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phonydiaries · 1 year ago

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a Dance in The Dark - P x Reader

It’s late when you reach the puppet’s quarters. Long shadows loom along the walls of the hotel and a draft rustles past you, pajama-clad and disheveled from a night of restlessness. You hadn’t bothered to switch your clothes, knowing your dear puppet wouldn’t pay it any mind. You had half expected to find P dormant at this hour, but instead he’s laid out on the floor with his legs kicked over the side of his bed. A book -which he seems thoroughly engrossed in- is held up above his head, its pages illuminated by the yellow-green light of Monad’s lamp, which casts a soft halo about the edges of his face. You rap your knuckles against the doorframe and his eyes jump to you, startled out of their careful concentration.

“Can’t sleep.” You sigh, gesturing down the hall with a tilt of your head. “Walk with me?”

With a twitch of a smile, Pinocchio tosses his book to the side and rolls haphazardly out of his place on the floor, clumsy with excitement.

Knowing the hotel well enough, the two of you make your rounds of its many chambers in the dark, ever so often bumping elbows to each other’s ribs. Your barefoot steps cast dull echoes through the halls as you dip in and out of doorways, poke behind desks and rummage carelessly through shelves. In the deep blue foreignness of nighttime, you feel exploratory; curious like children let loose in an enormous garden just brimming with unrealized discoveries.

Passing through the entrance hall, you seize the coveted opportunity to act a fool behind the front desk. “Hello, you’ve reached Hotel Krat.” You say, picking up the receiver of the hotel’s long-dead rotary phone. You’re sat on top of the desk now, your legs swinging over the side. Pinocchio glances up at you, his hands preoccupied diligently petting the hotel’s beloved orange tabby. You feign listening to the nonexistent voice on the other end of the phone. “Oh I’m sorry, Mr. Spring is busy at the moment. I’m afraid he’s in a very important meeting.”

After thoroughly nosing about, you find yourselves settling in the piano room, you and Pino curiously flipping through pages and pages of sheet music. P’s interest is especially piqued by one booklet and he takes a seat at the piano, attempting to make sense of its pages. An admirable attempt is made as he plinks slowly and diligently away at the piece, tugging at your sleeve when he gets stuck. You barely know more than he does, and as you sit together at the bench your fingers tangle and trip over each other. The resulting notes are dissonant and clangy and you both fall into ripples of laughter at your duet's messy melody.

The night wears on calmly, P fingering through a box of cobwebbed records, most of which are scratched beyond recognition. He retrieves one with some care and blows a layer of dust from the cover, his nose scrunching as it flutters across his face.

You’re lying on the floor, limbs outstretched like a lazy snow angel as P futzes with the gramophone. There’s a few moments of anticipatory static before the record crackles to life; a somber piano score reverberates through the dim and intimate space. You close your eyes as a woman’s wispy voice floats through the room, cool and calm. Something about the melody, the echo, the timbre of her voice makes your ribs fall heavy around your heart like a slowly but surely shrinking birdcage.

Close your eyes,

Come to me,

Feel alright,

Just dance with me all through the night

“I can’t stand it.” You start, “It’s beautiful… but it makes me so sad.”

You wonder if P is affected differently, maybe even more than you are by the emotional quality of the music. He certainly seems to have a fascination with it. “What about you?” You ask, your head turning to glance at the puppet.

P’s eyes flicker towards the ceiling and his mouth twitches to the side in thoughtful consideration. He lifts a finger at you -hold on- while he rises from his place at the piano stool and arranges himself with precision beside the grand. He stands up tall, shoulders back, one arm held out just-so at hip level, the other outstretched as if resting on the shoulder of a ghost. You beam at the fine mimic work in front of you.

“Really?” you ask, your brows knitting with intrigue. “Makes you want to dance, huh?”

He nods enthusiastically and motions for you to join him. Your mouth hangs open for a moment.

“Oh- no really I don’t know the first thing about it.” You stammer. Before your days at the hotel as Pinocchio’s companion, you had never known such affluent people and knew very little of high society or of their practices. Any formal knowledge of dance was utterly foreign to you.

P assumes a swordsman’s stance and shrugs at you, nonchalant, as if combat training and dance were the most naturally drawn parallels in the world.

“Sparring with you isn’t the same.” You say flatly, but P’s already made up his mind, and before you know it his hand is closing around yours and he’s tugging you up off the floor. You laugh nervously as you rise to your feet. “No, I’m serious! I don’t-” You begin to protest, but you catch a glimpse of his face, wide pleading eyes and creased brows. He smiles with all the calculated charm of a fox, handsome and cunning. You exhale deeply, steeling yourself before meeting his gaze.

“Oh fine.” You relent, much to his chagrin. “Just watch your feet, I mean it.”

P’s smile is annoyingly triumphant as he holds his hands palm-up out to you, seeking your guidance. Always so much concern for your comfort, you feel your cheeks warm just barely and hope the low light of the piano room masks it.

“Right. Um. Let’s see, you’ll put your hands…here.” You say, taking his hands in yours and leading them to the crook between your waist and hips. He steals curious glances at you as you do.

“And then I guess I’ll just…” You trail off, as your hands fold neatly together at the nape of his neck. You stand still for a moment, just looking at each other in the dark, the features of your faces obscured and foreign. This isn’t the way these things are normally done, you think, in pajamas, in the dark, but you can’t imagine it gets any better. If not for the undercurrent of music, you may have forgotten your purpose here entirely. P takes the first step, and you follow his lead with a dull anxiousness. Strangely enough, your movements feel still and mechanical compared to his. You try to loosen up, rolling your shoulders back, allowing yourself to be disarmed. P’s presence has a funny way of setting you at ease.

The two of you move slowly in circles through the room, swaying gently like awkward young lovers. You draw into him as the music carries. Your cheek settles against his shoulder and his arms wrap around the small of your back and you breathe easy. It’s a lovely feeling, the way your bodies fit together like this, like they were made to. As you continue to step and sway, you close your eyes and listen to the gentle whirs and clicks of your companion’s heart…although…

You maneuver slightly and press your ear to his chest. With some surprise you notice a skipping in its usual rhythm, bolder than you’ve ever heard it. You pull your head away and look up at P’s face in awe, a glinting smirk crossing your lips.

“Pino, are you nervous?” You ask, cocking your head to the side. His face contorts and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes of it. He actually looks flustered and you almost don’t believe it. “It’s just me.” You say simply. At this, Pinocchio’s face softens, his brows turning up as if he’d taken offense.

“Just you?” He asks, and the timbre of his voice surprises you. You spend so much time together, and yet hardly do you hear him speak. Your smile fades slowly, replaced with an expression of curiosity. You nod hesitantly and hum in reply. P shakes his head at you, deliberate and slow.

“Not just.” He murmurs, his gaze holding yours intently. “Never just you.” You realize you’re holding your breath. A ghost of a whisper slips past your lips.

“Oh.”

Your fingers itch for something you can’t quite name and you find yourself pulling the puppet closer. His head dips to meet you and you feel a stray lock of his hair brush your cheek. His breath is warm.

The song ends.

The needle of the gramophone lifts and the air is stretched thin with a cutting silence. You’re left in the dark together again, frozen in place. It feels terribly long, like you’re both waiting for something.

“The music’s stopped.” You say, shattering the stillness of the moment, and as P moves to retrieve the record you immediately wish you hadn't. Your hand extends to stop him, fingers closing around his wrist. “But- we don’t have to, you know.”

In the dark, you think you see him smile. He holds you like glass, delicate, and picks up again, moving leisurely to the music playing only in his head. He hums the tune softly and you follow suit, the two of you meeting in a duet of somber sounds. You wonder if your chests swell the same, if your breaths and heartbeats synchronize, following each other blindly the way you do now. The motion feels like crashing waves, steady and rhythmic, comfortingly repetitive. You fall into the flow of it all over again, leaning against P, sturdy and secure. You wouldn’t mind doing this all night.

Feels alright, indeed.

#shalalalala KISS THE FUCKING. BOY.#P talks more than usual meaning a total of 7 words #piano and gramophone are not in the same room but I realized that too late so you're gonna have to be okay with that #lies of p #lop #lies of p fanfic #my writing #lies of p x reader #pinocchio x reader

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p1nk-b1tes · 9 months ago

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chérie amour

[ rolan x fem!tav smut ]

summary: Rolan comes home from a long day at Sorcerous Sundries stressed and irritated and channels all of his frustrations into orally pleasuring his lover. warnings: oral sex, slight body worship, service top rolan, stress relief words: 4105

find part two here

click here to read on ao3 or read below:

Another day had come and gone. The sun had risen and set, casting irregular shapes of orange and gold across the worn floorboards of the high-ceilinged study as it inched across the sky. It had been another day that Rolan had risen from bed and left for his work at Sorcerous Sundries along with it without so much as a feather-light kiss on Tav’s temple to wish her a good day. Another day of wondering if he’d be back in time for dinner, and another day of the pot on the stove going cold.

The bright golden hue from the candle in its ornate silver holder casts a ghostly glow onto the canvas that Tav has busied herself with. She paints broad strokes of mauve colored paint to bring the withered edges of a floral arrangement to life – beautiful flowers left to wilt in a beautiful vase after they’d been plucked from a well-tended garden. Under the flickering light, the colors shift and change, never quite right, and she takes a step back to unfocus her eyes.

It’s too blue.

A touch of red would do nicely.

Yes, that’s exactly what it needs.

She dips into the pigments with the tip of her brush and mixes them together, attempting to find that perfect hue to make that darkened edge. Still, something looks wrong. The lighting is throwing her off. Her work feels incomplete apart from the background having yet to be filled with color, like something is missing apart from that stubborn decay.

Perhaps it’s the fact that her paint is beginning to muddy – or maybe her tired eyes are finally beginning to play tricks on her.

She frowns at the mess on her palette and prepares to create a new color from scratch when the distinct sound of a key finding its lock fills her ears and sounds like the most beautiful composition of music she’s ever heard.

Eyes still fixated upon the pigments, she can’t help the way her mouth twitches up into a smile.

Finally – her lover has made it home.

She listens carefully for a long moment as he fumbles with the key and fails. The front door has always been a bit tricky at the worst of times. He tries again. The lock refuses to grant him entry into his own home and she swears she senses the frustration in his actions when he gives up on the pesky thing and casts knock instead. The sound of the lock clicks loudly throughout their home and the faint tingle of magic flows in from down the hall, brushing up against the bare skin on her arms like a pleasant springtime breeze.

Rolan doesn’t take his time like he usually does once he makes his way inside. He skips basking in the simple pleasures of being home after a long day and doesn’t take the time to sit on the stool by the hearth to unlace his boots. Usually he’ll search her out when he’s all finished and dressed down into his casual attire, two glasses held carefully together in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other to share as the two of them talk about their day and wind down by the fire.

Tonight is very different.

He doesn’t stop by the kitchen and definitely doesn’t take the time to remove his boots as he approaches the door to their study with heavy feet and long, even strides. Tav stills. Curious. The brush in her hand lifts slightly from the palette as he comes closer and closer and she turns her ear towards the door to focus on the sound.

It’s clear when he enters through the threshold that the poor tiefling has had quite a day. His usually bright, amber eyes are tired and dulled and his mouth is turned down slightly into a frown.

It’s a look she hasn’t seen in quite some time. Not since he was an apprentice under Lorroakan.

She doesn’t like it. Not one bit. The smile that had begun to grow as a result of him being back home with her is quick to slope downwards on her lips. Something isn’t right.

The creases above his brow are worn, accentuated by the candle’s light coming from atop his sprawling desk, crowded with piles of flammable tomes and towers of rare books.

“Quite a long face,” she points out when they catch each other's eyes, and she carefully lays her brush down on a clean section of her palette to give him her full attention.

He walks further into the room, his jaw clenched tight, and passes her at her shoulder without as much of a word to swipe the candle from his desk and relocate it to a surface far less combustible. The light disappears from the face of her canvas.

“I thought I told you to not light a flame on my desk.”

His tone is sharp and bleeding with sudden irritation that he doesn’t mean to transfer to her. She knows he doesn’t mean it, but it stings all the same.

“I’ve been watching it carefully,” she tries to assure him. “I just needed the right light and the evening sun was beginning to wane.”

He doesn’t respond, just begins to undo the ties of his robe in thick, uncomfortable silence.

Tav continues, her voice smaller and caught slightly around a lump emerging in her throat. Perhaps he was upset with her. Her fingers catch on the hem of her painting smock and run along the rough stitching there. “I apologize. I won’t set it there again.”

He catches it–the way she has retreated–and he lifts his head to look at her, fingers stilling for a moment. His brows tilt upwards and together and he shakes his head, a wash of unpleasantness dousing him as he realizes his mistake. Guilt fills him. His tone tends to go sour at the worst of times.

“I didn’t mean it like that - it’s fine. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

He waves his hand in an attempt to dismiss her apology as unnecessary but something within Tav still feels insecure.

She pretends to organize the brushes alongside her easel.

Rolan sucks in a long breath. His tail flicks back and forth behind him.

He’d spent his entire day counting down the hours until it was time to leave, counting down the minutes until he could hold her and kiss her and make up for the time spent apart, and he’d managed to ruin a nice moment for both of them in a matter of seconds because of his inability to hold back the bite of his tongue. He huffs, disappointed only in himself, his jaw clenching together tightly as he does.

He shucks off his robe and tosses it over the back of a nicely upholstered chair, now dressed down to his trousers and undershirt, and rounds around the front of Tav’s well-loved easel to peer at her canvas. It shines with the layers and layers of wet pigment, but the picture itself is difficult to see apart from a rough outline of irregular shapes. Rolan is a wizard, not an artist. His right hand finds her lower back and Tav is quick to melt into his side, resting her head on his shoulder as he tries to make sense of her work and rubs at her spine through her shirt.

Even his hands are tense, she notices.

“What’re you working on?” He asks, and she’s more than happy to explain to him her vision for the project, however ambitious it may seem.

He hums in acknowledgement and tilts his chin down to press his lips lightly to the crown of her head. They linger for a moment.

“Are you at a place where you could stop?”

She doesn’t have the heart to explain to him that she can’t continue without the light from the candle that he’d moved, so she instead settles for a nod and reaches around her back to pull at the strings of her painting smock. Rolan is quick to take over the task, nudging her hands away when she begins to untie them herself.

It’s the simple gestures and acts of service that remind her why she loves him so much.

He helps her remove the paint-covered article and hangs it up on its hook. Then he sighs, attempting to curl the ends of his permanent frown into an assuring smile when she turns to peer up at him.

“It’s been a long day,” he admits and Tav hums, placing her hand on his forearm and trailing it downwards to tangle their fingers. “There was a mishap with cataloging a shipment of new scrolls. They had to be organized with the older ones and I had asked Cal to bring me a list and it just seemed wrong. He messed up. A whole room – just passed over. And business has been great, but trying to make sense of what's new and what remains in the midst of it all has really been quite the burden…”

Rolan’s work at Sorcerous Sundries has made the two of them nothing but proud, but it does have quite the effect on the tiefling at the end of the day. Most days he comes home beaming with pride and bursting with excitement to tell Tav about something new he discovered in the archives or to tell her about a difficult spell he perfected, but other days have him drained and stressed. Days like these are dreaded.

“How long did you have to work on them for?”

“It’s been three days.”

His words take her by surprise, as does the way his shoulders slump inwards when he’s done admitting them. She squeezes his hand and gently, he squeezes back.

“Rolan–”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t really fine, no matter how many times he could say it or stop her from asking any more questions about it. Three days and she’d just now heard about it. It explained why he’d been coming home so late the past two nights. Made sense why he’d had to eat his dinner alone after it had long since gone cold with Tav asleep upstairs in their bedroom.

Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d given her a kiss. A real one, not a chaste one as he slips out the door, nor the one he’d pressed to the top of her head just earlier. She craves him–their intimacy. Gods, now that she thinks about it she isn’t sure she even remembers the last time they were intimate. Just the thought makes her heart ache and her core yearn.

Tav opens her mouth to begin to speak but he stops her with his own voice and the feeling of his other hand delicately fixing the crumpled collar of her shirt.

“I– I just need a distraction. I would like to pleasure you – if you’ll allow me to. It’s the only thing that's been on my mind and I cannot possibly think another second about Sundries lest I abandon it entirely.”

Tav notices immediately how his eyes have since flooded with something new. That dullness that had been there before is gone, replaced by what she recognizes as desire.

Rolan continues, hands shaking when he smoothes out the fabric of her shirt over her collarbones.

“It’s likely why it’s taken me so long to catalog those damned scrolls. I’ve been thinking about you. The way you feel, the way you taste… The way you love me… My stress has stolen me away and there is nothing in Faerûn that I would like more than to bring you to bliss, my love.”

He sinks down to his knees before her and Tav waffles, pulling at the collar of his undershirt to pull him back up to his feet.

She should be the one on her knees, not him.

“Let me–” she begins, and Rolan slides his hands up the outsides of her thighs to rest over the perfect swell of her hips.

“–Please,” he pleads, and she doesn’t fight him any more on it.

The wizard struggles to keep his composure, feigning patience, as he unties the silk laces at the front of her pants and hooks his fingers into her waistband, pulling the article down her legs alongside her underwear and assisting her in stepping out of them. One foot at a time. Then with gentle hands he guides her backwards until the back of her knees find the edge of the chair strewn haphazardly with his robes.

She sits, reclining back into the plush, deep backing of it, cradled by his scent, and a pretty noise falls from her lips when he crawls forward in between her legs and spreads them apart, opening her up to him and planting a kiss to the inside of her knee. He takes a moment to cherish her body. His hands find the tops of her thighs and press, knead, and grope in a way that only makes her blush with crimson, then all at once he hooks his elbows under her knees and pulls her hips closer to the edge of the chair. The unexpected shift makes her squeak.

He wastes no time burying his face between her thighs. He finds her clit with an open mouth, burying his nose into her mound as he gets that perfect first taste of her, moaning long and drawn out at the taste that is uniquely her.

He’d needed this. He’d been waiting for this. Finally, he has her right where he needs her.

He laps at her core slowly at first, holding back his avidity, taking the time to relish the blooming taste of her on his tongue as she finds her arousal, and the sound he makes when his frustration begins to bleed out from him through his tongue is divine in Tav’s ears. It makes her stomach flutter and her core tighten around nothing. Rolan wraps his lips around her bud and sucks.

