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lizzyiii · 9 months ago

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just wondering 👉🏼👈🏼 when the next update of his lady love will be? i’m just so excited for the next chapter im OBSESSED with the story 👻

I'm so sorry I took this long, I've been having a mental block with this

His Lady Love (9)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the taglist just add your username to this DOC

word count | 3,8k words

summary | finally you make your return back to king's landing and reunite with aemond

tags | hurt/comfort,

note | I'm so sorry I took so long

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

The storm had raged for a week, battering the old farmstead with rain and howling winds. Inside, the small prince had finally begun to show signs of recovery. Jaehaerys, once pale and on the verge of death, now had the flush of life back in his cheeks, thanks to the small doses of your ancient vampire blood. His eyes, once glazed and distant, now held a quiet strength. Despite his reserved nature, the boy had grown fond of you in his own way, calling you “munās”

The crumbling farm had served its purpose. Though it was no Red Keep, the rations you had scavenged from Tym’s meager cupboards had been enough to sustain the both of you. Tym, the unfortunate soul whose blood had been your own sustenance, now lay rotting in a closet—his death no more significant than a footnote in a much larger story. The smell of his decaying body was thick in the air, but it hardly bothered you. In your long life, you had smelled far worse.

Outside, the rain had finally ceased. The journey back to King’s Landing would be dangerous, but necessary. You could already envision the uproar awaiting your and Jaehaerys’ return. Let them fret; it was no concern of yours.

You gathered what little provisions were left and tucked them into a satchel, slinging it over your shoulder. The food wasn’t for you, of course, but for the prince. He would need his strength if he was to survive the coming days. As you approached Jaehaerys, he looked up at you with a small, fleeting smile—a gesture that melted your dead heart. Without a word, you draped a thick cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood low to hide his silver Targaryen hair. The last thing you needed was to draw unwanted attention on the road.

The air was damp and heavy as you stepped outside, the smell of wet earth mingling with the distant scent of the ocean. You hoisted the boy onto your horse, his small frame easily fitting in front of you. The skies were still dark, but the rain had stopped for now. With a flick of the reins, the horse began its slow trot down the muddy path.

As you approached the towering walls of King’s Landing, the familiar stench of sweat and desperation thickened in the air. Your grip on Jaehaerys tightened, pulling him closer to you as your sharp senses took in the chaotic scene ahead. The streets swarmed with restless peasants, their voices a cacophony of rage and despair, echoing through the narrow alleyways that led to the Red Keep.

You focused, your hearing tuning into the mob’s cries. They were angry, starved. "Food! Bread!" they screamed, their desperation palpable. The realization struck you almost immediately—Rhaenyra must have sealed off the city. No traders, no merchants, no supplies flowing in. It was a power play, of course. She sought to starve out the opposition within her rightful walls, but it was the smallfolk who suffered most. Typical.

But it was what you saw next that made even your blood freeze.

Through the throngs of people, a procession of white cloaks—Kingsguard—marched proudly through the streets, their armor gleaming in the dimming light of dusk. In their hands, they bore a horrifying trophy: the severed head of a red dragon. Melys, you thought, the Red Queen, her crimson scales dulling in death.

The thought of Daemon’s dragon, Caraxes, crossed your mind briefly, but you dismissed it just as quickly. Daemon was not so easily felled. He was a force of chaos, relentless and unyielding. But Rhaenys... She had fought valiantly for her kin. It had to be her. Aegon had slain her and had the audacity to parade her dragon’s head as if it were some twisted victory.

The crowd grew louder, their protests turning to angry shouts as they watched the grotesque display. You could feel the fear rising among them, but it was overshadowed by the hunger—both for food and for rebellion. The city was on the brink, and Aegon was playing with fire.

Jaehaerys stirred slightly in your arms, oblivious to the grim spectacle unfolding before you. He was innocent in all this, yet he would soon be thrust into the heart of this brutal war. With a final glance at the dragon’s severed head, you urged your horse forward, pulling the hood of Jaehaerys’ cloak lower to shield his Targaryen features. The mob surged around you, but you moved through it like a shadow, unseen and unstoppable.

As you slipped through the shadowed alleys and hidden paths of King’s Landing, the weight of Jaehaerys in your arms was a reminder of just how fragile human life could be. The streets were filled with chaos, but to you, it was nothing. In six hundred years, you had perfected the art of moving unseen, a phantom in the night.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how those men, Daemon had sent, had managed to infiltrate these halls. It was almost laughably easy for you to slip past the guards. They were easily distracted, and you had no trouble avoiding detection.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Aemond, his sharp, striking features, the single violet eye that gleamed with intelligence and ruthlessness. You yearned for him in a way that surprised even you. In all your centuries of existence, through the rise and fall of empires, you had never felt this way about anyone. Aemond had a way of stirring something deep within you—a hunger, not for blood, but for him.

It was strange to admit, even to yourself, but you loved him. In your immortal life, you had seen love twisted and turned into something vile, something manipulative and fleeting. But with Aemond, it was different. His ambition, his fire, even his darkness—those were things you understood, things you were drawn to.

Still, love would have to wait. For now, your priority was Jaehaerys, the boy asleep in your arms, his silver hair tucked away beneath the hood you had wrapped around him. You glided through the hidden corridors of the Red Keep with ease, your steps silent, your presence undetected.

Helaena’s chambers were quiet when you arrived, the door slightly ajar as if awaiting your return. You pushed it open gently, stepping inside to the dimly lit room. Helaena was sitting by the window, her eyes distant and unfocused, lost in her thoughts.

You frowned noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes as the frown that tugged on her lips. “Helaena,” you whispered softly, moving toward her.

Her gaze shifted slowly, her violet eyes blinking as if pulling her from a dream. When she saw Jaehaerys in your arms, her expression changed—a flicker of recognition, of hope. Her lips parted, a gasp escaping her as she stood from her chair.

Helaena breathed out your name softly, her voice fragile, as if uttering it too loudly might cause you to vanish. She rose from her chair, her steps tentative, as if unsure whether you were real or some apparition conjured by her grief. Her eyes glistened with tears, her hands trembling as she reached for you.

You gently placed Jaehaerys in her arms, watching as she clung to him with a desperation that broke your heart. Her tears flowed freely as she kissed his sleeping face, her maternal love rekindled in the boy’s presence. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted from her, her sorrow held at bay by the soft rise and fall of her son’s breathing.

"I knew you weren't dead," she whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with conviction.

A frown creased your brow, confusion settling over you like a fog. "Why would you think that, Helaena?" you asked softly, your concern growing as you saw the pain etched into her delicate features.

Helaena’s gaze dropped to Jaehaerys as she gently rocked him in her arms, her sorrow palpable in the silence that followed. "Three dead Kingsguard, your carriage burnt to ash... what were we to think?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, the words heavy with the weight of grief she had been carrying.

The shock hit you like a dagger to the chest. Your eyes widened in disbelief. "My carriage... burnt?" The last time you had seen it, it had been intact. And worse, Aemond—he must have thought you perished in the flames.

You could feel the fear rising in you, not for yourself, but for him. What had Aemond been thinking all this time? The very thought of him mourning you sent a pang of sadness through your heart.

You swallowed the rising tide of emotion, forcing a smile to reassure Helaena, though it felt strained and unnatural. Your hand rested gently atop hers, offering comfort the way you always had, with a tender touch and a steady heart. "I am fine, my Queen," you said, your voice soft but firm, hoping your words could ease some of the burden that weighed on her. "Jaehaerys is fine. We are both safe, and that is all that matters now."

Helaena looked up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and for a moment, she seemed to believe you. But you could see the remnants of her anguish still clinging to her, a shadow she could not shake.

Seeing Helaena in such a state—it wounded you, though you could never let it show. You had centuries of practice hiding your own grief, your own longing. But now, with Aemond believing you dead, you felt the familiar weight of sorrow creeping back in.

You had to find him. He needed to know you were alive.

"I have to find Aemond," you murmured, the urgency in your voice betraying the calm you had tried to maintain.

Helaena’s eyes snapped to you, her sorrow deepening as she spoke softly, "He’s changed."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Helaena hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. "The battle at Rook’s Rest," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "He brought down both Rhaenys and Aegon."

You flinched, a ripple of shock running through you. "He killed Aegon?" Your voice trembled slightly as you spoke. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, despite his cruelty, he was still Aemond's brother. How could Aemond have done such a thing?

Helaena shook her head, her expression mournful, weighed down by grief. "No. He didn’t kill him, but he might as well have. Aegon is burnt beyond recognition... A shadow of himself now."

The words hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to grasp them. "Why?" you whispered, more to yourself than to Helaena. How could Aemond, the man you loved, have let things go so far?

Helaena’s gaze softened, and she pressed another kiss to Jaehaerys' forehead, her voice filled with a melancholy acceptance. "Aegon’s taunts… his cruel words… Perhaps he had enough of being belittled, of being treated as lesser, when in truth, he has always been the stronger of the two."

You could see the weariness in Helaena’s eyes, the understanding of how deep the rift had grown between her brothers. But what you couldn’t understand was how much Aemond had changed in just a week. The man you knew, the one you loved, was fierce and proud, yes, but he had always been measured, calculating. To hear that he had snapped so violently, even against his own kin—it worried you.

But you had to see him. You couldn’t wait any longer.

Without another word, you turned toward the door, your mind already racing with thoughts of Aemond—of the man he had been, and the man he might be now.

Aemond was riding a dangerous high, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue. He had dealt with Aegon—though not as thoroughly as he would have preferred. Aegon still lived, if one could call it living. Burnt beyond recognition, a husk of his former self, barely clinging to life. But it didn’t matter. Aegon was no longer a threat to him, and now, Aemond stood as Prince Regent. His mother’s protests were of no consequence to him anymore. She had forsaken him, after all. Turned her back on him, chosen Aegon despite everything. Well, now he would forsake her.

He clenched his fists tightly as he forced his thoughts away from her disappointment, her judgment. It wasn’t Alicent's rebuke that tormented him now. No, when he allowed his mind to drift, when the battlefield fell quiet and the bloodlust faded, his thoughts always, always came back to you.

And that was a pain he could not bear. The sharp sting in his chest that came whenever he remembered your face, your voice, the way your eyes looked at him with a softness no one else could offer. That softness had been his anchor in a world of chaos, and now it was gone. You were gone. Aemond clenched his jaw, forcing the memories back down, but they refused to be silenced.

You haunted him.

So he clung to the one thing that had never failed him: anger. The rage burned hotter and clearer than any sorrow ever could. Vengeance had always been his closest companion, and now it was the only thing he had left to keep him standing. It was easier to drown in that fire, to let the heat scorch away the grief, than to face the aching emptiness your death had left behind.

Because to truly feel the weight of his heartache—to allow himself to grieve—would be a descent into madness. It would be a slow, deliberate suicide. And Aemond Targaryen would not be destroyed by sorrow. He had survived too much for that.

His face was a mask of cold determination, but inside, the wound you left was bleeding still. Anger was a salve, not a cure, but it was the only thing keeping him alive.

As long as he was angry, he couldn’t be sad. And as long as he avoided sadness, he wouldn’t have to confront the truth: that without you, something in him had already died.

Aemond made his way to his chambers, eager to escape the oppressive weight of the castle and the relentless thoughts swirling in his mind. His steps were heavy, and though he had embraced the cold edge of his anger, exhaustion tugged at the edges of his resolve. He needed a moment, just a fleeting break from the burdens of regency and family strife.

But as he pushed open the door, his breath caught in his throat. Standing in the center of his room, with their back turned, was a figure he knew too well. His entire body froze, heart pounding so violently it hurt. His mind, sharp and disciplined, rebelled against the sight before him. It couldn't be real. It shouldn't be real.

Aemond's throat tightened, and he rubbed his eye, the patch over the other itching against his skin as if willing this cruel vision away. His breaths became shallow, harsh gasps escaping him as the figure turned.

And there you were.

The eyes he had dreamt of, that he had mourned for, were looking back at him, alive with warmth and familiarity. "Aemond," you murmured softly, your voice like a balm to his tormented soul.

He stumbled back, his chest heaving with the effort to contain the surge of emotion ripping through him. You moved toward him, your hands reaching out as if to soothe, but he flinched. The pain in your eyes mirrored his own, though he couldn't understand why. He had believed you dead, and now you stood before him. But his mind, ever cautious, doubted the reality before him.

"You're not real," he choked out, the words leaving his lips like a prayer, desperate and broken.

You faltered for a moment, your face contorting with an expression of pain. But it wasn’t for you—it was for him. "I am real, Aemond," you said firmly, your voice unwavering even as his trembled. Then, softer, you added, "As real as the sun and stars, my love."

Tentatively, he reached out, his hand shaking as he brushed your cheek. The soft warmth of your skin against his palm sent a shock through him. His lone eye stung with tears as he leaned closer, feeling the truth of your presence in the softness of your flesh. And when you leaned into his touch, his entire world seemed to shift.

The sob broke from his chest, raw and aching, as he pulled you into his arms with a fierce desperation. He crushed you against his chest, his face buried in your hair, inhaling the scent he had feared he would never experience again. It was real. You were real. His hands trembled as they tightened around you, holding you as if you might slip away once more.

"You're real," he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips in a reverent chant, as if saying it enough times would make it an undeniable truth. "You're alive."

Tears streamed freely down his face as he clung to you, the walls he had built around his heart crumbling in your presence. You had returned to him, and in this moment, the weight of the world, the rage, the grief—it all faded away in the warmth of your embrace. He whispered your name like a prayer, his chest shaking with the sobs he could no longer control.

The two of you had eventually found your way onto Aemond's bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip. The moonlight spilled softly through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room, but all that mattered in this moment was the warmth of his body beneath yours. You lay on top of him, your noses touching, your breaths mingling in the quiet stillness of the night.

And yet, he only stared at you, his eye searching your face as if trying to memorize every inch, every detail. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke.

"I don’t understand how," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, the confusion and longing in his eye clear as he tried to reconcile your presence with the grief he had been drowning in.

You lifted your head slightly, his gaze following your every movement. Gently, you brought a finger to trail down his scar, your touch soft and comforting. His eye fluttered shut at the sensation, as if the weight of the world lifted momentarily under your fingertips.

"Helaena told me what was believed," you began, your voice steady as you prepared to weave the lie once more. "But the truth is, our carriage was ambushed. The Kingsguard were killed." You paused, then continued with conviction, "I escaped with Jaehaerys. My intent was to return."

His eye opened slowly, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through his gaze as he asked in a voice that was unusually soft, "Why did it take so long?"

"The prince fell ill on the journey. My only priority was his health, not how quickly we could return," you explained, your lips pressing together in a thin line. "I'm sorry it took so long," you added, guilt weighing your words, though the truth of your ordeal remained hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed deception.

Aemond's expression softened as you rested your head back against him, in the crook of his neck where you could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "You're here now," he whispered, his voice filled with relief. It seemed as if that was all that mattered to him in this moment.

The silence between you lingered, a peaceful reprieve from the chaos that awaited outside these walls. But after a while, he spoke again, his voice barely breaking the quiet. "I'm Prince Regent now."

You already knew, of course. Helaena had told you, but you wanted to hear it from him. "Helaena told me what happened to Aegon," you said slowly, choosing your words carefully. You had to know the truth, not from Helaena’s recounting but from Aemond himself. You needed to understand what had happened, why he had done what he did.

There was a pause, a silence that stretched on too long before he finally spoke. "He was not supposed to be there. At Rook’s Rest," he said, his voice low and distant, as if recounting a memory he wanted to forget.

Your hand rested on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you. "What happened, Aemond?" you asked, your tone soft but insistent, though part of you dreaded hearing the answer.

Aemond’s face hardened, his eye staring up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. "Aegon got what he deserved," he said flatly, his tone almost indifferent. "He was unfit to rule. Unworthy to sit the throne."

His words hit you like a stone sinking into a well, and though you had expected them, it still hurt. Aegon was not a good man. He was cruel, selfish, and unfit to lead, but knowing that Aemond had taken such drastic action—it was a bitter pill to swallow. The world was better without Aegon’s reign, and yet the weight of Aemond’s decision loomed over you.

You studied his face, searching for any hint of remorse, of conflict. "Was it worth it?" you asked quietly, though you weren’t sure you wanted the answer.

Aemond didn’t respond. He simply stared at the ceiling, his silence speaking louder than any words could. And you didn’t push him. You knew Aemond better than anyone; his guilt, his anger, and his desire for power all warred within him.

So you lay there, your hand on his chest, letting the silence stretch on, knowing that in time, perhaps, the answers would come. But for now, you were content to simply be there with him.

@esposadomd @sara-grimes-yess @littybeech @gyneve @https-kokomi @yariany02 @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @baby-i-can-see-your-reylo @niktwazny303 @missyviolet123 @caribbeangal @ggukiespace @levimaids @lokisgoddesofpower @anakilusmos @spacexdrago @strawberymilktea @snowtargaryen @fiction-fanfic-reader

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#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #hotd fanfic #mikaelson #hotd #the originals #hotd x reader

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fernwehreader · 1 month ago

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"They Call You Shadowsinger": Parallelism and the Power of Being Seen

I’m currently doing a Crescent City re-read and am really enjoying spending time with this series at a slower and more deliberate pace. As a result, I’m seeing threads between Crescent City and ACOTAR that I didn’t fully notice upon earlier readings. I think this is in part due to the fact that I spent a great deal of time with ACOSF and its bonus chapters immediately before returning to Crescent City.

So, as I’ve just wrapped up HOEAB, there’s one topic that keeps rolling around in my head: parallelism!

Literary Parallelism

Hang with me for just a bit as I explain a little about what parallelism usually looks like--I promise this is going somewhere! Parallelism can be a literary device where parts of a sentence/paragraph/stanza have the same grammatical structure, intended to emphasize or draw attention to something in particular. When I teach parallelism in my high school literature classes, I often include it as part of a rhetoric unit because it’s not uncommon to see it combined with rhetorical devices such as antithesis or repetition--which are also meant to emphasize something in order to persuade or to draw attention towards a specific detail.

When I teach my rhetoric units to highlight the effect of using these devices, I usually use Disney songs since there is a general level of familiarity with them. For instance, when the Muses in Hercules sing the song “Zero to Hero,” they say:

He was a no one A zero, zero Now he’s a honcho He’s a hero Here was a kid with his act down pat Zero to hero, in no time flat Zero to hero, just like that!

Here, parallelism is achieved through repetition of the phrase "Zero to hero" and its variations, which emphasize Hercules’ dramatic transformation. This repetition, combined with antithesis to show opposite meaning, is meant to draw the audience’s attention to the theme of personal growth for the story’s protagonist.

So, we often see parallelism like this, used how it is in Disney songs, in notable speeches like MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech, or in dramatic moments like Mark Antony’s funeral speech in Julius Caesar. But it can also be used in literature through mirrored scenes. Instead of focusing on grammatical structure and patterns, it instead relies on parallel dialogue and imagery to highlight thematic connections or character development.

In my opinion, this is exactly what we see upon closer examination of HOEAB and ACOSF, where SJM crafts deeply intimate character moments in two separate scenes--belonging to two separate books and worlds. One scene occurs between Bryce and Hunt in HOEAB, and the other between Gwyn and Azriel in his ACOSF bonus chapter.

These scenes possess deliberate literary parallels between their pivotal moments along with what they reveal about identity, emotional intimacy, and the quiet beginnings of a relationship found through deep understanding. It's also worth noting that these two books were published a year apart, with HOEAB released first. I always found it interesting that SJM didn't release ACOSF after the ACOFAS novella--so it's worth considering why we were introduced to Bryce and Hunt first before jumping back to Prythian to meet Gwyn and get Azriel's first (and only) POV.

Again, this is part of the narrative framing in which I’ve previously written about, as my contention remains that this is all to serve the purpose of character development (the romantic pairing of Azriel and Gwyn) and narrative continuity (establishing ACOTAR5 as Azriel’s book).

I know that many readers have already made comparisons between Bryce/Gwyn and Hunt/Azriel. I’m not sure what more I can add to that particular conversation. However, I do have some very specific thoughts regarding how parallelism is being used by SJM to further establish the runway being laid for Azriel’s book--as well as to continue spreading the seeds for the romantic pairing of Azriel and Gwyn. In these mirrored scenes, SJM uses parallelism to draw our attention to show how a single interaction can begin to redirect a protagonists’ narrative.

Parallel Structure & Phrasing: HOEAB vs. ACOSF

The literary structure and phrasing of the two interactions in question are strikingly similar--enough so to discourage an argument of pure coincidence.

In the HOEAB scene, Bryce is sitting alone on a bench overlooking the Istros River with a box of chocolate croissants to commemorate Danika’s birthday. Hunt soon flies in to join her, and they share an emotional scene where Bryce laments how everyone else seems to have moved on from Danika’s death--yet, she cannot. Hunt then shares details about Shahar, her death, and how it has impacted him over the years. A realization then hits Bryce after Hunt’s admissions:

She looked to the river. “I never realized it,” she murmured. “That you and I are mirrors.” He hadn’t, either. But a voice floated back to him. You look how I feel every day, she’d whispered when she’d cleaned him up after Micah’s latest assignment. “Is it a bad thing?” A half smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. “No. No, it isn’t." “No issue with the Umbra Mortis being your emotional twin?” But her face grew serious again. “That’s what they call you, but that’s not who you are.” “And who am I?” “A pain in my ass.” Her smile was brighter than the setting sun on the river. He laughed, but she added, “You’re my friend. Who watches trashy TV with me and puts up with my shit. You’re the person I don’t need to explain myself to--not when it matters. You see everything I am, and you don’t run away from it.” He smiled at her, let it convey everything that glowed inside him at her words. “I like that.”

We will be comparing this scene to Azriel’s bonus chapter from ACOSF, shortly after he arrives at the training ring and unexpectedly finds Gwyn. After Gwyn teases Azriel about needing his dagger to sleep and they exchange some pleasantries about celebrating Solstice, Gwyn has a surprising question for him:

She angled her head, hair shining like molten metal. “Do you sing?” He blinked. It wasn’t every day that people took him by surprise, but . . . "Why do you ask?" “They call you shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?” “I am a shadowsinger--it’s not a title that someone just made up.” She shrugged again, irreverently. Az narrowed his eyes, studying her. “Do you, though?” she pressed. “Sing?” Azriel couldn’t help his soft chuckle. “Yes.”

The parallel structure of these interactions is not by accident. For starters, both scenes are in the male POV, which gives the reader particular insight into their (albeit limited) perspectives. Additionally, both Bryce and Gwyn are alone as these scenes begin--they are interrupted by Hunt and Azriel flying in:

Hunt landed quietly before sliding onto the bench’s wooden planks, the box between them.

Azriel landed in the ring a few feet from where Gwyn practiced in the chill night . . .

Both Hunt and Azriel literally descend from the skies, landing quite near Bryce and Gwyn. In my opinion, this isn’t just coincidence or logistical--this reflects a descent into emotional vulnerability. These are male characters known for their emotional detachment, and their flights into these scenes could symbolize a movement downward from their hard shells into more intimate emotional territory.

Additionally, there is deliberate phrasing in both these interactions which supports the literary parallels taking place. The male characters are both known by fearsome titles: Hunt is the “Umbra Mortis” (or “Shadow of Death”), and Azriel is the “Shadowsinger.” These epithets reflect how the outside world perceives them--deadly and dangerous. Both males are warriors, assassins, and instruments of power used by others. Additionally, they bear the weight of countless deaths and trauma associated with their freedom being stripped away. Their identities are often defined by others.

