#making an ignorant sweeping generalization is infuriating

[prouvaireafterdark]

Practical Ethics || Chapter One

I dedicate this fic to my beloved enablers and Armand whisperers (you know who you are). This fic would not exist without the tremendous support and ideas you’ve given me over the last few months and I love you all very much for it. I really hope you enjoy this <3

So, without further ado, I present to you the first installment of an Ethics Professor Louis AU, as told by the grad student Armand.

Also on AO3!

***

When Armand sweeps into Dr. du Lac’s graduate level Ethics course on the second day of class, he finds his seat in the center of the small lecture hall’s first row already taken. 

The blonde man occupying it, Armand notices, is older than the average student, perhaps in his early thirties, and the desk he’s stolen is totally devoid of notes, books, or a laptop. Dressed in a designer leather jacket, tight black jeans, and platformed Doc Martens, he looks like he’s attempting to channel his inner rockstar. The man’s hair has also been pulled back into a low ponytail that would make anyone else look like a founding father, but in combination with his striking jawline and devastating profile, Armand finds it infuriatingly charming in spite of his considerable annoyance.

Armand had chosen this seat carefully, you see, as he had just endured a harrowing semester as research assistant to Dr. de Romanus—a Romanist, coincidentally, whom Armand had met in Venice, and who had encouraged him to move all the way to San Francisco to complete his doctorate now that he was teaching in the Religion and Philosophy department after the unfortunate defunding of the university’s Classics program. Currently staring down the barrel of another semester working with Dr. de Romanus, Armand is keen on seizing any opportunity he can find to serve under someone with a less… draconian approach to pedagogy in the future. Dr. du Lac seems a more promising prospect than the ancient Dr. Talbot by about a mile, and so the stakes for making a good impression are quite high. 

Armand’s eyes narrow as he approaches.

“Excuse me,” he says, standing up as tall and imperious as he can as he stops beside the blonde man. “You’re in my seat.”

“Am I?” the man asks, his English faintly accented. French, definitely, but not Parisian, if Armand recalls from his own considerable time spent living in the city—a regional dialect, he would guess. The generous curve of the man’s mouth and the tilt of his head turn mean all of a sudden as he continues, “Apologies, monsieur. I did not see your name on it.” 

The man makes no move to find a different seat, and in fact settles more fully into it, his spine slumped casually against its cushioned back like he could drop off and take a nap at any moment.

Indignant rage simmers beneath the surface of Armand’s skin, mingled with the equally infuriating attraction he feels as an errant blonde curl comes loose from the man’s ponytail, falling over the curve of his cheek when his head tips drowsily forward.

Well, that decides it, Armand thinks to himself. I must destroy him.

Out of spite, Armand chooses the seat next to him, spreading out his folder of meticulously highlighted and annotated readings across the meager desk space this lecture hall provides, just past the point where the edges of his papers brush the blonde man’s arm where it lies on the armrest. He can almost feel the man’s answering glare like a physical thing against the side of his face, but Armand simply feigns ignorance and busies himself with unlocking his iPad to get ready to take notes.

Dr. Louis de Pointe du Lac enters the classroom then, dressed impeccably as always in a finely tailored suit—a sophisticated heather gray tartan this afternoon. Though Armand appreciates the view, he struggles to comprehend how someone living on a philosophy professor’s salary at a small liberal arts college can afford to indulge such exquisite tastes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the blonde man sit up straighter, his attention captivated by the professor as he sets up his notes at the podium in front of the room.

The man can’t be blamed for that, Armand supposes. In his opinion, Dr. du Lac is by far the most handsome professor who works here, and if the chili pepper on his Rate My Professors is any indication, most of his peers agree. 

“Alright, everyone. Let’s get started,” Dr. du Lac says with a kind smile and a clap of his hands to gather their attention, taking a moment first to review the names of all his students as he takes attendance before settling in to give his lecture. 

Armand does his best to stay focused on the lesson, diligently taking notes on his iPad as Dr. du Lac writes on the board, and even asking and answering questions when the opportunities present themselves. Inevitably, however, he finds his attention drawn to the man sitting beside him.

The man—Lestat, he’s learned from Dr. du Lac’s roll call—seems incapable of doing three things: sitting still, taking his eyes off the professor for longer than a microsecond, and taking any notes whatsoever. 

An expensive-looking leather bound journal now sits open on his desk, but he has yet to write down a single word beyond his own name in elegant, looping script. In fact, the only time Lestat even lifts his ridiculous fountain pen off the desk throughout the entire lecture is to rest the end of it against his full bottom lip as his eyes track Dr. du Lac’s every movement, his tongue occasionally peeking out of his mouth to swirl around the metal tip. 

Several weeks pass this way—Armand and Lestat stubbornly sitting side by side, each focused entirely on their professor but with seemingly very different goals. He’s noticed that Lestat is always the last person to leave the lecture hall, lingering around for a private word with Dr. du Lac once everyone else has gone. Armand even saw Lestat follow the professor to his car in the parking lot once, but he was running late for a meeting with Dr. de Romanus and couldn’t afford to be too curious. 

Lestat’s apparent oral fixation also continues to rear its head at least once a class, driving Armand to the point of madness until one day he can stand it no longer.

“Why are you even here?” he seethes, glaring over at where Lestat is fidgeting in his seat. 

They’ve been asked to discuss some reading questions in small groups and, to no one’s surprise, Lestat has made no move to actually contribute anything of substance.

“Pardon?” Lestat asks, looking over at him with those impossible eyes of his. Are they gray? Blue? Purple? Their color seems to change by the day and Armand is pathetically distracted by the desire to pin down their hue.

“You sit here every class taking no notes, doing nothing except practically fellating your pen while you stare at the professor like you want to eat him,” he hisses, frustration bleeding through in his tone. “Do you even do the readings?”

To Armand’s extreme displeasure, Lestat smirks at him.

“Perhaps if you spent less time worrying about what my mouth is doing and more time reviewing your precious notes, you would not have only gotten a 94 on the quiz,” Lestat muses. 

“What? How—?” Armand stammers, his cheeks burning with humiliation. 

“It seems highlighting nearly the entire article as you have done did not guarantee that last six percent,” Lestat continues, gesturing down to Armand’s desk-full of neatly organized readings with a single manicured finger.

Incredulous anger consumes Armand’s chest. Lestat must have seen his grade when Dr. du Lac handed their quizzes back at the end of last class. It’s the only explanation, but, come to think of it—“You didn’t even take the quiz!” 

“I don’t need to,” Lestat shrugs, unfazed. “I am merely auditing the class.”

Now that was even more baffling. He had assumed Lestat needed to take this course as some kind of curriculum requirement, but why on Earth would someone like Lestat be auditing an ethics class? 

He supposes it does explain the reason Dr. du Lac’s eyes seem to almost intentionally skip over Lestat when he’s sprawled out in his chair like the entitled brat that he is. If he isn’t paying for the course, why bother making sure he’s actually learning something?

“Well, I don’t know what good it’s doing you. It’s not like you’re even reading the articles he assigns,” Armand shoots back, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Wait, you can read, can’t you?”

Lestat sneers at the question, but before he can open his mouth to deliver the venomous rebuttal Armand is sure he’s been working on the ten whole seconds it’s been since he asked, Louis is addressing the class again.

“Alright, that’s enough one on one discussion time for now. Who’s got something for me?” Louis asks, and when Armand looks up, he sees the professor’s eyes are flickering between the two of them, his brow creased in concern.

It’s another week after that that Armand gets back their latest quiz—a perfect score this time—and finally decides that the moment has arrived for him to move on to the next stage of his plan.

After Dr. du Lac dismisses their class, Armand waits for the handful of other students who have questions for the professor to depart before making his approach, ignoring the glare he gets from Lestat who still hasn’t moved from his seat.

“Armand,” Dr. du Lac smiles as Armand steps up toward the podium where he’s still gathering his papers into his messenger bag. “Those were some very insightful comments you made about the assigned reading. I think you might be the only one who actually understood it.”

Armand is momentarily stunned by the compliment, warmth flooding his body at such praise. He is struck, too, by how beautiful the man is up close, finding himself captivated by the gentle curve of his lips as he grins at him and those warm, dark eyes, fathomless in their depth. He could fall in love with those eyes, he thinks—if Louis wasn’t his professor and Armand wasn’t already in love with someone else, of course.

“Thank you, professor,” Armand says, an almost dreamlike quality to his voice as he attempts to recover. 

“Please, call me Louis,” Dr. du Lac interrupts with a wave of his hand. “‘Professor’ is for the undergrads.”

“Louis, then,” Armand replies with a soft smile of his own, shaking off the urge to just keep staring at him. 

“So what is it I can help you with?” Louis prompts when he says nothing else.

“Oh,” Armand says, redirecting his thoughts. “I was wondering if you might have recommendations for further reading for me. I will be writing my dissertation on philosophical approaches to the devil and plan to include a chapter on the epistemological and moral issues concerning the subject. As our department’s resident expert on moral philosophy, I thought you might be uniquely situated to point me toward a starting point for my research.”

“Already thinking of the diss?” Louis wonders, curious as his eyes pass him over again. “You must be a few years out from writing it.”

It isn’t hard to imagine why he’s asking. By now, Armand is quite used to being underestimated because of his perceived youth. 

“I’m older than I look,” Armand assures him, shifting from one foot to the other. “And I am eager to get started.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Louis says kindly. “I meant you’ve only just started your degree. You’re new to the department, right?”

“I do already have my master’s,” Armand tells him, disliking the implication that he hasn’t advanced enough in his studies to know what he wants to focus on, before he continues, “but yes, I matriculated while you were on sabbatical last semester, no doubt crafting your latest masterpiece.”

Louis laughs, a soft and beautiful sound. “You could say that.” 

He glances behind Armand to where Lestat is waiting as he says it, but then his brown eyes refocus on Armand.

“Hey, why don’t you come by my office hours tomorrow?” he suggests. “I’ve got to run, but I might have a few books you’d be interested in.”

Any rankled feelings still lingering in Armand’s heart evaporate completely in the face of Louis’ generous invitation. He is as flattered by Louis’ interest in supporting his work as he is excited by the prospect of spending more time with him. 

“That would be wonderful,” Armand replies, eager to accept. “Thank you, I truly appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Louis nods obligingly.

Armand says his goodbyes before heading out the door, feeling strangely light on his feet, as if buoyed by the butterflies he can feel fluttering around in his chest.

[mochibuni]

HiI'm just going to point out that just because it looks 2d doesn't mean it isn't rendered on a computer, and I'd bet good money there is completely computer generated animation in some of these gifs based on how they look. There is a smoothness and movement that can't be done by hand. Also 2d doesn't automatically mean best story and artistry; for every Ghibli there are 40 animations about moe boobs in Japan. Also Japan is a VERY capitalist country, if they felt 3d visuals sold better in their country they would do it. They're already playing with the idea, they have 3d cell shaded cartoons being produced.

Seriously, guys, animation is such a wonderful genre, please watch and read up on it, don't feed into tumblr's pro weeb anti West rhetoric.

In the west:

meanwhile in Japan:

[duskholland]

The Fame Game (Prologue) | Tom Holland

Summary ↠ There’s just something about Tom Holland that makes your blood boil. He walks around like he owns the world, always with an unhelpful quip or irritating smirk on hand. You can’t stand him, and your feud has burned hard and bright for three years. Everything changes following an explosive evening at the Oscars, when a questionable encounter with the paparazzi lands you in some hot water with PR... fake dating au; enemies to lovers; actor!y/n.

Word count ↠ 4.6k

Warnings ↠ Alcohol, paparazzi, swearing, discussions of misogyny and the corruption of fame, Tom and Y/N are both very petty, dramatic assholes.

A/N ↠ Ahhh it’s here! I was really shocked by how many people responded to the announcement post for the series -- I hope so much that this doesn’t disappoint anyone lol. This series is my baby, and I’m very excited to share it with you all. Before we dive into the fake dating, we must first explore a very critical evening for Tom and Y/N... hahahah. This was a lot of fun to write. Please let me know if you’ve got any thoughts! :D 

(Tom’s in the FFH premiere outfit because I’m still in love with that fit, and the jury’s out for whether or not the actual Tom needs glasses to see; this version of him just uses them as a fashion statement lmao)

((The biggest thank you ever to V, mischiefandi, for being this series’ no.1 supporter and proofing this -- love you mate))

Series masterpost

ZERO: The Oscars (Y)

The atmosphere at Vanity Fair’s Oscars after-party is electric.

The soft boom of the latest pop tunes seeps into the air, mixing with the warm lights and the sounds of clinking champagne flutes. The room holds Hollywood’s best, and it seems no matter which direction you tilt your head, your eyes find themselves settling over a familiar face. You’re walking amongst legends tonight, and as you throw back your third glass of champagne of the evening, you let a small smile unfurl across your lips. 

It isn’t your first time attending the Oscars, but it is the first time you haven’t felt utterly out of your depth surrounded by people of this calibre. When you’d first started in the acting industry, you’d found it incredibly unsettling to enter a room full of Oscar-winners. Even now you remember how your hands had felt slick with sweat as you’d nervously been introduced to Meryl Streep and Viola Davis, and how you’d felt imposter syndrome on a scale you’d never imagined possible. Time and experience have brought you many things, but most importantly, they have gifted you confidence. You’re 24 now, and the string of achievements and nominations tied to your belt is so impressive that they deem you no longer an outsider at the Oscars; instead, it’s as if you’ve been accepted into the fold. 

But for all the enjoyment of the lavish after-party, you can’t stop your mood from plummeting. It’s all fun and games until your eyes sweep the room and settle on a smirking figure standing in the corner: 

Tom Holland. 

Just the sight of him makes your nostrils flare. 

You think it must be true what they say: once you start to dislike someone, it’s as if every single thing they do irritates you. This is how you feel with Tom. Even the smallest, most insignificant details about him somehow manage to annoy you. You cannot stand the smell of his hair gel, and you detest the way he stubbornly refuses to mend his phone screen. Your teeth grit together every time you see that smug smirking grin hanging from his lips, and you get worked up by the way he always seems to swagger around as if he owns the room. The grievances fall into several categories: his aesthetic choices, his generally smug demeanour, and his irritating personality, and it all fosters your deep, unyielding disapproval of the man.

Tom infuriates you beyond belief - beyond words. And he’s standing across the room right now, staring at you over the rim of his wine glass with a teasing smirk hanging from his stupid lips. 

You try to ignore him at first. You lick your lips and return your attention to a conversation with some of your co-stars. You know better than to try and approach anyone else tonight. Your reputation, as your PR team likes to put it, is ‘fragile’ at the moment. A string of uncomplimentary ex-lovers and a few disgruntled directors have shattered your pristine public image, making you regarded as both a rising talent and loose cannon by the media. There’s been a common trend recently of news outlets dragging your name through the mud, and the desperate words of PR as they’d begged you not to cause a scene tonight drift through your mind as you contemplate wandering over to Tom. 

You know it isn’t in your best interests to engage with the man - no matter the occasion, your conversations always end explosively - but Tom is just standing there, staring at you persistently, and you just can’t help it.

Your tongue flicks out across your lower lip as you feel his hot gaze trailing around your made-up cheek. His eyes are intense - holding power over you, to the point where you have you excuse yourself from your conversation. An exasperated sigh slips past your lips as you turn around, preparing yourself for your encounter. Your stare finds him, and it follows Tom as he strides across the party towards you, one hand hanging easily from his trouser pocket as the other clasps an intricately engraved wine glass.

The frown on your lips deepens the nearer Tom gets, and as more details of his figure draw into focus. He’s got his chestnut waves slicked back tonight, with a few stray strands hanging out across his forehead. It makes him look dishevelled, but in a devilishly handsome sort of way - which makes sense, given you’re reasonably sure he must have some kind of relationship with Lucifer himself. Stretched across the wide expanse of his shoulders is a deep burgundy suit, and it cages him in tightly, leaving little to the imagination. Your lips curl into a poisonous grimace as your eyes finally fall on the glasses perched on his nose; you’re sure Tom doesn’t even need glasses, and it riles you up to see him parading the frames as a fashion statement. 

But perhaps the thing about his ensemble that annoys you the most is the fact that you can’t look away. No matter how hard you beg yourself, you can’t drag your gaze away from Tom’s swagger, or the tight hold he has on the stem of the glass, or the way his eyes dance with a dark, mischievous glint as he falls to a stop in front of you. Tom is many things to you, but it’s undeniable that you find him attractive, and that fact often keeps you seething well into the early hours of the morning. 

“Y/N,” Tom greets, his voice dripping charm. “Lovely to see you again.” His thin pink lips twist up into a smirk, and you find yourself clenching your fingers into fists around the tender stem of your champagne flute.

“Tom.” You step forwards, and your lips catch at his cheek as you press a firm, unwavering greeting to his face. You feel his warm hand slip from his pocket, and it grazes across your hip as Tom holds you closer. “You look to be enjoying yourself.”

When you pull back, you linger near him, allowing Tom to return the gesture by pressing his hot mouth to your cheek. He smells of rich, overpowering cologne, and you scrunch your nose up as his lips burn against your skin.

“It’s quite the party tonight,” he returns, stepping back. Tom’s beady little brown eyes run across your figure, taking in the long designer gown and the decadent sparkly necklace hanging from your neck. He graces you with an approving nod. “Are you having a nice time?”

“I was.” You pause to take a long sip of champagne, finding comfort in the way the bubbles pop against your tongue. You hope the alcohol will help to take the edge off the way your heart has started to pound against your ribs. “It’s a shame you had to come over here and ruin my mood.”

“Couldn’t help but notice you were staring at me, love,” he says, “Thought maybe you had something you’d like to say to me.”

You feel a hot spike of irritation as his lips curve effortlessly around the word love. Tom has always been a fan of pet names. The ease in which they roll from his tongue in that smooth, accented voice never fails to charm the room, and though you like to think you’re immune to his allure, you can feel the word spinning around your head like a broken record.

“Not really,” you return coolly, maintaining your composure with the poise and precision of a seasoned actress. You even manage to flash him an apologetic smile. “No big award for you tonight, though? Must be heartbreaking.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Are you really still caught up on the BAFTA?” He asks, his voice lower and harder. 

The mood between you dips, and instinctively you find yourself moving away into a quieter corner of the room. As you drift away from the hordes of celebrities guzzling champagne, it’s as if the facade between you breaks down. Your smirk becomes harder, your eyes less forgiving - and in return, Tom’s smile sours into a grimace, and he holds himself straighter. The masks you wear come off, leaving you both bare and exposed. 

“No,” you respond darkly. You’re tucked away in the corner of the party, with your back almost against the wall as Tom lingers in front of you. Both of you have discarded your drinks glasses. “I couldn’t care less that you won the BAFTA, Tom. If the jury decided you were worthy, then you were worthy. I would have to be very unreasonable to disagree with the committee.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, Y/N.” Tom tilts his head to the side, flashing the tips of his shiny white teeth as his mouth loosens into a wild smile. 

“Fine.” You give him an excessive sigh, and you let your eyes drift towards his mouth. “I don’t buy it, Tom.”

Tom’s suit jacket breaks out into wrinkles as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You don’t buy what?”

“This act.”

Tom almost rolls his eyes again. “And which act are you referring to, Y/N?”

“The Mr Nice Guy Act, Thomas.” The way he flexes his jaw makes you lean nearer and smirk. “Everyone here thinks you’re such a wonderful man, but I see right through it.”

It’s hard to know precisely when your feelings towards Tom became so hostile, but you like to pinpoint the night of the BAFTAs in 2017 as the day you surpassed the point of no return. You were younger then - both of you - and things quickly got out of hand. You know Tom likes to pinpoint your ‘jealousy’ following his win and your snub at the awards show as the catalyst for your tumultuous relationship, but both of you know that night was the product of several cumulative events.

Your best friend had worked with Tom’s mate Harrison, all those years ago in 2016. You knew Harrison through her, and you got on well enough with him, so when the BAFTA academy had nominated both you and Tom as contenders for Rising Star, Harrison had orchestrated an exchange of phone numbers. However, given your packed schedule and press engagements, you had failed to respond to all of Tom’s attempts to contact you. 

One thing led to another. Tom assumed you were dodging his texts and started bad-mouthing you to Harrison. Word travelled to you that this guy - the competition - was throwing shade to your name, and so you might have made a few choice remarks about him on Ellen and suggested that Tobey Maguire was the best Spider-Man. Whatever. It was all so petty and childish, and it’d escalated to boiling point on the night of the BAFTAs when Tom hadn’t been able to shut up and thrust his win right into your face - quite literally. You can still remember the way he’d clutched the trophy as he’d shown it off in all its grandeur.

Ever since then, your relationship has been poisonous. A case of miscommunication and petty jealousy turned hostile, and now you’re in far too deep to even think about mending the fractured dynamic. 

“I am a nice guy,” Tom tells you. His eyes skim across your face, and you don’t miss the way they drag across the curve of your lower lip.

“As if.” You ponder which anecdote you should fall back on to prove your point, and it takes a while to select one: the pool of Tom’s past mistakes and moves against you is vast and wide. “Would a nice guy conveniently forget to invite me to Harrison’s birthday party?”

Tom winces, and something almost like regret flickers out across his face before he meets your eyes and hardens up his gaze. “I’ve already told you that was a case of miscommunication,” he says slowly, patronising. “I doubt you would have enjoyed it anyway, Y/N. Wasn’t exactly your type of party.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Your hand finds your waist, gripping firmly at your flesh to stop your fingers from shaking. The way Tom looks at you so intensely makes you feel strung-out and bare, and it’s almost as if he can see straight through you.

“It was a small, intimate gathering. From what I’ve been hearing, you’re a fan of the larger, more explosive parties, aren’t you?”

You could throttle him. You could really, truly throttle him. You know with certainty that Tom’s referring to the latest smear the media had run against you, which had placed you at an illegal rave in Downtown LA and cost you a role in a film you were passionate about. 

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Tom.” 

“Maybe not.” Tom’s closer to you now. You find your back brushing up against the wall as he steps nearer yet again, his shiny leather shoes sparkling beneath the light curving out from the chandeliers. “I’d like to think I know you quite well, though, Y/N. We have known each other for several years.”

“I’d use the word ‘known’ very loosely if I were you. I think it’s more like, ‘been plagued by’, but you do you, Tom.” 

He laughs, and this time the noise is lighter. You feel a little woozy from the champagne - or maybe it’s his cologne - and you let your hand wander up to rest on the top of Tom’s suit. You drag your fingers across the smooth material, marvelling at how soft the designer garb is to touch.

“Do you like my suit?” Tom asks, his voice lower than before. There’s a strange charge to the air between you, and you find yourself nodding.

“I disagree with the glasses, but your suit is decent. I have to admit that this colour looks flattering on you.” The bold burgundy tones bring out the warmth in his eyes, even if the stupid thin frames of his glasses obscure them. You watch as his pupils widen and feel the warmth of Tom’s breath as he inches in closer. 

“Thanks,” he says. Tom’s hand winds around your waist. “Your dress is very nice.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly feeling dry. You briefly wish that you had another glass of champagne to keep you occupied because you find your other hand joining the first and finding purchase on Tom’s shoulder. He’s very close to you, and there’s nowhere left to move because you’d backed up against the wall. Fleetingly you wonder what it must look like, to be hidden away at the back of the party and caged in like this, but you decide that the flurry of heated emotions passing through his eyes and the way his thumb pads over your waist is worth it.

Neither of you says a word, but you watch through wide eyes as Tom’s gaze flickers out across your lower lip. He inches in closer, almost painfully slowly, his demeanour radiating a shaky confidence as he tilts the angle of his head. You watch the hard lines of his mouth dissolve, and his smirk melts away into something like a smile as his eyes flutter shut. Now Tom is very close - so, so close - and the gap between your mouths narrows by the second.

He’s going to kiss you. You know he’s going to kiss you. Why is he going to kiss you? Why are you going to let him kiss you-

“Y/N! Hey, congrats on the film. I saw it last week with my wife, and she loved it-”

Tom springs back. You gasp a short breath of air as your eyes widen, and the film of scattered emotions that had temporarily disarmed you shatters. Tom’s cheeks are bright red, and he doesn’t seem to know where to look or what to do as he jams his hands into his trouser pockets and stares at the floor.

“-Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?”

Your throat tickles as you shake your head, looking up to see Mark Ruffalo standing there, his expression relaxed but growing in confusion as he drinks in the awkward tension rippling between you and Tom.

“No,” you say immediately, a bite to your voice. You refuse to look at Tom. “You weren’t interrupting anything.”

Mark releases a breath of relief and launches back into his speech, complimenting you profusely on your performance. You become distracted as you listen to him, but not enough to forget about the way Tom had leaned closer and brushed his thumb across your side almost gently. After a few moments of conversation, you can’t stop yourself from glancing over towards Tom, only to notice that he’s slunk away elsewhere. His absence makes your heart twist.

Another hour slips away, and you find yourself returning to the Moët for release. You can feel your composure gliding away from you with each fateful sip. Tom seems to have vanished, and you find yourself questioning if he’s so embarrassed by your moment in the corner that he had to leave. You wonder if that would be better than him staying.

But eventually, your eyes seek him out, as they always seem to do. And you catch him chatting with a woman, his arm around her shoulders and his lips brushed against her ear. Tom seems to feel your gaze on him, and his deep brown eyes meet with yours. He raises his eyebrows and whispers something into the woman’s ear that makes her laugh, and it sends something whipping down your spine.

It isn’t just jealousy - it goes deeper than that. It’s the realisation that you could never get away with this behaviour. You know that if the roles were reversed and it was you who had been seen getting close to two men in one night, you would be assigned a whole host of derogatory names. The double standards that exist in this artificial world of cameras and headlines make you feel sick to your stomach. You are not jealous of the woman beneath Tom’s arm, though you will admit it makes you feel uneasy - it’s the hypocrisy of it all that makes you seethe. 

“Excuse me,” you mutter to no one in particular. Tom’s eyes slip away from yours as you put down your empty glass and turn, heading in the direction of an exit. You wander the vast, glittering ballroom for a few moments before spying a door embedded in the back wall that leads out into a dark alleyway.

When you step out onto the street, the cold February air seems to bring your tipsiness to the forefront of your mind. You giggle softly to yourself and wrap your arms around your chest, your fingers rubbing rapid fiery circles across your exposed flesh as you try to drum up a heat.

You lean back against the wall and stare up at the vacant sky. LA is too polluted to see the stars, but you like to imagine they’re staring down back at you. In the distance, you can hear the sounds of laughter coming out from the hall, and out at the end of the alley you can see the street, cloaked in dark paparazzi vans and dim amber street-lamps, but tucked away up here alone, you feel at peace. 

“Cinderella runs away from the ball, yet again.”

You scowl. Your eyes move away from the dark blanket of clouds to see Tom. He’s ditched the glasses, but you can see the legs sticking out from the pocket sewn to the top of his suit.

“Joined by her ugly pumpkin.” You screw up your nose at your own words, cursing your fizzled mind for messing up the tale. “That’s not right, is it?”

Tom approaches you, his cheeks full of a rosy tipsiness. “Dunno,” he murmurs. “Think I like it better than being called your ugly sister, though.”

“Ew.”

You share a loud, unruly laugh with Tom, your voices mixing almost melodically. When you sigh, you lean further against the wall. 

“I hate it in there,” you find yourself admitting. “So many people were talking about me behind my back. It’s like they think I can’t tell that they’ve just been discussing me when I walk over and the conversation falls silent.” You slot your fingers together and play around with your thumbs. “Everything is so fake. It’s like a game to them.”

A cool breeze floats down the alley, and you find yourself shivering.

“It is a game,” Tom says slowly, all whilst slipping off his suit jacket. He holds it out to you, raising an eyebrow when you shake your head. “It’s cold, Y/N. I know you’re stubborn, but neither of us wants you to freeze out here.”

The mood between you feels tender, and you let yourself accept his warm jacket. You throw it across your shoulders and feel the warm embrace of his suit, and the husky traces of cologne nestled to the fabric, but Tom’s looking at you with an intense gaze, and the sight of his golden browns draws you back to the scenes from inside the party. 

“Saw you chatting with a woman inside,” you say, words a little sharper. “Trying to see how many times you have to try it on before someone bites?”

Tom flinches. The air fills with the sound of him clicking his tongue as he rubs his hands together. “You are so fucking petty, Y/N.”

You raise an eyebrow, responding to his clipped voice with surprise. “Hit a nerve, have I?”

He groans softly. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t swear at you. You just get under my bloody skin.”

You shrug. “You’ve said worse.”

“So have you.”

“Only because you deserve it.”

Tom’s bearing in on you again, but this time you feel more at ease. The scent of his cologne mixes with the sweet champagne that lays fresh across your palette, and it makes you feel delirious. You can’t stop yourself from reaching up and draping your hands across his shoulders, bringing him nearer.

“You drive me crazy,” Tom admits. His voice is husky, his eyes dark and intense. In the slight breeze, strands of his hair waft across his forehead.

“I can’t stand you,” you return. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as his hands dig into your waist. The rough render on the building behind you digs into your back as you loop your arms around Tom’s neck and bring him in closer.

“Neither can I, darling.”

It’s like magnetism - some sort of invisible force pulling you in before you can even fathom it. One moment you’re staring at Tom, scepticism in your eyes and anxiety thick in your chest, the next he’s surged forwards and captured your lips in a messy, sensational kiss. You gasp into his mouth, and your fingers tighten against the short hair at the nape of his neck as you kiss him back harshly. Your noses bump and your teeth collide as Tom grabs at your sides with fervour, and having him clutching at you is so hot that it takes your breath away. The kiss is messy and hurried, and it seems to melt down all the built-up tension and frustration you’ve been nurturing for years. It makes your head hurt, and all you can focus on is how crazy it is that you are kissing Tom Holland - and, horrifyingly, how much you don’t seem to hate it. 

It comes crashing down when there’s a round of flashes, and you hear the telltale sound of paparazzi photographs.