It’s as if something inside of him snaps. The little bit of restraint he had held himself back with disappears within a millisecond and the tiefling shuffles forward on his knees as if the moment could slip away. The rapid flicking of his tongue through her folds is quite a surprise, but the way he immediately drops his chin to lick and prod at her hole has her gasping and fumbling for a grasp on his left horn.

He wraps his arms further beneath her legs and she gets the hint, folding her thighs up over both of his shoulders as his hands find purchase on either side of her waist. His claws press in, leaving little indentations on her skin when he flexes his fingers or reaches out for handfuls of soft skin. She whines beautifully. Her voice is caught in her throat, trapped behind a lip pulled between her teeth, and she tosses her head back when he flicks his eyes up to watch how her face contorts in pleasure. Her jaw falls lax, open at last, and she moans loudly when he offers her the hot, broad flat of her tongue to grind against.

“Oh– Rolan–!”

“That’s it,” he says, a small chuckle laced between his words. An encouragement of sorts. “Give it to me. All of you. I want it.”

Tav does her best to tilt her hips against his tongue, searching for that glorious pleasure that only his tongue can provide. The hand wrapped around his horn pulls slightly with a gentle pressure and he leans in impossibly closer. The slight change in angle is divine. His tongue slides against her core, his nose bumping perfectly over her clit with every pass, and Rolan slips his eyes shut to allow her to ride it out. That pretty gold disappears and he gets lost wholly in her body.

The hands on her waist squeeze tighter. If he isn’t careful his claws could leave little bruises by morning. If they do, she’ll wear them with pride.

The floorboards under Rolan’s knees groan when he shifts his weight again to settle back on his heels. When he pulls away and slides his hands downwards to rest on her knees Tav’s chest heaves, her features drawn up in sensual satisfaction. Rolan’s chin shines with slick and saliva. The sight only makes Tav want him more. He opens his eyes to gaze upon her and his breathing matches hers. Their chests rise and fall together in a synchronized pattern. Shining gold flickers down to her core, then back up to her eyes, and finally down to where the collar of her shirt has slipped enough to expose the subtle swell of the top of one of her breasts.

Any other night the sight would have him hastily removing the pesky fabric entirely to gain access to them, but tonight is different. Tonight, his mind is set solely on dissipating the tension in his muscles and relieving himself of the displeasures of his work through his lover’s pleasure.

Cataloging scrolls and organizing books can be tedious, boring work – especially when cursed with having to fix your brother’s careless mistakes. There’s uncertainty, and unpredictability, and unforeseen failure in the commerce of magic, but this – this, he can do. And he knows exactly how to flawlessly execute his lover’s euphoria.

There is no failure in this. He will be sure of it.

“Are you done?” Tav asks after a moment of stillness, when the wizard has failed to return to her core. In typical wizard fashion, he has found himself lost in thought.

He catches her eyes again, a smirk curling upwards onto his lips as he shakes his head and leans back in, his hands carefully guiding her legs to either side of his head as his breath ghosts over her folds.

“Not even close.”

His tongue darts out to taste the lingering wetness on his lips. Then he dives in to drink it from between hers.

She shivers a full-body shiver when he finds her clit again, sucking and flicking the swollen bud with quick flicks of his tongue to make up for lost time, soothing it with broad licks and nice vibrations from his own groans of pleasure. He wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but on his knees, between Tav’s legs as they flex and threaten to squeeze his ears with every ministration of his talented mouth.

When he breaks away again to pet at her with his fingers, she reaches forward tenderly to run her nails across his scalp. The feeling pulls a drawn out moan from his throat. She follows the flow of the russet-colored strands back to where he secures his hair up and pulls at the tie there, already half undone and messy, and watches as his hair falls forward around his face and tickles the sensitive insides of her thighs. Rolan doesn’t make an effort to push it away. He stays still, rooted in place, his hooded eyes transfixed on how her sex flutters and stretches around his worshiping fingers. His breath is warm against her most delicate flesh. She combs her nails across his scalp again and he thanks her generously with his mouth.

He teases her some more, running the pads of his index and middle fingers through her folds and occasionally dipping shallowly into her hole, before finally pushing them deep inside and making Tav gasp out. Her back arches, lifting from the upholstery and her toes curl behind his shoulder blades when he curls his fingers just right, searching for that spot inside that makes her nerves light up – and light up they do.

He’s careful of his claws through the whole thing and continues to push in and out until the reddish flesh on his palm glistens with her wetness. The sight makes him throb and he huffs when his erection twitches and strains against the rough fabric of his trousers.

“Rolan, come up here, darling. I need to kiss you.”

Her voice is breathless. Pretty. He’s drawn to it like a harpy’s luring song.

He crawls up her body with the help of her hands as they twist into the fabric of his shirt and pull him closer by his biceps. When he settles down over her body he groans between sharp teeth when his belly presses up against her cunt. It’s warm through his shirt and he removes his fingers from her hole to ruck it up enough and allow her to slide slickly against his skin with slow, deliberate movements of her hips. As for himself, he grinds against the edge of the chair where his dick is trapped, moaning with each roll that puts pressure against it. It’s not enough to get him off, or even get him close, but that doesn’t matter to him. This isn’t about him. It’s all for her.

They kiss languidly despite how both of them blindly search out pleasure with their hips. They revel in the distinct tastes of each other and catch up on how much they’ve missed out on while the last few days have dragged on impossibly slow. If Tav could freeze time and stay in this moment forever, she would. Rolan, too. Their lips slot perfectly together like pieces of a puzzle – disconnecting and ever-changing in shape – yet each time their lips meet again it’s a perfect fit.

When she slips her tongue into his mouth he curses into her hers, a pleased noise. She runs the tip of it over the edges of his teeth, searching, mapping out the ridges and the points while stealing back the heady taste of herself from his saliva, all the while he breathes lazy and open-mouthed against her lips. They share a breath or two as hands and mouths wander, and it’s far too soon that Rolan can’t help but slink back down towards the floor.

He throbs in his trousers and he feels the stress in his bones on the verge of spilling over, overcome with his desire to please and pleasure. He chases the feeling as he leaves kisses down her torso and across her tummy, trailing down her hips until he finds himself at eye-level with her glistening mound again and reacquaints himself with her eager bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take very long for both of them to spill over – not when the wizard accesses his knowledge of what makes her truly keen. He licks at her with practiced ease and drags his fingers in and out of her velvety walls until her belly tightens and her thighs press together on either side of his head, muffling the sound of her voice in his ears until he mourns it.

He moans when she tightens, encouraging her further to let go, and finally she stumbles over into her orgasm when his other hand plants itself over her belly and pushes into the tender skin just below her bellybutton.

She sings so beautifully as she cums. Rolan feels her voice and her body whisk away his frustration until he’s groaning in blissful harmony with her, muscles going deliciously taut before leaving him a shuddering, panting mess between her thighs.

She looks beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her shirt hanging lazily from her shoulders. He gives her sex a few final light flutters of his tired tongue until her breath hitches sharply and her muscles spasm with increasing overstimulation, and then he’s drawing back only slightly and resting his head to the plush inside of her thigh.

He feels the strain of the last few days bleed out of his body as his heart pounds in his chest, coming down gradually to allow him a more-than-deserved rest. The relief in his groin is an added bonus he hadn’t expected, but a pleasant one nonetheless. He could do without the sticky mess in his trousers, but a simple incantation can fix that when he’s ready.

He feels nothing but contentment and love and holds Tav close while she cards a soothing hand through his mussed hair. They stay there together in the study until the late hour threatens to take its hold on them, and she rubs at the sensitive spots at the base of his horns until his eyes feel heavy and the serene moment begins to pull him under.

The floor is not the ideal place for the tiefling to succumb to sleep, but for the moment, until Tav decides to take his hand and pull him down the hall to their bed, it is perfect.

#bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #rolan #rolan fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #rolan x tav

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arendaes · 6 days ago

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All Roads Lead to Here

Reposting this here in its entirety as I'm migrating away from AO3. I know I already spammed this one a bit but...I'm quite proud of it, so I'm not really sorry.

(Thank you again to @ashsktchm for this beautiful comm!)

Fandom: Pathfinder Wrath of the Righteous

Words: 5,339

Rating: Mature to be on the safe side

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence (in one part)

Ship: The Commander/Daeran/Woljif

Characters: The Commander, Daeran Arendae, Woljif Jefto, Cayden Cailean, Original Male Characters, and cameos by a few WOTR characters

As you come to, you become aware that there are a few things off with your current situation. The stone beneath you is hard and damp, not the typical spot you would have laid down if you could help it. The air is cool and moist as well, in an unpleasant, musty sort of way. It was undercut with the smell of fish and rot, enough to turn even your normally strong stomach.

Then there’s your body. Your head aches, as do all your muscles and joints. There’s a spot on your lower abdomen that burns with the itch of skin newly knitted back together. What have you done to get yourself in such a sorry state?

Then you remember - you died.

Your eyes snap open, breathing in short, panicked gasps as the memories start to come back. Kjelle, the cathedral, the Test…

Leaning up on shaky arms, you take in the surroundings. It still looks like you’re in a rime-covered village. The buildings around you are caked in frost and falling apart, shadows dancing in the gloom. The sound of crashing waves catches your attention, and you turn to see a dark sea to your left, waves lapping at the shore. If you didn’t know better, you would believe you were actually in the Land of Linnorm Kings. But you do know better, and somehow, that makes the corpse of the monster in front of you all the more frightening. Lamashtu is a creative one, that was for certain.

Slowly, you manage to get your trembling legs underneath you. The world swam for a moment, then focused. Resurrection was never an easy process, and yours had been especially rough. In fact, as soon as you remember how this was possible, you begin to look frantically around. A sigh of relief escapes your lips as you spot the wayfinder, mere inches from your feet.

Picking it up, you note that the aeon stone had dimmed, its orange coloration barely visible. Its power was expended, at least now. What a power it was too…had your father known what it could do when he gave it to you? It must be worth a fortune…

That thought reminds you of Woljif. You smile as you think of him, and it grows when your memory throws Daeran into the mix. Your loves…then it hits you. They have no idea where you are, and you just died. You’ve been gone far too long, and they must be worried sick. You need to get out of this place, you need to find them, and you need to put this whole dark chapter of your life behind you.

Your eyes land on the corpse of the beast, taking in each of the needle-sharp teeth in that ancient, monstrous head. Now that you know the source of Kjelle’s nightmares, you feel the barest stirrings of pity. They promptly die as you remember everything he’s done. Not just tonight, but for all the years of your unfortunate acquaintance.

You will get out of here, and you will live the happy life he sought to take away from you. But first, as you reach into the monster’s mouth and yank one of its fangs free, you realize you need to tie up a loose end.

****

A light breeze blew in, ruffling the lace curtains that had graced the window since her childhood. Ariadne dared a glance outside, a wistful smile playing on her lips as she looked out into the garden below. It was in full bloom, but the presence of more than a few gold leaves on the trees and bushes hinted at the coming autumn.

Throughout the garden, a host of leshy ran. Some had a yard of decorative white ribbon that they were entwining through the bushes, others had stools and chairs lifted above their heads, carrying them towards the center of the garden. Daeran was standing there, commanding them with a grin on his face that she was fairly sure she should be concerned about, especially if the wry look on Woljif’s face was anything to go by. But she couldn’t find it in herself to care - it was their wedding day, and all she could think about was how handsome they both looked.

That turned out to be a problem, however, as she was still staring out the window, a dopey smile on her face and dressed in nothing but her shift when a knock came from the door. “Ariadne? You finished in there?” Seelah’s voice sounded through the thick wood, nearly making her jump out of her skin. Rushing across the room, she threw the door open to find her friend standing there on the threshold. Gone was her armor and sword, replaced with a very fine red dress, but her bright smile that Ariadne had missed dearly was on full display.

“Seelah!” Ariadne said, then threw herself at her. The paladin laughed as she caught her in a hug, not the least bit concerned at her indecent state. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Of course! I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Plus, your husbands-to-be were very insistent that we come.”

“We?”

On cue, a figure materialized out of the space to their left. Arueshalae smiled shyly at Ariadne. “I’m here too…”

Ariadne pulled back from Seelah, beaming at the two of them, making a futile effort to hold back the tears of joy that pricked in the corners of her eyes. Not too long ago she thought there was a chance she’d never see them again. It made the surprise of their company all the more pleasant.

Seelah raised a brow as she stepped back. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope your dress is a bit more... substantial than that."

"Of course it is," Ariadne said, wiping the tears away with a laugh, "True to form, I've been procrastinating."

"I'd say it's not surprising you'd be late on the biggest day of your life, but..." Seelah's grin changed from incredulous to sheepish, "I'm not sure I'd call it that. I mean, you did save the world."

"They're both big days, in different ways," Ariadne moved back into her room as she said this. As the two of them followed, she added, "Though in terms of effort, they aren't even on the same level."

Seelah's smile was at odds with her furrowed brows. "Meaning?"

"Meaning...the choice I'm making today is the easiest one I've ever made, by far."

****

Especially when compared to another choice you made recently.

Despite feeling like a lifetime had passed, it was only a few short weeks ago that you were pacing back and forth in the apartment you'd rented in Absalom. From his vantage point on the sofa, Daeran shot you a withering look."My darling, when I went through such painstaking lengths to decorate this apartment, one thing I didn't consider was if you'd be wearing paths in the carpet. If I had, I might have picked something a bit less expensive."

Such a comment normally would have earned a retort from you, and indeed you were primed to deliver when you caught the glance he shot the full wine glass on the table beside him. A hint of apprehension, maybe even fear, crossed his face. You're not sure if he realized it as he pulled his back from it, but that combined with the fact his skin still hadn't returned to the healthy bronze shade you were used to did nothing to assuage your nerves. Or your guilt.

Your eyes roam over Woljif, who's draped himself across Daeran, his head resting on the arm of the other end of the sofa. Despite his efforts to cover them, you can still make out the dark bruises about his wrists and neck. Unlike your other lover, he doesn't seem concerned with the state of the furniture. Instead, his eyes intensely watch you stride back and forth, mouth set into a grim line. Such a serious expression doesn't suit him, and again the guilt multiplies. It's your fault he's like this, just like it'll be your fault if Daeran becomes a teetotaler.

Then you stop in your tracks. Such self-flagellation is beneath you, you thankfully realized. It is not your fault that both of your fiancés have had attempts made on their lives. You know exactly whose feet to lay the blame at.

"I have to go to him," you say, every word taking monumental effort to make it past your lips. It is not a revelation you enjoy, nor is it well received by your lovers.

"Chief, that's the first dumb idea I've ever heard you come up with," Woljif says, propping himself up on an arm.

“Agreed.” Daeran finally seems to overcome his reservation about the wine glass, picking it up and downing half of it before he continues. You would be relieved, if it weren’t for the fact that it was your willingness to put yourself in danger that prompted it. “That madman cannot be trusted to act in good faith where you’re concerned. Given his expressed desire to kill you in the past, I’d say there’s a distinct possibility his current promise of a truce is a bald-faced lie.”

Both men exchange a dark look. You knew neither of them would dare try to outright forbid you, but the urge to do so was plain on their faces. "I have to," you insist, steeling yourself against their glares. Then you soften, your voice barely more than a whisper, "If I don't, he'll keep coming after us. After you. I don't want to lose either of you."

That last part comes out more pleading than you would have liked, but it has the desired effect. Both of their guards drop. Neither are one for outward displays of emotion, even now, but the way Daeran's eyes shine and Woljif's posture loosens tell you everything you need to know. You already knew they didn't want to lose you just as much as you don't them, but all three of you know you're the one who stands the best chance at making these attacks stop.

"Fine," Daeran finally says, devoid of its usual acidity, "But we need to put a plan in place to pull you out of there if things go south."

Woljif nods, the gleam in his eyes sharpening. "And a way to make sure this doesn't happen again."

You smile shakily with a bravado that for once you do not feel. "I guess it's a good thing I have a plan then, huh?"

****

Even without diligently checking the clock, Ariadne knew when it was time. Daeran had seen to that, the opening chords to a wedding march filtering into her now open window as she arranged the flowers in her hair and checked that all the buttons in her dress were in place.

“This is it, then,” she whispered to herself, appraising her appearance in the mirror, “Sure you don’t have any second thoughts?” Her reflection said nothing. Why would it? Of everything that had happened in her life, what she was about to do might be the one thing she’d never doubted. Satisfied with her appearance, Ariadne nodded once to herself, grabbed the bouquet Arue had left sitting on her bed, and hurried out of the room and down the steps.

Her father was standing by the door leading out into the garden, staring out of it with a pensive expression. He flashed her a smile as she approached, though she couldn't help but feel it was a bit strained.

"I did always dream you'd get married in this garden," he said as he turned, casting an affectionate glance over her. His features softened as he did so. "When I met that Count of yours, I had my doubts that my dream would become reality."

"You didn't need to worry about that," Ariadne said softly, lacing her arm through her father's. "If Daeran had tried to plan for a different venue, I would have put my foot down. But I didn't have to - he's actually quite amenable when you know how to get through to him."

Marius shot her a skeptical look. "More like you have him wrapped around your finger. The rest of us aren't so fortunate."

"Well, yes, that's what I meant by knowing how to get through to him."

"So, this is it, then. You'll go out there, marry your thief and your count, and go back to Mendev to live happily ever after?" He sighed, resting a hand on hers. After looking into her eyes for a moment, he added, "I've only ever wanted you to be happy. I didn't realize it was possible to feel so sad about you achieving that."

Squeezing his fingers, Ariadne pulled him close, rising up on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. She then had to quickly look away, wiping her cheek as she mumbled, "Oh. So this is where all the emotions are going to come out."

"I'm afraid so. Your mother and I didn't have our own families, so I wasn't aware of what a terribly soppy occasion a wedding could be. I do wish she could have been here to see this..."

They stood there for a moment, the memory of her late mother hanging in the air. It was broken when movement caught their eye - Elvandir was in the doorway, looking between them with his own bittersweet expression. "It looks like everything's all set up. Are you two ready?"

Ariadne and Marius exchanged one last look before they straightened. With a nod, Elvandir left, then a moment later the music shifted.

"Just know that if you ever change your mind, you'll always have a place here," her father said as they started walking out the door.

"I won't," Ariadne replied, the slightest heat of rebellion in her voice. She glanced towards her father as they stepped out into the garden. "But I'll still visit all the same."

"That's my girl," her father replied, his familiar grin finally gracing his lips. "But please - leave the Count at home for any impromptu visits. Birthdays and holidays will already be enough as it is."

