#rather than springing details on me or worse keeping details from me and then springing whatever it is on me on the day

[tealeavesandthorns]

// Rambly ranting in tags, ignore I'm just a bit upset/frustrated and need to get it out.

[helianskies]

👀👀👀 that's three AUs but just will also suffice

three au's? hm. let me just check to see if we've got any out back— ah, yep, yes, three au's. let me just... wrangle them out for you... hmm...

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🪐 ꒱

Transient as the Stars

premise: on the humble planet of K'tose Paradi, a young inventor and scientist finds himself at the centre of an intergalactic bounty hunt. luckily for him, the first bounty hunter that manages to find him may just be convinced to pass on the payday in favour of saving their home.

details: Gilbert lives on K'tose Paradi, a small and quiet planet known for its rather arid landscapes and four suns. He spends his time mostly scavenging through scrapyards in search of materials he can use for work, or pocket for use on his inventions and projects. one day, he stumbles upon a relatively new crash site. not knowing immediately who it may have belonged to, he boards the vessel and goes about his business. only, something he pockets has such a great value that it comes to put a greater price on his head.

Antonio is a bounty hunter. he is in the middle of a spring clean when notification of a new bounty arrives, and it sends him flying into action - and flying not all that far, as the job is on the same planet he's currently calling home. it isn't so hard to find his target, and even though there is a short run-around, he is able to aprehend the small time inventor and wrangle him onto his ship. before he knows it, Gilbert is out in space, and his host and captor decides to let him in on why he's suddenly wanted.

however, just as Gilbert thinks he's done for, Antonio discovers exactly what it is he found on that ship and pieces together who is looking for Gilbert. and with that knowledge, he decides to risk his life and turn his back on his trade in order to help the other get to safety—to the people who can help. what results is an intergalactic journey, in which Gilbert sees planets he has only ever been able to dream of seeing, in which Antonio finds that loneliness is a fate worse than death, and in which the pair of them form a bond unlike one they will ever know again.

i had a lot of the world-building plans sorted for this one - it was the highlight of planning a fic. there's a fair bit of inspiration from star wars, i admit, but really this came from my brain in my big pruspa phase and ugGhhh the drama this au has in it. the betrayals, the friends, the action... so good!

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 💡 ꒱

Virtue's Mask

premise: some are born with powers, where others are bestowed them. not everyone uses these powers for good, however—or, perhaps, that is a matter of perspective.

details: Antonio works as an investigative journalist until... he doesn't. one night and one lead come to change his life forever, and a man who used to seek out secrets in order to better the lives of others has come to hold many secrets himself. even his brother, the only person he trusts, does not know the full extent of his nightly ventures. but Toni will do anything to keep it that way, just to keep him safe. it's for the best—as is his work.

meanwhile, as crime rises in the city, Arthur takes it upon himself to do what local law enforcement won't. vigilante work is tiring and endless, but he wouldn't give it up for the world—not even when a nameless figure appears on his territory and threatens the peace he is trying to restore. encounter after encounter, Arthur finds himself a nemesis, an equal, a challenge... even if his best friend worries for his safety, life has become far too exciting for him to walk away from.

by day, the pair of them are model citizens. they cross paths and their lives begin to tangle in ways more complicated than they could have imagined. what will happen, then, when they discover each other's dirty little secrets?

i have written a lil' chunk of this one, and in particular Antonio's backstory. i'm a fan of the 'they're totally the villain but well actually if you look at it this way—' and it suits nicely. i was more indecisive with Arthur's abilities, but for Antonio, i settled firmly on shadow manipulation as a contrast to his bright personality. i also had it in my head that Antonio works in a bookshop (having left his journalist profession) which is where he meets Arthur. and it grows from there!

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍞 ꒱

Slice of Life

details: Arthur branches away from the family business in order to establish his own small bakery. as rocky as it is for the first few months of trying to stand out and make his business thrive, he gets through it, and finds that the dough has finally given him a new purpose. that is, until about a year into his stint, a new café opens directly across from his bakery, and threatens to steal not only his customers, but his sanity, too.

over at The Warren, our charming new café, lifelong friends and owners Antonio and Francis are greeted with overwhelming support on their opening day and beyond. it's like a dream come true. organic food and coffee combined with great service is truly a winning combination!

and then, one day, Arthur braves the no man's land between the two businesses and checks out the competition. the pastries? they're okay. their teabags might as well be old dishcloths. but even he may have to admit that a certain someone's smile may just turn out to be a positive in his life. and a positive that he keeps coming back for.

i have literally no plans for this one, it lives only in my brain. but i love the potential for three different relationship dynamics. Toni and Fran have been friends since forever - nothing should come between them, in theory. but as Toni and Arthur start to get close and maybe even closer, the threat it may pose to Francis, who finds Arthur to be a thorn in his side, grows. maybe that in turn affects Toni and Arthur's relationship. but, in the end, Francis may just realise that he does miss how Arthur comes over to exchange words, to complain, to be their best critic. he misses the saltiness and how it compliments Antonio's sweetness. and so, he may just have to do his best to fix what he ruined. doesn't that sound like a fun plot?

well, that's all from me, anon. i hope you were mildly intrigued by one of these :')

[ 👀 ask game here! ]

[priestessofspiders]

The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess

It is estimated that around half of all movies made prior to the year 1950 are gone forever. As soon as I learned about this statistic, it never left my mind. So many hours of work, so much artistic vision, lost to time. As mortals, we age and die, it is our lot in life, but we always hope to leave something of ourselves behind when we finally pass on. To know that one’s work may simply disappear is of the utmost horror to me; it robs us of our only chance for some kind of immortality.

It gets worse when you look at silent films, of which only an estimated 25% currently remain. Until very recently, I had assumed that The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess was one such lost film.

The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess is a 1937 horror film, made long after silent pictures had been relegated to ancient history. Keep in mind, this was over a decade since Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari first debuted, and the long shadows cast by Dracula, The Mummy, and Frankenstein firmly cemented the fact that talkies were the future of horror. However, The Tragedy’s director, Karl Falkner, was firmly convinced that silent films still had a place in the world.

Falkner was an open homosexual, crossdresser, and communist, a man infamous for flouting societal norms. Some of his earlier films have survived, either wholly or in partial form. The films that have withstood the test of time were mainly simple dramas or comedies, more interesting for their director rather than the actual content itself. The most memorable of Falkner’s earlier work are those featuring his then-lover, Dietrich Bauer.

Falkner was a rather small, effeminate gentleman, with a soft face and messy brown hair. In contrast, Bauer was a hulking giant of a man, over 6 feet tall with a strong jaw and a shock of light blond hair. In a handful of books relating to German films during the interwar period, one can find a photo of Falkner and Bauer side by side, both smiling for the camera. They enjoyed a modestly successful career throughout the mid 20s till the early 30s, but times soon changed.

During the time of the Weimar Republic, Falkner’s eccentricities were seen as interesting and exotic, but when the iron fist of fascism commenced to tighten its grip on public sentiment, such behavior was increasingly viewed as signs of degeneracy. Falkner fled for America in 1933 following the appointment of Adolf Hitler as chancellor of Germany. Rumor has it that Falkner begged his lover to leave with him, but that Bauer refused, choosing instead to change his name and continue his career as an actor. Allegedly, Bauer’s final acting credits were in a handful of Nazi propaganda films under a pseudonym, though the exact specifics are unknown. Dietrich Bauer’s strong-jawed, blue-eyed face is so stereotypical of the Nazi ideal that it is difficult to distinguish him from the scores of other actors in such films.

In any event, when Karl Falkner arrived in the United States in 1933, he found himself an unwanted stranger in an unfriendly land. The Great Depression was in full swing, and as a result work was rather difficult to find for the German expatriate. For 4 years Falkner lived frugally, his slender figure becoming skeletal in appearance, and his brown hair turning gray from stress.

Finally, in the spring of 1937, Falkner had saved up enough money to begin work on what was meant to be his magnum opus. Years of backbreaking work, living on scraps, the expense of his entire life savings, and, supposedly, involvement with organized crime culminated in the creation of The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess.

Despite silent movies having been long deemed obsolete since the emergence of talkies, Falkner insisted that the movie feature no dialogue or sound effects, only a musical score played by a live orchestra. The production was written, produced, and directed entirely by Falkner, with every detail painstakingly arranged to perfectly fit his vision. Filming only took a matter of weeks, and only a month later, the film was ready for its first screening to a group of representatives from various film distributors.

There were no other screenings.

Every single member of the audience walked out of the theater in disgust before the film even reached the halfway mark. Marcus Finnegan, a representative of United Artists, described The Tragedy as “the most awful thing I’d ever seen. I have no idea how that kraut idiot thought it would get past the Hays code. Good God! I wouldn’t dare sit through it even for a million dollars!”

Shortly afterwards, Karl Falkner vanished without a trace, along with the only copy of The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess. The popular view is that Falker had accrued a significant amount of debt with the mafia, and that he was quietly murdered after his film failed to turn a profit. The only surviving piece of media relating to The Tragedy is the original sheet music for the orchestra, which was covered as a concept album by the short-lived band Robert's Chamber in the late 90s.

Moving forward to the present day, let me tell you how I came to see Falkner’s supposedly lost masterpiece.

My name is Fran. I work at an independent movie theater in Southern California, lets call it the Cinepalace. It's nothing special, just a single screen with enough space to seat maybe 100 people at the most, but it's enough to make a meager profit off of popcorn sales and midnight showings of cult classics.

The owner of the Cinepalace is a middle aged gentleman named Alan. He purchased the theater in the early 2000s after the previous owners settled down to retire. I am his only employee. Alan handles the ticket counter, finances, and popcorn sales, leaving me to work the projection booth.

As I said, most of the films we show are far from blockbusters. The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Plan 9 from Outer Space, and Pink Flamingos have graced the Cinepalace's screen on multiple occasions. Aside from the midnight movies, during daylight hours we often show old Westerns and Dramas to attract an older audience.

As you've probably already guessed, the Cinepalace is rather old to say the least. The floorboards creak, the paint is peeling, and you can get a discount on popcorn for showing proof of a squished cockroach. Alan has tossed around ideas of refurbishment before, but both of us know it's just a pipe dream.

About a week ago, an earthquake hit our little town. It's not necessarily an uncommon occurrence in California, but it did succeed in adding an air of excitement to our screening of El Dorado. After the rather literal dust had settled and the old-timers had left the theater, Alan pulled me aside and pointed out an uncomfortably obvious crack in the drywall, perhaps 5 inches in width at the largest point.

"Jesus Christ, look at this. You see the crap I have to deal with? It's a wonder this decrepit wreck of a theater doesn't just fall apart at the seams. I'm going to run down to my house to get some stuff to fix this mess, I'll be back in an hour or so. In the meantime you try and see how bad the damage is and get everything closed up for the night" he said, hitching up his jeans as he began to head out of the building.

I wished him luck and turned back to the crack, pulling out a small flashlight from my coat pocket to peer around inside. I noticed a faint glint of something metallic reflecting the shine of my flashlight, and I carefully reached inside the crack to see what it could be.

My eyes widened as I pulled out the film reel, encased in its metal canister. I blew off nearly a century's worth of dust from the object, revealing a label, written roughly in marker: "The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess Reel 1".

I was visibly shaking with excitement as I sat down in the folding chair by the popcorn machine, re-reading the label over and over, trying to convince myself I wasn't dreaming. This film had been a personal fascination of mine ever since I first stumbled across its existence while I was studying for a film degree. I wrote a paper on it, theorizing on what it may have been about. I never expected that I would ever be able to actually hold what may have been the only copy.

Carefully removing the lid, I looked inside. The 35mm film looked to be in perfect condition, despite its age. Giddy with excitement, I closed the canister once again and peered back into the crack with my flashlight, looking for more. Rummaging about for a bit, I found 4 more reels, each similarly labeled to the first. Combined with the first reel, that came out to around 50 minutes of film.

Completely ignoring my assigned task of searching for further damage, I raced to the projection booth with my prize, immediately clicking them into place into one of the smaller projectors and setting up a portable projection screen. We'd often run new films we got like that first, rather than trying them out on the big screen.

"Something is missing", I muttered to myself, before realizing what else I needed. Pulling out my phone, I quickly pulled up the album The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess by Robert's Chamber before connecting it to a portable speaker.

With everything set, I started the projector and began playing the album simultaneously. To my surprise, no credits played, the film simply began abruptly.

The droning soundtrack blared over the cheap speaker as the projector showed an image of the moon, floating in an inky, starless night. The moon faded into a human eye, the camera zooming out to show its owner, a woman in a pale robe, the tiara atop Her head adorned with a stylized crescent moon. She sat atop a throne of antlers. I knew at once She was the titular Goddess.

The shot changed, showing a group of almost nude women dancing about the Goddess's throne. They seemed to be in a forest clearing, surrounded by trees on all sides. A bonfire and the full moon above provided ample illumination with which to see by. Dancing amongst the women was a tall, dark figure, clad in black robes. At first I thought he was wearing some sort of headdress, before I realized he had the head of a goat. The sound of drums and mad fluting filled my ears from the recorded soundtrack.

After many shots of the goat-headed man and revelers, another group of barely clothed women carried forth a young man, wrapped in primitive ropes and gagged with cloth. His eyes were filled with stark terror. One of the women drew forth a jagged flint knife from her belt, driving it into the man's neck.

As the Goddess watched, emotionless, dozens more of the dancing women all drew forth similar weapons and descended upon the young man, plunging mercilessly into his exposed flesh. Blood spewed forth from his wounds, covering all nearby with a shower of gore. The flutes and drumming increased in their frantic intensity.

A man, dressed in hunter's clothes, was shown cowering in fear in the bushes nearby, his eyes wide with the horror of all he has seen. The man was old, with scars on his face, as if he had been attacked by a wild animal in the distant past. He carefully slipped away, heading back into the forest. The camera followed the man, the flutes and drums fading into silence as he moved further from the clearing. The soundtrack occasionally played a soft piping sound, mimicking the hooting of owls. The strings of violins were plucked gently, creating an unnerving sound as the hunter crept through the darkened woods.

The whole time as the hunter fled into the woods, there was an air of tension, a sense that he, and by extension, the audience, was being watched. He would occasionally hide behind a tree, evidently trying to slow his breathing, and sometimes one could almost make out something lurking in the shadows, only for it to fade away moments later.

Finally, the hunter arrived at a village, whereupon he began knocking on the doors of every house, the staccato rap of his hand on wood imitated by the drums of the soundtrack. His face showed clear signs of speech, but there was no dialogue, no title cards appeared to show what the hunter was saying. As he continued knocking on doors, the villagers began to awaken from their slumber and leave their homes, with clarinets, trumpets, trombones, and other instruments adding to the score to indicate their commotion. Once a large enough crowd had gathered, the hunter stood atop a crate in the center of the village, and began speaking to the gathered crowd. Once again, there was no title card to indicate what he was saying, but the fury and terror on his face spoke for him. The camera panned over the crowd, and showed the growing fear and rage on their faces. They began to shout, the music becoming louder and growing into an almost militaristic fervor.

The hunter hopped down and began leading the villagers into the woods. As they marched forth, the villagers began to arm themselves with torches, knives, pitchforks, and other makeshift weapons. The camera followed them on their long trek through the forest, but gone was the furtive and unnerving plucking of violins. The villagers made no attempt to hide, to skulk in the shadows; they were out for vengeance.

The camera cut back to the clearing, where the dancing women and the goat-headed man continued their cavorting about the taciturn Goddess's throne. The only sign of their victim that remained was a pile of bones, picked clean of flesh and organs. The discordant drums and squealing flutes of their revelry were cut off by a violent crash of cymbals and the blare of trumpets as the villagers charged into the clearing, the hunter in the lead.

The worshipers were cut down by the dozen, each death punctuated by the crash of a cymbal. The goat-headed man tried to flee, but one of his horns was lopped off with a cleaver in the process, blood spewing from the wound as he stumbled off into the dark woods.

The Goddess's face turned from a stern, solemn expression to one of horror as Her followers were killed. She got up from Her throne of antlers, crescent moon tiara glinting in the light of the bonfire. However, as soon as She moved to leave, She was grabbed by the mob, Her screaming simulated by the discordant wailing of a violin.

With the dancers all either dead or fleeing, the mob turned their ire to the Goddess. A crude cross had been constructed out of wooden planks, and they swiftly tied Her to it with hempen rope. The hunter approached, wielding a makeshift spear. He put out the Goddess's eyes with the weapon, each strike punctuated with the shrieking of the violin. The music became very quiet as the camera zoomed in towards the Goddess's face, clearly showing Her bloodied eye sockets. The moon was directly above Her head. It went out.

The soundtrack began blasting horrible sounds; the screeching of string instruments, blaring of the brass, and the discordant piping of woodwinds. But, despite the cacophony, there was nothing on the screen. I paused the album and looked over at the projector, trying to see if something was wrong.

I was shocked to realize I had already gone through all 5 film reels, somehow changing them out while I watched. I was apparently so enthralled by the film that I had done it automatically, not even realizing.

I checked my phone to see how much of the album was left. There was another 10 minutes. The entire soundtrack was an hour in length, meaning that there must be a reel missing. I quickly put the reels back in their canisters and hid them among the other movies.

I ran back downstairs to the crack in the wall, frantically searching for the last reel. I had to see the whole film. I couldn't explain why, but it called to me somehow. I reached deep into the crack with my arm up to the shoulder, feeling around in the shadows, but there was nothing. I was about to pull my arm out and grab a sledgehammer to widen the gap, when something grabbed me by the wrist. I shrieked in terror and tried to pull back, but it gripped tighter, and tighter.

The door to the theater opened with the jingle of the bell and I fell backwards, sobbing, as whatever had grabbed me released its terrible grip.

"Whoa, Fran, hey, what's going on? Are you alright?" asked Alan, concern in his voice.

I tried to compose myself. "Um, yeah, yes, I'm fine. Sorry, there was, uh, a spider", I lied. I didn't know why I lied, it's not like he wouldn't have believed me. Alan trusted me, and he wouldn't have called me crazy if I told him what was going on. But something inside me wouldn't let me tell him.

"I have to go, sorry, I'm not feeling well", I muttered, before Alan could even respond to what I said. Not processing his sputtering protestations, I quickly walked out the door, rubbing my wrist with my free hand.

I didn't own a car, but I lived only a few blocks away. It was around 3 AM, and the night was dark, even more so than usual. Looking overhead, I could see no stars in the sky, just the shining crescent moon. It was strange, usually one could get a great view of the night sky around here.

Alan probably won't find the reels, I thought to myself, after all, he has little reason to do a thorough search of the projection booth unless he is doing inventory. I stopped walking for a moment, processing what I just thought. Why wouldn't I want Alan to see the film? I had hidden them almost on instinct, like it was the most natural thing in the world, but surely I wouldn't want to hide this find from him. Did I want fame? Fortune? The more I thought about it, the more I didn't understand my hesitancy. It felt almost like the possessiveness of a jealous lover.

Movement caught my eye, stopping my train of thought. Something was in the alleyway near me. I heard a hacking cough from within. Almost as though I were a puppet on strings, I felt myself stepping towards the sound.

I reached the mouth of the alleyway and drew forth my flashlight, shining it towards the coughing. I saw a man in ragged clothes, barely covered with a cheap blanket. Once my light touched him, he raised his head, staring at me.

It was the hunter from The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess. Every detail, from his wrinkled skin, to the graying hair. Even the scars, carved into his face by some unknown beast.

I dropped my flashlight for a moment, so startled was I to see the man. I fumbled for it for a few seconds, before once again pointing the light at the man's face.

"Hey! Can't you see I'm trying to get some damn sleep!" cried out the homeless man whose eyes I was shining my flashlight into. His face had changed. He was younger now, without scars, a different hair color. He couldn't have been the same man I'd seen just a second before.

I muttered an apology and tossed some dollar bills on the ground at the alley's entrance. I continued the walk back to my apartment, a little faster than I had been going before. I looked back up at the sky, and the stars were back to normal, clear as could be.

I slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning. My dreams were vague, difficult to fully remember, yet disturbing nonetheless. I remember a sense of terror, a fear that I was being pursued. I was outside, in the dead of night, surrounded by trees on all sides. Occasionally I could hear the plucking of violins. I tripped over a root underfoot, and I knew that I was doomed.

Then I was awake, lying in bed. My phone chimed, informing me I had received a text. I looked over my notifications, seeing a number of messages from Alan, asking where I was. I checked the time, seeing that it was several hours past when I was supposed to have awoken. I shot him a text saying that I wasn't feeling well, that I was feverish, and then turned off my phone.

I needed to get some groceries, so I got dressed and headed out the door, walking a few blocks down to the grocery store. I wasn't fully paying attention to my surroundings. My mind kept thinking back to the homeless man in the alley, my dreams, and most of all The Tragedy. Lost in my thoughts, I simply grabbed the items on my list and headed for the check stand, not even processing the greeting of the cashier.

As I fumbled for my wallet, I looked up to apologize for my inattentiveness, whereupon I was greeted with a horrible sight.

The cashier's face was that of the Goddess, Her eyeless sockets boring into my very soul. Her face was contorted in a hideous grimace of agony, and I shrieked in terror, backing away quickly. I slipped and fell, landing on my backside. Looking up, I saw the cashier's face was simply that of an ordinary woman, a bit shocked at my outburst.

I mumbled out an apology, saying something about losing my balance, and quickly paid for my groceries before leaving in a hurry. As I walked down the crowded street back towards my apartment, I noticed that the hustle and bustle of conversation, cars, and movement all around me sounded more like the tuning of an orchestra than the day-to-day clamor of a busy street.

I could hear the sounds of clarinets, violins, trumpets, and even an organ, all mixing together to form something that sounded almost but not quite like a crowd. I looked around, and could see no source for such a din. I covered my ears as best as I could while still holding my groceries, and pressed forward through the crowd.

As soon as I reached my apartment building, I practically ran for the safety of my home. However, as I groped around for my keys, I noticed an envelope in front of my door, closed with a wax seal bearing the symbol of a crescent moon. I knew, deep down in my gut, that I needed to read it.

Setting down my bags, I broke open the seal and pulled out the note within. The paper seemed old, like the pages of a well-read book. Scratchy handwriting spelled out the words; It is time to finish what you've started. Meet me as soon as you can. Herzlicht, K.F. Below the message was an address, located somewhere in Los Angeles, near Hollywood.

I detected movement out of the corner of my eye, and looked quickly to see a black-robed figure turning a corner. Somehow I knew they must be the deliverer of the message. I ran over to see who it was, calling for them to stop, but as I rounded the corner, there was nobody there.

Later that evening, I purchased a train ticket for a trip to LA. I went to bed early to catch the bus to the station, and was once again subjected to a fitful, restless sleep.

I dreamt that I danced around a great bonfire, surrounded by an ancient forest. I shrieked with laughter as I circled the blazing fire, but no sounds left my lips, instead my ears were filled with the sound of drums and flutes. I was among friends, others who danced alongside me, fellow worshipers of the Goddess of the woods.

Suddenly, I felt a horrible, stabbing pain in my back, and I turned to see the vengeful glare of one of the village folk, his knife plunged deep between my ribs. I fell to the grass-covered ground, eyes open, as I looked upon the form of my Goddess sitting atop her throne of antlers.

I woke to the sound of my phone's alarm going off, reminding me that I needed to get to the bus in time to catch my train. I ate breakfast quickly, before throwing some clothes on and heading out the door. The bus ride was relatively short, and soon I found myself on a 4 hour train ride to the city of angels.

As I sat in my seat, looking out across the scenery, my mind was filled with countless questions. Am I crazy? Why am I obeying the letter's instruction? Who sent me the letter?

I hardly noticed when we arrived at our destination, and it took me a moment to snap out of my stupor and make my way on to the platform. Pulling out my phone, I opened up the navigation app and typed in the address indicated on the note.

Once again, the sound of the crowd was replaced with the cacophonous sounds of an orchestra tuning their instruments. There were no voices, just the sound of discordant music mimicking human speech. I kept my head down and tried to focus on my phone, though my nerves were beginning to fray.

I was instructed to turn down an alleyway by my phone, and soon found myself in a far less occupied part of town. I followed a path through what felt like a maze of tunnels, the sky a tiny patch of blue surrounded by brick and mortar. It went on far longer than it felt like it should, a labyrinth of fire escapes, trash cans, and back doors. It felt like hours, but whenever I checked my phone, it claimed only a few minutes had passed.

I could have swore I sometimes heard the distant plucking of a violin, or noticed a vague form dashing around a corner, but such moments passed so quickly it was difficult to know whether or not my mind was simply playing tricks upon me.

Finally, I found myself at my destination. It was a rundown apartment building, with a boarded up door bearing a sign labeled "CONDEMNED". I double checked the note, check to see if I went to the correct address, but there was no error.

I searched for a method of entrance, before spying a bit of graffiti above one of the boarded ground floor windows. It was a crescent moon, spray painted in a sickly yellow, with an arrow pointing downwards. Looking closer at the window, I noticed how loose the boards were, and I made quick work of prying them off and tossing them out of the way. Turning on my flashlight, I pulled myself through the opening and stepped inside.

The interior of the building was extremely dark, and smelled strongly of decay. I could faintly hear the sound of a piano playing from deeper within the building, and followed the sound as best as I could. Graffiti covered the walls, full of the usual suspects; swastikas, tags, profanity, etc. Yet as I continued deeper into the building, more and more often I began to notice the spray painted symbol of a crescent moon. It felt like it was following me, watching me as if it were an eye. The eye of the Goddess.

Eventually, the music became clear enough for me to distinguish that the tune was Debussy's Claire de Lune. A minute or two later, I reached the door from which the music seemed to be emanating from. It seemed to just be the entrance to an ordinary apartment. I hesitated for a moment, considering where I was, what I was doing. Maybe it would be best to try and see a doctor I thought to myself. But then I thought about the note folded in my pants pocket, and steeled myself. I opened the door.

Despite all natural laws of physics, the room beyond was far larger than it possibly could have been based on the exterior dimensions. It was a vast ballroom, beautiful, but in disrepair. Despite the daylight outside, the shattered windows showed a black, starless night. A crescent moon hung low in the sky, seeming to grin at me. There was no form of artificial illumination, yet I could see fairly clearly.

I wasn't alone in the ballroom. Two figures danced slowly to the haunting melody of Claire de Lune, which I could now tell was emitting from an antique phonograph. One was short, perhaps 5'6" or so, while the other stood well over 6 feet. The shorter figure was clad in a beautiful white ballgown, with messy gray hair, while the tall individual they danced with seemed to be wearing some sort of black suit.

It was only when I noticed the red armband on the left arm that I realized what he was wearing. It was the coal black uniform of an SS officer. The song came to an end, and the ballgown-clad figure separated from their fascist dance partner, walking calmly towards me.

I gasped as I realized who I was looking at. My mind flashed to the photograph of Karl Falkner I had seen in a few books on interwar German cinema, and compared the image to the man who now stood before me. His hair was gray from stress and age, his face slightly more lined, but it was definitely Falkner. I realized that the taller man in the black uniform must be Dietrich Bauer.

"You received my message, I take it?" asked the director, smiling faintly. The faintest hint of a German accent tinged his words.

I couldn't respond. I was standing before a man who should have died decades ago. Yet, as I looked upon him, he couldn't have been more than 50 years old. I just sat and stared, my mouth open.

"Tch, close your mouth child, you'll catch flies" said Falkner, before snapping his slender fingers. At once, the hulking form of Dietrich Bauer appeared, carrying two folding chairs, which he promptly unfolded and set down on the polished wooden floor. Up close, I could see that he had no eyes, his uniform stained with dried blood and vitreous fluid. The expression on the Nazi's face was blank, mindless. Whatever personality Bauer once possessed had long since been replaced with robotic obedience.

Falkner sat down on one of the chairs, motioning for me to take the other. I did so, still silent from shock.

"So, what did you think of my film?" asked Falkner, folding his hands on his lap. His red painted nails contrasted with the white of the ballgown. I tried to shake myself out of my confusion.

"Your film?" I asked.

"The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess. Don't try to play dumb with me, I know you've seen it. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

I thought for a moment, genuinely unsure how to respond. Falkner sat patiently as I organized my thoughts. Finally, I spoke. "It was very... strange. The use of the orchestra not merely as soundtrack but as a substitute for dialogue, the lack of title cards, and the pagan symbolism, those elements gave the film an almost a dream-like quality. Like something out of a fairy tale perhaps. I wish I could have seen the ending."

Falkner gave a wry smile. "Aside from Dietrich and myself, nobody has ever seen The Tragedy's ending. Those idiot businessmen left the moment of the sacrifice scene. Stomachs were a tad less strong back then. Perhaps, for the sake of the world, that is a good thing."

I swallowed, looking over at Bauer's black-clad form standing behind Falkner. His eyeless face remained entirely expressionless.

"Don't expect him to say anything", said Falkner, his smile seeming to falter somewhat, "what is left of Dietrich may be an excellent dance partner, but as a conversationalist he is woefully lacking. Don't worry, he's perfectly harmless. My collaborators made sure of that." "Your collaborators?" He sighed, crossing his legs and holding out his hand, snapping his fingers again. Bauer silently produced a cigarette, ignited it with a silver lighter, and handed it to Falkner. He took a long drag before responding. "Yes. They're the ones who approached me with the idea for the film in the first place."

My head spun. The impossibility of what was happening was beginning to fray my nerves, but I tried to remain focused. "I thought you came up with the idea yourself? From what I've read, you worked almost entirely alone, aside from the actors. " "Well, my collaborators weren't exactly the sort who get much in the way of publicity", he leaned closer, his voice quieting, "they came to me in my dreams." There was a trace of simultaneous fear and reverence in his voice.

"Who are they?" "Oh now that's a very difficult question, very hard to explain. Tell me, have you ever been alone? Truly, entirely alone? When there is not so much as an insect buzzing to keep you company?"

I nodded.

"Now, seeing as you are entirely alone, and fully cognizant of your loneliness, have you ever felt like something was watching you? Have you checked corners, ceilings, even under beds, just to alleviate that nagging, itching feeling of being observed? They are the reason."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I suddenly felt incredibly exposed. I glanced around the vast ballroom, seeing nothing but shadows aside from Falkner and his companion. I wondered what might be hiding in those shadows. Becoming increasingly paranoid, I got up out of my seat, beginning to pace about the ballroom to steady my nerves. "Why is any of this happening? It's just a movie! This isn't real." "Just a movie? When the grim shadow of Count Orlok stretches his clawed fingers across the screen, do you not shiver with fear? When Chaplin's Little Tramp gets himself into some absurd situation, do you not laugh with delight? Stories affect us, child, since the earliest days of troglodytic proto-humans cowering around a campfire, drawing on the cave walls with charcoal. The Tragedy of the Maimed Goddess is no different, just somewhat more powerful, particularly the final reel. Some people can handle it, like myself, others..." Falkner trailed off, his gaze looking towards Dietrich's blank, eyeless stare.

"What is this place? Why are you here? Where is the final reel?" I asked the director, becoming increasingly aware of how bizarre my situation was, desperate for answers.

Falkner smiled sadly. "This place is my home now. My collaborators took me here after I finished the film. Time works differently here, as I'm sure you can tell. As for the final reel, I had it sent to Berlin following the disastrous first showing. I knew my time in the regular world was going to come to an end, so I sent it to the one person on Earth who I felt I would be able to spend eternity with. I was horrified to find what Dietrich had become in the intervening years, when They dragged him here in that horrible uniform, eyes gouged out and mind shattered."

In the far distance, I heard the sound of an orchestra beginning to tune their instruments. Falkner's sad smile fell away, replaced with horror, and he stood up from his chair. "Listen to me," he hissed, as if trying to yell and whisper at the same time, "it's too late for me, but you still have a chance. They want you to see the final reel, to share it with the world. I'm certain that They have already taken it to your home. But you have a choice, you don't have to do that."

He handed me a pistol. I've never been particularly interested in firearms, but even I can recognize a Luger when I see one. I looked over at the eyeless, silent form of Dietrich Bauer, noticing the empty holster at his side. "What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked, fearfully. The distant orchestra grew louder.

"End your life on your own terms, before it is too late. You've seen enough so far that they'll never leave you alone, the hallucinations will only get worse until you either go mad or do as they demand. Death is better than an eternity here!"

I was about to protest, when Falkner shushed me and looked over his shoulder into the gloom. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing. "Run!" he screamed, turning back around and pushing me towards the exit "They're coming!"

I stumbled backwards, steadying myself. I saw the crescent moon overhead, slowly waxing into a solid white circle, as though it were an all-seeing eye, watching me. I didn't need to be told twice, I ran for the exit. The orchestra swelled in intensity, till it felt as though my eardrums would burst. When I finally crossed the threshold of the ballroom, I slammed the door behind me, and suddenly all was silent.

I sat and caught my breath for a few moments, looking at the peeling paint of the old door. Part of me wondered if I opened it again, would I find that ballroom once more? Or would it just be a moldy old apartment? I decided not to risk it, and hurried my way outside, hiding the pistol in my backpack.

I caught the train home just in time, and tried to ignore the eyeless, bloodied stare of the Goddess's face on the ticket taker. I pretended I couldn't see the film grain that stained the sky as the sun slowly set, a crescent moon shining down upon me like a sardonic smile. I tried not to hear the sound of the orchestra replacing the chatter of the train's occupants.

When I finally arrived back home to my apartment, I found the final film reel laying on my bed, along with a projector already set up and pointed at my wall. The message was clear.

I've typed up this narrative because I have a decision to make. I have the pistol lying on my desk, and the film reel set up in the projector. From what Falkner tells me, if I watch the final 10 minutes of the film, I will join him and Dietrich forever in that unnatural, otherworldly ballroom. If I don't, I will be driven to madness until I seek out the sweet relief of a bullet to the head. Neither are particularly appealing. So I pose the question to you all; what do I choose?

[rosanna-writer]

to make them love me and make it seem effortless (chapter 3)

Summary: When the High Lord of the Spring Court whisks her off to Prythian, it's exactly what Feyre Archeron wants. Her plan: let Tamlin romance her to break the curse and use her proximity to him to pass military secrets back to the mortals. And it works— until a certain other High Lord tries to steal documents she's after.

Pairing: Feysand

A/N: In this AU, Spring is cursed during the War, Feyre is born much earlier, and Hybern reins Amarantha in when she goes rogue.