“Shit!” You push Tom away from you immediately, your breath hitching as your head snaps down to the end of the alley. Unbeknownst to either of you, you’ve been spotted by the men with those large, invasive lenses. The flashes continue, and you turn away, your actions almost in slow motion as you feel a wave of nausea travel across your chest.

“Y/N!”

“Tom, Tom!”

“Are you dating?”

“Having a bit of fun tonight, Y/N?”

A chorus of cataclysmic yells come racing down the alley and the howls of the paparazzi mix with the loud sound of camera shutters.

“Fuck.” Tom grabs your arm, and he pulls you away from them, bringing you both back into the party. There’s a tightness in your chest as you gasp for breath, walking in dizzying strides as you card your fingers through your hair anxiously. 

“No, no, no,” you mutter to yourself. You can hear the calls of the paparazzi ringing in your ears, and you dig your fingers into your temples for relief as you snap your head to glare at Tom. “Why did you just kiss me? What’s wrong with you?”

Tom looks pale, and his eyes are round with shock, but he still manages to stare at you incredulously. “You kissed me too?”

You bury your head in your hands. “This is it - this is the last straw. They’re going to have a field day with this.” You peek out at Tom through gaps in your fingers, laughing humourlessly. Your chest burns as you take in his disarmed expression and his deep chocolate eyes. “This is the end.”

“It… It was just one kiss.”

You shake your head furiously. “They’ll run with it. They’ll make a spectacle of us.” Your nails dig into the soft palms of your hands. “You are such an asshole.”

Tom’s mouth, a little red and puffy, twists into something of a snarl. “You kissed me! Why is this my fault?”

“It’s always your fault.” You pause and shake your head. You can’t help but fall back on the naive thought that this truly is all Tom’s fault. You’d been fine before him. You’d been looking into the starless sky. You’d been at peace. He’d just had to waltz on out and trick you into his lips. “Well, I hope you enjoy the end of your career.”

He raises a thin eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve been associated with me, which is the equivalent of getting a big black line scored right across your name.” You reach up and jerk his jacket from your shoulders, and roughly shove it back into Tom’s hands.

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“Really?” Your gaze hardens. “This is all just a game, Tom, don’t you see? We don’t get to decide who stays on top.” You laugh humourlessly, your tongue tasting sourly of champagne. “We have fucked up.”

Tom sets his jaw. One by one, he stuffs his arms through his suit jacket and tugs it back around his body, sinking into it forcibly. He pulls his glasses from the pocket and places them back on the bridge of his nose, balancing them crookedly.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Tom remarks, his voice cold and sharp. You briefly wonder if he understands the magnitude of the situation, and as he sweeps away without so much as a kiss on the cheek goodbye, you realise he probably does.

Without yet wholly understanding it, one drunken kiss has sealed your fate. As you stand there, twiddling with your thumbs in the back corner of the Vanity Fair party, your mind races. You know with absolute certainty that things will never be the same again, but not even your wildest dreams could compare to what is about to come.

buckle up bc I’m about to take us on a ride and a half. may as well have ended this with an ellipsis lmao.

↠  next part

any thoughts?! I am actually dying to know what you’re thinking lmao!! my askbox is open :D

taglist can be found in the series masterpost, which is the pinned post at the top of my blog

masterlist linked in my description 

[frickenfaded]

--SFW--

This is my first headcanon ever. It's kind of a headcanon anyway.. This is how I think the Feral Boys would react to (f!) Reader getting mad over something stupid while she's on her period.

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Dream

It was about midday and {Y/n} had to force herself to get out of bed to retrieve food. She decided she would get cereal and return straight to her blankets. Once in the quite kitchen, she reached up in a cabinet and grabbed a bowl, however she accidentally set it down way too hard and the brittle glass bowl shattered everywhere.

She was absolutely enraged. All she wanted was a bowl of cereal and *this* is what she gets? It didn't take long after to hear the thomping footsteps of her boyfriend coming down the stairs to see what the commotion was about. {Y/n} stood with her arms crossed, about to make a move for the broom. "Fucking damnit." She cursed, unbelievably mad at the smallest event.

Dream ended up beating {Y/n} to the broom, sweeping up the shards of glass that littered the tile. He was being extremely careful and thinking his words over before speaking. He knew she was in her period, and that meant she gets angered easily and doesn't like being clung onto by anyone during the week. However, he recognized that she still appreciates his presence.

He steps a little closer, giving a small forehead kiss to his girlfriend before resuming the cleaning. "Baby, if you want too, you can lay in my bed while I edit. I'll clean this up and bring you some cereal." He suggested. "How did you know I even wanted cereal?" She asked. "Because, that's normally what you crave." He answered. She thought for a moment before deciding to take him up on his offer. "Thank you, baby." She mutters before heading upstairs.

George

The relationship between {Y/n} and George was still fairly new, this being their third month together. Therefore, he still isn't exactly sure what his girlfriend needs during her special time of the month. However, he's sort of getting the idea. It's just a bit tricky for him to know for sure when she's going through it, because she doesn't tell a soul. She leaves them guessing, taking pride in it even.

But this time was a little different. She was laying down in bed, trying to read the book "Water for Elephants" by Sara Gruen, when the realization struck her that she was currently using her last (pad/tampon/other). She didn't want to leave her bed, much less her house. She angrily closed her book and slammed in down on the nightstand, thinking over her options in her mind.

George just happened to be passing by her door whenever she slammed her book. It startled him a little, but he entered her room nonetheless. Although she heard him come in, she refused to tear her focus away from her thoughts. George knew something was up a couple days ago. The possibility of her monthly happening was a thought, but he wasn't 100% sure.

"Is everything okay?" He asked, walking over to the edge of the bed before sitting down. "No." She immediately answers, crossing her arms over her chest. She still didn't really want to give in that easily, though. She still had her pride, despite her situation. "What happened?" He wondered. "Nothing." She replied, avoiding his careful gaze.

"C'mon, Love, we both know that isn't true." He says, softening his tone of voice. She almost instantly melts into his stare. She huffs out a breath, however desperate to keep her silence. He treads lightly, brushing a strand of messy hair from her face, whilst caressing her cheek in the meantime. She finally gives way, breaking through to him as if a dam just broke. "Fine." She states.

He smiles, knowing he won without asking the question that would set him up for failure. "I'm on my last (pad/tampon/other) and I don't want to leave the house." She explained. George breaks into a small fit of laughter. "Was it really something that simple? That's nothing compared to what I thought was wrong. But I can get you what you need, Love." He says, after narrowly avoiding a harsh glare. "Would you like anything else while I'm gone?" He wonders. "Hm.. Maybe some chocolate... Please." She answers. He nods before giving her a swift kiss.

Sapnap

Sapnap.. Is quite the special case, to say the least. He does n o t pick up on hints very well... Which leaves him very lost and confused when his girlfriend all of the sudden starts acting a lot different than normal and suddenly more distant with him. She didn't exactly mean too, it was just what happens during her period.

He was scared that he did something wrong because of this, but he couldn't come up with a reason why. Did he leave the toilet seat up? Maybe he accidentally ignored her? What if he forgot about something they were supposed to do? Dear God, did he forget their anniversary or her birthday or something? Despite what he thought he did, he wanted to try and "make things right."

He entered her bedroom as she watching a John Mulaney special on Netflix. He stood beside her bed. "Hey, could we play Pokémon together?" He asked. "No. I don't feel like it." She didn't mean to add the annoyed tone to her voice, but she did. She was just annoyed in general. "D-Did I do something wrong?" He asked, scared of her answer. It was then when she realized she was being short with him and distant.

She sighed, knowing she owed him an explanation now. "I'm sorry, Darling. I didn't mean to come across like that. I'm just... cramping really bad today, and I'm really really really craving some ice cream, but I don't want to get up either." She explains, rambling just a little bit. He blushes a little when he realizes what was going on, but he quickly retrieves some ice cream for the both of them, before joining her in bed and finishing the John Mulaney special together.

Karl

Manz is prepared. I'm talking, he's got a secret box in his closet filled with everything she may need, from pads, to tampons, to chocolates, to a heating pad, he has it all. He's so dedicated to making sure he does everything right that he has a period tracker app on his phone to know when she's about to start. Therefore, he knows when he needs to back up and give you some breathing room.

So one day, when his girlfriend got very upset just because her phone died, he knew exactly why. "Do you need absolutely anything? I brought you a chocolate bar." He says when he hears the ruckus from her room. She softens up almost immediately, always touched by the way he knows what to do and say.

"Thank you.. Could you plug my phone up, please?" She asks. He happily jumps on the simple task, despite her charger literally being right beside her. "And maybe... could we cuddle for a little while too?' She wonders. He smiles brightly. "Definitely." He agrees, before slipping in bed with her as they start to watch Hamilton for the third time.

Quackity

Quackity seems to think it's comedy gold whenever his girlfriend gets infuriated by the tiniest things. He was sitting on the couch, watching something on the T.V., while {Y/n} came out of her room for the first time since today. She came to get a snack herself, not wanting to bother her boyfriend much.

But what she failed to notice as she was walking through the Living Room, was the Thanos doll that Quackity completely forgot to pick up earlier. And of course, she stepped on the damned thing. She yelped, almost falling over thanks to the toy. In a fit of rage, she picked the doll up and stomped over to one of the open windows, throwing it as hard as she could into the outside world.

Quackity could not stop laughing from the moment she stepped on the plastic toy, now laughing harder than ever because of it. "Shut up! It's your stupid fucking fault the thing was left there anyway!" She cursed, clearly displeased. He didn't listen, of course. "I-I'm sorry." He said through his laughter. As much as she wanted to stay mad, his laughter was contagious.

She ended up bursting with laughter as well, their voices mixing like milk and honey in the atmosphere. {Y/n} joined Quackity on the couch, laying across his lap as he played with her hair, the two starting to talk about random topics. She always went through a few days on her period where she was just a little more clingy than the others, but Quackity just learned to accept that. He wouldn't say it exactly, but he did actually enjoy it.

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That's it for this one lovelies! As I mentioned, this is indeed my first headcanon ever and actual content post I've posted on Tumblr. Therefore, I hope it wasn't too shabby. I'll get the hang of things soon, but for now, if you'd like to read any other things I've posted, the list is short, because I am pretty new here, but this option is available to you though this link:

My Creations♡

I hope you enjoy your stay here! Requests are always open! ♡♡

[heyheydidjaknow]

Hiya! I have a request for an x reader songfic. Snap out of it by the Arctic monkeys gives me so many 2012 Donnie vibes. Maybe one where the reader is in love with Donnie but he likes April and the reader wants Donnie to, you know, "snap out of it" and notice that maybe April isn't the best person towards him. It can end in unrequited love or with a happy ending, that's for you to decide but I just really want to see this concept. Thanks! :>

(feel free to ignore this request if you want 👁️👁️)

Oh, I’m not about to turn away a chance to be pushed out into foreign territory. I admittedly hadn’t known what a songfic was until wikipedia and @kunimikat saved my ass, so this was fun-- and a bit scary-- to write. I hope you like it, even if it might not have been exactly what you were expecting.

April was your friend. She had been for a while, now, since she had moved to NYC. The two of you had come even closer after her kidnapping and initiation into the “Hamato Clusterfuck” as you had affectionately called it at first—you had wisely made a conscious effort to only get involved with them as far as you could throw them, sticking solidly to offering emotional support and half-decent food. At the beginning, you had, on multiple occasions, even begged her to stay out of it, trying to reason with her that getting herself killed by a psychotic armored man with an axe to grind for the crime of hanging out with four teenage shut-ins was an incredibly bad idea. When your logical arguments fell on deaf ears—her owing them apparently being her ball and chain—you had designated yourself as her supervisor to make sure she did not do something overly impulsive. She was reckless, overly trusting, immature, but you loved her like a sister. You balanced each other out.

One of the benefits of knowing someone for so long is that you learn things about them that they do not know about themselves. In April’s case, it had been that she was terrible at making up her mind

 What's been happenin' in your world?

You had borne witness to the love triangle transpiring between Donatello Hamato, Casey Jones and her for the better part of a year now. You were relieved that the two boys had backed off each other’s throats somewhat over the period, but it was as infuriating as it was fascinating to watch them fight over her like a chew toy. Of course, April had her preference between the two, favoring the hockey player mainly for his general normalcy, which was a decision you could approve of, but she had hesitated until recently to make that obvious to the other point because, in her words, “The last thing I want is to deal with is all of that awkwardness.” You could hardly blame her for her hesitation, but you thought it almost cruel not to make her feelings apparent to her lovestruck puppy.

 What have you been up to?

Donnie was the most tolerable of the five, the most normal in your opinion. He was an infatuated, insecure teenage boy with more an affinity towards machines and, best of all, seemed concerned for your friend, all things that you could get on board with. In your opinion, overbearingness is preferable to negligence in this case, and you were just happy that someone physically capable had her back. As such, when you were stuck at the lair for hours waiting for her lessons with Splinter to be over—you were her ride—you found yourself spending the most time around him, and as time went on, you started going out of your way to do so.

Seeing as April and Casey were your only other friends, it was natural you would get romantically attached. They—a couple by high school standards—approved of your crush, and all you told your guardian(s) was that they were smart, fit, and financially responsible, so they asked few questions.

You knew, logically, this was not a competition and that April had little interest in him.

But something about the way he gazed at her made you burn green with envy.

 I heard that you fell in love, or near enough.

His eyes were just so… wistfully longing. He watched as the redhead and her boyfriend played against Michelangelo and Raphael in a game of charades. His expression was just so soft, lips pursing and popping silently as he grieved from his seat in his lab.

It had been a downhill spiral on your end from there, and as your own attachment grew for him, his own depression worsened. Your eyes drifted from your friend as you tried to make him see that, no, the world was not ending because his first crush did not like him back. You would make subtle comments about how happy his brothers were, how happy she and Casey were together, how smart he was and how many people would die for a kind, loving, smart guy to come around and sweep them off their feet. This, again, fell on deaf ears; he would always comment on how, if he were such a catch, April would not have chosen Casey, like It is his fault for her having more of a taste in cocky, fun-loving guys than intelligent ones. Half of it was probably your lack of experience in subtlety, but no matter what you would try to say, whenever romance came up in conversation, his words turned sharp and bitter.

On that day, you just cracked.

 I gotta tell you the truth.

You walked over to the lab door, closing it in a single fluid motion. ‘I’m better at being blunt, anyways.’

He blinked; his trance was interrupted by the small slam.

“She’s not into you.”

“Huh?”

You crossed the room and placed your hand on the desk, expression stern and stone cold. “April,” you repeat. “She’s not interested.”

He did not meet your gaze. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.” You leaned down to look him in the eye. “You aren’t her type. You’re supposed to be smart.” You placed the other on the back of his chair, arms cagging him in, almost. “ She has a boyfriend,” you continued, softer. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” He tapped the side of his thumb against the table absently, throat tight. “But what else do you suppose I do? Submit to the fact that I’ll be alone forever?” He looked up at you. “I know this may be hard for you to believe,” he continued, easily slipping out from under your arms, “but I don’t exactly have a ton of options. She’s the only person who’s ever looked at me like that; how am I supposed to move on from the only person who’s ever even given me a chance?”

 I wanna grab both your shoulders and shake, baby.

 You rolled your eyes, turning to watch him as he crossed to the other side of the room. “That is some blatant bullshit,” you glared curtly.

“Is it, though?” His back was to you as he crouched down in front of his centrifuge, fiddling with it. “As someone who’s never—”

“So help me, if you go off about me not understanding being rejected and feeling like they’d die alone, I’ll rip your tongue out.” You stood back up properly.

“What would you know about it?” He followed suit, eyes locking on yours. “You have other people to choose from.”

“And you don’t?” You crossed your arms, smiling incredulously. “How do we differ, exactly?”

“Besides the obvious?”

You scoffed. “You’ve seen your brothers. Never stopped them.”

“And I’m happy for them, that they’re so charismatic as to be able to find partners so easily.” You could taste the bitterness in his words. “But I’m not them, in case you didn’t notice. That girl out there?” He pointed to the door. “She’s the first and only person in the universe who’s ever given me a second glance.”

“So you’re just fucking blind, now?” You heard your voice rise without your input.

“What’re you talking about?” His voice grew with yours.

“You’re lovesick,” you spat. “Snap out of it.”

 Snap out of it.

You ran your fingers through your hair. “Or maybe you’re just dense.” You felt a laugh rise in your throat. “I mean,” you gestured, “clearly picking up on verbal subtext isn’t your forte.”

You gave him five seconds. “What,” you continued, rubbing your face with your hands, “Are you—” You stopped. “You are, aren’t you?”

Nothing.

You took a slow breath, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “Let me put it in simple, plain English for you.”

 I get the feelin' I left it too late, but baby—

 “As her friend? You’re a fucking creep.” You crossed your arms across your chest. “Following her the way you did—wait your turn—” A finger interrupted his defense. “Following her the way you did? Objectively creepy. Staring at her all the time? Also fucking creepy.” You felt your nails dig into your skin. “Any person would call it as it is.”

He opened his mouth again to argue. You did not interrupt him this time, but he did not argue, the silence falling like a weighted blanket over the two of you.

“As your friend,” you continued, voice lowered, “as someone who cares about you, I know April, and she can’t give you what you want. It’s not her; she needs to be free, and I love her, but you’re looking for something that’s just not there.” Your voice was certain. “You’re looking for someone to spend your life with. I’m right, aren’t I?”

 Snap out of it.

 He was still for a moment, looking off into the ether. He nodded, face melancholy.

You walked over, resting a hand on his shoulder tentatively. “I’m not saying it’s stupid of you to not be over her. Again, I love her to bits, so I see the appeal.” You broke eye contact, trying to articulate exactly what you meant. “But I’m worried,” you explained slowly, “you’re only hung up on her because you’re scared of being alone. That’s not fair to her or yourself.”

“Do you know that?”

“No,” you admitted easily, “but you and I are the same way, and trust me, I’ve been around the heartbreak block.” You smiled, trying to relieve the tension.

That earned a chuckle. A small one, but a chuckle none the less.

You reached up, cupping his cheek in your hand. “There are seven billion people on this planet. Any one of them—myself included—would be lucky to have a life with you.”

 If that watch don’t continue to swing—

 A pause.

“Do you honestly believe that?”

You nodded, your thumb running along the line of his eye socket. “I do.”

 —or the fat lady fancies havin' a sing—

 You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his cheek gently.

 —I'll be here, waitin' ever so patiently—

 “Y/N!” You pulled back as you heard April calling your name. “We need a moderator!”

You started back towards the door, waving gently. “I wish you good tidings, Donatello.” You smiled quietly, serenity itself standing in the doorway. “May whoever is fortunate enough to call you their own bring you happiness. You deserve it.” You slipped out of his lab, running over to break them up.

Donatello rested his fingers on where your mouth had lit his skin. He felt a bittersweet smile fade onto his face.

—for you to snap out of it.

And that was when it began.

List of Works

[hoe-imaginess]

hostage | madara uchiha

Madara x Tobirama’s s/o

summary: Tobirama’s wife is held captive when the Uchiha invade Senju territory. She does what she can to keep the peace. It doesn’t last long.

word count: 9.5k 

warnings: sex as a bargaining tool, physical/emotional harm, heavy angst, mentions of miscarriage/abortion, brutal use of sharingan

a/n: part of a long and self-indulgent founders era fic I was writing, but recently gave up on. so this is just a very choppy rough draft. it’s all over the place. apologies for the poor & skimpy writing style. fair warning: bit of a darker rendition of Madara than what I usually write on this blog. IM me if you want more details before reading

⤰

They attack in the dead of night. 

With the main host of the Senju army battling in far-away provinces, Hashirama and Tobirama with it, few seasoned shinobi are left to protect the plot of land which the Senju call home. 

The Uchiha overwhelm the paltry resistance quickly and efficiently, then set about infiltrating the rest of the territory to claim as theirs. 

They’re met with little defiance. Of the Senju who don’t escape into the woods, slipping through Uchiha clutches before they can fully surround the vicinity, a majority left to endure the raid are civilians with no real experience or means to contend the invaders’ assault. 

Chaos ensues. Uchiha chase down fleeing families, drag them back to the center of the camp where hostages are corralled. They bark and shout orders at stubborn Senju who refuse to abide, sometimes resorting to violence to win obedience. 

Then come the fires. The Senju, in one final, practiced act of loyalty, set ablaze as much property as they can in an effort to destroy any intelligence on Senju affairs which the Uchiha might find and use to their favor. 

Some of these renegades are stopped before they can succeed, others manage to do their part before being apprehended. 

She is one among them, burning the room in her home which her husband uses so often to practice and hone his jutsu; where plots of war are imagined and scribed; where important records are stored. 

Tobirama would balk to see all his work going up in flames, but she knows that it’s what he would want her to do. 

The anguish that beats mercilessly in her chest as she watches her home catch fire is dreadful. 

Such a small little place, she thinks. Just big enough for the two of them. They hadn’t been married for more than a few months now. Arranged, like so many unions those days. 

Yet the little, perfect home held such memories in that short time; watching smoke rise from the walls and foundations makes her sick with sorrow. 

But it must be done. Whatever the invaders might pillage from her home, they would find nothing to their benefit, and nothing that might end up hurting Tobirama, or the Senju. 

Two Uchiha men grab her just as she watches the roof of her home collapse in on itself, pillars weakened and corrupted by flame. 

It’s a sodden and meager thing to find so fulfilling, but it’s the only thing from which to reap comfort. 

Doomed as she may now be to whatever her captors have planned, she, too, has plans: plans to remember Tobirama’s prudence, adopt it as her own. Whatever awaits her, she can face with her chin held high.

As she’s herded into a crowd of the Senju hostages, uncertain of their holistic fate, the cries and tears of anguish from men, women, and children alike hurt her beyond words. 

When the leader of the invaders stands before them and addresses them, with his coal-black eyes piercing every one of them even in the dark void of night, she feels anger beyond words. 

And when she learns of his plans to occupy their land, to keep them as prisoners of war, she feels determination. 

⤰

When she’s brought before Madara Uchiha in the coming days for the purpose of interrogation, he senses immediately that she isn’t a Senju.

Arranged marriages aren’t uncommon, and Madara knows Hashirama is quick to support alliances with clans he finds trustworthy enough. Madara wonders who, among the Senju prominent enough to be pursued for political marriage, might call this woman their wife. 

Feeling foolish for having not expected such a question in advance—though somewhere, she’s hardly able to blame herself, given the chaos of the last few days—her mind races for explanation when he inquires about her husband. 

“I’m a widow,” she lies. “He died months ago.”

She remains with the Senju to uphold the alliance her marriage created, she says, hoping he believes it. 

His gaze is startling, and she fears intermittently that he’s staring right through her with those merciless eyes, extracting the truth under her lies, truths that needn’t be spoken, only simmering underneath the surface for his scrutiny to grab. 

She feels apprehension like she’s never known when, after her explanations, he’s quiet. Utterly quiet. 

Then, just as she tries and fails to steel her heart’s rapid beating, he dismisses her. 

As she’s led out of the tent the Uchiha have constructed for their own purposes of war, she takes a calming breath. 

If she plans on putting her wits to use and curbing the punishments soon to be expounded against the Senju innocents, she needs to leverage herself with composure. 

She can’t let Madara Uchiha rattle her this much if she plans on contriving against him. 

If she plans on winning his trust.

⤰

It’s fairly easy to be granted an audience. 

She’s rigid in her loyalty to the Senju, and answers any of Madara’s interrogations about Senju information with silence or ignorance. Still, she’s compliant with otherwise basic facets of the Uchiha occupation; she tells him where best to find food and water in the land; from which fields they might find the most harvest; offers insight on neighboring clans that may contend the Uchiha occupation of Senju territory, loyal to the Senju as they were. 

In compensation, Madara is usually merciful with her requests. She asks that the Senju hostages be given more daily rations and more room in which to sleep and live, now that the Uchiha occupy most of their old homes. 

Generally, entreatments to the betterment of their well-being are met with leniency. Something for which she is glad, but the brother, Izuna, is not. 

She hears them arguing sometimes: Izuna claiming that his elder brother is being too forgiving on the enemy—she assumes she is the enemy in question—and Madara stating in response that he has no quarrel with Senju commoners, and that amending some of their grievances is no harm to their cause. 

These small victories continue to mount, until she finds herself at his side almost daily, discussing hostage afflictions, enduring his queries and, occasionally, even his frustration at receiving no answers. 

This frustration burgeons quickly, until she’s half-convinced that her play at ignorance is one he sees right through. But he always dismisses her when his irritation becomes visible and unavoidable, almost as if to save her from facing the brunt of it. 

It’s the first of the strange, apprehensive intimacies that he gives her. 

More apparent, soon after, are his long-held gazes. 

They sweep over her, inspect her while she talks, greedily scrutinizing her responses. He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through her when his dark eyes linger for too long. 

She isn’t naive enough to think this prolonged regard is devoid of any suspicious undertone, nor is she naive to dismiss the lust behind his gazes; the careful inspections of her very body that describe something hidden and desiring under his facade. 

She doesn’t want him to look at her like that. She doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the way it makes her skin crawl, or her heart stutter. 

But how can she be ungrateful for his dangerous admiration when it might prove profitable?

⤰

She reaps the benefits of his greed not long after their invasion. 

He’s taken up residency in one of the precluded houses near the center of the camp. No guards stand watch outside; he doesn’t need them. 

When she asks for entrance to his room he gives it, albeit cautiously. She doesn’t bother disguising her visit under any pretense; she’s there for him, and he knows this, apparently, judging by the careful look he gives her when she walks in and shuts the door behind her. 

Shame and irritation sizzles underneath her skin, but she ignores it. Her efforts have guaranteed the safety of the innocents under Uchiha rule so far, but those efforts won’t last forever. There’s more to be done. 

It’s not long until she’s pressed against him. Insistently her hand rubs over the space between his thighs. He’s soft, unaffected by her touch. It discourages her, but she continues, regardless. 

“What do you hope to gain from this?” he asks, eyes steely and trained on her, as if her eager hand isn’t even there. 

He hasn’t made a move to stop her, so she urges herself on. 

"Isn’t this what you want?” she implores.

“What makes you believe that?”

“The way you look at me.” 

It’s a calm declaration, though she’s still explicitly hiding something under her tone, he sees, something like frustration. 

“How do I look at you?” he inquires.

When she refuses to answer, he lifts a finger under her chin and forces her gaze to him. 

“Like you want to control me,” she answers bitterly.

The bulge under her hand twitches to life. She rubs harder. His face changes; his expression is tighter, more concentrated. 

“And that’s what you want?” His hand stretches across the back of her neck, keeps her head still. Fingers brush at the nape in deceptively gentle tandem. “To be controlled?” 

“No.” She squeezes her hand, hard. He replies with an angry, swift breath. “You could never control me.” 

The hand at her nape curls into her hair and yanks hard, so hard that her rubbing stops. 

“I already do.”

She’s infuriated by his words, he can see that plainly on her face. But he doesn’t care. She’s made the mistake of dangling her seductions in front of him, and he’ll rise to the occasion, if she's so determined to stir him. 

It shocks her how smoothly he maneuvers her to the futon at their feet, lays her down and climbs over her; how expertly his mouth captures hers and his tongue slides over her lips. 

She opens her mouth obediently, lets him explore. Shame courses through her when a hand between her thighs coaxes a pleased, albeit startled hum from her mouth. 

His fingers work her up quickly, pull her clothes off without a hiccup or delay. 

She had, foolishly, underestimated the strength of him. After she’s stripped bare, when he holds her arms down, there’s no room for her to fight back. As he looms over her, powerful and dangerous, she realizes she should be shaking in fear, in hatred, in uncertainty. 

Instead, her body is calm, forcefully calm. 

Sensing this, he sees it not as her resolve, but as a challenge. 

She refuses to close her eyes when he starts, and stares up at him, disputing his gaze. The pleased sigh that leaves his mouth when he starts rocking into her makes her shiver, despite her determination to keep her body still, keep it pliable for his pleasure but loyal to her convictions. 

His thrusts are deep and hard, reaching into her in ways she didn’t even know possible until now. Her breath catches with every snap of his hips, until those breaths are choking off into surprised gasps when he angles his body a certain way, hits a certain spot inside of her that makes her legs jolt with pleasure. 

One hand is planted firmly into the sheets beside her, keeping his body suspended over her. The other holds her thigh, keeps it pressed down to ensure she’s stretched as open as he needs her to be. 

When pleasure urges him to go harder, he takes her leg and curves it around his waist to dig into her deeper. With the new angle she can peer down, watch his cock spear into her with precise finesse. She tears her eyes away, the sight of it making her nerves tingle, making the unbidden pleasure that much more potent. 

Even if she wanted to vacate her mind, to numb herself to all feeling until she could be sure he was done and her task finished, it’s an impossible feat. Too many sensations; his heavy breath coming in low pants; strong thighs shoving against her legs with every thrust; his eyes, even when she turns from them, searing into her, pinning her down.  

A flush spreads over her body, hot and feverish and anxious. In the scant light she sees his skin giving way to his own pleasure; sweat lines the curve of his prominent clavicles, a drop on his brow as it furrows with the heightened pace of his thrusts. 

She starts to tremble uncontrollably as he roughly pounds into her, losing some of his rhythm, a basic need for release urging him. Rumbling, chest-born moans spill from his lips, and against her body’s wishes, she cums with a hard-fought whimper. 

As she shivers through the onslaught of pleasure, he stares down at her, his face an emotionless canvas.

She doesn’t even realize he’s near his end until he grabs onto her hard, grunts loud and staggered, then stops moving. 

He takes a moment to let the pleasure sink in, eyes closed to revel in the wet heat surrounding him, pulsing and twitching. Then he pulls out.

He leaves her on the mat, naked, curled into herself as if to hide the shame of her orgasm. Nothing in his posture speaks of an identical sentiment on his part. The sex she finds so monumentally impairing, he sees as nothing more than what it is: sex. 

