#i know ring rings colours are ridiculously bright

[seraphicescape]

what??? make a Pucca oc?? that's so cringe, I would never do th

gets shot

[onsunnyside]

🍓° 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 | Mafia!Ari Levinson x lovesick!reader

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | fluff, sweet soft!reader, she’s a little oblivious. size difference: 6’8!Ari, he’s a total beefy hunk. neighbours au, a little tumble, stripper!reader, brief mentions of mafia business, undeniable daddy energy.

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | It was a little ridiculous how in love you were… With a single glance, he could make you melt until you’re a pile strawberry ice cream, tied with a pretty ribbon, and sitting on his doorstep.

𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐎𝟑

𝗪/𝗖 | 2.45K

𝗔/𝗡 | just a little something I wrote inspired by Melting by Kali Uchis (also where the title is from). this is my first mafia fic but there isn’t much detail since this is a real itty bitty au. as always, all mistakes are my own. [all posts/asks]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 & 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲: @𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

˗ˏˋ𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭ˎˊ˗ ⋰˚ 𝐂.𝐄. & 𝐂𝐨. 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Time seems to slow when he jogs by, clad in shorts and a loose tank top with sweat seeping through the grey. His tan skin is covered in a light sheen, making the dozens of tattoos appear darker. From your seat on the porch, they still look like black blobs and lines stretching from his broad shoulders to his hands. 

You’ve never seen them up close, but you have a few ideas of what they might be—a whole page in your diary to be exact. 

Your eyes fall to his muscled legs, firm and thick thighs strain his shorts and just the beginnings of dark ink poke from underneath the fabric. You barely notice the ice cream melting down the cone to your hands, too deep in a daze when tingles blossom from your chest to your toes. A dreamy sigh flows from your lips as the wind flutters through his long brown hair, brushing along his bearded cheeks. 

He turns to you and flashes a bright smile before turning the corner and disappearing down the street. That single glance makes your heart pound ten times faster, and all of your thoughts tangle into one ball of ribbons, varying in colours, prints and lace, but so evidently you. 

If you could, you’d gift him that mess just so he could know how much he affected you without even trying. 

"Oh no!" You quickly wipe your hands from the melting strawberry ice cream but it's useless, the pink stains your white dress and drips down to the ribbon around your ankle. 

It’s almost too symbolic—the pretty pink bleeds all over your ivory clothes, ruining your life just like the fluttering trapped in your rib cage. 

Honestly, it would’ve been easier to hate him, but he was so damn big that you didn’t have any space left in your heart to hate him. 

To say you're in love would be an understatement. In every fantasy and daydream, he's the main focus, your co-star, your lover, your saviour draped in silk button-ups and silver rings. Oh, he's everything you've ever wanted! As if you manifested him when you were a young child and wrote about the perfect boy to sweep you off your feet and make your life a living fairytale—everything you scribbled in glittery pen has come true before your very eyes.

You don’t even mind that he and his biker friends rev their engines at three in the morning, but your roommate doesn’t agree, she’s never agreed. 

The front door slams shut and you stiffen, hurriedly flipping through a random page in a magazine and desperately trying to act like you were not staring at his house next door. 

"Did you do it?"

"Do what?" You ask, voice already on edge. Vibrant red hair comes into your peripherals, as well as a pair of angry green eyes. 

Natasha groans, setting down her bag on the kitchen counter. "You chickened out again? I need my sleep before I lose my mind. I can’t get any if he and his dumbass friends treat this street like a fucking race track!”

“They aren’t even that loud—and I bought you earplugs.” 

“I am not touching those things until those assholes learn how to be decent human beings!” She rolls up her sleeves and grabs your arm, yanking you from the barstool. 

"Wait! What are you doing!" 

Her heels stomp on the hardwood floor, nearly shaking the picture frames on the walls, “I messed up five drinks today, do you know how bad that looks when they’re my recipes?” She huffs, "he's out there right now mowing his lawn and you're gonna talk to him."

You grab onto the nearest thing which happened to be the couch and clutched it for dear life. “No—you do it!”

"He doesn’t listen to me!" She digs her fingers into your sides making you yelp and feebly swat her away, but you just screwed up big time. “Just try, baby, please! For me!”

That’s the last thing you hear as you stumble out the front door, tripping over the damn welcome mat and tumbling down the stairs. It’s only a few steps, but it stings when your back thumps onto the stone walkway, your poor elbows cushioning your fall.  

You barely catch the engine cutting and rushed footsteps before he appears. 

He stands over you with sweat brimming at his hairline, a deeply concerned expression etched onto his face, "awh shit, are you okay?" 

As always, the air goes thin and you’re under that dumb lovesick spell again. The sun glows around his head like a halo, melting you to the bone, and leaving a mess on the stone in the same shades as your love—strawberry ice-cream pink. 

It’s terrible that you don’t know how deluded your tender heart is.

"You're bleeding," he crouches low, gently examining your elbow, "did your roommate push you down the stairs?” 

"No! No, I-I fell.” Obviously! “But I'm okay." You utter, avoiding the peeping redhead through the curtains. Your gaze lands on his long fingers wrapped around your arm. He’s warm, warmer than you thought. Heat radiates off his body and envelops you like an old friend, familiar and calm. 

"Are you?" He inquires unconvinced, "here, let me clean you up." He leaves no room for protests as he helps you up and leads you to his porch. 

After you sit on the couch, he disappears inside the house before emerging with a large white case. He sits next to you and opens the kit on the table.

"That's a lot of stuff." You note, staring at the packed first aid kit. There are various rolls of gauze, different ointments, and bandages, far more things than your tiny plastic box under the sink. 

Judging by his shiny sports car, and his collection of perfectly tailored suits and watches, Ari lived a very different life than you and you’d do anything to know about it. Your naive heart aches for him so badly it almost hurts. 

“It’s better to be safe than sorry. Can I touch you, sweetheart?” 

You watch him tend to your injury with slow and careful movements, his dark brows knitted in concentration. You’ve never been this close to him, the sudden rush of blood almost makes you lightheaded, but his scent brings you back down. The woody cologne floods your nose, followed by a dash of vanilla with underlinings of musky spice.

“What happened to your other dress?” He glances up, eyes shaded under his thick lashes. 

“Oh… It got dirty.” 

He hums, “what a shame.” He delicately presses down the edges of the bandage. “That’s one of my favourites. It always makes my day to see you wearing it.” 

You swallow down a whimper and clench your thighs, seconds away from dropping to your weak knees. Embarrassment fills your chest, tinged with guilt, “I’m sorry, sir.” The words slip out before you could think.

He cracks a small smile, shaking his head, “it’s okay, just be more careful next time, yeah? Can’t have you ruining the little purple one too, that’s my second favourite.”

Dull thumps hammer inside your head, muffling his raspy voice. You nod silently, digging your sock-clad feet into the concrete. 

You take the chance to memorize his tattoos, from the intricate rose by his wrist following the thorn stems up his arm where they entwined with a heavily shaded skull. Thin script is scattered along his skin, you can’t make out the exact words but they’re in swooping cursive, clinging to his flesh like wet chiffon. 

His arms tighten as he cleans up, the muscles shifting under his paper-thin t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. Every unconscious flex clouds your head, tunnelling your vision until he’s all you can see.  A small whine sounds from your throat and his eyes flicker to yours, blue as can be. 

“I don’t see you leave very often.” You were either inside or sitting on the front porch with a treat and a magazine, or in the backyard tending to that small garden. “Do you work?”

“I… I did, then I got fired.” The wound was still a little fresh. “But it wasn’t my fault, I swear!”

Ari perks up in interest, although he knows plenty about you, this was strikingly new. Aside from your basic profile, he knew about your past as well, including where you grew up, where your parents lived, and how long you’ve been in this city. 

It was only right to know about the two girls living next to his late grandmother’s house. Curtis insisted since Ari wouldn’t let him stay in the old two-storey home, but instead the house down the street.

He came here to be alone and mourn, but that was hard to do with a cute neighbour always staring at him. Yet he stopped caring after you left a small bouquet of hand-picked flowers on his doorstep and an adorable ‘welcome to the neighbourhood!’ note. 

He forgot how good it felt to be sought after, rather than feared and honoured like a living legend. You gave him that sliver of normalcy with your longing loved-up looks and quick dashes inside when he pulled into the driveway. To you, sweet-spirited you, he was an ordinary guy, not someone with a history coloured in hues of red and dripping all over his shoes, smearing the black ink of his future; an eternity tied to his family’s glory that’s now his. 

“This customer was being so mean and I know I should’ve stayed professional but I was havin’ such a bad day already.” Your bottom lip trembles, flashes of that terrible day flickering through your head, “first I slept through my alarm, then I missed the bus, and my make-up broke in my bag a-and everything was all ruined.”

He reaches out, rubbing your knee soothingly. Poor girl, if it was up to him, you’d never be mistreated. “Where did you work?”

“Venom Vixens.” You sniffle, hoping he isn’t the judgemental type, you’ve known too many people who would humiliate you for your chosen career. “I, uh, I wasn’t one of the girls on stage since I was still new but I liked it there. My coworkers were nice, I got free drinks, and…”

“And?”

“I felt,” you look down at your hands, they were so much smaller than his, “I felt pretty. People go there to look and flirt, and I didn’t mind being on the receiving end of it.” 

Ari wouldn’t mind giving you all of that instead. 

He licks his lips, imagining you in a tiny lace set, the sheer fabric clinging to your figure while you swayed around the dimly lit club. A piece of art in the sea of ogling and drooling patrons, blooming beautifully under the flattery. 

“You liked the attention.” 

You giggle, “Yeah, a lot. Sure, some customers were gross and would say nasty things, but others were nice, real nice—they’d tip a lot and compliment me. Most of them were just lonely, they wanted someone to talk to or someone to spoil.” 

You don’t regret accepting their fawning or expensive gifts, hell, most of your jewelry was from your loyal clients. Sparkly things paired with sweet words were a one-way ticket to your good books. 

“How about your boss?” Ari asks, “how did he treat you?”

Venom Vixens wasn’t only a haven for the lonely or where perverts got their fill, but of course, you wouldn’t know that. You’d have a heart attack if you knew of the shady people who walked in and out of those doors, you’ve probably served a few of them, flashed that bright smile and earned yourself a big tip—unknowingly pocketing the filthy, blood-stained money. 

“Mr. Hansen was very friendly, but everything went through him. If we wanted to change a routine, we had to perform it for him first and get his approval. He said it was protocol.” Ari snorts but you don’t catch it, all too distracted with twisting the ring on his middle finger. “He was nice when you were nice to him.”

“So he must’ve always been kind to you. You’re the loveliest girl I’ve ever met.”

You preen under his praise and nod happily, questioning why you were so nervous around him in the first place.

Ari was a flirt—and you loved being flirted with. 

“Mr. Hansen called me his favourite before he fired me. That was over two weeks ago, and Nat said I could take my time but,” you sigh, “I feel like a bother.” 

He wonders if your best friend would still hate him if she knew he was the reason that her cafe was still standing. Without his ruling over the South district, there would be chaos, and that little joint would’ve been ransacked long ago. 

Did he also call for extra protection because you frequented the establishment? Proudly so. 

“Are you still looking for a job?” He takes your distant hum as a yes, “Do you want to work for me?”

Your head snaps up, your sparkling eyes wide in surprise. 

“I’m opening a new club in a few days and I’ve got a spot left for a performer.” He didn’t, but he had no problem giving someone the boot to make room for you. 

Your mouth opens and closes several times, and the thought of Ari owning a club flies straight over your head. You’ve watched him more than your favourite movie but you still didn’t know a damn thing about him, except that he smokes, liked to work out and alternated between a white mustang and a sleek black motorcycle. 

Oh, and sometimes he changes in front of his bedroom window. 

“You’ll be my boss?”

Say the word, and he’ll be much more than that.

He smirks, gripping your jaw and turning you from side to side, blue eyes flickering over your features, “Sure will. I have a feeling this pretty face will be the main attraction every night.”

Your heart swells when his fingers dig into your cheeks. “I-I would, but Nat won’t like that. She kind of hates you… and your friends.” He adds pressure and your lips pucker, “you’re all s-ho loud wit ya’  bikes ‘n engines.”

Ari bites his tongue, it was either the motorcycles or the blood-curdling screams of the poor soul in the basement. He made a mental note to speed up the process of that soundproof room, he couldn’t have you losing sleep over his business. 

“She doesn’t have to know.” He replies, releasing your face in favour of loosely grasping your throat. Your pulse thumps under his fingers, hard and fast, speeding up as he leans closer, “c’mon, don’t you want to be a star? Get all that attention again and make me proud?”

𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i just love sweet!readers, they're my faves 🥹 and pairing them with big hunky (secretly soft) men is heaven !! i can't get enough !!!!

𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞! I love you all very much 😚🫶

As always, I hope you all enjoyed this and I’d love to hear your thoughts/feedback !! <3 — ☼ 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐊𝐨-𝐟𝐢 ☼

I don’t do taglists anymore. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 & 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲: @𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

[soulwrencher]

and still i answer your call when she doesn't answer at all

pairing: ellie x fem!reader

warnings: toxic relationship, no nsfw, mentions of vomit, reader is stupid, soft ellie, curse words, not proof read, will never proof read im so sorry

word count: 1,3k

summary: you find yourself at ellie's place again after you fought with your girlfriend, not a first. or; you don't realise that ellie has loved you for a long time now.

it's probably past midnight but nothing matters anymore. blurred vision, narrow path, broken streetlights. thoughts fleet your mind as cars drive past, your heartbeat picking up the pace.

why on earth were you in a relationship when all you did was fight, get insulted and humiliated?

for god's sake, this is the third time this month you walked down this road, sobbing. your screen lights up, the brightness gives you a headache after all this crying. you ignore it, because you feel like your bones would give up any second if you chose to concentrate on something else.

pacing through her living room, ellie checks her phone twice, even thrice, but no new message yet.

'need me to come pick you up?' delivered.

just about when she made up her mind to get dressed and pick you up, the door rings. sighing in relieve, ellie opens the door, while taking a look back, making sure everything's in place. blanket on couch? check. water and snacks? plenty. tissues? ready to be used. she hears the heavy footsteps that belong to none other than you, nervousness starts to creep up on the nape of her neck. even though you've been friends for a year or two, ellie can't help but feel nervous around you and she'd never been able to ignore it. and there you are, mascara smudged, flushed cheeks and a red nose. but it wasn't the only redness ellie was concerned about. her eyes wander down to the bouquet of red roses your holding upside down.

oh, someone fucked up big time, ellie thinks to herself.

but before anything, she pulls you into a hug, mumbling a 'you okay?' into your hair. it's ridiculous how she could still ask this while seeing your swollen from crying face, but you still shake your head. however, you know that she cares immensely about you, otherwise you wouldn't be at her place at 2 am. her arms are no longer around you and she takes the bouquet from your hand and puts it on a coffee table. you take off your jacket, throw it to your left while you let yourself sink into the couch. ellie has watched your every step carefully, she's scared you might faint right in front of her because you've lost all colour in your face. a lot of time has passed sitting in silence, until ellie decides to speak up. she seems to hesitate, her eyebrows furrowed.

"so, what happened today?" she asks carefully, placing her hand on your thigh. you look at her hand placement, then at her. the way she looks at you makes you wish that your girlfriend ever looked at you like this, with so much care. you take a deep breath, then decide it's best to tell your friend what happened.

"i told her she should stop talking to her ex, i saw her ex text her 'i miss you' the other day," you say, feeling your tears swell up. ellie returns a soft 'mhm' signalising that she's listening.

"and then today, she bought me these flowers to apologise, but when she apologised, she fucking said her name instead of mine," you watch ellie gasp in shock, passing you some tissues as tears start to stream down your face.

"then we argued, she said she can't help but think about her, i told her i'd leave and then she started to insult me, threatened me even and i couldn't take it anymore," you spare ellie the details because you don't want her to worry too much, you know that she worries a lot about you.

ellie looks at you, pours in some water for you, all in silence. it confuses you because usually, she'd be much more talkative but today, something is different about her. if you weren't so upset about your own situation you would've asked, however you don't have the strength.

you drink some water, put it back on the table and as soon as your hands were free, ellie pulls you back and lays your head on her chest. you've needed this. you needed some comfort, comfort your girlfriend couldn't give you. you feel ellie's chest rise as she sighs.

"fuck, you don't even like roses..." she mutters disappointed, which surprises you. how did she know? when did you tell her? but her stroking your head seems to make you forget everything, objectively speaking, her big and rough hands had a nice feeling to them, they make you feel protected. you're in no position though to think about this, ellie is just a friend and you're in a relationship. and only now you realise that ellie has prepared all your favorite snacks, ready to be eaten just for you. how often have you been here? you know that ellie hates all of them, but still, they're here just for you. this isn't good, you need to stop thinking, you need this silence to end.

"want to watch something?" you ask, ellie nods. she picks up the tv remote, turns the tv on and stands up. you look at her confused, she holds out her hand, telling you to wait. you sit back, watching her silhouette. has her body always looked this good? you can appreciate when someone's attractive, so this means nothing. she squats in front of the tv, searching through the mini tv cabinet. a triumphant 'aha!' emerges from the front, ellie turns around to you, holding madagascar 2. you honestly don't feel like laughing at all, but you can't help but giggle a little.

"what the fuck, why do you have this?" you question, squinting your eyes to check if it's really that what you think it is.

"we talked about it once—" she's back to squatting, putting the dvd in,

"—and you said you really liked this movie back then—" ellie comes back to the couch, looking up to her sure is an interesting view. objectively speaking.

"—so last week i was on a flea market and saw they had this movie, it made me think of you," ellie says, her arm around you again, pulling you close to her. two things: why are her arms so big and she thought of you?

"wish my girlfriend was a little more like you," you say while leaning your head against her shoulder. a little more like her. for fuck's sake, ellie doesn't know how much longer she can do this. watch you suffer, watch you cry, watch you completely look the other way. you haven't left ellie's mind ever the two of you started talking. at first she thought she was just excited to have a new friend, but the more often you laid in her arms, the more her feelings grew. and she hated to see you hurt like this, when she knew that you could have her. it doesn't even stop there, because how come you wish for your girlfriend to be like her when she is literally there? how come you see all the things she does for you, but never questioned its intentions? fuck, she'd never make you cry or leave her place in the middle of the night, she'd talk it through, she would...

but what are would have's when ellie knows your blinded by the way you're hurting, you'd never see ellie the way she sees you. she'd stop the world for you but until you realise that the world would start spinning again. fuck your girlfriend, she didn't even know you hated roses, she doesn't know you the way ellie does. in fact, fuck her so much, because the last time she made you cry, you started puking and ellie was there the whole time, held your hair up, rubbed your back, washed your face, carried you back to her bed, made you some tea and even tucked you in bed. if she only could speak the way her actions do, her pouring her heart out would've been long overdue.

"i'd treat you so much better than her..." ellie whispers into your hair, but you've fallen asleep in her arms long ago.

a/n: sorry it took me so long to post, also BRYSON TILLER WILL BE ON TOUR OH MY GOD all credits to bryson tiller when i listen to his songs i think about ellie <333 anyway inspo was 'no longer friends' bryson tiller.

[alizha]

𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔 | 𝑹𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝑻𝒂𝒗 | 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟏

Rating: M Word Count: 5.9k Tags: female bard tav, tav is not described, angst, sibling relationships, sexual tension, kissing, neck kissing, references to canon-typical violence

Summary: Rolan has only ever had Cal and Lia. They insist he’s family, but he doesn’t even need that. He’s never needed or wanted anything more.

next chapter | masterlist | cross posted to ao3

Rolan’s words are harsh, he knows that. But the truth is that they’re simply an island of three amongst the sea of other refugees. Just because they’re all on the same exodus from Elturel doesn’t mean he feels any camaraderie with anyone outside his small circle.

