#so they have a fling and they split because they each have their own wars to fight

[brainrot-jikan]

igor/jing yuan real

he has the picture HUNG UP ON A WALL that he GOES TO STARE AT BY HIMSELF ANGSTILY

[rosanna-writer]

we'll never make our parents' mistakes

When I saw the "Family Man" prompt for @officialrhysandweek, I knew I wanted to explore a bit about Rhys's family dynamic before he became High Lord. The result: this drabble about Rhys and his sister brooding in the library together. You can find it here on AO3 or under the cut.

Mild content warning for referenced emotional abuse.

The peace and quiet Rhys had come to the library for was broken by the sound of his sister's voice. "You're in my spot."

He looked up from where he'd been staring into the fire to find Rhiannon glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest. It was childish, but he couldn't help but say, "I was here first."

Perhaps on another day, they would have bickered over the armchair, but she just sighed, wings drooping behind her. Rhys waved a hand and shifted the chair into a small sofa with room for them both. Rhiannon sat, and for a long moment, there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and the rustle of pages in the distance. Even in the quiet library, their parents' yelling echoed through both their minds.

Eventually, Rhys said, "I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten." He'd known, on some level, that there was a reason his mother chose to spend so much time in Illyria, away from her mate. Lately, however, Rhys had been too busy leading a legion of warriors to think much about it.

But it was impossible not to think about it when his parents couldn't make it through a single meal without shouting at each other.

"You aren't the one father always asks to pass messages to mama," Rhiannon said. "For Cauldron's sake, he's a daemati. He could do it himself with half a thought."

"Yes, but in case you've forgotten, the wings make us indistinguishable from carrier pigeons," Rhys said drily.

Their mother had always told them not to mind the insults from High Fae who couldn't fly, that "rat with wings" and "Illyrian brute" were just expressions of jealousy. And a childhood split between training in war-camps and navigating the viper's den of court politics had given Rhys a thick skin. None of this was new.

But insults cut deeper when it was your father flinging them at you.

The quip at at least got a smile out of Rhiannon, albeit one that didn't reach her eyes. Exhaustion lined her face, and not for the first time, Rhys wondered just how much she'd been putting up with in Velaris while he'd been called away to Illyria for military service.

"Do you think they'll manage to make it through Starfall without another fight?" Rhiannon said.

After all the yelling over dinner, Rhys wondered the same thing. He'd have to return to Illyria first thing the next morning, and the thought of leaving on a bad note left a knot in the pit of his stomach. Still, it was cold comfort, but ultimately, he doubted his father would make a scene at a large, official court event. "Yes, if only because a public argument wouldn't be strategic."

"By the Cauldron, I hope you're right." They lapsed into another silence, just watching the fire together, before she added, "Are you still hungry, by the way?"

Rhys's mind had been elsewhere, but now that he thought about it, he was still hungry. After watching his mother storm off and slam the door, he'd barely picked at his food. And it didn't help that his father's spice tolerance was waning as he approached one thousand, anyway. The cooks at the House of Wind were making everything bland these days.

"Split an order of chicken over rice from that place across the Sidra with me?" he said.

"I was just going to ask you the same question. Sure you're not reading my mind?" Rhiannon said, giving him a friendly tap on his shields with one of her own mental talons.

"It's not my fault you're so predictable—"

"Says the male who only ever wears one color—"

"Actually, you saw me wearing blue as recently as yesterday."

They argued the whole way to the restaurant and continued until they had their food in hand. As they found an empty bench overlooking the river and sat down to eat, Rhys found himself thinking that while his parents might be frustrating, at least he and his sister were in it together.

[siderealxmelody]

//origins of Spring & Winter, a why Gwyneth was named and chosen by Spring//

@musings-of-an-antari - hope this makes sense!!

Danatalion leaned back in his chair, the tavern was crowded.

"I still don't see what I gain from this partnership general."

But this far from the war the mood was lighter. Unir looked to the other. He leaned toward him, it payed to keep tabs on people.

Especially the Valg.

Especially a King. Those were rare.

"Explain what a King is among your people Danatalion. I always find that confusing, aren't you matriarchal?"

Danatalion rose an eyebrow, his soul jewel was on full display. This far away from the wars no one dare to try to take it and control him.

It was a stormy gray, pulsating and swirling like a stormcloud as a collar pin. He was arrogant, showing it off so blatantly.

But Unir guessed he wasn't alone, he better his rations this tavern and village was crawling with his kin.

Danatalion licked the foam from his lips and set his drink down. He adjusted himself, tapping long fingers on the wooden table.

"Not surprising you all know nothing. No idea how your people survived this long learning nothing of your neighbors."

Unir resisted the urge to point out his people had power, immense reservoirs with it. They didn't need to get to know their enemies - they could just annihilate them.

Expect in cases like this, Danatalion was one of Nyx's favorite generals. But he was known for his calculated strikes, a male that actually taught before he killed.

If Unir could convince him the others may just finally fall in line.

"A King is born to support the Dynasty, to take the reigns if a Queen is not ready or not born. Not all our Princesses can become a Queen, most won't descendend to that deep level of power."

He leaned toward him, dark blue eyes flashing.

"If you think I'll kneel before your ridiculous throne Unir you can leave now. Never. This meeting was on principal but if you want to become another dictator -"

"The Savarn Monestary was hit by Thana's forces last night."

Danatalion's fingers briefly stopped before starting again. He sipped at his drink, he feigned disinterest but Unir knew he'd guessed right.

Alethea had been one of the few priestess to survive. And the only one with a ring on her finger the same color and pattern as Danatalion's soul gem.

Danatalion stared at him, and sighed.

"So you're holding her captive? Is that the game? I lay my forces in line and I get my mate?"

Unir stilled, he hadn't guessed mate, maybe a passing fling.

But Valg didn't do that that did they? He'd never heard of them committing the atrocities he knew his fell Asteri did on the other worlds. He knew that a female would choose a Valg male simply because 99% would be disinterested in having them.

"No. The game is others are wondering how she has a ring like your collar jewel. I hadn't realized Valg could split souls -"

"Mates are two halves of one soul. As mates we are Kindred, she can share and have access my magic Unir. Do they truly teach you nothing in those secretive academies?"

Unir dismissed the insult, he didn't have time for them.

"They are growing suspicious of her Danatalion. The game is I protect her, the game is I offer her safe passage to you. Surely your own would protect your mate yes?"

Danatalion shrugged.

"They may if she bends to the Queen we end up having. But fine, I want her away from your lot anyway."

He held up his drink.

"To killing the Gods."

Unir clinked his glass draining his own glass.

"To killing the Gods."

------

Danatalion looked to Fion, Ophion and Thurr. The three had bonded quickly, playing with each other in the floating cities here in Muspelheim. Danatalion's dynasty had migrated from the Valg lands, giving them a freedom to grow beyond it.

It had become a place of learning, of alliances.

"Who is their parent?"

Danatalion shrugged and looked to Unir.

"Does it matter? She isn't interested in raising them and you wanted some to bond to Thurr yes?"

Unir supposed it didn't matter, but children were a blessing, he couldn't understand it. Perhaps Valg had so many that it didn't matter.

------

Myrdin gripped Fion by the elbow dragging him to his feet away from the burning islands. From the screams - the Valg had finally exacted their revenge.

"Myrdin we have to do something, we have -"

"We are, we're surviving. Let's go."

His twin stood a few feet away, the black Jewel pin twisted in hair gleamed with no light. Gwendyd turned to Thurr, non pulsed by all of it seemingly. But this close Thurr could see her trembling, her people had gotten them out - but the cost had been so damn high.

"We can't stay here, there's a refinery. A place that is said to flow with the waters touched by the Wyrd. We may be able to find weapons there. We'll need them."

Thurr looked to Fion, his hollow and horrified eyes. He'd lost so much in these last few months, two different homes, Ophion had abandoned him for the thrills of war.

Thurr silently vowed to kill Ophion whenever he found him again. If he could bond to Fion he'd may survive such a death.

Ophion didn't get to live when this was the reality.

He looked to Gwendyd and nodded.

"Take us there Your Majesty."

------

Vivian eyes narrowed but her sister looked to Myrdin and batted her lashes. Thurr rolled his eyes, he didn't have time for this.

Myrdin could fuck her later.

He looked to Vivian.

"We need a sword forged here."

"We can make one, there isn't one just lying around Princeling."

Gwendyd cut in, her voice pulling the other females to her, them naturally bowing to her. Valg truly did survive everywhere didn't they?

"I need a sword that can cut through Asteri flesh, that is fit for a Queen. If you recognize me as yours, make me such a sword sisters."

They bowed their heads, slipping into the waters, Gwydion was a thing of beauty, a white blade forged from bone with an alabaster hilt. Gwendyd took it, her breath hitching at the runes that flared at her touch.

They finally had an advantage, one that may help them survive what was to come.

------

Thurr rolled his eyes and looked to Twyla and Sebastian dancing.

"I fear my son's heart is taken by another dear friend."

Myrdin huffed sipping at his mead, the lands of Winter had welcomed him and Nimue, the icy cold choosing them to rule the wild lands. Lands that had let no other lay such claims.

"Ah, is it the way your taken with Mala or how your brother was taken by his lovers?"

Thurr shrugged.

"I have no idea, Sebastian refuses to speak about it. He's been sullen ever since Vale and Natalia began to court."

------

Vivian looked to her middle daughter, guiding her to the water's edge of the starry lake.

"Vale will live darling."

"But, but what of Sebastian and Aphaeleon? Surely they deserve to be punished!"

Vivian sat on the lake's edge, the last remnants of the Wyrdpools that had existed so many centuries ago. She guided her middle daughter to sit next to her.

"They will pay in time, a slight like they did today will come back to bite them. T

It may not be soon, or within my lifetime but it will happen."

She looked to the swirling lake.

"Have faith in the Wyrd, in Urd she sees all and punishes those who disturb the flow of fate."

[cringefailvox]

elaborating. to be clear i don't think they would ever work. i think they're incompatible in deeply compelling ways and none of those ways end in any kind of long-term relationship, but neither of them want that regardless. velvette would be obsessed with cherri's wildness, the way she flings herself into everything she does with reckless and gleeful abandon, not giving one single fuck about what anyone thinks of her - meanwhile velvette can't let herself have any of that, has convinced herself she doesn't want any of that, and so being with cherri is, paradoxically, a safe & contained way for vel to live vicariously through cherri without jeopardizing her own self-concept and reputation. on the other hand, velvette is a fun fling for cherri, she's wicked in bed and exactly the kind of fire that cherri loves to plunge her hands into, but cherri doesn't have room for anyone's issues but her own and won't sign up for the kind of high-maintenance codependence that velvette comes from. cherri is here to have fun and get high and wreck shit, she wages turf wars for the fuck of it but has no designs on being an overlord even though she probably could, because freedom is what she values most, not power. velvette is ambitious where cherri is careless, cutthroat where cherri is fiery, self-obsessed where cherri is so so intentionally not. cherri sees a kinship in velvette's disrespectful attitude but she doesn't see an ally in vel, and vice versa. cherri is everything velvette both derides and covets. velvette is everything cherri both celebrates and pities. they would have an intense 4-6 week fling full of crazy decadent sex and cocaine that velvette feigns no knowledge of before they split off unceremoniously and never speak to each other again

have we thought about cherri/velvette

[ayatosmoles]

you can stay here forever

pairing: akaashi keiji x reader

contains: exes to lovers, assumed unrequited feelings, awkwardness, mentions of alcohol and getting tipsy, happy ending!!, not proofread

word count: 2.4k

a/n: ahhh!! this is one of, if not the longest, fics i've ever written!! i'm sure it's not the best but i've had this idea in my head for the longest time and i finally got around to writing it! i'd love to write longer things in the future, so i'd love any critiques (pls don't be mean) or your thoughts!! thank you for reading :) <3

you'd like to say that you've been able to get over him. you broke up over three years ago with the mutual understanding that the relationship wouldn't work anymore, with your differing destinations after college, and you know it wouldn't have. you both decided it'd be better to end your relationship rather than let the distance pull you apart and ensure you'd never want to see each other ever again. you thought that time would find other things in your life to fill the hole in your heart, but that space is still full and left the way it was the day you split.

it's embarrassing, when you meet up with you friends from college for drinks, and they ask about the latest developments in your love life. there were one or two flings that you were able to talk about once or twice, but you couldn't find a way to make any space for them with how much of your heart still belongs to akaashi. all of the time between that just had a scripted response of how 'you're not looking right now' and how you didn't want to meet their roommate's brother's friend.

the arms that you drape around your waist and the fingertips that caress your hairline when you can't fall asleep happen to be your own, but you still remember enough about akaashi's gentle touch that it works well enough that your heart can stay content while you sleep. but no one's touch comes close to akaashi's.

though, the desperation that you've felt for years is so easily replaced with embarrassment and shyness the second you meet his line of sight.

it's been in the back of your mind that you'd see him at the olympics, after bokuto invited you to come see him play and it's obvious that he'd invite akaashi too, akaashi's the one that introduced him to you. it seems that the obvious lived on the back-burner of your life.

your eyes search for the bright red that the team wears, or meian's head that is sure to stick out in a crowd, or bokuto's loud voice that is often a beacon for his whereabouts. but the contrast of akaashi's blue eyes that you can recognize from thirty miles away in fog are the first thing you find, and with them a war in your heart and mind. your heart wants to be happy, overjoyed that it gets to be close to the other that it belongs to so dearly and fully, but your mind knows that his heart hasn't belonged to you in a long time. the weight of your heart in your chest pulls your feet down to the ground, stuttering and just trying to believe that he's right there.

the smile on your face is a somewhere between nervous and genuine as you approach the group, keeping your eyes focused on bokuto with the occasional side eye to akaashi to gauge his reaction. he's staring at the floor.

"thank you for coming! i didn't think you'd make it for the first week with your schedule!" bokuto shifts his attention to your arrival.

"there is no way i would miss it, so i just stayed up last night to get caught up on work that i'd miss during my vacation time," your smile and excitement is starting to mask the tension.

"ahh, keiji did the same thing!"

of course he did. he's the one that showed you how to get piles of work done in a night so that you could take the days ahead of you off. to spend with him, and him you.

you know akaashi is thinking of the same thing, because he has that same polite smile that kids put on when their parents are bragging about them to friends in the grocery store.

"that's not surpri-" you begin, but are cut off by the announcement of the team needing to head to warm-up for their match.

"shoot, i'm sorry. we'll talk after," he turns to leave, "you two should catch up, though."

he did this on purpose. as the team and their staff leave to the court, you and akaashi just stand there to wait for the other to say something. akaashi hasn't said anything since you got there, so you doubt he'll go for it.

"so what-" you start.

"do you want-" he starts.

you both start but are interrupted by the other. he meets your eyes with his - the first direct contact you've had in over three years - and chuckles.

"you go first," he gestures to you.

"no, you. i was going to ask you something i already know, anyway," his eyes widen at this.

"that's so elusive! now you have to ask."

his polite smile is shifting into a grin. this dynamic is so familiar. it makes your heart ache.

"i was just going to ask what you what you're doing nowadays, but i saw your name in the back of jump a few months ago. so it's a silly question. you're turn." you're flustered but it's so easy to fall back into this with him.

"i was going to ask if you wanted to go up to sit," he points towards the stairs.

"with me." he clarifies. you nod, and you wish you could say with absolute certainty that you see him twitch his hand towards the direction of yours, but you know it can be a trick of the light.

your discussion is put on hold as you try to find your way around the confusing stairs and hallways and aisles of the arena bleachers. to your luck, this is only the first day after the opening ceremonies so there are significantly less crowds than there will be in the coming days. akaashi leads you to a quieter corners, that doesn't have as good of a view of the court.

"now it's your turn." he's right. he did ask the last question. you hum.

"hmm. do you have anything else going on other than work?"

or any more-than-friends?

"not particularly. i don't get much free-time and when i have any i just do the usual. read, do the laundry, dishes. i've almost mastered knitting after so long and i've been dabbling in watercolor and calligraphy lately, but results are little to none."

he's all the same. you still have the knitted finger glove that he made you just after he started learning how to knit. he told you it was a 'pen warmer', but it was the perfect fit for a finger.

"my turn now," he's almost hasty to ask you something next, "can we talk about...us?"

the warm cloud that you've been living in for the past half an hour or so has evaporated, leaving you cold and exposed.

"wh-what do you mean?'

"it's just that i-no, wait," he wipes his palms on his slacks and takes a deep breathe, "sometimes i just wonder if we'd still be with each other. we didn't end on bad terms, and i was still so very in love with you when we split. i probably still am, honestly. but had we both stayed in tokyo, do you think we'd still be together?"

your wide eyed gaze can only focus on you fingers playing with each other on your lap. you know akaashi is doing the same, but he's willing to take the occasional glance at you.

you don't know why you didn't expect this. it's not like he just forgot everything between you. but, to hear your feelings and internal conflict be mirrored and reciprocated gives you hope. according to him, he's probably still in love with you. you know the answer is yes, you'd still hold akaashi just as close if not closer than you did when you started dating.

