grown into an impressive young man. According to Thomas More’s coronation verses, he had ‘strength worthy of his regal person’ and stood taller than his companions. There was ‘fiery power’ in his eyes, Venus in his face and ‘such colour in his cheeks as is typical of twin roses’. Yet he possessed other skills, too. He was skilled in the physical arts of war, with ‘his hand … as skilled as his heart is brave’ with ‘the naked sword, or an eager charge with levelled lances, or an arrow aimed to strike a target’. More also described how Henry’s virtue ‘shone forth from his face’ and his countenance bore ‘the open message of a good heart’. Wisdom dwelled in his judicious mind and his breast was untroubled; he bore his lot with modest chastity, his gentle heart was warmed by clemency and his mind far from arrogant. He deserved to rule for restoring laws to their ‘ancient form and dignity’ and his natural gifts had been enhanced by a ‘liberal education’, with his father’s wisdom and his mother’s ‘kindly strength’. Henry was also Catherine’s intellectual equal, having studied the Classics, French, Latin, Italian, theology, modern sciences and composing music, as well as playing upon the flute, virginals and recorder. His devotion was also commendable; the king usually heard Mass three times daily – and sometimes as often as five times a day – and it was common for him to hear vespers and compline with the queen in her chambers. This was the man with whom Catherine fell in love. In all things, he seemed to be her perfect match just as she was his.

More’s praise for the new queen extolled her birth and qualities as qualifiers that made her Henry’s true equal:

'This lady, prince, vowed to you for many years, through a long time of waiting remained alone for love of you. Neither her own sister nor her native land could win her from her way; neither her mother nor her father could dissuade her. In her you have as wife one whom your people have been happy to see sharing your power, one for whom the powers above care so much that they distinguish her and honor her by marriage with you. In her expression, in her countenance, there is a remark-able beauty uniquely appropriate for one so great and good. It was you, none other, whom she preferred to her mother, sister, native land, and beloved father. This blessed lady has joined in lasting alliance two nations, each of them powerful. She is descended from great kings, to be sure; and she will be the mother of kings as great as her ancestors. Until now one anchor has protected your ship of state – a strong one, yet only one. But your queen, fruitful in male offspring, will render it on all sides stable and everlasting. Great advantage is yours because of her, and similarly is hers because of you. There has been no other woman, surely, worthy to have you as husband, nor any other man worthy to have her as wife.'"

- Six Wives and the Many Mistresses of Henry VIII by Amy Licence

It is unclear how the season will end. But given it is the final season, there is a strong chance that the last episodes will flash forward to the Blackfriars trial, when Katherine defiantly told Henry maintained her purity at the time she became his wife, making her the true queen. The series is based on "The Constant Princess" & "The King's Curse" by Philippa Gregory. The first focuses on a young Katherine, opening with her parents triumph in Granada and ending with her coming doom as she walks into Blackfriars, ready to give Henry and the other people present, the performan of her life. The latter centers around Margaret Pole and ends more tragically. Given what we have seen in the trailer and the adult Boleyn sisters, it can be concluded that the season last two episodes will end with the aforementioned scene in Blackfriars then fast forward to her exile, death and Margaret Pole's downfall as a consequence of Katherine's own downfall. However it ends, the depiction of their marriage will be the main selling point as well as the audience's interest in the couple. If the latter continues, this will mean a stronger appreciation of Katherine's story and a dismissal of the tired old view of her as the boring, over doting, submissive wife.

Let's hope that's the case because an appreciation of a young Queen Katherine will also lead to a deeper look at the less explored early reign of Henry VIII in popular media.

[dwellordream]

Hey, I don't know if you are in the mood for such frippery, but would you do a director's cut on chapter 69? That is one of my most reread chapters of h/h, and not simply because Nell and Harry are arguing in church.

It’s been a long time since I did one, but I can try:

Nell starts off the chapter believing the Neck’s mystical reputation and location as the entry to the North is responsible for the return of her cryptic dreams.

She attempts to rationalize her old dreams of her mother and Sara Snow by telling herself it was just the subconscious manifestation of her insecurities and fears and guilt over her childhood, and also tries to dismiss the creeping sense that Robb and Grey Wind were linked from the very start, in a supernatural manner.

She also expresses worries and fears over the fact that Robb’s health has not improved during their travel north, and he and Grey Wind continue to avoid each other, whatever bond they had mangled. Meanwhile, Harry has confided in her his fears that they will start losing large numbers of men to desertion, as they enter the North and with the winter weather only worsening.

Nell acknowledges Harry’s more practical concerns but admits all she can focus on is getting Lysara back, and then goes into her latest nightmare. While pregnant she dreamed of a son leading her through a peaceful, sunny Riverrun. Now she’s left Riverrun, perhaps permanently, and dreams of an older Lysara leading her through the dungeons of the Dreadfort, the exact inversion of her old hopeful dreams.

Nell acknowledges that they are down in the crypts near her dead siblings, and is alarmed when Lysara runs ahead, leading her straight to a flayed figure. Nell initially believes the person is Bethany, then realizes in horror that it’s actually herself, comforting Lysara. Nell reacts furiously to her almost-dead self, commanding the figure to release Lysara; instead the flayed Nell begins to strangle her own child.

On the one hand, this dream expresses a very literal fear of her own father and brother; if captured by them her fate is likely to be gruesome. On the other hand, this dream also reflects Nell’s childhood dread of her home- the place she should have felt safe, but never did- and the lost potential of a home with Robb and Lysara, as well as guilt over losing her daughter and blaming herself for the possibility of Lysara’s death.

It also acknowledges that Nell would rather Lysara be dead than grow up abused and terrified of Roose and Ramsay, something she cannot admit in real life, that she would rather Lysara have a quick death than a lifetime of suffering.

Upon waking angrily, Nell rejects her Bolton heritage and the Dreadfort’s claim on her once again, thinking that her only pride was always in her mother’s legacy, not her father’s. She trues to convince herself Lysara must be alive and unharmed, but admits she never believed Roose would betray and murder Robb, either.

Nell reflects on the crannogmen’s isolated existence; like the mountain clans they prefer to marry amongst themselves, as their insular, hard lifestyle is very hard for most outsiders, even fellow northerners, to adjust to.

Arden Greengood shows up to inform them that his father Karl Greengood has notified Greywater Watch, who is coming to them, rather than them trying to find it. Now the army just has to wait, not exactly a comfortable experience in the middle of the swamps and marsh.

Arya feels suffocated because she doesn’t have any child companions since Harry sent him back south to Starfall, judging the travel north too dangerous for Edric and that his aunt Allyria must be worried sick about him. Nell is sympathetic but unwilling to let Arya wander, after having just reunited her with her mother.

Nell also knows that Oldtown is in danger from Euron’s fleet, but is privately relieved the Ironborn are not trying to attack the North again for the time being.

Arya expressed worry for the former household of Winterfell, and wants to rescue whoever is still alive, remembering them all by name, to Nell’s surprise. There also seems to be a massive wolf pack following the army north, though Nell doesn’t connect them to Arya.

Nell wants to sacrifice a goat to the old gods for their continued safety as they travel north. She is unnerved by Robb’s disinterest and refusal to participate, not because he disagrees with sacrifice but because he is now apathetic towards the gods, and frightens Nell by telling her he didn’t feel them when he died, or like he was going to any kind of afterlife. He only felt the painful, horrifying sensation of his soul being unwillingly forced back into his corpse.

Nell argues that the gods meant to help them by returning Robb to her, and that they must have some great purpose for him. Robb denies this, and reacts angrily, telling her he doesn’t feel or think all the things she believes he should. He remembers he loves her, but that’s it, and blames himself for being ‘weak’ and not seeing the betrayal coming, which Nell rejects, calling himself a failure.

He reviled the fear he felt when Roose killed him, and tells Nell he no longer fears, so he won’t fail again. He wants her to give the goat to Grey Wind to eat instead, as hunger is one of the few things that matters to him anymore. Nell is distraught and refuses, telling him to go see Catelyn, who still loves him, even if she is afraid.

We then get to the infamous godswood scene. The godswood in the neck are all tiny islands and islets, not proper sprawling gardens. The baby goat obliviously accompanies Nell, and when she kills it she almost breaks down into tears at its trusting innocence. Despite this, Nell still arranges its entrails and prays, hoping the slaughter of the innocent goat will appease the gods, who, ironically, she views as hungry and unfeeling as Robb himself.

Harry then shows up to interrupt her alone time, much to her annoyance. They speak about the coming fight for Moat Cailin and he warns her that the North may not automatically flock back to Robb’s cause, and that Barbrey may sell them out. Nell is infuriated and insists Barbrey is only going along with Roose to protect Lysara, while Harry warns her not to depend on House Dustin or Ryswell for support, especially after the execution of her uncle.

This then devolves into a general fight over Robb. Harry flat out tells her Robb is dead, never getting better, and that most people know it. He also insinuates that while Robb can still fight, he could never rule as king again after this. Nell is incensed and accuses Harry of speaking treason, which he ignores, insisting she is in denial. He also accuses Robb of being a warg, which Nell takes as him calling Robb a heartless monster.