The infernal orange ring of Lia’s irises flare. She can’t be reasoned with when she’s like this, and Rolan should know. Still, he plants himself steadfastly across from her. If she wants to be stubborn, he can easily rise to the challenge.

There’s no basis of evidence for his true age, but when they were all small, Rolan felt like he was younger than Cal and Lia. He remembers being a gangly, uncertain child. It was them who led him by the hand out of his own self-imposed walls back then. Of course, he’s never stopped following them, but it’s more out of a sense of responsibility now.

Which is why he refuses to risk their lives for the sake of a group of people he never wanted to join in the first place. Zevlor’s people are slow, a hindrance. And most of all, Rolan doesn’t know them. Lia is petulant if she thinks raising her voice at him and calling them ‘kin’ is going to change his mind.

“You only care about your apprenticeship!” she says.

Those words are the ones that finally cut deep. Rolan sputters, nearly losing his hold entirely on the calm demeanour he’s managed to cling to thus far.

“Take that back!”

“These people aren’t fighters! We should help!” she barks.

Cal, ever the voice of reason when tempers blaze too hot, tries to step in. Even he can’t quell Lia today.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” starts an unfamiliar voice.

The woman it belongs to has edged close to them, leaning in curiously with her arms tucked across her chest. Undoubtedly, she’s one of the adventurers who helped dispatch the goblin raiders outside the gate, but that notion seems a little ridiculous now that Rolan’s looking at her up close.

A lute hangs by a strap on her back, still wrapped in traces of Weave, marking her as a bard. She doesn’t look particularly strong or intimidating, especially in the bright colours and whimsical patterns of her jerkin. This is what passes for an adventurer?

“But you are intruding,” Rolan says acridly.

Lia turns her gaze furiously back to him. The woman tries to hide an amused grin. Badly. It strikes him in a way he doesn’t expect. A feeling like irritation sparks in his stomach.

“You should all stay,” she says. “Who knows? A single blade could make a difference.”

“Thank you!” Lia says, throwing her hands up. “You see? We have to stay. It’s the right thing to do.”

“She’s right, Rolan. We’re better than this,” Cal says.

With that, Rolan feels the situation has suddenly careened too far out of his control, and all because of a few words from this intruder. He tries mentally to renew his grasp on the thread of his argument, but he’s sick of fighting. And no matter what, he will not lose his composure in front of an outsider.

“Zurgan,” he mutters. “Fine. I’ll stay, too. Lest the both of you end up with your throats slit by a goblin blade.”

“Thank you, Rolan!” Lia beams, though not at him—at the bard. “You’re the one who tangled with those goblins, aren’t you?”

Personally, Rolan has no interest in where this conversation is headed next. He uses the last of his energy to stop himself rolling his eyes as he turns and heads back into the hollow.

❖ ❖ ❖

Her name is Tav. It was the last thing his ears caught as he left Cal and Lia with the errant adventurer the previous day. Not that he was trying to catch it. She had intruded on their conversation, plain and simple, much in the same way she was now intruding on Rolan’s peace.

Cal and Lia had insisted they were going to make themselves useful that morning, and apparently that meant ingratiating themselves with the guards at the top of the gate. Rolan prefers to keep them both in his line of sight to make sure they don’t get into trouble. Or cause it. In that spirit, he sticks to the secluded area on the periphery of the gate so he can keep an eye on them while he practises his magic.

Throwing himself in his studies has always been his refuge. Withdrawing into his magic feels natural, even when being a part of a family doesn’t. He remembers running away to their shared room and slamming the door whenever everything became too much or too loud and disappearing into a book until his frayed nerves recovered.

Instinctively, Rolan shuts his eyes and reaches into the Weave, its warmth rushing to envelop him. Two decades of training, and the sensation never changes. It’s reminiscent of an embrace, all-encompassing acceptance—the kind that doesn’t wink out of existence when he doesn’t feel worthy of it. Because this is something he’s earned after years of learning everything he can about magic on his own.

And then, Tav had shown up, flanked with the same followers she’d been running around the grove with yesterday. A gith, a half-elf in Sharran armour, and an elf with a smile more pointed and dangerous than the daggers on his belt. They are decidedly more formidable-looking than their bard.

She greets his siblings like they’re already friends, and that is enough to poke holes in Rolan’s focus. He tries to firm his concentration, but the sound of their laughter shreds it to pieces. Tav’s laugh is clear as a bell, with a quality to it that begs everyone around her to give her a reason, another opportunity to hear it again.

The image of her thinly-veiled grin sticks in his mind, and that’s the last straw. Rolan releases the last dregs of his focus, letting the curling tendrils of Weave surrounding him to furl in on themselves and evaporate with a sigh. Gods, he misses the peaceful quiet of his room in Westerly and the wingback armchair by the window he liked to curl up in with the spires of High District soaring in the distance.

“Hello,” Tav says, suddenly appearing at his side.

He tenses. “What do you want?”

“To say ‘hello’,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Bad day?”

The inane question grates at him. Rolan doesn’t understand how she can’t see that he’s sequestered himself by design—to be left alone.

“We should have left by now,” he says bitterly.

“This again?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “Instead, because of you, we’re just sitting here, practically begging to be attacked.”

Rolan’s not entirely sure what possesses him to lay the entire blame on her, but it feels right in the moment. And perhaps, he would regret it if not for the self-satisfied look that settles over her countenance.

“Leave on your own, then,” she says, shrugging. “If you’re so impatient.”

It’s a transparent attempt to call him on his bluff, but it’s an effective one.

“That is tempting,” he admits, “but I could never leave Cal and Lia behind.”

Tav’s face softens at his words. The shift in her expression is subtle. Rolan feels something twist in his belly in response that he finds utterly confounding.

“What?” he demands, frowning.

She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Before he can (rightly) call her a liar, her half-elf friend calls her name and waves her back over.

“See you around,” Tav says with one last momentary glance before striding back up the path, gone as quickly as she appeared.

Rolan watches her reunite with her companions and head together further into the grove. It’s only after they disappear from view that he realises he feels warmer than he’d been while wrapped in the Weave.

❖ ❖ ❖

The sting of steel pulls a gasp from Rolan’s lips. He lifts his finger to his mouth to swipe his tongue against the bead of red forming from his cut. Thankfully, it’s not deep.

“You’ve been distracted,” Cal remarks. His own handiwork with a blade has already produced a small pile of skinned rabbits, whereas Rolan has only managed a few measly carrots. He’s used to helping out in the kitchen but never been as skilled with a knife.

When Okta enlisted their help with the stew today, he’d hoped it would prove a good way to get his mind off things. Things, specifically, like the sound of Tav’s laugh and the soft, hazy glow that formed around her whenever she stepped into the columns of sunlight pouring into the hollow through cracks and openings in the stone canopy.

“Away with you!” the old woman says, snatching his knife and shooing him from his station toward a basin. “Away until you’ve washed your hands!”

Rolan grumbles a little but does as he’s told. Okta is meddlesome and a busybody, but she’s shown the three of them an abundance of kindness, always making sure they’ve had their fill of gruel or watered-down stew. He plunges his hands into the basin and lets his chin fall to his chest.

“Been a few days since those adventurers came around,” Cal says pensively. “Wonder what they’ve been up to.”

It’s true that Tav and her friends haven’t shown their faces in a while. Not even to sell off their rubbish.

“If they really did go to deal with the goblins like they said, they’re probably dead,” Rolan says.

“Don’t be morbid,” Cal says. He pauses, then, “What do you mean ‘if’?”

Rolan lifts his head to send his adopted brother a look of disdain. “Did you really think they were going to traipse into a goblin camp for the sake of some unfortunate refugees?”

“You don’t trust them?”

It’s a far sight easier to believe they had never intended to help them than to imagine them falling short. Just like with the druids.

“About as far as I can throw them,” he says.

❖ ❖ ❖

When the news comes that the goblins’ leaders have been defeated, Rolan’s pride tempers his giddiness. They can finally leave and resume the journey to Baldur’s Gate, to their futures.

“They did it! They really did it!” Lia says.

“I knew they would,” Cal says, giving Rolan a knowing look he’s seen too many times before.

Rolan scoffs, feigning disinterest. “Let’s just get on with it. I don’t want to spend one more second longer here than we have to.”

His wish to get back on the road immediately is promptly delayed by the suggestion of a party. A final celebration at the adventurers’ camp of their victory before parting ways. Rolan can’t think of a worse idea.

The druids keep a rustic domicile within the Emerald Grove—a grand name for what essentially boils down to a smelly cave. There’s no separate shelter for the oxen. They’ve simply buffered a small space to keep them while staying there, along with their troughs and hay.

Rolan’s robes are no doubt saturated with the odour by now. The thought of attending a party wearing them, much less showing up in Baldur’s Gate to meet Lorroakan, is difficult to swallow. He contemplates washing them in the river, but everything that goes in the water tends to come out with a thin film of slippery grime that clings to the skin unpleasantly.

Not long after the scouts break the news, Tav and her companions show up at the grove. Rolan tries to appear as unaffected as possible as they speak to Zevlor, but he’s purposefully peering through the crowd for a better look.

They look a little ragged under all the sweat and goblin viscera. Even Tav’s brightly coloured jerkin is stained with drying spatters of scarlet. Maybe Rolan doesn’t have so much to worry about fragrance-wise after all.

The moment they finish their conversation with Zevlor and start moving, Rolan looks for anything else to turn his attention to. What he lands on is rifling through his pack to look busy, but there’s barely anything in it except for a waterskin, an apple, and a few crumpled letters. Tav takes her time talking to each of the refugees she’s apparently become acquainted with while he feels stupider each second he spends pretending to search for something that doesn’t exist.

It’s not even been a tenday, and Tav seems to have spoken to more of the other refugees than Rolan’s ever had since they set off from Elturel. He realises, perhaps for the first time, that he never tried to get to know any of them because he didn’t see the point. There’s never really a point. It’ll always be him, alone, trailing after Cal and Lia—just like it was when they were children.

His hands still. Maybe that was why Tav inspired such a feeling of hostility inside him. Left him all twisted up and warm. She was like a foreign object wedging its way between them.

He shakes the thought from his head. It was completely irrational, he recognises that.

“Rolan,”

Cal gently knocks the toe of his boot against his. He looks up to find Tav has finally made her way over to them. She flashes him a brilliant smile.

“Took care of those goblins for you,” she says.

Ah, she means it as a jest. Rolan straightens and arches an eyebrow at her.

“For me? Really?” he says sceptically. “I nearly dispatched them myself, but you seem to have managed well enough.”

“‘Well enough’, is it?” Tav echoes teasingly.

“Yes. Why wield a masterwork where a butcher’s blade will do?” He eyes the bloodied rapier at her hip.

“Is that what passes as gratitude in Elturel?” she says, patting the handle of her weapon nonchalantly.

“Certainly not,” Cal says with a pointed look at Rolan. “Come off it, Rolan. You really think you could have Thunderwaved every goblin in that camp alone? Thank the nice lady for saving our skins.”

It’s almost worse that she tries to fight against the smirk threatening to burst across her face. Rolan scowls at Tav, at the locks of hair plastered to her forehead and the flush lingering in her cheeks from the heat of battle, and swallows.

“Thank you, truly,” he says stiffly.

❖ ❖ ❖

“You like her,” Cal says, seemingly out of nowhere.

Rolan nearly drops his end of the barrel they’re in the middle of lugging over to the ox cart.

“What?” he hisses.

“Tav. You like her.”

The repeat of his words makes Rolan cringe, even though he brought them on himself.

“It’s just like Zephirine all over again,” Cal goes on. “Your ears got all red.”

“‘Cept he made Zephi cry,” Lia says, the venom in her voice a little thin if only due to the distance of years since the particular event she’s referring to. Rolan can’t imagine Tav bursting into tears because of something he says anytime soon.

“If you’re not careful, she’ll think you’re a prick.”

“You make it sound like he still has a chance,” Cal says with a lighthearted laugh.

They pause at the back of the cart as Lia joins in on the chuckling. Rolan knows they aren’t trying to be mean, but wants to fold in on himself anyway. Together, he and Cal swing the barrel up onto the cart.

❖ ❖ ❖

Hells. Cal was right.

Rolan loathes admitting these kinds of things to himself, hates the futility of it. He’s always rejected distractions to his singular focus of achieving power. The kind of power that meant the three of them would never have to lose their home again.

It takes a glass or two of cheap wine for the merriment of the celebration to smooth the edges of his discomfort. At least, Cal and Lia don’t leave his side, swaying to the music with big goofy smiles on their faces. Seeing them happy gives him permission to relax.

Cheers erupt amongst the dancers, drawing Rolan’s attention to the centre of the camp. Alfira is sidling up to Tav, nudging her not-so-subtly as she continues to strum her lute. Tav makes a show of rolling her eyes, but her enthusiasm is plain as day. As she reaches for her own instrument, the crowd cheers again.

She falls into Alfira’s lively tune easily, bouncing back and forth with the beat. The fire throws warm light across her face, sparks and embers twirling with the movement of the dancers. Tav spins theatrically, drawing hoots from onlookers—she’s a natural entertainer, glowing in the attention.

Rolan tears his gaze away and closes his eyes, letting the phosphenes from the fire fade away into black. He is certain Tav is a puzzle, and anyone who wants to be with her has to fit neatly into her and her life. Much like himself. Futility. Coming to terms with that makes it a whole lot easier for Rolan to put Tav out of his mind.

“Didn’t you say you were going to put on your little show?” Cal says, slightly winded as he drops to a seat on one of the rocks nearby.

“Fireworks!” Lia exclaims, knocking into Cal. She looks up at Rolan eagerly. “We finally get to see the fireworks! Well, come on, then!”

She and Cal lean forward on their knees. The ale has turned her cheeks an even rosier shade of red than usual. ‘Fireworks’ is a bit of a stretch for a minor prestidigitation spell, but he’s inclined to humour them.

“Patience,” Rolan says, feeling his confidence reemerge. He wags a finger at them. “Have you no respect for showmanship?”

Stretching out his arms, Rolan dips back into the Weave. His self-assurance swells as he feels its warmth surround him. A pleasant shiver runs up his spine.

“Having performance issues, Rolan?” Cal loudly whispers.

Lia smacks Cal in the shoulder. They’re even more obnoxious when they’ve been drinking, but Rolan’s mood is quickly improving. He shoots them each nothing more than an unamused look.

“Hush,” he scolds them.

Drawing from the well of the Weave’s power, Rolan concentrates his magic at his fingertips and makes a grand sweeping gesture as a brilliant light flashes above them, white at its centre and fracturing into iridescent colour around the edges. It evanesces into residual sparks around them before fading completely.

“Remember when he could barely cast that?” Lia says, elbowing her brother.

Cal grins. “They grow up so fast.”

Rolan shakes his head, though he can’t help but chuckle a little. The sound of clapping interrupts him. Alfira and Tav have brought their duet to a ringing end, it seems.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” Lia says, twisted in her seat to look over at them.

Tav is reluctantly putting down her lute, clearly determined not to take up any more of Alfira’s stage. She waves off requests for an encore with a sheepish grin and tucks a lock of her hair behind one ear. When she looks up and catches Rolan’s gaze with hers, her lips curve into a small smile. His chest nearly bursts.

“Pass the wine,” he tells Lia, turning away.

❖ ❖ ❖

“I saw your spell,” Tav says by way of greeting once she finally tears herself away from a conversation with her elf companion.

She saunters over to his side, a goblet of wine in her hand. Cal and Lia immediately begin whispering to each other as if he can’t hear them.

“Very impressive.”

“Come to offer your adoration?” Rolan says, opting to ignore obvious gossip. He’s had a couple more cups by this point, and it’s so much easier to do so. “You’re too kind.”

Tav looks a little surprised. “You’re certainly more at ease.”

“Might have something to do with not having to worry about goblins anymore,” he tells her.

She hums in agreement and takes a long sip of her wine. When she pulls the goblet away, it leaves a drop of the deep ruby liquid on her bottom lip. Rolan actively fights against the urge to reach up to wipe it away with his thumb. That would be a wildly inappropriate and intimate gesture, he reminds himself.

Her tongue darts out to swipe at the droplet. It’s a quick motion, but just a hint of the pink tip suddenly makes his pulse accelerate. Even though Rolan hastily averts his eyes, Tav seems to have noticed him looking and grins.

“I’m glad it worked out. You risked a lot to stay. I don’t know what I would have done if anything happened to you or your siblings,” she says.

It’s his turn to be surprised. He hadn’t expected sincerity, hadn’t known she was capable of it.

“Of course, that probably would have meant I was dead. So, you know. Hypothetically,” she says with a weak laugh.

She drops her gaze to the reflection of stars in her cup, and Rolan recognises an attempt at walking back a moment of candour when he sees one. They had stayed, and it had been because of something she said. Of course, she would bear the heavy weight of responsibility if it had ended badly.

Impulsively, Rolan thrusts his own drink out in front of him and takes a deep breath. “Well, here’s to it all working out,” he says a little too quickly so that his words all jumble together slightly.

It manages to pull a laugh out of her. Soft, but still clear and bell-like. The sound tugs at something in his chest, beckoning. His mind scrambles, unbidden, to try to think of anything to say that might get her to laugh again in the future.

“To it all working out,” she agrees, gently clinking her cup into his.

❖ ❖ ❖

He was awash with a spell that night. One made of the taste of dry wine and the crackle of the fire and the tantalising prospect of a singular chance.

They are bound for different paths, ones that he can’t know for sure will ever cross again. And even if they did, Rolan won’t fold into her life neatly, and she won’t fold into his. It’s simply how they operate.

But they have this one night, and one thing Tav seems to know how to do is take a chance. She reappears several more times between making the rounds with everyone at the party, bringing offers of coy looks and fleeting touches. Rolan isn’t so clueless as to not recognise how women like her behave when they want something.

So, what stops him? He tries to parse the answer to that question for far longer than he’d be willing to admit.

It’s not just one thing. It’s the thought of leaving Cal and Lia alone, of the inevitable mess of rolling around with her in the dirt. The tenderness in Tav’s eyes when she speaks in hushed tones with her wizard companion. The burning embarrassment of the fiasco that was his first kiss. The smell of ox lingering in his robes.

In the end, he lets the opportunity slip through his fingers, and it feels easy. It’s almost liberating.

“Think we’ll see them again in Baldur’s Gate?” Cal asks, taking one last glance behind them as they leave the adventurers’ camp in the wee hours.

“Maybe. It’s a big city,” Rolan says unaffectedly. He doesn’t look back.

❖ ❖ ❖

It takes three people in total to drag him away from the site of the ambush. Adrenaline pumps through his veins. Rolan screams at them to let him go after Cal and Lia until his throat is sore.

The snivelling of the children chafes at his already fragile sense, rubbing his nerves raw. It’s unbearably cold, even when he touches the Weave—as if even Mystra’s reach cannot fully penetrate the shadows. Shadows that have buried deep, into regions of his chest reserved for himself and his magic.

They’ve never been apart, the three of them. Not like this. Rolan’s island shrinks in on himself.

It feels like the shadows have gripped him and refuse to let go. Rolan plants himself at the bar inside Last Light Inn and drowns himself in Arabellan Dry so he can stop replaying the way Cal and Lia threw themselves at the cultists in his head.

The others call him a mess. Rolan shoots nasty glares at them. He’s drunk, not deaf.

❖ ❖ ❖

“You look awful.” She says it like she can’t help herself, teasing and a bit regretful. Rolan feels the undeniable need to cut her down to size bubble up his throat like bile.

“Stick your nose in someone else’s business this time,” he spits at her over his cup. “Haven’t you done enough to my family?”