"sorry, you don't have to say anything. i'm sorry if i made you uncomfortable. i just wanted you to know the truth before-"

"of course i do, keiji. i've loved you since the day i met you. but what does this change? i still work and live in tokyo, and i can't just quit my job. you still work and live in kyoto, and you're doing so well for yourself. long distance wouldn't have worked then, how could it work now?"

"no, you're right. i'm not sure what i thought would happen. thank you for being honest."

you want to cry, you can feel it right behind your eyes. akaashi just handed to you the words you've wanted to hear for so long, but it didn't change anything. you're still just as hopeless as you were three years ago. but, before you can try and let anymore of your emotions spill out, the match starts. you and akaashi part ways afterwards with akaashi's, "promise you won't be a stranger, y/n. my number stayed the same."

you stayed through the olympics, continuing your support for bokuto and the team throughout, but you never saw akaashi after that first match. bokuto told you he brought quite a bit of his work with him, so he spent most of his trip in his hotel room and probably avoided you for the rest.

---

your promise with akaashi has gone unkept, with the last words between you being the promise itself. you didn't know how to tell him at the time that you deleted his number the week after the breakup, and you no longer had it. it would've been so easy for you to just ask bokuto, but you told him about what happened at the olympics and it's become somewhat of an awkward topic.

but he hasn't been any better. you haven't heard anything from him, though he's probably taking the silence on your end as a hint. you two are just the same as you were before, there's just more salt in the wound this time.

UNKNOWN: Hello y/n, it's Keiji. I'm sorry to be a bother if you're busy, and I hope this is still your number, but I'm going to be coming down to Tokyo tomorrow and I'll be staying for a week or two. I'd love to see you if you're available and catch up!

UNKNOWN: And we can catch up as friends, I won't bring up anything unwanted.

you wish you could say you're busy. you wish you could refuse him.

Y/N: I'd love to! Just come to my place at 6?

keiji: Sounds like a plan

keiji: :)

---

you open your door the next evening to akaashi with a bottle of wine in his left arm and his bag in his right. you recognize his outfit as the same one he wore the day you met at the olympics. you do remember how much he used to love buying several of the same outfit when he found one that looked good on him. the newer one must be the beige turtleneck sweater and brown blazer that you see in front of you. in fact, you want to say you bought him a similar turtleneck for the holidays on your last christmas together.

"hi," he breathes out. the wide smile fitted on his face and his red cheeks from the january weather with a red nose to match are accessories alongside his cheap watch.

"hi," your smile matches his, "come in."

the bottle of wine that he brought you is opened and poured, while you and akaashi share your loveseat. your conversation flows just as easily as it did those months ago at the olympics, and it's free of any discussion of your last meeting. the more wine that he drinks, the looser he gets and the gigglier he gets. you used to love staying in with akaashi on friday nights to down a cheap bottle of wine and make out until you fell asleep as a tangle of limbs.

"i'm so happy to see you. i miss you so much. i haven't heard from you since july, but it dawned on me a week or two ago that you probably deleted my number. silly keiji," he laughs pitifully at himself. you suck in a breath to begin a response but he doesn't let you get that far.

"you know, i came down to tokyo for a reason. i got a promotion and they're sending me to work at their offices here. i officially move down in a few weeks."

with his admission, you quickly recognize that his rambling came from nerves and not the alcohol like you previously thought. it takes you longer to totally process his news, and you almost find it difficult to believe. the amount of interaction that you've had with akaashi in just the past few months has been overwhelming, and he's presented you with a possible fix to the problem that has caused you so many heartaches and tears.

you remember your last conversation together, where you established that the only boundary keeping you apart was the distance.

"keiji, what are you trying to say?" the heavy gaze that he sends you answers your question.

he doesn't want to answer your question. he made a promise that he'd avoid having this conversation again.

"you know what i'm trying to say."

"do you think it would work? i mean, we've practically been strangers for years now." you try not to notice the considerable distance that is decreasing between the two of you.

"i told you i still love you last time i saw you, and nothing changed. we're probably stupid but i know i'll regret it if we don't at least try again. is that okay? i'm sorry, i know i promised-" his ramble of coming apologies is interrupted by your impulse to just kiss him.

it's familiar, it feels like the return home from a vacation that felt much too long. the meeting of an old friend. it feels like the moment you see someone from so long ago by chance and you remember exactly what it was like before you said goodbye. it is so long awaited, and now that you have it you don't know how you could've lived any longer without it.

he returns it quickly, spreading out long kisses between short breaths. you're not sure how long he kisses you, but you know that not an inch of your face or neck went untouched by his affection.

"i don't know how i've ever lived so long without you," he chuckles, and you laugh at his glasses barely hanging on his nose and the spikes of disheveled hair across his head.

"me either." another kiss.

"can i stay a little longer?"

"you can stay here forever."

[inventors-fair]

Couldn't Have (Un)done Better

Congratulations to our winners this week! @shadow-tag with Prismatic Conduit, @hiygamer with Once More with Feeling, and @izzet-always-r-versus-u with A War on Two Fronts!

~

Prismatic Conduit

Holy cow you almost gave me a heart attack with that first ability! Then the second one made me snort a bit. What a clever way to answer this prompt. This card is very unique, and though it’s a little tough to interpret at first for inexperienced players, it’s pretty easy to figure out afterwards. Essentially, this makes it so that the first mana of each color of each spell can be paid with any color of mana. It’s not insanely powerful, but it can be super useful. If you’re playing a Jengatha deck, all your stuff can be spent with colorless mana! It’s also a mana rock, so it has other uses. It’s clearly a reference to chromatic orrery and prismatic lens (at least to me), but a weaker version of the former in ways I agree with. I also love that there’s potential combos with this. It’s amazing with devoid cards (1 mana Herald of Kozilek!) and ghostflame, and terrible with Sphinx of the Guildpact. I really really wish this worked with Ghostflame Sliver, but sadly that doesn’t affect sliver spells. This card is useful at its base, has combo potential, and met the prompt in a way that made me chuckle. The only thing I wish this card had was a rarity. I could see rare or maybe uncommon if it were a more advanced set. But honestly, I’m willing to ignore it.

-

Once More with Feeling

Now this is a strange remand. It’s very hard for me to think of fair uses for this beyond cantripping. It doesn’t stop counterspells or mess with the stack all that much. It’s good against flings and other additional cost cards I guess? But no, what you’re doing with this is hitting your own stuff, Tibalt’s Trickery style. The obvious one is eldrazi with cast triggers, but it’s also really cool in cascade decks. You can cascade into this, draw a card, then recast the cascade spell. I’d also love if there were exactly one card like See the Truth that it was meant to work with. There also might be some mechanics that work with it well. For example, I think this would let you un-flashback a card? I like this card because while the fail-state is pretty banal, a little cantrip, or perhaps letting you get around an opponent’s counterspell, I think a lot of players would have fun trying to break this, and if it does I feel like it’s deserved. You’re only ever hitting a spell you were already able to cast, so it’s never cheating anything that you didn't earn some other way. I really like it.

-

A War on Two Fronts

Wow, this one really makes me think. How would this play out? You can attack with your massive creature, then if they don’t block, leave your little creatures behind and not block anyway. If they do block, then you know your second attack gets through. At first I wondered why you made the first ability a trigger on attacks rather than just a static that gets you an extra phase, but I guess this makes it so you don’t have to go through combat twice if you didn’t need it the first time. I really really wish there were a main phase in between those combats, but it doesn’t break anything if there isn’t, I just think it would have made some extra decision points. This one definitely fits the concept better, though, of combat just sort of being split in half. I also think the cost is good. It doesn’t do anything (as the contest so desired) but definitely has an effect, so two mana is nice. Legendary I guess is nice in order to fit the name, but I don’t know how necessary it is. I feel like after the second combat the rest aren’t doing much, so why not just let players realize that on their own? But it also keeps things simple. But yeah, I really like this card and would love to see what happens when it’s in play.

~

And there we have it! Congratulations again to our winners, and a thank you to everyone else who entered, I’ll be back soon with the runners-up.

-Mod Mr. ShinyObject

[l4verq]

almost yours | s. r & b.b

pre-serum steve x reader, bucky x reader

in which you’re sure you’ll fall for bucky soon enough

warnings : angst, mentions of death, war, fights

fic : oneshot?

masterlist

|| gif by @go-fandom-imagines ||

-

“I can do this all day.”

You roll your eyes cause you know he can’t.

“No, he can’t.” You trudge in between the filth, your peep-toe heels doing little to help you walk.

On closer inspection, the man is clearly intoxicated. He has his hands squared up, body swaying slightly but firmly planted infront of Steve.

You know he’s already had a few punches in judging by the bruises on his knuckles and the cuts on Steve’s face.

Steve mutters a silent curse as he sees you walking up to them.

Why did you always have to see him in such a pathetic state like this?

You give a stern look at him like always and he can’t meet your eyes every damn time.

“Who are you?” The man slurs, the smell of alcohol almost suffocating you.

“His friend.” You lift your neck a little higher as you meet the man’s eyes, your heart beating out of your chest.

Friend. Of course, that’s what he is to you.

“Y/N.” Steve steps in between, shielding you from the man.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind when you’re shoved back roughly, falling into a pile of trash.

“A broad should know better than to meddle in men’s business.” The man wags his finger before repeatedly hitting Steve who’s yelling at you to run.

You hastily unstrap your heels and fling it across with a smack against the man’s back.

But the punches don’t stop.

“Stop, you stupid geezer.” You scream, grabbing his hair and thrashing your arms around, hoping you get a solid punch in.

“Hey!” The man slips away from your grasp as Bucky grabs him and pulls him away from the both of you.

“Pick on somebody your size.” He snarls, ramming his arm into the man’s body, making him double over in pain.

The man staggers off and Bucky turns to face the both of you, anger evident in his eyes.

“I don’t want to hear it.” He objects as soon as you open your mouth.

“Steve, you good?”

“I’ll live.”

You two share a sheepish smile as Bucky helps him up.

“Okay, just so you know, this thing you guys have with getting beat up in alleys is stupid and moronic.” Bucky huffs, hands on his hips, foot tapping the ground impatiently.

“I was just trying to help Steve.”

“I didn’t need any help.”

“Says the guy who’s just had his ass handed to him.”

“Okay, funtime’s over. You have an aptitude test today, we can’t be late.” Bucky intervenes, retrieving your heel.

“Go to the hospital!” You shriek as Steve limps his way out.

He never stayed. He never could.

Because he didn’t like his thoughts when he’d see you and Bucky together.

Bucky sighs, kneeling on the ground, with your heel in hand.

He glances at you for approval before strapping on your heel for you.

“Thank you.” You mumble, a dull ache spreading throughout your elbows as the adrenaline subsides.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” He asks, concern in his eyes.

This is when you hate yourself the most. Disgusted with yourself because you can’t bring yourself to accept the unconditional love that he has for you. Disgusted that you keep telling yourself you’ll fall for him soon enough.

“I’m fine.” You lie, something fairly common to you.

-

“Still mad?” Steve sits next to you, hands shoved in his jacket.

You notice he did go to the hospital, judging by the white bandage on his hand peeking out.

“Maybe.”

He smiles but it quickly turns into a grimace, the cuts on his lips still healing.

“Heard you got in.” You continue, transfixed on his blue eyes.

“Had to see the look on your father’s face. Priceless.”

The two of you burst out laughing, his face contorted in a mix of pain and laughter making you laugh even more.

Your father, Colonel Chester Philips had made it clear on several occasions that Steve would never make it in the army despite your best attempts to convince him otherwise.

“Don’t forget about me when you get all buffed up and go off fighting scary men.” You joke, half serious.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There it starts again. The stupid fluttering in your heart as you dare to think his gaze at you right now means anything more. And the guilt that floods in right after.

“You two take care of each other.” You both look over at Bucky waving at you from the registration office.

Childhood friends, you’d never known life without the two of them. And now both of them were leaving to possibly never return.

“We’ll be back before you know it.” He gives a soft smile because he knows how much you hate that he’s going too. How much you hate the war. How much you hate that your father’s never home.

He’d made up his mind about this years ago when he realised an asthmatic 90 pound man wasn’t exactly the ladies’ man but the butt of the joke and an easy prey for bullies.

And he didn’t like bullies.

But right now, the way you’re looking at him, his heart wavers a little.

“We are all set to go. You have been assigned to Camp Lehigh.” Bucky arrives, waving a form at Steve.

Your heart drops as it sinks in that they have to leave now. Tears spring to your eyes which you try to blink away.

“I’ll write you whenever I can.” Steve gets up, eyes glossy.

“You’d better.” You smile at him, an uncomfortable ache growing in your heart.

You almost give in to embracing him but the rock on your left hand weighs you down.

He lingers around for a while, perhaps thinking the same. But, he gives a smile, walking away towards the office.

“He’ll be okay,” Bucky reassures you, placing his hands on your shoulders, “Steve’s a tough cookie.”

You look up at your fiance, a lump forming in your throat.

“I’m going to miss you two.” You bite down on your quivering lip as a single tear trickles down your cheek.

God, were you beautiful, he thinks, gently wiping your tears away.

He hated leaving you, each time hurting quite possibly even more than the previous.

If you’d just ask him to stay, he’d leave everything right then and there all for you.

But you never do.

He leans in and you think he doesn’t catch the slight clench of your jaw but he does, everytime.

Each time, he rationalises it in his head, chiding himself for overanalysing.

Cause it’d hurt to think otherwise.

A ghost of a kiss on your forehead you barely feel as you force yourself to swallow the growing lump.

-

The mornings were tolerable.

A few chores here and there. Breakfast if you felt like it. Maybe drop by the salon, have a little chat with the girls.

You kept busy, finding faults in your own cleaning everytime. A spot you definitely missed while cleaning yesterday, you immediately attend to it, scrubbing away.

Sometimes, your father stopped by during the late afternoons, carrying a bag of fresh produce from the local market.

He’d little to say about Steve’s training, gruffly humming whenever you enquired.

Then, you’d have dinner with him, pretending that it wasn’t awkward having an empty seat across you that once belonged to your mother.

The last time you saw your father smile was during your engagement to Bucky. He’d pulled you in a tight embrace, wordless.

It wasn’t like this before.

He actually stayed home, smiled often and had a spark in his eyes.

But after your mother passed, it felt like he was just going through the motions everyday. Buried himself in more work, drowned himself in alcohol somedays.

You couldn’t blame him. You were no better, bottling up your own feelings.

But you wished he’d remember he still had you.

The nights were unbearable.

More often than not, you’d wake up in a cold sweat, heart still racing from the nightmares that plagued your mind.

Then, the worries’d take over.

The war was unforgiving and cruel and you’d pray every night that they wouldn’t fall victim to it.

The shiny rock on your hand catches your eye as it glistens in the moonlight. It’s a thin, silver band with a delicate diamond on top.

You felt like an impostor wearing it.

But, you’d gotten used to it. You’d just remember your mother’s wish, the way Bucky’s face broke out into a smile when you said yes and your father’s brief moment of happiness.

It didn’t help when you remembered Steve.

You don’t really know what you were expecting when you gave him the news. Maybe, you wanted to see if he’d be affected by it? If he felt the same way for you as you did him?

“I’m happy for you two.”

He had the biggest smile on his face as he tugged around with Bucky, teasing him.

But his eyes. You could swear you saw a flicker of sadness in them for just a split second or maybe you were just delusional, projecting your own feelings.

Most probably, the latter.

You pull the neatly folded up letter from your drawer, opening it for the umpeethn time.

Skimming over the scrawlings, your eyes land at the very end where Steve promises to return in the next few days.

You’d received the letter three weeks ago.

Your father’d informed you that Steve’d agreed to an experiment, where he’d be injected with a serum that would apparently make him a super soldier of some sorts.

“Is it safe?”

The grim silence that followed twisted your insides up into knots.

“We don’t know.” Your father grunted, the greying on his hair more prominent.

The following week he came bearing news of Steve’s successful transformation. That he’d grown two feet taller and more than a hundred pounds heavier.

You muttered a silent thank you to God as the coil in your stomach loosened.

“Do you want to see them?” Your father looks up at you from the table, eyes not leaving his newspaper.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. Not after he’d failed as a father. He’d done a lot wrong but the worst was dissappointing you each time you welcomed him back with a warm meal and forgiving eyes.

You nod, a small smile breaking out at the thought of them.

One of the few privileges that came with being the daughter of a Colonel was to be able to go to the Army base closed off to everyday people.

That evening, Bucky arrived, daisies in hand cause he knows how much you like them.

“For my daisy.” He’d say everytime, a grin plastered on his face as you’d roll your eyes, unable to hold back a smile.

You carefully place the letter back into your drawer and crawl under your blanket, hoping to cram in some sleep.

Travelling to Camp Lehigh would take the entire day on a train and you could never really fall asleep anywhere but your own bed.

-

Envy.

The green eyed monster that doesn’t seem to leave your shoulders as your gaze flickers over to them.

A total of atleast six different women have made their rounds, tossing their hair and giggling when he leans in to say something in their ears cause the music’s a little too loud.

But who could blame them?

Steve stood tall at an impressive 6.1 feet, a far cry from the 5.4 he used to be. Though clothed, anyone could see the mass of muscles bulging out, the suit straining whenever he raised his arm.