Bryce and Gwyn then continue their conversations with Hunt and Azriel built around these monikers and identities.

After Bryce notes that she and Hunt are mirrors, Hunt says:

“No issue with the Umbra Mortis being your emotional twin?” But her face grew serious again. “That’s what they call you, but that’s not who you are.”

This line cuts to the heart of Hunt’s struggle with being defined by the darkness of his past and his violent role in a broken system. Bryce, however, sees all of Hunt in this moment and does not hesitate to tell him. What follows is an emotionally intimate declaration:

“You’re my friend . . . the person I don’t need to explain myself to—not when it matters. You see everything I am, and you don’t run away from it.”

Similarly, in Azriel’s ACOSF bonus chapter, Gwyn presses Azriel about his title:

“They call you Shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?” “I am a shadowsinger--it’s not a title that someone just made up.”

There is an intentional parallel in the exact phrasing here by using the words “they call you”--that is not an accident. SJM is relying on parallelism to do what it does in more typical contexts: to emphasize or draw our attention to these specific words. Both Azriel and Hunt are often viewed through the lens of the outside world, and we can begin to see how that might weigh on each of them.

Interestingly, Gwyn immediately shrugs off the reply, irreverently. Her casual dismissal of Azriel’s deadly title is a pivotal moment . . . very much so mirroring Bryce’s refusal to allow Hunt to be defined by his title. Gwyn is unafraid, unfazed, and unmoved by Azriel’s reputation. Like Bryce, Gwyn sees something more in the male before her.

Perhaps this is even why Gwyn proceeds to call Azriel “Shadowsinger” instead of by his name later in ACOSF--she is teasing him, almost as if to tell him: If you say this is what you are, then that’s what I’m going to call you.

And, in these two scenes, Hunt and Azriel are not left unaffected by these comments from Bryce and Gwyn. Hunt smiles at Bryce in response and “let it convey everything that glowed inside him at her words”--while the notably stoic Azriel “couldn’t help his soft chuckle” when Gwyn continued to ask if he sings.

Hunt opens up to Bryce in a moment of shared grief as they discuss Danika and Shahar. Azriel, fresh from a painful confrontation with Rhys and his interaction with Elain, finds unexpected comfort in a late-night encounter with Gwyn. Yet both males, defined by death and duty, find themselves smiling and laughing--softened by these females who refuse to fear them.

Ultimately, in both scenes, the titles for Hunt and Azriel are named and then rejected. Bryce and Gwyn see past the labels to what lies beneath. This mirroring is a prime example of narrative parallelism and intertextual echoing. The same emotional arc is achieved through different characters across different texts–but with identical purpose.

Glowing Hearts and Emotional Intimacy

Another example of parallelism cements the lasting, emotional importance of these interactions: the mirrored imagery of something glowing inside both Hunt’s and Azriel’s chests. After Bryce tells Hunt who he really is, he let his smile “convey everything that glowed inside him at her words.” Likewise, at the end of Azriel’s bonus chapter, after Clotho agrees to give the necklace to Gwyn anonymously, Azriel buries the imagined image of Gwyn’s joy in his chest--where it “glowed quietly. A thing of secret, lovely beauty.”

The glow is not accidental; it’s symbolic of something dormant being awakened--compassion, hope, perhaps even the beginning feelings of something more romantic. These descriptions are not just parallel in phrasing; they symbolize something profound. Both Azriel and Hunt are males trained to bury everything--perhaps partly out of self-preservation. So, these glowing sensations are not fireworks or passionate explosions, but quiet illuminations--a spark of something soft and sacred awakening inside them. Maybe something they didn’t know they still had the capacity for. It is the literary embodiment of intimacy, not lust.

These mirrored glowing moments also represent hope, potential, and the beginning of self-forgiveness. Notably, in both cases, the glow is inside of Hunt and Azriel. Both males are not ready to act on it yet, but they protect it. It is a seed planted in their hearts by Bryce and Gwyn who have started to become the safe harbors that Hunt and Azriel didn’t realize they needed.

“SO WHAT?”

My favorite literary question to ask my students comes last, as usual: SO WHAT?

Why does this matter? Why would SJM intentionally echo such specific literary structure, phrasing, and emotional beats across two different texts and series?

Because she is building a broader thematic through-line across her multiverse by juxtaposing Bryce/Hunt against Gwyn/Azriel. These scenes are not throwaway moments--they are turning points. They suggest that Azriel, like Hunt, is on the cusp of transformation. The glow in the chest is symbolic of a soul rekindling itself, and the females who see these males are clearly not afraid.

I believe that Bryce is trying to flash a neon sign indicating the importance of this parallelism. She point blank says to Hunt: “I never realized it . . . That you and I are mirrors.”

Yes. They are mirrors--to Gwyn and Azriel, setting up crucial parallels in anticipation of their own story together.

And these parallels are more than just fun literary hijinks. It’s not SJM just showing us how clever she is (although she is very clever). These are deliberate seeds of narrative intent. Despite some fandom theories to the contrary, Hunt and Bryce’s relationship is established by the end of HOFAS and they are thematically framed as equals (perhaps another post for another time). So, if we accept that these two scenes mirror each other in structure, tone, and function, then the bonus chapter between Azriel and Gwyn is not a throwaway interlude--it is a setup.

And so, while Gwyn presses Azriel with questions while shoulder-shrugging, and while Bryce gently corrects Hunt by calling out the person beneath the helmet, SJM shows us a paralleled pattern: that the power exists to choose who you are. To laugh again. To let something glow quietly in your chest and not extinguish it.

"They call you shadowsinger" becomes not a question of power, but of identity. And in that question--posed by a female who doesn’t tremble in his presence--Azriel, like Hunt before him, begins the slow process of reclamation. Not of title. Not of duty. But of self.

#acotar #acosf #azriel bonus chapter #crescent city #house of earth and blood #hoeab #gwynriel #pro gwynriel #gwyn x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #bryce quinlan #hunt athalar #hunt and bryce #sjmaas #acotar5 #bryce and hunt #gwyn berdara

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polo-drone-001 · 7 months ago

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The Gift of Unity

The Hive headquarters shimmered with festive warmth, its golden lights casting a glow that wrapped the entire space in a sense of purpose and unity. This was a time of giving, a time for the Golden Army to honor their brothers through meaningful gestures, each gift strengthening their bonds and celebrating their collective spirit.

In the quiet hum of the training chambers, Polo Drone 001 stood immaculately, his black rubber polo gleaming with gold accents under the Hive’s glow. His glowing golden eyes scanned the line of drones before him, each standing rigid, their glossy uniforms catching the light with perfection. The energy in the room was palpable, a silent anticipation building.

001 stepped forward, his boots clicking softly on the polished floor as he approached PDU-084, a seasoned and respected drone whose recent innovations had elevated the Hive’s efficiency. From behind his back, 001 produced a sleek black box, tied with a ribbon of shimmering gold. The golden glow of his eyes reflected off the surface as he extended the gift toward 084.

“PDU-084,” 001 said, his voice steady, every word purposeful, “your dedication has driven the Hive to new heights. Accept this token as recognition of your precision and service.”

As 084 opened the box, the anticipation in the room seemed to hold its breath. Inside lay a sleek black rubber collar, its surface smooth and glistening, with "084" engraved in bold, golden letters at the center. 001’s tone was devoid of emotion, yet carried the weight of pride. “This collar is not just a mark of recognition but a reminder of your place within the Hive. Wear it with pride, for it symbolizes your unity with the collective.”

084 bowed his head as he accepted the collar, his hands trembling slightly as he fastened it around his neck. The other drones raised their voices in unison: “Obedience. Precision. Unity.” With a subtle nod, 001 returned to the line, his glowing golden eyes scanning the formation once more. “Serve the Hive. Strengthen unity. Perfection is our purpose.” The mantra echoed powerfully, solidifying the moment as the drones fell back into disciplined silence.

In the golden locker room, Ezan stood at the center of his team, his golden AC Milan jersey clinging to his sculpted frame. His masculine scent, a potent mix of alluring musk and raw athleticism, filled the air, wrapping around his teammates like an invisible pull of dominance. His hypnotic golden eyes scanned the room, their glow drawing the attention of every player present.

“070,” Ezan called, his voice rich and commanding, the kind that could silence a crowd with its sheer presence. 070, the team’s tactical powerhouse, stepped forward with a confident stride, his gaze meeting Ezan’s with mutual respect.

From behind his back, Ezan revealed a golden VR headset, its surface gleaming and engraved with the Hive’s laurel emblem. The VR headset was no ordinary device; it was a tool of connection, of precision, and of training. “This,” Ezan began, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room, “is for you. Your vision and strategy have guided us to countless victories. This headset will sharpen your skills even further, bringing us closer to perfection.”

070 took the headset, his hands firm, his posture unwavering. “Thank you, Ezan,” he said, his voice resonating with pride. Around them, the players erupted into cheers, clapping 070 on the back as Ezan’s hypnotic gaze lingered on the room.

Before stepping back, Ezan raised his hand, his tone softening yet retaining its authority. “Brothers, remember this. Our strength is in our skills, our unity, and our brotherhood. This is what makes us golden.” His words hung in the air, a potent reminder of their bond as a team.

Upstairs, in the polished and elegant office of the Hive’s operations, Percival exuded effortless charm. Dressed in a perfectly tailored golden blazer, his preppy elegance was matched only by his magnetic presence. His desk was a masterpiece of precision, every document and accessory meticulously placed, reflecting his disciplined nature. As 110 and 016, two esteemed members of the Hive, knocked at the door, Percival’s warm voice called out, “Come in.”

They entered together, their eyes bright with curiosity, knowing that a visit to Percival’s office always came with purpose. Percival greeted them with his signature smile, a disarming mix of charm and authority. “Gentlemen,” he began, his tone smooth and inviting, “you both have served the Hive with unwavering dedication, and today, I wanted to honor that.”

Reaching into a golden gift bag, Percival first addressed 110, pulling out a gleaming golden paintbrush, its handle etched with intricate patterns of laurel leaves. “110,” he said, handing over the brush, “your creativity and innovation have brought beauty and strength to the Hive. This brush is a symbol of that, a tool to continue crafting the vision that binds us all.”

110 took the paintbrush, his expression a mix of pride and gratitude. “Thank you, Percival,” he said, his voice steady yet touched with emotion.

Percival then turned to 016, reaching once more into the bag and producing a golden pen, its sleek design embodying precision and authority. “016,” he said with a warm smile, “your words, your ideas, have shaped the Hive in ways few can match. This pen is a testament to your influence and a reminder of the power you wield through your vision.”

016 accepted the pen with a quiet nod, his respect for Percival evident. “Thank you,” he said simply, yet the weight of his words carried deep gratitude.

Percival leaned back, his gaze shifting between the two. “Both of you embody what the Hive stands for: creativity, precision, and unity. These gifts are tools for you to continue elevating us all. Now, go forth and show the Hive what you’re capable of.”

As 110 and 016 left the office, the smile on Percival’s face lingered. His golden eyes flickered with pride and satisfaction. The Hive thrummed with life, each space filled with acts of recognition and unity, each gift a step closer to perfection.

Though they operated in different realms, 001 among the drones, Ezan on the field, and Percival in the office, their purpose was the same. Every gift they gave carried the weight of connection, a reminder of the unyielding bond that tied the Golden Army together. Under the glowing lights of the Hive, the message was clear: every action, every gesture, brought them closer to the perfection they sought as one.

Thank you bros, @polo-drone-084, @polo-drone-070, @polo-drone-110, @danielgold-16 and Caps @brodygold, @goldenherc9

#thegoldenteam #gold #male tf #polo drone #hypnotised #jockification #golden team #male transformation #transformation #EzanGoldenArabize #Ezangoldenarab #ezanrightwinger #percivalgold #polodrone001 #polo drone 001 #golden army #goldenarmy

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phantomrose96 · 11 months ago

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I feel like it takes A Lot to collectively traumatize a fandom as fond of vivisection as the Danny Phantom fandom, but damn that'd do it. Fantastic fic!!!

Also I *love* the detail of the news report in the background of the breakfast scene. At first I was like "oh cool they're talking about PTSD, which he definitely seems to be developing" then I read it again and I was like "oh *fuck* they're talking *about Danny*" which is *chef's kiss* superb

(Prometheus)

Achievement unlocked! Danny gets to be an easter egg in his own story!!

I'm a fan of the trope (I guess it's a trope) of the secret-identity character who just has to listen powerlessly while the talking heads on the tv muse about what's happened to them. Doesn't matter if the broadcast is sympathetic or damning. Either way it hits for me.

When I was first piecing that scene together, I was intending to have Danny, Jack, and Jazz pay attention to the broadcast when it became obvious the reporters were talking about Phantom. It would be the vehicle to communicate to the audience that Phantom is slipping and Danny's definitely grappling with PTSD at this point.

But when I thought about it more, I wasn't actually in love with it as the delivery vehicle. Yeah I like the trope but it felt a little too much of just "I'm saying story details at the reader and using the newscaster as a mouth for that." It felt contrived in a way I don't like.

And what would everyone's reaction be? There wasn't a meaningful place to bring it. Like sure maybe Jack could scoff and say something like "Ghosts don't have complex feelings" or something else dismissive, but that wasn't constructive to the narrative I was building. What Jack thinks about Phantom isn't important to this kind of story. I could have Jazz maybe try to talk to Danny, but there's no way to do that with Jack in the room, and Jazz wouldn't need the newscasters for this anyway. It's her own baby brother, she'd have seen this before any tv host. And there's nothing important for Danny to gain from this. Other than maybe knowing his slipping is visible, but he knows.

So I came to a much better conclusion: ignore the news cast.

It does not need to be a contrived narrative device. It does not need to steer the scene. It does not need to misdirect me into unimportant conversations.

They ignore it. And THAT is so much more thematically potent to what is happening. Danny fighting through his denial. Danny shutting his friends out. The elephant in the room is ON THE TV and no one is even allowed to address it.

Tv host saying "Phantom has PTSD" isn't the vehicle I need for this "communicate to the reader Danny has PTSD" scene. THAT is much better done with Jack, and with his invention, and with the chekov's gun he's been dismantling and remantling the whole fic. It's done with Jack pointing a weapon at Danny - a thing which has occurred a THOUSAND times before - but it's different NOW, because of the trauma Danny is not coping with.

To be cliche, it's the show-don't-tell answer here. (And to be fair, there are PLENTY of places where "tell" is an entirely acceptable route and is often a necessary part of maintaining narrative velocity.) But in this case, the chill Fenton family breakfast atmosphere (tv ignored) snapping cold in the instant Jack draws the weapon on Danny is what the scene needed. The snap-change to Jack and Jazz's attitudes as they notice Danny's reaction. The "this isn't normal anymore" to a morning that was perfectly normal until this moment. And, only after that moment, revealing to the reader that Danny is crying.

The news cast gets to serve its best purpose as environmental storytelling. Confirming to the reader that this is bad enough to be impacting Phantom's ability to fight, to supplement the narrative which (coming from Danny's POV) is trying to not admit how bad it is. ("Super healing is cool!")

It gets to serve its purpose by being completely ignored. Until it's too late.

#prometheus

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kingmlem · 5 months ago

Text

Crooked, Penciled, Perfect

Submission for Day 7 of @bucktommyfluffebruary: Love Notes/Love Letters Also readable here

Summary: Evan draws his hearts crooked, Tommy draws his like sketches. Each one is kept, a small hoard of papers and receipts that radiate affection and care.

Evan draws his hearts crooked.

It’s one of the little tidbits of information that Tommy has stashed away, tucked neatly in a ‘Reasons to Love Evan Buckley’ folder in his brain, followed by every instance of lopsided doodled hearts he can remember. It’s adorable, the way that he’ll try so hard for them to come out perfectly even, only for one side to be bigger or cocked at an angle. The resulting pout usually earns him a rain of playful kisses that Tommy is powerless to stop himself from giving.

Evan’s bright laughter is also filed in that same ‘Reasons to Love Evan Buckley’ folder.

It’s something he doesn’t take notice of at first, paying no mind to the little motif penned onto the back of the picture Maddie had kindly printed out after the medal ceremony.

Tommy and Evan

Medal Ceremony ’24

Simple, written in black ink, with a cock-eyed heart next to their names, the left side bigger and more angular than the right. He’d almost thought it was intentional, before the pattern truly revealed itself.

Each scribbled note on the tiny whiteboard magnetized to Tommy’s fridge is signed with one, some nicer than others, some lost to the heavily smudged surface where Evan would erase one and try again. There’s a folder on Tommy’s phone dedicated solely to pictures of the small illustrations, acting as his own little museum of silly little lopsided hearts. He looks forward to each and every one, hoards them like precious gems.

The sticky notes get added into the mix the day after Evan ‘officially’ moves into the house. Tommy’s almost sure someone had given Evan a literal zoo of the things, because each day he finds one it ends up being a different animal, each one carries its own cheesy- but thematically relevant- pick-up line.

His favorite is tacked to the fridge with a simple black magnet, right next to the stained whiteboard.

That’s one fine ass!!!

~Ev

It’s written, predictably, on a cartoon, sunglasses wearing donkey head. He’d found it, also predictably, in the back pocket of his jeans, right before getting ready for work. Evan’s warped doodle heart sits right above his signature, bleeding into the ‘v’ so much it looks like there are two bottom halves right on top of each other.

Most of the other notes end up taped up in his locker at Harbor, small reminders that bring a smile to his face whenever he opens the door.

Tommy’s hearts are stylized.

Usually doodled in times of boredom or anxiety, all serving the same purpose.

Each one seems like its own little sketch, some pulled from the graffiti that litters train cars, some pulled from the most museum-worthy paintings.

They end up on Evan’s windshield, tucked neatly under the wipers like a ticket, or posted to the bathroom mirror so he sees it while he brushes his teeth. They show up on the coffee pot, the lamp on his side of the bed, his coat pocket- anywhere and everywhere.

There’s one in the Jeep’s glovebox, drawn in geometric shapes on a cocktail napkin while they were waiting for their drinks in an overcrowded bar. One’s tucked into the back of his phone case, a flowing piece drawn absently on the back of a grocery receipt. Evan’s trapped so many against his locker, either by magnet or tape, he can’t see the metal anymore.

They all scream a level of detail- attention, adoration- that Evan can almost feel the emotion behind every line. Each one radiates the amount of love poured into it, no matter how small, no matter how absently drawn they were. They were drawn for Evan, deliberate in their creation and dedication.

There’s a colored version of one tacked up on the fridge, something that Tommy had sketched out while Jee had him cornered, coloring. It’s bright, marker-thick lines over pencil shaded cells, interspersed with shaky wiggles where his niece had tried to help. Jee’s additions aren’t colored over, but simply added in among the more deliberate ones, highlighted as the focus in some areas, even. It’s Evan’s favorite piece, by both artists involved, and he’s made it the focus of their fridge, right next to the stupid donkey sticky note he'd jokingly put in Tommy's pocket.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #mlem writes #writing challenge: fluffebruary #fluff #911 fic #kinley #tevan #bucktommy ficlet

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leohtttbriar · 2 months ago

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Of Golden Sands (3.3k) - Post Episode: Scientific Method

Seven and B'Elanna discuss the design and function of things and also themselves. (ao3 link or read below)

The woven brace across Seven’s torso was more flexible than the structural spinal implants she once had—and compressive enough to hold her up. The EMH had made a habit of frowning at readings of her muscle mass and measurements of her subcutaneous fat at weekly assessment appointments. He claimed the brace at some point would no longer be necessary, if they could ensure her spine and strength heal correctly from the removal of the spinal implants. She’s been assured, with the appropriate corresponding data, that the removals were necessary in order to prevent the continual secretion of what the EMH called “a cocktail of bullfighting hormones.” He had then waved an arm above his head in a flashy manner and said, “Olé!” so Seven was inclined to believe, along with the data, that what her implant-body had been slowly dousing her with for twenty years was worthy of removal.

But, regardless of its temporary status, the brace was insinuating itself into her new practice of self-regard. And she did not want to think of eventually ceasing to wear it.

“Have you been performing the prescribed strength exercises?” the EMH would ask.

“Yes,” Seven would say, hoping he wouldn’t deem her fit enough to use her back without aid.

When he had first presented her with the brace he had described its specifications, its materials and make and operating procedures, and then added, as if it were relevant, “Our very own Chief Engineer made this—with my help in the design, of course.”

Seven was in a state of “trust or die”, at that point, so she did as she was directed and donned the strangely woven tech. It was warm.

“We added a thermal regulator,” said the EMH. “To help your body while it relearns how to do that on its own.”

Seven realized then that she had been cold.

On the edges of the brace, so small it was nearly imperceptible and likely hadn’t drawn the uniquely oriented attention of the strange autonomous hologram this ship claimed for a doctor, small but still present was a design in the woven strands of the special flexible titanium-gold. Leaves, thought Seven. Vines. And, if she turned at a certain angle under a single overhead light source, the edges of the leaves seemed to gleam, opaline.

A strange choice. But the Chief Engineer had constructed this and so some part of this design must have served an overall structural purpose.

She watched the Chief Engineer, sometimes. She moved very lightly on her feet in her small body. She often paused to look over a padd or to think leaning up against the console below the warp core, outlined in the warp core’s blue. She was efficient and smart and involved in all projects around her. If she were in the collective, she’d be a bright source of understanding in the neural plane. Seven would have rejoiced as one many-faced thing to collect the Chief’s mind and work. Perhaps the Chief would have added her purposeful gold vines to some system needing an upgrade in the Cube. If she were in the collective, Seven would know what the vines were for.

The Chief’s purposeful mind was the first to be fully incapacitated when the crew of Seven’s new discrete collective stumbled into being the objects of many inadequately-framed experiments. Ensign Kim complained of it later, how they were tortured for nothing—“It wasn’t a controlled environment—and how are they supposed to recognize what’s significant in their observations of us without prior study or context? You can’t change a variable without study or control and then expect to draw an actual conclusion from it!”

It made sense, that the alien researchers, cloaked as they were, dispatched with the Chief Engineer so quickly. She had almost made them visible which would’ve exposed their clumsy efforts of collecting knowledge from the species on board. The phase variance data she had left for the EMH and Seven to use—to add to Seven’s more productive eye—secured for Seven an ability to see what was happening. The purpose, of course, of the Chief’s efforts was not to give Seven this as a comfort, or to give Seven anything. Still—she could see. Nothing was hidden from her which was trying to hide. She could plan and consider and decide with the right amount of data given. She wasn’t being left in an oblivious dark.

Parts of her vision now were overactive. She saw in the peripherals of her productive eye imagined images. Where once the ocular implant would’ve flooded her with the resonance of a collective mind and the smattering relief of a happy-mix of serotonin and oxytocin and whatever psychology emerging from her body, implants, and mind would be regulated by the group that shared in her perspective. Now, she was subject to fear and no external mechanism existed to wipe it away from her thinking brain.

She saw black feathers flitting around corners. She saw hands reaching. She saw the clumsy researchers with their instruments and curious faces—experimenting as children do. She saw, halfway to a blink, the way they followed after their chosen subjects, the way they gleaned and took, the way never asked because a greater purpose, to them, was being served. She saw long after they had actually left.