Tav’s face falls, but she clings to her sad smile. It makes him want to shove at her and run away. Unfortunately, this is the only place the alcohol is kept.

“Alfira told me what happened,” she says. “She said you stepped in and protected everyone.”

Rolan scoffs and turns away, sagging over the bar. “Cute. And while I did, Cal and Lia were dragged away screaming. Maybe you two can write a ballad about that.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to them, but—,”

“You should be sorry. It was you who convinced them to play hero, and now they’re gone.”

He’s done it again. Laid the blame at her feet. This time, for some reason, it doesn’t feel as gratifying.

“I’m going to get them back, Rolan,” she says.

There’s not so much as a shake to her voice. Her words are quiet but confident. The desire to steal even a fraction of her audacity threads through his being. Rolan whirls around to face her again. His head swims.

“They’re my responsibility. Leave me and my family alone.” He laces the command with acid and revels in the way she flinches in response.

She seems like she wants to say something else. The glint in her eye carries a suggestion of worry. Or pity. For her sake, Rolan hopes she keeps it to herself.

“Fine,” she says finally, as if sensing his silent warning. It’s the last word she says before making herself scarce.

❖ ❖ ❖

He might have still been a little inebriated when he slipped out of Last Light, but the shadows quickly chase the last of the haziness away. This isn’t the worst thing he’s been through, Rolan tells himself. And if anyone is going to rescue Cal and Lia, it’ll be him.

He’s not doing this out of a misplaced sense of pride. Certainly, this has nothing to do with the way he very confidently told Tav off and declared that this was his responsibility.

Certainly not.

Even when he’s alone, Rolan still finds himself trailing after his siblings. There’s probably some irony in that he’s currently failing to identify. The hem of his robes routinely catch on dead branches that reach out of the darkness like gnarled fingers. He’d be more worried about potentially showing up to his apprenticeship in this state under different circumstances.

There are shapes moving in the dark that make him question the integrity of his darkvision. Rolan moves with purpose through the winding cobblestone paths, gripping the torch in his hand so hard his nails dig painfully into the palm of his hand. The skin on the back of his neck prickles.

Clumsily, he climbs over the edge of a broken bridge and down the splintered fragments of road leading south. At least, he thinks it’s south. Lia was always the better tracker.

He can’t pinpoint exactly when he becomes aware he’s being stalked. All Rolan knows is that there’s nowhere to hide, no reprieve from the shadows this far from Last Light. And the deeper he goes, the darker the shadows will become. The best he can hope for now is a good spot to make a last stand.

❖ ❖ ❖

All this time, and he’s never seen Tav in action before now. She commands the fight just as well as she commands an audience—that is to say, better than Rolan ever expected.

He can’t believe he ever thought she wasn't intimidating. Thousands of hours with his nose buried in books, and he isn’t sure he could even match the vastness of her magic. How does a bard access the Weave with the consummate ease of a wizard?

It’s neither the time nor the place, but as Rolan watches her send down a blast of light that disintegrates the final shadow creature, he recalls the words of praise she offered him about his magic trick at the party. Had she only been humouring him? The idea eats away at him like acid, and when Tav turns to him, glorious with her hair wild and chest heaving, he fixes her with a look of pure vitriol.

“Godsdamn it all!” he shouts. It feels good to shout. Cathartic. Even though his throat is still a little sore. “Not you again! Anyone but you!”

“Tymora’s tits, Rolan! I can’t believe you would do something so stupid!”

Tav matches his tone, apparently forgetting all about her companions watching on awkwardly behind her as she storms at him.

“You're going to get yourself killed, you fucking arsehole!”

Her hands are on the ornate silver plate stretching across his chest and shoving him. It’s not a forceful shove—Rolan imagines he’d receive more than a few bruises if the barbarian at her back was the one doing this—but he’s also not expecting it. His back hits the rocky outcrop behind him with a soft thud.

“You’re supposed to be at Last Light!”

Tav raises one arm up to furiously swipe at her reddening face with her sleeve. The edges of Rolan’s vision turn white. She doesn’t get to do this.

“I’m supposed to be saving Cal and Lia!” he barks back at her. “Instead, I found myself cornered by shadow fiends and in need of rescue! From you, of all bloody people.”

He can hear the way his tone veers toward condescension. It’s a bluff of the highest order. She could probably strike him down before he even gets out the incantation for Magic Missile. But falling back on arrogance is his last defence against the slip of her mask threatening to tug at his heartstrings.

“Was I supposed to just let you die?” Tav says with a sneer.

“Alright, soldier,” her tiefling companion says, drawing her back gently by the shoulder. “I think he gets the picture, don’t you Rolan?”

His muscles hurt from tensing. Rolan forces himself to draw in a deep breath of cold, stale air.

“I know when I’m outmatched,” he says, defeated.

They let him go off on his own and return to Last Light. He’s surprised they’d even trust him to do that right.

❖ ❖ ❖

The pain is almost too much to bear, but Rolan doesn’t want to so much as look at another bottle of wine. Not after he spends a good hour retching over the side of the docks behind the inn. It feels deserved anyway.

He doesn’t understand how no one else seems to be going insane at quite the same rate as him in this godsforsaken place. The constant darkness is draining, an eerie echo of the day when the eternal light of the Companion was snuffed out. It almost feels like they’re about to be swallowed up into Avernus again.

The lack of day and night distinction makes it difficult to determine just how much time passes as Rolan sits and waits. He doesn’t even know if he’s waiting for Cal and Lia to be saved or for Tav to return with unsavoury news, if she comes back at all this time.

Nothing exists beyond the borders of the shadow-cursed lands. Rolan can’t even fathom making it out of here alive, let alone making it to Baldur’s Gate alone. He slumps over a table, resisting the urge to slam his head down on the wood, and rests his cheek against his stacked hands.

Someone calls his name. The voice sounds muffled with his ear pressed against his arm, but Rolan would recognise it anywhere.

“Lia?” he croaks, lifting his head.

It’s them. It’s really them. Cal, Lia, his family. Rolan is on his feet, but they refuse to move.

“We’re back,” Cal says, closing the distance between them because he can’t seem to.

“That’s all you have to say?” Rolan says, angling his body away from them coldly. “While you two were Torm knows where, I was out there battling the wretched darkness. What were you thinking?”

Recently rescued prisoner or no, Lia’s fiery temper remains entirely unaffected. Her nostrils flair. “Oh, I’m sorry we got captured by murderous lunatics,” she snaps.

“I thought you were dead, you ass!” Rolan fires back. “Both of you!”

“We’re all safe!” Cal says, scrambling to physically place himself between them before Lia can get in his face. “That’s all that matters.”

It’s like a dam breaks inside him. Rolan has no choice but to surrender to the wave of emotion crashing down on him. His eyes sting.

“I thought my whole family was dead,” he says, voice breaking.

Lia visibly deflates. “I’m sorry,” she says, sincerely this time. “We should have been here.”

“No—no, it’s not your fault,” Rolan says as Cal claps a hand over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m sorry.”

“You two are idiots,” Cal says affectionately.

Rolan exchanges amused glances with Lia and lets the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile.

“Troglodytes, the both of you.”

❖ ❖ ❖

He’s not sure why he’s hiding. It’s humiliating, the way Rolan presses himself against the wall of the upstairs landing.

The adventurers have returned and are sitting around the fire at the centre of the main hall. From what he can hear, they’ve worked out a portion of how to break the shadow curse. The sound of Tav’s tired voice pins him to the spot like a spell.

Rolan peers through the railing down at them, stomach churning. They all look… rough. The Sharran cleric (Shadowheart?) is cradling her head in her hands, slouched forward in her seat on her elbows. Karlach is crumpled in the barstool next to her, and Tav’s being held up in her chair partially by Wyll’s arm slung around her shoulders.

“Who’re you spying on?”

Cal’s whisper comes from way too close to his ear. Rolan reels, cringing, and rubs his ear frantically.

“Ah, they’re back. Need to properly thank them for what they did at Moonrise,” Cal says, getting up from his crouched position beside him.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Rolan says, heart still pounding.

“What are you sods doing skulking about up here? Come on,” Lia says, emerging from the door to her room.

Rolan accepts the hand Cal offers him with a sigh and follows them stiffly down the stairs to the common area of the inn. A few pairs of eyes glance up at them as they enter. Tav’s are noticeably not among them.

“I’m going to get some air,” Rolan mutters to his siblings. As if there’s any to be had in this hellhole.

He keeps his head down and scuttles toward the exit before Cal or Lia can protest. The moment his foot touches the eerie moon-like light cast from the Selûnite shield, he feels a short tug on his sleeve and freezes. Rolan knows who it is before she even starts speaking.

“Don’t you have anything to say?”

It takes him a moment to steel himself before he can face her. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for bringing my family back to me.”

The expression on her face is unreadable, but the dark circles under her eyes jump out at him.

“And?” she says.

He shifts his glance briefly back up toward Cal and Lia, hoping they might sense his desire for a well-timed intervention. No such luck.

“And…,” he pauses and bites back a groan, “I’ve lashed out at you, drunkenly and otherwise, and you helped anyway. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

Rolan expects her to look at least a little satisfied—it was rather a good apology. Instead, her brows knit in disappointment.

“Hells, humble Rolan is a bit uncanny. I think I like you better when you’re being pretentious,” Tav says, plush lips quirked into a lopsided grin.

He’d almost forgotten after everything that she is still the same meddlesome, needling bard he met in the grove.

“Are-are you being serious right now? I mean, do you never drop the glib bard act?”

Tav the adventurer. Tav the bard. Tav the fighter, the saviour, the flirt. Rolan grasps at aspects of her of his own making, trying to find the one that comes closest to the truth, but it’s like trying to catch smoke.

“I’m sorry,” she says with what seems like genuine remorse behind her weak smile. “I’ve been dealing with a lot, mostly unhealthily. With a lot of alcohol and humour. I suppose I’ve gone a bit mad.”

The air seems suddenly sucked out of his lungs. Rolan doesn’t often find himself at a loss for words. He’d heard from around the inn, of course, about the illithid affliction plaguing Tav and all her companions.

“Oy! Get a room, why don’t you?” Karlach calls, waving at them.

Startled, Tav spins and shoots her friend a rude gesture. The others hoot and laugh around her. Rolan’s cheeks heat uncomfortably.

“Your friends seem reenergized,” he says flatly.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” she asks him.

He very nearly stammers out some nonsense answer before she quickly clarifies.

“I’m just talking about a walk around the inn, Rolan.”

“Ah, yes.” He feels a bit foolish. “Of course.”

❖ ❖ ❖

“I’ve never had the pleasure of travelling through Elturel. Been all up and down the Sword Coast but never that far east.”

Tav finds ways to fill the silence that seem to come so enviably natural to her. She makes Rolan feel like an awkward lanky youth again, stumbling over his words and his steps, not quite yet grown into his frame. They skirt the perimeter of the dark water, past the boat Cal had told him he and the other prisoners used to escape Moonrise.

“Trust me, you’re not missing much,” Rolan tells her, toeing a bit of gravel over the edge of the dock. “I’m sure Baldur’s Gate is a comparable city to Elturel.”

“You’ll soon see for yourself. When you finally make it to your apprenticeship,” she says.

“You’re very confident we’re making it out of here.”

That pulls one of her addictive laughs from her. “I have to be. I don’t know what the alternative would look like.”

Of course, that makes sense. Rolan hadn’t even been able to form a loose idea of what he might do with his life if he’d really lost Cal and Lia. He chances a glance at her at his side watches her pensively as they stop at the edge of the Moonshield. Beyond, there's a bridge that extends over a narrow in the water.

He can’t help but wonder what they’re doing out here. If Tav had seemed somewhat out of reach before, she might as well be untouchable now. She spends all her time with Karlach, the Blade of Frontiers, bloody Gale of Waterdeep. It feels as though it should be one of them standing here beside her.

Besides, he doesn’t want her. He’s come to respect her. Perhaps, that came a little late. But he does not want her. Rolan has his family to think about, a path already set before him, a future as an Archmage with his own tower someday. That sort of thing doesn’t fit neatly into the life of an adventurer, and he can’t imagine she’d want to be tied down either.

So then, this must be some sort of fling for her. A passing fancy. Tav is saying something, but Rolan had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts and missed most of the first part. Something having to do with the Underdark and a bulette—he doesn’t really care. He turns to her abruptly and cuts her off.

“What is it you want from me?”

His question gives her pause, and he can practically hear Lia’s voice in his head. If you’re not careful, she’ll think you’re a prick. He can’t help it. It’s just always what he’s done to anyone who’s tried to get too close, for good or for ill.

“Nothing.” She says it cheekily, as if trying to elicit a reaction. It succeeds.

“Liar,” he tells her in a low voice.

Her tongue flickers out over her lip. “Yes,” she says simply. “Maybe I just want you to yell at me a little more.”

“Don’t jest. You might not want to think about it, but you could die soon. Or worse.”

“That could be. But to be honest, I’ve always believed fortune favours the bold,” she says with a shrug.

Bloody follower of Tymora. He’s certain he’s heard her invoke the Smiling Lady’s name before. Leaving so much in the hands of his goddess isn’t something Rolan is in the habit of. He clenches his jaw, transfixed by the self-assured expression Tav wears so well.

“You’re not just Lady Luck in disguise, are you?” he says, narrowing his eyes at her. “Here to tempt me and move on to the next shiny toy?”

She gives a decidedly unladylike snort at that. “I feel rather strongly that gods ought to avoid relationships with mortals at all costs. But more importantly, is that really what you think my dastardly plan is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you, and frankly, you don’t know me,” Rolan says, aware of the frustration edging its way into his voice.

Tav chews the inside of her lip, scrutinising him. “Alright, Rolan. I can take a hint. No hard feelings.”

She moves to leave, and Rolan feels a jolt through his chest. This is what he wanted, and Tav isn’t as much of a fool as he likes to think she is. She can see the walls he builds around himself brick by brick meant to keep people like her at arm’s length.

Rolan has no clue what compels him to snatch her hand into his. The leather of her glove is worn, stopping at the second knuckle and giving way to callouses at her fingertips from years of playing the lute. Even just that slightest contact of bare skin against skin sends electricity sparking along his veins.

Sod it all. He has the fleeting thought that if she manages to ruin him like this, then so be it. His name tumbles like a question from her lips in the split second before he pulls her into him.

He crashes his lips into hers, flinching at the dull pain of the clumsy collision. It’s not how he meant to kiss her in the slightest, but if he breaks away now, Rolan thinks he might lose his nerve. Tav doesn’t seem to mind anyway.

When he threads his fingers through hers, she splays her free hand over his chest, twists into the fabric of his robes, and pushes up onto her toes. Gods, he’s relieved he’s been able to bathe since arriving at Last Light. Rolan admittedly has little practical experience of this kind, but like magic, a firm grasp of the theory must provide a good enough foundation. Methodically, he adjusts his movements—more lips, less teeth—until he matches her pace.

“Rolan,” she whispers against his mouth, tugging lightly at her handful of his robes. It sounds like a plea. He’s trying too hard.

Consciously, he softens his efforts, and Tav swiftly takes the opportunity to slip her tongue between his lips. The feel of her palm sliding against his jaw is warmer, more comforting even than the embrace of the Weave. She tastes like spiced tea sweetened with honey, and he hasn’t kissed many people before, but he knows instinctively that this is how a kiss should be.

Her tongue swipes along the roof of his mouth, sending shivers down his spine. She’s clearly done this before. Multiple times. Rolan is tired of her continuously running circles around him. He won’t let her surpass him this time.

Daringly, he winds one arm around her waist to draw her body against his. With his other hand, he takes Tav by the chin and tilts. The squeak she lets out spurs him on as he trails kisses from the corner of her mouth to the side of her neck. When Rolan presses his tongue flat against her heated skin, she claws at his sleeves, gasping.

There’s another gasp just then that Rolan knows couldn’t have come from Tav. It’s louder, farther away, and quickly followed by astonished titters.

“Oh, my.”

Rolan’s racing heart stops, and he snaps his gaze up. Bex and Danis are rooted to the spot where they apparently stumbled upon them, eyes big as saucers. Hells.

Mortified, he lets go of Tav and scrambles to put a respectable distance between them. Bex lets out a giggle as the pair makes a hasty exit that lances him through the stomach. Rolan considers jumping straight into the murky river right then and there.

Tav makes a strange strangled sound, drawing his attention sharply back to her. She’s covering her mouth with both palms, cheeks still beautifully flushed, laughter threatening to burst through her lips. The moment is honest to goodness ruined. Rolan rolls his eyes at her.

“Really?” he says.

It takes her a moment to compose herself, though it seems she still can’t help but beam at him. “It’s funny.”

He responds with an unamused grunt. “Come on. We should probably get back.”

[introvertedandscared]

i was recently given a writing prompt simply titled 'blue' on an online forum i use, and wanted to try my hand at doing something for it.

i'm actually really proud of it- i dont know if its my best work, it always feels that way after i make something new, but it was really therapeutic to write and hey, practice makes perfect. ill never be any good if i dont work towards it.

this piece is an expression of my gender and identity, told through a narrative perspective. most of these events are either heavily fictionalised or not actual events in my life, and i'm unsure if the main character is actually me or not, but it is heavily related to my personal thoughts, feelings, and history.

its about 959 words, a short read, enjoy! and keep an eye out for more writing on this blog if you liked this ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

Blue

My favourite shirt is blue. Not a bright, attention-catching blue, but a soft one. Like blue hydrangeas. That’s not why it’s my favourite—I don’t even like the colour blue all that much—but it’s what everyone notices about it. When my mother comes into my room and asks for the laundry, she’ll point out ‘the blue one that you wear all the time’. When my friends and I are coordinating our Halloween plans, they ask to borrow my blue shirt for their costume. My brother will tell me that my blue shirt has somehow ended up in his closet. I’ve come to think of it more as a title than anything else. My Blue Shirt. All words capitalised, because they are important.

The reason it’s my favourite shirt is because it’s mine. I bought it with my own money—I had a whole 15 bucks I’d earned from babysitting—at the small thrift store on the corner after school on a Tuesday. It had been the first thing I’d picked up off the rack, not even checking the price or size. I had a curfew, and I knew that if I didn’t buy something that afternoon, I never would. I was 12, and the shirt I grabbed was 3 sizes too large, but I didn't care. I wanted it.

I still remember the woman behind the counter that day. She was probably middle-aged. At the time, I was transfixed by strands of her greying hair. She seemed radiant and wise. Untouchable. She was beautiful.

When I laid the shirt out in front of her, she looked directly at me for the first time since I’d entered the store, an amused expression playing across her face.

“You know this is for a man, right?” She asked, taking in my short stature, my girlish pigtails and sport shorts. My t-shirt that had recently started clinging to all the wrong places on me. I hated my clothes; my mother bought them all. She asked me for my opinion, sometimes, but I was only ever given the option to choose between the lesser of two evils. This shirt or that one. Those skirts or these jeans. Lately, I’d just let her take over completely, letting my eyes wander through the aisles while she shopped. No matter what store we were in, my gaze would always land on the men's section. I always let it linger for a second too long.

“It’s… for my brother. Last minute costume change for his, um, dance team. He needs something blue,” I mumbled through my excuse, terrified the woman would question me more, but she’d already started ringing my purchase up. The bubble of hope that had been growing in my chest ever since I’d ridden my bike out of the school gates that afternoon finally burst, into something bright and fiery and right. Something completely new. 

Later, at home, I tried the shirt on in front of my mirror. It reached down to my knees and looked utterly ridiculous, but it also didn’t hug my torso and hips trying to accentuate not yet existent curves. It made my body little more than a formless mass of cloth.