The first time you saw him, you were speechless.

Bucky had emphasized on the drastic change in Steve’s appearance but you were still taken aback, mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

Everything about him was so different yet his eyes still had that twinkle to them that you always swooned over.

You down your fourth shot in a row, throat burning.

Did she really have to feel his shield and kn-

“Dance with me?” Bucky gives a coy smile, eyebrow quirked up.

Taking his extended hand, he chuckles as you wobble sightly while getting up.

“Someone had a lot to drink.” He comments, guiding you to the dance floor.

A hand slightly above your waist, the other holding your own, Bucky was always a great dancer.

You always let him take the lead as he swayed you back and forth, always managing to expertly avoid stepping on your dress.

You start to regret the alcohol, your head spinning a little.

He seems to notice and lulls down to a gentle pace, holding you tight. You lean into his chest, breathing in the sweet musk that’s just so, Bucky.

He calls your name, barely above a whisper, which you probably wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t so close to him.

You hum in reply, head now leaning on his shoulder.

“Remember that time you got mad at me,”

“and you came crying to me, begging for forgiveness.” You finish his sentence, chuckling.

A throaty laugh rumbles from his chest as well.

“And we promised that we’d never lie to each other anymore.”

You lift your head, to see a soft smile playing on his lips.

“It’s time you kept that promise.” His eyes trails over to Steve.

The low tune that crooned on fades out as a ringing in your ears take over. You could only stare at him, paralysed.

It takes him everything he has in him to stay composed. But he has to do this.

“Tell him, before it’s too late.” He whispers, an urgency in his voice.

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill any moment.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me.” He reassures you, taking your hands in his.

Shuffling bodies bump into you as you look away, incapable of holding his stare.

If only you’d known it would be the last time you saw him.

-

It’s the last thing he wants to do.

But he tells you anyway that he has to leave. That he needs to go.

Ever since Bucky fell to his death, Steve knew nothing but revenge. All he could really think about was taking down Hydra.

When you found out about Bucky, you’d done the same thing you always did.

Bottle your grief, pushing it down and down and keep busy.

Steve knew this too so he was patient, never poked around too much, lent a shoulder to cry on.

He often blamed himself, the event still haunting him at night, his own mind locking him in an endless tunnel.

But you’d always be there, at the end of it, a dim light that led him out.

“Just don’t die on me.” You whisper, hand grasping onto his jacket as he turned to leave.

This time, you don’t think twice before embracing him.

You want to keep him right there, safe with you.

And he probably would stay if you asked enough but you know he has to do this.

You just wanted to be selfish for once.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He wraps his hands around your waist, allowing himself to bask in your arms for a while.

As he pulls away, his face is so close that you can see the golden flecks splattered throughout his blue eyes, forming a psychedelic pattern that seemed to only hypnotise you.

He leans in before stopping himself, eyes flickering down to your slightly parted lips.

You can’t help but stare at his too.

But, the both of you awkwardly pull away, perhaps both appalled by their own selfish thoughts.

He couldn’t do this to his bestfriend ; you’d always be Bucky’s, not his.

As he leaves with the soldiers, the coil in your stomach tightens even more, heart sinking when he fades out of view.

You immediately station yourself at the air traffic controller office, where you man a radio transceiver.

It’s a large room filled with machines and a screen that displays the plane that he took.

It’s a long, long while before the transceiver crackles, a familiar voice blaring off it.

“Steve?” You grab it, almost jumping out of your seat.

The screen shows the plane heading north, further beyond the grid.

You think he called your name too but it’s barely audible.

Then, you hear it.

The whistling of the wind. The rattling of the controls.

The screen blares a warning when the plane doesn’t seem to stop going down.

“Steve, get out of there now!” You beg as it sinks in that he doesn’t plan to.

“Y/N, I’m sorry.” His voice breaks.

“No, come back to me, please.” The room grows smaller and smaller as the air suffocates you.

A distorted reply arrives.

Your heart breaks at the thought of him all alone in that plane, headed for his death.

“I never really said thank you for all the times you beat up my bullies.”

You smile, swallowing the lump in your throat.

A surge of courage runs through your body as you say the words you’ve wanted to say to him ever since you discovered what love even was.

“Steve, I love you.”

But the line goes dead.

-

a/n : idk wtf this is, it was better in my head lol, might fk around and make this into a mini series😬 also tfatws🤑😈

[thewhovianperson]

IT'S TIME FOR JAMIE MCCRIMMON FINALLY! Round Seven is here guys and heck I am hyped to see this legend paired with each doctor. I'm not gonna bother with an intro here, no jokes, I'm just gonna highland fling myself into it.

1: This is one of the few instances I don't think Jamie and the Doc would instantly hit it off. I think Jamie would find One too patronising and One would find Jamie's technical ineptitude to be annoying at first. However they would soon bond and form a teacher/student relationship along the same lines as 12 and Bill.

2: Oh god how am I gonna sum this up. Okay we're gonna deal with Jamie seeing One regenerate into Two and then having to deal with Two high on regeneration energy. There would be confusion. There would be panic. He would also be the first to realise that Two was still The Doctor. And when Two is high on regeneration energy he is a mischievous gremlin. These two would instantly hit it off and cause so much chaos in Power of The Daleks. I'd be all here for it.

3: Jamie and Three would have a whale of a time with the UNIT family. Thinking about it, Jamie is perfectly suited to Three because he is always impressed by The Doctor but is also more than happy to call him out on bullshit. This means Three's arrogance would be reigned in but their comedic potential would shine brilliantly.

4: "I'm very serious about what I do but rarely about how I do it". This line was first said by three but absolutely represents Four too. Jamie would be all there for that, and you cannot convince me that he wouldn't get on with Leela like a house (or a TARDIS) on fire. If those two met they could legitimately rule the world.

5: He would be instantly adopted into the family, and would find himself educated on feminism, science, and history all at once. This would be a healthy team for Jamie, who would be able to chill out a bit more and not always play the action hero he sometimes had to play with Two. I think he would sometimes find it a little crowded though.

6: Again with the arrogance. Six is rather brash and Jamie usually benefits from a steadier hand at the wheel, although he is also resourceful and more than capable of being level headed in his own right. If Six travelled with Jamie I can see his manic energy being channelled into a rather gung ho persona that ended with both of them getting into rather sticky situations.

7: Jamie nearly left Two in Evil of The Daleks over what they did there. This pairing would last about three seconds before tempers split. Alternatively Seven would quickly learn that you can trust your companions with secrets and would become a more open and healthy doctor. So this could go either way.

8: Yeah this would be fun, the romantic poet and the brave clansman travelling the universe. I think it would make for rather whimsical storytelling, and I'd be all there for it.

War: I've heard about *that* story featuring an alternative ending to The War Games, and I have no inclination of giving Jamie that trauma here. Skip.

9: Jamie's loyalty to The Doctor would help in the harder times, and the respect that The Doctor has for Jamie would let them both interact well here. I think Jamie would make for a fantastic foil to both Nine and Rose, and Jack would absolutely be all over him. (Fuck John Barrowman tho).

10: Yeah this would be fun, the two space goofballs running around. Probably a strange pick but I'd love to see him in The Doctor's Daughter, purely to watch him and Jenny bounce off each other.

11: This would slap. Eleven is a magical Doctor who really understands the true beauty of the universe, and who really really wears his heart on his sleeve. Jamie would respect that and be fully on side with Eleven and whatever they needed to do. I wonder how him and Clara would interact?

12: This would literally be like 2 and Jamie onscreen and no one can convince me otherwise. The only difference is that 12 is Scottish! So instant chemistry boost. I'd literally pay for a special episode with Capaldi and Hines in. This would be so fun.

13: Yeah, this would be solid? I really can't find a reason to deny that this would be good but I can't find a reason to say it would be either. I just have a vibe.

Ruth: Both are very action-y, and willing to throw hands if threatened. This would be badass. 10/10 would love a series of these two together.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

This story takes place during the summer of 1987. It’s the time of the Cold War, and heavy metal, and Just Say No.

Ten chapters, each with a specific song as its soundtrack.

I’m so excited to finally share it with you.

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Also posted at AO3

—-

Chapter 3: Dancing On Glass

I've been through hell // And I'm never goin' back // To dancing on glass // Going way too fast...

Need one more rush // Then I know, I know I'll stop // One extra push // Last trip to the top...

Soundtrack: “Dancing On Glass,” Mötley Crüe, 1987 [click here to listen]

Three P.M.

Group.

Claire’s hands wrapped around the hard sides of the plastic chair, holding herself upright, watching about two dozen fellow patients? inmates? addicts? shuffle into the room.

Two people stood at the door – greeting others as they entered, handing out small packets of tissues and bottles of Coke.

Today’s facilitator ��� a middle-aged, bearded man – stood to one side, chatting with a few people.

“Hey!”

Claire startled – and turned to her right to see Jamie slide into the chair beside her.

“How’s it going today? Day two, right?”

She nodded. “Met with my therapist this morning.”

“That’s great! Who’ve you got?”

“Gillian.”

Jamie cracked open a bottle. “Oh, she’s great. Been here a long time. She’s married to the director – did you know that?”

Claire’s eyebrows raised. “No, but that’s really interesting.”

Jamie gulped about half the bottle in one shot. “Yeah. We owe everything to them.”

“Yeah, well. I got assigned to dinner set-up duty.”

He beamed. “Great! I’ve been on that rotation for the last few weeks. I’ll show you all the ropes.”

“Few weeks? How long have you been here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He set down his Coke. “I don’t. And I’ve been here eight weeks. The best eight weeks of my fucked-up life.”

“Don’t say that,” she chided. “Surely everything can’t be so terrible.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

“It can be, if you were the reason why a sold-out European tour couldn’t happen, and it cost your backers and buddies tens of millions of dollars, and it pissed off countless thousands of fans.”

Now the greeters took their seats within the circle.

“Couldn’t, or didn’t?” Claire hoped her words were gentle, but when her head split with pain like this she could never tell. “And what do you mean by ‘tour’?”

His eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t. My manager said I’d come back from Europe in a body bag. He’s a bloodsucker but he had enough sense to not kill the golden goose.” He finished his Coke in one long gulp – flexing the tattoos swirling on his forearm and elbow. “And I’m a professional musician – in case you couldn’t guess from the way I look.”

“I see.”

He grinned. “How about that – someone who doesn’t recognize me.”

She folded her hands in her lap, closing her eyes against the pain, so desperately wanting to disappear. “I guess between medical school, and being a surgeon, and my ex-husband…and the pills…there are a lot of things I haven’t paid attention to.”

“Hey.” Softly he reached out to touch her knee – and she looked up at him.

“I’m not making fun of you, Claire. It’s just…I don’t know. Refreshing.”

She smiled tightly.

The facilitator clapped his hands. “Everyone – are we ready?”

People around the circle nodded, and the man sat down in the last empty chair.

“Great. Well, hi everyone. For those of you who don’t know me – I’m Murtagh. Been clean for just about eleven years now. Before that I spent a small fortune that I didn’t have – ”

“ – on enough blow to kill an elephant,” Jamie and several others chorused.

Murtagh smiled. “Wiseasses. Now – today’s topic is: clarity.”

“Can you be more specific?” A heavyset, bearded man across the circle piped up.

“You mean – provide more clarity?” Geneva snickered from somewhere near Jamie.

“Easy,” Murtagh interjected. “And yes, Rupert, of course. What I mean is: something I hear a lot from people here is that being away from substances gives them clarity for the first time in years. Clarity of thoughts – meaning, you’re logical and rational. Clarity of judgment – meaning, you feel like you are empowered to make good decisions. And overall, clarity to step away from all the bullshit that the substances made you do, or made it easier for you to do, and say – damn, what the hell was I doing?”

Across the circle, Rupert nodded. “OK. Oh – hi everyone, I’m Rupert, and I’m an alcoholic. Yeah – I can definitely relate. I wanted to not have clarity, so that I didn’t have to think about how much I was screwing up my job, and my marriage.”

“Good,” Murtagh praised. “And now that you can’t avoid it – how do you feel?”

Rupert stroked his thick beard. “Like shit. I love Scarlet so much, and I fucked it all up. I understand that now.”

“I feel the same way,” Jamie added. “Hi, I'm Jamie, and I'm an alcoholic, too. I drank because I’ve always felt so responsible for everything going on in my band – because I’m the guy that brought us together, and I’m the guy who writes the songs, and I’m the guy who’s across the table from the record company executives, advocating on our behalf.” He bounced a long, thin, jean-clad leg rapidly up and down. “I felt like I was being used, and that I was the only one who cared. I felt that really clearly. So I drank to…to avoid that clarity.”

Claire carefully watched the others around the circle. What Jamie was sharing could make any one of them a quick buck – all it would take was one phone call to a tabloid. But everyone was listening raptly – clearly thinking about parallels in their own lives – and it began to dawn on her that Jamie had one thing she didn’t have much of for herself: respect.

“And then when I drank, I’d just get really mean,” he continued. “I’d say things to rile up my drummer. I had a fling with my manager’s girlfriend, just to fuck with him. And yeah, I’d destroy hotel rooms.”

“Your reaction was to want to hurt people,” Murtagh said gently. “You had had clarity – clarity that you were shouldering too much, for too many people – and you reacted by wanting to push them away.”

“Yeah.” Claire spoke without thinking. “Um – hi everyone, I’m Claire, and I’m addicted to pills. Halcions, mostly.”

“Oh, those are the best,” a woman to Claire’s left remarked.

“Hey – no positive talk,” Murtagh interjected. “You know better than that, Letitia.”

Letitia huffed.

Murtagh turned back to face Claire. “Tell us more, Claire, if you’re comfortable?”

Now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “I was – am – a trauma surgeon for an emergency room. I love it – I love the adrenaline of it, and of course being able to help people on the worst day of their lives. I love being able to heal people. But…but it’s pretty heavy stuff. People die, no matter how hard you try to save them. People wake up and they’re not happy that they don’t have a leg anymore – and I say, would you rather be dead?”

“And you wanted to get away from that?” Jamie asked gently.

She closed her eyes. “I had to have clarity to do my job properly – it’s hard to describe, but it’s like having a laser focus on what’s in front of you. Getting in the zone. Shutting out everything else. And then when it’s all done – I would crash. The whole world would come rushing back, and I’d be covered in someone else’s blood and barely able to sit down before I had to work on the next person. That was so, so hard to deal with.”

“I understand.” Claire opened her eyes – it was an older man speaking right next to Jamie. “Hi everyone – I’m Ned, I’m a lawyer and crack addict, and there are a lot of jokes I’m sure you could make based on that.”

Claire managed a small smile.

“I’m a defense attorney – I’m that guy you see on TV arguing in a courtroom and presenting to a jury. I totally get what Claire said, because I needed to have that kind of really focused clarity, too. It was kind of like acting – I had to remember my argument, and I had to present it to the jury, and I had to pick up on cues from them to see how well I was doing. And then afterward I’d just crash. But I still had to have energy to prep for the next day, and that’s where Miss Crack came in.”

“So what I’m hearing is that clarity is something you already had – and then you turn to substances to get away from it.” Murtagh folded his arms. “Because it’s hard to flip that ‘off’ switch. And then eventually, the substances change from being something to take a vacation from that clarity, to completely blocking out that clarity altogether.”

“Exactly.” It was easier for Claire to focus on Murtagh than the sea of faces surrounding her. “And it’s a deliberate choice. I’m sure, Ned and Rupert and Jamie, that you deliberately sought out something to prevent that clarity. I know I did – I wrote the prescriptions for the pills that I consumed.”

Rupert nodded. “The bottle didn’t pick itself up and pour the liquor down my throat. And you’re right, Claire – at first, at least, it was a conscious decision. Until it became something I had to depend on.”

“I think that there are ways for this to happen more positively.” A woman seated beside Rupert quietly spoke. “Oh – hi, everyone, I’m Marsali, and I’m an alcoholic. What I mean is, there are ways to flip that ‘off’ switch that aren’t so…destructive. You can go for a run. Listen to music. Cook a meal. Watch a movie. Make love to your significant other.”

Murtagh nodded. “Marsali brings up a good point here. I’ll repeat something that I’ve already told many of you before, because it bears repeating. Substance addiction is addiction, first and foremost. All of us are here because our brains are hard-wired for addiction. We can’t change that. But we can change what it is that we’re addicted to.”

“Like what?” Letitia had calmed down a bit, but clearly she was skeptical.

“Whatever works for you,” Murtagh shrugged. “Jiu Jitsu. Flower Arranging. Reading. Playing the drums. Writing. Riding motorcycles. Not all addictions are bad – we just need to find the addictions that help us, and don’t hurt us or the people around us.”

Everyone’s heads nodded in agreement, quietly reflecting.

“So – that’s my homework assignment for all of you.” Murtagh pulled a small spiral notebook from his pocket, flipped to a fresh page, and began scribbling in it. “To think about the thing that you can become positively addicted to. Something you already enjoy, or something you’ve never done before. But I hope that even just thinking about it will give you focus. Improve your clarity.”

“Got it,” Ned said quietly.