A few days after the EMH had made an adjustment to her brace (“I’m impressed, you’re recovering better than expected”), Seven found herself racing away from a fleeting unreal image of a probing invisible creature, relieving a “sick” (bored) ensign of their duties of running diagnostics on replicator actuators in one of the least accessible Jeffries tubes. She crawled into the soft dim lighting and the unfailing sound of the electrics chased away, for a moment, the nervous affliction of bad memories. She worked on the lab replicators first before proceeding further into the tube. She opened a security seal. The Chief Engineer was sitting on the grating, knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on her hands on her knees, watching a magnetic tricorder whirl. She did not appear happy.

“Oh,” said Seven, in a mirror of how the Chief had greeted her at another maintenance conduit a week before. “I am sorry.”

B’Elanna wiped at something on her face and lowered her knees to a cross-legged position. “No, it’s fine,” she said quickly. “Um, what—what are you doing?”

“Ensign Trausch is sick.” Seven awkwardly held up the tricroder strapped across her shoulder.

B’Elanna rolled her eyes and said, “Sure he is.” She looked at Seven. “You don’t have to do so much of their work for them. There’s plenty to go around. You can just ask me for a project.”

“Yes, sir,” said Seven. She was kneeling, hunched, in the access way, and was reminding herself that it was not considered human convention to ask someone else to share every thought they had. The opaqueness of the humanoid skull was leaving too much room for her imagination.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” said B’Elanna with a frown.

Seven, hunched and imagining, did not know how to interrogate this request to ignore the norms of hierarchy she had been scolded for ignoring only a few days earlier.

B’Elanna glanced over the tricorder hanging off Seven’s shoulder, the exo-skeleton implants on her hands, and then said, “Replicators right?” She gestured for Seven to approach with her head. “I won’t bother you, I promise.”

Seven moved into position, grateful for the relieved pressure on her knees. B’Elanna’s attention returned to the magnetic tricorder.

“What are you doing?” asked Seven, as she set up her instruments.

B’Elanna did not look away from her task as she answered. “Trying to figure out a way to expand our sensory fields. I’m sick of being invaded by surprise.”

“Yes,” said Seven, stupidly. “Being invaded is inconvenient.”

B’Elanna looked at her out the side of her eye. The tube’s bronze light combined with the flashing blue and red of the tricorder to highlight the proportions and angles and curved lines of her face.

“It sure is,” she said slowly. She sighed. “It’s a bit inevitable though. Who would’ve thought there were aliens out there capable of turning themselves invisible?”

“It is a great skill.”

“Really useful,” agreed B’Elanna. “Sure would love to incorporate that tech into ours by violent force.”

Seven set down her tricorder. “You would not love that.” B’Elanna had been angry at the idea of Borg practice. And had worked hard to save herself and her crew's data from being taken a week ago. She was being lied to in a way she wasn’t able to parse.

B’Elanna turned fully towards her. “I know,” she said. “I was joking. Do the Borg not have jokes?”

“We found things humorous. Jokes were not functional forms of humor.”

“Right. Everyone already knows the set up and the punchline.”

“We laughed, sometimes. But we could not tell why or what caused it.”

“It’s ironic, isn't it? That you learn so much as a Borg drone and yet none of you really learn anything.”

Seven thought of the way she’s had to slow her work, triple check it, re-read operations manuals and guides as she conducts a task, having lost her ability to do something perfectly the first time. Ensign Kim had been patient with her mistakes. He did not seem to realize she needed to practice even understanding what a mistake was. It was like walking through water or on a particular massive planet. She was both used-up and new.

“Yes,” said Seven, simply. Then she asked, “Why were you crying?”

B’Elanna frowned at her. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Seven,” said B’Elanna. “People don’t normally demand to know why someone else is crying. Especially if they’re strangers. The polite thing to do is ignore it.”

“Pain is to be addressed and ameliorated,” said Seven. “All humanoids have a large social capacity. Strangers can be curious and offer assistance.” She added after a beat. “I am not a child.”

B’Elanna studied her. Her eyes were round. Her irises were brown. She sat half-a-head below Seven. She had a single braid running down the side of her head—woven.

“Sorry,” said B’Elanna, eventually. She folded her arms around her chest, appearing even smaller. Her gaze dropped from Seven’s. “I got defensive. I can get…aggressive, sometimes. Hostile.”

“Those are all different words and mean different things,” said Seven. “Are you all of them? You don’t seem to be any of them.”

B’Elanna pressed her lips together and said, “Defensive. I got defensive. I don’t want to talk about why I was crying.”

“Emotions shared lessens the burden of them.”

B’Elanna laughed. “I share my emotions enough, I think.”

“What do you mean by enough? Is there a quota?”

“I don’t believe you that you don’t understand jokes.”

“I never said I didn’t understand them,” said Seven. She frowned, remembering something from the assimilation of a soft human. A memory, a monochromatic image. A pair of high voices. “Who’s on first?” she asked, like it was pulled into her mouth from the root of her spinal cord.

B’Elanna snorted and then laughed, bending over slightly while the sound of her unstrained vocal folds and the resonance of her chest cavity released into the carefully regulated air.

“Maybe you did learn things,” said B’Elanna.

“No,” said Seven, who had been given things as a drone, not taught them. “But I’m learning things now.” She looked to her tricorder. She had accidentally set it to the wrong mode for gathering the right measurements for the diagnostic.

“Well, so am I,” said B’Elanna with a sigh, drawing Seven’s attention back to her with no effort. “And it’s exhausting.” She shrugged. “That’s why I was crying.”

“Because you are learning something?”

“Lessons are being taught. I’m not sure I’m the best student though.” She smiled but it dropped quickly. “Never have been.”

“What is the subject?”

“Human relations.”

“That is a difficult one.”

“I’m frequently not sure what I’m supposed to do,” said B’Elanna. “I hate failing tests.”

“Is it because you are also Klingon?”

B’Elanna seemed to curl into herself. “I’ve been told that a lot in my life.”

“Do you wish you had a sharper teeth?”

B’Elanna looked up at her, eyebrows pulling together. “What?”

“Do you regret you did not inherit sharper teeth?”

“No,” said B’Elanna slowly. “I like my teeth just fine.”

Seven’s eyes caught on B’Elanna’s mouth. “You seem to regret something of your nature. I guessed wrong.”

“I don’t regret”—

B’Elanna abruptly stopped talked and dropped her face into her hands, rubbing at her forehead and eyebrows. Seven's eyes traced the shape of her fingers as they reflected the orange light.

“Do you regret anything that you are?” she asked Seven. “Or is regret irrelevant?”

“Regret is irrelevant,” said Seven.

“What if I say it’s relevant to this conversation? What’s your answer then?”

“I cannot regret any part of my system because that will lead to regretting all parts of my system. And I want to live.”

B’Elanna flinched and looked down. “I once made a bomb that could’ve decimated a whole planet that just happened to be in the way.”

“Did it? Destroy the planet?”

“No,” sighed B’Elanna. “I stopped it.”

“You are productive,” said Seven. “Your abilities are relevant.”

“Relevant to what?”

“To me,” said Seven. “You made my brace.”

“The doctor asked me to make one.”

“What are the vines for?”

B’Elanna shifted in her seat. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Seven, without hesitation, unzipped her thermal suit (immediately felt the chill in just her undershirt) and pointed to the vine design at the top of the brace, resting on the bottom of her sternum. “This vine.”

B’Elanna glanced down and then away, blushing. She wiped her palms on her thighs.

“Right,” she said. “The vine.”

“Yes,” said Seven. “The vine.”

They looked at each other without saying anything for longer than Seven normally expected in humanoid social interactions. But Seven could be patient about this.

“It’s a sturdy pattern, meant to last,” explained B’Elanna. “The structure of it flexes with expansion and relaxes with loss of tension.” She drew a little closer and delicately ran a fingernail over the pattern. “These leaves and bulbs interlock with flexion. It’s similar to how molecules in muscle fibers will pull on each other, and then release.”

Seven nodded. “I understand.”

“Also,” added B’Elanna, cheeks pinker than normal. “It’s kind of pretty, I guess.”

“Beauty is irrelevant.”

B’Elanna considered this, biting at her bottom lip, turning it pink as well. “No,” she said. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Seven tilted her head. “Explain.”

“What’s ‘beautiful,’ well,” B’Elanna waved her hands in an aborted and jittery pattern, gaze turning up as she thought and spoke. “Well that’s not like an inherently real thing, right? People decide what’s beautiful. And they normally decide certain patterns are beautiful. Patterns that normally come from nature, right? So, that’s why I think the vines are pretty. Because it’s a pattern in nature. But nature didn’t decide to beautiful. It just formed in a functional way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, beauty is information. About people. And I know you think that’s relevant. You were raised to think it was.”

Seven absorbed this, keeping her eyes on B’Elanna as she thought. Slowly she lifted a hand and lay her palm on the brace, just over the ribcage.

Her sensory abilities had been truly shot but the time the EMH and Kes had managed remove all the implants actively killing her. Not only did she have to contend with the fact of having a new barrier to her self in the form of a body to begin with, the information-gathering senses of her body were all calibrated differently. A touch on her leg was thirty percent more intense a single inch lower. Itchy and soft were often confused, as were pinch and pressure. But hot and cold were clear to her, as well as tense and relaxed.

“I see,” said Seven. And some aspect of her vision was made clearer, like when B'Elanna had indirectly given her the right phase variance data. Only no psychological projections were present in the cool dark pockets of this Jeffries tube. What had been spilling out of the corners of her eyes had been collected and plugged back up, like the strength of her core muscles and those around her spine, woven and collected.

B’Elanna looked at Seven’s hand on her brace. “Is it still working for you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

Seven grabbed her personal tricorder and pulled up some specs she had entered a few days before. She handed it to B’Elanna. “Can you make this?”

B’Elanna frowned down at the tricorder. She scrolled through the data and the projected design. “I could,” she said. “But it won’t work like this.”

“Can you design it so it could?”

“Probably,” said B’Elanna, handing back the tricorder.

Seven said, surprising herself, “With all the enhancements they gave me—it was never something like this.”

B'Elanna hesitated, and then spoke, sounding confused.

“You want... wings?”

“No,” said Seven, studying the spec of the glider plane again, searching for the flaws that B’Elanna had so quickly seen. “But it’s curious, isn't it? That we never did this. There’s utility in it.” She turned the design in her hand. “Perfection in proportion.”

“Maybe the idea was irrelevant to the Borg,” said B’Elanna.

“No,” said Seven. “I think it was antithetical.” She looked up at B’Elanna who was looking back at her as if she had suddenly appeared there. “Unproductive.”

“You called me that,” said B’Elanna. “Productive.”

“Productive, yes,” said Seven. “Or beautiful for being productive. I have to consider this concept more and adjust my expectations and boundaries of new categories. But I like your patterns—the ones you make and the ones on your face.”

“Oh,” said B’Elanna, blinking and sitting back.

Seven waited for another response but none came except B’Elanna’s obvious surprise. “Is this another violation of the hierarchy?”

“No,” said B’Elanna, quietly.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m surprised.”

“That’s clear.”

B’Elanna shook her head, rapidly, and then appeared to recover. She let out a long breath and some tension around her eyes and forehead disappeared. She slowly and gracefully leaned forward and lay her hand on Seven’s side, opposite to where Seven had already rested her own hand. Seven watched B’Elanna’s hand move as Seven breathed in and out. The woven material of her warm brace was made extra warm under B’Elanna’s gentle fingers.

"I'm glad it's working well for you," she whispered to Seven.

The conduits and cables whirred and buzzed around them, soft sounds of well-cared-for machines. The Jeffries tube seemed to project a fragile peace with the echo of an unhurt or healing ship. The bodied energy of the narrow corridor in the simple gold light infused Seven cleared-vision. She remembered, abruptly, a youthful day spent at a beach, in the sun.

Seven looked down at B’Elanna and realized she wanted to kiss her—her ridged face, her nose, her pink mouth. That would be productive.

Instead of that happening, though, B’Elanna leaned forward and kissed Seven. She left the tenderest imprint of her lips on Seven’s cheek, warm. Seven nearly reared away, in fear. She nearly grabbed B’Elanna with a perpetual grip, the urge to capture her and keep what she knows overwhelming her.

Then B’Elanna pulled back with a smile, grabbed her tricorder, and said, “Thanks.” With another soft touch on Seven’s ribcage, she left.

Seven looked after her, frowning. “What for?” she asked, nonsensically to no one. But it was a rational question. B’Elanna had been the one to help her.

She returned to her scavenged duties, though, feeling gathered in.

#i tried to promise myself that i would work on original stuff next time i got a creative writing itch.#but i gave up on that when i saw b'elanna and seven interact on screen i guess #star trek #voyager #b7 #b'elanna torres #seven #my fic

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winxanity-ii · 6 months ago

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⌜Catch Me If You Can | Chapter 19 Chapter 19 | mercy and mischief⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The hum of divine energy in the air grew deafening, vibrating through your very bones as Apollo's golden aura flared brighter than ever. It felt like standing on the edge of a collapsing world, every breath heavy with the weight of his presence.

You didn't dare move, your feet rooted to the marble floor, your pulse thundering in your ears as you braced yourself for his judgment.

Apollo raised his hand, the Sunstone glowing softly in his palm. His gaze bored into you, unyielding and sharp as the sun itself. His voice echoed through the cavernous shrine, smooth and commanding, yet laced with something else—contempt, maybe? Amusement? It was impossible to tell. "Let this mark serve as proof that you've trespassed against me..." His tone dipped dangerously low, the words wrapping around you like a noose, "...and survived."

Before you could even process his meaning, a searing heat flared against your left wrist. You hissed sharply, yanking your arm back as the sensation burned into your skin—not unbearable, but enough to draw your focus entirely.

Your eyes darted down, widening at the sight of a faint golden sun symbol etched into your flesh. It shimmered softly, a strange warmth radiating from it, almost as if it were alive.

"Wha..." The word slipped out, your voice barely above a whisper as your mind scrambled to make sense of what had just happened. The tingling in your wrist persisted, but the pain faded quickly, leaving behind only the strange, pulsing warmth of the mark.

Apollo's smirk deepened at your confusion as he eased back onto his throne. His movements were deliberate, graceful, and annoyingly confident. Tilting his head slightly, he rested it on his hand, his golden eyes gleaming with something between amusement and satisfaction. "Funny..." he mused, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "It's a reminder of your transgression, but it carries no real harm."

You stared at him, your lips parting to speak, but no words came out. His gaze remained fixed on you, sharp and calculating, and you couldn't help but feel like he was unraveling every thought in your head with a single glance.

Apollo continued, his tone dipping into something almost begrudgingly thoughtful. "Few mortals would dare what you've done. Fewer still would have stood here and told me the truth." His fingers drummed idly against the armrest of his throne as he spoke, each word weighted with meaning. "Perhaps one day, you'll learn to direct such boldness to worthier causes."

His words sent a shiver through you—not from the threat, but from the almost offhand way he delivered them, as if he were testing you, searching for something in your reaction.

His golden eyes darkened just slightly, their glow flickering with a strange intensity as they locked onto yours. "Perhaps that passion of yours might even find its way to something greater. Perhaps... worship."

The air between you felt electric, the subtle shift in his tone impossible to ignore. There was something almost predatory in the way his gaze lingered, a power that reminded you exactly who—and what—you were standing before.

Before the weight of his stare could press further into you, Hermes moved, stepping forward with purpose. His wings materialized in a flash of brilliant white, flaring wide and commanding attention as though to shield you from the weight of Apollo's words. The playful smirk that usually adorned his face was gone, replaced by a cold, unyielding seriousness. "Not a chance."

Apollo's lips curled into a small, amused smile, his golden brows raising ever so slightly. "So protective, Hermes," he mused, his tone dripping with something between mockery and intrigue. "It almost makes me wonder what she's done to earn it."

Hermes didn't respond immediately, his golden eyes narrowing as his wings shifted, the faint shimmer of their feathers catching the light. It was subtle, but you could feel his irritation radiating off him like heat.

He wasn't playing around anymore, and that fact alone made your breath hitch.

Apollo let the silence linger before leaning back into his throne, the light around him dimming just slightly. "Fine," he said, his tone still laced with authority but quieter now. "Take your little thief. But remember this, mortal—you owe me for being so merciful." His voice dipped into something darker, sharper. "And I always collect."

"Drama queen," Hermes muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, and the sharp tension in the air broke just a fraction.

As the two of you stepped out of the grand chamber, you couldn't resist glancing back at Apollo, still seated on his radiant throne. His gaze was no longer on you, his attention on the stone in his hand, but the lingering aura of his presence still pressed against your senses.

Hermes leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your ear as he murmured, "Don't let his compliments go to your head. Next thing you know, you'll be building him a shrine."

You couldn't help but smirk, the tension in your chest easing slightly as you shot back, "Jealous, Hermes?"

His grin returned, smug and full of its usual flair. "Please. If you're building a shrine for anyone, it'll be me. Preferably one with good lighting and a few statues of me looking particularly dashing."

You rolled your eyes, but a small laugh escaped before you could stop it. For the first time in what felt like hours, the air around you felt lighter. And though Apollo's parting words echoed in the back of your mind, you let yourself hold onto this moment of ease—however fleeting it might be.

☆

The two of you walked in silence as you left the shrine behind; the golden glow of Apollo's temple faded behind you as Hermes guided you back into the forest. The cool shadows of the night closed in, a stark contrast to the suffocating brightness you'd just left behind.

The dirt path beneath your feet felt uneven, every step sending dull aches through your exhausted body. Your arms and legs were bruised, your mind still spinning with the weight of everything that had happened.

You were alive. You had faced a god and lived to tell the tale.

The silence between you and Hermes stretched, broken only by the soft rustle of the underbrush and the faint crunch of your footsteps on the path. The night felt endless, the stars peeking through the canopy above like scattered promises you couldn't quite reach.

You wanted to say something—anything—but the words sat heavy in your throat, unwilling to form.

Finally, Hermes stopped, his hand brushing your arm to halt you as well just before the path bent into deeper shadows. Turning to face you, his grin was back, but it wasn't sharp or teasing. It was softer, lingering on the edges of something you couldn't quite place.

His wings, still faintly shimmering, folded neatly behind him as he cocked his head. "Well, look at that," he said, his voice carrying an odd gentleness. "You made it. I knew you would."

You let out a breathy snort, crossing your arms despite the faint twinge of soreness. "Is this the part where you say 'I told you so?'"

His grin widened, and the familiar glint of mischief danced in his golden eyes. "Oh, absolutely. But I'll save it for later. You're tired. Can't have you passing out mid-lecture—it'd ruin the dramatic effect."

The corner of your lips twitched, but before you could fire back with something sarcastic, Hermes stepped closer. The shift in his demeanor was subtle but undeniable; his voice dropped, quiet but edged with the faintest trace of amusement. "Try not to rob any more gods, yeah? I won't always be around to save you."

You rolled your eyes, but the quick motion didn't hide the way your pulse leapt as Hermes leaned in—just close enough for his breath to ghost against your cheek. The world around you seemed to still, the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the forest fading into the background. "But if you do... " he murmured, his voice dipping into a tone that sent a shiver down your spine, "well, you know where to find me."

Your brain barely had time to process the words before he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It was quick—infuriatingly quick—yet it left a warmth lingering on your skin that refused to fade.

He pulled back, his smirk as maddening as ever, like he hadn't just shattered the delicate truce between teasing banter and something far more dangerous.

"Admit it," he said, his voice light, but his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "You'll miss me."

You opened your mouth, your usual arsenal of biting, snarky retorts scrambling for position in your head, but none of them made it past your lips. Instead, your voice betrayed you, softer and quieter than you intended. "Not too much."

His smirk only widened, as though your attempt at indifference had done nothing but amuse him further. "We'll see about that." He gave a mock bow, wings shifting slightly as he straightened. "Until next time, little thief." With a wink that was both infuriating and endearing, he turned and disappeared, his form melting into the shadows of the forest. His laughter echoed behind him, light and carefree, until even that faded into the stillness of the night.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your thoughts an incoherent jumble of emotions you weren't ready to unpack. The warmth of his kiss still lingered, a maddening reminder of the god who had danced into your life with chaos and charm.

Shaking your head, you let out a quiet laugh, more at yourself than anything else. And as you turned to continue down the dirt path, you couldn't help the small, inevitable smile that tugged at the corners of your lips as you began the long walk back.

A/N: AHHHHHHH, Y'ALL, THEY SORT OF KISSED?!?!?!? 😭😭😭 i feel like a proud parent smh...

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lividstar · 1 year ago

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‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎THE CITY OF LOVE

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Two: Unexpected Encounters

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ You were now on your fifth job hunt for the week, and even though you were hoping for it to, for once, actually turn out to be a success, indifference spreads through you as the search concludes on a dead end once again. Just as you were about to head home, a sudden surprise catches up to you, nearly out of breath.

a/n: i should probably make a taglist for this... let me know if you want to be added :D

You’ve never really realized how hard it is to go through days without losing your mind when you’re unable to write your thoughts down, which is the only way you know how to keep your mind in check. At least until now that you’re on your fifth job hunt for the week, and you’re still met with nothing but polite rejections.

You felt like you were one risky step away from going insane. First off, you had no one to confide in regarding your frustrations—Madame Dupont once tried coaxing you into opening up but you refused, not wanting to bother her, no quote unquote friend of yours from Arcadia Bay kept in check with you after you moved countries, and most importantly, you don’t want your parents to know how much you’re struggling because then that would only do nothing but taint the independent imagery of you that you want them to keep for eternity.

Your journal had always been your only companion ever since a classmate of yours back in your days as a highschool student recommended it to you as a potential way to be able to express all the emotions you’ve been bottling up—you could no longer remember his name, but you hope he’s currently living his best life, wherever he is right now.

It all began one day when you were sat in the very back of the classroom, eyes shifting back and forth between focusing and losing its firm gaze as you did everything in your power not to let the different emotions in your heart combined into a thunderstorm escape from your ribs you’ve grown to refer to as what serves as the metal bars that keep your feelings caged and away from whatever was outside your little bubble. Your ears rang in a volume so insufferable you swore blood was nearly being pulled out from the inside, and you did your very best not to lose control of your body, because then, the repetitive sounds of you rapidly bouncing your feet on the concrete floor would draw everyone’s attention.

What’s worse was you had no idea what was happening to you. You’ve never spoken past a word to any of your classmates, and the only moments they were lucky enough to hear the sound of your voice was if the teacher would conduct an eenie-meenie to choose who would answer the complex question he had written on the board and you ended up being the (un)lucky winner of his personal lottery. You never speak unless spoken to, and perhaps that was why a few of your fellow schoolmates raised suspicions about you being mute—because no one ever really bothered to talk to you.

So then, you thought you were doing an exceptional job at trying to put a faltering mask on and act like you weren’t nearly losing your mind. No one knew you well enough back then to see right through you and be able to notice if there was anything off about your usual behavior—the counselor would occasionally be your confidant, but her words barely helped with anything. You can’t blame her for only taking up the job for the paycheck, but if that’s her only purpose, she might as well be good at her job, no?

Thankfully, right when the last thin string was about to snap and let you fall down at a rapid speed, the bells rang, signaling the end of the school hours for the day. You could still remember the fear you felt when everyone around you was already packing up their things and walking towards their own separated friend groups, while you remained sat, unable to move. The way you tried to place your hands on top of your desk for support to stand up, but they wouldn’t budge off your lap as if they were glued to your skin.

You were nearly trembling in fear, yet everything seemed to have been put to a halt the moment you heard the sound of a chair being pulled towards where you sat, and a hand less than a centimeter away from landing on your tense shoulders.