Back to Rhys's POV for this chapter!

Third chapter is below, and you can also find it here (along with the rest) on AO3 :)

The infighting is delicious.

When I arrived at the battlefield tent designated for negotiations, Tamlin charged me. I winnowed away before he could lay a talon on me. Nevertheless, Hybern and Beron each grabbed an arm and held him back.

I give them a wide berth as we wait for the others to arrive, but I can hear some irritated whispers about "just a mortal girl" and "get your head on straight" and "don't make this any worse than it already is."

In fact, Tamlin makes it easy on me. The rest of his alliance is so concerned with reining him in that I don't actually have to answer any difficult questions about what Feyre is doing in the Night Court. It isn't long before the rest of the High Lords and the mortal queens arrive and the conversation turns to other matters.

I just wish Feyre was here to see it. But perhaps getting to tell her all the details of our enemies shooting themselves in the foot will be the next best thing.

The bond has been quiet since I left. I hope that means she's getting the rest she needs, but with how murky the connection is, I can't be sure.

Around mid-day, I feel a slight shift. It's almost too subtle to notice, but I think she's awake. I scribble a note for her.

Good morning, Feyre darling. Tamlin is seething but it hasn't come to blows. He's managed to keep your name out of his mouth. It's going well.

The note disappears into thin air, but no one thinks twice. Plenty of others at the table have sent similar notes back to their own advisors all morning.

It's quite a while before the note returns with Feyre's addition under my own. Her handwriting is the most hideous chicken scratch I've ever seen, hardly legible at all.

Good to hear.

I add my next message on the next line under it. Did you sleep well? There is talk about handling the sudden influx of mortal refugees fleeing the opposition. Thoughts?

It takes even longer for the paper to return again, so long that I get wrapped up in a discussion of a proposed change from Helion and almost forget that I sent it. But it comes back in that same scrawl.

Yes thanks. The mortal queens should help but won't. Not much use opening up Prythian's borders, they're too afraid of fae. Better to send supplies.

I had suspected the same, but it's good to have Feyre confirm my suspicions. Despite their posturing, the mortal queens have struck me as too self-involved to do the right thing and provide for the newly-freed mortals who will be flocking to their lands. As much as I'd rather not pick up their slack, there are much worse uses for Night Court resources than making sure vulnerable people are provided for.

I send back one more message thanking her and don't think much of it after that. There's a heated argument about redrawing the borders to transfer some of Autumn and Spring's territories to Summer, and the shouting takes my full attention.

But the paper comes back again, and when I see her addition, I nearly drop it in shock.

I never would have guessed my mate was an artist.

On the bottom margin, she's drawn a mountain range below a night sky. It's a remarkable level of detail for something so small, the shading just so. And above the highest peak, there are three stars. It's not just any mountain— it's Ramiel.

I fold the paper and pocket it to keep it safe. We break for lunch, but as much as I want to see Feyre again, there is work to be done.

I find Azriel in the tent we've designed as our headquarters, reading over what I assume are the most recent intelligence reports.

He looks up when he hears me enter. "Are you making any progress?" he says, not bothering with a greeting.

"Some but not as much as I'd like," I say. I'll give the full details later, when I can meet with the rest of the Inner Circle together at once.

"Feyre's father is alive and well. Their fortunes ‘just so happened’ to turn around after she left for the Spring Court," Azriel says.

"Tamlin's doing?"

"Seems like it."

"Is that her only family?"

Azriel hesitates, which tells me that the answer is going to be unpleasant. I brace myself for whatever bad news I'm going to have to relay to my mate.

"Her mother died years ago. She has two sisters who I've been unable to locate."

Even outside the Night Court, all the way in the mortal lands, Azriel can find anyone. Either they're in hiding, or someone else doesn't want them to be found. I don't know what that means.

Before I can answer, Cassian pushes open the tent flap and enters. "Your mate thinks like a general, Rhys," he says with a grin.

“The fact that you think that’s a compliment says more about you than it does about her, general, ” I say.

Cassian laughs. "I'm not wrong, though. She's all backbone."

The respect in his voice gives me a warm feeling. Maybe it's too much too soon, but I can picture Feyre slotting herself into my family, as if she's always belonged here.

"I don't disagree," I say. Cass and Az share a knowing look, and because I have no desire to get into a discussion regarding what transpired over breakfast, I change the subject. "Any new developments this morning?"

Cass shakes his head. "No, I've been in the healers’ tents all morning, trying to visit the wounded and get a sense of morale. Everyone is eager to go home."

"It's too early for me to give you a timeframe," I say. There's nothing I want more than to send my soldiers home, but the ceasefire is still so fragile. With all the yelling this morning, it seems possible, even likely, that fighting could break out again, and we can't be caught flat-footed. I'd like for my soldiers to be home by Starfall, but I don't know if that's realistic.

"Understood," Cassian says.

I nod, and then it occurs to me that Cassian probably has more time on his hands than he has in a while. "If Feyre is interested in training, would you be able to help with that?" I say.

"Do you even have to ask?" Cass says with a grin.

"You should get her a bow. I saw calluses on her fingertips, the kind you get when you shoot without a decent finger guard," Az says.

I think back to how rough her hand had felt when it brushed mine this morning. My mind had been elsewhere, and I hadn't considered what she’d been up to that made her hands like that. But now, I wonder why she spent so much time shooting without basic protective gear. It's one more entry on the growing list of questions to ask when I see her next.

"That's simple enough," I say, and I'm sure Cass is already devising ways to add moving targets to the training ring.

There is more negotiating to do, so I don't linger much longer. The rest of the afternoon devolves into petty squabbles, and it's evident that I'm not the only one at the table who hasn't slept. High Lords can be capricious on a good day, and everyone's patience is thin. We end without much progress.

I sent another note to Feyre, so she's waiting for me in the study when I winnow back to the Moonstone Palace. Her hair is damp, and she's changed into another set of Mor's clothes.

"You look exhausted," she says.

"Hello to you too," I say.

That cloying perfume from last night is gone, and I can properly smell her for the first time. It’s the same scent from my dreams. I wish I could bury my face in her hair and just inhale, but I'm sure she wouldn't appreciate that.

She tilts her head. "Did— Did you just sniff me?"

"You smell like yourself now."

She gives me a look that's equal parts puzzled and irritated. "Gods-damned fae and your noses."

I laugh and lean against the desk, feeling some of the stress of the day fade, just from being near her. Unfortunately, the day isn't over.

"We're meeting with the rest of the Inner Circle soon, but I have news for you," I say.

"You do?" she says and grimaces, as if the only kind of news she can imagine is the bad kind.

"Azriel confirmed your father is alive and well."

I'd expected relief at that, but the grimace stays in place. "Good."

"And your sisters are missing."

"I expected that."

I do my best to stay out of her mind, but I can still feel her disappointment through the bond. "I'll have Azriel keep looking."

"If they want to be found, they'll come to me." I don't say anything, just try to puzzle out what that means. Eventually she continues, "When I left for Spring, we knew it might put a target on their backs. Humans hate fae, plus there was a chance someone could use them to get to me, and then me to get to Tamlin. So they went into hiding, and it's probably for the best that they stay that way for now."

"They would be safe here." I can’t let it go unsaid, but I’m sure by now that she’s aware of this, too.

"I know. If this peace lasts, they'll find me."

I want to pull her close and tell her that I'll fix it for her, but I don't want to overwhelm her further. I feel completely ineffectual, just standing here.

"I'm sorry." It's not even close to sufficient.

"It happens. We weren't close. Can we change the subject?"

She’s staring straight ahead at a spot on the wall, not looking at me. There's a swirl of emotions on her end of the bond, too mixed to really name, but none of them positive. Whatever the story is with Feyre's family, it's complicated. I don't blame her for not wanting to share, at least not yet.

"Of course. Cassian has found himself with more time on his hands. Are you interested in training?"

She turns back to back to me. "Training?"

"To fight. Not that I think your knife skills are subpar after last night."

That, at least, gets her to crack the barest hint of a smile. "Yes. It might do me some good to get outside and hit something."

With an answer like that, Feyre really is going to fit in here. Cassian will be delighted. "Perfect. Azriel said you may be interested in a bow. Because of the calluses on your hands."

At the mention of the calluses, she flips her hands over and starts to pick at them. "The last few months are the longest I've gone without shooting since I first learned. It's how I kept my family fed," she says.

There's another story there, but after how she reacted to the news about her family, it's clear now isn't the time.

"Most Illyrian warriors train with a bow. It's a convenient weapon to shoot while airborne."

When we were younger, Cass and Az both out-shot me during every single target practice session. Something tells me Feyre is also a better shot than me, but I keep that to myself. Better to delay the inevitable ribbing and temporarily preserve my dignity.

"It will be good to get my hands on one again." Her fingers twitch as if she’s already curling them around a bowstring.

"Perfect. Next order of business—"

"How many orders of business do you have ?"

"Two more, and we'd get through them quickly if I wasn't so rudely interrupted—"

I'm cut off by a ball of scratch paper that Feyre flings at my head. I duck and mist it before it hits the wall.

"Prick," she mutters, but she's smiling again and I am, too.

"As I was saying," I say pointedly, "Tomorrow we're going to start teaching you to shield your mind."

Her brow furrows. "Can mortals even do that?"

"With extensive practice, yes. You need a more reliable way to keep me out of that lovely head of yours. I try my best, but the bond seems to amplify you, and you insist on thinking at full volume."

"Alright. And the last order of business?"

"We're debriefing with the rest of the Inner Circle and making a plan for negotiations tomorrow. We're meeting at the House of Wind, so I'll leave it up to you. Should we fly there or winnow?"

"Fly? But you don't—" I unfurl my wings, and my smile just grows wider at her shocked expression. "Why didn't you tell me you have wings?"

"You didn't ask," I say innocently.

"Most people don't have hidden..." She trails off and struggles to find the right word. Finally, she manages to splutter, “Appendages.”

"There's nothing I'd love more than showing you all my appendages, Feyre darling," I purr.

"Prick."

She's faster this time, or maybe with my wings outstretched I have more surface area, and another ball of scratch paper flies through the air and grazes my wingtip. It gets stuck on a talon, and I fling it back at her. She ducks before it even gets close to her.

"You didn't answer my question. Winnowing or flying?" It seems almost too good to be true that she didn't bolt after the flirting, so I half-expect her to reveal a crippling fear of heights because I'm due for a disappointment.

But she says, "Flying."

Once we're at the window, I hook one arm under her legs and the other around her shoulders. She circles her arms around my neck, and the full force of her scent hits me again. I just drink it in for a moment, the feeling of her warm body pressed against my chest and her breath on my neck.

I push off into the air, and her entire body goes stiff. There's a sharp jolt of panic across the bond.

"It's alright, Feyre. I'll go slow," I say softly. I can't hover, but once we're at a proper altitude, I slow down.

If she wants to spend the entire flight with her face buried between my neck and shoulder, I can't say I mind. But there's so much I want to show her, and flying is the easiest way to do it. After a minute, she feels less rigid.

"Can you look down? I want you to see the city," I say.

She tips her head away from me and gives a small gasp of surprise. "It's beautiful."

"This is Velaris, City of Starlight."

"Is there a reason it's on all of your maps and none of Tamlin's?"

I take that to mean she's made full use of the library while I've been gone. Industrious of her, but I wish she'd gotten more rest. "Yes," I say, then explain how the city has been kept hidden for years.

She's quiet after that, and it's peaceful, perfect, just flying through the night air with my mate in my arms. Everything feels right in a way I never knew it could.

After a moment, she says, "That mountain over there, the one under three stars…"

"That's Ramiel," I say, "You might have seen it on the Night Court insignia."

"I haven't. When I was doodling today, I didn't think much of it. It just seemed like the right place for the stars to go. I had no idea it was a real place."

The enormity of that washes over us both. It's terrifying in some ways, how deep this bond goes, the power of it. If it weren't accompanied by the bone-deep, instinctive sense of trust, I think we both might have fallen apart today.

As we approach the House of Wind, Cass and Az catch up to us, bringing Mor and Amren with. The sight of them pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the task we have at hand: updating each other and making plans.

As I set Feyre down, Mor says, "Nice shoes, Feyre. Where'd you get them?"

The peal of laughter that gets from Feyre makes me think that wasn't a genuine question and there's context I'm missing. How the two of them have already managed to have an inside joke is beyond me. But I can't complain at the sight of one more puzzle piece sliding into place, even if the prospect of them joining forces is a little intimidating.

But there's no time to waste, so the six of us head straight to the war room. Mor and Amren give updates on how the rest of the Night Court is taking the news: similarly to Cassian's troops, they're relieved and eager to know when their loved ones will be home. There are no major updates from Cassian or Azriel since we talked earlier.

As I start to describe Tamlin's reaction this morning, I watch Feyre and don't try to hide it. There's nothing but cold fury on her side of the bond. Her face is blank, but her posture is tense.

I reach out with my mind. What's wrong?

He tried to hurt you.

I'd feel the same way in her position, but it's still a marvel that she would care this much. When I recount the rest of the day, she relaxes, along with the rest of the Inner Circle, at the news that the subject of her departure from Spring was dropped fairly quickly. Through the bond I feel her anger melt into something I can’t define until I realize it's a vicious sort of satisfaction.

We debate methods for giving Tamlin reassurance that Feyre is alive and unscathed, but none of us can think of one that will be sufficient proof without putting Feyre in harm's way. Feyre goes quiet throughout the whole discussion. I don't like it, but I don't feel anything concerning through the bond, so I stay out of her head. When we find that we're talking in circles, we agree to move onto the next item on the agenda.

I lay out the concerns that were raised regarding the incoming newly-freed mortals. And that's when Feyre finally cuts in.

"The mortal queens have enough poverty in their lands already. I would know," she says. "They don't care about their existing subjects, and humans would never relocate to Prythian."

"Not even if we carve out room? Have Tamlin, Hybern, and Beron give some of their territory to the mortals as reparations?" Mor says.

All eyes fall on Feyre, who seems to be considering it. "It could work," she says, "But they'd need more than land. Resources until they can stand on their own two feet, maybe some kind of protection. I think it would be delicate."

"It could stretch us thin. Could we manage that and take care of our own?" Amren says.

Feyre bristles, but it's a valid question. Ultimately, my first duty is to the Night Court. "Not alone, but with the other Courts, we could," I say.

"And I could be a bridge," Feyre says, before I even have a chance to ask if she would.

It seems like so much to put on her shoulders, especially when she's untested, but she wouldn't be alone. I can’t devote much time to foreign affairs when there is still so much rebuilding to do, but Mor and Amren are accomplished stateswomen in their own right. They could guide her even if I can't.

"Then I'll see if the rest of our alliance is open to the idea," I say.

We move on and tie up a few loose ends before we break. As the six of us walk back downstairs, the mood lightens. There are celebrations happening across the city tonight, and I'd be drinking and dancing with the rest of them if I wasn't so tired.

"You should go with them if you want," I tell Feyre.

"Not this time. I'm exhausted," she says.

The promise of a next time is so casual, but it means everything. She could stay here and be carefree for once in her life.

My friends don't badger either of us to come out with them, the way they would normally do if I insisted on staying home. As little rest as they've gotten, I think they can tell the past day has been taxing in additional ways for Feyre and me. They say their goodbyes and leave the two of us alone together on the balcony.

"I'm planning on staying here tonight, not the Moonstone Palace, if that's alright. Mor has another set of clothes here too, and Cassian will likely want to use the training ring here in the morning," I say.

"Does Mor stay wherever you do?" she asks.

"She doesn't like to be alone, but I don't think she'll be back tonight." I consider asking her about the shoes but it seems like something that's between the two of them. "Dinner?"

"I promise I won't try to slip you any food."

I think she means it as a joke, but I can't find it funny. Even with the bond, we still have no idea what we can and can't joke about. "Please don't."

I drag a chair out to the balcony along with my food, and Feyre follows suit. There's music drifting up from the celebrations below and more lights glowing than I've seen in a while.

Feyre stares down at it as she eats, a pensive expression on her face. I'm not sure what emotion it is I feel from the bond, but it's not warm or happy. "This is all so beautiful," she says, and I'm not sure what she means. "You're not going to hide the ugly parts of your court from me, are you? Not— Not like Tamlin did?"

"I love my court and my people, but it's far from perfect here. I wouldn't hide that from you, but it seems better to ease you into it," I say.

She pushes some of her food around with her fork. “Tamlin told me about mating bonds because he thought it might snap for him. But he didn’t mention the mating frenzy. He must have thought it would scare me.”

“He’s an idiot. You don’t scare easily,” I say. She keeps pushing the food around on her plate, so I add, “But no, I won’t do what he did. There’s only so much information we can take in at a time, and I don’t see a reason to frontload the worst parts.”

She fixes me with a penetrating look, and says, "Alright." I hope that means she's satisfied with the answer.

We both turn back to the food and go quiet. I'm too lost in thought to really taste anything, but at least for me, the silence feels companionable. After a day of heated meetings, it's like a balm.

I get up to grab wine and pour a second glass for her without thinking about it. When I sit back down, she accepts it with a quiet "thank you."

"I don't want to be in your head right now, but I'll give you a thought for a thought," I say, taking a sip.

"I'm wondering if this is as strange for you as it is for me, feeling this deep connection but not even knowing your favorite color."

"This is without a doubt the most bizarre experience of my life."

She smiles into her glass. "That makes me feel better."

"And for the record, it's dark blue, the color the sky turns as night falls. What's yours?"

"Violet."

"Why?" She shakes her head, and I catch sight of her cheeks flushing before she buries her face in her empty hand. "Feyre..." She just shakes her head again and doesn't look at me. I don't need the bond to know she's embarrassed. Now I'm dying to know, but there's no use in pushing her. "Fine. My turn then. I'm wondering what kind of person calls what you drew today a doodle. It was intricate."

Feyre looks up and shrugs. "It only took me a few minutes. I needed a break from reading."

"How much of an artist are you?"

"Not as much as I'd like. I like painting the best, but we didn't have much money for supplies, so I didn't always get the chance. But pencils are cheap, and charcoal is cheaper, so I'm better with those."

That settles it— I'm taking her to the Rainbow as soon as I get the chance. "The first dream I had of you was your hand painting flowers on a table."

And there it is again, the enormity of the bond between us. It seems we can't escape it, even when we're making idle chitchat. Feyre downs the rest of her wine.

We don't say much else, and I don't remember when the exhaustion finally claims me and I drift off in the chair. When I wake a couple hours later, she's not there. I panic for a half a second until I notice the blanket over my legs and realize she must have put it there.

[fancyfanfiction]

Soon it Will Be Spring Chapter 4

Guess what I finally picked up again!

Crossposted Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242599/chapters/114198046

Gleb stood in that marble room in Paris for what felt like the hundredth time. A red glow washed over the white pillars. The urge to scream set his throat on fire and his arm shook as he held it out in front of him, the dull metal of the gun glinting in the light. Anya – Anastasia – stood before him, defiance blazing in those blue eyes.

“Do it,” She egged him on. “And I will be with my parents and brother and sisters in that cellar in Yekaterinburg all over again!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at her as his fingers took on a life of their own. She fell in slow motion, silent as the red silk of her gown grew dark. Free from his spell, Gleb cast the gun away and clutched Anya to him.

“Anya!��� The tears stung his eyes now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” He repeated as though he’d forgotten how to say any words but those.  

Her dark blonde hair had come loose from its bun and cascaded down her shoulders, the ends staining a reddish-brown. She seemed so small in his arms, slighter and more delicate than she had been in life.

“Gleb,” Anya’s voice echoed around him from nowhere and everywhere at once. “I thought you were better than this. Better than them.”  Disappointment, rather than anger, rang in the echo which somehow made it all the worse.

He thought he had been better, too. But, deep down, it seemed he wasn’t. Gleb had done his duty by Russia and all it cost was his soul. Was this what his father felt standing in the basement of the Ipatiev House? Bile burned at the back of his mouth. Gleb had killed before – what soldier hadn’t? – but never an innocent woman standing unarmed before him, never someone he’d known, someone he’d loved.

“Please, forgive me,” he begged, burying his face in her hair. “Please.”

            The jolt of the train pulling to a stop woke Gleb with a start. He rubbed his eyes; almost grateful the scene had just been the same nightmare he’d been having since returning from Paris. Even if the details varied slightly dream to dream, it always ended the same.

            “Ah, you’re awake.” Katya greeted his return to the waking world. She shifted in the seat as they waited to disembark from the train.

            “So,” Katya looked at Gleb, a question tugging at her mouth, “what did you do to this Anya girl that you keep apologizing for?”

            The question may as well have been a well-timed slap.

 “You talk in your sleep,” Katya answered the unasked question with unsettling nonchalance.

“No, I don’t.” Gleb’s protest almost overlapped the statement.

Katya’s likely sarcastic and more than a little blunt response passed on her face, but, to her credit, she said nothing. They’d all been left with nightmares after the revolution, some people’s were more potent than others.

Gleb took a breath to compose himself. Of course, Katya didn’t know about Paris. How could she? Even Commissioner Gorlinsky didn’t know the specifics of what happened in that room before the Dowager Empress’s press conference. Gleb rubbed his face again, hoping to push the dream further back into the realms of sleep. His stubble was rough beneath his palms; he’d need to shave soon.

           Minsk was familiar yet alien as the pair stepped out of the train station. Their first goal was to find a place to stay for the night. Neither was particularly keen on sleeping anywhere but a bed for yet another night. Any large city was bound to have more than one boarding house or hotel. Strains of Belarusian mixed with Russian floated through the streets as the people of Minsk went about their days. The Russian was comfortable, a sense of home; the Belarusian left Katya frustrated. It felt so close to her own language, yet so foreign. Information just out of her reach.

            Falling into the flow of the foot traffic was easy for the pair of experienced city-dwellers. The current ebbed and flowed as it had in St. Petersburg and Moscow. It seemed people were inherently people anywhere one went. The scent of frying dough enveloped Katya as she and Gleb passed a food stall and set her stomach growling. She stepped out of the flow, gently tugging Gleb to follow.

“Pierogi!” The smile that split Katya’s face was the largest Gleb had seen on her.

“Not quite.” The merchant pulled the food out of his frier. “Kletski. They’re like pierogi. If you like those, you’ll love these. And mine are the best kletski in Minsk!”

“If they taste as good as they smell, I’m inclined to believe you.” Katya pulled out her purse and dropped her money into the merchant’s hand. “We’ll both take two.”

Few foods in the world were better than meat wrapped in fried dough and smothered in onions: this was one of the facts Katya lived by. Even the cold bench they sat on couldn’t spoil her enjoyment of this food. By the time Gleb had finished his first kletski, she was halfway through her second.

“Careful, if you eat too quickly, you’ll throw it all up.” To be honest, Gleb was a little amazed at the gusto with which his travelling companion ate.

“I know. They’re just so good. And it’s been forever since I’ve had anything close to pierogi. They were the one thing my mother knew how to cook. Or at least the only thing she every did cook.”

Gleb thought back to his own mother, covered in flour and always smelling of warm bread and floral tea. They’d never had much, but somehow, she’d been able to create feasts. At least, the meals seemed that way through the lens of childhood. Looking back, she was just creative and frugal.

“I can’t imagine a mother who doesn’t cook,” Gleb said.

“Mine has—” Katya searched for the right word, “other qualities.” The grimace she had suppressed at the thought of her mother surfaced quickly before Katya regained control of her face. She anticipated the incredulity before it was able to show on Gleb’s face. “Good ones! I can’t think of any at the moment, but she does.”

“If you can’t even think of her good qualities, why are you going all the way to Paris to find her?”

Memories of Masha and Gala flashed in Katya’s mind: Masha, trying to look stern as she held back a laugh, and Gala’s radiant smile that enchanted most men, and a few women, on whom it shone. For more than a decade, the three had braved the world together. First, as teenagers: two novice nuns and a factory girl weaving their way through the hell of revolution. Then, as young women: the three had lost their entire worlds and learned to rebuild, leaning on each other for all of it. Facing the next ten days without them, let alone the looming lifetime left Katya adrift.

“She and my brother are all I have left. Sometimes, you just need to be with your family.”

The plan hadn’t originally been to find her mother and brother in Paris. They’d chosen the French capital more for its excitement and the rumors they’d heard about the booming Russian expatriate community. But after that night, even at 28, Katya simply wanted her mother.

A voice in the back of his head warned Gleb to leave it there. Trusting his better judgment, he did.

“Thank you for the food,” said Gleb as the pair rose to continue on their quest to find an inexpensive boarding house.

Gleb had never been good at idle chit-chat, but Katya seemed a master. She wove them through conversation as easily as they wove through the streets of Minsk. They swept between books they each enjoyed, though he couldn’t fathom her love of War and Peace, music they preferred, and deftly danced past any mention of politics or religion.

The shabby boarding house the pair had finally happened upon sagged with age. With its cracked stone and ivy-draped walls, it could’ve been there when the riders first crossed the Rus. Alright, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration. Bells chimed as Katya and Gleb entered the parlor and the overwhelming tang of mothballs hit them.

“Hello?” Katya coughed.

A woman who somehow looked older than the house peered around the corner. She examined each of the travelers in turn, her eyes thrice magnified by the thick spectacles perched precariously on her nose.

“How may I help you?” Her Russian was tinged with the Belarussian accent of Minsk but was otherwise flawless.

“My husband and I are returning to Poland and our train isn’t for a day.” Katya caught Gleb’s eye before his surprise at the word “husband” even surfaced, her wordless message clear: Just play along.

“He does not speak Russian.” Katya hoped the explanation would lessen the old woman’s scrutiny.

“How long are you hoping to stay, Comrade…” the question trailed off.

“Kschessinski.” Katya offered her most charming smile; a trick she’d learned from Gala. “Just a night.”

“I should have a room. Twin beds. Room 2 on the third floor,” The landlady produced a ledger, “It’ll be three rubles. And supper is at 7. If you’re late, you don’t eat.” Katya signed for herself and Gleb and the old woman bustled back into what must’ve been the kitchen.

Katya and Gleb hurried up the stairs. The musty stench of mothballs grew stronger as they ascended the pink-carpeted stairs and moved down the hallway. It hung so thick clouds of mothball stench were almost visible by the time they reached the third floor. Katya gasped for breath as they finally closed the door.

“It’s worse!” She choked out, “How is the smell worse up here than it was down there?”

            Gleb shrugged off his coat and crossed the small room to open the window. Katya joined him at the sill, gulping in the non-mothball contaminated air.

            “I suppose she’s afraid the moths will do her the favor of eating that pink rug in the hall.” Gleb crossed to the sink and pulled his razor and soap out of his pack. The water ran frigid. Gleb examined himself in the small mirror that hung above the basin. Hopefully he’d be able to finish shaving before dinner. The timbre of the waterflow brightened, it had warmed quickly for the chill of the evening.

            Katya sat on the bed closest to the window, which she’d claimed as her own for the night. She glanced over to where Gleb stood. His focus was as sharp as the razor that he swept deftly across his cheek. Katya didn’t remember the last time she saw someone so intent. He tilted his chin up, moving on to his neck. The freshness of soap overtook the stench of mothballs, filling her senses. The steel glided effortlessly across his jawline, light and gentle as a kiss. Katya was transfixed.

Gleb must’ve felt her eyes on him, “Do you need to use the sink, too?”

“Oh! Um, yes. I need to…” She hadn’t realized how much she’d been staring, “wash my face before dinner.”

Gleb dampened the small towel he’d produced from his bag and wiped off the remaining lather, “I’ll get out of your way, then.”

Katya thanked him and moved to the still running sink, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. If it was, perhaps she could blame it on the hot water.

“I’m going to see what books were in the parlor. Since we’ll be here all night anyway it may be nice do some reading.” He pulled his coat back on, slipping out the door before Katya could reply.

The boarders all kept to themselves at dinner. Gleb enjoyed the silence. The peace of a simple supper was luxurious after the days of running. Even the permeating odor of the mothballs had dissipated, replaced with the aroma of vegetable stew.

Once the meal was finished, the inmates of the ancient house repaired to their rooms in the same silence, Katya and Gleb among their ranks. Upon entering the room, Gleb produced two volumes borrowed from the parlor, Crime and Punishment for himself and,

“War and Peace?” Katya grabbed the book with the same gusto she’d eaten the kletskis with.

“I figured you’d enjoy having something to do other than sit and stare at the walls all night.” No tight-lipped half-grimace, Gleb favored her with a gentle, genuine smile.

After four hours, Pierre’s father had finally died, leaving him as Count Bezukhov and Katya felt sleep tugging on her eyelids. She turned and looked to her odd travelling companion, still buried deep in his own choice of Dostoyevsky.

“Aren’t you going to change for bed?” Katya propped herself upon her elbow.

“What?” Gleb was shaken from the world of this book, “Oh.” His discomfort radiated the short distance from one bed to the other, “I—I don’t think I will.”

“You’re not shy, are you?” Katya teased. “I’ll turn my back if you want.”

“No, I’m fine in my clothes.” Gleb thought of the nice, clean night shirt he’d packed and then of the stench of travel that lingered on him. With no idea when he’d get to wash his clothes again, there was no other option.

“Alright, have it your way then. I think I’ll turn in. We’ll have to leave early tomorrow to make the train for Warsaw.”

Gleb nodded his ascent, reluctantly putting his own book down and dimming the lamp on the shared bedside table. “Good night, Yekaterina Sergeyevna.”

“Sleep well, Deputy Commissioner."

[forever-rogue]

Baby Steps (A Good Man)

A/N: Hello my sunshines! I’m back with another little installment of the AGM ‘verse with our favorite Javi and Dulzura! I love them so much and I’m glad y’all do too! I hope you guys enjoy!  As always, comments and feedback are welcome, and if you’d like to be tagged let me know! Xx

*can be read as a standalone or part of the ‘verse as a whole*

Pairing: Professor! Javi x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: language, pregnant!reader

A GOOD MAN ‘VERSE MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

JAVIER MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Mrs. Peña?” the sound of your name still surprised you, despite the fact that the students had been calling you for several months now. A grin worked its way onto your face as you looked at the young boy who was watching you with wide, eager eyes. Putting your pen down, you motioned for him to continue, “will you come outside and play with us?”

“You want me to hang out with you guys?” you almost laughed at the idea that any kid deemed you worthy of spending time with them, “I thought teachers were lame, Mikey?”

“Some of them, but not all of them! You’re pretty cool,” he smiled and displayed his toothy grin. How were you supposed to say no to him? You nodded and stood up, taking the hand he was holding out to you, “besides we’re playing kickball and we need one more person!!”

“I should have known you were just using me for my exceptional skills,” you pretended to be hurt as he pulled out of the building and into the playground, where the sun was shining brightly. 

Normally, you’d have turned him down, opting to get some work done during the lunch period, but decided you might as well indulge him and yourself. You really enjoyed the kids you had this year, and it was a gorgeous early spring day. 

»»————-　♡　————-««

Turns out, kickball with a bunch of seven and eight year olds was not as simple as it seemed. They seemed to come up with all sorts of nonsense rules, and on top of it all, they happened to be extremely competitive. And yet...you were thoroughly enjoying yourself - and glad you had opted to wear jeans today instead of a skirt or dress. Javi had been particularly fond of the tight, high-waisted jeans that hugged you in all the right places, getting very handsy before you both had to leave for work. Typical Javier; not that you minded of course. 

“Come on, give us a good one, Mrs. P!” Mikey yelled at the top of his small lungs as you proceeded to kick the ball that was rolled at you. You offered up a firm kick, but not one you would have used if you’d been playing with only adults. Taking unfair advantage was something you definitely didn’t want to do.

As soon as your foot made contact with the red rubber ball, you watched it whistle through the air before running to the first base. But...it was over before it started as you ran and then immediately proceeded to trip over your slightly untied shoelaces. You made contact with the hard earth before you knew and rolled your ankle in the process. 

You landed with a mixture of an annoyed sigh and a loud oof as you chided yourself. You should have made sure they were properly tied before doing anything. The kids clambered around you, faces anxious as they tried to make sure you were okay. Physically you were sure you’d be just fine, but mentally your pride was wounded. Oh, to make a fool of yourself in front of a bunch of children. 

“I’m alright,” you promised as you slowly rose to your feet; an instant tinge of pain shot through your ankle and leg as you almost lost your balance again. Maybe you were hurt… “it’s alright - you guys go back to playing and I’m going to go back to the classroom and sit for a moment. I might have twisted my ankle.”

They nodded, but gave you wary looks as you hobbled back inside the building. You should have remained the umpire and refused to play; you were obviously not coordinated enough for any of this. Slumping back in your chair, you rolled up your pant leg and hissed at the sight of the already swollen ankle. Shit.

“You’d better get that checked out,” Anna, one of the teachers from across the hall looked at you with a pained expression, “looks painful.”

“Nothing some rest and elevation won’t fix,” you insisted as you slumped against the back of the chair, “I’m too old for this! When did I become an adult?"

“Hey, at least they think you’re cool,” she huffed playfully, “they never ask me to play! But seriously, that looks pretty bad. And it happened at work, you know how they get about stuff like that.”

“Fineeee,” you groaned, “I’ll go to the school nurse.”

“I would recommend an actual urgent care or ER visit,” she raised an eyebrow, “besides, you know how Javi gets - he'll flay us all if he thought we weren’t looking out for you.”

“He’s...something else.”

“He’s amazing,” she reminded as you nodded in agreement. For how much of a worrywart he could be, you knew it was all out of love, “now go and get it checked out. I’ll handle getting the sub in and telling everyone. You have enough to worry about. Can you make it okay, or will you need a ride? Should I call Javi?”

“I can drive myself,” you promised, thankful it happened to your left foot and not the right, “I’m not going to bother my darling, overprotective husband just yet. Not until I can confirm that nothing is actually wrong. I don’t want him to stress over nothing, and I’m sure by the time he gets home tonight he’ll just be laughing at me and my clumsiness!”

“Alright,” Anna grabbed your purse and handed it to you, as you managed to slink out of the chair, “go get checked out and feel better. If you need anything at all, just call me.”

“Thanks for all of your help,” you hobbled towards the door, trying to keep as much weight off of your foot as possible, as Anna grimaced at you, “I swear it’s not that bad - worse than it looks.”

“Sure, sure,” she disagreed politely, “now quit stalling and go get help!”