Nell calls him a power hungry fool blinded by his own fear, which be explodes at, reminding her that he helped get them this far in the first place, and reunited Arya with her family. If he wanted power he could have easily killed Robb (again) and left Nell to her fate. This is somewhat ironic as we later find out that Harry almost did kill Robb when he was being revived.

He reminds Nell that his family line descends from the Starks and that they want the same thing, while Nell realizes, despite her fury, that he is isn’t lying or trying to manipulate her. She almost feels she can read him better than she can Robb, which frightens her. This sense of intimacy with Harry is disturbing as Robb slips further and further from her.

Finally, Nell admits that Robb may not be able to rule after they take back Winterfell, but won’t consider what might happen to him, just insists that Lysara is still his heir and will someday be queen. She wants Lysara to be loved and respected, even if the North never loves Nell herself as her family’s actions.

Harry admits she will never be publicly loved, but points out the first Starks were not loved after conquering the North, either, even though they viewed their actions, like all conquerors, as part of the greater good. However the Stark name is still beloved now, even though they were hated by many at the start of their dynasty.

Harry warns her again against putting her faith in Robb’s rule, and that’s that.

Nell admits that what she and Harry just discussed was treason, and that she can no longer confide in Robb. He has no more room for nuance or understanding of these things and would kill Harry immediately. She also finally admits to herself that he is actively dying. Despite her desperate prayers, they will never live a long and happy life together, even if they get their daughter back. She is going to lose him again, and doesn’t know if she can go through the grief again.

Lying awake with Robb that night, he surprises her by asking about the color of Lysara’s eyes. Nell admits sadly that she doesn’t know, it’s been so long. Ruefully she asks what color he’d prefer, which he can’t answer. They fall asleep together dwelling on their loss, and in the morning Greywater Watch arrives.

[kitkat404]

✏️✏️✏️ to get 3 out of it (or only one if you only want to do one)

Another body hits the lockers beside her much more gently.

“You okay, Tara?”

Sky can’t fight the small smile that graces her lips at the sound of that voice.

Connor Jenkins has been Sky’s best friend since they were young, though over the years they’ve been forced to drift apart. Connor’s father is of the opinion that boys cannot be friends with girls because it makes them gay. An opinion that Sky frankly thinks is completely ridiculous. Though she has to admit that Mr. Jenkins isn’t completely wrong on the whole “gay” front.

Connor came out to Sky back in middle school. Sky’s sister Lizzie was holding a sleepover at their house with some other friends and the two of them hadn’t been able to sleep. They had climbed out of Sky’s window and were sitting on the roof, reminiscing the past few years as they prepared to enter high school.

If someone asked Sky how they got onto the topic in the first place she wouldn’t be able to tell them, but suddenly Connor was crying and spilling his guts to her, and then the words were out and there was silence. Connor had his head buried in his hands, sniffling as tears poured down his cheeks, just waiting for the rejection he knew was coming. Sky remembers being left speechless for a moment before his words fully registered, and without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him in the tightest hug she had ever given. Connor had sobbed into her shoulder, apologizing over and over while Sky tried to calm him down.

They ended up staying on the roof until sunrise, Sky flinging about a million random, silly questions at Connor in an effort to cheer him up. It worked, and eventually, he became a bit more open about discussing his sexuality. Connor told Sky how he figured out he was gay, they talked about different people who brought that realization, and by the time they went back inside, Sky was starting to wonder why Connor’s words resonated so deeply with her. At that point, she had been so tired that she just shrugged it off and went to sleep.

Connor is a bit different from the other boys in their community. On the surface he doesn’t appear to be anything special; fair, pinky skin, wavy ginger hair with an undercut, hazel eyes, and a long, lanky body. Overall unremarkable in appearance, but his personality is where you can see how different he really is. Connor is one of the sweetest people Sky has ever met. He’s sincere and gentle, soft-spoken, and not one to defend himself. He holds a level of empathy that Sky hasn’t seen in any other guy in the Gilded Gates, which often gets him in trouble. Back in grade school, Connor was very sensitive, he still is but especially back then; he cried easily, and the other kids had taken to picking on him. He was seen as an easy target, not just to his peers, but to his family as well.

Mr. Jenkins radiates the energy of a high school bully who never grew up. The man is bitter and petty and it often seems like he has nothing better to do except making his son’s life miserable. Pretty much every household in the Gilded Gates has an air of toxic masculinity, an idea that “real men” show no emotion; it's disgusting.

The girl breaks herself from her reverie when she realizes she still hasn’t answered Connor. He looks to her expectantly, though patient. She gives him a thin smile and shrugs. He chuckles, patting her shoulder and dragging her off to class.

Later that day, Connor approaches Sky on her way home from school. The two take the same street but because of where they’re headed, they never talk. Sky gives the ginger-haired boy an inquisitive look, and he simply hands her a slip of paper and holds her gaze for a meaningful moment, then keeps walking. Sky glances at the paper, then at Connor’s retreating back. She shoves the paper in her pocket for later and continues home.

On the surface, the Taras seems like your normal, cookie-cutter family. A father, a mother, twin daughters, and grandma. But that is far from the truth. Sky’s father is a cruel man. He is stoic and cold, many would claim they’ve never heard the man utter an ‘I love you,’ not even to his own wife and daughters. He cares for nothing but business and reputation. Sky’s mother is vindictive and vain. She carries a melancholy air to her, as well as a pervasive smell of booze. Nana tells them there was love once, long before they were born, but somewhere along the way that love died. Ever since then, Mrs. Tara has turned to the bottle as her only true companion, and Mr. Tara has drowned himself in his work. What little time the couple leaves for their children is focused almost solely on Sky’s sister, her older twin, Elizabeth. They sing their praises for Lizzie, rewarding her accomplishments, however big or small they may be.

Sky and Lizzie may be twins, but the two are completely different. Lizzie is perfect, everything their parents want in a daughter, everything their society expects of a young lady. She gets good grades and participates in after school clubs. Lizzie volunteers at church functions and always has a smile on her face. She wears pretty dresses or blouses and skirts, with light makeup accentuating her features. They have the same face, yet Lizzie is the pretty twin.

Sky is the exact opposite. She is rough around the edges, closed off, and quiet. She rarely, if ever, smiles and actively avoids large groups of people, especially her peers. Sky wears rugged, baggy clothes and is often dirty in some way, shape, or form. She gets decent grades, but they aren’t perfect. Sky instead found her niche in writing, specifically poetry and songwriting. She developed a love of music and classic literature and found a sanctuary within these interests, her own little world to escape to inside her mind when life got to be too much.

As far as physical appearance, the twins are basically identical. Porcelain skin with Asian features, straight, shiny black hair with thick fringe, piercing blue eyes, thin lips, upturned noses, high cheekbones, thin faces, and slim builds. Sky is noticeably more muscular than Lizzie, while Lizzie sets herself apart from her sister by walking with perfect, pretty posture where Sky is always slouching.

Dinner with the Taras is a quiet event. Only the adults are allowed to talk, and they almost never do. Sometimes Sky’s father will talk about work and her grandmother will give him some form of verbal acknowledgment, but oftentimes the table is silent save for silverware scraping against plates. The girls may not leave the table until they are dismissed, at which point everyone splits off. Sky’s mother moves to the kitchen to do dishes, while Sky’s father and grandmother retire to the living room, along with Lizzie, who entertains them with piano. Sky meanwhile goes upstairs to hide in her room for the rest of the night and drown herself in homework and books.

[lu-undy]

Chapter 26 - SBT

Here it is!

"And there we go. Darts are back to full." 

Mundy put them aside. He had worked all morning in the back of his campervan on making more ammunition for when he would go to the old sugar factory up North. He wasn't sure when was the best time to go or what he should expect.

"Guess there's one way to find out." 

He exited the back of his van and jumped at the front. 

"Right, let's go." 

The hunter started the engine and drove away from the lake. A bit under an hour later, he found himself in the dirtiest neighbourhood of town. The sound of his heeled boots resonated on the pavement. Kids ran past him and Mundy watched as people were coming and going. He passed the alley that Maurice had taken him through a few weeks ago, and as it was lunchtime, he saw the poorest souls of the city lining up for some warm soup. 

"Speaking of the devil..." 

He stopped and turned at the familiar voice.

"Ah, Maurice. I was lookin' for you." 

The beggar was exiting a house on the side.

"Just in time." Maurice said.

"Oh, you were lookin' for me too?" 

"Not exactly, but how can I help?" 

"I got a few things to ask you." Mundy answered. 

"Then let us go in." Maurice opened the door to that same house again. "After you." 

A few minutes later, the hunter and the beggar were sitting underground.

"Go ahead." Maurice said as both took a seat. 

"First things first, how's Eric?" Mundy asked. As he recalled the events, he had brought the poor man to Maurice in the early hours of the morning that day.

"Him and his family are safe, he is out of Duchemin's sight too, don't worry." 

"Ah, that's good to know, thanks mate." 

"His thigh is much better too. The doctor said that it would be a matter of days and he might even not have a scar after a few months." 

"Perfect." 

"But tell me, Mundy, did you manage to get the animals you were after?"