Five minutes after I put it on, my brother walked by my bedroom door. He took one look at me and laughed, and I laughed with him. He said I looked ‘stupid as shit’—words I still found scandalous at that time—and I’d agreed, but once he left I couldn’t bring myself to reach my own eyes in my reflection. I was scared of what I’d see. 

It’s been four years, and I still have that shirt. I’m wearing it now, bent low over the bathroom sink, scissors clutched tightly in my left hand, watching my hair swirl down the drain. I feel bile rising up in my throat at the sight, but it’s not from… disgust or panic. It’s- fear. I am scared to see myself. I am scared to know, because once I do there is no going back. It may not seem like it, but I am not one to dwell on the past. I live in the now. The now where I have just sheared away all of my hair at 3 AM, in the house my great-grandparents built with their own two hands. I wonder if they would be disappointed in me.

I don’t know if my mother will be mad—it’s hard to tell with her—maybe she’ll scold me, or laugh and schedule an appointment to get the mess I’ve made fixed, or maybe she’ll reach out, eyes soft. Maybe she’ll finally see me.

But I need to see myself first. I have been blind for far too long.

I steel myself—taking a sharp, shuddering inhale of air—and look up into the face of the mirror before me. I look up, and it feels like the final piece slots into place. The final piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for four years. For my whole life. 

The face staring back at me is no longer a reflection but a reality; the burning feeling in the centre of me flaring to life, consuming everything I thought I was.

I press a gentle hand to my chest, pressing down the two masses of fat and connective tissue that have always seemed to burden me more than my peers. I let the folds of blue obscure them until it almost looks as though they are not there. I wish more than anything that they weren’t.

I take myself in, gaze reverent and disbelieving.

My blue shirt is my favourite shirt, because unlike all my others, it fits perfectly. Ever since I first bought it, it has fit perfectly.

[sweet-creature101]

Sweet Creature

The moment harry fell in love with you.

bestfriend!harry

warnings: mention of alcohol. A lot of fluff.

“Is this okay?” You ask Harry, twirling around in your satin dress. The dress was sinched at your waist and fell down hugging your hips.

Harry had no response other than the butterflies that rose inside of him every time he so much as even glanced at you. ‘It’s only heartburn.’ He thought to himself. Harry tried his best to keep such feelings at bay, afraid of the outcome he might have to face if he revealed them.

“Oh my god. I look ridiculous don’t I?” You said, shock and disgust engraved in your eyes. That was the only possible reason of Harry’s silence, or at least that’s what you thought.

“What? No! You look, different.” Harry mumbled shyly as he buttoned his blazer.

“We’ve been friends far too long for you to act this way Haz. If I look hideous just say it.” You said, crossing your arms, your red painted lips forming a pout.

“You look beautiful, stunning, breathtaking-”

“Okay! Okay!” You interuppted him with a laugh, feeling your cheeks heat heavily. Harry couldn’t help but notice the red colour rushing into your cheeks as you stared at the ground. ‘Shy baby’ he thought to himself.

“I don’t even get why Niall is making us dress up so fancy shamncy.” You huff out a breath, looking at Harry fix his long hair.

Harry in simple words looked, ravishing. His red blazer matched with your red dress. You wanted to touch him, feel him, kiss him but you aware of the fact that Harry harboured no such feelings for you.

“Cheer up lovie. It’s his birthday, no taking chances with the dress code.” He said, flicking your nose gently.

—————————————

The music was loud. Loud enough to drown out any chance of conversation. You look around and get yourself a drink as you talk to Lila, a close friend of yours.

“Ladies!” Niall, grinned at both you and Lila as he approached you with a tray of vodka shots with Harry trailing behind him.

“Nope. I’m not doing that.” You spoke far too quickly, making Niall bark a laugh in response. “No one’s going out sober out of here.” Niall said winking at you.

“Drink up.”

With A few shots down, the party seemed to venture onto a much more eventful course. You danced with Lila and a few other men whom you didn’t know. The feeling of letting lose overpowered any logical reasoning you had. Harry ended up watching you from a distance, a protective gaze encasing you, observing your every move.

“Go and dance with her. If not, stop being a creep.” Lila said, patting his shoulder with a sly grin as if to say ‘I know you like her.’

“M’not being a creep.” He mumbled slowly. In all honestly, Harry understood why he would seem as ‘creep’, after all he had been staring at you all night long.

You spotted Harry from the distance. You waved at him with a bright smile. Harry returned your smile with equal affection. You stumble towards Harry and kiss his cheek slowly, giggling like a four year old girl.

“May I have this dance?” You ask Harry, extending a hand towards him. Harry smiled at you and placed his ring clad hand in yours and pulled you towards him, your chest bumping into his making you inhale sharply.

Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex began to play. Harry placed one hand at your waist and the other held yours. You sighed and kept your head at chest, sighing in content as you close your eyes. The two of you swayed slowly to the song. The proximity you shared was calming, and alluring.

“Tired?” Harry asked you, holding you.

“Never.” You replied making him laugh.

You weren’t absolutely drunk. You were drunk enough to posses a certain level of courage, which in a normal scenario would’ve been present.

In a normal scenario, you wouldn’t have asked Harry to dance with you. You would’ve have kissed his cheek and you most certainly wouldn’t have done what did next.

“Can I tell you something?” You asked him, your big glassy eyes staring up at him. “Anything at all.” Harry replied with all sincerity.

“I think… no wait, I know that I’m falling in love with you. I’m aware that I’m not much and you’re so used to dating all those models and perfect girls, that I might as well seem like a degrade. I just wanted to get this off my chest before I exploded.” You spoke far too quickly.

Harry noticed the signs, he took a good look at your body language. This was the first time he looked in your eyes with clarity as you stood across from him, enough to sober the both of you. He took a step closer, closing the tiny silver of space between you two. He noticed you were breathing deeply, which reminded him that he wasn’t breathing at all. So caught up in you, thay he forgot to breathe.

Your lips met and Harry’s tongue pressed your lower lip, parting your mouth as you welcomed him. His tongue slipped inside your mouth. You tasted like cherry with a hint of vodka. A moment later, your hands slipped from his neck as you grabbed his hair, completly forgetting where you are. Harry’s hands crept to your waist and his chest pressed against yours.

For Harry, this simply wasn’t just a kiss. It was an epiphany, a cure, a transformation and an unprecedented salvation in the purest form.

Finally as you pull away, Harry let out a groan as he let his eyes stay shut, not wanting to wake up from this dream. The last thing he wanted was to pull away. His large hands let go of your waist. Time stopped as he came to terms with this dizzy and swaying world. How could he have missed out all this time.

“I’m falling in love with you.” Harry merely said, connecting his lips to yours once more.

[tennessoui]

If I don't put this out there I'll perish. I need it out of my head -- Tw for mpreg i guess - AU where anakin defeated palpatine but at the cost of his connection to the force - its there but much much weaker now. He still holds sway as Chosen One however, n the feat of killing palpatine is not a small weight to throw around. The senate is in shambles, the Jedi's credibility is not doing much better. They need an out - they need good publicity.

There is a neutral planet that has stayed out of the war by some miracle - wealthy, but not overly so. High resources, but just a respectable amount. Stewjon is ruled by King Qui-Gon Jinn and he is unattached. The opportunity just presents itself. Jedi negotiated the hand of the Chosen One. A trade - the Chosen One for Stewjon's reputation as a steadfast, respectable planet to extend to the Order. Anakin, in all of his exhaustion and jadedness, in all his sadness of losing his connection to the Force, barely made any protest.

And so King Qui-Gon Jinn n Anakin marries.

What no one tells Anakin, is that QG has a beloved mistress. A lady in the lower court - Lady Tahl who he loves and loves him back for years but couldnt marry for her station. Anakin knew he was entering a loveless marriage, but he had hoped they could learn to love each other. If not romantically then as friends. Enough to get by, enough to procure heirs. But his husband is faithful to Lady Tahl and Anakin is the usurper despite wearing QG's ring on his finger.

The court knows why Anakin cant conceive. Its hardly his fault. But hes made an easy target for court ridicule - hes paying for QG's infidelity. QG regrets it, he does. He tries to protect Anakin as best as he can but his best is the bare minimum. Anakin suffers. Already wrung out, hes subdued. Puts in enough attitude to absolove the Order of their guilt when Yoda and Mace checks in. He thinks Plo wants to take him away. He thinks he can feel Luminara's heartbreak in the Force. He ignores them for the Council's sake.

Then the crown prince returns. Crown Prince Obi-Wan, Commander of the City Guards, Protector of the Realm, The Negotiator returns from his interplanetary travels. Obi-Wan has sent his apologies and wedding gifts to his adoptive father and his new husband, all the while praying that GQ would be kind to this Anakin person. Obiwan knows very well how unintentionally hurtful GQ can be, even when hes not wrapped up in Lady Tahl. Obiwan likes Lady Tahl enough - shes kind to him and its a shame that QG and her cannot marry, but still Obiwan prays and hope that his adoptive father would be kind to Anakin.

Well. Looking at the state of the court it was a fanciful thought. Looking at Anakin, though- Obiwan wonders if maybe this is a sign from the gods, from the Force. Because one look at Anakin in Stewjon colours, with the consort diadem on his head, pearls in hair, Obiwan can only think that this is meant to be. This is preordained. Anakin can only be his.

And Anakin, for the first time since he defeated Palpatine, can actually feel the silk touches of the Force at his fingertips. How it whispers in his ears and brush against his sides. But only when he looks at Obiwan. Only when Obiwan touches the back of his hand, when he guides anakin through doors with a hand at the small of his back, when he glides a finger down Anakins arm and slot their hands together. When Obiwan braids his hair and weaves little beads of kyber in between strands, in the mornings after.

When Anakin and QG announces their first pregnancy, the court is shocked. They look at Lady Tahl who looks indifferent, politely clapping with the rest. Theyre puzzled and look at QG whose smile seems genuine enough. Theyre taken aback when they look at the Consort's bright, pleasant smile. At how he glows, utterly radiant, and the name Chosen One makes so much sense now with how the light catches fetchingly in his hair, glinting off little gems weaved in the locks.

So enthralled by the mystery they are that they missed the Crown Prince's cool politeness, smile as empty as his eyes, staring at the his King and Consort on the dais. Eyes only softening when he looks at Anakin, but not too long lest the longing and yearning shows. He wonders, quietly, treacherously, how long it would take to gather supporters. How difficult it would be to back QG into a corner then throw him a lifeline - to be able to marry Tahl and live a quiet life.

Or converse to that, how difficult it would be to back certain figures into a corner. Manipulate and deceive all that QG and Anakins marriage is a mistake. That Lady Tahl was the right choice after all. That she has distant relations in other systems that would be more beneficial to the Stewjonians than an Order without teeth. Perhaps, to keep the agreement still in place my technicality alone, they could always convince the Crown Prince to marry the deposed Consort.

Obiwan schemes and schemes - theres no telling which one he chooses, but it always ends with him and Anakin together, with their children for years and years till death do them part.

[That's it - thanks, I really needed that out of my head. Hope you like.]

ooo I love a political intrigue! Publishing so other people can read :> what a journey! You should definitely write this plot bunny it sounds delectable! I love an au where a relationship is presumed without much of an actual relationship existing—it restrains one character while the other character is left confused (if the presumed relationship isn’t public)

also there’s never enough stories playing with the Jedi order as a planet or system of its own and arranged marriage will always be chefs kiss😍

[strangeannamaul]

Lasso's Ranch

(a sesame street/Mr Rogers AU)

Sadia Crimm sits criss-cross applesauce in front of her TV with her notepad and pen, in rapt attention as the theme song begins. She wiggles her toes in rhythm with the twangy fiddle and guitar that introduces every episode of Lasso's Ranch.

"Daddy! Hurry up, you're gonna miss the buck-uh-rooooo!"

Trent yawns as he comes in from the kitchen, carrying a freshly brewed tea. His hair is still a mess from sleep and he's wearing his housecoat and sleep clothes. It had been another late night writing for his newest novel, and he was feeling it this morning.

"I'm right here, darling."

He sits back in the couch and clutches his rainbow Snoopy mug like a lifeline as the cheerful television host comes on screen.

"How d'ya do, Buckaroos!?" The man cheerfully greets the camera and pauses with a grin.

"How daya do, Farmer Teddy!" Sadia shouts back, along with the pre-recorded childrens voices on the program.

The host walks through a stage set of what Trent assumes is a cartoonish pantomime of small town Americana. As Teddy greets each puppet chicken, cow, and dog in song, Trent sips his tea and let's his mind wander. The show had been another attempt to bring the success of Sesame Street to a British market after the limited run success of Furchester Hotel. The educational content was accurate and easy for children to understand, which made up for the cartoonish accent of the host and his ridiculous outfit. If Trent was being perfectly honest, though, the tan canvas jacket, plaid button down, cowboy boots and wrangler jeans combo actually did him more than a few favours. As a business model, it kinda worked. Bright colours and music for the kids, science and eye candy for the parents.

"Today on the ranch, we're getting ready for a big snowfall. Do you know where snow comes from?" A pause. "That's right, snow falls from clouds in the sky!"

Farmer Teddy goes on to explain the lake effect to the audience, as a puppet cloud crosses the screen picking up puppet water drops as they rise on sticks from behind a tank of water that is meant to represent the great lakes, somehow turning into snowflakes and dropping back down on the other side.

Sadia scribbles furiously in her notebook. She doesn't yet know how to spell, so mainly her notes consist of random letters and pictures of clouds, but it still makes Trent feel incredibly sentimental.

"let's give a big thank you to Mister Nimbostratus and the precipa-posse for helping me with that demonstration. Thank you, fellas!" he ends his lesson.

"Any time, Farmer Teddy! Toodaloo, buckaroos!" the cloud salutes a felt arm to his cloudy forehead and the puppets walk off screen.

Off-screen, there's a loud jangle from a telephone.

"Do you hear that Buckaroos? Sounds like someone's giving us a ring-a-ding-ding!"

The host walks up the porch steps and through the front door, and the scene cuts to his livingroom set. Next, he sits down to remove his boots and jacket, then slips on a pair of flashy trainers and pullover. Trent barely registers the phone song he sings, momentarily entranced by the tendril of hair that is disturbed when Farmer Teddy pulls the jumper over his head.

"Today's call comes from Sadia in Richmond. How'dya do, buckaroo?"

"Howdy, Mister Teddy!"

Trent recognizes his daughters voice, and it pulls him from his thoughts.

"Sadia, when did you call Farmer Ted?"

"Nana and Papa helped me do it. Is that okay?"

"Uh, yeah," Trent stutters out, "I just wished they had asked me first, that's all darling. It's okay."

She turns her attention back to the screen.

"How can Farmer Teddy help you today, Sadia?"

"I have a question about feelings."

"Sounds like a good question for the Diamond Dogs. Should we call them, Sadia?"

"Yes, please, Mister Teddy," she politely answers.

"You have very good manners, Miss Sadia. Okay, you heard her. Diamond dogs, mount up!!"

Four puppet dogs come bouncing in from all corners of the set, barking and yipping, and Farmer Teddy joins in with a couple barks of his own.

When the barking dies down, Farmer Teddy urges her to go ahead with her question.

"Well, sometimes I feel like I'm happy and sad at the same time. My mummy and daddy don't live together anymore because he is gay, and sometimes I miss my daddy when I'm at mums, or I miss my mummy when I'm at dads. How do I stay happy like you, when I miss one of them?"

Something briefly flashes across Farmer Teddy's face, almost indistinguishable, but he stays in character.

"Separation is always tricky. Your big feelings are normal and valid, and missing someone just shows how much you love them. It sounds like you love your mom and dad very much."

"I do! Mummy dances with me in the kitchen and daddy reads the best stories to me!"

"That sounds like mighty good folks you have. You know, when I miss my son, I like to think of the happy memories we shared just like that and it makes it feel a little less sad. I bet if you shared your feelings with your parents, they would also have some good ideas to help you when you miss them."

"I don't want to hurt their feelings though. If I say that I miss one of them, what if they think they aren't enough?"

Trent is fully awake now, like an ice water bucket had been dumped over his head.

The Higgins puppet, a collie with a dress shirt and tie, speaks next. "Your parents love you, they won't be hurt if you open up to them."

"That's right, I think they will support you if you give them the chance!" Nate the Great Dane agrees.

The other dogs, a German shepard with thick black eyebrows, and a brownish red terrier with a beard murmur in the affirmative as well and Farmer Ted nods.

"Thank you, Mister Teddy. Thank you, diamond dogs!"

"You're very welcome, miss Sadia. It was very brave of you to talk about your feelings. We're all honoured as can be to help you."

The show moves on to another segment, where they show the kids how to build their own weather sock, and then finished with all the farm animals being read a goodnight story as the snow falls. Trent turns the show off and pulls his daughter into his lap.

"Is that true, you felt like you couldn't tell me when you miss mummy cause you thought it would hurt my feelings?"

She nods her head.

"Oh, darling. You can always tell me anything. Its perfectly okay to miss us."

He kisses her on the temple and hugs her snugly.

"I know this has been a tough adjustment. Mummy and daddy will talk about ways you can see us more, no matter who you are staying with. Does that sound good?"

Her face lights up and the brightness of it warms Trent like a furnace for the love and pride he feels for her. Later that evening, after he had put Sadia to bed, he calls Molly and they make a plan to do nightly FaceTimes and eat dinner as a family once a week alternating houses.

(10 months later)

"Come ON daddy, hurry!"

Sadia pulls his hand, weaving them through the other pedestrians as they make their way to the book store. Farmer Teddy was doing a storytime tour and they had gotten tickets for when he was going to be at the inkwell.

The bookstore is crowded; about fourty children are seated around the tiny makeshift stage, and their parents stand around the perimeter in a semicircle. Farmer Teddy steps forward to get them all and read the stories, with animated inflection and gives each character a voice, as he does on the show. Afterwards, a bearded man with a guitar joins him, along with a boy a few years older than his daughter. The boy passes a tambourine to Farmer Teddy.

"I'm honoured to have this very special guest here to sing with us today, my son Henry. This song is very special to us and we wanted to share it with everyone here today. Hopefully it can help some of you the way it helped us. Grownups, if you know the words, please join in."

The bearded man begins playing, and they start singing Hey Jude. Some of the parents reluctantly join in, but by the nah-nahs at the end, the whole room has been swept up into the song.

"Alright, that's all the show we have for you folks today, I just need to take a five minute break and then I'll be here till closing to meet everyone one on one. Thank you for being such a great crowd!"

The trio disappear through the backroom doors as parents begin to shuffle to reclaim their children and form a queue.

"Daddy, can I go see mummy in the back?"

"We can see mum, but we have to leave Farmer Teddy alone. He deserves to take his break without us bothering him, okay?"

"I promise."

Trent follows his daughter through the doors and sees her disappear into Molly's office. He doesn't mean to eavesdrop but the storeroom isn't very big.

"How ya doing, bud?"

He recognizes the voice as Farmer Teddy, familiar but his speech was in a more normal cadence and tinged with a little nervousness.

"I'm good, dad. It's just a lot of people."

A pause.

"I know, it can be pretty overwhelming. Would you like to go back to the flat with Uncle Willis for the afternoon? I can join you and your mom around 5 and I'm all yours for the rest of the week. Promise."

A sniffle, another pause.

"Uhm, yeah, I can do that dad."

"I'm really sorry Henry, I know this wasn't the plan. Thank you for being here with me for this today. I love you, bud. More than anything."

He hugs the boy, and then straightens back to standing. The bearded man hugs him as well and gives him a pat on the back.

"We got this Ted, don't worry."

"Thanks, I appreciate you."

Trent stands there awkwardly, not sure what to do. He considers if it would be best to try to slip into the office undetected or announce his presence, but the decision is made for him a moment later as Sadia reemerges with Molly in tow.