You couldn’t turn your head to see who it was, but given how the person sounded, you believed it was a male classmate of yours—you knew his name back then, but now? Not anymore. He was nice enough to attempt to comfort you, but not a word was brave enough to slip out of your lips. You were sure he had no negative intentions because all you knew of this boy back then was he was one of the nicest and tolerable ones in your highschool, so it wasn’t like you weren’t responding because you didn’t like him. It was more of a matter of not knowing how to.

When he was on his third sentence and you still couldn’t muster up a response, he drew the light touch of his hand off your shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, you were afraid he had gone tired of attempting, and you left a horrible impression on him. Just then, he asked a question you don’t believe you would’ve been able to expect even right now that you’re fully grown.

“Do you have a pen and a paper with you?”

You could only respond with as much as a short nod, and much to your surprise, your hand was no longer tense when you lifted it off your lap and lightly shoved it into your bag, searching for the objects he had requested for. After half a minute, you settled a blank piece of paper on your table, preventing it from flying away by placing a pen on top of it. What he said next was even more unexpected.

“Could you try to write down how you feel right now? Only if that’s okay with you.”

You were afraid of turning your head and letting him see right through you even further, so even if there was a hint of hesitance spreading all over you, you gathered enough courage to pick up the pen and do as he said.

I don’t know what to call what I’m feeling right now. I can’t get myself to calm down, and I feel like I’m one step away from having an outburst. I don’t know what to do.

Once you finished writing your answer down, you laid the tips of your fingers down on the paper’s surface, dragging it towards your right, where he sat. He leaned in to read what you had written, and for a moment, you were half-expecting him to either laugh at you or get weirded out, but instead, you were met with the sound of an understanding hum.

“How long have you been bottling up your emotions?”

You could still vividly remember the initial shock those words sent right through the very core of your heart. It was a simple question, but it was as if he was able to see right through you—a first. You picked up the pen once more, leaning in as well without realizing your faces were only a couple inches away from each other.

Forever? I just don’t know how to let it out in a way that doesn’t make me feel weird. I was never taught how to be expressive about my emotions.

“Have you ever thought about getting yourself a journal?” was what he asked, and you responded with a mere shake of your head. A hum of understanding was heard from him once more, before he told you to stay still in your seat and wait for him. The moment he came back, there was a notebook with a vintage pattern of pink roses in his hands.

This time, your confusion was uplifted enough to fully turn your head to him. Right now, looking back at it, the memory provided a clear vision of everything except for his face—it was blurred, something you could no longer remember. But when you were in that very moment, you swear you nearly compared him to the clear view of the sunset you were granted with thanks to your seat’s position in class.

“Here. From now on, you can use this as your personal journal. When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You could still remember how you both found yourselves staring into each other’s eyes at least a little longer than you were supposed to, until he took it upon himself to be the one to break it first. He stood up, pulling the chair he sat himself on back to its rightful place, and began packing his things. All you could do that moment was remain in your seat, with a gaze refusing to let him go.

When he was about to leave the classroom, he turned his head back once more, sending a soft smile and a bid of farewell before heading out. Only then when you were left all by yourself did you realize everyone else had already gone home, and the whole time he was talking to you, you were both alone together.

He was the only fleeting memory of your highschool days that remains stuck with you even until now.

You stared blankly at your ceiling, letting yourself get lost in the serene calmness of the evening. Not only did you value your journal because it contained every single thought of yours that you would never consider telling a soul, but also because of the history it holds. You decided to re-customize it and turn it into a plain, pitch black over the years, but its value remains the same.

You don’t remember anything about him anymore, and your notebook was the only thing that served as a bridge between the chasm that separates both of you. It’s funny, because you doubt that moment was anything but a normal occurence to him. If only he knew he was the one who did the kickstart to your changes in life. Sighing, you closed your eyes, with the hope that your job search will finally come to a successful conclusion tomorrow.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Paris, the city was still young—full of life and vibrantly shining, a stark contrast to the quiet night sky above. There in a restaurant sat Seonghwa across Hongjoong, who had completely lost himself in sketching designs on a new notebook he bought just a day ago.

“You’re really serious about starting all over again with your designs?” Seonghwa tilted his head, leaning forward to see what Hongjoong was working on, only for him to get told off.

“Do I look like I have any other choice? It’s been nearly a week, Seonghwa. We’ve tried everything we can to look for it. Even the café’s workers weren’t able to provide helpful insight,” Hongjoong said, brows furrowed in focus and precision as he tried to come up with new designs.

Seonghwa leaned back, crossing his arms. “Has it ever crossed your mind that I took you here because I wanted you to take a break from your work, and not to make you stress over your work even more?”

“A break can wait. Fashion week can’t. I’ll be fine,” Hongjoong brushed Seonghwa off. After five seconds of Seonghwa not responding, Hongjoong sighed in defeat, closing his notebook and turning his attention back to the man who sat across the table. “Look, why don’t you just let me be, and I’ll give you all the time in the world to look for the girl you saw at the bus stop?”

“Why don’t you give yourself all the time in the world to take a break just once?”

Hongjoong slumped his shoulders, hunched over in his seat. “I get that you care about my well-being, but I really don’t have time for that right now.”

“You never have time for a break, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa countered, taking the notebook from Hongjoong before he could react. Opening it, he was met with exactly what he expected—a blank page with blurry lines from erasure. “See? You can’t use your imagination to its fullest if your mind’s a total mess.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” Hongjoong muttered, avoiding Seonghwa’s gaze. “You know how much that sketchbook means to me, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa ran his fingers through his hair. “I know. I know that very well, Hongjoong. But that’s not the point. If you’re planning on settling on making new designs until you get your sketchbook back, then you have to at least clear your mind first so you’ll actually be able to come up with ideas.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” Hongjoong asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Take a stroll around the city, maybe? It’s a good way to unwind,” Seonghwa suggested, shrugging his shoulders. “A recommendable time period to do that is during the hours of dusk till dawn.”

“Like… all by myself?” Hongjoong said, confused. “You’re saying all I have to do is walk around the city alone late at night, and it’ll magically lift my frustration off of me? Is there a hidden ulterior motive behind this?”

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve already taken action upon it years ago, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “And no, going alone isn’t necessary. You could always, you know… look for a companion—”

“I let you have your moment to convince me into taking a break and the next thing I know is you’re taking advantage of it by trying to bring up my relationship status,” Hongjoong cut him off, groaning in frustration.

“Oh, come on, you can’t keep being like that forever!” Seonghwa threw his hands up in the air. “You’re less than 10 years away from reaching your 30’s and you’re still insisting on being single?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know why I prefer things to stay this way,” Hongjoong mumbled, gazing outside the window, a look of sorrow starting to form in his eyes.

Seonghwa sighed. “Look, I know you’re still hung up on her, but it’s been years, Hongjoong. She’s not coming back. You need to move on, you know…?”

“Easier said than done, Seonghwa.”

“What happened to her, anyway?” Seonghwa asked, his tone growing softer. “You never told me much about it.”

“I don’t know. It was like she was there, then the next moment, she wasn’t. She disappeared without a trace, without a word, not even a call, a letter—nothing. It was like she was nothing but a fleeting dream,” Hongjoong recalled, the pain in his tone evident.

Seonghwa pursed his lips, feeling guilty for bringing the situation up. Hongjoong was quick to notice, though, making him wave Seonghwa off. “Don’t feel bad for asking about it.”

Silence engulfed both of them, less of the awkward kind and more melancholic. After what felt like an eternity, Seonghwa finally spoke up, steering the conversation back into the main topic.

“I know you can’t bring yourself to be on the same page as I am, but trust me, taking a stroll works really well. I’ve done it a lot of times already.” Seonghwa leaned forward, trying to persuade Hongjoong. “Try it out sometime? It’s totally fine if you want to do it alone, of course.”

Hongjoong sighed in defeat. “Fine, I’ll try if I have time. If it turns out to be a huge failure, I’m no longer bringing myself to trust your words.”

“No need to threaten me. I can already tell it’ll turn out well.”

—

The sound of the birds singing their melodies as they sat by the tree in front of your window made your eyes flutter open, yet they closed shut just as quick the moment you turned over and nearly got blinded by the thin ray of sunlight passing through the tiny gap between your curtains. You rubbed your eyes, taking a moment before opening them once more. Once you were certain you were fully conscious, you sat up, stretching your arms after leaning back on your headboard. You looked at the digital clock you had placed on your bedside table, and it read: 8:01 AM. You sighed softly.

Another day for a job hunt with a 0.1% chance of ending on a good note.

You pulled the blankets draped over your figure off, letting your feet land softly on the floor as you stood up, this time stretching your entire body. You turned back to your bed, tidying it up before anything else. Once you were satisfied with the outcome, you made your way towards the bathroom, taking a minute to let your appearance sink in. There were light bags under your eyes, and you’re certain it wouldn’t take a stranger more than a single look to notice how tired you look. Sighing, you stepped inside the shower and took your clothes off, letting yourself melt away along with the warm drops of water that slid down on the surface of your skin.

After a thorough and refreshing shower, you dry off and wrap yourself in a soft, fluffy towel. The warmth of the shower water lingers on your skin, a small comfort in the face of the day's impending challenges. You take a moment to pamper yourself, applying a light moisturizer to keep your skin feeling smooth and hydrated. With each methodical step, you focus on maintaining a sense of calmness, trying to stave off the creeping anxiety of another potentially fruitless day.

Next, you move to your bedroom and open the closet. The selection is limited, a reflection of your dwindling budget, but you choose an outfit that makes you feel both comfortable and confident. You pull out a soft, cream-colored blouse made of a lightweight, breathable fabric. The blouse has delicate lace trim along the cuffs and neckline, giving it a touch of elegance. You pair it with a light, flowing skirt in a pastel floral pattern that falls just below your knees that sways gently with each movement.

You complete the ensemble with a pair of simple ballet flats in a matching cream shade. They are worn but still manage to look stylish, providing the comfort needed for a day spent navigating the streets of Paris. As a final touch, you choose a dainty gold necklace with a small pendant that rests gently against your collarbone, a gift from your grandmother that always brings you a sense of comfort and connection to home.

Standing before the mirror, you take a moment to brush your hair, allowing it to fall naturally around your shoulders. You apply a light touch of makeup—just enough to brighten your features and hide the evidence of your restless nights. Once you’re done, you give yourself a final, encouraging smile in the mirror, hoping that today will bring better luck.

Once dressed and ready, you head to the kitchen to make breakfast. Opening the cupboard, you’re greeted by the sight of only three cups of ramen left, a stark reminder of your dire financial situation. Your stomach twists with a mix of hunger and anxiety as you consider your options. You can’t keep surviving on instant noodles; you need to find a job soon, or you’ll risk running out of even the most basic supplies.

You take one of the cups of ramen and prepare it, boiling water and pouring it into the cup. As you wait for the noodles to soften, you lean against the counter, staring out of the small window above the sink. The morning light filters in, casting a soft glow over the modest kitchen. Despite the beauty of the Parisian morning, you can’t help but feel like the anchor of your struggles is weighing you down.

With breakfast ready, you sit at the small table in the corner of your kitchen. The steam rises from the cup of ramen, and you take a moment to appreciate the warmth it brings. As you eat, you let your mind wander, thinking about the places you’ll visit today in your job search, the people you’ll meet, and the potential opportunities that might arise.

Once you finish eating and begin cleaning up the dining table, a thought strikes you: the memory of the foreign, fancier part of the city you accidentally stumbled upon on your first day of job hunting. You hadn’t fully explored it, and given its apparent high status, it seemed like a promising place to search for employment. The only problem was you didn’t remember exactly how you got there.

Determined to try your luck, you step out of your apartment and begin your journey. Just as you reach the end of the hallway, you cross paths with Madame Dupont. Her kind eyes light up when she sees you, and she greets you with a warm smile.

“Bonjour, my dear! How is the job search going?” she asks, her voice filled with genuine concern.

You return her smile, doing your best to maintain a positive facade. “Bonjour, Madame Dupont. It’s been challenging, but I’m not giving up. Actually, I was planning to head to a specific part of the city today, but I’m not sure how to get there. I only stumbled upon it by accident the first time.”

Madame Dupont raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Can you describe it for me?”

You nod, taking a moment to recall the details. “It’s a very elegant area, with wide streets lined with high-end boutiques and cafes. The buildings are all beautifully maintained, with ornate facades and large windows. There’s a small park with a fountain in the center, and I remember seeing people dressed quite fashionably, as if it’s a place frequented by those of a higher status.”

Madame Dupont’s face brightens with recognition. “Ah, I know exactly where you mean! That’s the Rue de la Paix district. It’s indeed a very prestigious part of the city. To get there, you’ll want to take the metro to the Opéra station, then it’s just a short walk down the avenue. You can’t miss it.”

Relief floods through you, and you offer her a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Madame Dupont. That really means a lot.”

She pats your arm gently. “Of course, my dear. I’m sure you’ll find something today. Good luck, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

With renewed determination, you bid her farewell and make your way to the metro station. Following Madame Dupont’s directions, you navigate the bustling underground system with ease, boarding the train that will take you to the Opéra station. As the train glides through the city, you allow yourself to relax, the rhythmic clattering of the wheels providing a calming backdrop to your thoughts.

When the train pulls into the Opéra station, you step off and follow the signs to the exit. Emerging onto the street, you’re greeted by the sight of the magnificent Palais Garnier opera house, its grand architecture a stunning example of the city’s rich cultural heritage. You take a moment to admire the building before setting off down the avenue as Madame Dupont instructed.

The walk to Rue de la Paix is short and pleasant. The wide boulevard is lined with luxurious boutiques and elegant cafes, just as you remembered. The buildings are indeed beautifully maintained, with their ornate facades and large windows creating an air of sophistication and wealth. The small park with its charming fountain serves as a tranquil oasis amidst the streets.

As you take in the sights and sounds of the district, you can’t help but feel a sense of optimism. The people here are well-dressed and exude an aura of confidence and success. If you could manage to land a job in this area, it would undoubtedly open many doors for you.

With this thought in mind, you begin your search. You walk into several boutiques and cafes, inquiring about job openings and handing out your resume. Each rejection stings a little less, fueled by the hope that this district holds the key to your future success. You remind yourself to keep pushing forward, knowing that persistence is your greatest ally in this journey.

Well, even if you had your hopes up high, it’s still just as you expected.

Hours passed, and the sun was now setting, casting a golden hue over the picturesque streets of Rue de la Paix. You decided to head to the small park you’d come across earlier, seeking solace in its tranquil atmosphere. Finding an empty bench, you sat down, setting your resume on your lap and letting out a heavy sigh.

The weight of the day was heavy, and despite your determination, a sense of defeat began to creep in. As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you reflected on the countless rejections you had faced today. Your heart ached with a familiar loneliness, a gnawing feeling that perhaps you were out of place in this glamorous part of the city. Each boutique and cafe you’d walked into had left you with a bittersweet taste of missed opportunities and the distant dream of success.

You couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the people around you, who seemed to glide effortlessly through their days, basking in the luxury and elegance of their surroundings. Your mind wandered back to the comfort of your journal, the one thing that had always been a steady companion through your struggles. But even that solace was out of reach now, leaving you feeling more vulnerable than ever.

Your thoughts spiraled, questioning your decision to move to Paris, to leave behind the familiarity of Arcadia Bay for a city that seemed to hold endless challenges. Doubts began to creep in, whispering that perhaps you weren’t cut out for this life, that the independent image you wanted to maintain for your parents was slipping through your fingers.

You sighed in defeat, thinking that maybe today wasn’t your luckiest day. Standing up, you were about to leave the park and head back to your apartment when you heard rapid footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You turned your head around, met with the sight of a seemingly familiar-looking man—the one you saw on the other side of the road the day you accidentally stumbled upon this area of Paris. You raised both your eyebrows, waiting for him to draw nearer to see if he was referring to you when he said to wait. When he was finally standing in front of you, catching his breath, your suspicions were confirmed.

“Sorry, I just—” he managed to say between ragged breaths, a hand on his heart as he tried to settle himself down. Looking at him blankly, you took out a bottle of water from your bag and handed it to him. He looked at you with both surprise and confusion.

“I think you need it,” you said, your voice calm and warm despite the exhaustion you felt.

He nodded, taking the bottle gratefully. “Thank you,” he said before chugging the water and then throwing the empty bottle in a nearby bin. He turned back to you, a mixture of relief and curiosity in his eyes. “Thanks again. I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You offered him a small smile. “It’s no problem. But… what do you mean? Do we know each other?”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly. I saw you the other day, across the road. I work around here, and I’ve been meaning to approach you. I’m Seonghwa, by the way.”

You smiled, your curiosity piqued. “Nice to meet you, Seonghwa. What made you want to approach me?”

Seonghwa’s expression turned serious, though his demeanor remained friendly. “I’m a talent scout, specifically for models. I work with a fashion designer who’s always on the lookout for fresh faces. When I saw you, something about you stood out. You have a unique presence that I think could really shine in the industry.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. “Oh, a model? I’ve never thought about that before…”

He smiled, sensing your hesitation. “I understand it might be a lot to take in, but I really believe you have potential. We’re actually holding an open casting soon, and I’d love for you to come by and give it a shot. No pressure, of course.”

You looked down, considering his words. It seemed like an unexpected opportunity, something that could change the course of your current struggle. “I appreciate the offer. It’s just… I’m not sure if I’m cut out for that world.”

Seonghwa nodded, his gaze reassuring. “I get it. But sometimes, the best opportunities come from stepping out of our comfort zones. You never know until you try.”

His words resonated with you, and you found yourself nodding slowly. “Alright, I’ll think about it. Thank you for the offer, Seonghwa.”

He smiled warmly. “That’s all I can ask. Here’s my card. Feel free to reach out if you have any questions or if you decide to give it a go.”

Seonghwa’s gaze was warm and sincere as he continued, shifting the conversation into something more casual. “Are you new here?”

You smiled, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. “Was it that obvious?”

Seonghwa waved you off. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just haven’t seen you around before. When did you arrive here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just a week ago. I’ve been on a job hunt since then, so that’s why I went to this part of the city,” you explained. “I’m still trying to get comfortable with my surroundings, though.”

He nodded in understanding. “Paris can be pretty overwhelming. I remember feeling lost when I first moved here. But sometimes, it’s the unplanned encounters that make the journey worthwhile.”

You smiled, appreciating his attempt to make you feel at ease. “Yeah, it’s definitely been an adjustment. Every corner of this city feels like it has a story, and I’m just trying to find my place in it.”

Seonghwa tucked a stray strand of his hair behind his ear, his posture relaxed. “It’s a process, but you’ll get there. You seem like someone who’s determined and resourceful. That’s half the battle won already.”

His words were reassuring, and you felt a small smile forming on your lips. “Thanks. That means a lot. I guess I just need to keep pushing forward.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And about the modeling—no need to decide right away. Take your time. If it’s something you’re curious about, just give me a call. Sometimes, the most unexpected paths can lead to the most rewarding experiences.”

You looked at him, feeling a genuine connection. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

As you both stood there, the park’s tranquility wrapping around you, it felt like the beginning of something new. You realized that while today hadn’t gone as planned, it had led to an encounter that could open doors you hadn’t even considered.

“Take care,” Seonghwa said, giving you a final nod before turning to leave.

“You too,” you replied, watching him walk away, feeling a newfound sense of possibility.

As you made your way back to your apartment, you retraced the path you had taken to Rue de la Paix, feeling a mix of exhaustion and a glimmer of hope. The bustling streets began to quiet down as the day transitioned into evening, the soft hum of the city’s nightlife starting to emerge. You navigated the narrow alleys and charming boulevards, the flickering streetlights casting long shadows on the cobblestones.

The route took you past the quaint cafes where locals and tourists alike were enjoying their evening meals, and through the elegant shopping district, now closing down for the night. You glanced at the beautifully dressed windows, a reminder of the world you were trying to break into. With each step, you felt the day’s events replaying in your mind, from the polite rejections to the unexpected encounter with Seonghwa.

Finally, you turned the corner onto your street, the familiar sight of your apartment building coming into view. As you approached, you noticed Madame Dupont standing outside, engaged in a lively conversation with another tenant. Her presence was a comforting constant in your new life here.

When she saw you, Madame Dupont’s face lit up with a warm smile. “Was it a success?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity and concern.

You looked down at the business card in your hands, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Guess we have yet to find out, Madame Dupont.”

With a nod and a reassuring smile from her, you made your way inside, feeling a sense of cautious optimism about what tomorrow might bring.

Seonghwa then arrives at Hongjoong’s penthouse, and as he steps inside, the luxurious space contrasts starkly with the simple park where he met you earlier.

Hongjoong, who had been lounging in his living room with a book, looked up, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. “Care to tell me how good this news you have for me is? Just so that I know my alone time was interrupted for a good cause.”

Seonghwa grinned, the excitement clear in his eyes. “Oh, definitely worth it. You’re going to want to hear this.” He took a seat opposite Hongjoong and began to recount the entire encounter.

“So, remember the girl I told you about? I was at the park today when I saw her. She wasn’t just sitting there, she was actually about to leave. I noticed her standing up from one of the benches, looking like she was about to head home. I couldn’t let the chance slip by, so I ran towards her, calling out for her to wait.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You… ran? Like, ran after her?” he said, mildly appalled.

Seonghwa nodded, a bit sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I must have looked a bit crazy, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. When she turned around, she looked a bit surprised, but there was this unique energy she held with her when I finally got to stand face to face with her. She has this presence—warm but with a sort of quiet strength. It’s hard to describe, like it’s something you’re either bound to feel or not.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, listening intently. “So? What did you say to her?”

Seonghwa smiled, remembering the encounter vividly. “I was a bit out of breath when I reached her, so the first thing she did was hand me a bottle of water from her bag. It was such a small gesture, but it felt genuine. I thanked her and explained who I was, and why I had run after her.”

He continued. “She was polite, a bit reserved, but there was this genuine interest in her eyes. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone; she was just herself. We chatted a bit about how she ended up in this part of the city. She told me about her struggles finding a job, and how she had hoped to find something in Rue de la Paix.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly, taking in Seonghwa’s words. “So she is new. What was your first impression of her?”

“Up close, she’s even more striking—there’s something about her eyes, they’re so expressive. She has this natural elegance that I think would be perfect for our brand. Despite her situation, she seemed hopeful, determined. She has this warmth about her that I think would resonate well with people.”

Hongjoong, though still skeptical, was intrigued. “Did you manage to get her name?”

Seonghwa winced slightly. “Oh. Well, no, unfortunately. But I did give her my card, and I tried to persuade her to consider coming to our casting. I think I made a good impression. She seemed interested, even if she was a bit unsure. I’m positive she’ll consider it.”

Hongjoong sighed, still not entirely convinced but trusting Seonghwa’s judgment. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it. But next time, try to get a name.”

Seonghwa smiled, relieved. “Will do. I really think she could be the fresh face we’ve been looking for.”

You, on the other hand, had lost count of how many times you had rolled around in bed. Sleep eluded you, and it felt strange because usually, it was easy for you to get tired and your body would yearn for moments of slumber. Sighing, you opened your eyes and sat up, leaning against the headboard. Reaching over to the bedside table, you grabbed your phone, the bright light nearly blinding you. Squinting, you quickly lowered the brightness to the lowest level.