****

The world swims as you come to. Even after you fully regain consciousness, your surroundings continue to rock in a sickening display, and it takes you a moment to realize why. The chasm below you is dark and uninviting, and you have to fight the urge to struggle against the person that holds you. With a hiss, you close your eyes again.

"I do not recommend trying to fight me," says a cool voice, one that you had dreaded hearing again for a long time, "It is a very long fall."

"I didn't take you for such a bore, Kjelle," you say before thinking better of it, "Of all the ways you could have crossed the Starstone Chasm, you chose a simple fly spell?"

"I would also recommend keeping your mouth shut, Ariadne," Kjelle spits back, "That mouth of yours might cause one to lose their temper, and thus, their grip."

You hate the lance of fear that shoots through you at the threat. You hate that it works even more. You keep your mouth and your eyes clamped shut for the rest of the flight, which is blessedly, horribly short. It was only when you feel solid ground beneath you, dumped unceremoniously on your ass by your once-lover, that you dare to open either again.

"Huh, so you weren't lying," you say, glancing up at the looming building in front of you. Normally, the arrival by an aspirant to the Starstone Cathedral would have been met with the cheers of crowds of well-wishers and those who made a sport of watching would-be gods potentially fall to their deaths. Nothing but eerie silence greets you now, the distant toll of bells and shouting punctuating the wrong aura of the city. Absalom is under attack, and the people you love more than anything are all out there in the city. Your stomach twists with worry. You should be there with them, trying to find a way to fight back against the undead, demonic horde attempting to siege the city. Instead, here you are - held captive by the man you fear more than anything, all because of your own overconfident stupidity.

Kjelle looms in front of you, glaring. "Remember our deal, Ariadne. You help me ascend, I'll let you and those two worms you call fiancés go. Otherwise, I will be forced to end you, and when I am god, your lovers will continue to pay the price for your actions."

So this was it, then. You had no choice but to right something you didn't consider a wrong, or the men you loved would suffer. You let your eyes drift skyward one last time, the plea you wish to voice dying on your lips. You knew your god could hear you - that they were all watching what was about to unfold with bated breath, most like. But you also knew better than to expect divine intervention where you were going. For once, you were well and truly on your own.

****

Evening had fallen, and the reception was in full swing. Seelah and Arueshalae were not the only surprise guests - Sosiel and his own fiancé Aron had managed to make it. They brought with them one of the newest vintages by Yumillian, and it was fairly late into the evening when Ariadne retired with the four of them to a table near the dance floor.

As Aron set about pouring glasses of the questionable wine, Ariadne glanced over to where her husbands were still dancing. Woljif had been intent on showing Daeran he’d finally gotten the steps to his favorite dance down, only to stumble into their husband’s arms a few seconds in. Now they swayed in the middle of the floor, both of their faces flushed, the collars of their jackets loosened, the content curves of their lips mirrored on her own.

“What say you, Ariadne?” Sosiel’s voice drew her back to her present company. As he handed her a glass of wine, he asked, “What effect do you think we’re in for this time?”

The liquid sloshing in the glass was light and bubbly, but the scent that wafted up to her as she swirled it was faintly briny. With a wrinkle of her nose, she shrugged and said, “Only one way to find out!” before downing it in one gulp.

The taste was even more salty than the scent had suggested. It was like she had walked down to the pier and dunked her glass into the waves. The cough that racked her body was so powerful it took her a moment to realize her vision was warped. No, actually - her vision was fine, it was the world that was warped. A column of water had enveloped her, wreathing her in a distressingly warm embrace that she had no choice but to relax into.

The effect lasted only a few moments, and when the wave finally dissipated Ariadne breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone else at the table looked just as chagrined, Aron flicking damp sleeves and Seelah shaking water out of her ear.

“Can’t say I’ve ever experienced anything like that before!” the paladin said, grin splitting her face, “I don’t think I want to ever again either.”

“Agreed. Sosiel, please give Yumillian my regards. And suggest that he keep trying, because that was not it.” Ariadne laughed as she picked up another glass and tossed the contents into a nearby bush, praying the leshy that called it home would be spared its dastardly effects. The glass was barely empty a second before it was refilled, this time the liquid a dark amber that gave off a familiar sweet scent that was most certainly not wine.

Sosiel frowned. “Well, that’s a new trick. I though the seamantle would be enough of a show for Yumillian…”

Ariadne shook her head, bemused expression at odds with the nerves suddenly twisting her stomach. “This isn’t Yumillian’s doing. It looks like someone crashed my wedding.”

A shadow fell across the table at that, and the group turned to find a man who was, by all appearances, an unassuming mercenary. They all stood as the Accidental God grinned cheekily. “Don’t get up on my account! Just dropping by to pay my respects to one of my favorite followers. Now, what are we drinking?”

****

That brings us back to where we were, at the beginning. You’d woken up in the Starstone Cathedral, sore all over and shaken from your brush with death. It took you very little time to get your bearings and chart a course of action. You left the illusion of the fishing village behind, abandoning the supplies you’d all brought. There’s one thing you’ve had yet to realize, a shroud of anger cloaking one crucial detail from you.

It was the resolution to see this through that drives your body forward, the long fang of the Lamashtan monster gripped in your fist your only anchor to the world as you follow the winding halls to the last chamber. Almost…almost…

The room comes into view far sooner than you expected. Good, because Kjelle was indeed there, mere inches from the Starstone. Later, you would ponder that the likeness of it you saw in paintings and drawings were startlingly accurate, yet still managed not to do it justice. It was bigger than one would think, the air surrounding it heavy and somber. It was an artifact that demanded respect, and even Kjelle couldn’t deny it. He is staring in awe, one arm outstretched as his goal is finally, finally within his grasp.

And you would insure he got no further. Perhaps it’s because you’d already been offered divinity once, but you find it easy to resist the aura of the Starstone. You have only one wish at this moment, and you were the only one who could see it through.

Kjelle never sees you coming. In three quick strides you’re behind him, but his greed has clouded his senses. You’re not sure he even understands what happened when, with all your might, you shove the fang through his back, all the way through to the other side. Bright red blood bursts forth, spraying the corpses of those who had been judged unworthy before him.

A startled gurgle escapes him as he freezes in his tracks. You can’t see his face, but his head lowers slowly, as if he can’t believe what just happened. Readjusting the grip on your now bloodied weapon, you pull it out with a loud squelch. He sinks to his knees, barely having time to turn his head to see you lifting the fang with two hands before you bring it down upon his neck. Blood sprays again. This time, you do see his eyes widen as the light leaves them, his face forever frozen with a dawning realization that it was all over.

For several long moments, the chamber is filled with the sound of your own ragged breathing, your vision tunneling in on Kjelle’s corpse. Then you close your eyes, forcing yourself to take a long, deep breath. When you open them, the chamber has changed. There’s no blood, no fang in your hand. Instead of kneeling on the ground, Kjelle’s body is on the pile of corpses surrounding the Starstone - the only reason you even know it’s him is because you recognize the armor, all black leather and white fur.

Confusion shoots through you, your fingertips buzzing with a power you recognize but are terrified to name. This isn’t right. Why did his body look like that? You had killed him before he touched the stone, didn’t you?

Didn’t you?

The silence was broken by a slow clap. You turn towards the sound of solemn applause, not surprised at all to find me standing there.

“I have to hand it to you, Ariadne,” I say, pushing off where I’d lean against the wall, “Of all the ways to pass the Test, you certainly picked the most memorable. And bloody.”

“I didn’t…I mean, I didn’t want…” The truth is catching up with you, the feeling you’d been trying to ignore growing inside of you. It was like it had been that day on the ramparts, when you’d hung the Sword of Valor and changed the tide of the crusades, only amplified a hundredfold. After all, the Starstone promises true godhood, not the facsimile Areelu offered.

As it starts to set in, something else rises in you as well. “No!” you shout, turning to me, “I didn’t touch the stone, he did! I don’t want this!”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m afraid. The stone pulled both of you into the Test, and there’s only two ways to leave - death, or apotheosis.”

“I’m not dead,” you say, voice shaking.

“No, you’re not. And you’re no longer in the stone.” I say, as firmly as I can manage. But I have never been good at being a stoic, detached god. When I see the panic flash in your eyes, your shoulders shaking and tears pooling in the corners of your eyes, I can’t help but want to comfort you. To help you however I can. But I also have to make sure you are certain this is what you truly want. After all, it won’t do to have you cursing me in your prayers one day.

“Have you ever considered just giving in? Divinity isn’t that bad, all things considered. I’m sure you’d find things to fill the time with no problem, creative and principled as you are. It feels an awful lot like fate keeps putting it in your path for a reason.”

“I don’t want to be a god.” Your voice is resolute, mouth set into a determined, grim line. “I want to go home. I want to marry my fiancés. I want to live - and die - as a mortal. I’ve never been afraid of that. Give your godhood to someone else. I have no use for it.”

****

“The pride that I felt in that moment! I knew your family was a good one to bless.”

Ariadne scoffed, but a pleased smile played on her lips. “Yes, I was there for all this. It still doesn’t answer my question. Why did you crash my wedding, Cayden?”

“Does a god need to a reason to check in on their favorite followers wedding?” He grinned down at her as he started to lead her through the steps of the next dance, “And it’s the reception anyways. It’s not like I’m interrupting your vows or anything. I just showed up for the important part.”

That earned a laugh. ““I’m not sure I’ve earned that title. I don’t even cast divine spells. At least, not anymore.”

“Would you like to?”

“No. I’m fine with replicating the effects of magic, divine or not, via alchemy. It’s more than good enough for me.”

“Suit yourself,” Cayden said with a shrug, looking around. It was late - or perhaps early - and most of their guests had left. That included her fathers, who had retired barely half an hour before his arrival. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or put out by the lack of attention.

“So, did you come here just to recount a tale we both already knew, or is there another reason you’ve graced us with your presence?”

“I told ya, I just wanted to see my favorite follower get married!” After a moment, his smirk fell, and he whispered, “And I wanted to see how you were getting on. It’s not an easy thing to reject divinity twice. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to reverse the stone’s effect. Have you noticed anything strange over the past few weeks?”

The pause that followed was a little too long. She knew that, but that still didn’t stop her from laughing off his concerned look. “Not that I’ve noticed. I’ll let you know if I notice any stray signs of apotheosis.”

“What about them?” Cayden nodded to where Daeran and Woljif sat nearby. Woljif had another piece of cake in his lap, the confection dangling precariously near the edge of the plate as Woljif himself looked ready to fall asleep at any moment. His head drifted close to Daeran’s shoulder, the allure of rest drawing him in. For his part, Daeran was watching the two of them, keen gaze looking out for even the smallest sign the god was outstaying his welcome. “Did you tell them?”

She had, despite the fact it might have been more prudent not to. They’d reacted more or less how she expected - deceptively casual, as if she’d just told them a tall tale they weren’t inclined to believe. The fact one of them had always been in the same room as her every day for the past few weeks was surely a coincidence. She’d almost find it sweet, if they’d be a bit more open as to why they were doing it. Instead, she was worried this had been a near-miss too far, and that she’d given them a complex that would last the rest of their lives.

Before she could answer, as if he’d sensed the shift in her thoughts, Daeran leaned over and whispered in Woljif’s ear. He perked up immediately, setting his forgotten snack on the table as they both rose and made their way over to them.

“Excuse me,” Daeran said in a most insincere manner, cutting in between her and Cayden. The god backed off easily, raising a brow as an amused grin spread across his face, “But my husband and I would like to dance with our wife one last time before we wrap things up for the evening.”

“I understand. Though I do believe it’s almost morning proper,” Cayden said, chuckling. With a wink and an incline of his head, he added, “Congratulations you three. And Ariadne?”

“Hm?” She turned her head slightly, attention already mostly shifted to her spouses.

“You need anything, I’m a prayer away.” With that, the god disappeared.

“What did he want?” Woljif asked, pulling her flush to one side of him. Daeran moved to her other, and the three of them swayed in tipsy delight.

“Oh, he’s still a bit wary of the aftermath of the whole Starstone debacle.”

“Ah, is that what we're calling it now? A debacle? I like it, it lightens the mood of the whole sordid affair.” Daeran sobered as soon as the quip left his lips. “Is there a reason for his lingering misgivings?”

Ariadne shook her head vigorously at the unconvinced looks on their faces. “I promise there’s not!” She stressed with a laugh, “He’s a surprising worrywart, that Cayden Cailean.”

Neither seemed to quite believe her, but nevertheless, they got over it quick enough, the three of them falling back into a gentle sway.

“Ari,” Woljif said after a while in comfortable silence, “If you were to become a god, you’d take us with you, right?”

They both leaned back, looking at her expectantly. Strangely, even though she smiled, she felt more like crying at the sight. “I just swore a vow to you both earlier, did I not? I, for one, intend to keep it until the day I die. And, should Pharasma allow it, in the afterlife as well.”

“Now, now, no need for such dramatics,” Daeran said, the pleased smile on his lips betraying how he really felt, “Let’s concentrate on upholding you to that in the here and now, yes?”

Any protestation she might have made died when he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She giggled, the sound becoming a full fledged laugh as Woljif mirrored the action.

If there seemed to be just the faintest glimmer of magic surrounding the trio as the sun rose behind them, it was surely a trick of the light.

#my writing #fic: all roads lead to here #ship: here comes throuble #oc: ariadne trias-arendae #ch: woljif jefto #ch: daeran arendae #done spamming for a while i prommy

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achaotichuman · 7 months ago

Note

You ATE with that elain and rhys drabble. MORE GIVE US MOREEEE!

Okay okay!

Due to popular demand, I am writing more about Elain. People have been asking me to write Lucien and Elucien fluff for months now as well, so here is the thing I made.

I hope y'all enjoy!

Struggling with the dough underneath her hands, it had turned tough and difficult to move. Tiny fingers stubbornly trying to make it work, small hands picking up the mixture and letting it drop into the floured pan. It did not fill the bread tin like the dough of the chefs did. Elain puffed out her rosy cheeks, confused and frustrated. Wiping sweat off her brow, smearing flour across her forehead. She stared with teary eyes at her failed attempt of making bread.

“Daffodil, what is wrong?” A warm voice asked from behind her. Elain sniffled as she looked up at her father. Still towering above her even as she stood on her tip toes on the stool she had been given to reach the workbench.

“It’s not right.” She muttered, as fat tears rolled down her chubby cheeks. The little girl wrapped her dough sticky fingers around her father’s waist and pressed her face into his side. Not wanting to look at her failure.

“I never want to cook again!” She declared, “Ever, ever, ever.”

A large hand stroked her soft curls, his other hand wrapping around her and pulling Elain close.

“There, there, my dear.” He murmured, before carefully untangling Elain from him and kneeling on the floor before her. She looked at him with a tear stained face, sniffing as she tried not to cry. She had been working all afternoon and all her efforts were wasted.

Taking her hands, her father stroked the back of her palms, “Some things aren’t not right, they aren’t broken or ruined. They just take time to work.”

“What does that mean?” Elain cried, unable to understand why every other working cook could make a perfect loaf of bread but not her.

“Come here, daffodil.” He said, picking up Elain and holding her close. She pressed her face into his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, sticking close to her father as tears kept flooding from her eyes.

“Let’s leave this for a little while.” He said, “We’ll come back to check it soon.”

Not protesting, Elain went with her father.

He took her out to the gardens. Spending hours with her, until the sun began to become nothing more than rays of orange and pink blending into a dusky scene. In amongst the dandelion puffs and green long grass. She forgot all about the bread, turning tears to happy smiles and laughter as she carefully plucked a dandelion from the ground.

“They say,” Her father began, sitting in amongst the grass with her, “That when a babe first laughs, a fairy is born from a dandelion puff.”

Elain’s brown eyes went wide with wonder, “When I first laughed a fairy was born?”

He smiled kindly, “Indeed, daffodil.”

Elain giggled as she laughed onto the dandelion and quickly blew on it, causing the seeds to spread up and away into the sky.

“Was a fairy born then?!” She smiled brightly at her father.

He closed his eyes as he tried to muffle his laughter with the back of his hand, “Yes, daffodil. A fairy was born.”

Elain spent the rest of the evening picking dandelions and laughing onto the puffs. Before blowing them up into the sky, watching as the white fluffy tips disappeared with the wind. Whisked away to wherever it was that fairy babes were taken.

As night fell and a blanket of silver stars blinked down upon the earth. Her father swept her up in his arms, saying, “Time to go inside.”

Elain hugged him tightly, whispering about all the fairies born today. Wondering what they would do now, where they went. Asking if it were true that Fairies lived in mushrooms and on lily pads or if that was just something Nesta made up to tease her. Her father responded in kind with roaring laughter.

They did not go to the dining hall like Elain expected as the hour for supper rapidly approached. Rather they trode down into the kitchens.

As Elain passed the threshold, she asked, “Why are we in the kitchen?”

Her father simply placed her back on the stool she had been at for the majority of the day. Then he looked down at the bread tin her dough had been left in.

Elain looked down, sadness washing through her as she remembered her failed attempt at baking.

Then her eyes went wide as she gasped excitedly. Quickly grabbing onto her father’s sleeve, “Look! It filled the tin!”

The dough had enlarged, filling the bread tin until it was the perfect size.

“Indeed,” Her father said, patting the top of her head, “Sometimes things that seem ruined or broken just need some time. That’s why waiting is important.”

Elain smiled brightly, young and unknowing, the lesson and it’s meaning slipped past her. But she quickly hurried her father to put the bread into the oven.

Her bread was served with supper that night. Elain sat next to her father as the Lords around them praised her new found ability. Elain just looked to her father who took the most of the bread and praised her the most.

“Wait Lucien!” The door of the River House was smooth and polished beneath her fingers as Elain quickly ripped through the threshold to keep it from closing on her.

Red hair whipped in the autumn wind. The scent of smoke, maple and sweet spices filled her. Not just from the air of the changing season, but from the male standing before her. Stopped in his tracks by her voice.

Long scarlet strands waved like a banner behind his head, as the sun set behind him, the fading light of day making dark skin glow in the dusky scene. His midnight blue scarf was wrapped snugly around his long neck. Jacket tightly hugging his frame.

Elain swallowed hard, one hand grabbing onto her bare shoulder. She wore just a woollen plaid skirt, and a white top with short-sleeve straps. The frigid air causing her skin to prickle. Lucien stared at her, face carefully blank, but even through the emotionless mask, Elain could see the amber turning in his good eye, like swirling maple bourbon. The other golden-eye clicking softly in the silence as he watched her.