No sooner than he moves away from her is he dressing, the raw muscle of his back moving with every motion, his sweat-glazed scars glistening in the moonlight that invades from closed curtains. 

Before he leaves, he says, “I assume you have herbs.” 

Her eyes open. 

The herbs. 

She had almost forgotten. She hasn’t needed to take them since Tobirama left, since there was no one else to share her bed…

The thought of Madara’s seed quickening inside of her makes her nauseous. She’s almost grateful he’s reminded her of the contraceptives. 

“Yes,” she says. She’ll take them first thing in the morning. They were made to work even after the fact. No need to panic. 

“Good.” 

He leaves her in his room, and she falls asleep despite her errant thoughts.

⤰

She draws a bath for herself and slips into the lukewarm water. 

The bruises and love-marks haven’t gone away. Every time they do, every time her skin is returned to its unsullied state, she’s in his bed again, tempering him, giving herself over to his rough desires in some hope it will continue to coax leniency out of him. 

She’s been bathing more often, she realizes: some meager attempt to wash his scent and his touch from her, no matter the pleasure she takes from it in kind. 

But there’s still much resistance in her thoughts when she gives herself over to him, a chiding reminder in the back of her head that says what she’s doing is shameful. 

She’s a married woman, after all; widow, in Madara’s eyes. 

But the masquerade doesn’t take away from the guilt she feels every time she opens her legs for his lust. It’s not even easy to imagine it’s Tobirama anymore. Tobirama isn’t so purposefully rough, isn’t keen on making pleasure so hard-fought with such domination that she receives from the Uchiha. 

A chill runs through her to think of the difference between them, to think she might never again know the softer, more loving touch of her husband. The possessive, taking nature of Madara’s intimacy might be all she ever knows. 

She touches the skin under her breast, feeling no texture on the flesh, but knowing the seal Tobirama left is still there: a risky, but comforting reminder of his caresses. 

She so misses them. She misses his voice, his touch, his earthy scent. The room around her is so devoid of it. The very air feels seized by the conquest of her Uchiha captors. Every breath she draws is more of their smoke, their fire, their danger.

She sinks underneath the surface of the bathwater, eyes closed, a calming air reserved in her lungs. 

The water is comforting, reminds her of Tobirama. She imagines it’s him surrounding and warming her skin, if only for a moment. 

She lets the world around her numb to nothingness, hoping at some point, so too will her anxieties leave her and make this dilemma all the easier to endure.

⤰

Izuna hadn’t meant to come across her this way.

The woman isn’t answering his brother’s summons, and the guards stationed outside her home say she won’t respond to the calls or demanding knocks they make at her door. 

Izuna isn’t a patient man. He has much better things to do than fetch his brother’s stubborn whore. 

The guards at the door had apparently been warned not to intrude on her sanctity more than necessary, and utter a protest when Izuna barges into her home unannounced. He ignores their murmuring, unfamiliar with the respect—or whatever it is—that keeps them compliant. 

The living area is empty and so is the kitchen. He calls her name once, then twice, irritation coloring his shouts. They garner no response. 

At the back of the house, he hears a sound, and goes to it. He hears it again once he’s closer, coming from the washroom, he thinks. 

He knocks once. 

No response.

He knocks again.

Still, no response. 

Sufferance all but worn, he pulls open the door. 

There’s a bath of water, her form distorted underneath its surface. His intrusion is apparently louder than any previous call for her attention and she folds up quickly from underneath the water, breaking the surface and sending splashes everywhere in her haste to glance around, size him up, and cover herself for modesty. 

Too late. He’s seen it. 

Never mind her naked body. Even if he needs to be forgiven for barging in on her later, he doubts, now seeing the mark that she quickly goes to hide under her breast, that she’ll be getting mercy from him or any other Uchiha from this point on. 

⤰

When Izuna drags her into the war tent, Madara is more startled by the interruption than irritated. 

She’s half-clothed, body and hair wet from the remnants of what he assumes was an interrupted cleanse; Izuna has a distraught look of fury on his face that never bodes well. What surprises Madara most, however, is the way she cowers into herself when Izuna throws her down at his feet. 

“What is this, Izuna?” Madara demands of his brother, mildly offended to witness this treatment of her, at his brother’s hand, no less. Madara’s intimacies with her are common knowledge, if not frowned upon by some of his Uchiha lieutenants. 

Izuna points an accusative finger down at her. “Look at it.”

Madara blinks through his confusion, waiting for clarity. Izuna hisses in anger, grabs her hair, and yanks her upright. 

“Show him,” he commands her.

She groans angrily in response. 

He yanks a little harder. 

“Show him.”

Madara’s suspicion gains with rapid unease. The doubt always tugging at the rear of his conscience comes to the forefront, ready to be fed with truths, ready to reap its victory. 

Izuna forces her to stay still, then claws at the hand she has wrapped about her stomach, hiding something beneath the haphazardly-adorned clothing. 

Madara catches on, and approaches. 

She slows her writhing when he crouches down in front of her. Then something like preemptive defeat rushes through her when he puts his hands on her, and she stills completely.

Madara doesn’t know what he expects to see beneath the fold of the robe he pulls away from her skin—the skin which is always covered by bandages when he strips her bare at night; courtesy, she always says, of a wound received during the invasion—but Tobirama’s Senju’s hiraishin mark is definitely the last.

The silence that ensues as he scrutinizes the seal is far more tormenting, she thinks, than any punishment he can possibly have in store for her. 

He’s enraged, of that she’s sure. And the indignant, defiant scowl on her face which receives him when he looks at her undoubtedly makes that worse. 

But she’s been found out, she knows. There’s little else she has to her aims at this point except her resentment, a resentment which she can now display with liberation. 

Her masquerade is extraneous now; any excuse she can possibly make redundant. She has to accept her fate, with her chin held high. 

Like Tobirama would. 

But the conviction doesn’t last long. 

“Hold her down,” Madara tells two of the Uchiha men in the room. 

She panics. 

When Izuna’s hands leave her and more vindictive ones take their place, she starts kicking away, trying to fight and make their hold on her that much more difficult to win. 

But it’s useless against the pure fear that runs through her when Madara slips out of the tent and returns a moment later, in his hand, an iron poker which had been mending the campfire outside. 

When he brings it over to her, she feels the heat radiating off of its glowing, orange, sharp tip. 

Her heart rate skips into the margins of delirium and she shakes her head. 

“Don’t—” she pleads, glaring up at him. “Don’t—”

Madara presses the singeing iron against the skin below her breast and she screams. Loud and ragged. He doesn’t care. 

Even before the deed is done, the smell of her own burnt flesh nauseates her beyond the limits of her endurance, and she passes out. 

⤰

The burn is so severe that it leaves her bed-ridden for days on end. 

Every twist and turn of her body stretches the thin, pink skin and leaves her whimpering in pain. 

Uchiha medics tend to her wound. She isn’t allowed the relief of healing jutsu; the burn is treated with oils and creams which alleviate only some of the pain, and none of the superficial scarring. Something for which she knows she has Madara to thank. He wants her to bear the mark of her deceit, wants the charred flesh to serve as a reminder of mockery. 

She had slighted him with her seductions, made a fool of him with her deception. The burn itself would be a meager sanction in comparison—he could have killed her, after all—if not for the scornful significance it held that did more justice to his condescension than any words could.

Any semblance of superiority her secret had once given her is all but crushed with the wound. Tobirama’s seal had soothed her, served as a pillar of faith and courage; a warm breath of comfort on her skin whenever the chill of her captors’ doujutsu fixed her, whenever Madara’s gaze searched her for weakness. 

Knowing her husband’s latent protection remained hidden from the eyes of the invaders had been enough, amidst all the turmoil, to shield her from fear. 

Now it was gone, rendered useless and indiscernible under corrugated skin. 

Like her home, her body now, too, at the hands of the Uchiha, denied her refuge. 

Yet in some twisted, ironic way, the wound still grounds her. The pain is a bittersweet reminder that her body is alive, and not a shell for the hopelessness she feels inside. 

It’s a degrading and pitiful comfort. But it’s all she has now. 

⤰

Madara makes infrequent visits during her recovery. 

The first few are made in silence. As she lies there, pitiful and motionless, he stares without a word to spare. His scrutinizing gaze, both spiteful to set eyes upon her and satisfied to see her agony, is the only acknowledgement he gives. 

The patronizing graduates to interrogation. He stands over her impotent form, leering down as he demands to know the reason for her having the seal on her skin, demands to know her relationship to Tobirama Senju. 

The line of questioning betrays the deductions he’s already made. He’s already decided that the woman is Tobirama’s spouse, or at the least, some sort of lover. The intimate placement of his seal is telling enough, and her previous elusion on the subject of her purpose on Senju land is further proof. All the suspicions piece together and exploit her lies. 

But he wants to hear the truth from her own mouth, the very mouth which conspired to deceive him with its pleasure, keep him pliant with its warm caresses on his body. Only then will he be satisfied, only when she admits who she is, what she is, who she belongs to—

Then he can remind her that it’s he who owns her now. He who conquered her home as easily as he had conquered her. 

Her silence isn’t as defiant as she thinks, not by a long shot. To patronize her is a pleasant notion, but the hooded, resentful gaze she gives him fails to stir him in any way besides to sing praises of his own power. 

⤰

“Kill her,” Izuna insists. 

His determined indignation on the matter comes like a chant in the days following the revelation. 

Madara’s commitment to deciding how best to deal with her is only marginally interrupted by his brother’s input, but it does disrupt his logic and feed his own fury. 

He should kill her. Should string her up for the rest of the Senju to see: let her be an example to whoever else among them may have delusions of defying him. 

“What point is there in keeping her alive?” Izuna presses on. “Kill her. Send her body to the Senju army. Let them know we won’t be trifled with.”

“No,” is Madara’s decisive reply. “She serves more use to us alive.”

“I fail to see how. She’s done enough to outwit you. I would’ve thought you eager to be rid of her.”

Madara resents the comment, but tempers his irritation. “I know your dislike for Tobirama makes you enthusiastic to do her harm. And why is that? Because you know harm done to her is harm done to him.”

“Precisely.”

“Then you should understand the benefit of keeping her alive.”

“Fine. Keep her alive. But not unscathed. If you want to use her as leverage, deliver a gift to the Senju. The correspondence between you and Hashirama has been pitifully civil so far. Send something with the next envoy. Something of hers. A finger will do.”

“No.” Madara’s tone is unequivocally firm. “We will do no such thing.”

Madara has little doubt that his brother’s enmity runs deep enough that an adequate offense on her part, no matter how slight, might be cause for Izuna to damage her. That’s not something Madara can allow. 

His conscience forces away the fact that part of his aversion to his brother’s threats are rooted in possessiveness; Izuna has no claim to her, has no entitlement to her punishment. 

That’s Madara’s. That’s his. And his alone.

⤰

How she finds herself sharing his bed again, she may never know, and will never be brave enough to ponder. 

She’s silent when he moves inside of her. Even when he makes her cum, as easily and powerfully as he always has, she barely lets the ragged, frustrated moan loose from her lips for a second before closing her throat and swallowing down the tightness.

When he rolls off of her he lies in silence. Where he would usually get up to bathe or leave, he remains, like he's done so often recently, to sleep beside her. 

He taunted her once, told her he had no fears of sleeping beside her now, because she knows what it would mean for the Senju hostages if she tried anything. 

That aside, she’s half-convinced that he’s awake at all hours of the night regardless, waiting patiently for the opportunity to catch her plots and punish her accordingly. 

But how difficult would it be? To kill him, leave him, save as many hostages as she can while he bleeds out in the room, alone and cold. 

It’s a fantasy she allows herself to imagine over and over again. A fantasy too opportunistic to ignore after their nights of scornful passion leave her weak and spiteful. 

The kunai she left under her pillow feels cold as ice when she slowly reaches for it, hiding the purposeful movement behind a comfortable stretch. 

It’s been a long hour since she first played at sleep. She never hears him breathing, but considers his silence as good a signal as any that he’s unconscious. 

When she carefully turns over, she confirms that his eyes are closed. He sleeps on his back, always, as most shinobi do. Alert and at the ready even in slumber. 

Slowly she rises from under the sheets, ever so careful not to let the fabric move an inch across his skin. She should just slit his throat, she realizes. But piercing into him will be swifter, and more profitable. 

The kunai wavers in her hand. Killing unwitting men in their sleep isn’t so difficult a task; shinobi and kunoichi alike do it all the time, don’t they? That was war. 

It should be easy to stab down into his heart and twist, to watch him wake in tormenting shock as the blood fills his lungs and chokes him. She would enjoy that. 

But the wavering in her hand worsens to a subtle tremor. 

He’s not an unwitting man, not some simple enemy to kill for convenience. That makes her confidence ever harder to steel, but she has to. She has to kill him. 

She won’t wait a moment longer. Kill him, destroy him, and be done with it. 

But just as she raises the kunai, a strong hand wraps around her wrist in an unforgiving grip.

His eyes are open, glaring at her. 

She shivers with fear and rage as his hand tightens to a bruising grip. Her panic sends her mind into a frenzy of action. 

She can still do it. Just one stab downwards and she can end it. 

But even pushing down with both hands doesn’t overwhelm his strength. He still glares and scowls, infuriated.

She tries again, putting her entire body’s weight down on the weapon, limbs shaking with the effort. 

He doesn’t budge. 

He flips them instead, and the kunai is suddenly in his hands, pressed against her throat. 

“There are easier ways to kill me,” he mutters. If his blood is boiling at her trespass, nothing in his bored, thin voice betrays composure. “You could be more creative.”

Tears prickle her eyes. Her hands press desperately against his, trying to push the cold blade away from her skin. But he keeps it there. Even the smallest movement will slice the flesh. 

“Remember that you are the one at my mercy. I could kill you and every Senju in this camp any time I wish.”

“You’re horrible,” she seethes, breath shallow in anger. "I hate you.”

“I’m aware. Yet you continue to share my bed night after night. You still think you’ll gain anything from it?”

The words sting her pride, split her open to let the doubts and faults and fruitless depravities spill in. 

“You do nothing but shame yourself. Look at you. Spreading your legs for me like a dutiful whore, thinking it will somehow save you and your people. It’s pathetic—"

She slaps him, hard. 

Though his cheek burns with redness, he’s otherwise unfazed by pain. He scowls and slams her arm down to prevent any more of her rage. 

“You may think you have control over me,” she says in a seething whisper. Even with the kunai pressed against her jugular, the expression on her face is nothing short of brazen. A lofty, defeated brazen that comes across as scorn. “But you don’t, and you never will. There’s only one man I’ve ever loved. When you’re on top of me I think of him and only him. It makes it bearable. You’ll never be half the man that he is.”

He scowls at her, his eyes like burning, silent daggers. She knows she might have sealed her fate right then and there. But so be it. Let her last moments of life be spent spiting him. 

Her body relaxes, unconcerned with fighting whatever comes next. 

She doesn’t expect him to laugh. 

“Tell yourself that, if you must,” he says, with a sadistic, grim smirk. “But you know very well the power I have over you.”

His eyes turn crimson and she gasps, but by the time she makes to look away, it’s too late.

In the illusion, Tobirama is frowning at her, eyes wide, a sneer of disgust on his face. 

She doesn’t understand why, at first. Why does he look so gloomy? She feels only joy to see him. Joy and unbearable relief. 

She tries to run to him. But burning hands at her throat summon her back. Despite no voice, face, or body to accompany the unforgiving grip, she knows it’s Madara who impedes her by the ferocious strength alone. 

“Whore.”

It’s not Madara’s voice, but Tobirama’s. It carries over to her, like they’re separated by a valley despite his being only yards away. If she could reach out to him, touch him, feel his embrace—

“Uchiha whore,” he barks at her again, scowling now. 

“No,” she pleads, eyes stinging with tears. She tries to pull the grip from her neck away and escape, but Madara locks her arms down to her sides, rendering her utterly trapped. 

“Tobirama,” she begs for his sanctity, for his forgiveness. But he’s backing away from her now. 

She cries and cries desperately, screeching in frustration when Madara’s grip tightens to a visceral degree, until she feels like her skin is alight with flames. 

She looks down, and sees that they are. And the skin which these flames scorch dies off to corrupted, pink flesh as it travels up her arm in a slow crawl. An agonizing, horrible, slow crawl. 

Hours elapse as she endures the torture. Hours of raw, inhuman pain and her husband slurring his vile insults at her. The sheer destruction it pillages on her mind and body makes her feel small, makes the flames which take their time in exploring her skin burn brighter and hotter until finally she feels like nothing but ash. 

The last of her willpower billows away with that ash, as she watches Tobirama’s form start to disappear on some horizon that defies logic. 

She still wants to touch him. Still wants to be held by him. She still wants him, despite how clearly he doesn’t want her. 

His obscenities circle her thoughts, all-encompassing, completely and finally defeating her. 

Whore. Slut. Traitor. Weakling.

She cries a voiceless cry when Tobirama disappears, and Madara takes the illusion away shortly after. 

She blinks for clarity, eyes adjusting back to a reality no less harrowing than the previous artifice.

He leers down at her, takes in her anguish and her seedy frame with gluttonous cruelty in his gaze. 

Numb, teary eyes stare up at him as they slowly read his form. Realizing her predicament, she starts to hyperventilate, and tears run down her face. 

She shuts her eyes in one last attempt of modesty, forcing the stream of salt to sluice more violently down her cheeks. 

“Tobirama,” she pleads weakly, the only thing that she can think of in her hazy pain. 

It angers Madara. 

“He doesn’t want you. Now look at me.”

She refuses.

His hand twists into her hair and snaps her head back so hard that she almost sees stars behind her eyelids.

“I said look at me.”

“No,” she cries weakly, though she obeys, regardless. Her bloodshot, desperate eyes feed his sadistic vengeance. Then she’s turning her head away from him. Meager defiance. “Please—”

Satisfied with the short admission of her defeat, he takes her face and forces her look at him. 

“Try anything like that again and I’ll make sure you spend an eternity in a nightmare of my making. Do you understand?”

She has no energy to respond. 

“Answer me.”

All she can offer is a weak nod, tears still streaming down her cheeks. 

In a moment of triumphant vindictiveness, his fingers press harshly against the burn under her breast, bringing to life a reminiscent pain, a crushing reminder of what he’s done to her. 

He pushes her face away and she curls into herself, thinking of Tobirama.

In these makeshift quarters he’ll find no sleep; his mind is a mess of anger, desperation, and confusion. He needed to hurt her, didn’t he? She had defied him again. What other choice did he have? 

Another moment spent in her presence is another pin of irrational emotion nudged into his chest. He needs to leave.

He catches her glaring at him when he climbs off and starts to dress. It’s a look full of pure, searing hatred.

But he says nothing. He’s extracted enough triumph from her. 

His silence is in victory; hers in defeat.

⤰

She feels less alive each passing day. 

She doesn’t see him very often, not since the incident in the night when she’d failed to take swift revenge. 

Occasionally she hears him on the other side of the door, inquiring the guards who stand watch outside about her disposition. Rarely does he enter and see for himself. 

When he does, they exchange no words. He examines the room for any plotting demonstration of escape or sabotage, disguising his observation of her underneath these sweeping inspections. 

However, sometimes he gives up on the pretense and simply stares, studying her, trying to decide how he feels.

His actions are regrettable, of that he’s sure and self-condemned, but there’s still a glimmer of insolence in her eyes when he catches her gaze: one which rekindles the spite within him, fans vengeful flames and reminds him that she brought this upon herself. 

She would see no pity from him. 

Any words of apology on his tongue fizzle away then, and his visits conclude as silently as they begin.

⤰

The fight in her dwindles helplessly, and as it dwindles, so too does all sense of reservation. 

The prodigious determination there once had been to contend Madara and his Uchiha conspirators is all but spent. What good does it do her now? She’s broken, subjugated, and without leverage. 

Her body, which had once enabled her to use its seductions to the advantage of her people, is now depleted and only a shell. A shell for the hollow, cold heap of defeat that she now is. 

How deluded was she to think she could save all the people here? How had she ever thought that she alone could protect the hostages from the evil at their door? 

And Tobirama, whose embrace was denied to her even in dreadful illusions—what would he think of her? Madara was right. What else was she now but an Uchiha whore? Obsolete, ruined, soiled. 

Tobirama won’t want her. Not now. Not ever again. 

What more is there for her?

As the weeks go by, Madara’s distrust ebbs away. Suspicions of subterfuge die with her audacity; the times he does happen upon her, she’s nothing but a husk of the sharp woman she had made herself out to be. 

House arrest soon becomes a superfluous precaution, and even when the guards leave their posts, she makes few attempts to leave her home. And when she does, she wanders aimlessly, meanders without direction and without purpose. 

She’s pitiful, Madara decides. Pitiful and crushed. He has nothing to fear or suspect from her. Her fire is gone. 

What he doesn’t expect is that the last ember of that fire holds one desperate dredge of scorn. One which she won’t allow to be extinguished. 

When she wanders into the Uchiha war tent that day, she isn’t stopped. 

She’s given no second-glance by any of the Uchiha shinobi. Even if they were to give her careful inspection, they would never know of the kunai in her pocket, the steel icy and begging to be utilized for one final, desperate fight.

Madara isn’t there. Instead, she finds Izuna.

“Where is he?” she asks weakly. 

Izuna pays her so limited attention these days, regards her as little else except the harlot his brother broke in and conquered, that her presence has nothing more than a fleeting impasse on his patience. Like a gnat buzzing around his head. 

“My brother? Who knows.” 

When he accords her his attention he sees that she’s looking lifeless as ever. Sometimes he ponders the nature of the unkind things his brother has done to her, with a fraction of a fraction of pity. Then he’s reminded of the trespasses she’s made, and the pity is gone. 

“What?” he mocks. “If you’re hoping to charm some leniency out of him, you’ll get nowhere looking like that.” He tsks, a sneer marring his lips as he pulls his eyes over her form, like it’s a harrowing task to complete. “You’re better off groveling on your knees... save him the displeasure of looking at your face, at the least.” 

Although she doesn’t react, he sees humiliation simmering underneath the hardened, broken surface of her expression. He would have favored a more promising response to his taunts, but he’s satisfied to see her tamed of her previous unruliness, nevertheless.

He turns his back to her. Her misery is pleasant only for so long; the more he looks, the more unsightly it becomes. 

The Uchiha sigil stares back at her, stitched proudly and delicately onto the back of his garb. 

It mocks her, does more to incite her than any of his degrading condescension can. 

Unthinking, she moves to him. 

Hearing her approach he turns to meet her, the same bored sneer on his face. 

The melancholy is still in full bloom on her features, but there’s something else there, too. Something that tells him she’s struggling to express a grievance on her tongue.  

He scoffs.

“What is it, woman?”

He’s not Madara, she decides, but he’ll do. 

Aimlessly, she yanks the kunai from her pocket, then brings it down on his neck, not caring for whatever consequences will follow.

⤰

She wondered why Izuna didn’t kill her the moment he wrangled the kunai from her grip.

Blood spills from his neck; thick crimson pours in rivulets down his shirt, down the hand that presses against his wound. 

It may not be fatal but it’s certainly critical. Sharingan had worked in his favor. An inch more of the dagger’s descent studied without the activation of his doujutsu might have guaranteed his death. He inched away just in time.

She doesn’t have time to lament her failure. 

He did throw her to the floor in his anger, but nothing else comes. If he hadn’t been so occupied with sealing his wound, she imagines his ire would prove much worse, if not terminal. 

She doesn’t bother pushing up from her place on the floor when another Uchiha, hearing the din of Izuna’s angry hollers, barges in, sees the chaos, and sprints away after taking orders from Izuna. She doesn’t hear the essence of these orders, numb to the world as she is. 

Had the kunai been in her hand, she would slit her own throat in defiance. Death would have been preferable to what comes next.

When Madara storms in, she’s still a pile of hapless defeat on the floor. 

He says not a word, but the pure rage boiling behind his gaze says all it needs to: She made a grievous mistake. 

She gasps when he grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her to her feet. She screws her eyes shut, unwilling to look at him. He doesn’t seem to care whether she does or doesn’t. 

She’s certain that he rips hair right from the roots when he whips her around, shoves her forward with enough force to break every bone in her body. A bookcase greets her as she barrels into it. That’s when her eyes open in pained shock, a rushed gasp escaping her as she struggles to regain the air thrown out of her lungs. 

She wants to collapse, but a hand clasps around her neck and keeps her standing. Then the fingers tighten around her throat. She chokes pitifully for oxygen. 

“I told you that if you ever tried something like that again that you would regret it.” His voice is cold with anger. “But to make an attempt on my brother’s life?”

She doesn't answer. Apparently, he doesn’t expect her to.

He shoves her back to the ground. It knocks the wind out of her, and when she pushes herself up on shaky limbs, a heavy boot in her back sends her to the floor again. 

She yelps as he digs his heel into sensitive muscle. A burst of hot and red pain spreads through her back. Her kidneys, maybe? She doesn’t know. But he’s damaged something internally, and she wishes she were dead. 

Her breaths are pitiful and scant when he finally takes his foot away. She says nothing. Thinks of nothing. 

“Get up,” he demands, in a rigid, thin voice devoid of anything except fury.

Even if she wanted to obey, her body refuses. 

“Get up,” he snaps, and the unforgiving hand returns to twist into her hair, sending webs of pan across her scalp as he hauls her to her knees.  

He crouches in front of her, a hand still fisted in her hair. Now he wants her to look. His other hand takes her face and squeezes, so hard she’s half-convinced he plans to crush her skull. 

“Open your eyes and look at me.”

Desperately, she tries. But it’s a task to keep her eyes open without nausea seeping into her gut. Her eyelids force themselves to shut in an effort to quell dizziness. 

But then he jostles her around by the grip in her hair, so hard and so viciously that her entire world blacks out momentarily. The motion sends her mind reeling and her vision swimming. 

“Open your eyes.”

Adrenaline shoots through her and demands her to obey. 

She isn’t surprised when the red of sharingan is there to greet her. 

Everything goes black in the world of his making. She almost expects to see Tobirama there, for him to shout at her and degrade her again. 

Instead, she feels pain. The worst pain she’s ever felt. So painful she can’t breathe, can’t think. The only thing that exists is the hot, searing flame of anguish that stings every inch of her skin, every gap of her insides, down to the very organs. 

A hundred kunai stab into her head. She hears them slicing flesh to ribbons and digging fractures into her skull. Her blood curdles until it’s set aflame. That too, she hears, bubbling underneath the surface of her skin like thick, boiling water.

Everything hurts. Everything is endless agony.

When air finally fills her lungs, she wails. 

So loud, so violently, so wretchedly, that it’s almost itself anguish to hear.

Then he takes it all away. 

The relief is heavenly. She crumples into a ball. 

She hates it. She hates the weakness. If Tobirama could see her…

Then the pain comes again. She screams in tandem, then bites her tongue so hard it bleeds.

The cruel routine goes on, for what to her deluded, frenetic mind seems like hours, but is in reality passed in mere minutes.

Izuna watches as his wound is tended to, his expression as devoid of any mercy or sympathy as his brother’s. 

⤰

Two weeks later, when her body and mind make the slow, pitiful climb back to equilibrium, she notices the change. 

It’s unlike one she’s felt before, but not entirely unrelated to an irksome nausea: a queasiness in her stomach that neither food nor rest alleviates; something new, like an aura, that swathes her and accompanies her every second of the day; an extra weight added to the burden of her body.

Then comes the fearful ascent of logic. 

Amidst her turmoil, she’s forgotten about missing her monthly bleed. Its absence could be blamed on the toll her body has taken, but she knows better. 

The revelation brings her into a spiral of hectic anxiety, of despairing conflict. 

It’s not long before she finds herself sneaking into one of the medical tents, decision already made on how best to deal with the new predicament. 

She shuffles through the stock of vials and herbs which the Uchiha medics keep at the back of the tent, finds what she’s looking for and almost escapes as covertly as she had infiltrated, when she’s stopped. 

“What is that you have?”

She pauses a foot away from the tent’s exit, her body in a mode of panic.

“Some herbs for my wounds,” she mutters.

An elder Uchiha woman, a medic, turns her around and inspects the filched items in her grasp. 

“That is ginger root,” the medic observes warily. “If you need something for the pain, I would suggest dried poppy.”

The young woman stares fretfully at the old woman; the old woman stares back.  

“Thank you,” the younger stutters blankly, unable to make a step in either direction; play along and heed the advice to go search for the proper herbs, or flee and risk suspicion? 

“You look ill,” the old woman says, eyeing her, putting a hand to her forehead.

She backs away. “I just need rest.”

“Let me examine you. I can help you find the right medicines.”

“No,” she says. Any medic will be able to feel the life inside of her, given the chance. “I’ll be alright.”

She tries to leave then, but the old woman doesn’t let her. 

⤰

When Madara answers the request for his presence at one of the medic huts, he’s surprised to find her there, sitting on a cot, hunched over and distressingly quiet. Two Uchiha men stand at her sides, supervising her.

“What is the meaning of this?” Madara asks. 

Recently, he’s appreciated any reason to stay away from her. The sight of her makes him sick, makes a conflict of rage and confusion and culpability dance angrily in his head. 

The old woman offers him the ginger root, and a small vial of clear liquid. “She was after these.”

Madara takes them into examination. “Am I supposed to know what this is?” His patience, already thin, dwindles considerably for the roundabout elucidations.

“A toxic mixture,” the old woman explains plainly. “Boiled with regular tea and these will certainly destroy whatever grows inside a womb.”

With subdued bafflement, Madara looks at the woman on the cot, understanding all at once. 

She doesn’t dare meet his eyes. Even now her body trembles with frustration, with fear, with defeat. 

Izuna, who had accompanied his brother, scoffs, incredulously loud. “So either you managed to put one in her, brother, or it’s the Senju’s.”

“Can it be determined?” Madara asks the medic, ignoring his brother, and never taking his eyes off the frail form on the cot. 

“In a month’s time the chakra should be durable enough for us to sense.” 