Murtagh flipped back to an earlier page in his notebook. “Now – I have here my notes from the last time I facilitated Group. OK if I start going around and asking people for follow-up thoughts to those? Rupert?”

Rupert nodded, and began to speak.

“Facilitators take turns hosting Group every fourth day.” Claire started a bit, but held steady as Jamie leaned in close, spoke quietly into her ear. “We talk about things, and we’re assigned homework, and then the next time the facilitator is back we talk about it.”

“Thanks,” Claire murmured.

Jamie didn’t pull away. “If you ever just want to talk…”

She swallowed. “Thanks. I do. I just – it’s a lot to process.”

“It is. But you’ll get there. Talk more at our dinner prep.”

With that he pulled back, and a low buzz settled somewhere between Claire’s ears as the people around her chimed in to the conversation.

[ktheist]

saving grace | 1

muses. duke!yoongi x lady!reader

universe. arranged marriage / minor traces of magic in history

concept. driven into a corner with the new king, seokjin, offering to marry you off to a prince in a foreign land and a persistent mother who would seize the chance of a lucrative marriage for her daughter, you’re forced with the only other option to secure your freedom ‒ enter into a beneficial agreement with the man who reaped the seeds of war, the duke of cralon, yoongi min.

words. 6.1k

warnings. mentions of war, it’s cliche and cheesy all in one package

index. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / finale

x

“that’s not a reward,” you heatedly claim, somewhere in your periphery, the royal assistant flinches from your tone, “that’s banishment! you wish to banish me to another country where i’ll be of no threat to you because of the information i hold!”

“l-lady ___, please lower your voice.” jungkook, seokjin’s new advisor, tries to placate only to stagger back from a glare you shot.

the music and chatters is loud enough to drown a scream - and you haven’t reached that point of wanting to yell your heart out at this man. the area you are in - on the second floor on the veranda overseeing the ocean of people dancing in the hall - is secluded enough to give the king his privacy.

“now, why would i do that to my most trusted confidant?” the smile on seokjin’s face could not have been more dubious. though he may wear the crown and sit upon the throne, his crude nature is what he truly is.

it’s not a secret that seokjin is the son of a maid who rose to the top but it couldn’t have been possible without the help of the count’s daughter. he needed information but his status as a prince born from a mere maid, hadn’t allow him to attend the social functions nor received any acknowledgement from the aristocrats. it was you who offered to be his eyes and ears in exchange for moving into the royal palace once he becomes king after the siege.

“as i recall, you wished to live in a palace like a princess,” his voice is unusually high pitched, laced with mockery of what you can only assume is an attempt to mimic yours, “and it just so happens that the prince of aflar is looking for a bride - who knows, despite being the 12th prince, perhaps he’ll be able to rise as the king. that way, you’ll become queen.”

“i don’t wish to become queen! i wish to live a free life without my parents dictating who i should marry just because a lady cannot inherit the family title.” this time, the heel of your foot hurts from the stomp but the anger rushing through your veins allow forbids you from showing it.

“___,” he’s used to calling you by your name - of course, it’s been five years since you’ve known each other. five years after finding out the second prince’s true nature and regretting choosing his side every waking day of your life, “you wish to live in the palace but refuse to take lessons to prepare you as my queen - what would people think of the respectable lady who doesn’t have any prior relations to the second prince-turned-king suddenly living with him under the same roof?”

“there are thousands of servants living in the palace.” you plainly point out - he must’ve expected this if he doesn’t even bat an eye at your words.

“servants don’t go prancing around the palace looking for the king as they please.”

“th-that’s because you’ve been avoiding me under the guise of the workload left by the previous king,” the stutter is what brings about the sly smirk on his lips.

“my, then your reputation is already ruined,” he feigns a disheartened sigh, almost as though he truly cares, “it’s not like the servants are loyal to me so they’ll talk - they might even be talking now - if news gets out that we’ve been acting like lovers, your chances of marrying well has dwindled to zero. you ought to quickly find a marriage prospect to mend the mess you made.”

something in the way he pans out his words causes your shoulder line to jolt backwards - as though physically slapped by the truth of his narration. though not proven yet, and though the thought of having a man to call your husband would fix everything makes you sick - you can’t deny the simple-minded way of thinking of these aristocrats.

the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. whether you’re seokjin’s - as he had time and time indicated - lover. what matters is the double-edged sword you’ve forged for yourself.

one wrong move, and they’d believe seokjin if he’d called you his lover and then claimed you a traitor who tried assassinating him in his sleep.

but as of now, despite becoming the king, he’s still struggling with the lack of support from the aristocrats. and having managed to wedge your way into the top circle is possibly the only reason you’re still able to do whatever you want.

all of a sudden, a disarming smile curls on your lips - seokjin must’ve noticed if he’s trying to control the curiosity that flashes in his eyes before he sports a bored expression.

“very well, i thank you for giving your blessing for me to pick out any marriage prospect i want.” the smile stretches gleefully over your features as the man’s eyes widen at your next words.

“what are you-”

“i wish to wed the duke of cralon and head knight of the kingdom, yoongi min.”

x

“the min family is rumored to be the wealthiest family in the kingdom - perhaps far surpassing the previous king. one word from the duke and these filthy aristocrats will grovel at his feet,” the voice you use trickles with sweet honey while seokjin’s hands tightly grip the seat, “but for some reason he’s staying quiet after coming back from the war and finding out the king he serves has had his head cut off.”

“what are you trying to say, lady ___?”

it’s the honorific that tells you he’s speaking as the king and everything that allows him to sit on the throne. his features, when he’s glowering, is heartbreakingly beautiful.

that’s how it feels to be driven into a corner, seokjin.

“i never told you but the duke fancies me. every year, he sends me birthday gifts,” technically he isn’t the only one - it’s just a formality to maintain an amicable relationship between the houses of nobles but having been out of touch with the ways of the nobility, you’re almost sure seokjin isn’t aware of said ways, “but my parents wouldn’t allow us to meet because of his infamous reputation and i never had any interest in marriage,” the pleasant smile on your lips is a contrast to the man’s contorting features - he must understand where you both stand now, “but if i accept his proposal, the duke won’t stand and watch as the new king sends away his fiance, will he?”

when the king glares up at you but doesn’t seem to have anything to say, you thought that’s the end of it. thought you can curtsy and call it a night whilst devising plans on how to get the duke’s attention and make him fall for you within the limited span of time you have to show seokjin how smitten the knight is for you.

...until the man himself steps out of the shadow without even a scrape of his boot against the ground. the duke is a man of many things but graceful had been far beyond your imagination. and yet here he is, in his knightly attire in black and hints of yellow lines on the sleeves and shoulders - a glaring contrast to his porcelain white skin and silvery grey hair yet perhaps what contributes to highlighting his crimson eyes. the color that’s rumored to be the curse of the goddess for the min family’s generational brute and violence that lead them to winning wars and coming back unscathed.

“your ma-” it all happens too fast.

he’s about to greet seokjin - whether it is with weighty contempt or newfound alliance, you’re not sure - with a hand on his chest and an uncaring glance your way. then you’re running towards him and before you know it, your arms are around his neck and your voice is pitched higher than you would like, “your grace, i’m glad you came back safely!”

you never thought someone could actually turn into stone in a split second but you don’t think the man in your arms is breathing at the moment. and you know exactly who’s fault that is - your own.

“please, play along,” in contrast to the high pitched tone from earlier, you curse yourself for sounding meek and timid - if your heart isn’t beating like a galloping horse and your body isn’t heating up like a baker’s oven, perhaps, you would have had better control of the situation, “my life depends on it and if we walk out of here alive, i’ll do anything you wish, duke.”

...was what you said but it all seems too far blown out of proportion, you might as well forego all your worldly desires and surrender yourself to the church and become a woman of god.

“perhaps, marrying the foreign prince would have been a better option after all.” you lament out loud, pressing the sleeve of your nightgown to your eyes but instead of being engulfed in darkness, you see a vivid replay of seokjin’s knitted brows and troubled expression. and if you’d just focus, you would still feel yoongi’s muscles underneath your fingers as you held onto his arm after flinging yourself at him whilst you make your way back to where you were standing - in front of the king.

pleasantries were exchanged while a dark cloud loomed over the three of you before yoongi excused himself and since you were clinging onto his arm, you ended up leaving as well. before you’d managed to conjure up a plausible explanation for your behavior towards a person you’ve never met. but right in that moment, leslie, your maid had called for you to inform you of the carriage waiting outside.

relief threatened to paint your features but you’d hid it with a dip before peeking at the crimson eyes that’d stared right into your soul. ‘letter’ you’d mouthed before leaving joining leslie in search for the carriage.

it’s been three days since then and there is not a single spot on the table perched in front of your window that isn’t covered with the thin bundles of papers leslie has presented you with when you ordered her to find out more about duke min. he isn’t particularly a social butterfly but his reclusive nature had extended to a point where only the butler is the only one who ever spoke to him. besides that, ever since he’d came back from war, he’d been swarmed with reports and the recent issue of missing goods from the iyesgarth port owned by the ducal house. none of which are useful for you to attract the attention of the duke for an exchange of protection.

“what was that, my lady?” at the familiar fluttery voice, your whole body shoots up.

“leslie!” the woman’s name tumbles out of your lips in surprise, “when did you get in?”

you didn’t even hear her enter-

“a few minutes ago while you were still snoring off,” she answers simply as she walks over, inspecting the teal dress she must have gotten from your closet while murmuring to herself about the ‘handiwork is terrible. we shouldn’t order dresses from vivian’s boutique anymore.’

it didn’t seem like she heard anything but if she did, leslie has always had a knack for going about her day as though she knew nothing. you wonder how much information she holds just from that uncaring personality of hers that allows people to feel at ease with knowing she wouldn’t tattle.

but this isn’t something you could let go, “leslie, how much did you-” but it’s her rambling that almost has you biting down on your tongue as you clamp your mouth shut.

“...won’t do. you need to dress pretty for the duke, my lady.”

almost as though the traces of sleep has flown out of the window, you’re crawling over the bed and grasping onto the maid’s shoulders for dear life, “d-did you say duke?”

an unsuspecting smile graces your lips once the realization that your unusual behavior, is caused by the news of the duke, “yes, he’s on his way here as we speak!”

it takes a moment for you to register her words. another for you to blink back at her as though waiting for her ever smiling face to fade into the dark before you finally wake up, wishing fullheartedly that this is all just a bad dream.

“my lady?” leslie cocks her head to the side, as though searching for your conscience that’d retreated so far back into your existence, she realizes she’s staring back at nothing but a shell.

“why...” the lowest murmur leaves your lips like a calm before a storm before a hurricane rages and whirls out of your entire being, “why is the duke coming here?”

x

“___! what did you do to summon the rage of the duke to our home!” your father, dressed unusually impeccably, stopped in the middle of ordering the butler and servants for when the duke arrives.

“m-me?” yes, you knew you had sounded utterly audacious for someone who boasted - and even blackmailed the king - about the duke’s affection for you, “i didn’t do anything!”

it was in that moment that the clamor of a carriage had echoed from outside. the sound of the horses neighing comes a second later. but nobody heard the footsteps of duke min as he tread towards the open doors of the mansion.

he wasn’t named grim reaper for nothing.

“my apologies for coming on such short notice,” at least he's rational enough to admit his fault.

you catch the sight of the tip of his fringes falling over his face as he bows, before you curtsy, head lowered and eyes fixed to the ground.

your mother had scolded you an earful about peeking while curtsying, “___! have some refinement! a lady does not peek like an uncivilized cavewoman!”

if you’d lived in a cave, you wouldn’t have to be constricted to such formalities in the first place.

“please, don’t apologize,” your father presses smoothly, unlike his frazzled self from just a minute ago - it must have taken him years to hone such composure as to not tremble under the duke’s crimson eyes, “we at the ___ manor, are honored to have you as our guest, your grace. though we are quite puzzled by your grace’s reason for coming here.”

“reason.” the duke echoes, it seems the only thing delicate about him is his features but you’d be lying if you said you don’t find the low gruff of his voice thunderous to your heart.

a short silence lapses as though he’s sifting through his memories and finally letting his gaze travel to you - though his tone doesn’t seem to harbor any murderous intention, those crimson eyes that seek yours render your body cold. you clasp your hands together out of needing something to hold onto as you fix him one of your schooled, noble smile.

“i wish to speak to the eldest daughter of this house,” he says simply, “about our engagement.”

that same smile on your face falters into a pressed line.

x

“my, my,” your mother laughs, royal purple fan that’s been fluttering over his face now being lowered to her lap, “what troublesome rumor has spread about our beloved ___.”

the slightest twitch on her pristine smile tells you otherwise. but you can’t challenge her genuinity - not in front of the yoongi, at least.

and to be truthful, the more pressing matter - one that plagues your very talk as of now - is the fact that the conversation pertaining your supposed blessed marriage had only been attended by seokjin, jungkook and you - there were guards but you doubt any of them were interested in gossips about a count’s daughter’s affairs.

...could seokjin be the one to have spread the rumor?

before you can even come to a plausible conclusion as to why the king would do such a thing, you’re brought out of your train of thoughts by the woman covering your hands that are on your lap, grasping onto them tightly - at first glance, it would appear she’s genuinely concerned for you, “how do you plan to take responsibility over daughter’s wounded reputation, your grace?”

it’s commendable how your mother is still able to let her lips stretch over her face as though the man’s red eyes aren’t piercing through her skull like a spear. you’ve always known she was a scary woman - she wished to pass on her legacy onto you and perhaps that was why you would always end up huffing and trudging back to your room every time you tried to tell her you didn’t want to follow such path.

her ways were effective but you weren’t looking to gain something out of another’s suffering.

“mother!” your voice bounces over the walls, “his grace’s reputation is also tarnished by the rumor, how could you ask him to take responsibility as if it was his fault?”

the woman stares down at you with her signature glare but after years of being on the receiving end of it, you’d grown a spine or two, “silly child, who’s going to marry you now that the rumor of your engagement with the grim reaper has spread far and wide?”

“mother!” it almost comes out a chide at the word she uses to describe the man sitting right across from you.

“d-dear wife,” your father is sweating bullets from his seat as he bravely speaks up, “why don’t we let the duke and ___ discuss this matter privately? it is, after all, their reputations that are on the line.”

“theirs?” your mother’s hiss causes your father’s shoulder line to shrink back.

yoongi’s reputation may have been borne by only him but for a lady, everything you do reflects on your family name. that, you understand and for once, your mother’s outburst is well-founded.

the roots of rage almost tangles around your ankles as well - but the uncertainty of the source of rumor lingers on your mind.

it is the moment when the door shuts behind the butler after your parents which required a lot of pleading from your father, do you allow yourself to feel the heat of yoongi’s eyes on you - if looks could kill you’d be dead for simply and foolishly meeting his gaze.

“your grace, i apologize on my mother’s behalf... my mother, she’s only worried about my future like any mother would,” the head that’s held up high, the shoulders that line straight and the schooled smile on your lips - does well to conceal the inner turmoil inside you. but when all you receive is a steel gaze and a pin-drop silence, you’re forced to change the topic, “i was in the middle of writing you a letter.”

in other words, you mean to say you’re too hasty, duke.

unlike you, the man has his legs crossed languidly, his sword - said to be forged by the spine of the devil himself - is leaned next to his foot, almost as though ready for him to pull it out of its sheath if you so much as move, “i thought you would chip a nail writing me one so i decided to spare you the pain and pay you a visit, my lady.”

the underlying mockery in his words does not go past you yet it takes a moment for it to register - he looked like a straightforward man based on the menial conversation he shared with seokjin and you as a witness.

but it’s true what they say about judging books by their cover.

“that’s very considerate of you, your grace,” the smile you force on goes against the normal order of nature but the man doesn’t seem fazed. his crimson eyes fixes themselves on yours as though trying to take a peek into your soul and find out your darkest secret. if there’d been any trace of humor, it’s all vanished into thin air now.

“your grace, i told you my life was on the line that night. and you helped me regardless of who i was - i’m thankful for you. there’s no way i’d start a rumor of us being engaged and trouble you further,” you begin, capturing yoongi’s gaze with yours - where you get such courage for someone who’s about to spew half-truths, you don’t know, “but that night - it was because seok- his majesty was about to marry me off to the 12th prince of aflar because i’d offended him with my words.”

“so he does whatever he wants just like his father,” his eyes glazes over you, as though picturing the new king at the back of his head as you speak. the matter of what he came for no longer as pressing as he made it out to be - dare you say, it was just an excuse to for him to come barging in.

“no!” the hurried denial warrants a narrow of eyes from the duke - as though wondering why the lady whose pleas were ignored, is defending the very person who’d ignored them. you only wanted a way out - not breathe the flames of an uproar from the nobles who chooses to remain neutral, “what i mean is, i’m sure his majesty will understand if you let me stand by you for a short while - i promise i won’t get in your grace’s way.” the last part is added as an afterthought when his eye twitches just the slightest bit as though displeased by the thought of some lady sticking to his side like glue.

the silence that lapses between you is tangible as your body screams to be released from the frozen state you’re in - you couldn’t move a finger even if you’d wanted to, at least not until yoongi seems to finish thinking.