"Well, I went to get the 'gators." 

"Did you find them?" 

"I did, yeah. I found them and a few extra corcs that belong to the West reserve."

"Ah, congratulations then. You must feel proud." 

"Yeah, well…" Mundy seemed hesitant.

"Ah, I see. You will be truly satisfied when you retrieve all of the animals, hm?"

Mundy bobbed his head left and right. 

"Yes and no. When I went to get the alligators there was a bloke there. He wasn't Duchemin's."

"Ah." Maurice faked his surprise.

"Turns out he wasn't in for the alligators, but for Duchemin himself." 

"Hm-mh." Maurice nodded. 

"You know the bloke?" 

"I might. Was he very well dressed, suit and tie? Expensive Italian shoes?" 

"I didn't pay attention to his shoes, but yeah he was wearing a suit and tie, and a weird ski mask." 

Maurice's bushy eyebrows jumped. 

"A man of tradition he is…" He mumbled to himself. 

"So you do know him?" 

"I used to, yes. Now, I am not so sure. More than a decade flashed between then and now..." Maurice raised his eyes to Mundy. He wanted that sentence to echo in him. The hunter looked away for a second. Without saying it, Maurice was really saying that it was the same for Mundy. More than a decade flashed between then and now...

"Who is he? What is he?" The Aussie finally broke the short silence that weighed a lot, strangely enough.

"Ah, well, those questions both require long answers. What did he tell you about himself?" Maurice couldn't hold back a smile. He was literally quoting himself from his conversation with Lucien.

"Well, I don't know. But the bloke sure knows how to fight. I saw him bounce off a wall and practically unscrew one of Duchemin's men's jaw with his foot while having his hands cuffed! Complete madness! And then he tortured Eric…! Put his tiny butter knife in his thigh and didn't think twice about it!"

Mundy paused to catch his breath. He removed his hat off his head and put it on the large oval table. 

"And that's just what he does. When he speaks, he's colder than a snake, brrr!" Mundy shook his shoulders as shivers shot through his spine. 

"What is your point?" Maurice asked. 

"He wants Duchemin too." Mundy answered. "Does that make him an ally?" 

"I don't know." Maurice answered. "Did he seem like one?" 

"He helped. Well, he did save me from being shot behind that pillar…"

Maurice's lips pursed up in a smile. 

"Why are you not telling me more about him?" 

"Because that is none of my concern. I am merely here to provide the information I can to you."

"And to him, it seems, eh?" 

"It does seem so." 

"Why does he want Duchemin?" Mundy asked. "When he tortured that poor bloke to know where Duchemin was, he… He looked horribly insensitive. It's like he wasn't feeling an ounce of the pain that he was causing." 

"He is very cold-blooded, indeed. That makes him extremely efficient." 

Mundy frowned and nodded. 

"Doesn't tell me why he wants Duchemin." 

"For very different yet very similar reasons to you." Maurice answered. 

"Pff…" Mundy smiled and rolled up his eyes. "You couldn't make less sense if you wanted." 

"Is there something I can help you with?" Maurice asked to change the subject. Mundy raised his eyes to him and left them hanging there, from over his yellow sunglasses, before nodding. 

"Yeah, the old sugar factory." Mundy started. "Apparently that's where Duchemin has the rest of the stolen beasts. I'd like to know how many and what sizes."

Maurice's eyebrows jumped. 

"I see. Give me a few days and I will see what I can learn from there." 

"Right. Anything I can do to repay the favour?" Mundy asked. 

"Favour?" Maurice repeated. "What favour?" 

"Your help. I'm not paying you, nor am I helping you out in any way. Maybe I can do something for you?" 

Maurice chuckled gently. 

"No, Mundy, nothing you can do." 

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do, eh?" 

The Aussie grabbed his hat off the table and put it on his head as he stood up and headed for the door to leave.

"Actually, one thing, Mundy." 

"Yeah?" He stopped sharp and turned. 

"Take a break while I work on getting you some intelligence. You look like you could do with a quiet day, maybe two."

"Well, I… Thanks." 

Both men nodded at each other and Mundy left. 

-- Later that day -- 

Mundy was laying on top of his campervan, on the roof. His hat was covering his head as he napped there. The sandwich he got for lunch had put him to sleep very easily and all he had needed after that was a good nap next to the lake. The shy waves softly rolled to the shore and they repeated their languid motion until the hunter had fallen asleep.

He slowly opened his eyes and felt the sun cook him gently. He loved that feeling. All the warmth he wasn't getting from fellow humans, he got from the big day star that is the sun. Mundy pushed his hat away from his face and took a deep breath.

"Gosh…"

Maurice's words came back to him. 

"You look like you could do with a quiet day, maybe two."

Mundy had been about to explain why he had big bags under his eyes. But decided against it.

It was the nightmares. They were unbearable as of late. He had wild visions. His parents, the farm, fire. Flames that devoured, consumed. His father with a rifle. His mother screaming. The pan of mac'n'cheese overflowing. Black. Red. Orange. Yellow. 

Black again, silence, darkness. And his father's voice. 

Crazed gunman. 

No. He wasn't a crazed gunman. No, no! He treated nature with utmost respect, he… He did his best! He never killed for fun and he never accepted killing contracts! It was only scaring poachers away! 

You should have stuck to playin' the saxophone, son. Honest job, honest pay. 

But there was nothing dishonest about trying to save the wildlife! And if he didn't do it, who would? No one! Everyone cared about animals but never enough to actually get out there and save them! And Goddamn it! If only animals could speak, then we would hear their pain and anxiety as we burn and destroy their lands, as we hunt them for their very skins or their bones! Imagine! Being hunted for your skin! 

Why don't you care about people? You could help the community out. 

By doing what? I'm shit with people. 

That's because you never really tried. 

Yeah, I did, countless times. Dad, I… People are complicated. They lie, they're never straight and I never understand what they want with me… 

The disappointment in his father's eyes screamed in his head louder than church bells. It was deafening and burning his eyes. Mundy looked the other way, his cheeks crimson. His father and him never understood each other. Never. And his mother? She tried, she was always particularly sensitive when it came to her son. But his father would always dismiss it, take it for a woman's weakness. 

"Stop!" 

Mundy roared as he put his hands on his ears and sat up in a flash. He breathed heavily and grasped his hair left and right. 

"Nnh!" 

He hated to hear it again, his father's disappointment. It ripped his heart apart. He wished he could explain himself to him more, maybe this time he would understand…? But no, there was no way. Apart from going to the cemetery and talking to a bit of stone, there was no way. And then Mundy thought about all the conversations he wouldn't have with his parents, the meals he didn't and wouldn't share, the chicken and geese of the farm that he dearly missed. But what pained him the most was of course, the words he would never hear his father and mother say… 

Mundy got off his van's rooftop and slipped in his campervan. He put his hands in his pockets and saw the black suit that was hanging from the bed rails. It had been a bit more than a week now and he hadn't found it in himself to hang it back in his cupboard. Mundy stared at it silently for a moment. He sighed and felt something in his pocket again. 

"What…? Ah." 

First the suit. Now the leaflet. Stars were aligning. 

-- Evening -- 

"Have you made your choice, Sir?" 

"Ah, yeah, I'll take this chocolate dessert of yours."

"Anything else with that, Sir?"

"Uh, no, thanks." 

The blue leathered menu went from naked hands that showed decades under the sun to white gloved ones, and the waiter disappeared, leaving the man with the ponytail in peace at his table. 

Mundy quickly did the ribbon to tie his hair again before leaning back on his chair. He looked up and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. Through the impressive chandeliers, he could see the paintings. Little plump angels playing some kind of ancien trumpets, clouds, golden streaks of paints that shone beautifully despite the age of the establishment; all that in a very light pink background that must have been much brighter a long, long time before. 

Take a break, Maurice had said. Well, the van had decided that the best thing for Mundy was to come back to that filthy posh place that is the Queen Victoria. Mundy himself wasn't particularly up for it, neither was he strongly against it. He just didn't like that he had to wear a suit for it. Although, now that he thought about it, it wasn't as narrow as the last time he had put it on. 

"Does this table suit you?" 

"Oh, yeah, sure, thanks." 

Mundy's daydream was broken by the voices of the people at the table in front of him, a young couple. The waiter pulled the chair for the girl to sit and gave them both menus before leaving. 

"How did you manage to get us a table here?" The young man asked his girlfriend when the waiter was out of earshot.

"Oh, I have my ways…" She smirked. 

"Do you?" He played along and she nodded, chuckling. "Nah, seriously tell me." He insisted. 

"The bloke who sings." She said and Mundy's ears pricked up. "He's a client at work, and a friend. I made a bet with him and he owed me a table here."

"Woah… What was the bet?" The young man asked. 

"He said he could be hired here and I didn't believe him. So I said to him that if he did get hired, then he'd owe me one dinner here." 

"I see. Well, please do make more bets like these, eh. But uh, was the bet not to have dinner with him?" 

Mundy half smiled. He could hear the young man's worries in the tone of his voice. He knew that the poor bloke feared that his sheila would have preferred to have dinner with that fancy singer.