“Kill it,” Izuna insists, coming to stand next to his brother, a voice of frustrated reason. “If it’s a Senju, better off unborn. And if it’s an Uchiha... you would pass on the clan’s power to halfling filth.”

Unperturbed, Madara stares in silence. Finally she meets his gaze, unsettled by the look of dark concentration in his eyes. 

“Why attempt to destroy the life inside of you unless it’s a burden to you?” he ponders out loud.

She realizes his train of logic: it must be his, for her to be so adamant in her pursuit to terminate it. 

“If it was my husband’s,” she says, “and it is, I would do the same. You would kill my child the moment I bring it into this world. Why let life grow that is destined to be murdered in cold blood?”

“And if it were mine?”

“It isn’t."

Madara scowls. 

“And if it were,” she goes on dangerously. “All the more reason to destroy it.”

That visibly infuriates him. 

“Give her the herbs,” Izuna asserts again. “Let her solve the problem. Either way she’s doing you a favor.”

Madara doesn’t speak for a long time. 

His careful inspection of her lasts long enough to make her doubts rise afresh, make her feet fidget uncomfortably and her heart pound in desperation.

“She stays here tonight,” he decides ultimately, looking to the Uchiha guards at her side. “She doesn’t leave.”

Izuna looks muddled, and somewhat irritated by the decision. 

She just looks afraid. 

⤰

He doesn't return for many days, but his absence can’t be appreciated as much of a reprieve at all; her mind is a mess of anxiety and denial the entire time. 

This can’t be happening, she tells herself countless times. She can’t be pregnant. And worse, can’t be ignorant to the father. There’s no possible way. It can’t be happening.

Part of her reasons for the better: it must be Tobirama’s. No more than three months have passed since the Uchiha first conquered and occupied the land, no more than three months since she’s been with her husband. 

The other part of her, downtrodden and beaten into pessimistic depravity, knows that with the chaos Madara brought, so too came a negligence to her normal routines: was she taking the contraceptive herbs as diligently as she needed to, given their intimacies? Amidst the turbulence he caused, had she remembered each and every time they were together to make sure nothing was conceived from their depraved liaisons? How could she not, when the way he touched her and took her made her sick?

But then, doubt: leading her astray, reminding her that everything horrible and miserable that could happen already had, so what was a bit more to the mountain of suffering she already endured? What was stopping fate from deciding that the life inside her womb belonged not to her loving husband, but to her unforgiving captor?

Thinking about it drives her to depressive insanity. By the time Madara comes to see her, she’s depleted almost all of her brain power. 

“Leave us,” he commands the guards who have been assigned to watch her. 

They obey, and the pair are left in silence. 

Her mind pleads with her to run, to attack, to simply scream—anything. Anything that will quell the distress of the pause in the air, the distress of not knowing his intent. 

When he takes a step forward she inches back. Noticing this, he’s dissuaded from approaching any closer. 

“So long as the child is inside of you, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Her heart pounds so furiously in her chest that she’s sure it’s audible in the quiet of the room. 

The statement angers her, scares her, and much to her shame, relieves her. 

“It’s not yours,” she claims.

“Unless I’m miscalculating, the Senju host left a week before my arrival. And not long after that, a fortnight at most for the sake of assumptions, this child might have been conceived. Between us.”

Bile rises in her throat and she wants to protest, but he goes on, badgering her with the logic she’s thus far refused to entertain. 

“If it were his, you would be farther along. Visibly, for one. And more than likely, I would be able to sense the chakra, deduce which clan it belongs to.”

By now she’s trembling quietly with her fear, fighting the urge to deny him, to preserve the hope that the reality he speaks of is in fact skewed.

“The child inside of you is an Uchiha,” he says determinedly. 

She shakes her head.

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re not,” she argues. “You said yourself there's no way of knowing. Not yet.”

He cocks his head. “Then you really have no idea, do you? No idea who it belongs to? Normally mothers can read the chakra within them at this stage. Can you not?”

She won’t grant him an answer, instead stares down at her feet as they dig into the ground, as if in a desperate attempt to escape underneath. 

Madara watches her with careful scrutiny. “I suppose we’ll have to see, then. But somewhere in that head of yours, you know I’m right.”

You’re not right, she repeats in her mind. You’re not. You’re not.

Just as he makes to leave, he stops. 

“And let me be clear,” he says, menacingly. “If you make any attempt to destroy what grows inside of you, you won’t be the one suffering the consequences.”

The glare he gives her speaks volumes: The Senju hostages. The violence that would ensue. The atrocities he might commit if she disobeyed. 

He leaves her. She clutches her stomach, letting the first, long-suppressed tear roll down her cheek. A warm, wet trail is left in its wake. 

In the turmoil she finds evidence for and against his claims when she lets her thoughts run away with logic. A wash of anxious desperation enlivens her, makes her conscience grab for a reprieve to her doubts. But even that is denied by the crushing reality of her situation. 

The life inside of her might belong to the enemy, to the Uchiha. 

And still, it might not. 

She stumbles between one acceptance and the next, each clouding her ever more until the tears are spilling in streams down her cheeks. 

When she puts every morsel of her ability into sensing the life within her, she can’t tell if the faint trace of Senju chakra she feels is authentic, or a desperate manifestation of her mind’s making. 

[aria-i-adagio]

Mudlark

aka. Chapter 46 of Where the Elfroot Grows (read on AO3)

---

Rhys Trevelyan - Fucking Herald of Andraste and newly appointed Lord Fucking Inquisitor - kneels on the warm ground of Skyhold’s garden, ripping out weeds with his bare hands, getting dirt all over his trousers, and trying his best to enjoy the autumn sun in peace. The walls of the garden are working as they should, collecting and trapping the heat of the day, even as the shadows cast by the trees begin to grow long. It’s brilliant engineering, even more brilliant than he thought at first. Even at lower elevations, the season for pears and applies should have passed, but the trees here are still producing. He suspects some sort of enchantment built into the walls to amplify the natural effects of the design, but he hasn’t been able to clear enough growth to uncover all the stonework. He’d have finished days ago. Except for Leliana and Cassandra interrupting his plans to declare him Inquisitor.

He’s as close to alone as he’s likely to manage anytime soon. Mother Giselle wandered into the chapel a half hour or so ago either to pray or to work on cleaning and repairing the ancient statue. She’d probably tell him that work and prayer are much the same if one has the right attitude of devotion to Andraste’s teachings and the Maker’s will. He heard the sound of other feet in the gallery a bit after Mother Giselle passed followed by the scraping of a chair being pulled into a desirable spot. Someone might be there still, but whoever it is, they aren’t bothering him, just trying to get a break of their own from the general cacophony of a hundred or so people trying to make Skyhold fully habitable.

It shouldn’t bother him so; it wasn’t as though he’d ever had space to himself in the Circle, but there’s something very different about being in charge of more than seedlings. And Inquisitor feels so much more permanent, so much heavier, than Herald.

Josie kidnapped him promptly after breakfast and trapped him in meetings all day. First with Leliana about the couriers she would be sending: to the Inquisition camps around Redcliffe, to the Chantry, to the College of Enchanters, to Queen Anora in Denerim, to Orzammar, maybe to the Queen of Antiva. Rhys had honestly lost count at a certain point, even though he did his best to read the ones she wanted him to sign. They were all variations on the same theme - an announcement that the Inquisition had survived the destruction of Haven, a reminder that they were responsible for closing the Breach, and requests for supports to oppose Corypheus.

Then, Rutherford and Cassandra wanted to discuss the soldier’s progress repairing an old road that ran through a pass between Ferelden and Orlais, just under the peak on which Skyhold sits. Rutherford says the road is in shockingly good condition and mostly only needs a bit of clearing a few holes filled to be usable by caravans. At the moment, the engineers can’t explain why it was abandoned, as once opened the route will save a significant amount of time transporting products between Orlais and the Lake Calenhad region. Further, they’d discovered auxiliary forts will secure Skyhold's control of what will be a valuable trade route. There’s some discussion of collecting tolls as a source of income for the Inquisition, but it all seems very abstract to him.

The only part of the report that Rhys is internally motivated to be interested in is the repair work on an ingenious winch and cable system that would allow people and goods to be moved up and down the mountain in a matter of hours, versus days. Like the road, it is in remarkable condition - a little grease and a few solders to the heavy cables made it functional again. They’re already able to use it to send messages and lightweight supplies up and down the mountain. (And one adventurous member of Bull’s Chargers. Rhys is slightly envious.) To operate it with any significant amounts of weight, they'll need some strong draft animals to turn the winches at the base and the summit, but Rhys is told that the contact he had made with the farmers around Redcliffe and a few generous handfuls of gold should be able to make that happen.

Rhys had just thought assisting the farmers to secure watchtowers so that they could better defend themselves seemed like the right thing to do as he had no solution to the conflict in the area. Even without Templars and Maleficarii, there were still bears to worry about. Rhys has developed a strong dislike of bears. But they do all the allies they can manage. And Rhys wouldn’t say no to a bear fur or ten or a hundred. Skyhold is magnificent, but with the exception of the garden suntrap, the temperatures are rapidly dropping below anything he’s ever experienced.

An hour after lunch, when he thought the four of them were finished with him, Harritt showed up talking about the tunnels underneath the keep that he’d been exploring with a small team. They go deep, far deeper than Harritt is comfortable taking the men without reinforcements, but he just feels that they reach the Deep Roads. Skyhold is close to Orzammar after all. No signs of Darkspawn, thank Andraste! But they do need to be mindful of the possibility of an attack from below. (It balances the threat of an attacking dragon from above, Rhys supposes. Good to keep your equations balanced.) Cassandra suggested that Harritt take Blackwall along with a few soldiers to explore further, and around yawns, Rhys agreed with her. If the road between Ferelden and Orlais is somehow valuable, why not a road to Orzammar? Or Minrathous? All the roads!

Rhys continues ripping out vines and mentally curses all four of them for promoting him from Herald to Inquisitor. (Although, he’s fairly sure that Rutherford isn’t entirely happy about having a mage in charge for the longue durée.) Morning glories - another plant that would generally need a warmer clime to survive, even as stubborn as it is. Pretty flowers, but they take over everything. He’ll transplant some to a bed near an arbor he discovered two days ago when he swung a machete at a stand of ragweed and hit a metal post. The morning glories will be a desirable replacement - Josie will like the decorative element - if he can keep them contained.

Why couldn’t Andraste just need a gardener?

That question, of course, assumed that Andraste is in fact, the Bride of the Maker and thus, endowed with the power to toss Rhys back out of the Fade (however he ended up there in the first place), which, in turn, assumes the existence of the Maker and not just an empty throne in the middle of a Golden City. And as far as Rhys has ever been able to tell, the Maker’s existence can be neither proven nor disproven, and the people debating it - quietly, of course - were both wasting their breath and risking their necks.

A better question might be, why in the Void did he let Cassie talk him into agreeing to lead the Inquisition? It was a bit unfair of her and Leliana to ambush him with the question in public. And Josie and Rutherford’s little display of rallying acclamation from the survivors of Haven strongly suggested that the decision had already been made before Cassandra and Leliana asked him.

From the Fade and into the fire. Just my luck.

Rhys is too distracted by humoring his own grumbling to notice the loose, mounded soil hiding under the vines until his right hand is buried well past his wrist and stinging sharply from hundreds of tiny mandibles pinching the flesh and sinking venom under the surface of his skin.

Rhys springs up and back with a yelp, flinging his arm to the side in an attempt to shake the ants free, then immediately back in front of him to cast a cage of lightning around the anthill, hoping that it circles deep enough underground to cut off the entire colony before any more of the ants can swarm out to attack him.

“Andraste’s flaming weasel -” Some of the ants have already gotten under his sleeve, and it doesn’t take many of this species to produce abject misery. He swats futilely at his arm, then gives up and tears off his jacket. “Knickerbocker tits!”

“Rhys, has some demon of dance possessed you?”

“Ants.” Rhys tosses the jacket aside and tries to crush the insects between the fabric of his sleeve and his arm for a second before ripping the buttons on his shirt open and stripping it off as well. A couple of the damned terrors have made it to his neck and chest. “Blighted fire ants.” Ugh. That’s a horrible notion - fire ants infected with the Blight. The Maker really will have abandoned us.

“So dramatic. Here -” Dorian attempts to brush a few of the blighters off before Rhys can stop him. “Fasta vass! That thing bit me.”

“Yes.” Rhys flicks one off his neck and sweeps his left hand over his right arm. Be damned nice if this Anchor were effective against fire ants. “Get me a bucket of water, will you?”

The static cage spell will wear off shortly, releasing any of the ants that hadn’t been shocked to death already. And those ants will be an infuriated horde with murder on their hive mind. Rhys ignores the stinging long enough to cast as controlled and intense of a fire spell as he can manage over the mound and watches with satisfaction as it erupts through the weeds and rolls over the anthill in a destructive wave. Invasive little fuckers. Kill them. Kill them with fire.

Rhys grabs the full bucket from Dorian and splashes the water over his right side, knocking most of the remaining ants loose and hopping away from that bit of ground before they can recover and decide to crawl up his leg.

“The hell are those things?”

“Fire ants.” Rhys glares at the scorched earth, watching for movements that might single a second assault. Dorian really must have spent the majority of his time in cities and libraries if he didn’t know about fire ants. The things are native to Tevinter and had been slowly invading the south for decades. He goes back to the well in the center of the garden and draws another bucket of water to dump over his head. “Also known as the most vicious little blighters known to Thedas.”

“Certainly they can’t be that bad. They’re just insects.”

“I fell into a mound once when I was still an apprentice... I’ll take a small horde of Darkspawn over these things.” Rhys rubs his hands over his neck and face. He doesn’t think he’s allergic; the bites should just be an irritant - just one more irritant for an irritating day - but people do develop allergies to insect bites following initial exposure. He can’t feel any swelling around his throat, but there is an itch along his jaw. He swats at his cheek - unsure if there’s an ant, or if he’s just imagining it - and inadvertently smears water and dirt together into mud.

“Ah, thus the warpaint.” Dorian smirks at him.

Rhys touches his face. The tacky mud over his cheek and nose sticks to his fingertips. Fortunately, it seems like Dorian is the only other person about to bear witness. Rhys laughs. Ah yes, he should definitely be in charge of a quasi-religious movement with a military. “Yes. The warpaint.” He slaps his thigh as he feels another series of stingings pricks. Excellent. One or two had made it to his legs, but at least it’s not a swarm. “And the two or three more fireballs I’m about to hit that mound with.”

“Such a vengeful little mudlark. Ready to defend his territory. Want help?”

“Oh yes. Fire. Kill them with fire.” Rhys casts another fire spell over the mound as the first burns out, silently apologizing to any innocent soil dwellers caught in it... But... Fire ants.

“Then quick healing spell, a bath, and clean clothes, I suppose?”

“Volunteering to help with that too?”

“I could be.” Dorian paces a tight circle around Rhys and flicks one of the insects off his back with a single manicured nail. “You seem rather distraught to be left alone.” A wave of magic - Dorian’s spells always feel warm - flows over him, easing the stinging, although the sensation - real or imagined or a combination - of insect feet has Rhys ready to crawl out of his skin - along with the rest of his clothes.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra shouts down from a window in the tower she’s claimed for herself. “What are you doing? Why are there flames?”

“Fire ants!” Rhys yells back. That should be self-explanatory. He thinks the known range of the damned bugs includes Nevarra, but then Cassandra hasn’t spent that much time in Nevarra, and probably not that much time stomping through weeds anywhere. Andraste! Fire ants under armor. He shivers at the thought.

“What?” Cassandra sounds confused.

“Don’t worry about it, Seeker. The Herald and I have everything under control.”

Rhys can imagine her grumpy huff even if he can’t hear it over the sound of the shutters of the window slamming shut.

Dorian’s eyebrows arch high with amusement. “Be careful, Rhys, or there’ll be a rumor started that you’ve gone quite mad.”

“If I get many more bites -” He smacks a different spot on his thigh. “I just might.”

“Well then, we’d better go make sure you get them all drowned then. Is it safe to touch your shirt?”

“Leave it. Damn things will get confused now that their colony is gone and wander off in a bit.” He can retrieve the shirt and jacket to be cleaned later - once the ants are well gone. The morning glory vines around the ant mound are too green for the fire to spread easily, but Rhys throws another bucket of water over them to be safe. Josie would probably tell him it’s bad form to burn down one’s new base of operations. And then yet another bucket over his head.

If Varric has questions when Rhys, shirtless and still dripping water stalks past the table he’s writing at with an amused Dorian following behind, he keeps them to himself.

“Why so grumpy today?” Dorian asks. He’d volunteered to go find some dry, ant-free clothes for Rhys, and after returning to the kitchen storeroom - the most rational place to locate a tub for bathing until further repairs are made - had remained, leaning against the closed door and toying with the rings he wears, switching them from finger to finger. “You're normally as chipper as a little bird.”

“A mudlark?”

“Does that bother you? I won't call you that if it does.”

“No, no. I kind of like it.” Rhys scrubs a bit of soapy flannel between his toes - just in case an ant had found its way there. At least Josie won’t be able to complain about dirt under his fingernails for a few hours. “Much better than Herald.”

“Or Inquisitor?”

“Definitely better than Inquisitor.” Rhys slides down in the tub, dunking his head under the water again. His next oldest brother and little sister calling him snaggletooth when he was eight would be better than Inquisitor. Besides, he likes the way that Dorian says ‘mudlark’ when talking to him. Rhys resurfaces and pushes wet hair out of his face. “I really don't want to be called Inquisitor. And yet, here I am.”

“You know, the fact that you don't want to be Inquisitor might be precisely the reason why you should be.”

“I spent all morning trying to keep up with discussions on topics that I know nothing about. Politics, economics - roads! I’m not the right person for this.”

“You’ll learn. Quickly, I’m sure.”

“You’re more confident than I am.” Rhys flicks idly at the surface of the water. “But for what it’s worth, thanks.”

“Rhys, the kind of person who would be prepared for something like this is also the kind of person who is likely to abuse any power they are given. And you will have power once the rest of Thedas realizes the threat Corypheus poses. Wouldn’t you rather be the leader and not just the tool?”

Rhys lifts his left hand from the water and studies the Anchor carefully. Yes, a tool. An instrument that controls the Veil in terrifying ways that he doesn’t understand. Something that he’s not supposed to have and that an ancient monster desperately wants. The faint green glow is more apparent in the dim light of this basement room than it was in the sunlight of the garden - one more reason to cherish the place. “It feels so foreign. Wrong. Like some disease that should be pruned away.” He touches the first three fingers of his right hand to his palm and draws them slowly down to the fold of his elbow, following the path that the magic flows along before Solas pushes it back again.

Dorian’s brow creases and moves fluidly, kneeling on one knee beside the tub and catching Rhys’s hand in his. “You’ve managed well this far.” He weaves their fingers together, and almost - almost - touches his lips to Rhys’s knuckles. “You can always come rant to me, you know. If any given day is too much.”

Rhys remains still for the space of one, two, three heartbeats, then he runs his thumb over Dorian’s fingers, soft skin, metal rings warm with heat from his body.

Dorian’s eyes drop. His cheeks might be colored a touch, but Rhys can’t quite be sure in the dim light. He rises to his feet and turns away in a single elegant motion. “You should take a break. Soak for a while. Relax a bit.” He pushes the door open, just a crack, hesitating for the barest second. “I guess I’ll -”

“Dorian?”

His back straightens as he turns back around. “Yes.”

“Keep calling me mudlark.”

Dorian glances down, breaking eye contact between them, but the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “You know where to find me, Mudlark, trying to salvage books. I could try to do something about the mess you’ve made of your hands playing in the dirt again.”

[clumsyclifford]

i can’t focus when you’re with me (i can’t sleep when i’m alone)

hello i wrote some jalex because i had XO by nightly stuck in my head and this came from that

thank you @tirednotflirting and @reveriesofawriter for the love i love you guys so much all the time

title from XO by nightly

read it here on ao3

-

It’s on a pink sticky note on the fridge.

back soon. xo

The sign-off is familiar. The sticky note is also familiar, though Alex doesn’t really see why Jack leaves them anymore. There’s no point to the sticky note when Alex already knows Jack will be back and is no closer to figuring out his system for deciding when. Maybe there is no system. Maybe he truly just appears whenever he feels like it. 

Alex knows about variable-ratio reward schedules; he knows how the lottery works, promising an eventual reward and paying up just often enough to maintain the ruse. He isn’t an idiot. He can understand he’s not really winning the lottery when he spends every single night wondering if this will be the one Jack decides to grace him with his presence. One victory is nothing when it’s borne of a thousand failures. But Alex will take one night with Jack for two weeks without, and Jack knows that, too.

So maybe Alex is an idiot, but it’s worth it to be. Nights spent with Jack are some of Alex’s favorites. Mornings waking up without him are just an occupational hazard.

Jack doesn’t belong to him. That was never part of the agreement.

The spontaneity of Jack’s visits also cause a lot of problems in Alex’s life. He can’t plan his work around Jack when Jack has no schedule. And if Jack shows up while Alex is in the middle of something, forget it. As soon as the lock clicks and the door swings open — as soon as Alex hears the familiar footsteps and the toneless humming of Jack’s entrance — everything else becomes static.

It’s distracting. It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating.

A cool breeze edging on warm sweeps through Alex’s open window tonight. He has a textbook open on the desk and his laptop beside it. The contents of the textbook are entirely failing to stick in Alex’s brain, and he doubts taking notes is helping in any way. It’s important that he learn this, especially when they’re moving on so swiftly from this section of the material; Alex can already foresee the late night he’s going to have trying to reteach this chapter to himself once he finishes reading it.

Three excruciating pages later, Alex decides the textbook can wait for a cup of tea.

It’s quiet around Alex’s place as he treks into the kitchen to put the water on. It’s quiet more often than not these days, as Alex has gotten more and more entrenched in his coursework. He’s had less time to play music. When he has free hours now, he typically uses them to sleep. It’s not an exciting life, but it’s the one he needs to lead so he doesn’t collapse from exhaustion at any given moment.

Still, the staticky hiss from the kettle as it starts to boil is comforting. Alex leans against the counter with his eyes closed, somehow simultaneously trying to refresh his memory on everything he just spent two and a half hours reading and trying not to think about that. As much as he knows he needs a break from all the studying, he’s not sure he can really afford it.

Naturally, this is when the lock clicks and the humming starts.

Alex’s eyes fly open. He stares out across the kitchen. The kettle finally reaches a loud conclusion and clicks to let Alex know it’s officially done boiling the water. And through the open doorway, an off-key rendition of ‘American Idiot’ announces Jack’s presence.

He’s humming the guitar solo. Of course.

Warring parts of Alex’s brain fight to react to this unexpected arrival. He wants to groan, because this is the worst time Jack could have fucking chosen, on tonight of all nights. He’d like to spin Jack by the shoulders and push him back out the door where he’d come in before he gets too comfortable. Sorry, not tonight, too much stuff to do that I can’t afford to let you distract me from, he’d love to say.

But the other part of him is imagining pushing Jack by the shoulders against a very much closed door, and Alex, in his weary state, isn’t disciplined enough to ignore that thought. 

Jack won’t come into the kitchen —  he says it’s too domestic for him. Alex pretends he hasn’t heard the door open and close and makes himself a cup of tea anyway, fully prepared for it to go cold. Maybe Jack will understand if Alex lays it out for him. Maybe if Jack sees the textbook he’ll latch on.

Not that Alex thinks Jack doesn’t understand how much work Alex has. Jack is an intelligent person. He knows. It’s just he doesn’t care. 

And Alex has to take some responsibility, because it’s not like he’s trying very hard to express that it matters to him if he passes his classes. When Jack shows up, Alex gives up. He could try harder to focus on his work, to send Jack away, but he doesn’t want to. He likes when Jack is here. He’d just like it not to overlap with nights when he has an entire textbook chapter to read, memorize, and internalize.

Steam is rising off Alex’s mug like wispy cirrus clouds. He brings it to his lips, burns his tongue taking a sip, and sighs.

Jack is sitting in Alex’s desk chair when Alex finally returns to his room.

He looks up with bright eyes when he sees Alex come in. “Hi, finally.” As he clocks the mug: “Ooh, whatcha drinkin’? Did you make me any?”

“Tea, and no,” Alex says. “I made it for me, because I’m trying to study.”

“Operative word being try,” Jack says.

“Yeah, and hopefully soon I will be succeeding,” Alex says. He’s not sure why he insists on pretending to refuse Jack when they both know with one hundred percent certainty that this is not what Alex wants nor a hill he plans to die on. For his own dignity, though, he has to at least look like he’s making the effort to be responsible. “You wanna learn about childrens’ development in their first year of life?”

“Such a hard no from me,” Jack says. “But be real. Do you want to learn about that?”

“No,” Alex says. “But I have to.”

Jack sighs. He holds out a hand and Alex places his mug in Jack’s grip. “What’s this? The usual?” Alex nods. Jack brings it to his lips, barely drinking any before exhaling harshly. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

“Yeah, I just made it. As you came in.”

“You want me to go?”

Alex sighs. “Obviously I don’t want you to go. I’d love to get some advance notice for when you’re gonna show up, though. Tonight’s such a bad night.”

“Tonight’s a bad night so far,” Jack corrects him, setting the mug down on Alex’s desk. It’s dangerously close to the laptop; Alex nudges it further away, and Jack just shakes his head a little, smiling.

“I mean tonight is a bad night for you to be here,” Alex clarifies.

“Then I’ll leave.”

“But I don’t want you to leave.”

“So I’ll stay.”

“Yeah, but then I’ll be distracted.”

Jack shrugs. “I’m honestly okay with that.”

“I’ll be distracted from my work,” Alex says, although he’s sure Jack had understood the first time. “By you. Like always.”

“And I’m okay with that too.” Jack tilts his head, stretching his neck to look up at Alex, deliberately baring his throat. He drives Alex insane, in whatever way is most accurate to the moment. Alex wishes he had more self-control, but thinking about turning Jack away and instead spending several more hours at a desk reading page after page of information he won’t absorb makes him want to cry. 

And it would be rude, after all this time, to mess with the rules of the game. Jack shows up expecting that Alex will surrender, and Alex being taken aback and generally inconvenienced by this is all part of the guidelines for playing. He signed his agency away the first time he kissed Jack against the door. It’s too late to ask for it back.

(It’s not really too late — if Alex wanted it, he’d have it. He just doesn’t want it.)

Alex holds up one finger and with his other hand he lifts the mug to his lips. It’s still too hot to drink but he lets the liquid scald the tip of his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he swallows. 

“You could call me,” he says.

“I don’t have your number,” Jack says.

“You could ask for it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’d make my life a lot easier.”

“But way less exciting.” Jack stands up, and he’s taller than Alex, and he’s so close now that Alex can count his eyelashes as they flutter shut and then quickly open again. “You can’t plan for everything, Alex.”

“Okay, I realize that, but I could definitely plan for you,” Alex returns. “Like if you just told me when you wanted to come over I could plan for that to happen. Instead of just appearing out of nowhere and—”

“What, ruining your night?” Jack casts his gaze to the open textbook. He looks back at Alex, quietly smirking. “I’m so sorry for distracting you from the absolutely fascinating timeline of child development.”

“Yeah, you should be.”

“Alex, this is a rescue mission.” Jack’s fingers land feather-light on Alex’s wrist and travel up his arm, pushing his sleeve up to his shoulder and bracing against the slope of his neck. His grip tightens as he massages the tense muscles under his fingertips. “I’m like your guardian angel. I show up when I can tell you need saving.”

“Saving from the horrors of developmental psychology?” Alex mutters, posture slipping like a landslide. Nobody on the planet can ease the tension permanently at home in Alex’s shoulders, but Jack is welcome to try. 

“Yes,” Jack says seriously. “From the horrors of developmental psychology. And because I can literally feel the tension in your shoulders. When’s the last time you relaxed?”

Last time you were here, is Alex’s real answer. “I’m not clear on the relevance of this.”

Jack frowns. “I don’t want you to be stressed.”

“Then stop showing up out of the blue,” Alex huffs.

“Really? I’m the biggest stressor in your life?" Jack sounds genuinely incredulous at this.

“No, you’re not.” Alex sighs, looking anywhere except Jack’s face. “But you’re not not a stressor. You know I’m busy. You know I like to have a schedule. A little warning goes a long way.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. His fingers dig into Alex’s skin, working muscles that ache under his firm touch. It feels improbably good for something that kind of hurts. Alex closes his eyes.

“Forget I said that,” he mumbles. “We’re not gonna get anywhere. I’ve made my peace with it. You’re just going to be absolutely unpredictable and I’m just gonna be fine with it, I guess, because I like when you’re here, even if you never want to tell me when that’s going to be. It’s fine.”

Jack’s hands still. “I just think you’re overthinking it. I’m not complicated, Alex. I’m so easy. This is easy. If it were that important to you, you would kick me out, and I’d go. But you never do.” He resumes his massage, this time on the back of Alex’s neck. “You’re always working. And I’m here on a rescue mission, like I said. To keep you from drowning in it. It’s just a question of if you’re willing to be rescued.”

Alex groans. Even he’s not sure if it’s from the frustration of knowing he won’t get through anything else tonight or an effect of Jack’s halfway massage, though he figures it’s probably both. They’ve exhausted this topic and they’re making no progress. Alex is out of patience.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Rescue me.”

Jack’s warm hands move to Alex’s face, and he’s still smiling a little bit when their lips meet.

The sticky note is gone from the fridge. Alex is not surprised. 

Sleep is still clinging to him, weighing from every limb. There’s a stiffness in his neck that has returned from wherever Jack apparently banished it to last night. Out the window, a blanket of clean morning light covers everything it can reach. Inside, a blanket is still dragging on the floor around Alex’s shoulders.

It’s when he’s reaching for the kettle that he remembers his cup of tea.

The blanket drags behind him as Alex treks back to his room, and there he halts in confusion. The mug is gone. He’d definitely left it here last night, and now it’s not here anymore. It had been completely full and now it’s missing.

Huh.