"Hello, Mr. Lasso. Thank you again for appearing here today, it's a privelage to be hosting this event."

The men break their hug, and the bearded man guides the boy out the back doors.

He takes a shakey breath and then beams at her.

"Pleasure is all mine. Independent bookstores like this are invaluable. And who is this?"

He crouches down once again to greet Trent's daughter.

"This is my daughter, Sadia Crimm. Her father should be somewhere around here...ah yes, right over there."

Ted turns to where Molly is pointing. Miraculously, Trent finally regains the use of his legs to walk over, join them and offer his hand to shake.

"Trent Crimm. My daughter is a big fan of the show, so it's quite the honour to meet you today Mr. Lasso."

"That's awfully kind of you to say, sir, but you can just call me Ted."

He lets go of Trents hand and turns his attention back to the little girl.

"Sadia, you have a lovely name."

"Thank you, Mister Teddy."

"You're very welcome. Tell me, did the advice we gave you help you talk to your mom and dad about your feelings?"

The polite smile Trent had had on his face drops away as the mortification sets in. Not only did he have an embarrassing crush on a children's entertainer, but said man remembered that his daughter called about his divorce and coming out.

"Yes, thank you Mister Teddy. Mummy and daddy call me every night so I always see them both every day."

She isn't usually affectionate with adults she just meets but Sadia wraps her arms around Ted's neck, and he has to quickly put a hand out to steady himself from falling over before hugging back.

"Sadia, please be gentle. I'm sorry Mi- uh...Ted. And err, thank you for answering her call. We watched that episode together and it led to some very good conversations. It really helped."

"Shucks, Trent. I mean I try my best. I'm glad I was able to make a difference. Divorce is hard, and I've been where you are. Harder still when you have a kid caught in between."

Before he could think too long on what that means, Molly speaks up.

"Sorry to cut this short but it's time to start the meet and greet."

Ted stands up again with a groan and stretches, and Trent tries his best to not blush at the sound. Unfortunately, he doesn't think he was that lucky and he swears he catches Ted wink at him, although it could've been a trick of the light.

Ted smiles at him. "I'm busy this week visiting with my son, but I would like to chat again before I have to go to the next stop on the tour. Are you free next Thursday?"

Trent doesn't say anything, just glances at Molly. She rolls her eyes and gestures from Trent to Ted, silently telling him say yes, you idiot.

"Uh, I can do Thursday. Yeah. A drink? Or uhm, lunch?"

"I'm not much of a drinker these days but I would like to take you for dinner, if you'd be amenable?"

"Dinner. Yeah. Okay, see you then!"

Ted smiles at him then tips an imaginary hat to Molly. "Duty calls."

With that, he turns and walks back out the doors.

"Breathe, Trent." Molly laughs at him.

He takes a deep breath and blinks.

"What just happened? I think I blacked out."

"I think that Ted Lasso just asked you on a date."

Trent scoffs. "Nonsense. It's probably a friendly hangout. Or a polite but empty offer that he had no plans on following through on. I didn't even get his number."

Molly rolls her eyes.

"You let me worry about that. You can take this one to the park while I get back to running my shop."

9pm that evening:

Trent is lying in bed, emailing pages to his editor and doing his required social media posting as part of the marketing plan for his upcoming novel. The room is dark, except for the blue square of light coming from his phone to Illuminate his face. It's then he recieves a text.

(Text ted to trent)

Hello Trent! I got your number from your ex-wife. Sorry about running out of there without taking care of the details. Busy afternoon!

(Text ted to trent)

What kind of food do you like? I admit I'm not super familiar with Richmond yet but I do like the food at this pub around the corner, Crown and Anchor. Do you know it?

Ok, so it wasn't an empty invitation. He still didn't know why the man had invited him out. A pub didn't exactly scream romantic intentions, but he would be lying if he said he'd never had a date at one before.

(Text Trent to Ted)

I know it. Shall we meet there for eight?

(Text Ted to Trent)

You bet, bobba fett.

(Text Ted to Trent)

Looking forward to it.

(Text Ted to Trent)

I'm absolutely bushed though, gonna hit the hay. Night night!

Trent felt an unbidden bubble of excitement and let his phone fall to his chest with a smile. He tries to temper his hopes by reminding himself he still has no idea the reason for the invite. It still takes him another hour to settle for sleep that night, and for the rest of the week he has a bounce in his step that his ex-wife only teases him about on days that end in y.

Finally Thursday night comes around. Trent chats on FaceTime with Molly as he checks himself out in the mirror again.

"I don't know. You sure it's not too much for crown and anchor?"

"You look dashing, Trent. He's going to be blown away, and if he isn't then he's an idiot."

He wears a patterned orange and brown sort of paisley inspired koi blouse with the top buttons undone so that a decent peak of his chest is bare. On his wrists he's layered multiple bracelets and has a statement turquoise ring on one hand. His trousers are cream, high waisted and with dramatic wide legs.

"I'm more worried about me looking like an idiot."

"Don't you dare get cold feet now! You March down to that pub and have a nice meal and a pint with a handsome man and have a good time!"

"Love you too, Molly. Ok, wish me luck."

"Good luck!"

Trent arrives about five minutes early, and scans the room. It's a quiet evening, only a handful of patrons tonight. In a booth to the right, he locks eyes with Ted, who bolts upright with a smile and stands as Trent walks over. Ted had traded his wranglers and boots for a dark wash denim and dress shoes. He wore a navy blue dress shirt that looked like it had been tailored for him as it showed off his althletic build.

"You made it!"

Ted says it as if he had been worried Trent would have stood him up and like he's relieved he hasn't been.

"As did you."

Ted smiles, and his eyes drop briefly to the open collar.

"You look good. Uhm nice. I like your outfit."

Ted runs his hands through his hair at the base of his neck, as he awkwardly compliments Trent. Tick one for this being a date.

"You look good too. Shall we order?"

Ted nods and they sit down, and are promptly greeted by Mae, who takes their orders and disappears again. For what feels like a full minute, neither of them says anything.

"So-" "Wh-"

They choose the same moment to begin to say something, and then laugh at the awkwardness.

"I'm terribly sorry, you go first."

"No really, you go right ahead and say what you were gonna say."

"Honestly, I'm not even sure what I was going to say. This as entirely unfamiliar situation for me, I've never been invited to dinner by someone I only know from television."

Trent sees him flinch.

"What I mean is, I know you're work but I don't know you, so I don't really know where to begin the conversation or why you are interested in talking to me at all. "

Ted's shoulders relax again.

"Well, not sure if this helps or hurts but I could say the same to you. Your ex-wife gave me some homework for the week, unintended of course. She let slip that you're a writer, and I ended up on a deep dive of what my internet searching told me was some of your best work. I just wanted to get a sense of who you were but it was such a good novel that I read another and then another after that. You have a real talent for imagery, sir."

"You...read my work?"

Ted nods.

"Sure did. Now romance isn't my usual genre but let me tell you I was cheering when the protagonist would finally get with his love interest every time, once I remembered how to breathe again. I had no idea a bit of reading could do that to a fella, not least of all his blood pressure. I've always said the written word is a powerful thing, but wowee do you set the bar."

"Oh, uh, thank you."

Trent blinks in surprise. Of all the revelations he thought this night might reveal, he hadn't forseen that Ted would have read his queer erotica. Not just read it, but enjoyed it.

"I write other things too. Some biographies, a couple mysteries. It's not all just... that. They were cathartic when I first was trying to understand aspects of my own life and later when I came out and people responded well so I just... Kept writing them."

Trent fidgets with his napkin. He isn't embarrassed, because he is proud of is writing, but he does feel uneasy with being so seen. Those novels are the most emotionally vulnerable of all his work, each one taking no small amount of courage to voice his desires to the universe. Ted reaches across the table to put his hand on Trent's.

"Well count me as a fan. You've got a beautiful way with words, Trent."

"That's kind of you to say. I-"

Ted gives him a moment to finish his sentence, but when it's clear Trent has thought better, he gently presses.

"What were you about to say?"

"It's nothing; it's stupid."

"I doubt that the mind responsible for writing a love as real and compelling as Stephen and Daniel had in that royal court series has any stupid ideas. Go ahead, I promise I won't judge."

*Oh god, THOSE are the books he read?* Trent thinks. Royal Court was his most popular series, but it was also a thinly veiled self-insert of everything Trent had ever dreamed his ideal romance could ever be, treason plots and high tea aside. He definitely didn't want to read too deeply into why they had resonated with Ted.

"It's just that you don't seem like my typical demographic, I don't have many readers that are.."

"What, American? Or childrens TV personalities?" Ted finishes.

"... straight."

Fuck, it's out there now. The bubble of what if and circumstantial proof he'd built up in his mind to imagine this was a date was finally going to be popped. He'd shown his cards and Ted was going to let him down easily. Taking a deep breath, he awaits the inevitable rejection.

Ted chuckles a little, but then stops at the look of pain on Trent's face.

"No you're right, sorry, not funny. Look, maybe this is just a clash of cultures thing but where I'm from if a fella meets another fella and then he asks that fella to dinner, and he doesn't clarify it as business, that's a good indication he's angling for a date. I wasn't sure you'd be interested, but I was sure interested in finding out. Doubly so after I read your books. What part of that did you get straight from?"

Trent covers his face with his hands, and groans in embarrassment.

"You were married to a woman and you have a child together. I assumed."

Ted chuckles again. "You have an ex-wife and a child."

"Point taken. Look, I'm really sorry I made any assumptions. Can we start over?"

"No harm, no foul, Simon Cowell. If it's all the same to you though, I like where this thing we got going on is at now. Seems like a shame to let all this progress go just to start at the beginning."

Trent searches his face for any indication of negative reaction but all he sees is a genuinely pleased smile, the sparkle of amusement in his eyes, mixed with a look of hunger that Trent finds thrilling.

"Alright. Onwards, forwards."

"I like that, might have to take that."

"Might let you."

Their banter is interrupted by the arrival of their food, and the conversation flows naturally until they're the last people in the pub. Mae gently (but firmly) sends them on their way, so they wander down the street together, arm in arm, neither willing to call it the end of the night, until Ted stops in front of a white door. He grabs Trent's hand when he keeps walking, to stop him, but doesn't let go once Trent has stopped too.

"This is me."

He looks at Trent with a silent plea in his eyes.

"Oh."

A silent moment stretches between them as either tries to read the intentions of the other.

"You could -"

"Yes."

Trent interrupts, and launches forward to crash their lips together. Ted responds in kind, and pulls him by the waist against the door, fumbling with the keys until it finally clicks open and they stumble through the entryway.

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

credits to this prompt go to @writing-prompt-s !

Also, this is not an x reader fic. I used the second person because I like staying consistent with the pov of the original prompt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♤♤♤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your gaze wanders over to a murky puddle, your treacherous reflection staring back at you, torturing you slowly. You aren't even sure if you are worthy of calling these features your own, the dark, tousled hair, the clean-shaven face, exactly the way he liked to keep them when he was your age. You even have his green eyes, but yours never shone as bright. Even when he was dying, there was this purpose, determination in his gaze, like he knew exactly what to do, so sure of his destiny, like it was already written in stone. Part of you wonders if he knew what would become of him.

Your grip tightens on the weapon, your brother's legendary katana, and it never failed him except the one time he needed it most. If this wasn't war, you'd have laughed till your ribcage snapped.

You wish to scream, plead guilty, tell the world that you're a fraud, something you should have done ages ago. But you didn’t. You couldn't. Partially because it had been the real Chosen One's dying wish, and also for a slightly more selfish reason. When you fully embraced being your brother, you began to realise what made the burden of being the Chosen One just a little more bearable; the respect, the formidable reputation, how popular you seemed to be amongst the masses. For a boy who'd lived his whole life in the shadow of greatness, the praise, even if it wasn't really meant for you, definitely accounted for something.

The truth of the matter was, you possess all your brother's skills because you trained. Worked so ridiculously hard, gave your blood, sweat and tears for it. Yet, you made it look so effortless, the way he did. Truth of the matter is, he was always naturally talented, while you were the hard worker. He worked too, but he never needed to go past his breaking point the way you did because he was born for this.

Or at least, you thought he was.

The Dark Witch smiles at you, a sharp, sinister thing. You half-expect her to pounce on you and eat your heart out just like she'd vowed to. Yet, she regards you with a prying obsidian gaze, and you wonder if she knows your horrible secret.

"Chosen One. At long last, we meet on this battlefield, and today, I shall put an end to all your pathetic attempts to stop me." The Witch's voice booms, filling the entirety of the place, almost shaking the ground with its commanding presence. It rings in your ears, and your heartbeat quickens, yet you stand tall, keep your shoulders straight and your jaw clenched, the way he did in the face of danger.

"Nothing to say?" your adversary asks casually, as she brings down another group of soldiers with a wave of her hand, not even allowing them the simple luxury of looking at their corpses, as though they are less than vermin, rendering her perfectly manicured black nails more important to pay attention to.

"I think you should die," you hiss, not exactly sure if that's what your brother would have said, but the remaining members of the Dark One's resistance seem to approve, so you take that as reassurance.

"Relax, little hero," the sorceress sneers, "this will be over soon."

No turning back now. Nowhere to run. Sparks crackle between the Dark Witch's fingers, and a coal-coloured aura began to surround her, radiating hatred, fear, every repulsive emotion known to man. You gracefully swing your sword, slicing through the air, your brother's signature move when in battle.

You drown out the noises of battle around you: of bones breaking, blood spattering everywhere, of knives slicing into flesh. Right now, all you hear are your mind's turbulent thoughts, the pounding of your heart in your ears and the Witch's animalistic snarl as she casts her dark spells, directing the full force of her power towards you.

You parry her vicious attacks with your blade, taking note of how her power seemed to grow in vigour with every block. A telltale voice cuts across the seemingly all-consuming fight, your best friend, no, your brother's best friend, whom you realised you saw as a steadfast companion to, screaming loud as he took his final breaths, "The Chosen One will end you, tyrant!", and it is swiftly followed by the sound of a sword slicing a smooth line across his throat, a surefire kill. There is no time to grieve or to scream your throat raw as you so desperately wished to. No time to lament on your horrible lies or to even glance at the fallen soldier's mutiliated corpse. Instead, you focus on putting more force into your own attacks, on casting a protective charm, on honouring your brother's legacy.

Something in the Witch snaps, and she aims a blast of power that throws you to the ground, but far away from everyone else, some kind of violent teleportation spell. You can't help but groan as your already bruised and aching body suffers more torment. "Why didn't you do that from the start?" you ask, something entirely you. Your brother would have said something more noble or maybe even nothing at all. He hadn't really left you a script when he died, and all this was taxing beyond measure. Still, you rise up from the floor just as fast as you'd fallen.

The Dark Witch doesn't cackle or say something sadistic like how she enjoys playing with her food before eating it. Instead, she looks disappointed, enraged, and so entirely full of contempt. "You are not him. You are not the Chosen One. You're nothing but a cheap, two-faced fraud!" she growls, advancing on you like a predator ready to tear its prey to shreds. A dark flame glows in the palm of her left hand, the highest form of her power. One hit, and you would become less than dead, erased from existence.

"What gave it away?" You let out a hoarse laugh, realising that keeping up the facade was pointless now.

"Your aura, boy. You forget that I'm a witch. I didn't notice at once because yours is so similar to his, but still, not the same."

"Shouldn't you be pleased by this?" You ask coolly, your jaw clenching, the muscles of your face contracting to pull into into an expression of absolute rage.

"I was promised a fight with the real Chosen One. The prophecy lies!" She aims her blast at you, and you gracefully leap away from it. Survival instincts outweighed pride here.

"Well, I'm sorry! I am so deeply sorry that you've been screwed over, as everybody else was. Sorry, my brother isn't alive to inflate your ego!" you scream, and you barely register the furious tears streaming down your face, mixing with the blood and the sweat, tasting like salt on your tongue as the shame burns acridly in your throat.

You dodge a few more of the evil-doer's treacherous flames, but this time, your katana completely disintegrates before your eyes. Your brother had warned you that certain levels of magic were too much for even it to withstand.

The Witch grins at you, triumph written all over her features as she readies her largest flame yet. You wish to burn her to the ground, then set fire to the ashes. To destroy her beyond imagination.

To erase her from existence.

You suck in a sharp breath and then exhale slowly. You don't need to be a witch to cast this spell; however, it is so arduous that most of those who attempted it died. Your brother himself had never used it, but it was your only salvation.

"The prophecy didn't lie," you state pointedly, trying your hardest to summon the energy necessary for creating the fireball, "it said either you would defeat the Chosen One or he would defeat you, it never specified him being there, just you. This was my brother's dying wish, and he is ending you. Through me!"

You're not entirely sure how, but the flames in your hands are the largest and wildest you've ever seen. Your muscles twitch and tremors run through the entirety of your form, the tears wet your visage once more, and your knees buckle.

But you smile savagely at her all the same. "It's over, bastard," you sneer, and you're completely sure your brother wouldn't say this, but he'd definitely approve. You aim the blast at the Dark Witch, and you revel in watching the look of utter defeat and humiliation on her face as she dissolves into nothing.

You trudge back to the rest of your soldiers, dead on your feet, practically collapsing on someone. "She's dead," you mutter before your strength fails you, and your eyelashes flutter, and your world fades to black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♤♤♤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After you regain consciousness, get your wounds cleaned and bandaged and have a much-needed, long, hot bath, and finally manage to escape every person trying to congratulate you, you find yourself wrapping your arm around your lover's waist as she stroked delicately through your hair.

She'd been your brother's love. She is older than you, but younger than him, and she is the only person you didn't lie to; you couldn't lie to. The relationship between her and your brother had been arranged, Chosen One and all, and although he'd treated her with kindness, the heart's desires could not be tamed. She cared for him, yes, but she didn't see him romantically.

You hadn't been able to bear the thought of lying to her, so you bared your soul, acted like yourself around her, and slowly, after she'd overcome the initial shock, she started falling for you, preferring your sarcastic jokes and quieter nature to your brother's personality. You loved her back, still do, more than you know.

"Should I tell them? As much as I want to run away and start over, they need a leader. They look for that in me," you supply, subconsciously leaning back a bit lazily and melting into your lover's touch.

"You can't keep this up forever. It's already pushed you to your limits. No matter how good you are at pretending, you're not him. And you no longer have to be. Some people will hate you for it. You must accept that. But, you're a lot more than your brother's shadow, and you don't deserve to act like you aren't," she replies, tone firm but not unkind, her fingers a little lower against your scalp.

You weigh her words against your fears in your head, and you realise that her answer holds a set of undeniable truths, no matter how far you can try to run from them.

"But leave that to another day, for now, I think all you need to do is rest, my love."

You smile at her sweetly. "You fought in this bloody war too, so that goes both ways, sweetness," you quip, running your fingers back and forth in soothing motions over her knuckles.

No one complains about the scarcity of diamonds, for it is their rarity that makes them valuable. So, in a world of lies, the truth is still bound to win.

Your hands shake as you approach the final battle. Everyone is confident you’ll win since they believe you’re the Chosen One. What they don’t know is the “Chosen One” was your older brother, and you’ve been using his name and identity ever since he died when you were 14

[arwenkenobi48]

A long serpentine tail, mottled with intricate, earthy patterns, slowly descended from the jungle canopy, winding its way around the lion’s slim waist and hoisting him up into the branches.

Prince John’s golden fur stood on end as he writhed and shrieked with indignation. “Hiss! Hiss! Stop that at once! Put me down this instant, you blithering boa! This is an outrage!” But it was only when he saw the face of a colossal python smiling down at him that it truly dawned on the hapless monarch just how much danger he was in. “Help! HEEELLLLLLP! SOMEBODY SAVE ME!”