“I…” The words were choked in her throat, the strings of her heart wrapping so tightly around each other she felt like if anyone looked into her ribcage they would see nothing more than a knot.

“Is there something you need from me, Lady Archeron.” Lucien murmured softly, his voice like warm sunlight on a windy autumn’s day. Like a crackling fireplace in the winter, or sugar on pancakes on a cold morning. Everything warm and comforting. Everything that called for her, his name drifted in the air, her tongue wished to say it. Like a childhood lullabye she knew better than any other song.

“I wanted to… I wanted to give you, um gift you…” Internally a battle waged, the smaller girl with everything to lose and a life she formerly wanted to live was saying this was broken, this was ruined, she was ruined. This was all wrong.

And the rest of her, someone new, someone she didn’t know, but still felt and understood the same, urged her to continue.

Elain had never stumbled on her words, it was something she would have been pinched, flicked, hit and chastised for by her mother. Priding herself on smooth talking skills, and an easy way of bringing people to her side, but now… now she didn’t know what to say.

So, she said nothing. Forcing her body to move, she reached into the pocket of her skirts and pulled out a small wrapped gift. The crinkling brown paper tied together by a simple piece of twine, long and rectangular in shape. It was nothing elaborate or expensive like the gifts Elain noticed Feyre and Rhysand exchanging, and as she shoved it out in front of her, staring at the ground, not able to meet his eyes, she wondered if she should have spent more on this.

“For you.” She muttered as her face grew hotter and hotter with every passing second.

“For me?” Lucien asked, his voice utterly breathless, confused.

“Yes.” Elain thanked the stars and Mother that they were alone or else Lucien would not have even heard her words.

There was a beat of silence and Elain’s heart pounded so quickly behind her ribs. Like a rabbit trapped in a cage.

Is this what Lords feel like when they court their lovers? She wondered.

No, not all Lords. Greyson had been full of self-assured confidence, laughing with his friends as he whistled her over and asked to gift her a field of wildflowers.

At the time she had been flustered, embarrassed and giggling. Now, looking back on it, how she must have looked to her friends and family. Called over like that.

Her arms were shaking now, the small blink of time where nothing happened lasted several eternities, she was certain of it.

Part of her started to think of retracting the gift. Or perhaps throwing it at Lucien and running for her life. But she was put out of her misery as calloused fingers brushed her own.

Elain’s heart stopped in her chest, jumping around as it skipped beats, like someone tripping over themselves again and again. The bond snapped and sung at the contact, pulling the knot in her chest tighter and tighter, till it hurt to breathe.

But as quickly as the touch lasted it was gone, as the gift slipped away from Elain’s fingers. She let out a breath, as longing to reach out slammed into her, tall crashing waves brought down onto her body. She lifted her eyes and saw Lucien, staring in wonder at the small gift in his hands.

Quickly her hands were by her side once more. Staring at Lucien who looked in pure awe at the sight. Turning the package over in hands again and again, brushing his fingers down the sides of the string, Elain felt like screaming. Would he open it or not? She didn’t know if she even wanted to see his reaction.

But finally, Lucien quickly looked up, straightening his back, snapping from the awe, “Thank you, Lady, thank you very much.”

“No need.” Elain murmured, “It is long overdue. You always get me a gift for solstice and I… don’t.”

Lucien blinked, before he smiled slightly, looking back down at the gift in his hands, “I never expect anything in return for those.”

“I know but I…” Elain lost her words, as she stared at Lucien’s finger fiddling with the twine, “I still wanted to get you something.”

Those words alone seemed to strike Lucien, he looked at her again. Eyes briefly widening before his features smoothed out. Elain clutched her arm once more, the temperature dropping as the stars became clearer in the ever-darkening sky.

Carefully, treating the package like it was the most fragile thing in the world, Lucien untied the knot at the base of the twine, unravelling the thread, then unfolding the parchment paper.

It revealed a thin red velvet box. Lucien looked up at her, and Elain looked down, unable to look him in the eyes. Unable to stare at the burning amber, it was too warm, too hot, overtaking her. The burning that spread through her chest and up to her head was dizzying.

Lucien opened the box, and a quick gasp escaped him. Elain’s eyes snapped up immediately, needing to see what the reaction was. Fear coursed through her, battling the strings that tied around her heart.

“This is…” Lucien pulled it from where it nestled in the fabric of the box, and Elain shifted on her feet, suddenly conscious of everything about herself. Second-guessing whether this was the rest decision.

Lucien held it in his hands, the long thin bookmark. With a golden knotted thread hanging from the top, the resin was clear with dried flowers and petals frozen inside. He stared at it in wonder, then looked back at Elain, who scrambled to explain.

“I know you like to read.” She said, “And… Nesta does too, she hates when she doesn’t have a bookmark and has to fold over the corner of her page to mark her spot. I thought this way you… never have to do that.”

Elain really felt like bolting back into the house now, she thought it might be out of needing to get away from the male before her, but instead, she found it was because her skin was burning as she waited for his reaction. Waited to see if he liked it.

Feeling like a little girl outside the door of the boy who she had taken a liking to, Elain rubbed her thumb over her cold skin. It was torture the slow seconds that passed, each of them etching themselves into her mind, never to be forgotten.

But none of those seconds mattered nearly as much, as a bright voice, as warm and shining as the sun said, “Thank you.”

Elain looked up through her eyelashes, and nearly stumbled despite standing still.

Lucien was glowing with his joy. Eyes bright and a smile tugging endlessly on his lips, his face radiating the happiness emitting off of him as he flipped the bookmark over in his gentle hands. Examining every inch of it.

“Thank you so much, Lady.” He murmured.

“Elain.” She said quickly, Lucien looked back up from the bookmark to see her eyes. Elain swallowed and said, “Just Elain, just call me Elain.”

He blinked a few times, then the smile that continued to try and force it’s way out made it. Breaking on his plush lips and fully showing that joy in him. Echoing down the bond like liquid sunshine, like some kind of drug that poured into her veins. Filling her to the brim. Overflowing, forcing a smile to her own face, one no matter how much she tried she could not keep down.

“Thank you, Elain.” He repeated, “Thank you.”

Elain’s body shuddered. Shivering not from the cold anymore, but from the full body heat washing over her again and again and again. It did not go unnoticed by the male before her. He quickly noticed her shivering, but instead of understanding what caused it, he quickly pocketed the bookmark and shrugged off his thick warm coat.

“It’s too cold out here for you not to have this.” Lucien said as he draped his coat over her shoulders. Elain tried to push it back.

“No, I’m just going inside, you’re the one who is leaving-”

“Nonsense. You take it.” Lucien said, with that stupidly, stupidly handsome smile on his glowing face.

Elain could barely argue as she stared at him. In the end, she pulled the jacket tighter, breathing in the warm scent of autumn weather and sunshine. It surrounded her entirely, a place of warmth, stolen away from the chilled air.

Lucien slipped his hands into his pockets as he stepped back, “Thank you again, La- Elain.”

Elain shook her head, curls bouncing around her face, “It was no trouble.”

He smiled again, a boyish grin that made Elain’s stomach flutter.

“Have a good evening, Elain.” Lucien murmured, as bowed his head and turned towards the path that winded out of the River House.

“You as well, Lucien.” She whispered to the space he once was. Clutching his coat with both her hands she watched until he was past the line of houses, and completely out of sight. Before she closed her eyes, and bit down on her lip to contain the shriek of joy that fought out of her throat. Laughing she fell against the nearest wall and slid to the floor, giggling into the coat over her and breathing in the scent left on it.

It had taken so long to get to this point. But Elain thought back on the first day she ever tried to bake something. She remembered the lesson her father had spoken of.

Sometimes things take time. Sometimes you just have to be patient.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #elain archeron #pro elain archeron #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra

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plague-of-insomnia · 8 months ago

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WIP Wednesday: Sebardagni Post-Apocalyptic Domestic Sickfic AU

I know no one cares about this idea aside from me, but this is the first thing I’ve been able to write in months, and I really fucking need the escapism of Sebastian having two men taking care of him even when the world has fallen to pieces.

I have a few scenes for this written I may end up posting on AO3 later, but for now, enjoy this scene.

The concept for this AU is this: the world ended a few years ago, and Bard, Agni, and Sebastian have been surviving together. Sebastian is chronically ill, so he and Agni mind the homestead while Bard goes off on excursions for supplies. It’s not an easy life, but overall, they’re happy.

~#~

Sebastian balanced carefully. The forearm crutches Bard had fashioned for him fit better than anything he’d managed with since the world collapsed and meant he wouldn’t do just that onto the floor—even if his muscles were weak.

He’d finally managed a few hours’ sleep, exhaustion and one of Agni’s herbal treatments helping to ease his breathing long enough to dream.

And what a dream it was. He couldn’t wait to hurry out of the small bedroom they shared in this tiny mountain cabin and tell Agni about it. As bittersweet as it was, it had felt so wonderfully real, he could almost ignore the perpetual tightness in his chest.

“Agni! Agni!” Sebastian cautiously eased the door open.

The cabin was cozy, a main room with a fireplace, kitchen, and sitting area, a bedroom and bath, and a cellar Sebastian couldn’t access—too many stairs— where they stored food for the winter.

The fire illuminated the room as Agni worked. From the way the orange sun had colored the bedroom, Sebastian suspected it was evening, which would mean Agni would likely be busy prepping their dinner.

Things had been harder lately, since Bard had been gone for weeks now—73 days, exactly, not that Sebastian had been counting—but they made do. Agni wasn’t as skilled a huntsman as Bard, but between their garden, preserved stores, chickens and goats, they managed. Agni had to coax Sebastian more often than not to eat as it was, so he barely dented their food stocks.

“I dreamed Bard came home and he found me medicine, and—“ Sebastian’s voice cut out immediately as he realized he heard Agni speaking to someone. And then he saw him. “Bard?”

The man was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, looking ragged and thinner than Sebastian remembered, but very much not a dream or a ghost.

“You’re alive?!” Sebastian’s eyes filled and he pushed himself to move as fast as he possibly could, dropping his arms from his crutches so he could throw them around his lover. “Agni and I were worried you were never coming home.”

Bard’s strong arms supported Sebastian in their embrace so he wouldn’t lose his footing, enjoying this connection. He smelt like tobacco and sweat and days out on the road, but more than anything, like hope.

Sebastian didn’t even care if Bard hadn’t been able to find any medicine for him. He was just so relieved he began to sob as weeks of emotions he’d been damming up broke free.

“Hey, hey, you’ll make your breathing worse. I’m all right. I missed you both and thinking of getting back here to you kept me going. You know I don’t die easy.”

Sebastian’s legs ached, and Bard sensed his growing instability and helped him sit down beside him. A moment later, Agni set a steaming mug in front of him. The frothy liquid was green. Another one of his herbal concoctions?

“It’s matcha. I lucked out.” Bard scratched his cheek. “Got caught in a bad storm a couple towns over and took refuge in a partly burned-out old asian market. I moved some shelves to help create a barcade and found a whole supply of the stuff that had been overlooked by scavengers.”

“The caffeine will help your breathing,” Agni said with a warm smile. “It’s not medicine, but it was a good find.”

Sebastian tried not to frown as he took a sip. It was bitter, but Agni had added some of the honey from the bees he kept to sweeten it. He didn’t want to ruin their happy reunion by suggesting, again, that maybe it was time Agni and Bard moved on and left him behind. He was too frail to travel, and Bard was having to spend more and more time on the road, detouring farther and farther from their home base in order to find any medicine to help ease Sebastian’s symptoms.

Even before the world fell apart, Sebastian had been ill. But after, the stress and lack of medical care meant his condition had deteriorated significantly, and if they hadn’t found this cabin by chance, he knew he probably would have died years ago.

Sometimes, he wondered if that would have been better for both Agni and Bard, even if he kept his mouth shut as he listened to them talking, Bard regaling some of his adventures while Agni finished prepping their food.

They’d have rabbit stew tonight, thanks to Bard’s catch, and Sebastian cherished the warmth of the mug in his hands as he tried to enjoy the limited happiness of this domestic snapshot.

He did like it here, in their little cabin. The woods shielded them from most of the horrors of the dying human world, and the fresh, dry air eased his breathing some. He loved their little home and garden, and enjoyed helping Agni with the animals when he was well enough to venture outside. He thought, despite his illness and the reality of their new world, he might be content, if Bard didn’t constantly have to put his life at risk for Sebastian’s sake.

Sebastian shivered as one of Bard’s coarse hands played with his long hair, curling a strand around a finger.

“I missed you both so fucking much,” he said. Sebastian could see the fear in those blue eyes, that he’d probably worried he might not make it back, or that by the time he did, only Agni would be waiting for his return.

~#~

Reblogs appreciated as always!

Liked this? You can see more of my writing on AO3.

#black butler #黒執事 #wip wednesday #sebardagni #sebastian michaelis #post-apocalyptic au #bardroy #agni #sickfic #domestic au #poi writes #poi og #snippet #disabled sebastian #bard

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daechwitatamic · 2 years ago

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III. So I Speak Your Name || KNJ

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Title: My Feet to Follow, and My Heart to Hold (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni

Genre: college!au, roomie!au, angst, s2l, the absolute slowest of burns

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader, unrequited Taehyung x reader

Beta'd by @/kookstempo, @/casuallyimagining, and @/toikiii - thank you endlessly!

Summary: You know a lot about the many types of love thanks to Kim Taehyung. You love him as the only person you see as “family”, you love him as your very best friend, and you love him as the beautiful, funny man he’s become. But when a twist of fate during your senior year has you rooming with his good friend Kim Namjoon, you just might find that you have plenty left to learn about love.

Lesson One: there are such things as a right way and a wrong way to love and to be loved.

You and Namjoon bond over literature and alcohol.

Section Warnings: language, drinking, drinking games, bar scenes, pov switches between OC and Namjoon a few times

WC: 7.5k

The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. - Journey | Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tuesday October 9th

On Sundays I visit graveyards, paying my respects to the many words that have died on my lips.

On Sundays I leave flowers commemorating each admission that I struck down before it could reach you.

On Sundays I leave stones atop marble markers to memorialize those that you and I chose to leave unturned.

They say you only exist as long as someone remembers you, so I speak your name like my own Hail Mary full of grace.

You scratch out the last four lines and read it back. Then you change your mind, decide you like them, and add them once again at the bottom.

The final so turns into an and. Then you change it back to so. You sigh in frustration, closing your eyes.

“You sound angry,” someone says, and you nearly leap off the stool in your kitchen. Namjoon stands in the doorway, holding a grocery bag, a carton of eggs sticking out the top.

“Why did I choose a writing degree when I’m so bad at writing?” you ask him plaintively.

It’s a little more honest, a little more personal than you two have been before. It just sort of slips, honestly, your head still a bit stuck in the world of words and phrases instead of in the present.

He smiles ruefully and moves into the kitchen, starting to put away his groceries. “I know that feeling,” he admits. Then, not looking at you, he adds, “I didn’t know you were in the writing program. I did it, too, for undergrad. You have Jemisen?”

“Really?” you ask. “How did we live together for a month and not know that? And yeah, Jemisen.”

Namjoon chuckles lightly, and you catch yourself watching his shoulders move as he reaches high in a cupboard to put a box away. “I guess we don’t talk that much,” he admits. “Are you doing fiction for your thesis?”

“Poetry,” you tell him.

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, clearly surprised.

“Wow,” he says, brows furrowed. “Really?”

You laugh a little at the circular nature of your conversation. “Yes, really,” you say, smiling. “Though I will admit to regretting that decision on more than one occasion.”

“Again,” he says, finally folding up his reusable grocery bag and stashing it between the fridge and the counter, “I know the feeling.”

“Are you doing writing for your grad program too?” you ask, suddenly curious.

He nods, leaning back against the counter. It’s that magical golden hour in the apartment, your favorite, when the outside light comes in orange and glowing. It casts a honey tinge over Namjoon’s skin, a softer brown showing up in his dark hair. There’s something sharp in his gaze suddenly, something that’s not usually there - like he’s honing in on something for the first time.

“Fiction?” you prod. This is more interesting than your poetry homework, for sure.

“Unfortunately,” he jokes. “So, poetry? My buddy did that track, he said it was hard. I thought about it, but I didn’t want to give up on fiction entirely, and I knew I couldn’t handle both. Plus my poetry’s pretty bad.”

“So is mine,” you grumble, eyeing your notebook grumpily.

Namjoon gives a sigh and moves towards his room. “I have class tonight,” he tells you, “but if you want to order extra dinner and leave me the leftovers, I’ll pay you for it.”

“Sure,” you say easily, glancing at the clock. You hadn’t really thought about dinner yet, but you’ll need to soon. “Text me what you want. I’ll probably get our usual.”

It strikes you, suddenly, that you two have a usual. It’s early October, the leaves barely starting to turn. It’s the part of fall where you’re too hot when you walk in the sun, and chilly when you walk through the shadows. You’ve only lived with Namjoon for about a month and a half, and somehow you have a usual takeout order.

It’s strange.

But you don’t hate it.

Namjoon leaves a few minutes later, a brown cross-body bag settled against his lower back. You sit at the breakfast bar, your poetry notebook closed in front of you with your pen marking your page, and wonder about your mysterious roommate. You wonder what his poetry is like, what it would tell you about him if you ever got the chance to see it. You wonder if his fiction writing is what keeps him holed up in his room day in and day out, the lights low.

About an hour later, you text Taehyung to see if he wants to come eat dinner.

“Can’t,” he answers. “Already have plans for dinner. Sry!”

You sink onto the couch, grimacing. “Already have plans” means a date.

The thing is, you know you could ask Taehyung to take you to dinner, and he’d do it. Hell, you could probably even say, “Take me on a date,” and he’d do that, too - wear something nice, spray on a more expensive cologne, open the car door for you and pull out your chair, all that shit. He’d do everything exactly right.

He’d do everything for the sake of irony.

That’s what it boils down to, and you know it in your bones: intention. Taehyung could spend all twenty-four hours treating you exactly how a boyfriend should, but at the end of the day his intention was not romantic, and there was nothing you could do to change that.

You turn on the tv, determined not to waste your night wondering how his is going.

Thursday October 11th

Thursday marks nearly the middle of the month. It’s unseasonably warm when you walk to class, but you carry a jacket, knowing that when you leave the bookstore after your shift, the chill will warrant it.

You have a bullshit class, one that doesn’t apply to your degree concentration, something that the university requires for everyone. The only saving grace is that it’s short.