Alex glances at the textbook, open to exactly the page he’d left it at the night prior. There’s a pink sticky note he’d failed to notice earlier.

good luck, this seems boring as hell. xo

p.s. put your tea in the fridge xoxo

A smile crawls into the corners of Alex’s mouth and stays there.

He returns to the kitchen and finds his mug of tea in the fridge, as promised. There’s aluminum foil over the top, which seems pointless but a nice gesture. A confusingly nice gesture. Why is Jack changing the rules of the game all of a sudden? It’s unusual for him to move anything around, for him to leave any indication of his presence other than one single sticky note stuck somewhere for Alex to find.

Now, not only has he moved Alex’s tea, but there’s another sticky note. Alex finds it on top of the mug.

you’re cute when you sleep. xo

Alex stares at the piece of paper until his fridge starts beeping at him that the door has been open too long. He pulls the mug from the fridge and closes it. And then he stares some more. What is happening? What is Jack doing? Is this just going to be another new rule to which Alex is oblivious?

As the microwave reheats last night’s tea — Alex wondering as it spins how Jack had known that Alex is the kind of person to reheat the tea rather than toss it and make a new cup — Alex shuffles into the bathroom to splash some water on his face and deem himself presentable for the day.

And there, on the bathroom mirror, is another pink sticky note.

It reads:

I want to make your life easier. no pressure. xo

Underneath the words, there’s a phone number.

Alex smiles.

[samanthadalton]

Bottled up

I tried to write a Ava x mc fic since MTFL is going on another hiatus 

taglist: @cloud9in (my number 1 fan ❤️)  if i ever do more ava x mc fics and you wanna be tagged just let me know :) 

pairings: ava x emma 

word count: 1.6k 

“You’re not good for Ava” 

“You're not good for Ava” 

“You’re not good for Ava” 

I keep replaying Bayla’s words in my head over and over again, as I lay in my room wrapped in my blankets seeking its warmth. Was there some truth to her words? Was I really not good for Ava? That night at the exhibition, I remember how Bayla wrapped her arms around Ava to protect her from the cold. How easily Ava found solace in Bayla’s arms and how comfortable she was with her kisses and her touch. I remember feeling a pang of envy towards Bayla as she whispered sweet nothings into Ava’s ear, was it because I want what they have with Noah or Mason, or was it because I want what she has… Ava. 

I never knew where I stood with Ava, I mean how could I when I took every opportunity to change the subject or to avoid Ava herself? Having ‘the talk’ with Ava would mean having to reevaluate everything I thought I knew about myself and for some reason, I wasn’t ready for that. Not that there was any shame in me being bisexual, I’m sure my father, however traditional and strict he is would still understand and accept me as I am but something inside me felt uneasy about it all. I wasn’t sure about how I felt about girls in general but I did know I felt something towards one girl in particular, and that girl just happened to be my best friend. 

I stare up at the ceiling, so sheltered in my thoughts that I’m oblivious to everything happening around me until I’m suddenly pulled out of my reverie when I hear a sharp knock at the door. I sigh internally, I’m pretty sure I told Mack not to bother me, but after a moment there’s another knock at the door, more resounding than the last. I roll my eyes and become slightly infuriated, “dammit Mack, I thought I told you to leave me alone.” The door slowly opens and my eyes bulge out of my head when I see Ava standing at the door frame, a small smile gracing her lips. 

“So do you want me to go?” she says with a comical tone, her eyes glistening with humour. I quickly sit up in my bed, my mind gone blank as the girl who I’ve practically been avoiding but can’t stop thinking about is right in front of me. Ava, inattentive to my earlier dilemma steps into the room and sits at the edge of the bed, and familiarity begins to wash all over me as I stare at my best friend. She playfully pokes at my body, her touch blocked by the blanket and she lets out an airy laugh, “you look like a giant burrito.” I laugh in response, my mind beginning to feel more at ease as past memories evade my mind and I feel a sense of content as I unravel myself from the duvet and sit next to Ava, our legs barely brushing together. 

“Not that I’m not happy to see you but how come you’re here?” I debate with myself as to whether or not I should look at her, but against my better instincts I lift my head and stare boldly into her eyes. She stiffens slightly at my question, her eyebrows furrow slightly as she begins to contemplate, but for a split second I see hurt? flash across her face but she quickly masks it, her face stoic as she speaks, “I felt like my best friend was ignoring me so” she trails off not finishing the sentence and guilt hits me like a truck as memories flash back to Bayla’s words and the undertone of her threatening words and suddenly I jolt, putting some space between myself and Ava. 

“Woah, Emma what the hell, why are you so jumpy?” She reaches out to touch my hand but before I can pull it back, she wraps it around mine, and warmth begins sweeping into me. I feel my cheeks flush and her hand grips mine a little tighter, most likely a gesture to show reassurance that she’s not going to go anywhere. 

“Ava, I-” I can barely form a cohesive sentence since my mind is going into overdrive about her hand holding mine, how soft it feels, and how her slender fingers fit perfectly into mine. I glance down at our intertwined hands, transfixed by how natural holding her hand feels to me and with the way she’s looking at me, it’s almost as if she’s thinking the same thing. “I just thought you would prefer to hang out with Bayla than me,” I try to make my voice as nonchalant as possible but I can’t help it sounding resentful especially when saying Bayla’s name, I basically spit out her name like it’s venom. Ava loosens her grip on my hand, confusion washed all over her face as she takes in my tone, “Bayla? What does she have to do with anything?” 

I don’t want to tell Ava about Bayla’s warning, so I swallow heavily, and barely squeak out, “nothing. Nevermind. Forget I said anything.” 

Ava looks at me with concern, once again her perfectly shaped brows furrowed together as she opens her mouth to speak but her mouth hangs open for a few moments contemplating her next choice of words, “did… did Bayla say something to you?” 

I internally debate with myself as to what I should say next, I mean Ava practically figured it out on her own, and Bayla is her girlfriend so I owe her the truth at the very least. I fiddle with my fingers unsure of how to phrase my next set of words, “I guess?” I try keeping my voice as apathetic as I can, an attempt to come across as impartial to the situation but Ava’s unblinded fury demonstrates that she’s pissed at Bayla, her eyes staring daggers as she clenches her jaw. 

“What did she say to you?” she hisses out.

“Just that I’m not good for you” I try to be as candor as I can since Ava is still my best friend and I don’t like hiding things from her, even if those things are about her girlfriend. But a small part of me celebrates that there’s trouble in paradise and it eggs me on to want to push the knife in a little deeper.  

“What does that even mean? Em, you’re my best friend She can’t say that to you” she balls her fist, anger spewing and I place my hand over her curled fist, my thumb subconsciously begins to rub circles on her knuckles as I try to talk her down. 

“She isn’t wrong Ava. I mean I haven’t exactly earned any best friend of the year awards lately. I’ve been a shitty friend to you, especially during a time where I should’ve been by your side while you… figured things out about yourself.” I swallow heavily when saying the last part, maybe because selfishly I haven’t allowed Ava to support me either while I reevaluated everything in my life. Ava’s silence indicates that there’s some truth to my words but all the guilt, the confusion, the constant debunking, it makes the next part come out like word vomit. “I know I pulled away from you when you needed me the most. The truth is, I was scared. When.. when you admitted your feelings towards me,” Ava visibly tenses, grimacing but I’m unable to stop myself from pouring my thoughts out, “I didn’t know what to say. I should’ve still been your best friend, no matter how I felt towards you and still been there for you, but I was being selfish. I pushed you away because I was terrified of how I felt, and wha-” 

“How you felt?” Ava’s voice comes out as a whisper as looks over at me, her big brown eyes penetrating mine, and something flashes in her eyes but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Her gaze is hypnotising, and I’m pulled into a trance and my eyes deftly shifts to her lips for her split second, but she catches me staring and her tongue darts out of her mouth, slightly licking her lips in a way I can only describe as the most sexy thing I have ever seen in my life. And without missing a beat, I lean my head towards hers, my lips capturing hers. Our lips brush together tentatively at first but the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her cherry lip gloss only prompts me to want to get a better taste. I kiss her harder and she reciprocates the kiss, her arms already wrapping around my neck and pulling me even closer. We kiss for a few more moments, enjoying the sensation of our tongues tangled together but when I let out an involuntary moan, reality hits us both square in the face and she abruptly pushes me away, guilt imprinted all over her face. 

She jumps straight to her feet, “I should go” her voice low and she avoids looking at me as she almost runs out of the room. I try to call out to her but moments later I hear the front door close and the engine of her sedan starting and soon enough the rumbles of the engine disappear. My fingers move up to my lips, tracing its outline as I reminisce about the kiss, never has a kiss felt so… right. But concerns immediately begin to infiltrate my mind as I think about what I’m going to do now.

[codedredalert]

Provocation [Golden Kamuy, Tsuki/Ogata] -- part 1/2

Tsuki/Ogata || could-be-canon pre-series || 3,254 words

Second Private Ogata is nothing but trouble, and no end to infuriating. Tsukishima is determined to treat him fairly nonetheless.

(GK fanworks exchange prompt 27: Ogata dealing with the "wildcat" jokes and consequential reputation in the army, Tsukishima somehow protecting him.)

Warnings: canon-typical violence

(On Ao3) (part 2 on tumblr)

===/\==

.

Tsukishima isn't meant to hear it, but he does. He pulls two men aside to warn them for being late, and as he is walking away, he hears one mutter, "that shitty wildcat, this is his fault".

"Wildcat?" Tsukishima asks, because predatory animals near the camp are a significant concern.

"It's nothing, sir," Second Private Nikaido (he's not sure which one) responds after a moment too long and a shared look with his brother. In hindsight, that look is why Tsukishima remembers.

.

.

He doesn't think much of it until he walks into the main tent just as a fight nearly breaks out. There's shouting that abruptly cuts off as the men catch sight of him and turn to salute instead of throwing punches. Still, the tension in the air is palpable, and almost everyone is throwing dirty sideways glances at one man in particular. He's not new, but somehow, Tsukishima has yet to speak with him. His face was both familiar and less familiar than it should be, with big, dark eyes and eyebrows that turn down at both ends. He's built on the smaller side, though still taller than Tsukishima himself.

Tsukishima sighs and gestures for the men to stand at ease.

"There will be no punishment, but I need to know what happened here," he says. Most of them bow slightly in acknowledgement, though the newer men look apprehensive. No one volunteers, of course, so Tsukishima is forced to single someone out. "The Second Private in the sheepskin vest, what's your name?"

The big, honest-looking man, one of the new reserves, steps forward.

"Tanigaki Genjirou, sir."

"Second Private Tanigaki." Tsukishima nods. "What happened here?"

"I'm afraid I was not following the conversation, sir. I can only say that it appears that Second Private Ogata and Superior Private Tamai have had some disagreement."

Tsukishima turns to Superior Private Tamai expectantly.

"Second Private Ogata is just being his usual offensive self, sir. His words are not worth repeating."

"Ahh," interrupts the man with the big, dark eyes. His voice is soft with a slight rasp, almost like a purring cat. "The Superior Private and Second Private Tanigaki are giving me too much credit. I only said that having more snipers might give us more tactical options, and it's a pity that no one else in our unit is suitable. Superior Private Tamai took that as a criticism of his leadership or marksman abilities."

A collective rustle of discontent goes through the men, but no one says anything further and Tsukishima dismisses them. Then all at once, noise and movement return and it seems the men can't contain themselves anymore, speaking in agitated whispers.

"He really is a wildcat, did you hear him?"

"What a liar!"

"Shhh, the Sergeant can hear you."

"Forget the Sergeant, that bastard Ogata might hear you."

… so that's what they meant. Tsukishima thought of one particular cat back in the fishing village he once called home. A cat with a hanging belly that belonged to no-one, meowing pitifully to beg for food. Tsukishima had fed it until one fisherman had laughed at him, and told him "that cat isn't pregnant— he's just fat, and a good fraud."

He finds himself staring, and Second Private Ogata looks up and smiles.

.

.

He soon learns that there's more to it than that.

The nickname catches on with unusual speed and enthusiasm. Outside of formal channels, Second Private Ogata is almost universally referred to as "wildcat Ogata", "that wildcat", or a mix of expletives. It's compromising the order and morale of the men. Tsukishima has more pressing things to think about, but there are enough rumours that it earns its place as an item on his mental checklist of problems to deal with.

One night, when intelligence indicates that an attack by the Russians is unlikely, an air of cautious optimism pervades the camp, and men and officers alike take full advantage of the respite.

"Sergeant Tsukishima, you're slow to the party!" Someone calls to him from a group seated around a fire. "Come drink with us, Second Lieutenant Hanazawa just donated his share of sake."

Tsukishima takes his seat with them, more than readily takes the sake passed to him—he's long learned not to refuse anything that might ease the weight and reality of war— and joins them in raising a toast.

"To Yuusaku-san! May you have a long life, so your generosity can continue to bless us!"

"Empty the glasses!" someone roars amongst the cheers and uproarious laughter. "Cheers!"

"Cheers!" Tsukishima echoes, raising his drink and nodding to Second Lieutenant Hanazawa. The handsome young officer laughs along with everyone, waving away the thanks modestly. That just gets him another round of cheers, and even some pats on the back.

"Yuusaku-san, you're really amazing! Brave and generous and virtuous. Your father, the Lieutenant General's blood really shows!"

A chorus of approval and agreement, indistinct. The atmosphere of relative safety and normalcy, the comfortable warmth of the fire, his accumulated fatigue, and the sake all softened the noise and going-ons around him until Tsukishima heard someone say: "Eh, no, no, that can't be right, otherwise that wildcat would also have some good qualities instead of fucking around all the time."

And then the conversation suddenly related to A Problem, and Tsukishima was too dutiful to ignore it. Holding back a sigh, he dredged up some willpower to pay attention.

"You're right, it must come from his mother's side. Or Yuusaku-san must have taken all the good parts from the Lieutenant General."

"It's true, how are they even related?"

"Simple! The child of a wildcat... must also be a wildcat!" The man who says this pronounces it with a dramatic sweep of his arm and a great deal of pride at his own cleverness, the others burst out in drunken laughter, all except Tsukishima and Second Lieutenant Hanazawa. This doesn't pass unnoticed. Not wanting to exclude their benefactor, Lance Corporal Takahashi slings his arm around the Second Lieutenant, and with all the social acumen of an injured bear, he helpfully explains.

"Ah, of course our dear flagbearer wouldn't know! Wildcat here means geisha, especially of the sort that… is willing to take some extra appointments, if you catch my meaning."

He leers so lecherously that his meaning is completely unmistakable. Second Lieutenant Hanazawa blushes, and then very rapidly goes pale. He looks like he wants to say something, but the flag-bearer's duty to camaraderie and harmony of the troops shackles him.

The same did not apply to Tsukishima.

"It does you no credit to speak ill of your fellow soldiers or their heritage," he says sharply, "—or to imply ill of your Lieutenant General."

Tsukishima speaks like the sergeant he is, so his voice carries, even if he's not trying to be particularly loud. Most of the noise in the group dies instantly, and the people at the fringes quickly quieten as well as the ones near them nudge them to lower their voices.

The Lance Corporal who was speaking does a double take, swaying slightly, drunk but not drunk enough to miss the sudden uncomfortable hush and Tsukishima's obvious disapproval.

"Ahh Sergeant, it was only a joke, a joke."

"A poor joke in bad taste," replies Tsukishima and the person's smile becomes visibly more strained, but Tsukishima doesn't care about popularity, he's a dead man returned to life by a man who outranks everyone present. Even if he were shot tomorrow, it was all borrowed time anyway, as far as he was concerned. The funny characteristic about people when they've already made their peace with death was that they cared very little about what the living think of them.

"—but—" Lance Corporal Takahashi starts to argue.

"It is also an insult to the Second Lieutenant, which is a poor way to repay him for his generosity," Tsukishima adds and as expected, that is what makes the Lance Corporal stop, glancing to the side where the Second Lieutenant is smiling uncomfortably.

"And in any case," Tsukishima continues, "it hardly matters when we're all here fighting and dying in the same war for the same country."

The mood instantly sobers, the temporary illusion of warmth and normalcy dropping away, the weight of the war they were on the front lines of returning tenfold

Tsukishima is suddenly more tired than when he first joined the group. So much for having a bit of respite this evening. He should have gone straight to the baths and stayed there.

"I've said everything I have to say and I'll stand by it, with all the authority I have. But it's late now. Excuse me, I'll take my leave." He turns to the Second Lieutenant, gives a shallow bow, probably more shallow than is polite but his body is too heavy for him to care overly much. "Thank you for the sake, sir."

He leaves. Behind him, he hears Second Lieutenant Hanazawa softly taking his leave from the table of now subdued officers. Footsteps follow him, and the young officer's voice calls out, "Wait!"

Tsukishima stops and turns, and Second Lieutenant Hanazawa jogs to meet him.

"It is good to see that the high praise I have heard about Sergeant Tsukishima is well-founded. Thank you for your defense of my elder brother."

"Second Lieutenant Hanazawa, you're being far too kind. Anything I said was merely for satisfaction of my own principles."

Tsukishima wants to turn and leave, but the Second Lieutenant looks like he has more to say, and the mix of decorum, rank, and actually not disliking the young man keeps Tsukishima standing there.

"I thought they might treat him better if they knew we were related," confesses Hanazawa, "but that provoked people's curiosity. In the end, I seem to have made more trouble for my elder brother."

From the little Tsukishima is aware of, he rather thinks that Second Private Ogata makes most of the trouble himself— there couldn't be that much smoke without even a spark of fire— but as with most situations where he doesn't know enough, he keeps his mouth shut.

Suddenly realising that he was keeping Tsukishima standing in the cold for a personal conversation, Second Lieutenant Hanazawa startles.

"I've said too much." Second Lieutenant Hanazawa bows again. "I beg for your discretion with this information."

"Of course, sir," Tsukishima replies. When Second Lieutenant Hanazawa smiles widely in relief, Tsukishima doesn't have the heart to tell him that he is just closing the doors after the horse has bolted.

.

.

That conversation haunts him, annoyingly mundane amongst the greater horrors he has to deal with. It invokes memories of his home being mocked as unclean, a murderer's dwelling-place, and the murder of a kind girl for no reason other than the appearance she was born with and the misfortune of his affection. Tsukishima takes the old nightmares in stride, as he takes everything, but every time he sees the cloaked figure of Second Private Ogata huddling near a fire or brazier, the thought returns to him, an incomplete task.

It doesn't sit well with him.

The gods give him his chance a few days later, when Second Private Ogata walks by and gives him the mandatory salute. Again, Tsukishima is struck by his big dark eyes, true black catching a small gleam of light, intelligent and strange. If all-seeing eyes existed, they must be like his. Ogata glances over Tsukishima, but his eyes don't settle, don't even linger, like he's seen all there is to see and has already dismissed it with a flick of dark eyelashes, already looking for something else.

He is a sniper. Tsukishima had looked at his records. An unnaturally good one too. It made a man wonder what those eyes could see.

"Second Private Ogata."

"Sir."

"It has come to my attention that these 'wildcat' references are an insult to your private matters and parentage. I don't stand such things. If they bring up that distasteful joke again, let me know."

A blink from those big dark eyes.

"I can deal with it," Second Private Ogata starts to say, but Tsukishima cuts him off before he can go on to make the obligatory polite refusals. He's in no mood for the song and dance of social niceties. The memory of dark hair in unusual curls and a murderer called father are too close to his thoughts today.

"This is a matter of principle. Insulting a person for their heritage has no place in this regiment." Tsukishima surprises himself with how forcefully the words come out, though that is probably not noticeable to someone who does not know him well.

"If it's not about me, then I wonder why the sergeant decided to talk to me?" Ogata's tone, normally flat with disinterest, curled ever so slightly with curiosity now. "Just make an order or punishment, as you please. Sir."

He makes a point, and somehow Tsukishima does not like the question. Still, he answers.

"An order might confirm the information and disservice you and Second Lieutenant Hanazawa more. But if that's what it takes, I will make the order and enforce it with my own two hands if I must."

Something changes. Ogata's eyes feel like they finally focus on him, even with the strange sensation that they are too big and taking everything at once, at least now that includes him. Ogata comes to some decision, lifting his chin.

"I can deal with it, sir. No need to trouble yourself."

His eyes are unreadable.

.

.

The atmosphere in the regiment becomes more vicious. As Tsukishima investigates, small misfortunes start making sense.

Superior Private Tamai's rifle sight rusts on a perfectly dry night. Second Private Tanigaki's uniform buttons go missing. Lance Corporal Takahashi's trigger finger is shot off.

No one knows for certain that it's Second Private Ogata, but everyone knows.

.

.

"You wanted to speak to me, sir?"

Ogata reports as he is required to, but from his carefully blank expression, it's clear he doesn't intend to cooperate. Tsukishima looks up from where he is writing a report and puts down his pen, sits back, more upright.

"I was under the impression we had an understanding," he says grimly, "that you'd come to me regarding those insults if necessary."

"It was not necessary," replied Ogata, just this side of insubordinate, and with a very neutral expression he goes on to say, "But I appreciate the Sergeant's special attention."

"Then it would befit Second Private Ogata to show his appreciation via his conduct."

"What conduct do you suggest?" he asks blithely with an innocently straight face and his too-big eyes and his purring voice. He's far too aware for that ignorance to be genuine.

How irritating.

"Report to me instead of acting on your own," Tsukishima says forcefully. "Or if you don't wish to bring the matter to me, you are free to go to the Second Lieutenant if you prefer. He is more than willing to help you." That gets the first involuntary reaction he sees from Ogata, a definitive rise in his shoulders, a slight lean away from Tsukishima, as if he could physically avoid the suggestion.

"If I don't go to the Sergeant, how could I go to the Second Lieutenant?" asks Ogata, insulting while somehow still staying just this side of appropriate enough to avoid penalty. "As I said, I can deal with it. There's no need to trouble yourself, sir."

.

.

Three more men trade their trigger fingers for a ticket out of the regiment.

There is no evidence that it is Second Private Ogata.

There is no evidence that it is not Second Private Ogata.

.

.

This time, Tsukishima does not send a missive, he pulls Second Private Ogata aside himself.

"I told you to come to me," Tsukishima starts without preamble.

"I don't know what you mean," says Ogata with a straight face.

It takes everything in Tsukishima not to react visibly to that.

"Antagonising our own unit members is bad for morale," replies Tsukishima flatly. "And some actions are outright sabotage, or treason."

"Is Sergeant Tsukishima suggesting I would do such things?" Ogata has the gall to look surprised, and even slightly offended. Tsukishima doesn't buy it for a second.

"I am trying to be fair to you. Stop putting me in a position where I have to punish the people you provoke."

"Mmm, Sergeant Tsukishima has been very patient and generous, all for me." The words in themselves are perfectly polite, but something in the way he says it twists it to mockery. It stops all sound but the blood rushing in Tsukishima's ears.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Tsukishima challenges. A spark lights in Ogata's eyes, and he tilts up his chin, looking down his nose at Tsukishima.

"Obviously the sergeant doesn't care that much about me. So the sergeant must be personally invested in this type of insult, right?"

The protest "I'm not" dies unsaid in Tsukishima's throat as patently untrue. He looks at Ogata, unable to find something to say in the varied mess of emotion struggling to resolve into something comprehensible. Disbelief, irritation, anger, sadness, profound regret, longing, something a little bit of all of these and yet none of them.

Ogata looks at him as Tsukishima's silent struggle grows, and at length, Ogata speaks.

"You already know how the unit talks about me," Ogata says. He is unbearably smug and insubordinate despite the formal address. "So this show of yours must be because you want to make sure they don't talk about you behind your back. Do you want to know what they say about you? Or is that too 'inappropriate'— it's true that I can take it better than you, just judging from your reaction."

Tsukishima's emotions resolve decidedly into fury, which he holds back for a moment before thinking — why not and swinging, landing a good hit right in the face. His fist crunches into Ogata's nose satisfyingly, makes contact with the hard socket and soft tissue of Ogata's eye. His knuckles sting slightly from the impact, tingling with the blood in his small capillaries, with the satisfaction of justified anger finding a deserving target.

Ogata's eyes have a victorious gleam of malicious amusement for a passing fraction of a second as Tsukishima swings, then he goes staggering into a tree.

"You really bring out the worst in people," Tsukishima mutters under his breath, not intending for Ogata to hear but Ogata's expression turns even more smug and even more infuriating. Tsukishima has met the worst of men, has the blood of one in his own veins even, but Ogata is something else— he thinks he's invincible and untouchable and the only real thing. He's vicious for sport and everything is a joke, even in the middle of a war. He wants to watch the world burn.

He's a liability.

With this realisation, Tsukishima knows what he must do. He looks down at Ogata where the man lays on the floor and doesn't even attempt to get up, and Tsukishima tells him, "Your attitude has become too big of an issue. I will have to bring your matter to my superior officer."

"A big issue," Ogata repeats slowly, smiling at the words as if Tsukishima had just cracked a joke instead of informing him that a disciplinary matter would be escalated. He sits up, and looks up to Tsukishima, blood dripping from his nose, the beginnings of a bruise already showing around his eye. It'll be swollen shut before tomorrow. "Please mention me favourably then, Sergeant Tsukishima."

.

===/end of part 1\===

(On Ao3) (part 2 on tumblr)  ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

[rhysismydaddy]

A High Stakes Game (Rowaelin)

This is me forcing myself to write something besides ACOTAR. (It’s still SJM but leave me alone). Lemme just preface this by saying I don’t know jack about poker, so everything in here is either from Wikihow or pulled out of my ass. 

IK I said this was coming out yesterday, but I have a good excuse: I was reading From Blood and Ash (8.9/10 recommend... ending is super obvious but still so good)

I DIDN’T EDIT THIS AND I’M NOT SORRY (maybe a lil)

Masterlist

____________________________________________________________

Aelin Galathynius, professional criminal and longtime plotter of idiotic, amazing schemes that threatened the sanity of her closest friends, sat down at the poker table and smiled. 

“Ready to lose some more money, Whitehorn?”

The man across from her scowled, making her smile grow. Irritating him was perhaps the only feeling better than kicking his ass at cards.

“It was only pocket change, don’t get cocky.” He tilted his head and smirked. “Plus, it sure as hell won’t be happening again. I think I’ve finally figured you out, Galathynius.”

Aelin rolled her eyes, trying to look unbothered. 

His version of “pocket change” was twenty grand. And if she won that much tonight, she’d finally have enough cash to pay back Arobyn and get the hell out of his reach. 

But that wasn’t what had her shaken. 

It was the fact that in all her time playing cards and hustling men who couldn’t look past her cleavage, she’d never faced an opponent like Rowan Whitehorn. He watched her every move, made a note of all her expressions, and generally caused her to have to work ten times harder.

He was a pain in her ass, basically. 

Had been ever since he’d shown up a month ago, looking like a dangerous, sexy villain in a gangster movie. Aelin would admit that at first, his looks had distracted her. 

Until he swiped two thousand dollars worth of chips away from her. 

Bastard.

Now that she knew better, she didn’t let the silver hair, piercing green eyes, or alluring ink of his tattoo distract her. She treated him like a real adversary, was cautious with her chips, and never, ever let him get under her skin. 

So when he said he had her figured out... she didn’t exactly doubt him. And considering she’d had to pull out every single tip and trick she’d ever learned to beat him last Friday, he probably wouldn’t fall for any one of them again tonight. 

Even if he was having a beautifully hard time focusing for once. His bright eyes kept darting over to her, sweeping over her bare shoulders, deep V of her dress, and bright red lipstick.

He always looked, but unlike the other men sitting around the table, he never said a word about it. 

Interesting. 

“Concentrate, Rowan,” she chided with a grin, leaning back to take a peak at her cards. “I’d hate for this to be too easy.”

Two aces, two kings, one five. Not bad, but it could be beat. She needed another ace or king to even be in the running. 

“You’re so annoying,” Rowan growled back, sharp face not revealing a thing as he looked down at his cards. “Two thousand.”

Aelin called, keeping her face blank and uninterested. She’d brought ten grand with her tonight, and if this went poorly, it’d take her at least two more weeks to win it back. 

“I’ll take one,” she told the dealer, sliding the five over. 

The other players at the table--a three-hundred pound Russian named Vlad and a shifty, skinny guy that never said a word--made their plays. 

“Two for me,” Rowan said, leaning back and sipping from his drink. 

Aelin’s mind turned with possibilities, going through the list of cards they’d already seen tonight. Her bet was that he was shooting for a flush and needed two cards of hearts to pull it off. 

The trick to counting cards, ladies, gentlemen, and criminals, is discretion. She’d never been caught and banned from any of the games in town because she never walked away with more than thirty grand. Small wins to some of the whales, but she didn’t want too much attention on her. 

She peaked at the card she’d gotten and forced herself to look disappointed as she saw the ace. 

Full house. 

“I’ll raise to three,” she said, sliding a small pile of chips into the center.

Fat Putin called, Slender Man dropped out. 

Rowan’s eyes narrowed as the bet came around to him. “Let’s go four.”

Aelin’s stomach dropped out. That was a nine grand bet on a single hand, and hers wasn’t even that great. If she bet and lost, she’d only have a thousand bucks for tonight. But if she didn’t, she’d lose the five grand she’d put down. 

Another reason she was a winner at the table: she trusted her gut. 

“I’ll call.”

The Russian gruffed something she couldn’t understand and dropped out. It was just her and Whitehorn now. 

He looked down at his cards, then studied her face in a way that made her grit her teeth. Aelin propped an elbow on the table and narrowed her eyes, and he smiled, tattoo gleaming in the light. 

His eyes swept across her face, then lower. Usually, when someone at the game looked at her like that, she made it a point to take their entire nest. But for some reason, she just returned the favor. 

As was the last three times she’d played against him, he was wearing an expensively cut, jet black suit, which made the ink of his tattoo pop and his hair look like ice. His lips were in that permanent scowl of his, even though there was no anger in his eyes. 

It really was a shame someone so handsome was so damn infuriating. 