»»————-　♡　————-««

The white walls and bright lights of the exam room were enough to rattle your nerves, even if just ever so lightly. You sat on the examination bed and tried to keep yourself calm as you waited for the nurse to come back and begin examining you. Nothing but the distant sounds of people outside and the tick-tock of the aging clock met your ears. You almost wish you’d called Javier just to have some company. Shit.

“Mrs. Peña?” a kind looking woman, maybe around Javier’s age poked her head in as you nodded, “sorry for the wait, we’re pretty busy right now. You’re here for a rolled ankle?”

“Yeah,” you answered as you relaxed at her comforting presence as she came in and sat on her rolling stool, eyes immediately dropping your swollen and irritated ankle, “I was playing with my kids outside - kickball - and then tripped over my own damn feet and ta da!”

“Were you at home when this happened? Playing with your kids?”

“Oh no, I’m a teacher,” you quickly explained, a warm flush rising up your cheeks at the thought of children, “it was on their lunch break at school. I-I don’t have any children of my own.”

You weren’t sure why you felt the need to offer up a clarifying statement.

“I see,” she made a few notes before turning back to you, “it looks pretty bad, to be quite frank. I’m going to assume it wasn’t a break, a sprain rather, from how you’re managing, but we’ll need to do some x-rays to confirm. We’ll do your blood work as well just to make sure everything is in order. Before we do x-rays or anything - are you pregnant?”

“No,” you admitted, looking at your feet as you tried not to sigh. It had been on your mind recently, and you weren’t sure quite what to make of your own feelings on the matter. While you hadn't been actively trying, you couldn't help but wonder if it would ever happen.

“Any chance you could be?” 

“Umm,” you twiddled your thumbs as you shrugged your shoulders, “I-I suppose. I’m not on birth control and my husband and I don’t use protection...we’ve been trying but not trying if that makes sense? But my cycle’s been regular so I highly doubt it.”

“Okay,” the scratching of her pen on paper was almost maddening as she was making notes and you just sat there. You could curse yourself for babbling on to her, but you couldn’t really help it. Besides, it’d be better for them to know all the details if they were going to x-ray and poke and prod you, “very good. Let me just go get everything and we’ll get started and a better look at everything. We’ll have you set and on your way in no time.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Here you go,” you scratched Stevie’s ears as you offered him a treat, a scrap of carrot from the vegetables you were chopping up for dinner, “what do you think, buddy? Should we tell him tonight?”

“Should we tell who and what tonight?” Javi’s voice startled you so much that you almost dropped your knife. You hadn’t even heard him come in, ever the sneaky DEA agent as he walked into the kitchen. A smile was on his face as he came over to you and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, “hi baby.”

“J-Javi,” you couldn’t help but melt into his touch, despite his surprise arrival, “you’re home!”

“Oh very observant of you, Dulzura,” he teased as he pulled back and started to undo his tie. It was only then that he noticed you weren’t wearing what you had earlier in the day; you were in one of his sweaters and a pair of joggers and… “what the hell happened to your ankle?!”

There it was  - Javier switching into overdrive. You put everything down on the counter and turned to him, putting on your most innocent and sheepish expression. His large, warm hands found your face as he looked you over to make sure you were okay. 

“It’s nothing, Javi,” you promised him, “I swear it. It’s just a bad sprain, but I went and had it looked at and they wrapped it and gave me pain killers. It’s umm...a stupid little story actually…”

“What happened?” he bent down and reached out to tentatively and delicately cheek the binding to make sure the nurse had properly tended to your sprain. He made a small sound of disgruntled satisfaction before standing up and waiting for a proper explanation, “why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you, Javier,” you promised as he crossed his arms over his broad but acquiesced with a nod, “you’re so busy, and honestly, it wasn’t a big deal at all. Besides, Anna was ready to call you immediately, but I told her not to worry. All that happened was that I was outside with the kids and we were playing kickball and I tried over my laces, fell, and twisted my ankle. It hurts, but no fracture or anything.”

Javier’s lips twitched as he tried not to laugh, his shoulders shaking with effort as he just studied you, “are you....are you serious, Dulzura?”

“Don’t laugh at me!” you pouted as he started laughing at your dismal nod when you confirmed that that was what actually happened, “they thought I was cool and how was I supposed to say no to them!? I’m the cool teacher to them!”

“And look what that got you,” he snickered as you sighed heavily, “I’m sorry - I’m sorry. As long as you’re okay, that’s what matters. Whatever you need, just tell me the word and I’ll make sure you have it. I’ll take good care of you, Dulzura.”

“I know you will...you always do,” your heart raced as you tried to decide whether or not to tell him the rest of your revelations. But then he looked at you with those eyes, those soft brown, gentle eyes, and your heart melted. He gently pulled you into his arms as he kissed you again, chasing after your soft, sweet lips with his own, seemingly never able to get enough of you, “Javier, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you felt him smile against your lips, “what’s brought on your sudden declaration of love, mi alma?”

“I...I’m pregnant,” you blurted it out without even really thinking about it. Javier pulled back as a surprised expression crossed his features. He looked at you, seemingly in a state of shock, before opening and closing his mouth a few times, “Javi?”

“You’re pregnant?” he repeated as you nodded. It took about a moment for everything to finally come full circle as he finally realized what you had said. Immediately, an overwhelming wave of emotion came over you as you felt the back of your eyes start to sting with tears. He grabbed your face and slowly crashed his lips back onto yours and kissed deeply and slowly, “holy shit.”

“I know,” you beamed at him, “they asked before they did x-rays and blood work and then well...they discovered I was pregnant. I had no clue and then they told me and yeah - holy shit."

“That’s amazing,” he said softly, “pregnant....”

“I know,” you breathed him in and ran a hand through his dark curls, “I’m not far along, only like six weeks, so it’s still very early, but yes. We’re finally having a baby, Javier!

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around and held you in a tight embrace, “I love you so much.”

“You deserve this - everything. You are such a good man, Javier, and I am so honored to call you my husband, and the father of my child,” he almost melted under your praise as you traced along his features before resting your hand on his cheek, “I love you, Javi. I am so excited for this.”

“Me too,” he agreed, “this is everything - you are everything.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

3 months pregnant

“Dulzura?” Javier yawned as he wiped the sleep from his eyes as he got up and found you in the kitchen, peering into the fridge. You were in the mood for...something. You just weren’t sure what that something was. Everything sounded good but nothing seemed to satiate that craving you had deep within, “what are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, hoping you hadn’t woken him up by accident, “and I got hungry. I’m sorry if I woke you, my love. Go back to bed, Javier.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted as he shuffled into the kitchen and slowly pried you away from the fridge, “sit down, and let me make you something to eat. What sounds good?”

“Javier,” you did as he asked, padding over to the other side of the counter and taking a seat at the bar. You rested your head on your hands as he stifled a yawn, "honey, go back to bed. You're exhausted and you've got back to back classes tomorrow."

"They start in the late morning," he insisted, with a sleepy nod as you just laughed at him. He was such a stubborn man sometimes it drove you crazy - but you knew it came from a place of love and concern, "don't sleep well without you anyways. 's better when you're there."

"Oh, my sweet husband," he reached into the fridge and pulled out some cheese, butter, and your favorite pickled jalapeños. You watched in curiosity as he went to the bread box and grabbed the fresh loaf of bread you'd purchased earlier at the store, "grilled cheese?"

"Grilled cheese with jalapeños," he corrected, a lazy smile tugged up the corners of his mouth. You made a small sound of musing as you realized it didn't sound too bad at all, "and tomato soup, naturally. How does that sound?"

"Sounds delicious," you grinned eagerly as you leaned in to watch him work. You made a small sound of surprise as your stomach rumbled loudly. Apparently you were hungrier than you had thought, "apparently, my stomach and I agree. I think its your daughter that agrees."

At the mention of your baby, Javier paused and smiled, his eyes flitting to your barely visible bump. Some days he still couldn't believe that you were having a baby. You were his wife. What a wild world it was indeed; years ago he'd never dreamed he would have all of this. The Javier that once existed and refused to believe that there was any light in the world could never have pictured any of this. 

But here you were. Continually proving him wrong. And he loved it all.

"Wait - how do you know we're having a girl?" he asked, suddenly wide awake as he raised an eyebrow at you, "I thought we still need to wait another month or so."

"We do," you grinned at him, "but I just know. I'm sure of it!"

"Well, you do have a fifty-fifty chance of being right…"

"I have a hundred percent chance of being right," you insisted as you reached over the counter and grabbed the jar of pickled jalapeños and fished a few out, and popped them into your mouth, "don't argue with your pregnant wife, Javier Peña. You of all people should know not to cross someone so dangerous."

He snorted with laughter, suddenly feeling much more awake as he sliced up cheese and turned on the stove, "and if we end up having a son?"

"Then we keep having more until we have a daughter and I am proven right," you plastered on a sweet smile, knowing it would wind him up. You'd never really discussed how many children you wanted or planned on having. It was just a sort of...whatever happens happens type thing. But, if you were being honest, you'd probably have given Javier as many children as he wanted. Your husband fell silent as he watched you for a moment before taking the jar away from, "nothing to add? Silence isn't like you, my love."

"We can have as many as you'd like," he promised, "you're the one doing all the hard work. If you're done after one, then it's fine for me. You already amaze me every day."

"Don't make me cry, Javier," your whole body soaked in the warmth and love from his simple words, "its getting really easy at this point, and you're taking advantage!"

"Sorry," he shot you a wink before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to your lips, "back to business."

"Hmm," you mused quietly, "I thought kissing me was business."

"I thought you were hungry?"

"Fine," you playfully huffed as he carried on cooking, "Javi?"

"Dulzura?"

"I love you," you beamed at him, the little smile that worked its way onto his face take your breath away - as it always had. 

"I love you."

»»————-　♡　————-««

6 months pregnant

A huff escaped your lips as you tried to reach for the socks and underwear that had fallen out of the laundry basket. It was no easy feat when you couldn’t see your own feet anymore. But you were determined to get everything up and off the floor as you walked back towards your bedroom to put away the clean clothes. And you weren’t about to give up and ask for help - not yet anyway.

Instead, you opted to awkwardly lower yourself to the floor in order to blindly grab for the discarded items. But it was no use...this was almost harder. 

“You alright, Dulzura?” Javier came in and found you struggling, cleaning his dirty hands off on a rag. He’d been working outside, getting the garden spruced up as the summer slowly came to an end, “can’t reach?”

“I can,” you stuck your tongue out at him as he huffed with laughter, but motioned for you to go on. Wanting to prove that you were right, and weren’t completely helpless after all. It hadn’t been easy having to give up a lot of the things you used to be able to do with ease as you progressed in your pregnancy. The fact that none of your pants would fit over your belly anymore had been a point of horror for you - it meant you were truly and actually pregnant, you were actually having a baby. You’d always known, but that had been what made it all extremely real. Every day you got closer and closer to your due date, it all became a little more real. Exciting - but terrifying. 

Not being able to see your feet had been another blow. You could hardly get proper shoes on anymore, opting for easy slide ons, which were great for the warmth of summer and didn’t matter since you were on summer break along with your kids. It was almost as though Javier could sense your frustration, and he’d often silently help you with getting your shoes on in the morning. He never said a word, knowing he didn’t have to. He always told you he loved you in so many ways, often without saying it. 

You tried to again, dangling your hand along on the floor as you tried again. After watching you struggle for a moment, Javier came over and grabbed everything in one foul swoop before taking your hand in his and helping you upright. 

“Hey,” you pouted at him as he put the items back into your basket, “I almost had it!”

“I know,” he kissed the tip of your nose, “but I wanted to help. Why can I not help my gorgeous wife?”

“Your very pregnant and easily frustrated wife?” you teased as you started to walk towards the bedroom. He followed after you, swatting at your bum as you squealed in delight, “Javier!”

“Come on, mi alma,” he grinned, “let me help put everything away.”

“If I let you help, you’re just going to take me to bed and then I’ll have to wash the sheets again!”

“I’ve never heard a single complaint from you before,” as you set the basket on the dresser, he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist before settling a hand on your belly and gently rubbing it a few times. He pressed a few kisses to the side of your neck as you tilted your head to give him easier access, “there we go, Dulzura. Just like you like it.”

“You’re the worst,” you teased as you turned your head to kiss him, “you’re lucky I love you. And I’m seemingly always in the mood right now - they really weren’t kidding about pregnancy making you more horny. Although, I’ve never heard a single complaint from you before.”

“And you never will,” he promised, his low in your ear as you tried not to completely let your mind wander too far away, “do you have any plans for this afternoon, Dulzura?”

“N-no,” you  managed to choke out as one of his hands skimmed along the waistband of your leggings. You knew exactly where this was going, and you were loath to stop him, especially as he slowly kept kissing you.

“Good,” he rasped, “because I have plans for you. Been thinking about you all day, especially in these tight leggings. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you honey?”

“Uh huh,” you agreed as his warm hand slipped inside and a shiver ran up your spine, “Javier. Please.”

“Don’t worry, mi alma,” he captured your gasp in a sweet kiss, “I’ll take good care of you.”

The laundry could definitely wait.

»»————-　♡　————-««

9 months pregnant 

It was an early, chilling morning as you sipped on some tea as you sat out in the garden. It was probably too cold to be sitting outside, but you were handled up in blankets and didn't care. 

Christmas was a few weeks away and you enjoyed peeking into the neighbor's yards to see what they all had going on for decorations.

"Are you sure you don't want to come inside?" Javier poked his head out from the sliding screen door, his brow furrowed in concentration, "its freezing! And I have breakfast!"

"I've got blankets and a baby keeping me warm," you reminded him, pointing at your large belly. You were due in a couple of weeks; how time had flown. He jokingly frowned at you, sticking out his tongue. Playfully rolling your eyes, you clambered to your feet and waddled over to him, "fine, hold on you big baby. This is because I want breakfast."

Javier was on his winter break from teaching and you were on maternity leave now and you definitely didn't mind having him around all the time. If you could have always had it this way, you definitely wouldn't have minded.

"I'm just looking out for you," he insisted with a pout as you pressed a kiss to his lips, "I talked to Papà. He's really excited to come in a few weeks - more like excited to meet his grandbaby."

"I'm not complaining at all," you insisted, knowing there would be many sleepless nights and chaotic days ahead of you, "we'll need all the help we can get. Hell, maybe we can convince Steve and Connie to come and visit too…"

"I'm sure we'll have all the help in the world between our families and friends, Dulzura," he promised as he took your hand and pulled you into the warm kitchen, putting a plate of breakfast for you on the counter, "I'm sure we'll get sick of having so many people around."

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see," you took a bite and smiled as Stevie laid by your feet. The whole house was warm and cozy, perfectly decorated for Christmas, with a huge tree and already lots of presents. Javier had really outdone himself this year, seemingly more in the Christmas spirit than you. Honestly, you were feeling a little bit out of it - being so pregnant would do that to you. 

You watched your husband for a few moments, admiring his profile and lazy smile. Gods, you were still so in love with him. He felt you watching him closely, and turned to you, cooking a dark brow, "what's on your mind, mi alma?"

"Nothing much," you shrugged lightly, feeling a flush of warmth was over you at him catching you, "just thinking about how I love you, and how I'm glad you're here with me, that you knocked me up, and yeah. Are you…are you nervous Javi?"

"About the baby?"

"No, about the Astros' odds next season," you snorted as he groaned at your joke, "of course the baby. I'm just...so nervous. Like I feel ready to meet her, but I'm so scared that I'll fuck it up somehow."

"You still think its a girl?"

"Positive," you grinned at him - you'd decided not to find out the sex ahead of time, leaving it a surprise for both of you. You were still convinced it was a girl, Javier was undecided, "we'll find out soon enough!"

"Either way," he brought his plate and sat down next to you, "everything will be alright. You're going to be an amazing mother, Dulzura. You are everything."

"I love you, Javier," you beamed as he gently put a hand on your belly, "I know it'll be alright, but holy shit - I'm so nervous. Its getting so real lately. We're going to be parents."

"Parents," he repeated, "fuck."

"Who would have thought-" you were quickly cut off when you felt the baby flutter round. A small sound of surprise left your lips as you grabbed Javier's hand and placed it on your belly, "she's telling you not to curse."

He was silent for a moment as a smile spread on his features; despite having felt this many times by now, it still continued to surprise him. He couldn't even imagine how it felt for you, "this is...everything."

"I realized I didn't know what to get you for Christmas so I got you a baby instead," you don't know why it came to mind, but as soon as the words left your lips you brought into a fit of laughter - Javier joined in, a brilliant sound that you adored above all.

"Best Christmas present ever," he whispered before leaning in and giving you a gentle kiss - sweet from the syrup and pancakes he had just eaten, "I mean it. I love you both more than you will ever know."

"We love you too," you grinned as he stroked your belly, "I'm glad your class was the only one available and I took it. I'm glad you were a grumpy professor that let me into his office - I was able to work my magic and look where that got us."

He threw his back with laughter, his dark curls shining brilliantly in the light as his eyes crinkled in the corners. You'd never been more glad for subjecting yourself to his class.

"Me too," he whispered as he put a hand on your cheek, "you always were a stubborn thing."

"Some things never change," you stuck your tongue out at him, "I trust your daughter will be the same!"

»»————-　♡　————-««

You were humming to yourself as you shuffled around the kitchen and tried to put together a mid afternoon snack when you felt an odd sensation in your lower belly. It caused you to drop the knife on the counter as you held onto the marble and gritted your teeth. Stevie was at your feet in an instant, looking at you with concern.

"Its okay, buddy," you reassured him as the pain passed. Surely it couldn't have been anything too bad...probably just an end of pregnancy pain. Sighing at your nonsense worry, you reached for the knife again but before you reached it, the pain was back, "never mind, shit shit shit."

Trying to keep yourself calm, you leaned against the counter and tried to even your breathing. Contractions. Of course. You were due in a week and you still hadn't been expecting it.

"Javier?" he was down the hall in the second bedroom that had been converted into the nursery, putting away the final touches of clothing. Before he could respond, you felt an odd sensation followed by liquid running down your legs, "Javier!"

"What's wrong, Dulzura?" he rushed down the hall and back into the kitchen, worry etched onto his features as you stood there in shock and clutched at your belly, "honey-"

"My water broke," you said meekly as you pointed to your wet pants, "and I've had a few contractions - I think the baby's coming."

"Okay," he immediately kicked into gear as he remained cool and calm, despite wanting to panic and worry along with you, "its okay. I'm going to get the hospital bag, we'll get you in the car, Stevie to the neighbor, and then we'll go and have a baby."

"You make it seem so simple," you huffed lightly as you tried to channel his inner calm demeanor, "we'll be okay, right? I-I'm scared…"

"I know, honey," he promised as he kissed the side of your head, "you've done so amazing already, it will all be okay. I'm right here, okay? I'm just going to grab your bag and the dog and we'll go. Ten minutes and we'll be on the way."

"Okay," you agreed as he practically ran down the hall to get your packed bag, "we're going to have a baby, Javi."

"Indeed we are," he agreed with a small smile as he reached for his wallet and keys and stuff for the neighbor to watch Stevie for a few days, "we're having our baby."

Holy shit.

��»————-　♡　————-««

“You’re doing amazing, sweetheart,” Javier praised you as you squeezed his hand after another push. You groaned and gritted your teeth as you glared at him; this was absolute hell, “the baby’s almost there.”

“Shut up, Javier,” you hissed as you got ready for another push, “I am never letting you touch me again! You did this to me.”

“Hey - it was a team effort,” he reminded you in a vain attempt at a joke. Your death glare and the squeezing of his hand said it all, “sorry, Dulzura. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said as you took a deep breath, “but right now, I’m blaming this on you.”

“Fair enough,” he said as you pushed again. He was sure his hand was going to break.

»»————-　♡　————-««

It wasn’t much longer before you were laying back and holding the smallest bundle you could ever imagine in your arms. You were somewhere between crying tears of joy and exhaustion, as you stared at your newborn daughter in awe. Javier was sitting next to you, looking down at her, his own eyes glossy as he gently touched her cheek. She had the darkest eyes and a shock of dark hair, already taking after her father. She had come into the world squealing and crying but had fallen asleep almost as soon as Javier held her. 

“I told you we were having a girl,” you teased him softly, “I was right. Look at her, Javier. That’s our daughter. We made her.”

“You did all the hard work, mi alma,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, “she’s beautiful.”

“Lucia Luna Peña,” you grinned at your husband, “it’s perfect. I love you both more than you could ever know. Javier...you really are everything to me - the best friend, best husband, and now the best father. She’s going to love the hell out of you, just like I do.”

He remained silent for a moment as he looked at the sleeping baby before looking back at you. His whole world was in his arms, and the thought of that alone was enough to overwhelm him with emotion. He’d never thought he wanted this - a “boring” job, a home, a wife, and a baby. 

But here he was. And he had never felt happier, never felt more full of love and life. This was everything. 

“I love you so much, Dulzura - you and Lucia,” he promised as he rested his head on top of yours, “you have given me everything, more than you know. Te quiero con todo.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[nat-20s]

Part 5 of Wonderful! Au. *boyband voice* banter’s back alright!

Also on AO3

~*~

Jon: Hello everyone, and welcome back to our regular format. If my husband being horribly soppy-

Martin:-hey!-

Jon: -turned you off the how, this should be a refreshing return to formula, though I can’t guarantee there won’t be further horrible soppiness-

Martin, performatively under his breath: -most people thought it was charming-

Jon: -as that tends to happen when one is recording with the love of their life. If last week’s episode is the only one that you like, too bad, I’m back in full form, and should be at least through the rest of the season.

Martin: This show doesn’t have seasons? Due to the whole lack of a narrative thing?

Jon: I was referring to spring.

Martin: Oh, right.

[A beat passes.]

Martin, flatly: Oh. Great goof hon.

Jon, smug: Thank you.

Jon, sincere: Also, before we get properly started, I did want to actually thank everyone who sent well wishes.

M artin: Yes! We got positively inundated with lovely messages, it definitely brightened both of our days. I would even say it was wonderful.

[Jon groans.]

Jon: I am..not proud of the energy we’ve created for this episode so far, and we haven’t even hit the small wonders. Speaking of, do you have a small wonder this week?

Martin: Mine’s bad action movies.

Jon: Really? I had no idea you even liked them, let alone consider them wonderful.

Martin: Okay, so, saying I like them is a bit of a misnomer? It’s more that I like what they can do more than the movies themselves?

Jon: Elaborate?

Martin: It probably comes as a surprise to no one that I’ve tried my hand at a fair amount of mindfulness and mediation techniques. I’ve found poetry and journaling have been helpful for actually processing life events and whatnot, but when it comes to giving your brain a hard wipe and reset, nothing is half as quick and effective as a shitty shoot-em-up. Somethings about 2 hours of cartoonish, pg-13 violence held together with the absolute loosest of plots brings me to a state of mental blankness that would make a monk jealous.

Jon: How have I never witnessed you doing this? When are you sneaking off to go see Micheal Tarantino or who ever films?

M artin: That’s definitely not the right name.

Jon: Martin, dear, I don’t care. And you’re dodging the question.

Martin, fond: I’m not dodging anything. Since apparently we’re getting into it, you haven’t caught me cavorting with a movie involving more explosions than character development lately because I haven’t been. Haven’t needed it, in recent years. Turns out when you’re not crushingly lonely and working a literal nightmare of job, there’s less of a drive to try and escape your own thoughts. Shocker, I know. Still, to anyone out there that feels like their brain is on fire, go try watching a fast and furious. Any of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Or even better, Chronicles of Riddick. I can’t remember a single goddamn detail of that movie, which makes it perfect for what I’m talking about.

Jon: I have the strong feeling that th is is a “mileage may vary” scenario.

Martin: Well, yeah, that’s this whole podcast. Plus, I imagine that movies like this would cause more stress to someone who cares about, say, world-building or rules consistency.

Jon: I wonder who you could possibly be referring to.

Martin: It’s a purely hypothetical person, love, don’t worry about it. Any small wonders?

Jon: Yes! Particularly relevant to the last week, my small wonder is stripping the sheets from your bed when it’s been too long between washes.

Martin: How very specific. M ost people would just say ‘clean sheets’.

Jon: Well, for one, I’m fairly certain that we’ve already covered clean sheets-

Martin: Shit, have we? Thank god other people keep track of this, otherwise this show would be unbearably repetitive.

Jon: Christ, yes. I typically check the website a good three times while prepping, and every about one out of those three times I find I’m trying to do an topic we did 30 episodes again. Anyway, um, it’s just nice, I think. When you’ve been too busy or sick or away for awhile, tossing the sheets in the wash makes a room instantly seem nicer. Of all the chores out there, this one, at least for me, has the highest reward to effort ratio.

Martin: Hard agree. Especially when the y have that slight funk of having been around to long, getting rid of that is such a relief. Speaking of, we need to change our sheets soon.

Jon: We can do it after the episode. Who goes first this week?

Martin: Considering last week was only me talking, I’m gonna say it’s you.

Jon: Alright, then. My first thing this week is Martin K. Blackwood.

Martin: Absolutely not!

Jon: Oh, you can do a whole episode on me, but I can’t do one little segment on my husband, whom I love very dearly?

Martin: Not while I’m sat here, no!

Jon: So you’re saying you don’t want me to tell the internet that your resolve to be kind even in the face of indescribable cruelty is one of the mot breathtaking things I’ve ever witnessed, or how I find it incredibly endearing when you get so emotional that your voice comes out as a squeak, or even that, on a more base level, you’re very physically attractive, and I could lose entire days thinking about your arms alone?

Martin, audibly blushing, voice the aforementioned squeak: Oh my god, Jon!

Jon, laughing: Then it’s probably for the best that my actual first thing is best friends.

Martin, peaking the audio levels: Oh you absolute bastard! Do you enjoy this? Do you get some sort of perverse sense of entertainment from riling me up?

Jon: Oh, don’t you start. As if you’re not as bad as I am. Maybe even worse.

Martin: That’s not…

Jon: Yes?

Martin: Okay. Maybe it’s slightly true. Really, what is romance for if not flustering your partner with compliments?

Jon, teasing: I certainly can’t think of anything.

Martin: Hush, you.

Jon: No, I don’t think I will.

Martin: Fine. I suppose you can tell our delightful audience about the power of friendship or whatever.

Jon: I would’ve assumed more enthusiasm, considering this segment is still, indirectly, about you.

Martin: In what way?

Jon: In the way that, to the shock of all, you’re my best friend.

Martin, pleased: Oh, is that what I am?

Jon, exasperated: Yes, dearest husband, I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. Though, upon reflection, I knew you were my best friend before I knew I held romantic feelings for you.

Martin: When was that?

Jon, letting out a breath that vibrates his lips: God it was...2016? I think it might’ve literally been the day after you told me about your CV.

Martin: That early? Huh. I wonder if that’s what people were picking up when they said they we were close.

Jon: What people?

Martin: I don’t know specifically, that’s just what Daisy told me.

Jon: Daisy? When the hell-?

Martin: It...was when she was interrogating me? And, because sometimes I have to be a parody of myself, pretty much my only take away from that interrogation was “people think me and Jon are close”.

Jon: Well then. It’s not like they were wrong.

Martin, smug: No, no they weren’t.

Martin, sincere: And you’re my best friend, too.

Jon: I was certainly hoping that you’re in this relationship for more than my good looks and incredible fortune, both in the monetary and luck sense.

Martin: You say that as if you aren’t good looking, which we all know is patently untrue.

Jon: You’re biased. You’d say I was good looking if I were nothing more than some primordial ooze with thoughts about its station.

Martin: I’m being completely objective. If you were primordial ooze with thoughts above its station, you’d be the cutest ooze of them all. That’s just scientific fact.

Jon: I’m starting to think we might be insufferable.

Martin: Starting to? Might be?

Jon:…

[Jon clears his throat]

Jon: What I find wonderful about the concept of best friends is, to me, they’re the closest thing real life has to soulmates. I don’t personally believe that there’s some..grand mystic force that drives people to be tied together in the manner that narrative typical soulmates are, and if there was I don’t think it would necessarily be the kind of emotional, heartfelt bond one would hope for, but I do believe that there’s individuals that get to know one another, and because of that knowledge, they chose to stick with one another. It doesn’t have to be a romantic, which is why I say best friend rather than specifically ‘spouse’, but I would argue that the basis of a strong romance like you and I have, is very much rooted in that connection. A true best friendship is an equal partnership, and there’s a sense of..matched sensibilities and understanding that can be utterly incandescent when it happens.

I also think that having one or more best friends makes living life on a day to day basis both better and just flat easier. The dark times aren’t as dark, and the bright times shine even more. I know from my own personal experience there are events that I..that I don’t know how I would’ve made it through without you. Hell, last week my..recovery period would’ve taken much longer if you hadn’t been there.

It’s an amazing thing to have someone to share things with, both triumphs and burdens. Um, also, according to Dictionary.com, the term best friends in English has been around since the 1200s. Something about that delights me, like, yes, we’ve had this casual way of referring to a Favorite Person for roughly 800 years. That makes it a hold-out from early Middle English. I dunno, it’s one of those things that make me feel overall very charmed by humanity.

Martin, audibly smiling: No, yeah, hard agree.

Jon: What’s that look for?

Martin: Nothing. Just. I love you a whole lot, you know that?

Jon, voice soft: I may have heard you say that once or twice. Per hour.

Martin: Only that often? I really need to be more diligent about that.

[There’s a bet of silence, presumably where they’re making doe eyes at each other.]

Jon: What’s your first thing?

Martin: Oh, um, right. Rats!

Jon: The expression or the animal?

Martin: Jon, have you ever once heard me say “rats” as an expression? Obviously I’m referring to the animal.

Jon: Ah. Should’ve known, considering that what, a third?, of all your segments have been on animals.

Martin: Yeah? And? You got a problem with critters? With creatures? With lil guys?

Jon, laughing: No, no, it’s very sweet. I’m just surprised you never became a vet.

Martin: Oh believe me, I wanted to. But then I learned that it was not, in fact, a job composed entirely of getting paid to play with other people’s pets.

Jon: You had that job, though, didn’t you? I thought I remembered you mentioning a month long stint at a doggie day care.

Martin, sighing dreamily: Best job I ever had. Too bad that place was shut down after it was revealed to be a money laundering front.

Jon: Good lord.

Jon: Martin did you...did you know it was a money laundering front at the time?

Martin:

Martin: Would it make you feel better if I said no?

Jon: Martin!

Martin: I figured it out like a week in, but, like, who cares? The pay was decent and the floor was super easy to clean, which is very much a plus for even a front of a doggie day care.

Jon: That’s...rather a lot. How about instead of getting into that any further, you tell me about rodents.

Martin: I would love to. But first, we have a shoutout!

Jon: Ooo, a shoutout. Does it specify who should read?

Martin: Let me check. It...does...not…..

...

Jon: Martin?

[A beat.]

Martin: Right! Sorry, um. This week’s shoutout is from Tim, to Danny. It says, “Danny! My favorite person who shares genetic material with me! I wanted to say thank you for your podcast obsession from 4 months ago, and specifically for telling me about these marrieds. They’ve gotten me through many a dull hour at the publishing house. Also, with this shoutout, I’ve officially gotten ahead on the Superior [Last Name Redacted] Brother scoreboard, so suck it. Love you lots, and looking forward to your visit next month, Tim.”

Jon: Oh.

Jon: Um. That’s very..sweet? I think? Mostly?

Martin: Yeah, I’d say so. Uh. We have to take a quick break because, uh, someone is..at our front door! Be back with you all in, from your side of things, just a moment.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Twenty

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: sorry for the wait yall this month really kicked my ass,, but also we reached part 20!!

tw infertility discussion

***

Gwyn: isn’t he beautiful <3

In the freezing February air outside the tea house, Nesta clicks on the picture attached to Gwyn’s text. It’s a distant shot of a man in his mid-thirties hunched over a library desk while working, unaware that there’s a camera on him. She’ll give it to Gwyn, though—he is a little handsome.

Emerie: the stalker levels are through the roof, gwyneth. seek help.

Gwyn: no i’m gonna marry him

Nesta doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned, but she types out a brief response before her thumbs fall off from the cold: Will give my opinion on him later. Got to go.

Gwyn’s crush will have to wait, Nesta thinks as she finally puts her phone away and pushes her way inside the exquisite tea house. Immediately, blasting heat thaws her frozen fingers and toes, and farther inside she spots the table she reserved for three. Right now, only one person sits at it.

Nesta grits her teeth and approaches the round table, heels clicking softly on the parquet floors. Elain doesn’t look up from the menu she’s reading. “This place would be nicer to visit in the spring,” is her only acknowledgment of Nesta.

“I like the winter,” Nesta answers simply, taking her seat across from Elain. She likes how the ice creeps over the garden outside until everything looks frozen in time, and she likes how the colorful flowers and trees become dulled by white snow. Not that her sister would understand or care.

“Of course you do,” Elain mutters, setting down the menu with all the careful elegance of a debutante. “I’m only here for Feyre, anyway.”

It almost saddens Nesta that she doesn’t feel hurt or offense at the words. She thought she would care more about Elain’s opinion than she actually does. “Where is Feyre, then?” she says, looking pointedly at the empty seat between them. “I thought she was coming with you.”

“I’m right here,” a breathless voice says, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps. Feyre appears, looking flushed from exertion and the cold. She sets her bag down and joins them at the table, scooting her seat all the way in. “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Nesta bites. “I was just about to order.”

“So was I.” Elain smiles breezily.

Feyre glances between the two of them, clear concern on her face, but she covers it up and says, “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

It was Feyre’s idea, of course. After Nesta told her off for never being interested in what she wanted to do, Feyre actually listened. She asked if Nesta wanted to hang out, and then let Nesta fill in the rest of the details on her own terms.

Which brings them to the tea house. Unfortunately for her sisters, however, Nesta doesn’t really know where to go from ordering tea and biscuits.

“How is school going?” Feyre asks her after their drinks arrive.

Nesta sips from her tea, already bored. “It’s been fifteen minutes and you have yet to say anything of substance, Feyre. It makes me miss being alone with Elain and her mood.”

Feyre looks taken aback, and Elain levels a glare at Nesta. An unsurprised, of course you have to ruin everything like this glare.

So Nesta clarifies, “That wasn’t an attack. I just hoped that after driving out here, I would get something better than shallow small talk.”

“And how do you know it was shallow?” Elain steps in harshly. “How do you know she isn’t actually interested in how you’re doing at school?”