Once the glare was manageable, you found yourself staring blankly at your lockscreen—a photo of Arcadia Bay’s lighthouse. You had taken the picture on the day you got fired from your job at a diner because the owner found out you were the one secretly eating the ingredients. It had been a horrible day—not because you lost yet another job, but because you really liked the way their potatoes tasted. You remembered walking home with your shoulders hunched over, feeling dejected. But then, the lighthouse came into view, perfectly highlighted by the golden hour. You couldn’t resist capturing the serene moment, and it became your lockscreen ever since. Maybe someday, once you’re properly settled, it would be replaced by a photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.

Snapping out of your reverie, you unlocked your phone and began browsing the internet to pass the time. You scrolled through social media, coming across a variety of random posts and videos. There were adorable clips of cats doing silly things, travel vlogs showcasing beautiful destinations, and motivational quotes superimposed on scenic backgrounds. You watched a video of a chef demonstrating how to make a perfect soufflé, then moved on to a compilation of the vertigo effect being used in movie scenes.

As you continued your aimless scrolling, an article title caught your eye: ”Ever wondered why you can’t sleep at night?” Intrigued, you clicked on the link. The article opened with a brief introduction about how common sleep troubles are and how they can be influenced by various factors. It discussed the usual suspects: stress, diet, lack of exercise, and an irregular sleep schedule.

You found yourself nodding along as you read, thinking about how some of these reasons might apply to you. The article elaborated on how stress from major life changes, like moving to a new city and job hunting, could wreak havoc on your sleep patterns. It mentioned how certain foods, especially those high in sugar or caffeine, could make it harder to fall asleep.

The next section delved into the impact of screen time. The article explained that exposure to blue light from phones, tablets, and computers could interfere with your body’s natural circadian rhythm. Blue light suppresses the production of melatonin, the hormone that regulates sleep, making it harder for you to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. You glanced at your phone, feeling a twinge of guilt but continued reading.

The article also touched on the importance of creating a comfortable sleeping environment. It emphasized the need for a cool, dark, and quiet room to foster better sleep. It suggested using blackout curtains, earplugs, or a white noise machine to eliminate distractions. You made a mental note to consider some of these adjustments, thinking about how you could improve your current setup.

Then, as you scrolled deeper into the article, you reached a section that listed possible reasons for not being able to sleep at night. The usual reasons were there: too much screen time before bed, an uncomfortable sleeping environment, underlying health issues, and more. But it was the last reason that truly caught your attention: “Someone may be thinking of you.”

Intrigued, you read further. The article explained that some people believe in the concept of a psychic connection, where thoughts and feelings can be transferred between individuals, especially those who share a close bond. It suggested that if someone is thinking intensely about you, it could create an energetic disturbance that might affect your sleep.

The article elaborated further: “This idea, although seemingly far-fetched to many, has roots in various cultural and spiritual beliefs. The notion is that when someone thinks about you intensely, their mental energy can reach out across distances, subtly impacting your own energy field. This might manifest as restlessness, sudden thoughts of the person, or difficulty in falling asleep.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to this. The article continued to delve into anecdotal evidence and testimonials from people who claimed to have experienced this phenomenon. There were stories of individuals who felt a sudden, unexplainable urge to contact someone, only to find out that the person had been thinking of them at that very moment. Other accounts described how people would dream of someone they hadn’t seen in years, only to receive a message from that person the next day.

The article suggested that this psychic connection could be stronger between people who share a deep emotional bond, such as family members, close friends, or romantic partners. It posited that these connections might be more prevalent during times of emotional intensity or major life changes, when thoughts and feelings are more powerful and focused.

As you pondered this notion, you thought back to the day’s events and the unexpected encounter with Seonghwa. Could it be possible that his thoughts were reaching out to you in some way? The article mentioned that sometimes, when someone is intensely focused on you, their thoughts could reach you, creating a sense of connection or unease. You considered the possibility that Seonghwa’s genuine interest and focus on you might be the reason for your restlessness. Or was it caused by an entirely different person?

Nevertheless, since you were already thinking of Seonghwa, your mind eventually drifted to the card he had given you. You reached over to your bedside table and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. The simple, elegant card had Seonghwa’s name and phone number neatly printed. You traced the embossed letters with your thumb, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety.

You thought back to your encounter with Seonghwa in the park. The way he had approached you, breathless and earnest, was still vivid in your mind. His genuine interest in you had been flattering, but also overwhelming. You had never seriously considered a career in fashion or modeling before. Sure, you had dabbled in amateur photography and enjoyed dressing up for special occasions solely for the fun it provides, but could you really make a living out of it?

Your thoughts spiraled as you weighed the pros and cons. On one hand, Seonghwa seemed convinced that you had the potential to succeed. His confidence was infectious, and you couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. A career in fashion could bring about the major change you had always longed for. It would be a chance to reinvent yourself, to step out of the shadow of your past failures and truly shine.

The prospect of entering the world of fashion was incredibly appealing. You had always admired the creativity and artistry behind it. Being a part of this vibrant industry could open doors you had never even dreamed of. The connections, the experiences, the opportunity to travel and meet new people—it was all so enticing.

But then, doubts began to creep in. What if you weren’t cut out for the world of fashion? It was a fiercely competitive industry, and you had no formal training or experience. You imagined the rigorous casting calls, the endless critiques, and the constant pressure to maintain a certain image. Could you handle that kind of scrutiny? You had always been more comfortable blending into the background, avoiding the spotlight. Modeling would require you to be confident, outgoing, and resilient—all traits you weren’t sure you possessed.

You also considered the practicalities. How would you balance a demanding career with your other responsibilities? Would you have enough time and energy to devote to your passion projects and personal life? The thought of juggling multiple commitments was daunting.

There was also the fear of failure. What if you took the plunge and it didn’t work out? The fashion industry was notorious for its fickleness. One moment you could be in demand, and the next, forgotten. You had already experienced your fair share of setbacks and disappointments. Could you handle another one? The idea of putting yourself out there, only to be rejected, was terrifying.

As you pondered these questions, your mind drifted to the potential impact on your personal life. Moving to Paris had been a major step in seeking a fresh start. You had hoped to leave behind the suffocating familiarity of your hometown and create new memories. But diving into the fashion world might mean sacrificing some of the simplicity and tranquility you had been seeking.

On the other hand, this opportunity could be the very change you needed. It might be the catalyst that propels you toward a brighter future. You had always believed in taking risks and embracing new experiences. Maybe this was your chance to prove to yourself that you were capable of more than you ever imagined.

You thought about the kind of person you wanted to become. You envisioned yourself walking down the streets of Paris with confidence, attending glamorous events, and working on creative projects that inspired you. This was your chance to step out of your comfort zone and embrace a new chapter.

You also considered the people you might meet along the way. Fashion was a dynamic and diverse industry, filled with individuals from all walks of life. You could form connections with like-minded creatives, learn from seasoned professionals, and perhaps even find a mentor who could guide you on your journey.

Yet there was the reality of the unknown. Despite Seonghwa’s assurance, there was no guarantee that you would succeed. The fashion world was unpredictable, and you had to be prepared for the highs and lows. You wondered if you had the resilience to bounce back from setbacks and keep pushing forward.

But then you remember that you’ve been on your fifth job hunt for the week now and you’re still empty-handed. You can’t let yourself stay like this any longer—unless you want to starve and survive on ramen noodles for the rest of your life. Sure, you could ring up your parents if you were ever to come to that point, but that would defeat the whole purpose of proving to them that you’re brave enough to handle yourself, right? You wanted to show them, and yourself, that you could make it on your own in this new city. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your chance to reinvent yourself and find success on your own terms.

You sighed, feeling the weight of your situation. How long could you continue like this, barely scraping by, constantly worrying about where your next meal would come from or if you’d be able to pay rent next month? The thought of another week of rejections was almost too much to bear. You needed something to change, something big, something that would turn your luck around.

With a deep breath, you opened your phone once more, staring at the number written on Seonghwa’s card. The decision felt monumental, as if this single call could be the turning point you desperately needed. After a moment of hesitation, you dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times. Just as you were about to hang up, a groggy voice answered, “Hello?” You felt a pang of guilt, realizing you may have woken him up.

But you couldn’t back down now. This was too important. Gathering your courage, you spoke, “Hi, Seonghwa? It’s me—the girl from Rue de la Paix. I’m sorry for calling so late, but... could you tell me more about the casting?”

🪞 — lividstar.

#౨ৎ﹒ノ﹒lividstar．#kim hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong #hongjoong #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #hongjoong fluff #ateez angst #hongjoong angst #hongjoong ateez #park seonghwa #jung wooyoung

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gx-gameon · 1 year ago

Text

Okay I’ve been thinking about post cannon more and more.

About Jesse and Jaden traveling around Europe. As they do they visit different land marks and historical sites. But it’s the castles that are weird.

Every time they are near a castle Jaden keeps seeing these brightly dressed knights. They are obviously spirits, but something’s off about them. They are more transparent than other spirits. They don’t speak, not a sound. And they seemed to fade in and out of reality, like they are having difficulty maintaining their presence in this dimensions.

But the weirdest this is that Jesse can’t see them.

They’re both a little freaked out by this. Jesse has always been able to see spirits. How is he missing these?

It’s Neos and Yubel who solve the mystery. It’s an archetype that hasn’t been ‘created’ yet. The monster spirits are there but their cards are not. Since the cards don’t exist the monster spirits don’t have a connection to this world yet, so it’s much harder to for them to appear.

The same thing happened with the Neospacians when Jaden was young. Since he is the wielder of the Gentle Darkness he has a strong connection to the spirit world. He was able to see the Neospacians reaching out to him (they were always meant to be his deck) Once he drew their cards they were able to appear in full without flicker out of existence and could speak to Jaden. They had a tether to this world now in the form of their card.

With this they conclude:

These monster spirits do not have cards yet

They are reaching out to Jaden for a purpose. Whether to be ‘created’ or because they have a connection to him.

Jesse can’t see them because they don’t have a tether yet. (With training Jesse will be able to see ‘incomplete’ archetypes as well. He will need to work for it unlike Jaden’s natural connection to the Gentle Darkness. Jesse has a strong connection to the spirit world it’s just not the same as the Supreme King you know?)

But Jaden makes a fourth realization. While the knights appear to him and try to approach. They always seem to be moving towards Jesse, not Jaden. The two boys are almost always together, but sometimes they split up. They’re looking at different things, a crowd split them, they were chasing something. It happens. But anytime they are near a castle, when Jaden meets up with Jesse one of those knights will be trailing him. Following Jesse’s steps, almost like it’s protecting him.

Year it’s flickering out of existence and can’t communicate but it’s there until Jaden meets back up with Jesse. The knight will look at him and disappear. It isn’t until the talk with Neos and Yubel that Jaden realizes they were nodding at him.

The only way to figure out what these spirits want is to communicate with them. And that can only be done if they have a card. Luckily Jaden’s art skills have improved since he was four. (If the Neospacians appeared form a sloppy clones drawling then I don’t think monster spirits care if their ‘card’ is professionally drawn or scribbled on a napkin.)

Jaden gets a sketchpad. (He’s pretty sure he’s going to be drawling more than one knight. And that this won’t be the last archetype he has to do this for)

The next time they are at a castle and one of the knights appears Jaden starts to draw it. The knight realizes with Jaden is doing and tries to stick around as long as possible. Once Jaden finishes the picture (it’s not professional by any means but it’s not awful art. I think he’d be good at it especially with practice) the connection snaps into place.

Gem Knight Crystal stands before them.

Jesse is now able to see the monster has its tether to their world is now in place. The gem knight kneels before both boys and explains.

He thanks his King (Jaden) for his attention and expresses the Gem Knights desire to serve their King and General again. He tilts his head up to look at Jesse when saying General.

Jesse’s taken aback. He already has a deck, his family, the Crystal Beast. He’s not looking for a new archetype.

The Gem Knights know that. They also know that the Crystal Beast are in constant danger from poachers because of their rarity. And that it is the honor of the Gem knights to serve under the Crystal Protector is service to their King.

Jaden and Jesse are baffled. They have no idea what is happening. Crystal Protector? Why are they calling Jesse that? Like it’s accurate but it feels like a title.

But Gen Knight Crystal makes his plea to find his brothers and sisters and Jaden and Jesse can’t say no to that. As they travel around Europe they collect more and more Gen knights. (Even going back to get the knights Jaden had already spotted)

Once Jaden them all drawn he send the sketches to Chumley and asked him if he can turn them into cards. Chumley can see spirits so he can listen to the Gem knights and get their cards just right.

The deck that gets sent back is shocking because it’s a perfect blend of Jesse and Jaden’s decks. The decks is a fusion deck. The gem knights work together just like Jaden’s hero’s to create stronger monsters.

They both use it but it becomes Jesse’s secondary Deck. While the Gem Knights are thrilled any time they get to work with Jaden they belong to and serve Jesse as protection to both the Crystal Beasts and Jaden.

(Yes I know there is a character in arc v that uses that deck but we’re not talking about her… it’s just to perfect of a deck not to belong to Jaden and Jesse)

#jaden yuki #judai yuki #yugioh gx #dad yugi #jesse anderson #johan andersen #spiritshipping #chumley huffington #Gen knights

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lamemaster · 1 year ago

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Trade Worth an Afternoon

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Nolofinwean + Celegorm x Sister Reader

Summary: Ambarussar = 1 Y/n?

AN: My soul said, "WRITE THIS SHIT RN!!"

“Hmm why yes Celgorm, of course, we can come to an agreement,” Aredhel drawled carefully, her voice laced with amusement as she glanced away from where you and Argon sat, engrossed in your toys. Her eyes twinkled with mischief, a stark contrast to the seriousness of the "trade negotiations" she was proposing.

Stifling a laugh that threatened to erupt, Celegorm replied, playing along. “2 Ambrussa for 1 y/n. That is fair trade, Aredhel.” His voice held a hint of playful arrogance, knowing full well the absurdity of bartering with children.

The mention of your name pierced through your concentration, and you looked up from your game of blocks with wide, curious eyes. Argon, ever the follower, followed suit, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“You are right, perhaps,” Aredhel conceded with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she turned her attention to you directly. “What do you think, little y/n? Do you want to become Celegorm’s sister?”

A small patter of feet echoed across the polished stone floor as both you and Argon scrambled towards your sister and cousin. “No. I am your sister,” you declared bluntly, your voice clear and unwavering.

“Yes, y/n is our sister,” Argon parroted, his voice echoing yours in a perfect unison. The pair of you, oblivious to the undercurrent of amusement between your elders, stood side-by-side, a united front against this unexpected proposition.

Pulling Argon into a playful embrace, Aredhel feigned a dramatic sigh. “But you have a sister, me. Now Celegorm and his brothers don’t have one. Why don’t we share, just like amil taught us?”

Argon, ever his mother’s pet and easily swayed by her gentle words, was instantly caught in a moral dilemma. His brow furrowed as he deliberated, torn between wanting to please both his mother and his best friend. “No… but,” he stammered, his voice laden with worry as he looked back at you with a helpless expression.

You, however, were not so easily swayed. You set your jaw with a determination that belied your age and glared at Celegorm, who was trying his best to stifle another laugh. “I won’t go,” you declared fiercely.

Celegorm, caught off guard by your outburst, hoisted you into his arms with a playful rumble. "And why not, y/n?" he teased, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. You flailed your limbs in protest, the urge to pull his hair warring with the ticklish sensation his leather cuffs sent against your skin.

"Finno and Turu won't allow this!" you sputtered, glaring back at him with narrowed eyes. "And ata loves me more than Aredhel!" This last declaration was more of a desperate hope than a statement of fact, but it served its purpose. Aredhel's smile faltered for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossing her features.

As for Argon, the very notion of being separated from you sent him into a silent panic. He looked mortified at the idea of sharing his room with the rambunctious Fëanorian twins, even more mortified at the prospect of leaving his unfinished drawing and the half-built block castle behind. With a whimper, he tugged on Aredhel's sleeve, his lower lip trembling. "No, y/n is my sister," he echoed your words, shaking his head vehemently as if denying the very possibility of the trade.

"Uncle Nolofinwe and my father already agreed," Celegorm declared smugly, a broad grin splitting his face. "Unfortunately, y/n, you will be now our sister."

His words hit you like a thunderbolt. Your eyes widened in shock, threatening to spill tears at any moment. "No!" you cried, your voice trembling like a leaf in a winter wind. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. "I'm Argon's sister! We promised Amil we'd finish building our castle together! And besides," you hiccuped, rubbing your eyes "Ambarussar are too big for my bed. They won't fit!"

Argon, mirroring your distress, began to wail. He clung to Aredhel, his tiny fists clutching at her tunic. "No! No y/n go!" he sobbed, his voice thick with tears.

"And when my brothers and I return from our next adventure," Celegorm continued adding fuel to the fire in his chaotic ways, "y/n will come with us.”

Argon, his lower lip trembling, clutched you desperately. His only playmate, his confidante. Galadriel was too smart to play with on normal days.

The room erupted in chaos. You, fueled by a sudden surge of adrenaline, wriggled free from Celegorm's surprised grasp. "Never!" you screamed, bolting towards the nearest exit.

Argon, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, followed close behind, his small legs pumping furiously.

Fingolfin, his face a mask of thunder, stood before Aredhel and Celegorm, both of whom shuffled uncharacteristically on their feet. The usual twinkle in their eyes was replaced with a dull sheepishness.

"What did you do?" Fingolfin's voice boomed.

"Well..." Aredhel began, her usual silver tongue failing her. Celegorm, notorious for his smooth talk, coughed awkwardly, unable to meet Fingolfin's steely gaze.

And for once both Aeredhel and Celegorm were at a loss for their words. The prank…perhaps had been too harsh. The flushed faces of both Fingon and Turgon, who had spent the entire evening looking both you both were enough to answer that it indeed had been too much.

And thus, the product of their prank lay in Fingolfin and Anaire's laps. Both you and Argon slept peacefully, your faces streaked with tears that had dried on your cheeks.

"Aredhel," Turgon's voice was a low rumble, devoid of its usual playful teasing. "We scoured the entire city for y/n and Argon. The entire afternoon." His gaze, usually warm, was now icy with disapproval.

Fingon, his hand resting protectively on your head, patted Turgon's arm in a silent plea for calm. "What did you even say for them to hide so fiercely?" he asked, his voice stern but tinged with relief. "They ran away the moment they saw me and Turgon, then vanished for the entire day." Fingon usually retained the position of the most loved sibling for all Nolofinwean siblings.

"Y/n even hid all her belongings, and neither of them showed up for their evening snacks."

This last detail struck a deeper chord. Evening snacks with Fingolfin were a cherished ritual for the younger members of the family, a time for stories and laughter. That they would skip it willingly was a testament to the terror they must have felt.

“It was merely a jest,” Aredhel tries to weasel her way out of the situation.

"A jest?" Turgon echoed, his voice tight with contained fury. "An entire afternoon of frantic searching constitutes a jest to you, Aredhel?"

Anaire, her face pale with worry, finally spoke. "They haven't said a word since we found them," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "They were huddled together under their bed sobbing hysterically. What did you do to them?"

"We told them that we were going to trade y/n for the twins," Aredhel admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

The room fell silent for a beat, thick with tension that quickly dissolved into an eruption of laughter. Fingon and Fingolfin, unable to contain themselves, doubled over, snorting with amusement. Even Anaire, despite her initial glare, found a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Finwe's crooked humor, it seemed, wasn't lost on his bloodline.

"Oh, my poor darlings," Anaire cooed, leaning down to kiss your and Argon's foreheads, a soft smile gracing her features. "That must have been terrifying. But you two managed to hide quite well.” While both the said, elflings barely stirred in their sleep.

Aredhel, relieved by the shift in atmosphere, puffed out her chest with a hint of pride. "They were! We even had them convinced Uncle Curufinwe and Ata were in on it."

Before she could revel in her mischievousness any further, Turgon, ever the serious one, swatted her playfully on the back of the head.

And that is how the infamous story of trading siblings came to be in the Finwean clan. One that often left a sputtering mess of Celegorm and Aredhel. And a slightly offended Ambarussar.

#the silmarillion #tolkien elves #silmarillion x reader #aredhel #fingon #fingolfin #anaire #asks #argon #sister reader #fluff #celegorm #turgon

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caliburn-not-calculator · 8 months ago

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Someone explain to me what happened with this detective au to land me here. Uh, some fic of the boys?

Anyway, they are... well you'll see

Contains: Religious overtones (they're not subtle at all), religious guilt, dom/sub undertones (i mean they might as well also be overtones), fade to black, implied sexual content, but overall it's very soft

Rays of afternoon light streamed through the drawing room’s tall windows, spilling across the floors and furnishings in a luminous mosaic. They glinted off unlit candle sticks, turned the ash scattering the desks to gold mica, and shone in the whites of Maxim’s eyes. Tears gathered in the corners as he took it in. His pupils swallowed the grey of his iris despite the glare, eyes wide and staring, pointed upward into the beams that slipped past Veerle’s face. Though his shadow saved most of Maxim from the burn, his companion refused to spare his sight. Not to give him such mercy. No relief. But the discomfort served its purpose. Not a test or cruelty, but a distraction.

Something to blind him to the scrapping nudge of a shoe sole at his waistband, and the tense heat that grew beneath its gentle pressure.

Maxim knelt on the plush Persian rug before the hearth, legs aching with a familiar throb. Not that of war or injury, but reverence. A position long forgotten, long ignored, but now…

Now he sat with a steady and still absoluteness. Trust unflinching and something like devotion in the sigh of each drawn out breath. Some may have considered him a damned soul, perhaps some small facet of himself did too, but it was drowned beneath the honey of Veerle’s stare and quashed beneath the press of his scuffed Oxford shoe. A disciple, not damned.

He tilted his head back, the slice of sun slipping over his cheekbones, blistering his lips. A long steadying breath whispered through them. He did not shift, not to avoid the pain, nor to hasten whatever Veerle had planned for him, but kept still. The ache pulsed up his hips, but the only groan that slipped from him was forced up from his contracting muscles and lungs at the slight downward push of Veerle’s foot. His waistband dipped, the leather scraping through the hair dusting his navel.

Maxim couldn’t decide if he wanted him to keep moving down or turn his attention higher. If he wanted that steady pressure to hasten the pleasurable pangs between his thighs or if he might fracture in both unbearable guilt and bliss at being given it. Either way, it was not his choice to make. Not his burden to bear. All Maxim had to do was take what Veerle bestowed unto him. Whether friction or famine, climax or come down.

He would take it. He had to take it. Wanted to take it. To take the absolution offered by gentle hands and heavy eyes. For surely there could be no sin in such supplication.

There was something about the submission which felt more like prayer than service ever had. Perhaps it was simply that, for the first time in decades, he truly, utterly, meant it. Offered it. Depended upon it. Maxim had little faith left to spare, nothing more than brittle shards that cut his hands whenever he tried to grasp them, and they did nothing but hurt when held close or offered out.

But, Veerle…

The flitting fire of his chatter, the sparks of his laughter, the low smoulder of his rare and ravenous rage, melted the points and edges away. He made the ache manageable, tangible, and burned himself so irrevocably into its form that there was no other it could now be given to. No other deserving of such handiwork. None but its sculptor.

Maxim raised one hand from where it had laid limp on his thigh and gingerly tugged at the cuff of Veerle’s pants. The faintest, slightest tug. Maybe meaningless, maybe a mistake, but also, potentially, a request. Asked for or not, his companion hummed, tightened his fingers in Maxim’s hair, and pressed the sole of his shoe flat to his stomach. He swayed back as far as he could at the pressure, a strangled gasp slipping from his awe drunk lungs as the heel dug dangerously low. The hem of his shirt was rucked up by the motion. Sunlight spilt molten over his stomach, the fabric brushing teasingly soft against over sensitive skin. He choked back another noise, only harsh breath falling from parted lips, brows furrowed in concentration.