“what exactly did you say to the king to have him want to send you away for good?” comes the million gold question.

this is it. you know he’d catch on but you’re not so prepared to give an answer. you’re not sure if the hesitance shows in your face but you doubt your mastery for hiding your emotions is as spectacular as his.

and so, with a tilted chin, you set a resolute gaze upon the duke, “the missing shipments from the port iyesgarth,” you state, noticing the curious raise of brow, “how are armwells doing these days?”

“impossible,” the frown that etches itself on his face is another kind of heartbreaking beauty. leaning back against the chair again and consequently allowing you to let out the breath you never knew you were holding, he continues, “the armwells own the warehouses. why would they steal shipments from merchants who pay them plenty just to leave goods in their warehouses?”

“the answer you’ve been looking for is right there,” the smile that blooms on your face is a pleasant one and the knit of yoongi’s eyebrows is all heartbreakingly adorable. “their spendthrift son has been gambling away the money and however much they make over the warehouse fee is starting to not be enough.”

there’s a light in his eyes that shines with doubt and with that, births the shadow of, dare you say, plausible confidence in what you’re saying.

“the goods from the shipment are being sold in the black market,” those crimson eyes follows your every movement as rise from your seat, hand clasped together in front of you - a habit you’d developed to appear small and unsuspecting, “ask around for a franny.”

x

franny is baron armwell’s alias. he couldn’t go around selling stolen goods under his name because the authorities - namely, the duke as part of his line of work after coming back from war - would catch on. it had just so happened that isabelle armwell, a lady you occasionally talk to at gatherings was sporting a long face at the debutante ball. she was spilling every single family secret after a trip to the washroom and a consoling hug.

with a heavy heart, you wave at the girl with the brightest blue eyes and blonde locks that flows past her bosom in waves. she’s wearing a light blue dress with minute diamonds pooling around the hem and dispersing up her waist. it’s been exactly five days after the duke min’s visit and over one week of celebrating the knights’ victory.

“___, i didn’t think you’d be here!” her beaming smile reminds you of the smudged makeup and tear stained eyes you bore witness just a month ago.

“why would you think that?” you blink despite having an inkling of where this conversation is going-

“well, since the rumors of you and duke min’s engagement...” she fiddles with her fingers from what you can only assume to be jitters. of course, a lady her age who’s just debuted into society would be curious of how you tamed the beast laying dormant.

to be frank, you did not.

“-remains a baseless rumor.” you speak rather loudly, hands on your hips as you steal a glance at the throne where seokjin sits, his eyes already on you, “i’m not sure who started it but duke min and i are-”

“lady ___,” a familiar guttural voice greets you from behind you. isabelle’s shock-stricken gaze that’s fixed at something - or rather, someone - past your shoulders is enough to confirm who the bearer of your doom is.

and true enough, standing before you, in the min family’s signature black suit and maroon undershirt, is none other than the devil himself. as opposed to last time, there’s a suave smile on his cherry pink lips - perhaps, nothing more than a show - and his silver hair is swept back, revealing his round visage and making his otherwise soft feature appear sharp and clean.

“your grace,” you dip down, dress lifted midair just below your hips before coming up and noticing the man also in the middle of standing back straight after bowing, “for a moment there, i thought it wasn’t you, but a shapeshifter who looked like you and attended this ball.”

if there’s anything you know - and you know plenty - about the duke of cralon, is that he rarely shows his face at balls and parties. even the ones held by the previous king.

the first time you met him was purely coincidental but not unprecedented. granted, the ball was held to celebrate the victory of the winter knights in the war. if there was any celebration duke min would attend, then it was that one. and he did attend.

but for him to appear at a regular ball held by the new king...

“alas, it is i and not some monstrous shapeshifter - i was hoping you’d spare me a dance, lady ___.” a gloved hand extends your way, hovering in the air as you scrutinize the man’s uncharacteristically smiling face - as though he’d found humor in your underlying tone.

his motives are unclear but the fact that you have his attention must mean your lead has lead to a fruitful discovery.

“why, this will pour oil to the flames,” you murmur under your breath - low enough for only him to hear and yet slip your own hand in his.

“so you’re friends with lady armwell,” the mellow tune of the cello pours into the room as a new song begins.

the feeling of the hand on your waist is unsettlingly gentle and careful - almost as though he’s fearful that your bones may break if he held on tighter.

“she only tearfully told me about the her brother’s unmanageable gambling habits, the information i gave you was out of my own findings - i can find out a plenty of many things for your grace if you choose to help me shake his majesty’s eyes off me,” you search for those crimson eyes as he twirls you around once, “i trust it’s been helpful to your grace, but if you are still unconvinced of my expertise-”

the bells of chuckles that drums in your ears are the last thing you expect to hear - quite frankly, the chances of gaining a threat for whatever reason is much higher than bearing witness to the duke’s laughter.

“there’s no need,” this time, his hair doesn’t brush over his eyebrows when he shakes his head, “you’ll make a fine fiance, ___.”

the lack of honorific doesn’t entirely go past you but that isn’t a material matter at the moment.

did he just said... fiance?

“your grace, unless my ears are-”

“yoongi.”

“p-pardon?” the warmth on your hip and hand seeps into you as he directs your body to move with the melody of the instruments, reminding you that there are hundred pairs of eyes on you and if the lady were to stop dancing all of a sudden, then there is no doubt of a new kind of rumor surfacing.

but judging from the way he dips his head and his hot breath fanning the shell of your ear, you can almost hear the squeals and gossip that will fill tomorrow’s tea party, “since we’re engaged, shouldn’t we at least call each other by our names?”

words die in your throat, as does the music. you barely notice the hands that held you falling away as you watch the man take a step backwards and lower his head - so much for formalities after deciding to forego it just five seconds ago.

“i’ll send a letter tomorrow notifying my visit in three day’s time.” with that, you’re left staring like a fool at the black and red insignia engraved on the back of his jacket.

it is a moment later that isabelle and the other ladies begin to crowd you, that you finally come to your senses.

“it it true? you’re engaged to the duke of cralon?” lady irene’s beaming smile is far too close for your liking.

“calm down, lady irene. don’t make a-”

before lady krystal manages to finish her sentence, you already find yourself slipping past bodies and out of the ball room. your destination is unclear but you saw yoongi take a left and that could only mean that he’s heading towards the garden instead of the double doors of the exit.

lights line the tall walls surrounding the palace but you wouldn’t have spot the grey locks that appear almost white if not for the moonlight. the crimson dragons on either side of the shield symbolizes the min family’s pledge to protect the crown. the fact that he’s wearing this and not the official knight outwear means he’s not here as the head knight but as a-

“your grace,” you send a prayer to the goddess for the sternness in your tone but it easily dwindles down and hits the ground as you’re met with the echoing footsteps of the duke who doesn’t seem to acknowledge your presence.

your temple throbs as the image of the duke’s handsome features come unnervingly close to you whilst he whispers-

“yoongi.” you almost scream.

it is settled knowledge that the duke of cralon possesses inhumane abilities that helped him and his predecessors win wars for the kingdom, cearis. if his unfailing reputation isn’t enough, then you’ve already seen how you would be completely helpless in his undetectable presence that night when you failed to notice him until he presents himself to seokjin and consequently you.

but in your haste to right the wrong, you’ve forgotten the possibility of abruptly calling his name ending up with your face buried in his chest when he whirls around to face you.

with cheeks that feels like they’re surrounded by a thousand suns, you quickly clear your throat after taking one step back. his raised eyebrow, however, tells you he thinks nothing of the minor mishap just now.

still, you meet yoongi’s gaze with a pair of knitted brows and a distraught tug in the corners of your lips, “i believe there’s been a misunderstanding, your grace,” the briefest lift of eyebrows as though he is painfully aware of the way you address him, doesn’t go unnoticed by you though you wish it would, “when i asked if i could stand by your side, i did not mean as your fiance - it makes me think you don’t trust me enough to believe that it wasn’t me who spread the rumor.”

“i do believe you,” he says simply, “but wouldn’t you say the rumor plays in your favor, ___?” there he goes again, addressing you informally, “since everyone saw us dancing together, they’ll feed into the rumor. it doesn’t matter if the king doesn’t buy into it. as of now, his position is vulnerable and if he were to break two lovers who are mad for each other apart and marry the other off in the name of political gain, the aristocrats won’t sit still.”

“so just now...” you trail off, the image of isabelle and the other nobles’ fallen jaws flashing at the back of your mind, “it was a return of favor because i helped solve the mystery of the missing shipments?”

“you don’t seem pleased,” his eyebrows begin to knit together.

“how can i be when i was not consulted of such plans prior to this?” the silence that lapses between you is no different than back in the parlor in your mansion, except yoongi seems to consider your request more seriously this time judging from the hard lines set upon his otherwise smooth forehead.

“then, what would you have suggested, ___?” the blinking red doesn’t seem too menacing now that he’s staring at you with genuine concern.

sighing, you curse yourself for admitting the truth in his words, “your grace is correct that the rumor gives us an advantage. however, next time we are to make a public appearance, i’d like to have a say on how it’s to be executed.”

his gaze lingers on you for the longest time - you’re not sure whether he’s debating on foregoing your investigative expertise or whether he should reveal to seokjin that this is all a faux. but what he does next could never have crossed your mind in the list of things he duke yoongi min could be thinking.

“i understand,” the figure in front of you dips to a bow, a gloved black hand levitating midair as a shadow casts itself over his gentle features and contrasting glowing eyes, “my apologies for acting without taking your feelings into consideration just now, lady ___.”

the title returns in his mouth yet your chest caves in displeasure. you’re not too fond of him calling you just by name but you’re not any glad that he’s back to using that honorific.

“v-very well, you’re forgiven,” you force out after realizing you’ve made him wait long enough, cheeks warm as you place your hand in his, eyes fixed on his lips that presses against your knuckles - they really are as soft as they look.

a halo encases his body when he stands straight. and if it weren’t for his abrupt remark, you would have pondered on the faintest hint of smile on his features, “now then, may i ask another favor from you, ___?”

another one? right after you assisted him in finding out the culprit?

“your grace may, though please bear in mind tonight doesn’t count as you returning the favor so you’ll be owing me two public appearances.” you shrug as casually as possible.

“that’s fair,” he nods a little too nonchalantly before getting to the point - and perhaps a tendril of regret wraps around your heart for agreeing without hearing his request first when he utters his next words-

“i wish us to call each other by our names - it’s suffocating to be so polite.” he sighs, hand ruffling his silvery tresses like a child tired of the etiquette lessons forced on him and not at all like the man that had you on the edge of your seat back in your mansion.

“th-that’s-” the words teeter on your tongue but refuse to leave your mouth as you fumble for a reason to object but the longer you stare into those indecipherable eyes, the emptier your mind gets and the harder your heart races.

“r-reasonable,” you stammer out, the flash of anticipation across the duke’s face leaving you no choice but to add, “yoongi.”

x

note. hello!! i’ve been working on this for a month or so (whew) bc i got super into historical au’s and just wanna write something without prince and princesses as the main leads and this happened!! hope you guys enjoyed it and are looking forward for more. drop your @ below if you want to be included the taglist!

[literaryfic]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: 빈센조 | Vincenzo (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong/Hong Cha Young Characters: Hong Cha Young, Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, vincenzo leaves, set five years after he left sk, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, vincenzo and cha-young are exes, they were in a relationship before, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Exes, Getting Back Together, Not Canon Compliant, i wrote this before ep 20, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut

Summary: Oh, how Cha-young wishes she could forget the past five years. Now that her anger has faded, she remembers clearly why she sealed herself in it; after anger comes sorrow, something she’s not sure she can overcome.

And just like the never-ending revolution of the Earth around the Sun causes the perpetual change of seasons — when flowers bloom after the frost melts and Spring follows Winter —, Cha-young finds herself knocking on Vincenzo’s door. They were two supernovas meant to collide and, although Cha-young wasn’t quite sure whether the impact would annihilate them or create a new form of life, she didn’t care.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Park Joo-hyung?”

He opens the door, letting her in. She marches on, the door closing in a thump behind her. She turns to face him, his jaw is set. Both of them follow the familiar steps of a tango they’ve danced before, playing the part of an opera they know the end to.

“How dare you threaten and intimidate someone close to me?” She screams.

“Is that what he told you? Did he mention the phone call—”

“This has nothing to do with your behaviour!”

“Of course it fucking has, Cha-young-ah” Vincenzo is losing his temper too, and for the first time since they’ve met again, he’s yelling.“That bastard’s cheating on you, for fuck’s sake! Did you just expect me to pretend I didn’t hear anything? I thought you said we should be friends. That’s what friends do.”

“Whether he’s cheating on me or not, that’s none of your business. And I take it back, I don’t want to be your friend, I don’t want to be your anything. Leave me alone.” Cha-young’s index finger is pointing at him, and suddenly she realises how close they’ve gotten in the heat of their argument. She’s flushed, anger shading her cheeks red.

“You’re the one who came to me.” He whispers.

She can feel his breath on her face, and it’s taking everything in her to not look at his lips. His intoxicating scent is making her feel dizzy. She bites the inside of her cheek, the sharp pain bringing her back to her senses. She takes a step back.

“Because you think you can just waltz into my life as you please, Vincenzo.” She’s not looking at him anymore, the edge in her voice softened.

“If that were true, we both know very well that your little boyfriend would be dead by now.” His lips curl. His tone might be playful but she’s not sure he doesn’t mean it.

He’s looking at her and Cha-young knows he’s trying to make peace. He’d never liked to argue with her in the past, and he especially hated screaming matches. To everyone else, Vincenzo was intransigent, intimidating or even frightening. However, during their relationship, and although he’d been stubborn, he’d always been strangely compromising. She started the fights and he ended them. He would crack a joke, apologise and kiss her hand. He would burrow his face in her neck, wrap his arms around her waist and mouth ‘Forgive me’ against her skin. She’d feign resistance until he’d start tickling her. Then, they’d laugh together, forgetting about why they fought in the first place.

Oh, how Cha-young wishes she could forget the past five years. Now that her anger has faded, she remembers clearly why she sealed herself in it; after anger comes sorrow, something she’s not sure she can overcome. Submerged by a wave of melancholy, she can’t hold back the truth anymore.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Vincenzo’s eyes widen, he’s stunned. A few seconds pass, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything, so she goes on. “I lied. I’m here with my employees, he’s my personal assistant.”

Finally, the weight of her words strikes him. “Why did you lie to me?” He asks quietly, his face unreadable. Was it so foolish of her to search for relief in his eyes?

She swallows the lump in her throat. “What, so you could see how pathetic I was without you?”

There it is.

In a few seconds, the man she loved would realise she’d always been nothing more than an empty shell on the shore, discarded by the seas. All her life, Cha-young had been abandoned by the people she cherished. Whether it was intentional or not, it seemed that no one stuck around for long. Contrary to what one might think, her father had been the first one to go. He’d stayed out late, prioritised his clients over his family and avoided them. Then, her mom had gone, her loss altering Cha-young’s life and identity so profoundly she had began to think of herself as split in two — pre-death Cha-young, the one who had been naïve and hopeful, and post-death Cha-young, the jaded and bitter adult who had designed her life around self-preservation. Later, when her dad passed away, abandoning her for the second time, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t let anyone leave ever again. She had wanted to protect those around her: the tenants, Babel’s victims’ families, the innocent.

Slowly, her partnership with Vincenzo turned into something deeper, into something more. She’d prepared herself, readying her heart; he would leave soon. But everything changed when he sealed the promise of forever with a kiss— or so she thought. Cha-young realised a heartbeat too late that she had mistaken an oath of love for an act of war; she had taken him prisoner, put him in shackles and thrown away the key.

Odysseus, the legendary hero set on an epic journey, had accidentally landed on Ogygia, and Calypso, the troubled nymph, had fallen in love with him. How could she not, when he was strong and beautiful, and she was lonely in her exile? She had held him captive as long as she could, but she had no claim over him, and the devastating sadness she had felt after he had escaped was laughable. He had deserted her, the last remains of their love piercing her heart like shards of glass.

“You’re not pathetic.” Vincenzo said firmly, interrupting her thoughts.

Cha-young turned away from him. “Drop it.”

“No. None of this is your fault, Cha-young-ah.” He closed the distance between them, and she could feel him right behind her. “I wanted to tell you later but— I legally changed my name to Park Joo-hyung. Wanna know why?”

“Because it was obnoxiously hard to pronounce?” Her attempt at diversion doesn’t work.

Instead, Vincenzo grips her arms and presses his forehead against her shoulder blades. She’s still not facing him, compelling herself to not look at him or touch him or feel him against her.

“I hated it so much that just hearing it made me sick. I hated myself, Cha-young-ah. Not because of the murders, the torture or all the atrocities I’ve committed— no.” He laughs wryly. “It’s because of what I did to you. Leaving you is the one sin I can’t seem to forgive myself for. And that is pathetic.”

She holds her breath. One. Two. Three. She faces him. Red eyes, hollow cheeks, desperation carving deep lines on his forehead. He looks like a tormented devil.

“What do you want, Vincenzo?” Cha-young whispers, an echo of the past.

Slowly, he locks his eyes on her. Those eyes, she thinks, they’re back.

“To repent.”