When it ends, you have some choices. You don’t have to be at the bookstore until three. You could go back to the apartment. It’s certainly enough time. Or you could get lunch on campus and handle any academic errands you had, as it were.

And, you sort of had an academic errand swimming in the back of your mind.

You head to the building that houses the staff offices for the writing and literature professors. They’re all tucked away in a little wing back behind where the classrooms are. You’ve been there a few times over the years - twice to talk to your academic advisor about your upcoming schedules, and once to help a professor carry her armload of papers and her laptop back from the classroom.

You scan the names on each door until you find Jemisen, and knock tentatively. He turns, surprised.

“Y/N,” he says, and then glances at his computer, as if trying to determine if you’d scheduled a meeting and he’d forgotten.

“I wasn’t sure if it was your office hours,” you say quickly, to let him know he hadn’t made a mistake. “But I had a quick question about my last assignment, and I was already over here on campus…”

“Ah,” he says, understanding. “Well, it is my office hours, but it just so happens that I was called into a last-second budget meeting, because how we spend our money is certainly more important than my students’ academic success!” He looks at you, seeming to think belatedly that this little sarcastic rant might have been better staying in his head. “Anyway, I have a TA here who could help you look at it? I trust him implicitly.”

You’re a little uncomfortable with the idea - Professor Jemisen has been reading and working with you on your poetry for over a year; you don’t want to work on it with a stranger.

“Oh,” you say, “I’m not - I could -.”

A body comes around the corner. “I heard TA. Have I been summoned?”

It’s Namjoon.

You want to vanish through the floor.

“I’ll just -,” you start to say, but Professor Jemisen cuts you off, collecting some papers off of his desk and reaching for the jacket he’d placed on a hook beside the door.

“This is Y/N, she’s a senior in my poetry thesis class,” he tells your roommate. “She’s looking for help reworking a stanza on her last submission, right, Y/N?”

You bluster, you struggle to make words. You want to shake your head no, but your body isn’t cooperating.

“I’m happy to help,” Namjoon says to you. “My office is two doors down.”

Professor Jemisen is already through the door, clapping Namjoon on the back in thanks as he goes. This gives you the chance to collect yourself, jump-start your brain again.

“You get your own office as a TA?” you ask wryly, one eyebrow lifting.

Namjoon smiles. There’s something different about him here, an easy confidence you don’t see him exude when he’s just at the apartment.

“Come on,” he says, and you walk out into the narrow corridor. Namjoon closes Professor Jemisen’s door behind you and leads you to his own space.

“To answer your question,” he says, still smiling sort of sheepishly, “no, TA’s do not get their own offices. This one was empty because Bianca - Professor Whyte - retired and they haven’t replaced her yet… I sort of commandeered it. I share it with two other grad students, technically. Just until the university hires someone.”

He sits at the desk and motions for you to take the chair next to it. The office is clean and pretty empty - a tall bookshelf holds only about half a dozen books, taking up just a small section of one lone shelf. There are two small potted plants on the windowsill, and a coffee mug shoved behind the computer monitor. Otherwise, the room seems unowned, devoid of any identifying artifacts.

“This is very weird,” you say, because you have to say it.

“What is?” he asks absently, his eyes on one of the windowsill plants.

“My roommate reading my poetry,” you say flatly. “My roommate workshopping my poetry with me.”

He turns to look at you, surprise and perhaps a touch of hurt flickering across his face. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can ask someone else to work with you, or you can wait for Professor Jemisen. I didn’t realize…”

You sigh inwardly. You hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. “You don’t think it’s weird?” you challenge, trying to keep your voice light.

He shrugs. “I’m just doing my job. I’m on the clock. But like I said… if you’re uncomfortable, then let’s find a Plan B.”

“You’re Plan B,” you grumble. “We’d need to find Plan C.”

You kind of want to take his offer of walking away. But you’re already here, and you don’t want to hurt his feelings worse and make things weird at home.

“Here,” you say, rummaging in your bag. “Just don’t, like, peer into my soul or anything.”

Namjoon laughs like he’s surprised by this. “It’s poetry,” he says, grabbing a pen and turning to see what you put on the desk. “I don’t think that’s optional.”

You slide your notebook over to him. “Professor Jemisen hated the second stanza,” you say.

He looks at you, eyes wide. “He didn’t say that.”

You chuckle. “No, but it’s still true.”

Namjoon reads the poem to himself silently, lips moving with the words.

On Sundays I leave flowers commemorating each admission that I struck down before it could reach you.

“Okay,” he says finally, “I think you should keep the top line of the stanza the same - to keep the pattern.”

You nod, listening.

He presses his pen against his lips, eyes narrowed as they scan the lines again. “I think the word admission is too chunky,” he says. “In the second line.”

“Confession?” you supply. “Commemorating each confession?”

“That gives you some nice alliteration,” he notes, nodding.

“Does it flow better?” you prompt.

Namjoon repeats the first two lines to himself, under his breath. “On Sundays I leave flowers, commemorating each confession. Yeah, I think it does.”

“I’ll change it,” you decide, and he does it for you, scratching out admission and writing confession next to it in red ink.

“The third line sucks,” you muse, reading over his arm.

“It doesn’t suck,” he says mildly. “What were you trying to say?”

You think about this. “That each admission - confession, whatever - that the speaker didn’t voice…it’s almost like those words were trying to reach their recipient, but the speaker shot them down in flight, you know? Does that make sense?”

Namjoon ticks his head to the side, thinking. “It makes sense,” he assures you. “I’m just thinking about how to say it.”

You both peer at the stanza in silence, thinking.

“You’ve got this imagery of shooting something down mid-flight, like you just said,” he murmurs, eyes on the page, “but in the first stanza, you say the words die on the speaker’s lips, meaning they never get said in the first place. Maybe you need to change the imagery to holding it in instead of stopping it once it’s out?”

You scan the first stanza again, nodding slowly. “Commemorating every confession that suffocated beneath fresh-packed earth,” you say, voice almost a whisper as you listen to how the phrase would sound.

Namjoon chuckles darkly. “Buried alive? Harsh.”

You tap the page, finger on the bottom stanza. “The confessions - the words - are what died and got buried. But then, in the final stanza, she’s saying she keeps him alive by remembering him, but maybe she’s keeping her confessions alive as well. Like, she’s continuing to give them life by continuing to speak life into them. It works on two levels.”

Namjoon nods, letting out a quick, impressed breath almost like a laugh. “That’s good,” he says, sliding your notebook over to you. “Write it down before you forget.”

You scratch out the second stanza and write in the space next to it,

On Sundays I leave flowers commemorating every confession that suffocated beneath six feet of fresh-packed earth.

“I like it better,” you say, reading the whole thing back to yourself.

“It’s definitely better,” he agrees.

You put a hand on the page, ready to slide it completely away from him, to put it back in your bag.

Namjoon places his fingers on the page, just inches from yours. His index finger strokes the last line, where your hand had pressed the pen to the page and placed there, Hail Mary full of grace.

“What would happen if you stopped visiting?” he asks, voice very low. He’s leaning forward, his shoulder close enough to yours that you can feel the heat coming off his body.

“Excuse me?” you snap. This was exactly what you hadn’t wanted - interpretation, application to your real life.

“The speaker,” he corrects quickly, eyes flicking down to the page and then back up to meet yours again. There’s something gentle and coaxing in his voice as he continues. “What would happen if the speaker decided to spend their time elsewhere? Wouldn’t it be better for them to just… let the dead stay dead?”

Goosebumps cover your arms, but you’re also suddenly pissed. “I don’t have an answer to that,” you say firmly. “It’s poetry, it’s not real life.” You slap the notebook shut and toss it into your bag, tugging on the zipper like your life depends on it. You stand, hiking your bag onto your shoulder.

He’s still looking at you contemplatively, leaning back in his chair, long legs stretching under the desk. Then, he seems to snap out of it, and he peers up at you apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m used to that kind of thinking and response from my grad classes. But you’d already expressed that you weren’t comfortable… I should’ve left that alone.”

You shift from foot to foot, still stinging. “It’s fine,” you tell him. “Thanks for the help. I’ll resubmit this version.”

“Y/N,” he calls, stopping you in the doorway. You pause, turning to look. “Would it make you feel better to see a really personal one of mine?” His smile is rueful, his dimples teasing.

You exhale on a laugh. “Only if I get to question your poor life choices when I’m done,” you say.

He laughs at this. “I accept,” he says seriously, a smile still tugging at his lips. “In exchange for your forgiveness.”

You slap your palm lightly against the wooden doorframe, twice. “It’s a deal,” you say, and disappear down the hallway.

–

He sends you a screenshot two hours later. Before you can enlarge it enough to read anything, he sends, “Good GOD this is bad. Enjoy!”

I love you by pressing my fingertips into soil. Is it too dry? Can it go another day? I love you by pushing ceramic just two inches to the left where the sunlight hits at exactly four pm. I love you by wiping dust from leaves just how I'd wipe tears from cheeks. I love you by admiring each new bloom as it appears.

And when I’m thorn-pricked it doesn’t hurt because my only expectation was for it to grow.

You read it twice, then a third time.

[3:22 PM] You: that is NOT bad omg [3:23 PM] You: i need more context so i can mock your bad decisions [3:23 PM] You: that was the deal 😤 [3:27 PM] Namjoon: haha stop it. [3:28 PM] Namjoon: i cringed so hard when i read it again [3:29 PM] Namjoon: but i hope you actually forgive me now

Friday October 12th

‘-yet with everything left unsaid, still they said goodbye.’

Namjoon pounds twice on his desk in victory as he rereads the last line of the chapter he’d just finished. It’s good, he thinks. It’s actually good, the whole chapter. Not perfect - nothing ever would be - but good enough that he feels excited to send it to the cohort and get some feedback.

There’s a noise from his doorway and he spins in the chair, minimizing the document out of habit.

You smile at him from the door. “It’s going well, huh?” you say, a little playfully.

Namjoon feels something like cold run down his legs. It’s the absolute horror of being known. “What are you talking about?” he asks, voice even.

You fold your arms over your chest like you feel defensive. “You hit the desk when you’re happy about it,” you explain.

Namjoon stares at you, absolutely dumbfounded. He hadn’t realized you even knew he was writing, let alone that you’d been tracking his habits well enough to pick up on little things like that. He’s always kept his writing - and his behavior as a writer - pretty private. The only person who had ever seen behind the curtain, so to speak, was Elyse. And look how that turned out.

Namjoon decides to side-step this. He doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he goes with, “Did you need something?”

He knows it’s cold. He doesn’t even mean to be cold. But something about this interaction has all of his mental alarm bells ringing - telling him that this might be inching towards dangerous territory.

Territory he’s been in before. Territory he clawed his way out of.

“Oh,” you say, a little taken-aback. “Well, yeah. I was trying to see if anyone would be into the idea of a game night this weekend? What do you think?”

Namjoon’s about to answer that he doesn’t mind when his conversation with Yoongi and Hobi floats into his brain. He remembers their bony chins digging into his shoulders as they read your texts and affirmed that, yes, he’d hurt your feelings by leaving last time.

“Game night,” he repeats slowly. “Care to elaborate on the plan?”

This makes you smile again, like you’re pleased that he’s entertaining the idea. “Smaller crowd than last time,” you say. “Game categories up for discussion - could do board games, drinking games, video games… maybe a rotation?”

“A rotation,” Namjoon repeats flatly, not sure if you’re joking.

Your smile widens, eyes crinkling. It had been a joke. “We can decide what we feel like,” you say. “I was thinking maybe Saturday night?”

“Okay,” Namjoon says.

“Okay I can plan it… or okay, you’ll be there?” you ask, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek.

Namjoon feels himself smile despite himself, despite the alarm bells, despite your dead-on observation of his habits. “I’ll stay,” he promises.

Saturday October 13th

The night actually does rotate. Or, rather, you all start with a board game and it delves soon into drinking games. Namjoon finds himself sitting on the living room floor, a whiskey and soda in his hand, watching across an abandoned game board - pieces still laying sideways, forgotten - as you giggle into Taehyung’s shoulder after being brought down by a very targeted round of Never Have I Ever.

(Never have I ever… worn a bra. …used a curling iron. …put on mascara. …cried to a Hallmark movie. The guys went right down the line, 1-2-3-4-5, you never had a chance.)

“You have to drink, Y/N,” Jungkook says, poking you with his socked foot.

“Get your toe-socks off of me,” you try to snap, but you’re still fighting giggles and you sound as menacing as a puppy.

“I think we need a no-targeting rule,” Yoongi says fairly, watching as you dutifully down your cup and rise to mix yourself a new one. “Or Y/N will end up in the hospital tonight.”

“I am not holding your hair this time,” Taehyung shouts into the kitchen. “Once was enough!”

“It was enough for me, too, believe me,” you answer him seriously, but your mouth twitches. You’re still fighting giggles.

“He’s right,” Jimin speaks up. “No more targeting - not just Y/N, for anyone. It won’t be fun that way.”

“Should we switch games?” Hobi asks. “How about Kings?”

Namjoon groans. “I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Then get drunker,” Taehyung tells him, nodding towards the kitchen bar - littered with half-full liquor bottles and various mixers - where you’re still standing with your cup.

“I’m working on it,” Namjoon tells him, lifting his nearly-empty cup as proof.

You settle back onto the floor across from him, carefully holding your freshly filled cup so that it doesn’t slosh over the edges. “What’d we decide?”

The game of Kings begins harmlessly - Jungkook picks an 8 and chooses Jimin to drink whenever he drinks, no surprise there. Jimin picks a 4, and everyone slaps the floor - Yoongi is last, so he drinks.

Then Hobi picks a King - make up any rule, any rule at all - and his eyes sparkle with unspilled mischief.

“T-Rex arms!” Taehyung shouts. “T-Rex arms for the rest of the night!”

“Funny accents for the rest of the night!”

“You have to drink every time you say someone’s name!”

“You have to drink every time anyone says ‘what’!”

Everyone shouts their suggestions, but Hobi waves his hands to quiet them.

“If you say someone’s name,” he begins, and everyone leans forward, interested, “they get to tell the group some tea about you.”

Everyone lets out an ooooh of appreciation.

“That’s gonna get messy,” you observe, eyes wide.

The game continues, everyone being careful to tap each other’s knees to get their attention instead of calling their names. But as the hour grows later and the alcohol flows, you all forget to be so careful. When Jimin gets up to grab another drink, Jungkook calls, “Jimin, will you bring me a beer?”

“You said his name!” Nearly the whole circle shrieks it at once, pointing sloppily at Jungkook in accusation.

“Ji- I mean, sir in the kitchen, you get to tell us some tea about Jung- I mean, this one,” Hobi says, correcting himself around a series of belly laughs.

Jimin grins like the cat who ate the canary. “He’s the one who broke his good headphones.” He points at Yoongi to indicate which his he means since he can’t say Yoongi’s name.

“Hyung!” Jungkook cries, betrayal written all over his face and voice.

At the same time, Yoongi’s head whips around to look at his younger friend in accusation. “You owe me money for those! They were my favorite!”

“I told you,” you say, your voice carrying sweetly over the din. “Messy.”

The game continues, pausing when Yoongi misses his turn as he’s too busy looking up how much his headphones cost so he can show Jungkook.

Without thinking, Namjoon lazily says, “You’re up, Yoongi.”

Everyone looks at him, grins growing like predators who have discovered injured prey.

“Oh, damn,” he sighs. Yoongi looks up from his phone, eyes glinting.

“Well,” he says, clearly enjoying his audience and the chance to embarrass his best friend, “when this friend was getting over Elyse, he played Davichi’s Beside Me on repeat for hours at a time, and I know for a fact that he still knows every word.”

Namjoon’s not sure how to name the emotion that surges from his stomach up to his face; mortified, sure. Angry, a little. Everyone around the circle is laughing - Jimin’s even wiping a lone tear from under his eye. Is it funny, from the outside? He guesses it is. He feels a little detached, a little floaty.

“Oh shit, Elyse!” Taehyung sort of shouts, sitting up a little. “I forgot about her!”

“That’s cute,” Namjoon says. “Wish I could.” Even he can hear how bitter he sounds.

“What ever happened with her?” Taehyung asks, more musing than actually directing the question at Namjoon, or anyone.

“Tae!” you scold, elbowing him. “You’re such an insensitive ass, do you know that?”

To his credit, Taehyung looks abashed and backpedals immediately. “I mean - sorry - I’m just curious. Didn’t mean to put you on blast.”

“It’s fine,” Namjoon says, but he’s dying to get out of that room, out of everyone’s sight, away from the fading laughter and from the sideways, searching look you’re giving him. He stands, tries to keep his face passive. “I’m gonna… go pee.”

He slides into the dark of his room and heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t even need to go, he just needs it to look like he left for a reason. Behind him, he can hear Yoongi despite his purposely lowered voice as he says, “She left him back in June. Same shit as always - he loved her way more than she liked him.”

Namjoon wishes he could refute this. Even if he’d been out there to defend himself, he couldn’t. Yoongi knew every detail about Namjoon’s last relationship and the break-up that ended it, and his assessment was right.

Namjoon had liked her - loved her - more than she liked him. His expectations were too high for what she could give him. Sometimes he wondered if she was the problem, or if he was. Were his expectations for a partner too high in general? Was he asking too much, wanting someone to care for him the way he cared for them?

When he comes out of the bathroom, Yoongi is leaning against his desk waiting for him.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “The song part is funny - I was thinking about it because you were humming it in the library yesterday. I didn’t think about the… Elyse of it all. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. Especially in front of…” He trails off. But Namjoon knows where the sentence was going.

He doesn’t even have the oomph to argue it.

“I know,” he says simply. “It’s okay.”

“If we hadn’t been drinking…” Yoongi says, voice a little thoughtful. “I mean, I’m not trying to make excuses. I just would have considered my words a little more carefully.”

“I know,” Namjoon says again, insistent. “It’s okay, hyung. I’m not mad at you. Let’s go back.”

When they return to the group, it seems that in their absence you had organized the board game again and gotten everyone focused. He wasn’t sure if you’d done it on purpose, diverted their attention to rules and set-up so they wouldn’t look too closely at his face as he took his spot again, but he appreciated it regardless.

Taehyung catches his eye, grimaces in apology. Namjoon gives a shrug and a headshake, letting him know they’re alright.

How can he be mad? Are they supposed to pretend his mistakes don’t exist? He can’t impose his own rules on others, it wouldn’t be fair.