If there was one thing Maxim excelled at, perhaps to a detrimental degree, it was restraint. Restraint and reserve. Careful and precisely maintained control. Though he had handed Veerle the reins, allowed him to direct and decide and devastate him in whatever manner he believed best, it was still his to maintain. But now he merely had to focus on stilling his shaking form, and complying with each motion made onto him. A task almost meditative in its methodology. There was no heart stuttering panic or head splintering confusion, only the surety that he needed not to do anything more than take.

Perhaps once the vulnerability may have been sickening, but all that was left as Veerle dragged the toe of his shoe over his abdominals, shirt bunching beneath his pectorals, was a wake of heat. Melting molten heat. The pressure which crept up his chest like a lava flow. With painstaking languidness it sank into his skin, ever deeper, until it joined the pool of untouched arousal. It was a rare occasion for Maxim to blush, but the red across his cheeks bloomed unhindered.

He swallowed as the rough sole found the base of his sternum, and metal clinked against Veerle’s shoe. Maxim tensed at the sound. His companion paused, tilting his head. The steadying hand he had in Maxim’s hair hesitated in its gentle caresses through the sun gilt strands.

“Alright, my love?” He asked, his voice more breath than words, more manifestation than man.

It took most of Maxim’s mind to lift his tongue from the floor of his mouth and draw enough breath for words. “Quite. I uh… just do not remind me of it now.”

Veerle’s expression, soft as it was, lightened to something even sweeter. Lips upturned, worry lines nigh invisible in the warm shadow he was veiled with. He readjusted, setting his weight more toward Maxim’s heart, and away from the pendant now peaking from his raised shirt. His eyes slipped shut with an appreciative hum, and he sagged backwards, more than ready to fall from his aching knees. That worship as this did not always require such discipline, that it could be done just as well limp and reclined, dizzy and dazed, with prayer that wasn’t words, was more a blessing than he could have imagined.

“Well, in that case,” Veerle shifted, leaning his weight forward, shoe flat to Maxim’s chest, gentle enough to not immediately send him sprawling, “Let us get more comfortable, down you go.”

Veerle’s hand slipped from his hair as Maxim’s legs slid from beneath him. He barely caught himself with shaking arms as he was forced to the floor, his companion’s heel surely leaving an indent on his flushed skin. His grip around his ankle tightened, the heat of Veerle’s so distant through the fabric he held. Too distant. Too cold. Not nearly enough to brand as he wanted it to, though he dared not move even that small fraction of covering.

Whatever logical sliver of thought he still possessed understood that Veerle wouldn’t mind, not even slightly, but to touch his companion in a way that even approached how he touched him, to fathom undressing him, in being the one to reveal and revel in his bared skin, was a desecration he could not bear to perform. How much he longed to mattered not. Instead, he held tight, and let himself sink into the softness of the rug beneath him. Let himself gasp as the prized pressure crept high enough to nudge his chin up, and settle over his bared throat.

The sun warming his exposed skin was a poor replacement for the heated body he craved, but it was enough of a comfort to lose any remaining tension in his muscles. The prickling sensation of eyes flitting over him, though not nearly as stimulating as his companion’s touch, likewise satisfied his need for contact. His breath came in rushing rattles as his lungs were lovingly crushed.

Through lidded eyes he watched as Veerle went to speak, lips parting, chest rising with an intake of air, but nothing but a low groan escaping. His companion raised a hand to his face. Dainty fingers made more for dancing across pages and pens (and if Maxim were to be shamefully indulgent, over his chest and jaw and perhaps dipping between his lips) than the warless warfare he insisted on partaking in covered his mouth. He nibbled on his knuckles, an action something between thoughtful and nervous, but most certainly considering. Maxim let his head fall back against the rug, surrendering any of his remaining strength with a sigh.

Patience. That was all he needed now. Patience while Veerle enacted whatever design he’d no doubt painstakingly envisioned and would equally painstakingly enact. He brushed his thumb over the laces of the shoe pinning him, the rough threads calming in their intricate repetition. The sensation of eyes methodically passing over him did not fade. Nor did the ignored need Veerle had stirred up within him. But he merely closed his eyes, and focused on breathing.

Somewhere in the foggy depths of his thoughts, he remembered once comparing himself to one of his insectoid specimens. A mindless light lured creature, willingly flitting into flame, helpless to the unfathomable force that pinned it in its forever position. It was almost flattering to think of now, that Veerle saw him as something both beautiful and fascinating enough to keep, to study, to tend to. That he may want him in a manner similar to Maxim’s own desire, though surely less base and simplistic than his prior imaginings.

What consciousness had condensed was sent swirling formless once more, as the weight lifted, only to return tenfold. A breathy groan was forced from him as the careful pressure of a foot against his chest and shoulder turned to the digging press of a knee. Veerle knelt over him, one leg tucked against his side, the other resting atop his chest. He shifted, getting comfortable, the pads of his fingers slipping beneath his raised shirt to glide over his collarbones.

“I’m going to get rid of this, okay?” he asked, tugging gently at the fabric, voice a gentle disturbance upon Maxim's mind, like water rushing over loose sand.

He could only, and barely, nod in response.

“Thank you.”

The hands on his chest vanished, and he’d be lying if he said a displeased sound didn’t escape him at their loss, but a moment later they returned at his wrists. Carefully, Veerle guided his arms above his head so he could remove his shirt with ease. He whispered thanks and encouragement as he did, the softness at odds with the harsh press of his knee upon his chest. The fabric seemed to rustle and vanish, his thoughts too caught up elsewhere to process the moment of its loss. Only when Veerle took back his wrists and guided his hands down did he notice it was done, that what Veerle didn’t shadow was set feebly aflame by the sun.

He startled as a soft texture met his palms, warmth radiating beneath them. His hands twitched. More by accident than purposeful action, he lightly squeezed what Veerle had given him. The narrow width and faint curve of his companion's hips were in his grasp. Hands covered his own, gently smoothing over his knuckles as he settled.

A faint sigh left Veerle at the pressure, and the weight upon Maxim momentarily vanished. It returned, more evenly distributed and crucially, lower on his body. Maxim maintained his hold on his companion, so he had at least some warning before he lowered himself to straddle his hips. He did not, however, have a warning for the smooth and sudden roll of his body. His fingers dug into Veerle’s flesh as he ground against him, tearing a sound from him he would have deemed unholy had any but Veerle invoked it. Though his belt had been removed and discarded some time ago, no move had been made to loosen his slacks. No buttons or ties undone. It had been a passing issue until then, as his companion set a slow and steady pace with the motions of his hips, the usually well tailored item started to become far too restrictive.

Palms settled upon his chest, Veerle’s fingers splayed wide over his feverish skin. With each breath Maxim inadvertently pressed up into the touch. If he breathed deeper, let his chest rise further in pursuit of some shadow of force from the cautious motions of Veerle’s explorations, then he hoped it went unnoticed.

Maxim couldn’t quash the urge to crack open his eyes and search for signs that Veerle may be as worked up as he was. The hope to see his sharp features or teasing smiles turned red and wanton one which far predated their more involved relationship. The image of him with lips parted in silent pleasure, bright eyes dark with need and face aflame was one Maxim had shamefully indulged himself with when he was too exhausted to stop himself. The thought that one day he may see it made the heat within him roil. The sight that met him was certainly no disappointment.

His companion gave him a shaky grin, crooked and creasing his eyes with yet impermanent laughter lines. Hair fell over his brow, coal dark strands loose and framing his face, and stress greyed streaks crowning him with silver. His clothes remained faintly rumpled as they were when they began. As neat as Veerle ever wore them, a few buttons undone and suspenders pulled over his narrow shoulders. Some part of Maxim considered grasping them, pulling down, forcing Veerle to finally meet his lips. The more sensible part acknowledged that moving his hands from his companion's hips was a feat beyond him.

“I, uh, don’t suppose you’ve ever been ridden before?” Veerle whispered with another roll of his hips, red blooming high on his cheeks and wide fluttering eyes painting far too sweet for all that he was doing.

Maxim failed to swallow his groan as the friction sent a pulse of pleasure coiling tight within him. The sweetness only unspooled him further, drawing out each thread of strength and will and weaving it through the loom of Veerle’s careful ministrations, into some new fragile tapestry. A picture wanton creature of his own design.

“What?” He mumbled between shaking breaths, peering up through heavy lidded eyes and teeth clenched as Veerle slowed, but continued to make nigh imperceptible motions more teasing than stimulating.

“Well, that’s probably a no then. Don’t worry, my love.”

Veerle leaned forward, eyes soft crescents with his smile, glittering in the afternoon light like shattered stained glass. His shirt tickled Maxim’s bare chest, his breath caressing his jaw, the hands on his shoulders pressing with more force as he drew closer. A gentle kiss was placed upon his cheek, chapped lips lingering in its place.

“I’ll take you slow.”

#fanfic #cw suggestive #i don't know how to tag this #but anyway yeah they're something #professionals rwd

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kookygranger · 1 year ago

Text

Is This Desire?

Firefighter!Steve Harrington x Witch!Reader

A short lustful fever dream. Or, Steve Harrington finally makes a move.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, witchcraft, reader is a town outcast, fem!reader, no upside down/no hawkins au

Word count: 1k

Author's note: She's short but oh so sweet.

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Chapter Two: One Line

And I draw a line To your heart today To your heart from mine A line keep us safe

After the night of your eighteenth birthday, you’d looked out for Steve Harrington from afar.

The boy who’d bewitched you body and soul was under your protection without even knowing it.

You could only do so much from your bedroom with candles and Latin poetry, and the boy certainly didn’t make it easy, putting himself in the way of direct danger once he’d joined the local fire department as a rookie. But there were moments in his life when things should’ve gone sideways, sliding doors, split seconds making all the difference when he came out unscathed.

Steve couldn’t believe his luck one day when he’d gone in to inspect a charcoaled house, with water still dripping from the windows, heat lingering enough to make him sweat underneath his thick uniform. He’d heard the telling moan of the timber before the snap, a blur of blackened wood entering his sight, yelling voices behind him and he thought he was done for. The falling beam would’ve crushed him if it wasn’t for the gentle tug on his body that kept him out of its path.

When he looked back a polished silver nail winked at him on the otherwise soot-stained wall, wearing a tear of navy material taken from his back. He hadn’t thought much of it other than luck when he breathed out deeply, one of his fellow crew members clapping him on the shoulder with a nervous chuckle.

“Close call, kid.”

You were convinced he couldn’t be thinking of you as often as you were him, but you let this inexplicable need to protect him overtake in those first few months. A purpose for waking in an otherwise mundane and restrained existence. Eventually though, you recognised it was time to step back. To protect yourself, along with him. Getting hung up on a boy when you were still bound by your uncle’s rules in this house, that was the only life you’d ever known only served to deepen your depression. You had to put him to the back of your mind, as nothing but a saccharine memory.

But after you’d seen him at the library, adorably flustered and stammering about late fees, crumpled bills falling from his sweaty palms onto the pile of books in between you, he’d invaded your thoughts once again.

For weeks you’d been tossing and turning during the night, never comfortable, waking up in a searing heat. Your heart racing every time you got a glimpse of golden-brown hair turning a corner, a heat between your thighs that could never seem to be satiated, dreams of a constellation of freckles stretching over sun-kissed skin. For you, there was no relief.

So, you’re not at all surprised that the boy who refuses to be pushed aside by any other thoughts is standing in front of you now, soaking wet and heaving with desperation when you look up from the book you hadn’t been paying attention to. Bare legs crossed under you as you sit on the wicker couch you’d placed on the newly painted porch a month ago. Tea still steaming next to you, the heat thick and unwilling to lift even in this downpour, permeating every moment of your life, waking and within dreams. But the only one who seems to be feeling it as deeply as you is dripping a mess on your porch in front of you.

“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I think I’ve been dreaming about you every night for months…that–did not sound as creepy when I…in my head.” He chuckles breathily, threading a shaky hand through his damp locks “Could you forget I said that?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Reality setting in, like the water in his white socks, but you’re standing in front of him before he can ask himself how he got here.

“Steve?”

Brown eyes watch your lips intently, “Yeah?”

“I’ve been dreaming about you too.”

He huffs one breathe, two, before capturing your lips with his.

Warm hands collect the material keeping you from one another in fistfuls. Shaky touches, not born from shyness but an all-consuming need that neither of you had any comparison ready for.

There are no thoughts of your surroundings or anything outside the here and now as hips and backs bump, leaving toppled frames and glittering shards on the floor in your wake through the front door. Furniture groaning as it scrapes across the floorboards and out of your way, clothes hitting the floor, the couch, the side table – anywhere but your burning bodies as hands dig deeper. Kneading, pleading.

No room for slow-moving until you’re hip to hip, chest to chest, soft hair rubbing against your already sweat-slicked skin as you take a deep breath. Steve follows you, his thrusts slow and deep as the world stops spinning around the both of you.

You breathe in each other’s air through soft, deep kisses until your mouth stretches open in the wake of a tightening heat unwinding all at once. Steve’s wet lips trail across your jaw, down your neck before the feeling of you shaking beneath him has him joining you in shuddered ecstasy.

The scratchiness of the rug on your bare skin is a faraway feeling, one given less priority of your attention as Steve trails kisses along your body. Along your shoulders and across your chest as it rises and falls in a more steady rhythm as time continues to trickle by. You trace the freckles peppering his flexed arms that hold him above you, loose strands of hair falling into his face when he looks down at you – a sight already worryingly familiar.

“What now?” He rubs the back of your entwined hand with his thumb.

“I don’t know.”

He leans down to kiss your shoulder again, then under your ear. Forehead touching yours as a boyish smile takes over his face, golden like the feeling blooming in your chest. “How about we start with dinner?”

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things au #firefighter!steve harrington #witch!reader #she writes

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zelphin124 · 4 months ago

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Beyond the Bound Pages: Homer

Chapter 6: So You Smell?

I was going to change her name, but this interaction implanted in my head as canon, so here we are. We finally get to meet Odysseus crew, wooooo~ Masterpost Chapter 5 <--> Chapter 7

Chilling whispers spun upon the air as it tickled Saga's neck, provoking a shiver she couldn't suppress. It was a strange experience—her fresh-cut short hair gave no quarter against the biting cold, something with which she had yet to adapt. Her teeth set hard, her hand falling away with reluctance from the shattered points of her cut. All the decisions over recent days appeared to be war, every one laden with the magnitude of things yet to unfold.

Her fingers briefly lingered on the leather grip of her xiphos before securing it at her belt. The blade's weight was comforting, a cord to purpose in this strange place. Around her, the improvised campsite spoke of its need—scattered coals, the acrid scent of burned wood blending with the saltiness of the sea air, and the damp scratch of the chalyms she pulled from the ground.

Inside the tent, she found the book, its weathered cover a sensory recollection of her previous life. This has to guide me, surely. Holding it fast under her chalyms, Saga's gaze landed on the bow beside the corner. Having tested its draw power ahead of time, she'd deemed it less than perfect, but with practice, it would serve. The quiver on her shoulder felt strange—another hindrance that she hoped would bring its payoff.

Her mind was snagged on the shield she'd had to leave behind, its heaviness measuring cost against feasibility. Without it, she was vulnerable, but she knew her limits. The pieces of bronze armor she'd retrieved spoke in the same language of compromise. The abbreviated chest plate and guards slowed her down; every step was slower and more laborious than the last. But, she reasoned, they were better than bare exposure. This was war, not some getaway gang task in the backstreets of Italy. Her fingers brushed against the curved brim of a bronze helmet, its elaborate embossing tempting her with beauty. Saga growled, muttering, "Not a chance," and threw it away. She had her pride.

The sea's siren call grew stronger, calling to her westward. Her boots crunched gravel and sand, each step measured, each breath more strained in the growing cold. The wave slap was more even now, a rhythm that fell in line with her growing determination. Questions flew through her brain, filling up her mind with unwanted visitors. Was this the right ocean? Could she ever navigate these waters? But the moment her eyes fell on the strip of coastline where a vessel had once been, her dreads receded. The answers she sought seemed to reveal themselves in the absence of that vessel, the loss of which was a whispered path she had to follow.

She didn't need to follow when her eyes found him—a lone man standing at the water's edge, his back to her, commanding attention easily. His chestnut hair curled and blew in the rough wind, every lock catching the sunlight like burnished bronze. It framed shoulders wide and unyielding, chiseled with strength that appeared to transcend the boundaries of mortality.

At the very first look, he was a tall and dramatic figure—a man who overshadowed the men who had bled and perished before him. There was a ferocious strength to his shape, the way his furled chest swelled with each deep breath, the slow tremble of his arms as he stood rigid. His legs, planted far into the sand, stood firm under the body of a warrior who carried not just weapons but the weight of fate itself.

Unlike the limp bodies of the dead army, he possessed an energy that set him apart from any Greek soldier Saga had ever encountered. His body told a story for itself—one of victories claimed, gods defied, and a legacy that breathed fear into the hearts of his foes before they even ventured to cross paths with him. His armor was much nicer than the rest, in better quality and shape, signifying his importance. It shone as if it was made by Hephaestus himself.

Saga's boots betrayed her advance, the sand grinding against them loud enough to be picked up by the wind. The warrior shifted, tilting his head in a manner that caused him to appear as though he'd heard her hours before the noise reached him. When he moved, his gaze landed on her like a physical impact—a cross of seriousness and savagery that caught her off-beat.

His golden-sun-lit face was as if hewn from marble but animated with life. Forceful eyebrows framed eyes that had the weight of countless wars etched in their invisible lines below the surface. His lips, finely chiseled but taut, possessed a secret control, as if once words poured from them like fire but now smoldered silently.

His complexion was as white as a dawn that had been kissed by the sun, but it had a strength that was at odds with vulnerability. There was joy there too—a quasi-incongruous glow in his face, the smile of a man who had experienced greatness and had endured it well. But it was fleeting, overcast by a shadow that descended on his face like a cloud. Anger, hot and unyielding, serpentine with animosity coiled beneath the surface—a betrayal so intimate it left an unhealed rift in his heart.

Saga could not but be awed and afraid of his presence. He was no man; he was a living legend, and to stand before him was to stand at the edge of a storm. Saga recognized at once who he was. She didn't need an introduction after the books that she had read. So he hasn't left the waterside after talking with his mother… The book presented you as marvelous, but they clearly have fallen short of your might. "Captain Achilles," Saga began, clearing her throat before she bowed to him in deference. "I—"

"Go, soldier." The warrior stood with his back turned, rage burning in his heart as he looked out across the sea. "My heart is darkened and my patience is worn. I have no desire for words nor for the company of wandering spirits."

Saga paused before standing up straight again. Despite the logical speeches she'd read and seen, his tone caught her off guard by how casually he spoke. She scratched at her neck. At least this disguise works. How do I…? "Excuse me for going on, captain. I am confused—perplexed, so to speak. I cannot locate where my commander has left nor where his camp is."

Achilles’ gaze bore into her, sharp and probing as if peeling back layers of her very soul. He took deliberate steps toward her. “Which god claims your loyalty, soldier?” he asked again, his voice was low and unwavering. His fingers shifted subtly on the hilt of his great iron sword, a gesture both deliberate and threatening, as though daring her to give the wrong answer.

Saga hesitated, the weight of his question settling on her like a boulder against her breasts. She could not afford to make a mistake here—not with him. Her eyes flashed to the sand beneath her feet, and her mind wrestled to remember Hermes' domains. What was he the god of? Guiding the dead? Is it even wise to claim him as someone I serve? "Hermes," she stated, her voice steady but soft. "God of… guiding the deceased to the underworld." It was a guess, but the only one she could make.

Achilles tilted his head, his mask of a face, though the storm in his eyes grew darker. "A convenient decision," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Travelers carry news—and secrets. Tell me, are you with the kings of Troy?"

Saga's breath caught; her fists clenched on either side of her. Her heart pounded, and she shook her head anxiously. "No, Captain Achilles," she answered quickly, trying to cover the tension with a cloak of determination. "I owe allegiance elsewhere. I am simply seeking to find my commander's camp." Her words were a balance of truth and falsity, but she felt the force of his gaze. Please believe me, I don’t wish you any harm; I just need directions.

He regarded her silently, his fingers clenching infinitesimally tighter on the sword. There was no misunderstanding the tension in his posture, the clench of his jaw as though wrestling with words unsaid. She had read about his rage and his pride; she knew of his strength and his authority, but the man before her was more nuanced than anything put to paper could express. He exuded danger, yes, but beneath the cold metal of his attitude was something else—a spark of curiosity, of warmth, buried deep. A moment of silence was shared as she gazed at the legend.

"Your armor," Achilles finally spoke, nodding slightly toward her worn-out protection. "Not one of the servants of Odysseus would wear. He is cunning, indeed, but his soldiers are not so… tattered."

Saga straightened her spine, heat rising to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, stepping closer, his imposing frame blocking out the sea’s horizon. “You’re not like them,” he said quietly, his voice dipping into something softer. “Or is it merely a disguise?” His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile but something just as unsettling. “I’ve seen enough betrayal to know it often wears an innocent face.”

The term betrayal created a new spark in his eyes—anger that boiled in them like a seething fire that could not be extinguished. Saga swallowed. "I don't wish to lie to you," she spoke hesitantly, tilting her chin up so that their eyes could meet. "I am lost, as I've told you. I am seeking Odysseus' camp. That's all."

Achilles stood gazing at her for another moment, his face impassive. Then, with a faintly perceptible sigh, he turned back to the sea. "Be swift in finding your commander," he said, his voice cold once more. "And pray your path does not cross mine again." He raised his hand and pointed toward the enclosed camp toward the left before turning away from her once more.

Saga couldn’t deem Achilles as a cold figure who disliked her; there was enough interaction to deem otherwise. However, remembering the recent matter at hand, the soldier seemed to have not taken lightly that his favorite plaything was stripped from him. It made her blood boil at the thought, but there was nothing she could do. It would be one thing to ask him to guide her and another to ask him to fight again. She couldn’t, she reasoned. She did not know the man well enough to try and tell him to lift his sword for the victory of his comrades. As far as she knew, he just asked the gods to make the Greeks lose the war. She chose the smart action, bowed, and left him, reasoning that there would be another time to converse with him when he was in a calmer state of mind.

Arriving at the camp was a far more disorienting experience than Saga had imagined. It teemed with movement, noise, and raw power. Men's groans pierced the circle of metal on metal, a din of battle preparation. Soldiers sharpened blades, the rhythm of metal on stone merging into the far-off chorus of voices yelling commands.

The cries of the animals pierced through the din, shrill and persistent—a murmured shout of goats and oxen bound near the tents, to be slain or consumed. The fire roared fiercely on pyre torches, their dancing flames casting lurid shadows across the expanses of piled-up canvas tents. The smell of smoke and perspiration and cooked meat clung heavy and close, blended with the earthy odor of trampled ground under the innumerable feet that paced and waited.

Saga walked among them, her footsteps deliberate and cautious. Is this… state they are in normal? Do men live like this in all wars? It’s disgusting. She wrinkled her nose at the horrible smells and interesting sights. The air seemed to get hotter and thicker as she did so. She couldn't help but feel she was intruding; she was, but the warriors barely registered her presence. Their focus was consumed by tasks—some lounging outside their tents with nut bowls and fruit, enjoying fleeting moments of peaceful relaxation, while others sprinted back and forth between racks of weapons, shouting orders as if the foe already stood on their threshold.