"No, yes, I mean. Charlie, it's not what you think…" She said and put her hand on his. "You'll see him when he starts singing. He's old enough to be my dad…! No, he is just a friend, don't worry."

"Right… Otherwise I guess all I have left is to try and sing better than him, eh?"

Mundy smiled. He was happy for both of them but he wished that they really knew the amount of luck God had blessed them both with. Maybe they knew, surely they didn't, or at least they were too busy staring in each other's eyes to dwell on that thought too much. No, that could wait. Now was their time, the time of him and her.

"Your dessert, Sir." 

The waiter's voice pulled Mundy's eyes from the couple in front to him to his own plate. 

"Ah, thanks." 

His eyes went one last time to the lovebirds table as he started eating the dessert. They were sitting left and right from the candle. The flame was dancing in balance at the equilibrium point in the middle of the invisible thread that held their gaze into one another. Mundy looked at the candle on his own table and raised his eyes. There was no one in the empty chair in front of him, he sighed. 

"Ladies and gentlemen…!" 

Mundy raised his head to the stage as the lights went down low. He put his spoon on his empty plate and listened carefully. 

"Tonight, our dear Lulu and his orchestra have prepared something in his native tongue! Lulu? The floor is yours…!" 

The thick red curtains slowly rolled left and right and there he was. Under a bright spotlight, wearing a dark blue suit this time. The light only showed him on a piano. He looked at the microphone and took a deep breath before starting. But he didn't sing, no, he spoke. 

"I would like to dedicate this song to the half that I lost ten years ago now. She was… the light of my life, the one who brought peace to me, who made a man of me. I…" He raised his eyes. "C'est pour toi, mon amour."

[This one is for you, my love.]

Mundy couldn't even gulp down. The intensity, the force with which that man spoke…! The Aussie felt himself sink deeper in his chair. But what caught his ear was the accent. Now that he thought about it, it was very similar to that other French bloke. 

The singer lowered his eyes to his fingers. He let them slowly sink on the keys in slow, mellow arpeggios. A sad song was coming, that was sure.

Hmm… Mundy liked it already. 

{To the reader: this song is called "La Solitude" by Barbara}

"Je l'ai trouvée devant ma porte

[I found her at my doorstep]

Un soir, que je rentrais chez moi

[One evening, as I was coming back home]

Partout, elle me fait escorte

[Everywhere, she accompanies me]

Elle est revenue, elle est là

[She has come back, here she is]

La renifleuse des amours mortes

[She can smell dead loves]

Elle m'a suivie, pas à pas"

[She followed me, step after step] 

Mundy wasn't understanding the lyrics but he could feel them because Music doesn't need to speak to be understood. No, she went beyond words and plucked on the Aussie's heartstrings directly.

"Elle nous fait le coeur à pleurer

[She makes us such that our hearts will cry]

Elle nous fait des matins blêmes

[She gives us pale mornings]

Et de longues nuits désolées

[And long, sad nights]

La garce ! Elle nous ferait même

[The bitch! She even makes]

L'hiver au plein coeur de l'été

[Winter come in the middle of summer]

The singer was handsome, sublime. He had that elegance, that charm that made everyone just hang on to his very lips, breathe when he did, hold their breath when he spoke, just to be sure to catch all of his music, his poetry, his heartbreak. 

"Dans ta triste robe de moire

[In your sad, iridescent dress]

Avec tes cheveux mal peignés

[With your dishevelled hair]

T'as la mine du désespoir

[Your ugly mug that shows despair]

Tu n'es pas belle à regarder

[You are ugly to look at]

Allez, va t-en porter ailleurs

[Come on, go take away]

Ta triste gueule de l'ennui

[Your ugly mug that shows boredom]

Je n'ai pas le goût du malheur

[I don't want to taste your misfortune]

Va-t-en voir ailleurs si j'y suis."

[Go away and see if I'm somewhere else.]

His fingers were more confident and the singer looked away to catch his breath for an instant. Mundy didn't even realise but he himself was leaning back on his chair, his long legs were flowing in front of him and he had put one foot on the other. He was… relaxed. The music had soothed him, yeah, it had brought him some peace. But oh, what was that? The singer was now facing the microphone again, his brow was furrowed, his eyes screwed shut. It was hard to sing those words out of him. 

"Je veux encore rouler des hanches

[I still want to roll my hips]

Je veux me saouler de printemps

[I want to get drunk on spring]

Je veux m'en payer, des nuits blanches

[I want to spend more sleepless nights]

A coeur qui bat, à coeur battant

[With my heart beating, my heart racing]

Avant que sonne l'heure blême

[Before the pale hour rings]

Et jusqu'à mon souffle dernier

[And until my last breath]

Je veux encore dire je t'aime

[I want to say I love you again]

Et vouloir mourir d'aimer"

[And want to die of love.]

Oh… Mundy thought he might actually have understood that. He couldn't really say but it was something in the way that the man in the impeccable suit and poetic hair was singing. There was the despair and frustration, the pain of the loss of a loved one that he wouldn't find ever again. The contradiction of knowing that this was certain, definitive, but still craving to wake up the next day and find that special person/people there.

"Depuis, elle me fait des nuits blanches

[Since then, she makes me spend sleepless nights]

Elle s'est pendue à mon cou

[She hangs herself around my neck]

Elle s'est enroulée à mes hanches

[She laced herself around my hips]

Elle se couche à mes genoux

[She sleeps on my lap]

Partout, elle me fait escorte

[Everywhere, she accompanies me]

Et elle me suit, pas à pas

[And she follows me, step after step]

Elle m'attend devant ma porte

[She waits for me at my own doorstep]

Elle est revenue, elle est là

[She has come back, she is here]

La Solitude, la Solitude"

[The Solitude, the Solitude]

Mundy's eyes snapped wide. The singer opened his eyes. Tears were running down his cheeks. He bit his lip and sniffed away from the microphone but Mundy saw it all and more importantly, the last words resonated in his head. 

"The Solitude."

That same ungrateful mistress that had the Aussie chained to his van, the same that had him wander hopelessly in the desert for years, the same that had him surviving but not living; because she had starved him of his senses. She had stolen his nose and mouth to prevent him from tasting anything but the bitterness of the misery she put him through, she had stolen his eyes to make sure he would see no one else but her, like a jealous, overly possessive wife that nonetheless gladly cheats with the first man to come…

That singer, he had put words, sounds, music, on what Mundy's despair had been for the entire past decade. How…? Each sound he uttered broke both of them. The singer, and the spectator, the Frenchman and the Aussie, two worlds from continents that should never have met and yet, they did. 

And who was to blame? That same insolent and perverse mistress. Solitude. 

The singer finished the song with a solo on the piano. He spoke to the microphone all along. 

"J'aimerais te revoir, un jour, 

[I would like to see you again, one day]

Juste une fois,

[Just one more time,]

Un soir

[One night]

T'enlacer,

[To hold you in my arms,]

Fondre sous la chaleur de ton corps." 

[Melt under the heat of your body.]

Mundy felt his throat shrink around a hot, unpleasant ball growing bigger and bigger, constricting his airway. He had been holding his breath, his fists were clenched like steel on his lap. 

That man who was murmuring to the microphone had no idea what he was doing. He had no clue that there, in the crowd, there was a man in a black suit, and yellow tinted glasses; a fully grown man who had killed, gutted and eviscerated more creatures than all of the people around them. And yet, that man in the ponytail was clenching his jaw, gritting his teeth and contracting his core. 

His eyes glistened under the candle.

[meteora-writes]