Friday October 19th

The week passes in a blur. Namjoon works on his book, workshops for his classmates, goes to class, attends his TA hours, eats, sleeps, walks outside when he can. You exist in orbit around him, sometimes communicating in passing - but only in passing. You spend no time together, have no conversations, share no text messages or meals.

It’s starting to feel safe again, Namjoon thinks. Those alarm bells have quieted down. Now they act more like disgruntled guard dogs who think they saw something in the yard; they keep their narrowed, suspicious eyes on the gate, giving unhappy grumbles now and then.

Of course, the universe never lets him rest for long. On Friday night, Hobi texts him at eight, “Bar! You have two hours to mentally prepare! I will see you there or else!!!”

Namjoon texts back, “you need to calm down with the exclamation points”. But he still turns to eye his open closet, pondering what to wear.

–

Sometimes, Namjoon just watches people. People watching is a thing, right? He catches himself at it all the time - at train stations, on campus, in malls, and here - now - at the bar.

He watches throngs of young women mix onto and away from the dance floor, ebbing and flowing like high and low tide, like they obey the moon too. He watches men his age eye the scene like hawks.

He watches the bartenders hustle from one end to another, hands in constant motion as they exchange money, clutch shakers, wipe out glasses, open beers. He watches the bouncer sweep his gaze over the crowd, like a seaside lifeguard.

He watches Hobi and Yoongi bend their heads together, talking animatedly over something on Hobi’s phone. He watches Jungkook and Jimin dance near the edge of the crowd, peeking surreptitiously over their shoulders to see if any of the girls near them are looking. He watches Jin throw his head back in laughter at whatever the pretty girl before him has said.

He watches you lean forward on your elbows, eyes on Taehyung’s face like they’re magnetically drawn, as he talks to you. You both laugh at something; you finish your drink. Namjoon watches as Taehyung leans over to say something to you, slides off of his barstool, makes his way towards the dark hallway that houses the restrooms. You flag down a bartender, ordering a new drink.

You aren’t watching Taehyung make his way back from the bathroom, but Namjoon is. He watches as Taehyung is intercepted by a beautiful, dark-haired girl who stands only as tall as the middle of his chest. He watches as Taehyung stops in his tracks, a grin slowly growing across his face, starting sly and ending open and friendly. It’s deadly, and Namjoon knows he knows it.

Namjoon sees it happen when the girl cocks her head towards the front entrance, sees it when Taehyung nods and leans down to say something to her before zig-zagging his way through the crowd back to where you sit, waiting for him.

Namjoon sees it when your smile crumples, when you quickly stitch it back together and nod eagerly, when you wave goodbye. He sees it when Taehyung and his date slip out the front door, sees it when you let your head drop to your hands, shoulders heaving with one single deep breath.

When you raise your head again, your eyes meet his.

And he sees it - all of it. He sees the crushing disappointment, the resignation, the acceptance.

He’s moving without making the decision to move, his beer glass cold against his hand as he makes his way to the empty spot next to you.

“Sorry,” he says, not hiding that he’d seen exactly what happened, had witnessed Taehyung abandon you for preferred company.

You give yourself a little shake and give him a tiny smile. “Don’t be,” you say easily. “Good for him - I wish I had half his luck.”

Namjoon wouldn’t say he knows you that well if he was asked, doesn’t think himself an expert on your personality. But he knows it’s bravado. He can just tell.

But he’ll let you save face. He’d want the same.

He struggles to find something to talk to you about. His brain goes empty, like static, the second he relies on it. Finally, as you stir the ice cubes around your drink, trying not to look as dejected as you feel, he asks, “How’s senior thesis going? What are the criteria for poetry students?”

You perk up, sitting up straighter and releasing the plastic straw you’d had pinched between your fingers. “It’s going okay,” you tell him, glancing over sideways at him like you want to make sure he’s actually interested in the answer, not just asking to be polite. “The criteria? It’s half a written portfolio, half an author study.”

“Who’d you pick?” Namjoon asks, taking a sip of his beer and finding it low.

You smile at him mischievously, eyes sparkling a little. “Guess,” you challenge.

He feels himself smile in return. “Rumi,” he shoots out.

Your laugh bursts from you, surprising both of you. “That’s your first guess?” you laugh. “Seriously? Going straight to Rumi?”

“Am I wrong?” he asks, chuckling.

“Yes,” you insist. “Try again.”

He ponders it for a second. “Whitman. Yeats. Eliot.”

“Absolutely not,” you say. “Quit naming dead white dudes.”

Namjoon laughs again. “Poe?”

“Still a dead white dude!”

He stops, thinks again. “Olds,” he finally guesses.

You raise your eyebrows. “Wow, obscure.”

He shrugs. “She seems like your type.”

You laugh at that, a peal of laughter that has you hunching over your drink. “You’re not wrong about that,” you admit.

“I think you need to just tell me,” Namjoon admits.

“Surely you know more poets than that!” you tease accusingly.

“Of course I do,” he allows. “But I think this little game could go on for a very long time.”

You laugh again, and Namjoon feels a smile tug at his lips.

He growls a mental shut up at the part of him that wants to keep making you laugh.

“St Vincent Millay,” you say, caving.

“Wow,” he says, just a bit struck dumb. Because what are the odds you’d pick her? “A favorite.”

You smile at him, eyes crinkling. “You know hers?”

Namjoon is pretty sure he has a copy of Alms stuffed between pages of his favorite notebook, a memento to his post-Elyse days, when he was - yes - listening to Beside Me on repeat and reading every heartbreak poem he could get his hands on, all in the name of feeling understood. All in the name of feeling less alone.

“My heart is what it was before, / a house where people come and go; / But it is winter with your love -” Namjoon quotes from Alms instead of answering.

You keep your eyes on him, steady, as you finish in a quiet voice, “The sashes are beset with snow. Alms? I wrote about that one for my thesis the other day.”

Namjoon catches the bartender’s eye. “If I get a few shots, do you want one?” he asks, looking over at you. You nod, he orders something cinnamony, and then he returns to your earlier conversation. “Alms is one of the only ones of hers I can quote off the top of my head. But it’s… my favorite of hers.”

You give him a sly smile. “I argued in my thesis that Alms is a diss-track.”

Namjoon splutters. “What?” he demands.

You grin, loving this. “It is winter with your love? Like, tell me your lover is cold without telling me your lover is cold. Plus, all those lines in the middle about how she tends her plants in winter? Of course that’s your favorite.”

As the bar-tender pushes filled shot-glasses towards him, Namjoon just stares at you. You have this uncanny way of knowing things about him, and it’s unnerving. Partly because he doesn’t know that much about you, and partly because he hadn’t realized he was so easy to read.

You each take a shot glass, clicking them together before knocking them back. The burn of alcohol in his throat urges him to speak up, to address it.

“You remember how you mentioned that I tend to hit the desk when I'm happy with what I wrote?”

You frown with your whole face, brows and all, not following his line of thought at all. “...Yeah…” you say, voice wavering with uncertainty.

Namjoon looks away, at the wood of the bar beneath his fingers, at the crowd of people shouting their conversations around them, at the empty glasses waiting to be whisked away. “What else do you know?”

He’s not sure what makes him say it. Maybe he’s tired of you dropping these little observations here and there and wants them all out at once.

You trace a whorl in the wood with your pointer finger. Thoughtfully, voice sounding somewhat far away, you tell him, “You pace when you’re stuck. You listen to rap when it’s flowing and classical when it’s not.”

Namjoon lets out a single, shuttering laugh, barely louder than an exhale. “I’m trying to think of a less rude way to ask this, but why - how - do you know this stuff?”

You twist your mouth sideways into the cousin of a smile, self-deprecation written all over your face. “I spend a lot of time in the living room,” you say defensively with a bit of a laugh. “I can’t help but notice. You’re not very secretive.”

That’s the thing. Namjoon thought he was.

You sit in silence for a minute, the loudness of the bar’s music and chatter flowing around you. Then, completely unprompted, you add, “I know that poem you sent me is about your ex.”

Namjoon’s head snaps up, his eyes finding yours. He searches your face for anything unkind, anything mocking. Elyse had made him feel stupid - something he had very little experience with - and he was evading that feeling every second since. But there’s none to be found as you look back at him patiently.

“Y/N,” he says finally, “don’t take this the wrong way, but what the fuck.”

Once you’re sure he isn’t going to get mad or defensive, you relax, shooting him a knowing smirk. “Please,” you protest. “The line about how you can’t get hurt because you had no expectations? A juxtaposition to when you have certain expectations of a partner, and how it hurts when they’re not met. Like expecting someone to love you back, and then they don’t.”

“I think I need to be rescued from this conversation,” Namjoon jokes, pretending to look around for a life-line. “Quit it with the direct shots!”

You shrug innocently. “I’m not making any judgments about it. Just saying I understand the message.”

“How many drinks have you had?” Namjoon demands.

“I don’t know… three or four? Why?”

He can’t say because you’re saying very honest shit and people are usually polite enough to not do that. “You’re just… dropping words like juxtaposition and I…. truly don’t know how to handle it.”

You give him a wide smile, proud and teasing. “Just admit that I have a big, sexy brain.”

If this is the game you want to play, he thinks, he can play it.

“Well,” he counters, “I know that your poem about the graveyard is actually about -” He snaps his mouth shut, sober enough to know a mistake when he’s shin-deep in it, buzzed enough to fail at stopping his gaze from flicking over to where Taehyung and that girl had disappeared through the front door.

He watches - literally watches it happen - as a wall crashes down over your face. The open, teasing expression flattens into dull nothingness, your smile melts into a thin line, your eyes leave his and settle on your hands.

Namjoon opens his mouth to apologize, but the heavy weight of someone’s arm across his shoulders distracts him.

“Are you two talking about poetry?” Hobi asks, voice a touch too loud. “We already have a resident nerd, Y/N, we don’t need another.”

You grasp at the interruption desperately. “Not just any poetry. His poetry.”

Hobi gasps dramatically, clutching at his chest like a wounded man. “He let you read his own poetry? My God.”

Namjoon sits back, allows Hobi and Yoongi to incorporate themselves into the conversation, lets the moment slip away. He zones entirely out of the conversation, lost in his own thoughts, letting the others pick up his slack.

He’s thinking about Alms and thinking about Elyse, thinking about how St Vincent Millay’s line “But it is winter with your love” had rolled around his brain for a solid month as he was wrestling with the insecurity and pain of loving someone who just didn’t feel it too. Elyse hadn’t been cold - at least, not until the very end. Yet, even still, it had never been… enough.

He’s thinking about the way you just noticed things about him, the way you made him feel seen when he was used to feeling the opposite.

He’s thinking, and it’s probably a little fucked up, that Elyse had lived with him for over three months - sharing a bed, even - and had never picked up on his mannerisms this way.

He keys back into the conversation when he notices you signing to close out your card.

“Are you going home?” he asks you, the first words he’s said in a while. Both Yoongi and Hobi turn to look at him, as if they, too, forgot he was sitting there.

“Yeah,” you tell him. You meet his eyes, but your voice is still a little flat. “I was gonna Uber.”

“Wanna share?” he suggests.

You look at your hands again. “You don’t have to leave just because I’m leaving,” you say.

Hobi and Yoongi swivel their heads back and forth in silence, watching this conversation like a table-tennis match.

“I’m ready to go. But I can get my own ride if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m not. That would… that’s fine.”

You say goodbye to the guys and Namjoon follows you through the bar. He’s tempted to reach out a hand and guide you, help you navigate the drunken, dancing crowd. But you aren’t his to protect, and he’s just this minute starting to examine where the urge comes from, what’s blooming here, a tiny bud forming seemingly overnight.

Outside, the silence hits him like the slap of an ocean wave. The night is warm, despite it being late October.

You walk silently towards the curb, phone in your hand. You don’t look back at him.

“Y/N,” he says quietly. You glance over your shoulder, frosty, but you soften almost instantly when you look at him. The apology must be clear as day on his face. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You sag with a sigh. “No,” you say. “I asked for it. I started it. You’re not supposed to dish it if you can’t take it, or something.”

Namjoon doesn’t agree or disagree, doesn’t shake his head. He just keeps his gaze on you, heavy and serious, and repeats, “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

You drop your eyes again - he’s noticing you do that when you’re nervous, unsure of your words. Then, eyes on the road instead of on him, you say, “Assuming I was right about… you know, the poem… I’m sorry you went through that.”

Namjoon raises his eyes, up past the bar’s neon sign, up past the yellow-lit apartment windows above it, up past the fire escape and the rusty rooftop structures. He finds stars, glinting and joking from behind swiftly moving wisps of clouds.

“Thanks,” he says. That’s all.

“It’s hard when the people we love…” you trail off, rub your hands up and down your arms as if to ward off chill on a definitively unchilly night. “It’s hard when they disappoint us. For whatever reason.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says. The Uber pulls up, and you check the license plate against what’s on your phone screen before reaching for the back door. He’s got that same urge again, to reach out and guide you into the car. He shifts his hand into a fist, wills himself to get his shit together. As you slide over to make room for him, he lets one last breath out towards those same stars. “Yeah, it is.”

–

Inside the Uber, you scoot to make room for Namjoon to slide in next to you, folding his long legs in behind the front passenger seat.

The ride begins in silence, except for the driver’s music, which currently plays an advertisement in a language you don’t speak and can’t even identify.

You feel a little dizzy, maybe from the drinks. Maybe from getting vulnerable with your roommate. You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. You can feel the heat from Namjoon’s side, can sense him, solid, less than a foot away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, to keep the conversation as close to private as possible.

You open your eyes, looking sideways at him. He looks back at you, searchingly. You’re struck for the first time, here in the back of a stranger’s shitty Kia, by how pretty his eyes are - full of warmth and depth, but also something sly, like he constantly knows something you don’t, yet.

Looking at him, you’re tempted to lean against him; the desire comes out of nowhere, comes from the surety you feel that he would feel… safe. Protective. You feel sure he wouldn’t move away.

What is this? you wonder. It’s just a moment, just a fleeting thing that will be gone by the next red light, but as tiny as it is, there’s a voice in your head pointing out that you haven’t felt this kind of anything for anyone in your whole life except Kim Taehyung.

You fold your hands in your lap, turn to look straight ahead through the windshield. You can’t lie to him while looking at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

<- Prev || Next ->

thank you so much for reading!!!! we're past the set up, stuff is movin!!!! please consider some type of feedback, even just 'loved it!' or a keysmash lets me know it's not hot garbage!

Section IV will post on Friday, February 3rd. I hope to see you there!!!!

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gripefroot · 1 year ago

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Would love to see Ace in Alabasta...

Being a man meant hunger.

Being a pirate meant stealing.

He’d been both long enough to source vulnerable stalls as second nature: which shopkeeper was distracted by other customers, which marketplace guards were lured on duty by pretty women, which wide-eyed child left to tend the family stalls while mother or father walked away to carry out other business. He avoided those on principle. No food, no matter how hollow his stomach, was worth leaving a child vulnerable to a temper.

Whistling, Ace made his way down the dusty street with his pack on his back and his head held high. Another strategy: everyone suspects the lurker in the shadows. No one suspects the smiling, good-natured fellow stopping for a chat. One that admires the produce but puts it back, and when you turn away another item has slipped into his pocket.

The stalls offered only thin victuals. A difference in only a few weeks. When he’d first made it to Alabasta, food had been accessible, if not bountiful. Now mushy apples were confettied with flies and bread made a thump on the dusty sand when fumbled.

He paused. A child sat on a stool in the shade, gnawing on an orange rind. Darkened by the shade cast by a striped awning that had seen better days; holes casting bright sunlight on the pouches of spices arranged on a table. The spices had been spread out, likely to seem like there was enough to cover the entire table, but it made the empty spaces seem larger.

The child stared at him, orange lowering from his mouth. Pulp stuck to his lips. Ace grinned, tipped his hat, and went on.

Well, maybe if he waited until tomorrow…

Another hungry night was survivable. He’d eaten a stack of meat-filled bread the day before and left without paying. And been promptly run out of town, rather enjoying the exercising but he would have enjoyed it with fewer scimitars brandished at his back.

The sun was hot. Too hot. His shoulders itched. Absently he scratched at them, making the burned flesh sting. Instead of food, shade. Fortune smiled on him: ahead, away from the market posh houses bore towering walls of turquoise and amber, rising from the sand. Ace whistled his way past the first few, nodding at the guards who eyed him as they eyed all strangers. At the end of the road, when the expanse of blue sky and yellow sand met on the horizon, he turned abruptly.

Last house out of town was never the richest. Almost never guarded. With a heave he jumped up to grab the top of the stone, burning hot in the sun. He scrambled up, boots scraping off dusty plaster from the stone. On the ledge he stopped in crouch, casting his eyes over a withering garden and a crooked house with crooked shutters.

Perfect. Ace dropped over.

May as well have a funeral for these trees. No leaves meant no shade. He wasn’t desperate enough to cower beneath broken branches. His boots thumped on a worn stone path, which took him around a dried up fountain and empty garden beds. Ace frowned. Well, he hadn’t expected much. Absently he scratched his shoulder again, this time flaking away dead skin.

No noise had come from the house, which meant he was safe. For now. Something itched his ears: he scratched those, too, but the itching remained. Not a feeling, a sound. He tilted his head before realizing it was a hive of bees, and it wasn’t far.

Bees. Bees meant honey.

So he’d get a snack after all.

Humming now, for himself and no one else, Ace found the hives within seconds. Next to the bones of a pagoda, curtains moth-eaten and faded; two once white-washed crates with bees crawling over the top and sides.

He grinned, lifting the first lid off. White waxy honeycomb oozed golden honey, the sweet fragrance all the more pungent in the heat of the afternoon. Ace swiped his pinky through the honey, bringing it to his mouth to suck it off.

“Jackpot,” he muttered.

His treasure was a foot-long frame positively dripping with the unctuous gold. He settled down with his back at the junction where the western wall met the walls of the house before sucking the honeycomb dry, swallow by swallow, leaving nothing sticky as bees flew lazily around his head as if offended by his pilfering but too hot to do anything about it.

“Thank you for the fine meal,” he said, to the bees at large, when the frame was clean. His hands needed cleaned, but with no water…the honey had made his throat burn from sweetness. Ace upturned his canteen over his mouth, letting the tepid water make a futile stand against the burning. Better than nothing.

The water disappeared from the sand and stone of the garden floor almost as soon as it fell. Soon no trace of his washing remained, sucked dry from his skin by the merciless heat. He capped the canteen, swinging it back to hang at his waist.

Swiiiish.

He cocked his head. From the desert? The street?

Swiiiiiiiiish.