One. Two. Three. Cha-young grabs his face and kisses him. At first, Vincenzo stays still, hesitant. She’s about to break the kiss, reality catching up to her, when he opens his mouth and slips his tongue in hers. His hands grip her waist, bringing her closer, bringing her in. Her heart is beating so loudly she can’t hear herself think — or maybe she gave up on thoughts, and now she only feels. She feels him flush against her, she feels his hands; they burn her, leaving the imprint of him all over her body. God, how she had missed him.

There is no romance between them, only a visceral need to possess each other again. Soon enough, they’re on the bed, Cha-young on his lap, her hands pulling his hair so hard he hisses. Vincenzo bites her lower lip as retaliation and she rolls her hips against his erection, staring at him. He moans, head thrown back. Cha-young’s right hand cups his jaw firmly, making sure he’s looking at her. She wants to watch him fall apart, unravel under her touch.

“Take off your clothes.” What she asks, he does — rather awkwardly, she has to move off of him as he gets up, discarding his clothes on the ground without a care. He gets back on the bed from which she’d been watching him strip, lying next to her, completely naked. Their five years apart have somehow made him hotter, his upper body more toned, his biceps firmer. She counts a total of six or seven new scars, one of them still pink-ish and swollen. She reaches out, her finger following the gash running from his navel to his lower abdomen. He gasps when she doesn’t stop where the scar does — she continues on her way, surely, and takes him in her hand.

Vincenzo’s heavy breathing guides her movements, telling her when to stroke faster, when to slow down, when to twist. She stops right before he’s about to come, and the frustration in his eyes turns her on more than anything her last fling ever did.

“Don’t stop.” He asks, going in for a kiss.

Cha-young puts her hand on his mouth, “Tonight, I’m in charge, Joo-hyung-ah.”

His eyes light up and he smiles, “Yes, ma’am.”

Slipping out of her dress in no time, she climbs on top of him, taking his hands in hers and putting them above his head. There’s something thrilling about having him at her mercy, vulnerable under her. He’s hard against her thigh, and although he’s not talking, she hears his silent plea. Slowly, she sits on his cock, savouring the pleasant stretch; he feels so good, and her so full, at last.

“Oddio!” On his lips, God’s name becomes a curse.

She keeps a slow pace, it takes time to revisit a long-lost lover after all. She rolls her hips, turns, bounces. Once she’s figured out how to pleasure herself, she moves faster. Closing her eyes, she frees his left hand and puts it on her breast. Vincenzo is nothing if not an eager disciple trying to prove his worth, and so he caresses her enthusiastically, his thumb brushing against her hardened nipple. What a good boy, she thinks, before pressing her body against his, engulfing him in a kiss.

His hand finds her hair, cascading down her naked back. She kisses him everywhere — his lips, his cheeks, his neck. She needs to have him whole, to consume all of him, so she can keep him in her forever. She feels a familiar warm building up inside of her, but she’s not ready for it to be over yet. She stops bouncing on him abruptly and his eyes fly open, irked. She intertwines their fingers, and whispers, “Look at me.” Once again, he obeys her command, his eyes roaming her face, her breasts, her thighs. They go up and down, taking her in, devouring her. She feels hot under his gaze, and she picks up the pace. He parts his mouth, whimpering faintly. He thrusts back into her hard, and they find the right rhythm. Soon enough, Cha-young is there, right there, a white-hot flash of pleasure overwhelming all her senses.

“Cazzo!” He must have come too then. Fuck, indeed.

Cha-young is still on top of him, Vincenzo still inside of her. She rests her head against his chest, their flushed skin sticky with sweat. He’s playing with her hair absentmindedly, still trying to catch his breath. She looks up at him, and they kiss again, but this time it’s different. She feels it all, his longing, how much he’s missed her, how scared he is that this is all a dream. In this moment, she can’t tell where she ends and where he starts. She’s never been closer to him, never understood him as much as she does now.

Were the tears on her lips hers or his? The time for questions will come later, right now there’s only them, together — an ever-lasting moment they stole from the Fates.

[luninosity]

Catching up on @evanstanweek ficlets again! Here’s Day 3, prompt: on set.

Read at AO3 here - 2,336 words of on-set love confessions, set during The First Avenger - or read on tumblr below!

#

Sebastian’s watching Chris. He often is, can’t seem to help the track of his gaze—can’t pull away from the magnet-tug that’s Chris Evans’ loud laugh and gesturing hands and philosopher’s eyes, and if he’s honest he doesn’t want to. Right now the low hazy grey lighting of the broken bar sits on Chris’s shoulders and turns him into a grieving supersoldier: a man hollowed out by loss, left with a gaping hole right through his chest.

 Chris is so good. So brilliant at emotion, at getting character. So thoughtful and so generous with his feelings, the kind of bravery that holds nothing back. He is Steve Rogers, through and through: a hero, shining blue and gold.

 Sebastian’s not that brave. Not that brilliant. Good at angst and pain, or dry humor, or intensity, maybe; but he’s in character for it. He does love people and stories, and he thinks he’s funny, sometimes, and he thinks he might want to be a writer, sometimes, and he can shove an entire pizza slice in his mouth when he’s comfortable around friends, but.

 It takes him a while. Exhaling. Stepping out. Speaking up. He wouldn’t say he’s shy, because he isn’t, not once he knows people. He’s just…not Chris Evans, who wears joys and vulnerabilities openly, with pride, unafraid.

 Sebastian looks at Chris, and aches with emotion, and says nothing, every day and every minute on this film so far.

 He’s technically done for the day, though he’s not at all done on this film; he’s spent the morning running around with Howling Commandos and being a young and terrified sergeant thrown into war. They’d filmed Bucky’s fall from the train the day before; Sebastian had honestly loved it. The emotion’d been easy: love and loyalty, throwing himself in to fight alongside the other half of his heart, the moment of sheer shock, a small but gloriously physical drop onto thick mats. They’d let him do that one, because it wasn’t a long fall and they needed to see his face. He hoped it’d been good; everyone seemed pleased, at least.

 He shifts weight, wishes he had a pillar or a wall to lean on. He watches Chris some more.

 They’d caught the stunned disbelief on Chris’s—Steve’s—face at the fall, yesterday. Chris is so incredible at nuance, at blazing emotions, even in a few-seconds-long shot. Sebastian had said, after, “That felt really good, that last take?” and had meant, I think you’re a genius, I think I want to work right next to you forever, I think I love you.

 Chris had gotten kind of pink-cheeked because Chris is too damn self-deprecating, and had said, “Oh—um, thanks, man, you too, I mean it felt good to me too, I mean we’re fuckin’ awesome, obviously,” and had nudged Sebastian’s shoulder, somewhere between a punch and a quick resting of a hand. “Craft services? They got blueberry bagels, someone said.”

 Chris, bagel-focused, clearly had not heard Sebastian’s internal monologue. And if he had, wouldn’t reciprocate.

 Which is fine, of course. Chris never needs to know, and Sebastian’s ridiculous emotions will calm the hell down and go away. Any day now. Sometime. Soon.

 But he’s watching Chris, and Chris is pretending to try to get drunk, pain visibly shredding him inside; Chris is Steve and Steve can’t believe it and has to believe it and wants to scream, to shout, to punch a hole through the world—

 The scene’s fantastic, of course.

 They get it in maybe three takes, rapid-fire, Chris laying out his heart for the watchers. His voice cracks; it’s getting rougher, the third time.

 They do it a couple times more for different close-ups. Sebastian takes a step closer, between takes. His boots—he’s changed; they’re his own boots—are louder than he’d recalled that morning; Chris looks over at the sound.

 And maybe Chris looks surprised, or relieved, or grateful, for a split second; maybe it’s all in Sebastian’s head, though, because the next second they’re right back into it, capturing Steve’s heartbreak.

 It’s a wrap for the scene, eventually. And Chris is done for a few hours too, though he’ll need to stick around; he’s got some close-ups to do inside a mock airplane, being bounced around, for what’ll be the big final self-sacrifice. Sebastian loves the heroism and pain of it; he’s always loved good writing, and he’s got a good feeling about this script and about this universe, which he’s a tiny part of now.

 Chris doesn’t get up right away. Just scrubs both hands over his face, shoulders slumped. Hayley Atwell’s gone off to talk to the director; Joe’s nodding, listening to her. Nobody’s checking on Chris.

 And that’s wrong, that’s wrong and not good and not right—Chris has just been hurting, the way that Chris hurts for the world, and Chris should never be hurting, not while Sebastian’s alive—

 Sebastian’s legs move before his brain makes a conscious decision. He’s picking his way across artistic rubble and taking a few running steps and putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey.”

 Chris actually jumps a little, which isn’t the best start. “Oh! Uh, hey, hi, did you, um…have a question? About Steve and Bucky, or somethin’?” The Boston comes out extra-strong; it does that when Chris is feeling a lot, or tipsy, or simply exaggerating to make someone laugh.

 “No,” Sebastian says. “Or, well, yeah, we might want to talk about some of those flashback sequences, so we’re on the same page with emotion and all, but.” He licks his lips, realizes he’s doing it—a nervous habit, one he’s had for years—and stops. He can taste chapstick on his tongue. “I just. Wanted to. I don’t know. Are you…I mean, that looked like a lot.”

 “You…” Chris trails off. He’s looking at Sebastian’s face with astonishing intent; Sebastian would say even desperation, but that’d be ludicrous. Chris doesn’t have any reason to feel desperate about him.

 He tries, “I know you, um, like tea? Not coffee? We could go grab, um, tea. If you want.”

 “Tea,” Chris says, a little blankly. “But you like coffee.”

 Sebastian’s starting to get kind of worried, here. “I do, but you gave it up? We could maybe head back to your trailer, and you can, um, relax for a minute, and I can…try to make tea?”

 Chris stares at him some more.

 “Or not,” Sebastian throws in helplessly.

 “Yes,” Chris says. “Yes, yeah, yes—you—fuck. Okay. Jesus, Chris, get it together,” and he even shakes his head like a puppy flinging off water, and Sebastian kind of wants to grin and also scratch his tummy.

 Well. Maybe not scratch. He can think of better things to do with Chris’s stomach. Mostly involving his tongue.

 And he should absolutely not be thinking of that when Chris needs his help. He sticks out a hand. “To the end of the line? Or at least your trailer.”

 Chris looks at the hand, and then takes it, hauling himself up out of the chair. His fingers are large and strong and a little cold, and they squeeze Sebastian’s for just a little too long, as if wanting to hold on.

 No. Must be Sebastian’s heart thinking that. Wanting what he can’t have.

 He walks with Chris through behind-the-scenes set-ups and teardowns, props and people rushing to and fro, the corners of trailers and the shouts of movie-making going on. The sun’s warm, if light; the ground’s hard beneath his boots. He keeps stealing glances at Chris, who doesn’t seem too talkative. Sebastian’s poor overworked heart wants to take each sensation, each sight and taste and scent of this backstage moment, and fold them up safe deep inside.

 Chris is letting him help. That feels like sunshine.

 Chris’s trailer’s simple, unpretentious, unfussy; script copies and notes lie scattered around, and he’s got some weights, and some Disney-movie DVDs. Sebastian smiles, because that’s so very Chris: delight in the magic, always.

 Chris, still in costume, sits down on his sofa. He breathes out, and looks up. “Thanks.”

 “For what? How do I make tea with this?” He’s poking Chris’s electric kettle. He does sort of know how it works, in theory. His mother has an old-fashioned kettle; he’s got fancy coffee-making machinery; he should be able to combine all this knowledge. “Where is your tea?”

 “Seb,” Chris says. “I—hang on, does anyone actually call you Seb?”

 “Um. Not really? You can. I don’t mind.” He doesn’t. Chris uses last names often, an affectionate Boston-bro shorthand for friendship; Sebastian’s somehow always been Sebastian or Seb, in Chris’s voice. He’s wondered why, though he’s thought maybe Chris just doesn’t feel that close to him. Not deserving of the bro-status.

 “You don’t mind, or you don’t like it, and you’re being nice about it?”

 “I don’t mind,” Sebastian says, too quickly. “I like it.”

 “Sebastian,” Chris says.

 “Really,” Sebastian says. “Either. Whatever.”

 “Jesus,” Chris says, face back in his hands. “I’m sorry. I just…just tell me if I’m sayin’ something stupid, okay? Please.”

 “But you’re not!” Sebastian comes back over to the couch. That damn magnet again. Tugging his bones. “You’re not, it’s fine, we’re good, Chris. I swear. Really.”

 Chris doesn’t look up, so Sebastian drops to both knees, right there at Chris’s feet, and tries not to think of all the times he’s wanted to do exactly that. It’s easier not to think of it, right now, because he’s genuinely concerned.

 He peeks up at Chris’s face. “Hey. Kinda worried here. Not about you, I mean, about your kettle, it’s got all these buttons, it’s like a rocket ship, I’m afraid if I touch the wrong thing it’ll explode.”

 Chris snorts, almost a laugh, and then does look up. His eyes go right to Sebastian’s, so close and so blue; and then all at once he’s moving, leaning forward, one hand reaching out and cradling Sebastian’s head, and then—

 They’re kissing. Oh, god, they’re kissing, Sebastian on his knees in front of Chris and Chris bending down to claim him, hand in Sebastian’s hair—

 Chris kisses like reprieve, like the release of storms, like the dive into a heated pool on a chilly day: wholehearted, devoted, anxious to lick and taste and plunge into every part of Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian, who’s been kissed before, has in fact never been kissed before, because no other kiss has ever been a kiss, compared to this.

 His knees dimly register the hardness of the trailer floor, and his neck’s at kind of an awkward angle, and Chris is still mostly in the Captain America suit. None of that matters. Nothing else matters at all, because Chris wants him and Sebastian’s whole self yearns for Chris, and Chris’s tongue and taste and tug at Sebastian’s hair are all white-hot gloriously perfect.

 Chris pulls back almost as abruptly. They’re both breathless; Chris whispers, “Oh, fuck…” and takes his hand out of Sebastian’s hair, but then touches Sebastian’s cheek, cups his face, as if unable to stop touching. “I…fuck…I didn’t…I’m so fucking sorry, I just…”

 “Why?”

 “What?”

 “Why’re you sorry?” Sebastian tips his head into Chris’s hand. “I’m not.”

 “You’re…not.”

 “Chris,” Sebastian says, and then runs out of words. He hopes Chris can see it, can read it, in his eyes. On his face. “Yes.”

 “Yeah?” Chris reaches out with the other hand too: framing Sebastian’s face now, tender and awestruck. “You mean that.”

 “I mean it,” Sebastian says. “But—”

 “Oh god,” Chris says, “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I—”

 “No! No, just…are you okay? I mean, from earlier.” Somewhere amid the kissing his hands’ve ended up on Chris’s thighs; apparently they just want to be there, and now rub along Chris’s legs, soothing and caressing and learning all at once. “I mean, I wanted to—”

 “To help,” Chris groans. “You came over to help—because you’re the sweetest fucking person I know, god, you’re perfect, Seb, the nicest and the warmest and the best—and I fucking, Jesus, practically mauled you—”

 Sebastian cuts that anguished recrimination off by diving forward and getting his mouth back on Chris’s. After some in-depth affirmation, he breathes against Chris’s lips, “Don’t think you’re doing any mauling I don’t like.”

 Chris’s eyebrows go up.

 “Really,” Sebastian tells him.

 “Huh,” Chris says. “Huh. Okay. You—okay.”

 “No,” Sebastian says patiently. “Are you okay?”

 Chris stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. Mid-laughter, scoops Sebastian off the floor. Flops them both down across the sofa, holding on. “God, you’re incredible.”

 “The best, you said.”

 “And I mean it. You just make it all…feel better, kind of?” Chris strokes a hand down Sebastian’s back, over his t-shirt. “That’s what it was, earlier. Like…being Steve, losing Bucky, but that’s you, and all at once I was thinking about losing you, and I just felt like…like someone’d dropped me off a train, y’know? Like I’d never get up again.”

 “I’m here.” Sebastian wriggles against him. They fit together: bodies pressed close, every piece of them learning each other. He’s half atop Chris, but with one of Chris’s legs tangled through his. “I’m here.”

 “I know.” Chris rubs his back again. “And you were there, too. You were right there and I could look up and find you, and it was like I could remember how to breathe. And then you were here, asking about tea and looking at me like—and I just had to kiss you. I want to kiss you. Seb. Sebastian. God, I fuckin’ want—everything. I know it might get complicated, I know we’re in the middle of making a movie, but I can’t not want everything. Together. With you.”

 “Well,” Sebastian says, “good to know,” and stretches to kiss Chris again. It’s that simple, if not easy: the future’ll change, but it does that anyway, sprawling out in all sorts of directions. And he thinks it’ll be a good direction, with Chris at his side. “Because I want everything with you too.”

[whatta-babe]

Date Crashers (Obvious pt. 2)| Peter Parker x Reader

Taking place months after the Avengers found out that their youngest member, Sider-Man, had a crush (Obvious), the team only wants to meet Y/N officially. They will achieve their goal through any means necessary… This takes place before Infinity War and Endgame and can be read seperately.