Nesta slides blunt blue eyes to Feyre. “If that’s the case, then I commend you. Personally, I wouldn’t give a shit if I was in your position.”

To her surprise, Feyre snorts. She looks resigned when she says, “No, you’re right. I don’t care about what’s going on at school, not if you don’t. What would you rather we talk about then, Nesta?”

Without hesitation, Nesta says, “Ask me something you really care to hear the answer to.”

Elain shuts her mouth and sits back at that. Feyre twists her lips, thinking her next words over carefully. “How is your therapy going?” she finally asks in a cautious tone. “What do you talk about there?”

Remembering that she’s in a formal setting, Nesta stops herself from crossing her arms. She settles on wrapping her fingers delicately around her teacup instead. “We talk about whatever I feel like talking about,” she answers honestly. Although lately her conversations with Lana feel more restrained than usual.

“And what’s that?” Feyre urges.

Nesta shrugs, fitting apathy onto her face like an old mask. “Recently? Childbearing.” But it isn’t her favorite topic of discussion, not at all.

“You’re pregnant?” Elain jumps in, leading Nesta to throw her an unamused look.

“No, idiot,” she says. “My therapist just has the idea that if I end up being infertile it’ll screw me up, mentally and emotionally and whatever. She thinks I should deal with that baggage now instead of saving it for later.” She rolls her eyes thinking about it. How many times does she have to repeat that she doesn’t care about her body’s reproductive abilities until Lana gets it?

Feyre chuckles, confused. “Why would you be infertile?”

Nesta forgot—she didn’t want her sisters knowing anything that has to do with her health. She even made Cassian keep her doctor visits secret from Feyre. But that was months ago, and the sisters are… not exactly in a better place now, but looking for the way there. Nesta thinks she can tell them without any severe regrets. “I have endometriosis.”

When she’s met with silence, she adds, “You know, with the tissue growing on my ovaries and stuff. It might affect all the babies I don’t care to have in the future.”

Elain is the first to speak. “You always wanted to be a mother.” Her voice is soft, almost mourning. It irritates the hell out of Nesta.

“No, I didn’t,” she snaps back.

“You did,” Elain insists. Feyre still hasn’t said anything. “You took care of our cat, Mittens, until the day she died. You taught Feyre her alphabet. You raised me when Mama and Papa were too busy to do it. You never carried dolls around in strollers or anything, but you loved being a mother.”

“I don’t remember any of this,” Feyre says, blinking. “I’m sorry, can we go back to the endometriosis part?”

Nesta sips from her tea, the bitter taste a welcome distraction from Elain’s words. “What about it?”

“How long have you known?” Feyre demands.

“It isn’t cancer. And I’m getting treated, obviously. I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Nesta sighs, setting her cup down. “October. Cassian made me go to the doctor because he was worried about my periods, we had a big fight about health insurance, and now I use my salary from your boyfriend to afford medication so I don’t feel like dying every month. Is that everything you wanted to hear?”

Feyre only stares at her, for once revealing no emotion. “I keep forgetting,” she says finally, “that we’re not at a place to share things like that with each other. I keep being surprised every time I realize how much of your life you keep from us.”

“I don’t,” Elain huffs under her breath while she tears a croissant in half.

Nesta is still watching Feyre. “You remember how bad my cycles were? I would cry loud enough at night to wake the house.”

Feyre flinches at the memory, and Elain goes still.

“But no one ever woke up,” Nesta says. They never talked about it before, and she has no desire to keep speaking about it now. If they start to tally all the hurts they’ve dealt to each other, Nesta fears they’ll be here for hours. Worse, she fears she will lose.

She reaches for a lavender macaron and delicately pulls it apart, studying the cream filling inside. “Did you know they make these using the lavender flowers from the garden outside?”

“I hate lavender,” Elain says.

Spying her chance to shift the subject off herself, Nesta goes for it. “Because Azriel smells like lavender?” She pushes one half of the dainty cookie past her lips, chewing. “It’s an interesting cologne choice, I agree.”

“Wait, what are we talking about now?” Feyre looks around, unaware that they’ve moved onto another topic.

Elain’s innocent brown eyes turn into daggers pointed at Nesta, betrayal written across her face. Nesta feels no pity for her—especially not if they’re going to sit around judging each other for keeping secrets.

Feyre’s eyes widen and she turns to Elain. “Is it about your,” she lowers her voice and whispers, “crush?”

Nesta raises a skeptical brow. She doubts whatever Az and Elain have stops at just a crush.

“No, it’s not,” Elain answers determinedly. “God, do you have to bring men into everything, Nesta?”

“I think you’re projecting.”

“Quit it,” Feyre snaps at the both of them. “Or I’ll grab my things and leave.”

Do it, Nesta almost dares. But she has a feeling that Feyre means it, that she won’t submit to being taunted, so Nesta reins the words back from the tip of her tongue. After all, this tea is expensive.

The sisters take a moment to settle, and Feyre is the one to restart the conversation. “Either way,” she tells Nesta, “it looks like counseling is going really well for you. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, it really gives your skin a certain glow,” Elain drawls.

Nesta doesn’t rise to meet her sarcasm. In all seriousness, Elain and Feyre could probably use a therapist themselves. It might make Nesta’s interactions with them less headache-inducing.

“You should visit one day,” she throws the suggestion out without thinking.

“What, like a therapy session?” Feyre says.

Realizing the implications of her terrible idea, Nesta forces herself not to backpedal. “Yes,” she makes herself grit out. “If you’re interested, that is.”

Elain and Feyre share a glance of hesitation and concern. It’s a glance that grates on Nesta’s nerves, but she keeps her mouth shut and waits for a response.

Feyre answers first: “We’ll do it.”

Elain looks more doubtful, but seems to realize that refusing to go would paint her in a negative light. We can’t have that, can we? Nesta thinks wryly. She reaches for some macarons and starts stuffing them into her purse. “Sounds good. Great.” It is not at all great. Having her sisters in the same room as her and Lana might just be terrible enough to ruin Nesta’s next month or two.

“I’ll text you the details whenever I feel like it,” she tells Feyre and Elain as she rises out of her seat. Likely not for as long as possible.

“Where are you going?” Elain demands.

“I’m leaving.” Nesta pointedly drapes her coat over her shoulders, picking up her purse. “I have plans for the rest of the day, sorry.” Plans to get home and rate Gwyn’s work crush on a scale of one to ten. Maybe she’ll rewatch a sitcom if she has time.

“But it’s only been an hour,” Feyre protests.

Did Feyre think they would be spending the whole day together? Nesta wants to shudder at the mere idea of it, but she somehow… feels bad for her sister. “Maybe another time,” she promises vaguely. To provide some sort of reassurance, she adds, “I had fun today. Thanks for pulling this together.” The words are hollow, fake, and she’s probably a hypocrite for not being able to return the same sincerity she demanded from Feyre. But honesty isn’t going to get Nesta very far today, so this false politeness is the best she can manage.

Elain looks somewhat relieved, and Feyre looks disappointed but unsurprised. “Alright.” The girls nod at her. “Get home safe.”

She turns and leaves as soon as she’s given the green light.

A stale scent greets Nesta when she enters her apartment, reminding her that she hasn’t been around in days. In her defense, the winter months are easier to bear in Cassian’s heated cabin than in a poorly insulated basement.

Flicking the lights on, Nesta books it to the thermostat, her teeth nearly chattering out of her body. After turning the heat as high as it can go, she climbs beneath the covers of her bed without bothering to take her coat off. She doesn’t take out her phone to text the groupchat like she promised she would. She doesn’t even get her laptop to turn Netflix on. Rather, her focus is caught on the framed picture of her and Cassian sitting atop the dresser.

Everything was okay as she stepped out of the tea house. It wasn’t until she was inside her car that it came upon her: the whirlwind of emotions that had stayed so carefully hidden while she chatted with her sisters. All throughout the drive home, her mind kept returning to that one topic. Children.

Elain said that Nesta used to genuinely enjoy playing substitute mother when they were children, and she was right. But that was all fun and games, like playing teacher. What Elain left out was what happened after their actual mother died and their father went into debt, leaving all three girls in need of a parent figure. Nesta wasn’t a mother then—or at least, not a good one.

Now, she stares at the picture full of smiley cheeks and windblown hair, remembering the night that she realized she wanted to hold Cassian’s hand in hers.

She can’t imagine Cassian not wanting kids. They’ve never discussed it, but it’s so obvious to anyone who’s ever met him: he has too much love to give away to not one day end up with a whole brood of children. The thought makes Nesta’s stomach churn.

***

“Thanks again, guys.” Cassian shakes hands with his team as they file out of the conference room, all of them dressed professionally while he lingers in his hoodie. As soon as the last worker is out the door, he pulls out his phone, ready to shoot Nesta a message. She met up with her sisters alone today for the first time in a year, and he can’t wait any longer to find out if their brunch ended in a fight or not.

He clicks on his phone to find two texts from his brother, sent not too long ago.

Rhys: You’re in the office today for the monthly check-in, right?

Rhys: Don’t leave after the meeting is over. I’ll be there in an hour to introduce you to the new guy heading the Milan project.

Cassian frowns, confused. Rhys and the new guy are coming all the way up here to meet him? He didn’t know he was that important to the project.

While he waits for his unexpected guests, Cassian texts Nesta twice, and only receives a single short response saying she got home safe. Resolving to call and have a real conversation with her later, he gets up to change into the spare buttondown and pressed slacks he keeps in a locker in his office. If Rhys wants him to play the part of company boss, then he might as well look the part.

He’s adjusting the cuffs of his dark-colored shirt when the door to his office opens without warning, and Rhysand strides in followed by a stiff-looking young man.

Cassian eyes the stranger up and down first, trying to get a read on him the way he’s seen Nesta and Rhys read others. He doesn’t come up with a single thing, as usual, but he hopes he achieved his goal of looking intimidating.

“Cass,” Rhys greets him with a subdued nod, in full CEO mode. “This is our new hire, Keith O’Connell. I snagged him from right under Vanserra & Co.’s noses.” His near-violet eyes gleam with pride. “He’s going to be working out of Milan for us starting this summer.”

“Sounds good to me.” Cassian smiles lazily, and this is something he doesn’t need to fake—confidence. He reaches out to shake Keith’s hand. “Hi. I’m Cassian Madani.”

“Good to meet you.” The other man shakes back, but his grip is too tight, like he’s trying to break Cassian’s hand. Try-hard, a voice that sounds like Nesta tells him. Uses arrogance to cover up his insecurity.

Cassian takes it all into account as he pulls his hand away, seeing Keith through clearer eyes. His dark brown hair is slicked back with copious amounts of hair product, and a shrewd black gaze takes in every detail of the office. He stands like he’s attempting to seem taller than he actually is.

A typical white-collar worker looking for a way up the corporate ladder, Cassian concludes. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but there must be a reason Rhys is so excited about him.

“Keith is starting here at your branch next week,” Rhys is saying when Cassian refocuses.

He blinks, unsure if he heard correctly. “What, all the way out here?” Away from Velaris in this modest mountain town?

“We agreed it was best if you two work together as closely as possible while preparing for the summer launch. Since you can’t come to Velaris, that means Keith comes here.”

Cassian looks at Rhys in astonishment. He thought that once he rejected the Milan position, he’d cleaned his hands of the job for good. Clearly he was wrong. “Just how involved am I going to be on this project?”

Rhys grins back at him. “You’ll lead from home base, of course.”

Cassian glares. Rhys responds with a look that says they’ll talk about this later.

Keith seems to find the idea of working alongside another person as distasteful as Cassian finds it unexpected, but he says anyway, “I can’t wait to start working together. I have a lot of ideas for the Italian outpost that I think you’ll appreciate.”

“I’m sure I will,” Cassian hums. “When do you start again?”

“Next Monday.”

“Then we should talk then.” Cassian gestures out the door. Keith looks taken aback, likely having expected more out of this meeting. But Cassian can’t meet with this guy until he gets a hold of what the fuck is going on. After shepherding Keith out of the office and shutting the door after him, he turns to Rhys with a raised brow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rhys warns. “Your role in this project is serious.”

“This project isn’t even part of my job description. What am I supposed to know about international business conductions?”

“You know enough to keep an eye on that O’Connell kid for me.” Rhys leans against Cassian’s desk as if it’s his own and crosses his feet. “He’s an asset to the company, but he also worked for our competitors up to a couple of months ago. I can’t trust him to manage this thing on his own, and I don’t have the time or resources right now to watch over him myself. That’s why the duty falls to you.”

“I manage security,” Cassian states, in case it wasn’t obvious. “What about Az?”

“Az has his own things to handle.” Rhys waves him off. “Just do what I tell you to, will you? Pay attention to O’Connell for the duration of the Italy venture and make sure he doesn’t steer our ship off course. You’ll get paid triple for the extra hours.”

“I don’t need triple,” Cassian grumbles, but Rhys is no longer listening. He’s typing on his phone and already heading for the door.

“Feyre and I are having dinner here before heading back home,” he calls over his shoulder. “See you later; I believe in you!” The door shuts after him, leaving Cassian alone.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies to the empty room.

Cassian leaves not long after Rhysand does, having no excuse to linger. Outside, he’s greeted with a surprise leaning against the hood of his truck.

Nesta pushes off the hood as soon as he catches notice of her. “Long day?” she asks.

He laughs for the first time all afternoon, the sound surprised and genuine. “I was just thinking about you.”

“That’s why I’m here. I heard your thoughts.” There’s a light in her pale eyes that only burns whenever she looks at him. It’s the same light that powers her ability to make jokes and let her guard down around him in a way she can’t with most others, and Cassian is especially grateful for it today.

Nesta reaches out and takes his hand into hers. He watches the way their palms fit together in endless fascination, his brown fingers a stark contrast against her white ones. He squeezes once and looks back up at her. “How did meeting your sisters go? You never told me.”

The light flickers so briefly Cassian wonders if it’s a trick of his eyes. But then Nesta is there again, at full brightness. She squeezes his hand back. “Take me home. I’ll tell you all about it.”

***

a/n: i love writing stuff related to cassian’s job i’ll just be throwing random words in there and calling it business jargon

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @frosted-crackers @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog

[radiosandrecordings]

i’m almost scared to ask this due to the angst potential but 22 with jm, please?

You blessed me with a Good Martin earlier, I’ll spare you from the angst storm (I have nooo ulterior motives here, me, who doesn’t like writing angst? None whatsoever)

Set in some nebulous no-powers au where they get to go home from a Normal Date. Thank you @horngryeyes for letting me just message him asking for Polish swears 

22) Things you said after it was over

“I had a really nice time tonight.” 

Martin smiled as Jon leaned closer into his side, joined hands between them stilling from their gentle swing, purely because they no longer had space to with Jon cosied up against him. “I’m glad, I had a wonderful time as well.” 

The restaurant they had been to had been close to Martin’s apartment, and so they were currently on their way to the nearest tube station for Martin to see him off safely. They proceeded to walk in a comfortable silence for several minutes, the comforting presence of the other at their side driving off the chill of the early Spring evening. 

It was only when they reached the entrance to the tube station and Martin’s eyes drifted to the screen displaying a digital clock did they realise something was wrong. 

“Wait, what?” Jon vocalised his concern before Martin, a furrow forming on his brow. “That can’t be right.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glared at the lock screen. The harsh white light illuminated exactly the same numbers as those staring back down at them in green LED from the wall of the station. 1:06AM. Aka, past the time any of the trains were running in Jon’s direction home. 

“How? I checked as we were paying, we were getting ready to leave the restaurant at 11:40, it can’t have taken us over an hour to walk here, it was barely a mile!” 

“... Jon what day is it?” 

“What?” 

“Just, check for me?” 

Jon hit the button again and his phone screen lit up. “Just turned over to the 28th. Is that anything?” 

“Spring forward, fall back, kurde,” Martin muttered under his breath. “Of course. Just our luck. Clocks just went forward for British Summertime. So we essentially just lost an hour, and it’s now one as opposed to just gone twelve. So... No trains.” 

“... No trains” 

There was a silence for a moment, breath starting to cloud in front of them as they breathed in the cool night air, rapidly getting colder. The silence was broken by the sound of Jon typing, fingers quickly skimming over his phone as he began trying to search for alternatives. “Buses maybe? I think they’re still running but I’m not sure if there’s any going my route....” 

Another few seconds passed of Jon hurriedly typing and Martin chewing his lip. Eventually, he managed to muster up the courage to speak, “I mean.. You could always come back to mine?” 

And immediately, his mind was racing with all the different reasons for why he shouldn’t have said that. This was only their third official date, was that too soon to invite Jon back to his house? They weren’t even technically dating yet, there was still a certain degree of casual about their relationship, they weren’t actually boyfriends. God, what if Jon misunderstood what he was saying? They’d had that conversation even before they’d started seeing each other, one friend trusting another with an intimate detail of their life. Martin didn’t want Jon to think he’d forgotten, or worse, was disregarding it. And even past those two points, Jon was technically still his boss -  Logically he knew if they were breaking any kind of office conduct they would have done so three dinners ago, but this felt different, to invite someone to your home felt far more vulnerable, and serious. 

“Uh- That’s okay, Martin I wouldn’t want to impose...”

Martin isn’t quite sure where he got the courage to continue. Normally he’d take Jon’s response to heart, overthink it, and end up interpreting it as ‘I don’t want to do that and am trying to let you down easy’. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine he’d had at dinner, or some spirit of the moment daring, but whatever it is possessed him long enough for him to say “You wouldn’t be imposing. Actually, I would rather like you to be there?”

Jon looked slightly stunned for a moment, before Martin began to see a faint flush darken his cheeks. “Oh, uhm...” A spike of anxiety shot through Martin as Jon dipped his head to cough into his fist, but when he drew it away again he looked somewhat... Bashful? “Well, if... Yes, okay then. I would like to be there as well.” 

“Good.”

“Good.” 

“Good.” 

There was another few beats of silence before both, tipsy on averagely-priced wine and drunk on nervous energy, lapsed into childish giggles. “Lead the way, Mr Blackwood,” Jon crooned, leaning into his arm again, and Martin knew he was joking, playful atmosphere being allowed to overtake the anxious one between them, but he rather liked the sound of that. 

It was another ten minutes of walking further to get back to Martin’s flat, and Jon only managed to stumble over his own two feet once, which may have been partially due to his own three glasses of red setting in, or just the fact that it was rather awkward to walk when trying to merge with the coat of the man beside you. 

“It’s uhm, sorry if it’s a little messy, I wasn’t expecting company, obviously,” Martin apologised as he fumbled with the key in the lock. 

“’M sure it’s fine.” Jon’s speech was getting a little messier now, but really only to the degree that was notable by Standard Jon English. He wasn’t quite at the swaying on his feet stage yet, but he was blinking sleepily, a small, content smile playing gently at his lips. 

As he stepped in the door, Martin shrugged his coat off and hung it by the door, gesturing an invitation for Jon to do the same, which he accepted. Martin took his hand again to lead him inside, but let go again soon enough to step into the small alcove of the kitchen to fetch two glasses and fill them at the sink. “I think we could both use these,” he said softly, handing one to Jon, who took it gratefully. They sipped their water in silence for a moment, enjoying the relative peace and warmth that being inside afforded them. They didn’t sit, both just leaned against the wall while Jon took in the contents of a bookshelf and Martin watched him do so, both with equal levels of intrigue. 

Eventually, the silence was broken by the muffled sound of a yawn from Jon, who tried to cover it with one hand. “Right, maybe time for bed then?” Martin suggested, taking the glass from him and putting them both beside the sink to deal with tomorrow. 

When he returned Jon was hovering around the couch, like he wanted to take a seat but was unsure how to go about doing so. “You okay?” 

“Oh, uhm, yes, I just... You wouldn’t happen to have a spare blanket, would you?” 

“What?” 

“Sorry to be a bother I just- Never mind, it’s fine. Good night, Martin.” 

“...What?” 

“I- I’m sorry did I do something wrong?” 

“No, just... C’mon, bedrooms this way.” 

“Oh!” And there was that flush again, more visible under the lights of the flat than it had been under streetlamps. 

“... Jon, did you think I was going to make you sleep on the sofa?” Martin felt his voice trail slightly upwards at the end, struck both by humour and concern. 

“I didn’t want to presume!” Jon said, shaking his hands out. “Um... Okay then, lead the way.” 

Martin smiled, before doing the mental math and squinting. “Two seconds?” He said, before quickly making his way into the bedroom and doing his best to make the room look as presentable as possible within a short amount of time. A minute or two later he opened the door again, and Jon made his way inside. 

His room wasn’t anything special, just a standard bedroom in a low quality apartment, but the duvet and quilt had been straightened and clothes haphazardly strewn about the room had been banished into the laundry basket, and the lamp on his bedside table was casting a soft yellow glow about the room, making the room feel warm and cosy. 

Jon just kind of stood there for a moment, like he was trying to figure out what to do next, before Martin realised what was wrong with the picture. “Oh, uhm, clothes, do you want to borrow a shirt or something?” 

The words were out of Martin’s mouth before he could really think through the implications of them, practicality and comfort overriding the realisation that Jon borrowing his shirt would mean Jon, in his bed, wearing his clothes. 

“That would be good, thank you.” 

Martin attempted to keep his composure by going over to his drawers and rooting around for two shirts, one for himself and one for Jon. “I’d offer you bottoms too but I’m not really sure they’d fit, is that okay?” Martin said, turning to hand Jon a shirt. He wasn’t sure what Jon was comfortable with, where boundaries lay yet, he didn’t want to force Jon into something that overstepped.

“I think that should be fine,” Jon said, and Martin breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Right, uh, do you want to take the bathroom and I’ll...?” 

“Okay, sure, sure.” 

Jon made his way through the other door in the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Martin was just finished changing into his own pyjamas when a knock came from the other side of the door, startling him slightly. “Oh, finished!” 

The door opened, and Jon walked into the room. Now, Martin had known, theoretically, for the last three minutes that Jon had been gone that when he saw him again he would be standing in his bedroom wearing his shirt. But it was quite another thing to actually see it, soft golden lamplight reflecting against eyes that at this point were losing the fight to stay open, too-large shirt with a faded movie poster on it hanging loosely around his shoulders, panning down to boxers and bare feet on the wooden floor. Martin felt his breath catch in his throat slightly. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah, fine. Do you, uhm, need anything?” 

“No, no, I’m fine thank you, I think I’m just about ready to pass out if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I can agree with that.” 

Jon kept his eyes on the bed, watching until Martin had walked over to his chosen side and pulled the covers back before padding round to the opposite and climbing in beside him. 

There were a few awkward moments where they both got comfortable. Martin hadn’t shared a bed with someone in quite a while, and it was an odd sensation to try and get used to again. “Pillows, do you- Is that enough?” 

“Two is more than fine, thank you Martin,” Jon said, cleaning back against them. 

“Right, well... Good night, Jon.” 

“Good night, Martin.” Jon said, voice barely above a whisper now as his eyes drifted closed. Martin took that as a cue to turn the light off. 

Martin had never been aware of how loud the analog clock hanging on his wall was until that moment, dull ticks making themselves thunderous in the silence between them. He must have counted to sixty several times over before Martin heard a rustling beside him, and felt the duvet twitch. 

“Martin?” If Jon’s goodnight had been a whisper, this was barely audible, but as it was Martin was so aware of every footstep of his neighbours, creaking of pipes, or car going past outside, it sounded like it was said directly into his ear. Which, really, wasn’t that far off, considering how close Jon was, lying on the pillow next to him.

“Mmmh?” 

“I.. Thank you, for today. For this.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for a date, Jon, that’s... I mean, not that I’m not tempted to thank you in return but that’s not how that works.” 

He rolled on to his side to face Jon, and was greeted by a face only a few inches away him his. “Oh. Hi.” 

Jon smiled. “Hi.” 

“Can I... Do you mind if...” Words failing him, Martin leaned forward. When Jon didn’t seem to retreat, he leaned further, until he was pressing a kiss to his brow. “Is... Is that okay?” 

There was a low rumbling from Jon’s throat, vibrating across the pillow. “More than okay. Encouraged, even,” Jon said, and suddenly he was pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek in return. He searched under the duvet for a moment, before twining his fingers together with Martin’s, and proceeded to roll over to face away from him, dragging Martin’s arm with him until it was draped across him, gently cradling their bodies together. “Good night, Martin.”  

Yeah. Yeah, it was a pretty good night.

[johnsamericano]

𝓓𝓪𝔂 7:

тєи ℓєє

23 days of NCT masterlist.

taglist: @notbeforelong @curieouscapt @whathamelon @unknown5tar @ajhdr @silent-potato

warnings: the reader is soon-to-be engaged to someone 12 years older, virginity loss, extreme lack of experience from the reader, dirty talk, Ten’s a sweetheart 😭

“He’s here!” Your mother clapped her hands excitedly, asking the butler to answer the door.

You sat with both hands squeezed on your lap. You’d never seen a male tailor, let alone be dressed by one. Would it be uncomfortable? Just as your mind was about to drift away, a man with at least four rolls of fabric entered the room.

“Good evening, my lady.” Was he even real? He looked straight out of a painting, just like the ones hanging on your wall.

“Good evening, sir.” You bowed your head gracefully, just like you'd been taught to do.

“There’s no need to be so formal.” He smiled cheekily, his eyes disappearing just the slightest and making your heart flutter with excitement. “Let us have a seat and chat a little about what kind of dress you'd like.”

Everything went so naturally with him, from sitting down and talking about the event you'd be wearing the dress to, to his hands surrounding your waist, taking your measurements.

“I was thinking of something white, my lady. After all, the goal is to get a certain gentleman to ask for your hand, isn't it?”

“How did you...?”

“Your mother is quite a chatty lady.” You sighed. She certainly had trouble keeping things a secret, the whole town probably already knew by now.

“Then I guess you already know we've known each other since we were kids, well, since I was a kid. He's twelve years older.” You sounded so excited talking about that guy that it made him smile. “Are you married, sir?”

“God, no!” He was quick to explain. “I want to devote myself to work, that's what makes me happy.”

“But imagine yourself, waiting for your beautiful bride at the church, ready to join your lives for what is left of them. Just to think about it gives me goosebumps.” To him, what you'd just said sounded like agony. Dedicating himself to another person for the rest of his life? He’d rather jump off a cliff.

“I just don't think I'm good husband material, that's all.”

As the days passed by, you got to know him better. He’d often tell you about his job, how many dresses he'd confectioned that week, how much money he'd earned, every single little detail of it. He made it sound like a dream, he spoke so passionately about it that you wondered whether you'd ever find something that would make you feel that same way.

“Good morning, my lady.” He kissed your knuckles, a devilish grin extending through his lips as he admired your flustered face. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He extended a big, white box with a red velvety ribbon keeping it closed.

“That was fast!” You opened it to reveal a pretty, lacy dress. It was exactly what you’d asked for, but then why did you feel so sad?

“What is it, my lady? Do you not like the dress?”

“No! I love it.” He smiled, pulling out the dress from it’s confinement to let you have a better look at it. It was, indeed, beautiful.

“Would you like to try it on?”

You soon found yourself behind a room divider, slipping the soft dress on. The texture was marvelous, like wearing a cloud. It would definitely draw Johnny’s attention, that’s for sure.

“How do I look?” You stepped out, spinning around to let his critic eyes have a look at his masterpiece. He squinted his eyes as if he wasn’t pleased. “What is it?”

“Your corset.”

“Huh?”

“Truth to be told, I knew this dress wouldn’t work with a traditional corset, so I might have made a special one for the occasion.” You walked to the full body mirror, taking a look at yourself.

“It looks fine to me.”

“You look too innocent, my lady.” You furrowed your eyebrows, eyes connecting with his through your reflections. “This dress wasn’t made to make you look innocent, but to make you look like a sophisticated, upper class woman.”

You went through your options and finally decided to listen to the expert.

“Do you happen to have that corset at the moment?”

“Yes, but the problem is, only I know the right way to adjust it. Would you be okay with me doing that?” You could feel cold sweat running down the back of your neck.

Only your mother and some servants had seen you naked, but never a man. It wasn’t supposed to happen unless the couple was married. However, you felt the urge to accept his proposition.

“A-alright.” He nodded, keeping a straight face as he started undressing you.

He slowly started undoing the ribbon that kept your corset in place. Still in front of the mirror, you could see his concentrated features, not looking at anything but your back. Your mounds were finally liberated, and for a split second, you could see the tailor’s eyes staring at them.

“Raise your arms please.” Was he really not going to do anything? This was the part when the two main characters exchanged a heated session of kisses according to the novels you'd read. But he kept the same stoic face all the time.

“Ten?” This was the very first time you'd called him by his real name, well, his nickname.

He didn't seem bothered by it, concentrated on adjusting your corset.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Am I not attractive?” His hands accidentally tightened the ribbons too much, making you wince.

“Sorry.” He apologized, loosening the piece of clothing. “But why are you asking me this?”

“Well...” You were ashamed to admit it, but your curiosity got the best of you. “Aren’t men supposed to go wild over breasts? At least that's what I heard.” Ten would've never expected such an inappropriate comment from you, though he couldn't say he didn't like that new boldness of yours.

“I guess so.”

“Then why didn't you go wild over mine?”

The room was filled with nothing but silence for a couple of seconds before he finally found an appropriate answer for your question.

“I’ll ask you something first.” you nodded. “If you knew men had a thing for breasts, then why did you let me do this?” You would've liked to say that it was because you deeply trusted him, but you both knew that deep down, it wasn't completely true.

“I don't know.”

“Did you want to seduce me or something like that?” You were about to reply, but his deep laugh interrupted you. “Well, since you answered my question, I shall answer yours.” he finally finished adjusting your corset, placing his hands above the curves of your waist and leaning down to whisper something. “You have the most beautiful breasts I've ever seen. They look round and soft, the perfect size to hold them with my hand. But I can't allow myself to go wild over you, not when you're about to get engaged to someone else.” So the things wrote in novels weren't entirely fantasy, things like that did happen in real life. “Trust me, I wish nothing but to pinch those pretty, perky nipples and have you begging for more. But we can't.”

“Yes, we can.” With a newly found courage, you guided his hands up until they reached your mounds. They did, in fact, fit perfectly between his hands.

“My lady-”

“Y/n.” You held his hands against your warm body. “Please, my name is y/n.”

“Stop playing with fire.” His voice had become lower, hands shaking the slightest under yours.

“I want you to play with me, Ten. Use me, do whatever you want with my body. Alleviate the ache I'm feeling between my legs.” That was his breaking point.

His expert fingers quickly undid the knots, allowing his hungry eyes to have a look at your naked torso.

“Touch me.” he turned you around, so you were directly facing him.

“So greedy.” His hands covered your chest once again, this time with no fabric in between. His palms felt so warm against your skin, you couldn’t help but sight. “Tell me, how does your little cunt feel?”

“I-I’m sorry?” His right hand went down, rubbing circles over your undergarments. Immediate relief washed over your body.

“Do you know what an orgasm is?” You shook your head, gasping as his fingers pinched your hard nub. “It’s the only way to relief the ache you feel here.” He tapped your entrance with his middle finger, feeling your wetness under his digits.

“How can I have one?”

“You’ll have to trust me, alright?” His dominant demeanor had changed to a softer one, kissing your jawline as hands sneaked inside the fabric, a new, pleasant feeling making your legs shake. “How does this feel?”

“Nice.” He retrieved his hand, you whined at the loss of contact. “Hey!”

“Jump.” He instructed, lifting you up with both of his hands below your thighs. He guided you all the way to the nearest wall, your back pressed against the concrete surface. “Sorry for this.” He muttered before ripping your undergarments apart.

Skillfully, he lowered his pants, his hard member springing up. The moment his tip started slipping into your whole, an immense amount of pain made you scream.

“Stop!” Ten frowned, pulling away but still holding you against the wall.

“Have you changed your mind about this?” There was a hint of pain peeking through his voice.

“It hurts a lot.” As if to back up your words, a small tear rolled down your cheek.

“I know, sweetheart. But that's the way it's supposed to be.” If it hurt so much, then why did people do it so often? “You just need to get used to it and it'll start feeling better, I promise.”

“Really?” For you, it didn't make any sense.

“We can stop whenever you want, just give it a try.” You hesitantly nodded, letting him align with your entrance once again. “Deep breaths, darling.”

It was the worst pain you'd ever felt, even worse than that time when you fell off a horse. But just like the tailor had said, that unpleasant feeling was soon replaced with something else...something that made your tummy feel warm.

“You're doing so well.” He praised as if he wasn't the one doing all the hard work while you held onto his shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I need to pee.” You gasped, letting your head rest against the wall.

“Don't hold it back, darling. It means you're close.” His large hands caressed your sides, holding you tightly.

“Ten...” You whimpered, biting his clothed shoulder to stop yourself from screaming in pleasure. Something inside you exploded, making your body shake in ecstasy.

“Y/n.” You both whispered your names, pleasure taking over your minds.

“May I kiss you?” There was no response from him, his length still pulsating inside you. “If you don't want to that's-”

“Kiss me.” Your lips came closer to each other, barely millimeters away when a loud knock abruptly interrupted the moment.

“Miss y/n, Mr. Seo is here to see you.” Johnny, you'd completely forgotten about him.

“I guess you better get dressed.” He pecked your cheek, setting a fire inside you.

“I'm sorry.” He helped you put on your dress again, smiling at the sight of you trying to stop your and his essence from dripping down your bare thighs.

“Don't be.” Ten fixed your hair, proceeding to gather his stuff before sending a wink in your direction. “I guess I'll see you in a week to help you get dressed...my lady.”