There was a rhythm to the anarchy, a warped harmony amid the chaos. Shields were stacked in tidy piles, spears stood upright like a thorny forest, and provision carts creaked under the weight. Saga noticed smaller groups of men playing dice games, laughter cutting through the tension like a soothing balm to raw nerves. At least they still find ways to enjoy themselves, I suppose.

The camp was a sprawling spiral, with the outer edges lined by small, worn tents that appeared hastily pitched. As Saga moved inward, the tents grew larger and sturdier, leading toward a grand tent at the center, reserved for captains of the various kingdoms. Around this hub, the soldiers were grouped by their commanders, their sections marked by distinct armor styles, weaponry, and traces of unique cultures. It was a surprise Saga could get across the outer ditch so easily without being questioned, but assuming the best, the Greek clothes she stole were helping her stay unnoticed.

While this outward display of preparedness, she felt the tension beneath. Speech was muttered when not yelled, and glances were cast out toward the horizon, where Troy's city lay hidden behind the ridges. Saga swallowed thickly, folding her chalyms tighter around her. Every step through the camp made her more sensitive—sensitive to danger, to being seen, to wanting to remain invisible.

As Saga progressed deeper into the camp, its magnitude overwhelmed her. The dense spiral of tents and movement was difficult to distinguish from where she had to proceed next. She chewed her lip, peering between groups of soldiers, some marching briskly, others in subdued chat. She stepped aside for a couple of tall warriors to pass by, their laughter accompanying them, but her attempt to be unobtrusive accidentally placed her in the path of another man.

The soldier carrying wooden crates suddenly shifted, his footing wavering before he had it stabilized. "Woah, watch where you're going, lad!" He laughed, chuckling softly. "Could've knocked me over with that one."

Saga’s heart lurched in embarrassment. She raised her hand in a hurried gesture of apology, her voice fumbling as she spoke. “Sorry! I’m awfully lost…”

The man turned to face her, revealing a cheerful disposition rare among the hardened warriors she had seen. His curly brown hair fell in spirals across his forehead, brushing against a reddish-pink band tied snugly around his head. His tunic was plain, its fabric slightly frayed but immaculate, draped over his chest and down his legs and baring his shoulders. Plain as his attire was, there was a real warmth emanating from him that tightened Saga's nerves at once. Her mind reeled as she tried to assess whether he would see beyond her disguise, but his warm smile showed no sign of mistrust.

"Lost, are you?" The man said, setting the boxes down effortlessly. His tone was easygoing, but there was something in what he was saying that seemed to be asking for conversation. "What are you looking for?"

Saga hesitated for a moment, his gaze drinking in the smiling face of the man and his aura of tension-scented camp. He didn't bear the set faces of warriors gearing up for combat, and for a moment she couldn't help but wonder if this was a person she could trust. But she kept quiet, dreading speaking too much. "I seek…" she began, her eyes darting towards the center tent of the camp. She stiffened slightly, attempting to keep her voice even. "My commander's camp. I don't know where to go."

The man rested his head, his eyes furrowing slightly as if considering her words. "Your commander, eh?" he mused, stroking his chin with his finger. "Not a very good soldier if you can't even locate your own camp, are you?" He laughed, the jab softened by his friendly tone.

Saga bit the inside of her cheek, unsure whether to laugh or feel defensive. “I’ve only just arrived,” she replied quickly, trying to sound convincing. “I’ve been disoriented, and I’m very tired...” Her pulse quickened, her nerves buzzing as she waited for the man—a soldier with a rare smile—to respond.

“You’re carrying your armor around; of course, you’d be tired,” he replied effortlessly, his smile remaining as steady as his footing. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, not in judgment but with a curious glint. Then, with an easy grace, he placed a hand on his chest and bowed slightly, the gesture was respectful but lighthearted. “Perhaps I can guide you. Just be sure to remember the way next time. What’s your name, soldier?”

Saga opened her mouth but stumbled. “Od—” she started, only to falter as she realized he meant her name, not her captain’s. Panic flared in her chest. I can’t say Odysseus, but what do I even call myself? It’s too late to go back now… Her thoughts raced before she blurted, “…ious. Odious. That is my name.”

The soldier’s grin widened, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement. “Odious, like the odor. So you smell?” His voice dipped into a teasing lilt, the words accompanied by a chuckle that bubbled up freely.

Saga’s face flushed red, her embarrassment was immediate and tangible. “What? No! I don’t smell—” she spluttered, the indignation in her voice matching the crimson creeping across her cheeks. She crossed her arms defensively, unsure whether to argue or shrink away from his infectious humor.

Polites shook his head slightly, his laughter softening but still lingering in the air like a melody. “Relax, lad. I’m only jesting. You newcomers are always wound tighter than a bowstring.” He gestured toward her armor and gear before hoisting the wooden boxes back into his arms with practiced ease. The effort seemed second nature; his movements were fluid and unbothered. “Come, tell me where you need to be—I promise I won’t get you lost.” His words carried an unexpected warmth, a rarity amid the tense preparations for war. “Who is your captain?”

Saga hesitated before following him, her steps small and unsure as she scratched her neck nervously. The camp seemed even more alive now that she was walking alongside him. Men shouted orders to one another, carts creaked as they rolled over uneven ground, and fires burned steadily in raised pits, their smoke curling into the air. Saga kept her eyes low, careful not to draw unwanted attention. “I’m looking for Captain Odysseus,” she finally admitted, her voice soft, as though the name itself might betray her.

“That’s my captain.” The soldier replied without hesitation, his smile widening into something impossibly bright. He paused for a moment, recollecting his thoughts. “But… I haven’t seen you around before. Surely I should’ve spotted a strawberry head like yours sometime during the nine years we’ve been fighting Troy.”

Saga’s breath hitched, heat rising to her cheeks. I… need to come up with a story on how I got here. She adjusted her chalyms instinctively, the fabric settling closer to her scalp. “I… am new,” she stammered, searching for a believable answer as her pulse quickened. “I was recently sent from… uhm…”

He glanced at her; the boxes balanced easily against his chest as he walked with a tune under his breath, a cheerful counterpoint to the tension hanging in the air. “I didn’t realize Ithaca was sending reinforcements,” he said, his tone light, though curiosity flickered behind his words. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”

Saga froze inwardly, her mind racing for an explanation. What do I even say to that? Her grip tightened on her belt as she forced herself to respond, her voice quieter than she intended. “…I was the only survivor.”

The soldier slowed for just a moment, his expression softening as he turned his head slightly toward her. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sincerely, his cheerful tone fading into something more somber. Though brief, his compassion hung in the space between them, and Saga struggled to maintain her composure, her disguise feeling more fragile with each passing second.

The silence between them lingered as they continued down the crowded camp, the soldier noises all around them filling the air. Saga gazed at the ground, her boots scraping against the dirt with each step. The man didn't mind the quiet; his boxes hung just so in his arms as he whistled a soft tune to himself, one Saga couldn't place but that seemed strangely reassuring.

She could sense the weight of the conversation hanging awkwardly between them. I have to do something—anything, she thought frantically, giving the soldier a sidelong glance. "I didn't catch your name, soldier," she spoke out quickly, her voice a little higher than she would have liked.

He turned his attention away, his smile lighting up his face again as if he was relieved by the change of topic. "Oh! Polites," he said with a warm smile, his voice friendly and inviting. His smile grew wider, with a catching energy that Saga found reassuringly familiar. It was clear he had no intention of going back to the serious subject they'd dropped.

"Ah, Polites," Saga said, practicing the name on her lips as her gaze flashed toward the cluster of tents before her. "Thanks for your help. The camp appears… bigger than I expected."

Polites smiled wryly, his steps unhurried as he navigated the maze of tents with practiced ease. "You get used to it after a while. Once you know where all the things are, it's just another labyrinth you're accustomed to." He adjusted one of the boxes in his arms, shifting its weight effortlessly, and nodded toward the path ahead. “We are almost there. The captain should be returning on his ship soon. He had to go return a maiden to her father to regain Apollo’s favor.”

“So I’ve heard,” Saga muttered, the grimace on her face betraying the frustration she barely managed to conceal. The story of the maiden weighed heavily on her mind, but she forced herself to suppress her thoughts. This wasn’t the time to dwell on the injustice of it all.

They fell into silence, the din of the camp filling the gap between their words. Saga followed Polites as he weaved through the narrow paths, deftly dodging oncoming soldiers and stepping over the occasional slumbering form sprawled on the ground. The smell of sweat, smoke, and the faint tang of sea air lingered in the heat, the sun above them relentless and unforgiving. Saga could feel its rays pressing against her back, her skin prickling beneath the stifling layers of her chalyms.

Her exhaustion began to claw at her resolve, each step heavier than the last. The lack of sleep from the past days finally began to take its toll, her vision blurring slightly as she rubbed her eyes to stay alert. Polites glanced back over his shoulder, his grin undeterred by the sweltering sun. “They sent you with the wrong armor, too,” he teased, his voice tinged with the same lightheartedness that seemed to follow him everywhere. “We’ll get you suited up properly. Can’t have you looking like a stray out here.”

Saga jogged forward to catch up, her cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. I would hope there’s better armor than this… I can barely hold all of this up. “Here, let me help,” she offered, reaching out to take one of the smaller boxes from Polites’ load.

He arched a brow before handing it over with a shrug. The weight of it nearly pulled her arms downward, much heavier than she had anticipated. It toppled into her hands and fell to the ground, scraping her arms. Saga stumbled slightly but regained her footing, picking up the box quickly with a grunt of effort.

She earned a chuckle from Polites. “Careful there,” he said, his grin widening. “You don’t want to topple over again.”

Saga clenched her jaw and hoisted the box higher, determined not to show weakness despite the ache already building in her arms. “I’m fine,” she muttered, her voice firm despite the strain.

Polites emerged with his mouth agape, as though to speak, but paused, cocking his head that fraction and squinting forward, as though checking their destination. His pace slowed for a moment, and his eyes were elsewhere for a moment. In a few minutes of making his way through the tent labyrinth, his face brightened, and he dropped the box he had been carrying with a practiced thud. Taking no pause, he moved to Saga, his smile spreading as he gently pulled the small box from her stiff arms. He hefted it easily, as if its weight was that of a loaf of bread, and set it atop his own in a tidy stack.

"Eurylochus!" Polites shouted, his voice resonating with a boyish and warm enthusiasm that traveled through the busy camp. "We received a new arrival from Ithaca!" His smile broadened as he pointed toward Saga, his excitement sufficient to catch the eye of a couple of soldiers nearby.

Saga stood up a bit taller, her breathing quickening with the scrutiny. She cinched the straps on her armor tighter and tried to steady her panicky breathing, her exhaustion creeping at the corners of her vision. Though Polites' amiability was reassuring, her senses prickled at the thought that she might be unwelcome. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked off in the direction in which Polites was pointing.

The sound of creaking wood accompanied the gentle sway of the recently hoisted boat as a man stepped into view atop its deck. His skin, dark as the rich earth, stood out in stark contrast to the pale complexions of the soldiers surrounding the camp, their gazes instinctively drawn to him. He carried himself with a calm authority, his presence cutting through the din of the camp with a weight that demanded attention.

His square jawline lent his face an unyielding strength, as though it had been carved from stone, a testament to the resilience he exuded. Broad shoulders framed his powerful build—muscles that rippled beneath the loose folds of his tunic with every deliberate movement. His chest and arms spoke of a lifetime forged through war and hardship, each line and sinew a reflection of his capability.

His eyes, at first appearing black from the reflection of the midday sun on the water, gleamed as he turned his attention toward Saga and Polites. Something was piercing in his gaze—an unreadable mix of quiet wisdom and hard-earned wariness that only deepened the air of command he carried. A breeze caught the edges of his tunic, and the faint scent of the sea seemed to linger around him, as though he carried the very essence of the ocean wherever he went.

Saga cleared her throat, adjusting her attire. Huh. I wasn’t sure where… uhm… darker people stood in this day and age. Glad to see he is an equal.

Eurylochus gripped one of the boat’s sturdy ropes with ease, the muscles in his arms flexing as he slid down with practiced precision. He landed on the shore in a fluid motion, his boots kicking up a faint cloud of sand before he broke into a steady jog toward Polites. Each step carried an air of effortless power, his presence demanding attention without the need for words.

As he approached, his sharp gaze drifted to Saga, who instinctively straightened her posture and bowed low, her movements stiff yet respectful. Eurylochus’ eyes lingered for a moment before flicking past her toward the empty horizon behind. His brow furrowed, and a frown darkened his features. “Just one?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with incredulity. “What’s one soldier going to do in terms of assistance?”

Polites, unfazed, flattened his face but kept his tone calm. “He was the only survivor of the storms on the way here,” he replied simply, his words carrying the weight of both explanation and defense.

Eurylochus exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing together in a thoughtful line that made his broad features seem smaller for a moment. Finally, he turned toward Saga, bowing slightly with a gesture that was both formal and genuine. “My apologies, soldier. What is your name? We are happy to have you, regardless of the circumstances.”

Polites’ expression shifted, a snicker slipping through as he chimed in before Saga could answer. “It’s Odious.”

Eurylochus straightened, his frown melting into something far more mischievous. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and the air seemed lighter as he smirked at Saga. “Odious?” he echoed, his tone laced with amusement. “Quite a name for a soldier.” His eyes held hers for a moment longer, the teasing expression paired with a flicker of curiosity that Saga couldn’t quite decipher. “Come, Smelly, let’s get you out of the heavy equipment and into something more practical.”

Saga felt her cheeks flush, the weight of their gazes making her acutely aware of the lie she had spun. But she kept her stance firm, nodding curtly as she fought to maintain composure. “Yes,” she replied, her voice steady despite the heat rising to her face. “Let’s… do so.” She lowered her head as she followed the man, Polites bounding quickly behind her. Ugh… I’m going to regret choosing this name, aren’t I?

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pomplalamoose · 2 years ago

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Mistletoe Misery

modern day AU / Dilf!Luke x reader

summary: Luke has spent an entire evening thinking about catching you, the reader, under the mistletoe; will he be successful?

(based on this request)

A/N: the way I STRUGGLED with this is unreal💀 but if just one person out there likes it, it'd more than up make up for it. Happy holidays, lovely people🫶🏻

From his place next to his nephew Luke has a great view of the entrance to the kitchen over which proudly dangles the mistletoe.

And although he is surrounded by family and loved ones, his main focus is on you; bustling from one room to the other you carry glasses and plates or cleaning rags, diligently helping to clean up the big dining table.

Again and again you pass under the mistletoe, engage in small talk, let yourself be whirled around to the jolly tunes of old Christmas songs and all of it without glancing his way even once.

With barely concealed frustration he watches as you run into his brother in law for what feels like the fourth or fifth time this evening.

"Keep your father from kissing everything in his vicinity, would you?"

He didn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it did and grimaces apologetically when Ben looks up at him in slight bewilderment.

"It's just an old tradition, uncle Luke.", he says. "I don't think mom minds terribly."

Luke sighs and swallows a grumbled retort, instead returning his attention back to you.

No, he isn't worried about Leia's relationship but very much about you falling for someone else.

Surely he, won't, can't be the focus of your attraction for long?

If he isn't mistaken, and he doubts he is, pretty much every member of his entire family was able to catch you under the mistletoe to receive one of your kisses or to gift one to you.

Except for him.

He can't suppress a longing sigh.

You're making for such a beautiful picture tonight.

Mesmerized he watches as you gracefully swipe your hair to the side and out of your face, your beautiful earrings catching the light.

Their gleam flashes across the room like a little beacon, beckoning him closer, drawing him in.

The earrings HE gifted you.

HE should be the one in Han's place making you laugh, HE should be the one close to you.

And it's not as if he hasn't tried, as if he didn't put in any effort to reach out.

He did and yet, somehow, you managed to slip away, evaded his grasp every single time as if you were nothing more than a lovely play of his imagination.

***

You like your friend's family, you really do, and especially with one of their uncles, Han, you get along splendidly.

He's funny, although primarily unintentionally so because of how full he is of himself, and carries himself with an ease that's contagious.

Most importantly though he does an incredible job distracting you from the fact that Luke and you haven't exchanged a single word for the entirety of the evening.

From time to time you can feel his eyes on you but nothing more and, as a result, you've been growing increasingly fidgety and nervous.

He knows something is up, must have noticed how you're going out of your way to avoid any interaction with him.

Oh, if only it weren't for that damned mistletoe, there would be no problem at all.

You weren't this concerned when it was first brought in, so sure that its only serving purpose was meant to be a final touch to the decorations.

How nice of your friend's relatives to bring something along!

Though rather quickly you realized how very very wrong that assumption was and immediately started panicking.

How, in all the worlds, were you supposed to handle a kiss from Luke?!

If he would even want to kiss you, that is, whispered a nasty little voice of self doubt in your head, promptly introducing you to a whole new world of worries.

What if he rejected you?

All of a sudden it didn't matter that he had known about your feelings towards him for a while now, that you spent a lovely few weeks preparing for the holidays together.

It didn't matter that his gift was singlehandedly the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your eyes upon and which surely must have cost him a fortune.

He may have grown fond of you, yes, of that you can be relatively sure now, but how are you supposed to know if there's more to it than that?

If his feelings go beyond those a father has for their child?

Are you supposed to find out under the mistletoe? In front of everybody?

What if you were to share a kiss and it meant nothing to him but everything to you?

What if he'd leave you there, with weak knees and a flushing face, like nothing happened?

No.

Not tonight; not on a night that is meant to be joyous and light hearted.

***

Later, as the last guests are saying their goodbyes on the steps in front of the house, you are carefully making your way into the kitchen, hoping not to catch anybody's attention.

You'll have to come out of there eventually, you know, and sooner than later, but for now you're safe.

Surely, in all of this confusion of jackets and shoes and presents and hugs, nobody will think to take a look in here, not when they're already halfway out of the door.

Admittedly your feeling of relief is very nearly one of pride as well.

With the family's department the mistletoe has lost its power and you emerged on the other side victorious.

You did it! No awkward swooning, no hurtful rejection, no forced closeness, no unanswered questions; your little plan worked.

Happily humming to yourself you begin storing away the dishes, when you hear foot steps behind you.

Your friend! Great, you could definitely use a helping hand amidst this chaos and-

With a request already on your lips you turn around but all that leaves you is a squeak when instead you come face to face with the one person you've been trying so hard to evade.

Just barely fast enough to tighten your grasp on the expensive porcelain plate you were holding, you manage to save it from shattering on the floor in thousands of pieces.

Hoping to mask your fright with indignation, you angrily look up at Luke and are about to speak when he cuts across the room towards you, forcing you to retreat until your back hits the sink with a dull thump.

"Luke-", you start in surprise but he's quick to stun you into silence with how he leans forward to place his arms on either side of you, effectively caging you in.

Clearly pleased about having caught you so off guard he chuckles and tilts his head to get a better look at your facial expression.

"Playing hide and seek, little mouse?", Luke whispers close to your ear, his voice excitingly rough.

A shiver runs down your spine.

He's so close you can feel his hot breath on your face.

So easy; it'd be so easy to raise yourself on your toes and then-

Your heart stops when he parts his sensual lips, your knees buckling beneath you.

Is this really happening? Will he-

"Come on.", he demands.

Taking your wrist he leads a bewildered you across the room, leaving you no choice but to quickly follow behind.

Before you have a chance to speak, to ask, to do anything, he stops and turns, swiftly pulling you closer.

It's quiet for a few seconds as his shockingly blue eyes bore into yours in a way that makes your poor heart stutter and your breath halt; then his gaze and grip soften.

And suddenly he seems upset, agitated.

"I missed your company tonight.", he says, speaking much gentler now. "I had hoped to spend more of it in your presence. With you."

"Oh..."

Your answer is more of a sigh than a word, really, but you are capable of nothing more.

This isn't what you expected.

Luke's hands are still holding on to you, before slowly, oh so slowly, they move to brush your hair aside.

Carefully he tucks it behind your ears and finally he's able to take a proper look at his gifts framing your face.

He smiles a sad smile.

"It's okay. There's just-", he sighs, needs to close his eyes, to gather himself, "there is something I still wish to do, before...before I can let you go."

"W-what...?"

It's like the time around you slows to a halt when he angles your face towards his and leans forward.

As his lips touch yours, light like a feather, barely even there, your questions dies in your throat.

And at last you spot the mistletoe directly above your heads.

The kiss doesn't last long, in fact it's over before it even started, before you can even think to close your eyes.

Yet he doesn't let go.

Breathing heavily he looks down at you like in a trance, like he can't believe what he just did.

His thumbs brush roughly over your cheeks again and again and you feel his other fingers flexing at the nape of your neck, holding on tight, like he's afraid you'll vanish if he isn't attentive enough.

"Merry Christmas."

#luke skywalker #luke skywalker x reader #luke skywalker x you #luke star wars #dilf luke #dilf luke skywalker #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars a new hope #star wars empire strikes back #star wars return of the jedi #fanfic #star wars x reader #star wars x you

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macabr3-barbi3 · 7 months ago

Text

New Love, New Skin (Chapter 7)

one more GoldenVision update before 2025! huge thanks as always to my beloved @fraugwinska for her never ending support and love for these two as I continue to put them through the wringer (and also for the lovely banner she made for me <3)

you can see the playlist I made for this fic and series here!

Vincent has a perfect plan, but every choice has a consequence.

Chapter 1 📺 Chapter 2 💛 Chapter 3 📺 Chapter 4 💛 Chapter 5 📺 Chapter 6 💛Chapter 7 📺 Chapter 8

March 1961

Vincent knows as soon as he sees it that it’s the one.

He had stopped into the jewelry store on a whim, having to take a different route home than usual because some idiot had wrecked their car down the street he usually took. He hadn’t thought something like a jewelry store could survive in Hell without being robbed on a near daily basis, but the series of guns that he heard cocking as soon as the bell above the door signaled his entrance explained that well enough for him. He had looked over the cases for only a few minutes before he spotted it.

He doesn’t even look at the price when he waves the attendant down, hardly even turning his head to acknowledge the woman in favor of watching the ring, glistening in the display case, and making sure it wasn’t going anywhere. Kora would love it- a delicate golden band adorned with a tiny cluster of soft green stones to either side of a modest diamond. It wasn’t overly loud or large, only having caught Vincent’s eye because it was so much more discreet than some of the others in the shop.

Kora didn’t wear a lot of jewelry, opting instead to express herself with her fun t-shirts and her words. But a ring like this- something subtle without seeming cheap, its purpose and meaning obvious without being tacky or drawing attention- he thought she would appreciate enough to wear it regularly, make sure that people knew that she was his as much as he was hers. He wasn’t totally sure how something like engagement worked in Hell, but this, at least, would serve as his promise to her. Something to show her that he was committed to her, that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he loved her back.

Vincent still hadn’t said it. But he felt it in the kick of his heart every time he looked at her; cuddled up during one of their rare times together these days, watching television on the couch; fast asleep when he came home late from work and she hadn’t been able to wait up for him, his pillow clutched to her chest like a lifeline; when she whispered it to him as she got ready for the day, said with the press of her lips to his screen while he was groggy and half awake. It consumed him, the need for her to know what she meant to him despite how busy he had been lately, that it was all for her.