Sir Hiss desperately slithered through the jungle as fast as his limbless body would allow him. He wished more than ever that he had a pair of legs.

Panting with exertion, he bumped into the large pink dragon he and his superior had been travelling with. “Reverie! You’ve got to do sssomething! It’s an emergency!” “Slow down, Hiss, you’re out of breath. Now, tell me, what’s happened?”

Shuddering with dread, Hiss spoke again. “It’ssss that python, that awful python! He’s taken PJ away!” Reverie’s bright green eyes widened in horror. “Oh, no. I hate to think what he could be doing to him…”

“Trusssst in meeee, jusssst in meeee. Shut your eyes…and trusssst in meeeee…” As Kaa concluded his eerie lullaby, a ridiculously dopey smile emerged on Prince John’s face, accompanied by a soft Ping! noise that reverberated in his empty mind. The helpless lion was completely wrapped up in his captor’s thick, muscular coils, psychedelic rings of rippling colours reflected in his eyes. With a soft, hissing laugh, Kaa admired his handiwork. He couldn’t wait to devour his latest meal.

Reverie spat out a mouthful of leaves. His head emerging from the dense foliage once again, he surveyed the treetops. “Still no sign of him. Sir Hiss.” “Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear…” Sir Hiss clung to his winged companion, his fear mounting with each passing second. “Poor Prince John, ensssnared by that insssidiousss fiend! We sssimply mussst find him, heaven knows what will happen if we don’t!”

Kaa’s empty stomach rumbled ominously. Prince John snored softly. “Yesssss, lion cub, jusssst keep ssssleeping. You won’t be here in the morning…” A malevolent grin stretching across his face, Kaa’s huge mouth began to open…

“KAA! Hold it, Kaa!” A swift punch was delivered to the python’s mouth, knocking him over backwards and sending him tumbling from the branches, rapidly unwinding as he did so. The rushing, spinning sensation finally brought Prince John back to his senses. “Aaaaargh! What on earth is going on!?”

“We’re saving your life, that’s what’s going on!” Reverie pulled his friend closer with one talon, the other grabbing the tip of Kaa’s tail. “Oh no you don’t, Kaa, you’re not getting away that easily!” The dragon spread his wings. “Come on, you two, let’s head back to the encampment. I think we’ll have to teach this python a lesson, don’t you?”

————————————————————

Reverie and Sir Hiss save Prince John from a certain Indian rock python.

[jerefishvr]

hello, first time taking a visit to your asks, I have to say I love your work and was wondering if you could do a Wednesday Addams x Male Reader where the reader is a vampire and is into a lot of punk music (example: metallica and black sabbath) and dresses punk and stuff. Scenario would be enemies to lovers (also if you don’t do male readers you can just do gender neutral, I don’t mind.)

— god save the queen ☆

— wednesday addams x gn!punk!vampire!reader <3

— summary : IN WHICH, Wednesday Addams hated loud music, ripped jeans, heavy rings, awfully dyed hair, big eyeliner and long earrings,yet a certain punk vampire caught her eye.

a/n : babe not to ruin your happiness but metallica and black sabbath are more metal/rock and i decided to do punk PUNK yk like , sex pistols. If you don't like this ill gladly do a metal/rock ver <33 also let's pretend Wednesday already has a phone!!

Tall black boots stepping on the hard wood, making a creaking sound. Pants ripped with patches all over them and random sewed on designs with band names. Horribly and messy teased hair, eyeliner bigger than their boots, black sunglasses and long black crosses hanging from their ears.

That was Y/n. Nevermore's most "not normal" student. They stood out in the crowd with their lanky figure and weird style.

They were a vampire, a blood addict, with long fangs and fingers full of rings that grasped their victim's neck with hurry. A fan of loud noises and music that made most people want to rip their ears out.

Everyone always turned their head at the sight of Y/n, in awe of the rare beauty in front of them. Y/n was everyday greeted by every single person in there. No one hated them and their funky style, sirens to werewolves and even more. Except from one girl named Wednesday Addams. Who was right now, standing infront of them.

Y/n didn't even bother to look at her as they barged into Enid's shared dorm with Wednesday while listening to music on their headphones.

"Will you be quiet?" Wednesday said with her usual cold tone while staring immediately into the poor vampire's soul.

The red haired punk took out their headphones to hear what Wednesday was saying with a light blush on their cheeks.

Oh, Wednesday, Wednesday. She was like a total dream to the vampire. Well, actually more like a nightmare. They admired her from afar everytime her mouth said

While on the other hand, Wednesday "hated" them. She hated how cool they looked with their teased hair, their patch filled jackets and their weird earrings. And what she hated the most was how SHE found them cool. She, Wednesday Addams, thinking someone who's like a rainbow, with colorful eyeshadow and bright red lips, was cool.

She remembers telling Enid about how it looks like a rainbow threw up on her, yet here she was. Acting like she despises the school's cheerful punk and admiring their pops of colours here and there.

"Do you know where Enid is?" Asked the punk, patiently waiting for an answer while plopping down on Enid's bed comfortably.

"No. I do not and I really couldn't care less where she is right now. Turn down that absolutely awful music or else I'll cut your ridiculous hair off." Said Wednesday with no emotion in her voice.

The vampire laughed and unplugged the headphones from their phone. Their fangs glowing in the sun of the day as they smiled while turning up the volume. Chipped nail polish on their long fingers as they tapped on their phone's screen.

The first thing that came out of the phone was loud instruments and yells. Wednesday looked at the screen in confusion and interest.

" GOD SAVE THE QUEEN" was shown all over the screen, some dudes with funky and spiky hair singing while behind them was written on the wall "SEX PISTOLS".

Wednesday found herself actually taking a liking to the music, slightly bopping her head and bouncing her leg in rhythm.

Y/n smirked and looked at her. "I see you're quite enjoying "awful music"" They said, making Wednesday roll her eyes and grab the punk's phone.

"Just shut up and send me the link" She said while typing her number in the phone,with her usual cold demeanor dropping as she smiled a little, barely noticeable but the vampire saw it and felt their heart clench in happiness and enthusiasm.

"Aight, see ya later Nes" were Y/n's last words as they stormed out of the room to find Enid and tell her about making her "emotionless" roommate,THE Wednesday Addams smile.

Wednesday kept on staring at them as they ran out of the room, their chains and necklaces along with their heavy boots suddenly looked like art to her and not just stupid jewellery. Or maybe, they looked like art to her.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

More than a Hobby

Warnings: noncon/rape, oral, double penatration, virginity.

Prompts: “Every time I see you, I can’t help but see myself inside of you.” & “It hurts." "I know.” & "You want me to pull out, ask me nicely and I'll come in your mouth." + Peter Parker + virginity + Peter stalks reader at work request by @mocha-bunny and two anons.

Summary: your prospects broaden as a surprise offer is put on the table.

Please leave some feedback and reblog if you enjoy! Thank you 💜

The small hobby shop is rarely busy. The clientele are mostly regulars adding to their collections of figurines or buying up the newest expansion packs. A typical crowd of enthusiastic nerds, most quiet and nervous as you ring them up as others ramble about their obsessions or at worst, make overly forward remarks that you rebuff smoothly but offering them a discount on one of the pop figures.

Most you know by name as they present their membership cards to earn a free comic every now and again, but one in particular you dread. 

The door rings and you look up from your word puzzle. It's a particularly slow day and your manager, Ozzy, is off at some convention. You lament his absence as you have no fodder to throw in the customer's path.

Peter is nice. That's the problem. He's too nice. Too interested. The only thing is, he's not really concerned about the novelties or the cards, he's all too distracted by you.

You mentioned it to Ozzy once and he laughed it off. Those nerds were all too excited to meet a girl, that's all. And if it got him better sales, then what did he care?

You brace yourself as he perks up at the sight of you. You twirl the pencil nervously and give your usual greeting.

"Hello, how are you?" You force out as he comes to the other side of the counter. 

"Great," he answers as he smiles and looks down at the puzzle book, you don't miss how his eyes linger on your DnD shirt, "I didn't know you played."

"Oh, uh, not so much anymore," you shrug, "anything I can help you find?"

"Ozzy's up at NorthWest, isn't he?" Peter redirects your diversion as he plays with a keychain hanging from the rack.

"Yep," you say, "so how can I help you?"

His eyes meet yours and he stares at you, quietly then spins the rack.

"Just looking," he says as he peruses along the new releases set out by the counter and the little two dollar figures, "how are you doing?"

"Fine," you answer bluntly and go back to your crossword.

"Must be boring," he says as you hear him fiddling with the product, "here, all alone."

"No, not really," you keep your eyes down, "peaceful."

"Ah, yeah," he says, "do you like this?"

He holds up a packaged lingerie set from the clearance bin. The Elvira themed bodysuit is hardly your style. You shake your head and scoff.

"You cosplaying?" You kid.

"Not for me," he says as he nears the counter again, "one size fits all, it says."

You bite the inside of your lip and glance up at him as you dig the lead tip into the book, "no, I don't like it."

"Yeah," he says, "I think you'd look better in something bright. Pink, maybe? You got any other colours?"

"The adult section is in the back," you point vaguely past the shelves.

"Will you show me?" His grin broadens. 

"It's a small shop, you can find it--"

"You work here. I need help," his smirk falls, "that's not very good customer service."

You resist scowling and drop your pencil. You close the book around it and push through the small door that blocks off the end of the counter. Peter meets you on the other side and lets you pass him. He follows closely as stolid heat encases you.

"Here," you stop in the back corner, "as you can see, there's not much selection."

"Which one do you like?" He asks as he steps up and browses the frills and mesh.

"I don't really wear any of that," you say evasively, "anything else?"

"Hmm, what's the battery life?" He grabs a ridiculous dragon dildo from the shelf.

"Should say on the package," you swallow, "I'll be at the front if you want me to ring this up--"

"Do you think you could fit it all?" He raises the purple and blue cock, "seems a bit ridiculous in size."

"Peter," you chide, "you're making me uncomfortable. Just buy whatever and go."

He chuckles and his brows knit, "I'm kidding around. Tryna have some fun with you."

"This is my job, I'm here to run the till, not answer your perverted questions."

He winces and clears his throat. He shakes his head and lowers his chin.

"Take a joke," he mutters and turns back, "fine, I'll look on my own."

"Alright," you huff and head back down the aisle, still buzzing from the encounter. 

🏙

Work ends and you're happy to be free for the night. You lock up and text Ozzy that the shop's secured. You head down the New York pavement and descend to the subway platform. 

Your train comes right on time and you step on as you put your earbuds in and find a seat. Your stop comes only a few blocks away and you get off amid the rush of the evening commuters.

You get to your apartment and drop your bag with a sigh. It was a long day even though you didn't do much. You turn on the tv and let ir drone as you go into the bedroom to change.

You stop short as you flip on the lights. You got to the bed, the yellow and orange dildo you rang up for Peter and the frilly white teddy sitting in the center. A chill trickles into your veins and you stare in deathly shock at the foreboding gifts.

You turn, thinking of your phone buried at the bottom of your woven bag, and nearly trip. Peter smirks at you as he leans in the doorway.

"What the fuck? Get the fuck out of apartment!" You holler and turn to rip open your night table.

"Looking for this?" He asks as your hands frantically search. You look over as he holds the hunting knife in its leather sheath. "Found the mace as well."

"What… what do you want, Peter?" You quaver as you face him.

"I've been pretty obvious but I do want to show you something before we get to that," he purrs as he approaches you, "first," he grasps the knife with both hands and bends it easily. Your eyes widen and he tosses it against the far wall, "but I want you to see everything I do for you. Sit."

"Peter, please, your scaring me--"

"Shhhh," he slides his phone out of his pocket, 'sit, I don't want to make you but I will."

You peer around and slowly back away. You step up on the bed frame and sit on the mattress. He smiles as he swipes across his screen.

"I keep you safe," he shows you a picture taken from the other side of your window, "I have to. There's a lot of bad people in this city." He flicks his thumb, "I keep you warm." You see a selfie, him beside your sleeping body, his arm under you. That sends a shiver through you, "and I do little things," he shows a picture of your cupboard, the cookies you thought you forgot you threw in your cart, "and I do it because you need me."

"How long--"

"Since I first saw you," he answers quickly, "Every time I see you, I can’t help but see myself inside of you.”

"I appreciate it, I truly do but you--"

"I need you too," he continues, "I need you just as much, you know?"

"Please, I can pay you back for… protecting me but--"

"No," he pushes his finger to your lips, "I don't want your money. That bastard doesn't pay you well enough."

He moves his hand to frame your chin and steps closer.

"I want you to go get changed," he leans in and reaches behind you. He presses the package into your lap as he stands straight, "then I want you to play with your new toy."

"Peter, please--"

"I know, you've never done it before, I heard you on the phone," he says, "that's what the toy is for. It's for beginners."

"I…I'm begging you, don't do this," you plead.

His eyes meet yours and dilate. His jaw sets and he crosses his arms.

"You think you're too good for me and you've never even been fucked," he snorts, "stop playing with me and do what I tell you before I get real mad."

You bite down and glance at the lingerie. You step off the bed and your body brushes against his as he watches you. He grabs your arms and marches you to the bathroom door. He lets you in and quickly snaps the door shut behind you.

You change, shakily, the white lace flouncing out in layers. You take the skimpy thong and step into it, your fingers clumsy as it twists over your hip. 

As you peek over at the door, it opens, almost as if Peter could see you. His brows shoot up as he takes you in and his hand moves to the front of his jeans. 

"Oh, wow, baby girl," he breathes, "that's exactly what I pictured."

He reaches for you and grabs your wrist. He takes you back to the bedroom and your feet land heavy as the shock weighs down your limbs. He's surprisingly strong as he turns to lift you by your hips and places you on the edge of the bed.

"Lay back," he says as he presents the dido, "I've cleaned it up," he picks up the tube of lube from your night stand, "you just need to relax."

You hesitate and he guides you down onto your back. He sits on the edge beside you and holds the base of the dido between his legs and opens the lube. He slicks it up with one hand as his other dips between your legs, urging them apart.

He rubs you through the thin lace and you clamp your lips. You shut your eyes and turn your face away as he plays with your clit. Your thighs quiver tellingly and he slides the fabric aside, dipping his fingers into your wet folds.

You hum through your tight lips as he presses the heel of his hand to your bud. He curls his fingers and rocks until he has your core burning in his palm. You bring your hand up to bite your knuckle and gaso as you cum.

"Mmmm, baby, you're so wet," he teases as he guides you through your ascent and you come back down with a whine, "I think you're ready."

He pulls his hand free and your murmur. He takes the toy as he moves between your legs and angles it against you. He keeps your knees apart with his and carefully presses the silicone to your cunt.

He watches the toy as it slowly enters you, each inch makes you groan and you reach down to grasp his wrist. Your eyes follow his as he urges the dildo deeper and deeper. 

"It hurts," you mutter as its halfway and slap his forearm with your fingertips as you try to sit up.

"I know," he says as he shoves you back down, "but fuck, it's hot."

He eases back only to push it back in, doing it again and again, each time further than before until you're at the base. You squeal and squirm at the fullness. 

"Mmm, you take it so well, baby girl," he holds it inside you with one hand and reaches for the back of his shirt. 

He swoops it over his head and switches hands as he untangles the fabric. He plucks at his fly and pushes it open as you moan, your walls sore and stretched. He wiggles his jeans down his hips as his dick bobs up from his boxers.

"Yeah," he groans as he starts to move the toy inside of you, stroking himself at the same pace, "so fucking tight, does that feelngood, baby?"

"Pl-- ugh, oh," you babble and grasp your head as your eyes roll back.

He fucks you with the silicone as your writhe and rock hungrily. You can't help it as the surge flows through you. You've never felt so full, so electric.

The bed shifts and he bends over you. You open your eyes as he stills the toy and he gazes down at you. You feel his tip prod above the toy and you wince, a weak 'no' crackling from your throat.

He pushes against the dildo and you whine as he stretches you around him. It's so tight. The agony swells as he slides past the resistance and your body tenses.

You dig your nails into his shoulder as he impales you completely and the strain ripples along your walls. He hold the toy with one hand as he begins to move his hips in tandem with it. Your voice peaks as his pelvis rubs against your clit, lacing the pain with pleasure.

You let out pathetic mewls that drive him faster. He fucks you, pounding you with the toy alongside himself and your back arches. Your eyes wet as tears well and you pout as you struggle to breath through the storm of sensations.

"Oh, baby," he grunts as he ruts hard and harder, "you want me to pull out, ask me nice and I’ll cum in your mouth."

"Please," you gasp cluelessly, barely able to recall who he is or where you are, "please, not inside…"

"Good girl," he jerks into you several times before he pulls out, "open up for me."

Your mouth hangs open as he keeps the toy buried in you. He shimmies out of his jeans and stands. He lets go of the dildo and it slides out to its tip. You moan as he angles over you and plants his knees on the pillow.

He tilts his hips and slides past your lips. He sinks down your throat as he swathes your body with his and hangs his head between your legs. He pushes the toy back into your cunt as he laps at your folds.

You hiss and scratch his back as his tongue strikes you once more. He pumps his hips, fucking your face as he suckles at your clit and hammers the dildo into you. 

He hums and it rolls through you as he spasms.

A salty flood fills your throat and chokes you as his rhythm stutters. You struggle to swallow and your throat squeezes him. He exhales and lifts himself off you, his tip strung with his cum as it clings to your gaping lips.

He slams the dildo to its limit and circles your clit with his thumb as he sits beside you to watch your legs shake with another orgasm. You tremble and grip his thick bicep as his twitches against his thigh.

"Wasn't that nice, baby?" He says as he carefully slides the dildo out, "I'm a nice guy, aren't I?"

[aaeds]

A kindness to Adaptations and “Based On” in costumes.

The teaser has been released and everyone is super excited. I’m looking forward to January just as much as the rest of the fandom - however, before we get close to the full trailer let’s all go in with open minds.

After watching the Cabinet of Curiosities Anthology on Netflix, I was surprised by the response of some of the watchers. A lot of the responses were “That’s not how it was in the book/story.” Well, maybe not but adaptations are conversions of paper to television in most cases. They won’t always be what you’re wanting or expecting

And...it can’t be. It can come close, but an adaptation will always subvert your expectations one way or direction.  Not because the producers don’t care, but because there are hundreds of imaginations going off at once and sadly we’re not behind the decisions made. So I plan on going into Lockwood & Co. with an expectation to see a new spin on a series I’ve read and listened to a dozen times. That said A particular interest in mine has been in the fashion of the series as we’ve seen it. I’ve seen a few complaints over no skirts (I believe it’s a skort or shorts in the teaser) and that’s okay. There are other aspects of her costuming that can tell us more about her character than what fanart has given us.

Lucy comes from a working class family with several sisters, it wouldn’t surprise me if several pieces of hers are hand-me-downs. Her clothing is also punk inspired, bordering on working class skinhead mod subculture (and no I don’t mean that kind of skinhead.) Rolled pants, heavy boots, a bomber jacket but with feminine touches such as her mockneck ruffled shirt. It’s an interesting way to show difference between herself and Lockwood (Rather than always dressing them in one colour.) This is including their class, but also to put an emphasis on Lockwood’s put together-ness to her hodgepodge dress and quality teen behaviour.  I’m not saying we shouldn’t see skirts, but if we do outside a haunt I would be very interested in seeing how it meshes with the rest of her outfit. I think Lucy’s background doesn’t get enough attention that it deserves in regards to her emotional growth and insecurities. Finding a home in London outside the confines of strict codes of conduct like Fittes also probably went into her design.  Lockwood as well had some minor brushes, and while the converse are as comical as his dodge-roll on camera, I can see how practical they would be to film in while also remaining faithful to the character in other areas. He’s wearing a tie and trousers, with that ridiculous overcoat so it was a good compromise. Capturing the dichotomy on screen of “Put together businessman in his teens” and “traumatised child” would be a complex arrangement of fabrics and key pieces to his wardrobe. Someone pointed out the bright red socks, and I hope that maybe colour will play into his role through the series. I think also the ring is very interesting as it’s on his right hand which can ‘mean’ strong attachment. To wear it on the same hand as wields a rapier could for example have a connection to its previous wearer. Jessica, or a parent. 