[tobiosmilktea]

the love club — miya atsumu

twenty six: the spectacular now

masterlist | prev. | next

a/n: thank you all so much for sticking around and watching tlc grow! this smau turned out to be more popular than i thought and i’m so glad for all the support! there were times where i was stuck on the plot and genuinely thought of putting this smau on hiatus,, but i’m glad i pushed through and didn’t. reading each and every one of your comments and reblogs made making this smau really fun. tysm 🥰

also the ‘read more’ link is making this post super glitchy and repeating paragraphs for no reason 😔😔

(continuation of the convos last chap cause i couldn’t fit it in lmao)

atsumu’s chest heavy feeling upon arriving at the last and final train station in tokyo filled him with unnecessary unease. an abundance of worry had crashed upon him in a blasting flurry that even the early onset heat of japan in the spring was the last thing on his mind to complain about.

there were many things that could go wrong with such a flawed plan birthed from suna’s spontaneity. for one, you could very well reject atsumu the moment he finally came into your reach (this was the worse case scenario for him) and it could honestly evolve into something worse knowing his parents would beat his ass if they were to find out he took this trip with nothing but his phone, wallet, his brother, and a friend.

yet at this point, he had nothing to lose.

he was already in tokyo and wasted half his day coming all this way, there was definitely no point in going back and have all his efforts go to waste. if anything, you were atsumu’s pushing force, the strong current that pulled him along with the tides just to see you. he only needed one reason and that one reason was you.

a weary sigh emitted from his lips as osamu’s patted his brother’s shoulder with his free hand whilst the other was carrying a picnic basket. call it twin telepathy or just being plain observant, but the cacophony of atsumu’s erratic thoughts were evident upon his expression for osamu to notice. hell, even a random stranger with half a brain cell would know that the setter was going through some internalized anxiety.

this was osamu’s only way of comforting him as the only thing that would completely wash away atsumu’s fear was for you to take him back.

the feeling of dread didn’t cease for atsumu as it continued in a raging downpour on the way to the convention center in shibuya. the event had already started hours ago and the boys had no idea where to find you—not even kita who was great at taking the lead—he was captain after all.

by the time the four volleyball players entered the largely crowded convention center, they had no other choice but to breathe out their hopes in finding you in the midst of chaos.

by the time the four volleyball players entered the largely crowded convention center, they had no other choice but to breathe out their hopes in finding you in the midst of chaos.

“alright, the plan is...” kita huffs as his eyes scanned the bustling crowds that messily serpentined through booths. his gaze met back to the boys who surrounded him with intent written to their faces. a bittersweet smile melted upon his lips as it reminded him of giving pep talks right before games... no doubt he was going to miss it.

“i suggest we split up and find her,” osamu adds in first.

kita shakes his head, “this place is gigantic, it’ll take ages for us to even call and find each other if we do.”

“or i could steal a mic from somewhere and pretend y/n’s a lost child or something...”

“we’re not doing that, suna.”

“damn,” he sighs as he looked down in faux defeat.

a shaky sigh left atsumu’s lips again, “let’s just stick together and try and find her.”

with that the four of them delved into the crowd.

the convention center was certainly bigger than atsumu thought, and he certainly didn't remember the walk from the entrance of the event up towards the dense middle area where he was right now. perhaps it was the simmering and leftover fervor upon entering that his mind was too clouded to even know where he was going. at this point, he wasn't even trying to find you anymore, instead, he wandered the labyrinthine array of booths in self-indulgence until each turn appeared the same and he was back to the same spot he started.

where were you?

atsumu was at the cusp of giving up. even osamu who was supporting him the entire time was starting to complain. with the aching in his arm from carrying a heavy picnic basket of all the foods he made for you and his brother was weighing him back. even suna who was carrying the picnic blanket was sweating just by holding it.

“guys,” the setter sighs in defeat. “i think we should call it a day and—”

suddenly a hand wrapped around his bicep, pulling him aback and capturing his attention. atsumu whips his head around only to look down upon a familiar face. a face that filled him with constant warmth and caused his heart to immediately quicken by the millisecond.

it was sudden. too sudden for you to even comprehend that the moment you spotted atsumu’s familiar figure looming over in the crowd, it was game over for you. your legs started walking by themselves as if they were being controlled by your heart rather than your head.

it wasn’t like you to do this, anyway—this confrontation. if anything, you were the type to pretend you didn’t see atsumu’s face, to turn back around into the crowd and act as if nothing had happened. but there was this aching in your chest, an abundance of tightness until it squeezed every last bi of unspoken truths out of your lungs.

was it guilt, sadnass, or anger? love?

you weren’t entirely sure, yet its dissonance couldn’t be ignored. even if you did try and avoid atsumu, you’d end up right in front of him either way.

“what are you doing here?” you asked, the tone in your voice and even to your expression was unreadable to atsumu.

he had no idea if you were excited to see him or if you were completely shocked and wanted him to leave immediately.

atsumu hoped it was the former.

“i–um...” he tried forming the words upon his tongue, but his thoughts were moving too fast for him to even comprehend what he was going to say to you.

hell, he even rehearsed what to say for this exact moment the entire train ride here to tokyo, yet he was completely slipping up.

his usual confidence and somewhat cocky attitude was nowhere to be seen. and it’s even crazy to think that you’re the only one who can make him act this way.

your grip on his upper arm tightened by the slightest bit when atsumu didn’t answer, “i’m about to present, tsumu, i don’t have enough time...”

tsumu?

you still call him that? even after all that happened?

if only he could just melt into your arms right then and there. he was so close to finally alleviating that yearn, but your comforting warmth left his body the moment you let him go.

“i’m here to apologize.” he swiftly answers as you were about to turn your heel, “...even though i’m three weeks late.”

your eyebrows furrow slightly as you teetered your weight back in forth, your nerves building up. atsumu hadn’t seen you do that since your project presentation together. “i should be apologizing too,” you sighed with instantaneous releif coursing through atsumu’s body, “but now’s honestly not a good time.”

“i know, but matsui told me that you might be moving away this summer and i wanted to see you.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, cursing to yourself as you felt the sudden influx of crimson blush swearing from your cheeks to the edges of your ears. “so you came all this way?” your voice was a bit shakey.

could he tell you were nervous?

“only because i like you... still”

yup... he could definitely tell.

maybe that slight pinch awkwardness between the two of you was more beneficial that you thought. from the sheepish smiles and stolen glances, it eased you to your surprise. “i can’t believe i have feelings for an idiot.”

atsumu hums in amusement, eyes lighting up when he saw that familiar smirk on your face. “are they good feelings?”

“of course they are,” you scoffed, “why? would you rather have me back to hating you?”

the boy before you shakes his head. “no, i like it this way,” he mutters before pulling you into his chest without a second thought.

it was overwhelming. from how his much broader and taller body embraced you in such familiar warmth to even his scent of honey and mocha. despite being miles away from hyogo, it was atsumu who reminded you of home.

this was nice considering you weren’t exactly planning on forgiving him so easily. perhaps it was the way the moment you spotted his familiar blond undercut in the crowd he towered over caused a switch in your brain to flip. perhaps you miss the way he was right beside you almost everyday.

perhaps you couldn’t keep your distance from him anymore.

pulling yourself out of the hug, your eyes flicker over to a trio of volleyball players standing a good six feet away away from you two. their shoulders basically touched as they all gave you a smile and a wave.

eventually, your eyes dropped to picnic basket in osamu’s hands and the blanket draped over suna’s shoulders.

a slight chuckle emits from you lips, “what’s up with them?” you asked atsumu.

his head turns over his shoulder before looking back down at you. his arms still lingered around your waist as he hesitated to even let you go again. “remember back when we had our date during nationals, we visited the park?”

“so it was a date?” you almost explained.

“it thought it was,” atsumu shrugs, “we saw a couple on a picnic date and you thought it was cute so i figured we could go on one.”

“and you remembered that?” you questioned as you arched a brow towards him.

“every single detail.”

atsumu didn’t have to ask you to go on this date with him. at least at this point, he’d know you would’ve said yes. like what kind of person would reject a date from the love of their life who traveled five hours just for them?

only a idiot would and you were certainly not an idiot... not right now at least.

a saccharine-sweet smile appeared upon your lips as you looked back towards atsumu, “i’m free after six o’clock. you think you guys could stick around for a few more hours?”

“if that’s a chance to meet chef suzuno and eat dessert, then yes.” cut in osamu the moment you asked.

you and atsumu weren’t exactly in the most private of places, so but it wasn’t like you two cared at this point.

suna clears his throat, “um, my parents don’t even know im in tokyo right now, so if i get murdered tonight that’s on you guys.”

“either way, i gotta get home. i have to pack before the weekend ends.” kita adds as he pats suna’s shoulders, “which means you’re coming back to hyogo with me. (y/n) and the twins can take care of themselves.”

“but—!” suna tried to retaliate but was pushed back into the crowd and disappeared to go home.

you sighed in amusement before turning your attention back to atsumu.

“i have to go, now.”

atsumu nods, “samu and i will walk around then before watching your presentation.” he explains but as he was turning over his shoulder, you captured his arm again.

you planted a kiss on his lips. it was much softer than it looked and for a second the commotion around you two seemed to slow.

it felt like it took ages for atsumu to feel your lips against his, but the wait was worth it. his entire plan that ended up failing was worth it. the five hours of his ass hurting from sitting on the train seats was worth it. finding you within this impossible crowd was worth it. you were worth it—more than anything.

osamu fake gagged as he looked at you and atsumu in disgust, “can you two not make out in front of the cupcake display?”

fun facts! —

after the event ended, atsumu and y/n went on that picnic date just in time for sunset while osamu waited awkwardly by the swings

in the end, y/n moved to tokyo after being well liked by chef suzuno

the twins helped y/n pack and osamu even had to pull atsumu off of her cause he wouldn’t let her go 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

because of the long distance, atsumu and y/n go on minecraft dates cause theyre quirky

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play A Fairest

(Portrait of Erin Peters by cantankerousAquarius. The character originally appeared in Night Horrors: Grim Fears, published by White Wolf; catch my take on her in New Avalon)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental, So You Want To Play An Ogre, & So You Want To Play A Darkling

You ever wonder, flipping through a Monster Manual for D&D, or a Bestiary for Pathfinder, why nymphs and hags are both always, always, women? It’s older than you know. Dig into the sordid history of tabletops and you’ll find sylphs that Gary Gygax wrote, Chaotic charmers who use mind control to reproduce with non-sylph men; you’ll find the legacy of the matriarchal drow, who follow a mad goddess, and you’ll find the medusae, whose sexual dimorphism is so complete that their men are beautiful and can turn stone into people.

Dredge deeper and you’ll find the tales that Gygax and his wretched ilk based such creatures off of.

You ever wonder why we assign such powerful Gender to creatures of beauty and horror?

Fairest don’t. They know, every time they wake up from a nightmare that is also a wet dream. They know, every time they get hit on at the bar and have to decide how they’re playing this. They know, every time they look in a mirror and see not their own face, but the ten thousand horrors that made it beautiful.

If you are very patient, and lucky, and kind, they might tell you why.

If you aren’t, they may show you.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost and Winter Masques, as well as Swords at Dawn and Night Horrors: Grim Fears. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for sexual violence, sexual slavery, abuse, gaslighting, addiction, substance abuse, self-harm, self-image problems, mentions of fascists & fascist ideology, and just, so very much incel bullshit.

Bonus Material Part Two: The Seeming Part

The end of this article, just past the customary Sample Fairest, will include some additional material intended to help you select a Seeming for your character and otherwise build them up as one of the Lost, much as So You Want To Run A Spring Court included material for Courts as a topic.

Take Me To Wonderland - Fairest Overview

Fairest is the fourth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost and possibly the most confused about its own identity. Its sections in Winter Masques present depths and nuance that are completely absent in core, essentially making Winter Masques required reading for Fairest players in a way that no other book is - especially since Fairest keep getting written in a particular way alluded to in the Ogre article, which I will expand on later in this article. Fairest is numerically well-represented in canon and popular in the fanbase, home to many memorable character concepts, but its bones with folklore and tradition are weaker than it fronts as.

Ogres and Darklings claim an innate relationship to physical violence; so too do the Fairest claim a relationship to violence. The violence of Perception and its dark twin, Judgement; of Rumor and its mad dog, Prejudice, the violence of Lies and their merciless master, Truth. Fairest, alone among the Lost, have casual access to the resources of a society that refuses to service or acknowledge Changelings, and with access to that society comes both opportunity and temptation. To be Fairest is to wield power that many other Lost cannot, but the opportunity that power offers is a lie; a Fairest can smile until her face breaks like a mirror, but she’ll never be “sane” enough for the masses to see her as anything but a useful pet.

Life’s Lush Lips - Homecoming As A Fairest

Fairest can make the dubious claim of having the least clear memories of Arcadia amongst all the Lost, with Darklings and Beasts jockeying for second place. This isn’t to say that the experiences Fairest have are necessarily more intense or more inherently traumatic than that of other Lost, but rather that the abuse Fairest suffer is so emotional, so targeted at their perception of their selves and their situations and their self-image, that the memories which do form are inevitably colored by those emotions, coloring the dreams they have of Arcadia with both the emotional resonances they had at the time and with their later attempts to grapple with their own trauma and transformation. For many Fairest, who cannot trust even their strongest memory dreams, attempts to understand their own Durance must rely either on the word of their Keepers (and Faeries lie, oh, how they lie), or on reverse-engineering their own behavior to try and conceive of a trauma that could cause it.

Inevitably, however, some things are seared into their minds. For almost all Fairest, their Keeper is high on the list of things they remember with absolute clarity. Other facts, shattered and scattered, vary more widely. Erin Peters remembers stretched years kept in a cold, dark room lit only by her own hatred; every detail of her cell is scorched onto the back of her eyes, but the otherworldly balls her Keeper took her to blur together like food coloring in syrup. The slaves of the Candle Countess have terrible nightmares of the choices they were confronted with, the decision, offered over and over again, to become complicit in the Countess’s cruelty or to be victimized by it. Metallic Flowering from the Shining City struggle not to use drugs to mimic the rush of pleasure they’ve grown used to receiving for performing their jobs well; they also scream in terror if people touch them. A Draconic and a Shadowsoul both remember being used for the sexual pleasure of alien horrors; the one dreams of coiled scales and terrible teeth, the other a lifetime of lurking in an alien maze, tasked to perform the duties of a living trap for the “wicked” and “unwary” who had not yet shed the last vestiges of kindness.

There are no “wild” Fairest. For worse and worse still, to be Fairest is to have been defined by the inescapable and all-consuming attentions of your abuser, and it is this more than anything that other Lost so often fail to understand about the Fairest. Their Keepers heap them with reward and punishment, manipulating the Fairest with honeyed praise, godly wrath, gaslighting, neglect, withholding food, wondrous rewards, drugs from beyond the realms of earthly pleasure, and other hooks and crooks designed to make the Fairest dependent upon their abuser. It is hideously effective, and the first obstacle, maybe even the mightiest, that a Fairest faces to their escape is the simple horror and joy of being alone again. Their masters will try other tricks to keep them in place - tempting them with pleasures, horrific punishments, oh-so-sincere apologies - but before a Fairest can escape into the Hedge she must face, in her mind’s eye, the lonely flight back to the Iron Lands.

The memories that draw Fairest home often have parallels to their experiences in Arcadia. A slave in the Shining City bites into an otherworldly pastry and recalls her grandmother’s pie in its place; the bride of the Demon Lover, curled up under the sheets, thinks about the broken smile of the boyfriend she left behind at home. A Dancer remembers the roller rink where he fell in love with skating, while across the endless tides of the Fairest of Lands, a Shadowsoul holds on like grim death to years of work at haunted houses, scaring kids for fun and for Halloween. Fairest, so famous for their skill at words, struggle to articulate to other Lost why this should be so. Darklings assume it’s because these memories are less intense than Arcadia, and that the Fairest are fleeing to safety. Beasts get it a bit more right by thinking that these memories taste like home. The truth of the matter is that those memories have an intrinsic and nameless meaning; the highs and lows of Arcadia are divine, flawless, absolute, and therefore worthless. They are the proclamations of merciless gods. What draws the Fairest home, more than pain and pleasure they can have on their own terms, is the understanding that those gestures - for weal or for woe or for anything else besides - were made because someone cared about them, personally. Once they fully internalize that their abuser views them as disposable, the Fairest comes home to someone who won’t.

Three Kiths And Flowering Is One And A Half Of Them - Fairest Kiths

Yeah we’re about to be like that about it.

All Fairest can excel in the social arena; their Blessing can be used to flare almost every social roll in the game, and Fairest can never be caught off-guard in a social context (they suffer no untrained penalties to social rolls). With the sole exception of Empathy (usually rolled with Wits) and sometimes Streetwise, there’s no time a Fairest can’t fall back on their words and expect to win through or at least buy time. This is, as you might imagine, a godsend when it comes to attempts to pass in mortal society; Fairest can usually front, charm, bluff, or Manners(tm) their way through things like renting an apartment, nailing a job interview, asking their roommate to do the FUCKING DISHES, or getting stopped by a cop, but both the books and the fanbase miss something here. While Fairest are superb at active social events, they’re no better at keeping a lid on themselves (Composure-based rolls) than mortals are - and given both the nature of their trauma and the fact that they are, you know, Lost, Fairest have a lot more to keep a lid on day-to-day than the human society they’re trying to blend into. Thankfully, Fairest are pretty good at being able to politely leave a situation and go somewhere else to scream, shout, cry, or have a psychotic break, as appropriate.

Of course, Fairest can’t make something from nothing. As discussed in So You Want To Play An Ogre, you can’t win a social game someone else refuses to sit down to, and social rolls shouldn’t be mind control. All the Glamour in the world can’t make your roommate do the FUCKING DISHES if they’re deep in the throes of executive dysfunction, nor can it make the cashier at Walgreens fail to card you for wine when their computer literally won’t advance without an ID. People who are keyed up about honeyed words or whose own trauma came at the hands of manipulators and abusers might refuse to play that game on the terms the Fairest is setting, which makes it hard to, as it were, turn this problem into a nail. Lurking down this path as well is the specter of becoming like the masters who made you this way; if you get used to saying what will get people to listen to you, eventually you start seeing people as enrichment puzzles that dispense the things you want. Madness waits down that road, and it waits for Fairest with a giant spiked bat, thanks to their Seeming Curse.

There’s no pretty way to say this so I won’t: Fairest are always on the verge of losing their minds. Their curse hits them with a flat penalty to all rolls against losing Clarity, which means that Fairest lose Clarity faster than other Lost and they do so more consistently. This necessitates a balancing act with avoiding becoming heartless manipulators; Fairest must engage in control-seeking behavior in order to stay mentally well, must be able to trust and rely on people close to them, structure their lives, and anticipate important changes or they end up on the fast way down. Other Lost often don’t understand this need or the Fairest curse to begin with, and so Fairest end up in unofficial support groups for one another, similar to those run by Darklings except no one will admit it’s a support group even at gunpoint. Woe fucking betide the friend or life partner who gets between a Fairest and her “book club”, “girls’ night”, “D&D campaign”, or other excuse for this vital community support.

Fairest Kiths are...bad. They’re bad. This is the part of the article where I’m supposed to talk about thematics and symbolism and metaphor, and I cannot do that here, because they are bad. Fairest has three viable Kiths that are actual Fairest Kiths, one that’s a Beast Kith who got lost and wound up here by fucking mistake, and a pile of garbage bigger than my self-esteem problems. I’m almost tempted to only talk about those four Kiths and save myself the time but I suppose I should show the work like I’ve done for all the other Seemings, so here we fuckin’ go I guess.

Flowering - This is it. This is the Fairest Kith. If you want to roll any other kind of Fairest you must first pass the trial of justifying why you’re not playing Flowering. In theory, Flowering draws its mythic heritage from nymphs and dryads, charming flower sprites, Knights of Flowers, and the like, but in practice Flowering’s only mechanical effect is 9-again on Persuasion, Socialize, and Subterfuge with no qualification or requirement, which doesn’t just make you better at everything Fairest is good at, it makes you better when you spend Glamour to flare it too. Want to represent a biobahn sith’s hypnotic dance? Flowering works. Want to create a vampiric Fairest with a sultry voice? Here comes Flowering. The siren at the bar who smells like sea air and gunpowder? Flowering. Everything is Flowering. Even the things that aren’t Flowering are Flowering because all Fairest Kiths have a social focus, which is Flowering’s undisputed arena of mastery.

Bright One - In theory, Bright Ones represent beings of light in the vein of Victorian fey (which...ugh...Victorians), but their Goblin Illumination is, how you say, useless, only becoming vaguely useful for a total of 2 Glamour as a passive defense that took you 2 turns to set up. Anything you want to represent here can be found in Flowering and with Elements or Communion (Light).

Dancer - You know how Flowering gives you bonuses on all social rolls? Would you like those same bonuses but on 1 less skill and only on rolls that “involve physical grace”? No? Run Flowering here and give your character a Dance specialty in one or more skills.

Draconic - One of the game’s premier melee options and a Beast Kith who took a wrong turn and ended up getting a free makeover intended for someone else. Draconic in theory represents Fairest as dragons, monster girls, demons, and in general at their most physical, but that idea sorta...falls down a bit? Draconic’s bonuses are all about Brawl and all the sample Draconics are swordsmen, which might suggest to the discerning reader that someone in the office wasn’t reading their own fucking game. Draconic Fairest don’t make bad melee boys if you invest in Lethal Mien, but honestly this is Dual Kith bait; slap it on your Hunterheart or your Razorhand and go apeshit.

Muse - Close but no cigar. In theory Muses are, well, muses; figures of inspiration, mentorship, teaching, creative fire. Their Kith Blessing is strong but requires access to mortals, which is complicated and roundabout on the best of days. If you have an idea that you think is Muse-shaped, use Playmate instead.

Flamesiren - Behold, we enter the realm of Okay(tm). Flamesirens are what Bright Ones wanted to be, and their hypnotic aura is actually a pretty neat tool; with cunning you can make it a one-sided penalty, and even if you don’t it’s an interesting method of de-escalating a social or combat situation by subjecting everyone to the tar pit that is your presence. If your concept involves light and color and you’re resistant to Flowering, Flamesiren will do more than nothing.

Polychromatic - Polychromatics don’t have a lot of roots in mythology; their modern inspirations are, well, Manic Pixie Dream Girls. But they get a shout-out here for being the only Fairest Kith who can muster up decent emotional defenses; not only can they magically boost their Composure rolls (and non-Composure rolls to resist magical and mundane emotional attacks for that matter), but others get a flat penalty to Empathy rolls against them, which makes them talented dissemblers. You’re still probably better off with Flowering - in a world of passive Kith Blessings, Polychromatic’s is extra passive - but I can see this Kith passing muster, and even being worth the two dots to Dual Kith in-house.

Shadowsoul - This one’s insane. Ostensibly Fairest Does Darkling, Shadowsouls get their Wyrd to Intimidate rolls which could be the whole Kith on its own and still be worth the slot, but in addition to that they get 9-again on Subterfuge (matching Flowering and Darklings there) and access to Contracts of Darkness, one of the most powerful in the game line, as an Affinity Contract. Is your Fairest spooky? Would you like them to be spooky? Here’s your one-stop shop.

Telluric - This is a Kith made of ribbon bonuses. In theory related to stars and celestial light, Telluric’s bonuses to rolls “with precise timing” isn’t...really worth considering. Run ‘em as Flamesiren and move on.

Treasured - In theory also able to muster emotional defenses, Treasured are Fairest who are literally made into works of art. They’re Okay(tm) but in their niche are beaten out by Polychromatic with a better effect for less resources.

Playmate - The last Real Fairest Kith(tm), Playmate appears in Night Horrors: Grim Fears where White Wolf tries to sell it as Peter Pan, but its powerful team-oriented bonuses mean that Playmates are useful anywhere Muse is wanted and more places besides. The front woman of an indie rock band could be a Playmate; so too could be an idealized baseball captain, the director at your local theater, the middle manager of a sinister conspiracy, or the night shift lead at a research lab. Do people do a thing in teams? Playmate does that thing.

And She Had Huge Titties, I Mean Massive Badondadonks, Absolutely Enormous Bazoggahoggas - Lost’s Canon Fairest

Remember when I said we had to get back to this after So You Want To Play An Ogre? Now we’re getting back to this. I’m not gonna re-state my caveats from that article and I’m not really gonna go back over the bit about So White Wolf Was Run By Fucking Nazis because, in all honesty, I do not have the fucking time to restate all of that in new words. Give thanks that OPP got out alive and let’s get right down to it.

Fairest have a very consistent characterization in canon that is only really challenged in Winter Masques; the narrative put forth in Lost is that Fairest, being attractive, have an uncomplicated power which privileges their lives. Which is a rather bloodless way to describe how White Wolf kept writing and publishing Fairest as heartless abusers and manipulators getting their jollies and emotional needs met by casually destroying their fellow survivors, manipulating them through sex appeal, outright lies, cattiness, cruelty, and betrayal. Much as simply queering Ogre does not help Ogre in and of itself, queering Fairest only takes you from incel and Nazi propaganda about women into...incel and Nazi propaganda about twinks, femmes, & in general anyone with the temerity to be found attractive by straight white people.

I’m not bitter, you’re bitter.

So what do you do at your table, with your Fairest concept? Lemme open up by saying that like, Fairest qua Fairest is perfectly solid, and if it wasn’t there wouldn’t be an article here; Fairest has a lot to say for itself about feminized violence, about your personhood being reduced to a product for the consumption of others, about emotional abuse & neglect, gaslighting, and sexual assault, but the conclusion White Wolf arrives at (”Fairest have unalloyed power over mortal and Lost society and they abuse that power”) is super fucking obtuse and betrays a serious lack of concern for what the Fairest undergo. It ignores the way a Fairest’s ordeals will force her to confront her relationship to her own gender and alter her willingness and ability to be consumed, disconnect her from her former society while also isolating her from her new one, and these questions are important for you if you’re looking to play a ‘classic’ Fairest.

But that leaves some hanging questions. Male Fairest face the almost inescapable fate of “failing” maleness on patriarchal terms; even the most strapping, broad-chested, athletic Adonis of a Fairest has become a man of layered words and reflexive empathy, whose Manly Stoicism(tm) is a cracking facade at best and entirely abandoned in a more typical circumstance. Men who become Fairest thus face a second journey after their escape from Arcadia; confronting what being men means to them and building their gender identity back up from the rubble it’s become. The temptation to accept success on society’s terms is always going to be present, and it’s always going to be offered like it’s possible, but it’s a losing game for these Fairest; they simply cannot be the men that other men demand they become.

Now, the discerning and loyal reader is surely about to ask, hey Vox, where’s the butch Fairest I was promised back in the Ogre article, to which I respond WE’RE GETTING THERE but I gotta use this as a bridge to talk about something that cuts across Fairest of all genders, be they cis or trans. Lost 1e makes a lot of hay out of the idea that Fairest “are rarely conventionally attractive”, and core even provides some interesting written concepts for that...which make it into exactly none of the art. Every published Fairest is conventionally attractive for various definitions of conventional, be it as a supermodel or a waif, but that leaves the question of Fairest who genuinely are not - and, tragically, Fairest who were not, and were then made into someone more easily consumed by their Durance. You know what I’m about to say, and I know you know I’m about to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway: all bodies are beautiful, but Fairest know well that beauty and attraction aren’t the same, and neither are beauty and happiness. All Fairest, from the roundest bear to the most wide-eyed waif, are the products of Keepers who valued their bodies in that state, and that idea is going to haunt them day in and day out for the rest of their extended lives. There is no such thing as a Fairest with an uncomplicated relationship to their body, and that White Wolf seems to think that an uncomplicated relationship is their default state is...disgusting, frankly.

Which brings us, at long last, to butch Fairest (also bear Fairest but I’m gonna stick with the one set of terms or I’m going to go mad and this will never be published), who have a complicated journey ahead of them. On the one hand, the assertion of control and ownership over their own bodies, their own identities, cannot be overstated. On the other hand, elements of those bodies are going to be completely out of their control; a nascent butch Fairest may well hit the gym to get swole only to discover that she literally, physically cannot, that she has been Assigned Dex Build At Durance. Hauling your corpse out of Arcadia with an extremely feminine appearance shaped by your Keeper might complicate attempts to present in a more masculine manner or even just to appear androgynous, and those complications can be discouraging. For those that stick to it, this journey will take them two places; one is the bared-teeth, bloody-knuckled assertion that this life is theirs and you can have it if you can fucking take it, and the other is into the ranks of the Freehold’s retained warriors, usually in Summer or Autumn, though a vibrant representation of Spring knights will make it seem as if Spring has more butch Fairest than it actually does. These Fairest are aware, or will become aware, of how much of their job involves de-escalating or pre-empting violence; a focus on Physical stats or skills is not necessarily common, but hyper-specialization therein likely is. A butch Fairest is a lot more likely to have, say, Brawl 4 (Multiple Opponents) and no other Physical skills than she is to have Brawl, Weaponry, Athletics, and Stealth, in part or in whole because her first weapon of choice is going to be an Intimidate roll.

At every turn you’re able to, challenge White Wolf’s narrative about Fairest by asking yourself what your Fairest wants, why they’re this way, what they’re frightened of, and how the way they behave relates back to these. They’re not products; they’re people, just as hurt and Lost as the rest of their peers.

Princesses And Pastries - Fairest In The Courts

Fairest have a complex relationship to the society of their fellow Lost. On the one hand, they have the same need for community, support, companionship, understanding, honesty, and material aid as all Lost; a Fairest is not magically proof against being homeless, against starving, against the dangers of existing in the modern world without things like a photo ID or car insurance, and Freeholds provide all of these things. On the other hand, the thing most Fairest fear most, even if they can’t articulate that fear, is their own power - social influence, emotional trust and betrayal, status, political power, and authority. Fairest are all too aware that being good at this game does not make them immune to it - after all, that’s the lesson they learned at the hands of their Keepers.

What follows from this is a complex dance of interactions that each Fairest in some ways has to feel like she’s managing on her own, even if she’s not (and she rarely is; those support groups exist for a reason). If you give a Fairest a doughnut in a social setting, she will lick that doughnut even if she doesn’t intend to eat it right away, solely to hear someone else say something along the lines of “well it’s yours now”. As Fairest filter into Freehold society and take up social roles at all levels of power - officers, messengers, ‘ambassadors’ to mortal society, secretaries, pledge-smiths, teachers, monarchs - their responsibilities and rewards become their doughnut. That Fairest make a big deal out of both their job and the benefits that come with it is rarely, as other Lost sometimes think, about aggrandizement or reveling in power for its own sake; it’s about the sheer relief and assurance of hearing someone say, to the Fairest’s face, that this is her doughnut and no one is going to take it from her.

Younger Fairest tend to flit between two or three Courts; their initial selection may be based entirely on friendships, Vibes, or a gut-check decision based on an initial pitch by that Court, and Fairest can go quite far even in a Court that doesn’t quite actually fit their needs. Eventually, though, those Fairest who survive their youth will gravitate towards a Court whose ideals speak to them, even if its current social order isn’t living up to those ideals. If they’re going to be condemned to live as exiles in the world of their birth, the Fairest can at least be the person she wants to be, god damn it. Fairest aren’t any more or less vulnerable to a toxic Court environment than other Lost, but they’re good at detecting it beforehand. Unfortunately they’re also good at telling themselves they can change it.

Spring - Though early Spring joiners are of course rare in general, Fairest are among those Lost who more commonly choose Spring as a first Court. Spring’s highly social focus and chaotic internal organization is almost tailor-made for the skill set of your average Fairest, but therein too lies a sense of threat; for many Fairest, Spring can remind them of their Durance, and their joining of the Court is as much motivated by fear of a powerful cultural body as it is by any genuine Desire, maybe even more so. Many such Fairest end up caught in Spring’s middle-road trap, spinning their wheels without recovering or worsening more or less until they finally die, but when Autumn can sniff out the fearful ones it puts a lot of work into cooperating with Spring to get them out and where they can be helped.

Summer - More Fairest dabble with Summer for dreams of glory, or because they want to believe in Summer’s apolitical sales pitch, than ultimately stick with Summer. Those that do stay often serve as officers, as the Sun’s Tongue or the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, and as Court sorcerers. Fairest skilled in Contracts of Separation can make for surprising Jaegers, hounding their prey down more like a private investigator or a serial killer than a traditional hunter, but while striking this is fairly rare. Fairest who stick with Summer are those who are looking for its high ideals and are often among those rare Summer Courtiers who can competently articulate both those ideals and their pitfalls without falling prey to cynicism and bitterness.

Autumn - For those Fairest who hurt others to feel safe, Autumn is waiting. The Leaden Mirror can be attractive to young Fairest because it’s easy to perceive Autumn as atomized, defined by personal relationships rather than webs of political influence, but when the Fairest discovers those webs the existence of Option Two: Resort To Violence as an acceptable tool to the Ashen Court is perversely reassuring rather than threatening. The image of the Fairest as a witch, tempting and threatening, clings to them in Autumn but it’s honestly not their most common role; Autumn employs its Fairest as rumor-mongers, the Other Woman who seems a little too familiar with your husband, therapists & counselors, oneiromancers, and ambassadors to Hedge communities. The work Autumn does is harsh on Clarity, and Fairest are especially vulnerable to that harshness, but if the Court invests the time in helping its Fairest members, the self-awareness and self-confidence it offers can be a godsend that no other Court can give them.

Winter - As the Court which is actually selling what Fairest think Autumn has - to wit, the ability to simply say “no” to all social interactions with no justification required - Winter has a strong undercurrent of Fairest membership at all tiers of its power. Fairest often end up directly involved in Winter’s money-making enterprises, and flourish as Squires and Armigers with their fingers on the pulse of the Court’s morale. Winter’s hands-off approach displays a tremendous amount of trust in its Fairest from their perspective, and the demeanor of the Coldest Court - Winter’s indifferent equality - has a potent, merciless appeal. The trap of drowning in Sorrow sucks more than a few Fairest under, but if their peers can be there for them there’s always a way back out.

This Is Not A Pipe - Fairest And Lost’s Themes

My many thanks to Izzie M for her extensive help on this section. I’m not sure I’d have been able to grapple it down, emotionally or intellectually, otherwise.

Fairest go through some intense shit, and the shit they go through can never fully be addressed, never fully be recovered from. It’s no mistake that Fairest, like Wizened, are among those Lost likely to never fully gain resolution with or from their Keeper, and this is because they embody the dark truth that no matter how much progress you make, how much you heal, your trauma has changed who you are as a person and you will be dealing with it until you die. But, as alluded to extensively above in the discussion of Fairest and gender, Fairest also embody the way in which society will attempt to stamp you, mold you, turn you into a product to be consumed or an archetype to be placed into its churning machine, and its attempts to reshape who and what you are and can be are, in themselves, a form of trauma and abuse.

Fairest deal a lot in expectations. They’re expected to be perfect victims, they’re expected to be happy (because they’re beautiful and attractive, because they can front as Doing Okay, because they have a form of access to ‘normal’ society), they’re expected to want romance and sex (since everyone else wants those things out of them), to perform emotional labor, to be available, intimate, understanding, to keep up appearances. Fairest escape the chains of their Keeper only to be clapped in the chains that extend into the eyes and minds of their peers, and they cannot move without hearing the clink of them.