No. Closer. The house. So it wasn’t abandoned, after all.

Abandoned by the rain that had abandoned the country. Abandoned by any sign of gardeners. But not abandoned by…

Dust puffed in the air from the second floor terrace of the house, shimmering against the azure expanse before drifting down to settle on a bare tree. Swiiiish. Another puff. Swiiiish. Another puff.

With the final cloud of dust he saw a pale-blue, tattered sleeve holding a broom.

The sweeping came closer. Closer still. The figure, barely visible between peeling columns, didn’t look particularly tall, even from below. Maybe a servant, but he doubted it. If he had to guess, based on the Alabasta he’d encountered over the last few weeks, it would be a hungry child from a once-great family, the fading-away of old blood to the sand.

The dust made it to his nostrils, making them tickle. Once more and it settled on his arms. Ace drew in a ragged breath, and gave a shriek.

The responding scream put his to shame. By the time it tapered off he was already howling with laughter, hat tipped up to show his victim that he meant no harm, that it was only a joke.

Something hard whacked his head. Ace yelped again, but for real, shielding himself from the battered attack as the broom smacked into him again and again. Sand and dust were everywhere, tickling his face and skin and sticking where he hadn’t cleaned the honey entirely.

“Ouch!”

“Serves you right! You menace!”

He grabbed at the broom, bristles cutting into the flesh of his palms. Good humor threatened, he glared up at his attacker, but only saw a pale, pinched face between the terracotta balusters. Not three feet above his head, but he could see when the eyes of his attacker widened. And the precise shade of them.

The broom gave a yank. Ace held on.

“I only want to know who to thank for my delicious meal,” he said.

“What—” The face pushed out further between the balusters. Not a child, as he’d half-expected, but a woman, the same pale-blue fabric over her head but not quite containing all of her hair. “You ate my honey!”

“So I have you to thank?” Ace grinned.

Her brows drew together, another futile yank on the broom. “Thank the bees.”

“I already did. And now I thank you.”

“If you really want to thank me—” She puffed, seizing her end of the broom with both hands for an enormous yank. It did nothing. Ace’s smile broadened. “—give me bread or butter or water or something.”

“I can do that,” Ace said.

She stopped pulling on the broom. Mesmerized by the shifting emotion on her face (irritation to surprise) he didn’t notice the silence falling between them like a shroud. She stared at him. He looked back.

“Do you live here alone?” he asked.

She shook her head, fingernails picking at the fraying handle of the broom. “I live here with my grandma. My parents died, but I—” Another shift. Stunned, horrified: the woman stood abruptly, dropping the broom to clatter on the stones of the garden. “Who are you! Get out!”

At least she didn’t have the broom to start hitting him again. Ace stood, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn. He scratched his belly, ridding it of dust. The shadow of the garden wall stretched its fingers, heralding the lengthening day. The market would be open a while yet. He might be luckier on a second pass.

Ace bent over to scoop up the broom. He proffered it to the woman, half-hidden behind a column and regarding him with wary eyes. “Here,” he said.

Like the shadows, the moment stretched. He smiled, taking a step closer. The broom brushed against her skirt on the tile floor. She sucked in a breath, bent at the knees to pull the broom out of his hand, and within two blinks she was gone. Not even a flash of blue fabric remained.

Ace watched the darkened terrace a while longer, anyway. Still smiling.

He whistled as he jumped over the garden wall, craning his neck at the shuttered windows on the face of the house. Not a single one moved, not even when he whistled low like the call of a bird. Too bad.

When the sky was struck with an indigo brush, cooling the relentless desert like an unfurled petal, Ace left a stack of steaming bread on the front step of the house. He pounded a fist on the door, stepping back. Already behind him he could hear shouts; it hadn’t been his best thievery, all in all. But if the woman didn’t take the bread now…and it was found on her doorstep…

A shutter above his head clattered.

Ace cupped his hands around his mouth. “Come and get it!” he hissed. “Quick! Before they find it!”

He’d have to leave town. A disappointment, really, but risks were risks. They rarely paid back in fair hands. Behind the door he heard an iron bolt pulled aside, the squeak of long-neglected hinges. He took another step back, hands open and free to show no danger.

“Go!” The woman appeared, blue fabric clenched in her hands to cover her hair. But it didn’t cover her face, or her smile. “They’ll cut off your hand if they catch you.”

Sharp little thing, wasn’t she? Ace laughed, a firework in the night. The bread was bundled up in the woman’s skirt before she pushed the door closed again, the slip of her smile his last sight of her.

Risks were risks.

And a smile was worth being run out of town.

#drabble requests #portgas d ace #ace x reader #one piece drabble #drabbles

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tomorrowsgardennc · 2 months ago

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market update // september 21st

thought i would do a fun comparison photo today. front versus back. mostly because i finally remembered to cut the stool i've had since college shorter so it fits in the car and my knees are at the same height as the table. folding chairs have become difficult for me to get in and out of, and this stool keeps me at a decent height so i don't have to attempt to get up and hide a struggling face from a customer. long sentence, but if you deal with chronic pain then you know the struggle. there are just some pains you can't mask from, and getting up and down from a sitting position is mine. anywho.

i both adore and am sad with soap vendors. i love buying soap, but i feel like they take forever to use so i only buy from them like every other monBUT WHO CARES IF I ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH SOAP LOOK AT THIS GUYYYYYY HE'S SOOOO CUTE!!! i saw and immediately bought it, didn't even say good morning first lmao

the tropical depression that blew thru early in the week didn't *seem* bad, was a nice steady rain for a few days. but it was bad enough to destroy the flowers so i only had one arrangement for today. my vendor neighbor bought it. sale is a sale!

almost sold out of all the plants today! not too many seed sales, but plant sales means less i gotta tetris in the car on the trip home. so works for me! and glad to see people understanding that fall gardening is totes a thing. in past years at other markets even regular customers would go "ughs no i dont need to garden any more this year plz no" so glad there's a change of attitude here.

the market manager, i love her. she bought a pint of ground cherries and just walked around the market for an hour with them and made customers she knew try them. sold all but one because of that. (pro tip for any market: last one never sells, so always bring 1 more than what you want to sell).

the ground cherries are about to produce double the volume, probably by next saturday. i had 3 people ask if i'll have more next week. not bad for my first time selling produce at this market! although these are a pain to harvest, but that's on me not the plant.

best customer question today was a nice lady asking "so... if my orange cat decides to be extra orange one day and eat this pea plant, will the cat die????" LMAO!! good news is peas are actually in a lot of cat food, so pea plants and peas are completely safe for cats. and while i had legit no idea about tortitood before adopting a tortie, i legit don't think i could handle an orange cat since i already know about the one shared brain cell between them. i need the cat to have more brain cells than me, not less!!

(i love my tortie to absolute pieces and so happy to find her, but never. adopting. a tortitood. again. i ask myself if i would have adopted her if i knew about the tortitood beforehand and i legit dunno.)

also psa: seeds do need watering. just. wanted to randomly... let y'all know. because it turns out some people don't. realize it. that is all.

#food not lawns #gardening #home garden #homegrown #food #gardenblr #grow food #garden blog #farm blog #farmers market #farmer's market

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lordgrimwing · 5 months ago

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Friends And Family #10

“Hmm,” Thranduil mused as he inspected the contents of the pantry. “What should we do about lunch, Legs?”

Nine-year-old Legolas bounced on a stool by the kitchen counter. Today was Saturday, which meant that after a week of school, Elladan and Elrohir could finally go to the zoo with him (actually, the twin’s mother, Celebrían, had called Thranduil last week to ask if Legolas wanted to join her children on a zoo outing, but Legolas very adamantly insisted that he was taking his friends to the zoo and not the other way around). He’d been bubbling with excitement since getting out of bed this morning.

“Peanut butter sandwich!” He exclaimed. Over the last couple of years, he’d been steadily using his voice more and more. Signs still peppered what he said, but he only really stopped speaking when he was particularly uncomfortable or frightened (as when he found himself in the same room as an upset, hissing, watermelon beetle—one of the few bugs he did not like).

Thranduil nodded, unsurprised by the lunch request. His son loved peanut butter sandwiches. Legolas would eat one for every meal if his parents let him, and Thranduil always brought a jar of creamy peanut butter and a loaf of white bread on vacations.

“And what about fruit?” He asked as he brought the sandwich ingredients to the counter so Legolas could help. “Apple or banana?”

Legolas made a face. Clearly, a singular peanut butter sandwich was all that was required in his mind.

“You gotta pick one, buddy.” Thranduil gave him a butter knife and let him think about it while scooping peanut butter out of the plastic jar and spreading it across two slices of bread.

“Apple,” Legolas decided with less fervor than a minute ago as he plopped the sandwich into the little plastic sandwich box his father opened for him.

“Apple slices coming up,” Thranduil said, taking a pink apple from the bowl on the counter and retrieving the apple slicer from a drawer. “Will you get me a bowl of water and the orange juice?”

Legolas hopped off the stool and collected the supplies to stop the apple slices from turning brown in his lunch bag. He carefully carried the stainless steel mixing bowl from the sink over to his dad, walking slowly to see if he could keep the water from sloshing around very much. He wasn’t successful, but he liked to try.

Once the slices were bathed in water with a hint of orange juice, Thranduil moved them to a baggie and handed them over to Legolas to add to his lunch sack.

The nine-year-old stuffed the sack into his red backpack, the one with the little green-clad elf from his favorite game printed across it. “Let’s go!” He said.

Thranduil chuckled and grabbed the loop on the top of the backpack before the boy could dash for the front door. “Slow down there, little warg,” he said. “Your friends are going to pick you up so you can't go until they’re here.”

“When will that be?” Legolas whined. Waiting for other people when he was all set and ready to go was a work in progress, something his teacher was sure to tell his parents about when he started school.

Thranduil glanced at his watch. “They’re supposed to be here in fifteen minutes.”

Legolas’s shoulders slumped. “Fifteen whole minutes?”

“Fifteen whole minutes, and they could be late, so maybe longer.”

Legolas let the backpack slide off his bony shoulders so it was dangling from his father’s hand. “Okay,” he sighed.

Thranduil nodded toward the door out to the back yard. “How about you go check on those spiders you found in the garden yesterday? I bet they’ll almost be here by the time you’re through with that.”

The garden wasn’t anything particularly exciting, as much weeds as intentional flowers and bushes. Thranduil started it as a way to find something to do during the endless hours when Legolas wanted to play out in the communal green space in the middle of the neighborhood, so he could keep an eye on him and give his hands something to do when he didn’t feel like reading. After a while, the garden also became another place for Legolas to play and watch insects go about their tiny lives.

Mollified, Legolas hurried off to see how his newest invertebrate friends were doing.

#i needed some cute legs and thranduil in my life so that's what i wrote #little legs is just so silly #and yes i did have to watch some videos and read some things about how to keep apple slices from browning #turns out i don't slice my apples before i'm ready to eat them #also this was just an excuse to add more details about legolas's likes and dislikes #because he's cute #thranduil #legolas #lotr #twdd au #grimwing writes

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vanseerra · 1 year ago

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The Dress - An Elucien Multi-Fic by @00oxox

Chapter 2 - T Rating - 3.6k Words

Both Elain and Lucien are plagued by their stolen moment weeks before at the townhouse. When an invite comes to him to join the Inner Circle for an evening meal, Lucien decides there is no better opportunity to finally confront the situation outright. That is, if nothing else comes in the way.

Chapter 1 found here | Ao3 Version

Elain

How hard was it to cut a stupid apple? Elain huffed, straightening her fingers out before repositioning them on the freshly-plucked yet, temperamental fruit. She curled her nails to lightly pierce the skin, cautiously slide the kitchen knife to perforate it and-

The apple rolled off the side of the cutting board.

“That’s it!” She cried, storming around the quaintly sized kitchen to a ceramic fruit bowl and snatching an orange instead.

“Something on your mind?”

Usually the homely tone of her younger sister was a warm welcome to Elain but today her presence only flustered her more. Avoiding her questioning gaze, she pierced the oranges skin, sliding it from its surface.

“Nothing interesting..”

“Really? Nothing at all?”

It was in that moment that she was entirely resentful for the mischievous effect Rhysand had had on her sister; these days she was more prone to prying and prodding. She knew the way the conversation was headed the second Feyre had opened her mouth and was decisive to deter it.

“If you must know, I’m wondering about what to make us all for dinner this evening. I know we have guests and so…”

At the mention of guests, Feyre’s mouth quipped into a small, knowing smirk. She crossed the distance of the kitchen, moving to pick up the abandoned knife and finish what Elain had tried to start. Gracefully, her blade cleanly sliced the apple, cutting it into neat sections that stacked against each other.

“Only Lucien will be here, although I’m sure he’d happily eat more than one serving if you were to make it.” She teased.

His name struck a chord within her. Colour tinted her cheeks in a rosy blush and her fists curled firmly at her sides. Her lips parted to speak but her mind was scrambling for words. Keep it together Elain. If just his name alone was enough to have her trembling like this, what would she do when he was actually there in the flesh- those piercing eyes tracking her from across the room.

She would feign sickness, she decided. Would pretend that she had caught some type of bug from her recent outing into Velaris or that she had accidentally undercooked her lunch. But wouldn’t that just bring even more attention to her? The last thing she wanted was him standing outside her bedroom door, insistent on checking on her like she knew he would do. There really was no way around this.

Ever since that afternoon, the two of them alone in the town house where somehow, they had ended up with their lips passionately exploring each other’s, she could not get him out of her head. His pull was hard to ignore before that, especially in his presence, but now it was magnetic. If she allowed her mind to drift for a moment, her thoughts would find their way to him: to the way his firm hand had felt against her back and the surprising softness of his lips against hers. His face was forever etched into the corners of her mind.

“I’m sorry.” Feyre’s words were resentful as she made her way over to Elain, now frozen in place, and rested a comforting hand upon her forearm in apology.

“I went too far. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

When her sister didn’t initially respond, she went to speak again, sorrow filling her soft gaze, but was halted by Elains cautious voice.

“Will you tell me about it? About how it works?”

Little needed to be explained about what Elain was referring to; sometimes a sisters bond and understanding was clearer than words.

“Of course.”

The two of them sat upon the kitchen counters stools, the plate of finely sliced apples between them. In the window overlooking the garden, the sun had begun to set, the deep oranges flooding into the room as the two sisters spoke. They had been discussing the intricate details of the bond for the past hour, with Feyre going into deep descriptions of how the bond was formed, what it meant culturally to the fae and even the reprocussions of accepting or denying it. Elain apprehensively nibbled on the apple pieces as Feyre spoke to her, turning the influx of information over in her mind.

There was still so much to ask. No matter how many questions she put forth to her sister, seeking concrete answers, only more seemed to bubble to the surface. The one thing that has been abundantly clear to her, however, was that she was under no obligation to accept the bond. She now knew the significance of it and how important it was to the fae, more so than she had when it had first reared its head. Throughout, Feyre had been on Luciens defence. The male was kind, patient and loyal. He would not pursue her. Despite the weight of the bond and its apparent importance, he had respected Elain to a degree she had not realised.

It made a lot of sense to her. The way he positioned himself on the opposite side of the room to her, the way he often avoided her gaze, the tension and restraint he had shown her before that had happened in the very room next to where she and her sister were now sitting. On that day, she had seen firsthand just how hard the male was trying to hold himself back- his hands had practically shaken as he helped her with her dress. And when that tension had finally broken…

“Does the bond make up feelings?”

Feyre cocked her head as she considered the female's question. She thought for a long second, weighing the significance before speaking carefully.

“The bond isn’t… It creates a pull. It draws two people together but it doesn't,” she waved her hands around in space to demonstrate what she meant,

“It doesn't make you fall for someone.” She finished.

Elains heart skipped in her chest. Could it be true? That this whole time she had assumed the crush she’d formed had been manufactured: that the ache in her chest and warm feelings that bubbled at the sound of his voice had been a result of just the bond. If what Feyre was saying was correct…

“There are definitely fae that meet the other half of their bonds and realise it isn’t meant to be. Admittedly it isn’t very common but the bond can make mistakes.”

The older of the two could not feign the look of confusion that painted her expression. She immediately had a dozen more questions spring into her mind but the thought of hearing anymore made her chest ache and her head dizzy. She turned to her sister.

“I… if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for dinner.”

The knot in her throat tightened as she spoke and rose to turn on the faucet, her back turned to Feyre. Thankfully, Feyre rose slowly and made her way to the door, before providing a comforting word.

“I know it’s… a lot of information, Elain. These things are… complicated. Take your time with it. You know where I am.”

And with that, with the gentle rustle of her long skirt, she left the room.

Alone with only the company of the setting sun, now casting rays of deep amber onto the counters, Elain mindlessly began preparing a meal for dinner. Nuala and Cerridwen had offered to assist her but she had politely turned them down, claiming that she had a headache and wanted to work alone. With her hands aimlessly kneading a batch of fresh dough, she allowed her thoughts to drift to the conversation she’d just had.

The mating bond was important, but it wasn’t. The mating bond was fate, but it could be wrong. The mating bond could be accepted, but it could be rejected. The mating bond did not manufacture feelings. That thought alone had her pausing, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead and accidentally spreading flour along her brow. She mumbled a small curse.

Just what was she supposed to do now? She had made wrongful assumptions this whole time and cast Lucien as some sort of imposing force on her will and nature. She had purposefully avoided him until she could no longer bear it and blamed their moment of passion upon a falsity. Guilt swelled in her stomach. There was no way she could confront the male now; approach him like some lovesick girl and confess her blossoming feelings, flowers in hand. A cringe ran through her. She had been that girl once and look where it had led her. Alone, single and the only unwed Archeron sister.

“The night court certainly has some strange ideas on fashion.”

His voice, deep and honeyed, hit her like a ton of bricks. Warmth pooled in her chest, spilling to grip her ribs as she tightened her hold on the roller. It had been a mistake to look up from the food- meeting his stare sent a sharp shock down her spine and her eyes could not slip away. She quickly grasped for the cause of his taunt and upon realising, aggressively wiped the loose flour dotting her forehead. With a deep breath she spoke.

“Are you always that rude to your hosts?” Surprisingly, she snapped, the words like venom leaving her before she could comprehend them. He seemed startled by her response, his body going still and eyebrows raising slightly at her sharpness.

“Apologies, lady, I meant no harm.” He raised his hands in solemn surrender.