Disclaimer: I wrote the first part of this two-shot over three (3) years ago and just never finished this part until now. Some of the characters are definitely out of character, but I am following the same characterization I used in part one (1).

Warnings: Minor cursing, OOC characters, and soft Peter Parker

Word Count: 1,247

On a random fall day in a random small café, Peter Parker is nervously bouncing his leg at an empty table, waiting for his girlfriend, Y/N, to come back from the restroom. Even after finally making the relationship official after months of aggressive flirting via text and shy stuttering flirting in the high school highway, and after approximately four (4) months of dating, the young brunette still gets jittery and bashful at even the thought of her.

Sure, he faces mutant people and aliens trying to take over the Earth on a surprisingly regular basis, but it just isn’t as nerve wracking as being in the presence of his loving girlfriend.

As Peter’s leg bounces, in a random small café, on a random fall day, he is being surrounded and spied on by the people he considers family- the Avengers. If he hadn’t been so obvious with his infatuation of Y/N all of those months ago, unintentionally drawing notice from his superhero familia, maybe the events that are currently playing out would have never happened.

Various pairs of eyes located from inside the café to the rooftop of a neighboring building snap to focus in on movement heading towards Peter’s tiny black table. It’s Y/N in her favorite skirt and- is that Peter’s decathlon sweatshirt? Wanda is already at risk of blowing her cover as Vision attempts to stop her from vibrating excitedly.

The girl finishes patting her hands dry on her clothes as she sits down, but before the couple can greet each other again, Peter’s name is called. He shoots out of his seat to dart to the pickup counter to collect his girlfriend’s and his drinks and freshly warmed pastries. Located in a dark corner of the café, Steve nods to himself in silent praise. Good job for paying for and collecting the food for his partner; what a gentleman.

The brunette swiftly walks back to their table and sets Y/N’s order gently in front of her, and as he sits down, their easy conversation starts up again. It seems that neither one of the teenagers notice that they are simultaneously playing footsie under the table as they discuss topics of interest- maybe it’s Star Wars or something nerdy like that as Bucky shakes his head slowly.

This boy is hopelessly in love, and I can’t with this young teenage romance any longer. He silently contemplates heading back to the compound. Why did he even agree to this anyway? Oh yeah, to get more dirt on the kid to tease him with it later.

Now the couple’s conversation switches to future plans. “Saturday is supposed to be really nice. Do you want to have a picnic in Central Park? I’ll pack all of your favorites!”

Peter grabs her hand and smiles sweetly as Y/N nods in excitement! “That’s a great idea, Peter! And we can look at all the sculptures! I haven’t been there in so long…” She trails off.

When Peter brings the hand that he is holding to his lips in a sweet kiss, Sam has to say something to his frenemy. “Man, who knew this kid had game? Because I sure as hell didn’t.”

Bucky can only nod silently in agreement because yeah, who the hell would have thought?

Another peaceful and giggle-filled hour passes by as Natasha records the entire date from afar, not only for her own pleasure of rewatching it later but also because she promised Bruce that she would record their interactions for him to see. He had some type of life-changing and important research he had to conduct instead of joining the team for this bonding experience- lame.

In the end, it’s Clint that exposes the team to the happy couple, but was anyone expecting anything different? It seems that the café’s air vents were not as stable as he would have liked because its Clint’s body tumbling from the ceiling that leaves the café customers and workers in horror and surprised confusion. The man in question rapidly stands up to dust himself off and cheerily waves “Nothing to see here! Just go on with your daily activities,” to try and act like this event is no big deal.

But it is a big deal to Peter who knows what’s happening the second he recognized the falling body. “You’ve been spying on us??” He stands up in disbelief while Y/N can only become more confused than before.

Tony, who has been shaking his head in disbelief at his teammate’s idiocy, quickly joins the fray from his inconspicuous hiding place (the same shady corner Steve is located in) to explain the situation. “Look, kid, what else were we supposed to do? You’ve been making excuses for months to not bring Y/N over when all we want to do is meet her!” Okay, so maybe he is doing more accusing than explaining.

“I-what-ugh! Where is everyone else?” Peter’s face is amusingly splotchy and red while Y/N can barely keep up with the drama unfolding.

As the Avengers assemble in front of the couple, a strangled gasp and the sharp sound of a hand being hurriedly placed over one’s mouth is heard. “Oh my gosh… It’s really you guys! I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve so wanted to meet you all!”

As Y/N smiles bashfully in front of her favorite heroes, Peter seems to snap back into focus and turns back to his unhinged family. Before he can speak again, Vision loses his fight against Wanda as she flings herself at Peter’s girlfriend in a flurry of long hair and flying arms. The squeal that has been building up for the past half hour is now being unleashed, but somehow someway, Y/N doesn’t seem to mind the ear-splitting noise. In fact, all she does is hug the woman back with equal enthusiasm.

Natasha pries the Scarlet Witch off only to take her place as she sways Peter’s girlfriend back and forth in her arms whilst muttering compliments and encouragements into her ear.

Peter can only pout heavily from the sidelines, arms crossed and bottom lip jutting out as he childishly huffs. Steve pats the boy’s back softly and waves to his two best friends as they finally make their way into the café from their rooftop hiding spot.

Apparently, there’s a line of people wanting to talk to Y/N because as soon as Natasha loosens her arms around the blushing girl, Tony steps up to her and pats her on the shoulder in acceptance. “You should come over for dinner this week, kid. We’ll get to know you more.” The usually obnoxious man is surprisingly composed and sane which Peter is grateful for, and he knows that Mr. Stark is really holding himself back at the moment.

Y/N can only smile brightly and clasp her hands together in excitement because who wouldn’t be excited if they were invited to have dinner with Earth’s mightiest heroes? She is totally writing this in her diary later!

But as the girl realizes the current time, all she can do is frown and starts to reluctantly says goodbye to everyone that she has met and places a chaste but sickeningly sweet kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek as a farewell. When Peter blushes, she lets out one last laugh and slips out of the café, excited to make dinner plans with Peter’s family and eternally grateful that Peter warned her that something like this may eventually happen. His Spidey senses never miss.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Hi I dont know if you want jercy requests at the moment but i had an idea for one :

Dark percy murdering calligula as a revenge for jason

Hello angel! Whew this request was willldddddd and I had soo much fun with it. There isn't any jercy per se (in fact Annabeth and Percy are together in this) but Percy is furrrrrious about Jason and he exacts a very twisted sort of revenge for his friend's honour. Basically this was an excuse to write dark!percy and by gods I hope I delivered!

CW: revenge driven, grief, graphic depictions of violence

Burning Maze Spoilers

he used to be nice.

He used to be nice.

Percy had been digging around the weapons room when his name had been shrieked like a dying animal. He had been looking for protective gear to give to little demigods in his sword-fighting class, when a scream like broken bones cracked through his body. He had been starting another calm, routine-controlled day at camp half-blood when he heard the news that made him snap.

*Two hours earlier*

“Jackson,” Annabeth knocks at his cabin door. He hears her voice carry through the open windows, and over the continuous sound of the ocean. “Pers, we have breakfast in half an hour and you have a sword class to teach today.”

The event had been printed on her wall of “to-dos” so that neither of their adhd brains would have the chance to forget. But he groans at the reminder, not wanting to escape his warm bed, or the duvet that wraps around him like a hug, or the pillows that hold his head as if he is a god. Sometimes he wishes he was a Hypnos kid. Their whole thing is sleeping . The knock sounds again.

“Seaweed Brain, come on,” His girlfriend sighs, “You promised we’d talk to Chiron about the—"

The loud and obnoxious cry of a harpy sounds somewhere in the distance and whatever she says next is drowned out completely. He knows though. Knows what she’s going to say and what they have to do. So he drags himself out of bed, like the last sack of potatoes on the crate. Heavy and bruised and discarded for the most desperate of the lot.

“I’m up,” He manages to rasp. He doesn’t like talking to people till he’s brushed his teeth, and eaten something, and spent at least half an hour staring at an empty coffee cup. A New Yorker through and through he supposes.

“Okay,” He hears Annabeth call, “I’ll see you at the dining hall then.”

He makes a sound half way between a grunt and a yawn and hopes she understands because that’s the best she’s getting out of him. The morning routine is quick, even done at the speed of a stubborn toddler. Soon he is sitting at the Poseidon table, scarfing down eggs and toast, and washing it done with a second cup of coffee. The buzzing in his veins is completely normal. And he’s definitely not speaking at a thousand miles an hour. This is how he always talks. Why on earth they allow coffee in a camp full of adhd kids, he’ll never understand. But it works in his favour so he isn’t going to complain.

By the time him and Annabeth are done talking to Chiron about introducing therapy to the camp, he feels like his eyes are moving faster than his sensory receptors can process and his thoughts are moving faster than his ability to process at all. So when his girlfriend, smiling at him about something, stops outside their training room he looks at her with furrowed brows and asks, “What are we doing here? Are we training for something?”

She frowns, “How much coffee did you have this morning?”

“Only three cups.” He shrugs, and clenches his hands in his pockets as if she can see through the fabric to the shaking body underneath.

Her grey eyes widen as if she’s about to scold him, a petulant child being chided by their ever tired caregiver. It makes the part of him still attempting to function slightly wild. He squishes that part down with the force of a thousand ships. Someone calls Annabeth’s name so with a quick peck to the cheek she leaves him in front of the training room and jogs towards the middle of camp and out of sight.

He stares at the room, trying to get his brain to stop focusing on things he doesn’t need to focus on right now, like the three lines of a song he heard at the grocery store a week ago that he hasn’t been able to get out of his head.

He used to be nice.

Entering the training room he scans the schedule and sees he’s teaching a class of small people, campers younger than ten who are just learning the ropes but should disaster ever strike will be ushered to the Cabin 9 bunkers to wait out the storm. It is a rule that no-one under the age of twelve be subject to war if they need not be. And he will make damn sure the need never ever surfaces.

He gathers swords of various shapes and sizes, along with a few daggers, and the straw dummies that have seen better days. It boggles his mind that they’re at a camp for children of literal greek gods but somehow there’s no funding for basic necessities like extra cots in the Hermes cabin, and better dummies to stab.

Muttering to himself he moves aside metal and stacks of straw, trying to find protective gear in the pile dumped at the corner of the training room. When he doesn’t see any he lets out a long suffering sigh... he has to go to the weapons room, which is more of a broom closet with deadly devices than anything else.

The room smelt musty, and the reek of rust slams into his nostrils at dizzying speeds. It reminds him of blood, and it made his skin itch with the need to get out. But still he bends down and searches through the mess of celestial bronze, and gold and—

The scream cauterizes his happiness. He is panic and pain and death and everything brutal in a single awful instant.

“PERCY!” His name has never sounded so full of agony, each syllable holds the stages of grief.

He is running towards the anguish before he’s even fully realises what’s going on. But what he sees when he crests the hill is enough to make the warmth of his heart run burning cold.

Annabeth is curled on the ground, tears like rivers of woe streaming down her cheeks and a purple flag clutched tightly in her fists.

“What happened?” His voice is soft. If he hears himself too loudly he’s going to shatter.

Annabeth cries harder, her whole body shuddering. Grief is overwhelming. Grief is all consuming. Grief will make itself known like thorns in your thumb or bullets in your heart.

“What happened?” He repeats.

And someone, far away, right next to his ear, inside his head, says, “It’s Jason, Jason Grace. He’s dead.”

He used to be nice.

It takes him three days. Three days of non-stop travelling, by foot, and air, and sea, to reach Caligula’s home. A palace. A grave. It is three days too long. Too long for a murderer to be walking free as if there are no consequences to his vile actions. But still he is here now and he will see the fall of a great, and watch how he bleeds just like everyone else. Not gold, the colour of the emperor’s one true love, but red, the colour of his victims.

Percy's eyes are almost black with violence, green so dark it reflects the night sky. His hands clench and unfurl as if practicing to wrap around a throat and squeeze till the symphony of breathing plays its last note. His body is strung taut, a bow string waiting to release. He is murder. He is nothing. He is your worst nightmare.

“Caligula.” He scrapes. It is the exact sound of a sword sparking against stone. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Nothing but scared silence greets him. He can feel the fear coating the walls of this burial ground like a fresh coat of paint. He will make a playground of the blood he spills, will invite all manner of creatures to use it as a park. He will revel in the slaughter he is about to participate in.

“Caligula!” His voice is the sharp edge of a small knife. Unassuming but deadly. ‘“It is no use hiding. There is no place you could go where I couldn't find you.” He feels the earth sway underneath him, and he grins. Oh this is going to be fun.

“Fine Emperor, if this is how you want to do it.”

With a shrug, he flings out an arm and turns three columns to dust. He watches the stone crumble, feels the sand on his palm as if he was crumbling the columns in his hands like soft cheese. With a small stomp of his foot a crack rivaling the river Thames splits the marble floor in half. The entire structure shudders, creaks right above him. His grin only gets wider, more dangerous.

“I will level this place to the ground. I will erase it from history as if it had never been. You will not exist Caligula, because you will go with it. Will be crushed under the weight of your own wealth.”

“You’re a fool,” A voice, reedy and nasalled in a way that has his soul curdling, shouts from somewhere on the far side of the room. “You will crush us both."

Percy laughs. He laughs and the sound widens the cracks in the floor. It is deep, and wild, but in the way a wild thing is caged: snapping at it’s bars, hissing to be free. He laughs.

“You are a fool Caligula. A fool if you think i am not willing to die if it means you suffer. A bigger fool still if you think it will not give me great pleasure to spend my last moments watching the life leave your eyes,”

The distant sound of bubbling starts to fill the room. Percy wonders if he can make blood boil. His mother has certainly said so enough times.

“Leave now half-blood,” The Emperor spits. There is still something of arrogant, misplaced bravery in his voice. It amuses Percy. “Leave now and you will not face the consequences.”

“And pray tell,” He contemplates, “Who you think will deliver your consequences if i leave?”

A scoff that echoes into the pathways of his brain comes from the back of the room. “I do not need consequences dealt. I have done nothing to deserve them.”

The sound of bubbling is getting louder. He looks curiously at the cracks still spidering around the room. “Ah Emperor,” He tuts, “That is where you are wrong. People who deserve consequences hardly ever get them. It is those who don’t think they deserve them that become the unlucky bearers.”

“What are you going on about, boy?” He snarls.

The bubbling is loud enough now that Percy almost checks to see if a small brook has carved its way through the floor. There is nothing there except ever growing cracks, turning to rifts and canyons before his eyes.

He used to be nice.

“We can do this one of two ways Caligula.” He starts, honey bees with a sting a little too sharp to be defence. “You can apologise and I’ll kill you quickly, or…” His smile is sickening. “And this is my preferred method, I could watch you die slowly, watch the life drain from your body and into the soil of blood-crops that will grow here, and your dying words will be the mercy you will inevitably beg for.”

The bubbling spills over the cracks, leaking salty water onto the dying marble floor.

“Better choose soon oh dear Emperor,” He giggles, “I am the only thing holding this room together. As soon as I let go the floor will split like your loyalties. You will be crushed to death by your own greed. And if that doesn't happen you will surely drown.” To emphasise his point water starts gushing from the floor, no longer a bubbling stream but a raging river. His laughter is carried along the ripples that hit the walls, already leaking with the all encompassing ocean. “Wouldn’t it be a pity Caligula? To drown in your own home, surrounded by all the things you killed for, watching as they drown with you?”

“Shut up half-blood,” He screeches, “You do not have the power it takes to kill me. You are nothing compared to the centuries I have been alive.”

“Do you know who i am honouring Caligula?” He asks softly, a stark and terrifying contrast to his smile a moment before. “In all your centuries can you remember but one demigod, a dear friend of mine, but just another victim of yours?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, “They are all the same in the end. All bleed, and cry, and piss, and die the same.”

The grin Percy lets loose starts hurricanes. It is the absolute wrong thing to say. ‘“If it is all the same to you Emperor,” He becomes terror. “Then i think i’ll spill your blood at his altar.”

And before the doomed emperor could react an invisible hand wraps around his throat and he was being dragged to the middle of the room. His eyes wide, popping out of his head; hands clawing at his neck as if trying to remove the grip they cannot feel; feet flopping helplessly underneath him.

“Apologise for killing Jason Grace.” It is a command.

Caligula glares, attempting to spit at his feet.

Percy tilts his head and with a single crook of his finger he slams the emperor into the wall. The crack is deafening. It makes him grin.

“Apologise for killing Jason Grace.”

Caligula produces an ancient roman gesture, passed through time as if centuries cannot dismantle the insults of humans.

Percy twists his wrist and the emperor’s body contorts into something unrecognizable, bones snapping and shattering to fit their new mold.

“Apologise for killing my friend.”

“Fuck you,” He manages to choke out.

A wave of ocean water alarming in its beauty rises behind him. He is its god. And with a wink he shoves all of it down the emperor’s throat. The column of that pale neck bobs as if attempting to take the water down. He can see the body trying to retch it all up, unable to handle the sheer amount, the salt that comes with it.

“Watch Caligula,” He motions to the palace sinking under the weight of his ocean, “Watch as everything you have ever cared to love drowns.”