Fairest are primed to represent victims of ongoing emotional abuse and neglect; sex slaves and victims of child abuse might find themselves in Fairest, as might husbands or wives of abusive partners (and boy, re-living my bullshit there was a bonus prize I didn’t want to receive for writing this article), children pushed to over-achieve (here overlapping with Elemental) until they break, pastor’s daughters and cult kids (here overlapping with Beast), and others. However, Fairest also hit their thematic stride when talking about trauma from a society that will not give you an exit. A trans person is first punished by society for “failing” to perform their assigned gender, then made to perform their new one to expectations that they cannot set, do not control, and do not consent to; such a person might easily be Fairest, as might a man breaking under the expectations of Maleness, a college student losing their mind in finals week with no one to help, or even more ‘ordinary’ sex workers expected to perform emotional and physical labor for a society that rewards their work with violence and dehumanization.

Fairest are people with complex internal worlds and they damn well know it, but the temptations to let others define them are numerous; society promises all manner of rewards for being who and what it wants you to be, for wanting the things it tells you to want, for being the kind of person who wants and does those things. To be Fairest is to know at any time you can start faking it and receive those rewards insofar as they’re actually on the table, but it is also to know, every second of every day that you’re performing that role, that it is fake. If you can’t find a community with which you can be genuine...well. You can always get more hurt, and in this way Fairest also bring another theme of Lost into focus: that the Lost owe compassion and understanding to their fellow victims, because failure to care can only hurt both them and everyone in their blast zone.

Feet Pics For Legos - Coping As A Fairest

Fairest are among those Lost who are most concerned with their day-to-day social interactions and safety rather than their immediate, very physical environmental safety. They are perhaps the Seeming most likely to live in a group setting (in an apartment with roommates or romantic partners, in a house shared between multiple households, splitting the bills in a condo, with their parents), and are definitely the Seeming most comfortable with the idea of living with mortals who aren’t ensorcelled. Indeed, Fairest don’t tend to do well living alone; even a Fairest who wants or needs a private place to be, choosing to keep a home in which others cannot lay a claim, will likely crash at friends’ places, sleep over at the Freehold commons on some pretext or another, stay the night with a lover, or otherwise have a place to flop down while surrounded by other people. Having other people - their greatest reality check - around the place helps keep the Fairest centered in the real reality, better able to pick apart the mortal from the Wyrd from their own unrelated hallucinations, and a Fairest who is isolated - or who is permitted to isolate herself - quickly begins to dissociate and may soon be incapable of caring for herself until someone can get her back into the present.

Those invited over as guests to a Fairest’s home may note a lot of concern for those she lives with. She likely schedules the event well in advance, is clear about the boundaries of those she lives with (”That’s Brenda’s room, the door stays shut.”) and in general treats her communal home with a lot of respect and love. Respecting these boundaries and in turn having her own respected is very validating for the Fairest and is vital to be able to feel safe and at ease in her own home, and impressing their importance on guests further reinforces that this is, as it were, her doughnut. While not dismissive of their own literal physical safety per se, a Fairest’s anxieties rarely center around her body being violently attacked by strangers. For those that do have such anxieties, they may choose to solve that problem by simple expedient of rooming or living with someone large and scary.

Another detail of note which is touched on in Winter Masques is that Fairest tend to seek out life’s little pleasures. Though they are not necessarily wealthier than other Lost, how a Fairest chooses to spend her money tends to follow particular patterns. Rare is the Fairest who doesn’t have clothing they like, a phone that works, a wallet or purse that can actually hold all of their stuff, and in this regard most Fairest without a special interest in fashion as a hobby in and of itself will have an aesthetic that is self-expressive but serviceable and hard-wearing, but any place the Fairest haunts, frequents, or lives in will get little touches everywhere. Fairest spend the little bits of extra money for good toilet paper, soft soaps that won’t hurt the skin, good shower supplies, high-quality razors, boots that won’t wear through - and they spend their serious money on their hobbies and preferences. A Fairest with a passion for cooking scrimps and saves to get a fully-stocked kitchen; a Fairest who likes building and connecting invests in Legos or Hot Wheels and creates elaborate environments for them. A gamer Fairest has headphones that can vibrate your constipation away and a fiber optic connection to ensure that lag will not stand between her and your doom. The reasons for this are manifold, and Lost’s canon writing suggests that Fairest seek pleasure to alleviate a desire to return to Arcadia. This is, to put it mildly, a stupid assertion; rather, the Fairest provides her own pleasures in part because it is one of the most emotionally clear ways to lick the doughnut, and in part because it reminds her that she can be happy under her own power, can seek pleasure, stimulation, engagement, without placing herself at another’s mercy - ironically making it easier to go out every day and do exactly that as a member of her various societies.

As a Fairest settles in she tends to look for “her” people, and quite often they’re good at compartmentalizing this, wearing different hats and having different feelings about those hats without feeling fake or distressed about the bare fact of that. She’ll have her personal friends and family, like her housemates, her girlfriend, maybe her mortal family, her neighbors, and then folks like her Motley (which are like her personal friends and family, but In The Know), her fellow Fairest and the Freehold broadly, her work friends and fellow hobbyists. A Fairest who does, say, sex work, thinks of herself as a Sex Worker and understands herself in the context of that broader social group. It can be a lot! Many Lost barely have a handle on being a member of both the Freehold and a Court, and the way Fairest flit to and fro between many communities, slipping seamlessly from one role to another, can be exhausting to watch - but by doing so the Fairest also builds bonds between those communities, highlights their common needs and interests, draws them together over their similarities and strengths. Darklings and Wizened get a lot of the work on the ground done, but it’s often a Fairest in the role of whistleblower, figurehead, and champion all at once.

After all, this, too, is her doughnut.

Example Fairest - Clara Belltower, Spring Playmate

Clara Belltower is a mime.

Well, no, not exactly. Clara Belltower is a self-employed porn actress, erotic script writer, and director, whose primary thing is mimes, clowns, and more broadly circuses and performance venues. She came back from Arcadia eight years back fleeing life as her Keeper’s Stepford Wife, and ran face-first into the money issues that haunt the Lost in general. What started out as a practical choice in new career - and an attempt to find and express an identity not created for her by her abuser - became a creative passion that has stayed strong with Clara and propelled her to status in the Spring Court, which retains her keen eye for decoration, direction, and theatricality in service to its high rituals and revels. Clara’s livestreams and online presence are also a convenient avenue for the Freehold to launder its less legal revenue streams, which has endeared Spring’s “silent siren” to the Winter Court and cemented her as a mover and shaker.

Clara’s ambitions reach beyond erotic miming, as talented as she is at both creating and purveying such. She has her eyes on four different strip clubs in Freehold territory alone whose owners and operators need to fucking go, and she wants Winter’s help making it happen; further, she wants the Freehold to take over operation of those establishments for the benefit of the workers. Clara’s vision is popular in Spring and has its supporters in Summer too, but the Declining Seasons have been cool on the concept, citing a need to maintain subtlety and avoid entanglements with the mortal world that might invite the eye of, say, the IRS - or mire the Freehold in a protracted war with local police departments. Clara’s passion burns with a righteous simplicity, envisioning a Freehold that is active in improving the city around it - if the cops want to throw down, bring it on! Her influence over Winter means the Coldest Court cannot simply dismiss her desires, but neither is it willing to go to war. Something is going to have to give, soon.

This concludes the Fairest portion of the article. Some additional thoughts on Seeming follow.

Bombing Your Own Position - Choosing Your Seeming

So it’s been six articles and I’ve talked about the ways various Seemings can represent responses to the things which traumatize us; neurodivergences for which society abuses us, the machinery of capitalism, violence, prison, and more. But how do you go about choosing your character’s Seeming? The obvious choice is to make a character that puts a lot of yourself at the table; to seek out a Seeming that reflects your own traumas, your own issues, your own anxieties and struggles, and then grapple with them in this fictional context. But RPGs can be an emotionally challenging medium, and you may well not want to deal with your own bullshit during your magic trauma fairy game. That’s valid!

Now, the second obvious piece of advice is to think about your proposed character’s themes and traumas and then select a Seeming from there, but this can get complicated. Many Lost players feel as if they need two Seemings, and to those players I say: no the fuck you do not. But it is true that people are messy and do not fully resolve, that the broad spectrum of the world of sorrow and loss is not easy to fit into 6 discrete categories whose creation was often managed by, not to keep repeating this point, fucking Nazis. I have found in my experience that it can be helpful, when you’re torn between two Seemings or you have a character you’re sure is this Seeming even though they look like or could be that one, to ask yourself why the character is not the other option. Why is this alluring and sensual Darkling not a Fairest, what makes this brutal and violent Wizened not an Ogre? This question naturally leads to others about their abuse and their reaction to it, and can start your momentum for writing your concept out.

As an addition, while I’ve spoken of various Seemings as being well-equipped to represent specific traumas, they don’t own those traumas. Elementals are metaphorically autistic, but there’s nothing stopping you from running an autistic Fairest or an autistic Beast instead. Rather, those Seemings outlined as being “for” or “about” certain traumas are those whose selection will make those traumas thematically central, cause you to return to them as a topic over and over by virtue of being who and what they are. Real people have complicated problems which intersect with one another, spawning new problems that are more strange than the sum of their parts, and it’s both valid and interesting to write your Lost that way - just keep in mind that it’ll still be complicated at the table too.

Van Helsing Hate Crimes - Seeming Politics

White Wolf spent a lot of time waffling back and forth on whether or not Seemings represent distinct cultural and political identities in a given Freehold, drifting towards ‘yes’ when the writers thought about the way Blessings and Curses create consistent, measurable differences between Lost of various Seemings, and towards ‘no’ generally whenever they were asked to actually outline a Lost society such as a sample Freehold or Entitlement. Some Entitlements are locked to specific Seemings, often times with little thought as to why, while other times Seeming-based power blocs are alluded to as worldbuilding elements (such as in Lords of Summer) without much in the way of supporting detail. Why should these things happen, when, how, what does the buildup of this violent fracture in a Freehold society look like?

On the whole, I have taken the stance in these articles and in my own worldbuilding that some amount of fantastical prejudice exists amongst the Lost, but that the systems of oppression have not taken root. Maybe it’s idealistic of me to view the Lost as unwilling or unable to produce internally racist power structures that create an underclass for the benefit of an appointed elite, but in general I feel as if Freeholds are too small, each individual member too precious by simple dint of being a living being in a physical body, for this kind of evil to flourish. That said, you may have also noticed that I identified two Seemings - Darklings and Fairest - as explicitly self-uniting and in some senses self-governing on the basis of common traumas that they often cannot fully explain to outsiders, and indeed community with people that understand your bullshit without you having to say it aloud - that is, those who share a Seeming with you - can be invaluable to all Lost. Ultimately, however, I want to advise against looking at Seemings the way that, say, Vampire: the Requiem looks at Clans, and instead to treat them as reactions to trauma rather than a kind of alternate racial identity.

Next up: So You Need To Write A Fetch

[cinanamon]

lies against your lips ⁠— njm

pairing | jaemin x reader

genre | angst, suggestive, (slight) fluff, badboy!au, exes!au, high school!au

word count | 12.1K

synopsis | He was your ex. You broke it off a year before, and it didn’t end on a very good note. Now he seemed that he was ready to reintroduce himself into your life, but you weren’t going to let him in so easily again, not after what he put you through.

warnings | cursing, drinking, smoking, bad homelife, romanticization, mentions of cheating, possessiveness. do not accept this kind of behavior from anyone irl

The minute you turned off the car, all of the doors opened and the girls scrambled out with shouts of gratitude directed your way before the doors closed again. You rolled your eyes and waved them off as you picked up your bag and stepped out into the parking lot. The rising sun peeked at you over the roof of the school building, and you instantly winced as you dropped your head to avoid the bright glare. It was way too bright for the headache you were sporting right now, though it was nice of the sun to wish you a good morning.

You shut your car door with a thud and locked it before heading towards the front entrance. Teenagers mingled around you until you found yourself surrounded by groups on either side as you started down the hallway, and though your lips twitched downwards at the loud volume they conversed in, you made sure to smile at anyone who greeted you. Your surroundings seemed to blend much like your muddled thoughts as you finally made it to your first class, where you plopped down beside a boy named Jisung. 

You were a year older than him, but you had sat beside him since the beginning of the year, so you had never thought of or seen him differently compared to the others at your table. Apparently, Jisung was part of a group of troublemakers, but no matter how much you scrutinized him, you couldn’t imagine it. The boy had bright blue hair at the beginning of the year for Christ’s sake, and he looked more like a blueberry than some e-boy.

And with how he talked to you and even gushed about Animal Crossing once with bright eyes, you concluded that he was just a nice kid who might potentially hang out with bad influences, if the rumor was true. 

You leaned back with a sigh and settled your bag down beside your chair after pulling out your notebook. Eyeing the strawberry milk carton on his desk enviously, a snort jerks your gaze towards the boy. With his quirked brow and the smirk stretched across his lips, it’s obvious he caught your stare.

“Do you want one?”

You perked up instantly, your headache retreating slightly at the offer. “Do you have another?”

“Yeah,” Jisung began to rummage through his backpack, his hand resurfacing with another carton in its grasp, “Me and my friend went to the convenience store before school this morning, and I grabbed an extra.” He met your eye for a second as if to size you up teasingly. “You look like you need it more than me though.”

Your mouth twisted into a scowl but he must have known it was playful, for he laughed shortly and placed it on your desk. Your expression simmered into a smile and you punched his shoulder lightly. “Thank you, Jisung.” 

He smiled at you kindly and inclined his head—yeah, this kid was definitely too sweet to be a “bad boy”. 

Class started and even though the milk brightened your mood, it didn’t necessarily do much to keep you awake. The headache began to creep back behind your eyelids as you fought off the sleep from them, and when class finally ended, the bell seemed to increase the intensity of the ache in your skull. You began to pack up your things and with a grimace disguised as a smile, you waved off Jisung before heading to your next class. 

When that class ended and you found yourself with barely a page of notes due to your terrible headache still, you finally sent a subtle text to one of your friends you drove that morning that you needed an Ibuprofen stat, and to meet you in the stairwell off the English hall. 

As you left the classroom and started down the hall, you instinctively placed a hand against your temple to nurse the ache throbbing beneath it. With gritted teeth, you tried to ignore it as you stepped into the staircase alcove.

You swung yourself up onto the first couple steps without much of a thought, and you glanced down at your phone to check how much time you had left before the bell. Apparently someone else wasn’t looking where they were going either because you bumped into someone coming down and nearly dropped your phone. You caught it in a hurry and looked up to apologize before your voice died in your throat. 

It wasn’t so much someone not looking where they were going, but rather someone wanting you to bump into them.

And that person, my dear friend, was none other than Na fucking Jaemin. 

His eyes were widened in surprise, but the growing smirk on his face told you it wasn’t quite genuine. His hair was messy and his collar was askew, and the bags under his eyes gave away that he was a little worse for wear. Damn him, though, because he still managed to look hot. 

“(Y/n), it’s been a while; how are you?” 

And to think you thought your headache couldn’t get any worse.

“Fine.” You attempted a smile as you tried to dodge to the side, but he cut you off with a side step. 

“Not so fast,” he hummed, and you were wary of the pretty curvature of his lips as he looked at you, like he was a wolf and you were his prey. “I didn’t know you were back in town.” 

“Yeah, we moved back; my dad got re-transferred.” You bounced on the balls of your feet with a strained smile. “Well, I have to get to class! See you.” 

You went to hop onto the step around him but his hand reached out and clasped around your wrist. You stumbled at the sudden stop in your movements and after re-steadying yourself, you turned back to look at him with a disbelieving scoff. He must have recognized that look, the one you’d give before scolding him a year ago, but he only smirked at you. 

He shot you his signature grin as he let his grip slip further into the palm of your hand, a poor attempt at mimicking holding your hand. “We should catch up sometime soon, now that you’re back.”

For a moment, you were charmed by his smile like you were when you first started dating. He was still attractive, still captivating, and you found yourself beginning to agree to his proposal. He must have noticed the softening of your features for his smile spread wider, but the new angle showed off a splotchy purple hickey on his neck; he must have kept busy since you’ve been gone. 

All of his bad qualities came rushing back to you at the sight—the parties, the alcohol, the flirting—and suddenly his facade of charm fell away to reveal the devil beneath it, and your stomach lurched at the memory.

Your expression hardened and you snatched your hand back from him. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” He blinked in surprise at your sudden firmness, and his expression almost made you want to smirk. “I don’t really want to see you anymore than I have to.” And with that, you turned on your heel and continued up the stairs the rest of the way. 

You found your friend there with a raised brow and ibuprofen curled in his palm, and the sight of it alone brought the pounding in your head back to the forefront of your thoughts. “You are a lifesaver.”

“I know,” Hendery chuckled, but as you reached for the pill, he jokingly lifted it above your head.

You leveled him with a warning look. “Don’t you dare make me climb you to get to that.” He laughed but succumbed and lowered his hand for you to grab the medicine.

While you searched your bag for your water bottle, he placed his hands in his pockets and studied you, “Was that Jaemin you were talking to?”

“Yeah, it was. Just my luck, right?” 

He clicked his tongue, “So now he knows you’re back.” 

You looked at him pointedly before downing the pill. “I told him I didn’t want to deal with him again, though.”

His eyebrows shot up and his smile widened, “That’s what I’m talking about!”

You only shook your head as you fell into step with him, but you couldn’t stop a bright smile from crawling across your face. He was the only one who could always do that, and you guess you were pretty happy you were able to stick it to your ex. 

“By the way,” Hendery perked up as if remembering something, “There’s a party this weekend, if you’re down? I know you’re not a fan, so it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

That was true; you preferred mellow movie nights to big house parties, but you weren’t a stranger to a bottle of beer. You pursed your lips; you missed your junior year here so this was your last year to indulge and change things up.

“Why not?” With a tilt of your head, you grinned at him. Hendery seemed pleasantly surprised as he bumped your shoulder. 

“Who are you and what have you done with (Y/n)?”

You laughed. “She’s here, just new and improved.” He gave you a few more details, even as you came to your classroom doors and your teachers looked at you disapprovingly for pushing it to the bell. You waved him off and ducked into your own classroom with a puffed out chest and a spring in your step.

— — —

The weekend rolled by quicker than you expected with all of your projects and essays piling up by the minute, and you almost regretted agreeing to go to the house party. And though you feigned exasperation on the phone to Hendery, a nervous kind of excitement bubbled in your stomach at the thought of going. 

At your other school, you didn’t really get out much. You had a large presence in your home town, and so the idea of having to make new friends all over again sounded like a hassle, so you just focused on your grades. You were there for an education, after all. But now that you were back, you were eager to re-liven your old popularity and mingle with more people. You wanted to have fun, and if that meant sucking it up and heading to a potentially-unsafe-party, then so be it.

Hendery was adamant on driving you so you guys had an excuse to leave, and the seats soon filled up with your other friends, Xiaojun and Yeji, who made it easy for a smile to split your face and confidence begin to rise. Time slipped by quickly when you were with them, and so by the time you arrived, the party was in full swing.

You all climbed out of the car and their conversation was drowned out by your heartbeat as you approached the house. The first thing your friends wanted to do was dance, as so you entertained them by swinging your hips and bobbing your head for a bit. It wasn’t long before you grew tired though, and an itch settled in your throat. 

You tapped Xiaojun’s shoulder. “I’m going to go get a drink; do you want anything?” You had to semi-shout for the blonde to hear you over the music, but he only shook his head.

“No, I’m good! I think we’ll come and get drinks in a little bit too.” 

You nodded at him and ducked to the side. Your eyes ran over the room in search of the kitchen, and you awkwardly stepped down a few hallways before you found the right door. You had barely stepped in and placed a hand on the refrigerator’s door before you heard a voice behind you. 

“I thought you didn’t like to party anymore.”

You jumped and your hand slipped off the handle as you looked over your shoulder. Jaemin’s eyes met yours and he smirked as if that would prompt you to answer. You rolled your eyes but you weren’t going to let him ruin your mood; you’d be civil until he gave you a reason not to be. 

With a shrug, you turned around fully, a smile crossing your lips. 

“Well, I’m trying to change things up—get back into the party scene.”

He quirked a brow at your response, “Well the night’s not complete without a drink, right? Let me get you one.” Before you could shake your head and tell him that you’d really just prefer water, he was already making his way to the cooler and pulling out two bottles. He came back to you and pressed one of the cold beers into your hand. You pursed your lips in distaste as you studied its contents, and Jaemin snorted as he popped the lid and took a swig of his own.

“Don’t lie to me and tell me you don’t drink either.” 

“No,” You shot him a look before dropping your gaze to fiddle with the cap. “I just haven’t in a while.” 

You stared into the golden liquid before bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. As you retracted the bottle, Jaemin was leaning against the counter watching you with a corner of his lips raised. You swiped your sleeve against your mouth and furrowed your brows warily. “What?”

“Nothing,” he adjusted his posture and shrugged nonchalantly, “I just have a bit more respect for you now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were such a prude when we were together; I mean, you hated even seeing me with a bottle.”

“That’s because we were sophomores—” The beginning of your rant was cut off when you noticed your friends paused in the corridor, their jaws dropped open. You wanted to roll your eyes to the high heavens as Yeji shot you a cheeky thumbs up. Jaemin glanced behind you at them when he noticed your exasperation, and he cleared his throat.

Jaemin pushed off from the counter in a fluid motion, his hand easily snatching up the beer as he straightened. “Do you want to go to the backyard?” You hummed questioningly, snapping your gaze back to him. He inclined his head towards the back of the house, “They’re having a little campfire—do you want to go sit down?”

Your friends became a distant thought as you found yourself nodding and almost subconsciously, his hand slipped into yours as he led you out. Old habits die hard, you guess. He reached his hand into a bowl of suckers on the way out, curiously, before pulling out one and stuffing it in his pocket. You watched your conjoined hands blankly as he slid open the door and brought you down the stairs, where you finally settled on a stone wall separating the firepit from the garden. 

You awkwardly set the beer bottle between your legs as you settled down beside Jaemin, who was unfurling the wrapper of the lollipop he snagged. The warmth of the fire curled around your legs even with the distance between you, and the heat climbed its way up your body. Jaemin was quiet as he watched the other partygoers, the lollipop bobbing side to side in his mouth. Looking at him now, you briefly wondered when the drinks in your hands had slowly changed from cherry iced colas to beer bottles, and the suckers in his hand became cigarettes.

He placed a hand on your thigh after a bit, and the heat from the fire took refuge under his palm as if his touch alone would burn through the skin; you jerked your leg away in shock, and you shot him a look out of the corner of your eye. 

He had yet to face you, and so you let your eyes wander over his features and settle on the lollipop stem. A lopsided smile crawled upon your lips.

“I haven’t seen you with one of those in a while.”

The sucker stopped moving in his mouth as his eyes snapped to yours. “What, do you want me to pull out a cigarette instead?”

“No!” He smirked good-naturally at your reaction and popped the sucker out of his mouth as he let his gaze fall back on the firepit. You tilted your head towards him curiously and kicked your legs back and forth against the wall. “Why are you so intent on talking to me again? If you’re anything like you were before I left, any of these girls are fair game.” 

Jaemin didn't reply right away; he pursed his lips and moved the sucker in a slow circle as he seemed to think, words beginning to form before he changed his mind. He placed the red lollipop back in his mouth. “They were never as good as you.”

You stared at him in surprise. What was that supposed to mean? As good of a kisser? As good of company? You darted your eyes over the way the light of the fire lit up his hair, reflected on the edges of his irises; why was he so damn unreadable? 

At a loss of what to say, you opted to bark out a laugh and shake your head. “Such honeyed words to win their hearts. Sometimes it's hard to remember even dating you.”

His lips twitched downwards and you almost missed his next words. “Oh I would disagree; I remember kissing you quite distinctly.” Jaemin glanced at you out of the corner of his vision, his eyes dragging along your jaw and over your lips until finally meeting your shocked gaze.

When you still sat in silence, his lips formed a light scowl that was quickly replaced by a confident, teasing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I have something for you.”

Words crumbled on your tongue and you fought to say something about what he was saying before, but nothing came to mind and so your response was swept to the new topic at hand. “What?” 

Without another word, he removed the red lollipop from his mouth and slipped it through your own parted lips. 

Instantly, your eyes widened and you choked, your hand flying up to grab at the stem. An angry flush crossed your face, and you stared at him incredulously as you waited for some kind of explanation, but his eyes only glimmered. “You asshole!” 

He laughed brightly, as if pissing you off was the highlight of his day. He winked cheekily, “It’s cherry flavored. Good, right? Or maybe you like it because it tastes like me—?” You abruptly cut off his question by jumping off the top of the wall and throwing him the middle finger with a glare, your beer bottle long forgotten on his other side. 

He was still laughing as you stormed back into the party and found your friends. Hendery was the first to notice you and he raised his brow, “What happened to sticking it to your ex?” 

You glared at him but chose not to answer, “Are you guys ready to head out? It’s getting late.”

“Party pooper,” Yeji mumbled, and in normal circumstances, you wouldn't have repressed the urge to grin.

“Yeah we can head out,” Xiaojun replied, “Where’d you get the sucker, though? I didn’t see them anywhere.” 

You didn’t realize you still had in it your mouth, toying at it with your tongue. Hastily, you pulled it out and coughed. “Ah, there was a bowl in the kitchen. Let’s just go.” You looked for the nearest trash can and disposed of it on your way out, and you didn’t look twice as it sunk to the bottom.

— — —

When you walked into school that next week, you weren’t in a good mood. You weren’t hungover at all because you only drank a little at the party, but the person you were with still plagued your mind, leaving you frustrated because he was the last person you wanted to be thinking about. 

You made it to your science class and gratefully sunk into your seat. You placed down your things and shut your eyes, hoping to rest for a few moments before your teacher walked in.

“Jaemin, huh?”

Forget that idea. 

Your eyes snapped open and you whirled around with a stinky eye to find Jisung’s smirking face, but he took on a jokingly defensive stance at your sour look. “Yikes, did I hit a nerve?”

You watched him unpack his things for a few seconds, and if you were in a better mood, you would have laughed at the return of the strawberry milk on his desk. Finally, you sighed, because you could never be mad at your boyish seatmate. “What do you mean?”

Jisung met your eye and raised a brow; he must have thought you were joking. When he realized you were serious, he plopped down in his seat curiously. “People are saying you’re dating again.”

“Where’d they get that idea?” You gaped. “We ended on a terrible note; I’d never do that again.”

Jisung quirked a brow at you. “Mhmm, sure. From what I’ve heard, you guys got cozy at a party this weekend.”

You rolled your eyes, “Not like that; can people not be friends with their exes anymore?” His blank look seemed to tell you no, no that wasn’t possible but you just sighed. “Why do you care anyways?” 

“He’s one of my closest friends.” 

Your jaw dropped. “You have a shitty taste in friends.”

“Well what does that say about you, then?” He smirked at you and bumped your pencils, “Jaemin’s not all that bad, you know. He’s just...hard to figure out. He makes things harder for himself.” 

You wanted to snort and tell him that Jaemin was pretty bad from when you knew him, but Jisung wasn’t the type to lie to you, so you paused. Maybe Jaemin had changed since you’d been gone. 

“How so?”

But before Jisung could elaborate on Jaemin’s behavior (what you’re trying so damn hard to figure out), your teacher finally came in. He gave you an apologetic look but you just sighed as you opened your notebook. 

The next two classes went by without a hitch—boring and yet managed to distract you with algebraic expressions and essay topics. You knew life couldn’t be perfect though, and so you accepted what life threw at you when Jaemin came your way during lunch, a dashing grin on his lips. He sat down beside you at the table, and you cursed that the two girls you sat with normally were making up a test they missed in math when they went on a band trip.

“Hello, baby,” You almost gagged on your sandwich and pressed a hand to your chest when he leaned in to kiss your temple. You frowned, and it was a stark contrast from the object of your damnation, a boy beaming at you with perfect pearly whites. 

“Knock it off,” you grumbled, glancing around the lunchroom to see a few wandering eyes. You leveled a pointed look at him, “Come to apologize for this weekend?”

Jaemin stared at you for a moment as if to register what you meant before he burst into a brilliant grin. “About the sucker? Not at all; it was a good flavor.”

You scoffed,“Bastard.”

“You were always the sweetest to me,” his eyes crinkled as he pretended to sigh dreamily, and you felt the sudden urge to pick up your lunch and leave.

“What do you want, Jaemin?”

He dropped the facade and titled his head your way. You stiffened slightly when the angle revealed a few new hickies along his collar, but you didn’t think it was your place to point them out. “People are saying we’re dating.”

“I heard,” you rolled your eyes and took another bite of your sandwich. “I don’t know why people are thinking that from us sitting together once.”

“It could’ve been the sucker,” Jaemin pointed out, but at your unamused look, his grin became cat-like—devious, and almost too friendly—as he leaned forward so his face was inches from yours. You did not like this at all.  “Well you know me, I can’t keep secrets.”

Your hands froze around your meal as you slowly drew your eyes up to his. “You did not try and tell the school that we’re back together.” He shrugged smugly and you scoffed as you pushed away from the lunch table and began to pack up your lunch. “It’s not happening.”

“Why not?” He was already following your lead, only a few steps behind you as you began to walk out of the cafeteria. 

You looked back at him over your shoulder in disbelief. “Do you not remember why we broke up? I can’t stand you sometimes, and you can’t stand me.”

“I think we’ve been rather friendly so far,” he teased, and you gasped when you felt his hand slip into your back pocket. You whirled around and slapped his arm harshly so he’d retract it, but it did little to wipe the smirk off his face. You scowled. 

“Cheeky little shit.”

“Come on,” He whined until you finally paused in the empty hallway. “Don’t you want to give it another try?”

You wanted to tell him quite frankly that no, you didn’t want to even entertain the idea, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it because you weren’t sure if it was entirely true. You looked at him helplessly. “Why do you even want to?”

He blinked at you for a moment with parted lips, and your brows furrowed as you momentarily wondered if the question caught him off guard. He seemed to debate with himself before he quickly covered his second of pause by breaking into a charming leer. His expression simmered into one more serious as he brought his face close to yours, and his voice became softer, lower. “Because I miss the feeling of your lips on mine.” 

The inhale you took was sharp.

Jaemin has never been “trustworthy” by any standard definition; he’d broken countless girls’ and guys’ hearts, shared secrets that were meant to be kept in close confidence, brushed off warnings, and consistently left others hurt in his wake. So what’s to say that he was pulling your leg now? That he wasn’t serious, or that he’d turn around and cheat with some girl after he has you in his clutches again? You hesitated and searched his gaze for anything to grasp onto, but they were oddly guarded for someone who was usually so reckless.

“Y-you’re funny,” You scoffed, but your voice was strained, and you knew he knew it too. Quickly, you stepped out from under him, and it was as if a pressure lifted off your chest and you could breathe again. 

Jaemin had yet to move as you looked back at him. It seemed to prompt him to, and he straightened with a tight grin as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am known for my humor,” he joked, but it fell flat between you two. You both just stared at each other, and you desperately tried to find something to fix the silence in the air, the uncomfortable feeling stirring in your gut as you watched his face, but he seemed to put back on the mask of a smile.

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” he tried again, his tone light. You waved him off; it wasn’t a big deal, and you didn’t think you could eat much more anyways. He nodded to himself and cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Jeno in a bit, but I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah. See you, Jaemin,” And you watched him walk off, but you felt a frown still tug at your lips at his lonesome figure. 

— — —

You jolted awake at a loud sound. Your face contorted in confusion as you lifted your head, and you winced when you felt a kink in your neck. Bringing a hand up to massage the back of your head, you realized you had fallen asleep at your desk. You cursed yourself as you shuffled through the sheets but you pursed your lips at the math problems in front of you. The variables were beginning to become jumbled together where you hardly even knew what the equation wanted. With a heavy sigh, you dropped your head into your arms; maybe you could take a shower and come back to it, though internally you already knew that wouldn’t do much to make the problems make sense. 

Just as you went to stand up, the loud noise from earlier resounded outside your house: a honk.

Your body straightened in alarm and you looked towards the front of your house in confusion. Hesitantly, you stood and made your way to the window to peek out of the curtains.

You squinted past the headlights to try and see who would be honking at you at damn near 11 o’clock, but your eyes widened when you saw the culprit. You slipped the blinds shut and hurried to your front door before flinging it open. 

He parked the car but when he must have noticed you weren’t coming out right away, he stepped out. He was awkwardly shuffling his feet when you stepped onto the porch. “Jaemin?” 

He perked up and turned to you with a bright smile. “(Y/n)!”

“What are you doing here?” You approached him in disbelief as you looked between him and his car. He smirked at you and tapped the side of his nose. 

“I wanted to apologize for the other day by interrupting your lunch; I want to take you to a party.”

A laugh escaped your lips. “You’re joking, right? It’s a school night! I have so much homework and it’s so late already—”

“So you don’t want to go?” 

You stared at him and weighed your options. You really needed to do that schoolwork, but you were so frazzled that you’d probably sit in front of the equation for the same amount of time you’d be partying. “I didn’t say that...but I don’t know if my parents would even let me.”

“If we leave now, they won’t even realize you’re heading out.”

“I’m sure they heard you honk,” You rolled your eyes, but your mind was already made up. If you got in trouble when you returned home, then you got in trouble, whatever; hopefully they’d take it easy on you since you didn’t break any rules while at the other school. “Just let me change real quick.”

You rushed back inside and changed into more party-appropriate clothing. You wrote a little note for your parents and left it on your sheet of homework before heading back to the front door in hope that you wouldn’t run into them to stop you. 

When you came back out, he peered at you through the front window, as if to silently question when you were going to hop in. You hurried to the passenger side, but there was a noticeable pause as you hesitated on opening the door.

This is stupid, you thought. You shouldn’t get in the car with people you don’t know or trust anymore. But you found yourself grasping the handle anyways and smoothly sliding into his passenger seat.

His car smelled overwhelmingly like smoke. You instinctively wrinkled your nose at the intensity and glanced at the tree air freshener on his front mirror, but it must have been old because it did nothing to clear the air.