Lucien

It had been Feyre’s idea to host him at the townhouse that evening. That is what he told himself over and over again in the mirror as he looked over his outfit choice. He had opted for somewhat formal attire, sporting his usual autumn court styled colours, and had braided his long hair back in an intricate plait. As he brushed down the length of his fitted jacket, he turned the event over in his mind, ruminating on how his presence would be perceived by the one person he had been unable to stop thinking about. Would she be pleased to see him? Or would his company only impose on her and force her into pleasantries in front of her family?

Lucien had not seen the female since their intimate and entirely unanticipated moment a few weeks before. At the time, he was lost to the moment, absorbed in his encompassing feelings and the pull of the bond. But now, upon reflection, he realised he still had no idea about where the two of them stood. They hadn’t had a chance to communicate when they were brashly interrupted by a booming drunk Cassian and not a single letter had graced his door since either.

Starting to unwind the threads of their situation exhausted him. Their relationship, or lack or one, had been a source of many conflicting feelings for him over the time their bond had snapped. He knew deeply and with full truth that he yearned for her: for her presence, her companionship, for the chance to flourish and grow alongside her. What she thought of him, however, was completely lost to him.

He straightened with a sudden sense of resolve. This was the perfect opportunity. When else would he get the chance to express all of these confusing thoughts to her without feeling as if he was imposing himself by his own invitation? Feyre had wanted him there and he had no cause to believe Elain had denied the idea. He would approach her before the meal to clear the air before they set a heavy and uncertain tone upon the evening.

Standing there before her, Lucien ate his words.

She was captivatingly beautiful. He had walked into the kitchen with such purpose and had utterly stilled at the sight of her. He had no doubt that she was wearing only the most complimenting and felicitous gown but what really drew his eyes was the pure beauty of her face. Her soft eyes were warm and doe-like, her round lips were plump and redded with a subtle tint and her hair… its delicate waves bounced down her back, pinned to the side with a graceful pearl clip. Even the concentration of her face as she kneaded the bundle of dough was stunning. Her drawn brows then brought his attention to the scatter of flour across her forehead, snapping him out of his trance.

Elains curt reaction to his tease had him frozen to the spot. He hadn’t expected her to be so cold to his light quip: such a contrast to the mood of their last conversation. Despite her snappiness, however, he could detect a different feeling from her, one that was warm and alive and curious.

“Sorry.” Her sudden response had his attention back on her in an instance,

“I didn’t mean it. I’m not… myself today,” she admitted with a trace of guilt.

Was she hurt? His heart sped at the thought, a hint of anxiety flooding him as he scanned for the possible cause. Eyes trailing across her body, he quickly sought for any signs of injury and pain and thankfully saw nothing: no cuts or wounds or bandages. Perhaps it was an illness?

“Are you unwell?”

“No… I don’t actually know.” There was so much uncertainty to her tone. It was a struggle to figure out exactly what she was feeling and how he could help. He hated how worthless it made him feel- to see his mate in such discomfort and to not have a solution. He supposed there was something he could do.

“Would you like some help? With the cooking?” He quipped his head to the scatter of unfinished food before her.

“No, that would be improper, you’re our guest.”

“I insist.”

At that, he unfastened his jacket and slid it off his shoulders, draping it carefully over a stool before rolling up his sleeves to above his elbows. He didn’t fail to notice the way her delicate eyes trailed every movement, the round her lips parting as if she were to say something. When nothing emerged from them, he rinsed his hands in the sink and picked up some spring onions to chop. Elain only gave him a tight smile and went back to her kneading, a light wash of pink now tainting her cheeks.

The two of them worked tirelessly: Lucien preparing the large array of vegetables with Elain focusing on the dough. Throughout, neither said a single word and a slight air of awkwardness had begun to settle in the room. It was the very thing he had been wanting to avoid. Still, he continued to work, dancing around Elain as he reached for things beyond her and grabbed seasoning and spices from the cupboards.

“This is so awkward...” Somehow, the hushed words that escaped her caught him off guard at their poignant honesty. He stared at her for a brief moment before throwing his head back in laughter and caught the wary grin that flashed over her face in response. She never failed to surprise him.

“I dare to say, lady, that you may be the one making it that way.” He teased, lifting a brow.

“Excuse you?” Her hands went onto her hips in mock annoyance. “You are the one not saying anything to me!”

“Are you not guilty also? Seems rather cruel of you to pin it on me when you are committing the same offence.” He teased and she scoffed at the retort.

“Plus,” he added, “you are my host are you not? Shouldn’t you be entertaining me?”

“Oh so I’m boring now.”

“Those are your words and not mine.”

“Perhaps if I’m so boring, you should find a more exciting woman to seduce.”

Seduce. The word struck him like a bolt of lightning, his blood igniting and mouth going dry. One word, and the pulse of his heart was an unrelenting drum, echoing around his body in a violent plea. More. He tightened his jaw into a firm clench, refusing to lift his gaze to her in fear of what truth may be unveiled in that expression of hers. When he said nothing, she quickly piped up, the notes of her tone nervous and regretful.

“By that I mean…”

“I’m seducing you?” His response was deep yet taut, carefully rolling off his tongue. Finally, his eyes rose to meet hers, his mechanical one focusing and unfocusing on the startled female before him.

Elain

The shift in Luciens manor could only be described as transfixing. As he spoke, his words a low grumble that sent a wave of heat through her, she felt the bond pluck with anticipation. Her bright eyes widened and hands stilled at their task, willing to take in every small action he made. She noted the shift in his eyes: how they had darkened and narrowed in on her, seemingly absorbing and devouring her entirely.

“I…”

Without much warning, he moved, approaching her with slow intent and carefully backed her against the counter. He did not touch her but instead braced her body, his hands gripping the wood at either side of her. This close, she had to raise her chin to meet his stare, his large frame suddenly that much more imposing. Not that she minded- her heart rang and rang at the intimacy of the action.

“If you think standing silently in a room is me seducing you Elain,” he leant close to her, his cheek grazing hers and mumbled into her ear,

“I wonder just how flustered you’d get at an actual attempt.”

She could not restrain from the gentle whimper that escaped her lips, nor the shakiness of her palms as they gripped the counter behind her tightly. In response, he gave a soft hum of his own, pulling back from her to take in the drunken expression in her eyes. It was near impossible to meet his stare: so intense that his pupils seemed doused in flames. She knew, though, she needed to retort, to match that fiery conviction.

Willing her speech until a low, alluring timbre, she glanced at him under her lashes with a sense of challenge.

“Do it.” She purred. “Make me so flushed I beg you to continue.”

Lucien growled, gritting his teeth with pure restraint. The grip at the table behind them intensified as he visibly held himself back from acting upon her wishes. If the look in his eyes was fiery before, they were now alight with raging need.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” Every word was clamped, fighting its way past his tight lips. Seeing him like this, at the edge of letting himself give in to all his base desires, had her blood heating and willing her limbs to act on her own screaming wishes.

She was just about to abandon all restrictions when the shifting of a door handle snapped them both apart from each other, like repelled magnets. Lucien cleared away from her, spinning to look busy at the sink behind him. Elain was a lot less successful, turning to face the opening door with both hands frozen mid-air and a haunted expression upon her face. The drill of her heart rattled with no sign of ending as the person made themselves completely aware.

Mor strolled absentmindedly into the room, taking a bite from the ruby red apple in her hand. Her eyes roamed the scene before her: of the stiffened fright of Elains expression, of the turned, suspicious back of Lucien as he ran water randomly over his palms. Following from the small tug of a smirk, she exploded into a sly laugh.

“Just what is going on in here.” She joked. “I feel like I missed something interesting!”

“It’s.. I…” Elain had forgotten how to speak, her mouth was dry and her tone was completely unnatural. Mor noticed her nerves and quickly began moving again to the adjacent door.

“Don’t stop on my accord!” And then she was gone.

At the small slam of the closing door, both Elain and Lucien tipped their heads back and laughed: gleefully and with a sense of roguishness. They caught each other’s gazes and when Elain bit her lip in a mock sense of guilt, they laughed even harder.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel utterly scandalised!” His words were laced with that hearty joy as he made his way over to her.

The ease of their laughter came as a stark shock to her. How simple it was to be by his side and to joke with each other as if they had been close for years. It was so natural and in a way she didn’t know how to admit, even to herself, felt like home. She didn’t linger on the thought for too long, however, wanting to enjoy the comforting buzz teasing with him brought upon herself. How she wished it would never end.

“Is this our fate now? To be graced by a new presence every time we flirt?” She giggled, trailing her eyes slowly upwards as he came closer. The honey rich scent of him was impossible to ignore at such a distance.

“It is our curse…” he grumbled before clearing his throat and standing taller, a look of sudden determination passing over him. He opened his mouth once then twice before finally speaking again.

“Let’s break it and meet away from here.”

“Away from here?”

“Yes. Come to mine for dinner… I’ve been known to be a good host. One that doesn’t stand around awkwardly in kitchens, at least.”

She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest and raising a brow. A small trace of a sly grin pulled at her lips.

“If you’re trying to ask me on a date, you’re not doing a good job of it.”

Lucien mirrored her, raising his own brow.

“Oh so it’s a date now?”

A/N: I originally never ended ‘The Dress’ to be a Multi-Fic but the opportunity to explore Eluciens awkward and budding relationship was too good to pass up. I imagine there will be one final chapter after this one where some more concrete truths shall be revealed. Thanks for all the support so far!

I also now have an Ao3 which you can find under the same name :)

#elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar #acotar fanfiction #elain x lucien

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peachetteprice · 5 months ago

Text

27 Hawthorn Court | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Chapter 4 - The Apple Falls Far

Chapter Summary:

Ruth has doubts about her previous endeavours with the investigation. Though her worries are soon dispelled after a familiar face invigorates some much-needed passion for justice.

1.8K Words

Content warning: mentions of alcohol (?)

Ruth entered the bar at no later than seven in the evening.

There was a dainty whisper of a piano and saxophone harmonising in some form of light jazz - though she was never much of a connoisseur - shrouded by tangerine and fuschia flourescent lights which somehow possessed the ability to amplify the band's smooth tones, handily concealing any discolour Ruth felt about those case files by virtue of bewitchment.

It was a dark and damp evening, all things considered. The only thing that could have salvaged her mood was a heavy drink and some menial chatter with the bartender.

So, she approached the bar, and - after waiting for some time, clearly understanding the general predicament Ruth had gotten herself into - the bartender asked with concern;

"What can I get you?"

Ruth sighed.

There was nothing she could have done except sigh. It wasn't her place to inform anyone of her own broken hubris, let alone a bartender privy to the most detrimental of secrets. Dissolving marriages, petty crime, cheating scandals; it was his day-to-day, and it was in Ruth's best interest not to become part of his orderly convoy of discussion for the next patron.

"Give me your strongest," she muttered, bottom writhing on a stool too small for her.

It was such a subtly aggravating predicament.

After some time, as the bartender rooted beneath the bar top for a drink suitable for a grown woman, he swiftly placed it before her.

Ruth stared at it for a moment before saying;

"I said your strongest, George." She sighed. Because George was playing 'barkeep', and she was his sole customer, though he wasn't doing a very good job at it. "You can do better than orange juice."

And he likely could.

It was then, that, only a few moments later - after a rummage through the cabinet on his hands and knees (which was really a wicker basket full of snacks and cartons of juice) - the bartender produced apple juice, this time, placing it before Ruth with a proud smile

"That's more like it," she hissed with adoration, stabbing the straw through the flimsy sheath of aluminium foil, "did you have a good day at school?"

"Yeah." His eyes wavered around the bar, and Ruth watched them ardently as he spoke. "But Molly stole my brachiosaurus."

"Why did she steal your brachiosaurus?"

"I don't know." Muttered George, and he went straight back to wiping stains along the bar top with a heavy-machinery-themed rag where there were none.

So, there was silence. And Ruth let it hang.

Perhaps she was thinking of how her own day went, uneventful and uninspired as she crawled through the streets of Greater Manchester on roads too choked with traffic and suffocated by people too idiotic for their own aspiring ideals. It was a day of rampant teenagers stealing their parent's cars and running them dry around the estates, middle-aged alcoholics starting public brawls in the car parks of Asda and Tesco - a national issue - and faux calls from elderly ladies complaining about pieces of litter discarded in their front gardens.

"How did you feel when she stole your brachiosaurus?" Ruth was palming over the text on the rear of the carton, now, reading line by line. No added sugar, no added colouring, naturally sourced ingredients.

"I felt sad."

Sad. Huh.

Ruth knew a little bit about feeling sad. Dull, she would have called it, not wanting to give anybody the impression she was streaming tears in the shower on a dark night or onto her pillowcase before she fell asleep. Dull was a feeling she felt often, and in small waves, though sometimes big - but nothing more than a wailing rumble because that was a different feeling entirely - and it was one she knew rather well, too. It wasn't her favourite emotion, per se, but it might have been her most default one

It was intruiging, it truly was - George's predicament, that was - and she wished to further the conversation, probing

"Did ya feel anything else?"

George pondered for a moment, eyelashes fluttering against the sprig of curls in front of his forehead. He'd need a trim soon. "Maybe a little bit angry." He whispered, almost as if it was a secret he shouldn't tell.

"Angry. Because it was precious to you? Your brachiosaurus."

George thought, napping a carton of apple juice for himself, and - although it was almost seven-thirty and he wasn't allowed sugar before bedtime - Ruth thought he might have needed it and let it slide. "Yeah. And it was mine."

"It was yours." She affirmed, sucking the last dribbles from the bottom of the carton.

"Molly was being mean." He grumbled, flicking the curl of hair from his own forehead. He had the most beautiful set of locks, did George, and he was the spitting image of his father when he was younger, too. Bright, gleaming blue eyes and sweet bulbous cheeks that crinkled whenever he smiled.

George was the complete antithesis of Ruth. She had dark, rather frazzled-looking brown hair from too much styling in her younger years - much more monotone and less saturated than George's - and matching brown eyes, though if the lighting was generous, they almost shone with flecks of gold.

"Did'ya shout at her to give it back?" Ruth pondered, smiling a little as she spoke.

"Daddy said you shouldn't shout. He said that if you ask politely, they'll give it back."

Hm. Daddy. Chris, he was called. A bastard of a man.

"And did she?" Ruth brushed the hair from his eyes, ensuring it wouldn't irritate his lashes anymore.

George simply nodded, intent on drinking his before expelling his thoughts.

Yes, he explained. She did give it back because she was just being a little bit mean, but not loads mean. Otherwise, she wouldn't have given it back. If Molly was being loads mean - and George was really dragging out the vowels in 'loads' - he would have called on the teacher to intervene, of course, because that's how dynamic in a reception classroom prevailed.

"Why d'you think Molly stole your brachiosaurus?" She repeated, barely remembering she'd asked it earlier.

George gulped down the last droplets of juice, blinking blankly, before answering;

"Maybe she was lonely."

Maybe she was lonely.

What drivel.

There was a full glass of wine, now - to the rim, in fact - within Ruth's palm. The case files were on her lap, including her typed notes at her hip. Truth be told, there wasn't much to say about it. The affinity she felt to that little boy, plagued eyes boring through her skull, was crippling. The suspect's disposition, moreover, equally so, just as were the troubling words spoken by Price in the booth of the McDonald's in Sale.

"Lonely..." She sighed, finger travelling the circumference of the glass.

Perhaps she was lonely, too. Perhaps she needed a drink elsewhere, somewhere a little more crowded, a little more stuffed with people who could talk her ears off - whether they were a part of her conversation or not.

Yes, that was it.

She needed a drink.

And so, by nine, she had adorned her newest pair of black heels - ones with thick wedged soles and velvet trim - with a smart top with jeans. She wasn't one for princess dresses or overt makeup, nor did she wish to see any of her colleagues (or God-forbidding, any of her previous convicts) in an outfit that showed more than its provocation whenever she bent at the waist.

By ten, she was sitting in the pub with a vodka and coke in hand - though, it was more at her fingertips as they lazily drawled over the side of glass, smearing the condensation along - eyes transfixed on the bartender as he shifted from one side of the bar to the other with a smile that could only be described as 'over-compensating'.

It took another few minutes of silence before anyone approached her. She might have accepted the invitation to conversation, had she not recognised the stranger beside her who did, unfortunately, try.

"I didn't take ya for a vodka-and-coke drinkin' woman."

That voice. Deep, gruff, heavy.

John Price.

"I don't wanna talk." Spat Ruth.

Clean, cut, and straight to the point. The truth was, she hadn't come to the pub for chatter with a man like him. His words squirmed through her mind like the fall-out from a bad ear infection, and she despised another set of his words compounding the agony.

"Thought I'd thank ya." His lips smacked in the plenary of an awkward moment. "For bein' so professional and giving the case up, that is."

The case. The case files. They were still in her home. On her piano stand, where she'd also placed her unfinished glass of wine that was probably brewing with a layer of dust, now. And here was John Price, right beside her, shoulders occupying the air made for two. Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew she had taken the case files (or at least taken copies of them, at least), and he was there to confront her about it with every inch of his brooding six-foot stature.

"S'that it?" Questioned Ruth.

"Sure." He nodded, flexing his chest with a gruff groan. "Wanted a bit of conversation, that's all. One investigator to another."

"Sorry." She huffed, fingertips turning wrinkled from the condensation on the outside of her glass. She still hadn't touched it, not in five minutes. Not since John sat down beside her. "Guess m'not in the mood tonight."

"Fair enough." He sniffed, palm running along the wood grain of the bar top. "I'll leave you be, then."

The thought was swift to occur - alarmingly so, even - as John stepped from the bar stool, his head still firmly aligned with hers on the vertical. And the thought was, in no fewer words than some:

"What's gonna happen with the case?"

It made John come to a standstill. In the few seconds following, he paused, pondered, and pivoted himself back towards her. His shoes were already pointing in her direction, that, they both could see, but he had since adjusted the tilt of his shoulders so that his eyes could more easily glide over her face. Ruth looked back at him, pupils bloated, a worried knot niggling her brow.

Neither knew what the other was thinking.

And neither, for a rather long time, said anything.

Until John, being the bigger - albeit only - man, grumbled;

"It'll get sorted, Wyatt."

And, after that very sentence, Ruth could only think of one thing. It plagued her every thought, caused an even larger kink to dig into her brow, and sent another queue of thoughts to sit pending as the current wasted away behind her eye sockets. And the thought was, of all possible thoughts;

If she had stolen his brachiosaurus, it was a bloody massive one.

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#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #captain john price #captain jonathan price #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #call of duty fanfiction #callofduty #simon riley #ghost fanfiction #cod #ghost cod

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