“I’ll raise to ten,” he said, shooting a meaningful glance at her nest. He wanted her to go all in on a full house? Before the flop?

She heard herself respond before her brain caught up. “Call.”

Jesus, A. Calm down. 

Since they were the only two players at the table, the dealer nodded and flipped three cards up. Aelin felt like she might throw up as she saw that nothing in there would help her. 

“Check,” she said, passing the bet to Rowan. 

He gave her a smile that probably looked innocent to anyone else. “Fifteen.”

“You know I don’t have it,” she lied, following her number one rule to never withdraw any more than she had planned. 

Rowan shrugged, leaning forward to brace both arms against the table. “Bet something other than money, then.”

Alarm bells, and a strange amount of intrigue, started flaring in her head. 

“Like what?” she asked, coating her voice in confidence. 

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette, taking his time lighting it. After exhaling a thick fog of smoke, he looked her over and smirked. “One night with you.”

Every head in the place turned their way. 

Up till now, this hadn’t been that interesting of a game. 

Even though she could hardly breathe, Aelin said, “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” He laughed softly. “You win, you finally have enough to pay Arobyn Hammel back. You lose, you come upstairs.”

Her brain couldn’t make sense of what he’d just said. He knew about Arobyn? Her debt? 

“How do you-”

“I told you I figured you out.”

Oh, fuck. This was bad. 

Or maybe not.

She couldn’t decide. 

He was really going to trade sex for a poker game?

It wasn’t like she wasn’t ridiculously attracted to him. She definitely was. And she knew she probably would’ve slept with him if they’d met outside a hotel casino. But this felt... different than just having sex with him. 

On the other hand, she could be done. Her hand was good, and depending on the next card flipped, it could get better. If another ace turned up, she’d have four of a kind. 

And she’d be done. Debts paid, nothing holding her here. It was risky, but too tempting to shoot down.

“Deal.”

Rowan smiled, shaking his head softly, and gestured to the dealer who ignored how illegal this transaction was and reached to turn the last card over. 

An ace.

Holy hell.

Aelin smiled and flipped her cards over. “Four of a kind.”

Which could only be beat by a straight flush or a-

“Royal flush.” 

A gasp went through the crowd that had gathered around them as he flipped his hand over, and Aelin honestly thought she might pass out. 

He’d won. 

She forced herself to roll her eyes and smile. “Congratulations.”

On the bright side, you didn’t lose ten grand. 

Just some of your dignity. 

At the leering stares of every man in the room, she amended her thought. 

Okay, all your dignity. 

Rowan snuffed his cigarette out and stood, the group of people looking between him and Aelin with unabashed curiosity on their faces. 

Even though he’d won, his face didn’t hold a single emotion as he walked over to her side of the table and extended a hand. “Let’s go.”

She bit her lip, trying to think what her odds would be of making a break for the door. She’d never be able to get through the crowd, though, let alone outrun him in all his long-legged glory.

So she grabbed his hand and let him pull her through the shocked, laughing, gaping group of people towards the elevator. 

Once inside, she stood silent, not knowing exactly what to say. 

He led her down a hallway and into a hotel room, then turned to her. 

And stared.

She just stared back. 

She was about to tell him that if he honestly expected her to sleep with him over a poker game that he go fuck himself when he shocked the hell out of her. 

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Um, what?”

“We’re watching a movie.” He flopped down on the bed and grabbed the remote. “Sit down, Aelin.”

She stood standing. Rowan just sighed, kicked off his shoes, and messed with the remote. 

When an actual movie--a very manly war movie, mind you--started playing, she realized he was serious and sat next to him on the bed, leaning against the headboard.

Her mind couldn’t stop reeling, though.

He’d been ready to give her fifteen grand for a night with her, and he didn’t even expect to collect if he won? 

She eyed him curiously. He looked relaxed, harsh face not scowling for once. The light from the movie made his hair almost glow in the dark, and even though people were shooting and yelling and dying, he looked happy. 

Aelin slid down a bit, continuing to stare at him until he turned to look at her, too. 

Green eyes, soft lips, sharp jawline. 

“You really don’t expect me to sleep with you?”

“I mean, you’re probably going to fall asleep at some point...” he joked, but shook his head and sighed. “No, Aelin. Despite what you apparently think, I prefer women who actually want to have sex with me.”

Her mind and body were reeling with questions and answers. Why had he bet that, then? Was this some seduction technique she’d never heard of; acting like you didn’t want sex when you did?

Hell if it wasn’t working.

She bit her lip, unable to not smile at the annoyed look on his face. “I never said I don’t want to, stupid.”

A spark shot through his eyes, and there was a soft smile on his face as he ran a calloused thumb across her cheek. “That was a really good deal for you, then,” he mused with a chuckle.

“You’re such a bast-”

He closed the distance between them, lips still smiling as they met hers. After three weeks of wondering what he’d taste like, Aelin finally had her answer. 

She didn’t quite know how to describe it other than addictive as hell. 

She slid her tongue in his mouth, and his hands moved down her waist to pull her on top of him. 

“I can’t believe you put up fifteen grand to get me up here,” she murmured, sliding her hands into his hair. 

“I knew I couldn’t lose.” Rowan smiled. “And I really, really wanted to see your face when you lost. You considered running, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” she laughed, leaning down to kiss him again. 

His hands found the zipper on the back of her dress, and she pulled it over her head unceremoniously. 

His eyes looked like emeralds as he took in everything about her in that serious, methodical way of his. “You’re beautiful.”

Her hands were on his chest, struggling with the buttons of his shirt. “I’m trying to see if you are, too, but your shirt’s putting up a fight.”

Rowan rolled his eyes, pushing away her hands and making quick work of the fabric. 

Smooth muscle, tinted with the lines of ink that ran down his neck, chest, and toned waist. “I like your tattoo.”

He shifted underneath her to lie down fully, then gripped her thighs and pulled her up his chest. “Sit on it, then.” (AN: I LITERALLY SPEWED WRITING THIS)

Aelin laughed but sure as hell didn’t fight as he lifted her up, settling on his tan shoulders. 

And she sure as hell didn’t argue as he tugged her underwear to the side. 

With his teeth. 

He pressed a kiss to her skin, and she grabbed the headboard to keep herself still. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her in a circle, and his tongue ran up her core. 

She looked down, saw his tattoo half-obscured by her thigh, and almost came at the sight alone. One of her hands drifted to run through his hair, stark against the tan of her skin.

A moan escaped her, and he smiled against her skin. 

His mouth kept moving under her, and soon even his hands on her hips couldn’t keep her still. She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep quiet, mindful they probably had neighbors. 

But when his teeth grazed her, tongue diving deep, she let out a long groan as release found her. 

His eyes peeked up at her, and she could tell he was quite happy with himself. 

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered.

Laughter bubbled out of him against her thigh, then he gripped her waist, lifted her, and fucking threw her on the end of the bed. Before she could react, he was braced over her, their mouths fused together. 

Aelin could taste herself on his lips, and it messed with her mind in the best way. Her hands found their way between them to undo his belt and button, then she finally had him in her hands.

Rowan braced himself on his elbows, a serious, very concentrated look on his face as she stroked him and kissed his neck, right over that damned tattoo.

She ran her thumb over the tip, and he jerked involuntarily. Then growled at her and knocked her hands to the side.

His hips pressed into her, and Aelin’s back arched as he pushed into her with a muffled grunt.

Hell, even the sounds this man made turned her on.

Settled against her, he paused to give her a few moments, and she stared at the ceiling, mind and body adjusting to the full feeling coursing through her.

A hand gripped her chin, and her eyes met his. She nodded. 

He started to move, and that, coupled with the piercing eye contact, was almost too much for her. But she still wanted more.

He was still gripping her chin; Aelin took his wrist and moved it to her throat. 

“Fuck, Aelin,” he murmured, picking up the pace. His hand contracted lightly and all the blood rushed through her like lightening. 

She moaned, and his lips came down to hers to mask the sound. 

It was hopeless, though, because her body was reacting to Rowan’s like it had never with anyone else. His tongue was in her mouth as he swirled his hips, and she whimpered onto his mouth. 

She only got louder as things progressed, especially as he moved his mouth to her ear, nibbling on it and pulling it with his teeth. One hand still at her neck, he used the other to lift her hip, going deeper. 

Aelin opened her eyes, thrilled to see the strain on his face and know he was just as affected by this. 

He sucked on her neck, and she moaned his name. 

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered in between kisses, and she smiled. 

Then saw stars as he squeezed her throat again. 

Her body went rigid and loose at the same time as she climaxed, contracting around Rowan and yanking him over the edge with her. He kept slowly moving, both of them riding out the high. 

Then he stilled and lowered himself down, his weight pressing her down, their skin melded together. 

“Holy shit,” she breathed, hands coming to play with his hair as he rested his head on her chest. 

He made a happy, contented sound deep in his throat, and her heart almost exploded in her chest. Big baby. 

Aelin wrapped her legs and arms around him, cocooning him with her body. 

Even though she hadn’t won any money tonight and would have to work for a few weeks to pay off her debts, she wasn’t even worried about it. 

In fact, there weren’t any thoughts in her head except of the man on top of her.

And one burning question. 

She pulled his hair, forcing him to meet her eyes, and asked, “So, was it worth fifteen grand?”

He gave her that rare, genuine smile that made her breath halter. Then came to kiss her again and mutter, “I don’t know. I might need another go to tell for sure.”

Aelin rolled her eyes, all too happy to oblige him. 

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Thanks for reading. Some Malorian next? Who knows. 

@aesthetics-11 @b00kworm @bamchickawowow @hizqueen4life @savemesoon8 @musicmaam @sleeping-and-books @a-bit-of-a-cactus

[siennahrobek]

Future Past

“Your father was my best friend.”

Hearing about his father was something Luke always wanted to know, no matter what it was or what time of day it occurred. Ben always had the best stories about the young Jedi knight; a phenomenal pilot who fought fiercely for those he loved. There was the longest time where all Luke wanted was the chance to meet him, to know him like Ben had.

Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru didn’t talk about Anakin Skywalker, aside from the brief he was a space freighter pilot, and he was dead. They were always so cautious when he asked about him and got even more worried when Luke showed signs of wanting to be a pilot. It had made the hand carved wooden gifts of ships that were left on his grandmother’s grave even more special. Like there was silent support from them but not wanting to make it clear because of their feelings when it came to his father. It had taken quite some time before Luke had realized that neither Uncle Owen or Aunt Beru were the ones making and giving them. It had taken even longer for him to realize it had been Ben.

When Ben had taken him in, it had not been long for him to confess that he knew Luke’s father. Not just knew him, was friends with him. Luke learned so much from Ben’s stories and more often than not, Ben was absolutely calm and willing to share them. His father hadn’t been a simple space freighter pilot but actually a General in the Clone Wars and a crazy good pilot.

Luke wasn’t too bad himself, if he was being honest.

He craved more and more, and Ben had never run out of stories to share. It was like he and Luke’s father had spent a lifetime on adventures and soon, Luke even asked about any adventures he had that didn’t include Anakin Skywalker, ones stretching as far back as to Ben’s childhood, when he was Luke’s age and more. Because it wasn’t long before he loved Ben too. He felt connected to him immediately, drawn by some unnamed feeling that made him feel safe and warm and right. They just clicked together.

Ben told Luke about the Jedi Order, an entire culture like him – with the Force, as Luke learned the named feeling was – that defended and helped people the best they could. Always happy to talk about it, Luke never had a lack of questions to ask or Ben a lack of stories to tell. It made Luke dream about it, not just his father, but the Jedi and the Order as well. Thousands of people with lightsabers and abilities like his, connecting with one another and others, striving to make the galaxy a better place. A huge, beautiful Temple where they all lived and played and worked. Boundless knowledge and a thousand waterfalls. Luke would dream about it so hard, as if he did it enough, he would get that chance.

And Ben could get that back.

It didn’t work but that didn’t stop Luke from trying.

Their longest conversation about Ben’s past, with the Jedi and with his father, had been on a ship they had gotten a hold of while in hyperspace. It was one of the real small ones where there was little room to do anything but read and talk. Luke, young and eager, had curled up into Ben’s side with the older man’s cloak wrapped around his form and asked question after question. Ben nearly always had answers.

“And then I told him, good job,” Ben continued, his hand waving for emphasis. Luke giggled. Even being as young as he was, had quickly learned a lot of Ben’s wits. He knew his tones and expressions and he loved learning about them. Ben was the constant in his life. No matter where they were or what was happening, Ben was there to keep Luke safe and warm and happy as he could. And Luke learned him in return.

“You didn’t mean it,” he cackled, finding that hilarious. “You were sarcastic.”

Ben just smiled warmly down at him. “Ah yes, a bit of a flaw of mine, I suppose. As I have been told. His care and determination may have been commendable, but he also nearly got his charge and himself killed. We were chained to the poles when the Geonosians – they are a bit like giant insects –,” Luke squealed in delight as Ben continued, describing the physical attributes of his former captors. “They had released these three large beasts, starving and angry, to kill us.”

“They were hungry?”

“Yes Luke. It wasn’t their fault. The Geonosians had not given them any food and they were desperate. They wanted to survive,” Ben explained gently.

“Did they?”

“Sadly, no, beacon,” Ben murmured. Luke tucked in closer.

“That’s sad,” he murmured. “Did they hurt a lot?”

“They were taken care of, quickly, youngling. They felt little pain,” Ben assured. Whether it was true or not, it was to spare Luke pain. “The young Senator had freed herself and soon after, so did Anakin and I. There was a brief battle with the animals, your father had even calmed one enough to assist us. And then, Master Windu came with two hundred other jedi.”

Luke’s eyes widened. “Two hundred?” he questioned, disbelievingly.

“Two hundred,” he repeated. “They were all very brave.”

“Two hundred,” Luke echoed. “That is so many! I wish I could have seen them.” He wished he could have met them. Talked with them. Bonded with them. Ben’s eyes softened, as he ran a hand through Luke’s blonde hair, his voice lowering and his grief, although muted with shields, palpable within the force.

“I wish that too, dear one. More than you know.”

Present Past

Anakin couldn't stop staring at the teenager who wouldn't leave Obi-Wan's body and the growing irritation in the pit of his stomach just got worse. He was just ready to tackle this person and get to his former master’s side. What right did this child have, taking him away? Anakin was his padawan, former or not, and that would never change.

They had all gotten to the gunship without any setbacks. The troopers hadn't been able to salvage anything more than Obi-Wan's droid, R4, from the crashed ship, although were a little surprised with the extra addition of the boy. There was nothing in the desert to suggest where he had come from. No one had any real idea how this had happened or who this person really was. The name Luke meant little to nothing to Anakin or any of the others in their little entourage.

The boy was still tense around them, although Luke seemed vaguely calm around Rex - but only Rex - and they had all gotten into the gunship Anakin and the others had come in on. He had settled into the corner of the ship, carefully keeping Obi-Wan next to him. The older man had yet to make a move or give any indication that he would awake but Luke just adjusted the robes and brushed the light bangs from his face, giving frequent glances, eyes furrowed as he appeared as if he was studying Obi-Wan’s face.

Luke wasn't much younger than Anakin, perhaps a few years. Still a teenager but an older one. His hair was a sandy blonde, sweeping like bangs across his forehead. He was dressed in simple robes similar to most of those in the galaxy, although his were a little lighter, including the Jedi, with sand-covered boots. He didn’t even seem to mind the sand that much, not even bothering to wipe some of it off. Anakin did, however, constantly trying to work through the grains out of his mechanical hand and dusting off his clothes.

As they got settled into the ship, another trooper, who had previously stayed behind, tried to approach but Luke just glared fiercely, clutching Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. The trooper backed a step, out of the way of the blade that would surely pop up if Luke pressed just a tad more on the ignition.

"He's a medic, Luke," Rex murmured, assuring. It did little to dissuade the boy, but he didn’t ignite the blade so perhaps it could be counted as a win.

"What is your name?" Luke asked, eyeing the trooper.

"Lakeside, sir," the trooper responded.

Luke paused but it seemed to be the wrong answer. "My apologies, Lakeside, but I think it would be best to wait."

"Wait?" Anakin hissed, stepping forth. Everyone eyed him warily. They knew one wrong move could prove fatal for any one of them, including Obi-Wan. “He is bleeding, he can’t wait!”

Luke just ignored him and turned towards the two men at the front which just made Anakin bristle even further with anger. Ahsoka put a hand on his arm in attempt to calm him. It didn’t work very well. "Pilot, where are we heading?"

"General Skywalker's star ship, the Resolute," the co-pilot answered.

Luke’s mouth twitched. "Is the ship Negotiator, here?"

"No, sir."

The boy hummed and looked away, back towards Obi-Wan. He thought about this for a moment. "Fine. Is Medic Kix on the ship?"

Anakin blinked at him, blankly. How did this boy know all of this? How did he know Kix? How did he know Obi-Wan? Where did he come from? What did he want? A million questions were screaming and running around in Anakin’s head, making everything hurt.

The co-pilot answered for him. "Yes sir."

"We would appreciate his assistance then when we board," Luke nodded with his request. He didn't seem too pleased with the lack of Obi-Wan's ship, but Anakin was more concerned that he knew about specific ships and specific soldiers.

"Who are you?" Anakin demanded, stepping forward again. Luke's response was to get in front of Obi-Wan, protectively covering him with his own, a bit smaller, body. "How do you know my trooper's name? How do you know Obi-Wan?" he demanded. His hands had curled into fists, and he gripped them so hard his mech hand had actually creaked. The ship was into the air now, with the outer doors locking. The area became dark before the dim lights flickered on overhead.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Luke snorted but he sounded rather amused. That just infuriated Anakin more.

“On what?”

“Anything.”

Anakin’s lip curled and he nearly drew blood. “Look, kid. I don’t have a lot of patience right now. You are holding my master hostage, you came out of nowhere acting like you knowhim, and I really, really need some answers if you want to stick around.”

Luke stared at him, as if sizing him up for a challenge. “I warned that you wouldn’t believe me, but I will tell you some things anyways,” he sighed. “I suppose the Jedi are still around, the clones are still serving with them, and the Republic isn’t yet in shambles?”

There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at him, confused and surprised. “What do you mean? The Jedi and clones are fighting in a war together for the Republic,” it was Ahsoka who answered this time. She had been able to get a little closer to Luke, but he didn’t let even her get too close to Obi-Wan.

“Unless this is a really, really crazy hallucination, which actually might be possible considering where Ben and I were not a moment ago,” Luke started. “The only other option is that we have somehow went back in time. Me, physically, because if this is still the Clone Wars, then I haven’t been born yet and Ben…Ben must have gone back to his body of this time since he looks…younger now,” Luke explained with a shrug.

“Time travel?” Captain Rex asked, skeptically.

Luke nodded. “Yeup. It kinda happened to Ben’s colleague, Fulcrum, although I think that was different. She had been plucked from a moment in time forward from a Temple by someone else. Ben and I were in a warm, glowing cave. I blinked and then I saw you all,” he added with a shrug. “But like I said, it could also very possibly be a hallucination too. I had been in the middle of a sandstorm beforehand.”

“This is ridiculous,” Anakin replied, flatly, shaking his head. Grains of sand had fallen from his hair. “There is no such thing as time travel. You are playing us, and I don’t know what you want but you aren’t getting it. So, you are going to give me back Obi-Wan and-.”

“You really think I am playing you?” Luke asked, interrupting with a lip curled in incredulity. “I literally agreed to go to your star destroyer ship, which, I imagine, would be filled with troops. I wouldn’t have stood a chance if I were playing you,” he snorted and rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Ben’s stories were always so good, he never made it seem like you were dense.”

“His stories?” Ahsoka asked, curiously. “Who is Ben?”

“Ben,” Luke gestured to Obi-Wan. “He had to change his name when we went into hiding because well, he’s kinda famous. But he would tell me tons of stories about the Jedi, before and during the war.”

“Did we win?” Rex asked although hesitantly. He was taking this a lot better than other probably would have.

Luke looked up to him, uncertainly. “I suppose that largely depends on one’s point of view.”

Anakin narrowed his eyes. That sounded more like something Obi-Wan would say. He had always tried to explain things from different points of view. The knight had rarely thought it mattered. “Are you going to tell us? Or just keep playing these games?”

The boy shrugged and took a breath. “I think Ben would be able to explain it better. I don’t know a whole ton about the end of the war, as I was just a baby when it was over.”

“We are about to dock, sirs,” the co-pilot called back. Luke clutched Obi-Wan tighter as the rest of them took hold of the varying hand holds within the ship. The landing was a bit clunky, nearly knocking a few of them off balance, but the doors opened and artificial light from the docking bay on Anakin’s ship shone through brightly.

“Tell Kix he has a patient and to get the medical bay ready,” Anakin ordered a nearby trooper. The clone nodded and ran off quickly. Rex slowly approached Luke and helped him up, taking a lot of Obi-Wan’s weight, making sure to telegraph his movements. The less jumpy the teenager was, the better. “Let’s get to the medical bay,” Anakin told them, obviously peeved, which made the soldiers around him scatter as best they could. No one liked being around an angry or irritated Skywalker. “The sooner we get Obi-Wan some help, the sooner he wakes up and the sooner I can get answers on you,” he pointed at Luke, deliberately. “You better hope he knows who you are.”

Luke hoped that too. He didn’t want to be alone.

[residentanchor]

When the Mask Falls

Word count: 10k+

Ships: Sleepxiety

Summary: Virgil has worked as a messenger for pretty much all of his life to make ends meet. It worked well, he hardly had to talk and he did enjoy the quiet time on the road, but he was always excited to make it back home. He mostly delivered letters for the rich family in town, the Dormir’s, as they tried to find a person to marry their son.

He was glad Remy Dormir was as particular as he was. Remy spoke his mind and turned down every marriage offer before it could begin before running off to the pubs behind his parent’s back to party. He was Virgil’s best friend and long time crush, but he was okay with pining from the sidelines. He didn’t want to become the next person Remy chased out of town... and their friendship was more than enough for him. 

Warnings: unsympathetic Deceit, angst, cursing, kidnapping, happy ending

Note: This was a writing commission for /@theeternalspace! Thanks so much, I appreciate it!

Virgil wrapped his cloak around him a bit closer as he made his way up the path. He was tired from running around all day despite the fact it was a regular occurrence for him. Whenever he was traveling home, he pushed himself a bit harder than normal. He didn’t dislike nights camping in the woods, but he always missed the comfort of his own bed. However, a job was a job and he was quick on his feet. When the Dormir’s, the richest family in the town, decided to hire him, he couldn’t say no. Running around delivering packages and letters wasn’t glorious, but it paid well enough for him.

Though, he was finishing his last job for them right now. The big house that loomed in front of him was a familiar and welcoming sight. The home of the richest people around, the Dormir’s, along with his best friend, Remington. As Virgil climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to deliver his final letter, he looked up towards the sky and saw the sun at its peak. It was almost midday, still too early for Remy to be awake most likely. Virgil had gotten back home faster than he had thought.

The door creaked open and a familiar face answered. “Virgil, good to see you again. Are you here for master Remington?”

Virgil reached into his bag and pulled out the crisp letter. “I can wake him for you if you need. I’m just dropping this off.”

The servant nodded and took the letter. “Excellent. Shall I expect you to deliver a response for us once again?”

The servant moved and made room for Virgil to enter. With a nod, he accepted and stepped into the home. “I don’t think so, he didn’t wait around this time.”

“Very well. I suppose I shall deliver this and prepare to have guests.”

“I’ll go wake Remy up before his parents find out he was probably out all night again.”

Virgil quickly made his way up the stairs and to his best friend’s bedroom door. He hardly gave it a knock before he opened it, slipping quietly inside. The room was dark, curtains blocking out the morning sun as best they could. Remy was nothing more than a lump of blankets on the bed and Virgil rolled his eyes.

“Come on, Rem, it’s almost midday!” He leaned over and nudged the lump, earning a groan from his friend. “Your parents are going to be looking for you soon. You sure you want to still be in bed when they get here?”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll get up.” Remy sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Virgil thought it wasn’t fair how nice his bed head looked in comparison to his own. Remy took almost no time to prepare claiming that his beauty just came so naturally. Virgil always huffed at that but couldn’t deny how useful it could be sometimes. “What do they want now?”

“I just came back with a response letter again.”

Remy rolled his eyes and stretched, letting out a yawn. “Hate to break this to you, but you’re always bringing back letters. It’s kind of your job?” Remy slipped out from underneath the blankets and headed for his armoire to get an outfit for the day.

“From the people they’ve been talking to, smart ass. They didn’t seem like they were expecting a response back this time. Which can only mean one of two things.”

“My parents changed their mind or someone from the Darvin family is coming to visit. Joy...”

Virgil scoffed and turned away to let his friend get changed. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to just invite them over like you’ve been friends for years. You don’t know them!”

“True, but my parents have been exchanging letters for weeks now. You know this, you are their messenger.” Virgil flushed a bit as he heard the sound of ruffling clothes fall. “Which means they’re probably gonna try to set me up with their son or something.”

“Charles. I already don’t like him, I bet he’s more stuck up than you are.”

“Aww, Virgil, you jealous?”

“Excuse me--jealous of what?!”

“The idea of me in another man’s arms? Come on, Virgil, you’re my best friend and I am cute.”

Virgil ducked his head away, glad his back was to his friend. He could feel the blush growing on his face. “Yuck, no thanks. He can have you.”

“A lot of people want me, it happens when you’re rich and beautiful. Besides,” Remy’s footsteps sounded a bit closer as he walked up to Virgil. He stepped into view, fully dressed and presentable. “He doesn’t go by Charles. He goes by his middle name.”

“Charles D. Darvin. What’s his middle name anyway?”

Remy snickered a bit. “The D. stands for Dee, actually.”

“How original.” Virgil looked unamused. “They couldn’t afford a full name, really? I thought your parents tried pairing you off with every rich family they came across?”

Remy moved toward the door and threw it open. “They have money, trust me. Their family has been wealthy for generations. Probably why my parents want to get us to meet so quickly.”

“So they’re gonna sell you off to moneybags? Good, get you out of my hair finally.” Virgil couldn’t hide the playful smile on his face from Remy if he tried.

Remy scoffed as he started down the hallway with Virgil trailing after him. “I will not hesitate to drop his ass if he tries anything, you know that. I don’t care what my parents say, I’m not going to marry the first person they throw at me.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said the last three times they tried to marry you off.” Remy turned and glared at his best friend as Virgil just smirked back. “Hasn’t worked yet.”

“I am a treasure that is only worthy of someone I choose.” 

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Remy looked over to his friend and sighed dramatically. “What?”

“How are you so ignorant? I’m irresistible, Virge! No one can keep away from me for long! It’s just a matter of me picking who I want.”

“Whatever you say, Rem.”

----

Virgil had a bit more free time now that he wasn’t delivering letters for the Dormir’s once more. It usually didn’t last very long. Remy had a streak of chasing away his parent’s latest attempt at having their son settle down. Then they hired Virgil to deliver more letters as they continued to look. It wasn’t perfect but it worked well enough for Virgil and let him stay close to Remy. He felt like the Dormir’s didn’t approve of their friendship but let Remy get away with practically anything, even having a friend they thought wasn’t worthy enough. Virgil was just glad they were too busy to realize the hopeless gaze he had for their son. Virgil was smitten but he would never admit it or act upon it. It was obvious enough that Remy didn’t return his feelings, but their friendship was something he’d always treasure. For now, he’d wait while Remy played with his newest guest.

Unfortunately, that meant that they were busy preparing for their visitors so he wasn’t exactly welcomed at the moment. He’d simply be in the way while ‘actual important people’ were there. The Darvin’s were sending their eldest son in hopes of doing what other families had failed to do--marry the only Dormir heir there was. Remy’s family was rich and owned quite a bit of land and everyone around knew it. Marrying Remington Dormir would give them power, something everyone seemed to be after. Remy was going to inherit everything himself which made him the perfect target for money hungry families to try and pair their children off with him, gender be damned. The whole idea sounded stupid and upsetting to Virgil, and not just because of his unrequited crush. He hated seeing people try to win over his best friend with promises of money and power that Remy obviously didn’t care about. Something good came of it, he supposed. If he could sit back and enjoy Remy calling out all these families and putting them in their place, it made dealing with it almost worth it.

Though, that part hasn’t happened yet. They were still waiting for this ‘Charles’ to arrive and that left Virgil incredibly bored with no one to talk to until the ordeal had passed. If they didn’t infuriate Remy by the first day, he’d keep them around for a bit to entertain himself, which means Virgil might meet them before they ultimately left. If there was one thing Virgil didn’t like, it was having to deal with new people. Shoving letters at them and taking new ones before walking away? Fine. Actually having a conversation? Just plain cruel.

There was one thing that Virgil held no doubts about. Remy wasn’t the type to settle or like anyone, really. Remy didn’t just swoon and fall in love. The fact he got along so well with him was so strange, it’s the only reason the Dormir’s allow Virgil to talk to their son at all he feels. Well, besides it being something Remy wanted himself. They never denied their only child whatever he wanted. Remy had chased everyone else in his life away after a while. Virgil was the only one to break through the tough exterior that was Remington Dormir’s personality and stay. Virgil took pride in that. He knew, no matter who they were, no one would ‘woo’ Remy and sweep him off his feet. Certainly not enough to chase Virgil off after so many years. 

Finally, a few days after delivering the final letter, the mysterious suitor came into town. He was traveling alone and sat atop a horse, but everyone figured out who he was. He was wrapped in a heavy wool traveler's cloak, embroidered around the seams and far too elaborate and expensive for a simple traveler. He didn’t ask for directions, heading straight for the massive building that peeked through the trees at the edge of town. He didn’t look at or greet anyone as he silently made his way through. Virgil watched him ride by, his perfectly quaffed hair and cleanly shaven face infuriating him to his core. Who did this guy think he was? He hoped Remy was smart enough not to fall for a pretty face.

Virgil was too anxious to follow after him, though. He’d leave them to their fate with Remy, the fear of being caught greater than his need to see how they interacted as they first met. This guy could be gone in a matter of hours, so what did it matter?