Percy grabs a shard of mirror, uncaring of the gash it sweeps across his palm. He holds it up to the ancient powerful Emperor, who is convulsing into nothing. “Watch.”

He used to be nice.

Sometime later when Percy Jackson walks up a hill, and into the fading sun there is nothing but content mania lining his features, and behind him where a grand home once stood, is a trickling river and a single spear carved with the words, “Neo Helios”. The only sign that Caligula, Emperor and murderer, ever existed,

He used to be nice.

Until someone killed his friends.

---------------------------------------

[image id: printed text that reads, "I used to be nice." end id]

[potassium-pilot]

Prompt 7: Speculate

I remember my blood having stirred upon our first meeting.

Niddhog’s irrepressible influence brought great insight I did not ask for, yet was sorely needed. It was clear from the moment I entered the room that day, when the Holy See bid the Crystal Braves for their aid in holding back the Dravanian Horde.

I met the other Azure Dragoon. She simply wasn’t a dragoon.

A scholar, she claimed to be. She took to books rather than the lance. To each their own, and yet, the potential remains ever strong within her. So much so, I cannot help but wonder what would come of her had I known earlier. What Alberic would think. Would he have known himself? Would he have reached out to her? I know naught.

Her ferocity in battle is a force to be reckoned with. Having fought by her side, having fought against her, having witnessed the power she wields come to bear, the vaunted hero is more than worthy to bear the mantle. That in mind, does she truly need another? Warrior of Light, Slayer of Gods, Savior of Ishgard, Liberator of Ala Mhigo and Doma. Even on another world, she is known as a Warrior of Darkness, strangely enough.

The war is long over. Dragoons have retired, finding work in rebuilding our broken country. There simply is no need for the dragoons of eld. Their life’s work was to slay dragons. She would learn nothing of value now that their purpose is ended. Despite this, how else would she learn? After all, I had come from the same origins, yet I am the one who donned Iceheart. I am the one who had been proclaimed a dragoon of a new age by Hraesvelgr. I rode Tiamat into battle as an ally at Paglth’an.

What would another Azure Dragoon do in this age?

She has long been a war hero. What would a hero like her do with yet another responsibility? The world has long had their champion ring in victory for them, seemingly beyond need for skill in the lance. Even another world has taken her on as their bringer of darkness- again, incomprehensible to me. Is it truly worth her time? I ask this, and yet I feel conflict stir within me. The burden of truth can crush those with iron will, but withholding such truth can bring greater trouble later. Do I let her remain ignorant of another fate? Do I help her realize her potential?

I wrought this turmoil and grappled with it until the moment I watched her pick up a lance.

We had gone to Camp Dragonhead to pay respects to an old friend, and ask Lord Emmanellain of a very late shipment of supplies to Mor Dhona and the Scions. The brat was in a meeting, so that left us in the training ground. She wandered over to the weapon wall, and as if by divine providence, her pick of choice was a lance.

She hadn’t the foggiest of what to do with it.

She had no stance, no proper handling, and merely pushed it forward rather than give a good thrust. There was no backbone to it.

“Bend your knees”, I told her. She looked back at me. “Keep a leg behind you, then bend your knees.” She obeyed, creating a solid stance beneath her. “Good”, I continued, “Now place your dominant hand near the back, and the other in the front.” Again, she heeded my words and held her training lance properly. “Now you’re in position to give a good thrust. Try it on the dummy.” She took aim at the hay-filled cotton man and thrusted forward, giving a good dent in the armor it bore.

“Very nice. You could make it even deadlier, you know.” She looked to me expectantly. “It’s called a vorpal thrust. The lance is sharp enough, but now aim it upward to properly utilize the point.”

She learned too fast for me to keep up properly, because in that next moment, the armor had split in twain, and a big gaping hole destroyed the innards of the unfortunate training dummy to encounter her.

“Like that?” she asked.

I merely stared in stunned silence.

“Hey, teach me to do all those jumping moves now.”

“Jumping moves?” I managed to utter.

“Yeah, you know, like the one where you jump up a thousand malms into the sky, and land back down and fling all your enemies to the gods know where.”

It was clear that her curiosity is boundless. So too is her own strength. In that moment, I made a decision. She should know. It would make it that much easier to train her.

One day, I will move on from this world, and so will she. If we learn how to be new dragoons together, perhaps one day, we can train the next generation. Creating better dragoons, dragoons to fight alongside the Dravanians, dragoons that can protect Eorzea, beyond Ishgard’s own influence, I haven’t felt a worthier cause since I was entreated to join the Scions.

Perhaps being a Scion shall prove to my benefit that much more. Perhaps a new Azure Dragoon shall be welcome. She’s borne titles alone for as long as she became known for her prowess.

This one, I shall bear with her.

[dranza]

16th December

Draco x Reader

Slow burn babyyyy!

Word count: 2703

Warnings: talk about shitty parents.

Please let me know if you notice any.

I shake snow out of my hair as I enter the Great Hall, weaving through the kids to locate my usual seat on the slytherin table. Sat comfortably, already tucking into his toast, Draco looks up at me with a cocked eyebrow, “Punctual as ever.”

“Morning.” I groan at him, nudging his arm. 

“Morning Y/N” he returns with a side smile. “What took you so long?”

“Ginny and Ron were having a snowball fight in the courtyard, I got roped into it.” I shrug. 

I’d grown quite close to the Weasley siblings since I moved here and I quickly learned that, as much as they love each other, they are almost always ready to jump at each other's throats. I normally like to stay out of the way but when Ginny used me as a human shield, it meant war. If it wasn’t for Hagrid splitting us up, we would probably still be out there. 

“My hands feel like they're going to drop off, feel this.” I place the back of my icy hand against the pale-haired boy’s neck. 

“What... are you crazy?” He flings his hand up to my wrist and pulls it away. “You’re freezing!” Once he is over the initial shock, he balls his fingers around my hands, gently whispering a charm over them. A rush of goosebumps flow up my arms. The temperature from his hands transfers into mine and in a few seconds my entire body is filled with a pleasant warmth. He finishes the last charm and looks up. His gentle grip lingers around my hands for a few seconds before he suddenly drops them and averts his eyes. An awkward cough escapes him “better?” 

I let out a single breathy giggle and lean my head on his shoulder, “Thanks Dray.”

“Not a problem.” Draco hands me a bowl for my cereal and then reaches over the table for an apple, careful not to move the arm I’m resting on. 

“Y/N” a distinct voice calls out to me from a few feet away.

“Uncle Filius?” I look over, confused, at the short man walking towards me (He rarely leaves the teachers table at meal times). Then I notice the cupcake in his hand, a small flame over the icing. The confusion escapes me instantly. Is he seriously doing this? 

“Happy Birthday Kiddo.” He reaches me with an ear to ear grin. 

I try my best to hide my shock and not get too excited, blowing out the candle gently. “Thanks Uncle Filly.” I can’t quite believe he even knew. It's just that I’ve never actually had a good birthday since my father passed. My mother was always “too busy at work” or had “just received a new lead” so she never had time to find me a gift, most years I didn't even receive a card. My friends at school never realised they missed it. I’ve learned to never have any expectations now. To be completely honest, I’d been so caught up in the christmas festivities, I’d forgotten myself. 

“I must rush back but do have a lovely day Y/N!” Professor Flitwick gives me an awkward side hug and continues back towards the teachers table.

I turn my eyes back to my breakfast to notice Hermione sitting opposite me. “I can’t believe you never told us it's your birthday?” Ginny and Harry stand behind her, matching shocked expressions on their faces. 

“We have to celebrate!” Ginny states gleefully.

“I’m sure we could go out for butterbeer?” Harry suggests with enthusiasm.

“I don't know… would you guys really be up for it?” I ask sheepishly.

“Are you kidding me? We’re always up for a celebration!” Ron pops up on the other side of Hermione, chocolate muffin in hand. “The Three Broomsticks has this brilliant crumble pudding this time of the year, it's the perfect birthday treat.”

I let out a soft laugh and agree to their plans, touched by their friendship.

“You're not going to Hogsmeade today, are you?” A soft voice calls out from the table next to us and we all turn to the pretty girl perching next to Neville. “I read there would be a snow storm, quite inconvenient.”

Harry runs his fingers through his dark hair “Please! The sun is blazing and it's a clear sky. Any snow that set last night will even melt by midday.” 

“We’ll leave at midday then.” Ron bounces his hand off the table. “That's if we don’t get snowed in, right Luna?” he leaves the table laughing to himself.

“I’ll send out an owl to Madame Rosmerta to save us a table for eight.” Hermione pulls out some parchment from her robe and begins writing the note. 

“Eight?” I ask, unsure how she can so confidently say so many people would want to come out to celebrate my birthday. 

“The six of us…” she signals to herself and the small group around her, “And you two.” 

To this Draco’s head shoots up, “Me?” his grey eyes flick left to right to make sure he heard correctly. “I…” he stares at the bitten apple in his hands, “I’m not exactly welcome there anymore.”

Hermione lets out a sharp breath, trying her best to not let the memory of Draco’s darker days show on her face. “Okay, well I’ll sort out someplace else. Let’s just meet in the courtyard in 2 and a half hours.” Her eyes cheekily dart towards Harry and Ginny “Don’t be late.”

“We promise.” Harry dramatically places a hand on his chest.

“We’ll be there.” Ginny nudges him playfully. “In exactly 3 hours, right?” she winks at Hermione and pulls Harry away, the both of them chuckling at Hermione’s exasperated sigh.

I wait for Draco in the Slytherin common room, ready for our day out. I have been to Hogsmeade a few times in the last three and a half months but I can’t hold in my excitement for today. This is going to be so much fun. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m really thrilled that it's my birthday. I feel so lucky to finally have people that care to make my day special. It's so foreign to me. I’m basically pacing around the chamber (chewing on mint leaf, after mint leaf) and suddenly I hear a voice coming from the fireplace. 

“Y/N? Are you there?” Hermione pokes her head through the fire. “I can’t believe this is happening, but Luna was right. A snow-storm has literally blocked everything.” 

“I’m suggesting we just apparate but  apparently it’s too dangerous.” A fiery red head pokes next to Hermione’s. 

“Eugh,” she shoves him to the side and continues “It is too dangerous in this weather! And anyway, no one can apparate in or out of Hogwarts. I’m sorry.” She gives me such a genuinely sad smile, I can’t help but feel the need to comfort her.

“It's ok, we can’t control the weather.” I tilt my head like I’m convincing a child. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Harry’s voice shouts from behind her “Ginny is bringing the flu powder from her room and we’ll all be there…” 

“Unfortunately that will not be permissible. All students will have to remain in their own respected dormitories until the storm has passed.” Professor Snape interrupts in a low voice from behind me. 

“But…” 

“No ‘buts’! You must remain in your own dormitory until further notice.” and with that, the head of Slytherin house leaves to inform the rest of the students of the new restrictions.

“This is such a bother.” Hermione frowns deeply, a calculating look on her face, trying to figure out some way she can get around it.

“Don't worry about it . Seriously, it's no bother at all.” I attempt to sound as convincing as I can.

“We’ll make this up to you. I promise.” and with a sweet smile she leaves and human/fire returns to being just a fire.

I sigh, annoyed that I let myself get so carried away. Obviously it wasn’t going to be a good day. It never is for goodness sake. I know this. I decide I’m going to spend a lazy day in bed and get away from the rush that is now forming in the dungeon common room. I mindlessly walk through the corridors and turn a corner only to crash into someone’s chest. I take in a sharp, startled breath and a woody scent accompanies the oxygen through my nose. With a lean arm clasped around my waist and a hand gripping my forearm the man stops me from falling. I look up to meet a familiar cheeky smirk. 

“Careful Y/L/N!” Draco lazily unravels himself from me. “Where are you rushing off to?” 

“My birthday is cancelled. The Universe can’t give me one good day. The weather hates me. So I’m going to lay in my bed and stare into nothing for the rest of the day.” I dramatically hold my arms up into the air and try to continue on my way but Draco takes a side step and obstructs me.

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Ok, The weather doesn't have emotions (You know that!)...” He raises his eyebrows and brings his head down to my eye level. “I will be personally having a word with ‘The Universe’ to get its act in check for you later tonight, and as for your Birthday. It is not cancelled. That… is actually kind of impossible. Only your plans have changed.” He fixes his back and shrugs nonchalantly. “You and I could still do something?” 

“What could we possibly do, stuck in this bloody dungeon?” 

“Just follow me.” and with that he carries on down the corridor and turns a few corners into places I have never even thought about going down. “Alohomora.” Draco turns back at me with a side smile as he unlocks the door and walks through it. I follow him into a small chamber, confused as it is nothing special until I notice the window. The top half of the glass reveals a beautiful view of the snow and the bottom half is submerged under the lake. Although not many creatures are coming up to the surface because of the storm, I spot a little horn-backed squid and a group of silvery fish. I look over to Draco, my face beaming in delight. “This is amazing! I can’t believe you’re only just showing me this.”

He scratches at the back of his head and points towards the top of the window. “It’s obviously a much better view in spring and summer, you can see all the way to the moorlands and there are so many different creatures in the water. It’s alright, isn't it?” He does his classic impressed, upside down smile. 

“It's perfect.” I whisper as I climb onto the window sill. I notice Draco open a cupboard on the other side of the room and pull out a small bag, from it he pulls out a chocolate frog and holds it up as an offer. I cock a brow at him. “Are you serious? Who knows how long that's been there.”

“About 2 weeks.” He states flippantly as he comes up to sit next to me. “My father told me about this place, I usually come here to study when I want to be on my own.” He hands me the chocolate frog and pulls out a liquorice wand for himself. Chewing it, he leans his head back against the cold window and turns to me. “So, why is it you never actually told us it’s your Birthday today?” 

“Err, honestly I didn’t really remember myself.” I continue to look out into the lake and quieter I add. “Also, I guess when for the last however many years, the 16th of December is just a day that emphasises how much people don’t actually care about me, it can be easy not to talk about.” I try to give a convincing smile (like it doesn’t bother me) but it doesn't work. 

“I recognize that. Although people around me always give me gifts and letters on my birthday, it's clear it's never for ‘me’. They do it to prove a point to my parents or to make themselves look impressive. It's more a statement about themselves.” He looks down and wipes some dust off the bag. 

“We’re a sad pair, aren’t we?” I let out a deflated laugh and slip a mint leaf out of my pocket into my mouth. 

“We should change that. You can carry on from today, a new, happy, 17 year old woman.” he lifts his liquorice as if he is holding a drink and making a toast.

“Might be a little difficult as I’m only 16.” 

“What? That doesn't make sense at all!” He leans his head away from me, trying to get the whole of my body in his view, as if I had some clear visual way of telling my exact age. 

I giggle at his confusion. “McGonagall put me forward a year at Hogwarts because I had already done the 6th year spectrum at Durmstrang. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” 

“I didn’t.” An impressed smirk takes over his face. “Graduating a year early? You're not just a pretty face then, are you?” 

I playfully slap his arm, distracting from the blood I felt rushing into my face. “Oh shut up Dray!”

We continue in comfortable conversation for the next few hours. Only sometimes stopping to point out something in the window or picking out another snack from the bag. At one point we fall to the ground laughing because Draco is demonstrating a new quidditch move he’s learning and ended up looking like he was doing some strange animal mating ritual. We don't realise how much time has passed until Professor Snape walks into the room. 

“Dinner is being served in the common room if you wish to eat. I also inform you, should you wish to sneak off into one of the unauthorised rooms again please let someone know, it would save me having to search every room in the Slytherin House.” with a flick of his robes he left the room as quietly as he entered it. 

Draco and I stand in silence for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. “We should go.” I say when we calm down and start exiting the room. 

“Wait…” Draco’s voice pulls me back. “I kind of have a present for you. It’s not anything special because… well… I didn’t have much notice. But, I remembered I had this from years ago.” He goes back to the window sill where he had removed his outer robes and from the pocket he reveals a small pot. 

Taking it from his hand I read the label.

‘Sensuale Pingunt Nigrum’ 

I look up at Draco in disbelief, “What? How?” Shaking my head I push it back into his hands. “I can’t take this.”

“You don't like it.” He mutters the statement, barely audible.

“No… I… It’s beautiful but it’s so rare and expensive, I can't take this from you.”

“Please, it's getting wasted just sitting in my old stuff. I know it's cheeky re-gifting (my Aunt got it for me when I turned 12) but it just reminded me of you.” He holds my hand tight around the pot of paint.

“Draco…” I’m speechless. This paint is so rare, it changes consistency and shade based on how the painter feels. 

“I don’t know. If you don’t like it you can j…”

I cut him off by leaning in and planting a delicate kiss on his cheek, his skin warm against mine. A few strands of his blond hair brush against my eyebrow. “I love it. Thank you Draco.” I stand on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around him, I feel the tension release from his body and his long arms fold around my waist. We stand like this for a few seconds and break away in an awkward giggle. 

“Dinner?” I suggest, pointing my eyes to the door. 

“Yes! Err, after you.” He nods.

I smile as I walk towards the common room holding the paint tight against my chest. This is definitely a day I will remember.

Thankyou so much for the support recently, it has been really suprising! Hope you liked this little snippet. 

Here is a link to my masterlist if you want to read anything else I’ve written.