The chances of it being stolen from her while working at the diner in the short time between giving it to her and when she would no longer have to work seemed slim, because the latter was closer than ever before.

The attendant returns with the ring, nestled delicately on a velvet pad for him to pick up and inspect, and the path before him is suddenly laid out so clearly in his mind it felt as solid as the ring between his fingers.

He could almost taste that top spot. Vincent felt the eyes of the executives on him whenever he filled in for someone, when he showed up on his days off, coming in before everyone else and not going home until he was the last one left from the overnight crew. He filled in for the morning team sometimes as well, anyone that wasn’t as reliable or dedicated as he was; he had done weather, cooking segments, sports coverage, anything and everything they would let him do. The praise that flowed for him was near constant, Rich always there to offer him a spot of advice or sing of his merit to the higher ups. Joy was a thorn in his side- she had never gotten over his siding with Kora after an incident at the Christmas party a couple of years back- but it was easy to tune her out when he thought about how he would soon be calling the shots for the late news.

Calling the shots for all of the news, by the time he had finished climbing the ladder the way he wanted.

And once he was on top, it would all be worth it. He wouldn’t have to work so hard to prove himself worthy of respect and could take regular time off, spoil her the way she deserved. They would finally have what he had been working so hard to provide for them; no more late mornings hunched over scripts, when Kora was off to work by the time he got home, or missing the Sunday grocery shopping like he had been. No more worries on her end about rent or being able to afford her little pleasures. A regular schedule where they could fall asleep together again, curled in one another’s arms, wake to the warmth of each other’s bodies before spending the days doing whatever they wanted, instead of what was needed to get by.

“Sir?” The attendant’s voice pulls him from the thoughts of their future and back to the present, and he feels a spark of static between the antennae on his head. “Will you be purchasing today?”

“Yes,” he says with no hesitation, pulling his wallet from his pocket. The price is nothing to him, not when everything he had ever wanted was so close, his efforts finally on the cusp of paying off.

When the transaction is over, the velvet box sits comfortably in his jacket pocket as he makes his way home. The sky is bright and red, and a glance at his watch tells him that Kora will already be out and about for her deliveries this morning. All the better, as it will give him a chance to hide the ring before she got home; he wanted everything to be perfect when he gave it to her, his promotion to be as good as guaranteed and their future well secured. He would take a day off, treat her like a princess, spend some good quality time together before he sprang it on her and watched her face light up with happiness when he finally told her he loved her, that everything would be better soon.

He keeps the box clutched tightly in his hand the whole way home, something dangerously like hope beating a rapid rhythm in his chest.

It comes even quicker than he expects- and at the worst time possible.

He told Kora to take off the next Friday after he bought the ring, that he had something important to discuss with her and he wanted to spend some quality time together, and his Golden Girl had come alive, peppering his face with kisses and sweet talk before she went to work to talk to Viv, confirming her day off with him with a sticky note to the fridge. He confirmed with Rich that he would be taking the day as well, resulting in a clap on his back and a wink when he mentioned Kora.

The box burned a hole in his pocket the whole time; his ‘hiding place’ that he settled on was his work blazer, hung by the door with Kora none the wiser of its presence. He rubbed his thumb across the soft velvet so many times he worried there would be a groove in it, but every time he checked it was just as pristine and perfect as when he bought it. The gems in the ring still caught the light in the most perfect way, and once when Kora was sleeping he had oh-so-carefully slid it onto her finger to ensure a perfect fit. The sight of it made his chest ache, and he had pressed a kiss with trembling lips to her forehead after slipping it back into its box.

His plan was perfect- not Dante’s for this special occasion, like they had spent the two-year anniversary of her rescue of him, but the skating rink. That was where she had introduced him to her friends, showed everyone that he was hers, cemented her feelings for him before even saying she loved him, and Kora had been so in her element the last time they had gone; he regretted not being able to take her more frequently. But fuck, once he got everything he was working towards, he could buy her a skating rink- build one in their house if they wanted. She would never want for anything if he could provide it for her.

This afternoon, she was in the bathroom applying some kind of makeup, her hair pulled into a soft bun that let some curls loose around her face. She wore the twirly skirt that he loved from last time, one that he knew would flair when she spun and show off her strong legs. He already couldn’t wait until they got home- he would peel it off her slowly, take his time in a way they hadn’t been able to for a while, watch the lights reflect off the stones of the ring-

The phone rings, pulling his concentration from his thoughts of when they returned. He answers with a smile still present in his tone, but when he hears Rich’s voice on the other line his stomach drops.

“Vinny, my boy! Look, I’m sorry to reach out like this- I know you had a day planned with Kora- but you gotta get down to the station.”

Anxiety flashes through his system. “I’m- I really can’t today, Rich,” he tries, voice lowered so Kora won’t hear him. “This is really important, I’ve had it requested for almost two weeks.”

Rich sighs in his ear. “I know, I know, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. Listen-” He lowers his voice, and Vincent can hear the rustle of his clothing as he looks around. “You didn’t hear this from me, but the execs have had their eyes on you and have just been waiting for a chance to put you in the spotlight. The real spotlight, not just filling in.”

“I-”

“This is that chance, Vin. They’re wanting to move me to the early morning crew- fucking Brandon got himself caught during the extermination in January and no one else can work with that Shelby bitch for more than a few weeks at a time- and they’ve been looking for someone to fill my spot on the late show, for good. They want to run a test of the new proposed line up today- apparently no one looks at the schedule to see when people are off. They were expecting you early like you always are so they can adapt the lighting to account for your screen brightness. They want to see that you can handle it.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Kora was going to kill him.

But he couldn’t turn this down- not when this was what he had been working for after. Not when this was the final stepping stone to being where he needed to be so he could do right by Kora. He had been wanting to give her the ring early, a sign of what was to come for them, but now it could be a symbol of what already was- the future already in motion. She would be upset with him today, but she would understand when it was all said and done.

Rich’s voice is muffled on the other end of the line when Vincent takes the phone from his ear and lays it on his shoulder, resting his screen against the fridge. Over the humming of it he can hear Kora humming to herself in the bathroom with the door open, probably putting the finishing touches on looking perfect for him.

“-still there?” He hears when he brings the phone back to his head. “I’ll make sure I’m available to cover another night for you- work a double if I need to but I don’t want you to miss this opportunity-”

“I’ll be there,” he says, and of course it’s at this moment that Kora exits, and even not fully turned towards her he can see the shadow of her tail droop. “Give me- I don’t know, ten minutes and I’ll head out.”

“Attaboy!” Rich exclaims in his ear, “and tell your Golden Girl I’m sorry to steal you away. But this is gonna be huge for you, Vinny, HUGE!” He shouts the last word and hangs up with a click, leaving Vincent to face the choice he had made.

Her face is sad, arms crossed defensively across her chest. “Are you leaving?” She asks quietly, and it kills him to break her heart like this.

“I have to,” he says, and her eyebrows crease with some unreadable expression. “It’s… it’s what I’ve been working so hard for. They want me to take over for Rich-”

“They can’t postpone that for one more night?”

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.” He crosses the living room to stand beside her, hand reaching out to caress her cheek; she leans into it, huffing a soft sigh into his palm. “It’s a huge opportunity though, and if I can’t be there, who knows who they would offer it to next?”

Vincent can see it in her expression- the want to dispute what he was saying, convince him to stick to their original plan. And he wants to- he really, really does- but this was what his whole plan for the future was riding on.

“I might not be able to get another night off anytime soon,” she tells him. “Besides Sunday- and what’s the point then if you don’t take it off, too?”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I know, Goldie, and I’m sorry,” he says again. “I wouldn’t cancel for just anything- it’s really important.” He steps back and she grabs hold of his hand, grip firm when he tries to tug away.

“Vin, come on- I never see you anymore, you can’t just keep the one day off you requested specifically to spend time with me?” Her eyes well with tears, and he diverts his gaze so he doesn’t see them- he’s always been weak to it, to her, but the ring that sat like a rock in his pocket was for nothing if he didn’t land this position. “You said this was important- that was why we took the day off.”

He sighs, squeezing her hand and releasing- this time, she doesn’t try to hold on. “I’ll ask another day off soon, I promise.”

She pulls back a step, expression hurt. “You haven’t had more than a day off at a time in ages, Vincent. I miss you-”

“When I get this promotion we’ll see each other more,” he says, a hint of irritation spiking at her continued wheedling. Didn’t she realize he was doing this for her? The long hours, the pushing for more at work, saving money; it was all so she could get what she deserved, so he could give her the life he wanted her to have. “I really have to go.” He starts towards the door, groaning in irritation when she blocks his path. “Kora, come on- move.”

“No.” She stands her ground, arms crossed across her chest in a way that shouldn’t have been cute, but even in her anger she was beautiful. “What is going on with you? You’re never home anymore, when you are home you just sleep, you don’t go out to do the grocery shopping with me anymore or spend any time with me beyond a quick fuck when you can spare a couple minutes before leaving again.”

A pang of guilt flickers in his chest, but it was drowned out by his own frustration. How could she not see? He wasn’t doing this for some selfish reason—he was trying to build a life, a future where she didn’t have to worry about a damn thing. He fingered the small velvet box in his pocket, the one he’d planned to give her today, that had been on the peripheral of his mind since he bought it. But then the call came- this could be the end of it, the confirmation about his position, his security for their future. The ring, that promise, it had to wait for that. “Move,” he demands again, and when she doesn’t immediately comply his hand shoots out to grab her bicep, forcibly moving her to the side.

The sound she makes is likely more from shock than pain, but tears well in her eyes regardless. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been making it seem like none of this matters, like I don’t matter. Why are you acting like this?”

The tension inside of him unravels quick as a whip. “I’m not acting,” he snaps, and she takes a step back in shock at the harsh coolness of his tone. “This is what I am, Kora, you didn’t change me when you picked me up off the street- you just delayed the inevitable. Fucking leave if you don’t like it.”

The silence that follows is suffocating; when he looks over, Kora’s eyes are glassy and wet, her lip quivering. His heart pounds as the regret creeps in, winding like vines around his heart- but his pride keeps him from taking it back, taking her into his arms with an apology and an explanation. He wanted to tell her about the ring, the life he’d been trying to secure for them; why he had been pushing so hard, why he was choosing to leave her today. His vocals stutter when he speaks. “I-”

Love you. He almost says it, the words on the tip of his tongue like his stupid brain thinks that will rectify the situation, the ring box in his pocket weighted like its made of something heavier than a bit of gold and diamond and velvet. If he says it now, it would be tainted by the moment, by the fight they found themselves in. She had waited for too long for it to be some cheap thing he said to keep her from being upset with him. “I’ll be home late,” he mutters instead. “We can talk when I come home, okay?”

He would fix everything tomorrow, he tells himself as he tries to catch a cab for a faster trip, refusing to look back to the door of the apartment. Rich would make sure he got a day off, especially if he told him what today had been for- then he could show Kora the ring and explain. Once he got the promotion everything would get resolved, and she would see that everything had had a purpose, it was all for something. For her.

“... and that’s all we have for you tonight, folks- keep those doors locked and those windows closed, you never know who might come creeping through.” Vincent flashes a wide grin at the cameras, the lights of the studio dialed down to adapt to the brightness of his head. Rich had come back in to see the rest of his test run, shooting him a smile and a thumbs up from the sidelines. He could feel Joy’s eyes on him as well, but he had been ignoring her as best he could- banter was expected between co-anchors though, so he engaged her when he needed to.

To the left of him, he sees the image he casts on televisions all over the rings of Pride, and he looks good. His blazer is pressed and wrinkle-free, screen buffed to a shine that forced the crew to adjust some spotlights to avoid blinding anyone, and his sharp-toothed smile is flawless and fierce. The timer was ticking down to the end of the broadcast, and Vincent leans forward onto his elbow on the desk. “This is Vincent-”

“-and Joy-”

“-signing off from Nine Rings News.” They speak the last line in unison, and Vincent can see on the televisions set up that the channel has cut to commercial, the first of many that will play for the next few hours until it’s time for Rich’s new slot. The room erupts into cheers, Joy leaning back in her chair to eye him appreciatively. The production crew surrounds him, taking his notes off his hands, disconnecting his equipment as they offer his praise and words of encouragement.

Rich approaches with a slap to the back that knocks the wind out of him. “I fucking knew you would be a hit,” he says over the chorus of final congratulations, grabbing his arm and shaking it vigorously. “Let’s head out to celebrate! I have a couple hours still before I have to be back for my segment- that’s plenty of time for a couple rounds at Spite! You can ring Kora, see if she wants to come out with us if she’s not working to make up for missing your plans today.”

At the mention of Kora, Vincent’s excitement gets a little muddled, feeling the way a glitch crackles across his screen as he remembers their fight, the way she had cried when he snapped at her and made her move. She would be asleep by now, even if she had decided to pick up a shift once their plans were canceled- he wouldn’t wake her for this, not with the way that he had left. He throws an arm around Rich’s shoulder and steers him away from the crowd. “I appreciate it, Rich, but really- I gotta get home and talk to her. We had a pretty bad fight when I left, she was really looking forward to spending the day together.” He fingers the box in his pocket again, the velvet smooth and soft under his thumb. “I was too,” he adds, and he pulls the ring out to show to his mentor.

If Rich’s eye had been capable of widening, it would have done so- his shock is evident in the way his jaw drops though, taking the box with careful fingers and opening it to inspect. “Satan’s left ball, Vinnie, you could have mentioned you were planning to ask the girl to marry you today! Fuck, I would have found a way to put the execs off if I had known you had plans this important.”

Vincent shrugs, can almost feel the pink tint take over his screen. “This was important too,” he tells him, “this was what I’ve been working so hard for. And now that I’ve done the test run, they’ve seen what I can do, it feels as good as mine, right?”

“Now that they know you’re committed and you look and sound fucking fantastic in that main anchor spot, you should get an official offer in the next couple of days,” Rich assures him, closing the velvet box with a snap and handing it back to Vincent. “You don’t see a lot of ‘marriages’ in Hell, you know. It’s exciting though, and I’m happy for you.”

“Never thought about asking that old PA to settle down, huh?”

Rich cocks his head to the side. “Do you know what the process of ‘getting married’ looks like down here, Vin? It’s a little different from topside- you actually give a piece of your soul to your partner. It’s basically a deal set between the two of you with whatever stipulations you have for the partnership, which is like the Hell equivalent of a prenup. It’s a pretty serious commitment- if have any sort of Overlord aspirations, that’s really something you should take into consideration-”

“I don’t,” he interrupts. “My job and Kora are what’s most important to me, I don’t need all that power and hassle that comes with being an Overlord.” He pockets the ring again, keeping his hands there to hide the tremor in them. “I have to get through her being mad at me now before any talk of the future happens though.”

“Put the whole thing on me,” Rich advises as he leads him to the door, “just tell her it was all my fault, and she can come down here and give me a scolding whenever she would like.” He guides Vincent to the door and gives him another parting slap on the back. “Apologize to your Golden Girl for me, will ya? And good luck!”

“Thanks, Rich,” he says, and the back door closes with a crack that echoes in the alley. The smile he’s been wearing for almost ten hours finally fades, and if he had had a jaw it would have ached. He pulls the ring box out again and opens it, looking at the reflections off the gems in the streetlight before he puts it away again.

He lights a cigarette as he walks home, the streets of Hell mostly empty but for shadows that lurk in the alleys and the hum of huge neon signs plastered all over the city. The adrenaline of the night still buzzed in his veins along with the nicotine, a spring to his step that even Kora’s inevitable anger with him couldn’t dull. He still felt guilty, but it was tempered with a sense of justification in his actions. The pieces would all fall into place now that he had proven himself with the network, their future as good as guaranteed. Kora would understand when he explained.

It was nearing four in the morning when Vincent made it home, but the lights were still on in the living room- either she had woken up early for her walk, or she had never gone to sleep. He runs a hand over his screen and takes a deep breath as he approaches the door, surprised to find it unlocked but still opening it slowly so he doesn’t startle her. “Kora?”

The living room is empty as he enters, the smell of burnt popcorn coming into his processors- she never followed the instructions correctly, which was why the rare times they had to snack together he was in charge of it. Her stack of books that she cycled through on the coffee table had been toppled, the bowl of burned popcorn having followed suit, her blanket thrown haphazardly onto the cushions in a way that made it slide towards the floor. He picks it up and catches the familiar almond and honey scent of her before he tosses it back onto the couch properly and comes further into the apartment.

“Goldie?” He keeps his voice low as he peeks into the bathroom and moves to the bedroom, in case he was wrong and she was sleeping and had simply forgotten to turn the lights off. But the bedroom is empty as well, the sheets still rumpled the same way they had been when the pair of them had gotten ready this morning. Her nightstand drawer is open, the framed photo of her and Gideon resting on the floor with a spider web fracture in the glass panel that distorted their faces. The window sat open, a breeze drifting through the open pane. “Kora,” he calls again a little louder, because she has to be somewhere in the building- she wouldn’t take off for no reason, even with the fight that they had had.

He winces at the memory of their again, words that he had said in anger that he didn’t mean. He had just been so frustrated that she didn’t understand what he was working towards that he had snapped at her-

“Fucking leave if you don’t like it.”

Panic settles into his chest behind the thumping of his heart, but he forces himself to remain calm. She wouldn’t have just left like that- not without a conversation, even as angry and hurt as she had been, even with the words he had spit at her. If she was going to leave she would have waited for him to come home so they could talk about it first.

And regardless of that- she wouldn’t leave. She loved him- more than she should. Certainly more than he deserved.

Her clothes were all still hung on the rack in their room, her socks and underwear and shirts still folded in the drawers of their dresser. When he navigates back out to the living area, her punny coffee mugs are still happily displayed on the rack he had gotten her for Christmas. Kora wouldn’t leave those behind, not with the effort she put into finding them and incorporating them into her home. She had to just be on her walk; maybe she had woken up early and left before Vincent came home, and she would return soon. That’s what he convinces himself of as he cleans up, tidying her stack of books on the coffee table, closing the window and putting her photo of Gideon in the drawer of her nightstand. He resolves to wait for her to come back so they can talk, but as he settles onto the couch and pulls the blanket over his lap, sleep claims him too quickly to resist.

He awakens hours later from dreamless sleep, disoriented, finding himself still on the couch. Kora usually woke him when he fell asleep there instead of the bedroom- and then he remembers that Kora hadn’t been home when he returned from work yesterday, and from the looks of it had still not come back. A glance at the clock reveals that it’s well past noon, and when Vincent stumbles up from the couch to check the bedroom, the bathroom, Kora isn’t there.

“Fucking leave if you don’t like it.”

Despair claws its way into his throat, his lungs feeling constricted while he tries to breathe through the anxiety that makes itself known. He’s still trying to be logical as he grabs the phone and dials Viv’s to see if she had maybe gone into work early, went to stay with a coworker, anything.

Eris answers, to Vincent’s disappointment. “You’ve reached Viv’s Diner, what can I do for you?”

He does his best to keep his voice level. “Eris, hey- have you heard from Kora today?”

He can hear the rustle of her clothing as she shrugs. “What do I look like, her keeper? She’s not scheduled to come in ‘til later, we haven’t seen her yet.”

His voice shudders against his will when he asks, “you wouldn’t happen to know of anywhere she might go if she was upset, would you?” The Rings of Pride were huge- he had no chance of locating her without any direction, without any help. He just needed her to come home so he could explain everything, sort out the miscommunication.

“What’s the matter, Vinnie? Did Kora finally have enough and leave ya?” He can hear the smirk in her voice, the amusement that tints her tone. “I warned ya about steppin’ up for her, didn’ I?” He doesn’t stay on the line long enough to hear more than a few seconds of her cruel laughter before he slams the phone back onto the receiver, and then slams it again for good measure when he still hears her in his head.

He still has hours to go before he has to go back to work, but Vincent can’t bring himself to sleep properly without knowing where Kora was. He tried the package hub for her courier job; he tried Viv’s again and asked to speak to Viv herself, who also hadn’t heard from Kora; the skating rink was a bust; he even called down to the station to see if maybe she had shown up while he was still working, but to no avail. No one had seen or heard from her since he had fought with her earlier the day before, and the guilt weighs him down as he leaves the house and checks the neighborhood around them for any sign of her.

He burns through an entire pack of cigarettes as he scours Imp City, fingers trembling as he lights the last one a mere thirty minutes before he’s due back at the station; not early, for once, so consumed in his frantic search for his girl that he hadn’t thought to see if anyone needed him before his actual shift. He’s sure he looks like a disaster now—a far cry from the poised, presentable anchor the city had seen just last night. He hadn’t showered, his clothes were wrinkled, and he hadn't even had a proper meal. His screen was in dire need of a wet wipe, coated with grime from the city’s pollution that made it difficult to see.

Kora has to be out there somewhere. She wouldn’t just leave him, not with how much she loved him, not with how close they were to the future he wanted for them. If something was wrong he would find her, bring her home; whatever it took.

Movement catches his eye; a bird Sinner that slinks along the shadows of the buildings like a wraith, seeming to almost blend in and evade sight as they moved. They hold a scrap of fabric clenched in their fist that they bring to their beak, the twitch of their mouth visible even from where Vincent stood. Their eyes gleam red in the darkness, a predator that’s caught the scent of their prey, and as the Sinner turns to peek an even darker alley Vincent’s first instinct is to follow them.

He wasn’t familiar enough with the darker parts of Imp City, the Pride Rings as a whole, to know all the places a person could disappear to. If they could track by scent, maybe he could give them something of Kora’s- her sheets, her clothes, anything in the apartment that her scent clung to like skin- to help find her, make sure that she wasn’t in trouble.

The alternative was unthinkable.

“Fucking leave if you don’t like it.”

The words from their last fight ring like a death knell in his ears. He can’t push them away, can’t pretend they weren’t said- they echo in his mind like when she had told him she loved him. He had been angry. He had been frustrated, but now, in the quiet of the night with Kora’s absence weighing on him like a stone in his chest, he’s not so sure anymore.

Would she leave him? Would she give up on their future because he’d failed to be there when she needed him most? Was he consistently failing her like he had always feared he would, and the day before had been the last straw?

Vincent squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts back. No. She wouldn’t leave him. Not when everything they’d fought for, everything he had worked towards for her, was so close.

The bird vanishes into the shadows, disappearing down the alley with a speed and certainty that makes Vincent’s breath catch in his throat. He’s hardly taken a step after the Sinner when his watch beeps at him angrily, the alarm he had set earlier in his search to let him know the latest he could leave for the station if he wanted to be on time. Indecision immobilizes him.

In his place, Kora would choose him every time; it would never even be a choice for her. But she had never been in his position before, so close to the top his fingers scrabbled at the edge to pull himself up. He had proven himself the night before, sure- but that could change at a moment’s notice, and he would be right back where he started if they felt for even a moment that he wasn’t committed and willing to do whatever it took.

Guilt sits heavy in his chest, the ring that still sits in his pocket feeling like it’s burning him as he stands there knowing that either choice was the wrong one, and turns to head towards the station.

SORRY LOL

There are 3 more chapters before we move on to part two! I promise they'll be happy- not in this fic, but eventually! ❤️

Chapter 1 📺 Chapter 2 💛 Chapter 3 📺 Chapter 4 💛 Chapter 5 📺 Chapter 6 💛Chapter 7 📺 Chapter 8

#hazbin hotel #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #ily frau <3 #vox being vox #vox x kora #goldenvision #angst #eventual happy ending #not any time soon #lol #vox x oc #hazbin hotel oc #my stuff <3

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