---

Remy sat at home listening to his parents fuss over how it was important he made such a good first impression before the suitor appeared, Remy not really caring what happened. All previous suitors were flops, surely this one would be as well. Their speech had been said so many times, he was sure it was rehearsed by this point.

The knock on the door was enough to have his mother take a step back and smile at him. “You’re such a handsome man, you’ll sweep Charles off his feet in no time!”

“Duh,” Remy mumbled under his breath. “It’s the other way around that’s the problem. I am a catch.”

Remy cleared his throat and looked uninterested as his butler brought a man into the room. The stranger took off his cloak and smiled at Remy as if he was genuinely happy to meet him. Remy couldn’t deny he was attractive, but that didn’t mean anything. So were all the others.

“Charles Dee Darvin, but you can call me Dee,” he offered his hand in greeting and Remy took it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Remington Dormir, you may call me Remy.” 

“We’ll leave you two alone,” Remy’s mother called out before shooting her son a glare. “Be nice, Remington!”

Remy waited until the footsteps trailed off and pulled his hand back from the handshake. “Okay, look, ‘Dee’, I’m not looking to get married anytime soon. My parents don’t listen to me when it comes to this stuff. They think shoving every rich person my way will suddenly make me ‘fall in love’ or whatever.”

“Oh thank goodness!” Dee let out a sigh. “Me neither! Truth be told, my parents have recently passed away from illness and, no offense, I’m not really interested either! There’s still so much more I want to do before I get married and take over the family business, you know? Your parents just seemed so excited, I figured I could at least stop by to meet you.”

Remy blinked in surprise before snickering. “Well, then we might just get along great! We can stage a whole fight and get you out of here in no time, but I can at least show you around first!” Dee nodded as Remy strutted by. “I can even show you the town, but we will have to be careful. Everyone around here loves me, of course. How could they not? The only one who isn’t aware of how much they’re in love with me is my best friend, Virgil. He’s in complete denial.”

“Oh? Is he now? How are you so sure of that?”

“Oh, pshh, he’s always coming over and hanging out and checking on these ‘suitors’ my parents send. I mean, I don’t blame him, really. My charm is irresistible!”

“Well,” Dee fell in pace with Remy and smirked devilishly. “How about before I go, I get him to admit he had feelings for you?”

“Oh? Sounds intriguing. And what do you have planned?”

“Well, we pretend we’re falling for each other. We do a bit of flirting and get him to admit he’s jealous. You haven’t had a successful suitor yet, correct? If he thinks this might work, he might slip.” Dee glanced over at Remy as he smirked, proud of his plan. “What do you think?”

“Ohh, how evil! I like it, this could be quite fun! A masterful performance from us and have the whole town be the stage!” Remy threw back his head and laughed. “I think we’ll actually get along rather well!”

“Well, let the flirting begin, shall we?”

---

“Virgil!” The sudden voice startled the man as he jumped, turning toward the source. “I heard you were back in town!” An older man waved and walked over and Virgil resisted a sigh. He was not one for casual conversation.

“Yeah, hey.” Virgil shifted a bit awkwardly, not used to talking to people around town. Most folks just left him alone unless they had work for him. “Did you need something delivered?”

“What? No, I just wanted to say hi!” Virgil tried to believe that, but there was no reason to talk to him unless they wanted something. “Haven’t seen you around! Have you been to Dormir manor?”

Ahh, so that’s what they wanted from him, information. “Yes, I was doing business for them for a while but that’s ended. I haven’t been there recently if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, so you haven’t seen their newest visitor, then! Quite a handsome young man, this one.”

Virgil had not. It was always exciting news when anyone traveled to their town. They very rarely got random travelers so most people came by for the Dormir’s. When the man on horseback rode through, Virgil tucked away and waited for him to ride by as he always had. He did not want to see the face of the latest person trying to marry his best friend. Not unless they were actually going to stick around this time.

Virgil shook his head and glanced away. “Nah. I know Remy. If they’re just after money and flattery, he’ll have them out of town before sundown.”

“Oh? I thought you’d care about the people trying to marry young Remington.” Virgil looked up at the old man who smiled back. Something about the look he was giving Virgil spoke more than words could. Virgil couldn’t help but blush before he ducked his head away again. “Come now, boy. When are you going to say something about this? You care for that young man, you should step in and--”

“Look.” Virgil took a harsh tone as he glared up at the old man. “Remington Dormir is a brilliant man who can marry whomever he chooses. No suitor will be able to waltz in here and change that.” Virgil took a moment and held his breath. “No matter who that person will be, I will respect his choice because he’s my best friend. Whatever makes him happy.”

The old man let out a sigh as his shoulders dropped. “Boy… What about what will make you happy?”

Virgil closed his eyes and shook his head. “If Remy is happy, then I’ll be happy too. No need to have someone important get mixed up with a peasant boy and become the biggest laughing stock this side of the kingdom.”

“Virgil-”

“I hope you have a nice day, sir.” Virgil quickly spun on his heel and marched away, his tattered cloak billowing around him. The old man called out for him once more but gave up once Virgil didn’t respond.

Remington Dormir. From the day they met as kids, he didn’t care about Virgil’s ‘lower status’. When Virgil didn’t treat him special like everyone else in his life, he was interested in what Virgil had to say. For the first time in Virgil’s life, someone cared about what Virgil thought. As they grew up, Remy lost more of his filter and spoke his mind. He chased off suitors that tried to get rid of Virgil for being ‘lesser’. He scared away anyone who was after him for his money or status. Virgil respected how he kept his values and would stick by the man to keep him safe. Remy was ignorant to peasant life and would sneak out to the pub to try and rebel against his parents. Virgil was afraid someone would want to take advantage of him or his parents or try to get money from him because of his name so Virgil was there every night to keep him safe. Remy never asked, but he always thanked him at the end of the night. If that’s all Virgil got as payment for it, then it was more than enough for him. Seeing Remy safe and still wanting him around was more than he could ask for.

So how could he let him know that he’d been harboring these feelings? It would ruin their friendship, something Virgil treasured more than anything in the world.

Virgil floated around town for a while after that. His home was nothing too cozy. He spent so much time traveling that it was a small place he never wanted to spend any time at alone. It was old and drafty but sturdy and a perfectly good shelter for anyone. He didn’t own much besides the essentials and a decent suit Remy had convinced him to get tailored just in case. However, he mostly was avoiding going home in case he missed their newest guest storm out of town. 

Though, a short time later, he heard the townsfolk start to happily greet someone in town square. It was enough of a change to pique his interest, though it didn’t sound like someone storming out of town like he had hoped. He made his way closer into the square and found the crowd, standing on the edge and listening in.

“Did you have to travel far?”

“Will you be staying long?”

“You two seem friendly already!”

“It’s nice to see young Remington behaving for once…”

Eventually, someone turned and saw Virgil, smiling and stepping out of his way to allow him to get closer. Soon, others followed and Virgil ducked his head, wrapping his arms around himself under his cloak. He never was a fan of attention, what were these people looking at?

“Oh, Virge! Perfect timing, come here!” Virgil looked through the crowd and barely made out Remy standing with someone else. Remy seemed oblivious to all the tension around them, waving Virgil over excitedly. “I want you to meet Charles!”

“Please, Remington, you may certainly call me Dee.”

“I will when you start calling me Remy, darling. Virgil!”

Making his way through, Virgil finally got a good look at ‘Dee’. He was tall, his hair was natural and wavy and god, why was his jawline so sharp? Even Virgil couldn’t deny he was attractive and his smile seemed genuine and friendly which only made Virgil hesitant to dislike him. Something screamed at Virgil to be on edge and Virgil tried to shove it down. Jealousy would get him nowhere right now.

He held out a hand, wearing a pair of silk gloves, and smiled. “My friends call me Dee and any friend of Remy’s is a friend of mine!”

“Oh, good! Because Virgil is sticking around, no exceptions! He’s my closest friend and my confidant! We’re a packaged deal!”

“Of course,” Dee let go of Virgil’s hand and smiled. “I could never come between your friends. I do hope we get along as well.”

“Especially if he wants to stay, right Virgil?” Remy walked up and placed his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “No one comes between me and my best friend! No matter how cute he is.” Virgil watched Remy look over at Dee and wink, confused by the display in front of him. Was he… flirting? Remy flirts, yes, but usually not with the suitors picked out for him. 

“Oh, Remy, you flatter me so! Such high compliments of someone of your beauty, you must be careful. I may grow an ego at this rate and you have enough for both of us.” Virgil couldn’t help but chuckle, staring back and forth between the two. They seemed like… good friends already. Remy smiled and looked at Dee a bit and Virgil felt his stomach twist. Was… was this real? For the first time, did Remy meet someone who could match him? Someone he was actually interested in? Virgil hadn’t seen him give any of the other suitors the time of day. But this guy… handsome and charming and funny, everything Virgil could dream to be. Of course someone so perfect would finally catch his attention.

‘I’ll respect his choice because he is my best friend.’

It was still too early to say, they had only just met a few hours ago, but Virgil had never seen a suitor get this far before, especially so quickly. 

“W-wow, Remy. You two seem to get along great already.” Virgil smiled and turned to Dee. “Just remember, buddy. I’m the best friend and no matter what happens, that doesn’t change.”

Remy seemed to frown at Virgil’s words, not that his friend had seen. Dee most certainly did, however. “I would never take your place intentionally. However, I do see a bright future ahead of us. Just have to see where it takes us, right Remy?”

“Oh, yes! Absolutely! If you’re in my future then I guess it’s looking pretty good.” Remy smiled and glanced at Virgil again. He was still smiling. Why was he still smiling? “Well! Sorry to leave so suddenly, but we have dinner plans, right Dee?”

“Of course,” Dee held out his arm for Remy to take. “We should make our way back  before it gets too late, my dear.” 

‘It’s still early! You have plenty of time!’ Virgil wanted to shout it for everyone to hear, but he kept his mouth closed. “Well, I hope to see you soon! I’d like to get a bit more acquainted with your new friend if he’s going to be staying.”

‘You’re not supposed to be happy about this! Say something!’ Remy nodded and waved. “Of course, I’ll see you around, Virgil!”

Virgil watched the two make their way back to Dormir manor for a bit before glancing around. He jumped, realizing dozens of eyes were on him, each giving him a look of pity. He shrugged it off and spun around, retreating to his home finally. The day was still early, but he felt exhausted enough to sleep through the night.

---

“That didn’t work at all!” Remy huffed, pacing back and forth. “He was just… all nice and supportive!” Dee sat in a chair with his legs crossed, watching the other each time he walked by. “He was supposed to be mad!”

“Is it really a bad thing he was supportive?”

“Yes!” Remy stopped and stomped his foot. “He has to be jealous! He has to like me!”

“Why?” Dee tilted his head and leaned against the armrest. “Why does it matter that one person in the world doesn’t see how enchanting you truly are?”

Remy waved him off and turned away, a scowl forming on his face. “Because! It just does!” After Dee didn’t give any sort of response, he turned back and saw Dee staring at him in surprise. “What?”

“Nothing, I apologize.” Dee folded his hands in front of him. “We can try again tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but what if that doesn’t work? We’re gonna need a plan if we’re going to get this to work!”

Dee scrunched his nose in distaste. “You want to keep trying?” He frowned a bit before a thought came to mind. “You want me to help you?”

“No one else is going to and you’re almost perfect. Handsome, smart, rich. I’d call you absolutely perfect but I’m standing right here.”

“Yeah,” Dee leaned on his hand and smiled up at Remy. “I’ll agree to that.”

Remy held up his hand and silenced the other. “Save it for when we see Virgil!”

---

Virgil couldn’t believe it. 

This new guy has lasted longer than any other suitor by a long shot. He’s not only still hanging around, but Remy was practically draped all over him. The Dormir’s were thrilled and basically picking out flowers for the wedding. Dee didn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

“Remy, meeting you has been such a pleasure. You’re far more enchanting in person than I had been told.”

“Oh, Dee, you flatter me so. Keep going.”

Virgil hated all of it.

The worst part? Remy kept inviting Virgil over, wanting him and Dee to get along as much as possible. So he had to watch Remy flirt with the man while Dee stared at Remy with gooey eyes like he was in love and it hurt. Virgil kept smiling and hiding his pain and Remy seemed to be falling for it. Dee, however?

“I know you like him.”

Remy had invited Virgil over for dinner, something he didn’t normally do when suitors were still visiting. He had accepted out of courtesy and had been dreading the night ever since. Even Remy’s parents seemed a bit surprised at how well he was getting along with Dee.

“What?” Virgil responded before Dee’s words sunk in. “I mean, duh. Of course I do. We’re best friends.” Virgil chuckled nervously for a bit before noticing Dee wasn’t buying it. He stopped and looked away, trying not to panic. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, not really.” Virgil looked up at Dee who smirked back. He looked cocky and it was enough for Virgil to throw out everything he felt about the guy and just loathe him. His initial distaste when they had met floated back up to the top once more. “Remy had a chance to pick you and oh, look. He picked me instead. You can like him all you want, I can certainly see why, but that doesn’t change a thing.”

“I know that.” Virgil glared back, not backing down. “My feelings don’t matter, as long as Remy is happy.”

“Oh, sure, of course, but why stick around if you know you’ve lost?”

“Lost?” Shaking his head, the messenger actually felt a bit confident for once. “Lost what? Remy? He’s not some--some prize to win, I get to be his friend. I get to see him happy. We get to spend our lives with one another. Where in any of that have I ‘lost’? He doesn’t return my feelings, so what? He doesn’t have to and I can’t make him. I’m certainly not losing out on my end.” Dee stood stoic as Virgil went off on his tangent. “You know that you can’t get rid of me, so don’t even try. So, fine. Get married. Be the love of his life or whatever. I’ll still be here for him.”

“Oh, you foolish boy.” Dee chuckled and shook his head. “You underestimate me.” Dee leaned in a bit closer. “Good. Makes my job easier.”

Dee walked away to try and find Remy who had left the room a few minutes before. 

Virgil stood back and thought about everything that Dee had said. Sure, he didn’t explicitly say that he was going to drive Virgil away, but shouldn’t he warn Remy? Dee was trying to break the first rule that he put down… but does that mean that if he tried to explain, he’d make Remy pick between him and Dee? He was sure he would be picked but… Did he really want to chance that and find out the true answer?

Virgil had gone back and forth about it all afternoon. As it grew closer to the end of the day, it was almost time for the dinner he had already accepted before the talk with Dee. Virgil spent every moment since then figuring out how to back out of it. That was, until the moment that Remy’s parents had called Dee away for something, leaving the two of them alone.

“Alright, girl, spill it.” Virgil looked to his best friend who was unamused. Remy crossed his arms in front of him and huffed. “What’s with you this afternoon? You’ve been acting super weird.”

“Oh, it’s--”

“No, none of that.” Waving his hand away, Remy walked closer and pointed at Virgil accusingly. “You are not about to lie and tell me it’s nothing. Babe. We’re best friends. I know you better than that.”

Virgil felt his face flush in embarrassment. “It’s… just… something Dee said bothered me, I guess. I’ll get over it.”

“Oh? What did he say?” Virgil remained silent and Remy let out a huff. “Vee! Just tell me, you can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?”

“He talked like he was going to get rid of me. Like, not those exact words, but he asked why I hung out with you and no one else. Like he was accusing me of something.”

“Something?” Virgil looked at Remy and felt his stomach drop. Why was he smiling? This was serious! “What do you think he was accusing you of?”

“I dunno… Maybe he felt I was going to chase him away so he wants to do it first?”

“Virgil,” The serious tone in Remy’s voice put Virgil on edge. “Are you… jealous?”

“Of what, Dee? Gosh, no. You can have him!” He shook his head and his face twisted like he had tasted something sour.

Remy nodded and tried to hide his smile. “If not Dee, then… Me?” Virgil froze and Remy felt his heart soar. Yes. Yes! This was it! This is what he had wanted to hear for all these weeks. All of his and Dee’s efforts were finally paying off. “Virgil, do you like me?”

“I’ve gotta go-” Virgil turned to run.

“No, Virge, let’s talk about this! Virgil!!” Remy chased after him but it was no use. Virgil was lithe, agile and much faster than Remy could hope to be. He was out the front door and down the road before Remy had a chance of catching him. “Oh, Vee…”

“What’s with all the commotion?” Dee walked out of the other room, Remy’s mother trailing close behind.

Remy shifted on his feet while trying to think of an answer. “Oh, Virgil was feeling a bit upset! Ran right out the door! I don’t think he’ll be back for dinner.”

“What a shame, I hope he will be alright” he watched his mother wave off the closest person in Remy’s life without a second thought before turning to Dee. “Well, you can check on him later. Dinner is almost ready.”

Dee walked up and smiled, raising a brow. “Everything alright, my dear?”

“Yes!” Remy squealed excitedly. “Dee, our plan worked! He’s been totally super jealous this whole time!”

“Yeah, that much was obvious, you just figure it out yourself?” Dee wrapped an arm around Remy and directed him toward the kitchen. “You two have it bad for each other, I figured that out on my first day.”

Remy tensed and waited until they got to the door of the dining room before taking Dee’s hand and removing his arm from him. “Right, well, thanks for sharing earlier. Now that I’ve heard it, we can finally call this whole thing off.”

Remy strode into the dining room, leaving Dee to watch him as he sat down. Dee scowled and glared for a moment before collecting himself and painting the smile back on his face. 

---

Remy heard a loud bang and shot awake, blinking and trying to make out the shapes of his room. Even with his curtains drawn, he could tell it was still pitch black outside. Usually he was dead to the world but something had put him on edge, his heart racing and short of breath. He adjusted to the dark and glanced around, sitting silently on his bed as he listened for any unusual noises.

Just as he was about to give up and lay back down, he heard creaking outside his bedroom door before it slowly started to open. He reached over to his end table to grab a dagger he had on display. He wasn’t sure if it was actually sharp but he wasn’t willing to take the chance.

He let out a sigh of relief when he was able to make out Dee slipping into his room, fully clothed and ready for… Remy wasn’t exactly sure.

“Dee, what the shit are you doing in my room? I need sleep to stay this beautiful!” Dee slipped quietly over to the bed as Remy placed the dagger back down on the table. “Nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Wouldn’t want that.” He spoke softly, his deep voice could send shivers down someone’s spine with the way he spoke. “Now, get dressed. We’re leaving.”

Remy sat for a moment before chuckling. “The hell are you talking about? It’s the middle of the night, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes you are. You’re going to write a little letter to your parents about how excited you were after I told you the news and just couldn’t wait so we left as soon as possible.” Dee leaned one hand on the bed, getting closer to Remy as he backed away. “They’ll think we left last night.”

Remy pushed back against his mountain of pillows and started to turn away. “What news? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, have I forgotten to mention?” Dee smiled and crawled onto the bed. “I talked to your mother last night. She said if I had your approval, we were to be wed. Just as Virgil ran away, how perfect.”

Remy pulled his knees to his chest to make a barrier between him and Dee. “Yeah, no. Sorry, hun, not interested. You do not have my approval, remember? I was doing this to make Virgil jealous.” Dee reached out and grabbed Remy’s arm. “Let go of me!”

“Or what? You’ll run to that peasant boy? The same one who ran away from you today?” Remy pulled his arm free and glared at the other intensely. “What do you think will happen? You’ll be whisked away to live with him and everyone will be okay with it? He doesn’t even have to guts to admit he likes you. Hell, you can’t even admit to yourself that you like him, you had to use me to do it!”

“The hell should I listen to whatever you have to say?” Remy’s voice wavered, suddenly realizing his hands were shaking as they gripped his sheets tighter.

Dee smirked and crossed his arms. “Because I now know your biggest weakness now. So,” Dee pushed himself off of the bed and glared back at the other. “Get up. Get dressed. Pack your things, and I won’t have to use every ounce of influence I have to ruin that low life into a shallow grave where you’ll never see him again.”

Remy sat there for a moment as he watched Dee waiting impatiently by his bedside. “No.”

“No?” “I’m not going to allow you to threaten me in my own home so you can get your way!”

Dee stood there a moment before letting out a sigh. “Then we will do this the hard way. Guess my note is going to do.”

“What?”

Dee moved in an instant, launching himself across the bed. Remy held up his hands and pushed him away, but not before Dee reached out with something in his hand. Remy wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled sweet and was overpowering. That’s all he could make out before everything turned dark.

---

Virgil hardly slept that night. He kept thinking of ways to convince Remy that he was just imagining things again. He had a tendency to get ahead of himself and go overboard with very little context and Virgil knew that, but usually he wasn’t so… accurate. Remy had been ignorant of his feelings for years and yet the slightest bit of hesitation and he was able to guess what was going on?

Virgil knew that he just had to wait for sunrise and head over like he did every day and pretend things were normal. Say he ran away because he didn’t want the Dormir’s to think he was getting in between Remy and Dee. The two had grown close exceptionally fast and Virgil’s feelings finally coming to light would only make Remy’s parents more suspicious of him then he already was.

---

“He what?!”

“Left last night! Poor boy must have been so excited that he couldn’t wait! Should have talked to us first but you know how he can be.” Remy’s mother smiled as she turned to her husband. Virgil glanced behind them and noticed the butler loading up a coach to the side. He made no comment of it when he arrived, hoping it was Dee finally leaving. “We’re on our way to follow them now! Charles had told me he wanted to make the announcement at a social gathering!”

Virgil looked up at her confused. “You mean… like a party?”

She scoffed and waved him off. “Someone of your social status would make that assumption, but it’s much more high class than a party. They’re going to announce their engagement to anyone who is anyone!”

“Oh, right. I guess that’s what he meant, then.” Virgil bit his lip and glanced away as everything pieced together. Charles was right, Virgil did underestimate him a bit and now Remy was gone.

“Who are you talking about?” Mrs. Dormir asked, curious to Virgil’s mumblings.

“Dee, sorry, Charles mentioned something to me last night.”

“He told you about the engagement?!” Virgil looked up to the surprised look on her face and froze. “I know he talked to me about it, but he told you? And you actually gave your approval?”

Virgil felt a fluttering of panic in his chest for a brief moment before he got an idea and smirked. “Yeah, I mean, we got along pretty well and it’s Remy’s decision anyway. It’s kinda why I ran off. Charles asked me to keep it a secret but I’m terrible at keeping secrets. Remy knows me well enough that he could tell something was off so I ran away to keep the secret. I was just a bit surprised that he took off last night, but it makes sense. It’s a very Remy thing to do after all.”

Waiting with baited breath, Virgil hoped that they took the bait and half baked story he came up with on the spot. Mrs. Dormir smiled and turned to her husband with a chuckle. “It is like him to just run on ahead like that, isn’t it? Our little fire crackle!” She turned back to Virgil with a genuine smile on her face. “Would you like to come with us?” Virgil visibly tensed and she waved him off. “Oh, none of that! You’ve been more than welcome in our home and you and Remington are the closest of friends! It would be a shame you miss his engagement! He’d want you to be there and I know you would want to be there for him.”

Mr. Dormir nodded in agreement. “We will be leaving shortly. Do you have a nice suit of some sort? Can’t have you going to the masquerade like that!”

Virgil nodded and pointed over his shoulder to the pathway. “Yeah, Remy told me I should have a nice outfit just in case so I got one tailored at that shop when I was doing a delivery for you once.” Both of them seemed a bit surprised at that. “It was a bit pricey but I don’t really spend the money I make on anything other than the essentials and you never know when you’ll need to dress up, right? Looks like he was right and I’ll get some use out of it after all.”

“Good, we can pick up masks for all of us once we arrive! Surely after word gets out, there will be plenty for sale!”

Virgil let them talk before they walked off, excited about the plans for the future. Finding out that Remy left in the middle of the night? He had underestimated Dee but he had also been underestimated. He was going to show up and find Remy and discover the truth and get some answers. 

Virgil spun and ran off to his home to pack for the trip. Leaving in the middle of the night? Holding a huge party to announce the marriage? That all sounded like Remy, that was undeniable, but something kept him on edge. Something wasn’t sitting right and had the warning bells ringing in his head like crazy. 

“Virgil, do you like me?”

Why did Remy seem so… happy? He was smiling! Virgil had thought he was plotting something, but what if--?

What if, for once in his life, he didn’t just shrug it off and believed it to be true? Remy always made him welcome, always defended him. Always thanked him after a crazy night at the bar and always said he would never leave him behind. So maybe it was his heart being hopeful, but Virgil decided to take a page from Remy’s book. 

He was going to face him and find out before he lost his chance forever, even if nothing has changed. Even if Virgil was wrong, he couldn’t let this just go by. Not knowing would eat away at him for the rest of his life.

---

“Don’t look so glum! Guests will be arriving shortly!” Dee walked over and placed his hands on Remy’s shoulders. “And please put your mask on. Don’t want everyone falling at your feet before I can even make the announcement! Your beauty knows no bounds, my darling.”

“You mean hide me away in plain sight so I can’t try to escape?”

Dee scoffed and rubbed Remy’s arms, which he decided he had deeply hated at that moment. It was an action meant to comfort someone but instead it simply made his skin crawl. “Not like it would matter, my dear. You’re in my home now, not yours, and I’ve got friends who can keep it that way. I have a few tricks up my sleeve, don’t want your parents having an accident on their way home, now do we?” Dee patted Remy on the back and walked out, a grin across his face. 

Remy waited for the door to close before he turned to the dresser where his masquerade mask sat. Of course he would pull something so elaborate that also worked so well in his favor. Hide him away in a sea of people until the announcement was made. Then anyone who was anyone wouldn’t let him break the engagement due to social bullshit. He was trying to think of a way out of this whole situation and this stupid party was his best bet, not to mention also his last chance. However, his parents wouldn’t understand he was being used before he would get caught trying to escape. If he just had someone to help him out, if only he had someone who would listen, if only Virgil were here.

Remy picked up the silver and golden trimmed mask and looked back to the mirror, holding it up to his face. He frowned, upset at how good he looked. I mean, of course he looked good, but he didn’t want to look good for Charles. He didn’t want to wear anything that man and picked out for him. Sure, the guy was charming enough, but the whole ‘kidnapping and blackmailing you to marry me’ thing kind of killed any chance he would have had, not that he had any to begin with.

Come to think of it, it was Dee’s plan to flirt together to make Virgil jealous. As soon as Remy had mentioned Virgil was probably hopelessly in love with him, Dee had immediately offered the idea! Was it to get him to flirt back? Was that just a coincidence or… Had he really planned this from the beginning?

“That son of a bitch.”

That had him plummeting down a mental spiral as he thought back to their previous conversations. Dee’s encouraging words to take it a step further to try and get a reaction from Virgil. They kept up the charade in front of his parents so it didn't seem suspicious. Dee did not want to plan the break up until Virgil finally caved… everything that made sense in the moment seemed to only lead up to what inevitably happened.

Kidnapping and blackmail? That's what Dee's plan was if he didn't go along willingly? Threatening him and his family so he would agree to marry him? Remy needed to come up with a plan to get away from this psycho and fast, he only had a few hours left.

---

Virgil scoffed at the price of the cheap black and purple mask he had picked up and handed over the gold. It was necessary to get in and not immediately be noticed by Charles Darvin. Mr. Dormir helped style Virgil’s hair, slicking it back instead of having it fall in his face like it normally did. Virgil stood up and squared his shoulders instead of his slight hunch. He looked completely different than he normally would and even Mrs. Dormir made a noise of approval. He knew he’d at least blend in well enough that he may sneak by Dee but finding Remy would prove difficult.

The Dormir’s led the way into the manor, greeting the butlers at the door as they made their way in. The entryway was larger than Virgil had ever seen and it led to the front room which was packed full of people in masks. Virgil felt his heart plummet, unsure of how he would find Remy in this mess.

After a while, he had excused himself from the Dormir’s to mingle with the guests and try to get away from some of the noise to assess the room. Unfortunately, every corner had someone chatting away and laughter all around, celebrating whatever news Charles had planned to announce. As the night dragged on, Virgil felt no closer to finding Remy. Was he even here? Would he find him too late?

He was in a full blown silent panic when someone reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the side. Virgil turned and looked up at the man in the silvery mask as he started to collect himself.

“Virgil?”

“What?” Virgil’s eyes lit up as he started to collect himself. He looked exhausted and not nearly as confident as he usually did but this was, without a doubt, his best friend.

“Sorry,” Remy pulled his hand back as he apologized. “You just almost looked like someone I knew. The masks have been throwing me off all night, I do apologize.”

“Remy,” Virgil reached out and smiled, gently placing his hands on Remy’s shoulders. He watched Remy tense up and rubbed his arms to try to relax him. It worked and Remy smiled before launching himself at the other. “Woah, okay! Hello to you, too!”

“Oh goodness, Virgil! It’s really you! I thought I recognized that suit, you look so good, babe!” Virgil laughed and Remy pulled back. “Oh, it’s the absolute worst! Charles planned this whole thing from the beginning and he’s threatening my parents into getting me to agree to this engagement and it’s the worst!”

Virgil frowned and grit his teeth as he tried to contain his anger. “I knew something felt off about this whole thing.”

“Girl, you know I’d have taken you with me if I was doing anything fun, you always have my back.” Remy sounded genuinely sincere as he spoke, not an ounce of his usual sass in his tone. “I don’t know how to get out of this one.”

“Do you trust me?” Virgil spoke low enough that Remy barely was able to hear. He nodded without hesitation and Virgil smiled. “Keep him distracted long enough before he makes the announcement. I have a plan, okay? Just play along.”

Virgil then wrinkled his nose in disgust and took a step back, dusting himself off. Remy looked confused before an arm fell over his shoulders. He looked over to see a mask that mimicked his own with gold and black, piercing eyes glancing down at him. “Everything alright, my dear?” The voice asked and Remy tensed, recognizing Dee’s voice anywhere. 