Jaemin cleared his throat and raised a brow at you as he shifted the car into gear. “You good?” 

With a nod, you willed yourself to relax into the leather of the seat. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You let your gaze wander over his features onto the rest of his car, which for the most part was actually rather clean. Your eyes traced along the center console and the dashboard, but they stopped short at the area by your feet, where several beer bottles laid scattered. 

You straightened in alarm and turned to him, your eyes wide and voice tense. “Do you drunk drive?” You remembered him being irresponsible and drinking, but drunk driving was serious and you were prepared to make him stop the car now and let you out. 

“No, I’m not an idiot. I only drink when I’m the passenger.”

Your shoulders unstiffened slightly but you scoffed, your teeth gritted together. “Don’t your parents—?”

“I live alone.”

You blinked, your expression falling. “...oh.” The car fell silent and though Jaemin didn’t seem bothered, you suddenly felt uncomfortable. When did he move out? Before you moved, he was still staying with them, you knew that. Did they kick him out? Hesitantly, you looked up at him, but then you prompted your lips shut; you weren’t his girlfriend anymore, so it wasn’t your place to ask. You bit the inside of your cheek and turned away. Propping your elbow on the windowsill, you dug the bottom portion of your face into your palm in hopes to ride out the rest of the drive with less awkwardness. 

“You look pretty,” he said to you after a moment. 

“Oh shut up,” But your tone held no wrath. You dropped your hand from your face and looked to the road ahead of you. “Where are we going anyways?”

Jaemin was surprisingly a very responsible driver, and he only spared you a second moments of eye contact with a shrug. “Yangyang is hosting a party tonight—I like to be at every one.” 

You didn’t reply but nodded slowly, and the rest of the drive was in comfortable silence. 

When you two finally pulled into the driveway, the first thing you heard was the loud music that drifted down the street and only grew louder at your approach. Now, as you unbuckled your seat belt and stepped out, it was deafening, and you felt bad for his neighbors. Maybe they’d call the cops on him, and then you would have an excuse to leave the party faster. But if there was alcohol involved, you didn’t want to risk getting grabbed by the cops, and so you uncomfortably cleared your throat and hoped tonight went well. 

Jaemin came around the side of his car and tilted his head at you questioningly, the lights of the front porch casting him in pretty shades of yellow that mimicked a halo. You resisted the urge to snort and quickened your pace to his side. 

Gingerly, he slipped an arm around your waist and you tensed. He glanced at you, a silent question of your comfort level. It was just a hand on your waist; it didn’t have to mean anything, and you guys were walking a thin wire between friends and exes, so this kind of contact was familiar to you. You cautiously met his eyes but gave a curt nod, and his hovering hand settled on your waist firmly. The two of you walked inside, and the minute you stepped through the threshold, you felt winded. 

There were way too many bodies for comfort, all pressed together as they danced sloppily to the latest rapper, stereotypical red cups in their hands that sloshed with each movement. It was a lot bigger and more imposing than the one you went to a few weeks ago. 

You subconsciously pressed yourself closer to Jaemin, which prompted him to look down at you with a quirk of his lip. Instantly, you created some distance between you again, at least as far as you could with his hand still perched on your side. 

The two of you hung out in the larger room for a little bit and drank from the solo cups, but after an hour or so, he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket. You stared at him wordlessly as he lit one and took a drag, blowing out the smoke into the crowd of teens around you. He must have noticed your grimace because he tilted his head your way, his fingers kneading at your waist. “What?”

You shook your head, “You’re going to smoke here? In this guy’s house?”

His brows furrowed, “Yeah? What, do you want me to go outside?”

“Yes; it’s common courtesy.”

He exhaled another puff of smoke but he looked over the heads of the crowd before tugging at your side, “Come on, then; I think I know a quieter area.”

You accepted and let him lead you out of the throng, but you didn’t expect him to bring you to the secluded backyard. It was quiet compared to inside, and no one mingled around the pool’s edge. There were fairy lights strung up across the overhang, and you couldn’t help but admire the way the lights danced upon the water. 

“Are we allowed to be back here?” You asked absently, but you knew you didn’t want to leave the back patio now. 

Jaemin slipped his hand from your side to your own palm, and he gently pulled you towards the pool with a shrug. “I don’t really know. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

He sat down on the rim on the shallow end, and he beckoned you to sit beside him. You placed your solo cup behind you before dipping your feet into the cool water, and a shiver traveled all of the way up your body. 

With a glance his way, you inquired, “can you put the cigarette out now?”

He met your gaze briefly, “Yeah,” He didn’t put up much of a fight against you like you thought he would; he simply pressed the lit end to the stone and left it by your drink.

With a stretch, Jaemin sighed from beside you and leaned back, and you felt one of his hands settle behind you when he slid them back to support his weight. You quickly lost yourself in the odd tranquility of the moment; the party’s music and laughter were muffled from where you sat, and you only heard the water lapping at your calves and the comforting sound of your ex’s soft breathing. You allowed yourself to close your eyes for a moment, to take in the mood of it, and you were more than thankful you let Jaemin drag you away from your homework.

“Do you want to go swimming?”

You cracked one eye open to give Jaemin a pointed look, but the mirroring of his smirk gave away your amusement. “We don’t have swimsuits.”

“Skinnydipping, then,” he shrugged and leaned his shoulder against yours, his bright eyes and warm skin leaving you dazed. “I haven’t seen you naked in a while.”

“Ever, actually,” you laughed and leaned up to push him away, and he nearly toppled into the water from the force of it. He pouted at you but then shook his head as he went to stand up.

“Suit yourself,” He stripped off his shirt and your mouth went dry as your eyes widened; you didn’t realize that your eyes were drinking in every groove on his torso until you shook yourself out of it. Momentarily, you panicked, thinking that he was actually going to fully strip to swim in the pool, which would not go over well at a stranger’s house at a packed party.

You calmed when he draped the shirt on the ground behind you and dug his belongings out of his pockets to place atop the article of clothing. He left his shoes and socks beside it until he was only left in his pants.

You stared at him in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”

He grinned flirtatiously and winked at you, “I would say spontaneous,” and then he launched himself at the deeper end before jumping in.

You found yourself gaping at the cannonball he took, the leftover splash of water and resounding waves the remnants of his zany actions. Your slack jaw morphed into a large, open smile and then you were laughing with unabashed glee as he resurfaced, slicking back his hair and wiping at his eyes. He took in your happy form and his eyes softened, but his smile widened as he swam towards you in the shallow end.

“Was it that funny?” He asked, the smile on his face still distinguishable as he shook out his hair like a dog. He came up to you and stood between your slightly spread legs, his arms landing on either side of your thighs to cage you in.

“It’s just so stupid,” you were calming down from your laughter as you tried to settle down enough to scold him for his boldness, but you found your grin faltering as you stared at him, only now noticing how close he was.

He was just as pretty as your surroundings. His smile was radiant, his eyes were crinkled, and water droplets were finding their way along the curve of his cheek, down the slant of his nose, the red ridge of his lips. As water settled on the parting of his mouth, you absently wondered if they were still as soft as they looked.

“If you wanted me to kiss you, you could’ve just asked.” 

Your eyes snapped up to his and you scoffed. “I don’t want to kiss you.” 

He raised a brow. “Then why were you looking at my lips?”

You opened your mouth to give him a fitting retort but no words came out. You met his eyes and they were serious this time, no trace of the humor you both were sporting only moments before. You swallowed harshly as he leaned in closer, his head subconsciously tilting to the side.

The feeling of his breath fanning over your face sent you back to the beginning of your relationship with him, when a genuine grin wasn’t hard to draw out of him, and his laugh was liquid sunlight to shine upon you and only you. Instinctively, your eyes began to flutter shut at the memory, the warmth of his lips that you cherished before he broke your heart. 

You tried to fight your eyelids, tried to keep your eyes trained on him, but his eyes were dark and you couldn’t read him, and you were left drowning, fighting his charm to stay afloat.

Your eyes only closed when his lips sealed over yours, and his hands came up to cup your face, leaving wet splotches in their wake. Your lips pressed against each other’s gently, and something in you wanted to scream, beg you not to give in like before, but it was overshadowed by the affection building in your heart as your fingers trailed over his ribs, the appreciation of the difference in his approach to you this time around.

You felt him begin to smile into the kiss as his hands tightened slightly over your jaw, and that same mirth from before began to bubble in your stomach as you parted. Both of you were breathing faintly in the silence of the patio, and his mouth trailed down to you neck, where he began to kiss and bite gently as you stared at the overhead fairy lights. You made a small sound that spurred him on to explore your collar with his lips until you drew his attention back to you with a steady hand under his jaw. Your breath hitched when you met his heated, dazzling gaze, and you stared at each other in mesmerized shock. 

It was him who made the first move after, breaking you both out of your trance. He barked a laugh, a bright, genuine smile crossing his lips as he stepped back, his hands sliding off your face to grace over the pool’s surface. You sat watching him as he climbed the pool’s steps and stepped back onto the stones.

“Are...are you cold?” You managed to ask around the shock still rendering your vocal cords unusable. Water was still clinging to his skin, his eyelashes, his pants, as he reached down and pulled back on his shirt. It clung to his chest as he shook his head. 

“A bit but nothing bad,” he stuffed his socks and shoes back on and returned his belongings to his pockets before reaching a hand out towards you. “Are you ready to go?”

You had almost forgotten you weren’t alone in the house, and that just inside there were groups of people dancing and mingling. The longer you thought about it, the more you realized you didn’t want to join them again. “Yeah,” you said and placed your hand in his, letting him pull you up and back under his arm.

He steered you around the house this time instead of re-entering, and you climbed back into his car as he turned it on and pulled out of the driveway.

He gave you another brief kiss when he dropped you off at your house, and though your parents laid into you about sneaking out so late at night, their words did nothing to make you feel regretful. For the only thing on your mind as their words muddled into the background was the lingering feeling of Jaemin’s lips on your own.

— — —

Your parents had not been happy about your rendezvous with Jaemin, and so you had been grounded for two weeks from hanging with friends or going out. Though it had been boring, you had still enjoyed talking with them in school, and especially your interactions with Jaemin.

Neither of you had brought up the kiss, but it was evidently on both of your minds. You did not dare say you were exclusive again in fear that it’d all go wrong again, that your past would haunt you and ruin whatever it was stirring between you. Both of you would flirt and laugh together, but underneath it all, something was aching in your chest, but you squashed the fear and dread down everytime. You would cross that bridge when this lull couldn’t last any longer. 

Your parents only relented on your sentence of being grounded when Hendery begged that you hang out after two weeks. Thankfully, he always had a good reputation from your parents perspective; they couldn’t say no to him, and they thought he’d be a good influence for you. Or, better, anyways, since they didn’t know he was bringing you to another party that night. 

You both chuckled to yourselves when you slid into his car, but waved politely at your parents so they wouldn’t suspect anything was amiss. 

“I can’t believe you convinced them”

He snorted, “I’m always my friends’ parents’ favorite. You just have to know how to be friendly and mature.” 

You flicked his forehead as he began driving down the street and he gasped. “Hey, I’m driving! Stop being jealous.” You laughed at him but relaxed back into your seat with a hum. He looked at you out of the corner of her eye.

“So are you back with Jaemin?”

Your humming faltered as you looked to him but cleared your throat. “Not necessarily.”

Hendery scoffed, “Mm sure; you haven’t stopped smiling when thinking about him,” he went to face you but then the stoplight turned green and he was forced to stay focused on the road. “Yeji said she hasn’t seen him with any other girls since you came back.”

“He had hickies on his neck for the first bit. New ones,” You didn’t say it crossly; it was simply fact, and you weren’t necessarily in the situation to be jealous.

“Well I mean messing around, kissing, whatever. He hasn’t been doing it for almost three weeks.”

“Wow, what a record.” 

He sighed exasperatedly and gave you a brief stink eye, “Shut up. We think he’s actually trying to be serious this time.”

You pursed your lip but didn’t say anything, and so the conversation fell into a lull of comfortable silence. You didn’t know if hearing his attempts to be serious made you happy or anxious. Even if he was serious about trying to make it work with you again, what’s to say he wouldn’t fall right back into his old habits? Cheating, smoking, drinking—they were still major threats to the line you were walking with him now.

You pushed it to the back of your head as you arrived at the party. Hendery and you walked into the party and before you could follow him to your other friends, you saw Jaemin with some guys and he was already looking your way. Instantly, you perked up, and Hendery rolled his eyes, waving you off. You gave him a thankful look as you split off towards him, and the smile spreading across your face was subconscious.

Jaemin was glaring over your head but when you reached him, he tore his gaze away to grin at you. “(Y/n), babe, hey!” He slid an arm around your waist and drew you forward to stand beside him, and that’s when you took notice of who you were around.

Jeno offered you a kind smile that morphed his eyes into pretty crescent moons, and his arm was draped over the shoulders of his girlfriend (of a year, you think; you can’t remember the details) who took refuge in his warmth, but her smile was just as gentle. Renjun was beside them but you were surprised to see more piercings lining his ears and the tips of his hair to be dyed pink, but he gave you a brief smile and nod before reverting back to his colder countenance. 

You knew these guys; you were friends with them when you dated Jaemin the first two years of high school, and you heart squeezed knowing that they seemed to remember you. You lifted your hand in a wave. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, (y/n); we haven’t seen you in awhile! We didn’t know you were back until Jaemin told us.”

You glanced at the boy in question, but nothing on his face gave him away. You slid your gaze back to Jeno, “Yeah, I was trying to keep it on the low.” So Jaemin didn’t know, but you didn’t need to tell them that since that thought was thrown out of the window by now. 

“By the way, Jaemin, can you drive me home tonight?”

Jaemin’s arm tightened around you, “Of course, whatever you need.”

You smiled and turned back to face the group before you perked up. “Oh!” You turned back to Jaemin and poked at his chest, “you didn’t tell me you were friends with Jisung.”

“You know him?” His brows furrowed but he laughed lightly. “Yeah, nice little sport.” You saw Renjun’s and Jeno’s eyes flicker up warningly at Jaemin, as if to watch out for anything he’d say and you hesitantly went for a smile before directing your voice to Renjun, “why isn’t he here?”

Renjun’s eyes flitted to you. “We’re trying to keep him out of,” he shrugged his shoulders vaguely but they seemed to gesture to Jaemin and the party around you. “bad influences.” 

Your lips formed a wary ‘o’ but Jeno rushed to fix the tenseness of the situation. “He’s hanging with a different friend right now. Have you met a boy named Chenle?”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so.”

Jeno nodded but his smile came more easily now. “Yeah, he just moved here. Jisung’s been trying to make him feel comfortable.”

 You couldn’t help but grin at that. You almost opened your mouth to ask about Hyuck, but you quickly bit the question back. You knew the answer to that, and you didn’t want to ruin the mood. Instead, you grinned. “That’s good.”

Conversation flowed between you all for a bit then, possibly an hour or so until you noticed Jaemin’s and Renjun’s empty bottles. 

“Do you guys want another drink?” 

Renjun shook his head side to side and placed the bottle down on the table, but Jaemin smiled at you. “Yes, actually; thank you, baby.” He leaned up and kissed your cheek and you felt yourself flush at Renjun’s and Jeno’s stare. You weren’t sure if you wanted them knowing that you and Jaemin were getting that familiar again.

You cleared your throat and stood up quickly. “Well, I’ll get on that. Be right back.” And you hurried to the kitchen.

It was a different home from the other two, but you were getting used to how people congregated in different rooms, so it didn’t take you as long to find. You had grabbed two beers but before you spun and left the kitchen, there was a nudge on your arm.

You turned questionly until you met Hendery’s eye, Yeji slung over his shoulder, half unconscious. 

“Oh my God, is she okay?” You gasped, reaching a hand out to brush over her shoulder.

Hendery sighed irritatedly as Xiaojun came up behind him. “Yeah she got into a drinking contest and threw up before passing out. We’re going to head out; are you coming?”

You hesitated, “I actually asked Jaemin if he was okay taking me home. Will you be okay taking her home?” 

Hendery sighed but nodded as he readjusted Yeji on his side. “No, it’s fine; I just don’t know how I’m going to explain this to her mom.”

You winced, “I wish you luck.”

Hendery handed Yeji off to Xiaojun, and he began to tell Xiaojun to drive Yeji’s car behind his so after they drop her off, he could take Xiaojun home. Xiaojun agreed and began to head out of the house, but before you could wonder why Hendery wasn’t following, he turned to you. “Do you know what her purse looks like or something? She doesn’t have her phone or keys.”

“Oh! Uh, I think it’s purple? I can help you look.” You placed the two bottles back on the counter and started for the hall. 

“That’d be great, thank you.” 

You both filed back out into the living room and began to search around the couches and dining table. Him and you were lifting your heads from looking under a chair when Jaemin was suddenly at your side with a stormy expression, his eyes darker than a rain cloud and jaw taut. Neither of you had no time to greet him before Jaemin’s hand clasped around yours tightly and he was tugging you towards him. “Excuse me,” He said, and then he slammed his lips against yours.

You made a muffled sound of shock, your eyes still wide. This kiss was unforgiving, unlike the kiss by the pool. That one was gentle, whereas this one was brutal, bruising; in this kiss, he was pouring forth anger and possession over you, he was claiming your lips as his. You didn’t even get a chance to kiss back (though you were unsure if you wanted to) before he separated and yanked you after him as he exited the house party, partygoers’ eyes on you. You stumbled down the front steps after him, watching his back in shock before you finally processed the situation and tore your hand from his. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The words tumbled from your mouth before you’d even thought about them, but they were the perfect mixture of what you were feeling right then. 

Jaemin’s eyes were narrowed as he drew them back to you, and it shocked you how tense he was, all former relaxation gone from his muscles. “What the fuck is wrong with me? He was getting too close to you; I was getting bad vibes.”

Your brows shot up. “That was Hendery! He’s my friend; even before I moved!” 

He stuck his tongue against the inside of his cheek, but the anger in his disposition was still present. “Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have changed.” 

“Have you?” 

He looked at you, his brows unfurrowing for a moment but then he was looking away again, steaming in his anger silently, potentially to not say anything he’d regret. “He could’ve done something to you.”

“But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t. You had no right to step in like that, to do that in front of everyone when—“ You grasped for the words as you began to shake with anger, your hands trembling. “We’re not dating, Jaemin. So don’t act like we are.” 

He pursed his lips and jaw locked, his hands coming up to grasp at his jaw, rub at his collar, like there was nowhere safe to rest. “That’s not what I’m talking about, I’m saying that he could have touched you when you didn’t want him to—“

“You just kissed me when I didn’t want you to!” You hissed at him in disbelief. With a growl of frustration, you ran a hand through your hair before gesturing towards him. “This is exactly why we didn’t work out! Because you’re so fucking possessive!”

His eyes flashed. “That is not why we broke up!”

“Oh, then what was it?” You snarled. “Was it because you were flirting with other girls? That you were being unfaithful while restricting me, that you went out drinking and smoking when you were only sixteen—“ 

“Shut up!” He shouted at you. “Shut up!” 

“Am I striking a nerve?” You jeered. “I told you this is what was going to happen! Do you still want to try again? Do you really want screaming matches every fucking week again?”

“You’re the only who started this fight,” He was shaking, eyes on the ground but you knew they had to be on fire, and if he lifted his gaze to yours, you would surely be burned. “We don’t have to be fighting like we did before.”

“But we will because you haven’t changed!” You stared at him helplessly, pointedly, your arms spread to each side. “You’re still the guy you were before I left! It’s just been so long that I fell for that exact same charm that reeled me in the first time.”

“You haven’t been around long enough to know if I’m changed or not!” he seethed. Jaemin finally looked up and his eyes were ferocious like you thought they’d be, but his expression was pained. “You’re so fucking afraid it will be the same that you’re not even looking at me!”

You blinked at him wordlessly. Are you the one afraid? Are you the one reading this wrong? You gritted your teeth; you didn’t have the patience to doubt yourself now, and if you gave in now then he’d always get his way.

“Oh, so you’re going to tell me that that kiss wasn’t because of jealousy then?” You snapped. You glared at him, waiting for him to argue, to prove his point but he didn’t; Jaemin only met your gaze evenly, his jaw raised and fists clenched. You crossed your arms. “Get out of here, Jaemin. I’m not getting in the car with you.”

He didn’t push you; he didn’t yell at you, he didn’t come near you to lift you up and force you. Jaemin simply kept his eyes trained on you for a moment longer before turning on his heel and briskly walking to his car. The door opening and slamming shut was resoundly loud in the sudden silence of your yelling match, and you watched him pull out of the driveway alone. 

You stayed there for another minute, letting everything you both said sink in and it wasn’t till then that you realized you were still shaking, from anger or sobs you didn’t know. You tried to breath in the fresh air to steady yourself before going back inside.

You went to say goodbye to Hendery, but you shot down any attempt he made to give you comfort or get you to speak. He seemed at a loss, but he respected you and headed out the door to drive Yeji home.

You hurried back to Jeno and Renjun to gather your purse in hopes that you could duck out quickly, but Jeno placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Where’s Jaemin? Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him as you replied, “He left.” 

“Without you?” He drew in his brows and looked back at Renjun. “Who’s taking you home?”

“I’m walking.”

“No you’re not; we can drive you.” Jeno didn’t remove his hand from your arm as he nodded at his girlfriend. “We don’t mind.” 

You hesitated before giving in. You didn’t want to bother him, and quite frankly you wanted to be alone, but you knew it wasn’t safe this late. All of you said goodbye to Renjun before you followed them out of the house, and you sat in the backseat as he began to pull away. 

It was silent for a long time before Jeno spoke up. “I’m sorry.”

You peeked up at him. “For what?”

“For Jaemin,” he turned the wheel and glanced back at you. “That he’s struggling to change.”

You snorted and looked out the window. “He hasn’t changed.”

“He’s trying,” Jeno’s confident tone made you stiffen and you looked back up towards the front of the car at him. He met your eye through the rearview mirror. “He is, I’m not lying to you.”

“I know, Jeno,” The words came out in a sigh as you dropped your head in your lap. Jeno had always been consistent, honest, reliable; he would never tell you this if he didn’t believe in Jaemin. Your fingers trembled against your purse. “I just wish you were.”

— — —

You didn’t go to another party after the fight with Jaemin. Your friends tried to convince you, giving you unamused looks when you gave an excuse or waved them off, but ultimately they stopped offering. You smiled at Jeno and Renjun and Jisung, but you avoided Jaemin again; you couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.

You tried to tell yourself he didn’t deserve to hear from you anymore if he was just like before, that it was for your own best interest to drop him. He made no attempts either; he didn’t look at you in the hall or try to sling an arm over your shoulder to joke with you. You scolded yourself every time you wished he would.

To occupy your mind, you tried to invest yourself more into your schoolwork as weeks passed by, and things seemed to go back to normal—at least, for you.

Jaemin has gotten worse. You had tried to ignore it, but you couldn’t help but take notice of the bags under his eyes, the underlying smirk on his features that wasn’t genuine. Some days he’d show up with lovebites all over him, other times he reeks of smoke, and sometimes he didn’t show at all. 

You were worried. You knew Jeno and Renjun were too; their frowns were evident as their eyes followed him and then slid to you, a silent plea of you to see what your absence was doing. 

But he wasn’t your responsibility. He hurt you twice, he wasn’t a good influence, and you’d probably forget about him once you went off to college. 

But after a few more weeks and he only looked worse, you couldn’t take it anymore. You approached Jeno after class and didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at him pointedly with a clenched jaw, and then he was writing down Jaemin’s address on a slip of paper and handing it to you.

And when you drove up to the apartment complex that night, you still weren’t quite sure what you were doing. You parked your car and started going up the outdoor stairs in a daze, the cold air of dusk nipping at your forearms. What were you going to say? Did you even want to see him? Did he want to see you? 

You paused on the top of the stairs of his floor. It was like a cement motel, just a little cleaner. If he had moved out on his own, he probably couldn’t afford much better. Your heart clenched at the thought. 

With bated breath, you stopped before his door. You were here; you couldn’t go home now without at least knocking. You raised your hand and rapped at the wood lightly.

There was a brief commotion of the other side and muffled shouts before you heard footsteps approach the door. 

“Jeno, I don’t want to go out tonight; go away.”

You felt winded hearing his voice after so long. It was hoarse, scratchy, and he sounded tired and irritated, which was a large contrast to when he hung with you.

You cleared your throat. “It’s not—it’s not Jeno.”

It was silent on the other side of the door. The longer the quiet stretched out the more you thought he didn’t hear you and you might as well head home before the door opened. 

His hair was a mess as if he just woke up, and his eyes were dull. His clothes were a mess and dangling from his hand was a lit cigarette. When you drew your gaze back up to his face, a trail of smoke puffed from his mouth as he stared at you. 

“(Y/n).”

You tried not to let your face twist in disgust as the smoke blew towards your face. “Jaemin.”

You both awkwardly stood there taking in each other’s appearances before you heard a familiar voice shout in a slurred voice, “Jaemin, where are the other bottles?”

Jaemin grimaced but turned away from you enough to shout back into the apartment, “You've drunk enough tonight; I’m not letting you into my stash.” He faced you again and he seemed uncomfortable under your cautious gaze as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“Is—is that Donghyuck?” Jaemin hesitantly nodded and breathed out the smoke again.

“Yeah, he’s—he’s spending the night. He crashes here often.” You peeked over his shoulder at Donghyuck, curled up on the couch with beer bottles littering the coffee table as he mumbled to himself; hopefully they just didn’t clean often, and all of those bottles weren’t from today only. 

You felt something twinge in your chest seeing the former class clown so...dreary, pulled down so far from happiness. You may have been gone for a year but gossip always traveled fast when Jaemin was around, so you had heard about Mark and his girlfriend and the betrayal that broke the honey-skinned boy the year before.

 You frowned but looked back up at Jaemin. “Are you letting him drown himself in alcohol?”

“What else could he do to get his mind off of it?”

Your frown only deepened. “You’re feeding an addiction—has he been like this since it happened?”

“You’re not a doctor,” Jaemin scowled, his grip on his cigarette tightening. “What’s it matter if he wants to drink to forget? I’ve done it plenty of times.”

“And look where that’s gotten you,” You knew you shouldn’t have said it as soon as the words slipped out. His eyes widened before they narrowed to two slits. “Jaemin, I—I didn’t mean to say that.”

“No, I think you made yourself very clear,” he spat. “If you’re only here to criticize me then politely fuck off.”

“Jaemin—“ but the door was suddenly slammed in your face. You stared at the grooves in the wood in shock before groaning in regret. You turned around and pursed your lips as you studied the concrete floor. With a sigh, you took a few lazy steps to the stairs before sitting on one and leaning your elbows on your knees so you could plant your chin in your palms. 

You looked up at the sky glumly, conflicted. The moon shone back down at you, as if to comfort you but remind you that it couldn’t help you solve your problems. You shook your head and let your gaze wander over the dark blanket of the night taking over the leftover bits of day, the purple mixing with the blue to create a beautiful array of colors too dark to be sunset anymore.

A door creaked open behind you but you didn’t look back; it would be awkward to lock eyes with another resident who would only see you as some strange girl sitting on the steps outside their home. You winced; maybe you really should head home soon. 

You didn’t have much time to contemplate it before you felt a heavy weight fall over your shoulders and movement to your left. Your hands instinctively flew up to catch at the fabric of a coat around your back, and when you looked to your side, your eyes widened to find Jaemin settling down beside you, a cigarette still perched precariously between two of his fingers. 

He didn’t attempt to make conversation at first as you watched him, he only tried to become comfortable by leaning his back against the step behind you and stretching his legs down over the steps below. He took a gentle inhale of the killing machine in his hand before he exhaled and put it out against the cement of the stair. 

It was oddly comforting sitting beside him outside his apartment, his coat around your shoulders and his face contemplative. Finally, he spoke up, his tone mellow. “I was trying to change.”

You looked away from him, your eyes settling on the moon. “I know.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye before giving a heavy sigh, one that seemed to release all of the tension in his limbs. “I was chasing a high for a long time. I hit low after low and after messing up so terribly with you…” you met his eye briefly to study him, but he only chuckled at himself. “When you came back I thought that maybe I could be happy again, that I could make up for it. I can’t even do that right.”

You were quiet for a while, but he didn’t seem to mind as he let his eyes wander over the sky; he seemed entirely at peace in the night, the moon and low-quality light fixtures with moths flying about them the only source of light to encase him. Your voice was low when you responded, “Why weren’t you just honest with me?”

He guffawed at that, looking at you with a relaxed disposition but raised brow. “You kept rejecting me, what did you expect?” You bit your lip at the meaning of those words, but he continued as if he didn’t notice, “It’s hard to be honest when you didn’t want to hear the truth.”

“I didn’t,” you admitted. You turned to face him again, and you made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t look away from him now, so he’d know you were honest and listening. He watched you wordlessly. “I didn’t want to be open to the idea that things could be different. I’m sorry.” 

He raised a hand and graced it over your cheek, gently grasping your jaw in his palm as he looked in your eyes for any discomfort, any lies, any sign for him to pull away and go inside and forget you came tonight. 

He found nothing.

“I’m going to change. You know that, right?” He stroked your cheek and tilted his head, drawing his face closer to yours. 

You found yourself nuzzling into his palm as you nodded. “I know.” I’m not scared that you won’t anymore. The discarded cigarette on the stair behind you seemed to stand as a reminder of his oath as he lifted his other hand to cup the back of your neck and pull you closer. Right before your lips connected, you brought a hand up to block his mouth. “No more being jealous, okay? No cheating, no heavy drinking, and no more smoking.” 

Though you couldn’t see the lower half of his face, his eyes crinkled like they did when he smiled. “I promise.” With a nod, you lowered your hand, and your breath hitched as your lips connected.

Your lips moved together unhurriedly, almost leisurely. You found yourself growing lost in him, the smoke on his tongue and interwoven into his scent, and you subconsciously drew him closer to you by the collar, to minimize any distance left. When you pulled away, you didn’t feel overwhelming passion or affection, but that was the beauty of it; the kiss felt commonplace, and it felt familiar. It didn’t feel like it had to mean anything, and that’s what made it matter to you.

You slid your head down onto his shoulder without even meeting his eye, and his hand came down to rest around your waist and pull you closer. Both of you gazed up at the night sky and basked in each other’s company, and the crisp air felt refreshing in your lungs as you interlocked your fingers with his. 

[funkymbtifiction]

This pandemic has brought out the worst in me. My sleeping schedule is a mess (I go to sleep at 6am and wake up at 2pm), I'm barely able to get out of the bed, I can barely do the dishes and take out the trash, I spend too much time on YouTube and inside my head, thinking about all the stuff I wanted to work on but being unable to do it.

My memory has also gotten worse - if it's not something I'm not obsessed with then I'll not remember the details. I was trying to snap myself out of this hazy floating by trying to focus my mind at least on reading, which is something I absolutely love, but now I'm unable to focus even on a plot I find interesting and intriguing, my mind immediately starts to wander, or I need to do at least 2 things at once (reading and checking Reddit, or reading and listening to some ambient music). I've also started to not finish stories where I once used to read a book a day.

I know the theory of what I should be doing, but that's it. I'm unable to JUST DO it. I think my Te is trying to motivate me by trying to wake up my conscience, but it's not enough. I hate this because I know I can do things and concentrate and be responsible and productive, but because I'm fine and all my basic needs are met I don't have the need to pull myself together. I used to fuel my 7 by travelling and observing people, but now that we need to stay home, and I have covid (so my friends bring me groceries), my 9w1 core sloth is all too happy to be left alone, with my devices.

I know that this pandemic brought pandemic fatigue with it, plus it's spring and I'm always tired in spring (plus my years-long medical issues with thick blood and low blood pressure), but it's driving me crazy that I could've gotten better at my hobbies and could've reached some of my goals by now only if I DID things. Things that used to work don't help anymore. And then I don't even stay mad long because some new video distracts me.

Is there something from a mbti perspective that can help to start doing things and concentrating on them? (For context I'm an ENFP 9w1 7w6 2w3)

Also thank you so much for this blog, thank you for helping lost souls find their way and be better people, both inside their head and outside when interacting with the outer world ❤️ I haven't been studying mbti for that long but so far I've seen so much valuable information on your blog, and for free!

Are you mad enough at yourself yet to change your behavior?

That's really the bottom line here, because you KNOW that YOU have to start being responsible and doing things and not just wasting your time... but YOU are the only person who will force yourself to do things.

A couple of thoughts. First, I recognize this phenomenon / brain fog. It happened to me several times last year during the pandemic (where I am, things are opening up, so hopefully they will soon for you as well) and I hated it. My mind was unclear, I had lots of things I needed to do but could not focus on any of them. It was, to be honest, a Si grip, which yanks you out of Ne-dom (possibilities, excitement about doing projects, seeing things made real) and turns your intuition into a "fog." There's no access to Fi (do I care about this? if I care, am I a principled person enough to do it?) and no Te (how am I going to prioritize my tasks?), just Si (I'm comfy doing nothing and feeling depressed) and flits of Ne, which only show up as being bored, easily distracted, etc. So some of this is a Si grip, and some of it is general depression (being unfocused, sleeping in late, not taking care of yourself, no motivation even for things you love, unable to finish things). You need to approach it by dealing with both -- getting back into your stronger functions (Ne: envisioning possibilities and finding a purpose, Fi: drawing upon your character and who you want to be and what you care about, to take action, Te: making a plan, forcing yourself to do what needs done, and keeping track of your progress to self-motivate) -- and by recognizing and admitting that you are depressed, and asking what you can do about it.

Second, you have built up some BAD habits during the pandemic. I get it. I fell into some of this as well last autumn, when I ceased being my usual productive self and started leaving work (from home) at 3pm every day. I developed a bad habit of just watching television, which numbed my brain and ultimately bored me. It's only now that I have hope and can go to the store without a mask on that I am feeling happier (my little 7 wing rejoices and has PLANS) and can work through into the late afternoon. I'm re-establishing a schedule that is productive throughout the day instead of allowing myself to "meander" in life. So what you need to do is look at your habits. Make a list of them. Look at what you told me: basically, it is I have become undisciplined, my sleep schedule is bad, and then I wake up late and feel lazy so I don't do anything. What is ONE THING that would jolt you into a different routine? Go to bed on time. Set a time every night, shut off all your devices an hour ahead of it, read a book until you get sleepy, and go to sleep. Wake up at a decent hour. If you wake up at 7am instead of 2pm, your body won't fall into its usual "welp, afternoon is half over, guess I'll watch YouTube" habit. It will go -- wait, what new habit are we forming? Breakfast? Then work?? Okay!