We Could Be Perfect One Last Night ch.5

Fandom: Hannibal Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham Warnings: Fluff, Cuddling Chapter: 5. Take My Hand Description: Hannibal sketches Will as he watches the storm and they plan for the future. Authors Notes: This chapter went waaaaaaay fluffier than I originally intended. I regret nothing. Read on AO3

~~~~~~ Read Ch.1 ~ Ch.2 ~ Ch.3 ~ Ch.4~~~~~

Will helps Hannibal lay back down once they’ve eaten lunch. It was clear the moment he sat down at the table that the simple act had taken all of his energy, leaving him pale and a touch dizzy. He admits as much when Will scolds him for pushing himself after warning Will against doing exactly that.

Despite being exhausted and in pain, Will can’t shut off his mind and rest. A part of him would like nothing more than to crawl into bed beside Hannibal and sink into unconsciousness. Another part knows if he tries he will either slip straight into nightmares or be unable to do anything but focus on the pain in his skull and the feeling of stitches in his mouth where they rub against the rolled-up gauze that covers them.

So, instead, he settles sideways on the couch with his back to one armrest. One arm thrown up over the back where his fingers fiddle with a torn bit of leather on the backrest near the top seam as he watches the storm rage outside the window beside him. The sight lets his thoughts drift in no particular direction while his eyes trace the swirling mix of snow and rain that come down to create a heavy blanket of white over the area.

The constant yet everchanging sight does so well distracting him that he doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until the wintery mix gets almost too hard to see without moving closer to the window thanks to the lack of light out. He watches shadows made of wind and ice dance in the darkness then.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hannibal’s voice cutting through the relative silence of the setting startles Will, making him jerk and quickly turn his head towards the man. The action makes his head throb sharply and he has to take a moment to breathe through the pain before he can say anything. “I was thinking that this weather is both a blessing and a curse.”

Hannibal hums in understanding and slowly moves to sit up in the bed. “The arrival of the storm was fortuitous, to say the least. Perhaps with a bit of luck that good fortune will carry on once it has passed.”

“I’m not sure luck has anything to do with it,” Will says as he looks from Hannibal back out the window. “After you’ve paid your final visits to Jack and Bedelia, where will you go?”

“That was one of the things I had wished to discuss with you. I have the means to get us out of the country and start a new life with new identities. We can go anywhere you like, within reason of course.” He had originally intended to stay at his family’s estate in Denmark for a time before arranging things to move elsewhere. Now, though, he really would like to know where Will would be interested in going.

If he truly intends to stay with Hannibal then the least Hannibal can offer is to let him choose where they settle. He knows Will’s preference to live somewhere surrounded by nature to help him deal with the more inconvenient aspects of his empathy disorder and other neurodivergent attributes. Hannibal prefers to live somewhere a bit more urbanized. Someplace with culture and a balance of natural and manmade beauty. But he can find other ways to strike that balance in his life.

“The FBI had your assets liquidated and distributed amongst the families of your known victims,” Will points out with a brief glance in Hannibal’s direction.

“A pittance. The funds they seized were merely what I set aside while working as a surgeon and psychiatrist. I have considerably more tucked away in various locations under a few well-established aliases,” Hannibal explains with ease. “So, tell me, Will. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you choose?”

“You know me, Hannibal. Just give me a stream to fish in and I’ll be content…” Will says almost dismissively, clearly still a bit zoned out. The thought of actually leaving this place and going off together feels like a fantasy. He knows logically that the two of them working together once they’re recovered enough can take care of both Bedelia and Jack without question. But a part of him finds the concept hard to grasp. That they could actually do just that and take off together once the deed is done seems like something he fantasized in a moment of desperate loneliness. A fever dream.

“That may be, but there are many places with quiet streams to lose one’s self in. Finding one to settle upon should not be taken so lightly,” Hannibal reasons. He recognizes the look in Will’s eyes. He’s a bit lost in himself at the moment. Will tends to answer his questions more honestly when he’s like this.

“How do you feel about boats?” Will counters after a moment without looking away from the window. His fingers are messing with the bit of torn leather once again, drawing Hannibal’s gaze to it a moment.

“I have a fondness for them. They can be a pleasant means of transportation when one is in no hurry. Why do you ask?” Hannibal asks despite already knowing what Will is about to suggest. He wants to hear Will’s proposal.

“We could take one and see where we end up.” He glances over at Hannibal as he makes the suggestion, watching him appraisingly through tired blue eyes. “Once we’ve gotten a safe distance away from anywhere that the authorities might think to watch the harbors for us, that is.”

That earns a smile from Hannibal. “When the storm has passed I’ll contact Chiyoh. She can make arrangements for us.” They set up a system years ago. People and places they can call or visit and leave a simple message to let the other know they need to meet if they cannot make direct contact. They may not have seen one another in three years, but she has sent him unaddressed postcards on his and Mischa’s birthday’s each year to let him know she is still out there and still considers him to be family. The FBI never questioned it since he’s received cards and letters from countless others. But only Chiyoh would know to send one with churches that have since collapsed on them.

“You’re still in contact with her?” Will asks, confusion and surprise clear in his voice as well as in the way he furrows his brow and tilts his head just a little. He only looks at him a moment before his gaze drifts back to the window.

“We have our ways of getting in contact when needed. And she is no doubt aware of my escape as well as our disappearance by now. If she wasn’t already in the country she will be arriving soon,” Hannibal explains as he shifts so that he can open the drawer of the small bedside table to his right. He had taken a look earlier and found a notepad and pencil inside that he intends to make use of.

He’s still feeling a bit drained, but he felt the desire to sketch strike him the moment he saw Will upon waking. The image of Will curled up in the glow of the firelight as he looks out the window and into the storm is one Hannibal wants to capture in some way other than simply in memory. “She will be more than capable of discreetly acquire anything we need.”

“Perks of having your own personal ninja in the family,” Will quips with another sidelong glance to Hannibal. “What if she doesn’t answer your call?”

“Then we are on our own. If for some reason she is unable to assist us we will make due. I have faith in our capabilities.” He doesn’t doubt Chiyoh will answer if he reaches out. They’ve always been loyal to one another. He can’t imagine her not coming to his aid, just as he would go to hers should she ever ask. “Which would you prefer, to sail or to command something a bit more modern?”

“Sails can be torn to shreds and rendered useless in a storm. Engines can always be fixed,” Will notes as he shifts a bit and pulls his legs a little closer where he has them bent on the couch before him. He’s curled sideways, knees pointing towards the backrest of the leather couch with the one unoccupied hand in his lap. His other is made the tear in the leather he’s been messing with a bit bigger in the time he’s been messing with it. He tugs at the small strip of torn leather, rubs it between his thumb and fingertips as his gaze stays on the frozen world outside the cabin. “Honestly I’m fine with either, but I prefer to have an engine on a boat. Especially if we’re going to be spending any real length of time on the water.”

Hannibal hums an acknowledgment as he finds a blank page in the notebook and begins to sketch. He briefly finds himself hoping that Will doesn’t feel inclined to move any time soon. Even if he does he can remember the details perfectly and easily recreate them from memory. But there is something to be said about being able to actively sketch your muse as they give you inspiration. For three years all he’s had to work with was the occasional guards and his memories to draw from. Having the opportunity to sketch Will in this moment is a true pleasure. And it is one he intends to savor.

“It’s rude to stare,” Will eventually says, earning a chuckle from Hannibal. It’s a familiar feeling, having Hannibal study and scrutinize him so. But it’s the first time the feeling has been accompanied by the sound of pencil scratching frantically over paper. It’s almost alien compared to the soft sound of pen gliding over page as Hannibal took notes during their conversations years ago.

“My apologies,” Hannibal offers, though he doesn’t really mean it. He can’t be bothered to feel truly sorry when he knows it doesn’t really bother Will to be subject to his scrutiny. It used to, years ago. Back before Will learned the truth of himself and who Hannibal truly was. “Do try to hold still, please. Your profile is quite striking at this angle, and the light of the fire is accentuating your features nicely.”

Will swallows back the urge to move out of spite. He doesn’t really have it in him to antagonize Hannibal at the moment, though that doesn’t change the fact that a part of him wants to. After everything, the urge to push the other man is there. Hannibal brings that out in him. Makes him feel like he’s free to act on his less savory urges rather than repress them like he’s had to for so long.”Whatever you say…”

They sit like that until Will has no choice but to get up and add more wood to the fire so that it doesn’t go out entirely. Hannibal continues to draw well after that. Adding details and shading while Will makes them a late supper using a castiron skillet to toast two of the pre-made deli sandwiches he had purchased and yet another can of soup to split between the two of them.

Hannibal goes back to the sketch once they’ve had their fill and still focuses on it even as Will carefully climbs onto the bed beside him and crawls under the covers to turn in for the night.

Back to, Will lays facing the roughly cut wood of the cabin wall. It’s much the same position he found himself in when he laid down to get some rest that morning, only this time Hannibal doesn’t appear to be joining him in sleep any time soon despite the few yawns that have escaped him in the last half-hour

It makes him feel oddly anxious. Like there is a buzzing under his skin that keeps him hovering at the edge of consciousness for the next few hours. It doesn’t leave him until he hears Hannibal set aside the pencil and paper.

A moment later the bed dips and shifts beneath him as the older man sinks down to settle on his back beside Will once again.

“This isn’t going to be a recurring thing, is it? You staying up all night sketching?” Will mumbles sleepily as he finally starts to settle and drift towards sleep

“I do apologize for that. The hour got away from me,” Hannibal admits as he stifles a yawn. “I promise to be more considerate from now on.”

“Good. Some of us need our beauty sleep...” Will jokes, voice barely above a  whisper as he shifts and rolls onto his own back. The change in position makes their arms press together and legs touch in a few spots where Will doesn’t try to keep his own together. He’s too tired to care if Hannibal and he are in each other's personal space. Not that it bothers him much when he’s fully awake either. A bit awkward feeling, definitely, but being so close to Hannibal doesn’t bother him anymore. It probably should, given the man has literally gutted him in the past.

Hannibal lets out a huff that sounds close to a laugh but says nothing. It’s clear Will is in fairly good spirits despite everything. He is as well. And so, so tired. But he couldn’t stop until the sketch was finished. It would have taunted him from somewhere in the back of his mind. Not let him sleep properly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to him even after resting most of the day. He can mostly ignore the pain of his injuries, but he cannot ignore the side effects of them.

Neither man wakes to tend the fire in the night and when they do finally wake in the early hours of the morning it’s in unison. Both opening their eyes at almost the same time to find the cabin cold and Hannibal laying on his uninjured side with his forehead resting against Will’s temple and an arm slung loosely over the younger man’s waist while his other wraps protectively around his own to subconsciously protect his healing bullet wound.

Hannibal moves to slowly extract himself, expecting Will to be bothered by the intimacy of the position. “I should get another fire going...” he mutters in a much thicker accent than usual thanks to his sleep-addled mind first wanting to speak in Lithuanian and not English. Instead of Will rolling away or acting bothered by the intimate position, he finds his hand being grabbed in a lazy grip before he’s pulled back towards Will.

“Leave it. We’ll be warm enough in bed. Just go back to sleep, Hannibal…” Will protests softly as he stares up at him with bleary blue eyes. The room is just barely lit enough thanks to the uncovered windows for Hannibal to see them clearly. Letting him know Will is indeed awake as he speaks and pulls Hannibal back toward him under the covers.

He briefly considers getting up anyway. If only to try and give Will the space to realize what he’s asking. But Will still holds his hand and is seemingly completely comfortable and accepting of his being so close while in such a vulnerable state. He had expected more hesitance and discomfort on Will’s part. It would be understandable. Will is a guarded man by nature and Hannibal has hurt him greatly in the past.

They hold each other’s gaze a moment before Hannibal gives in to Will’s request and settles back down beside him. Though this time giving a little space between them. Testing what Will does.

Will bridges the small gap Hannibal creates the moment it’s clear Hannibal isn’t coming any closer on his own. Sliding into the negative space so that Hannibal is once again right against his side. His eyes are closed as he turns his face towards Hannibal’s, making their foreheads and noses bump gently.

Once Will is settled Hannibal finds he can’t look away despite the heaviness of his own eyelids.

“I can feel you staring…” Will grumbles as he once again opens his eyes to look at the other man

“You’re comfortable?” Hannibal questions despite the answer being obvious.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Will asks in turn. He still holds onto Hannibal, though now the hand that had pulled him in by his own is up higher on his arm, resting just above Hannibal’s elbow so their forearms are resting together over Will’s waist.

“Quite the contrary,” Hannibal concedes in a whisper.

“Then go back to sleep, Doctor Lecter,” Will’s tone is chastising, but he has the smallest smile that reaches his eyes and gives away his lack of seriousness to his words.

“As you wish,” Hannibal replies softly before finally closing his own eyes once again.

Will moves his head, sleepily nuzzling their noses together without thought before drifting back off. Hannibal drifts with him. Mind committing this feeling of unfathomable warmth and contentment to memory in those last few moments of self-awareness before slipping away.

Read Chapter 6

[heavymetalover]

Heart-Shaped Box (Michael Langdon x fem reader)

Summary: On your way out of the Satanic church, you and an inexperienced Michael share an intimate encounter.

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, slow burn, choking, oral sex (female receiving), sassy reader.

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: thanks to everyone in the ahs/cody fan base for being so kind and reading my shitty writing :) youre all dope mfs

i only did minimal editing so i hope there arent too many mistakes !!