I love costume theory and we haven’t seen much of George but I think they nailed one aspect of his wardrobe from the books was everything was in ways too big on him - except the elastic on his jacket. We don’t know how much of George we can say for wardrobe - but given the stacks of comics and state of things I’m hoping for graphic T’s and character PJs. Comfortable clothing, and not really giving a damn compared to his cohorts. 

But we should enjoy the series when it comes out as it is before getting too critical on small details now. 

[onyourhyuck]

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐊ᵃ𝐫𝐦𝐚 [ Season 3 ]

synopsis; • Fast forwarding six years, Park areum is coming back to the journalist industry. A case from thirteen years ago re-opens when Areum finds something suspicious around a drug ring in clubs and her parents car accident from thirteen years ago have suspicious links. However something always trails back to past that she’s never knew about.

warnings; • mafia jeno Au, mystery, thriller, SMUTTT NO MINORS, ANGST, police exo au, romance, park areum and lee jeno are married , minjae and nayoung are cuties, horror (scary death scenes). gruesome graphic detailed language.

Now Part 3 !! || —> Next Part 4.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A fair smoke curls forward, taking a shape of all sorts of shapes. The young girl blowing past the heart-structure lips on the cigarette lips entrance. With a lisp, she spoke slurring as the cigarette began to burn out,

Half annoyed sigh alerts by the girl leaning on the brick wall behind a night club, hidden well in the city from important eyes. The hands flip in the back jean pockets, clicking out a pink lighter.

“Hmm, smoking without me now are you?” The deep voice entices, posh shiny shoes clicking by the dirty ground, surrounded the garbage in the alleys. The girl looks up, lips carefully mocking, lighting the nearly finished cigarette.

She’s sank out her voice, exhaling a ramming flock of smoke blowing in the older man’s face. “Hate to burst your bubble oldie, I prefer to smoke by myself.” The cheeky younger woman, who wore a black leather jacket and tight fitted skinny all black jeans and shoes; blonde and black hair mixtures in messily.

In response, he scrunched the face when it hits the surface, nostrils flaring as he tilts his head amusingly at the youngling.

“I am only 40, sweetheart.” He ingurgitates thickly, switching out a cigarette packet where the fingers pull one out by the two fingers with ease, turning on the black lighter with a healthy large flame blowing by the wind. “Talk about ancient, mind telling me about the dinosaurs during your times?” The girl fronts .

“Sure.” The man was quick to agree stepping forward blocking the girl into the bright red brickyard wall, sturdily hanging against it, the girl watches up apathetically. He leans down whispering, warningly as if she decides to back-chat again, it wouldn’t end well for her.

Far from well. He digs a closer look, making his intentions and vibe clear. “A little dinosaur told me that you should get on with it and start to deliver this lovely present to her.” A heavy packaged box disguised as if it were a normal box from a post-mailbox. She raises an eyebrow down from the brown box, knowing that this was no ordinary thing despite its appearance.

“Hurry and make sure she opens it, no one else.” The girl looks down when he’d say it, nodding. “Yes sir, I’ll start immediately.”

He smirks down holding up the younger’s chin, menacingly folding the face in his palm like it were his own property. “Good, hurry up then. I’m a very impatient man, you must know that by now.” She scorns, pushing off the palm. The brick wall would be isolated, as she walks away from the alleyway leaving the man laughing.

Oh how he loves predictable reactions. If only he could see her’s when she opens the box.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Mark looks out the window, where a blast of wind hits the surface of his eyelids, cheeks and lips, fresh oxygen amount inhaling in the heavily guarded lungs in his body. The white and black multi colour expensive car driving in the corner of the breezy highway.

In the back seats where the young man and the intern assistant, Karina sit together, leaving the front driver to be Areum.

“Mark seriously get your face back in the car, you look ridiculous with the wind blowing.” Areum tuts, soft laughter to experience a full on show on Mark being childish. He seriously represented a dog sticking their tongue and face out of the car.

Mark obeys, flying back in the car with the seatbelt still attached— obviously he wouldn’t be the one doing crimes. Karina looks out of her own window, glancing down to the map. “I think this is it when you turn two lefts.” She said.

The man spoke with determination, raising an eyebrow aloud. “I could’ve instructed us honestly, we would’ve been here quicker if i read the map.” Hearing the response, the pale girl turns around throwing sting eyes at the half-assed confident mark. “Yeah, I’m sure. As if you have evidence to prove that.” Karina murmurs sarcastically under the voice, hiding the awful untruthfulness.

Mark toughs out, looking away from Karina. Areum ignores their little falling out, their rivalry to help Areum can be much to handle. The woman feels sometimes that she’s dealing with children even at work, but that’s just their relationship and she cannot change it. If Mark and Karina wish to compete, they can.

But not around Areum that’s for sure. The woman looks in the front stirring window, turning the wheel with one hand on top; the car swiftly turns the two lefts, bringing them in front of an very old-slum apartment complex with many stairs and railings, as well as garages for public use.

Their destination cuts off now, as Areum steps out the vehicle with a thin black brick recorder and a pen with notepad. Mark and Karina come out right after. The man with a white and blow flannel and white shirt, black loose jeans brings a small envelope with pictures of evidence.

Girl with purple highlights with black hair, a lovely beauty mark on the right cheek, comes in view with her hands on a digital-journalist camera which allows them to record the situation as well as take pictures. Their leader officially struts to the olden antique of a complex building.

“You reckon rats round’ here?” Timid-ness comes off his lingering quiet voice, eyes scanning the dirty flooring on the ground floor of the complex. Two black doors on the left and right, with a single narrow staircase on the side welcoming the three. moment to encounter, Areum teasingly warns, scaring off Mark.

“Be careful, rats might come and,” Mark stops midway, hearing Areum speak and pause, until she launches up her face scrunches it in a roaring jumpscare. “Booh! Eat you.” He flinches, hiding behind the shorter girl, Karina.

Mark’s nostrils flare as he stares at Areum, annoyed. He couldn’t believe he fell scared for such tricks. He grunts, “yah, come on miss Park” he said, hearing Areum giggle, leeching hands on the stomach as she held it a little. Karina, side eyes Mark, smirking. She whispers to him. “Wow, I wonder how you hold up watching ratatouille.”

He doesn’t reply Shaking his head, he walks ahead leaving the two girls who took pleasure and absolute surging happiness to tease and make fun of him. The minute he walks up the long stairs longitude above, they have to make it to the seventh floor.

Areum grins, looking at Karina. “Let’s go, we have a long way to go.” Karina nods, seemingly the elevator was out of order with a big red sign indicating the malfunction, the stairs will have to do.

The two women slowly walk up, The stairs rose in well measured form, smooth and reflective of the light shining from the small windows stuck on to push in a light source in the day. However, it may feel like a smooth surface, the pleasure of stepping clean shoes on it has made it dirty reeking it into old state. Stairway-railings contain dust, the moment the ponytail-woman ran up her hand, it collects a swarming amount of filth. Areum’s face squeezes when looking down at the grime, wiping away the hand.

In matter of time, Karina and her boss land on the seventh floor, they stand on the edge of the last stairs, panting heavily with a few dripping sweat. Karina, pinkish cheeks brighten Mark’s sight when the relaxed man ahead watches them.

“Now look who’s tired.” Mark sighs, still holding a petty little grudge at being teased. Though he’s one to be easily teased, does not mean that he lets it go so easily. Karina scorns out, “shut up and knock on the door Will you?” head tilts 90° pointing on the right door in front of Mark, as she stretches on the railing to rest the aching muscle.

Areum huffs. “I’m so glad i live in a house and not a complex building.” Mark leisurely with one hand tucked in the front trouser pockets, takes the right hand out knocking on the front surface of the door three times.

The incoming silence was the least sign they were looking for, it’s a dead end to their case of investigation; Mark knocks once again, but stops. He turns to the two girls behind on the right, nearing the stairs. “Looks like no one’s home.”

Karina and Mark were convinced so easily, but Areum was not. She’s not the person to give up all because someone’s not home, sometimes, being suspicious of a situation is better to get answers. Therefore when Areum came forward to the door, Mark slowly moved away, pursing lips together as he frowns when he sees Areum push her ear on the cold door.

He whispers. “Uhm, miss park what are you doing?” Areum’s eyes gaze up, cheekily smirking. “Watch and learn students.” She pulls away when minor footsteps and quiet breathes come through, eyebrows raising in confidence. She knew her suspicion was right. She starts to knock much aggressively than Mark.

Areum firmly speaking. “I know you’re home, Mr Tong, come out please im here to talk with you.” Karina and Mark huddle together behind Areum, them thinking they finally have a lead— or at least, they were clueless to the clue in front of them.

The doorknob starts to unlock, ever so slowly the door quietly creeks opening ajar position, revealing a older man who took the body language of being cautious. But why?

Areum short sighted in the view of the man, gives a smile. “Hello Mr Tong, I’m here to ask questions about the case of Park Kyungsam and Ryan Jinae.”

The man’s half shown face with the door halfway open to peek towards the woman and two younger people trailing behind her, the moment he heard, he immediately wished his ears deceived him. Anger, leaping like fire from his eyes.

“I don’t know them, sorry.” Tong harshly spoke like a knife on edge, about to stab Areum deep. He’d pull his ageing body back, pushing the door close.

Or so he attempted to, till a foot blocks his corner. Areum pushing on the door with all her strength, she lets out a sore grunt. “Please. I know you knew them.” Areum said carefully.

Tong watches the girl, shouting. “No, I didn’t. Leave immediately, before I call the police.” Mark and Karina were the first to tug onto Areum’s white short rolled up sleeves, warning her that he refuses to speak. But the stubborn determined woman painfully looks at Tong, now pleading.

“I’m their daughter.” Areum finally thrusts out the words, that may have touched Mr tong’s heart when his hand reaches for his phone on the front pockets, when he was about to call the police he stops midway. The body stopping on their own with his mind going blank.

His eyes shift back to look at Areum, with widen pupils oozing out to watch the facial features. He drops his phone back into the pockets, where he now fully opens the doors without sharing words to Areum.

“Come in quickly and quietly.” Tong demands, cautiously looking outside as if people were ease-dropping or as if he wasn’t safe at all. Areum steps inside the small cramped apartment, Karina and Mark holding hands as they were scared entering such a dark place.

Windows were covering by wood, blanking every light from coming in. The place would be a mess, mess with so many pictures, newspapers and files laying around.

Areum looks about, scanning and observing the entire place. Mr Tong rushes over, staring across at Areum. Mark and Karina stick together in the corner, checking out the areas for evidence and such. As they let their boss, Areum do the talking.

The man breathes out, with guilt painting on his face like a blank canvas. “You really are their daughter. What are you doing here?”

She looks up once her fingers click the edge, switching on the voice recorder in her back pocket of the trousers.

Areum softly points across the facts. “ I heard you were the lead investigator on their case. I have a few questions.” Mr Tong sits down across the blue covered couch. “Listen I closed it. It was an accident case.”

“You don’t believe that do you?” Areum threw in, fast like a knife pointing at Mr Tong’s neck ready to slice any minute. The fast question throwing him off guard, as his silence was a loud answer for her already. The body language was close, she observed every factor.

Tong’s eyes avoid looking at Areum, as he speaks again. “What’s your questions?”

“What made you close the case? You barely carried out a proper investigation.”

Another silence, Areum sighs.

Mark whistles in the background, picking up a very old dusty file with some ketchup sauce on it spread. He squeaks in disgust, wiping away the ketchup into tissue paper. “Ugh, ketchup.” Karina would hear, looking over. “Found anything yet?”

“Actually,” Mark spoke raising voice, looking around as he’d look at the open file case. Polly pockets of evidence attached in the file as well as a thick layer of evidence with two pictures attached.

“Found something!” He yells, catching Tong’s attention from the couch, regret in his eyes forming. He looks up, watching Areum’s expression falter and fallen in the deep end of ocean, stranded.

Pictures of Areum’s parents in police uniform. She looks over silently murmuring, “why…why are they in police uniforms?” She looks at Karina and Mark, despite them not able to answer, she knows someone who can. Areum turning to look straight at the man on the couch.

“They were my co-workers. Kyungsam and Jinae tried their best to hide their job from you and your brother.” He whispers. “I-, it’s hard to explain. You were in the car and it broke down. You lost some of your memories about them.” He sighs frustrated. “The doctors said it was nothing major. Your brother came out fine too.”

“So I forgot that my parents were police officers, that’s freaking fantastic. Not only that, you knew them.” She scowls, sarcasm itching in the tone like a stuck out sore thumb, in disbelief of this factor that she’s forgotten. But now it makes sense, and the brain began to burn causing immense headache on the back of her head. Areum simply ignores the pain, watching him.

“So you knew them. Is that why you closed the case as an accident?” Areum cuts in, approaching the man with deep glaring eyes. He looks down, avoiding the eye contact. She knows he’s lying, it was as obvious it could be.

“No, I can’t say.” Mr Tong pleads. “Please, Park Areum, don’t search anymore. It was an accidental car crash.”

She shakes her head, the dizziness overwhelmed her body and mind. Mark pushed through, folding the file as he holds Areum close.

“Liar, you’re a coward. You knew them didn’t you?” Areum pushes through harshly, Mark falling off no longer holding her. He starts, “Yes, I knew them. I was their friend. You must now understand why I’m saying to let them go in peace and not to dig any further.”

Areum shakes her head. “No, because I know you’re not speaking truth. If you were their friend really, you’d tell me the truth.” She hisses, looking at Mark’s hands where she grabs a hold of the files. Eyes squinting to the pictures of them in the fancy police uniform with badges and round hats. He emphatically stared at Areum, yes, he felt so bad.

The guilt of holding in what he knows but he knew that if Areum was to get involved anymore, it won’t end well.

Karina follows Areum who walks to the door, opening it and then left. Mark left the man with a bow, following the two girls behind. However when trailing behind, the older man comes out of the door, stopping Areum by a wrist hold.

She turns around, met with the man’s gaze. “Areum, I can only tell you that much. I’m sorry, the rest I cannot say.”

“What is it?” She purses through. He leans closer whispering lowly. “Your parents were investigating something big, someone going by the fake name as Joker.”

“Now please, leave. I cant say anything else. I suggest not to dig anymore but, it’s your choice at the end of the day.” He let’s go, walking backwards into the apartment where he starts to lock the door. Mark and Karina share a glance, staring at Areum who’s face went dark and gloom.

Watching in horror as eyes zone out in the open, quiet sounds and breaths coming out the sealed lips, too effected by the terror, a long breathe taken in and out as the feeling of imprisonment grew and grew in the body.

A clue and a lead they have, but at what cost? Areum wasn’t sure what to feel anymore. The fact that her memory that she so thought was crystal clear and so clear, might not even be the truth in the end but a lie her brain made up after the traumatic car accident. Not to mention that the car crash might not even be the actual reason why her parents are dead now, because they’re the dammed police.

And Areum is very much disliked by the police, so this case won’t be hard to handle from the beginning but it became ten times folded harder when it’s her actual parents who were police officers.

Now she’s taking over their case, all from the start.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The trio came back to work, slowly leaving the elevator lift to their floor in the large journalist building; full of thousands and thousands of journalists and reporters doing their job.

Some were corrupted perhaps, some were as a white knight thriving in the name of the law and justice, and some were just like Areum, lost, confused, dazed out and officially wanting to stab million pencils in your stomach.

Maybe it was just Areum.

The woman sighs walking with the file hanging low in the hands, opening the glass filter door, with blinds covering and then shutting it tight.

Areum swings back into the spinning chair, sitting still. She slams the thick pages case file on the desk, with other files and paperwork piling to them side, on a turned on black computer with a password insert lock screen.

Her eyes roll back in her head staring up to the ceiling, she closed them soon after. “I officially want to think this is a nightmare.”

Oh how badly she wishes this was a dream and not reality.

The quietness becomes loud, where it goes interrupted by a rushing man with the door open wide .

Areum jumps up in surprise, turning to the front where she fallen nearly, the woman grunts. “Oh my god this better be a good reason for barging in my damn office.” She threatened up, cleaning the messy pile work that has fallen from her silly movements.

Mark drops off a yellow package on the desk, cooing. “I think your husband sent you something, lucky you.” He teases, hoping it would cheer up the half stressed and confused boss going under critical identity crisis.

Areum raises an eyebrow, blurts out. “Uh, he didn’t tell me anything about sending a package.”

He shrugs. “Surprise romantic gift? I dunno, open it. The person who delivered it specifically said for you to open it alone.” Mark winks flirtatiously suggesting that it might be a complete person for Areum to see alone. She gives him a warning glare before she points her finger to the door.

She’d sigh dramatically.

“Out.” Areum firmly told. Mark did not waste a minute as he leaves, whistling with hands in the air. “Enjoy your spicy gift boss!” He’d yell, closing the door shut, the blinds attached on the door hitting the glass quick.

Jeno wasn’t the type of person to sent a package to her workplace, especially announced. She knew that much. Areum knows her husband inside and out, as well as mentally and physically, Jeno is a very private person. He trusts no one, he wouldn’t let a person deliver it to her.

If Jeno was to bring a gift for Areum, he would come down to the office and give it to Areum himself. She has her suspicions already, cautiously opening it with the tight sealing cutting by the sharp scissors from the desk.

The woman spreads the box open, only to shout standing up and backing away in panic, body shielding itself from the horrific sight in the box. The whole movement where Areum shifts away, the item fell from the box rolling down the coffee table, sliding on the floor with dribbling liquid, creating a wet sound.

Blood didn't gush in a constant flow, it was inconsistent. The waterfall from the mutilated head drops like a storm in Areum’s office. Her shaky voice trembles, as much as her aching heart beating fast and faster the more she stared at it in shock.

Head missing from the entire full body, with a stuck expression of yelling and painful eyes rolling down staring in different directions, scratches and bruises on the head as well as broken nose and fallen lifeless lips.

A scream wasn’t possible to come out, all Areum could do was think and freeze.

“Mr Tong, oh my god…”

It was more shocking when Areum knew the person’s Identity, and it scared her because now this was linking to the overthinking mountain of thoughts speeding in like fireworks.

Someone, is out to get Areum. Someone, who wants to clear up their tracks when Mr Tong spilled information to her. The same Someone who is threatening Areum by sending a message with Mr Tong’s head disguised in a yellow package box. This same person, must be her parent’s killer too.

Areum could only think, I’ll find you, whoever you are, and i’ll make your life a living hell.

His Karma Masterlink to chapters.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

REBLOG, LIKE THIS FANFIC IT HELPS A LOT AND FOLLOW ME FOR MORE IF YOU WANT DAILY UPDATES. Please make sure to check out season 1 and season 2 as well!

@onyourhyuck Please refer from translating, copyrighting and plagiarising my work thank you!

[stargazer-sims]

Journal Entry 46 (part five)

previously - Journal Entry #46 (part four)

Yuri

The first thing I noticed as Dr. Julian pulled into our driveway was an unfamiliar vehicle already parked there; a midnight blue SUV of a model so common in Mt. Komorebi that one might almost be able to say it's ubiquitous. My mother and father have matching silver ones, and my friend Takahiro has an older one that’s an eye-popping bright yellow, but I'd never seen one of this dark blue colour at my house before. I had no idea who owned it, and that fact alone made me anxious.