“Is he with you?” Virgil spoke in a deeper tone to hide his own. “Seemed to think I was someone else. Does he not understand what a masquerade is?” Virgil let out a ‘hmph!’ and stormed off, fixing his vest and not looking back at all. His heart was pounding, hoping Dee wouldn’t pick up on the fact that it was him in the least. Even Remy wasn’t sure it was him at first which was a good sign. Once he was far enough away, he glared over to where they were before finding them missing. He ran a hand over his hair, reflexively wanting to push it out of his face like he normally would, and walked away.

---

“And whom did you think that could have been, my dear?”

Remy shoved the arm off his shoulder and spun around, staring Dee down. “I don’t care if you succeed, I will make you regret ever messing with me until the day you die, is that understood?”

Dee chuckled and shook his head. “You’ll come to love it here as soon as you get out of your head that your messenger boy is not coming for you. However, if it makes you feel better, I’d be more than happy to hire him myself. I’m sure he could help me keep tabs on your parents.”

Remy felt his face burning with anger. “So you can keep a tab on him as well?”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you safe and happy here, so yes. Now,” Dee held out his hand with a smile. “Let us give our special announcement, shall we?”

Remy glared at the hand and crossed his arms, refusing the offer. Dee chuckled and shook his head as if enjoying the little rebellion. He reached out and cupped Remy’s face with his hand, gently brushing his cheek with his thumb. Remy smacked it away immediately, leaving Dee open to grab it in return. Refusing to let go, he pulled Remy along toward the staircase where they could get to higher ground and make their announcement.

As they broke away from the crowd and climbed the steps, Dee turned and smiled. “Remember, your parents will be watching and I have made sure they won’t leave without my say. Don’t you want them to make it back safely?”

“Go choke on a turkey leg.”

Dee smiled and turned on the stairs, facing the crowd. He waited for Remy to turn to the crowd and look back at him reluctantly. “Well? Can’t make the announcement without you.”

“Right now? Are you sure you don’t want to wait?”

“Why? Nothing will change between now and later. Don’t you want to celebrate?” Dee smiled and held out his hand once more. Remy ignored it and took the last final steps to be level with him, pushing the hand away. “A little better, you’re already learning. Don’t forget, we still have to sell it.”

Remy huffed and turned away, searching the crowd as best he could.

“Could I get everyone’s attention?” The roar of chatter quieted down as everyone turned toward the stairs. “Thank you. My name is Charles D. Darvin and I welcome you all to Darvin Manor. As you all may know, I have returned from a trip a few towns over to meet the lovely Remington Dormir.” Remy took the opportunity to remove his mask, hating how much it was made to reflect Dee’s. “Since my parents passed, I’ve been hoping to meet someone to help me take over the family business.”

Which was contradictory to what he had told Remy when they had met. He had said he wasn’t looking to be married anytime soon. Now he’s finding out it was the opposite and he went to Remy with that specifically in mind, just like he had thought.

“When we had met,” Remy spoke up, cutting off Dee. “Charles assured me we didn’t have to simply be married.”

“We had clicked right away, however, and things changed.” Dee challenged back. “As the weeks grew on, there was one thing that we both became aware of. We were in love.”

The crowd gasped and Remy felt his heart skip a beat. “Dee was in love with me, and I-”

A man pushed through the crowd and approached the stairs. “Was in love with me.”

Everyone in the room watched as Dee turned red, glaring at the figure as he advanced up the stairs. He slowly took off his purple mask, a few strands of his hair falling out of place and into his face. “Virgil,” Remy smiled, reaching out for him. Dee wrapped his arm around his shoulders and forcefully pulled him in. 

“Remy, we talked about this,” he hissed under his breath.

“Yes, we did.” Remy looked at him and smiled. “When you came to me, I told you my best friend was in love with me, something you admitted you noticed when you met him immediately. Together, we decided to flirt to make him jealous and admit his feelings.”

“What you both forgot,” Virgil approached slowly, one step at a time. “Was that I was willing to do anything for Remington’s happiness, even if that meant stepping aside. I am a messenger, not one fit to be with someone as high class as a Dormir. Until that final night, when you approached me about your plan.” Virgil turned around to face the crowd. “A gathering to allow me to prove to the Dormir’s and anyone else who had any objections see how far I was willing to go for Remy to prove my love.”

Remy shoved Dee off and took a step down, reaching back out for Virgil. “Dee explained it to me and we came up with a plan and now here we are.” He heard Dee make a noise of discontent behind him, but his eyes never left Virgil’s. “He came after me and I happily accept his affections, regardless of what anyone has to say.”

“Remington--!” Dee bit out before turning back to the crowd. “Surely, someone here would have objections to you being with a peasant when you could be with me?”

Virgil took the final step, meeting up with Remy, and wrapped his arms around him carefully. Remy had realized that it wasn’t the actions that made his skin crawl earlier. When Virgil had rubbed his arms to soothe him, it did. As Virgil held him in his arms, he felt at ease. His heart fluttered as it had with Dee, but not in panic. This whole time, he wanted to prove Virgil was in love with him. How ironic that it was Remy who was in love but completely unaware of his own feelings. 

“Remington Dormir!” Remy and Virgil looked to the figure at the bottom of the stairs and saw Mrs. Dormir looking furious. “You planned this whole thing to try to convince us to let you be with Virgil?!” She let out a sigh as Mr. Dormir walked up behind her, placing a hand on her back. “You stupid boy!”

“Mother, just listen!” Remy called out. “Virgil is-”

“That is enough, Remington, you listen to me!” She yelled back. “Did you think we were stupid? That you had to go and make a big show of all of this and make us look like fools?” Remy leaned back as if her words physically hurt. “We know you like Virgil, sweetie. Anyone who has seen you two together can figure that out. We were just waiting for you to do something about it!”

“What?” Virgil and Remy spoke at the same time before looking at one another in confusion.

“Son, why do you think we hired Virgil in the first place?” Mr. Dormir asked. “We knew Virgil wouldn’t speak up himself, it’s just his nature. We knew out of the two of you, it would be you who would say something against anyone who would have objected. Who cares if he’s a messenger boy if you two love each other? We were so worried when you ran off, we thought you were acting a bit brash and acting out because of a little misunderstanding you two may have had. We came here to talk to you and set it straight, but it was a masquerade and we couldn’t find you.”

“We would never have let you marry Charles, sweetie. We knew it wasn’t real.”

“What?!” Dee called out, marching down the stairs. “How dare you tell me what I can and can not do!”

“That is enough out of you, young man!” Mrs. Dormir shouted. “That is my son you’re playing with. I don’t care how rich the Darvin name makes you, you are outnumbered. We have respect for others!”

The crowd began to murmur as they glanced Dee’s way, frowns on their faces. “Wait, hold on just a moment!”

“It’s okay, mother.” Remy descended the steps, Virgil following close behind. “Virgil and I forgive him, he tried and failed. No need to tear him down too much.”

“I’m okay with it.” Remy elbowed Virgil in the side and sent him a glare. “Ow! Okay, no tearing him down. I mean, he is still grieving, isn’t he?”

“Anyone else have an issue with Virgil and I?” Remy challenged the audience, staring down the many faces in the crowd. The room remained silent as he turned, sending glances in every direction. “No one? Good. Now if you shall excuse me, we have things to discuss.” Remy reached behind him and grabbed Virgil’s hand, pulling him out of Darvin Manor. They marched down the pathway and into the town. Night had fallen and it was quieter by far, the crickets unable to be as loud as the chatter from earlier. 

“Remy, are you okay?”

“You are an idiot!” Remy spun around, tears in his eyes. “You were really just watching as my parents threw suitors at me and you weren’t going to say anything?!”

Virgil hunched over, more of his hair naturally falling back into place. “I just wanted you to be happy with whomever you choose.”

“You mean my parents, whomever my parents choose.”

Virgil stood up and scrunched his nose. “No! You didn’t seem to return my feelings and I wasn’t going to force you to!”

Remy blinked and a tear ran down his face. He cursed under his breath and wiped it away, angry it had even fallen in the first place. “My goodness, we are a pair of idiots!”

“I’ll agree to that.” Virgil stepped closer, grabbing Remy’s wrist as he rubbed away at his eyes. “You really return my-”

“Virgil, I swear if you finish that sentence, I will hit you. Hard.” He looked up at Virgil, squinting his eyes. “Got it, babe?”

“Got it, babe.” Remy blinked and flushed before he turned and hid his face. “Oh, what’s this? Can’t take your own nicknames when they’re thrown back at you?”

“Shut up!”

“Anything for you, babe.” Remy whined as Virgil reached out and pulled him close. “Anything.”

---

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[taekooktimeline]

“Essentially say that gay people just don’t exist in South Korea is not only really homophobic it’s really insulting who live this life and those who support their friends and family members.”

1 - I agree 200% with the statement above. Honestly, I feel kinda sad seen how much people are so ignorant about the LGBT community and it’s history. Like, there are studies that says that doesn’t matter how much a society is homophobic, LGBT people will STILL exist in it and it will be in the same proportion of societies that accepts it. And it doesn’t matter if they decide to come out of the closet or not, THEY ARE STILL GOING TO EXIST.

2 - Like, in my country people are relatively more open about sexuality and about coming out and I still know people that aren’t out of the closet, and that’s ok because individuality exists either!

3 - It doesn’t take much to understand this like... who doesn’t know Oscar Wilde’s and Alan Turing’s history and context, for example?

4 - And honestly, it’s not a surprise kpop fans want to believe so bad that they are all straight, (even when this is statistically totally impossible), considering they are mostly straight girls who feels attraction towards them... But it would be good if some of them were at least a little more thoughtful I would say...🙃

5 - If people don’t like a shipp/or shipping that’s totally okay, but saying LGBT people don’t exists is SO out of reality.

6 - Imagine an LGBT idol/ any famous person from SK seeing people like this, that explains why it’s so much more interesting to keep their private life just private. Because they just wanna live and be happy like any other normal person. And it’s a shame cause people from SK could have much more representation in the mainstream media... And we all know that representation is very important in any form. ❤️

Please, don’t bother about answering this, I just got kind mad and had to make some comments. LOL.

And thank you for being so patient with this project!

Hi Anon! I know you said don’t worry about writing back but I have to it was really nice to wake up to a positive message🥺Like you, I’m also frustrated with the ignorance of lgbtq throughout history. Ancient Rome .. Sparta .. Japanese samurai and Japanese Buddhist monks all have historical notes related to this (and interestingly enough for Japanese Buddhist monks, heterosexual activity was considered a worse offense than homosexual activities, which was called a lapse in self control). The shift in Japanese acceptance of homosexuality was based on the Meiji Restoration + WESTERN cultural influence .. so I continue to be confused how people hold the west to such a pinnacle when you factor in things like that, or the acceptance rate of lgbtq in America in 2020. Not only that, the American FBI and the NVC, have noted since 2013 there has been a rise in crimes against lgbtq in America, especially to transgender and non-binary.

So for people to say the west is great, simply because gay marriage is legalized , and Korea is supposedly such a Stone Age country .. is just a level of ignorance that frustrates me. Lgbtq will exist, whether they’re out or not. And When the stats and various polls, research and natives say a country is getting progressive, and the numbers show it, I’m not following how this is looking at it with blinders on. The reality is they are getting better but again, you’ll never convince 100% of a population. It’s not possible. There ARE still homophobic people there (and as I previously mentioned, the COVID outbreak in itaewon is an example .. I didn’t sweep that under the rug in my argument as anon seems to have ignored..). I personally saw this was a big step, the Itaewon case received INTERNATIONAL attention and not only did people within Korea try to make President Moon say something (because yes while there is hate there are also those who defend), but people from the international community condemned South Korea’s handling of this issue and treatment of LGBTQ individuals. But the reality is, unfortunately there are homophobic people everywhere. Progression takes time. Plus, to that person who said watch YouTube videos.. there are also plenty of YouTube videos that have gone around South Korea interviewing people of all ages about this issue and they have recognized their own barriers and resilience to overcome them (e.g. saying that everyone has the right to love, recognizing that they don’t understand it but they come from a different generation and people are free to love how they want.) Granted these people also don’t make up an entire society, but it goes to show that there are two sides to every coin.

Like you said .. it’s not hard to understand homosexuality has existed in all centuries. Michaelangelo had a lover! And you’re absolutely right about representation. Normalization happens through representation, and a positive in that regard is seeing an increase in BL dramas, with Korea releasing two last year. Especially since Where Your Eyes Linger was considered amongst Korean fans one of the first BL dramas that wasn’t reliant on overt stereotypes of the gay community.

lgbtq people are going to exist regardless. It doesn’t matter what country or family they’re born into. I think Kpop is extremely toxic, and I agree it would be nice if people would be more considerate instead of being hell bent on painting lgbtq people out of the equation entirely. people think that individuals can just turn attraction on or off or that just because they’re South Korean means lgbtq don’t exist is merely perpetuating a narrative that is so engrained in society everywhere - not just South Korea - and is incredibly damaging. That Quora answer .. and the “western box” BS .. ahh I’m frustrated 😌

Ahhh as you can tell by me ranting in my answer to your positive commentary, this topic is something I’m quite passionate about hahaha😅I’m glad to read someone whose equally as passionate! 🥰 i really enjoyed reading your commentary and I’m sorry this ended up so long! And thank you for reading the blog 🥰💜I’m hoping we can get back to cute and more fun, fluffy topics now! I get sidetracked when I say I won’t anymore 🤣

Sara: Thank you for jumping in the conversation! I agree with your points 😌 The “western box” anon is quite infuriating.

[diamondcitydarlin]

So, after that last episode (that mysteriously I also seemed to have predicted- the whole Guillermo finding a group of hunters thing) I’ve run away with my second theory that Guillermo may find himself in a relationship with Craig Robinson’s character, just complicating things further and putting certain things to light between him and Nandor that neither of them really explored before. Namely jealousy. But in talking about this with my husband we ended up writing/RPing a scene, following Nandor noticing that Guillermo’s been getting distracted by his phone a lot more, smiling and laughing at it in a way he didn’t before. 

Nandor takes his confusion to the other vampires at some point, and they had this to say,

Nadja says definitively, “Well, I don't know how human phones work, but I'm telling you, he's got a bit of crumpet on the side.” 

Nandor grimaces. “Nadja...I know Guillermo isn't...small but you didn’t have to go there. Also I don’t see what any of this has to do with human food.” 

Nadja rolls her eyes. “NO. I mean he's fucking someone. Regularly, even. And probably sending lots of naughty little nudie pics to his new lover.” 

A look of simultaneous horror and realization crosses Nandor’s face before he’s decided that is an impossibility. It must be. It has to be.  

“....nooo....that's silly...” he laughs, albeit nervous. “That wouldn't happen...!” But his look at the camera seems searching, as if he needs more confirmation that what Nadja’s suggesting absolutely, definitely would never, ever, ever happen. Ever. 

Laszlo meanwhile, pauses from nursing his pipe to add in no uncertain terms, “She's right, he's definitely getting it up the arse from someone.” 

But this is more insult than Nandor can humor and he stomps his foot. “Ok that's enough! None of that is happening!!!” 

“I actually agree with them,” Colin adds from his corner chair where everyone to this point had forgotten he was sitting. “All the signs are there.”

And Colin indisputably has more knowledge towards modern, human behavior than any of them present...but then, he is Colin.

“Do you ACTUALLY agree with them or are you just trying to infuriate me?” Nandor challenges, to which Colin replies flatly, “Yes.” 

“What does it matter, anyway?” Nadja interjects with a sweep of her hands. “Has it affected his ability to serve?” 

Nandor thinks for a moment, perhaps desperate, because he needs a logical reason to be consumed by this. 

“Well, he-...! He gets distracted sometimes and it’s very irritating!” 

Laszlo does a cursory look around the space of their library. “Seems to be the same mediocre work he’s always done.” 

“He obviously still grooms you, as you don’t look like a complete cretin,” Nadja adds. 

Having seen that this was a complete mistake to bring up with his roommates, Nandor backtracks. “Alright, let’s just forget it. There are other, more pressing matters to discuss-” 

“Oh no, I think this is worth exploring,” Colin says, because of course, and then in his usual unassumingly ignorant tone of voice, “Why would it bother you that Guillermo has a private life if he’s still doing his job? I’m confused.” 

To be sure, he isn’t. 

Nadja’s eyes go wide in realization. “Wait, wait, wait!!! You-...!” She points to Nandor as if there was some confusion as to who she was talking about. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

“You haven’t gone soft for that little creep after all this time, have you?” Laslzo asks, though his tone is more grave and warning. 

“I-...I haven’t-...! No, what-...I don’t even know what you’re talking about...!” Nandor attempts to deflect, but it’s less than convincing. 

“Perhaps...” Colin suggests, once again in that grating, flat tone of voice. “Perhaps you wish...that you were the one...he was sending naughty pictures of himself to?” 

“He does!” Nadja exclaims before Nandor can defend himself, and then she’s gripping to Laszlo’s arm in panic and remorse. “Oh, my darling...he’s fallen in love with his familiar...” 

“That is very dangerous ground to tread, old chap.” Laszlo’s gaze is fixed firmly to Nandor’s; meanwhile the latter looks like a deer caught in the headlights. 

Nadja, now overly sympathetic, has risen from her seat on the couch to give Nandor’s hands a patronizing pat. It’s somehow worse. 

“Nandor, believe me when I say this...it’s never a good idea to entertain feelings for a mortal. It doesn’t end well.” 

“Mainly in old age and death,” Colin needlessly adds. 

Nandor once again attempts to assert his position as former warrior-conqueror, that this is not the case and he will not tolerate anymore suggestions of this nature, but Nadja has silenced him quickly with a maternal finger to his lips and a soft, “Hush now, you stupid, stupid, dumb little lovesick vampire. We will sort it all out.” 

Then to (mainly) Laszlo, “We will have to sort this out.” 

“You’re damn right we will,” he agrees. “We’ll have no truck with vampire that thinks there’s any kind of future with a bloodsack. Either you turn him or he goes.” 

Nandor’s gone from aforementioned deer-in-headlights to little lost duck adrift on the ocean, shaking his head ‘no’ in a panic. “N-n-no...no, no, no, it doesn’t have to come to that-” 

“It’s going to come to something!” Laszlo rallies back.

“Yes,” Nadja agrees, though softer. “We have few options left at this point. He must be turned and live as your eternal mate, or you must dismiss him, or-” 

Then, Laszlo’s very helpful, demonstrative miming of a slice across the neck. “We -WHIIIEEECKK- him. Post-haste.”  

Nandor’s shaking his head ‘no’ very violently at this point and trying to backpeddle the whole situation, but it seems the consensus has been made. 

“Very well,” Nadja agrees, albeit with the same remorse as before. “Perhaps a month then? A month to make a decision. This can’t be easy.” 

“Gizmo’s very lucky I cannot deny my good lady wife anything,” Laszlo says pointedly to Nandor. “A month seems generous...but so be it. Do something about this, or we will.” 

Nandor’s companions begin to disperse then, and as he is still desperate and a bit disoriented from the whole confrontation he panics.

“Eh-!! Uhm-...wait!” And once he has their attention, “Listen to my wooords! You will forget eeeverythiiing I just saiiid...” 

He must have known somewhere deep down this was going to be as embarrassing at it was futile. Laszlo’s glaring unimpressed, Colin gives him a judgmental eye-narrowing, and Nadja now pats him insultingly on the cheek.

“Poor, poor, stupid little vampire...” she sighs sadly to no one in particular, and then they’re all gone, leaving Nandor in the wake of this all-too-sudden, all-too-disturbing revelation.    

[nonstoplover]

it's all an act ~ Zach Herron (requested)

request: "Can you write a zach x reader fanfic where Zach likes the reader A LOT but doesn't tell her which makes Jack annoyed so he flirts with the reader to get Zach jealous and tell the reader. Tyyyyyyyy" by @mirainthedark05

words: 2.3K

approximate reading time: 15-20 mins

a/n: aye kiddos i gOt A rEquEsT. i'm so happy, i love writing for you guys. i hope this met your expectations, love. i tried really hard. (and please consider the fact that i wrote it at 1am and english is not my main language). i still have to get more into this request writing thing, it's not as easy as it seems! but i do be enjoying it lots so i can't wait to continue doing it!! anyway babes i hope you enjoyed this sweet little nothing i put together. let me know what you think and please send in requests if you have any ideas you'd like to see written!

my masterlist

Jack's Perspective:

"Zach, you gotta tell her how you feel." I groan at my best friend who's laying on his bed, a frown still on his face from the previous complaint he made about how sad it is that (y/n)'s not his girlfriend.

"I can't," he sighs.

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I don't want to lose her, and if she doesn't feel the same way, that's what's gonna happen. I know it," Zach shrugs.

"I already told you that there's a really high chance that she does like you back."

"You can't know that."

"And what if I do?"

"You're just saying things, Jack," he looks up at me, his eyes showing me anger.

"Ugh, you're so infuriating sometimes, Herron." I throw my arms in the air. "Anyway, all I can say to you then is that you shouldn't be surprised if a guy comes in the picture and sweeps her off her feet and you can just watch it happen from the sideline."

I exit the room to escape his stubborn suffering and his sullen huffs follow me in the air as my mind is still racing about how childish he can act at times. I want to help him more than anything, I know how much he likes her and I want him to be happy.

I slump on the couch still deep in thought, trying to come up with an idea to get the truth out of Zach in a way (y/n) can hear it. And as my mind replays the previous conversation, a lightbulb feels to light up inside my head.

A guy comes in the picture and sweeps her off her feet.

Maybe I should make Zach jealous! I have to make him actually realise how easily he can lose any chance he has right now with her. I have to make him fight. Even if it's me he's fighting. I can only hope that he won't be too mad at me.

(y/n)'s Perspective:

"Wow, (y/n), you look absolutely breathtaking today!"

I hear Jack's voice as soon as I enter the boys' house. A blush immediately creeps up onto my cheeks as I mumble a quiet thank you his way.

From the corner of my eyes I can see Zach's head snapping up and when I turn my glance there for a moment I can swear I see him glaring at the other boy, but the next moment it's gone.

Oh what I'd give to hear a compliment like this from Zach, I think as I sit down on the only free space on the couch, between Jonah and Jack, trying not to disturb the videogame the eldest boy played.

As soon as I'm comfortable, Jack moves and easily slides closer to me. My eyes stay focused on the floor as his arm moves uo to rest on the back of the sofa. He's not touching me at all, but still it's like his arm is around my shoulder and it starts to make me nervous.

Does Jack like me?

I hope that's not the case. I like Jack, but only as friends. Though we've never really been that close, and maybe this is the reason. But I just don't want to hurt him if he decides to actually make a move.

He never acted like this before. What has gotten into him?

As I try not to look at anyone, Jack speaks up once more, breaking the silence.

"I wish I was your mirror, so that I could look at you every morning."

My breath hitches in my throat. Did I hear it correct? What is going on? Is this a prank?

"Uhm, thanks, I guess." I glance at him, a small smile making its way to my face as soon as I lock eyes with his shining brown ones that mirror nothing but honesty and some kind of brotherly love, a mixture I already got quite used to from the three oldest boys.

Since I made friends with the band, Jonah, Corbyn and Daniel always seemed to look at me like a newly found little sister (though there's really not much of an age difference between me and them), whilst Jack and I never seemed to totally break the ice yet. We were great friends, but I could still feel the distance between us.

And with Zach? Well, I like him since we first met, but most probably my feelings are not returned. At least that's what all my pointless trying resulted in. He never made a move and whenever I tried to give him a sign, it went unnoticed. Or purposefully ignored. But other than that, he's like my bestest friend, and that's more than I ever imagined to happen so as long as I still have him in my life, I decided that I can manage to put my actual feelings aside.

Now as I'm staring in Jack's eye and I can see that the ice has broken and him and I got to the 'sibling zone', I'm finally sure that he only says these lines to make me laugh, and suddenly I calm down and manage to answer properly. "You're not quite bad yourself," I reach up to playfully ruffle his noodle-like locks.

He chuckles at my action before moving his hand from the back of the couch to my shoulder, pulling me into his side.

I snuggle closer to him, finding a comfortable position on his shoulder for my head. I can feel him take a deep breath in as his shoulder raise in the motion and then his voice is back again.

"It’s said that nothing lasts forever. Will you be my nothing?"

It's my turn to giggle now before I look up at the side of his face. He shoots a quick glance at me before turning his joyful eyes back on something in front of us.

"Do you make these up or did you memorise them from a shitty pickup line listing website?" I ask.

"Oh, hey, don't think I'm not capable of saying things like these by myself," Jack turns his head down towards me with fake offence on his face.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry."

"And there's plenty more where that came from," he wiggles his eyebrow at me.

"I can't wait to hear them all."

I almost burst out laughing, and I can see the exact same thing in his eyes as well, but we manage to stay silent and turn our attention back to the tv screen, watching as Jonah still plays the game.

Jack's fingers mindlessly play with the hem of my t-shirt's sleeve and we're sitting in absolute peace right until a few moments later Zach jumps up from the armchair he was sitting on and storms out of the room.

"Where are you going?" I call out after him, wide eyes staring at the doorway he disappeared at.

"I need some fresh air," he shouts back and even in that short sentence I can hear his anger.

Though before I could ask him about it, the front door slams closed with a loud bang, making my body shake in surprise.

"What has gotten into him?" I look up at Jack only to feel even more confused a second later.

His eyes shine with excitement instead of the worry similar to mine I expected to see.

"What?" I ask in confusion.

When I get no reply, I turn around to look at Jonah, but it's pointless as he's still deeply concentrating on the game, not noticing the mundane things happening around him.

I look back at the curly haired boy before shaking my head. "I think I'll go check on him."

"Yeah, great idea!" Jack nods vigorously right away and I frown at him, still trying hard to understand what has gotten into him as well.

His smile and shining eyes don't halt for a single moment as he's watching me and in the end I simply shrug, moving to stand up and follow the youngest band member.

I find him only a couple seconds later, he's sitting on the stairs in front of the front door.

"Hey," I say as gently as I can manage.

Zach mumbles something in response, but it's absolutely incomprehensible.

"How are you?" I try to make him speak up, maybe even fill me in with the reason(s) behind his weird and sudden storming out.

"Do you like him?" He asks back immediately, confusing me even more.

"Who?" I frown at him in thought.

"Jack."

"Yeah, of course, he's pretty nice." I nod, still not understanding where he wants to go with this.

I can feel his body stiffen next to mine and glancing down I can see his fists so tightly squeezed that the knuckles are turning white.

"If my opinion even matters, I don't think you should get together with him." Zach speaks a minute later.

I almost choke on air as his words enter my mind.

"Why would I even want to get together with him?" I exclaim after managing to kinda pull myself together from the shock his question caused in me.

"You just said you like him." Zach finally turns his head towards me, a frown crossing his forehead.

"Yeah, as friends. Or as a brother. I thought you meant it like that."

"What? No," he shakes his head multiple times

"No?" I ask back, not understanding what he's trying to say with it. "He's like a brother to me, and I'm like a sister to him. What do you mean 'no' ?"

"But... you were flirting." Zach points towards the house above his shoulder.

"Yeah, as a joke." I say, still not really knowing where he wants to go with this.

"So you don't like like him?"

"No, I never did." I almost laugh out loud by the strange image his accusation generates in my mind before mumbling something else so quiet I don't think he can hear me. "I mean, I like someone else, how could I like him?"

"You like someone else?" He repeats and my cheeks immediately start growing red by the fact he heard it and now asks about it.

"Yeah," I mumble again.

"You never told me." Zach says in a playful, joyous tone, but I know him well enough to hear the tension in his voice. "I thought we were best friends."

"It never really came up." I shrug shyly. "So what's up with you? What made you storm out of the house?"

"No, no, wait. Who do you like?" Zach ruins my plan to divert the subject within a second.

I take a deep breath and look in his eyes. He seems nervous.

"It's you, dumbass, in case you haven't noticed." I manage to answer without my voice breaking and eyes moving away.

"Me?" He asks back, and all of a sudden his whole face starts shining as a huge grin spreads across his face, eyes open wide and glimmering with happiness.

I nod, my heart suddenly beating really loud and fast. "Why?" My voice is so high pitched by now it's like a mouse is speaking.

Zach bursts out laughing and grabs my hand before moving to stand on his knees in front of me, slowly calming himself down.

And just as he quietens, my heart feels like to be getting only louder and louder as it frantically beats. The world aroubd us seems to freeze and go absolutely silent as we're staring at each other.

"I like you too," Zach confesses and it's like the world stops spinning in this very moment. "Half the time I got too embarrassed to say anything about it. I was afraid you don't feel the same and that I'd only ruin our friendship."

"I like you ever since I met you."

"Good, me too."

We grin at each other and as the world's noise slowly starts to come back, we're gripping each other's hand in a comfortable silence, finally having said our feelings out loud.

"Finally, guys, I started to think I'd never see this happen." I suddenly hear a happy exclaim coming from above us, from the front door of the house.

I spin around to smirk at Jack whose wide smile seems to split his face in two.

"You planned this, didn't you? It was all an act." Zach says.

"No shit, Sherlock." Jack chuckles back at the younger boy.

We both stand up and walk up the stairs to be next to him, our fingers still interlaced, slowly swinging back at forth between us.

When we reach Jack, he immediately pulls his best friend into a hug. "I told you so," he whispers in his neck loud enough for me to hear it and I just shake my head, watching the two of them interact.

"I'm glad for you, guys." Jack says as they part and we make our way back inside the house.

"Why, what happened?" Jonah asks from the couch, still playing the video game.

"Zach finally confessed to (y/n)."

"No way! Really?" The eldest boy immediately pauses the game and jumps up, smiling at us wide. "We were all rooting for you two."

I shyly smile at him in response before I feel Zach gently tug at my arm.

"Let's go upstairs, I think we have a lot of things to talk about," he says and I nod, a giggle of disbelief escaping my mouth as I think about how I never expected this to happen when I came over to their house.

As we're making our way up the stairs, suddenly Jack's voice fills the air again as he exclaims to Jonah, making all three of us chuckle.

"I can't wait till Corbyn and Daniel gets home and I can tell them the news. I finally have a couple bets that I won!"

.::the end::.

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