~~~~

You exhale a long sigh when hanging up your cloak in the empty church. You take in the atmosphere of the church; you’re going to miss being a Satanist. You finally felt like you belonged somewhere, felt like you finally had a home, but things changed once Michael came along. Everyone was on their toes, trying to one-up each other, it was first grade all over again and everybody was the teacher’s pet. Part of you blames yourself for succumbing to the desire of having external support, your own little dysfunctional family. But you blame Michael. He ruined everything for you, and you didn’t want to be apart of his crusade.

You take a seat on the first bench, observing your surroundings for the last time. The mood lighting from the lit-up candles, curtains hanging on either side, the walls painted an ominous blood red, the upside-down cross hanging above the alter… God you’ll miss this place.

Dress shoes click on the polished wooden floors and you stand from your seat, preparing to bolt without having to engage in conversation about why you’re leaving. You know the rest of the members would give you great shame for not kissing Michael’s ass. Fuck him. Fuck the people at this church. They all claim to be different, evil, but they’re just like God-fearing Christians. As soon as their “saviour” came, they kissed his feet. Not you.

You brush past the person who walked in, keeping your eyes glued onto the floors. They grab your arm and you stop, still not turning around to look at them. A sick feeling turning in your stomach suspects you already know who it is. “It’s… y/n, right?” the man asks. His indistinguishable smooth voice sings your name like a lullaby and your heart drops. He hasn’t said two words to you before, the closest you’ve gotten to speaking with him is exchanging glacial stares, so how did he know your name?

“Michael,” you reply. “Sorry, uh, Mr. Langdon,” you redress him. “How do you know my name?”

“You can call me Michael,” he says, “I like to know all the people who have been worshipping my father.” He pulls you by the lacey fabric of your dress, trying to turn you to meet his gaze. You spin around and hold your head high. His body is twisted towards you, carrying himself confidently. He doesn’t scare you, even if he is a head taller than you... and the antichrist.

Your eyes meet his, the candles in the room give him an intimate lighting on his porcelain skin. His blonde feathered hair done to perfection, as always. The princess always has to look damn good, doesn’t he?

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, cutting your observation short. You open your mouth to speak, but he holds up his finger. “Let me guess… coming up with an excuse on why you just hung up your cloak and were about to leave my father’s church,” he guesses.

You’d rather affirm his assumption than explain what you were actually thinking about. Of course everyone in the church had a crush on Michael, but they openly admitted it. You’re a little more stubborn. You hold your hands up in vanquish, “You got me.” You walk backwards, hoping to leave the conversation as is. “I should head out then,” you add, but Michael takes a step toward you with every step you take back. You stop, annoyed by his tenacity. Maybe he’s more like you than you thought.

“And why is it that you’re leaving?” his voice is surprisingly warm. “I’m not what you expected I’d be? Unsatisfied with my leadership?”

Michael’s never grovelled for anything, not even a lousy reply; you smile at his zeal. “I just don’t want to swim too close to… a drowning man,” you respond, hesitantly choosing your words.

“Oh?” the word immediately slips from his lips, an eyebrow cocked. He turns around to the alter, his silky black cloak flowing behind him. Michael reaches under the podium to grab a chalice and a bottle of merlot. A little inside joke your church had, mocking the blood of Christ in Catholic churches. He fills the glass with wine and hands it over to you, “A drowning man, huh? Did I strike a nerve?”

You take a sip of the bitter beverage, somehow the flavour is both pleasant and unpleasant. When you look at him as he awaits your answer and meet his deep blue eyes, it’s hard for you to answer truthfully. “Nope, no nerves struck,” you lie, taking another big gulp.

“You’re not a very good liar,” he quips. He takes a step back from you and walks around the benches, your eyes follow him around the room. Dragging his feet across the floor, eyeing up the church just as you were. Even as he’s just being observant and not really doing anything, Michael holds a certain hostility to his presence. “What have I done to displease you? I’d like to know,” his voice echoes.

You glance around the room for anything to save you, he’s stopped in his tracks to watch you squirm under his influence. You look at the exit of the room, then back at Michael. “Look, I was just planning on leaving,” you explain with a passive shrug.

He steps away from the exit. “You can if you’d like. I’m only curious… and I wouldn’t want you leaving my father’s church on a bad note,” he answers. He walks towards you and you back up closer to the alter, it feels like he’s intentionally closing in on you to make you feel threatened. You won’t let it work. “Again, just so there are no animosities,” his voice is lower, “what have I done?”

You take the last sip of wine, realizing your lips haven’t parted from the glass for nearly the entire time. It’s much easier to tolerate Michael with a drink in your hand. Although you could easily put it back under the podium, you decide to hand the empty cup back to Michael. At first his eyebrows furrow in confusion, then a moment passes and his lips twist into a cunning smile. If he wants to act dominating, you will too. “You know where that goes,” he says in a mere whisper.

“So do you,” you retort, the alcohol giving you an extra boost of courage.

He walks past you, brushing you with his cloak as he goes and ignoring the cup you hold out to him. You smile to yourself, biting your lip from calling him stubborn. You thought that you were the most obstinate person you’d ever know, but Michael might take the cake. Two can play at that game; you purposely put your cup in the wrong spot.

Michael takes a seat on the alter, still waiting for your response. You sit across him on the first church bench. “It’s not anything you’ve done, it’s what you’re not doing,” you finally respond. He stops fiddling with the pentagram necklace hanging on his chest to glare at you, you got his attention. “Oh, please,” you roll your eyes, “I haven’t seen so much angst in a grown man, you’re practically a child.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think you’d speak with that conviction if you knew what I’ve been through,” he spits.

“Obviously losing people isn’t fair, but you’re literally the antichrist and you’re hiding behind the fact that your friend died,” you rebuttal. You shiver at the thought of all your losses, now this church is also going to be added to the list.

He’s shaking his head, dismissively rolling his eyes at you in dissatisfaction. He’s so much like you, it makes you hate him even more. This boils your blood; maybe it’s the alcohol, but his bullheadedness is sending you over the edge. Before he can answer, you want to ruffle his feathers a little more. “I can’t take over the world because my friend died and daddy doesn’t love me, boohoo,” you tease. “Grow up, we’ve all lost people.”

He takes a moment before responding to you, his eyes trailing down your body in disgust. You freeze under his stare. Then his frigid gaze falls back onto yours. “Maybe you’re just too stupid to realize how miserable you should be,” he responds callously, “Does a dumb harlot like you have no bounds?”