Lastly, and this is HUGELY important for an ENFP -- decide the night before what you are going to accomplish or work on tomorrow. Why? It prepares your brain to know what is expected from it. Unless I do this each night, and have a notion of how I am going to spend my time, my Ne goes ?!?! and I get very little done or waste three hours trying to decide what to do. But if I say, "Okay, tomorrow I am finishing chapter four," I usually finish chapter four (and then some). Today, I have to work at my paying job. I knew this last night, so I am mentally clear and prepared to focus only on the task at hand. I don't treat today as "mine." It belongs to my employer. I know what I am going to do, I intend to do it, and when I get home, I know what else I can work on. Learn to create this habit each night before bed. Decide what tomorrow is going to be like and commit to it.

As for tasks you don't want to do that still need done -- just do them. You can spend 2 weeks avoiding them, or spend an hour and get it over with so you don't feel like crap about yourself because you have kept avoiding it for weeks. Decide, "Tomorrow, I am doing that thing first thing in the morning," and then do it.

You will find that when you start setting yourself tasks (Te) that your Ne starts working properly again -- it will become more focused, less hazy, and more interested in what you can contribute, rather than just mindless "consuming." It's fine to have a down day now and again (even so, it's also useful to have a vague idea the night before of what this day will contain, even if it's fun -- it's fun and exciting to anticipate things) but your life NEEDS structure, or you won't do anything.

I hope you can pull yourself out of this, because you won't be happy unless you do. ENFPs need to get things done, contribute, feel like they are moving forward, and have something to show for their time. Without it, they will get angry at themselves -- as you well know.

[sweetheart-sunghoon]

BEOMGYU IMAGINE ࿐ ࿔:･ﾟ*

contains: fluff, angst, happy ending, fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: you’re forced into a marriage with beomgyu, the son of hades

this wasn’t what he wanted. this wasn’t how he wanted it to happen. when beomgyu had told his father he liked you a lot and wish he could date you, this isn’t what he meant. but really, what else would you expect from a man who got his wife in the exact same ways. damn hades and his impulsive and irrational ways. 

beomgyu paces around persephone’s garden, walking up and down the dark stone paths past pomegranate trees with orange blossoms, deep green bushes, poisonous shrubs and glowing mushrooms. like the cloudy mahogany sky above him, there is a gloom over his mind. groaning and tugging at his hair, beomgyu tries to figure out what to say to you. 

“y/n, i’m so sorry. i swear i didn’t ask hades to do this. my dad… he’s… he’s a bit… he’s a bit…” beomgyu groans and flops onto the wide edge of a fountain that spews a blood-like liquid rather than water. “this is hopeless. y/n, i’m so so so so sorry.”

“it’s okay.”

beomgyu jumps at your sombre voice. his heart flutters. there you are, looking solemn yet as beautiful as ever. you’re dressed in your usual bright colours and there’s a flower behind your ear, but you don’t look like you usually do. you look dreary and tired and… honestly? half dead. and beomgyu would know. not only does he live in the underworld, where you currently are, for a quarter of the year, his demigod powers include sensing the life auras of other’s. yours is surrounded by a layer of death.  

usually, you look like a beautiful spring flower in full bloom, but right now beomgyu thinks you look like a wilted flower, dying a slow death. your cheeks are hollow, your skin is losing its glow and colour, dark lines circle your eyes. 

“y/n,” beomgyu says. he’s surprised to see you here. ever since his father dragged you down here you’d been locked in your room, avoiding everyone. “y/n, i’m so sorry.”

you shrug weakly. “i know this wasn’t your intention.”

“i’ve tried to persuade my dad to let you go but… he doesn’t like being told what to do. his temper is… extreme. but i’ll keep trying. i’m so sorry.”

shrugging again, you sit on a nearby marble bench, your shoulders hunching forward like your spine is struggling to hold you up. 

beomgyu feels his heart break at how little energy you have. that’s the effect the underworld has on outsiders. it reacts much like an immune system when a foreign bacteria or disease enters the body. because the underworld is a place for the dead, it sucks the energy out of the living which it does not know, those not from it or tied to those from it. 

beomgyu sinks back to his seat on the fountain. “have you eaten?”

“no.”

it might sound weird to others, but beomgyu’s glad you haven’t. eating from the underworld means you cannot leave. 

“i doubt you’ve been sleeping well,” beomgyu then says. 

as if having your literal life force drained from you and not being to eat wasn’t enough, the constant tortured screams echoing out from tartarus can be hard to block out at night. 

you shake your head. 

beomgyu watches as the flower behind your ear dislodges and floats to the ground, shrivelling to dust when it touches the ashy ground. 

you see it too, an ironic smile forming. “this really is the land of the dead, isn’t it?” one strained laugh leaves your lips. “you know, the longer i’m here, the more i feel like i’m becoming like everyone else hear. dead.”

beomgyu’s breath hitches. he can’t stand this. 

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄

the next night, beomgyu knocks on your bedroom door and calls your name, praying you’ll let him in. he had persuaded a hermes child he knows to deliver some ambrosia to the gates of hell. beomgyu hoped the food of the gods, known to heal and recover, would help you regain your energy. 

beomgyu is surprised when you open the door, even if it’s only a crack. 

“yes,” comes your tired voice through the small gap you’d opened. 

“i have some ambrosia for you,” beomgyu says. “i doubt it’ll do much but hopefully you’ll feel a little better.”

you open the door fully for beomgyu and walk back to your bed. you hold in the sigh of relief when you sit down. you’re so drained and lacking in energy that just walking making you feel nauseous. 

you observe beomgyu as he steps in and shuts the door behind him. even now, late in the evening, he wears a sleek black suit jacket and dress pants. he doesn’t wear a tie. his fingers are adorned with silver rings matching the silver chain you see peeking behind the colour of his button-down shirt. maybe if you weren’t so miserable you’d find him attractive. you always did at camp, particularly after he’d spar with his friends and push his jet black hair off his forehead. 

“can i sit?” beomgyu asks, gesturing to the spot beside you. 

you nod.

beomgyu perches on the edge of the bed next to you, leaving some space because as much as he likes you, he doubts you like him right now. 

“there’s not a lot but…” beomgyu hands you the small paper box. there are nine cubes of golden ambrosia inside. 

“thank you,” you say. your voice is weak and it hurts beomgyu to hear it. 

“i’m sorry,” he says again. 

“it’s okay,” you reply, popping a cube of ambrosia into your mouth. “there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

for what feels like the hundredth time, beomgyu’s heart breaks and he whispers, “i’m sorry.”

and for the first time since you arrived here four days ago, you look beomgyu in the eyes. you see for the first time that he’s hurting too. there’s a sadness in his eyes you’ve rarely seen before. the sadness one feels when someone they care for is hurt. 

slowly, you lean your head against his shoulder. beomgyu flinches from shock but stays still. the two of you stay like this for a while until beomgyu helps you under the covers and you fall asleep, your last thought being that while you’d rather be a million other places than this, there are worse people to be forced to marry. 

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄

the next day, beomgyu finds you in the garden. you look a little better. you’re admiring some black lily flowers and beomgyu is suddenly reminded of your parentage. 

“i’m sure your mother is absolutely furious with my father right now,” beomgyu says, startling you a little. “he’s stolen two of her children now.”

“bold of you to assume she wasn’t already,” you say, eyes still on the lilies. 

“right, yes.”

“demeter is a very bitter woman, you know,” you continue. you turn and slowly make your way to a nearby tree with low hanging branches. it’s a pomegranate tree. 

beomgyu watches you silently. he’s happy you’ve recovered a little, though you aren’t nearly as joyful as you are above ground. 

“do you see her often?” you ask suddenly, running a hand down the trunk of the tree. “persephone?”

“no,” beomgyu answers, making his way towards you and the tree. he walks with his hands behind his back. “we have… conflicting schedules, you could say. i leave for camp during the summer. when i return she is here but not for long as she leaves just before spring and is gone all season so that the harvests will be successful.”

you nod in understanding. 

beomgyu stands just beyond the reach of the tree branches. “have you met her?”

“no. we are only half-sisters. plus she’s here mostly.”

“that is true.”

“is she nice?” you ask, a question that you have considered a number of times. 

beomgyu kicks at the ground absentmindedly. “yes. she’s kind to me. though, i think my father’s temper has rubbed off on her after all this time. she can be surprisingly fierce.”

nodding to show you’re listening, you put both of your hands against the tree and focus your power into it. 

“she treats me well. like a son, i suppose. she asks me about camp and my friends, she jokes that she only leaves during spring to make sure i get fed.” beomgyu smiles. “she’s really kind and polite and gentle and loving.“ 

beomgyu looks at you. your eyebrows are pulled together in concentration. he’s seen you use your powers like this at camp before. you can heal plants and prompt them to produce flowers or fruit. a fond smile tugs at his lips. "like you.”

your eyes open, landing immediately on beomgyu. his widen, shocked, realising his words. he turns away from you to hide his blush and clears his throat loudly. he wasn’t intending to make any a move of any sort of you, thinking it wrong to flirt with you when your marriage is forced. 

but you find it amusing that the compliment just slipped out. and you appreciate it. you can see the tips of his ears burning red. 

deciding to return to your room, you reach up to the pomegranate you had used your powers to produce and tug it from its branch of the tree. stepping up to beomgyu and tapping his shoulder, you place the red fruit in his hand and walk away. 

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄

yours and beomgyu’s wedding is not for another week. in the days leading up, you spend a lot of time together, the ambrosia he brought slowly healing you more and more. you find yourself able to laugh again. perhaps you even find yourself growing to like beomgyu. 

you knew him well enough at camp half blood but mainly through mutual friends. after a week of getting to know him more, you wonder why you weren’t closer before. though, the screams from tartarus at night remind you that the whole son of hades thing likely formed a negative bias against him in your mind.

but that bias dissipates over time. you see that he’s just a boy trying to enjoy life. he didn’t ask to be a demigod, and he certainly didn’t ask for his godly parent to be the king of the underworld. this detail almost completely slips your mind until three days until your wedding when you ask beomgyu what it’s like beyond the garden walls. 

he’s reluctant to take you outside at first but eventually does. 

“um, you should probably hold my hand,” he stutters. “it’s easy to get lost out here and there’s a lot of dangerous things.”

you glance at his hand. he’s wearing an odd piece of hand jewellery. thick rings around his fingers are connected to a matching bracelet at his wrist by thin chains. the black metal is a stark contrast to his pale skin.

your staring turns beomgyu’s ears pink and he’s quick to say, “y-you can just hold my jacket if you want.”

“no, no,” you say, taking his hand in yours. you’re not entirely surprised by how icy his hand is. “it’s okay." 

honestly, you didn’t even realise you were staring at his hands so much. 

you walk for about an hour around the dry land, the hazy red sky growing darker and darker the further from hades castle you are. you talk about many things. the topic of powers and abilities comes up. 

"so what are your powers?” you ask beomgyu who is beginning to look antsy. 

“if we stay out here any longer, you might find out,” he mumbles, his voice low. 

“what do you mean?” you ask. 

“we should turn back,” beomgyu tells you, his eyes narrowing as he glances around. “something’s not right. i can feel the dead nearby.”

“this is the underworld, beomgyu. everyone is dead.”

“yes, but they’re too close. something’s not right. let’s go.”

you frown but nod and let beomgyu pull you back in the direction of hades’ palace. you’re halfway there when a piercing screech sounds from above. a strong force suddenly knocks you into beomgyu and a sharp pain seers on your arm. a shocked exclaim jumps past your lips as you find three large gashes on your arm, blood pouring down. 

“y/n,” beomgyu gasps, his arms catching you around your waist. he sees the blood too and his jaw clenches. he spots the cause of your injury just in time to pull you closer, out of its field of attack. 

your heart rate doubles. “w-what-what-”

“a fury,” beomgyu growls, manoeuvring you behind his back. 

holding your arm to stop the bleeding, you peek over his shoulder and see the ugly bat-winged monster circling back to your direction. it flies at full speed, baring its huge yellow fangs. 

“stop!” beomgyu commands, his voice strong, deep and demanding. 

to your surprise, the creature does, halting in mid-air, growling at beomgyu. it is now you recall just how powerful beomgyu must be. being a child of the big three (zeus, poseidon and hades) makes him indefinitely stronger and more powerful than the average demigod. even if hades wasn’t one of the big three, the kind of power he possesses is terrifying. the thought of beomgyu sharing some of those abilities…

beomgyu glares at the fury. “leave now before i banish you back to tartarus.”

the fury snarls. 

“leave!” beomgyu yells, loud enough to make you flinch. he feels your movement and reaches back to grip your hand reassuringly. 

with one last snarl, the fury flies away. beomgyu spins to you the moment it’s out of sight, his demeanour flipping as he cradles your arm in his hands. 

“are you okay?” he asks quickly. 

“not really,” you admit, shaking a little. 

beomgyu inspects the large scratches and winces. “it’s too big for me to heal.”

he can heal? you think. it’s an odd concept considering he’s the son of death. 

beomgyu stretches out his hand and makes an upward motion. a dark and opaque wall rises from the ground. he pulls you towards it. “let’s go.”

“wait, what is this?” you question. 

he turns his head to you, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “shadow travel.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄

the night before your wedding, beomgyu knocks on your door to check on you as he didn’t see you today. he was visiting a friend because, while you are stuck here, beomgyu is free to come and go as he likes. 

“how are you feeling?” beomgyu asks, sitting at the end of the bed. for once, he isn’t dressed up, instead donning a black plain tee and pair of sweatpants. 

“i’m okay,” you tell him. 

“that’s good.” he fiddles with the bed cover, avoiding your eyes. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine,” you say. “i can’t expect you to follow me around all day every day. you should see your friends too.”

“that’s not what i meant,” beomgyu says, his dark eyes taking on the sorrowful look he gets when he thinks you’re not looking. “although i’m sorry for that too now." 

he takes a deep breath. "i meant that i was sorry for this. all of this. for my father dragging you down here. for our forced marriage. for making you unhappy, sick, lonely. i’m sorry for everything.”

“beomgyu… beomgyu look at me.”

he hesitantly meets your gaze and you see a tear sliding down his cheek. 

“oh, beomgyu,” you sigh, leaning forward to wipe away the tear. “stop apologising.”

“but it’s true,” he says, his voice becoming rough and strained. “i know you don’t like it here. you don’t want to marry me. you’ve only been eating ambrosia for the past week but you still look half dead. you can’t even sleep at night. you-” his voice catches and he shakes his head, looking down. 

you grab his hand and squeeze gently. “but it’ll get better once we’re married, right? i’ll have my energy back, i’ll be able to eat and sleep.”

“yes but that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t want this marriage,” beomgyu says. “i don’t want this marriage. i never asked for this, it was all my stupid father.”

“okay, you’re right,” you say. “i don’t want the marriage. but because i’m young, i’m unprepared, i have no say in it. i know you think i hate you but i don’t.”

beomgyu looks up again. 

“i may hate the circumstances but i don’t hate you,” you say honestly. “at first, i did resent you, but i realised that this really isn’t your fault and that i shouldn’t hold your father’s actions against you.” you squeeze his hand again. “it’s not your fault. i don’t hate you. stop feeling sorry for me, okay? i’m fine, really.”

beomgyu nods. “okay.”

he’s silent, thinking, contemplating, processing. 

you too have some thoughts on your mind. one thought actually. something that you’ve wanted to ask beomgyu the past few nights but never have, feeling too foolish. but seeing as you’ll be married to him tomorrow, you don’t see the harm in asking now. 

“beomgyu,” you say quietly. 

“yeah?”

“w-will you… will you please stay with me tonight?” you ask. 

beomgyu’s ears flush bright red, the colour you’ve come to associate with his bashful and shy side. 

“i think it’ll be easy to sleep if you do,” you continue. “will you?”

beomgyu needs a second to process your question but he eventually splutters, “yes.”

folding the blanket back for him, you shuffle over and lie down. beomgyu cautiously slides in beside you. he looks so stiff and awkward, it makes you smile a little. 

“lie down,” you tell him and he does. 

you take the initiative and cuddle up to him first, slotting yourself under his arm as you lay your head on his chest. immediately, you feel one hundred times better than you have all week. you feel safe and as though you can now breathe easy. 

beomgyu finally relaxes, his arm looping around your shoulder, his hand slowly brushing over your hair. 

the noises that usually keep you up at night fade away and sleep takes over. for the first time in almost two weeks, you have a good nights rest. 

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄

when you wake in the morning, beomgyu is gone and a gorgeous women with long, flower adorned hair is carrying in a long black dress. 

“you’re awake!” she says. “great. i’m persephone. i’ve heard you’re my half sister. it’s lovely to meet you. now let’s get you ready. you’re getting married today.”

you barely have time to process any of what the goddess has said before your being stuffed into the ebony gown. the silk body somehow fits you perfectly and the lace sleeves are the exact length of your arms. 

the next half an hour is a blur as persephone styles your hair with a flower crown of red and white roses, clasps a chunky bejewelled choker around your neck and swipes red gloss on your lips and dark glitter on your eyes. 

and suddenly you’re standing at the entrance of a large grecian temple with black marble pillars. beomgyu is standing at the other end of the temple on a raised platform. a… skeleton?… is standing near him, a large book in it’s bony hands. as you start walking towards beomgyu you vaguely wonder if you’re really about to be married by a skeleton.  

to your right and left are rows of skeletons, odd creatures and the odd person who seems to be relatively alive. hades and persephone are in the front row. 

the ceremony passes by in a flash. beomgyu holds your hands softly as the skeleton addresses the crowd of undead. he looks at you with more adoration than you knew was possible, but he never smiles. you slip gothic black rings onto each others fingers. he kisses your cheek. then the wedding is done. 

afterwards, you and beomgyu take a walk in the garden again. 

“how do you feel?” beomgyu asks you after a minute of silence. 

“good,” you say, heading to a pomegranate tree. 

“you look good,” beomgyu replies. 

you smile over your shoulder at him. “thank you.”

“really,” he says. his eyes rake up your body. “not just the dress and everything, but your whole aura. you look alive again.”

you reach the tree and pick the closest fruit. “i suppose i’m allowed to eat this now, right?”

“if you’d like.”

“will you eat it with me?”

“okay.”

you find a bench to sit on. beomgyu picks a rock from the ground and, using a power you didn’t know he possessed, he transforms its shape to be sharp and pointed. he cuts the fruit with it and you eat in silence. you have to admit that it feels nice to be eating something other than ambrosia. 

once the fruit is gone, you scoot a little closer to beomgyu and put your hand on his knee. 

“you don’t seem happy, beomgyu,” you say. “what’s wrong?”

he sighs. “i don’t know. it’s just… i like you a lot. even more now then i did when i told my father about you. but i… i can’t be happy when you’re not.”

“who says i’m not happy.”

“well aren’t you?”

“i’m… unsure… i think i need some more time to fully process everything, but it could be worse.”

beomgyu scoffs quietly. “how could it be worse?”

“i might not be married to you.”

beomgyu almost flinches at your words, eyes going wide. “what?”

“like i said, i’m still a little conflicted but one thing that i’m certain about is my feelings for you.”

“and?”

you smile. “i like you.”

“r-really?" 

"really. throughout this all, you’ve been so kind and gentle. you haven’t pressured me and you’ve made me feel as comfortable as possible. i really appreciate it and i can’t say that i haven’t grown to like you.”

amusingly, your words render beomgyu speechless so you add, “plus, being married to the son of hades is a bit of an ego boost, if i’m being honest.”

said son of hades smiles. 

“you know, i’m pretty sure you didn’t kiss me properly earlier.”

“i didn’t think you’d want me to,” beomgyu admits sheepishly. 

“well, i do, so…”

his smile turns to a cheeky grin as he cups your face in his hands. “may i kiss the bride?”

you grin too. “you may.”

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter Two ~ Cosima

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG

Word count: 3048

Warnings: None

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour-rainycity” if you prefer!**

A/n Surprise! I wrote another chapter so I decided to go ahead and make another post. The reasoning behind this is I want to stay one month ahead and only one month ahead. That will give me a helpful buffer for when life happens but I don’t want to stockpile any more chapters than necessary. You know? So...here’s chapter two!

It’s nearing nightfall by the time we finally stop. My bones are stiff, my butt is sore, and my back hurts from all the tension I kept there out of fear that I would otherwise fall and be trampled under the horse’s quick-moving hooves.

Baranor slides down, reaching his arms up to me. I place my hands on his shoulders and allow him to help me off the horse. I stumble the moment my feet hit the ground.

Orophin—who I’ve yet to actually talk to—offers me a sympathetic smile. “Have you not ridden in a while? Take a short walk and stretch a little. It will help you feel less sore in the morning.”

I nod my thanks, tentatively releasing my hands from Baranor’s arms and turning away from the horses.

“Do not go far.” I jump. Haldir’s voice floats from the tree line just in front of us. I hadn’t seen him dismount, let alone climb into the branches. “We are not in guarded territory.”

With that ominous warning, I decide it’s best to stay close to the others. We’re near enough to the riverbank, so I hobble to the edge of the water and back again. Once movement comes a little easier, I extend my path to the tree line.

A voice to my left interrupts the silence. “Do you remember anything else?”

I yelp, placing a hand over my racing heart.

Rumil grins, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He hands me a canteen. “Sorry. I forget how terrible human senses are.”

I raise an eyebrow but bring the canteen to my lips, grateful for the drink. “And, what, elves are so much better?”

Mentally, I admonish myself for playing along. There’s no such thing as elves. Either they’re messing with me, or I really am having a wildly vivid dream.

Rumil nods, shrugging his shoulders in a way that suggests the answer is obvious. “Well, yes. We live longer, have better sight, hearing, reflexes. We do not tire as quickly as humans do, and we have a respect for our kin that the race of man cannot hope to imitate. I do not mean to offend.” He smiles, carrying a note of apology in his voice. “It’s only the truth.”

I shrug, unbothered by his comment. Because if elves exist in this world I dreamed up, why shouldn’t they be better than humans? It’s just as likely that I’ve imagined a race that’s worse than humans, and I only haven’t met them yet. “If you say so. But to answer your question, no, I don’t remember anything else. How long was I passed out?”

From his place by the now-grazing horses, Baranor answers. “Not long once we arrived, but I do not know how long you laid there before.”

“Yes, and you are quite lucky we arrived, especially with Baranor in tow.” Rumil winks, gripping my elbow and turning me back towards the part of the ground where I assume we will sleep tonight.

I give Baranor a questioning look.

He smiles awkwardly, a bit self-conscious. “I am quite skilled as a healer. I used the power in my spirit to call to your own. You were very nearly dead when we happened upon you.”

I file that information away. Power in my spirit…Probably something I’d read in a book once that my brain has brought up now. And these men I’m with—elves, I guess, according to the dream—must be people I know from…from…

But the fledgling thought dies away, leaving me with no more answers than before. I try to push back my disappointment, my logical side kicking in to soothe me. It’s okay. Soon the doctors will fix you, or you’ll wake up from this dream, and everything will be fine. You just have to wait. No point in getting freaked out.

Rumil, Baranor, and I settle on the high part of the riverbank. Orophin sits too, once he’s done refilling the canteens. I glance at the trees. I haven’t seen Haldir since we stopped riding. “Is he not going to join us?”

Orophin and Baranor exchange looks, but Rumil just snorts. “Likely not. As he said, we are neither in the territory guarded by the wardens of Lothlórien nor the patrols of Elrond. Someone has to watch for threats. More often than, not, Haldir insists on the job for himself. He doesn’t trust us to keep good enough watch.”

“That’s not it and you know it,” Orophin hisses, and I flinch at the anger in his voice, even though it wasn’t directed at me. I have no idea how Rumil keeps his face blank. The two stare each other down until Orophin speaks again, still through gritted teeth. “Go and collect the rations for dinner.”

Rumil rolls his eyes, but does as his brother says.

Baranor clears his throat, and I’m grateful when he changes the subject. He inclines his head towards me. “I see you are dressed for travel. Perhaps you were part of a company and got separated?”

Mildly perplexed, I look down at my body. Huh. He’s right. Something I had yet to take notice of is the clothes I wear — sturdy dark leggings, a deep green tunic, a red cloak, and thick leather boots. I haven’t the slightest idea how I conjured up these clothes, but Baranor is right — they’re perfect for this type of outdoor traveling.

Rumil returns and places a bundle of leaves in each of our hands. Inside seems to be bread and slices of some sort of fruit. Hesitantly, I take a bite. It’s surprisingly good.

“So how long until we reach this friend of yours?”

“Elrond,” Orophin informs, looking down the path we intend to continue on tomorrow. “Probably about thirteen more days, unless we hit bad weather. The mountains will take the longest, and traveling with a human will slow us down.” He realizes his words, eyes growing wide. “I don’t mean to be rude—”

“No, no, I get it.” I wave him off, picking at the bread in my hands. These elves sure have a bad view of me. “Humans suck.”

“At least it’s still spring,” Rumil supplies, trying to lighten the mood. “That will make our path through the Misty Mountains easier.”

“Right you are,” Baranor agrees, sipping from his canteen. “I detest crossing them in the snow.”

The three elves slip into easy conversation, exchanging stories of the worst travel conditions each has suffered, trying to one-up each other. While they talk, I place my bread back in its leaves and on the ground, no longer hungry. The stories they tell are quite detailed, and there’s this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I wouldn’t be able to make all this up…the landscape, the language, a whole new species with differing characteristics, vast knowledge of this world’s travel ways, four fully-thought-out ‘characters’, for lack of a better word….Dread and fear mingle with exhaustion and I slump, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a ball and go to sleep for a very long time. Perhaps when I wake, all will be well.

The murmurs from those around me sound muffled. A hand wraps grips one of my shoulders, holding me upright, and Baranor’s voice comes from beside my ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, feeling the weight of their eyes on me. “I’m just exhausted.”

He makes a noise of agreement. “Of course you are, I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.”

I try and wave off his apology, but it seems like too much effort to raise my arm over such a little thing. From the corner of my eye, I see Rumil stand and visit the horses. He returns carrying a rolled up mat and a folded blanket. He unfurls both, setting them on the ground between our gathering spot and the tree line. He beckons for me to join him and, with great effort, I stand without help, going to meet him as requested.

“Here. Sorry it’s not much. If we had known we’d be traveling with a lady, we would have brought much cushier sleeping provisions.”

I roll my tired eyes, realizing that he’s mocking me. “Goodnight, Rumil.”

He grins, sauntering off to rejoin his companions. “Goodnight, Cosima.”

I all but collapse on the mat, pulling the surprisingly warm blanket over my shoulders. Before I’m aware what’s happening, I’ve plunged into sleep.

{***}

Baranor woke me with the sun, and I’m very grateful to be leaning against him rather than directing the horse. I feel much too groggy to properly steer such a beast, especially given the fact that I have no idea how. Even though he must have stayed up most of the night, Haldir doesn’t look the slightest bit tired, and, on behalf of the bags underneath my eyes, I am thoroughly annoyed. He hasn’t said a word to me aside from the few sentences yesterday. I understand it a bit more now, though. He seems to be the leader of this group, and has either been charged with its security, or taken the task upon himself. Despite there not being another soul in sight, he rides at the front of our group—straight backed, stiff, his head on a near-constant swivel. Orophin tends to stay near one of Haldir’s shoulders—guarding his back and providing a sort of second watch, I presume. Rumil alternates between riding in-step with the horse Baranor and I occupy and cantering along behind us.

If riding was difficult yesterday, it is doubly so this morning.

Every bounce jolts though my bones, and I seem always on the verge of being tossed to the side, never quite able to fall into the rhythm the other four find so easily.  

Rumil pulls up beside us, seeming to showcase his perfect form. “Having trouble?”

I grit my teeth, but that only makes them clash together as the horse’s feet collide with the ground. “No.”

He snorts. “Toes up, heels down. Grip the horse with your legs, don’t put all that tension in your back. And if Baranor were human, you’d have strangled him by now. Loosen up.”

Baranor huffs out a laugh and takes an exaggerated breath when I relax my hold around him. “Finally, I can breathe!”

“So dramatic,” I mumble, rolling my eyes for Rumil’s benefit.

“What was that,” Baranor questions, though I know if he has as good hearing as he claims to have, he surely heard my comment.

“I said you’re a really great rider,” I shout.

The three of us dissolve into laughter, and I lose myself in this. For a moment, I forget that I am dreaming, that this is a strange world I made up in my head. I forget that I haven’t the slightest idea what comes next. Instead, I start to forge the first tentative bonds of friendship.

{***}

I am glad when we stop for the evening, and run through some stretches to try and help with the muscle aches. Rumil’s pointers certainly helped though, and I have hopes that perhaps this discomfort is only temporary. We still follow the river, and once again make camp in the space on the high, grassy bank. Bathing was an experience, but it was mercifully quick. The water was much too cold for my liking, so I washed as hastily as I could and then redressed, joining the others on the bank. I lean over to wring the water from my hair, the saturation making it seem nearly black. It’s getting quite long—almost too long, and I hope wherever we’re going has someone willing to cut it. Rumil watches me curiously as I take a spare cloth and scrunch my hair—bringing out its natural waves—but says nothing, only continues giving me an odd look. I guess with the stick-straight hair of he and his brothers, this would look unusual. Just as I am about to tease him for his staring, Haldir comes in to sight, looking quite severe.

“We have lost the cover of the trees. We will take watch in pairs, rotating halfway through the night. Orophin, Baranor—you take the first shift.”

They dutifully follow Haldir’s order, and I watch their faces as they pass. They show no signs of tiredness—no bags under their eyes, no yawning, in fact, not even a hair is out of place—but if it were me, I would be absolutely exhausted with all this staying up. And, though it is technically their turn to rest, Rumil and Haldir are still on their feet, occupying themselves with tending to the horses. I feel awful, peacefully sitting on my bedroll, messing with my hair and eating dinner, knowing I’ll get a full night’s sleep when none of them will have that luxury.

I return my food to the sack loaned to me and push myself to my feet, tentatively approaching Rumil and his brother. Rumil smiles in greeting. Haldir merely glances up and then back to his horse’s hoof he’s bending over to attend. Though I fight to keep my eyes open as it is, it’s not right for me to leave them to do all the work. So, I try to project energy I do not feel, and pose my question. “Do you want me to take a watch shift tonight?”

Haldir stiffens. Rumil raises his eyebrows and vibrates slightly—he’s holding back laughter! I give them my best unimpressed look.

Rumil tries to hide his amusement but can’t do away with his wide grin. “We appreciate the offer, really. But having a human stand watch when we have elves at our disposal? It would be the same to not set a watch at all.”

I huff, crossing my arms, trying to ignore the heat I feel in my cheeks. All this talk of how incapable humans are is getting a little old. “Well, there must be something I can do to help. I shouldn’t go straight to bed if the rest of you are still working.”

Rumil’s expression softens. He purses his lips, seeming to search for either a task for me or a way to turn me away.

“Do you know how to mend clothing?”

I’m momentarily caught off guard. Haldir hasn’t looked up from clearing his horse’s hooves, but it was definitely him who spoke.

Unbidden, the action of holding a ripped piece of cloth and using a needle and threat to bind it comes to mind. I must know how. So I answer in the affirmative. “Yeah, I think so.”

Haldir nods, straightening only to exchange one hoof for the other, never making eye contact with either me or his brother. “Good. There’s a blue tunic in my largest bag that needs mending, and one of Rumil’s too—that one’s red. Work with the light. Stop when you can’t see anymore and finish in the morning.”

I blink and feel my head tilt to the side. That’s the most he’s ever said to me. But it’s not even that he spoke, it’s how. Every syllable is crisp, curt, and succinct—a command in every sense of the word. I long-ago realized that Haldir is in charge of this little group, though now I wonder if he supervises in a larger capacity back in his home. I get the feeling he’s quite used to talking to people like this, and being obeyed.

But I did ask for something to do, so I don’t comment on his tone, only say my goodbyes and retrieve the shirts he’s described. They’re exactly where he said they would be and wrapped around a small sewing kit. I take the supplies and return to my bedroll, working through the sunset. When it grows too dark to see, I put the project away. Rumil and Haldir join me, bringing dinner with them. They set out their mats in a sort of triangle, and I realize somewhat belatedly that this allows each of us to watch the other’s back. It seems second-nature to them, to be cautions and on their guard, even during dinnertime and sleep.

I try to distract myself from that disconcerting thought. “Why are we going to meet this friend of yours anyway?”

Rumil’s gaze turns to his brother standing watch, a fond look in his eye. “There is an elleth there that Orophin is courting. Their time apart has been too long for his liking, so he is paying her a visit. It is dangerous to travel these lands alone, so Haldir and I took leave to accompany him.”

Courting. Elleth. Where am I finding all these words? I keep talking in an effort to distract myself. “That’s really sweet. Does Baranor usually go with you all, since he’s a healer?”

“Usually,” Rumil confirms. “He has extensive experience in the halls of healing, as well as healing on the battlefield, so he is an excellent addition to any company. Also Elrond—the friend we are taking you to—is an acclaimed healer himself, so he and Baranor enjoy conversing with each other.”

Haldir stretches his arms up, then reclines on his mat. “Better get some sleep, all of us. Rumil—we’re up in four hours.”

I take his advice, laying down on my own bedroll. Exhausted though I am, sleep evades me.

My mind runs a million miles an hour, piecing together bits of information from this world, trying to remember things from my home. And, all the while, thought takes root, sowing seeds of fear in my mind.

Because while I know this world isn’t real, and thus no harm can come to me here…Rumil said these lands are dangerous, and the increased watches only support my theory that we are under some kind of threat. I have no weapon with which to defend myself, let alone any skill, and while I know logically that I could throw myself off a cliff and still be fine….

What if that’s not the case?

I groan, rolling onto my back.

This is ridiculous. This place is made up. I’m trapped inside my own head, so I have no reason to be scared. Go to sleep.

And, when the moon is much higher in the sky, the exhaustion wins.

A/n Thanks for reading! You know how likes, comments, and reblogs make me smile. Let me know if you would like a tag! And if you’re having trouble being tagged (for some reason Tumblr isn’t letting me tag all of you?) try subscribing to the story on Ao3! That will update you when I post there. 

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