I already had my seat belt off and I was climbing out before Dr. Julian had even shut down the engine. I dashed for the house, heedless of the potential risk of slipping on the ice and snow, shouting my husband's name as I went.

The moment I flung open the front door, I heard, "Yuri! Is that you?"

I didn't even bother to take my boots off. Skidding around the corner from the entryway to the sitting room, I saw Victor sitting on the floor. At first glance, he didn't seem to be hurt beyond the injuries he already had, but he looked shaken and scared.

I ran to him and dropped to my knees beside him on the floor. "Victor, are you okay? What happened? Whose car is that outside?"

He didn't reply straight away, and I thought perhaps I'd overwhelmed him with too many questions at once. Eventually he said, "I... I'm okay," but the tears that had started to run down his cheeks as he spoke seemed to belie that.

"What happened?"

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, but I meant, what happened while I was gone? Why are you on the floor?"

"I heard my phone ringing," he said.  "I wanted to answer, but I couldn't get to it. Hana put it on the kitchen counter so I couldn't reach it."

"Hana?" I echoed. I felt a sudden tightness in my stomach that had nothing to do with the symptoms of my illness. "My sister Hana?"

"Yeah.”

“What was she doing here?” I asked. “And how did she get in?”

“I don’t know why she came,” Victor said weakly. “I guess it was just… she said she wanted to talk to you. I… I’m sorry. I didn't know she had a key."

“A key? To our house?”

Of course, to our house. How else would Hana have gotten in? I knew it was a ridiculous question the moment it left my mouth, but I think I was too shocked for logic.

“Y-yeah," Victor said.

“I didn’t know she had access to a key either,” I said.

That piece of knowledge bothered me a lot, to say nothing of the multitude of questions it generated. How had Hana gotten a key, and how long had she had it?

I tried to account for all the possible keys. Victor and I each have one, the former caretaker Mr. Kojima probably still has one, and Uncle Kaz would have one since this is his house. There wasn't any realistic way for Hana to get her hands on any of those.

Then, it occurred to me.

My mother.

Mama had a key to the house, back when we first moved in. Despite my uncle paying Mr. Kojima to come and look in on the place three times a week while no one had been living here, I guess he felt it was necessary for my mother to have access as well. Mama wouldn't have taken the key with her when she travelled to America. She would have left it at home.

Hana knows where our parents hide the spare key to their house. She must've let herself in when Papa wasn't there and then taken our key.

That was the only conclusion that made sense, but it was something I really didn't like to think about. If Hana had the key, that meant she or, more worryingly, Ren could've gotten in here at any time. Had Papa known? Was that the reason he'd insisted on staying with me while Victor was in the hospital?

I gathered Victor in my arms and he sagged against me with a tired little whimper. Again, he said, “Sorry.”

"It's all right, my treasure. You don't need to apologize. It's not your fault," I said. "All that matters is you're okay."

"My arms hurt," he said pitifully. "I'm kinda shaken up, I guess, but I’m okay otherwise. But, Hana... she didn't want me to talk to you before you got home."

Probably because she didn't want me to call anyone else, I concluded. Like the police, for instance.

"Is that why she took your phone?"

"Yeah,” Victor said. “She said I’d have to get to it the best way I knew how. Then she laughed at me when I tried, and…” His breath seemed to catch, and the rest of what he’d been about to say got lost. After a few more shuddering breaths, he told me, “I wanted you to come home so bad.”

“I’m here now,” I murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“But… Hana’s still here.”

"What? Where is she?"

"Upstairs," he said. "Taking a shower."

I tried to cultivate the appearance of outward calm for Victor’s benefit, but inside I was seething. First, my sister somehow obtained a key to our house, then she let herself in without permission while Victor was alone, and then she put his phone out of reach so he couldn’t answer my calls or contact anyone. Now she was making herself at home and showering in our upstairs bathroom? How dare she...?

I was still in the midst of silently fuming when Dr. Grace and Dr. Julian made their way in. They both rushed over, and Dr. Grace got down on the floor with us. The look on her face was almost as alarmed as I imagined my own had been when I first entered the house.

She touched Victor's back. "Everything okay?"

"Mom?" He raised his head from my shoulder, and turned to look in her direction. "Mom! I was waiting..."

That's as far as he got before a new flood of tears started. I eased him out of my arms and into hers, and she kissed him on the side of his face before enveloping him in a hug that looked painful.

The half-groan, half-grunt he let out a split-second later confirmed that it did indeed hurt.

Dr. Grace gasped and instantly relaxed her arms. "I'm sorry, baby. I forgot about your rib."

"It's okay," Victor said. "Just don't squeeze so tight."

As Victor settled in his mother's arms again, Dr. Julian asked, "What happened?"

"My sister," I told him. "She stole the key to our house from my parents and got in, and she took Victor's phone so he couldn't answer my calls."

"That sounds like a story."

"Yes, and it's one I fully intend to get to the bottom of," I said.

"She's a horrible person," Victor said, his words muffled slightly against the fabric of his mother's coat. "I don't say that about people too often, but I think she likes hurting us."

"Well, if she wants to hurt you now, she's going to have to get past me first," Dr. Grace said. "I'll have a few choice words for her."

"No," Victor said. "It's better if you don't get involved. Stay away from her. She's dangerous."

"I agree with Victor," I said. "Hana isn't the sort of person who'd listen to you or even care about what you have to say. The only person she has any regard for is herself."

"Yeah," Victor added. "Plus, she'd just use anything you said against us after you're gone."

Dr. Grace didn't look happy, but she acquiesced. "Okay. I won't interfere if you boys don't want me to, but I just want you to know, I don't like this."

"None of us do," I said. "Things have been relatively peaceful since before Winterfest, and I was hoping it'd stay that way, but unfortunately, my sister thrives on drama."

"Can we not talk about her any more?" Victor said. "I feel like I've reached my Hana limit for one day."

Despite the situation, I had to smile at that. “I can imagine.”

I hadn’t even seen her yet, and I’d already reached my Hana limit for one day. Unfortunately, I realized that, limit or not, I was likely about to have more contact with my sister than I’d ever reasonably wanted in my adult life.

"Let's get off the floor, shall we?" Dr. Grace suggested.

Dr. Julian, who was already standing, extended a hand to me. "Need some help, Yuri?"

I nodded, grateful for the offer, and let him assist me in getting to my feet. "Thank you."

Much to my astonishment, Dr. Grace helped Victor up by herself. She's about my size, but is apparently much stronger than I am. I'd been struggling for the past few days to help him move from place to place, but she seemed to have no difficulty whatsoever in getting her son up from the floor.

"There you go," she said. "That's better, isn't it? Do you want to sit on the couch? We can relax and catch up."

He stood there looking awkward. "I know you just got here and everything, but... I really just want to go to bed for a while, if that's okay with you. My head hurts, and my arms are hurting really bad. I’m not exactly in a socializing mood.”

"Okay," Dr. Grace said. "Want me to tuck you in?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding slightly. Then, he glanced in my direction. "Yuri, I think I'm gonna need to take one of those painkillers, too. I don't really want to, but—"

"If you need them, you need them," I said. "I know you don't like how they make you feel, but it's a choice between that and being too uncomfortable to rest."

"Not the best choices," he said.

"You won't need them forever. In a couple of weeks, the worst should be over."

"I hope so."

"I'll get your medication," I said. "Your mom can get you settled, and I'll be there in a minute. Do you need your wheelchair?"

At that, Dr. Grace frowned. "Wheelchair? Victor, why in the world would you need a wheelchair?"

"Uh... to get around," Victor mumbled.

“Did you hurt your back or your legs?”

No, but…” He stopped, clearly unsure how to put the answer into words that his mother would accept.

“He’s been having trouble walking since his accident,” I said. “He's going to have therapy, but his doctor thought the wheelchair would be a good solution in the meantime.”

This was a version of the truth that I felt would be palatable for everyone, for providing a logical explanation yet not getting into too much detail. I hoped it would satisfy Victor’s mother, at least.

Dr. Julian looked from me to the stairs and back again. "How does that work? I presume your bedroom is upstairs."

"We've been sleeping in the dining room," I said. "The two of you can have your choice of rooms upstairs."

Judging by her expression, it seemed Dr. Grace wanted to offer her opinion on the current state of things in our home, but she must've thought better of it. Focusing on Victor again, she said, "You can walk to the dining room."

"I don't know if I can walk that far," Victor said.

"Of course you can, sweetie. It's not that far, and I'll help you," she said.

“What if I can’t?”

"Remember when you learned to skate? You were scared at first and you didn't think you could do it. You wanted me and Uncle Stephen to hold onto you, but it only took you about five minutes to realize you could do it by yourself. By the time we were ready to leave, you and Leo were both skating circles around us."

“This is different,” Victor said.

"Why is it different?"

"Because it just is."

He sounded as if he was on the edge of panic. That was the last thing I wanted to happen, and so I came to stand by his other side. "Victor," I said. "Listen to me for a second. Do you remember what you promised me this morning?"

"I don't know," he said.

"You said you'd practice walking a little, once your family got here."

"Oh," he said. "Three minutes."

"Right," I said. "If we're going to do a 5K walk in the summer, you actually need to be able to walk, don't you? Nobody's going to push you past your limits, but you told me you could do three minutes, and I really need you to try to do that much, okay?"

"I wish it wasn't so hard."

"I know, but remember what you keep telling me. Anything worth having is worth working for. Getting your independence back is worth working for, don't you think?"

"Yeah."

"I know you can do it,” I said. “I'm going to fetch your medication, and when I come back, I expect you'll be halfway there, if not farther."

"Okay," he agreed, although he was reluctant.

He was taking his first shaky steps, with his mother supporting him on one side and Dr. Julian on the other, as I made my way into the downstairs bathroom to collect his pain medication from the medicine cabinet above the sink. I couldn't hear any water running in the upstairs bathroom, but I thought I could hear a hair dryer. If that's what it was, and my sister was fixing her hair after her shower, then Victor might actually make it to his bed before she came downstairs.

I hoped that would be the case. Even though I knew having a confrontation with her myself was inevitable, I didn't want Victor to encounter her again. She'd hurt him already today, and I was determined to protect him from any further harm she intended to cause.

[missluckycharms]

These small moments.

Single Dad!Harry and his little love, Honey.

Summary: mornings with Honey are Harrys favourite, small chats with blurry eyes and lazy smiles is what makes him feel closer to his little lady.

A/N: ahhh they’re so 🥺 enjoy !!

Click *** for visuals throughout the story.

Warnings: none, just pure fluff and dad jokes.

Word Count: 2.1K

Masterlist.

It’s nearly seven in the morning.

The sunrise shining through the windows and casting a bright warm hue onto Harry’s sleeping body in his bed. The white sheets tossed about and his head buried in the pillow, his cheek smushed to up and his lips slightly parted letting out small snores.

The only sound throughout the whole house is the sound of birds chirping about outside and the engines of cars on their way down the roads, the morning rush nearly upon the streets as people make their way to their nine till five jobs. The house has a slight breeze throughout due to Harry always sleeping with his window cracked open, and his door cracked open also to allow honey to walk in when she needed her Papa.

Speaking of the little love, she’s already awake, in her own small pink coloured bed, many pillows around her and her stuffies lined up against the wall, her favourite stuffie in her hand — Pascal from Tangled is her favourite stuffie, she brings him everywhere, even sneaks him into school in her back pack when Harrys not looking. She does this every morning, she lays in bed and talks to her stuffie or just stares at the ceiling, her glow in the dark stars now white and barely noticeable in the bright room, her pink curtains casting a pink hue around the room.

She waits five minutes before she’s hopping out of her bed and padding along towards her door, she pulls it open as it’s only closed a little, allowing enough of a gap for her small body to fit through. She snuggles pascal as she walks, looking around and noticing her Papa must still be asleep, she immediately darts for his room, peeping her curly head in and looking at his sleeping body, his back facing her and his bed messy as usual, but there’s always enough space for her to snuggle up next to him.

She doesn’t wake him, she tip toes towards the side he’s not laying on, throwing pascal up first before she’s hiking herself up on the large bed, a small groan when she has to put more strength into getting up than usual due to her sleepy state. When she’s up, she brushes the curls from her face with a harsh swipe, her blue doe eyes looking at her Papa, his hair messy like hers. She lays down on the pillow, looking at her Papa as she softly taps his cheek and pushes pascal towards him.

“G’morning button” he grumbles when he hears a small giggle, pascal now on his back as her dimples pop out at how ridiculous the man looks with a small green chameleon stuffie on his bare back. He smiles when he hears her hearty laugh, instantly wrapping his tattooed arm around her and squishing her into his chest.

“Papa! Cant see!” She laughs loudly, her small body being caged by her Dad’s broad muscular one, his own laughs filling the room as she peeps her head up at him, a small pout on her lips which causes him to lean down and peck her lips lightly.

“Have a good sleep? Yeah?” He asks when she nods happily, her small hand playing with his cross necklace as he shuts his eyes for a few more minutes, face buried in her chestnut curls as she talks to him and pascal, Harry never knowing which one she’s actually talking to sometimes.

“Papa? Pancakes now?” She asks after another five minutes, her small attention span running out which causes Harry to wake up from resting his eyes, smile back on his face as he turns them over so he’s laying on his back and Honey is sat on his stomach slapping his chest looking at his tattoos — she loves his tattoos or his “paintings” as she calls them.

“Papa, your pearlies are gone” she says disappointed looking to see that her favourite necklace of his which is his Pearl one, is missing. She loves to run her small hands over it, the feeling and look of it making her eyes wide in awe at the beauty of it.

“Should I wear them today?” He asks with a smile, watching as she rubs her eyes a little, slowly waking herself up as she lets out a small yawn, her small pouty lips returning as she babbles on nonsense as Harry tries to tame her hair a little before he has to style it for her today.

“Love your pearlies Papa” she says brightly, laying down on his chest, her curls tickling his chin as he wraps and arm around her back, rubbing small circles on it as she relaxes a little, her small body still trying to wake up as Harry softly kisses her head.

It’s when his alarm rings when the two actually peel themselves from bed, Honey immediately springing up and slapping his phone to turn off the sound, it’s her favourite thing to do for some reason, she always shouts “I did it Papa!” Which makes him laugh and nod kissing her head proudly. They’re both in the kitchen now, the early start allowing them to lounge about in their comfy clothes for awhile while they make breakfast. Harry is only in a pair of grey joggers while Honey sits on the counter, helping him add in flour and sugar to the pancake batter in her baby pink bunny printed silk pyjama set *** the darker complexion of her skin standing out against the pale pink, Harry was overjoyed when he seen she had the same skin tone as her Mum, her darker skin causing her blue eyes to be brighter.

“Wanna help crack an egg button? Need t’be careful though, don’t want crunch pancakes now do we?” He asks with a grin as she pulls a disgusted face shaking her head. Her small palm helps her Papa’s hand crack the egg and she giggles watching it plop down into the dry mixture.

They scarf down their banana pancakes through small chats and giggles, Harry cracking his usual jokes that have Honey giggling loudly as she shovelled her pancakes into her mouth, their faces hurting from laughing by the time they’re up in her bedroom, Harry standing at her drawers, holding up small outfits as Honey sits like the diva she is on her bed, giving him a thumbs down when she doesn’t like an outfit he picks. She’s so stubborn, but she gets that from him.

“I do it Papa!” She says annoyed now, marching over to him as she picks her up with a laugh, her small hands rooting about until she pulls out a white cable knit jumper with a few frills on the sleeves and a baby pink velvet pinafore to go over it. She smiles up at him as he nods, happy with her choice. ***

“Did good button, need to put some tights on you though, getting a bit nippy out” he says as she nods, walking towards her sock drawer and pulling out some white knitted tights with an smile as Harry gives her a thumbs up, causing her to laugh loudly.

“Why Papa shave?” She asks sitting on the sink, her small outfit on her and her brown boots swinging on her feet as she dangles them off the counter beside the sink watching as Harry applies his shaving foam and wets his razor under the water, he’s still shirtless and only in his joggers as Honey watches on — she loves watching him, when he’s shaving his face or when he’s cooking, even when he does something a small as put her DVD in the player, she’s fascinated by him and Harry thinks it’s because he’s all she has, and he doesn’t mind being the centre of her attention as she is his.

“Papa has hair on his face, sometimes it gets itchy when it lets long. You don’t like it sure you don’t, always complaining it tickles when I kiss ya” he says with a laugh, his hand gliding the razor over his face as he inspects himself in the mirror, trying not to nick himself as Honey watches on curiously.

“Yuck! Hate Papas beard, gross!” She says as Harry looks at her, his face shaven and the foam gone, he picks up his curl cream and scrunches it through his hair a little.

“S’not nice to say gross button, remember? Cant say things are gross” he warns her, her small face falling but nodding as she takes the small scolding from her Papa, he rarely scolds her and when he does, he feels guilty but he knows it’s for her own good. Apart from a few slip ups here and there, she’s the most well mannered toddler ever, everyone that meets her complements Harry on his good parenting which means so much to him due to what he’s been through to get to where he is now.

It’s another few minutes before Harry is fully dressed, a baby blue striped grey suit *** on his body and his usual gucci heeled boots that Honey loves the sound of, she instantly perks up at the sound knowing her Papa is near. She claps when he walks out from the bathroom, it’s her new thing, she claps like he’s putting on a fashion show, causing him to strike a pose which causes her to fall back onto the bed in fits of laughter.

“Alright button, hair time!” He says as she widens her eyes, trying to wriggle off his bed and run away. She hates her hair being combed due to her curls being unruly and always tangled on her head. He grabs her and makes monster noises at her, tickling her belly as she screams out a laugh, nearly falling from his arms as he places her down on the counter by the sink, she spins around and watches herself in the mirror.

“What are we going for today Miss Styles?” He asks her like a professional hair stylist, her smile wide as she grabs a pink hair tie with small butterfly clips also, she shows them to him in the mirror as he smiles, taking her hair brush and de tangling spray. He struggles a little but he gets there in the end, her hair tied up in a pony tail and the small butterfly clips all around her head as she smiles brightly at herself.

“Did good job Papa!” She says clapping her hands, seeing how her Dad is improving, he’s been watching tutorials nightly and even trying some on himself as he gets used to braiding and all that stuff for when she starts asking for more complex styles in her curly hair.

He packs her bag and they’re both out the door quickly, he straps her into her booster seat in his black Range Rover, her legs dangling about as she rings and dances to the song on the radio, Harry keeping his eyes on the road but they flicker to hers in the rear view mirror when she speaks to him. Honey loves school, she loves her teacher and she loves making new friends due to her out going personality that she definitely got from her Mum, she could make friends with a tree if she was near one.

She’s holding his hand as he walks her in the gates, the other kids all lining up on their designated class spot on the ground, a yellow circle painted on the tarmac signalling the younger class. The Mums are all there with their kids, the odd few Dads there also but it’s always the Mums who are smiling and speaking to Harry as they watch their kids walk into their classroom, small hands waving as they excitedly march into the school. He doesn’t stay long after she’s gone in, mainly because the Mums have no filter and would publicly flirt with the single Dad even when they have wedding bands on their fingers.

He brushes off all the women, smiling at them as he runs out the gate, hearing them all whisper amongst themselves as they excitedly look on as he pulls away in his expensive car heading towards his work building. Harry feels empty when Honey is gone, he loves mornings with her, just him and her going about their mornings, making breakfast and cracking up at jokes they tell one another back and forth over banana pancakes every morning, some mornings they have cereal if they wake up late and sometimes if they wake up extra early and can’t go back asleep, they get ready and Harry brings her out for breakfast before dropping her off at school.

It’s the little moments with Honey that Harry cherishes, knowing she won’t be his little love for very long, but doesn’t think about that. He lives in the present with her and he loves how they are now, he loves his little lady with all his heart.