You clutch your legs together, his blistering words cause a tingling in your core; he’s never spoken to anyone like this before. Michael can come across as a contemptuous dick, but he’s never purposely been disrespectful. You try to answer him quickly, making sure he doesn’t notice that he knocked the wind out of you. “I’m far from a harlot, Mr. Langdon,” you keep yourself composed. “Tell me, with everybody’s heads up your ass, do your shits just fall out?”

You’re rewarded with a laugh. “You’re a snappy little thing,” his voice is small.

“I’m merely a confident woman refusing to kiss your ass.”

“You’re merely a confident woman who squeezes her legs together when being degraded by a man,” he barks back, no uncertainty in his voice, “I see how you tense up every time I’m around. Every time you’re on your knees praying to my father, praying to me.” You cement in your seat by his sudden bitterness, taken aback by his personality change. “You’re ashamed of your sexual desires, pretend to be a pure flower, but deep down an insatiable little whore.” Baffled by his vulgarity, your mouth opens to respond, but no words come out. You’ve never been muted by the words of another person, it irks you. He dusts off some of his cloak, still sitting pretty like he hadn’t broken his customary tone. “Have I made an erroneous observation, y/n?” he asks, still refusing to look at you.

Your first instinct is to shrug, but he doesn’t see. He finally stops tending to his clothing and pays attention to you again. You feel a smirk stretch across your lips without your consent, almost like a dark entity moving through you. You’re done trying to piss him off, you want to try something else. “Okay, I’m a whore… and?” you challenge him. He cocks his head in confusion. “I don’t see your hands under that cloak, how do I know you’re not relieving some of your own tension?” your voice drops seductively.

“Impossible,” he snaps.

“Impossible,” you mock him. “Why?”

“Because there is no tension,” he explains, shifting in his seat. You don’t reply, you just watch him uncomfortably try to adjust to the situation. Frustration washing over him when you don’t give him the satisfaction of a response, he stands from his seat. You follow suit.

You step closer to him, his eyes locked onto the floors but find yours in an instant. The cerulean lit by the dancing flames of the candles beside him. You’re only inches apart from each other, Michael makes no effort to step away. “Maybe I was wrong about you, Michael,” you whisper. You take another step closer to him, his body lightly grazing yours. He leans into you, pressing his pelvis against your belly. “Maybe all you need is a good fuck,” you bite your lip.

You feel him growing hard against you. He raises an eyebrow. “How are you doing this to me?” his voice is softer than before.

You exhale a laugh almost mockingly. “You don’t need to question it, Michael. Just find the courage to reach out…” your voice low. You run your hands down your body and lightly massage your breasts, a soft moan escapes your lips, “and touch.”

He leans down, his full lips press against yours. You feel him fumbling, so you take the lead. Giving gentle kisses and slowly making them deeper, you run your fingers through his luxurious blonde locks, pulling slightly. He follows your lead, his hands caressing your back and pulling your body into his even tighter. It takes Michael only a few moments to learn how to kiss before he wants to devour you.

His kisses become aggressive and his tongue pushes its way into your mouth. Regularly you’d enjoy being dominated in such a way, but you’re not letting yourself lose control over Michael. You liked having him at your fingertips.

You pull away from his burning hot body and walk to the other side of the alter. He freezes in place, collecting himself from the kiss. You smirk at the lipstick you’ve stained on his mouth. “Did I do something wrong?” he questions.

You shake your head, “No.” He steps towards you again, reaching out to you for more like a bratty toddler. “No more touching,” you order, “and I want you on your knees.”

He grins. “Aaand what makes you think that you’re in charge?” he asks.

“Because you want pussy,” you suggest. He laughs sardonically and you feel your heart sink into your chest. “Seriously, I think you need to learn to be a bit more flexible with your superiority.”

He pushes some of your hair behind your ear and you shift your head to the side, trying to enforce your no touching rule. “I don’t bend,” he retorts.

You step back from him and reach under your dress to shimmy off your panties. He watches your every movement, greedy to have more of you. “Well, everybody knows what happens to things that don’t bend,” you shove your panties in his mouth.

He spits them out. “I’m the fucking antichrist,” he seethes.

“A shitty one at that,” you spit back.

The force of his hand suddenly gripping your throat hitches your breath. Your hands grab his and he squeezes your neck tighter. “You think I’d take orders from a doe-eyed harlot like you?” his blood boiling. You feel yourself soaking from his words, recalling a sick fantasy you’ve had about this exact situation that you’ve concealed deep in your subconscious.

“Then just kill me,” you test his bluff. Now might not be the best time, but you have nothing else to lose. “Do it,” you press.

He squeezes harder one last time before his hand goes limp along with any faith you had in him. You try to discreetly gasp for air, taking in sharper breaths. “That’s what I thought,” you tease him even more. His nostrils flare out in anger and it makes you smile to yourself.

“Show me,” he lowly moans.

You take a seat on the first church bench, still trying to regulate your breathing. “Show you what?”

“Everything.”

You lean back on the bench and he takes a seat on the alter in front of you. You shake your head; a part of you just wants to leave now and be done with the church, be done with him. But a greater part of you wants to taste every inch of his body. To stick around and feel Michael inside you. This part dominates you, and again you feel yourself being possessed by the dark entity.

You reach down and brush your leg with your fingertips, taunting him by lifting the fabric of your dress only to let it drop back to your shins. “You want a peak?” you ask him. He doesn’t say a word; he only watches your hands. You take his silence as admission to reveal yourself to him.

You squeeze your legs together and lift up your dress, opening your legs up to expose your drenched cunt. Michael drops to his knees in defeat, crawling closer to you on all fours. His necklace hangs in front of him, oscillating like a pendulum. He comes so close that you feel his warm breath against your thighs, intensifying the tingling, rather sending an ache through your core.

When your fingers make contact with your throbbing clit, you let out a deep moan. Giving yourself one last rub before withdrawing your hand from your dripping pussy, you suck yourself off of each finger. Michael only watches you, no longer wanting to reach out in momentary greed.

“Do you want to taste it?” you breathe.

“I do,” his voice is faltering, no longer sounding menacing, instead overflowing with lure.

You lift your legs onto the bench, spreading them as wide as you can. “Then show me how hungry that pretty mouth of yours is.”

He starts on your thighs, wasting no time with each open-mouthed kiss he gives. His mouth inches from your pussy, he disregards it to suck on your thigh. You gasp at his hostility, fervently sucking on the inside of your thigh and leaving a love bite. It makes you want to question where he learnt to do that.

He lays his tongue flat on the entirety of your aching cunt, his lips wrapped around yours and he sucks on your folds. You try keeping in your moans, but they escape bit by bit. You feel yourself getting lost with each lick and every suck brings you closer to God. “Michael,” you groan his name.

He buries his tongue deep into you and a moan escapes your chest, you arch your back and impulsively try to close your legs. He pushes your legs apart again and continues to eat you as if you were his last meal. His moans vibrating into your sensitive cunt sends goosebumps all throughout your body.

Your breath gets caught in your throat as you feel yourself starting to come. “Micha-” you can’t finish saying his name, you interrupt yourself with a pornographic moan. Your moans echo through the church, it crosses your mind that the people walking by this cheap backwater building could probably hear you as well. You don’t care, if anything, the uncertainty turns you on even more.

You come undone, screaming all the moans you were previously neglecting. Michael’s glossy eyes look up to you, begging for your come. “You’re so fucking good,” you sigh, your fingers pulling his hair again. The way his tongue ravages your cunt restores the modicum of faith you had in him, if only he brought the same kind of dedication to world sovereignty.  

You try to even out your breathing, but fail every time he gives an unexpected lick. Your legs are trembling, you feel your whole body acting on every little whim. Even the sounds you’re making refuse to be silenced. You’re no longer in control of your own actions. You grind yourself on his face and he presses your hips hard against the bench, putting you in your place for messing up his rhythm. You finally feel yourself coming onto him, screaming his name one last time. Continuing to ride out the transitory ecstasy, your pussy incoherently spews your juices and Michael attempts to drink down every drop he can.

The wetness from your soaked cunt pools on the bench, but Michael ignores it to finish off with gentle kisses along your thighs again. “Michael, please fuck me,” you hear yourself beg. Even if the tables have turned and now it’s you pleading for him, you’re too detached to care. “Fuck me like the whore I am,” you continue, emotionally divorced from the words leaving your lips, the only goal is to appear irresistible to him.  

“No,” he responds, wiping your lipstick from his mouth. You study his expression hard, now wondering if it was you that had done something wrong. Why wouldn’t he want to fuck you? You’ve gotten this far… “Y/n, just because we came this far, doesn’t mean we have to rush things,” he explains.

You shut your legs, “Did you just hear my thoughts?”

You’re both interrupted by somebody entering the room; the priest of your church, Hannah, saunters in wearing her red robe. Your visceral reaction is to stand from your seat, but Michael stays on his knees. You step away from the bench, leaving behind the mess you two made. “What’re you doing here?” she asks.

“Just leaving,” you mutter, beelining to the door before anybody can stop you. A voice booms in your head, not your own, but Michael’s. His familiar, smooth voice leaves you a message. Tomorrow. Same place, same time. I’ll give you what you need.

You want to question how he can project himself into your head, too, but it would be redundant to keep inquiring his powers. You look back, he doesn’t pay you attention, he’s busy putting your cup back under the podium. You smile to yourself while exiting the church.  

[bloomandcoffee]

Fe3h ABO headcanons

So yesterday I had a lot of fun in the anon meme writing some ABO worldbuilding for FE3H. Some of it was inspired by the amazing @theeeveetamer. I decided to post it here for easier access, and in case anyone wanted to read them/get some inspiration/play in the sandbox.

All questions and comments are welcome!

Let's start shall we?

Faerghus

Faerghus has a tradition to not give a fuck about omegas. Loog was an omega, and all Blaiddyds are as well. Omegas can inherit and can be leaders of their houses or clans. They prize Chivalry and Duty above all else, and with the harsh conditions of Faerghus they can't afford the privilege to dismiss a third of their population. All are trained to fight before they learn how to write, no exceptions. If they want to partake in the battlefield, become part of the royal guard, command armies? They can.

Which means of course Faerghus is the nation expert on omega nature, heats and all subtle intricacies of omegan behavior and its relation with other spectrums. As a nation that values righteous fury and devotion (to the King) Omegas are very prized as well because of their emotions and relentlessness when it comes to protecting their own. This clashes with the other nations and their concept on what is the proper omega behavior. Faerghan omegas find it stiffling to not be openly passionate and determined in the presence of people from the Alliance or the Empire.

Alpha/Omega unions is most desired between crest bearing nobles because they needs the crests (remember The crest of Gautier is the only thing between Faerghus and a Sreng invasion) and a huge litter will up the chances of getting one. But it is far more common outside the nobility for omegas to mate with Betas.

Betas and alphas too are held in high regard, but for different things. There's no hierarchy based on the ABO designation, but on political nobility designation and chivalry.

The Empire has made a long effort to scrub from history the fact that an omega rallied an army, fought the empire head on, and won somewhat successfully. That is, people on the Empire and Leicester (to a lesser degree) belive Loog was an alpha, while it is is common knowledge in Faerghus that Loog was an omega.

Adrestian Empire

The Empire is very conservative with ABO designations. Alphas on top, betas as servants/retainers and omegas ought to be quiet, domestic and be a perfect wife (see Bernadetta).

Omegas cannot inherit Houses, not even if they have crests (See Mercedes' mom) and while it is common knowledge in the Empire that it is not a woman's fault if the child they bear lacks a crest (or is an omega) it is still fairly common to be shunned culturally.

It is fairly recent that the Empire has allowed omegas to enter in fights, though many nobles would first have them married than allow an Omega of the Family join the battlefield and "decrease their value" (because what if they get scars and become undesirable?!), and those that do usually expect the omega to bring home a respectable wellbred mate.

Of course this doesn't mean that the empire never had noteworthy omegas in their ranks, but they easily scrubbed their designation (or outright changed them) when they excelled in fields that were deemed inappropiate. I.e. an omega excelling in the arts was fantastic, but one that excelled in martial arts and warfare was a disaster.

(It also goes the other way around, an alpha that excells in arts but is mediocre in the activities the Empire demands alphas to excell in is a disappointment, and many families have either disinherited their alpha children or tried their best to hide the shame.)

As for alphas, they are on top, call the shots and have all the rights -but so are their responsibilities. They must excel in the areas that the Empire has traditionally viewed as given for alphas like science, politics, diplomacy, warfare, management and such. The field is extremely competitive (alpha women are held to a higher standard because the Empire made the notion that Seiros was an alpha woman, so they all are compared to her) and a perfect manners and form of conduct is expected at all times.

This means of course that the Empire has the leading knowledge on alpha supressors, because they can't have their alphas behave like beasts. They are civilized individuals, the land where Seiros and the four saints lived, they must lead by example!

(There's a black market for omega suppressors as well. It moves better in the lower classes, but has higher profit margin in the businesses in the noble class)

Leicester Alliance

The Alliance being mainly a mercantile and business nation holds Betas in higher regard. Time is money and businesses that get postponed because someone got a heat/rut is money lost. The logistics of the whole thing are a nightmare for merchants, and after the third time a big negotiation or deal got frozen because of the biology of one of the parties some rules just had to be set.

So betas that don't have to get into this biological mess are valuable. Though it is also fairly common for commnfolk to procure alpha and omega suppresants to be able to conduct businesses as well.

The only people that look down on the use of suppresors are some noble families because the willful ingestion of something that impairs your body is not very noblesse obligue. They think it is either addictive like alcohol, or poisonous.

It is not uncommon to hear the rumor that ingesting suppresors will leave you sterile as a means to dissuade noble omegas from consuming them. (Of course that doesn't mean they won't ingest them from time to time when there's one big summit or deal on the line. The excuse of "oh it seems my rut/heat is coming late this time" is fairly common)

Nobles of course employ trusted beta families to close negotiations in their name, and it is a major honor for a beta family to be adopted into the noble family as their main negotiator.

The Alliance also gets a few cultural cues from both Faerghus and Adrestia. Namely that Alphas should be exemplar and omegas should use their passion to excel in the arts (which includes oratory and negotiation), but in all Alliance fashion the reason why they shouldd excel is because they must make up for the time they are impaired to support the Alliance.

Also all nobles should act in a maner befitting to their station, which means of course that alphas are hold to the manners and etiquette standards of Adrestian alphas (but without the help from suppresors) and omegas should be outspoken and passionate but in a diplomatic and well mannered way that doesn't include outbursts or displays that can be considered shameful.

Garreg Mach

Garreg Mach has everyone on suppressors, and is very liberal with contraceptives as well. There is no ABO orientation shaming because everyone is a child of Sothis and the monastery is a refuge for everyone, and those serving within the church or in the Knights of Seiros should be available at all times to reprieve and help those in need. (Of course this is mainly because Nabateans don't have ABO designations and what better way to hide it than to have everyone be the same?)

Because they are not affiliated to the church, it cannot force any of the students on suppresors. However they make it available for anyone who wants to have them, and make the transaction discreet and private. It is not uncommon for students to go to a "confessional" and leave with suppresors.

Of course the Monastery also has repurposed heat rooms and rut rooms, but they aren't many. The academy does ask the students to give their rut/heat schedules to the administration so they can properly manage the heat/rut rooms and avoid inconveniences.

As for some people:

Dimitri is an omega. But what has (and had) the Kingdom worried for a long time was the fact that he hadn't presented at the proper age (13) but at 17. (This of course is related to his extreme PTSD, survivor's guilt and the almost mortal injuries he sustained in Duscur and while saving Dedue) His heats are terribly irregular and painful. There's also the fear that he might be sterile given how late he presented and the issue with his heats. He believes he can't be a proper omega on top of not being able to be a proper prince, and that it is one more sin that has to be added to his shame.

(Of course in full Dimitri fashion, he buried all that self loathing and insecurity behind a princely smile)

Claude is an alpha passing as a beta with the aid of suppressors because he needs all the advantages he can get in the Alliance. No one really knows because he was presented as a Beta in the Alliance. (Judith knows of course, and complains that it is a pain in the ass to procure the exact brand of alpha suppresors because not all of Fodlan's suppresors work on someone that is used to Almyran suppresors). He finds it fascinating the strange cultural concepts pertaining ABO in the different countries and Almyra.

(Almyra does have a respect for omegas, with a myth that mostly resembles that of Amazons. Claude has a laugh when he realizes the fabled amazons live in a cold Kingdom and not a tropical island)

Edelgard is an omega turned alpha by Agarthan experimentation, because Adrestia cannot have an omega emperor. Among the mess of things she has, there's some internalized omegaphobia, and part of her hatred with the church stems from the fact that Seiros was an alpha (and never realizes that the Alpha Seiros thing was all Adrestia propaganda).

Lysithea is an omega turned beta. A failed Agarthan experiment (they wanted alpha) but the Ordelia family still took the small victory because Betas are more valuable in the Alliance. She doesn't care much about ABO, though it stings when an omega she knows goes into heat, and is more worried about curing herself.

Ferdinand is in fact an omega on permanent suppresors who knows very well that the only reason he's Ferdinand von Aegir is because he's the only legitimate heir. His competitive behavior and manners is he overcompensating and an attempt to hide the secret.

(Also because I love the idea of two of the most prominent and greatest minds of the empire being fucked over by Adrestia's ABO expectations)

Lorenz is an alpha born out of Beta and Omega parents, who is trying very much to prove that being an alpha in the Alliance should be an asset instead of a burden. He will stop at nothing to do so, but has a pouch of alpha suppresors that taunt him every night.

Marianne is an omega, but she is on suppresors. Margrave von Edmund justified it by saying that the suppresors helped Marianne's health given that her heats were irregular. But in fact, while her heats were irregular, she has them because her heats react strongly with her crest. It was usual for her to vomit blood or destroy the whole omega heat room. That's also another reason why she's terrified of her crest.